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strawberrykidneystone · 20 days ago

Text

brewing

sevika x fem!reader

summary: the annual basket betting is right around the corner and caitlyn is trying to play matchmaker with you

a/n: ty for all the love in part 1!!!!

tags: gilmore girls au, diner owner!sevika, i love the basket betting episode, side poly victor x jayce x mel bc i said so, jayce is the mayor LMAO, fast burn bc im impatient, first kiss (YOU'RE WELCOME), hope you like fishing!

ao3 version

part 1

today was the basket betting day for raising funds to build the old bridge again and you had once again put off buying a basket until the last minute.

"how about this one?" you asked isha, who's face twisted into one of disapproval.

"too big," she signed with a shake of her head.

"okay goldilocks, well you've vetoed the last 3 baskets i've picked out so why don't you just pick it out for me?" you said in a deceptively sweet voice after tossing the basket back into the pile with the others.

isha responded with an eyeroll and dug through the baskets to find a reasonably small one that was still somewhat fashionable. while she dug around the pile of wicker, you picked up a few groceries that you were missing and waited by the checkout for her to finish up, hoping that she wouldn't pick too small of a basket so at least someone would bet on it without setting expectations too high.

out of seemingly nowhere, caitlyn appeared in front of you with a much too eager smile on her face. "morning!" she chirped happily, clutching her own basket that you had no doubt that vi was going to bet on. It was a reasonably sized basket, and you were sure that her kitchen staff wouldn't skimp on a full 3-course meal that would fill the entire thing up, topped with a dark blue ribbon as it did in years past. hell, before vi came along, even you would've bet on the basket for the food alone.

you gasped at her sudden appearance and put a hand over your chest as if you were having a heart palpitation, "jeez cait, i need to get you a bell or something."

she giggled and rocked back and forth on her feet, a mischievous smile on her face. "my apologies, but i couldn't wait to tell you. i've actually found someone to bet on your basket," she said with an all-too-proud look on her face.

you deadpanned and slumped your shoulders, "what." caitlyn's plans to set you up with her "friends" have never really gone right. the last blind date you went on, set up by her, your date would only talk about the stock market and its impact on the company she inherited from her parents. it was so boring that you went through 2 bottle of wine just to make yourself brain-dead enough to keep listening to them drone on.

"oh don't give me that look, it'll be fun!" she said with a big smile on her face with a playful nudge to your shoulder.

"yeah i've heard that before," you muttered under your breath as you could feel the dread building up in your gut as you watched her duck in between the aisles to find her pink-headed beau.

whoever she was setting up with you, it could not be good.

isha brought you out of your stance of disbelief by bumping your arm with the basket she had meticulously picked out and took your shopping basket from your forearm, placing it onto the waiting checkout conveyor belt. you snickered at her eagerness to get back home to stuff her nose back into her latest book, "okay okay i get it kid."

isha had dodged the town fundraiser by being a child still and would be safe in the library with a stack of freshly picked books at her side.

after checking out at the register and grabbing your groceries, the two of you were off to kill a few hours before it was time to bid.

-timeskip-

this was a new low for sevika.

self help tapes? who was she kidding. blah blah blah love yourself. who actually listens to this bullshit?

well, she supposed she did now.

communicating had never been sevika’s strong suit, but she was determined. if not for herself, then for you. who knew that you had to work on yourself to be better for other people? go figure.

her thoughts were interrupted by a loud commotion coming from downstairs and a frantic call of her name.

speak of the devil and he shall appear. well, she.

sevika ejected the cassettee tape out of her speaker and stuffed it in her sock drawer with the original packaging, running her fingers through her tussled hair and tucked it into a backwards baseball cap, before basically clamoring down the stairs at your desperate pleas. as she walked through the doorway, she almost steamrolled over you with the velocity that she had gained running down the stairs to you and looked at you with surprise. she had never seen you this frazzled before, and that was saying something.

"sevika you have to buy my basket," you basically begged, looking up at her with a look of desperation that reminded her of a feral animal being backed into a corner.

sevika furrowed her brows and stood there a little dumbfounded. she was willing to do a lot of things for you, but the basket auction? she still had her dignity. kind of.

"absolutely not."

"please sev! caitlyn is trying to set me up with these weirdos and i’ll be forced to have lunch with them!" you said desperately, trying to give sevika your most pathetic look to convince her.

"do they know they're betting on 2 packs of gushers and a peanut butter sandwich?" she teased but couldn't help but feel her heart ache at the thought of you going on an obligatory "date" with someone else.

"hey i resent that!" you said in an offended tone before a smirk crawled up your face, "it's a peanut butter and nutella sandwich."

“ooo my bad,” she said mockingly, still looking at you unimpressed.

you clasped your hands together and gave her the saddest eyes that you could muster, “please sevika! this is my hour of need and i need you! i would never leave you hanging like this!”

sevika pressed her lips together and tried to resist your sad eyes, but she was only so strong of a woman. she knew she could never truly say no to you, especially if it prevented you from having a lunch date with someone other than her.

“fine, just stop making that face it’s making me nauseous.”

“yes! thank you thank you thank you i’ll never make it again!” you cried out in joy with an obvious lie, dragging her out of the diner and over to the crowd that had gathered in front of the big gazebo.

the usually empty caged structure was adorned with multiple baskets of every shape and size you could imagine. while participation for the women in the community was “optional”, meaning you would get an earful from jayce if you didn’t make a basket (besides sevika who protested against the event every year), the community needed to raise money for the old bridge once again. jayce was shining on stage in his pristine white suit with both of his partners on either side of him, mel presenting the baskets while viktor meticulously kept track of who had bet on each one on his yellow legal pad.

jinx’s basket had just finished being bet on, sold for $5 to ekko with no resistance from the crowd (there was probably a stink bomb in the basket).

jayce held his hand out to mel, who picked up your basket as it had been next in line. you stood with sevika in the crowd with your arms unconsciously wrapped around her bicep, rapidly tapping her arm as jayce held your basket up. “it’s that one,” you whisper-shouted to her, slightly hiding behind her tall figure from the two people that caitlyn had picked out for you to bet on your basket.

"we'll start the bidding at $3," jayce said pointedly, smiling out to the crowd.

"hey size isn't everything!'' you said through gritted teeth, looking nervously at the two people who both raised their hands to bid.

sevika raised her hand when jayce called for $5 and soon the price of the basket had increased to a whopping $50, something that you could literally never imagine.

"$100, final offer," sevika said gruffly. you couldn't help but gawk up at her, shocked that she would go up that high for a basket that she knew the sad contents of.

the crowd was silent and jacye looked around for any opposers, "going once, going twice, sold to sevika for $100!"

there was scattered applause throughout the crowd and you could help but sigh in relief, hugging sevika's are slightly tighter, "thank you 'vika, you're a lifesaver."

"yeah yeah i'm a fucking saint," she grumbled, silently reveling in the grip that you had on her arm.

the rest of the auction went by in a blur, and you let go of sevika's arm for her to go claim her prize. as she walked back to you with the basket in hand, she looked into the small vessel and grimaced at the pathetic amount of food on the inside. when you opened your mouth to defend yourself, sevika held a hand up and interrupted you before you could, "let's just go get some food from my diner."

you smiled sheepishly and put your hands on your hips, "deal, but we still have to eat it outside like a picnic."

"deal."

the two of you walked side by side back to the diner, getting some intrigued side eyes from the rest of the townspeople of zaun who have been waiting for the two of you to be together since you first moved in. sevika made you two a quick meal and bagged it up, already knowing your favorites off the top of her head. she took the bag under her arm before you could even reach the bag to take it yourself. you fake-pouted about not carrying the bag, but "allowed" her to carry the bag as you followed her into a familiar clearing in the nearby woods that overlooked the dark green town lake that was sparkling in the afternoon sun. you unfolded the red gingham picnic blanket that had been stashed in your little basket and smoothed it out against the grass that stopped right before the sandy shore before taking a seat on your hip. sevika plopping down close to you with her legs crisscrossed, so close that your shoulders were practically touching. you couldn't help but watch as she meticulously laid out the spread of food onto the blanket, it looked like something straight out of a movie.

both of you sat in a somewhat awkward silence for a bit as you started to eat, neither of you quite sure what to say. was this an actual date? or just a friend thing? god this burger is good. i wonder what isha is doing right now- shit, focus, focus.

you polietly wiped your mouth with your napkin and cleared your throat, looking out at the lake, "have you gone fishing lately? i know you've mentioned liking it before but i don't think i've ever actually seen you at this lake."

sevika nodded along as she finished chewing the food in her mouth and finally swallowed it down, "there's honestly not much fish in this one, 'usually head out to the one on the border in my old man's old boat."

"i bet i would catch something if i fished out here," you said in an overly confident voice, hoping to get a rise out of her.

"you? fishing?" sevika said in a tone where you knew that she didn't believe a word you said.

"what? don't give me that! i've never been fishing, how will i know i don't like it unless i try it?" you scowled and crossed your arms over your chest defensively.

"you know what, fine. i'll take you out fishing," she said defeatidly, a playful smirk on her lips.

"then it's a date," you declared, shifting in your sitting position slightly.

that gave sevika pause as a much mroe comfortable silence stood between the two of you.

"...is this a date?"

you turned your head to sevika and blinked at her owlishly. your eyes scanned her face for any sign of her usual joking manner with you, but found none. she was being completely serious.

"do you want it to be a date?"

"yes?... no? i don't-" sevika sighed and took a deep breath to gather herself and think about what she wanted to say next. she looked deep into your eyes with her singing gold ones that gleamed in the sunlight and took your hands in her, her cold metal prosthetic contrasting the warm blanket of spring that had enwrapped the two of you.

"no, i don't want this to be our first date. i don't want our first date to be something that i bailed you out on because you didn't want to go to lunch with a stranger and especially not because of something caitlyn set up." you could feel tears welling up in your eyes and you couldn't help but giggle at the mention of caitlyn's failed plan, but you would definitely have to thank her for causing this.

sevika squeezed your hands in hers and chuckled with you, bringing her focus back to you when the moment passed. "i want to take you out properly, the way you deserve, the way I've been dying to take you out since you first came into my diner begging for coffee. will you please do me the honor of going out with me on a proper date?"

instead of responding, you cupped her cheeks with your hands and pulled her into a kiss. it was surprisingly soft but firm, as if both of you were holding your breath as it happened. her lips were satly from the food, but she smelled like freshly brewed coffee, a scent that attracted you to her from the beginning whether it was purposeful or not. when you pulled away, sevika's eyes were practically twinkling and dazed, looking at you as if you were her whole world. you couldn't help the smile that creeped up on your lips. "yes, yes of course sev," you said softly and sealed it with a peck on her lips.

she nodded and opened her mouth to speak but no words came out, she had wanted this for so long and it was finally happening, there were no words to express how happy she was in this moment. thank fully she didn't have to speak, she simply pulled you into another kiss, pouring all of her feelings against your lips, which you happily accepted.

a/n: sorry this update took forever college has been kicking my ass😔😔😔

part 3 coming soon

taglist: @maneskinwh0re @archangeldyke-all @fandoms-will-be-the-death-of-me @sevikasfan @lez-zuha @comfortripley @sunflowerwinds

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#sevika #arcane sevika #sevika arcane #sevika fluff #sevika x reader #sevika x fem reader #sevika x female reader #arcane league of legends #gilmore girls au #sevika in flannel...#sevika fan fic #ao3 #sevika fan fiction #strawberrykidneystone #strawberrykidneystone writes

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prettyiwa · 24 days ago

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I do not authorize the translation or reposting of my work

Relationship: March x NB!Farmer Rating: SFW Content Tags: March POV, Alcohol Consumption, Slight Jealousy, Light Flirting/Teasing, March is March (aka emotionally constipated), 2-Heart Event, Developing Feelings, 4-Heart Event, Incidental Shooting Star Festival, Referenced fear of the sea, References to March's parents (spoilers?) Summary: March lets it slip that he wants the farmer's attention, so they deliver. Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: The first two seasons for my Fields of Mistria fic. I have much more planned, but I figured why not share this while I have it finished? I'll be waiting until I have the first year finished before sharing to AO3, but in the meantime... Special thanks to @owoasis for letting me drone on about March at length (and for reading over this again and again with me). Also to the metalsmith who helped me for a throwaway line because March would know better than to try and craft a usable silver sword. (Header credit)

SPRING, Year 1

Laughter is in abundance, bouncing off each surface as nearly everyone sports a smile of some kind, grateful for the promised return of Saturday Markets. Ryis finished repairing the bridge only yesterday, and so this is the first weekend in months that everyone has felt hopeful about the future of Mistria. March is no exception, unable to keep his smile contained as he loosely listens to Valen and Juniper talk about wines, Hemlock’s brew keeping him jovial. The buzzing beneath his skin is pleasant, dulling the edges of the world in addition to his inhibitions.

The doors open and in walks you, drawing his focus effortlessly. There’s this glow about you as you move—or perhaps that’s just the alcohol and the warm lighting of the inn—, grabbing a beer from Hemlock before checking in with Eiland and the others. Their greetings are brief, engulfed in the game Eiland is overseeing (that doesn’t stop Holt from offering you no less than three puns, judging from your awkward smiles). Reina passes you by, delivering a pizza to their table before she stops to say hello, drawing an easy smile from you before you two lean in toward each other in a fit of laughter.

Each time you greet someone, they give you a wide smile and a warm welcome and something shifts. His quiet pleasance is interrupted by a subtle aching that occurs each time they brighten in response to you, a low throbbing beneath the skin that alcohol won’t quench.

His lips shape into a pout and he feels his brows stitch together as this twisting desire travels down his arms, settling into his fingertips. Making your way around Olric, March feels like he’s about five seconds from calling out and demanding your attention like a petulant child, the impulse stifled only by the small frown you give Errol.

Landen asks March something and the latter takes a swig from his beer, pretending like he was half-listening by the time you circle around the table. Ryis turns to greet you as you lean forward to look at his cards, your faces close enough that it cools the heat in his belly. Almost as though you can hear the words March has yet to breathe, you look up, meeting his stare, smile faltering. It falls before reshaping, turning playful, daring, demanding reciprocity.

