#proximity

[pi-slices]

Proximity.

[snowspots]

i saw this in my dream and i cried

[starwitchcore]

Proximity ⟢ Chapter 1

Professor Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

10:53

The red glowing numbers of your alarm clock taunt you as you slowly come to your senses. As you open your swollen eyes, still guarded by sleep, you glance around your small apartment bedroom. 

The cream colored walls are now glowing with the promise of a new day, and every surface is covered with some form of you. Across the room, the kitten themed calendar by the window reads August 13th, the last day of summer before senior year of college. 

The sight makes your chest tighten, and your stomach turns with impending doom. You stretch your sore limbs and groan as your muscles protest, tossing the oversized blanket off and swinging your legs out of the queen sized bed. 

Reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you, your ears adjust to the late morning activity coming from the kitchen. A distant humming followed by a loud crash, a bang, and finally,

“Oh shit!”

You chuckle as you walk to your door, phone in hand as you scroll through your notifications, feet guiding you to the source of the commotion. As you reach the kitchen, your roommate, Kayla, comes into view, and the room is vibrating with music around her. 

The slightly taller woman’s dark wavy hair drapes over her muscular shoulders and contrasts against her white tank top. Her movements are sure and strong as she expertly places the scrambled eggs on two plates, the smell of a homemade meal filling your tired senses. You notice the arrangement of slightly burnt toast, bacon, and fruit scattered in the kitchen, and a smile creeps onto your face.  

Kayla's deep brown eyes find their way to yours, a goofy grin showing off her excitement for the day. Her hands pause on the stove and reach towards her phone to lower the volume of her music.

“Good Morning! Are you hungry?” 

She gestures to the selection of breakfast foods on the counter, switching off the burner and exhaust fan before meeting your gaze again. 

“Starving, actually.” You reply with a dramatic shrug. Right on cue your stomach grumbles as you pass by to grab two glasses for the orange juice sitting on the counter. 

You reach into the cabinet next to the stove, and Kayla moves to the side so you have easy access, nodding in acknowledgment. The two of you move in a perfect rhythm as you prepare your plates and move into the small dining room of your cozy shared apartment. 

You and Kayla have known each other since Freshman year at Bryn Mawr University. The pair of you met in Professor Goode’s Introduction to Feminism course during your first semester, growing close over late nights in the library or studying over lunch for one of Goode’s brutal exams. 

Throughout your time at Bryn Mawr, Kayla has been the one consistent thing in your life, the two of you clicked immediately and have been glued at the hip ever since. Sophomore year, you decided to get an apartment together and live off campus rather than in the dorms, creating the foundation of a life in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. 

Kayla looks up from her plate, ketchup already painting her face and crumbs gathering around her. Your eyes narrow at her antics as she drags the back of her hand across her lips and takes a swig of the orange juice in front of her before opening her mouth to speak. 

“What’s on your agenda today?”

You swallow your food, blinking as you reply, “I have to do some laundry and clean up before work,” you pause to roll your eyes, and take a sip of juice. “I hate that I have to close tonight when I have an eight o'clock meeting with the dean tomorrow morning. I swear nobody ever covers for me.” 

Kayla nods along as you speak, “Damn, I hate that for you too.” She takes another messy bite of her breakfast and continues on, ignoring the crumbs falling from her mouth. “I'll be there tonight though. Chef has me closing dinner line tonight.” Her lips curve into a wicked grin, 

“My earliest class is one o'clock, so looks like you'll be in my sleepy prayers girl.”

Your smile drops at that. A straight sarcastic line taking over your lips. You huff out a laugh and finish your breakfast, Kayla grinning at your composure. You fall into an easy rhythm for the rest of the morning, throwing jokes and stories back and forth while you clean up the kitchen and depart into your rooms. 

..••°°°°••..°°••....••°°..••°°°°••..°°••....••°°.

12:30

You glance at the alarm clock as you step back into your room, a white cotton towel snugly wrapped around your body. The hot air circles around you as the fog lingers into your bedroom, for just a moment the world stills. 

For just a moment you are back in the freshman year dorm, deciding what to wear on your first day of college classes, and worrying people would find out about your scholarship. Now, three years later, you stand here in your own apartment, still wondering what to wear, preparing for work, like any other day. 

