#their typical sunday brunch

[gurugirl]

Can We Start Over? | Ch. 2 The Job Offer

Series Summary: From the first day you and Harry meet, your relationship is beyond complicated. A one night stand leads to hurt feelings and then a job opportunity that you simply can't pass up is offered. But can you handle working for a man like him? rich!harry x plus size!reader | enemies to lovers

A/N: This is a 5 part series commissioned by @justfattiethings (thank you hon!).

Chapter 2. Summary: You can't stop thinking about what happened the night you met Harry and how much you hate him. But then you get some really good news about a new job. Except there's a catch.

Word Count: 9k

Warning: 18+ only, angst, alcohol consumption

Can We Start Over? masterlist

“Oh my god, Y/n. What a fucking dick. But your response was gold! I wish you’d stayed to see what happened. Holy shit!” Brandy laughed as she clinked her glass with yours, “That was some gangster shit right there!”

You both laughed at your recount of what had happened with Harry. You met your best friend Brandy for Sunday brunch at your usual spot. You had called her on Saturday after your exit paperwork was taken care of with Mr. Spector and said you had some very interesting news to tell her but that you wanted to share it in person. This wasn’t over-the-phone kind of gossip. It was a with-a-martini-in-hand face-to-face kind of gossip.

“And besides… the most important thing is at least you got off. Typical fuck-boy, good in bed but an absolute slut.”

You nodded, “Exactly. And it doesn’t bother me too much, really. Not now. Plus Mr. Spector gave me a really nice parting bonus. And I’m sure I’ll be matched with someone soon for another gig but even if it takes a few months, I won’t have to dig into savings thanks to him.”

And it was true. Mr. Spector presented you with the check and a hug and well wishes and you were nearly in tears by the time you left his estate. The movers were there the whole time, taking furniture out of his lovely home. A home you’d gotten to become very familiar with over the years. You held events and small parties there, you helped him redecorate the master suite and all the bathrooms (well you organized it all and helped the decorators and builders with the design and material selection). You even had your own room there. Not that you often needed to stay but that was part of your job description as a personal assistant. Sometimes you needed to stay. But usually, you’d go home at night.

The service that you worked for assured you there were a few clients in need of a personal assistant and if it was a good match, they’d refer you. That was important. To have the right match. You were lucky you were single and without kids. That meant you were more flexible. But that didn’t guarantee a good match.

You were sure you’d be enjoying a couple of weeks off work off to do nothing. It sounded fantastic.

.           .           .

You hadn’t expected to get an offer so soon. When Monica emailed you on Monday afternoon with the file and details of your new assignment (if you accepted) you perused the document with your mouth agape. You’d been matched with someone with what was known as stealth wealth (most were), who traveled frequently. You’d need to keep a bedroom in their home (not out of the norm) and travel with them from country to country. You would negotiate holidays and time off once meeting in person but the salary offered was the first thing you saw when you looked at the contract. There was no pressure to sign but how could you say no to an offer that would erase your college debt and allow you to buy a home in a year? You couldn’t let this one slip away. 

You emailed Monica back right away that you’d accept it and like to move forward. The next step would be to meet in person. Then, you’d find out more about who you’d be working for. The service was very discreet. The client was always given absolute anonymity until it was time for the first meeting.

You stared at your computer screen as if to will Monica to respond faster. Sipping your coffee you tapped your foot against the floor in anticipation. You kind of would have enjoyed some time off. A week or two of downtime. Sleeping in. Catching up on all the movies and shows you hadn’t had time to watch on Netflix. Order in pizza and Chinese, and day drink in your pajamas. But this opportunity wouldn’t be on the table for much longer. Another person would snatch this up in a heartbeat. That dollar sign alone would see to it.

When Monica finally responded you placed your mug of coffee down, held your breath, and clicked the email.

You’ll be meeting with the client tomorrow at 8:00 am at an address that will be sent to you via our private messaging app at 5:00 am. He requests you bring a physical copy of your resume and if you both agree to terms tomorrow he’ll bump up your salary 10% automatically. Confirm this is okay and I’ll set up the rest. Monica

You squealed as you quickly typed back a resounding Yes! Book it! Thank you!

You stood up and paced. Okay. So you learned the client was a he. Well, you’d blow him away. You’d make him want to hire you on the spot with that lovely little 10% bump.

You already knew the outfit. Thanks to working for Mr. Spector, you’d been allotted a stipend for very nice, and well-tailored outfits for when you needed to look chic and professional. Great for a first meeting, your double-breasted jacquard wool coat in neutral colors with a pop of blue, and your blue silk button-up tucked into your jacquard wool skirt, matching the coat. Stylish, flattering, and appropriate for meetings with a wealthy man who would undoubtedly be dressed very nicely as well.

It was perfect. You couldn’t believe how lucky you’d gotten. A new assignment so quickly and one that paid so well? It felt like fate.

.           .           .          

Harry had his house manager, Lucio, contact a highly recommended service to find a personal assistant for himself. He hated to find someone new because that was just one more person who knew his business. And he preferred having very few people in his circle. But Thasi was dumb. He couldn’t bear to have her working for him another minute. She had trouble with very basic tasks, like adding events to his calendar. She’d even missed two flights that he had booked for her and the last flight she missed he only realized it when she came into his study with a folder asking him about an account he needed to close out.

He stood from his desk and looked at the girl in astonishment, “Thasi. Why are you not 30,000 feet in the air right now? Why are you here standing in my house asking me this question? You are meant to be headed to New York City.” His voice was firm. Irritated.

The girl dropped her mouth open and blinked her eyes until it had finally dawned on her that she had forgotten to make her flight to meet with an art dealer on Harry’s behalf.

“I take it by the look on your face that you now realize your irreversible blunder. You’re fired. I’ll have your things sent back to your home by tomorrow afternoon.”

The poor girl couldn’t even argue with him. She knew she’d blown it. That was her second missed flight, of equal importance. And Harry felt he’d been quite generous and patient with her by giving her another chance. But he shouldn’t have.

So when he learned about Personal Premier Services from a few of his colleagues he decided to look for a PA that way rather than on his own like he had with Thasi. Harry’d had good luck finding staff for everything he needed for the last five years without help. The personal assistant was something rather new to him as he usually did most of his own errands by himself or had Lucio do them. But things were changing in his business and he needed an assistant quite desperately.

Harry woke before the sun rose and took his morning jog. He loved getting his day started earlier than most people. It meant he had time to do things like, exercise, catch up on world news, meditate, shower, and eat breakfast all before most other people would even be out of their beds. He also wished he could just stay awake forever. Wished he didn’t need sleep. There were so many things he could accomplish during the hours he wasted sleeping. But, being that he was only a mere human, his body required sleep.

“Sir? Y/n Y/l/n has just arrived. I have her waiting in the sitting room. Would you like me to bring her up?”

Harry cocked his head and looked to Lucio as he sat his pen down, “What did you say her name was again?”

“Y/n Y/l/n.”

Why did that name somehow feel so familiar?

“No. That’s okay, Lucio.” He stood from his chair, “I’ll go and greet her myself. Thank you.”

Harry’s immediate instincts told him that name was familiar. But why? And oddly, he first let his mind wander to it being you. But it couldn’t be. You were at the ball and he was certain you were wealthy just like him based on your outfit and your demeanor. He’d only gotten your first name that night, not your last name. And while Y/n was your name, the person looking for a job waiting for him downstairs certainly wouldn’t be the same woman who had put a used condom on his hotel door’s handle only to have his now ex-friend-whatever-she-was find it.

Yes. The ex-friend. Aster. He knew he should have stopped their little arrangement before she got too attached. It was never meant to be anything serious. From the start, he told her he was seeing other people but she never wanted to hear about anyone else he might have been sleeping with. And when he realized she started getting attached he should have recognized it was time to end it. But he didn’t.

Harry clenched his jaw and swallowed.

The knocking on his door had come a lot faster than he’d hoped. Aster wasn’t even supposed to be there. Her flight had been canceled so she wasn’t going to make it to New York City. He told her he’d see her the following day when he flew back. But of course, she rebooked a later flight without him knowing. As a surprise. And the call from Aster telling him she was on her way had shocked him and really put a damper on the night he thought he’d be enjoying with you. He just hoped she hadn’t passed you on her way to the door.

As soon as he opened it up, Aster slapped him across the face and held up a napkin with a blush-colored lip stain on it and a scribbled note. But what really had his attention was a droopy condom on his doorknob. Fresh with his come.

“What the fuck, Harry? What the fuck?!”

“Aster, I don’t… what is this?” He knew goddamn well what it was. It was you. “I think someone is just playing a joke on me. This isn’t mine…”

“The note, Harry? Whoever it is knows your fucking name.” Aster pushed passed him to make her way into the room.

Harry looked down the hallway and then cringed as he pulled the condom from the knob with the discarded tissue he picked up off the floor.

“Babe, this was just a cruel joke from someone–“

“Don’t you dare call me babe! And I don’t believe you. Who is going to play this kind of joke on you and then write your name on a napkin from the event you were just at?” She tossed him the napkin, “Hmm? I bet I know who. Someone you just fucked and kicked out because you didn’t think I’d come.”

Harry looked down at the napkin. Sure enough, it said A Secret Garden in the City with Alfred Spector’s company logo printed on it, as well as the note you’d written – Thank you, Harry xx. Bitch. He dropped the napkin onto the bed and ran a hand through his hair.

He didn’t know what to say. And it wasn’t like he’d been all that serious about Aster to begin with. She was gorgeous and they’d known one another for a while but that was where his attraction ended. In all honesty, he didn’t like her that much. Perhaps this was for the better, as much of an asshole as that made him seem.

“Aster, look…” he sighed and sat down at the edge of the messy bed, “You and I weren’t exactly serious. It’s always just been casual. You know that,” he looked at her with her hands on her hips, red in the face, tears just breaking her lash line. “I’m sorry. You and I were never headed for marriage. It was just some fun for a bit.”

“Some fun? I flew out here to see you on a whim. Not because I thought you were just a bit of fun but because I actually did like you. But you know what? You’re right. I don’t think I could have ever pictured myself marrying someone like you. Selfish, pathetic, overly regimented. You’re doomed to die alone, Harry.”

She pressed her lips together and waited for a response but when it didn’t come she stomped toward the door, slamming it behind her on her way out.

Harry smoothed his expensive blazer out and brushed off the feeling he was getting as he walked through the hallway to the foyer and then peeked into the sitting area where his interviewee would be sitting and waiting for him.

He nearly jumped back when his eyes met yours. Both of your faces held the same expression. Complete shock lined with minor disgust.

“This must be a joke,” you stood up from the plush silk-lined chair you’d been sitting in and looked around the room as if someone were going to pop out and tell you that you were on that show, Candid Camera, and it was all for a good laugh.

But the only person in your sight was the man you had a one-night stand with. The cocky asshole who’d treated you like garbage and then kicked you out of his room when he got a call from someone.

“I think there must be a mistake… You’re… are you a personal assistant? I’m confused.” Harry mimicked your body language, pivoting himself to look around to see if he could find someone and demand answers.

“Yes. That’s what I do for a living. But clearly, I have no intention of working for anyone like you, so if you don’t mind…” you picked up your briefcase and began to walk toward Harry to move past him and see yourself out.

But just as you walked through the threshold of the sitting room to the foyer Harry spoke, “Y/n.”

You stopped and turned to look at him in question.

“Come. Let’s have a chat,” he turned and began walking toward the grand stairwell that led upstairs, turning back to make sure you were following.

You blinked your eyes and scoffed as you looked down at your red-painted nails. Should you follow him? What would be the point? Just to hear him insult you and turn you away at the end anyway?

“You are looking for a job, are you not?” Harry spoke from the bottom of the stairwell, his hand on the lacquered wooden banister.

“I am. But… I don’t think this would work out.” You gestured at him.

“You and I are professionals and you come highly regarded. I’m in great need of an assistant. At the very least we can have a discussion and see where it takes us. I don’t like my time wasted and I’m sure you don’t either. You came all the way here. Let’s at least talk.”

Harry thought you looked cute and he could see the gears turning in your head. He could deal with the one night he’d had with you and the very improper thing you’d done which outed him to Aster if you were good at what you did.

“Yeah, but we…” you chose your words carefully, “Friday night? I honestly don’t think–“

“I can look past that if you can. This is strictly professional. I’ve no interest in anything more.”

What were you to do? He hadn’t just been a one-night stand. He was an asshole. Could he really pretend that none of that had happened? Could you?

But. There was the matter of the salary he was offering. An enticing and frankly irresistible number that could have you swallowing your pride.

“Fine. But I can assure you I will not tolerate being treated like…” you paused to carefully choose your words again. You were certain his house had staff listening in.

Before you could find the word you were seeking, Harry spoke, “Like an assistant who is paid to do her job flawlessly?” He began to take the steps upward and you followed.

You frowned at his description. As if you wouldn’t do your job flawlessly. You weren’t sure what he was implying but you had a bad feeling about this.

When you followed him into a large study with dark woods and big windows with heavy drapes, a huge walnut desk with an expensive chair and bookshelves lining one of the walls he closed, and locked, you noted, the door behind himself, “Sit.”

You looked at the plushy green velvet chairs with tufted cushions and ornate carvings in the arms and legs and placed your bag down on the chair next to the one you sat in. He sat in his own chair at his desk and looked at you, a harsh expression on his face. He was far more intimidating in this setting.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he spoke clearly as he kept his eyes pinned to yours, “What you did when you left that night is unforgivable in a personal setting. And because of that, you and I will never be friends. But that doesn’t mean we can’t work well together as boss and employee. I expect complete discretion and a professional attitude from anyone that works for me. Is that a problem for you?”

You felt your ears growing hot as your anger slowly rose, “I am the most professional and discreet personal assistant you’ll ever find. Anyone else will disappoint you and I would also expect that any employer would treat me professionally and fairly. What you did to me that night was insulting and something I will never forget nor forgive. So don’t worry, I’d never want to be a friend to anyone like you.” 

Harry clenched his jaw at your response and nodded, “Fair enough. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk job details and salary.” Harry looked down at his folder and opened it up.

“Salary? That part was already determined. Plus 10% on top if we come to an agreement on terms of employment today.” You reminded him.

Harry laughed and looked up at you with his head tilted to the side as if he were curious about you, “That was before I knew who I was offering such a generous salary to.” He looked down at the paper in front of him, marking something out and scribbling over it. He held the sheet of paper out to you.

You squinted at him and leaned forward to take the paper and your eyes widened at the new number he’d written in on the contract. You laughed and crumpled the paper as you stood from your chair, dropping it onto the floor and lifting your bag, “Goodbye, Mr. Styles.”

Turning and walking over the grand Persian rug that took up most of the floor you reached for the handle and when you pulled realized the door was locked. You placed your fingers over the keyhole and turned back to the smug fucker. He sat comfortably in his chair with his brows raised at you, unimpressed.

“Unlock the fucking door. This conversation is over.” You were fuming.

“And why’s that? I feel like that’s just a starting place. A negotiation if you will. Tell me why you deserve more and maybe I’ll consider it.”

“This isn’t a game. You had a perfectly fine offer that I was willing to negotiate off of but now you’re just insulting me, once again might add. I’d never work for anyone for that wage. Much less a self-absorbed man who treats women like rubbish.”

Harry folded his lips into his mouth as he tampered his grin. His cocky attitude was infuriating, “Oh please. Save the dramatics. Sit.”

You scoffed and shook your head, “No. You’re an overly egotistical moron with nothing to back it up. I will not stand for being insulted this way.”

Harry pushed himself out of his chair and began to walk toward you, “Nothing to back it up? Wrong,” he grinned as he looked around his extravagantly decorated room and back toward you, “This home is a great example of what I’ve got to show for my accomplishments. My bank accounts as well,” he slowly walked to your side and put his hand onto the heavy oak door you were standing in front of as he licked his lips and looked down at your outfit before looking directly into your eyes, “And I’m pretty sure I had you crying my name over and over again when I made you come. I’d say that’s a great reason for my inflated ego. You certainly thought I was great when I had my dick inside of you.”

You swallowed and then scowled at his nerve to bring up such a thing, “Well, like you said, I’m a bit dramatic. I was overplaying it that night because I didn’t want you to feel bad. Now open the fucking door.”

Harry’s smirk didn’t fall as he leaned in closer, “Liar. You loved it,” then he backed away, giving you enough space to breathe, “Not that you’ll ever have a chance to experience it again.”

“Like I’d want that little thing anywhere near me. Now, are you gonna open the door or do I need to call 911 for attempted kidnapping?” You dug into your bag and pulled your cell phone out.

Harry laughed and you watched in dismay as his dimples appeared. He looked too handsome to be such an asshole. He put his hands up in surrender, “Okay. Fine. We’ll go back to negotiating off the original salary plus 10%. Okay?”

You sighed. You hated that you were even considering it. The salary he was offering was too good, though. You could handle him if he kept personal matters out of your working relationship. The worst-case scenario would be that you quit and told the service about him and how he treated you (of course you’d gather evidence so no one else had to put up with his shit) and then find another job working for someone else.

You rolled your eyes and moved past him to go back to your seat.

Harry rounded the desk and sat down, putting his elbows on the desk once again, just like he’d done when you both first sat down to negotiate terms, “There we go. Money talks doesn’t it?”

Unfortunately, he was right. Money does talk.

You rolled your eyes again and looked at the back corner of his office to relieve yourself from his intense gaze.

“Less attitude, Y/n. Let’s begin, shall we?”

