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Hi :) I'm Fox! I am always online but don't but I don't post as often as I'd like. I have been writing since middle school and now am in college. I love becoming mutuals! I don't mind spam liking or reposting, I find it flattering! I am always trying to become better so please leave kind and corrective feedback! Please reach out, leave a request, and enjoy your time!!
I do not give consent for anyone to repost my work as their own or with credits, even if it's a translated version. Please let me have my own work :)
snape being such a good potion maker because he put time, sweat, blood, and tears into finding a cure. a cure for the love of his life. but rather than being born, the half-blood prince was created—forged in the depths of grief and despair. the knowledge and skill coming far too long after her untimely passing. now he spends his time wallowing in what could have been, if only he had been better. for her.
snape being such a good potion maker because he put time, sweat, blood, and tears into finding a cure. a cure for the love of his life. but rather than being born, the half-blood prince was created—forged in the depths of grief and despair. the knowledge and skill coming far too long after her untimely passing. now he spends his time wallowing in what could have been, if only he had been better. for her.
not proof read or edited. based off the seven minutes in heaven trend on tiktok. self-indulgent. probably ooc
Heels clicking against the marble floor of the extravagant building that was Wayne Enterprises echoed off the walls and reverberated into the elevator where Tim stood. He was disheveled in every way—shaggy hair that fell to cover his eyes, tie dangling loose against his button up shirt—even leaning against the side of the elevator with his shoulders and a cup of coffee in his hands. She walked into the space like she owned it, only sending a slight glance his way as she entered. Sucking in a slight breath gave her the confidence she needed and managed to turn to him, "You should sleep more instead of drinking coffee like its water." Earning a deep chuckle from him as he pushed himself off of the wall, "I started to think you were going to move in with how late you've been staying lately." The corners of his lips curl up into a smirk as his eyes roam up and down her body, hands involuntarily clutching at his sides.
Was his attraction the reason he hired her? No, no. That would be completely unprofessional and prove to Bruce that he wasn't ready to step up. He reviewed her records and files multiple times, ensuring she possessed the skills necessary for the job. Sure, there may have been applicants with more experience than her—but he deserves something good too. And Bruce actually slept with a villain. On multiple occasions. Maybe he could risk divulging in his unprofessional thoughts.
"So, what number do you need?" She asks, breaking Tim out of his thoughts as she turnt towards the button panel on the elevator. He gulped in an attempt to stop his throat from being so dry. "Garage." He manages to get out as he brings his hand up to slick back his hair and puffs out a breath of air, feeling as if the air was now stiff and hot. She gracefully pushed the button and turned to look at him with shimmering eyes as she playfully exclaimed, "Looks like we have a long ride to the bottom." The words in Tim's throat died as he stared down at her, wanting to say something sly like, "Let's make it fun." or "Let's not waste time.", but his brain simply couldn't function. Instead, he stared down at her with an intensity that could be mistaken for hatred but she saw through him as she reciprocated the energy back through her eyes.
The elevator door dinged, signaling its closing with the two staring at each other, still as statues. As the doors started to close, the two felt pulled to each other as their bodies clashed together. Tim's hands sliding down from her upper back to the curve of her waist with the other cupping her jaw and angling her lips up at him. She has one hand placed flat on his chest and another slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He pulls away with a pant, his forehead resting on hers as he gazes into her eyes, "This is dangerous...tell me to stop." He huffed out while squeezing the curve of her waist tighter.
"I like the taste of your lips on mine too much to ever stop." She hummed out as she slid her hand down and pulled him in by tugging on his loose tie. Tim felt the heat ride to his face as his hands moved to hold her face as they passionately kissed, stumbling over each other and bumping into each other and the walls of the elevator. She's rolling her ankles with the heels and her knees feelings weak as he presses her up against the wall. He feels faint as he uses one hand on the wall to stabilize himself on top of her. Tim—who had single-handedly taken down multiple villains, managed missions alone, dealt with the worst of the worst—was now unraveling at the hands of his secretary. And he never wanted it to end.
