#ch: Monica | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

clockworkflicker · 2 years

Photo

[tap or open image in new tab for higher quality]

In Sickness and In Spite

3.5k words, F cold. Familiarity with the source material is not required.

Fi/re Emb/lem Thr/ee Ho/pes — platonic Hubert & Monica. Snzfic + character study. These idiot rivals begrudgingly care about each other, your honor! Cue mlm-wlw bickering. Inspired by this post about ice magic. We love a sniffly traumatized mage.

Content warnings for wartime medieval fantasy setting, referenced past imprisonment, and mess.

“Return to the eastern encampment at once, and see to it that our reserves are told to prepare for the capture of Arianrhod.”

The faintest of smiles threatens to tug at Hubert’s lips as he hands a letter off to the courier standing at attention in his quarters. His expression, which the courier might later describe as “reeking of malicious contentedness” is one that Hubert’s fellow commanders are slowly growing used to as this war drags on, but it still sends a chill down the spines of those less familiar with the man’s more dubious qualities.

“Count Bergliez is to bring his troops to Arianrhod to hold the city in our absence, do I make myself clear?”

The man’s voice is smooth as dark chocolate, and equally rich, the courier finds himself thinking as he accepts the letter from Hubert. Of course, now is no time to indulge in chocolate, nor thoughts of admiration of a man’s voice. How foolish.

“I’ll see it done.”

Hubert folds his arms and gives a subtle nod. “Good. Well then, safe travels.”

The courier leaves, and Hubert finds himself once again alone in his quarters. He considers stepping out to check in with Lady Edelgard and discuss upcoming battle plans, but he thinks better of it once he pulls the drape from the entrance to his tent and sees that the sun has already set. They’ll be marching again early in the morning, and Her Majesty is likely to be asleep (or attempting to sleep, at least) by this hour.

He lights the lantern at his desk and sets a kettle to boil for coffee. His body feels heavy after the day’s skirmish at Magdred Way, but his mind isn’t quite ready to sleep. His troops encountered those damn Agarthan mages looming between the trees at Magdred. Evidence of their continued presence in this war, pulling the strings from behind the curtains, is enough to keep him up at night — not that he’d ever admit to such a thing. Given that he’s not sleeping just yet, there’s no sense in squandering an opportunity to get some work done, so he settles down with a stack of paperwork and quill.

Outside, a chorus of crickets come alive for the night, cautiously chirping along with the smoky early-autumn breeze and the occasional chatter from other commanders and soldiers passing by. After some time, the sound of a harsh sneeze pierces the white noise. Hubert casts a slow glance to his tent’s entrance. It sounded close by, but no one’s immediately outside the tent. He sets the distraction aside and returns to the list of provisions he was perusing.

But he can’t help but notice that the crickets’ song is punctuated by the occasional sniffle. Is that new, or has he only just noticed it now, he wonders. After a few minutes, there’s another sneeze, this one more high pitched than the last, followed by a slow, laden groan. It’s a familiar groan, he realizes. He knows exactly who it belongs to.

Unlike Monica von Ochs, Hubert does not possess a perfect memory. But given the frequency with which the woman expresses irritation around him, he would be remiss not to recognize the sound of her grumbling.

Her tent isn’t far from his. “I’m Her Majesty’s vassal just as much as you are,” Monica had insisted when they’d been setting up their base camp last week. “If she has need of me, I wish to be prepared and nearby.”

While Hubert finds her near-constant presence and general lack of composure to be somewhat grating, he certainly cannot complain about the woman’s dedication. Monica is, above all else, a valuable asset to the army and confidant to Her Majesty.

The kettle boils. He sets his quill aside and finds the coffee grounds he’d packed in his satchel. His eyes fall on the Almyran pine tea blend he keeps handy next to his stash of coffee grounds — a provision should he find a spare moment to enjoy a warm beverage with Ferdinand.