You suffered through an hour of going back and forth on expectations with Harry but at the end realized it wasn’t that bad. Once you both got out your frustrations at the beginning it seemed to flow smoothly after.

You even talked him into paying you 15% more, rather than just the 10%. Which you felt was a big win. Harry didn’t seem that phased by it.

He led you to what would be your room, which had your jaw dropping to the floor. It was… gorgeous. Like the rest of the house, it was grand and old but well-kept. The wide plank dark floors were covered with a light cream wool rug with small yellow, green, and blue flowers woven into the fabric. Long soft, lacy drapes hung from the ceiling and brushed against the floor over the tall windows that overlooked the massive back garden full of trees and flowers and fountains. The king-sized four-poster bed had a pale yellow, silk canopy with tiny blue birds sewn into the material. The bedspread was white silk with the same yellow and blue birds sewn in. Ornate, heavy wooden side tables, a dresser with a big vanity and silk-covered cushion sat across from the bed. An antique chandelier hung in the center of the room, high above the bed. Flowers and potted plants with green leaves rounded out the space. There were two closed doors. One led to a small closet (not a surprise it was so small for the period of the house), and the other to a fully updated, spa bathroom which… you really had to pause for a bit as you took it all in.

Harry handed you keys to the house and a fob key that would allow you in the gates that surrounded the home and told you to arrange to have your things moved in by the following day (on his tab) and that you would start work at 8am sharp.

You called Brandy the moment you drove out of the gates to tell her what had just happened.

“It’s him. It’s the asshole one-night stand. I just accepted the offer to be his assistant.”

“I’m coming over with a bottle of wine. I need details in person.”

“Brandy, I’ve got to make arrangements and get everything ready, I don’t know…” you hemmed as you drove down the road with your heart beating fast in your chest. You couldn’t believe you’d just accepted to work with Harry Styles.

“Don’t make stupid excuses with me. You can do all that with a glass of wine in your hand.”

.           .           .

“I see why you took the job. Damn. I’m jealous,” Brandy spoke as she stood in your bedroom doorway while you packed up things you’d need right away. Harry explained that you’d be staying at his house more often during the week than your own apartment. He ran a tight schedule and driving an hour to his house every morning didn’t sound appealing and he didn’t like to be kept waiting.

“Yeah. I was going to say no. I really was but… how can I turn down that offer? I’ve never made so much in my life and honestly? Probably never will again. I figure it’ll be like a trial run. We’ll see if he can be professional.”

You called around and found movers and arranged for them to have everything delivered to Harry’s address the following afternoon. It was still early in the day so you scheduled to have a set of your spare keys delivered by a courier by 5 pm so they could have access to your apartment the following day as you’d be gone.

You were busy the whole time Brandy was there but you were glad she was with you. You marked items you needed to have delivered and printed out a sheet of paper for a checklist for the movers.

But by the time your keys were picked up by the courier and you were halfway through the bottle of wine, you’d finally had time to sit and relax.

“You two are totally gonna fuck again,” Brandy grinned as she looked at the TV.

You scoffed and smacked her arm, “We are not. I’d never go near him again. Not after that night. I actually, fully despise him.”

“Yeah… sure. I mean… I know he was an asshole but also the way you spoke about how good he was in bed? How do you turn that down? You two are gonna practically be living together and traveling together. I don’t know… I looked him up. He’s hot, Y/n. An asshole but… we all have needs.”

Shaking your head you sipped your wine and ignored her. The thought had very very briefly crossed your mind but it was quickly pushed away because the reminder of how he treated you Friday night couldn’t be ignored. You’d never ever forget the way he made you feel so little and so disgusting.

“He literally cheated on someone while he was with me. He had a girlfriend. He fucked me as she was on her way over. Like…” you flailed your arms dramatically, “how could I possibly sleep with someone that is a cheater? I mean willingly? Now that I know?” You shook your head.

Still, Brandy didn’t seem deterred in her assumption, “Yeah… but we don’t really actually know who called him. And if it was someone he was seeing? I mean… come on. It’s not as if they were married. We can gather that much. Yeah, he’s shit for what he did but like… I don’t know,” she shrugged, “It’s not like he cheated on his wife or something.”

Brandy had always looked at things through rose-tinted glasses which was annoying. Where you were more practical and stubborn. There was no way you’d end up in his bed ever again. You didn’t know the excuse for why he kicked you out after he spoke on the phone and called someone babe. But that was beside the point. The more important factor was the way he treated you and that was simply unforgivable.

.           .           .

You were running late. You couldn’t believe it. Your alarm had gone off on time. You showered, ran through your quick morning routine, double-checked that all your things would be delivered to the correct address, and then you were on the road by 6:45 am. You allotted an extra 15 minutes in case of extra bad traffic.

But traffic is unpredictable.

“Hello?” Harry spoke into the receiver. You had your phone on speaker.

“Harry? Mr. Styles!” You corrected yourself, “Um… I’m stuck on the highway and it’s a bit backed up. I’m just giving you a heads up that I’ll be like…” You sighed and looked at the clock trying to make some kind of conservative estimate, “twenty minutes late?”

You heard him grunt in response and then sigh, “Fine. Please come up to my office the minute you walk in.” And then he hung up. That was it.

And of course, you half expected such a response. He gave you little indication of his opinion on you being late. You just hoped he didn’t hold it against you on your first day. It had genuinely been out of your hands. But then again, you being at the house with him on subsequent mornings would mean that being late in this way wouldn’t happen ever again.

When you parked at the front of the house you finagled your suitcase out of the backseat and lugged it up the front steps just as the door opened, “Good morning, Miss. Can I bring this to your room for you?” An older man stood with a smile as he scooped your suitcase away from you.

“Oh. Uh… Okay. Are you sure?” You followed him inside.

“Absolutely. Mr. Styles is expecting you right away.”

You swallowed and watched the man walk away as you took a breath. Your first day working for Harry Styles. Possibly also your last, depending on how everything went.

You climbed the stairs toward his study and knocked twice before pushing the door open gently.

“Come and sit.” He spoke right away. He didn’t even glance your way as he continued typing at his computer when he spoke.

You sat in the same chair you had the day previous and waited for him to finish whatever he was doing.

He cleared his throat and squinted at his computer screen, “I’m an art dealer as I mentioned yesterday. But… it’s more complicated than that sometimes. I deal in art and cultural artifacts that can sometimes be a bit…” he looked at you, “morally grey in the way they are handled. It’s rare but I do occasionally have opportunities and come across certain pieces when a collector is willing to pay an exorbitant finder’s fee for the item.”

“Morally grey. Which means illegal.” You corrected, keeping your eyes on him.

He shook his head, “No. Nothing I do is illegal. Some take issue with some of the items I procure and where they come from, but ultimately, everything I do is technically legal.”

You nodded. You didn’t know what he meant exactly. But you assumed you’d be finding out soon enough.

After Harry explained in detail your schedule from day to day, he had Lucio give you a quick tour of the parts of the house you didn’t see the day before. He even had a binder with your tentative weekly schedule, important numbers to have on hand, addresses, passcodes, a new laptop, and passwords to his login details for various online accounts. He also handed you a credit card, “You’ll make all your own arrangements as well as mine. The limit on this card will cover the cost of flights and accommodations. You and I will be traveling frequently, as I mentioned yesterday.”

Your morning was filled with short bursts of Harry giving you information and what to expect, but half of that consisted of you waiting while he spoke on the phone and typed out emails. You couldn’t imagine why an art dealer would be as busy as seemed to be. Clearly, he was making lots of money so there was no doubt that he was busy with clients. But why?

You researched the ins and outs of being an art dealer the evening before, once Brandy’s Uber arrived to take her home. The typical art dealer did not make the kind of money you knew Harry had. Most also typically worked through auctions, galleries, and museums. Harry seemed to be his own entity doing deals as an individual.  So you knew he wasn’t typical in his field.

At lunchtime you were hungry. You’d eaten something small before dashing to your car that morning but that had long been digested.

“Mr. Styles?” You looked at him from your spot in your chair as you closed your new laptop.

He looked at you with an eyebrow raised.

“It’s lunchtime for me. I was hoping I could get something to eat if that’s okay? You should probably also eat. I can bring you something if you take your lunch up here.” You honestly couldn’t have cared less if he ate, but you were so used to making sure Alfred ate that asking Harry was automatic.

Harry’s brows scrunched together and he looked at his computer screen, “Hadn’t realized the time. Sure. Feel free to make something for yourself or you can ask Carl to. I’d like a vegan cassoulet.”

You stood and looked at him in confusion, “A vegan… what?”

“A vegan cassoulet,” He pronounced the word obnoxiously, “Carl will know what I want. Just tell him.”

You repeated the word to yourself. Cas ooo lay – cas ooo lay… You thought it sounded like one of those French dishes you’d never ventured to try.

In the kitchen, you found Carl right away and told him what Harry wanted.

“And what for you?” He began to pull out pans and got to work right away.

“I can manage. I think just a sandwich. Is everything here in the fridge?” You opened up the door and immediately were overwhelmed by the amount of groceries and items packaged inside. The fridge itself was state-of-the-art. Everything in the kitchen was.

Carl laughed and stepped up behind you, “You can find everything you might need in this kitchen yes. But perhaps we’ll leave the cooking to me today, just until you get used to where everything is. What kind of sandwich would you like?”

“Oh. Maybe that’s a good idea. You don’t mind?”

Shaking his head, Carl reached passed you to pull out some vegetables, “Not at all. This is what I do. How about a French bread panini? I can slice up some turkey and Swiss, load it with vegetables? Or maybe you’d prefer grilled chicken and pesto? Egg salad? Or are you vegetarian?”

You laughed and shook your head, “I’m definitely not vegetarian. And the first one sounds fine. Turkey and Swiss panini. Any veggies you put on it will be good. I just don’t like mayo.”

It was wild to be having lunch made for yourself by a professional private chef. And Harry’s cassoulet looked divine but after googling it you learned it’s usually made with various kinds of meat and that the duck confit is what makes the dish. But since his version was supposedly vegan, you couldn’t imagine it tasting anything like it was probably supposed to.

You also learned that Carl wasn’t just a personal chef. He also did all the grocery shopping.

After lunch, your belongings arrived. The movers placed everything in your new bedroom and handed you the key to your apartment before they left.

“This is it?” Harry asked standing in the doorway as he looked around at the boxes and bags you’d had delivered.

“Yeah. I don’t have much I need to keep here. You’ve got the room fully furnished. Just my clothes and essentials.” You shrugged as you opened up the box near the bed.

You could feel Harry’s eyes on you as you dug into the box and pulled out your potted Pothos plant. “What?” You looked at him as you placed the plant on the floor.

“Nothing. Um,” he scratched the back of his neck, “I think it’s a good stopping point today. We’ve got you set up on everything so you can unpack and relax. Normally our days will be longer but since it’s your first…” he put both arms down by his side and stopped fidgeting, “It’s good for today. And like I said earlier, you are free to watch TV in the main room downstairs or get anything from the kitchen you need at all. You don’t need to just stay in your room all night unless you choose to.”

You squinted at him, wondering if there was some kind of catch. He was rather pleasant, you had to admit. After you both got everything out of the way the day before things had been fine. Normal even. But you still had to keep your guard up around him. And all it took to remember who you were dealing with was what he’d done that night.

You decided against going downstairs to watch TV. Maybe you’d feel comfortable enough to do that later on but that night, it felt nice to take a long bath and listen to music and then curl up on your soft, silky bed with your laptop and Netflix.

Though you did get thirsty. And a bit hungry around 8. So you ventured down and hoped to not run into anyone.

Except of course, you ran into someone. When you entered the kitchen you saw Harry standing in front of the refrigerator looking in. Apparently, he had the same idea as you.

You cleared your throat and Harry turned to see you there, “Oh, hey.” He closed the fridge and faced you, “Need something?”

You nodded and stepped toward the pantry, “A little hungry and thirsty. Is it okay?”

“Of course it is. Help yourself to whatever. I was just about to make some pasta. Something simple. Would you like some?”

“Yeah. I can help you make it. What do we need?” You neared the fridge and opened it up, pulling out a glass pitcher of water.

Harry ran down the list of ingredients, which weren’t many, and you helped him slice garlic while he boiled the pasta and poured a can of San Marzano tomatoes into a small pot.

Everything came together quickly and you both sat at the island to eat the late-night meal together.

“Tomorrow we’ll book a trip to Vancouver. Someone has a few pieces I’d love to see in person.” Harry explained what to expect on the trip as you listened.

Then you got to talking about your parents and then college. Harry shared a little about himself but it wasn’t much. You didn’t expect that he would, but he did tell you about his mom and sister. You could tell how important they were to him just by the way he spoke. It made you feel warm toward him in a way knowing that he cared about people other than himself. Something you hadn’t been sure about as he seemed so cold.

When you were both done you tried to help him clean up, “You don’t have to do this, Y/n. I’ve got a housekeeper who will be here in the morning. Why don’t you go to bed?”

“Are you sure? Are you headed to bed?” You asked as you placed the forks into the sink.

He nodded, “Yeah. Time to call it a night.”

“Do you always go to bed this early,” you grinned as you refilled your water to bring it with you to your room.

He raised his brows, “Yeah. I get up at 4:30 in the morning to start my day so 9:30 or 10 is about when I go to bed.”

You cringed to yourself. 4:30 in the morning? That sounded like hell.

You both went your separate ways as you bid Harry good night.

.           .           .

You had a busy morning. You booked a trip for the following week to Vancouver for yourself and Harry. Two nights at The Four Seasons (2 separate rooms, connected), first-class airline tickets, a reservation for the 2nd evening at a nice restaurant for four people, an on-call driver for the whole visit, and set-up details with someone’s assistant named Lana for the meeting.

Harry wanted everything to be perfect so you had to work at extracting as much information from Lana as possible. At first, Lana sent you an itinerary that was rather simple and would have most people feeling good about the meeting. But Harry took one look at it and knew he needed more information. So you spent the majority of your morning speaking with the young woman and filling in details that appeared to be missing.

“This is excellent, Y/n,” Harry looked up at you as he stood from his desk. The itinerary and all the bookings were taken care of. “I’m leaving to take care of something personal. You can have the rest of the day off. Thank you.”

You felt pleased. So far, working for Harry hadn’t been all that bad. He was picky and hard to please but you could handle him. You just hoped that the momentum you two had would continue into the weeks ahead.

.           .           .

You met Brandy out at your favorite club. You wore a cute black dress and black booties and your black leather jacket.

“Oh damn, girl! You look good!” Brandy called to you when she spotted you through the crowd.

“I can’t stay all night! I have to work in the morning, so I stop at 2 drinks!” You spoke loudly so Brandy could hear.

Brandy’s side eye told you that your friend would be trying to get you to enjoy yourself for longer. But you couldn’t. The last thing you wanted to do was to be on Harry’s bad side and be hungover the next morning.

But, Brandy was convincing. Too convincing at times.

Four martinis in and you were painfully aware that you wouldn’t be driving back. You’d need an Uber and that kind of sucked because Harry would know when your car wasn’t there. But… since you’d already need to Uber and you were already out, you had a fifth martini and danced with Brandy and forgot all about your promise to yourself.

The night grew blurry and you couldn’t stop talking about your boss.

“He’s so put together too,” you slurred as you and Brandy leaned into one another, too drunk to dance or drink anymore.

“I know. You keep saying that. And how big his cock was,” Brandy laughed and you pushed her, causing her to stumble back dramatically so you reached out to steady her but wound up falling with her to the floor in a fit of laughter.

Yeah, you’d gotten sloppy drunk.

“I need to go,” you pushed yourself up to stand as you reached for your cell phone. You could hardly see straight, and pulling up the Uber app was simply not going to work. Instead, you called the second to last person you’d texted, Harry. You really hadn’t put much thought into it.

He answered the line and you pushed your way toward the front of the club to go outside, dragging Brandy with you, “Harry!” You howled loudly.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at Club Yega. Can you pretty please come pick me up? I’m so drunk.” Your voice was scratchy and your words were watery.

Once you got outside you repeated your question, unable to hear what Harry had responded to you.

“Okay. Just wait for me outside. Is there anyone with you?” He sounded concerned.

“Brandy is here and the security guy standing by the door,” you said matter-of-factly before hiccupping.

Harry told you he’d be there soon and Brandy wobbled into your side as she used one eyeball to call an Uber for herself.

You were unable to recall how long it took for Harry to arrive, or when Brandy had gotten into her Uber and left but when you saw him, he was standing over you with his hand out, “Up you get,” he grasped your hand and helped you stand up. You’d been sitting on the sidewalk.

“Should be more responsible,” Harry chided you as he helped you to his running car, “No one’s watching over you. Where’s this friend you had with you?”

“She was here I promise but her Uber came to get her,” you stumbled into his car and plopped down into the seat with an umph!

Harry looked back at the front door security person and nodded to him as he rounded the car and got inside.

“Harry, I’m sorry. I was going to only have 2 drinks. Swear.”

“It happens. But you should have called me sooner. Don’t like that you were sitting out there alone like that. It’s late. And we have an early day tomorrow.”

You turned to look at him as he pulled into the street and reached a hand up to the curl that covered the top of his ear, “You’re so pretty. Which is weird because you’re such a fucking dick.”

Harry shook his head and laughed to himself as he kept his eyes on the road.

“I’m serious. You’re too pretty for it to be real. Your voice even.” You croaked.

Harry glanced at you quickly, “Oh yeah?” His grin widened. He knew the alcohol was talking but he certainly didn’t mind hearing your thoughts about him while you were inebriated.

