#she gets coffee because of course she does

[neellscapsule]

wayne's secretary

summary | working as bruce wayne's secretary was never an easy job, specially when you're terribly in love with him and he doesn't dare look back. 

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader

warnings / tags | most fluffy, some angst, neglected feelings because reader thinks bruce doesn't see her as she sees him BUT HE DOES!!!he is just simply too much of a fool so we can add hurt/comfort

word count | 5.6k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. you don't need to read the other parts to understand this since this is about bruce and batmom's past. 

BEING BRUCE WAYNE’S SECRETARY ISN’T FOR THE WEAK.

You figured that out about three hours into your first day on the job. You’d walked into the sleek, glass-walled office on the 40th floor of Wayne Enterprises with your little notebook clutched in your hands, fresh off the Kent Farm and still smelling faintly of hay and sunscreen, heart pounding in your chest like a scared rabbit. You’d been prepared for a challenge. You hadn’t been prepared for Bruce Wayne.

The tabloids don’t do him justice.

Sure, they get the broad strokes right. Tall. Ridiculously good-looking. Billionaire. Occasionally seen with models or philanthropists or both on his arm. But they miss the quiet intensity that follows him into every room like a storm cloud, the way his blue eyes could pin you in place with one look, or how his voice, deep and smooth like whiskey, can make your stomach twist in knots even when he’s just telling you to rearrange his schedule for the fifth time that morning.

Actually, it’s a brutal, gladiatorial occupation requiring the patience of a saint, the multitasking ability of a NASA mission control operator, and the emotional resilience of someone who doesn’t cry when a perfectly good apple pie burns.

You are not that someone.

But you try. Lord, do you try.

You’re not sure if it’s the Kent in you or the catastrophic crush you’ve been carefully tending to like a forbidden summer bloom, but you don’t give up. No. You set your alarm for 5:00 AM every day, you iron your skirts and blouses the night before, and you march into Wayne Enterprises with a to-go cup of black coffee that could wake the dead. 

You take his calls. You reschedule meetings when Bruce inevitably disappears—out for “personal reasons” that you’re not allowed to question. You politely field phone calls from ex-lovers who think they can just waltz back into his life. You smile through tight teeth when angry supermodels demand an audience with “Brucie.”

“Miss Kent.” His voice cuts through your daydreams as you fumble with the office phone. You curse under your breath—quietly, because you’re still a Kent and Ma raised you better—before turning toward him.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne?” You push your chair back, notebook ready, pen poised like a weapon of mild administrative warfare.

Bruce glances at the clock on the wall. He’s wearing one of those immaculate, tailored charcoal suits that probably cost more than your entire apartment.

“There’s a board meeting at noon. I need the quarterly reports from R\&D printed and summarized.” He pauses, eyes narrowing just slightly. “And cancel lunch with Veronica.”

Veronica. Right. The supermodel. One of the many.

You nod, scribbling it down. “Of course.”

His gaze lingers for a second longer than necessary, unreadable, before he turns and retreats to his office, the door shutting with a soft click. You exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the familiar ache settling in your chest.

Because Bruce Wayne doesn’t see you.

Not really. Not the way you see him. He sees a secretary. Efficient. Professional. The girl from Kansas with a polite smile and too many pens in her purse. Meanwhile, you see him—the man behind the Gotham mask, sharp-edged and distant, carrying the weight of an entire city on his shoulders.

And you’re in love with him.

Hopelessly, stupidly, painfully in love.

It’s not ideal.

This is fine. Totally fine. This is the job.

Sure, he makes you take calls from the kinds of women who have their own perfume ads and the press on speed dial, but that’s fine. Sure, he makes you memorize his calendar like your life depends on it, but fine. Sure, sometimes he leaves you with half his workload and the other half of his headaches, but fine.

You didn’t move to Gotham to have a soft, easy life. You moved here because a friend had recommended you and you needed the job, even if your parents were more than happy to let you live on the farm. At first, it was very difficult.

Renting an apartment had been the worst part. Gotham wasn't anything like Smallville, or even Metropolis, where your brother lived. Much more dangerous and dark, but just as beautiful. So, you'd ended up in a moderately affordable building with a small balcony that you'd filled with plants.

And not to mention how the people there weren't even a third as polite. How they gave you weird looks whenever you mumbled a "sir" or a polite "ma'am," but that could also have been because the Kansas accent had become so engrained in you, refusing to leave.

But you’d gotten good at reading Bruce. You had to. He was many things—Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, impossible perfectionist, a certified menace to your daily stress levels—but predictable in his routines. You’d memorized the way his brow twitched when a board member droned on too long, the faint edge in his voice when he asked you to "reschedule" a dinner with some socialite (which always meant cancel entirely), and the carefully contained glances he cast your way when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Of course, maybe that last part was just your imagination.

Because if Bruce Wayne actually looked at you the way you looked at him, well… you'd probably combust right there behind your tidy little desk outside his office.

But no. You were just his secretary. The secretary with a too-big crush, a closet full of pretty, neatly pressed dresses, and a last name that carried weight only in your home place.

“Y/N?”

His voice snapped you out of your thoughts, rich and low and way too dangerous for this early in the morning. You looked up, startled to find him standing in front of your desk, broad-shouldered and devastating handsome.

You tried not to let your eyes linger on the cut of his jaw or the perfect, infuriating way his dark hair fell over his brow.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. You never called him that unless you were flustered—or hiding something.

“The schedule for today?” he prompted.

Right. His schedule. You were supposed to be a professional. You snatched the leather-bound planner off your desk and opened it with practiced precision.

“You have a ten o’clock with Lucius Fox, followed by a board meeting at eleven. Lunch is with Mr. Park from the GCPD charity board—”

“Cancel lunch.”

You blinked. “But—”

“Park only scheduled it to pitch more PR appearances. I’m not interested.”

You hesitated. “Should I tell him you’re busy or—”

“Tell him I’m unavailable. If he presses, tell him I’m allergic to public relations.”

Despite yourself, a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. Bruce caught it, the faintest glint of amusement flickering in his eyes before it vanished behind that familiar, stoic mask.

“And tonight,” you continued, clearing your throat, “there’s the Wayne Gala.”

His expression didn’t change, but you swore you caught a flicker of resignation in his gaze.

“You’re still attending, right?” you asked, fighting the urge to fidget with your pen.

Bruce’s eyes settled on you in that way that made your heart stutter—steady, intense, unreadable.

“Are you attending?” he countered, voice deceptively neutral.

You frowned, momentarily thrown. “I… well, I wasn’t invited.”

“You’re my secretary.”

“Technically, yes, but—”

“You organized the entire event.”

You ducked your head, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I just coordinated. It’s not the same.”

His jaw flexed, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then, without warning, he leaned down, palm braced against your desk, invading your personal space just enough to short-circuit your brain.

“Be there,” he said simply, voice low and final.

Your throat went dry. “O-Okay.”

He straightened, adjusted his cufflinks, and walked back into his office, leaving you staring after him like a lovesick idiot.

But here’s the thing.

He does see you.

Bruce Wayne notices everything.

The way you hum when you’re overwhelmed with scheduling requests. How you bring a spare cup of coffee to your desk at exactly 9:15, just in case he needs it. The worn denim jacket from Smallville you sometimes forget on the back of your chair. How your smile never quite reaches your eyes sometimes.

You think he doesn’t care.

But he does.

He cares more than he should.

Because for the first time in years, he finds himself looking forward to Monday mornings. To your quiet, determined voice filtering through the intercom. To your handwriting on his notes. 

But he’s a fool.

A coward.

And so he stays quiet.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of phone calls, emails, and one very aggressive supermodel threatening to “storm the building” if Bruce didn’t return her messages. You handled it, like always, smiling politely, making apologies, and filing it away as just another day in the impossible life of Bruce Wayne’s secretary.

But tonight—the gala—it was different.

The Kent in you was screaming this is a bad idea. Smallville had taught you to keep your feet on the ground, your head clear, and your heart safe.

But Gotham had other plans.

By the time you arrived at Wayne Manor, you felt wildly underdressed, even in your nicest gown—soft blue satin that hugged your figure and made your eyes stand out in the dim light. The manor buzzed with the city’s elite: sharp suits, glittering dresses, whispered gossip trailing behind every conversation.

The party swirled around you like a glittering storm of perfume, champagne, and barely concealed arrogance. You sipped at your glass, nerves humming just beneath your skin, but you stayed grounded. For now.

Until you saw her.

Bruce stood across the room near the grand staircase, his expression cool, unreadable—but beside him, clinging to his arm like a designer handbag, was a woman you couldn’t tear your eyes away from.

Tall. Blonde. Sun-kissed skin that practically glowed under the chandelier light. Her gown shimmered in the low light, the cut sleek and expensive. She was the kind of woman that belonged in Bruce Wayne’s world. The kind that laughed easily at whispered jokes, who made socialites stare with jealousy and men stare with want. She tilted her head, smiling at him with practiced charm, a hand lightly resting on his chest as she spoke.

And Bruce—he’s not brushing her off. He’s not pulling away. He’s standing there, listening, patient, polite. His expression is carefully neutral, but you know him. You’ve studied him like a language, and you see it—the tiny flicker of amusement when she says something clever, the faint dip of his head when she leans in.

Your heart sank like a stone tossed into deep water.

You looked away, swallowing the bitter ache rising in your throat. Of course. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him with women before. Supermodels. Heiresses. Gotham’s elite tripping over themselves for a chance to stand where she stood now.

You set your glass down with more force than necessary, turning on your heel before your emotions betrayed you. The last thing you needed was to cry into your free bar champagne.

The room blurred as you weaved through the crowd, determined to find some breathing space, anywhere but here.

That’s when you found the bar—and her.

A woman leaned casually against the polished counter, swirling amber liquid in her glass with delicate fingers. Her short black hair framed her face in soft waves, dark as ink, contrasting beautifully with lightly tanned skin and sharp, green eyes that glittered with curiosity as she noticed you approach.

The bartender barely had time to greet you before the woman spoke first, voice smooth and low, with a teasing edge that wrapped around you like silk.

“Well, aren’t you just a breath of fresh air?”

You blinked, momentarily startled. “I… what?”

She smiled, slow and warm, like she was entirely unbothered by the sharp edges of this world. “You look like you wandered in from somewhere far, far away.” Her gaze drifted down your frame, lingering on your still-slightly-flushed cheeks and the soft blue satin of your gown. “Somewhere real.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Smallville, actually.”

Her lips curved in amusement. “Figures.”

You slid onto the stool beside her, grateful for the unexpected reprieve from your spiraling thoughts.

“I’m Selina,” she offered, raising her glass. “Selina Kyle.”

“Y/N,” you replied, smiling despite yourself.

Selina’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Pretty name. Pretty girl. What’s your excuse for looking like you’d rather be anywhere else?”

You hesitated, tempted to brush it off, but something about her—maybe it was the friendly smirk or the purring warmth in her voice—made it easy to be honest.

“I work for Mr. Wayne,” you admitted, fiddling with your bracelet. “Secretary. Calendar wrangler. Human voicemail inbox.”

Selina’s expression morphed into something wickedly teasing. “That explains the heartbreak face.”

Your cheeks flushed. “It’s not… I mean, I—”

“Relax, sweetheart.” She waved a hand dismissively. “You’re not the first, and I’m guessing you won’t be the last.”

You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands. “Is it that obvious?”

Selina chuckled, the sound light and unjudging. “Only to someone who’s been there. You’ve got the look.” She took a sip of her drink, eyes softening. “Trust me, men like Bruce? They notice more than they let on.”

You lifted your head, doubtful. “Not him. He’s…” You sighed. “He’s different.”

Her smirk widened like she knew a secret you didn’t. “Aren’t they all?”

Despite the ache still clinging to your chest, her flirty, easy confidence soothed some of the sting. You chatted for a little while longer—about Gotham’s ridiculous social scene, expensive shoes, and how impossible it was to find decent coffee in this city. Slowly, the tightness in your chest loosened, replaced by the quiet comfort of unexpected companionship.

But happiness in Gotham never lasted long.

The collision was entirely accidental. You’d been making your way through the crowd again, half-lost in thought, when it happened.

The champagne flutes on her hand dangerously, and one tips, spilling its fizzy, golden contents all over the front of your dress. The cold is immediate, sharp against your skin, seeping through the delicate fabric and turning the soft blue satin dark and sticky.

You gasp, instinctively reaching for a napkin, already sputtering out apologies.

“I’m so sorry, I—”

But the woman’s gaze sweeps over you like you’re something stuck to her shoe. She’s impeccably dressed—pearls, tailored silk, not a hair out of place—and her expression drips with disdain.

“You should watch where you’re going,” she snaps, her voice clipped, precise, and cruelly condescending. “Clearly, you’re not used to being at events like this.”

“I—um—I didn’t mean—”

“Obviously not,” she cuts in, eyes raking over your soaked dress with thinly veiled disgust. “But what can you expect from… assistants.”

Something ugly twists in your stomach. It’s not even the words—it’s the way she says it. Like you’re beneath her. Like you’re a stain on the carpet. And worst of all, she’s not the first to think it.

You swallow the lump in your throat, your eyes burning.

“Excuse me,” you whisper, your voice barely steady.

You turn sharply and flee, weaving through the glittering guests, past chandeliers and waiters and couples who don’t notice you’re unraveling. You burst through the manor doors and into the night, the rain hitting you like cold glass.

The sky is heavy, dark, and pouring, but you barely feel it over the ache in your chest, the humiliation clawing up your throat. You raise your hand, waving desperately until a cab finally screeches to a stop, and you slide inside, your soaked dress clinging to your skin, your heart pounding wildly.

“Address?” the cabbie grunts.

You rattle it off quickly, voice thick with tears you refuse to let fall—not here, not yet.

The ride home blurred past the rain-streaked window. By the time you reached your small apartment, your teeth chattered and your heart ached with embarrassment so sharp it made your chest physically hurt.

Inside, you stripped out of the soaked gown, trembling hands fumbling with the fabric. The champagne stain spread across the satin, stubborn and taunting.

Warm pajamas—fleece, oversized, impossibly soft—helped, but not enough to quiet the storm inside you. You sat on the floor by the sink, the dress clutched in your lap, damp with tears as you scrubbed at the stain in vain.

The first sob broke free quietly, and then another, until your shoulders shook, and you pressed your forehead to your knees.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You ignored it at first, but when it buzzed again—your mother’s name lighting up the screen—your resolve crumbled.

You swipe to answer, voice trembling. “Hey, ma.”

Her voice wraps around you like a quilt. “Hi, sweetheart. Thought I’d check on you. You were on my mind tonight.”

You swallow, the knot in your throat threatening to choke you. “It was a long night.”

“Tell me.”

So you do. You tell her about the gala, about the pretty blonde, about the woman who made you feel small, about the rain and the taxi and the stupid, ruined dress.

Ma listens to every word, soft murmurs of comfort filling the quiet between your sobs.

“Oh, honey,” she says finally, her voice tender and steady, like home. “You know what I always told you. People can only make you feel small if you let them.”

“I know,” you whisper, curling into yourself. “But sometimes it’s hard not to.”

“I know it is. But you’re a Kent, sugar. You’ve got more heart than that whole city combined. Don’t let some snooty woman take that from you.”

You sniff, wiping at your eyes. “The dress is probably ruined.”

“Clothes can be replaced. My girl can’t.”

Your chest aches, but the edges start to soften.

“And besides,” Ma continues gently, “the year’s almost done. Christmas is right around the corner. Why don’t you come home for a bit? We’ll put you to work on the farm. Your father's been asking when he’ll see you next.”

You smile faintly, the image of the old farmhouse glowing warmly in your mind. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Come home, baby,” she said softly. “For as long as you want.”

“Okay,” you whispered, the exhaustion catching up to you. “I’ll come home.”

And for the first time that night, you let yourself breathe.

Until a loud, metallic noise startles you.

“What was that?” your mother’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker, concern lacing her words even from miles away.

You stood frozen in your living room, heart lurching up to your throat. It had come from the balcony. Something heavy. Something… metallic? The rain outside still battered against the glass, wind howling like it was personally offended.

“Probably… the wind,” you tried to sound calm, but your voice wobbled.

“Wind doesn’t sound like that, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t exactly argue.

Your eyes darted around your modest apartment, landing on the first potential weapon in sight—the old, battered broom leaning against the kitchen wall. It wasn’t exactly an impressive choice, but it was better than facing Gotham’s nightlife with bare hands.

“Ma, I gotta go,” you whispered, grabbing the broom in a white-knuckled grip.

“Y/N—”

“Love you,” you interrupted softly, already creeping toward the balcony. “Kiss Pa for me.”

You hung up, slipping the phone onto the counter, broom clutched like a sword as you edged toward the sliding balcony door. Peeking through the glass, your eyes narrowed in confusion. The balcony was dark, but even with the rain streaking the glass, you could make out a broad shape slumped among your poor, potted plants. Your gaze sharpened.

A man?

His cape—or was that a coat?—dragged heavily on the soaked ground, the fabric clinging to his frame. The dim city light caught the unmistakable shape of pointed ears rising from the silhouette of his cowl. Unmoving except for the faint, labored rise and fall of his chest. His shoulders sagged slightly, like they were carrying the weight of the world—or at least tonight’s injuries.

A bat mask. A symbol that had been plastered all over Gotham’s tabloids for months now.

The Batman.

Your eyes widened. "Oh my God…”

Your pulse thudded against your ribs, nerves tangled with curiosity. He wasn’t threatening, not like this. He looked… exhausted. Slumped awkwardly on one side, one gloved hand bracing against the floor as if trying—and failing—to push himself upright.

The other hand pressed tightly to his torso. Even in the dim light, you could see dark, wet streaks staining his suit.

Blood.

The logical part of your brain reminded you: he beats up criminals, not civilians. You were safe… mostly. Still, your fingers tightened around the broom handle, and—against all better judgment—you poked him lightly in the side with the bristles.

“Uh… hey,” you called softly, voice higher than usual. “You okay there, big guy?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, his head tilted up, and even behind the intimidating mask, you could feel the weight of his stare settle on you.

The intensity made you freeze for a heartbeat—but you noticed the tension in his shoulders loosen, just slightly. He wasn’t here to hurt you.

The Batman—Gotham’s Batman—was hurt. And… on your balcony.

This city was ridiculous.

You lowered the broom slightly, heart racing. “Are you… gonna pass out? Or… need help?”

His breathing was heavy beneath the mask, but after a pause, he managed a rough, gravel-edged reply. “Help… would be… good.”

You hesitated only a second longer before setting the broom aside. The Kent in you—years of patching up scraped knees, stubborn farm injuries, and now your brother’s occasional “training bruises”—kicked in.

“Alright, c’mon,” you muttered, slipping your arm under his. “Let’s get you inside before you drown out here.”

It took effort, but between his stubbornness and your determination, you managed to half-guide, half-drag him inside. Rainwater dripped from his cape and suit, puddling onto your floor. Your poor couch squelched as he collapsed onto it with a heavy, pained grunt.

You grimaced. “Okay, we’ll… deal with the couch later.”

First aid. You needed the first aid kit.

You grabbed the small, dented metal box from the kitchen cabinet, snapping it open to see what was inside. It wasn’t exactly stocked for vigilante wounds, but it would have to do. 

You returned to the living room, dropping the kit beside him and kneeling at his side, crossing your legs beneath you. Your gaze flicked over him—his gloves were off now, discarded on your coffee table, his bare hands braced on his thighs.

But it wasn’t his hands that worried you.

The blood staining his side caught your attention—the dark smear spreading across his suit, seeping from beneath the armored plates.

Your fingers hovered uncertainly.

“Hey… uh, I’m gonna help you, alright?” Your voice was soft but steady. “But I can’t get to that with all… this.”

Your hand gestured vaguely toward the torso section of his suit.

For a long, tense moment, he didn’t move. The air between you thickened with unspoken questions. Then, finally, with slow, methodical movements, he reached up, fingers finding the subtle seams at the sides of his suit.

The chest armor loosened, peeling away to reveal scarred, marked skin beneath.

Your breath hitched.

Broad, muscular, every inch of him screamed strength and experience—the kind of body molded by years of brutal training and hard-earned scars. Bruises bloomed across his ribs in shades of deep purple and blue, some old, some alarmingly fresh. A shallow gash bled sluggishly along his side, the likely source of the stain.

Professional. Be professional, you scolded yourself.

“This’ll probably sting,” you warned, voice quiet.

Grabbing gauze and antiseptic, you began to clean the wound with careful, practiced hands.

As you dabbed carefully at the wound, the alcohol making him hiss softly through gritted teeth, you fought to keep your hands steady.

He remained silent for several beats, watching you with unreadable eyes beneath the shadow of his cowl. Then, his voice rumbled low, unexpectedly cutting through the quiet.

“You’ve been crying.”

Your hands stilled.

You didn’t meet his gaze immediately, focusing instead on dabbing antiseptic along the edges of the gash.

“Sharp observation,” you replied lightly, but your voice betrayed you—soft, shaky, raw around the edges.

His eyes softened—barely noticeable, but there.

“Why?”

The question hung between you, heavy and sincere. No judgment. No mocking curiosity. Just… quiet concern.

You hesitated, biting your lower lip as you worked. The gauze wrapped around his torso with steady, if slightly trembling, fingers.

“A party,” you admitted finally, taping the bandage in place. “Someone ruined my dress. Said I didn’t belong.”

His eyes never left yours.

“Gala?”

You nodded, the corner of your mouth twitching bitterly. “Wayne Gala.”

The words hung between you for a second, quiet, but not empty.

Batman’s eyes narrowed just slightly. There was a flicker of something beneath the surface.

“Did something happen there?” His voice stayed low, that smooth, rasping tone that carried authority, but there was an edge of something softer to it now. Less like the Batman of headlines. More… human.

You shrugged lightly, returning your attention to the emergency kit as you began packing away the supplies, the soft rattle of gauze and bandages filling the space between your words.

“Nothing unusual for a Wayne party,” you replied, trying to sound dismissive, but your voice caught just a little. You could still feel the sting of that woman’s words clinging to you like smoke. “Fancy people with expensive shoes and sharper tongues. That’s Gotham.”

His gaze didn’t waver, even as you busied your hands. “Someone upset you.”

It wasn’t a question. You hated how easily he saw through you. You pressed your lips together, not looking at him as you spoke.

“It’s not a big deal,” you lied. “Just some socialite who thinks anyone without a trust fund shouldn’t breathe the same air as them.”

A pause. You risked a glance at him.

The corners of his mouth tightened, and even though the mask covered most of his face, you could feel the disapproval radiating off him. Not at you—but at the situation. At whoever had made you feel small tonight.

“You don’t believe that, do you?” His voice was quieter now, laced with a firm, grounded certainty that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shrugged again, this time weaker. “Doesn’t really matter what I believe. You’ve seen the crowd Bruce Wayne runs with.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, eyes drifting to his injured side before flickering back up. “People like me… we don’t fit.”

His jaw flexed. “People like you?”

You let out a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Small-town girl with a Metropolis zip code. A Kent. I grew up feeding cows and fixing fences. The fanciest thing I owned back home was a Sunday dress from Sears.” You pulled the blanket around your legs a little tighter, voice dropping with vulnerability you couldn’t quite hide. “Now I answer phones for the richest man in Gotham and try not to drown in places I clearly don’t belong.”

The silence stretched after your confession, heavy but not uncomfortable. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you expected.

“You belong,” he said simply, like it was fact—not up for debate. “Don’t let people like that convince you otherwise.”

Your eyes snapped to his, startled by the quiet sincerity behind the words. The shadows softened him for a moment, the harsh lines of the cowl blending into the dim light, but the conviction in his voice stayed.

You exhaled, some of the tightness in your chest easing. “You’re not what I expected, y’know.”

He tilted his head slightly, curious. “No?”

You smiled faintly, relaxing into the couch’s armrest. “All those stories… newspapers, rumors. You’re supposed to be this terrifying, ruthless vigilante. Gotham’s monster in the shadows.” Your eyes traced over him—tired, soaked, bruised. “But you’re… different.”

He let out a low sound that might’ve been the ghost of a chuckle. It was rough, brief, but real.

“I can be terrifying,” he teased, and for the first time tonight, the tension in your apartment cracked just a little, warmth slipping in through the cracks.

Your smile widened despite yourself. “I’ll believe it when you stop bleeding all over my floor.”

His mouth quirked again, the expression faint but not entirely hidden.

A beat of silence passed, comfortable now. The rain outside tapped steadily against the glass doors, a constant hum filling the space.

Then, he shifted slightly, his broad shoulders easing back against the couch, some of the tension bleeding from his posture. His hand pressed lightly to the gauze at his side, checking your handiwork.

“You’ve done this before,” he observed, his gaze drifting over the neatly wrapped bandage.

“Farm,” you answered simply. “Kent household is a masterclass in minor medical emergencies.” You gestured vaguely. “Cuts, scrapes, falling off tractors… patching up stubborn men.”

The corner of his mouth tugged, and your heart did a small, traitorous flip at the sight.

“You handle this better than most,” he admitted quietly.

You arched a brow, teasing. “What, bleeding strangers collapsing on my balcony? Sure, happens all the time.”

“Could’ve called the cops,” he pointed out, watching you closely.

You shrugged, voice light but sincere. “Didn’t think they’d patch you up.”

Another pause. His eyes never left you.

“And… you believe I’m not here to hurt you?”

It was a serious question, but you smiled softly, warmth creeping into your expression as you leaned in, resting your chin on your hand.

“I don’t think you’d let me shove a broom at you if you were the type to hurt civilians,” you teased. Then, softer, “Besides… you save people.”

His eyes darkened with something unreadable, but not dangerous. He didn’t deny it.

You hesitated, then added quietly, “I’ve seen the news. You stop muggings. Get kids out of danger. You might scare the criminals… but you help people.”

The admission settled in the air between you, thick with quiet honesty.

“You’ve been watching me,” he noted.

You rolled your eyes. “Everyone’s been watching you.”

His gaze was sharp, steady—watchful even in exhaustion.

“Y’know,” you began, your voice breaking the quiet, “I didn’t exactly picture my Saturday night ending like this.”

A brow under the cowl arched faintly. His lips twitched—barely—but you caught it.

“Unexpected house guests are common in Gotham?” he asked, voice low, rough, that rasp unmistakable even softened by fatigue.

You shrugged lightly. “Usually it’s angry or drunk neighbors, not six-foot-something vigilantes falling on my plants.”

His eyes drifted toward the balcony door, lingering on the flattened pots, the shattered ceramic.

“Apologies for the casualties,” he muttered.

You smiled despite yourself. “They were on borrowed time anyway. This city’s got terrible sunlight.”

A quiet hum left him, almost a huff of amusement if you were being generous.

You watched him for a moment longer, curiosity outweighing caution now that the shock had settled. His broad frame was hunched slightly, weight shifted to one side to avoid putting pressure on the bandaged gash. The blanket draped awkwardly over his shoulders, the edges damp but slowly drying from the apartment’s warmth.

For a man built like a walking warning sign, he looked oddly… human.

“Is this… normal for you?” you asked carefully. “The whole ‘bleeding on strangers’ furniture’ thing?”

“Occupational hazard,” he replied simply.

You tilted your head, biting back a grin. “Danger pay included?”

His eyes slid back to yours, sharp as glass. “Wouldn’t recommend the career path.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning to join,” you teased, your fingers absently tugging at a loose thread on your pajama pants. “I think I’m barely surviving my current job.”

A pause.

“You work for Wayne,” he stated again, the certainty in his voice settling over the room like fog.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “You’ve got an impressive memory for someone half-delirious on my couch.”

His head tilted faintly, studying you. “It’s… noticeable.”

“What is?” you prompted, curiosity peeking through.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on you, unreadable under the shadowed mask. You waited, letting the silence stretch, expecting him to evade the question entirely.

But instead, his voice came quiet. Honest.

“You stand out,” he admitted.

You looked at him then, surprised by the sincerity tucked between the words. You swallowed, wetting your lips, forcing your eyes down to your hands to keep from staring, and, instead, you shifted topics, easing the tension.

“Bet this isn’t your first run-in with Gotham rooftops.”

His lips quirked faintly. “Rooftops, alleys, warehouses… name it.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “That’s one way to see the city.”

“Best way,” he replied simply.

“Define ‘best’,” you teased, your tone soft, lightening the mood.

A pause. His eyes lingered on you, thoughtful.

“Most honest,” he answered.