Hubert briefly regards the pine needles. Certainly not the ideal tea for a cold, and he can’t imagine his neighbor would particularly want his company. And yet...

~~~

There’s ice in her veins and haze clouding her head, and that’s really all there is to say on the matter. She sits at her desk, bundled up in her cloak with a quill and stack of paperwork. The flickering light from her lantern blurs her vision, eyes half-lidded and threatening to grow too rheumy to make out the words.

Not that it matters much. The chill gnawing at her bones from the inside out is enough of a distraction on its own that Monica finds herself wholly unable to make a dent in the status report she’s meant to have on Her Majesty’s desk by tomorrow morning.

She sniffles in irritation. She’d managed to doze off immediately after returning from Magdred this afternoon, but sleep held little respite. After a few hours of tossing and turning, she’d gasped awake, shivering with ire and cold sweat, unpleasant memories distorted by the whims of her feverish subconscious still vivid in her mind. With some effort, Monica had forced herself upright, shakily grasping the glass of water beside her bed and taking a drink.

She’s never forgotten what it’s like to be locked up in a cell — how could she? They say time heals all wounds, but such a thing can’t be true; not for her. While the sands of time are kind enough to erode others’ painful memories, weathering away sharp edges into manageable curves, Monica needs only close her eyes to find herself back on that cold stone floor, every detail in place, nothing forgotten. Exactly 296 stone blocks comprised the wall she had been chained to. That horrible woman’s raucous laugh, which always hit G#, no higher, no lower. The gleam of her athame, teasingly pressed below Monica’s jaw with just enough force to draw a thin line of fresh blood. The warm ferrous odor intermingling with the cool musk of the dungeon and that woman’s near-intoxicating scent of patchouli, sage, and mahogany.

And knowing Her Majesty was put through something so much worse; held in a cell and poked, prodded, sliced open, then reassembled as a tool of war? It makes her blood boil.

Her head had swam from sitting up so fast; a reminder that this Goddess-forsaken fever is going to literally boil her blood if she’s not careful.

Against her better judgement, she’d lit her lantern and dragged herself to her desk to take care of some paperwork. As much as she’d love to drift back off to sleep, the thought of going back there — even if only in a dream — is more than enough to keep her wide awake for a few more hours. Normally, she’d go out for a run or a swim to clear her head and simmer down, but she frankly can’t imagine her body will comply today.

Pinching her nose with a handkerchief that has long outlived its usefulness, Monica distantly wonders what would’ve become of her in that cold dark cell, had Her Majesty not come to her aid. She’d be dead, probably. It’s a useless thought, but one that plagues her nonetheless. Her nose is no less damp when she pulls the cloth away, so she sniffles again and resigns to just cleaning herself up with the inner collar of her cloak, soft fabric feeling like sandpaper against her nostrils.

“Monica?” A low voice from outside her tent startles her back to reality. “It’s Hubert. I have a matter I’d like to discuss, if you wouldn’t mind my company at this hour.”

She hesitates. Company is the last thing she wants right now. Well, perhaps she wouldn’t mind if it was Lady Edelgard or Dorothea...

“I’ll leave you be if you’d prefer it,” Hubert continues when she doesn’t reply. “But I thought it prudent to offer some tea.”

Still no response. Hubert briefly wonders if she’s managed to fall asleep. But then a small sniffle breaks the silence, followed by the sound of shuffling blankets. Monica draws aside the thick cloth draped over her tent’s entrance, eyes tilted up to meet his. Her brow is knit in confusion, but her gaze is glassy and distant. By the look of things, it was indeed the prospect of tea that coaxed her out.

She finds Hubert stood before her, holding two cups, warm steam gently rising from both. Monica doesn’t need her sense of smell to know their contents. One black coffee — a preposterous choice of beverage at this hour — and one Almyran pine tea. It’s almost a comedic image, the way the man's usual looming presence is kneecapped by something as mundane as a warm drink.

“You keep Almyran pine needles on your person specifically for Ferdinand,” she says plainly, her voice hoarse around the edges. “Why offer them to me?”

A slight frown draws Hubert’s lips. This woman is irritatingly perceptive and straightforward, especially when it comes to relationships he would prefer she kept quiet about.

But even in the low light, he can see the exhaustion plainly written across Monica’s face; dark thumbprints pressed beneath her eyes, a glimmer of moisture sits below her pinkish nose, her pallor framed by a mess of untamed burgundy locks. Judging by the paperwork strewn about on her desk, he figures she’s been just as busy as he’s been this evening. It’s not all that cold out, but her slight frame is swallowed up in a heavy winter cloak. Despite this, she looks to be shivering a little, and Hubert makes a mental note to check later if any of her reports from this excursion will need to be rewritten due to shaky handwriting.

While Monica is objectively the shortest commander in the Adrestian army, her shrewd demeanor and prowess on the battlefield are more than enough to compensate for what she lacks in height. But for the first time in years, Hubert finds himself thinking that she just looks small.

“You’re ill,” he says, matching her matter-of-fact tone.

“Yes, and?” Her eyes narrow, unfocused, and she inhales an uneven breath, then another. She ducks to the side with a horribly gruff sneeze, snatching the collar of her cloak up to meet her face as she shudders forward with the force of it. “ihh- hheh-! hHT’CHHUHshh!”

“And tea serves the dual purpose of perhaps offering some relief while also coaxing you away from your paperwork.” Hubert gives a small sigh, still looking stoic. “I should admonish you for working late in such a state.”

She scoffs, the watery phlegm crackling in her airways making her sound far more pitiful than disdainful, much to her chagrin. Wincing, she snuffles and rubs at her nose through the fabric. When she clears her throat, it does absolutely nothing for her wrecked voice. “As if you’re not guilty of the same.”

“Unlike you, I possess the sense not to work myself sick.”

“If you say so.” Knowing the man’s work-life balance (or lack thereof), Monica finds that statement highly unlikely. If she weren't so sick, she’d call him out for it, but she can’t quite muster the energy to get worked up over it at the moment. Another chill shakes through her, and it occurs to her that she’d much rather be sitting than standing, and a warm drink really does sound nice. She swallows thickly and glances away. “Anyway, I, um, I won’t say no to tea. If you’re offering.”

“That is why I’m here, yes,” Hubert says with a hint of levity, handing her a cup.

She gratefully accepts it, the deliciously warm ceramic prickling her cold fingertips. The rising steam causes her nose to run a bit more than it already was, but she revels in its gentle heat. “You said there was something you wanted to —” she pauses to sniffle, and exhales a tired, drippy guhh. “— to discuss?”

