#the bar girl

[galaxiasgreen]

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut, minor Garrinis [E-Rated, 5.6k words]

“Bit past your bedtime, isn’t it, bar girl?” The smoky air catches in your lungs, and when you stand, he closes the distance with arms wide. You don’t just hug – you collapse into him, the relief so potent, so all-encompassing the physical cuts and pains simply fade away. More tears come unbidden; they sting as they trail down your keening cheeks and make the leather and copper of his scent taste like coal. He squeezes back with crushing intensity, and you feel all the safer for it.

In the aftermath of Harlow's attack, you and Sebastian have a choice to make.

[MASTERLIST][FIRST][PREV] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: alcoholism, blood/ injury.

7. to snuff a candle

Panic climbs up your throat as you stumble your way back to the pub hall, a jarring embrace of both night cold and flame heat. As the last few minutes ravel and unravel before you again, tangled as the overrun roots of a gnarled tree, you can barely think to breathe, the air is so tainted and chafing.

Harlow, unconscious on the ground by your hand. The lookalike, fleeing out the back and disappearing.

Sebastian, nowhere to be seen.

Hands stripped of skin from the pan, you grit your jaw with each beam of ashen wood you chuck aside. Instead of Sebastian's corpse, you find more of Harlow's men, knocked out and trussed up in perfectly intact rope, and the crushed remains of the furniture and crockery, scraps of the tapestries, shattered lamp glass, smashed jars, tankards blackened by smoke. Tears prickle the bags beneath your eyes. The place is a graveyard to your life's work – but not yet to a life itself.

I'll never complain again he lives, you send a desperate prayer to the universe. Let him be alive. Let him be well. Hinged on this plea, you comb the entire hall without protest, and yet he remains unfound, nursing the bud of hope to an unbearable size, so large you daren't feed it anymore. Better accept him dead and find him alive, than believe him alive, and find his bones in cinders.

Ominis climbs his way through the wreckage to reach you. Although his hair is clearly unwaxed, lolling over his eyes like silk tassels, the rest of him is more put together than expected. Shirt still tucked in, waistcoat done up and trousers without a single crease. You might've believed he wasn't present for the fight at all, if not for the numerous black soot stains splattering his cheeks – it almost looks like he simply stoked a fire too carelessly.

"Oh, hello, madam—" He seems caught off-guard by the way his foot punts against the upended floor boards – he curses beneath his breath. "You're not meant to be here."

"I had to come. Sebastian, is he—?"

"He's fine." He clears his throat, standing upright. "Everything is well. The culprits have been apprehended."

"Where is he?"

"Nearby, I imagine. Who knows with him sometimes."

It's so mundane, like Sebastian's just popped out for a bloody bottle of milk. Ominis' face is shuttered; he's not saying nowt for a reason, but what that reason is, you don't know.

"Where's your walking stick?" you ask.

"Ah. I, ahem, lost it in the fire. Please don't fret. I'll manage." He takes a tentative step closer. "It's still dangerous for you to be here right now. Will you wait outside until I assess the premises? I need to check the foundations are stable."

"Mr Gaunt," you say, deadpan. "You're blind."

Ominis makes his way to the back room.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

So you go, carving the anxious pit in your stomach ever more hollow as you sit on the kerb outside what was once the front doors. After the groaning wood, crackling flames and frenzied proclamations, the silence is swollen. It has a wrongness to it, like being squeezed through a tube. The city never sleeps and yet it's sleeping now, using this one chance to exist in a moment without needing everyone to know it. There are no people, wandering close to witness the commotion, nor fox kits yearning for their mothers, nor even wind, like Mother Nature herself has abandoned this place. Life feels on pause, and oh, what you wouldn't give to hear voices, or movement, or breath. Your pub used to be a hive, and now it's nothing.

Harlow saw to that... as did your copy.

A shudder runs a course from your scalp, down your spine all the way to your toes. You dig them into your soles and drag your good hand through your sooty and matted hair. It isn't that the doppelgänger wore your face. It's your body shape. Your eyes. Everything down to the grittiest detail. Was it circus make-up? A cruel trick of the light? Punishment from God for lack of faith, lack of propriety this last week in Sebastian's embrace?