A ding echos through the elevator as the doors slide open, revealing a mess of the two bodies on top and intermixed with each other to Richard Grayson. Who coughs to make his presence known causing Tim to jump off of her like a teenage boy getting caught red handed by his father. "I was worried that you haven't gotten a lot of sleep with late nights here," Dick smirks and gives her a once-over before looking back at Tim, "I can see why you've spent so much time here, now."
WHAT HAPPENED TO ENEMIES TO LOVERS SLOW BURN?! Why am I in the first paragraph of a fic and all is see is "i hate him....right?" AHHHHHHHHHH NO NO NO. STOP TRYING TO GET TO THE POINT. MAKE ME FEEEEELLL. I WANT TO CRY, I WANT TO LAUGH, I WANT TO SCREAM IN ANGER, I WANT MY HEART TO EXPLODE. GIVE ME THAT SWEET SWEET ENEMIES TO LOVERS THAT IS 500K WORDS LONG WITH A HAPPY ENDING
Pairings: Price x Reader, Johnny x Reader, Roach x Reader, Simon x Reader
Warnings: sexual assault, fighting, talks about readers body, blood, probably ooc but it's all for fun, been sitting in my drafts for months, not edited.
Price is the type to love when you use his status to your advantage
When you're Captain Prices partner who is also apart of the military, people tend to forget that you deserve the same respect as him, even without the rank. You had been a firm but kind person which had drivin' Price to you. He had never seen anyone go through the things you had and turn out so kind. So when he was on his way back from his office to your shared bedroom in the late hours of the night, he never would have expected to hear you shouting at a few privates. "I may be a specialist but that does not give you the right to treat me as if I'm a recruit, my husband is the Captain so you better remember your place." Price's heart skipped a beat as he heard the words slips from your mouth, his normally stoic demeanor breaking. His heart warming as you spoke with pride about sharing his name, a name he once feared was cursed.
Johnny is the type to love when you get praised by superiors
It was in the base after a mission where you had saved a group of civilians that were hidden, tucked away silently behind some rubble that had long since been forgotten. Price had called everyone into the conference room with his normal stoic face. Everyone quickly filed into the room and found their regular seats with ease. Some sat with a grunt, bandaged up by a medic as soon as they got back. Johnny stood at the back of the room, directly in front of Price—who stood at the front of the room—with his hands in his pockets and leaning against the cold wall. When Price starts to debrief over the mission, Johnny blocked out the noise until he heard your name. "They did what none of ya other kids could have managed to do." Price speaks to the group, paying you a compliment that makes you smile and nod at him. Johnny on the other hand—pupils dilated, goofy smile plastered across his face, and glancing between Price and the reader like they hung the moon—practically had a tail wagging happily behind him as if he was the one being complimented. But who can blame him? They share everything anyways.
Roach is the type to love when you show off your skills
Roach knows your skills and abilities, having seen them in person while in the field countless times, he knows to never test you or underestimate you. But not everyone had gotten that memo yet. Which lead to this miserable event in the middle of the training room where a recruit came up to you, trailing not too far behind was his little entourage with grins on their faces, muttering some explicit comment about your body. You bite your lip to choke back the venom that wants to pour from your throat. Roach, who was quietly watching from the sidelines, having paused him movements the moment he saw the recruits heading in your direction with fists clenched. He doesn't go over because he knows that you can manage on your own. It isn't until the recruit makes the brave decision of slapping your ass that you release your anger, grabbing the arm that he used to slap your ass before it returned to its original position and using it to swing him over your shoulder, using momentum and each others body weight to your advantage. The loud slam of the body hitting the concrete floor below him echos through the training room causing heads to turn in their direction, for them all to see the recruit on the floor—gasping for air like you had sucked it all from his lungs—and you, standing over him, glaring daggers at him with a dangerous glint in your eyes. Roach is thankful for his mask at this moment as he can't contain the smirk on his face and way his eyes warmed at the sight of them.
