So I was thinking about this post/answer and how Button is âperipherally knownâ to the UCRT fandom as Nickâs âunremarkableâ sibling and now Iâm cracking up at there being a subset of the UCRT fandom that kind of treats Button as a pseudo-cryptid?
Like, Button having their own tiny fandom that treats them like Bigfoot or something, and gets super excited about Button sightings, swoons over them because theyâre so mysterious, that sort of thing.
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himbo with a super huge ego but theyâre nice and funny but also tease you a lot tall with kinda messy hair and theyâre good at brooding when they need to be also very charming
i read himbo with a super huge and blacked out đđĽ´đł skshskjsks jk
But they sound Too Perfect Iâm almost suspicious. Feels like theyâll betray us in an angsty plot twist
Get Help / To Each Their Own / Meh / I Get It / Would Romance in a Game / Would Romance IRL
Thinking about how Glitch Parker looked at K Zarneki and Button Wiseman and said âis anyone going to befriend these traumatized rich kids?â and then didnât wait for an answer.
A superhero catches a cold. A meddlesome brother attempts to play matchmaker. And Ellie Wiseman canât resist a challenge.
Inspired by a number of @mindblindbardââs answers to reader questions and some in-game text.
Very Pre-Relationship F!Button/Grayson Black
approx. wc: 1789
rating: t, for Grayâs language
warnings: none
Read it on Ao3Â or below
Chatper 2 (Chapter 1)
Grayson Black is not sick. He does not get sick. Sure, he may have had some chills this morning, but the air conditioning on the UCRT floor was probably just running high. And he may have a sniffle, but itâs the middle of summer! Isnât that peak allergy season? He is absolutely fine, and if Nick hadnât gotten it into his fat head to order him to go home, then he could still be at work doing his job. At least he managed to sneak some paperwork home with him. Nothing that would break regulations to have out of the office, obviously, itâs mostly expense reports and the like - things that need to get filed but usually end up on the back burner because they arenât time sensitive - but something must have been wrong with the printer because the text is all blurry. Itâs got nothing to do with the sharp pain in his temples. Itâs definitely the printer.
Heâs hunched over his coffee table (If heâs going to work at home, he can at least be comfortable, it has nothing to do with the way his whole body ached when he tried sitting at his desk. He probably needs a new chair.) doing his best to work out what he's supposed to be filling out on this line when his ringing phone nearly startles him out of his skin.
He checks the screen: Ellie. Thatâs⌠unusual. They text, (because theyâre friends, and friends text each other), but outside of when they were trying to organize Nickâs surprise party, sheâs never called. Especially not in the middle of a weekday. His stomach clenches, his mind jumping - is she ok? does she need help? - to worst case scenarios. He fumbles the phone, rights it, answers.
âHello?â His throat stings a little when he speaks. Thatâs an allergy symptom, isnât it?
âHey,â she responds. She sounds calm, sheâs ok. The tension in his stomach dissipates. âItâs Ellie. Can you open the door?â
Can you open the⌠It takes him a second longer than usual to understand what she means, his momentary panic over her well-being shading into confusion. What is she doing here? How would she even know he was home, unlessâŚ
He fucking didnât...
âDid Nick send you?â he says, âI told him -â Iâm fine, he tries to finish, before she cuts him off with some rather pointed words about not wanting to be a bother.
He doesnât. Want to be a bother, that is. But she raises a fair point about already being here. It would be worse to just send her back home after she made the effort to come over, wouldnât it?
Nick was probably counting on that when he asked her to check up on him. Arsehole.Â
He heaves a sigh - getting up off the couch takes more effort than it should - and takes a quick look around the room to check that itâs tidy before he goes to the door. It is. Of course it is. And he rather doubts that sheâd care if it wasnât. But at this particular moment, it really feels like it matters.
Ellieâs standing in the hallway, phone still held to her ear. Her brown eyes - deep brown, the kind a man could get lost in - widen at the sight of him as he stands in the doorway. He says could. He means does. Theyâre dark, warm, flecked with black and framed by impossibly thick lashes and...
Youâre gawking, Black. He gives himself a mental shake and looks down. And he notices the bags. That sheâd lugged all the way here. For him. And that swooping in his gut is definitely not allergies. No, thatâs guilt. (It is guilt. Thatâs all.)
