#workplace relationship

HI ANON!!! :D

THIS IS PRETTY SHORT AND ALSO RUSHED BUT I HOPE ITS TO YOUR LIKING!

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'Ant' Tenna x Artist!Employee!Reader

The hum of the studio had finally quieted down for the evening, leaving only the soft flicker of screens and the distant buzz of machinery. You sat at your small desk tucked away in the corner of the employee lounge, the sketchbook balanced on your knees. For weeks now, you’d been sneaking moments here and there to sketch Mr. Tenna — his ever-shifting static screen, the sharp angles of his frame, the way his mechanical fingers flexed when he worked.

You loved capturing those little details. The way his head flickered between white noise and faint color streaks when he wasn’t paying attention. The way his movements could seem stiff and precise one moment, then almost human the next. It felt like the only way you could connect with him — without the showbiz spotlight, without the endless performance.

You flipped the page quietly, tracing your pencil over the outlines of his figure frozen mid-step, the glow of his screen-face carefully shaded. You barely noticed the door sliding open behind you.

A cool shadow loomed over your shoulder.

“Is that…me?” The voice was low, curious, with an edge of disbelief.

You jumped, closing the sketchbook hastily. But it was too late.

Mr. Tenna’s screen flickered, static flaring softly as he reached out with a slow, deliberate hand to take the book from your lap.

You swallowed hard, cheeks warming. “I—I didn’t mean for you to see it.”

He flipped the pages with surprising gentleness, his mechanical fingers careful not to smudge the graphite. Each drawing was a silent story: some were quick sketches, rough but honest; others painstaking, capturing tiny details like the way the light caught on his metallic wrist or the faint crackle of static around his screen.

He paused on a page where you’d drawn him standing with his head tilted slightly, the static on his screen flickering unevenly like a soft glitch. His mechanical fingers hovered over the paper, hesitant.

“You’ve been watching me,” he said quietly, voice low and just a bit shaky.

You blinked, cheeks heating up. “I guess… it just kind of happened. When you’re around, it’s hard not to notice the little things.”

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of machinery. His screen flickered erratically — a clear sign of his flustered state — and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words.

“Most people just stare, or ignore me,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not many actually… look.”

You shifted nervously, suddenly aware of how much you’d drawn him. “I didn’t mean to make it weird,” you said quickly. “I just like sketching. And, well, you’re kind of... interesting.”

He looked down at the sketchbook again, his fingers tracing the page you’d stopped on — a simple sketch of his silhouette, the flickering screen softly glowing.

Then, unexpectedly, he cleared his throat, a little too loudly for the quiet room.

“Well, I… I wouldn’t be opposed to being your muse! Heh…” His screen flickered wildly for a second, then he abruptly coughed into his mechanical hand, a faint static burst cutting off the awkward laugh. “EHEM. I MEAN… IF THAT’S ACCEPTABLE.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden confession.

He shifted on his feet, the usual calm and collected demeanor nowhere to be found.

NOT THAT I’M SAYING I WANT TO BE DRAWN ALL THE TIME OR ANYTHING. JUST… IF YOU WANT TO.”“ His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “It’s… not unpleasant.”

You smiled softly, feeling your own cheeks warm.

“Thanks, Mr Tenna. I’d like that.”

He gave a slow nod, the static on his screen settling into a softer glow — his version of a shy smile.

For a moment, neither of you said anything more. The quiet between you felt different now. Lighter, maybe.

“JUST… TRY NOT TO CATCH ME OFF GUARD AGAIN.” he added, voice still a little breathless.

cillian murphy's jonathan crane x fem!reader

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Water pooled across the pavement as rain cascaded down all over Gotham City.

Grateful for the snug blazer you wore, you stood, arms crossed, under the bus stop shelter and stared up at the colossal building before you; its architecture gothic and presence looming. Above the black cast iron gates were the words 'ARKHAM ASYLUM.'

A plethora of stories about the place had become buried in your subconscious. Murmurs, news reports, whispers in the street all told you one thing about the asylum - it was a place of nightmares. A place laced with corruption, housing villains even the Dark Knight had fought and thrown in there. But it did look good on the resume, because if you could withstand anything you faced working there, you could withstand anything.