~~~

The two sit beside a small fire, tucked away at the edge of the base camp. On any other day, Monica would have simply invited Hubert to join her in her quarters, but she can’t imagine she’d be able to keep this damn cold to herself in such a small enclosed space, so this will have to do.

“Were you unwell when we marched on Magdred this morning?” He asks, settling down on a fallen log once he’s convinced he’s fed the fire enough wood to sustain itself. The flames dance, bathing them both in a warm glow amidst the dusky woods.

She shakes her head. “What, would you expect me to delay our troops because of a sore throat? I simply did what was necessary.” Monica takes a careful sip of her tea. Swallowing hurts, but it warms her from the inside out. Although her senses are too dulled to get a good handle on the flavor, she finds the tea has a distinct, earthy quality. It reminds her of simpler days spent hunting in the mountainous woodlands scattered about inland Ochs territory.

“And last night?” Hubert raises an eyebrow.

“I thought it was just exhaustion and nerves, at that point. We’d been marching all day, after all.” Smoke from the fire makes her sinuses burn, prompting her to retreat further into her cloak with a watery sniff, almost like a turtle into its shell.

“For someone so perceptive, you certainly posses an impressive lack of self-awareness.” He tilts his head with a slight smirk. “Perhaps if you didn’t so frequently find yourself flush with rage or affection, you wouldn’t struggle to tell apart fatigue from fever.”

She glowers. “Perhaps if you grew flush with rage every now and again, you wouldn’t have the complexion of a coffin-dweller.” Smoke catches in her throat as she speaks, completely stripping the insult of any teeth it may have had otherwise. She muffles a few weary coughs against her collar, causing a bit of mess to spill from her nose and create another dark patch on the fabric.

Hubert exhales a dry laugh. In spite of everything, it’s good to see that she’s at least well enough to quip back. “Well, there’s nothing to be done for it now. But do try to be more conscientious of your limits.”

Monica narrows her eyes with a sniff. “I know very well how hard I can push myself, thank you.” As if to deny her claim, the irritation in her airways causes her breath to hitch. Her eyes squint shut and her face contorts into an expression somewhere between a grimace and a snarl. She snaps forward with a desperate and distressingly sick-sounding sneeze, frantically aimed at the fabric resting atop her shoulders. She’d meant to stifle, but there’s only so much one can do when attempting to restrain such a forceful sneeze hands-free. She fumbles her cup of tea, spilling a bit in the process.

“And yet I can’t help but find your form as of late to be rather... rash.” Hubert turns his eyes back to the fire, not wishing for his gaze to be a source of further embarrassment for his stricken companion.

The gesture does not go unnoticed, and she’s grateful for it. The space between her nose and lips is slick, and a string of glistening mess dangles precariously from her septum to her cloak before falling against her chest. She instinctively snuffles, and immediately regrets doing so, as it produces a horribly soupy sound and reignites the burning itch. She hastily sets her tea aside and clutches at her collar with steepled hands, trembling with a flurry of quick, audibly damp breaths, until —

“ihheH- hH’KSSCH’ue! …hh? …hht’KSSCH’uhh!”