âYou didnât have to -â he starts to say, but she cuts him off again with a roll of her eyes.
âItâs fine, Gray,â she says. âNow go sit down, you look like hell.â
Ouch.
He backs away from the entry to let her in, protesting, âItâs just a headache.âÂ
Heâs fine. She can make her delivery like Nick asked her to and go. Heâs sure she has better things to do. âItâll pass.â
âUh huh.â And he may not be an empath, but even he can feel the scepticism radiating off of her. âHave you taken your temperature?â
âIâm not sick.â He insists, around the scratching in his throat. And anyway, he doesnât get sick, so naturally he doesnât have anything to take his temperature with. âAnd I donât have a thermometer.â
She doesnât seem at all concerned by that, just reaches into one of her bags and tosses a small package his way. He catches it, and looks down. Itâs a thermometer. Of course it is, because sheâs smart enough - so damn smart, sheâs going to be brilliant as an MIV -Â to come prepared. He looks back at her, and sheâs smiling. Beaming, really.
Her smile could light up a room. Is lighting up the room.
Sheâs also saying something. He blinks, managing to tune back in before heâs forced to admit that he hadnât been listening, â...reading comes back normal, Iâll leave you alone.â
Heâs not getting out of this.Â
âFine.â
She drags the bag into his (essentially pointless) kitchen, and he can hear her rustling around as he pops the thermometer in his mouth.
He waits.
It beeps.
He looks.
âWell?â she calls.Â
âThat canât be right,â he mutters, more to himself than her. Because that temperature is a low grade fever. And he doesnât get sick.
âIâm sorry, I didnât catch that.â
âOne hundred and one.â
âHow about that,â she says, mildly.Â
Cheeky. He smiles to himself. Of course she is, sheâs Nickâs sister. Sheâs Nickâs sister.
The smile falls away.
Sheâs also still rummaging around in his kitchen - he can hear the cabinets opening and closing as she looks for...whatever it is sheâs looking for. He gets up to help, and ends up in the doorway just in time to see her trying to reach a mug with a spoon. Because there isnât a problem she wonât face head on, wonât try to solve herself. She has her hand braced on the counter, pushing herself just a little higher as she stands on tiptoe. Itâs causing her shirt to lift just a little, exposing just a sliver of her midriff. And it wouldnât be that hard to help her, to stand behind her and pass that mug down, a hand on her waistâŚ
He tears his eyes away, cheeks flaming in spite of his chills, and fixes them resolutely on the wall. So much so that he doesnât notice that sheâs standing in front of him with a laden tray until she tells him that heâs blocking the exit.
He follows her back to the living room, careful to look away when she sets the tray on the coffee table, just to be safe - she came here out of kindness, not to be ogled - although he catches her gesture for him to take a seat as she says, âTea, soup, nap. Proven 100% effective most of the time.â Â
âReally,â he says, sitting down (because itâs polite or because she asked or both) âthis isnât necessary -â
She cuts him off again, âYou have a fever. Drink the tea. Eat the soup. And lie down. If youâre still awake after 15 minutes, Iâll back off and let you get back to work.ââ
He opens his mouth, halfway to telling her that he isnât sick. Closes it, because if that didnât convince her before the thermometer reading, itâs not going to now. Opens it again, halfway to telling her he doesnât mind the company. But he doesnât want to monopolize her time. And he canât think of how to frame it that doesnât sound weird or creepy except it shouldnât be either weird or creepy to ask your friend (because theyâre friends) if theyâd like to stay a little longer...
âI didnât drug your food,â she says dryly.
âI didnât think -â he didnât even suspect that. Sheâd clearly misinterpreted his silence. But she doesnât give him a chance to explain.
âGray!â
âRight, sorry.â Itâs probably for the best. He doesn't have the first idea as to how he would go about explaining it anyway.
She sits down at the opposite end of the couch, as far from him as she can get, (it aches, a little, to always be kept at a distance) and he recognizes the MIV study guide she pulls out of her backpack. He sneaks glances at her between mouthfuls of soup, studies the curve of her pursed lips, the way her brow furrows and smooths as she puzzles over the text. Sheâs quiet, still, in a way that Nick never is - goddamnit it, donât think about Nick right now - and itâs...nice. Comfortable, to sit in silence with her.Â
He doesnât want to stop.Â
And sheâs absorbed in her studies. Would she notice if he just...eked his reports over?