You glanced down at your new shoes, then back up at the unrelenting rainstorm. Someone was striding past you from behind, his dark umbrella up and shielding him from the rain. He spared a glance your way, his eyes dropping down to the badge hanging around your neck as he walked.

The man slowed down, observing the soft gaze you cast up at the house of bedlam he called his workplace . "Are you here on business?"

You turned to him, taking in the crystalline blue that watched you from behind rectangular glasses. A crisp breeze brushed against your skin. "I gave my umbrella away," you explained, "so I was just waiting for the rain to die down..." Saying it out loud made you realise how silly it sounded - the rain was not stopping anytime soon. Your hand instinctively went to your badge. "I'm an intern."

He let out a breath through his nose, eyes darting between your own. He was sculpted, his face neutral in expression, and his dark hair hung just above his glasses, working hard in trying to soften the austere aura he had.

He shifted his umbrella so that it was a whisper above you. You quickly realised it was an invitation.

"Oh," you stepped under it, sure to not move too closely into his space. "Thank-you."

"It's alright," he replied indifferently.

You fell in step with him as the pair of you crossed the street. Rain battered down against his umbrella in unsynchronised taps. He didn't look at you as he spoke.

"Today's your first day?"

"Yes." You both entered the grounds. People in suits, coats and handcuffs were rushing in and out.

"What's your name?"

"y/n y/l/n." You spared him a glance. "I'm mostly helping with files and attending some meetings. I'm also meant to meet with a Dr. Crane."

He didn't add onto anything you said. "Is there a particular patient you're wanting to meet?"

Everyone's heard the stories about the inmates - notorious villains, famous in their own ways. Victor Zsasz. Joker - all the ones you were happy with never meeting.

"Truthfully, Hugo Strange piques my interest. As well as the Al Ghul's, though I doubt they would ever end up here."

There was few foliage surrounding the building, except for the small, bushes of dying yellow roses lining the steps.

"Yellow roses?" You murmured.

He gave you a quick look. "You're drawn to them?" He asked, a slight crease forming between his brows.

"No. They symbolise sickness." You frowned at him. "Was that intentional?"

He shrugged, "Who knows." But he noted your knowledge on flowers and their meanings.

You both walked up the steps to the front doors. He lowered his umbrella and closed it in one smooth motion, shaking the remaining raindrops still clinging to it.

The doors opened and you were instantly greeted by a harsh, cold lighting. The floors were polished, the walls were old and the lobby was sterile. You noticed the glass panels that lined the front counters to seperate the workers from others.

"I have to wonder," he began again, drawing your attention away from your surroundings. "Who is your favourite psychologist?, y/n?"

Your gaze dropped in thought before meeting his eyes again. "Zimbardo."

The man gave you a long look, as if picking you a part like a bird picking hay from a scarecrow. As childish as it seemed, you couldn't help but be drawn to him.

He pointed to your left. "Security check-in is over there. Your advisor will be down to greet you shortly."

You looked back to him, speaking as he began to walk away. "Ok, thank-you again."

A soft exhale escaped as you turned and began your first day at Arkham Asylum.

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After a morning of extensive and thorough orientation and training, you were finally on your break, sketching angel's trumpets on a blank page of your notepad as you drank some tea.

Your advisor - Winslow Sinner - was nice. A little intimidating and cautious, but not demanding or demeaning. You had recognised her surname as soon as she said it. It was said that one of her deceased family members had been involved in a cult and, a few decades ago, became the protégé of the director of Arkham Asylum.

"I'm about to commence a session with one of my clients," Sinner tilted her head, gesturing down the corridor. "Would you like to join me?"

"Yes, of course." Your brows furrowed, "Is that allowed?"

Sinner nodded, "Crane is allowing it. Come on, bring your notepad. I want to see what you take away from this."

You slipped out of your chair and strode down the white corridor behind your advisor. Never did you think you would be doing this on your first day, but you weren't complaining.