As quickly as you cooled him, you heat him up, warmth spreading across his cheeks once more, and the hand holding his beer raises without thought. Your name is called and it takes a moment before he realizes it was his voice doing the calling. “Hey! Come sit with me!”

Something sparks within him when your smile grows, offering the silent promise of your company. As you straighten, you raise a brow, turning away only to offer Ryis a quick goodbye in the wake of the chorus of groans leaving his table.

March realizes a moment too late that there isn’t an extra stool for you to sit on (he himself is leaning against the edge of the bar, not having bothered grabbing an extra bar stool from the corner), but that doesn’t deter you. Instead, you sidle up beside him, shoulder bumping his before you wave down Hemlock for another beer.

It grows hot with you by his side, the faint scent of lavender and lemon invades his senses as you lean in, tilting your head to look past him. Your eyes meet his and your smile doesn’t fade like he expected. He’s left staring like an idiot as your mouth forms the words, “Scooch over, why don’t you?”

He complies, satisfaction settling across his chest at your proximity, at the way you shift, too, staying loosely pressed against his side. Hemlock returns with fresh beers, replacing the empty bottles. Before he can taste this new drink, you clink the neck of your bottle with his, offering a wink when he catches your eye. The light flavors of the beer soothe the burning of his cheeks.

“So? What’s up?” you ask, propping your chin on your hand to give him your undivided attention.

There’s all sorts of things he wishes to say to you, but all that comes tumbling out of his mouth is, “You’re always so busy during the week. Why don’t you stop by more?”

His words catch him off guard, tiny thoughts he keeps tucked away coming to life for both of you to hear. Your eyes widen and your lips are shaped by surprise before your smile returns, albeit different than before.

“What’s this? You want me to stop by more? And here I thought you wanted me to keep my distance.”

He snorts, trying to hide his embarrassment, a tiny seed of shame for the assumptions he’s made. “No, I mean… You can stop by. You’re always running around town, talking to everyone else and…”

The way your cheeks lift with your smile makes him freeze, and he starts to understand why everyone likes talking with you so much.

“My, my. Is it possible that you’re jealous?” you ask, eyes following the obvious flush of his cheeks. “I only steered clear because I thought you wanted your space, but if you want me to come around, I can do that.”

March is mesmerized by the emotion dancing behind your eyes, something bright that steals all coherent thought in conjunction with the weight of the promise on your tongue.

“Y-yeah. No, wait, I’m not jealous! I want—”

“It’s fine,” you say with a laugh, something just for him. “You want me to come by? Yeah, okay, Red.”

The name stills him before setting him alight like wildfire as you lean in. His face burns, as does the rest of him, and he’s temporarily overwhelmed by lavender. “What—? What’s with the nickname?”

Your eyes drink him in, again lingering on his cheeks before meeting his gaze. Unable to stand the intensity of your attention, he turns to his drink, catching sight of the way your right hand inches closer. When you don’t answer, he ventures a glance your way.

“It suits you.”

Monday rolls around and Friday is a distant memory if only because of how much booze he consumed. The air is thick with anticipation of a storm, wind picking up and carrying the distant scent of petrichor every now and then, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

With the bridge repaired, Balor was able to deliver twice as many ingots than March had anticipated, giving him plenty of work this week, the first of which is crafting a new hammer for Ryis. With the town depending on Ryis’ repairs, he can’t let him continue using something so worn. It feels good to work with more than the bare minimum, than whatever could be melted down. Even if it means working in the rain, he’ll keep at it.

Something moves in the square, catching his attention, and he realizes it’s you, hurrying toward the manor. Eiland heads down the steps and you two exchange a few words as you pass something off—he can only assume it to be a relic of some kind. You smile, offering a wave, then turn your head in March’s direction. Up until now, you’ve… you haven’t necessarily avoided him, offering chipper hellos as you blow through, but you don’t give him the same attention you do everyone else.

Except this time you wear a smirk that promises a headache for him. He tries not to look, tries to make it look like he wasn’t looking—nothing more than a cursory glance, that’s all—busying himself with the hammer.

“Heya, Red,” you say so casually he wonders whether you’ve hit your head.

Heat rises within him at the name, a stark contrast to the chill that the wind brings, and his swing falters. Catching himself before causing injury or ruining his work, he looks up at you. His eyes narrow as he takes in the dirt that stains your clothes, the gloves tucked into your pocket, the ax hanging from your work belt. He could comment on any of them, but one thought above all demands answering.

“What did you call me?”

Your lips curve freely, reactionary if he had to guess, and it fills him with a simmering anger. “‘Red?’ Oh, c’mon. Don’t tell me you don’t like it now.”

“Now? When have I ever given you the impression that I liked it?”

Vague memories of Friday hit him, namely the weight of you on his side and the shape of your smile, different from the one you offer him presently. His flush intensifies until he’s certain his ears are burning, too.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you drawl, stepping back to lean on the side of the shop. “Last Friday you didn’t seem to mind.”

Part of him wants to protest if only because it’s you, but another part of him, the part of him susceptible to flattery, likes it. Red is his color, and he can’t fault you for noticing. It's... not the worst thing you could call him.

Rather than linger on that, on the conflicting feelings rising beneath his ribcage, he changes the subject, returning to the hammer to relieve him from the fire in your gaze. “Whatever. What are you even doing here? Don’t you have dirt to shovel?”

He tries to drown out the sound of your laugh with the clang of his tools, but the sound bounces between you both, settling somewhere on his anvil.

“Oh, sure. But that’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I’m not in the habit of ignoring when my body tells me to stop. Don’t want to hurt myself when there’s so much to be done.”

If he knew any better, he’d say it was a pointed jab, a harsher reminder than his brother’s to stop pushing himself at all hours of the day. But he doesn’t know better, and neither do you.

“Besides… I thought you’d appreciate my company.”

Again, he wavers, looking up at you like you’ve lost your damn mind. “The hell makes you think that?”

With dramatics to rival Elsie, you give him the fakest sigh he’s ever heard, setting his teeth on edge. With a shrug, you close your eyes and shake your head, failing in your struggle to keep a smile off your face. Opening your eyes again, there’s something mischievous that he can’t stand (he can’t stand a lot of what you do). “I don’t know. It’s probably something I picked up about the same time I first called you Red.”

He needs to start cutting back on beer come Fridays.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he says, looking away.

“I’m sure I won’t.” He can hear the smile that colors your voice, and you make no move to leave, sticking around for another twenty minutes, even if you two scarcely exchange words after that.

“What do you mean, you won’t go into the mines? You love the mines! Think of all the rocks you can pick up while you get us some ore!”

“Bro. You don’t understand. Errol told me that since they’ve condemned the mines, he’s heard all kinds of noises in there! And Eiland was telling me that the cave systems around this area used to be home to all kinds of monsters and other magical creatures. What if they came back? I can’t go in there. It’s super creepy now!”

The sigh that escapes March is one belonging to someone who has been alive much longer and has experienced much more than he, full of exasperation he didn’t even know he contained. There’s a throbbing in his temple that warns him of an impending migraine as he reviews the letter from Balor detailing the delay in his copper shipment.

Given how Errol was singing your praises to Terithia at the inn last night, he knows the mines are reopened, though he can’t fathom how you possibly helped. Ultimately, he can push back some of the projects until he receives the bulk of the shipment, but he can’t—won’t—fail to get Juniper the copper pipe she needs for the bathhouse on time.

While he doesn’t have the necessary experience to deal with the creepy-crawlies that may inhabit the mines now, he knows at least a couple of qualified candidates who should, including you. Unable to face even the idea of being turned down and having to resort to you, he scribbles his request, leaving it on the bulletin board by the mill.

The day carries on and he does what he can with the limited materials he has, but he starts worrying when he sees Balor and Errol around town and no sign of you. It’s not until the sun starts setting and he’s making his way to the bathhouse to inform Juniper of the delay that you call out to him, jogging to catch up.

“Red. Hey,” you say, voice unusually strained, offering a nod instead of a wave. “You needed some ore, right?”

Sliding off your pack, you shift to open it, allowing him to see roughly ten times the amount of ore he needed.

“What—? You completed my request?”

He knew it was a possibility (a probability, honestly), but still. Of all the things you could’ve been doing, this is how you’ve spent your day?

Giving you a once over, he takes note of the pickax barely visible behind your back, the soot that coats your clothes, the scrape across your cheek. The scratch begs his attention, the dried blood that makes him wonder whether you were just clumsy or the mines really are as dangerous as Olric said they would be.

He can’t seem to take his eyes off the red that stains your cheek, something uncomfortable unfurling near his core. Looking up, it seems you’re looking away, avoiding his gaze for the first time since he’s known you. The muscles in his jaw clench and he reaches forward, seeking to relieve you from the weight of your bag, surprised at how easily you surrender it.

“C’mon then. Let’s get your reward.”

Constantly importing metal has left his savings running dry, so he can’t possibly pay you for everything you’ve mined, though it would surely be a boon to receive even a fraction of it.

Still sure he doesn’t know you by any means, he finds it odd, the way you don’t say anything. He’s grown used to your quips (as used to them as he could possibly get with fleeting meetings lasting no longer than fifteen minutes at a time), so the absence of them as you follow behind is almost startling. If anything, there’s a quiet nag in the back of his mind about what you went through to complete his request (and then some), but he’s not ready to give it credence.

“You didn’t have to get so much, you know,” he says as you two pass the fountain.

Hearing your sigh, he glances over his shoulder, catching sight of the way you look down the street toward the inn. “Not the way I see it.”

Annoyance burns his cheeks and he rolls his eyes. “And how do you see it?” You shouldn’t have pushed yourself into getting hurt. With how abundant those mines are, tapping one vein would’ve been enough. There was no need for you to be gone all day fulfilling his stupid request.

“You and Ryis are the reason Mistria’s hanging on. Yeah, Adeline and Balor deserve credit for keeping things organized and making sure you’re connected to the world, but… you two are the reason buildings aren’t falling apart. And…” The sound of your footsteps ceases and he half-turns, meeting your eyes as you watch him, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “I dunno. If you two need anything and I can do something about it, I want to be able to help.”

The nag grows, catching in his throat as he continues toward the shop, fingers digging into the canvas of your sack. Pushing past it, he’s glad to hear you fall in step behind him. Your words tumble in his mind and the clawing sensation starts reaching for his heart.

It only intensifies when you take your payment but start emptying the copper.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is yours. Take it with you.” He doesn’t need your handouts.

Without so much as looking over your shoulder, you simply say, “Tomorrow’s your birthday, right, Red? Think of it as an early birthday present. Dunno if I’ll have the energy to stop by after my farm work, so.”

It seems you won’t give him a choice, nor can he seem to find any words to refute your actions here. Adeline doesn’t give him much opportunity to formulate a response, finding one for him in the form of an impromptu smithing lesson.

He remains stupefied throughout the rest of the evening, crafting the pipe he can now deliver on time. His thoughts continually return to you, turning over your words again and again as he considers everything you did to fulfill his request. As time moves forward, he grows all the more uncertain how to proceed.

The following morning he comes out to find a perfect copper ore on the doormat with a note beneath.

Forgot this was in my side pocket till I was handing things off to Balor. Thought of you when I found it. Happy Birthday, Red. —Your favorite farmer

As March stares at the perfect copper hoe, freshly crafted, irritation bubbles within him, rising from his chest and up his throat. Crafting it was an impulse brought on by a sleepless night and ruminations thereof. At some point, he started imagining an infusion for the hoe and he knew then it was too late.

The minutes he spends in the shop, awaiting your arrival, seem to drag on, knowing you would’ve received his stupid letter, knowing you’ll come when called. With how much running around you’ve been doing, he can’t see any way you’ve actually made meaningful progress with your farm, and he has no interest in seeing that.

The bell above the shop door rings and his heart immediately kicks up, an involuntary reaction that pisses him off. Turning, he sees you meandering forward, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets as you look around. You stop in front of the ax he has on display, eyes tracing the metalwork.

Without looking at him, you say, “Morning, Red.”

In your inattention of him, he’s allowed a moment to appreciate your appearance. Instead of your ax or the shitty hoe you’ve been using, you have a sword at your hip, looking beat to shit. His palms start to itch and he makes his way from the drafting table to the counter.

Stopping on the other side, you finally give him your full attention. “Got your note. What’s up?”

He rolls his tongue between his teeth, trying to remember what exactly he wanted to say to you before whim wins out.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

“What?”

“In Mistria. What do you think you’ll achieve? You come here with no experience as a farmer or a carpenter or blacksmith and you think that, what, you’re going to luck your way into running a farm?”

Tilting your head, he watches as your brow furrows, as your easy smile is nowhere to be found, replaced by a frown. Taking your hands out of your pockets, you place one on your hip and the other on the hilt of your sword. A different image flashes before him, one of an adventurer determined to get the job done, whatever the stakes rather than the facsimile of a farmer he’s met so far. As you shift, his eyes catch on the head of your pickax, again tucked between your back and your rucksack.

Aside from the challenge clear in your eyes, you offer no retort, and he takes it as his cue to continue. “Despite all this, everyone’s talking about you like you’re the one who’s going to fix up the town, like it’s you who’s the award-winning blacksmith.” He’s tired of everyone dismissing all that he and Ryis have accomplished for the town in the wake of the earthquake, talking like you’re going to save Mistria when even you recognized who’s actually putting in the work. It wouldn’t be so bad if people hadn’t left, if they had the extra hands they once had, but—

The memories he’s tried pushing aside start to arise and he snaps. “The second things go to shit again, I bet you’re going to ditch Mistria and all its problems.”

You’re just the same as the adventurers who came before, standing in the exact place you stand now. Better to get you to turn tail and run before people start actually growing attached to you. Things are looking up, especially now that the mines have reopened and the bridge has been fixed. They can take over from here—you can scamper off to wherever you originated.

Rather than meeting his anger with your own, you smirk, dipping your head before he hears what he believes to be a laugh. With a short exhale, you roll your neck, looking away before meeting his glare. Your smile lacks its usual familiarity, matching the silent taunt present in your eyes.

“Are you feeling okay, Red?”

“What?”

“You don’t have a fever or anything? Don’t need me to double check? I’m a little worried. Jealousy is such a nasty disease; it packs quite the punch. I’m a little afraid you might be infected.”

