#steel city back office

[vunblr]

Roots and Branches

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.

Summary: Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.

Word Count: About 18.6k.

notes: I’ve been wanting to write a story in a lumberjack AU for a while now, and here it is. It ended up being longer than I expected, but I have no regrets. In my mind, Lumberjack!Bucky=Beefy!Bucky.

By the way, I’m still dreaming that someone, feeling inspired, creates Bucky as an NPC for Stardew Valley. I would kiss the ground that person walks on.

The city stretched behind her, a blur of steel and noise shrinking in the rearview mirror. Relief and uncertainty warred in her chest, but she clung tightly to the thought of what lay ahead. The town had always been her haven: sunlit summers chasing fireflies, her grandmother’s laughter ringing from the porch, and the quiet that once cradled her restless mind in peace.

It had been years since she’d last visited, but the constant noise, relentless crowds, and a recent, unsettling encounter had made city life unbearable. Her grandmother’s house, nestled at the edge of a sprawling forest, now felt like her only escape. It wasn’t perfect -her uncle had warned her about the repairs needed- but she’d gladly trade peeling paint and creaky floors for the chaos she was leaving behind. Besides, without rent to worry about and the freedom of her home-office proofreading job, she had the space and time to start over, one step at a time.

The road stretched endlessly before her, winding through rolling hills and patches of dense forest. The further she drove, the quieter it became. No blaring horns, no traffic, just the hum of her engine and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. She cracked the window, letting in the crisp scent of pine and earth.

For the first time in months, she felt her shoulders begin to relax. And then, with an ominous thunk, the car jerked to one side.

Her stomach sank as she guided the vehicle to the shoulder, the once-smooth ride now bumpier than a cobblestone street. Stepping out, she found her fears confirmed: the back tire sagged, utterly deflated.

“Of course,” she muttered, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Why not?”

She retrieved the jack and wrench from the trunk, determined to fix it herself. She wasn’t helpless, after all. But after twenty minutes of grunting, tugging, and nearly twisting her wrist, the lug nuts refused to budge. Maybe they just needed a little more effort.

Two hours later, she slumped against the side of the car, her arms aching and her patience long gone. She’d tried everything -kicking the wrench, sitting on it for leverage- everything except calling for help, though the lack of cell signal made that impossible. Her lip trembled as she bit down hard, determined not to let the tears of frustration win.

“You wanted quiet? You got quiet,” she muttered, her voice tight with irritation. Walking seemed like the only option now. Maybe she’d stumble upon a house, a gas station, anything. Resolving trying her luck, she locked the car and started forward, her boots crunching against the gravel shoulder.

The air hung heavy with stillness, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The walk felt endless, each step feeding her doubts. What if there was nothing ahead? What if she’d made a mistake leaving the car? Just as she was debating turning back, a low rumble cut through the quiet.

She froze, breath hitching as her eyes darted down the empty road. The sound grew louder, unmistakably the steady growl of a truck engine. Relief flooded her chest, tempered by a flicker of caution.

Moving closer to the edge of the road, she raised a tentative hand to wave. Moments later, an old, sturdy truck came into view, slowing as it approached.

Bucky wasn’t in any rush. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows on the road ahead. He kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. The hum of the truck engine was a comforting sound, a backdrop to his thoughts.

As he rounded a gentle curve, something caught his eye up ahead: a car parked awkwardly on the shoulder. He frowned, slowing the truck. From the angle it was sitting, it didn’t look abandoned, but it wasn’t going anywhere either. A flat tire, maybe? His brow furrowed. Someone had to own it, but there wasn’t another soul in sight.

He continued slowly, his gaze drifting to the road ahead, and that’s when he spotted her. She stood near the edge of the road, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her hand half-raised in a cautious wave. She didn’t look panicked, just tired, a little frustrated, and undeniably relieved to see another human being out here.

He brought the truck to a stop a few feet ahead of her, letting the engine idle as he leaned across the seat to glance out the passenger window. “Need some help?” he called, keeping his tone easy.

She stepped closer, her cautious wave lowering as she approached. When she stopped short of the truck, her polite smile faltered, her gaze locking on his face.

He didn’t notice at first, but she stared, caught off guard by the sight ahead of her. Shoulder-length dark hair framed handsome face, shadowed with a day or two of stubble. And those eyes… crystal blue, so piercing they looked like they belonged to the lead character of a romance novel rather than the driver of an old truck.

Her lips parted slightly as her thoughts ran wild. Maybe she was hallucinating. Two hours of frustration and the heat of the sun must have gotten to her, conjuring a guy from one of those pink-covered novels she’d been proofreading.

“You okay?” His voice pulled her back, laced with just enough concern to cut through the fog in her head.

She blinked rapidly, heat flooding her cheeks as she scrambled for an excuse. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just… fatigue, I guess.” She gave a quick laugh, brushing her hair back as if that would somehow erase her embarrassment. “It’s been a long day.”

Bucky didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

She cleared her throat, trying to sound more composed. “I’d really appreciate the help. The tire’s flat and the lug nuts are stuck. I’ve tried everything, but they won’t budge.”

Bucky nodded again, shifting the truck into park before stepping out. “I saw the car back there. Mind if I take a look?”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she offered a more genuine smile. “Please. That’d be great.”

She couldn’t help but stare as he climbed out of the truck. It wasn’t just the striking eyes or the scruff that made him look like he’d stepped off a book cover, it was everything.

Worn jeans sat low on his hips, perfectly fitted to legs that spoke of strength and endurance. A red flannel shirt, snug across his broad shoulders and well-defined arms, hinted at a life of hard, honest work. His boots crunched against the gravel as he moved with an effortless confidence that made it nearly impossible to look away.

Yup, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm again. A lead character.

She snapped her gaze away, trying to focus on literally anything else, the road, the sky, her worn-out sneakers. But as he approached, the heat creeping up her neck didn’t fade.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his brow furrowing slightly.

She blinked and met his eyes, cursing herself for getting caught again. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine,” she said waving a hand. “Just tired, I guess. Two hours of trying to fight with a tire does that to you.”

He nodded slowly, and his expression softened. “Fair enough.”

She gestured vaguely toward her car in the distance. “It’s over there. I’d appreciate the help, it’s like the universe welded those lug nuts on.”

When they reached the car, she unlocked it and retrieved the tools from the trunk, setting them down beside the flat tire. She stepped back, watching as he crouched and took the wrench in his hand. With what seemed like no effort at all, he twisted the lug nuts loose, the metal giving way under his grip as if it had never been stuck in the first place. She stared again, biting her lip as her gaze lingered on how his forearm flexed under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. Completely oblivious to her scrutiny, he worked in focused silence, switching out the flat tire with methodical ease. When he finished, he stood up, brushed the dust from his hands, and glanced at the car. His gaze snagged on the backseat, where duffel bags and boxes were crammed together.

“Looks like you’re movin’,” he said, his voice low and gruff.

She nodded, brushing her hands on her jeans as if she’d done any of the work. “Yeah, I am. Heading to town. My grandmother used to have a house there, I’m moving into it.”

Bucky glanced at her, his sharp blue eyes unreadable, but not unkind. “The old house near the woods?”

Her brows lifted in surprise. “Yeah, actually. You know it?”

He shrugged lightly, his gaze slipping to the ground. “Small town,” he murmured.

Unsure if his hesitation was discomfort or just shyness, she shifted her weight. “Well, thanks again for helping. I’m Y/n, by the way.”

He didn’t respond for a moment and then blinked, as if snapping out of a thought. “Bucky,” he said simply, his tone softening just enough to feel welcoming.

“Well, nice to meet you, Bucky.” Her smile was warm despite the long, frustrating day.

He nodded slightly, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before it disappeared. “You should get goin’,” he said after a pause. “Road’s pretty empty once it gets dark.”

She nodded, grateful. “Right. Thanks again.”

He gave a short nod before turning to his truck. She lingered for a moment, watching as he climbed into the cab and started the engine, before finally slipping into her car and pulling back onto the road.

He gave her a brief nod, turning to his truck without saying another word. She stood there for a moment, watching him go, before climbing into her car.

Bucky climbed into his truck, shutting the door with a quiet click. As the engine rumbled to life, his thumbs tapped idly on the steering wheel, his mind drifting. So, she was the woman moving into the old blue house, the one the old ladies in town had been gossiping about lately.

“Fresh face,” they’d said, curious and speculative. The kind of talk he usually tuned out, but now he could picture her, standing on the side of the road with that friendly smile.

His jaw tightened as he glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of her car pulling back onto the road. Attractive, sure, but that wasn’t his business. He wasn’t in the habit of noticing things like that anymore, or at least, he tried not to.

Shaking his head slightly, he put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road.

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

She reached the house in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun painting the wooden structure in warm tones. From a distance, it looked charming, but as she got closer, the years of neglect became more apparent. A shutter hung by a single hinge, swinging slightly in the breeze, and the porch sagged in the middle, its boards warped and cracked.

It didn’t seem unlivable, though, and for that, she was grateful. The windows were intact, the roof looked solid, and the front door swung open without resistance when she unlocked it. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell of a house left empty for too long. Dust coated the floors and every surface in sight, but nothing that a good cleaning wouldn’t fix.

Walking through the rooms, she made a mental list of things that needed attention. The walls could use fresh paint, the porch would definitely need repairs before it became a hazard, and a few wobbly cabinet doors in the kitchen caught her eye. It was all manageable.

By the time she returned to the living room, she realized the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the house in shadows. She flipped the light switch by the door, but nothing happened. A quick check of the other switches confirmed her suspicion, there wasn’t a single light bulb in the entire property.

“Figures,” she muttered, setting her hands on her hips. Luckily, she’d packed a portable lamp. Its soft glow filled the room as she set it on the floor and unrolled her sleeping bag in the corner, where the old sofa used to sit.

Dinner was a simple affair: a cup of instant noodles and a bottle of water, eaten cross-legged on the floor. She was too tired to think about anything elaborate, and the stillness of the house was oddly comforting after the chaos of the city.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day’s events, replaying the encounter on the road. Bucky’s face flickered in her mind, those piercing blue eyes, the way his long, dark hair framed his sharp features, the slight rasp to his voice when he’d asked if she was okay. She bit her lip, and the memory of the way he’d effortlessly changed the tire brought a faint smile to her lips as her eyelids grew heavy. The moving truck will arrive by morning, and with better lighting, she’ll assess the house and start making it livable. Ideally, she would have cleaned beforehand, but the moving company only had that date available, so she didn’t have much choice.

----------

Right at 8 o’clock sharp, the rumble of the moving truck echoed down the quiet street. She stepped outside, greeting the movers and directing them where to place the furniture. It didn’t take long to realize the porch’s sagging boards were going to be a problem. One mover nearly put his foot through a weakened plank, and after a few close calls, they opted to bring in as much as possible through the windows.

After tipping the movers and seeing them off, she grabbed her bag and headed into town. The general store was easy to find, nestled on the main street between a bakery and a small diner. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air as she pushed open the store’s creaky door, the tiny bell overhead jingling.

Inside, the aisles were narrow and well-stocked, offering everything from cleaning supplies to locally-made jams. She grabbed a basket and began filling it with essentials: sponges, dish soap, floor cleaner, and a few staples for the pantry.

At the checkout line, she felt the weight of a few curious stares. Small towns were like that, everyone wanted to know who the newcomer was. A man in line behind her gave her a polite nod, and a couple of women nearby exchanged whispers before one of them, an older lady with a kind smile, stepped forward.

“Moving into the old blue house on Maple, aren’t you?” the woman asked, her voice warm and curious.

She blinked, surprised but not entirely caught off guard. “That’s right,” she said, returning the smile. “Spent summers there as a kid. It’s been a while, though.”

“Well, welcome back,” the woman said, clasping her hands. “I’m Dorothy. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually…” she hesitated, seizing the moment. “The house needs a bit of work, especially the porch. Do you know a good carpenter?”

Dorothy’s face lit up. “Sam Wilson’s the man you’re looking for. Runs a workshop just outside town. He’s dependable and does fine work. I’ll jot down his address for you.”

After paying for her items, she loaded everything into the car and headed toward the workshop. The drive was short, and soon she spotted a neatly painted sign that read Wilson Woodworks. The building was modest but well-kept, with stacks of lumber and partially finished projects visible through the open garage door.

Grabbing her notepad and pen, she stepped out of the car, hoping Sam would be able to help bring her grandmother’s house back to life.

The workshop smelled of sawdust and varnish, the soft hum of a saw cutting through wood filling the air. She peered curiously through the open entry, her gaze scanning the neatly organized chaos: tools hanging on pegboards, wood shavings scattered across the floor, and a workbench cluttered with projects in progress. Near the center of the space stood a man in a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms. His easy smile and confident posture immediately struck her as someone who knew his craft.

“Sam Wilson?” she asked, stepping further inside.

The man turned, his grin widening. “That’s me,” he replied warmly. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi. I’m Y/n. I just moved into town, to the old blue house on Maple Street. The porch is in pretty bad shape, and I was told you’re the one to call.”

Sam gave an approving nod, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. “Maple Street, huh? Yeah, I’ve worked on a couple of those houses. They’ve got good bones but can be stubborn. I’d have to take a look before I can give you a plan.”

“Of course,” she said, relieved. “When do you think you’d be able to-”

Before she could finish, a gruff voice interrupted from the back of the shop. “Sam, I told you that damn hinge on the-”

Bucky appeared, stepping out from what looked like a storage area, drying his hands on a towel. His words faltered the moment he spotted her, his blue eyes locking onto hers in surprise. He froze for a moment, the towel still in his hand, before nodding stiffly.

“Hey,” he said, with a cautious tone.

She offered him a small, friendly smile. “Hello again.”

Sam’s gaze darted between the two of them, a knowing grin spreading across his face like a Cheshire cat. “Well, well,” he drawled. “You two already know each other so soon?”

Bucky shot him a look -half warning, half exasperation- but Sam’s grin only widened.

“We met yesterday,” she explained, glancing between them. “Bucky helped me with a flat tire.”

“Did he now?” Sam leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. “Man of many talents, huh, Buck?”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, his ears turning slightly red as he turned away to busy himself with a random piece of wood.

Sam laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said to her, his tone light. “He’s a softie under all that brooding.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, unable to suppress a smile.

Bucky’s muttering grew quieter as he moved further into the workshop, but Sam wasn’t done. “You’re in luck, though,” he said to her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think you’re gonna give his wood a good use.”

She let out a small laugh, not entirely sure why but unwilling to seem rude. “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said with a shrug, hoping that was the right response.

The sound of tools crashing followed by a sharp, muttered curse that carried through the workshop interrupted the exchange, and she turned toward the source. “Is he okay?”

Sam smirked, his tone teasing as he said, “Oh, he’s just fine. Just gets a little... tense when his work’s involved. My friend here is one of my suppliers. Keeps me stocked up on the best lumber in town.”

“Oh, I see,” she replied, her gaze briefly flicking toward where Bucky had disappeared. Inwardly, she couldn’t help but think that his... thick build seemed to match with the work lumber suppliers did. “So, should we arrange a time for you to come by and look at the porch?” she asked, mentally slapping herself and steering the conversation back on track.

Sam grinned, leaning casually against the counter. “Tomorrow works for you? Say mid-morning?”

“That sounds great,” she agreed, already mentally listing what she might need to tidy up before his visit.

As her car disappeared down the road, Bucky emerged from the back of the workshop, his steps deliberate and brooding as he approached Sam.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice low but edged with irritation.

Sam raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he crossed his arms. “What was what?”

“You know what,” Bucky growled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t.”

Sam held up his hands, his expression mock-innocent. “Don’t what? You’re projecting, man. She’s just a new neighbor who needs some help with her porch. That’s all.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping even lower. “Whatever your bird brain is planning on doing, don’t. I’m not... Just stay out of my business.”

Sam gave him a sidelong look, clearly unimpressed by Bucky’s gruff warning. “You think too highly of yourself, Barnes,” he said with a smirk. “I’m just trying to help the lady out, same as you did.”

The logger threw one last dirty glance at Sam, muttering under his breath. “Next cargo’s in four days,” he grumbled, already heading for the door.

Sam’s amused chuckle followed him, but Bucky ignored it, his boots hitting the workshop floor with heavy steps.

As he reached the truck, a sharp twinge in his left arm made him curse softly. He grabbed it, flexing his fingers out of habit, then glanced up at the sky. It was streaked with soft clouds, their innocent appearance at odds with what he felt brewing in the air.

A storm was coming.

It wasn’t something anyone could see yet, but Bucky didn’t need a weather report. Since his arm had been crushed in Afghanistan, leaving him with orthopedic implants and lingering aches, he could always tell when the pressure was about to shift.

He flexed his arm again, rolling his shoulder to ease the discomfort. The storm would hit soon, inside and out.

Sliding into the truck, he decided to stop by the general store on the way home. He needed a bottle of scotch. Maybe two.

It was shaping up to be one of those nights.

When she got back to the house, she dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and let out a sigh. She glanced around at the dim, dusty space and resolved to tackle it head-on. After eating a quick sandwich, she got to work.

The first task was the lightbulbs, all of them. Room by room, she placed them, swearing quietly each time she had to stretch on tiptoe or drag a chair around. Next came the cleaning. By the time she was almost finished, it was late afternoon. She stood in the middle of the living room, exhausted and sweaty, a few stubborn cobwebs clinging to her sleeves. She pushed her hair off her forehead and noticed, through the newly cleaned windows, the unmistakable sight of grey clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Great,” she muttered, dragging the vacuum to a corner. She glanced up at the ceiling, half expecting to see a stain forming already. “Please, no leaks. Just this once, let me have some luck.” The wind outside began to pick up, rattling the loose shutter on the porch. She grimaced. The house might not be falling apart, but it wasn’t going to win any awards for weatherproofing either.

She pulled the last bag of cleaning supplies toward her, determined to finish what she could before the storm hit.

The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof accompanied her as she sat at the small kitchen table, nursing a simple dinner. Her arms ached pleasantly from the day’s cleaning spree, her newly functional lightbulbs casting a warm glow over the room. Despite the state of the house when she’d arrived, it felt more like a home now, or at least the beginning of one.

The rain grew heavier, drumming steadily against the windows as she finished eating and washed her dishes. With a satisfied sigh, she headed for the bathroom. The steamy warmth of the shower was a welcome reprieve, washing away the grime and fatigue of the day. She closed her eyes as the water cascaded down, her mind meandering to the list of things she still needed to tackle.

The porch needs fixing first. Maybe some paint for the walls. And that loose shutter... her lips curled into a soft, almost dreamy smile as her thoughts drifted to Bucky. She bit her lip, suppressing a laugh at herself. It had been a while since she’d had anyone to daydream about, and maybe it was just her exhaustion playing tricks on her. Clearly, she needed a break from all these romance novels. The irony wasn’t lost on her, spending her days proofreading swooning declarations and lingering glances wasn’t helping her sanity.

On the other side of town, the rain was more than just a backdrop for Bucky, it was a trigger, a reminder. He sat on the kitchen floor, his back pressed against the counter, cradling a bottle of scotch in one hand and absently flexing the fingers of his left arm with the other. The pain in his left arm wasn’t unbearable -he’d had worse- but the weather had settled into his bones.

One would think Afghanistan’s climate rarely saw rain, but he knew better. In the northern regions, heavy rains could flood entire valleys in minutes, turning the ground into treacherous mud. It wasn’t just the water he remembered, but the chaos it brought. Mud-caked boots slipping on uneven terrain. The deafening crack of gunfire cutting through the downpour. The screams of comrades who’d never make it out of the storm, swallowed by water and bullets alike.

He closed his eyes tightly, forcing the memories away, but the rain’s steady rhythm seemed determined to drag him back. He took a long swig from the bottle, the burn of the alcohol a poor distraction for his haunted mind.

And then, unbidden, he thought of her.

The way she’d smiled at him earlier today at Sam’s workshop. Like she was genuinely glad to see him. He shook his head sharply, scowling at himself. He didn’t deserve to think about her. Didn’t deserve to let himself linger on the way she’d looked at him with curiosity instead of judgment. He was a broken-down man who knew better than to let anyone get close. The rain’s rhythm matched the pounding in his head, and he rubbed his temple with a quiet groan. Thinking about her was a mistake, one he couldn’t afford to make.

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

The low hum of a truck pulling up broke the peaceful morning. She peeked out the window, spotting Sam hopping out with a clipboard in hand, a tape measure clipped to his belt. His easy smile greeted her as she opened the door.

“Morning,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Ready to figure out what your little slice of heaven here needs?”

She chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. “Let’s call it a fixer-upper and go from there.”

Sam gave a low whistle as he stepped onto the sagging porch. “First thing’s first, this baby needs a lot of love. I’m surprised it’s holding up at all.” He tapped one of the warped boards with his boot, and it creaked ominously.

“Well, that’s why you’re here,” she replied lightly, crossing her arms.

They walked the perimeter of the house as Sam scribbled notes on his clipboard, occasionally pausing to point out things that needed attention, a loose shutter here, a weathered doorframe there. He climbed the porch steps again, shaking his head. “You’re lucky nothing major’s out of whack, though this porch... Yeah, we’ll start here.”

She nodded, leaning against the railing -carefully-. “Sounds good. So, what’s next?”

Sam grinned, snapping the clipboard shut. “Now comes the fun part, asking nosy questions while I figure out how to turn this place into a proper home. Where’d you move from?”

“City,” she said, her gaze flicking to the overgrown yard. “Needed a change. Too much noise, too many people.”

He nodded like he understood perfectly. “Yeah, city life can wear you down. And what do you do for work? So that I know if I ever need something specific.”

“I’m a proofreader,” she replied. “Not exactly glamorous, but it lets me work from anywhere.”

He chuckled. “Sounds pretty glamorous to me. Living the dream: working in pajamas, no one to bother you.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Not quite. Deadlines don’t care if you’re in pajamas.”

“Fair point,” Sam said, scribbling something on his clipboard. He glanced at her casually. “Anyone special missing you back in the city?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, caught off guard. “Uh, no. Why?”

“No reason,” he said with an exaggerated shrug, flashing his most innocent grin. “We small-town folks are just naturally curious.” Satisfied, he tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Well,” he said, turning on the charm, “I’ll put together a plan for the porch and those other fixes we talked about. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Thanks, Sam,” she said, smiling warmly.

He tipped his imaginary hat again. “Happy to help.” As he walked back to his truck, he patted the clipboard storing every little detail she’d just shared. Oh, he’d have fun with this later.

Over the next few days, she found herself settling deeper into the rhythm of small-town life. Locals stopped to chat whenever she ran errands, and she was finally starting to remember their names. The house was slowly transforming under her care, each repair bringing it closer to what she remembered from her childhood summers.

And then there was Bucky. He was a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet. Quiet and guarded one moment, then unexpectedly kind the next. Their paths seemed to cross more often now. It wasn’t intentional, but each encounter left her feeling like she’d peeled back another layer of his carefully constructed wall.

The first time it happened, she was in the general store, arms full of cleaning supplies and pantry staples, along with a guilty indulgence or two. As she stepped into the checkout line, she spotted him just ahead of her with a modest basket of items, his broad shoulders blocking most of her view of the cashier.

As she shuffled forward, her eyes drifted to his basket. Among the practical items -bread, coffee, and what looked like a pack of nails- sat a brightly colored box of dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese.

She couldn’t help herself. “Didn’t peg you for the novelty pasta type.” She quipped lightly, a teasing smile curling her lips.

Bucky turned his head sharply, caught off guard. He glanced at the box, then back at her, a faint pink tinting his cheeks, as he muttered “They’re easy. And cheap.”

The combination of his flustered tone and stoic expression made her grin. “Hey, no judgment. Dinosaurs are awesome. I’d pick those over plain elbows any day.”

His lips twitched, just slightly, but enough to count. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, the faintest trace of a smirk softening his features.

The cashier rang up his items, and he moved through quickly, nodding politely as he passed her. But as she finished paying and struggled to balance her bags, she found him lingering outside near his truck.

“Need a hand?” he asked gruffly, though he was already moving toward her.

She hesitated for a moment before relenting. “If you don’t mind.”

Without a word, he scooped up the heaviest bags as if they weighed nothing. She blinked at the sight, muscles flexing under his worn henley.

“Thanks,” she said, slightly breathless, trying to keep up as he strode to her car.

“Welcome,” he said simply, setting the bags in her trunk with ease. His gaze flicked to her briefly, and he almost looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he just gave a curt nod and walked back to his truck.

It was only a few days later when they ran into each other again, this time at the post office. She had just picked up a package that was almost comically large, far too awkward for one person to handle easily. Balancing it against her hip, she tried to maneuver her way out of the building without dropping it, muttering a steady stream of curses under her breath.

Just as the box tilted precariously, a hand appeared to steady it, large and sure.

“Careful,” came the familiar low drawl.

She blinked, startled, and looked up into a pair of blue eyes she was starting to recognize all too well. “Thanks,” she said, exhaling in relief. “Starting to think you have impeccable timing.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile she was beginning to appreciate flickering across his face. “Just passing through.” He replied, shifting his grip on the package and effortlessly hoisting it up, carrying it like it weighed nothing at all.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” he stated simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He glanced at her car and walked toward it.

She trailed behind him as he easily strode with the package. By the time she unlocked the trunk, he deposited the box neatly inside, brushing his hands off quickly.

“Thanks,” she said again, feeling a little useless but sincerely grateful.

“It’s nothin’,” he replied, already stepping back. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than usual before he turned toward his truck, parked a few spaces down.

She watched him go, following the deliberate, measured way he moved. Just as he reached his door, she called out impulsively, “I owe you one, you know.”

He paused, glancing back at her with a quirk of his brow. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. And then he was gone, leaving her with a warm, unexpected feeling she carried all the way home.

The days that followed were quiet but productive. Between finishing work assignments, and tinkering with small projects around the house, she hardly noticed how much time she spent indoors until her eyes began to ache from staring at her laptop screen for hours on end.

One crisp morning, the allure of fresh air proved too strong to resist. She decided to take a walk in the woods, craving a change of scenery. It had been years since the last time she’d wandered those familiar paths, but she still remembered some of the trails from her childhood summers.

As she wandered along the narrow dirt trail, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden shafts painted the forest in a warm, serene glow. She hadn’t expected to encounter anyone out here, but the steady, rhythmic thwack of an axe meeting wood broke through the quiet, catching her attention.

Curiosity stirred, and before she could think better of it, she found herself following the sound, her footsteps light on the soft earth.

There he was, in a small clearing just off the trail, splitting logs with effortless precision. Bucky’s axe swung high before coming down in a clean arc, the sharp crack of splitting wood breaking the stillness. A neat pile of firewood grew beside him, while fresh rounds waited in a haphazard stack.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on his work, and she found herself lingering longer than she should have, watching the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt and how his hair stuck to his forehead.

When he finally glanced up and spotted her, her stomach flipped. His brows knit together in mild surprise, and he straightened, propping the axe against a nearby stump.

“You lost?” he asked, with a low and even voice, though his tone wasn’t unkind.

She stepped closer, shaking her head. “No, just wandering. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” he said, grabbing a rag from the pile and wiping his hands. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to piece together why she was there. “Trail gets tricky up ahead. Lots of roots and uneven ground.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, glancing around the clearing. “This your spot?”

He nodded once. “Helps to stay busy.”

She looked at the pile of wood, then back at him. “Looks like more than just ‘staying busy.’”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Winters here are rough.”

There was a pause, not quite awkward, but heavy. She shifted her weight, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s impressive. I mean, you make it look easy.”

“It’s not,” he said simply, picking up the axe again. “But you get used to it.”

She lingered, unsure if she should say more or let him get back to work. He tilted his head slightly, watching her with a curious expression.

“You like the woods?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “It’s peaceful out here. Different from the city.”

His gaze flicked back to the axe in his hand. “It is.” There was a weight to his words, hinting at something deeper than just the stillness of the woods, but she chose not to push.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” she said finally, offering him a polite nod.

“Careful on the trail,” he said again, his voice softer this time.

As she turned to leave, she couldn’t resist glancing back over her shoulder. He was already back to work, the axe slicing clean through another log. She bit her lip, shaking her head at herself as she continued down the trail.

He sighed. Winters are rough? That was the polite answer, the one people accepted without a second glance. The truth was darker, heavier. Every time the weight of old memories clawed at him -screams, chaos, the suffocating fear that came into walking a dark tunnel that could bury him alive- he found his solace in the rhythmic swing of an axe. Splitting firewood was his refuge, the repetitive motion carving out a rare emptiness in his mind.

He kept chopping, waiting until he was sure she wouldn’t glance back again. Then, he let himself linger, his eyes following her retreating form.

He was interested.

Shit.

Sam hadn’t been helping either, dropping “innocent” tidbits about her, like breadcrumbs, every time they crossed paths. How she worked from home. How she wasn’t seeing anyone. How she seemed to be settling in, though she was still getting used to small-town life. Bucky could tell Sam was trying to nudge him, but it only stirred something conflicted in him.

On one hand, he was drawn to her, from her curves to the way she smiled, also, the way her voice provoked a warmth in him he hadn’t felt in years. On the other hand, the thought of pursuing something -anything- good for himself felt... wrong. Like he didn’t deserve it.

And then there was the matter of simply not knowing how.

He was out of shape when it came to people. Always had been, even before life turned upside down. Now, with scars inside and out, the idea of approaching her felt like staring down at a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.

What would he even say? What would she think if she knew the mess he was?

Bucky swung the axe harder, the sharp crack of the log splitting echoing through the clearing. He flexed his fingers and tightened his jaw.

For now, all he could do was chop and hope the noise drowned out the voice in his head whispering that he wasn’t enough.

Over the next couple of months, the little town started to feel less like a temporary retreat and more like a place she could call home. The older women gushed over her porch restoration project and eagerly shared gardening tips, while the crowd closer to her age welcomed her into their fold with invitations for coffee dates or potluck dinners.

And then there was Bucky.

Though technically part of that age group, he was absent from most social gatherings. She couldn’t picture him at a potluck, anyway, sitting around sharing recipes or small talk. It just wasn’t him. Yet, in his own quiet way, he’d become more present in her life.

Bit by bit, he seemed to uncoil from whatever tension held him so tightly. He started to linger longer during their chance encounters, sometimes surprising them both with a dry, unexpected joke. Other times, he’d pitch in with simple acts of kindness, like carrying eventually heavy stuff to her car, or even fixing the wobbly step on her porch when Sam got busier and asked him to do it. He could have said no, but he still came, quietly getting the job done without any fanfare.

-----------

Then, the announcement of the annual town festival brought a new wave of excitement. It was the event of the season, where everyone came together to celebrate the town's founding. Without much hesitation, she signed up to contribute, deciding to sell pies and baked goods. Not only was it a way to contribute to the celebration, but it was also a chance to make a little extra income for the ongoing repairs to the house. The porch was done, but there was still plenty of work to do: fresh paint, creaky floorboards, and other little fixes that added up.

So, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The week leading up to the festival was a whirlwind of flour-dusted counters and the comforting aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. She tested each recipe to make sure they were just like her grandmother used to make.

The excitement of the upcoming festival settled over the town, and she felt like she was becoming part of something bigger, a tradition, a community.

Meanwhile, word had spread that she was setting up a booth to sell her pies. Sam, always the one to keep an ear to the ground, couldn't help but tease Bucky one morning while they were working on a new batch of supplies for the festival booths. They were building the structure for several of the vendors, and Bucky had come by to help with the heavier lifting, always lending a hand when needed.

“She’s doing a booth, huh?” Sam asked with a knowing grin as he hammered in a final nail. “Maybe you should swing by, get yourself a little sugar, hm?”

Bucky’s response was as sharp as ever. “Shut up, Wilson,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he worked, but Sam could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way he held himself a little straighter.

He stayed silent for a beat, focusing on the sturdy plank of wood he was planing down. The rhythmic scrape of the tool seemed to be the only thing keeping him calm. Sam, however, was never one to let a good opportunity slip by.

“I’m just saying,” Sam pressed on, leaning casually against the workbench, “she’s single, she’s sweet, and she seems to like you.” He smirked, his tone teetering on playful. “You could, y’know, take a shot. Maybe buy a pie while you’re at it. You can’t live on just dino-shaped mac and cheese.”

Bucky huffed a humorless laugh, setting the plane down with a bit more force than intended. “And what would I even say to her, huh? ‘Hi, I’m good at chopping wood and screwing things up.’ That’s a real winner.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You don’t have to lead with the self-deprecating monologue, man. Just... be you. You’re a good guy, Buck, even if you refuse to see it.” He straightened, resting a hand on his hip. “And she’s clearly got some interest. Not every woman looks at a guy like he’s the only steady thing in a storm.”

Bucky shot him a sharp look, the tips of his ears unmistakably pink. “She doesn’t-“

“Oh, she does,” Sam interrupted with a grin that widened at Bucky’s growing discomfort. “And you’d see it too if you didn’t spend so much time convincing yourself you’re not worth her attention.”

For a long moment, Bucky said nothing, his jaw tightening as he flexed his left hand, a tell Sam recognized far too well. Finally, he sighed, leaning his weight on the workbench. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Sam agreed, his tone softening. “But you don’t have to figure it all out today. Start small. Talk to her at the festival. Buy a pie. Hell, buy the whole booth if you have to.” He clapped Bucky on the shoulder, eliciting a grunt. “Just don’t let this pass you by.”

----------

The day of the festival arrived, and the town square buzzed with life. Booths lined the streets, each one bursting with local goods: handmade crafts, fresh produce, and jars of preserves. Children darted through the crowds, their faces painted like butterflies or superheroes, their laughter weaving through the cheerful hum of a local band playing in the distance.

Her booth stood out in its simplicity, decorated with gingham tablecloths and jars of freshly picked flowers from her garden. The pies were the centerpiece, their golden crusts glistening in the sunlight, flanked by trays of cookies and jars of homemade jam.

She adjusted the sign that read “Baked Goods – From Granny’s Recipe Box” and stepped back, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

The day unfolded in a whirlwind of chatter and laughter. Her booth was busier than she’d dared to hope, a steady stream of customers stopping to sample the pies or chat about the sign. Compliments came easily from the townsfolk, praising her buttery crusts and spiced fillings. Each kind word felt like a little victory, her heart swelling with the realization that she was becoming a part of the community.

The sun climbed higher into the sky, casting warm golden light over the bustling festival. Her booth remained busy, the stream of smiling faces keeping her occupied and distracted, though not enough to stop her from glancing through the crowd now and then.

By mid-afternoon, Sam strolled up, hands in his pockets and an easy grin on his face. "Well, well. Look at you, baking queen," he teased.

She laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Hardly. But I’ll take it. Want a slice?”

Sam leaned on the edge of the booth, scanning the offerings. “Tempting, but I might be here on more of a reconnaissance mission.”

Her brow lifted. “What kind of mission?”

“You know, checking in, seeing how you're doing, and maybe scouting for a certain broody lumberjack.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle.

“Let me guess, he sent you to grab a pie?” she joked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Bucky? Nah.” Sam’s grin dimmed slightly, and he gave a small shrug. “Didn’t see him around earlier. Honestly, he might not even show. Festivals aren’t really his thing.”

She tried to keep the disappointment off her face, focusing instead on adjusting a jar of jam on the table. Sam caught the subtle shift in her expression, his teasing smile softening.

“He’s around,” Sam said casually, leaning an elbow on the edge of the booth. “Bucky’s just… not much of a crowd guy. Give him time.”

Her fingers paused on the jar, but she didn’t look up. “I wasn’t-”

“Sure you weren’t,” Sam interrupted with a knowing grin. “But I wouldn’t hold it against him. People aren’t really his thing. Except, maybe, certain people.”

She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small smile despite herself. “And you’re just full of insight, aren’t you?”

“Hey, I’m just observin’.” He straightened up, grabbing a cookie from the tray. “And I’ll take one of these for the road. Festival’s not complete without snacks.”

She shook her head, amused as Sam strolled off, leaving her alone to greet the next customer.

The hours passed in a blur of chatter and sales, the sun dipping lower in the sky. She’d almost stopped scanning the square for him when, late in the afternoon, a familiar figure emerged.

Bucky walked slowly, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking over the booths like he wasn’t sure where to go. Then he spotted her. His shoulders straightened, and their eyes met across the square. For a moment, neither moved. Then, with an almost sheepish hesitation, he started toward her.

Each step closer felt like a mistake, and yet he didn’t stop. His eyes took in the sight of her booth, tidy and charming, and then her. She wore a casual dress under a cardigan, and a frilly apron tied neatly around her waist, the image of a vintage housewife. The dress fit snugly at her chest, the fabric pulling slightly when she moved to rearrange something on the table. It wasn’t anything overly revealing, but it didn’t matter; all of the visual information seemed to bypass his brain entirely and head directly to the south. He swallowed hard, trying to redirect his focus before he embarrassed himself.

“Hey,” he said when he reached the booth, his voice a little softer than he intended. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the display of pies and jars before forcing himself to meet her eyes.

“Hi,” she replied, her face lighting up in a way that made the whole awkward journey worth it.

“I, uh... thought I’d stop by,” he continued, the words fumbling slightly as he fought the urge to retreat. “Looks like business is good.” He gestured vaguely at the booth, trying to seem casual, though his pulse was anything but.

“It’s been steady,” she said, her smile warm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

Her words made him hesitate, but only briefly. He nodded toward the pies, his lips twitching into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about.”

“And?” she asked, a playful glint in her eye. “Are you finding the fuss justified?”

He looked at her then, his gaze lingering in a way that made her shift her weight slightly. His lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Seen a few tempting products,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing.

Was that... a double meaning? She wasn’t sure, but the way her stomach flipped at his tone left her biting her lip to suppress a smile.

“Well,” she said, leaning slightly against the booth, “what might you be interested in, then?”

“Got any plum jam?” he asked after a moment, his eyes scanning the jars displayed on the table.

She winced apologetically. “Sorry, sold out this morning. It’s a popular one.”

He gave a small nod, not seeming too put out. “Guess I’ll settle for a slice of apple pie, then.”

“You won’t regret it,” she said, quickly cutting a generous slice and placing it in a little paper dish. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed briefly, a small, electric jolt of contact that she tried not to overthink.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze flickering back to hers for a split second before focusing intently on the pie. He took a bite, and the deep, guttural groan that escaped him had her blinking in surprise, and then staring at him, very much not with pure thoughts.

Her gaze dropped helplessly to his mouth, where a small dollop of apple mush clung stubbornly to the corner of his lips. Oh, how she’d love to help him clean that up, maybe even by lapping it up herself. The thought had her throat going dry. “Uh, you have... there,” she managed, signaling to her own mouth because words failed her entirely.

He frowned slightly, his thumb swiping at his lips. When he missed, she gave a quick, stifled laugh, shaking her head and pointing more precisely. His next attempt was successful, and when he scooped the apple filling with his thumb and licked it clean off, her breath caught.

That should be illegal.

“Damn,” he said, glancing down at the pie with newfound respect. “Guess you can marry now.”

She blinked, startled. “What?”

His ears reddened as he fumbled for an explanation, suddenly realizing how strange that sounded. “Uh... my ma used to say... I mean, like, if a woman could cook well, she’d be ready for marriage, or something… uh, forget it.” He waved a hand, suddenly looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“Oh no,” she said, crossing her arms and quirking a brow, her lips twitching in amusement. “Now I really want to know what your ma used to say.”

“My ma used to say,” he admitted reluctantly, “a woman who can bake a pie like this could keep a man happy for life.”

As the words left his mouth, he realized -really realized- what he’d just said. Bringing up marriage, even indirectly, in what was supposed to be casual conversation? A new low, even for him. His inward grimace was immediate, a mortifying mix of regret and disbelief at his own lack of subtlety.

She blinked at him, her head tilting slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Well,” she said slowly, the edge of her lip quirking up, “Bet she was the kind of person who made everyone feel at home.”

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, she... she was something.” Hoping to steer the moment away from the awkward territory he’d stumbled into, he gestured vaguely to the booth. “Anyway, uh... pie’s great. Really.”

“Thanks, Bucky. I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my granny’s best recipes.” She smiled warmly

He nodded, his lips twitching into something close to a smile. “She taught you well.”

That earned a soft laugh from her. “Yeah, she’d make me practice until I got it just right. Burned a lot of pies before this one.”

The conversation lingered as they eased into a rhythm, the earlier tension giving way to something more relaxed. She asked about his work, curious about how he supplied Sam with lumber, and he surprised her by sharing a bit more than usual talking about the care it took to choose the right trees and how the process wasn’t just chopping wood but understanding the forest itself.

“You make it sound like an art,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Guess it kinda is,” he admitted. “You’ve gotta respect it. If you don’t, it shows in the work.”

Before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, cutting through their moment like a buzz saw.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!”

Sam’s broad grin was radiant as he strolled up to the booth, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

Bucky groaned softly, his shoulders slumping a fraction as if bracing himself for whatever teasing was about to come. “What do you want, Sam?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Sam said breezily, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Just thought I’d check in, maybe grab some pie, see what’s happening over here.” He smirked. “Looks like I picked the right booth.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Careful, Sam. You’re gonna run me out of inventory if you keep showing up.”

Sam leaned on the counter, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m here only to make sure Bucky doesn’t scare off your customers with his broody face.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam only shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Actually, Buck, some of the people are starting to pack up. We should get a head start on breaking down everything so tomorrow’s not such a hassle,” Sam continued, his tone shifting to business mode. “Don’t give me that look, I'm not the one who strolled in here right before closing time.”

Bucky sighed but didn’t argue. “Right, right,” he muttered but didn’t seem eager to leave just yet.

She chuckled softly at their dynamic, watching as Sam started to organize a few things, seemingly trying to speed up the process of wrapping up.  “Well then, I’ll just get the last of these pies packed up.” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it a little easier on yourself if you let us take a couple of those home,” Sam said with a grin, his eyes scanning the remaining trays. “For later, of course. Can’t let all this deliciousness go to waste.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on the last few slices, making it clear he wasn’t about to pass up on some baked goods.

“Yeah, well, I suppose you’re right,” she said, laughing. “Guess you both deserve some for your hard work on the structures.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Sam said, grinning as he reached for the remaining slices of pie. “Besides,” he said, gesturing toward Bucky, “look at him. He must be starving. You don’t know the amount of food it takes to keep all that going.”

Bucky froze mid-chew, his fork hovering just above the plate, and gave Sam a pointed look, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What?” Sam shrugged innocently, though his smirk said otherwise. “It’s true. You’re always munching on something. Remember last week? Three sandwiches in one sitting, and you still stole my fries.”

Bucky’s glare sharpened, but it only fueled Sam’s amusement. “You ate half my wings, Wilson,” Bucky said dryly, his tone low and unimpressed.

“Details,” Sam said with a wave of his hand, his grin not fading. “Point is, you’ve got the appetite of a bear coming out of hibernation. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t go hungry.”

She laughed as she placed the box of pies on the counter. “Well, I can’t have that on my conscience,” she teased. “Take as many slices as you need, Bucky. We’ll call it a public service.”