You passed doors amongst doors that were sealed shut with small, square windows on them. You didn't look through into the rooms to see what you might find. Instead, you read the plaques beside each door.

The names you read were mundane and didn't ring a bell in your mind, until you noticed one up ahead.

Sinner neared the door beside the plaque you were reading. You looked back to her, and she was already observing your reaction.

"Professor Pyg." She said. Your eyes swept to the window in his door, but the room appeared empty.

"He isn't in there," Sinner added, pulling her dark hair back with a red claw clip. "My office is right beside his cell. Can you believe it?" She ducked behind the umber wooden door and re-appeared with a briefcase in hand. "We'll head to the observation room now. Be prepared, he's as bad as they say he is."

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He wouldn't stop squealing like a pig.

You watched a poised Sinner sit across from a restrained Professor Pyg in the next room over - your area and hers separated by a one-way panel of glass.

Pyg wore a faded straight jacket, and two guards stood on either side of him. He spoke in odd ways, his voice and actions theatric and his ideas disturbing, but Sinner easily remained unfazed. She sat cross legged before him, leaning back in her chair as though she controlled the space. You found it rather admirable. Pyg still tried to point our her flaws.

"Schizophrenic breakdown. Obsession with perfectionism."

You looked behind your shoulder to find the man from before. His ice-blue eyes were cast down, reading the notes you sprawled across your notepad.

A faint curve touched his lips. "Mother?"

He looked up at you, his eye contact strong, unwavering.

Unnerving.

You forced yourself not to take a deep breath in. "I don't know, there's something about it." You mused, looking back into the observation room. Was it Pyg's subtle mirroring of maternal mannerisms in his gestures? His fidgeting becoming worse whenever Sinner shook her head? His eagerness to fix...did it also stem from wanting to please?

"I look at him, and I see a difficult upbringing with his mother. I wonder - based on the small amount I've seen and heard - if she manifests herself into his 'work.'" You met the man's acute stare, subtly raising your brow. "Am I wrong?"

He gently shook his head. "No."

You wanted to smile at your small win, but your mind strayed and drifted to other matters, such as who was this man you kept running into today?

"Dr. Crane?"

Your attention shifted to the woman who stood behind him. You blinked, and then it dawned on you.

He turned around to respond. "Yes?"

"You're needed." Was all she said.

Crane drew his softly searching gaze back to you. "Miss y/l/n," and then he left again, and you were left standing there a little dumfounded.

Dr. Crane was the one who had offered his umbrella this morning?

You only just realised that the session with Pyg had ended, and Sinner was no longer in the observation room - she was at the door to the room you stood it, staring directly at you.

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"You've met Dr. Crane? That was quick." Sinner didn't meet your eye as she placed slim folders inside her filing cabinet. You sat at a smaller desk against the wall, completing the last bit of reading that was required.

Her shift in mood made you cautious, and curious.

"I met him this morning."

"Oh?" She raised a brow.

You hid your frown, "Yes," you replied, subtly observing her just as she did you. Sinner couldn't keep still, and her body was now tense. "I was stuck out in the rain." You decided to give a soft laugh as if the memory brought back warm feelings.

You got the reaction you were expecting. She spared you a sideways glance. "Is that all?"

You scrolled up on the laptop. "Is he not someone I should associate myself with?"

"You won' t be able to help it. He's our superior. It's just interesting that he spoke to you."

Now you frowned. "How come?"

"Crane doesn't speak to a soul unless he has to." You held her stare as she crossed her office. "And I know what you might be thinking, but he's not one to target the new pretty young thing either."

You hummed in response, intrigued that she even said such a thing. It's not as though you thought it. "He's anti-social then?"

"He's practically mute." Her advisor finally took a seat at her desk, slowly leaning back against her chair. "Not unless he's asking someone to check something for him."

You nodded, showing her that you were taking in what she was saying. "Well, he must have only been in a good mood. Whatever it was, it won't matter. I'm only here to gain experience, not friends." She looked at you as she considered this, and you contently returned to your work without another word.

