#Small Drones Market Share | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nemo-writes · 25 days ago

Text

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; you finally make the trip to the pack’s new home. long-simmering tensions flare—an uneasy reunion forged by guarded stares and clipped words. the pack gathers, and the stage is set for a decision long overdue.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

The late afternoon sun cast a golden light on the bustling streets, painting your town in warmth that rivaled the magic thrumming beneath its cobblestones. For a moment, you paused outside the manor gates, looking out over what had once been a small, closed-off place—and feeling a flicker of pride at how it had grown.

Witches, humans, fae, and others mingled in the market, their voices melding into a lively hum. Vendors sold rune-etched wares beside digital devices. A pair of teenagers—one with a tiny draconic tail flicking behind her, the other with mundane but bright eyes—laughed, sharing a snack as they scrolled through their phones. Each step away from your home brought a new sight: a newly opened café with both magical potions and regular coffees on the menu; a tinkerer’s stall that mixed mechanical drones with small hexes for self-maintenance; an elder witch demonstrating a subtle warding technique to a group of wide-eyed humans.

The harmony here wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it was real.

Every patchwork compromise, every lingering tension, had led to these small but precious moments of cooperation. You felt a quiet contentment, the sort that made you wish you could linger in town just a bit longer, soaking in the sense of possibility in the air.

But your journey lay beyond, away from the light and bustle, into the edges of the town where the land grew silent and the roads wound into the horizon. With each turn, your surroundings thinned—fewer homes, fewer shops, until the last sign of the town was a modest bakery perched at the corner of a gravel path.

Despite your success—or perhaps because of it—your chest tightened, the pull of unfinished business gnawing at you. They’re waiting teased the back of your mind.

You tried to quell the swirl of dread, focusing instead on the farmland rolling out before you, the neat fences and carefully tended rows of crops. The open skies felt both liberating and too big. As you moved on, the farmland gave way to patches of woodland, the trees shifting in the wind as though whispering secrets you couldn’t quite catch.

Here, on the outskirts, it felt as though you’d crossed a threshold from warmth and cooperation into a more primal hush—like stepping into the maw of a waiting beast.

You swallowed, your footsteps echoing on a lonely road. Sybil wasn’t here with you—she remained at the manor, still recovering from her vaccines, leaving you to face this trek alone. Odd, how so little distance can shift the entire mood, you mused.

A turn in the path brought you to a slight rise, and beyond it, you spotted a house—larger than expected, set back against the treeline. Part of you wanted to curse how fitting it was: enough land to roam, to run, to hide secrets if they chose.

As you took another step, you felt the first brush of wards—magic lines carefully laid into the earth, likely Gaz’s doing. A prickle of energy crawled along your skin, not overtly hostile but undeniably watchful. You couldn’t deny the sense of finality as you passed beyond them. Well, now they know I’m here. The quiet rustle of the wind through the trees seemed to mock your tension.

At last, you emerged from the narrow lane into the clearing that housed their home. For a moment, you just stood there, heart racing in your ears, mind drifting back to the lively scenes in town—that was your domain. But here, on the outskirts, the hush was thick enough to choke you, and the memory of your differences with the pack weighed heavily.

“No more running,” you muttered under your breath, forcing your legs forward until you reached the porch steps. The boards creaked underfoot, and you let out a slow exhale, smoothing a hand down your clothes as though it might settle the roil in your gut.

With a steadying inhale, you raised a hand and knocked. Firm, resolute—no hesitation allowed. The sound echoed in the stillness, and in that moment, the hush of the surrounding fields felt like the tense pause before a storm.

They’re here, you’re here, and there’s no turning back.

John blinked once, then twice. He hadn’t expected it to be you—not yet, anyway.

Of course, part of him had known this moment was coming, had braced himself for the inevitable. But when he actually pulled the door open and found you standing on the threshold… it still hit like a solid punch to the gut.

You stood there, framed by the dim evening light. At first glance, he noticed the obvious changes: different clothes, maybe a slightly altered haircut, a new aura of confidence that hadn’t been there the last time you’d faced each other. But the longer he looked, the more the subtle details came into focus.