Bucky shifted on his feet, his gaze darting between her and the pies. The faintest flush crept up his neck as he mumbled, “Thanks,” and slid another slice of pie onto his plate. His eyes lingered on the cookies for a moment before he reached for one, his movements a little hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how much was too much.

“You sure?” he asked, glancing up at her, his voice quieter now.

She smiled warmly, waving off his concern. “Positive. Consider it payment for all the heavy lifting.”

He huffed a low laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what could almost be called a smile. “Appreciate it,” he said, his words rough but sincere.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, almost making Bucky drop the cookie. “Alright, big guy, let’s get out of her way before you clean her out completely.

Bucky shot him a half-hearted glare but allowed Sam to steer him toward a cluster of tables nearby, his plate balanced carefully in one hand.

She watched them go, her lips curving into a smile as Sam said something that made Bucky shake his head in exasperation.

With a deep breath, she turned back to finish packing up, though her gaze flicked toward their working spot every now and then.

That night, she lay in bed, the exhaustion of the festival weighing her body down but leaving her mind buzzing. Every detail of the day replayed like a film reel, but one moment stood out above all: Bucky and his awkward, utterly endearing comment about marriage.

She groaned, burying her flushed face into her pillow like a teenager. Guess you can marry now. The memory of his hesitant, almost panicked attempt to explain himself made her toes curl, not in secondhand embarrassment but in something far warmer, more thrilling. And the way he’d looked at her as he said it... that fleeting vulnerability, his ears burning red. She shook her head, biting her lip against a smile.

An idea came to her mind while sipping her morning coffee, staring at the half-empty box of baked goods and preserves she hadn’t packed into the car the day before. She’d thought she was carrying too much, but now she saw what she’d left behind: two jars of plum jam. The very ones Bucky had wanted at the festival but hadn’t been able to get.

She turned one jar in her hand, smiling faintly. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do, a small gesture to thank him for all the ways he’d helped her. A friendly token, nothing more. The thought made her nerves tingle anyway.

Shoving those thoughts aside, she packed the jars into her backpack, laced up her boots, and headed out. She made her way toward the spot where she’d found him last time, the rhythmic thwack of his axe cutting through wood still vivid in her memory. She tried not to feel disappointed when the clearing came into view and she didn’t see him right away, but then a faint rustling sound caught her attention.

Bucky was there, further back, crouched near a stack of neatly cut logs, inspecting a wedge that had splintered unevenly. He looked so at ease in his element, that she almost turned back. But then he shifted, his head tilting slightly as if he’d heard her approach.

“Hey,” she called, her voice lighter than intended.

He stood, turning to face her. His brow furrowed slightly in surprise, but it softened quickly. “Hey.”

“I, uh...” She adjusted her backpack strap, suddenly feeling awkward for tracking him down like this. “I had some leftovers from the festival, and I remembered you wanted plum jam. Turns out I had two jars I didn’t even bring.” She opened the backpack and pulled them out, offering them with a tentative smile. “Figured I’d bring them to you as a thank-you for all the times you’ve helped me out.”

Bucky stared at the jars, his expression unreadable at first, but then his lips tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said, shrugging lightly. “But I wanted to. It’s just jam, anyway.”

“Just jam,” he repeated, taking the jars from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly. He glanced at the labels, then back at her. “Thanks. Really.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, feeling breathless under his intense gaze. She stuffed her hands into her knitted jacket pockets, trying to play it cool. “Hope it’s as good as my pies.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile appearing again. “Guess I’ll have to let you know.” For a moment, neither of them moved, then he cleared his throat, gesturing toward the logs behind him. “You walked all the way out here just for this?” he asked, slightly lifting his brow.

“Pretty much, yeah,” she admitted, her voice softening as a hint of shyness crept in. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how much effort she’d put into this small gesture.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, “That’s... thoughtful of you.”

Her cheeks warmed under his quiet scrutiny, but she forced a casual shrug. “Well, I figured it beats letting them collect dust in my pantry.”

“Still,” he murmured, “thanks. Means a lot.”

“You’re welcome. I, uh...” She glanced at the jars in his hands, suddenly unsure of herself. “I won’t take more of your time. Just wanted to...” She gestured vaguely toward the jam, the movement almost bashful.

Bucky’s gaze softened, his grip tightening slightly around the jars. Before she could step away, he called after her, his voice rough yet almost hesitant. “Hey.”

She turned back, catching the flicker of something earnest in his expression.

“Thanks again,” he said simply, holding up the jars slightly.

Her smile softened, more genuine now. “Anytime.”

Bucky stood there for a long moment after she left, staring at the jars in his hands. The deep, rich purple of the jam glinted faintly in the sunlight filtering through the trees, but his mind wasn’t on the contents. It was on her. The way her voice had faltered, the slight hesitance in her movements when she handed them to him, like she wasn’t sure if he’d even want them.

Why the hell wouldn’t I? he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. He shifted the jars to one hand, his free one dragging down his face. Damn it.

The easy confidence he used to have, -the kind that once let him charm anyone he wanted- was long gone, worn away by years of service that had left their mark on his body and mind. His scars, both visible and hidden, weren’t just marks; they were reminders of a life split into before and after. He set the jars carefully on a stump, picking up his axe again and turning back to the log he’d been working on.

The first swing came down harder than necessary, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack.

What if Sam was right? What if she really did like him? What the hell would he even do with that? He couldn’t imagine someone like her -a woman who baked pies for town festivals and brought plum jam out to the woods- being happy with someone like him. Someone who carried more baggage than he knew how to unpack.

The axe came down again, the sharp sound echoing through the clearing.

She deserved better than someone like him. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t wake up in cold sweats or flinch at loud noises. Someone who could stand in a crowd without feeling like the walls were closing in. He couldn’t even have a simple conversation without fumbling over his words like a damn teenager.

Another swing and the log finally gave way, splitting clean in two. He adjusted the pieces and started again, the rhythmic motion grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled.

And yet... there she was, walking through the woods just to give him something she thought he’d like. Her smile was genuine, her laugh soft, and for a moment, it had felt almost normal, like maybe he wasn’t the broken mess he’d convinced himself he was.

Don’t kid yourself.

The axe paused mid-air as his gaze flickered to the jars again. She wasn’t just being polite, was she? There had been something in her eyes, something he didn’t know how to name but felt keenly.

God, I used to be good at this, he thought, lowering the axe and resting his hands on the handle. Before everything went to hell, before the nightmares and the scars and the sense of being completely out of place in a world that had moved on without him, he’d known how to read people. Known how to charm them.

Now, he couldn’t even tell if the kindest gesture he’d received in years was just... friendliness.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the axe. He had no answers, only doubts, and a feeling in his gut that maybe, just maybe, he was about to screw this up like he did everything else.

----------

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains as she sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. She rubbed her temples and glared at the screen, rereading the same sentence for what felt like the hundredth time. The latest manuscript she was proofreading was a Highlander romance, complete with a Marie Sue, a couple of brawny warriors, and more plaid than a fabric store. It wasn’t that she disliked the genre, but this one was so cliché-ridden it was almost impressive.

“And then his emerald eyes bore into hers, as if he could see the depths of her soul,” she read aloud, her tone dry. She let out a groan, rolling her eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. “Of course he did.”

Still, it paid the bills. She took a sip of her now lukewarm tea and leaned back, debating whether to power through or take a break. That’s when a knock sounded at the door.

Her brows furrowed. Dorothy, the old lady he met at the general store, had mentioned bringing over some plant bulbs today, and it was her signature to show up unannounced. Closing the laptop with a sigh of relief at the distraction, she stood and padded to the door.

“Dorothy, you didn’t have to-” she began, opening the door with a welcoming smile, only to have the words die in her throat.

It wasn’t Dorothy.

Bucky stood there, one hand gripping a well-worn toolbox and the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jeans. The red henley he wore was snug enough to highlight the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest, but not enough to look like he was trying. His hair was slightly mussed, as if the wind had tussled it just before he knocked, and the faintest hint of stubble shadowed his jaw.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She blinked, her surprise evident, while he cleared his throat and offered a small, almost sheepish nod.

“Hey,” he said, his deep voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. “I, uh... remembered you mentioned during the festival needing to fix a couple of roof tiles.” He lifted the toolbox slightly as if to emphasize his purpose. “Thought I’d stop by and take care of it. For the jam.”

It was a perfectly logical explanation, but the sight of him on her porch, looking like an ad for rustic competence, left her momentarily speechless.

She groaned inwardly, the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck as she registered her current state, an old pair of sweatpants and an even older shirt with a faded logo, complete with a jam stain right across the bosom. Great. Just great.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she finally managed, her voice brushing off the initial surprise as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Bucky shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, easy smile. “Figured I owed you one. Besides, it’s no trouble.”

Despite herself, her lips quirked in a smile as she stepped aside and gestured toward the side of the house. “Well, okay then. The tiles that need fixing are just over there.”

He nodded, his movements purposeful but unhurried, as he turned toward his truck. “I’ll grab my ladder and get started.”

As he walked away, she shut the door with a quiet click and let out a soft exhale, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool wood. A glance down at her outfit made her wince. Nope. There was no way she was standing out there in this while Bucky Barnes fixed her roof looking like a walking ad for rugged, small-town charm.

She bolted for her room, tearing through her wardrobe with newfound urgency. A simple casual dress with a V neckline and cardigan was the winning combo, comfortable enough for an impromptu chat but still presentable. She smoothed the fabric over her hips and checked her reflection in the mirror, brushing her hair back into place before heading back to the living room.

The faint clink of metal outside signaled that Bucky was already at work. Feeling slightly more put-together, she made her way to the kitchen to make some lemonade, hoping she didn’t look like she was trying too hard.

Once the lemonade was ready, she poured a glass, her movements steady as she tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a neighborly gesture to bring him something cool while he worked. Absolutely no ulterior motives, she told herself firmly, ignoring the tiny thrill that ran through her at the thought of talking to him again.

After tidying up a few things to stall for time, she finally stepped outside, the lemonade glass balanced carefully in her hand. The sun had warmed the air, and she spotted Bucky perched on the ladder, one boot firmly planted on a lower rung as he worked to secure a tile.

“Hey,” she called out lightly, making her way toward him.

He glanced down, his hands pausing mid-adjustment. His gaze caught on her new outfit, lingering for a moment before flicking back to her face. She wasn’t imagining it, the slight shift in his expression was hard to miss.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious under his sharp blue eyes, she offered the glass with a small smile. “Thought you might want something to drink.” Then, in a rush of nervous energy, she added, “Dorothy was supposed to drop by, so I figured I should look a little more... put together.”

His gaze flickered briefly to the neckline of her dress, the height of his vantage point affording a view to skin that other way should be concealed by cloth. For a split second, his focus lingered on the swell of her breasts before he forced his attention back to her face with an unreadable expression.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, reaching down to take the glass. His fingers brushed hers for a fraction of a second, the callouses rough against her skin, and she fought the urge to shiver at the contact.

“You’re, uh, making good progress,” she said, nodding toward the roof as if that would distract from the warmth in her cheeks.

“Not much to it,” he replied, taking a sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, and her eyes dipped of their own accord, watching the movement.

When he handed the glass back, their fingers brushed again, and she swore his hand lingered just a moment longer this time.

She lingered by the ladder, holding her glass of lemonade, the condensation cool against her fingers. “You and Sam did a great job building the booths for the festival,” she said, her tone casual. “Not only a provider, huh? Seems like you’re quite the handyman too.”

Bucky glanced down at her, his lips twitching into a faint smile before he focused back on the tile he was securing. “It wasn’t just us. Plenty of other guys helped out.”

“Still,” she insisted, watching the muscles in his forearms shift as he worked, “it’s cool. You don’t see that kind of dedication every day.”

He didn’t respond right away, his grip tightening on the hammer. The compliment clearly unsettled him, and for a split second, his aim wavered. The hammer came down too close to his thumb, and he muttered a sharp curse under his breath.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer instinctively. Her brows knit together with concern as she watched him shake out his hand.

“Peachy,” he muttered with a gruff voice, though the faint pink creeping up his neck gave away his frustration, whether from the near miss or her watchful presence, she wasn’t sure.

Her lips twitched at his tone, but she held back a laugh, not wanting to poke the bear. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it before I distract you into taking off a finger.”

He glanced down at her, his blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re not a distraction,” he said after a beat, his voice softer this time.

Her stomach did a little flip, but she forced herself to keep her tone light. “Still, I’d hate to be the reason you get hurt. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

He gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned back to his work, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

She stepped back toward the house, clutching the empty glass tightly as she crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her.

With a deep breath, she returned to the couch, her laptop waiting for her where she’d left it. But even as she opened the screen and stared down the next line of plaid-covered Highlander melodrama, her thoughts drifted back to the man on her roof and the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.

---------

The knock at the door startled her out of the repetitive loop of her manuscript edits. Leaving the laptop on the coffee table, she stood, smoothing the fabric of her dress instinctively. When she opened the door, there he was, a faint sheen of sweat on his face and his toolbox in hand.

“All done,” Bucky said, his deep voice a little quiet, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to say more. He gestured vaguely toward the roof with his free hand. “The tiles should hold up fine now. No leaks to worry about.”

Her smile was warm as relief and gratitude washed over her. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That was so kind of you to come by and take care of it.”

He gave a small shrug, his lips twitching into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t take long. Figured it’d save you some hassle.”

“Still,” she said, stepping back to open the door wider, “you didn’t have to. Can I at least get you something? Another drink, maybe?”

He hesitated, his hand tightening slightly on the handle of the toolbox. “You don’t have to-”

“I insist,” she cut him off gently, her smile unwavering. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”

After a beat, he nodded, stepping over the threshold with a cautious ease, as if unsure of how much space he was allowed to take up. She led him to the kitchen, motioning for him to sit at the small table while she poured a fresh glass of lemonade.

He sat stiffly, setting his toolbox carefully by his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and sugar, a scent that mingled oddly with the outdoorsy hint of sawdust and sweat he carried with him.

“Here,” she said, placing the glass in front of him before sitting across the table. “I hope it’s still cold enough.”

Bucky nodded his thanks, taking a sip. The silence stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable but loaded with unspoken thoughts. She was the first to break it.

“So, how long have you been working with Sam?” she asked, leaning her arms casually on the table.

He set the glass down, his fingers lingering on the rim as he answered. “A few years. Helps keep me busy.”

She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. “Do you supply the rest of the workshops and stores too?”

Bucky let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Not really, just a few. Don’t think anyone’s lining up to hire a guy like me.”

Her brows knit together. “I don’t know about that. You’re dependable, skilled... and clearly a good neighbor.”

Her words caught him off guard, and he looked down, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Just doing what needs to be done,” he mumbled.

“More than that,” she pressed, a hint of teasing in her tone now to lighten the moment. “If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t believe how fast you fixed those tiles.”

Bucky shook his head, his lips twitching into that barely-there smile again. “It’s just a roof.”

“To you, maybe,” she said lightly. “To me, it’s one less thing to worry about. And I really appreciate it.”

Her sincerity left him quiet for a moment, his fingers tightening briefly around the glass. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said finally, with a low voice.

Another pause lingered between them, she smiled, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Well, if you ever need more jam -or a roof to fix- you know where to find me.”

He chuckled softly, the sound surprising even himself. “Guess I’ll keep that in mind.”

Their gazes held for just a beat too long before he stood, his hand already reaching for the toolbox. “I should get going.”

“Of course,” she said, standing as well, though she didn’t move to rush him out. “Thanks again, Bucky.”

As Bucky made his way toward the door, his gaze swept briefly over the living room, pausing on the open laptop resting on the coffee table. His steps slowed, curiosity flickering across his features. “What’s that you’re working on?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.

She followed his gaze and let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Oh, just... proofreading a manuscript.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “What kind of manuscript?”

Her lips parted as if she might dodge the question, but his steady, inquisitive look made it clear he wasn’t letting this one go. “It’s, uh... a romance,” she admitted, her voice almost shy.

His brow lifted a little higher. “About?”

She hesitated, fidgeting slightly under his gaze. “It’s... okay, it’s one of those super cheesy historical romances. You know, with a rugged Highlander and a maid who’s swept up in some dramatic, forbidden love affair.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, her cheeks warming as she spoke.

Bucky’s expression shifted. First skeptical, then mildly amused, and finally landing somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. “And that sells?”

“It’s a very popular topic,” She nodded, already cringing inwardly. “It’s... well, it’s got a lot of dramatic tension, flowery descriptions, and... other stuff.”

“Like what?” he asked, genuinely curious, his head tilting slightly as he leaned against the doorframe.

She bit the inside of her cheek, debating how much detail to share. “You know... dramatic misunderstandings, passionate declarations, epic sword fights... and, uh...” She trailed off, waving her hand vaguely. “Other... things.”

“Other things,” he repeated, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You mean... the spicy stuff?”

Her cheeks flamed, and she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Yes, okay? That stuff. Happy now?”

He chuckled making her peek at him from behind her fingers. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d spend their day reading about shirtless Highlanders sweeping maids off their feet.”

“I don’t spend my day reading it,” she shot back, lowering her hands to glare at him, though her expression was more embarrassed than angry. “I’m proofreading. There’s a difference.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “So you’re not secretly daydreaming about a plaid-wearing, hero coming to whisk you away?”

“Absolutely not,” she replied firmly, though the faint crack in her voice betrayed her mortification.

He smirked, finally stepping back from the doorframe. “Good to know.”

She crossed her arms, watching him as he moved toward his toolbox. “Not that you’re one to judge,” she called after him. “You seem to know an awful lot about what goes on in those books for someone who’s never read one.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He turned back, his gaze narrowing slightly, though there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I have a sister,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

Her mouth opened, then shut, caught off guard. “Touché,” she murmured, conceding the point. Still, she couldn’t let it rest. “But honestly, this one is so bad, I don’t get how the editors went along with it.”

His curiosity piqued, and Bucky tilted his head. “And why’s that?”

“It’s just... so cheesy,” she said, her voice dipping with exaggerated drama. “Way too fluffy, the guy won’t stop talking about his feelings, and he’s clingy in a way that makes me cringe.” She shuddered a little for effect.

Bucky raised a brow, his thumb absently tapping against the handle of the toolbox. “So... that makes it bad for the genre? Or is that your personal taste talking?”

She blinked, thrown off by the question. “I-what?”

“I mean,” he continued, leaning casually against the doorframe, “aren’t romance novels supposed to be... you know, emotional? Feelings and all that? Or is it just not your thing?”

She frowned, his thoughtful tone making her pause. “I guess... it’s not the emotions that bother me,” she admitted, her arms crossing loosely. “It’s the way it’s written. This guy is just so... over the top. He’s constantly swooning over her, saying how she’s his whole world, his sun and stars... it’s too much. Like, tone it down, man.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, and he gave a small, thoughtful nod as if chewing over her words. “So, you’re more into the... brooding types?”

Her face warmed slightly at the observation, but she shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. I like characters who... don’t lay it all out at once. You know, someone with a little mystery.”

A long silence stretched between them, his gaze lingering on her as if trying to read between the lines. “Sounds like it’d be tough to figure out what they’re thinking.” He observed.

She raised a brow at that, tilting her head. “Sometimes actions speak louder than words, you know.”

Bucky seemed to consider that, his fingers flexing lightly around the handle of his toolbox. He nodded once, then glanced toward the door. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your... highlander drama.” He shifted his weight, toolbox in hand, and turned toward the door. But as he stepped through, he hesitated, glancing back. “Hey,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost hesitant. “If, uh... if you ever need something else, just let me know.”

She smiled “I will. The same goes for you, thanks again.”

He nodded, a small, almost shy tilt of his head, before stepping fully out the door. She stood there for a moment, staring after him as the faint crunch of his boots faded down the path. The quiet of her house enveloped her as she closed the door, replaying snippets of their conversation.

She had barely made it back to the couch when her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a text from Sam:

Hey, I’m grilling tonight. You should come by. No excuses.

A smile tugged at her lips. The idea of stepping out, getting off her screen, and being around people sounded better than staying cooped up with plaids and cringy lairds. She quickly texted back her agreement.

The gathering was small, just a handful of locals chatting around the glow of the garden lights and the firepit, the scent of burning wood mingling with spiced cider in the air.

She wasn’t expecting to see Bucky there, given he wasn’t the social type but there he was, standing slightly apart from the crowd, his hands shoved into his pockets as he listened to a conversation between Sam and another neighbor.

She hesitated, her pulse quickening at the sight of him. Sam spotted her, waving her over. “Hey, glad you made it! C’mon, grab a drink.”

She made her way to the table laden with snacks and drinks, feeling Bucky’s gaze on her as she poured herself some cider. When she turned, he was standing just a few steps away, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a touch breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

His lips quirked in a half-smile. “Sam can be... persuasive.”

She laughed softly “Yeah, he’s good at that.”

They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, and then, as someone started strumming a guitar on the other side of the yard, Bucky glanced at her, his blue eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place.

“Walk with me?” he asked, with a low but steady voice.

Surprised, she nodded, and they left the noise and light of the gathering behind, stepping into the quiet shadows of the trees that bordered Sam’s property.

As they walked, the only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant chords of the guitar. Finally, he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began with a cautious tone like he was testing the waters. “About what you said earlier. About liking... brooding characters.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

His gaze stayed forward, but his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Got me wondering if you really meant that. Or if you were just... making conversation.” The vulnerability in his voice sent a wave of warmth through her.

“I wasn’t just making conversation,” she admitted softly.

He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. The firelight was distant now, casting only the faintest glow, but she could still see the intensity in his expression. “Good,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Because I don’t want to keep wondering.”

Before she could respond, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers, tentative but deliberate. And when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin as his lips captured hers in a kiss that was both hesitant and deeply certain, as if he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than he dared to admit.

She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. That small gesture gave him all the permission he needed. Tilting his head, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, a gentle yet deliberate request. She parted her lips for him, granting entrance, and he deepened the kiss with a low, quiet sigh that sent warmth spiraling through her.

His hand slid to the curve of her lower back, pulling her closer, while the other found its way to her nape. His fingers tangled gently in her hair as he cradled her. Their kiss broke slowly, reluctantly, his lips brushing hers one last time as if he couldn’t quite let go. Bucky lingered close, his breath warm against her cheek, his nose skimming along her jaw before dipping to her neck. He pressed his face there, inhaling deeply, and his quiet, teasing voice sent a shiver down her spine.

“This too clingy for you?”

A soft laugh escaped her, though it dissolved into a breathy sigh as she tilted her head, exposing more of her neck to him. “Shut up,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair, keeping him close. Whatever witty retort she might have had melted into nothing as he pressed a lingering kiss to her pulse point.

Bucky’s lips lingered against her neck for a moment longer before he pulled back just enough to look at her. His fingers at her nape flexed, and then his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. Her heart stuttered as he closed the distance again, this time more demanding. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was deeper and hungrier. Gone was the tentative sweetness, this was need, raw and unrestrained. His hand slid from her lower back to her hip, splaying wide, pulling her flush against him as if he needed to eliminate even the smallest gap between them.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, throaty sound from him that sent a thrill through her. She arched into him instinctively, and his hand slid down to the hem of her dress, his fingers brushing her bare thigh. His touch was deliberate, teasing, but his restraint was evident. Her hands left his hair, sliding down to his chest, the soft flannel brushing her palms before she gripped the fabric and tugged him closer. He responded instantly, groaning softly into her mouth as the hand on her nape angled her tighter against his lips.

When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingling in the charged silence, he pressed his forehead to hers. Neither of them moved to step away, the distant chatter and laughter around the grill fading into the background. The weight of unspoken need between them was palpable.

“We should...” she started, her voice catching slightly. Then, more firmly, “We should go somewhere.”

His head lifted slightly, blue eyes dark as he searched hers for a beat before a slow smile tugged at his lips, agreeing with a low voice.

Without another word, he took her hand, intertwining their fingers briefly before leading her away. They drifted toward the edge of the yard with casual ease, their steps slow enough to avoid suspicion but quick enough to betray their shared urgency. Once they’d slipped into the cover of the trees bordering Sam’s property, she turned to him, their bodies close in the dim light of the evening. “Your truck or...?”

Bucky’s brows shot up at the suggestion, and for a moment, the idea tempted him, briefly, wildly. Considering the insistent ache in his jeans, the thought held undeniable appeal. But then, reason settled over him like a cool breeze. Not like this. Not tonight.

His lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, and he leaned in just enough that his voice sent a shiver through her. “Your place,” he murmured, low and deliberate.

The shift in his tone left her breathless, her pulse hammering against her skin as her cheeks warmed. She nodded wordlessly, her hand tightening slightly around his as they moved with quiet purpose. The path back to her house felt electric, each step charged with anticipation.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Bucky turned sharply, cornering her against the solid wood. His hands framed her face as his lips captured hers again, more demanding this time, his body pressing into hers with a heat that left no room for misinterpretation. She gasped softly into the kiss, the feel of his hardon against her stomach sending a jolt of desire through her.

Her fingers tangled in his long hair, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat. The sound vibrated between them, primal and electrifying. He broke the kiss just enough to murmur, his voice gravelly, “Where’s the bedroom?”

She pointed vaguely down the hall, her breath hitching. Before she could blink, his strong hands were gripping her waist, and he effortlessly threw her over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

A surprised squeal left her lips, and she braced herself against his back, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. His hand splayed firmly over her rear to steady her, his voice teasing but thick with intent. “Easy there,” he said, the words curling with a hint of amusement.

He strode purposely through the hallway, and when they reached the bedroom, he set her down on the bed with surprising care, though his gaze was anything but gentle. He stood over her for a moment, taking her in, the way her hair fell wild around her face, her lips swollen from his kisses, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.

His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his eyes darkened. “Damn,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with hunger, “you’re a sight.”

She shifted slightly under his intense stare, a flicker of shyness creeping in her despite her arousal. The way he looked at her, so unapologetically hungry, made her feel exposed. His lips quirked slightly as if sensing her hesitation, and he leaned down, his hand coming to rest against her jaw.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less intent.

She nodded, her breath hitching as his thumb brushed along her cheek. “Yeah,” she whispered.

“Good,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint smile before he kissed her again. This time, it was slower, deeper, his tongue sweeping against hers in a way that left her clinging to him, her earlier shyness melting into the heat of his touch.

Her fingers found his shirt, tugging at the hem, and he pulled back just enough to strip it off, tossing it aside without ceremony. The scars on his chest and arm caught the dim light, but the confidence in his gaze never wavered as he leaned back in, his hands sliding down her sides with deliberate, teasing slowness.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as her eyes roamed over him, the sheer breadth of his chest and the powerful arms flexing with restrained strength. He was a bear of a man, solid and unrelenting, and she loved every bit of it.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and rough, his fingers deftly popping open the buttons of her dress one by one. “I love seeing you in these dresses and skirts.” His lips quirked into a wicked grin, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “Makes it so damn easy to get under them. Have my way with you.”

Her cheeks burned at his words, a mixture of arousal and shyness bubbling to the surface. “Bucky...” she breathed, but her protest was feeble at best, especially as he continued his slow, deliberate assault, parting the fabric of her dress to expose more of her skin.

“That one you wore at the festival,” he went on, his tone darkening with heat as he leaned closer, his lips grazing her collarbone. “That vintage-looking thing? Sweetheart, it drove me crazy.”

She gasped softly as his hands slid over her hips, his thumbs tracing patterns against her bare skin. “Crazy how?” she managed to ask, her voice trembling under the weight of his attention.

He let out a low, throaty chuckle, his lips trailing down to the swell of her breasts. “Crazy enough to want to bend you over the booth table,” he murmured, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin, “and fuck you right there. Pies, jam… didn’t care. Would’ve made a mess of it all just to get my hands on you.”

A desperate whimper slipped past her lips as heat pooled low in her belly. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly.

He growled softly at the sensation, pressing her back against the bed. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress and tugged it down her arms, exposing her fully to his gaze. “But we’ve got all the time we want now,” he said, his voice rough, his lips curving into a predatory smile. “And I plan to take my damn time.”

Her pussy clenched with anticipation as her mind whirled, trying to reconcile the quiet, awkward man she’d come to know with this unabashedly vocal, commanding version of him. It was as though he’d been holding back all this time, and now, the dam had finally burst.

Her bra followed the dress, and his sharp intake of breath sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. His thumb traced the curve of her breast, slow and deliberate, before he leaned in, his lips hovering just above her skin.

“Y’know,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, “all I could think about this afternoon was pouring that lemonade on these.” His lips ghosted over her nipple, his breath warm. “Then drinking it straight off you.”

Her gaze widened, a sudden wave of shyness overtaking her. She let out a nervous laugh, pressing her hands over her face to shield herself.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said firmly, his hand catching her wrists and gently tugging them away. His eyes burned with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “You were the one who instigated our little escape from Sam’s party, remember?”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help the way her body arched toward him as his lips finally claimed the peak of her breast, his tongue swirling in deliberate, maddening strokes. Any remaining hesitation evaporated as he pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel just how much he wanted her.

“You don’t get to act shy now,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly against her skin. “Not after everything you’ve been driving me crazy with.”

Her voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling as she stammered, “I... I didn’t do anything...”

Bucky pulled back just enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Oh, you didn’t?” he drawled, his tone laced with teasing disbelief. His hand slid down her side, his calloused fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That little dress at the festival? the lemonade with that neckline? The way you bit your lower lip every time we spoke? Sweetheart, you’ve been doing everything.”

Her cheeks burned, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned in closer, his nose brushing the curve of her jaw as he whispered, “And I’ve been trying real hard to keep my hands to myself... but now? Now, I’m done trying.”

Her breath caught, and before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, claiming her in a kiss that left no room for doubt. His hands roamed her body with purpose, pulling her flush against him, his erection pressing firmly against her pussy.

Her fingers found their way into his hair again, tugging gently at the strands as he groaned into her mouth, the sound reverberating through her. “You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough and filled with longing. “All I’ve been thinking about is this... you... for weeks.” He kissed her again, slower and deeper this time, as if savoring the moment.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he rasped when they parted for air, his forehead resting against hers. “But you’re about to find out.”

He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her body, his lips lingering on every inch of skin as if committing her to memory. When he reached the waistband of her drenched panties, he paused, his hands gripping her thighs firmly to keep her in place. Pressing his face against the soaked fabric, he inhaled deeply, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest.

“God, you smell so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger. His thumbs hooked into the sides of the delicate lace, slowly pulling it down her legs as he kept his eyes locked on hers. The intensity in his gaze made her pulse thunder in her ears. “You’ve been driving me insane,” he confessed, his lips brushing against her inner thigh as he tossed the damp fabric aside. “Every time I saw you in those little dresses... I thought about this. About getting under that hemline and taste you.”

Her body quivered at his words, her fingers tangling in the sheets beneath her as anticipation coiled tight in her core. “Bucky...” she breathed, her voice a plea.

“Patience,” he said again, his voice low and teasing, but there was no mistaking the edge of hunger in it. His hands spread her thighs further apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he held her open. His breath ghosted over her pussy, warm and tantalizing, making her gasp and clutch the sheets. “I want to take my time with you.”

And then his mouth was on her. His tongue dragged through her slick folds with slow, deliberate strokes, before barely retreating with a sinful hum. “Fuck,” he groaned, “You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused only long enough to meet her eyes, his own dark and full of promise. “And I’ve been imagining this for a long time.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he spread her pussy lips with his thumbs, baring her fully to him. His mouth latched onto her clit, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before he nursed it with intent. The sharp jolt of pleasure ripped a cry from her lips, her hips thrusting against his mouth involuntarily.

“Bucky! oh, God!” she gasped, her voice trembling as he kept at it, alternating between sucking and flicking her sensitive nub with maddening precision. His growl vibrated against her, the sound and sensation drawing another moan from deep within her chest.

“Stay still,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. The rumble of his voice sent shivers down her spine. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Two thick fingers joined the assault, sliding slowly into her wet heat, stretching her as they pressed in until they were knuckle-deep. She gasped, her walls clenching around him as he paused for a moment, letting her adjust before starting a maddening rhythm.

His mouth stayed on her clit, tongue flicking and circling in tandem with the slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers. The combination was overwhelming, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of pleasure that had her crying out his name, her thighs trembling as she struggled to keep still.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmured against her, his voice filled with awe and lust. His fingers curled inside her, finding that sweet spot that made her hips jerk off the bed. “Right there, huh? That’s it.”

Her breathing turned ragged, her hands gripping his hair tightly as her body climbed higher and higher toward release. He didn’t let up, his tongue and fingers working her with relentless precision, coaxing her closer to the edge with every stroke.

The orgasm tore through her like an electric shock, sharp and all-consuming. Her body clenched tight, her muscles locking for a heartbeat before releasing uncontrollable spasms. Her walls clenched around his fingers, her back arching off the bed as a sharp cry tore from her lips. He growled with satisfaction, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he rode her through her climax, his mouth pressing soft, soothing kisses to her inner thigh as she shuddered beneath him.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free slowly and bringing them to his lips to taste. His darkened gaze met hers, his tongue flicking out to clean the slick from his fingers. “You’re fucking perfect.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before Bucky stood, towering over her, his eyes dark with intent. With a sharp tug, he kicked off his work boots, the thud of them hitting the floor making her jump slightly. Then came the metallic clink of his belt, the sound sending a thrill straight through her.

Her gaze was locked on him as he unzipped his jeans, the low rasp of the zipper making her stomach tighten. He tugged them down along with his underwear in one swift motion, revealing himself in all his glory. He was all broad shoulders and thick muscle. His broad chest and left arm were marred by scars that only added to the raw magnetism he exuded. And then there was his cock. Thick, hard, and so utterly intimidating that she bit her lip at the sight.

“Like what you see?” he asked, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

She nodded, unable to form words as her cheeks flushed.

“Good,” he said, his hand wrapping around his shaft, stroking lazily as he took a step closer. “Because you’re going to feel all of me.”

Bucky climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her parted thighs. His hands gripped her waist, firm but careful, as though he might crush her if he wasn’t mindful of his strength. His cock rested heavy and hard against her slick folds, the head teasing her entrance as he rocked his hips slowly, coating himself.

“So wet,” he murmured, his voice a husky growl that sent a shiver down her spine. She moaned softly, her thighs trembling as the thick head of his cock pressed against her opening, the stretch beginning even before he was inside. He moved slowly, agonizingly so, letting her body adjust to his size inch by inch. Her walls fluttered around him as he filled her, her slick heat clenching tightly as he pushed deeper. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as her breath hitched. “Oh my God, Bucky... you’re so-”

“Big?” he finished for her, his tone edged with dark amusement as he paused, fully sheathed inside her. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he rumbled, “That’s it, sweetheart.”

Her head fell back against the pillow as she panted, her body stretched to its limit, the delicious pressure bordering on too much. But as her hips shifted slightly, the friction sent a bolt of pleasure through her that made her moan his name.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding to her rear to tilt her hips upward. He withdrew slowly, almost to the tip, before thrusting back in with deliberate care. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured, his gaze locked on her face as he started to move in earnest.

His pace began slow and steady, each thrust measured, but it wasn’t long before his control began to slip. His grip on her tightened as he quickened, the powerful thrusts rocking her body against the mattress. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, the wet slap of his cock driving deep into her pussy mingling with her moans and his guttural groans.

“Hold on to me,” he ordered, his voice rough with lust. Before she could process his words, he hooked an arm under her ass and lifted her effortlessly, sitting crisscrossed with her perched in his lap.

Her arms flew around his neck, clinging to him as the new angle made him hit even deeper. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as he thrust up into her, the force of his cock driving her wild. Her head fell forward, her forehead resting against his as she whimpered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure building inside her.

“Look at me,” he demanded. Her hazy eyes met his as he tilted her hips slightly forward, the firm muscles just above his shaft slapping her clit with every thrust.

She cried out, her nails raking down his back as the coil inside her tightened, ready to snap. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

He groaned, his cock swelling even harder inside her as he chased her climax. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

Her orgasm hit her hard, her pussy clamping down on his cock as she cried out his name, her body trembling violently in his arms, and he growled in satisfaction.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he ground out, his movements growing erratic as her spasming walls pushed him closer to the edge. “You’re mine, doll. Mine.”

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside her, his cock pulsing as he spilled into her with a guttural moan. He held her tightly, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as they both panted, their bodies trembling from the intensity of their encounter.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the room filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing. Then, with utter gentleness, Bucky eased her back onto the bed, his body following hers as he stayed buried inside her. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping his weight off her but staying close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers.

A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced down at her, the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “So,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “better than the breathtaking Highlander?”

Her breath hitched before she burst into laughter, making his smirk widen. “Oh, so much better,” she stated, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a quick, playful kiss. “I find the curt and gloomy lumberjack character more appealing.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering just slightly. “Curt and gloomy, huh?”

She nodded, her voice turning softer. “Mysterious. Rugged. A little broody. Kind. Thoughtful. Handsome.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the weight of her words. A faint flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks, and he glanced away, suddenly looking very much like the socially awkward man she’d come to adore.

“Didn’t know I was signing up for flattery,” he muttered under his breath, his ears reddening as he busied himself with brushing away a strand of hair hanging on his face.

She laughed and cupped his cheek, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. “Just telling the truth,” She said softly, her thumb brushing over his stubbed skin.

He swallowed hard, the blush deepening as his lips twitched into a shy, crooked smile. “Still not used to it,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until you are,” she replied with a grin, pulling him down for another kiss before he could argue.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

[monstersholygrail]

In a Free Use City, your knowledge on the subject of your job isn’t always what’s most important. And in your case, it’s the least important. You were actually known as quite a ditz in the Free Use City Offices.

You worked in the tech department surrounded by a bunch of hot and nerdy guys who spoke in yours you couldn’t even begin to understand. You were just happy to be there and they were happy to ogle you and press against you whenever you asked for their help with any simple task.

They thought they had the upper hand on you, thinking they were so clever. But you had them all on a leash. An entire department at your disposal to give you pleasure whenever you wanted.

Your favorite man to bother was IT Robot. He got his work done fast and spent the rest of the day goofing off. The easy air around him made him approachable and the way all his shirts fit snugly against his bulging pecs made you drip with need.

You can’t help but spare him another glance before hesitantly returning your gaze to your own computer, the screen filled with the program you still haven’t figured out. Great, now you were confused and horny.

“Need me for something?” IT Robot’s voice suddenly purrs into your ears. His steel-like grip grabbing onto your plush hips and pulling you back into his hard chest.

His body molds to yours so perfectly it has you tingling all over. Arousal gushing and soaking through your panties. He turns you on so bad even when he barely did anything but it was like your body was out of control. As if it could be programmed just for him when he was the robot.

“Help… I hurt,” you say with a pout, your mind turning to complete mush whenever you’re around him.

IT Robot flashes you with that charming lopsided smile of his, heavily amused by the puddle you melt into whenever he talks to you.

“Where does it hurt, huh? It hurt here?”

He caresses your soft belly with an appreciation that borders on worship before one hand slips beneath your skirt, nuzzling his fingers between your soaked folds.

“Or here?” He asks while the other gives a little pat on your head.

A low whine escapes your lips as he rolls his fingers over your clit, your hips jerking into the touch. And that’s all it takes to have IT Robot plunging three of his fingers deep into your cunt, making you gasp and tremble in his arms.

“That’s what I thought… Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’ll fix the issue right away. It’s what I do after all.”

Your vision blurs as you dive into the pleasure head first. Choking out harsh moans as IT Robot’s fingers move inside you with precision like he has an entire map of your pretty pussy printed in his head. His fingers move in a blur as they pump themselves inside you, hitting all the right places that have you seeing stars. Each curl of his fingers sends your pussy fluttering and clenching down around him.

“Squeeze me tight, honey, ngh c’mon! Don’t think about a thing, just focus on being my pretty baby. My good girl.”

His words send the last thoughts in your head flying out the window, reducing you to nothing but his perfect little fuck toy. Your body relaxes without having to worry about a thing, allowing the ecstasy to overwhelm you.

IT Robot chuckles again as that fucked out expression fills your features. He flattens his palm so that it rubs hard against your clit with every snap of his fingers. With a few quick movements it has you falling over the edge and exploding all over his hand. Your vision flashes white as your orgasm rolls through you and you can’t find the strength to move any of your limbs after.

But that’s alright, IT Robot will take care of you, his fingers slipping out of your pulsing cunt with a pop, and giving your temple a soft kiss. He doesn’t bother cleaning up his hand dripping with your cum as he starts typing on your computer, solving the issue with the program you were using, and successfully helping you with both your aches.

“There, there. I’ve got you, pretty. Just keep feelin’ good. All because of me,” he whispers in your ear. Planning to spend the rest of the day doing all your work for you.

[helioooss]

i was never there

synopsis: yu jumin joins novis corp as it’s head corporate lawyer, but her boss, y/n, remembers her eyes from somewhere else.

w/c: 3k+

warnings: 18+ minors dni!!! stripper by night, lawyer by day karina, swearing

a/n: a short one for the books, this is more a prompt

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the sun had barely crept over the horizon when your sleek aston martin pulled up to the curb of novis corp’s headquarters; the tech conglomerate you had built from scratch. the building, a masterpiece of modern architecture with its reflective glass and sharp geometric lines, it stood as a monument to your success.

as you stepped out of the car, the valet offered a polite bow before retreating and you adjusted your tom ford suit — a deep charcoal grey that sat perfectly on your shoulders, tailored to a level of precision; its silk lining was monogrammed with your initials, a subtle mark of exclusivity.

in your world, every single detail mattered.

as soon as the glass doors opened into the lobby, the atmosphere shifted immediately. the soft murmur of voices hushed to a whisper and employees straightened their postures instinctively as they caught sight of you.

your presence demanded attention, not because you sought it, but because you simply carried an aura of authority. heads bowed as you passed, a wave of respectful acknowledgment rippling through the space.

“good morning, y/n,” someone greeted softly, their voice tinged with awe.

you simply offered a slight nod, your expression unreadable as you stepped into the private lift. the moment the polished steel doors slid shut, the world outside felt momentarily silenced. you allowed yourself a brief glance at your reflection in the mirrored walls, backing a strand of misplaced hair and smoothing down the lapel of your jacket before the lift opened to the top floor.

here, the energy was palpable. this was where the very lifeblood of novis corp flowed, where your senior executives and teams orchestrated the daily operations of the tech giant. the open floor was a hive of activity: assistants juggling tablets and documents, executives murmuring into headsets and a faint hum of urgency in the air.

the moment you stepped out, it was chaos aimed at you.

“miss l/n, the european market data is ready for your review.”

“legal flagged the merger contracts; they need your approval before noon.”

“the board wants confirmation on next quarter’s strategic pivot —”

amidst the shitshow that you specifically called ‘the everyday’, your personal assistant, claire, darted towards you, her heels clicking against the polished wood floor as she clutched a stack of files to her chest whilst her usually composed demeanour was slightly frazzled as she struggled to keep pace with you.