You feel the murmur of his lips on your skin, and you mourn those moments – you mourn this place, and the memories it bestowed upon you with a grief that siphons the rest of your strength. Fatigue is catching up now, and if matter could simply cease to exist, Ominis would never find you again.

A tumble of heavy boot steps draws your ear to the doorway.

"Bit past your bedtime, isn't it, bar girl?"

The smoky air catches in your lungs, and when you stand, he closes the distance with arms wide. You don't just hug – you collapse into him, the relief so potent, so all-encompassing the physical cuts and pains merely fade away. More tears come unbidden; they sting as they trail down your keening cheeks and make the leather and copper of his scent taste like coal. He squeezes back with crushing intensity, and you feel all the safer for it.

"Y-You... you crazy bastard..."

"Only crazy for you," he says, stroking your hair. "I'm all right."

You cry anyway, because you know how close he was to slipping through the veil to the other side.

"Harlow... he was... he was about to..."

"It doesn't matter anymore." He pulls back to cup your face, thumb away the tears. "Ominis and I locked him in the cellar with the rest of his gang. He'll go away for life now, I expect. Like he should've the first time."

There's some relief in knowing you'll never see him again. "There's no prison terrible enough for him."

"Oh, I can think of one." He winks, making you laugh. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

He tuts, taking your hands, still red and raw from holding the metal pan. Even the lightest flutter on the palm makes you flinch.

"This looks sore."

"It's fine. What about you?" You frantically check him over – by God's miracle he's almost completely unharmed, with only a few cuts, bruises and burns to prove he was here at all. But this is only what's visible beneath a cloak that seems oddly a size too small. "Are you hurt anywhere? Do you need—?"

"What I need," he says gently, "is for you to take a breath."

He sits you at the remains of the counter. In the short reprieve, Ominis has tidied a walkway through the carnage and presumably left to contact the authorities. Sebastian, on the other hand, works at the bar with his back to you, fingers deft as he sets the stove to heat a kettle, and sources one of the only remaining intact teacups. The tea he brews is weak, and probably hazardous, but you drink it all the same. The taste shrivels the tongue – it's a herbal blend, chamomile, but with odd notes of honey, mint and something earthy and dense, like bark.

"Going to explain why you're here and not safe at home, where I asked you to be?"

You don't want to throw Garreth under the bus for revealing parts of his plan. It was a decision made out of love, after all, and whether or not he told you about the bait you would've come anyway. The worry alone could've killed you.

"I'm glad I did." It murmurs out of you, soft as clouds. You look down – the skin on your hand doesn't hurt so much anymore. "I hit Harlow on the back of the head with a pan."

"That's my girl."

"It's not that, Sebastian. I did it to save someone, and I think... I think that someone was..."

Myself?

"What is it?" he asks, leaning forwards. With his sleeves rolled up, the veins bulge as his arms tense.

The idea is absurd. Yourself. You saw yourself. If someone said it to you, a laugh would've burst right from your belly, but it's the truth – you've seen enough mirrors to know it real. But the words won't come forth, stuck in your throat like rapidly cooling lava. You've worked at this very counter long enough to see the levels of delusion born from too much alcohol. Why not stress and fear and flame, too?

"It's nothing."

"Nothing?" He quirks a brow. "Are you sure?"

You let out a breath, steadying yourself. You trust him – so much it hurts – but this is one secret you'll take to your grave.

"What does it matter anymore?" You spin around to avoid his eye and take in the sight of the hall again. Less than twelve hours ago, there were people breaking bread at tables now rubble. "Harlow's finished and we may not be dead, but my life is still destroyed. Without my pub... I have nothing."

In the silence, he comes to stand next to you, propping himself against the bar.

"Far from it, love. Think about the legacy you built. Think about the comradery, the community. The building didn't make that, you did. You have so much strength, so much more than you think."

The words tighten below your collarbone. "Yeah, all that for what? Can't continue my legacy without a pub, can I?"