You smiled faintly, leaning back against the couch. “Guess you’d hate my job then.”

“Secretary?” His brow arched. “Nothing honest about it?”

You laughed softly. “Depends who you’re working for.”

A longer pause this time.

“And Bruce Wayne?” he prompted carefully. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated, pulse tripping unexpectedly. Careful. Careful.

“He’s…” You chose your words, fingers twisting your pajama sleeve. “Complicated.”

His eyes narrowed faintly, curious.

“Most days, I think he’s impossible,” you admitted, your voice quiet now, honest in a way you hadn’t planned. “He’s cold, distant… expects everything and says almost nothing.”

“And the other days?”

You smiled to yourself, gaze drifting to the rain-slick windows. “The other days, I think… maybe he’s just lost. Or tired. Or carrying more than he lets anyone see.”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. You could feel his eyes on you, steady, lingering.

Finally, his voice cut through the quiet again—rough, softer now.

“People notice more than you think.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t elaborate, only watched you with that same unreadable intensity, shadows curling at the edges of his expression.

The room settled into quiet again. The rain softened, tapping faintly against the glass.

And that’s when your gaze shifted—sliding down the sharp slope of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw.

Strong. Defined. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist with quiet realization.

Your eyes lingered on his mouth—lips you’d seen pressed into faint, disapproving lines during board meetings, biting back frustration during impossible phone calls, curled ever-so-faintly in quiet amusement when he thought you weren’t looking.

You’d stared at Bruce Wayne's mouth more times than you cared to admit. It was hard not to when you were sitting across from him most days, fielding angry calls from supermodels and rearranging his schedule on a dime.

And now, up close, barely away from you, with his cowl hiding everything but his jaw, his lips…

You recognized him.

The sharp line of his jaw. The curve of his cheek. The slope of his mouth.

Bruce Wayne.

It hit you like a punch to the ribs.

But you didn’t say anything.

Your heart hammered wildly, your mind spinning, but you kept your expression carefully neutral.

You shut your mouth.

And he… didn’t notice. Or he did—and he didn’t care.

His eyes drifted to the window again, watching the rain streak down the glass, the faintest ghost of exhaustion settling over his expression.

You stayed quiet, your mind racing, pulse skittering wildly beneath your skin, but your face remained soft, composed—the same mask you wore around Bruce every day.

For now, your secret stayed safe between the two of you.

And his?

You’d carry that, too.

[wlwoceaneyes]

Third time’s the charm

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader word count: 2 k summary: Emily Prentiss really tried to flirt with you — you just never let yourself believe it. Emily, the Unit Chief of the BAU, interested in you? That couldn’t possibly be real. Not until she cornered you after the FBI’s annual marathon and left no room for doubt. tags: shy and clueless reader, logistics!reader, flirty Emily, marathon, no mention of yn, making my dream come true (kinda :D )

The sun is merciless by midday. It burns down over Quantico like it holds a grudge, turning the blacktop into a simmering griddle and the air into something you have to wade through. You’ve been here since early morning, setting up tables, hauling cases of water, stringing up banners with zip ties that sliced into your fingers. No one notices the volunteers unless something goes wrong. And you like it that way. Quiet edges. Peripheral.

Sweat clings beneath your collar, the back of your shirt already damp where it sticks to your spine. You’re stationed near the finish line, behind a folding table that quivers if you lean too hard on it, water bottles lined up in neat rows like soldiers waiting for orders.

You didn’t sign up for the run. You signed up to hand out drinks and fold chairs and not sweat through your clothes. And yet here you are. Skin flushed, water bottles chilling your palms, watching a parade of agents cross the finish line in various states of victory, legs wobbly, chests heaving. Some laugh, some collapse theatrically into the grass. A few don’t even look winded.

You’re not FBI, not really. Contracted logistics. Mostly inside work. Digital inventory systems, procurement, the kind of thing no one thinks about unless the coffee shipment is delayed. You work down the hall from people who carry guns and flash credentials, and you’ve learned, over time, how to make yourself invisible in a building full of people trained to notice.

And then there’s her. Emily Prentiss. You know her name, of course. Everyone does. Not just because she’s the Unit Chief of the BAU, but because she carries the kind of presence that doesn’t require introduction. You’ve seen her twice before in the building.

You remember the first time you saw Emily Prentiss, not here, but in the cafeteria. You’d been waiting for your coffee, head buried in your phone, when a voice cut through the hum of the morning rush.

“Those boots? They’re not for everyone. You’ve got good taste.”

You’d looked up, surprised to find her watching you with a small, knowing smile, like she was letting you in on a secret.

“Not that I mention it often, but today? You nailed it.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Thanks. I just got them.” Your voice was softer than you wanted.

She leaned casually on the counter, eyes sparkling. “Then you should wear them more. They suit you.”

You’d laughed nervously, unsure if it was a compliment or a tease, and taken your coffee, walking away feeling like you’d just missed something important. Or maybe you hadn’t.

The second time was in the elevator. You were lost in thought, pressing the button for the second floor, when her teasing voice broke through.

“Hey, nice scarf. Matches your serious face.”

You glanced up to see her smirking like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Uh, thanks,” you mumbled, cheeks heating.

She laughed softly. “Not many people can pull off serious and good looking. Maybe you should try to lighten up.”

Before you could answer, the elevator dinged and she stepped out, shooting you a look that said this wasn’t over.

You hadn’t known what to do either time. So you’d smiled, nodded, and tucked it away like a secret. Not because you were playing hard to get. But because, if you were being honest you didn’t think someone like her could possibly mean someone like you. You really thought it was just politeness. A passing kindness. Something practiced and habitual, not personal. Not real.

But now she’s here.

Crossing the line like she’s done it a hundred times. She’s in running gear: a black tank top, deep red compression shorts that stop mid-thigh, and a pair of worn gray sneakers that look like they’ve seen real use. Her legs are strong, defined, the kind of toned that says she doesn’t skip workouts or let herself off easy. There’s a sheen of sweat on her skin, glinting at her collarbones and along the curve of her shoulders, and her dark hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail that still somehow looks intentional. You shouldn’t be staring but here you are. Because she looks powerful. Effortless. And you’re not ready. It’s not the kind of moment you know how to stand still in, not when she looks like that and like she already knows what it’s doing to you.

Your heart rate spikes as you hold out the bottle to her, your hand steady but your breath shaky. She takes it from your hand without hesitation, fingers brushing yours, her gaze never wavering. Not even for a second. Like you’re the thing she came here for. You should look away. Say something. Do anything to break the static in the air but your feet stay rooted, your mouth forgets what language is. And all you can think is: This isn’t politeness. Not this time.

You can’t even manage to meet her eyes, not fully. Not for more than a second. Not those dark brown eyes that seem to see right through all the things you haven’t said. Not back then, not now. And definitely not while you’re still trying to convince yourself that this isn’t real.

“Third time’s the charm,” she says, unscrewing the cap with one flick of her wrist. Her voice is smooth, still shaped by the gravel of effort, but low. Too low to just be friendly. “You always look this serious when you’re saving lives with hydration?”

You open your mouth to respond but nothing comes out. So you exhale through your nose and give her a half-smile. Polite. Neutral. And most of all safe.

She tilts her head, amused by your reaction. She drinks slowly, deliberately and you realize too late that she’s still watching you. “I didn’t take you for the shy type,” she says, setting the bottle down. Her voice is quieter now. “But maybe I misjudged.”

You flinch. Not physically, not in a way she’d register unless she was looking for it — which you’re starting to realize she is. But it lands. A direct hit. Too accurate to be casual.

“I’m not shy,” you say. Except it comes out defensive which is even worse.

Emily quirks an eyebrow. It’s the kind of expression that says she knows exactly how rattled you are, and exactly how much you don’t want her to know.

“No?” she says. She steps closer, just half a pace. Enough to fold the space between you a little tighter. Enough to make your pulse trip over itself.

“I just don’t—” You fumble. “You’re… intense.”

You realize too late that it’s the wrong word. Too revealing. Too honest.

But to your relief, she laughs freely.

“Is that what I am?” she murmurs with a twinkle in her eyes. “Intense?”

You swallow hard. Her shirt’s damp. Her collar clings to her skin. There’s a bruise forming on her forearm, a line of sweat tracing the angle of her jaw. And somehow, she looks like she’s exactly where she wants to be.

You, on the other hand, feel like you’re standing too close to a bonfire.

“I meant you have a presence,” you clarify weakly. “People notice you.”

Emily grins. “You noticed. That’s all that matters.”

You don’t answer. Not because you disagree, but because you did. You do. Constantly.

There’s a sudden burst of cheers from the side. Another runner stumbles across the finish line, half-laughing, half-gasping for air. The brief commotion gives you just enough of a reason to glance away. Not because the moment called for it, but because her words hit somewhere too deep, too direct. Like she’d cracked something open you weren’t ready to show.

You fix your gaze on the runner, on the noise, on anything that isn’t her. You need a second to breathe.

The table behind you wobbles slightly as the runner grabs a water bottle without slowing down, and you seize the moment like a lifeline. You turn, pretending to adjust the bottles, pretending that the heat on your cheeks is just from the sun.

But your fingers are trembling when you restock the bottles. You pray she doesn’t see.

She stays quiet for a moment. Too quiet. And that’s what gives her away. Emily Prentiss doesn’t do quiet unless it’s intentional. Unless she’s waiting and watching you.

She noticed… of course she noticed. The way you flinched, the way you can’t hold her gaze for more than a second. And now she’s reading you like she reads crime scenes. Not out of cruelty, but curiosity.

What is she thinking? That you’re overwhelmed? That you’re scared? That she pushed too far, too fast? Or maybe she’s just confirming what she already suspected: that you’re not as indifferent as you pretend to be.

“You didn’t notice I was flirting the first two times,” she says softly.

You stop moving, water bottles long forgotten. Your breath catches the way it does when someone says your name in the dark.

She said it out loud, with no room for interpretation. And somehow, that’s scarier than anything.

“I thought…” you start, and then trail off, because there’s no way to finish that sentence without sounding absurd. I thought you were just being nice. I thought maybe I imagined it. I thought someone like you wouldn’t bother.

“I know,” she says gently. Like she’s used to people underestimating themselves. “That’s why I’m being obvious.”

You risk a glance at her. Her face holds nothing but honesty. Her words aren’t smug. She’s not teasing you. She’s waiting. Not for an answer. For a shift. For you.

And you wish you were better at this. At whatever this is. You wish you could match her stride for stride, flirt for flirt. You wish you didn’t want to disappear and stay all at once.

“I’m not good at this,” you admit quietly. “Not in public. Not… when someone’s watching.”

Emily hums. “Then we’ll find somewhere no one is.”

Simple. Like it’s not a big deal. Like she’s not reaching into your ribs and rearranging the way you breathe.

She caps the bottle. Tosses it in the bin behind her with one clean flick of her wrist.

“I’m grabbing lunch,” she says. “There’s a food truck in the lot. Not exactly candlelight, but the tacos are decent. You should come.”

It’s not the kind of thing you can talk yourself out of later. It’s not a maybe. It’s now.

And you know with a kind of dizzy certainty that if you say no, she won’t push. She won’t chase, but she would give you time.

You’ll just go back to the quiet places, to the edges, to the distance. But if you say yes…You don’t know what comes after that. And maybe that’s the point.

So you nod. Just once. It’s small, barely perceptible, but it’s enough.

Emily smiles like she’s won a game you didn’t know you were playing. It’s soft and warm, making your heart rate crease up.

She doesn’t say anything else. Just turns and walks toward the parking lot, slow, loose-limbed, in command of her space. A few steps in, she pauses. She turns slightly, just enough to glance back over her shoulder, her eyes catching yours with that same quiet pull that has followed you since the elevator.

The look is steady, intentional, and this time a little softer, like something patient, waiting to be met halfway. Then she keeps walking, without breaking stride.

You watch her go and something inside you stumbles, like your lungs forgot what to do without her standing in front of you. The air feels thinner now, heavier somehow. Your palms are damp, and there’s a tingling beneath your skin, like your nerves are catching up to what just happened. You don’t fully understand what shifted, but you know something did.

And for once, it doesn’t scare you. Not entirely.

You turn back to the table, taking a deep breath as you restock the bottles. You press your hand against your chest because everything feels too fast and too loud and too new. You have to remind yourself: it’s not a date. Not yet.

But it could be. And that’s enough to make your knees a little weak.

Taglist: @imightbethewriter

[tommysparkles]

6 for the cuddling prompt 😗

yaaaay! number 6: for warmth! 😘 I had to sit on this one a little bit because I COULD NOT decide how I wanted to do it, but I like this. I hope you do too. ❤️ Also, suspension of disbelief may be needed, I'm a midwesterner. I have no idea how cold the ocean is in California in the spring. 🤷‍♀️

Buck eyes his husband as he takes little licks from his strawberry ice cream cone as they walk hand-in-hand down Santa Monica Pier. He'd been waffling between chocolate and strawberry when they'd found the little stand and the chocolate had been really good, but....

Tommy slants him a glance, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement. "You want some, don't you?"

Buck had already polished off his chocolate cone anyway. He's just helping Tommy finish his, that's all. He wiggles his fingers with the hand not holding Tommy's. "Gimme."

Tommy rolls his eyes good-naturedly, takes one last lick before handing the cone over. He leans in for a strawberry-flavored kiss before taking one long lick.

"We could just go buy you one," Tommy points out, affection dancing in his eyes.

"Sure," Buck says. "But your tongue touched this one, soooo."

Tommy laughs. "You are literally so ridiculous," he murmurs, but he sounds fond about it like he always does, so Buck's not worried.

"I know-" but Buck's sentence is cut off when a woman yells.

"I said no! Leave me alone!"

Buck and Tommy turn toward the sound, where, a few feet away, a young woman is being grabbed by an older man.

"Hey!" Tommy yells, dropping Buck's hand. "Let her go!"

Tommy makes it there faster than Buck does, grabbing the man by his arm to pull him away.

The man lets the woman go, turning to Tommy angrily. "You stay out of this, no one's talking to you!"

And Buck watches in horror as the guy plants his hands in the middle of Tommy's chest, and shoves hard, knocking him off the pier and into the water.

"Fuck," Buck swears, running to the end and throwing himself down on his stomach. "Someone call the police!"

"Hey, man, I can help," someone to his side says, and Buck turns his head to see that a bystander is lying down next to him.

"Thank you," Buck gasps. Tommy is treading the cold water, but the pier is slightly too high to pull himself up. "Baby, grab our hands."

It takes a couple of tries; it's early spring, so the water is still a little chilly and Tommy's hands are cold and slick, of course.

He and the other guy finally pull him up.

"Got you," Buck gasps, pulling Tommy in against his chest, soaking himself in the process, but he couldn't care less as he rubs some warmth back into Tommy's arms. "Got you."

He looks toward the good Samaritan. "Thank you so much."

The guy gives a little salute as the young woman comes rushing over. "He your guy?"

Buck grins a little. "Yeah, he's my guy."

"Thank you so much," the girl says in a rush. "That guy wouldn't take no for an answer. The police are arresting him right now. Said something about disorderly conduct and assault. Guy's totally trashed."

"It-It's no problem," Tommy says as he shivers in Buck's arms. "I'm glad you're okay?"

"I am, thank you. Let me buy you a cup of coffee at least?" she pleads.

"That's very sweet," Buck says as he pulls Tommy to his feet. "But I should get him home. Really glad you're okay. Be careful, all right?"

"I will," she says. "Thank you again."

Tommy gives her a smile before Buck leads him back the way they came. "I've got some blankets from our last picnic in the back of your truck," he says. "We'll get those around you while we get home."

"Okay," Tommy says, leaning against him. Buck pauses to kiss the top of his head.

"My hero."

Tommy snorts a laugh. "Didn't expect to end up in the ocean today. That water was colder than I was expecting, even for April."

Buck rubs his arms, sees the truck in sight. "My popsicle. I'll make you cupcakes when we get home."

Tommy perks up at that. "Buttercream frosting?"

Tommy's favorite. Buck keeps the ingredients in the house at all times. "Absolutely."

"Excellent," Tommy says happily.

And Buck loves him.

[beef-brisket]

When Lucifer woke up, he was alone. Which was odd, it was usually Adam who would sleep till... whatever the fucking time is.

He sat up when he heard strange, muffled noises from the bathroom down the hall.

Getting up, Lucifer stretched and pulled on his pants. He quietly walked down the hall, his hand running along the wall that would be the bathroom, only stopping to press his ear against the wall.

He swore he heard gagging noises before hearing the toilet flush. The fuck was he doing in there?

Getting fid up- and a little worried, Lucifer quickly walked over to the door and lifted his hand to knock on it- but the door opened before he had a chance. Both Adam and Lucifer jumped at the sudden appearance of another person.

Adam: Fuck! Shit, little dude. You're going to break my fucking neck if you keep sneaking up on me.

Lucifer: Me?! Why are you opening doors like a maniac?!

Adam laughed and pushed past Lucifer, walking into the kitchen: I'm used to living alone, what can I say? You should be happy I'm even closing that door.

Lucifer's eyes widened in fear: Door? What door...?

Adam: Bathroom door.

Jesus fucking Christ- of course Adam pisses with the door open- nope. He's not even going to allow himself to think about it long enough to form a visual- too late.

He quickly followed Adam into the kitchen. The first man was just turning on the jug and yawning.

Lucifer: Why are you up so early, anyway?

Adam: Uh... had to pee. Not that big of a deal, babe.

Lucifer: Aaand, if I think you're lying?

Adam: Hm... dunno what to tell ya. Coffee?

Lucifer shook his head as he sat down at the kitchen island: Apple cinnamon tea. Anyway, if you're not going to tell me what you were doing, answer me this: does it have anything to do with whatever happened last night?

Once Adam got their cups ready, he turned to face Lucifer and leaned back against the bench.

Folding his arms, Adam smirked: Which part~? The sexy part or the me being an absolute fucking adorable hottie, putting himself on the line because I'm just that badass, or the part where you fucked me for 3 and a half hours?

Lucifer: ...The first option.

Adam: Oh. No. Definitely not.

Lucifer: ...We're not NOT talking about last night, Adam. What you did- what you WANTED to do- was... so out of line, I can't even believe you did that. I can't believe you even suggested it-! Oh, thank you.

The king grabbed the warm cup of tea Adam said over and had a sip. He hummed when the flavour and smell hit him.

After a few more quick tips, he placed his cup down on a coaster before pointing his finger at Adam: You're exhausting, unbelievable, unreasonable, reckless, impulsive-! And uh... many other words I can't think of right now! Don't you ever do something like that again!

Adam nodded along and he sipped his drink: Alright, fair point. I'll take that into consideration and... base my future actions on this very conversation.

Lucifer glared: Don't be a dick. I mean it, Adam. You know you don't stand a chance against LILITH let alone Sera-!

Adam: Hey! Whoa! I so do have a chance against Lilith! She's my little sister- I could fuck her up!

Lucifer: ...She wrestled you in Eden and won. Multiple times.

Adam: Alright, shh. Look, I... just thought, she maaay not know it was me. Right away. I just... don't feel good. If Abel doesn't come, then... I'm basically sighing the fact that I'll never see my son away- and I know I'm being selfish- but I need him, Lu! I fucking need him! I've had him for over 10,000 years- I need him! I just... fuck, I don't know... look- this is too heavy a conversation for this morning- so, how about, we go back to bed, cuddle, do other gay shit, go back to sleep aaaaand maybe a quickie? Huh? Maybe? Yes? No?

The king stared at Adam as he slowly started walking to the bedroom.

Adam: ...No?

Lucifer sighed and stood with his tea in hand: Fine. But this conversation isn't over, Adam. What you did was-.

Adam: Insanely hot and brave? Thanks shorty. Come on, let's go to bed.

Hell's Missing the Devil

@beef-brisket

Lucifer wasn't sure if he had heard Sera correctly but the serious tone and look on her face told him that yes she was in fact serious.

Lucifer: I'm sorry.... What?

Sera sighed, she sounded annoyed: We will put an end to the Exterminations and in exchange you will be up in Heaven as a prisoner.

That..... Didn't sound ideal.

But neither were the Exterminations.

He didn't understand, wasn't the whole point of him falling so that he would never see Heaven again? Didn't that defeat the purpose?

Unless...... There was more to it.

Sera: Think about it. Come back here tomorrow when you've made your choice. Make the right choice for once.

He scowled when she left. What a bitch.

Lucifer did think about it and that's when it dawned on him.

With Lilith gone and now Lucifer, Charlie would have to step up and rule Hell. Which meant that she wouldn't have time to run her hotel.

It was underhanded and sneaky..... It was so Heaven.

But by doing this....... He would be saving his daughter too. He didn't trust them not to go after her one day.

Charlie: Dad you can't.

Lucifer: Sweetie, I..... I know this isn't ideal but it's for a greater good.

Charlie teared up: What am I supposed to do without you!?

It was different when he was just holed up in the manor, at least she knew he was safe at home.

But in Heaven? Lucifer was considered a traitor. Who knows what they would do to him.

Lucifer hugged his baby girl tight: Y-you'll be okay...... I love you.

Charlie: ...... I love you too.

She didn't want to let him go. There had to be a way to bring him home.

The next day, Lucifer went to the embassy where Sera was waiting.

Sera: So?

Lucifer sighed, this felt like a mistake but he didn't know what else to do to keep Charlie and their people safe.

Lucifer: Alright.......

Sera: Good.

She snapped her fingers and a pair of silver bracelets appeared on his wrists and Lucifer suddenly felt very drained. They must be blocking his powers.

With another snap, handcuffs with a chain appeared as well, Lucifer walked with his head down through the portal with Sera.

He would have laughed when he heard Peter freaking out. But any amusement left him when Sera said who he would be staying with.

Sera: You'll be under Adam's watch.

It felt ironic in a way.

Lucifer felt like he had been handed a death sentence as Sera handed his chain over to the first man.

[inejinn]

Marks you shouldn't have to hide

────── ──────����────── ──────

I) rumi centric: in wich hiding from your friends by covering yourself during a heatwave is not the brightest idea

(takes place before the events of the movie!)

-------------------------------------------------

It's so hot. The heat? Blazing. Blithering. She's dying. She's going to drown in her sweat.

Rumi has everything she could wish having. She's never had to endure being destitute: she's always had more money than the amount you need to have to live and not just survive.

She's strong-minded, her will more than firm.

Never has she been bullied, but now it's absolutely the opposite. People? They love her. They love her, so, so resolutely it can be a little scary sometimes.

She's not just speaking about her friends, who seems to appreciate her despite much, like that one time Zoey forgave her for breaking her favourite cup, when she had accidentally used too much pressure while holding the "precious" dinnerware.

While Rumi was fretting over the broken shards , trying to rebuild the ugly lizard that adorned the tea-cup, its owner had fretted over making sure she had been unhurt, assuring her "i don't care about it all that much, really! i can buy another one, i promise, are you sure you're really fine though?"

She's not just speaking about her friends, but she's also speaking about their fans, who seems to admire everything they make. To extents that are sometimes a little much. Downright scary some other times, yes, mayyybe. But, honestly, sasaengs, or papparazis, are not that much of a problem.

They somehow are not recognized when they're just wearing simple facemasks, so..

Rumi's life is great, really. It is. Perfect, almost.

It would be, if her face was the only thing she'd be hiding.

But, unfortunately, it very much isn't. She has things to hide. Not her face, sure, but still parts of herself.

Rumi has everything she could wish having, wich include a fancy appartment that really is more a penthouse, that she gets to live in with her best friends. Their appartment has AC.

She's still dying.

It feels like her second skin is stuck to her first skin, the fabric of her shirt wet with her sweat. Her leggings are doing pretty much the same. Ohhh my god this is awful.

"I'm dying", she says outloud to no-one in particular. No-one, because she's currently alone in the penthouse. Wich logically means that she could go around as unclothed as she'd want to, but the thing is that there isn't a world where that is something she would want.

Mira and Zoey could be back any minute now, back from the pool and its water that must feel so refreshing. Back from the pool, as in, the most effective way of fighting against the heat of the summer wave.

Unfortunately, she has to resort to spraying herself, as if she were some sort of wilting house-plant. The vaporized water feels nice, but. Not enough. Definitely not enough.

"arghhhh, i hate thisss"

She really, really does. Hate this. This being how she's currently feeling as she's laying on the couch and gross with sweat, of course.

Not how she's using the heat as an excuse not to see her own skin and what's on it. Not even the slightest bit, noo, never

She might just have to go lay on the floor instead. It has got to feel blissfully freezing, right? Taking a nap on the tiles sounds heavenly right about now. She'll move there once she'll have finished her daily internet-scrolling session, maybe.

But right now, chosing wich tweets she should answer to and wich to like and wich to simply secretly chuckle to is way more important. Doom-scrolling time is too important.

The only thing that might be allowed to disturb it are messages from Bobby, Celine or her friends: .. very much like the one she just got from Zoey.

"Be there in a minute! ", it goes, wich means they might be back in about , what, 10minutes, if they don't get too distracted. But given that a new coffee shop opened recently...

Her heart pangs a little. She hopes they won't take too long. Because, well, of course they can go to places without her, but a coffee place is somewhere she can easily go with them, and she loves sweet, tastful drinks. So. It'd be upsetting not going. She should ask them to some other day.

'See ya", she sends.

The floor sounds more and more enticing as she keeps scrolling. Specially given that her phone is becoming a little too hot for her comfort. The disadvantage of fast charging chargers is that they get hot very quickly. They get hot.

And the additional heat is pretty annoying, when her body's own is already very much too high. Is the AC broken? If not, then it is definitely not doing its job, the lazy-ass.

With a groan, Rumi unplugs her phone, reachs down to unplug the charger as well and..

Her fingers release their grip on her phone, and she smushes against a previously discarded pillow, and the feet of the table comes greet her and. Woah. Yeah, it is definitely a little cooler down there.

The "ow" that comes is muffled into the plush pillow. Well. Floor time it is, apparently.

Sometimes, things happen despite not having being planned and that's fine, she supposes. You can't fight back against fate. You have to make do with it, and try not to suffer because of its doing as much as you can.

There's things that cannot be escaped.

Ending up down there was apparently one of those things.

She's kind of lucky, really. The (plush as well, courtesy of that one time Mira bought too much fuzzy fabric for an outfit concept and insisted on using the left over) carpet is far away from her that she didn't land on it, which means she's in direct contact to the floor. And to the tiles. The cold, cold tiles. "Oh my god. that's, like, perfect."

She had been right. This is her paradise. She can almost ignore the buzzing of her head. Yeah, she's forgetting about it again. Definitely. She's more focused on getting rid of the pillow, once again chucking it further away, just to lay her cheek directly on the floor. "Wow." As Zoey always says: "yep, that's the stuff", though she usually uses that declaration for food-related affirmations.

She can almost ignore that she still feels very much too scorched underneath her sleeves and pants. She should have stayed in the confines of her room, where's she's able to expose more of herself, but the girls could be back any minutes now, and she promised she'd watch a movie with them. To make up for not going to the pool with them, or to the bathouse, or to the private beach they rented once, or- yeah. Basically any place where it's necessary to show off flawless skin.

Not going means not having to explain things, like why she's not wearing a swimsuit and, what, going in the water fully clothed while Mira and Zoey are swimming around in their own swimsuits that, really, really display way too much?

Yeahh. This is better for her lungs, anyway.

Here, in the relative coolness, her pulse and breathing pace can stay relatively normal, at least.

Even if it means she's stuck inside with an AC that is probably broken , and that actually might have turned into a radiator. Seriously, why is it so hot in there?

She should ask Bobby if the building has any insulation problem, or anything like that. Wich, well. She needs her phone to do that, and she has no idea where it landed. Fuck. Guess she has to sit up.

Nooooo.

With a deep sigh, she does sit up, away from the coolness. Her phone's tucked away, near the other couch, a little bellow it. The screen's light is highlighting the presence of dust bunnies.

She grimaces.

Standing up to go get it is not sounding too appealing right about now. Nope. Her legs are way too achy. Maybe she should just stay there. The looping song from the reel she had been watching isn't that annoying, if a little frustrating. Seriously, they just had to pick an extract ending just before the best part?

Or maybe she could just..

Clanking sounds comes from inside the home. She hurries up, almost stumbling right back to the ground as her head goes slightly tingly at the rush. Is this-

"WE'RE BACKK", comes from in between the entry and the kitchen.

Rumi relaxes, her shoulders lowering back down as she herself does aswell. Okay. Phew. Just her girls.