The second sneeze rends her throat, leaving her airways and collar absolutely drenched. With a small, exhausted groan, she allows herself just a brief moment of feeling sorry for herself before tending to her nose. She’s soaked through the fabric in her hands, and finds herself wondering if she needs to worry about running out of cloak. After finding a suitably dry spot, Monica draws a handful of cloak to her face and begins cleaning herself up. The stinging sensation of dry fabric against slick, inflamed skin makes her wince. “How so?”

“Lady Edelgard tells me you’ve had quite the talent for fire magic since you were young, and I must agree. The army would be remiss without a skilled mage such as yourself to set enemy strongholds ablaze.”

If she were alone, Monica would have blown her nose by now, but the thought of doing so in front of someone else makes her stomach twist in a knot. Clearly, if his unprompted arrival at her tent with tea is anything to go by, she's assaulted Hubert (and the rest of the camp, for that matter) with far too great a volume of sick noises as is. Goddess, she hopes Her Majesty hasn't overheard any of this. Monica settles for gently pinching her nose between the slick fabric, which does, blessedly, remove a decent amount of moisture. She gives a tired sigh, cautiously reaching down to retrieve her tea, almost afraid another sneeze will cause her drop it without warning. “What’re you getting at?”

Hubert gestures to the jet black tome strapped to her hip. “You’ve been teaching yourself ice spells recently. Why?”

“What kind of question is that?” She crinkles her nose. “Sometimes it’s more beneficial to freeze an enemy in place than set them on fire. Anyone can benefit from being more versatile.”

“Is versatility truly your reason, though? The elemental whiplash you must be giving yourself can’t be healthy.” Hubert gives her a knowing look as he raises his coffee to his lips.

Monica stares at him, then looks down at her tea. Assailing an enemy with flames, followed up by an ice spell, is going to inflict more pain than fire alone. That’s her reason. It’s that simple.

“We’ve recently been fighting more of the people who imprisoned Her Majesty and me. The dark mages at Magdred, for example. I...” she pauses with a sharp sniffle, frustrated with this cold, frustrated with Hubert for prompting her to confront one of her more wicked impulses at a time like this, frustrated with herself for being such a deeply bitter person. “I want it to hurt.”

Hubert remains silent and his expression unreadable, much to Monica’s annoyance. She presumes that his lack of reaction means she’s just confirmed something he was already aware of. Goddess, she hates how he seems to know her vices better than she knows them herself.

Finally, he speaks. “I understand.” His voice is low and surprisingly sincere. “Not a day goes by that I don’t lament my failure to protect Her Majesty when it mattered most.”

‘I understand’ is a bit of an unspoken compromise between two people who will never truly see eye to eye. Their ire for Edelgard’s captors is not equivalent, and they both know it. Hubert is cold and calculating, more than able to channel his emotions into neat, underhanded tactics that will serve Her Majesty well. But for Monica, it’s a spiteful, burning hatred that hungers for vengeance. It’s selfish and cruel and everything she wishes she wasn’t.

Hubert continues. “But, for Lady Edelgard’s sake, if not your own, I ask that you don’t do this to yourself. Even the most skilled mages aren’t equipped to deal with recoil from opposing elements. I suspect you’re intimately aware of this fact.”

He’s not wrong, Monica must admit. Ice magic has a way of chilling its caster to the bone, and alternating between fire and ice always leaves her a sniffly mess. It’s caused easily-ignored colds to turn debilitating more times than she’d care to let on. She doesn’t know what to say. She hadn’t expected anyone, let alone Hubert, of all people, to care.

Before she can fully sort out her thoughts, a familiar burning sensation bristles at her sinuses. Her mouth hangs slightly open in uncertainty, brow furrowed, and a small, wavering breath sifts through her teeth. Monica teeters on the precipice for just a moment. Watery mucus drips down one flared nostril, then the other, pooling above her lip. She dares not sniffle, or else —

“ihhh-? hehh- hED’SSHuuh!”

She ducks to the side and clings desperately to her teacup as a half-stifled shivery sneeze seizes her, sending another unfortunate deluge of soupy mess down her face. Goddess, she’s tired. “snndffl. ghuhh. You could say that.”

Once again, she sets aside her tea and takes to tending to her nose. “Look, Hubert, I appreciate the concernd, but I...” she trails off with a congested groan and shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“Far be it from me to lecture you,” Hubert says, standing from his seat on the log and turning to leave, “but destroying yourself won’t change the past.”