He leans down, kissing the shell of your ear.

"I can help with that." He takes your hands and places them over your eyes, shrouding your sight. "Keep your eyes closed."

"What for?"

"A little Sebastian special."

"This is hardly the time to strip, Sallow."

He chuckles. "Save that for later, love. Keep them closed until I tell you. Promise, okay?"

You nod. Sebastian pauses, and then whispers something inaudible – a few syllables that set off a chain reaction like a summer storm that arrives with no warning: a remorseless and enveloping cacophony of sounds and vibrations that almost tips your very stool over. Wood breaks, metal clangs. You think Sebastian, whatever he's doing, might be making it worse before the discord tapers into eerie silence once more. Even then, you don't open your eyes. Part of you is afraid of what you'll see.

"Okay," Sebastian says, after a pause. "Open."

You don't believe the sight at first. What was a burnt down wreckage is now clean, swept tables, polished windows and joists that grip the walls with stalwart intent, refusing to bow to the elements outside. The building is completely whole, a total dream. But as you stand, take a tentative step forwards, the reality of it dawns. It's real. Like he plucked the memory of every plank and hole, every detail from broad to miniscule, from the carpet colour and chair count to the delicate curlicues of the sconces and the wood trim on the wall frieze, painted like a forest woodland in twilight, and recreated it with impossible precision. Everything is intact, everything is as it was. Even things that were broken before are miraculously repaired. The damp is gone, wonky skirting board realigned, the lamps no longer flicker as they burn.

"What... but..." Your heart is racing too fast to count beats. "It... it can't be...?"

"Oh, but it is."

He's a smug beast, and yet as you touch the bar's surface to check it's not a hallucination, each grain and fibre feels unchanged, perfectly varnished without a single splinter. It's real. It's real.

Ye Olde Hen House, as you live and breathe.

You turn to him at a loss. "How the hell did you do this?"

He winks. "Told you. Sebastian special."

"Be truthful, for once. How?"

You sort of know how he's going to answer, how he's always answered when he does something he's not willing to explain. If I tell you, I'll have to kill you. Only, as his face contorts into an even more snarky grin and he opens his mouth to respond, the door pushes open with such force its bang echoes throughout the hall.

It's the last person you expect to see – Kath.

"I should've known you wouldn't do as you're told, Sallow."

An arsenal of people stream inside behind Kath, men, and women, it appears of equal rank, heading straight for the cellar to take Harlow and his gang away. Kath regards you and Sebastian stony-faced with her hands tucked into black coat pockets. There's some sort of insignia on the lapel, a simplified red Gordian knot, but you don't recognise the meaning.

"I can't say I'm surprised." Her gaze glaciates, like anything unfortunate enough to draw her attention will freeze and wither. "Ominis seemed to have faith you wouldn't be so careless. Now it's up to me to remove the liability."

What liability? Sebastian's shoulders curve upwards, and a growl escapes the deepest part of his throat.

"Harlow plotted to use this place to get to me," he mutters. "Was I supposed to let him?"

She draws something from her pocket and raises it. A... stick?

"Harlow is no longer relevant to this conversation. You've threatened the Statute in ways I can't possibly defend. This," she nods her head to the ceiling, to the whole building, "was the last straw." She fixates on you. "She must be removed."

Your lungs fray like worn rope. You are the liability. How, you don't get to ask before he moves between you, as fast as a sandstorm. You wish you could push him out of the way, take the blow from whatever she plans to do, but Sebastian is like the oak that has weathered a thousand years – he will not bend nor break for anything or anyone. He will protect you, no matter what.

Kath makes an irritated flicking gesture. "She's seen too much and you know it. Now step aside."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," you snap. Her eyes glaze briefly over you before fixing on him again, igniting your temper. "Whatever you want to do to me—"

"It's not personal," she says tersely. "And it won't hurt. You will simply forget we ever existed at all."

Forget? "What the hell—"

"Don't worry," Sebastian murmurs. His stance straightens. "I won't let you do it."