“y/n,” claire began, her voice soft but persistent, “i apologise for the interruption, but felix has been trying to reach you all morning. he said it’s urgent, and i tried to hold him off, but he’s really insistent.”

you glanced at her, stride unbroken whilst offering a faint smile that was more a gesture of reassurance than warmth. “i’ll take care of it, claire. thank you.”

she gave a slight nod, relief evident in her expression, stepping back as you pushed open the heavy oak doors to your private office. the room was a reflection of your meticulous standards: minimalist yet luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unparalleled view of new york city. a sleek, dark wood desk sat in the centre, flanked by leather chairs and a low cabinet housing bottles of vintage scotch.

oh, and the air carried the faintest scent of bergamot, a signature detail you had to have.

as soon as you set your briefcase down, you loosened your tie slightly and sank into your chair. the intercom blinked with pending calls, but you ignored it for now, reaching instead for your personal phone. scrolling through the missed calls, you found felix’s name and with a small sigh, you hit dial.

he answered right after the first ring. “finally!” his voice was a mix of relief and mischief, as it always was when he called you.

“what’s so urgent, felix?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.

“okay, hear me out,” he began, a tell-tale sign that whatever followed would likely test your patience. “there’s this club. super exclusive. like, billionaires-only exclusive. i’m talking black cards, champagne fountains, and the kind of entertainment that makes even the rich blush —“

pinching the bridge of your nose impatiently, you groaned. “just get to the point.”

“well, if you must insist,” he continued, “i need someone to vouch for me. someone who ticks the billionaire box. someone, you know, like you.”

“felix, why on earth would you want to go to a place like that?” you sighed, shaking your head. “everyone will just be as obnoxious as mum.”

“research,” he said, a little too quickly. “and before you ask, yes, it’s legit. i just…need to see it for myself. one night, y/n.“

“research,” you repeated, unimpressed.

“please, my dearest sister,” he pressed. “i promise it’s harmless. just one night, and then i’ll owe you. big time.”

he had always been the rebel — tattoos peeking out from beneath his sleeves, a penchant for bending rules and a charm that got him out of most trouble. he was your stepbrother, younger by five years and despite his antics, you couldn’t help but feel a soft spot for him.

he’d been your constant companion through a tumultuous childhood and for all his recklessness, his loyalty to you was unwavering.

you exhaled deeply. “if this turns into a mess, i swear, felix —”

“it won’t, i swear,” he interrupted eagerly. “you’ll barely even have to do anything. just show up, look rich — which is easy for you and let me in.”

there was a long pause. you weren’t one for foolishness, specially not something as absurd as this, but he had a way of getting under your skin and despite your better judgment, you relented.

“fine,” you mumbled; annoyance evident in your tone. “but this better not blow back on me — the press are already on my ass for not being present enough.”

“you’re the best!” he exclaimed, his relief palpable. “i’ll text you the details.”

shaking your head, you hung up and pressed the intercom button on your desk. “claire,” you began. “i need you to do something for me.”

“that’s my job, y/n,” her voice came through immediately.

“clear my schedule for tonight,” you carefully instructed. “reschedule all appointments and let the rest of the world know i’ll be unavailable after six.”

there was a brief pause from her end. “understood.”

staring out at the sprawling skyline, you heaved out a sigh. this wasn’t your usual scene, but something about it intrigued you nonetheless. tonight promised to be unlike anything you’d done before.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the hum of the limousine was almost soothing as it glided through the city streets, the blacked-out windows shielding you and felix from the world outside. the interior was nothing short of opulent: plush leather seats in a deep oxblood red, a bar stocked with rare whiskies and chilled champagne and soft ambient lighting that cast a warm glow over the polished surfaces.

felix was seated across from you, his legs stretched out casually as he swirled a glass of whiskey he’d poured himself. his usual rebellious flair was subdued tonight, though the faint smirk on his lips betrayed his excitement.

he was dressed sharply, his dark green blazer and crisp black shirt a rare effort on his part. the tattoos that normally peeked from his sleeves were hidden, though you knew they were still there, a reminder of his defiant streak.

you, on the other hand, wore a simple white shirt and blue jeans.

“so,” felix began, his tone light but probing, “how’s the empire going?”

you gave him a sideways glance, your fingers lightly drumming against the armrest. “the empire is fine, felix. novis is on track to secure the venatrix deal by next quarter and the sirocco expansion is finally moving forward.”

“of course it is,” he said with a grin, taking a sip of his drink. “you’ve got the golden touch. everything you touch turns to money.”

“it’s not magic,” you replied, your voice steady. “it’s work. a lot of it.”

he shook his head, leaning forward slightly. “and that’s the problem, y/n. you work too much. when was the last time you actually did something for yourself? and don’t say this counts,” he added, gesturing around the limousine.

you gave him a small, wry smile. “this is for you, not me.”

“exactly my point,” he said, leaning back. “you need to live a little. have some fun. maybe get a girlfriend for once in your life.”

you raised an eyebrow at him. “a girlfriend?”

“yes, a girlfriend,” he said with a chuckle. “you know, someone to share your life with? someone to remind you that there’s more to life than spreadsheets and board meetings?”

you exhaled softly, turning your gaze to the city lights flickering outside the window. “it’s not that simple. i’ve got responsibilities. people rely on me. there’s no room for anything else right now.”

“that’s the excuse you always use,” he said, his tone softer now. “but you’re going to wake up one day and realise you’ve built an empire but never lived your life. is that really what you want?”

his words lingered in the air and for a moment, you simply let them. as the limousine turned down a quieter street, the glow of the city fading into the background, you thought about what he’d said.

was he right? was there something missing in your meticulously crafted life?

before you could dwell on it further, the car slowed to a stop in front of an unassuming black door, illuminated only by a discreet gold plaque that read elysium.

the driver opened your door and the moment you stepped out, you felt the shift in atmosphere. the door was opened from the inside by a tall, sharply dressed man who exuded an air of authority.

“miss l/n, mr. l/n,” he greeted warmly, his deep voice carrying just enough deference to make you feel like royalty. “welcome to elysium. my name is pierre and i’ll personally ensure your evening is nothing short of exceptional.”

“thank you,” you replied, your tone polite but guarded as pierre stepped aside, gesturing for you both to enter.

the interior of the club was breathtaking — sleek and sophisticated, with an undeniable air of exclusivity. red lighting bathed the room, casting a sultry glow over the rich leather furniture and dark wood accents. the faint hum of low music filled the space and the scent of expensive cigars and perfume lingered in the air.

pierre led the way, his posture immaculate. “we’ve limited the floor capacity tonight to ensure you have a comfortable experience. it’s not often we host guests of your calibre.”

your gaze flicked to your brother, whose smirk grew with every step deeper into the club.

“they’re really rolling out the red carpet,” he whispered to you, amusement lacing his tone.

there were silhouettes moving across the far end of the room. they were fluid, deliberate, their movements drawing attention like a magnetic pull.

it wasn’t until you caught the glint of polished metal — a pole, that the realisation struck.

this wasn’t just a private club. it was a strip club.

“i thought you said this was a fucking nightclub,” you muttered in that scolding tone of yours. “or whatever you said it was.”

he laughed at your comment and had deliberately chosen to ignore you, clearly revelling in the attention. as you passed, heads turned subtly, and even the staff seemed to regard you with a mixture of curiosity and respect.

“our girls,” pierre continued as he walked, “are among the finest in the world. each performance is curated to perfection. should you require anything — anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“a dance costs a million for each hour,” felix raised his eyebrows playfully. “i can afford it, you have nothing to worry about.”

i’m going to kill him, you thought.

the corridor opened into a sprawling room bathed in deep red light, the glow casting shadows that danced across the rich leather furniture and polished dark wood accents. chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystal facets scattering faint prisms of light though the overall effect was moody and intimate rather than pretentious.

pierre, ever the professional, either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the exchange. “elysium prides itself on discretion and sophistication,” he explained, leading you toward the bar. “our performers are not only the best in the industry but also highly selective about where they work. we cater to an exclusive clientele and tonight, they are all eager to perform for you.”

the words hung in the air and while his tone remained formal, there was no mistaking the double meaning.

this wasn’t just about entertainment — it was about status, yours specifically.

“you’ve truly outdone yourselves,” you said evenly, though your tone betrayed nothing of the thoughts swirling in your mind.

“only the best for our esteemed guests,” he replied, stopping at the bar. “would you care for a drink before you settle in? our bartenders specialise in rare and exclusive cocktails.”

“i’ll take a manhattan,” felix answered, leaning against the bar as if he owned the place.

pierre turned his attention to you. “and for you, miss l/n?”

“call me y/n, please,” you requested, keeping your composure. “i’ll have a glass of champagne for now.”

felix shook his head, whilst pierre only nodded. “don’t worry, pierre, this is a good sign — champagne is telltale of the kind of night she plans to have.”

you gave him a look, one that could silence an entire boardroom, but it only made his grin widen.

as the bartender prepared your drinks, your eyes scanned the room. the performers were elegant, their movements slow and deliberate as they worked the poles or engaged in subtle conversations with other guests. the lighting accentuated every curve, every flick of hair, every step in towering heels.

it was seductive, but there was a sophistication to it.

felix clinked his glass against yours when your drinks arrived, his grin mischievous. “welcome to the real world, y/n. you might even have fun tonight.”

before you could respond, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with pierre, who gestured towards a hallway deeper into the establishment. “y/n, may i guide you to our private bar? we’ve reserved a section just for you.”

you nodded, offering a faint smile. “lead the way.”

he guided you through a discreet side door, the noise from the main hall fading into a low hum as you stepped into a quieter corridor. the lighting here was softer, the air perfumed with hints of amber and bergamot.

the sound of your shoes against the polished marble floor echoed faintly as you trailed behind him.

then, he stopped at a heavy door, its deep mahogany finish gleaming under the warm light. with a subtle bow, he pushed it open, revealing a private space that was both opulent and refined.

the room was bathed in a soft golden glow, with leather seating in a deep burgundy hue arranged around a bar made out of white marble. a crystal chandelier hung above, its light refracting into subtle rainbows across the room. the air was cooler here, yet tinged with the faintest trace of something warm and intoxicating.

“we’ve taken great care to ensure your comfort,” he gestured for you to step inside. “a selection of our finest performers has been prepared exclusively for this space tonight. as per tradition, all our vvip performers wear masks to preserve their mystique.”

your gaze shifted to the centre of the room, where a single pole stood illuminated by a spotlight. at its base, a woman danced, her movements fluid and hypnotic.

she was dressed in black, the fabric clinging to her graceful frame in ways that accentuated her every curve. a delicate mask adorned her face, its intricate lace design concealing her identity while leaving her eyes and lips visible.

and those eyes…

almond-shaped and lined with the faintest hint of shimmer, their depth was startling. they locked onto yours the moment you entered and for a second, it felt as though the world narrowed to just the two of you.

her lips were no less striking, painted a deep crimson that contrasted beautifully against her glowing skin. they moved subtly as she shifted her expression, curving into a faint smile that was neither coy nor brazen but perfectly balanced between the two.

you moved to one of the leather chairs directly in front of the pole, lowering yourself gracefully into the seat. a glass of something pale and sparkling had already been placed on the table before you — krug, if you had to guess.

she danced as though gravity held no dominion over her, movements slow and deliberate; her body bending and turning with an elegance that seemed almost otherworldly.

her eyes never left yours.

there was no touch, no exchange of words. only the silent conversation carried through her gaze.

you sipped your champagne, the crisp bubbles fizzing faintly on your tongue as you watched her.

“her name is karina,” pierre’s voice broke the silence, soft and almost reverent as he stood to the side. “one of our most gifted performers. she never agrees to private dances, but tonight, she insisted.”

you raised an eyebrow at his comment but said nothing, your eyes still locked with hers.

her lips curved slightly, a small but unmistakable reaction to his words. whether it was amusement or approval, you couldn’t tell.

there was a certain kind of power in her performance, an effortless command of the room that rivalled your own presence in the boardroom. it wasn’t just her beauty — it was the way she carried herself, the silent confidence in her every movement.

for the first time in a long while, you felt captivated.

as the music swelled, she climbed higher up the pole, her body arching and twisting with a grace that seemed to defy logic. the light caught her skin as she spun, casting shadows across her toned figure.

her gaze found yours again as if she had never looked away.

the song ended, the final note hanging in the air as karina stilled, her body poised and elegant as she held your gaze one last time. then, without a word, she stepped back into the shadows, disappearing as swiftly as she had appeared.

you leaned back in your seat, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“she’s…impressive,” you murmured, your voice soft.

“indeed,” he replied, his tone pleased. “shall i have her return for a performance, miss l/n? or would you like to see the next girl?”

you glanced at the glass in your hand, then back at the empty spotlight.

“perhaps,” you said, your tone deliberately nonchalant, though the way your thoughts lingered on those eyes and that smile betrayed you entirely. “i’d like to see karina again.”

he gave a slight bow, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. “i’ll leave you to enjoy the performance, y/n. if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call for me.”

you sent him a faint nod, watching as he quietly slipped out of the room — the air seemed heavier now, charged with something you couldn’t quite name.

the soft spotlight followed her, casting her in a halo of warm light as she emerged out of the shadows. her movements were deliberate, the sway of her hips measured, her body arching with the kind of elegance that felt effortless. the music swelled, a sultry melody that filled the private bar, wrapping itself around you.

the pole became an extension of her, her fingertips grazing it lightly as she spun effortlessly, hair cascading over one shoulder like silk.

pushing yourself up in the leather seat, you cradled the crystal glass in your hand, the crisp bubbles fizzing against your tongue were forgotten.

your attention was fixed solely on her.

her gaze was dark and unrelenting, as though she could see through every wall you’d ever built. it made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to, yet you couldn’t look away.

for years, your life had been a steady climb to the top. every decision and sacrifice you made — it had all led you to become one of the youngest billionaires in the world; a life of luxury and power, yet moments like this felt foreign to you.

you had never allowed yourself distractions. relationships had always been a distant thought, something you dismissed as incompatible with the weight of your responsibilities. and yet here you were, sitting in the middle of a dark room, utterly captivated by a woman you didn’t know.

as the music deepened, so did her movements. she slid down the pole with precision, her legs extending gracefully before she landed softly on the floor. then, she began to close the distance between you.

you stiffened slightly as she approached, her bare feet making no sound against the polished floor. her every step was a calculated mix of power and allure, head tilting slightly as her eyes burned into yours.

when she reached the edge of your seat, she leaned down, her hands bracing against the armrests on either side of you. the faintest scent of her perfume: something floral with a hint of musk wafted over you.

your breath hitched.

karina’s face was mere inches from yours, her lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile.

she tilted her head, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder and as she leaned closer, her lips brushed against yours — not quite a kiss, but enough to send a jolt through your body.

the touch was light, but it lingered. your hand tightened slightly around the glass, though you made no effort to pull away.

her eyes locked onto yours again, the corner of her lips quirking up ever so slightly. she didn’t move, staying close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of her breath against your skin.

“you’re full of surprises,” she murmured, her voice low and laced with amusement.

“you’re not what i expected,” you replied, your tone steady despite the way your pulse raced.

her smile widened just a fraction, her lips still hovering dangerously close to yours. “and what did you expect, miss l/n?”

you let the question hang in the air, unwilling — or perhaps unable to answer it.

she pulled back slightly, her eyes flickering over your face as if she were committing every detail to memory.

then, with a graceful turn, she returned to the pole, leaving you frozen in your seat, every nerve in your body alive.

but your focus wasn’t on the dance anymore.

it was on her.

the song reached its end, her final spin slow and graceful, her legs extended as she descended to the floor.

when the music ended, she stayed still for a moment, catching her breath, before calling out softly, “cut the music.”

the silence was deafening.

she stood up, reaching for a glass of water placed on the table near the pole. she sipped it slowly, her back turned to you, before setting it down and facing you again.

“you’re y/n l/n,” she said, her voice carrying an easy confidence, as though she were stating an undeniable fact.

you straightened in your seat, your composure returning. “i am indeed, and you’re karina.”

her lips curved into a small smile as she stepped closer, her mask framing her captivating eyes. “so, you’ve heard of me?”

“pierre mentioned your name,” you replied. “and according to him, you never agree to private performances.”

“ah, pierre,” karina chuckled softly, a low and melodic sound that sent another ripple through you. “that’s true, but you’re not exactly a regular guest.”

“why did you agree?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

she tilted her head, her smile deepening. “curiosity.”

“about what?”

her gaze didn’t waver. “about you.”

you raised an eyebrow. “me?”

“it’s not every day the most eligible bachelorette in the world walks into a place like this,” she said, her tone light but pointed. “how could i not be curious?”

her honesty was disarming, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond.

“you don’t seem like the type to come here,” she continued, her voice softer now. “i wanted to see what kind of woman you are.”

“and?” you asked, meeting her gaze.

karina smiled again, enigmatic as ever. “i think you’re a woman who knows exactly what she wants, but you haven’t decided if you’re ready to take it.”

her words hung in the air, sharp yet tantalising. you swallowed hard, the weight of her observation pressing against you.

before you could respond, she glanced at the clock on the wall, her expression softening. “unfortunately, my time’s up — but i will see you again, hopefully.”

you watched as she stepped back, her movements as graceful as ever. “thank you.”

she turned back to you, her dark eyes glimmering. “the pleasure was mine, miss l/n.”

“please call me y/n.”

she nodded and then, just like that, she disappeared through the door, leaving you alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and the memory of her lips brushing against yours.

moments later, pierre entered the room, followed by an awestruck felix.

“holy shit,” felix yelled, his wide eyes taking in the space. “this room is insane. do you know how much this costs?”

you raised an eyebrow at him, still feeling the warmth of karina’s presence. “do i want to know?”

“five million dollars. per dance,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

you smiled faintly, your thoughts far from the number. “well, tonight was the most expensive night i’ve ever had then.”

he put an arm around you, ruffling your hair. “told you you’d enjoy it!”

-

the limousine hummed softly as it glided through the quiet streets. deeply in your thoughts, you sat stiffly in your seat, legs crossed, arms folded, the leather cool beneath you.

the night had been…complicated, to say the least.

felix, sitting across from you, looked far too pleased with himself, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk that only irritated you further.

“never again,” you said sharply, breaking the silence.

he glanced up, the smirk widening as if he’d been waiting for this. “never again, what?”

“you know exactly what i mean,” you snapped, glaring at him. “you are never taking control of a night out again.”

he raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “elysium? come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“felix,” you said through gritted teeth, “it was a strip club. a strip club. do you have any idea how bad that looks for me? if anyone had taken a photo of me, it could’ve been a PR disaster.”

he laughed, leaning back lazily against the plush seat. “oh please, that place is so exclusive. and anyway, it’s not like you were doing anything scandalous. you sat there, drank champagne and watched a performance. you didn’t even touch anyone. honestly, it was boring.”

you stared at him. “boring? you dragged me to a place where the floor alone costs millions to reserve and you think it’s fine because you had fun?”

“well yeah,” he said casually, shrugging. “and don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy yourself. i saw your face during that dance.”

heat rose to your cheeks and you looked away sharply, your fingers tightening around your arm. “that’s not the point, felix.”

“oh, it absolutely is,” he countered, leaning forward. “look, you’ve spent your entire life building this empire. you’re brilliant at what you do but you don’t live, y/n. you don’t even let yourself breathe. all i did was give you one night to do something out of the ordinary and now you’re acting like the world’s going to end.”

“because it could,” you shot back. “my name, my reputation — it’s all tied to novis. if anything jeopardises that, the fallout would be catastrophic. you don’t understand what’s at stake.”

he tilted his head, his expression softening slightly. “no, i don’t understand,” he said, his voice quieter but still firm. “because unlike you, i actually let myself live every now and then. when was the last time you did something just for yourself, y/n? when was the last time you let yourself feel something that wasn’t tied to work?”

his words hit harder than you wanted to admit. you glanced out the window, the city lights blurring as the limousine sped through the streets. “this isn’t about me,” you muttered, though the defensiveness in your tone betrayed you.

“oh, it’s absolutely about you,” he said with a knowing grin. “come on, admit it. you didn’t hate last night as much as you’re pretending to. i mean, you could’ve walked out anytime, but you didn’t. you stayed.”

you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “felix, i can’t afford to have nights like that. my life isn’t like yours.”

“and that’s exactly the problem,” he said, his voice more serious now. “you’re so afraid of messing up, you don’t even let yourself enjoy anything. y/n, you’re one of the most powerful people in the world and you’re scared of living? what’s the point of all this success if you never let yourself have anything?”

you didn’t answer, his words settling uncomfortably in your chest. instead, you stared out the window, your reflection blurred against the city lights. he leaned back, clearly feeling like he’d won the argument, though he said nothing more.

as the limousine approached your building, you sighed deeply, finally breaking the silence. “this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. no more clubs, felix. ever.”

he laughed softly, shaking his head. “we’ll see.”

as it rolled to a stop, you stepped out without another word, the weight of the conversation lingering as you made your way inside.

you couldn’t stop thinking about the way karina had looked at you — as if she saw right through the walls you had spent years building.

her eyes haunted you, dark and full of secrets you suddenly found yourself wanting to uncover. and for the first time in years, you wondered if there was something, or someone, outside your carefully constructed world worth stepping into the unknown for.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the morning was as chaotic as ever, the hum of novis corp’s top floor vibrating with urgency the moment you stepped out of the private elevator. polished shoes clicked against a mix of wooden and marble floors, assistants and executives alike moved from desk to desk, each with something that required your attention.

“y/n,” the updates for the venatrix deal are ready.”

“legal has flagged the elara contract for revisions.”

“the team needs your approval on the new AI interface by noon!”

normally, you thrived in the controlled storm of your office. today, however, your mind was elsewhere. your focus wasn’t on contracts or product launches — it was on her.

the memory of last night lingered in sharp detail: the intoxicating crimson glow of the club, her sharp gaze, the brush of her lips against yours.

karina had left an imprint you couldn’t shake, no matter how much you tried.

the design meeting was supposed to centre you. the team presented mock-ups for novis’s latest AI interface, a sleek design meant to revolutionise smart tech, but as the lead designer droned on about user functionality, your attention slipped.

their words barely registered. your eyes were on the screen, but your mind was still in elysium. the feel of her perfume in the air, the way her eyes had locked onto yours: daring you to react.

“y/n?” samuel, the lead designer’s voice, broke through your thoughts, ultimately bringing you back to the present.

you blinked, shifting slightly in your seat. “yes?”

“we were asking for your feedback on the gradient colour scheme versus the flat monochrome,” he said, his tone careful.

you glanced at the screen, the options displayed clearly, but for once, the answer didn’t come easily. “the gradient,” you pointed after what seemed like at eternity. “it’s fine.”

a few of the designers exchanged surprised glances. it wasn’t like you to give such a vague response.

when the meeting ended, you stepped into the hallway, only to find giselle waiting for you, leaning casually against the wall with a look of exaggerated curiosity.

“well, that was weird,” she said, falling into step beside you.

“what are you talking about?” you asked, your tone clipped as you navigated through the bustling corridor.

“you,” she replied, waving a hand dramatically. “you’ve been off all morning. normally, you’re snapping necks and giving ted talks in these meetings. today, you were practically sleepwalking. so, spill. what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you said curtly.

she narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it. “is this a felix thing? what did he do now? start a crypto farm in the middle of montana? buy a haunted house because ‘it looked cool’? or, wait — did he drag you to one of those ridiculous underground poker rings again?”

you gave her a sharp look. “felix has nothing to do with this.”

“so there is something,” she said, her smirk growing. “come on, boss, you can’t keep secrets from me. i’m like the human recourses version of sherlock holmes.”

“giselle,” you warned, stopping in your tracks and fixing her with a pointed glare, “drop it.”

she raised her hands in mock surrender, but her grin didn’t waver. “fine, fine, i’ll drop it; but if you spontaneously combust during the next board meeting, don’t say i didn’t warn you.”

as you started walking again, she called after you, “oh, by the way, your new head corporate lawyer is waiting in your office. yu jimin. punctual, sharp as a blade, and word on the street: dangerously hot. good luck!”

the name sent a jolt through you, stomach twisting as you reached your office doors, the memory of last night rushing back with startling clarity.

when you stepped inside, the first thing you noticed was the figure standing near the window.

she was dressed sharply in a black suit that fit her perfectly, the crisp white shirt beneath it undone just enough to convey confidence without stepping into arrogance. her posture was relaxed, one hand resting lightly on her hip, the other at her side.

her dark hair was pulled back neatly, accentuating the sharp lines of her face. when she turned at the sound of the door, your breath caught.

her eyes met yours, and for a split second, the world tilted.

it was her.

the woman who had unraveled you the night before, the one who had danced with the kind of precision and allure that left you spellbound.

karina.

no, yu jimin.

“miss l/n,” she greeted, her voice smooth, calm, and so painfully familiar. “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

you forced yourself to nod, gesturing toward the chair across from your desk. “miss yu, please, have a seat. and call me y/n.”

you walked quickly to your desk, avoiding her gaze as you settled into your chair. when you finally looked up, the intensity in her eyes was undeniable.

she sat with perfect posture, her hands resting lightly on her lap, her expression polite but unreadable.

“so,” you began, clearing your throat, “tell me about your experience. what drew you to novis corp?”

her lips curved into a faint smile, one that sent a chill through you.

“my career has largely focused on high-stakes corporate law,” she said smoothly. “mergers, acquisitions, billion-dollar lawsuits — you name it. novis corp stood out to me because of its reputation for innovation and precision. it’s a company that demands excellence; i happen to provide that.”

her tone was professional, poised. but then her eyes glinted, and her smile widened just slightly.

“but if i’m being honest,” she added, “it wasn’t just the company that intrigued me. after last night, the person behind it all captured me.”

your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to maintain a neutral expression.

“i’m not sure what you’re referring to,” you said evenly, though your voice wavered just slightly.

“of course not,” she said, her smile deepening, though she didn’t press further.

the rest of the meeting passed in a blur of questions and answers, though the tension in the room never dissipated. every time her gaze lingered on you, you felt your resolve crack, memories of her dance, her eyes and her lips flashing vividly in your mind.

when it concluded, jimin stood gracefully, smoothing her blazer as she moved toward the door.

just as she reached for the knob, you hesitantly called out, “and miss yu?”

she paused, turning back to face you. “yes?”

you met her gaze, forcing your voice to remain steady. “i was never there.”

her smile returned, slow and knowing, her eyes glinting with something that sent a shiver down your spine. “don’t worry — the only person in that room was karina.”

for the second time in two days, yu jimin had left you completely undone.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the end.

[mr-cha-n]

Glass Towers

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x fem!reader

Genres: fluff, angst, smut, architect AU

Warnings: Profanities, drinking, angst, sexual content, penetration, mouth stuff (f. receiving), tension, yearning

Word Count: 18.2k

Summary: City lights are beautiful, but they're nothing compared to the spark between a hopelessly optimistic architect and his no-nonsense boss. He hopes.

Mingyu's always had a thing for the city skyline. He stands there, staring up like a tourist in his own city, while the lights blink back at him. He's convinced that the twinkling stars work overtime in the winter to brighten up the world for busy employees, wonderstruck sightseers, and homebound natives alike. 

And the people? Oh, don't get him started. City folk are like ants with a caffeine addiction, scurrying down streets wide enough to do doughnuts on (he's tempted), all on their own secret missions. Got places to be, people to bump into, lives to live. And every now and then, there's a stray tourist wandering around like they're decoding a map from a century-old pirate treasure hunt, or a food vendor desperately offering free samples and a good, if unique, conversation.

But, most of all, he's got a soft spot for buildings. Those skyscrapers that loom over everyone like friendly giants are his favourite. They're tall, dramatic, stoic - but also weirdly welcoming, like they're saying "Come on in, friend, there's an elevator with your name on it." Each one holds a mini-universe of people with no clue that they're all part of this giant city love affair. And honestly? That's what Mingyu loves most.

That is why he is practically vibrating with excitement as he makes his way to the towering glass-and-steel behemoth that houses his new firm. This building is the pinnacle of urban architecture. It has a shiny, almost reflective facade that makes every other building on the block look like they'd shown up to the party in sweatpants. Windows stretch floor to floor like a series of portals to success.

He's read about this building, of course. Brought it up in the interview for the position. Its architect was apparently a big deal who had once described it as "a dialogue between the earth and the sky." Which, as far as Mingyu is concerned, is just fancy architect-speak for, "Look at how absurdly tall I can make things."

Stepping inside, he is immediately hit with that professional smell - a mix of leather-bound sofas, artisanal coffee, and freshly printed documents. The lobby is decorated with minimalist sculptures that seem like they could either be priceless modern art or just very confusing coat ranks. Either way, Mingyu thinks they look amazing and decides that he'd probably best never trying to lean on one.

He stops at the reception desk, where a sharply dressed woman with an impressively unflappable expression sits.

"Good morning!" He says, a little too enthusiastically. "I'm Kim Mingyu. I'm starting as the new project architect, so you'll probably see a lot of confused-looking, lost-guy moments from me."

She raises an eyebrow, a faint smile quirking on the edge of her lips. "Good luck, Mr Kim. This building does tend to eat people up on their first day."

Mingyu lets out a small chuckle, unsure if she's joking or not, but he takes the smile on her face to signify that she is. After getting directions to his new office space, he makes a point of talking to every staff member he sees on the way, hoping to gain a little bit of familiarity with the new space. There's the security guard by the elevator, who gives him a quick nod of approval, the intern rushing by with a stack of blueprints precariously balanced like they are training for Cirque du Soleil, and the coffee cart guy, who looked positively thrilled to tell Mingyu that they're starting a 'Mocha Monday' deal, envisioning half-price mochas flying off the shelf to cure those start-of-week blues.

The elevator itself is sleek, fast, and almost comically over-engineered. Encased in glass and stainless steel, it features a control panel with buttons for every floor and amenities like a mini espresso machine, a retractable tablet and an adjustable lighting system for 'mood optimisation'. He barely has time to catch his breath before the elevator doors ding open, depositing him on the top floor. 

Waiting for him is Mr Choi, the firm's head partner, a man so put-together than even his cufflinks look like they could close a business deal. Mingyu recognises him instantly - the same piercing gaze from his interview, though today softened by the faintest hint of a smile. Or, well, something that might one day consider becoming a smile.

"Good to see you again, Mingyu," Mr Choi greets, his voice as smooth as marble. He gestures down the hallway, as if guiding him into an architectural wonderland (which, for all intents and purposes, he is). "Shall we?"

They pass through a maze of glass-walled offices and open spaces dotted with architects, designers, and enough blueprint paper to wrap the world's largest birthday present. As they reach Mr Choi's office, Mingyu makes sure to hold the door open for his new boss.

The space is less of an office and more of an architectural shrine, humming with the wisdom of ten thousand blueprints. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city, as if the whole skyline had been personally curated just to keep Mr Choi inspired. His desk - a sleek slab of dark walnut with edges so sharp they could probably slice bread - sits precisely in the centre of the room. On the walls sit framed sketches of the firm's most iconic projects, each one hung and lit like a small art gallery. The coffee table at the centre piles high with glossy architecture magazines and books with titles like The Future of Concrete and The Language of Buildings. It is as if every element in the room had been strategically selected to convey that Mr Choi is not just any architect. 

And, most stunning of all, is you. Tall, poised, and commanding a presence that immediately silences whatever joke Mingyu has mentally queued up to break the ice. You're seated across from Mr Choi's desk, reading through a thick stack of documents with the intensity of someone evaluating world-changing data - or possibly planning the most efficient way to dismantle a skyscraper with your mind. You don't look up when he enters.

"Ms (Y/l/n)," Mr Choi says, a hint of amusement in his voice, "this is Kim Mingyu, our newest project architect. He'll be working under you, as we discussed."

Finally, you look up. There's a flash of something unreadable in your eyes as you meet his, and Mingyu's heart skips a beat. You're beautiful, of course, but not in the approachable way he'd normally charm his way though. There's a quiet sharpness to you, like the edge of a blade hidden under silk. You nod, polite but detached, and extend a hand across the desk. Mingyu's hand is halfway to yours before he realises he's probably grinning too wide.

"Mr Kim," You say, your tone flat and calm. "Welcome to the team."

"Thank you, Ms (Y/l/n)," he replies, fighting the urge to launch into an unnecessarily enthusiastic monologue about how honoured he is to work with someone as formidable as you. Instead, he forces himself to stick with, "It's a pleasure to be here."

Your handshake is brief, controlled, and you retract your hand almost before he's registered the contact. Then you sit back, folding your arms with a measured kind of grace that makes Mingyu feel like he's just been granted an audience with a queen.

"We'll be starting you off on the Langham project," you say, consulting your papers as if double-checking this fact - or maybe just avoiding his eyes. "I'll be overseeing your work and guiding you through our procedures here. We have high standards, and I'll expect you to meet them."

"Of course!" He nods vigorously, attempting his best I-won't-let-you-down smile. "I'm up for any challenge, Ms (Y/l/n). High standards are, uh, my middle name."

You raise an eyebrow, looking slightly perplexed, as though wondering if he might be serious. Mr Choi clears his throat, breaking the silence with a faint smirk that betrays a hint of secondhand amusement.

"Ms (Y/l/n)," he continues, "has been with us for nearly a decade. She's an invaluable asset to the firm. I trust you'll learn a great deal from her."

Mingyu nods earnestly, glancing at you, but you're already back to scanning the documents as if he's drifted into background noise. He's mildly disappointed, though he can't exactly blame you - after all, he is juts the latest recruit with probably a hundred questions, and you seem like the type who doesn't have time for aimless chatter.

"Any questions before we begin?" you ask, in a tone that suggests the answer you're really hoping for is 'no.'

But of course, Mingyu has questions. Too many, probably. He opens his mouth to ask one, but then catches the faintest glint of what he thinks might be impatience in your eyes and quickly changes gears.

"Actually, no," he says, flashing a thumbs-up. "Good to go!"

You don’t seem particularly impressed by this, but there’s a flicker of something — amusement, maybe? — before you turn back to Mr. Choi. "Shall I take him to the Langham briefing room, then?"

Mr Choi waves you off with a nod, and you rise with a brisk elegance that makes Mingyu almost trip over himself in an effort to follow. You walk him through the halls with a calm, businesslike air, giving succinct, precise explanations as you go. Every step you take feels purposeful, every word perfectly chosen. Mingyu feels like an eager puppy trotting beside you, but he's determined to keep up.

As you reach the briefing room, he can't resist trying to break the ice one more time. "You know," he starts, grinning. "I really love the city skyline. It's kind of why I got into architecture."

You pause, giving him a look that manages to be both blank and withering at once. "Is that so?"Yeah!" He barrels on, encouraged by the fact that you responded at all. "It's like ... it's all a big love letter to everyone living here, you know? Every building, every floor, every light in the window - it's all just there, lighting up people's lives."

There's a moment of silence. Mingyu wonders if maybe he overdid it.

Finally, you nod, albeit with an expression he can't quite place. "That's an ... optimistic way of looking at it, Mr Kim."

Optimistic? Not exactly the response he was hoping for, but he'll take it. He smiles, trying to hide his excitement at the fact that you actually acknowledged his point. "I guess that’s me — hopelessly optimistic."

You glance at him with what he might, just might, dare to interpret as the tiniest hint of a smirk. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by your usual professional demeanour.

"Well," you say crisply, gesturing to the plans spread out on the table. "Let’s see if that optimism translates to effective project execution."

By the time Mingyu finally steps out of the firm's towering glass sanctuary, the city has dipped into that golden hour where the skyline looks like it's been dipped in honey. The streets are packed with people still racing to meetings, or dinners, or late-night escapades, but Mingyu feels like he's in his own little bubble, still buzzing from the whirlwind of his first day.

He's not sure what's more overwhelming - the Langham project itself, which already feels like it's going to stretch every ounce of his architectural prowess and patience, or you. The way you carried yourself like you were born in this building, with all its sharp edges and polished surfaces. He isn't sure how to keep up with that level of composure.

But there was something there, wasn't there? A flicker of something. Maybe you were just humouring him, but there was that slight tilt of your lips when he said something slightly amusing. Or the way your eyes lingered just a fraction longer than necessary when he spoke. Of course, he could just be imagining it. But Mingyu isn't about to let go of that feeling just yet.

The subway ride home does little to calm his excitement. He thinks about the massive pile of documents he's expected to digest tonight for the briefing tomorrow. As the train rumbles beneath the city, Mingyu cracks open his bag and pulls out the folder that was handed to him this morning - a mess of blueprints, floor plans and complicated notes that look like they were designed to break a person's will to live. 

But he's not scared, not by this at least. The only thing that kind of scares him is the realisation that you are going to be watching him closely. Judging. Monitoring. And if he’s being honest, he’s not sure if he’s ready for that sort of proximity.

The train screeches to a halt, and Mingyu exits at his stop, shaking off those thoughts. Tonight, he’ll just have to forget about all that for now and focus on getting some food in his stomach. Besides, he’s almost home.

Mingyu’s apartment building isn’t anything to write home about. It’s not a shiny, glass-covered marvel like the office, but it’s cozy and warm, with enough character to make him feel like he has a place to call his own. His apartment is on the fourth floor, up a narrow staircase that creaks with every step. As he pulls his key from his pocket and unlocks the door, the familiar smell of instant ramen and coffee hits him. His flatmate, Wonwoo, is already home.

Wonwoo’s there in the living room, sprawled across the couch with his laptop on his lap and a half-empty mug of coffee next to him. He’s the polar opposite of Mingyu in almost every way: quiet, reserved, and extremely not into architecture, but somehow they’ve been rooming together for the past few years without any major conflicts. Mingyu’s loud, chaotic energy and tendency to overshare perfectly balances Wonwoo’s brooding, half-mysterious vibe. It’s a friendship forged in caffeine and mutual understanding that sometimes, you need someone who won’t judge when you blast pop music at 2 AM, or when you eat cereal for dinner because you forgot to go grocery shopping.

"How’s the first day?" Wonwoo doesn’t look up from his screen, his voice cool and unbothered. But Mingyu can tell he’s asking out of a form of polite curiosity, like a scientist observing a very energetic specimen.

Mingyu drops his bag on the counter and flops onto the couch next to him. "It was ... intense," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "The project I'm gonna be working on is a beast. There's this whole ocean of details to sift through. And then there's Ms (Y/l/n)."

Wonwoo looks up, his brow slightly raised. "Your boss?"

"Yeah," Mingyu says, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. "She's something else. Like she doesn't seem interested in me at all, and I'm not sure how to deal with that. But she's got this, like, presence. Makes you want to impress her, y'know? Even when she's totally stone-faced - especially when, actually."

Wonwoo hums noncommittally and takes a sip of his coffee, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "So, you're in love with your boss already. Good to know."

Mingyu shoots him a mock glare, his cheeks ringing with a hint of pink. "I'm not in love with her, okay? It's more like ... fascination. She's just really intimidating."

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, the picture of dry amusement. "Uh-huh. Sure. And what's her deal, anyway? Too professional for your flirty smile?"

"She doesn't seem flattered by it." Mingyu dramatically drops his head into his hands, mimicking a tragic melodrama. "I might have to rethink my whole life strategy if I can’t get her to crack a smile at my jokes."

"But hey," Wonwoo adds with a smirk, "if you want to survive your first week, I suggest you do not mention the city skyline and your theories about how it’s a love letter to people. That’s a hard pass."

Mingyu groans, covering his face in embarrassment. "I’m never telling you anything ever again."

Wonwoo chuckles, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied grin. "You love me and you know it."

Mingyu snorts. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’ve got work to do." He picks up the pile of documents, pulling them closer with a resigned sigh. "Gotta impress Ms (Y/l/n) somehow."

Gulping down a quick 'dinner' of left-over stir fry and a couple of eggs for good measure, Mingyu picks back up the Langham project folder, its content still a chaotic swirl of technical specs and words he can't read, and flips open the first few pages. The project itself is a massive undertaking - a luxury hotel and mixed-use complex nestled in the heart of the city, right by the river. The building is going to stretch twenty stories high, with glass facades that'll reflect the river's light like a prism. The design includes state-of-the-art amenities, with the goal of being the ultimate urban getaway - a haven for tourists, business moguls, and the occasional local who just wants to treat themselves to a little luxury.

Mingyu's eyes light up as he scans the proposed design. There's a grand atrium in the centre, stretching all the way up to the top floor, with cascading gardens and open-air terraces. "So fancy," he mutters to himself. His team is clearly trying to push boundaries here, blending modern steel and glass with organic elements - like a giant metallic tree-house hybrid for the city's elite.

He flips to a page filled with notes about sustainability and energy efficiency. They’re aiming for a platinum LEED certification — top-tier green building status. It’s all about using smart, eco-friendly tech to make the building as self-sustaining as possible. Mingyu groans inwardly, wondering if he’s about to become an expert on solar panels and rainwater harvesting.

As he continues reading, one particular detail catches his eye. The signature design element for the building is a series of “floating” glass bridges between the upper floors — a bold architectural statement meant to make the building appear less like a typical office block and more like something out of a futuristic movie. It sounds incredible, but Mingyu can already picture himself pulling his hair out over the engineering calculations required to make sure the whole thing doesn’t come crashing down in a windstorm.

By the time he reaches the end of the folder, his mind is spinning, and a mild panic starts to creep in. Your expectations are clear, and the project’s scope is enormous. But Mingyu can’t help the tiny spark of excitement that flickers in his chest. This is what he’s been working toward — to be a part of something that will change the city’s landscape, something that will make people stop and look up.

He rubs his eyes and glances at the clock. It's late, but he knows he'll need all the preparation he can get for tomorrow.

With one last long look at the papers, Mingyu closes the folder, shoving it aside with a resigned sigh. "I’m going to need a lot more coffee," he mutters, flopping back on the couch beside Wonwoo, who’s already half asleep with his laptop still glowing faintly in his lap.

Wonwoo snorts without opening his eyes. "You’re going to need more than coffee for this, buddy."

"Tell me about it," Mingyu grins, grabbing his phone to order another coffee, just in case he didn’t have enough already. Tonight, it looks like he’s going to be living on caffeine and architectural dreams.

A few weeks into the job, Mingyu has already made a significant number of mistakes. Well, significant is probably an understatement. More like a collection of blunders so impressive that, if anyone were to catalogue them, they might think Mingyu was trying to break some sort of world record in architectural mishaps.

It starts innocently enough, with a small miscalculation on the elevator shaft dimensions that nearly caused a minor freakout in the engineering department. Then there was that time he mixed up the load-bearing capacity for the glass facades and accidentally sent an email to the whole team saying, "We could use stronger glass" when technically, the existing plans were fine. And, of course, who could forget that time he got overzealous and rearranged the project's timeline, shaving an entire month off the construction schedule, only to realise later that it was a little bit too ambitious for anyone's taste?

He still hasn't lived down the elevator incident, which, for the record, wasn't even entirely his fault. But it's hard to explain that when your eyes are drilling into him from across the room, a careful blend of disappointment and 'I'm trying not to send you into an existential crisis right now.'

Today, he's perched at his desk watching the clock tick down the minutes until the inevitable meeting with you. His fingers drum nervously on the edge of his notepad. There's a fresh stack of papers in front of him, each one brimming with red-inked corrections, and he knows what's coming. He's almost perfected the art of nodding in silent shame during your critiques, hoping the earth might swallow him whole.