Simon is the type to love watching you put new recruits in their place
When the new recruit tries to make jokes about your body, either it be your height, weight, or other features; you're never one to just sit down and take it. Simon would normally be seething and foaming at the mouth that anyone dared speak about not just you, but anyone on his team in that way. But he knew. He knew how you could handle yourself. How you would embarrass the recruit in front of all his little buddies that were just laughing at his jokes. Either in a sparing rink, in combat training, on the field, or in front of Price. You never failed to make anyone regret speaking ill on your name or any name on the team. Simon can never help but watch with a sly smirk and offering you a washcloth to clean any blood left over afterwards. Sometimes, he will take you back to your room so that he can take care of your wounds himself, never trusting anyone else as much as he trusts himself.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞・tim drake (featuring ceo!tim drake and secretary!reader)
‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ wherein you’re tim’s work wife, but he wants you be something more. a wayne gala gives him the best opportunity to swoop in and finally turn it real.
word count: 2.8k
warnings: attempt at sexual assault, lots of pining (from tim’s end)
note: guys you don’t know how happy i am to have this trope be featured in my first tim fic ever because. well. i am a SUCKER for this trope and i hope i did it justice. and like, who isn’t in love with the idea of ceo!tim??? who isn’t even canon???? (sobbing) anyways please enjoy!
You’re Tim’s work wife.
Everyone knows it. That’s what everyone calls you in the office. Suddenly, Tim is no longer that one guy that exemplifies nepotism, now, he’s just known as your work husband.
He doesn’t notice at first, the way your relationship deepened to something like that. He remembers the day of your first day—12th April, and you had walked into the office at eight-forty three A.M. for a nine A.M. start—but he doesn’t remember. Tim’s naturally observant, so he knows what you were wearing, down to the height of your heels in inches, but he doesn’t really remember any of your interactions. You were just…nondescript. You just happened to apply, and Tam approved. So you came in.
Then, the two of you’d end up pulling in at the same time. Tim would park his car, lock it, and then turn around to see you waiting patiently at the elevator, pressing the open button.
Things just evolved from there. Tim would bypass his usual drive-by coffee order, because you’d have a red eye ready for him, piping hot and perfect to his taste. Tim would fall into the habit of sitting on your desk first thing instead of his, and the two of you would chat before work actually began.
You were, in every sense possible, his work wife. Except for maybe the point in which Tim is supposed to just have platonic…feelings.
Tim’s even googled it. Wikipedia defines it as a “special, platonic friendship with a work colleague characterised by a close emotional bond, high levels of disclosure and support, mutual trust, honesty, loyalty and respect”.
Tim respects you. He’s pretty sure that if anything were to happen to you, he’d hunt the fucker down and then commit murder suicide because he can’t function without you.
He physically deflates when you’re not in the office. Tam’s even mocked Tim about it, mirroring his slouched shoulders like she’s some bully from high school, only to laugh when Tim flips her his middle finger.
Not to mention, when you found out he was Red Robin because he had broken into your apartment—and he had only broken in because he knew you had purchased a well-stocked med-kit from tracking your financial records like a freak, as Jason would say—you had just shrieked, spent a minute clutching at your chest, before going to find the first aid kit for him. You’re literally perfect. There’s no one other than you.
Not that you know that. Tim’s been suffering through your recounts of recent blind dates that your friends and family have been setting you up with, and every time, Tim suddenly turns into not-Tim and all his snark disappears and all he can say is ‘oh no way’ and ‘dang’ and ‘that sounds awful’.
What happened to Red Robin Tim? What happened to Robin Tim?
Well. Robin Tim is right here, at this Wayne gala, and he’s about to fucking tear this guy’s throat out of he keeps looking at you like that.
“Tim,” Bruce says airily, as if he doesn’t notice Tim glaring daggers into the back of one of his business partners, “Come here, come meet Marcus. Marcus, this is one of my sons, Tim, who is one of the rare ones who has some interest in the family business.”
Tim forces a laugh with the other two men, shooting a look at Bruce to say I know what you’re doing. Bruce replies with a wink that seems like he’s just being playful, but instead says, Stop thinking of ways to dispose of Keith Briggs.
Tim makes sure he conveys I have twenty-seven methods already very clearly. Bruce’s smile turns strained.
“Oh, Timothy!” Marcus Ho of Starview Industries reaches over and shakes Tim’s hand firmly, brightening. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Tim says, going for a smile. “For what it’s worth, I believe what you’re doing with that new Dove Initiative is extremely admirable.” In the corner of his eye, he sees Keith Briggs reach you, a hand ghosting around your waist, and it makes Tim’s muscles tense.