“Yeah,” you lowered your finger to his shoulder and then poked at his bicep before dropping your hand back into your lap, “Nice everything. Except you’re not actually nice are you?” You let out a garbled laugh and closed your eyes for a moment.

“Hey… Come on. You’re drunk. Just close your eyes and we’ll be home soon.”

You shook your head and looked back at him, “Bossy too. But it sucks because it was so good that night. God I still think about it… and then I remember how you kicked me out like I was filthy. That was mean. Hurt my feelings.”

Harry sighed and stayed quiet. He was not going to engage in this kind of conversation with you while you were drunk. He was sure you wouldn’t remember any of it anyway.

But you didn’t stop there, “I wish I could stop thinking about it, though. S’not fair.”

Harry kept his eyes on the road and listened.

“The way you sounded when you were coming. I keep hearing it,” you squeezed your thighs together and looked out the window with a soft sigh. “Never had it like that before. But fuck you.”

Harry swallowed and blinked his eyes. He was a little surprised by your drunk confession. He liked that you thought fondly of some aspects of that night. Clearly you had enjoyed the sex. But to hear you saying how your feelings were hurt and that you were still angry about it all?

He looked over at you and down to your thigh where your dress had ridden up quickly before looking back at the road. He still refused to engage in this. You were drunk. Very much so.

“And your hands, Harry…” you reached over to brush your fingers over the back of his hand that was gripped on the steering wheel, “Oh god…” you breathed your words, “Your fingers. How good you are with them,” you bit your lip and leaned your head back into the leather seat and closed your eyes. “But still fuck you.”

When you were silent for a few minutes Harry looked over at you and noticed you were asleep.

He was glad you’d stopped staying the things you were. Your words had him confused. You were going from hot to cold fast. But he knew you wouldn’t ever reveal such things to him if you hadn’t been so far gone.

Waking you up gently, he put his arms under yours to help you out of his car, “We’re home, Y/n. Let’s get you up to bed.”

You were able to use your legs, but things were spinning. You clung tightly to Harry as he slowly brought you upstairs to your room.

When your bottom hit your mattress you laid back and sighed, “I might throw up,” you said.

Harry laughed quietly and shook his head as he helped you out of your shoes. He knelt down and unzipped the leather to pull each one off. He didn’t intend to let his eyes wander over your legs and your thighs, but your dress had gotten bunched up so he could practically see your panties. And then they were fully on view when you scooted yourself into your bed further.

Harry leaned over you and pulled your blankets up over your body, “I’ll be right back with water.”

He couldn’t believe how adorable he thought you were. Even though you were still angry at him over what he’d done he liked the sass a little. He was definitely attracted to you. There was no doubt in his mind about that. He tried not thinking about that night with you but after you’d brought it up he couldn’t help himself but to indulge in thoughts of the way you felt and how wet you got for him. Your body, your voice… You were good with your hands too, he smiled remembering your comment about how you liked his hands. But of course, the smile fell from his face when he remembered how the night ended. How shitty he’d been. But now things were too complicated and he wasn’t sure that any kind of apology would ever be enough.

When he got back to your room you were asleep. Out cold. He placed the water on your nightstand and brushed his fingers along your forehead. You were cute.

He plugged in your cell phone and smiled at your sleeping face.

“Good night, pretty girl,” he whispered as he turned off the lamp next to you before leaving the room and closing the door behind himself.

Part 3

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[foreingersgod]

caitlin clark x reader where the reader is very feminine and people don’t realize that shes 💅

She likes girls . CC

pairing: caitlin clark x reader

synopsis: although you’re a raging gay, you don’t typically look the part. if you had a nickel for every time you and caitlin got mistaken for beings besties or sisters, you’d be rich

A/N: thought this would be a cute little blurb, so anon, if you want me to edit this and make it longer, please message me :)

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

“i don’t know maybe i’m doing something wrong?” you asked caitlin, legs draped over her lap. it was a sunday afternoon spent on the couch, relaxing after brunch with her family.

“baby” she patted your leg “you’re not doing anything wrong!”

“then why do people not take us seriously?” you were incredibly frustrated “if someone treats us like we’re best friends one more time i’m going to lose it”

it happened often, definitely more than you wished. you would be mistaken as caitlin’s sister or her best friend constantly. at first it just started when you started dating publicly. you’d receive comments like “you and your friend have a nice day!” or “she’s a good friend, keep that one around!”. it was sweet at first, but then cait introduced you to her team. they thought she was kidding when she announced you as her girlfriend. it wouldn’t necessarily have been a big deal, but it hurt your feelings that they didn’t genuinely believe that caitlin would date you. even when you met her family, the entire lot of them thought caitlin was bringing home a roommate for the holidays.

“i’m so sorry! you just don’t…look gay” her mom would exclaim, trying to apologize. you tried to not look hurt, you understood even.

“mom” caitlin interfered, already knowing how you were upset once again that you were mistaken for a friend. “it’s ok, but can we just drop it? please?”

now, today at brunch, the waitress asked for caitlin’s number right in front of you. while her parents and brothers were talking about work and school and while you and cait were discussing plans for next week, the young woman scurried over to hand caitlin a napkin with her number on it. caitlin had one arm around your shoulder, another fiddling with the rings on your fingers, and the waitress still didn’t catch a hint. after unfolding the crumpled napkin and seeing the bold black numbers, caitlin immediately declined and motioned to you, she was taken.

“oh my god,” the waitress said “i thought you guys were like friends or something i’m so sorry”

you weren’t surprised.

“i feel like something IS wrong though!” you reply to caitlin, running your hands through your hair in annoyance. “i hate that people don’t even see me as your girlfriend and it sucks!”

“i know, but we’re together either way and that’s all that matters” her words of reassurance were doing little to change your mind.

“maybe it’s the way i dress? i know i’m very feminine and stuff, so maybe that’s the issue”

caitlin laughed “YN, it doesn’t matter how you dress, ok? just because people assume we’re friends or assume you’re straight doesn’t mean that it changes your identity at all. i love the way you dress and i don’t want you to change just because people are blind.”

“you’re right, i just want people to know that we’re together” you sighed.

“me too,” she agreed “but at the same time, i really like saying ‘she’s my girlfriend’ to people”

god she was so sweet, “i really like that too”

#caitlin clark x reader #caitlin clark #wcbb #wcbb x reader #iowa wbb

[silkscream]

CHAPTER 1: I'LL BE YOUR PLASTIC TOY

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader, geto suguru x reader

Satoru Gojo was a lot of things, but he would never be yours. Sleeping with him in his bed as a child didn’t grant you that kind of closeness anymore. Within these halls, you walk past each other like strangers.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: angst, suggestiveness, making out, light bullying

ੈ✩ wc: 5.5k

ੈ✩ a/n: i am here to ruin everyone's lives. apologies in advance

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

March, 2008

“Hey, Twigs. Wanna see something cool?”

His honeyed voice chills your spine, his breath warm right by your ear. You roll your eyes as you turn to face Satoru, grinning with all his teeth as he tugs at your wrist. 

“What is it, Satoru?” you sigh.

“You have to follow meee,” he sings, pulling you away from the table you’re setting and towards the side of the porch. It’s secluded. Private. “Bring the spoon.”

With furrowed brows, you oblige. It isn’t like you have a choice. You had followed him around like a puppy ever since you’d met him as a child. You continue to, regardless of your determination to separate yourself from him.

His favorite shadow. His little pet.

The two of you aren’t as close as you were when you were children, but it’s still impossible to refuse him when he has a request. You blame it on your mother and her professionalism. You figure you had inherited it from her. That hyper-politeness. You find that you blame the ocean blue of his eyes more often. Always sparkling. 

He walks a few feet away from you, still grinning. You blink at his tall figure. He's currently dressed in a baby blue dress shirt (sleeves rolled up, of course) and black slacks. His Sunday best for the fancy brunch at the Gojo Estate. Every April, your mother summons you to help set up, then rewards you with a plate and time to play with the other kids. She would continue her work, serving the family and their guests. You would pretend that you weren’t part of the staff.

There hadn’t been a point in you staying for the afternoon in years. Only if Satoru begged you to, and even then, he hadn’t bothered to do so since junior high.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you huff, crossing your arms. You wipe your sweaty hands on your smock.

“I’d never let you get in trouble, you know that,” he smirks. “Now, throw the spoon at me.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

“I want to throw way more than a spoon at you right now.”

“Relax, Twigs. Do this for me. Please?” he pouts. You can see his bright blue eyes peeking out of his black sunglasses, framed by snow-white lashes. It was unfair how pretty he was. How easily he could persuade you. 

Sighing, you throw the spoon in his direction. It stops right in front of his face as if there’s an invisible wall. He laughs in victory when he sees your confused expression. 

“What was that?” 

“My Infinity. I’ve perfected it so that it’s automatic. Took me a lot of willpower before but now it’s as easy as breathing.”

“Congratulations,” you reply dryly. 

It was typical of Satoru to be invincible. Untouchable. It had been a quality of his since birth, now manifested into a literal power to aid him against threats. You’d been on the outskirts of such threats when you were younger, but Satoru would always spare you the details.

Watching him grow in his adolescence had been like watching a sprout bloom. It shot toward the sky exponentially until it became a tree in record time. You, meanwhile, were still a sprout. A window, they’d called it. Able to see the horrors produced by human nature but unable to do anything about it.

Your head snaps up, alert when you hear your mother yelling your name from the porch. She points a hard gaze at you, then softens it when she sees Satoru.

“Satoru-kun, do you mind if I steal her for a minute? I need some extra hands for the tamagoyaki.”

Satoru nods, expressing his courtesy to your mother in his usual charming poise. It used to work on you before, but it often irks you now. The way he dazzles people to get what he wants. You would rather die than admit it was a characteristic of his that you envied.

He tugs at your braid before you walk away.

“See you later, Twigs,” he calls after you. A playful lilt to his voice. 

“You won’t.”

Satoru has you memorized. Since the two of you were five years old, he considered you his mirror image, though you never believed him. 

Often, when he sees you now, his heart leaps the tiniest bit in his chest the same way it did when he was thirteen. He’s gotten better at ignoring it. He’s perfected the art of ignoring you ever since high school started.

He likes to indulge during times when you’re not looking. At the moment, you’re concentrated on a flower arrangement, a blush painted on your cheeks from the heat. He’d watch you do this when you were kids, too. Your face would be in a concentrated frown, tongue peeking out. Nimble fingers perfecting an ikebana arrangement. 

Sometimes he missed it. He decided long ago that it would be better if he didn’t.

You two had been inseparable since the day the Gojos' hired your mother as a maid. He remembered you hiding behind your mother’s legs, chewing on the end of one of your braids. You would stay in the guest house of the Gojo estate with your mother, and you would become Satoru’s best companion. 

Both of your mothers would arrange playdates. Satoru’s mother wanted him out of her hair. Your mother wanted to work without your constant interruptions. You were needy, an only child, but Satoru would always please you with his company. It was why you adored him.

He’d show you all his toys and teach you all the games that his extended family would show him to make you feel included. He’d have you sleep in his bed, which would go under the radar until the two of you were fourteen. It would be innocent and wholesome. Satoru would show you the stars he’d learned about and you would look at him as if he’d hung them in the sky himself. 

Satoru often reminisces about the shape of your body to this day. Sometimes, he misses it when he’s alone in his king-sized bed in the winter. Even with the heat on, there’s still something missing, and then he thinks of you.

When you were kids, you’d sleep together, legs and arms intertwined. Drool on the same pillow. Wake up to an abundance of pancakes from your mother.

You had been half a friend, half a plaything. Satoru’s counterpart. Feet kicking each other under the breakfast table. 

At age five, you’d seen the same curse together. A harmless thing, chameleon-like, with eight legs on each side. It had a nasty face, one that you had recognized from your nightmares. It had been exciting at first, knowing that you shared the same ability as your best friend. You believed that you would grow with him and become as talented as him.

But that was an exaggeration. Satoru's parents knew how isolating it would be for their son to be the strongest. Your technique never came.

Satoru acted as your protector, then. Expelled the small, vicious curses in the corners of your room like they were bugs. You’d watch him train, his body overgrowing with knobby knees as you sat on the sidelines. And while you grew up with him, you only got smaller in his periphery. Always lesser. Always weaker.

It’s the reason you’d grown apart. At least that’s what he tells himself. 

Satoru had grown into a tall, arrogant child. He treated school as a hobby and still made the highest marks, which angered you to no end. It didn’t matter to him, anyway, knowing that he’d become a company's CEO or the best jujutsu sorcerer in the world. He had his future in the palm of his hands. You were not a part of that. You weren’t even sure of a future of your own.

Sometimes he would have nightmares of you dying in his arms at the hands of a curse too big for him to control. During adolescence, he experienced many threats to his safety. He knew he couldn't live with himself. He couldn’t bear to see you endure the same. 

So, without explanation, Satoru Gojo pretended you didn’t exist. He exchanged the necessary niceties in school and when you'd come over with your mother, though he'd never ask you to stay the same way he had when you were kids. He was often occupied with new friends, anyway. Often busy working on his technique. Nothing that was your business, of course.

You resented him for it. 

Now, you’re enduring your last year of high school with him, and you are trying so badly to be good. You should aim to make good enough marks to attend a decent university on a decent scholarship. God knows you aren’t fit for the world of jujutsu sorcery. 

In a way, you’re okay with the mundanity of your life. Satoru’s absence in your heart convinced you of that. 

Satoru’s attendance at school is only an illusion of normalcy for his parents. His mother insists on it. Barely a sorcerer herself, she had wanted to give her son the option of living a normal life. With his grades and wit, she knew that he could easily be successful as a businessman or a doctor. 

Despite this, Satoru knew he would enroll in Tokyo’s Jujutsu Technical College with Suguru. He had met Suguru when he was fifteen, trying to exorcise a curse that only got snatched by a dark-haired thief, one who would end up as his best friend. 

Satoru saw Suguru as his only equal. He had no one else to relate to about jujutsu sorcery. 

Certainly not you.

But still, he was closing another year of high school, his last. Then he could be free from his parents’ restraints. It was easy for him to be the best and make the most friends. It was a shame that he’d have to leave them all behind. 

You’re a ghost in Satoru’s wake. Always near, never faltering yet never consuming too much space. As the school year progresses, he ignores you like a mosquito bite. Harmless but still itching his skin. Always reminded of your presence even when you do nothing to draw attention to yourself. 

And then there are times that you do.

“I’m sorry, sensei,” you mumble, stunned in the doorway of the classroom.

It’s a nondescript weekday in May, one that’s wet with rain, which explains your damp hair and clothes. Your appearance conjures a succession of snickers. The sound of low laughter taunting you and whispers gossiping about you.

You’re too tired for it. You don’t want to be here at all.

“I’m disappointed,” your teacher relays. “You’re usually never tardy.”

“It won’t happen again,” you muster.

You hear more whispers. It hangs on your shoulders as you sit in your seat, still and heavy as you attempt to take notes.

Should’ve worn something more sheer, than she’d get the attention she wants, huh?

Nah, not like her tits are even good enough to be seen like that.

Bet she’s hiding something from all of us. Maybe we can get her to strip in the girls’ locker room and give us a show later.

“Shut the fuck up,” a voice growls. You hear it, turning your head, and your eyes fall on Satoru’s fiery blues. 

You wonder if the feeling of his gaze searing into the back of your head is worth mentioning. It makes your face hotter, the flush of humiliation warming your neck as your peers snicker at you.

You manage to get through class without crying. Haru, a boy you were closer with in previous years, offers his sweatshirt to you as you collect your things. 

“She’s good,” Satoru interrupts as you strip off your damp sweater. Within seconds, he has you under his arm. He ushers you out the classroom door. His oversized jacket drapes over your shoulders.

“Gojo,” you hiss. “He was just being nice.”

“Or he wanted to see you in a wet t-shirt. I don’t think white was the best move for today, by the way.”

Your face heats up when you look down. You realize the extent of skin that’s visible from the sheerness of your damp white shirt. It mortifies you more when you realize that Satoru had caught it first.

“Right. Thanks,” you mumble, hiking up your bookbag tighter on your shoulder. 

“So helpless sometimes,” Satoru sighs. He shoots you a devilish smile that combats your scowling frown. “Why don’t you call me by my first name here?”

“Because we’re in school and it’s polite.”

"Twigs, are you scared of being associated with me?"

He blocks the door of your locker, leaning against it and towering over you. Satoru had always taken up as much space as possible without a care in the world. You were the opposite -– always compartmentalizing yourself to be smaller. Malleable. Amicable.

He’s too close for comfort, nearly breathing down your neck. He only moves when you kick him pathetically in the shin.

Satoru’s smile only grows bigger as you ignore him. He wonders if he could get your fuse to blow in front of him right now. This place is usually where you’re composed, regal, and expedient. One of the school’s top students. 

He knew you had an edge to you, wild as you were when he had known you as a child. But you had only grown to be responsible and sensible. He thinks that his mother would be relieved if he acted more like you.

“Coming home with me or what?” Satoru quips. The way he says it makes your stomach stir. It's an almost salacious suggestion despite its innocence. Satoru always made everything sound more exciting than it was.

“Why would I?” you raise a brow.

“My mother would like to see you. She told me she had some hand-me-downs for you to try on." You know I’d love nothing more than to see you parade around my house dressed like my mother in the 70s.” He grins in amusement.

“Okay, sure, whatever.”

“Yo, Satoru!” 

His head whips around to see one of his buddies, crowded around other jocks. Satoru is quick to leave you without so much as a goodbye. 

