#AND THEN. He gave me a print-out of these ''wellness stretches''... That exclusively stretch the upper back

[galactichelium]

Sometimes I feel a little silly bc it feels like I have every problem ever

[trulybetty]

dec' x 04 - scarf

Prompt: scarf Pairing: jack daniels x reader Word Count: 643 Warnings: I think jack comes with his own warnings doesn't he? nothing going on here except a very loose use of today's prompt! these are characters from a wip that hasn't even seen the light of day, let alone been finished - talk about working backwards 😆 Summary: let's get this out there, I know nothing about Kentucky except that my favourite Backstreet Boy when I was younger is from there - but I Googled until I couldn't Google anymore to confirm it does snow there! So, on with the story, it's a trip into town, which requires the use of the ranch's old truck. AO3: Linked

x. masterlist

The morning sun cast a low, pale light over the ranch, reflecting off the snow-dusted fields as you stepped outside, the crisp coolness of a Kentucky winter morning nipping at your cheeks. Jack was waiting for you, leaning against the barn door with a lazy grin on his face, his breath misting in the chilly air, his gaze fixed on the old Chevy truck parked nearby, its edges lined with a fine layer of frost.

“I suppose they don't have trucks like this in the city,” he drawled, the teasing lilt in his voice muffled somewhat by his thick scarf.

You arched an eyebrow at him, wrapping your coat tighter around you. “You know, the city has trucks too, right? They're not exclusive to the country—even in the winter.”

His chuckle was a warm rumble in the cold, mixing with the muted chirping of winter-hardy birds. He sauntered over to the truck, his boots leaving prints in the light dusting of snow on the gravel drive. “But they're all sleek and heated,” he pointed out, resting a gloved hand on the hood of the truck, the blue paint chipped and dulled, a contrast with the white of the snow.

“And?” You tilted your head, the frosty air turning your breath into clouds.

His eyes twinkled with amusement, “This here is a manual sugar—with no heated seats.”

You feigned a gasp as you clutched at your chest, “I do declare,” you said with a dramatic impression of a southern accent, “whatever will I do?” you followed him to the truck, a wide smile spreading across your face.

He gave you a long, considering look, then shook his head with a sheepish grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You sure you can drive it, Mouse?”

You blinked at him, then burst into laughter, “Mouse?” you managed to gasp out between chuckles, your breath forming puffs of mist.

He shrugged, “You're our city mouse, aren't you?”

You took a deep breath, your chest heaving in the heavy coat, trying to quell your laugh. “I’d take that ridiculous nickname you gave me over Mouse. Also, you know, my actual name works just as well?”

“I know.” His voice was quiet, the words hanging in the air between you, the mention of the city a reminder that your time at the ranch was temporary with the lawyers meeting at the end of the month.

A moment of silence settled between you as you both took in the truck, the ranch, and the snow-capped day stretching out before you.

Jack moved to the passenger door, opening it with a gesture for you to get inside that sent a small cascade of snowflakes to the ground. 

You shook your head, smiling despite the chill, “Are you getting in?” you asked.

Jack's eyebrows shot up, his surprise visible even with his hat pulled down low. “You don't want me to drive?”

You smirked, the keys jingling like ice in your hand. “Get in the truck, Jack.” The challenge was clear in your tone, even as your breath fogged the air.

As you both climbed in, the old leather seats creaking and stiff from the cold, you felt a surge of anticipation. Your brother, twelve years older than you, had insisted on you learning how to drive stick, and you couldn’t have been more thankful for it despite all your protests so many years ago. You slid the key into the ignition and with a satisfying roar, the truck came to life, the engine's heat slowly battling the frost on the windshield. Jack glanced over at you with a mix of surprise and respect as you shifted the truck into gear with ease.

With a final smirk in his direction, you pulled out of the driveway, the truck's tires crunching over the snow, ready to tackle the winter roads into town.

[natromanxoff]

Queen live at Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco, CA, USA - March 6, 1977 (Part-1)

(x)

This show was rescheduled from the night before, to make room for the San Diego show.