You dodge out of the way, manoeuvring out of the way smoothly, and you give a defusing laugh when Briggs frowns at the evasion. You’ve got Tam by your side, thank God, and you’ve also got Cass, who eyes the new arrival warily.
You’ll be fine. You’re not alone.
“Tim,” Bruce says, very pointedly, because it’s probably obvious that Tim’s not paying attention, “I was just thinking that the dove initiative is quite similar to the new Martha Wayne Foundation project you were thinking of developing. Perhaps Marcus could give you some pointers.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Marcus shakes his head, taking a step back, “I’m still quite new at all this—being the director, and all, I mean, I think Timothy here has even more experience than I do, and he’s at least ten years younger than me!”
“Well, experience doesn’t necessarily equate to wisdom,” Tim points out absent-mindedly, because that was something you once said to him. “If—I’m so sorry, but please excuse me, there’s just something—”
Marcus frowns, seeing how agitated Tim is. “Is there something wrong? Is there something I could do to help?”
“Uh—” Tim meets Brucie Wayne’s glazed glare with an anxiety of his own. “—it’s nothing, it’s just—my wife—yeah, my wife, she’s calling me over.”
Marcus blinks. “Your…wife?”
“Your wife,” Bruce repeats, and Tim knows he’s fucked up. It’s the least of his worries right now, though.
“Yeah—uhm, look, I’ll be right, back, just going to check up on her. Marcus, I’d love to hear all about the Dove Initiative; rebuilding affordable homes in affordable suburbs—amazing work, sir.”
“No, no,” Marcus waves, “Please, go, go, family is very important. God knows that if my wife were here I probably would check up on her every ten minutes.”
As if psychically tuned to Tim’s rising stress, you turn, and your eyes meet. You blink, probably not expecting him to be looking at you, but you give him a tentative wave when you make eye-contact.
Fucking angel. You’ve just given him everything you need.
“I’ll be right back,” Tim promises, beelining for you. Bruce would probably sigh, if he were actually Bruce, but instead, he just makes a random joke that Tim is out of earshot to hear, but the ringing laughter of Brucie Wayne and Marcus trail behind him.
Tim’s focus is elsewhere. Briggs is making another move, this time to touch your ass, and even though Cass is closer, she stays still as Tim slides into place, effectively stopping what would’ve been a serious case of sexual harassment.
Briggs stumbles back as Tim threads his arm around your waist, slotting himself between you and him. Your eyebrows raise at the contact, but you don’t pull away, and things only get better when your frown intensifies in that way when you see something dissatisfactory.
“Hold this,” you command, and Tim blinks as he holds your champagne. With deft fingers, you tug at his bow tie, aligning it properly, before giving him a little pat. “That’s much better. Okay, now give it back.”
Tim obediently gives you your champagne back. Briggs recovers, eyes darting back and forth between the two of you, eyes wide. “Hold on,” he says loudly and dumbly, “I didn’t know that you and—and Wayne were a thing—”
“Oh they’re husband and wife,” Tam pipes, smiling innocently. Tim needs to give her a raise.
“Love each other,” Cass agrees, and Tim hopes you don’t read too much into that one. It would be one terribly indirect way to confess.
Briggs eyes widen so much Tim’s starting to get concerned them popping out. “But—you’re not wearing a ring!”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do all couples need to wear a ring to signify that they’re in a committed relationship?”
Tim turns his head away into your neck to hide a smile. It doesn’t really do much except fill Tim’s nose with your intoxicating scent, and he has to pivot to get a breath of fresh air before he loses it. Tam meets his eye behind your shoulder, and she wriggles her eyebrows knowingly.
Fuck you, Tim mouthes, but only after he’s made sure no one is looking or filming. He gives himself about two more minutes before someone gets the smart idea of catching Timothy Drake-Wayne hugging a woman by the waist. And not just any woman either, his executive assistant—his secretary.
Scandalous. Honestly, though, Bruce and Wayne Enterprises’ PR department might be the only ones who’ll care about the fallout.