Frustrated, Kath reaches into her pocket and produces a scroll of parchment. "This here? It's an actual permit from my superior. She must be wiped. And not just her. Half the bloody area could've witnessed your spectacle tonight. This has the potential to be catastrophic, and I'm not even including her bar staff."

Your temper contracts. "If you dare lay a finger on my staff—"

"Easy, love," Sebastian soothes; he turns back to Kath. "The rules don't apply," he says quietly, "if there's a reason she can know."

Kath's eyes tighten. "You barely know her."

"I know her better than you."

Slowly, she drops her weapon, relaxing her posture, and takes a step back. The words seem to prick; you never figured out their relationship prior to his uncle's murder, but here it's flourished by the show of remorse and the set jaw, betraying the hurt she crushes into a ball to hide.

"Very well. You have until sunrise. If she declines, I'll be back. And keep her away from here, unless you want me to make the choice for her."

She passes you another look, harder, judgmental, like all your soul is laid bare for her scrutiny, before she marches past towards the cellar. Sebastian quickly takes your arm and leads you to the back alley, a quiet, mournful spot, and when he turns to you, all that bravado drains dry, the front he put up crumbling before your very eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"It's all right." You will simply forget we ever existed at all. You rub his arms, then sweep the dirt from his face, and he leans into the touch. "How can I be a liability when it's my pub? What did she mean about making me forget? What's going on?"

"I can't explain, not properly, but I... I am giving you time to make a choice. It's not a lot of time, but..." The coffee of his eyes becomes mulchy like dregs. "I'm sorry for it."

"Choice for what?"

"It's true. You've seen too much. You've never questioned how I do things you can't explain."

"I questioned you not five minutes ago." But you think back on every instance. Making criminals confess, taking your parents to the beach, transporting back and forth, healing at incredible rates... each time, you swallowed your bewilderment, conjured ordinary theories for extraordinary circumstances. "For anyone else I would prod more, but... because it's you..."

The corner of his lip twinges, then it's gone. "Kath can make you forget everything. You'll forget Harlow and what he put you through."

"Forget? Truly?"

He nods.

"But then... would I forget you?"

"Yes."

"And it would be painful?"

"No, like snuffing a candle. Over in an instant."

It seems like no choice, none at all. You see your parents every day and know what it means to forget. It's more than candlelight yielding to dark; it's relinquishing the joy you gained from the happy memories, and the wisdom you gleaned from the sad. It's a whole part of your person stripped away – and what does it mean to be human if not a reverent shrine to your past?

"If I said no to forgetting," you say, "what must I do instead?"

But by the way Sebastian carries himself, taut like a bow string on the edge of a break, the second option is no easier.

He thinks about it for a long time.

"Do you remember when you asked me to tell you how I transported your parents to the beach? Or how I got those arseholes who hurt Bonny to tell the truth?"

You snort. "Yeah, yeah. If I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

"No," he says with a sad smile. "I said, If I tell you, I'll have to... dot dot dot. You filled in the blank."

"I filled it the way you were implying."

"That's what I wanted you to think, yeah, but it's not quite true. If I tell you the truth, bar girl, I wouldn't have to kill you." He softens. "I'd have to marry you."

You're too stunned to respond.

"Marriage brings security," he says, delivering it with an unusual stoicism – a means of protecting his own heart. "If you married me, you would be allowed to remember."

"So the choice," you say carefully, "is forgetting, or marriage?"

"Yes."

"And what... what is it you want?"

"What I want doesn't matter—"

"It's not a pinkie swear over who eats the last biscuit. It's marriage, Sebastian. You don't agree to that willy-nilly." You grip his shirt, make him feel how important this is. "What do you want?"

He licks cracked, dry lips.

"What I want..." He muses upon it like he's tasting the words for the very first time. "I wanted revenge, but seeking it only brought pain and death to the people I love. I wanted release, but now I'm addicted to the thing that gave it to me. Everything I ever want turns rotten in my hands."

You touch his chest, over his heart, and listen to that steady rocking beat within. "It's not wrong to want."