Your eyes were guarded. Every line of your posture was coiled tight, a testament to the anger and apprehension warring beneath your veneer of composure. Yet there was a flicker of something else—fear, perhaps, though not the kind that made people cower. No, you were more like an animal backed into a corner—angry and ready to snap if provoked.

It stung to see you like this, to sense that wariness pinned firmly on him—on them all. But after everything, maybe it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

He swallowed. “...You look… different,” he heard himself say, the words stumbling out before he could filter them. Not exactly a graceful greeting.

You didn’t move, didn’t invite yourself in, didn’t speak right away. Your gaze flicked past him, scanning the interior as though checking for threats. A tense, loaded silence fell over the space between you.

John took that moment to really drink in your presence—the shifting set of your jaw, the slight tension in your shoulders. Every corner of your appearance seemed touched by change. Time and circumstance had carved new edges into your expression, worn away traces of softness he remembered all too well.

“Right,” he muttered, taking half a step back. His heart thundered, each beat a reminder of the countless nights he’d replayed in his mind, wondering if and how he’d ever fix what he’d broken. “Well… guess you’d better come in,” he managed, voice a touch gruff.

He waited, hands absently clenching at his sides, bracing himself for whatever came next. Because in your eyes, that guarded storm said it all:

No matter the changes—no matter the growth—this confrontation would be far from simple. And if there was any path to peace, it was through the thorns of the past.

Gaz practically bustled into view the moment John stepped back, his eyes filled with that same mixture of nerves and eager concern that made him look, for all the world, like a worried hen clucking after her chick. He made a point of keeping his hands to himself, though, not even placing a guiding touch on your shoulder as he ushered you inside. It hurt him, you could see it in the fleeting twist of his lips—he was the tactile one, the one who was always patting backs or ruffling hair when times were good. But he held back, glancing at you for permission he never quite asked.

“Let’s, uh… let’s sit down,” he said, voice low and careful, as if you might bolt at any sudden movement. And though every muscle in your body felt tight and ready to spring, you allowed yourself to be shepherded deeper into their new home.

It was different from the one you remembered—larger and more open, with smooth, polished floors and enough space for the pack to move around without crowding each other. You took in the furniture, the subdued colors, the careful arrangement of wards carved into wooden beams, half-hidden by decorative trim. Gone were the scratches on the walls, the battered couch, and the faint smell of old regrets.

You and John ended up in what must have been the living area, a modest arrangement of chairs around a low table. You eyed him warily as he settled opposite you, shoulders rigid with tension and eyes flicking to you every few seconds, as though half expecting you to vanish. Or explode.

The last time you’d been under the same roof as them… it had been disastrous. The memory tugged at your gut, threatened to churn up all that raw fury you’d tried so hard to bury.

Gaz offered a comforting smile—small, genuine—and then hurried off, presumably to fetch your favorite drink. The gesture stung more than it soothed, a reminder of how intimately they knew you, how they’d once used that knowledge to weave themselves into your life without you even noticing.

So you sat there, your spine tight, gaze flicking around the room in silence. A single lamp glowed from a side table, casting warm light onto a rug that might’ve been brand new. The place still felt like them somehow, but neater, more carefully composed—like they’d forced themselves to tame the chaos.

John cleared his throat, the sound abrupt in the hush. You didn’t meet his eyes, not yet. Instead, you let yourself breathe, taking in the dull hum of your own pulse, trying to keep your temper at bay.

When Gaz returned, he held a simple glass mug, the steam curling from its rim. He set it gently on the table beside you, then stepped back like he’d just approached a skittish animal.

“Figured you’d want that,” he said quietly, not quite managing his usual, easy grin. “No sugar, right? That’s… how you’ve always liked it.”

Your heart pinched at the memory. “Thank you,” you managed, voice stiff but not unkind.

Then silence again.

You wrapped your hands around the mug, letting its heat seep into your skin, while John shifted, a hand heavily scratching at his neatly trimmed beard. Everything in your stance, his stance, read caution.

You took a careful sip of your drink, inhaling the familiar aroma. Despite everything, it warmed you in ways you hated to admit.