âHey!â Sheâs looking directly at him, pointing at the papers under his hand. Yes. Apparently she would notice. âWe had a deal,â she reminds him.
He stares at her for a moment, mind racing (or rather, mind wading through knee deep mud thanks to the congestion) for any excuse to stay out here with her, before the look sheâs giving him tells him that heâs not getting out of it.Â
âFifteen minutes,â he confirms.
âMhm. Fifteen minutes.â
He sighs, makes his way to his bedroom and lays down on top of the covers. He isnât going to fall asleep. Heâll just lie here for the requisite fifteen minutes, then heâll go back into the living room, tell her it didnât work, and she can⌠goâŚ
Itâs dark. In that hazy space between sleep and waking, he is aware - because his arm is draped over a body - that thereâs someone (Ellie) in the bed with him. He gently tugs her closer, nestles back into his pillow for the split-second before his thinking brain kicks in.Â
And his eyes fly open.Â
He rockets to the edge of the bed, almost falling over the side, we shouldnât, too close, donât want to take advantage, doesnât feel that way about me andâŚ
And the lump heâd been holding doesnât budge.Â
Because bunched up comforters donât move.
He rolls onto his back, and rubs a shaky hand over his face, the wave of panicked adrenaline receding as quickly as it had surged. âFuck,â he breathes.Â
Something else floods him in its place. Something that isnât quite the ease that comes with relief. Something that feels a little more like a weight in his chest. Disappointment.
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16. kissing knuckles (Sorry it took so long! Life has been... uh... busy.)
With reference to Button the cryptid, the Gray as a Public Figure post and Jane Eyre.
On the way to a gala - the first time appearing in public as a couple
In the back of the limo (regular type, not stretch, thereâs only two of them, after all), Ellie is sitting perfectly still, doing her level best not to, you know, freak out or anything.
She doesnât make Public Appearances - capital P, capital A. Thatâs not to say that she doesnât appear in public. Ok, she doesnât âappearâ in public, popping out of sewer grates or out of a cloud of smoke or whatever, like some kind of Rumpelstiltskin-esque creature, (Heh, âbe a good little Ment and eat your veggies or Ellie Wiseman will get you while youâre sleeping.â). Although from the way certain corners of the internet treat her existence, itâs not that much of a stretch to believe that they might think that. Sheâs been...sheltered? would probably be the right word for it, not Rapunzelâd.
Maybe Bertha...whatever her name was⌠Rochester? Probably, that would have been her married name anyway. Maybe she would be the more accurate comparison? Except she went after her husband rather than her brother⌠or, no, didnât she go after her brother? There was a fire involved in there somewhere, possibly relating to the husbandâs fiancee, so maybe this comparison isnât really the greatest either. Sheâs not all that into arson, and the idea of Gray having a bit on the side is kind of...laughable. Not that no one would take him up on it. (Oh, would they ever.) Or throw themselves at him. Metaphorically, anyway. She hasnât borne witness to any literal self-yeetings. At least not yet.
Itâs a strange expression. How would one go about literally throwing oneself, anyway? Jumping? Swooning? Better hope whoever it is youâre throwing yourself at catches you with either of those. Although given that the alternative would be letting them hit the ground, heâd probably feel honor-bound to catch -
Her rapidly derailing train of thought is interrupted by the gentle pressure of Graysonâs hand squeezing hers - their entwined fingers shifting the ring that she isnât quite used to the feeling of yet. She hadnât forgotten that theyâd been holding hands, exactly, but⌠ok, maybe she had, a bit. Itâs fine. Heâs heard weirder.
âHey,â heâs smiling at her, eyes twinkling with mirth as he rubs his thumb over hers. âYouâd make a beautiful Rumplestilskin.â
She chuckles. Because of course that would be the bit heâd focus on. âJust what every girl wants to hear,â she says with a wink.
