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slothgiirl · 2 years

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an understanding

morpheus x reader. 5k. no use of y/n. yearning. the only thing i know about video game development comes from mythic quest. dont feed ducks bread (its bad for them) morpheus.

“You know feeding ducks bread is bad for them right,” you pointedly tell the stranger in black. The man was wearing 30 layers of black under the midday sun. You had no clue how he could bear wearing a wool coat in this heat. Sweat was already gathering around your forehead and you were in a gauzy shirt.

“Oh.” His voice was deep, an alluring quality that would’ve made him a perfect audiobook narrator. He doesn’t look up, still hunched over his loaf of french bread: the good kind that was made fresh in store at some local bakery.

“Mind if I sit here?” You didn’t want to sit on the grass. Lugging a towel on top of your laptop and bag was bad enough so you were really hoping for a bench, even one with no shade. It was just too nice of a day to spend working indoors.

He doesn’t respond. Tearing another piece of bread, he pops it into his mouth, finally looking up, looking out at the park contemplatively.

You decide that it’s okay. He didn’t say no.

He was obviously incredibly awkward or maybe didn’t get out much judging by his pasty skin. It was rather unfortunate too. Now that you’d gotten a good look at him he was cute in a way that would’ve thrilled you at twelve when you were wearing studded belts and obsessed with Mary Shelley and Trent Reznor. His hair was a hopeless mess: it’s color so black it seemed to destroy any sunlight that shone on him.

Too bad he was about as interesting as a pet rock.

Even the beta testers who were chronically online, still figuring out women at the ripe old age of twenty six (which you understood as your dating life was no better and all your hopes rested on Hinge) were livelier to talk to.

You were probably being too hard on him, you thought as you opened up the company issue computer. It was the fancy type that bent completely backwards. There were so many dialogue trees to work through. So many paths.

Sitting cross legged on the bench, you get back to work and try not to think about the man on the other end of the bench.

He managed to make eating bread an incredibly depressing act; gaunt as he was, with a forlorn expression in his clear blue eyes.

Clearly the guy was going through something.

Refocusing on your work, you turn up the screen brightness and pull up your saved files for Project: Dracul City.

There were notes.

Bottle: get sent to old lady Constancia and gain +1 luck token

Newspaper: uncover school turned shelter LORE

Right.

“Thirsty now, are we dearie,” you utter under your breath. You worked best like this, saying the lines out loud. At the office, no one batted an eye, but you’d gotten plenty of looks at cafes.

No. That was too fairytale-esque. This was more survival horror. The words rich and velvet were also on the moodboard.

“A bottle of wine to soften the blow eh?” You frowned. It sounded too young, too flirty. Old Lady Constancia ran a black market shop in the game.

“Well then, a bit of liquor for the road? Better than anything in the tavern.”

Again, it was wrong. The wrong feel for the setting.

“No need to ask how your night is going then.” There. You grin a little, reading over the dialogue tree that led here, skimming over Lady Constancia’s lines. There’d be no voice actors for this so the diction would have a lot to convey.

“What.”

“Huh,” you look up from your screen. You’d completely forgotten you were sharing the bench, speaking too loudly.

“You were saying.” The man looks over at you for the first time. His gaze is no longer distant as he studies you. It was obvious you held his full attention in spite of how cold his demeanor was.

“Nothing,” you laugh nervously, “I just-it’s something I do while working. Say what I’m writing to see if it makes sense. It’s a really good trick for dialogue. Sometimes what sounds good in my head sounds really awful to my ears. It was advice I got years ago in school. Really fucking helpful though.”

“You are a writer?”

“Ha, I wish,” you scrunch your nose feeling yourself blush. “Well, sometimes. I don’t know. I always wanted to work in video games and thought writing for them would be cool. And yeah, every now and then I think I’ve got a novel in me but I like my job. Sure-I’m not lead in anything yet but it’s fun to flesh out these characters and help build a world where people can escape into. Just look at early fallout, Kentucky Route Zero’s a really good one. . .” Your own sincerity embarrassed you. “I know,” you look down at your screen, the blinking | waiting for your next words, “most people play to blow things up and kill lines of code but, I really do think it means something to people. Give them a world to play in, create, dream. . .yeah.” God you rambling so bad. “I can stop if it bothers you?”

There’s the slightest hint of interest in the subtle relaxation of his expression, “Not at all,” he replies, putting aside the bread he had left, “There is nothing frivolous in striving to inspire people.”

His words catch you off guard. He’d been so distant before, you were expecting a brush off. “Well maybe this line won’t impact someone but you never know what characters players latch onto.” Mariska Lutz’s tapes haunted you for months after playing Bioshock for the first time.

The man does not reply again, watching the ducks hop into the murky water.

You return to your work, making an effort to keep your mumblings quiet.

It’s not until the battery low notification pops up on your screen that you look up again, shutting your laptop and stretching your legs out. Your left foot tingles hellishly, having fallen asleep.

You look over, only to find that the man had left without a word, without making a sound. It was unsurprising. When you worked you got tunnel vision. That was the reason your pot of pinto beans had burned before. No enfrijoladas for you that day.

Well, he had certainly been a character.

*****

You escape a hectic office where you’d spent the past week during crunch time as the demo went live, a short teaser of the gameplay for corporate who would never even play the game but wanted to see evidence that money would be made when the game released in time for October aka when everyone would be over school and the spooky month would fit the game’s design. You’d brought a tote bag with your lunch and snacks from the office. Nothing hit the same as lays with salsa valentina though you would like to know who kept using your bottle. You’d labelled it. As a last resort you’d taken to stashing it in your desk when you knew you’d be working from home.

July.

Kids were chasing the poor ducks back into the pond. A woman in leopard print roller skates took on hills like a pro.

You liked the warmth of sunlight on your skin.

You still wore sunscreen though.

It’s Thursday but the park is packed. You try to look for any spot that has some shade, an open seat so you can enjoy a hard earned lunch. Your fingers have cramped from all the typing you’ve done in the last few days. You haven’t checked in the mirror but you feel like roadkill.

It was about three in the morning when you’d started using eye drops to keep going, but the meeting was happening. You’d done everything you could for your team.

No luck.

The moms were out in full force today, phone in hand as their kids ran wild.

Then-

You spot the same man from your last visit to this particular park. He looks the same, only his coat is longer. It was like he was trying to get heat stroke.

Well, the trick to adulthood was just going for it. Sharing a bench wasn’t the end of the world.

You walk over.

“Hello again,” you wave, “mind if I sit here?” You could always keep looking. There was plenty of time before you had to rush back to work.

“No.”

You plop down, leaving space for not only Jesus but all his homeboys too. “Thanks. I feel like everyone keeps having the same idea as me, but I guess it’s summer and unless you take the ferry west we don’t have the best beaches.” You open the bag of chips and liberally pour salsa on them, “want one?”

You hold out the bag, offering up your snacks to the man. He seemed less morose than last time, but was for sure managing to sulk under clear skies.

He doesn’t acknowledge you. Instead he reaches into a white paper bag and slowly grabs a pinchful of birdseed to toss over to the ducks.

You’re left holding the bag of chips long enough for it to be awkward before you shrug and dig in, sucking the salt and salsa from your fingertips.

This is why you’ll never have a flat stomach. Five minute abs workouts from tiktok were not enough and you sure as hell were not giving up gansitos. There were some in your freezer waiting alongside a pint of ben and jerry’s.

“You got birdseed,” you note, amused. He had been listening to you. A thrill of excitement bubbles up in your chest.

He nods, the motion small.

Your companion was not an expressive man.

“No fat pigeons,” he states neutrally.

You’re puzzled but shrug it off. “I’ve heard you can feed them oatmeal. But I’d probably double check that.”

Finishing your tiny chip back, you fold it up neatly into a square and pop it back into your tote bag until you can toss it into the trash. Your actual lunch was a cold tomato and fresh mozzarella pasta.

Nothing exciting.

You’d been at the office for practically a week, only going home to have a quick shower and pick up food. You were overtired. Food was fuel. You’d treat yourself tomorrow to breakfast at your favorite cafe.

You idly eat as people bike by.

It could use some more sauce.

Your melancolic acquaintance continues to feed the ducks, lost in his own thoughts.

You stab a grape tomato, deciding to make conversation because what was there to lose. “I didn’t catch your name last time.” Last time, ha. You were really going on like there would be a next time. What was the chance you’d see him again? There’d been students in your same major you’d never shared a class with.

The question hangs in the air.

You chew the tomato, the juice spilling out into your mouth. It was tart.

You didn’t think he’d reply and were already considering fleeing. You could finish eating at your desk.

“Morpheus.”

“Morpheus,” you repeat so you don’t forget, “like the Greek god of sleep?” At least, you think he was the Greek god of sleep. It had been a while, he might have been a mythic hero.

“Of dreams,” he pauses, turning to you, his clear eyes peering into yours intensely, “and sleep. Yes.”

It’s only polite to introduce yourself properly now. You wipe the corners of your mouth clean and reply, “Nice to meet you Morpheus,” feeling silly and giddy (flip flopping between the two similar states) as you give him your name.

Blandly he states, “We have met before.” But with his attention on you, you catch the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. The corners of his small mouth twitch in the ghost of a smile.

“All the same,” you beam at Morpheus, and finish your long lunch in quiet companionship.

*****

When you’re exhausted, you don’t even dream. Depending on whatever game you are working on, there’s weeks when you’re so mentally drained that you don’t even get under the covers before you’re out like a light.

You’re pretty sure this is a dream. Your mind rested enough to dream.

It’s usually in the middle of the dream, in the middle of the scenery changing from a party in your grandmother’s house where a bird offers you a peach to you sitting on a trampoline that you remember from summer days at your childhood friend’s house before the trampoline broke and sent you both to the ER where you only had scratches only your friend isn’t there but a programer from your internship and hey maybe this was sign from your subconsciousness that you should text her-

You let out a breath.

The sky turns pink.

Yup, this was a dream.

You lean into it, letting it happen around you, letting your mind wander as the trampoline bounces lightly with Nina’s movements. It jolts your body, your brain swings around in your skull pleasantly like being in those massage chairs.

A breeze runs over your cheeks.

You look at the blue of the trampoline border. Blue like the waters in instagram pictures. Blue-

The black trampoline washes away into dark waves and your favorite aunt lays in an innertube sipping on a cocktail, “I’m really glad we came to Hawai’i.”

“Me too. Though I’m still waiting to see a mermaid.”

“It’s great. I’m glad Lady Gaga approved the highway from San Diego to Hawai’i.”

“And we got to see those sea dragons!”

“Exactly!”

You feel something by your leg and stick your head underwater. The water is so clear, you can see everything around you, including the dolphins swimming around you, leading you somewhere. Minecraft dolphins. You grab onto it’s fin, wondering where they want to lead you. Atlantis? Too see a mermaid.

From under the water you tell your aunt, “I’ll be right back!”

“Yeah-”

And your alarm goes off. Your dream rapidly fades as you wipe the sleep from your eyes and blindly grasp around your nightstand for your phone. “Shut up!” The alarm was so annoying. Shrill ringing in your ears when all you wanted to do was go back to sleep.

You send Nina a heart emoji on discord, followed by let’s grab some shaved ice.

Then, you flop back on your bed and doom scroll for a few minutes before you have to sign in on Slack.

*****

It becomes a habit.

Even as the weather takes a turn as fall sets in, you try and make it out to the park once a week, and without fail Morpheus is there. He’s not always feeding the ducks. But he’s always there and always leaves without saying a word.

You’re not offended when he barely acknowledges your wave as you sit down next to him. That was just what he was like. Morpheus suffered from perpetual resting bitch face because of his pouty mouth. You’d yet to see him smile.

It didn’t matter. You liked his presence. You enjoyed having company as you got fresh air.

He listened but rarely had much of a reply.

“It’s nice to go into the office and touch base with the other writers,” you muse, sipping at your drink, “make sure everything is coherent and I guess it helps to talk to people who are also living with this whole world in their head. It helps. The entire story’s been fleshed out by James, our lead.” You let the words hang in the air. Working from home was nice too. It lets you wake up at noon and crawl down the rabbit hole of your own imagination until three in the morning.

Morpheus’ tilts towards you as he continues to watch the wind sweep through the trees. A trio of teenage girls had brought an entire charcuterie board and flowers for their park day.

“Not to mention James does have to sign off on my work. I’m still pretty low on the totem pole.” This was your first full time gig out of school. Not an internship with terrible pay and long hours or freelance, but an honest to god full time job with benefits and pay that meant you could finally rent your own studio apartment. “Do you game?”

“No.”

You glance at him in profile. He remained as pale as the first time you’d seen him, but the gauntness in his cheeks had receded. There’s lines under his eyes that led you to believe he was closer to forty than your late twenties, closing in on the big 30. The Cut loved to post how everything changed at thirty.

“It’s fun. I didn’t really get into them until high school but that was only because my parents bought into the whole video games cause violence schtick but like, I wanted to play pokemon not Call of Duty, at least when I was nine.” You smile, thinking back on fond memories, “then I started going over to Michael’s house after school and we’d play Zelda and Fallout. His parents were complete nerds who knew Klingon so they were cool about us playing whatever they were also playing.” Your parents would not have approved of Left 4 Dead.

“I will take your word for it,” Morpheus tells you, sitting back against the bench.

You sip your tea. It’s still warm enough that the ice is melting away, watering down the taro flavor. “Or you could come over sometime and play Stardew Valley?” You pick a tree and stare at it. You were nervous about his reaction. But it had been weeks. At some point you had to make plans and grab a burger or a drink. That’s just what friends did and if you left it up to Morpheus it would probably take a year. That’s all. It had nothing to do with how your heart sped up the moment you spotted his familiar head of hair in the park. It had nothing to do with the anticipation that had you smiling like a fool on Wednesdays when you routinely went to the park.

He doesn’t respond, his expression dour.

After a beat of silence, you find it within yourself to look at him.

Morpheus meets your searching gaze with his own. You could see the emotions playing out in his blue eyes, but you could not read them. Like the eyes of a bird of prey, you could see the intelligence, the life and consciousness within, but lacked the ability to understand them the way you could read other people.

The corners of his mouth lift, his smile a precious thing you couldn’t turn away if you wanted to. “Perhaps,” he allows. “Once the image of an avenging Mina Harker fills the minds of dreamers around the world.”

Smiling softly you reply, “Only if it’s successful.” You could never be sure with indie games.

“It will be,” Morpheus states.

“I try not to focus too hard on what happens after it’s released and out of my hands. What will be will be.”

He nods.

You finish your tea.

It was a lovely day. The August sun was not so harsh after four. There were less people as families planned for a return to school. The tourists stopped visiting the Northwest in droves.

And maybe Morpheus would come over.

That was more than you’d had yesterday.

You could even show him the demo of-

You bite your lip, trying to think if you had let anything slip about Project: Dracul City. Developing games came with a strict gag order. Nothing could leak before it’s time, not the gameplay or plot or any of the concept art. Usually, you were pretty good about keeping quiet.

Surely you hadn’t told him.

And yet he’d known.

You frown.

“Do you wish to feed the ducks as well?”

His words break your line of thought. You hadn’t even noticed the crinkling sound of the paper bag as he opened the birdseed up.

“These ducks must be the most spoiled in all the public parks,” you muse, smiling at Morpheus before grabbing a handful of feed and tossing it lightly into the grass.

It was exciting to see the ducks and birds come over. The shyer animals waited to see if it was safe. They all had their own personalities.

You’re not bothered by his lack of response, the conversation stilling. You’d grown to like his taciturn ways. It gave what he did say more weight. He wore black like a uniform and over the course of the weeks in which you had been meeting up with him (undiscussed by either of you) he had become beautiful in your eyes. You wanted to run your fingers through his unkempt hair. You wanted to steal away his smiles for yourself: to know you could make such a dour man smile because he couldn’t help himself around you.

You reach for more birdseed only to find that Morpheus had left.

Figures.

*****

Unsuccessfully, you try to wipe away the number written on the cup of hot apple cider, otherwise known as the perfect fall drink as the leaves grew into vibrant array of reds and oranges with the change in seasons as the days grew cold.

The cashier had been nice, but you were only interested in one man.

The sharpie doesn’t budge at all.

You give up trying to get the sharpie off when you spot Morpheus. “Hey I got you a drink since it’s starting to get cold out.” It wasn’t coat season for you yet, but you’d started wearing a sweater while running all over town.

You hold out one of the cups, the one without the number scribbled on it.

His eyes widen, pink lips parting in surprise. But he makes no move to reach for the cup you’re offering.

“It’s apple cider,” you tack on, “warm you right up.”

He blinks.

You roll your eyes, “just take it and say thank you.”

It works. Morpheus nods, taking the cup from you, his fingers cool when they brush against your skin. “This was not necessary.”

“I know,” you say, plopping down next to him. “But I wanted to.”

“Thank you,” he inclines his head toward you. The sincerity in his voice is clear as a bell.

Heat blooms on your cheeks. “You're welcome.” Again, you smile at him as you take a sip of your cup, “I can’t wait until the street vendors start having roasted chestnuts.”

“You enjoy winter.”

“Yeah. Some of it,” you laugh, “The snow can get annoying at times but more and more I find myself taking the time to enjoy the little things. It’s not like I’m working towards getting into college, getting a degree or anything anymore. I’m just enjoying life, yeah?” You flush. In your head it sounded wise, but out loud you just sounded naive.

“My sister shares your thoughts.”

You arch a brow, “you have a sister! Older or younger?”