July, 2008

After your semester, you end up second to Satoru. It’s no surprise to you despite how much it infuriates you. You are never anything more or less. 

"Congratulations, Twigs," Satoru murmurs to you. He startles you from your thoughts. You slam your locker closed.

“Why are you still calling me that?”

“Because you’re my Twigs,” he pouts.

Yours. It’s a funny lie. Satoru Gojo was a lot of things, but he would never be yours. Sleeping with him in his bed as a child didn’t grant you that kind of closeness anymore. Within these halls, you walk past each other like strangers.

He pouts childishly like he always does. There’s a devilish spark in his blue eyes underneath his sunglasses, though you can barely make out his irises from his height. Satoru’s growth spurt had him at over six feet tall by the time he was sixteen. It was obvious that he’d only grow taller. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes at the nickname. If you were in middle school again, the notion would warm your heart. It had been a stupid nickname he’d tease you with ever since you were both ten. You had been angry at him for reasons that escaped you, climbing up the tree in the backyard of his estate as high as you could until he begged you to come down.

You wouldn’t, of course. You were always stubborn like that, and Satoru loved it. 

You were also much clumsier when you were ten, slipping your foot as you attempted to climb a different branch and falling into Satoru’s arms. It had been a miracle you didn’t break any bones, but thanks to Satoru’s freakish strength, you were unharmed. Only disheveled with leaves and twigs stuck in your frizzy hair. He had called you Twigs ever since. 

“I’m not your anything. Even if my mother is still your fucking maid.”

“Aren’t you my maid, too? My little servant?” he teases. 

You wonder if he knows how cruel it is, even if it’s a little joke.

“I’m nothing to you,” you mumble. You attempt to hold a faster stride on your walk home. Maybe you’d advance enough to leave him in the dust. You could be the best runner on the track team if you managed that.

But you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t leave him, couldn’t. Not a chance.

“What was that?” Satoru calls after you.

“Nothing!”

“Slow down,” he whines, running fast enough to follow your stride, much to your annoyance. Him and his stupid, long legs. His taunting smile. “Don’t you wanna come over?”

“Why would I?”

“Your mom’s probably there. And we can celebrate the end of exams.”

“I have… stuff to do,” you stammer.

“No, you don’t,” Satoru chuckles. “The semester’s over. Summer’s here, baby.”

“Don’t call me that!”

He laughs again, the sound twinkling in your ears like a beloved song. It makes your cheeks warm. You don’t want him to see it. 

Yet, he wraps his arms around you, chin nestled to your collarbone as if you were joined together. In a blink, the two of you are in his kitchen, with whiplash only an after-effect. You still hadn’t gotten used to his ability to warp.

“I hate when you do that.”

“You like it, I know you do,” Satoru taunts. “It excites you. I can tell because your cheeks get all flushed.”

“They do not!”

“Sure, they don’t, Twigs.” 

“You’re annoying,” you huff, dropping your school bag on a chair.

Satoru greets your mother with a kiss on the cheek as you follow behind him. She has tea prepared in the sitting room for you and him, along with dorayaki and matcha Swiss rolls.

“Your mom’s the fucking best,” he muses as he gobbles down a third roll. You watch him in feigned disgust. Sipping your tea, you mumble something unintelligible in agreement.

“What, you aren’t hungry?”

“No.”

“Try this.”

“I have. She’s my mom.”

“C’mon, Twigs, open up.” 

Satoru leans over the table with a Swiss roll between his fingers, waving it in front of your face. There’s no point in protesting -– he’d probably knock something over from his eagerness to annoy you. You part your lips to take a bite, and at the same time, he shoves it into your mouth.

“Satoru!” you groan.

“Stay still.”

You swallow your bite and he wipes his fingertips on the corner of your mouth. He’s close enough to feel your breath on his face, licking up the frosting on his thumb nonchalantly. He chuckles at the flustered look painting your face into a scowl.

“I’m done. I’m going to do the dishes.” 

You excuse yourself to retreat to the kitchen before you can so much as make eye contact with Satoru again. He has to be teasing you with his small touches. It’s something he would’ve done when you were twelve, yet the notion now would be different. 

The two of you were in completely different social spheres. He had separated himself from you years prior. It would be a rare sight for him to be so touchy with you in public, acting as if you were like him. 

Someone who had a big kitchen. Someone who didn’t have to think about expenses.

It’s a miracle that he leaves you alone as you clean the kitchen, washing dishes to keep your mind occupied. After you’re done, you decide to cut up a bowl of strawberries. You knew they were Satoru’s favorite. Knowing him, he’d still crave something sweet after demolishing all the desserts.

You nick yourself. A careless act — you aren’t paying attention, mistaking the sharp side of the knife for the dull one. It slices the inside of your thumb. Cursing under your breath, you hover your hand over the wound. You heal it within milliseconds without so much as a second thought.

This is when Satoru kicks at something. The wall or a potted plant, you don’t know. But it’s a plea for attention and it brings your focus to him, your head snapping up to meet his gaze and his childish pout. 

“I saw that,” he says, lowly.

You freeze under his scrutiny. You don’t say anything.

“So you’ve been lying to me.” It’s a seething accusation instead of a question.

He gets so close to you without you even noticing. He towers over you again, swallowed by the whole of his shadow, and his betrayed frown is petulant like a child’s. 

“Satoru—”

“You said you didn’t have a cursed technique.”

“I—I didn’t. Not until later—”

“When?”

Your eyes are wide as you look up at him, hands trembling. He takes a step forward, taking up more space. It reminds you of your worth. The mere fact of him belittles you in that way.

“When I was thirteen. My kitten, Aki. The stray. You remember him, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“He got hit by a car one day, and I couldn’t stop sobbing. And I was holding him in my hands all bloody. And then, I brought him back to life. It just happened.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You search Satoru’s face. There’s a bit of betrayal in it, mostly surprise. It boils your blood in the slightest bit — because why is it so shocking that you ended up with a cursed technique? You may have hidden it from him for a few years, but was it something so unimagined for you?

You assumed that you would always be a plaything in Satoru’s eyes. Something so easy, so useless.

“It wasn’t enough,” you exasperate. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t matter. None of it does, Satoru. It’s so—”

Insignificant. Small compared to you.

He waits, swallowing the lump in his throat. Eyes flaring like comets.

“It doesn’t matter,” you repeat. “I don’t even want to be a sorcerer, and even if I wanted to be, I could never keep up with you. I don’t see the point in pursuing this if I’m better off just studying at a normal university—”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Your technique is amazing. It’s like Shoko’s! You could’ve —”

“Satoru,” you emphasize. Your tone shuts him up, your hardened gaze, the lightning in your eyes bright and sharp. Menacing, even. You can sense the sound of him swallowing, a lump lodged in his throat loud enough for you to hear.

White lashes flutter. A frown is still displayed on his face. It’s now that he notices the slight bags under your eyes. Evidence of burden, of nights spent awake under the unforgiving moonlight.

You look at him in a way that feels damning — like you’re coaxing something from him. He knows better — knows that his anger is misplaced, that you’re right.

You having a healing technique is nothing compared to him. Even then, he knows that you probably aren’t interested in combat or the world of jujutsu sorcery in general. It doesn’t affect him so negatively. So what is he so angry about?

The question is in your eyes, pleading. He already knows the answer despite not admitting it to himself. He knows that the prospect of you having a cursed technique doesn’t mean you’re stronger than him. He assumes you wouldn’t surpass him, and wouldn’t think you to be someone who would even think about it. 

Satoru knows he’s angry because he feels very close to you. He had at least thought he was close enough with you to know about your cursed technique. It was finding out that you were hiding it from him that made him angry. Learning that you had it manifest in front of you and didn’t bother to fucking tell him about it.

He can’t voice any of these frustrations. He knows you’d yell at him, and criticize him for thinking he’s entitled to you. It’s inappropriate and unfair, but in his younger years, he often felt that he was entitled to you. He’d known you since you were so very little, so vulnerable. He had protected you from all those curses, hadn’t he? He held you in his arms in his bed for years. That had to have meant something to you. It certainly meant something to him. 

“Sorry. I just wish you told me earlier,” he says softly. 

You apologize. Meek beneath him, eyes avoiding him. 

“I know,” you sigh. “I have to go. I’ll see you later, Satoru.”

You don’t see him for a week and a half. It should be typical to you. It’s not like him to reach out or go out of his way to see you. He’d always been like that, giving you no expectations. And yet, his radio silence had crawled under your skin.

It’s stupid to expect him, anyway. There’s no reason for him to show up at yours, much more of a reason for you to show up at his, but you don’t need to. Your mother does that for her job and it has nothing to do with you.

There’s a Tuesday that’s so quiet, so plain that even the rain falters after two hours to only grant the town wet pavement. You’re curled up with a book in your living room when you hear a succession of knocks on your door. An erratic rhythm, the same as the special knock you would use with Satoru.

It’s him, of course. He smirks at you, an oversized t-shirt loose off of his lanky figure. You try not to fixate on the sweat of his exposed collarbone. You look him straight in the eyes through his pitch-black sunglasses.

He has a large bouquet in his hands. He grins at you. For the first time in a little while, you feel brave.

“Confessing your love to me this afternoon, are you?” you pester, a brow raised.

Something like that, Satoru thinks.

“You wish.” 

He walks past you, brushing your shoulders much to your annoyance. He sets the bouquet on your kitchen table in its little jar, peonies drooping despite how hard he tries to fix them.

“It’s from my mom to yours. As a thank you and a birthday wish and stuff.”

“Thanks,” you murmur. “That’s very sweet of her.”

He hums in agreement, rocking his heels back and forth as his eyes roam your house. It isn’t his first time here, but he acts the part, hands buried in his pockets as he observes you like a wild animal. 

“Will that be all?”

“Dunno,” Satoru shrugs. “What were you up to before I showed up?”

You shrug, too, attempting to mirror his nonchalance. You had long ago buried your paperback in a drawer, promising to return to it by the time Satoru left. But still, he lingers, in front of you, taking up unnecessary space in your childhood home. Too tall and too pretty.

“Just cleaning my room,” you lie. 

“Can I see it?”

“Why?”

“Been a while,” he shrugs. “I’m just curious.”

“Well, it’s a mess right now. I didn’t get very far.”

“Like I care,” Satoru chuckles. 

He stares at you for a bit, heartbeats passing the time in your head. Fuck, he’s serious. He’s already leaning towards the staircase.

“Okay.”

You’re hyper-aware of him behind you, eyes exploring the length of your body. If you had known that he would show up unannounced, you would’ve changed into one of your long dresses or a pair of jeans. At the moment, you feel too bare in your tank top and corduroy shorts. You feel like a child outgrown.

Satoru takes up as much space as usual, long limbs splayed over your tiny twin bed. You don’t permit him to sit on your bed, but he does it anyway. He looks at the pictures on your wall, takes in the sweet smell of your sheets. It’s similar to your clothes, your flesh. Your hair. He’d live in it if he could.

“How cute.” He gestures to a cat plushie by the head of your bed. 

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not!” Satoru laughs. “It is cute. It’s so you.”

A certain fervor blossoms in your gut at that. The image of him stretched out on your little bed. Despite your closeness with him when you were younger, he had never spent much time at your house. It took you a few years to understand why.

“You should invite me over more often.”

“I don’t invite you over ever.”

“Well, you could start.”

“Why?” You stand by the wall, shifting your weight towards it as you lean backward. You cross your arms in defense, even though he hasn’t said anything to provoke you yet.

“It’s comfy here. I like it.”

“Thanks?”

He sings your name, beckoning you to him. You take three steps at most, holding your breath. Standing in front of his knees.

“Come sit, Twigs.”

“Told you not to call me that,” you breathe.

“Don’t care,” he grins. 

He reaches out to you, pulling you between his knees with a hand on your waist. He smirks at the sound of your gasp as he tugs at your wrist. 

“In my lap. C’mere.”

It’s difficult to refuse Satoru Gojo. His eyes drink you in, ocean blues glimmering and reflecting the afternoon sunlight. You’re still between his thighs. He tugs you without much effort, making you stumble into him. Your hands hold onto his shoulders as you settle into his lap. He holds the small of your back as you straddle him.

“Wanna try something.”

You say nothing. Your eyes flutter closed when you feel his fingertips grazing your jaw.

There’s a softness against your mouth. You don’t dare open your eyes.

You sense a sharp inhale behind the lips that kiss you, but they stay. Wetting between your mouth with the slight of a tongue. Tasting sweet like honeysuckle.

You whine, opening your mouth a bit more. You swallow down divinity. It's misguided affection that you had wished for when you were so much smaller. It might mean something bigger to you now if you thought about it for longer. You don’t want to. You refuse to.

But Satoru kisses you hard, excited and eager. His tongue peeks into your mouth and you taste strawberries. Lips soft and supple and melting against yours.

He groans, fisting your hair in his hand as he deepens the kiss, falling more and more into you. He smiles against your mouth as he coaxes a small sound out of you. It crawls out of your throat for him to taste with satisfaction. He’s always dreamed of you in his lap, but he could never tell you that.

You’re breathless, weak, and melting into him as he wraps his arms around you. Caging you in so that you can’t escape. So fucking warm in his embrace. 

It takes a second for you to notice the hardness growing underneath you. It prods your center as you mindlessly grind into Satoru’s lap. When you realize, you squeak in embarrassment, and he clutches you harder.

You sigh into each other, eating the other up. Heat surges through you, from your forehead down to your core, to your weak, sensitive legs. Hot from the feeling of him in your mouth. Hot from the proximity of your core to his.

You pull away, exhaling unevenly as you try to catch your breath. You’re shy under his gaze, unwrapping yourself and covering your body as if you’re naked.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re so cute,” he chuckles. “Acting like that was your first kiss.”

“What if it was?”

He raises a brow as you look away with flushed cheeks. You’re still on his lap and he takes the opportunity to remind you of this, shifting you in his lap and causing friction. Your eyes are wide as you quickly attempt to untangle your limbs with his.

“That was your first kiss?”

“Yeah.”

You roll your eyes at the sight of his leering smile. God, you knew this would happen. Satoru would never let you live it down.

“I’m going to kick you out—”

“No.” 

He grasps your wrist in his hand. It’s small compared to his palm, engulfing you. His other hand grips your hip firmly but softly. He only moves it to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin.

“How was it? Tell me.”

“Good,” you breathe. “Felt good.”

For the first time in a long time, he looks at you like you have invented something new. There’s a bit of astonishment. Wonder and admiration. Maybe you were getting ahead of yourself. You were easily deluding yourself with the expression of his sapphire blue eyes. 

“Felt good for me, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you do that?” you ask, giggling nervously. 

“Just wanted to.”

“I want you to kiss me again,” you whisper.

“I want to do more than that,” Satoru mumbles. But he knows better. It’s the best decision for him to get you off his lap right now before he loses composure.

You both hear the sound of your front door opening as if it’s timed -- your mother. 

“I’ll kiss you later, okay?” Satoru murmurs.

“You will?”

“My parents will be gone this weekend. To Okinawa. You should come over on Saturday.”

“Okay. I will.”

#gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #juijutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you

[yuri-is-online]

Jade would be VERY pleased about finally having another club member. I would be happy to listen to him info dump while we look at mushrooms and neat nature stuff.

I let this sit in my ask box for too long but I've had this idea kicking around in my head for a while and then harveston had to go and drop that one line validating my delusions and you've given me an excuse to post it ha

notes: they/them used for Yuu, violence against animals (a bear), swearing at animals (the same bear), Yuu is unnaturally strong (enough to fight a bear), Yuu is implied to have grown up in a forest/woodsy environment, Jade typical blackmail. Other more serious fic can be found on my masterlist here.

Once upon a time, back when you first arrived in this world, you had been unsure how to feel about NRC. Castles existed back home, sure, but ones like this belonged firmly in illustrations or video games; it felt a but nauseating to walk through your wildest dreams brought to life, even if it was exciting sometimes. It was little wonder to you then that the idea of a Mountain Lover's Club was so appealing.

"Did you hike a lot back home?" Trey has that strange smile on his face that suggests you have made him tense somehow.

"Yes. I practically grew up in the woods." The flow of wind through the branches, the smell of fresh rain on the decomposing earth below, all of it wrapped you in a familiar sense of serenity even if the tree line was completely foreign to you. What are men to rocks and mountains after all? You could make yourself right at home here-

"I still don't think you should join." Trey says with all the air of a man who is certainly not telling you something, but the surprising harsh nod of agreement Riddle gives before injecting himself into the conversation convinces you more than whatever Trey had in mind likely could.

"I'm not entirely certain what they do," Riddle has never forbid you from participating in things since you and his dorm-mates brought him back to his senses," but if you want to hike it might be safer if you did it by yourself, assuming you let one of us know when you are going and when you expect to be back. It wouldn't do to have something that brings you so much joy used against you prefect, none of us want that." But he has always expressed concern when he thinks things to be unsafe, and in this case his argument was something you found yourself agreeing with. Hiking is best done at your own pace anyway, why get a club full of self-centered assholes involved in your me time? Though you did wish now they had been a bit more... specific with their concerns. Maybe outlined some of the club's scheduling, but then they would have needed to ask him and in so doing betrayed your interest.

Which would have been much less embarrassing than how Jade actually found out. Because of course he did, was there ever any doubt he would? ~~~~ There is a creek not far up the mountain path behind your dorm you like to rest at when coming back from your adventures. It's a good place to check over the photos on your camera and enjoy the last few rays of sunlight before returning to whatever mess Grim had made in Ramshackle searching for where you had moved all the tuna cans. Sometimes he joined you, and the two of you would have a little picnic up the path a bit further, but that day had not been one of those days. Nor had the day you met this particular nemesis who is staring you down from just across the creek with such a judgmental glance you would think this was a Sunday brunch and not an afternoon meander through the forest.