These images from Queen's second (and last) gig at the Winterland were taken from an eBay auction selling prints of the photos, so I can't see why it would be a problem to post them here. I'd be happy to link to a website where visitors could buy prints of these great pictures, but after much searching I wasn't able to find one.

Matt Granz (who also has a story from Oakland '82) had this to say about an incident (assumingly) on this day:

"I had two separate bass players who at different times played in my band "The Windowpanes" who told me a tale of standing in line at the Winterland in S.F. for a Queen show in the mid to late 70's. They both told me the same details of Queen arriving in their limo and getting out and walking by them with Brian clutching his guitar for dear life as he passed by. These bass players didn't and still do not know each other but must have been spitting distance from one another that night. Strange but true!"

By no means did Queen attract an exclusively homosexual audience, but San Francisco is well-known for its gay scene. In light of that, Thin Lizzy's Scott Gorham has a distinct memory of this show: "I'm rushing about the left-hand side of the stage, thinking I'll go and mess with the audience on the right. The spotlight is chasing me and I get over there and look up and there's like five hundred of the gayest guys I've ever seen, man! They were wearing sequinned hot pants, satin jump suits, huge floppy hats with giant nodding ostrich feathers and they're jumping off their seats, chucking feather boas in the air. When I arrived at their side they all started lunging over shouting, 'Yeah, shake it boy!' Geez man, I'm thinking, whoa there buddy. I'm not real ready for that kinda contact! And hey, I'm already making a beeline to the farthest left I can find!"

Freddie revealed in a 1981 interview that he lost his voice during this gig. When asked if he ever leaves a stage feeling he's done a really bad gig, his reply was:

"Yes, sometimes. We all scream and shout at each other and destroy the dressing room and release our energy. We set ourselves a very high standard and 99 per cent of the audience wouldn't agree with our assessment of a bad gig. In San Francisco I lost my voice and it was awful. My register was limited to virtually a monotone. I still gave it my all but I knew it was a bad performance. They had to reschedule the tour and take three or four shows off the tour [ed. two, actually - Memorial Auditorium in Sacramento and Selland Arena in Fresno on March 8 and 9 respectively; Thin Lizzy were promoted to top of the bill for both nights, and Sammy Hagar was the opening act]. I have nodules on my vocal chords and most tours are now scheduled around my voice."

Brian recalled the last stretch of the tour in an interview with Capitol Radio a couple months later: "Freddie's voice gets a real beating on a tour like that, especially if you're doing five nights in a row, which sometimes we were. So towards the end he was having a lot of trouble and he was going to great length to keep it in trim, to the length of not talking on tour between gigs and taking all kinds of medications. We lost a couple gigs due to that, but all in all we did very well, I think."

The last 6 photos were taken by Chris Bradford.

Part-2

[barrysjumpsuit]

remember you - reader x pope heyward

requested? inspired by ideas @letsgofullkook gave me thank you bb

word count: 1.6k

warnings? this is pure pope fluff

summary: pope heyward is in college. he meets a girl and falls heads over heels for her, but pope doesn’t realize what she did to him years ago

----

It was Pope’s first day of college. He had done it: he had left the Outer Banks. While Chapel Hill wasn’t that far away, it was far enough. Living in a dorm and living the college life was more liberating than he would have ever expected.

He still had his friends nearby, but he was the only pogue he knew to be attending the university. There were several others, like Topper, that he knew of but didn’t really care about. 

Life was good for Pope Heyward, but it got better when you walked into it, there before his Calculus class. 

It felt like he had known you for his entire life. 

Your smile felt like home. Pope couldn’t help but smile back when you sat down next to him. You smelled like lavender and wore a striped romper, the colors reminding Pope of an Outer Banks sunset. 

“Mind if I sit here?” you asked, and Pope eagerly nodded. You sat down next to him, your backpack at your feet under the table that spread from one side of the lecture hall to the other. 

“I’m Pope,” he blurted suddenly, and you looked up, surprised. He smiled at you, trying to hide his awkwardness, but you didn’t seem to notice.

“Hey, I’m y/n,” you said, smiling back at him. You tucked your hair behind your ear before speaking again. “What’s your major?”