Except it’s not any other day, it’s your last moments before the rest of your life starts to make sense, the final puzzle piece. You let this idea circle in your head for a moment, grounding yourself in the presence of a familiar routine before everything changes. 

Your legs are freshly shaved, smooth with a scent of vanilla and coconut. Your brunette hair drips onto your back, the water droplets leaving goosebumps in their path down your spine. Wrapping a smaller towel around your head, you let the large one fall from your body, stepping out of the puddle it formed around your feet and into your uniform for tonight's shift. 

The long sleeve white blouse tucks neatly into the waistband of your black pants, both fitted perfectly to your body like second skin. You imagine the way your shirt will bear the stains of the weekend rush.

Taking a seat at the small vanity in the corner of your room, you fall into your normal routine. Moisturizer, primer, base makeup, repeating like your favorite song that you’ve heard a million times. Blush, Powder, highlight, the melody familiar in your head, you could almost hum along. 

As always, you finish the look with your signature winged eyeliner, sharp and deliberately reshaping your eyes into something more mysterious. You stare at your reflection for a beat too long, searching for all the answers in your now unrecognizable eyes. 

The humming of downtown life, car horns, and rain remind you that nobody else has the answers either, the sense of doom dissipating in your stomach with each inhale. 

You stand and begin to straighten up your room. Putting away the now clean laundry, you sift through miscellaneous clothing, remove the black apron from the pile, and neatly fold it by your purse. At two o'clock, your phone vibrates somewhere in the room with a notification, a reminder, 

“Be on time for your 3:00 pm shift.”

A deep sigh forces its way past your parted lips, mentally preparing for the upcoming evening. Unwrapping the towel and releasing your damp hair, you shake the water out and grab the closet claw clip you can find. 

Tightening the claw into your head, you feel ready for whatever happens this evening, whatever happens tomorrow. With that, you finish up your laundry and make your bed. 

Minutes before you need to leave, you pack up your apron with your server book, wine key, and favorite arrangement of purple pens, always purple. 

You stuff the wrapped apron into your purse and do one final check for your wallet and keys. Walking into the living room, you call out for your roommate. Kayla’s head pokes out of her bedroom door in the hallway, toothbrush in hand, her toothpaste covered chin tilted up in acknowledgment. 

“I’m heading to work, what time do you go in?” You tilt your head and fiddle with the zipper of your bag. 

“Not until four. I'll see you later dude.” She replies as her hands hold onto the doorframe. You cringe at the thought of being scheduled earlier than your friend, but follow your path to the door. 

“Can’t wait! See you in a bit.” You say sarcastically, waving goodbye in the process. You hear the sound of Kayla’s laugh muffled around her toothbrush and disappear into her room as you walk out the front door of your shared apartment. 

The rain creates a steady melody against the windshield of your car. The misty afternoon streets of Bryn Mawr are almost empty as you make your way through the fog. The trees around you are vibrant hues of orange and red, their leaves falling in harmony with the rain. The downtown lights glow despite it being early afternoon, they shine through the mist and lead you through the winding Pennsylvania roads. 

The drive to the local fine dining restaurant isn’t long, ten minutes at most, but your mind remains empty. Accompanied by the rhythm of raindrops, the sweep of the windshield wipers, and the soft hum of the AC, a simple soundtrack to your afternoon. 

The Salt and Sage sign is a sight for tired eyes as you pull into the parking lot right on time, glancing at the digital clock in your car that reads 2:50 pm. 

Shifting gears and placing your car into park, you allow yourself to really breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth, feeling your heartbeat in your chest and grounding yourself before walking into chaos. 

In the safety of isolation you take in your reflection one last time in the rear view mirror. Those same painted eyes stare back at you, unrecognizable, yet familiar. 

You look down and shuffle through your purse, pulling out your favorite lip liner and gloss. As you trace the curve of your lips you feel confidence bloom in your chest, replacing the feeling of doom from earlier. With a final pop from your lips, the gloss shines and you collect your things and walk inside, locking your car before discarding your keys into your purse. 

Your manager is the first face you see as you approach the host stand. The older woman’s striking green eyes lock on you instantly, greeting you with a bright smile and a nod. 