And so thanks to Sinner, this is what you had learnt about Dr. Jonathan Crane:

He didn't enjoy participating in any kind of conversation unless it was strictly centred around the workings of the asylum.

He was aloof, uninterested - severity and quiet confidence incarnate.

He was not kind, and he was not generous. It was every man for himself, and he expected all to adhere to that sentiment.

He wasn't your typical sleazy boss trying to flatter and seduce the 'new toy' in the workplace. In fact, from what you had learnt, Crane didn't have a romantic life at all, and he liked it that way.

You quietly considered all of this as you headed back towards the lobby, ready to check-out and go home. You had stayed back a little later, helping Sinner with some last minute cases, hoping to leave a good impression on your first day.

"It's late, y/n. I'll be heading off," She pulled on her coat and began wrapping her scarf around her neck. "You're free to go home now too. You've done exceptionally well today."

You gave her a faint smile, "Is it alright if I quickly finish these?"

Sinner gave a tight nod, "Alright. Take them to the front desk. Once you're finished, don't forget to check-out. Try to leave before the last bus to avoid any...danger."

You gave a nod and bid your goodbyes to your advisor. Once you had completed everything, you placed your belongings into your satchel, slung it over your shoulder, and left her office, making sure the door was locked behind you.

The halls were a little emptier at this hour. A little quieter. It was nice.

But that was before a sudden guttural scream echoed through the hall you walked down, reverberating off of the cold white walls.

Your heart leapt into your throat before tumbling down into your stomach. Slowing your steps, you looked behind your shoulder, then surveyed each door you passed. The scream died out into loud begs and tearful pleas, muffled and distant enough to make you wonder where exactly it was coming from.

You flinched as a door behind you clicked open, and out stepped Dr. Crane in his charcoal suit, smoothly adjusting his glasses whilst he held a large briefcase in his other hand.

As if sensing your presence, his head snapped to face you.

You told yourself to look away, but you stood there, looking back at him. The eye contact was steely, heavy, and it seemed to last forever. You glanced between him and the door he just came from, and without another word, you forced yourself to leave.

Crane carefully tracked your movements as you handed a folder to the front desk and checked-out, making a point to not look back at him.

He tilted his head in calculation and wondered if you were looking at the yellow roses on your way out.

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this is just a cute lil something i've written to help me cope w my boring ass internship lmao.

pls comment if you would like this to turn into a proper story/story with multiple parts!!!

Pairing: Theodore Nott × Reader Word count: ~5.9k Warnings: Workplace tension, mutual pining, banter-heavy slow burn, emotionally constipated Theo, reader who gives as good as she gets, fluff toward the end Summary: Being partnered with Theodore Nott is about as fun as sitting through a dementor orientation. but you’re not the type to sit quietly and take his silence. unfortunately, the more you push him, the more he starts looking at you like you might actually matter.

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Theodore Nott walked into the Auror Department every morning like it personally offended him.

Black coat, black boots, black coffee. Same exact routine, same exact scowl.

You, on the other hand, wore obnoxiously bright scarves just to piss him off.

“Is that chartreuse?” he muttered once as you walked past him in the corridor.

You smiled sweetly. “Color theory. Look it up.”

He muttered something under his breath. Probably a curse. You counted that as a win.

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The worst part wasn’t that you got partnered with him.

It was that he didn’t even react.

Not when you were introduced. Not when you sat down beside him in the briefing room. Not when you accidentally spilled tea all over his precious, alphabetized field notes.

“Say something,” you snapped, blotting at the page with your sleeve.

He glanced down at the mess, unimpressed. “You’re clumsy.”

“I’m human.”

“Debatable.”

You grinned. “I’ve been told I’m charming.”

He raised a brow. “By who? Your mirror?”

Okay. One point for Nott.

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Week one was a disaster.

He didn’t explain things, didn’t ask questions, didn’t wait up.

At one point, you practically had to sprint down a hallway to keep up with him.

“Are we chasing someone or do you just walk like a Victorian ghost?”

“I’m trying to avoid conversation.”

“Then maybe don’t partner with someone who talks when they’re nervous.”