“Mortuary studies,” he responded, perhaps a little too brightly and enthusiastically. “What’s yours?”

“Oh, that’s really cool. I’m engineering physics,” she responded. “A bit more boring.”

Pope laughed. “Well, if it bores you to death, I might end up working with you,” he responded. In true Pope fashion, he regretted his words, wondering where they came from and halfway expecting a whap on the side of his head with JJ’s bunched-up baseball cap.

“Are you flirting with me, Pope?” you asked, raising your eyebrows. 

“I- uh-” he stammered, but you kept smiling at him. 

He never got the chance to respond before their professor walked into the classroom. Pope did his best to divert his attention towards his professor and the syllabus he was droning about, but it was hard with you sitting beside him.

The class felt like it stretched on for hours. 

Once it ended, everyone stood, including you from your spot beside him. Pope scrambled to gather his papers and shove them in his backpack, jerked back to reality. Just as he filed away his papers, he looked to see a torn-off piece of paper from the margin of a syllabus sitting in front of him.

By the time his mind registered what it was, you were already gone, filing out the door with the rest of the students. Pope picked up the piece of paper from the table, his eyes scanning your name and phone number, written in perfect printed handwriting.

---

That night, Pope texted you.

It took a lot of urging from his roommate and a call to JJ for it to happen, but he did it. He sent Hey, it’s Pope Heyward from calc! :), opting for that rather than JJ’s suggestion of “hey sexy thing”. 

Hey Heyward! You replied a few minutes later, followed by a how’s it going?

Pope smiled in the light of his phone in the dark room, and his roommate whooped in excitement. He waited a few more minutes to text you back - he didn’t want to seem too excited.

Throughout the night and the next day, Pope couldn’t get you off his mind. He called JJ and Kiara, asking for advice. “Should I ask her out?” he confided the evening after he met you. 

“Bro, are you kidding me right now?” JJ’s voice came over the speakerphone. There was a grunt, followed by Kiara’s voice.

“Well, do you want to, Pope?” she asked, her voice calmer and more patient.

“What if it’s too soon?” he asked, losing all confidence. “It’s been not even two days, Kie.”

“She’s probably in the same boat as you!” she said from the other end of the line. “She’s probably new here and doesn’t have many friends. She probably sat next to you for a reason, Pope.”

Kiara’s words worked to calm Pope’s racing thoughts.

The next morning, in your 9:30 am calculus class, he asked the question.

“Do you want to have a study session?”

---

That week’s study session turned into a regular thing. 

Pretty soon, they turned into study dates.

Two weeks into the semester, you made it official. Your personalities complimented each other to a T. You pushed him when he was hesitant, and he grounded you when you were worked up. 

One night, the week of midterms, Pope got a call from you in the middle of the night.

“Hey, y/n, what’s up?” he asked in a hushed voice, sliding from his lofted bed and slipping into the hallway. 

“Hey Heyward,” you said, in your customary greeting. “So I’m studying for my history final, right? And-”

Pope sat down on the floor of the dorm hallway, listening to you think, not caring that he only wore a pair of boxers. Listening to you talk, letting him exist in that moment with you, was a nice feeling. You were brilliant; Pope admired it, but was slightly jealous, and kind of annoyed.

He was struggling in calculus. It wasn’t something Pope had expected to happen, but it was. The class was fast paced, and he constantly found himself falling behind in notes and on practice problems. But you were a calculus whiz; Pope didn’t know how you managed to perfectly copy down the notes and fly through the practice problems with such confidence.

Their study dates were almost exclusively calculus based. You would help Pope until the early hours of the morning. One time, he offered his bed to you, when it became too late for it to be worth going to your own bed. Pope slept on the floor, thinking about how lucky he was.

The next night’s study date, you confided in Pope. You had him over, your roommate out for the weekend. 

“This philosophy, humanities shit? Can’t handle it,” you said, exasperated. 

“How? It’s so interesting,” Pope replied, shaking his head. “‘The Epic of Gilgamesh’ is a classic, y/n!”

“Why?” you complained. “It’s bland, I can’t read more than two pages at a time.”

