#the bar girl

[galaxiasgreen]

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut [E-Rated, 3.6k words]

"It's hot." "No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service." "I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"

The freckled stranger has been visiting your pub for three months now, drinking to forget the worst times.

You might be the person he needs to remember the best.

[MASTERLIST][NEXT] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: swearing, alcoholism, grief, discussions of death.

1: stupid questions

The freckled stranger has been in your pub every day for the last three months.

It never matters whether it's windy, raining, or overbearingly sunny. It never matters whether it's busy, tables crammed, the counter sticky with spills, or if the tax on drink has gone up. It never matters if he's in a good or bad mood. Every day, right as expected, he shoulders inside Ye Olde Hen House, ignores the chorus of greetings from the tipsy regulars, lumbers to the bar and orders a drink. His choice is always the same: cold stout, brought over in as many glasses he can take before he's one whit away from passing out.

You're used to hauling out drunkards. In this part of the old city they trundle in after labour shifts, seeking to forget the day's worries, and wind up on the floor by hour's end. You pity them their weak constitutions and poor decision-making, and the wives who will have to suffer their company upon their brazen return in the middle of the night.

To his credit, the freckled stranger has never been that drunk.

Yet you pity him most of all.

The first time he steps foot inside the pub he immediately draws your eye. Most of the regulars are in their forties, pot-bellied and cheerful like Christmas adverts of St Nick – but the freckled stranger is around your age, five-and-twenty, with youthful skin, a smooth gait and broad, firm shoulders. His hair is a bed of chestnut curls, and the ends shadow his eyes, also a dark brown, like coffee. Stubble grows in patches over his sharp jaw. In the heat of summer he wears only a linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and you can see muscle there, and tattoos, though you force yourself to look away before you can determine what they are, burying your curiosity behind professionalism.

When he makes it to the counter, he slaps down a handful of change and sinks onto the barstool, looking at you, gaze burning expectantly but not with disdain.

"Pint of beer, please."

"Two pence."

He pushes all his coins over. You extract two pennies, then fill a glass to the brim. He drinks quietly but greedily, siphoning the beer like it's his first liquid in days, and when he finishes, every drop consumed, the glass clatters to the countertop in a white-knuckled grip, pronouncing the veins in his hands like cobalt forks of lightning.

"Another, please."

You raise an eyebrow. "Knock that back any faster you might see Heaven before you mean to."

"What makes you think I'm going to heaven?" He throws out a few coins – pennies and halfpennies this time. "Pint of beer, please."

He drinks slower and slower each time as the alcohol alleviates his worries. You feel pity, strong and true. Same age or abouts, and people would look down on you for having a peasant's job, but at least you're not wasting your life away like the freckled stranger.

At least of yourself you make a name, whilst the freckled stranger makes a fool.

By his fourth, sometimes fifth drink, he's spread-eagle on the countertop, playing with the pocket change between his fingertips, wide-eyed with fascination.

"Don't fall asleep," you tell him, squeezing a cloth over a soiled plate. "Or I'll kick you out."

"Not sleepy," he slurs, flicking a half-penny into a tailspin. "Am pensive."

"Pensive... right."

"Pensive about pennies." He chuckles to himself. "Your coins are so funny. What's the point of half-pennies and farthings?"

The use of your is unusual, but he's drunk, so what's new. "Why don't you ask King Edward?" you say humorously.

"You say it like he's only next door. Know him, do you?"

"'Course. We're best mates."

"Put me in contact. I'll change— more make sense."

You purse your lips. He's too drunk to respond coherently, though there's still about three fingers left in the glass, which he eventually works up the means to finish, leaving his lips sticky with cream. By this point it's almost closing time and he struggles to get to his feet. You don't help him. Why should you?

"Ta," he hiccoughs roughly in your direction, and staggers out the door, out of view. You wonder where he goes, what he does in the daytime, whether he has family, or friends, or a pretty girl who pities him too.

He's in a mood on a particularly hot June evening, when he walks into the pub with his shirt unbuttoned.

Do not look. Despite being a complete wastrel, the freckled stranger, you hate to admit, is extremely well-built, with a finely-toned chest and brawny arms that could easily win many wrestling matches, and many hearts too. Maybe he already has. The long stripe of flesh between the two front panels tease a wide chest tattoo, inked over his pectorals like fine canvas – what appears to be two runic symbols and the number 706.