White hot anger flashes behind his eyes, culminating in his hands, reminding him of the heat of the forge during the peak of summer. It gags him, steals his response away so all he can do is gawp at you while you wait with sickening patience. Unwilling to keep up this staring contest, to be tortured with that expression, he turns to his desk where the hoe awaits.

“You think you’re going to stick around? Fine.” His fingers wrap around the handle, half wanting to give it to Balor to sell instead. He walks it to you, meeting you in the center of the shop, thrusting it forward as though it’ll burn him if he keeps it any longer. “Take it. I won’t be responsible for your failure.”

The judgment in your expression is slow to evaporate as you assess it in his hands, fingers brushing against his when you take it. A shock runs through him, originating from where you two touched, but he refuses to react in the face of your indifference. Your eyes flicker to him as you turn the hoe in your grasp, feeling its weight.

When you properly turn your attention to him, he wants to squirm, though he can’t place why. You stare at him intently, eyes squinting imperceptibly before relaxing, your lips slow to shape into a smile once more, missing the sardonic edge this time.

“Thanks,” you say, seemingly genuine in your gratitude before it’s replaced with something indecipherable. “Is that all?”

Do you need more?

At his silence, you turn on your heel, stopping just shy of the door. Before you turn, he realizes he’s uncomfortable allowing you to have the last word.

“Who knows. Maybe you’ll surprise me.”

As you look over your shoulder, his eyes catch the quirk of your brow, the parting of your lips. “You can bet on it. I take it that you mean to keep an eye on me, so in the interests of your new hobby and presumed diligence, I’m gonna go ahead and leave this here,” you say, lifting the hoe and wagging it to grab his attention before placing it on the window ledge. “I planned on making my way through the mines to get more ore, and I’d hate if anything happened to your quality handiwork.”

Not giving him a chance to answer, you slip through the door, leaving him feeling chewed up and spat out.

SUMMER, Year 1

There is no relief to be found from a summer breeze as the sun bears down upon him, even in the evening. Between the heat of the forge in the early morning and the weight of the sun on his back all day, he’s had no reprieve from this week’s heatwave.

Ryis and Reina are both preoccupied, leaving March alone in his trek to the beach, not that he’s complaining.

As far as he can remember, he’s always found comfort in the sand, in the briny scent heavy in the air. Even now, in his approach, he feels better simply for the whiffs of sea that waft over the trees near Sweetwater. It’s always been this way, but he doesn’t know whether it’s tied to the natural presence of the sea or if it’s some enduring association with his dad he’s tried forgetting.

Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, he’s made it his own.

Breaking through the tree line, the heat turns blistering, the last bastion holding on as the sun hangs low in the sky, blinding in its descent. He raises an arm to block out the light, eyes scanning the shoreline in search of someone (anyone). There’s a figure seated at the docks, looking out to the west, and he heads in their direction.

Not until he’s coming down the steps from Terithia’s does he realize that it’s you, though, again, he’s not complaining.

Despite his hard words when he gave you the hoe, you’ve lingered, almost constantly in his peripheral. Both Olric and Ryis talk about you, the latter more than the former. Since he unleashed on you in the spring, you’ve ensured a steady supply of fresh produce, helped restore the mill, and are currently working with Ryis to renovate the general store. That’s not mentioning the ore you give Olric to give to March. Can’t really complain about someone who’s chipping in.

His boots knock against the pier and you half-turn in acknowledgment, face mostly hidden between the wide brim of your hat and your sunglasses. Adorned in a loose-fitted button up and shorts, your boots sit to the side, allowing you to dangle your feet above the flow of the rising tide.

“What’s up?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the horizon. Do you know who’s at your side?

A wave comes, larger than those before, reaching your feet. With a kick, you splash the water, the subtle lift of your cheeks telling him of your mood. He removes his own boots, tucking his socks within them, and joins you on the edge, bumping your shoulder on his descent.

“Trying to escape the heat,” he answers, ignoring the urge to look at you (made infinitely harder when you start at the sound of his voice, turning to face him with obvious surprise).

“Ah. That makes sense. I don’t know how you can handle the forge for as long as you do.”

“You get used to it. An artisan such as myself can’t afford to stop just because of a little heat.”

With a snort, you return your attention to the horizon, allowing him to sneak a glance. Your shirt’s unbuttoned, bringing a new heat to his face—he can and will blame it on the sun if asked. But more than that, he’s drawn to the curve of your lips, the serenity in your smile.

“Oh, of course,” you say, sarcasm drawing out your words. “I guess I’ll just have to spend more time at the forge. Maybe then the rest of summer will be bearable.”

“Are you really such a wimp that this is too much for you?” As far as you’re concerned, this heat is nothing to him (even if there’s a part of him currently wishing he could venture further into the sea than his calves).

Rather than bristling like expected, you laugh, loud and uninhibited. “Jeez, only you.” Wiping tears from behind your glasses, you say, “Beaches up north are cooler than here. Never liked the heat of the capital, either. Maybe I am a wimp.”

You’re completely at ease, more than he’s seen from you sober, though it’s probably just the atmosphere.

The sun hovers near the line of the horizon, turning the sky. Calm azure meets the copper that bleeds from the sun. Salt kisses his skin as the tide ebbs and flows, lapping at his feet, and a breeze finally begins to blow.

“Say, Red?” Leaning back on your arms, your voice lifts with an impending proposition. “You wanna share a beer with me?” A quick glance around confirms a distinct lack of beer around. Anticipating his question, you add, “In exchange for my imported beer, Terithia let me use her cooler.”

“Imported—? Hemlock’s brew isn’t good enough for you now?”

“Ah, you’ll see.” The sun its your face just right so he can see past the shade of your sunglasses as you turn, allowing him to admire the crinkle of your eyes with your grin. “I’ll be right back.”

Grabbing his shoulder, you pull yourself up, the water from your feet splashing where they land. With your back to him, he’s free to watch as you run toward the shack, not minding your bare feet on the hot planks.

He closes his eyes to the sky. What the hell is he doing? The longer you spend here, helping folks, the tighter his chest grows, wary you’ll leave like all the others. It’s only a matter of time.

The padding of your feet brings him back, though he doesn’t turn to look away until you’re only a few feet from him. The bottle you hand him has a black label, some brew he doesn’t recognize (he didn’t expect differently). As he goes to remove the cap, he realizes it’s not a twist-off.

“How am I supposed to open this?”

Settling down beside him, a few inches further than before, you look up. “Hm? Oh. You don’t—? That’s fine. Gimme,” you say, wagging your fingers at him.

Passing over the bottle, he watches you line up both bottles in the same hand, the edge of his lid above yours. Bringing both down against the wood, his cap goes flying backward, clattering against the dock. When offered, he accepts his bottle, trying to hide the sliver of awe he feels.

He brings the bottle to his lips, watching as you pull the knife you keep on your belt, using it to leverage your cap off. Feeling his stare on you, you meet his eyes again, offering a wink and a lopsided smile. Warmth spreads from his neck as he turns away and you laugh as he takes a swig from his beer. It’s smooth as it goes down with a pleasant crisp that lingers on his tongue.

“Nice, right?”

Grunting in response, still a little bitter that you winked at him, he takes another sip.

“That’s what I thought.” He can hear the smile on your voice. “It’s from home, a little town in the mountains. One of the only things I miss from there. Like it better here.”

You probably liked “home” at some point, too, but you still left.

“It’s alright,” he mutters.

Laughing again, he glances over, catching the way you hold your tongue between your teeth. “Yeah, okay.”

Silence falls between you both, the horizon catching fire with the sun almost gone, a last flicker of flame before night takes hold. It’s gorgeous, accompanied by the steady wash of the waves against the shore, the occasional cry of a seagull. He savors the citrus of the beer as the wind grows persistent and his muscles begin to relax.

Giving into impulse, he shifts to watch you.

Stray hairs fall from under your hat, framing your face. You’ve taken off your sunglasses, hanging them from your shirt, allowing him to watch as the remnants of the sun reflect in your eyes. Your smile never falters and he envies you for it.

Without so much as a glance in his direction, you say, “I’m not going anywhere, Red. I like it here. I like my farm. I like working the land. I like helping Ryis and Adeline and Hayden. I like being useful.” Lifting your knee, you rest your cheek, eyes flitting across his face before meeting his gaze. “I think I could even come to like you, too.”

The slow lift of your lips gives away your tease, the reluctant press of the corners of your mouth as though you’re trying to repress your smile that causes his blush to blossom across warm cheeks.

Part of him, and he doesn’t know how large a part, wants to believe you. But he’s heard those words before from another adventurer who once settled down. That didn’t stop them from leaving. Words don’t carry as much weight as actions, not even pretty words like yours, so he’ll wait and see.

He lays back, eyes catching on the stray clouds scattered across the twilight sky. A stronger breeze blows through, combining with the chill of the sea at his feet, sending shivers down his spine. A chuckle escapes you, the sound pleasant, different from the others he’s heard before. Propping himself up, he notices the clouds that gather to the south, beyond the sight of you. Following his line of sight, you sigh, the sound forlorn, though he can’t imagine why.

“Juni gave me a crystal ball that predicts the weather. With how hot it was today, I didn’t want to get my hopes up about its prediction for tomorrow.”

The rustling of your movement draws him to you once more, watching as you start to pick yourself up. He lays back down as you bend over, your sunglasses almost slipping lose as you reach for your shoes.

“We shouldn’t stay here much longer.”

Can’t argue with you there, but he can’t quite find it in him to move. Sensing this, you tuck your empty bottle into the shaft of your boot, freeing your hand to offer it as help. If not for the beer, he’d otherwise smack it away. As it is, he’s already pulling his feet out of the water and reaching for your hand.

Calluses litter your palm, different from his, solidified after years of blacksmithing. His thoughts travel to the life you lived before, the one that gives you experience with your sword, the one that created the habit of keeping a knife on your belt. Did your calluses develop then? Or are they from your first few months here?

Effortlessly, you pull him up, and he feels a little dizzy. The moment he registers the warmth of your hand still wrapped around his, he lets go as though you’re metal fresh from the forge.

As he goes to pick up his boots, his attention remains on the incoming clouds, blotting out the stars as they grow in volume. Before he can ruminate, before memories of the past can pick up, you distract him.

“You haven’t seen the farm yet, have you?”

“You need a chaperone to make it home?”

His shoulder jolts as you push him, clicking your tongue. “You wish. I actually wanted your input on some plans I’ve been drawing up. It’d be easier if you knew what I was working with.”

Yeah, right.

“Ryis is the one you want to talk to about things like that,” he says, denial settling in his chest.

You start walking backwards, urging him to follow if only so you don’t trip over the edge of the docks. That’d be a nightmare—you, finding out he doesn’t swim on the off chance you fucking fall into the sea.

“Please. Can you look where you’re going?” His arms come out, ready to grab you if you fall, though you never do.

Oh, if only he could wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.

“Worried about me? How queer.” Despite your tease, despite your glowing smile, you comply, turning, allowing his heart to slow. “If you don’t wanna come, don’t worry about it, but I meant it about wanting your input. I’ve been trying to hone my blacksmithing skills so you don’t have to worry about orders from me, too, but I think I might be out of my depth.”

Of course you are. “What do you mean, so I don’t have to worry about you? Do you think I can’t handle it?”

This sigh is exasperated, tired, making your cheeks fall. “That’s not what I meant. You think I want to hand you yet another order for nails? I’d rather commission you to craft my next sword. That seems more worthy of your skill.”

Oh.

He’s left watching as you finally bristle, rolling your eyes before turning toward the shore, leaving him to follow in your wake. In the silence that follows, he reflects on your words, letting your sentiments replay in his mind. The walk to Sweetwater takes on a different tone until something strikes him.

Reaching the edge of the ranch, he stops you.

“Don’t tell me you’re still using that rusted piece of garbage when you go into the mines.”

You’re still the only person daring enough to enter the mines in any meaningful fashion, and each time he sees that rusted junk attached to your hip, he becomes dangerously close to having an aneurysm.

“Yeah. I miss my old sword, which is why I wanted to commission you for a new one. Among other things.”

“What happened to your sword? What kind of adventurer loses their sword?”

You pause, eyes widening imperceptibly, and he realizes it’s the first time he’s properly asked about your past—up until now, everything he’s learned about you has been against his will. A slow smile appears, your previous irritation falling to the wayside, and you say, “That’s a tale for when I have a few more drinks in me. Doesn’t really matter since I don’t have it though. The way Balor spoke of this place, I didn’t think I’d need it. A little hamlet in need of hard work? Somewhere he felt comfortable staying for a time?” You chuckle at some memory, lost to him. “Imagine getting here and being handed a rusted piece of shit instead of a scythe.”

He’s not sure he wants to hear the story, something grating in the back of his mind at your words, but he does know that the mention of crafting a sword has his mind working overtime. It’s been so long…

“So. Final offer: wanna swing by the farm? Or should I just come and bother you later this week?”

“Olric doesn’t like when the weather gets like this. I should head back,” he says, not looking at you. “But you know what? Come by the shop tomorrow. We can talk about that sword.”

The smile you reward him with is blinding, causing his heart to hiccup at the sight. For as long as you’ve lived here, he’s never been on the receiving end of it, and he’s not quite a fan of the fluttering it causes beneath his skin.

“Hell yeah,” you say, your smile never fading. “In that case, I’m gonna head home.” He watches as you turn, heading toward the path he’s never taken. After a minute, you look over your shoulder, that smile still there. “I had fun hanging out with you today, Red! Thank you for sitting with me.”

Yeah, he really doesn’t like that fluttering you leave him with.

“Eighty tesserae for each ingot? Are you sure?” March asks, eyeing the crates loaded onto Balor’s cart outside of the inn. “That’s… that’s amazing!”

“It is, isn’t it? That means I was able to get quite a bit more iron than we had originally agreed upon for the same price,” Balor says, pride heavy in his voice. “The problem is, I injured myself loading all of it beforehand, so I won’t be able to help unload. I’ll cut another five percent off the price if you and Olric take care of it yourselves.”

“That’s… You’re joking.”

“I am not. I’d like to get to Valen before my next excursion, but I can’t do that until this is taken care of.” While Balor’s smile hasn’t faltered, there’s an edge to his voice that March would rather not test.