“You could’ve said something about being the wife of the CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” Briggs hisses. He takes a massive step back when Tim snaps around to level him with the trademarked Drake Stare of Condescension, and Tim makes sure to add some Red Robin fire behind it so he doesn’t get any smart ideas.
Briggs clears his throat, changing his tone. “I mean, I wouldn’t want this misunderstanding to have blown out of proportion.”
“What misunderstanding?” you ask, and then, very deliberately, you reach out to fix Tim’s collar. Tim swears his ears must be burning, but he manages a smile when your eyes meet.
“I—” Briggs cuts himself when Tim turns to stare at him again, and he takes another step back. “No, no, there’s no misunderstanding here—uhm, have a good rest of your night, Mrs. Wayne, Mr. Wayne.”
“It’s Drake-Wayne,” you snap after him, irritation furrowing your brows.
Briggs runs away too fast to hear, but Tim finds it hilarious, and he lets out a laugh as you turn back to look at him. “What?” you ask, dropping your hand, and sipping from your champagne flute.
“Nothing,” Tim shrugs, pulling you a little closer, “just you and your weird priorities.”
“What weird priorities?”
Tim steals your flute to take his own sip. “Just that you didn’t get mad when he was trying to feel you up, but you did when he said the wrong name.”
“i see no problem with my priorities,” you correct, “because it’s my job to ensure the correct information about you is spreading around.”
“Information like you and I are married?”
You freeze. Technically, the two of you have just gone through a situation where both of you had insinuated that you had done your vows and said your ‘I do’s. “Aren’t you?” Cass asks, innocently curious.
“Cass!” you protest, whirling around to her, your champagne forgotten in Tim’s hand, “No no, we’re work spouses, remember? That’s—that’s totally different—it’s platonic and everything—”
“Did you google that?” Tam asks, grinning from behind her own glass. “Wikipedia, perhaps?”
“Why do you know that?” you demand, flustered.
“Well, because Tim asked me the other day if—”
“That’s enough,” Tim cuts in, because he’s also panicking, “is there no one you should be networking with, Tam? Cass, I think Bruce wants to chat with you.”
Both of them make disgusted faces at the suggestions. But a tacit understanding passes through them and they turn to one another, giggle, before hurrying away. Neither go to do what Tim’s told them to do, instead heading for food, but at least they’ve left the two of you alone.
The problem is, then, they’ve left the two of you alone. With no one else here, Tim’s hold on your waist is suddenly very noticeable, and he very carefully detaches himself from you. When he does, a chill settles in from where you had been pressed against him, and Tim swallows down a complain.
“Thanks,” you murmur, glancing down, and smoothing down your silk dress, “knew you’d come.”
Tim can’t help but preen underneath your faith. “Well,” he says, like an idiot, “I am an imbecile who trapezes around nighttime doing things like this.”
You don’t seem to find him quoting you very funny though. “Yeah, that’s right,” you say, glancing to your side, “that’s true. You do this kind of thing all the time.” You stare off, aimlessly.
Tim’s said something wrong. He needs to fix this. “No, wait, that’s not what I meant. I—I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
“Like he was a sexual predator?” you ask, dryly. You reach for your champagne, but Tim doesn’t give it back just yet. He holds onto it, probably with enough strength to crack the glass, and he steels himself to say the right thing.
“Yes, but also because it was you.” Tim ignores the thumping in his throat, swallowing past it. “I don’t—I honestly might’ve resorted to violence if Bruce didn’t let me go and he had actually touched you.”
Confusion clouds your face. “Tim, you’ve got morals, big deal—”
“I’m saying that I’m in love with you,” Tim blurts out, “and that it’s completely okay if you’re not, because we’re just work spouses, but I’ve probably fantasised way too many times of being actual spouses that it should probably be illegal and you should probably know. So. Yeah.”
“Tim,” you start, but he can see the expression on your face, and he needs to retreat, right now.
“Here,” he says, shoving the champagne back at you, hoping that it’ll distract you, “uhm, if you want me to quit or something, just let me know by Monday so I can get Bruce to come in instead—yeah—”
“Tim.”