You quickly glance away. That's already too much. Just because a man is attractive doesn't mean you should be staring. You compose yourself and make your way over before he reaches the bar.

"Shirt," you say. "Button it up."

He halts, drinking in the sight of you. Up close, all you can smell is his musk, salty like the sea, and just as powerful. His hair is soaked with it too – there are dirt marks there, like he's been in a scrap, but he appears uninjured.

"It's hot."

"No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service."

"I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"

"Do up your shirt," you grind out, "or get out."

The mischief dissipates as his eyes narrow, but he reluctantly buttons up the front. The shirt is ratty and torn at the elbows, but still smells enticingly like him, and he doesn't bother going up all the way, leaving an annoying glimpse of that unusual scrawl of symbols.

"Happy now?"

You go around the counter, ignoring him. "What do you want?"

"What do you think?"

Your eyes narrow. "You know the cost."

A hand slips into his pocket and produces a handful of coins, which he dumps out flippantly. They clatter to a stop in a wide arc.

Impertinent. Your lips flatten. Two can play that game.

"You've been here enough times to know the correct change by now."

He snorts. "Every bloody coin looks the same."

"It has Britannia wielding the trident on one side."

"Who the hell is Britannia?"

You roll your eyes. "Edward is on the other. Know who he is or have you really been living in the Arctic?"

"I remember your best mate." Finally he takes two pennies from the pile. "You could've just said it was the biggest bronze coin and saved yourself the hassle."

You could've also told him it literally says penny on the rim, but who knows if he's able to read – or whether he can right now. "You don't learn if you don't figure it out for yourself." You take them from his proffered hand. "Pint or half-pint?"

"Another stupid question."

"In that case, I won't serve you—"

"Wait." He grunts in annoyance and holds out the pennies again. "One pint of beer, please."

"That's better."

He takes the drink, and your gaze dips to the hand clenching the glass – you've never seen a drunk with such... muscle definition before. His frame is broad, his chest like full barrels of whiskey. He looks like he knows how to handle his body – how to use it to full advantage.

Shame. If only he didn't have the personality of a wet rag.

You serve another few people before he motions for you again, and this time you pour him the drink without saying a word. He exchanges the right money for the glass.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, before you go away again. "I've been rude."

You hesitate, suspicious. "Yes, you have."

"You're just doing your job."

"Yes, I am."

"Can you forgive me?"

That same glint of mischief there, except this one is charming – this one prods a little more insistently at your mental walls. You snort.

"This time."

He takes a sip, leaving a trail of foam on his mouth – he thumbs it away and licks the tip.

Hastily you look away.

"How long have you been working here?" the freckled stranger asks one Tuesday night, when the pub is dead.

You slap your cloth to the countertop, soaked with wood polish. You've talked to him a few times now, but this is the first that's been more than polite greetings, menial chatter, and get out, you're completely sozzled.

"Why?"

"What d'you mean, why?"

"Why d'you want to know?"

He leans back, lips tugging upwards. "I know you but I don't know you, if that makes sense."

"And it should stay that way."

"I just think it would be nice to properly appreciate the woman who serves me drinks every day."

You roll your lips. He's a good talker when he wants to be – when he's sober. "Been working here longer than you've been drinking here, that's for sure."

"A year? Five years? How old are you?"

"Careful."

"I'm twenty-six."

"Didn't ask."

His gaze on you is lowered but penetrating when he braces his chin in a hand. You can't help but feel a little flushed.

"Do you own this fine establishment?"

"I do."

"Not your husband?"

"Not married."

"But you're so old."

"Do you want to get kicked out?"

His smile curls. "Put-off marrying because it will mean handing all your assets to your undeserving husband?"

You pause to glare at him. "So you know the lack of women's rights but you can't figure out which coin is a penny?"

"Women's rights makes sense. The coins don't. Why do all the bronze ones look the same? I'm still waiting on a meeting with Ed about that, by the way."

"Oh, the lack of women's rights makes sense, does it?"

"I said women's rights makes sense. I'm on your side."He shrugs. "Personally, though, I'm more of a supporter of women's wrongs."

A laugh gutters out of you, and with a self-satisfied, feline grin, he drinks.

Something is very wrong when he comes in on his four-month anniversary.