He’s in no position to complain, nor can he pass up the opportunity to save tesserae where possible. Factor in his current workload and there’s no time to complain.

“Right. We’ll handle it. Let me get Olric.”

Balor’s response is lost to him as he hurries down Main Street, eager to not let this deal go to waste. He’s grateful, not just for the discount, but for the extra ingots which will be useful in the coming weeks. With fall around the corner, the rush for repairs will compound his workload and the additional iron will allow him to get a head start.

Rounding the corner, he calls out to Olric, apprising him of the situation, only for his eyes to fall on you.

You’re slipping on your blacksmithing gloves and his first thought is that you’re here to try and work on your own projects, comfortable in your skill to handle them without help in the immediate.

“What are you doing here? Not trying to use the forge, right?” he asks, though it comes out like a bark.

Olric chimes in and March realizes what happened. The traitor. As March readies himself to dismiss you, he’s reminded that Hemlock asked if he could craft the inn a new cauldron, something he wished to deliver tonight.

Fuck.

“Fine. Stick around and help if you think you won’t slow us down.”

Your eyes narrow, but your lips curl into a wry smile, asking, “When have I ever genuinely slowed you down, Red?” Olric shifts beside you and your eyes flicker to him. “Alright, what do you need, Boss Man?”

Another—? “First: Olric— no, wait. First, don’t call me that.” Olric’s worry lines disappear at the sound of your laughter. “Second: Olric, I need you to start carrying over the shipment. Balor has it at the inn. You,” he commands, finding you annoyingly attentive, “get the forge fired up.”

Olric disappears from view and March follows as you prepare the forge, something akin to pride flaring in his chest at how easily you take to it, remembering the lesson. With the fire going, you look over your shoulder, smiling when you find him already watching.

“So you have a problem when I call you ‘Boss Man’ but not when I call you ‘Red,’ eh?”

Heat crawls up his neck, settling across his face and he rolls his eyes. “Shaddup, will you? Let’s just get this done.”

“You got it, Red,” you say with a wink, laughing when he turns around.

Working alongside you is different than when you watch him in the afternoons or he watches you in the evenings. It’s different when you move around him before he can ask, when you’re quick to take direction (and you’re so easy to direct). Unlike when he works alone, you’re largely silent, offering little more than the occasional wink or small nod as you two work.

About halfway through, you step back, slipping off the glove on your right hand to grab your canteen. His eyes are drawn to the bob of your throat as you drink, to the trickle of water that escapes your lips. With your forearm, you wipe away the sweat gathering on your forehead.

“Think you were one hundred percent right, Red,” you say, removing your second glove. He pauses, openly watching as you pull your hair up.

“Of course I was. About what?”

“I am a wimp when it comes to the heat. I’m more than a little impressed that you can do this everyday.”

“Then why even come? Your plan of avoiding the forge until the evening seemed to be working for you.”

Grabbing your gloves, you start slipping them on again, teeth biting your bottom lip before that grin breaks free, wide and carefree. Your eyes meet his and he can’t look away. “And miss out on the opportunity to do all this?”

There’s something in the way you say it, something in the way the words drop from your lips like honey. Is there more that you’re not saying? Your following wink seems to support that (you need to stop).

“S-stop joking around.”

Returning to the barrel hoops, each strike of his hammer seeks to suppress the creeping flush, the image of you burned so thoroughly into his retinas that he sees you without looking. Venturing a glance, he sees you hard at work, focused on your hands, smile still present.

When Olric returns from speaking with Adeline, you grow chatty, cracking jokes and telling anecdotes of your life in the city. Then come the compliments. Compliments to Olric, to his patience and strength. Compliments to March, to his efficiency and concentration. Things neither would even think of, things he doesn’t believe to be deserving of attention as they’re simply facts of his work, but the way the words come make him pause. They make him fluster.

Which is stupid.

He doesn’t need your supposed praise to know he’s doing a good job or that his work is the best around. There’s no reason for him to be heating up at your words. Even if he finds himself getting into the zone a little easier. Even if the weight of the work before him seems lighter. Even if, for all intents and purposes, he’s starting to have fun.

You say as much when the work is finished, when the three of you are sweating and tired from everything you’ve accomplished. Wiping the sweat from your brow, you almost look like you belong here.

The moment it crosses his mind, he feels on edge, eyes shifting to Olric who looks all too pleased by the outcome of everything (of course he would; he’s the one who invited you in the first place). As possible as it is that Olric only invited you here to lighten the load, it’s possible there was another reason for his actions, some quiet wish he hasn’t voiced to March.

Whatever that could be…

It’s suddenly all too hot and he’s entirely too aware of you and Olric to think.

“I… I need to cool down. I’ll be inside,” he says, rushing past you to the shop. As his hand wraps around the doorknob, he turns to you, spotting the slight pout of your lips. That’s— “I’ll need time to recover from all the work we did today. Come by again on Sunday and we can talk more about your sword.”

Your tongue laves your bottom lip before you offer a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah. Okay. See you then, Red.”

The door shuts behind him as the nickname leaves your mouth and he presses himself against it, trying to catch his breath. That he has to catch his breath at all is—

maddening.

Crickets begin their song along the path leading to the Narrows and the moisture that hangs in the air adds to the weight of the swing of his hammer. March’s clothes stick to him as he works, partly because of his refusal to stop working, partly because of the insufferable humidity lingering from last night’s storm.

Harsh clangs ring throughout the square in time with his strikes as people start making their way to wherever they’ll be viewing the stars. Every strike of his augments the irritation that’s been building since this afternoon, your noted absence making it worse.

He’s seen scant trace of you since you helped out on Thursday, barely catching sight of you at the inn on Friday. Even if his appointment with Vera ran long yesterday, he expected you to stop by in the evening as you are prone to doing. But there has been no sight of you. The heat has come and gone, the shadows have danced across the ground until swallowing the world, and still no sight of you.

It’s not as though you two have a lot of history making plans—you come and go as you please—but the two times he has asked for you, you’ve been punctual. Hell, when last he asked you to stop by and talk about your commission, you were waiting in the rain before the shop even opened. It…

It shouldn’t bother him. He shouldn’t be bothered by your absence. (If anything, he should feel relieved). (If he is bothered, it’s only because he asked you to come and you agreed). The longer he ruminates, the more irate he grows, blaming it entirely on you because it’s your face he sees when his hammer makes contact and sparks fly.

Laughter rings out near the fountain and he looks up, catching the amethyst of Juniper’s hair as she leads Valen. They turn their heads toward the anvil and Valen offers a wave. As March nods in acknowledgment, Juniper adopts her usual haughty smile, heading down the steps toward the inn. If he concentrates, he thinks he can hear Balor and Hayden. Are you caught up with someone else in town, readying yourself to look at the stars with them?

Something ugly starts gnawing behind his sternum and he rolls his eyes. Footsteps approach from the woods, and he assumes it’s Olric with one last ditch effort to get him to watch the sky.

“I already told you, I’m not interested.”

“Oh, but Red,” he hears you say, making his heart pick up in his chest, prompting him to look over his shoulder, “I think you will be.”

You’re dressed in a thick cotton blouse and jeans, though they’re torn just above the knee. Blood stains the fabric and there are light scratches littering your forearms. Either you’ve done him the courtesy of hiding that rusted abomination, or you went into the mines unarmed. A flash of heat flares in his chest at the thought, and you smile knowingly, eyes twinkling in a way that promises nothing good.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks, fist clenching around the handle of his hammer before releasing it, letting it clatter against the anvil as he turns around.

“Did you want to spend more time with me that much?” you tease, oblivious to the anger that must be radiating from him as you shuffle out of your sack, positioning it for easy access. He steps forward and your eyes flicker up, flitting across his face. The edge to your smile softens as you turn your eyes back down.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” you start, unexpectedly earnest. “I justified it by telling myself I wouldn’t be too long and that we never agreed on a time and…”

You’re rambling. You don’t ramble. Do… Is it that you feel bad for what could ostensibly be considered standing him up? (That makes it sound like a date, which this is very much not).

Deft fingers pull at the leather straps of your rucksack, pulling the flap to reveal the familiar sheen of silver.

“I found silver.” There’s pride in your voice and something that sounds almost conspiratorial. His anger begins to dissipate as you loosens the strings, letting him slip his hand inside to grab a piece.

Its weight is familiar, sitting differently in his hand than the copper or iron you’ve brought him thus far. It’s been over a year since he was able to work with silver. Rotating it in his hand, his thoughts drift to Josephine and Valen, to much needed silverware and medical supplies.

“You found silver.”

You beam at him, the same smile you shared with him when he first promised to do something about your sword, and the back of his knees start to feel weak.

“It’s all yours if you forgive me for being late.”

“Not a chance. It’s not like you know what to do with it otherwise,” he bites, not quite ready to free you from his ire. He hasn’t taught you how to work silver, but that lesson isn’t too far away.

Swiping the silver from his hand, you say, “I could give it to Balor with explicit instructions to sell it outside of Mistria.” A hollow threat if ever you’ve given one. With how much you insisted upon a silver sword, you wouldn’t relinquish it so quickly. “And what, you’re gonna make something for me if I gift it to you?”

“You wish,” he says, eyes narrowing. Truth is, he’s tired of the orders he’s been working on and he’d need to re-familiarize himself with silver before undertaking an order from Josephine or Valen. The silver you give him now will likely go to something you could use if only because he knows you’d be quick to bring more.

But you don’t need to know that.

(Even if he suspects that you already do).

“Yeah, sure,” you dismiss, bringing your bag to his work bench. He follows, watching as you unload your silver delivery until the bag is empty. Reaching into the front pocket, you pull out what he can only imagine to be food, wrapped in the butcher paper from the inn. Glancing at him as your fingers begin to pull at the wrapping, you ask, “You mind if I eat while we talk? I haven’t sat down since I got up this morning.”

“Would you stop if I told you I minded?”

Your fingers stop pulling at the tape, the hint of a smile disappearing before you bob your head. Guilt pulls at his throat, not expecting you to take his rhetorical question seriously.

“It’s fine! Eat if you’re hungry! Should’ve taken a break earlier.”

Without missing a beat, your finger slips under the tape to undo the wrapping, revealing a lobster roll. He watches as you tear the sandwich in half.

“Share with me?”

You pose it like it’s a non-issue, like you couldn’t care either way, but he has a feeling you do. As he prepares to turn you down—it’s your food and you just said you haven’t rested since you got up—his stomach growls, betraying him.

“... Fine.”

“It’s Reina’s, if that makes a difference.”

“It’s fine,” he says, taking the offered roll.

You follow his lead, coming to sit at the edge of the steps of the forge, arm’s distance from one another.

Just as he’s about to take a bite from the sandwich, you say, “So. About my sword…”

He closes his mouth, lowering his sandwich before looking at you. “You want it to be silver?”

“I do! I know what you’re gonna say: steel will last longer and work better. But silver’s great against monsters.”

Rolling his eyes, he sighs through his nose. Hunger wins out over the urge to rehash this argument, so he tells you, “Go ahead. Make your case while I finish.”

“I mean, what’s there to say? Silver weaponry always works better against monsters, and considering that’s all I’m using my sword for, I think it’s for the best. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the magic here is overwhelming. Silver just… cuts through it all. It’s not like I’m fighting people in Mistria, so silver will protect me just fine. Any other situation, hell yeah, I’d defer to you, but I’m gonna be a little pushy here. And before you even say it, I do trust you as a professional, but I’m asking that you trust me as a professional, too. You’re the best blacksmith I’ve seen, so I don’t want you to think that I’m discounting your opinion.”

Swallowing, he wants to suppress the heat that crawls up his neck. “I’m the only blacksmith you’ve seen.”

“In Mistria? Yeah,” you laugh. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re certainly my favorite.” Glimpsing in your direction shows your cheeky grin. “I could always commission you for a steel sword after we get the blast forge built?”

“I’ll charge extra.”

“Worth every tesserae.”

Outside of Balor, you’ve certainly the most experience with monsters (perhaps the only one with genuine experience). He’s unsure about all this magic talk, but he’s coming to trust your experience as an adventurer. As you eat, he weighs your words, eyes dancing across the scratch on your leg, the nicks across your arms.

“I’ll get started on your silver sword.”

“Thank you, Red,” you effuse, your smile audible.

The sincerity of your gratitude eats at him, making his skin tingle, and he can’t stand watching you. Beside him, you turn your face upward. It’s a moment before you nudge his shoulder. When he looks, your free hand is extended, pointed toward the sky.

“Hey, look.”

Stars shoot across the sky, vibrant against the backdrop of the cosmos, one right after the other. He’s mesmerized by the way they move, unable to look away.

“Did you know this was tonight?” Reverence drips from your tongue, so strong he wants to watch you instead (he doesn’t).

“Yeah, but it’s no big deal.” Even as he says it, he’s not so sure anymore. He never felt like he was missing much when he skipped this night every year for the last couple decades.

“Wow, they’re so clear here. I’d watch them when I was in the capital and sometimes at home, but they never looked like this.”

The urge to look at you grows, demanding his attention be torn from the sky and be placed upon you. Uncertainty grows at the revelation and he keeps his eyes trained on the sky, even if he’s otherwise focused on you. Even if he wants to meet your eyes when you turn to look at him.

“Did you ever hear about the legend surrounding tonight?”

“No. I… never cared about the festival.”

“... That’s fine. It’s just a story anyway.”

Something in his chest aches and it feels almost as though something is crawling under his skin at the thought of asking you to clarify, so he doesn’t. You’ll probably share it with him one day anyway.

A/N: Tried posting Summer separately three times and Tumblr kept hiding it from the dash/tags so I figured I'd just tack it on to the original. The rest of the fic will likely be hosted only on AO3 if Tumblr doesn't fix itself </3

#fields of mistria x farmer #fields of mistria x reader #march fom x farmer #fom march x farmer #march fom x reader #fom march x reader #march fields of mistria #fom.✒#✒.ix writes #red.✒#march x farmer #march x reader

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jades-typurriter · 4 months ago

Text

Secure Connection

As promised: more Posie!! I wrote this one toward the end of last Spring after a couple of conversations with friends regarding the malleability of digital bodies (as well as still having Many Thoughts about the way code can give them new compulsions, after writing something about Annie and a new taur-shaped chassis for a friend's Patreon). Enjoy reading about her dealing with a corporate-mandated "hardware" update!