âMaybe.â He lifts her hand to his lips, presses a kiss to her knuckles. âBut youâre the only one I want to say it to.â
Ellieâs been sitting at her desk since 4:45pm. Sheâs chewing her lip, watching the clock as the time ticks down. Sheâs already been for a run, done all of the laundry in the house (except Nickâs, sheâs not touching his socks, thanks), cleaned the fridge, re-organized her desk, vacuumed, re-organized her closet, made a batch of cinnamon buns and cleaned the kitchen. It still wasnât enough to burn off the nervous energy of waiting for her results. She wants to get up, to pace the room while she waits. But then she might miss release time. So her leg is bouncing out of control instead.
4:58:46 pm.
She canât have failed.
Sheâs never failed a test in her life. (Pollardâs doesnât count. Thatâs not a failure, itâs a reverse medical miracle.) So she canât have failed.
4:59:02 pm.
Two hundred is a pass. Two hundred out of two-eighty is only 71.4%. She definitely scored more than seventy-two percent.
Right?
Right.
4:59:33 pm.
This is the worst. This is the absolute worst. Why couldnât they release the scores at, like, 8 in the morning or something? Just, get it over with, so that sheâs not stuck waiting all day.
4:59:51 pm.
Her hand is hovering over the refresh button on the page, mind buzzing so loudly that words arenât even getting a look in. She can hear Nick puttering around in the kitchen. Sheâs probably giving him a migraine.
5:00:00 pm.
She slams the refresh button, fingers tripping over themselves as she enters her login information. Was that a typo? Backspace, try again, just in case. Donât want to get locked out.
ThenâŚ
L o a d i n g . . .
Because almost everyone who wrote the ASE is doing the exact same thing, and itâs probably crashing the system.
Forget screaming internally. Sheâs on her way to screaming externally.
5:01:08 pm.
280. Yeah, ok thatâs what the testâs out of, so whereâs her score? Whereâs her score?
Scroll down. Scroll back up. Scroll down again.
What. The fuck.
That⌠canât be right. That canât be right.
5:01:24 pm.
She gets up, starts pacing. That doesnât make sense. That doesnât seem possible. She must have read it wrong. She looks back, 280, still staring her in the face.Â
Footsteps, thump-thump, two at a time, Nick comes crashing up the stairs. Head pokes into the room (sheâd left the door open). No doubt alarmed by the echoing chorus of whatthefuck ricocheting around in her head, heâs got his face arranged into a reassuring smile.
She just points to the laptop, and goes back to pacing. Confirm it or find another answer, I canât take the suspense, it doesnât make sense, doesnât make sense, doesnâtmakesense.
Thereâs a pause. A soft, âholy shit!â A loud whoop, she turns to look, and sheâs lifted off her feet in a bone-crushing hug, as Nick crows âYou aced it, Button!â
I aced it. I aced it. I aced it!
The ASE.
Wait.
Her feet find the floor again, and she starts laughing. Laughs until sheâs bent nearly double, hands braced on her knees, Nick laughing right alongside her with a hand on her shoulder. âReally?â Sheâs gasping for air, tears streaming down her face. It isnât that funny. But, isnât it though? âAced? Thatâs what you went with?â
A superhero catches a cold. A meddlesome brother attempts to play matchmaker. And Ellie Wiseman can't resist a challenge.
Inspired by a number of @mindblindbardââs answers to reader questions and some in-game text.
Very Pre-Relationship F!Button/Grayson Black
approx. wc: 2464
rating: g
warnings: none
CHAPTER 1
Flashback time!
One year before present dayâŚ
Ellie Wiseman could never resist a challenge. As a child, she could have settled for being told that Santa was real, but she had to stay up all night and find out for herself. In high school, just making the baseball team wasnât good enough, she had to be a starter. Now that she's decided to apply to AEON, she fully intends to beat the current ASE record. And if that means spending the entirety of a beautiful August day studying, so be it.
(No, she doesnât have a complex, why do you ask?)
With Nick at work, sheâs commandeered the kitchen for easy access to snacks. Her ASE study guides are spread out over the island and sheâs got motivational movie soundtracks queued up on her phone, prepared for a full day on her backside. Neck deep in some convoluted legal jargon about the loopholes that can be applied to extradition treaties, her highlighter poised over what seems to be a relevant sentence, she just about falls off the stool when Nickâs voice breaks through her concentration.