“Hey Wanda, how are you?” You ask as you join her behind the wooden desk. Her auburn hair is styled in perfect waves down her back. The navy suit, seemingly tailored just for her, clings to her figure perfectly.

Wanda’s smile widens as she tilts her head down at you, her silver jeweled hands resting on the desk as she leans forward. 

“Wonderful darling, and you?”

The blush that creeps up your neck is unwarranted, and you glance down at the tablet in front of you to hide the effect of her pet names. You scroll through open table and review the sidework and sections as you respond.

“I’m doing pretty good, a little uneasy though.” You peek up at her once to see her reaction and she catches your eye for a moment. “I start classes tomorrow. I can’t believe it's already my last year at Bryn Mawr.”  

Wanda bites the inside of her cheek and looks around the restaurant, sweeping her eyes over each table while she analyzes the room. Her enchanting gaze circles back to you, saving the best for last…you wish. Green eyes look you up and down before they meet your awaiting stare, lips locked in a smirk.

“You’re all grown up.” 

You don’t answer, just smile back, fingers fussing with the hem of your apron until she looks away.

A beat later, the restaurant phone rings. Wanda laughs and turns the corner, disappearing into the dining room and leaving you grinning like an idiot, only for the call to ruin your moment. I’m not even clocked in yet, you whisper, pushing accept and bringing the phone to my ear. 

Once the reservation for Mr. West was taken care of and you were clocked in, you could finally head to the server room and put down your bag. You make your way through the elegant dining room. The walls are painted with a deep blue but littered with expensive artwork and decor. The burnt orange booths contrasted beautifully with the walls and highlighted the crisp white tablecloths. 

The ambiance of the room was enough for you to apply for this position years ago, and still leaves you breathless everyday. You pass a few coworkers on your way and greet them with hellos and smiles. 

The server room is small and filled with appliances and necessities, located right when you walk into the kitchen. You shrug your purse off your shoulder and adjust the collar of your blouse. Once you’ve removed your apron from the bag, you hang it on the purse hooks next to the entrance. Brushing off your clothes and retucking your shift where it came loose in the car, you roll your shoulders and survey the room. 

Clean, mostly. Organized and quiet in the aftermath of Sunday brunch. The morning kitchen staff has all gone home and the line is a ghost town during this hour. The quiet whispers of oven fans and heat lamps gossip in their absence, but you hear all of their secrets.

You take the black apron and wrap it around your waist, tying it in a neat bow next to your pens. For a moment you arrange your server book in the large pocket of the apron and organize your pens into the smaller slot beside it. 

Smoothing everything down with a pass of your palms, you smile and flex your fists at your sides. Reaching for a fresh linen from the rack beside you, you step into routine and begin to polish your section’s silverware and review tonight's specials. 

..••°°°°••..°°••....••°°..••°°°°••..°°••....••°°.

The next time you have a chance to breathe, it’s half past eight. The restaurant is alive with chatter, and the clink and scratch of metal echoes throughout the dining room. Your section tonight is filled with satisfied customers as they finish up their meals. 

As you pass table four, you clear the dessert plates and glassware from the young family as they thank you in return. Soft jazz sings from the speakers and accompanies the patter of your footsteps and sound of a perfect melody. 

You swing the kitchen door open with a kick of your leg, the old hinges creaking from the force. Discarding the plates and glasses weighing you down, you feel the chaos begin to settle around you, and you step into the server room. 

Relishing in the silence of seclusion, you take the time to print out the remaining tickets and place them into checkbooks. 

Salt and Sage is one of the nicest spots in town, and the prices reflect that. While you would never spend this kind of money on dinner or a glass of wine, you’re sure grateful for the people who do. Sliding the checkbooks into your apron you pass by the dinner line stop when you see Kayla wiping sweat from her brow. 

“You good?” 

Your voice sounds almost breathless as you call out, cheeks flushed from the heat. 

She looks up and over the arrangement of hot plates scattered under the heat lamps. Her brown eyes locked on yours in an instant. 

“Having a blast.” Her sarcastic tone is refreshing after an evening filled with manners and polite smiles. “Someone just sent back this steak for being too rare. First of all this was a perfect med-well and like come on, this is Salt and Sage!” 