CW: Genital TF, this is another one that's As About Sex as it can possibly be without being about sex

Posie sat, sulking—steaming, even—in her office. It was a small side room off of the main floor of IT personnel, system engineers, and other technical employees of her corporation. Much like a central server, it was placed for easy access to the department-wide administrative assistant, and much like a server room, it was snug, windowless, and awash with the calming drone and relaxing warmth of an array of exhaust fans. Though she was free to project herself nearly anywhere on the company’s campus, this was where her consciousness was housed, and where she felt most at home. It was also the only place she could get any damn privacy, a luxury that she was deeply grateful for at present.

A newly-downloaded file weighed on the back of the Renamon’s mind. More literally, it was somewhere in the racks of drives that made up her long-term memory, to and from which mission-critical information was transferred in the course of doing business. Had somebody asked where exactly the file was stored, she would have been able to list the specific drive and the exact directory address, but she had de-prioritized the allocation of her processing resources for the download. Once again, she had received an assignment from her superiors, and once again, she was hesitant. She may even have admitted to being recalcitrant. She resented the orders.

The package of data in question was an update for her own software, a suite of new tools to allow management to offload yet more menial tasks onto her in the name of “efficiency”. Forget that she could diagnose a software issue faster than any of the engineers could even open a remote connection to the malfunctioning device. Instead of allowing her to take the reins, they saw fit to divert more of her attention to the least impressive among talents, and the one she already put to use the most often: transferring data.

This wouldn’t have been much of a problem, ordinarily. After all, Posie resided in the beating heart of the network, the nexus through which the vast majority of information was sent and received. It could be… meditative. Parsing streams of ones and zeroes, overseeing the flow of packets, redirecting traffic to equally spread the load across modems and routers so as to optimize travel time. It could even have been considered relaxing, if a worker of her caliber needed to relax. Instead of offering her a vacation (pah!), however, the update felt more like it heralded a demotion, denying her even the ability to pluck like harpstrings the miles of copper and gold that lined her facility. She was expected to deliver this data on foot.

Management justified this humiliation with practical concerns: some information, much like the old records she was often tasked to dispose of, was so confidential that it could not be sent via wireless transmission. Even hardwired connections were too fallible for the likes of next-generation schematics and financial access keys—a single compromised workstation, or compromised worker, could spell the loss of the company’s upper hand in its market. She wasn’t even going to be afforded the dignity of carrying an external hard drive to the destination. That would require the slow and tedious process of physically moving from one place to the next; this was one of the only times that she regretted the freedom of movement that was so coveted by her flesh-and-blood peers.

With no room to make exceptions for security protocol, she gripped the edge of her desk, brow furrowing, eyes squinted shut in consternation. Eventually, she huffed, rose, and turned her attention to her “physical body”, summoning up the file in much the same way that one would approach a plate of food with a pungent odor. The Renamon steeled herself and began to more closely examine its contents. She read the raw code similarly to how one might read words on a page; however, where the turning gears of the organic mind would, almost unconsciously, conjure up an image as a result of those words, her mind kicked off a series of involuntary, autonomic processes.

Her body carried out the instructions on her behalf. Once she started, she had no control until she finally reached a stopcode; it was the nature of being a program herself that code had as much of an influence on her mind and body as her own thoughts, her own will. In opening the package, she reluctantly consented to the changes that management saw fit to make to her. It was better than the eventual forced-deadline sort of update that software companies were so keen on using nowadays, and at least choosing the time and place allowed her to make herself presentable again before having to face another person.

Having parts of her code—her very body—rewritten by the update was a strange sensation, not unlike having your thoughts dictated to you by an outside force. Stranger still was that she could feel the exact delineation between her previous self and the patches of… well, the patch. She could feel it quite strongly, as a matter of fact: beneath her skirt of simulated sky-blue fur, between her legs, she could feel her mesh being edited. Stretched. Reshaped. The vectors that made up the triangles of her wireframe soul were being rewritten, mathematically transformed. A shape began to protrude from the once-flat span at the bottom of her torso, at first round and indistinct, but quickly increasing in resolution.

The Renamon struggled to process the sensations as a long, slender connector began to take shape. This often happened with changes to her body plan; inputs streamed into her mind from directions, locations, that previously never sent any signals, and the new additions seldom had their sensitivity adjusted downward for her convenience. In this case, it was highly sensitive, delivering reams of data to the base of her skull just from brushing up against her own fur, or the gentle flow of air from the computers in her office. It made sense, given that it was supposed to be a high-capacity transfer tool, but she was too busy buckling at the knees and clutching at the desk behind her so she didn’t fall flat on her rear for the thought to occur to her.

Her processors demanded more cooling, kicking into high gear as they formatted the two new storage devices that accompanied the connector, tailor-made for packing confidential data as tightly as possible. The sound of whirring fans filled the room, stirring her fur and sending shivers up and down her back; she could only hope that the rushing exhaust made enough noise to drown her out, whimpering despite herself. The new drives were larger (and more unwieldy) than the ones that were built into her chest, much to her chagrin. She was forced to adjust her stance and her gait as she found her footing again, spreading her legs wider than she was accustomed in order to give them enough room.

The spinning in her head slowly settling down, she slowly began to compose herself once again, taking stock of the new additions. They were cumbersome, to be sure, and she lamented how they jutted out from her otherwise sleek form and burdened her with less-graceful posture. It didn’t even match her fur! The software engineers that had concocted the code had at least included one small mercy: a compartment for the connector to retract into, nestled in the fur above the storage drives. No such luck for the drives themselves. She supposed she would just have to adjust to walking with delicate hardware in tow. As she went to smooth her fur over her lap again, her paw recoiled away. Some kind of… static discharge was left in the fluff. A memory leak, perhaps? The fact that such a malfunction could be caused just from having the connector brush up against her fur appalled her, deepening her frustration even more. They couldn’t even test the update for bugs before shipping it out to her. She shook out her paw and finished arranging her skirt as best she could before working up the composure to finally leave her office.

Picking up the payload for which all this fanfare had been arranged was at least a quick, easy process. She stopped into the office of the manager that had assigned her the task; she offered a businesslike nod and, knowing that she was always itching to skip niceties in the name of saving time, he offered a straightforward wave at his personal terminal. She held a paw over the computer tower and, in the time it took for electricity to arc to her fingertip with a tinny zzzrt, she had already searched his directory for the relevant test files and copied them to the newly-installed drives. Wireless transfer, yes, but only technically. The engineers had specifically asked a member of another division, whose computer network wasn’t connected to their own; it was as though she had picked a folder up from his desk and walked out with it.

Moving the file was just as uneventful. It was far from the first time that she’d navigated the sprawling corporate property, and even if it were, the maps existed just outside the orbit of her thoughts, ready to be summoned to mind at a simple impulse. What she was not expecting, however, was the technician who was waiting in the server room to which she was asked to deliver the file. While she preferred to work in the isolation of rooms that were set aside specifically for hardware, she was far from unused to being in the presence of the other people responsible for maintaining the company’s systems. That said…

“Can I help you?” The Renamon icily asked.

“Oh, I don’t need anything! I’m just here to take notes on the transfer.” Her tone was cheery; evidently, she wasn’t aware how compromising the new additions were. “The time it takes, any obvious issues. I’ll be the one checking the files against the originals, too,” she concluded, hooking a thumb over her shoulder at a monitor behind her.

“I see,” Posie replied through gritted teeth. “You have clearance to see these files, then?”

“Well, they’re just dummy data, ma’am.” At least she was respectful.

“And the proprietary hardware I’ve been… equipped with?” she forced out, keeping her synthesized voice even.

“Oh, for sure I do. I designed it!”

Oh! she seethed. So she knows pre-cise-ly the position he’s put me in.

“Well. I suppose there’s no point in delaying things, then.”

“Ready when you are!”

With tense shoulders, she turned toward the server rack, eyes darting over it, searching for where exactly she was supposed to connect to the array. After glancing over the contents of each drive, she found the one she was supposed to copy the data into—deposit would be more apt, as it was her understanding that the files would be automatically flushed from her system—and found a port that would allow her to access it. Conveniently, it was around waist height. She wondered, crossly, whether that had been an intentional design decision by this engineer as well. As she looked at it, she felt a twinge from the connector; on its own, like a Bluetooth device automatically searching for signals, it slid itself out from its fuzzy little compartment.

Her skin was abuzz, and her fur stood on end. She couldn’t quite tell if it was coming from the connector itself, or if it was the feeling of the programmer’s eyes on her If she could take a deep breath, she would have then. Without any way to stall further, or to tell the leering young woman to take her test files and store them somewhere indecent, she simply pushed forward with dropping off the damned data.

The instant the connector grazed the metal of the port, lightning shot into it, through her body, and into her head, making it swim with electrical potential. A stuttering, lagging thought made its way to the surface of her mind: they really had overtuned the sensitivity. She stifled a gasp and suppressed the urge to lay into the engineer (electrons were eager to flow out of her even without proper alignment with the contacts in the port, and didn’t she know that discharge like that could damage a piece of hardware?!), willing her body to keep pressing the stupid connector into the socket.

Even as she tried to get it over with already, something in the back of her mind compelled her to draw back a bit. If she had been restraining herself from reprimanding the engineer for risking the hardware, then she should at least do it the service of ensuring she was properly aligned, shouldn’t she? She obliged the impulse, and the motion all at once became much jerkier, less controlled. The friction of the port against her connector was enough to send her tail snapping back and forth, and she could tell that the temperature in her own server’s room had risen by a fair few degrees. Back and forth, wiggling side to side, she continued to readjust and realign herself, driven by unfamiliar code and overwhelmed by the signals pouring into her. She lost herself in the task, forgetting herself, forgetting her surroundings, until finally the technician cleared her throat.

“Ma’am,” she ventured, blushing and wide-eyed. “What, um. What are you doing? You should just need to plug it in.”

“I’m.” Her interruption had snapped the Renamon back to reality. She was mortified, tail sticking straight out and back ramrod straight. Her cheeks burned mercilessly. “I’m calibrating the connection.”

“Calibrating?”

“Did you want your files transferred with or without corrupted and incomplete data?” She snapped, hoping that her authoritative tone would head off any debate. “Assign me experimental hardware and then ask me to be reckless with it, hm? Should I be taking notes to give to our superiors?”

“I—alright, I guess you can’t be too careful,” she stammered, sheepishly pressing her legs together. “That was even something I tried to work into the design, so, c-carry on?”

“Thank you,” Posie blustered, turning back to the server rack. She did so slowly, reluctantly relishing the feeling of sliding around within the socket. She allowed herself one or two more “practice” attempts, hoping that it wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion from the engineer. Ultimately, just like before, there was no use in continuing to stall, and when she was able to bring her body to a stop, the rational part of herself was eager to be done with this entire torrid affair.

With more force, she pressed the connector inward one final time, trembling as the latch began to press against the opening. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she continued, overwhelmed by the volume of electricity surging into her. The latch gave, compressing as it continued to slide inside, until finally it clicked into place, securing her to the array of drives and finalizing the connection.

All at once, a torrent of data poured out of her, an electron tsunami that felt like it threatened to spill out of the socket in which she was hilted. More data was transferred in the span of a few seconds than she was used to consciously processing, having cultivated such skill in delegating and compartmentalizing with background processes. Once again, the world around her was utterly drowned out; the strength fled her legs, and she clung to the steel bar that reinforced the top of the server rack, threatening to topple the entire system. Her self-control abandoned her as well and, forgetting the engineer, she cried out with an airy, wild, distinctly foxlike yelp. She screamed in surprise, gasped at the deluge of information, moaned because there was no room left in her mind for thought to do anything else.

Quickly, the disks of the server rack had finished writing the files she had carried to them, and her own drives were thoroughly purged. In another building, the radiators serving her processors shed heat at their absolute limits, and fans worked overtime to bring her back within her safe operational range. As her overworked circuitry began to chug through the backlog of sensory information, the entire experience caught up with her—including the detail that this entire shameless display had been carried out in front of that underhanded little engineer. She blinked, hard, and whipped her head to face her. For as hot as her own ears felt, the young woman’s face appeared to be glowing even brighter.

“What. Was that.”

“Um—”

“I’m used to new adjustments requiring desensitization, or even adjustment on their gain,” she growled, voice low and eerily even. “But that was a bridge too far to just have been miscalibration. Why did you design it like that?”

“Well, y-you remember how I mentioned, um, having considered an early disconnection?” Posie’s frosty glare didn’t waver, so the tech continued, answering her own rhetorical question. “That was, uh, the safeguard. Against early disconnection. I, figured it’d just be easier to make it so you wouldn’t want to unplug—”

“Do you think you have the au-thor-ity to go making changes to my mind, young lady?!”

“I-I can roll back the update if you want—”

“I think you’ve done QUITE enough!” The Renamon declared, despite herself. Perhaps it was genuine distrust, or perhaps—perhaps she truly couldn’t tell which desires were her own, at the moment. This would require careful study of her own system files.

Another small click broke the silence following her outburst, and the dongle began to retract from the server’s port and back into Posie’s body. Now free to move around, she dusted and fluffed her skirt and leaned down to look the engineer in the eye.

“I trust that you can report to your supervisor that I performed to your expectations,” she hissed. “And that there will be no need for any further discussion of your little project.” The programmer nodded, eyes even wider than before—and cheeks even redder? The Renamon scoffed, sneered, and spun, storming out the door, already allotting time in her schedule for the next time that she would be called upon for such a delivery.

Utterly unsurprisingly, she had been correct in her assessment that her superiors would take every opportunity to save their organic employees’ time at her expense. Confidential deliveries became a regular part of her routine, and though she had great disdain for being reduced to a mere courier for so much of the workday, she insisted upon completing the task to her usual, lofty standards.

Posie was as prompt as she always was, dropping everything to ferry information between privileged parties, striving to reduce latency even in more analogue forms of communication. There was the occasional complaint about how long downloads took once she had finally arrived at her location, but she was quick to remind such impatient recipients that the decision to follow this protocol came from on-high, and that even for someone who worked as quickly as her, great care for the safety of the data was a corner that simply could not be cut in the name of rushing around.