If rain could embody a person, the freckled stranger would be a barely-contained hurricane. He looks the worst you've ever seen – dark crescents beneath red eyes, skin frighteningly wan, burst blood vessels webbing across his cheeks like crinkles on a flattened wad of newspaper. He glowers at anyone who looks at him askance, a clear signal to stay the fuck away.

He slumps bodily onto his normal barstool – and there comes the pity, an avalanche crashing through your body.

"Beer."

You don't move.

He lets out an annoyed sigh. "Pint of beer, please."

You pour it. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

"Fine. All the same to me." It's not all the same – he looks like the truth might kill him from the inside. "Stout's out. I've got porter."

His eyes flash. "Porter's weak shit."

"That or ale. Take your pick."

"Porter then."

You pour it. It's infamously dark in colour, like his eyes right now, black and molten and unforgiving of a world that has cut him up and left him to die. When he takes the glass he doesn't thank you, just jams the rim between his teeth and gulps ravenously. The slam on the countertop reverberates.

"Another."

"Seem to be missing a thank you and please—"

"Can you just—" He catches himself. "Not today. Just not today."

"Today is a regular ol' Thursday for me," you point out coldly. "If you want some leeway for your absent manners you're going to have to give me a reason."

He mumbles something inaudible.

You lean forwards. "Didn't catch that."

Finally his gaze settles on you, and it's guarded, striking, like steel.

"My twin sister died four months ago today."

When people turn to drink, it's mostly because of one of two things: grief, or loneliness. Now you know the freckled stranger is both. You can see it in the shadows that cling to him, in the trembling of his cracked knuckles, grasping the glass like it's the only thread between him and sweet oblivion.

It doesn't surprise you to hear it, nor see it with your own eyes – but a death of a twin... now that's something you've never heard before. Especially not from someone so young.

"Sorry to hear that." The condolence softens your disdain, just a little. "I can't imagine—"

"No, you can't imagine what it must be like, yes, it's awful, is there anything you can do? Sorrows and prayers, sorrows and prayers!" The laugh is hysterical. "I don't want that. I didn't come here to listen to your pity."

Strange... until this conversation, pity was all you felt.

Now you're just angry.

"Why'd you tell me then?" you shoot back, as your temper builds in your belly. "You blurt your sob story and, what, expect me not to say anything?"

"I came to drink, so that's what I'll damn well do."

"Then shut your cakehole, drink your damn porter and stop fishing for sympathy."

Something cracks along his expression. He splutters. "Like hell I'm fishing—"

"Four months, you said? Yet here you are, sulking. You look like she passed only yesterday. Is this what she would've wanted, for you to drink yourself into stupor every bloody day?"

Genuine anger clouds his face. "You don't know what she would've wanted."

"I know you care for her deeply, so I can guess she cared deeply for you too, and I don't know a single loved one of mine who'd want me to live in this hell you've created for yourself."

He stands to his feet – nearly stumbles. "You can't talk to me— like— you don't—"

"Look at you, too drunk to even stand. You drank before you came here, didn't you? You've been drinking all day, feeling sorry for yourself. If you won't accept my condolences, fine, but you better heed this warning instead: if you ever talk to me like that again, I will have you chucked out and barred not just here, but every damn pub this side of the city, and I won't give a rat's arse about your grief or your shitty coping strategies. Do you understand?"

Something lifts and vanishes from his eyes, like a dark shape that flees arrest in the cover of night. The crack in his façade widens, and maybe it's the reek of him, of old stale drink that wisps out of him in short breaths, but something makes you lean back, give him space to process your words, to process his mistake in crossing you.

You were yelling all that, and the rest of the pub has quietened in response. One of the regulars stands up and makes eye contact with you, but you wave him away. You're all right. The freckled stranger understands now.

The look on his face is not just defeat... but clarity.

"Understood," he rasps out eventually.

"Good." Your heart races – you fight to control it. "Now, I've got other customers waiting, so if you don't mind keeping your voice down?"

But he knocks back the rest in one go and leaves without saying a word.

Maybe you were a little harsh.

You stew on it the next morning as you prepare for a busy day. Wiping the surfaces, preparing the stock, checking the tills, rallying the other staff and replenishing the taps – so much to do and occupy your mind, yet there you are, face creased as you think of the freckled stranger and his grief.

