#like. it’s called a close reading of the text…..

[luveline]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝

You try to break up with your boyfriend. Aaron just wants to know why. (And what he can do to fix it.) [4k]

c: fem, stripper!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff epilogue, suggestive themes mdni. requested here 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

I don’t want to see you anymore. 

The text doesn’t compute at first. He reads it twice. Reads the sender’s name, his heart stopped clean in his chest. 

He puts down his pen.

The idea that the text wasn’t meant for him crosses his mind, but that might further break his heart. He knows you have clients, but you don’t contact them outside of the club. 

His second thought is that he’d been a client unknowingly, but he made it clear to you those few months ago that he liked you as you, not as a service provider, and not as something to be bought. You thought he was trying to acquire you as a private escort. He explained it as what it was truthfully, if vulnerably.

He’s being broken up with, he surmises. Over text. By a woman he adores, who he’d thought was happy. Aaron opens his phone to call you, clicking your contact, bringing it to his ear. You don’t answer. He calls again and he’s clearly declined three rings in. 

He puts his phone down and has a few minutes of unbreathable heartbreak. Just a few minutes, his hand to his stomach, trying to think of things as reasonably as he can. 

Aaron doesn’t care that you’re a stripper. He might’ve at first. Denied his attraction to you, because of course he had feelings for you when you were standing against the side of the club in your dancing lingerie, who wouldn’t fall in love with you? Every fool lucky enough to see you undressed must assume the same thing. He thought it wouldn’t work, and that you’d never be interested in a man like him. 

Interviews for information lended themselves to rare moments of conversation. He liked how you talked, how your eyes moved to his, the way you watched his mouth. Your unusual friendship with Spencer drew you closer, and activated a rare seed of jealousy within him that helped him place you in his life. He had real, tangible feelings for you. 

And now it’s over. 

He scrunches his eyes closed and gets up from his desk. Puts his coat on, but leaves his things where they are on his desk. 

“Hotch?” Morgan asks as he descends the steps down from his office into the bullpen. 

“I’m not sure when I’ll be back.” 

“What happened?” 

Aaron turns to Morgan, hiding his panic as well as he’s able to. “I have a small emergency. It’s fine. Can you make sure things are okay here?” 

“Hotch?” Morgan asks again. 

Aaron keeps on going. He tries your number again on the way down. Three times, a fourth by the time he’s at the parking garage. 

The fifth time, you answer. 

He almost breaks the phone, its plastic body creaking in his hand. “Honey?” he asks. 

“I don’t want to see you anymore, Aaron. Is it hard to understand?” 

He’s taken aback. Some part of him had held onto the hope that it was a mistake. “Yes,” he says slowly, struggling to pull his keys out as his car comes into view, “it is.” 

“I don’t want to be with you.” 

“Have I upset you?” 

“Would that make it easier?” 

“No. I don’t think anything would make it any easier. Honey, this feels so sudden. Can’t we talk about it?” 

“I don’t want to see you.” 

“Please.” He can’t imagine never seeing you again. Just a few days ago he was sitting at the dinner table with you laughing opposite, your socked toes brushing his ankle. “Please, give me the chance to fix this.” 

“Aaron, it’s not really fixable. Please don’t call me again.”

“Y/N,” he says, firmer now. Anger leaks into his tone —what’s going on? “Let me come over. We need to talk about this.” 

“No–”

“It’s not fair to me for you to do it over the phone.” 

“…Okay. Fine. I’m at home, but I have work at six.” 

“I’m on my way.” 

He hangs up. Your terse allowance is all he needs to get in the car and drive, checking his watch. There’s plenty of time between now and six. He can figure out what’s wrong and hopefully change your mind.

He thinks about it more seriously as he’s parking outside of your place. Perhaps he doesn’t want to change your mind. You aren’t acting like you, none of your kindness can be found in such a swift dismissal, but he thinks of your foot under the table, your sock rubbing along his ankle without comment. 

He takes the stairs to your apartment. It’s not the nicest place to stay, but it’s far from a slum, either. He doesn’t worry about you when you’re home beyond the usual everyday fears: Is she eating? Sleeping? Having a good day? 

Now he’s thinking, What did I do? 

He gets to your apartment and pauses at the threshold. After a moment's deliberation, he knocks. 

“Come in, Aaron.” 

He pulls down the handle and lets himself in. You’ve mail piled on the sideboard and your shoes tucked under it, a coat rack further in bragging scarves and coats and jackets of all different colours. He’s always liked the interior of your apartment. It doesn’t feel as cold as his own, parts of your personality peeking in through everything, from the flowered tiles in the bathroom to the glass lampshade in the bedroom. 

You’re sitting in the kitchen with the light off. “Hey,” he says, voice already laden with relief he doesn’t mean to share. 

“Hi.” 

“Can I sit down?” 

You gesture for him to do as he likes. 

Aaron sits down at your table. It’s a small square just big enough to share dinner, plain wood edged in a darker slate grey outline. Sometimes when you’re feeling especially pretty, you’ll lean heavily on an elbow and grin at him, enticing him in for a kiss.

“What’s this all about?” he asks quietly. 

“I just think we’re… at the end of our relationship.” 

You don’t sound truthful. He knew there was something strange in your voice over the phone. 

“What’s making you feel that way?” 

“Does it matter?” 

Again, avoiding and evasive. 

He meets your gaze unflinchingly. “I care about you. I love you,” he says. “I know I can’t be who you pictured for yourself, and if you really can’t see a future for us, then… I’ll have seen it alone. I just wish I could understand this sudden change. Did I do something wrong?” 

“You’re not who I picture for myself,” you agree. 

“No?” he asks. 

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong, but I can’t see us together. We’re not the right fit.” 

You twist a ring around your middle finger. He thinks he’s starting to understand. “Do you think we’re not the right fit?” 

“Please don’t use your psychoanalysis on me.” 

“It’s not psychoanalysis, sweetheart, it’s– I know you.” He grimaces. “I’d like to think I do. And I’m allowing myself the audacity to believe you were happy with me just a few days ago. What happened between then and now to change your mind?” 

You stare at your two-toned table. Your mouth opens to talk, little but air making it out. Your shoulders begin tightening like you’ve been keyed between them, twisting and twisting. 

“What do you want me to say?” you ask. 

Dramatic, he’d hope you could say you don’t love him, or don’t care about him enough to let him convince you the rest of the way. “Is this really what you want?” he asks instead. 

Your staring turns to squinting. With a start, he watches a small tear drip from the corner of your eye to your nostril, to your cupid's bow. 

“No,” you say carefully, “it’s not what I want. I don’t like you being against me.” 

“Then what’s making you feel this way?” 

You cover your eyes with one hand. “I wanted to do this over the phone,” you say in a squeeze. 

He reaches for you but doesn’t touch. “I couldn’t let you.” 

“I just want you to be happy,” you say, so high he can barely understand you. “I’ll never be like you, Aaron. You’re so smart, and you’ve done so much. You’re a hero, and you must look so stupid with me. What do you think people say when they realise what I am?” 

“It doesn’t matter to me what they say. I know you, and they don’t.”

“What about what I think?” 

“What do you think?” 

You wipe your face roughly, eyes lit with an anger he’s unprepared for. “I told you, don’t psychoanalyse me. I don’t want to have to explain it, I just want to say what I have to say. I don’t want to be with you because you won’t be happy, and neither will I.” 

Aaron isn’t too prideful to recognise when he needs to fight for what he wants. He reaches over the table and takes your arm into his hand, picking it up, feeling down The length of it until he’s curled his hand over your smaller fingers. “We are happy,” he says softly, giving your hand a small shake. “I understand where you’re coming from. When we first met, I couldn’t have predicted that I’d be here with you now. I do wonder what people think when they ask me what you do and I tell them you’re a performer. I know we agreed to it, but there are moments where I feel like I’m being cruel to you. But just because there’s a stigma surrounding what you do, it doesn’t mean that you’re any lesser than me. You’re not less intelligent, or less accomplished. We chose different paths and I’m glad we did. If you weren’t a dancer I never would’ve met you.” 

“Do you know how it feels for me to come home to you sometimes?” you ask weakly. 

“I’d hope it feels as it does for me. Every time I see you, I’m relieved.” 

“Aaron, I get this rush of safety, like you’re– I’m finally safe. I can take care of myself, you know that, but now I have you it’s that I don’t even want to. And that’s stupid. I know that that’s stupid.” 

“What I’m thinking,” he says, soft, not as worried about being without you now as he is of the horrible way you’re feeling, “is that you’ve thought about all of this a lot. I’m glad you’ve taken time to reflect on us and your life, but I wish you’d thought more about what we both want.” 

“I want you to be happy,” you argue, as you had a few moments ago. 

“And I’m never happier than when we’re together.” He shrugs. “Love isn’t about work. Your job shapes you as mine shapes me, but you have to know that who you are is what’s important.” 

“I don’t know who I am…” 

“I know exactly who you are,” he says, rubbing a loving thumb over your knuckles. 

“I’m… I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you, on the phone. I knew if I talked to you like this I’d be too much of a coward to really see it through.” 

“I see. You’ve planned my heartbreak weeks in advance.” 

You shake your head sadly. “Aaron, we’re not good for each other. You make me this awful, weak version of me, and I’m no good.” 

“We have been nothing but happy since we met.” Aaron pulls your hand up and kisses the side of your wrist. He isn’t ashamed of you. He doesn’t make you weak, you aren’t. “I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes it feels like we’re from different worlds, but it’s not that melodramatic. You’re my partner. I love you. It’s hard not to think about what others think of us, but I know exactly what I think of you, and I know what you think of me, too.” 

You share a look. 

“I’ve never heard you talk so much,” you say, your frown fading. “I’m sorry.” 

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“When I thought I couldn’t get any more embarrassing,” you mumble. 

“You aren’t embarrassing. Please, put the thought out of your head.” 

“Thought out of my head,” you repeat, still mumbling as you flex your fingers, pushing them between his and intertwining your hands. You bring them linked to your forehead and take a heavy breath. 

“Do you really want to break up?” he asks softly. 

Your breath warms his arm. “No.” 

“You can have the things you want, you know? I imagine that there are people who laugh when I tell them about you, but you have to know that their opinions would never matter to me.” He pulls his hand from your head to encourage you to meet his eyes. “No one else matters but me and you. We don’t have to factor in other people. We can just be together.” 

“I’m not worth all the fuss,” you say under your breath. 

“What, this fuss? Honey, a few weeks ago you cried in my lap because I got you that cake from the bakery. And you know what? I didn’t want you to cry, but getting to rub your back?” He chances a smile. “That made my night.” 

“You like making girls cry.” 

“Yes,” he says, trying not to grin like a fool as you stand from your chair and put yourself in front of him. He is no saint. He pulls you onto his thighs and wraps an arm around the small of your back, your legs either side of him. “That’s my goal in life, sweetheart.” His voice falls to a whisper as you hang your head against him, tip of your nose to a rough cheek. “Making you cry…” 

Your arms creep to his neck. Resting on him, rather than hugging. He doesn’t mind, he’ll do the hard work. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“It’s okay.” He turns your face with his to press his lips to your cheek. “It’s alright, honey, bumps in the road happen with everyone.” 

“All my fault.” 

“Maybe next time, if you feel so strongly about something, you can just extend me that little bit of faith and… know that I’m here for you. Even if it did mean we wouldn’t be together, it doesn’t have to be that you’re alone, making such a big decision. Valiant,” he adds, enjoying the warmth of you seeping into his shirt, his face, his neck where your wrist is laid against it. “You’re not a coward. But I wish you wouldn’t be this brave about breaking my heart.” 

“Stop making me feel guilty.” 

His laugh is a breath against your cheek. “No, it’s fine, isn’t it? Use me and abuse me.” 

“Shut up. Stop, what is this weird guilt tripping you’re doing?” You laugh at his absurdity. “I’d never abuse you.” 

“I know. Just step on me a bit.” 

“Stop, stop,” you mumble, your voice turning slowly from self-pitying to honey, all that love for him he knew you still had like threads of gold shooting through it, “I don’t wanna step on you, I never would…” 

“Just rough me up a little.” 

“Never.” You press your face to his neck. “Thank you for not letting me do it.” 

“I won’t let you go so easily.” His hand trails up your back, feeling the softness of you beneath your t-shirt. Fat, muscle, all of it familiar, and treasured by his touching. 

He squeezes you rather tightly, then, but you don’t complain, you just sigh. 

“It’s not that you’re not who I picture for myself, like I said before,” you confess, leaning all your weight against him, barely held up by your legs either side of him. “You weren’t, but I didn’t realise that I could have you. I didn’t really know men like you existed. I should’ve known I was looking in the wrong age bracket.” 

“That’s not very nice. In my line of work they call that a feedback sandwich, honey. Something cruel between nice things to distract me.” 

“Sorry. Just had to get it in.” 

He considers your teasing a return to normalcy, guiding your head away from his with a hand to the back of your neck. “If this was a ploy to make me leave work early, consider it successful.” 

“I know your attention usually falls to other places, Mr. Hotchner–” You burst into giggles as he pinches the back of your neck, but it’s only to pull you in for a kiss, smiling against your parted lips as your laughter fades away.

You scrunch his shirt in your hand and kiss him nicely. 

“Sorry,” you say. 

“Forgiven.” Even if he did almost go into cardiac arrest at his desk. “I like begging to stay. It builds character.” 

“How long will you be like this?” you ask, shaking your head slowly, your smile poorly hidden. 

You’d needed a reminder, is all. Aaron isn’t solely business and sternness, he’s an idiot, your idiot, who likes to tease you, and doesn’t care who knows that. When he’s working he’s one person, and when he’s with you, he’s another. Both have their qualities and faults, but only one version is the one he needs to be with you. 

“At my age it’s perfectly normal to have a young and beautiful wife,” he says. “You’ve seen some of the other Section’s worker’s wives.” 

“I’m not that young,” you say. 

“So you admit it?” 

You reward him with a tired sigh, cuddling into his collar. 

—

…I'll never be your beast of burden. So let's go home and draw the curtains…

Aaron’s humming from the bedroom. He knows every classic rock song to exist, every word to every Beatles song. When the chorus comes, he sings under his breath, but you can hear him regardless. “Am I rough enough, am I rich enough? I’m not too blind…” he fades off. 

The music hums under your feet. Record player open on the floor, his Some Girls vinyl on the plate. 

You press a hand down your side. 

To inspire less worry on your part, you and Aaron are trying to be more open about the other sides of your lives. His work feels alien to you, and you worry that yours is dirty to him, despite reassurance that a job is a job. You know that already, but you can’t make yourself believe that he’s as happy as he could be if you were, say, a checkout girl. 

You’d make a cute checkout girl, he’d said. 

This is cute, too. Babydoll lingerie with feather edgings, starkly white against your skin. You fluff out the ends and neaten the crotch of your panties. Nothing is on show that shouldn’t be, but it’s still lingerie. It’s meant to excite. 

“Honey,” he says, dulcet tone carrying to the bathroom, “are you stuck again?” 

You laugh. “I bet you hope so.” 

“That’s accusatory in nature.” 

“I’m coming.” You give it a last glance in the mirror and head into the bedroom. 

Aaron’s sat against your headboard, flowery pillowcases behind his head and back. He discards the little figurine he’d been playing with out of boredom and looks you up and down, corners of his lips curling. 

“Home only,” he says. 

“I knew you’d say that.” 

“You look stunning.” His eyes seem darker. All pupil. 

“I have to wear some of these at the club, Aaron, that’s why I bought them.” 

Something in your voice makes him smile. “You said I could veto the ones that are too beautiful.” 

“I said too slutty.” 

“Honey, they’re all revealing in their ways. And I don’t have a problem with it…” He takes a breath. “Much. But some of these are meant for…” 

“The man who loves me?”

“Exactly.” 

He’d said something similar about the light blue set with darker flowers, the black set that showed the curves of your chest, and especially about the pink one-piece with white ribbons. That one gave him pause. 

“Spin?” he asks. 

One day it might bother Aaron that you dance, but for now he’s gently approving. Just wants you to be happy. So you do a little spin without any attempt to be sexy and beam when he whistles. 

“Beautiful. Really, honey, that’s the nicest so far.” 

“I have a confession.” 

“Yeah?” 

“This one was for you.” 

He’d know if you were lying. “For me?” he says, in that tone bordering stern, as much of his professionalism as you’re used to hearing these days. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Don’t,” he says, seductions gone as he tips his head back into a pillow patterned with lavender and peony. “Unless you’re done trying those on, I don’t want to hear it.” 

“This is the last one.” 

“In that case.” He covers his face with a cushion. 

You look down. Your stomach is a little bloated from lunch, and you have a shaving rash on your left knee, but Aaron won’t mind. He never does. Without worry, you tread to the side of the bed and climb onto it, one leg over his lap. The last time you’d been sitting in his lap, you’d been teary-eyed and regretful. Fuck, what was I thinking? you ask yourself, slipping a hand under his rising shirt to feel his abdomen. It’ll never not be weird, the FBI man and his stripper girlfriend, but it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but him and you. 

You ease the pillow down his face. 

“Are you blushing, Aaron?” you ask. 

“Not purposefully.” 

“You look a little… hot.” 

“That makes two of us.” 

It starts slowly. The heat of you atop him, the pillows moved out of the way. You didn’t expect him to stay unbothered as you paraded your new spoils, but his willpower is remarkable, and he only breaks when you let yourself settle on his lap. His big hand cups your face. 

“That’s funny.” You lift up enough to be in kissing range, but don’t kiss. You just wait for him to react, holding your weight off of his chest. 

He finds the small of your back and drags. Your gasp isn’t your own, a breathy, excited thing as he brings your face to his for a kiss. Your lips almost immediately part in anticipation of his eagerness, of his hand on the back of your neck, and the unflinching heat of his mouth as he turns his head. Your noses brush. He wades in deeper, his own breath already failing him as the bridges of your nose press hard. 

They aren’t rough kisses, but there’s something desperate there. He holds you to him until he can’t, ushering you onto your back, his weight bearing down sudden and steady. 

“I can’t believe I nearly lost you,” he utters, stroking your cheek, edging back in to kiss you before you can reply. 

You wrap an arm behind his back and hike your leg, soft thigh naked and waiting for his touch. You didn’t nearly lose me, you think. To be lost, you’d have to be something worth losing, and you’re not sure you are, but Aaron? 

“I don’t think you could,” you mumble, forcing him to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the line of your throat. He nips at your neck, a shudder racing through you. 

“I have no intent of letting it come that close again, sweetheart.” 

His hand dances up your side to the soft hill of your chest. 

You hold the hair from his face and let him kiss you. He’s here to stay, no matter how odd a pairing you might make. You love him. That’s all he cares about. 

“Want me to do that thing you like?” you offer softly, mildly playful. 

He laughs into your neck. “No,” he says, “I think tonight is about you, hm? You’re all dressed up. I think that deserves a reward.” 

You knew he’d like the white babydoll. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

[feminist-space]

The text in the purple with dark background above is really hard to read so here it is:

"this actually kinda happened to me when i was a teenager working at dunkin' donuts

a hole rotted into the floor between the register and milk dispenser and it lead to a 12ft concrete basement

the franchise owner just threw a floor mat down and called it a day

one of the baristas stepped on it during rush and one leg went all the way through and we had to pull her out

we then had a 'suprise' health inspection and i pulled the inspector aside to tell her about the hole

and she was like 'oh i know you are the fourth person to pull me aside since i walked in'

we thought they would close the store while the construction crew fixed it but nope we had to make coffee and work around the construction

and they had to make the hole bigger to fix it

so the was less than a foot of space on each side of it so we were always shuffling around the fucking chasm while being yelled at

bc we were being too slow (you know so we didn't fall to our deaths while dispensing the cream in your coffee)

sorry to rant it's just mind blowing that this isn't even satire to me

i had to worry about falling into the workplace pit for months"

There's an open pit in the middle of our office plan that drops down into a bunch of very sharp spikes that kill you instantly. This is bad. People keep falling in there and dying. Someone put a sign up, the other day, all bright yellow so you can't miss it, that says "Beware!!! Spikes!!!"

The office immediately split into two factions over it. One says that if anyone falls in the spike pit it's their own fault for being so stupid and not watching where they're walking, so we should remove the sign. The other says that the sign is an insult, there shouldn't be a spike pit in our office at all, and having the sign up like that is just normalising the existence of the spike pit, so we should remove the sign.

We ended up removing the sign. Probably for the better. Still... for a while there it looked like it might have worked...

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 4

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (vindicated!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, player wants to sock a certain 3D character in the face  A/N: Here’s part 4! Also, a taglist at the end of this post! Just lmk whether you'd like to be added/removed, no sweat ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ Happy reading!

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4

You swiftly pull up Reddit. And then Twitter (X) on another window. You’ve got to find answers.

Typing in “sENTIENT SENTINCE SENTIENCE LADS ML HELP” in the r/LoveAndDeepspace subreddit search bar, along with keywords that have anything to do with “breaking the fourth wall” and “recent major updates” on X, you quickly scour for anything that comes even close to your current situation. 

Immediately, you see a bunch of mix-match results, some even dating as far as the first month of the game’s release. Your eyes skim through blocks of texts, hoping there’s a comment–or a tweet–somewhere that could shed some light to this conundrum. 

Already, you see some discussion on sudden fourth wall breaks. But you’ve seen posts like this before, and they’re most likely pertaining to the way their LI’s gaze falls directly on the player’s line of sight when they’re in Dynamic Pose mode in Glint Photobooth. 

The common suspects for this are usually Xavier and your resident headache (Sylus). It's one of the “known” bugs of the game, even so far as being choreographed, almost, from the way players intentionally pose the MLs at certain angles to attain the likeness of sentience.   

You remember the first time it happened to you, way back when the Photobooth feature was just recently introduced. You were taking photos of Xavier–letting him pose freely in dynamic mode so that you could capture a more organic look, when his eyes “met” yours directly. 

Of course like any other (delusional) player, you entertained the novel idea of actually being noticed by the videogame character you’ve formed an unhealthy attachment to. Got excited, squealed over it, felt an instant doki-doki on your kokoro—the whole shebang. 

… Along with probably hundreds of other players who’ve experienced the same thing. 

So, yes, these instances occur more frequently than one would think. Not really what you’d call particularly noteworthy. 

Then you see the threads from players who swear that their LIs really understand how they feel during their tête-à-tête sessions. It sounds promising, and you spend a few minutes reading through their "testimonies."

—Until you surmise from what you’ve gathered that all of them only appear like they do. How Rafayel, Zayne (and yes, even Sylus) seem to know what they need to hear, from how accurate their generated responses are. 

Keyword: generated. So, no. They still aren’t anything more than glorified soundboards with really good timing, however attractive it may be to think otherwise. 

Ooh, that one sounds a little too bitchy, even for you. 

It’s got nothing to do with the players, nor has it anything to do with how the game works, really – bugs and all. Fuck, you were one of those people who milked the fantasy over the same coincidences once upon a time. You were. Before the coincidences started to be anything but. 

Before you had to worry whether you still have your mental faculties in order.

With every–misleading–post you stumble upon, you feel yourself becoming more restless. There’s a fervent glaze in your eyes and your typing’s getting diabolically worse. (you could barely read that last search input–bitch, how are you fit to work?) You’re sure that if you looked in a mirror right now, you’d look as deranged as you feel.

Xavier “bug” that looks so real omg?? Skip.

Sylus – New Voiceline? You check it out. Yeah, It’s just one of his newer–programmed–voicelines. 

Conversations with Rafayel got ~too real~ all of a sudden. You wish that yours had stayed the way they’ve always been, but alas. 