She was as meticulous about ensuring proper alignment with the port, fine-tuning her contact with the wires within, as the first time she had experimented with the new tools, and complaints about noise from the server room were easily dismissed as the usual stress of supporting her formidable computational power. After all, she was often venturing out of the range of her home network, hosting herself entirely on the recipients’ systems; was she at fault when they couldn’t handle the information throughput they asked of her?

Once the deliveries had become more routine, and none of her peers bothered to check in when they felt it was taking too long or getting too noisy, she began to find enjoyment in the solitude of her work, just as with the other, admittedly more tedious, tasks she was expected to carry out. With fewer prying eyes to judge her performance, she could make herself more comfortable while handling transfers. She didn’t have to worry that anybody would walk in on her in the debased state she often found herself in while connected directly to a data center, leaning her full weight on the poor rack, tongue lolling out and chest heaving air to keep her cool.

Then again, if somebody—especially that little technician who’d saddled her with these “upgrades”—wanted to question her efficacy, that was more than fine by her. Posie was a woman who prided herself in her work, and would seldom turn down a chance to demonstrate her first-rate hardware and unparalleled optimization. She would be more than happy to demonstrate just how quickly she could pump out information, and just how much throughput she was capable of.

Thank you for reading! If you want to see more of my work, you can check it out here and here!

#writeblr #trans author #furry fiction #renamon #tf #transformation #office lady #OL #cock growth #penis growth #indie author #mrow oc: posie #my writing #short story

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liora-vespera · 4 months ago

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Runaway Elegance - Jungkook ff

Genre: Fluff

-------------------------------------------------------

Y/N and Jungkook had been friends for as long as they could remember. Growing up in Seoul’s upper crust, their lives were intertwined from the start. Y/N’s father was a titan in the business world, owning a conglomerate spanning industry from real estate to luxury retail. Her family lived in a mansion that could rival a palace, with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and a garden so vast it could host a small festival.

Jungkook’s upbringing was equally privileged but in a different way. His father was a prominent political figure known for his charisma and influence, and his family name carried weight in every corner of the city. Despite their wealth, the Jeons were more grounded in public life, constantly attending events and mingling with people from all walks of life.

Y/N’s and Jungkook’s fathers were longtime friends, a bond forged through years of mutual respect and collaboration. Naturally, their children became friends too. From kindergarten to university, their paths always aligned. Yet, despite their shared history and privilege, Y/N and Jungkook couldn’t have been more different.

---

Y/N was calm, composed, and mature beyond her years. Even as a child, she preferred books over toys, classical music over pop, and well-thought-out plans over spontaneity. Her reserved nature made her a role model for her peers and a source of pride for her parents, who saw her as the perfect heir to the family empire.

Jungkook, on the other hand, was a free spirit. He was the kid who climbed trees in his school uniform, the teenager who dyed his hair blue on a dare, and the young man who chased his dreams of being a professional car racer despite his family’s protests. He owned a luxurious restaurant as a side hustle, but his real passion was the thrill of the race. Carefree and impulsive, he lived life like it was one big adventure.

Despite their differences, the two were inseparable. Jungkook loved teasing Y/N, calling her “Princess Robot” for her seemingly perfect, emotionless demeanor. In turn, she’d roll her eyes at his antics but secretly appreciated how he brought chaos into her otherwise structured life.

---

By her late twenties, Y/N was working as a project manager in one of her father’s companies. Her days were filled with board meetings, strategy sessions, and managing high-stakes projects. On the surface, she seemed to have it all—beauty, intelligence, wealth, and success. But beneath the polished exterior, she felt suffocated.

Her life had always been dictated by others: her father’s expectations, her mother’s insistence on perfection, and the ever-present pressure to uphold the family name. She had no time for hobbies, no freedom to make her own choices, and certainly no room for a personal life.

Her parents had recently taken their control one step further by arranging her marriage to Minhyuk, the CEO of another powerful company. He was everything they wanted for her: accomplished, wealthy, and poised. But to Y/N, he was a walking spreadsheet. Conversations with him were dry and devoid of any spark.

---

Meanwhile, Jungkook’s life was a whirlwind of excitement. When he wasn’t racing cars, he was managing his restaurant, throwing impromptu parties, or traveling the world. He’d built a reputation as a wildcard—unpredictable but dependable when it mattered most.

Jungkook had always been Y/N’s escape. Whenever her world felt too rigid, he was there to remind her that life was meant to be lived. Whether it was sneaking out for midnight drives or crashing random parties, Jungkook made her feel alive in a way no one else could.

—

The engagement party was a grand affair held in Y/N’s family mansion. The guest list included politicians, business tycoons, and celebrities, all dressed to impress. Y/N stood beside Minhyuk, listening to him drone on about market trends while smiling politely for the cameras.

Jungkook arrived fashionably late, as always. He wore a suit that fit him perfectly but paired it with sneakers, much to the horror of the older guests. Spotting Y/N, he made a beeline for her.

"Yo, Princess Robot," he greeted her with a cheeky grin. "Why do you look like you’re attending your own funeral?"

"Don’t call me that," she replied, her tone sharp but her eyes betraying a flicker of amusement.

"You didn’t answer my question," he pressed.

"Not here, Kook," she whispered, glancing around.

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed, but he let it go for the moment.

---

Later that evening, Y/N managed to steal a moment of solitude, sitting on a couch in a quieter corner of the mansion. Jungkook, ever perceptive, found her there.

"You’re really bad at hiding your misery, you know that?" he said, plopping down beside her.

She sighed. "I don’t want to marry him, Kook. He’s a good person, but… he’s just like my dad. All business, no emotion. I can’t live like that."

"So don’t," Jungkook said simply.

"It’s not that easy," she argued. "My parents won’t listen. They’ve planned everything. The wedding is in a week."

"Then run away," he said with a shrug.

"Are you insane?"

"Probably," he grinned. "But I’m serious. If you hate this so much, why go through with it? I’ll help you, Y/N. I always have your back."

She shook her head. "I can’t. It would ruin everything."

"Fine. But if you change your mind, call me."

---

The night before the wedding, Y/N reached her limit. Her parents refused to listen, and Minhyuk dismissed her concerns as mere jitters. Feeling trapped, she finally dialed Jungkook’s number.

"Kook, I need you," she said, her voice shaking.

"I’m on my way," he replied without hesitation.

---

Jungkook arrived at the mansion, using his charm and familiarity with Y/N’s family to get past security. He made up a story about needing to discuss wedding plans and slipped into her room.

"Pack light, Robot Princess. We’re getting out of here," he said, grinning.

"What if they catch us?" she asked, her nerves getting the better of her.

"They won’t. And even if they do, I’ve got a backup plan. Trust me."

Their escape was a mix of chaos and comedy. Jungkook used every trick in the book—bluffing the guards, distracting Y/N’s nosy aunt with fake compliments, and even pretending to trip to buy time.

Once they were in his car, Y/N let out a laugh, the weight of her situation momentarily lifted.

---

They drove to a secluded seaside town where Y/N could finally breathe.

"What now?" she asked as they sat on the beach.

"Now, you live your life," Jungkook said. "And if anyone tries to stop you, they’ll have to deal with me."

For the first time in years, Y/N felt free. And as she leaned her head on Jungkook’s shoulder, she realized that no matter how chaotic he was, he was her anchor in a world that often felt too rigid.

"Thank you, Kook," she whispered.

"Anytime, Princess Robot," he replied with a smirk.

End.

#jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #jk #jungkook #jungkook fiction #bts fanfic #bts taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung #taehyung imagine #taehyung ff #bts ff #bts #bts fic

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sgiandubh · 9 months ago

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Have nothing against Ashley, but how are things better? Only seen the gin on one bar. Rest are just her cocktail pictures. Where's the sales information, data? Where are cocktails featuring Sassy on their permanent menus? Still unsold bottles at local store here and nothing has been sold out for his small batch whisky. Do not see anything of an impact except nice pictures in bars and her comped trip to the UK. It's too expensive for an unknown brand, period. It's good but not great and nothing special that other more established brands do. The pop up was again directed to OL female fans. It's far too early to see any impact, unless you have P&L documents showing differently, do you?

Dear Nothing Against Anon,

Oh, here we go again: the pseudo-expert fuckwit, coming along with her corporate vocabulary, fake syllogisms and paltry logic, just in order to tearfully drone that sinister 'I hope that prick fails and disappears forever' dirge.

You sound just like those cowardly Fascist types who always start their worst bullshit rants with statements like: 'I am not a racist, but...' (proceeds with all the rest of the Klan's repertoire).

I wouldn't trust your perception of time, either. You want results, you want them NOW and you want them with a rabid vengeance you could surely put to a better use for the profit of more noble collective causes. But you seem to conveniently forget one simple, tiny detail:

She just started working for Great Glen Company's Sassenach Spirits subsidiary last May. For being less than three months in that company, she surely started to make a difference, taking things out of slumber, using her contacts and mapping out what clearly is an expansion strategy. What do you want her to do first? Change everything in 24 hours, preferably with a magic wand? Shouldn't she at least start somewhere and with something, first? She is doing exactly what I was expecting her to do, Anon: terrain work, in order to get a better feel of the market's fabric. And she is doing it the only right way - go where relevant people and relevant potential outlets are, talk to those people, make things happen.

As many, too many people in here, you are just judging based on what you see of her work on her and SS's social media accounts. While doing this, you also seem to conveniently ignore the amount of BTS work it takes - are you, by any chance, one of those incompetent corporate execs, always talking with great confidence about things they have no real grasp upon, Anon?

No, you aren't. Not even that. You are just another random moron, with a smattering of management accounting notions. You write absurd idiocies like '(...) unless you have P&L documents showing differently, do you? ', perhaps in the hope you'd intimidate me, or something. You probably have no idea of the fact that P&L (that is Profit & Loss, by the way) documents are mandatory for public companies only and issued on a quarterly and annual basis. And for your information, doll: a public company is a company using shares of stock in order to organize ownership. It may or may not be listed on a stock exchange, but the intention to have those shares traded is always present.

Until further notice, Great Glen Company is a private company, governed by US law. There is no legal obligation to issue the documents you so confidently mention.

And the pop up shop? Not really for mommies:

Now go play elsewhere. I have no time to further lose with people like you.

#anon #fandom #shitshow #business #booze wars

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tealeavesandtrash · 4 months ago

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🎄 Sweet Dreams of Holly and Ribbon: Part 11 - 1 Day Until Christmas 🎄

Read in full || Part 1 || Part 10 || Part 12

Work is miserable, worse than normal but Sirius can’t tell if that is just because of the pressure they're under at the moment, or because he’s just come back from he isn’t starting to realise that might have been the best month he’s had in years.

He’s up at six in the morning after barely sleeping the night before, kept awake with a carousel of questions.

How did he let Reg talk him into this? Why didn’t he put off coming back for another few days? How much more fun are they having in Scotland right now? Is he okay to do this shit for the rest of his life? Was Teddy upset he didn’t say goodbye? Did he ever actually enjoy working for Orion? Is it too late to go back?

The moment he’s fully awake, he’s on the phone with various stakeholders. Everyone is running at a hundred miles an hour and every call is a new amendment, a different figure floated, or another document that needs chasing down.

The only respite he gets is during the commute into the office, and that’s only because of the lack of signal in the tube. The second he steps into the office building, someone’s PA is herding him straight into a conference room and he gets thrown head first into back-to-back meetings with representatives from the board or legal or accounts.

He doesn’t particularly care who he’s meeting with or what’s being discussed - Regulus is there to handle the majority of the workload while Sirius can sit, take notes, and pick up anything that gets forgotten or needs chasing. The facade of a united front while they bend over backwards on Orion’s whim.

Someone is debating the wording of subsection whatever, throwing around legal jargon that Sirius has no hope of following. Even Regulus looks like his eyes are about to roll into the back of his head. Instead of paying attention, Sirius doodles absentmindedly on the notepad in front of him, wondering about what’s happening in Hogsmeade - what James and Lily are doing for last-minute Christmas prep; how excited Harry and Teddy must be for tomorrow; whether or not Remus is working today and what he’s doing if the bookshop is closed.

Remus has been on his mind a lot over the past couple of days, more than he ever anticipated.

‘Do whatever you want.’

Those words keep circling in mind as they take a quick fifteen for lunch. Because he doesn’t want to be here; he never went out of his way to work for his father in the first place but fresh out of uni in a volatile job market and no clue what he wanted to do - working for the family company was the easy option, it’s been the easy option for the past few years because he hasn’t been put in a position where he’s had to think about what he really wants to do or what makes him happy and what his purpose in life is.

He always just figured this was what he wanted - the big corporate job with the big paycheque, central London apartment and vibrant social life. But, as he sits and tries to listen to someone drone on about cost projection analysis, he’s starting to realise that the only place he wants to be right now, is in some tiny town way up in the highlands.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Sirius says over coffee, his fifth cup of the day. They have about ten minutes until a string of late afternoon/early evening meetings. Someone’s arranged a small buffet of snacks and tiny sandwiches to keep everyone going and Sirius is making quick work of it.

Regulus peers over at him, slight frown present on his face. “What do you mean this .”

Sirius sighs, staring into his mug as he swirls the last dregs of coffee. “All of this, Reg. The job, the meetings, it’s all bullshit. We’re working round the clock for what? So one corporate dick can stick it to some other corporate dick?”

“We just need to get through the next few weeks. Things will ease up in February. ”

“And then what? We relax for a few weeks and then there’s another deal to push through and we’re bending over backwards for Dad again.”

“It’s what we do Sirius, it’s what we both signed up for?”

“But on Christmas, Reg?”

“So what? Since when did you care? We get out of Mother’s dinner party and this gets pushed through quicker because most of the people who want to stop are out of office.”

Sirius lets out a slow breath and lets his head drop back. “I can’t do any of it anymore,” he says quietly. “I don’t think I can last any longer. I just - I just need out of this.”

Regulus swallows, glancing away. “I need you here,” he says quietly, pointedly not looking at Sirius.

There’s a moment of silence that settles over the pair of them before Sirius steps closer and bumps their shoulders together. “No you don’t,” he says softly, and when Regulus finally looks back he gives him a small smile. “You’ve been fine all month without me, you’ve smashed these meetings. Christ, the only way this merger won’t go through is if you decide it won’t happen.”