"Wow. You're looking so red, are you cosplaying a lobster?", she hears next. Next to her, or rather, above her. Mira.

She blinks. "You're back already?"

"Uh, yeah? I texted you some minutes ago, Zoey's phone died so she couldn't tell you" Mira's towering over her, looking down as she speaks, folded arms on the headrest of the couch.

"Hah, yeah, that makes sense. ", Rumi blinks again. Her friend's still wearing her pop-star like (not that she isn't a star) sunglasses, wich is quite a contrast compared to her flowy, angel-like t-shirt. It fits her oddly well.

"Sooo.. why didn't you answer? I thought you were having your internet-phone-couch time. .. No, actually, screw that. What are you doing down there? "

" Mira, it is so much cooler down there", she bemoans. " I feel like I can survive there" Her friend's eyebrows furrow. She leans down a little further.

"Uhm, have you considered trying logical solutions like tying up your hair? Wearing more adapted clothes? You could go around naked and we wouldn't mind to be fair, i'm 1 degree away from doing it myself"

That gets a snort out of Rumi's nose, because , yes, Mira might just do that.

Rolling up her sleeves sounds so easy, right now.

Suddenly, Rumi almost feels like she's younger, just having her first summer with her two newly encountered co-stars and having to subtly manage to state that sleevless costumes were out the question without raising actual questions.

"Nah, my braid was giving me such a headache,"she settles on saying (It really is better now that she lets her hair loose, in comparison) "I prefer having my Rapunzel moment"

"Sureee", Mira drawls, right before masterfully tumbling over the headrest to land on the couch, lowkey striking a pose, except Rumi knows very well it's probably not done consciously. "Hope you atleast drank."

Something in her expression is convincing Rumi that Mira is reconsidering things. Like not having dragged her along to the pool with them, for example.

Wich is exactly why she (hurriedly) gesture to the bottle she fully emptied some half an hour ago. "I was gonna go stand up at some point to grab some more"

"Welp, no need to anymore. We got-"

"Better water than the sink's water?", she asks. Rethorically. Mira is concerningly obsessed with trying out bottled water brands to find out wich is the best.

Her teasing tone is not lost on her.

"Excuse me, I'll let you know that volv-"

"Rumi, want ice-cream?! We bought watermelon flavour, you've got to try!", Zoey screams from the kitchen, making herself known again.

So that's what she's been doing. Probably struggling to find a place to store it in, what's with all the noodles currently in the freezer.

"Oh, no, thanks th-"

"Yes she does!", Mira interrupts her. " Come on, you've got to try it, it taste like nothing but at the same time like absolute shit."

Mira is still carefully scrutinizing her. They're almost face to face. This is actually kind of creepy, really; and definitely disturbing.

"Why would it still be in sale if it's really that bad?"

" Zoey will argue it's good, but do not believe her, her taste buds definitely suffered when she inhaled the chlorine"

"Okay, yeah, I'm intrigued now"

" Ice cream time it is then", Mira snaps upright- like it's not way too hot and like she still has plenty of energy after swimming during around 2hours- , offering a hand to drag Rumi along with her.

She barely stumbles when she gets up, this time.

"We got drinks too, you might finally get to get the strawberry flavour if Zoey didn't drink them all already"

"I did not! ", comes immediately from behind the door, from an offended Zoey. Like she hasn't been drinking all the bobba tea they've been getting, because, you know, it's supposedly cheaper and way better tasting than the ones in America. "I'm innocent, this is slander"

"Why does it sound like you were trying to drown her for this earlier in the pool?", Rumi asks , looking to the side at a Mira that definitely seems guilty of said crime.

"I was not." "She absolutely was."

"Okayy", she laughs "sure"

"I would never." , Mira assures, solemnly nodding, the hand that's not on Rumi's back placed on her heart like she's pledging her honest honesty, or something along the lines.

"Everybody in this building know you would, you innocent looking-demon.", Zoey deadpans. Her gaze has shifted to Rumi's neck . To her turtleneck? To what's underneath it? She almost freezes, except- "Oh my god, I can't believe I didn't notice, you let your hair down? That fits you so welllll" oh.

Yeah. This is her friends. The watermelon flavour waiting for her and the laughter that escapes Mira's throat makes that evident. They're okay with her habits, as odd as they can seem.

"Zoeyyy, do not murder her with your compliments before she's convinced you that ice-cream taste like fucking garbage."

"Excuse me? It does not, it's tastefully original"

"Yeah, usually that means something taste bad", she intervenes. She's still going to try that ice-cream out, but teasing her smaller friend is too nice of a thing to pass. They do the same to her, anyway.

‎‎‎ ‎

[finnjareau-prentiss]

Secret Relations (For Now)

This is my first time ever writing fanfiction so it's probably not very good but I am hoping to get better and build from this. If you have any feedback please feel free to share and if you have and prompts you want to see then please let me know, I write jj x reader, emily x reader, and jemily x reader

Emily Prentiss x Reader fic:

summary: Emily and Reader are secretly dating until that secret comes out, basically just a bunch fluff and 2 idiots in love <3

Minimal use of y/n, no pronoun are used for the reader, 1407 words

Warning: mentions of alcohol, and drinking, and being drunk

Today was a paperwork day for the BAU, which ultimately meant slow. Although you would never call it that out loud, no, saying the word “slow” outloud in the Bullpen is like saying the word quiet in a fire station.

You were working on another consult when Emily waltzed by your desk as she walked to her own, but not before dropping off a fresh cup of coffee on your desk. You gave her a quiet “thank you” so as not to draw too much attention to her small but loving gesture and as you took a sip you glanced over the rim at Emily whose desk sat right across from yours, giving her a look with a touch too much love in your eyes for the workplace. Especially since you had somehow found yourself in a secret relationship with the stunning woman.

~~~~~

6 months ago you and Emily had stopped dancing around the question and she finally asked you out. 5 months ago you and Emily had made your relationship official. To avoid the obvious teasing and to allow yourselves to truly figure out what was between you two, you both made the decision to keep what you were to each other a secret.

Now here you were madly in love with the woman across from you and surprised with just how oblivious the famous team of profilers were to the fact that 2 of the team members could not help but find each other in every room.

~~~~~

Finally as the clock hit 5 pm you wrapped up your files and started gathering your things while making small talk with JJ who was doing the same. And of course just as you pick up your bag Derek Morgan walks in with a huge grin and Penelope Garcia on his tail. “That look means trouble”, Emily says to you and JJ as she sighs knowing that it means everyone was about to be roped into drinks. Your only response to Emily’s remark was “it always does”.

An hour later you were walking into the bar with your girlfriend waiting outside for a couple minutes to make it look like you didn’t arrive together. “Omg Yay! You’re here!!” Penelope exclaimed the second she laid eyes on you, and while giving you a very strong hug which you returned, “How much have you had to drink already?” you responded trying to figure out if this was just Super Excited Penelope or Drunk Penelope.

She quickly pulled you over to the table where Hotch and Rossi were in conversation, JJ was trying to absorb some of the words Reid was spewing about robots, and Morgan was at the bar already trying to get some girl's number. Just as you finished saying hi to everyone you saw Emily walk in ‘This girl will be the death of me’ you thought because even though you had seen her just minutes ago, she still took your breath away (and caused some feelings down there but she doesn’t need to know about that yet).

Once Emily had sufficiently greeted everyone you had returned from the bar with a beer for yourself and a whiskey for her, when you handed it to her she quietly said with a smirk “You’re looking a bit flushed there love, everything okay?” “mmm well if I am then it's all your fault” “My fault? How do you say that?” she says still with that goddamn smirk and nudging your hip with hers. You rolled your eyes but before you could respond Derek came over “Prentiss! What do you say about being my wing woman with the ladies out there? Maybe we could even get you a date?” “I think I’ll do ‘the ladies’ a favor and not” she says with a chuckle, but Morgan stubborn as ever “Come on, We’ll find you a date and I’ll even buy you a drink!” “Alright how about this I wing woman you for an hour, you buy me 2 drinks, and no trying to set me up?” “But you need to get out there and date people, I'm sure I could find you the perfect woman tonight! Hey Y/n you think prentiss should try getting someone's number tonight, right?!” you being incredibly amused went along with him before Emily finally said “Hey wing woman or not, take it or leave it” “Fine fine, Come on”

In the hour Emily had promised him you decided to play pool with JJ as Reid and Garcia kept you both company, which was mainly just the three of you asking Reid whatever random questions came to mind. Eventually Garcia had convinced you and JJ to do shots with her, and she tried to get Spencer to join you all but he was more happy to read his book than to participate. Which is how when Emily found you again you were extremely drunk, rambling about how much you loved her and how hot she was to Garcia and JJ who were equally wasted and Reid who just looked confused.

“And have you seen her arms!! I really am lucky to have her!” you say with a dopey grin on your face while leaning on your 2 friends who giggle at your clearly love struck face. That's all of the conversation that Emily is able to hear before you notice her and exclaim “Emmy!! We were just talking about you!” “Oh yeah? What about me, love?” she lets the pet name slip only because she is well aware of how much you love them in your drunken state. “Your girlfriend was just telling us how hot and amazing you are” JJ answers for you with a very obvious teasing tone, and at that Emily was sure the whole team would know by tomorrow.

You had no care to the fact and simply needed to be as close to your girlfriend as possible when the thought occurred to you, “how do people *hiccup* cheat on their partners when *hiccup* they’re drunk? All I can do *hiccup* is talk about you” Emily just looked at you whilst holding you up because not only are your inhibitions shot but so is your balance, and all she could say was “You know I am so unbelievably in love with you right?”. At that you were more than happy to let the topic go and melt into your love's arms. “I’m gonna call us a cab so we can get you home, alright baby?” “Home to your apartment?” you quietly questioned even though neither of you have spent the night without the other in almost a month “Yeah love, we're going home to mine”, at that one Garcia can't help but say “Aww” which is apparently enough to remind you both that they are still right there.