“Where are you going?” Monica looks up at him, confused.

“To fetch my kettle. You’re still shaking, and have just about spilled the last of the tea.”

Pulling her cloak a little tighter around herself, she watches him walk back to his tent. She thinks that perhaps, just this once, he might have a point.

#y'alllllll it's finally FINALLY done!!!!!!#i've been working on this since late july and it went through like three rewrites so I Am Thrilled To Be Done. happy sicktember!#monnie is one of the worst written characters ive ever seen in a video game #she had so much potential to be interesting and the breadcrumbs are certainly there but GOD #the writers hecked the fuck up #thankfully i know how to write her Correctly #the devs just straight up handed us a canon lesbian and said #'she's horribly traumatized and has a ton of ugly emotions simmering below the surface but we're not going to address any of that'#anyway i had a great time writing about these two. monica is just So Much and hubert is hubert [affectionate]#also this has almost nothing to do with this particular fic but you can't tell me that monica doesnt fuck a sneeze okay #the sky is blue. capitalism sucks. mon/ica von o/chs is a sneezefucker. these are immutable truths #the fact that she canonically has a running tally of how many times edel/gard has expressed concern for her health is proof enough #(i looked it up. the tally is at 208 at the time of the cutscene she mentions it)#this woman is unhinged we love to see it #i'd also point to her love for tea (and making tea for edel/gard) if it weren't for the fact that 90% of the cast loves tea #'oh lady edelgard! it's chilly out! would you like some tea? a coat?' girl. honey. i know what you are.#th/ree hou/ses and th/ree ho/pes are such funny games. these bitches really do just swing swords and drink tea all day long #my art #my writing #btw this isn't beta'd so if you see a typo or something that makes no sense please PLEASE tell me

25 notes · View notes

carlsonyoungs-a · 2 years

Photo

Yvonne Strahovski as Hannah McKay in Dexter Season 8

#ystrahovskiedit #yvonne strahovski #fc: yvonne strahovski #mine*#dexteredit #ch: monica de'fiore (older)

53 notes · View notes

shysheeperz · 2 years

Text

#franky my funky lil dude #that's a lil sketchy #spy x family #sxf #franky franklin #loid forger #monica mcbride #ch 18.1 #manga caps #caps #sxf spoilers

49 notes · View notes

thatdogmagic · 1 year

Text

Entry for the October 2022 prompt 'Misfit,' here is Monica, well on her way into a night full of terrible decisions.

#werewolf #shapeshifter #lesbian #butch #werewolves #thatartmagic #ch: Monica

335 notes · View notes

illbringthechaosmagic · 2 years

Note

19) f/f ( smut starter call, from Monica )

Wanda could barely keep the vibrator against her clit as Monica thrusted into her with the strap. What had started as a relatively quiet evening, watching movies had quickly escalated to the other fucking her until her legs shook. She had already cum once but Monica seemed to show no signs of stopping. Pulling the vibrator from her clit, she brought her free hand down to gently stroke it, her back arching slightly. "Fuck... fuck... I'm close," she whimpered, "do-don't stop..."

#bcrninghearts #ch: monica #ns;fw

0 notes

wildcherie · 2 years

Text

closed starter for @tuserfox + myles fitzgerald

“you didn’t answer you phone.” so, she stalked him using an app and it brought her here. to the back of some dingy club, where he was sitting in and playing lead guitarist at. she’d ask where quinn was, but she didn’t really care. “you’re not trying to escape me, are you bugs?”

#ch. monica de'fiore #opp. myles fitzgerald #why? bc i miss them #ver. lakewood #monica & myles 01

27 notes · View notes

devilsmenu · 1 year

Note

“ why don’t i make you a cup of tea, and you can tell me all about it? “ -Monica to Calliope

"A cup of tea sounds good to me. And thank you for listening to it, I appreciate someone else care".

#mvrbleghcsts #feat monica #ch: calliope

1 note · View note

lowkeyerror · 2 months

Text

The Family Business Ch.2

WandaNat x Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Ch Notes: No warnings for this chapter, Krolik=Bunny, Sestra=Sister

Summary: Wanda was sent away on important business, by the time she comes back you're all grown up and a part of the family company. Wanda doesn't come back home empty handed in fact she returns with a brand new wife.