With a slight smile, Morpheus answers, “older.” He must be fond of her.

“Well she’s right. It’s hard at first. I’d pick up flowers for myself and then think about what a waste of money they were but why not. I like having flowers. Or I’d make up excuses not to go out with my coworkers to stay in but if you do that enough times they’ll stop inviting you and you fall into a rut and that’s no way to live. And some people are so different outside of work.” The older you get, the easier being content becomes.

Stop and smell the roses indeed.

Then you ask him, deviating from your unspoken plans, “do you want to walk around?”

“If you wish to.”

“I do, but we don’t have to.”

Morpheus stands, and you take that for the answer that it is.

******

The grass tickles your calves as you wander through the meadow. The sun paints the sky in hues of orange as it sinks below the treeline.

It’s lucky it’s not raining.

On your first trip to this national park, it had rained the entire time. Not surprising. Rain was a constant companion in this city, but it was more than worth it when you got this lovely meadow all to yourself. Wildflowers were sprinkled throughout the grass.

You’d always wanted to come back, splurge on the fancy lodge instead of being in a tent and hoping the rain wouldn’t get through the plastic. Plans to come-

You blink, looking around slowly.

Was this a dream?

You try to string your thoughts together: trying to remember how you got here. It was fall. Not spring. It’s hard, your brain feels like it's sinking into a thick comforter, the way it always feels when you’re on the border of deep sleep.

Taking in the scenery, the solace, you let your train of thought dissolve and you give into the nonsensical logic of dreams, letting yourself fall back into deep sleep.

It’s lovely.

You sit down in the grass as the leaves take flight, butterflies in the air twirling in constellations before settling back down in the branches. These trees were unmatched by anything you’d seen before. It only made you wish to see more, go to more places.

“You are fond of the natural world.”

Turning, you find Morpheus sitting next to you. His long coat is no longer black but a starry night. Stars twinkle in the depth of the fabric as you take him in with wide eyes.

“Morpheus,” you’re delighted to see him.

And because this is a dream, you don’t hesitate to reach out, crossing boundaries without a thought, you brush your fingers over his shoulder, half expecting your hand to go right through and slide into an abyss of night. That doesn’t happen.

Sheepishly, you meet his gaze.

His eyes are black unfathomless pits with a sole pinprick of light for a pupil. At this, you draw back.

Morpheus says nothing, regarding you carefully.

You blink.

And when you can bear to meet his waiting gaze again, his eyes are clear as ever. It must have been a trick of the light.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you note lamely. The national park wasn’t exactly close.

“I have business to contend with,” Morpheus replies, which leaves you with more questions than answers. You didn’t even know what he did for work. “We will not be able to meet in the Waking world for some time.”

“Oh,” you answer, crushed. It was ridiculous to feel so intensely about someone who was the equivalent of a classroom friend. You didn’t even have his number. Lin, your coworker, would call that a red flag.

His words sink in and, “the waking world?” Now you’re just confused.

His brow furrows with concern. “We are in The Dreaming.”

“I don’t understand.”

Morpheus frowns. “This a dream, your dream.” The sky goes periwinkle as snow starts falling. “And I am King of Dreams, Ruler of the Nightmare Realms.”

“Oh,” you go, “should I bow or something?”

Your words elicit a rare smile from the dour man.

It made your smile grow, to know that you had made him smile.

“There is no need,” the small smile stays on his pink lips.

“No off with her head” you joke, accepting dream logic and not questioning it as you quote the Queen of Hearts.

Morpheus frowns. “I would not be so crude.”

“Oh so I should be worried,” you wiggle your brows.

“Not of me.” He utters softly, his eyes become glassy. “Not while you are under my protection.” Morpheus reaches for you. The back of his hand ghosts over your cheek.

You lean into his touch without a thought.

You meet his gaze unabashed.

He blinks slowly, peering at you through dark lashes. There was a sedate romance to him that the Brontë sisters could only dream of.

“I cannot stay,” he confesses with remorse.

“You did say you had stuff to do.”

“I do.”

His hand is soft against your cheek. Neither of you move, resting in the moment, holding the pause for as long as possible.

Morpheus draws away, standing. Snow falls around you but the temperature remains pleasant. Snowflakes fall on your arms and do not melt.

You stand.

It’s the awkward point where you’re waiting for him to leave but don’t want him to leave and he’s dragging it out too. You’ve been through this plenty of times on friends' doorsteps as you chat and say goodbye and wait.

He stuffs his hands in his coat. It touches the ground, melting away the snow around the hem with its soft red flames, more ember than anything.

Morpheus makes no move to leave.

You wait, taking in the sight of him. Snowflakes fall in his unbrushed hair.

“Here,” Morpheus draws something from his pocket.

“Oh.”

He drops it in your outstretched palm without ceremony. Morpheus looks away as you study the object.

It’s a necklace. The chain is simple gold. It’s the pendant that catches your eye.

Encased in glass are grains of sand. They swirl inside the glass on their own.

“Thank you,” you look over at him.

Morpheus nods slightly. “It allows you to enter The Dreaming at will.”

“A standing invitation then,” you wink.

“Yes.” He has a talent for filling words with a weight beyond their common vernacular. Morpheus’ gaze is heavy on you.

You can’t parse out why this is so important, but it obviously is for him.

You unlock the clasp, wrapping the chain around your neck. With your fingertips, you try to lock it. The clasp is impossible when you cannot see it.

The hairs at your nape get in the way.

“Allow me.” Morphues closes the distance between you.

“Yeah, that would be great.”

He takes the chain from you, his fingers brushing against the back of your neck. He works swiftly, making quick work of it.

The pendant hangs in the middle of your chest.

Your heartbeat is hummingbird quick.

Morpheus’s breath tickles your nape.

You don’t dare move, fearing this is all a dream that will end if you do anything.

“I shall be expecting you.”

“I’ll be sure not to disappoint. Though it’s about to be crunch time and I’m not looking forward to-”

His actions cut you off.

Morpheus leans forward, his lips brushing against your neck chastely.

You draw in a breath.

The moment is over in the blink of an eye.

Something witty, sure to ruin the moment, is on the tip of your tongue as you turn, looking over your shoulder. But he’s gone.

****

The sand continues to swirl, defying gravity inside the pendant, when you wake.

You play with it as you scroll through files, read through work emails, and desperately try to recall the details of your dream.

You’ve never been more excited to sleep in your life.

#morpheus x reader #morpheus x you #morpheus x y/n #dream of the endless x reader #the sandman #an understanding #lmao i love miscommunication as a trope #to morpheus: he explained what he is perfectly #meanwhile readers like: idk whats going on but im into it #unedited as usual

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inkwolvesandcoffee · 9 months

Text

Breakfast in Margate (Alfie Solomons x Reader)

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Modern AU

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3.2K

Warnings: A grumpy Papa Solomons (yes, that is a warning) and a whole lot of tooth-rotting domestic fluff

Summary:

Mornings aren’t always easy. For example, it’s terribly difficult to not be caught making breakfast for your fiancé, a workaholic who always takes the task upon himself.

However, what makes it harder today is the fact he loathes food made with recipes found online. Fortunately for you, though, Alfie isn’t the only one who’s good at playing games when he wants to push his own agenda.

Especially those that concern a sweet reward.

Author’s note: I've kept Alfie's adherence to his Jewish heritage quite loose. Nevertheless, I hope that the aspects I did incorporate in this work have been done so properly. If not, let me know and please don't hesitate to educate me (in a polite and respectful manner) because I love learning about different cultures and religions.

Tag List: @potter-solomons @zablife @wandawiccan60 @dreamlandcreations @liliac-dreamer @buttercupsandboys @vir-tual @rose-like-the-phoenix @hoodeddreams13 @mollybegger-blog @solomons-finest-rum @hecatemoon87 @babaohhhriley

TH Masterlist

Mornings like this are rare, these quiet moments unbroken by the usual ruckus in the kitchen. Now, it’s solely my bare feet on the wooden floor and the waves crashing onto the shore. No clanging of metal, no muttered curses in Yiddish or Russian, nor the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

In the living room, Cyril lays in front of the hearth. The first rays of sunshine fall over him like a warm natural blanket, highlighting the ginger undertone in his fur. One of the many features he shares with his owner.

As soon as I pass by, he lifts his head, tilts it in wonder, and lets out a low bark. After all, it’s Alfie who’s more often than not the first one to wander around the house at the crack of dawn. That is, if he’s slept at all. However, recently he’s started properly adhering to the Shabbat. Although, as much as he allows himself to because if Alfie Solomons is one thing, it’s mighty stubborn. Moreover, he’s an incurable workaholic. As hard as he works at The Old Rum House Bakery to let the business flourish and maintain his position as the fearsome Mad Baker of Camden, just as much effort does he put into our relationship. In fact, it’s not only towards Cyril and I his attention goes, but also to the house.

Our home.

Alfie has become a lot more domestic since we started dating, shortly after meeting one another on a train to London. Disregarding his tendency to walk around naked, he cooks and cleans, assuring me time and again I don’t have to help. When we go out for our weekly grocery trip, no matter how tired he is, he carries the bags to the car so that I don’t have to. Neither do I have to put away what we got, more often than not shipped off to the luxurious red sofa in the living room with a cup of coffee or tea to pair with whatever he’s baked at night.

Nevertheless, regardless of the otherwise very loose relationship with his heritage, Ollie and I are glad he’s at least taking a day off in the week to rest up. The bakery has recently started taking its toll thanks to an influx in customers, which means extra stock as well as staff is needed. In turn, this means more part-timers to train and more admin work. In other words, everyone has to pick up the pace to meet the current demand. Such is the power of marketing, especially on social media. Alfie is loath to admit it, but Ollie and I can tell he’s secretly grateful we managed to convince him to let us handle the bakery’s socials.

We don’t get cinnamon buns on Monday anymore, though.

I stop in my tracks, turn to Cyril, and put a finger to my lips. “I know, love, but Papa is still sleeping. It’s finally Mama’s turn to make breakfast again.”

Seldom do I get the chance to experiment in the kitchen, let alone try a recipe I’ve found online. Or worse, via Youtube or Instagram. Now, that’s usually enough to make Alfie bristle. Nevertheless, mention the word ‘viral’ and a scowl will twist his lips.

Sometimes I wonder whether or not Alfie and Cyril are the same person because he lowers his head onto his paws and lets out a deep sigh that sounds like sarcastic resignation.

Thanks for the faith, buddy.

“It’s gonna be okay. No fire in the pan this time, I promise. How about we go stretch our legs after brekkie, hm? That sound good?”

Cyril huffs in agreement and closes his eyes, back to enjoying his luxurious pillow.

We bought it for him when we went antique shop hopping in London last week. Although, perhaps it’s better to say I bought it after convincing my grumpy companion we should occasionally pamper our adopted four-legged child and I couldn’t fix his old pillow anymore. Of course I could, but I was more than done with constantly needing to fix the seams and re-stuff the thing.

Borough Market has become a regular stop on our weekly grocery trip, mostly because I used the splendidly efficient strategy of batting my lashes and pouting. Artisan goods and fresh produce can be luxuries, something to only occasionally splurge on. After all, why spend a fortune when there is a cheaper alternative that’s just as good?

Nonetheless, Alfie developed a taste for supporting local businesses soon after our first visit. To some he has proposed contracts, offering them a position as a supplier to his bakery. Granted their goods are kosher, of course.

Yesterday, we got some wonderful fresh bright yellow bananas, eggs from a local farm, and oat flour from a mill a little ways away from London. Alfie thought little of it when I plonked them triumphantly in our grocery bag, having occupied himself with the fresh stock one of the florists was setting out. I glance at the colourful bouquet of wildflowers on the table and for a moment I’m back to him holding out to me, face full of the warm tenderness that stands in stark contrast to the stern and unpredictable persona he portrays when I’m not there.

Right then and there, he wasn’t The Mad Baker of Camden, the fearsome King who rules the borough.

He was a sweet and caring gentleman.

Simply Alfie Solomons.

Nevertheless, in spite of these small moments of tenderness, he can still be awfully grumpy.

Especially if he hasn’t had his coffee.

“Mornin’, dove.” Two big warm hands glide over my hips towards my lower stomach. Those very same palms pull me flush against a naked chest grown soft with neglected muscle, slightly clammy with the remainder of last night’s late summer heat. Alfie presses his lips to the side of my neck and hums, tightening the embrace as he does so. The sonorous trill in his voice sends a shiver down my spine and rekindles a familiar heat. Nonetheless, the way he leans on me betrays he isn’t entirely awake yet. The slight slur in his words serve to confirm the lingering drowsiness, sounding like they’ve been pulled out of bed only moments before too. “That shirt looks good on you.”

“I’m glad you think so because you’re not getting it back any time soon.” I briefly stop mixing the batter to scratch his beard. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch as a content sigh escapes him. “You slept in.”

“Still woke up to an empty spot, though. If you want me to sleep more, yeah, which you know I find a terrible waste of time, I’ll need my wife to ‘old.”

I pat his hands to placate him. The thin gold band inlaid with a modest diamond around my ring finger matches his. I had thought Alfie would pick something elaborate for himself, but instead he chose a simple thick gold ring and got it engraved. It says: Ani l’dodi, v’dodi li; I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. “Don’t get hasty. We aren’t married yet.”

“Let’s just go to the courthouse today.’’ He slips his hands beneath the fabric of the shirt I stole from him, letting them rest on my stomach after a brief caress. It’s a gesture he often makes nowadays. ‘‘Sign the paper, right, and be done with it so the desk eaters are ‘appy. We can always celebrate it later. Throw a party as big as the whole of bloody Camden, like a proper coronation ceremony to celebrate our union.”

“Tempting as it is, I’ll have to refuse. Besides, it's Shabbat today and you need to take a break. I promise I can wait a little while longer to officially become Mrs Solomons.”

“You ‘ave been from the start, Y/N. I don’t need a ring to call you my wife. ‘Sides, you well know ‘ow I am. Which reminds me, breakfast is my job, innit?” A wary tone creeps into his voice as he leans away to check what’s in the mixing bowl. “Is that edible?”

“It will be,” I say, continuing to mix the ingredients until they’re well combined.

“I’m not eatin’ that goo. Looks fucking awful, that stuff.”

“It’s healthy goo! Uses the bananas, eggs, and flour we got yesterday.”

Nose scrunched, Alfie peers at me. “Oh, so yesterday was all a little scam to get me to eat whatever this is?”

“You aren’t the only one who can lie. Although, it’s not really a lie, is it? More like a half-truth.’’ I shrug. ‘‘I simply never told you my plan. Would ruin the surprise.”

“Which is?”

“Baked oats that taste like cake. They just haven’t been baked yet.”

“Where’d you get the recipe?”

“YouTube…”

He groans, wide awake now that the conversation has taken a turn towards a point of absolute irritation. “Fucking ‘ell, dove, ‘ow many times ‘aven’t I told you not every recipe on social media-’’

“Don’t judge before you’ve tried it.” I put the spatula down, turn around in his embrace and steal a kiss off of his lips. “Said so yourself, didn’t you?”

“Don’t use my words against me.”

“Oh, I will. If only to keep things fair. Have a little faith in me. It’ll be fine.”

I hope.

A warning finger raised and pointed at me, he leans in until our faces are mere inches apart. “Fine. But I’m gonna make us coffee, right, so we’ll at least ‘ave something to get us fucking started.”

I can’t suppress a chuckle at the grumpy gesture. “Sure.”

The threat turns into tenderness when he cups my cheek. His palm has grown rough with the hours spent at the bakery, proof of his hard work. Tenderly, he presses his lips to mine. “Ikh hab dir lib.”

“I know.” To show I accept his usual indirect apology for his bad mood and avoid coming across as being cross with me, I run my fingers along his jaw. “I love you too.”

Resting his forehead against mine, he nudges my nose with his. “Mhm.”

“Why don’t you take Cyril for a brief walk, eh? The oats have to bake for twenty-five minutes anyway.”

“We can take ‘im on a walk later together. I’ll go set the table.”

“First put on a pair of knickers.”

“No.”

“You know the rules, Alfie. No buns on the chairs during summer.”

“I ain’t sweating.”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe you’re the one who isn’t.”

I cock an eyebrow, fighting the smug smirk threatening to break out. “That so?”

“Yeah,” he drawls, “first we’ll ‘ave coffee, right, ‘cause otherwise neither of us functions. Now, ‘ow about after we’ve started the day proper I’ll fuck you like last night, hm?”

Until I black out.

The prospect of it mixes with memories of last night. Sea blue eyes, usually so steady and full of hidden temperaments, barely able to refrain from going cross-eyed. The fight with the stutter in his hips, gradually growing closer to the edge of pleasure but also exhaustion. Big hands reminiscent of wolf paws gripping the headboard for support while I was already lost in a satisfied delirium. The absent-minded glance to the bruises on my thighs adds to the steadily growing heat between my legs, perversely longing for more.

For him.

Nevertheless, the haze clears in an instant with a single sharp thought. I take a step back, crossing my arms as I search his expression for confirmation. However, as usually is the case, Alfie keeps his true motifs to himself. And this time, behind a mask he tends to put on when he wants something from me in particular. “So you can make breakfast. That’s what you’re getting at, aren’t you?”

“No,” he purrs, stealing a kiss as soon as he has bridged the distance between us, “not at all, dove. I just want my wife. I wanna make love to you.” We softly start to sway, slowly making our way out of the kitchen. “Let me make love to you.”