Not long after you both get in the cab and end snuggled together in bed, exhausted and in love.

~~~~~ The Next Day

The next day you wake up on Emily’s chest with a massive headache, and Emily grumbling above you about the alarm. You both moved slowly in a practiced ease to get ready for work. Miraculously, you were dressed before Emily and handed her a cup of coffee along with a sweet lasting kiss, you pulled away with a smile that reminds Emily of last night, “I may have forgotten to mention something” she says sort of sheepishly. “What did you forget?” you said confused, “So here's the thing..” “Emily.” “Our secret might not be so much of a secret anymore” she says with a slight grin before explaining everything from last night in the car ride to work, you spend the rest of the ride with your face in your hands.

When you do finally park in the building and get out of the car you stop just before the doors to the elevator, “it's not like we weren't planning on telling them ever, they were bound to figure it out eventually” she says to you, “it's not that I don't want them to know because that's not it. At all. I’m just kinda embarrassed about how it happened” you reply.

After that Emily grabs your hand in hers and walks the two of you into the elevator with confidence before saying with a big smile “Well I’m just happy I can finally show off my amazing girlfriend now”. And into the bullpen the two of you walked, hand in hand, together.

[wendichester]

ꔛ. a soul for a dime 𓂃˖ ࣪ masterlist ⭒ previous ⭒ chapter three⭒ next part

It was supposed to be a simple case. A three-day job. In and out. A few dead veterans, strange markings, probably a demon. But nothing about this town sits right, and the deeper they dig, the darker it gets. Dean’s distracted. Sam can feel it in his gut. Something old is watching. Something hungry. And it’s already started collecting. Secrets don’t stay buried, love doesn’t change fate, and time is running out. 

「 𝒞𝑜𝒻𝒻𝑒𝑒, 𝒞𝑜𝓇𝓅𝓈𝑒𝓈 𝓃 𝒞𝑜𝓃𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 」

in this chapter... the deaths don’t stop, and the truth is getting harder and harder for the truth to stay hidden.

wordcount. 3189 type. mystery

warnings. emotional distress, grief and trauma recounting, mention of violent familial death (neck snapping), references to mental illness, possible demonic possession, occult symbolism, intense interrogation, and themes of mistrust and psychological manipulation

The diner’s caught in that lazy kind of quiet only a small-town morning can pull off. Sunlight spills through the grimy windows in hazy stripes, cutting through the dust motes like soft golden knives. The air smells like sizzling bacon, burnt toast, and the stale ghost of yesterday’s coffee. A classic rock ballad hums low from the jukebox, barely audible over the occasional clink of plates and the buzz of conversation too tired to reach above a murmur. 

Dean’s at the counter, nursing a steaming mug and a fresh slice of pie with a look on his face like the meaning of life might just be hiding beneath that buttery crust. Olivia’s on the other side, apron loose at her waist, arms braced on the counter as she leans in just enough to make the space between them feel like a secret. 

“You ever consider eating something that isn’t three parts sugar, one part existential crisis?” she asks, eyebrow raised, lips curled into a smirk that’s just the right amount of heavenly.

Dean grins, fork halfway to his mouth. “What, you don’t believe in starting the day with a little joy?”

“Not when it comes in a crust and looks like you’d marry it if it smiled back.”

“Hey,” he says, gesturing at the pie like it’s sacred. “Don’t knock the sanctity of my one true love.”

Olivia hums, pouring him a fresh cup of coffee. “You know, most people use caffeine for that.”

“Coffee’s just the wingman.”

He says it without even looking at his half-empty mug—because he’s too busy watching her. The way she moves behind the counter, her ponytail swaying, sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen. He looks at her like he already knows the shape of her laugh—like it’s something he wants to memorize.

She notices. Of course, she does. And she tries not to smile too big, tries not to let it show, but Dean’s eyes catch that little curve of her mouth and something in his chest does a stupid little kick.

In the corner booth, Sam clears his throat just a little too loudly.

Dean doesn’t flinch, but Olivia’s smile dims. Her eyes flick to Sam, still pretending to read the local paper like it’s riveting. He’s barely touched his eggs.

“Refill, Agent?” Olivia calls to him, voice bright, like she hasn’t noticed the tension in his jaw. 

Sam looks up and offers the smallest nod. “Please.” 

She heads over with the coffee pot, professional and smooth, but the air changes with every step. He watches her carefully—too carefully. There’s something in the way her eyes flick to the clock above the kitchen window, almost as if she’s keeping track of time for reasons she won’t say out loud. 

The diner feels like it’s on the verge of dozing off. It’s mid-morning lull, regulars already gone to their errands, just a few stragglers left nursing empty mugs and slow conversation. Even the griddle sizzles softer now like it knows the rhythm of this place. 

Everything looks normal. 

But something isn’t. 

There’s pressure in the air—too still. The kind of quiet that creeps up right before a storm or a scream. 

Olivia senses it first. 

She’s carrying a fresh plate of pancakes to table six when it happens—two police cruisers roll up outside, fast and silent, lights swirling red and blue against the front windows. There’s no siren. Just urgency. 

Her hands freeze around the plate. The syrup sloshes. 

The sound of car doors slamming breaks the illusion of calm. Boots hit the pavement hard. Shadows stretch across the front door. 

Olivia drops the plate.

It shatters. Syrup and porcelain scatter across the floor. Someone gasps. 

Dean’s already halfway out of his seat. 

Two officers push through the doors, grim-faced and unsmiling. Dust kicks up from the welcome mat. Their eyes scan the room with that cop's sixth sense, the kind that smells trouble before it announces itself. 

The room freezes. 

Forks stop mid-air. Conversations die mid-sentence. Even the jukebox gives up and falls silent like it knows better than to soundtrack what’s coming next. 

One of the cops—a stocky man with a buzz cut and a jaw clenched tight enough to snap bone—steps forward. “We need to speak with the waitress who worked the late shift last night,” he says, voice sharp and official. 

The other waitress—Darla, the one who always smells like menthols and cheap hairspray—points a shaky finger straight at Olivia. “She was here,” she says. “Closed up the diner.” 

All eyes turn.

Olivia stands frozen, breath shallow, hands still coated in syrup and panic. Her lips part like she might speak—but nothing comes out. Just a stunned kind of silence, like her brain hasn’t caught up yet.

“Miss,” the cop says, stepping closer, his voice dropping with every step. “We need to ask you some questions. There was a body found in the alley behind this diner early this morning. Male. Symbols carved into his skin..” 

Dean’s chair scrapes back hard across the floor. 

“Hold on,” he says, already reaching into his pocket. He flashes his fake FBI badge so fast it might’ve drawn blood. “Agent Michaels. That woman is a federal witness. You want to question her, you go through us.” 

The second cop—a taller guy with a mustache and the permanent expression of someone who’s seen one too many corpses—narrows his eyes. “You’re joking, right?”

“She’s not listed in any protection registry, is she?” Buzzcut says, crossing his arms. “And your badge doesn’t give you jurisdiction over a local murder scene.” 

“We’re working a case that might be tied to this one,” Sam says calmly from the booth, folding the newspaper and standing up. He walks over slowly, steadily. “Let’s not escalate this in the middle of a diner full of civilians.” 

“We’re not escalating,” Mustache mutters. “We’re trying to stop another body from dropping.” 

Dean squares his shoulders. “You’re standing in a federal investigation. You wanna keep playing jurisdiction chicken, or you wanna catch whoever did this?”

Buzzcut doesn’t budge. “We have a body. In your witness’s alley. Less than twelve hours dead. You’re telling me that’s a coincidence?”

“She was with me last night,” Dean says evenly, but there’s steel underneath it. His voice doesn’t rise—it settles, something heavy sliding into place. “We left this diner together around eleven. Went for a drive. Didn’t get back into town till almost three.”

Mustache raises an eyebrow. “You got proof of that?”

Dean smiles without humor. “You wanna check the motel cameras, be my guest.”

That hangs in the air like smoke. Olivia doesn’t say a word. Her hands are clenched into fists now, syrup dried and sticky along her skin, and her face is a masterclass in barely-contained panic. She’s trying so hard to stay still, to stay calm, but her eyes keep darting—window, cops, Dean, back to the floor. Her chest rises and falls too fast.

Sam’s watching her like a hawk.

And then, like he’s flipping a coin behind his back, he says, “There a name on the victim yet?”

“Not officially,” Buzzcut mutters. “Army with tags but no ID yet. No wallet. Only thing we know is that whoever carved him up wanted it to mean something. There’s a bunch of weird symbols on the guy. Similar to the scene on Carter’s.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. “You think a waitress with a clean record and an alibi did that?”

“I think we’ve got a body and the last person to see that alley before it was soaked in blood just dropped a plate when we walked in,” Mustache says, voice flat. “So yeah. I want to ask some questions.”

“You’ll get your answers,” Sam says, stepping between them now, shoulders relaxed but voice clipped. “But not here. We’ll take her in, debrief her, and circle back with anything relevant to your case. Unless you want to start booking feds in your diner.”

Buzzcut looks like he’s dying to argue. He takes one step toward Olivia, and Dean moves again—just a shift of his foot, the set of his arm in front of her, but the message is loud and clear.

Not. Happening.

“Six hours,” Mustache finally says, voice like gravel. “Then we’re coming to find her.”

Dean nods once. “Copy that.”

The cops back off, slowly. The door slams behind them like a gunshot, and the second they’re gone, the diner lets out a collective breath. Conversations don’t resume, they reboot, voices low, everyone pretending they weren’t just witnesses to something two inches from spiraling.

Olivia sways on her feet. Dean steadies her without thinking, one hand curling around her arm.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Come on.”

She blinks up at him. Her lips are parted like she might argue—or crumble—but neither happens. She just nods. Once. Then again.

Dean guides her out, hand still light on her back like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go.

Sam lingers behind for half a second, scanning the room. He clocks Darla watching from the kitchen, the old man at the back table whispering to his wife, the way every single pair of eyes in that diner now follows Olivia like she’s radioactive.

He doesn’t like it.

Outside, the Impala’s waiting. Dean opens the back door, and Olivia slides in without a word, curling her arms tight to her chest like she’s trying to hold herself in.

Sam climbs into the passenger seat. Dean throws the car into gear.

None of them speak.

But the silence feels like it’s daring someone to crack first.

Olivia sits perched on the edge of the bed, wrapped in Dean’s flannel like it’s armor. The sleeves swallow her hands. She doesn’t meet their eyes. Her hair’s still a little damp from the rain, sticking to her cheeks, and her eyes—God, her eyes—look too big in her face. Like she hasn’t blinked since Sam showed her the photos of the new crime scene.

Dean leans against the table, arms crossed, trying to look casual but failing. His jaw’s tight. He hasn’t sat down since they walked in.

Sam is standing, too. Different kind of tension. The room’s too small for this much suspicion.

He doesn’t waste time.

“Talk,” Sam says. No kindness in it. Just cold efficiency. “Now.”

Olivia flinches, but she doesn’t speak.

Dean gives Sam a sharp look. “Hey.”

“What?” Sam snaps, not looking at him. “You wanna play good cop after what just happened? There’s a dead guy with ritual markings in an alley she walked past ten hours ago.”

“She’s not the one who carved him up,” Dean says, more certain than he has a right to be. “You saw her.”

“I saw someone drop a plate and look guilty as hell.”

Olivia finally looks up at them. Her voice is a whisper, hoarse from disuse. “You think I killed him?”

Sam doesn’t blink. “I think people hide things. And you’ve been doing a damn good job of it since we met.”

That lands. Her face goes pale, lips parting like he’d just smacked her. She folds deeper into the flannel, and for a second Dean looks like he might physically step between them.

“I wouldn’t trust me either,” Olivia says softly, eyes downcast again. “If I were you.”

The silence afterward is thick enough to choke on.

Dean scrubs a hand down his face, pacing once like he could outrun the tension. “Liv,” he says, gentler now, crouching in front of her, elbows resting on his knees. “Just tell us what happened. Anything weird last night? Anyone outside the diner? After I dropped you off?”

She stares past him. Fixates on a crack in the wall like it’s safer than his face. Then, quietly, “I went inside. Turned off the power. Locked up. I didn’t see or hear anything. It was almost three. I just wanted to shower. Sleep.”

Dean watches her for a beat. Then stands. Turns to Sam. “Maybe we should take a breath. Come back at this—”

“I’m not done,” Sam says, still staring at her. “She’s holding back.”

“Jesus, Sam—”

Sam doesn’t even glance at Dean this time. His attention is locked, sniper-like, on the waitress. His tone hardens—not cruel, but clinical. Like he’s back in Stanford law, dissecting inconsistencies with surgical precision.

“You said you didn’t see anything. But you walked past the alley.”

“I walked past a lot of alleys,” Olivia mutters. Her fingers twitch inside the flannel sleeves.

“I’m not saying you killed him,” Sam continues. “But something happened. You saw something, or someone. Otherwise, why the hell were you so jumpy when the uniforms came in? Why look so… guilty?”

Dean exhales through his nose. “Dude.”

But Olivia finally speaks.

“Because I’ve seen that kind of thing before.” Her voice is quiet, but not soft. 

The words hang in the air, ghostlike.

Dean’s brow furrows. Sam tilts his head.

“What does that mean?” Sam asks, tone shifting.

Olivia doesn’t answer right away.

She just pulls her legs up, cross-legged on the bed, resembling a kid about to tell a story she’s never wanted to say out loud. Her arms fold tightly over her stomach.

“I had a brother,” she says eventually. “Oliver.”

Dean shifts where he stands, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Sam doesn’t move. He just watches her, arms still crossed, but his expression softens—barely. “What happened?”

Olivia’s gaze sharpens at the question. “You always press people like this when they’re already bleeding?”

“If it helps save lives,” Sam says, unapologetic, “yeah.”

“Fine,” she mutters.

Olivia stares down at the floor, like it might pull her under. The buzzing neon outside paints flickers of red against her face. When she speaks again, it’s like she’s somewhere else entirely, voice lower, quieter, but not fragile. Measured. Like she’s reading from a script burned into her bones.

“He was older. By two years. Stubborn. Brave. Stupid, sometimes.” Her mouth quirks, but the expression doesn’t reach her eyes. “We weren’t always in Elderspring. We grew up in New Orleans. Not the pretty parts with the balconies and jazz music. The parts no one puts on postcards. We moved around a lot. For a while, it was just the two of us. No roots. No plans. Just… trying to keep our heads above water.” 

Dean watches her quietly now, jaw set. Sam doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t press her to get to the point. 

“When I was twenty, our dad went missing. Well—he didn’t just disappear. He’d been… off, for a while. Twitchy. Oliver thought it was early dementia. I thought maybe he’d finally gone full alcoholic.” Her shoulders tense. “But then, one night, he called us. Said he was in trouble. Sounded… wrong. Like his voice was there, but something underneath it wasn’t.” 

She glances up at them now, eyes dark, unreadable. “So we found him. Or we tried.”

Dean’s brows furrow. He looks like he already knows where this is going. 

“We found him at this old warehouse near the docks. Broken glass, rebar everywhere, no lights. It smelled like rot. Like something had been living there too long.” She draws in a breath, slow and shaky. “Should’ve called the cops. We didn’t. Thought we could talk him down. Fix it. Maybe we were stupid.”

She presses her hand over her stomach, grounding herself. “He was… raving. Didn’t even recognize us. It was like looking at a stranger wearing his face.”

Sam’s posture goes rigid. 

“There was a fight. It got messy. My brother stepped in to hold him back—tried to stop him from hurting me. And just like that… dad snapped his neck.”

Dean’s face hardens. Sam exhales through his nose.

“I didn’t even hear it at first,” Olivia says, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Just saw him drop. Eyes wide open. He died right in front of me, and there was nothing—nothing—I could do.”

Dean sits down across from her, elbows on his knees. He doesn’t speak.

A long pause. Then Sam, carefully, “You said your dad was sick. What kind of sick?”

Olivia meets his eyes. “The kind that whispers to you at night. The kind that tells you to carve things into the walls. That you’re chosen. That you’re not human anymore.”

Dean shifts. The chill up his spine says demon. But he doesn’t say it out loud.

Sam swallows. “Did he believe in the occult?”

She smiles, sad and strange. “My mother was the crazy one.” 

The words drop like stones. And for a second, no one breathes.

Sam straightens a little, careful not to spook the moment. “Meaning?”

Olivia shrugs—small, hollow. “She used to leave bones on the windowsills. Said they’d keep spirits out. Drew symbols in salt, covered mirrors at night. The usual spooky bedtime rituals.” She huffs a humorless laugh. “We thought she was just broken. Maybe she was. But after she died, Dad went from broken to… something else.”

Sam frowns. “You think it was grief?”

“I know it was grief. I just don’t know what it unleashed.” Her hands move unconsciously—fidgeting with the fraying edge of Dean’s flannel, sleeves bunched in fists. “But I’m not my mother. I don’t see shadows where there aren’t any. I don’t believe in curses or demons or… any of this shit.”

She finally looks at them, jaw tight. 

“Have you seen your dad since?” Sam presses again. From the corner of his eye, he can notice Dean glaring. “Where’s your father now?”

Olivia’s answer comes too fast.

“Hell.”

The word hangs there.

Then she blinks, as if realizing what she said. Shakes her head, corrects herself, voice quieter. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since.”

Dean’s had enough.

He stands abruptly, the scrape of the chair loud in the too-small room. “That’s it.”

Sam looks over, surprised. “What?”

“She’s not the enemy, Sam. She’s a witness. She’s a victim. She’s—” His voice cuts off, jaw flexing again. “Back off.”

Sam holds up his hands, slowly. “I’m just getting the facts.”

“You’ve got enough,” Dean snaps. His eyes land on Olivia again, and his whole face shifts—softens. “She’s been through enough.”

There’s a beat where no one moves.

Sam looks at Olivia again, and this time it’s different. Less suspicion. More curiosity. Like she’s a puzzle he hasn’t cracked yet—but maybe doesn’t want to force open.

“I’m done,” he says, eventually. But the look in his eyes is pure calculation. He files it all away. New Orleans. Warehouse. Oliver. Her father’s madness. The carved symbols. Every fragmented thread. Later, he’ll pull at them until they bleed.

Dean kneels again, one hand on her knee. “Come on,” he says gently. “You don’t have to stay here.”

Olivia blinks at him, lashes still clumped from the rain. “Where?”

“I’ll take you to the station,” he says. “You’ll give your statement. I’ll be right there the whole time. Promise.”

She nods. Slow. Small. “Okay.”

Dean stands again and holds out his hand.

She takes it.

And as they leave the room together, Sam stays behind. He pulls out his phone, starts typing.

Warehouse, New Orleans.

He pauses, glances at the open motel door.

Then types one more word.

Olivia.

─ ⊹ ⊱ next part ⊰ ⊹ ─

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all works ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[hsslilly-blog]

huntclaire divorce au. everything is exactly the same but wait i was going to make a joke here but i’m actually very invested in this

[teh-nos]

i have so many thoughts on the characterisation of AU Sylvies and whether she ends up like Problematic Thor 1 Loki and the reasons for and against that idea, and also about how to translate her into non-canon settings where the obvious/easiest answer is to make her live in a bin vs CEO Nepo-Baby Loki who you've paired her with and how that's bringing in a specific class-based-but-also-very-gendered power imbalance that isn't in the original but unfortunately it is hard to talk about it without naming or inadvertantly hitting upon actual fandom examples so i mostly just complain a bit without really making the most of the excessive level of attention i have given this topic in my own mind.

[dear-ao3]

so. as you may know it’s christmas eve. as you probably don’t know i am eastern european. and probably the only real tradition anyone holds onto is christmas eve. normally my great aunt does all the food and very begrudgingly sometimes lets everyone help make like. one thing.

well.

this year. the year of our lord two thousand and twenty four. she decided she was done cooking and it was up to everyone else.

so i got a phone call from my mom a few weeks ago being like hey so. you’re making the cake. got it? good.

the cake in question is a walnut cake. i was entrusted with my great aunts recipe about seven years ago. i’ve made it twice. the first time i fucked up the frosting quantity. the second time i fucked up the eggs. both times were passable at best and notably! my great aunt did not taste either of them.

and i have to make this cake. on christmas eve. it is dessert. for everyone. my extended family will all be eating the cake. the walnut cake. on christmas eve. even my great aunt.

so yesterday, december 23 if you are counting, i went on the annual Last Minute Christmas Food Shopping Trip with my father, watched him climb into the case to get his half and half like he does every year, and stressed about my cake as i made sure i had all of the ingredients.

then. we went to my great aunts house. where i was met with Trial Number 1: The Cognac

this cake has cognac in the frosting. not a big deal really. except for the fact that my mom hates that there is cognac in the frosting. (my mom is hell bent on making christmas eve dinner vaguely healthier. no one else agrees.) and i was to be making the cake in my moms house.

also important to note: we (as in my parents) do not own cognac. mostly because none of us drink.

so my great aunt is like oh i have to give you the cognac. cause she knows. i am baking the cake. the walnut cake. (my dad told her. he is a traitor). and i say okay. sure. this won’t be a problem at all.

so she gives me. a shot of cognac. and when i say a shot. i mean an Entirely Full Shot Glass of Three Hundred Dollar Cognac. in a jar. for the cake. the walnut cake. that i have to make.

upon bringing the cognac home my mom says no we’re not putting that in. the cognac sits on the counter in its jar. no one touches it.

then i was met with Trial Number 2: The Frosting.

this recipe requires a pound of chopped walnuts. first. i couldn’t even find the walnuts. my sister and i searched high and low and in every cabinet we could find but no nuts. i called my mom. and said mom where are the walnuts? and she said. “they’re in the nut bag behind the basement door.”

oh of course. how could i have missed the nut bag? a holiday bag full of bags of nuts that was half hidden by wrapping paper and also behind a door?

in any case. could i have used a food processor? absolutely. did i? no. half because i forgot and half because i didn’t want to accidentally grind the walnuts into a paste. so i enlisted the help of my younger sister to chop the walnuts By Hand while i embarked on the real devil: the frosting.

which remember. is supposed to have cognac.

so i cream my butter. i add my sugar. i’m careful not to over sugar. i taste it a million times. i add my coffee and my vanilla extract (instead of cognac. which is still sitting on the counter) and it was all going so well until. the butter rebelled.

now remember. one time when i made this. seven years ago. i made too little frosting. so i made more this time. and i thought i had all my conversions right but evidently i did not because suddenly there was too much liquid in my frosting and it split.

the frosting for the walnut cake that everyone was going to eat. on christmas eve. the very next day.

i felt like a contestant on great british bake-off getting smited by the tent.

so i did the logical thing and shoved the whole mess into the fridge hoping that it would sort itself out overnight.

then it was time to face Trial Number Three: The Cake Itself.

as i have said this cake is a walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake that has been at christmas eve longer than i have been alive. and it requires no less than ten egg whites. which i whipped and i added to my walnuts and shoved the whole thing into the oven in my two baking dishes.

only to discover no less than 40 minutes later that the batter in the pans was Not Even (despite my best efforts). so i cooked one longer than the other and hoped that i hadn’t monumentally fucked up the walnut cake. like i had the frosting. which was in the fridge. and i was ignoring.

which leads to Trial Number Four: The Egg Yolk Cake

see i had ten egg yolks. i didn’t know what to do with them. my mom said flush them. my dad said make a custard. i proposed making egg nog. my mom said she didn’t want it in the house cause it was too fattening (a blatantly incorrect statement. please, if you are reading this, go drink a glass of eggnog. or some other fun festive drink. food is for the soul.) so i produced a recipe for an egg yolk pound cake. i made it. i still don’t know if it came out good cause i haven’t tasted it. i hope it did. but that was not the point. the point is the walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake.

and the following morning i was met with Trial Number Five: The Frosting Part 2

first i threw my failed frosting back in the mixer and it immediately secreted a brackish combination of vanilla extract and coffee so i did the only thing i could. facetimed my dad and said “father there are problems abound.” and he gave me the fatherly advice of “make it again.”

and so i did.

with more correct measurements. still scared it would split at any second.

though it didn’t.

and i didn’t add the cognac.

maybe no one will be able to tell???

my mom said that if anyone asks the first batch of frosting failed and i had to toss it. this is technically true.

but i had frosting. i had two uneven cakes. and it was time for Trial Number Six: Decorating

decorating cakes is easily in my top ten least favorite activities. decorating the christmas eve walnut cake is easily in my top three least favorite activities. because i am terrible at decorating cakes. and also because it has a filling.

the filling is jam. and i once again made the wrong choice because i put the jam on first before the frosting. which to be fair is what the directions say. but as everyone knows, the directions in recipes you get from your eastern european great aunt are not the real directions. so now i had to smear butter cream. on top of jam. for the filling of the walnut cake. for christmas eve. that we would be eating in a few hours.

and we didn’t have a cake plate. we had a large dish.

i had to use my fingers. i had to use three spatulas. i got jam everywhere. but i did it. and as soon as i set the top cake on top of the filling i realized my monumental mistake: i was supposed to trim down the cakes.

so now they were uneven. and lopsided. and there was nothing i, a mere mortal tasked with the impossible task of making christmas eve walnut cake, could do about it.

so i continued to spread my frosting. which i had enough of. and tried and failed to not get jam everywhere.

in the end it was almost presentable. not great. slightly lopsided. and definitely not as nice as any of my great aunts cakes.

which left me with Trial Number 7: Chilling It

our fridge was being taken up by other important christmas eve things (though not as important as my cake. the walnut cake) so i had to put it in the car. which was fine because there is snow on the ground.

i covered my cake. the walnut cake. in tin foil and hoped i wouldn’t accidentally squish it. and then i went outside. i tried to steal my moms shoes to walk outside. she was not impressed.

“you know, saph,” she said. “some of the time you’re pretty great. the other half of the time you’re really weird.”

i could not agree more.

i put my cake on the trunk. prayed to the cake gods and went inside.

on the one hand if the cake is good, i will be stuck making walnut cake for christmas eve for the rest of my life. on the other hand, if it sucks i will never have to make another one.

Trial Number Eight: The Tasting still waits.

[thepencilnerd]

Feels Like Trouble

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: You and Robby have been secretly dating for a while now. Most of the ER is clueless—except the five people who could probably write dissertations on your dynamic. Enter a frat boy med student with too much confidence and not enough self-awareness. Robby? Jealous. You? Oblivious. Everyone else? Watching the drama unfold like it's peak primetime television. warnings: cringe flirting, depiction of boundary-pushing behavior, mutual pining, protective!Robby genre: fluff, slow burn, banter, crack vibes, emotional constipation, robbie's love language is acts of service, strong!reader energy because women run the world word count: 6.3k a/n: robby in his protective, simmering, quietly feral era + men anticipating my needs without me having to ask is my roman empire. p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | And Through It All) if you're interested <3

It started at the nurses’ station.

You were finishing up notes from a back-to-back shift, hair a mess, sleeves rolled, running purely on caffeine and spite. You barely registered the med student who leaned in a little too close—Jackson, of course. Jackson, who everyone knew had barely scraped through med school with a transcript that looked like a cry for help and a reputation for quoting his frat days like gospel. Jackson, who thought calling women 'Doc' in a tone meant to charm was somehow endearing. So, yeah. Not a great dude, to say the absolute least.

"Hey, Dr. L/N," Jackson said with that ever-present grin, leaning just a little too close. "You, uh... ever take pity on exhausted interns and grab a drink after shift?"

You gave a polite smile. "I’m not really a spirits person, but thanks."

Jackson blinked. "Huh?"

"You said drink, right? I’m more of a coffee or tea girl. Caffeine over cocktails."

He opened his mouth like he was going to try again, but you were already turning back to your chart.

"Good luck today!" you said cheerfully, not noticing the groan from your colleagues. Just around the corner, Mateo muttered to Javadi, "That’s the fourth time this week. It’s painful, man."

Javadi sipped her carton of apple juice with focused precision, attention directed solely on your ability to brush off such obvious advances without it getting in the way of your work. "Seventh, actually. If you count the half-made attempt on Monday. She's bulletproof."

"Try Jackson-proof," Mateo scoffed.

Two beds down, King leaned over to Langdon with her gloved hands clasped and asked, "Why does Jackson keep hovering around Dr. L/N like a... rabid mosquito?"

Langdon just smiled knowingly, looking over to the nurses' station where the man of the hour sat. "Don’t worry. Robby'll take care of it. Eventually."

Unbeknownst to you, Robby had been watching the entire interaction—and every interaction before that. If any med student so much as breathed near you with less-than-pure intentions, he was up in arms, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

There was that time Whitaker nearly took your eye out when a patient came in with a nail embedded in his femur; the force of pulling it out snapped Whitaker’s elbow backward—only for Robby's hand to catch it mid-swing before it could clock you in the face. Or when Santos nearly sliced your finger open as you gently guided her through her first incision—Robby had materialized behind her in the span of a gasp, steadying her hands with a calm correction that masked sheer panic. Or when Javadi passed out for the second time during a gnarly pelvic realignment and collapsed straight into you, nearly giving you a concussion from her deadweight—Robby had been there then, too, catching you both with lightning reflexes and barely concealed fury.

At this point, the only person in the hospital who hadn’t triggered Robby’s internal security system was Mel. And that was only because she kept a respectful three-foot radius and shared snacks with you during breaks. The two of you had a quiet little tradition—inviting her out to try the new cat café when it opened downtown, or attending weekend adoption events together like it was a team-building exercise. Langdon once joked that she was the third wheel in the most wholesome slow-burn romcom he'd ever seen. Mel's only response was two blinks and a single nod of acknowledgement.

Everyone in the ER noticed your dynamic—the way you and Robby worked together like a well-oiled machine, never needing to speak aloud to know what the other needed. It was intuitive. Rhythmic. Like watching a dance you’d been rehearsing for years.

Still, only a handful of people actually knew about your relationship. Abbot, Collins, McKay, Dana, Langdon, and Mel.

Abbot had been Robby’s sounding board from the very beginning. Back when Robby was still pacing around the break room, torn between professionalism and the undeniable, slow-burning pull he felt toward you, it was Abbot who told him to get over himself and ask you out. Life was too short for regrets.

Collins, McKay, and Dana didn’t know officially—but they knew. The meaningful glances, the subtle handoffs of coffee, the shared silences that were too loaded to be casual. They never said a word because they lived for the soap-opera-worthy drama of it all.

Langdon and Mel were on the same wavelength. They hadn’t caught you red-handed, but their spidey senses were borderline clairvoyant. They never probed, never asked. Just watched it unfold like a plotline they already knew the ending to.

Besides them, the rest of the department remained blissfully unaware—except for the way Robby’s entire demeanor shifted over a year ago. A quiet warmth started to replace his usual stoicism. People credited it to the anonymous private donation made to the ER around the same time.

But the truth was, it had nothing to do with money.

It was you. 

You, of course, were oblivious to whatever other people thought or said—unless it had something to do with your patients. Robby sometimes joked that you were pathologically unbothered, something he made a mental note to ask you about, and he wasn’t wrong. The rumors from the nurses, the looks from the interns, the knowing smirks from Dana or Langdon? All of it flew over your head like air traffic.

Maybe you just didn’t see it. Didn’t see how Robby’s entire world seemed to tilt when you entered a room. How effortlessly the two of you moved in sync like second nature—side by side in trauma bays, tossing instruments, treatment plans, and glances back and forth like muscle memory. Everyone else could see it.

You were always focused on the next decision, the next step, the next person who needed your help. You didn’t think about what you needed until the shift was over—if ever. Your well-being came last, always.

But not to Robby. Never to Robby.

He noticed everything.

The slump in your shoulders. The faint crease in your forehead when a headache was starting to set in. He knew when you were on the verge of running on empty, when your patience was thinning, when you hadn’t eaten since sunrise. He never made a show of it. He just acted.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He didn’t expect you to remember to need anything.

Because he already knew. He just... knew.

Your coffee, brewed and sweetened exactly how you liked it, would be waiting for you at the nurses’ station first thing in the morning. A second cup at lunch—always packed, always hot, even if you never had time to drink it. He’d drop it off like it was routine, like it was no big deal, because he knew the odds of you being pulled into another case mid-sip were astronomical.

