#skyscraper deals

[unitedstatesrei]

Denver Skyscraper Meltdown (Office Towers Collapse into 98% Discount Foreclosure Freefall)

Key Takeaways Over 30% of Denver’s office-building mortgages are delinquent, making it one of the worst-hit metro areas for commercial loan defaults in the U.S. Iconic downtown skyscrapers are selling at up to 98% discounts, signaling historic opportunities—and risks—for investors. Office-to-residential conversions are accelerating, offering long-term buy-and-hold investment potential with tax advantages and strategic entry points. Denver’s skyline is disintegrating under the weight of debt, vacancy, and foreclosure. What happens when billion-dollar buildings can’t even fetch scrap value? Is Denver about to become a real estate investor’s biggest comeback story, or the next Detroit? Historic collapse of Denver’s commercial office market Shocking discounts and foreclosures sweeping the city Investor opportunities in conversions, cash deals, and bulk buys Let’s tear into the chaos and see where savvy investors can strike gold in the rubble. The Implosion No One Saw Coming (But Should Have) Downtown Denver is crumbling—tower by tower, loan by loan. What was once a gleaming symbol of the Rocky Mountain economic boom has turned into a battlefield of delinquent debt and desperate sales. Nearly 30% of office-tied commercial mortgages across the metro are now delinquent, making Denver the third-worst performing office market in the nation, trailing only behind San Francisco and Houston. But this isn’t just a temporary slump—it’s a full-scale unraveling. The dominoes are falling faster than ever. From the iconic Wells Fargo Center, immortalized in the Denver Nuggets skyline, to Republic Plaza, the city’s tallest building, lenders are no longer waiting for a rebound. They’re seizing properties, appointing receivers, and forcing distressed owners to abandon ship. It’s not just vacancy—it’s value vaporization. Towers that fetched hundreds of millions just a few years ago are now barely worth a few million dollars. Investor sentiment has shifted from patient optimism to cold surrender. ��We have a lot of 1980s high-rise towers that are mostly vacant,” admitted Amy Aldridge of Tributary Real Estate. “People want to come back to the office, but they don’t want to come back to the 1980s office.” The death of Denver’s outdated office stock has begun. For real estate investors, this isn’t just another cycle—it’s a once-in-a-generation shockwave of wealth transfer. But with blood in the water, will they survive the chaos or capitalize on the carnage? Let’s go deeper. Discounted to Death: Skyscrapers for Pennies on the Dollar Downtown Denver’s towers aren’t just distressed—they’re being fire-sold for prices that would make 2008 blush. In a surreal twist that feels more like a liquidation auction than a metropolitan investment market, massive office complexes once valued in the hundreds of millions are selling for less than 2% of their former worth. These aren’t fringe properties on the city’s edge—these are skyscrapers in the heart of downtown. Case in point: Colorado Plaza Tower I and Tower II, with a combined footprint of 1.14 million square feet, were purchased for just $3.2 million. That’s a shocking 98% discount from their $200 million valuation in 2019. For perspective, that’s $3.30 per square foot in a market where office rents average $41.87 per square foot. Other bloodletting sales include: Hudson’s Bay Centre: Sold for $8.95 million, down from $41.5 million in 2014, an 80% haircut. Lincoln Crossing: Dumped for $10 million, a 90% drop from the 2018 price. Wells Fargo Center: In receivership after defaulting on a $327 million loan. And it’s not just the price tags that are plummeting, equity is being wiped out, leaving owners with nothing but the debt they can’t repay. Even buildings still technically in the black are under quiet distress, with modified loan terms, silent defaults, and lenders playing the “extend and pretend” game just to delay the inevitable. Here’s how the financial carnage looks:

Building Previous Value Sale Price % Discount Status Colorado Plaza Towers I & II $200M $3.2M 98% Sold (conversion planned) Hudson’s Bay Centre $41.5M $8.95M 78% Sold (distressed) Lincoln Crossing $100M+ $10M 90% Sold (distressed) Wells Fargo Center $327M debt N/A N/A In receivership For veteran investors, these prices are either a siren song or a death knell. Are these skyscrapers bargains, or ticking financial time bombs? One thing is clear: the scale of these discounts is more than historic, it’s a once-in-a-century signal that Denver’s commercial core has collapsed in plain sight. And this is just the beginning. The biggest deals are still hiding in the shadows. Zombie Buildings and the “Receivership Shuffle” Denver’s downtown is crawling with zombie towers—soulless shells too broke to function and too expensive to fix. These once-prized properties now sit in purgatory, neither dead nor alive, as lenders scramble to recover what little value remains. At least a third of Denver’s 105 largest office buildings (each over 100,000 square feet) are in some form of extreme financial distress, including: Loan defaults Court-ordered receiverships Outright foreclosures Voluntary ownership surrenders Distressed sales at catastrophic discounts This isn’t just a market correction, it’s a massive asset wipeout happening in slow motion. The infamous Wells Fargo Center, also known as the “Cash Register Building,” is under receivership after Brookfield defaulted on a $327 million loan. Republic Plaza, Denver’s tallest building, narrowly avoided foreclosure by renegotiating $134 million in debt. Meanwhile, lenders are installing third-party managers to stabilize properties and prepare them for auction, repurposing, or demolition. The cycle of distress looks like this: Owner defaults on commercial loan Lender appoints receiver to take control of operations Vacancy soars, and income disappears Asset value plummets Fire sale or foreclosure follows Denver’s downtown core, particularly Upper Downtown, is the epicenter of this collapse. The zone from Lawrence to Lincoln Street and 14th to 20th Street is now known as the “Foreclosure Belt of the Rockies." These aren’t obscure properties. The walking wounded include: Civic Center Plaza (1560 Broadway): Ownership returned to lender Denver Energy Center (1625 & 1675 Broadway): Seized by JPMorgan Chase Trinity Place (1801 Broadway): Claimed at auction by LoanCore Capital 1670 Broadway: Under third-party management after October default 1999 Broadway: Facing potential 70% vacancy if IRS pulls out To make matters worse, federal agencies—once considered ironclad tenants—are fleeing. The Department of Government Efficiency is slashing leases, and the IRS is eyeing a mass exit, gutting an already fragile leasing environment. And just when landlords thought things couldn’t get worse, Elevance Health (formerly Anthem) dealt a deathblow to 700 Broadway, vacating over 258,000 square feet and taking a stable 4.7% vacancy rate to a staggering 60% overnight. Denver’s skyline isn’t just distressed—it’s actively decaying. Investors who don’t understand the “receivership shuffle” may step into a deal that drains them dry before delivering any return. The stakes are sky-high, and the vultures are circling. Investor Warzone or Goldmine? The Redevelopment Gamble Denver’s broken towers may be bleeding capital, but they’re not dead yet. For the bold, they might be the greatest real estate arbitrage opportunity of the decade. Amid this brutal downtown collapse, a quiet renaissance is being whispered behind the scenes: office-to-residential conversions. Developers and deep-pocketed investors are pouncing on the chaos, buying skyscrapers for pennies, then sinking tens of millions into massive renovations, hoping to resurrect them as upscale apartments or mixed-use hubs. The Colorado Plaza Towers I & II are ground zero for this strategy. Acquired for a jaw-dropping $3.

2 million, Los Angeles developer Asher Luzzatto plans to spend $150 million to $200 million transforming the vacant giants into 700+ residential units. It’s the ultimate distressed play: buy the shell for nothing, inject capital, and rebirth the building as a luxury cash-flow machine. But there’s a catch. These buildings weren’t designed for housing. Many were built in the 1950s to 1980s, with deep floor plates, obsolete mechanical systems, and layouts that don’t naturally fit apartments. Add in asbestos remediation, ground leases, and elevator retrofits, and the costs can explode before a single rent check rolls in. Still, the math could work—especially with the steep discounts. Consider: Current residential vacancy in desirable downtown districts remains far lower than office. Rents for upscale urban apartments in Denver continue to outperform aging commercial leases. City officials are actively incentivizing conversions with fast-track approvals and zoning flexibility. With property tax assessments based on residential rates, annual liabilities plummet compared to office use. Here’s the punchline: A healthy office tower generates 4x the property taxes of a residential one. If you bought it at a 98% discount? That tax savings becomes part of your margin. However, success isn’t guaranteed. These conversion plays require: Massive upfront capital Navigating permitting minefields Winning zoning variances Long holding periods before profitability This isn’t a quick flip. It’s a war of attrition, and only the best-capitalized, most patient players will survive. Still, if pulled off, the return on investment could be staggering. Turning Denver’s dead towers into residential gold may become the city’s most dramatic real estate comeback story ever. But only if the visionaries can outlast the chaos. Strategic Entry Points for RE Investors Right Now While institutional giants retreat, private investors have a rare window to seize Denver’s fractured skyline if they know where to strike. This is no time for hesitation. As traditional lenders pull back and national firms offload properties in desperation, nimble investors can wedge themselves into deals once thought untouchable. The barriers are down. The doors are open. The distressed Denver office market has become a target-rich environment for those who move fast. Here’s where savvy real estate investors are making their plays: Joint Ventures with Debt Holders: Private lenders and distressed debt funds are hunting for partners to help stabilize or reposition troubled assets. JV structures allow smaller investors to gain equity access without full capital exposure. Seller Financing Fire Sales: Owners teetering on default may finance a sale just to walk away clean, allowing investors to step in with minimal upfront cash, especially attractive for value-add specialists. Ground Lease Leverage: Some towers, like Colorado Plaza, are on ground leases. While often seen as a complication, these leases can be negotiated or extended, letting investors buy buildings cheap and defer full land costs. Syndicated Capital Raises: With 80%–90% discounts becoming the norm, syndicators are assembling capital quickly to scoop up buildings in bulk. This group investment model is drawing accredited investors eager for outsized upside in a high-risk market. Opportunity Zones & Federal Incentives: Certain sectors of downtown Denver fall within designated Opportunity Zones, creating tax deferral and elimination potential for long-term investors pursuing redevelopment. Watch Zones: Not all of Denver is collapsing. The sharpest divide is forming between zones: Market Zone Status Upper Downtown Collapse underway Skyline Park Corridor High distress, high upside Union Station District Stable and in demand Central Platte Valley Modern, partially leased Cherry Creek & RiNo Top-tier tenant migration   Pro tip: Investors should avoid outdated Class B/C towers unless they come with either deep discounts or strong conversion potential.

Focus instead on buildings with structure, location, and zoning flexibility, even if partially distressed. In short, Denver’s downtown disaster is now a developer’s dream and an investor’s litmus test. The deals are there, but only for those who know where to look, how to negotiate, and when to pounce. This isn’t just about timing the market, it’s about timing the implosion. Caution Ahead: Why Not All Distressed Assets Are Hidden Treasures In Denver’s downtown bloodbath, not every fire sale is a fortune. Some deals are dressed-up disasters waiting to detonate your capital. Yes, the headlines are blaring about 98% discounts. But behind those numbers lie ticking time bombs: toxic financing, terminally outdated layouts, and mechanical systems older than the internet. If you think every distressed tower is a hidden gem, think again—some of these buildings are unsalvageable money pits. Before you sink a dollar into Denver’s downtown, consider the real risks lurking beneath the surface: Outdated Infrastructure: Many of the worst-hit towers were built in the 1950s–1980s. Think lead pipes, low ceilings, inefficient HVAC systems, and asbestos in the walls. Retrofits cost millions—sometimes more than the building itself. Unfavorable Ground Leases: Several properties sit on land the buyer doesn’t own. Ground leases can be expensive, expiring, or non-renegotiable, strangling future ROI and complicating financing options. Zombie Tenancy and Leasing Black Holes: Buildings advertising “only 30% vacancy” may have ghost tenants—businesses that exist on paper but haven’t paid rent in months. Or leases that expire within a year with no renewals in sight. Lender-Controlled Death Spirals: Many distressed towers are under special servicing, receivership, or foreclosure, which means navigating multiple parties, legal red tape, and uncertain timelines. You could spend months bidding on a property only for the lender to yank it off the market at the last minute. Use Restrictions and Zoning Limits: Denver may be open to residential conversions, but not every building qualifies. Zoning overlays, height restrictions, historic designations, and structural limitations can kill a conversion plan before it starts. Skyrocketing Conversion Costs: What starts as a $10M steal could end up a $75M headache. Between permitting delays, structural retrofits, union labor costs, and inflation, many redevelopment projects are blown off course before lease-up. Investors chasing the siren song of downtown Denver must learn to differentiate between value and vacancy. There’s a difference between buying low and buying doomed. This market demands due diligence like never before. That means: Walking every property Inspecting every mechanical system Confirming lease status and zoning classifications Modeling worst-case scenarios, not just pro forma dreams Because in Denver’s crumbling core, the greatest fortunes and the greatest failures will be built on the same broken towers. The difference? Who knew what they were really buying? The City’s Future—and Your Window of Opportunity Denver isn’t dying—it’s transforming. But the path forward will be brutal, political, and wildly profitable for the right investors. Behind the boarded-up doors and half-empty high-rises, a new Denver is already beginning to take shape. The city's leadership knows its commercial tax base is collapsing—and with it, the revenue that funds everything from schools to sidewalks. This fiscal squeeze is forcing policymakers to embrace redevelopment and incentivize conversions like never before. According to Denver County Assessor Keith Erffmeyer, the last two-year assessment cycle saw a 25% drop in downtown commercial property values. That number is expected to plunge even further now that deeply distressed sales, some at 90%+ discounts, have begun flooding the books. Here’s the financial fallout: Office-to-residential conversions slash tax revenue. Thanks to Colorado’s

