#Restaurant Management Script | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lowrisemiller · 17 days ago

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ᴄʜᴀʀɪᴛʏ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ

pedro pascal x younger!fem!reader one-shot

insta smau

or just being pedro’s secret controversially young gf . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

a chance raffle win leads to unexpected texts, slow-burning chemistry, and stolen moments with pedro pascal. she’s younger, balancing school and real life. he’s careful, charming, and maybe a little too into her for his own good. what starts off light turns tender, and one cozy night might just change everything.

masterlist | 9k words | all fiction, pedro is 45-50 and fem!reader is 23 (I don't rlly gaf if you're annoyed with age-gaps if you don't like it fucking scroll), flirting, YEARNING (you’ll never stop me), kissing, celebrity things like that paparazzi, fingering, oral f!recieving, pussy job, unprotected piv sexxx

You hadn’t even meant to enter.

Your best friend, Kelsey, had texted you in the middle of a script revision meltdown with a link and three question marks.

“A Pedro Pascal charity meet & greet raffle. $25 to enter. Winner gets a private lunch.”

It was for some children’s literacy nonprofit, and you’d clicked it half-delirious, half-joking, adding one entry just to say you did.

Two weeks later, you got the email.

You thought it was a scam. Then your phone rang—an actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedro’s team had already cleared the date.

You stared at your phone long after the call ended. You were twenty-three, in college for a degree in screenwriting, juggling a bookstore job and unpaid pitch work. Pedro Pascal had been your comfort actor since your late teens—long before the mainstream hype. You’d watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didn’t even remember.

Now you were going to sit across from him. At lunch. For an hour.

You didn't even have anything to wear that didn't look like it came off a Goodwill clearance rack.

The restaurant was tucked away in Laurel Canyon, low lighting, all exposed brick and polished glass.

You checked your reflection four times in the car window. A blouse that didn't cling too tight. Mascara you applied with shaking hands. You told yourself he probably did dozens of these. He wouldn’t even remember your name.

When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, “Right this way,” and there he was.

Pedro Pascal. In a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Beard trimmed. Brown eyes soft.

He stood when you walked up.

“Hey, you must be the donor,” he said warmly. “Thanks for donating.”

You managed a smile. “Thanks for being the prize.”

He laughed. A real one.

You thought it would be awkward. Stilted. But he was funny, sharp, easy to talk to. You ended up rambling about how much his performance in The Bubble meant to you—how you watched it on your laptop in your dark bedroom during a bad depressive episode, how it got you through that awful year.

He looked surprised. Touched.

“I forget anyone actually saw that movie,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“I watched it five times. At least.”

He blinked. “Wait, are you messing with me?”

“Nope.” You grinned. “I even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware he’s a fraud but keeps smiling through it—like, that’s the whole metaphor.”

Pedro blinked again—then gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.

You weren’t flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe that’s what caught him off guard.

He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.

“Seriously,” he said, “this was the best version of one of these I’ve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt like…” he paused. “A real conversation.”

You tried to play it cool. “That’s the goal. I’m supposed to be a screenwriter, right?”

He smiled, wider this time. “If you ever finish something, I’d love to read it.”

You stared at him, then snorted. “That sounded like a line.”

You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.

Pedro leaned against the building’s side wall, sunglasses back on, arms folded. The California sun caught the edges of his hair, bringing out the warm gray in his curls. You tried not to stare.

You were failing.

“Do you ever get tired of people telling you they’ve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?” you asked, mostly teasing.

He laughed under his breath. “Depends on how they say it.”

You glanced up at him. “And how did I say it?”

His mouth curled. “Like someone who isn’t obsessed anymore. Just curious.”

That made you blush, which only made it worse. “Right. I’m too grown for fangirling.”

He tilted his head a little. “How grown are we talking?”

You gave him a look. “Grown enough to know that question is a trap.”

He grinned. “Smart.”

The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if you’d name it.

You didn’t. You weren’t that bold. But you did say, “So, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?”

He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. “Can I be honest?”

“Please.”

“I thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didn’t expect to actually…” He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. “...like someone.”

Your stomach fluttered. “Someone?”

“You,” he said plainly.

Oh.

You blinked. “I—um. Okay. That’s… wow.”

Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”

“No—no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

He smiled again, softer now. “That’s fair.”

Then, casually—almost like it was nothing—he said, “Would it be weird if I asked for your number?”

You stared at him. “Wait—seriously?”

He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re comfortable. If not, that’s okay. I just—” he hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.”

You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t in a rush, like he could wait forever.

“…Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll give it to you.”

Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.

You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.

He glanced down at it, then nodded. “I’ll text you. So you have mine.”

“Cool.” You tried to act normal. “Cool, cool, cool.”

Pedro smirked. “You’re very cool, yeah.”

Your rideshare pulled up just then. Saved by the bell. He opened the car door for you, gentlemanly as ever.

Before you got in, he said, voice low: “I’m really glad it was you.”

You didn’t even know what to say to that. So you smiled, and got in the car, and tried not to immediately check your phone.

But when it buzzed two minutes later, your breath caught.

Unknown Number: Glad I made it through lunch without embarrassing myself. – Pedro

You didn’t text back right away.

Mostly because you didn’t want to seem eager. But also because you were still staring at your phone like it had just whispered your name out loud.

You waited ten minutes.

Then typed:

You: I think we both made it out with our dignity intact.

But that’s a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.

The dots appeared instantly.

Pedro: Damn, you’re already funnier over text. I’m scared. Should I be worried about my performance?

You smiled, flopping back on your bed.

You: You were decent. You only said “like” twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac. Pedro: You counted?? You: I’m a writer. I observe. Pedro: Dangerous. Pedro: Remind me never to lie to you.

He kept texting over the next few days. Nothing crazy. Nothing that could get him in trouble.

But his messages were always right there—close enough to be curious. Casual enough to deny.

Sometimes it was jokes about his press schedule. Sometimes questions about your scripts. One night, it was a photo of an old movie on his TV.

Pedro: I think this director peaked with this one. Tell me I’m wrong. [screenshot from Days of Heaven] You: You want discourse at midnight? Pedro: I want you to talk to me at midnight.

You stared at that one for too long.

Typed. Erased. Typed again.

You: That sounds dangerously flirty for a man with a whole IMDb page. Pedro: That sounds dangerously flirty for a girl who called me “decent.” Pedro: …But I’m not taking it back.

By the end of the week, he was sending you voice memos.

Low, rough-voiced ones. Mostly teasing. Sometimes just quiet thoughts he didn’t want to type.

“You know, I reread your screenplay sample. You weren’t kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think I’m obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.”

Another night:

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought about texting you something sexy but decided on this instead: Do you think people fall for potential, or do they fall for the version of themselves they think the other person sees?”

That one stayed in your phone for days.

You didn’t answer it. Not directly.

But your next message said:

You: If you’re ever back in L.A. and bored, I know a dive bar that makes the best nachos in the city.

We could talk about your IMDb shame pile.

Pedro: You tryna seduce me with nachos? You: Maybe. Pedro: Tell me when. And don’t wear that blouse again. Or do…

Four Weeks Later

The texts don’t come every day anymore.

He warned you. Said work was picking up again—press junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. You’d gone in expecting one hour of his time, not a month of flirty messages and midnight voice memos.

But still, you missed it. The tiny buzz of your phone. His name lighting up your screen.

You missed the way he made you feel like he actually saw you—like you weren’t just some girl who lucked into a celebrity lunch but someone with ideas, talent, nerve.

The last message had been five days ago:

Pedro: Sitting in a hotel bar in Berlin. Bartender looks like he’s judging my wine choice.

You responded. He didn’t reply.

You told yourself he got busy. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Still, you reread the thread more than once.

He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.

He didn’t know why you stuck in his head. Why you’d gotten under his skin like a song he couldn’t stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadn’t thought to say to anyone in years.

And you hadn’t even done anything, really.

You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasn’t on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.

And now you were quiet.

Maybe you’d gotten bored. Moved on. Maybe it was better that way.

But when his plane landed in L.A., jet-lagged and strung out, the first thing he wanted—before coffee, before sleep—was to see if you were still around.

You’re watching a terrible dating show in your apartment, sipping flat wine, wearing the same hoodie three days in a row when your phone buzzes.

Pedro: Back in town. That nacho place still open?

You stare at it.

Then:

You: It closes at 2am. So yeah. Still time for questionable choices. Pedro: Are we talking about food or me? You: Don’t make me say it. Pedro: Say it in person.

Then:

Pedro: Tomorrow night?

Your stomach flips.

It’s been weeks. You thought he forgot. You thought maybe you dreamed the whole thing.

You wait ten seconds.

Then:

You: Tomorrow night.

The bar is dim and humming when you walk in. Wood-paneled walls, strings of yellow bulbs, and that warm, greasy smell that hits just right after 9 p.m.

You spot him instantly.

Pedro’s in the far booth—back against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. He’s dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos.

He looks up and sees you. Smiles.

Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.

“Hey,” you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.

You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heart’s fluttering like it’s your first date in high school.

He leans forward slightly. “You look…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tired?”

He laughs. “No. Just better than I remembered.”

You smirk. “You say that to all the raffle girls?”

Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. “You think I’m doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?”

You don’t answer. You just meet his eyes—and hold them a second too long.

The first drink goes fast. So does the second.

Conversation’s easy again—teasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.

“You’ve got that look again,” you say at one point.

He tips his head. “What look?”

“Like you’re thinking too much.”

Pedro taps his fingers on the table. “I am.”

“About what?”

“You.”

That shuts you up. For a beat.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re officially flirting.”

“Only officially now?”

You glance at him. “Are we pretending we haven’t been doing that for weeks?”

He leans in a little, voice lower. “I haven’t been pretending, cariño.”

That word—cariño—drops right down your spine.

You sip your drink just to buy time.

Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.

He’s shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.

You can feel the heat of him—slow and steady, like a stove left on low.

“You’re braver than I thought,” he murmurs, voice near your ear.

You turn your head, pulse thrumming. “Why?”

He’s looking at your mouth when he says, “Because I think you know exactly what this is.”

You swallow.

“You think it’s a game?” you whisper.

“No.” His eyes lift to meet yours again. “I think it’s trouble.”

You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:

“I think I want it anyway.”

Pedro exhales, almost like relief.

His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at first—like he’s asking.

You don’t stop him.

Back at your place — 1:07 a.m.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s cataloging every detail in case it’s the only time he sees it.

“Cute place,” he says.

You shrug. “It’s fine. It has a couch, at least.”

Pedro gives you a look. “So subtle.”

You smirk, toeing off your shoes. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” he says, trailing behind you into the living room. “Because when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I saw—”

“—Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm. “I was picking a song.”

“You were bending the laws of nature, muneca.”

You plop onto the couch and toss a pillow at him.

He catches it easily, eyes dancing.

And then he sits.

Close. Closer than necessary.

Your knees touch.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything.

His hand brushes yours.

Once.

Twice.

Then it stays.

“I keep telling myself not to do this,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.

You tilt your head. “Then don’t.”

Pedro looks at you.

Long. Direct. Hungry.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow.

His lips soft, searching. No rush. No agenda.

But your hand slides into his hair and his body shifts, just a little, and suddenly—

His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.

You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like he’s been trying not to make it for weeks.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You started it,” you whisper, breathless.

His tongue traces your bottom lip. “Don’t remind me.”

He pushes you back into the couch cushions, one knee slipping between yours, just enough weight to make you feel it.

You arch beneath him. Hips rising—seeking.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he says, voice low. “You know that?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re not bad either, old man.”

He huffed a laugh—and kissed you harder.

You end up straddling him, your hands under his shirt, his teeth grazing your neck. You whisper something shameless into his ear and he freezes, groaning into your shoulder like you just ruined his life.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like it,” you say, biting back a smile.

“Too much.”

It doesn’t go any further.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Not because you don’t.

But because there’s something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.

1:41 a.m. your apartment

You don’t get off his lap.

Even after the kissing slows. Even after his hand stills on your thigh and his breath evens out against your collarbone.

You just lean into him, cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, and say:

“So what’s your comfort movie?”

Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on you—one lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.

“You want comfort?” he murmurs. “I watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.”

You sit up just enough to look at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

You grin, brushing your nose against his. “Mine’s Coraline. I know it’s for kids. Don’t care.”

“Oh, I respect that,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Creepy doll button eyes? That’s some formative trauma.”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Exactly.”

The conversation drifts.

From movies to music, then weird dreams, then the worst job he ever had (you make him promise never to do commercials for adult diapers), and the story of your first kiss (in a movie theater during a Marvel sequel, popcorn still in your braces).

You fall asleep like that for a while.

Wrapped around him. The TV is still on. His hoodie swallowing your frame.

It’s not a sleepover. But it’s the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerous—something real.

5:07 a.m.

He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.

The Uber’s headlights bounce off the curb.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.

You raise your brows. “You’d behave?”

“No.”

“Then go home.”

Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. “I hate that you’re right.”

“You love that I’m right.”

He kisses your forehead. “Text me when you wake up, cariño.”

Then he climbs into the car and disappears into the fading dark.

Later

You you looked like a mess when you left was kind of hot

Pedro don’t start i walked into my kitchen like a teenager head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.

You “what is she doing to meee…”

Pedro don’t mock the broken man

You it’s cute I kinda like breaking you

Pedro yeah i could tell you were smiling while you ruined me

You and you didn’t stop me

Pedro never would

Pedro (real talk though… i haven’t kissed someone like that in years) what are we doing?

You no idea but i don’t really want to stop

Pedro good i’d be pissed if you did

You also i’m watching Paddington 2 tonight thought you should know

Pedro you’re trying to make me fall in love with you

You Trying?

A Few days Later

Pedro okay serious question what’s your go-to coffee order i’m at a café and there are too many words on the menu

You iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes. why?

Pedro just wondering what i’ll need to remember when i see you again it’s been a minute you free soon?

You maybe. depends. is this a brunch date disguised as a “casual hang”?

Pedro yes. and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal

You hot I’ll see you Sunday then

Two Weeks Later

Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.

You’re holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedro’s walking beside you—cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.

You look like…friends.

Which is the goal.

Except his hand keeps brushing yours.

And when you laugh too hard at something he says about a failed audition back in ‘99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.

You don’t even notice the guy on the opposite sidewalk.

Phone angled low.

The shutter click barely audible.

Another car slows down. Just a beat.

Pedro notices first.

His body tenses next to yours.

You follow his gaze. A pair of figures across the street. Hoodies. Big lenses. Moving fast.

Click click click.

You suck in a breath. “Shit.”

He doesn’t grab your hand.

He can’t.

Instead, he leans in like he’s just whispering something dumb.

“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “Act like you’re annoyed with me.”

You glance up at him. “That’s not hard.”

He grins, tight-lipped. “Atta girl.”

You duck into a bookstore.He buys a random novel and keeps the receipt.

You pretend to browse while your stomach spins.

He brushes his hand against your back briefly as you walk toward the back exit.

“Your face was covered,” he says quietly. “You’re fine.”

But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.

“I knew this might happen,” you mutter. “Still sucks.”

Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:

“If anything ever actually comes out…I’ll handle it.”

You nod.

But it hangs there. Heavy.

You’re still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.

But the part that makes your pulse spike isn’t fear.

It’s the way his voice dipped when he said “I’ll handle it.”

Like he already decided he would.

Like you weren’t just a girl from a raffle anymore.

Pedro they didn’t get anything you’re safe

You you sure?

Pedro i’ve done this a long time if they had something good it’d be online already trust me

You i do just didn’t expect it to feel that...real

Pedro it is real at least for me

You i know. me too.

Pedro next time no public sidewalks just you my place pizza and zero danger

You and maybe another dramatic sigh against your fridge?

Pedro oh i’m already practicing i’ll be thinking about you all week

You good maybe i’ll make you wait again

Pedro maybe i’ll let you

Few More Days Later

You i just bombed my stats exam tell my family i died doing what i hated

Pedro nooooo not stats not you :(

You i’m so tired i might actually cry in the campus parking lot like a teen drama character

Pedro you want company or silence? or pizza? or a forehead kiss?

You omg

You that last one just made my brain short circuit is that allowed???

Pedro it is if you want it to be offer still stands come over i’ll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts

You you’re dangerous give me an hour

That night — 8:13 p.m.

Pedro’s apartment.

The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.

Pedro’s in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is just…normal. Like you always do this. Like he wasn’t in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.

“You ever cook for girls like this?” you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.

Pedro smirks without turning around. “Not girls who make me nervous.”

You blink.

He glances back at you. “Just being honest.”

You open your mouth—then close it again.

Your throat’s warm. So is your chest. Your fingertips tingle against the glass of red wine in your hand.

The rest of the night unfurls gently. Like a held breath being let out.