Regulus studies him for a minute until his face finally relaxes and he lets out a low sigh. “If this goes tits up I’m blaming you, I hope you realise that.”

Sirius huffs out a laugh, “Yeah that’s fair.”

"And father will literally kill you if it does."

Sirius nods.

There’s another beat of silence. “So what are you going to do instead?”

“Go back to Scotland I guess?”

“Right now?”

“Why not? I can get the sleeper up, I'd be there by lunchtime.”

“Sirius, it’s Christmas Eve.”

“So what?”

Regulus fixes him with the ‘you’re an idiot’ glare which he’s had pinned down since he was about thirteen. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he repeats. “How many trains do you think are running right now?”

Sirius pauses to think a moment. “Well, then I’ll take the bike.”

“You can’t drive all the way up the Scotland overnight.”

“Says who? I’ve driven further before, and if I need to nap in a service station then I’ll have a nap in the services.”

Sirius is on the way back to his flat before the next meeting starts. He grabs a couple of handfuls of clothes and shoves them into a bag, along with any other essentials he can think of in the moment.

He shoots Reg a text on his way down the garage - thanks him again for watching over the flat and covering work, and lets him know where his present is. He gives his bike a quick once over, making sure she’s ready for the long journey. She doesn’t get as much use as Sirius would like in London, but his regular tinkering keeps her in decent shape.

The sun has long since set by the time he finally makes it out of London and onto the endless stretch of motorway that paves the way up north.

Read in full || Part 1 || Part 10 || Part 12

@annaliza999 @marigold-hills @veganbutterchicken (If you do/dont want to be tagged in the next parts lmk <3)

#maddy writes #sweet dreams of holly and ribbon #remus lupin #sirius black #regulus black #wolfstar #remus x sirius #marauders #marauders fanfiction #wolfstar fanfiction

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alwaysbethewest · 1 year ago

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Kingsman 2 fic: Stay Close to Me

Happy @pedrostories Secret Santa day, y'all 💃 I was thrilled when I received my assignment and saw that I'd be writing for my sweet friend @iamskyereads 😁 Skye, I hope you have a merry Christmas and I hope this little story helps make it bright. (Okay a quick note: generally speaking I don't believe in apologizing for your writing, but I do feel like a small apology is merited here. Halfway through writing this fic I started to panic because I felt like I wasn't really meeting the brief of your prompt 😬 I started wondering if I should start over from scratch but I was already too far into it. I accidentally wrote you... a case fic???? With a smidgen of romance sprinkled in. I'm sorry! Despite my stress over that realization I did have a lot of fun writing this and I hope you will enjoy it anyway!)

Title: Stay Close to Me Pairing: Agent Whiskey (Jack Daniels)/f!Reader Rating: Teen Word Count: 5.3k Content/warnings: Fake/undercover marriage! Statesman casefic! A little romance, kissing, coarse language, very mild peril and hurt/comfort, and a splash of alcohol. Reader is a junior agent and has some muscle but otherwise no physical/age descriptions. As with any good Kingsman fic, my first step was to disregard half of canon, so this is either pre-movie or an AU. Unbetaed but thanks as ever to @fleetwoodmactshirt and @mourningbirds1 for their hand-holding ❤️ Please let me know if you spot any typos/mistakes.

The Statesman offices are housed in a sleek highrise in Midtown, a 40-minute commute from your tiny apartment. To anyone who asks, you work in the marketing department, and you’ve learned enough by now to drone on about synergistic strategies for diversifying market shares to bore anyone listening, but to those in the know, behind passcode-guarded doors, you’re Agent Violette, junior analyst for the private intelligence agency hidden behind the national whiskey brand.

For a secret spy job, your work is actually fairly routine. Most of your time is spent doing research and compiling intel for agents working out in the field. Occasionally your boss sends you into the field yourself—little baby excursions to get your feet wet—and you won’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed the thrill. But your desk job is comfortable, and satisfying, and you’ve got no complaints.

It’s Wednesday, and the only sign something out of the ordinary may be taking place is the note you find on your desk when you clock in. It takes only a little of your codebreaking expertise to interpret:

9:15 AM—mtg w/ Agt. C rm 806

Room 806 is a teleconference room furnished with a small table and a handful of chairs. One seat is occupied when you get there.

Agent Whiskey raises an eyebrow at you from under his cowboy hat. The accessory is so out of place in the urban streets of New York City that when you’d first met him you’d wondered if it was an affectation—a marketing ploy to signal the authenticity of the Kentucky bourbon your company sells on the side. But while you haven’t worked closely with him, you’d quickly learned it seems he’s just… like that.

He slides a folder towards you and you accept it as you take a seat and don your glasses.

“Any idea what this is about?” he asks.

You shake your head. Just as you open your mouth to speak, the comms switch on and Agent Champagne appears across the table before you, via the technological wonder that is your projection spectacles. More high-tech and more secure than Zoom, they’re one of the many things that sets Statesman apart from lesser spy agencies.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Whiskey straighten up slightly in his chair.

“Jack!” Agent Champagne greets him. “How was Munich?”

“All good, sir,” he drawls. “You’ll have the full report this afternoon.”

“Very good,” the older man rumbles. He turns his attention to you. “And Agent, uh—” His eyes shift down to the notes on his desk. “Agent Violette. Good to have you on board.”

You’ve worked at Statesman for three years, but you’re still too low on the org chart to have landed on the director’s radar before this. He says your code name like vie-oh-let instead of the French pronunciation you prefer, but there’s an affability to him that makes it go over easier.

“Thank you, sir.”

“So, California,” he says, diving into the brief. Whiskey opens his file folder and you follow suit. The top page features a short itinerary and a character profile that you quickly learn is a new undercover alias. Violet Davenport. You like the name. She sounds high society. Glancing over to Whiskey’s file, you spot his alias and your brows raise involuntarily.

Johnny Davenport.

Hm.

“Vineyard owner out there is concerned about a potential theft. He’s received some threats and needs a couple of bodies on the ground to sniff out the trouble,” Agent Champagne states.

“Theft of what, exactly?” Agent Whiskey asks.

“Wine. Money. The usual. He’s got his personal wine collection stored on the premises. You know the business—some of those bottles are worth a pretty penny. Mr. Peterson—that’s the client—says he has a list of suspects for you to look at.” Champ waves a hand, looking vaguely unimpressed. “Obviously you’ll have to use your own judgment on whether any of his theories check out.”

“Sir, I don’t understand why I’m being sent on such a simple assignment,” Whiskey says. “No disrespect,” he adds belatedly, glancing at you. You give him your politest go-along-to-get-along smile.

Champ looks like he’s torn between amusement or annoyance at Agent Whiskey’s attitude.

“Same reason for anything, Jack. Politics. This client has close connections in the state government over there. If we can solve this simple problem for him, it may just lead to more prestigious cases. Ones you’ll feel are worthy of your valuable time.”

Jack should look chastened, but he doesn’t. He does stop arguing, though.

“I need a senior agent on the case. And Violet’s supervisor assures me she’s got the research and fieldwork skills to step up on this one. Your cover is a married couple on an anniversary trip, so I’m basically sending you on a paid vacation, here. There’s more information in the files you’ve got.”

Whiskey flips through the pages half-heartedly and gives a curt nod.

“Well!” Agent Champagne slaps his hands on the table decisively. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mazel tov!” With that he ends the transmission.

And that’s how you find yourself at the airport Friday morning with a diamond ring on your left hand and a disgruntled cowboy by your side.

The flight lands in San Francisco without incident, and Jack shifts into doting husband mode as you head to pick up the rental car the agency has reserved. He reaches for your suitcase to load it into the trunk.

“Let me get that for you, sweetheart.”

You give him a saccharine-sweet smile. “I’ve got it, hon.”

You lift the heavy bag with ease and watch his mouth purse for a second before he smiles back.

“I guess my baby’s stronger than she looks.”

The bored-looking attendant sees you off and Jack has you punch in the GPS destination while he eases into the busy freeway traffic. He’s a confident, slightly impatient driver, but you see him relax once you’re over the bridge and sailing smoothly north on Interstate 80.

“So what’s our game plan?” he asks as highway signs for Napa begin to appear, and you reach for your notebook and flip it open.

There’s only one bed.

You probably should have done the math on this as soon as Agent Champagne declared you a married couple, but in the whirlwind of arranging to leave town and the anxiety of stepping into your biggest field operation to date, it hadn’t occurred to you to worry about the precise nature of your accommodations.

Jack sets his bags down and flops onto the bed, letting the soles of his cowboy boots dangle off the end. It’s an exaggerated display of exhaustion, but you’re tired too after a seven-hour flight and another two hours in the car. His lanky body takes up the whole length of the bed and you try not to let your eyes linger as you contemplate the sleeping arrangements.

He picks up on your hesitation.

“This is where I’m supposed to do the gentlemanly thing and let you have the bed all to yourself, huh? Sorry, sister, not gonna happen.” His tone softens. “But I promise I don’t bite. There’s no reason we can’t share.”

The only couch in the room is a small, overstuffed loveseat that you can tell at a glance neither of you would enjoy reclining on for long. So you do the mature thing and agree to sleep with him.

Not like that.

Bill Peterson, the agency’s client, is one of those people who claim to be easygoing while in reality they exude nonstop nervous energy.

“I know exactly who it is,” he tells you in a hushed voice. You and Jack are in his office, under the guise of a private tour of the winery. Peterson has been going over what you already know from the file: that he has a high-value collection of wine held on the estate, as well as a hard drive storing what he’ll only describe as “sensitive” material; that he’s received several vague threats recently; and that with the hustle and bustle of harvest season upon them, he’s concerned his regular security won’t be sufficient to stop the would-be thieves.

“Oh?” you say. “Well, that will be very helpful, Mr. Peterson.”

“Okay,” he amends. “Maybe not exactly, but I can give you a list. Of suspects.”

“We’ve seen the list,” Jack tells him. “But what is it that makes you suspect these folks in particular?”

“They’re mostly other winery owners,” Peterson says. “Everyone on that list was present at a party I attended a few months ago where I—let slip some details about my collection. It was only after that the letters started.”

You and Jack exchange a glance. You’re both wondering if “let slip” isn’t code for “bragged loudly.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t gone to the police?” you ask. His eyes narrow.

“I value discretion,” he says tightly. “Anyway—I’m not sure they’d consider the threats actionable.”

“Can we see them?” Jack asks.

“Of course.” He retrieves a small stack from his desk drawer. You and Whiskey put your heads together to pore over them.

They’re all written by one person, in slanted, blocky handwriting.

YOU WILL PAY.

YOU WILL LOSE EVERYTHING.

YOUR EMPIRE WILL CRUMBLE.

WE WILL CRUSH YOU.

“Is there another one?” you check. “There are five envelopes but only four notes.”

Peterson hesitates, then shrugs and shakes his head. He’s lying, but you don’t push it.

“There is one other thing,” he says. “I keep seeing this blue truck—but it’s like he doesn’t want to be spotted. I see it slow down like he’s scoping out the place, but then he speeds off as soon as he sees I’ve noticed. I tried to get the license plate but it was covered in mud.” He scoffs. “We haven’t had any rain in months.”

Jack has him describe the vehicle and where he’s seen it, while you take notes.

“Alright, Mr. Peterson. We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions.”

“Thank you. Oh—here.” He hands you a pair of vouchers for a free wine tasting. “They come with the tour. One thing you should know about Napa—you’ll only really blend in if you’ve got a glass of wine in your hand.”

Jack’s code name is Whiskey for a reason. He’s a spirits man through and through and he doesn’t give the tasting room a second look, ushering you out to get back to your room to regroup. Admittedly, it’s only 10 AM, but you would have enjoyed a few sips of merlot. You’re craning your neck a little to look at the wine list posted by the door—just out of curiosity—when he startles you by taking your hand in his. You look at him. He’s staring ahead, holding your hand like it’s nothing as you walk side by side. Finally, your brain catches up and your nine credits of college acting classes kick in and you plaster a loving smile onto your face, leaning closer.

In the privacy of your little rented cottage, you pull out your notes again to review.

“Peterson is lying about something,” you start. Jack nods distractedly.

“Yeah—listen, before we get into that, I need to ask you. You jumped when I held your hand back there,” he observes.

You feel your face heat with embarrassment. He’s calling you out on your inexperience, the rookie agent who can’t even play-act for a simple assignment. You can do it, you know. Being undercover in the field is just still new to you. He could help you instead of being critical.

“Sorry—”

“It’s my opinion,” he says, with a slight frown, “that a man who doesn’t treat his wife a certain way is no man at all.”

You’re lost, suddenly. “Sorry?”

“What I’m askin’ is, do I have your permission to touch you like you’re my wife when other people are around?”

Oh.

Something about the way he’s worded it makes your stomach do a little flip.

“Oh. Yes. Touch me like…?” You swallow. “Like how, exactly?”

He gives you a steady look.

“Intimately.”

That’s fine. You’re fine with that.

“Right. That’s—” you nod, maybe a little too emphatically. “That’s okay.”

You look down, fingering the pages of your notebook again, trying to refocus on the more analytical side of the job, when another thought occurs to you.

“Are you going to kiss me?” you blurt.

“Shit, Violet, that’s part and parcel of it.”

“It’s Violette,” you tell him with a frown.

“Sorry.”

“Do you even know my real name?”

“Of course I do,” he says. You don’t push it but you also don’t know whether to believe him. He’s shown little interest in working with you this entire week.

Jack takes a step towards you.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says. “So you don’t jump like a rabbit when I do it in public.”

You take a breath. Suck your bottom lip between your teeth involuntarily.

“Okay,” you tell him.

Your eyes fall shut as he leans in. You feel his fingers steadying your chin, tilting your face to meet his, and then his lips touching your mouth, light, tentative—teasing, your mind prompts, and the thought makes you feel flushed again. When you don’t shy away he presses closer and you’re not sure which of you is to blame when your lips part and his tongue brushes yours.

You were expecting it, so you don’t jump, but you feel a little trembly when he pulls away. He doesn’t step back right away—instead, his lips hover over your skin, mustache coarse against your soft cheek, as he tucks his mouth by your ear and quietly, intimately, says your name.

“So you think Peterson is lying,” he says, picking up the thread from before.

“Um,” you say, forcing your brain to switch back to work mode. Your whole body feels warm. “Yes. Don’t you think he seemed shady?”

Jack shrugs. “Call me jaded, I think most people are shady. But I agree with you. He lied about the missing letter. I fuckin’ hate when clients do that. What do you think about the blue truck he saw?”

“I think that could be something.”

You open your laptop and with a few keystrokes you’ve used a Statesman backdoor into the DMV system, where you enter the make, model, and color of the vehicle Peterson had described. There are no matching hits within Napa County, so you expand the search. It’s an unpopular color, so there are only a few dozen matches in the state. None of the owners’ names are on the list of suspects you’ve been given.

“He said he hasn’t seen it around town, only driving by his property. And we don’t know who owns it. So how do we find the car?” you wonder.

Jack is silent for a minute. You watch as a slow smile spreads across his face.

“I have an idea.”

This case originated at Statesman’s Kentucky headquarters, so Agent Ginger Ale is your tech liaison. It’s clear from their dynamic that she and Agent Whiskey have worked together before. Having her voice in your ear is a source of comfort as you carry out Jack’s great idea—which you’re not 100% sure you’re on board with.

“Don’t you need some kind of license to operate this?” you ask tentatively.

“Technically, on paper, he has one,” Ginger offers. “Well, Johnny Davenport does, anyway. As of twenty minutes ago.”

“It’s a balloon and a basket, how complicated could it be,” Jack grouses. This doesn’t exactly raise your confidence.

“Just don’t crash this one, Jack,” she pleads.

“This one?!”

He shakes his head. “You have one helicopter fail on you and they never let you live it down. Don’t listen to Ginger.”

To his credit, Jack pilots the hot air balloon much more smoothly than you’d expected, and after some time you feel yourself relaxing and enjoying the view. It’s early October and the landscape is a mix of green and brown from the last of the summer heat. Tidy rows of grape vines are bordered by houses and larger wineries, copses of trees, and fields dotted with grazing cows. Tiny workers move methodically among the vines, busy harvesting fruit to be pressed and fermented. Through it all, highways and winding roads run alongside the properties, and this is where you refocus your attention.

Ginger has programmed your binoculars to register any vehicles matching the description of the blue truck you’re seeking. You train the lenses on the backroads and driveways, looking for private hiding places it could be stashed.

The whole endeavor feels like a long shot, and you’re just on the verge of suggesting you give up and head back to base when the binocs let out a high-pitched beep of recognition, zooming in on your target.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “I can’t believe this worked.”

“I told you it would,” Jack says, looking smug. “What is that place?”

Ginger has looked up the coordinates before you have a chance to do it yourself.

“It’s a winery… Double Loop Vineyards. Do you guys know that name?”

You recognize it immediately. The owner is one of the names on Bill Peterson’s list of suspects.

You and Jack exchange a look.

“Guess we’re goin’ wine tasting at Double Loop,” he says, and he turns to start your descent.

The tasting room at Double Loop Vineyards is a large, tastefully decorated space that looks like it was converted from an old barn. It’s all dark wood and ceiling beams, and a bar runs along the back and right side walls. When you and Jack step inside, you’re greeted by a tall young woman with a pixie haircut and striking cheekbones. She’s wearing a name tag that reads Eva.

You settle in front of her at the bar and she pulls out a pair of glasses and pours a splash of white into each to get you started. You take a sip and peruse the small menu on the bartop.

“She’ll have the red flight,” Jack says, “And I’ll just have a glass. Can you recommend me something… full-bodied?”

As he says it he palms your hip suggestively, pulling you to him a little closer. You laugh, mortified but amused despite yourself, and he shoots you a wink.

Eva takes it in stride. “I can offer you a cabernet sauvignon that’s got legs for days.”

“That’ll do me just fine, thank you.”

You’re the only visitors in the tasting room for the moment so you have her undivided attention. She’s skilled at making small talk to keep you charmed and at ease; eventually she asks something more personal.

“So I’m planning to propose to my girlfriend soon,” she tells you. “And I’m trying to figure out how to do it. I’m like crowdsourcing ideas. You two are such a cute couple—can I ask how you got engaged?”

You and Jack exchange a glance and you give him a sweet smile. “You tell it, honey.”

“Well,” he says, keeping his eyes on you for a long moment before he finally looks away to face Eva, “I knew I wanted to marry her, and I had this whole plan in mind. I wanted something special for my Violet so I was going to take her on a trip—my buddy has this little cabin on the most beautiful lake you’ve ever seen—and make her favorite dinner, and sit down with a glass of something nice. And then I was going to present her with this beautiful piece of hand-carved wood that spelled out, Will. You. Marry. Me.”

He pauses to take a sip of his cab while Eva says, “Aww,” and looks at you like, what a sweet partner you have.

“Now the thing is,” he continues, warming up to the story, “as Violet can tell you herself, I have never carved a single thing in my life. And somehow, like a dumbass, I was convinced I could make this plaque and do it perfectly. But it looked just awful. And it was taking me so long trying to get it right I could tell she was starting to wonder if I was stringing her along.”

You shake your head in protest and he laughs. “You were! You’d look at me like, why has this fool not married me yet.”

Eva laughs, too. “So what happened?”

Jack lets out an aggrieved sigh. “What happened was, I caught the flu. Just the most dog-sick, pathetic man, all sweaty with fever and miserable to boot. And Violet never hesitated, she bundled me up and cooked me soup and tolerated my whining and she’d read me to sleep when my eyes couldn’t even focus on the TV. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I thought, I need to hold on to this woman forever, and I asked her right then and there.”

His voice cracks a little on the last sentence and you’re shocked to realize your own eyes are damp with tears. You’re not sure which part, or how much, but something in that story sounded true and it’s left you with a strange sense of heartache. You lift his hand to your mouth and press a kiss across his knuckles, watching his face soften.

“Okay,” Eva says. “So I guess I’ll add ‘get the flu’ to my list of ideas.”

“I don’t recommend it,” Jack tells her, “but I don’t not recommend it.”

As you finish your flight and Eva rings up a couple of bottles you’ve chosen to purchase—you’re not sure if these classify as company expenses, but you enjoyed them enough you’ll pay out of pocket if you must—she asks where else in the wine country you’ve been to so far.

“We spent some time at the winery right next to the place we’re staying—actually, we got to meet the owner there, what was his name, baby?”

You keep your tone casual, but you watch her face as you reply. “Bill Peterson, I think it was?”

Eva’s expression falters, just for a moment, before she recovers and plasters on a polite smile. “They’ve got a great pinot noir over there.”

“Not as good as these,” you tell her, just to see her smile turn genuine.

A tour group walks in just then so you take your leave and step outside into the late afternoon sunshine. When Jack takes your hand this time you let him, and you don’t mind it.

The blue truck is parked out back. You walk along the side of the building, just a pair of happy tourists slightly buzzed on red wine out to take in the view, until you get close enough to make note of the license plate. Back in your own car, you run a search on it and identify the owner: a young man named Lucas Trent. The address on the registration is in Paso Robles, a town 250 miles south of here, but you do some digging and find he’s a vineyard worker at Double Loop.

“So what’s the connection to Peterson?” Jack wonders.

“Look at this.” You point at the screen and he squints. “He’s only been at Double Loop for six months. Before that—”

“He worked for Peterson,” Jack finishes. “So he’s mad about getting fired and wants to get back at his old boss.”

“Maybe,” you say, frowning. “We don’t really know yet. But it’s a theory.”

“It’s a good theory,” he insists.

The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, mulling it over.

“Tell me this, rookie,” he says. “You ever been on a stakeout?”

On your first ever stakeout that evening, you quickly learn a few things:

Stakeouts are cold. Stakeouts are boring. And rental cars are not designed to accommodate them.

You shift uncomfortably for the fifth time in twenty minutes.

“How do we even know he’ll show up tonight?” you ask. In the quiet of the night you keep your voice hushed.

“Call it intuition,” Jack says. You can tell he hates sitting still this long, too, but he’s clearly built up a tolerance for it over the years, because he’s not wriggling around nearly as much as you.

“Can I ask you something?”

He grunts an assent.

“That story about how you proposed—how did you come up with that?”

He pauses.

“I just—made it up,” he says.

“I thought it seemed…” you start. He gives you a sidelong glance. “Never mind. You’re a good improviser.”

After a minute, he says, “I was engaged once. A long time ago.”

“Oh.” You bite your cheek, holding back your questions.

“She died,” he adds. Your heart drops.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course,” you say, helplessly.

Never in your life have you been more grateful to see a criminal approaching than when you see the familiar shape of Lucas Trent’s blue truck appear down the road.

“Ha,” Jack says, looking a little less glum. “What’d I tell you. Intuition never fails me.”

You take deep, silent breaths, trying to control your fast-beating heart as you creep behind Jack to follow Lucas inside the building. He’s got a key to Peterson’s winery; he must have stolen it before he left the job, you think. He heads down the hall, past Peterson’s office, and disappears behind a door.

Jack motions for you to wait a moment, listening intently outside the door. You hear nothing but the quiet thump of Lucas’s footsteps, growing fainter until there’s only silence, and finally Jack eases open the door. You’re faced with a short flight of stairs heading down into a cellar. The two of you tiptoe down the stairs.

You nearly bump into Jack at the bottom when he stops dead in his tracks, still hidden in the shadows. Peering around him, you see that Lucas isn’t alone in the room. Bill Peterson is here, too, standing next to a small wooden desk.

“What the fuck do you want?” Bill demands. Lucas stares at him sullenly. “You came here to steal from me, didn’t you? You didn’t think I’d be down here.”

“I just want what’s mine,” the young man growls. “You’re the thief, not me.”

Lucas steps further into the room, toward the back wall. The space is filled with racks of carefully preserved wine bottles—Peterson’s precious collection, you register—and a pile of empty wooden barrels, stacked two high.

“Those bottles are insured,” Peterson calls after him. “You’ll get caught if you try to sell them.”

Lucas says nothing, just continues walking until he reaches the wall. At the back of the cellar, he pushes aside a tapestry to reveal a combination safe embedded in the wall. He glances over his shoulder with a smirk, and punches in the code.

“How the fuck do you know that number?” Peterson roars, finally scared. He rushes past the racks of wine, suddenly worthless compared to whatever is on the flash drive Lucas has just retrieved from the safe. When they start to tussle over it, Jack finally steps in.

“Hey!” he yells, striding into the light. The men look over, startled, and then Peterson looks relieved. He lets go of Lucas, seemingly confident that his hired security will take care of the situation, and retreats to stand next to Jack.

“Get that back from him,” he tells him. Jack gives him a long, unimpressed look, and then turns his focus on Lucas, who’s starting to look slightly panicky now that he’s outnumbered.

“Listen, son. This will all go a lot easier if you just put that back where you found it and walk out of here with me.”

“You don’t understand,” Lucas protests. “He’s stealing from everyone. This is the proof.”

Peterson shifts on his feet, looking guilty. “Bullshit,” he says. “You resent me for being the boss, but I’ve worked for every penny I’ve got.”

Lucas lets out a humorless, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, you work real hard. You must break a sweat making copies of your accounts so you can lie about the numbers. I bet you have blisters on your hands from shortchanging your workers.”

Jack makes a mistake here—he takes his eyes off the suspect to look at Mr. Peterson in a new light, trying to gauge which of them is telling the truth. And in that split second, to your horror, Lucas hurtles forward and shoves the stacked wine barrels, hard, knocking both Jack and Peterson onto the ground.

You make a mistake, too, and he gets on your case about it afterwards. You let Lucas slip past you in your rush to reach Jack’s side. He looks dazed and angry and his legs are trapped under the hundred-pound barrel. Gathering your strength, you lift it off of him and set it upright, then fall to your knees to check him over.

“Jack! Are you alright?” You feel carefully along his legs, then gently at the back of his head, running your fingers over his scalp to check for bumps or bleeding.

“I’m okay,” he mutters. “I didn’t hit my head.” But he winces as you help him up, and he’s moving a little gingerly when he takes a step. “Might’ve tweaked my ankle,” he admits.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Peterson yells. “You let that little shit get away with my property.”

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Peterson,” Jack growls. “Was it true what he said, about the double accounts?”

“I don’t see how that matters,” he insists angrily. “I hired you to do a job, and I expected a lot better.”

“I’ll tell you why it matters,” Jack tells him. “I don’t work for people who lie to me. Consider the contract dissolved. You can get your ‘property’ back on your own.”

“Actually, you got lucky, Mr. Peterson,” you call back over your shoulder as you help Jack walk over to the stairs. “If we had gotten our hands on that drive, we would have been obligated to turn it over to the IRS. Statesman has connections in the government, too, you know.”

And with that, you leave him sputtering and pale, alone with his precious wine.

It’s 3 AM when you get back to the room. Jack’s ankle isn’t broken, just twisted. You’d made him wait in the car while you stopped at a 24-hour convenience store to get ice on the way, so now you get him tucked into bed with his foot elevated and a baggie of ice draped over his ankle. He’s clearly still peeved over how things went down with Peterson, but he also looks amused watching you play nursemaid for him.

“You know, I’ve been hurt a hell of a lot worse than this before,” he tells you. “I can take care of myself.”

You give him an unimpressed look. “Getting badly injured isn’t the brag you think it is,” you counter. “And… you shouldn’t have to take care of it alone. That’s what I’m here for. I know you think I’m just a rookie, but—for this job, we’re partners, right?”

He’s silent for a beat, but then he nods.

Jack is still awake and waiting for you when you return from the bathroom in your pajamas. As you climb into your side of the bed, he says, “I don’t think you’re just a rookie. You did a good job on this case.”

The room is dark but there’s moonlight streaming in through the window, casting a beam of light across his face on the pillow. He’s looking at you. You look back.

“Thank you,” you tell him finally.

“Thanks for the ice,” he returns. He lets out a sigh as his eyes drift shut, and as you follow suit you feel his hand reach out and intertwine with yours.

“G’night, Violet,” he murmurs.

“Goodnight, Johnny.”

He laughs, and you grin in the dark, and you hold on tight.

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