An: Ok someone asked me for Ch.2 early and I had to deliver. Next Ch.3 will be up on Monday. Stay tuned and hope you enjoy.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

True to their word, the Maximoff’s provided you with a roof over your head and protection wherever you went. You never worried about your mother again and you saw your father whenever his schedule permitted. However, your primary residence was with the Maximoff’s. They were just as kind as they had always been.

Dragos and Flora paid for anything you could ever want or need. They paid for your tuition at NYU, though you tried to argue against it. You double majored in software engineering and physics. Without the constant insecurities that your parents piled on you, you were able to reach new academic heights.

Wanda had gone off right before her college graduation, Dragos said she was doing important work internationally. He didn’t know when she would be returning. There was a small part of you that hated that the woman didn’t come to your graduation, but a card from her in the mail was enough to make you smile.

Once you had your degrees you weighed your options. After multiple boring interviews and under stimulating work you finally asked Dragos if there was anything you could do in the family business. Pietro wasn’t thrilled about you wanting to be involved, but once he saw you at work, he knew you’d fit right in.

The crime was fronted by a legitimate business that Dragos owned. Which meant that you got to work out of one the tallest office buildings in New York. Your standing with the family also afforded you a desk pretty high up. When you weren’t hacking into competitors’ systems or running field operations, you did simple accounting for the company. It was easier that way, as the numbers for both the true business and the under-cover business were vetted by you.

“Y/n, come on a delivery with me?” Pietro pops his head into your office space.

“What kind of delivery?”

He smirks, “Special.”

You quickly grab your jacket and follow him out of your office. As you navigate to the bottom floor the two of you make small talk.

“So, when are you going to stop playing around and ask Monica out?”

Pietro rolls his eyes, “When you date someone for more than 2 outings.”

You feign a pained look, “Ouch, that one hurts Piet.”

“The truth often does.”

Once you both are out of the building and into the car your demeanor changes a bit, “So who are these going to?”

“Mr. H.”

You groan, “That guy’s sketchy, I don't like him.”

Pietro laughs, “I’m sure a lot of people feel the same way about us. “

“Whatever,” you mumble, scrolling through your phone.

The rest of the ride is quiet, until you pull up to the drop of location. “So, I’m going in and dropping the stuff off. You’re going to wait for me in the driver's seat.”

“Why the driver’s seat?”

He blinks at you, “In case we need to get away faster, you'll already be in here. Keep the car running, this should be quick.”

While Pietro goes in to handle the business, you let your mind spiral into thoughts about Wanda. You miss her and feel like it has been too long. Dragos said that she ended up staying in Russia for awhile before heading to their home country of Sokovia. Apparently, while he ran the business here, she ran the operations over there.

You weren’t surprised that Wanda was trusted with such an important role, she always had leadership qualities. For a long while you thought you wanted to be just like her. Instead, you realized that the older woman had been someone you were interested in. Wanda had nearly a decade on you in age, but how could you not like her as a young queer girl.

Sometimes you could still feel her hand delicately grazing your torso as she patched up the wounds your mother inflicted. For awhile in the Maximoff’s home everyone treated you as if you would break into a million pieces. Maybe Wanda did too, but it was different with her.

She wasn’t just careful with you because she was scared, you’d break, but she truly believed that you deserved the care. Even when you began training with her, she treated you delicately. You wanted to learn how to protect yourself and she stepped right in and became the perfect teacher. You also began going to the gym with Pietro at least once a week. You weren’t trying to be buff, but just in shape enough to defend yourself if you needed.

Even though your outward appearance changed to be stronger. You felt as though Wanda saw right through that into your deepest insecurities and tended to them accordingly.

Your daydreaming is cut short by Pietro busting out of the warehouse where the drop was supposed to take place, with the goods still in his hand.

“DRIVE! DRIVE! DRIVE!”

He jumps into the passenger seat, and you hit the gas. Pietro is talking to you, but your adrenaline is kicking in. Your fieldwork doesn’t really get this exciting without a debrief. Getaway driver is definitely a new change in speed.

Your eyes focus solely on the road, ignoring what the man is saying as his chest heaves up and down. A quick glance in the rearview mirror tells you that they are following you. While you are curious about what happened, those questions can be answered later.

Pietro is actually mildly impressed with your driving skills. Your sharp turns and redirections are top notch in his opinion. Though you are doing great the guys are still tailing you.

You think for a moment, trying to remember the nearest parking garage. You realize that it’s behind you and brake hard, you weave through oncoming traffic to try to get to the parking garage.

“Get ready to hop out,” you say to Pietro parking the car. Once you do the blonde starts running on foot and you call after him. He stops in his tracks frantic until he sees you breaking into another car. When you get in you drive normally out of the parking structure and straight back to the office.