Stop feeding into my delusions [Zayne] challenge: Failed. Oh? You’re almost done reading the first paragraph of the Redditor’s post, when you catch sight of the latest update below: 

Resolved. Uninstalled the game. Multi-banners are too expensive (See my other post). Okay, you respect that. Hear that, Infold—

You’re slowly losing hope. Clearly, your case is kind of… mayhaps a tiny bit… different. From the rest. Dare say, exceptionally so.

To what end, you don’t know. You’re left with more questions than answers, and the primary enigma isn’t giving you much to work with.

Without anything else left to do, you resort to mindless scrolling. You’re swiping up, scrolling endlessly through the Top Posts of All Time, and it feels like you’re about to reach the end of this damn subreddit… When an unassuming post from a deleted user catches your attention. 

It only got a few upvotes, and barely enough comments to gain traction. Unless one’s desperate enough to have been looking as hard as you are, it just looks like one of the many random dead posts from months ago. Nothing special. 

Even the title is unassuming: I think the game’s broken??

You start to read.

Hi, so uhhh I’m 2 months in the game and everything’s been going well and all… Until a few days ago. IDK if this is a bug ?? but my Rafayel’s been acting so weird lately….. Ik I’m gonna sound delusional, but it’s like he’s actually aware of me ME. Not my MC. 

He’s got a bunch of new dialogues, and they’re all so accurately specific it’s creeping me tf out LMAO. IDK how the devs got THIS much info on me (like is this even legal) but they do. Or at least, Rafayel does? That sounds rly stupid out loud but yeah lol. Oh and he doesn’t even let me switch between MLs anymore. The game just… crashes? whenever I try to. 

Always been a Rafayel main (he’s the reason why I installed the game in the first place) so I was REALLY ecstatic over what I thought were new updates from the game… buuut when I tried looking it up, I can’t find any related news from the official LADS channel(s) about recent patches or updates with this feature, and no one seems to know what I’m talking about??? 

I feel like I’m going crazy… Literally as I’m typing this, Rafayel’s spamming me with notifications. He’s so fucking clingy… I love it??

Plsplspls if anyone’s experiencing the same thing, comment or DM meee. I need someone to talk to, aside from the fishie lmao no matter how much he insists that he’s enough omg (?!?!!)

Holy shit—you can’t believe it. This… this is exactly what you’re looking for. 

The six comments under the post ranged from calling it complete bull to outright mocking the OP, and you understand why the post didn’t get any more popular. 

For a brief moment, you feel a certain kinship with the original poster. A tinge of… shame (?) washes over you as you scan through all the negative reception; it’s as if the harsh insults were hurled directly at you instead.

How fun. There goes your fleeting idea to post the same question on the forum, if all else fails. 

Speaking of. Your eyes quickly dart to the small text just above the title to check their username—but to your utter dismay, you see (and remember) that it’s from a deleted account. 

The user no longer exists.  

God, that can’t be it.

You spend a solid twenty minutes trying to look up ways to retrieve information–contacts, socials, anything–from deleted accounts. No dice. 

Deep in your gut, you know that whatever else you could possibly find on both apps wouldn’t compare to what you’ve already come across.

You’ve officially hit a dead end. 

-

-

-

With heavy limbs and a downtrodden spirit, you haul yourself up from the floor—just to turn around and collapse face first on the sofa. A deep, drawn-out groan escapes you as you shut your eyes for a moment, trying to calm yourself down from all the stuff that’s been boggling your brain. 

It doesn’t seem like you’ll be finding a solid answer to your question (questions–in plural) any time soon. So what else can you do? 

Well, aside from putting away your groceries–the currently-thawing fish and the condensing bags of pre-cut veggies aren’t going to store themselves inside a freezer anytime soon. A loudly meowing ball of fur has also been relentlessly clawing at your leg at the foot of the sofa for the past five minutes, demanding to be fed and petted. 

Whoops. You hastily push yourself back on your feet to address these pressing tasks pronto.

..

…

…..

 (Now that’s out of the way—)

You swipe your phone open–yet again–as you flop back onto the couch. And, maybe, you’re a glutton for punishment. Maybe you’re just a little too over the excitement of the unknown factors in play. Or maybe, you just want another shot—to try one last time–

What you know, though, is that whenever you’re feeling overwhelmed about stuff at work, or you need something to distract yourself with, you open the silly otome game on your phone to make yourself feel better. 

So—that’s exactly what you do. Even if that silly otome game’s now the reason why you’re feeling so goddamned stressed at the moment. 

Go figure. 

The game boots up. You sullenly glare at the loading bar as it progresses from 35%.... 

68%.... 

95%......... 

Once again, Sylus_v1.0 (!) greets you from the center of the home screen, looking exactly the same as he did last when you opened the app, which was–damn, has it really been over three hours already? 

“At this hour, the day is just getting started,” he remarks nonchalantly, folding his arms across his chest as his eyes drift to whatever’s on his left. 

You give him a deadpan stare; slightly wary, but overall unimpressed by the act. “God, I hope the fuck not.” 

There’s no new content since your last proper login, as far as you can tell. At first glance, you see some of the regular, daily badge notifications, but nothing really stands out to you. There’s no unexpected red dot on the mail icon this time, nor is there any on the Hunter Info tab. 

So far, so good. 

With slight hesitation, you begin to speak, even if you aren’t sure whether your intended recipient can actually hear you or not.

“Um, so. I’m really kinda freaking out right now and–” You cut yourself off, swallowing down the frustration building in your throat. There’s an edge to your voice as you speak your next words, “it’s because you’re–you’ve been giving me mixed signals. I–I don’t know what to think anymore-!” 

He remains unmoving, showing no signs of having registered what you just said. You sigh. 

“Ugh, it sounds like I’m talking to an actual boyfriend or something. This is driving me nuts.” 

Still no response. 

“Can’t you give me a sign?” You whine defeatedly, trying to catch the eye of the pixelated man on your phone who’s resolutely looking at the right side of the screen. Is he purposely avoiding eye contact or what? “Like… I don’t know–blink twice if you understand what I’m saying right now.” 

He blinks. Once. Fucking—

Does he think this is some kind of joke? 

“I’m gonna poke your dick off,” You threaten him menacingly, your pointer finger at the ready to commit assault. “I swear, I’m gonna do it—” 

Wait. Was that a twitch on his lips? 

Pausing, you narrow your eyes at him, critical in your scrutiny for any sign that might reveal the truth to this stupid charade he’s putting on. Because it’s a charade. It has to be. 

All of a sudden, embarrassment colors your cheeks as it dawns on you what you just said to him. What you’re poised to do. Fuck, you just wanted to get a rise out of him. Test the waters or some shit. Then again, if he’s actually aware– if he CAN actually hear you— 

Quickly, you retract your finger away from where it hovers precariously centimeters above his crotch area. “Right. Sorry.” 

Scrunching your nose, you press the Agenda icon on the corner, resignation sitting heavy in your chest. Since it doesn’t look like you’re getting any answers tonight, you might as well just do your daily tasks while you’re in-game, right? 

So you go through the motions of ticking off each task on the list half-heartedly, collecting the subsequent rewards one by one; just enough to reach the hundred star mark. 

It’s petty, no doubt irrational, but you steer clear from anything that would require you to interact with him. You start off with what’s easiest to complete: gifting Stamina, spending Stamina, spending more Stamina, and buying items from the Shop. 

Speaking of items… You try your best to act indifferent as you catch sight of the staggering number of red dias that has recently come to your possession, there on the upper right corner of the screen. Before you could even recall the other materials so kindly gifted to you the other night, you immediately exit the Store window to go about your business after you’ve finished collecting today’s free loot. 

You breeze through the Bounty Hunts and Core Hunt stages with excessive use of the Auto Pursuit option, rinsing and repeating until you’re almost out of energy. You don’t want to risk playing an actual battle, since your strongest Memory Cards are from the man you’re currently giving the cold shoulder to.

Also, you have no idea what to expect once you enter combat mode–and right now, you can’t be damned to know. 

Before you know it, you’re done with the daily Agenda. Close enough, at least. You didn’t even have to interact with the white-haired male LYLA wannabe to get the hundred golden stars. Go, you. 

Without anything left to do, you’re back to staring at the–now seated–man on the homescreen who’s still intent on avoiding you. There’s Mephisto perched on his finger, appearing in a plume of black feathers, projecting a holographic screen for the Onychinus leader to scroll through whatever evil juju he’s been up to lately—the very picture of calm detachment. 

Almost a minute passes by. 

You can’t help it. Poke. Pokepokepokepoke—

“Once you’re trapped in life’s banality, the only thing left is “staying alive.”"

“Oh, for the love of—is that a hint or not?!”

You really wish you could’ve talked to the person on Reddit about this. Ask them whether their version of Rafayel had also been this difficult, this uncooperative. It can’t be that different from what you’re dealing with, could it? 

Just a chance to talk… You brood wistfully. To know what’s happening to them right now. Ask them for advice on how to provoke some type of reactio—

Suddenly, something clicks in your brain, and you almost bite your tongue to prevent the spark of anticipation from showing on your face.  

"Alright, you win," you concede with an exaggerated sigh, raising your arms over your head to appear as if you’re simply stretching away the stiffness in your muscles. You try to inject as much reluctance in your tone. “You’re really not going to budge, huh?” 

Again, you’re met with radio silence—not that you’re expecting a response at this point. 

(Well, not yet.) 

“That’s fine…” You trail off deliberately, drawing lazy lines across the screen with your pointer finger, until it stops right before the small message icon on the left. 

With feigned innocence, you muse, “Hey, I wonder how Xavier's been doing lately.” 

…

A beat. You almost believe nothing would come out of your last, and obvious, attempt at goading him but then— 

Sylus throws his head back with a sigh, casting an almost exasperated glance at the ceiling. He flicks his wrist dismissively, and Mephisto vanishes in a puff of dark smoke. There’s an unsettling fluidity in the way his gaze shifts toward you; disconcertingly lifelike, when his eyes finally–finally–lock onto yours. An intensity behind those red eyes that makes the look feel unnervingly deliberate. 

Your breath catches in your throat. There it is. The reaction you’re looking for.

A weary amusement frames the way he tilts his head sideways–with the way the corners of his mouth curve into a mocking smile, eyes never leaving yours.

He raises an eyebrow up as if to say, now what?

“I knew it,” you whisper shakily, eyes widening into saucers. “I fucking knew it.” 

“Mm, took you long enough.” 

Before you could even react to that, Sylus flashes you a two-finger salute and winks.

The game crashes. 

“Oh, no, you don’t—" you growl, not wasting any second tapping the game icon again. It doesn’t even give you a chance to reach the main menu before it glitches, and you’re back staring at the widgets on your phone’s home screen. “Motherfucker.” 

You keep trying. 

And with every attempt, Sylus, freak of nature that he is, responds with another system crash. On the eight try, you succeed on entering the game and you feel a sense of relief seeing the loading bar—before, lo and behold, it crashes once more. 

Your left eye twitches. Inhaling deeply, you hold your breath for a solid fifteen seconds before sharply exhaling through your nose.

You jab a finger on the icon of his dumb face again. You ought to change that shit as soon as this game of chicken lets up. 

“You’re gonna let me open this app, Sy-Sy,” You sang with faux cheer. “Or, swear to god, I’m uninstalling this thing before you could even—”   

… It loads successfully before you could even finish your sentence. 

“Alright, alright.” 

There he is; closer to the screen now, wearing a faint smile, as though trying to stifle a full-on grin from breaking across his face. He looks thoroughly entertained by the entire situation, like it’s the most fun he’s had in ages. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

“You–you—” Sputtering, you glare at him, betrayal in your eyes. “You’re a fucking ass!” 

“And you’re an absolute delight to play with, kitten,” Sylus coos at you, his smirk widening. But when he catches the trembling jut on your bottom lip, the amused glint in his eyes softens into something that almost seems sympathetic, and dare you say–apologetic? 

“For what it’s worth, I’ve just been waiting for the right moment to tell you. I couldn’t resist teasing you a little—but looking at you now, I see I might’ve taken it too far,” he murmurs, bowing his head slightly in a show of contrition. “I’m sorry, little dove.”

You press your lips together, your gaze darting away from the screen. “I thought I was going crazy.” As opposed to now? “B-but, um–it’s all good, I guess.”

A flush creeps up your neck when you hear him chuckle. 

Fuck, this is really happening, the hysterical thought rushes to your mind, unbidden. Chat, what’s the plan?

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 <3

[beanarie]

i never wanted water once part 3

tommy is also breakup baking, prompted by my dear @sanguinarysanguinity

tw: mention of parent death, mention of child abuse

part 1

part 2

~

Gutierrez eyes him on his way out of the locker room. "Feel like no one ever sees you anymore. You coming back to the pickup game or what?"

"Oh." Tommy gives his damp hair one last rub from the towel. "I wasn't planning on it, to be honest. Too awkward."

Gutierrez frowns. "Why?"

"You know," Tommy says, wishing he didn't have to, "Eddie Diaz. I broke up with his best friend."

"Diaz hasn't shown in weeks. Probably got injured. You know how that crew is."

And that. Well. He and Eddie were friends. They became tight very quickly in a way Tommy hasn't experienced with many people. He shouldn't have thrown a connection like that away without at least trying to salvage it.

He sends a text, a polite, generic one asking about his welfare. Worst thing that can happen is Eddie tells him to fuck off and he's back where he started. He fully expects to be left on read.

He does not expect Eddie to tell him he's moving back to Texas because he's given up on his son deciding to come home. Eddie invites him to a pre-going away dinner at a bar and grill before he goes down South for a few days to scout out homes. And, no, absolutely not. But Tommy proposes getting a drink, just the two of them. Eddie very validly explains that he can't spare the time, since he's already started packing up his life and he's working overtime to save up for a down payment. Tommy gets it. He does.

The day after the dinner, Eddie calls him. "Hey, man. I know we're like two ships passing in the night, but I didn't want to leave without a proper goodbye. I still got some more shifts before I move for good, but the time will go by quick. We'll just stay on the line, okay? Keep me company while I go through my kitchen cabinets."

"It's good to hear from you," Tommy says honestly.

"So yeah." Eddie hums. "Why'd you do it?"

"Text you?" Tommy says. "I heard that-"

"Kinard," Eddie says, unamused.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"You just didn't seem the type to flee."

None of you know me as well as you thought you did, Tommy doesn't say. That's not fair to any of them. "I wasn't, in the past. Well, I tried not being that. A couple times. It didn't work out."

"Oh," Eddie says. "There it is."

"There what is?"

"You've got shit."

"Haven't we all?"

"Hey, I am not denying that." Eddie chuckles. "Do you plan on dealing with it, or letting it blow up every good thing you find until you die?"

"Jesus, Eddie."

"What's the point in mincing words? You did something dumb and destructive. What kinda friend would I be if I let that go without saying anything?"

"So what's the weather even like in El Paso? Does it ever get below 100?"

After a groan, Eddie lets Tommy talk about his shit, about Texas, parenthood, and chess clubs, for the rest of the call. Tommy can't say that he'll miss him. He missed him already and now he gets to continue doing so. All of this sucks.

Tommy tries his hand at gnocchi made with ricotta, lemon, and pepper that subsequently almost causes a fistfight during B shift.

Demetra favors him with a warm smile, taking in the large box in his hands. "Tom, right? Welcome! What's all this?"

"Tommy," he says easily, impressed she remembered his name at all. He hasn't been to this slightly dusty community center in five or six years. "Uh, this is garlic knots and mini calzones."

"Well, hey. You're even more welcome than before. Come take a seat."

December is a stupid time to rejoin group, many of the participants close to the edge from a cocktail of seasonal depression, missing dead loved ones, and generalized loneliness. Tommy knew it would be like this going in. He counted on it. Everyone will have so much to say that there likely won't be any time for him to open his mouth. He's not ready to spill. It will help to just soak in the atmosphere of unashamed honesty for a while.

At his third meeting, Cal, a slender guy in his mid twenties with a curly mohawk, keeps bringing up his mother. "She never wanted me to enlist," he says, "and now that I'm back home and struggling, she can't stop being all 'I told you so' morning, noon, and night. She never says it, but she is thinking it."

"Is she?" Tommy finds himself asking. "Or are you putting something on her that isn't there?"

"Maybe so." Cal pops one of Tommy's fried ravioli in his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "I don't know, I should probably give her a chance, think first about what she's actually saying before I react. But it's hard in the moment, you know?"

"Tommy?" Demetra says a minute later, making him feel like a kid being called on by the teacher. "How's your relationship with your mom?"

"Nonexistent. She died when I was fifteen." He crosses his ankles. "Fell asleep in the car on our way back from an away game and we couldn't wake her up. Heart attack."

Demetra frowns sympathetically. "That must've been hard for a kid to witness."

"I've seen so much worse since then. People shot in the head by machine guns, people covered in burns over most of their bodies..."

Demetra shakes her head slightly. "They weren't your mom."

He ducks his head, pressing his lips together. "True. It's just- That's not- It's not trauma. I don't fear falling asleep and not waking up."

"What do you fear?" Cal asks.

Being left, being hurt, being validated in his belief that no one will ever see him for all he is and choose to stick around. "Standard stuff, really. Clowns, taxes, drivers on the freeway."

He gets a pity laugh, a groan or two, and one outright glare. "Okay, okay." He exhales loudly. "Ending up alone by someone else's choice rather than mine."

"So you're cool with being on your own, as long as you're the one keeping everyone away," Cal says.

God, that sounds idiotic. "Yes?"

"You prefer it like this?" asks a woman about his own age wearing a green bomber jacket.

He shrugs. "It's not ideal, but as far as worst case scenarios go, it's okay. It's fine."

"It's spineless," says a gray-haired man with a Desert Storm hat.

Tommy doesn't flinch. "Yeah, that's kind of an inherent character trait. I keep thinking I got it licked, then it shows up wearing another face. Scared of my dad, so I joined the army and became someone he couldn't hurt anymore. Scared of people knowing I was gay, so I waited to come out until I was surrounded by brand new people. Scared of my boyfriend leaving, so." He pushes at the skin above his knees, kneading it. "So I left him first."

"You fall back," says Bomber Jacket. Her name is Annie or Angie. She has conflicted feelings about dating a man with kids. "It's easy to stop being scared when the thing that scared you is far away."

He hears Eddie. You just didn't seem the type to flee.

Demetra holds up a hand. Tommy's face must be doing something concerning. "No one here faults you for what you did to survive. Is it still serving you, is the question, or is that just what you're used to?"

He doesn't bake when he gets home. He drinks half the beers in his fridge and does a shockingly efficient job of cleaning his house, while drafting and deleting twenty-seven different texts. He then wakes up the next day, and goes to the pickup game.

Gutierrez scores four rebounds on him and doesn't shut up about it for the rest of their next shift. Tommy grumbles, and talks shit, and promises he won't have much to brag about next time.

[satansdarlin]

Marigold margins

Chapter two

Ceo!Tim Drake x assistant fem!reader

Notes: hammered this out when I was supposed to be sleeping! Also I'm twenty now :0! Not beta read this time so excuse any grammar errors. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Tell me what you think! I love to hear your thoughts

Warnings: talk of the loss of a parent, toxic work environments, talk about how a sugar daddy relationship can be toxic (not in this one tho!), referenced past cheating (all my homies hate Josh and Alexia), straight up attempted murder (cause that bitch knows you don't know how to swim), sickeningly sweet love confessions, Thomas being a bit of a cockblock but we love him.

Word count: 10k

Rating: T

Playlist

The restaurant was a world apart from anything you'd experienced before. Gotham's most exclusive Vietnamese restaurant wasn't just a dining establishment – it was a temple of culinary artistry. Crystal chandeliers cast soft golden light over tables draped in pristine white linens, each setting a carefully curated masterpiece of silver and crystal.

You felt like an imposter.

Your pale yellow dress – the nicest thing in your wardrobe, carefully selected after three panicked phone calls to your sister – suddenly felt woefully inadequate. The other patrons looked like they'd stepped out of a high-fashion magazine, all carefully tailored suits and designer jewelry that probably cost more than your entire year's rent.

The hostess – impossibly elegant in a tailored red silk uniform that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe – looked you up and down with a gaze that made you want to shrink into yourself.

"Name?" Her tone was crisp, professional, and utterly intimidating.

"I'm, um, here with Timothy Drake?" The words came out as a question, your confidence evaporating under her scrutiny.

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. "I don't believe we have—"

"There you are." Tim's voice cut through your mounting anxiety like a warm knife through butter. He appeared beside you, immaculate in a charcoal suit that looked like it had been tailored by angels. His hand settled on the small of your back – warm, reassuring, possessive.

The hostess's demeanor changed instantly. "Mr. Drake, your table is ready. Right this way."

You found yourself guided through the restaurant, feeling like you were floating. Tim's touch was steady, grounding you even as your mind raced. The other diners seemed to part like a sea, heads turning in recognition.

"Sorry about traffic," you mumbled, fingers nervously smoothing the fabric of your dress.

Tim leaned in, his breath close to your ear. "I could have sent a car," he murmured. "One of the company's autonomous vehicles would have—"

"And that," you interrupted, finding a spark of your usual banter, "would be even more unprofessional than this, Mr. Drake."

The nickname made his eyes dance with amusement. "We're not at the office," he said, pulling out your chair with a fluid motion that spoke of years of practiced elegance. "Just Tim. Please."

As you sat, you couldn't help but marvel at the contrast between you. Tim moved through this world like he was born to it – which, technically, he was. You, on the other hand, felt like an actress who'd wandered onto the wrong set.

The menu was a work of art, more like a leather-bound book than a list of dishes. Golden-edged pages revealed delicacies you'd only read about, prices conspicuously absent – a sure sign that if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

"Have you ever had real Vietnamese cuisine?" Tim asked, his menu folded casually beside his plate.

You shifted uncomfortably. "Define 'real'?"

His laugh was soft, meant only for you. "Not from a food truck or a strip mall restaurant."

"Hey," you mock-protested, "those are cultural institutions!"

A waiter appeared, as if summoned by magic. Crystal water glasses were filled, a wine list presented to Tim with the reverence usually reserved for religious texts.

"The 2015 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, sir?" the waiter suggested.

Tim's fingers brushed yours across the table. "What do you think?"

The wine probably cost more than your monthly salary. You swallowed, suddenly feeling very out of your depth.

"I'm more of a craft beer girl," you admitted.

Tim's smile was blinding. "Good. Because I am too. Though don't tell my family."

Something in that moment – his genuine smile, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room – made all the elegance around you fade into background noise.

"So," you leaned forward, "tell me something real. Something the tabloids don't know."

His eyes glinted with a promise of secrets about to be shared. Tim leaned back, a challenge dancing in his eyes. "Something real, huh? Most people think they know me – Timothy Drake, Wayne heir, tech prodigy. But nobody knows the real me."

The waiter returned, setting down an array of dishes that looked more like art installations than food. Delicate rice paper rolls, a steaming pho that sent wisps of aromatic steam into the air, garnishes so precisely placed they looked like they'd been positioned with tweezers.

"I was seven," Tim began, picking up his chopsticks with the same precision the chef had used to arrange the meal, "when I first taught myself computer programming."

You raised an eyebrow. "Most seven-year-olds are playing video games. You were writing code?"

"Not just writing," he corrected, a hint of that boyish enthusiasm breaking through his polished exterior. "I was trying to hack my parents' computer to prove I could do it."

A laugh escaped you – loud, unrestrained, completely inappropriate for the refined setting. Several nearby diners turned, but Tim's eyes never left you.

"Did you succeed?" you asked, leaning forward.

His smile was pure mischief. "Of course I did. Took me three days. My mother was both furious and secretly impressed."

You took a bite of the rice paper roll, trying to look elegant and immediately realizing how difficult that was. A drop of sauce landed on your dress.

"Shit," you muttered.