We come to a halt on the threshold. “Later. After you put on a pair of knickers and we’ve eaten.”

He blinks, the cheeky smile grown stiff. I can feel his muscles tense, unconsciously causing him to grip me a bit tighter than before. “But-’’

“Knickers, Alfie.”

“One round.”

“Alfred Solomons Jr, knickers. Right now.”

The use of his full name provokes a menacing snarl, the kind which is usually preserved for those who cross him. “Those oats better be fucking worth it, yeah, ‘cause otherwise you’re payin’ for lunch.”

I trace his cock, the skin hot and hardening beneath my fingertips with every sharp intake of breath. Perhaps this game won’t go on for as long as it usually does before he loses control. “Somehow I don’t think I will.”

He roughly grips my face, the thrill of every low-voiced word against my lips travelling throughout my body. “I ought to do somethin’ ‘bout that attitude of yours. Big fucks small, Y/N, always.”

Game over.

Except for the one card I have left to play.

“I know,” I wrap my hand around him, barely able to grip him properly, “but first some knickers. Please, Papa?”

“Clever bird, ain’t ya?” He growls into the kiss when I lightly squeeze him and let go. “Maybe I should carry out my own personal form of stigmata later. Add to those pretty bruises.”

Like snow in the spring sun, his attitude melts and changes. Alfie gently nudges my cheek and makes for the bedroom. A few moments later, he returns and starts setting the table while I pour the batter in the ramekins and plop them in the oven.

Despite the promise to make coffee, I reach for the cupboard to grab a mug. After all, old habits die hard.

Nevertheless, I find myself cut off by a hand that gently lowers mine, away from the handle.

“I said I’ll make us coffee,” Alfie grumbles. “Let Papa Solomons do ‘is job, yeah. Go sit in the livin’ room. I’ll be there shortly.”

I nod at the baking aftermath in the sink. “I got some washing up to do.”

“Nah, that can wait. Coffee and, ‘opefully, food first.” He places his hands on my shoulders and kindly coerces me out of the kitchen. “Go on.”

I let him guide me, feigning defiance by pouting. Yet, the act quickly falls apart with a lighthearted giggle. I suppose I still have a lot to learn from him concerning the art of masks. “Alright.”

Soon after he joins me on the porch, where I’ve settled down with Cyril to enjoy the salt air. The beach across the street is still empty, devoid of the plethora of towels. The breeze is silent, not yet filled with the chatter of tourists and locals alike.

These hours are ours.

This is our Margate.

“'Ere you go, love.” Alfie hands me a steaming mug of cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso, the milk soft and foamy, before he sits down next to me. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes as I take a sip. “Nice, innit?”

“Mhm.”

Thus we sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the view and each other’s company. Cyril has started to doze off, although he tries in vain to keep his eyes open. One glance to the side tells of Alfie fighting the same battle. Occasionally he pulls a face or lifts his hand to stifle a yawn. It’s strangely funny to watch him continue to take a sip afterwards, a small gesture of hope. Surely he should be readily awake before his cup is empty.

Because sleeping isn’t an option.

He’s tired of the nightmares.

The faint sound of the oven going off disturbs the domestic bliss.

Alfie groans as struggles to get up, glad to have my arm to use as support while he pulls himself to his feet. I say nothing, knowing full well how his sciatica influences his mood.

And it’s already rotten enough in the morning.

As Alfie washes his hands, I get the baked oats out of the oven and place them on the plates. Meanwhile, Alfie warms up a few slices of babka and the challah bread we made together yesterday. “Just so we ‘ave somethin’.”

He sits down while I wash my hands. From the corner of my eye, I see him poke the oats with his fork. “It’s kosher?”

“It is,” I say, drying my hands before I sit down across from him. “Shall I go first?”

“Very funny.” He scoops a bit of the oats onto his fork and puts it in his mouth. His brows knit together, contemplating the taste.

“And? Do you like it?”

Remaining silent and gaze fixed on the ramekin, he pokes his oats again.

I swallow hard, my excitement crushed under the stones of dread. A nagging voice in the back of my head feeds into the fear of his judgement. Funny how one connects their self worth to food. Then again, it was that which started our relationship. A cup of coffee, a slice of babka, and a slice of plant-based carrot cake. Back then, though, my stomach didn’t quiver this badly nor did my ribs feel like they were caged in a very tight-strung corset. “You don’t.”

“Dove,” he begins, but doesn’t continue.

Not until after he’s had another bite. “It’s good.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or simply trying to appease me.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are?”

“I am,’’ he says, raising his voice ever so slightly in spite of the effort to keep it even. Alfie finally meets my gaze and I can tell he’s being sincere regardless of the way he accusingly waves his fork at me. ‘‘But I still don’t like 'ow you got this off of the internet. ‘Ow many times ‘aven’t I told you, hm? You should know better by now.”

I chuckle as I at last taste the baked oats myself. They’re chocolatey with a subtle banana undertone, which is warmed by the cinnamon. “I gotta find new recipes somehow.”

“There are cookbooks.”

“Too limited and they take up too much space.” While nibbling on a piece of challah bread, I take a sip of coffee. “Can I make this more often?”

“It does taste like cake,” he reluctantly admits, spooning up another bite. “Yes, you can.”

“Why do you make it sound like there’s a condition?”

“You can make these oats, yeah, if I get to serve you something sweet in return.”

Something not to be had in the kitchen.

‘‘Deal,’’ I lean in, biting my lip as I play my final card, ‘‘Papa.’’

Alfie clenches his fork upon hearing his favourite nickname, the title he is secretly proud of. A dark haze clouds his eyes, the gloss in them highlighted by the morning sun. The smirk on his lips has evened out, his jaw tightened with the effort to practise self-restraint.

Game over.

I won.

And the prize is something sweet with lots of cream.

#alfie solomons #alfie solomons imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #alfie solomons x reader

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blackmoonlightexpress · 10 months

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About the mixed response in China & why I think TTEOTM will prevail in the end 💪

Saw the "Badly Received in China?" post earlier and thought to share a longer take on the situation in China, why are there so many antis, and my own predictions on its future.

First, a clarification, TTEOTM has been an massive hit in China. The data speaks for itself in every way you can measure commercial success: viewership, platform membership, app downloads, social media heat index, advertisements, merchandise sales, unintended tourism GDP contribution. The drama has shattered records and outperformed all the recent xianxias, which you'd never dare to expect for a drama with no dingliu (顶流) that airs exclusively in the dead April slot on a platform that's 3rd (sometimes 4th) amongst online streamers. (Some day I'll create a master post just on the stats.)

The only area it falls short on is critical response. It's not just the low Douban rating (opened at 6.x and now dropped to 5.6). The three Bs - Douban, Weibo, and Bilibili (which you can think of as China's IMDB, Twitter, and Youtube) were full of attacks against the show. This included trending topics on how the actors looked (LYX too thin, BL looking old/big/overshadowed by CDL, CDL 照骗 not looking as good as in photo) as well as allegations of plagiarism and drama behind the scenes between cast & crew members. A lot of people watched video edits that twisted the facts and had a poor impression of the drama and even left 1/2-star reviews on Douban without ever watching an episode. (This type of brainwashing is more effective than you'd think. I've been reading a lot of negative posts about the Little Mermaid movie and almost caught myself writing something negative about it without ever watching.)

As all of this unfolded, I kept asking myself, why all the smearing? Who is behind it? And why TTEOTM in particular?

A lot of what appears to be normal user activity is driven by water armies, marketing accounts, and "black" hot search ranking, all paid. This is all backed up by photo evidence captured by netizens. It comes down to commercial interests of rival platforms, productions, actors. This actually happens to every drama that is threatening in some way (almost a proof of success), but TTEOTM attracted more anti $$$. Why? For one, it's seen as the secret weapon that could elevate Youku's status as a 3rd/4th player to a close 2nd to rival and even at times overshadow Tencent. It's no coincidence that, Bilibili, which is owned by Tencent and has way more daily active users than Youku, has promoted hate videos and limited the traffic of fan videos - at some point not even recognizing the drama's Chinese title in search results. (Bilibili used to be a haven for LYX fans and a platform LYX has partnered with extensively. This flipped 180 degrees since he no longer has any unaired dramas with Tencent.)

TTEOTM is also a target for rival productions. It's got big name stars with solid acting reputation, one of the hottest IPs, and high anticipation from all the promotional materials - they've been super loud in letting everyone know that they have better costumes, special effects etc Meanwhile, there's a massive pipeline of unaired xianxia dramas that stick to the old formula and will likely feel dated after people have watched TTEOTM. People even started questioning how some productions with bigger rumored budgets ended up with cheaper-looking promotional materials, costumes, CGI (read: embezzling). So if you've invested in xianxia 101, you'd really want to discredit TTEOTM and stop people from watching it.

But there's also rival fandom jealousy, which is almost worse. Someone asked which fandom is behind it, I would say everyone. There are only so many "resources" to go around in the "entertainment winter" and it's a zero sum game. LYX and BL are both already big stars but still not at the top yet. They are big enough to threaten the dinglius, but not big enough to be accepted as having "made it" by other rising stars. E.g. Yang Mi, Yang Zi, Xiao Zhan receive a lot of hate too, but it's less realistic as a prospect to bring them down. In contrast, the smearing of Bai Lu actually kind of worked. (And I'm really talking about the fans. The actors probably leave it to their agencies/companies.)

Other fandoms are especially bitter in this case because TTEOTM really upset the status quo and commonly accepted truths in a way that kind of discredits everyone else. A lot of the below have been used by fans of dinglius as excuses for when a drama doesn't perform:

Youku is a rubbish platform and Youku exclusive web dramas will never have high viewership

It’s impossible for an actor to break out twice within the same genre

An actor can only develop a big dedicated fan base with CP marketing

Breakout hits are always unanticipated dramas that come out of nowhere

Autumn/Spring is a dead slot. Hits can only come out of the summer and winter holidays.

IMHO A lot of the intense hatred comes from long held beliefs being proven wrong. LYX has always been thought of someone who’s borderline A list and B list, yet the opening viewership of TTEOTM is like double that of dramas led by bigger stars. It would have been less threatening if it started low and slowly gained traction because the drama proved to be good. But the initial hype speaks to the market power of a LYX xianxia, so a lot of people wanted to see it fail and looked for faults everywhere.

Moreover, because TTEOTM had an explosive opening, it did not have enough time for word of mouth to develop before people started bashing it. If you look at Douban ratings, shows that fewer people watched tend to have better reviews because only fans bother to rate it. Starry Love and Back from the Brink, both harshly dismissed as flops by the industry, both have >7.0 on Douban. Meanwhile, people love to hate on a show that is receiving a lot of hype - suddenly they are held to completely different standards even if the budget is similar. Why are people more accepting of the rise of Dylan Wang and Esther Yu in LBFAD? In the end because the expectations were pretty low. They were able to build up a fan base while no one was watching.

Finally, TTEOTM does have lots of production problems, some of their own doing and others not their fault. Either way this left the drama less defensible in the face of scrutiny or tucao (吐槽) culture. The production is very ambitious and took risks, but did not deliver everywhere. It's got parts that look like a blockbuster film and parts that look like a B grade TV show. I personally did not like some of the editing, lighting, cinematography, color grading, special effects, makeup. AND this is precisely the type of production details Chinese viewers LOVE to fixate on. Meanwhile, compared to western viewers, they are more forgiving about things like mediocre acting, dubbing, slow pacing, repetitive tropes or storylines, uninteresting characters. (I think this has something to do with cultural differences around rewarding perfect execution over innovation/risk-taking, sum of the parts over parts that carry the sum.)

And then, there are creative choices that are daring and controversial. These are not problems per se - for every viewer that hates it, someone loves it because it's different. But this perhaps explain why its score has dropped further, even in non-Chinese platforms like MDL, even amongst fans of the show. For example... (spoilers ahead)

Opting for a bad/open ending, knowing that it'll upset some fans, but sticking to it because they feel that it protects the overall integrity of the story (no deus ex machina). Of course, most viewers prefer a happy ending. It would have been easy to just give people what they want. The screenwriter doesn't even have to come up with a new ending for god's sake! However, almost every xianxia that has come before has resurrected the lead character after the big climax. Viewers have been making fun of the cop out: What's the significance of life and death if everyone just reincarnates?

Packing lots of details in a fast-paced, highly complicated, non-linear plot, trusting viewers to be engaged enough to use their brain, rewatch, and discuss outside the show (a bit like Christopher Nolan films). The downside of this is that it's hard to edit out a scene. There's also high risk of viewers getting confused and complaining that the plot makes no sense. Even though most things do if you go several layers down, some rightly point out that they just want to be entertained and the drama should stand on its own.

Making this a male lead centric (大男主) drama, which is rare in the xianxia genre that more recently has targeted young women exclusively. The story shifts from focusing on LSS's mission to TTJ overcoming his fate, perhaps at the expense of the romance (a criticism I see a lot from viewers looking for a pure love story). However, for context, viewers in China (including CCTV itself) have been complaining that the xianxia genre has lost the "xia” (heroism). It's gone from Chinese Paladin, which is about ordinary people overcoming odds to become heroes, to stories that are just about pretty people, who happen to be gods, falling in love since the success of Eternal Love and Journey of the Flower. TTEOTM brings the focus back to "zero to hero" character development, so this is also a change that many welcome.

Allocating a crazy portion of budget and screentime to superhero fight sequences. I agree with all the critics who say these scenes don't add much to the story, the B roll looks better without CGI, and they could have kept other scenes instead. BUT guess which scenes I find myself rewatching and showing off to friends the most? Episodes 14, 15, 32. Because it is thrilling and glorious. Plus after enduring so many Marvel films over the years, I'm pleased to see a version that's genuinely Chinese (not some pan-Asian BS), rooted in our philosophy and martial arts tradition, featuring Chinese faces that have real kungfu training.

Going over the top on aesthetics - colorful costumes, hair accessories, and heavy makeup. A violent reaction against the simple pastel aesthetics that have dominated xianxias over the years. Of course, lots of people hated on the eyeliner and found the extravagant visuals distracting.

However, even with all its flaws, I'm glad it aired and did not wait for perfection. (A lot of May dramas did not go live last minute due to "technical problems" i.e. government censorship. These days, airing = success.) In addition, I predict that over time people will come to appreciate TTEOTM more. Here's why:

1) A lot of dramas now widely lauded as classics started out with poor ratings. Over time, the noise will die down and make way for what really matters - compelling acting and story. Empresses in the Palace (2011) opened with a Douban rating of 2.7 out of 10 (yes, this bad). Viewers didn't like the casting choice. They thought the actors looked bad. There were also issues with the costumes. Over time, its rating increased to 9.4. It's now a show rewatched so loyally that data analysts use its viewership to track market size. Similarly, a lot of the issues people have with TTEOTM are superficial. The things that matter most like acting are good, and even if you dislike the story and editing choices, it did manage to keep 70M people watching and engaged till the end, incl. people who don't watch a lot of TV or like this genre.

2) Moreover, when people look back or rewatch, they tend to focus on just the highlights, and TTEOTM is full of memorable scenes. There are also so many standout memes/gags (出圈梗) that will live in our cultural fabric forever. Fans on Douban were surveyed on who they would have chosen as the director instead and still overwhelming "rehired" Kuk Kok Leung. Biases aside, I think people realize that you could have a better executed drama overall - higher production value, greater consistency, more attention to detail, BUT you might also lose a lot of the things we loved. I don't know if another director would have allowed TTJ go full creepy/evil/weak in the first few episodes or filmed all the steamy love scenes without a modesty backlight. TTEOTM feels so different because it breaks ALL the rules (see above) that I'm not sure if dramas in the future will try to replicate. If they do, TTEOTM would have started a trend. If they don't, TTEOTM will remain the only option.

3) Only dramas that inspire passion will stand the test of time. There are plenty of dramas that score well but don't inspire passion - they will fade away over time. The TTEOTM fan community is intense - there's so much discussion and engagement everywhere. Its Douban group is the #3 most active ever (measured by # of comments). Its MDL page has 68K comments, highest of all aired CDrama. Its Douyin topic has close to 29B views, highest of all costume drama. (Interesting to note that TTEOTM has an excellent reputation on Douyin, the platform with the most active users and least amount of toxic fan activity.) Fans have spent >25M RMB on merchandise, an unprecedented amount - 3M RMB on a character that appears for <10 mins (OG Devil God). It's got to have done something right because this is way more buying power than the fans of LYX and BL combined. And in my N=1, I've not been this excited about a franchise since Game of Thrones and then Harry Potter.

Bottom line, you might have liked it, liked it with regrets, hated it... but if you're spending the time to read this post, all the way till the end, you've become a luna-tic (or 烬神病人)!

#till the end of the moon #black moonlight holds the be script #luo yunxi #bai lu #tantai jin #ye xiwu #chang yue jin ming #chinese drama #cdrama

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therealhousewifeofharrystyles · 10 months

Text

Harry’s Home

(PART I.)

Pairing: Roommate!Harry // Nameless 1st-Person Femme Protagonist

Word Count: ~ 12k words

‼️Mature/18+‼️

⚠️ Content Warnings: Adult Language, Lots of Flirting, Pining, Love/Hate Dynamic, References to Body Weight (“Chubby” Reader), Body Objectification (M & F), References to Masturbation (F), Mentions of Body-Type Biases, Alcohol Consumption (Legal & Responsible Drinking), References to Ovulation & Implications to Breeding

**ANY & ALL IMAGES USED ARE NOT MINE**

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Weeknights deserve more credit. For many of us, it’s the peaceful resolution to our day. It’s the time when we come home after being excused from our lectures or meetings, or when we clock-out at the end of our shifts. We’ll safely make it back to our comfort zones and our open time slot can be occupied with whatever we want. Those few free hours are sacred. They give adults a necessary recharge. Personally, I share my humble homestead with an egotistical, British businessman—Harry Styles.