“Jesus Christ, Y/n I didn’t know you could drive like that?”

Pietro grabs the wooden box from his lap before walking to the elevator. He wipes his hands on his jeans and proceeds as though it was a just another day.

“So, what the fuck happened?”

He raises an eyebrow, “You weren’t listening in the car?”

“Duh, I was a little preoccupied with the whole driving for my life thing.”

“I guess you'll hear it when I tell Papa then.”

The two of you are definitely headed to the top floor of the building to inform Dragos of what has transpired. Pietro is never one for knocking and simply barges into the man’s office.

“Papa, do you have a- Sestra?”

Pietro’s sentence dies in his throat as he gets a glimpse of his older sister. He wastes no time sitting in the wooden box on a couch nearby and scooping up the redhead in a tight hug. You could hear them exchanging more words in their mother language. It’s an unexpectedly tender moment as Pietro tries to keep things on the light side.

Somewhere in the hug Wanda’s eyes land on you and they widen slightly. She untangles herself from her brother to get a good look at you. She’s older, as expected, but age had been more than kind to her. Wanda looks as elegant as ever, an air of distinguish surrounds her.

The way she looks at you makes you feel like a teenager again. You do your best not to squirm under her gaze. When a smile placed itself on her lips, you feel relief washing over you. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she pulls you in to a big hug.

Her hands rise to hold your face, pulling back just slightly. She wants to get a good look at you. The softness of her hands causes you to blush.

“You’ve grown up on me little krolik.”

She releases the hold, and you speak, “You’ve been gone a long time, Wanda.”

There it is, in your voice for the first time in years; That fragile tone that you had only ever allowed Wanda to hear. You hope it didn't sound as desperate to everyone else in the room and it didn't. But Wanda picked up on it instantly.

“I have, but now I'm back; permanently,” Wanda says, keeping her eyes on you.

“And she brought a friend,” Dragos interjects, and you watch Wanda roll her eyes.

“She’s more than a friend Papa, she’s my wife and she’s sitting right here. I expect you to treat her kindly.”

Wanda is married and to a woman. Your mind scrambles to piece together what had happened in the years that she was gone for this to be the case. It is hard for you to digest what the woman had said. Your breathing becomes a little shallow, but no one takes notice.

Finally, you take notice of the other woman in the room, sitting in the chair next to the one Wanda had just been sitting in. Your mouth dries at the sight of her. The woman is stunning. Her auburn hair is a few shades darker than Wanda’s. She has a button nose, soft pink lips and piercing green eyes. You couldn't be mad at Wanda for marrying such a beautiful woman.

“Sestra, you’re married?” Pietro exclaims, looking between the two women dramatically.

“Yes; Y/n, Pietro, this is my wife, Natasha Romanoff.”

Your eyes linger on the woman even when Dragos claps his hands together to get the attention of the room, “Piet you were saying something important. I see that Mr. H didn't get his package.”

Any further pleasantries would have to wait.

“Papa it was a bad deal. They tried short me on our exchange, so I told them they could either bring me the rest of what they owe, or I’d be walking. They planned to take the package from me, so I ran immediately to the car. Of course they chased after me, but thanks to need for speed over here we got away.”

Dragos pinches the bridge of his nose lightly, “Don’t I always say being back up?”

Pietro answers back, “I took Y/n.”

This causes Natasha to chuckle a bit.

Your eyes narrow at her, “Something funny?”

She doesn’t back down, “Well from the way Wanda described you, you don't necessarily scream back up.”

Your jaw clenches slightly and you steal a quick glance at Wanda, “Wanda hasn’t seen me in over 5 years. I’m not that fragile little kid anymore.”

Dragos nods proudly, “Y/n is the biggest asset we have in this organization. She’s by far the glue that holds this all together and I will not tolerate any disrespect thrown her way.” The final part of his sentence carries a lot of weight to it, it’s a verbal warning.

Wanda clears her throat, “Hammerhead is a loyal customer, why would he try to cheat us?”

“He could have a new dealer,” you speak up. “Someone who might be charging less for similar goods.”

“You think someone is dumb enough to try to undercut us?” Pietro questions.

You speak candidly, “I think that people in this city can be greedy, and greed blinds all good sense.”

Dragos clearly agrees, “We need eyes and ears on the streets listening to anything about dealers that aren't us. I need a meeting with Hammerhead to make sure he’s got that big ugly head of his on straight. Y/n if I can't sell this, I'm going to have see a profit of this quantity somewhere else on the sheets.”