Your favorite sandwich from the cafeteria, left quietly on your desk with a sticky note that said, “Eat this or I’m calling your mother.” You'd sooner pass out from hunger than remember to eat. He knew that. So he took the thinking out of it for you.

And after the longest days—those days where you'd made a thousand decisions, answered a hundred questions, led back-to-back codes—he’d cook dinner at his place. Quietly, without fanfare, and pieced together with the same kind of intention you gave your patients. He’d hand you a glass of water—because that was one other thing that you along with 80% of the population deprived yourself of—and steer you to the couch while he handled the rest. Just so you could turn your brain off.

You never asked, never had to, yet he always knew.

You’d just been snapped back to the present by the sound of an unwelcome familiar voice—again.

"Dr. L/N," he said, sidling up to you again with that same confident grin—clearly not deterred by every failed attempt before. "I’ve got a list of mocktails that might just change your mind. Pretty creative, right? I googled it during lunch. There’s this one with lychee and—"

You blinked at him slowly, like you were buffering.

"Jackson," you said, voice firmer this time, "I don’t even have time to finish a protein bar most days, let alone entertain another pitch for drinks. You’re taking time away from my patients, my patients. I sincerely hope you don’t treat them the same way—ignoring their boundaries and refusing to take no for an answer."

You didn’t say it harshly. Just plainly. Clearly and finite. Like a diagnosis that needed no follow-up.

Across the room, Robby pulled down his glasses as his lip quirked up into a slow, private smirk. Pride bloomed across his face so fast he had to duck his head behind a chart to hide it. He knew better than to coddle you. The mutual discomfort and stifled reactions from the staff were one thing. Watching you handle yourself like that? That was something else entirely.

From across the nurses’ station, the staff collectively cringed like someone had just dropped a post-op surgical tray. Santos and Mateo physically turned away to hide their budding laughter. Javadi buried her face in her sleeve, secondhand embarrassment blooming. Mohan took off at a brisk pace to see a patient. Whitaker closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer to the ceiling. Meanwhile, Dana, McKay, and Collins couldn’t look away if they tried, pressing down their grins and wishing they'd brought popcorn. Langdon sipped his coffee like it was a box-office premiere. King, ever diligent, kept her focus on irrigating her patient’s wound—Langdon would fill her in later with full commentary. Before you could continue—

"Dr. L/N," your savior called, tone light but cutting through the air like a scalpel—just loud enough to interrupt whatever nonsense Jackson was about to say next.

You turned and there he was.

Dr. Robby—your chaos compass, your caffeinated partner in crime, loyal boyfriend, favorite soon-to-be roommate, and at the moment, your very composed but unmistakably irritated attending—his expression perfectly calm to the untrained eye, but you could read the tension in every line of his face.

"Got a case," he said flatly. "Now. Come on."

You blinked, confused but relieved. "Okay."

You didn’t miss the way Jackson shrank a little at Robby’s tone, nor the way Langdon grinned over his coffee like he'd just won a bet. You caught up to him by the supply closet, where he all but dragged you inside and shut the door behind you.

"What's up?" you asked, eyebrow raised.

He stared at you, a little too intently, like he wasn’t sure whether to scold you or wrap you in bubble wrap. "Are you seriously asking me that after that guy just tried to chat you up in the middle of the ER like this is Grey’s Anatomy?"

You blinked, tilting your head. "Wait… was that flirting?"

Robby blinked back. "You’re joking."

You were. "I thought he just wanted to split an energy drink or something."

He huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his hands came up to ruffle his hair. "Jesus."

You poked his chest lightly. "You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered, you know that?"

His ears went red immediately. "I’m not flustered. I’m... professionally annoyed."

You blinked. "You’re jealous?"

"I’m not jealous," he said tightly. "I’m—concerned."

You grinned, stepping close. "Concerned is hot."

"He was twelve."

"He's definitely at least twenty-six."

Robby exhaled through his nose. "I’ve been very chill about this whole 'let’s not tell the hospital we’re dating' thing. But if I see him so much as come within two feet of you again, I’m submitting a formal notice that you are very much taken and a complaint with HR about his behavior. And if that doesn’t work—" he leaned in closer, voice dropping—"I’m dealing with him myself."

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smirk. "What’s that going to look like—are you gonna slam your clipboard down and tag team him with Abbot? Because honestly, I wouldn’t hate that."

Your voice was teasing, but your cheeks were warm. Watching Robby get territorial from a respectful distance? Unexpectedly hot. And now, you couldn’t help but push his buttons to see how much more riled up he’d get.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in slowly, deliberately, raising both of his arms to cage you in—palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The move sent heat straight to your cheeks, blinking up at him as he leaned closer, so close his breath brushed your lips.

Then he kissed you—hard and fast and possessive, his hands sliding up into your hair, threading through it with the kind of reverence that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly into his mouth, one hand instinctively rising to cup his jaw, your fingers grazing the edge of his beard before curling into the softness of it. He leaned into your touch, like he’d been waiting for it all day.

Your other hand slid up into his hair, tugging gently at the strands at the nape of his neck, and you felt it—the way his pulse thrummed just beneath your fingertips, the way he shivered just slightly at your touch.

His thumbs caressed the line of your jaw, then drifted down to the curve of your neck, holding you like you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

It was fire and softness, urgency wrapped in warmth. And you never wanted to stop.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. "Is that allowed in a supply closet?" you smirked. 

"If they didn’t want people kissing in here, they wouldn’t make it this conveniently located."

You smacked his arm, giggling.

"I’m serious," he added, voice softening but maintaining a firm undertone. "I don't share."

You looped your arms around his neck. "Good. I wasn’t offering."

He grinned, still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "That thing you said back there—about boundaries, about respect." He paused, eyes scanning yours. "That was... incredible. Seriously. You handled it perfectly."

Your brows furrowed for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

"It was... commanding," he added a moment later, voice lower, more playful now. "Alluringly so."

You snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer to pepper your face with kisses. "Ridiculously in love with a woman who knows exactly how to shut down frat boys without breaking stride, resuscitate half the ER, deliver excellent patient care, and still make rounds on time."

His hand slid down your back, warm and steady. "You’re the whole damn package, you know that? It’s genuinely unfair."

You chuckled, burying your face briefly in his shoulder.

Somewhere down the hall, Dana's voice rang echoed through the PA, summoning you for the consult. Robby groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"This is not over," he muttered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, a smirk following soon after where your lips lingered. "Got any dinner plans?"

Robby raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Actually, yeah. I’ve got a date—with my incredibly beautiful, breathtaking, beyond intelligent, and painfully witty girlfriend."

You blinked at him, then laughed, delighted. "Wow. Sounds like a catch."

He leaned in and bumped his nose against yours, grinning. "She really is. And I think she’s about to say yes."

You didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, so full of affection it made your cheeks ache. Then you nodded, brushing your thumb gently along his cheekbone.

"Yeah," you whispered, "she definitely is."

[webslinger-holland]

Busy Woman | Bob Reynolds from Thunderbolts

Summary: She's always busy and he thinks she doesn't notice him, but she does.

Warning: NSFW smut 18+ minors DNI, mutual pining, slow burn, teasing and flirting, sexual tension and eventual smut, mentions of nudity, some language, fem!receiving, praise, unprotected sex, p in v, just saying...I've warned you, listened to too much Sabrina Carpenter and got inspired

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.9 k

Type: Oneshot

One thing was certain: Bob Reynolds was not a morning person. He hated seeing the early sunlight leaking through the curtains and dreaded getting out of bed every morning. But he recently learned something...

She was a morning person.

And that's what got him out of bed in the morning.

Sometimes, Bob woke up before everyone else in the tower. He'd grab his keys and go out to a local coffee shop just to get her something. By the time Bob got back, he would find her hunched over the kitchen island, reading a debrief file, and enjoying a donut.

He was nervous to approach her; something about her made him not really know how to act around her. He timidly set down the special drink he ordered for her, sliding it closer to her and retracting his hand quickly as if he feared she'd bite him like a wild animal.

Very slowly, Y/n tore her gaze away from the file in front of her and to the plastic to-go cup of coffee in front of her. Her eyes drifted upwards until they found the socially awkward boy standing in front of her.

“Did you get up early just to bring me this?” She knew. Of course she knew. She always knows.

“I was already up,” Bob mumbled, which was a lie. A huge lie. He’d set three alarms.

Accepting the drink, Y/n kept her gaze locked on him and was curious if he'd break under the pressure. “That right?”

He nodded too quickly and avoided her eyes as if they were burning. “Yeah. I— uh— I like walking in the morning.”

She hummed and glanced back down at the file. She brought the drink to her lips. “You didn’t poison this, did you?” she asked casually, as if it were a normal thing to say before sunrise.

Bob shook his head innocently.

"Good," Y/n smiled at him appreciatively. The look alone caused him to blush and his heart threatened to break out of his chest.

“I—It’s a caramel macchiato!” Bob blurted, louder than he meant to. He was just desperate to keep her attention on him. She looked back up at him with the tiniest smile on her face. He faltered under her watch. "W—With an extra shot...of...espresso."

"Is it just a coincidence that you know my coffee order?" Y/n wondered curiously.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound normal. “You… mentioned it once.”

That got a smile out of her—a small one, but a real one. One that made his heart leap so high.

She eventually redirected her attention back down to the file like nothing serious happened. Bob could feel the heat rising in his face. He wanted to say something else, anything, but his mind was just white noise. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck—a nervous habit, one he was sure she’d noticed by now. Then Bucky entered the room.

“There he is,” Bucky announced with an all knowing smirk, swiftly moving through the kitchen. “You're up early today. Out fetching coffee again?”

Bob groaned softly and backed away from the counter.

“You fetch hers too?” Bucky glanced between them, then grinned. “Of course you did.”

She didn’t say anything—just kept reading, totally unfazed. And Bob stared at Bucky unamused.

"You didn't bring us back anything?" Bucky looked offended and searched around as if expecting his coffee order to just magically appear.

This was something that Bob was teased about constantly by the team because all of them knew about the crush he harbored on her. He ultimately didn't want to have to explain his reasons to Bucky of all people, so he opted to leave the room.

But as Bob turned to leave, she glanced up again. Not with a smile this time, but with a thoughtful sort of look.

Like she was waiting.

The rest of the team was scattered around the base—except Bob, who was just walking and hoping he'd find something to get his attention. He didn't have a real destination, but he might have secretly hoped he'd run into her in the process.

Spotting her open bedroom door just ahead, Bob straightened his back in posture. He walked past her room, glanced inside, and continued on. Then he froze like he’d hit a wall when he realized what he just witnessed.

The lights were soft, the window cracked open. A breeze fluttered the curtains slightly. And there she was—laying on her bed, reading a book. Bare legs behind her and feet hanging over her back given that she was on her stomach. She looked completely at ease.

Just like bees to honey, Bob did a double take and backed up—slowly, quietly—just to get another glimpse of her laying there. He wasn’t even being subtle about it.

Hovering in the doorway, Bob awkwardly placed his hand on the doorframe. She was reading with her head propped on her hand, glasses sliding slightly down her nose. She looked so relaxed; she hadn’t noticed him at all.

Which, for some reason, made him ache a little.

“Hey,” he offered, voice hoarse and soft.

She glanced up, then smiled a little when she saw him. “Hey, Bob.”

He stared for one second too long. And then another. The silence stretched between them like taut wire.

“Did you need something?” she asked, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

"Yes—I mean no. I was just—passing by." His voice cracked. He cleared it and stood straighter. “I was, uh… going somewhere.”

"Where?" Y/n pressed.

Bob blinked, fiddling nervously. “Somewhere... not here.”

She smiled—lazy, amused. "Well. I wouldn't want to stop you from your very important mission."

His mouth opened and then closed. The gears in his head were grinding so hard, he could practically hear the smoke. She was doing that thing again—talking to him like she knew. Like he was a deer and she was just waiting to see if he’d bolt.

"R—Right," Bob's words caught up with his thoughts. He blinked twice and awkwardly shuffled away from the door. "Guess I'll get out of your hair then."

Her gaze found the page she left off on, still unfazed. "Have fun."

As Bob disappeared down the hallway, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, Y/n let a small smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t look up from her book, but she didn’t keep reading either.

About once a week, Alexei prided himself in making a big hearty breakfast just for the boys with claims of them needing to spend time together as men. He served every kind of protein imaginable: bacon, sausage, eggs, ham, even steak once. He’d sometimes take requests—except waffles.

Bob had asked for them once.

Alexei had looked him dead in the eye and said, “Waffles are for children and men who fear chewing. I make you meat instead.”

And Bob obediently ate the ham served that day.

The three of them seated at the kitchen island. Bob sat with a fork in hand, picking at a pile of food he didn’t remember asking for and mindlessly thinking about her. Meanwhile, Walker was already halfway through his plate, Bucky was drinking a black coffee, and Alexei was flipping something massive in a cast iron pan over the stove like it owed him rent.

“Eat,” Alexei barked when Bob just poked at a sausage link. He promptly slapped two more onto his plate without asking. “You need more protein; women like men with muscle."

"She knows, guys,” Bob groaned, changing the subject. “She definitely knows.”

"Knows what?" Alexei glanced between John and Bucky like they'd left him out of a group chat. "I do not know. Who knows what?"

"Of course she knows," Bucky proceeded to lower his coffee. "You're not exactly subtle about it—bringing her coffee, walking past her room, turning into a tomato every time she so much as breathes in your direction."

"Ah, you mean her," Alexei connected the dots because even he saw how he looked at her.

"He’s hopelessly in love with her, but won't say anything." Bucky announced.

“She’s too busy for me anyway,” Bob mumbled, shoulders hunched. “She’s got stuff going on. Important stuff.”

John snorted. “That’s your excuse now?”

“She’s literally everywhere,” Bob said, throwing up a hand. “Working out, reading briefings, sparring—like, I’m supposed to just waltz up and flirt while she’s in the middle of combat training?”

“You already do everything but flirt,” Bucky pointed out and John agreed. “You bring her coffee, open doors for her, wait for her to finish meetings just so you can walk the same direction."

Alexei grinned. “He is soft for her.”

"I’m not soft—" Bob sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “She doesn’t even notice me.”

“Oh, she notices,” John said with a smirk. “She’s just pretending not to, which is way worse.”

“I can’t just say something,” Bob muttered. “What if it ruins everything? What if she laughs at me?”

“She won't laugh," John said confidently.

"And we’re not judging," Bucky added. "We’ve all been there. Someone cold, deadly, completely out of your league—”

“Whose out of whose league?”

All heads snapped toward the hallway.

There she stood. In absolutely nothing, but a towel.

Her hair damp, held up loosely in a messy bun. Her skin flushed pink from the hot shower. Her body glistened in the light, littered with small specks of water still. The towel hugged her body like it had been custom-measured to torment Bob specifically—just enough to cover, far too little to handle.

No makeup. Barefoot. And utterly unbothered. Just looking the picture of innocence.

When Bob saw her, he could have sworn his soul left his body.

The room went dead silent.

She couldn't really read the room, just noticed four stunned, absolutely useless men just staring at her like she’d walked in wearing fire.

She raised a brow. “Did I… interrupt something?”

“Nope,” John said, way too fast. “Just guy talk. Carry on. Totally normal.”

“You’re… uh… wet,” Bob blurted, mortified instantly.

She looked down at herself, then back up, amused. “Yes, Bob. That’s generally what happens when you shower.”

He made a small, broken noise that might have been a whimper.

"Just carry on. I'm not even here," Y/n waved off. She moved across the room and made her way over to the refrigerator, oblivious to the sets of eyes that tracked her movements.

The towel swayed. Bob’s jaw tightened. His face went red, then pink, then red again. His hand subtly shifted under the table as he sat up straighter, panicking slightly.

Spotting her peach yogurt, Y/n bend forward just enough to reach the back. The towel hitching up just high enough to give any of them far too much hope.

Each of them react different.

While Bucky sported a wolfish grin, he didn’t even try to look away. His eyes lingered—appreciative, amused, and entirely unbothered by what was clearly a nuclear-level distraction. He leaned back in his chair like he was settling in for the best part of the morning.

His lips curved. He was definitely tempted to whistle.

“Damn,” he muttered with a low chuckle. “Morning just got a whole lot better.”

Walker was mid-bite when he saw her. One second he was chewing toast, the next—he choked so hard he had to thump his chest to recover. He reached for his mug like it was a tactical maneuver, taking a long, steadying sip of black coffee. His eyes shamelessly watched her every move.

Walker murmured under his breath, “Sweet mother of—"

Next, Alexei is the only one unbothered by her actions. Instead, he finds pleasure in watching the other's reactions, smiling wildly like he was enjoying his favorite show on tv.

“Is very fun to watch strong men crumble,” Alexei commented cheerfully, sipping from his own mug and enjoying every second of this.

Especially Bob's reaction. That’s when things got really good. Because Bob was gone.

Frozen. Stuck. Statuesque.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t move.

“Ohmygod—” Bob choked, barely above a whisper. He slammed his eyes shut like he could unsee what had just happened. He tried to focus on his breathing.

He cursed under his breath like he was fighting to keep it all together.

He keeps telling himself in his head: “Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—too late.”

Withdrawing from the fridge, Y/n successfully closed the door and spun around on the heels of her feet. She held up the yogurt cup and was handed a spoon by Alexei. Peeling back the foil and dipping the spoon into the yogurt, Y/n brought the spoon up to her mouth and savored the first bite.

Her gaze flicked across them casually, but then landed—lingered—on Bob.

Her brows knit slightly. “Something wrong?”

The others were no help at all. Because John was hiding a smirk behind his cup and Bucky watched the interaction with the widest, all-knowing smirk on his face. And all the while, Bob was struggling to breathe.

Bob finally managed something that resembled speech.

“N-No,” he croaked. “Nope. All good.”

She blinked. “You sure?”

Bob nodded. Too quickly. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. Totally normal morning. Nothing weird at all.”

“Okay.” She turned and walked off, towel swaying with every step like she was floating. Everyone's gazes trailed after her as if wanting to commit the image to memory. "If you need anything from me, just ask!"

They heard the door of her room shut softly. They huddled together to speak in harsh whispers.

"Why didn't you say anything to her?" Bucky spoke first.

“She was wearing a towel,” Bob whisper-yelled. “What was I supposed to do—confess my love while she’s practically naked?!?!”

John, still gripping his coffee like a lifeline, muttered, “I would’ve.”

Alexei shrugged. “You were supposed to suffer in silence. Like the rest of us.”

"Didn't you hear what she said?" Bucky brought their attention back and Bob looked confused like he'd missed something important. “She said if you need anything, just ask—that was an invitation,”

"What?" Bob asked, clearly not interpreting it the same way.

“She basically dared you to say something.” Bucky pointed out.

Bob groaned in frustration, dragging both hands over his face. Feeling like it was another missed opportunity. “But if I say something now, it’ll be weird."

“I don’t think she’s the one uncomfortable,” John said, not even pretending to hide his grin.

"That's what I'm saying! She knows, definitely knows. And it amuses her. She's messing with me," Bob threw his hands up in slight defeat.

"Ah, but you like it.” Bucky said flatly.

“…I do.” Bob confessed timidly.

"Just don't get too excited there, sunshine." John remarked. John’s gaze dropped—and Bob followed it, his stomach dropping.

And Bob immediately slapped his hands on the table, desperate to block any view of his pants. He felt his face turning pure crimson in color; the others only chuckling in amusement.

The base was mostly quiet in the evening. The lights were dimmed and the place had a soft hum from something far off like white noise in the background. Everyone just about in for the night.

All except Bob who found himself wandering the dark hallways aimlessly. He slowed down as he neared her open door, being curious about why it was still open this late. Peering inside, Bob found her sitting on her bed with legs curled beneath her. She absentmindedly stared out the window, admiring the city lights. The faint glow lit up her face, soft and calm.

Bob hovered in the doorway for a moment too long, rehearsing a dozen things in his head before any of them made it to his mouth.

She noticed him, but didn’t turn. “You’re not great at sneaking up, you know that, right?”

He stepped inside sheepishly. “I wasn’t trying to sneak. Just… trying to find the right moment.”

“That so?” She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable but clearly open. “Is this it?”

Bob hesitated. “I—uh—guess it has to be.”

He stood awkwardly in front of her bed, wringing his hands together as if the action would put him to ease. She watched him in anticipation, waiting for him to just come out and say it. She didn't even know that she held her breath.

“You’re probably too busy for this. For me," Bob said. He nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

“Too busy for what, exactly?” That seemed to get her attention.

“I don’t know. For… whatever this is. I mean, I’ve been trying not to make it weird, but it probably already is weird. You’re always working and focused and—God, I sound like a lunatic—” Bob wanted to cower into himself.

“Bob.” She stood up right in front of him.

He stopped. His eyes met hers. He searched for something, really anything that could have been mistaken as a hint. Rejection or acceptance.

"I already told you: If you want something,” she said gently, “all you have to do is ask.”

The silence stretched between them. He opened his mouth and closed it, desperately trying to gather his courage. She waited for him patiently, not pushing him past discomfort. And then:

“I want you.”

Her lips curved into a quiet smile of satisfaction. As if she’d been waiting exactly for this.

"There it is," Y/n accepted.

Bob didn’t answer—at least, not with words.

Any space between them was quickly closed. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones as his mouth crashed into hers, finally giving in to everything he’d been holding back.

She met him halfway, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt to pull him closer. There was no gentleness in it, not at first—just hunger, urgency, months of glances and tension and unsaid things pouring out in one sharp breath.

Her hands found his shoulders, his back, tugging him in like she’d been waiting just as long because she truly had. She guided him toward the bed, slow and steady, letting him follow her lead.

Their clothes began to slip away piece by piece until there was nothing left to shed. His hands finally rose, gently framing her waist like she might vanish. Then his palms slid up—slowly—over her ribs, along her back, until she was pressed against him, chest to chest.

He lifted her without a word, carrying her the rest of the way to the bed, and laying her down like something sacred. When she laid back and pulled him over her, he hovered for a breathless second and searched for any sign of wanting to stop all this.

Her legs shifted, opening just enough to let him settle between them. She weaved her fingers through his brown locks of hair, drawing a soft moan from his lips. He whispered her name like a damn prayer.

"I've waited so long for you," she breathed. He kissed his way down her stomach slowly and worshipfully. Her thighs trembled under his touch and he gently coaxed them open to accommodate his shoulders.

When his mouth finally found her—hot, desperate—she gasped his name and arched against him. Her voice breaking on every syllable, but he desperately needed to taste her. He took his time with her.

Because he wanted to memorize every moan, every whimper, every shake of her legs around his shoulders.

Her hands gripped at whatever they could find—his hair, the sheets beneath them, even his shoulder—as he worked her over with patient intensity. His tongue worked eagerly, drawing every last drop of sweetness she had to offer him.

When she came undone, it was with a cry that echoed off the walls and he held her through it.

She was still catching her breath when he kissed his way back up, slow and reverent, like he was savoring the aftermath. Her fingers tangled in his hair again, pulling him toward her until their mouths met—hot and hungry this time, tasting the want between them.

“Bob,” she whispered against his lips, and that alone nearly undid him.

He groaned low in his throat, like he couldn’t contain it anymore. “Say that again.”

She did—his name soft, broken, beautiful—and it lit something inside him. He pressed his forehead to hers, trying to catch his breath, but the way her hands ran down his back and dug into his skin left him trembling. That was all it took.

The last of his control broke. He kissed her hard, needy. She arched into him, nails leaving little red trails down his back, her legs curling around him to pull him even closer.

His body trembled with restraint, every muscle tight with need as he hovered just above her, their breaths mingling in the space between.

Her legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into his back, urging him closer. "Bob..." she whispered, her voice a shiver in the dark. "Don't make me wait any longer."

He swallowed hard, eyes locked to hers. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. His thumb caressed the edge of her jaw, slow and reverent. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” she promised. “You’re already everything I want.”

He kissed her again—deeper this time, like he needed it to breathe and his hips slowly rolled forward. Their bodies aligning in a way that stole both their breaths.

Careful to draw himself back out partially, Bob thrusted and moved deliberately. He was too busy feeling the tension in her thighs, the way her fingers flexed against his back, and the way her breath caught in her throat when he rocked his hips just right. His name slipped from her lips again.

“God,” he groaned into her neck, barely holding himself together. “You feel… oh, God… so good.”

"Then don’t stop,” she whispered, voice barely audible over the sound of skin slapping together. She tried meeting his thrusts. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And Bob didn’t.

He moved with aching slowness, letting the tension coil tighter, letting it drag out—each motion deeper, more desperate, more consuming. Until they were both trembling from the force of it, completely lost in each other.

The sound of their bodies moving together filled the room, slow and rhythmic, a symphony of want and wonder.

He stole a glance downward—just once—and the sight nearly undid him. The way they moved together, how perfectly she welcomed him, how her body responded like it had always been meant for his. A quiet curse escaped his lips, and he dropped his head to her shoulder, breathing hard.

“You… you’re everything.”

She turned her head, lips brushing against his temple, her voice breathless. She corrected him. “I’m yours.”

That did something to him. He gripped her tighter, forehead pressed to hers, his rhythm faltering only because he was overwhelmed—by her, by the way she looked at him, by the way she whispered his name like he was her only tether.

They could feel it building, that tight pull low in their stomachs, coiling tighter with every movement, every breathless sound that spilled from the other.

“Bob—” she gasped, her voice trembling, wrecked with need. “I’m… I’m so close—”

“I’ve got you,” his own voice rough and unsteady. “Come with me.”

His hand slid down between them, finding the spot that made her cry out. Her walls clenched around him as her body seized beneath him, and that was all it took.

She broke first—back arched, head thrown back, breath catching in a stuttering moan of his name. And as he felt her fall apart around him, he followed—his own release ripping through him in a wave so sharp and overwhelming he could barely breathe.

They held onto each other through it—through the trembling, through the gasping, through the aftershocks that left them both reeling.

And still, he held her like he was afraid to let go. Because now that he had her, he never wanted to stop.

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS OR IF YOU'D LIKE MORE WORKS LIKE THIS!

[dc-gotham-instincts-wild]

Headcanon that Jason just kidnaps his siblings instead of asking them to hang out sometimes.

Sometimes he does the normal abduction thing and other times he has his methods.

Dick: Jason sneaks into Dick’s apartment in Blüdhaven at 3 AM, throws him over his shoulder, and drags him to his motorcycle. Dick wakes up mid-ride, half-conscious, groggily mumbling, "Jay, what the hell—?"

- Jason just shushes him and tosses a burger into his lap. "Shut up and eat, Goldie. We're bonding." (Jason, allowing his big brother to ruffle his hair? Nooooo, absolutely not...)

Tim: Jason straight-up drugs him asleep him when Tim refuses to take a break. He wakes up in Jason’s apartment with a cup of coffee and a sandwich waiting for him, while Jason sits on the couch reading a book.

- “You looked dead on your feet, Replacement. Either you napped willingly or I made you. Guess which one you picked.” (Jason totally doesn't rake a hand over his lil bro's hair during this time)

Steph: Jason knows Steph is a wild card when it comes to hanging out, so he has to be a little sneakier with her. He'd show up at her place unannounced, pretending to just be casually passing by, and in one smooth motion, he'd grab her and yank his little sister into his car or bike before she even realizes what's happening. (He totally doesn't do this in time with hard school, noooo)

Damian: Jason scoops him up mid-battle and just walks away with him. Damian kicks, bites, and yells, "UNHAND ME, TODD!" but Jason holds him like an angry kitten.

- They end up at a rooftop picnic with Alfred’s homemade food. Damian eventually eats while grumbling about Jason's “barbaric methods” but secretly enjoys the attention. (Jason maaayybe ruffles his hair a lot.)

Cass: She just lets it happen. Jason shows up, gestures toward his bike, and Cass just hops on without a word. They go on long road trips in comfortable silence, getting ice cream at 2 AM and scaring off criminals for fun. (Jason totally doesn't take the time to help her with her speech-)

Duke: Duke gets fake-napped. Jason tells him, "Be outside in five minutes," and when Duke says no, Jason still shows up, grabs him, and hauls him into a car.

- Duke just sighs and texts Bruce: "Jason's 'kidnapping' me again. Back later." (Jason totally doesn't get the names of school bullies from him and uses them, noooooooo)

Bruce knows this happens. He just sighs and lets it happen because, honestly? It’s Jason’s way of showing love. And at least the kids are getting along.

Jason kidnaps his siblings because it's his way of saying, "You're important to me, and I'm gonna drag you into ridiculous situations whether you like it or not."

He also, however, does it to Bruce.

In fact, it might be one of his favorite things to do, just because Bruce is always so serious and “responsible.”

Jason thinks it’s hilarious to force Bruce to take a break. He just shows up at the Batcave, probably with some kind of overly complicated plan to "kidnap" Bruce without him realizing.

Step 1: Jason would distract Alfred with a "Oh, just a quick check-in, you know, 'cause it’s been a while.’"

Step 2: He would wait for Bruce to get fully immersed in some case files and then sneak up behind him, tap him on the shoulder, and when Bruce turns around, Jason’s already got him in a headlock, pulling him out of the chair like, "Get up, old man. We're going to a diner. No arguments."

Bruce would protest, of course. He'd probably try to get out of it with his usual grumpy “I’m too busy” routine. Jason might fake-sigh and act like he's just trying to help Bruce loosen up, reminding him, "I know you think you’re invincible, but you still need to eat, Batman."

And if Bruce insists on not going, Jason would just drag him anyway. He might even grab the Batmobile for a joyride (he's always wanted to), making Bruce sit shotgun while Jason drives like an absolute maniac (Jokes on both because Bruce taught him to drive-)

Bruce would probably be scowling the whole time, but Jason would know his dad is secretly enjoying it, even if he won't admit it.

Eventually, Bruce would probably give in and get his grumpy little “dad” lecture—“You’re so reckless, Jason—” but Jason would just smile and be like, "Whatever. You’re welcome.”

Jason totally doesn't like it when his dad just ruffles his hair at some point.

[itendtothinkalot]

certified hater

summary: jake sim’s got a new roommate. and he hates it. he hates you. until one random wednesday afternoon, you look at him with those eyes, and suddenly he’s noticing things he definitely shouldn’t. now jake’s stuck trying to ignore the fact that his least favorite person is somehow making his heart beat faster. he didn’t sign up for this. but hey, neither did you.

genre: fluff | enemies to lovers

characters: jake x f!reader

words: 15.3k

warnings: curse words, kissing i guess

a/n: based on in this economy's jake! our fav hater is back!

“Well,” he sighed dramatically, hand over his heart. “There she goes. The only decent roommate I’ve ever had. The only one who cleaned the hair out of the drain without me having to beg. Who made late-night ramen taste like a Michelin-star meal. Who laughed at my jokes, told me when my shirt was inside out, and didn’t steal my shampoo.”

His best friend rolled her eyes, already halfway up the porch steps with her bag. “Jake, we’re literally 30 minutes away. You’re going to see me every other day.”

Jake turned to Heeseung with a sunny smile. “Well…take good care of her, yeah?”

“I do take care of her,” Heeseung said, voice flat, eyes sharp.

She snorted. “I’m not being shipped off to war, Jake.”

Jungwon—boba in hand, sunglasses on, posture far too relaxed for someone witnessing emotional carnage—finally spoke.