He shuts up.
Your face transforms into something absolutely stunning, and it takes a while for Tim to realise that it’s a blinding smile. “Shouldn’t the secretary quit in a situation like this?” You laugh, and you reach for his arm. “Not the CEO?”
Tim feels your touch through his sleeve. “I’d never make you quit,” he says, with absolutely no filter because his brain isn’t working right now, “unless you hate your job. And then I’d force you to quit so you can find something that you like. But I don’t think you hate being an executive assistant. Shit. Do you hate being an executive assistant?”
“I don’t love it,” you admit, and Tim’s stomach drops, “but I do love my job. It’s because I love working with you.”
Tim blinks. “Uhm.”
“And I love working with you,” you continue, stepping closer, hand drifting up from his sleeve to rest on his shoulder, “because, funnily enough, I am also in love with you, Timothy Drake-Wayne.”
“Oh,” Tim breathes, “you are? Because that would be great.”
Your other arm slips around his other shoulder, and suddenly, you’re right in front of him. Your front is pressed against his, and Tim’s arms automatically wind around your waist to keep you locked in this embrace.
You smile up at him, sweet and enticing. “This is the perfect moment to kiss me now, Tim,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” Tim nods, neurons not firing at all, “yeah, okay, I’m gonna kiss you now.”
You throw your head back to laugh, but Tim has his lips against yours before you can make fun of him. You meld into his instantly, pulling him closer with your hands behind his head. Just in case, Tim reaches up to grab a hold of your champagne glass so it doesn’t spill, and you let him, instead going to play with the hair behind his neck instead.
Dick might’ve whooped from the other side of the ballroom, but Tim’s not paying attention to anyone but you. And the way you taste so sweet, right there, right against him, because you’re his now and—
You break away. Tim’s is horrified when a whine rips out of his throat.
This time you get to laugh, leaning back when Tim attempts to chase your lips. “No, Tim,” you scold, like he’s a misbehaving dog, “we are not making out at your father’s gala.”
“But I wanna,” Tim complains, placing your flute on a nearby table so he can get a better purchase on your hips. “I wanna show you just how much I love you, how much I’ve held back from going at you at the office like a horny teenager.”
“Tim! We’re in public!” You laugh, and before he can whine again (horrifying, why is he doing this?) you press a kiss to his lips to shut him up.
The reaction is automatic. Tim is putty in your hands, because you have him wrapped around your little finger.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Tim,” you say gently against his lips, “I love you, dear work husband.”
Tim sighs contently, brushing his nose against yours. “Love you more, dearest work wife.”
Hey. At least any tabloids out there who are rushing to get photos of the two of you onto their front pages won’t be able to say anything like illegitimate relationship because now, it’s legitimate.
Now, Tim’s just gonna have to plan out the next couple of months and gauge how soon is considered too soon for him to propose.
going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.
that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.
"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"
"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"
now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"
"no, it's not a date."
"it is a date"
"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"
"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"
"it's normal? you've done it before?"
you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"
bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.
"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.
"yes i have"
"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"
you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.
he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."
you find him in your apartment. again.
window cracked. boots still on. jacket slung over the back of your chair like it belongs there.
he’s sitting on your couch like he owns it, flipping through a half-read paperback he definitely didn’t bring. probably something you left lying around — some crime thriller he’s already tearing apart in his head.
“make yourself at home,” you say, dropping your keys.
he doesn’t look up. “already did. your lock’s still crap, by the way.”
“you say that every time you break in.”
“because it’s still true.” he finally glances at you, eyes tired but sharp. “what if i was someone else?”
“then you’d be bleeding on the floor right now.”
his mouth twitches. “cute.”
you toe off your shoes, drop your bag, move toward the kitchen. “what do you want, jason?”
“wow. straight to the point. no hi jay, how was patrol? want something to drink? here, take my couch and trample my boundaries some more?”
“you don’t drink anything that isn’t ninety percent caffeine or eighty proof.”
“true,” he says, stretching his legs out. “still rude.”
you eye him from the kitchen. his holsters are off, but the rest of the suit’s still there — the compression shirt, scuffed boots, scraped knuckles. he’s vibrating under the surface like he hasn’t slept in two days and isn’t planning to.