lower residential assessment rate, a converted tower will generate only one-quarter the property taxes of a stabilized office building. Sales and employment taxes vanish. Empty buildings mean no workers, no coffee shop sales, no lunch rush, no dry cleaners, no retail. This ripple effect devastates nearby businesses and erodes Denver’s long-term economic base. Yet… there’s hope. The city has no choice but to rebuild, rezone, and reinvest. Here’s what that means for real estate investors: Zoning Flexibility Is Expanding. Denver planners are under pressure to loosen restrictions to make conversion projects pencil out. New Resident Influx = Long-Term Stability. Every successful tower-to-apartment flip brings hundreds of new residents downtown, fueling demand for retail, amenities, and services. Public-Private Partnerships Are on the Rise. Expect tax incentives, grants, and development subsidies to flow toward those willing to bet big on downtown. This isn’t just a real estate cycle, it’s a civic identity crisis. And it’s one that creative, well-capitalized investors can help solve. You’re not just buying a broken building, you’re buying a stake in Denver’s comeback. The future of Denver’s downtown will be decided not by the city’s bureaucrats, but by the builders, buyers, and visionaries who step in during the chaos. The window is narrow. The stakes are sky-high. And your opportunity is now. Assessment Denver’s downtown skyline is no longer a symbol of growth—it’s a flashing red warning light for cities across America. What we’re witnessing isn’t just a collapse in property values. It’s a violent rebalancing of urban priorities, investor expectations, and commercial real estate fundamentals. For real estate investors, this is a moment of brutal clarity: The rules have changed. The math has changed. But the opportunity has never been greater. Yes, the risks are real: obsolete infrastructure, tenant flight, political uncertainty, and razor-thin margins on conversions. But in every great collapse lies the seed of reinvention. Investors who understand that timing, creativity, and grit now outweigh square footage and prestige will be the ones to reshape Denver and profit from its rebirth. Whether you’re scouting bulk office buys at 10 cents on the dollar, assembling capital for adaptive reuse, or locking in land deals before the next upcycle hits, the battlefield is set. The question is no longer if Denver will recover. It’s who will own it when it does.

[wolfienation]

im shocked that i havent seen shipping of these 2 because the potential😭

edit: ive been strong armed by @softantlers the ship name is vapefork

[raileurta]

I just want to throw Miko with the apex armor into various different continuities.

Why?

Because it would be funny.

You know how much she could fuck up these universes? A massive fuck ton would be the understatement of the century.

Lost light? Don't know much about it but I know her being transported there would be disasterly funny.

Bayverse? She's basically just bay Optimus 2.0. She gets a gun for one nanosecond and it's just instantly over.

Aus like EarthSpark or Rescue bots???? Might as well just drop a nuke. You get the same results either way. I'm not trying to disrespect these worlds but no offense they're not Miko proof AT ALL.

[mikeluciraphgabe]

The Batkids have the same twenty dollar bill that has been going around for like 16 years straight or something - beginning with Jason and Dick

The story goes:

Jason, 12: I bet you $20 that I can make Bruce cry without saying a word

Dick: Deal.

Jason: *walks up to Bruce and hugs with love in his eyes*

Bruce: *violently sobbing and picking Jason up*

Dick: *angrily walks by and slyly hands Jason a 20*

—

A few weeks later it’s

Dick, on a skyscraper looking down at a different one: I bet $20 that I can make this landing

(Info: this genuinely should not be possible for Plot Reasons)

Jason: okay but if you die I get to keep it

Dick: *jumps and lands it*

Jason: *sadly climbs back down to the street and hands a proud Dick the SAME $20 he earned not too long ago*

—-

This goes on between them for years - up until you know what

—-

Dick, out of habit: I bet you $20 you can’t do six front flips in a row

Tim, new and eager to please: watch me bitch

Tim: *does it perfectly - maybe with a tad bit of a waver but still*

Dick:

Dick, crying hysterically for many reasons: *hands the faithful $20 over*

—-

(For plot reasons Tim never spends it for X reason)

Steph: I bet you $20 I can make that guy over there ask for my number

Tim: okay

Steph: *comes back over after successfully getting him to ask*

Tim: *handing over the 20*

—

Cass:

Steph: oh you’re fucking on

Cass:

Steph: DAMNIT *hands $20 over*

—-

Cass:

Damian: -tt- yes obviously I can. I shall take on the bet

Damian: *wins*

Cass: >:(

—-

Damian: Thomas, I will give you a 20 dollar if you can scare Father

Duke: Hell yeah

Duke: *goes on a quest for a few days before he genuinely scares the crap out of Bruce*

Duke: GIVE ME THE $20 HOE

—

By now, it’s a very big inside joke between the bats

—

It’s Dicks turn with the $20 when it happens like the first day

Jason: hey I bet I can make Bruce cry

Dick: oh please he hasn’t since 2013

Jason: Watch me

Jason: *walks up to Bruce, says a few words, hugs him tightly, walks back over to Dick*

Jason: Wait for it…

Bruce: *wonders off and a few moments later - you hear crying*

Dick: *passes a very wrinkly and used $20*

Jason: what the hell is this? The routing number has been out of rotation for years

Dick: oh it��s the same one that we used back when we made stupid bets - it’s been around the family

Jason:

Jason: *definitely not crying*

—-

Anyway; the reason I made this post was cuz of this headcanon

The bat siblings might have a $20 bill but there’s a 75% chance they won’t give it to you because “oh it’s not spending money”

“(Bat) YOU’RE A MULTIBILLIONAIRE”

“I know but this one is special-“

[sponsored-deactivated20210106]

Why Donald Trump Sold His NYC Land

"Toxic"

[blank-potato]

Hell On Earth

Pairing: Lex Luthor x Reader

Summary:

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—” “Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly. You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.” You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words… God help you, it does something to you. Or Lex is the worst boss, he's rude, demanding, and downright evil but... you think he's kinda hot.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, humping, degradation kink, masochist!reader, drunken confession, power dynamic

WC: 4.1k

A/N: Nicholas Hoult is just too fine as Lex, I had to click-clack on my keyboard and write this.

***

Your boss might just be the death of you.

Just hearing his name gave you a headache. You even think about him when you go to sleep. Nightmares of a skyscraper-sized Lex towering over you for all your nights and days, not to mention the freaky sex dreams, but those had to be locked away somewhere dark and never spoken of.

He doesn’t tolerate anything. Not mistakes, not excuses, and definitely not tardiness.

So you rock up to work 5 minutes late and hand him his coffee, knowing this might just be your last day on earth. 

“The coffee is cold.”

Fuck me sideways.

“I don’t want your excuses,” he snaps, before you can even open your mouth. “Do you think failure is something I reward here?”

You highly doubt it. Even so, it wasn’t your fault. The line at Jitters was impossibly long since the location nearest to LexCorp was destroyed by a giant lizard man of sorts. Plus, he never even really drinks the coffee; it’s “burnt swill” and far too cheap for his liking. He only tells you to get him one to make your life that little bit harder, like a complete dick.

“Mr. Luthor—”

“You can’t even bring me a hot coffee, and on top of that, you were late. Maybe I should just fire you and replace you with someone who knows how to use a clock.”

His words are like daggers to the chest, but you’ve built up a pretty good resistance. Better to grin and bear it. This job paid quite well, considering the soul erosion, and having to deal with his temper tantrums and occasional threats of defenestration (at least it wasn’t the pocket universe prison). But it had benefits, and a good dental plan.

“I should just build an assistant.”

You hold back a sigh, Lex has told you this a million times, the same rant just repackaged in a different way.

“...one that doesn’t whine and make excuses and disappoint me.”

He looks you up and down as if assessing you. Compared to other assistants, you had lasted longer and you hadn’t even run out of his office crying… you saved that for the drive home. 

You plaster on your best fake smile, the one that says I’m dead inside, but still very employable, and offer with practised calm, “Would you like me to get you another one, Mr. Luthor?”

He stares at you for a beat too long, like he’s deciding whether your continued existence is worth the effort.

“…Make it extra hot,” he finally mutters, turning away.

“Well? Don’t just stand there like a malfunctioning Roomba. I need a hot cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, I know…,” you reply, voice tight.

“If it isn’t to my liking, it goes in your face.”

***

It’s a Friday night, and you weren’t able to escape Lex’s office until well past 9, finding yourself late for hanging out with your friends, again.

Now you’re at the bar, drink in hand, trying to shake off the day. You’re probably drinking a little too much.

“Slow down, tiger,” one of your friends teases as you take another big sip.

“Trust me, I need it,” you mutter, barely hiding the exhaustion in your voice.

“Why do you even work there?” your friend asks, half-laughing, half-concerned. “He sounds like an actual villain.”

“You know why. It’s good pay, there’s a ridiculous benefits package, and lots of free swag… I got an iPad last month, plus…”

“Plus?”

You hesitate, taking a sip of your drink. If you weren’t so emotionally drained and buzzed, you might have lied.

“Plus, even though Lex Luthor is the worst human I’ve ever come into contact with… he’s kinda hot.”

Your friend chokes on their drink, nearly spitting it out. “Excuse me?”

You shrug, face half-buried in your glass. “He’s evil, yes. Morally bankrupt, obviously. But have you seen his jawline? And his eyes are like…,” you toy with the straw in your drink, coyly, “So blue.”

“Seek help,” they laugh.

After too much drinking, your friends stopped you from climbing on top of the bar and loudly declaring your love for mozzarella sticks; it was obvious. You’d definitely had way too much.

“I can go all night, guys, like don’t worry about me…,” you slur, wobbling slightly as you point at no one in particular. "Imma party till the sun down."

“The sun is already down and you need to rest,” your roommate muttered, helping you into a cab like they’d done one too many times before.

“So stubborn….” you pouted, slumping against the seat.

The cab takes off toward your house, the city lights blurring outside the window. Everything seems hilarious for absolutely no reason, until your phone buzzes, and the name on the screen nearly sobers you up on sight.

Lex Luthor.

“Yello?” you answer, a little too brightly, still halfway laughing.

“I need you back at the office immediately,” he says, voice sharp and without patience.

You glance at the time. Midnight. You audibly groan for at least five long seconds. “You’re joking, right?

Silence.

“M’not going anywhere near the office tonight…” you mumble, pressing your forehead to the cool glass of the cab window.

“If you want to keep your job—”

“Oh, shut up, Lex,” you snap, startling even yourself with the boldness. “It’s midnight. I’m like drunk. I just tried to dance on a bar. I can barely spell LexCorp right now, let alone walk in a straight line. So, unless the building’s on fire or Superman himself is currently punching your face through your desk," you pause to chuckle a little at the thought, "...this is gonna have to wait until I’m sober.”

A pause.

“...You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”

You let out a snort-laugh. "Kindly, fuck off."

You hang up.

The cabbie side-eyes you in the mirror. “That your boss?”

“Satan.”

You get another call, his name flashing on your screen like a curse.

“I’m giving you one more chance—” he begins, already seething in anger.

“Just because you’re all rich and like, hot and stuff, doesn’t mean you can call me at all hours…,” you slur, words tumbling out in chaos. “Do I want you to…I dunno, fuck me into next week? Perhaps. Do I think that I'd make a most wonderful cocksleeve for you, most definitely, but… You can’t call me in when I’ve already left for the day, you psycho!”

There’s a brief silence on the line. You can almost hear him recalibrating, trying to decide if you’ve finally lost your mind or just your job.

“Y’know what? Suck my dick, Lex.”

And you hang up again.

The cab is silent once more.

You lean your head back, eyes closed, a smug smile tugging at your lips. For the first time all week…you actually feel free.

***

Waking up the next day, you’re dying, head pounding like a jackhammer on concrete, mouth dry, and vision blurred. You can barely open your eyes.

You can barely remember the night before…it was a chaotic blur featuring shots, mozzarella sticks, and some questionable dancing.

Your doorbell rings. Once. Then again. Then again.

It’s way too early to be doing anything. It's one of your only days free from Lex, your sacred, holy, do-not-disturb-or-you-die day.

The bell keeps going off like someone's leaning on it.

You groan, dragging yourself out of bed, stumbling over a pile of laundry and empty takeout containers.

“Just a second, damn!” you shout, voice hoarse, tripping over a shoe and narrowly avoiding stubbing your toe on the doorframe.

The bell keeps ringing until you yank the door open.

“Satan!” you screech. 

Lex Luthor, in the flesh. Looking pristine. In a suit. On a Saturday.

Without hesitation, you slam the door in his face.

Nope. Absolutely not. This is one of your Lex nightmares or maybe a hangover hallucination.