“Alright, drama club,” he called. “Wrap it up. People are starting to stare. Mostly me. And I’m starting to lose interest.”

Jake turned to him with a deep sigh. “What’s even the point of going home? The apartment is going to feel empty.”

Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I still live there, right?”

Jake waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, but you don’t count. You don’t talk to me. You just throw protein bars at my head and call it a meal.”

“And yet somehow, you’ve survived,” Jungwon deadpanned, like Jake was some tragic survivor of mild inconvenience. “Anyway. You got to live with your best friend. Now I get to live with mine.”

Jake froze mid-chew, narrowing his eyes. “…Wait. Wasn’t that hypothetical?”

Jungwon didn’t even look up from his phone. “No? I meant what I said. She’s moving in today.”

“She? You mean to tell me… I’m coming home to a stranger? A female stranger?”

“She’s not a stranger to me,” Jungwon said with an infuriating shrug. “Anyway. She’s chill. You’ll love her. I think.”

Jake pointed accusingly at Jungwon. “I swear if she does something annoying, I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?” Jungwon said, already walking away. “Write her a strongly worded Post-It? Sue her?”

“Ugh. First, I lose my best friend to my annoying boss now…now this? I’m going home!” he yelled, heading for his Uber. “But before I do…Heeseung,” Jake called out.

Heeseung took a slow sip of his coffee. “That’s Mr. Lee to you.”

“Yeah, I’m not calling you that when we’re off the clock and you look like a walking beige napkin.”

“This is Gucci,” Heeseung said flatly, glancing down at his designer shirt—then at Jake’s outfit. “And whatever you’re wearing is…”

Jake sneered. “Is a gift. From your girlfriend.”

“Oh. Then I love them,” Heeseung said sweetly, turning to kiss her on the lips without breaking eye contact.

Jake recoiled. “Tell your boyfriend to back off.”

“Tell your ex-roommate to get a grip.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “I hope your new place has ants.”

And then... standing there on Heeseung’s stupidly spotless porch, watching them disappear into their stupid new house (because of course Heeseung could just casually buy a house like he was adding a new hoodie to cart), Jake squinted thoughtfully at the disgustingly perfect front yard.

Jake’s eye twitched. God, he hated rich people. To be specific, he hated Heeseung. Stealing his roommate and his best friend, just like that. Selfish bastard.

But then — just by the edge of the driveway — movement.

Tiny. Crawling. Full of untapped petty potential. Jake’s lips slowly curled into a grin.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured to absolutely no one, crouching down like a villain in sweatpants.

“Nature provides.”

Cut to twenty minutes later:

Jake crouched like a criminal in Heeseung’s yard with a plastic cup. Scooping ants off the sidewalk like he was foraging for revenge. Whispering to himself like a lunatic.

“This is what betrayal gets you, Heeseung. You bitch.”

By the time he had an entire squad of confused ants swirling around in the cup like unwilling accomplices, Jake stood up, dusted his hands off, and jogged across the lawn.

He rang the doorbell.

Once.

Twice.

Three times — annoying, spaced out, just to be a menace.

Finally — the door yanked open.

Heeseung stood there, deadpan, already exhausted. In socks. Mug of tea in hand. 

“What.”

Jake grinned, wide, sweet, feral. “Miss me?”

Heeseung blinked at him like he regretted every life choice that led to knowing Jake Sim.

“Didn’t you leave with Jungwon?”

“I was going to but…”

And then — without missing a beat — Jake yeeted the entire cup of ants straight through the doorway.

Heeseung’s eyes tracked it mid-air.

The cup landed with a hollow little plunk on the entryway floor — ants scattering like their Uber just arrived.

Heeseung stared.

“What—” Heeseung’s eye twitched. “Did you just—”

“Nature says hi.” Jake whispered.

And then?

Jake ran. Full sprint.

Cackling like an absolute child as Heeseung’s voice exploded behind him —

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Jake was already halfway down the street, gleefully texting Jungwon like a war general reporting a win.

jake: bro i did smth

jungwon: what did you do

jake: nothing much. Had fun w nature tho…lol

jungwon: wait a min…did u throw ants in their fucking house

jake: yea lol i can still hear heeseung yelling

jungwon: take a vid?

jake: i’ll snap u LOOOL

—-

It wasn’t that Jake hated new people. Well—okay. Maybe he did. A little. Just a bit.

Sure, he looked friendly — floppy hair, easy grin, that dangerously smooth voice that could charm strangers and confuse baristas into giving him extra whipped cream without asking. But deep down?

Jake Sim was a man powered entirely by routine, caffeine, and emotional damage.

At work? Immaculate. Precise. Heeseung’s best guy on every project. The guy you could trust to fix your mess without asking questions.

At home? At home, Jake Sim was powered by rage, Doritos, and spite-fuelled midnight snacking.

And nothing — nothing — disrupted that fragile ecosystem quite like a stranger invading his living space.

Jake sighed and glanced at Jungwon, who sat curled on the couch, no emotion on his face.

“You’re sure she’ll like me?” Jake asked, leaning back like he genuinely needed reassurance.

Jungwon didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t. I’m betting my money on the latter.”

Jake grinned, ego inflating instantly. “But I’m charming. I’m handsome. I ooze sex appeal.”

Jungwon finally looked up. Blinked. Paused.

“You’re… okay.”

Jake stared. “Okay?”

Jungwon shrugged, unbothered. “You’re like store-brand charming.”

Jake squinted. “The hell does that even mean?”

“Looks the same. Works okay. Nobody’s writing home about it.” Jungwon deadpanned. “But yeah, sure. Reliable in a pinch.”

Jake clutched his chest like he’d just been stabbed with a plastic spoon. “I am premium charming.”

Jungwon sipped his drink. “You’re aisle seven, bottom shelf, on sale for $2.99.”

Jake looked genuinely offended. “Wow.”

“Look,” he said flatly, “she’s moving in tomorrow whether you like it or not. So dust yourself off… and for the love of God, take down that thing you call art.”

He pointed lazily at The Painting. The painting that Jake did during his “I’m unemployed and spiraling” era. His “maybe I’m just like Van Gogh” phase. A little stressed, a little depressed, and unfortunately — very creative.

Except he wasn’t.

Because if Jungwon was being brutally honest (and he always was), Jake’s 36 by 36 inch masterpiece was…

A giant, aggressively well-shaded dick.

Like, museum-level shading. Art school tragedy. Anatomically correct in ways that made Jungwon genuinely concerned for Jake’s mental health.

“It’s abstract,” Jake had insisted once, dead serious.

“It’s a dick,” Jungwon had replied, dead inside.

“To you,” Jake had said, like he was Picasso defending himself in court. “To me it represents manhood. The transition from child to man.”

Jungwon stared at him. Stared at the cursed, hauntingly well-shaded disaster on the wall. Stared back at him.

"Just take it down by tonight, you moron." he muttered, already walking back to his room. "Because I am not explaining to a grown ass woman why there’s a three-foot dick staring her dead in the eyes while she’s just trying to eat her cereal."

—-

You balanced a box against your hip, car keys jingling in one hand, your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear as you stepped into the apartment for the very first time.

“You couldn’t skip one class?” you muttered into the phone, nudging the door closed behind you with your foot. “Just one? I am literally dragging my entire life through this hallway alone right now.”

Jungwon’s voice crackled on the other end. “And I am literally about to ace my quiz on post-colonial literature. We all have battles we can’t pick.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “I hope your professor forgets your name and ends up giving you the biggest F in history.”

“Trait—”

Jungwon cut you off with a yawn. “Anyway, key’s under the mat. Room in the back is yours. Make yourself at home. Don’t fight Jake. Love you.”

You paused mid-step. “Who?”

“Bye!” he said, then hung up like a man with no conscience.

You stared at your phone. “What do you mean ‘don’t fight Jake’?! Who’s Jake?!”

No answer. Just the echo of betrayal.

You let out a long sigh and took in your surroundings. The apartment was… livable. Clean-ish. A little too beige. Smelled like something between cologne and aggressively microwaved noodles. Classic boy territory.

Still balancing your box, you headed toward the back, where you assumed your room would be. The hallway split into two doors. One was cracked open slightly, revealing a glimpse of a desk.

You knocked once, half-hearted and awkward, and pushed the door open.

And then everything happened at once.

Music. Blasting.

Eyes. Wide.

Box. Dropped.

You screamed.

Because standing dead center in the room was a guy in nothing but boxers, aggressively dancing to Bruno Mars like he was auditioning for a boyband. 

He jumped like he'd been tasered, yanked an earbud out, and yelped, “WHAT THE HELL?! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!”

“WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!” you echoed back, slapping a hand over your eyes. 

“I’M NOT NAKED!”

“YOU’RE LIKE 80% NAKED!”

He grabbed a throw pillow off his bed and held it over himself like it could protect either of you from this moment. “What are you even doing in my room?!”

“Jungwon said the room in the back is mine!”

“This is my room!”

“Then label your damn doors next time!”

“You’re supposed to knock!”

“I did knock!”

“Then you wait for a response, smartass!”

“Are you serious right now?! How was I supposed to know you’d be air-humping the universe like a deranged psycho?!”

“That was choreography!”

You both stared at each other, panting like you’d just come out of battle. You took a long breath, picked up your box again, and hissed, “You must be Jake.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you must be the replacement.”

“Well,” he said, tossing the pillow onto the bed and grabbing a pair of sweats, “we’re off to a great start.”

If first impressions were anything to go by, this was going to be war.

And unfortunately, the battlefield was your new living room.

—-

You wiped your palms on your jeans, jaw still tight as you grabbed another box from the small pile by the front door. This one was heavier—textbooks, probably. Just as you turned around to haul it outside, you slammed straight into a very firm, very warm, very fully clothed chest.

You looked up. Jake.

Now dressed in a hoodie and joggers, hair slightly damp like he’d just showered the shame off. Unfortunately, he still looked obnoxiously good. Annoyingly taller than you. And, somehow, smug—which should be illegal after whatever happened earlier.

He blinked down at you. “Need help?”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but he held up a hand.

“Unless…” He squinted dramatically. “You’re about to peep on me again, then I—”

“Peep at you?!” you hissed. “I walked into what I thought was my room and got assaulted by a hip thrust.”

He shrugged. “I was in the moment.”

“Are you always this delusional?”

Jake leaned against the doorframe like this wasn’t already a disaster. “You really can’t admit it, huh?”

“Admit what?”

“That you enjoyed the view.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

“Don’t worry,” he added, all faux-gentle. “Not everyone can handle the Full Jake Sim Experience.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know, Jungwon warned me about you.”

Jake’s grin kicked up, cocky. “Let me guess — ‘Jake’s a little dramatic, but give it time and you’ll fall for the charm.’”

“Actually,” you said dryly, “it was ‘don’t engage, it only encourages him.’”

“That’s slander,” he declared.

“That’s advice,” you corrected. “Good advice.”

—

Jungwon slid his bag off his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m home!” he called out, voice echoing through the apartment as he kicked the door shut behind him.

Finally. After years of joking about it, he was officially living with his best friend.

Jungwon knew the odds were low that you and Jake would hit it off immediately.

You were... you. Stubborn. Easily irritated. Quietly unhinged. But also — annoyingly kind. Thoughtful in that backhanded, "made you ramen but insulted you while doing it" kind of way.

You’d survive Jake.

Hell, maybe Jake needed to survive you.

He strolled down the hallway, humming as he knocked lightly on your door. “Yo. You alive in there?”

No answer.

He tried again. Still nothing. With a shrug, he walked over to Jake’s door and gave it a push. Open. Empty.

“Jake?”

Then, from the depths of the apartment, came shouting.

Jungwon blinked. Tilted his head. The bathroom. He padded toward the noise—and regretted it immediately.

“I was here first!” you snapped.

“No, I was here first!” Jake shot back, voice bouncing off the tiled walls.

“I had my towel in here! That’s bathroom code!” You yelled.

“There is no such thing as bathroom code, you freak!”

“Let me in! I’m going out and I have to pee!”

“Looking like that?” You sneered at Jake whose smile faded.

A long pause.

“…What’s that supposed to mean?”

You offered a polite smile. “Oh, nothing. I just thought you cared about how you dressed. But hey—good for you. You’re braver than most of the people I know!”

Jungwon closed his eyes. Rested his head against the wall. Inhaled slowly.

This was his life now.

—-

Jake sat slouched at the edge of the table, a half-spilled bowl of kimchi stew in front of him, aggressively chomping like it had personally wronged him.

Across from him, Heeseung and his girlfriend were mid–honeymoon phase nonsense—feeding each other dumplings, whispering like the rest of the room didn’t exist, giggling over god knows what as if Jake wasn’t having a full-blown emotional breakdown one seat over.

“She color-codes the pantry,” Jake snapped, waving his chopsticks like a weapon. “I left one bag of chips—one!—and she reorganized the entire cabinet. Who’s even looking in there, huh? The Pantry Police?”

“Oh—oh, and get this,” Jake ranted, mouth still half-full of kimchi. ���She sends me photos of the sink. With captions. ‘This is your plate, Jake. I know it’s yours because it has your little cartoon fork on it. Like—what?! How does she even know I have cartoon forks?! Who memorizes someone’s cutlery?’”

He flailed a hand like he was being victimized.

His best friend didn’t even blink. “The real question is why you’re still using forks with tiny bears on them.”

“That’s not the point!”

“You ever thought of, I don’t know…” Heeseung finally looked up, lips shiny from dumpling sauce. “Being a better roommate instead of…an ass?”

“I’m not being an ass!” Jake protested — loud enough to startle the next table and wild enough to knock over the soy sauce dish. He scrambled to fix it with a sad napkin, still grumbling under his breath like he was the victim here.

“She’s just—she’s too clean, okay? Like robot clean. Psycho neat. I leave one hoodie on the couch and next thing I know, it’s folded, labelled, and put away neatly.” 

“It just sounds like you’re being an ass to her,” she said.

“Yeah, let’s unpack that.”

Jake squinted. “Unpack what?”

“You know.” Heeseung leaned back, annoyingly relaxed. “Why are you all…angsty and weird about her?”

“Because!” Jake snapped. Jake glared. At them. At the table. At the ceiling.

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “Because?”

Then he exploded, “…Because she freaking pisses me off, that’s why!”

The table went silent.

“That’s crazy. Sounds a lot like flirting to me.”

—-

You threw yourself onto the couch with the kind of rage that could only come from enduring Jake Sim for more than ten minutes. Jungwon sat across from you, calmly chewing on dried squid like he wasn’t witnessing a breakdown.

“He leaves his stupid fucking hoodie on the couch,” you exploded, hands flailing like you were directing traffic in hell. “Like we live in a prison bunk. Like there’s no other surface in the entire apartment for his crusty-ass clothes except the exact spot I want to sit.”

Jungwon nodded slowly. Unbothered. A man built for surviving your storms.

You inhaled sharply. But oh — you were not done.

“And don’t even get me started on the pantry.” You threw a hand toward the kitchen like it personally betrayed you.

“He messed up my color-coded snack shelf. My system, Jungwon.” He raised a brow. Brave. Curious. Foolish.

“What system?”

You blinked. Offended. “My Oreos go beside the dark chocolate. That’s balance. That’s harmony. That’s civilisation. That’s how society should be.”

“But noooo—” you went on, fully deranged now, “Jake Sim, chaotic neutral in sweatpants, decides to put my Oreos between the shrimp chips and the ramen cups like he’s staging a fucking rebellion.”

“So what I’m hearing is…” he drawled, “you think about Jake... a lot.”

“Shut the hell up.”

He ignored you completely. “God, you two act like toddlers.”

“It’s not my fault,” you whined. “He’s making living here hard.”

Like breathing was fine until Jake Sim walked into the room with his stupid smug face and stupid loud voice and stupid boy smell that was weirdly clean for someone who acted like a feral animal.

“You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine to him either,” he pointed out.

“That’s only because…” you muttered.

“Because?”

“Because he’s loud and smug and he–he leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor and–”

“Because?”

“BECAUSE HE FREAKING PISSES ME OFF, THAT’S WHY!”

The room went quiet. Jungwon stared at you. You stared at Jungwon.

And then he went back to chewing his squid, completely unfazed. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “you’re definitely in love with him.”

—-

It was nearly midnight, and the apartment was quiet except for the occasional sharp screech from the horror movie playing on the TV. The lights were off, the only glow coming from the screen casting quick shadows across the room. You were curled up on the couch, blanket over your shoulders, a bowl of popcorn balanced in your lap, gripping a pillow more out of nerves than comfort — heart jumping at every sudden sound.

Jungwon was long gone—fast asleep behind his locked door like a man who knew better.

The apartment was dark. Too dark. The only light came from the TV, flickering ominously across your face as the horror movie reached its cursed little climax.

On screen, the main character was creeping down some nightmare hallway — flickering lights, suspicious footsteps, a soundtrack practically begging something to kill them. You squinted, peeking nervously between your fingers.

“Don’t open the door,” you whispered to the screen, your voice tight. “Don’t open the door, you idiot—”

On screen, the character opened the door.

You sucked in a breath, ready for the inevitable jumpscare.

And then—

“Boo.”

You didn’t even think.

You screamed at the top of your lungs. The bowl of popcorn went airborne. Your fist met something very real, very solid, and very human.

Crack.

“OW—WHAT THE FU—”

You turned mid-panic to find Jake Sim, doubled over and holding his nose, blinking like he’d just been hit by a truck.

Your jaw dropped. “OH MY GOD—JAKE?!”

He groaned loudly. “Did you just punch me?!”

“YOU SNUCK UP ON ME!”

“DO I LOOK LIKE THE FUCKING DEMON?!”

Jake pulled his hand back and stared at the red streak now smeared across his palm.

“Is that—” you gasped, eyes wide, “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU BLEEDING?”

“Yes!” Jake hissed, clutching his nose. “My face is leaking! My nose is leaking because you decided to square up with me like this was Mortal Kombat!”

You scrambled to grab tissues, knocking over a cushion and somehow stepping on your own foot in the process. “I didn’t mean to! It was a reflex! Who sneaks up on someone during a horror movie? You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.”

Jake flopped onto the couch like a man deeply wronged. “You need a warning label.”

“You need common sense.”

“You need to stop throwing hands like you’re in an underground fight club.”

You shoved the wad of tissues at him, dropping onto the couch beside him with a dramatic sigh. “Drama queen.”

“Violent rat.”

The two of you sat there, breathing hard. Popcorn crunched quietly under your sock. The horror movie still played in the background — completely forgotten.

Ten minutes later, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, chewing your lip. Jake sat slouched on the couch, ice pack pressed to his face, still sulking like you’d ruined his modelling career.

“Are you okay?” you asked, cautiously.

Jake didn’t look at you. “Physically or emotionally?”

You squinted. “...Both?”

“Physically, my nose is fighting for its life. Emotionally? I’ve seen things.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

He gave you a look over the ice pack. “I googled it. I’m allowed to be dramatic.”

You snorted. “Let me see.”

“What, so you can break it again?”

Still, when you leaned in, Jake let you push his hand away.

Carefully, you touched the bridge of his nose, brows furrowed in focus. Up close like this, you were quiet for once — way too close, way too serious, and way too pretty for his peace of mind.

“It’s not broken,” you muttered, inspecting him closely. “Tragically.”

Jake huffed a laugh under his breath. “Bet you’re disappointed.”

“A little,” you admitted.

Your hand brushed his cheek as you pulled away and Jake’s brain short-circuited for a solid second.

“Okay, you’re fine. Still got your stupid face. The world can rest easy.”

He grinned lazily. “Worried about me?”

You scoffed. “I’m worried you’ll bleed all over the couch.”

You got up to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To make you tea.”

Jake blinked. That shut him up fast.

“Chamomile?” he asked hopefully.

You groaned from the kitchen. “Isn’t that the only tea you drink?”

Silence.

Then Jake — deadpan, smug — called out, “Weird how you know that.”

You rolled your eyes. Hard. “Weird how you only drink the saddest tea on earth like an old timey British person.”

Jake snorted. “Says the girl who labels her instant noodles like they’re priceless artifacts.”

“At least I don’t treat chamomile like a personality trait.”

“At least I have a personality,” Jake shot back. “Yours starts and ends with passive-aggressive Post-Its.”

You yanked open the cupboard. “Maybe if you read them, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Maybe if you punched fewer people we wouldn’t be here.”

There was a beat.

You grabbed a mug, muttering under your breath, “Should’ve punched harder.”

Jake, from the couch, still icing his nose, let out a scoff of disbelief.

“And yet,” he said flatly, “here you are. Making tea for me.”

You slammed the kettle down louder than necessary. “Because if I don’t, you’ll bleed out and haunt me out of spite.”

Jake leaned back, smug despite the tissue stuffed up his nose.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he called out. “If I do die and end up haunting you, I’m definitely hiding your stupid label maker first.”

—-

The next morning, sunlight trickled through the blinds, soft and golden. The apartment was quiet. Jungwon had already disappeared for his 8 a.m. class like the punctual little overachiever he was.

Which left you here.

In the kitchen.

Making the most humiliating thing of your life:

“I’m sorry I punched your nose” scrambled eggs.

This wasn’t because you liked Jake Sim. God, no. This wasn’t softness. This wasn’t kindness.

This was guilt.

Stupid, irritating, nose-bleeding guilt.

Because yeah — maybe he shouldn’t have snuck up on you like the human embodiment of a jumpscare. But also... maybe you shouldn’t have decked him like you were trying out for MMA.

Maybe.

Unfortunately, despite being fully committed to hating Jake Sim with your entire soul... you also had a functioning moral compass.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Jake padded out of his room half-asleep, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, hair a disaster, still mentally in dreamland — following the smell of butter like a man possessed.

But then he saw you.

And whatever was left of his morning brain just... stopped.

There you were. Standing by the stove — hair pulled back messily like you hadn’t even tried, barefoot, apron cinched around your waist, that stupid little dress swaying just slightly as you moved.

It was... weird.

Soft, almost. Domestic.

Like he’d walked into someone else’s life.

You were humming to yourself, lazily stirring scrambled eggs — completely unaware that Jake had frozen in the doorway like an idiot.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because it hit him — quietly, without warning — that you were pretty.

Not just yeah, okay, she’s kinda cute when she’s not yelling at me pretty.

But actually pretty.

So pretty it knocked the rest of his words clean out of his head.

Which explained why he didn’t notice the sharp corner of the kitchen counter directly in front of him.

WHAM.

His toe slammed into the sharp corner of the kitchen counter.

“Fuck,” he whispered, staggering back like he’d been shot.

You jumped, whipping around. “Oh, you’re awake.”

Jake blinked down at you from the other side of the kitchen, still cradling his busted toe like it was your fault. His hoodie was sliding off one shoulder, hair an absolute mess, socks mismatched.

Meanwhile, you?

Hair tied up like it was nothing. That stupid little dress swishing around your knees. Making breakfast.

It was almost offensive, really.

Jake narrowed his eyes. \Why did you look... annoyingly good this morning? Since when? Since when were you this pretty?

Damn, maybe you gave him a concussion.

You caught him staring.

“What?” you snapped, holding up the plate like it was a peace treaty you immediately regretted.

He blinked, snapped out of it. “What’s this?”

“Scrambled eggs. For you.”

“Pity eggs?”

You rolled your eyes. “Consider it hush money so I don’t have to keep looking at your tragic nose bruise.”

Jake hesitated. Then took the plate — fingers brushing yours just long enough to send something stupid and sparky down his spine.

Shut up, spine.

He cleared his throat. “You didn’t poison these, right?”

“Only emotionally,” you deadpanned. “Just like I do everything.”

Jake snorted under his breath — a sound halfway between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

But then, as you sat across from him, watching him eat like you weren’t the one responsible for his new villain origin story, you shifted awkwardly.

And Jake noticed.

Hard not to, when you were never this quiet.

“Look…” you started, voice forced like you were fighting every bit of your pride. “I was talking to Jungwon, and… maybe I’ve been giving you a hard time.”

Jake paused mid-chew.

Maybe?

Maybe?

“...You broke my face.”

You glared. “It’s not broken.”

He gestured wildly. “It could be. You’re not a doctor”

You exhaled sharply. “I’m just saying... maybe we could be, like, civil.”

“Are you sure you didn’t poison—” 

“I didn’t fucking poison them, you rat.” Jake just stared at you, smug. 

You cleared your throat, adjusting your tone like you hadn’t just threatened him with breakfast. “What I meant to say was… no. I didn’t poison them. If that’s what you were worried about.”

Jake watched you from the corner of his eye — the way your dress moved, the way your ponytail swayed.

“I just feel bad, okay?” you huffed, glaring at his very tragic, very dramatic face. “That big-ass bruise on your nose’s making eye contact with me.”

Jake froze. Instantly concerned.

“...Bruise?” he echoed, voice tight.

“Yeah.”

Like a man possessed, he snatched his phone off the counter, flipped to the front camera—

And the noise he made?

Somewhere between a gasp, a dying bird, and a full-on crime scene.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, horrified. “You ruined my face.”

You blinked. “I—”

“My beautiful fucking face!”

You winced. “That’s… a little dramatic.”

Jake spun around like you’d personally ended his modeling career, shoving the phone in your face. “Do you see this?! How am I supposed to show up to work tomorrow looking like I got body slammed by Dwayne Fucking Johnson?!”

You snorted. “You literally work in tech.”

“That’s not the point!”

“I’m pretty sure it is the point,” you deadpanned. “You’re not an idol, Jake. I’m sure the CEOs will survive your mildly distressed nose.”

Jake let out a pained groan, like you just didn’t understand the gravity of his suffering. “I have a presentation tomorrow!”

You raised a brow. “Okay... and?”

“A huge one!” he cried. “Multiple CEOs. Investors from all over the country. I’m supposed to look like I have my life together. Not like I got mauled by a vending machine!”

You shrugged, zero sympathy left in your body. “Can’t your boss… what’s his name again… Hee...Heesoo do it?”

“It’s Heeseung,” Jake bit out. “And he’s in Japan for a business trip.”

“Get someone else to do it.”

“I am someone else!” he exploded, pacing now like his nose was about to file a lawsuit.

A beat of silence.

You tilted your head slowly, casually, a little too calm for his liking.

“…What if I did it?”

“...What.”

“I could present it for you,” you said, crossing your arms, your smile inching into dangerous territory. “You wear a mask, pretend you’re sick. Cough a few times for realism. I’ll read your script. Boom. Problem solved.”

You turned back around, all casual, all dangerous. “Your pitch. I could do it.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“Yeah, uh, no offense, Broadway, but the presentation is about app technology. Not jazz hands.”

You shrugged. “Fake it till you make it. Plus, I’m excellent at pretending I know things. Ask any of my professors.”

Jake stared at you.

Like you had absolutely lost your mind.

“You,” he said flatly, “want to stand in front of a room full of multi-millionaire investors... and pretend to know shit about app tech.”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

“That is—hands down—the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you.”

“And also,” Jake added slowly, like it pained him to admit, “possibly... my only option.”

You shot finger guns at him.

You grinned like the menace you were. “Come on, Jake Sim. Admit it. You need me.”

“Fine,” he ground out. Like the word physically hurt coming out of his mouth. “But you’re getting a crash course in app tech in two hours. No complaining.”

You shrugged, breezy, unbothered. “Sounds painfully boring. Can’t wait.”

—-

The next day, Jake had already bolted out of the apartment like his hair was on fire while shouting, “The investors are here and they brought their lawyers! I gotta g–” and then he left.

Meanwhile, you?

You were still in the bathroom, casually putting on lip balm like you had all the time in the world. Because if you were about to scam your way through a tech presentation with nothing but sheer confidence and delusion — you were damn sure going to look like someone who belonged on a Forbes list.

Or, well... the clearance rack at H&M’s attempt at one.

Were you terrified of tech investors? Absolutely.

Were you about to march in there, smile pretty, and pretend you understood whatever the hell Jake had been mumbling about for the past 24 hours? Also absolutely.

Because if there was one thing you were good at — it was faking shit.

(And pissing Jake off. But that was practically a sport at this point.)

You strutted into Jake’s workplace like you owned the building. Or were seconds away from committing tax fraud in it. Either way — heels clicking, head high, shoulders squared like you’d been bred in the wild on sarcasm and petty confidence.

The lobby was ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Air that smelled like imported lemons and old money. A giant, abstract sculpture near the entrance that looked suspiciously like regret and cost more than your entire education. 

Upstairs, Jake checked his watch for what had to be the fiftieth time.

You’re late. 5 minutes late.

His shirt collar felt like it was conspiring to choke him, and the mask he wore (to hide the bruise you gave him) felt less like protection and more like a visual reminder that he’d been punched in the face by you.

The elevator dinged. Jake didn’t even look up at first—he was too busy internally screaming about font sizes and silently mouthing his pitch like a deranged TED Talk speaker. But then the room shifted. The air changed. Like the universe hit slow-mo.

His gaze lifted. And there you were. Jake looked up. And promptly forgot how to function. Because there you were. Walking out of the elevator like you were starring in his worst nightmare — and maybe his daydream too. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Soft curls. Glossy lips. That dress. That damn dress — classy, simple, hugging you like it was personally invested in his suffering. The type of dress that shouldn’t have been this illegal in a workplace setting but was, somehow, devastatingly so.

Jake forgot how to breathe.

Because here was the thing about Jake Sim:

He’d seen you in every possible unflattering state known to mankind.

Screaming about printer ink like it committed tax fraud against you. Hair up in a bun so chaotic it looked like it had survived a natural disaster. Wearing the same hoodie for three days straight — his hoodie, he’d realized once, which only annoyed him more — eyes wild with caffeine and vengeance at 3AM because Spotify ads kept interrupting your study playlist.

And still — still — Jake had always kinda thought you were...pretty.

Annoyingly pretty.

The worst kind.

The kind of pretty that snuck up on you mid-argument or when you were mid-rant about detergent prices. The kind of pretty that didn’t need fixing or dressing up. Just...you.

But today? Today was different. You weren’t just pretty. You were dangerous.

His jaw clenched so hard he swore he heard a crack. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t even think.

It was like the floor had disappeared beneath him and someone had swapped out his organs with static. His heart had ditched the beat and gone straight to drum solo. His brain, normally quick, charming, obnoxiously cocky? Dead.

“You made it,” Jake said — and immediately regretted it, because holy shit, was that his voice? High. Cracked. Betrayed him completely like puberty had just swung back around for one last revenge tour.

“Yeah, well,” you hummed, throwing him a look and gesturing vaguely to the black mask covering the evidence of your sucker punch, “figured I owed you.”

Jake nodded. Or at least he thought he did. Hard to tell.

He decided to stay silent. Because God knows what would happen if he opened his mouth again? God help him — a full-blown Ed Sheeran love song might just crawl out.

So he didn’t. He just...stood there.  Standing at the podium, you looked...ridiculous. Ridiculously good.

Like you didn’t just belong here — like you ran the place. Like you were here to pitch an app or recruit followers for a cult — and honestly? Jake wasn’t even sure which one. All he knew was… he’d probably sign up either way. No questions asked. No dignity left.

"Well, good morning, everyone,” you began, and even you were surprised by how calm you sounded. 

Jake stood in the back, blinking at you like he’d never seen you before. You were charismatic. Smart. A little terrifying. And you had the entire room hanging on your every word.

Somewhere between “LinkedIn is dead” and “our algorithm is based on actual passions, not titles,” Jake realized something horrifying. You weren’t just pretending to be good at this. You were good at this. Confident. Sharp. Effortless. 

His chest swelled — with what felt suspiciously like pride — until reality smacked him upside the head. This was the same girl who, just last night, sat cross-legged on his floor, staring blankly at his laptop and asked, with full sincerity:

"Wait… what does AI even stand for?"

Jake was still smiling like an idiot.

God, he hated to admit it — but you killed that presentation. Clean. Sharp. Smooth in a way that made him kind of want to brag about it like he trained you personally (he didn’t — he barely survived explaining what an API was to you without passing out).

A few came up to shake your hand — small talk, praise, the usual empty corporate fluff. Except no one really asked you questions. Not the tough ones, at least.

Right up until he caught movement at the edge of his vision.

Two guys. Tall. Sleek. Expensive haircuts that probably cost more than Jake’s entire outfit. Hovering. Too close. He squinted. Because they weren’t walking toward him. Nope.

They were walking toward you.

Grinning. Hovering. Talking with their hands like they were about to pitch you a deal or — god forbid — flirt. His eyes narrowed. You were still reeling from the high of the presentation, packing up your notes when a smooth voice cut through the air beside you.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” said Blondie. "Mr. Sim never mentioned someone so young... and pretty working in the App Tech department."

 “Oh, uh, I’m new,” you said, hoping you didn’t sound as awkward as you felt. “Just joined.”

Blondie smiled, clearly not buying it. “New and already giving such an impressive presentation. I’d love to hear more about the algorithm sometime… maybe over dinner?”

You blinked again. Algorithm? Was that on Slide 7?

Before you could even form a response, a voice cut in like an unexpected thunderstorm.

“She’s booked.”