When the meeting finally comes, you walk into the room, as poised and unbothered as ever. He tries to stand up to greet you, but he stumbles into his chair instead, catching himself just in time.

"You've been busy," you say dryly, as you flip through the stack of appears, your eyes scanning the marked-up blueprints. Your tone is sharp, like an exam proctor giving him one last chance to pass without the lecture.

Mingyu forces a grin, wiping his palms against his pants. "Yep, learning a lot on the fly, you know?"

You don't smile. "You've certainly given us a lot to work with."

Mingyu winces, cracking for the inevitable storm of corrections. He can already feel the weight of your disappointment pressing down on him. He's been trying so hard to make a good impression, but it seems every time he tries, he only ends up making things more complicated.

But then, as if you've suddenly decided that maybe he hasn’t completely bungled everything, you pause, tapping your pen against the papers in front of you. “But there’s one thing...”

His heart stutters. "What's that?"

You flip to the last page in the folder, revealing a neatly detailed diagram of the building's eco-friendly water filtration system, a proposal Mingyu put together at the last minute after a rather inspiring lunch break (where he might have gotten just a little carried away talking to the environmental consultant). You tap the diagram. "This," you say, your voice softer than he's ever heard it, "This is well done. You identified a potential issue with the system that we hadn't accounted for in the original design. We'll need to revise a few things to integrate it fully, but this is exactly the kind of thinking we need."

Mingyu stares at you, completely caught off guard. His brain is still half-parked in panic mode from the earlier mistakes. and he can't quite process your words. Did you just ... praise him?

"Really?" He blinks, his surprise making his voice higher than usual. "You mean the, uh, water thing? I just thought it might be better if we-"

"I know," you interrupt, your gaze steady on him. "You found a solution we missed. We'll be able to integrate it without a massive redesign. Good work."

Mingyu blinks again, this time in pure disbelief. It's like someone just handed him a bag of cash and told him to keep it. "I - uh, wow. Thanks." He tries to act cool, but he's pretty sure he looks like a kid who's just been handed an extra cookie.

You don't break your composed demeanour, but there's a subtle shift in your expression - a quiet respect that wasn't there before. "You're capable, Mr Kim," you say, your voice calm but with a hint of approval. "Despite your tendency to make things a little more complicated than necessary, you're on the right track."

The words hang in the air for a moment, and Mingyu feels an odd rush of pride — a mix of relief and the kind of warmth you get when you find out you didn’t totally mess everything up. For once, he’s not the guy who ruins everything in your eyes.

And, maybe, just maybe, he can keep that “capable” label for a while.

“I’ll expect the revised plans on my desk by Friday,” you say, your voice steady. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t!” Mingyu promises, his voice more confident than it’s been in weeks. “I’m on it.”

Mingyu throws himself into revising the plans with a fervour that borders on obsession. He’s got spreadsheets, CAD files, hand-drawn sketches, and a brand new stack of sticky notes covering his desk like a rainbow-coloured fortress of architectural ambition. The water filtration system has turned into his personal magnum opus, and he’s determined to make sure it’s nothing short of revolutionary.

He's started to stay later than usual, his desk lamp becoming a beacon in the dimmed office. At first, he doesn't pay much attention to who else is around, his mind so wrapped up in calculations and potential pitfalls that he barely notices his own hunger or fatigue. But after a few nights, he realises he's not the only one burning the midnight oil.

Your office light is always on. Sometimes he'll glance up, bleary-eyed and half delirious from staring at documents, and he'll catch a glimpse of you through the glass walls - hair pulled back, eyes locked on your laptop screen, fingers tapping briskly on the keys as if your thoughts are sprinting ahead of your hands. You're a constant fixture, as much a part of the office's architecture as the polished marble floors and unbreakable glass doors. And, he realises, you're usually there even later than he is.

One evening, after finally signing off on what feels like the hundredth draft of the plans, Mingyu yawns and stretches, feeling every vertebra pop like bubble wrap. He glances at the clock. It's nearly midnight. As he stands to grab his coat, he sees your office light flick off, and you appear, looking just as composed as you did this morning, as if working fifteen hours straight is just part of your weekly routine.

You both walk to the elevator in silence, the quiet stretch of the office settling around you like an unspoken truce. When the elevator doors close, you glance at him, breaking the silence with a casual, "You're still here, Mr Kim."

He lets out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, still making sure I don't mess up the Langham project. You know how it is."

You don't smile, but your expression softens. "I do."

The elevator ride is quiet, filled with the low hum of machinery and the faintest scent of Mingyu's cologne - a last-ditch attempt this morning to feel professional. When you step out onto the ground floor, you hesitate by the door, glancing out at the street. The city is dark and quiet, the only lights the occasional passing car and the soft glow of streetlamps.

"Do you have a way home?" You ask, your voice so casual it takes him a second to realise you're actually offering him a ride.

Mingyu blinks, caught off guard. "Uh, well, I was going to take the subway. But if you're offering..." He trails off, grinning sheepishly.

You nod, motioning to the car parked just outside. It's as sleek and polished as you are - a dark sedan that looks like it would have absolutely no patience for speed bumps. He slides into the passenger seat, trying not to fumble with his seatbelt, and you start the engine, pulling into the quiet streets with a calm, practised ease.

For a while, you drive in silence. Mingyu glances out the window, his thoughts tangled between the day's work and the surreal feeling of sitting in the same car as you.

"You're ... very driven," you break the quiet, your tone almost contemplative. "I don't often see people put in that kind of effort, especially so early on."

He chuckles softly, scratching the back of his neck. "Guess I just don’t want to let you down. Or, you know, be known as the guy who destroyed the Langham project.”

You finally smile, a small, genuine expression that feels like a rare peek beyond the wall, and leaves Mingyu feeling a little breathless. "It's more than that, though, isn't it?"

Mingyu hesitates, taken aback by the question. He’s not sure what he expected you to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. “I mean, yeah. I’ve always loved buildings. Ever since I was a kid, I’d spend hours sketching skyscrapers in my notebooks. It’s kind of a dream come true, being here. Getting to work on something this big.”

You listen, your eyes fixed on the road but your expression soft, focusing now somewhere beyond just his words.

"This job can consume you, if you let it," you say quietly, almost to yourself. "It's a rare thing to see someone bring genuine excitement to it. Most people, they burn out or let it harden them." You glance at him, and for a brief moment, he sees a flicker of something almost vulnerable in your gaze. "It's good that you still ... care."

Your words hang in the air, and Mingyu feels a strange ache in his chest - a sudden realisation that beneath the cool professionalism, you had been through this same path yourself, fighting to keep that spark alive in an industry that seems determined to grind it out of you.

"Thanks," he says softly, the playful tone absent for once. "I mean it. And ... I think I get what you mean." He hesitates, then adds, "But I don't think I'll stop caring anytime soon."

You nod, a faint smile ghosting your lips. You drive on through the city, the lights casting soft, shifting patterns on the glass.

When you finally reach his building, he unbuckles his seatbelt, giving you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks for the ride. And, you know… for everything else.”

You nod, your expression back to usual, but there's a warmth in your eyes now. "Goodnight, Mr Kim."

"Goodnight," he says, stepping out and closing the door gently. He watches as you drive away, the taillights disappearing down the street, and feels a strange mixture of inspiration and relief, and a hunger to get back in the car and learn anything else he can about you.

It's a week before his presentation, and Mingyu is thrilled about his latest proposal for the Lagham project - a sleek, eco-friendly rooftop space designed to collect rainwater, enhance natural cooling, and serve as a green oasis in the middle of the city for all visitors to access. It's his baby, his architectural pièce de résistance. He’s already named the design “Green Above” in his head, but, apparently, the client is less than convinced.

The hesitation comes during a routine check-in meeting, when Mr. Choi casually drops the news that the client has “concerns.” The term is as vague as it is ominous, and Mingyu’s heart sinks. Apparently, they’re worried it’s too “experimental,” too “risky” for the firm’s conservative image. Mingyu tries to hide his disappointment, nodding as Mr. Choi politely recommends that he “polish up his pitch” before the big day.

By “polish,” of course, he means pull a miracle out of thin air.

Enter: you.

Later that afternoon, you call him into your office, the door clicking shut behind him as you gesture for him to sit. He braces himself, ready for another dissection of his work, but instead, you surprise him by pulling out his sketches and nodding. "The client might be wary," you say, your tone clinical and level, "but there's a strong case for this. You just need to learn how to show them the vision." You pause, looking at him. "I'll help you with that."

Mingyu blinks. "You'll help me present?"

"Yes, Mr Kim," you say. "We'll work on this every evening until you're confident enough to convince a room full of sceptics. You'll have to be better than good. Exceptional."

And so, every evening for the next week, Mingyu stays late in the conference room, rehearsing his proposal with you. The first night, he stumbles through the trial run, mumbling about sustainable design, only to have you stop him after two minutes, unimpressed.

"Start over," you say, tapping your pen against the table. "And this time, stop burying the lead. Walk in there and make me believe it's the best thing I've ever heard."

You're relentless but patient, correcting him when he gets too caught up in technical jargon, showing him how to highlight the benefits rather than the process. "This is a story," you tell him one evening. "Show that what it feels like. Make them see the vision before you go into how it works."

Somewhere around the fourth late night, you sit back into your chair after another dry run, watching him with an intensity that makes him nearly forget his lines.

“Stop talking like you’re trying to convince them you’re good enough,” you say, "You are. You have to believe it, or no one else will."

Mingyu blinks, the words landing with unexpected weight. You say it like it's a fact - as if there's no question about his abilities, just his confidence. Something in your gaze is softer than he's ever seen, and for the first time, he wonders how many long nights like these you've spent not just perfecting your work, but holding yourself up to impossible standards too.

He nods, taking a breath. “Right. Believe it.”

By the night before the presentation, he’d rehearsed the pitch so many times he could recite it in his sleep. You give him one last nod, a subtle flicker of approval in your eyes. "You're ready."

The day of the meeting dawns, and Mingyu arrives early, the faint taste of nerves tingling in his throat. When he enters the boardroom, the client representatives are all seated, an assortment of tailored suits and sceptical expressions. Mr. Choi offers a nod of encouragement from his place at the head of the table, and you stand nearby, arms folded, watching him with that same quiet intensity.

As he begins his pitch, Mingyu can feel his initial nerves settle, his voice steady as he moves through each point. He doesn’t just talk about “Green Above” like an idea on paper; he paints it as a vision, something meant to make the city’s skyline greener, bolder, better. He gestures to the architectural mockups, describing the rooftop garden as not just a feature but a destination, an asset that would be both functional and iconic.

He can tell, halfway through, that the room has shifted. The clients sit forward, nodding, leaning into his words, their initial scepticism melting as he lays out the plan. The numbers, the materials, the maintenance — it’s all there, practical but wrapped in the bigger picture he’s been rehearsing for nights on end.

When he finishes, the room is silent for a beat before the client’s lead representative nods, visibly impressed. “It’s… ambitious,” he says, almost smiling. “But I see what you mean. Let’s move forward.”

Mingyu grins, fighting the urge to fist pump as the clients exchange approving glances. He looks over at you, who gives him the slightest nod of approval. He can almost see a glimmer of pride in your expression, faint but undeniable.

As the room empties and the clients file out, Mingyu's heart is still racing, his whole body humming with triumph. He turns to you, grinning wide. "We did it," he says, his voice barely containing his excitement. "I mean ... I did it. But only because you..."

He trails off, realising just how close you're standing, the quiet of the empty room settling around you. Your gaze meets his, and for a moment, you don't look away. It's a long, lingering look, like you're seeing him not just as an employee or an eager architect but as… him. Someone who cares, who tries, who’s just won his first major victory and feels like he’s on top of the world.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “For all of it. I don’t think I could have pulled it off without you.”

You hesitate, your eyes flickering with something he can’t quite place. Your expression softens, your lips parting slightly as if your about to say something else. And in that moment, there’s a warmth between them, a shared understanding that words alone wouldn’t quite capture.

“Just… keep going,” you say finally, your voice so quiet it feels like a secret. “You’re more capable than you realize, Mingyu.”

The way you says his name — with that subtle, unfamiliar warmth — makes his heart skip. He nods, still holding your gaze, feeling the weight of everything you’ve shared in the past week in that single, electric second.

And then, as if the moment might disappear if you linger too long, you step back, your usual composure slipping back into place.

For the first time, Mingyu feels that maybe — just maybe — there’s more between them than late-night work sessions and professional boundaries. And as you walk side by side down the quiet hall, he can’t shake the feeling that, for the first time, you might be feeling it too.

Mingyu's gotten good at convincing himself he's not entirely losing it. So what if his boss, who barely blinks at a 15-hour day and thinks "weekends" are a suggestion, is suddenly occupying 90% of his mental bandwidth? That's just ... professional admiration. So when he finds himself thinking about you at odd times - like, mid-bite of his breakfast burrito, or what he's supposed to be learning zoning codes - he brushes it off. After all, it's normal to be totally absorbed by someone you admire.

One evening, after bringing home takeout and trying (again) to casually mention his most recent success, Wonwoo decides to drop a bomb. "I saw an article about your boss the other day, you know. Back when she first joined the firm. People in the comments kept talking about something called the Westbrook Project - ever heard of it?"

"Westbrook Project?" Mingyu repeats, a little too quickly, his brain scrambling. Nothing. He’s pretty sure he’s never heard the name before, but it’s his boss, so he’s probably supposed to know. After Wonwoo can't provide any more details, Mingyu does what any self-respecting architect does at 2 a.m. when faced with a mysterious professional tidbit: he Googles it. Expecting, like, a vague overview, maybe some old press releases. What he finds, though, are words like "abandoned," "budget issues," and, worst of all, "failure," with your name all over it. Ouch. Big, deep ouch.

The next day at work, Mingyu manages to strike up a casual conversation with the marketing guy who's practically the office encyclopedia. "Oh, the Westbrook Project?" he says with a knowing smirk. "I read the case files. It was supposed to be, like, revolutionary. Eco-forward, huge downtown build. A lot of drama when it got shut down. Man, Ms (Y/l/n) was obsessed with that thing. You've gotta respect someone who fights like that for their work." He laughs a little, but there's something almost pitying in his tone, like he doesn't quite know what to make of someone who has been through such a high-profile professional failure.

Mingyu's stomach drops as he realises that there's a whole side of you - this weight - he never saw before. He feels embarrassed for not knowing. But, maybe, it explains the way you hold yourself together, so careful with your words, so precise in every gesture. Because what happens when you give so much of yourself, and it still isn't enough?

Mingyu can't help but glance at you differently when you walk into the office. You're still the same, all business and poise, but there's a weight to you now that he hadn't noticed before. It's not his place to ask you about Westbrook, and he's not sure he could even bring it up without tripping over his own words.

So, Mingyu brings it up.

Not immediately, because he's not that much of a disaster. It's not the same day, or even the same week. It's one of those late nights when he's deep into pretending he's not panicking over math, and he's only going into your office to ask if you've seen the last-minute email from the client. 

Except. 

He sees the bottle of red on your desk.

It's sitting there, a little too casually, with half of it in a glass that's perched too close to your mouse. 

It's not that Mingyu thought you didn't drink. But seeing it there, on your desk, is like catching a glimpse of a teacher's pet outside of school. His brain starts spiralling. Are you getting drunk? Are you able to get drunk?

Still standing in the doorway like he's caught in some sort of personal disaster movie, Mingyu clears his throat. "Uh," he starts, because his brain is still stuck on you drinking alcohol in the office, "What's the deal with the wine?"

You glance up from your computer, completely unfazed. "Oh, this?" You wave a hand, almost like it’s nothing. “A gift from a client. They thought I needed something to ‘relax’ after all the late nights." You flash a teasing grin. "I didn’t think anyone else would be in the office this late, though."

Mingyu freezes again. Seeing a smile on your face is unnerving him. "Uh, well, yeah ... just ... I thought you were busy, y'know? I didn't want to disturb you," he stammers, as if that makes any sense. Of course you know he's here. He's always here. He's practically a fixture at this point.

You raise an eyebrow at him, clearly not fooled. “Sure you didn’t. Anyway, now that you’re here," you say, looking at him with a glint of curiosity, "what’s been keeping you up lately? Besides zoning codes and whatever else you’ve been trying to memorise, that is."

Mingyu, caught completely off guard by the question, opens his mouth to respond, but his brain, still fighting the urge to melt into the floor, can't form a proper sentence. His gaze flicks back to the wine bottle like it holds all the answers to his life right now. Finally, he blurts out, "Uhh... I’ve been, uh, thinking about the Green Above project. You know, the one we’re working on?"

“Right,” you nod, leaning back in your chair. “Big, green rooftop. You’ve got your hands full with that one.” You take a sip from your glass, and Mingyu swears the way your lips wrap around the rim is completely unfair to his focus. “What else?”

Mingyu, not used to people asking him personal questions that aren’t about work or how he’s planning on saving the planet with his architectural genius, scratches the back of his neck. “Uh... I mean, well, I’ve been wondering about... you. I mean, your—" he pauses, shaking his head, "your work, of course. Like, how you got into all this. You’ve clearly been through a lot, right?”

You chuckle softly, eyes softening for a brief moment. "A lot? Yeah, I guess you could say that. But that’s not what we’re talking about right now, is it?" You lean forward. "What's really going on, Mingyu?"

Mingyu’s mind is officially in crisis mode. He could barely form a sentence when talking about wine, and now you’ve flipped the tables. What is he even supposed to say?

“I—uh, well, it’s just... I’m curious,” he mutters, struggling to sound casual. He bites his lip, then his curiosity gets the best of him. “Wait, can I ask about something?”

You lean back again, clearly amused. “Go ahead.”

He takes a breath and gestures to the cabinet rested against the back wall of your office. "That picture there .. of a building, I think? It kind of looks like the Westbrook Project. Was it yours?” He winces as soon as he asks, knowing full well how awkward this must sound. But now he really wants to know, and he’s not sure he can keep pretending he hasn’t been thinking about it.

You blink, clearly not expecting him to ask, but then you just sigh and open your desk drawer, revealing an old architectural sketch, detailed and bold, with a city skyline in the background. “Yeah,” you say, voice quieter now. “It was.”

Mingyu swallows hard, his voice dropping to a more respectful tone. “What happened to it? The project, I mean... why didn’t it go through?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you take another slow sip of your wine, letting the moment stretch out. When you finally speak, your voice is calm but laced with something unspoken. “It was a good idea, just... not the right time. But that’s how it goes sometimes in this field. Things get started, and then... they don’t.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything at first, processing what you’ve shared. “I get that,” he says softly. “I think I’ve been there too. You know, not everything works out exactly the way you expect.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, there’s this quiet weight in your expression, something raw you don’t usually let slip. The smile fades, but it’s not replaced with sadness—more like... an understanding, an acceptance.

“The Westbrook Project was supposed to be everything I’ve worked for,” you begin, your voice softer now, like the walls are coming down just a little. “My goal has always been to help the community, to build things that people can actually enjoy, not just walk by and forget. I wanted something that would be a part of the city, something that people could use—a space that felt like it belonged to everyone.” You stop, looking at the picture in the drawer for a moment as if it’s not just a sketch, but a piece of your heart. "The Westbrook Project was supposed to be the culmination of all that. The perfect mix of green spaces, architecture, and public access. I wanted to create something people would look at and feel like they were part of it, you know? Not just bystanders."

You take another slow breath, running a hand through your hair, looking a bit less put-together than usual, but somehow even more... real. “I think that’s the hardest part. It wasn’t just a project to me—it was everything I believed in. And when it got shut down... it felt like a piece of that belief just... crumbled.” You shake your head, almost laughing at yourself. “I know it sounds dramatic, but when you spend so much of your time fighting for something, putting everything into it... and it still isn’t enough... it makes you wonder what the point is.”

Mingyu watches you closely with a strange mix of admiration and empathy. For a second, he’s struck with the urge to reach out and say something comforting, but all he can manage is a quiet, "That... sounds incredible. You must have been really proud of it."

You nod, a small, wistful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I was. Still am, in a way. But life moves on, right?” You glance back at the bottle of wine, then take another sip, before setting it down and meeting Mingyu’s gaze again, this time with a lighter, almost teasing glint. "You want some?"

“Uh... yeah?” he says, but it comes out more like a question than a statement, as if he's still trying to make sure this is actually happening.

You pour him a glass, your movements slow and deliberate. Mingyu watches every little gesture, thinking that maybe if he looks at the wine long enough, it might just turn into something less dangerous. It doesn't.

He takes the glass from you, trying to act casual, but honestly? It's a miracle he doesn’t spill it everywhere. "Thanks," he mutters.

You smirk at him as if you know exactly what’s going on in his head, and for a moment, Mingyu wonders if you can hear it, too—the way his pulse skips whenever he looks at you. He takes a sip of the wine, hoping it will steady him. It doesn’t. It only makes him more aware of you, of the way your eyes glint in the dim light of the office, how close you’re sitting, how warm it feels in here all of a sudden.

“So,” you say, your voice dropping a little lower than before, “Now that we’ve gone through my failed projects, do you feel enlightened?”

Mingyu laughs, but it’s a little too breathless, a little too caught off guard. He leans back, trying to appear cool, but it’s hard to be anything but a mess when you’re so close and everything feels a little off in the best possible way. “Enlightened? I’m still figuring out if you’re real,” he admits, voice cracking just a bit.

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What does that mean?”

Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze for a moment as his thoughts scatter in a dozen different directions. “It’s just ... you’re different than what I expected. I mean, you’re still, like, boss mode, but there’s this whole other side to you. Like, I don't know ... I think I’ve been seeing you as this untouchable, perfect person, and now I’m realising maybe I’m not the only one who’s human.”

You blink at him for a moment, and then—before he can get too embarrassed—something flickers across your face. Maybe it’s recognition. Maybe it’s something else. You lean in just slightly, the air between you thickening, but you don't break the distance just yet.

“I think,” you start slowly, “you might be onto something there, Mingyu.”

His breath hitches. He’s not sure if it’s the wine, the late hour, or the way your voice dropped that has him leaning forward a little. It’s all of it, really. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, lips curling into a knowing smile. “You might find I’m not so untouchable, after all. But—” You pause, the tension rising as your eyes flicker down to his lips, then back to his eyes. “We’ll see if you can handle the reality of that.”

Mingyu’s mind is going full tilt now, brain in overdrive, as his hand involuntarily moves closer to yours on the desk. He's this close to spilling all his thoughts and feelings—about work, about the project, about the way you make him feel—but instead, he blurts out, “I—uh, I’m pretty good with challenges.”

The words hang there, thick in the air between you. And then, before Mingyu can think any more about it, you break the tension—just slightly—by leaning even closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure you are.”

The space between you shrinks, just a little. And Mingyu, heart hammering in his chest, finds himself absolutely certain that if things don’t shift soon, this office might just catch fire from how hot it’s gotten in the last few minutes. The tension in the air is thick, like static before a storm. Mingyu’s hand hovers just a fraction too close to yours on the desk, his heart a jackhammer in his chest. He’s this close to losing all control, caught between wanting to say the right thing and just leaning in and kissing you. But what would that even mean? Would it be the worst decision of his life? Or the best?

His thoughts are a mess, but then—just like that—it’s like you’ve made up your mind for him. You close the space between you with a single, deliberate movement, your lips pressing softly against his.

Mingyu freezes for half a second, too stunned to process what’s happening. And then, without even thinking, he leans into the kiss, his hand moving to cup your jaw. It’s slow at first, soft, like neither of you can quite believe this is actually happening. Your lips are warm, and the taste of wine lingers on them—something sweet and intoxicating that has his head spinning.

You pull back just slightly, your breath brushing against his lips, and he feels his pulse race. You look at him, eyes dark with something unreadable. "You're not regretting this, are you?" you murmur, voice low.

“No,” he breathes out, shaking his head. “Definitely not regretting this.”

And then you’re kissing him again, deeper this time, your hands moving to his collar as if you’re suddenly both starved for this closeness. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and all he can think about is how right this feels, how every inch of him seems to have been made for this exact moment.

The kiss grows more urgent, more heated. His body presses into yours, the desk suddenly feeling too small, too far away. He wants you closer, needs you closer, and the way you move against him makes him ache with desire. He’s so lost in you, in this kiss, that everything else fades away—the Westbrook Project, work deadlines, the office. There’s only you, only this.

You're mumbling something and Mingyu's not sure he has the brain capacity to listen when he can feel your hands on his chest and your body pressed against his.

"... couldn't believe it when I saw you. I mean, who looks like this?"

His brain practically short-circuits at that. 

You’re grinning now, clearly enjoying his flustered reaction, and he can feel his cheeks heat up. But before he can manage a reply, you reach up, your hand grazing the back of his neck as you lean in again. His breath catches in his throat, and suddenly his brain clears—just long enough for him to close the remaining distance between you two.

The kiss this time is less hesitant, filled with a kind of urgency that makes the room feel smaller, more intense. His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you against him, and he feels your fingers twisting in his hair as if you can’t get enough either. Every brush of your lips sends another jolt through him, and he’s quickly losing any sense of professionalism or reason. He’s just Mingyu, in this moment, in this office, completely undone by you.

You’re mumbling again, half-laughing as he trails his lips down to the corner of your mouth and just slightly to your jawline. “I mean, really,” you manage between kisses, breathy but amused. “Did you even realise the effect you have?”

He lets out a breath of laughter against your skin, half a smirk forming. “I—I mean, maybe,” he says, but the words come out more as a gasp because you’ve got your hands back on him, your fingers trailing along his jaw in a way that has him melting. “I might have... kinda hoped, at least?”

“Oh?” Your voice is soft, teasing, and he catches a flash of that mischievous smile just before you lean in again, catching him in another kiss that’s more intense, more consuming than before.

Mingyu’s senses are a blur, but he manages to break away for just a second, eyes dark, a grin of his own tugging at his lips. “I think,” he says, his voice low, “I’d like to show you just how much I can handle.” His tone is playful but edged with a confidence he didn’t know he had until this very moment.

The moment is thick, like honey, everything moving slower and faster at once. Mingyu’s hands slip around your waist, and you’re tugging him closer, a little breathless, a little reckless. You’re both lost in the feeling of it, the thrill and warmth that seemed impossible just minutes ago.

But then—a sharp vibration echoes against the desk. The hum of your phone springs to life, startling you both. The screen lights up with an urgent notification, reminding you exactly where you are and what you’re doing.

You pull back, your lips just a whisper away from his, and a flicker of reality cuts through the haze of the moment. “Oh—” Your hands drop from his collar, fingertips brushing his chest as if the memory of the touch will fade otherwise. “Mingyu, I...”

His eyes meet yours, still dark and soft, a little dazed, a little too hopeful. But he pulls himself together, straightening and running a hand through his hair, somehow flustered and grinning at the same time. “Uh, right. Sorry,” he says, though it’s not clear who he’s apologising to.

You swallow, nodding as you try to steady yourself. “I—need to go,” you manage. “We both do, actually. It’s...late.”

Mingyu blinks, nodding, though he can't help the hint of disappointment beneath his expression. “Right. Of course. We probably... shouldn’t even be here right now.” He laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his head as if that could somehow erase the last few minutes. “Guess I should close up?”

You nod, and he watches your hand move to your chest, as if to catch your pulse before it runs off. “Yeah, let’s...do that.”

As you step out of the office, you glance back one last time, catching his eye in the dim light. “Goodnight, Mingyu.”

His gaze is steady, his voice warm. “Goodnight.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and Mingyu stands there, staring at it as if it might magically swing back open. For a moment, he doesn’t move, too stunned to process the fact that you were just here, inches away, closer than he ever thought possible, and then—gone. The warmth of you, the softness of your touch, is still buzzing on his skin, and it’s taking everything in him to not replay every single second in his mind.

He lets out a shaky breath and rubs his face, laughing softly to himself. “Wow,” he mutters, barely believing it. Did that really just happen? His boss—the woman he’s spent months trying not to have a full-on crisis over every time she looks at him—just kissed him. And it wasn’t just a peck; it was real, and his head is still spinning.

He paces the office, catching his reflection in the dark window. His hair’s a mess, his shirt collar a little crumpled, and the look on his face is somewhere between ecstatic and completely lost. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff—excited but terrified, staring down into something he can’t quite see.

“Okay, pull it together, man,” he whispers, clutching the edge of his desk like it might hold him steady. But he can’t shake the lingering feeling of your hands against him, the way your voice softened as you spoke to him about your dreams, how for a moment, he felt like he’d glimpsed something real and vulnerable and human in you. It’s like he’s been handed the answer to a riddle he didn’t even know he was solving.

He glances back at the empty doorway and smiles, a little helplessly. Because he knows—there’s no going back from this.

On Monday, Mingyu is ready. He's had days to replay every single second of that kiss, dissecting the tiniest details: the way you'd smiled before leaning in, the way you'd pulled back just a bit only to close the gap even tighter the next time. He’s convinced there’s no way you could look at him the same after that. He’s barely looked at himself the same.

So when he walks into the office Monday morning, there's this nervous excitement buzzing in his chest. He expects maybe a shared look or even a subtle nod, something that says 'yeah, we're definitely not forgetting that happened'. But he doesn't get that. In fact, he doesn't get much of anything.

“Uh, good morning,” he finally says, attempting a smile, hoping to break whatever tension he’s imagining.

“Morning,” you say briskly, barely looking up. “Did you get the updated renderings for the Green Above project?”

Mingyu blinks, caught off guard by how quickly you’ve brushed him off. “Yeah, I—um, they should be in your inbox. I, uh, made some adjustments you might want to look at.”

“Great. I’ll check later,” you say, curtly, already turning back to your computer. It’s not even like you’re being rude, exactly; just… distant. Professional. Totally not how you’d looked at him last week when he’d practically melted into you against this very desk.

The day drags on with more of the same. Every time he tries to catch your eye, you’re looking somewhere else. Every attempt at a lighthearted comment, something to bridge the gap, lands with a dull thud. By mid-afternoon, Mingyu’s just staring at his computer screen, feeling completely lost. Did he imagine everything? Because suddenly, it feels like he’s reading way too much into every little thing, wondering if the smile you’d given him that night was all in his head.

By the end of the day, he can’t take it anymore. He decides to be subtle—or something like that—and casually leans into your office as you’re gathering your things.

“Hey, um… are we good?” He tries to keep his voice light, but there’s an edge of worry there that he can’t quite hide. “It feels like—well, last week was—”

You glance up sharply, your expression guarded. “We’re fine, Mingyu,” you say, with a tone that’s just a little too even. “You’re doing great on the project. Keep up the good work.”

There’s that polished professional mask again, and this time it feels like a wall. Mingyu’s stomach twists, and he can’t help but feel a sting in his chest. He nods, trying to ignore the disappointment sinking in. "Right. Yeah, I’ll, uh… keep that up.”

And just like that, you walk past him, your footsteps echoing down the hallway as you head out for the night, leaving him standing there, staring after you, wondering what just went wrong.

It’s Thursday, and Mingyu’s still thinking about every clipped interaction you’ve had all week. He’s convinced he’s somehow messed everything up, but he’s not sure how. By lunchtime, he’s already halfway through a takeout sandwich in the break room when some of the other junior architects drift in, plates and coffees in hand. He’s only half-listening to their conversation, until, like a magnet, he hears your name.

“Did you see how she restructured the timeline?” One of them—Hyun, a friend from Mingyu’s first week—says, rolling his eyes. “Feels like she’s trying to prove something to everyone.”

Another snorts. “Yeah, she’s always like that. Like she has to make everything harder just to remind us she’s the boss.”

Mingyu freezes mid-bite, a flicker of irritation flaring in his chest. He’d learned more from working with you in the past few months than he could’ve in years of grad school. You didn’t ask anyone to work harder than you did yourself, and Mingyu’s certain no one stays later or puts in more effort than you do.

“Maybe she just actually cares about the projects,” Mingyu snaps, dropping his sandwich. The room goes a bit quiet, a few heads turning his way in surprise. “I mean, do you guys know how much time she’s spent on this? She’s doing half of our jobs for us so we don’t mess it up.”

Hyun raises an eyebrow. "Calm down, Mingyu. Everyone knows she's intense."

“‘Intense’ doesn’t mean you have to talk about her like that,” Mingyu says, his voice a bit sharper than he means it to be. “Maybe if people here actually appreciated all the work she does, she wouldn’t have to be so ‘intense’ to get things done.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, everyone looking at him like he’s suddenly sprouted a second head. Hyun mutters, "That's easy to say when you're the one getting special favours from her."

Mingyu's jaw clenches, the insinuation making his blood boil.  Special favours? He opens his mouth to snap back, but then catches himself. Getting defensive will only make things worse, and he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation for the late nights or the extra hours you’ve spent on his work. The truth is, he’s learned more from those “extra” moments than he could ever explain to Hyun and the others.

“Look,” he says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. “If you guys actually put in half the effort she does, you’d see it’s not about favourites. It’s about getting things right. Maybe if you tried it sometime, you’d get the same attention.”

Hyun snorts, clearly unconvinced. “Right. Must be nice, though, always getting her undivided attention. Pretty convenient, huh?”

The others chuckle, and Mingyu feels his face flush. He glances down, jaw set tight as he clenches his fists under the table. He can feel the weight of their stares and half-smirks, their words pressing in on him like a slow burn he can’t shake off.

The door swings open just then, and he catches sight of you standing there, eyes narrowed, a faint frown on your face. His heart drops, and suddenly he realizes you must have heard—possibly all of it.

“Can I talk to you for a second, Mingyu?” Your tone is measured, calm, but he can tell there’s something icy underneath. The others exchange looks, clearly ready to gossip the second you both leave.

Mingyu follows you out of the room, feeling a sense of dread settle in his stomach. As soon as you’re out of earshot, you turn to him, arms crossed.

“So is that how you’re spending your lunch breaks now?” you ask, a cool edge to your voice. “Defending me in the office cafeteria?”

Mingyu swallows, unsure how to respond. “I just… didn’t think they should be talking about you like that,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady, even though he can feel the intensity of your gaze. “It wasn’t right.”

You sigh, pressing your lips together, something almost unreadable flickering across your face. “I don’t need you to defend me, Mingyu,” you say, your tone firm. “I’ve been doing this job long enough to handle what people say behind my back. You’re here to do your job, not to play protector.”

Mingyu’s jaw clenches. He wants to argue, to tell you that maybe you don’t need anyone’s help, but that doesn’t mean you deserve to be dragged through the mud behind your back. But something in your expression stops him. He nods, swallowing back whatever words were fighting their way to the surface. “Got it,” he says, keeping his voice as even as possible. “It won’t happen again.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, as if deciding whether to say more, but then you just shake your head, walking away with a tense set to your shoulders. He watches you go, the frustration and confusion still churning inside him, wondering just how much further away you both seem to get with every step.

Later that evening, Mingyu slumps into the apartment, looking so defeated that Wonwoo’s expression goes from mildly bored to instantly entertained. “Let me guess. It’s about your boss?” Wonwoo doesn’t even wait for confirmation before tossing him a soda. “You’re like a walking rom-com.”

Mingyu sighs, collapsing on the couch. “Wonwoo, I think she hates me. I mean, really hates me.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought you two were practically having candlelit takeout dinners in her office.”

Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, deflating. “Yeah, well, that was before I kissed her.”

Wonwoo’s phone slides out of his hand, falling onto the couch like a lead balloon. “You what?”

Mingyu nods slowly, a rueful look on his face. “We were working late. It just—happened, okay? And now she’s all distant. Like, avoid me at all costs distant.”

“You kissed your boss?” Wonwoo repeats, still processing. He’s looking at Mingyu like he’s a particularly unsolvable math problem. “As in, the one you worship and whose entire life story you’ve googled?”

“Yes, that one,” Mingyu mutters, covering his face with his hands. “And it was incredible. Like, the kind of kiss that makes you think about life and all your choices and, you know… stuff.” He trails off, his voice a bit dreamy despite himself. “But then, after that, she started acting all cold, like it didn’t mean anything.”

Wonwoo stares at him, baffled. “Did you, uh, talk to her about it? You know, use words and stuff?”

Mingyu gives him a look. “Of course I tried talking to her. But she’s been all serious and professional and—ugh.” He sinks deeper into the couch. “And today, I may or may not have defended her in front of everyone. Like, really aggressively.”

Wonwoo groans. “You really know how to complicate things, don’t you?”

“Look, it just came out! They were acting like she’s some kind of boss robot or something. I just couldn’t listen to it.” Mingyu shakes his head. “And of course, she overheard it and was not happy. Told me she doesn’t need someone to protect her.”

Wonwoo considers this, eyebrows furrowed. “So basically, you kissed her, defended her honour, and now you think you ruined everything because she’s distant?”

“Exactly,” Mingyu sighs. “I feel like I messed it all up, and now she thinks I’m just some junior architect with a crush or something.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “I mean, to be fair, you kind of are a junior architect with a crush.”

“Thanks, Wonwoo. Really needed that.” Mingyu glares at him, but a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Wonwoo nudges him, his tone a little lighter now. “Look, man, maybe she just needs to know it was more than a one-time, late-night thing for you. Like, a serious talk. But not at the office, where everything’s so formal. Just the two of you.”

Mingyu’s eyes light up. “A serious talk… outside of work. Like, maybe over coffee?”

“Or dinner. Or anything where you can show her that you’re interested in more than work. Just, you know, don’t do that thing where you panic and say something weird.”

Mingyu sighs dramatically. “So, no pressure.”

Wonwoo grins, giving him a slap on the back. “You’ve got this, Romeo. Go win her over.”

Mingyu stands in front of your office door, hands nervously tugging at his sleeves like he's preparing for a public execution. He’s been rehearsing this moment for the last twenty minutes—while staring at his desk like it could offer him some sort of guidance—and he still has no idea what he’s doing. He only knows that if he doesn't get his foot in the door right now, he's going to spend the rest of the day overthinking this until his brain short circuits.

So, he knocks.

And of course, you don’t answer immediately. He stands there like a complete idiot, holding his breath for about five seconds before taking the most awkward step inside. Your eyes flick up to him, and for a second, he’s sure his heart is going to stop.

“Oh. Mingyu.” You sound surprised. Great. That’s just what he needed. "What do you need?"

He smiles, too big, too eager. This is fine. “Hey! So, um, I was thinking—”

“Uh oh,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes as if you already know where this is going.

“No, no, don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” he says quickly, forcing himself to sound more convincing than he feels. “I just, you know… you’ve been working super hard, and I was thinking, you deserve a break. So, what do you say? Dinner? You and me, tonight.”

You blink at him like he just asked if you wanted to run through the streets naked.

“Dinner? With you?” You tilt your head, looking him up and down, clearly trying to figure out if he’s joking or if his brain’s just melted from exhaustion.

"Yup!" Mingyu says, definitely a little too loud and way too enthusiastic. “Yeah, just dinner. No work talk, no presentations, just a chance to unwind, you know?” He grins like he's already won, but there’s something in your gaze that makes him freeze up.

You raise an eyebrow, studying him carefully. The air between you two is thick with that awkward tension, like you’re both trying to figure out if this is a professional gesture or something else entirely. Mingyu can feel the temperature in the room rise, and his stomach does a somersault as he waits for you to respond.

“Are you… serious right now?” You finally ask, your tone a mix of confusion and cautious curiosity.

Mingyu’s heart stutters in his chest. “Of course, I’m serious,” he says quickly, voice cracking slightly as his nerves get the best of him. “I mean, it’s not like—uh, it’s not like I want anything weird to happen. It’s just dinner. With two people who both happen to work in the same office. Completely normal, right?” He laughs a little too loudly, and it sounds forced, like someone desperately trying to convince themselves of something they don’t believe.

You’re silent for a moment, and Mingyu’s brain spins with overthinking. Should he apologise? Should he leave before this gets even more awkward? Why did he even think this was a good idea? His palms are sweating, his throat dry, and he feels like he might pass out from sheer mortification.

You lean back in your chair, still watching him, and for a second, Mingyu is sure you’re about to shut him down completely. But then, something shifts in your expression—just the faintest flicker of amusement, like you’re trying not to let it show.

“Dinner,” you repeat, almost like you’re testing the word, as though it’s foreign or absurd coming from him. “No work talk?”

“No work talk,” Mingyu confirms, nodding so hard he might give himself whiplash. “I promise. Just good food and maybe a chance to, you know, talk about literally anything else.”

Your lips curve into the smallest of smirks, and Mingyu swears the room feels a little less tense. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

He grins, a spark of hope lighting up his chest. “I like to think of it as... enthusiastic.”

You shake your head, clearly amused now, though you’re doing your best to hide it. “Fine,” you say, leaning forward to jot something on a sticky note. “Dinner."

Mingyu’s heart leaps, and he barely resists the urge to fist pump right there in your office. “Deal!” he says, grinning so wide it’s a wonder his face doesn’t hurt. “Seven o’clock?”

“Seven,” you agree, handing him the sticky note with an address scribbled on it. “Don’t be late, Mingyu.”

He takes the note like it’s a golden ticket, clutching it in his hand as if it might disappear. “I won’t. I’ll see you there.”

As he walks out of your office, he can’t help the goofy smile plastered across his face.

By the time the evening rolls around, Mingyu is pacing outside the restaurant like a man on the edge. He’s checked his watch twice, his phone four times, and stared at the sidewalk so long he’s convinced it’s going to start judging him soon. Late. You're late. Or maybe he’s just early. Impossible to say when your nerves feel like they’re hosting a small rave in your chest.

After all, there’s something about you that makes him want to try harder. Maybe too hard, but he’s finally learned that no one gets anywhere by waiting for the perfect moment to arrive. So, here he is, standing outside the restaurant, pacing like a nervous wreck while waiting for you to arrive.

He’s tried to stay calm, really. Spent the entire afternoon mentally drafting this… whatever this dinner is supposed to be. Not a date (probably). Not a work meeting (definitely). Just dinner. Dinner with the one person who’s managed to turn him into a bundle of energy and chaos masquerading as a fully functional adult.

And then, right as he’s about to dial his mom and ask for advice (because that’s clearly what any reasonable person would do), he sees you.

You walk up with that confident stride, the one that always makes his heart skip a beat, and Mingyu feels himself freeze for a moment, completely forgetting everything he’s planned to say. You've changed and you look good. Too good for a casual dinner, but that’s a problem for another time.

“Hey,” you greet him with a smile, your eyes soft, but not quite soft enough for him to completely relax. “I didn’t expect you to actually show up on time.”

Mingyu laughs, awkwardly tugging at his shirt. “I like to be punctual. It’s kind of a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow but don’t comment on the obvious lie, allowing the small banter to settle between you like a cushion. Instead, you let him open the restaurant door for you, falling into that casual rhythm that somehow feels more natural than the air he’s been breathing all day.

The dinner itself is nice. Too nice. No weird silences, no work talk, just good food and easy conversation. And yet, there’s a weight in the room that Mingyu can’t shake. It’s been lingering ever since the kiss—the kiss—and he knows he can’t keep tiptoeing around it forever. So as the plates are cleared and the server drops off the check, he reaches into his bag, pulling out the rolled-up plans he’s been carrying like a talisman.