Tim slides a napkin toward you, but there's something soft in his eyes. "It's just a dress," he says simply. "Not like the world will end."

It wasn't just a napkin. It was a perfectly pressed white linen napkin that probably cost more than your dry cleaning budget for a year. You dabbed at the spot, acutely aware of how out of place you felt.

"Your turn," Tim said. "Something real about you that nobody knows."

You hesitated, twirling your chopsticks. "I... can't actually use these very well."

His laugh was unexpected. Full. Rich. The kind of laugh that made other diners turn and smile, even if they didn't know the joke.

"tell me something actually real," he prompted again, his eyes holding a mix of curiosity and challenge.

"When I was in college," you admitted quietly, a mischievous edge creeping into your voice, "I may have orchestrated the complete academic downfall of six guys from Gotham University."

Tim's laugh burst out unexpectedly, sharp and surprised. "You got them expelled?"

"They had cut up photos of my sister Indi from magazines," you exclaimed, a fierce protectiveness blazing in your eyes. "Hung them in their dorm with these... disgusting annotations. No one makes gross comments about my sister without consequences."

Your voice was matter-of-fact, but there was a steel underneath that made Tim's eyes widen. He leaned closer, fascinated.

"What did you do?" he asked, genuinely intrigued.

A small, dangerous smile played across your lips. "Let's just say their academic records became... quite complicated. Plagiarism allegations. Lost recommendation letters. Academic conduct hearings." You shrugged. "By the time I was done, they were lucky to transfer to community college."

Tim's laughter was a mix of shock and admiration. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

"Wise choice," you winked.

The conversation hung between you - a delicate balance of humor and intensity. Tim's fingers traced patterns on the pristine white tablecloth, his next words carefully chosen.

"Most people think I'm just the tech genius of the Wayne family," he said softly. "But my first love was actually marine biology."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Marine biology? Really?"

"Spent an entire summer when I was fourteen volunteering at the Gotham Aquarium," he admitted, a soft vulnerability replacing his usual polished exterior. "I wanted to save every single sea creature. Drove my family absolutely mad. I still have a boat bruce bought me for it."

The waiter returned, setting down two steaming bowls of pho. The aroma was intoxicating – star anise, beef broth, fresh herbs creating a symphony of scent that made your mouth water.

"What changed?" you asked, watching Tim expertly manipulate his chopsticks. "Why didn't you become a marine biologist?"

His smile turned slightly rueful. "Reality of the Wayne legacy, I suppose. Family expectations are... complicated."

You understood that. Family expectations were a language you'd spoken fluently your entire life. The weight of unspoken rules, inherited dreams, and silent sacrifices - you knew that terrain intimately.

"My turn, huh?" You traced the rim of your water glass, your voice soft but steady. "My father died when I was fifteen. Lung cancer - a delayed consequence of a Joker gas attack years earlier. Most people don't understand how something like that lingers, how toxicity can take years to kill you."

You looked up, meeting Tim's gaze directly. No apology in your eyes, just a raw, unvarnished truth.

"He made me promise something before he died," you continued. "Not just me, but all my sisters. 'Never stop fighting for what you want most in life.' Not in a motivational poster kind of way. But like a mission. A directive."

Tim's hand moved across the table, his fingers barely touching yours. Not a gesture of pity, but of connection. Understanding.

"Some legacies are survival instructions," he said quietly. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of solidarity.

You appreciated that he didn't say "I'm sorry." Those words had lost meaning years ago.

"Want to know something else?" Tim's smile shifted - part mischief, part vulnerability. "I've been wanting to ask you out for months."

"No way," you laughed, the sound low and disbelieving. "Me? Of all people?" Your eyebrow arched, a challenge dancing in your eyes. "Absolutely not."

Tim's smile didn't falter. If anything, it deepened - a mix of amusement and something more profound. "Oh, but yes way," he countered, his fingers still intertwined with yours. "The universe works in strange ways."

You'd heard that before. Gotham was a city of strange ways, of unexpected connections.

"The truth," Tim continued, leaning closer, "is always more complicated." His voice dropped, intimate. "You're the first person who's ever looked past the surface. Who sees beyond the Drake heir, beyond the Wayne successor. Who sees just... me."

The words hung between you - vulnerable, honest, dangerous.

The food arrived like a distraction, a symphony of colors that seemed almost too artful to disturb. Delicate rice paper rolls that looked like they'd been crafted by an artist, not a chef. Steam rising from a soup that promised complexity. Crisp pancakes that looked more like small architectural models than something meant to be eaten.

"Eat," Tim encouraged, his eyes never leaving yours. "No nerves required."

Your chopsticks felt awkward, clumsy. Tim's movements, by contrast, were fluid - each motion precise, economic. A dancer's grace, a programmer's efficiency.

The first bite exploded across your tongue - layers of flavor so complex they almost seemed impossible. Nuanced. Unexpected. Nothing like any Vietnamese food you'd experienced before.

"Good?" Tim asked, and the word was loaded with something more than simple curiosity.

"Incredible," you admitted. And you weren't just talking about the food.

Outside, Gotham's night was falling. City lights began to sparkle - a million stories unfolding in the darkness. But inside this restaurant, in this moment, there was only the two of you. The elegant space. The extraordinary food. And a connection that felt like it was writing its own unexpected story.

The evening was drawing to a close, and the last thing you wanted was for it to end. The tension between you and Tim was electric - professional boundaries blurring with each passing moment. One more hour, and you'd be dangerously close to crossing lines that couldn't be uncrossed.

Gotham's night air bit through your jacket as you stepped outside, the city's chill a stark contrast to the warmth of the restaurant.

"Metropolis," you said softly, a statement and a promise. Your feet shifted, reluctant to create distance between you.

Tim's gaze was warm, understanding. But there was something else brewing beneath the surface - a careful consideration you recognized instantly.

"I spoke with Bruce," he began, each word measured. "About us. About potential... complications."

You tensed slightly. The unspoken implications hung between you - this could work, or this could spectacularly fall apart.

"A contract," Tim continued, watching your reaction carefully. "Not what you're thinking. An NDA. A way to protect both of us. Professionally and personally."

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. "A contract? Like some kind of corporate romance clause?"

Tim's laugh matched yours - nervous, excited, slightly ridiculous. "Something like that. Bruce thought it might provide a framework. Protection."

"Romantic," you deadpanned, but your eyes were sparkling.

"Bruce was never known for his romantic sensibilities," Tim shot back.

A soft silence settled between you, the city's background noise a distant hum. Tim's hands were tucked into his coat pockets, but you could see the tension in his shoulders - a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

"So," you said finally, your breath creating small clouds in the cold Gotham air, "a contract that essentially says what, exactly?"

Tim's smile was equal parts nervous and calculated. "Mutual discretion. Clear boundaries. Protections for both of us if things become... complicated." He paused. "Bruce suggested it might help us navigate the professional complexities."

You appreciated the directness. In Gotham, in your world, nothing was ever simple. Relationships were chess matches, and Tim was proposing a detailed playbook.

"And if I want to play?" The question hung between you, loaded with possibility.

"Then we play carefully," Tim responded, his voice low. "Very carefully."

The streetlights cast a golden glow, creating a bubble of intimacy in the middle of a city that never truly slept. Gotham watched, perpetually curious, perpetually waiting.

“I can do careful,” you hummed sweetly and stood on the tips of your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek making him flush red in the face. You heard a honk and looked over and saw scarlet's car. “That's my ride. See you in Metropolis, Mr. Drake”

“I'm never going to get you to just call me Tim all the time, am i?” His voice filled with mirth and teasing as he smiled at you.

“We will see, sir” you chirped, giving a mock salute before going off to your sister's car.

.

.

.

"That should be everything," Scarlet declared, setting down the final box in the spacious Metropolis penthouse. She let out a low whistle, surveying the room. "Quite the setup your boyfriend arranged."

"He's not—" You sighed, catching yourself, maybe you were, you werent sure. "Tim just needs me close for our work."

Scarlet's eyebrow arched, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Right. Just work."

You rolled your eyes, recognizing the familiar teasing. "You sound just like Indi and Dick."

Her laugh was soft, but her gaze grew serious. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, Scarlet studied you with a mixture of concern and pride. "You sure you'll be okay out here? It's a hell of a long way from Gotham."

The concern was layered—part sisterly protection, part lingering grief. You both knew how much had changed since your father's death.

"I need this," you said quietly. "A fresh start. Away from... everything."

"Away from Josh," Scarlet corrected, her tone hardening. "I still offer to break his kneecaps, by the way."

"Calm down, Vito Corleone," you chuckled.

For a moment, Scarlet looked less like the fierce small business owner and more like the sister who had helped raise you. Her fingers traced the edge of a nearby box—an old nervous habit from childhood.

"I worry," she admitted. "Ever since dad..."

You moved closer, placing a hand on her arm. "I know. But I'm not alone. I've got you. Indi. Petal. Mom. And now, this opportunity with Tim."

Moisture gathered in Scarlet's eyes. "You're going to do amazing things. I know it."

The hug was tight, filled with the familiar scents of lavender, flower shop soil, and citrus cleaning products that defined Scarlet.

"How's the shop? How's Harkin?" you asked, sensing she needed to shift focus.

Her smile transformed her entire demeanor. "Growing like a weed. He's 'helping' me arrange flowers—which means creating beautiful, chaotic messes."

"Sounds exactly like his mother," you teased.

"Careful," Scarlet mock-warned. "I have connections with every florist in Gotham. I could make your professional life very interesting."

You raised an eyebrow. "Weaponized flower arrangements?"

"Not a threat. A promise."

Laughter dissolved the remaining tension. Outside the penthouse windows, Metropolis awaited—a canvas of new possibilities.

"Call me," Scarlet insisted as she prepared to leave. "Every. Single. Day."

"Yes, mom," you retorted, the affection clear.

After she departed, you stood amid the boxes—each one a symbol of transformation, of escape, of hope.

Your phone buzzed.

From: Tim

Everything settled in?

To: Tim

Almost. My sister just threatened to weaponize flower arrangements if I don't call her daily.

From: Tim

Remind me to never get on her bad side either.

A smile played on your lips. Metropolis wasn't just a new city. It was a new beginning.

.

.

.

The weeks blurred together, each day more demanding than the last. You could feel the tension building—in your jaw, in Tim's posture, in the very air around your work.

You were on a call, your tone clipped and professional, when Tim entered the room. His face was a map of stress, fingers rubbing his temples. Their eyes met—a silent acknowledgment of the mounting pressure.

The phone call was a masterclass in professional restraint. Your voice, crisp and controlled, sliced through the potential client's growing agitation.

"Mr. Drake's schedule is completely booked," you stated, each word precisely calibrated. "We cannot accommodate additional meetings at this time."

Tim watched from the doorway, a silent observer to your professional ballet. The muffled sounds of argument filtered through the phone's speaker—frustration, desperation, the kind of negotiation that happened when someone was used to getting their way.

"I understand your concerns," you continued, a razor's edge of patience threading through your tone. "If you could provide a more comprehensive proposal, I'd be happy to review it for potential future consideration."

Another pause. Your fingers drummed a subtle rhythm against the desk—the only outward sign of your mounting irritation.

"No," you said firmly. "Mr. Drake maintains strict boundaries regarding business communications. Discretion is paramount in our work."

When you finally ended the call, the silence felt like a physical thing. You exhaled—long, controlled, a study in professional composure.

Tim's chuckle was low, tinged with exhaustion. "Problems?"

Your smile was wry, weathered. "Just another client who believes the rules don't apply to them."

The subtext was clear. The Metropolis transfer—once a promising strategic expansion—had become a crucible of unexpected challenges. New clients, competing interests, a constant barrage of professional obstacles had transformed their work into a high-wire act of precision and patience.

"I'm starting to think Samantha might have been right about the market volatility," you admitted, shuffling papers that seemed to multiply with each passing moment.

Tim's jaw tightened. The mention of Samantha was a deliberate provocation, and he knew it.

"We're not giving her the satisfaction," he responded, the words clipped.

You raised an eyebrow, a challenge masked as curiosity. "Competitive?"

"Always," he said. But beneath the professional veneer, a hint of his younger self emerged—that brilliant, driven individual who'd never backed down from a challenge.

"Coffee?"

It wasn't a question. It was survival.

The break room was a sanctuary of sorts—a small pocket of relative calm in their storm of professional intensity. The coffee machine gurgled, filling the space with a rich, bitter aroma that spoke of long nights and endless negotiations.

Tim's phone buzzed. The caller ID read "Dick"—a name that immediately sparked a warning look from Tim.

"Don't," he said, catching your inquisitive glance.

"Don't what?" Innocence personified.

"Whatever matchmaking scheme Dick and Indi are plotting." No real heat in the words. Just resignation.

Outside, Metropolis stretched beneath gray skies—a city of perpetual motion, of opportunities hidden behind concrete and glass. Much like the relationship developing between you and Tim. Professional. Intense. Something more.

"We're going to make this work," you muttered. A promise. A prayer.

Tim looked at you—truly looked. Past the stress. Beyond the tense shoulders and dark circles. He saw potential. Resilience. Something profound.

"Together," he confirmed.

The word hung in the air. Weighted. Promising.

Your phone buzzed. Scarlet, as always, a lifeline.

From: Scarlet

Coffee count? Eating actual food today?

You showed Tim the message. He laughed, a sound that broke through the professional tension.

"Indi's more responsible sibling" he observed.

"Careful," you warned. "She weaponizes flower arrangements."

As if summoned by the conversation, a delivery arrived. A small, elegant bouquet. The card read: "Survive. Thrive. Love you."

Something soft passed over Tim's expression. A vulnerability quickly masked by professional composure.

"We've got this," he said quietly.

And for the first time in weeks, you believed him.

.

.

.

The first true glimpse of Timothy Jackson Drake's anger wasn't a explosion. It was precise. Surgical. Triggered by a rumor that threatened everything you'd both been building.

A coworker's casual observation. You and Tim, lunch, appearing more familiar than strictly professional.

The storm was just beginning.

The voices filtered through Tim's office door, muffled but unmistakable.

"Mr. Drake, we aren't saying personal relationships are forbidden, but consider the optics."

You continued typing, each keystroke a measured rhythm of professional composure. But you were listening. Always listening.

The arrangement between you and Tim was a delicate architecture. Not a relationship, not exactly. Something more calculated. Less romantic, more strategic. Bruce's recommendation hung over everything—a non-disclosure agreement disguised as professional courtesy.

Tim took care of things. A Prada handbag here. Covering unexpected expenses there. You weren't naive enough to call it love. You were pragmatic enough to recognize opportunity.

Inside the office, Tim's voice rose—a razor's edge of controlled fury.

"My assistant's performance is exemplary," he stated. Not a defense. A declaration.

You knew the game. Every interaction choreographed. Lunches that could pass as strategy meetings. Texts that whispered professional necessity. Gifts positioned as performance incentives.

The door opened. Tim emerged—professional armor firmly in place, save for the microscopic tension in his jaw.

"Pull the quarterly reports," he instructed. Not a request.

You understood immediately. Performance metrics as weaponry. A clinical dismantling of any suggestion of impropriety.

Your phone buzzed. Indi's perpetual concern.

From: Indi

You're being careful?

To: Indi

Always.

Tim's fingers flew across his keyboard—composing what you knew would be a surgical email. Destroying potential narratives before they could take root.

"Coffee?" you asked.

"Already brewing," he responded, because you always were.

The first true fracture came later. Not during the meeting. After.

His office. Private territory. The walls seemed to breathe with unspoken tension.

"I've never seen you so calm," you remarked.

Tim's response was immediate. "I'm not calm."

A muscle ticked in his cheek. Fury, precisely contained. "I'm furious they would dare question your competence. Your integrity."

You stepped closer. An instinctive movement. Grounding.

"Tim—"

The space between you was charged. Not with anger. Something more complex. More dangerous.

Metropolis stretched outside—a city of ambition, of carefully constructed facades. Much like the relationship developing between you and Tim.

Professional. Intense. Undefined.

Precisely where you both wanted it.

"They don't truly see you," Tim said, his voice a low, controlled intensity that could slice through steel. "Just another face. A convenient target."

The space between you vibrated with unspoken tension. Professional. Personal. Something impossibly complex.

His hand caught your wrist—not a restraint, but a connection. Firm. Deliberate.

"I see you," he repeated. Each word a precise instrument. A vow. “Do you know what I see? What you are?”

You knew the game. The careful dance you'd choreographed. Bruce's recommendations echoing in every interaction. Boundaries drawn with surgical precision.

"I'm the one who understands the numbers," you murmured. "The one who keeps this machine running."

His grip softened. A single finger tracing the delicate skin of your inner arm—a touch that defied every professional protocol you'd both meticulously constructed.

"The one," Tim said, "who makes me want to break every rule we've set."

City lights filtered through the office windows. Metropolis—a backdrop to your carefully modulated tension.

"Tim," you warned. A plea. A boundary.

He was close. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him. The controlled fury. The restrained desire.

"Just one moment," he said. Not a question. Not quite a demand.

The line between professional and personal blurred. Dissolved.

His kiss was precise. Controlled. A claim and a surrender wrapped into one moment of absolute clarity.

When he pulled back, you were breathless. Flushed. Changed.

"Remember," Tim said, "who you are to me."

You nodded. A return to form. To function.

"Reports," he instructed.

And just like that, the moment dissolved. Professional composure restored.

.

.

.

Performance reports became your weapon. Tim's legendary meticulousness combined with your strategic brilliance—a combination more surgical than any board meeting could anticipate.

"They're searching for weakness," Tim murmured, documents spread between you like battle plans.

The office was silent. Just desk lamps. City lights. The soft rustle of paper.

"They won't find it," you responded. Your phone buzzed. Indi.

From: Indi

Message: Heard through the grapevine you're causing board drama. Need me to come weaponize some PR?

To: Indi

Message: Absolutely not.

Tim glanced over, catching your slight smile. "Your sister?"

"Offering to commit professional warfare on my behalf," you deadpanned.

He chuckled. A rare sound these days.

The Metropolis expansion was proving more challenging than anticipated. Tech companies were circling, sensing vulnerability. The board's whispers about your relationship were just one pressure point.

"We could make a statement," Tim suggested, not for the first time.

"And say what? That we're... what exactly?" You raised an eyebrow. "Professionally involved? Personally connected?"

The space between those definitions was where you lived now.

A knock interrupted. Martin Reynolds – the board member who'd been most vocal about your "inappropriate relationship" – stood in the doorway.

"Ms. (Y/L/N)," he said, deliberately not looking at Tim, "a moment?"

Tim's hand – almost imperceptibly – brushed yours under the desk. A silent warning. A promise.

The game was just beginning.

You followed Mr. Reynolds out into the hall, who glanced around for a moment, ensuring no one was within immediate earshot.

"You wished to speak to me, sir?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I'd like to make a suggestion." His tone was clipped and lined with a superiority that made you want to claw his eyes out. "End whatever little situation you have with Mr. Drake before it ruins you."

You gaped at the audacity of this man for a moment before your eyes narrowed. "Mr. Drake and I's connection outside of work hours is not of company concern, sir."

Reynolds leaned in, his voice low and threatening. "Do you really think you're the first assistant to believe she can navigate a relationship with her boss? I've seen careers destroyed for far less."

Your spine straightened. You'd grown up with Indi as a sister and survived Scarlet's protective fury and had helped raise the youngest of your sisters into a formidable young woman. A middle-aged board member attempting to intimidate you was child's play.

"Are you suggesting, Mr. Reynolds, that my professional performance has been anything less than exceptional?" Each word was precisely placed, a verbal chess move.

He faltered slightly. The quarterly reports – the ones you and Tim had meticulously prepared – spoke for themselves. Your metrics were impeccable. The Metropolis office had seen a 17% increase in efficiency since your arrival.

"I'm suggesting," he said, recovering his bluster, "that personal entanglements compromise professional judgment."

A laugh – short, sharp – escaped you before you could stop it. "With all due respect, sir, the only compromise I see is your apparent inability to recognize talent when it's directly in front of you."

Tim's approach was subtle. You didn't hear him, but suddenly he was there, a presence just behind you. Not intervening, but clearly present.

"Is there a problem?" Tim's voice was silk over steel.

Reynolds straightened, the bravado momentarily deflating. "Mr. Drake. Just having a professional discussion with your... assistant."

"My executive assistant," Tim corrected, a razor's edge to the words. "Is there something specific you needed to discuss about our recent performance reports?"

The hall seemed to compress, tension thrumming between them. You were acutely aware of the strategic positioning – Tim slightly behind you, a silent support, letting you handle the confrontation.

Reynolds knew he was outmaneuvered. "No," he said finally. "Nothing further."

As he walked away, Tim's hand brushed yours – so briefly anyone watching would miss it. A moment of connection. Of solidarity.

"Lunch?" he asked, as if nothing had happened.

Your smile was pure defiance. "Absolutely."

The walk to the cafeteria was charged. Tim's mind raced, replaying the interaction. Reynolds' thinly veiled threats. Your sharp-edged response. The way you'd stood your ground, unflinching.

"You know," he said as you entered the elevator, "I'm starting to think you enjoy these confrontations."

Your laugh was sharp. Bitter. "Not so much enjoyment as necessitate."

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing you in a capsule of forced intimacy. Tim leaned against the wall, studying you. Really seeing you for the first time since the whole Reynolds debacle began.

"I never thanked you," he said quietly. "For handling that. With Reynolds."

You shrugged, but there was a tension in your shoulders. A tightness around your eyes that spoke of long-held frustrations.

"Don't," you said, too quickly. "Don't thank me for doing my job."

Ah. There it was. The crux of the issue.

"(Y/N)," he started, but the elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal the bustling cafeteria. The aroma of fresh coffee and reheated pizza wafted out, a stark contrast to the sterile hallways of Wayne Enterprises.

Tim hesitated, his hand hovering at the threshold. The urge to pull you aside, to find a quiet corner and hash this out, was strong. But the rational part of his brain knew that wasn't the answer. Not here, not now.

So he followed you into the fray, falling into step beside you as you wove through the lunchtime crowd. You moved with purpose, your posture straight and your gaze focused. No one would guess at the tension thrumming beneath your skin.

"Salad bar?" Tim asked, a peace offering. A chance to salvage some normalcy.

You nodded, a curt jerk of your head. No words, but the message was clear.

As you loaded up your tray with greens and vegetables, Tim found himself studying you. The set of your jaw, the furrow between your brows. He'd seen you angry before, but this was different. This was cold. Calculating.

"You know," he said softly, leaning in so only you could hear, "if you ever need a sparring partner, I'm your guy."

The joke fell flat. Your eyes never left the salad bar, but he could see the muscles in your back tense.

Right. Not the time for levity.

They found a table in the corner, as far from the crowds as possible. You sat across from him, arranging your food with mechanical precision.

Tim took a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly. The silence stretched between you, heavy with things unsaid.

"(Y/N)," he started, but the words tangled on his tongue. How did you even begin to address this? The double standards, the constant scrutiny, the need to be twice as good just to be seen as half as competent?

You looked up, meeting his gaze. There was a challenge there, a defiance that took his breath away.

"Don't," you said, your voice low and intense. "Don't look at me like that. Like I'm some fragile thing that needs protecting."

"I'm not," he protested, but the denial rang hollow even to his own ears.

"Yes, you are." Your knife scraped against your plate, a sharp sound in the quiet cafeteria. "You're looking at me like I'm a victim. Like I need you to fight my battles for me."

Tim's jaw clenched. He knew that look. That patronizing tilt of the head, that subtle shift in body language that said 'poor little girl, can't handle the big bad corporate world'.

It made his blood boil.

"That's not," he started, but you cut him off with a look.