You turned just in time to see Jake—Jake—swoop into the scene like a knight in wrinkled business casual. His jaw was tight, eyes practically shooting daggers. And that mask? Somehow, it made him look even hotter. You were definitely going to need therapy to figure out why anger made him so ridiculously attractive. That was something for a professional to unpack. 

“She’s what?” Blondie asked, blinking.

“Taken,” Jake said, his voice like cold steel. “I’m with her.”

Blondie’s eyes widened like he’d just been slapped with a fish. “Oh! I didn’t realize—”

Jake grabbed your hand and brought it up to his lips with a quick peck, way too casual for the situation. “Anyway,” Jake said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “thanks for admiring my girlfriend. I, too, find her absolutely breathtaking.”

Blondie and his friend, practically evaporated under the weight of the awkwardness. They muttered quick goodbyes and slunk off, leaving you standing there, completely stunned.

“Girlfriend?” You stared at Jake, still holding your hand in his like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jake leaned down slightly, his voice soft but pointed. “You’re welcome for saving you from that finance bro disaster. You looked like you were about to faint.”

“I was not,” you shot back, still flustered.

“You squeaked.” Jake smirked, his lips curling up in that annoying, irresistibly smug way of his. Your heart skipped a beat, but you shoved it down. He was being a jerk.

You crossed your arms, still confused by the whole situation. “You’re so weird. Why the hell would you do that?”

Jake shrugged casually, as if the whole thing had been no big deal. “Someone had to save you. I’m not letting some guy with a bad haircut flirt with you in front of me. It’s... inconvenient.”

"Inconvenient?" You stared at him, baffled. "What are you even—"

And then, like a slap to the face, it hit you.

He was jealous.

“No way,” you muttered, half-laughing. “Are you… actually jealous right now?”

Jake’s face flushed slightly, but he smirked, all smooth and defensive. "No, I just—"

You interrupted him, holding up your hand. "You are! Oh my god, you are jealous."

His eyes flickered briefly, like he was calculating his next move. “I am not. You're... imagining things.”

You leaned back slightly, giving him a teasing, incredulous look. “Right, because you not letting some guy get too close is just a totally normal response for someone you fucking despise.”

Jake paused, then looked at you with that intense, quiet stare, his expression unreadable for a moment. You felt a flicker of something in your chest, but before you could process it, he said, in a voice softer than you expected, “I don’t despise you.”

—

Jake sat across from you at the tiny grill table, doing his best to act like he didn't care that you were wearing what could only be described as the world's most unassuming dress. It wasn’t even remotely textbook "sexy." No slits, no plunging neckline, just a simple, casual thing that barely clung to you. Yet, somehow, you made it look like flawless.

You were just grilling meat, for crying out loud. Nothing remotely provocative about it. And yet, there Jake was, trying—and failing—to pretend he wasn’t completely losing his mind over it.

Then, disaster struck.

Jake’s grip on his chopsticks tightened, nearly snapping them in half. He could feel a vein pulsing in his temple. He didn't even realize he was glaring until the waiter noticed. And that’s when he realized something was very, very wrong with him.

You turned to Jake, blinking innocently. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Me?” Jake laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that wasn’t even remotely convincing. “Totally fine. Just making sure you’re not about to, y'know, set the whole table on fire.”

He shrugged off his jacket and—without thinking—slung it over your shoulders like his life depended on it.

“You look cold,” Jake muttered, trying to sound casual, but the effort was absolutely wasted.

“I’m sitting in front of an actual fire,” you pointed out, obviously not buying the excuse.

“Just take it,” he said through gritted teeth. He could feel his brain glitching as his fingers brushed against yours for half a second.

“You’re acting weird,” you muttered, clearly starting to suspect something was off. “Did you hit your head again today or…?”

“Just wear the damn thing.”

“Why?” you asked slowly, suspicious. “I’m not even cold.”

“It’s not for warmth,” he snapped, his voice tight with frustration.

You narrowed your eyes, not letting him off the hook. “So what’s it for?”

Jake leaned forward, dropping his voice to a near whisper like he was plotting a heist. “It’s... you're over there looking all... attractive, and the waiter’s looking at you like he wants to take you home. And I—” He paused and muttered, “I’m the one who invited you here, okay? So technically, you’re my dinner guest. And I just feel like you shouldn’t be—”

“Did you just call me attractive?”

Jake froze. For a split second, his mind went completely blank. He’d said it without even thinking, and now that the words were out there, the whole table seemed to get a little bit warmer, a little bit more suffocating.

“Uh—” He fumbled, trying to backpedal. “No! I didn’t—what I meant was—” He cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting in his seat. 

You stared at him, eyes wide. “Jake... you’re an awfully jealous person today.”

He froze. Blinked. And then launched into a performance so bad it was almost impressive. “Jealous? Me? Oh my god, that’s so cute. That’s actually hilarious. I’m not jealous. You? Of you? Pfft. I just... look, I just think it’s unhygienic for strangers to salivate this close to raw meat, alright?”

He avoided your gaze and took a big gulp of his drink, probably hoping it would give him some answers. “Also, that guy was undressing you with his eyes.”

You gave him a flat look, raising an eyebrow. "And your solution to a perv is to throw a jacket over me like I’m some fragile piece of art in a museum?”

Jake kept his cool, eyes still avoiding yours. “I could go beat him up if you want,” he offered, not-so-casually.

You snorted, leaning back in your chair, slipping your hands into the sleeves of the jacket he’d thrown over you. “You're an idiot.”

—-

The next time Jake found himself questioning the entire fabric of his reality, it was in the kitchen of your shared apartment.

A totally normal evening.

Except not really.

Because you were sitting across from him in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a smile, and Jake was experiencing what scientists might classify as a complete psychological collapse.

He wasn’t even sure what the hell the conversation was about. Jungwon was laughing about something, maybe a dumb meme or a cursed group chat screenshot, and you were giggling so hard you smacked Jungwon’s arm and nearly knocked over your drink.

Jake didn’t laugh. Jake stared.

Because every time you moved, your stupidly oversized shirt rode up a little, and your bare legs—the ones he absolutely should not be noticing—taunted him like they were sent from hell specifically to test his willpower. 

He hated it.

No, actually—he hated you. Yes. That was the correct narrative. He hated the way you always left passive-aggressive sticky notes on his leftovers ("These are MINE. I will KNOW if you eat one. By you I mean JAKE SIM."). He hated you when you reorganized his entire snack drawer by vibe. (“The spicy chips are angry. They go in the red bin.” What did that even MEAN?)

He hated that you chewed ice. That you used a ten-step skincare routine that monopolized the bathroom for thirty minutes every morning. That you once referred to him as “the reason I believe in selective mutism.”

And yet… he was currently staring at your thighs like they held the secret to inner peace.

Jake looked away, clenching his jaw. What the hell was happening to him? Was this a stroke? Had you poisoned his food?

The next time he went absolutely bonkers was a few days later. He had to pee.

He pushed the door open without knocking, because this was his house and he had…welll…he had the rights.

And then.

He saw you.

Half-naked.

In your bra and underwear, bent slightly over the sink, drying your shirt with a hairdryer.

His brain short-circuited like someone had poured water directly into his skull.

His gaze dropped—just for half a second, a reflex—and immediately locked on your bare legs, and oh god, he hated himself. He spun around so fast he almost slammed into the door.

“OH MY GOD—SORRY!” Jake yelped, one hand covering his eyes like he’d been hit with a solar flare. “You—why—WHAT—why didn’t you lock the door?!”

You blinked at him in the mirror and chuckled, totally unfazed. “Oh shit. I forgot to lock it.”

“What is wrong with you?!”

“Me? You walked in,” you pointed out.

“You left it unlocked!”

“You could’ve knocked!”

“I shouldn’t have to knock in my own apartment! What are you doing half-naked drying your shirt in here?!”

“I spilled soda on myself.” You replied, nonchalant.

“I’M THE VICTIM HERE,” Jake yelled dramatically, still not turning around. “I just wanted to pee and now I’ve seen your underwear! I’ll never recover from this!”

You laughed again, breathless. “Relax. It’s just a body. You’ve seen legs before.”

A long beat of silence passed.

Jake slowly turned his head just enough to peek at the wall. “Are you, um...decent now?”

“Yeah,” you said, tugging your damp shirt back over your head. “Crisis averted. You can resume your regularly scheduled hate.”

Jake turned around cautiously. You were grinning, cheeks slightly pink, shirt clinging a little, hair a mess—and somehow, it was worse. Way worse. Because even like this, maybe especially like this, you looked unfairly adorable.

He stared at you for one second too long.

“Jake,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “are you...blushing?”

“No,” he snapped immediately, brushing past you with all the grace of a man running from his feelings. “Now get out, I need to pee.”

As he shut the door behind him, you called out, “You’re welcome for the free show, by the way.”

Jake groaned.

Out loud.

Into the void.

He was never going to recover.

—-

It all started with what Jake would later refer to—dramatically and with full PTSD—as The Saturday Incident.

He had spent the entire day in bed, pretending to do work, but actually doing what could best be described as “vague laptop clicking” and “aggressively avoiding you.”

You were out in the living room, probably plotting new ways to rearrange the furniture or alphabetize the spices by vibe again. He wasn’t going to risk interaction. Not when his heart had started doing these strange, erratic flips every time you were near. It was disorienting, this fluttering sensation that kept taking him by surprise. Honestly, he didn’t appreciate it. Didn’t appreciate whatever the hell was happening in his chest, because he'd never felt like this before. 

The thought crossed his mind—maybe he should go see a doctor for a cardiogram. Heeseung had laughed in his face when he mentioned it, as if the idea of it being a medical issue was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Jake didn’t get what was so funny, though. All he knew was that every time you entered the room, his heart seemed to forget how to behave, and he wasn’t sure that was something anyone could just laugh off.

So he stayed hidden.

Until there was a knock.

“Jake?” Your voice came through the door—soft, almost... sweet?

He stared at the door like it had personally betrayed him.

“Jake?” you called again, this time with a tone that made his brain short-circuit just a little. He sighed like a man being forced into labor and got up, preparing for whatever minor chaos you were about to deliver.

He opened the door.

And immediately wished he hadn’t.

There you stood. In a dress—a glittery, stupidly pretty dress he had never seen before. The tag was still dangling from it, and for some reason, that made it worse. Like you were a gift waiting to be unwrapped and oh no what the hell, brain, stop right there.

His mouth went dry.

His knees? Unreliable.

You were—unfortunately—gorgeous.

“Can you help me?” you asked, turning around.

And that’s when he saw it. Your bare back.

Jake died a little. Right there in the doorway. He whispered, barely audible: “F-fuck.”

“Huh?” you looked over your shoulder.

“I said—sure! Sure, totally, yep,” he said, voice cracking like a 13-year-old boy seeing shoulders for the first time.

He reached for the zipper like it was made of lava. His fingers brushed your skin and he physically flinched. 

“You busy with work?” you asked casually, like this wasn’t slowly killing him.

“Yeah. Working. Doing... business things. Graphs.” Nailed it. “Are you, uh, going out?” He zipped faster, praying for this moment to end and also never end, confusingly.

“Nope.” You turned back around, smiling. “I just got this dress and wanted to see if it fit.”

Jake stared at you like he was watching the heavens open. “Oh,” he said dumbly.

“Besides, I was bored.” You laughed, brushing past him like this was your room, and plopped yourself onto his bed like it was no big deal.

Jake blinked. “You can’t just—don’t just walk into my room!”

“What? You hiding something?”

“Yes!” he said, voice a little too high. “I mean—maybe. You don’t know my life.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Let me guess. Secret stash of R-rated movies?”

“What?! No!”

“Love letters? Hidden shrine of an ex?”

“Oh my god.”

“Wait—you have love letters?”

“I don’t have any! Why are you like this?!”

You grinned. “Hard to believe. You’re, like, suspiciously single.”

Jake scoffed. “Suspiciously?”

“Yeah. You’re cute in a grumpy, emotionally constipated way.”

He blinked. “Did you just call me cute?”

“I mean, when you’re not yelling about laundry socks and acting like you’ve never heard of coasters.”

Jake’s face flushed. His lips twitched. A smile was fighting its way out, and he hated that you were winning. “You’re so annoying.”

“I’m a delight.”

“You’re hell personified.”

“And you,” you said, leaning back onto his bed, “are blushing.”

“I am not.”

“Jake,” you said, eyes twinkling, “your ears are red.”

He turned away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Okay, but—hold on. Why are you in my room anyway? All dressed up, all dolled up, all pretty.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Was that a compliment?”

“No.”

“You just listed three compliments,” you pointed out, your voice teasing.

“They weren’t compliments.”

“They sure seem like it.”

He stared at you—your ridiculous sparkle dress, your smug little smirk, the fact that you looked entirely too comfortable lying on his bed like you belonged there—and felt his heart do a full-body sigh.

Oh no.

Oh no.

He was in trouble.

Because he didn’t hate you at all.

—-

Jake had one goal tonight: get snacks, avoid feelings, don’t die.

He’d nearly made it to the kitchen—eyes forward, brain reciting his grocery list like a prayer—when he heard your voice.

“Jake?”

He froze like someone had hit pause on his life.

There you were, curled up on the couch with a blanket around your legs and a bowl of popcorn in your lap, looking... cozy. Cute. Normal. Like you weren’t the cause of 99% of his internal screaming today.

“Yeah?” he called over his shoulder, already bracing for disaster.

“Come watch this with me.”

Jake turned halfway, one hand still on the fridge. “What? No. Why would I wanna–”

You pouted. And he hated—hated—how fast his resolve crumbled at the sight of it.

“C’mon. Please? I’m lonely,” you said. “Jungwon’s not back for another hour.”

Jake audibly swallowed, “F–fine.”

Still, he sighed and walked over like a man approaching a guillotine.

He sat on the very edge of the couch, as far from you as possible. Like you might spontaneously explode and take him with you.

You blinked at him. “Why the fuck are you sitting miles away from me? I’m not gonna eat you.”

Jake’s ears went red so fast it was almost impressive. “I’m—just giving you space.”

You threw a popcorn kernel at him. “What, do I have cooties now?”

“No!” he blurted, then immediately regretted sounding like a panicked fifth grader. “I just thought—I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You tilted your head, amused. “I thought we were pass our enemy phase and in the ‘I-only-hate-you-when-it’s-convenient-phase.”

His heart stopped.

Jake stared at you.

“We are! I just–”

You shook your head and patted the seat next to you. “Come on. You're so dramatic. Sit like a normal person.”

Jake, against his better judgment and every self-preservation instinct, scooted closer. A little. Then a little more.

You tossed the blanket over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. “There. See? Not so scary.”

He sat stiffly under the blanket like it was radioactive, absolutely convinced he was going to die. His arm accidentally brushed yours and his brain lit up.

You leaned in slightly, focused on the screen.

Jake leaned back slightly, focused on not passing out.

And somewhere between the opening credits and the second kernel of popcorn you tossed at him “for flinching like a grandma,” Jake realized something horrifying.

He didn’t hate you.

At all.

And worse?

Instead, it was the absolute opposite. Maybe he liked you.

(Or had the biggest stinking fucking crush on you.)

Either way, these feelings were huge. And scary.

—-

Jake was fine.

Totally. Absolutely. 100% fine.

So what if he maybe thought about the way your shoulder brushed his during the movie? Or the fact that your laugh made his chest do weird twisty things? So what if you looked really cute in that dumb glittery dress and then even cuter in sweats and a bun with popcorn crumbs on your shirt?

He was fine.

No, he was lying. He was not.

Because Jake Sim didn’t do feelings.

Feelings were for wimps. For poets. For people with acoustic guitars and questionable Spotify Wrapped playlists. For people like Heeseung.

Not him.

Jake Sim was immune. Built different. Untouchable. Feelings? He left those at the door with his dignity and expired loyalty card points.

Which is why he was currently, aggressively, avoiding you like you were radioactive.

You walked into the kitchen? He walked out.

You tried to start a conversation? “I’m busy.” (He wasn’t.)

You reached for the chips? “Take it yourself.” (They were on the top shelf. You couldn’t reach. He still left.)

You asked if he wanted to hang out? “No thanks. Be alone. Bitch.” (He did not mean that. At all. And also whispered it when you were already out of earshot, afraid he’d hurt your feelings.)

He was strong. He was cold. He was emotionless steel wrapped in flannel.

Until—

“Jake?” you called from the hallway.

He glanced up from pretending to type on his laptop. “What?”

“Do you wanna go to the store with me? We’re all out of eggs.”

And like the absolute fraud he was, Jake—emotionless, avoidant, emotionally repressed Jake Sim—paused for 0.0000001 seconds before nodding.

“Yeah. Let me grab my shoes.”

Traitor.

He followed you out like a puppy who just got asked if he wanted a treat.

As you walked side by side through the aisles, Jake pushed the shopping cart like he was starring in the most generic romcom montage of all time, trying not to let his arm bump yours again because every time it did, his brain felt like it had just short-circuited.

But it was fine.

Totally fine.

He was definitely not thinking about holding your hand in the snack aisle.

Definitely not wondering if you'd let him try one of your gummies, even though he could buy his own.

Definitely not wondering if this was what it would feel like to be yours.

He wasn’t. He wasn’t thinking about any of that.

Nope.

Totally normal. Totally platonic.

He was so screwed.

It all started in the canned goods aisle. And honestly? Jake should’ve known the canned goods aisle brought nothing but bad luck. It happened in third grade when he tripped over his shoelace and fell into a container of perfectly aligned canned soups. It happened when he was trying to grab some mushroom soup for Jungwon when he was sick and ended up dropping the can right on his pinky toe, fracturing it.

And it’s happening again now.

You were just standing there, trying to decide between tomato basil and cream of mushroom, looking entirely too cute for someone who was making soup decisions. Meanwhile, Jake, trying to pretend he wasn’t watching you, was already making a mental list of things he could buy—anything to distract himself from his growing awareness that his brain was short-circuiting.

“Hey,” the guy said. “This might sound crazy, but... are you single?”

Jake turned his head so slowly you’d think someone had insulted his ancestors.

He was standing a few feet away, comparing granola bar sugar contents like a responsible adult, and now he was staring at this random man like he’d just asked to marry you in front of a priest.

You didn’t even seem fazed. You turned your head slightly, giving the guy the most nonchalant look, probably silently wondering if this guy had any idea how little he cared about his question.

Jake could feel the nerve in his temple twitch. The air between you and the guy became suffocating. Jake's hands flexed, holding onto the cart like it might need a good shove.

The guy, oblivious to the thunderstorm brewing a few feet away, “Just thought that you’re really cute, and I figured I’d ask.”

You blinked. “Oh! That’s—um—”

“She’s not,” Jake snapped, suddenly right there, standing next to you like he’d teleported in through sheer fury. “She’s very not single. Taken. Off the market. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.”

The guy blinked, taken aback. “Oh... are you two—”

“Together?” Jake interrupted, smiling like it physically hurt him. “Yeah. I’m her boyfriend.”

You glanced at him, his eyes glinting with that smirk of his. And then it hit you—he was playing this way too well. A little too well. You turned back to the guy, giving a dramatic gasp.

“Oh my God,” you said, suddenly faking an epiphany. “Babe, I didn’t even realize he was flirting. I was too busy thinking about how your hair looks so good today.”

Jake twitched.

You leaned into him with an exaggerated sigh, grabbing his hand like you were in some overly dramatic rom-com. “I’m so sorry. I’ll try to pay more attention when people are flirting with me. Would that be okay with you, my Jakey-wakey? My Jakey-kins? My love machine?”

Jake nearly choked on his own spit. “Okay. That’s enough.”

But you were on a roll. You turned to the stranger, practically glowing. “Isn’t he so cute when he’s protective? Ugh, he gets so territorial over me. It’s like his thing. Next thing I know, he’ll start growling and peeing in the aisles to mark me like his territory.”

Jake made a strangled sound, clearly regretting everything. “Please stop.”

You ignored him, fully leaning into the bit. “Honestly, I’m just waiting for him to pick out a leash for me next, y’know? Just to make sure everyone knows I’m his property.”

Jake made a strangled sound. “Please stop.”

You pressed your cheek to his shoulder. “Should we kiss?” You smiled, putting your arms around his shoulder.

And then, in what could only be described as a full-blown panic move, Jake spun around and ran.

Like, actually ran.

Through the snack aisle, dodging bags of chips and disgruntled shoppers, past the sample table, and out the store doors. It was as if he'd spotted an actual threat. You stared after him, holding his dignity in one hand and a can of soup in the other.

The stranger who had been casually eyeing you looked even more confused now, as if he’d witnessed a scene from a badly written TV sitcom.

You shrugged, trying to cover for the man who was now two aisles away, “My boyfriend can be a little bit crazy,” you muttered, laughing awkwardly as you began walking toward the door. You dropped the soup can on his foot. “See you!”

And without waiting for a response, you bolted out of the store after him.

“JAKE SIM, I’LL KILL YOU!” you yelled across the parking lot.

You found him pacing next to his car like a madman who’d just come to terms with the fact that he’d let his emotions spiral in public. His hands were in his hair, tugging like he was trying to physically yank his frustration out of his brain.

You marched up to him, heat rising in your chest, and the nerve to confront him. “Hey! You made me look like an idiot!”

Jake turned to face you, eyes wide, clearly surprised that you were actually following him. “You made yourself look like that!” he snapped, a slight edge in his voice.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have to if you stopped acting like my boyfriend around any man who approaches me!” You felt your hands on your hips, standing your ground like you were the queen of this absurd conversation.

Jake’s face froze, his brows furrowing in frustration. “You want freaks like him to approach you?”

“No?” you shot back. “But I’m perfectly capable of turning them down on my own.”

“I was just—” he began, floundering for a reason that was not his own mess.

“Was just what? Why do you keep doing this? Acting all weirdly jealous and protective!” you interrupted, genuinely curious now.

Jake exhaled, turning slowly, like the weight of this conversation was about to implode on him. His voice softened, his eyes wide, clearly caught off guard by your determination. “Because…” he started, his voice lower than usual, the words stumbling out like he was wrestling with a secret.

“Because what?”

He didn’t answer.

Just stood there—hands clenched, jaw tight, breath sharp.

Then suddenly—he dropped his arms like they weighed a ton. Like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a single, desperate step before spinning back around to face you.

“BECAUSE!” Jake shouted, his voice louder than he intended. Your eyes snapped open wide, caught completely off guard.

Jake kept going—words spilling, frantic. “Because I don’t know what this is—whatever the hell you’ve done to me—but I can’t think straight. I can’t breathe when you look at me like that and I haven’t felt like this ever and it’s—it’s messing me up.”

His hands went to his temples. “Like fuck…I think I might need therapy. Like, actual therapy. Because of you.”

The air between you cracked—silence stretching heavy and tight.

You stared at him, voice soft now. “I– did I do something wrong?”

Jake dropped his hands, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His face twisted, like he hated even having feelings, like letting them out was burning him from the inside.

Then—quieter. Broken.

“No,” he said. “Fuck, no. Quite the opposite.”

You stood frozen. “What?”

He stepped closer, eyes wild, voice raw.

“I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me, okay?” Jake snapped. His voice cracked, raw and strained like it had been clawing at his throat for days.

“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think straight. I forget how to function. I forget what I’m doing. It’s like my entire brain short-circuits just because you looked in my direction.” He raked a hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.

“You drive me crazy. You laugh at things that aren’t funny, and you talk like the world’s ending if you don’t say it all right now, and you never let anything go—ever—and it’s infuriating. It’s exhausting. You’re exhausting!”

He turned, pointing at you like you were the cause of every malfunction in his soul.

“I shouldn’t care if you’re cold. I shouldn’t want to punch every guy who looks at you for longer than five seconds. I shouldn’t feel like I’m being electrocuted every time you accidentally touch me. That’s not normal. That’s not me. I’m Jake fucking Sim for crying out loud!”

He paused, chest rising and falling, eyes burning into yours.

“I don’t even like people! I liked hating you! I was good at hating you! And now I can’t sleep and I can’t think and all I do is wonder what you’re doing and if you’re thinking about me too and I—”

He broke off, swallowing hard.

Then softer, hoarse:

“I don’t know what this is. But I think I’m losing my goddamn mind over you.”

You stood there. Blinking. Heart somewhere near your ankles.

Jake had just... exploded. Confessed? Kinda? In the most Jake way possible—by yelling about how much he hated that he didn’t hate you.

“…Okay,” you said slowly, like someone trying to defuse a bomb with zero training. “So, like... just to clarify… you’re not mad at me. You’re mad because you like me?”

Jake stared at you like he couldn’t believe that was your takeaway. Like you’d just handed him a banana when he asked for a pen.

“I just—like, not to make this about me,” you continued, hands half-lifted like you were talking to a wild raccoon, “but that was a lot of yelling and you kinda sounded like you were about to fight me and propose in the same breath.”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Oh my god.”

You bit your lip. “So... um. Do you wanna kiss me or punch drywall? I just need to know what stage of emotional collapse we’re currently at.”

A beat.

“Like... if I lean in, am I getting kissed or concussed?”

He looked like he was seriously considering both.

You tried to smile. “I mean… thanks? For the mental breakdown, I think?”

He just blinked—still breathing like he’d sprinted through a breakup, a confession, and a public meltdown all in one afternoon.

Like he hadn’t decided yet whether to kiss you, cry, or walk into traffic.

Then, softer, you glanced up at him. Still unsure. Still trying to play it cool despite the fact that your heart was definitely trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“Like… I mean, I totally get why this would frustrate you,” you said, nodding seriously, like you were a therapist delivering a diagnosis. “Totally understandable. If I was going through what you were going through, maybe I’d be a little insane too. With, you know, healthier coping mechanisms, sure.”

Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re talking too much. Do you like me or not?”

You blinked. “Wow. Okay. No trigger warning?”

“I’m at my limit.” Jake sighed.

“Yeah,” you said. “That’s… kind of obvious. You’re, like, one sentence away from combusting.”

Jake pointed at you like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “I—God, this is so embarrassing. Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like you,” you muttered, looking away.

“You’re saying a whole lot of nothing,” he snapped.

You threw your hands up. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t have a perfectly rehearsed monologue ready! Some of us don’t process our feelings through public tantrums!”

Jake narrowed his eyes, “I yelled because I was panicking!”

“Well maybe don’t yell at someone who likes you, Jake!”

“You didn’t even say you liked me!”

“I was getting there!”

“You were stalling!”

“I was awkward!” you shrieked, pointing right back at him. 

Jake threw his hands in the air. “Why are you the one acting like you just confessed your undying love through a full-blown breakdown?!”

A beat.

Silence.

Your faces? Bright red. Breathing like you just finished a cage match.

Then you exploded.

“FINE. YES. I LIKE YOU TOO, YOU PSYCHO!”

Jake froze. “You what now?”

You looked away, furious with yourself. “You heard me. I’m not repeating it. Take the win and choke on it.”

“That was the worst love confession I’ve ever received.”

You glared at him. “It wasn’t supposed to be one!”

“Well, it was horrible.”

“Yeah? Yours wasn’t exactly sonnet material either.”

You stared at each other. Still angry. Still flushed. Still… weirdly too close.

And somehow, despite all the yelling, all the sniping—

There was that thing in the air again. That pull.

Jake blinked. “...So are we dating now or what?”

You groaned. “Not like this, the fuck”

—-

The silence in the apartment was deafening.

Not literal silence—the kettle was whistling like it was being paid to, and someone’s phone was playing a YouTube video just loud enough to be irritating. But the emotional silence? The thick, suffocating, “we confessed our feelings and now we don’t know how to human anymore” kind of silence? Yeah, the two of you were losing it.

You were standing in the kitchen, arms folded, staring at the toaster like it had personally wronged you. Jake was sitting on the couch, holding a mug he wasn’t even drinking from, eyes glued to the television pretending to be absorbed.

Neither of you spoke.

The toaster clicked. You jumped like you’d been shot.

The two of you glanced at each other. You blinked at him. He blinked back. 

Then immediately looked away, sipping his mug. The wrong end of the mug.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re drinking from the side with the tag still in it.”

“I like the taste of paper sometimes,” he said without looking at you.

You tried. “So... uh, did you sleep okay?”

Jake nodded way too fast. “Yeah. Great. You?”

“Fine.”

“Cool.”

You stared at each other for another five seconds.

Then, at the exact same time:

“So, what are you—” “Do you want—”

Silence again.

You turned back to the counter, flustered. “This is so weird.”

Jake exhaled sharply. “You think?”

You glanced at him. “Well, I’m not used to openly... liking you or being I guess civil.”

“You’ve done a great job hiding it,” he muttered.

You smirked, falling back on habit. “Well, I am cuter when I’m emotionally unavailable.”

“I think it’s scarier when you’re emotionally available.”

You turned, arms folded. “So what, you prefer when I threaten you with kitchen utensils?”

Jake shrugged, leaning against the counter like he wasn’t seconds away from combusting. “At least I knew where I stood.”

And that? That shut you up real quick.

Because you both knew—you’d just entered new, terrifying, heart-melty territory.

And neither of you had a clue what the hell to do next.

—-

There was a sock on the floor.

A sock. On the floor.

His sock.

White. Crumpled. Mocking you from the hallway.

Something inside you snapped.

“SIM JAEYUN!” you shrieked, the kind of full-volume yell that summoned the fury of every past version of you who���d ever tripped over that man’s laundry.

Jake’s door opened slowly, like even it was afraid of you. He peeked out. Hair messy. Shirt hanging loose. Clueless. Hot. You hated him.

“...Yeah?”

“HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO PICK UP YOUR SOCKS—”

“I—”

“You what? This isn’t the first fucking time–”

“Ah, fuck it.”

You didn’t get to finish.

Jake stepped out. Two fast, easy strides.

And he kissed you.

Hard.

His hand found the back of your neck, fingers pressing gently yet desperately, as if he’d been aching for this moment, pulling you closer with a sense of urgency that couldn’t be ignored. Without hesitation, his lips met yours—no gentleness, no grace—just raw, impulsive need.

The hallway blurred.

You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound whole. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, like he needed your body to make sense of the chaos in his head. The kiss was hot and heavy, all teeth and tongue and emotion that neither of you had known what to do with until now.

Your hands clenched around the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him even closer, as if you were trying to tear the tension from his chest and claim it for yourself. Jake’s groan vibrated against your lips—low, desperate, and filled with something completely unrestrained. His hands dug into your waist, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t get enough of you. And then, with a sudden shift, he moved—forward, desperate, no longer willing to hold back.

In one swift, breathless motion, Jake pressed you against the wall, his body caging you in with just enough force to knock the air from your lungs. His hand gently cradled your jaw while the other slid down to catch your wrist, his fingers locking with yours as if the touch was a lifeline, something he couldn’t let go of even if he tried.

You gasped, the back of your head colliding softly with the wall, and Jake swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss like he was trying to consume you whole. The kiss turned hotter, more frantic—lips pulling, chasing, moving with an intensity that had been building for weeks and was now unleashed all at once.

Then, you squeezed his hand. Hard. Your body trembled with the force of it, like you needed something to hold onto before you lost yourself. And Jake felt it—felt the desperation in your touch. Without hesitation, he squeezed back, his thumb brushing over yours as he refused to let go.

For half a second, his forehead rested against yours, both of you gasping for air, and neither of you willing to pull away.

You blinked up at him, your mind still spinning from the kiss, disoriented.

“…I’ll pick it up,” you whispered, your voice softer than you intended. “The socks.”

You bent down, still avoiding his gaze, grabbing the sock off the floor. “Just... just put it nicely next time.”

You turned and walked back into your room, your legs unsteady as if they could no longer hold you together.

Jake stood in the hallway, frozen, his heart racing, his mind completely blank. He gripped the wall beside him like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. But it did. And now, he had no idea what to do with it.

—-

Jake hadn’t screamed your name like that since the glitter explosion 2 months back.

“WHERE’S MY RED FOLDER?!” he bellowed.

Before you could even think of a way out of this—or how to hide under the floorboards—Jake barged into your room. Hair still wet from the shower. His shirt hanging half-buttoned, like he’d walked straight out of a webtoon. Fuck, he was sexy. Not the time though because you were sure you were about to get beaten up.

He slammed the door open so hard that it bounced back off the wall with a sickening thud.

You gave him a nervous smile, your best attempt at pretending you weren’t about to die. “Don’t be mad…”