He sets them on the table, his hands a little too careful, his heart racing like it’s bracing for impact.

“Okay, now you’re being mysterious,” you say, the smallest hint of amusement curling your lips.

Mingyu’s throat goes dry, but he pushes forward, unrolling the designs and smoothing them out between the two of you. “I know I said no work talk,” he starts, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest, “but… I’ve been working on this. And I thought you should see it.”

Your eyes drop to the papers, and he watches as your expression shifts. At first, there’s curiosity, then recognition, and finally… something deeper. Something he can’t quite name but feels in the way your fingers tremble slightly as they trace the edges of the designs with a reverence he didn’t know he could envy. Your fingers are delicate but deliberate, the way you touch the plans like they might vanish under too much pressure. Mingyu’s heart is pounding so loudly he's surprised you can’t hear it across the table.

“Where did you get these?” Your voice comes out hoarse, more vulnerable than you mean it to be.

“I’ve been working on them for a while,” Mingyu admits, leaning forward, his hands clasped on the table. “After you talked about the Westbrook Project that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how much it mattered to you. I wanted to do something with it. Something for you.”

You blink, unsure how to process this. “But how did you know?”

“I just—” Mingyu hesitates, then shrugs. “I listened. I saw it. The way you talked about it that night, the passion you put into your projects. I wanted to give it the respect it deserves. I couldn’t let it just end with a ‘no’.”

You stare at the designs again, looking like you've been hit by a wave of nostalgia and shock. "You really... did this for me?”

“I did,” he says quietly, his eyes meeting yours. “And I think it could be something we could do together. If you’re interested.”

You pause, the space between you thick with emotion, something unspoken hanging in the air. Finally, you swallow and look at him, searching his face as if trying to make sure this is real.

“I... I don’t know what to say, Mingyu.” Your voice cracks, and you can’t quite hide the emotion that’s flooding through you. “You’ve—this is everything I’ve been trying to do. But I didn’t think anyone else could see it.”

He sits up straighter, his hands resting on the edge of the table as he tries to keep his voice steady. "I just didn't want you to let go of something so important," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "It deserves another chance. You deserve another chance."

He doesn't know where he finds the courage to say those words. They sound so earnest. Almost embarrassingly so. But, it's the truth, and if there's one thing he's learned from you, it's that honesty - no matter how uncomfortable - is the foundation of anything worth building.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, the restaurant fades away—the low hum of conversation, the soft clink of silverware, all of it. It's just you and Mingyu, sitting across from each other, separated by a stack of papers and an ocean of unspoken feelings.

"Mingyu..." You start, but the words get caught in your throat.

You look down, the faintest hint of a tremble in your hands. And Mingyu, who had been prepared for you to shut him down, to dismiss this moment as anything but professional, has to fight the urge to reach across the table and take your hand. He doesn't, of course. He can't. Not yet.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. He's not used to this - seeing you so vulnerable - and he just wants to take some of that pressure off your back. "Look, I know I’m not perfect. I mess up, I talk too much, and I probably drive you crazy most of the time. But I see you, (Y/n). I see how much you care, how much you put into everything you do. And I don’t just admire that—I... I want to be part of it. To be there for you."

Your lips part in surprise. "I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice trembling slightly. "I’ve spent so long trying to keep everything together. To keep people at a distance. And now—"

"You don’t have to figure it all out right now," Mingyu says softly, sensing the spiral of doubt you appear to be descending into.  "We can take it slow. One step at a time. I just... I needed you to know how I feel."

For a long moment, you don’t move. But then, slowly, you let your hand inch toward his, your fingertips brushing against his palm.

It’s small. Tentative. But it’s enough.

Mingyu barely breathes as your fingers brush his. It’s such a simple gesture, but it sends a jolt straight through him, grounding him in this moment that feels impossibly fragile. He wraps his hand gently around yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. It’s all he can do to keep himself steady when every nerve in his body is screaming at him to close the distance completely.

You don’t pull away, and that feels like a victory in itself. But when you look up at him again, your eyes are brimming with something he can’t quite name—fear, maybe, or hesitation—but also something softer, warmer, that gives him just enough hope to hold on.

“Mingyu,” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance down at your joined hands, your brows furrowing slightly as though you’re gathering the courage to say something that’s been weighing on you. “After the kiss... I didn't know what to do.”

His heart skips a beat at the mention of it, the memory still fresh in his mind—the way your lips had felt against his, the way the world had seemed to tilt on its axis for just a moment. He doesn’t say anything, though, afraid that if he interrupts, you’ll stop.

“I started acting cold because...” You take a shaky breath, your fingers tightening slightly around his. “Because I didn’t know how to handle it. How to handle you.”

Mingyu blinks, his chest tightening at your words. “Me?” His voice is soft, cautious. He doesn’t want to push too hard, but he needs to understand.

You nod, your gaze flickering back to his, vulnerable but resolute. “You scare me, Mingyu. Not in a bad way, but... in a way I’ve never felt before. You’re so open, so sincere. You make everything seem so easy, like it’s natural to just—feel. And for me, that’s... terrifying.”

He watches you, his heart breaking a little with every word. He wants to say something, to tell you that you don’t have to be scared, but he knows this isn’t the time. He needs to let you finish.

“I’ve spent so long keeping people at arm’s length,” you admit, your voice trembling. “It’s just easier that way. I don’t get hurt, and I don’t hurt anyone else. But then you came along, with your ridiculous optimism and your... your kindness, and suddenly I didn’t know how to keep you out. And that kiss—it made me realise I can’t.”

Mingyu doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if there’s anything he can say to match the weight of what you’re giving him. So he squeezes your hand, letting his touch say what his words can’t.

“I didn’t mean to push you away,” you continue, your voice soft but unsteady. “But I thought if I could convince myself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if it all fell apart.”

Mingyu shakes his head slowly, his grip on your hand firm but gentle. “You don’t have to protect yourself from me,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I’m not going anywhere."

You look at him, your eyes searching his for something—reassurance, maybe, or proof that he’s not just saying what he thinks you want to hear. Whatever it is, you seem to find it, because your shoulders relax just a fraction, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you repeat, your voice barely audible. “But I think... I think I want to try.”

And that’s it. That’s all Mingyu needs. His chest swells with something that feels suspiciously like hope, and he leans in just enough. "I don't need perfect. I just need you, the way you are, right here, right now."

For a moment, there’s silence. Not the awkward kind—the kind where the world feels like it’s holding its breath just for you. Mingyu’s words hang in the air, his thumb still brushing over your knuckles, as if he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops. His heart is doing that thing again, where it feels way too big for his chest, and honestly, he’s not sure if that’s romantic or just a pending medical emergency.

You glance down, exhaling softly, and then look back up at him with that small, tentative smile that could single-handedly knock him off his chair. “Do you...” You pause, biting your lip like you’re still deciding if this is a terrible idea or just a regular bad one. “Do you want to come back to my apartment?”

Mingyu’s brain short-circuits.

Like, fully shuts down. There’s no reboot happening here. Just static, a faint buzzing sound, and a very unfortunate replay of every romantic comedy scene he’s ever watched where the male lead trips over his own words and ruins everything.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Great. Perfect. Ideal response.

“Mingyu?” you ask, your tone softer now, like you’re worried you might’ve just set his brain on fire.

“I—uh—yes? I mean, yes!” He blurts it out, too loud, and the couple at the next table glance over like they’re wondering if he’s okay. He’s not, but that’s beside the point.

You laugh, and the sound feels like sunshine breaking through the clouds. “You’re sure?” you ask, your tone teasing but warm.

“Absolutely,” he says, sitting up straighter, like he’s about to sign an unbreakable contract. “I am very sure. Extremely sure. Couldn’t be more sure.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly enjoying his spiral. “Okay, then.”

You stand, and Mingyu scrambles to follow, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. Smooth. So smooth. He rushes to grab his coat, fumbling with the sleeve as he tries to put it on without dislocating a shoulder. When he finally gets it together and turns back to you, you’re just standing there, watching him with an amused smile.

“You good?” you ask, tilting your head.

“Good?” Mingyu repeats, laughing nervously. “Yeah, I’m great. Amazing. Let’s, uh, go.”

He follows you out of the restaurant, trying to act like a normal, functional human being. Except his palms are sweating, his heart is racing, and he’s pretty sure he almost tripped on absolutely nothing as you walked to the curb. When you glance back at him, your expression softens, and suddenly, it feels like the world’s gone quiet again.

“Hey,” you say, your voice cutting through the chaos in his head. “You don’t have to be nervous, you know.”

“I’m not nervous,” Mingyu lies, his grin wide and unconvincing. “This is just how I always look when I’m—uh—happy.”

You laugh again, shaking your head, and link your arm with his, pulling him gently along. “Come on, let’s go before you combust.”

The walk to your apartment is a blur for Mingyu. His brain is bouncing between, Wow, I can't believe this is happening and What am I supposed to do when we get there? Sit? Stand? Compliment her interior design choices? He's overthinking so hard he barely notices when you nudge him gently and gesture toward the building in front of you.

“This is me,” you say, your voice calm, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips like you know exactly how fried his brain is right now.

“Cool,” Mingyu replies, because apparently that’s the only word left in his vocabulary. Cool. Not “nice place” or “wow, it suits you,” just cool. He could punch himself, but then you’re already unlocking the door, and the reality of the moment hits him like a freight train.

The inside of your apartment is warm. Not literally warm—though the temperature is pleasant—but warm in the way it feels lived-in and completely, unmistakably you. It’s smaller than he imagined, but cozy, like every piece of furniture and every object has been chosen for a reason. There’s a soft throw blanket draped over the arm of your couch, a mug on the coffee table with a faint ring from earlier that day, and a half-finished book on the shelf that he knows he’s seen you reading during breaks.

Mingyu steps inside, toeing off his shoes at the door because it feels like the kind of place where shoes on indoors would be a crime. “Your apartment is really nice,” he says, his voice a little too high-pitched because he’s still desperately trying not to think about why he’s here.

“It suits you,” Mingyu says before he can stop himself, the words slipping out too soft, too sincere. When you glance at him, your cheeks warm, he knows he’s said the right thing.

“Thanks,” you murmur, ducking your head slightly. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab us something to drink.”

You disappear into the kitchen, and Mingyu is left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to spiral. This is fine. Totally normal. Just two people hanging out in a perfectly platonic and definitely not emotionally loaded way. Except it’s not fine, and his brain is racing faster than he can catch up.

He sits down on the couch, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he looks around again. It’s impossible not to take everything in, to let the space tell him little things about you he didn’t know before. Like how there’s a stack of notebooks on the side table, their covers worn like they’ve been flipped through a thousand times. Or how there’s a candle sitting on the shelf labelled something ridiculous like “Cinnamon Forest Dreams,” and now all he can think about is you lighting it during one of your late-night brainstorming sessions.

When you come back, two glasses of water in hand (because you’re practical like that, of course), Mingyu straightens up, his heart pounding in his chest. You sit down beside him, closer than he expected but not close enough to touch, and he’s suddenly very aware of how small the couch feels.

“So,” you say, handing him a glass, your voice light but your eyes betraying a flicker of nervousness. “What do you think?”

“Of the apartment?” Mingyu asks, taking a sip of water because it’s something to do with his hands. “I think it’s great. Like... really great. It’s very... you.”

You raise an eyebrow, amusement tugging at your lips. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s the compliment,” he replies, his grin a little sheepish. “It’s perfect. Just like—” He cuts himself off, his cheeks flushing as he looks down at his glass. Don’t say it. Don’t overdo it.

But you’re looking at him now, your expression softening. “Just like what?”

Mingyu swallows hard, his brain screaming at him to play it cool. “Just like I imagined,” he finally says, his voice quiet but steady. “Like... a space that feels like you.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s completely ruined everything. But then you smile—really smile—and his chest feels like it might explode.

“Thanks, Mingyu,” you say, your voice soft, almost shy. “That means a lot.”

He smiles back, trying to ignore the way his heart is doing somersaults. This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing to freak out about. But then your knee bumps against his, and suddenly, he’s not so sure.

Mingyu swallows. A cough almost escapes his throat, but he manages to catch it, instead clearing his throat like he's trying to shake off the sudden, very real butterflies in his stomach.

You, on the other hand, seem perfectly at ease, sipping your water, your eyes not quite meeting his, but still playful, still warm. Your knee stays lightly resting against his.

He looks at you, his mind racing, and wonders if maybe this is one of those moments where he should just say it. Say what’s been sitting heavy on his mind, almost screaming to come out ever since that night—the kiss, the awkwardness, the moments of quiet when he almost wished he could reach out and grab the truth like it was some kind of lifeline.

“Y'know," he begins, his voice coming out a little more nervously than he meant, "I’ve spent most of my life messing up in the most spectacular ways possible. I don’t exactly have a good track record when it comes to making things right."

You tilt your head at him, a playful smile on your lips, but your gaze is intense in a way that makes his breath catch. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Mingyu,” you say, your tone teasing, but there’s something beneath it—a quiet, steady assurance that has him clinging to every word.

“No, I’m serious,” he insists, his hand tightening slightly around his glass. “Like, when it comes to this—" He gestures vaguely between the two of you, "I’m completely out of my depth. I don’t really know what I’m doing.” He bites his lip, willing himself not to spill everything at once. “But, I think… I think I really want to try. With you.”

The silence that follows is thick. Mingyu mentally runs through every scenario, and none of them seem to be as perfectly awkward and fragile as this one. He starts to second-guess himself, but before he can say something stupid to cover it all up, you do something that catches him completely off-guard.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his again, but this time, there’s no hesitation in the way you move. Your hand reaches out, fingers gently resting on his forearm, warm and soft. He can feel your pulse, steady and strong, as if somehow in this small gesture, you’re grounding him.

“Mingyu,” you say quietly, and he’s not sure if it’s his name or the way you say it that knocks all the air out of him. “I’m not asking for perfection. I don’t even know what that looks like.”

Mingyu’s breath hitches as he watches you, his heart skipping a beat at the honesty in your eyes. It feels like you're both on the edge of something, teetering between what is and what could be, and yet all Mingyu can think about in this moment is how simple it is to be here with you—how uncomplicated it feels to just let go.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” you continue, your voice soft but clear. “But I want to find out. With you."

It’s then that Mingyu realizes how quiet it’s gotten, how still the air is around the two of you. The world outside your apartment could be spinning at a hundred miles per hour, and in this small space, with your hand on his arm, time feels like it’s standing still.

You’re sitting so close now. The space between you is smaller than the gap in his thoughts. His hand, which had been fidgeting with the glass of water, starts to move on its own. He places it gently on the cushion beside you, just a few inches from your own. His palm is open, but he waits.

And then—he takes a breath.

"Can I?" he asks, voice low, almost a whisper, as though he's afraid you'll pull away, as though he's asking permission for something he should have done a hundred times before.

Your eyes lock with his. They're soft, vulnerable, like you're weighing his words against everything that's happened before. For a moment, the world feels like it’s paused, like there’s no room for doubts or what-ifs. There’s just you and him, and something that’s undeniable between you.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you let your gaze drift to his lips, and then, almost imperceptibly, you lean in.

Mingyu doesn’t wait for a second invitation. His hand slides from the couch to gently cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of your cheek as he moves closer. He feels the heat radiating off you, and his breath catches when your lips are just a breath away.

And then, before he can even think, he closes the distance between you, his lips brushing softly against yours.

It’s nothing like the first kiss. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty—just the sensation of everything falling into place. The kiss is slow, tender, almost like he’s savouring it, wanting to memorise the moment because, for once, it feels like everything is exactly how it should be.

Your lips move against his in a quiet, unspoken rhythm, and he feels the tension that had been building between the two of you melt away. He’s no longer nervous, no longer afraid of saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing. He just wants to be here with you—now, in this perfect moment.

When you pull away, it’s not with distance, but with the smallest of smiles tugging at your lips, your eyes full of something that makes Mingyu's chest tighten. Your breath is still coming fast, like you’re just as shaken as he is.

He doesn’t say anything at first. There’s no need. His heart is still racing, but now, he’s not afraid of what comes next. He feels like he’s finally stepped into something real, something that might not be easy but is worth every bit of effort.

"I think..." he starts, his voice a little hushed, "I really wanted to do that again."

You laugh softly, the sound warm and familiar, as you tilt your head just enough for your forehead to rest against his. "Yeah?" you murmur, your fingers gently tracing the outline of his jaw. "Well, I'm glad you did."

Mingyu can't help but smile, his hand, still resting gently on your waist, pulls you just a little closer, as if to remind himself that this is real. That you're really here, and this is really happening. You don’t pull away. Instead, your hand moves from his jaw to his collar, gently tugging at the fabric like it’s an invitation he can’t refuse.

And Mingyu? He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He leans in again, his lips finding yours with more urgency this time. His free hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you deeper into the kiss. It’s like his body’s on autopilot, all his self-control falling away the moment you’re close enough to feel.

You gasp softly against his lips as his hand slides down to your waist, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip, and he feels you shiver. His pulse is racing in his ears, but it's the warmth of your body against his that completely consumes him. He can't stop. Can't pull away. You taste like the promise of something more, and the way your fingers grip his collar tightens the knot in his stomach until it’s a full-on spiral of heat.

Your mouth moves with his now, more desperate, more demanding, and Mingyu’s heart does that weird, annoying thing again—where it leaps in his chest, and all his thoughts vanish like mist under the sun. He kisses you harder, taking a moment to pull away just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting as if you’ve run miles, even though you’ve hardly moved.

“Mingyu...” you whisper, voice breathless, a little unsteady. He feels the sound vibrating through him as much as he hears it.

"Yeah?" he responds, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth despite how utterly wrecked he feels in the best possible way. "You’re not gonna suddenly tell me this is all a huge mistake, right?"

You laugh—a low, playful sound that makes his chest tighten, and then you kiss him again. This time, it's slow, deliberate, like you’re savouring each second, each touch. And Mingyu’s mind short-circuits all over again, as if he's trying to figure out how it's possible for something so simple to make him feel so—so—alive.

Your hands are everywhere now—on his chest, around his neck, tugging him closer until there’s not an inch of space between you. And that’s when he feels it, that surge of want, a physical ache deep in his chest that spreads out to his limbs, making him burn.

He presses you back gently against the armrest of the couch, his lips trailing down to your neck, his breath hitching when you arch into him. The way you melt under his touch is everything he’s ever wanted—more than he even realised he craved. The warmth of your skin, the way your fingers dig into his back, all of it pulls him in, deeper, until he’s lost in the sensation of just being with you.

“Mingyu, we—” you start, but the words cut off when his lips meet the curve of your neck, and the way you shudder against him makes his pulse stutter in his veins. You can’t even finish the sentence, and he’s so close to being past the point of caring.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “We what?” he asks, his voice rough. "I won't let you talk if you're going to tell me you changed your mind."

Your gaze flickers between his lips and his eyes, a playful challenge in your expression. "I’m just saying," you murmur, your hands shifting down to his shirt as you slowly begin to unbutton it. "You're going to have to transfer to a different team after Langham is done."

Mingyu grins, a breathless huff of laughter leaving his lips. "As long as I still get to see you every day."

"I'd say you're probably going to get to see a lot more of me." Your words are said innocently enough, but the implication mixed with the feeling of your heaving chest against his is making his head spin again.

And just like that, you have him, every inch of him. Mingyu can’t keep his hands from wandering, can’t keep his lips from pressing harder against yours, can’t keep from falling deeper into this beautiful mess of passion and want. The last shred of his self-control slips away, leaving only you—right here, right now.

Your clothes go quickly, his quicker, until you're both laid bare before the other, entirely vulnerable and at peace at the same time. He's drowning in you, his head nested between your legs, feeling as eager to please as he did the first day he met you. You're gasping his name, hands curling into his hair, head falling back onto your couch in utter bliss. 

And then your fingers are wrapping around his shoulders, digging into the muscles and pulling him back up towards you. He almost falls off the couch he moves so fast, but you don't seem to notice. You're too busy looking positively angelic in front of him, with those large, sparkling eyes staring at him and dirty words pouring out of your mouth.

Mingyu has to hold himself together as you tell him, point blank, to "hurry up, and make love to me."

This isn't Mingyu's first rollercoaster. He's a good-looking guy, and he knows it. He's been with others before, but when you speak to him like that, he feels like he's eighteen again and a girl's just sat on his lap for the first time. 

And it feels so good, you feel so good around him. You might not have to worry about transferring teams, because he's not sure he's going to make it. The noises you're making, the warmth of your body, the scraping of your nails against his chest - it's enough to finish him off (or at least allow him to ignore the ungodly sounds pouring out of his own mouth).

He makes sure you've finished as well before pulling out (because he wants to, not because he feels embarrassed that he came first). A blissful look falls over your face and Mingyu has to mentally take a photo of the image to make sure he never forgets it. He's staring at you; he knows it and you know it, and you're giggling a little and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

"Wait here," he whispers, not wanting to break the moment by speaking too loudly. He leans down to peck your lips, before running into your bathroom to dispose of the condom and get some towels and blankets. 

The night fades softly into a comfortable quiet as you and Mingyu lay there, nestled on your couch, your bodies half-melted into the cushions, the air between you warm and thick with the lingering feeling of everything now spoken. 

Mingyu is still processing it all. This. This feeling of being here, with you. He’s supposed to be good at this—the whole dating thing, at least. But everything about tonight has been different. And, if he’s being honest with himself, much better than he expected. He expected the awkwardness, the second-guessing, the inevitable when do I leave? moment, but none of that happened. Instead, all that’s left is you. And him. And the soft rhythm of your breathing in the stillness of your apartment.

He stares at the ceiling, trying to act casual, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. This is fine, he thinks, despite the tiny voice in the back of his head screaming that nothing this nice is ever fine. But the voice is quieter now. A lot quieter.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you mumble, your voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt, your head resting on his chest. Your fingers play with the hem of his shirt absently, as though you’re trying to figure out the material, the way it fits him, the way it feels beneath your touch.

Mingyu chuckles softly, a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his chest vibrating with the sound. “I guess I’m just... trying to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“Well,” you reply, shifting just enough to lift your head, your eyes soft but amused, “if this is a dream, I’m okay with it. I think I’ll stick around.”

Mingyu's heart skips a beat at the words, but he keeps his voice steady, even if the teasing smile he wears is bordering on ridiculous. “Good, because if this is a dream, I’m not waking up."

As the night deepens and the city lights paint soft patterns on the walls of your apartment, Mingyu finds himself drawn to your window. The skyline stretches before him, a tapestry of glowing spires and shimmering reflections, alive with the energy of the place he loves most. He smiles, realising for the first time how much this view has changed for him. It isn't just buildings and lights anymore - it's connection, collaboration, and the quiet promise of something new. A reminder of what you are going to build together, layer by layer, one light at a time.

Divider credit: @cafekitsune

[endless-ineffabilities]

chemical override (6)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: I hope you all have found ways to cope after the breakup, but here all your questions will be answered on what went down pre-August! Special shoutout to @just-fics-station @thepurplecrown @clarkysblog @hotdismylife and @sprinklesprinkle888 for sharing your ideas and indulging me with the lovely, crazy discourse!

To everyone, I am so chuffed at how this has become OUR story - our lil self-indulgent Ewan Nation production. You all are aces <3

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

In the aftermath of the breakup, the reader and Ewan throw themselves into their work, trying (and failing) to avoid any trace of the other. Will they remain this way - former lovers doomed to drift in each other's orbit?

Some time before August

New York City

The lush office was laden with expensive wooden antiques, one side with built-in shelves displaying film awards and plaques of varying degrees of prestige. A full glass minibar occupied the other side.

The casting director introduced himself as Bruce, insisting that Ewan call him by his first name and not any of that "sir or similar stick-up-the-ass names". Ewan can see him as a mentor or maybe even a friend, Bruce insisted.

After all, they were going to help each other out a lot.

The discussion was straightforward enough, never mind the saccharine tone Bruce seemed to be so good at. Aimed at making Ewan feel welcome, coddling him, remarking with awe at his projects thus far. But there was a fakeness to it. Ewan steeled himself, trying to adapt to the style of conversation. After all, if he is in this for the long haul, then he would have to get used to these situations.

Bruce appraised him, leaning back on his leather swivel chair. "How are you with the fantasy genre? All that YA, lovesick stuff the kids eat up so eagerly nowadays? Personally, I haven't got the taste for it, but it always makes bank, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, well, I'm a fan of all movies. I definitely see why the fantasy genre has made such an impact on audiences, especially with the romance element, you know, I get the appeal."

"Well, son, we've got a solid franchise in our hands here. Some adaptation of an elf-human love story, mind you, it sound ridiculous, but you know how it is. And the team seems to be in agreement - you fit the bill for the male lead. The male elf lead - " he almost guffawed at the thought, then collected himself " - hope you don't mind my saying that you've got elvish features yourself. Long nose, long jaw, lanky. The teens are going to eat you up."

"Ah," Ewan smiled curtly, nodding. There was a backhanded compliment if he ever heard one. "Well, sir, I've read the script - at least, the bit that was sent to me - and it looks quite promising. I'd be honoured to - "

"Of course, of course!" Bruce exclaimed in pleasure, cutting Ewan off mid-sentence. "And there's the case of your leading lady, and this all boils down to chemistry as you know. Our top contender is that Jenna Ortega girl from the Netflix show, you know her?"

Ewan nodded, well aware. He's seen her work, and thinks that she is a top actress of her generation, but leave it to Bruce to reduce her to being that girl from the Netflix show.

"Yes, she's a very talented actress," Ewan replied.

Bruce hums in agreement, head bobbing as a smirk materialises on his face. "Think she's a looker?" he said openly, without shame.

Ewan laughed nervously, his words caught in his throat.

Bruce, characteriscally oblivious to the discomfort of others, carried on. "I only ask because we're going to need you two to be pretty chummy with each other when you jump on this project. It's kind of a condition of the whole thing, but really nothing to concern yourself with." He waved a hand in the air, his proposition barely carrying any weight in his mind. But Ewan was catching on, and he started to develop a dislike about the whole deal.

"What do you mean?" Ewan asked.

"It's pretty common in this business, son. There's a reason why young, new actors like yourself opt to remain unattached so to speak, so they're always open to a PR arrangement or, you know, just so their - your - hoards of fans would think they got a chance with you," Bruce explains lazily. "In this case, since you and Ortega are, as I said, unattached, getting you two together would fuckin' do wonders for our movie."

Our movie, he said, convinced that Ewan was all in, because why would any young actor refuse such a golden opportunity? Franchises like this can set up an entire mainstream Hollywood career.

Ewan thought that he wasn't unattached. Granted, his date with you was yet to happen, but he already felt bound to you. He wished you were the one tapped to be his love interest. Very little acting would be needed there. Maybe he might even be inclined to go along with the idea of selling the relationship, using it for publicity for the film, but even that made him uneasy.

The industry offered a lot of privileges, but more often than not, they come at a cost.

"Sir, I - "

"Bruce."

"Right, sorry. Bruce, I have to tell you that I'm not exactly unattached."

"Got a partner?"

Ewan actually found himself smiling at the thought of you being called his partner. His first easy smile since entering this office. "Yes, she's an actress herself," he agreed.

"I heard of her?" Bruce asked with obvious disinterest. You were but a wedge in his flawless plan.

"She's kind of a new talent like me, but she's brilliant. She plays Alyna Rivers in our show."

"Ah her," Bruce loosened up a little. "I get it, she's a piece."

Ewan cleared his throat loudly, his jaw clenching on instinct. "So, like I said, I'm with her. I'm sorry but this whole PR arrangement with Jenna wouldn't work."

"Look, kid, I want my movie to do well, alright? I got a lot invested here. This PR thing has proven to be highly bankable time and time again. If you don't trust me, I can ask the team to show you the data on all that. It's a lot of boring numbers, but shit, the numbers are never wrong."

"I don't need to see - "

"If you wanna be with your girl, you can, but you just gotta learn to hide it. Sweep it under the rug, you know. Don't canoodle in public, you crazy kids," Bruce offered, like that made things any better.

"You want me to hide my relationship?"

"Hey, now, come on. Word gets around. Isn't your girl also doing this exact same thing with Jacob Elordi?"

"Not anymore, I don't think," Ewan clarifies, "and that was... that was hardly anything. They weren't obligated to do it. It just worked by chance because they were both single for a time."

"Po-ta-to, po-tah-to." Bruce clicked his tongue before making his next point. "So you see how it works, your thing with Ortega won't be any different."

"Do I have a choice?" There it is, the defining factor.

Bruce smiled slowly. The calculating and menacing air about him intensified, and it was obvious he was not there to be Ewan's friend.

"It would be stupid to refuse something like this, kid."

Ewan's blue eyes flashed in return. None of this was ideal, but his nan raised him well, and he knew better than to falter on his values in times of trial.

"Sir, what's stupid is if you ask me to hide my real relationship for the sake of mere publicity for a film."

"Stupid you say?" Bruce sneered, having already discarded Ewan in his mind, his fragile ego bruised. "What a shame."

There wasn't much to say after that. Bruce was clearly not disinclined to reveal the ice that settled in his veins, and it dawned on Ewan that it had always been the case. There was no true hospitality here.

For bigwig casting director-slash-execs like Bruce, this was a transaction. And Ewan was not about to put what he has, or what he could have, with you on the line.

There has to be another way to advance his career. If not bigger productions, then at least those with less domineering producers.

"That is a shame," Ewan said, getting up from his seat. "I won't waste any more of your time, sir. Thank you for considering me."

Bruce's eyes darkened even further. "You're actually refusing me? For some girl?"

Another genuine smile formed on Ewan's face at the thought of you. Some girl.

But you're not just some girl. He nodded without a trace of doubt in his mind, before reaching out to shake Bruce's hand. "If you don't mind, sir... I have to go and see my darling."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Near the end of August

Los Angeles

The modern space sported a minimalist yet rustic feel, the interiors a blend of sterile white and sleek wooden surfaces. Very LA, as they say. The windowed walls offered plenty of light, as well as precious views of the valley below.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Donna," you greeted Ewan's publicist as she ushered you in her LA office.

"No problem at all, sweetheart," she said. "Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea? Ewan always has his coffee with way, way too much sugar. Mind you, if that kid wasn't active and boxing all the time, I'd be worried for his health."

You smiled fondly at her genuine concern. "Don't even mention the cigarettes."

"Oh, yeah," she scoffed, settling down on the chair across from you. She could have sat down at her desk, making the meeting more official, but Donna's always had a friendly and open way about her. "So, my sweet, how's your new movie coming up?"

You respond eagerly. The dialogue flowed freely, talking about your film and the lukewarm reception of season 2 of House of The Dragon. And finally, Ewan.

"I really thought he would get the Greta Gerwig film," you said. "Everyone said he was perfect for it. I think Greta herself had nothing but praises for him when they met on Zoom."

She sighed thoughtfully, "I thought so too. And, theoretically, he did have that one almost booked up. But there was an issue with one of the producers, which - I don't even want to get into that."

You shook your head, catching on whom she hinted at. "Donna, I heard... well, it didn't go too well in New York, didn't it? Ewan told me about it but... if you can tell me more, I just want to understand why - "

"Sweetheart," she offered a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes, "you should talk about this with Ewan."

"I tried. But he wouldn't budge. Mallory told me... that it might have been because of me that he didn't get the role? And also why he's struggling to get roles now? Donna, I... I can't have that."

It took some time for her to formulate a response. She didn't want to step in something that's none of her business. Your relationship with Ewan is yours. But when his career is on the line, she supposed that she needed to have some say in that.

"He met with this top producer in New York. This real old money Hollywood guy. For decades, he's built careers for the greats, you know - Pitt, DiCaprio, Theron, and whatnot. There was a franchise project practically offered to him on a plate, but Ewan refused, because a non-negotiable was that he would have to hide you in favour of a PR arrangement with his leading lady."

You swallowed, the weight of the truth making itself clear. "Couldn't he have just done the movie without that?"

"You would think," she grimaced, "but some producers... when they want something, they have to get it. And well, Bruce wasn't lying, that would have sold the movie well."

"I thought we were past this," you expressed sadly. "I understand how PR relationships work. Just recently, I found myself kind of in the middle of one. But there was no pressure, it wasn't forced on us, and it was meant to be all in good fun."

"I know, sweetheart," she insisted, reaching out to squeeze your hand. "Bruce is an outlier now. Most of the time you do get lucky, with an all-around supportive production team, just like with your project with Elordi."

You hummed in agreement on that positive note, but your mind kept drifting back to Ewan.

Donna continued, wrapping up her story, "but Bruce is still here, and he still has a lot of power. But you know, it'll be fine. Ewan's got such a huge fanbase and so much talent that it'll only be a matter of time before something else knocks on his door."

You wanted to share her sense of optimism, but something ate at you. What else will Ewan have to sacrifice just to be with you? This was his dream, his one dream, and you were standing in the way. How much longer before he is offered another project but he refuses to take it for your sake? Your thoughts blurred together, bordering on irrational, but you couldn't help it.

All you could picture was the unabashed sincerity on his face, that sense of wonder, when he told you that acting had always been his dream.

Being tied down to you, this early in his career, would surely only hurt him. And you don't think you're worth it.

"Ewan loves you, sweetheart. Anyone with eyes can see that," Donna said after a while, heeding the storm brewing in your expression.

He loves you. It was true.

Less than a month in, and you've already found yourself with a love that you've never felt before. And perhaps never will again.

And that was the problem.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Late September

The podcast moderators are overly welcoming, if not a little loud for Ewan's taste.

The BBC podcast is called Loose Ends, and it's one of the first things Ewan agreed to take on upon returning to England.

He had wanted to head straight home to Derby, to bury himself in his heartache and bitterness, but the team for the show tapped him for a couple more promotional stints, riding on the high of the season finale. And who better than Ewan to offer to the media, the undeniable fan favourite.

Clad in an old gray shirt and blue jeans, people would think he just rolled right out of bed. He didn't really have the motivation to put in more effort. The only striking thing about him is his newly bleached head of hair, supervised by his stylist for a photoshoot a few days ago.

It was ironic, the timing of such a change. Ewan knew that if word got out that you dumped him, he would never hear the end of the joke of that being the reason for his hairstyle change, typical of all heartbroken sods.

Everyone bursts into laughter when he tells them about his mum's reaction to his nude scene. It feels like going through the motions, and he must have been so out of it, so forlorn, that his team prepared an outline for him prior to the interview. The questions and answers all pre-agreed.

Make them laugh. React as required. Remember to speak when spoken to. The mantra goes on in his head.

And don't think about her.

An impossible task, worsened when a moderator goes off script and asks, "Now it wasn't me who saw this, as I'm not on social media myself, but one of our interns did mention that you ventured into Instagram recently? Is that true?"

Oh fuck.

"Mmm, yeah, I guess," Ewan laughs nervously, his hand massaging the back of his neck in a self-soothing motion.

"And your first post went viral? What can you tell us about that? Our listeners would love to know."

"Uhhhm - " He remembers that the broadcast is live, and he can't exactly ask them to edit this part out, so he quickly settles for something indirect. Inconclusive. Safe. " - did it go viral? I'm not too sure how that thing works. I haven't used any kind of social media before."

"Apparently it did! And it had to do with the subject featured in that photo, Ewan. Your costar - "

"Mmm," Ewan stops him there, "didn't you say that you don't use Instagram?"

"No, I think I'm too old!" The moderator laughs.

"It's insane, that whole thing," Ewan shakes his head. "I don't know how to handle it. I'm logged off most of the time."

"Oh, you log off?"

"Yeah, yeah, helps me keep my focus, you know. Keep calm and all that."

"It can get frivolous, can't it?"

Ewan hums in agreement, and thankfully, the moderator moves on to his last question. One that does not breach the subject of you.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Another day means yet another media stint for Ewan, this time for Now TV.

Still in London, his stylist Davey and the rest of the team prepare him for a day of brief interview clips, to be posted on the social media pages of the company.

Davey had half-joked about Ewan needing even more concealer than usual, the shadows under his eyes having significantly deepened after the breakup.

Some of his team have gotten wind of what happened. They would curiously ask about you, how often Ewan keeps in touch with you while you're on set...

You must be on FaceTime everyday!

Is it hard to be doing long-distance so soon?

Do you miss her? Is that why you're not getting any rest?

...but Ewan would only laugh uncomfortably, dismiss it by bringing up another topic or shifting the attention to someone else, or excuse himself to go for a smoke.

He'd been drowning himself in cigarettes and caffeine during the day, pint after pint in the nighttime. Aimless.

He is coping. He knows how it must look, but he deserves this. He deserves to drift for a while. It's the only thing he can do to keep himself from jumping on the next flight to Atlanta and begging for your hand back.

You said you love him. You did. He hangs on to it like a beacon in a storm. No matter how pointless it may seem, with you choosing someone else over him.

Work is becoming something of an anchor, something that keeps him from spiralling. He's an actor, and he has always wanted to be an actor. People now have expectations of him, and he will answer the call.

The interview session begins with generic questioning, stuff he's answered before on several occasions.

How special is the bond between dragon and rider?

What is a funny moment from set that you can share?

How similar are Aemond and Daemon?

All safe. He's proud of himself for not breaking mental clarity thus far. You're in the back of his mind, dormant as a memory, and not something looming darkly over him. For a while, at least.

But then he is asked, If you could invite any 5 people to a Ewan Mitchell dinner party, who would you pick?

"Matthew McConaughey - "

You.

" - Bruce Lee. I think they could strike up an interesting conversation - "

Your name echoes in his mind, and he can't control it.

" - Andrea Riseborough. She's just a chameleon, like in any role she undertakes -

You have great taste. Even if you would make him eat spicy food again, he'll take it. He'll endure anything for you.

He's stumped for a second, lump in his throat, and his effort in avoiding you leads him to mention someone who will always be a comfort to him.

" - Maybe my nan, because I miss her -

Your name. He has to say your name. Who else? Think of someone else.. but who else? Who would be better?

" - and then, another person. Let's make it from the show... it would be Alyna Rivers."

"Oh really?" The interviewer asks. She's not really meant to respond in this instance, but she knows that the fans would go crazy about any mention of you or your character, so why not jump on this opportunity? "Can you tell us why you chose her?"

"Uhhm, well, she's just an amazing character, you know, fiercely loyal, beautiful, tenacious," Ewan replies easily, "so yeah, she would make for good company."

It is obvious that he is describing you just as much as he does Alyna Rivers, and no doubt, the fans will catch on to this detail.

Later, he's asked about his favourite part about season two, and he duly answers, "Seeing more of Aemond and Vhagar's bond and how that perhaps have gotten stronger. Aemond has definitely reined her in, after the accident at Storm's End."

Then, "There are some new additions to the show. Do you have a particular favourite?"

Another obvious piece of bait. And he takes it, he doesn't care anymore. What's the use of denying the truth?

"A favourite new character? Oh, well, uhmm... I really do like Alyna, and I think I've said before that Aemond and her are quite similar in a sense that they both know what they want and how to achieve it. It's just a shame they're on opposing sides, because if those two get together... " he trails off, leaving it up to the audiences to fill in the rest of the thought.

And they eagerly do. The clips where Ewan mentions Alyna get the most traction, flooded with comments that more or less talk of the same thing -

We know why you chose Alyna, Ewan. We know your ways.

He could have said Alys. Or Gwayne. Or even the ghost of Daeron ffs. But nooooo.... it's Alyna Alyna Alyna 😮‍💨

I wonder if she's there behind the scenes

yeah shes definitely lurking in the background!

Aemond and Alyna better have at least a scene together in season 3!!!!!

Someone kidnap Ryan Condal and make him write this

Ewan doesn't see any of it. Not that he's missing out, because he soon feels the need to call his younger cousin to ask her how to turn off his notifications on Instagram.

Day in and day out, his one single post gets dozens of new comments and likes, a brutal reminder of what he's lost. He could just delete it, and get rid of his profile entirely, but he hates to imagine the discourse that would follow.

All the invasive allegations and rumours. So he leaves it be. It makes no difference to him now. Let people believe what they want.

To his chagrin, he finds himself scrolling on his home page once in a while. The addictive element to it was true, and for him, it's exacerbated because the things he sees are often related to you.

Photos of you from fanpages and news accounts. Ones where your friends have tagged you. It's a toxic habit, looking through it all, but he can't help himself.

Then one day, as he's slouched on the seat in his London apartment, phone propped on his knees, he sees a cutout photo of his face on the corner of the screen. He clicks on it, and it's an image of him interposed among different posts. Posts which he apparently liked.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he cusses at himself, reading the caption.

Boyfriend lurking? - Ewan Mitchell may play a formidable TV villain, but in real life, he's just like us. Click on the link in bio to see his series of liked posts!

Dread takes root in him, followed by self-loathing. Why couldn't he just keep off this bloody thing? He takes to the comments to see what he has allegedly liked on accident and it's predictably photos of you - you at a premiere, stills of you as Alyna, and even, heavens fucking forbid, a behind the scenes shot of you getting pretty close with Jacob Elordi on the set of your film.

He vividly remembers seeing that last one, because he went on a bender after coming across it.

Cursing himself and his wayward, sticky fingers, he exits the app and deletes it from his phone.

Whatever goes on there, whatever people might leave on his profile, he washes his hands of it.

He calls up several of his mates, asking them if they want to come over for a few drinks.

"Again, Ewan?" one of them exclaims. "C'mon, you gotta take a breather, mate."

"I don't need a breather." I need her.

"Ewan - "

His composure breaks, all his damned frustrations rising to the surface, and he confesses, "I wonder if she thinks about me."

"Hang in there, mate. We're coming over."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

October

The director finally yells a satisfied, "Cut!"

It's only taken a good twenty-something takes for you and Jacob to nail a challenging scene. You had been on a roll since the beginning of the shoot, the last few weeks seemingly a breeze on paper, though it's a constant struggle to keep it together.

You've had to quell your internal dialogue so it does not stray to him. His smile. The feel of his skin against yours. His way of subtly picking up on details, and doing sweet things that surprise you as a result.

But you received word just before the scene that a few of your friends have come to visit, waiting back at your trailer - Phia, Fabien and his girlfriend, Bella.

And so, as if on instinct, Ewan is all you can focus on, every repressed memory of him rushing in like a tidal wave.

Do they know? What could you possibly say to justify what you did? You can only hope he took on that project, to give you a bitter sense of vindication.

It's the only thing that keeps it all the bay, the only thing that keeps you from jumping on the next flight to England and grovelling at his door.

Phia has her arms wrapped around you the moment you open the door to your trailer, loudly squealing, "I missed you!"

You sink into the hug, comforted by her presence.

As well as the fact that she represents some connection to Ewan.

Phia, Helaena. Helaena, Aemond. Aemond, Ewan.

It's a sick game to play, but it's what you have.

"Hey, yous," you hug Fabien and Bella in turn. Not long after, you're all lounging on director's chairs right outside your trailer, enjoying a bit of sun.