He makes a simple pasta with veggies. You help slice strawberries for a little balsamic-glazed dessert (“This is so extra,” you laugh, and he just shrugs—“You deserve extra”).

You eat on the couch with the coffee table dragged closer, your knees brushing under the bowls.

Music plays low. Something acoustic and nostalgic.

His hand rests on your leg, casual but firm.

Yours finds his thigh a little later.

You’re sitting sideways in his lap again, back to his chest, your cheek against his jaw. He smells like citrus body wash and red wine and something inherently him.

His hands haven’t left you all night.

Thumb tracing slow lines into the top of your thigh. Fingertips under your hoodie hem.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw.

You hum softly, turning your face toward his. He doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss starts easy. Then deeper.

And deeper.

You straddle him this time, your knees pressing into the couch cushions, your hands in his hair. His grip tightens around your hips—then softens again, like he’s reminding himself to slow down.

There’s heat. So much heat.

You shift against him, just slightly—and feel him underneath you.

He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. “Wait—wait.”

Your foreheads press together.

You blink. “Did I do something—?”

Pedro shakes his head fast. “No, no. God, no. You’re perfect.”

You’re quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“I just…” he swallows, “don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be right.”

You exhale, your nose brushing his. “Okay.”

He looks at you—tender, serious. “You trust me?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You trust me?”

Pedro leans forward and kisses you again, slower this time. His hands stay on your waist. Yours trail up the back of his neck.

Then he says the most dangerous thing of all:

“Stay tonight.”

You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.

The bed’s big and warm. You climb in beside him, and he pulls you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other across your waist.

Neither of you says much.

But when you whisper, “You smell like something familiar,” he smiles into your hair.

And when he murmurs, “I like having you here,” you smile too.

You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.

It’s not the night everything happened.

But it’s the night everything changed.

The Next Morning — 9:12 a.m.

You wake up warm.

Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedro’s hands heavy over your waist, his breath slow and deep against the back of your neck.

It takes you a second to remember where you are.

The smell of his sheets. The weight of his arm. The stretch of your legs tangled with his.

Then it hits you.

Last night. Dinner. That kiss. Him asking you to stay.

You shift slightly, careful not to wake him.

But you feel him stir behind you.

His voice is a slow, rough murmur in your ear. “Morning.”

You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. There’s a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you—soft at first. Barely there.

But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.

And it doesn’t feel sleepy anymore.

It feels like wanting.

Pedro’s hand moves under your shirt, smoothing up your back, dragging his fingers up your spine. You sigh into his mouth as you press your chest against his, your body already buzzing.

He rolls gently onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.

“You okay?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes search yours. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, clear and certain. “I really want to.”

That’s all he needs.

He sits up, kisses you again—this time with intent. His hands slip under your shirt fully now, dragging it up over your head and off.

Pedro pauses when he sees you.

Like he’s trying to remember every inch.

“God,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples. You shift forward, rolling your hips against his just a little, and feel him hard underneath you.

He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.

It’s slow. He treats your body like something worth learning.

Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue dipping below your breasts.

He lays you back and kisses down your stomach, looking up at you the whole time like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You don’t.

You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.

Pedro groans when he finds you wet.

“So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “Jesus, baby…”

He touches you slowly, gently, working you open with his fingers until you're panting, until you're grabbing at his hair and whispering his name like it's the only word that matters.

Then he comes back up and kisses you again—deep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.

“You like that?” he breathes.

You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. God, Pedro—”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You smile shakily. “I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow.

Painfully slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel you—wrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.

You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

“You okay?”

You nod, hand fisting the sheets. “Keep going. Please.”

Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.

It’s not fast. It’s not rough.

But it’s intense.

Every roll of his hips is deliberate, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that builds unbearable heat between your legs. He stays close, his chest brushing yours, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip like he needs to anchor himself there.

You moan into his mouth. “Pedro—oh my god—”

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gasp—your whole body tightening around him.

He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like he’s fighting to stay in control.

“Not gonna last,” he groans into your neck. “You’re too good—fuck—”

You cling to him, mouth at his ear. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He fucks you through it—slow, patient, like he’s memorizing you.

Until you come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling.

And then he lets go.

Buried deep inside you, his arms locked tight around your body, he shudders with a groan that sounds almost broken.

Pedro lies beside you, one hand still tracing circles over your bare back.

You’re tucked into his side, head on his chest, your body boneless and warm and aching in all the right ways.

He kisses the top of your head.

You murmur, “So…”

“So?” he echoes softly.

“I don’t want to leave.”

He smiles. “Then don’t.”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze.

“Okay.”

10:36 a.m.

The bedroom’s quiet, dim with late morning light.

Pedro’s hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesn’t want to break the silence. You’re sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.

You murmur, “My thighs hurt.”

Pedro laughs softly under you. “That’s a good sign, right?”

You pinch his side gently, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying.”

He kisses your hair. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“Same thing.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck. “We should get up.”

“We don’t have to.”

“We will eventually.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.”

You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.

Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. “You’re doing the ‘walk of shame’ all wrong.”

“Oh yeah?”

He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. You’re supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.”

You lean back into him. “I can sneak if you want.”

He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. “Don’t you dare.”

You perch on the counter while Pedro makes eggs and toasts thick slices of sourdough. Coffee gurgles in the French press. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Fleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.

He hands you a piece of toast like it’s a peace offering.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur between bites.

He shrugs. “You stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.”

“What else does it earn me?”

Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. “More coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.”

You laugh.

But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.

Then, a little more serious, he says, “You’re okay? With last night?”

You nod right away. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t feel—like it was too fast?”

You pause. “No. Do you?”

He looks away for a second. Then back at you.

“No. I just… I don't want to mess this up.”

Your heart thumps.

“You’re not,” you say, and it’s true. “I like being here. With you.”

Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.

“You make me feel lucky,” he murmurs. “Like… really lucky.”

You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “Sappy.”

“You love it.”

“I kinda do.”

You end up back in bed with the window open and your coffee cups half-full on the nightstand.

You scroll through your phone lazily while Pedro reads a book beside you, one hand resting on your thigh like he just needs to be touching you, even when he’s distracted.

Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “let me take you out properly. Like a real date.”

You glance up. “Like…in public?”

He nods, hesitating. “If you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.”

You study him for a beat.

Then smile.

“Okay.”

He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.

And it hits you—how easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldn’t want this badly.

But you let him kiss you again.

Because right now?

You just want more.

Pedro 🍯 Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?

You depends will there be food? and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?

Pedro 🍯 I’d open every door in LA for you even the ones I’m not supposed to

You that’s hot okay I’m in what’s the dress code? do I need to look famous?

Pedro 🍯 You are famous. In my phone. In my bed. In my head. But no—look like yourself. That’s what I like.

You you’re lucky you’re cute I’ll give you flirty and effortless

Pedro 🍯 It’s a look that destroys me every time

Friday Night – 8:04 PM

Private restaurant in West Hollywood

The hostess barely glances at you as she leads you down a narrow hallway to the back, where the lights are low and the table is tucked away in a cozy, dim corner.

Pedro’s already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile that’s reserved for you now.

He says, “Wow,” under his breath when he sees you.

You grin. “That’s what you were waiting for?”

“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But it’s a damn good bonus.”

He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tension’s quiet but buzzing. This isn’t like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.

The waiter arrives quickly—Pedro’s arranged everything. Wine’s already poured. A cheese plate. You’re grateful, because you’re nervous.

“Not what you expected?” he asks, eyes warm.

“It’s nice,” you say. “Just… kinda crazy. We’re really out.”

He leans in, voice low. “We don’t have to stay long.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I want to.”

You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts he’s reading. It’s easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.

But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the corner—just a shift, a flick of someone’s head.

You both go still.

Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.

“Don’t look,” he says gently. “They won’t get anything.”

You nod, swallowing.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

His grip tightens slightly.

“So am I.”

Outside the restaurant

Pedro’s car pulls around to the back entrance just like he’d asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses on—even though it’s dark—and hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasn’t his first time protecting someone.

Once you’re in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked… he finally exhales.

You laugh a little, heart still racing. “That was weird.”

“It was,” he agrees, starting the engine. “But not terrible, right?”

You glance at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been watched while eating cheese.”

Pedro grins. “To be fair, you looked very hot doing it.”

You nudge his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

You do.

10:05 PM – His Apartment

He lets you in first. The lights are soft. The space smells like bergamot and whatever cologne still clings to his jacket.

You take your shoes off by the door without thinking. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it on the back of the couch. His shirt’s still half-unbuttoned.

“Wine?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Just water.”

Pedro nods and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the fridge. You trail behind him, watching the lines of his back move beneath the dark cotton of his shirt.

When he turns, you’re sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently, handing you the glass.

You take a sip. “Just thinking.”

He nods. Waits.

You hesitate. Then, “Do you worry? About people knowing?”

He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.

“I do,” he says honestly. “Not because I’m ashamed. I just… I know how people talk. And I don’t want them to get it wrong.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He watches you.

“I also don’t want to stop seeing you,” he adds softly. “So I guess I’ll figure it out.”

That makes your stomach flip.

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?” you ask. “This?”

He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.

“No. Not when you look at me like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Pedro smiles a little. “Like I’m not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like I’m… real.”

You don’t say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.

Your hand lands gently on his chest.

“I like the real you,” you say. “Even when you’re dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

“You literally made an escape plan for dinner.”

He chuckles in a low tone. “Fair.”

Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.

“Can I stay again?”

Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.

“Please do.”

Pedro steps between your legs, his palms firm against your thighs, slowly sliding up under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunches at your hips, but neither of you cares. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this—not when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.

Your breath catches. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. “You wore that dress.”

You tilt your head. “You told me to.”

He smirks. “Yeah. My own damn fault.”

His mouth is on yours again—hot, unrelenting. The kiss turns hungrier. You moan into it when he presses closer, the hard line of him slotting between your thighs.

His hands are greedy now, tracing the backs of your thighs, then cupping your ass, pulling you forward against him. Your hips grind instinctively. He groans into your mouth, like he’s trying to hold back but failing.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus—”

One of his hands slips around to your front, dragging his fingers between your legs over your panties. He feels how warm you are, how soaked the fabric is. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and full of heat.

“This all for me, baby?”

You nod, lips parted. “Been like that since dinner.”

He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where you’re throbbing. You roll your hips against it, helpless. Your legs tighten around his waist as your back arches into him.

Pedro leans in, his voice ragged. “You want me to touch you?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches you—slowly, carefully—like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. The pad of his middle finger slides through your slick folds, circling your clit just once.

You jerk slightly, gasping.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”

You try to kiss him again, but he teases you, keeping his lips just out of reach. His fingers move lower, pressing gently at your entrance. He slips one inside, slow but sure.

Your head falls back. “Pedro—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. “You feel fuckin’ incredible.”

You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but you’re burning everywhere else—chest flushed, heart racing.

Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. “I wanna see you come like this. Just like this.”

You grip his shoulders, legs trembling slightly as the pressure builds. He keeps his thumb on your clit, circling it in time with every curl of his fingers.

“Fuck—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I won’t, baby. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

It hits fast. Your hips stutter, mouth falling open in a whimper as you come around his fingers, clenching tight while he keeps working you through it. He watches every second of it, like he’s completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.

When it’s too much, you grab his wrist, panting. “Okay. Okay—”

He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.

“Next time,” he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, “it’s gonna be in bed. And I’m not gonna stop until you beg.”

You smile, still breathless. “Who says I won’t beg right here?”

He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re trouble.”

“You like it.”

Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “I really do.”

Pedro kisses you again—more urgently this time, like he’s chasing the taste of your moan. You’re still coming down from your high, but he’s nowhere near finished. His hand strokes down your thigh, then back up slowly, deliberately. His lips drag down your neck to your collarbone, tongue flicking over the skin as he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.”

You squirm in his grip, panting softly. “Pedro…”

He groans when you say his name like that, like a plea. His hands slip under your thighs, and in one swift, effortless movement, he lifts you from the counter and carries you into the living room. He lays you out gently on the couch, kneeling between your legs, spreading them with his hands.

Your dress is still bunched around your hips. Your panties are crooked, barely hanging on.

Pedro looks down at you—lips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. “You want more?”

You nod, voice shaky. “I—I want your mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He leans in, dragging your panties down your legs slowly, deliberately. You watch him with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. He kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, reverent—then bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.

And then he licks you.

It starts slow—his tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesn’t stay soft for long. He groans into you like he’s starving, hands gripping your thighs as he locks you in place and sucks hard on your clit. Your hips jerk up, and he just tightens his grip, flattening his tongue and dragging it slowly up and down before circling your entrance.

You’re already close again.

“Pedro, fuck—oh my God—”

He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. “Come again for me. Just like this.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, anchoring yourself while he devours you. He slides one finger back inside you, then another, curling them just right as his tongue works your clit. You fall apart again—loud, shaking, hips grinding against his mouth as you come harder than before.

You feel him groan when you clench around his fingers. He fucking likes how wrecked you are.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless and trembling. He kisses your inner thigh one more time before leaning over you, lips slick with you, eyes blown wide.

You reach for him, cupping him through his sweats. He’s rock hard and twitching under your palm. “Your turn.”

He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. “I’ve been dying since you walked in.”

You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you ask, sweet and soft.

He groans low. “Not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

But he lets you guide him on top of you, your thighs still slick and spread. You rub his tip against your folds, not letting him in—just grinding, coating him in your arousal. You both moan at the contact.

He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, hips moving in slow, desperate circles.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters.

You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me for real.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “This isn’t even close to done, sweetheart.”

He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses you—deep and messy—as he comes against your stomach with a groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

You lie there together, tangled and panting, the whole room humming with the tension that still lingers.

Pedro finally exhales a breathy laugh. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

You grin, heart racing. “Big, big trouble.”

He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. “Worth it.”

You’re curled up in Pedro’s bed again, half-asleep with your cheek against his chest, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your back.

He shifts a little beneath you, reaches over with a yawn to grab his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lights up.

Then he goes still.

You feel it before you hear it—his body tensing just enough to draw your attention.

You peek up at him. “Everything okay?”

Pedro doesn’t answer right away. He swipes through something on his phone with a sharp breath through his nose, then hands it to you silently.

Your stomach flips.

It’s Twitter.

A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.

Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?He’s walking beside you on the sidewalk. His hood is up, and yours is too. Your face is angled down, half-covered by your oversized scarf. But it’s undeniably him.

His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.

The photo already has over 80k likes.

“Shit,” you whisper, sitting up a little.

Pedro watches you carefully. “Your face isn’t in it. You’re okay.”

“I mean… yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, aren’t they?” You hand him the phone, heart thudding.

There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:

“whoever she is… I fear I’m her now” “idk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetry” “Pedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hours” “y’all think this is PR? 😭”

You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. “I literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.”

Pedro chuckles softly. “And now you’re an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.”

You glance over at him. “This doesn’t freak you out?”

“Not really.” He reaches out, brushing your hair back. “I’ve been through worse. You okay, though?”

“I mean…” You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “I didn’t think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.”

Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.

“We don’t have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I also—” He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I like this. You and me. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You soften. “I don’t want that either.”

“Then we play it smart.” He smiles a little. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”

You squeeze his hand. “Okay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam account…”

“I’ll delete the internet for you.”

You laugh, and he leans over to kiss your temple.

Just like that, the tension fades a little. Not gone, not really, but tucked away beside the coffee cups and slow mornings and quiet confessions in bed.

You wake up later to the smell of butter and fresh coffee.

The space in bed beside you is empty, but warm. Sunlight spills through the curtains in long strips, cutting across the crumpled sheets and your bare legs. You stretch slowly, sore in the sweetest way, your body still humming from the night before.

You find Pedro in the kitchen, barefoot in his plaid pajama pants, the ones with a little rip near the pocket. He’s focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like he’s trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.

You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like you’re afraid saying his name will break the spell.

He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.

“Well, good morning, mystery girl.”

You grin. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? You are a mystery.” He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. “You’re trending.”

Your stomach dips. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”

Pedro nods. “Hashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.”

You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. “This is so surreal.”

He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing changes that.”

You rest your cheek against his back. “I know, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to feel this big.”

Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. “Then let’s keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.”

You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way that’s oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like it—too much cream, not enough sugar.

“God,” you say, taking a sip. “This is dangerously domestic.”

Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. “Dangerous?”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I’m into it.”

He lets out a low laugh. “You have no idea how into you I am.”

You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would.

After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, “So what happens next?”

Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like it’s second nature.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “We will figure it out. Together.”

And there it is again—that quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.

Hope.

divider by @/cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @annulmaelae @millersdoll @inbred-eater @thezatannaprint @stvrl1ghtt123 @umadirectioner @aj0elap0l0gist @heather81 @subconsciouscollapse @catch1ngmoths @littlemillersbaby @lizziesfirstwife @amyispxnk

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melshifting · 4 months ago

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(un)necessary extras for your script!