Harry was employed as a marketing executive for a unisex fashion brand located in Portland, Oregon. ‘Vol. 6’ started out as a small business, and had recently made waves in the industry with its diverse designs and overall style inclusivity. The company’s roots were planted by a few local, starving artists who set up an online shop with the most modest of intentions. The amateurs were blindsided by how their ideas blew up in overwhelming popularity via the internet. It was like winning the lottery. They eventually accumulated so many orders that they needed to expand their operations—hiring an A-team of designers, tailors, and legal professionals(for copyright purposes, of course). International sweatshops and inhumane labor conditions were far from what Vol. 6 sought to create. And so they stayed in Portland—keeping their focus upon ensuring exceptional product quality, as well as enforcing flexible, comfortable, and progressive working environments for its employees. Although an underdog in the fashion scene, Vol. 6’s excellent reputation continued to soar without a hitch. It turns out that a cohesive process of structured business management and clever marketing can be achieved without sacrificing empathy, creativity, realness, or substance. The only disadvantage is the limited supply of merchandise whilst there’s a metastasizing demand. It’s not like this kind of business structure is rare. High-status designer brands have been known to keep their stock low—or at least that’s what they say—for their popular items to seem more valuable and special. As an operation that works against those capitalist games, Vol. 6 values employee and customer satisfaction over profit. The company’s active attention and true kindness are what separates them from the rest.

So, as I mentioned before, Harry is a part of Vol. 6’s marketing team. He often collaborates with the designing team when he’s working on new promotions or adverts. Creative cohesiveness is essential to successful marketing. Hence why Harry and Mitch became close friends as they had consistently developed ads together for a couple of years.

Some have referred to the boys as yin and yang. One of the two tended to present himself as intimidating and pretentious, whilst the other was comparatively quite mild and personable. It was a mystery how these men befriended one another instead of becoming enemies. Harry was the type that wanted to complete tasks his way, and his way only. In total contrast, Mitch liked spontaneity—preferring to ‘go with the flow’ rather than planning ahead. That method of living was despised by Harry. He was set in his ways. It didn’t make sense to him how his friend could act so unbothered by the world’s chaos. Maybe it was just his hot temper, or maybe it was the way his natural responses to conflict were either instigating a verbal quarrel or using bitter humor as a defense mechanism…but Harry just wasn’t a people person. Mitch had thankfully brought him out of his comfort zone a few times—reminding Harry of his university days when his mates had turned him into a womanizer. The results, however, differed from those times due to Harry developing a bleeding heart as he progressed through his twenties. He was open to new experiences and fun banter with strangers as long as Mitch accompanied him. And so they became somewhat of a package-deal. Well, at least that had been the case before Mitch started dating Sarah Jones.

Harry had nothing to dislike about Mitch’s girlfriend. They got along just fine. However, Mitch became less and less available to Harry outside of work…Which meant Harry wasn’t going out much, and that was his issue. Of course he was happy for his friend—Mitch was supportive of him when he was in a serious relationship a few years back. There was no reason for Harry to be bitter. I personally believe he was just lamenting; that he was struggling to accept the fact that life would no longer be the same as it was. He looked back to when he was working towards a degree and reminisced about how he felt more socially fulfilled from living with, and eventually befriending, complete strangers. Those college memories had been the stepping stones of Harry’s development into true adulthood. He had no intention to ever stop growing and improving as a man. Thus why Harry sought to make a big lifestyle change in order to work towards branching out on his own accord. No more was he to reside in a bachelor-pad apartment with a shitty landlord who had never fixed the rattling air-conditioner. He was going to move somewhere more permanent. A place where he could enter his thirties as successful, single, and not lonely. A housemate would solidify the latter.

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Having met him briefly a few times, Sarah recognized a few of Harry’s traits as noticeably familiar. She knew someone personally with identical mood swings, a goofy laugh, and an annoyingly specific taste regarding every little thing. The combination of resemblances felt bizarre to witness up close. She felt like Harry had been performing as some sort of parody—speaking in hyperboles and absolutes as a joke. But she soon realized she was wrong and that he was just like that. Reacting emotionally was actually his genuine response to any sort of change. Sure, she’d interacted with the moody type before. She’d also certainly met plenty of picky control-freaks. Only, the person Harry reminded her of was unique in that she was entertainingly campy, yet sincerely empathetic; and Harry was the same. That person who’d come to her mind was me. And as soon as Sarah heard the news that Harry was looking for a roommate, her ears perked up and she reached out to me immediately.

But I guess I should probably explain the origin story of Harry and me, together, in more detail…here, I’ll start over:

My introduction to Harry was when a friend of mine, Sarah, gave me the news that her boyfriend’s officemate, Harry, was looking to lease a new place. The house was located in a nice suburban area just outside of Portland. Seeing that the neighborhood had been on the upscale side, he wanted to find a roommate to split the pricey rent with. Me, working full time and desperately seeking a replacement for living with my parents, saw this as the golden opportunity to finally have true independence. My initial excitement almost deterred me from wondering whether this ‘Harry’ dude was decent, or reliable, or if he was just some complete prick. I’d never met the guy. I didn’t know a single thing about him besides his name, and yet I’d already begun to mentally pack my bags. I still should’ve had more reservations about it. But then again, I was already aware of how uncomfortable living with a complete stranger was—thanks to college life in the U.S., of course. Also, Sarah’s boyfriend, Mitch, was (and still is) a respectable guy and I was sure he’d only surround himself with people of the like…logically speaking. After all, he was my closest friend’s boyfriend. If Harry stepped on my toes even once, Mitch would endure a hurricane of wrath from my Sarah.

The added layer of safety provided by my best friend’s loyalty was comforting. But this was still a gigantic step for me as a young adult. I’d be actually moving out of my parents’ house entirely for the first time ever. You could say I was blissfully naive of what challenges and obstacles my future held. Apart from all my idealistic daydreaming, I couldn’t help seeking a clearer picture of who Harry actually was (literally and figuratively).

Sarah had given me a basic description:

“He’s a sweet guy. But he tends to act kind of… ambiguous at times? His vibes go back and forth, you know? Kind of unpredictable. Hot ‘n cold…” she trailed on.

Ok. That obviously required significant elaboration—of which she’d eventually come around to providing after I sang the classic Katy Perry lyrics she’d unintentionally referenced.

“…Yeah, yeah, yeah…” She dismissed me, my sing-songy tangent coming to a giggly close.

“…But I’m serious—Mitch has told me all about Harry’s passive narcissism and how much of a stubborn grump he can be…I don’t know, maybe it’s a British thing. A stereotype, I know; but he switches from sarcastic to compassionate on the flip of a dime…” Sarah rambled.

I squinted at her and shook my head in disbelief. This was starting to sound a little sketchy. A grumpy, moody, narcissist? Awesome.

“Psh, so he’s a crabby geriatric divorceé? Wonderful…It’s no wonder he’s got that old-timey name, to boot. The guy just needs a caretaker…also, why would Volume 6 hire an old dude to handle their marketing campaigns..?” I joked.

Sarah shook her head and laughed as if I’d just said something utterly ridiculous.

“HA! Oh, god…I’ll have to remember to tell Mitch all of what you just said.” Sarah wheezed, entertained by my very false assumptions of Harry.

I blinked at her, not understanding why she found what I said so funny.

“…You have it all wrong, babe. He moved here from the UK, like, 10 years ago I think? Mitch said he hopped around from LA to New York City, then from New York to…um, well…to here, in sweet ole Portlandia.” She concluded.

As a young woman in her early-twenties, I wasn’t very enthusiastic about this living arrangement coming to life.

The look on my face must have revealed my doubts because my friend chuckled, waving her hands around for emphasis, and quickly clearing the air for me.

“Wait, wait, hold on! Before you tune out—He’s in his late 20’s! Just realizing how weird that sounded…Yeesh, I’d never let you live with some stinky, old, Englishman, you dummy!”

Phew…That sounded much better. It wouldn’t be too different from living with my older brother, then. But that one word, ‘ambiguous’—it wouldn’t leave my mind. Adjectives like that just leave too much to the imagination…well, to mine, anyway. What was Harry being all ambiguous about? My overzealous curiosity pushed me to spiral, conjuring up whatever dirty secrets that would be instant deal-breakers for me…

Did he smoke inside? Did he hate cats? Dogs? Or worse, was he the leader of some creepy murder cult? And if so, would he reserve our living room for their weekly meetings?!

...Would I be spared as a sacrifice because of my not-so-virgin blood?

Was he a fratty douchebag who peaked in college and succumbed to alcoholism?

Was he the type who’d refuse to be my roommate once he saw that I wasn’t a size-00? Would he feel catfished and tell me I looked “bigger in person?” …Not like that sort of thing really mattered to me—I’d just heard that before from a few guys around his age who were surely expecting to be faced with some petite porcelain doll…

Anyway, I guess I just hoped he’d be direct enough to tell me…you know…anything worth mentioning before I’d officially become his roommate. For all I knew, he was probably just a snobby little brat with an annoying, pompous accent.

Amidst my internal ramblings, Sarah added that Harry was a perfectionist.

So, I was right—he was a brat.

I wanted to stay positive, though. Maybe he was just a neat freak, and that’s what Sarah was implying. I mean, that didn’t sound too intolerable, right? And if he was moody, maybe he’d just keep to himself most of the time. I was perfectly fine with that. I tended to keep to myself most of the time, too...though, I never thought of myself as that moody…

Whoever he was, I just crossed my fingers that he wouldn’t have any attitude similarities to Simon Cowell. Just imagining that possibility made my head hurt and my self-confidence plummet. Whatever. That was probably unlikely, right?

Nonetheless, I was desperate for answers. Sarah just shrugged at me and told me to look him up myself if I wanted to know more. And so, I went to work.

Who was Harry Styles? Aye, that was the question…sorry, I’ll continue:

Doing some basic Googling, it seemed that Harry was at least somewhat active on social media…enough that he wasn’t untraceable, at least. This was one of those (very)few times where I was legitimately grateful for the existence of online social platforms. I scrolled and scrolled, and clicked, and scrolled some more…for probably 3 solid hours. Daylight had actually run out by the time I’d realized how badly my corneas were stinging. I’d looked at myself in the black reflection of my phone and could see the popped blood vessels in the whites of my eyes. At least I found what I was searching for.

Luckily for me, his—albeit, ancient—Facebook page looked genuine and free of any red flags. To my dismay, I had to send a friend request and a follow request to his socials in order to actually have access to the profiles. Did that make it obvious that I was in the middle of e-stalking him? Quite likely, yes…But I’d let my excitement and curiosity overtake my sense of self-preservation that night. Tiptoeing around so I could naturally stumble across a morsel of information would’ve been agonizing. My main objective was more important to me than playing mind games with that stranger, Mister Harry Styles. I wanted so badly to free myself from the confines of my childhood home, regardless. Ugh! I was the only one in my friend group who still lived with their parents, and the lack of privacy only weighed heavier on me as time progressed. My dear friend, Sarah, kindly gifted me my long-awaited chance at freedom by sending Harry’s offer my way, and I wanted to run with it.

Yes, I may have been diving face-first into a serious commitment with a complete stranger. Sure, I’ve never lived with a man who wasn’t related to me. And, yeah, I was nervous that this guy was going to reject me because I was younger, eager, and…kinda on the chubby side, to be honest. I know, I know…

My size shouldn’t matter, I knew that, and I still know that. It never truly matters. I knew my situation wasn’t the same as meeting a lousy Tinder date or whatever, but I felt paranoid regardless. All sorts of men have burned me in the past with their shallowness, so I wasn’t about to hold onto a false guise of confidence just for my big break to disappoint me in the end. The age difference felt somewhat significant on top of that. I’d been made aware that Harry was a few years my senior, but it didn't bother me. I hoped it wouldn’t bother him, either…that, and everything else about me, of course…I just had to wait and see.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He accepted my friend/follow requests immediately, and I dove head-first into research (lowkey-stalker) mode. From awkward prom photos and blurry, live music performances, the innocence of his Facebook profile finally put my worries at ease. His most recent profile picture was of him, his mother, and his sister. The candid, selfie-style photo successfully pulled a smile out of me. It’s not a secret that there are wolves in sheep’s clothing out there. But my gut assured me he was safe—that he was a decent guy. The back and forth comments on those family photos were friendly enough for me to assume a close bond between the two siblings, especially. My cheeks started to ache from my incessant smiling and giggling. The pictures were just so cute, I had to message Sarah about it.

[Text Messages]

Me: stfu this guy is adorable 😫

Sarah: HA I’ll have Mitch let him know u think so 😏 ❤️

Me: Oh my god, fr pls don’t

Sarah: Too late 😉

Me: Alrighty 🙂 Brb…gonna go play in traffic 🤪

Sarah: Ur such a drama queen lol

Me: Yep, that’s me 😚

Sarah: xoxo 😘💋

** one week later **

Sarah told me Harry was a bit different than the way he seemed in those family photos. She said he had tattoos and that he was a total frat boy at heart. All shyness aside, “…his true colors shine their brightest when he’s riled up…I’ve seen it. Little crabby pants man-child.” It was safe to say that Sarah was explicitly giving me a warning for Harry’s hot temper. I looked past it at the time because–as a sensitive crybaby myself–I assumed he was just in-tune with his emotions. I saw nothing wrong with that. I actually found it to be quite refreshing. A handsome man who isn’t an emotionless narcissist or a bird-brained himbo? Sounded pretty exciting to me! I looked forward to possibly cohabitating with someone who had a solid connection to their empathetic side.

Also, basically everyone and their mom has a tattoo or a sleeve. Harry wasn’t different or special in that way to me at all. I completely shrugged it off. Who cared? Still curious as all hell, I scrolled around for a link to his Instagram. The link was right there on his Facebook profile.

Nice.

This is just too easy, I thought. I’ve got all this information on this man at my fucking fingertips.

Wow wow wow wow…

So, uh…Needless to say, Harry presented himself as a little less, um…well, I definitely wouldn’t have pegged him as a “mama’s-boy.” I mean, it wasn’t like he was unrecognizably different or anything. Sarah’s depiction of him, although vague, was right on the nose. All of this was meant for research purposes only. But it was objectively true that he was insanely gorgeous. It was just a fact. Pretending like Harry was average in attractiveness…I mean, why would I do that? Why would I lie to myself when the man was just an innocent sight for my sore eyes? That’s all he was…he was cute. Handsome. Adorable. It was as simple as that. I just don’t know why I couldn’t stop coming back to his Instagram time and time again. No matter how paranoid I’d been about accidentally liking a post from like…5 years ago…I still kept clicking on his profile for more.

He had a few videos of him working out—pull ups, bench presses, deadlifts—all of which featured a very sweaty, and very shirtless Harry.

He also had a few group shots with friends. Sometimes there would be a picture of him with his mom or his sister.

The latest posts revealed his plethora of tattoos to my unexpecting eyes. It was obvious that he knew he was attractive. He knew he wasn’t some average Joe. And I swear he had to have known I was looking. Surely he was looking at mine, too. But I was quite conservative and innocent on my instagram profile—similar to the way he looked on his Facebook. I had to admit, the general vibe of this virtual scrapbook was indeed leaning on the fratty side. Sarah was right. He also seemed aloof in some ways. It looked like he preferred small gatherings to larger ones. He didn’t post very often, and it was hardly ever him who’d be taking photos of himself. Someone else would capture Harry’s beauty.

The contrast between the two online profiles distracted the hell out of me. Specifically, I found myself gawking at him in his sweaty workout videos. His defined shoulder muscles quickly caught my attention, my gaze drifting across the defined blades until I ventured lower. The butterfly on his abdomen was both creepy and beautiful. It reminded me of the moth from Silence of the Lambs. Its wings glistened with a layer of moisture as he pulled himself up and down on the steel bar. Beads of sweat made his chestnut curls cling damply to his skin. I salivated watching this man strain and flex continuously; and I felt myself arch my back while I sat, pressing and grinding my clothed core against my mattress.

Jesus…What was happening to me?!

So, uh…the truth is…I thought Harry was really fucking hot. There was no point in lying about it. His hair just looked so soft and silky, and I wanted to run my fingers through it. I wanted to pull at it. I wanted to slide my soapy hands across the art on his body under a steaming hot shower. I wanted to kiss my way down until I was met with what I was 10000% convinced would stand a girthy, 7-inch masterpiece. Oddly specific, I know. But it was obvious he had a gorgeous dick to compliment the rest of him. He just had this vibe—this aura about him. It’s hard to explain. What was worse was how it seemed as if he knew he exuded that ‘big-dick energy,’ too.

So why 7 inches? Well, the dildo I’d been using for a while was about 6 inches—which was very nice, don’t get me wrong. But it just didn’t quite fill me…completely. And so I’d begun to fantasize about how Harry could stuff my holes instead. Fantasy Harry was a motherfucking dreamboat, let me tell ya. I couldn’t stop daydreaming about him—from carrying heavy boxes into the house and helping me unpack, to flat-out forcing me onto all fours, spanking my ass, and fucking me to tears. The fantasies only evolved over time, no matter how hard I tried to push those perverse thoughts away…but to be honest, I didn’t want to…

Nevermind his admittance of vanity, he still had a gentleness about him…hiding somewhere beyond those pale, teal eyes. Or maybe it was my overwhelming attraction to him that cast a rosy hue to how I perceived his character. I guess that was possible. However, I tended to have a good radar for these sorts of things—people, I mean. Harry made me feel excited, secure, comfortable, and very horny. I had no intentions of backing out from signing that lease, and I decided it was time to officially confirm that with him.