Kayla turns the plate in the window towards you and shows off the pale center, barely bloody, of course. As absurd as the request is, you’ve seen it all at Salt and Sage. 

You grin at her familiar antics and lean against the doorway of the space. The damp air of the clustered workspace creates a thin layer of sweat on your skin. Your upper lip holds the proof of humidity when you respond.

“Let's just eat the rich and call it a day.” 

You and Kayla laugh in a simple harmony, the sound lingering in the air as you turn to exit the kitchen and return to the dining room. 

Your body settles into the rhythm of work once again. Refilling waters, smiling, running cards and closing tabs. 

Practiced and polite. 

“It was my pleasure this evening, thank you for dining with us.” 

You wave goodbye to the couple from table six as they exit the dining room

With your arms crossed behind your back, you stop at the host stand and survey the restaurant. The bar has calmed for the evening and the only customers left are the Sunday night regulars, each of them cradling a crafted cocktail made perfectly by the mixologist. 

At the far end of the mahogany bar, long, slender fingers littered with chunky, silver rings dance around the edge of a martini. Three blue cheese stuffed olives balance delicately on the chilled glass. You would recognize that order anywhere. 

Dark, wild hair shields the woman’s face, but you know exactly who the mysterious figure is. 

“Shouldn’t you be at home, preparing for the first day of class, Professor?” Your voice is smooth, maybe too bold, as you step behind the bar and approach the woman. 

Piercing blue eyes snap up, fingers stilling on the rim of her glass. 

“I could say the same to you.” 

Agatha Harkness sits in her usual seat, her stare intimidating and calculated as it narrows on you. 

For a moment neither of you speak, your hands already working on her next martini. Why did you come over here again?

“Remind me,” She asks finally, her voice raspy and worn from a long day. “How long have you been at Bryn Mawr now, dear?” 

The air vanishes from your lungs, and your hands falter around the stem of a new glass in front of her. Just long enough for her eyes to glance down and you remember how to breathe. 

“This will be my senior year,” She hums in return. Her hypnotizing blues remain locked on you as you speak. “-but I plan on applying for the masters program here.” 

“Ambitious” her lips tug into that signature smirk, “I like that in a student.” 

You don’t respond immediately, the weight of her stare still draining the air from your lungs. Instead you finish pouring the ingredients of her classic martini in the metal cocktail shaker. With a firm motion you finish the drink and strain the contents of the shaker into a chilled stemmed glass in front of the older woman. 

“I tried to get into your feminist theory and folklore class,” You meet her gaze once again,  “but it was already full by the time I got in to register.” 

With a gentle hand, you finish the martini with three blue cheese olives on top. Sliding the glass towards Agatha, your fingers brush hers for just a moment. 

“What a shame.” Your eyes involuntarily watch her lips part as she raises the extra dirty martini and takes a slow sip. She hums in approval and nods in your direction, 

“I must admit…a student who picks things up this fast would make my life easier.”

You spend the next few minutes cleaning up behind the bar. Mostly trying to look busy and not stare at Professor Harkness and those damn stuffed olives. Your mind races over the conversation you just had, wondering how older women have the ability to ruin you like this. 

You peek over your shoulder and see her drink nearing the end. Her large reading glasses rest naturally on her sharp and defined nose. The light glistens perfectly on her features as she focuses her attention on the book in her hand. The worn spine is visible under her grip, as you squint your eyes slightly to adjust, The Awakening. 

A classic. 

Fitting, you think. Agatha would enjoy the classics.

Your approach silently and slide the check towards her slowly, trying not to disrupt her. 

Without glancing up from the book, she pulls a black metal card from her suit pocket and sets it on the check. 

You lick your lips and take a step back, only needing a moment to run the card. You can’t help but notice the weight of the metal in your hand. A silent reminder of Agatha’s class and position. 

When you return, she finally closes her book, keeping her spot with a finger lodged in between the pages. 

“Have a good night, Professor.” You smile and sigh, handing her card back with both receipts, and one of your signature purple pens. “My pleasure, as always.”

Her smirk returns as she takes it. 

Letting the silence run for a beat longer than necessary, she signs the check in front of you and shuts it with a snap. 