That night, Pope walked you through the whole book. He didn’t even realize it was three in the morning until you had gotten through your study guide for your exam.

“Just stay here tonight,” you insisted. Pope nodded, and made sure his phone was charging before picking out a spot on the cream-colored throw rug that covered your floor.

“Is there a blanket I could borrow?” he asked, not noticing that you had scooted all the way towards the wall in your bed, leaving room for him.

“Sleep with me tonight?” you asked from your bed, smiling gently at him. Pope nodded, switching off the lights, before laying down on the mattress next to you.

---

A week after that, Pope invited you home to the Outer Banks for a day.

You met his friends, and they took you surfing and then for an evening ride on the HMS Pogue to watch the sunset. 

Your head was laying in Pope’s lap. He found it odd, to be hanging out with his crew with a girlfriend. He listened while you and Kiara discussed the constellations and planets they could see in the sky last night. JJ laid next to them, his eyes trained on the sky, trying to follow their pointing fingers.

John B was sitting silently behind the steering wheel, his feet kicked up on the dash. At one point, he made eye contact with Pope, and flashed him a thumbs up and mouthed, I like her.

Pope couldn’t help but smile back at him before diverting his attention back to you. How the starlight reflecting off the water illuminated your face, and how you fit in so effortlessly with him and his friends.

“It’s like I’ve known you my whole life,” he murmured to you that night as they motored back towards the Chateau. 

“Well, close to it,” you said, laughing, but stopping once your eyes landed on Pope’s confused expression. “Wait… you don’t remember me?”

“What are you talking about?” Pope asked, his heart twisting, trying to fly out of his chest.

“Fifth grade. North Carolina state spelling bee.”

Your words brought back a flood of memories. Pope remembered the high school gymnasium in Raleigh. He sat in a sea of chairs, all empty except for a girl to his right. You and Pope had been even throughout the entirety of the spelling bee, and now, you were the last two standing.

“Pope Heyward,” the announcer had said. Pope stood, walked to the microphone, and found his parents in the audience. “Your word is ‘camouflage’.”

He took a shaky breath, audible in the microphone.

“C-A-M-O-F-L-”

The buzzer sounded, and Pope’s heart stopped.

“That is incorrect. Y/n y/l/n, you have a chance to steal. If you spell this word correctly, you will win the spelling bee. Your word is ‘camouflage’.”

You had stepped up to the microphone beside where Pope stood.

“Camouflage. C-A-M-O-U-F-L-A-G-E. Camouflage.”

“That is correct.”

Pope found it hard to believe that it was you. The same girl who beat him in the spelling bee in the fifth grade. Now, you smiled up at him, laughing, nestled in his lap on his favorite boat, in his favorite place, with his favorite friends. 

“I, uh… didn’t remember you,” he stammered.  “We were so young, how do you remember me?”

You laughed, and Pope was captivated by the way your eyes sparkled under the stars.

“Pope Heyward, how could I not remember you?”

----

taglist @letsgofullkook @sortagaysortahigh @jjsmentalpolaroids @queenk00k @ims0golden @jjmaybcnks @stargazingstarkey 

[be-dazzled]

#SIYC

Gray Fullbuster, Juvia Lockser  Genre: Multi-chapter, Romance, Comedy Rating: M for sensitive Language and Content

I love the look on your face when you first see me The way that you laugh at the silliest things There's a million more, these are just a few Of the many reasons I love you

- The Way You Smile, NewSong

The sun was still high but the fresh air in Isvan felt good on the skin. The breeze slapped on his exposed skin and kept him awake despite the long, quiet drive. Gray threw a glance at his girlfriend by his side, still soundly asleep. He felt bad for her missing the view. Gray contemplated waking her up but he decided against it, thinking she needed the rest. Besides, the drive back would give her a second chance at the view. For the meantime, he'd let her catch up with her sleep. He pulled her hand gently, careful not to wake her up, and pressed a soft peck on her knuckles.

The Lamborghini crossed the border that separated Gray's hometown from the great City of Magnolia. Isvan used to be a third-rate municipality, surrounded by medium cost housing and rough road. Not until Gray's success in the city, no one would have even heard of Isvan. The town was gradually developed in recent years. Today, Isvan was lined with fancy concrete houses and elaborate landscaping to go with them.