My addiction had only worsened from there. I’d begun to shamelessly use his posts as some sort of spank bank for my regular sessions of alone time. My body reacted quite positively to the change in routine. I couldn’t get too into it, though, as I hardly ever had the house to myself. That was one reason why I wanted out of there. Of course, I was still able to have my fun; I just needed to keep quiet. But fucking myself to Harry made staying quiet extremely difficult. It was like masturbating on Hard Mode. I was constantly hyper aware of how I handled my phone with my one free hand—so as to not double-tap. Then there were some photos of him where I’d pinch and zoom in closer, straining my eyes to see if I could make out the outline of his bulge. He wore black athletic shorts a lot of the time, so he was usually protected by the camouflage of the dark fabric. In one of his weight-lifting videos, though, he brought the bar up from the floor up to his knees, then slid it up just below his hips, and—oh my god. The metal pressed so closely to the tops of his thighs that he had his whole package propped up. His shorts tightened perfectly around him. It was so subtle, most people would probably miss it upon first glance. But I didn’t. I saw it. And now I can’t unsee it.

Oh…but he wouldn’t post him with a…or would he…?

Ugh, that cocky little smirk…Fucking asshole.

I hated him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, I felt really dirty for thinking about my new roommate like that.

Oh, yeah…Sorry, uh, I forgot to mention: the two of us had e-signed the lease. I know, I know…but I needed to take the offer! How could I pass up the chance to 1.) move out of my parents’ house, and 2.) move in with a sexy, brooding, successful British man whom I could trust because he was a mutual friend AND…I honestly loved the house. It was old, but not broken or in shambles. The floors were amber hardwood, and the whole house was finished with matching carved, wooden railings and accent wall paneling. Having recently been remodeled, the kitchen was in excellent shape. Appliances were updated. The property was managed by an association which handled the lawn, utilities, and small, miscellaneous amenities. We had our own driveway, a connected two-car garage, and our mailbox was labeled with both of our last names.

The charming little cottage condo was now officially, and contractually, mine and Harry’s. I was ecstatic about it, honestly. We still hadn’t met in person yet, which I knew wasn't the smartest approach, but we’d at least chatted a bit over text and shared some friendly phone calls. His voice was insanely sexy, might I add. I knew he was from the UK, as per Sarah, and so of course I was expecting to be greeted with that accent. What I was not expecting was this slow, deep…rough…

Eek, sorry—um, I wasn’t expecting a voice like that to come out of the speaker, that’s all. Dare I say it, he actually sounded nervous to talk to me on that first call. He’d stutter his words whenever I posed a question, and I could practically hear his boyish smile through my phone. It also took forever for him to end our calls—our goodbyes resembling the never-ending midwestern kind that I was unfortunately very familiar with. They didn’t feel nearly as painful or awkward, though. Listening to his accented mumbles on the other line released a flutter of butterflies in my belly.

I later learned that Harry had performed his own research on me. The only difference was that he’d done most of it a week or so before we’d e-signed the lease together.

It was simple. At work, Mitch mentioned me in a conversation regarding the house Harry had his eye on. He was interested the moment my name was suggested, a gut-feeling making him latch onto me. Once he’d discovered my online profiles by searching through Mitch’s mutuals, his infatuation with me soared. He had a juvenile crush on me from the get-go.

Feeling 17 again, Harry would look for openings in their casual discussions so that he could bring me up. Mitch, being a good sport, spent day after day playing his role as the messenger between the 4 of us. He wished Sarah had just given Harry my phone number straight away instead. If she did, Mitch would’ve been able to eat his lunches in peace. Not only did Mitch lack the answers to those questions, but he’d also only interacted with me a handful of times. He struggled to provide Harry with even the barebones descriptions. How was he supposed to know whether I was a morning or a night person, or what my thermostat preference was, or which days I did my laundry, or how often I had guests over? My private social media accounts offered better information about me than that of the fleeting memories my best friend’s boyfriend stored in his brain.

Harry intended to use somewhat of a surreptitious approach to voicing his curiosity to Mitch. But his sly efforts were useless, as Mitch caught onto his scheme quite easily. There wasn’t anything indicating to me that he was interested in me in any way. Well, not until Sarah let it slip that Harry couldn’t keep my name out of his mouth whenever he spoke to Mitch. But I thought he was just curious…I mean, I was a random, younger woman whom he was going to be living with. It made sense to me that he wanted to know so much about me. I was just as curious.

Casual lunch conversations between the two men had begun to form a particular pattern of redirection. At first, Mitch thought Harry was simply just eager to send in his deposit before anyone else could. The rent cost was a steal for how nice the house was and for the lovely neighborhood it was in. However, he knew all this enthusiasm was directed towards me, in particular, when Harry’s eyes were perma-glued to his screen whilst scrolling through my photos. I didn’t really have that much to scroll through, but apparently Harry spent enough time staring at each individual picture that one may have assumed I had an endless gallery. He’d even taken the liberty of digging further and eventually found my LinkedIn page. I remember how the week before our first phone call, I’d gotten a notification from LinkedIn telling me that someone viewed my profile…I didn't even know why I kept the app on my phone since I was content with my current job. Nevertheless, Harry’s investigation wasn’t as covert as he’d hoped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry was scrolling around on my LinkedIn profile in the Vol. 6 breakroom. Without thinking, he outwardly deduced to Mitch, “She must be the commitment type,” referring to my short, yet impressive résumé. He promptly followed up his inference by chiming,“She’s lookin’ for something’ serious then, hm?”

As soon as the words escaped his lips, Harry’s nonchalance disappeared.

Mitch stopped in his tracks as Harry decided to drag the comment out further.

“I-I mean, like, for a serious living arrangement, y’know?” Harry squeaked.

Mitch cringed in discomfort as the cracking of Harry’s voice pierced his eardrums. To the man’s dismay, his friend didn’t know how to shut his mouth.

“…Some people can be quite fickle ‘bout it, yeah? And what, she’s 24? Surely she’s been disappointed by dozens of pricks by now. Must be dying for someone she can actually rely on, dontcha think?”

Mitch pursed his lips and half-heartedly agreed, “Mhm, probably sick of the fear-of-commitment type.”

Harry nodded and pulled at his lip with his thumb and forefinger. He then continued to ramble on.

“Now tha’ I’m edging on 30…I dunno…’guess I’m just looking—” He paused to clear his throat and scratch his nose with his knuckle. He looked considerably anxious. “—looking forward to, uh, commitments, and all tha’.”

Mitch’s eyes narrowed towards his friend who kept fidgeting with his hands on top of the table and dodging all eye contact. He found Harry’s clumsiness entertaining. He wanted to see how long he could get him to chase his tail. Instigating, Mitch said,“Yeah…So, uh, did you find anything else interesting about her?”

Harry lifted his head up to meet with the other man’s suspecting stare.

“Huh? Well, y-yes, definitely! ‘Course I did. She, uh…well, she’s—”

“—She’s a pretty girl…yeah, H?” Mitch interrupted, cutting him off from his stuttering. Harry swallowed dryly in response. At that point, it seemed to him that Mitch had finally picked up on his crush.

“Uhm, yeah…yeah, I think she is. Quite lovely, now that y’mention it.” His eyes blinked down at the zoomed image of me in a bridesmaid’s dress displayed on his clutched phone screen. Mitch patted Harry’s shoulder, heartily laughing at the glassy-eyed brunette in front of him.

Except, Harry wasn’t laughing. The shells of his ears turned red hot and his knee bobbed awkwardly under the table, unintentionally knocking on the hard surface a few times.

“Ah! Fuck.” He cursed under his breath, holding his nervous knee down.

“Harry, it’s ok if you have a lil crush on her...” Mitch assured him. Harry gnawed on the inside of his lip as Mitch kept on. “…God, y’know, I haven’t seen you down this bad since…well, since Cam, I think...”

Harry gulped at the mention of the woman’s name…the woman who broke his heart several years earlier. His discomfort with the subject was apparent to his friend who then swiftly rephrased. “Shit…Sorry…I just mean, like, you’ve got heart-eyes for a girl you’ve never even met. You don’t know her. She doesn’t know you…”

Harry stayed silent.

“…Honestly, I’m surprised. ‘Used to you always going for the Barbie-type. It’s nice to see you’re, uh, broadening your horizons, hm?” He smirked and drew an exaggerated hourglass in the air with his hands.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows and got defensive at the suggestive implication. “Besides having dated all women, I’ve never had a type, Mitchell.” He scoffed. “And another thing—” Harry quipped, his pupils swallowing the soft green of his irises. Mitch, unintimidated, seemed quite amused by his friend’s sensitive temper.

“—You shouldn’t talk about her like tha’. Inn’ she close with Sarah?! That’s your girlfriend’s best friend. ‘S fucked up.”

Mitch nodded in agreement with a dismissing chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sarah’s known her for years, but I was just messing with you, man. Relax.”

The men were quiet for a few moments before Mitch sent a warning Harry’s way.“Don’t fuck around with her, ok? ‘less you’re looking to mop up the poor girl’s tears every day. You’re signing a 3-year lease, remember? Try not to think with the wrong head.”

Harry glared at Mitch.

Wha—mopping up tears?! That’s a bit dramatic…

Contrary to Mitch’s assumptions, Harry wasn’t planning to create an uncomfortable living space. That’s the last thing he wanted. Sure, he was attracted to me and felt little butterflies fluttering in his belly when he read my posts and my texts. So what?! That’s his business if he had a teeny tiny crush on his potential housemate. It felt like Mitch was deliberately egging him on, and that’s precisely how the conversation escalated.

“What—? What are you going on about?” His voice strained to release the words. Mitch was done beating around the bush—he realized how the aftermath of Harry’s pursuit of me could end with lots of crying on my part; and worst of all, a very angry Sarah Jones. He wanted to avoid that outcome as much as possible.

“H, you’re stalking her Facebook and shit—”

“—Oi! ’S not like tha’! I just wanna know who I’m asking to move in w’me!”

“Ok, well I’m pretty sure you don’t keep looking through all her photos because you wanna know how good she is about washing the dishes.”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about…” Harry huffed. “…’Sides, you know it takes me a bit to get comfortable with people. Not to mention, I've never had a bloody roommate befo’, either.”

He was telling the truth—omitting some personal details in the process, but that didn’t matter. Not to Harry, at least. He knew Mitch was terrible at keeping secrets and that Sarah would be in the know before he could even finish a confession. There was no way he was going to risk jeopardizing such a safe and pleasant option with sharing his feelings so soon.

“Okay…” Mitch trails off. The air in the room was still and it made him uneasy. Harry scratched the shadow of stubble adorning his jaw. His impulsive mouth thankfully filled the silence that was suffocating them previously. As grown men and friends, the boys seemed to act like stubborn adolescents when it came to women—specifically, when it came to Harry and women.

“Um…so, you said you’ve met her before, yeah?” Harry couldn’t let it go.

Mitch drank from his water bottle and gave Harry the thumb’s up with his free hand.

“Then uh, why don’t you tell me ‘bout her? Like…Wha’s she like in person…?” Mitch took a deep breath and screwed the cap back onto the bottle. He then rubbed his thumb and forefinger against his chin mockingly. It was like Mitch was searching for ways to further tease Harry about his crush. Harry chose to ignore it this time.

Despite lacking approval in Harry’s newfound love-interest, Mitch offered him his honest knowledge anyway.“Hmm…well, I first met her at Sarah’s birthday party a few years back…She was nice, just a little on the quiet side. Seemed like she was holding herself back in that way, you know?”

The sincerity of his recollection shocked Harry. He was expecting to be turned down or mocked once again—he was even planning in his head what to send me via DM to further get to know me, assuming Mitch would’ve ended the conversation by that point. Luckily, he was mistaken.

“I remember her, like, tearing up at a picture of Lexi’s daughter. I thought that was a bit dramatic—the crying, I mean—but, I guess she hadn’t seen Lexi and her baby in almost a year or something..? I dunno…”

Harry frowned, empathizing with my reaction. It broke his heart whenever he couldn’t see his godchildren for long stretches of time, too. Mitch then tapped his fingertips against the table, traveling deeper into his memory to provide more details for Harry.

“…I’d say she’s sensitive in general, though. Sar told me how she’s always the one crying at movies, crying’ in arguments…cries whenever she sees a cat video on TikTok. Kind of a hot-mess, if you ask me…”

Harry’s lips twitched into a smile imagining my expressive emotions.

“...OH!” Mitch clapped his hands and chuckled before proceeding.

“She’s got this laugh that’s, uh, it’s like low-key really loud. Like, sometimes it’ll be this crazy wheeze and then, right away, she’s as red as a fuckin’ tomato. Sarah thinks it’s hilarious and they’ll basically laugh at each other for an hour. But yeah, you can tell she gets all weird and embarrassed after she laughs, though—and she apologizes for everything, all the time. Always sayin’ sorry when she literally didn’t do anything. I swear, dude…Someone could knock her onto her ass and she’d be the one to apologize. Wait, I think she’s from somewhere in the Midwest—like the northern nicey-nice states, y’know, so maybe it’s that? I’m not sure.”

“That’s…kinda cute.” Harry mumbled, his cheeks turning rosy.

Mitch grinned. “Oh, you think so?” A pink hue then washed over Harry’s skin entirely and he bashfully ran his hand through his loose curls. “Yeah, she seems quite lovely—I mean…”Harry stumbled over his admiration, trying his best to sound cool and detached. He failed miserably.

“…I-I dunno…Jus’ forget it.” He then buried his face in his hands, shamefully admitting defeat.

Mitch rolled his eyes and chuckled at his lovelorn friend. He guessed Harry was only randomly feeling things for me because he’s lived in a bachelor’s paradise for too long. It was also a known fact that he’d only have short flings once every blue moon. Those flings have become fewer and farther between as of late. Romance and commitment weren’t really Harry’s forte.

It’s not that he didn’t want a partner, but that he viewed the whole relationship-building process to be strenuous and stressful. Life and work were already difficult enough to balance. And so, for the past few years, Harry let himself be completely occupied by his job at Vol. 6. The go-to excuse to his friends (and especially his mother) for not settling down yet was that he carried a heavy workload, and he didn’t want to be an absent partner because of it. He’d end those conversations with a snippy “‘S as simple as that” phrase.

Even so, Harry was praying to God in the privacy of his lonely bedroom that he’d have the chance to settle down soon. All his adult life, he’d aspired to meet ‘the one’ and for him to give that one all his love and all his babies—a hopeless, hungry romantic Harry was. Dreams like these passed through his subconscious more frequently the more he aged. The British businessman was famished, desperate for love and connection.

Dating around was disappointing and redundant, and one-night-stands made him feel gross. He wasn’t simply a dumb, horny teenager anymore, he wasn’t even much of a dumb hornball of a man in his early adult years. Nay. He always kept an underlying craving for passion and compatibility. Harry was going to enter his 30’s in less than a year and he desired more than lackluster, meaningless sex with boring strangers. He needed more than arm candy. He needed more than a weak flame. He longed for an all-encompassing wildfire to eat away at his flesh from the inside out. He wanted to feel someone’s presence consume him.

Recently, Harry’s dreaming intuition had been signaling to him that he wouldn’t have to wait much longer to finally find his person. He was so needy for someone to genuinely love, and he felt overwhelmingly drawn to me from the very start—to my smile, my innocence, and my bleeding heart that matched his own. My lucky arrival into his life had only increased his determination towards lifelong romantic and sexual fulfillment. He just knew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The time had come for us to meet in person. We’d gone out for drinks with Mitch and Sarah one weekend. It was a safe choice. This way, no one would feel uncomfortable, left out, or excluded. But in all honesty, it felt more like a double-date than a friendly gathering at a local bar.

I had been somewhat apprehensive about drinking around Harry knowing how I was a bit of a flirty(slutty) drunk. All it took was 1.5 cocktails for me to be a giggling, cock-hungry devil woman. Sarah knew this about me. She’d witnessed my nymphomania from the sidelines whenever we’d go out for a girls’ night. Yet, this knowledge did nothing to prevent her from ordering the 4 of us tequila shots before I’d even stepped into the establishment.

Of course, I was late—I’m late to everything. But that night, it was different. I was on the verge of a mental breakdown with hangers and loose clothes strewn across my bed and crumpled in clumps on the floor. Even my mother felt the need to knock on my door after one of my particularly loud outbursts of frustration—making sure I wasn’t actually in pain. I was fine. I just needed to look my absolute-fucking-best when I met my dream guy face-to-face for the first time! Was that such a crime to try and accomplish?!

My mom didn’t get it.

I’d finally slipped into a pair of high-waisted, dark wash jeans that made my ass look like a big, juicy peach, and a red, ruffled peplum-blouse that deliciously hugged my curves—my large breasts, especially. I topped it off with a tin cup choker and a pair of black, knee-high, heeled leather boots. My self-confidence switched from plummeting to soaring once I’d done a final mirror check on my way out the door.