“Goodnight, dear.” 

With that, you see that last glimpse of blue for the evening. Professor Harkness disappears into the night and all that's left is her signature swirling in purple ink. 

Next to it though, 

A $100 tip. 

[andromaex]

arlance is real and bradley james made it WORSE actually

because what do you mean:

“in some legends… lancelot was in love with arthur, and because he couldn’t have him, he turned his attentions to guinevere, because that was the only piece of arthur he could have.”

like i’m sorry????????

that is not a casual fun fact to drop in an interview. that is a weapon. that is a man reaching across adaptations and going “by the way, if you read this a certain way, it all lines up.”

because now you have to go back and rewatch everything with that in your head and suddenly lancelot’s devotion stops looking general and starts looking specific.

the way he attaches himself to camelot isn’t just about ideals, it’s about arthur. the way he never oversteps, never demands, never asks for more than he’s given—it reads less like humility and more like restraint.

gwen stops being just “the woman he loves” and starts being the closest he can get.

which is actually insane when you think about it for more than two seconds because it reframes his entire emotional arc into something so much more devastating: not replacement. not second choice. proximity.

he loves gwen, yes—but there’s this undercurrent of she is part of arthur’s world, arthur’s future, arthur’s heart, and loving her is a way of staying connected to that.

and the show never says this. it never confirms it. it gives you just enough plausible deniability to ignore it if you want to but then bradley james just says that. and suddenly the subtext isn’t just subtext anymore, it’s supported reading.

and it makes the restraint between arthur and lancelot feel even more unbearable

because if that reading is even slightly true, then lancelot’s whole thing isn’t just “i will serve you, i will follow you, i will believe in you”

it’s “i will take whatever version of closeness you allow me, even if it’s not the one i want

[oohooheeheehaaheeheeh]

Proximity

Gator Tillman Series

The women in Gator Tillman’s life had never stayed around for long. Until he met you. From the moment he saw your silhouette in the bar, he knew he was hooked on you. But when he finally takes notice of just how much you’ve infiltrated his life, he starts asking questions. 

CHAPTER 1: NOTICED

Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Pairing: Gator Tillman x fem!reader

WC: 1.1K 

Warnings: not much, just tone setting, Gator is whipped, no use of y/n, Gator is lowkey desperate, reader is lowkey manipulative but has perfected her craft 

Author’s note: this is my first ever series oh my! I’m not sure how fast I’ll get chapters out but I have the entire fic outlined and planned. This chapter is really just setting the tone so sorry that it's a bit short, but it is definitely going to get darker and more desperate I swear. I hope you like it, babydolls!

Gator’s eyes were fixed on you like he was hunting prey. 

From the moment he noticed you in the bar, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Not only because you were gorgeous – he would never deny himself the pleasure of staring at a beautiful woman – but because you clearly didn’t care for him one bit. You hadn’t even spared him a glance in the 10 minutes he had been there. 

Most women stared. Rarely because he was handsome, but mostly because of his reputation. All they really knew about him was his father’s name, and that their parents told them to “stay the hell away from that boy”. Of course, that was all they needed to hear to throw themselves at him, but they would eventually learn their lesson. Gator would make a mess of them, and then he would be the freakshow they’d glare at in disdain. 

You on the other hand, carried yourself as an entirely different being. He watched as you sat at the bar with poise, legs crossed, talking to the bar tender like you’d known him for years. Your laugh was soft and genuine, causing your eyes to crinkle and your shoulders to fold forward slightly, but not loud enough to carry. 

Gator suddenly felt naked as you glanced up and caught his hazel eyes latched onto you. You looked away first, seeming completely unbothered by his gaze. He finally managed to look away, even though it felt wrong. He needed to seem as nonchalant as you, but he didn’t know why it felt like a competition. 

Another 10 minutes went by of him occasionally glancing up, secretly hoping you were already looking at him, and then slowly panning the rest of the bar, rinse, repeat. He then instinctively straightened up as he watched you carefully lift yourself from your seat, carry yourself with grace directly towards him, and head straight for the door. 