The bell rings again, and your heart sinks like a stone.

You slowly open it. “M-Mr. Luthor…”

He pushes past you like he owns the place, surveying your apartment with a look of barely concealed disgust.

“How…quaint,” he mutters.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, still clutching the door like it might protect you.

“I told you I needed you back at the office. Since you decided to ignore my very generous warning, I’ve come to you,” he says, glancing at a stack of empty chip bags like they personally offended him.

You stare, still in pyjama pants and a shirt that may or may not have cheese stains on it.

“Warning?” you repeat, blinking in confusion, your brain still booting up through the hangover fog.

Lex’s face shifts into something worse than anger, an evil smirk, smug and dangerous. “You don’t remember what you said to me last night?”

“We… talked last night…?” you ask, already feeling your soul start to leave your body.

You’re screaming on the inside. No, no, no. You’re a loose cannon when drunk. Lex steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s savouring every syllable.

“Oh yes. You were quite… spirited.”

You clutch your forehead. “Don’t tell me I threatened you. Oh please, don’t fire me,” you whisper, feeling the weight of every reckless syllable from the night before crashing down like a building demolition.

You stand there, suddenly very aware of your penguin pyjama pants, dishevelled hair, and clothes from last night strewn on the floor. Why is he here? You wonder. To fire you in person? To humiliate you in your own home? To casually mention he bought your entire apartment complex and plans to bulldoze it into a LexMart?

“I’m not here to fire you,” Lex says flatly, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You let out a huge sigh of relief and, without thinking, throw your arms around him in a big hug. 

“Really? Oh, Mr. Luthor, I swear I’ll never let you down again, I—”

“Unhand me.”

You freeze, then awkwardly peel yourself off him. 

“I’m here to ruin your weekend,” he says simply, adjusting the sleeve of his very expensive suit like nothing just happened. “There’s a crisis at the lab. A very expensive one. And my top assistant, unfortunately, is you.”

You blink. “So… this is punishment?”

“Correct,” he replies. “Put on something that doesn’t feature flightless birds and be downstairs in ten.”

He turns and starts walking toward the door.

You mumble under your breath, “I hugged Satan.”

“I heard that,” he says, without turning around.

***

He definitely didn’t need you to be there.

He was fully immersed in the crisis himself, typing, calculating, and talking to himself in that way that made you question whether he needed any staff at all. Meanwhile, you sat off to the side, bleary-eyed, hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, trying to make legible notes while your vision pulsed with every heartbeat.

Your hangover was still very much present, despite the painkillers you'd downed on the way there. Every flicker of the lab lights felt like a personal attack. Lex’s voice was like nails on your skull, and he was hammering away, trying to break it. 

“Keep up,” he snapped without looking at you.

You jumped slightly, pen scratching a crooked line across the page. “I am,” you mumbled, even though you’d zoned out for the last five minutes thinking about the breakfast you didn’t get to have.

He gave you a side glance. “You look like a dying Victorian orphan.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples and trying to will your brain back online.

“So you think I’m hot,” he says casually, not even bothering to look at you, just staring at a holographic schematic like he hadn’t just dropped a verbal grenade.

“Huh? Oh—I, uh…,” you stutter, your voice cracking under the weight of your own embarrassment. “I wasn’t thinking last night.”

The memories of all the unhinged shit you said came back to like a brick being lobbed at your head. It was beyond painful, you’ll never say the word “cocksleeve” again. 

He hums, completely unfazed. “Clearly.”

You sink lower into your chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“I mean… it was the tequila. Tequila makes me say things. It also makes me... emotional.”

That emotion was horniness, so it’s not a lie. Why couldn’t it be sadness? At least if you cried to him on the phone, you’d be able to see if he had a heart. 

“For future reference,” he says, still focused on his screen, “if you’re going to confess your attraction to your boss during a drunken meltdown, at least own it the next day.”

You blink at him… He wanted you to own it? You could do that.

“I mean… well, yeah, you’re hot, but you’re also my boss,” you admit, voice a little shaky.

“Confidence is rare these days,” he replies, not looking away from the screen.

You chew on your lip. “It’s hard to be confident around someone like you.”

He finally looks up, eyes sharp but amused. “Brilliant?”

“Crazy.”

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head, thinking about his antics. “I mean, you threw a chair at a lead dev because they said they might not meet your impossible deadline. You also—uh—sent half of HR to Siberia for 6 months after they tried to intervene. And not to mention the obsession with Superman…”

You catch the flash of his jaw tightening. Okay, maybe that was a little too much honesty.

“I��ll shut up now,” you mutter quickly, eyes darting anywhere but his.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Go get me coffee. Obviously, that’s all you’re good for.”

The words sting, even though they shouldn't. You’ve heard worse.

***

After your drunken insults and confession, he’s been meaner, so much meaner. He went out of his way to assign you pointless tasks, fed you the wrong details for meetings just to watch you scramble and to give him an excuse to shout at you, and even had you write and make revisions to a speech he had to give, only to not use a single word of it. 

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—”

“Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly.

You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.”

You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words…

God help you, it does something to you.

You're so far gone, you don’t even know whether you want to slap him or crawl into his lap and beg for validation.

He steps closer, close enough that you feel the heat of his words. “And I wouldn’t have to listen to it talk back.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

Also, you swear he’s stalking you. He asked you to come in over the weekend again, and when you lied and said you were out of town visiting family, he texted back your exact location. With a text saying:

Lex Luthor, Devil Incarnate 😈: Here in 30 minutes or you're fired. 9:00AM

Or the time he remotely hacked your car, on your day off again, and had it drive itself to some barren stretch of highway, and called you just to “talk without distractions.” You sat there, white-knuckled and silent, while he calmly explained a new workflow system over the phone, blasting through your car speakers, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Or when he had your favourite sandwich from our favourite sandwich place (that’s an hour away) delivered to your desk before you even realised you’d forgotten your lunch at home. You didn’t eat it, though; there was no way to prove it wasn’t poisoned.

It was emotional torture, back and forth, whiplash from cold indifference to laser-focused obsession. You never knew what version of Lex “Satan” Luthor you were walking into: the calculating genius, the passive-aggressive tyrant, or the man who sent you coffee just to make you question if it was laced with something.

The week had been brutal, and today? He was being insane, which was saying something. You were running on no sleep, your nerves fried, and it all caught up to you. You fucked up. Big time.

Missed a meeting. Sent the wrong deck. Double-booked his 3 p.m. with a LexCorp Board call and a classified tech demonstration with a Department of Defence liaison. Total scheduling collapse.

To make matters worse, Superman had apparently just finished dragging half of Metropolis out of a crumbling building, again, so Lex was on edge, seething with resentment and ego bruised beyond repair.

He kept you late. Everyone else had gone home. The halls were silent, the office dim and sterile, and you could feel the tension like static in the air.

“You’re shallow and stupid,” he snaps, glaring at you like you just insulted his favourite suit.

“...not any less than your girlfriends,” you shoot back without missing a beat.

His eyes narrow. “What was that?”

“It’s not a lie,” you say, “But I don’t get it. I mean, why them? You don’t even seem to like anything about them…”

“Sex.”

You choke on the word, air catching in your throat.

“Sex,” he repeats slowly, eyes locked on yours, “and they look good on my arm, fun to toy with in my free time, disposable when the game gets boring.”

You look down, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.

“Oh.”

“Does that bother you?” he asks, voice low and probing.

You shake your head, suddenly very flustered, words caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips.

Before you can react, he’s closing the distance, walking you back until your back meets the cold edge of his desk. The chill seeps through your shirt, but it’s nothing compared to the heat from his intense gaze locked onto yours.

The room feels impossibly small, despite it being as big as Lex’s ego. 

“Say what’s on your mind.”

What are you supposed to say? But that little, stubborn part of you wishes it was you, that he’d hold you, tote you around, and fuck you all the while telling you just how useless he thinks you are. What’s wrong with you? Maybe you really did need to seek help.

“I…that’s good for you and them, I guess.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes in all of your expressions, reading your mind like an open book, seeing every messy thought clearly displayed on your face.

“Remember what I said. Own it.”

You swallow hard. “But what if you throw me in a pocket universe to rot…forever?”

He shrugs, lips curling into a lazy smirk. “I might, either way.”

You take a shaky breath. “Okay, fine. I… I would like… to perhaps engage in… activities.”

Tired of your endless stammering and beating around the bush, he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him with no warning, then kisses you like he’s been holding back for far too long.

It’s sharp and commanding, no patience, like he’s proving a point. Like he’s tired of talking and you’re not getting out of this with clever quips or awkward half-confessions anymore.

Satan in a suit has it going on.

Your brain goes static. Your knees might’ve buckled if the desk behind you wasn’t there. He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Is that clear enough for you?”

“Crystal.”

His fingers snake into your hair, yanking your head back, and a surprised yelp escapes your mouth.

“This is how you’ll pay me back for your terrible performance today.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

He tugs you back to him, your lips crashing together. Your breath catches, heart racing as the world narrows to just the two of you in the dimly lit office.

***

Since that day…well, you may or may not be having sex with him regularly.

Sex with your super evil boss isn’t exactly what you expected, but when it’s that good, it’s hard to stop.

And yes, may or may not be a masochist, because the way he’d pull you aside after a brutal meeting, his voice low and commanding, then take you somewhere private to fuck you senseless…it was addictive.

Sometimes, without warning, a sleek car would pull up to your place late at night, and a driver would escort you to his penthouse, where the city lights blurred into the background while he took you again, hard, fast and like he could take you apart whenever he wanted. 

Now you’re in the middle of getting railed against his desk, your body completely naked, while he still has the majority of his clothes on. This was a normal occurrence in your life now. 

Your breasts press against the cold, smooth surface as you arch back, moaning loudly. Thank goodness his office is soundproof; otherwise, the noises you’re making would surely echo down the empty halls.

Sloppy sounds of his movements fill the room, you’re so wet you’re practically melting against the desk.

“Please!” you beg. 

“I don’t care if you finish or not,” he leans in a little closer, his breath hot against your ear. “If you want to, you’ll do it when I say.”

Your arms are pinned firmly to the surface as he drives into you relentlessly. He likes seeing you so messy. It’s a raw, desperate reminder of what he’ll never be: a submissive, devoted mess that lives only to please someone else.

“I’m going to count you down, so you better not disappoint me.”

You shake your head profusely, you know if you don’t cum when he tells you, he might not let you cum at all. 

“No, no, Lex, I’m not ready…” 

“5.”

A five-count? He wanted you to fail.

Your pulse quickens, every nerve on fire as the countdown begins, each number a test of your limits.

“4…”

You bite your lip, trying to concentrate on getting there on time. 

“3…”

Your pussy flutters around him as you feel yourself starting to get close. 

“2…”

His grip tightens, and you feel his cock start to twitch inside of you. 

“1…”

He floods your needy cunt with his cum, a satisfied moan escaping his lips as you whimper and writhe, loving how completely he fills you.

There’s no tenderness or aftercare; he pulls out, letting his seed dribble out of you and onto the floor. That’s your problem now.

“Wait, but Lex, I didn’t—”

“I told you the rules. It’s not my fault you weren’t able to cum for me the way I wanted.”

“But I was… I was so close.”

The pitiful look on your face is exactly what he wants. In his mind, you only deserve to cum on his terms, not your own.

You’re wrecked beyond repair but still manage a desperate, “Please…”

He arches an eyebrow, that familiar evil smirk curling on his lips.

“If you want to cum, hump my shoe.”

You think: how much is your dignity worth? Is it worth an orgasm? He smirks again, clearly enjoying your hesitation.

Apparently, it’s not worth much, because the next thing you know, you’re on your knees, rubbing your dripping cunt against the tip of his expensive shoe, rocking your hips like a woman possessed, chasing the orgasm he refused to give you.

“Can I use my fingers?” you whine, desperate to feel something press against your G-spot again. All it would take is a few thrusts…

“No. You lost that privilege.”

You pout but keep moving and try to hold onto his leg for leverage, but he slaps them away. 

“Hands behind your back.”

Grinding your clit against his shoes as best as you can without holding on to him, you feel yourself getting closer. You’re losing your mind, and he’s... scrolling through his phone?

This arrogant little—

“Please, look at me, Lex,” you plead, voice trembling.

He keeps his eyes glued to his phone, completely ignoring you like an asshole. 

“Lex, I’m so close, look at me.”

He continues scrolling, absorbed in whatever could possibly be so interesting when you’re right here.

“I’m begging you to look at me.”

The second he finally looks down at you, your hips stutter uncontrollably, and you lose yourself in a shattering orgasm.

“Fuck—fuck, Lex…” you cry out before resting your head against his thigh. You don’t even get a moment to catch your breath before he’s ordering you around again.

“Clean up the mess on the floor, and yourself, you look…” he trails off, pulling away from you and pacing the room.

“Draft up a report. I want it done by the end of the day. And I want a coffee from Jitters. If it’s cold, I’ll throw you in a river.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

Main Masterlist

[pkbeamgamma]

trying to reassure myself todays shift will be fine bc i wont die and ill have access to my bed after 8 hours.