Jake’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “What did you do?”

“I… might’ve thought it was old,” you said, wincing at the honesty in your voice. “So I kinda... threw it away?”

Jake’s body went rigid. His eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“You what?!”

“I—” You stammered, hands raised defensively. “I swear it looked all crumply, all old and–and–and ruined!”

Jake stepped forward, eyes burning with anger. You could feel the heat of his fury radiating off of him—jaw clenched, fists tight by his sides, like he was about to explode. You knew this look. It was like he was one wrong move away from detonating.

And just when you thought the situation couldn’t get worse, you did the only thing you could think of.

You threw yourself at him.

Your hands grabbed his shirt, and before he could even get a word out, you yanked him down, your lips slamming into his with the force of a thousand thunderstorms. It was hard, urgent—so intense, so sudden, that it instantly shut him up.

Jake froze for a split second, like you’d short-circuited his brain, and then, just like that—he kissed you back. No hesitation. No holding back. You were already moving, pushing him backwards, your arms locked around his neck, drawing him closer, deeper. His lips tasted like desperation, like need, and it was all consuming.

You kissed him with everything you had, no holding back. No gentleness. Just the kind of hunger that had been building up between you two for far too long. Your lips moved together, fast, messy, and you felt him press into you, desperate to keep up. Every part of you wanted him—wanted him to feel the frustration, the desire, the rage that had been bubbling under the surface for weeks.

Jake groaned into your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening. You kissed him harder, faster, pressing him back against the wall until he was pinned, his breath ragged as you both gasped for air.

His hands found your thighs and, without a word, you jumped. Legs wrapping around his waist, you felt him catch you effortlessly, your bodies moving as one.

Then, with a sharp turn, he slammed you against the nearest wall, his lips never leaving yours. The kiss was relentless, like he was starving, like he needed to make you feel every part of him, every inch of his desire. His grip on your waist was bruising, possessive, and you responded in kind, tugging at his hair, pulling him closer.

Your mouths collided, chasing each other, moving too fast, too clumsily. 

Jake pulled back only when you both couldn’t breathe anymore. Your foreheads rested together, breaths uneven, eyes wild and hungry.

He looked you over once, placed you back down on the floor, his expression unreadable, and then muttered, “...I’ll just rewrite it.”

And before you could process it, before you could say a word, he was gone. Leaving you breathless, in your own room, utterly wrecked—staring at the spot where he'd just completely destroyed every last bit of control you had.

—-

You were standing in the kitchen, Jake was at the sink, and the tension was so thick you could practically slice it with a knife.

“I don’t understand why you would move the dishes,” Jake snapped, gesturing like you’d committed an actual war crime. “I have a system.”

“You have no system,” you shot back, holding a spatula like a sword. “You just shove stuff in and pray the dishwasher works it out like divine intervention.”

“It does work it out!”

“Really? Because last week you melted a Tupperware lid onto a knife.”

“That was ONE TIME—”

You threw the dish towel down. “You’re such a control freak.”

Jake turned, dripping wet hands mid-air. “You alphabetized the seasoning rack. By aesthetic. I had to Google what "sage green" looked like.”

You huffed. “It’s about visual peace, Jake!”

He took a step closer. “You know what’s not peaceful? Living with a freak who organizes our spices!”

You stepped toward him, eyes locked, breathing hard. “Well you know what’s not sexy? Whining about spice jars!”

“Funny,” Jake growled, now chest to chest with you, “because I still want to kiss you right now.”

You both froze.

You were both holding something—him, a mug. You, a spatula. Neither of you blinked.

Then—at the exact same time—you both dropped them.

Clatter.

And lunged.

You collided in the middle of the kitchen, your mouths crashing together, the kiss so intense and fiery it felt like it could set the room on fire. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him like he couldn’t get close enough. You fisted your hands in his shirt, yanking him even closer, until there was nothing between you but shared breaths and weeks of pent-up frustration.

His kiss was desperate, furious, like he hated how much he wanted it, and yet couldn’t stop. Your lips moved together, teeth clashing, and you met his passion with equal intensity—biting his lip, tilting your head, the quiet sigh you let out making him groan into your mouth.

You were both angry, breathless, and so far gone you didn’t even care.

When you finally pulled apart, your noses brushing, your lips swollen and tingling, you both just stared at each other. Your hearts pounded.

Then, at the exact same time, you both asked, “...Are we boyfriend and girlfriend or what?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Jake pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck, before pulling back with that signature smirk.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think we are.”

You grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him back down, and kissed him again.

“Good. Now shut up and kiss me.”

Jake groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding to your back, pulling you even closer.

“God, I’m so in love with you, it’s actually disgusting,” he muttered, his voice full of both frustration and affection.

And for once, you couldn’t agree more.

—---

It was your first official date.

Like—an actual, real, human-first-date. No yelling. No post-argument makeouts. Just food. Chairs. Maybe eye contact if you were feeling brave.

You’d been dating for three days.

Which, so far, had consisted of:

Yelling at each other.

Making out.

Rolling your eyes at each other.

Making out again. Repeat steps 1–4.

Three days of chaotic tension. Of brushing shoulders in the hallway and pretending it didn’t set your whole body on fire. Of accidentally calling him “babe” and then gaslighting him into thinking he misheard you. Of Jungwon asking the two of you to shut up and stop arguing in the middle of the night. You weren’t arguing. 

Three days of sharing the sink like civilized people, brushing your teeth side by side, totally normal, totally casual—totally not internally spiraling over the fact that your former arch-nemesis was now your boyfriend.

And then there were the quiet moments.

Like this morning, when you walked into the kitchen to find him already making coffee. He handed you a mug—black, just the way you liked it—and pretended he didn’t notice the way your fingers brushed.

You stared at it.

“What?” he said, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not a monster.”

You took a sip. “So you’re being nice to me now?”

Jake shrugged. “Don’t get used to it. I just don’t want to date someone who’s chronically dehydrated.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re worried about my water intake while you eat chips for breakfast.”

“Those chips had lime on them,” he said. “That’s vitamin C.”

Still, later that day, he also handed you a granola bar before you left the house. No comment. Just tossed it at your head with alarming accuracy and walked away.

And that was your boyfriend.

You, of course, were no better.

Like last night, when you walked past his room and saw him still hunched over his desk, blue light glowing off his face, glasses crooked, typing like he was trying to physically punch a thesis into existence.

You didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the doorway for a second, watching the way his brows were furrowed in that hyper-focused, very-stupid, very-Jake way.

Then you glanced at the time. No dishes in the sink. Nothing in the trash.

He hadn’t eaten all day.

You scowled, muttered something about “men and their lack of survival instincts,” and turned straight into the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, you dropped a steaming bowl of his favorite ramen next to his laptop without saying a word.

Jake blinked up at you. “Did you—?”

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t pass out. It’ll be annoying to carry your unconscious body.”

Then you left.

Fast.

Too fast for him to say thank you. Too fast for him to see the way your lips twitched just slightly at the corners.

And then…

The next day, you were minding your business, scrolling on your phone, sprawled on the couch like the world owed you peace, when Jake casually walked in and dropped himself beside you—close, but not too close.

He cleared his throat once. Then again. Dramatically.

You glanced at him. “Are you dying?”

“Not today,” he said. Then added, without looking at you, “Wanna hang out tonight?”

You blinked. “Out where?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Somewhere with food. Lighting. Chairs. That’s usually what dates have, right?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Was that you asking me out?”

Jake didn’t flinch. Just sipped his drink. “Depends. You gonna say yes?”

You stared at him for a long beat.

He stared at the wall like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

Then, you smirked. “Only if you promise not to talk about tech stuff the whole time.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a grin. “If you’re lucky, I’ll limit myself to only mentioning API twice before dessert.”

You squinted. “You’re really bad at this whole romance thing, aren’t you?”

He grinned back, impossibly confident. “And yet, here you are. Saying yes anyway.”

You rolled your eyes, your lips threatening to betray you with a smile. “Yeah, well, I make questionable decisions sometimes.”

Jake nudged your knee with his, grinning like he’d just won a gold medal. “You’re about to make another one. I’m picking you up at seven.”

You crossed your arms, trying to look unimpressed. “We live together.”

Jake leaned back, completely unbothered. “So? I can’t be romantic?”

You didn’t argue.

God help you.

You were kind of excited.

—-

This was your first date.

And you were spiraling.

You had changed your outfit three times. Reapplied your lip balm five. Stood in front of the mirror giving yourself a pep talk like you were about to go on national television.

Jake was downstairs.

Wearing cologne and Jake never wore cologne.

When you finally met him outside, Jake blinked at you like you'd just materialized from a dream. His eyes widened, then quickly darted away, as if he could avoid the full force of your impact.

“You clean up okay,” you teased, trying not to smile too wide.

He opened his mouth, clearly trying to recover, but it came out wrong. “You look... pretty.” He froze, his face turning a shade of red that should’ve been illegal. Then he scrambled, “I mean, uh, shitty.”

“I heard you the first time, Jake,” you said, tapping his face lightly, almost affectionately. “So do you.”

—-

“Stop stealing my fries.”

“I’m not stealing. I’m redistributing.”

“Stop that! It’s not my fault I ordered curly fries and you got regular fries.”

“And I regret it. Let me live.”

You were about to launch into a full rant about Food Boundaries when your foot brushed his under the table. Then his knee. Then his thigh.

Neither of you moved.

And then—like gravity just snapped—you were both leaning over the table. French fries abandoned. Eyes locked. Breaths syncing. Heat crawling up your neck.

Jake reached out, brushed a hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering just a second too long.

You stared at his lips. He stared at yours.

Oh, you were so going to kiss in this grimy diner booth, and it was going to be beautiful and stupid and you didn’t even care.

And then—

“Well, well, well.”

You both froze.

Standing next to the table, milkshake in hand, eyes wide with the smuggest expression on Earth: Jungwon.

Jake sat up like someone just caught him cheating on a test.

You blinked. “Jungwon! Hi! What a surprise!”

Jungwon glanced between the two of you. The blushing. The weird knee situation. The shared fries. The vibes.

He sighed, long and dramatic.

Then took a sip of his milkshake and said—

“Fuck. Now I gotta move out.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

Jake looked stunned. You stared after Jungwon in horror.

“Do you think he’s gonna tell everyone?” you whispered.

At that exact moment, both your phones buzzed in unison—a notification from Jungwon’s Instagram, tagging both you and Jake.

“That answers our question.” Jake replied.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

And under the flickering diner lights, knees still touching under the table, Jake reached across and laced his fingers through yours.He glanced at your intertwined hands, then at your face.

“God. I think I actually really like you.” he muttered, like it physically pained him.

You didn’t even blink.

“I hope the fuck you do. I’m literally your girlfriend.”

Jake groaned, slumping back into the booth like you just personally ruined him.

“This is so humiliating.”

You grinned, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah. For you.”

[heartkaji]

currently thinking about dante sparda who’s a feminist, 6’3, built—and oh, did i mention feminist?

“say, dante, what’s your opinion on men’s rights ?”

“irrelevant.”

dante doesn’t miss the slight pause you make before continuing to stir your drink. he sits in the booth across from you, enzo munching on fries opposite him as he sneaks a sip of his sundae.

“yer joking !” enzo says between belches. “something wrong with ya kiddo ? what do you mean men’s rights are irrelevant ?!”

but dante isn’t listening. he’s more concerned about the gap between your lips & coffee cup, the way you tilt it slightly above your mouth so as to not stain the glass with your gloss. your lips tug into a pout when you find the rim stained in coke pink regardless. you pull out a napkin & wipe it with a frown. cute.

“well, as a six three, employed and financially stable male,” dante clears his throat, smug, “i can’t help but turn my focus to more important things. for example, the widening gap between men and women’s wages. and we can’t forget the rising prices of feminine hygiene products, of course.”

enzo wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. he doesn’t miss the way dante’s pupils seem to flit over to you every now and then. he clicks his tongue,

“kid, please, y’know she hasn’t even looked at ya, right?”

“she will.”

you continue to scroll through your phone.

but dante takes your silence as intrigue.

“anyways,” dante pauses as if searching for the words, “i just think it’s important to raise awareness—”

“yer raisin’ my freakin’ blood pressure.”

dante shoots him a glare. “i just think that, as a six foot four male, it’s my duty to raise awareness about the issues women face and the obvious gender bias in america’s modern day economy.”

“y’said six three before, kid—wait, what’s yer’ height gotta do with anything ?!”

as if on cue, your teaspoon clatters to the ground, and dante, ever the feminist, is quick to lean down to pick it up—rattling the table and spilling enzo’s fries in the process.

“hey! watch it—“

“your spoon, lady,”

you blink. dante’s taken his time to wipe the spoon clean & present it with a napkin. you hesitate a little before obliging with a murmur, “thanks..?”

“you’re welcome,” he says smoothly, relaxing into the booth seat. “no woman should ever have to bend over in a skirt. i mean—unless she wants to. then it’s her choice. her feminine power.”

“oh !”

enzo chokes on a fry. you stare at dante for a beat too long & he can’t tell if you’re confused or interested, but dante has an ego bigger than his head so he decides upon the latter.

“say, lady, don’t you agree that men should always pay on the first date ?”

you raise a brow. “the first ?”

dante waves his hands. “all, really. i only mention the first because i know some strong, independent women prefer to pay too. i respect that. i respect all women, really.”

“right. and is this your way of offering to pay for my food ?”

dante’s pupils shift to your table. only now does he realize you’ve ordered the most expensive french breakfast on the menu, as well as a drink too milky brown to cost the same as your average cappuccino. his wallet aches heavy in his pocket. “with pleasure ! lemme just get my wallet out…hope i didn’t leave it in the hellcat…”

“huh? wasn’t our uber a toyota?”

dante bares his teeth, ready to strangle enzo when you giggle—

“oh, gosh,” you sniffle, wiping tears, “that’s enough, you two are hilarious.”

clearing your throat, you raise your hand to reveal the diamond settled on your finger. “i’m sure you’re lovely and all, but i’m happily engaged.”

“that’s okay! i support women having multiple streams of happiness—ow !”

dante rubs at his shin as you continue. “that’s nice for you, but i’m fine with my fiancé.” you set some cash on the table and dust your skirt off, standing up to leave. “thank you for the laugh, though, gentlemen.”

you wave them goodbye and make your exit.

“God, i love women.”

“seek help,” enzo mutters, as he sneaks a sip from dante’s drink again.

© 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐊𝐀𝐉𝐈 ー do not edit, copy, translate or re-upload.

[somnoir]

Down Bad in Distress - Part 3

Part 2 | Masterpost

"Daniel, I heard from CW that your children are moving here." Alfred said one day.

Everyone immediately pauses, except for Danny who was happily doing the cooking while Alfred served the food.

"Danny's kids?" Tim narrows his eyes, glancing back at Jason. "Danny?"

"Yeah? Oh, right! Dick, you didn't tell them?" Danny asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Dick nervously laughs, "Slipped my mind. What's that about your kids?"

"Right, right. They didn't like being away from me all the time so they decided to move. I was hoping to enroll Ellie into Gotham Academy." Danny hums, serving Damian some vegan pancakes and patting the boy's head. "She'd be in your year, kid."

Damian scowls, swatting his hand away but it wasn't accompanied by the usual snark.

"And your son?" Dick asks, immediately being scolded by Alfred for talking while chewing.

"Dante takes a Mechanical Engineering course. It was harder for him to transfer since this would be his third year into it." Danny sighs, sounding a little tired just as he serves Bruce some coffee. "But my kid's stubborn as hell."

"How old are your children?" Bruce tilts his head, just as Danny swats away some dust of his shirt.

"Dan is 23 and Ellie is 15."

"Jason and Damian's age. Hm."

The aforementioned two immediately locked eyes, already mentally planning on tracking down the Fenton siblings. As per usual, Alfred beat them to it and quickly gave Danny an invitation.

"When are they arriving? I do hope that they can come for a meal." Alfred hums, patting Danny in the back.

"Today, actually!" Danny beams.

"You're not worried about your kids being in Gotham?" Steph asks, mouth still full. Danny doesn't even hesitate to pinch her sides when she does, making Stephanie yelp.

"My parents taught me and my sister how to fight at very young ages. My kids got the same treatment. Ellie has one hell of a right hook and Dan gets creative with whatever the hell he can use as a weapon." Danny snorts, "I got called by the principal once cause he stabbed someone with a pencil. Not that it wasn't deserved. My kid doesn't like it when people go after his friends."

"Gotham Material?" Duke asks.

"Gotham Material." Danny chuckles, "If a rogue attacks, my kids would go on with their day like nothing happened. Weird shit like that is normal back in Amity."

Ah, yes. The illusive amity park. Where everything is utterly strange. Tim still couldn't get a good background check on the small town in Illinois—a place that wasn't even marked on the fucking map.

"So..." Dick grins, "When do we get to meet them?"

Alfred clears his throat, "Would dinner suffice?"

Danny grins back, "I'll wrangle them here if I can."

The moment Bruce found out Danny had kids, something in his brain short-circuited. The knowledge alone was enough to make him reassess everything he thought he knew about his bodyguard, but hearing Danny talk about them? That was something else entirely.

Bruce had barely asked a question before Danny launched into a full-fledged monologue, his usual lazy grin stretching into something softer, brighter. Every word was laced with pride, every detail shared with the delight of a man who lived to brag about his kids.

In the span of two hours, Bruce learned more about Dante and Janelle Fenton than he knew about most people in his life.

Dante—the eldest—was a menace. An antisocial teenager with a violent streak that made Damian look like a well-adjusted honor student. Fights, trouble, a past full of missteps and regret. But Danny didn't speak about it with shame or frustration. No, he spoke with admiration, because Dante tried. He fought against his own nature, struggled to rein himself in, to be better for the people he loved.

"He’s a smart kid," Danny had said, his voice full of warmth. "Too smart. Built himself a motorcycle from scrap when he was sixteen—real Frankenstein's monster type of thing, but it runs better than my car."

Bruce had to physically stop himself from calling Jason right then and there, because if his second son found out a teenager had built the equivalent of the Batpod out of junk, he would never recover.

Then there was Janelle. Just as troublesome as her brother, but in an entirely different way. She wasn’t a fighter, at least not in the way Dante was. Her chaos was more... exploratory. She skipped class not out of defiance but because something else caught her interest. An adventurous child who saw a locked door and immediately wondered what was on the other side. A girl who thought parkour was a valid form of travel, who had given Danny a heart attack the first time he caught her flipping off rooftops like a circus performer—it reminded him of Dick when he was much younger.

"She stuck the landing, though," Danny had admitted, laughing. "I wanted to ground her forever, but I was also kinda impressed."

And the stars. Both of his kids loved the stars. Danny spoke of late-night stargazing like it was a sacred ritual, like tracing constellations in the night sky was an unbreakable bond between them. And despite the fact that Dante was technically an adult now, despite the fact that Janelle was a teenager with her own life and interests, Danny still spoke of them like they were his babies.

Bruce sat there and listened, absorbing every word. He asked questions because he wanted to know more, because watching Danny light up every time he got to talk about his kids was addicting.

It was attractive. Gods, it was attractive.

Danny Fenton loved his children unconditionally. Not just in the way he spoke of them but in the way he understood them. The way he knew them. There was no hesitance in his words, no uncertainty in their relationship. He knew their struggles, their strengths, their habits—he knew them in a way that made Bruce’s chest ache.

Because as much as he admired it, as much as he wanted to drown in the warmth of Danny’s love for his children, there was an ugly sliver of jealousy buried beneath it all.

Danny’s kids talked to him. They trusted him. There was no barrier, no invisible wall of hesitance between them.

Bruce had spent years trying to connect with his own children, trying to bridge the gaps that always seemed to widen no matter how hard he reached. He loved them with everything he had, but love alone had never been enough to stop them from pulling away.

Danny? Danny just had it. That easy, unquestionable bond. That foundation built on trust and understanding, not just duty or protection.

Bruce swallowed down the jealousy. He shoved it into the part of his mind where he buried all his regrets and let himself be smitten instead. Because damn it, responsible and loving fathers were attractive, and watching Danny Fenton light up over his kids was devastating.

Bruce isn’t surprised that after hearing Danny gush about his kids, he feels compelled—inspired, really—to introduce his own children to the Fentons properly. What does surprise him is how little convincing it takes to get his entire family to cooperate.

By the time he makes his decision, every single one of them is already waiting in the foyer, dressed, prepared, and standing with an air of near-military precision.

Bruce narrows his eyes, crossing his arms as he surveys them. "I wasn’t expecting compliance from any of you."

Damian, adjusting his hair in the reflection of a polished vase, merely scoffs. "Tt. You underestimate us, Father. We cannot afford to embarrass ourselves in front of Daniel’s family."

Jason, standing beside him, is… straightening his jacket? Running a hand through his hair like he's actually making an effort to look presentable? Damian barely spares him a glance before adding, "Todd, don’t mess this up. His eldest is the same age as you and Cassandra."

"Wouldn’t dream of it, demon brat," Jason grumbles, rolling his shoulders like he’s psyching himself up for a job interview.

Bruce is still processing this unusual display of readiness when Alfred arrives, a knowing, fond smile settling on his face as he takes in the scene.

"I must say," Alfred begins, hands clasped behind his back, "I am quite proud that none of you needed prompting. Daniel will appreciate the effort."

"You can count on us, Alfie!" Dick declares, beaming.

Steph and Tim follow up with matching thumbs-ups, their grins full of mischief but their intentions sincere.

"We'll be on our best behavior!"

Alfred simply nods, clearly amused but unwilling to acknowledge it aloud. "Very well—" Then a knock at the door interrupts, and his eyes flick toward the entrance. "Ah. It seems Daniel has arrived."

There’s a split second of calm before chaos erupts.

Bruce watches as his children all lunge for the door at once, elbowing, shoving, and stepping on each other’s feet in a desperate attempt to reach it first.

Alfred, with decades of experience in dealing with their nonsense, doesn’t bother reacting beyond stepping forward and opening the door himself. As soon as he does, he turns and pins the children with a look of utter disappointment.

The effect is immediate.

Every single one of them freezes mid-scramble, jerking upright like misbehaving students caught by a strict headmaster. With impressive speed, they fall into an eerily well-practiced formation, arranging themselves with the kind of poise that makes them indistinguishable from their usual gala appearances.

Bruce sighs. No. That won’t do.

Danny doesn’t do the whole stiff, overly formal thing. If they meet him like this, he’ll just laugh and call them out for it.

With a subtle wave of his hand, Bruce signals for them to adjust.

In an instant, their postures relax. Smiles become more natural—real rather than rehearsed. The atmosphere shifts from forced courtesy to genuine warmth.

Good.

Because if there’s one thing Bruce has learned, it’s that Danny Fenton can read through bullshit alarmingly well.

The first thing Bruce notices is that Danny isn’t in his usual suit. No high-collared, sharp-lined professionalism. Instead, he’s wearing something casual but still presentable—comfortable. It makes him look softer in a way Bruce rarely gets to see. More relaxed. More himself.

There’s a grin on his face, wide and easy, and a warmth in his eyes that Bruce has only ever seen in Alfred when the family finally gathers together after too long apart.

“Oh, you’re all here!” Danny laughs—laughs—and Bruce has to physically stop himself from reacting because—shit. That sounds good. No, not just good—amazing.

And then—

“My kids—Janelle, no! Do not chase after the turkey, and don’t pet Ace without permission! We are not kidnapping the dog—we have Cujo!"

Bruce barely has a moment to process that before Damian stiffens beside him, squaring his shoulders like he’s preparing to throw hands whoever is trying to steal their dog and turkey?

“Sorry,” Danny says sheepishly, stepping fully inside. “She likes dogs a little too much. Dante here is more of a cat person.”

Bruce doesn’t even have time to respond before Danny reaches back and pulls someone into the manor.

And—what the fuck?

For a split second, Bruce genuinely thinks Danny has somehow duplicated himself. But no. Not quite.

It’s another Fenton. Just younger. Scowlier. Broodier.

Dante Fenton is just as tall as his father, just as broad-shouldered and built. But where Danny is all easy grins and shameless affection, Dante is—well, Bruce can only describe it as Jason if he had a twin that was worse.

His arms are crossed, his expression set into a resting bitch face so perfectly executed that Bruce has seen lesser versions of it on Danny himself.

“This is my eldest, Dante—smile,” Danny practically hisses, pinching his son’s side.

Dante immediately hisses back like a feral animal, shooting his father a glare before half-assing the most reluctant, teeth-baring grimace Bruce has ever seen.

Bruce is so close to laughing.

But before he can even comment, there’s the sound of something small tearing across the yard, followed by—

“Ellie, come back here!”

Danny barely has time to sigh before bolting back outside, disappearing for only a second before returning—this time, dragging yet another Fenton into the house.

Bruce blinks. Another one.

This one’s smaller. Female. But still unmistakably a Fenton.

“This raccoon is Janelle,” Danny introduces, exasperated.

“I’m not a raccoon!” Janelle yells, pouting hard enough to make even Damian look impressed.

“You might as well be!” Danny huffs, already brushing off the dirt and grime clinging to her jeans, muttering to himself as he adjusts her hoodie and makes sure she’s not too disheveled. “Sorry,” he murmurs again, glancing up at Bruce like he’s worried he’s making a mess just by existing.

Bruce doesn’t even think before stepping forward, automatically ushering the Fentons further inside.

“No need,” he assures, as quickly and firmly as possible. “You’ve seen my kids, Danny. We have Steph.”

“Hey!”

Bruce barely registers Stephanie’s indignation because, frankly, he’s far too busy being weak over this whole situation.

Timothy Wayne-Drake has met a lot of people who love their parents. Some to a reasonable degree. Some to a concerning one. But he has never met anyone as downright possessive of their father as the Fenton siblings.

At first, he thought Dante and Janelle—sorry, Ellie—were just the skittish type. You know, new place, new people, a little wary of the freakin’ Waynes (which, fair). But, uh. No. That is not what’s happening here.

They are, quite literally, guarding Danny.

They don’t let him stay with Bruce for too long. They don’t let Danny play around with the rest of the Wayne kids unsupervised. There’s always one of them around. Always watching.

At first, it’s just funny. Like, ha-ha, protective kids, whatever. But then Tim starts realizing—

Dante and Ellie Fenton have instantly decided to be at least a little hostile to every single Wayne in the building.

Except Alfred. Because, obviously, everyone likes Alfred.

“So… Erm…” Duke, brave soul that he is, awkwardly tries to break the ice, clearly very aware of Ellie’s piercing blue eyes lasering into his soul. “I was just wondering why you two decided to move. I mean…”

“Oh, that’s simple!” Ellie laughs. Cute.

Then she grins. Not cute.

Sharp teeth. Way too sharp. Like her dad’s.

“Dad was away for too long. We didn’t like that.” Her grin widens. “And besides, Dad seems to be okay with staying in Gotham long term. Might as well move too.”

…Yeah, okay, that was definitely a threat.

There’s something in the way she says it. Something in the undertone.

Like she blames them. Like she’s implying they are the reason her father was gone for so long.

Tim resists the urge to raise his hands in surrender.

Meanwhile, Dante says nothing.

Which, honestly? Probably for the best. Ellie is friendly at least—sweet, in a way that would be reassuring if she didn’t just casually drop the most unsettling offhanded comments.

Dante, though? Dante is just vibing.

With Jason.

In the corner.

Where neither of them is speaking.

And Tim isn’t sure why that’s worse, but it is.

"Where are you guys staying at? Danny’s penthouse, or did you get a house?"

Steph plops into the seat beside Ellie, casually pulling out Uno—the game of friendship-ending grudges and betrayal.

"Jason crashed there once," she adds. "He still won’t tell us why."

Dante freezes. Stiffens visibly as he turns to Jason. His eyes narrow, analyzing. Jason immediately reacts in kind.

For a solid minute, neither of them says a word. Just—silent eye contact.

Then, like some kind of telepathic dude code agreement, Dante nods—approvingly.

Jason hums, looking pleased with that, and then just…turns back to the TV.

What the hell was that?

"Same place," Ellie huffs, like her brother didn’t just have a whole unspoken conversation with Jason. Then she perks up. "Oh, which one of you is in my year at Gotham Academy?"

Everyone, immediately and without hesitation, gestures to Damian.

"Demon Brat," Tim says, speaking for the masses.

Damian scowls, clutching Titus like the dog is his last anchor to sanity. Which, fair. Mostly because Ace—the traitor—has already defected, happily nestling into Ellie’s lap like she handcrafted him from scratch.

Ellie narrows her eyes at Damian, then grins. Wide. Too wide.

"Is that a katana?"

The room stills.

Every single person whips their head toward the katana Damian absolutely does not go anywhere without.

Then, hesitantly, they look back at Ellie.

Who has already stood up and is calmly approaching Damian like she isn’t about to start something.

"May I?" she asks, stretching a hand out.

Tim makes a mental note: this one is dangerous.

"Ellie," Dante finally speaks, voice flat but exasperated.

Damian snarls, holding the sword closer. "What makes you think I’d let you touch my blade?"

Oh, she’s smug now. That’s never good.

"I was in Japan for three months when I was twelve," she says, all nonchalant. "Met a lot of interesting people. Learned how to use and maintain katanas during that time."

Damian squints. "Prove it. How does one properly maintain a katana?"

Ellie tilts her head, almost like she’s insulted.

"You start with uchiko, obviously," she says. "Cotton ball, light taps, no rubbing. Clears out the old oil and dust. Then you use a nuguigami cloth—special cloth, not just any cloth—to wipe it down before reapplying the choji oil with an abura nugui cloth. Not too much. Just enough to coat. And for sharpening, you start with a low grit whetstone, move up gradually, and never—never—go for a high grit too early unless you want to ruin the whole edge."

She smirks. "That good enough for you?"

Damian stares.

Tim recognizes that stare. That’s the oh no, I accidentally respect this person stare.

Horrifying.

Bruce and Danny return just in time to witness what should be a nightmare scenario—Ellie handling Damian’s katana like it’s an extension of her own arm.

Damian, to the horror of everyone involved, is right next to her, calmly discussing proper forms and optimal grips like he wasn’t about to stab her five minutes ago.

Tim resists the urge to check if hell has frozen over. Give Constantine a call and everything.

Bruce, naturally, hones in on Danny with that same soft look he thinks no one notices. Gross. He clocks that shit immediately and blanches.

"Your daughter knows how to handle a katana?" Bruce asks, voice way too fond for what should be a concerned question.

Danny, like an absolute menace, doesn’t even blink. "Both of my kids like swords. Ellie just prefers the lighter and faster ones. Dante likes zweihanders and claymores." He waves a dismissive hand. Like this is normal dad talk and not insane assassin lore drop. "Never understood why you like heavy blades, though."

Dante, without missing a beat, defensively shoots back, "They just feel balanced in my hand, okay?"

Tim files that away under: Reasons to Stay on Dante’s Good Side.

Bruce, still doing the gross fond smile thing, tilts his head. "Did you teach them?"

Danny smirks. "I wish. Got a friend who trained me when I was younger. Dante pissed him off just to be taught, and Ellie followed by annoying him until he caved." He shakes his head, sighing like a put-upon father and not a man casually revealing that his kids harassed someone into giving them weapons training. "Least of the crazy shit they’ve done."

Tim immediately clocks the way Dick’s entire being lights up.

"Oh, do tell," Dick grins, leaning in.

Danny, like an absolute maniac, just shrugs and says, completely deadpan:

"Ellie once snuck out in the middle of the night, went missing for a week, and then I found her in Russia, fist-fighting an assassin just last year."

The room freezes.

Tim can physically hear the record scratch in his brain.

Danny, unbothered, continues, "Dante blew up my godfather’s car when he was about to open it."

Tim slowly turns his head toward the two Fenton siblings.

Who are grinning. The same grin. The same sharp, predatory flash of color in their definitely-not-normal blue eyes.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Tim knew Danny wasn’t human. That was accounted for.

Unfortunately, what wasn’t accounted for was the fact that Danny’s kids were also very much not human.

…He needs more caffeine for this.