Gaz hovered nearby, clearly aching to offer more comfort but too afraid to breach the fragile boundary you’d set. Johnny sat in silence, hands clasped in front of him, his eyes darting between you and the mug, like he was trying to figure out the right words to say.

John sucked in a breath, about to speak, when a sudden clatter came from deeper in the house. A second later, the back door slammed open, and Soap all but exploded into the living area, voice already echoing off the walls.

“I knew I smelled ye!” he hollered, his accent rolling with excitement. “Thought I’d lost my bloody mind, but there ye are, trouble!”

You startled in your seat, gaze darting from Price to the commotion Soap caused as he barreled in. Gaz, standing off to the side, nearly dropped the spoon he’d been holding, while Price went rigid, clearly not expecting such a loud entrance in the middle of a tense moment.

Your heart thudded once, hard, as Soap stormed forward, his mohawk back and wilder than you remembered and his blue eyes lit with an odd mixture of disbelief and elation. He looked ready to fling himself at you —until he truly took you in.

That’s when he froze. Utterly and entirely.

Soap just stared at you, chest heaving as though he’d sprinted a mile. His eyes, so vibrant with relief and excitement, carried a hint of something else: uncertainty. Because while he might be thrilled to see you, there was no denying the deep rift that’d cracked everything wide open the last time you stood under one roof.

Then another figure stepped into view behind him, and your pulse kicked up again. Simon —towering, masked, and stoic—placed a large, gloved hand on Soap’s shoulder. The sound of it landing was solid, as was the weight of his calm presence.

“Boots,” Ghost said tersely, voice low and gritty. “Mud.”

Soap blinked, jolting out of his shock. “Eh? Oh—!” He glanced down at the mud clinging to his soles, guilt flitting across his features. “Right, right. Let me just—” With a clumsy shuffle, he shoved the boots off, half-flinging them into a corner. A faint flush crept up his neck as he turned back to face you, mohawk quivering with pent-up energy.

Ghost stood behind him, posture squared. Even through the mask, you felt the intensity of his gaze. A flicker of something shone through his otherwise stoic bearing as he briefly inclined his head in greeting.

Now they were all here. The tension pressed in, thick and unsettling—like the long moment before thunder shakes the sky.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering. This wasn’t going to be easy, not by a long shot. Everything about Johnny—his frantic entrance, his wide, bright eyes—reminded you of just how different things used to be… and how much had changed since then.

Price cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the group for a moment. He looked from you to Soap, brow furrowing. “Well,” he said mildly, tension lacing his voice. “Seems we’ve got ourselves a full house.”You nodded stiffly, lips pressed into a thin line.

Full house indeed.

divider credit

116 notes · View notes

prettyiwa · 21 days ago

Text

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

55 notes · View notes

soraka-in-warhammer40k · 2 years ago

Text

I'm always fascinated when someone at the club rants about "how they just invented T'au to cash on them anime weebs", completly oblivious to the time and culture of their creation. So T'au came out first in 2001, and were obviously conceptualized some years prior, which puts them into the late 90s in their original design. This is slowly hitting "the majority of the populance has no relevant internet access whatsoever" levels of "barbaric analog ages".

So imagine where GW sits in the late 90s - its a small studio somewhere in England barely coming to touch with the first elements of the internet, with the most dominant medium being television which... is not really about "exotic" shows from the other end of the world? Those get ported over when they have proven to be a hit in their own country mostly.

And without the internet as we know it today, the anime community just... did not exist. You have to understand that the whole concept of online anime culture centred around piracy, fansubs, fanart, and the creation of the term "weeabo" was a mid-to-late 00s thing, and it took almost another decade before "weeb" was somewhat reclaimed and no longer an online-slur.

There was a whole generation that grew up with (often horribly localized) japanese shows on TV (Pokemon, Dragon Ball, Sailor Moon) which came over with some delay to their release in Japan. By the time this generation came to congregate into online spaces and form any sort of fan-identity and culture, the T'au and their battlesuits had already been a design over a decade old.