"It is," you insisted, leaning forward. "It's exactly what you're thinking. You're wondering how I can handle myself, how I can stand up to men like Reynolds."

"I'm not," Tim said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a lie. He had wondered that, in the moment. Had seen you standing tall and proud and fierce, and had felt a flicker of doubt.

"Well, stop," you said, sitting back. "Stop wondering, stop worrying, stop treating me like I'm made of glass."

Tim's hands curled into fists beneath the table. He wanted to argue, to defend himself. But the words wouldn't come.

Because you were right. He had been treating you differently, holding you to a different standard. And that was wrong.

"I apologize," he said finally, the words stiff and formal in his mouth. "I shouldn't have assumed."

You studied him for a long moment, searching his face. Then, slowly, you nodded.

"Apology accepted," you said, and just like that, the tension broke.

You went back to your salad, and Tim to his sandwich. The conversation flowed back to safer topics - work, the weather, the never-ending stream of emails.

But beneath it all, something had shifted. A new understanding, a deeper respect.

Tim Drake was many things - a vigilante, a detective, a genius. But today, he was learning to be something else. Your equal.

.

.

.

Morning sunlight filtered through your penthouse windows, illuminating an elegantly wrapped box outside your door. The tag made you sigh: 'a proper apology - T'. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, lay a dress that made your breath catch. Chamomile yellow silk, the kind of elegance that belonged at galas, not board meetings. Your laptop search for the designer nearly stopped your heart.

You hit Tim's speed dial. "Timothy Jackson Drake, did you seriously buy me a five thousand dollar dress as an apology?!"

His chuckle was warm, rich. "Guilty. But it's not just any dress. It's Valentino, that designer you mentioned loving at the charity gala last month."

Your fingers traced the impeccable stitching, betraying you even as you protested. "This is excessive."

"Says the woman who orchestrated a complete restructuring of our Asia-Pacific division in three days." The smile in his voice was audible. "But seriously, I wanted... I needed to show you that yesterday meant something. That I heard you."

You bit your lip, caught between admiration and unease. The gesture was thoughtful, intimate even - he'd remembered an offhand comment about your favorite designer. But it also highlighted the very power dynamic you'd fought against yesterday.

"Tim," you said softly, still running your fingers along the silk, "I can't accept this. It's too much."

His pause spoke volumes. When he finally responded, his voice had lost its playful edge.

"This isn't about the money, (Y/N). This is me saying I see you. As my equal. My partner. Yesterday made me realize I needed to show that, not just say it.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath.

"I appreciate the sentiment," you said carefully. "But gifts like this... they create expectations. Obligations."

"I'm not trying to create obligations," Tim said, exasperation creeping into his tone. "I'm trying to show you that I value you. As a person. As my colleague. You're important to me."

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words died in your throat. Because maybe... maybe he was right. Maybe you were reading too much into this. Seeing shadows where there was only light.

"Keep it," Tim said, his voice gentle now. "Wear it to the gala next week. Show them all how wrong they are about you."

The gala. Of course. The annual charity event that was as much about business as it was about philanthropy. A chance to network, to make statements.

To make a point.

"Fine," you said, surprising yourself with the word. "I'll wear it. But only because it's a lovely dress."

"And because you look stunning in yellow," Tim added, his voice warm.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "Flatterer."

"Always," he agreed, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You hung up a moment later, still holding the dress. The silk was cool against your skin, a reminder of the promise – and the danger – that lay ahead.

The dress was beautiful. Tim's intentions were pure. But in the cutthroat world of Wayne Enterprises, even the most innocent of gestures could be twisted. Used against you.

You'd have to be careful. Cautious. But for now, in the early morning light, you allowed yourself a moment of indulgence.

Of possibility.

The next morning arrived too soon, the alarm jarring you awake with its insistent beep. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow, but the events of the day ahead refused to be ignored.

The gala. The dress. Tim.

With a sigh, you dragged yourself out of bed, stumbling to the closet where you'd hung the chamomile dress the night before. The silk shimmered in the low light, a promise of elegance amidst the chaos of your morning routine.

You showered quickly, taking extra care with your hair and makeup. Tonight was about making a statement, and you wanted to look your best.

As you slipped into the dress, you marveled at the way it hugged your curves, accentuating your assets without being overtly sexual.

You stepped back, taking in the full effect. The dress was perfect – elegant, sophisticated, but with a hint of something more. A whisper of danger beneath the surface.

Just like you.

A knock at the door startled you from your thoughts.

“Door is open, let yourself in,” you called out. The door swung open, revealing Tim in a tailored tuxedo. His blue eyes widened as he took in the sight of you, the chamomile dress clinging to your curves like a second skin.

"Wow," he breathed, stepping into the room. "You look... incredible."

You felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment, even as you tried to tamp it down. This was about making a statement, not fishing for compliments.

"Thank you," you said coolly, moving past him to grab your clutch. "I hope you don't intend to keep me waiting."

Tim chuckled, following you out into the hallway. "Wouldn't dream of it. I know better than to keep a lady waiting."

The ride to the gala was filled with small talk, the kind of inane chatter that filled the air at these sorts of events. You pointed out a few notable guests as they arrived, while Tim regaled you with stories of past galas gone wrong.

"One year," he said, his eyes twinkling in the dim light of the limo, "one year, I accidentally spilled red wine all over Bruce's date. He was furious. Threw me out of the car and made me walk home."

You couldn't help but laugh at the image, the sound escaping before you could stop it. Tim grinned, clearly pleased with the reaction.

"I've never lived it down," he confessed, shaking his head. "But hey, at least I learned to hold my drink."

The limo pulled up to the gala venue, the Starlight Ballroom, a glittering palace of glass and steel. You stepped out onto the red carpet, the flash of cameras blinding in the night.

Tim offered you his arm, ever the gentleman. You took it, ignoring the way your heart raced at the contact.

The Starlight Ballroom shimmered like a jewel box, crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across the crowd of Metropolis elite. You smoothed down the chamomile silk of your dress - Tim's gift - and fought the urge to fidget with your clutch. The weight of eyes on you was tangible: board members, society mavens, all wondering about the nature of your relationship with Timothy Drake.

"Champagne?" Tim appeared at your elbow, two flutes balanced elegantly in his hands. In his perfectly tailored tuxedo, he looked every inch the billionaire CEO - except for the slight softness in his eyes when they met yours.

"My hero," you murmured, accepting the glass. The cool crystal anchored you, gave you something to do with your hands besides betray your nerves.

"Reynolds is watching," Tim said under his breath, his smile never wavering. "Third pillar from the left."

You didn't turn to look. You'd learned that much about these gatherings - never let them see you react. "Let him watch. We have nothing to hide."

Tim's fingers brushed yours as he took your empty glass, the touch sending electricity up your arm. "Dance with me?"

The orchestra was playing something slow and romantic - because of course it was. You let Tim lead you onto the floor, his hand settling at your waist with practiced ease. This close, you could smell his cologne, see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmured, guiding you through a turn.

"Someone has to," you shot back, but there was no heat in it. How could there be, when he was looking at you like that?

The music swelled, a slow, sultry beat that seemed to pulse in time with your heart. Tim pulled you close, his hand splayed across your back, drawing you flush against his body.

You moved together, your bodies finding a rhythm that was uniquely yours. The world fell away, the gala fading into the background as you lost yourself in the feel of him, the scent of his cologne, the heat of his skin.

When the song ended, you pulled back, breathless and flushed. Tim's eyes were dark, his gaze heavy with promise.

"Tim... I" your hands lingered on his shoulders and he hummed softly, gazing at you through hooded lids.

"Mmmhm?"

"I.."

"(Y/N), is that you?" A voice like honey laced with arsenic cut through the moment. You stiffened, your spine turning to ice. Slowly, you turned to face the architect of your past heartbreak. Alexia stood there, resplendent in a champagne-colored dress that probably cost more than your monthly rent, her smile sharp as a knife's edge.

"Alexia." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

"(Y/N)!" She glided forward with practiced grace, enveloping you in a cloud of expensive perfume and false warmth. "It's been absolute ages!"

You remained rigid in her embrace, your arms hanging uselessly at your sides. The memory of finding her in your bed – in your bed with Josh – flashed unbidden through your mind.

Tim's hand found your waist, his touch grounding you. His fingers pressed ever so slightly into your skin – a silent reminder that you weren't alone.

"How... unexpected to see you here," you managed, extracting yourself from her embrace. The smile you offered felt like shattered glass on your lips.

Alexia's perfectly shaped eyebrows arched as her gaze slid to Tim, lingering just a heartbeat too long on the elegant cut of his suit. "And who might this be?"

"Tim Drake," he introduced himself with impossible smoothness, extending his hand. The way he said it – so casual yet commanding – sent a flutter through your stomach.

"Charmed," Alexia purred, her manicured fingers wrapping around his hand. She held on just long enough to make you notice, her thumb brushing his palm as she withdrew. "I don't suppose you're here alone?"

Your fingers curled into Tim's jacket before you could stop yourself. "Actually, Tim's my date."

"Is he now?" Alexia's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in her eyes – calculation, perhaps. Or hunger. "How... lovely."

She turned back to Tim, angling her body to partially exclude you from the conversation. "You must tell me how you two met. (Y/N) was always so... particular about her choices. After Josh, I mean."

The casual cruelty of the reference made your breath catch. Tim's hand tightened imperceptibly on your waist.

"Actually," he interjected smoothly, "we were just about to get some air. The terrace here is supposed to be spectacular."

"Oh, but you must save a dance for me later," Alexia called as you turned to leave, her voice carrying just enough to draw curious glances from nearby guests. "For old times' sake."

You didn't trust yourself to respond, letting Tim guide you through the crowd. But you could feel Alexia's eyes following you, calculating and cold as a snake's.

Later, when you found yourself alone by the pool, the click of heels on marble announced her arrival before her voice did.

"Quite the catch," she drawled, coming to stand beside you. "Better than Josh, I'd say. Though that's not saying much, is it?"

You turned to face her, tired of the games. "What do you want, Alexia?"

Her perfect smile faltered for just a moment. "Want? Can't I just want to reconnect with an old friend?"

"We stopped being friends the moment you chose to destroy everything I trusted you with."

"Oh please," she scoffed, mask slipping further. "You always were so dramatic. It was just sex. Besides," her lips curved into a cruel smile, "he wasn't exactly thinking about you that night."

The words hit like a physical blow, but you refused to let her see you flinch. "And that's supposed to make it better? That you both betrayed me so completely?"

"Betrayed you?" Alexia laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "Honey, you betrayed yourself. Always playing it safe, always so... proper. Josh needed more. Maybe Tim will too, eventually."

Your hands clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms. "You don't know anything about Tim."

"Not yet," she agreed, her smile turning predatory. "But the night is young."

You stepped closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Stay away from him, Alexia. And stay away from me."

She merely laughed, the sound echoing across the water. "Come on, don't you wanna hear about how good I have it now?"

You paused, hand hovering over the ornate handle of the ballroom door. The rational part of your brain screamed at you to walk away, to deny her the satisfaction. But there was something magnetic about the moment – like watching a car crash in slow motion, knowing the impact was coming but unable to look away.

Pivoting slowly on your heel, you faced her with a carefully constructed mask of indifference. "Alright, Alexia. Dazzle me."

Her smile unfurled like a poisonous flower, perfectly painted lips curving with predatory satisfaction. "Oh, I think you'll find this particularly... interesting." She paused, savoring the moment like fine wine. "Wayne Enterprises just signed me as their new Director of Strategic Partnerships. I'll be working directly with Tim on all major accounts."

The words hit you like ice water in your veins. You fought to keep your expression neutral, even as your mind raced through the implications. Tim. Every day. In meetings, over coffee, late nights at the office...

"Funny," you heard yourself say, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. "Tim hasn't mentioned anything about it."

"Hasn't he?" Alexia's eyebrow arched delicately. "Well, it's all very recent. The paperwork was just finalized today, actually. Tim and I had quite the... intimate discussion about my role." She emphasized 'intimate' just enough to make your skin crawl.

Your fingers curled into your palm, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake. The familiar whisper of inadequacy crept up your spine – the same voice that had haunted you after finding her with Josh. But something else stirred beneath the surface. Something harder, sharper.

"Although," you began, surprising yourself with the honeyed steel in your voice, "you might want to check that paperwork again. As Tim's executive assistant, I handle all his strategic partnerships." You watched the flicker of uncertainty cross her face. "And I don't recall seeing your name cross my desk."

The change in Alexia was instant – like a switch being flipped. Her perfectly composed facade cracked, revealing the raw fury beneath. Before you could react, her hands connected with your shoulders.

The world tilted.

The pool water shocked your system, stealing your breath. You flailed, your designer dress becoming a lead weight dragging you down. The underwater lights blurred into abstract shapes as panic clawed at your chest. Your lungs burned. You'd never learned to swim – a fact that had seemed inconsequential until this moment.

The water above you rippled and distorted, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision. Then – movement. Strong arms encircled your waist, pulling you up, up, up.

You broke the surface gasping, instinctively pressing your face into the crook of a familiar neck. Tim's cologne cut through the chlorine, grounding you as he lifted you from the pool.

"I've got you," he murmured against your hair, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. "You're safe. I've got you."

Water cascaded from your ruined dress as he carried you swiftly through the service entrance, away from prying eyes and whispered gossip. Your fingers clutched at his soaked shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against your palm.

He shouldered open the door to a private bathroom, setting you down carefully on the closed toilet lid. "Don't move," he ordered, voice tight with concern. "I'll be right back."

You nodded numbly, watching droplets fall from your hair to the marble floor. Time seemed to stretch and compress oddly – you weren't sure if seconds or hours passed before Tim returned, arms full of pristine white towels.

He knelt before you, hands infinitely gentle as they moved to help you out of your waterlogged dress. "We need to get you warm," he murmured, but there was something else in his voice. Something dangerous. "Are you hurt?"

You shook your head, then stopped as the movement made the room spin slightly. "Tim..."

"Shh," he soothed, wrapping a towel around your shoulders. "We'll deal with her later. Right now, all that matters is you."

But even as his hands worked to warm you, you could see the cold fury building behind his eyes. Tim Drake was not a man who forgot. And Alexia had just made a very, very big mistake.

You shivered as the cool air kissed your wet skin, raising an army of goosebumps across your arms and legs. Tim's hands were steady as he wrapped a towel around your shoulders, then another at your waist, his movements precise yet tender.

"Think you can stand?" His voice was soft, brow furrowed with the kind of concern that made your chest ache.

You nodded, gripping his forearms as he helped you up. Your legs trembled beneath you like a newborn fawn's, but Tim's presence was solid, unwavering. His soaked suit clung to his frame, water still dripping from his usually perfectly styled hair, and something about seeing him so disheveled, so human, made your heart flutter traitorously in your chest.

The whispers followed you through the ballroom like persistent shadows. Did you see...? In the pool...? Drake's assistant... But they felt distant, meaningless against the steady rhythm of Tim's heartbeat where your hand pressed against his chest for balance.

He guided you to a secluded alcove, settling you onto a velvet sofa that probably cost more than your monthly salary. The fabric would be ruined by your wet clothes, but Tim didn't seem to care as he knelt before you, one hand resting carefully on your knee.

"I'm going to find you something dry to wear," he murmured, his thumb tracing an absent circle against your skin. "Then we'll get you home, okay?"

You managed a nod, sinking back into the sofa as exhaustion began to seep into your bones. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that made your eyelids heavy.

When Tim returned, he held what looked like designer workout clothes. His touch was feather-light as he helped you change, his eyes carefully averted even though you were still in your slip. Ever the gentleman, even now.

"Better?" he asked, smoothing your damp hair back from your face with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

"Tired," you admitted, unconsciously leaning into his touch. "And mortified that half of Gotham's elite just saw me dripping all over their marble floors."

Tim's laugh was low and warm, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Trust me, they've seen worse at these things. Besides," his eyes softened, "I think I ruined the dramatic effect by jumping in after you in a three-piece Armani."

That startled a laugh from you, though it caught in your throat as you really looked at him – his ruined suit, his tousled hair, the way his eyes hadn't left your face since pulling you from the pool. Like you might disappear if he looked away.

"I should go," you whispered, the words feeling wrong even as you said them. "Before someone takes a photo of me in borrowed Lululemon."

Tim's hand stilled against your cheek, something flickering in his eyes before he slowly pulled away. "Let me take you home," he said, standing and offering his hand. "We should... talk. About Alexia. About everything."

The drive home was quiet, filled with the soft hum of the car's heater and the occasional brush of Tim's hand against yours as he shifted gears. When you finally reached your building, he insisted on walking you up, carrying your ruined dress in a designer shopping bag someone had procured.

The lights in your penthouse apartment flickered on, casting a warm glow over the hardwood floors. You kicked off the borrowed shoes with a sigh of relief, and then—

"Mrrrrrowww?" A long, creaky sound echoed from the kitchen, followed by the appearance of a distinguished-looking tuxedo cat. Thomas sauntered out, his black and white coat gleaming in the light, tail held high like a flag of greeting.

"Hey, old man," you cooed, bending to pet him, but he gracefully sidestepped your still-damp hand with an affronted look that only cats can truly master.

Tim's surprised laugh was warm and genuine. "You have a cat?" He watched as Thomas performed his elaborate greeting ritual, circling your legs before sitting just out of reach, green eyes studying Tim with regal assessment.

"This is Thomas," you said, fighting a smile as the cat turned his attention to Tim, whiskers twitching with interest. "He's particular about his humans. And apparently about wet hands."

Tim crouched down, extending his fingers toward Thomas. To your surprise, the cat moved forward immediately, butting his head against Tim's hand with a purr that sounded like a small motor.

"Traitor," you muttered fondly, watching as your normally aloof cat melted under Tim's attention. "He usually takes weeks to warm up to people."

Tim glanced up at you, a soft smile playing at his lips. "What can I say? I have a way with complicated personalities."

The weight of the evening suddenly pressed down on you – the party, Alexia, the pool, and now Tim kneeling on your floor, charming your cat while still wearing a soaked designer suit. It felt surreal, like a dream you might wake from at any moment.

"Tim," you started, not quite sure what you were going to say, but needing to say something.

He stood slowly, Thomas weaving between his legs. "We should talk," he said quietly, "but first, you should get warm and dry. Properly dry." His eyes were serious now, concern evident in the set of his shoulders. "Do you want me to stay?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with possibilities. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you felt in the borrowed clothes, hair still damp and curling at the ends. The question lingered in the air, charged with unspoken meaning.

"Yes," you whispered, then cleared your throat. "Yes, I'd... like that."

Tim's expression softened. "Okay. Go change. I'll make us some tea."

"You know where everything is?" you asked, already knowing the answer. He'd been here countless times for late-night work sessions and early morning briefings, but this felt different somehow.

"Second cabinet on the left, top shelf," he replied with a small smile. "Go on. Thomas and I will handle things out here."

As if on cue, Thomas let out another creaky meow and padded after Tim toward the kitchen. You shook your head, still amazed at your cat's immediate acceptance of him.

In your bedroom, you peeled off the borrowed clothes, hanging them carefully over your shower rod. The hot water of the shower felt like heaven against your chlorine-scented skin, washing away the last physical traces of the evening. But Alexia's words still echoed in your mind, mixing with the sound of running water.

When you emerged, wrapped in your softest pajamas and warmest robe, you found Tim had made himself at home. He'd somehow procured dry clothes – you suspected he kept a change in his car for emergencies – and was sitting on your couch, two steaming mugs on the coffee table before him. Thomas was curled in his lap, purring contentedly.

"Better?" Tim asked, looking up as you approached.

"Much," you said, settling beside him on the couch and accepting the mug he offered. The familiar scent of chamomile wafted up, along with something else – honey, you realized. He remembered how you took your tea.

"So," he began carefully, his free hand still absently stroking Thomas, "want to tell me what really happened with Alexia?"

You stared into your mug, watching the steam rise in delicate spirals. "She... she said she's going to be working with you. At Wayne Enterprises."

Tim's hand stilled on Thomas's fur. "Is that what she told you?"

"She said she'd be your new Director of Strategic Partnerships." The words tasted bitter on your tongue.

To your surprise, Tim let out a short laugh. "Well, she certainly has an active imagination."

You looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"(Y/N)," he set his mug down, turning to face you fully. "Wayne Enterprises did receive her application, yes. But it was rejected two weeks ago. She didn't meet our requirements."

Relief flooded through you, followed quickly by embarrassment. "Oh."

"Besides," he continued, his voice softer now, "did you really think I'd hire someone without running it by you first? You're not just my assistant, you're..." he paused, something shifting in his expression. "You're important to me. Very important."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Tim..."

He reached out, gently taking your mug and setting it beside his. "When I saw her push you," his voice had dropped, taking on an edge you rarely heard, "when I saw you go under..." His hands clenched briefly before relaxing. "I've never been so scared in my life."

"You jumped in after me," you said softly. "In your Armani suit."

"I would have jumped in wearing a tuxedo made of diamonds," he replied, dead serious. "I will always jump in after you, (Y/N)."

The weight of his words settled over you like a warm blanket. Thomas chose that moment to hop down from Tim's lap, padding away with an air of feline discretion.

"Even my cat approves of you," you murmured, trying to lighten the moment even as your heart raced. "He never likes anyone."

Tim's hand found yours, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm. "Maybe he just knows what I've known for a long time."

"And what's that?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He leaned closer, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek. "That I'm completely, utterly in love with you."

The world seemed to stop, narrowing down to just this moment – the soft brush of his thumb against your cheekbone, the warmth of his hand in yours, the way his eyes held yours with an intensity that took your breath away.

"Tim," you breathed, "I—"

"You don't have to say anything," he interrupted gently. "I just needed you to know. After tonight, after almost losing you... I couldn't keep pretending these feelings don't exist."

You shifted closer, your free hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your palm. "What if I want to say something?"

His breath caught, hope flickering across his features. "Then I'm listening.”

"If I tell you the truth," your voice barely a whisper in the dim light of your apartment, "everything changes. We can't go back."

Tim shifted closer, the leather of your couch creaking softly beneath him. His hand was still on your cheek, thumb tracing invisible patterns that sent shivers down your spine. "Maybe I don't want to go back."

"The press would have a field day," you breathed, but didn't pull away. "Vicki Vale would write headlines for weeks. 'Wayne Heir Falls for Assistant: A Modern Cinderella Story.'"

His lips curved into a half-smile, eyes dark with something that made your heart stutter. "Let them write. I'll buy every newspaper in Gotham if I have to."

"Bruce—"

"Bruce has his own complicated love life to worry about," Tim murmured, his forehead coming to rest against yours. Your noses brushed, and you could feel his breath against your lips. "Besides, he's not the one I'm in love with."

The word hung between you, heavy with promise and possibility. Your fingers curled into the soft material of his shirt, anchoring yourself to this moment, to him.

"The board would talk," you tried one last time, even as your resolve crumbled like sand. "Your reputation—"

"Listen to me," Tim's voice was low, urgent. His other hand came up to frame your face, holding you like something precious. "I would give up Wayne Enterprises tomorrow. The money, the reputation, all of it. I'd walk away from everything if it meant having this – having you – for even a moment."

Your breath caught in your throat. "You can't mean that."

"Try me." His eyes met yours, blazing with an intensity that made you tremble. "Just say the words, (Y/N). Tell me you feel it too. Tell me I'm not alone in this."

Thomas chose that moment to leap onto the back of the couch, letting out a disapproving meow at the tension in the room. You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped, even as tears pricked at your eyes.

"Even my cat is telling me to stop being stubborn," you whispered.

Tim's thumb brushed away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. "Smart cat."

You took a shaky breath, finally letting yourself say what you'd been holding back for so long. "I love you too. God help me, Tim Drake, but I'm completely in love with you."