#01～ Your phone's battery lasts longer than others, even when you forget your charger at home.

#02～ You can consume hot drinks/meals at the right temperature without burning your tongue and without the need to wait.

#03～ Your nail polish never chips, even if you're doing chores all day. It fades naturally and evenly before you have to redo it.

#04～ Your headphones never get tangled in your pocket/purse, no matter how quickly you put them away - they're always ready to use.

#05～ Your shoelaces never come untied unless you untie them intentionally, even during intense activities like dancing or running.

#06～ You always find a seat on public transport, even during rush hour. It's as if people instinctively make room for you without realizing it.

#07～ Your hair doesn't get frizz on humid days and doesn't get matted in winter - it stays effortlessly manageable.

#08～ Your fingers never get stained from eating potato chips or snacks. It's as if your skin completely resists crumbs and dust.

#09～ You always know which is the cleanest bathroom before you go in, to save you from uncomfortable checks.

#10～ You can find the perfect lighting in any room to take selfies or record videos without the need of additional devices.

#11～ Your phone's screen never smudges or leaves fingerprints, even without using a protective case - it stays clean effortlessly.

#12～ You're always in the right place, at the right time.

#13～ You always catch falling objects before they hit the floor; your reflexes seem superhuman.

#14～ You always manage to have the perfect time to get ready, no matter how early or late you start. It's as if you've mastered time.

#15～ You can effortlessly remember someone's name, even if you've only met them once.

#16～ You easily avoid overcooking or undercooking anything, every meal you prepare is always cooked to perfection.

#17～ Your shoes never get wrinkled/scratched/damaged, no matter how long you have them on or what activity you do.

#18～ You never have to worry about the storage on your phone, it's capacity is practically unlimited.

#19～ Your home's ambient temperature is always set to the perfect level, never too hot or too cold - you'll always be comfortable when you walk in.

#20～ Clothes don't need to be ironed after going through the dryer. They come out wrinkle-free, ready to wear without any extra effort.

#21～ Your bags/backpacks are always organized, no matter how much stuff you put in. You can immediately find your wallet, keys, and phone.

#22～ You never get hangovers, no matter how much you drink, because your body knows how to balance things out.

#23～ You can access Wi-Fi from any corner of your house, and there are never connection issues, no matter how many devices are connected.

#24～ You don't alarms, because your body wakes up at the perfect time every morning.

#25～ You always find what you want the moment you need it, no matter how many times you've lost it - it's as if it magically appears in your hand.

#26～ Your pens never run out of ink when you need them, and you always have one nearby.

#27～ You can walk into any clothing store and instantly know what will look best on you, without having to try anything on.

#28～ You can instantly find and pack everything you need for a trip, no matter if it is last minute, without any stress and without forgetting anything.

#29～ They never make a mistake with your food order, whether it's in a restaurant, fast food or delivery.

#kpop shifting #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifters #desired reality #reality shifter #shifting diary #shifting community #shifttok #desired self #scripting #dr scripting #shifting extras

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joyswonderland1108 · 2 months ago

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"Jikookers want what we have" a tragicomedy in 84 acts.

Ah yes. The cult has spoken again. That group of people so devoted to fanfiction they forgot they're not the actual authors of BTS' lives. I was just minding my own business scrolling on X and then i saw screenshots where they uttered the iconic phrase once more : "Jikookers want what we have"

And my immediate reaction is: You have what exactly?

Please, i beg, enlighten me. Educate me. Shine your flashlight of delusion upon my humble soul.

Do you mean:

The ability to look at two men in the same room and immediately start spinning a three-season k-drama script about a "secret marriage" that somehow survived a full military enlistment gap and multiple obvious real-life interactions that contradict your entire fantasy?

The audacity to claim that literally everything Jikook do is either "fanservice", "coincidence" or "they were forced to do it by the company" .. but when tk breathe the same air, it's "soulmate proof" and "date night"?

The unique talent of opening your eyes, seeing Jikook's entire interactions unfold like the final scene of a romantic film, and still going, "Nope. That's just brotherly love. Jungkook actually flew to that city for someone else."?

And let’s not forget the true crime-level sleuthing they do with pixelated photos and background objects. Like that time they saw a Christmas tree with the Wooga squad and immediately declared, “That’s it. That’s Jungkook. He was there.” Just.. a tree. A tree. Not a hand. Not a sleeve. Not a voice. A TREE. And the confidence? Unmatched.

Or when a blurry reflection shows up in a spoon, and suddenly it’s “Jungkook was clearly there. That’s his left earlobe from 2019, I would know it anywhere.” Girl..

They’ve mistaken staff members, shadows, pets, and possibly furniture for Jungkook. At this point, if someone breathes near a member of the Wooga squad, they’re like, “He’s there. He's hiding behind the lamp. That lamp is his disguise.

🧍‍♀️Be serious.

You have what? A religious devotion to editing Jikook clips and pics out of existence OR turning them into.. something else so you can post your 8-second gifs as a "proof"?

A Photoshop degree in manufacturing matching accessories that they never actually wore? A deep-rooted fear of 4K footage? A library full of plotlines that have not been updated since 2019?

Because baby, while you're out here reading a version of events that got invalidated faster than a Weverse life replay gets deleted, we're over here crying, throwing up, and questioning our own existence watching actual moments of intimacy, care, tension, fondness, push-pull dynamics, micromovements, looks that scream "I dare you to say that in public", and lips that do not lie.

Your people are defecting babes. They're not even silent about it. We've seen it. "I feel sad, i can't breathe, i will take a break because i don't know if i believe in them any longer after this", "Okay but if MY ship did what THEY did i'd be in a coma"

Exactly. You'd be in a coma. Meanwhile Jikookers are here with two IV bags of emotional damage and still managing to function (barely).

Let's talk about how your entire structure collapses when:

Jungkook calls Jimin "Jimin-ssi" with that look.

Jimin calls Jungkook "Baby" on camera.

Jungkook tells Jimin he gives him butterflies.

Jimin calling Jungkook "Hyung" with the most teasing smugness known to mankind and Jungkook malfunctions on the spot.

Jungkook sits and stares at Jimin content during his lives without blinking.

Jimin sings Jungkook's solo, doing his moves the way a man who memorized it for "reasons" would.

Meanwhile you're out there hanging your entire thesis on "they once went to the same restaurant with different people on different days but what if they actually met up?"

We don't want what you have.

WE DO NOT WANT UNHINGED THEORIES AND PERMANENT COPIUM.

What we do want is peace, peace from you twisting Jikook's actions like it's your career.

Peace from you posting "this proves nothing" under every video that shows more chemistry than a K-drama final kiss.

Peace from you crying "company script" every time Jungkook chooses to speak about Jimin with his entire chest and a suspicious sparkle in his eyes.

Let me be clear:

We don't want what you have because.. There's nothing there to want. It's like going to a buffet and finding a single ice cube and being told "this is a gourmet".

So no. We’re good. We’re full.

We're over here eating with trembling hands, yes, but we’re EATING.

Stay in your cave of denial where 2017 screenshots are still considered "recent," and please stop acting like we’re jealous of a headcanon when we’ve got receipts, replay buttons, and regret.(because the intensity of it all is emotionally destructive and yet we keep coming back).

Thank you for your time.

Back to your regularly scheduled delusion.

#minkook #jikook #kookmin #leave the tree out of this #this is a jikook safe space

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cheralith · 6 months ago

Text

— these violent delights

feat ; director!nanami kento x assistant director!reader | word count ; 1.9k contains ; gn!reader, no pronouns used, angst, pining (men who yearn are men who earn), mild making out (suggestive) a/n ; some minor errors possible sorry! (シ_ _ )シ

RENOWNED WORLD CLASS DIRECTOR KENTO NANAMI commands his production teams of every movie he creates with an iron fist, and his hard work pays off considering the majority of his films and their actors have been nominated for tonys, BAFTAs, golden globes, you name it. and when it's rumored that he'll be directing his largest project yet—a modern re-enactment of romeo and juliet. it's no doubt that many people are anticipating for its arrival, considering that despite shakespeare's most famous production having multiple versions, but nanami's style of production is distinct that it will for sure stand alone as its own film that isn't just another lazy and cliche remake.

which is why the production studio figures that he may need some extra aid, which is why they hand-pluck an upcoming creative genius that may just rival his own—a young filmmaker a few years fresh out of grad school. your short films have won some minor awards since you earned your first degree and the studio thought that your mind with his would be a perfect match.

and ultimately, they're right. introductions were a little awkward, of course, it was clear you were trying not to burst at the seams when you met one of your all-time favorite directors, but you eventually prove yourself worthy and dependable. your input proves to be the most valuable out of everyone's on the team. nanami seems to only listen to you whenever he needs a second opinion, blatantly shooing away anyone else in line.

you work with nanami privately at times, joining him at his townhouse to discuss the next project on the movie. others that have worked with him for a while have never seen the normally stoic and stern director be so... warm to another person before. even his closest colleagues often don't see nanami so unbelievably attentive when someone suggests for him to do something even the slight bit different from what we original had in mind.

"i don't know," you murmured to him once, shifting the different panels of the storyboard around. "i think we can have this scene first, it'd build more suspense."

from behind you, nanami grew quiet, scanning the order of the frames before nodding and agreeing and gently cupping your smaller hand that grips the plastic frame, shifting it backwards. "i agree, i think having a pause between romeo and juliet's first interactions will keep the viewers on their toes just a while longer. especially since that's what they're all waiting for."

it was clear to everyone—except you and nanami—that there was something more between you and him. it was difficult to hold a conversation with nanami that wasn't about the film production, but when you spend the first few shy hours of the morning yapping about a new restaurant you visited over the weekend, it shocked everyone when he showed you a soft smile and said he'd like to visit it sometime (he says the "with you" part in his head).

his affections for you were rather apparent, considering he'd always ask aloud, "where's my AD?" before shooting every single scene, like your approval was the only one that mattered. at some points in time during the production, some of the crew members witnessed you and him alone at certain moments both in and out of the studio. you ate lunch with him, went out with him for a seemingly casual dinner, usually worked on him alone in his trailer that was always locked to him and him alone, until one stage manager discovered you had a spare key to it when you fetched a spare script for him that he left on his desk.

rumors spread fast, but when interrogated about it, nanami simply told them that he just wanted to help out an aspiring young director out by his own means.

"a potential like that must be nurtured in the best possible way," he'd retort. "rest assured that everything is professional between us. teetering that line benefits no one."

but oh, how nanami despised saying that. how nanami wish those rumors of you being his secret lover were true, that you and him had a relationship beyond just mere co-workers. how you and him consistently teeter the lines between what is appropriate. how he so badly wants to cross it with you, envelope you in his arms and kiss you just as passionately as romeo and juliet did when they first met at the ball.

you're a more free version of him, more passionate, more loving—all the things he wishes he was more. his ideas and ways of going about were traditional, but he found a spark with how rambunctious and spontaneous you were. he adored how you would do something on the whim and how so utterly unique your ideas were. he'd never met anyone like you before.

he caught himself staring at your back when you carefully direct the actors in such a way that accomplishes his vision in one-go, how you weren't afraid to try new things to see what would happen. you were poised and meticulous about your craft, despite your disposition. and it proved to be more difficult than it seemed when nanami tried to fight his affections off for his assistant director.

because at the end of the day, he knew you and him were much too different. he knew that it would be unprofessional to be running about behind scenes with a fellow, esteemed co-worker, knowing how that may look to everyone else; a younger, amateur director fooling around with a distinguished, honored one. while you were only a sparse few years younger than him, from the naked eye, you could just simply be another young creative using their charm to get ahead in the game, despite nanami knowing all too well you had more than just charisma to you and that there was no such flattery involved between your relationship.

and even though his own films their actors have been nominated and won a plethora of awards, he has yet to receive a credential of his own name. all of nanami's work and energy was pouring into this project to prove himself as a director worthy of one of the highest titles the film industry could offer—the academy award for best director. love is distracting, relationships are distracting. and he can't be having distractions for his most highly-anticipated film yet.

he can't afford to ruin his and your reputations at the cost of his pleasure, for these violent delights and have violent ends.

he knows he should put a distance between you and him. that the line of professionalism and personalism should be kept strictly at bay.

until it all comes tumbling down one night. choosing to film the most tense scenes last so the actors had proper time to get comfortable with each other, you and him are quietly rehearsing a very loose version of act two, scene two—the famous balcony scene—to properly get a grasp of what he was looking for before the official shooting.

you're seated beside him on the couch, a script for each of you, rehearsing the lines of a longing juliet. "how camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? the orchard walls are high and hard to climb."

your eyes flicker up when you pause, your former diction faltering a bit when you notice his hazel eyes staring at you so... warmly through his reading glasses, as if he's hanging on to each and every word despite hearing these lines a plethora of times.

"um," you clear your throat, feeling a slight shiver go down your spine when you and him bump knees on the couch, neither of you moving. "a-and the place death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here."

nanami adjusts his script before speaking his lines as romeo.

"with love's light wings, did i o'erperch these walls," he begins and you quietly admire at how punctual his delivery is when he delivers his lines. his eyes go up to share your gaze again and he curses himself when he briefly looks at your lips, plump and almost inviting.

suddenly he remembers how close you are to him, that only a hairs breadth lie between your body and his. amidst the yellow light of the lamp and the quiet night that stirs outside the trailer, suddenly you appear a little more beautiful than usual.

"... kento?" you call out quietly, tilting your head oh-so charmingly to the side when he falters from his continuing line. the way you say his name startles him, even though he's been allowing you to call him on a first-name basis for a few months now. but even though, it stills feels so right when you say it.

"sorry," he coughs, adjusting his glasses and returning his gaze back to the script. "for stony limits cannot hold love out; and what love can do..."

he can't help himself. his head doesn't budge, but his eyes still return back to your visage, where a look of what seems to be yearning is painted over. he swallows. although he's reading these lines as romeo, something about them seems so sentimental that he feels like he's saying it to you directly, not juliet.

without looking back at the script and instead, meeting your eyes, he mutters, "... that dares love attempt."

it's your turn to swallow thickly, trying your absolute best to regulate your shallow breathing as his body nears yours.

he knows, he knows damn well that there's still the line between you and him. it wears down with every interaction he has to you to his dismay, and it still stands before you and him, but it's thin. it's so thin that it's barely there. akin to a strand from a spider's web, all nanami has to do is wave it over and it's knocked down—it's just his decision whether he wants to leave it alone and let it stand as it or destroy it down completely from his urges.

his body moves on his own. with the only border separating you two being the space between the two couch cushions you and him sit on, he crosses it with his arm that is moving on its own to the warmth of your cheek. his mind is screaming to not go further, to respect the line, to ensure no distractions, to secure that academy award, but his heart's longing overpowers it, and nanami isn't so sure if he wants to silent it. not when you look this ethereal from the light of the lamp.

you don't seem frightened. you're actually allowing him to do what he wants, and that you don't move away when his hand gently cups your cheek, his thumb stroking the cusp of your cheekbone so tenderly, so lovingly.

"therefore," he whispers, his skin on fire when your own hand goes to hold his that holds your face in the same manner. your eyes hold a certain longing, one that he mirrors from behind his reading glasses.

the line reduces to an invisible, flimsy string.

"...thy kinsmen," he brings your face closer to his and he drops his script entirely on the floor, your own following shortly after. the distance closes in; it's still there, but it's so small enough that you're able to feel his breath on your lips, and the gap between you shrinks with each millisecond. up until your hearts conjoin as one with each other through your chests.

"... are no stop to me."

the line is now nothing but a concept.

and he kisses you so deeply, hungrily, ardently. until his lungs are pining for air other than your own. parting is such sweet sorrow, indeed, because when you disconnect from him for a brief moment, it only takes a short second before nanami pulls you into him again.

#maybe a pt 2 coming up im kind of cooking with this one im ngl #spot the r&j references and you get a cookie #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento angst #nanami smut #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #geto suguru x reader #fushiguro toji #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk ; drabbles #au ; director!nanami

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umbrellajam · 11 months ago

Note

Have any Dick & Tim fic recs for us poor unfortunate souls? We’re hungry for brotherisms

I feel you anon, there can never be too many Dick & Tim brotherism fics! 😊 I had a great time wading through my bookmarks to pull some recs (and inevitably lose a bunch of time re-reading things lol), so thanks for the ask!

so I've organized the below first by general time period, then categories like Canon Divergence and Alternate Universe. I've also limited myself to fics that have a clear focus on Dick & Tim as the primary relationship (although some of them include other characters or ensembles).

Hope that you find something new that you enjoy, friend!!

A Thousand Ninjas, by @silverwhittlingknife (100k WIP series) - Silver's fantastic epic that covers the span of Dick and Tim's relationship in preboot canon. Some of the individual works are WIP, others are complete - just read them all, okay, you will not regret

Dick and Tim, through the years: from Lonely Place of Dying, through Tim's Robin years, and beyond Red Robin. "Watch me on the trapeze, Tim. I'm going to do my act - 'specially for you." (B 441) "Who the hell are you?" (NT 60) "Dick Grayson is my brother. My best friend." (R 181) "You're my equal. My closest ally." (RR 1) "I can't see him. You can't see him. But I know Robin. And Robin's always there when you need him." (TT/O Secret Files) "You're my brother. You'll always be there for me." (RR 12) "And then I think... no... it's for Tim. For him, a thousand ninjas is just the start of what I would do." (N 138)

EARLY ROBIN TIM

Brothers Have the Worst Timing, by @havendance (1k) - god I love Tim just popping up randomly to be the most annoying little brother ever, and frankly there's no better time for it than during Nightwing/Huntress, when he can bother both Dick and Helena at once.

Tim crashes Dick and Helena’s ill-advised one-night stand; this is awkward for everyone involved.

A Long Fall with a Sudden Stop, by @eggmacguffin (5.1k) - Interesting and appropriately awful take on fear toxin, with a relatively young Robin!Tim having to manage an incapacitated Dick. Also good Dick & Bruce content.

Dick Grayson was not and never has been afraid of heights. However, there were moments, moments in the wake of tragedy, in the midst of doubt, where he was deathly afraid of falling. — Dick Grayson. Fear Toxin.

Little Brothers and Stupid Ideas, by lazarusfell / @gretahayes (2k) - Tim breaking into Dick's apartment to be a neurotic little dork at him, my beloved.

Dick doesn't think he'll ever get used to his little brother's idiosyncrasies. It's like whenever he thinks the kid can't get any weirder, he decides to just blow Dick out of the water with some new abnormality. It's endearing.

LATE ROBIN TIM

lifeline, by me c: (~700) - just a ficlet, but I'm still fond of it, so. set nebulously post-Infinite Crisis, after both brothers' Really Bad Year.

At a low moment, Dick thinks he needs to catch Tim, and he just - can't. Tim catches him instead.

a soft place to land, by unchosenone / @bitimdrake (3k) - set during the OYL cruise around the world; gorgeous brotherly feels and support and absolutely adopted as personal canon.

Tim rubs the back of his head, trying to affect a joking tone. “I knew I should’ve just gone for the new escrima sticks.” Dick is ready to be a good big brother to his grieving little bro. Tim flips the script.

ribbons just beyond the eye, by silverwhittlingknife (5.9k) - you know how Dick and Tim had their island adventure in NW #143, and afterward they had to swim out several miles to where they parked the Batsub because the remote stopped working, and Dick talked about making a pit stop in Palermo to visit a "great little Italian restaurant that serves a great ciambellone for dessert"? Well, this is what happens when they do, and it's lovely.

Two weeks after their fight over the Lazarus Pits, Dick and Tim go on a trip, and Dick confronts some old memories.

RED ROBIN / BATMAN REBORN (Dick!Bats) ERA

Brothers, by KelpieCodyne (8.5k) - a refreshing and measured look at the divisive events of Red Robin, from Dick’s perspective. bashes no one, hurray!

Bruce is dead, Dick is Batman, and his brother is floundering. In a desperate attempt to save Tim from himself, Dick tries some tough love. It does not go the way he hopes. Or - Red Robin's 'BruceQuest' through the eyes of Dick Grayson.

We've Taken Different Paths, Traveled Different Roads, by Sohotthateveryonedied (2.3k) - brothers 🥺 even in the middle of their Brucequest fight, Tim can show up out of nowhere for a middle-of-the-night pajama party and heartfelt talk.

Dick is suddenly very awake. He bolts upright, staring at the dimly lit figure. “Tim?” “Hi, Dick,” Tim whispers. He isn’t in uniform for once, instead wearing a pair of sweats and a shirt that Dick recognizes as one of Bruce’s. Dick was wondering where that went. “Jesus, kid,” Dick exhales, an uncertain mixture of disbelief and bafflement. “What are you doing here?” Tim and Dick are still in a fight of sorts, or are they? Have they made up yet, or is the terrain still cracked? Dick wants so badly to ask, but just having Tim in the same room as him is already more than Dick could have hoped he’d get.

a conversation at 4:30am, by xscintillate / @scintillyyy (4.6k) - Dick having a nightmare that Tim is dead and checking all of his regular napping spots with increasing paranoia to prove that he's alive, my beloved. such a great look at the brothers, suffused with all of the love they still share post-Brucequest.

dick & tim, post RR#12 because sometimes having a conversation might end up going nowhere, especially if it's one you're not ready for, but it's enough for now

the best of both of us, by @ashynarr (7k) - a lovely pair of conversations between Tim and Dick, working through their conflict in RR and reconnecting after everything.

They used to have a routine, involving shitty take-out, shitty movies, and a bit of shit-talking. Dick wants to restart it, after everything. Tim's not sure if it's that easy. Or: After Harkness' arrest, Dick and Tim have a heart-to-heart. It helps, a little.

there's an endless road to rediscover, by @zahri-melitor (1.2k) - post-RR fic where Dick and Tim skip right to affectionate violence as a gesture of reconciliation, which is so delightfully in-character, tbh.

Sometimes the only way to show that you've moved on and forgiven each other is to take a flying tackle from the ceiling. Dick and Tim know each other's demonstrations of affection. Damian doesn't.

When it Rains, by vellaphoria (5.8k) - an exploration of Tim and Dick's (most recent) experiences with sexual assault, so warnings for past rape. really excellent.

After Cass and Tim return from Paris, something seems... wrong. Dick tries to find out what it is.

nightwing and red robin hit the town (or do they?) by xscintillate / scintillyyy (7.2k) - hilarious reversal of the "Tim is sad Dick never has time to hang out with him because Eldest Daughter Syndrome" trope.

Dick just wants to hang out with Tim on patrol, like old times. It's a shame that everyone else seems to have the same idea. It's fine. Dick'll get him next time.

POST-FLASHPOINT / MODERN ERA

so won't you stay, won't you stay (with me?), by dizarys / @dizaryswrites (1.4k) - beware the ANGST, this one really stomped on my heart 😭 but it's lovely

Dick seized his hands, holding tight. A long moment of silence passed. Tim kept time with Dick’s breathing as it steadily returned to an even pattern. "I'm proud of you for asking for help." His big brother whispered. "But I haven't." "I dunno, TimTam. Breaking into my apartment seems like a cry for help." Tim's having a hard night. So where else does he go but to his big brother's apartment? Whumptober Day 12

go past where our feet could touch, by redboard (Ink) / @upswings (1.5k) - this is such a lovely fic about the brothers having feelings about their long-gone mothers, and Dick seeing himself in Tim and processing things in his own life by being there for him (without sharing his own issues, at least that we see, lol). perfect characterization.

Today Tim was calmer, almost cheerful – as if it was any other Saturday afternoon. But it had also not escaped Dick's notice that Tim had gone on a universe-hopping trip to rescue Bruce, and one of the first things he'd done upon returning was, apparently, unbox a lot of photos of his dead parents. "How was the multiverse?" Dick asked.

WE'RE NOT DEAD (WE WALK)., by orpheusaki / @damianbugs (4.9k) - fantastic whumptober fic. the boys go through it, by god.

Dick is overwhelmed for a moment, filled with clarity and inexplicable confusion as he blinks around him bleary-eyed. There's the familiar itching covering his skin, tiny grains of dark sand invading the cuts that have torn through his suit from the crash. He coughs, throat dry and closing with every gasp of harsh air. The desert is as unforgivable as the last time he was here, an empty expanse of dunes that might just be a trick of the heavy sun against the back of his neck. Dick pushes the panic away behind his eyelids, savoring the darkness before opening his eyes again. Immediately, he sees Tim. Unconscious, hunched over, covered in blood and sand Tim. (Dick and Tim get stranded in the desert, Dick is always moving forward.)

CANON DIVERGENCE

long distance, by unchosenone / bitimdrake (1.7k) - A Red Robin era AU where Bruce is actually dead.

Six months—months—radio silence, and Tim is calling him. Dick doesn’t even know where Tim is. He scrambles for the phone.

Holding the Line, by Birdchild / @birdchildsnest (6.6k) - part 2 of the series and the first part is just as good, but more focused on the Dick&Tim&Damian relationship as a whole. In this, Dick is plagued with nightmares about the people he loves falling, and struggles through the resultant insomnia.

"Dick was used to anxiety dreams, even (or especially) ones about falling and failing to catch people. They weren’t pleasant, but he understood that they were his brain’s way of working through buried fears. The garbage disposal of his subconscious. But these dreams were more like the hyper-vivid nightmares and thrashing night terrors he’d had after his parents’ deaths. And they were constant. Every time he closed his eyes. He didn’t just feel rattled when he woke up; he felt flayed open." (This will make more sense if you've read "Redrawing the Lines," but it takes place before "Season of Darkness, Season of Light," so you don't need to have read that.)

now the little red lighthouse knew that it was needed, by xscintillate / scintillyyy (22k) - beloved Tim never becomes Robin but shows up in Dick's life and becomes his brother anyway fic of my HEART

"Kid," he says, frustration bleeding through, "I don't know who you think I am, but I can promise you, I don't know anything about any companies. You might want to call the police about this, instead." "No, that's just it," the kid says, "I can't trust the police. I think they're in on it. I think I might get arrested soon. I need—I think I need Nightwing's help." in an alternate universe where jason survives ethiopia--dick and tim still find each other.

this also has a WIP sequel, so the little red lighthouse tried to shine once more, which is equally excellent

well, what would you do if you went back in time?, by xscintillate / scintillyyy (3.5k) - yeah, in retrospect Tim's smug know-it-all tendencies would become exponentially worse if he traveled back in time and actually knew everything, lol. of course he takes the opportunity to be a Pest to both Dick and Bruce c:

tim goes back in time, and prevents certain things--but still makes his appointment at the circus with dick and is kind of a menace (aka: snippets from an au where tim goes back in time and makes it so he doesn't become robin...but he's still just having fun going around and preventing everything he can think of regardless and making sure to bother dick)

the time you won your town the race, by silverwhittlingknife (4.4k) - technically WIP, but absolutely works as a (DEVASTATING) oneshot. It's been well over a year and I still have not recovered tbh.

He doesn’t know exactly what Tim would say. But he knows what Tim would do. Tim dies. Dick doesn’t take death for an answer. A Red Robin 12 AU.

the picture frames have changed and so has your name, by zahri-melitor (24k) - a fix-it it fic for Grant Morrison's 2009 Batman and Robin comic run, which infamously has Dick more-or-less forget that he's supposed to have a close relationship with this alleged "Tim Drake" guy. (Little brother who?)

So, in this fic, Dick literally forgets. Tim notices, and investigates. Also wonderfully highlights Tim's relationships with Helena, Barbara, and the Birds of Prey, and sometimes with Damian.

There’s something wrong with Dick. Tim thought everything was getting back to normal. Bruce was alive and back in their timeline, the Birds of Prey were once again operating out of Gotham, Dick had the city well under control as Batman and even Damian had been less obnoxious than usual. And then during a firefight at a warehouse by the docks, Tim was almost hit by a flying boomerang. And Dick never noticed. When something is wrong with your big brother, who else do you turn to but your big sisters?

Dizzy Edges, by Jojo_Squires / @jojosquires (156k WIP)

A Tim-time-travels-and-interferes-to-make-his-family's-lives-better fic which includes the whole Batfam, but is definitely centered on Dick&Tim and the weird itching dissatisfaction of their missing close relationship from the original timeline - which neither of them can even remember that they're supposed to have.

I leap on my email notifs and stuff new chapters in my mouth as soon as they come out.

Tim Drake didn't quite know what he was agreeing to four years ago, but he tried to make the best of it! Using notes from his past (future?) self, he (somewhat messily) tried to help everyone his other self cared for. Now, it's four years later and he can mostly ignore the second set of memories lying in the back of his brain. It'd be much easier if Dick Grayson would just leave him alone. If Tim believed in destiny he might actually think that the universe cared about what was lost. Dick Grayson has spent the last year feeling like he's veered off course. Something keeps itching at the back of his brain. He's missed some clue. Helena Bertinelli's promised to help him crack down on human trafficking, but Dick thinks her foster kid might actually be more help in that department.

First Priority, by avaya29 / @avayarising (6.8k) - okay so Jason does feature prominently in this one but also he's a hilarious outside observer to Dick&Tim's shenanigans. Also, GLUE TRAP.

As the door opened Tim quickly disabled another three separate electronic sensors in the doorjamb by swiping them with a device that looked a bit like a thumb drive. “Walk where I walk,” he said. He took a big step over the doormat, eyed the floor carefully, then took a careful skipped sidestep to another mat against the right-hand wall, where he removed his shoes. “What the hell?” whispered Jason, still standing in the open doorway. Tim pointed up. There was a net rigged up on the ceiling. “Pressure pads under the carpet.” “I repeat, what the hell? After Tim completely derails Jason's beatdown attempt by asking him for a hug, Jason's first priority is to get this touch-starved kid more cuddles. Tim's first priority is to avoid DIck's traps. Jason learns a lot about his brothers and what happened while he was away, and something about himself too.

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE

Patchwork Siblings, by Raberba_girl (40k) - fluff and whump and we also get both Talon!Dick and regular!Dick being big brothers, which is delightful.

Years ago, young Dick Grayson was taken by the Court of Owls and made into a Talon. When Talon is flung into an alternate universe where Dick Grayson was taken in by Bruce Wayne instead, he latches onto the first familiar person he sees. (Or: Little Bat-stalker Tim Drake is understandably alarmed to find that an undead assassin has imprinted on him.)

5+1 Night's at Freddy's, by cowboymater (6.6k WIP) - okay so this is only the first chapter of an expected six, but it's already a wildly interesting and entertaining scenario with great characterization. my kingdom for 5000 AUs where young Dick and Tim are thrown together into Trials and Tribulations out of nowhere for their brotherly meet-cute.

The 5 nights Tim spent at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza with Robin and the 1 he spent with Batman, OR, this would be the coolest thing that happened to him ever if the animatronics were trying to kill them less, OR, the "Batman meets Freddy Fazbear" fic I found hidden under a loose floorboard in Tim Drake's childhood bedroom.

darling boy, by deitybird (335k) - Fuzzy and funny de-aged!Tim shenanigans, with Dick as his primary caretaker but the whole Batfam getting involved. Author pulls what plot, character, and relationship points they like and want to explore from varied canon (post-Crisis, New 52, Rebirth, Infinite Frontier, Batman the Animated Series, etc.) and fanon to build out that 335k of story, and it's a very fun time. Toddler Tim is such a gremlin ♥

His comm crackles to life. “RR’s suit is in a pile on the floor,” Jason says, voice grim. “But no sign of him. Something bad must’ve happened if he ditched it all.” “I wouldn’t say it’s bad, per se,” Dick replies, gazing down at the kid nestled against his chest. Now that he’s looking properly, he can see hints of his little brother in those small features. “But at least I can confidently say that he’s not dead.” Or: Tim gets de-aged to four. Dick takes care of him.

Under a Parent’s Wing, by IzzyMRDB. (39k) - YMMV on whether this will be your cup of tea, as this is an AU where Dick comes into a parental rather than brotherly role for a younger, AU!Tim, who is also autistic and abused. But it’s also delightful, heartfelt, and a thoughtful exploration of the complicated, difficult situation as given.

Also I would, no lie, read hundreds of fics based on the premise of kid!Tim discovering that THE Dick Grayson (aka THE ORIGINAL ROBIN) is coaching gymnastics classes and using his sneaky determined ways to finagle himself into said classes.

When Tim found out that Dick Grayson was a gymnastics instructor in Bludhaven, he quickly signed up. After all, learning gymnastics from The Nightwing himself is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Dick Grayson is more concerned at the obvious signs of child abuse he sees in one of his students. AKA Dick Grayson, as a childcare worker, is a mandated reporter who knows how to recognize child abuse in his students. Tim Drake, after a lifetime of fear and confusion, learns to trust adults.

#Dick and Tim #Dick Grayson #Tim Drake #batfam #Nightwing #Robin #fic rec #dcu #asks #anonymous #Dick & Tim #post tag

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awionetka · 2 months ago

Text

❝ 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑'𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄 ❞ ft. 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥

in which you want nothing but to finally film your magnum opus. so much so that you find yourself willing to trade part of your freedom for a chance at greatness.

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫: slice of life...? mostly angst for now, but also heartwarming at times. arranged marriage / marriage of convenience. (old money) actor!rafayel x (sort of new money, sort of aspiring) film director!you. some entp x intj dynamics but maybe i'm just projecting. is he misunderstood or simply spoiled? let’s take a look. just showbiz, baby!

𝐜𝐰: foul language. alcohol(ism...?). (cigarette) smoking. trust and attachment issues. unhealthy coping mechanisms. burning of a building.

𝐰𝐜: circa 14k… when will i ever get to the point honestly

You shifted in your place, uncertain if you’d heard him well. "Pardon?"

Nikolai, one of your assistants, sighed in defeat, turning his laptop around and presenting you with a rather unpleasant sight.

As your eyes shifted quickly from word to unbelievably audacious word, you realised that you’d heard him incredibly well.

"You cannot possibly be serious."

There was a certain bashfulness in his gaze, as though it was him taking on the responsibility of shattering your long-held dream. "Apparently they’ll be starting a new mini series on some streaming platform. That’s what they used as an excuse at least."

"Motherfuckers…" you muttered under your breath, knuckles turning white as you gripped onto the chair situated in front of you. "I’ve spent years working on this goddamn script and they know that better than anybody else!"

And to think that merely a couple of hours ago you were cheerfully visiting local diners, a box of fries in one hand and a worn out notebook in the other, searching for the perfect place to shoot at. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat (or at least trying your absolute best to do so), you forced yourself to come up with a way to solve this brand new, soul crushing problem.

Nikolai reached out towards you awkwardly, patting the table right next to where your hand was resting.

"For what it’s worth… you’ll succeed. You always do."

Do you now?

"Thanks."

"No problem, boss." He smiled, already rising from his spot, laptop propped under left arm. "Oh, also. I almost forgot to remind you. Your meeting with the marketing team director is scheduled for half past six this evening. I noted it down in your calendar some time ago, so I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget."

Shit.

Of course you forgot to check that god forsaken calendar.

"Sure thing, Nikolai." You beamed right back at him, raising your arm to wave him goodbye. "I’ve already made the necessary arrangements."

Not only your beloved project had been brutally tossed away like garbage, but now you also had to spend a fortune to secure a last minute reservation at one of the most luxurious restaurants in the district.

Days like these truly did make life worth living.

The Linkon Retreat served primarily seafood dishes.

Which was unfortunately a loss in your book, since you’d rather eat pretty much anything else other than fish, shrimp and ostriches.

Malena – your manager, an (almost worryingly so) optimistic UPenn graduate with a gummy smile and a plethora of old school tattoos, seemed to enjoy the dietary options quite a lot, however.

"He agreed to the arrangements I’d made and said he’ll go over it with the board but…" She chased a piece of shrimp with her fork for a bit before stuffing it in her mouth. "Let’s be honest here, I will probably have to constantly nag him until he does. I truly have no idea whatsoever why nobody in this field can actually carry out their responsibilities like a normal person."

You just hummed in response, staring down at your own plate.

The waiter managed to find you a dish that didn’t contain the entire oceanic ecosystem, but it still seemed unappetising. At this point, you couldn’t care less about Malena’s updates, her polite inquiries towards you or literally anything else for that matter. The safety of your flat half an hour away from this place was calling you relentlessly and, God be your witness, you were about to pick up.

"Hey…" She cleared her throat. "Are you doing alright?"

Not even bothering to look her way, you downed the rest of your drink.

"Sure."

Malena reached over the table to wrap her hand around your curled fist.

"Love, I am so sorry." Her expression softened. "I’ve heard what happened. You’ve worked so hard for this…"

You shrugged her off. "Live, laugh, learn to lose, isn’t it?"

She only frowned at that, clearly unamused by your half-hearted attempt at a joke.

"Doesn’t matter anyway." You tried to hide your discomfort by pretending to stretch. "Let’s not dwell on it, yeah?"

"You know…" There was a certain look in Malena’s eyes as she spoke, one you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know the origin of. "There is something I’ve thought of that could possibly help you out. However, it’s not exactly… a conventional solution."

You raised a brow, wordlessly urging her to continue.

"Well… You know that I’m not just your manager, right?"

"Ouch...?"

She rolled her eyes. "Ugh, I didn’t mean it like that. You know it."

"Suppose so." You gestured at one of the waiters, requesting yet another drink. Your companion for the evening chose not to speak on that, even when she saw you absentmindedly checking your nails, clearly not expecting much from the upcoming offer.

"Anyway." She cleared her throat. "I took this job recently, it’s more of a PR thing, really."

"Are you trying to turn your new client into some grandiose lesson for me?"

"God, no. It’s not like you’d listen to my advice anyway."

A fairly amused chuckle escaped your lips. "Fair point. Go on."

"This family… They’re struggling with their public image quite a bit. However, their finances are doing pretty well, considering."

God, she surely knew how to keep her interlocutor on their toes.

"Okay."

"It’s not like I’ve set this up beforehand, you know." Her gaze kept slipping away, as if she became embarrassed. "Just… on my way here, I figured it out. God, I am so sorry about your project…"

That you just couldn’t hear anymore. Everyone was sorry. Everyone wished they could do something. But without actual deeds, all these words were worth less than dirt stuck to the soles of your shoes. It’d be better if they just didn’t mention it at all.

"Malena,” you chose to say instead. "I appreciate your concern, but please get to the point."

She sighed, leaning over the table just slightly.

"Would you be opposed to signing a business contract with them?"

A what now?

"Sorry?"

"Don’t fret, I can vouch for them. Well… sort of. I’d be the one writing the agreement anyway."

"Hey. Hold on a second." Your left hand immediately went up to stop Malena right in her tracks. "Agreement on what? They’d fund my filming, that you’ve made quite clear, but what do they want in return? For me to go around chirping about how wonderful they are?"

"Not… exactly."

"Malena–"

Your reply was cut short by a human-shaped shadow appearing on the tablecloth in front of you. Malena rose to her feet in an instant, suddenly much more cheerful than just seconds before.

"Oh, perfect timing! Good evening, dear!" she exclaimed, shaking the unknown woman’s hand with deliberation. "Love, there is someone I’d like to you meet."

The woman stood before Malena looked and felt like royalty. Tall and striking, in a magnificent, shimmering gown made of dark blue velvet complete with delicate pearl detailing. She lifted one of her hands clad in an ivory glove that reached past her elbow and you froze, panicking.

"You must be the brilliant director," she spoke, smiling in an utmost dignified way that left your throat dry. "I am so pleased to finally meet you, I’ve heard many great things."

Malena chimed in, watching excitedly as the two of you shook hands.

"This is Lady Talia, my newest associate."

Your brows furrowed involuntarily, yet you didn’t dare to speak just yet.

"Lady Talia, please, take a seat. Would you like anything to eat? Or a drink perhaps?"

Watching as the woman settled in the booth right next to you, back straight and elbows nestled neatly at her sides, you couldn’t help but wonder what on bloody Earth Malena had cooked up for you in your absence.

Newest associate meant newest client, an easygoing euphemism created to form some sort of bond between the employer and employee. That much you knew. So, Lady Talia had to be one of the apparently disgraced family members in urgent need of Malena’s assistance. And those two simply couldn’t coexist in your eyes, not with the way she held her champagne glass in between two fingers while politely inquiring about tonight’s special dish, gracing the nervous waitress with a distinguished smile on her lips.

She had probably never shopped at a farmer’s market before, wore nightgowns instead of pyjamas to bed and put out candles with one of those bell-resembling devices instead of extinguishing it with her fingers. You tried long and hard to imagine her pulling up to a McDonald’s drive thru, but it just wouldn’t stick.

If you were to be the one to help her with a PR problem, it would mean that Malena considered you a god.

"Love, are you alright?"

You looked up, meeting your manager’s worried expression across the oval table. The corners of her lips twitched slightly, as if she was nervous.

"Perfectly fine," you assured, forcing a tight-lipped smile.

Lady Talia also looked your way.

"I am glad to hear that." There was a certain warmth in her tone as she spoke. "Miss Malena told me of your recent difficulties regarding your film."

Oh, of course she did.

"Is that so?"

The woman hummed, glancing down at her drink.

"I believe we could be of some help." A pause. "Only if that'd be your wish, of course."

For a while you stayed silent, trying to come up with an eloquent and polite reply that hid how anxious you’d become. Trying to navigate this game of distinguished business offers you felt as though you were set up for failure from the very start.

Malena cleared her throat.

"I had only just gotten to explaining the possibility of a contract, Lady Talia. There is still plenty to discuss. But, I do believe we are on the right track here. It is certainly a lucrative arrangement, for all of us."

A droplet of champagne slid over the rim of the glass, making its unhurried way down.

"For you, it would mean full financial support of your project," Malena continued on. "Lady Talia would provide you with possibilities you wouldn’t have encountered otherwise. You’re free to film wherever you wish. It could be the moon for all we know."

"I see."

"On the other end…" She sighed, clearly avoiding your scrutinising gaze. "The Qi family would benefit greatly from your position in the professional scene and associating themselves with your line of work. Public appearances, a dinner party or two, a movie screening. Two birds with one stone."

"And how exactly would that happen…?"

"Now, that is trickier to describe. However, we–"

Lady Talia placed her glass back on the table with a dull clink.

"I would like you to marry my nephew."

A moment of silence. Someone started laughing a couple of tables over. One of the waiters dropped a fork on their way back to the kitchens.

Then, a storm.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FU–"

Cigarette smoke furled around your form as you paced from one side of the terrace to another, fuming.

"I’m sorry." Malena was one step behind you, trying her absolute best to console you with her pleading eyes. "If I only had more time, I would have explained to you–"

"Explained what exactly?" you snapped back, turning around to face her. "That you decided to just marry me off like it’s the 1920s? What the hell, Malena!"

She seemed remorseful, she really did, but you just couldn’t help yourself. First you lost the biggest opportunity of a lifetime, then forced yourself to commit literal bribery to get a table at some boujee restaurant where even a glass of water cost an arm and a leg, and now you were being asked to get engaged to a man you’ve never even laid your eyes upon, because apparently he held such a catastrophe of a reputation, the only thing that could save his sorry ass was public hand holding and tagging along to your events.

And the undeniably worst of it all – he was an actor.

"I’ll be frank with you here," you stated, voice low and almost threatening. "Shit like this only works in movies. And even there it barely makes a fucking difference. I don’t see why I would babysit a twenty-something old man who crashes two cars every month and gets banned from every foreign country he visits."

Malena whined in response, knees bent as if she was about to get down on the cold tiles and beg.

"It was only three countries, not all!" You rolled your eyes at that. "Love, please, consider it. I mean, come on, they’re filthy rich! You’d live in a house so big you probably wouldn’t even have to see him much. And she offered to put a time limit on it too! As soon as he hits forty, you’re free to file for divorce!"

You scoffed, turning around to take another drag.

"Oh, that is just lovely, isn’t it?" Malena looked away at the bitter tone of your words. "Just a couple of years, maybe the most crucial ones of my life, maybe not. But who can tell! Especially when there’s such a magnificent man by your side!"

The silence that stretched in between you two seemed non-disputable, final. You didn’t look her way and she made no further effort to convince you. The last remnant of Malena’s presence was a thick purple envelope she placed on the railing in front of you. The golden seal shimmered in the light pouring from the wide terrace doors behind your back.

The air began to gradually thin out and you stood there, watching as cigarette ash coated the edges of the expensive stationery.

Oh, what a horrible, horrible mistake you’d made.

The silky fabric of your dress pants kept tugging at the underside of your heels as you made your way to the correct seat.

They must’ve splurged quite a bit (well, Lady Talia must’ve splurged quite a bit), just to situate you two on the highest balcony of the opera hall. Actually, it would’ve been much more fitting if you said you alone, since Rafayel, your "date", was still nowhere to be seen.

You were supposed to meet somewhere in the main hall, maybe have a cup of coffee or tea in the cafeteria downstairs, before proceeding to go watch the ballet performance. It was an agreeable spot for the first meeting between two (potential) soon-to-be business partners, one that arrived into your hands in the form of a scented envelope with a personal ticket and a brief, printed invitation.

You’d never seen a ballet before, although you did listen to all the musical pieces included in The Nutcracker back to back when you were still a university student. It seemed personal, the way it just so happened to be the very play you were somewhat familiar with, as though it was chosen for you on purpose. So you thought and thought, and then drank half a bottle of wine before fishing out Lady Talia’s business card from the inside pocket of your jacket and sending her a quick text, confirming your attendance.

Defeated, at last. Tempted so easily into agreement simply because your eyes managed to catch the name of your favourite composer. That night you went to bed more disappointed in yourself than you were back when you allowed some rookie to beat you in the high school screenwriting contest. The bitterness of it remained somewhat the same.

The attendees below moved along the seats, slowly finding their assigned places. You observed them through a cautious, guarded lens, eyeing their tailored attire and exquisite jewellery.

This wasn’t where you belonged, not in the slightest. Your blouse didn’t fit you quite right, pooling under your arms in an almost worrisome manner. The bracelet draped over your wrist seemed too shiny and too dull at the same time. There were leftovers from yesterday’s casserole in your fridge and half a packet of off-brand maltesers waiting for you back home. And, truth be told, you considered whether or not that was where you were actually meant to currently be.

It would be easy, sneaking off, while hopefully not getting too tangled in the heavy curtains which guarded the door to the main corridor. Two buses back home, maybe a double serving of raspberry sherbet on your way there. You weren’t above taking off your heels and walking the remaining distance barefoot either, already predicting the dull ache your feet were about to inevitably suffer.

However, the atmosphere of the opera hall was utterly mesmerising. It was almost magical, the way you felt in that moment, as though you were royalty yourself. How could you deny yourself such an indulgence? Especially when it was completely and utterly free of charge.

Besides, as far as you were aware, your companion could even skip the entire event altogether, crashing some party or terrorising an art auction instead. That seemed more up his alley, at least from what you’d managed to rip out of Malena during your earlier interrogations.

No, you were already there. Lights were beginning to dim and the lorgnette you managed to find at the very back of your underwear drawer laid patiently on your lap, waiting to be of use.

He’d have to personally drag you out of that seat to get you to leave.

The whispers gradually quieted and you eased further into your chair, excitement creeping in as you waited for the performance to start. The twenty year old you squealed almost audibly when the crimson curtain began to rise. This is for her.

Time seemed to pass differently in the opera hall, as if you entered some sort of enchanted bubble that kept you hidden from the outside world. Your chest rose as the various instruments picked up their pace and eased back again as soon as the dancers gracefully landed back on their feet. It didn’t take long for you to forget how you even secured your ticket for this performance in the first place. How could it matter, when your entire being physically shook with each step, each musical note?

In fact, you were so immersed in the performance, you didn’t even register where those annoying sounds were coming from at first. Furrowing your brows, you tried to shut them out, but to no avail. Then, giving up, you spun around in your seat, just in time to see a silhouette slipping through the doorway.

"Thanks, man."

No fucking way in hell this guy actually dared to show up.

The shuffling continued on as he made his way to the seat next to yours. The chair creaked under him as he draped himself over it leisurely.

"These doors are menace, I can say that much." He sighed, head slightly turning in your direction. "So… what’d I miss?"

You didn’t bother to look his way, although the closeness of his hand placed on your armrest irked you to no end.

He muttered something again, shuffling in his seat.

"Can you stop?" you hissed at Rafayel, finally giving him half a glance.

His eyes met you somewhere halfway, shining in the dark almost unnaturally. The corners of his lips twitched slightly as he tilted his head to the side.

"Are you mad at me?"

Oh, the sheer audacity of that question.

"Take a wild guess."

He let out an amused chuckle and it took every single muscle of yours, straining and fighting in order to NOT give in to your violent impulses.

For a while, it was quiet indeed, even though his fingers tapped along to some imaginary beat he’d conjured up in that brain of his. God be your witness, you could see loud and clear exactly why people absolutely despised him.

You were slowly beginning to drift back into the magical state induced by the ballet, when suddenly an outstretched hand came into your view.

"I’m Rafayel."

"I’m aware." You swatted his palm away, refusing to give it a shake. "Now back off."

His eyes widened in pure bewilderment.

"I’m sorry?"

"Oh, you will be even more sorry if you don’t close your mouth right this second, I can tell you that."

The sigh that escaped his lips sounded more theatrical than the performance you were trying to watch.

"Forgive me for merely wanting to get to know you… What an unpardonable crime."

With blood already boiling in your veins, you turned around abruptly to face him yet again.

"You had time for that before the ballet. Missed your chance. Not my problem. Now sit back down, stay quiet and for the love of God, stop fucking moving so I can watch the performance in peace."

Not even waiting for his reply, you let your eyes drift back to their rightful spot. Your mind, however, refused to return where you wanted it to. Instead, it wandered around the balcony, looming over the odd presence situated at your right. You could barely make anything out in this light, but you swore you saw him somewhere. Definitely not in a high end production, not with that boyish grin of his. Maybe some romantic comedy or one of those low budget tv shows that run for fifteen seasons, supplying the viewers with a whole bunch of nothing. He’d definitely suit something of that sort. It was an easy, non-demanding job, ideal for pretentious rich people who wanted to play house for a bit.

Although, you kept questioning yourself how exactly he’d ruined his family’s good name. No background research was made on your part since you met his aunt, there were more pressing matters on hand and frankly, you didn’t really care. Malena supplied you with enough entry level information to last you up until he finally hit the forty year mark. Anything besides that seemed rather redundant.

But what if he was addicted to gambling? Handling stolen antics? Did he sell hard drugs?

Suddenly wary of the fact that he was nothing more than a stranger, you sneaked a quick glance at him, only to jump in your seat as soon as his eyes met yours. Rafayel was already staring at you.

He let out an amused chuckle, clearly pleased with himself. Didn’t say a single word.

Good.

Because the vivid image of his multi-coloured eyes, part ocean and part sunset, sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine.

The performance was nearing its end. Your companion stayed utterly silent till the very final musical note that graced your ears that night. Not like that could help much at this point; not when your heart was racing faster than your usually rational mind could make its calculations.

Applause filled the room and the two of you joined in, rising from your seats politely. You were suddenly a little too aware of how crumpled your pants looked in this light and that singular broken fingernail on your left hand.

His hands looked positively pristine. Adorned with intricate rings of all shapes and sizes, made of gold and gems. A thin, shimmering bracelet hung loosely around his wrist, making you hide your own jewellery under the fabric of your blouse. It’s a good thing you didn’t let him shake your hand before.

The attendees were unhurriedly making their way to the exits, prompting you to do the same. Rafayel motioned you to go first, still situated at a reasonable distance. As he was pulling back the curtain to let you pass, it happened – the narrow streak of light allowed you to see a bit more of his face.

There could be no doubts whether or not him and Lady Talia were related, not with how regal he looked in that moment. Dressed in an écru shirt with wide sleeves and a hand-sewn waistcoat fitted neatly to his figure, Rafayel could very much be a prince of some far away region, where sun set late and all the palace windows were open wide to let in the evening breeze.

And then you saw it – the soft arch of his nose, sprinkled with the faintest of freckles, his long bottom eyelashes casting lazy shadows across his cheeks and the most obvious, vulgar hickey right at the base of Rafayel’s neck.

All the yelling that surrounded you in that instant made your head throb and throat go dry. Already partly turned away, you hissed as Rafayel looped his arm with yours and tugged in the opposite direction.

"The exit is that way!" he yelled, unnervingly close to your face.

"I don’t give a fuck!" you shouted back at him, making sure his right eardrum wasn’t left in too good of a condition.

Swatting his hand away, you slipped past one of his bodyguards and the crowd of fans surrounding him, ignoring the way he called for you to come back.

That face of his, those sharp yet soft features, all of it framed by wavy strands of lilac hair, of course you’ve seen it. It belonged to the Rafayel, rising star turned misfit, the one who drove one of his most luxurious cars right off the cliff for a movie scene, showed up to auctions where they sold his own memorabilia, only to buy them all and toss in the trash. Rafayel who gave long, detailed interviews on how exhausting it was to be the people’s sweetheart. The one who whisked away some European princess a day before her wedding, took her on a week long cruise and left her right back where he found her. Modern day casanova, lover boy extraordinare.

And now, apparently, also your to-be fiancé.

"Well, that escalated quickly."

Your laptop screen effectively covered the newspaper tossed onto the table by Nikolai. Even if you wished to grab it, you were surely no match for Quinn, your second assistant, whose eyes widened in pure shock as she read the article on the front page out loud.

"'Serial heartbreaker out of his league? Rafayel Qi shoots his shot at the industry’s best and brightest – and scores!' Well, that is just gross."

You rolled your eyes, busing yourself with something on your own computer.

"I’ve had relatives I thought were already dead call me just to say how much of a disgrace I am for having a quickie in the opera," you mumbled, taking a sip from your mug.

Quinn and Nikolai exchanged wary looks.

"And did you…?"

"Are you being serious right now? No, I didn’t. What the fuck?"

After catching yourself typing the same exact word over and over, you furiously slammed the laptop shut and stuffed it into your bag. Nikolai cautiously handed you your worn out leather jacket before you could say anything.

"Leaving," you stated briefly, finishing the remnants of your morning coffee in one sip. "If anyone ends up needing me more than necessary, you know where to find me."

Refusing to wait for anything else they could potentially add, you made your way downstairs, already eager to escape this utterly suffocating office building. A gentle breeze passed through the floor to ceiling windows which were cracked open just slightly in some spots. It was as though everything else was waking up from its slumber, ready to bring in brand new experiences and fresh inspiration. Everything and anything other than what you needed. Why was it always you who got the short end of the stick…?

The annoyingly insistent vibrations of your phone pushed you off this new trail of thought. You looked at the screen. It was Malena.

"Just saw the news…" she trailed off. "Congrats…?"

She couldn’t see your clearly displeased expression so you opted for the next best thing – an exaggerated huff.

"Don’t piss me off."

There was something suspiciously similar to hope in her tone as she spoke.

"At least you took a liking to him, no?"

"Jesus, Malena, don’t tell me you also think I spent two hours eating his face on the opera hall balcony."

The chuckle that fell through the phone made you involuntarily roll your eyes.

"It’d be quite romantic though," she drawled, smile evident in the way she responded to your quip.

"Im not even going to grace that with a comment."

"So, how is he?" Malena angled the subject just slightly. "Funny?"

"Forty minutes late," you replied instead, nodding at the receptionist who greeted you from behind the lobby. "Couldn’t open the balcony door on his own and hoarded my side of the armrest. Yapped my ear off throughout the entire performance. Should I go on?"

Malena responded with a sigh of obvious defiance. "No need… Point taken."

You pushed the glass doors open, squinting at the sun reflecting off the neighbouring buildings. The buildings, as well as this absolute marvel of a car which stood parked neatly right at the bottom of the staircase.

It was an undeniably majestic third generation Cadillac de Ville with chrome detailing, all in pristine condition. Spray-painted blood red, it looked as if someone pulled it right out of an old gangster movie. It took you a good couple of seconds to realise you’d stopped breathing altogether, desperately taking in each carefully crafted detail.

If you only could produce this god forsaken film of yours, complete with the actually useful cast and costumes that made sense, maybe you’d have earned enough to buy yourself one of these. Was this one up for sale? You couldn’t see even a speck of rust on the Cadillac’s body, it must have cost a fortune to keep it that way. The owner was probably some old man with one foot already situated in the family grave, so your chances could be pretty high...?

All your hopes were crushed just a couple seconds later when the doors opened, presenting you the car’s owner, young and energetic, with a pair of retro looking sunglasses and a colorful newspaper in hand. The breeze swept through his long-ish curls; curls the color of freshly cut lilac flowers and agleam amethyst stones.

"Hold on…" You could feel your throat going dry in an instant. "I’ll call you back."

Before Malena could protest, you shoved your phone back into the inside pocket of your jacket, stopping mid-step.

"This can’t fucking be."

Rafayel looked up from his magazine, pushing the glasses up and letting them tangle in his wind tousled hair. The smile that graced his features a second after could be only described as radiant.

"Hey there, pretty girl. Done with work?"

Choosing to ignore the nickname, you raised a brow.

"What are you doing here?"

"Not happy to see me?"

He pushed himself off the car in a laid-back manner, stopping right in front of where you stood. You couldn’t ignore the playful glint in his eyes, even if you tried.

"We’re not scheduled to meet until Friday," you said plainly.

"Schedule this, schedule that…" he drawled, clearly unamused. "What are we, business partners?"

"Yeah, well, pretty mu–"

"Hop in," he interrupted. "I’m taking you to dinner."

You just stood there, dumbfounded, watching as Rafayel made his way around the car. That day he was wearing a more casual jacket (a leather jacket, much to your dismay), one that made him look like a motorcyclist. Slipping his sunglasses back on, he gave you a pointed look from where he stood, one leg already inside the Cadillac.

"Come," he urged with an impatient wave of his hand. "I didn’t even drive you back home last night, let me atone for my sins."

A couple of your distant coworkers passed by, eyeing down the vintage car and its peculiar driver. You felt awfully exposed, much like yesterday when hoards of reporters surrounded the two of you after the ballet. How you managed to slip past them all, grab your coat downstairs and catch a cab in less than than seven minutes total was still beyond you. Yet here you were, presented with an opportunity to go through all of that again.

The gentle spring breeze flew in between you, creating an invisible barrier. Rafayel’s smile had diminished by then but there was still this curious spark in his eyes that made him seem content. You wondered how he managed to stay this joyful regarding your current circumstances. How badly did he want this deal to go through…?

Well, guess you had around fifteen years to find that out.

"Fine."

He beamed at you.

"No seafood though."

"Hey, I was just about to suggest–"

"Absolutely not."

Having an obscenely rich, fairly charming man at your side proved to be more helpful and prosperous than you could’ve ever imagined.

Not like you were prone to dwelling in delusions of this sort, God forbid, he just suddenly seemed much more useful than any potential contract would describe. Perhaps it was yesterday’s misfortunes that caused Rafayel to act this way – giving in to your each and every whim without a question. And perhaps it just simply did not matter to him, at least not in a capacity it did to you, certainly with the abominable prices plastered atop of the restaurant menu.

"Did you see how much they’re trying to sell this risotto for?" You pointed at the sum, as Rafayel used his straw to fish out a lemon slice from the bottom of his drink.

"Trying and succeeding, may I add."

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. "Have you ever eaten here before?"

A nonchalant shrug.

"Don’t remember. Hey, are you going to eat those?"

You slid your own glass towards him without a word, observing as Rafayel repeated the citrus-retrieving process. He squeezed his eyes at the taste, shaking his head a couple of times.

"Ooh! It’s like the whole rum got sucked into this thing… Magnificent."

"I apologise for the interruption." The waiter from earlier appeared right next to you, almost out of thin air. "Madame, Sir, did any of today’s desserts capture your attention?"

You opened your mouth to speak, but Rafayel beat you to it, tongue darting out to get rid of the very last remnants of brown sugar on his lips.

"Actually, no," he quipped, turning you anxious in an instant. "I’d like to request a cherry cobbler for the lady."

The waiter glanced at you curiously and your face immediately flushed with embarrassment.

"Rafayel–"

"I’ll have a tiramisu." Ignoring you completely, he smiled up at the man without even a gram of shame.

As soon as the waiter disappeared behind the steel doors of the kitchens, you leaned forward, almost leaping over the table.

"Are you out of your mind?" you hissed. "There’s no cherry cobbler on the menu, you can’t just–"

"Darling." He placed a finger on your lips to shush you, leaving you entirely flabbergasted. "You said you wanted cherry cobbler. I’m getting you one."

Rafayel let out a huff when you slapped his hand away from your face. His eyes trailed your movements, not without certain mischief hidden somewhere behind his pretty words.

"I said." You closed your eyes for a brief moment to collect yourself. "I said I wished they had cherry cobbler on the menu. It wasn’t a suggestion for you to bother the fucking chef to bake me a simple cake out of the blue."

The smile that lit up his features was anything but bashful. With his chin resting on his palm, Rafayel observed you casually, as though it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Unable to hold his focused gaze, your eyes darted back to your lap, silently cursing out any deity that would listen for making you cross paths with this man.

Luckily for you, Rafayel knew exactly when to shut his mouth (albeit it did not happen often, as you’d noticed). Your desserts arrived earlier than expected, a gracefully served cherry cobbler with a generous scoop of traditionally made ice cream placed right in front of your hungry eyes.

Rafayel watched you silently, smiling to himself. "Looks good."

"Don’t." Your left hand came up to face him in an unspoken warning. "I genuinely feel so bad."

That seemed to stir something in him. The silver fork froze right in between the tiramisu and Rafayel’s mouth. He set it aside with a delicate clink.

"Please don’t."

His hands were twitching slightly, as though eager to reach over the table in a makeshift peace offering.

"If they didn’t want to make it for you, they wouldn’t," he assured, brows furrowed slightly. "Why do you think they ask if you liked anything?"

"To be polite…?" you suggested.

He rolled his eyes.

"If it helps ease your discomfort, I’ll double my usual tip for your sake. Sounds good?"

You just nodded in defiance, knowing well this was a fight you’d never manage to win.

"So…" he hummed after a minute or two, sending you a playful glance over his dessert. "How’s your cobbler?"

"It’s fucking amazing."

The genuinity of Rafayel’s laugh washed over your entire being like a tidal wave, leaving you helplessly sprawled on the shore.

Two weeks have passed since your unfortunate first "date" at the opera hall.

You tried and tried, focusing on decoding his entire demeanour more than on your own work; yet you were constantly failing to figure Rafayel out. All those scandalous whispers you’d encountered, vividly painted newspaper headlines and compromising photographs seemed to belong to someone else entirely. Sure, he did have a certain flair for dramatics and kept embarrassing you with his unashamed antics wherever he dragged you to, but you were yet to witness Rafayel "ruining" his family’s good name.

The fact that he accepted it all, this abnormal courting period and business arrangement in one, without any protests whatsoever had only made it worse. When your phone buzzed, signalling one of his countless daily messages, you just rolled your eyes and went about your very day. It was all easy. Talking to Rafayel was easy. And that was perhaps the most worrying aspect of this entire predicament.

"So." Malena put away her pen, finally done with the document. "You’re halfway there. Two more weeks till the agreement takes place. How do you feel?"

Odd. No other word could describe it better than this.

"What does he even get out of this?" you questioned her instead, clasping your hands on your stomach. "I mean, he could marry anybody."

She scratched her chin, deep in thought. "Maybe, yes. But not anybody could marry him."

Your brows furrowed.

"Is there a difference...?"

"He’s tough to deal with. Demanding. Talks a lot and rarely listens. It’s a true miracle that throughout all these days you’ve been together he didn’t make a single condescending headline."

"We’re not together," you corrected. "Besides, he’s really not that bad. Obscenely rich, yes, which does make him horribly annoying, but…"

You trailed off, realising just now that you took on a role of his public defender, shielding your potential soon-to-be husband from anything that could harm his precious image.

Malena just raised a brow, intrigued.

"Yeah, well, you’d be the only one to have that kind of opinion on him. The other day I met up with Lady Talia to discuss her involvement in your project and she received a call from him. Turns out he got arrested and was asking her to bail him out."

Your mouth went dry in an instant.

"I… I didn’t know about that."

"Of course not." Despite her harsh words, Malena’s features softened upon looking at you. "It’s not exactly a husband material anecdote."

Leaning back in your chair, you anchored your eyes on the expensive chandelier in Malena’s office. Should you ask what he was arrested for? Did you even want to know?

"That being said." She cleared her throat, sliding a plain white envelope your way. "Are you sure you want to invite him? I still haven’t informed Lady Talia about this. It’d be great for his image but it is also a huge step forward. And, you’re not even legally bound by any contract just yet."

You thought back to that one time the two of you completely missed a movie because he stopped to play marbles with some random kids near a park fountain. Or when he scraped both of his knees on the harsh pavement after having urged you to pick a hang out activity, only for you to come up with cycling, which he apparently despised.

Rafayel was always just slightly late, his outfits were rarely coordinated with the weather, so he was constantly either overheating or freezing, and he genuinely had some acting talent. Upon meeting him (actually meeting him, not after that god forsaken opera hall incident), you sat down to conduct a brief google search and watched a couple of episodes of a tv show he starred in a few years back. His hair was longer and they kept styling him in these oversized flannels that he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in real life. As of then, you were yet to ask him about those, embarrassingly curious to witness his reaction first hand.

Rafayel wasn’t inherently reckless or rude or spoiled. He opened the car doors for you, gave generous tips in restaurants and made you laugh in ways you hadn’t laughed in what felt like millenia.

So what if he got arrested? Let he who is without sin… He probably just drove over the speed limit or talked back to a policeman or something. Since they let him go so easily, it couldn’t have been anything actually harmful, at least not to a degree that mattered. Jesus, it’s not like you could go on and make a fuss about such matters, not when for the first time in years you felt like you’d made a friend. As peculiar as he was, Rafayel gifted you a space in which you could exist without pretence. And despite your rather rocky beginnings, he became someone you didn’t care to perform in front of.

And, against your own better judgement, you were starting to hope he felt the same way in your presence.

"Barely two weeks ago you were the one trying to convince me to do this," you prompted, leaning back in your chair. "It'll be fine. I've been through worse."

Malena only nodded, handing you the envelope. As you exited her office, you could only pray what you'd just said wasn't about to turn on you in some vicious, malevolent way.

The Valentine Club was the first of your projects to "make it".

Before the medium sized, yet steady success of the film, you stumbled around many different production companies, scribbling down scripts and conducting small-scale evaluations. So, when precisely five years ago you saw a chance to create your very own project entirely from scratch, you didn’t dare to leave it hanging for too long.

Back then you didn’t have nearly as much creative freedom as you did now. One of the main actors would normally never make it on screen if you could help it, but still had the necessary connections, so you were „strongly advised” to accept his offer. The budget was limited, so you hand-painted all the shop signs needed for the movie. Nobody forced you, of course, they even encouraged you to let it go, deeming it unnecessary, but you wanted, you needed it all to be perfect.

Looking back at it now, it obviously wasn’t anywhere near your definition of perfection. However, over the years you managed to make at least some peace with the fact that nothing could ever reach such state. Not like that ever stopped you from trying your absolute hardest nonetheless.

And that was precisely why you were currently picking out shades of purple for sashes that were to decorate buffet tables at the venue you decided to hold your event at.

"What about the other one?" You pointed at the rack behind the shopkeeper. "Sorry, I just can’t get behind any of those…"

The woman waved you off, patiently laying out yet another material on the counter.

Well, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be this monstrosity. Still, you feigned contemplation out of politeness.

"I’m not sure…"

Then, something situated in your peripheral vision caught your eye. "And that one? Number… number twenty four?"

"It’s one of the more expensive ones." The shopkeeper sent you an amused glance over her shoulder, already reaching for the fabric you spotted. "You have a great eye."

"Yeah…" Your fingers grazed the delicate material, marvelling at the way it shimmered subtly. "Unfortunately for my wallet."

Your eyes fluttered shut, already imagining this particular shade of purple lighting up the entire venue. With the slightest of reflectiveness and these intricate details made with silver thread, it would be a (near) perfect addition to your anniversary banquet.

"I'm taking this one." You sent her a smile, trying to make up for all the time you spent complaining at each one of your own previous picks. "Here are the measurements."

Sliding an unfolded piece of lined paper over the counter, you mentally checked your bank account in nervous anticipation.

However, the shopkeeper’s brows furrowed in worry.

"Oh, honey. That is quite a lot of fabric… We don’t have even near this much at the store."

Your throat went dry.

"What…?"

"I’ll try to see if any other of our stores have some left…" She rummaged through a couple of drawers, fishing out a phone number scribbled on top of a pizza joint flier. "It’s a rather old-fashioned motif."

Just a couple minutes later, you were presented with a list of shops (a list that contained only one place, actually), and even though things were beginning to look up, the address of it made you internally swear.

"Chansia?"

The shopkeeper sent you a sympathetic look.

"I can contact them and make sure no one buys it before you get there?" she offered.

With all the preparations you were still to overlook and a rather unforgiving, narrow timeframe, you wondered if any of this could even prove successful in the slightest. The fabric of your choice was undeniably beautiful, precisely what you were searching for, but maybe you could find something else still, something that wasn’t preferably situated in Chansia City, a place only Rafayel could frequently visit without missing ten deadlines…

Rafayel! What if he was there right now? Chances weren’t too high, but… Plus, he did explicitly say to let him know if you ended up needing anything for the event. Ever since you’d given him the invitation, he’d been gushing about your movie constantly, possibly ending up even more excited for the anniversary than its director herself.

Letting the shopkeeper know, you took out your phone and dialled Rafayel’s number. He didn’t make you wait long before picking up.

"Hey there, pretty." You could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke, tone bright and welcoming. "Whom should I thank for the undeniable pleasure of receiving a call from my dearest director?"

Trying not to let his sweet words get to your head, you decided to keep the matter brief.

"Hi, Rafayel. Are you currently in Chansia by any chance?"

He hummed, seemingly used to not hearing direct replies to his half-hearted advances.

"Why?"

You let out a sigh. "Remember when I was telling you how I’d like to set the tables? So, I found the perfect fabric for those sashes, but the only store to have enough of it is in Chansia."

"Well… Today’s your lucky day then, miss director."

Your breath sped up. "Really?"

"Just send me what it is you need." You could tell he tried his absolute best to feign indifference. "How much time do I have?"

"Till this evening...? Tomorrow also works, as long as it's early. There's still plenty I need to do at the venue." You couldn't contain your excitement. Glancing over at the shopkeeper, you gestured for her to make a reservation on your behalf. "Keep the receipt. I'll pay you back when you get here."

"Now, that is just plainly offensive," he huffed over the phone. "It's already taken care of. Don't worry 'bout it."

Your brows furrowed, almost out of habit.

"You do realise that I have the funds for this, right?"

"Sure thing." The tone of his voice was cheerful as always. "Now why don't you go ahead and use said money to buy yourself something new to wear at the event?

Well... You didn't hate that idea.

Judging by the quiet chuckle on the other end of the call, Rafayel caught on in an instant. "It's set then. See you this evening, cutie."

"Yeah, see you."

Already about to hang up, you were abruptly stopped by Rafayel chiming in yet again.

"Now, quick question." The way he said this made it seem as though he was presenting you with a business deal. "Would you be opposed to watching the next episode of The X Files with me? Yes or no. They've been adding a lot of those connected ones lately and I can't lie anymore, I am rather invested in this."

Smiling to yourself, you texted him the necessary fabric measurements, ones he received with a characteristic "ding" you heard even through the phone.

"Bring some Vietnamese take out and I shall consider your request."

"Are you sure...? I still think that seafood restaurant–"

You sighed audibly, dragging a hand over your face in an exaggerated manner, almost like a cartoon character. "Rafayel..."

"What? I'm just saying!"

Back when you were a child, around five, maybe six years old, you had three potential careers in mind.

The first one was an astronaut – fueled by your never ending thirst for knowledge and adoration of the unexplored. Drummer was your second pick, warranted by your mom's almost career as a rockstar. And when it came to the last ideal job description, you fell victim to the classic case of peer pressure, as well as a couple of surprisingly well written fairytales – you wished to become a princess.

Movie director was, obviously, nowhere on this entirely probable list of yours, and sometimes you did in fact wonder if the young you would approve of the life you chose to live. What you were absolutely sure of however, was that she would definitely give you a thumbs up after seeing the venue you picked for your anniversary screening; all organised and decorated, it looked eerily similar to a princess' castle.

Although, you did have to admit that choosing to rent one of the smaller mansions on the outskirts of Linkon had probably more to do with it than the rest put together.

The way it all clicked, the entryway decorations, various poster designs propped artistically upon wooden easels and, of course, the purple sashes looped around the tables, made you almost giddy with excitement. The photographers you hired for the night were making sure everything would end up documented thoroughly, saving you the trouble of preserving the memories any other way. Even Malena found an empty spot in her rigid schedule, stopping by with her girlfriend to congratulate on your anniversary.

It seemed perfect. Well, as perfect as anything human-made could turn out to be, except for one, rather crucial matter at hand.

He was nowhere to be seen.

The event was launched personally by you less than half an hour ago and you knew Rafayel had the unpleasant tendency of showing up fashionably late. In fact, you actually considered switching the inauguration time on his invitation to trick him into being there for the opening, but ultimately decided against it, deeming it all not too important anyway.

However, with the hour of the anniversary screening approaching steadily, you were beginning to worry you'd made a mistake choosing to be truthful.

"Everything alright?"

You blinked a couple of times, snapping out of your trance.

"Yeah?"

Quinn tilted her head to the side, letting a couple of elaborate braids slip over her shoulder. "Someone inquired if there'll be non-alcoholic drinks at the reception later tonight, I said I'd ask and when I did, you replied with 'not for too long'...?"

"Did I...?" You internally squirmed at that. "My bad. I... There'll be some freshly pressed juice options available? I don't remember ordering any mocktails."

"It's perfect, you know." She placed a hand on your shoulder in a reassuring gesture. "As perfect as can be. There's no need to worry."

As perfect as could be... And surely, before all this it would have been undeniably enough. So why couldn't that be the case now...?

You tried not to stress while sitting next to a hauntingly empty chair right next to you in the screening room. After all, he'd told you before that he ended up watching The Valentine Club thrice, back to back. Perhaps he just didn't deem it necessary to sit yet through another portion of the same thing. However, despite your attempted reasoning, it did sting. Not enough to whip out your phone and send him a passive aggressive text, no, but just enough to grow bitter at the feeling of getting stood up. Again.

At some point, between a brief speech after the movie and transferring everyone into the main hall, you even began to wonder if anything unfortunate had happened. What if he ended up in a jail cell again? You still haven't asked what prompted him to go there in the first place and you were slowly beginning to lose your resolve over that. Not wanting to judge him so harshly, you also spent some time worrying for his wellbeing, various kinds of accidents flashing through your head as you tried to figure out where the actual hell he was at that very moment.

In order to avoid your assistants' attention, you busied yourself with the guests, making polite, surface level conversation and accepting their congratulations as gracefully as you could. Steadily making your way through the hall, you took notice of how people moved away from a certain faraway corner, one occupied by a group of men laughing jovially. Already slightly suspicious, you moved forward cautiously to investigate, trying to catch some of their conversation.

"And, and then he offered me the same fucking deal, you know? The audacity of that! As if I was on the same level as him, can you imagine?"

Eyeing down the middle aged man situated in the very centre, you pushed through the crowd, accidentally stomping on someone's foot in the process.

"H-Hey! Watch out!"

Filled with burning hot anger, you whipped your head around to face the other man.

"No, you watch ou–" The harsh words got stuck in your throat as you took in the sight in front of your eyes. This couldn't be... "Rafayel...?"

The man you grew to be somewhat fond of, the very same you binge watched like five episodes of your favorite show with just a couple of days ago, now stood before you, clad in a crumpled navy blue suit and a pair of the most ridiculous shoes you'd ever seen.

"What..." Are you doing here? You failed to force anything out your throat.

"Hey there, sweetheart." He sent you a smile, one that didn't quite reach his absent gaze. "Congrats on your movie, yeah?"

You just stood there, unsure of how to react to this utterly absurd scene. Rafayel must have taken that as a sign of annoyance (maybe he wasn't that far off, anyway) and breached the distance between you two, enveloping you in a clumsy hug.

"Come on..." he drawled, cozing up to you like a kitten. "Don't be mad."

"Rafayel, you... Is that–" You involuntarily took a whiff, spotting an unfamiliar scent. "Are you drunk?"

He took a step back, eyebrows furrowed as though he was the one offended by you, not the other way round.

"N-No?"

Exhaling shakily, you closed your eyes for a brief moment before grabbing his clammy hand and dragging Rafayel away from the crowd despite his whiny objections.

"Hey, let go! Where are you taking me? The event is still going–"

You rolled your eyes. "If you'd actually made it here on time, that wouldn't be this big of a concern to you, I bet."

It was almost like your words weren't even registered by Rafayel's brain. He still wiggled in your unforgiving grasp, up until you stopped by one of the emptier tables.

"What's going on?" You looked him right in the eyes, hoping that would somehow sober him up, even a little. "Are you okay?"

He tried to shrug you off, waving his hand right in front of your face.

"You're late," you pressed, growing more and more annoyed with each passing second. "You're late, even though you promised me you'd show up on time. You missed the entire screening and now I find you next to some random men, drunk out of your fucking mind–"

"Stop... yelling. God..." He groaned. "I'm here now, aren't I? What's the big deal?"

"What's– What's the deal?!" You were flabbergasted.

A couple of guests, including Malena and Nikolai, stopped in their tracks, watching the scene unfolding in front of them. Rafayel leaned on the table, rubbing his forehead.

"Jesus Christ, won't you get off my dick already–"

"Excuse me?!"

He seemed to sober up at that. Jolting from his half-folded stance, Rafayel faced you properly, using his entire frame to tower over you.

"You're always so... so stuck up. Always unsatisfied. With everything that I do! Nothing is ever enough! So what does it matter, if I get here on time or not? If I stand here, pretending to care about these random people neither of us will probably see in the next five years? I might as well do what I want instead. At least I know how to have actual fun."

God, you wanted nothing more than to slap him across the face and wipe that snarky grin right off. But instead, mindful of your reputation, you grabbed his elbow, trying to take all this outside.

"This isn't the place for this. You're embarrassing both me and yourself."

"Like you give a fuck!" he snapped, yanking his arm right out and reaching straight into his pocket.

"I don't think that– Hey, what is... Is that a cigarette?!"

Rafayel gave you an absentminded glance as he flicked a lighter. You couldn't believe your own eyes, alarmingly aware of how warm your face had gotten from all these intense emotions.

"Rafayel, you don't smoke. Put that down."

"Oh? And you know that from...?"

Reaching towards the cig, you attempted to jerk it away.

"So you can but not me?" he questioned tauntingly, keeping it just barely out of your reach.

"Put that out right now, Rafayel. You can't smoke in here, it's–"

"Yeah, sure..." He looked positively bored. "Can't do this, can't do that, it's almost like– Ouch!"

He yelped, yanking his hand towards his chest, as though burned.

"I don't know what you think you're doing right now," you started, forcing yourself to sound at least partly reasonable. "But this is the last place you'd want to argue with me at. I can promise you this."

"Oh, forgive me!" he mocked your tone in cocky amusement. "I somehow forgot that you know everything there is to know! My bad!"

Already furious, you had to force yourself to do makeshift breathing exercises in a rather futile attempt to calm down. Instead, it kept making you even more agitated, especially while accompanied by that horrendous scowl on Rafayel's face, one that twisted his features in an almost devilish manner.

"You know what, you poor excuse of a man–"

But before you could finish your cold-hearted retort, someone on your far left began screaming bloody murder.

"Fire! The table's on fire!"

That sent a jolt through you, from the soles of your feet to the very top of your head. Stumbling backwards, you tried your best to assess the situation, suddenly overwhelmed by panicked guests fleeting left and right.

"The sash!" You grabbed it with both hands, trying to put out the fire with some of the excess material. "Rafayel, get back!"

"Where... Ow!"

He jumped back clumsily, not noticing when a part of his attire began catching flames itself. In a desperate attempt to avoid making the matters at hand even worse, you rushed to his side.

Shortly after, hell broke loose.

Your luxurious, eye-catching purple sashes, albeit beautiful, turned out to be entirely impractical, as they were the ones to catch fire the fastest. Acting almost like a fuse, they passed the intensifying flames from table to table, surrounding you both with an abnormal amount of smoke in the process.

Somewhat still partly rational, you yanked Rafayel's suit jacket off his body before he could become a human torch. He, on the other hand, possessed less than half of your quick thinking, still disoriented and not entirely sober. You were forced to cage his face in between your palms, shielding his eyes from the smoke as you yelled loud enough to be heard above the ever-present chaos.

"You need to show people the exit! Gather half of them and go through the backdoor, the one near the pond!"

It was as though something had clicked in Rafayel's brain upon hearing the urgency in your voice. You had no doubts whether or not he knew where to lead the panicked guests; just a couple days ago he tagged along when you visited the mansion for some last minute check ups and the two of you spent half an hour playing sea battle near that exact pond. It was particularly hard to miss, especially with this enormous statue of Apollo situated in the very middle.

As soon as you saw him nod in agreement, you headed in the opposite direction, but Rafayel took hold of your wrist and turned you back around to face him yet again.

"And you?" After noticing you couldn't hear him well, he stepped closer, leaning down, and accidentally brushed your nose with his in the process. "What about you?!"

"Me?!" You placed your thumb on the front of your elaborate outfit. "I'll grab the other half and leave through the main entrance. Meet me in the garden!"

He nodded yet again, although failed to let go of your arm. The way his eyes kept jumping from one spot on your face to the other made your stomach twist and turn. Then, before you could wriggle out of Rafayel's grasp, he pulled you closer to him, letting his lips graze your temple as he spoke directly into your ear.

"Be safe."

You barely had time to register the featherlight kiss he'd given you just now, placed right next to your eyelid, because he was, somehow, already halfway across the room when your eyes fluttered open.

Wasting no more time, you also decided to put your plan into action. The adrenaline present in your veins did its absolute best and you managed to lead most of the guests towards the right exit without breaking a sweat. As soon as you stepped out into the gardens that hugged the mansion tightly, your gaze flickered from person to person, intuitively searching for Rafayel.

You did spot a couple of guests you were sure had headed near the backdoor and Nikolai, as well as Lady Talia, were among them.

"Did you see Rafayel?" you breathed out as soon as you caught up to the woman, tugging at her sleeve like a lost child. "We were supposed to meet here but I cannot find him anywhere."

She shook her head hesitantly, opening her mouth to offer some words of comfort, but you were already running to the next person in line, asking the same question, over and over.

Hours had passed and you weren't able to find him still. There was a couple of fire brigades at the scene, as well as a few ambulances, and you navigated in between them like a skier on a particularly unforgiving slope.

It was well after midnight when the firefighters managed to convince you to finally go home; one of the ambulances even gave you three fourths of a ride back to your place. Amidst it all, you somehow lost your left shoe, as well as the bag you took with you to the event, but when you plopped on the bed, you could only stare mindlessly at the phone in your hand, waiting for Rafayel to give you a call, which didn't come that night.

He also didn't contact you the day after that, and the next. If it weren't for some meaningless press article released the following evening, documenting one of his many reckless incidents, you wouldn't even know if he made it out of the mansion in one piece.

As you stared at the blurry photograph placed next to a wall of condescending text, you kept asking yourself this one thing.

How could it not mean anything to him?

She'd told you not to do it.

Used words more suitable for a hardened sailor rather than a marketing team manager, just in hopes of getting her point across. But you'd always been stubborn. A few would say that it turned out to be part of your charm, in some wicked, roundabout way. And that drove Malena positively insane, because each time she urged you to do something, you'd become absolutely hellbent on turning around on your heel and attempting the exact opposite.

Just like in this case; your fingers were tapping faintly on the steering wheel as you navigated through the grim forest leading to the Qi Mansion. Out of pure spite, you assured yourself. You yearned to see that look on his face, the embarrassment, the poorly masked exasperation. It was so palpable you could almost envision it.

You drove like you had something to prove, and perhaps that was the case here. While Rafayel was used to running away when things went sideways, you taught yourself to chase after what you wanted and needed, despite the unfavourable circumstances. So, when the one month mark finally hit, you decided to show up to the preplanned meeting scheduled when things between you two weren't in such a horrendous condition. You also believed you sort of owed it to Lady Talia, who'd been nothing but utterly kind and doting to you, despite all the mishaps caused by her own nephew.

After passing the main gate of the premises, you assumed a rather languid pace, curiously looking around the land. Before this day, you had never visited the Qi Mansion, which turned out to be not as far from Linkon as you suspected it to be. Tall and striking, decorated in expertly placed outdoor lamps that hung to the faded brick walls, it emanated status, wealth and prestige, all of them in their highest achievable form.

Stopping somewhere near the main entrance, watchful not to park right in the middle of the pathway, you fiddled with the cigarette case placed in the pocket of your corduroy trousers. Only a few windows were lit up on the front and you couldn't help but wonder if Rafayel's rooms were among them. Ever since the burning of that damned mansion you held your event at, you did in fact have plenty of time to think it all through. Constantly switching between pure, unfiltered rage and this unfamiliar affliction, you weren't even entirely sure what you sought at the moment.

And that, this act of going in blind and undecided, you weren't used to in the slightest. Hell, this entire situation felt like something out of a novel you'd read during vacation trips, something that didn't even stand near your day to day activities. It was almost as though after meeting Rafayel, each decision you made seemed entirely new and different, like you were forced to discover parts of yourself you weren't even aware of existing prior to that. And you realised that you weren't exactly opposed to letting that continue.

As soon as you entered the mansion, someone took your coat and offered a pair of vintage looking slippers. Besides a couple of polite greetings, no one gave you any explanation to what was awaiting you whatsoever. As you passed corridor after corridor, you couldn't help but notice how utterly empty this place was. Spotless and pristine, yes, but absolutely devoid of life altogether. Like a priceless painting, locked away in a safe. Or a bottle of expensive perfume, unused and put on a pedestal, reduced to a piece of interior design.

Upon reaching a dimly lit living room (one of many, you'd noticed), you were greeted by the lady of the house herself, who enveloped you in a rushed, somewhat cumbersome embrace.

"Good evening, dear." Her hands rested on your shoulders in an almost motherlike manner. "Words fail to describe how delighted I am to see you tonight, truly. I was almost sure I would never get to meet you again."

Granting her a bittersweet smile, you sat right where she pointed at, in a spacious, patterned armchair near the fireplace.

"I..." You swallowed the lump in your throat which grew with each second spent in this peculiar house. "I wasn't sure either. If I would come."

She sat across from you, in a similar chair, one that bore clear signs of frequent usage. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, atop of her elaborate nightgown.

"I wouldn't have blamed you, dear," she spoke. "It was only this morning I learned what truly happened that night. Although it may not mean much, I am deeply sorry for your loss and still, utterly grateful for a chance at retribution from our side."

They paid for it all.

Well, she did, you'd assumed.

"I suppose it was bound to happen. It was made rather clear what I would be stepping into, so..." you trailed off, unsure of how to continue the sentence. It was almost as if you were offering excuses. Again. You despised the sound of that.

"It truly is a shame that Miss Malena could not join us this evening." Lady Talia leaned back in her armchair, crossing her legs elegantly. "When you see her, please do send my warmest wishes for swift recovery." You nodded. "In the meantime, I had prepared a certain document that–"

"My Lady." One of the butlers, the very same that stood right by the entrance of this room, stepped in for a brief moment. "Lord Qi."

Oh, how you hated the way your body reacted in that moment, twisting around in such an utterly pathetic way and making you seem so, so desperate for merely a glimpse. Your fingernails dug in the thick armrests with such force that if it wasn't of high quality, the material would have surely ripped in half.

He stood there, stiff as a board atop the spiral staircase just outside the doorway. Hair a mess, pointing in all possible directions. Wearing this loose, tattered sweater with one sleeve rolled up and the other covering half of his palm. And the sincerest, most heart-wrenching look of stupor on his face, one you were absolutely convinced you would never forget, for as long as you lived.

You had never seen Rafayel so... raw. Without his planned outfits, fancy accessories and jewellery, generous amounts of cologne that followed him everywhere he went. How he was in that very moment, lukewarm and vulnerable, tugged at your heartstrings in such a violent way, your knees almost gave out.

He just stared at you wordlessly, not daring to look away for even a split second, as though terrified you'd disappear if he did. And, truth be told, if you weren't going through all five stages of grief back to back in that very moment yourself, you'd most likely find his gaze almost eerie.

Slowly, Rafayel came down the stairs and you met somewhere halfway, even though you didn't really plan on walking up to him. He looked even more candid here, up close, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body merely half a step away from yours.

His voice was quiet, strung-out.

"You... came."

A greater woman would put up another wall, guarding herself from what was to come. She'd prepare for the worst and be ready when it struck. But you were exhausted, so exhausted. And, judging by the slump of Rafayel's shoulders, he was too.

"You invited me."

He failed to mask the way his hands twitched at your words, or maybe he wasn't planning to do so. With utter terror, you realised that you wanted him, no, needed Rafayel to reach out instead, unashamedly, just like he'd done merely a few days earlier. And that feeling filled you with an entirely new wave of dread.

Lady Talia excused herself, muttering something about the kitchens and an extra meal, but, in all honesty, neither of you could even sense what was going on outside of this little energy field created in between you both. The way you were taking in each little detail of Rafayel's figure, from the dark circles under his eyes to the faint promise of his waist hidden behind a slightly see-through sweater, could be only described as desperate. Outside of this, in cafeterias and parks, in afternoon sun and the glow of the crescent moon, Rafayel was undeniably beautiful. You couldn't deny that, even if you'd never spoken of it out loud. It'd be utterly foolish to think otherwise and also a lie in its purest form.

But now, Rafayel was more than that. More than just beautiful or attractive or pretty. His slightly disheveled appearance had made him into something you didn't think was even possible – into perfection.

Somehow, through all the fragile, uneven parts that shone through, he achieved the absolute ideal of a man.

Rafayel broke the silence to clear his throat.

"I was sure you wouldn't come," he confessed, voice still low. "Thought you hate me."

You scoffed. "Maybe I should, after you decided to ignore me for three days straight."

Apparently, that was what touched him. With trembling hands, he reached out, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists.

"I... I just wanted to give you some space. You were upset and I–"

"You really thought this would make me less upset?" you interrupted, brows furrowed. "For God's sake, Rafayel, for solid fifteen hours I didn't even know whether you were alive or not."

His gaze dropped to the ground for a moment and the faintest of blushes spread across his face, up to the tips of his ears. "I apologise. Sincerely. You... You deserve better than this. Just– Please, stay for dinner. Yeah? I'll eat separately if it makes you feel better?"

Distracted by the warmth of his hands oh, so near your own, you almost failed to register his words.

"What?" you mustered. "What are you talking about?"

"I..." he trailed off, suddenly unsure.

Twisting your wrists just slightly, you laced your fingers with his, letting your joined hands dangle in between your bodies in a makeshift promise.

"Of course I'm staying for dinner." You couldn’t miss how Rafayel's eyes lit up at that. "I didn't drive all the way here just to grab the contract and go."

Another staff member showed up, offering to lead you to the dining room where food had just been served in your absence.

"Wait–" Rafayel caught up to you mid step. "You're willing to go with this?"

He looked absolutely bewildered in that moment and that made you realise that he had not only believed he would never see you again, but also that you called off the almost-engagement right after the mansion incident. You couldn't help but smirk at that, realising he was still yet to see the amounts of your innate perseverance when it came to getting what you wanted.

"After all this," he continued, stepping into the dining hall right after you. "you still choose to marry me?"

"Yes, I do," you retorted, picking one of the many places behind the long wooden table. "Now, won't you sit down already? Your jumpiness is making me anxious."

He obeyed without question, most likely still rather shocked by the turn of events. As Rafayel sat down, choosing his own place right across from yours, your gaze absentmindedly locked onto the delicate skin of his collarbone exposed by the oversized sweater.

God, you felt like a Victorian era man catching a glimpse of some lady’s ankle.

Rafayel did in fact take notice of your laser focused gaze, however misinterpreted it in its entirety.

"I look horrible," he muttered under his breath, awakening a wave of immediate and all-consuming protest within you. "I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight. Otherwise I’d have ... gotten myself ready."

You stared at him, unable to form a proper answer when he just criticised the greatest view you had ever gotten to experience.

"I’ll go change–"

"Don't." This time, your response was produced right away, resulting in a confused quirk of his brow. "There's no need. After all, the sooner you get used to spending your evenings like this, the better. Unless you genuinely want to wear suits and ties and whatnot for the rest of your married life."

Rafayel lifted up his right hand, as though he was about make a solemn promise, but the unmistakable glint in his eyes gave away the suddenly upbeat mood in an instant.

"Is that so?" he taunted, his usual bravado coming back full force. "You plan on doing that often?"

"Got anything better to do?" You playfully stuck out your tongue and he chuckled.

"Not really, no. I suppose I could get used to this... predicament."

You felt your eyebrows lift at that. "That is an interesting choice of wording."

"Well..." Rafayel leaned forward on the table, smile wide and beaming. "Do you have any other... words in mind?"

Somewhen in the meantime, Lady Talia had returned, offering you a variety of beverages to choose from. The meal that got served shortly after was kept rather simple, but still tasted incredibly well; only after devouring it whole you realised how hungry you'd been prior to that.

Rafayel was actively chatting you up the entire night, (and, unbeknownst to him) more effectively than all the times before summed up and doubled. There was something so hauntingly beautiful in the way he appeared that evening, skin gleaming ever so slightly in the flickering candlelight, hair tousled and neck bare. It was in that moment you finally allowed yourself to admit that maybe, just maybe, all of this wasn't as unpleasant as you kept claiming it was.

Even while accompanied by the utter fiasco of your movie screening barely three days earlier. And that particular thought terrified you like no other.

After dinner you were invited by Lady Talia to her private office upstairs in order to finalise the engagement. The shock you felt upon noticing Rafayel's signature on the document already there was so evident, she even disclosed he'd put it there over ten days ago, the same night your manager dropped off the papers at the Qi Mansion. You were yet to decide how exactly you felt about that.

Rafayel was waiting for you just outside the door, most likely nonchalantly pretending like he stumbled upon you on complete accident (even though this was, quite literally, his own house). It was late, you could see that in the way his eyes gleamed softly, in the way he followed you back to the living room you met Lady Talia in, observing as you slipped your sweater on.

"Leaving already?" he questioned, sending you a cautious glance from his spot on one of the couches.

You sighed. "Soon, yeah. I'm just going for a smoke."

"Can I come with?" He smiled bitterly at your distrustful expression, memory of the last time you two were in a similar situation still fresh. "Just to be there. I don't think I'll be touching any cigarettes in a while."

"Good."

The balcony led to the other, so far undiscovered side of the property, currently enveloped in almost absolute darkness. Leaning over the marble railing, you glanced up at the night sky and Rafayel followed suit. "They are so much brighter here than in the city."

"Light pollution," he muttered, as though the late hour required all words to be whispered reverently. "How good are you at spotting constellations?"

You shook your head, blowing out smoke in the opposite direction. "Not very. I think I know the Little Bear."

"Hey, that's pretty good."

"Just don't make me test this theory," you cautioned, taking notice of how the evening breeze made Rafayel shiver slightly.

He smiled, in a different way than usual, even by today's standards. Then, he leaned in a little bit closer and pointed upward. "Here's your Little Bear," he whispered. "And if you go just slightly lower than the North Star... you'll find the Dragon. Here. See?"

Using his finger, Rafayel traced the constellation step by step.

"All this?" you questioned, making him chuckle. "That's a lot of stars."

"Mmm. Just wait till you see the Pegasus."

You whipped your head around. "Where?"

"It's a little farther out. Maybe I'll introduce you two some other time."

With your neck already slightly sore from looking up, you shot Rafayel the meanest glance you could muster. "Are you seriously gatekeeping constellations now?"

"You know." He rubbed his chin, completely ignoring your little jibe. "You're sort of like Pegasus yourself. As a mythical creature, it represents the ultimate form of sovereignty. The truest embodiment of freedom and creative expression. There is no other quite like it, no matter how far you'd look."

Despite his gaze being directed elsewhere, you still looked away in hopes of hiding the warmth slowly creeping up your neck.

"Then..." you spoke slowly, careful not to disturb this contemplative atmosphere. "Which one would you be?"

The wind tugged gently at the hem of Rafayel's worn out sweater, although he didn't seem to mind the chilly air anymore.

"I'm not sure..." he hummed, sending you a sly wink. "Maybe a peacock."

It's been quite some time since you felt such a sense of peace, one even slightly similar to what you got to experience that night on the balcony with Rafayel. Cigarette ash scattered around with the wind long ago, yet you couldn't bring yourself to retreat to the familiarity of your car parked right outside the main entrance. It was as though by merely speaking of leaving you could have broken this bubble, existing in a place and time no one else besides the two of you could ever reach. You knew, however, the longer you'd stay, the harder it'd be for you to return to what once was. Rafayel must have realised that too.

"I want you to know," he spoke, weighing each word with utmost care and consideration. "how much I appreciate you doing this with me. I can be a handful, that much I'm aware of. But this... this is different. And I think that's what scared me. That's what scares me still."

Unsure of what to reply to the sudden sincerity that soaked Rafayel's words right through, you just stared at him as he took your hands in his, gently, like he'd already assumed you'd yank them right back.

"So." He straightened up. "No more running away. Not from you."

You smiled at that, looking at your intertwined fingers.

"No more running away," you agreed after a brief moment of silence. "Not without you."

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads rafayel #lnds rafayel #rafayel #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #rafayel x reader #archive #♆ archive

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mateo-diaz · 17 days ago

Text

What We Know - Mel King edition

(inspired by this post)

image heavy! all gifs made by me

episode 1x01

During her intro, we learn Mel is a second-year resident and she spent the past 2 months at the VA (Veteran Affairs). Her full name is Melissa and according to the script she is 28 years old.

episode 1x02

She talks about her time at the VA with Frank.

Followed by her explaining why she chose The Pitt and it's where she first mentions her sister.

After a tough case she goes to get some air and sings Megan Thee Stallion's song "Savage" to herself.

She explains to Frank that when she gets frustrated she can get emotional.

She has difficulty understanding when someone is joking or not.

episode 1x03

She explains to Dennis how she sometimes reacts to death.

She talks with Trinity about mothers and how hers passed. (Pheochromocytoma is a rare tumor of the adrenal gland).

episode 1x05

While with a patient, she relates to being someone's primary caregiver. She also mentions her sister is at a facility in North Hills and that she hired an aide in the past, to help when she was at work.

episode 1x06

She watches a lava lamp on her phone to calm down.

She has an alarm set as a daily reminder to call her sister. Which she does a bit later and they discuss her finding a boyfriend/someone to kiss. Becca also asks if she will come get her to which Mel replies yes, after her shift.

episode 1x07

She speaks with Kiara about her spiraling about a case.

Frank asks her how she managed to get an autistic patient to connect with her and she answers that her sister is on the spectrum. He asks her if they are close to which she answers positively, adding that they are best friends.

Later, she is outside looking at pictures of her and Becca.

Frank walks up and Mel talks about her sister again, telling him she really misses her.

episode 1x09

To wind down, she listens to relaxing ocean sounds.

She really enjoys getting to pluck out tiny pieces of gravel from a wound. Frank calls her a "detail specialist".

episode 1x15

She tells Samira and Donnie how she's still holding up.

When she finally goes to pick up her sister, they talk about how on Fridays they go to a restaurant and watch a movie. Becca loves the movie "Elf" which they have seen many times already.