"It's wrong to want what I want right now." Tentatively he reaches upwards, and the back of his hand leaves a trail of sparks down your cheek. "To want to marry you and care for you and love you, if you'd have me. To want you in my life for the rest of my life. More days spent together having fun, more nights making love until we fall asleep in each other's arms. There'd be no more secrets or trickery. I... I want you." A wry smile. "And I promise I wouldn't take your assets. We'd be equals in every way."

The idea sparks a beautiful fantasy. Waking up to his gorgeous face, the quiet moments getting ready together, sharing kisses in the ephemeral spaces between, spending mornings, noons and nights waiting to touch him again, kiss him again, and when the pub finally closes on a good day of trade and laughter and community, you would share those unforgettable moments with him, lavishing affection on each other's bodies until slumber claims the midnight hours. Days trickling into weeks. Growing older, maybe having a family. You can taste it, like ambrosia of the gods.

But that's all it is – a fantasy. You've always wanted marriage through the traditional means, not with your hands rope-tied as you dangle from a cliff. And although you have no doubt he loves you, from the tips of his fingers to the very marrow in his bones, there's something he craves more than you. And it's the very thing you trade for coin. The very thing that brought you together in the first place.

His eyes search you, and he must see the decision solidify behind your eyes, because his Adam's apple bobs, and his cheeks pull back as the weight of it bows his lips.

"I won't be coerced into marriage, Sebastian," you say, and each word feels like the stab of a dagger, "and... I won't put you in a more vulnerable position than you are now. You need to work on yourself."

You hold eye contact, though it threatens to break you – and watch the way his coffee eyes crumble to dust.

"I can be better. I'll give it up right now, I swear it."

"I know you can, which is why you have to do this away from here, for yourself. Getting married to a bar girl... that's a recipe for trouble. You're going to be surrounded by alcohol all the time. You'd grow to resent it. Resent me."

"I could never resent you."

"You were in prison for ten years, Sebastian. My life will always be here, but your life could take you anywhere. You didn't go through your sister's death just to settle without thinking it through, really thinking it through." When his brow crumples you try to soften the final blow. "No, Sebastian. This isn't the right way forwards... and you know it."

He exhales like he's letting go. He knows.

"You want to give up on us?"

"The opposite." He leans into the touch, fluttering his eyes closed as you sweep across his cheek, catching the crystal droplets on the pads of your fingers. "If... if what we have is strong—"

"It is."

"— and not another one of your fancy tricks—"

"Still don't trust me, after all this time?" He smiles. "Wise girl. Must be why I like you so much."

You smile too. "Fate will do the rest, if were meant to be together, but whether or not we are, this will give you a chance at a fresh start. I won't remember, and you won't have a reason to come back here anymore."

After a moment, he says, "If you're here, I'll always have a reason" in the most quietly broken voice possible. He speaks like the last sunray before nightfall, the final word of a beloved story, and the weak beat of the heart before it stops for good. When another swollen tear drips onto your hand, you shut your eyes, trying to stop the lump in your throat turning into a sob.

"I won't remember to miss you, but I hope you know that somewhere deep down I will." He presses his forehead to yours, and you open your eyes, blurry and undefined, yet you know its coffee that looks back. "Be good. Or try to?"

"I will."

His mouth finds yours in the haze. You grip his shirt collar, pulling him closer, closer still, desperate to have him like the air you breathe. If this is your last taste of Sebastian Sallow, you want it to imprint on your tongue, ghost your lips with every smile and leave a mark upon your soul. At another time, maybe in this life or the next, you would let yourself be his forever.

Just not here. Just not now.

His tears trickle down your cheek, and you force yourself to pull back, before it's impossible to do it at all. He clutches your arms, and you lean into him, pressing your forehead to his.

"You and I were not meant to be," you whisper, "not together, in this hell we create."

Lips shiny with tears, Sebastian flashes a smile.

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

A notice goes up as the sun rises.

Opening late due to unforeseen circumstances.

At the bar, where nothing seems to have changed, you take a long sip of stout; it's strong, but richly malt, flavoured with notes of caramel and coffee that settle the turns of your stomach. No wonder Sebastian likes it so much.

Your last reminder of him will live sweet on the tongue.