"But wait isn't Gundam from the 70s"? Yes, that is totally correct. However, this is the one glaring mistake people make: you cannot compare modern day media content circulation around the globe to the analog ages. Those of us who remember these barbaric analog times know how it was: you just did not know stuff existed. If it was not in the newspaper or on the telly, it might as well not exist unless you knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy.

Sure, the Internet was slowly becoming a thing that found widespread use, but it would still take a while - not to mention the technical limitations. No streaming episodes. You start the download (if you can find someone who hosted the file of a series you had to know even existed first) somewhere around lunch, to hopefully get something to watch in the afternoon. Oh and also that blocked the household's phone-line and if the download cancelled for whatever reason then it was back to square one. Under such conditions, the online community we know today could simply not exist, as the alternative was importing stuff from the other end of the world for quite the money, or hoping a really shoddy localized VCR-tape ended up at your Blockbuster-equivalent.

Of course there was anime before that time, even those regarded absolute classics in the west, but those mostly achieved that rank over here in retrospective. When in the late 00s people wanted to watch stuff and had the ability to do so they shared what was considered "the classics" first (shared to the best of their ability with one episode cut into 5 parts on youtube with sometimes very questionable subtitles).

So even if we assume there was someone at GW in the 90s who was a total "proto-weeb" and Gudam-fan, there was literally no reason to "make knock-off Gundams" because the miniscule western wargaming audience SIMPLY DID NOT KNOW THE STUFF.

You can't make a marketing ploy to reference something your average consumers have never heard off. If anything, the creation of the T'au as a robotic-centred faction was inevitable: they needed a design that could hold their own in the setting, but Necrons hogged the full-robot niche, Imperials were weird cyborgs, Orks the "madman-scrap-tech", and Nids the "biotech". The only thing left here was "not full robot but also very clean and efficient" - and just like that, the Battlesuits and Drones were born.

It was only in later years when the Internet had come into full swing where they decided to go full-suit with releases such as the Riptide, but if we talk about the OG design of T'au and the first decade? Nothing to do with anime or "fishing for weebs". The fish would not be coming to that spot for almost a decade, and it would take a bit more before their numbers were plentyful enough to make it worth casting a line out.

#random rant #wh40k #T'au #tau empire #warhammer 40k

461 notes · View notes

liora-vespera · 4 months ago

Text

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

17 notes · View notes

amrutmnm · 11 months ago

Text

The Small Drones Market is projected to grow from USD 5.8 Billion in 2023 to USD 10.4 Billion by 2030, at a CAGR of 8.6% from 2023 to 2030.

Small Unmanned Aerial Vehicles (SUAVs), also known as small drones, are aerial vehicles controlled remotely, playing pivotal roles in both the defense and commercial domains. In the commercial sector, they find applications in monitoring, surveying, mapping, aerial remote sensing, precision agriculture, and even product delivery. Similarly, they serve essential functions in the military realm, including military operations and border surveillance.

SUAVs have been adopted by various industries, including oil & gas, railways, power plants, and construction. The utilization of small drones for innovative purposes, such as cargo delivery in both commercial and defense sectors, is anticipated to be a driving force behind global Small Drones Industry growth. Notably, in the defense sector, small drones are increasingly supplanting manned aircraft due to their ability to be remotely operated by human operators or autonomously controlled by onboard computer systems. Consequently, the small drone market has experienced remarkable expansion over the past decade, primarily attributed to the heightened deployment of small drones in military applications.

#Small Drones #Small Drones Market #Small Drones Industry #Global Small Drones Market #Small Drones Market Companies #Small Drones Market Size #Small Drones Market Share #Small Drones Market Growth #Small Drones Market Statistics

0 notes

sgiandubh · 9 months ago

Note

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

46 notes · View notes

aerospace-and-defence · 1 year ago

Text

The Small Drones Market is projected to grow from USD 5.8 Billion in 2023 to USD 10.4 Billion by 2030, at a CAGR of 8.6% from 2023 to 2030.