“Let Natasha and I come with you to your meeting Papa. I want you to see what we're capable of.”

“Papa, is this woman going to be joining our group?” Pietro asks.

You turn your attention to Dragos, curious of what the man has to say. There is an unbridled shine in Wanda’s eyes and a small upturn of Natasha’s lip. They seem to think that the man would say yes immediately.

Instead, he heavily sighs, “For now Ms. Romanoff is simply Wanda’s… wife. There is a chance that she’ll be given access to join. However, her involvement isn’t guaranteed. So just to be clear, she’s not going to be sitting in on the meeting.”

Wanda wants to fight back, you can tell, but she refrains. The playfulness of her features dissipates as she responds, “Is she at least allowed to stay and watch them work?”

“Y/n do you mind if Ms. Romanoff shadows you for the rest of the day?” You know what Dragos was actually asking of you. He wants you to vet her.

Your eyes land on the woman, staring at her intensely, “Sure.”

She squirms in her seat which makes you smile a bit.

“Pietro,” Dragos starts.

“Eyes & ears I’ve got it Papa,” he’s out of the door fast, setting the plan in motion.

Dragos presses a small button on his desk, “Kate can you set up a meeting between Hammerhead & I. It needs to be as soon as possible. Make it clear that if I’m kept waiting, there will be extra fees to pay. Ones that can't be bought by money.”

“No problem Mr. Maximoff. Should I have Clint get the car ready?” She responds over the intercom.

“That’ll be great, thank you Kate.”

Now it is Wanda who claps her hands, “So I guess it’s time to get to work. Which mean it’s time to say goodbye to my beautiful wife and my little krolik.”

Natasha stands from her seat and places a gentle kiss on Wanda’s lips. “Be safe,” she murmurs, not quite ready to part from her wife.

“I’ll be fine Nat, it’s just business as usual.”

Something about the two women in the same line of sight together made you feel weird. You had seen beautiful couples before, but you seem to be a little mesmerized by the sight of Natasha and Wanda. For now, you would say that it was just the shock of seeing Wanda after all these years and being blindsided by the news of her marriage.

“Have you changed too much to give me a hug before you go?”

The teasing tone in Wanda’s voice makes you roll your eyes. You walk over to her nonetheless, “I hugged you earlier, you know.”

Wanda doesn’t hesitate to pull you into another hug. “I know, but maybe two is too much for the new Y/n.”

You look up at her, maybe for a second too long, and you can’t help yourself, “Don’t worry, part of me is still your little krolik.”

A slight blush paints over her features as she smiles at you, “Good, keep my wife safe, ok?”

Your eyes cut to Natasha, “Of course, I’ll leave you guys to it.”

You walk out of the office with Wanda’s wife trailing closely behind you.

“So, are you going to show me what makes you the glue?”

Her words make smile tug on the edge of your lips, “If you’re lucky.”

#lowkeyerror #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader #pietro maximoff #kate bishop #clint barton

466 notes · View notes

gurugirl · 4 months

Text

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 9k

Warning: 18+ only, angst, alcohol consumption

Can We Start Over? masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n Y/l/n.”

Why did that name somehow feel so familiar?

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

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

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

Harry clenched his jaw and swallowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stopped and turned to look at him in question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, he was right. Money does talk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

But traffic is unpredictable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at you with an eyebrow raised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

But, Brandy was convincing. Too convincing at times.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you’d gotten sloppy drunk.

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

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

“Where are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry kept his eyes on the road and listened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 3

Feedback/Thoughts | Ko-fi | Main Masterlist | Patreon

Thank you for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like 💕

Tags: @theastrologie @sassamanda77 @michellekstyles @yousunshineyoutempter @tenaciousperfectionunknown @golden-hoax @swiftmendeshoran @luvonstyles @tiaamberxx @lukesaprince @closureesny @justlemmeadoreyou @itsgigikay @angelbabyyy99 @lanadelharry @novasblogofstuff @gills-lounge @damnasstyles @malwtilda @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @0oolookitsme @babybunharry @anothermannharry @love-letters-to-uranus @itjustkindahappenedreally @kelly-fushiguro345 @ssaama @onlyangellucifer @harryistheonlyoneforme @butdaddyilovehim-hs @reveriehs @lc-fics @mema10 @carmenxharry @hannahdressedasabanana @babegoalsreads @icumforbaldrry @harrrrystylesslut @straightontilmornin

527 notes · View notes