[evilvillain123456789]

Hey man, don't even worry about me and the newly formed membrane of skin covering my unnaturally huge, permanently open mouth that prevents me from speaking in anything other than muffled, vibratey grunts. It's not a bad deal at all- I recently found out that I can use it to filter various particulate matter from the air, and that it's all actually quite delicious, and nutricious. And, well, I'm always hungry nowadays, and those particles arent worth much .....So I'm just gonna sit myself down right here under the breezeway and never move from this spot in order to concerve calories. And maybe once I'm at a surplus I can use the growth of my body to anchor myself in, incase the wind picks up too much for me to handle. And maybe others like me will congregate here and as our flesh begins to touch, it won't seperate, and we'll gradually form a grand structure, one akin to coral, here in the remains of the city. And at the same time, other structures will form too, in other places, rising like skyscrapers dotting the horizon over the course of decades, centuries, thousands of years, eventually leaning in, touching eachother for the structural support and aerodynamicysm, melding, growing, reproducing. Until at last the air is completely free of all germs, pollutants, aeroplankton, all that good stuff, bringing on the long process of our colonies starving one by one, starting from the top where the air is thinnest, down to the bottom where our numbers are greatest, eventually rotting, the rest of us calcifying, leaving fresh materials for the newest batch of mobile life on earth, but by the time the luckiest of this new life gains sapience, the strong wind will have already eroded at our bones, spreading it all amongst the now rich soil, leaving not even a legend of what had happed before.

[g1rld1ary]

mister carter - james potter x lily evans x fem!reader

wc: 4743 summary: in your first week at your summer internship for a top law firm in london, you meet james and lily potter; partner at the firm (your boss) and his fashion-empire wife. despite the age gap and power structures, they both take a special interest in you warnings: pervy boss, inappropriate work relationships & hr nightmares, age gap, objectifying and boss-employee flirting, all consensual, i don't think this part is necessarily 18+ but the next parts definitely are me: inspired by the song mr carter/milktown by nep! this is part 1 of what i believe will be a 4 part series, and it only gets nastier from here, so be warned lol

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

It was a shitty day. Your first at your new corporate job and it really wasn’t going the way you wanted it to. You’d already torn a ladder in your stockings when it caught on your painted fingers and had been running on the highest anxiety levels since the moment you stepped into the high-rise glass building.

Plus, you hadn’t had a moment to breathe until your lunch break, where you were directed to the third floor of the skyscraper to a collection of fast food chains and coffee shops surrounding a mass of chairs and tables. It almost felt like a school cafeteria, but most of the employees were making six figures instead of cramming for a physics final.

You stood in line to order, shifting from foot to foot to take the weight off your aching toes in heels that only kind of fit. The job offer had come around so suddenly that you’d had to take the first pair of reasonably office-appropriate heels from the thrift store. You deeply regretted it when the heel started digging into your skin, surely leaving blisters for you to deal with at 5:30 pm in the shoebox flat you shared with an almost unknown roommate.

James Potter had wandered into the food court with Remus, complaining idly about his subordinate employees when he first saw you. He’d stuttered his usually smooth conversation, drawing Remus’s attention, his gold-flecked eyes scanning over to you.

“Does she work with us?” James asked, taking in the sight of you appreciatively. You were the vision of an office seductress, tight pencil skirt outlining the curve of your hips and tight white button-up open just one too many buttons, giving a pervy boss like James ample opportunity to appreciate your cleavage. Could you complain to HR just from the lascivious looks he was giving you? Maybe, but James wasn’t too worried; he always got what he wanted.

“Dunno, s’pose so. Must be an intern or something; new.”

“She’s a sight for sore eyes.” James couldn’t help his eyes locked on your body, admiring the shine of your hair in its professional up-do. You were clearly trying hard to make a good impression.

“You’re married, remember?” Remus led them both down to a table. Remus’s hypothesis about you being new was clearly correct, your eyes frenetically scanned the room, foot tapping erratically as you clearly analysed where the safest place to sit was.

“Lils wouldn’t mind. She’d find her just as charming.” Remus just rolled his eyes, digging into his food. They’d been friends so long that pretty much nothing James could say, no matter how freaky, could truly weird him out.

Remus had ducked out of lunch early, citing some papers he had to finish reviewing. James let him go, enjoying his hour behind the guise of a novel, eyes flitting towards you between every paragraph.

Just as the elevator doors were closing James in to return to work, you called out, begging him to hold it for you. He obliged, almost disbelieving how easy it was to get an encounter with you.

“Thank you so much,” You heaved a sigh of relief, regaining balance on your wobbly heel, “Can’t be late.” James noticed your smile, perfect in the way it conveyed both your gratitude and hints of sarcasm.

“No problem, sweetheart. First day?” You nodded eagerly, readjusting the papers and water bottle in your hands, seemingly not noticing the highly unprofessional pet name.

“Wanna make a good impression with everyone. Hopefully, I can get a real job here after my internship ends.” So Remus was right. James smiled.

“Well, a pretty little thing like you stands every chance, just work hard and you’ll be fine. How old are you?” You seemed to preen under his compliments, which made him smile; you were just too good to be true.

“Twenty-four. It’s my last summer after law school, so landing a permanent place here would be an absolute dream,” You gushed, and James almost laughed at your innocence. He was just over a decade your senior, which not only made him feel positively ancient but also a little tighter in his trousers as you chirped happily at him, innocently open to his conversation.

“Well, good luck, gorgeous. I’m sure I’ll see you around. Find me if you ever need help around here.” Your eyes dropped to the floor under his praise, growing bashful at the older man’s sweet attention.

“Thank you so much, Mister…”

“Potter,” He answered as the lift arrived at his floor, flashing you a brilliant smile as he left. He chuckled when he saw your mouth drop open, evidently recognising his name. James Potter was the youngest person ever made a partner in the firm, and he’d just initiated a connection with you.

And while you were freaking out alone in the lift that he had not only made conversation but complimented you twice, James was making long strides towards his office, texting his wife in a hurry.

Come for a lunch date tomorrow, there’s someone you’ll be dying to meet ;) xx

On your second day of work, things were going slightly better. Knowing what to expect helped hugely, and you’d even started to chat with the people around you. Regulus, a trainee a few years older than you, had introduced himself and given you a few pieces of advice. You’d left the conversation with an invitation to lunch that had you beaming down at your readings.

When lunch came, you were happily chatting to Regulus as he recommended a few different places to try in the food court, leaving you to make your own choice. You stocked up on a coffee and a wrap, once again anxiously observing the tables to find your new friend.

From the middle of the food court, James and Lily Potter were having a seemingly innocuous lunch date, both waiting for your unwitting arrival. They made mundane conversation as Lily impatiently awaited the girl James had come home raving about. Finally, James spotted you, just having spotted Regulus and beginning to make your way over to him and his friends.

“That’s her, babe!” He subtly pointed to you, and Lily gasped, eyes gleaming as she turned back to her husband.

“She’s perfect. I want to talk to her,” Lily replied, pushing herself out of her seat before James could even question her decision. Lily was always one to act, more direct than her analytical husband. He watched her strut across the room, hips swaying hypnotically. She approached you without making eye contact, appearing busy on her phone, bumping into you at the last second.

In an effort to save your fresh hot coffee, you sacrificed your handbag, letting the contents clatter across the ground haphazardly. It was mostly worth it, and you escaped largely unscathed, with the exception of a few drops on your collar and a couple of burning splotches on the top of your chest. You exclaimed in pain, and Lily was quick to apologise, sweetly fretting over you and dabbing at the spills with a napkin despite the inappropriate position.

You quietly dropped to your knees, hurriedly collecting your belongings. Lily followed, picking up your keys, admiring the girly keychain, decorated with a tiny Hello Kitty figurine and a Tamagotchi. Adorable. Lily was up before you, dangling the keys in front of your face. You looked up, doe eyes innocent as you registered her for the first time. Lily thought you were the prettiest little thing she’d ever seen.

“Here you go, angel. Sorry for the bump!” She apologised and you took the keys gratefully, shaking your head fervently to rid her of guilt.

“No, it’s totally my fault, I’m so sorry. I didn’t spill any coffee on you, did I?” You looked so concerned Lily almost laughed, as taken with you as James said she’d be.

“I’m all good, darling, no harm done. Now don’t worry about me, you’re too pretty to be frowning.” The people in London were so nice. Coming from a relatively small town, you’d been warned that big cities came with rude inhabitants, but so far, everyone you’d met had been extremely nice and complimentary. Mr Potter, Regulus and now this woman. You brightened up at her comment, unconsciously striving for more of her validation.

“Alright, um, I should probably be going, I’m meeting a new friend and don’t want to make a bad impression!”

“Oh, so you are new?” Lily asked with a sly raise of her eyebrows, amused as your eyes widened, alarmed at being caught so quickly.

“How could you tell?” You replied quickly, scanning your outfit for telltale wrongdoings.

“Your corporate clothes don’t fit perfectly well, which tells me you haven’t been in the office for long. Everyone else upgrades to tailored clothes on their first few paycheques. You’re bursting with energy, so you’re probably nervous, trying to make a good impression. Plus, you’ve got the skin of a baby, you’re so young.”

“I’m twenty-four,” You replied helplessly, humiliated that you’d been so easily read. You thought you were pretty lucky to have found office-ready clothes in your size at the thrift shop, despite them not being tailored to you; they worked well enough.

“So young!” Lily agreed, though it wasn’t your intention, “Here, it mustn't be easy being all alone and in a corporate job for the first time. If you ever need some help or a female friend, just call me.” Lily pulled out a business card from her wallet, using a pen from her purse to scribble down her mobile number. You took it shyly, examining the perfect handwriting and heart next to the message.

“Oh! Um, thank you.” Lily just smiled, squeezing your arm as she left. You stood for a second in a haze, not exactly sure what had just happened, before bringing yourself back to reality and hurrying over to Regulus.

“That was weird, wasn’t it?” You asked him, pointing out the woman you’d been talking to.

“Lily Potter just gave you her number and told you to call her?” He asked incredulously, mouth agape.

“Potter?” You asked, “Lily Potter as in—"

“As in James Potter, youngest ever partner here, both of our bosses, certified hottest man in the company? Yes, those two make up the single most gorgeous couple that has ever existed.”

“That’s so funny, they both kinda said the same thing to me,” You said, only realising it as the words left your mouth. When Regulus pressed you for details, you continued, “They were both super nice and complimentary, and when I told them how old I was, they both offered their help if I ever needed it. Aren’t they nice?” Regulus’ jaw was practically on the floor.

“So our super hot boss and his gorgeous wife both offered you essentially the greatest network point to ever exist, just like that? Holy shit.” You shrugged, lost for words. It felt completely bizarre, being both utterly lost and overwhelmed at a new internship at a prestigious law firm, and somehow also catching the attention of two extremely powerful figures in your professional orbit.

You changed topics quickly after that, getting to know Regulus better, but you couldn’t help glancing back to where James and Lily sat at their table, holding hands as they spoke intently. You didn’t catch their own covert looks over in your direction.

You were starting to settle in after your first week, even believing this could be your real job after the summer. You hadn’t seen Lily since you first bumped into her, business card sitting untouched in your wallet. James had been around the office a few times, though, and you were always happy to see him. Despite the ten years he had on you, James was bubbly and funny and always down for a chat. He always waved or spared you a smile if he was passing through your floor, and if you saw him in the elevator or at lunch, James was quick to supply you with a kind compliment.

In short, you’d grown quite happy at your internship and were developing quite the schoolgirl crush on one of the most powerful men in the firm. It wasn’t like it was your fault, though. An older (crazily hot) man was paying you kind attention in an otherwise lonely city; what were you to do?

MONDAY

You were rushing down a hallway following Regulus, thumbing through the stack of papers you’d just been handed by your supervisor. Regulus was bitching about him and his strict tendencies when your eye caught on the man turning into the corridor.

James was accompanied by two other partners, no doubt discussing important cases far beyond your pay grade. He strutted in his perfectly tailored suit, strong lines accentuated as he marched. You felt your breath hitching quietly as you took him in, the very picture of classically good-looking.

To your surprise, when James caught you looking, he didn’t appear surprised or weirded out; instead, he gave you what you could only describe as an excessively smug smirk, accompanied by an appreciative once-over, lingering on your body, which had heat creeping up your neck. Finally, you received a slight but definite nod, specified to you by the unwavering eye contact. You returned it after a long moment, processing the surprise of being the recipient, offering a shy smile as thanks. That seemed to please James as he brought out his own smile, drawing the subtle attention of the other two partners. Neither said a word, but you could feel their eyes following even as you passed, long since returning to your conversation with Regulus.

TUESDAY

On Tuesday, you were chasing after your supervisor, struggling to keep up and listen to instructions as he marched down the corridor, seemingly unaware or intentionally ignorant of the fact that you were all but required to wear heels around the office. Just as you were hobbling around a corner, James Potter came ambling out of an office, joking easily with whatever high-up employee you hadn’t met yet.

His eyebrows raised slightly as he almost came in contact with both you and your supervisor, a smile breaking through as he recognised you.