“you get hit again?” you ask, softer.
he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “nothing important.”
“so yes.”
“do you want a play-by-play? i can act it out, real dramatic. throw myself against a wall. bleed on your furniture.”
“you already bled on my rug last month.”
“and it really tied the room together.”
you exhale through your nose. grab a glass of water, bring it over. he takes it without comment, drinks half in one go.
“why are you here, jason?”
this time, he doesn’t have a joke ready. his fingers tap the side of the glass, jaw tight.
“quiet,” he mutters. “it’s quiet here.”
you sit beside him. not close. not far.
“you ever gonna just ask to stay?” you ask.
“don’t need to.” he leans his head back, eyes closed now. “you always let me.”
“that’s not the same thing.”
“yeah,” he says, voice rough. “i know.”
the silence stretches. his foot nudges yours, casual, like he didn’t mean to. like he did.
“you gonna yell at me if i fall asleep here?”
“depends.”
“on what?”
“if you do that thing where you mutter weird half-words and twitch like you’re being electrocuted.”
he opens one eye. “that’s called trauma. look it up.”
“ever heard of therapy?”
“yeah. didn’t vibe with being psychoanalyzed by someone who’s never been shot in the face. weird, right?”
you huff a laugh. he shifts a little closer, not quite touching.
“you still smell like gunpowder,” you say.
“better than blood.”
“barely.”
he doesn’t look at you right away. just stares ahead like he’s watching something you can’t see. then, like it costs him, he says,
“couldn’t sleep.”
that’s all he gives you. not can I crash here? not I don’t want to be alone. just that.
but with jason, that’s enough.
you don’t ask.
you just nod toward the blanket on the armrest.
“you want that, or are you gonna steal mine like last time?”
“wasn’t stealing. it was strategic heat distribution.”
“you’re unbelievable.”
“you say that a lot,” he murmurs, already leaning back into the cushions.
synopsis: in which kenma quietly realizes he's completely, utterly in love with you.
notes: it's like THE MOMENT he realizes yk. AHH i love this trope. @suniix my fellow kenma lover <3
you’re sitting on the floor, legs tucked beneath you, bent over his switch case like you’re disarming a bomb. you’re not, but you might as well be. you were focusing on organizing his many games, something he never asked you to do but clearly needed. there’s a small crease between your eyebrows and your tongue is poking out slightly in concentration. you're humming something that sounds like a mashup between 'kiss me,' 'uptown girl,' and the animal crossing theme song. he can’t tell if it's a song he's simply never heard of, or if he's actually correct. he thinks he is.
kenma’s on the couch, curled into himself on one end, a blanket you got for him draped across his lap and a drink in his hands that you made exactly the way he likes it. it's ice cold and disgustingly sweet. he hadn’t even asked. you just knew.
kenma realizes that you know quite a lot about him. you know of his drink preferences and his chronic coldness. he knows that you've noticed how when he lies, his eyes get shifty or he'll start fidgeting. you know he can't open packaging on snacks for the life of him and automatically hand him a knife, because you can't either. you know how bad he is at asking for affection, so you curl your fingers into his scalp at the first sign that he wants it.
they're random and unimportant details, but undeniably and utterly him. and you see all of it. he thinks it's nice.
the room is softly lit, a couple lamps illuminated the space. no overhead lights. he doesn't like how fluorescent they are, and they can sometimes overstimulate him. of course, he's never mentioned this, but you figured it out on your own. the curtains are half-drawn, and the tv’s still on the menu screen of the game you were supposed to start an hour ago, forgotten in the warmth of just simply existing next to each other.
he doesn't really know why, but he has now put down his game in favor of watching you. really watching you.
not because you’re doing anything extraordinary. you're just… being. sitting in his hoodie, sleeves slightly rolled, hair thrown lazily into something of a bun. fixing something for him that he didn’t even realize was broken. and smiling, every now and then, to yourself. like it’s enough just to be here.
and that’s when it hits him.
he doesn’t feel his chest tighten like the air has been sucked out of him, or his stomach flutter with the intensity of a thousand butterflies. it’s not cinematic or dramatic like those shojo animes you like to watch where the music kicks up and the camera circles around them in riveting and exciting motions. it’s quiet. like a single domino tipping in slow motion, or a puzzle piece finally clicking into place.