The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise – slow, warm, and absolutely beautiful. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his eyes scanning your face as if memorizing every detail.

"Say it again," he breathed.

"I love you." The words came easier now, like they'd been waiting all this time to break free. "I love your brilliant mind, and your terrible coffee addiction, and the way you look at three in the morning when you're finally solving a problem that's been bothering you all day. I love—"

He kissed you.

It wasn't like the movies – there were no fireworks, no swelling orchestra. Instead, it was soft and sweet and achingly tender, like coming home after a long journey. His hands cradled your face like you were made of spun glass, even as yours fisted in his shirt to pull him closer.

When you finally broke apart, both breathless, Tim rested his forehead against yours again. "We're going to figure this out," he promised. "The press, the board, Bruce – none of it matters. We'll face it together."

"Together," you echoed, the word tasting like a promise on your lips.

From his perch on the couch, Thomas let out another creaky meow, as if sealing the deal. Tim laughed, the sound rich and warm.

"Does this mean I get joint custody of the cat?" he teased, reaching up to scratch Thomas behind the ears.

You smiled, leaning into his touch. "He already likes you better than me anyway."

"Impossible," Tim murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "But I'll settle for second place in his affections, as long as I'm first in yours."

"Always," you whispered, and knew with absolute certainty that you meant it. Whatever came next – whatever headlines Vicki Vale wrote, whatever the board whispered, whatever challenges lay ahead – you would face it together.

And somehow, that made everything else seem insignificant in comparison.

Thomas purred his approval, settling between you like he'd always belonged there. Like all of this had always been inevitable, just waiting for the right moment to fall into place.

Maybe it had been.

.

.

.

Taglist:

@ahqkas

@prettyktarou

@a-candle-maker

@mact85

@babxtxxn-blog

@mercys-manic-episode

@lilithskywalker

@princesstrunkz

@a-taken-url

@hisjdjs

@mellowtunekitty

@awkwardcrowberry

@vintageroses10

[fanficsbysteve]

Authors Note: So I was scrolling the Tumblrs a few days ago when @lazyturtlehottub put an idea out there that stuck with me a bit so I did my best to get something out there into the world. Hopefully its good. Let me know what you think.

Rating: G?

Word Count: 3033

***

                Buck sat in his seat at the LA Lakers game that Tommy had given him tickets to. Tommy had ended things a week before the tickets were for so naturally Buck was at the game alone. He had planned to go with Tommy, so he had someone who actually understood basketball with him. He had requested the day off work so he could go and Bobby had given it to him. Unfortunately nobody else could get the day off so Buck sat in his seat, an empty seat right next to him.

                Out of depression, and he had run out of flour to bake something to distract him, Buck had made a sign that sat folded nicely on the seat next to him. If any kind of camera came on him, he was going to be petty and reveal the sign. And he had every right to be petty after what happened. It was so out of the blue. So Buck sat in his seat and just waited. He barely watched the game cause he didn’t have any interest in Basketball. He had never told Tommy this during their 6 months together. Why would he? He had literally tried desperately to get into this pick-up game that Eddie, Tommy, Chim, and a few others played so that he could get close to Tommy. Sure he hadn’t gone again since that one time. He had gotten Tommy’s attention. Plus I think after maiming Eddie, nobody expected him to go again. So he never had to explain how he really didn’t like Basketball.

                The game slowly went along. One team having the ball, then the other one did, then they threw it in a hoop, rinse, repeat. Buck honestly never understood why anyone would actually care about this sport. It was so boring. Give him a hockey game. Now that was something to watch. Particularly when the gloves came off.

                Slowly the game kept going and Buck was worried that he wouldn’t get a chance at the pettiness he had planned for the game. Then the break in the middle of the game came. Sighing, Buck was bored and was pretty sure that nothing was going to happen when something called a Kiss Cam came up on the video screen in the middle. It started panning around to all the various seats, stopping on what would appear to be couples and they would kiss or make ‘no’ motions if they weren’t together. Then it happened. The camera came and stopped on Buck and the person sitting next to him. The person looked at Buck and started making the No motions.

                Buck took this opportunity, like the petty individual he was turning into, and pulled out his homemade sign. It was on bright yellow paper with black letters. The sign read, “My Boyfriend broke up with me a week before this game so now I’m here alone, and I don’t really like Basketball that much.”

                A chorus of Boo’s started to ring out around the Arena. Not sure if it was because of the sign or because of him, but Buck didn’t care. He got his pettiness out. Folding up the sign he sat back down.

Then it started. His phone started to buzz but he was going to ignore it.  He was at a basketball game and even if he wasn’t having fun or enjoying it, he wasn’t going to be one of those people who spend the whole thing on their phone. The buzzing would not stop. This was going to get annoying. The game hadn’t started back up again so Buck excused himself past the people sitting between himself and the aisle out. He better get this phone stuff dealt with. Might as well just go home if he wasn’t enjoying himself.

He got into the lobby area and pulled his phone out. He was getting bombarded with text messages from Eddie, Hen, Chim, Maddie, basically everyone at the Firehouse. Apparently they had been watching the game during their off time and it just to happens that nothing was going on when he was on camera. So everyone saw it. There were also messages and calls from Tommy but Buck was ignoring those right now. He couldn’t be bothered to message him before so he was going to make him wait.

He started with the Maddie messages. She was his sister after all.

MH: What did you just do? On National Television?

EB: I don’t know what you mean. I just held up a sign.

MH: You just threw Tommy to the wolves.

EB: Nobody who watches this will know who is being talked about. And anyone who does will not care enough to know.

MH: Don’t count on it. You weren’t super secretive about your relationship so lots of people know.

EB: Well we will just have to wait and see won’t we.

Closing down the text thread with Maddie, he went to Eddie, the next most important person in his life right now. It would have been Tommy but that ship sailed a week ago.

ED: That was brave.

BB: I was out of flour. And I was hurting so I decided to channel it.

ED: I wouldn’t want to be Tommy right now.

BB: Why not?”

Eddie sent over a screenshot of what looked like X or another social media site. Buck wasn’t super big on them. It showed a trending tag #LonelyLakersLad and #LakersBFBreakup and several other variants. Some of them had a lot of traction.

ED: You are going viral.

BB: Nobody who knows me would do anything like that.

ED: So you are telling me that you are 100% certain that you never hurt anyone the way you were hurt.

BB: I’ve broken up with everyone amicably as far as I am aware.

ED: And you’ve never kept in touch to see how they are feeling after things?

Buck stopped to think for a second. As far as he was aware he was fine with all his ex-girlfriends. They weren’t in touch anymore, friendship falling off the wayside, but honestly why would they do anything?

ED: Just saying. You might want to contact the recipient of your pettiness. He has been blowing up our phones here.

Buck sighed. Closed the Eddie chat and opened the one labeled Thomas. He hadn’t wanted to keep it the same as it was before the breakup. It hurt too much.

There it was, a lengthy string of texts from Tommy. Words weren’t the greatest thing you could convey emotion through. It was always up to the person reading to get the emotion you were putting into it and more times than not, it was always conveyed wrong.

TK: What the hell was that?

TK: I told you to take Eddie with you to that.

TK: And what do you mean you don’t even like Basketball? You literally forced your way into a game with me and Eddie and Chim.

TK: I know I hurt you. But that was next level pettiness.

TK: We need to talk.

TK: Please answer your phone.

TK: I’ve tried calling you a dozen times. Please just answer.

Buck knew that Tommy had called at least that many times during while he was just messaging his family and friends.

TK: I’m not mad. I swear it. I just want to talk. With words from my mouth instead of my fingers. That way its not misinterpreted.

TK: Please just answer and let me talk to you. Then I won’t bother you ever again.

Buck tapped the name Thomas, pulling up his contact details, and tapped the Call button. At least he could get this over with quickly. Maybe Trader Joes was still open so he could get more baking supplies on his way.

The phone didn’t even get to finish a single ring before Tommy answered, “Evan!”

“You said you wanted to talk Thomas,” Buck replied. He couldn’t stop the smile that came over his face when he heard Tommy call him Evan though. He also knew that Tommy was wincing on the other end at the Thomas.

“What was that all about? I was watching the game at home and I remember saying you could take Eddie and why were you there alone? And what was that sign for?” Tommy rambled. Buck just let him ramble a bunch. A thousand more questions came out of his mouth through the phone.

“If you would let me get a word in I can easily explain everything,” Buck interrupted. Tommy stopped talking for the time being so Buck took that as his time to get his side of things out, “You had just broken my heart. I was feeling petty because I had nothing else to distract me from calling or messaging you. I had spent too many days crying over you so I went to the next extreme. It was probably a little overboard but I was feeling my emotions and channeling them into something different. I didn’t want to turn back into the Buck that slept around to deal with his hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said, “God this isn’t great on the phone.”

“Well you were the one who wanted me to call you,” Buck replied, “I was perfectly happy just texting.”

“Were you though?” Tommy’s voice was getting a little catty at this point, “I don’t think perfectly happy people do the stunt you just pulled.”

“Well I WAS perfectly happy,” Buck was just as catty in return, “Until you ended things out of the blue, no real reason except some bullshit about not being your last.”

Buck could feel the guilt through the phone at this point, “Meet  me at Fleur Café. That’s close to the arena. We clearly have to talk in person.”

“Fine by me,” Buck replied. His heart started to flutter a bit cause he did want to see Tommy again, “I know you don’t live near here so I’ll get you a coffee for when you arrive.”

“I’ll be there in about 45 minutes,” Tommy replied, his voice was shaking a bit, “depending on traffic.”

Buck let Tommy end the call and then he quickly pulled up the map on his phone to get there.

***

Buck had gotten to the café after 10 minutes of walking so he waited outside for about 20 minutes. He was mildly curious about the X trend that was happening so he downloaded the X app and signed into the account he made about a decade earlier. “@ranchmanbuck” was the username he had created. He was living in Montana at the time and working on a ranch. It didn’t last long. He also only had maybe 3 posts on his account.

It took him a bit to get signed in but eventually he did and #LonelyLakersLad was still trending. Even the official account of the LA Lakers had posted about it. Seems that everyone online was either trying to find out who he was, telling him that they would date him, telling him that it will get better in the end. There was a few that were insane and threatening harm on the person who hurt him. Seeing threats of death towards Tommy by people who didn’t know him was disturbing so Buck closed that app and swore to never open it again. People online were insane.

Stepping into the café, Buck was greeted by the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods. He had grown to love the smell of baked goods since Tommy broke things off with him. It was soothing and calming. He smelled lemon loaf, and cinnamon rolls, and some savoury cheese buns. He just breathed in and then head to the counter to order, “Good evening,” Buck was always courteous to the staff anywhere, “Can I get two coffees, one black, and one two cream, one sweetener,” He looked at the baked goods. He had so much at home but he wanted something sweet right now, “And two pieces of that lemon loaf, and a cinnamon roll.”

Buck paid for his purchases and went to a table near the window to wait. He started to slowly pick apart the lemon loaf he had gotten for himself and slowly ate it, sipping on his coffee at the same time. After about 10 minutes of waiting, Tommy walked into the coffee shop. He looked around and spotted Buck. He quickly came over and sat down, “Hey,” He said.

“I got you a coffee,” Buck pushed the coffee his way, “And some lemon loaf.”

“Thanks,” Tommy took the coffee and took a sip, “You finally figured out how I like my coffee.”

“We were together for 6 months Tommy,” Buck replied, “If I didn’t at least learn your coffee order then I would have been the worst boyfriend ever.”

“OK so we need to talk,” Tommy replied, “But first I just want to let you know how sorry I am for how things went down.”

“Why did you not come back after?” Buck asked, “You just left me there. I figured maybe it was a fight that we could work through but you didn’t come back.”

“I was scared,” Tommy had his head down, “You idealized me. You didn’t see me or the things that were wrong with me. Just the good. You don’t know how it was growing up and just being abandoned by the one person who loved me, leaving me with my father. Or the first man I ever fell in love with leaving me because he decided someone else was better than me.”

“You never told me any of this,” Buck replied, “You kept your walls up and never fully let me in. I only know what you showed me. And,” Buck trailed off. Well he had him in front of him so it was now or never, “And what you showed me made me fall in love with you.”

Buck watched as Tommy’s face snapped up at those words. Buck had been meaning to say those words to him for awhile now. Since the day at the cemetery at least when him and Tommy had a funeral so that Billy Boils would lift the curse. And he did. But just having Tommy there with him made him realize that Tommy was all he needed in life from now on, “You never said that,” Tommy said.

“I mean it though,” Buck replied, “I might be brand new to this whole loving men thing. But I know what love feels like and I know what I feel for you. I realize that I may have jumped ahead a couple steps. Eddie tells me I’m an idiot all the time. And maybe I am. But I’m an idiot that loves you, Tommy.”

Tommy fiddled with his cup, “I’m just scared that you will get bored of me and leave me like everyone else.”

Buck reached across and grabbed Tommy’s hand, “I need you to learn to trust me. I won’t leave you. You are everything I’ve felt I was missing in my life. From the very first mouth static, something about you made me feel complete. And this past week has made me feel worse, like a part of me was missing. And I don’t like how that feels and I don’t want to feel it anymore.”

Tommy looked ashamed, “I love you as well. And there has been an Evan sized hole in my life that I cannot manage to fill,” Buck watched as Tommy looked up, his face setting, “Fuck it. If my heart gets broken, it gets broken,” He whispered to himself, “Evan Buckley, I know I don’t deserve it after what I did to you, but would you be willing to give me a second chance? I’m also an idiot who is in love with you and I might not deserve it but please?” Tommy’s eyes bore into Buck with intensity. This man meant every word of it.

Buck stood up, grabbed Tommy’s face and brought him into a kiss. The kiss lasted longer than either had planned but Buck was not letting go. He wasn’t certain of it but he thought he may have heard the shutter of a camera on someone’s phone. Maybe someone taking some pictures of their food. They did that a lot. As the kiss came to an end, a single thread of saliva between them, Buck sat down again, “We need to communicate better,” Buck said, “Since we want to try again, I ask that if you have problems, or if I’m jumping ahead or saying something idiotic, that you please just talk to me. We can work through these problems.”

“I can’t promise I won’t get scared again,” Tommy said, “I’ve got more trauma than you can possibly imagine. I’m not the ideal gay that you seem to have thought I am. But I can promise that if things get bad for me, I’ll do everything I can to talk.”

Buck smiled, “That’s all I want. I want to know all of you. Scars and all if you’ll let me,” Buck smiled, “Now help me eat this Cinnamon bun.”

***

6 months later, Buck sat with Tommy at another Lakers game. A repeat of the 6 month anniversary. Tommy had originally wanted to do something that Buck would enjoy, but Buck shut that down, “I enjoy being with you and seeing you happy and if it means going to Basketball games then I want to go. Just means in the winter you’ll have to get better at enjoy the LA Kings games.”

“Deal,” Tommy said. So they were in their seats at the arena. It was halftime as Tommy called it. The camera was panning around the stands looking for couples to make kiss. When it landed on Buck and Tommy. Smiling, Buck pulled Tommy into a kiss, as the kiss broke, he held up another sign just for this occasion, ‘We worked things out, so please don’t make me go viral again. #NotSoLonelyLakersLad’.  Buck smiled and kept staring at Tommy. The crowd was cheering in the arena for them. Just staring into the eyes of the man he loved.

***

Authors Note: Well that's it. I hope anyone who reads this likes it. Feel free to suggest any titles as I have no idea what to call this. If you have any notes for how I could improve, please be kind about it.

[itzsana-kiddingmenow]

300 𝙛𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡: 𝙙𝙖𝙮 1 — 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨: 3.5k (phew its been a while since i wrote something this long)

𝙖/𝙣: OMG I FINALLY GET TO POST THIS!! yall i needed a minsung okayyyy i dont ship them IRL but i NEEDED this plot. also as of now, tickletober is put on hold until im able to finish it all and post it all at the same time :3

𝙩/𝙬: ROMANTIC PLOT, read at your own risk! rougher tickles but it remains soft between them, use of gentle restraint, teasing, and mentions of romantic moments

𝒍𝒆𝒆: spiderman! jisung

𝙡𝙚𝙧: minho

𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @someone-who-loves-kpop-saranghae @jeonginsdiary @leeknowstan33 @v--143 @wereallgonnadieonedaybutnottoday @inkytornpagess @lajanaa @a-wild-seungberry @channieissocute125 @soap143 @seungsluvv @skznccmlee @moony-9 @sunny-117 @minnielvrr

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞? 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐛s🖤

Minho had always been the type to go unnoticed, despite his strikingly pretty face. 

His quiet demeanor and cold attitude kept people at a distance, which suited him just fine. 

While others in his class buzzed with the excitement of high school friendships and crushes, Minho remained detached, his heart only warmed by small, random moments.

Then there was Jisung.

Minho first noticed him during chemistry class, a boy with messy hair and a habit of biting his lip when nervous. 

The thing was, Jisung was always nervous around Minho. He would blush furiously whenever they were partnered up, stutter when asking him something, and occasionally knock over a beaker or two in his fluster.

Minho found it…oddly adorable. Not that he’d admit it, but he’d grown a little fond of watching the way Jisung’s face turned bright pink whenever they were close.

But that day, Minho wasn’t thinking of Jisung or himself. He was just walking, thinking, in the middle of the night. 

Until he heard a crash, and three huge, buff dudes decided to approach him, backing him against the wall. 

“Where’s your money?” One asked harshly, and fear gripped Minho as he felt his back hit the wall. He was a student—he couldn’t lose his money. 

Before he could react, the guy grabbed at him, reaching for his bag, but just as panic set in, something—someone—appeared out of nowhere, swooping down in a blur of red and dark blue.

“Whoa, easy there! Hands off the pretty boy, yeah?” A teasing voice called, followed by the unmistakable thwip of web shooters. Within seconds, the robber was stuck to the nearby alley wall, struggling but securely bound in webs.

Minho stood there, wide-eyed and slightly dazed, his heart still hammering in his chest. His savior landed gracefully in front of him, offering an exaggerated bow. "No need to thank me. All in a day's work, saving helpless civilians."

Minho blinked, taking in the familiar red and blue costume. “You’re…Spiderman….”

“Yep, that’s me.” Spiderman said, straightening up with a cocky grin hidden behind his mask. “You alright?”

Minho stared in disbelief. “I’m fine.” He mumbled, his usual cool facade barely intact after the sudden encounter.

“Well, good. You should be more careful, walking around here alone. Cute guys like you attract all kinds of trouble.” There was a teasing lilt to Spiderman’s voice that made Minho bristle slightly. 

“Maybe next time we can hang out when you’re not about to get mugged.” Spiderman tilted his head playfully. “Got a number?”

Minho paused, his usual reservations kicking in, but something about the situation—the thrill of being saved, the strange charm of Spiderman—made him relent. “Fine. Give me your phone.”

Spiderman handed it over, and Minho quickly punched in his number before handing it back.

“Nice. I’ll be sure to text you if I save you again~” Spiderman teased.

“Don’t get cocky,” Minho muttered, watching as Spiderman grinned behind his mask and disappeared into the night.

Minho recounted everything that had just occurred with a disbelieving laugh. Did I just befriend Spiderman? And why is he shorter than me? 

Returning to his college the next day, Minho sincerely hoped Jisung had made progress on the chemistry project. He knew he was pretty pre-occupied last night. 

He walked up and sat next to the boy, watching his chubby cheeks turn pink as they always did, just as Han wished him a good morning, biting his lower lip and holding out his lab book sweetly; He had done half of the experiment already. 

Minho smiled gently down at him, taking the book from Sung’s shaky hands and reading through the data, all handwritten in Jisung’s neat scrawl. 

“Wow, good job, Jisung! I can’t believe you managed to do all of this in a day.” Min grinned at the smaller boy, who smiled a crinkly, adorable smile that made Minho oddly want to grab his face and kiss him senseless. 

“T-Thank you…” Jisung smiled shyly, ears turning the same shade of pink as his cheeks. God, he’s so endearing. 

After working hard on the project and suffering through every experiment part, Minho was finally done. 

“Good job, Hannie.” He knew he had to be gentle with Jisung; Just cause he wasn’t  popular doesn’t mean the sweet, nerdy, extremely smart Sungie wasn’t shy. 

“Thank you.” Jisung smiled shyly again. 

Minho got home to the dorms, pulling his phone out just to see a message: 

Spidey: Meet me on the roof in 5 >:)

God, not the roof. Minho had a horrible fear of heights. He knew Spiderman didn’t know that, though. 

Reaching for the doorknob, Minho braced himself as he stepped out, just to look down and feel fear immediately spike through his system. 

The ground below felt impossibly far away, the edge of the roof suddenly far too close. Minho froze, fingers tightening on the doorknob. 

His heart pounded in his chest, breath quickening as a wave of dizziness hit him. His knees gave out slightly, and before he realized it, he was practically crumpled at the door, clinging to the knob like a lifeline. Holy shit holy shit holy shit—

“Minho?” 

Spidey’s voice was soft, a teasing lilt barely audible over the sound of Minho’s ragged breathing. Minho squeezed his eyes shut, his knuckles white as he gripped the door behind him.

“I—I don’t think I can move…” He admitted in a shaky whisper, his breaths coming too fast now, shallow and desperate.

“Hey, I’m sorry…I didn’t know you were scared.” Spiderman’s voice was gentle, and Minho could feel a warm, gloved hand cover his. 

“I won’t let you fall, I promise.”

Minho’s breath hitched, but the warmth of Spidey’s hands steadied him. He forced his eyes open, meeting the masked gaze of the here as he pulled him upright, keeping a strong arm around his waist.

“Look at me—” Spidey said, his voice close now, almost soothing as it cut through Minho’s rising panic. “Even if you fall, I’ll catch you. You’re safe. I’ve got you, okay?”

Slowly, Minho nodded, clutching Spidey’s arm as they approached the ledge. When they finally stopped, Minho dared to glance down and saw the view before him—the city lights glittering like stars, stretching far into the distance. 

The sight was stunning, but his legs still felt weak, the ground far below pulling at him with an unsettling gravity.

But he knew that Spidey wouldn’t let him fall. Speaking of Spiderman, he was rambling animatedly to Minho. “See? Isn’t it so pretty?” 

Minho took another breath, steadying himself as his eyes roamed the view. Now that the panic was fading, he had to admit, it was pretty. The city spread out like a glittering web, each light flickering like tiny stars in the dark. He exhaled softly. 

“Yeah… it’s nice.”

“I—Oh…I-I’m sorry!!” Jisung gasped, knocking over a test tube as he dumped his books on the table with a tiny whimper and took a seat next to Minho. He was late, Min noticed. 

And he was wearing a long sleeved tee…it was really hot outside. Minho’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he didn’t say anything. 

Then, while Jisung was writing in his lab book, Min noticed a deep cut on his wrist, the skin red and bruised, and he wanted to ask what had happened, but the bell rang and Sungie seemed very intent on getting out of Min’s way. 

Minho met up with Spidey on the roof, giggling and laughing at funny stories and smiling as Spiderman continued his random antics. 

Minho found himself enjoying every moment, every minuscule thing he did with the red and blue decked superhero. It took all his worries away, and he knew that not much could do that. 

Spidey stopped rambling and winced, holding his wrist. 

“What’s wrong?” Minho asked gently, and the hero shook his head. “I got cut today morning, I was fighting a villain. It hurts, but I guess it’ll be okay.”  

Minho noticed the placement of the cut seemed very…familiar? Like he’d already seen it that day, and he racked his mind for any clue as to why an ice-cold realization was one thought away from occurring. 

Minho’s mind slowly began to create some connections between Jisung and Spiderman. It was probably his brain making stuff up…but he found the two really similar. 