The knock comes when you expect. You don't hurry, finishing the rest of the drink and wiping the froth away before going to the door. You pass the back door locked tightly, a corner used as a cheese board, a table cleaned vigorously of stains. Ye Olde Hen House is a memorial of him, and it will be your solace, even if you won't know why.

You pull the door open. Kath stands outside, alone.

"Your answer?"

"I said no."

She nods once. "Then you know why I'm here."

In the silence that follows, Kath performs a cursory check of the premises. With your parents upstairs, and your staff coming later, you are alone. Your limbs itch to take you away, constantly at brace of a blow that's not supposed to hurt. To Kath this is a quick, clean procedure, but it doesn't make you any less nervous. If only he was here to see you through.

"Sebastian is a good person, you know," you murmur.

Her gaze hardens. She says nothing.

"He makes mistakes, but inside he is good."

"You forget I know that all too well." Kath just sighs. "But the law thinks differently, and I have to follow orders."

"That's the difference between you and Sebastian. You follow orders. He follows his heart."

Her face is an impasse, unhewn stone. With all the compassion of a physician doing routine surgery, she comes to stand about five feet away, facing you with a lifted chin.

"He was happy with you." She says it neither with disdain nor tenderness, just pure observation, and maybe a way to guard her own pain. "I hope, for your sake, his heart leads him back here one day, when you're both ready."

"I hope so too."

You return to the stool, Sebastian's stool, and make yourself comfortable as Kath pulls out the stick. Like snuffing a candle. Over in an instant. You shut your eyes, and cling to the image of Sebastian as you know him best – a customer, friend, lover, protector, saviour. As one who opened your eyes to the breadth of human kindness and soul.

You think about his smile as Kath says a word you've never heard before.

"Obliviate."

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　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.

　.⠀　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,

　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　,

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　⠀✦⠀　　　.

A freckled stranger comes in at eight o'clock.

A strange melancholy brews in your chest, a loss like a wound that will not heal. You've never understood this feeling. Your parents are the same as before, Bonny and the other staff are in high spirits, the pub is doing well. There's money in the till and food in your belly, a fire in the hearth and a roof over your head. But something's missing. For over a year you have withstood this phantom limb, ignored the pit so large and yawning that has no discernible source, but sometimes, like today, it feels impossible to bear.

"Awright, Miss?" Bonny asks, tilting her head so her hair tumbles down her bosom. "Got the morbs?"

You pull back from your thoughts, blinking confoundedly. "No, sorry," you laugh awkwardly. "Just feeling out of sorts."

"Turn that frown upside-down," she says, grinning. "Life ain't so bad, is it?"

Families huddle over homemade stew, old companions reunite for celebration, couples share wine and spirit. You look around at the clinking glasses, the gramophone spitting a jaunty tune, the happy staff, the filled tables and delicious food mopped up by greasy fingers.

"No," you say, with a content smile. "No, it don't get much better, really."

"Especially," she giggles, looking askance, "with such fine company."

You follow her gaze to the man loitering by the door, watching you. 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, nine-and-twenty, with youthful skin, a smooth gait and broad, firm shoulders. He wears a long dark coat that swishes with his pronounced, proud stride, neatly stitched along the hem with a patch on the lapel, a charmingly written A in gold embroidery. The coat covers a blazer, waistcoat and tie, and pinstripe trousers that dust the ankles of his polished brogues.

"He's looking at you something fierce." Bonny wiggles her brow. "Bet the muscle on that man could make a horse swoon."

You look away from him, intrigued, flustered. "Control yourself, Bonny."

"Oh— he's coming over!"

She scurries off with a tray, giggling, and you accept the freckled stranger's attention as he slides into the stool at the bar.

"Hello."

Surprisingly his voice comes out soft, maybe a little star-struck. Up close, he is even more handsome, generously freckled, clean-shaven, and scented with a perfume that fills you with nostalgia. Chestnut curls shadow his eyes, also a dark brown, like chocolate, like wood shavings scattered on the damp forest floor...

Like... coffee.

"Want a drink?"