He gave you a flat look. “You’re always nervous?”

“No. You’re just always annoying.”

You thought he might actually smile.

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Week two brought a tiny truce. And by “truce,” you meant he stopped pretending you didn’t exist.

Once, he even handed you a coffee before you could ask.

You squinted at it suspiciously. “You trying to poison me?”

“It’s oat milk and two sugars.”

You stared at him. “How’d you know that?”

He didn’t answer. Just sat down and started reviewing evidence like he hadn’t just been a functioning human being for once.

That day, you only insulted him twice. Progress.

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Week three, he started waiting for you after field work. Not in an obvious way—just loitering near the exit until you caught up.

“Need something?” you asked once, passing him with raised eyebrows.

He shrugged. “You tend to forget your wand when you’re flustered.”

“I am never flustered.”

“You left it on the counter. Again.”

Damn it.

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One night, the storm hit.

You’d both been running on no sleep and bad takeout. The case wasn’t breaking. Your nerves were frayed to hell.

“You’re not listening to me,” you snapped, pacing the war room. “You’ve got this one idea in your head and it’s wrong.”

“And you have no patience.”

“Because you keep shutting me down!”

“I’m trying to stop you from getting hurt.”

You froze.

He realized what he’d said. Looked away fast.

“Oh,” you said softly. “So that’s what this is.”

“I didn’t mean to say that.”

“But you meant it.”

He didn’t deny it.

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The kiss came later. After the fight. After a long silence in your office, just the two of you and the low hum of a storm outside.

He came in with wet hair and a file in his hand, but he didn’t speak.

Just looked at you like he was trying to decide if he’d made the biggest mistake of his life or the best one.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For which part?”

“For thinking I could keep this professional.”

You blinked. “That’s a weird way to say ‘I like you.’”

He smiled—barely. “I do.”

Then he kissed you. Soft. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

You kissed him back like you were done waiting.

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After that, he didn’t change much. Still scowled at the tea cart. Still edited your reports. Still wore black like he was mourning fun itself.

But he sat closer now. Looked at you when you laughed. Called you by your name like it meant something.

One morning, you found your favorite chocolate biscuit on your desk with a note in his handwriting:

Leave crumbs again and I’ll hex your chair.

You grinned.

Maybe he wasn’t easy to love.

The Spirit of Radio by sidewinder || @hawkland Rating: Mature Word count: 32k

What happens when corporate, satellite radio and a small town disc jockey collide? Angel Radio needs a new hero. That is, they need a new DJ to anchor their classic rock channel, and Dean Winchester of Sioux Falls, South Dakota just might be the man for the job. That's the directive Castiel receives from his boss, Naomi: recruit Dean to leave his morning shift at KARZ and move to the Los Angeles, where a more lucrative career in broadcasting could await him. But Dean's not sure he can leave his friends and found family behind—not even when Castiel shows up looking like someone who could light his fire, and the attraction is entirely mutual.

There’s no better combination than Supernatural and classic rock. An AU where Dean is a free willed classic rock DJ and Cas is stuck in the corporate side of music is so absolutely perfect I can’t believe I haven’t seen one before now.

And it’s a great fic. The parallels between Cas and canon are delicious, the setting makes one feel like they’re touring LA right beside Dean and Cas, and the characterization is pitch perfect. The author's passion for music— especially classic rock, of course— is seeped into every word. It’s always great when a writer can combine two of their interests and readers are lucky when one of those passions is Destiel. 

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, John "Soap" MacTavish Additional Tags: Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Author Has Played Call of Duty, Febuwhump, Febuwhump 2026, Game: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare III (2023), Game: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare III (2023) Spoilers, yes that character death is the one you think it is, character death doesn't massively feature in the fic but it is vital, Blood and Injury, Mention of blood, Workplace Relationship, mentions of child abuse Summary:

For the longest time, the only thing that had ever given Ghost any comfort were the numbers ticking down on his wrist. Even when they flashed in and out in a way that made him certain that his soulmate was some reckless, bloody idiot with a death wish.

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