He needed the push, you don't regret that, but you do regret, just slightly, how you delivered it. It could've gone so many ways – he could've complained to the police and tarnished the pub's reputation, could've destroyed furniture, glass, could've hurt you. You might own Ye Olde Hen House but at the end of the day you're a glorified barmaid – a wench, some of the older patrons sometimes use against you derogatorily. Who are you to offer the freckled stranger life advice?

You thought he might not appear that evening, but at eight o'clock, he shoulders through the door and takes the same bar stool, right in front of you, as always.

"Pint of beer," he murmurs, "please."

You pour it for him, making it extra frothy, but say nothing when you slide it over. This time he pays the correct coinage, no fuss. So he's capable of using his brain just as much as you're capable of feeling guilt. His knuckles blanch over the glass, clenching it hard – you find yourself distracted by his hands, solid and engulfing, like he would never yield anything in his grip.

You let out a scathing sigh. "Look, I'm sorry."

He raises a finger and tips the glass back until all the porter has slid down his throat.

"Can't have this talk sober," he says, using his muscled forearm to wipe his mouth messily. "Another. Please."

He sets out the coin, you pour him the drink. He doesn't say a word until the next one goes down, and the next. Eventually he massages the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry myself," he forces out, even though the drink softens the consonants. "You shouldn't have to apologise."

"I was harsh."

"You were an arsehole."

"Funnily enough that's why I'm saying sorry."

"No, but... it was nice, your bluntness." He sags on the counter, but his gaze is still locked on you. "Every bloody person I know has been coddling me for months. Sorry about Anne this, I'm sad for you that. The condolences and sadness and hugs and well-wishes has never stopped. Even my best friends Ominis and Garreth keep tiptoeing around me like I'm as fragile as a Remembrall."

"A what?"

"Glass," he amends swiftly. His thumb presses into the curve of his jaw, protruding the strong cords of his neck. "I'm so fed up with it. So fucking fed up."

"You know you're not helping yourself, right?" you say, hoping this doesn't cross a line again. "Coming in here to drink—"

"Every day, I know. I just need it. I need to drink. I need to— to forget what I did—" He shakes his head and grasps his temple fiercely. "Tell me something. Quick."

"What?"

"Anything. Your favourite book, how your parents met, the drama of whoever you're shagging at the moment, I don't care. I don't want to think. Just – give me anything. And another beer. Please."

So you tell him your favourite book – you don't get to read very often, you're lucky you can read at all – and you tell him the less-than-exciting story of how your parents met. You're not 'shagging' anyone at the moment, which you say with a roll of your eyes, so you're relatively drama-free. Your life is utterly mundane, as you like it.

You don't leave him with nothing, however.

"I've been at this pub since I was eighteen, seven years ago. Inherited it off my parents now that they're too old to work."

He must do the maths as he squirrels away another beer.

"You must enjoy it."

"It was either here or the match factory. You must know how that went."

He smiles indulgently. "Expert in women's rights, remember?"

You huff a snort.

"You get how this place works, then."

"I've been helping out here since I was a tot, so yes, I know everything there is to know. Plus it pays well and keeps me mostly protected, and I get to be part of the community and meet new people."

He lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Like me?"

You tip your head.

"Yeah, like you, I suppose." You gently pry the empty glass from his hand. "Another?"

"Stupid question."

But he smiles fondly this time, so you make a face and pour his fourth beer without complaint.

You don't talk much from then. You're busy with other customers and he's probably tired of chatting, though you meet his eye several times during the last hour, like a hook on a thread that catches by accident – or fate. It's those coffee eyes that you're drawn to. They dance like fingers on skin, to a rhythm as constant as ocean waves, cascading down your spine even when you turn away.

By the time the other patrons have left and the gramophone has run out of records to play, all that's between you and closing is the freckled stranger.

"What's your name?"

You glance his way. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you want to know?"

"It's not an interrogation. It's just so you're not the bar girl in my head."

"In that case," you smile sweetly, "it's none of your business."

"You drive a hard deal, bar girl," he says, taking it in his stride. "My name is Sebastian Sallow."

"Didn't ask."

"Trade you? I'll even throw in a middle name as a bonus."

"No thanks." You flick towards the door. "Now, it's nearly one o'clock and my pub is about to close, so you better skedaddle before I toss you out by ear, Sebastian Sallow."

"That's a lot more effective now that you can use it against me." The barstool scrapes – Sebastian Sallow manages to make it to the door without stumbling once. "Will I regret telling you?"

You hold the door and smile indulgently as he steps out.