“oh.”
he says it out loud, though barely audible, like a secret meant for no one but himself. it sounds stupid as soon as it leaves his mouth, so he coughs, trying to cover it up, hoping you didn’t hear.
you glance up.
“hm?”
he shakes his head a little too fast. “nothing. just… forgot something.”
you blink, noticing the way his eyes shift, but then go back to your organizing, humming that random tune again.
he watches you for another beat, then looks down at the drink you made for him. he sips it slowly, even though it’s cooled down a little. still sweet. still perfect. still him. still you.
and in the back of his mind, something settles. quiet. simple.
This does not follow the storyline of TWD. Let's just pretend Rick still wears his sherif hat for the sake of the story. I hope this fandom isn't dead yet
Warnings: Blood, Gore, Walkers, Death, Season 3-6 (idk) spoilers, incorrect plot, short reader, not edited, cowboy hat, public kiss, self indulgent, kinda cheesy but oh well
Rick sighs deeply, his brunette hair stained red with blood that covers his being. After hours of fighting to protect Alexandria, to clear the herd of zombies, they were finally free. The blood soaks his body and leaves his clothes sticking to him, his rippling muscles defined as the shirt clings to his body.
Alexandria had lost everything. The walls that once protected them had fallen down, allowing many lives to be claimed. Now, with all of the walkers bodies on the floor—everyone in the community turned to Rick. All eyes glued towards their new leader, hanging onto every pant of his breath as he calms from the fight. He places his gun into its holster as the muscles in his arm protrude.
He turns his head to you, taking a few steps towards you until you can smell the mix of blood and his husk that surrounds him. His sparkling blue eyes locked down on your eyes as he speaks up, his rough voice sounding through everyone's ears, "Deanna didn't make it. I—" He shifts forwards on his feet, closing the small gap between you both as he sucks in a deep breath, his abs involuntarily flexing as he does so.
"I need ya'." Rick's voice is more gentle as he speaks, his eyes never leaving yours, "I need ya' help. I can't lead on my own, not with a teenage son, not with this many people relying on me, and most definitely without you." His voice lowering until he's soft spoken, almost the same way he speaks to Judith.
You simply smirk up at him. Using your arms to cross them over your chest as you stare up at him while biting the side of your lip gently with your teeth. "Ya' think you can handle me?" You huff out as you keep your eyes locked up on his. "I'll tell ya' when youre wrong. Put you in your place. I won't take any shit." You tilt your head slightly to the side as you gently bite on your lip.
Finally, breaking eye contact, Rick's eyes glance down to your lips before they lock themselves onto your eyes. His serious expression melting into a sly smirk with his eyes softening on you. He closes the remaining space by sliding a hand around your waist and pulling you closer. "I count on it darlin'" He breathes into your skin as he reaches down to capture your lips into a kiss. You can't help but slide your hand up his chest, up the back of his neck and grab the cowboy hat the rests on his head. Lifting it and placing it on top of your head with a confident smirk as you look up at him.
"Yer' gonna be in trouble acting like that, darlin'." Rick forces out with a grin on his face. While things weren't perfect, at least he still had the few people that mattered to him. And somehow, you wiggled yourself in there.
What is with the constant fetishisation of r@pe and SA on this app and in fan fiction?? I get people have their kinks n shit but r@pe??? Really???
Not only that but the amount of p€doph!lia and ince$t is insane😟
I try not to be judgemental but I don’t get why you would want to read about yourself or someone else being SA how does that not make you uncomfortable and normalising shit like that is so not okay. It is not romance. It is not dark romance. It’s abuse and it’s gross.
I get that people are into different things and that you can’t control what you like most of the time but the normalisation of this stuff is crazy and so damaging especially to minors and victims.
I can kinda get CNC like atleast there’s consent in that but straight up violent r@pe fiction is weird and scary.
Anyway thanks for reading my lil rant!! love you all, stay happy and safe MWAH 💋