#Small Drones #Small Drones Market #Small Drones Market Companies #Small Drones Market Size #Small Drones Market Share #Global Small Drones Market #Small Drones Industry #Small Drones Market Growth #Small Drones Market Statistics

0 notes

aishavass · 2 years ago

Link

#adroit market research #small drones market #small drones market size #small drones market share

0 notes

neonghostlily · 18 days ago

Text

The Weight of Silence

Fandom: Cyberpunk 2077 Pairing: Goro Takemura / Female V Language: English Rating: T (Teen and up) Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Tension Status: One-shot Words: ~3700 -`✮´- French Version / Masterlist -`✮´-

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. The Japantown market bustled like a frenzied hive: voices overlapping everywhere, vendors rushing around, children running between the stalls. Red and gold paper garlands fluttered above the alleys, hastily tied between lamp posts. Some of the parade floats, barely decorated, slowly rolled between the buildings below, escorted by drones. The whole place pulsed with electric excitement—the eve of the parade, that suspended moment when everyone still believes everything might go well. V pushed her way between the stalls, the smell of fried fish and spices clinging to her nose. She didn’t stop, even if the thought of grabbing a warm bite crossed her mind. She had more important things to do. A metal staircase creaked beneath her steps as she climbed to the roof of a small building, currently mostly used for discreet meetings—like the one about to happen. Up there, the city's roar turned into a distant echo. He was already there. Back straight, arms crossed, eyes locked on the main street below. Motionless, like a statue from one of those Japanese temples she’d seen in late-night documentaries while nursing a hangover—detached from the noise and the crowd. She paused for a moment, just long enough to look at him. A strange warmth passed through her stomach—not intense, not uncomfortable. Just a heartbeat slightly louder than the others. She inhaled, gathered herself, and walked up. No big smile. No wink. She tried to stand tall, professional, focused. But despite herself, there was a subtle bounce in her step, an almost-restrained urge to joke or skip. She held it back. Not now. “You're early,” she said softly, stopping beside him. He didn’t answer.

Only a slight nod let her know he was listening. She frowned slightly but kept a light tone. “Seen the prep? Feels like the whole district’s buzzing. The kids are beyond excited. It’s wild.” Silence. She turned to him, searching for a reaction, any reaction. His face was still, more closed than usual. No tense jaw, no obvious anger—just that stony neutrality she thought had started to crack, just a bit, in recent times. And that gave her a flicker of worry. She leaned against the railing, a meter away from him, trying to catch his gaze—or at least share the view. The silence stretched—not tense, but not comfortable either. The kind of silence that might have been peaceful, if not for the wall he’d rebuilt between them. Still, she persisted. “Want me to bring you something to drink? There's a stall downstairs with hot tea that smells like ginger. I think it's your kind of thing.” Still nothing. Just a longer-than-usual blink. “Or a snack,” she continued, keeping her tone light. “Even you can’t face the parade on an empty stomach.” “It’s not a picnic, V.” She smiled despite herself. The tone was sharp, but not quite hostile. At least… she wasn’t sure anymore. “Not very chatty tonight, huh? What, watching how they cook the ramen or something?” No reaction. She tensed her jaw slightly—not enough to harden, but enough to feel the need to hold back. She waited nearly ten minutes before her patience snapped. “You don’t need to be mad at me just because you didn’t sleep well, you know. I’m not your enemy.” She instantly regretted the words. Not because they were wrong, but because they’d crossed a line. She didn’t want to admit it, but his silence annoyed her more than she liked. He finally turned his head toward her, slowly, his gaze as hard as cold steel. A shiver ran down her spine, but she kept herself in check. The last thing she needed was to crack in front of him. “You think I’m mad at you, is that it?” “You’re acting like I crashed your van in a canyon, or like I insulted all your ancestors. So yeah, a little,” she admitted. He didn’t respond. The silence this time was heavy. He turned his eyes back to the street, lifting his chin like he was ignoring her on purpose. V sighed softly, gave it one last try. “Goro… seriously. What’s wrong?” Even the air seemed to freeze. She didn’t know exactly why, but a lump formed in her throat. It was the first time she’d called him by his first name—and it had to be in this context. As he was shutting the door without warning. His name echoed like a mistake. One word too many, dropped into an already strained silence. Takemura turned to her again, but this time, his gaze wasn’t just cold. It was cutting. “Don’t call me that.” His voice was calm. Too calm. A line ready to break. V blinked, thrown off. “But it’s your name,” she murmured. “Not for you.” He hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t need to. Every word landed like a sentence.

“What do you think we are, you and me? You think just because we’ve done a few missions together, you can use that kind of familiarity?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came.

“You want to know what’s wrong? Fine. What’s wrong is I’m stuck in this rotten city, without my rank, without my cyberware, and even without honor. And the only person still talking to me treats me like I’m just another merc, interchangeable, with no loyalty or standing. Like we come from the same world.”

Every word hurt more than the last, and she couldn’t tell what stung the most. The contempt. The bitterness. The indifference. Or just… the anger that she was sure wasn’t really meant for her, but still crashed down on her like a violent, suffocating wave.

“You talked to me about loyalty the other day. But you don’t know what that means. Loyalty isn’t smiling like a fool. It’s not being nice to everyone hoping that’s enough. It’s not saving people just to feel less dirty. You think you’re righteous because you’re not cruel. But that’s not honor. That’s not loyalty. You want to help everyone, get attached to anyone—but you have no anchor, no consistency. You grew up on instinct, not duty.”

She stepped back. She hadn’t even decided to. It was instinctive. Like being slapped—hard and without warning.

Her throat tightened. She wanted to answer, to find something to say. Anything. But nothing came. Not a word. Everything was stuck between her stomach and her heart.

That weight in her chest. That burn behind her eyes. But she wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him.

She inhaled slowly, not looking at him.

And again, the silence settled in. Still heavy, still cold. But this time, it felt like every word spoken had stolen a little more air from the space around them.

She knew he probably saw the tears in her eyes. But she focused all her strength on not letting a single sob escape.

The past few weeks had been long. Running around to save her life, to help the people she cared about—V felt exhausted. And in that moment: exposed.

Just another drop in a vase already drowned in a pond.

She stayed straight, eyes fixed on the lanterns trembling above the market. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have the strength anymore.

He didn’t speak either. But something in his posture faltered for just a second. A hesitation. A tension released too late. Maybe. She wasn’t sure.

She saw him open his mouth, but she beat him to it.

“That’s enough.” Her voice was dry, low. “You’ve said enough.”

She didn’t yell. She didn’t beg. She just drew a clear line. And he understood.

She turned her gaze away, focusing on anything but Takemura.

Still, she felt his eyes on her—heavy, full. Maybe regret. Maybe shame. She didn’t even want to turn to confirm it. This time, the roles were reversed.

Footsteps pulled away. Measured. Slow. Then nothing.

V stayed frozen, finally fixing her eyes on the floating garlands while the muffled sounds of the market rose beneath her. She breathed in again, deep, painful. How had it come to this? How had she let her guard down like that?

She didn’t know. Or rather—she did. But she still refused to say it out loud.

Her forehead rested gently against the cold railing. She closed her eyes. And this time, she didn’t fight it.

A tear slipped down, silent. Then another. A simple release. The body giving in where the heart couldn’t hold on.

Through the city’s buzz and her own tangled thoughts, she still heard that familiar crackle of Johnny’s.

His translucent form was there, leaning on the railing, a meter from her. Cigarette between his lips, eyes looking the other way.

He, too, stayed silent. ˚✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

*sad violin tune* We had to go through a good dose of angst with these two. I'd even say, this category was created for them. But don't worry, a direct sequel is planned for this one-shot, I won't leave you like this with an open ending! And I promise, Goro will have to make a BIG effort to make amends, and V will be less of a punching bag. 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

#cyberpunk 2077 #female v #goro takemura #night city #takemura goro #takemura romance #takemura x v #v cyberpunk #cyberpunk fanfic #fanfiction

11 notes · View notes

alwaysbethewest · 1 year ago

Text

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.

#pedrostories #pedrostoriesgift23 #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x reader #pedro pascal #kingsman fanfiction #my fic #fanfiction

77 notes · View notes