"Stupid question."

You shut it in his face.

[MASTERLIST][NEXT] [Gorgeous art by FlamboyantJelly][Divider credit]

[justdavina]

Two HOT gurls ready to hit the town and break some hearts!

[stump-not-found]

mabel pines #1 hater

[araneapeixes]

lesbian bed death - goth girls are easy

This art is now available as a print <3

[crazygnomenclature]

This was a super controversial series of comics when I posted them on Reddit a year ago. So much so that Zombie Comic Aura talks about it in a video covering T&E sins.

I still don't regret it, because it sets up a little more complexity to Tiff and Eve's relationship. I would have made a few changes if I had thought ahead a little more, but I mention that in Aura's the video.

More Tiff & Eve on Webtoon. Support the comic on Patreon.

[dangeroustaintedflawed]

[wocina]

[samglyph]

New relationship dynamic dropped

[cyberiapinksosa333]

now i got a sweet tooth

[charaznablespeteevee]

Really glad to report that there is yuri in Gundam After War X

[galaxiasgreen]

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

✨Masterlist✨

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut, minor Garrinis [E-Rated, 19k]

"If being with you is hell," he says, "then heaven must be beyond paradise."

The freckled stranger has been visiting your pub for three months now, drinking to forget the worst times.

You might be the person he needs to remember the best.

Tropes: angst/ drama/ romance, eventual smut, wizard x Muggle, different worlds, dark secret, Magic from a Muggle POV, oblivious to magic.

Trigger warnings: alcoholism, coarse language, non-explicit sexual assault, dementia/ Alzheimer's disease, gendered language, blood/ injury, violence, explicit smut.

1. stupid questions

You meet a freckled stranger in the pub you work at.

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

2. universal constants

An incident occurs when Sebastian Sallow is having a drink.

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

3. good days, bad days

You have a bad day – Sebastian seeks to change that.

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

4. terms of endearment

You do a favour for Sebastian... and meet an unfriendly figure from his past.

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

5. living and surviving

The truth comes out as you sew Sebastian's wounds.

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

6. [Coming soon <3]

[Gorgeous art by FlamboyantJelly] [Divider credit]

[hajihiko]

Sobriety crew gets no mercy from drunk shenanigans

[komelliko]

manipulative!boss!sunday x timid!secretary!reader

summary: Sunday wants to invite you to dinner. ...Correction: Sunday will invite you to dinner. Even if there are a few loopholes to get through first. wc: 1.1k

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 (nsfw) / part 4 / part 5

---

Sunday finds it quite unfortunate that the salvation of the world must sometimes be assured through cruelty. It wounds him when he must be cutthroat, must be stern in his ways, but he does it all the same. Even the gravest of sins shall be absolved in the eternity of the dream he chases, and Sunday knows no man to enact this sin besides himself.

...In short, manipulation is no stranger to the head of the Oak Family.

You're nearly tripping on your heels again when your boss runs into you, lighting up at your presence in a way you have to decidedly ignore. It's unprofessional to dwell on it—You hate even the notion of being unprofessional. After all you've worked towards, every hour you've busted your ass off to get to work as secretary for one of the most important people in Penacony, the thought of ruining it by being unprofessional makes you want to fill a bathtub with SoulGlad and let yourself drown in it.

"Good morning, Mr. Oak," you greet him, once he's within speaking range. There's a million papers and manila folders in your arms, all cobbled together with clips and staples, and you hold them at your chest almost like a sort of shield. Hours upon hours of your work rests within this stack of papers, thousands of words worth of reports and number-crunching and printed out messages between Family Heads. Sunday makes a point to look you right in the eye, and it's a gaze you swear you'll never get used to.

You don't know what the look in his eyes mean—Sunday takes great pleasure in keeping the meaning from you.

There's a plenty good amount of things he prefers to keep to himself (as is only proper for someone of his responsibility), and the images his mind likes to conjure only flip past like cards in a rolodex as he sneaks a glance at the body hiding behind the papers. He smiles, but not any bigger than he would smile to anyone else. Not yet.

"Good morning, [Y/N]," Sunday coos. "Working out of the office as usual, I see? Please, if there's any reason for you to avoid it I must know."

Flush with embarrassment, you shake your head. It's just easier to make sure everything gets done when you're always walking, you find. You hate being kept places, being forced to sit and hear the second-hand of a clock constantly chatter behind your back. When you're walking, your heels set the pace instead, at whatever you need it to be. You're only indebted to your own ethic, which you hold in high regard.