I knew I had the ability to somewhat ‘make an entrance’ (in dim lighting, at least). However, as soon as Harry and I locked eyes, I saw his mouth hanging open as if I was an A-List celebrity approaching him. My stomach glittered with butterflies at witnessing the effects of my gorgeously buxom appearance. The high-pitched ring of Sarah’s playful wolf-whistle pulled me back to reality.

There he was. He was real. And he was even hotter than I thought he was. Yet, it was him whose features reacted to me with lusty enchantment.

His pupils were devouring me as we stood in a lull. My hand extended towards him for a cordial handshake. But as his large hand gripped mine, he pulled me into his chest for a hug—planting a soft kiss on my cheek. What was even more unexpected was how natural it felt to have his arms around me. The four of us then did a few rounds of shots that night. As a (heavy-weighted) lightweight, I was giggling like crazy after the first two throws. Harry laughed every time I did, and vice-versa, and so we’d run out of breath repetitively—basically falling to the floor on top of each other. We looked like a goofy, touchy couple out on a double date, but we were completely ignoring the other couple. Sarah found our loopy mingling to be quite entertaining, as did Mitch. They both had intimate knowledge the other didn’t. The night eventually wound down and the snoozy (actual)couple left for home via car service. I definitely wasn’t sober enough to drive, either. Thinking back, I suddenly remember sharing a private moment with Harry around that time. Nothing R-rated. Not even PG-13, really.

Our friends had already parted ways, leaving the two of us drunk and cozy at a corner-table in the back of the bar. He ordered us some ice water, of which I’d gratefully accepted. I was mid-gulp when I felt his fingers tuck a section of my hair behind my ear. In hindsight, that was a cheesy, 90’s romcom thing for him to do. However, it felt so gentle and sweet in the moment, I didn’t care. My eyes blinked up at him, my mouth occupied with chilled fluids, and he smiled dreamily down at me. Swallowing and setting my glass down, a soft giggle escaped my lips.

“You’re even prettier in person, y’know.” Harry drawled. More light laughter came out of me before I returned the compliment. “Mmm, you too, Mr. Styles.” His cheeks dimpled and he shook his head at me. “Tha’s cute, but I’m serious.”

I raised my eyebrows at his accusation. “So am I.” My arms folded over my chest in playful defiance. We sat there for a few beats, deeply drinking each other in as if the other person was the bartender’s last call. Harry broke the trance first. “Need t’get ya home, love.” His hand moved to cover mine on the tabletop. Out of instinct, my glassy eyes followed his touch. He was cold, clammy even, yet I could feel my skin flush red-hot in retaliation.

Harry seemed hardly intoxicated or loopy anymore. He had more to drink than me, for sure. However, I had to hold onto him for stability in order to exit the building. Leaving the bar that night gave me the same satisfaction as going home after an amazing first date. I hadn’t met a guy so instantly enamored by my presence since high school…back when I was a size 8! As a size 16 in my early twenties, I’d gotten used to men talking over me and looking right through me. There was no reason for them to treat me that way. I’d always been told that I’m the nicest person in the world—that I was beautiful and hilarious and passionate and brilliant. None of that mattered, though. I was either met with pure indifference or blatant, manipulative narcissism from the opposite sex. But Harry was the diamond in the rough. He treated me better than just decently. He made me feel like a person deserving of much more than the bare minimum—more than just mere kindness—worth love, attention, effort, adoration, and affection. I hadn’t felt that in a long time…if ever.

And don’t worry, neither of us drove home. Harry ordered an Uber for me and rode along so that he could make sure I got inside my parents’ house safely—escorting me to the door like a proper gentleman would. I’d only really experienced that kind of ‘chivalry’ once or twice before. Not that every guy I’ve dated was a complete asshole to me, but the bare minimum was certainly a chore for some…It was refreshing to be treated so delicately—by someone who hardly knew me, to boot.

That entire first impression…it was a solid confirmation for me.

I liked Harry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry and I have grown to be quite friendly with one another since we first met a little over a year ago. However, we sure as hell didn’t start out that way—yeah, the amazing time at the bar was a false first impression. Sure, Harry would still have his moments where he was genuinely caring and gentle. But for the most part, his demeanor changed into that of an antagonistic older brother. So, you could say the initial acquaintanceship was tense.

For starters, we had that 5 year age-gap; and so Harry used that as a pass to be an arrogant, cynical, pretentious know-it-all. It was like he always needed to be the one and only expert on everything. And I’m certain he’s always gotten off on every rare instance where I’ve shown to be naive. Yelling-matches would occur every so often for months as both of us are sensitive hot-heads. We ended that streak of arguing when Harry’s big mouth had inevitably put me in tears. I think it was around the 6-month mark (of living together) when it happened. What’s silly is how his comment didn’t even deserve my dramatics, really. I’d already been in a piss-poor mood that night, and I’m just a crybaby in general. So you betcha any joke about me and my body, no matter how innocent the intentions behind it, throws just enough of a punch to unleash the hysterics.

I was in our living room watching YouTube when Harry came home from work. The video on the TV had pulled a full-blown guffaw out of me a minute or so before the door opened—which felt like a wave of relief after a long, miserable day at my job. I typically would spend more of my time enclosed in my bedroom, but I guess I just felt like switching things up that day. Besides, Harry acted as if he owned the whole goddamn place. The house was 50% mine, too (per our rental agreement). I had every right to venture away from my compact sleeping quarters for the evening. There was still a high probability that Harry would be a grump about it.

Fucking whatever.

If I wanted to enjoy our shared entertainment room, then I was gonna fucking enjoy it! My confidence was torn out from underneath me the moment that prick made his entrance. The door swung open, and there he was—white-collared, spotless, and as smug as ever. He released a generous sigh, an attempt at drawing my attention, but I refused to acknowledge his homecoming. What? Did he want a freaking ‘welcome home, honey’ from me or something?! Being a part of Harry’s House’s Greeting Committee wasn’t in the fine print of our lease. Plus, the last time I kindly acknowledged him after work, he brutally mocked me.

[“Hi!!!” I exclaimed with a sweet smile.

He raised an eyebrow as he slipped his shoes off. “Uh, hello.”

I was in the middle of stowing the last of the groceries away. I’d been in a pretty good mood that afternoon. I don’t know why or what made me so excited for Harry to come home, but I just was. Typically, I wouldn’t be keen on asking him to talk about his day. But, again, I was just feeling good. I didn’t understand why that deserved such an adverse response from the man.

“How was your day?! Oh yeah, you had that big meeting, or whatever, right?”

“Mhmm.” He muttered, unbuttoning the wrist cuffs of his shirt and rolling the sleeves up to his shoulders.

I grinned brightly at him and opened the fridge. The way Harry looked with his stuffy work clothes always made me melt. He kept his tattoos well-hidden, but simply pulling his sleeves back would reveal the art…and that was something he’d do as soon as he got home. The action was so small and innocent, but witnessing it so closely—whilst simultaneously inhaling the faint notes of his expensive cologne—sent rushes of heat down to my core. He had no idea how hot he was when he did that…actually, he probably knew exactly how hot he was…little shit…

“So…Did your presentation go ok?”

“Uh, yeah, ‘went fine. It was fine...glad to be home, though.” Harry sighed, but I saw him fighting a smile once I’d turned around to face him.

“Oh? Just fine?” Judging by his subtle cheekiness, I had thought he had some news to tell me. It just seemed that way to me, at least. Or maybe that he was hiding something, or about to make a joke. My latter suspicion was quickly confirmed as true.

“I dunno…It went well, I guess…couldn’t wait to get home...” Why was he smirking at me?

I giggled and continued the banter.

“What are you being so modest about? I’m sure the reps at Gucci fell in love with the designs.”

Harry slipped onto one of the bar stools and watched me unpack the remainder of paper bags from behind the kitchen island. He leaned back against the seat’s backing with his arms folded and resting comfortably atop his abdomen. After making silent eye contact for a moment, I resorted to laughing lightheartedly and raising my eyebrows at the man.

“Eh?”

Harry just smirked.

I’d begun to fold up the empty paper bags. My cheeks were definitely blushed pink, reacting sheepishly to his stare. To conceal my submissive appearance, I reached up—pushing up onto my tiptoes—to stack the paper bags above the refrigerator. It didn’t matter that my back was facing him. I could still feel his eyes following my every move. Why did he have to intimidate me so much?

“Fine, be that way. Just so you know, I bought cookies for us, but now I'm not gonna share!”

“Oh really?” He hummed, leaning up to rest his forearms on the counter.

Scoffing, I stepped forward to face him from the other side of the island and grabbed onto the edge of the countertop. My upper half was angled towards him so that I could talk more directly to him.

“Really, really.” I purred, not realizing my voice would sound so erotic. Instead of backtracking, I just ran with it. Harry’s pupils expanded much like a feline’s when they’re hunting their prey.

But he just sat there smirking at me. My pleasant mood wasn’t to be ruined by his teasing. I wasn’t going to allow it. I could play, too, Styles.

“What kind of cookies did you get us, hm?” His low, British drawl sent chills down my back.

“Oreos.” I didn’t sink into that ‘subspace’ as they call it. Not yet.

Harry basically moaned a hum out in approval. I swallowed, still combating my natural instinct to surrender like a desperate little puppy. This was getting more difficult.

“You know those are my favorite, don’t you?”

I blinked. “Uh huh.”

“I bet you got’em just f’me…you weren’t gettin’ them for us...” He paused for a moment. “…were you, sweet girl?”

“I…maybe…” I squeaked, earning Harry’s immediate amusement.

“I’m gonna take a guess at something real quick, a‘right, doll?”

“Ok…” He was so close to me. I was just thankful I’d been chewing gum at the time…

“Are you ovulating right now? Is that why you’re being so doting and domestic?”

My face fell.

“Wha—Excuse me?!” I stepped back from the counter and put my hands on my hips. What kind of guessing game was that?! Who even asks that?!

In the most annoying way, Harry stood up from his stool and copied my stance. He was using far too much sass and flamboyance to be accurate, though. I did not look like that…

“Oh, don’t you give me that look, sweetheart.” Harry chuckled, walking over to me. He then reached his long index finger up to *boop* the tip of my nose. I huffed in response. The breaking point was nearing closer with every word he’d spoken. But submission was not an option.

I knew that he knew. He had to have known. He must have caught onto my shyness, saw how much he made me blush, sensed how bratty I’d become whenever he teased me. I was putty in his hands.

“Awe, You’re cute…” He mumbled under his breath. His hand rose to my shoulder and he twirled a lock of my hair around his finger.

I was furious. It was obvious he was just trying to rile me up. That’s all this was…reaction bait.

“Harry…—”

“—I’m just sayin’, one might think you were trying to sweet talk me into letting you milk me dry and put a baby in ya. I’m sure you’re just as fertile as you look, aren’t you, babe?” He grinned and drummed his rings back against the marble counter, now leaning back all cockily.

There it was again—that smug little smirk on his stupid, perfect, dimpled face. What did he mean by, “as fertile as I look?!” God, a woman can’t be mean or nice without a man having some bullshit to say about it. Whatever. I told myself at that moment that the next man who dared to comment on my missing smile would be a dead one.

I gave him a dirty look and hustled my ass up the stairs to my room. Thankfully, I was finished putting all the groceries away. There was no reason for me to stick around playing this silly game with Harry. As I was making my way up, he called out to me, “I may have a high sperm count, but I’m not quite ready to be a daddy, yet, love!”

“Shut up!” I groaned and slammed my door shut. I think I could still hear him snickering to himself downstairs. Such a dick. Also, how the hell did he know I was ovulating..?! Ugh!

Oh, and Harry wasn’t even finished with his jokes yet, because he’d leapt up the steps in long strides and knocked on my door…just 5 minutes later. I opened it, having then changed into a crop top and pajama shorts in the meantime. Not only was my round ass falling out of the shorts, but my heavy, unsupported tits were also threatening to peak out from the bottom hem of my shirt.

Typically, I wouldn’t want to be caught dead wearing that kind of getup in front of anyone. However, I thought I looked deliciously thick and absolutely, downright-fuckable that night. Of course I’d been aware of this, as well. And so I used my innate feminine sexuality to my advantage. As soon as I opened the door, Harry’s eyes (unsurprisingly) flickered back and forth between my chest and my face. How classy… I took the liberty of folding my arms together in front of me to feign some modesty.

Looking back on it now, I definitely watched a similar scene in porn...

He just stood there at my door, all of a sudden at a loss for words. I wish that silence would have lasted longer. It took only a few seconds before he was flashing me his signature dimpled smirk again. He then mirrored my body language and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” He teased, plucking at the hem of the shirt sleeve that hung loosely past my shoulder.

My back straightened up, an attempt at asserting a smidge of self-confidence amidst my pink cheeks and pounding pulse.

“What do you want, Harry?” I tried to act annoyed, but I think I sounded too timid…and to be honest, the idea of Harry filling me up with his cum had caused my panties to dampen significantly. They were surely leaking through my shorts, but fortunately my thighs were meaty enough to hide it.

“Hmm…No bra? Tha’s interesting…” I could tell he lowered his canter when he said that, but I still heard him.

“Gross, you pervert.” I spat, squeezing my arms closer against my chest.

“Ay, hold on, little miss sunshine. What’s with the bratty attitude, huh?”

“Shut up, mister big loads. Go impregnate a sock.” My expressive irritability only further inflated his ego.

“Hmm, I’ve gotta say, tha’s tempting, but…I wouldn’t wanna make you jealous.” I wanted to scream.

“Ugh! Get out of my room!” I pushed at the door, but Harry held it open with his hand—and there was no way I could win against him in that impossible match of strength.

“First of all, I’m not in your room.”

I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing.

“Second,” he held his finger up. “Would you like f’me to order us some dinner?”

I huffed. “What I’d like is for you to leave.”

He shook his head and tsk’d in response. “Mm-mm, tha’s not what I asked.”

My teeth clenched at his audacious snark.

“I don’t care, Harry.”

His rings then tapped awkwardly against the smooth wood.

“Ah…” he sighed with his head bowed. “…Look, I’m sorry. I was just tryin’ to mess with you...I didn’t mean to make you feel embarrassed…”

Even though I couldn’t stand him, I’d begun to feel my heart soften at his puppy-eyed expression. Why did he have to be so irritating and so adorable at the same time?! Just choose one!

Hmph…whatever.

“…Well, I know you’re hungry…I’ll pay…?”

I sighed and chewed at my lip. I was starving…

His boyish apology was reluctantly accepted, but I made a point out of picking something expensive. He could afford it.

We ate and watched a movie on the couch together. To my surprise, there were no more stupid comments coming out of his mouth for the rest of the evening. Impressive. I noticed his eyes turned basically black. It wasnt like we had all the lights off; plus, it was August—the sun didn’t set completely until 9pm. I felt those pupils following me.

It was apparent that Harry found me attractive. That night he certainly did. Or maybe he was just high? Either way, after he’d pointed out my lack of undergarments, I decided to brush him off as simply horny. At least that was the best explanation I could come up with for all the sneaky eye-fucking. There was no way I could’ve convinced myself he was actually giving me that kind of attention consciously…

After we’d finished eating, he went out of his way to fetch me a blanket(our good one, no less) and then proceeded to drape it around my back and shoulders, tucking me in as if he’d done it a million times before. Look who’s the doting one now, Styles!

I also remember how he basically bolted for the bathroom and took a shower as the film wrapped up with the end credits…Ok, ok…so, I may have purposefully bent over in those shorts while cleaning up the coffee table…but surely he just had a long day and was desperate for a hot shower…Surely.]

It’s safe to say that I toned down the ‘domestic’ part of me from that point on. Even though Harry just likes to get my goat, I still wanted to make it more difficult for him to have a reason to tease me. The night when our door to the garage swung open, his voice echoed through the house with such vigor that it sent yucky chills down my spine. Oh, the irony...

“Well, shit—Mitch wasn’t kiddin’ ‘bout y’laugh being loud as’ell! ‘Could hear ya from the driveway!”

This man survived off of my agitation, I swear. I shifted in my seat to face him and my eyes narrowed at the sight of his stupid, cocky face. I’ve always felt embarrassed about my somewhat-loud, slightly obnoxious laugh—and the thought that it’s been a main point of discussion between Harry and Mitch (and who knows who else) stung even worse.

It’s fine. Don’t listen to him. Don’t react. Just…breathe…

“Hi, Harry.” My intonation was as unimpressed as I could make it sound. He of course snorted at my brattiness, slipping his shoes off and tossing his wallet and keys onto the kitchen counter before taking long-legged strides in my direction.

“Good evening, doll.”

I huffed and waved my hand half-assedly. Something that drove me mad was how he was fiercely antagonistic towards me, and he insisted upon giving me little pet names. I knew he was just teasing me. That’s why I made sure to always swallow my bashful giggles whenever he said them. My subby-ness was not to be easily accessible anymore.

“So, what’s this, hm? Grown tired of hiding from me all the time?” He casually gestured to me with his flat, open palm.

I exhaled through my nose in aggravation as he plopped abruptly down onto the couch—his arm propped up next to him and one leg resting on the opposite knee. His draping arm was stretched out towards me. I refused to take part in Harry’s game at that time, and so I returned his question with silence. But it didn’t even matter because he could tell I was holding my anger in.

“Oh, I get it. It’s some sort of opposite day or summat.”