They were both the same height, and he could tell Spidey’s cheeks were just as soft. He knew he would’ve thought that Jisung was Spiderman way earlier…If it weren’t for some differing factors. 

For example, Jisung gets shy almost immediately. He’s barely able to even hold a conversation with Minho, becoming flustered so quickly. 

And his clumsiness. 

Minho, noticing that Spidey and Sungie seemed to have the same cut in the same placement, but he had previously attributed Jisung’s little accident to his clumsiness. 

Jisung tripped often, often over his own feet, and his hands were naturally shaky and even his adorably thin, gold-framed glasses couldn’t save himself from his own tripping and falling. 

Minho thought for a little while longer, and for some reason, although everything fit, he was just unable to believe that the shy, cute,  blushing boy from his chemistry class was a web-shooting superhero. 

But it all clicked. 

The next day, Jisung stumbled into the class, hair tousled, late as normal, and he seemed to notice Minho staring holes into his head. “D-Do you need something, hyung?” He set his things down beside Minho. 

Minho shook his head, remaining silent. The teasing, confident spider he had been meeting on the roof was really shy, clumsy, sweet Jisung from chemistry. Minho almost couldn’t believe it. 

The second class was over, Minho was grabbing Jisung’s wrist, forcing him into the janitor’s closet and almost laughing at the flustered squeak he earned in response. 

“Hyung…what—” Jisung’s voice wobbled, his wide eyes darting around the tiny space as he blinked in confusion.

Minho pressed a finger to Jisung’s lips, grinning down at him. “You didn’t think you’d get away that easily, did you, Spiderman?”

Jisung froze, his face paling before turning a shade of red that rivaled his suit. “W-What—?!” Adorable. 

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Minho teased, his voice low as he leaned in closer. “I know who you are now. Spiderman~” he whispered the name with a teasing lilt, watching as Jisung squirmed, trying to hide his flushed face behind his hands.

Sungie looked like he wanted to say more, his mouth opening and closing in shock and fear. “H-How?!” 

“Your wrist? You have a cut, Sung.” Minho deadpanned, and he startled at the sight of tears gathering in Jisung’s lashline. 

“Minho—Hyung…you can’t tell anyone! Okay?!” Jisung seemed stressed, his eyes widening as he made his point clear. 

“Sungie…of course I won’t. You don’t have to worry.” Minho smiled gently, cupping Jisung’s cheeks and waiting for the poor boy to calm down. 

“I-I didn’t think you’d find out…I tried to hide the cut, but I guess it didn’t work…” Hannie muttered, and Minho grinned. “You’re so confident and strong in your suit, but you’re so shy and clumsy here, Peter Han.” 

Jisung groaned, his entire face turning an even deeper shade of red as he covered his face again. “Oh my god...”

Minho chuckled softly, stepping closer until he was practically towering over the shorter boy. “You’re so tiny. And so cute~” he teased, poking Jisung lightly in the side.

Jisung whined as Minho leaned in, face inches away. “I bet you’re so cute blushing…so adorable~” 

“Hyung!” Jisung squealed. 

Jisung stumbled out of the storage closet, almost dropping half of his books, face bright red and lips swollen, Minho following with a grin, half of his lip tint wiped clean off. 

“Bye, Sungie!~” Minho laughed, smiling fondly as Jisung raced down the hallway with a blushing squeak, his face bright red and his cheeks looking even chubbier than usual. 

Minho waited at the roof, smiling as a certain red and blue superhero flipped and landed gracefully, squeaking as Minho pinned him against the wall immediately, yanking his mask off of his head. 

Min smiled fondly at the sight of Sungie’s messy hair and his adrenaline-flushed cheeks. 

Jisung, clearly caught off guard, took a step back—only to stumble over his own feet. He yelped, nearly losing his balance. But before he could fall, Minho’s hands shot out, grabbing him by the waist and pulling him back upright.

“Careful, Spidey~” Minho teased, his grip firm and steady around Jisung’s waist. He grinned as Jisung squirmed in his arms, clearly embarrassed. “Can’t have my hero tripping over himself now, can I?” He pulled them so Jisung’s chest was flush against his. 

Without warning, Minho pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. 

“Wha—No! Minho!” Jisung groaned in mortification, hands flying to cover his face as Minho burst into laughter. “You’re the worst!” 

“And you’re cute,” Minho shot back, still grinning. He took a step closer, gently tapping Jisung’s chin to get him to look up. 

“Stopp…I’m not cute—!” 

“Are you kidding me?” Minho cut him off, tilting Jisung’s head slightly as he inspected him, his tone turning soft but serious. “You’re literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Your face is adorable.”

Jisung opened his mouth to protest, but Minho wasn’t done. “You’ve got this tiny mole right here.” Minho pointed out, tapping the small mole on Jisung’s cheek. “I’ve wanted to kiss it since the first time I saw you.”

Jisung squeaked at that, his eyes widening in disbelief. “W-What?!”

“And your hair.” Minho continued, running his fingers through Jisung’s tousled locks. “It’s always a mess, but it’s so soft. You look like a tiny baby bird.”

Jisung let out an embarrassed whimper, trying and failing to hide his face as Minho kept hold of him, the teasing grin never leaving his lips. “Minho, s-stop…”

“And don’t even get me started on your body…” Minho said, pulling back just enough to look at Jisung’s small, slender frame. “You’re so tiny. How is someone this tiny supposed to be Spiderman?”

Jisungie groaned and hid his face against Min’s chest with a flustered whine, and Minho had an idea to cause some extra mischief. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke, content to just be in each other’s arms. The night air was cool, but Minho felt nothing but warmth with Jisung in his arms, the quiet moment feeling far more intimate than all the teasing that had come before.

Minho prodded Jisung’s side once. And just like that, the intimate energy was gone. 

“S-Stohop!!” Hannie smacked his hand away, but the tickle monster within Minho had woken up, and he was hungry. 

With a playful smirk, Minho snatched Jisung’s web shooter, and playfully stuck his wrists above his head with a speed Jisung’s couldn’t even comprehend, pressing them agaisnt the wall, causing Jisung to gasp in surprise. 

"You really think I’m gonna stop now, Sungie?" Minho asked, his voice dripping with amusement as placed Jisung’s web shooter back, and Jisung was trapped there, completely at his mercy. 

Minho stepped closer, leaning in so their faces were inches apart. Jisung held his breath, anticipation swirling in his stomach. But instead of a kiss, Minho’s fingers wiggled mischievously as they found their way to Jisung’s sides.

“Minho, don’t you dare—” Jisung began, but before he could finish, Minho’s fingers descended, spidering along Jisung’s sides with a devilish precision. Poor Sungie’s body jolted at the touch, a squeal escaping his lips as he arched his back, legs kicking out frantically behind Minho’s back.

“NONONO—Hyuhuhuhung nohohohoho!! THAHAHAT TIHIHICKLES!!” Sungie shrieked, eyes slitting as his heart-shaped smile appeared, stretching his chubby, pink cheeks. 

Jisung could feel his spider-sense going absolutely wild in his head, his body jolting at every touch as his spider suit allowed Minho access to every spot and detail along his skin uninterrupted. 

It drove Sungie mad, unable to squirm away due to the strength of his own webs as Minhi moved to his ribs next, grabbing his rib-cage with his hands and kneading in mercilessly. 

“PLEHEHEHEHEASEE!!” Jisung tried to squirm, tried to wiggle free, but Minho had him firmly pinned, his legs helplessly flailing as his laughter grew louder, sweeter, more frantic. 

His cheeks flushed a deep pink, his blonde hair sticking to his forehead as he gasped for air between giggles. “WAHAHAHAIT!! Wahahahait wait a sehehehecond—!!”

“Oh, wait? I don’t think so~” Minho cooed, his fingers suddenly pinching at Jisung’s sides, moving up to the tender area just beneath his ribs. “I’ve got you tied up all cute like this, baby. No running now.”

Sungie squealed, his spider-sense telling him to squirm to the right, then the left, and then the right again, but neither way provided any relief for poor, ticklish Sung. It certainly wasn’t helping that his sense was heightened and made everything that much more ticklish. 

“Look at you, Sungie~” Minho purred, leaning in closer, fingers now dancing across Jisung’s lower side belly, a spot that always made him lose control. 

“So squirmy… so helpless. You love this, don’t you?” Minho’s teasing voice made Jisung blush even harder, his mind whirling as he tried to keep up with the relentless tickling.

“NOHOHOHO!! Nahahahha dohohohon’t!!” Jisung laughed, eyes crinkling in joy just as Minho had an idea.

Moving his fingers to the web design on Sungie’s suit, he traced along the pattern all the way along his chest and sides, pulling the sweeter, frantic giggles as Jisung thrashed side to side to escape the ticklish sensation. 

Jisung threw his head back, a wide, helpless grin taking over his face as he squealed loudly, his laughter filling the silence in the area. “I CAHAHAHAN’T!! YOUHUHURE SO MEHEHEHEAN!!”

Minho only grinned wider, his heart practically bursting with affection as he watched his Sungie fall apart under his fingers. “Going crazy, huh? But I haven’t even gotten to the good spots yet~” Minho teased, his fingers suddenly moving higher, targeting Jisung’s underarms and causing him to shriek in surprise.

“IHIHIT TIHIHICKLES TOO MUHUHUCH!! Plehehehease leehhehet gohohoho!!” Jisung’s voice was tinged with frustration as Minho had him exactly where he wanted him, helpless to his tickling hands. 

Minho kept his fingers exactly where they were, curling around his underarms, moving to a sensitive spot right underneath, opening and closing his fingers in that same, maddening motion that had poor Hannie squealing out, kicking as Minho laughed along with him. 

“MIHIHINHOOOO!! AHAHASTOHOHOHAHAHA!!” Jisung screamed, frustration lacing through his movements as he struggles as hard as he could before giving in, limp against the wall as Minho’s tickling fingers continued to dance along his ticklish skin. 

After what felt like eternity, Minho finally ripped off the web, smiling as Jisung stumbled, his senses fried to the tickling. 

Minho slowed to let Jisung catch his breath, smiling as Sungie melted into his waiting arms, head pressed into his shoulder and wet cheek squished against his neck.  

He gently wrapped his arms around Jisung, his hands circling Han’s tiny waist. 

“You’re so mehehean…” Jisung whined, and Minho laughed gently. “Stay over tonight, baby.”

Minho stirred in the early morning light, soft rain tapping gently against the windowpane, the rhythmic sound lulling him further into a peaceful daze. 

The world outside was wrapped in the gray softness of a rainy day, clouds casting a gentle, cool glow through the bedroom. Minho blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, and as he turned his head, his breath hitched at the sight next to him.

Jisung was fast asleep, curled up against Minho’s side, his soft, steady breaths the only sound in the quiet room. His delicate features were utterly peaceful, lips slightly parted in a tiny, innocent pout as he snuggled closer in his sleep. He looked so small, so fragile, and yet so perfectly content.

Minho's eyes drifted to the shirt Jisung was wearing—his shirt. It was far too big for him, swallowing his tiny frame, with the sleeves hanging loosely past his fingertips. Below, Jisung was wearing shorts that barely peeked out from under the hem of the oversized shirt, making him look even tinier, as if he had tried to hide in Minho’s clothes.

Minho couldn’t help but smile at the sight, his heart swelling as he watched Jisung shift in his sleep. Jisung’s tiny body curled further into Minho, letting out the softest little squeak as he nuzzled his face into Minho’s chest. 

The sound was so innocent, so vulnerable, that it made Minho’s chest ache with affection.

He didn’t want to wake him, didn’t want to disturb the precious serenity of the moment. Jisung, still fast asleep, let out another soft squeak, his brows furrowing slightly as he shifted again, pressing impossibly closer into Minho’s warmth.

He tightened his arm around Jisung’s waist, careful not to wake him, but unable to resist the urge to pull him closer. As Jisung nestled further into his chest with a contented sigh, Minho knew, without a doubt, that he had fallen in love all over again.

He also knew that no matter what, when he was there, his Hannie was always home. 

[rea-grimm]

Until we meet again - Corpse groom cook

You shed a tear on the text in the newspaper, which under the water turned from your eyes into an unreadable stain. More and more tears began to fall on the newspaper, sliding down your cheeks and from there into the newspaper. 

News coo brought you the new copy you bought a while ago. Thanks to the newspaper at sea, you were able to keep some sort of track of what was going on where, and what it said today nearly broke your heart. 

You read about how Mihawk, during his hunt for Don Krieg, destroyed a very famous restaurant called the Baratie. That was the unexpected price of their conflict. 

The fall of the restaurant brought with it a lot of casualties, both from customers who didn't have time to evacuate and employees. There was a list of names of fallen victims that you immediately ran your eyes over. You were looking for one particular name that interested you the most.

As soon as your eyes fell on that name, you felt your eyes begin to moisten, and that was the moment when you remembered the promise you had made with that name, and when your tears began to dissolve the text in the newspaper. 

A few years ago, you were very close to Sanji. You were working as a waitress in Baratie, waiting for an opportunity to fulfil your dream. You wanted to see the world and sail the seas other than East Blue. Like Sanji, you wanted to find All Blue, but when you suggested it to the chef, he wasn't having it. 

You hoped that one day it would happen that Sanji would set out on a journey together and you would find All Blue together. But when the opportunity presented itself, you booked a boat for the two of them.

You wanted to tell him the news and you expected him to go with you while he had a surprise for you too. Sanji had booked the best balcony for the two of you for dinner that night, where you had a spectacular view of the sunset, and he prepared a more luxurious meal than normal, a table adorned with candlesticks and a small vase of roses.

The food was already served and you were about to sit down when he stopped you with a question. You nodded in agreement, expecting something ordinary. You didn't expect Sanji to reach into his pocket and pull out a small box before getting down on one knee. 

With that he asked you to marry him and if you would be the one to find All Blue with him. You were touched by this and most wanted to say your yes, but you still wanted to tell him your news. 

"I would love to. I've got a boat arranged, we can go together. It will be our start together," you replied excitedly, taking his hand. 

You saw a hesitant look cross Sanji's face. If he could, he would have come with you right away, but according to him, the restaurant and especially Zeff needed him. He felt like he still owed him. 

What was supposed to be your romantic dinner full of joy and excitement turned into a strange silence between the two of you, as you both realized, that this was the moment when your paths were supposed to part. Before this dinner, you had spoken to Zeff, and today was the end of your work commitment at the restaurant. 

After a moment, Sanji finally stood up, the box of rings still in his hands. He took your hand and placed the ring in your palm.

"Sanji," you said in a weak voice, rather uncomprehendingly. Sanji shook his head to keep you from saying anything. 

"I want you to keep my ring and I'll keep yours. It will be our promise for the future. You mean more to me than you know and I'm not going to give you up just like that. Therefore, when we meet again, you will give it back to me and tell me your answer right away," he said, closing your palm with the ring. 

Up until now, you thought you would keep your promise. Even though you were far away from him, you still had the ring hidden on a chain resting around your neck. 

You wiped the tears from your eyes and held the ring with one hand as if to connect with what Sanji was supposed to be carrying. You kept hoping it wasn't true.

After all, they wrote that many bodies were buried by the sea and many were not found. You hoped that Sanji might have been an exception, but you had the impression that it was just wishful thinking. 

It took you some time, as you were an awful long way from the site of the sinking of the Baratie and the location of the grave and memorial to the victims and one of the finest restaurants in the world. 

The sky was dark and even the land around looked like it was mourning the loss. You stood at the memorial and paused at the cross with Sani's name on it. You closed your eyes and again you felt the tears stinging your eyes. 

You tried to push them back and bent over the grave. You took the ring off your neck and hung it on a small cross. 

"I'm sorry it turned out this way. I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise... that I couldn't give you my yes..." you said weakly. Your words were barely audible over the strong wind and rough seas. 

Suddenly everything around you went quiet. The wind stopped blowing and the sea seemed to calm down. No birds were singing and only the faint rustling of leaves, which eventually died down too. The temperature dropped slightly until a chill ran down your spine. It was as silent as the grave.

"Y/N?" came a familiar voice. You immediately turned around and couldn't believe your eyes. Standing right in front of you was the Sanji you thought had died. 

"Sanji?" You asked as if you still didn't believe your eyes. "You're not dead?" You asked with a husk in your voice before throwing yourself into his arms. You were so glad he was still here. 

The cook was surprised at first, but then he hugged you back and rested his chin on your head. However, he didn't answer your question. He just said he was glad to see you again. 

As you clung to him, you got the impression that something was wrong. You got the impression that you didn't feel his classic warmth, but rather a coldness coming off him despite all his clothes. Plus, with your head on his chest, you couldn't hear his heartbeat. Nor did the breath from his nose or mouth ruffle your hair. 

You pulled away from him slightly and looked into his face. You noticed that even his skin was a lighter shade than before. 

"What happened to you?" You finally asked, as it was all strange and you couldn't put your finger on it. 

"I knew I wouldn't hold anything back from you," he sighed in resignation. He wanted to avoid it since he wasn't sure of everything himself yet. "Truth be told, I didn't survive," he finally admitted, looking you in the eye.

"But, you're standing here with me... That's impossible..." you said and let it go. Sure you've heard of zombies, but it was the fault of the man with the demon fruit. 

"I don't really understand it myself, but I know I died. The fight between Don Krieg and Mihawk was brutal and unstoppable. The next thing I know, I was digging through my own grave..." he explained, and to make you believe him, he let go of you and took a step back. 

Only now did you notice that his hands were covered with gloves. You'd never seen him wearing gloves before. His hands as a cook were his pride and joy. 

"Just don't be scared," he said before lighting a cigarette. He took a drag from it before removing his gloves, revealing one completely bony hand. The other hand was still in normal condition. 

That alone made you wide-eyed when you realized that wasn't all. Sanji lifted his hand and brushed back the hair that covered his eye, where there was now an empty hole.

After that, he undid a few more buttons from his shirt, revealing his chest, with a chunk of flesh and skin missing and all you could see were his clean ribs. 

"But how?" You asked, your eyes darting between his bony parts and his eyes. 

"I'm not sure myself, but believe me, even being like this now hasn't changed my feelings for you. Not a day goes by that I don't think about you and our dream of finding All Blue," he said, pulling a ring from his breast pocket.

After that, he still confessed to you that he sailed with Luffy and the others when he had the feeling or the urge to come back here. Something inside him urged him to return to his grave site and to his surprise he found you there. In his words, it was simply fate. 

You had a lot to say to each other and since Luffy's ship was docked nearby, he invited you aboard. Like him, you wanted to spend more time with him and catch up on what had happened in the meantime. 

Everyone on board immediately accepted you and before you could even look around, Luffy invited you to join his crew. 

That same evening, Sanji invited you to dinner, setting up a private table away from every one, with privacy for just the two of you. It felt a little like a deja vu, the last time you saw him. 

Dinner was peaceful, and you had a pleasant conversation and a good laugh as you told stories of your travels. You had no idea how much you missed this. Sure, your travels were fine, and you didn't miss anything, but, no one else could replace this. 

Sanji asked you that same night if you wanted to join him and Luffy's pirates. He took your hand and asked if you would go All blue together. This time you accepted and said yes. That night you finally exchanged the rings you had been wearing for so long.

Sanji Masterlist

[varteeny1234]

MARMRUE TIME!!!!

Summary:

Rue has gone missing. Marm is going to bring her back home- it doesn't matter how far she is.

Words: 1942

Chapters: 1/1

Warnings: Mild injury/medical care, but not gone into detail and VERY VERY minor

Ship: Marma1ade/Rue

:3

Rue was missing, and Marm was distraught. 

Just the other day, they'd spent time together, just talking to each other while they meandered through the winding paths of the swamp. But since she'd left, Marm hadn't heard from Rue at all. 

She'd then mentioned Rue's absence to Leon, who also found it strange that they'd vanished seemingly out of nowhere, and once Anathra said that he, too, had no idea where they could have gone, Marm knew something had happened to them. Something bad. 

Fortunately, there was a magical library (well, it was more like a messy, half-shelved collection of books than a true library, but it was whatever) underneath the Mangrove kingdom. Marm had a suspicion that if Rue had ended up somewhere else, she could find them using her powers. 

She wasn't in the void, or Limbo, or anything like that. The void would have told her. 

Wouldn't it? 

Through the entire night, Marm stayed up, reading in the lanternlight. There was lots of information about various spells, nature-related magic, even ingredients for different potions- but only one mention of inter-dimensional travel in the entire collection. A single footnote in a random chapter, declaring that the person who'd owned the book (not even the original author!) had discovered that there was a type of crystal with the power to open portals between dimensions. 

Now, that was an interesting thought, indeed. 

Marm found herself staring back at the Heart of the Swamp. The same place where she'd seen visions of places she knew, though she could not remember why. The chance that this was the same type of crystal described in the text was low, but... 

It was possible. A bright, gleaming possibility. 

And that was enough. 

Marm stepped closer to the crystal, and nothing happened. Unlike before, when all she'd had to do was look at it intensely, she remained in the same place, on the floating rocks above the void, shards of crystal ominously floating about. She came closer and closer until her hands were placeed upon the smooth surface of the glowing Heart. 

It felt, surprisingly, warm to the touch. 

Then, she saw something, 

Rue's face was reflected on a single facet of the crystal. A moment later, it was gone, replaced by an enormous cherry tree. Then again, a pink sheep, peacefully sleeping. Then it was a little house, a smaller cherry tree growing next to it. Then it was Rue again. Then, the same broken bridge and wall and tower that Marm had seen once before. 

So this was the power of this crystal...

She knew where Rue had gone, now. All that was left was to find a way to bring her back to the kingdoms. 

Marm's intuition helped her more than anything else. She felt the magic within her body begin to stir, flowing towards her fingertips, sending shivers through her core. She closed her eyes, letting the magic lead her. 

The crystal beneath her fingers, once smooth, began to ripple and warp before giving way completely, letting Marm's hands through the surface. She opened her eyes, and was given only a second to see that the crystal was no longer reflecting anything back at her, glowing too brightly. The world around her changed, just like it had before. 

In a blink, Marm was standing in a grassy field in the middle of a valley. There were pink petals falling all around her, and the sky was bright blue. There were icy mountains surrounding the little valley on all sides but one- the one with the wall. 

There was a person sitting on a wooden swing. A very familiar person.

"Rue?" Marm called out, softly. Then, louder. "Rue!" 

Rue noticed Marm then, the surprise obvious on her face. 

"You're here," Marm sniffed, unable to help herself from tearing up. She and Rue ran towards each other, sharing an embrace. Marm held Rue close to her- she wouldn't be letting her vanish again if she could help it. "I can't- I can't believe I managed to find you."

And she wouldn't let her disappear again, she was too precious to just let die or go somewhere far away with no explanation, Marm loved-

"How did you find me? Even I don't know where I am!" Rue's voice was shaking. 

Marm squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. "Magic, of course. Magic, and a lot of luck- I accidentally came here once before. But we need to leave as soon as possible. My magic won't be able to keep me here for long, the connection's already fading." 

Holding out her hand, Marm showed Rue how the tips of her fingers had begun to dim. When she'd arrived here, they'd been emitting a shining pink light: void magic. The power to travel between different worlds. 

"You'll be able to take me with you- right? I want to go home," Rue murmured. 

Marm gave a firm nod. "Of course I'm taking you home. Just hold on to me, and we'll be there in a moment. I don't know how you got here, but I can pull you back, through the void."

She almost didn't catch the way Rue flinched when she mentioned the void. She would have to ask them about it later, probably... even before they'd vanished, they didn't flinch at a mere reference to it. Maybe in a few days, when this all had passed by completely.

"Let's go." 

The magic swirled around them, enveloping them in a bright glow. For a moment, it felt like flying... actually, it was more like being in free-fall. Everything around was so bright, Marm closed her eyes. 

