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Language:
English
Series:
Part 2 of Gremlin Twink
Stats:
Published:
2025-02-13
Words:
838
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
17
Kudos:
227
Bookmarks:
14
Hits:
1,329

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Summary:

Daniel‘s publicist walks into a scene she thinks that she has seen a thousand times, lol.

Notes:

Daniel is promoting his book and are not actually together yet, but Armand looks to be in his twenties and what else would he be doing with an older man? Not sleeping on his couch because said man ruined his toxic marriage that’s what.

Work Text:

Daniel Molloy’s publicist had seen it all.  

 

Rockstars stumbling out of hotel rooms still half-drunk, politicians making hasty exits from the wrong suites, and authors—God,  authors —slinking out of bad decisions like stray cats.  

 

But this was her least favorite to deal with.

 

The bathroom door swung open, releasing a wave of steam, and out stepped  him.   

 

She barely had time to process the fact that Daniel Molloy, renowned journalist-turned-author, had  company  before she was hit with the full impact of the situation.  

 

The man—because of course it was a man, Daniel had a  type —stood there as if he had  every  right to exist in nothing but one of Daniel’s button-downs. It hung loosely on his frame, a few buttons lazily fastened, just enough to keep things technically decent but not nearly enough to suggest he had anything on underneath.  

 

His auburn curls were damp, clinging to his forehead as he towel-dried them without urgency. His skin—God help her—looked like he’d been sculpted in candlelight, all soft golds and warm browns, and his  face —  

 

She cut the thought off at the knees.  

 

Because she  knew  this type.  

 

Pretty. A little smug. Dripping with that effortless, high-maintenance aura of someone who  expected  the world to accommodate him. A gold digger, then. A boy toy who had attached himself to Daniel Molloy like some beautiful parasite, here to live off his book advances and make a  scene  at the absolute worst moment.  

 

She exhaled through her nose, squared her shoulders, and cut straight to business.  

 

“So, what’s it gonna take?”  

 

The man—boyfriend?  sugar baby ?—paused mid-hair-towel. He turned his dark, curious eyes to her, as if she had just spoken a foreign language. “Pardon?”  

 

She pulled a crisp NDA from her bag and slapped it onto the table.  

 

“You’re sleeping with my client,” she stated, crisp and efficient. “Which means I now have to deal with you. I do  not  have time for drama, blackmail, or you suddenly deciding to ‘speak your truth’ in an interview two months from now. So—what do I have to get you in exchange for signing this?”  

 

Silence.  

 

The man blinked at the document, then at her. Slowly, as if tasting the words, he repeated, “In exchange?”  

 

“Yes,” she said, impatient. “You want a credit card? A hotel suite of your own? A plane ticket somewhere that isn’t  here ? Name it, and I’ll have it handled within the hour.”  

 

There was a pause.  

 

Then, absurdly, he said, “An iPad.”  

 

She stared.  

 

He met her gaze without flinching, absolutely serious.  

 

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry. You want a  what ?”  

 

“With no time locks on it,” he clarified. “Daniel won’t unlock his after six hours. It’s ridiculous.”  

 

The amount of sheer,  unapologetic audacity  was staggering.  

 

Not a car. Not jewelry. Not a private villa. An  iPad.

 

That was a first.  

 

She studied him, waiting for the punchline. But he only gazed back, unbothered, radiating the calm confidence of a prince making reasonable demands.  

 

“You want an iPad,” she repeated, in case some sort of miscommunication had occurred.  

 

“Yes.”  

 

She folded her arms, weighing the insanity of the moment against the logistical nightmare of  not  handling this. It wasn’t the worst request she’d ever received from a talent-adjacent disaster. It wasn’t even in the  top five .  

 

She exhaled sharply. “Fine. I’ll have one sent up.”  

 

The man smiled. He took the NDA, flipped through it with all the interest of someone perusing a restaurant menu, then signed his name without so much as  skimming  the fine print.  

 

She had  so many  questions.  

 

But her job wasn’t to ask them. Her job was to make sure the book tour didn’t go down in flames.  

 

So she did the paperwork, made a call, and mentally adjusted her schedule to  include  keeping an eye on this new,  unanticipated  problem.  

 

Daniel Molloy owed her a raise.  

 

—  

 

Daniel woke up to the soft glow of a screen.  

 

His head ached, the sheets were tangled around his legs, and something in the air—something  intangible —told him his life had just gotten  more  complicated.  

 

He turned his head.  

 

Armand sat cross-legged beside him, completely absorbed in a blocky, pixelated world. The faint sounds of digital footsteps and breaking blocks filled the room.  

 

Daniel squinted. “Are you playing  Minecraft ?”  

 

Armand didn’t look up. “Yes.”  

 

Daniel ran a hand down his face. “Where the hell did you even get that? That’s not my iPad.”  

 

Armand, still focused on the game, replied casually, “Your publicist.”  

 

Daniel’s hand froze mid-drag. “ My publicist? ”  

 

“Mhm.”  

 

Daniel groaned. “Please don’t tell me you  bribed  her for that.”  

 

“She made a reasonable offer,” Armand murmured. “I accepted.”  

 

Daniel let his head thud back against the pillow. “Oh my  God. ”  

 

“Also,” Armand added, as if it were an afterthought, “she thinks I’m a gold-digging boy toy.”  

 

Daniel winced. “Of course she does.”  

 

“You may want to have a conversation with her.”  

 

Daniel sighed and Armand, utterly unbothered, continued building his  Minecraft  fortress.

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