He stretched his fingers closer to where my head was resting on the back of the couch. They wrapped themselves around a smooth lock of my hair and twirled it continuously. This man thought it was absolutely hilarious to get even the faintest reaction out of me. Harry was generally the ‘touchy’ type of person when he’s around those he’s comfortable with. It made me feel special whenever he went out of his way to be affectionate towards me because…well, I had a crush on him for a while. And so, at first, I naively understood those soft touches as hints for his deeper feelings. At least that’s how I perceived things privately. But the more time I’d spent living with him, the more I had to come to terms with the fact that he was out of my league, and that he probably only viewed me as a little sister. My mind convinced me that Harry just enjoyed taking advantage of my innate submissiveness. He would never be attracted to someone like me. In order to protect my heart from the shattering effects of rejection, I chose to play into the little sister dynamic and behave as though Harry Styles was just a stupid fucking boy, and nothing more.

My behavior shift from the bashful sweetheart to the indifferent recluse somehow drew him closer to me anyway. I was so fucking pissed. I was sick of his games! Most of all, I hated Harry Styles. I hated him, and I hated his wandering hands, and his cockiness, and his giant ego.

My hair is not a toy, and I am not a doll reserved for Harry’s cruel amusement. And yet I kept living with all these antics because I…

…Because I liked his attention…honestly, I loved his attention. I’ll admit it! There was no way he could ever find that out, though!

That night when he (once again) twisted a piece of my hair around his long fingers, I pretended it didn’t make my heart flutter. My face stayed emotionless. It had truly been an award-winning performance by yours truly. To an outsider, this scene would’ve looked as if Harry and I were a bickering couple. They’d probably assume I was just a crabby girlfriend punishing her partner with the silent treatment. To be honest, that’s what it felt like for a second before I caught myself leaning into his gentle contact. I smacked his hand away from my hair and he just smiled at me.

Ugh!

He smiled at me, and then he poked my cheek with his index finger. I swear to God, my skin was on fire.

“So what’s next on the opposite day schedule? ‘You gonna go for a run?” Harry snickered and let out an amused sigh. “That would be the shock of the century, wouldn’t it?!”

He kept laughing at his juvenile dig. I let out a weak scoff, unable to swallow my pride that time. The air in the room was stale. Harry faced the television screen and sunk further back into the cushions. I sat there in mopey silence.

So I live a sedentary lifestyle, so what? And yes, I’m overweight—I’ve been struggling with my body my entire life, so there’s no need for anyone to give me a reminder. Regardless of the obvious and regardless of Harry’s ‘opposite day’ joke, I wasn’t in the right mindset to just brush it off…not that night. Starting a fight wasn’t the route I wanted to take either. I was exhausted. A retreat into solitude felt like my best option.

But, God…why did he have to fucking say that?

My bottom lip quivered and I was unable to blink back the tears for a moment longer. Every last ounce of patience I had left was dried up at this point. My long hair shielded my face whilst I bowed and dabbed my dripping eyelashes with my sleeves. Noticing the lack of verbal retort from me, Harry turned his head back in my direction. His breath hitched in his throat and his sage irises washed over to stormy blue.

“Oh, shit…” he muttered.

I sniffled and got up from the couch, making a beeline for the privacy of my bedroom. He never meant to make me cry. It was obvious Harry was just poking fun at me, but words can still hurt regardless of the speaker’s intent. It was too late for him to consider that now. Harry quickly jumped in front of me. He leapt into action so fast that I was physically startled back against my bare heels.

“What the fuck, Harry? Move!” I whined frustratedly at the man as he stood there with similarly glossy eyes.

Then he reached out and held my shoulders in his strong hands. His thumbs did that rubbing thing that most people only do when comforting their loved ones. Back then, I wished so badly that the simple gesture hadn’t sent such soothing goosebumps down my arms. It was so infuriating how this man held that kind of power over me.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, love. Please don’t cry. I—”

I gritted my teeth at his pity.

“—why? Are my big, fat tears too loud?! Or are you worried I’m so huge that I’ll get stuck, and my arms and legs will burst out of the fucking house?!”

Harry’s brows furrowed at my imagery. “Uh, wait—are you trying to reference…Alice in Wonderland—”

“—ALSO! Last time I checked, YOU were the one who ate all the cookies last night—YOU and your RABBIT TEETH fucking decimated my Oreos! So why don’t you go for a fucking run!”

Harry seemed amused with that one. His stupid dimples popped out at me and I was fed up.

“Get out of my way!”

I pushed against his chest, but he stood firmly on the carpet in front of the stairs. I remember fighting my urge to stomp my feet like a toddler. He wasn’t letting me retreat. He wouldn’t get out of my fucking FACE!

“I know you want to yell at me, so do it.”

“No, I don’t want to yell at you! I want you to move so I can go to my room!”

“Cmon, love. Talk to me…Give me all y’got. I know you have it in ya.”

“MOVE!”

Then he laughed. Why? Because I actually stomped my fucking foot—just like how I’d previously forbade myself to. And I’m sure the performance was quite entertaining for him.

“Don’t you throw a tantrum on me, sweet girl. Use your words!”

“You’re such a fucking smartass.”

“Oi, don’t talk about my ass like that! I’ll have you know, it’s quite dumb!” He grinned.

Un-fucking-believable. I can’t believe that got me to crack a smile. Harry instantly mirrored my surrendering, his hands drifting down from my shoulders to my elbows. My arms were crossed over my chest, but he wiggled them loose.

“YES! There’s that pretty smile…”

I huffed and groaned, feeling like a total child.

“…Don’t you be teasing me for my teeth—Y’look like a bunny just like me, babe.”

I giggled and playfully shoved his chest. “I do not!”

“Uh-huh! You definitely do!”

My hand rose up to cover my mouth and Harry just laughed at me. Lowering himself closer to my height, he *booped* my nose which caused me to scrunch it up in response.

“Aww, you are just a lil’ bunny, aren’t you?”

I squirmed and whined, annoyed as all hell with his patronizing.

“Don’t you start stomping your feet again, sweet Bunny. You’re better than that!”

I couldn’t help myself from just letting my guard all the way down at that moment. Inhaling deeply, I circled my arms around Harry’s middle and buried my face against his chest.

“Sorry…I just want us to get along, H.” My small voice was muffled against his shirt.

Harry frowned and wrapped his arms around me, reciprocating my surrendering embrace. My ear was pressed against his chest. There was a strong beat beyond his hard surface–my head pulsed with each fierce thump. That was the closest we’d ever been to each other. One of his hands slid up to my hair and combed through it.

“I do, too…I’m sorry.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sharing a house was less expensive for both of us 20-somethings, and rent has thankfully stayed reasonable and affordable since we two moved in a couple of years ago. I’m happy in my living space with my roommate. It’s a platonic situation between me and Harry—regardless of what family and friends want to believe. And I doubt it will ever venture beyond friendship any time soon. It can’t. Things are perfect right now…exactly the way they are. I keep my little fantasies to myself within the privacy of my bedroom. Harry can never know.

I’ve been single for a while. It’s possible that my holes are the tightest they’ve ever been, and that it might feel like I’m losing my virginity again whenever I do get some dick. So what, sometimes I think about what would happen if I just accidentally sent a racy photo to Harry…

…Whether he’d keep it and pretend he never saw it (as a way to be gentlemanly)…if he’d be disgusted and laugh at my body…or if he’d turn feral like I hope he would, bursting through my bedroom door and finally taking all that I’ve unconsciously reserved for him…

Don’t fret, my pet — smut will come in part 2 😈

Writer’s Notes: Hi, everyone🥰 Phew…well, there she is! Part 1! Thought I’d celebrate my birthday today by posting my first H piece💕 I’ll start off by saying…I’m kind of an obsessive perfectionist when it comes to my writing…so I won’t be super speedy when posting updates on my work, as I really want to be certain that I’m posting exactly what I want you to read. I know that other content creators on here are excellent at keeping a quick, reliable posting schedule—and I will be trying my best to do the same(I hope to make it in the same ballpark as them, at least). However, please be patient with me💕🙏🏻 💕 I have devoted a lot of time, love, and creativity into my work just so that I can share it online with strangers for free. I greatly appreciate any and all support, suggestions, criticism, questions, etc., so please don’t hesitate to comment or send me messages/asks. (Anons are welcome!) I’ve been working on this piece for a while now and I’d really like to get your feedback on it. If you would like to be tagged in future updates/parts, please let me know!!!👏🏻💗👏🏻🩷👏🏻💖 👏🏻

xoxo ~ Regan 😘💕

@victoria-styles @harrystylessmuttyfics @therealhousewifeofharrystyles

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tkachuktkaching · 17 days

Text

Amerant Bank, the largest community bank headquartered in Florida, today announced it has entered into a brand partnership featuring Florida Panthers star Matthew Tkachuk, one of the NHL's top players.

The NHL superstar will be featured in expansive marketing campaign to promote Amerant Bank's new co-branded Florida Panthers Debit Card

Tkachuk is being featured in an expansive marketing campaign to promote Amerant's new co-branded Florida Panthers debit card, comprising television and online commercials that run throughout the NHL playoffs as well as billboards placed throughout Broward County in South Florida - most notably near the Amerant Bank Arena where the Panthers play all home games.

"I am proud to work with a company like Amerant Bank, they are a group that is truly committed to South Florida and are big fans and supporters of our team," said Matthew Tkachuk. "I look forward to sharing many more exciting moments on the ice at Amerant Bank Arena and in our community."

"We are excited to introduce Amerant's partnership with Matthew Tkachuk and the launch of our co-branded Florida Panthers debit card and checking account," said Jerry Plush, Chairman and CEO of Amerant Bank. "This represents our dedication to fostering community engagement and supporting our valued sports partnerships. Matthew (Tkachuk) is a true superstar, and partnering with him showcases our ongoing commitment to excellence."

Source : markets.ft.com / Amerant Bank

#matthew tkachuk #florida panthers #amerant bank #nhl #nfl playoffs #matthew the model

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just-another-josh · 6 months

Text

Kara

Today is a good day.

No, today is a great day.

Lena continued to remind herself of that over the course of the last two hours.

It was an incredibly important day for her and her wife. Not just that, it was an important day for their family’s legacy. Today was one of those milestone days, the type that signified potential fully realized, the recognition of years of hard work and achievement. A cause for celebration with champagne, victory speeches, and overindulgent parties.

Lena knew this, she believed this.

And yet, all she wanted to do right now was punch Cat Grant in her stupid, Botoxed face.

Four months ago, Cat pulled Kara aside after a CatCo staff meeting and informed her EIC that she intended to run for president in the next election. “If a Cheeto-skinned, glorified game show host can become President of the United States, I should be a shoo-in,” she had reasoned with her. In order to avoid any blind trust complications and because presidential campaigns are very expensive, Cat decided to put CatCo Worldwide Media up for sale.

Lena was greeted by an ugly-crying Kryptonian when she arrived home that night. Cat’s departure was a double blow to her wife: Not only was Kara losing her mentor, but now she had to contend with a new owner who may or may not share the same journalistic integrity as Cat. Nightmares of another Andrea Rojas or Morgan Edge-like monster lording over the bullpen kept the hero up into the early morning hours after Cat dropped her bombshell.

Lena made a solid effort to reassure her wife that everything would work out for the best but when the company was put on the market the next Monday morning, the announcement quickly led to Lena’s assurances becoming hollow promises.

By the end of the week, the bidding war for the media giant had been whittled down to three frontrunners:

Roland Daggett: owner of Daggett Industries with reported ties to organized crime in Gotham.

Simon Stagg: owner of Stagg Enterprises who was currently involved in no-less than a dozen federal investigations for improper disposal of waste generated from his chemical plants.

The final bidder was no stranger to National City or the Superfriends; Maxwell Lord: owner of Lord Technologies and an all-around asshole, who appeared to have crawled out from whatever rock he’d been hiding under.

Lena knew that none of these parasites gave a damn about the fourth estate, nor would they want Supergirl watching over their shoulders while they engaged in whatever reprehensible activities men of their caliber got up to. Lena had no doubt that they’d use CatCo to steer whatever narratives that would profit them the most; much like Morgan Edge intended to do six years prior.

Bottomline, Kara was going to be out of a job if any of those criminals got their hands on CatCo.

Kara did everything she could to talk Cat out of selling to any of them, but Cat had no other viable candidates to sell to. Kara spent the better part of ten days straight trying to get Cat to see reason but was met with failure at every turn. Lena watched Kara sink further into depression as the days passed and it broke her heart.

On day eleven, Lena had had enough of watching her wife suffer. She had Jess arrange an emergency meeting with her finance and mergers/acquisitions department heads. There was only one item of business on the agenda, did L-Corp have enough in its coffers to purchase CatCo. She knew acquiring the media giant was going to cost a lot more than it did when she stole it out from under Morgan Edge. Luckily, the answer was a resounding yes. Since regaining her position as CEO of L-Corp, Lena had led the company to an unprecedented level of profitability. A proposal was quickly drafted. The minutia of the proposal was almost identical to the last time L-Corp purchased the conglomerate, save for one big difference: Kara, not Lena, would be named CEO of CatCo Worldwide Media; not just the print media, but TV, streaming, and online content.

Proposal in hand, it took Lena the better part of the evening (and early morning) to convince her wife that she was fully capable of doing the job. Hell, she’d been doing it for the last eighteen months as Cat became less involved in the day-to-day operations. Kara’s objections to Lena spending Lena’s money to save Kara’s job were quickly shot down, “You forget darling, it’s not my money, it’s our money. We’re married, what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine, you dork.” Finally seeing the light, Lena sent her wife to deliver the proposal directly to Cat; it took her less than twelve hours to accept their offer and approve moving forward with the sale. To say that she was relieved that L-Corp, and by extension Lena and Kara, would be running the company that she built with her own blood, sweat, and tears would be an understatement.

Now, Lena sat in CatCo’s executive conference room. Kara seated to her right, Jess to her left, and half of L-Corp’s legal department bracketing them. On the other side of the table, Cat, and her legal team. Lena had been fortunate enough to avoid attending the negotiation meetings in person; instead choosing to have her attorneys there as her proxies. Occasionally, she’d join the proceedings remotely whenever her two cents was needed. Today, however, was the big day. All the principles needed to be on-hand to sign the final contracts. Lena was initially excited to finalize the deal; if for no other reason than to see the beaming smile her wife had been sporting all day turn brighter than the sun.

Her excitement was quickly tempered when they stepped into Kara’s office and were greeted by Cat with a “Good morning, Mrs. Luthor. Good morning, Kiera.” Lena would have done a spit-take had she been drinking anything at the time. For a moment, she tried to convince herself that she had misheard her. That theory was quickly thrown out the window when Cat called Kara “Kiera” three more times before they reached the conference room. By the time they sat at the conference table to go over the final details before signing, Lena was seething.

After taking several deep breaths and getting her blood pressure under control, Lena tried to mentally talk herself down from doing or saying anything rash. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard Cat address Kara by that name, but it was the first time that it got under her skin. Why? Hormones. She was five months pregnant with twin Kryptonian girls.

For the most part, the pregnancy had been uneventful; after the hell that was first trimester, of course. She’d adjusted to the rollercoaster of emotions, eating 15,000 calories a day to keep her and her baby girls nourished, and the near constant fatigue. Most days, she basked in the experience of being an expectant mother; the flutter of kicks throughout the day, impeccable hair and skin, an insatiable libido, and a doting wife that would fly anywhere in the world to satisfy her food cravings. Yep, without a doubt, the second trimester had been treating Lena well.

Except for today.

Today, her lower back was killing her.

Today, her ankles were obscenely swollen.

Today, the twins were using her bladder as a trampoline.

Today, she felt like a swollen, bloated, beached whale.

Today, Lena had a short fuse, and Cat had no idea how close she was coming to lighting it.

As was standard practice for Lena with all business-related deals, she insisted on reading the final contract cover-to-cover before signing. Although she trusted her legal team, she refused to agree to any contracts that she herself hadn’t personally vetted. Her lawyers had been with her long enough to take their boss’ anal retentiveness in stride, fully understanding that it did not reflect on the quality of their work. While Cat herself remained non-plussed by the delay, her attorneys did a poor job of hiding their impatience. Picking up on the tension in the room, Lena’s senior attorney suggested that both legal teams take an early lunch and after receiving nods of approval from both Lena and Cat, the two teams exited the conference room.

Shortly thereafter, Jess received a text that appeared to be of an urgent nature. After receiving an ‘OK’ from Kara to use the Kryptonian’s office, she swiftly exited.

Kara and Cat continued to make small talk while Lena scoured the sales agreement line-by-line; occasionally securing her black, thick-rimmed glasses when they inched down her nose. Reading the contract had managed to curb her murderous thoughts; allowing her to convince herself that she was overreacting to Cat’s flippant disrespect towards Kara. She reminded herself that this was something Kara found perfectly acceptable, and if the time came when her wife did have a problem, she was more than capable of speaking up for herself. Lena took a deep breath and consigned herself to let bygones be bygones and drop the matter altogether.

Until…

“So, Miss Grant, I assume that once you’re elected, you’ll be giving us an exclusive post-election interview?” Kara playfully asked.

“Now, now, Kiera. As the president-elect I am obligated to give equal time to all media outlets. I mustn’t show any favoritism,” Cat said in a patronizing tone as she waved her finger at Kara as if she were chastising a small child.

Fuse officially lit.

“Darling, I am simple starving. I could really go for a Philly cheesesteak sandwich from that place we found in mid-town,” Lena said through a strained smile; trying her best to hide the anger coursing through her veins.

“D’Elia’s?” As Lena had predicted, Kara was predictably excited by the suggestion.

Lena nodded. “Yes, that’s the one.” She locked yes with her wife for the briefest of moments before averting her gaze back to the contract in front of her.