"The fuck do you want bitch?" You snarl and the bear indignantly sniffs as if to imply she's better than you. "Oh I'm sorry I didn't realize it was my fault your face is so fucking crooked, thought you were just born that way." She huffs again, making a big show of turning her back on you as you rush to get your equipment off and tucked safely out of reach before the skankiest grizzly you've ever met whips around and charges you shrieking something about "how dare you steal her man!!!!" and blah blah blah "I'll show you, you good for nothing hussy!!!!" as if you could actually understand her and this wasn't a three act play you insisted on writing yourself. You weren't even sure this bear was a girl if you stopped to think about it in between punches, not that you really cared. She huffs and makes a valiant attempt to pin you as you snarl and flash your teeth and beat her right back into the creek laughing at what sounds like pathetic winging about "kids these days!!!" and how rude you are for-

A startled noise pauses your match, as you both turn, harsh glares towards a break in the thicket where a very out of place, very surprised looking man stands, hand infuriatingly poised casually at his chin. His infuriating smirk doesn't unfurl until you growl, deep and low reverberating through your opponent just enough that she decides to leave for the day while you are preoccupied.

"Oya, this is a surprise." Jade doesn't move and you stay firm in the creek, body shaking with unspent adrenaline as he decides to move just a bit closer. "If you were that desperate for a sparring partner, I'm sure Floyd would have obliged, animal abuse is not exactly legal you know?"

"What the fuck are you doing here." You spit before you exit the creek, a flash of something darting through Jade's eyes as his gaze darts between you and your pack on the ground.

"Me? I should be asking that of you. The Mountain Lover's Club had to go through quite an ordeal to get permission to leave the school grounds unsupervised..." His teeth begin to show as you crash down from your high, you hadn't actually thought of whether or not you would need to talk to someone other than a friend about where you were going... surely Riddle would have mentioned something if you did? Or did he not think to ask since he wasn't the adventurous sort? "I can't imagine how the Headmage would react to know his ward had been sneaking out to terrorize the local wildlife."

"Hey Brenda started it!" You snap and Jade looks briefly towards the treeline where a very indignant bear is pursing her lips and inspecting her claws, the very picture of innocence if he does say so himself. "She stole my sandwich while I was taking pictures of the sunset!"

"Maybe you should have had someone there to hold it for you." He laughs, finally moving from his spot towards you and your pack, eyes gleaming with familiarity as he looks over your things. "Perhaps, someone who would be willing to... forget about what he just saw if they accompanied him next time?" It's a threat using what gives you joy against you certainly, and you huff indignantly at it but don't deny his request. Jade is an eel of his word, and his joy at doubling the Mountain Lover's Club membership cannot be contained as he ushers you the rest of the way down the mountain, eager to plan your first expedition together.

Not that he intends to ever delete the pictures he took. Your angry face is just too cute.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #jade leech x reader #<3 asks #jade leech x yuu #jade: why yes my lockscreen is my partner fighting a bear #what do you mean yours can't do that? skill issue :/ #idk this sucks just take it i needed to warm up before working on my longer stuff

[iamthemain-character]

hi! I rlly loved ur recent Kaz Brekker fic n I was wondering if u could do one where the reader had an ED. Like how Kaz would react to it and what he would do to help?? I’m currently getting over an ED n need some comfort rn xx

Hi! Thank you so much for reading and for requesting! As someone who watched many loved ones go through recovery, let me just say how proud I am of you (and anyone reading this!) for trying. You’re amazing and doing great, I promise. <3

Not Giving Up

show! kaz brekker x reader

gender neutral pronouns

TW: eating disorder (following the symptoms and recovery for anorexia nerviosa), low self esteem, mentions of restrictive eating. nothing graphic, and there is comfort/healing in this fic, but please be careful when reading

shadow and bone masterlist

Kaz Brekker didn’t know how he never noticed it before.

When it came to you, he typically was so attentive, noticing even the smallest details. And he did technically notice all the symptoms; the way you were always cold, the way your wounds would take longer to heal, or how you would sleep too much or none at all. But it wasn’t until The Crows were gathered for brunch one Sunday morning that Kaz finally put all the pieces together.

It was a joyous occasion, and despite being some of the most secretive people in the Barrel, the seven of you made quite a ruckus. But it was joyful, everyone teasing and messing with each other. Weekly brunch was Nina’s idea, her having lamented that she never got to see everyone all together anymore. So everyone agreed that once a week, they would all get together, the true Crow Club.

And every week, you would join in on the fun, laughing and joking with everyone. But as Kaz watched you nonchalantly tell the waitress, “Oh, I’m not really hungry”, that something clicked in his brain.

As the gears in Kaz’s mind began to turn, he soon came to realize that you said that every week. And beyond that, Kaz couldn’t recall a time where you had eaten a full meal around him or any of The Crows. It was plausible that you ate alone or when Kaz wasn’t around, but when compared with some of your other behaviors and symptoms, Kaz was fairly sure of what was happening.

Not wanting to cause more distress, Kaz had the good sense enough to leave you be during the brunch. But the moment the both of you got back to the club, he uttered only three words as he walked pass.

“My office, now.”

Despite being close with Kaz, those words still brought a chill up your spine. Cautiously you followed your friend up the stairs and into his office, following his gesture to sit down. For a while, the two of you sat in silence, Kaz staring at you with his chin resting on his clasped gloved hands.

Finally, you couldn’t take it any longer. “Is there someth-“

“Do you have an eating disorder?”

You weren’t sure what you had expected Kaz to talk to you about, but it was certainly not that. Your jaw slack, you rapidly blinked, trying to collect your thoughts.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kaz’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have an eating disorder?”

You started breathing rapidly, wondering how this man had put the pieces together when you had been so careful to hide it. “I’m fine Kaz.”

“Why don’t you eat with us? Or ever?”

“I-I,” Your words failed you, your brain trying to find some way to combat Kaz’s questions. “Like I said, I’m totally fine. I’m just not hungry a lot.”

With a deep sigh, Kaz got up and moved around the table to sit next to you. When you looked into his eyes, you were surprised by just how gentle they were. “You don’t have to lie to me…or to yourself.”

As you saw the pure concern and affection in Kaz’s gaze, you felt the dams break. Tears freely fell from your eyes as the fears you had been holding in for so long finally came out. Kaz gently placed his hand on your back, trying his best to show comfort and support.

“I don’t-I don’t like my body. Or me in general. Or life. I just…” You trailed off, hanging your head. “I just thought that if I could control what I ate, everything would be so much better.”

“And did it?”

Closing your eyes, you let the truth come out in the smallest whisper. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Kaz responded, his voice thoughtful. “Do you want to get better?”

Slightly surprised by the question, you looked back up into Kaz’s eyes. “I—I think so. I’m just scared of what might happen.”

Kaz took his hand off your back and took your hand instead. “You don’t have to go through this alone.” He promised.

“You want to help me?” You asked, searching for any sign of doubt or falsehood in Kaz’s eyes.

But as his blue eyes pierced your soul, you felt the truth of his words. “Every step of the way.”

———————————————————————

Good to his word, Kaz Brekker was there for you through everything. He found the best physician and psychologist in Ketterdam, and he was there for every meeting to be a support. Kaz also let you tell the other Crows at your own pace, but when you did, your support system went from one to six instantly. Your little family was there for you, and even though you were scared, it gave you comfort.

Following the treatment plan was difficult. The old inner demons that had haunted you for so long constantly reappeared, making eating difficult. But Kaz and the Crows made sure that you were never alone at mealtime, and they never shamed you for struggling with a particular food or for needing more time. So slowly, with the help of everyone and especially Kaz, bit by bit you learned to heal your relationship with food and your body.

———————————————————————

It was a surprisingly clear and sunny Sunday that spring when Ketterdam’s deadliest gang walked down the street, laughing and cajoling the whole way. Upon entering the familiar restaurant, all seven of the crows managed to squeeze into their familiar booth, with only a few complaints and pokes along the way. As you all settled in, a serving girl came up to the table.

You and Kaz were sitting closest to the edge, but the girl elected to talk to you first. “Are you ready to order?”

Kaz held his breath as he watched you hesitate for a moment, looking at the menu on the table.

Looking back up at the serving girl, a bright smile adorned your face. “I’ll have [your favorite breakfast food], please.”

The girl nodded as she wrote down your order, and moving on to Nina, who launched into her elaborate waffle order. But Kaz felt his heart swell with pride, knowing deep down the effort that you were putting in. Kaz reached out underneath the table, and softly he took your hand inside his gloved one. Slightly surprised, you looked up at him, but looking into Kaz’s eyes told you everything he couldn’t say aloud.

Gently squeezing Kaz’s hand in return, you looked around at the little family you and he had built. The journey ahead was long, but your future was bright and full of love.

———————————————————————

Recovery is possible; you are wonderful and loved, and you deserve happiness. Real, true happiness. If are struggling with any kind of ED and you are in the united states, please go to this link and get the help you need. <3

#shadow and bone #netflix shadow and bone #season 2 shadow and bone #six of crows #crow club #the crow club #kaz brekker #kaz brekker x reader

[atinylittlepain]

Part Two | The Father

gator tillman x f!oc

series masterlist | series playlist

I am the shape you made me. Filth teaches filth. - Anne Carson, An Oresteia

wordcount | 5.4K

content warnings | 18+ this is a work of fiction exploring dark themes related to domestic abuse, corrupt government, physical/religious/psychological trauma, murder, canon-typical violence | dark smut, violent smut, verbal degradation, brief mention of sex work, depictions of dissociation-like behavior | gator is gross and toxic and what goes on in this fic is a depiction of a toxic, unhealthy dynamic | THESE ARE BAD PEOPLE DOING WRETCHED THINGS

..........................................

Her family never went to church. Her mother has pictures somewhere of a requisite baptism, but nothing more. And she can’t imagine receiving a particularly warm welcome anyways, not with Roy Tillman’s flock. Since she’s been staying in this town, Sundays are normally the only day of the week she can move around with little resistance, everyone else at church, or after church doing the brunch and the small talk and the eyes starting to melt the longer the day drags on and the wives and husbands and children, faces drooping, waiting to bend and break once they get home. 

But there’s a different kind of worship occurring this afternoon. And while she’d like to continue her silent sulk, her surrender to failing, staying holed up in that condo until her boss pulls the plug on her, that snarl inside of her isn’t ready to give up. This Sunday, she’s joining the congregants to watch Roy Tillman preach. 

It isn’t much of a debate when there’s only one man on stage, but she seems to be the only person minding that. Something close to hysteria, he certainly knows how to work a crowd. To get men up on their feet, nodding and grunting, burst capillaries in their jowls shaking with their devotion, and the women clutching their children close and nodding their own quiet assent, not that theirs matters, not that theirs counts. But still, but still. When he says stand, they stand, and when he says kneel, they get down and tilt up their chins to look at their deliverance, in blue jeans and a pressed flannel shirt no less. 

It’s all the things that men like Roy Tillman tend to say. Something about the constitution, and a country under attack. Something about guns that isn’t about guns, but really, it is. Something about freedom that sounds more like oppression. And really, she’s not sure why he’s putting on such a show. It’s not like there’s any competition. But looking around to the other faces shivering in the stands of the highschool football field, she can understand why he might enjoy seeing their implicit prostration for himself, a little kick in his boots, little puff, pride, in his chest. 

And his family, of course, front row, all in a perfect line, new wife and two daughters and she can almost see the pinch of fear in the wife’s face that it’s two daughters sitting next to her. Gator on the end of the row, there and not there at the same time, she thinks. She hasn’t seen him since that night. Some part of her, young part, small part, thinks he looks a little worn thin around the edges, a little darker, more drawn in. But she waves that off as her own projection, blinking focus away from the happy family and back onto the stage where their beloved patriarch is wrapping up.

She knows that the real reason she came to see this was more gross curiosity than anything else, though she’ll continue to pretend to be taking note of those closest to Roy,  not that it’s anyone or anything new, nothing she didn’t already know. 

Soon, she thinks, watching the crowd move and disperse around her, she will leave this place exactly as she found it. These people will continue to be the way they are. And the king will continue to rule. And she will go back to DC and forget all about the thin thread of hate and vitriol that strings this town together, held in the precarious hands of a righteous man. Less agent and more anthropologist at this point, she watches the families buzzing and swarming with a vacant interest, small hands being led around by larger hands. And someone, in turn, is watching her.

She feels her face pinch and pull when she catches his eyes, now standing with his father in a posture that can only be called a smalling, shoulders curled, his eyes darting and daring up to hers from their deference to the ground. She’d expect nothing less, watching the prince at the feet of the king. For her part, she doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away, a tired resignation to see what might happen, to dig her thumb into a festering wound, though Roy doesn’t abide by his son’s divided attention for long. 

It’s quick, casual violence in the arc of a backhand. It hardly even makes him flinch, just turns his face to the side for a beat, a breath, and then he’s no longer looking at her, only looking at his father and she thinks she can see what words he’s offering to his son. What’re you looking at? Huh? What’s so interesting? And then the king’s eyes settle on her, still sitting in the bleachers, and he curls his lips in a grin, tip of his hat, grin, before turning his attention back to Gator. You don’t look at her, look at me, look at me when I’m speaking to you. You don’t look at her. Do you understand?  She continues to stare though, and now it’s Roy who’s sliding quick glances her way, something indiscernible in the pull of his brows as he continues to speak to his son. 

Maybe a week ago she would’ve pulled her gaze away, gotten up and left so as to not draw any more attention to herself. But something has calcified inside her and broken into pieces. Something failing, something losing, something tired. She doesn’t care any more about the attention, the promise of getting out of here in a few short weeks dropping a filmy haze over everything. There, but not really there, she watches as Roy dismisses his son and starts walking her way. A few of the stragglers greet him when he steps up onto the bleachers, and he’s all smiles, all straight, white teeth and pleasantries, waiting to drop his lips in a curl once the good folks, nice folks leave. Just him and her on the bleachers now, and she’s starting to shiver in her coat, chin tilted up in an indifferent acknowledgement of the looming man.

“Agent Harris.” 

“Roy.”

“Are we on a first name basis now? I didn’t know.”

“It’s been long enough, hasn’t it?” Her voice doesn’t sound like her own. It hasn’t, not for a few days now. A little dull, a little drone. She speaks, and she doesn’t even know she’s speaking. Just sound, just murmur. 

“How’d you like the show?” He does that man thing, hooks his thumbs into his belt and heaves his mass forward with his question. She fights a roll of her eyes, settling for a placid smile that aches in her jaw instead. His grin falters.

“All those people certainly seemed to enjoy it.”

“Well now, that’s not what I asked you, is it? I asked if you enjoyed it.”

“I’d say I got what I came for.” 

“I’m glad you did.” His mouth barely moves around the words, set in a thin line. And she makes a mistake. Even in her thick haze, she knows it’s wrong, the quick glance of her eyes over Roy’s  shoulder to catch his son’s stare, made small with the distance, his jaw working around itself as he watches their conversation.

Of course, Roy notices it, turn of his head over his shoulder, and Gator looks away a breath too slowly. Like a  game, whose eyes on whom, and who gets caught. And they both do, she thinks, with the slow, steeled set of Roy’s shoulders when he turns back around to look at her, sliding his thumbs back and forth, back and forth along the edge of his belt, trying to square up a new truth. They’re both caught.  She wonders if he can see it on her, sense it, a thin film of grit, grime slipping and sliming up her skin. She wonders if filth recognizes filth. 

“Heard you’ll be leaving town soon.” It takes a breath to remember he’s speaking to her, snapped back into the reality of Roy Tillman lording over her, a dare of some sort in his statement, jump of his eyebrows that makes her grimace. 

“I suppose I am.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No you aren’t.”

“No, I’m not. You have a nice day now.” Tip of his hat and the whites of his teeth and he’s gone, and when he moves out of the way she sees that Gator is gone too. Probably, definitely for the better. 

There’s a voicemail from her boss on her phone that she listens to as she trudges through the gravel lot to her car. He’s been calling a lot more lately, a few last hail Marys to see if she’s managed to dig up anything worth sniffing at before he’s making an entirely different call in two weeks. No, nothing, she’ll call him back tomorrow morning when the haze isn’t so thick. 

Swift sickening, he’s waiting at her car, and it’s too familiar, and there’s too much hope in his eyes, rounded and real, and she wonders briefly if screaming would get him to scurry off. No, not here, not with families still getting into their cars around them. She approaches him with a numb resignation. 

“Mel.”

“You don’t call me that.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” Fierce and sharp and don’t, her words snap with don’t. A little too loud, a few husbands and wives and children turning their heads at the sound of don’t. He huffs, palm to the back of his neck, that smalling, that downing thing. And that dull curiosity kicks up inside of her, just to see what might come next. She waits, silent, her hand on the handle of her car door. 

“Can we go somewhere else?” 

“What? You can’t talk to me right here?” That snap is settling back in, a fine flicker of frustration that he’s needling like he is. It feels better, at least, than the haze. A little pulse, a little flame of anger. 

“Please?”

“I don’t think Roy would appreciate the sight of you talking to me.”

“This ain’t about him.” Nervous, she realizes, his one hand shaking at his side while he takes a quick pull off his vape, still not quite looking her in the eye. And she could leave right now. Could stay holed up in that bleak condo for another two weeks and never see Gator Tillman and his broken face again. But there’s that aching wound and she wants it to ache a little more. 