His gaze hones in with a sincerity so beautiful it sends shivers down your spine.

"A pot of chamomile, please."

"Two farthings."

He barely glances down before sliding the coinage over. His hands are made from work, thickly stumped fingers and cracked nails and wide callouses, but with veins that contrast the skin like rivulets. He flexes suddenly, pronouncing the main one down the length of his arm, and you notice him watching you, each innocent movement of your fingers and lips intimately traced. You look away, flushing.

"Not seen you around before," you say as you pour the tea. "New in town?"

"Returning." The timbre of his voice could make a field bloom in roses. "I've been doing some soul-searching for the past year."

"Good on you. Sure you don't want to celebrate with something stronger?"

"Nah, tea's great." He winks. "Company's not bad either."

You snort. "Flirt all you want, it won't be free."

"Oh, I don't mind paying," he raises the cup, "if it always comes with the view."

Head braced in hand, he sips slowly, eyes half-lidded, content with himself but aware, and the steam sluices across his cheek like gossamer, pronouncing his jawline and how somewhere, deep in your chest, you take an odd notion to stroking it. Your father, when he was right of mind, used to tell tales of how he romanced your mother – over the counter, drink in hand, brazen but never overstepping, tongue silver yet wit as sharp as a blade. Is this man the same?

And why does it matter to you if he is?

Between work, you make scraps of conversation as the night wears on. Talking to the freckled stranger is, you find, as easy as breathing. He speaks generously, laughs earnestly, offers compliments without being saccharine. You could sit and listen to him all night, a pleasant and unexpected way to distract, maybe even fill, that missing void.

He gets up as the hour approaches late, fixing his cuffs and tossing the coat over his shoulder. You saunter towards him with pretend disinterest.

"What's your name?"

His grin grows slowly, like sunrise. "Now, bar girl," the nickname is murmured velvet, "I don't kiss and tell."

You let out a laugh. With a motion of finality, he pivots to leave, and you ask before it's too late, "Will I be seeing you here again?"

The freckled stranger pauses, turns his head to you, and smiles.

"Stupid question."

Fin.

A/N: This story is very different in vibe to anything else I’ve written, and the challenge was both fun and… a challenge, hahah. Thank you so, so much for reading, I really had a blast bringing this version of Sebastian to life and developing his relationship with a Muggle reader – writing his shenanigans from her perspective was my most favourite part. Special thanks this time to my tumblr readers, it's been wonderful writing this for you all!

I intend to post an Ominis/Muggle!Reader series at some point (it was actually going to come out first but Sebastian got mad and took over my muse, so). Follow if you wanna see that! It’s in the oven.

And I always like to give a shout-out to fics similar in vibe, so I’d like to recommend @morelikeravenbore's How to Make a Villain for its phenomenal prose, meticulously realised characters and nuanced discussions of difficult topics, like grief and death. If you liked Sebastian here, you’re gonna love him there.

Thank you so much for reading. I really appreciate it. <3

Please leave a like/ reblog/ comment if you enjoyed <3

Thank you to my tag list! 💚 @okay-j-hannah @morelikeravenbore @vylaris @gyattoru @cloudroomblog

@cordidy @feleigh @avengersgirllorianna

[MASTERLIST][FIRST][PREV]

[Divider credit]

[kaipassedgo]

every day i wake up and am mad at the end of steves storyline and the full and complete lack of people who GET IT

[justdavina]

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

[araneapeixes]

lesbian bed death - goth girls are easy

This art is now available as a print <3

[stump-not-found]

mabel pines #1 hater

[dangeroustaintedflawed]

[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.

[thepictoblr]

bringing fujoshi miku to the gay bar and she's so excited but it's bear night so she starts crying and throwing up

[wocina]

[samglyph]

New relationship dynamic dropped

[galaxiasgreen]

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut, minor Garrinis [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]

[cyberiapinksosa333]

now i got a sweet tooth

[charaznablespeteevee]

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

[justdavina]

I love beautiful cross-dressers!

[araneapeixes]

in the bathroom at the gay clubbbb

[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

---

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.

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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 :,)