“Hey!” He said your name, and it felt heavy in the room, intentional. “How’s it going?” You stuttered for a moment, not expecting the direct address.

“I’m, uh, I’m good! Thank you, Mr Potter.” You returned the pleasantry with a smile, wider than it probably should have been.

You could feel your supervisor watching the two of you, confusion written on his face. You were far too irrelevant for James to be talking to you like this, and all three of you knew it. Well, maybe not James.

It was you who ended the conversation, feeling the moment becoming awkward and your supervisor annoyed, wishing James a good day and busying yourself with entering the office you and your supervisor had been heading to before as he reluctantly walked the other way, stealing a backwards glance you didn’t catch.

“What the hell was that?” Your supervisor asked, aged forehead creases deepening.

“I have no idea,” You answered honestly, more breathless than you probably should have been. He paused for an accusatory look but let you off easy, continuing with the mundane task he’d originally been explaining, but not before a, “Keep it up and you’ll leave here with a job at the end of the summer.”

WEDNESDAY

You hadn’t seen James all day. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world; it wasn’t as if you were truly upset by the fact, but it did worry you that you’d noticed. You’d been interning at the firm for a week, and your crush on a partner was so bad you were already keeping tabs on when you saw him. A married partner, you had to keep reminding yourself.

Your schoolgirl daydreams were replenished at the end of the work day when you got into the same elevator as him. It was just you, him and one other person from one of the other companies who inhabited some of the other levels of the skyscraper. So, you and James were free to chat without the curious stares you’d already garnered.

“Hey!” He said brightly, in a tone you were beginning to see just came naturally to him.

“Hi.” You fiddled nervously with the keychain hanging off your shoulder bag — the most professional you could find for cheap.

“Is that Hello Kitty?” He asked, the beginning of a laugh creeping in. Your eyes snapped down to the keychain like you were only just realising it. You’d put it on mindlessly, maybe still partly brainwashed from the grade school days of decorating all of your belongings. You’d bought it with your best friend years ago, aged probably fifteen or sixteen, at a Sunday market, sitting in a trash or treasure stall. You had the pink, sparkly Hello Kitty memorabilia while your friend took the black and purple Kuromi one, a reminder that you were still friends despite living hours apart.

Brought back to James’ question, you nodded sheepishly, already feeling stupid and childish.

“It’s dumb, really, but it makes me feel connected to my friends back home,” You tried to explain hurriedly, but James cut you off.

“I love it,” He said, and you really believed he meant it. You felt small under his gaze, like he could read every insecurity. “You wanna see something?” You nodded curiously, completely clueless as to what he was going to show you.

And out of his very sophisticated (undoubtedly very expensive) leather bag, James pulled an adorable vinyl Miffy wallet. Your eyebrows creased together of their own accord as you cooed over it, immediately enamoured.

“I know it’s not very ‘manly’,” He laughed, “But Lils got it for me and I love my wife.” Ouch, there it was. The reminder that the hottest, most unreachable man you’d ever met was also married. Nevertheless, his attempts to make you feel better worked like a charm, and you were soon smiling again.

“It’s adorable.”

The elevator reached the ground floor with a melodic ding, and the three of you walked into the lobby, you and James dawdling behind. You felt like a school kid again, walking extra slowly down the halls to get a few extra minutes with a crush. But this couldn’t be the same, James was more than a decade older than you, basically your boss, and married to a beautiful woman he was clearly head over heels for.

“Which way are you going?” James asked as you passed through the gold-rimmed revolving doors into the quiet summer night. You gestured to the left.

“Headed to the tube, you?” James frowned.

“I park a few streets down the other way. Are you alright to catch the train alone in the dark, sweetheart?” You laughed a little, straightening out your slacks.

“I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be fine, Mister Potter. I’m a big girl. Goodnight,” You said sweetly, giving him a small wave. He reluctantly returned it, and you could hear him swinging his keys around his finger until you descended into the train station, still thinking about the pet name he’d called you. It should have been condescending and made you angry, but if it was James, you found a way to find it endearing and protective, despite the fact that you were really barely acquainted. A few minutes out of your week was all that you’d spent with him. He was clearly threatening your morals and feminism, but you didn’t seem to mind as long as he was smiling at you.

THURSDAY

You were beginning to love working at a big fancy firm. Not only for the pay, which you were eagerly awaiting, but the facilities too. The food court was one benefit, not having to leave in search of a fulfilling lunch, but the break room was quickly becoming your own favourite spot.

Close to your desk, stocked with snacks and drinks and comfy furniture, it was the perfect place to get away, especially when the food court seemed a little too intimidating. It wasn’t large, though, and in high traffic times could get very busy.

You’d endeavoured to make yourself a coffee, just as the rest of the firm had seemingly decided to rendezvous for a quick chat right where the coffee machine sat. You squeezed past the bulk of your colleagues to make it to the machine, starting off your drink happily.

You were just fiddling with the machine when James came from your left.

“Sorry, Darling,” He said as quickly as an afterthought, hand around your waist as he squeezed over to the fridge.

It should have enraged you. It should have made you feel harassed and disrespected. And yet… James’s handprint left a burning mark that sat in the forefront of your mind as you tried to continue with your beverage.

It only burned hotter as James came to your aid once again. You were balanced precariously on your tiptoes, reaching for the sugars that were just beyond your fingertips. You had half a mind to start climbing the cabinetry when a strong arm passed by your own, easily grabbing the container and placing it back down on the bench top. There James was, placed only a few inches behind you, effectively caging you in without being so obvious.

When you twirled to thank him, you were made aware of that fact, jumping at the proximity. It wasn’t anything scandalous, James too smart to do anything less than perfect in his own firm, but he was much closer than you’d typically stand to a colleague, obviously under the guise of helping you out.

“Thanks, Mister Potter,” You said, trying desperately not to stutter and reveal your nerves.

“It’s all good. You’re a sweet girl, eh?” He judged as he watched you pour in several packets. You tried to ignore the implicit flirting, just agreeing with the comment about your coffee. You could not, under any circumstances, let yourself believe that James Potter was flirting with you, or you’d never get another piece of work done while you were working there.

“I should, um, get back to work. But it was nice to talk to you!” You forced yourself to start the navigation process back through the break room to your desk. To your surprise, the hand on your lower back had returned, guiding you softly through the crowd.

“I’ll see you later then,” James said with a small but certainly cheeky smile, giving you a lazy salute before heading to the elevator. You couldn’t produce any reply, distracted by the ghost of his hand on your body.

FRIDAY

You had five million papers stacked in your arms. Okay, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but enough to feel like you were lifting weights. As the lowest rung on the corporate ladder, you had to do a lot of reading and editing. All the boring, time-consuming tasks that actual lawyers didn’t have time (or desire) to do. Honestly, you felt more like a teacher than a legal intern correcting spelling mistakes. Still, if it would set you up for a good career, it’d be worth it.

Either way, all of the paperwork collected into a mountain you had to deliver to your supervisor on Friday afternoon. You admittedly couldn’t see very well behind the stack, but you’d put your faith in your colleagues to be aware enough to stay out of your way.

That was why you let out a small cry when two big arms wrapped around your middle, yanking you out of your path, stray papers flying off the top of your tower.

And there, as you probably should have started to expect, was James Potter, pulling his arms back to rest on your hips, steadying you. And flying through where your body just stood, was the child of one of the other partners — the older, stricter, scarier one. If James hadn’t manhandled you out of the way, one or both of you would have certainly been bowled down, and you’d be the one to pay the price.

“Thank you, Mister Potter,” You said breathlessly, caught up with the adrenaline. James’ hands stayed on your hips, warm and encompassing.

“You alright? Could’ve been bad,” He asked with a smile, looking you over with genuine concern. You only nodded, not trusting yourself to speak with his hands on you. You thanked him again profusely, then dropped to your knees, gathering the fallen papers as fast as you could. To your surprise, James followed, helping you clean up.

“Any weekend plans?” He asked, casually like he wasn’t dropping below his station to help you.

“No, I don’t really have any friends here yet,” You laughed, “I was thinking more binge a season of something and eat my body weight in junk food.” James laughed loudly, a resonant sound that attracted looks from around the office.

“Sounds like my dream weekend,” He replied, hazel eyes boring into your own, “Maybe I’ll see if I can get Lils to agree to blow off the gala she’s taking me to, I’d kill for an extra large pizza and a season of That 70s Show.” You giggled, taking the last of the papers from James’ hands.

“Makes sense you like that show,” You said, collecting yourself and hurrying down to your supervisor's desk. James, confusingly, followed as he continued the conversation, asking for an explanation. “Well, you know, you seem fun and lively, and also you’re old, you probably relate to them.” You chanced a joke, heart fluttering at the way James tipped his head all the way back to laugh, hand on his chest like a stabiliser.

“You’re a menace, sweetheart. Making me feel ancient.”

“It’s fine, Mister Potter, you’ve still got all your hair, so you’re doing pretty well.” You decided you loved it when James laughed at your jokes, eyes shining with mirth.

“I’m only thirty-five, love, I’d hope I still have all my good looks yet.” You ignored his shameless self-promotion, shaking your head as you packed up for the weekend.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, my Dad was bald before forty.” James acted mock-offended, hands over his chest like he'd been shot. You snorted at his ridiculousness, making your way to the elevator and slinging your bag over your shoulder. James followed, pressing himself into your side when the lift was crowded. You tried to control your breathing, unwilling to share how giddily nervous he made you.

If you were a more confident person, you would believe his knuckles grazing your thigh lightly were intentional, flirty, even. As a certified nobody in the company and hardly-even-coworker, you knew it was just because the lift was full.

“You need a lift home, love?” James said as you approached the doors, gesturing for you to go ahead of him.

“I’m sure we don’t live anywhere near each other, Mister Potter, it’s okay. Thanks, though!” You still told him where you lived when prompted, and laughed when James cringed.

“Look, it might be in the opposite direction, love. But if you ever need a lift home, I’ll drive you. Your safety is my top priority,” He put on a silly voice, imitating an old-fashioned flight attendant or captain to make you giggle. You still shook your head, gripping the strap of your shoulder bag.

“I’ll call you if I see any big, bad wolves.” You gave him a small wave, taking off in the opposite direction to him, warmth dusting your cheeks.

part 2

[silverspectre51]

Summoning the Boy King

Darkseid was rampaging through Metropolis, Superman was injured, and the Justice League was desperate. As the League hid between fallen skyscrapers, John Constantine prepared a last-ditch effort to save the Earth.

The Hellblazer drew an intricate sigil on the ground; its circular design stretching over six feet in diameter. Most of the symbols within were space-related, while the others were themed to royalty. Batman, one of the few heroes in-the-know, grunted.

"Are you sure this king ghost can help?"

Constantine sighed and pinched his nose.

"He's the High King of the Infinite Realms, Bats, an' he's bloody powerful. He'll stop Darkseid, alright, but what he does afterward is anyone's guess. Believe me, I wouldn't be doin' this if we had a choice."

Batman sighed and glanced at the smoke-filled horizon.

"Alright, get on with it, then. We're running out of time."

Constantine nodded and placed a single offering in the center of the sigil: a squishmallow of Disney's iconic blue alien, Stitch.

"I beg your finest pardon," Batman sputtered, "What on Earth is that?"

Constantine sighed again as he took his position at the edge of the sigil.

"Mate, the book was very specific. Unlike his predecessor, the new king requires a single offering of space or alien theme that is suitable for children. It's bloody strange, but beggars can't be choosers."

Batman just shook his head and looked on. Constantine raised his hands and started the summoning chant. An eerie, green glow spread across the sigil, and light fog gathered above it. Little white orbs floated up from the ground and spiraled together, forming the slowly spinning visage of a spiral galaxy.

"Incredible..." Zatanna gasped, "This summoning is on a level all its own. This king of yours is on the level of Gods."

Finally, something began to form over the small galaxy. Batman's expression quickly softened, much to the surprise of his teammates. It was mere seconds before they understood, as a black blob full of white stars formed into the shape of a boy. The blob had spiky 'bangs' if you could call them that and eerie, glowing green eyes.

The squishmallow floated into the boy's arms and he squeezed it excitedly. At the same time, he took on a far more human form, with pale skin and snowy white hair. His eyes had whites now but still glowed green. He was dressed in black and white, royal attire with green accents, a black crown floating in a green aurora, and a black ring with a green stone. A black cape flowed down his back, its underside looking as if it were cut from a clear night sky.

"Awesome offering, dude! What can I do for ya?"

The voice was a reedy tenor in the throes of puberty, and its owner was more than a little geeky. The boy's smile was infectious, or it would have been were it not for the specific circumstance.

"How old are you?" Batman asked, his tone soft, "We weren't expecting a child."

The boy waved him off like it was nothing.

"No one ever does. And, um... technically I'm fifteen. I know, I don't look it."

Constantine cut in, clearly out of patience.

"Look, this monster Darkseid is destroying our world. We need you to stop him."

The boy turned in the air and took in the destruction around him. Somehow, he seemed to understand the situation immediately.

"Okay, but I gotta get permission first. This'll take a lot of power." He paused, taking a breath, and then yelled in a strange language. "Mom!"

Constantine paled and the other heroes shrank back as a green portal tore into existence. A young woman, barely an adult herself, floated out. She had waist-length blue hair and the same glowing, green eyes. She wore a royal outfit in white and maroon, complete with a glittering, silver tiara studded with rubies.

"What's the matter, Danny? Are you okay?"

Danny nodded.

"Mhmm! These guys need me to take out this Darkseid guy, though. Can I use my full power?"

Constantine snuck a drink from his flask. He did not sign up to deal with the fucking Queen Mother of the Infinite Realms, nor had he known she existed. God, he needed a smoke...

The Queen Mother smiled softly and pressed a kiss to her son's forehead. She spoke whilst taking his new plush.

"Yes, Danny, you may. Let me hold onto this for you so it doesn't get dirty."

Danny nodded and turned away.

"Okay, thanks mom!"

The Queen Mother vanished through and with the portal she had created. Moments later, Danny shot off into the city, with the remaining able-bodied heroes hot on his trail. The young king reached Darkseid rather quickly, engaging him while the Leaguers looked on from cover. Darkseid was foolishly amused.

"A child dares oppose me? Flee, whelp."

Batman tensed as Darkseid unleashed his Omega Effect. Two red beams shot from his eyes, and yet the young king floated firm. Two eerie, green beams shot from his own eyes and, to the shock of everyone, overpowered his foe's. Darkseid shattered into many tiny pieces which then vanished into thin air.

"Man, he really wasn't smart!" Danny grinned, "Who fires a death beam at the king of the dead?"

He received no response, as the heroes were too stunned to speak. Smiling, he saluted the group before tearing open another portal.

"Oh well; villain gone, carry on. Later guys!"

Batman glared at Constantine, but the Brit had already absconded. Heaving a sigh, he resigned himself to this new reality. Darkseid was gone, but there was an incredible new power to worry about.

(Note: My only source of information is DP canon, DP fanon, and the Justice League cartoons from the early '00s. I apologize for any inaccuracies with Batman's or Constantine's behavior.)

[wonderjanga]

First Meeting

Clark was not having a good day. Right now, he was hunched over, sitting on the roof of a skyscraper, trying to reign in his senses after he’d expanded them so he could find a lost little girl. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with this every single time he had to find one while this hero bizz. He’d only been in this for about a month and he’s already struggling? He should be used to blocking out the noise by now, he’s had twenty years to do it. He didn’t know why today was so bad.

He was pulled out of the sensory overload when he felt a hand on his shoulder and everything suddenly went quiet, save for normal city noise.

Marvel: “Woah, champ. Are you okay?”

Supes: “Who are you?” *still a little disoriented, looks up at him in confusion*

Marvel: “Oh, I’m Captain Marvel, but enough about me, we need to focus on you. Are you okay, son?”

(When Clark found out years later that Billy was actually a kid calling him son and champ he was a little dumbfounded)

Supes: “Yeah— Yeah. I am. I should be used to blocking out most of the noise by now. It seems I can still get a little bit overwhelmed every now and then. …what did you do to me?”

Marvel: “I toned down your senses.”

Supes: “…How?”

Marvel: “Magic.”

Clark didn’t know whether or not he believed that, but to be fair, he was an alien so…

Marvel: “Do you want me to take it off you now? I can do it slowly so you can get readjusted to the noise.”

Supes: “No, no, I’d like to keep on for now. I think I’d rather stay like this for a little bit.”

The man moved to sit down next to him, and thus, Clark sat in silence with this random stranger. This stranger who seemed to be dressed as a superhero as well? He’d heard about the Batman and the Flash, new heroes like him in other cities, but he never heard of a Captain Marvel. Unless you were counting the one from the history books, but that guy has to be long dead.

Supes: “Are you a new hero like me, Captain?”

Marvel: “Hmm? No. I’ve been doing this since ‘39.”

Supes: “…39? As in 1939?”

Marvel: “Yes? You make that sound outlandish.”

Supes: “It’s 2006.”

*silence*

Marvel: “No it’s not.”

Supes: “Yes is??”

Marvel: “Oh darn it. So the old men were right about the time bubble.” *sounds so disappointed*

(Billy was talking about both the wizard and Solomon)

Supes: “I’m sorry??”

Marvel: “Listen, I gotta go talk to the wizard.” *stands up* “But uh… One sec.” *snaps fingers*

Supes: *glows blue for like three seconds and shivers* “What was that?”

Marvel: “Nothing. The only thing that’ll do is make it so that when you want to start hearing normally, the spell will cancel itself. Now, how do the Italians say it? Chao.” *starts to fly off* “Come to Fawcett sometime, man!” *waves*

And with that, Captain Marvel was gone. The Captain Marvel.

By the way, if you’re wondering, why Billy was even in Metropolis in the first place, when time bubble popped, that meant people could leave Fawcett. So, the boy went to explore the US considering he hadn’t left his city in a while. Mary went to New York and Junior ended up in Los Angeles, gambling.

(I’ll do a Batman version of this tomorrow possibly.)

[dcxdpdabbles]

Everything is fun and games until Menace!Danny's little siblings find out that he's the one with a partner.

I'm a little sibling. I know we have a perfect 10 steps plan to make the partner disappear. Menace!Danny is giving shovel talk — his siblings are kidnapping and doing human sacrifice because violence is the only possible answer.

The first time it happened, it was a goth girl. Her name was irrelevant (though they would soon learn that Danny had a type), but they knew that Danny had met her at a protest.

Apparently, the two had been attempting to stop a project that was going to cause damage to the local buildings. Danny was a big fan of protecting Gotham's iconic Gothic infrastructure and was appalled that the big corporations wanted to tear it down and move to more modern skyscrapers.

Now it's well-known that the Waynes all looked up to Danny. He was everything they wanted to be.

Danny could match Bruce in hand-to-hand combat, make even the most stubborn of heroes respect him with a few soft spoken words, and not to mention his inventing ability. Danny was the glue that kept them all together and their unwavering leader in the darkest if nights.

Despite the rumors, the masses (and themselves before they actually met him) believed Danny was sensitive in an almost heartbreakingly kind way, which worried them for their brother. If the world thought the worst of him, then Danny likely had the worst of the worst attempting to use him.

The Waynes all collectively agree that no one was worthy of Danny's time, especially some goth girl who commented more than once that "dirtbags like Fenton-Wayne" were relatively easy..

And really, she was all about death as a goth, so why had she made such a big deal about them nearly feeding her to Killer Croc? If she liked Death so much, why was she even still alive? They were doing her a favor.

Danny had been rather sad for a few days when she was rejected, even when walking near him, but he took it as their personalities not matching. He was unaware of them slowly lowering her towards a canopy while Dancing Queen was playing. Dick had made sure she could see them dancing to the music as they each took turns reading the comments they documented her saying and then pulling the level to have her drop little by litte.

When she threatened to involve the cops, Tim laughed and told her they were rich. The rich always get a slap on the wrist, especially against someone in her tax bracket. More so with her having no proof.

They made sure she had no proof.

She left the city the following month, but by then, the Waynes had turned their attention to the third son of the Trox family. He had flirted with Danny, who seemed to believe it was the beginning of an epic romantic tale, unaware that the Trox boy was bragging about how easily he got the eldest Wayne on his knees.

Jason was working on how to take Trox's kneecaps without the police, Bruce, or Danny any the wiser as revenge for those comments. His siblings were more than happy to get it done.

[myloveer0]

Caught in the Act

Ambessa medarda x Fem!reader x Sevika

Ambessa x Sevika

🔥🔥🔥❤️❤️❤️

⚠️warning contain smut⚠️

Summary: As Ambessa Medarda’s secretary, delivering bad news was part of the job—but interrupting her day off? A nightmare. When she didn’t answer the door, you made the reckless decision to enter her penthouse uninvited. What you found inside was not what you expected.

A secret. A scandal. A side of your boss you never imagined.

This is my fav ship in the show. Ambessa x Sevika. My mind is wild making this!! But anyway enjoy....

Part I

The elevator ride to the top floor was silent. You watched the numbers on the panel climb, each second dragging before the occasional ding shattered the silence. Your grip tightened around the folder in your arms—the one containing a crucial document that needed your boss’s immediate response.

You had been Ambessa Medarda’s secretary for five years, and if there was one thing you knew so much about your boss, was that she's a perfectionist, she did not tolerate incompetence. Yet, now you had made a grave mistake. A crucial document—one she needed to sign—had completely slipped your mind. And now, here you were, standing outside her penthouse on a Sunday—her day off.

Way to go, self. You’re dead the second she lays eyes on you.

This wasn’t like you. You were a competent secretary—sharp, efficient, the kind people envied for your flawless work. The very reason why you survive for five years. Damn perfect at your job. But ever since your twelve-year-old cat was sent to the vet, you’d been struggling to balance everything while taking care of him.

And now, here you were.

If this had been something minor, you would have brushed it aside—waited until tomorrow to deal with it. But it wasn’t. This was a million-dollar contract. People’s jobs were on the line—their livelihoods. Your job. Maybe even your life. The last thing you needed was to be fired and left jobless in this economy.

You reached her door—the only room at the top of the building. A sleek black panel with a high-tech lock. You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but your heart pounded mercilessly against your ribs. You felt like shit.

Your boss wasn’t just strict—she was ruthless. A demon hiding behind that beautiful face, a wolf in silk and steel. She's the scariest woman you know, and now, you were about to knock on her door with nothing but a mistake and an apology.

Swallowing hard, you pressed the doorbell.

Silence.

You waited, adjusting your posture, trying to calm the nerves. You rang again.

Still nothing.

"Madam Medarda?" you called out, voice firm but edged with hesitation.

You rang the doorbell. No response.

Frowning, you tried again, letting you knuckles rap against the sleek surface door this time. You glance at the camera at the ceiling waving your hand hoping it would grab her attention.

“Madam Medarda? It’s me.”

Silence.

You checked the time. You couldn't afford to wait. The deadline was closing in, and without her signature, the entire deal could collapse. If only they didn't have a persistent business partner this time. Urgh..

A sigh escaped you as you reached into your pocket, pulling out the spare key she had entrusted you with for emergencies. This certainly counted as one. Your fingers hesitated on the handle—Madam Medarda valued her privacy, and even with her trust, stepping into her home uninvited felt like crossing a line.

But you had no choice.

Sliding the key in, you turned the lock. The door clicked open. The first thing you noticed was her favorite red heels. She was here. Then why wasn’t she answering?

You step inside. The penthouse was a world of its own—immaculate, luxurious, the kind of wealth most people could only dream of. The floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in soft, warm light, the midnight skyscraper stretching endlessly beyond the glass. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and aged whiskey, a scent that clung to the very essence of the woman who lived here. No matter how many times you had been here, you could never quite get used to it.

You closed the door behind you, your heels muffled by the plush rug as you ventured further in. "Madam Medarda?" you called again, your voice echoed back by the sheer space of the place.

Still nothing.

Your grip on the folder tightened. Where was she?

Your mind raced back to her schedule. Sunday—empty. She had specifically told you yesterday that she would be here, and didn’t want to be disturbed. You wouldn’t have even thought about coming if she had just picked up her phone. You have emailed her the soft copy but didn't get any response, and her phone had been silent.

It wasn’t like her.

Your mind ran through possibilities as you checked the kitchen—pristine, untouched. The gym where she mostly spend her free time, training. But now, the room was empty. The punching bag hung still, the dumbbells neatly racked. The scent of faint sweat and metal lingered, but it was clear no one had been here for hours.

Your unease grew.

You checked her office next. Papers were stacked in perfect order. Even the chair was pushed in as though she had left everything undisturbed.

It was too empty. Every space you searched empty. Maybe she was really out?

That left only one place.

Your gaze lifted toward the mezzanine floor above. The master bedroom.

Your fingers curled around the folder in your hands hesitating, it felt invasive, disrespectful even, but… what if something had happened? She wouldn’t ignore an emergency. Taking a breath, you steeled yourself and ascended the staircase, each step echoed. Reaching the top, you hesitated before the door.

Then, with quiet resolve, swallowing, you knocked lightly.

“Madam Medarda?”

Silence.

Your pulse quickened.

You knocked again, louder this time. “Madam, it’s me.”

Still nothing.

You didn’t have the courage to open the door. This was her personal space—crossing that boundary felt wrong. She also strictly instructed that no one is allowed inside. But what if something had happened to her? She was an older woman, in her sixties, even if she looked nothing like it. What if she had tripped in the bathroom? Had a heart attack or something?

Your eyes widened with concern.

Your heart pounded as you pushed the bedroom door open, half-expecting. But the room was just as pristine as the rest of the penthouse. No boss.

It was your first time seeing her bedroom. Black and deep red dominated the space, a striking contrast of power and luxury. The king-sized bed was immaculately made, the silk sheets untouched. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn back, revealing the vast cityscape below. And oh god it smell so good in here.

But there was no sign of your boss.

Your breath hitched as you hurried toward the en-suite bathroom, pushing the door open with mounting anxiety.

Empty.

You exhaled, relief washing over you. Maybe she was just out. Maybe she was with friends.

…Wait.

Does she even have friends?

You checked your watch—8:10 PM. Where the hell could she be?

Your grip tightened around the folder in your hands. The document needed her signature before ten, but you still had a few arrangements to make after that.. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to stay calm. Pulling out your phone, you redialed her number, pacing back and forth. The call rang, but there was still no answer. The silence only made your anxiety spike further.

Then—something caught your eye. A faint glimmer of light, just at the corner of the room.

Your brows furrowed as you glanced around. The room was empty—so it was just you in here. Is that a camera? Your heels clicked against the floor as you turned toward it. Small, barely noticeable, but it was there. But the way it flickered against the dim lighting grabbed your attention. Should you leave it? Maybe you were overstepping—prying into things that weren’t your business. You should stop being nosy and just leave the room. Focus on finding her.

But your feet stayed planted.

Curiosity gnawed at you. Beside what worse could it be? right?

Slowly, you pulled the cabinet open.

But the moment your eyes registered what you were looking at, your entire body froze. Your jaw dropped. The folder in your hands slipped through your fingers, hitting the floor with a quiet thud.

“Holy—” You barely managed to stifle the curse, slapping a hand over your mouth as heat rushed to your face.

Rows of neatly arranged sex toys filled the cabinet. Leather, silicone, metal—each item meticulously placed, organized by size, color, and, judging by the different harnesses folded at the side.

Mostly strap-ons… and there were so many. And was perfectly maintained.

You blinked. Then blinked again, your body paralyze as if maybe your brain had conjured this up in some fevered hallucination. But no—the collection was very real. A fresh wave of heat flushed up your neck as your mind betrayed you, painting lewd images started to grace your mind.

''S-shit...''

You had always known your boss as a workaholic—ruthlessly efficient, with little patience for nonsense. She hate useless people and embodied the very definition of a strong, professional woman. The idea of her indulging in this kind of pleasure? You had never once considered it. You even though she hate sex since she was basically married to her job.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together to silence any more wayward thoughts. A warmth crept up your legs. She's a dom. Of course she’d be the type to take charge, you couldn't imagine a person knocking your boss out. And you weren’t gonna judge. Everyone had their preferences and hobby. It just so happened that your boss—the most perfect strict woman you had ever known—had this particular… taste.

But then, an image flashed through your mind. Her in those straps, mercilessly pounding—

NO—!!

What the hell were you doing?! That was your boss. Seriously? Yes, you had a secret crush on her—who wouldn’t? Half the women in the office did. She was tall, older, powerful, sexy as sin, and filthy rich. But this? This was too much.

Goodness… stop it.

You took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to steady the storm inside your head. Calm down. Get it together. This has to stop. Let's just pretend you didn’t see anything, forget about it, and get the hell out of here. You reached down, to pick up your folder. You needed to leave this cabinet alone before your boss arrive. But your body froze and your ear perk up. The sound of the penthouse door close thud echoed through the space.

Your entire body ran cold.

Shit. Are you kidding me?

The sound of the penthouse door sent a jolt of panic straight through you, but now—now you could hear the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps. Not just one pair. Two. Comin in your direction.

Your mind barely had time to spiral. Your boss wasn’t alone.

The realization hit you like a freight train. What to do? what to do?!

If she found you here—inside her private bedroom, inside here with her cabinet of secrets—there would be no explaining yourself. Not only had you trespassed into her personal space, but you had also stumbled upon something you were never meant to see.

Your panicking. Pulling your hair you look around looking for a place to hide but everthing was spot on. Your body moved before your mind could even process a proper escape plan. You snatched the folder from the floor, and shoved yourself inside the cabinet, tucking yourself into the bottom shelf just as you pulled the door shut.

Then—

BANG.

The bedroom door slammed open.

You clenched your jaw, pressing a hand over your mouth as heavy boots crossed the threshold. From your cramped hiding spot, you could barely breathe. You barely swallowed a gasp as you scrambled backward, pressing yourself as tightly as you could against the back of the cabinet.

Then came the voices. Low grunt and breathy, needy moan into the room.

“—been waiting all day for this,” a unfamilliar woman voice.

“You’re impatient. Little one..” Your boss voice response with a deep chuckle..

Your body froze with your eyes widen holding your breath so that you can't make a single sound. You shouldn’t be here.. Your cheeks heat up, your face burning. Please, this can't be happening. The rustling of clothes fills the air, followed by the creak of the bed. Your breath hitches as a series of moans began to echo through the room. You can't believe it—you’re secretly listening to your boss having sex while hiding among her collection. You whimper and your legs started to squirm.

Your breathing starts to hitch as you hear those horny moans. The door is closed, and you don’t dare to move. All the worries about the paper vanish, replaced by panic—how are you supposed to get out of this situation? You definitely don’t plan on hearing them the entire night. Unless… you’re willing to stay hidden in this shelf for the rest of the day.

Please be done already.

"Let me get my stap—" You heard Ambessa’s voice, clear and commanding voice.

Her strap?

You almost screamed in horror when you heard that sentence, her footsteps drawing closer. Your eyes wide in immediate shock. What to do? Your mind went blank. Panic surged through you. You had to move, had to do something���but were would you go!

No, no, no— Someone help!

You braced for impact, panic tightening around your throat—this is how you die. Caught. Hiding. Under your boss sex toy collection. You curled into the smallest ball humanly possible, silently praying and begging the universe to spare you. You recite all the godess you knew. If she opened this cabinet—if she found you—it was over.

You could already see her face, the sheer disbelief, the inevitable horror. Her secretary. This would be the single greatest humiliation of your entire life. And you weren’t sure you’d ever recover.

The cabinet slowly began to open and light started to enter inside before a voice interrupted.

"Tch, just get your stupid ass here, do it later...!"

The tone was dispreate, deep and unmistakably familiar.

Ambessa chuckled, and then—mercifully—she left the barely open cabinet. Instead, you heard her footsteps shift away, followed by the rustle of sheets. You almost collapsed from relief, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle you shaky breath. Your squeeze your shirt against your chest your breath hoarse with intense nervousness. Frightened the hell out of your nerves The folder in your hand was now all cramp out didn't care. That was too close...

But just as you started to calm down, the room filled with a new sound—

A creaking bed.

Then, the sharp, rhythmic thud of the headboard tapping against the wall.

And finally—

A low, sultry moan.

Ambessa chuckles darkly, “Look at that wet pussy it's clencing for my touch,” she mocks, her tone saccharine and taunting.

You bit down on your knuckle so hard it almost drew blood. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Heat rushed to your face in shame, but—worse—your body reacted to the noises in ways you really wished it wouldn’t. You had always known Madam Medarda was an intense woman, but hearing her like this? Dominant, teasing, making someone beg—

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

No. Stop.

You were not getting turned on by your boss getting laid. Absolutely not.

And yet—against your better judgment—your palm inched toward your pelvis, your body betraying you. Before you knew it, you were peeking through the small gap in the closet door.

Your breath hitched as you adjusted your view. The warm glow of the bedside lamp cast flickering shadows across the room.

''Ohhh yess keep going! Shit!''

In the center of the room, propped against the wall, was a bed stripped bare. The deep red, quilted mattress dipped under the weight of two naked muscular women tangled together, the relentless pounding of the bedframe against the wall echoing.

And then—you froze.

Your eyes went wide, your heart slamming against your ribs.

The woman with your boss—was Sevika!?

Sevika lay on her back, one leg raised high, the other bent in a loose butterfly stretch. Ambessa straddled her holding sevika legs up, their pussy grinding together out. The slick sound of skin against skin, mingled with husky grunts and breathless moans, filled the air. Your entire body trembled as you watched. You should have looked away, but you couldn’t. The sight was magnetic—two powerful, sweat-slicked women moving in perfect sync, their abs tightening, their muscular thighs and arms flexing under the dim, golden light. It was raw, unapologetic, and utterly impossible to ignore. It was like masterpiece painting..

Sevika. Her love-and-hate business partner. The woman who constantly stormed in and out of your boss’s office, always bickering, at each other. You never would have guessed. She wasn’t your boss’s lover—at least, that’s what your boss claimed. She had insisted she wasn’t interested in dating. Yet you had no idea they had this kind of secret affair. Not once had it crossed your mind that their constant arguments—their sharp words and heated glares—could have been hiding this.

Your boss wrapped her strong, wide fingers around Sevika’s throat, squeezing just enough to leave her gasping for air—but Sevika didn’t resist. She only smirked, locking eyes with Ambessa meeting her brutal grind their bodies colliding, tits bouncing with every movement.

Your breath hitched. You should have looked away if you want to be spared—but you couldn’t. Your were scared but they were too mesmerizing and intoxicating. The way their muscles tensed, the way sweat glistened on their skin under the dim light—it was too much. Too damn good. Too damn hot.

“Cum for me, Sevika,” Ambessa commanded, her tone leaving no room for defiance.

“Yes! Harder, Ambessa!” Sevika begged, her voice raw with need.

Ambessa leaned in, following the demand without hesitation. Sevika seized the moment, gripping Ambessa’s breasts, kneading them before pinching her stiffened nipple. A sharp whimper escaped both of them, fueling the fire between their bodies.

They grind against each other cunt in a desperate, feverish rhythm. Just watching them made your body throb, heat pooling low between your legs. Your toes curled, fingers twitching at your sides as moans filled the room. Ambessa’s pace quickened, her movements relentless, chasing and harsh. You imagined yourself between them, and the thought made you wetter, needier.

Sevika’s body tensed, her back arching off the bed. “Fuck’s sake—I’m coming! Don’t stop!” she gasped.

“Fuck, yes…” Ambessa threw her head back, her muscles flexing as their slick bodies moved in perfect sync. Their juices mixed, the scent of sex thick in the air. Their cries filled the room, bodies shaking as they rode out their climax, hips still grinding, chasing every last wave of pleasure. You couldn't look away. You keep watching them didn't blink every second.

Then—BZZZT!

The sudden blare of a ringtone shattered the moment. Your breath caught as your phone lit up in the dark closet. The sound startled you so badly that you jerked up, hitting your head on the shelf with a loud thud.

Shit.

''Who's there!!?''

[lazy-ahh]

Oooooh superhero gn reader x Viltrumite mark, please! During the Invincible War, Mark goes to take reader back to his universe, saying he’s missed them and their life together. Reader rejects him, and makes a deal: if reader wins, Mark has to stop wrecking chaos on the planet. If mark wins, reader will go back with him and whatever ‘life’ they created. And reader ends up losing. :)))

THE WRONG UNIVERSE TO LOVE YOU IN

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (superhero) gender neutral reader

this one wants you back. the problem? you don't belong to him. you belong to the mark who loves eve, the mark who will never know you loved him first, the mark whose laugh still echoes in your dreams. now, as his fingers wipe blood from your face with terrifying gentleness, reality splits open: stay and die for a love that was never yours, or let him steal you away to a world where you were his—where you'll always be second to a ghost of yourself. (he promises to be better. you almost believe him.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

the sky is bleeding red when he finds you—a sickly crimson streaked with smoke, the air thick with the scent of burning metal and charred flesh. the distant wails of sirens blend into the chaos, a symphony of destruction that never seems to end.

you’re panting, your bruised knuckles pressed into the cracked pavement as you push yourself up, every muscle screaming in protest. the city around you is a graveyard—skyscrapers reduced to skeletal husks, streets littered with bodies, some still twitching, others long gone. the invincible war has turned your world into a slaughterhouse, and standing in the middle of it all, untouched by the ruin, is him.

mark grayson.

but not your mark.

this one is different—sharp where your best friend is soft, his jaw set in a hard line, his eyes dark with something unreadable. there’s a cruel twist to his lips, a coldness in his stare that makes your stomach knot. he wears the viltrumite empire’s uniform, the sleek, lighter armor a stark contrast to the torn superhero costumes scattered around you. a few blood stains littered the fabric, some of it still fresh, glistening under the firelight. it’s not just from battle—no, this mark wears it like a trophy.

you had just finished killing other variants of him, their lifeless eyes staring up at you, their faces so familiar it made your hands shake. you mourned them, grieved for the versions of you in their worlds who must have loved them as fiercely as you love yours. your breath still comes in ragged gasps, your heart pounding not just from exhaustion, but from the weight of what you’ve done.

and then he arrived.

this mark moves with a predator’s grace, his steps measured, his shoulders squared with the confidence of someone who’s never lost. there’s a quiet intensity in the way he surveys the wreckage—like a king surveying his domain. but when his eyes land on you, something shifts. the cold superiority in his gaze softens, just for a second, before he schools his expression back into something unreadable.

"there you are," he says, voice low, almost reverent, like he’s been searching through a thousand broken worlds just to find you. the way his eyes trace over you—lingering on the blood smeared across your cheek, the way your chest heaves with exhaustion—makes your skin prickle. it’s not relief in his tone. it’s claiming.

and you realize, with a sinking dread that coils like ice in your gut, that this isn’t over. it’s only beginning.