“Fine, get in the car.” 

One thing she has come to like about North Dakota are the vast stretches of highways between towns. In between places, places where no one is paying too much attention to anything other than getting through it. They drive for twenty minutes in pure silence, save for the jilting tap of his fingers on his knee, minded enough to not smoke in her car. And when it seems like enough distance has been put between them and anything or anyone else, she pulls over onto the shoulder of the highway, faced with the withering remains of crops, dying out and crumbling into death in the oncoming cold. 

“Well?” She lobs the word at him, more cough than question with the way her throat is starting to close and constrict. And she shouldn’t be surprised, but still, but still. A broken yelp skittering up her throat when he lurches toward her. No, she shouldn’t be surprised that this is all he can think to do, a desperate dare to close the space and try to press his lips to hers. But that makes it sound so nice, doesn’t it? And this, this isn’t nice. This is something bordering on violence, his hand curling so hard around her arm that it makes her gasp with the sting of it. And he tries for her mouth but she dips and jerks away so suddenly that the back of her skull rings and thrums against the window, a hot, wet smear against her chin all that he succeeds in. No, not surprising that he thought that would work, a child’s logic to the whole thing, just like his father taught him. But he is forgetting her own fang.

Snap, snarl, she lashes out in a quick heat of motion, satisfaction when the sharp of her nails make contact with his cheek, enough of a recoil that she can strike again, heel of her hand to the hilt of his throat, shoving him back with a choke. And it all melts down from there, both of them grabbing at clothes, at skin, teeth bared, white flash and breathing curses at the other. It feels like something, and that’s better than the alternative, better than failing, than losing, so she bears down harder and lets the heat rise. 

When she kisses him, she bites down hard enough that a cry threatens up his throat, metallic bleed in her mouth that she chases after. And he’s jerking away while also pulling her toward him until the console is digging into the soft of her hip, slumped toward him, open mouths, open breaths, open violence. Her stomach churns, toxic taste in her mouth, tinged and tainted with him and him and him. Him and his wretched hands in her hair and under her jacket and coaxing and coaxing. Him and the shattered sounds he’s  gasping out everytime she pulls away to find some other swath of skin to lay her teeth into, something desperate and caught in his chest. And if she thinks too hard about the fact of him she’ll crumble. Easier to proceed, to dig down deeper into the wound.  

“Is this what you wanted?” And this voice is hers, no matter how much she wishes it wasn’t, coming from somewhere deep and darkening inside her. She holds him by the hair at the nape of his neck, tilts his face back so she can look him in the eye, his mouth slack and panting, dark want in his eyes. Yes, he says, and the word breaks in his mouth, a shattered, small confession of want. This is what he wanted, a little more pain, the pinch of pleasure. She drags her hand down to his pants and he’s hard and he’s making more of those broken sounds as she digs the heel of her palm in, livewire spine shooting straight up with a jolt and Jesus Christ, short and shouted and amen. 

None of it makes sense. Somewhere in the fray and fizzle he’s managed to dig his hand down into the neck of her shirt and under her bra, grasping hard at the swell of her breast while she fumbles through his zipper, a little frantic, the both of them trying to make this real. Real enough when she wraps her fingers around him, a little damp because it’s that much of an ache, a want for him, his head tipping back with a sigh when she squeezes, soft and warm and he’s pretty like this. A slow realization that slips in around the edges of her foggy mind, watching the crumple of pleasure in his face as her wrist starts to flicker, his cheeks starting to mottle pink and red and she lays her open mouth over that heat, that pulse under his skin. 

“If you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?” His head jerks in a nod, eyes scrunched shut as an uh-huh mm-hmm rattles up from his throat. And that thing that she likes, that buoys and blooms behind her ribs into something rotten, rotting, fizzing and snapping, a small please that he repeats twice, please, please. He spills over her hand with a punched-out groan, and for a moment, the haze lifts. She blinks hard in the gray wash of sun spilling in through the car windows and a shiver settles in. Something is splintering, the choice to stop now, or to let this rot a little more. 

Filth begets filth, she’s back in the snap and snarl of it just as quickly, some kind of deciding that yes, she is doing this, digging into this. Her hand is smeared sticky, starting to cool, and she watches from somewhere over her shoulder, a blank and morbid what if of a wondering as she swipes two of her fingers through the thickening drip of him and holds it up to his mouth. There’s a resistance that fades in his eyes when she runs the pads of her fingers over his bottom lip, opening up, letting her in until she’s hooking her fingers behind his teeth and giving an experimental tug to his jaw. He breathes hard through his nose, lips closing and tongue curling around her fingers. He likes it, and her stomach churns with the hum he mouths around her knuckles. 

Unblinking, his eyes are swallowing darkness, steady and settled on her. And she is looking at him. She is looking at him.

…

She takes him back to the condo, out of place in the clean, cold, white. Leads him into the bathroom and tells him to take a shower before stepping back into the bedroom and shutting the door behind her, slumping when she hears the sound of water running. He does as he’s told. And a headache is starting to press throbbing fingers into her skull, fraying logic, reason, turning it into misshapen meaninglessness. She takes off her shoes and she can’t feel her feet. She unbuttons her blouse and she can’t feel her hands, can’t feel the curl of her own spine as she unclasps her bra either. Can’t feel anything, how nice. How nice, this numbness, it almost feels like floating when she lays back on the bed that is but isn’t hers, bare and eyes tilted up and back to look at the place where the wall meets the ceiling. 

What is this? This is nothing. How nice, that this can be nothing. A meaningless experiment, what if, and then gone, and then gone, and never again. But for now, she will rot with him, with the failing prince, failing just like her. She has decided on this. 

Some of his cum has dried over her knuckles, peeling off in flakes that she studies, making a fist and then unmaking a fist, tilting it this way and that in the dim light of the bedroom. 

“Oh wow.” The water has shut off, and the door has opened. And it’s such a strange thing to say at the sight of a naked woman. Young thing, absent-minded thing, starving eyes and the flex of his knuckles where his hand is holding a towel around his waist. She sits up on her elbows, wills tissue and ligament into a posture of want, knees bent and falling open and arch in her back and this body isn’t hers, but he’s looking at it, so it will have to do. 

He looks different. Hair out of the usual slicked and shelled back, but dark and skewed around his face, longer than she would’ve thought. And there’s a tattoo on the swell of muscle over his left shoulder that she is choosing not to notice, ridiculous, though it looks more scar than ink, raised skin that she can see even from here. There’s a softness to him that surprises her, a fullness, a pinkness, heat blooming red up his neck and into his cheeks. 

“Come here.” And he does, lets the towel drop and dark thatch of curls creeping up his pelvis and her hand rests there when he kneels between her legs, petting at the coarseness and the softness of his skin. He’s uncertain, that usual feather and flair of confidence dissolved. He’s a boy, biting his lip and unsure where to put his hands as his eyes drag over the body that is but isn’t hers. 

“Come here.” Again, and again, he does, sinks his hands down into the mattress and curls over her and that hovering heat and weight is something of reassurance, something to hold onto. But she stiffens and stills when she runs her hand around his side and up his spine because not like the rest of him, not soft but strange, snarled and puckered and she thinks she knows what it is, what it might look like, but before she can think much further on it his hand is around her throat and he’s angry, fierce, fearsome. Her hand falls away from his back and his fingers curl into a closer crush and she gasps. He tries to look frightening but mostly he looks frightened, something nervous flashing behind his eyes when he tells her to never do that again. Don’t, do not. Sipping air, she brings both her hands to close around his neck, her thumbs digging up into the soft space beneath his jaw. He whimpers, wheezes a little, the blunt sharp of his fingernails digging into her throat. And they hold, they hold, both of them losing until they relent, release and pant. Hands slacken and ribs expand and her head spins, pushing him off and back and down and settling over him, making herself into a trembling god in the drape of her thighs and the fold of her hips. 

His hands wander, and they could be anyone’s hands when she closes her eyes. A stranger, an animal, a suit back in DC who won’t look her in the eye but will squeeze right past you, sweetheart whenever he pleases and squeezes, and hands, and hands, and different, and different, because no one looks her in the eye the way that he is now. A little unnerving, a little too real so she closes her eyes instead and takes him inside her, a bruise inside her, an ache, their hips fitting together with a whine of pain. 

She moves and he curses, damp hair bleeding against the sheets when he presses his skull back, a dark confession in the slack of his jaw. And she makes it hurt, digs her nails down into his chest and makes herself hiccup with the gritted pass of her hips against his. 

He asks for her eyes, for her to look, look, look and when she refuses, his thumb and forefinger pinch at her jaw, hard, little shake of her skull, of her bones in his hands and she stills with him so deep it’s like a disease. Snit, swipe and spat and spit, her nails scratch at his face with the pass of her palm, hard smack don’t, do not, and he looks at her like this is something holy. And she sneers, curls her spine like a cage over him and you want me to look? You want my eyes? Now you have them. Unblinking and sweat and the stick of skin and his fingers are going to leave pain where he’s gripping at her flesh and she wants it, she wants it. Two bodies moving like one wretched beast, wretched sound of want resounding in the swim of it, and when she comes it’s a sharp knife in her stomach, quick cry, and he isn’t far behind, open mouth against open mouth. 

And everything starts to melt in the after. Slump, sag, sigh, she feels used up when she slides off of him, feeling the tack and salt dripping between her legs. Awful, he’s smiling, little laugh of wonder and running his hands back through his hair because that was good for him, good, good, so good for him, half moon of his smile lit up white in her periphery, the line of his nose and he’s looking up at the ceiling, little puffs of breath in his chest. Awful, it was good for her too, good settling and sickening in the hollow drip of her gut. Awful, she will do that again. 

She tells him to go home and he says no, simple as that, and she doesn’t ask again. She is very tired, after all, and he is very warm, very solid, very real. There’s a brief tensing, steeling and shivering up still when he tries to tug her into his chest. She kicks at his shins and he grumbles, but he keeps tugging, hands on whatever skin he can grasp. A wax doll starting to melt, the throb of his heart between her shoulder blades is enough to make her settle. 

It’s only the afternoon at the latest, but they call it night, curtains drawn and lights turned off and sleep comes on like death, dreamless and sudden. She hasn’t been sleeping, so when she wakes up a few hours later with his arm still draped over her, palm splayed on her sternum and his fingers threatening nothing against the stitching of her throat, it feels like mercy. He doesn’t wake, doesn’t even stir when she peels herself out from under him. His face is crumpled to the side, on his stomach with his cheek turned toward her on a pillow, peaceful and young and unmoving. 

“I’d like to kill your father.” Whispered, more breath than anything else, though she leans in close when she says it so her nose nearly brushes his. He doesn’t flinch, nothing. 

Night has seeped in amidst the bleed of hours. She walks into the kitchen, still bare, still smeared, dips her head into the sink and drinks a few gulps of water from the tap, back of hand to mouth to catch what drips. And because she’ll be leaving soon, there isn’t much in the fridge, but her stomach aches, so she makes do with what there is. A couple of olives, a handful of shredded cheese, acrid salt in the back of her throat and threatening to gurgle back up. She swallows, stares blankly out on the half-finished development eating up the land, house bones and tarps wavering in the night. Her reflection stares back in the window and it is and it isn’t her.

When she does return to bed, stomach swollen and sweating with salt and sour, he only stirs enough to pull her back into him, skin squirming against skin and she lets him. The mutt prince has found something he likes, and he is going to hold onto it, breathing his damp heat all over it. She thinks idly to herself somewhere between sleep and not that she will break each of his fingers if she has to. Vacant violence that floats away with another wave of sleep. 

…

It isn’t night but it isn’t morning yet either, thin fingers of pale blue light threatening through the curtains. She’s woken up by something hot and wet running up the side of her hip and it’s him, hard and rutting his want all over her skin. He isn’t even awake, whimpering and grasping at her so tightly that she feels deflated, feels like she can’t breathe because she doesn’t even need to, her ribs crumpling and collapsing in under the overwhelm of him, sugar paper body and he’s breaking it with his wretched hands. 

As easy as a few machinations of their bodies, inside of her again, throbbing pulse of him again. He’s awake now, whispering her name, her full name, every time his hips hike up against her ass, pointless prayer that sounds stupid coming from his mouth. He makes her come with the frantic need of a boy, everywhere hands and hot breath and he won’t stop saying her name so she arches and contorts her spine in such a way that she can reach behind her and hold her palm over his mouth, fingers hooking around the round of his cheek, everything clammy and too close. He laughs, murmurs something wet against the lines of her hand that sounds a little like you sure are flexible and even then, even then, she lets him continue to fuck her. 

She shouldn’t. Not once, let alone twice. But he comes inside of her again and it feels like nothing, a little warmth, a little spread, a little raw meat starting to gristle and glisten as his arms finally slacken and she rolls over onto her back. Heartbeat in her hips and the handprints he left all over her, she watches light start to spread over the ceiling and wonders if today will be the day her boss calls her and stops asking for evidence and starts talking about plane tickets. 

He whistles, low sound, short sound, dog sound, and her eyes roll over and onto him where he’s laying beside her on his back. Hair soft and in his eyes and he’s smiling at her because to him, this is nothing but good. Heat rises in the front of her skull, up around her eyes, sharp inhale to stop the sudden flood. 

“Is Gator really your name?” 

“It’s what everyone calls me.”

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“Isaac.”

“That’s your real name?” 

“Nobody calls me that.”

“Who named you Isaac?” 

“Nobody.” And she knows nobody means mom, means mom that got out, that isn’t even a memory for him. She knows who his mother is, but judging by the blank way he answers her question, she doesn’t think he knows. It’s her job to know. To have threads of files of all the lives that have ever intersected with Roy Tillman’s. She knows Gator’s, or Isaac’s, mother’s name, knows she was never married to Roy. She never could track down a birth certificate for a Gator Tillman, the son that Roy was not supposed to have, and the true comedy that he’s the only son Roy does have. All she could find, a police report from a woman who had to leave her son behind with one Roy Tillman. The bastard, the mutt, the illegitimate prince. 

“Who started calling you Gator?”

“My dad.”

“Do you like your dad?”

“I love him.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” He doesn’t like that, scoffs, shake of his head, curling his body to sit up and she sees his back. His back in the pale light, a mural of gnarled scar tissue, pink and puckered cross-hatching. She isn’t surprised, but she still takes in a sharp breath at the sight and she’s sorry for it, reminding him of the fact of his body that he had forgotten for even a moment. Caught, he glances at her over his shoulder and he sighs because there’s nothing to be said. Moves with a caution she hasn’t seen from him before, slow and small in getting up from the bed, puts on his undershirt and briefs from the day before. 

Sudden and surprising, she finds herself gripped by a cold terror, her heart ramming up against her ribs, spine slicked with ice. She can’t move, watching him kneel on the bed and make a cage around her with his arms, leaning close so she can smell his sleep-soured breath. 

“He ain’t an easy man to like.” 

“No, he’s not.”

“Do you like me?” His eyebrows pinch with hope, and she could nearly laugh because she’s certain he could kill her now, if he wanted to. He came close to it a few times last night. But he’s a boy, a hopeless boy waiting for an answer. 

“I don’t know what I think of you.”

“I like you.” She wonders if he can hear the thrumming fear in her pulse, if he notices the way her eyes shift to the top drawer of her dresser where a second gun sits humming and waiting. If he does, he shows no sign of it. He’s looking at her, and only her.

“That’s good.” It must be nice how simple this all is to him. He hums a single note and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, cold air stirring when he gets back off the bed to continue getting dressed. Slowly, the fear thaws out of her, leaving something else behind. 

A little blink of hope. Her boss calls them cracks. Little weakness, little slippage, places where the lines between two people slacken and fray. She thinks that she’s found somewhere to dig her fingers in and pull and push. Father and son, and the fine fissures that pain creates. A new wound for her to mouth at. She thinks that the next time her boss calls, she might just have something to offer up to him. A boy, a body, a traitor. 

#gator tillman #gator tillman smut #gator tillman angst #gator tillman fanfiction #gator tillman fic #gator tillman fargo #filth

[homeofatlas]

Brunch In Bed

Authors note: Pretend the english is french and enjoy your sunday! also Y/F/B stands for your favourite breakfast

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It’s rare that Elisa has a sunday off from practice or a game which is why when you two found out she didn’t have to do anything this sunday you two jumped at the chance to do absolutely nothing. All you two wanted to do was sleep in and have a slow morning the way regular people did on weekends. From the moment you woke up on Sunday, with the sun shining through the sliver of the curtains and Elisa asleep beside you, you knew it was going to be a good day. Burrowing back under the covers, you scooch over to fit yourself back over to elisa to fit into her arms. Her front against your back, you feel her unconsciously throw her arm over you and pull you closer to her, you lace your fingers together and fall back asleep. 

A little while later you wake up again, a little sweaty from being wrapped in the blankets and your space heater of a girlfriend. You lay still for a few moments seeing whether or not she's awake yet. Her soft breathing and relaxed form tells you she’s still asleep. Probably exhausted from her game last night. You wait to see if you’ll fall asleep again but after rustling around for a couple minutes you figure you’re probably awake for the day. You unplug your phone from the side table and decide to scroll until you feel like actually getting out of bed. While you scroll you stumble across you see a post of someone's delicious breakfast. You notice your stomach begin to hurt at the sight of it. That’s it! You’ll make breakfast or brunch you guess looking at the time and it’ll be ready by the time Elisa wakes up so you can surprise her. Bunch in bed it was!