"How's our big Hollywood star?" Phia quips, her lips curling in her trademark pleasant upturn.

"Hardly a star," you shake your head fondly. "More of an indie darling."

"Of course, of course," she relents, before going on a monologue about how she's been keeping tabs on your project, how she just adores the costume designer whom she spoke to at length while you were working, and how the rest of the cast is rooting for you.

The rest of the cast.

"Ah, are they?" you ask, making a conscious effort to not simply blurt out his name. What does he think? Has he mentioned you at all?

Do they know?

Do they secretly hate you for what you did?

"Mhmm, right Fabs?" she says.

"Oh, definitely." Fabien agrees right away.

"How's your film? Are you done shooting in Philly?" you ask him.

"Just about done, but I think we're doing some final reshoots next week. I'm just glad my girl's here to visit," he slings an arm around Bella, who smiles and leans closer to him.

You smile at the sight, but it visibly falters. Ewan could be visiting you on set right now, just like Bella with Fabien, if you hadn't fucked it all up.

They notice.

"Love," Phia sighs, her tone softening. "I just want you know - we want you know - we're here for you, okay? No matter what you went through with... " A pause. Like saying his name would open up the floodgates.

Your gaze falls to your lap in shame. You pick on invisible lint on your trousers. Bite your lip. Breathe deeply.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

"So you guys know, huh?"

"Well, more or less," Phia says. "I just spoke with... Ewan... recently. He's back in Derby for the time being, and he's - "

"He's a bit rough," Fabien says firmly. He's not taking sides here, but he's heard from Ewan, and he feels the need to have his mate's back. "Look, I don't want to pry, but what happened? It seemed like you guys were doing so well together!"

"You don't have to tell us," Phia adds, shooting Fabien a look. "But if you want to, we're here to listen. We love you both and we just want to help, love."

You feel your eyes welling up. Leave it to Phia to be oh so sweet. You can't lie to them, you don't want to. Even if you did, they would see right through it.

Your friends know you too well.

"I... I miss him."

Phia squeezes your hand, and the whole story is about to spill out of you when you hear your name being called.

It's your assistant Clara, letting you know you're needed back on set.

You swallow back tears, standing on your feet, trying to maintain enough composure so you can grant yourself access back to your character.

"Go do your thing, superstar," Phia smiles comfortingly. "We'll be here when you're ready."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

November

"I'd like to propose a toast," Tom declares out loud in the empty pub, "to Ewan, Hollywood's new elf... Lord? Prince? Ah sod it, cheers!"

Round the table, Ewan, Fabien, Luke and Elliott all raise their pints with a collective, "Hear, hear!"

The pub has been cleared out for the lads, thanks to a favour called in by the twins, with the owner being their gym buddy and good friend.

"Thank you," Ewan replies, smirking. "I am your new elf prince, address me as such."

"Your ears have never been pointier, mate," Luke quips.

After a month of moping back home in Derby, or recovering as Ewan prefers to put it, he got a call from his manager telling him that the offer from Bruce still stands.

Apparently, the production team for the movie still had him tapped as the prime choice for the lead. After observing his audience metrics and overall viability, they decided that the movie would fare the best with him in it.

They had planted some half-baked announcements in the media, stating that it was Ewan against Joseph Quinn and Manny Jacinto for the role, and the fan reaction veered in Ewan's favour by a landslide.

Even though Bruce had an unsavoury word or two to say about him, he was willing to work past it, so long as Ewan would be more amenable to his demands.

After careful deliberation, Ewan chose to throw caution to the wind, and accept the role. So what if he has to pretend to have a real-life romance with Jenna? This is what you wanted.

"I'm glad you finally came out to see us, mate," Fabien says. "It's been a while."

"Yeah, fuck's sake. Remind us never to break your heart! That was tough to witness, you hunkerin' down out there all mopey and whatnot," Elliott laughs.

"Mmm." Ewan takes a swig of his beer to hide the wince he couldn't hold back. His friends, and most of the cast know by now, not in too much detail, of what went down between the two of you.

A typical short-lived romance of two actors. A summer fling. Most of them would look back and only see it as that.

Even though it was so much more. Even though Ewan still recalls how warm and soft and beautiful you felt as you whimpered underneath him, the loss of you as painful as getting hit by a freight train.

The liquor helps. Burying himself in work helps. Denial... well, that certainly helps the most.

When he goes out to the back garden for a smoke break with Fabien, he tricks himself into believing it's mere curiosity that compels him to say, "Phia mentioned that you guys went to Atlanta."

Fabien is rendered off guard, because he knows what's coming. "Yeah, we did. Bella came with us too. She was visiting me on set," he says, measuredly.

"Mmm." A long drag, a flick of ash towards the ground, an unaffected shrug - and eventually, with as impassive of a tone as he can muster, Ewan asks, "So how is she?"

Fabien smiles knowingly. "She's doing great. Her film's looking pretty good." He's privy to the truth, after he and Phia managed to gently coax it out of you over several martinis at a hotel bar in Atlanta. But he doesn't think it up to him to reveal that to Ewan, out of respect for your privacy.

While he might not share your sentiment, he thinks it's not in his place to tell Ewan that you basically lied for his sake.

But that doesn't mean he won't drop a helpful nugget or two.

"You know, I don't exactly know what's going on... but her and Jacob came across as nothing more than friends."

Ewan's hand freezes mid-air, the cigarette inches from his lips. He loathes the sense of hope that immediately bloomed in his chest. He's so bloody easy. One miniscule hint, and his delusions break through the wall of indifference he worked so hard to build.

"She said she has feelings for him," Ewan stresses, trying to convince himself. What was the fucking point of all this... this pain... if you never did?

"Hey, mate, I dunno," Fabien puts his hands up, "just telling you what I saw."

"It doesn't matter." It does. "She ended it." He wants you back, he will always want you back. "It's better this way."

"Is it?"

Ewan doesn't answer. He doesn't know how to, without grossly embellishing the truth.

Fabien watches his friend, sensing his hesitation as he averts his gaze. One thing becomes clear to him - you and Ewan are far from being over.

So he says, "She misses you, you know."

Ewan regards him with a stony look, one that slowly softens to reveal the broken boy inside. For but a moment, before he clears his throat and throws the butt of his cigarette on the ground.

"Let's head back inside."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

December

You're back in London, as production for your film is paused for the upcoming holiday season.

Work is supposed to be the last thing on your mind, but it just so happens that your manager has you booked for a chemistry read for a yet undisclosed film.

Phia came over to your apartment, insisting that she help you get ready. When you asked how she found out about your audition, she was quick to say that she was up for the role as well but didn't think it was right for her.

"Why not?" you ask, as she hovers over you, patting blush on the apples of your cheeks.

"Oh, you just get a feel for these things."

"Phi, it's just a chemistry read," you say, when she reaches for the mascara. "I don't need to get all dolled up for this."

She gasps, "Oh, but this is showbiz, darling. We always have to put a face on."

"Fine," you relent. "Do your worst."

The makeup she ends up doing on you is minimal, but it enhances your features just the right amount. You rush through your final preparations, folding up the script sample you were given and stuffing it in your purse.

Phia stands out on your balcony, in the middle of a call. The window screen is slightly open, so you hear snippets of the conversation as you walk by.

"Is he ready?" she asks. Who's he? You assume it's the guy you are doing the read with.

You don't know about him, but you are ready, so you stick your head out to say, "I gotta go, Phi."

"Oh!" She startles a little, angling her phone away. "Already?"

"Yeah, the read's at 4, I believe. Just lock the door when you leave, 'kay?"

She hurriedly whispers something to her phone, presumably ending her call. "I'll actually head out with you," she grins. "My work here is done anyway."

"Any plans for the night?"

She shrugs, "Might meet with Tom and Martha."

"Oh, why don't I meet you guys after my thing?"

"Uhhhm," she chews on her lip, thinking. Under her breath, you barely hear her mumble, "... hoping you'd be busy."

"What?" A restrained chuckle escapes you, confused as to why she's being so coy.

"Nothing," she tilts her head. "We can meet if you'd like."

The weird exchange is out of your mind when you arrive at the casting agency. You run the scene through in your head as you walk in the building, up the elevator, down the long hallway.

It's a heartfelt scene, if not a little tense, a dialogue between reunited ex-lovers.

Your manager Polina and publicist Mallory greet you at the doors, swiftly briefing you before directing you in.

"They're waiting, just walk right in, doll," Polina says.

"Okay, wish me luck!" You have your hand on the door handle when Mallory strangely remarks, "Don't hate us, sweetheart!"

"Why would I - "

"Go, go," Polina guides you in, then shuts the door behind you.

The office sports an spacious and open layout, with plenty of natural light streaming through large windows. The primary workstation is partially hidden behind a subtle partition. You see silhouettes of a few people behind it, so you walk down that way.

The figures reveal themselves soon enough - the casting agents you recognise as Patrick and Amie, sitting in front of the actor you're meant to read with.

A range of emotion washes over you, but you don't even have time to reckon with them. The casting agents divert your attention from Ewan, as they approach you with wide smiles in greeting.

"So nice to finally meet you!" Amie croons. "Take a seat. You two already know each other, of course. Between us, there won't really be a question of chemistry here."

"Right?" Patrick adds, looking between you and Ewan. "The fans sure think so, and we have to say we already agree."

"So just give us a minute to set up," Amie says. "Then we'll start."

You smile stiffly, settling down on the opposite end of the couch. You keep your gaze straight, trying to keep your attention on Patrick as he sets up the camera. Your heartbeat races the entire time, and you feel your hands getting clammy.

"They're all in on it," you hear Ewan say, prompting you to finally look at him directly. You take him in hungrily, admiring his outline, ever so handsome with his Targaryen-blonde hair and black leather jacket.

A weak "Mmm?" is all you can muster.

"Our teams, Tom, Phia... they set us up. Tom came over and I overheard him on the phone with Phia."

"Oh," you mumble. He doesn't even spare you a glance, leaning on the armrest on his side of the couch. He looks as if he'd rather be anywhere but here, next to you, and it hurts.

It's what you deserve.

"Is this not a real chemistry read?" you ask meekly.

"I suppose it is," he laughs humourlessly, "but it's not a coincidence that you and I just happen to be the only ones scheduled for today." He turns to you, giving you a critical sideways glance. "Didn't see that coming, did you?"

"I... I can leave if you want - "

"Mmm," his brows furrow, "you do seem to be good at that."

You look away. He is not being fair, but you weren't neither, that wretched night back in September.

And he is making you pay for it now.

But then you hear him speak in a softer tone, "Stay."

Stay. When you look at him once more, his attention is entirely on you, arm outstretched on the couch like he just tried to reach for you but decided against it.

Stay, he asked. So you do.

It's what you should have done, months ago.

"Okay, guys. Whenever you're ready," Amie says. She and Patrick take their seats in front of you, with the camera on a stand between them.

The script crinkles on your lap as you hold it with shaky fingers. "It's been a while," you read out your opening line.

The dialogue plays out twisted and ironic, now that you know who your scene partner is.

"Hardly," Ewan responds in character. "I feel like no time as passed."

"Feels like a lifetime."

He pauses, then sighs, "Do you even miss me?"

"How... how can you even ask me that?"

"How can I - "

"Why didn't you... why didn't you fight for me?" your voice breaks, the lines hitting a bit too close to home.

"You're a fucking hypocrite," he spits with venom. "You weren't exactly giving me anything to fight for."

"I did it for us. I did it all for us." If you didn't feel like crying at the weight of the scene, you would have rolled your eyes at the similarities.

"Like I said - nothing to fight for."

"Nothing? So you're telling me I was nothing to you."

"No," he levels you with an icy look, "you were everything to me. Everything. But you left me behind, and for what? So you can run off with the rebel sect?"

"The mission needed me. You wouldn't understand." You feel a sense of relief when the sci-fi elements roll in, otherwise you might have given in to your emotions and sobbed right there on the damn couch.

"I needed you," Ewan says, eyes not leaving yours. "I needed you and you abandoned me, just like that."

"And are you not better for it? When I left, did they not make you General?"

"See, that is the difference between you and I," he says coldly. "I wouldn't have traded what we had for anything - no position, no amount of wealth, no glory... I would have chosen us every time."

"Aaand cut!" Patrick jokes, effectively breaking the tension.

The two of you have unconsciously drifted closer, now only a foot part. Ewan does not drop your gaze, watching you closely. You see his eyes flit down to your parted lips, and he leans in almost imperceptibly.

"Alright, how about we go one more time?" Amie says, diverting your attention. "Give us a different take, and then that's it!"

Ewan settles back on his end of the couch. When he reads his lines again, his tone is harsher and he no longer meets your eyes.

Patrick and Amie commend you both afterward, singing praises about your acting abilities. Ewan is polite as always, blushing and grateful, but he practically dashes out of the door when the meeting finishes.

You're left standing with Amie, as Patrick has taken to his laptop to file the footage.

"The way he looks at you," she sighs dreamily, referring to Ewan. "You'd think the sun shone out your arse, doll."

"He... he was just in character," you disagree. "He's a good actor, as you know."

"Yeah, I mean, he nailed the part's rancour perfectly. But his eyes - oof - you've got a good one there."

Oh. Of course they would still assume you and him are together.

How desperately you want it to be true.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

An hour later, you've just sent Phia a text saying - You owe me. Where do I meet you guys?

But you hear a knock on your apartment door. If you didn't buzz anyone in, it can only be a neighbour or someone the doorman recognised.

Someone familiar to you.

And it's him.

"Ewan?"

"I need to speak with you."

You step aside so he doesn't linger at your doorway. He walks past you, a welcome if not unexpected presence in the room.

You can't decipher his expression, his gaze angled downward as he leans against your kitchen counter.

When the silence becomes almost deafening, you laugh awkwardly, about to make some silly remark on whether he is still in character. But he doesn't let you diffuse the tension.

"I want you," he blurts out without warning. "God help me, I still want you. I think I might have a fucking problem because how can I... after what you did - " A momentary glance of betrayal, but you see the spite clear in his eyes. " - but I do. I can't get you out of my system."

"I'm sorry - "

"I don't need that," he says sharply. "I don't need your sorry. I need you. I need to have you, and maybe this way, I'll satisfy whatever pointless desire I still have in me."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying - I'm asking - will you let me have you?"

"Ewan, I don't under - "

"I'm saying that we should sleep together," he says bluntly, and it feels like the rug has been pulled from under your feet, "but only just. You won't be mine, and I won't be yours."

"You're kidding."

He shakes his head, before adding, "Don't worry. It'll be our little secret. To the rest of the world, I'll have a different girlfriend anyway."

His words register, along with the bitter ache at his words, that you won't be his, he won't be yours. This is purely for pleasure. There used to be love here, and now he just craves the comfort your body allows.

You'll be using each other.

You should refuse. This is not healthy; this is not how you move on. Can you even go back to being good friends after this? But also - what have you got to lose?

What, except for him, and for good this time?

What, except everything?

"So what do you say - " He closes in on you, and with every bit of malice intended, the name no longer possessing the sweetness it once held, he sneers, "- darling?"

💌 next chapter

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @livcookesgf @onlyrealjoy (continued ... )

Some notes in the margins...

Well well well... the transition from friends to lovers to strangers to angsty FWBs sure is a slippery slope!

The time jumps are so we get through the moping quicker! It's mostly back to the regular shenanigans in the next part. Only, you know, angst-ridden. But you hurt Ewan, reader. *wags finger* Don't say you didn't expect this switch! Tsktsk

So what now - will you accept this arrangement? Will things ever be truly okay? Part 7 is going to be hot and hilarious and stupid and messy, just as the doctor ordered.

Let's hash it out in the comments, shall we? 🗡💕

[merxcywritesthings]

𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝐼’𝑚 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦.

A/N: This idea has been itching in the back of my head all day that I couldn’t help but write it down. Enjoy my lovelies.

TW: Cheating, Angst to Comfort, Yelling, Grief.

Word Count: 1.3K

Reader is Female

The evening air was thick with the usual hustle and bustle of Piltover’s streets, the city’s golden glow reflecting off polished steel and glass. You paced nervously in your modest apartment, going over your latest conversation with Vi in your mind. The room felt smaller than usual, closing in with every unresolved thought.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Before the fractures started to show, there was a time when everything felt perfect. You and Vi would lie together in the dim glow of lanterns, sprawled across the couch in her Zaunite hideout or tucked away in your Piltover apartment. She’d whisper wild dreams about a future where Zaun and Piltover weren’t at each other’s throats, where no one had to fight to survive.

“You know what I think about sometimes?” Vi had asked one night, her head resting on your chest as you absentmindedly ran your fingers through her pink hair. “A wedding. Ours. Somewhere at the border where Zaun and Piltover meet. A big bridge all lit up with lights. No sides. Just us.”

You’d laughed softly, your hand pausing in her hair. “You? Thinking about a wedding? That’s rich.”

She’d grinned up at you, punching your arm lightly. “Hey, don’t ruin my moment. I’m being serious here. Just imagine it, yeah? Everyone from both cities, sitting together, watching us make something real. Something they’d have to believe in because we believed in it first.”

Her words had filled you with a warmth so deep it made your chest ache. You’d cupped her face, looking into those sharp, determined eyes. “I’d marry you anywhere, Vi. Even if it’s just us on some rooftop in Zaun. But if that’s your dream, then I’ll make it mine, too.”

The smile she gave you then was unlike any you’d ever seen—soft, vulnerable, and full of hope. For a moment, it felt like anything was possible.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

But dreams are fragile things, easily broken by reality. As the weeks passed, the cracks in that perfect vision began to show. It started with small disagreements, the weight of your responsibilities in Piltover colliding with her unwavering loyalty to Zaun. You’d tell her about the progress you were making in your work, trying to bridge gaps between the two cities, but she’d scoff, calling it naive.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Vi had said, her voice low and rough during that fateful argument. “Piltover chews people up and spits them out. You think you can change that from the inside?”

Your reply had been sharp, almost desperate. “I have to try! I can’t just… sit back and do nothing. Not everyone in Piltover is corrupt. Some of us want to make it better.”

Vi’s jaw tightened, and she let out a bitter laugh. “And what? You think they’ll listen to you because you’re one of them? You’re just another cog in their machine. You don’t belong to Zaun, and you don’t belong to me if this is the path you want.”

The words had cut deep, and neither of you had backed down. The argument spiraled into accusations and misunderstandings until she stormed out, slamming the door behind her. That was two weeks ago, and you hadn’t seen her since.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The silence between you hadn’t lasted long before the news came. Vi had been arrested during a raid on one of Zaun’s safe houses, caught in the act of defending a group of children hiding from enforcers. She hadn’t gone quietly—they said she’d taken down three officers before being subdued. You heard whispers of her being transferred to Stillwater Hold, Piltover’s most notorious prison.

You wanted to help her, but what could you do? Your position in Piltover’s hierarchy was tenuous at best. Every attempt to pull strings was met with cold refusals and veiled warnings. The system you believed in had failed her, just as she’d always said it would.

The days stretched into weeks, and though you tried to visit, the guards at Stillwater Hold never let you through. Each rejection felt like another nail in the coffin of what you and Vi had shared.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The first week after her arrest, you had told yourself she’d come back. That somehow, some way, you’d find a way to fix things. But as days turned into weeks, the silence spoke louder than any words could. You threw yourself into your work, trying to drown the ache in productivity. Every morning you donned the mask of a dedicated citizen of Piltover, hoping no one noticed the cracks. At night, the silence of your apartment swallowed you whole.

Months passed, and the emptiness became a part of you, a dull ache that refused to fade. You told yourself you were moving on, but every corner of Piltover held memories of her—the way she’d smirk at the absurdity of high-society parties, or how her fingers felt laced with yours as you walked the streets together.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

But tonight was different. Tonight, you couldn’t focus. The city’s energy only served as a painful reminder of the life you and Vi had once dreamed of together—a bridge between two worlds, something neither of you had fully understood but had hoped to build.

A loud cheer from the street below broke your thoughts. Curious, you moved to the window, brushing aside the curtain. A festival was in full swing, the streets alive with laughter and music. And then you saw her.

Vi.

She stood out effortlessly, her pink hair glowing under the lantern lights, her confident stance drawing eyes. But it wasn’t just her presence that made your heart stop. It was the way she leaned toward someone, her hands resting casually on Caitlyn Kiramman’s waist. The enforcer’s dark hair framed her delicate features, and her smile was bright and unguarded as she whispered something that made Vi laugh.

Your chest tightened as Vi’s laughter softened, her face inching closer to Caitlyn’s. And then they kissed. It wasn’t hesitant or fleeting. It was passionate, the kind of kiss that spoke of intimacy and trust—a connection.

Your breath hitched, and you stepped back from the window, your hands trembling. The sight was burned into your mind, a cruel reminder of everything you’d lost. The ache in your chest blossomed into a full-fledged storm, rage and sorrow intertwining until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

You thought of the nights you’d stayed awake, waiting for her to come back. Of the times she’d held you close, promising that no matter what, you were her safe haven. All of it seemed like a distant memory, overshadowed by the reality of what you’d just seen.

The urge to confront her was overwhelming, but what would you even say? That it wasn’t fair? That you still loved her? That you’d been wrong to think you could make a difference in Piltover without her by your side?

You stepped away from the window, the walls of your apartment suddenly suffocating. With trembling hands, you grabbed your coat and headed outside, blending into the festive crowds. The music was too loud, the colors too bright, but you walked aimlessly, desperate to escape the whirlpool of emotions inside you.

Eventually, you found yourself at the edge of the festival, where the noise faded into the quiet hum of the city. You leaned against a cold, steel railing, staring out over the distant horizon. Zaun’s shadowed depths loomed below, a reminder of where Vi had come from and where you could never truly follow her.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you let them fall. For the first time, you allowed yourself to grieve—not just for the love you’d lost, but for the dream that had shattered between you. And as the city lights flickered around you, you made a quiet promise to yourself.

You would move forward, step by step, even if it hurt. Because if there was one thing Vi had taught you, it was that survival wasn’t about never falling—it was about finding the strength to rise again.

𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑟 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑠! ❤️

𝐷𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑦: @𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑐𝑠-𝑛-𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒

𝐺𝐼𝐹 𝑏𝑦: @𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑓𝑠

[ilsanslut]

꒷♡꒷ THE DUKE'S PET!

♰ featuring: wriothesley. [genshin impact]

sypnosis: what you get from being wriothesley’s pretty puppy. content/trigger warning(s): 18+. smut mentons. PUPPY-HYBRID!READER. GENDER NEUTRAL!READER. spanking. shoe-humping mentions. cock-warming. orgasm denial. dacryphilia. overstimulation. obvious pet-play themes. name calling/degradation. punishments. tummy bulging. sharing mentions (clorinde + neuvillette). ꒷꒦

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S PET INCLUDES being given to him by none other than the iudex of fontaine himself, neuvillette, as a “gift” of sorts. more so, you were a prisoner who personally denied your trial since you knew you were guilty, so neuvillette thought of a fitting place for you instead. he knew that wriothesley wanted a pet to keep him company while within the walls of the fortress of meropide, but he refrained due to it being cruel to keep an animal somewhere in which they could never see the sun. however, a puppy-human hybrid should suffice well enough, right?

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S PET INCLUDES him not knowing what the fuck to do with you once he first got you. he understood how to take care of a dog well enough, but you were mostly human and had greater intelligence than that of a dog (most of the time). he seemed a little put-off by you at first, tensing up when you came to him for pets and affection, picking you up by the armpits (even if you were taller than him) and sitting you down on the couch of his office when you tried to smother kisses all over his face, pulling you by the back of your shirt while hissing a quick “quit it” every time you growled at someone who entered his office—even his guards, and even those times when you tried to mark his office as your territory . . .

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S PET INCLUDES him taking his sweet time to warm up to you, but once he grew comfortable with your presence, you became the most spoiled pup around. he got you your own pretty collar, but of course, in his own aesthetic. a thick, studded black strap with ruby gems and a silver loop in the center connecting to a crimson pendant ringed in silver, with his initials engraved on the back. he bought you your own toys (even though you were more inclined to gnaw your sharp canines on the steel of his boots), and he even purchased a separate couch for you in his office for your afternoon naps with your name engraved on the gold that lined the backrest.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S PET INCLUDES going to the surface world with him any time he has a particular errand to run or just when he has free time. (he most definitely does that thing where he says a simple phrase like “outside?��� or “walkies?” and has to restrain himself from cackling as he watches you go beserk in your own excitement.) hours are spent in the city of fontaine shopping for new items for you, such as clothes, toys, collars, etc. your days typically end with him allowing you to expend the rest of your energy chasing squirrels or birds in the fontainian wilderness until you eventually tucker yourself out and he carries you back to the fortress.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S PET INCLUDES being his little (or big) lap dog whenever he’s sitting in his office. whether he’s in the middle of signing off on a boatload of documents or talking with someone who entered his office, you’d shuffle your way into his folded arms and perch yourself on his lap, nuzzling yourself against his chest. he was never one to deny you affection (unless you were bad) and would always indulge in praising you whenever he deemed fit. scratches behind your ears, on your belly, gentle kisses to the forehead—you name it! wriothesley would give it all to you since he just couldn’t say no to you. that is, until he was forced to.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S PET INCLUDES him forgetting that while you are human, you still have the high-energy canine instincts of whatever breed you’re mixed with. that means you often get yourself into trouble more than you’d like. dashing over to others to steal their food at the coupon cafeteria because it smelled soo yummy, growling and picking fights with either the inmates or the guards who were simply minding their business, chewing on wriothesley’s boots, bookshelf, and the wood of his desk because you were bored, humping his leg or whatever you could get your needy parts on whenever your heat rolls around, and finally, his last straw, you tearing up the important documents and registration papers of the inmates because you were fed up with his silent treatment punishment.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S PET INCLUDES includes cowering and whining in fear when you see him towering over you, a steely glare in his eyes, and a deep scowl on his face as his chest rises and falls heavily from this thoroughly wasted patience. his fists would clench so tightly by his sides that you could hear them grinding against the leather of his gloves and the metal of his rings. you would give him your best puppy eyes and cutest whimpers to try and appease his anger, but it was futile. then he would utter the words that always sent a chill down your spine.

“bedroom, now.”

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES you shaking your head at him and whimpering out a ‘no’ when he orders you to his quarters. at first, he’s dumbfounded—stunned that you would even dare to disobey him when he had given you a clear, firm order—and then he’s laughing. it’s dry and humorless, and it strikes fear in the depths of your trembling little being. however, before you could react, his hand is threading itself non-too-kindly into your locks and dragging you along the steel floors of his office until you’re in your shared bedroom.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES knowing that he’s not a fan of verbal reprimanding. when he needed to correct your behavior, he was always physical. he wastes no time sitting on the edge of the bed and discarding whatever bottoms you were wearing before slinging you over his lap and popping a series of quick swats onto your ass cheeks, ringed-fingers and all. if you dared to try and use your fluffy tail to negate his hits, he was snatching it in a firm grip at the base and snarling out a bone-chilling “behave” before he would rain down more spanks onto your reddening cheeks until you’re a sniffling mess in his lap.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES you being unable to hide the arousal brewing from your nethers from being punished on wriothesley’s lap, accidentally giving yourself away when you shift on his lap, and the lewd squelch of your arousal squishing from your sex and his thigh is picked up by his stupidly good hearing.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES feeling your nethers throbbing when he utters out a “oh?” in that breathy growl that makes your head spin. “whats this?” he would inquire as he scoops up the milky fluid with two of his digits, not waiting for your pitiful answer as he uses the liquid as lube to stroke your sex with a teasing touch. “getting off on being punished?” he continues through your whimpers as your legs flail behind you from his increasing pace. “what a filthy mutt you are.”

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES being edged until the depths of the sea grew dark from the long set sun and illuminated from the moon hanging high in the sky. you’d be brought to the brink of your orgasm time and time again; however, every time you were about to reach your high, wriothesley would pull away, mocking your frustrated whines and begging whimpers with a faux pout of his own. “aww, my poor baby.” he would pout in an insincere tone, using his drenched fingers to wipe the tears streaming down your cheeks. “you wanna cum, don’t you?” he’d ask, with his free hand gently stroking your sensitive sex. you would nod, babbling pleas and helpless cries for him to ‘please, please, let you cum because you’ll be a good pup for him’, only for him to grin cruelly down at you and go, “if you wanted to be good for me, you would’ve been so from the beginning. crazy how that works, hm?”

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES when he finally does let you cum, he doesn’t let you stop. you’re gifted orgasm after orgasm until the sheets are ruined with your release, your poor body is trembling uncontrollably, your nethers are throbbing, and even the slightest breeze makes you wail from the overstimulation. you cry and cry and plead for him to be gentler with you, to please give you a break to let you catch your breath, but he only cackles at your misfortune and goes, “this is what you wanted, isn’t it? to make a mess like the filthy pup you are? so then take it, Y/N.”

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES always being gifted with the best aftercare, no matter how tired wriothesley might be. he’ll whisper sweet nothings into your ear as he gently massages your sore limbs and nethers, praising you for being such a good pup for him. moreover, he’ll even state that he’s no longer mad at you just to see your pretty ears perk up and your fluffy tail wag. even when he’s pushed past the point of exhaustion, he’ll stagger into the bathroom, run a warm bath for the two of you, and carry your quivering body into the soothing waters. before he joins you, he always discards the messy sheets and replaces them with new ones, but not before letting them run in the dryer for a few minutes so that they’re nice and toasty for you.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES being his number one stress reliever whenever he needs to relieve some tension. you could be sitting docilely on the couch he brought you by yourself in his office, and he could just scoot his chair back while tossing his head back with a mighty sigh, and you would already know what to do. you’d prance over to him, and he would remove whatever lower garments you were wearing and dive right into you, feasting on you in your entirety until he was thoroughly relieved. if he was having a particularly rough day, he would call your name in a gruff tone and pat his lap to call you over. he would have you sit on his lap with his cock nestled deep in your walls, squeezing him so, so tightly as he tries to finish his paperwork, but he never can. nine times out of ten, it always ends with him tossing his paperwork aside, picking you up, and ravishing you right then and there on his desk.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES the amount of times guards and inmates have had to stutter over their words as they try to talk to or give reports to the duke, however, becoming thoroughly distracted by the sight of your pretty mouth swallowing inch after inch of wriothesley’s cock beneath his desk since you couldn't 'shut the fuck up and stop growling’ at the poor men and women who were just trying to do their jobs.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES servicing wriothesley’s friends whenever they visit the fortress. clorinde attaching a leather leash to your collar as she perches herself on the edge of wriothesley’s desk, using the lead to pull your kneeling form close to her pretty folds to eat her out while she makes your head dizzy as she praises and degrades you simultaneously. “what a well-trained pooch you have here, duke . . . such a pathetic, needy thing they are. i might just have to borrow them for myself sometime.” to which wriothesley, who was watching from over her shoulder with a possessive and lustful gaze in his eye, just shakes his head as he observes your lithe, sloppy, and greedy tongue eagerly lapping at the duelist’s glimmering pearl while your tail wags incessantly behind you. “nah, not a chance. they’re mine, clorinde.”

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S NAUGHTY PET INCLUDES even letting neuvillette in on the fun every once in a while. naturally, he brought you along for the ride when he had to personally meet with the iudex to discuss some business matters. neuvillette was amazed at how well his plan had worked when he saw how well-behaved and obedient you were, especially considering how you had been at first, when he had to hold you at arm's length away from him by your scruff to prevent your pointy puppy teeth from gnawing into his arms. he too would indulge in you by clearing his desk of all paperwork and fucking you right then and there on top of the expensive oak. when he told you to bark, you would. when he told you to sit on his cock, you would ride him within an inch of his sovereign life. when he told you to cum, you would not hesitate to gush all over him and yourself, effectively making a mess of both of your sweaty bodies. “such an obedient little thing. i am almost saddened that i gifted you to wriothesley and did not keep such a pretty puppy for myself.” he would growl, his slitted pupils constricting to pinpoints as they observed the way his two draconic cocks bulged your tummy.

BEING WRIOTHESLEY’S CHERISHED PET INCLUDES living out the rest of your days by his side as arguably the most spoiled and loved pup in the entirety of teyvat. you became his light in the darkness—his salvation from the perpetual state of solemn loneliness that he had isolated himself in, while he became your salvation in a surprisingly cruel world. you have never felt safer or more secure in your life than you did when you were with him. when he held you tenderly and whispered affirmations into your fluffy ears, you felt more loved than you had ever felt before. all in all, he was your second half, and you were his, and he’d be damned if he let anything change that any time soon.

ⓒ vampiie 2024 — all rights reserved. please do not repost my work outside of tumblr, modify, or translate my work in any form/means. please do not share my work to tiktok or any other site.

[angelbaby191]

Detective

Pro Hero Bakugo x Detective Reader pt.1

> pt. 2

The smell of scorched coffee grounds and over-oiled leather lingered in the air as Bakugo Katsuki leaned against the worn brick façade of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. The city buzzed around him, neon signs casting kaleidoscopic glows onto rain-slicked streets. His gauntleted hand flicked a faint spark to life, snuffing it out in time with the thudding rhythm of his boot against the ground.

"Hero work,” he muttered to himself. “This is a waste of my damn time.”

“Not your scene, huh?”

The voice came from his left, cool and amused. His crimson gaze snapped toward you. You stood just outside the flicker of a half-burned-out streetlight, the sharp click of your heavy steel-toed boots filling the space between you. A smirk played on your lips as you sauntered closer, hands tucked casually into the pockets of your coat.

“You always talk to yourself, or am I just special?” you teased, cocking your head slightly.

“Special, my ass.” Bakugo snapped, shoving off the wall. His eyes swept over you, sharp and assessing. Practical boots, worn but well-maintained. A coat that hugged your frame but didn’t restrict movement. And a pair of eyes that glimmered with something he couldn’t quite place. “You’re late.”

You tapped the face of the sleek watch on your wrist. “By my count, I’m right on time.”

“Tch.” He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”

You stepped past him, unbothered by his gruff tone. “Relax, Dynamight. If you’re lucky, this might even be fun.”

The warehouse was barely a blip on the map, tucked away in an industrial district that reeked of mildew and decay. The dull glow of streetlights struggled to pierce the heavy fog rolling in off the bay.

“This it?” Bakugo asked, his voice low.

“According to my source,” you replied, crouching near the rusted side door. You inspected the old lock with deft fingers. “Shouldn’t be too heavily guarded. Couple of grunts at best.”

“Grunts,” he muttered. “Pathetic.”

“You always this charming?” you asked, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Only to people who waste my time.”

Your chuckle was quiet, almost lost to the sound of distant waves. “Good thing I’m not wasting it, then.”

The lock gave a soft click, and you pushed the door open with a gloved hand. Bakugo followed close behind, his crimson eyes scanning the dimly lit interior. The air was heavy with the scent of damp wood and something faintly chemical.

“Stay close.” you murmured, your tone serious now.

“I don’t need babysitting.” he hissed back.

“Sure you don’t.” you replied, though there was no heat to your words.

The two of you moved in sync, silent and efficient. He blasted open a locked office door with a controlled explosion, while you swept the room for any signs of movement.

“Over here.” you called softly, pointing to a stack of crates in the far corner.

Bakugo crouched beside you, prying one open with his gauntlet. Inside were rows of glass vials, their contents shimmering an unsettling shade of green.

“Quirk enhancers...” you said, your voice grim.

“Figured as much,” Bakugo muttered, picking up a vial to inspect it more closely. He turned it over in his hand, watching the liquid swirl under the faint light. “This shit’s been popping up more and more lately.”

“And it’s getting people killed,” you added, your gaze hard. “Overdoses. Side effects. Collateral damage when quirks spiral out of control.”

He glanced at you, noting the tension in your jaw. “You sound like you’ve seen it firsthand.”

“Maybe I have.” you replied, your tone curt.

Before he could press further, a faint creak echoed through the warehouse. Both of you froze.

“Company,” you whispered, drawing a sleek police issued gun from the holster on your hip.

Bakugo grinned, the thrill of the fight already sparking in his chest. “About damn time.”

The scuffle was over in minutes. The grunts were exactly as pathetic as Bakugo had expected—barely trained, more bark than bite. He took out most of them with well-placed blasts, while you handled the stragglers with surgical precision.

“You’re not bad.” Bakugo admitted grudgingly as the last of the thugs hit the ground.

“I’ll take that as a glowing endorsement.” you replied, wiping your blade clean on a discarded rag.

He smirked, glancing at the unconscious bodies scattered around you. “What now, Detective?”

“We wait,” you said, your tone clipped. “Someone higher up the chain is bound to notice we hit this place. When they come sniffing around, we’ll be ready.”

Back at the precinct, the two of you sat across from each other in a cramped conference room. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows over the stacks of paperwork littering the table.

“You always this neat?” Bakugo asked dryly, eyeing the chaotic spread of files and notes in front of you.

“Organized chaos,” you replied, unbothered by his sarcasm. “Everything’s where I need it to be.”

He snorted, leaning back in his chair. “If you say so.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, broken only by the faint scratch of your pen against paper. Bakugo watched you out of the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on the sharp focus in your expression, the way your lips pursed slightly when you were deep in thought.

“What’s your deal, anyway?” he asked suddenly.

You didn’t look up. “My deal?”

“Yeah. Your quirk. Why don’t you use it?”

Your pen paused mid-stroke, and for a split second, your calm façade cracked. “Not everything’s about quirks, Mr Pro Hero.”

“Tch.” He crossed his arms, scowling. “Doesn’t mean you gotta hide it.”

“I ain't hiding anything,” you said evenly, though your tone had an edge now. “I just don’t need it to do my job.”

He didn’t press further, but the mystery gnawed at him. He’d figure you out eventually.

Later that night, you walked side by side through the precinct’s parking lot. The air was cool and crisp, the city’s usual noise muffled by the late hour.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” you said, breaking the silence.

Bakugo glanced at you, confused. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Earlier,” you explained, your smirk returning. “You said I wasn’t useless. I’m returning the favor.”

“Yeah, well…” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his ears burning faintly. “Don’t make it a habit.”

You laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. For a moment, Bakugo found himself watching you, the way the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp caught the curve of your smile.

As you reached your car, you paused, one hand resting on the door handle. “See you tomorrow, Dynamight.”

“Don’t be late,” he shot back, though there was no bite to his words.

You grinned, slipping into your car and driving off. Bakugo stood there for a moment, watching your taillights fade into the night.

Yeah, he thought. This assignment might not be so bad after all.

[flickering-chandelier]

The Sweetest Con

Pairing: Modern! Rhysand x Reader

Summary: You and Rhys are rival lawyers, but when a case stumps him, you find yourself in a situation you never thought you would be in.

Based on this request! 🩷

Warnings: Sorry to any lawyers out there, I do not know what I’m talking about lol.

Word Count: 3.2k

All morning you had been steeling yourself, trying to mentally prepare for the meeting that was about to take place, the lawyer that you were about to see. 

Rhysand.

Honestly, you figured you would rather go up against pretty much anyone else in the world. It wasn’t just that he was conceited and obnoxious, which he definitely was. It wasn’t even the smugness that was a constant feature of his face.

No, the real problem was that he was good. Really good. 

And he knew it.

You had been the city’s top lawyer until he showed up nearly a year ago. Suddenly he was giving you a run for your money and competing with you for the clients with the biggest names. 

It was maddening. You hated him. You really, truly hated him. 

Which, of course, he loved.

This case was pretty minor in the grand scheme of things. An ex husband and wife land dispute. Your client, Amelia, was suing Rhysand’s client, trying to get the house. The four of you, the plaintiff, the defendant, and the lawyers, were holding a meeting to see if this could be worked out amicably. You always liked to take an opportunity to avoid playing dirty if you could help it.

Rhysand, of course, was just the opposite. It had taken many phone calls and a lot of pleading on your end to get him to even show up with his client. 

He stared across the table at you now, his eyes dark, unwavering. He was trying to intimidate you, you knew, but you were holding strong. You had never been someone who scared easily. And you were determined. You would not lose this case.

---

You lost the case. 

Amelia folded, giving in, letting her asshole ex-husband keep the house that she had helped him buy nearly a decade ago.

You were furious. Not at her, not at anybody but Rhysand, who had somehow been able to persuade your client that he knew what was best. 

The clients had left, and you had packed up your things, partway out the door when Rhysand purred after you, “Hey, Killer?”

Your shoulders tensed and you turned back to glare at him. “Don’t call me that.”

Rhysand smirked, his eyes dancing with delight. “Better luck next time.”

As you walked to your car, you were absolutely sure. You hated that man.

---

Weeks later, you were combing through files in your office for a case you were working on when your office phone rang. 

You let out a sigh when you recognized the number.

“What do you want?” you asked, your tone sharp. 

A deep chuckle on the other end. “That’s how you answer the phone?”

“When you’re the one calling.”

“Fair enough,” Rhysand said goodnaturedly. “I was hoping you could swing by my office sometime in the next few days. Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

You couldn’t help but pause for a beat in confusion, both at the request, and at his genial tone. “Why on earth would I do that?” 

Rhysand sighed quietly, seemingly resigned. “I need your help.”

His office was about what you had expected. A huge, deep mahogany desk, black armchairs, black drapes to block out the blinding afternoon sun from the window behind him. It was dark and imposing, just like the man himself. As always, he was wearing an all-black suit, and as always, he was looking at you with a twinkle in his eye, like he knew more than you did. 

In this case, you supposed it was true.

“I don’t understand,” you said finally. “What could I possibly help you with?”

Rhysand leaned back in his chair casually, placing his hands behind his head. It irritated you how nonchalant, how in control he always seemed. 

“As much as I hate to admit it, Killer, you’re smart. You pay attention to details, pick up on important pieces that a lot of lawyers would miss.”

You narrowed your eyes at the vexing nickname he had given you, but decided to let it pass. “So?” you asked. 

“So,” he said, drawing out the word, “this case I’ve been working on… it’s gotten complicated. And I could use a fresh pair of eyes to help untangle it.”

You crossed your arms, your eyes widening slightly, unable to hide your shock. “Me? I’m really the one you want help from?”

He blinked. “Yes. Did you not hear what I said?”

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you said, “I heard it, but I still don’t understand. We work at separate firms. You and I, we compete for clients all the time. Working together under the circumstances… it’s unheard of.”

Rhysand leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him, his eyes sparking, his mouth curling up into a smirk. “Wouldn’t that make it all the more fun?”

“Fun?” You asked in disbelief. “Working with you?”

His smirk only grew. “Oh, I’m very fun. I promise.”

You bit your lip, your mind whirling. This man bothered you to no end. You would rather work with anyone else. 

And yet… 

It had been months since you had a case you could really sink your teeth into, one that you felt really mattered. On top of that, once word got out that you two, longtime rivals, were actually working together on a case? This could be huge for your career. 

Resignedly, you said, “Tell me everything I need to know.”

Rhysand grinned. “Gladly.”

---

You could understand why someone might want help with a case like this.  It was intense, with contradicting witnesses, no clear evidence, and to top it all off, it was high profile. 

The two of you spent hours in Rhysand’s office, combing over files while Rhysand talked, catching you up to speed. 

By the time you felt like you had a solid grasp of the case, the sun had set. You looked up from the file in front of you, your mind spinning from all of the information. Rhysand looked exhausted, though infuriatingly, still completely put together. 

His eyes softened a bit as he looked back at you, his brows furrowing together slightly. “We can pick this back up tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” he said decisively, snapping the folder in front of him shut. “We're not going to get any more work done if we’re this exhausted anyway.”

You nodded, tidying up the many folders on your side of Rhysand’s desk before slinging your gigantic purse over your shoulder.

You had turned for the door, but stopped short at Rhysand’s smug voice behind you, “You want to grab dinner?”

Narrowing your eyes, you turned back to face him. “With you? Absolutely not.”

His eyes sparkled with delight, his mouth curling up into a smirk. “Why not?”

“I still hate you. Working one case together won’t change that.”

Rhysand laughed. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

For several days, you got through your to-do list at your own office as quickly as possible to give you and Rhysand ample time to pore over documents, make calls, and bicker about what steps to take next. 

It was exhausting working with him. Even though he had been the one to seek out your “fresh eyes,” he still always thought that he was right. 

“I’m telling you this guy’s a dead end. I’ve spoken with him twice already,” Rhysand said, clearly exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. 

“And I’m telling you that you’re wrong. We’re missing something here, I know it.”

Rhysand sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Fine. But it’s too late to talk to him tonight, so we’ll have to pick this back up tomorrow.”

“Fine,” you said begrudgingly. 

He looked at you with resignation as you gathered your things, like he was regretting ever getting you involved. Then, he said matter of factly, “Let’s get dinner.” 

You scowled. “I told you--”

“I know, I know. You hate me,” he said, shutting down his computer and standing up, stretching his arms over his head. “But we both need to eat.”

He just continued looking at you until you rolled your eyes and agreed.

After arguing for several minutes, you finally chose a restaurant that you both liked, and before long, you were settled into a comfy booth with Rhysand looking across the table at you. He always looked like he was scrutinizing every part of you, like he could see straight through to your soul.

You hated to admit it, but his eyes… they shone even in the dim lighting, so blue they were almost purple. You had never seen eyes like his in your life. 

His eyebrow lifted, his mouth curling into a smirk, and you realized you had been staring for too long. Hastily, you opened your menu, scanning its contents, though you could still feel his eyes on you.

Once you ordered, he cleared his throat, pinning you with his stare once again.

“What?” you lashed out. You felt like he was driving you insane.

Blinking in surprise, he asked, “What?”

“Why are you always staring at me?”

He laughed, his whole face lighting up. “I’m pretty sure you were staring at me.”

“I was not,” you countered, but even to your own ears, your voice sounded too high, too defensive.

Grinning, he said, “You were.”  

You just rolled your eyes, desperately trying to think of a topic change. 

“Why do you hate me so much?” he asked suddenly.

That was not the topic change that you were expecting. You looked at him in surprise for a moment, then counted the reasons on your fingers, “You came into town and stole half my clients, you’re the most arrogant and smug man I’ve ever met in my life, you’ve beaten me in too many cases to count and then rubbed it in my face, you’ve given me a weird nickname that I don’t understand, and you clearly hate me.” 

You paused for a moment to look at him. He was gazing at you with the same smug, slightly amused expression he always wore. “Does that about cover it, or do you want me to keep going?” you asked. 

“I’ve never hated you,” he said simply, his eyes softening a little. 

Your eyes narrowed slightly as you tried to put the pieces together, to decipher this impossible man. He looked confident and calm as ever, but somehow, you believed him. It didn’t seem like he was lying. 

“Well. You could’ve fooled me,” you said finally, unable to tear your gaze from his.

“The rest is true, obviously,” he smirked, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you. “But I thought this was all friendly competition until you kept deciding to tell me that you couldn’t stand me.”

You couldn’t think of anything to say. You felt like your mind was completely blank and it didn’t help that he was still pinning you down with those ridiculously piercing eyes.

“Why do you call me Killer?” You eventually spat out.

His smirk turned into a real smile. “The same reason I wanted your help. You’ve got a killer instinct.”

You snorted in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What?” he asked, laughing. “Yes, seriously.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, but you found yourself unable to resist a small smile.

He just smiled at you, and through the rest of dinner, somehow, you felt your hatred for Rhysand dimming. 

---

Things felt… different, after that dinner with Rhysand. You were both friendlier, less cordial. It seemed that you worked better together too, as you would bicker slightly less often. 

He still pissed you off sometimes, to be clear, but it didn’t feel as deep as it did before. The two of you would get dinner together a few times a week now, and you wouldn’t even talk about work for many of them. 

Rhysand and you were… friends.

You were still getting used to the idea. 

Rhysand seemed thrilled. You had never seen him in a better mood than he had been the last few weeks.

As the two of you sat at dinner that night though, you felt lost in thought. There was something about the case that you were missing, something that didn’t add up.

“What is it?” he asked, his eyebrow arching up.

You took a deep breath, tapping your fingers on the table. “We’re missing something.”

Rhysand looked at the table. “What, do you need more ketchup?”

Rolling your eyes good naturedly, you waved him off. “The case, Rhys. We’re missing something about the case.”

He furrowed his eyebrows and listened intently while you worked through your thoughts out loud, going over the notes and evidence you two had found the past several weeks, until it hit you. 

“The cameras,” you said hastily. “We’re missing footage.”

“How would you know that?” he asked. 

You explained your thought process, how you remember seeing a camera in a spot that you never saw in footage that the company handed over. 

“And if they didn’t give us that footage on purpose…” you trailed off.

“They’re hiding something from us,” Rhys finished.

You hadn’t felt like you had a real lead in ages. “We need to get back to the office.”

Rhys shook his head as he pulled cash out of his wallet and threw it onto the table. “We just need a computer. It would be faster to go to my place.”

You were too excited, too focused on the case to argue.

And so, that’s how you found yourself in Rhysand’s apartment.

The two of you were so engrossed in this revelation though, that you hardly noticed. You both sat at his dining room table, leaning in close over his laptop, focused on finding the missing piece that you so desperately needed. 

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed before you excitedly pointed to the screen, “There!”

Rhysand went completely still beside you as he saw what you were pointing to. The answer to all your questions. It was what you needed to solve the case, you were sure of it. 

You hadn’t realized how close you were sitting to him until you both looked at each other in disbelief, your faces only inches apart. 

“You did it,” he said quietly, his eyes shining. “This is exactly what we needed.”

It took all you had to maintain eye contact with him. You felt like you could fall right into his eyes and drown. 

When his eyes darted down to your lips for a moment, you felt your breath catch.

It didn’t seem real, somehow, when Rhysand leaned forward and met your lips with his, bringing his hand to cradle the back of your head comfortingly. Within a few moments, you were balling your fist in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer to you. 

You gasped when he wrapped his hands around the backs of your thighs, picking you up in one fluid motion and carrying you to the couch, his lips trailing down your neck as he went.

Keeping his hold on you, he sat down on the couch, his hands trailing up to your hips as you straddled him, leaning in to kiss him again.

Rhysand. Your mind tried to make sense of it. You’re kissing Rhysand, of all people. And worse, there was fire flooding through your veins, your skin tingling with a need you hadn’t felt in a ridiculously long time. 

And it was Rhysand who was making you feel like this.

When his hips jerked up and met yours, when you could feel just how badly he wanted you too, all your thoughts went out the window, and you just needed him.

As if he could read your mind, his hands started to wander across your body, in all the places that you had suddenly become desperate for him to touch. 

After a moment though, reality began to set in again. Your mind began to wander. This had to be a bad idea.

Rhys felt the change in your body language and stopped what he was doing, leaning back to peer at your face. “What is it?” he asked softly.

“I…” you hesitated, unable to find the words. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” he said, gently guiding you off his lap so you sat next to him. “Are you okay?”

Your heart melted the slightest bit before you could stop it. “I’m fine. It’s just… this can’t be a good idea.”

“We hate each other,” you said, exasperated.

He blinked in confusion. “Why?”

Rhysand laughed incredulously. “You really still believe that?”

Your face heated. No. Obviously not. He had even told you himself that he never hated you. 

With a resigned sigh you said quietly, “No.”

“What’s really going on?” he asked softly. 

Biting your lip, you tried to think of a suitable answer, even when you finally recognized the truth in yourself. 

You had feelings for him. You had for weeks.

And if you let this happen, you would have to come to terms with that.

That, and the fact that he might not feel the same about you. That this could all just be a fun hookup for him. 

You couldn’t live with that. 

And you obviously couldn’t tell him that. 

“Nothing,” you said finally, quietly. “We just can’t.”

Rhysand shook his head. “I don’t believe you,” he said gently. “Please tell me what’s wrong. Did I do something?”

“No,” you said, your voice breaking. “You didn’t do anything.”

You hid your face in your hands and you felt him sit up straighter next to you.

“Then what is it?”

“Oh,” he said quietly after a moment. 

“Oh?” you asked, your voice muffled.

“Let me just make one thing clear,” he said, his voice still gentle but slightly more authoritative now. “This isn’t a one-time thing for me. I like you. I have since we met.”

You pulled your face from your hands and looked at him incredulously. “What?”

He nodded, the smallest smile gracing his expression, so different from his usual smirk. 

“Why were you such an asshole then?”

“I was just trying to get a rise out of you! I thought we were playing around, I didn’t know you actually hated me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. This whole time.

The two of you were quiet for a moment before Rhysand said, “This is the part where you say how you feel about me.”

You groaned, unable to form the words. 

So instead, you looked at him for a moment, at those gorgeous, purple eyes that you had become so accustomed to, and you kissed him.

--- 

A year later, you gave Rhysand a quick kiss before you both exited the car and walked into your very own law firm. 

Well, yours and Rhysand’s, of course. 

You got to work together on a fresh new case, one that you were both excited about. One that could really help people.

And you couldn't imagine being happier.

@loving-and-dreaming @birdsflyhome @hanuh @sheblogs @iambored24601 @thalia-as-blog @evergreenlark @ecliphttlunar @bookloverandalsocats @melmo567 @headacheseason @sillysillygoose444 @yourqueenlilith @mariamay02 @halibshepherd @azrielshadows1nger @cigvrette-dvydrevms @andreperez11 @lilah-asteria @marina468

[jyoongim]

Hello!

I would to request if its alright.

Prisoner Human Alastor x Police!Reader.

Alastor were captured by police and was sent to jail and Reader was a professional police also she is virgin because shes too focus on her job even when she was in colloge she never experienced it.

Sorry im bad at explaining but like they fucked in alastor cell in middle of the night because Reader was assign to watch Alastor since hes the biggest criminal in the town.

So llike i dont know how reader ended up in his cell ummm you can just make a reason for it since i dont know how she also inside his cell and getting fuck

So like Reader Hate love when alastor fuck out of her brain for the first time and Instead of Escaping from the jail Alastor just Find a Toy to play with.

This been on my mind pleaseeee im on my knees just for this😭😭

THIS IS MY BIRTHDAY GIFT TO YALL

WHOOP WHOOP THATS THE SOUND OF THE POLICE!!!!

It’s giving Mrs.Officer by lil Wayne hahahaha 

themes: 18+! NSFW, fem!reader, human!alastor (criminal of the LAW), so many laws and regulations broken, flirty banter? Jail cell sex, slight dub con, manipulation, subjugation, Loss of virginity, handcuffs, black mail, humiliation, gun play, mention of murders,  toxic relationship?

Five years ago

“Alastor DuPont, you are charged with the Bayou Murders! You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law…” you snarled at the man, as you slapped your handcuffs on his wrists, hoisting him up from the ground and forcing him to the cop car.

A strained laughed escaped his throat as he glanced over his shoulder at you, white teeth showing “never would have thought you would turn on me doll hehe. How unpredictable…I like that in my women ya know?”The lanky man grinned as you slammed the door, his breath fogging up the window. His deep brown eyes were wild as he maintained a calm composure. You narrowed your eyes at him “remember that it was me who put your ass behind bars”

His eyelids dropped, his crazed smile almost splitting his face “oooh doll I’ll never forget you”

Present Day

The prison was in an uproar when the higher ups found out who they’ll be housing.

Alastor DuPont.

New Orleans Most Beloved Radio Host…was a serial killer.

And you were the unfortunate soul who was his guard.

You looked over the paperwork of your new charge, brows furrowing as you read the arrest and charges.

Disgusting scrum! You thought with a sigh, setting down the papers on your desk.

”Why is he being transferred to my floor? Ain’t that conflict of interest?” You asked the Warden, an older man in his sixties.

You were the officer who had worked the Bayou Murders case, the officer who caught Louisiana's notorious killer and arrested him. 

You were just a rookie back then, fresh out of college and putting your all into your work. You were always at the office working late and gathering evidence. Your coworkers often joked that you had no sense of fun, always refusing to go out with them for dinners or parties. You were obvious to romantic advances and often threatened to write a report for misconduct for your male officers actions.

You often heard some of the male officers describe you as ‘Stuck-up, picky, prude’ but you didn’t see an issue with that.

You took your job serious, there was never room for error in this line of work.

You were very by the book. 

You saw everything in black and white.

Control and Regulations was your game.

Which is why you were tasked guarding some of the worst criminals in the city.

That now included Alastor.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Just treat him how you do the other inmates. You’re my best officer here to handle something like him” The warden said. You were the best for this. You took a deep breath “Fine, but I want a raise” you grumbled, smiling.

—————————————————————————————

“Inmate 666 rise n shine! put your hands through the open slot” you commanded. You stood outside the steel padlock door, waiting for hands to appear to be cuffed.

Nothing.

You knocked on the door again, a warning.

You huffed, “Last chance inmate! Or I’m dragging you out!”

Silence.

You cursed under your breath and looked to your backup guard

”open the door” he looked worried but followed your orders.

The security door whirled opened and you stood in the open doorway, you hand hovered over your baton as you approached the figure laying in bed, worst case he killed himself; best case…you kick his ass out of bed. “DuPont!” You sneered, kicking the edge of his bed. The figure stirred, groaning at the bright light pouring in the small room, he stretched, joints popping and made a move to sit upon the bed.

He rubbed his eyes, reached for his glasses and finally looked at you. A smile appeared on his face “Well i must have died and went to heaven” he drawled standing up.

You took a step back out of instinct. You scoffed at him ”you wish now put your shirt on and hands behind your back.”

Alastor let out a chuckle as he reached for his shirt.

Your eyes roamed his exposed skin. Smooth, skin riddled with scars. For a lanky bastard he had quite the muscle definition.

He was handsome, the type of guy you would have happily let chat you up.

But you were the truth behind that smile.

”so what pleasure am i owed that I get to see your pretty face after so long?” He asked like he was talking about the weather. You didn’t answer him as you locked the handcuffs and nudged him towards the open door to start walking.

———————————————————————————-

“You will be provided three meals a day. One hour of outdoors activities and you’ll have recreational if you earn good behavior, but i highly doubt that. Am I clear?” You ask as he stared at you with a stupid smile. You frowned “get that smile off your face DuPont.” He only smiled harder “I can’t help it. I enjoy being in your presence my dear” 

You leaned across the table, eyes hard as you got in his face.

”listen to me you irritating prick! In here I rule. You listen to everything I say and pray I am in a good mood to deal with your shit. I can make what remains of your life hell on earth. Do I make myself clear?” You hissed.

Alastor leaned back, an amused look on his face, shrugging “Crystal”

”Good”

You walked him back to his cell after he ate and uncuffed him. Walking out you slammed the door shut and waited to hear the lock before moving to make your rounds.

”I do hope you have a good night my dear” you hear him say as you walk down the corridor, ignoring him.

—————————————————————————-

Alastor sighed as he sat on his bed. A low chuckle escaped his throat. Oh how he missed you. 

When he met you five years ago, he knew you were the one for him. There was something about you that gave him a thrill. 

He admits he didn’t count on you being a police officer; you had fooled him flawlessly. 

His cock twitched in his pants. Those pretty eyes that once held warmth were ever so chilling. 

How he couldn’t wait to break that cold demeanor of yours.

He just had to bid his time and after all he had all the time in the world with you.

————————————————————————————-

You were focused on some paperwork when two male officers popped their heads in your office.

”hey a couple of us are going for a night out you coming?” Max asked with a smile as Danny was behind him with puppy eyes.

You didn’t even look up from your work “ill pass but maybe next time guys” you hear the groan before leaving.

You shook your head lightly as you finished filling in your notes.

You looked at your watch, it was almost time to patrol.

————————————————————————————-

Alastor could hear the footsteps of the two male guards that occasionally visited his floor.

”she never wants to hang out. Fucking bitch thinks she better than us or something?” A voice whined.

”oh you know how she is. Work on the brain. She wouldn’t be so strict if she loosened up a bit hahaha i would love to fuck that.”

Alastor grimaced. Disgusting trash 

He might have been a certified lady killer, but he was still a gentleman. And lowly scrum like them didn’t even deserve to think of you that way.

You were his.

And he’ll make sure of that.

A dark smile crept on his face just at the thought.

———————————————————————————-

It was fairly quiet tonight. 

You found yourself standing outside Alastor’s cell.

”You gone say something cherie or stand guard all night. I promise I have no intention of escaping.” He purred.

You frowned “I have nothing to say to you”

You heard him laugh “really? You had a lot to say five years ago”

He was baiting you, you knew this, but your temper was hot

”You are despicable you know that? You think you so smart, but you know something Alastor? You got sloppy. Tell me. Why? Why did you kill all them girls?” You hissed, now facing the door.

You hadn’t even realized his hands were out in the slot until his large hands grasped yours.

You tensed and went to tug your hands out of his, but he firmly kept a grip.

”why? What kind of question is that? The answer is simple.” His thumbs rubbed your hands.

”No the answer was stupid. You commited those crimes, killed those innocent women for pure fun? They should have sent you to the Ward.” You said angrily.

Alastor smiled, through you couldn’t see it

”Maybe but I’m completely in my right mind I assure you. The reason for all the mess? Simple…they weren’t you” he bent down to press his lips to your knuckles.

You ripped your hands back, eyes wide “you’re sick”

He hummed, rolling his eyes.

”doesn’t change how I feel about you darlin”

He was surprise to hear the lock to his cell and the door open to reveal you.

And you were angry.

Your face was balled into a frown “It was never about me! You think I would believe that shit!” Your hand pulled your gun, aiming it at him “You’re nothin’ but a liar and a killer. Ain’t no love in that dark heart of yours. You are incapable of love.” Your lip quivered slightly, giving way to your emotions under the glare you held.

Alastor walked up to you, right up to your gun pressing against his chest, his hands were up, but he was still craning his head down at you “is that what you tell yourself about me dear?” 

That sharp smile on his face, his eyes wide “then kill me. Pull the trigger and serve justice.”

His eyes were analyzing you. You were panting, chest constricted in your uniform, cheeks flushed with anger but your plump lips wobbled.

One of his hands gently wrapped around the gun, lowering it as he pressed against your body. The other taking hold of your chin.

He lowered his head til his lips were but a whisper away, ghosting yours lightly “What i feel for you darlin, love ain’t got nothing on it”

Your brain seemed to catch up with the situation you were in and you tried to reestablish control, but Alastor had already sunk his claws in you.

Your eyes widened when his lips slammed on yours, your hand with the gun whipped to hit him across the head, but he caught it and used the momentum of your body to twirl you around and pin your arm against your back, making you drop the weapon as you wince in pain.

His lips were at your neck, nose brushing against your ear

”never drop ya guard dear, didn’t they teach you that?” He taunted.

You struggled against him as he pushed you down on the small bed, pressing you down with his weight. 

You thrashed about, body filling with panic as you couldn’t throw throw him off you.

Alastor grunted as you kicked at him, narrowing his eyes as he pressed his full weight against you.

”easy doll easy. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Well too much hehehe” his brushed his nose against yours, trailing his lips to kiss your cheeks and jaw.

With his hips fixed between your parted thighs, he pressed his hardening length against the softness of your covered mound.

Large hands cupped your breasts, and before long you heard a tear. Your eyes widened as the cold air met your chest and gasped asho Alastor quickly made work of your bra. He let out a hoarse groan as he kneaded the tender flesh, mouth wrapping around a perky nipple, causing you to gasp.

He nipped and tugged the soft nip before lavishing it with his tongue, like an apology for the harsh treatment. ”I knew you’ll have the prettiest pair of tits. So full and soft. I can’t wait to see them bruised up from my teeth”

You clenched your teeth as you tried to ignore the rather pleasant sensations running through you. With your gun somewhere, all you had was your physical strength. You might couldn’t overpower him, but you could use his weight against him.

Taking the distraction of Alastor focusing on sucking at your chest, you tightened your legs around his waist and used his relaxed posture to flip the two of you over. With your arms free, you pressed your arm into his neck, thighs holding his hips down as you tried to regain your composure.

You tried held your elbow into his throat, glaring at him as he just smiled up you.

Alastor lazily placed his hands on your hips as he raked his eyes over you.

You were disheveled, hair fizzy and face flushed. Your eyes were filled with uncertainty and another emotion. Your lips were swollen and your neck was slowly turning red. With your uniform ripped, your tits were fully exposed, nipples perked and littered with bites.

 You were beautiful 

“I am going to walk out of here and pretend this didn’t happen. You are going to stay right here until I close that door and lock it.” You said sternly, but Alastor wasn’t listening, he was grinding up into you slowly as he trailed a hand up your front, finger fondling with your ripped uniform. You went to slap his hands away when he cupped your breasts but the cold air that met your entire body made you freeze.

”That’s much better don’t you think?” He mused, fingers tapping your hips as he palmed your ass cheeks in full.

You quickly sat up, ready to get off him, when Alastor followed you up, arms locking you against him. He whispered in your ear, voice low and deep “oh you’re so precious. I can’t wait to fuck that tight pussy of yours baby” he kissed your shoulder as he pulled your panties to dip two fingers inside you.

You pushed at his chest, trying to shift your hips away but the motion made you fall back and you grunted as you fell to the floor.

Alastor sucked his fingers, moaning at the taste of you. He sat looking at you, grinning as he moved towards you. You scrambled back, wanting to put distance between the two of you, but Alastor long legs carried him to you and he wrapped a hand around ankle and dragged you back towards him, taking top mount to prevent your from flaring about like a fish.

Tears welled in your eyes as he quickly made work of his pants, freeing his weeping cock. You pressed your hands against his chest, which he took in one hand and held them over your head. He hummed a tune as he pressed his lips to your cheeks, peppering your face in kisses before locking his lips onto yours. You tried to jerk your head away but that didn’t deter him, as he bit down on your lips, crying out, your mouth was invaded by his tongue.

You barely had time to counter, when your breath hitched in your throat, feeling an unknown pressure between your thighs.

A staggered gasp turned into a pained cry as narrow hips thrusted up into you, sheathing his cock to the brim.

Alastor laughed into your mouth, licking at your teeth “Oooh? So I’m your first hehe I’m honored.” He slotted his mouth against yours as he snapped his hips against yours, wanting you to quickly grow accustomed to his brute pace.

The sound of sticky slaps and muffled moans radiated through the cell. Your legs rested on either sides of Alastor’s hips, shaking as he rocked into your body.

“What would the other guards think if they found out you let a dangerous killer fuck you? Hmm? This breaks so many laws baby. Hehe fuck you feel good. You take me so good ha! I knew you could.” A soft whimper bubbled out your throat. Your mind was fighting, but your body was welcoming the unwanted assault. 

Your tongue lolled out your mouth as Alastor’s cock dragged along your insides, making your back arched as he hit a nerve that had you moaning.

Your soft moans spurred the man on as he angled his hips, pounding you into the cold floor.

Oh how long he had imagined fucking you. You were like nothing he could have imagined. Your tight cunt clinged to his dick as he bullied it through your walls.

He caught sight of your discarded gun and grabbed it, resting the cool metal against your skin. Your eyes widened, body freezing despite the jolts from his hips.

His brows quirked when your cunt clenched “Scared or horny baby?” He chuckled darkly, leaning back onto his knees, pulling you with him. 

He let out a soft moan as you sunk down on him, uttering dirty praise and encouragement. “You gonna ride me baby? Hmm? You gonna let a killer stretch this pussy out? Ill make you feel so good baby” he rocked up into you, softly thrusting.

You rested your head into the crook of his neck, shaking as Alatsor’s hands rubbed your back. The gun slowly trailing up your skin. One hand tangled in the roots of your hair, pulling your head back, as you felt the tip of the gun at your chin.

Alastor cooed as he pulled you down into his thrusts, making your jaw clench “k-kill me bastard” you hissed,  eyes clenched feeling his cock bury into you with a wet squish.

Alastor’s body vibrated as he let out a laugh “Kill you? Oh darlin no. then there wont be a pretty face to look forward to see everyday. I have no desire to paint the walls red with your blood haha no I want to paint your walls white” 

You leaned into his body, pushing your hips back to meet his thrusts. Your fingers dug into his skin and out of anger for the onslaughter of pleasure you sunk your teeth into his neck.

Alastor’s cock twitched as his hips snapped into yours as a response. 

Fuck! He eyes rolled slightly into his skull “careful baby. I hate to put a baby in you so soon” he chuckled.

Then the light bulb went off in his head

On second thought… 

————————————————————————————-

You shouldn’t be doing this as much. 

This was so wrong! On so many levels. 

Many many violations. 

Hell you could lose your job!

You almost hoped that another guard would come by and see what was happening so you could get out of here…but that wasn’t going to happen.

This is your floor and yours alone.

”OooH fuuuuccck, p-please! don’t… stop” you whined, throwing your head back, body leaned back with your arms trying to support your body as Alastor rammed up into your pussy. You hadn’t given much thought to sex, but he must be what girls in college use to call ‘packing’. His dick felt like it was splitting you in two, hitting that spongey nerve just right.

The man let out a gruff laugh beneath you, one hand on your hip to bounce you on his cock and the other holding that stupid gun against your clit. The cool metal sending shocks through your cunt. ”Oh you’ve made such a mess darlin” he tsked, eyes focused on his cock disappearing into you. A frothy cream coated the base of his cock, making both of your inner thighs sticky.

“But you’re so pretty when you’re messy.” He smirked, tilting his head

”I-I hate you!” You cried as he pinched your clit, slowly drawing tight circles on the bud. He hummed, kissing up the column of your neck “But your cunt says otherwise” he purred as he started pulling you down harder into his thrusts. Your eyes rolled as loud moans and whines left your throat. You might didn’t realize, but you had been fucking him back since the very beginning.

All that pent up frustration and tightly bound moral code snapping the second his cock breached your virgin walls.

Your cunt fluttered around him as he sucked a tit into his mouth. He released the sore nipple with a pop,tonguing it as he watched your face distort with pleasure as he had you met his thrusts.

“You’re everything I imagined and so much more” he whispered. He couldn’t help but admire you like this.

You opened your mouth to say something snarky, but he caught your lips as he sped up his pace, swallowing your gasps as he hit the sweet spot that had you mewling.

He felt your cunt clench and contract, allowing him deeper access to nirvana.

“Don’t you wanna cum baby? Because i know i do fuuck! Be a good little slut for me baby” Alastor hissed, feeling his dick twitch.

Your orgasm must have been approaching because you started to push against him, hips trying to raise and get off his dick.

Oh you weren’t going anywhere.

A gasp escaped you, your eyes wide as he tightened his hold on your hips “N-no no no no Alastor stop! Dont!” You pressed your hands against his chest to try and lift off him, but to no avail.

He laughed in your ear wickedly ”you are going to cum on my cock whether you like it or not baby ”

He wrapped his arms around you, forcing you to take the full force of his thrusts, wanting to break you from his cock.

You whimpered, eyes clenching as you buried your head in his shoulder. Your orgasm hit you like a truck, making you tense and hips grind into his to instinctively ride out the pleasure 

“I’m cumming ooh fuck fuck fuck! Alastor!” You whined loudly, body slumping as you shook against him.

Alastor kissed your shoulder as your cunt fluttered, hips stuttering and with a groan he cummed inside you, pressing you down to take all his dick as he painted your walls.

His dick twitched before he pulled out of you, smiling as his cum slowly leaked out of you as you slipped off his lap, glaring at him as he smiled at you.

Your eyes widened as he pulled a small tape recorder from his pocket.

”I think your boss would be very surprised to hear you fucking a criminal heheh”

tears welled in your eyes as you reached for the device, but he held it out of reach, opting to grab your hair and pull you flush against his cum covered cock.

”but don’t worry my dear, no one will know your little secret…as long as you play nice” his teeth split through his smile as he tapped the tip of of his dick against your lips.

”After all I wouldn’t want to lose my assistant again after breaking her in finally don’t you agree?” He hummed as he pushed his dick into your mouth, sighing as you gagged around him.

“That’s my good girl”

He never forgot about you. 

How could he?

You were his favorite doll after all….

—————————————————————————————-

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[theghostkingisdead]

dpxdc - Neglected Child AU

As one of his first acts as Ghost King, Danny basically created ghost CPS. Mostly they help new spirits come to terms with the fact that they're dead, but situations like Danny's are a lot more common than the Observants had lead him to believe. People who come back from the dead or are exposed to large quantities of unstable ectoplasm often lead sad, short second lives. Either because they are unable to obtain the nutrients their new forms require, or because their communities turn against them in fear. This is a story about Jason Todd.

There was a lot Jazz loved about her job. She loved helping young ghosts find acceptance. She loved matching cases with foster Fraids. She loved meeting new people. She loved the rare excuse to travel dimensions. But some days, Jazz was intimately reminded of why this program was formed in the first place.

Knock, knock, knock.

Jazz looked up from her laptop. “Come in!”

Apple – the ghost of a dryad whose tree was chopped down two summers ago – poked her head in.

“Uh, Lady- I mean, Ms. Phan-, no,” Apple took a shuddering breath. Jazz smiled encouragingly. The girl had only been working here for a season, and already she was making excellent progress. “Ms. Jasmine, there’s a city spirit here to see you, uh, on behalf of a uh, potential client.”

“Thank you, Apple, you can send them in.” Jazz said.

Apple flushed green, closing the door with a sigh. Jazz guessed she had about two minutes before the impromptu meeting began. She used the time to sweep some papers off her desk and into a drawer. It had been some time since she’d had a walk-in like this. Jazz had a strict open doors policy when it came to her office, despite the technical fact that her door was often closed; it was just easier to focus that way! She had no idea why most ghosts preferred to submit claims by mail, really it was much better for them to speak with an officer in person.

Thirty years ago, Jazz would’ve had trouble describing the spirit that walked through the doors. Fifty years ago, even looking at it would’ve been painful. But Jasmine Duchess Phantom had been living in the Infinite Realms for almost eighty years now, and liminal senses reached out subconsciously, cataloging scents and colors that her mortal mind would have balked at.

The shape of a steel-colored skeleton peered out at her from a billowing cloud of grey smoke, which curled around its feet and seeped across the floor. Jazz tasted gunmetal and sugar, smelled stale urine and burned bread, felt desperation-fear-hunger-love crash violently against her. Like a cliff to a wave, Jazz stood her ground, letting herself be tested. This spirit was old and afraid; when it spoke, it spoke in a million overlapping voices.

“My apologies for barging in unannounced, Your Grace. I come before you with an issue of great import. One I have reason to believe our King may have a personal interest in.”

Jazz nodded, “My doors are always open, City Spirit. I’m always happy to help. But before I hear your petition, may I know who I am addressing?”

The skeleton did not move that she could see, but Jazz heard windchimes like chittering laughter.

“I am Gotham, Your Grace. My apologies for my rudeness. I have little reason to travel these days and am unaccustomed to necessary introductions.”

Jazz nodded, committing the name and its taste to memory. “No need to apologize, Gotham. Your situation is not unique amongst your kind. Have a seat,” Jazz gestured at the plush couch across from her desk. “What troubles you so, to bring you so far from home?”

There was more windchime tittering, and Jazz wondered if the spirit was laughing or just readjusting itself on a plane she could not see. A nervous tick, perhaps? Maybe she could send Apple for something to make Gotham feel more at ease. Bullet casings or chocolate chip cookies would be equally soothing to this entity, Jazz guessed.

Gotham folded into itself, form blurring slightly before reforming on the couch, leaned forward with elbows on knees. “Many years ago, a mortal man pledged himself to my service. I accepted him as a City Guard, my mortal Champion. This man has many children who have likewise pledged themselves to my protection.”

Jazz smothered the urge to interrupt. She loathed the idea of child Guards; the fact that this City Spirit was here now asking for help meant that this instance had gone just as well as it usually did.

Unaware of her internal judgement, Gotham continued. “The second child died and revived some seven years ago, I…” This time, the rattling sound emanating from Gotham shook the room with the force of a thunderclap. “You have to understand, I don’t claim kids as champions, so technically he was never even under my protection. And when he came back, he ran! I don’t have power outside the city, you know, so even if, well, it’s not like there was anything I could have done differently,”

Jazz was aware that she was frowning. She could only guess what her aura felt like to Gotham, whose smoky aura was rapidly thickening. A bird puffing itself up to look bigger. A cheap trick. If Jazz were in a more compassionate mood, she might have felt embarrassed at such a juvenile display from a spirit decades older than herself.

“You neglected a child, or-” she cut off Gotham before it could protest, “allowed a child to be neglected. For seven years. What changed? Why petition him now and not then?”

Gotham chittered, “Well, you see, he came back to me just over a year ago, retook his pledge and everything. And, well, things were rough, I thought the fraid was just readjusting itself, but, er-”

“Tell me.”

“Well, the problem is I don’t exactly know what the boy is anymore, but he’s more ghostly than not, and his fraid’s fully human. If this infighting between my Guards goes on for any longer, it’ll tear me apart. I figured The King might want to step in, considering this boy might be a halfa, maybe he could help him and the fraid get back to normal.”

Jazz grinned. “Rest assured, Gotham, The Crown will indeed be taking special interest in your case.” Words dripped from her lips, caustic even to her own ears. “Now, why don’t you go outside and give Apple the rest of the details. I have some visits to make.”

[springtyme]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈𝐬 𝐎𝐧 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: 𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐨 ♡

Carmy x afab!reader || Series masterlist || Series playlist

Can also be read on ao3 || Main masterlist || Next chapter

chapter summary: You moved to Chicago six months ago. You still don’t really feel at home in a new city, far away from friends and family, but you make a new connection one night when your new neighbor almost set your apartment building on fire.

word count: 3.1k

warnings/tags: Eventual smut! (18+, mdni!) Language. Smoking. Angst and fluff. Slow burn. Mutual pining. Strangers to friends to lovers. Set in season one. Vague mentions of Mikey’s situation. Reader is from Copenhagen, or has at least have lived there for a longer period of time, but it isn't directly mentioned that it's her nationality, and no description of appearance is mentioned. Reader's exact age isn't mentioned either, but it is implied that she is around Carmy's age.

"My head and my heart and my hands are longing I just woke up in smoke feeling the heat coming Cause the house is on fire"

Copenhagen, six months ago 

The cool breeze from the water blows gently against your cheeks, and you can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia creeping in. The calm waters of the harbor glisten in the evening sun, casting a mesmerizing reflection on the nearby buildings. You take a drag of your cigarette, letting the smoke caress your lungs as you contemplate the big changes that lie ahead of you, the smoke swirling around you in a hazy dance. You’re not really supposed to smoke on the platform, but since the station is almost empty you let yourself indulge this one time. You’re leaving all this behind in a week anyway.  

As you stand there, watching a lone seagull glide effortlessly above the water, its wings catching the last rays of sunlight, you can’t shake the feeling of bittersweetness that envelops you. Copenhagen has been your home for so long, filled with memories and familiar faces. But now, Chicago beckons with a new opportunity, and you’re leaving in a week, and you don’t fucking know if you have made the right decision or not. 

You’re going to miss the ocean, that’s for damn sure. You take another puff of your cigarette, the brisk air mixing with the smoke as the golden sun slowly sets over Nordhavn. The colors of the sky shift to hues of pink and orange, casting a warm glow over the water. The beauty of the moment is not lost on you, but neither is the weight of the decision you’ve made.

These thoughts swirl in your mind as you take a last drag of your cigarette, exhaling slowly as if trying to let go of all your worries. The sound of the approaching train brings you back to the present. You stub out your cigarette, before the red train comes to a stop in front of you, cutting off the view of the water.

With a deep breath, you gather yourself and step onto the train. As the doors close behind you, you find a seat by the window. The familiar rumble of the tracks beneath you lulls you into a sense of calm as the train begins to move. As the train starts to pick up speed, you close your eyes. It’s going to be hard to leave it all behind and start over in a whole new city, but you know deep down that you’re in need of a change.

· · · · ·

Chicago, present day

Carmy can feel the building pressure at the sides of his skull that indicates that a nasty headache is on its way. The wet rag in his hand is feeling mushy between his fingers as the scrubs away at the steel countertop, the rhythmic sound of Gary’s broom sweeping over the floor, matching up with the incipient throbs in his temples.

He needs a fucking break and a cigarette, but he can’t really take one now, he is the one who has been so insistent that they start to take prepping and cleaning of their stations more seriously and he can’t just, fucking, leave in the middle of it, he’ll get the bottle of tylenol in the desk drawer in his office after they’ve finished. 

“Chef, you want me to strain that oil for you?” Sydney asks, her voice cutting through Carmy’s pounding head.   

“Uh, no, no I got it. Thank you, chef.” He’ll finish his station, strain the oil, and then take a break. Unless something else comes up, which there most likely will.  

“Why am I using a toothbrush, chef?” Marcus asks from his place at the stove where he is scrubbing  the burners. 

Carmy blinks, trying to push aside the growing migraine as he explains, “It’s about consistency and being consistent. Can’t operate at a higher level without consistency.” He can’t help but feel a pang of guilt for pushing his team so hard with all these new changes, but he knows they need to seriously step up their game if this place is ever going to be just a little less of a shit show. 

“I like this level,” Richie exclaims. 

“Yeah, well, at The French Laundry you know how much time we’d spend-” Carmy begins, but Richie cuts him off. 

“Well, go fuck your French Laundry. Stupid fucking name.”

And yeah, Richie might be right, it kind of is a stupid name, but Carmy is not about to start a discussion over the fucking name of a French-Californian fusion place.  “All right, then at Noma.”

“Fuck your Noma too,” Richie retorts.

Carmy just shakes his head, deciding to let Richie’s attitude slide for now. He doesn’t have the energy to argue with him, not with the pain in his head steadily increasing. 

“Noma’s the shit, huh?” Marcus chimes in. 

“The best,” Carmy and Sydney respond in unison before Carmy continues. “It’ll teach you to operate at a level you didn’t even know you could operate at, Marcus,” he tells the baker before turning to address Richie again, “And just so we’re clear, I wanted to work here. Mikey wouldn’t let me.”

“Oh, no, no. You went halfway around the world to learn all this fancy, useless fucking bullshit. I went to West Lawrence Avenue and learned every level.” 

“West Lawrence? You’re talking about DeVry?” Marcus asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.  

“Yeah, exactly,” Richie confirms. 

“Oh, DeVry. ‘We’re serious about success,’” Marcus jokes, using an exaggerated deep voice.

“Is that supposed to be fucking funny, fucko?” Richie grins at Marcus before jokingly trying to tackle the younger man who by now has bursted into laughter. “Let me tell you something. No for real,” Richie lets go of Marcus pointing his finger in the air as he continues. ���Where else are you gonna learn crucial database management specialization skills, huh? While troubleshooting a vented OptiSpark distributor in a Trans Am?” 

“I would never need to learn that,” Syd interjects, not pleased with Richie’s antics.

“Definitely not Noma!” Richie exclaims.   

“I would legit do anything to go to Noma,” Sydney says longingly.  

“And eat bugs?!” Richie teases.

Those ants had been a fucking pain to work with, but Carmy keeps that to himself, he is not about to give Richie that victory.  

“And be inspired, stupid,”Sydey retorts.

“God, and be lame.” Richie counters. 

But before more can be said about DeVry or inspiration or, fucking, bugs, Ebra storms into the kitchen, interrupting them. “The ice cream machine is broken!”

Just like Carmy had predicted, something else had come up. He turns to Richie. “DeVry teach you to fix that?”

“You know what? Actually, yes.” Richie says, swinging his dish towel over his shoulder before starting to pick up a bunch of random tools and utensils, including two wooden spoons, leaving the room to join Ebra at the ice cream machine.

Another fucking thing in this place that doesn’t work, Carmy should probably just call Fak before Richie can break it even more, but it is not like the old machine can really get much worse, it’s and old piece of shit and almost no one ever orders the ice cream anyway, so why not let Richie feel a little useful.

· · · · ·

A swirl of steam dances in the air as you trace the rim of the mug with your finger, the aroma of the tea is filling the room, mixing with the scent from the lavender candle you have lit, enveloping your senses with a bittersweet nostalgia. 

You are sitting in your kitchen, staring out of the window, another night unable to sleep. The vague sound of the city filters through the glass along with the warm glow from the street lights and signs which are the only cause of light  along with the candle, its flickering flame casting a gentle shadow upon the room.   

You take a sip of the tea, feeling the warmth travel down your throat, before wrapping your hands around the warm mug, seeking comfort in its gentle heat. The steam rises and dissipates into the air, mirroring the ephemeral pattern of your tired thoughts. Outside the window, the city continues its nocturnal rhythm, its heartbeat resonating with your own. The distant sounds of car horns, and the occasional sound of the L train rumbling by and the vocational sirens mixing together into a harmonious cacophony. 

You close your eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath, but you open them again quickly, wrinkling your nose. Something suddenly smells wrong… It’s vague, but it’s like burning plastic or something. You quickly look down at the candle to check if something got into it, but nothing is there. You don’t get to ponder more about it though, before a sudden, piercing sound slices through the tranquil ambiance of your kitchen. Your eyes widen in surprise as the shrill wail of a fire alarm blares from the apartment next door.

Concerned, you immediately put down your mug, while the smell of smoke starts to get more intense. This would normally be worrying enough, but what’s the real kicker to your concern is that no one’s lived in the apartment next to yours in the last four months. You stand up, stepping into your slippers while grabbing the zip up hoodie you had hanging on the back of your chair. You quickly throw the hoodie around you, slipping your arms into the sleeves and wrapping the oversized garment around you, not bothering zipping it.

You blow out the candle, as you quickly grab your phone, sliding it into the pocket of your sweatpants. You Swiftly make your way through your apartment, stepping out into the hallway, the smell of smoke now stronger. The ear-splitting beeps of the fire alarm continue to echo through the corridor as you approach the door of your neighboring apartment. You hesitate for a moment, You try to listen if you can hear anything from inside, but all you can hear is the sound of the alarm. 

Has someone really moved in without you noticing? But how likely is it that a spontaneous fire starts in an unoccupied apartment? Raising your hand you knock on the door. Nothing happens, and panic grips your chest, thoughts of evacuation and calling the fire department race through your mind, but you are pulled out of your spiraling thoughts as all of a sudden the loud beeping stops and you can now hear a vague shuffling sound from inside the apartment. 

You knock again, your heart beating fastly as you wait. There is someone in there, and you both get worried that they might not be okay and need help while you simultaneously  feel weird about someone being inside the apartment you thought was empty. 

The seconds stretch as you wait for a response. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, but in reality only is a few seconds, the door creaks open, revealing a disheveled figure standing before you, and you are met with a pair of eyes so piercing blue that it catches you off guard.  They belong to a man, around your own age if you have to guess, dirty blonde curls framing his face in a messy, yet oddly charming way. 

He is wearing a white t-shirt, which you can’t help but notice is hugging his biceps extremely nicely, with tattoos scattered across his arms and hands. He has dark circles under his eyes and a look on his face that screams of pure exhaustion, yet his eyes are wide and alert, like someone who has just been woken abruptly.

“Hi,” you stammer, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the man. “I heard the fire alarm and smelled smoke, I just wanted to check that everything was okay, I-I live next door,” you say, sheepishly pointing in the direction of your door. 

“Oh, hi,” the man replies, his voice slightly hoarse and rough, as if he hadn’t spoken in a while, yet soft. “I-I’m so sorry if I woke you. I… I accidentally burnt some shit, I’m sorry,” he says a bit bashfully, his cheeks turning slightly pink. A short moment of silence hangs between you both as you process the situation. 

You can see the genuine embarrassment in his eyes, which brings a sense of ease to your worried mind. He seems harmless enough, just a regular person who made a mistake. You decide to let him off the hook, even though his explanation doesn’t quite match up with the intensity of the burning smell that fills the air, offering him a supportive but also slightly shy smile. “Accidents happen, don’t worry about it. I’m a terrible cook too,” you say, trying to lightning the mood. 

“Well, I’m actually a chef,” he says a little awkwardly. 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mea-”, you stammer, trailing off as you realize your unintentional insult, but he cuts you off in the same sheepish tone as you.

“No, no, it’s fine I didn’t mean…” he begins to say before shutting up mid sentence, and the two of you share a brief, awkward but understanding laugh before another silence settles between you. 

Now that you have been made sure that nothing urgent is going on you take a second to take him better in, and you can’t help but notice how attractive you find him, captivated by the piercing blue eyes and intrigued by the subtle tattoos that peek out from under his short sleeves, now realizing that several of them are kitchen themed.

“So, everything’s under control now?” you ask, tearing your gaze from his arms as you realize that you had been staring for a little too long, glancing past him into the apartment. The lingering scent of smoke still hangs heavily in the air.

He nods, running a hand through his rumpled locks. “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine now,” he reassures, but the smell of smoke still hangs very heavily in the air.   

You hesitate for a moment, debating whether or not to invite him into your apartment while his gets aired out. You don’t know him, and inviting a stranger into your apartment in the middle of the night isn’t really ideal, but something about his tired eyes and disheveled appearance tugs at your heartstrings, and you can’t shake off the feeling that he might need some company. And with the tired, almost haunted look in his eyes you also can’t help but be reminded of Michael.  

Michael had lived in the apartment next to yours when you moved in six months ago. You did not know him well, but he had always been friendly when you talked to him. He seemed like the type of guy who is friends with everyone, despite it being clear that he was dealing with some internal shit. 

One night you had encountered him in the hallway and he had seemed off. You were on your way home, and he was on his way out. He appeared caught off guard by your presence, and after you greeted him, he had just turned around and walked back into his apartment instead of leaving the building like he was supposed to. Little did you know that it was the last time you would see your old neighbor. A week later, you learned that he had tragically taken his own life on the State Street Bridge, just five days after your last encounter in the hallway.

You have thought about it a lot for the past four months: how he might have planned to go to the bridge the night you ran into him in the hall, and how, if you had done the same just a few days later, things might have turned out differently for him. 

You don’t want to assume that your new neighbor’s situation is as dire, but you also don’t want to underestimate the impact a small act of kindness can have and now, seeing this man standing before you with a similar look of exhaustion and vulnerability, you can’t help but feel a sense of responsibility to offer him some support.

“Hey, um... I know this might sound a little strange, but if you need a place to stay while your apartment airs out, you’re welcome to come to my place,” you offer, your voice filled with genuine concern.

The man’s tired eyes widen slightly, clearly caught off guard by your unexpected invitation. “That’s incredibly kind of you, but I wouldn’t want you to lose any more sleep because of me,” he responds, his voice filled with gratitude and a hint of hesitation. 

You are quick to shake your head, realizing that you never told him that he didn’t wake you. “Oh, you haven’t made me lose any sleep, I was already awake, so please don’t worry about that.” The man’s shoulders relax a bit, a little of the tension melting away. He takes a moment to consider your offer, his gaze flickering between your face and the open doorway of his smoke-filled apartment. The exhaustion in his eyes is undeniable..

“No pressure,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “But, seriously you are more than welcome, I can make some coffee, I got both normal and decaf, or some tea. I also have some leftover takeout in the fridge, I could need some help to get eaten, if you’re hungry.”

The man’s hesitant expression softens, and he offers a grateful smile. “Thank you,” he says, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. “I don’t want to impose, but coffee does sound really good.”

You nod understandingly. “Of course, no imposition at all.”

“Okay, thank you. I’ll just get some of these windows cracked open then,” the man says, stepping back into his apartment and disappearing from view for a moment. You hear the sound of windows being opened, the crisp night air filtering in and mingling with the heavy aroma of smoke. 

You turn your head, for some reason you feel a little rude to stand staring into his apartment even though you just invited him into yours, your eyes landing on the nameplate next to the door. Berzatto. It has not been changed since Michael. 

After a few moments, the man reappears at the doorway, now holding a light jacket under his arm, and his keys, phone and a pack of cigarettes in his hand. His disheveled appearance remains, but there’s a glimmer of gratitude in his tired eyes. 

“Ready to go?” you ask, offering a reassuring smile.

He nods, stepping out into the hall with you. 

“You know, uhm,” you say, pointing at the nameplate. “You can talk to the resident manager.” His eyes following the direction of your finger. “He’ll help you get your name up.”

“Oh, no that’s… that’s me,” he says, sheepishly pointing at the nameplate. “Well, it’s also me,” he explains, a little clumsily, before turning to you again. “I’m Carmen… Carmen Berzatto.”

Thank you for reading! Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated :) let me know if you want to be tagged in the next chapter ♡

@wittyno

[pikatsum]

Lights, Camera, Chaos | 1 | Todoroki Shouto / Reader

Summary: You and Shouto are forced to make your first televised appearance as a couple. What starts as an embarrassing invasion of privacy completely upends itself once you realize just how cutthroat the world of reality TV can get.

Tags & Warnings: Reader uses she/her pronouns, Quirkless Reader, Pro-Hero Shouto.

Part of the Pretty Boy Summer collab! [cross-posted on ao3]

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Being the partner of a pro-hero was the kind of thing that should really come with an instruction manual. And emblazoned on uncoated paper stock beneath chapter one, the golden rule that nine of ten couples managed to break: keep it on the down-low.

Those who didn’t faced the consequences— particularly civilians.

Their faces were ultimately the ones that got splashed across the front page of every gossip-rag in Japan. They became public pariahs, their names repeated ad nauseam on the news, whispered with glee in hair salons and social clubs. In the story of their life, everything became forfeit to the public— their friends, their profession, their dating history, their homes. All of it.

Now, for nearly three months, you’d been one of them. At the end of the day, that was the noodles’ fault, really.

The summer after culinary school, you’d scored your first full-time role, working as the head chef in a small noodle shop just a few blocks from your college campus, at the edge of the city. The owner, Okuda-san, had been in business for years, but the dreams of grandeur that had brought him to central Mustafau as a young man had long since been struck by reality. Though the quality of his meals had never diminished, he’d vastly scaled back his operations over the last ten years— gone was the opulent restaurant in the center of downtown with its sleek metallic architecture and warm ambient lighting. Gone too was his wife, or so you suspected, based on the mutterings you could pick up from the front office, when business ran slow.

The day you met Shouto, the rain had been coming down in sheets, blurring the windows and filling the reception area with a soothing white-noise as you oversaw reservation bookings, dinner preparations and engaged in a small bit of gossip-gathering on the side. It was that same rain that had led you to warn him about the biodegradable styrofoam that his takeout was packed in, and offer the restaurant’s tiny enclave seating to avoid having his meal ruined by the deluge. You’d shared polite conversation— mostly offering tips for balancing buckwheat dough to make proper soba noodles.

Over time, the street in front of Okuda-san’s little shop had become a well-worn patrol path for Shouto’s agency. Conversations turned to texts, and invitations out with his friends. After an unhealthy amount of pining, you’d finally steeled your nerves enough to ask him on a date— an awkward but effective kickstart to almost two years of the best relationship you’d ever had.

There truly was no protocol for having such an intimate piece of yourself revealed to the public, to millions of your partner’s diehard fans. There weren’t words to describe the moment you first laid eyes on the incriminating photo that had started all of this: the two of you, sharing a kiss on the way up to your apartment. Your longing, exacerbated by Shouto’s tedious travel schedule had faced off against your building’s perpetually-slow elevator doors and came up short.

One grainy picture, posted to one account incited a slew of Internet detectives, stealing your anonymity in a matter of hours.

At the very least, you’d been blissfully unaware at first— overlooking the increasing stares from the diners at Okuda-san’s, and glossing over the fact that the cab driver knew your name on the way home. You’d remained blissfully ignorant up until arriving home to find Shouto on the doorstep, still in his costume. He’d quickly shepherded you up to your apartment and barricaded the door. In full pro-hero mode, he’d guided you through the essentials to pack in a duffel bag, and then quickly brought you back to his, to wait out the full extent of the madness.

The worst of it was concentrated in that first two weeks. You’d been unable to turn on the TV without hearing the diminutive nickname the media had chosen for you— “Noodle Legs”— coupled with the same clip of Shouto guiding you up the steps into his high-rise building, over and over. Unfortunately, your legs had been wobbling, as the full magnitude of what was happening had finally begun to set in. In those first days, you’d sequestered yourself in the guest room with the blinds drawn, the drone of the TV only semi-effective against the catastrophizing taking place in your mind.

The public had judged your relationship with Shouto and you clearly had not met expectations. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Even a decade on from the war that had rewritten the operations of superhuman society, competent wasn’t a word that paired well with Quirkless.

As the media storm raged, you had never seen Shouto so upset. In the first few days, his schedule was particularly erratic, his whereabouts always announced by text and sticky notes left on your door, or the bathroom mirror in tight, neat script. Often, he was out amidst the public, speaking to media outlets on his own, trying to stem the influx of public opinion about you that had become the nation’s topic de jour. As you slowly began to emerge from your cocoon of solitude, you saw just how oppositely this ordeal was affecting him.

When he was home, Shouto paced, relentlessly. He completed a book of Sudoku puzzles as you absently cooked enough udon to feed a small army— or at least four of his pro-hero friends. Each night, he scarcely settle in on the couch next to you before noticing a stray sock or a flickering lightbulb, some small thing to put right. Nothing was enough, anymore, and even as you asked him to come to bed— his bed— he only ever seemed to sleep on the couch, if at all.

After nearly a week, his mania and your melancholy finally collided, spectacularly. You could still remember the whisper of the paper against the hardwood, as it slid under the bedroom door, late that night. Nearly two pages offered a handwritten letter apologizing for the upheaval of your entire life, and his absence in the aftermath. The third carefully recorded the plan he’d been building to mitigate the fallout, mentioning the friends he’d enlisted to help him and proposed ideas for a manufactured scandal, enough to take the limelight off you. That moment of shade, he argued, would allow you to distance yourself.

“I promise to help you establish a future that will make you happy.” the letter concluded, “And I understand, if that future no longer includes me.”

It was carefully-worded, largely self removed and so quintessentially Shouto that it nearly broke you all over again. Not much about your future was determined that night, apart from one, indelible truth: you didn’t want a future without Shouto in it. If that meant you’d have to face the public— the cameras and opinions and bigotry— so be it.

You’d casually perused enough gossip magazines to know the general strategies that hero & civilian relationships used, publicly. Some couples went on luxurious (sponsored) vacations, their devotion shamelessly showcased through glossy magazine spreads and corny ‘What’s in Our Suitcase?’ Q&As. Others used their moment in the limelight to launch one partner’s passion project — a private art studio, a taproom, a crossfit gym— often trendy, always overcrowded and never necessary public infrastructure.

The rest wrote memoirs. So. Many. Memoirs. You’d just finished “Catching the Copycat. — How I Fell in Love with Phantom Thief” earlier that month, and it wasn’t half bad. Amidst the unending slew of public attention and the realization that you were going to have to market yourself somehow, the idea of writing a novel was contenting. At the very least, your partner’s versatile Quirk meant there was no end to the pithy puns you could come up with for a title.

And then, Shouto’s PR team put out a press release announcing that the two of you would be starring in the next episode of Split Shift— the Hero Network’s one and only reality television program.

‘Think you’ve got what it takes to be a hero? Think again!” announced its pithy tagline, in the promotional packet,’ Each week, Split Shift lets its viewers experience a day in the life of the nation’s top defenders, exposing their personal sides, through the eyes of their inner circle!.’

The two of you had tried to fight it. Oh, how you had tried, your combined efforts quickly spawning endless hours of email chains. But Shouto’s public relations team was relentless— apparently, the clamor of the public for more details, photos, evidence of your leaked relationship was stronger than any villain in the known universe. And without it, they warned, Shouto’s rank in the heroics charts was severely at risk.

“I’m sure you’re aware,” Omori Mika, Shouto’s head of PR, explained, fingers flying across her keyboard as a window of metrics popped up, “a significant portion of Shouto’s fanbase finds him anywhere from “considerably” to “highly” attractive. Early this year, he dethroned Best Jeanist to win Quirk’d Magazines’ “Hottest Hero Alive.”

“Oh, yes— well deserved.” you nodded, sparing a glance to your own well-loved copy, resting on the coffee table. The cover-shot had really captured his intensity, the haunting contrast of his heterochromatic gaze in low lighting.

From the other side of the couch, Shouto cleared his throat, and you found yourself impishly delighted by the fact that he refused to meet your eyes.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because that faction in particular wants to know — why her?” Mika made a brief gesture towards you as she expounded, “Why, out of every person in the nation— the world, even— why is she the one you chose?”

Shouto blinked, glancing between you and the laptop.

“Do they want a list? I’d have to ask Midoriya for—“

“—evidence is the name of the game, Shouto.” Mika broke in, “Photos, maybe, but what people really want is footage.”

“Footage that we have to get by being publicly humiliated, got it.” you sighed.

A notch appeared between Mika’s perfectly- plucked eyebrows.

“I know you’re both unhappy about the booking, but the Hero Network is the best platform to showcase Shouto’s capabilities. The nature of the show won’t just remind people why they trust him— it’ll show that he’s chosen a capable and resourceful partner, as well.”

You flushed and averted your gaze. Capable and resourceful were just about the last things that you were feeling, at the moment.

“And honestly, Split Shift is tame in comparison to some of the shows that have been asking for you.” Mika began to flip through her color-coded planner, “Let’s see… Quirktastrophe, Save my Love Life… oh, you’re lucky we didn’t put you on Zero to Hero, I hear that host is a real piece of work, off-camera…”

“Message received.” Shouto intoned, cutting off the diatribe. You moved your legs enough to allow him to scoot over, leaning forward to minimize the chat window and zoom in on a contractual document, written in a font size in the single-digits. He met your eyes

You took a deep breath and sealed your fates with a nod.

“Where do we sign?”

The devil worked hard, but apparently the scheduling team for Split Shift worked harder. Less than a week later, the two of you were arriving at the studio at the crack of dawn, for what promised to be a grueling day of filming. The process began two blocks before the filming lot, a two-man crew driving out to meet in an adjacent parking lot. You and Shouto were each asked to step out of the car in order to have a microphone pack strapped and secured beneath your clothing. They also hooked a small portable camera to the dashboard, to “capture your authentic reactions to arriving on-set.”

In a mutual act of defiance, you and Shouto remained dead-silent for the remaining two blocks. It was a welcome respite, especially given that it seemed those silences would be few and far between for the rest of the day.

Two steps out of the car and you were being accosted by a human gale-force. She arrived in a cloud of cherry-scented perfume, and wasted no time in handing over the two smoothies she was carrying. The badge pinned smartly to her dark blazer read “Noujuu Yōko”.

You’d just barely opened your mouth to offer a ‘thank you’, but the woman barely spared a glance before she turned and circled a finger in the air to follow.

“You’re seven minutes late.”

“Your crew was delayed and there were a number of road closures en route.” Shouto fell in line, his cooler hand lacing with your free one, “We weren’t—“

“—I sent a reminder email at 2:45 AM with these details. Your coordinator should have shared them.”

You watched as a notch appeared in your partner’s brow, a subtle display of his annoyance. Before he could retort, you broke in with a small laugh that felt as awkward and forced as it sounded.

“Sorry about that.” you said, “This is all… very new.”

You didn’t receive a response, nor at this point were you particularly expecting one. Avoiding the wires criss-crossing the asphalt while keeping up with her brisk pace was taking enough effort, anyways. Unfortunately, an experimental sip of the smoothie in your hand revealed that it tasted like chalk.

“Don’t feel the need to apologize.” Shouto murmured, as you slowed your pace. This close, notes of mint and jasmine stood out in his cologne as he leaned over to murmur to you, “She’s just high-strung. They can film and record as they like, now— I’ve already seen a camera following us, from the right. They’re looking for reactions.”

“So, no public meltdowns— got it.” you smiled weakly, a chill going up your spine at the prospect of indirectly being ‘on-air’.

Yōko led the way back to the first of the sound stages as she explained that Split Shift was filmed in a “psychologically-backed” sequence. The core of that process was candid footage, occasionally guided by interviews.

“You’ll be interviewing throughout the day, both separately and together.” she explained, at the door, “At midday, we’ll have a thirty-minute lunch, and a touch-up with hair and makeup. The afternoon will then be dedicated to wrapping up the heroics case.”

“The… what?” you asked, glancing at Shouto, “Is there something you’re supposed to look into?”

“Not that I am aware of.” Shouto said, “Although I assume, based on the increasing number of cameras that have tracked us here, that this is meant to be some kind of dramatic twist.”

It took you a moment to begin to spot them— angled around corners, hidden in the shrubbery and eaves of the soundstage. There was even a drone flying overhead, high up enough to muffle the whine of its motors. Apprehension bloomed in your chest, counting at least fifteen cameras, knowing there were likely more.

The tone Shouto adopted was pure apathy— but you knew it as a defense mechanism, to hide the anger he hated to show.

“Is there a particular direction you’d like us to face, to express our shock?” he said.

Yōko’s chartreuse eyes narrowed in a silent declaration of war.

“This way will be fine.”

In the next instant, a loud metallic screech made you jump. Whirling around, you realized that the garage door of the warehouse was opening, and although you couldn’t see much through the gloom, the sun’s rays did catch off another two camera lenses, at least.

“We’ve made a few changes on set.” Yōko had to raise her voice to speak over the shuffle of the film crew as they filled in the space, the descending screech of the drone, “Audiences used to prefer viewing the world of heroes at street-level, through the eyes of those they loved most. Now, they want to experience it, for themselves.”

You weren’t looking at her, though, or any of the multitudes of cameras. Instead, your gaze was focused on the mannequin angled in the center of the sound stage, and dressed in a disconcerting blend of lycra and tactical gear— specifically an all-too-familiar vest and utility belt.

Yōko’s voice rang out behind you, sending a chill up your spine as the full scope of what you had gotten yourself into began to click into place.

“So, [Last Name] [First Name]. Are you ready to become a hero?”

[fallingskiesandrisingseas]

The Peter Pevensie post did well.

Here's Edmund.

Edmund has trouble putting down his chess pieces that first time. In Narnia he could assume his opponent knew what he was doing, that chess was not just a game, that sacrificing pieces meant a unit, an officer, a collection of friends never seen again.

No one remembers that back in England, where chess is just a game, not a play preparing you for war.

He loses badly the first few times, too often distracted by thoughts of his dead friends. Thoughts of the ones alive, that he hopes to see soon.

Then he becomes unbeatable. When chess is about strategy again, no longer conjures images of men dying, sacrificed to gain a tactical advantage, Edmund becomes a master. Chess champion, of his region, of the country. Not a piece too many suffers.

It takes a few months. Those first ones in boarding school, Peter has to guard him. When bullies gang up on him for his strange way of talking (as if generals listen to his advice), strange way of walking (as if there is a weight on his hip), strange way of behaving (as if there are servants for his every need) Peter protects him. They've seen protective brothers; they've never seen anything quite like Peter, who hits until bone breaks.

Edmund will often remark on how the punches thrown his way lack technique, don't really hurt.

Everyone wonders how a 110 lb 11 year old kid knows anything about punching technique. He's a scrawny white boy from the city, doesn't look even slightly dangerous. How many fights has he been in, everyone wonders, to know what type of blow breaks bone, how to collect fingers into a fist.

When he is not protected by his brother, he displays the tricks he learned in treacherous courts in fantasy lands where the men could snap him in half with half a finger, where monsters ruled. Where only his silver tongue kept him safe.

It keeps bullies far away from him. They're not just afraid of physical repercussions, but of being expelled, reputations ruined, careers unreachable before they begin.

Peter retaliates either way, physical punishment along with the other repercussions. Still, it's strange to hear that the lanky sleepwalking teen mostly interested in political science knows anything about fighting, about blood.

By the third month in boarding school, Edmund has the staff wrapped around his finger.

His tongue is as silver as the lion ring he wears. Ed can talk any opponent into submisson. He can talk any girl into his bed, too, despite other men vying for their company. Sometimes he does it just to prove a point. It earns him a few more fights than he had to be in, but that's okay.

The ones stupid, angry or brave enough to physically fight him learn fast Edmund isn't easy prey, that he knows how to fight, how to think, how to outmanouvre you. Peter is a tornado, all fury, but Ed fights like a chess master. No wasted movement, no unnecessary punches, not moving a single inch more than he has to.

Fighting Peter hurts. People soon find that fighting Ed discourages. He doesn't really seem all that hurt by fighting, often quips when taking a fist to the gut. He can deal blows so nasty you feel the effects two weeks after.

The ones that fight him in groups, still willing to try, meet Peter's fists in a dark ally.

Still Edmund never needed Peter. Their bond is strange, sure, Peter copying his younger brothers' notes without remark, asking for his advice often and seriously.

But both know politics is Edmund's territory. At the start, no one messes with him due to his big brother, who always seems to hit harder than boys his age.

In time, Ed is feared more. Differently.

A fight with the oldest Pevensie brother ends in the infirmary, a fight with the youngest ends your career, ambition, prospects with the ladies.

Edmund knows what he can do. Knows his brother can do it too, but does not prefer it. He is known for his silver tongue, his brilliant mind. Peter, more so for his steel boots.

He plays chess, studies politics, does it right. Highest marks in his class, many extra-curriculars, a seemingly unbreakable bond with his sisters and brother, which he visits often everyone. No one can understand them when they are together, a strange lilt in their voices. Some people are little scared of him. He's a debate champion, talks rounds around anyone. Excellent chef, even though he only cooks for friends.

He's loyal to a fault, clever like the devil, and a perfect gentleman. In an archaic way. Ed is the kind of man to have a hankerchief in his pocket.

That's why no one unserious dates Susan or Lucy. They all know anything unserious ends badly.

Gradually, people start to like Edmund, even if they feared him at first. His smile is devilish, but also charming. Ed is free in his head, in his hands. Brilliant in many different ways, including fencing. There is a rumour in the halls, after a while. That Ed likes men too.

But no one talks.

Edmund goes into politics. He has a family that is in the top echolon of decison making, an analytical mind. Edmund has a talent for justice. In his presence, no one feels left out, everybody is heard. Many feel that with Ed as their PM they are finally represented. A noble man, even with his bloody knuckles, the unimpressive surname.

A statesman in everything. Fashion, vocabulary, manners.

But still he believes in Narnia, goes to see the spectre.

He is facing his brother in the train, happy, talking about Narnia when it crashes.

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

50 Shades of Red || Chapter 4

pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

summary: Our girls go on a lovely date and there's lots of gay tension.

content warnings: none

word count: 3.7k+

masterlist

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡

Kate’s eyes are curious, roaming over Wanda like she’s looking for an answer to the flush on her cheeks and the small smile she keeps trying to stifle. Her brown eyes meet Wanda’s, a silent question in them as the redhead walks up to the group. 

“Hey, you guys,” Wanda says, feeling her blush return when both Vision and Paul look up. “I’m going to head back a little later, but thank you for helping with this photoshoot.”

Vision blushes hotly and stutters as he mumbles something that sounds vaguely like a thank you while Paul just smiles widely at her, his hands moving quickly as he dismantles a tripod. Kate fixes her with a look, before her hand is tight around her upper arm and dragging her towards the corner of the room. 

The feeling of Ms. Romanoff’s eyes on them settle underneath Wanda’s skin, the comfortable weight of those dark green irises causing her heart to pound. She’s acutely aware of the older woman’s gaze, but valiantly directs her focus toward Kate’s imploring gaze.

“So, do you want to tell me why you’re staying here?” Kate asks, scoffing at Wanda’s attempt to feign confusion. “You hate big cities, Wands. Does this have something to do with Ms. I'm-Super-Hot-And-Intimidating over there?”

“Okay, maybe,” Wanda relents, her head snapping up as she processes. “Wait, what did you just call her?”

Kate waves her off, “That’s not important right now. What on earth did Ms. Romanoff say to get you to stay longer?”

“Oh,” Wanda flushes, risking a glance over at the woman. Ms. Romanoff’s green eyes stare intently back at her, the woman’s posture relaxed even as she crosses her arms, those forearms standing out and taking Wanda’s attention away from the conversation at hand. She coughs slightly, turning back to Kate, who regards her with an unamused look.

“She sort of, kind of… asked me out for coffee?”

“Oh my fucking god, Wanda.”

In retrospect, Wanda supposed that was kind of a big deal. After all, from her hours of research on the woman, she couldn’t ever recall Ms. Romanoff ever publicly dating anyone. Obviously the woman was extremely selective in every aspect of her life, given her all-blonde staff and art pieces she’s selected for her office. Wanda wondered what she had that appealed to the woman. 

Shaking off the self-deprecating thoughts that rose around her, Wanda looked back at Kate with a pleading expression. “Please don’t make this a big deal, I'm just… trying something new and putting myself out there.”

Kate’s incredulous look morphed into one of understanding, and she nodded slightly as a spark appeared in her eyes. 

“Alright, but I expect a full debrief when you get back home.” She started walking towards the boys again, pushing Wanda towards the CEO waiting for her near the door. “And that includes every detail, especially if you guys make out.”

Wanda doesn’t have time to berate her, the brunette quickly walking away while simultaneously shoving her further toward the door. She quickly steels herself, taking a shuddering breath and forcing her nerves down until they weren’t a pit on her stomach. 

She could do this. It was just a date, and Wanda had been on dates before. All those dates had been spectacular failures, of course. But, she knew what to expect and what sort of etiquette was appropriate. Plus, she could be cool and interesting when she wanted to be. 

Looking up Wanda made eye contact with Ms. Romanoff again, and stumbled slightly as her gait was thrown off. Yeah, she was really selling the ‘cool’ part of her new act.

Fuck that, Wanda was going to be herself. Obviously it had already started to work on the older woman, and what more did she have to lose?

“Hi,” Wanda says once she’s an arms-length distance from the woman, her voice softer than she’d intended. 

“Hello,” Ms. Romanoff replies, her tone laced with amusement. “Are you ready for our date?”

Flushing Wanda lets herself smile as a giddy feeling rises within her. Hearing the other woman confirm that this was, in fact, a date made her unreasonably happy. “Yes, let's grab coffee, I need some caffeine.”

“As do I.” The comment is casual, but Wanda can sense the undercurrent of warmth beneath it. It’s so different from the cold, detached manner in which Ms. Romanoff had spoken to her friends. This tone is friendly and bordering on familiarity. Wanda immediately wants to hear more of it. 

They walk to the elevator in an anticipatory silence, Wanda trying to come up with something to ask the woman that wasn’t completely lame. Honestly, it’s not like she could just ask the woman what her favorite color was, that was so… pedestrian. 

Wait. Why couldn’t she ask? Because she thought Ms. Romanoff would think her childish or immature for asking such a simple question? Wanda had only been around the woman for a total of around 45 minutes, but she knew the woman wasn’t one to judge on something so simple. 

“So, what’s your favorite color?”

Ms. Romanoff pauses, her fingers inches from the elevator button. She seems to shake herself, pressing the button before turning her body towards Wanda, regarding her intently. Wanda feels herself flush, sure that she’s just made a mistake, but holds the woman’s gaze resolutely. 

“Nobody has ever asked me that,” she says, her dark green eyes searching Wanda’s for a moment. Then, she smiles softly. It’s genuine and small, but Wanda’s heart swells at the sight of it gracing her lips. 

“My favorite color is burgundy, a darker shade of red.” 

“Mine is Carmine, a bit lighter in shades, but still red,” Wanda responds, smiling at the wonder in Natasha’s eyes. 

“Well, what a happy coincidence. We’ll never fight over color palettes,” Ms. Romanoff says, her eyes sparkling. 

Chuckling, Wanda nods. “I’m a fan of dark, earthy tones. If you couldn’t tell from my wardrobe.” She gestures towards her outfit, and Ms. Romanoff’s eyes travel down her green shirt and dark brown pants. They linger for just a second too long to be friendly, and Wanda doesn't find herself minding all that much. 

“I’m also a fan of a darker color palette, if you couldn’t tell from my office.” Those dark green eyes are shining with amusement, and Wanda just smirks as she remembers the muted tone of black and white. 

“We can work on adding some variety to your workspace,” Wanda counters, and a delighted look springs into the CEO’s eyes at the light-hearted jab. 

Those delicious, dark-red stained lips open to counter, but the elevator chooses that exact moment to arrive. The echoing ding startles Wanda, and she blinks as the doors open. 

Inside the elevator, a couple springs apart, their lips puffy and eyes wide. The girl’s face is flushed, and the young man next to her has mussed hair and his hands in front of his body, attempting to conceal his reaction to the obviously passionate make-out session they’d stumbled upon.

“After you,” Ms. Romanoff smirks and gestures with her hand, and Wanda flushes at the manners as she steps into the elevator. As the older woman moves into the small space after her, Wanda bites her lip at the smell of cinnamon wafting over her. There isn’t much room with the other couple, and she feels warmth spread throughout her entire body as Ms. Romanoff’s shoulder presses against hers. 

The air is still, the atmosphere awkwardly silent. The other couple stares guilty at the floor, and when Wanda risks a glance to her right, Ms. Romanoff has a hint of a smirk dancing on her lips. Unfortunately, the hotel the rich CEO picked doesn't play trashy elevator music, so they descend the floors to the tune of embarrassed silence and smooth jazz. 

Wanda struggles to keep a straight face and breathes a sigh of relief as the doors open on the ground floor. To her surprise, Ms. Romanoff takes her hand, lacing her cool fingers with Wanda’s. Pulling her with her, she strides confidently out towards the front door. 

“What is it with elevators,” The woman remarks in that low, raspy voice of hers, seemingly oblivious to Wanda’s stunned silence. She can feel her heartbeat racing, warmth flooding through her from where Ms. Romanoff’s hand is clasped against her own. The suppressed giggles of the couple sound out from behind them, but Wanda pays them no mind. 

Truly, the most attractive thing about Ms. Romanoff is her quiet, self-assured confidence. Wanda admires the way she walks with her head high, her words sharp but not unkind. She expects the best and doesn't accept any less, and Wanda once again wonders where she fits into the puzzle of the woman’s life. 

Outside, the sun is shining, a cool breeze making its way through Wanda’s hair as Ms. Romanoff gently pulls her towards the sidewalk. They walk for a bit, chatting about specific shades that make up the perfect color palette, when Wanda realizes something. 

No one has ever held Wanda’s hand, not like this. Ms. Romanoff hasn’t made any moves to remove her fingers, lacing them with Wanda’s as if it’s the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Wanda feels lightheaded with giddiness. 

Is this what it feels like to be with someone who’s not ashamed or afraid to show her off?

They reach the coffee shop, and Ms. Romanoff slowly removes her hand from Wanda’s as she opens the door. She holds it open, and Wanda marvels once again at her impeccable manners as she’s ushered through the door. 

Stopping a few feet away from the start of the line, Wanda looks around as she attempts to gain her bearings. The coffee shop is large, the menu expansive and the music low as the sound of low voices fills the espresso-scented air. 

Ms. Romanoff stops just behind her and Wanda shudders involuntarily at the feeling of the woman pressing against her gently. 

“Why don’t you go find us a seat and I’ll order. What would you like?” 

Holy fuck. 

The sound of the CEO’s low words send a shiver down Wanda’s spine, an unknown feeling pooling in her gut. She can feel warm breath hitting her ear as the woman speaks, and knows that if she were to turn her head, those tempting lips would be mere inches from her face. God, she wants to turn her head, to see if the woman behind her would get just as flustered as she is at the sight of her lips close to hers. 

Wanda turns her head, hearing a sharp intake of breath as her eyes find Ms. Romanoff’s. The woman’s body has gone rigid, her eyes locked on Wanda’s lips for a second too long to be a mistake. Then, slowly, she drags her gaze up towards Wanda’s. It’s purposeful and intent, the heat of those eyes sending flashes of electricity shooting straight to Wanda’s core. 

Suddenly remembering the question she’d just been asked, Wanda speaks, keeping her voice low. This moment feels too personal, too… intimate to ruin.

“I’d like an iced chai with vanilla, please.” 

“A wonderful order,” Ms. Romanoff remarks, her eyes glancing down again, catching Wanda doing the same thing. Her smirk widens. “I’m partial to a hot mocha with cinnamon powder, myself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Wanda murmurs, before she takes a deep breath and brushes her hand against the older woman’s waist. It’s light, her fingers barely applying any pressure, but the daring move has Ms. Romanoff’s eyes darkening and her tongue darting out to wetten those tantalizing lips. 

Leaning in slightly, Wanda hears the CEO’s breath hitch slightly. “I’ll go find us a seat.”

Pulling away, Wanda registers the shocked look on Ms. Romanoff’s face and grins to herself as she finds a quiet table near the window. She watches the woman from under her lashes, taking in the confident stance and light flush on her cheeks. A part of Wanda feels immensely proud that she was the one who caused that sort of reaction to the well-put-together woman. 

She wants to find every crack in that perfect facade and reveal them until Ms. Romanoff’s truest self is revealed, and she’s found one way to do so. Who knew that the woman was so thrown off by a little teasing? 

Wanda muses that Ms. Romanoff probably doesn’t expect teasing in return, given that most of the advances made so far between them have been made exclusively by the older woman. She’s deep in thought when a cup is placed before her, the comforting scent of chai reaching her nose as she blinks in surprise.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Flushing, Wanda racks her brain for an appropriate response. She couldn’t very well say, oh I was just thinking about if you would moan if I squeezed your hip, or if you get flustered when your bottom lip is bitten, or if you’re as controlling in the bedroom as you are in real life. She couldn’t say that, so instead she made something up. 

“I was wondering what type of perfume you wear.”

“Oh?” Ms. Romanoff gracefully takes her seat, raising a single eyebrow at her. It’s a silent command to continue, and Wanda chooses her next words carefully, not wanting to accidentally offend the woman. 

“You smell like cinnamon, which isn’t a common perfume scent,” Wanda begins, noticing the way Ms. Romanoff sits back in her chair as she regards her with interest. “So I was thinking about what sort of perfume you wear.”

“And did you come to a conclusion?”

“I did not.”

Ms. Romanoff hums in response, smiling as she sips her mocha. She doesn’t offer an answer, and Wanda doesn’t ask further. She’ll let the woman keep her secrets for now. 

“Is he your boyfriend?”

Wait. What?

“Who?” Wanda asks, confused. 

“The photographer.”

Ms. Romanoff’s relaxed pose tells a story of indifference, but the tenseness on her face and the way her eyes search Wanda’s tell a completely different tale. 

“Vision?” Wanda shakes her head, sipping her chai as she scoffs. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“I sense derision.”

“Well, he’d like to be my boyfriend,” Wanda explains. “But I don’t…”

There’s a moment of silence, and Ms. Romanoff leans forward. Her attention is solely focused on Wanda, but instead of intimidated, she feels rather comforted. 

“You don’t, what?” The words are gentle, and Wanda takes another sip of her chai while blushing. 

“I don’t like him that way,” she finally says. It’s not the answer she really wanted to give, but it’s the one she feels comfortable saying. Ms. Romanoff nods once, understanding dawning on her features. She seems satisfied with Wanda’s response and doesn’t inquire anymore about Vision and his obvious crush on her. 

“How do you feel about me?” Ms. Romanoff asks, and Wanda nearly chokes on her drink. She hadn’t expected such a straightforward question, but after looking at the serious expression on Ms. Romanoff’s face, she decides to match the woman’s brutal honesty.

“I find you intimidating,” Wanda says, before she flushes and gazes intently at the lid of her chai cup. This cafe uses a strawless lid, one with an extra-wide mouth. She supposes they’re probably doing it for the sake of the environment. 

“You should,” Ms. Romanoff replies. “I appreciate the honesty, but please, don’t look away when I’m speaking to you. I like to see your face.” 

“I- you… like to see my face?”

“You have a wide range of expressions, it’s cute,” Ms. Romanoff smirks, her eyes glancing pointedly at Wanda’s reddening cheeks. “You’re a mystery to me, Wanda.”

“Oh?” Wanda asks, curious. She leans forward, “How am I the mystery between the two of us?”

Ms. Romanoff smiles at that, setting her drink on the table between them as she tilts her head. “You’re self-contained, you only show the world what you think it wants to see, not what you truly are.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Ah yes, but the difference between the two of us is that I’m a well-known public figure. Having an air of aloofness and mystery is essentially part of the job description. You, however, have the freedom to be whoever you want to be, to interact with the world however you choose. And yet, you remain private.”

Wanda blinks at the assessment, and Ms. Romanoff leans back in a manner that could be read as smug, if not for the gentle smile on her face. 

“Do you offer up personal observations like that?” 

“Are you offended?”

“No,” Wanda says slowly, considering what she was about to say. “But I have an observation of my own.”

There’s a spark of interest, and a bit of challenge in Ms. Romanoff’s dark green eyes. “Go on.”

“You like control.”

“I do,” she nods, “I exercise control in every aspect of my life, Wanda.”

“Including the part where you haven’t offered to let me call you by your first name?”

“Exactly.” Ms. Romanoff’s tone is far too smug for Wanda’s liking. God, the audacity of this woman. Everything about her screamed that she was in control of this conversation. Why did Wanda find that so hot?

The refusal to let Wanda call her by her first name was just another element of her control. Another way to show Wanda that they were not yet on the same playing field. And honestly, Wanda would’ve cared more if she didn’t find the power dynamic so appealing.

“What does your sister do?” Wanda asks, and judging by the way Ms. Romanoff’s eyebrows fly up, the woman is caught extremely off guard. Ha. Take that, Wanda can ask invasive questions too.

“She teaches a professional martial arts class in New York.” The response is clipped, short. Evidently, Ms. Romanoff isn’t pleased with the personal change of topic. 

“I’ve always wanted to visit New York,” Wanda says, and interest sparks in those green eyes across from hers, any signs of earlier irritation long gone. 

“It’s beautiful, especially in the fall.”

They sit in a comfortable silence for a while, with Wanda eyeing the long fingers on Ms. Romanoff’s hand as it rests near the center of the small table. It would be so easy to reach over and rest her hand next to it, but Wanda’s never been that bold. So instead, she sits and sips her chai and wishes she had to bravery to grab Ms. Romanoff’s hand the same way the woman had in the elevator. 

As they chat about lighter topics, Wanda notices that Ms. Romanoff’s knee is slowly pressing against hers underneath the table. She’s in the middle of talking about her finals when she first notices it, her words halting for a brief moment before Ms. Romanoff tilts her head slightly, prompting her to continue. 

It’s infuriating, and Wanda tries to suppress the heat that coils in her stomach with each passing second as she feels the pressure of Ms. Romanoff’s steady knee increase. It’s comforting, it’s arousing, and it’s throwing Wanda off balance. 

Well, Wanda can give the same energy right back. 

“So do you have a girlfriend?”

It doesn’t work. Ms. Romanoff remains as cool and collected as ever, the only evidence of surprise shown by her raised eyebrow. 

“If I was in a relationship, I would not have asked you out on a date, Ms. Maximoff.”

“So this is an official date?”

“It is.” Ms. Romanoff’s eyes sparkle with amusement, and Wanda smiles slightly.

“Just making sure,” she mumbles, finishing her chai. “Did it go well? Did I pass the test?”

“What test?”

To her credit, Ms. Romanoff sounds genuinely confused. Wanda immediately wishes she could take it back, but instead lets her mouth start talking without thinking. 

“I just meant… I don’t know. I feel like I’ve been trying to pass some sort of test to be worthy of your presence ever since the interview.”

“Well,” dark green eyes find hers, shining with sincerity. “I’m sorry I’ve made you feel that way. I am genuinely interested in you, Ms. Maximoff. I want us to be on an even playing field as we get to know each other, hence this public coffee shop.”

“Oh.” Wanda doesn’t quite know what to say, but something inside her chest settles. She smiles instead, that giddy feeling rising once again as she meets Ms. Romanoff’s eyes. Fuck, the older woman is so effortlessly beautiful. 

Standing, Ms. Romanoff offers her hand. “Shall we?”

Chuckling slightly, Wanda takes the offered hand, blushing at the comforting grip of Ms. Romanoff’s fingers clasped around her own. It feels so natural, her fingers interlocked with the older woman’s, and Wanda finds herself leaning into her. 

They walk back towards the hotel, their pace slow and perfectly in sync with each other. Ms. Romanoff’s cinnamon perfume gently wafts toward Wanda, enveloping her mind in a comforting sort of haze. She’s struck with the sudden desire to know everything about the other woman, to break through that outer shell and reveal the complex person she knows is buried deep within her. 

However, even Wanda knows that it’s too early to discover the secrets of Ms. Romanoff. So, instead, she turns towards the woman once they reach her car, and leans in. 

“I’ll text you when I get home, okay?” 

Ms. Romanoff lets out a small huff, her eyes closing briefly to avoid looking at Wanda’s lips, which are about an inch away from her own. 

“Ms. Maximoff, please refrain from teasing me.”

“Or what?”

Wanda barely has any time to gloat in the first crack she’s made to Ms. Romanoff’s facade before she’s being pushed backward and pressed against the side of her car. Those strong hands are on either side of her, trapping her between her car and the woman before her. She can see those muscles flexing underneath the silky fabric of Ms. Romanoff’s shirt, and hears her own shaky breaths as the woman leans in. 

Her lips are mere centimeters away, and Wanda is filled with the urge to taste them. God, they’re so… fucking… close…

“Or I will have to retaliate until you break and crumble beneath me.”

It’s official, Wanda is fucked.

Next Chapter

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