"missed you," he murmurs, the words rough, scraped raw from his throat. his voice is different from your mark’s—deeper, edged with a hunger that makes your pulse stutter. he says it like he’s been holding it in for years, like he’s carved the words into his ribs just to keep them close.

your chest tightens, heart hammering against your sternum. you’ve heard the stories—whispers of alternate marks, warped by viltrum’s cruelty, ripping through dimensions to drag back what they think belongs to them. and now he’s here, standing in the wreckage of your city, looking at you like you’re a ghost he’s been chasing. like you’re already his.

"you don’t even know me," you spit, swiping the back of your hand across your split lip. the metallic tang of blood coats your tongue, bitter and familiar.

he tilts his head, considering you with a gaze that feels like a physical touch. "i know enough," he says, voice dropping into something dangerously soft. "in my world, you were mine." his thumb brushes over a streak of dirt on your jaw, possessive and tender all at once. "we had a life. a future." his eyes darken, something feral flickering behind them. "i’m taking you back."

your fists clench, nails biting into your palms hard enough to draw blood. you think of your mark—the boy who scraped his knees racing you down suburban streets, whose laughter was always a little too loud, a little too bright. the one who looks at eve like she hung the stars, while you’ve spent years swallowing down words that taste like rust and regret.

"what happened to me?" you choke out, the question tearing from you like a wound ripped open. "in your world. did i—" your voice fractures. "did i love you too? or did you just force me to?"

his pupils dilate, just slightly, the only crack in his controlled facade. for a heartbeat, he looks almost human. "you begged me to stay," he says, low and rough, like the memory is a blade twisting in his gut. "the night before the viltrumite fleet came. you held onto me like you knew." his jaw tightens. "then they burned our world to ash. but you—" his thumb presses against your pulse point, a mockery of tenderness. "you were always meant to survive."

the air leaves your lungs. you can see it—some other version of you, screaming as the sky split open, clinging to a monster because they didn’t know he’d become one.

"no."

his expression darkens—not like a storm rolling in, but like a door slamming shut. the brief vulnerability in his eyes snuffs out, pupils contracting into something cold and calculating. his jaw tightens, the muscle flexing as his teeth grind together, like he’s biting back words he’ll never say. the softness that had flickered across his face for just a second hardens into something unreadable, the lines of his face sharpening into a mask of imperial discipline.

but his eyes—oh, his eyes. they’re not just empty. they’re hungry.

the way he looks at you isn’t just possessive. it’s devouring. his gaze drags over you like he’s memorizing the shape of your defiance, like he can’t wait to break it apart and remake you into something that fits in the hollow of his hands. his lips twitch, not into a smirk, but into something far more dangerous—a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, a smile that says, you think you have a choice?

and then, just like that—it’s gone. his face smooths back into viltrumite indifference, as if that momentary crack in his armor had never existed. but you saw it. you felt it. and that’s what terrifies you the most. "you don’t get a choice."

"then fight me for it," you snap, surging forward until your forehead hovers a breath away from his, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, close enough to count the flecks of gold in his darkened eyes. the scent of smoke and iron and something uniquely him clings to the space between you, thick enough to choke on. he doesn’t flinch—doesn’t even breathe—just holds your gaze with a half-lidded, almost lazy intensity, like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved.

then his eyes drag downward, slow and deliberate, lingering on the part of your lips, the quickened rise and fall of your chest. there’s no shame in it, no pretense—just hunger, plain and unapologetic. your pulse stutters. for one terrifying second, you almost falter, because this isn’t the look of a conqueror assessing his enemy.

it’s the look of a man remembering how you taste.

"if i win, you leave this planet alone. if you win…" your voice wavers as a memory blindsides you—your mark’s face, soft in the moonlight on his rooftop, his fingers brushing yours as he smiled at you with something warm and unreadable. you’d let yourself imagine, just for a second, that it was love. that it could be you.

now, you’re bargaining with a ghost of him.

"i’ll go with you," you whisper.

he grins finally, all teeth, but still disciplined—like he’s savoring the way your breath hitches when he leans in. "deal."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the battle is brutal.

you’re strong—strong enough to have shattered the ribs of other marks, strong enough to have left their bodies broken in the rubble of this war. but him? he’s something else entirely. every hit he lands cracks through your bones like fault lines, every impact vibrating through your teeth until your jaw aches. you dodge, but you’re always a half-second too slow, his fist grazing your cheekbone hard enough to send stars exploding across your vision.

and the worst part? he’s smiling. small and private just for you, but still there.

not the sharp, cruel grin of a conqueror—no, this is lazy, almost playful, like he’s savoring the way your breath comes in ragged gasps, the way your muscles scream as you push yourself beyond limits that should have broken you already. he’s toying with you, you realize with a sickening lurch. not because he needs to, but because he wants to see how long you’ll last.

"you took down six of them," he muses, catching your fist mid-swing like it’s nothing, his fingers tightening until your knuckles creak in protest. "six of me." his voice drops, something almost like pride curling through it. "that’s not nothing."

then his knee slams into your gut, and the world blurs.

you don’t even feel the moment his fist collides with your ribs—just the sickening crunch, the way your body folds around the impact before you’re hurled backward, crashing through concrete and steel like paper. debris hails down around you, dust choking your lungs as you gasp, vision swimming in and out of black.

when the ringing in your ears fades, he’s already there, crouched beside you with all the casual grace of a predator who’s never known fear. his fingers brush the hair from your face, smearing blood across your temple in a mockery of tenderness.

"you put up a good fight," he murmurs, thumb dragging over your split lip. his voice is almost fond, like he’s praising a well-trained weapon. "stronger than most. smarter, too." his grip tightens, just slightly, forcing your gaze up to his. "but you were never gonna win."

your body screams—muscles torn, bones fractured, blood pooling beneath you like a second shadow. but the pain in your chest is worse, a hollowed-out wound no advanced viltrumite healing could ever fix. you think of your mark—his stupid, lopsided smile, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the light in his eyes when he looked at eve—a light that was never, ever for you.

and now you’ll never tell him.

"promise me," you whisper, the words slick with blood, metallic and bitter on your tongue. there’s so much more you want to say—begging, pleading things that claw at your throat like trapped birds. promise me you’ll love me. promise me i won’t just be another trophy. promise me you won’t get bored and break me when i’m no longer new. promise me you won't throw me aside like he did. but all that comes out is: "promise you’ll leave this world alone."

mark’s thumb drags across your cheekbone, smearing dirt and blood in a mockery of gentleness. his touch is warm, almost reverent, like you’re something precious instead of something stolen. "i promise," he says, and for a heartbeat, his voice is so soft it almost sounds like the boy you knew.

then his arms lock around you, lifting you against his chest like you weigh nothing. the sky splinters above you—crimson and gold and burning, the last beautiful thing you’ll ever see.

(and somewhere, in another life, your mark screams your name, raw and shattered, as the rubble of your city collapses around him. but you’re already gone, and the universe does not care.)

1.9k words full of my number one favourite invincible variant!! thank you so much to the anon who requested this one-shot heheheh <33

[issybee06]

thragg x hero!reader where he doesn't understand how his best men could fall in love with something as insignificant as a human until he sees the reader fight several viltrumites and also sees the friendship between mark and reader, but thragg focus on the affection and protection the reader has for mark. and he gets obsessed. so he demands the reader's hand in marriage so many times and the reader still finds a way to slip through his fingers.

Trust the process

Omgggggg I love this idea

Thragg x reader

Don’t know if this is exactly how you wanted it but I hope you enjoy it! 🫶

Major Spoilers from comics!

Pt2

……………………..……………………..……………………..……….

You sniff, groaning as you try to stop the blood gushing from your nose. Soloing was probably the worse thing you could do while being angry. Not being levelheaded lead to you getting your head smashed into a wall.

Well, I won, so fuck them. You mused to yourself, sighing and stretching out your tense and sore muscles.

I think my bones have bruises…

“Human.”

“JESUS!-“

You jump, clutching your heart as your head spins to look over your shoulder at the 6’10 Viltrumite conqueror standing on the roof a little ways behind you. You were on patrol, Mark was still recovering from being hit with the Scourge Virus and you promised to look after earth while he was still on the sidelines.

You didn’t exactly expect to find him here…or did he find you?

“Holy shit…uh…hi?” You raised a brow at the man as he comes closer. You recognized him from a few weeks ago from the Viltrumite ship, he was the king…? Emperor? Something like that, all you knew was that he was powerful…important.

You stood, wincing slightly after the beat down you had just received. His brow raised slightly, dark eyes trailing over your figure. Your torn suit, the way the blood ash and dirt clung to you, your bleeding nose and split lip.

“I saw your little…spar. I must say, I’m quite impressed you held your own so well. I’m constantly reminded the will of the human race, quite fascinating.”

“Uh…thank you?” How were you supposed to respond to that?

He says nothing for a while, staring out at city as the sun crept lower to disappear into the sea.

“…you and the boy, you are close? You seem to care for him greatly, considering how you threatened to murder your boss.”

Did he mean Mark?

“Mark? Yeah, he’s my closest friend. He…he’s important to me.”

Thragg scowls slightly, lower half of his face buried into the white furs of his red cloak.

“Are the two of you…courting?”

You sputtered, cheeks rising with color, “what?! No! No…he’s cute, yeah, but I can’t like him like that. It feels…ugh.”

He casts you a look, eyes narrowed, “you said he was important to you.”

You huff lightly, “yeah…like a best friend or a family member.”

He hums, “yes…forgive me for my assumption.”

He waits again, the silence growing awkward between the two of you. He speaks again, low like a growl, like he couldn’t believe he was actually asking this.

“…so you are unclaimed?”

What the fuc-

“I-I guess? I don’t understand-“

“Mate with me.”

Your eyes turn to saucers, jaw dropping at his request. No, not a request, he was stating it like this was a done deal. You had no choice, in his head you were already his.

“Excuse me?”

“Mate with me. Bare me a child and I may make you my official mate. My wife as you call it here on your planet. You are strong, females here aren’t from what I can see, not like your strength. I need someone strong to handle me and the barring and birthing of my child.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you did the only logical thing you could think of in that second.

You jumped off the skyscraper.

……………….……………….……………….………………………….

No, you did not jump to your death, you did it to get the fuck away from the scariest man you’ve ever encountered.

Like, who the fuck dumbs that on someone you just met?!

It’s only gotten worse since that first meeting a few months ago, he’s been getting bolder.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence that he began to show up at your day job as a barista, didn’t even recognize him because he was in real human clothes. It was only until one of your coworkers walks up to you with a scowl, murmuring that your “boyfriend” was an ass. You had quirked a brow, peaking over to look at your so called spouse when your heart stopped.

He was sitting at a table, tight dark grey shirt over his toned chest and meaty arms, dark blue jeans. There was nothing on the table in front of him, he was just…sitting there.

You swallowed, walking over and catching his attention almost instantly.

“…are you going to order something from the menu…sir?”

He looks at you, eyes narrowed as his frown grew. He looked hurt, if he could, and a bit offended.

“I would never ruin my body with your…human sustenance.”

God you hoped he didn’t say that to your coworker too.

“Sir-“

“My offer still stands.” He interrupted you, large hands clasped together on the table. His dark eyes watched you carefully, calculating, “no other female on this planet meets my standards…you are the closest thing to perfection I can get in this lesser planet. I wish for your hand. I want you to be my mate. I believe you can give me a superior offspring, one that might lead my people into a new age. I know you can give me that.”

A shiver ran through your body, and you swallowed. He was so…upfront, straight to the point like this was a business deal and not fucking marriage.

“I-“

“(Y/n)! Customers!”

“Look, I gotta-“

He stands, and you loose your breath at his height.

“I promise this to you…I will have you, but I will play this little game of yours. Until next time, mate.”

……………….……………….……………….………………………….

“And he won’t stop following you?” Mark asked, mouth full of fries as the two of you sit on top of Burger Marts roof.

“No! It’s driving me crazy! It’s been going on for weeks, Mark, WEEKS! He’s everywhere, Mark, I’m not even kidding. I’m at work, he’s waiting till I get off shift. I’m at the grocery store, he’s reaching to help me to the top shelf! I’m at college, he’s reaching sits and waits till I’m out of class! He’s legit, everywhere.”

You take a bite of your burger, “I’m honestly surprised I haven’t found him in my apartment yet.”

Mark laughs, feeling slightly bad for you, “hey…on the bright side, you aren’t getting cat called anymore because now you have a Doberman following you.”

“Ha. Ha. Not funny. Mark, he won’t stop asking me!”

Mark sighs, playful attitude lessening, “ I’m sorry, (y/n)…I wish I could help but everything is so tense right now with the Viltrumites and with Allen-“

“Mark, no, it’s fine. It’s just…I wonder if he’s ever gonna give up. I might have to just…ride this out until he gets bored of me I guess.” You throw your head back, dumping fry bits into your mouth.

Mark frowns, feeling terrible. He knew Thragg wouldn’t give up, he’d push and push until he had you. Willing or not.

And right now, you were the only reason earth hadn’t been destroyed yet…but he wasn’t going to tell you that.

[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