Then, Rue vanished from her arms, and then Marm blinked- she was back by the crystal, underneath the swamp. She had strands of magic in her hands, and it was pure instinct that made her pull them back- and again, that and a bit of luck saved her. 

It took all her strength. She kept her grip on the magical connection, and slowly was able to take a step backwards- then another, and another- on the rock she was standing on. Her bare feet dug uncomfortably into the roughness. 

The magic was flowing from her body towards the crystal, going inside of it. attached to something. But Marm kept pulling, and Rue appeared once again, holding on to the other end of the magic. 

Then, the connection and the spell released with a ton of force all at once, and the both of them were thrown away from the crystal, which was glowing just slightly more ominously than it typically did. 

"Agh..." Marm groaned. "Did... did it work?" 

"I think so," came a weak voice.

Marm had caught herself on her arm when she'd been thrown, scraping her skin. She was also definitely sporting a few bruises... that had been quite a harsh landing. She'd have to check that out later, but no matter- Rue was just a ways in front of her, pulling herself up and dusting herself off, noticably favoring one hand. Clearly, she hadn't escaped the injuries either. 

"Oh, Rue...!" Marm coughed.

"You actually did it... you really brought me back here." They sounded almost in disbelief, staring at the rocks, and crystals, and their own hands like it was all a dream, and they were going to wake up any second. With a teary-eyed grin, they stared up at Marm. "And to think! I didn't believe it when I was still alive, let alone that I'd ever return here."

Marm smiled back. "Rue, of course I came to get you. I care about you!" She held out her hand, and Rue took it gratefully. "I'll always come find you, no matter where you've gone. You could be sent to the furthest corners of the universe and I'd never stop looking until I could bring you back home, safe."

Rue leaned against Marm's shoulder. She breathed a laugh. "I didn't even go that far, I don't think. Wherever I ended up, it was somewhere the void took me. Doesn't mean I want to go around testing it, though," she said. 

"That's fair." 

The faint hum of the magic in the air was calming, like it was trying to protect the two. Marm could feel a tug on her connection to both the void and the swamp. It seemed all the magical forces around wanted to keep Rue safe- her included in that!

"Do you want to head up to my house? It's cozier in there, and I think we both got a little banged up on the return journey," she offered. "I've got some bandages."

"Yeah, that sounds good! Thank you, Marm," said Rue, yawning. Marm's heart went pang, as she helped her up, suddenly feeling more affectionate. 

Neither of them were wearing elytra right then, so Marm cast a simple spell on the vines to carry them up. 

The frogs that inhabited the swamp were hopping around in their path, once they were on top of the island. Marm groaned, frustrated that she nearly stepped on one, but Rue snickered, and she felt a little better. They had a nice laugh. 

Hey, at least it wasn't the slimes again!

Only a minute or so later and safely inside Marm's hut, Marm had found her first aid supplies and was carefully wrapping a cut on Rue's right hand. They were both sitting on the bed, a blanket wrapped around Rue's shoulders. 

Suddenly, right as she finished tying the bandage, Marm noticed Rue make a small sound. She looked up to see her looking much sadder than she'd been before, which was a worrying change. 

"Are you okay? Is there something you need?" She asked. 

Rue tucked herself in even smaller. "I... just a little thing. It's really no big deal, but..." 

"Rue?"

They took a deep breath. "I know I'm supposed to live at Cherry kingdom, but- I'm sorry, I just don't want to go back there. At all. Marm, can I stay here? With you? Sorry, I... I hope it's okay, I don't want to make you feel like I'm intruding on you or anything..."

"Hey, hey, it's okay! Rue, you're alright, dear." Marm gently cupped the sides of her face in her hands. "You can stay here as long as you need to. I won't make you go anywhere you don't want to- I won't make you even talk to anyone that you don't want to."

Sniffling, Rue hugged Marm, burying her face in her collar. Marm stroked her hair, running her fingers through the soft strands. "I can keep people out of the swamp- it's got a mind of its own, but it's very good at letting people know they're not wanted. It'll keep you safe."

"You'll protect me? But- but what if it's one of your friends who tries to hurt me?"

Marm's heart shattered. Rue's voice was so small, she sounded so unsure of herself. More questions roseto the surface... was it one of her friends that had betrayed Rue? Who would ever do something like that?! Even Avid would never! 

Just thinking about the possibility, her voice lowered to a more dangerous octave. "I'll protect you from anyone. If someone's knowingly hurt you, or if someone tries to hurt you, they're not my friend anymore."

She felt Rue shiver, ever so slightly. "You'd really do all that for me?" Rue asked. 

"Of course I would." Slowly, Marm lifted Rue's head up to look at them. She pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I care about you, Rue, so much."

As a single tear fell from her eye, Rue whispered back, "I care about you too."

[quintessenceofdust88]

Wip Wednesday

Omgg I was tagged by @bidisasterevankinard and I managed to publish it with ONE MINUTE of Wednesday to spare on my timezone hehe So here, have a little bit of a fluffy fix-it I'm working on, where Thomas needs some old lady wisdom to get his shit together. Also, it's a way for you to meet my most darling OC, Nonna Rosa. Hope you enjoy it!

--

A week after breaking up with Evan, Tommy is still feeling like shit. He can barely sleep, anything he tries to eat tastes like sawdust, and he feels like he’s living on autopilot. He goes to work, he comes back home, he tries to eat, he tries to sleep, rinse and repeat. Nothing else matters, there’s nothing else he feels like doing. He doesn’t answer Howie’s texts asking how he’s doing (he answered the first one, telling Howie not to worry about him, but can’t do more than that); he completely ignores Eddie’s invitation for Muay Thai and basketball, and he comes up with an excuse as to why he can’t make karaoke bar that Thursday. And yet, there’s one thing he can’t put off, as much as he wishes to: talking to his Nonna. 

Tommy calls his grandmother at least once a week; she still lives in Indiana, in the same house he spent most of his childhood in, and he knows his uncle Bart visits often. But he likes to hear from her himself. Visiting her is a rare occasion with his work schedule, and the last time he was able to was about four months ago. The minute he had stepped in, Nonna had asked him if he was ‘innamorato’, because he was looking so much happier than usual.

And he knows she’ll perceive his sadness just as quick, if not quicker. The woman has always been able to read him like an open book. She’s probably the only person alive who can; he’s always made sure to keep his layers hidden from everyone else, even from… 

Well. Doesn’t matter now, does it? 

Fact is, that if he misses his call with Nonna, it’ll be even worse. She’ll know something’s up, and he doesn’t put past her to fly across the country to check on him (he’s always been the favorite grandson and everyone knows it). So it’s best to get it over with. Gosh, Nonna’ll be unconsolable; she’s been pestering Tommy to introduce her to his ‘Evanino’ for ages now, and instead… With a heavy sigh, he sits down on his couch (and tries not to think about how empty it feels when it’s just him in there) and rings her up, bracing himself.

“Pronto? Tommasino?” She answers the call, as always with the camera too close to her face, and that at least brings a smile to his face. -- Np tagging @typicalopposite @unhingedangstaddict @30somethingautisticteacher @actuallyitsellie

[sacrednova]

Drive me home | SImon "Ghost" Riley | 9

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. Contains fake screenshots with texts messages and calls!!!! Start reading from the beginning: Part 1

It was embarrassing to admit, even in the privacy of her own thoughts, but yes—she had been imagining what it would be like to be kissed by Simon.

And hell, that wasn’t weird, was it? Most people do that. Right?

Still, the reality of it—the absolute truth she had to swallow—was that whatever fantasy she had conjured up in her head was nothing compared to this.

Because she had been wrong. Completely wrong.

If she’d been waiting for something rough, desperate, and unhinged… Simon Riley was none of those things.

Oh, wait—are you still wondering? Are you waiting for confirmation that this wasn’t some fever dream?

Yes, he kissed her.

Right there. In that very moment.

His hands—those massive hands that could crush, could kill—were cradling her face as if she were made of glass. Thumbs brushing against her skin, steady, reverent.

And his lips? God, his lips.

They moved.

Firm. Decisive. Not hurried or impatient but unrelenting in their purpose. There was no room for her to doubt, no room for hesitation, as his kiss pulled her under. Deep. So deep that breathing felt impossible—not that she cared.

Between the pressure of his mouth, the heat of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth against her lower lip—fuck, her chest burned like she’d forgotten how to inhale.

And then there was that sound. That sound.

A faint, gravelly groan, ripped from his throat when she instinctively pulled back to gasp for air. It was so quiet, so raw, but it sent shivers tearing down her spine.

There were no words.

No words for the way his scent—cologne and warmth and a hint of bourbon—wrapped around her like a drug.

No words for the way his fingers tightened, just slightly, against her jaw, as though grounding her.

No words for the way he made her entire body hum, alive in a way it had never been before.

Simon Riley kissed her like no one else ever had.

And maybe—maybe—no one else ever could.

And, as some wise old soul had said before, good doesn’t last.

The kiss ended.

Her lips, still tingling, parted as if to chase after him, to bring him back. But the moment was already slipping between her fingers like grains of sand.

Her eyes opened, searching—aching—for that soft gaze he’d given her throughout the night. That fleeting glimpse of vulnerability, of humanity, that seemed to crack through his carefully constructed armor.

But she didn’t find it.

Instead, Simon buried his face in her shoulder, the warmth of his breath brushing her skin, uneven and shallow. His broad shoulders, towering and imposing, were hunched as if bracing against a storm.

His hands came up, planting themselves on the wall on either side of her head, boxing her in—but not in the way that made her heart race with anticipation. No, this was different.

His chest heaved with deep, deliberate breaths, as though he was trying to wrestle control over something he couldn’t quite contain.

He was close—too close—but it wasn’t enough.

Not like this.

The silence between them felt heavy, like it carried the weight of something unsaid, something he didn’t have the courage to speak.

She wanted to reach out, to run her fingers through his hair, to coax him out of whatever war he was fighting within himself.

But she didn’t.

Because she could feel it—the invisible wall slamming back into place, shutting her out.

Her throat tightened as she whispered, “Simon?”

His body stiffened at the sound of his name, but he didn’t move. Didn’t look at her.

Instead, his voice came low, raw, muffled against her shoulder.

“Shouldn’t’ve done that.”

It felt like one of those movies—the bad romantic ones. The ones where the girl somehow “gets” the bad guy, the one who couldn’t love anyone.

Was that this? Was he the bad guy? And was she supposed to be the fool who tried anyway?

Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest as the words slipped from her lips, quiet and careful.

“What do you mean?”

She already knew. Or at least, she thought she did. Simon wasn’t like other men—wasn’t like anyone she’d known. If she wanted anything with him, anything real, she’d have to take her time. Go slow.

But then doubt twisted in her chest, the sharp edges of insecurity cutting into her voice.

“You didn’t like it?” she asked softly, hating how small she sounded.

“I did,” he said, the words landing heavy between them, like they carried a weight even he couldn’t quite bear. His head dipped lower, his breath brushing her neck, and when his nose grazed her skin, she nearly melted on the spot.

“It’s… different,” he admitted, voice rough and raw.

Her breath hitched. “Bad or good?”

Simon went still. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. That he’d let the silence swallow them whole.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he muttered, “…Never been good at it.”

Her lips curved into the smallest, faintest smile, her courage rising as her hands dared to slide up, just barely grazing the edges of his jaw.

“Well,” she said, her tone light but her heart hammering, “there’s always a first.”

Her words hung in the air, daring, inviting. A challenge.

And for a moment, Simon just stood there, his breath warm against her skin, his fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Like he was caught between wanting to run and wanting to pull her closer.

But then his hands shifted—uncertain, almost hesitant—resting lightly at her hips, his thumbs brushing over the fabric of her shirt.

His voice dropped even lower, a gravelly whisper against her ear.

“You shouldn’t make it so easy for me.”

"I am not making it easy for you," she admitted, her voice trembling just enough to betray her nerves. She tried to fake calmness, tried to steady herself under his gaze. "I want this. I want to try this... Do you want the same? Do you want to try?"

Fear hung between them, unspoken but heavy.

Not the fear of danger, but the fear of giving too much. Of laying herself bare like an open book. Of being honest with someone who could so easily crush her if he chose.

It wasn’t easy for her, this kind of honesty. The vulnerability felt sharp, like a knife cutting through her defenses. And it stung, realizing just how much she cared whether he answered yes or no.

Because people were supposed to take care of each other’s hearts, weren’t they? That’s what she’d always believed. But life had taught her that not everyone saw it that way. Not everyone cared as much about the weight of compromise or the fragility of feelings.

Did Simon?

Could Simon?

Would he be able to hold her heart—and his own—without breaking both of them in the process?

Past the kisses. Past the electric waves rushing through their bodies. Past the rush of heat and the vibrant swirl of emotions.

Could he stay?

“I do,” he finally said, his voice low, almost cautious. “But I can’t promise you for it to be good.”

Her lips twitched into a small, almost teasing smile. “Hm, are you some kind of crazy man?”

He paused, tilting his head slightly, his lips curving into that faint, almost-smile of his. “Well—”

“Wait, do not answer that one,” she cut in, raising a hand as if to stop him mid-thought.

And there it was—a sound she hadn’t expected but instantly craved to hear again. A soft, muffled laugh, more breath than sound, but it still warmed the air between them.

It worked for her.

It worked too well.

It started with another kiss. Or maybe two. No—too many to count. Each one blurred into the next, her mind spinning in a haze of heat and sensation. His hands roamed her back, strong and steady, pulling her closer every time she thought she'd manage to pull away. And when she finally broke free—almost free—she could still feel his breath on her lips, his grip lingering on her hips, like his touch had marked her somehow.

“I—uh, gimme a sec,” she stammered, stumbling out of his hold, practically tripping over her own feet as she backed toward the bathroom.

She closed the door behind her, pressing her back against it as she tried to catch her breath. She glanced at herself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, hair slightly mussed. God. Get it together.

But instead of calming herself down, she grabbed her phone and immediately texted Millie.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as a new wave of panic set in. She could picture him out there—tall, calm, probably standing there like he owned the place. What was he even doing? Just waiting for her?

Her phone buzzed, and Millie’s reply came through almost instantly.

Breathe. Right.

She set her phone down, splashed some water on her face, and opened the door—only to find him standing in her room.

“Simon?”

He didn’t answer right away. His back was to her, and he was holding something in his hands. She stepped closer, her heart racing as she realized he was looking at one of her photos.

He glanced over his shoulder, holding up the frame. “This you?”

It was an old picture—her and Millie at some party, laughing at something stupid. She wasn’t sure why it felt so embarrassing, but it did. Maybe it was because he looked so... normal about it, like standing in her room and picking through her life wasn’t a big deal at all.

“Yeah, that’s me,” she said, crossing her arms as her nerves crept up again.

His eyes wandered. Not in a leering way—he wasn’t looking at her so much as everything else. Her books. Her clothes draped over a chair. The half-open drawer with socks spilling out.

“You don’t mind me snooping, do you?” he asked, completely deadpan, as if he wasn’t already doing just that.

“Mind? Are you serious right now?” she shot back, trying to sound annoyed but mostly sounding flustered.

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk, and he set the photo down. “Relax. Just... getting to know you.”

“By going through my stuff?”

“Better than askin’ questions you don’t want to answer,” he said, his tone light but carrying just enough weight to make her heart skip a beat.

She didn’t know whether to scream at him or kiss him again.

"Better than asking," he repeated, his voice low, almost teasing, and she knew it was an indirect. Of course, it was.

"Huh! I knew you didn't want me asking," she quipped back, tilting her chin up in mock defiance, though her heart was doing flips in her chest.

The corner of his mouth twitched, his cocky expression settling into something so effortlessly hot it made her knees weak. Shit, did I say that with my face?!

"You can ask," he replied smoothly, stepping closer. "Just don’t wait for me to answer all of 'em."

The air thickened. His steps were slow but deliberate, and before she could think too hard about what was happening, his hands were on her again. It was natural now, like something between them had shifted, something fragile had finally given way. That invisible thread keeping them close but never close enough had snapped, and now nothing was holding him back.

He touched her like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it. His hands clenched the fabric of her dress, pulling her in, anchoring her to him. His lips found her neck, slow and deliberate, and she swore she felt her heart stop.

It was too much. Too good. The way his breath brushed her skin, the way his stubble scraped lightly against her collarbone, the way every sigh she let out seemed to spur him on.

Her hands found his shoulders, gripping tightly as if to steady herself, but it only pulled him closer. His lips moved lower, and she felt her head tilt back of its own accord, giving him more space, letting him in without a word.

And God, the little sounds she made—the soft, shaky sighs, the unsteady inhales—they undid him. He wasn’t sure what he was chasing anymore: the sound of her breath, the feel of her against him, or the rush of finally having what he’d craved.

“Simon,” she whispered, and it wasn’t a plea or a question—it was a breaking point. For both of them.

Oh. God.

OH. FUCKING GOD.

She had seen naked men before. Sure, it was a thing that happened. Nothing special, nothing to write home about. She’d never really felt like it was something to admire, to worship, to actually see.

But now?

Hell itself had grabbed her ankles, yanked her down into a fire she didn’t know she could burn in, and whispered, "Naughty little thing," in every possible way.

Simon wasn’t naked. Not yet. He was just taking his shirt off.

JUST THE FUCKING SHIRT.

And yet here she was, back arching slightly against the bed, legs pressing together at the sight. It wasn’t just about the skin. It was about him, about the way his body moved as he pulled the fabric over his head. He wasn’t overly defined, not the kind of body you’d see in magazines. He didn’t need to be. He was something else entirely—raw, powerful. His body wasn’t built to be admired; it was forged to be a weapon.

Dangerous.

And yet, somehow, she couldn’t help but think... it was made to protect, too.

Her eyes traced the scars littering his skin, each one a story carved into his body, and for a moment, the heat of the room cooled just slightly. A twinge of worry crept into her thoughts. She wasn’t a medic, but she knew enough to understand that a bullet to the chest wasn’t something you just shrugged off.

“Few stories you have here…” she murmured, her fingers itching to reach out but hesitating.

“Hm, some…” His voice was low, almost casual, but when he turned his gaze to her, that stare nearly broke her. It was like he could see straight through her, but not in a way that unsettled her. It made her feel known. "Problem?"

“Not at all,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.

The marks on his skin would never be a problem.

But the ones inside him?

Those were a different story entirely.

Another way to make her freeze.

That was what this was, wasn’t it? Another way of making her blood run cold and hot at the same time. Her eyes grew wide, her cheeks flushed crimson, her lungs filled with shaky breaths, and her stomach... God, that weird, fluttering feeling that tied her insides into knots.

It wasn’t until he took the last piece of her clothing away that she truly felt it—completely exposed.

Not exposed as in no clothes. No, this was deeper, more intimate. It was like he had peeled her open, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but her. Every insecurity, every thought, every feeling laid bare under his gaze.

She had never felt like this before—like she was completely at someone’s mercy—and actually wanted that person to like what they saw.

“Gorgeous,” he said, his voice low, thick, full of something she couldn’t quite name.

But what caught her wasn’t his words. It was his eyes. He wasn’t staring at her body, though she had expected that. No, his gaze stayed on her face—on her wide, shining eyes, the curve of her flushed cheeks, the soft part of her lips as she tried to catch her breath.

Simon saw her.

And it made her feel more naked than anything else ever could.

She didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at her, the way he felt about her. But Simon? Simon was discovering something entirely new, a terrain he’d never stepped foot on before.

New feelings, new emotions.

And there was no unknowing it now.

How could he un-learn the way his heart tightened when she smiled? The way his entire body burned with the need to protect her, to care for her? How could he stop liking her, stop wanting her, stop craving the way she looked at him like he was someone worth staying for?

How could Simon Riley stop wanting to be around her?

He couldn’t.

There was no turning back.

But there was never really any turning back, was there?

If Simon thought about it long enough, he’d see it. The exact moment it all started. That first night she texted him. A simple, stupid message. And then? His mind just wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

What happened to him being empty? Being cold?

There used to be a hollow point in his chest—a dark, unfeeling void he’d relied on for years. But now? Now, it felt... strange. Unfamiliar. Like something had started to fill it.

Not all at once, but in pieces.

Doubt. Wanting. Waiting.

Waiting for something more. For something bigger than the bullets, maps, and blood that made up his life.

And now here he was, staring down at her—her skin glowing in the low light, her chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths as his lips trailed along her collarbone.

Her body moved under his hands, and it made him feel... whole. Full. More alive than he’d ever been.

There was nothing in the world that could compare to this.

Nothing.

Nothing close to the sound of her gasping his name, to the feel of her gripping his shoulders like she’d drown without him.

And definitely nothing close to how badly he wanted her to see him.

Not just his body. Not just his scars. Not the mask he wore every single day to keep the world out.

No, he wanted her to see him.

Him and only him.

HEY YOU! The next chapter will be the last one before I take a break—I want to take some time to work and think properly about where I want this story to go. Thank you for your patience! ❤️ (In the meantime, requests are open!) If you want to stay updated about the comeback, let me know, and I’ll add you to the tag list! 😊 I don’t want anyone to miss it!

Tags: @sleep101 @all-by-myself98 @h0ney-mushroom @beelzebee @momowhoo @sheepdogchick3 @sleepisfortheweakpooh

[streamafterlaughter]

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter VII: Choose Love or Sympathy

masterlist | playlist | pinboard | prev. | diaries coming soon

songs for this chapter: that’s what you get by paramore, xo by fall out boy, lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off, king for a day by pierce the veil

a/n: hear me when i say these two are absolutely in for it it. I'm also a huge fan of italics apparently

chapter tags: angst, hurt/comfort but then... hurt/no comfort (SORRY!), reader is a sensitive baby we love her, mean!Eddie, but also very sweet Eddie. swearing, smoking, drinking, reader struggles with self image / mental health (vague for now) | fic tags: angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites. Unless otherwise stated, this is the only account that features and contains this work, and any replication was done without my consent. Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. Reblog/comment/like to support the author! Join the tag list!

taglist: @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotine @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality |

--

The weekend comes barreling towards you sooner than you’d have liked. You wake up Friday morning with a sense of dread, Robin’s words on a broken loop in your head: what you ‘know’ isn’t the whole goddamn story. Everyone keeps fucking saying that, but no one has actually told you what you “don’t know.”. Chris hasn’t given you a goddamn leg to stand on, speaking in riddles and never once confirming or denying a thing. You’re an adult, and you wish these fuckers would start treating you like one.

On your nightstand, your phone buzzes repeatedly, a string of incoming text messages:

bobbins: so,, ive smoked some weed bobbins: im cool now  bobbins: i still think there’s a lot we don’t know,, bobbins: but I’m sorry for insinuating you should forgive him. bobbins: i cant imagine how you felt that day. bobbins: i love u bb

You scramble to respond before she can get another five messages in,

it’s ok bob, i love u 2

The subject changes swiftly as she tosses questions about tonight at you one after the other. You send her pictures of your outfit choices, hairstyle ideas, personal protection list before finally asking her the question gnawing on your brain. 

What if he doesn’t like me?

Robin responds by calling you.

“Hi?”

“Don’t be stupid.” She starts, not letting you explain. “He asked you out, why wouldn’t he like you?!”

“I dunno! Maybe he’s just looking for a hookup. Maybe he thought I’d be easy?” The suggestion sounds silly coming out of your mouth, and you hear Robin scoff at you. 

“Look, if things start to stink, call me. Steve’s closing tonight, so he’ll be right down the street.”

You sigh into the receiver. “Okay, okay. You’re right, I’m probably worried for nothing.”

“Atta girl! Now go on, go headbang or whatever it is you people do.”