Gray could already recognize his neighborhood but his mother's house was still at the other end of that exclusive suburban village. When he reached the last white-fenced house, Mr. and Mrs. Connell's, Gray turned the curb into an asphalt road lined by coconut trees at either side. At the end of that road was the black, decorated gate that led to President Wakaba and Mika Mine's mansion.

The guards on post greeted their master Gray and opened the gate to let the Ghini into the compound. Gray pulled up right in front of the mansion's main entrance, snorting at the ridiculous fountain across the house. That wasn't there before.

President, his step-father, the fur wearing Wakaba Mine, did a good job renovating the old bungalow his family used to own. He couldn't even recognize anything from his old home, like he just replaced the entire thing. But the mansion reflected the President's style – extra and flamboyant.

He cut his engine off and turned to the sleeping figure beside him. He fought the desire to touch her face and kiss her lips. Ultimately, he learned that he had the slightest self-control where the ballerina was concern.

"Hey, girlfriend. Baby?" Gray's words were a soft rumble in Juvia's ears. He gave her a cautious shove, gentle enough not to startle the ballerina.

His girlfriend's lids fluttered open and she stirred in her seat, stretching her arms, heaving her chest up and finally waking from her dream. One set of amused eyes couldn't help but stare.

"Hey, babe, we're here."

"Was I asleep the whole time?"

She wasn't awake enough to make a wistful pout. Neither was she oriented enough to know her surroundings. But the moment she saw Gray, Juvia gave him that snoozy smile and a soft press on his lips.

"Now, that's what good mornings are made of."

She settled back to her seat, heaving out a contented sigh. Gray, wanting more after having a little taste, leaned in to indulge himself.

"If that's my reward, I really don't mind waking you up every morning. Even at night, and in between."

But before he could even reach that sweet pink haven, the evil woman from hell decided to show up.

"Oh, you're finally here!"

The steering wheel suffered Gray's disappointment. "Good morning, mother." He greeted without even trying to hide his irritation.

The ridiculously dressed President appeared behind Gray's mother, blowing a smoke from his pipe. His trademark fur-coat eating at his neck. But he was also leaning on a wooden cane. Gray never seen nor knew that he used one.

It was Juvia who climbed out the car first. She returned Mika's hug and that geezer's. He twitched at the latter. But no matter how much he hated it, Gray knew he couldn't go up that house without having to do it. So, Gray got out of his Lamborghini, already regretting.

President hugged him last, longer than necessary. He still smelled like burning tobacco and strong alcohol.

"Geez, the sun's still up and you're already drinking."

"It's called social drinking, you brat."

President Wakaba patted him at the back with both hands, stronger than usual too, before he released Gray from his hold. But he wasn't done yet. President Wakaba dropped his arm around Gray's shoulder and leaned on him like he found no use of his cane.

"You have good taste, brat." He said as he coughed after smoking his pipe.

Gray's eyes drifted to the direction where President was looking and easily comprehended what he meant. The two unknowingly shared a triumphant grin that guys like them often had talking about their impeccable taste in women.

"Yeah."

Both tilted their heads on the side as they appreciated the retreating backs of their respective women and then lower. Both were unashamed of what they were doing.

"Just like me."

That one Gray didn't agree with. Yes, his mother was a find but no, he wasn't like him. But when he turned to President to tell him off, he witnessed that smile and gleam in his eyes Gray knew all too well. His attention returned to the two women ascending the steps into the mansion. He was caught off guard when Juvia glanced back at him, smiling – that bright, contagious smile that lifted the corners of his mouth.

He knew his smile wasn't as sexy as he intended. It was one of those stupid-looking smiles that men like him knew about it. One of those stupid-looking smiles just like President Wakaba's.

"Let's go inside, brat. Don't keep your mother waiting."

Maybe, they weren't so different, after all.

President Wakaba was a few steps ahead of Gray. But he easily caught up with the man in the cane at the double-door entrance. The mansion felt a little different, a little strange. Gray would always feel that every time he came home, once every year. He needed to adjust to his own house.

"I guess mom is kinda bored again, huh?"

Gray commented, looking around the gigantic interior of his mother's house. Consulting his memory, it seemed that the furniture was moved around and the drapes, he noted, were freshly changed.

"You know your mother. She goes crazy whenever you come home."

Gray followed President deeper into the mansion. The man with the cane led him to an archway where he heard some noise – talking and laughter. He didn't see that absurd orange Mercedes at the entrance but Gray knew his team was here. And whatever his Vice Captain said about the color being lava, Gray would keep calling his car orange.

"You should come home more often."

Gray heard the unsolicited advice. Once a year was enough, right? And his mother visited him in the city anytime she wanted. Oftentimes, uninvited.

"Oi, Captain!"

He was right, Gray's team was already at the long table, enjoying the feast before them, headed by his feel-at-home Vice Captain, Natsu.

"What took your Lamborghini so long?" Natsu asked, gnawing on a piece of turkey leg. "My Lava made your Lamborghini eat dust!" he proudly exclaimed.

"You named that tin can Lava?" he barked back as usual.

"You guys made an interesting stop-over?" Loke asked, his double-meaning look jumping from his Captain and then at the ballerina by his side.

"Eat your food, jackass."

"Gray, manners."

His mother reminded.

"Just sit down. I'm sure you two are very much hungry."

Gray glared at the woman.

"From the travel, geez. Why are you so worked up?"

But Gray knew what she really meant. That wide grin wasn't fooling anyone, just adding fuel to fire.

"Don't mind them."

Gray told Juvia before he took the seat next to hers. He wanted to take her hand in his, place a soft peck on the back of her palm and maybe claim that kiss she'd been teasing him earlier. Just maybe not in front of the guys. He could handle their teasing but he wasn't sure about Juvia.

"And don't mind my cavemen of a team." He added, nodding at the four crudes gobbling the table clean.

Gajeel, Fiore Knights' Center, said something with his mouth full that no one in that table understood. No one except Fiore Knights.

"He said we need the protein." clarified Loke. "And you're the one to say." The self-proclaimed woman's man, pointed an accusing spoon at Gray. "You're just shy in front of your girlfriend."

"I once watched him finish an entire plate of chicken breast and he was still hungry." Juvia chimed in.

"Hey!" he teased.

"What? It's true."

"Don't go feeding my team with that information. They'd think they have something over me."

"It's common knowledge." Natsu joined in. "You haven't seen him guzzle a whole chicken. It's not cute."

"Turns you off, doesn't it?"

Gray felt an urge to punch the man sitting next to Juvia. He might be quite a looker, mysterious and brooding, but a little black eye suits Laxus too.

"Alright, alright. Don't scare my girlfriend away."

Gray knew he would quickly regret it but for the first time he let his men find his weakness. He was never going to hear the end of it.

---

After brunch and an hour of teasing from his teammates, Gray walked back to his car to grab his and Juvia's bags. They were arranged neatly at the backseat; his navy blue duffel and her pink animal-printed… he'll go ahead and just call it a weekend bag. He took the shoulder bag on the front seat and balanced the three on his shoulders. The gleam almost blinded him when the 10:00 a.m. sun hit his girlfriend's sequined bag.

When he entered through the living room, he found his teammates scattered around the sofa, groaning out of overeating.

"Ugh. I can't feel my stomach." Natsu sprawled on the Camelback, claiming it all to himself. "I don't think I can walk."

Gray grabbed a pillow and threw it on the whiner, hitting Natsu right in the face.

"Hey!" Natsu bolted up, regretting it almost immediately.

"No one told you to eat the whole table."

"He's right, Cap." Gajeel joined in. "I think I'm stuck in here."

Gray would have cracked a laugh at the picture of Gajeel, a size or two bigger than the armchair that completed the sofa set. The Team Captain threw the other cushion at Fiore Knights' Center which the latter easily caught in his hands. He had great reflexes and good at catching things.

"Let's not disappoint today." He stated, more sounding like a threat. Then, Gray picked up the bags he dropped on the floor and went his way.

"Fine, fine! