#assistant reader

[charliemwrites]

Oooooh I finally did it!! Mafia au part 6! A little bit of that sweet angst/comfort.

Content: Violence, Previous Injury (mentioned), Panic Attack (non-descriptive)

Let it be said: Johnny’s no snitch.

Outgoing (“loud” Simon would grumble) as he is, he doesn’t run his mouth about anything important. Doesn’t talk business over a pint or boast his connections in bar disagreements. Doesn’t drop names, flash heat, throw around the weight of his employer. Has never spilled a single fucking secret, not for knives, acid, a fucking gun to his head.

Oh, and please don’t tell the boss.

Let it also be said: Johnny is loyal.

He would happily lay down his life for any of his comrades, lives and dies for SpecGru – for Price. And even though you’re new, you’re one of them now. You’ve quickly found and secured your place in Price’s inner circle, different as you may be. Johnny would go to war for you, and your silly pink sticky notes.

Still, keeping something – anything from the boss. Even a private matter like this…

It happened on SpecGru property, that makes it SpecGru business. And it happened to you, which makes it Price’s business.

That you don’t already know that is… well, that’s between you and the boss. Johnny’s already too involved as it is. (Not that he regrets helping you. Not a bit. If he had his way, that little prick would have left with his teeth in his pocket and a new appreciation for his remaining thumb).

So now Johnny is stuck. He likes you; he really does. That you trust him with something so personal isn’t lost on him, especially in this line of work. He also has a healthy fear of your wrath. (You may not carry any weapons he’s seen, but you’ve got Price grimacing when you narrow your eyes just so. Johnny knows where his cupcakes are made, and he likes them without arsenic, thank you). So, personally, he wants to be able to honor your request to keep the matter private.

But then there’s Price, and whatever he’ll do to Johnny if – when – he finds out about all this.

Johnny’s solution?

“Christ, Gaz, ya shoulda seen it. Never seen the little miss tell someone off like that. Graves woulda been shakin’ in his boots. Will have to ask security for a recording of it.”

Gaz, unimpressed with Johnny’s volume, rolls his eyes and walks away, muttering about tea for his sudden headache. And Price, sitting at his desk, twitches and reaches for his phone.

Mission: accomplished.

Not the most elegant, but he’s a mafia lieutenant, not a fuckin’ spy. Now, to get those pastries you like before Price sees the footage.

“Luv?”

You glance up from the expense reports you’ve been working through for the better part of an hour. Mr. Price is leaning in the doorway to his office, shoulder to the jamb. There’s… an odd look on his face. You’ve never seen it before, don’t have it categorized in your mental files.

“Yes, boss?” you ask, straightening up.

“A word?”

You blink. That’s… different. You don’t like it.

Price is a steady sort of man. Not predictable, but consistent. That this is new, unusual, unfamiliar, makes you uneasy. Reminds you of your last boss, who could call you into his office with an affable grin, only to spend thirty minutes berating you for anything and everything he could think of.

Price has never done that, nothing even close… but you can’t suppress the slight shake in your hands as you smooth your skirt down. Hide it with a little flick of your wrists before grabbing for your ever-trusty tablet. Hell, you probably don’t even need it, but at this point it’s practically a comfort item. Maybe you should name it, put some googly eyes on it.

“Sweetheart?”

You startle a bit. Realize your feet have already carried you into his office and followed him right to his desk. Except instead of standing at his elbow as usual, you’re facing him across his desk. Like you did during your interview with him, when you were still strangers. Like you used to do for your previous boss.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” you chirp, forcing your usual brightness, “those expense reports, ya know? What did you need me for?”

Without a word, he spins his computer monitor around. Your brow furrows as you process the video playing on the screen. You. Soap. Brandon. Your stomach sinks.

There’s no sound, but there doesn’t really need to be. Even in profile, the expressions are crisp – high end cameras. You feel numb as the scene plays out all over again. You and Brandon snipping at each other back and forth. Your rigid spine, stiff shoulders. Brandon’s sleezy confidence. Soap, getting visibly aggravated as the seconds pass.

And there it is, the moment you spun on your heel, done with the conversation, and Brandon reached for you.

When you see Soap’s hand snap out – just a blur on the screen – you have to sit. Muscle memory collects your tablet in your lap, sweaty hands stacking neatly on top of it. Your heart is beating either too fast or too slow.

Your eyes stay locked on the screen until you and Soap disappear into the elevator, and the video stops.

“Should I play the elevator footage as well?” Price asks, voice low and quiet. “That comes with sound.”

It takes all your years of learned discipline and cultivated poise to resist shrinking in on yourself. It does not, however, stop your eyes from burning.

“Sir,” you say, struggling to keep your voice even, “I am so sorry.”

There’s a beat of tense silence as you gather yourself, throat getting tighter and tighter. Your head is spinning with fear and anxiety. What he’ll say, what he’ll do. How you could possibly damage control this.

“I-I don’t even know how he found out where I work,” you say, “and Soap w-was just trying to help. If I’d known that would happen, I would have taken it outside.”

You can barely look at Price as your voice break midway through, the panic leaking into your tone even as you stay frozen in place.

“Did we – is he suing? Is – is that why—?”

The tears escape despite your efforts, dripping fast and down your cheeks as you shudder in a breath. You can’t pay for a lawsuit, especially not if you’re fired over this. And you don’t want to lose this job. You love this job, you love—

“Oh, darling, what a mess you’ve made of yourself.”

You sniffle as Price rounds his desk and kneels in front of you, plucking his handkerchief from his breast pocket. He tuts at you when you open your mouth to protest, already blotting at your cheeks with a surprisingly gentle touch.

“There now, no need to cry,” he soothes, thumbing away another tear before it can fall. “I know it takes you ages to get your eyeliner right. This is nothing to ruin it over.”

“But…”

“I’m not angry, luv,” he continues, voice still low and quiet. This time, it doesn’t make your shoulders tense. “Wasn’t before and definitely not now. Chin up, there’s a dear.”

“Y-you’re not?” you warble.

“Not a bit,” he answers. “Not at you, at least.”

“Then why…?” You gesture weakly at the computer screen.

He sighs, something almost fond passing over his face. “Darling, you could have been hurt. Imagine if Soap hadn’t been there. All of us on the top floor, waiting for you to get back, not knowing something was wrong.”

He shakes his head, cradling your cheek with the same hand that brushed away your tears.

“You’re one of mine, you understand? Anything that happens to you is my responsibility,” he explains. “And I didn’t… enjoy that you want to keep something like this from me.”

You drop your eyes in shame. Of course. An employee assaulted on company ground, his personal assistant no less. Price would never stand for that sort of thing. He looks out for his own, looks out for you.

“Hey, look at me, luv. None of that now,” he coaxes. “I just want to get to the bottom of why you didn’t want to tell me.”

It occurs to you that that tone you heard earlier might have just been genuine worry and maybe… a bit of hurt. You twist your hands in your lap as you gather your words.

“I didn’t… it wasn’t because of you,” you murmur. “I just… was so embarrassed. And I didn’t want to make it your problem. I’m supposed to make your life easier, not harder.”

He huffs, but you’re relieved to see wry amusement on his face now.

“No more of that,” he orders, as softly as he when he wiped your face. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a love.” He gently pinches your cheek, then stands. “Stay here, I’ll get you a cup of water. Take a moment, yeah?”

You nod, sniffling again. He squeezes your shoulder as he passes, and you finally let yourself breathe. Not getting fired, not getting sued. And Price isn’t mad at you. Christ, he needs to work on his approach.

“Kyle.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Look into that knob from the lobby. And the little miss’s last boss.”

“You’ve got it.”

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Masterlist

[satansdarlin]

Marigold margins

Chapter two

Ceo!Tim Drake x assistant fem!reader

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

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

Word count: 10k

Rating: T

Playlist

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

You felt like an imposter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shifted uncomfortably. "Define 'real'?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shit," you muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wise choice," you winked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Calm down, Vito Corleone," you chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sounds exactly like his mother," you teased.

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

You raised an eyebrow. "Weaponized flower arrangements?"

"Not a threat. A promise."

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzed.

From: Tim

Everything settled in?

To: Tim

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

From: Tim

Remind me to never get on her bad side either.

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Coffee?"

It wasn't a question. It was survival.

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

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

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

"Don't what?" Innocence personified.

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

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

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

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

"Together," he confirmed.

The word hung in the air. Weighted. Promising.

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

From: Scarlet

Coffee count? Eating actual food today?

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

"Indi's more responsible sibling" he observed.

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

The storm was just beginning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzed. Indi's perpetual concern.

From: Indi

You're being careful?

To: Indi

Always.

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

"Coffee?" you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stepped closer. An instinctive movement. Grounding.

"Tim—"

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

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

Professional. Intense. Undefined.

Precisely where you both wanted it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The line between professional and personal blurred. Dissolved.

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

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

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

You nodded. A return to form. To function.

"Reports," he instructed.

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

From: Indi

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

To: Indi

Message: Absolutely not.

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

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

He chuckled. A rare sound these days.

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

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

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

The space between those definitions was where you lived now.

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

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

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

The game was just beginning.

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

"You wished to speak to me, sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your smile was pure defiance. "Absolutely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right. Not the time for levity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It made his blood boil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To make a point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of possibility.

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

The gala. The dress. Tim.

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

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

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

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

Just like you.

A knock at the door startled you from your thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mmmhm?"

"I.."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tim," you breathed, "I—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bruce—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say it again," he breathed.

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

He kissed you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it had been.

.

.

.

Taglist:

@ahqkas

@prettyktarou

@a-candle-maker

@mact85

@babxtxxn-blog

@mercys-manic-episode

@lilithskywalker

@princesstrunkz

@a-taken-url

@hisjdjs

@mellowtunekitty

@awkwardcrowberry

@vintageroses10

[eeveebitches]

e-mail. || Roman Roy || smut

Pairing: Sub!Roman Roy x F!Reader

Summary: You're roman's assistant, and after delivering breakfast something clicks.

Word count: 2.154

18+ only! More under the cut

Warning(s): SMUT, aka 18+ only! Sub Roman, mommy kink, praise kink, hand jobs, come eating,

A/n: tysm @prettywordsblog for the request!! :DD i love your writing so it was a pleasure to get requests from you (my requests are still open, fyi)

_______________________

You've been wearing pencil skirts and heels a lot these days.

It's not that you particularly enjoy wearing them. Running errands like "get me a bagel" and "actually, I want a cinnamon roll instead, so get me one of those" do not become easier with red bottoms, and the cold of New York in autumn nips at your barely clad legs with ferocity. 

But when you wear them, Roman becomes... docile.

Maybe it's the fact that the heels make you taller than him. Or shit, maybe he has a sexy assistant fantasy, who knows. All you know is that when you dress the way you now do, he hesitates when he snidely asks you to write his e-mails for him. Instead, he carefully suggests you should do them, not a singular perverted comment slipping in.

So now, as you walk out of the elevator, you hear the clicking of your heels echo. It's far too early to be in office, evident by the lack of your peers in the bull pit.

You huff as you approach Roman's office and see him lounging around, legs on his desk as he leans back, staring at his phone. You don't even bother knocking, simply swinging the door open. "I know it's like, three in the morning, but can you at least try to pretend you're being productive?" 

He lets out a huff, dramatically rolling his eyes as he flops his legs down. "Yes, mommy," he mockingly whines out, staring at the plastic bag swinging from your arm. "What's in the bag?"

"A gun, so I can finally kill you," you casually throw out as you place the bag on the glass coffee table, throwing off your long jacket onto the leather chair he has. Roman stands up, amusement twinkling in his doe-like eyes as he walks over to sit on his couch. "Y'know, I could totally report you for saying that. That's like, a legit death threat. I could SWAT you." With a tiny jump he hops on the chair, shoes still on as he crouches on top of the couch's pillows.

You can't help but frown. Sometimes you feel like he isn't a total nepotism baby, but instead some kind of orphan child raised by wolves. "Don't do that with your shoes on, Roman, it's unhygienic." With another eye roll he lets himself fall onto the chair, resting his one leg on the thigh of the other. He leans back, arms reaching over the couch's back cushions. 

You grab the contents of the bag and place them on the coffee table as you hum a random tune. The smell of a breakfast spread makes you hungry as hell, but you don't have another break until six hours from now. Silently, Roman watches as you place the various foiled up plates down and remove the foil. 

Roman eyes the dishes-- an omelette, some sausages, bacon, hash browns, and a paper cup of coffee that he's sure is from his favorite café. "Okay, this is fuckin' weird. What's the catch? Did you get a chef to make all of this arsenic-infused? Because as my assistant, you're also my taste tester, so I'm not eating until I see you poison yourself first," he rambles, cautiously watching you place napkins, a fork and knife down.

"This is a congratulatory breakfast, so just shut up and be grateful." 

He raises his brows at you. "The fuck are you saying congrats for?" With the tiniest smile you could stomach giving him, you throw the plastic trash in the bin. "The Oplex deal, Roman. You were the one who ended up buttering the guy up," you explain. 

His eyes widen for only a second before returning to their neutral, lidded state. "Oh please, all I did was give him a verbal fuckin' blowjob. Kendall did all the business-y shit," he mumbles out, picking up the cutlery with a solemn expression.

"I'd disagree, and I think Mr. Roy would, too," you mumble out in return. You watch Roman as he takes the first bite of his omelette and moans, quickly scurrying to get another bite. "Fuck, this is good. Is this laced? I'm gonna fire the shit out of you if this is laced," he says in between bites.

You grab your coat from the chair and hang it up, smiling as you continue watching him from the corner of your eye. "I'm flattered, but no. I'm just a good cook." You fight back a laugh as he very clearly chokes on his food. Professionalism and all that, if there's even any left between the two of you. 

"You're fucking with me." You plop down on the leather chair across from Roman, grabbing your thermos from your bag and taking a sip of tea as you shake your head. Wide-eyed, Roman gawks at you, then the food, and then you again. "You made me breakfast?"

You simply nod before pulling your laptop out. "I wasn't expecting you to be surprised by that. You're the one who always calls me mommy," you mumble out as you watch e-mails and messages immediately start to pop up. "Now finish up your food and get to work, before you upset mommy."

With a teasing grin you wait for Roman to shoot something back. Maybe something about you getting reported to HR, or about you wanting to suck his dick. Maybe even one of those jokes he makes about how his dad only hired you to be his personal babysitter. 

But instead, you simply get,

"Yes, mommy."

Confused, you look up from your laptop to see Roman quietly eating his food. His cheeks are dusted a ripe shade of red as he struggles to cut his food up, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. 

Something that should've clicked ages ago, clicks. So carefully, you stand up and walk to stand next to the couch he's sitting on. Roman's head looks up at you, eyes large and lashes fluttering. His bottom lip stutters, as if he wants to say something, but it doesn't successfully form itself.

"Do you need me to help you with your food, baby?"

Your heart pounds in your chest as you await his response. Nervously, he scans your face, licking his lips as he mulls over his options.

"Yes mommy," he yet again mumbles out.

You take a seat next to him and wordlessly grab the fork and knife from his hand. "I hope you know I'm proud of you for landing that deal, baby," you tell him as you put a piece of the sausage on the fork. He doesn't hesitate to open his mouth for you, obediently letting you feed him in his office, in a building his dad owns. 

"You made mommy so proud. When we finish up here, can you go sit at your desk for me?" He nods as you continue feeding him, which continues for another silent fifteen minutes.

After wiping his mouth for him, he quickly scurries to his desk, staring expectantly at you as you slowly make your way over. You place one hand on his chair, and the other on his desk, leaning over to stare at his computer screen. 

Roman lets out a soft groan as your tantalizing perfume overwhelms your senses. All he can do is look up at you as you start up his computer for him. "You have an e-mail you need to write regarding a contractual agreement with a production studio. Can you do that for me?"

It's like he's possessed by you, charmed into a spell of utter submission as he can only mutter another 'yes, mommy'. He opens his mail, and right as he starts typing you tut.

"Mommy wants to hear you say what you're typing, so I know you're doing well," you tell him, hand moving down from his chair to instead rest on his shoulder. Wordlessly, he nods, clears his throat and with a shaky voice reads aloud to you. 

"Dear Mr. Spruce, attached is a--" his voice dies in his throat as you let your hand slither down lower and lower, testing the waters as you fully bend over to reach his lap. "Keep going, sweetheart," you tell him, watching his twitchy hands hover over his keyboard. 

As he continues where he left off, you carefully unzip his trousers, loosening the top button and successfully revealing a dark imprint showing through his white Calvin Klein boxers. "Attached is a, uhh, a copy of the contract, fuck." 

The moan roman lets out as you pull his briefs down, allowing his erection to spring free and slap against his covered stomach, is whorelike. "Keep going, baby," you hum in his ear as you unbutton the bottom of his blouse a bit, wanting to avoid his pre-cum staining a perfectly good shirt.

"Please, mommy, fuck," he whines out as you let a singular finger drag over the tip of his cock, already causing his hips to rut up. "This e-mail needs to be sent today, Roman. Keep typing if you don't want me to get angry."

He nods fervently, shakily continuing to type as you carefully take his erect cock into your hands. He stumbles over his words, moans and hiccups filling your ears as you stroke him at a slow pace. You let your hand squeeze the base before going up, applying the perfect amount of pressure before rolling your thumb over his leaking slit. 

Roman's eyes quickly turn glassy with welled up tears as he's made to endure your slow, torturous movements, and as much as he wants to please you, writing the e-mail would be the actual death of him.

His hands shoot away from his keyboard to clutch onto his seat's armrests. With a wanton moan he throws his head back, eyes screwing shut as you slightly pick up your pace. "You've been such a good boy for mommy, Roman, haven't you?" you ask him, voice dangerously low and dangerously close to his ear. 

"Ngh-- yes, so so good f'r you, mommy." You kiss his forehead, earning yourself a cute whine. "W'na kiss you, please, mommy," he moans, head struggling to reach yours. "I'll give you a kiss after you finish the e-mail, alright sweetheart? For now," you tell him, grabbing his hand and leading two of his fingers into his own mouth, "I want you to be nice and quiet for me while I take care of you."

With a lack of hesitation he accepts his own fingers into his mouth, immediately sucking on them as his eyes flutter closed, and his moans grow strained. "Do you like it when mommy takes care of you, Roman?"

He nods, writhing under your every touch. He gasps around his own fingers as you pay extra attention to his tip, instant over stimulation taking over his body as his hips twitch up to meet your touch. "Mmh, would you let mommy fuck you?"

"Yes, fuck, yes," he groans out, removing his own fingers to instead find hold in his chair's armrests again. "W'na feel you around me, feel you-- fuck, feel you squeeze my cock." You increase the speed of your strokes, watching your boss fall apart in front of you. His hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, and his lips are as rosy as they are glossy with spit.

The veins on his forehead and neck look like they're about to pop as you whisper in his ear. "You wanna feel mommy's cunt as she milks you dry?" All he can manage to let out is a desperate 'uh-huh', clearly close to reaching completion.

"'M gonna cum, mommy, I'm g'na-" Roman gasps out, cutting himself off with a drawn out moan.

"Cum for me, baby."

With a moan so slutty you could confuse it for porn, Roman finishes, thick ropes of cum shooting onto your hand as you stroke him through his orgasm. Even when he's emptied out you continue relentlessy, earning you a teary-eyed Roman as he begs for you to stop. 

Hiccuping, he grabs your arm. "Too sensitive, mommy," he groans out, trying to catch his breath. You decide to have mercy on him, removing your hand and instead hovering it in front of him. "Clean mommy up?"

He simply nods before licking your hand clean, tongue lapping between your fingers as he practically sucks off his own semen from your fingers. With your hand clean, he lets himself sink deep into his chair.

"That was, uh," he mumbles as he mindlessly stares at you as you wipe his saliva off on your pencil skirt. You don't say anything, simply walk back over to your laptop. "I'm gonna finish up scheduling for next week, alright Roman?"

He blinks a few times, processing your words before awkwardly agreeing with yet another nod. "Oh, and make sure to write that e-mail," you add, turning to now fully focus on your own work.

"...yes, mommy."

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Formally requesting more of my favorite duo - assistant and Ace lol

"I'm not sure this is-"

"We're publicly together now," Bruce reminded, kissing your nose. "It's not as if anyone would think anything about it."

"I bed to differ," you tell him, stroking Ace's head. "People have a lot of thoughts about our relationship."

Bruce rolled his eyes fondly and swatted your thigh. "Do we care about it?"

"I care about it drawing attention to you-"

"Listen. If Bruce Wayne is happily preoccupied with you, then he can't be Batman. You keep me busy and on my toes. Too bust to fight crime."

"I still can't let you buy me a gown for-"

"Like hell," he snorted. "You're my girl. My Baby. It's my job to make sure you look the best-"

"Bruce."

"We're going shopping tomorrow, Miss Y/N. And if you've very good and pout especially prettily I'll pay for a pedicure too."

"I have to ask for those now?"

"No," he chuckled. "Especially not if I've been an asshole."

[stardustlin]

I’ve seen so many Miguel x non-spidey Secretary posts lately (and I’m EATING THEM UP) & not only do I work in an office but I’m also really into computers- fixing, building, troubleshooting, coding..

Of course as a woman no one ever expects me to be the one to know how to fix the problem, and now I keep daydreaming about these scenarios with Miguel getting frustrated about some computer / tech issue and being the one to hop in and fix it for him, and how he’d be impressed and maybe even attracted to that

If you’ve ever seen Green Arrow, I relate heavily to Felicity Smoak 😅

real. love when a woman can show off and do better than her male counterparts (it’s giving women in stem; me) 🧚🏽‍♀️✨🤸🏽‍♀️

miguel o’hara x assistant! fem reader

summary: you help troubleshoot a computer issue that miguel can’t seem to fix and you end up helping him, nonetheless, that makes him attracted to you: your intelligence and witty nature.

miguel encounters a frustrating computer or tech issue, and you, his partner, skillfully step in to save the day. as miguel struggles to resolve the problem, your expertise and ability to fix it effortlessly captures his attention and admiration.

initially, miguel might express his frustration, venting about the issue or trying different approaches to fix it without success. as you observe his struggles, you recognize the problem and the solution becomes clear to you. with a confident smile, you step in and quickly resolve the tech issue, effortlessly navigating the complexities that had troubled miguel.

“i got it, baby. just relax!”

seeing you smoothly solve the problem that had been causing him annoyance sparks miguel’s attraction and admiration for your abilities. he’s impressed by your technical knowledge and problem-solving skills, connecting the dots between your intelligence and the inherent charm you possess.

your capable nature and quick thinking captivate miguel, making him view you in a new light. the way you handle the situation with ease and finesse sparks a deep sense of respect, and he finds himself drawn to your intelligence and competence.

the act of innate tech prowess not only garners miguel’s attraction but also deepens his appreciation and love for you. your ability to navigate and resolve complex computer issues reinforces his belief that you are an incredible partner, capable of handling any challenge that comes your way.

aa a result, miguel might express his admiration and fondness, praising your skills and sharing his delight in having you by his side. “thank you, you’re hot for that, you know.” he might express his growing attraction, finding your expertise and problem-solving abilities incredibly alluring.

[cissyenthusiast010155]

New Years Kiss ~Kate Woodstock xFem Assistant!Reader ~Holiday Bingo

Summary— A late night at Kate’s office, some scotch, and some New Year’s resolutions lead to new things… (Post Season 1).

Previous Day <—found here!

Holiday Bingo <—Here!!

Mommy… Masterlist

Requests & Prompt-List

Prompt- Resolutions

Warnings: light NSFW, implied smut, kissing, implied confessions of feelings, alcohol, alcohol consumption, implied age gap (all legal), etc.

Enjoy (;

You opened the bottle of scotch with a pop! And poured you and Kate each a glass.

It was late and you are both in her office. It had been a long day. Kate had spent all day arguing in court in the second Whitehall case. And you, as her new assistant, were always running to keep up with her.

You handed the woman her glass and she thanked you.

You did your best to follow what she said, keep track of her things, take notes, and learn from your mentor as best as you could. You usually ended up working insane hours, really early and then late into the night, but you liked it. But it was never easy…

Especially as her gaze racked up and down your figure as she sipped her scotch.

You sipped some of your own as a way to distract, your cheeks flushing a little. This made Kate chuckle.

“What…?”

“Nothing, you’re just adorable.” Kate hummed, taking another sip of her alcohol.

This made you blush even more.

“Am not…” you mumbled back.

“I looked at you for more than one second, and you start blushing… That’s adorable.” Kate chuckled.

You huffed in defeat, trying to avoid anymore blushing embarrassment. So you sat down in one of her lounge chairs. Kate followed and sat next to you in the loveseat. You only then noticed the time.

“Fuck Kate. It’s 1…”

Kate only then looked at the clock and her eyes widened.

“Indeed… Happy New Years, love.” She hummed, raising her glass out for you to clink.

You two clinked glasses and chuckled.

“So… any New Year’s resolutions for you?” Kate asked.

You thought about it for a moment.

“I’d… I would like to try to be less stressed.” You decidingly exclaimed.

You met Kate’s gaze after she didn’t respond for a moment after you spoke. Her gaze was fixed on your lips, but flickered back up to your eyes as you looked at her.

“You?”

“I…” Kate whispered, putting her glass down and coming closer to you, “Would like to kiss you…” she breathed out.

Your breath hitched and your eyes widened. Kate took your drink for you, putting it aside as you gulped.

“I’d very much like that…” you breathed out, your breathing already growing shallow.

This made Kate smile and lean in to close the gap. She slowly pecked your lips, starting slow and beginning to explore your lips. She bit your bottom lips every once in a while, making you shiver and causing your body to heat up more and more.

Kate’s left hand slid behind and around your neck, and her other landed on your thigh.

Her tongue then came out, swiping your bottom lip while she hummed. You understood her ask, opening your mouth enough for Kate’s tongue to enter your cavern. You let out an instinctive and breathy moan, as her tongue began to taste and explore your mouth.

It was still a slow pace, you were very much letting Kate take the lead. When she realized your hands wee frozen and unsure what to do, she guided them to her hips, humming in satisfaction when you had found her curves.

This was when you started to lose air, and Kate was as well, so she slowly pulled away. Her hooded eyes met your gaze. You breathed out a ragged breath and shivered.

There was only one thing going through your mind right now, and you could only say one thing,

“More” you whimpered.

~~~

Next Bingo Fic <—Here!!

Kate Woodstock Masterlist

Holiday Bingo 2023 Masterlist

Tag List: @storiesofsvu @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @vexed-jade @lunala-rose23 @sapphixwriter

[willowser]

Kiri spice 🥺🥺🥺 from you 🥺🥺🥺 please... 🥺🥺🥺 the spice must flow 🥺🥺🥺 (at a time appropriate for you)

at a time appropriate for you LOL YOU'RE SO SWEET 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 stop that's so cute hehehe let's think !! should we do something fun i wanna do something fun !!! i think not-so-sweet-actually-spicy sunday is going to bakugou, so we should give kirishima......something else........he deserves some fun 😊😊🩷✨🍓

[jxllypxp]

I have a very silly goofy little ted fic on the the way 😈 the publishing house got a sneak peak of it alr tho

[maryangelex]

loser!reader x simon riley

loser!reader who’s hired by lasswel to help price with the immense amount of paperwork that he never gets to. who’s assigned to sit pretty at the beaten desk outside of his office. but I like the idea of reader not being the typical “sexy assistant” but more like loser girl frumpy sweater and thick rimmed glasses type of assistant who still gets these Kyle and Johnny riled up working extra hard and making dorks out of themselves trying to woo you but you’re just too oblivious to men’s advances. not simon though, he’s the one that’s the most awkward yet somehow effective? you get hired and on your first day, as you acclimate to your office with your matching pastel supplies that you so delicately organize across your desk to give this t-filled office a feminine touch, one by one the boys drop off their report files at your desk to be revised and handed over to price. the first one’s Kyle, who showers you in compliments that go way over your head, “sargeant Garrick sure is polite!” Is all you really think of it; kinda frustrating for him. the next one coming over is Johnny, who hands you his files with his eyes eating you up like you’re a bar of chocolate. Johnny makes you feel um, intimidated? it’s the way he’s got that look in his eyes that feels like he’ll eat you whole, like he’s got X-ray vision staring right through that bulky knitted sweater. It makes your cheeks turn beet red in embarrassment when he makes comments and one-liners to get you worked up. the last one to visit your desk that first day caught you off-guard. while you were turned around alphabetizing the manila folders in the file cabinet behind you, you turned around to the large apparition of a skull-faced man that might as well have been a hallucination because 2 seconds ago he was not there and a man that size should be impossible to go unnoticed. your heart jumps and gets caught in your throat when you turn around and see him; dark and massive and the only visible human feature in him are the dark brown eyes behind that mask. you greet him politely through a stutter as you return to your seat, and all he responds with is an extended arm with the reports in hand. you mutter a thank you, your throat constricted, and what you get in return is a grunt before he turns on his heels and disappears down the hallway.

you’re scared shitless of that man on your very first day.

little did you know, simon’s face under the mask was scarlet red and flushed hot the second he saw your innocent glimmering eyes behind your skewed frames, making him unable to get a word out and having no other option but to retreat.

[charliemwrites]

Ok I’m still thinking about the mafia boss/assistant thought from earlier this week. (Partially because I binged the “Mafia!141 au” by groguspicklejar)

Content: implied misconduct

You were the executive assistant for one of the 141’s business associates. Looking to leave for a while because your boss is obvs kind of an asshole. Like, mean to you when he’s in a bad mood, blames you for things you can’t control or plan for, has harassed you once or twice but “only because he was tipsy”. (You’re not fucking deaf, you’ve heard him make nasty comments 🙄)

Farah happens to be his next 141 enforcer check-in. You go above and beyond - apologizing that his meeting is running late as if it’s your fault, would she like anything at all? Water, tea, coffee? There are mini muffins as well!

She takes a shine you immediately, especially once she goes in for her meeting with your (soon to be former) boss. You hand him a little portfolio, obviously color-coded, with sticky notes and highlights. You even adjust the blinds behind his windows for the light about to bounce off the high rise across the street.

Before she leaves, she mentions that her boss would love an assistant like you, and if you have any recommendations…

She drops her number. You call by the end of the week.

Mr. Price meets you personally for the interview. He’s a big man, built. But somehow it’s complemented by the understated wealth he exudes. Expensive cologne, expensive cigars. A tailored suit and perfectly polished shoes. His watch alone costs half a year of your rent, but it’s fashionable, not gaudy. You hope that his taste isn’t the only nice thing about him.

You’re pleasantly surprised by how courteous he is. Shakes your hand (you’re surprised by the callouses, but dont let it show) firm and polite, without lingering. Flicks his gaze over you once, perfunctory, then focuses solely on your face for the rest of the interview.

You like him instantly, and it shows in the way you joke and gesture while answering his questions. Professional, of course, but relaxed and genuine, not the polished and bland veneer of a person your previous boss preferred.

And something about that must appeal to him as an employer because he concludes the interview asking when you can start.

You’re absolutely thrilled to tell him you can be in the next day. And he agrees.

Next

Masterlist

[isasweetie]

you’re suddenly on a first name basis with your boss’s husband… why does it make you feel so funny? ૮꒰˶> ༝ <˶ ꒱ა (sirens!au)

“…you’re fuckin’ on thornton?” you freeze when you hear mr cameron’s voice from behind you in the garden, where you’ve been taking your break.

your eyes widen and your body turns to face him, lashes fluttering as you play innocent, and figure out why he’s asking. “pardon me?”

“topper thornton. my buddy. you fucking him?” the bluntness of the billionaires words make your lips part a bit, unsure what to say.

something about rafe seems to make you want to tell the truth. he’s awfully convincing, his smooth words could probably pull anybody in — that must be why he’s so successful.

your glossy lips move to admit it. “only once, mr. cameron,” you admit, a bit of pleading in your tone before you even ask the next question. “please don’t tell sofia, i’m not sure how she’ll react and i would rather keep this private—“

“rafe.” he cuts you off.

you blink after he ignores your pleas and admission. “..hm?”

“mr. cameron is too formal for me. me ‘n you live together, and i’d prefer whatever women i live with not to refer to me so professionally. rafe works just fine.”

you try to process his words, nodding gently. “…okay then, rafe,” you test his name out on your tongue, making him crack a bit of a smirk.

“you’re cute, y’know that?” he chuckles to himself. you assume he’s just being casual, and this is normal, so you give him a shy thanks. “a’ight, say it again,” he tells you.

“say what?”

“your answer to my first question. say it again, but refer to me properly.”

“oh— um…” you try and recall what you were saying to him beforehand, brain suddenly a bit fuzzy. you’re not sure why. “was just saying that i’ve only hooked up with topper once, rafe.. ‘n for you to please not tell your wife? it’s kind of new, so…” you feel a bit shy as you restate your previous admission.

he nods, satisfied with your obedience. “i see now why sofia likes you. sweet thing, good listener… yeah, you’re good.” he says, as if he’s assessing you. his gaze travels down your figure, you assume just checking your outfit, before landing on your face again. “well have a nice day, sweetie, i’m sure i’ll see you for dinner.”

you nod instantly, trying to get your confused and hazy brain working again. “yes sir— rafe,” you correct. “see you tonight,”

with that, he smiles and hums, nodding once then walking to the house again. he leaves as if nothing just happened, leaving you to wonder .. what the fuck was that, and why do you feel so fuzzy? it’s going to be hard to return inside after your break, that’s for sure. rafe … first name basis with the billion-dollar man himself.

[mariasont]

JUST THE TIP(S) - A.H

aaron learns the hard way that upping your maintenance allowance has unexpected, explicit perks. especially when you insist on showcasing your newest investment while he's stuck miles away.

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, sexting, nsfw imagery, exhibitionism? (in the form of pictures), references to masturbation, workplace inappropriateness, power dyanmics (boss/employee), dirty talk, sugar daddy hotch vibes wc: 1.7k request: here!

Hotch attempts to read the file in front of him again, just to keep himself busy, but it starts to resemble gibberish somewhere between the countless victim timelines and his unwavering staring contest with the phone screen. 

Nothing. Still nothing. 

It’s been, he glances down for confirmation, thirty-nine minutes since he hit send. Not exactly long enough to panic. Yet here he is, panicking, because your replies normally land instantly, punctuated with frantic emojis, a parade of exclamation points, and nonsensical crises like:

i just made toast and almost caught my sleeve on fire but it’s ok now !!!! 🤭

So, yeah. Thirty-nine minutes feels like a small eternity.

Last week, he had upped your spending limit. You murmured something vague about having a bad day. You didn’t supply any specifics, no dramatics, just an innocent observation that he instantly took as an urgent call to action.

He logged into your account and adjusted your monthly extras, expanding that little safety net you didn’t even know he color-coded as you-time on his accounting spreadsheet. 

It wasn’t even remotely about the actual money. How could it be, when you were always giving pieces of yourself away — filling his silence with your easy chatter, kissing his frown lines, leaving perfume on his pillow (and everywhere else). So if a few extra hundred dollars meant more wellness appointments or a couple frivolous purchases that could help you feel more like yourself, it was the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. 

This is what he attributed your lack of response to. You’re probably out using that buffer right now.

He doesn’t need to spiral.

But he does anyway. Because when he’s not around, you have a tendency to forget to hydrate, to neglect to eat anything remotely nutritious, to lose yourself in shiny distractions, and his mind, unfortunately, never seems to shut off where you’re concerned.

He digs the heel of his hand into his forehead, trying not to jump to worst-case scenarios. He’s not clingy. Definitely not the kind of boyfriend who sends another text after less than an hour. 

Still, he nudges his phone a bit closer, strictly precautionary.

It takes exactly fifteen more agonizing, anxiety-inducing minutes — minutes shaped like big neon question marks — before the phone finally buzzes.

You: hi bossman !! miss ur grumpy face sooooo bad it’s criminal (arrest me??) how’s the case?

He exhales through his nose. His first thought is to correct you, to say that he’s definitely not grumpy, but his fingers pause, and he erases it instead. 

He is grumpy, though he’s fairly certain it’s directly correlated with how long it’s been since he’s since your face.

Hotch: Miss you too. Case is fine. Hopefully wrapping soon. Should be home late tomorrow. What did you do today? Everything okay?

You: yay !! can’t wait to see u ! got my nails done 🩷 they’re sparkly pink and sooo cute wanna see?

He snorts once, rubbing his thumb over the edge of his phone.

Hotch: Somehow I already know exactly what they look like.

He pauses, considers, then quickly adds,

Hotch: Send them anyway.

Hotch expects something wholesome, mundane even, manicure displayed prettily around a cup of overpriced coffee (a staple for you) or maybe the steering wheel of your car. 

What he receives instead is categorically, devastatingly the antithesis of wholesome. Completely unfit for polite company. His phone nearly plummets to the floor accordingly, eyebrows already halfway to his hairline.

Your new nails, as glittery as you advertised and innocent enough in isolation, become fully obscene in context, pussy spread wide, your fingertips highlighting slick, swollen folds and a flushed, glistening clit practically begging for attention. 

Hotch has always considered you beautiful — insanely, impossibly so — but this vision of you. A vision where you’re open, soaked with a brazen sweetness that borders on indecent, surpasses beauty entirely.

It’s sinful, artful perfection crafted with the sole intent of his demise. No matter how quickly he closes his eyes, the image is now seared permanently into his brain, burnt onto his retinas in dripping pixels.

Hotch never could fathom why anyone would willingly risk sending something so compromising. It spat in the face of good judgment and flagrantly ignored every articulated piece of advice he’d ever given. He’d lectured until your eyes glazed over about internet safety, how every text you send is stored indefinitely in some obscure digital archive, potentially retrieved at the most inopportune times. 

He was certain, perhaps arrogantly so, that you’d internalized his paranoia.

How wrong he had been.

Because he now stands staring at the evidence of your rebellion, humbly acknowledging that he himself has become precisely the sort of fool he’d warned you about, happily entrapped by the irreverence of a single photograph.

The only genuine risk Aaron can currently recognize is the frankly painful strain of his cock pressing against his zipper and the fact that you’re hundreds of miles away. 

He draws in a sharp, shaky breath through gritted teeth, silently pleading with unapologetically indifferent cosmos to grant him patience. 

Or teleportation.

Hotch: Gorgeous nails, sweetheart. Clever use of your resources, though next time save me the torture and just show me in person.

You: glad u like them 😇😇 maybe consider it motivation to hurry home faster?

Hotch: Duly noted. If I close this case in record time, you’ll know exactly why.

You: i can always send additional inspiration if it helps your productivity 🥰

He doesn’t remember making the conscious decision, and frankly, he doesn’t care enough to second-guess it now, because his palm is already moving, instinctively pressing down to relieve the unbearable tension straining his trousers.

He’s halfway through typing out his surrender (a blunt, undignified Yes. Now.) when a sudden, sharp knock jerks him brusquely back into a reality that pales considerably compared to what he’s just been forced to abandon.

His thumb stalls above the send button then pockets the phone, exhaling through his nose as he smooths the front of his tie with a touch more vigor than necessary.

If he were honest, and lately honesty seems unavoidable, another second spent alone with your message would inevitably lead him to doing something highly inappropriate beneath the desk, your name hissed quietly against clenched teeth.

By the time he reaches the door, Hotch has resigned a reasonable facsimile of composure.

At least from the waist up.

He cracks the door open cautiously, standing at an awkward, stiff angle, hoping that Rossi won’t notice the disarray happening beneath his belt.

“Local PD's still caught up arguing procedural technicalities,” Rossi drawls, seemingly unaware. “Apparently, nothing moves forward without our explicit approval.”

You’ll have to wait. And so will his dick.

The so-called procedural technicalities take three hours. Three. hours. One hundred and eighty increasingly insufferable minutes drowning in bureaucratic drudgery, combing through details Hotch is positive he could recite while heavily medicated. He pinches the bridge of his nose, attempting to fend off the migraine steadily encroaching.

He’d managed the polite, dutiful thing — a succinct, thoroughly unsatisfying reply to you about responsibility and paperwork, the kind of message that made his own eyes roll at its dreariness compared to your far more compelling offer.

And now, each monotonous signature is underscored by thoughts of you, each image progressively more not-safe-for-work than the last.

He pictures your nails, painted in that damned color you loved so much, wrapping firmly around his cock, stroking with leisurely hands. How good it would feel. How you would lean closer with thay look in your eyes, lips parted, whispering filthy words that would make the tips of his ears bleed red.

He loved spoiling you, sure, but secretly, selfishly, he knew the real reward came later, when your fingertips traced up and down each vein of his length.

His daydream splinters to pieces as another officer delivers a statement so inane, Hotch considers, with alarming sincerity, the merits of repeatedly banging his head against the wall.

Before he can fully commit to a public crisis of faith in his career choices, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

Stupidly, he sneaks a quick look,

You: bet that paperwork has you wound up tight. when u get home, feel free to fuck out all that frustration. im yours however u want me <3

Hotch snaps his phone off with such force he’s briefly amazed the device doesn’t shatter.

He redirects his gaze at the neat rows of law enforcement jargon before him, willing the flush spreading from his neck to his ears to retreat. He’s knows he’s past the age of blushing fits, but apparently, you delight in reminding him otherwise.

Hotch’s eyes briefly skim the room, double-checking that the rest of his team is sufficiently absorbed in their tasks.

Hotch: I sincerely hope you’re prepared to stand by that offer, he sends back, thumb tapping a bit faster. Because I fully intend to take advantage of your generosity. 

The familiar little bubbles of an incoming message appear almost immediately, punctuated seconds later by the ping of an attachment.

Hotch reopens the thread, only to be met with an image of your pretty hands cupping even prettier breasts.

Suddenly, he’s standing, brisk strides carrying him toward the hallway, a curt, excuse me tossed hastily behind him, already pressing your contact photo before the door swings fully shut behind him.

You answer on the first ring. “Hi there, handsome. Calling to check on me?”

Your voice, dripping with honeyed naivety, and the image of your tits still pulsing insistently behind his eyelids, sends an immediate rush of heat southward.

Hotch grits his teeth, resisting the temptation to flee toward the bathroom for a quick release.

“Do you really think you’re being fair to me? While I’m stuck here, of all places?”

“Fairness is subjective. Personally, I think it’s unfair you’re so far away when I clearly need your expert opinion on this manicure.”

“Expert opinions are usually best delivered in person. Very hands-on.”

Your giggle spills through the line, and Hotch is convinced it should be bottled and sold as medicine. How he managed to win the privilege of hearing it on demand is an eternal mystery.

“Aaron Hotchner,” you whisper, “is this how you typically behave at the office, or am I getting special treatment today?”

“You’re permanently on the receiving end of special treatment.”

Another giggle.

“Well, I fully intend to cash in on that privilege when you get home, and I advise your neighbors to consider getting some top-quality earplugs.”

He clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other to mask the fidgeting as purposeful adjustment. Unsuccessfully, of course. He can feel Morgan’s stare burning pointedly into the side of his head. Honestly, if roles were reversed, Aaron would probably be offering equally unsubtle judgment.

“Sweetheart,” he warns, lowering his voice, “you’re making it exceedingly difficult to pretend this call is work-related.”

“Fine, fine,” you say. “Go play nice with your friends and come home safely. I miss you.”

“I’ll be there as soon as humanly possible.” He inwardly rolls his eyes at his inability to maintain any credible authority with you. “Try to stay out of trouble until then.”

“No promises.” He can picture the smile on your face. “But I’ll do my best to keep your investment safe, these nails weren’t cheap, after all.”

“Careful. Because when I get home, I won’t be gentle enough to guarantee their safety.”

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[iamthatonefangirl]

miss possessive - congressman bucky barnes

okay not my best work, i swear i have like nine drafts i've come up with in a week, none of them good enough to post.

this is inspired by miss possessive by tate mcrae even though i completely lost sight of the song really quickly

part 2

part 3

~~~

you really had no right to be so jealous.

you watched him from across the floor, sipping on your flute of champagne. you'd grabbed it off of one of those waiters' trays as they were walking about the room.

it tasted like shit. you didn't like the taste of wine, and it wasn't even enough to get you drunk.

you knew this kind of event was difficult for him to sit through, but hey, he made his choice going into politics.

you watched as he made his rounds, speaking to various donors and attempting to charm them. you watched as all their wives fawned over your-

no.

you watched as all their wives fawned over him, bringing him in for a hug instead of a handshake. of course they were interested; he was the best looking man here. yes, he was the oldest man in the room, but appeared to be the youngest and was, regardless, easily the most attractive. and all the thirty-some wives of the cranky old rich white men wanted him.

it pissed you off. not that you had the right to be pissed, but. oh well. you're just a girl.

after two flutes of champagne, you watch as one of the donors receives a phone call, leaving his wife with Bucky. ever the gentleman, he would never leave a woman all by herself in a room full of sharks who might try to snatch her up. 

Bucky was very much a different man than he was in the forties, of course. doesn't mean he lost the ability to attract every woman in the room.

you can't stand idly by as she puts his hands all over him, and he can't take his eyes off of her. no, of course he would never go for a married woman. what he did know, though, was that if he pissed her off, her husband wouldn't donate to his campaign.

you roll your eyes and decide it's time for some hard liquor.

you hide in the corner of the room, drinking your much stronger beverage as fast as possible. no, getting drunk at a professional event isn't the best idea, but what do you care. you're not the star of the show.

he is.

he's the brilliant ex-POW who's turned his entire life around in a whole new century. he's the gorgeous soldier who not only survived, but is also electing to do something meaningful with his life. 

he's the star tonight.

he's the star of every thought you have of your future, but that can't possibly come to surface now. it's not the time or place. 

watching him entertain this woman truly boils your blood, but at least you have some actual alcohol in your system now. you no longer feel the need to justify why her hands on his pristine suit makes you want to grab her by the diamonds around her neck and yank her off of him. you can justify your desire to grab him by the tie to pull him away from her and yell at him for not focusing on what's important. 

you bite your tongue. you knew it was all a ploy.

doesn't mean you had to like it. 

~~~

while you stand at the bar waiting for your second beverage of the evening, a man comes up next to you, and the bartender takes his drink order. 

you give him a small, awkward smile as you briefly make eye contact. you're kind of shocked: he's definitely the only man in this room who appears to be younger than 60, Bucky excluded.

you almost startle when he speaks up, introducing himself. Michael, he says his name is.

you turn to actually face him this time. roughly 40, plenty taller than you, and brown hair sprinkled with some greys in there. your perfect type. you quietly tell yourself you're done drinking–no way you're gonna fuck this up. if you weren't so mad about Bucky's new admirer, you might be a tad less inclined to speak to him, but… 

you step closer as you give him a real smile and introduce yourself.

"so, correct me if I'm wrong, but something tells me you're here alone tonight," he begins, indicating to your left hand. no ring. 

you laugh a little. 

"you would be correct," you tell him. "I could say the same about you."

he smiles back at you. it's so beautiful you forget all about your boss and the woman he's now got on his arm as he continues to walk around–

well. you almost forget. good enough.

"you would also be correct."

you explain why you're here, you work for one of the candidates. although, you don't tell him who, exactly. he explains why he's here, one of the patrons. you have to pry the information out of him, but you appreciate it: he's trying to talk to you without flashing his money in your face. it's noble, you think.

you eventually learn he's interested in actually getting to know the candidates' campaigns, not just what they think they can offer him in return for his money.

"you know, I would be happy to learn more about your boss' campaign. from one of the people who probably understands it best," he tells you. you're slightly taken aback for a moment, not aware this was a business interaction. you never even told him who your boss was, so it was confusing, to say the least.

you felt stupid for thinking he was actually interested, for thinking that he was flirting with you.

"oh, of course-" you begin to tell him, but he interjects, "after I take you out, perhaps?"

your smile perks back up subconsciously. so you didn't have it wrong.

"I would love that," you tell him, carefully taking the lapels of his jacket into your hands. you feel his hands come to your waist, and it's like a jolt of energy runs up your spine.

you look closer and almost flip your shit as you see his eyes up close. they're Bucky's eyes. he's not Bucky, sadly, but. 

you're fucked.

"maybe dinner can happen... another time?" you offer, hoping he gets the hint. you realize you probably look like a whore throwing yourself at him like this.

he chuckles. "I've got a room upstairs, if you'd like to come have drinks instead of dinner."

hell yes. you're gonna score tonight, even if it's not with the man you dream about with your hands between your legs every night-

"I would," you say, and bite your tongue. "I just... have to stick around until this thing is over. yeah?"

he nods and steps back. "I suppose I should also do what I came here for," he chuckles. "I'll come find you later?"

you smile and you feel your face go pink. "sounds good."

you can't help the fact that your gaze reverts immediately back to your boss the second the man walks off. Bucky hasn't spared you a single glance all evening, but the second you look back at him this time, you're suddenly staring into his beautiful eyes. 

he holds eye contact with you for what feels like an eternity. his expression is muted, no real emotion showing. maybe... curiosity?

of course he's not going to look mad, or upset, or jealous. you have to stop thinking he'd ever look at you with anything other than pure professionalism.

because he's everything. and you're just a kid, lost in the world, desperately in love with your boss, and everything is fucking falling apart around you.

at least you've got a rich, hot, older man ready to fuck you tonight.

~~~

you kept to your word to yourself and didn't drink for the rest of the night, although you continued hovering at the bar for the semblance of safety it provided.

you continued staring at Bucky for the next two hours. the clingy woman's husband had, in fact, returned and took her away from Bucky. clearly, she was pissed, but tried to hide it. you had to bite back a smirk.

he didn't look back at you once for the rest of the evening.

eventually, the crowd dies down. you realize that now, you have to explain to your boss that you won't be riding back to the office with him, effectively telling him your exact plans for the rest of the night. embarrassing!

you're almost ready to bite the bullet and bid Bucky a good night, scanning the room for him, when you hear a voice from behind you. 

"we still on for drinks?"

you plaster a smile on your face as you turn around to the man standing behind you.

"absolutely," you say, taking his hands. "lead the way."

you begin to follow the man, telling yourself to try and remember to shoot your boss a text to 'not worry about you' before getting your clothes torn off by this man who's currently whisking you away.

you get into the elevator with him, what's his name, you think? oh, Michael, and yank him in hard, crashing your mouths together, putting all of your energy into how badly you need this.

you're startled by the sound of a clanging of metal, ripping your mouth away from the man's and turning to face the noise.

well, apparently, you were too eager and stupid enough to not wait for the elevator doors to entirely shut, because you see now that the noise was a result of Bucky's vibranium arm grabbing the elevator door. he pushes it open and steps inside, eyes piercing daggers through you the whole time.

you stand there, appalled. the man gently pulls away from you, reaching out a hand to attempt to shake Bucky's hand.

"Mr. Barnes, it's a pleasure," he begins. "my apologies for this... less than ideal meeting."

Bucky doesn't even look at the man, eyeing you up and down, taking in your smudged lipstick and the way your dress is slightly out of place.

the man attempts once more to interject. "Mr. Barnes, please, don't worry about her. why don't us men go back downstairs and have a real discussion? I'd love to hear more about your campaign."

wait. why do his words sound like they're throwing you under the bus, almost?

Bucky notices it, too, you realize. he tilts his head in the man's direction before actually averting his gaze to look at him.

"and leave the lady all by herself?" he asks.

"don't worry about that. she's... inconsequential. if you and I can just go back downstairs and–"

"what did you just say?" Bucky asks. you swear he doesn't look like your boss anymore, but someone... else.

the man is taken aback by Bucky's demeanor. his mouth gapes like an idiot.

"you do know this is my assistant, right?" Bucky asks him. the man's face goes pale as the pieces slot together in his head.

"Mr. Barnes, my apologies, truly," he says.

you just stand there feeling more stupid than ever. inconsequential? wow, okay. you almost don't even care that he's dismissing your entire existence, but you can't stand the fact that he's doing it in front of Bucky. you care more about what Bucky thinks of you than literally anyone else, and now? now he's going to see you as a fucking slut who isn't even good enough for a man to commit to for one night.

god, you're pathetic.

"shouldn't you be apologizing to her?" Bucky grits.

the elevator doors open to the man's floor, and he mumbles a sorry under his breath as he runs out.

great. not only do you look pathetic in front of your boss, but you're not getting fucked tonight, either. just great.

the doors shut behind Bucky, who has now returned his gaze to you. you wonder if he's going to press the button to go back to the lobby.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Mr. Barnes," you say, swallowing your embarrassment as you stand up straight and adjust your dress.

he just stares at you.

"what?" you ask.

"are you okay?" he asks, and he looks genuinely concerned.

you know he cares about you, you're his assistant, after all. but that's it.

"fine," you assure him, and begin to reach behind him to press the button to take you back down to the lobby.

he gently grabs your wrist before you can.

you look at him, confused. you know your face says it all.

"Mr.–" you begin.

"Bucky," he corrects.

"can I press the button, Mr. Barnes?"

he still hasn't let go of your wrist. you feel stupid for enjoying the feel of his metal hand against your skin, for getting to feel a part of him that's real.

"you know, you clearly picked out the worst of the men here tonight," he observes.

you roll your eyes and pull your wrist away from him before you do something stupid.

"are you kidding? this place was riddled with capitalist billionaires and politicians. like you," you say, smirking.

he chuckles a little.

you can't help yourself, though. can't let it go unsaid.

"clearly you had some interested parties of your own tonight."

he rolls his eyes and finally turns away from you, pressing the button for the lobby. you let out a quiet sigh of relief. being in this elevator any longer, with him? that would just about kill you.

"you noticed that, huh?" he asks.

"who didn't?" you mumble. but of course, he's not just a politician, he's an enhanced, so he hears it.

"look, I knew she was married, I was never going to-" he begins to explain, but you cut him off.

"oh, I don't care what she does in her own fucked-up marriage."

oh my god. what did you just say? did you just admit to the fact that the only reason you did care was because she was fawning over Bucky?

fuck.

the elevator doors open, and you rush out.

you can hear the smirk on his face as he trails after you.

"so, you were really going to sleep with that guy, huh?" he teases.

you stop in your tracks. most everyone has left by now, leaving only you and Bucky in the room aside from the clean-up crew. you turn back to face him.

"can we just go?"

he nods and calls for the car to come around.

~~~

twenty minutes, you remind yourself.

in twenty minutes, you'll have made it back to the office, and you can go get in your own car and take yourself back to your own place and you won't have to be sitting thigh to thigh with your boss in the back of a limo that would totally be hot to fuck in-

he clears his throat, and you turn your head to face him.

"what that guy said..." he begins. you roll your eyes in anger at the reminder. you didn't even care he said it, you just wish he hadn't said it in front of Bucky.

you wave your hand as though waving off the thought, and waving off Bucky's concern. but it doesn't quite work like that.

"you're not inconsequential."

he says it with such a conviction you feel it deep in your bones, in the very core of your being. he sounds so authentic that it almost hurts.

a million thoughts swirl in your head. you could say i know, you could get defensive, you could say thanks, Bucky...

a better one pops in your head.

"how did you know where I was? you didn't see me all evening."

the limo stops moving. the driver rolls down the divider to grumble something about traffic at this hour? before rolling it back up again.

great. now it's going to take even longer to get home to your vibrator.

Bucky sees the interruption as a way to drop the matter. you press it.

"Mr. Barnes?"

"god, would you stop calling me that?"

you see him turn away from you to look out the window, biting his lip and rubbing his forehead. you've now frustrated him, and he's mad at you. this is good. it's easier for you to deal with him being angry at you than him being nice to you.

you know he just wants you to call him Bucky, but you're a smartass.

"yeah, okay, sorry. Sergeant Barnes," you mumble, smirking to yourself.

he about flips his shit. why is he getting so worked up?

"seriously?" he asks, turning back to you. his eyes are blown back, in anger, probably. not lust, like you wish they were. because you're just a stupid kid, and he's just your boss with a lifetime of trauma. you could never understand him the way you wanted to.

"what?" you say, biting your lip as you smile, continuing to tease him.

you swear that for a second, he glances down to your lips.

SHIT!

in that embarrassing moment, you realize your lipstick is still smudged across your face from the moment in the elevator. your heart rate shoots up as you bury your head in your chest, bringing your hand to wipe away the mess of your face, before turning to face the opposite way from him.

you are, well and truly, stuck in traffic. some concert, or sports game, or whatever...

which means you're stuck, pressed up against your boss, in the back of this tiny limo right now, for only god knows how much longer.

you're pulling your phone out of your clutch when he says your name.

you want to lean into the feeling, how smooth it is. how crisp his voice is, how pretty it sounds saying your name, as though he's genuinely paying you any attention whatsoever.

"you're not inconsequential."

it flares your anger, all of it coming up from your gut and into your throat, as you respond.

"god, would you forget it already?" you snap.

shit, shit, shit. you fucked up. you just snapped at your boss, of all people. you try to backtrack, throw out a million comments of "sorry," but that's it, you're getting fired.

you finally look back at him, and he's actually looking at you. like, it feels like he's staring into your soul, seeing all the pieces of you that you're trying to keep hidden from him.

the car begins moving again.

~~~

he watches you, trying to figure you out, as always.

he can't think of a better word for it than the fact that you genuinely amuse him.

he sees the look in your eyes, the way you're desperately trying to cover up the shame you feel over what happened in the elevator. he's trying to be gentle about it, trying to assure you that what the man said was utter bullshit, but you keep shutting him down.

god, and you look so...

no. you're, like, 80-plus years younger than him (he rubs his temples every time he remembers his age) and employed by him. any interest on his part would be purely inappropriate, a gross misuse of his position of power.

and god, his fucking age, man. he shouldn't even be around anymore-

anyways.

you look at him with those fucking doe eyes, going back and forth between anger, and shame, and something else he can't quite pinpoint.

this is probably the worst part of what happened. you're always so unapologetically yourself, but he can tell this man has gotten under your skin.

even if it's not his job to comfort you, he doesn't want you to feel like that. because who you are is perfect. 

~~~

one minute, you're staring into his eyes, trying to read the look on his face. 

the next, you're bracing yourself as the car spins out of control, feeling hit after hit of various cars all crashing into you sequentially.

you don't register it until after it's all over. the way he's wrapped himself around you as though to protect you. his flesh arm cradles your head to his chest and his vibranium hand wraps itself around the back of your neck.

you take a few deep breaths and begin to pull away from him, looking up to his face as you do. his eyes widen in shock as he looks at you. what? what is it?

"fuck, we gotta get you to a hospital." 

~~~

part 2

part 3

masterlist

tag list

tagged: @clavedelune

[hearts4hughes]

ೃ࿔:･ how wallstreet!rafe hired you

you walk into his corporation like you own the building. the other candidates—tall, slim, blondes who look more like models than assistants—gawk as you pass. you don’t look at them. don’t need to.

rafe sees you through the pane of glass mid-interview, already bored out of his mind. the redhead across from him has a voice like a fire alarm and a push-up bra that looks physically painful. the second he can usher her out, he’s pointing at you.

you don’t sit. you arrive.

he offers you the job halfway through your resume. halfway through undressing you with his eyes. (he already decided when he saw your name.)

now, you’re showing up to work everyday as his personal assistant in an outfit more provocative than the last. other employees stare at you, companies sign six-figure deals the second you smile at them in the lobby. he’s never seen anything like it.

but you still greet him every morning with his coffee and a shy smile. you still scribble down his commands while you push up your glasses (that are more for decoration than anything). you still blush like a schoolgirl when he gives you praise and sit with your legs crossed, like sex on a stick.

and rafe’s main priority ever since he’s laid eyes on you is keeping you here, with him, under his control.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @43hughes @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck

[luxthestrange]

OP Memes#4

Back when the Ex-Secretary worked with Croco they certainly kept him in line when he got on your nerves...he started to like it-

[strawberrymothteeth]

Timeout: Janitor

Reasoning: swore in daycare