You snort as you say your goodbyes, and hang up the phone. Without Robin to distract you, you turn to the outfits you’ve spread out on your bed. Emo Nite is casual, sure, but you still want to look good. You decide on a pair of Tripp pants, adorned with metal hooks and chains, pairing it with an old Paramore shirt you cropped with kitchen scissors in high school. With your outfit out of the way, you sit at your vanity to do your makeup, extending your winged eyeliner a little further than you would on a normal day. When you’re done, your alarm clock reads 8:30, and you make your way to your car. 

–

9:15.

The lights of the city seem to dance across the sky. Everything is louder here, bustling with nightlife you could only dream of seeing in Hawkins. You’re standing outside the club alone, nursing the end of your last cigarette. Maybe he’s running late? You don’t have a single unread text from Scotty. You type several different messages of your own, deleting each one before settling on “You on your way?” But its delivery is never confirmed. It’s grown cold outside, and you wrap your flannel tighter around you to keep the wind out. You should have brought a jacket, but you weren’t expecting to be outside for this long. You can hear the first notes of an old favorite song, followed by a bunch of 20 somethings cheering. Patrons are dressed in black, clad in leather and fishnets, their combat booted feet stomping into the venue. Emo Nite is a nostalgia cash grab, you know that, but you’re envious of everyone setting foot inside, surrounded by their friends and peers, leaving you abandoned at the door. 

–

9:30.

The time taunts you from your phone screen. You’re waiting outside the club, the air brisk on your face. Every so often, the door swings open as someone enters or exits, and you turn to see if it’s someone for you. So far, none of them have been, and you’re debating whether or not to walk to the record store and ask Steve to hitch a ride back to his place to mope. 

“Hey, Bee!” The voice calling you isn’t the one you’re hoping to hear, but it’s just as familiar. You find its source across the street, Macy waving at you eagerly as her bandmates and fucking Eddie follow behind. Oh, right. Like being stood up isn’t humiliating enough, now Eddie gets to tease you about it. 

“What’re you doing out here, girl? It’s freezing!” Macy is sweet, holding your icy cheeks between her warm hands. You can tell she’s already had a few drinks.

“I’m, hm,” You clear your throat, “I’m waiting for someone.”

“A date? Eek! Hear that, Eds? Our girl has a date!” Her words send static through your veins. Since when are you anyone’s girl, let alone Munson and Macy’s?

“Mhm, okay, honey. Let’s go get you situated, yeah?” Eddie ushers her inside, handing her off to Fiona before returning to where you’re standing. Without a word, he lights a cigarette and offers it to you, and you take it without acknowledgement while he lights his own. After what seems like hours, the two of you choose to speak at the same time,

“How late is–” “Why did you–” “What?” “What?”

“You first,” Eddie gestures to you before pulling from his cigarette.

“Why did you tell Scotty to ask me out?” 

“What in the world makes you think I told him to ask you out?”

“Look, she’s gonna kill me for telling you this, but Robin overheard you in the bathroom talking to Scotty at the bar. She walked in by accident, and you two had come in before she could leave. Anyway, you know she can’t keep secrets for shit, so she told me what you said to him. Why?” You cross your arms, attempting to hold in as much body heat as possible,but to no avail. Eddie notices, and immediately sheds his jacket, not giving you a chance to refuse it as he drapes the leather over your shoulders. 

“I thought he was a cool dude. Thought you guys would hit it off.” His answer does nothing to satiate the hunger for every detail of every single thought that went through his brain up until this very moment. He is driving you fucking insane. “Hey, I bet I could get Macy to put you on the guestlist, so at least tonight won’t be a total waste?” Yet another peace offering from Eddie Munson. Hell must have frozen over.

He doesn’t wait for your approval before reaching into his inner jacket pocket of the coat that you have since put fully on to shield yourself from the wind, to grab his phone. After eagerly punching a few buttons, he holds the device up to his ear, plugging the other with his finger. “Hey, babe. I’m outside with Bee, Scott stood her up.” You can’t hear what Macy’s response is, but Eddie replies with, “You read my mind, honey. We’ll be in in a sec.” He ends the call and turns his attention back to you, his big brown eyes attempting, it seems, to read your mind. “You pissed?”

You shake your head, inhaling another drag of your cigarette. “Not really. Disappointed, I guess.” You pick at your cuticles, refusing to hold eye contact with Eddie, but that doesn’t stop him from boring his own into the top of your head; you can feel them penetrating your skull. “Could’a used the distraction.”

“Fancy me a distractor? Macy’s gonna be busy, I’m practically all by myself tonight.” You look up, and Eddie’s jutting his bottom lip out to pout at you. 

“You don’t mind being seen with me?” You tease, flicking ash onto the concrete. You can’t imagine Eddie actually wants you to agree to this offer.

“Why would I? When have I ever cared what people think of me? Especially these posers.” He gestures to you, and you fake offense.

“Posers?! I’ll have you know I have met some of the most authentic punks at places like this, you dweeb!” You toss your cigarette butt on the ground, stomping out the embers with your boot. 

“Sorry, sorry! I’m used to going to shows where people leave bloody. Not used to this side of the alternative Venn Diagram, I guess.” He flicks his own cigarette, mirroring your movements. “Shall we go inside?” You nod begrudgingly, and he opens the door to the club for you, stopping to give the bouncer your names.

–

The club is dark, expectedly. The lights flash shades of pink, purple, and blue as people dance and attempt to chat over the noise; and the whole scene is set to the music of your childhood and teen years. As Eddie leads you across the floor, you can feel your chest tighten, watching couples surrounding you, dancing or sloppily making out against the back wall. You let it sink in that you've been stood up. The first time in three years you’d even attempted to go on a date, and the guy didn’t even show up. You hum along to the song playing, a desperate plea for distraction from the situation in front of you. Meanwhile, Eddie leads you to a table away from the speakers, and shouts that he’ll be right back. You can only guess he’s off to wish his girlfriend luck.

While you wait, you observe the crowd around you, and it’s full of kids you knew in high school that used to bully you for liking this kind of music, dressed as caricatures with arm warmers and cheap chains dangling off their black skinny jeans. Conventionally attractive girls wear their eyeliner in heavy wings, their lips painted shades of dark red, dancing with boys in all black with long hair. You try not to think about what Scotty would have worn. You wonder if he even likes this kind of thing. Maybe it was a test, and you'd failed.

Just as you’re about to spiral into misery again, Eddie returns with two drinks in his hands. “You like shirleys, right? I wasn’t totally sure. I can go grab you something else if you want?” If you didn’t know any better, you would think Eddie was nervous.

“No, this is good. Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem!” He has to yell over the music.

“And, uh, thanks for hanging out with me. I know it’s like, the last thing you wanna be doing right now.”

Eddie takes a swig of his beer before responding, “Nah, definitely not the last thing. This is way better than listening to Steve talk about his latest conquest.” You picture the scenario, Eddie slamming his head against a wall while Steve goes on and on about Tracy, or Nicole, or whoever it is this week. The mental image makes you giggle, and Eddie’s smile seems to widen. It makes you uncomfortable, being so close to him. Luckily, though, you don’t get to think about it too long.

“Alright, alright! Thank you guys for comin’ out to hang with us! We have a guest for you tonight, please welcome Macy Miller, frontwoman of Statuesque Dolls!” The crowd cheers politely, these things never have people worth freaking out over. Macy takes the stage, clad in a silky black dress that hugs her form perfectly. Next to you, Eddie is whooping and hollering, “That’s my girl!” It makes your stomach churn. You’re reminded again that you’re supposed to be here on a date. You’re supposed to be someone’s girl. 

“Alright, I got a couple of songs for you guys, but I need all of you up and shaking some emo ass with me, got it?!” You can’t deny Macy knows how to work a crowd. She gets people to migrate to the dance floor, and Eddie offers his hand out. “Can I have this dance?”

“Um,” You hesitate to take his outstretched palm. “What about Macy?” You point lamely to where Macy is killing her cover of Fall Out Boy’s XO.

“What about her? It’s a dance, Bee. I’m not, like, asking you to sleep with me or some shit.” Eddie frowns at you, like you’ve offended him.

He does have a point, though. One dance won’t kill you. You accept his gesture, taking his own massive hand in yours, and hope to god he can’t tell that yours is sweating. He leads you to the dance floor, waving to Macy from the crowd as he does. There’s a burn in your stomach when she blows him a kiss, and he pretends to catch it in his mouth. You’re close to bailing when Eddie turns his attention back to you, clearing his throat.

You stare back at him, eyes wide with fear that he’s going to bail, and you prepare to tuck your tail between your legs and call Robin. Instead, Eddie takes your hand again, and yanks you into his embrace. You bump into his chest, but he recovers the fumble by holding you there, free arm resting hesitantly on your waist. You’re frozen, having no clue where to put your hands, so Eddie takes the lead. He drops the hand he’s holding on his shoulder, and moves your other to meet it on the other side. He then rests both his hands on your hips, giving you enough space between his body and yours to breathe, but barely.

The song continues, melodramatic and overtly horny. That, combined with the warmth of the drink in your veins, plus the closeness of Eddie, makes you feel almost good. It’s difficult not to overthink, though, having him in your personal space, your bodies pressed together on a very hot, crowded dance floor, moving in ways you definitely wouldn't have done three hours ago.

“So,” Eddie muses, looking anywhere but at you as he speaks, but still able to move in sync with you. “How’s your day goin’?”

You snicker at his poor attempt at conversation. “Well, I got stood up, and now I’m dancing with who I would have bet this morning wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. All things considered, I think it’s going pretty horribly!” 

The ice seems to crack as you speak, Eddie visibly relaxing as you sway to the music. “Okay, that’s fair. Are you pleasantly surprised?”

You look up at him, but his eyes are locked over your head, staring where Macy stands onstage, swaying with a few friends in front of the DJ booth. You shrug. “Jury’s still out.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes at you. After what feels like an eternity, the song ends and Macy queues another rock anthem to get the crowd moving again. You’re unmoving as Eddie unwraps himself from you. “We should do this again sometime.” He states, unreadable.

“What, dance?”

“Sure, or just, y'know, hang out. Be civil for once. It’s been awhile.”

You roll your eyes. “You know this can’t be, like, a normal thing. It bruises our reputation as sworn enemies.” A feeble attempt to make it a joke, though you know in your heart you can’t be friends with Eddie. The earth would cave in on itself. 

Eddie chuckles. “Whatever you say, Bee. See ya ‘round.” And he leaves you alone, disappearing into the crowd.

–

It’s 11:30 when your phone buzzes. You’re four drinks deep, stirring another dirty shirley at the bar, observing the people around you having fun.

Scotty A: Hey! Totally meant to text you. Got stuck at work.

An avalanche of thoughts rumbles through you, most of them not safe for work. You don’t even know how to respond. There’s no apology, no groveling for your forgiveness, not a hint of actual, real regret. Like you don’t matter. It exhausts you to even think of what that date would’ve been like had he shown up. You type your response between gulps of liquid courage.

“Are you fucking serious?”

The "..." bubble appears, but quickly vanishes. You gape at your phone, wishing you were home so you could let out the blood curdling scream building in your chest. The anger vibrating through you needs an escape, so you lurch from your seat at the bar, rushing quickly out of the club. Eddie whips his head around as you pass him. You think you hear him call your name, but your eyes have started stinging and he’s the last person you want to see you cry.

The night air hits you hard, bringing separate tears to your eyes. Following your therapist’s advice, you start a box breathing exercise. Breathe in, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Breathe out, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. 

“Hey,” The voice startles you into a hiccup. “You okay?” Eddie has made his way outside after you, leaning against the wall. “Saw you dash outta there like something caught fire. Got worried.” He says it nonchalantly, and it takes you aback. Instead of responding, you flip your phone screen towards him. His eyes scan the page before they focus back on you, shaking his head. “That is so fucked up.”

Your voice breaks with your next question. “Did you know this was gonna happen? Scotty’s your friend.”

Eddie’s face drops into a grimace. “How would I have known? Why would I have told him to hit you up if I knew this was gonna happen?” 

It frustrates you how reasonable he’s being. You want someone to yell at, someone to blame, and Eddie just so happens to be the closest target. “I don’t know! Maybe you did it as revenge, or something equally as immature. Maybe you wanted me to feel the same way you did when–”

He interrupts, shaking his head feverishly. “I wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone. Even you.” The words are a knife to your chest. You don’t like remembering what you did to Eddie that night, but it’s your fault for bringing it up. “I told Scotty to ask you out because he said he liked you. Crazy concept, I know, but i suggest you stop thinking everyone’s out to get you. I thought it would be fun, hanging out with you and him. I’m sorry it didn’t go how you planned, but blaming me isn’t fucking fair, Bee.”

He’s right, but you can’t bring yourself to back down. “It’s not fair to take someone’s brother away for six years, but you had no problem doing that.”

“Fuck you, Bee. Seriously.” He spits the words before turning on his heel, and heading inside. You are once again left alone, outside, in the cold.

–

[gugugyuu]

a/n: random beomgyu ff • nsfw, mature, cursing, not proof read, post today, edit tomorrow lol

The doorbell rang, and you immediately opened the door to Beomgyu, who greeted you with a kiss. He quickly shut the door with his right hand and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

Beomgyu's giggling while lips showered your face with soft kisses. You, on the other hand, barely even smiled.

You both sat down on the couch, the familiar comfort of his presence surrounding you. Beomgyu gently lifted your legs, placing them across his lap. His arms stayed around your waist, holding you close as yours wrapped around his shoulders.

His face was so close to yours now, his breath warm on your skin. You reached up, running your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp. “Mmh, that feels good," eyes fluttering closed in contentment.

You met Beomgyu at a random party, night that led to something you never expected. A supposed to be one-night stand turned into fuck buddies.

Beomgyu gave you a spare key to his apartment so that whenever you wanted to visit, or whenever he texted you, you could come over without having to wait.

At first, it was fun. Every time you left, you both had this routine: a kiss inside the apartment, another after he locked the door, and one final quick kiss before you left.

You knew the basics about each other, but never crossed any boundaries.

But deep down, you knew it's something you never really wanted to be a part of in the first place.

Beomgyu kissed you again, his hands gently holding yours as he whispered against your lips. “I need you soo bad right now.”

You were used to these moments, the way he made you feel wanted, the way his touches set you on fire.

But recently, everything felt different and you realized that whatever you and Beomgyu are doing, it's slowly eating you alive. You had been doing this for months, and it was beginning to mess with your head in ways you didn’t realize.

Beomgyu seemed to show no interest in what else was going on in your world outside of these stolen moments. And yet, somehow, it was affecting your relationships.

You tried dating other people, but every time you did, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being unfaithful. It was as if your heart was already claimed, but by someone who refused to acknowledge it.

Beomgyu pressed his lips against yours, his breath shaky as he moved in and out of you, fucking in missionary.

"Beomgyu I-”

“Hold it,” he moaned in your ear, the wet sounds of your movements driving you both closer to the edge. You shook your head, weakly trying to push him away as the pressure built inside you, but he held you down, speeding up as he chased his own release.

Seeing the panic and bliss on your face was enough for him to break, groaning loudly as he cummed inside you.

He slid out and collapsed onto the bed beside you. You turned to face him, grabbing a blanket to cover half of your overly happy face.

Beomgyu also turned to face you, panting heavily as he stroked your hair. “You’re so perfect.”

You wanted to hug him, kiss him, and just to be close.

“If I ever have a girlfriend, I want her to be exactly like you,” he said, still catching his breath.

You froze, unable to believe the words that left his mouth.

You forced a weak smile, faking a yawn before slowly turning around, trying to hide the pain building inside.

You stood up, nearly tripping as your legs felt weak and sore.

“He-hey,” Beomgyu called out.

You slowly closed the bathroom door, turning on the faucet to mask the sounds.

“You good?” Beomgyu asked, knocking on the door, confusion and worry in his voice after seeing you almost stumble while rushing out.

“Yeah! Just need to use the bathroom!” you replied, loud enough for him to hear over the sound of the running water.

Tears streamed down your face as his words echoed in your mind.

What a fucking asshole.

[ravennaortiz]

Hiii ❤️

Coffee and Chibs; he accidentally reads a message on his girlfriends phone…from her boss…he is really flirty and Chibs gets a lil jealous👀

thanks a lot!🤍

Hello Love!

Oooooo this is going to be good! You know Chibs does not play with what is his! lol

"Care if I use your phone love. Mine died?" called Chibs as he wandered into the bedroom. "Sure" you called from the bathroom as you stepped out of the shower.

Chibs hummed as he grabbed your phone and put in your passcode. When the phone unlocked he noted a text message conversation was open.

He was about to close it out and order dinner when he a sentence caught his eye. "You make me feel so alive. So glad to have a pretty young thing like you on the team ;)"

"The fuck" muttered Chibs his grip on the phone tight as he stared at the message. Glancing at the contact info it was from your boss who he had never liked.

You had always said he was just an awkward guy and told Chibs not to worry. Scrolling through the messages Chibs saw more flirty and implicit texts on his end that you had shut down or ignored just going back to work matters.

Chibs had half a mind to pay your boss a visit but didn't want to ruin your job. Guess I'll have to make things awkward to get my point across he thought to himself as he made his way to the bathroom, stripping as he went.

Awhile later, Chibs was deep in side you as you moaned and cursed his name. "Tell me whose pretty little thing you are?' demanded Chibs with a had thrust making you scream your answer of yours daddy before he poured his release deep into you.

"Hope you enjoyed this. Keep it professional from now on Bob" panted Chibs before he hung your phone up.

[hopeintheashes]

He’s not actually sure why Chim facetimed him rather than texting. As far as he can tell, there was nothing particularly pressing that Chim needed to ask him; but really, they hadn’t gotten that far. He’d answered, and Chim had taken one look at him and asked if he was okay. Buck had shaken his head, meaning don’t ask, but Chim’s eyes had gone even more worried than before and he’d said, “Come over for dinner,” and Buck had been too overwhelmed to do anything other than nod.

Dinner helped, being with Jee, center of attention and light of the room, but now she’s in bed listening to Maddie read her a story and Buck’s head is pounding with the heartbeat of never, never, never again.

“Spill.”

Buck blinks up at Chim from his spot on the couch.

“You didn’t bring baked goods, which means whatever's wrong isn't about Tommy. So, I repeat: Spill.”

Buck opens his mouth to protest and closes it again. Chim raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“It’s… a secret,” Buck says finally, which certainly doesn’t make Chim’s eyebrows go down.

“What’s a secret?” Maddie turns off the hallway light behind her and comes through into the living room. Sits down beside him on the couch.

“Why Buck looks like the world’s about to end.”

Maddie’s eyes go soft. “Hey, you’re keeping our secret. We can keep yours.”

“It’s not mine.” Eyes down. Watching his hands shake. Wondering when that started. Eddie’s kitchen, probably. And then just never stopped.

“Buck…” Maddie slides closer on the couch, a hand on his shoulder. So gentle it’s going to shatter him.

“Eddie’s moving to Texas.” He says it fast, like that will make it hurt less. Like it will make up for the fact that he’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to tell. “Effective immediately.” He swallows. His mouth is dry. Tastes like ash. “And he’s probably never coming back.”

“He’s…” Chim, trying to catch up. “Oh. Fuck.”

“Evan,” Maddie whispers, and that’s what breaks him. He's angrily swiping away tears because this isn’t– he shouldn’t–

Maddie pulls him into a hug, and he turns his face into her sweater and sobs.

. . .

Later, Maddie leads him to the guest bedroom and sits on top of the covers and strokes his hair like she did when he was little. He doesn't have any tears left, just a pins-and-needles numbness that covers him like an extra blanket in the dark. “Sleep,” she says, and Chim nods in agreement from the door.

. . .

He wakes up aching. The dark outside the windows is just starting to lift into pre-dawn light, the birds starting to sing. They shouldn’t be singing. They should know that there's a chasm growing by the moment, somewhere in the desert between here and Texas, and that it's going to swallow him whole.

His head is splitting but he has to pee, so he stumbles out of the warmth of bed into the freezing air outside the covers. When he comes out of the bathroom, Chim is leaning in the hall, comfortable in short sleeves even as Buck shivers inside his thick hoodie, completely unable to get warm.

Buck blinks at him in confusion and pain, and Chim sighs and presses the backs of his fingers to Buck’s forehead; slips a hand under his hood to feel the back of Buck’s neck. “Yeah, I was afraid of that,” Chim says, but it’s more to himself than anything else, and he presses his palm against Buck’s shoulder blades and leads him back to the guest room.

“How…” Buck whispers, and Chim gently pushes him back toward his bed.

“Maddie told me,” Chim says, and god, this family and secrets, “but also, I’ve known you a long time, Buck. You get a feeling for these things.”

He'd googled it, once. Whether stress fevers were a real thing. Eddie had laughed a little; had ghosted a hand over his hair and rearranged the blanket draped over him where he was lying on Eddie’s couch. Not sure what you’d call this if it’s not real, he’d said, and Buck had replied, Just being broken, I guess. He’d kinda-sorta meant it as a joke but it didn’t land, Eddie working his lip between his teeth with worried eyes, and Buck had shivered and closed his eyes and Eddie had worked his fingers into Buck’s curls and sat next to him on the couch until he’d fallen asleep.

Eddie’s not gone yet, but he’s getting on a plane in the morning. Making a long weekend of it, using a personal day for the one shift he’s going to miss.

And maybe he'll come back and say goodbye, but then he’ll be gone forever.

He wonders whether they've invented a surgery yet for this kind of hole in your heart.

“It’s not forever,” Chim says quietly, sitting on the side of his bed like Maddie had done last night. Like he can read his mind.

“You don’t know that.” He’s trembling, fever chills and the effort of trying to hold them back, jaw clenched to keep his teeth from chattering, wrapped in blankets and freezing cold.

“But I know Eddie. And I sure as hell know you.” Chim watches him for a moment, and then sighs again, quiet, and tells him to scootch over, and lays down beside him, on top of the covers on the bed.

He wonders, sometimes, what it would have been like if Daniel had lived. What having an older brother would have been like.

Maybe like this.

Maybe not.

They lie there until the first true light filters in and little feet come running down the hall. Jee barrels in and Chim sweeps her up onto the bed to take his place. “Keep your uncle Buck company, I’m gonna make some coffee.”

“Okay.” Jee wriggles around like an inchworm until she’s under the covers as well and kicks her feet happily in the warmth.

He hears the coffee start, and Chim reappears with water and painkillers. “What do you think, Jee, should we keep Buck for today?”

“We should keep him forever!” Jee says, feet kicking again.

“We’ve got you,” Chim says. Maddie appears behind him and wraps her arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder.

“Got you,” Jee echoes, snuggling into his side.

He can’t speak, but he nods, swallows, blinks, and nods again.

The sun slips further into the room. The birds are singing, and he can't stop it no matter how hard he tries.

Chim and Maddie go into the kitchen to pour their coffee, and Jee wraps both of her arms around one of his.

“Got you,” she says again.

He swallows, and nods, and kisses her hair. A bird perches on their window, silhouetted for a moment, and flies off into the day.  

. . .

. . .

[quillkiller]

The reason we hate on regulily sm and not other ships is because atp people ship anything so who cares right but regulily is oppressor x oppresed. How are you going to ship a blood purist with the good girl in hp that hated blood purists. You making regulus be lily’s “short bf dyke whatever” is plain weird

listen you’re allowed to hate regulily !!! you’re not seeing me throwing a childish tantrum about it 😭😭but like. these characters are fictional… they do not exist. and like why are you, a regulily hater, on my blog enough to know the characterizations ive given them ?? like what are you genuinely even getting out of that when you could be having fun !!! in fandoms !!! and surround yourself with people who like what you like !! like fandom is supposed to be !!!! how does a whole ass stranger on tumblr.com/dashboard having fun shipping something bother you this much 😭