"Oh, the office is perfectly fine, Mr. Oak," you stammer out, fingers drumming on the stack of papers. "I just like the stained glass on some of the third floor hallways of Dewlight. The, uh— The fountains add a nice atmosphere, too." You panic, adding "It's a really wonderful building, sir. I'm honored to work here."

Sunday nods. He'll have to order for new windows and a fountain to be put in his office the second the moment arrives. A meeting with Whittaker Nightingale was in order, clearly—He'd understand the situation.

"Please, dear, if anyone here should be honoured it's me," Sunday smiles. He passes to stand beside you rather than in front of, catching a glimpse of the way your hair falls over your shoulders. "Can I discuss something with you for a moment, if you'll allow?"

Sunday takes the initiative to place one hand on the small of your back, the other clasped behind his own. The touch makes you flinch—You grab tight onto your papers, hoping they won't spill out in a burst from the way you nearly jumped in place. "Gosh, Mr. Oak, I don't really think this is necessary—" On the outside, his face is stern, perhaps even disappointed with your tendencies to act like a stickler. Internally, he's more concerned with how often you spurn his affections: At his core, however? He wants to hold his hand against you until he dies.

"Please," he whispers, almost commanding you. "Walk with me." Sunlight streams in through the windows of the Dewlight Pavilion, pockets of gold dancing on the marble floors.

"You've gotten in touch with the Alfalfa family, as I requested?"

Panicking, you leaf through the papers you had kept clutched to your chest to search for any notes or documents relating to that. Unfortunately, your anxieties are valid: You did not. Sunday doesn't let on that he's lying to you. He asked you to reach out to some bureaucrat working for SoulGlad, but nothing to do with Oti or any of the Alfafas. But you're forgetful, and he loves that about you. Not as much as he values your eagerness to please, though.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Oak. It must've slipped my mind." You spent the whole day organizing the catering for the Charmony Festival, and your papers corroborate this.

"Please, I could never fault you," he smiles. "It'll be taken care of tomorrow."

Sunday bites his lip as he feels the back of your shirt brush against his hand. If he was any less of a man with any less of a reputation to uphold, he'd have it comfortably in the back pocket of your pants. He goes on, to get to the real purpose of this informal meeting with you.

"Would you be interested in discussing things over dinner?"

Your breath stalls for a moment.

"I— I'm sure sending today's report electronically should be just fine, sir."

Sir. It's a word he's been addressed by many lips, but every utterance pales in comparison to this singular moment.

"It would be my pleasure."

"I'm not sure I even have anything that would suit the occasion," you confess.

"I can arrange for something to be sent to you."

A particular nausea pools in your gut: a feeling so light, so painlessly ignorable that even worrying that it's gas feels like an overreaction. Meetings over dinner are professional, and at a rank like Sunday's, it's entirely reasonable that you conform to a certain dress code—one that he knows much better than you, no doubt. Sending something for you to wear would only be logical if it meant preserving that image of his.

(And he had been peculiar about dress in the past: No heels could be too tall or too short, pants were preferred but knee-length skirts were permissible, Oak insignia patches visible on every blazer, such and the like. Surely, this was nothing new.)

"If you find that to be within your purview, Mr. Oak," is what you manage to respond with. "...I'll make myself presentable."

"Don't fret too much over it, [Y/N]," Sunday smiles. "I fully trust in your abilities to uphold our reputations." 'Our'.

You force yourself to not dwell on it.

---

A/N: If anyone has feedback, please share it with me!! Obviously some artistic license has to be made for the premise to work but hopefully it's nothing too egregious :,)

[araneapeixes]

in the bathroom at the gay clubbbb

[justdavina]

Cross-dressing is so much fun! This wonderful lady is very pretty! She would make for the perfect date in San Francisco my home town!

[idontmindifuforgetme]

megan thee stallion is the perfect example of unbothered energy. nicki has repeatedly vagueposted about her, gone on unhinged rants about her, gone so far as to mention her dead mother (such a classless low blow), threatened her on live, and has now released the tackiest diss track in history. and what has megan done? literally nothing. she straight up ignored her, aside from that one ig story where she posted herself laughing (which was perfect btw). she is the epitome of “i will not dignify that w a response.” i love it.