Slowly removing Elisas arm from around you and easing out of bed, your feet hit the cold floor. You grab Elisas hoodie she threw off at some point in the night before padding into the kitchen. Trying to be as quiet as you can, you gather the ingredients for Y/F/B and turn on the stove. Glancing behind you, you can still see Elisa asleep in bed. Good, you think, I want to surprise her. Throughout your relationship, though she has a more hectic schedule, Elisa is typically the one making romantic gestures like this. You prefer to show her love by making sure the flat is clean when she comes home tired from training and texting her throughout the day to show you’re thinking of her. But when it comes to cooking because Elisa needs more protein and is on a specific diet she’s usually the one cooking meals and planning dates. 

It feels nice being the one doing a romantic gesture this time. You should really do this more, you think to yourself. Beginning to plan other things you could do to work around what Elisa needs, you zone out while watching the food. That is until you feel two arms wrap around your waist and a head pushing in between your shoulder blades. Sighing you curse yourself for thinking she would have stayed asleep long enough for you to get this done. 

“You should come back to bed.” She murmurs half asleep. 

“You should go back to bed.” You retort. 

“But you aren't there and i want to be where you are so if you could come back to bed so i can go back to bed that would be great.” She replies. 

“I’m doing something right now, and you’ve ruined your own surprise.”

“I will forgo breakfast and order us something if you come back to bed.”

“Technically it’s brunch and I’m almost done, so there's no reason to do that.”  You say.

“If you turn off the stove right now and come back to bed I’ll let you put your cold feet on me and I won’t even complain.”

“Ha very tempting.” You have to admit that one almost gets you. Elisa hates it when you put your cold feet on her to warm up. So for her to offer means she really wants it. 

You feel warm fingers creep under your hoodie and begin to rub up and down your sides. No doubt a part of her seduction plan to get you back into bed. Rolling your eyes, you feel the weight remove itself from your back and warm breath falling down the slope of your neck. A small lingering kiss behind your ear, down your neck. Her left hand comes up to move the neck of the sweater to get more skin on your shoulder. Her right hand travels down to rub soothing circles on your right hip. Relaxing back into her you feel her catch your weight and smile against the skin of your shoulder. She traces the line of your neck with her lips, barely a kiss. You have to admit the girl is good, she knows how to get you to come back to bed. But you started this and you want to give her brunch in bed so she can try but you won’t get back in bed until the food is done and plated. 

Straightening up you put down the fork you’re using to push Y/F/B around and turn to face Elisa. Her arms wrap around you and you wrap your arms around her neck so you can gaze at her. Leaning in you kiss her lightly, lingering long enough to have her chase you once you pull away. After some small kisses you tilt your head further up to trail your nose along hers and kiss each side of the bridge of her nose. This had been something that when you first got together you’d done all the time. Not sexual but incredibly intimate. A small shudder ripples through her and she pulls you closer, tucking her head into your neck. You stroke the back of her neck for a couple moments before you register it’s probably time to plate the food. Pulling away from her you move to grab the plates from the cupboard. Elisa trails behind you reaching around you to grab cutlery. 

You don’t speak as you plate the food together and carry it back into the bedroom and crawl into bed. Getting back under the covers as you adjust to make yourselves comfortable you put your cold feet against Elisa. 

“Get your cold feet off me!” She laughs.

“You said if I came back to bed I could put my cold feet on you!” 

“That was a conditional offer for a limited time only.”

You pout and pull your feet back in under yourself. Looking down at your plate you begin to pick at your food and play with it. Glancing up to see if Elisas is looking, she's giving you a look that says “really?” and you sniffle slightly to signify how absolutely wounded you are. 

“Oh my god, fine.” she says. 

“Yay!” you cry and wiggle your legs between hers. 

“Better?” she asks.

You look at her, the apartment you share, the food, and back at her smiling face before replying, 

“Perfect.”

#elisa de almeida #elisa de almeida x reader #woso x reader #woso fanfics #starving for elisa content #élisa de almeida #wlw

[mbari-blog]

Dining in the deep—Sunday brunch edition 🍽️⁠

⁠This little Aegina jelly knows the importance of a varied diet. Although they are observed frequently, we actually know little about this group of deep-sea jellies. Our researchers often find these tiny jellies feasting on much bigger deep-sea animals like comb jellies and siphonophores.⁠ ⁠ Jellies in the genus Aegina are different from many other jellyfish because they typically have only four tentacles extending from the bell.

#MBARI #DeepSea #SeaLife #SundayMorning #BrunchTimeIsTheBestTime #DiningInTheDeep #TheBrunchBunch

[s-bradburiedalive]

One of the things that Sutton couldn't understand was the way other people used dating apps. It was called a dating app. If she was using a dating app, it wasn't going to be for some casual hookup; she could go to a bar or a club if she wanted that. No, Sutton was on dating apps for dates. If something more came from it, then wonderful. But there would at least be a first date, typically during the day or on a weeknight just to really solidify the idea that she wasn't looking to go home with anyone, and she certainly wasn't going to bring them home with her.

So, when she'd actually managed to have a decent conversation with a guy on Tinder that wasn't immediately a proposal to meet up at a bar or Netflix and chill, Sutton had latched onto it, offering to meet him for Sunday brunch and maybe go for a walk after. No one expected you to stay the night if the date ended in the early afternoon. When the guy accepted, she couldn't help but feel intense relief.

She just wanted to feel normal; she was aching for it. After the night that Abigail had broken into Sutton's apartment, it'd taken long enough for the horns to finally fade from her head that she'd thought they'd never go away, and, when they did, she'd felt sick. Not terribly sick. She'd just had a fever the day after, one that was bad enough for her to email her professors that she wouldn't be coming in that day. Her body had been so hot and cold at the same time, and she'd just ached to the point that she was worried she needed a doctor, but it'd finally gone away.

And now she was actually having a decent conversation with a law student, the two of them having already enjoyed their meals and now simply enjoying each other's company. He was certainly a nice enough guy, easy to talk to. He had no problem talking about himself but actually cared enough to ask about her, too. It was certainly better than the dick pic she'd gotten from one guy or the offer for a threesome one girl wanted with her boyfriend.

It was so nice that Sutton didn't actually notice Abigail until she was walking near where they were eating outside. She didn't shrink into her seat or try to hide, not wanting to look suspicious, but Sutton couldn't help but hope that maybe Abigail didn't see them as she tried to focus on her date's conversation, laughing at all the right moments as he told a story about his internship serving people last summer.

@abigailxiang

#in person003

[hanaonesflower]

Iwaizumi would be a sucker for any sunrise/sunset dates. I think he is a big fan of nature and being able to sit on the sand at a local beach with the picnic blanket sprawled out underneath him, with you in between his lap. He would be the one that insists on getting there early for the parking spots, but he just wants to drink in all the goodness that a sunset/sunrise brings. Especially with you. If quality time was a person, it would be Iwa.

Oikawa is a big breakfast/brunch kinda dude. He sees it as a whole occasion, something to be excited about. He sets alarms, he researches the best places with the best food and views, he makes sure to put on his best clothes. He wakes you up with a smile and pounces on you like a little kid on Christmas morning. Oikawa enjoys watching you getting ready and how you dress to the nines just like him. He holds your hand, always and usually plans out activities afterwards.

Kuroo is one for the nightmarket. He loves the roudiness of a nightmarket, bustling with people and food vendors and games. It was his best idea of spending quality time with you. He loves it when he was able to get you to try new foods and challenges you to games he knows you have no chance of winning. Kuroo also loves that you are clutching onto his arms like you would lose him. He just likes to bring out different parts of you while indulging in his own needs and wants.

Midnight drive? Midnight drive. Call Kiyoomi up and you’ll have a companion AND a designated driver. Kiyoomi had a knack for being up late and when there is nothing to do at home, he frequents the streets and the late night food vendors. He loves taking you on rides with him, that’s when he is able to be the most open with you and for you to the same with him. It’s the kind of intimacy that is so unique to only the night time. He loves that.

What would be a typical Sunday morning for Osamu? Usually he would be opening up at the restaurant, changing the board for a new menu of the day, sweeping and mopping the floors. But on a few Sunday mornings, Osamu likes to sleep in, burying his face in your hair, relishing in the smell of your shampoo and bask in the sunlight that slowly chases up the sheets. He loves the Sunday mornings where he could just lay there and do nothing, and just be.

He finds that he feels his best self when Daichi can comfortably dive into a good book. He discovers a new hobby once he got with you. Daichi could be in silent company with you for hours while his mind goes to work reading up on his newest book. One hand holding yours, the other one flipping the pages on his e-reader. He loves seeing you beam about your own book and the way you are his creative outlet. The equal give and take of the creativity keeps on his toes and he is in love.

#haikyuu!! imagines #haikyuu!! headcanons #haikyuu!! x reader #iwaizumi x reader #oikawa x reader #kuroo x reader #kiyoomi x reader #daichi x reader #osamu x reader #miya osamu headcanons #iwaizumi headcanons #daichi headcanons #oikawa headcanons #kiyoomi headcanons #kuroo headcanons

[hobaworld7]

BTS Reaction - Your first date

disclaimer : BTS doesn't belong to me.This is just an imagine, my scenarios and BTS as characters.

ENJOY MY LOVE!

JIN

Jin is absolutely a gentleman.

Holding the door, pulling your chair, like EVERYTHING.

He will easily make you comfortable with his jokes.

Telling you a lot how beautiful you are.

He would go to your apartment, giving you flowers and driving you to a super nice restaurant.

He's really mature and it shows.

I feel like he would be a hopeless romantic.

SUGA

I feel like Yoongi would love more cozy dates.

As you're interested in music he would invite you in his studio.

Order your favorite food for delivery.

He would listen to you like you're the most important thing.

He will probably sings some songs too.

Then you would go to his place because it was getting late.

Watch a movie and cuddle a lot.

Probable sleep together too

I feel like he's the kind of guy to sleep with the girl at the first date too

NAMJOON

He would organize an amazing first date!

Something artsy like museum, painting, ceramic or anything else.

He would then walk around the city with you.

You would go to your favorite restaurant, grab some food to go and drinks and go enjoy it in the nearest park.

He would be so sweet with you!

Holding the doors for you.

You would walk past a plant store and he would buy you one instead of the typical flowers.

He would then walk you home and kiss you on the cheek.

J-HOPE

J-Hope would be so sweet on your first date.

He would buy you some flowers, probably tulips because they are different from the typical roses.

He would've bring you at his dance studio because you love to dance and that's how you met.

You would dance all night, joke and talk.

He would have cook a meal and bring it in some thermos so you could enjoy.

And he would've bought a cake too.

He would kiss you before you leave.

Like a romantic kiss, as we see in the movies.

JIMIN

Jimin would be the kind of guy to invite you on a double date with one of the member and his girlfriend.

He would invite you to a fancy brunch place on a Sunday morning.

But he told you he would be there at 5am so he can gets you to the most perfect spot to see the sunrise over Seoul.

So after that sunrise and talking a lot together you would go to this fancy brunch restaurant.

A lot of mimosa.

He would put his hand on your thigh.

When it would be time to go home, he would kiss you before you open your apartment door.

And because of the alcohol and the attraction you would probably invite him over.

Definitely a sex-on-the-first-date kind of guy but still really sweet and romantic.

TAEHYUNG

He would invite you on a casual date.

Going to a coffee shop or a restaurant.

He would give you some roses and chocolates too.

After the date, you would walk over the Han river.

He would use the excuse to show you his dog to get you at his place.

You would watch a movie, cuddling a lot.

You would probably end the night both naked in the living room, making love.

JUNGKOOK

He would invite you over.

He would cook your favorite meal.

On the table, roses and candles.

He would be a gentleman. Maybe a little shy.

You would watch a movie after the diner.

He wants to hug you so you would lay on him, watching the television.

You will probably finish the night in his bed, naked.

HOPE YOU LIKE IT, SEND YOUR REQUEST!

___

If you want to read more, here is the link of my masterlist : https://www.tumblr.com/kimtaehyung-taetae-writing/710423978560421888/masterlist?source=share

thank you army!

#bts imagine #bts #imagine kpop #imagine #jin #kim seokjin #kim namjoon #suga #min yoongi #jhope #jung hoseok #jimin #park jimin #v bts #kim taehyung #jungkook #jeong jungkook #RM

[markadoo]

Homophobic article in GCN, titled He Looks Like Tarzan But Talks Like Jane, complaining about how gay men who present butch aren't actually manly.

Show me a man decked out in a leather jacket, work boots, and a plaid flannel shirt, and three things are immediately evident. He does not own a motorcycle. He is not a construction worker. He is not a lumberjack. He is a fantasy-filled faggot guilty of false advertising. He has never even been on a motorcycle; he drives everywhere in his Olds 88 with Cruisamatic. The only construction work he has ever done is window-dressing for Filene's; for this job, he works in stockinged feet. Work-shoes are strictly for the bars. And if he ever found himself deep in the woods, he would not know what to do.

As a general rule of thumb, the butcher the get-up, the nellier the wearer. This seems particularly true of Boston. If you don't believe it, try these experiments the next time you're in one of Boston's Naugahyde — excuse me, leather — bars.

Move within listening range of the knot of men wearing the most leather and dangling the most keys. Are they heatedly debating the relative merits of BMW cycles and Harley-Davidsons? No? Talking about the homophobic street punks they roughed up on the way to the bar? No? Swapping quiche recipes for Sunday morning brunch? Yup!

Follow that guy to the bar who is wearing leather chaps, leather vest, boots, and earrings through his nipples. Does he order a Scotch-on-the-rocks? No? A Bud? No? A grasshopper, heavy on the creme de menthe? Right!

Although I am a gay man of feminist orientation,

Below these protuberant chests, however, are protuberant stomachs and supporting it all is a pair of skinny, underdeveloped legs. It is nearly impossible to flatten a stomach or develop muscular thighs with barbells and weights. This kind of development takes real effort. Real jock effort. Like swimming or jogging. Baseball. Even football. But these are activities the typical gay weightlifter is unfamiliar with.

When called upon to function in an even remotely "masculine" capacity, these men are helpless. For instance, one icy morning this winter, I found I needed a jump to start my car. [you can guess where this story goes]

I'm not surprised this guy exists, but I am surprised that they ran his rant. Just to highlight how out of place this, is, here's an excerpt from the other article on the same page.

However, we need to recognize that the roots of our common experience as men comes, not from a pregiven entity called "maleness," but from our learned participation in a system of masculinist oppression. As gay people, we recognize that we share an experience of oppression even though we deal with that experience in a variety of ways. Similarly, men are strategically a homogenous group even though in actuality we possess tremendous diversity.

#gay community news #masculinity is something you have to earn

[anlian-aishang]

Mother’s Day With Dadvi: Before You Become One

Word count: 1100 Tags: levi x reader, fluff, dadvi, pregnancy mention, modern AU

To you and Levi, it is another ordinary Sunday. Out to brunch. The farmer’s market. An afternoon at the lake, visiting the botanical gardens, or seeing the new art exhibit. Then, home to cook those ingredients you bought, going to bed early but not falling asleep until much later. Over your time together, you two have concocted this perfect routine: the calmest possible end to the weekend. It is why it is so shocking when you find your typically serene spots swarmed with people.

An hour-long line at the cafe. An endless ring of people crowd the farmer’s market square. All the docks are full, the gardens’ tickets sold out, the museum closed. Outside of the gallery - its locked doors, its lights turned off - you narrow your gaze and hush to your husband, “What is going on?” Before he can answer, a pastel pink sign with flowers on the edges speaks for him: Closed for Mother’s Day.

The two of you look to each other, panic in your eyes, you have both forgotten about the holiday as well as the responsibilities it puts onto you. You slap the phone in your pocket, he pads the wallet in his. Phone calls to make! Gifts to buy! But in that following second, you calm each other with your gazes: we’ll deal with that when we get home, let’s enjoy our day out.

Hoards of people normally overwhelm you, normally irritate him, but with this new knowledge of the holiday, you both don a new lens. Adorable, how the children follow their moms like ducklings. Funny, how kids are tiny walking tornados. Endearing, how the mothers continue to smile even as they tug on her dress, drop their ice cream cones, and leave messes in their wake. Sweet, how the fathers are doing their best to keep things together while she enjoys herself. Happy families all around, you wonder, Could that be us someday?

At the thought, your smile dulls before it can dawn: But… Levi would never… It is as if the universe could hear you, sending a running kid your way and slamming into Levi’s lower leg. 

You hold your breath for his reaction. Never one for disorder, you can only dread how he will handle being tackled. But it is exactly why you love him so much: how even after so long together, he continues to surprise you time and time again. In the very first second, he takes your breath away: kneeling down to catch the kid before the pavement catches her. His expression is free of anger, showing only concern. His voice softens to a level you have never heard before, “Hey, kid… you alright?” 

Your heart flutters like her dress, still in whiplash from your husband’s save. Flutters like her lashes, as she fights back tears and dons a frown. Her legs wobble like her lip, such a contrast to her uppity pigtails. So sad, but so adorable! You nearly let out a laugh, but are silently thwarted by Levi's severity. In a serious tone, but not scary, he places a hand on her shoulder and squats to her level, "Are you lost?"

No verbal response, only her puppy dog eyes and fiddling fingers. It was today you learned: babies walk before they can talk.

Well, shit... you pinch your wrists, how are we gonna help her if she can't talk? You should have known who you were with: the one who always knew his way in times of trouble. Two steady hands at her sides, Levi swiftly lifts her in the air - and in the sunlight, you swear you catch a smile - before propping her on his hip.