Kara’s face shifted from excitement to suspicion quickly, now focusing intently on her wife. Lena knew the Kryptonian was probably using her enhanced senses to see or if something was up. Lena cursed herself for thinking she was going to be able to hide her agitation, knowing full well that her wife would hear her increased heart rate and her uneven breathing. Lena blushed under Kara’s scrutiny and offered up her best smile.

Kara clearly wasn’t buying it. “Nahn rraop voi?” she asked with concern in her voice.

“Ju nim voi,” Lena reassured her. She leveled Kara with a look that told her to drop it.

Appearing to take the hint, Kara subtly nodded. “Funyuns too?”

Lena stared at her wife incredulously with a raised eyebrow. “Is that a legitimate question?”

Kara held up her hands in mock surrender. “A thousand pardons.” She turned to Cat. “Can I get you anything, Miss Grant?”

Cat rolled her eyes and scoffed, “Please, Kiera. In all the years you were my assistant, did I ever order anything as vile as a cheesesteak sandwich?”

Lena had to suppress the growl bubbling in her throat. She removed her glasses and massaged her temples in the vain hope that she could stave off the headache that could feel coming.

“A salad with a cheeseburger on top of it is somehow different?” Kara leveled Cat with a snarky smile. A deadpan look settled on Cat’s face. Kara shook her head. “They have salads…yogurt dressing and all.”

Cat seemed to perk up at this news. “Well, in that case, I’d love a salad.”

Kara nodded and turned her attention to Lena. She bent down and placed a chaste kiss on her wife’s forehead before super-speeding out of the room; Lena anchoring the papers in front of her to keep them from scattering.

As the breeze from Kara’s speedy departure subsided, Lena let out a long breath. After quickly organizing her thoughts, she straightened her posture and locked eyes on the woman across the table, sizing her up like a lion would a gazelle. Cat shifted uncomfortably in her chair, clearly unnerved by the intense look in Lena’s eyes, yet defiantly maintaining eye contact.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mrs. Luthor?” Cat said pointedly.

Lena folded her hands on the table, leaned forward, and using her well-honed CEO voice said, “I was just thinking about the remarkable difference in CatCo’s current market value compared to what I paid for it in 2017. Remarkable considering you purchased it from Andrea no less than three years ago for $250 million less than I paid for it.”

“The last three years have been very successful,” Cat said, clearly gloating. “And in all honesty, CatCo’s dismal market value three years ago was a direct result of Miss Rojas’ incompetence. The woman had no business being a journalist, she’s better suited to run some kind of multi-level marketing scam.” Cat scrunched up her nose like she’d smelled something foul.

Lena couldn’t argue, she wholeheartedly agreed with Cat’s assessment of Andrea. The woman had no concept of ethical business practices, let alone journalistic integrity. Lena was well aware that Andrea would run CatCo into the ground when she offered to sell it to her. Lena was more concerned with pissing Kara off at the time. A brief surge of guilt overcame her for the briefest of moments. Although she and Kara had long ago forgiven each other for their respective transgressions during their year-long schism, Lena still promised herself she would do something nice for the hero when they got home this evening as an unspoken “I’m sorry”; most likely something that would make her wife’s toes curl.

“Still, it’s amazing what you’ve been able to accomplish in such a short amount of time.” Lena praised.

“Thank you.” Cat seemed pleased with the compliment…and herself.

Lena leaned in closer to Cat. “So, tell me, owner to owner, what’s the secret? How in the hell did you turn a sinking ship worth $500 million into what Kara and I are shelling out $1.4 billion for?”

The question clearly threw Cat for a loop, her eyes flitted around the room as she considered her response. “Well, you can’t be afraid to ruffle a few feathers. People don’t like the truth sometimes, but that’s the responsibility of a free press, exposing people to the ugly truths that surround them.” Cat’s smile regained its cockiness. “Accuracy is more important than expediency; being right is always better than being first.”

“I have firsthand experience in that regard,” Lena sighed bitterly.

A look of recognition passed over Cat and she nodded benevolently. “That’s right. Your mother’s escape.” Cat shook her head and snorted in disgust. “I should have fired both Snapper and Jimmy for their incompetence.” Cat quirked her head questioningly. “I must say I was quite shocked when I heard you and Jimmy were an item at one point given his…negative opinion of you in those early days.”

“I still am shocked at my utter stupidity.” Lena grimaced. “Luckily it wasn’t a permanent affliction.”

Cat said nothing in response to Lena’s lamentation and the two sat in comfortable silence. Cat’s features softened and her lips slid into a warm smile. “That whole mess perfectly illustrates why competent leadership is so important. A good EIC would have put a stop to their recklessness.”

Thankful for the opportunity to shift the focus away from her relationship with James, Lena quickly replied, “I heard Kara tried to stop them.”

Cat’s smile took on a thoughtful appearance, a glimmer of fondness shown in her eyes. “That’s what makes her so remarkable. Even then, with only a few months’ experience under her belt, she still stood up to those jackasses. Her internal compass told her that something wasn’t right, and she refused to let her inexperience stop her from speaking up.” Cat’s look of pride was matched by Lena’s. “That’s what a competent leader does, sticks to their guns even when those in power tell them they’re wrong.”

“So, you think Kara a logical pick for CEO?”

“Absolutely,” Cat responded passionately. “Credit where credit is due, she’s been singlehandedly running the company for over a year now. She’s been performing tasks well beyond her job title and doing a damn fine job in the process.”

“So, would you say Kara has earned your trust and respect?” Lena set her trap.

“Unequivocally,” Cat said with no small amount of adoration, but her features quickly took on an aura of incredulity. “If I didn’t know any better Mrs. Luthor, I’d say you’re having doubts about putting your wife in charge.”

A feeling of pure satisfaction and anticipation surged through Lena as she now had Cat cornered, though she showed no signs of it, her poker face was impenetrable. (There’s a reason poker had been banned from Game Night, Lena could out-bluff everyone)

She almost felt sorry for the older woman.

Almost.

“No, Miss Grant, I have no doubts regarding Kara’s ability to run CatCo. I’m just confused.”

“About what?” Cat asked with an annoyed tone.

“I’m glad you asked.” The smile that spread across Lena’s face could only be described as sinister. “You compliment Kara’s leadership skills. You say that she is the best choice to run CatCo. You say that you trust her. You even go so far as to say you respect her.” Cat nodded, a look of absolute confusion on her face. “And yet, you continue to disrespect her on a daily basis, both privately and publicly.”

Cat sat silently, eyes the size of saucers and her mouth agape.

“What’s my wife’s name, Miss Grant?” Lena asked in an even tone.

Cat stared at Lena as if she was speaking a foreign language. Lena continued. “’Kara’. Say it with me, ‘Kara’.” Lena enunciated phonetically, making no attempt to hide the disdain in her voice. “K-A-R-A. If you’d like, I’d be happy to write it down in crayon for you.”

Cat was clearly flabbergasted, evidenced by her complete lack of response.

Lena took a deep, centering breath; her anger ebbing away ever so slightly. “Miss Grant, I don’t know you that well. When I met Kara, she spoke almost to the point of reverence about you. It became very clear early in our friendship that you were very important to her, so when you came back into her life, I viewed it positively.” Cat seemed to relax at the shift in Lena’s mood, her features loosened as she followed Lena with rapt attention.

Lena continued, her voice tinged with melancholy, “My opinion soured the first time I met you.” Cat looked at her questioningly, Lena rolled her eyes in response. “Our bridal shower,” Lena deadpanned. Cat gave a slight nod. Lena shook her head and continued, “As I was saying, our bridal shower was the first time I heard you call Kara ‘Kiera’. I just assumed I’d misheard you and let it go. When you called her ‘Kiera’ at our bachelorette party, I figured you’d had too much to drink. When you called her ‘Kiera” at our wedding, the only reason I didn’t cast a spell that would make all your hair fall out is because…well…it was our wedding, and I wasn’t going to ruin the day.”

Cat seemed to sink a little further into her seat as Lena listed off each slight, her face stoic.

“My favorite was the night Kara was awarded her second Pulitzer. You did such a beautiful job during her award presentation. Hell, you even introduced her using her proper name,” Lena paused, a look of mock astonishment on her face. “But no more than two seconds after she stepped off the stage, you called her by that goddamn name again!” Lena, face dusted pink, slammed her fist on the conference table, startling Cat.

Her anger rising, Lena gave Cat no time to recover as she leveled her index finger at the clearly unsettled blonde. “Kara is an extraordinary woman. She has saved this planet both as a writer and Supergirl. For fuck’s sake, she saved the universe from being wiped out of existence! Do you have any idea the enormity of something like that? I assure you, you do not.” Lena slowly rose from her seat and leaned over the table, hovering over a floored Cat. “She is a daughter, a sister, an aunt, my wife, the mother of my unborn children, and goddamn superhero for Christ’s sake! You will show her the respect, grace, and compassion that she is owed. You will commit to me right here and now that you will never, EVER, call her ‘Kiera’ again.” Lena picked up the contract and shook it in Cat’s face. “And if you fail to agree to that, I will burn this and piss on the ashes!” Lena mic-dropped the stapled papers.

Cat, wide-eyed and mouth agape once more, stared blankly at the discarded contract. Lena, satisfied with her tirade (for now), gently lowered herself into her seat. She retrieved her glasses and put them on. After grabbing the contract from its resting place on the conference table, she thumbed through the pages until she found where she left off and resumed her reading.

Lena was content to sit in silence while Cat continued to process what had transpired. She felt a great deal of satisfaction being able to defend her wife, even if it meant the deal might fall through. Lena knew that Kara would be devastated if she had to leave CatCo, and as much as Lena wanted to spare her wife from a broken heart, there was no way in hell she was going to let anyone disrespect her. If worse came to worst, they could buy a smaller publication and build from there; Lena feeling confident that any media organization run by Supergirl would garner a sizeable following, not to mention Kara’s skills as a publisher.

“Have you ever met Perry White?” Cat’s passive voice broke through the silence.

Lena set the contract back on the table, removed her glasses, and studied Cat for a moment. As far as Lena could tell, there was no trace of hostility or arrogance in Cat’s appearance. Lena had no idea why Cat was bringing up the former Daily Planet editor. Her curiosity peaked, she decided to follow Cat down whatever rabbit hole she was leading her. “No, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Though I’m not too broken up about it seeing as how he was more than happy to label me as the anti-Christ after Lex was sent to prison.”

“The man was a pig,” Cat said, a slight tremble in her lips. “When I first started at the Planet as his assistant, he insisted on calling me ‘Caity’.” Cat paused, apparently waiting for some type of response from Lena; a raised eyebrow was all she received. “This went on for weeks. ‘Caity! Coffee, black! Caity, where’re my cigars? ‘Caity, get off your ass and get me some lunch!’. Until one day, I psyched myself up enough to correct him. He told me that he knew what my name was, but he didn’t care. From that point on, he started calling me ‘Caity-Cat’.”

“Did you report him to HR?” The look on Lena’s face was ice-cold, but the hint of warmth in her voice belied a touch of sympathy.

Cat scoffed, “God no. Filing a complaint against the EIC for one of, if not the largest newspaper in the United States would have been career suicide.” Lena could only shake her head in disgust, Cat nervously fiddled with her fingers and huffed, “It was a barbaric time. The entire industry was run by a bunch of testosterone-laden animals.” Cat chuckled quietly. “It’s unfortunate Perry retired before the Me Too movement, I would have loved to have watched him get skinned alive.”

Lena couldn’t help the snort that escaped her. Cat grinned brightly at her reaction. Lena quickly regained her composure and dramatically cleared her throat. “So how did you deal with it?”

“I used it,” Cat said confidently. “Every time I heard the name ‘Caity-Cat’, I used it as motivation to push for a better career. I made a vow that I would make such a name for myself that that son of a bitch would have no choice but to show me the respect I deserved.” Lena could see a flash of steely determination in Cat’s eyes. “Come hell or high water, I would prove that I was worthy of his notice.” Cat swallowed thickly, her eyes becoming glassy.

Lena picked up on the bitterness in Cat’s voice. She could see how much the memories of her time under Perry White pained her. She couldn’t help the swell of sympathy generated by Cat’s remembrances. Whether she liked it or not, Lena felt a kindred spirit in Cat. Both had navigated a world heavily dominated by misogynistic, deplorable men who did everything in their power to ensure their failure. She understood Cat’s motivation to prove that she belonged in that world, no matter its futility.

“Did you ever accomplish your goal?” Lena asked, already knowing the answer.

“In a way.” Cat thinned her lips, a far off look on her face. “A year after I got CatCo off the ground, I ran into Perry at some awards dinner. By happenstance, serendipity, or whatever the hell you want to call it, we went to get a drink at the bar at the same time. I said hello, and he grunted out ‘Catherine’.” Lena shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, unsurprised by the man’s apparent apathy. Cat grinned playfully, clearly feeling like she swallowed the canary. “But by then it didn’t matter. I’d grown far beyond needing his respect or approval. By that time, I had already accomplished more than that sack of shit ever could. I didn’t want, didn’t need a damn thing from him.”

Lena let Cat relieve her triumphant moment, happy in the knowledge that Cat was able to realize her self-worth without needing validation from anyone else.

“So, is that why you scall my wife ‘Kiera’? In some misguided attempt to motivate her?” Lena’s gaze bore into Cat with an intensity greater than Kara’s heat vision. “Because from where I’m sitting, it seems history repeating itself.”

Cat blanched at Lena’s assertion; a barely perceptible shiver ran the length of her spine. Cat let out a long breath before meeting Lena’s probing stare before answering wistfully. “When she started as my assistant, maybe…but I think it got to the point where I wasn’t even aware I was doing it.” Cat looked away from Lena, clearly angry with herself. She fell back into her chair with an unceremonious thud, her shoulders sagging defeatedly. “But it really doesn’t matter, still makes me a hypocrite.”

Lena answered Cat’s unasked question with a raise of her eyebrow and a slight tilt of her head.

Cat folding her hands on the conference table and leaned closer to Lena. “Please understand, I am so proud of Kara. She has exceeded every expectation I could possibly have of her. She has grown into a remarkable woman; and it has nothing to do with the cape and tights. She engenders trust and respect to a level I have never seen before. I’m used to my staff going above and beyond because they’re scared of me, but her, they do it because they adore her.” Cat’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

Lena’s features softened at Cat’s admission, a warm sense of satisfaction blooming in her chest. She started feeling the slight sting of welling tears in her eyes after hearing such kind words about her wife. Stupid pregnancy hormones.

There might be hope for Cat yet. At the very least, she’d avoid tasting Lena’s fist.

“Have you considered telling her that?” Lena pointedly asked.

Cat grinned sadly through trembling lips. “I feel like that ship’s sailed,” Cat said with a shaky voice. “How…when…I mean…I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Lena didn’t even try to hide her enjoyment watching Cat ramble. “One, it’s never too late, two, use your words, and three, there’s no time like the present.” Lena motioned towards the closed door leading to the bullpen. Cat looked at the door confused. “Kara, I know you’re listening. You can come in now,” Lena said quietly.

Before Cat could react, the door opened and a sheepish looking Kara entered the conference room, two flimsy cardboard boxes filled with wrapped sandwiches and bags cradled in her arms. She set the boxes down and turned to face her wife. “I wasn’t listening.” Lena leveled Kara with an arched eyebrow in response, Kara quickly folded under her wife’s stare. “Well, I didn’t listen to everything.”

“Do tell, zrhemin.” Lena suppressed a grin.

Kara made to adjust glasses that weren’t there, quickly shifting to scratch her cheek. “Fine. I’ve been listening since ‘piss on the ashes’”. But in my defense, I could hear your heartrate was elevated and I got worried.”

Satisfied, Lena shrugged. The color had seemed to drain from Cat’s face after Kara’s confession, her eyebrows hitting her hairline. An awkward silence followed. Cat and Lena appeared to be in a stare down while Kara tried to avoid looking either one in the eye. Lena emerged as the victor of the silent battle; Cat turned to face Kara. Kier…Kara, I owe you an apology…”

“Miss Grant, you don’t have to apologize,” Kara cut her off with a wave of her hand.

“No, Kara, I do.” Cat took a focusing breath and swallowed thickly. “Your wife is right; I haven’t always been very nice to you. I’ve been disrespectful, callous, and sometimes, downright abusive; none of which you’ve deserved.” Kara was beaming as Cat spoke, now the third person in the room being brought to tears. “Sufficed to say, I will work harder to…be more positive with my feedback…and, at the very least, call you by your given name.”

Cat hesitantly approached Kara and after an awkward amount of positioning, embraced her in a tight hug. The floodgates opened and all three women had tears streaking their faces: Cat and Kara for obvious reasons, and Lena…well…goddamn hormones!

Kara and Cat pulled back from their embrace and messily wiped away their tears, a few sniffles coming from both women. “Thank you, Miss Grant. I accept your apology,” Kara said, a slight tremble in her voice.

Cat smiled at her warmly. “Kara, I think at this point you can call me Cat.”

Kara gasped in shock before devolving into clapping and squealing excitedly. “Ok…Cat,” she said with an overdramatic swagger.

Cat and Lena exchanged an eyeroll but didn’t comment on the Kryptonian being a spastic dork.

Cat leveled Kara with her best boss-stare, quickly pulling the hero out of her giddiness. “That is until I win the election. Then you’ll have to address me as Madame President.”

#supercorp #supercorptober2023 #kara danvers #lena luthor #cat grant

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