He shamed himself internally for not approaching you. He was incredible at ruining a perfect opportunity – a gorgeous woman, who somehow looks too cool for him yet so welcoming at the same time, sitting at a bar with no other guys in sight. What the fuck was he doing? Even the desperate women who threw themselves at him didn’t make it seem that simple. Interrupting his own thoughts, he shook his head and bolted toward the door, storming through it on the off chance you were still around. 

And there you were, leaning against the cool brick wall scrolling on your phone. He stood still like an awkwardly carved statue as he contemplated the best way to approach you. Not that his critical thinking was of any use, as he finally decided to bolt right up to you and loudly say, “Hey,” a little too pointedly. 

You quickly looked up from your phone and shuffled yourself back in defense before seeing who it was. You immediately relaxed your posture and gave a small eye roll to the absurdity of his approach. 

“Hey.” You said with a nod. “You’re the guy with staring problem.” You pointed your thumb behind you toward the bar. 

Gator looked slightly taken back before shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and chuckling nervously to himself. “Uh, yeah, um... sorry for being so forward- or, uh, maybe not forward enough, but, uh...” he was mumbling like an idiot, pissing himself off even more before finally clearing his throat. 

“I just wanted to say you’re real pretty.” For the first time that night, Gator found himself too scared to look at you. His eyes darted around the street trying his best to avoid your gaze, focusing on how the streetlights reflected off the wet asphalt. Your silence almost killed him, until you finally responded with a calm confidence. “I know.” 

Gator’s eyes shot back to you, catching the sly smile that graced your lips. He huffed out a small laugh, almost in disbelief that you had said such a thing. But then again, you were clearly a smart, confident girl – of course you knew you were pretty. 

The way you were dressed was simple, elegant, and sexy all at once, perfectly reflecting the way that you carried yourself. You dress was black and clung to your body, but had a high neck and longer sleeves that came to your elbows. Your hair was pinned up with a few strands intentionally falling across your face. It made you look powerful – sure of yourself. It turned Gator on like crazy and he’d never been so proud of himself after deciding to finally approach you. 

“D’ya live around here?” He asked, one hand gesturing around him. 

“Sometimes.” 

Gator’s smile widened, a hint of his confidence coming back. 

“Well then...can I get the pretty lady’s number?” 

You rolled your eyes playfully, turning your head away from him to think for a moment. As you saw your ride pull up, you turned back to peer up at him through your lashes with a knowing look in your eyes. The look that always got you exactly what you wanted. And you knew you wanted him, but you needed to make him work for it – make him desperate for you. 

You took a few steps toward him until you were pressed against his chest, reaching your hands up to rest on his collar. You could feel the heat of his body warming you from the cold, stagnant air as he looked down at you with half-lidded eyes. You knew that if you reached up to kiss him, he would be yours. But you needed to dig your hooks deeper than that and leaving him hanging would be the perfect final blow. 

“You know what,” you said, voice getting low, “if I see you again, then it’s meant to be. Fair?” 

His breath stuttered against your cheek. He wanted more than anything to grab your hips right there, but your close proximity made him feel paralyzed. “Fair.” He murmured. You gave him a satisfied smile which he knew he needed to see again. 

Gator’s lungs felt empty and shriveled as you dragged your hands down his chest and retreated from his body. He watched the curve of your ass as you drifted toward the car, suddenly realizing he didn’t even have a name to go with it. 

“Uh, I’m Gator, by the way.” He called out in hopes that you’d give your name in return. 

You opened the back door of the car and turned to look at him one last time before sliding in. You gave him a sweet yet mischievous smile that he would eventually come to dream about. 

“Bye, Gator.” 

And with that, Gator was standing on the sidewalk, full of yearning as he watched you be carried away, probably never to be seen again. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall, the coolness of the bricks grounding him and allowing him to take in what felt like his first deep breath in years. 

This wasn’t going to be easy, but he had to see you again. 

He had to. 

[sheepfilms]

[fredrin]

Down looks down on the uninteresting stain you leave in the digital contrails of your existence…

[thepersonalwords]

How love works: Proximity leads to intimacy, and intimacy leads to a relationship. In other words, people who are around each other a lot, get close, and end up hooking up. So it's no great mystery why bosses and secretaries or co-workers or classmates end up dating each other.

Oliver Gaspirtz