His flawless instinct goes to work. A flower in her hair: from the flower shop. The flower shop: just a block north. She is oddly calm for being with strangers and away from her parents - internally, Levi grimaces at the thought - hitting too close to home. On the walk, Levi looks to you, silently calling on you for assistance: distractions, funny faces, the emotional support in this situation.

You recall your parents telling you once: If you're a family stuck on a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean, one parent might want to just keep rowing. But if the other parent wants to play a game, it's not because they're crazy. It's because they're doing it for the kids. Finally, it clicked: Levi - the rower, you - the gamer.

Nearing the crowd, Levi hoists her up even higher: sitting her on his shoulders for the best possible vantage point. "Now, you look around and point at your parents, okay?" Levi pivots side to side, giving her a view. He points his finger in demonstration, encouraging her to do the same.

Ironically, Levi spots them before she does. They are the only pair of parents who look carefree on this hectic holiday. Their attention stays perched solely upward, more interested in the store displays than the five other children straying further and further away - tiptoeing closer to becoming lost like their sister.

Levi covers her ears before calling to the couple, “Hey!”

He is prepared to give them an earful before the aftermath of a boozy brunch cuts him off. “Oh, yeah yeah! Thanks a ton! We were worried...”

“Yeah, seems like it.” A stranger would not tell, but his long-term love cringes - sarcasm dripping like syrup. His fist bunches at his side, he hesitates to put her down. You understand why, but you also understand that he has to. You place your palm to the small of his back and use your free arm to return her to her parents. “It was nice to meet you! Levi and I have to head home, but your parents got you now, right?” Now, it is his turn - to hear a tone of yours he has never before.

Your sweetness so opposite to her parents’ drawl: “C’mon, kiddo. Try to keep up this time, alright!?”

Arms crossed, he silently fumes, watching the parents pay her no attention: their backs are turned, they’re speeding ahead, the child Levi just returned has to run to keep up. A scowl seizes his lips, his fingernails dig into his arms. Levi curses under his breath, “Some people…” You can imagine what he is thinking, and follow up with, “Not you, though.” 

Steel-grey eyes meet yours in solidarity, his lips part, but certainty dominates his look. In that moment, you have confirmed with yourself and each other: you want to have kids and you want to have them together. From that moment and its following night, fast-forward a month later: your pregnancy test reads positive.

// masterlist //

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi #levi ackerman #levi x you #levi ackerman x you #dadvi #fluff #headcanon #anlian writes #2022 #my writing #alias's

[thisnightissparkling089]

Multiples of 5 😊

5.) List up to ten (or more, why limit yourself?) words you like and their definitions?

Flabbergasted: Greatly surprised or astonished

Hullabaloo: A commotion or fuss

Bamboozled: To fool or cheat someone

Whippersnapper: A young and inexperienced person considered to be presumptuous or overconfident.

Cattywampus: Askew or awry

Finagle: obtain something by devious or dishonest means

Proposition: a statement or assertion that expresses a judgment or opinion.

Fuck: used alone or as a noun or verb in various phrases to express annoyance, contempt, or impatience

Gobsmacked: Utterly astonished or astounded

Ragamuffin: a person, typically a child, in ragged, dirty clothes

10.) Talk about something you are working on?

A 6x06 post ep of the aftermath of Tim leaving Lucy in the parking lot and the weeks after.

15.) What kind of weather do you like the best?

Fall🧡 Most specifically, a Sunday evening in October when the doors and windows are open and there's a pumpkin candle burning. 60 degrees, a light breeze in the air, the sun setting, the leaves beginning to change color, while a football game plays, and there's a pot of chili simmering on the stove.

20.) Share with us a random fact or two?

Between my dad, myself, and his parents, there are only 2 birthdays. My dad was born on his dad's birthday, and I was born on my grandmother's birthday.

I've lived in 3 states, New Jersey, South Carolina, and Indiana.

25.) Talk about some OCs if you have any?

I'll be honest, I have no idea what OC refers to in this question? 🙈

30.) Name something good that happened today?

I got to have brunch with my bestie and disect TTPD with her🫶🏼

35.) Anything you would like to share?

Tumblr restores my faith in humanity. So much good has come from my time here that sometimes it makes me want to cry. The way people can care about people they've never met and know little about just because we both love the same show, it's incredible. The way people will randomly ask every so often, "Hey, you good? Everything going okay? I'm here if you need to talk." It brings such a smile to my face to have this space and these people that I've never met but come to love❤️

Thanks, Diana!

Ask game

#asks #asked and answered #lovely mutuals #ask game

[gurugirl]

The Tiffany Club Part 3

Summary: Camille is a sex club worker living in NYC. She meets Harry, a private equity CEO millionaire one day and they realize they like each other. A lot. But will Harry be willing to overlook Camille’s career choice?

AN/Warning:I will have a * by the parts when smut is included. This warning list is comprehensive for all parts, not all contain smut or listed warnings. NSFW, smut, oral (male and female), 18+ only (as always), angst, dom & sub themes, sex work, light alcohol use, mentions of disordered eating and food restrictions

Pairing: Sex club worker Camille x Harry Styles

Part 2 here

Part 3 – Camille

When we get to the booth Harry’s occupying I notice another man is already there. I’ve seen this guy before. I think his name is Richard. I’ve never danced for him or anything before, though. Harry slides in and I scoot in at the end next to Harry. The other man’s eyes go wide for a second and he leans over Harry to extend his hand for me to greet him.

“I’m Richard. Nice to meet you.” I nod and smile, “Angel. Nice to meet you, Richard.”

We get comfortable in our seats as the next routine begins and it’s always so exciting watching the burlesque dancers do their thing. They’re amazing and train hard for the job. We do the burlesque show Fridays and Saturdays here. The other nights are full of entertainment too but each night has different themes. And once a month on Sundays we do a Burlesque Brunch. The club doesn’t serve food (well, not really, there is a kitchen and we can accommodate those willing to pay) so it’s always a special production on those Sundays. Tiffany’s also does not open to the public until 8 PM typically. Reservations are made far, far in advance for the brunches. Opening at 10:00 AM and serving breakfast comes with a hefty price. Just to get on the list costs $500 and then, once there’s an opening (could be months down the line before there’s an open space) you finally get in and then you’ll pay extra for the food and tips. Not to mention the yearly member’s fee for the place. I don’t even know how much it costs to be a member here. I’ve heard various things from different people. I think it’s income based or donation based. Its not a part of the business I’m privy to. All I know is I get paid well and I’m treated well.

I look down at the table and see the “menu” is open with my face staring up at me. I quickly close it and Harry notices as I do so. I don’t mind the menu with all of our faces on it, not really. It makes it easier for guests to explore if they choose. Sometimes people are shy to order something or ask about something. The menu makes it easy and there’s a better chance of getting a patron for the evening this way (more money). I just don’t love the idea in general. It makes it seem like we’re cattle. But as I’ve mentioned, we don’t do anything we aren’t comfortable with here.

The first time Edmond ordered me when I first began working here we didn’t do much of anything. Mostly we talked. I sat naked with him in one of the private rooms on a plush chair, while he sat at my feet and rubbed them. That was it. I liked it. He tipped me very very well and that was when I realized how this job could change me. And it did. Now, our monthly meetings happen on a Wednesday night usually. He pays me $10k for each session. Before I started having sex with him it was $5k. Then one night, maybe the fourth or fifth time we were together, he got bold as I had him tied to the settee, face down in one of the private rooms. He asked me if we could have sex. Now, at that time, I’d seen him naked plenty and I was always fully nude for him during our sessions anyway. I said no at first, but I wanted to have him show me proof that he was clean. We’d be using condoms no matter what, if I chose to have sex with him, but I needed to see a clean bill of health. I had him send the email from the doctor to the club and then the club sent me the email thread. It came in from a legit doctor (who I looked up) and the attachment contained the results. Edmond also had only ever had sex with his wife, he told me. And I believe him. I’ve gotten to know him very well during my time here. Everything he’s told me checks out.

Then, our very next session I dipped my toes into the forbidden and had sex with a client for money. Does that make me a hooker, a whore, a prostitute? Yes. I suppose it does. But it’s only ever been Edmond. $10k is a lot of fucking money and he’s not that bad. I do most of the work. I usually tie him up or bind him and then ride him. I don’t always get off. I think he’s attractive but it’s a job first and foremost to me so it’s not particularly sexy. I have orgasmed a couple of times, admittedly but only when I’ve sat over his face and made him eat me out. I also don’t get off on dominating. I’m good at it. Good at putting on the show. It brings me lots of tips. Men love being dominated, humiliated, put in their place... Well, the ones that order me do. I have another regular who is a top-notch asshole but he likes being gagged, slapped, bound, and humiliated. That’s all he wants. So I give it to him and he fucking loves it. I’ve made him come without even touching him, I’m that good.

Harry slides his arm on the seat back behind me and leans down to speak to me, “So, tell me a little about yourself. How did you start working here?” He’s not asking me in a way that’s talking down to me. He seems genuinely curious. So I tell him a little about it. Explain to him the tier system. First tier are the burlesque dancers (they do other stuff too, but they get paid top dollar because they put on the big shows that bring in the most money). I tell him my days off are Sundays and Mondays. He finds out what my major was in college and how one day I’ll be able to focus on that once I’ve gotten everything I can out of the club (until they tell me I’m too old to entertain anymore). Harry is listening with keen interest. His face is very close to mine, but far enough that I can see his features. The man could work here for god’s sake, he’s gorgeous. I find out he is the founding partner of a private equity company headquartered in London and he’s opening a NYC office here, which is why he’s in NYC right now, finding an apartment. His plans are to go back and forth, from London to NYC. The man is obviously extremely wealthy. His suit, the shirt he wears underneath (which is not the coffee stained one from this morning), his shoes, the rings on his fingers, and the scent he wears for cologne are indicators. I know when someone has money. Even if they dress down, I can see it and smell it. I’m well trained, comes with the job.

I notice that he’s being very good too. He’s trying to not let his gaze wander but I wouldn’t mind if he did it. I catch him getting glimpses of me here and there, but I can’t blame him. I’m practically wearing nothing. This is a regular getup for me. It’s usually something in a cream or white that’s delicate and skimpy. It also throws the men off who want me for some sort of BDSM play. They are used to seeing women clad in dark leather, but I stick to the white, delicate outfits to go with the name Angel. I could play up the BDSM thing a little more but I do what I want and it works for me. I do have some dark leather things for when I get a customer who requests it. I keep it in my locker and bring it out when necessary but I rarely ever need to. It turns out that some men really like it when they’re getting dominated by an innocent looking young woman in white.

There’s a part of me that hopes Harry wants something else tonight but I think his ego might be a bit too big for something like this. Paying for a woman to dance for him or whatever it is that he’s into. I can tell he’s not into being a submissive, that’s for sure. I have a feeling he could get any woman he wanted at any time. I bet he does too. I notice him licking his lips and watching mine as I speak. He’s into me, but he doesn’t know what to do here, in this setting. It’s too bad that we’re not out at some bar having a casual chat instead. It’s nice getting to know him like this and having someone listen to me talk about the Incan Empire. He seems truly interested but the glaring thing that stops us from taking this any further is that I’m on the job and he’s too full of himself to ask me to a private room. And I get it. I truly do, but it’s a shame. I’m curious about him, to see what he’s like when he’s in that vulnerable situation. His fingers graze over my shoulder sporadically and each time he makes contact with me it sends a shiver down my spine and goosebumps rise up on my skin. My nipples are already poking through my dress but being next to Harry with his soft touches and low, sultry voice in my ear has them nearly slicing through the fabric.

He talks about London and his job a little. It sounds awfully boring but he loves it. He and his partner founded Styles Capital five years ago together. They built it from the ground up, getting money from investors to start their first fund, and then that leads them to where they are now, finishing up their fourth fund and it’s now a very profitable firm. He seems proud of his work. I find out he’s 31 and he learns I’m 26 when he tells me his age.

At some point Richard needs to get out to head to the bathroom so he slides out on the end he’s seated on and Harry stays dangerously close to me, his cologne and presence filling my senses and making me hot.

He leans down to speak to me and I cross my leg to turn further into him to listen, “Are you from New York City originally?” He keeps his face near mine as I look up to his face and answer him, “No, I’m from Ohio. Raised in a good Christian household, then ruined by all the knowledge I learned at university in the big city here.” I laugh and Harry laughs with me. He moves his head to his other side and watches me for a moment, like he’s working up the nerve to ask me something else. When he does finally ask, it’s not at all what I expected, “So, how does Barry like living in the big city? He must get lonely while you’re gone at work.”

Ahhh… he is trying to be clever with that question. He wants to know if I’ve got anyone at home waiting for me, other than Barry. But I take the bait, “Barry loves just being with me. I don’t think he minds the tiny apartment. He gets three good walks a day and I take him on a quick potty break as soon as I get home after work. He’s pretty chill. So, being alone while I’m at work doesn’t seem to bother him much. I keep the television on for him.” I chuckle thinking of him. Barry’s the best.

Harry smiles at this and I see him look away for a moment and then back to me, “So, no boyfriend?” My eyes widen at his sudden forwardness. I knew it. I can’t help but smile and shake my head, feeling my face get hot. Harry has barely done or said anything that could be construed as forward flirting but his presence and the eye contact along with the light touches on my shoulder have me feeling rather turned on.

“No. No boyfriend. Had one in college but then after we broke up and I got this job after graduating it’s just been casual with the men I see. There’s no man that can handle this.” I state in all seriousness. I’ve had a couple of dates with guys while working here but they don’t like that I work at the club so it doesn’t ever get far. And I’m okay with it.

Harry hums and nods, pulling his lips into his mouth and squinting at me before he speaks, “Maybe. Or maybe you have just been seeing the wrong types.” He smirks down at me, a dimple pressing into his cheek and I want to kiss him. I watch his lips and I could just reach forward and kiss him but I don’t. I know what he’s implying and it makes me feel a flutter of nerves. The wrong types. As if he would be the right type? Or maybe I’m thinking too hard about it. Maybe it was just an observation. So, I test the waters to push the conversation a little further.

“Perhaps you’re right. I’ve been told a few times that it was okay, my job, but it never turns out that way. Men think they can deal with it but when it comes down to it, they get too possessive. I’ve yet to meet a single man who can handle it, Harry. I doubt I’ll find anyone who doesn’t care about how I make my money.” I raise my hand up and smooth over his collar, adjusting it so it’s tucked back into his suit jacket neatly. Harry grasps my wrist gently and holds my hand in place over his collar.

“Let me take you out. Tomorrow, on your day off. You can bring Barry too. We can go for a walk through the park and get something to eat. Get to know one another.” He’s telling me, not asking me and my head involuntarily begins to nod an eager yes to him before I’ve even had the chance to think about it.

“Yes. Okay. I’d like that, actually. Um…” I smile nervously as Harry lets go of my wrist and leans to the side and pulls his phone out of his pocket, keeping it under the table so no one sees. Phones are not allowed to be used in the venue for the safety of the workers. He passes it to me, “Put your number in and text yourself.”

I type in my number and send a quick text to my phone simple with Harry Styles. I slide the phone back to him which he promptly puts away. I keep my eyes on him and he watches me in return with a gaze that makes me feel weak and needy for him. It’s been a very long time since I’ve felt like this. Usually men are fumbling their words and act nervous around me. Either that or they’re just shitheads and overcompensate so they don’t appear nervous. I’m not used to men like Harry with confidence and swagger. He’s so sure of himself, but also genuinely interested in me and what I say that it’s caught me off guard completely.

Just as I am about to say something the waitress stops by the table and asks if we want another round. Harry looks at me first as if to ask if I’d like anything and when I shake my head he declines. The waitress smiles and then puts a small payment book in front of me. It means I’ve been ordered. She says 15 minutes and then walks away. I open the book up and see I’ve been ordered for a private room - a dance and some conversation is all this one says. The orders usually look like this but when I get into the private rooms I quickly learn that the men (and women, too, actually) wind up with something else in mind. It gets added to their bill of course. I’m a little disappointed that it’s not Harry who’s ordered it, but I knew he wouldn’t.

I look up at him as I close the book and smile sheepishly. It feels kind of sad to be in this moment. Where he’s just asked me out, I’ve given him my number and then I’m called away to go do something a little taboo with someone else. I won’t be having sex, but everything I do at this job is about sex, even if I’m not actively engaging in it.

I see Harry swallow as his Adam’s apple bobs and he looks down at the book and then back to me.

“I have to earn.” I shrug my shoulders and move away from him a bit. I’m expecting him to change his mind about seeing one another tomorrow, tell me he just remembered that he has something else going on that he forgot about but that he’ll call me when he has time, or when he gets back from London on his next trip. What I do not expect is for him to grasp my shoulder and pull me back toward him. I don’t expect it when he lightly drags his hand up my thigh, and I especially don’t expect him to lean down and kiss my cheek, and then softly kiss the edge of my mouth, leaving me yearning for more. He’s got me like putty in his hands, this man.

“It’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, Camille.” He says lowly. I kind of want to punch him for not ordering me tonight. Letting me go to some other person so easily. I hate a possessive man but I want Harry to feel a little jealous. I wish he’d say that he realizes he should have asked me for a private room instead so no one else could have me tonight. But he doesn’t. He just stays cool and we say our goodbyes. When I’ve slipped out of the booth, Richard is returning. I tell them to have a good night and I walk away toward the private rooms. Even though I don’t turn back to him, I can still feel Harry’s eyes on me, watching me as I move across the room and out of his sight.

Part 4

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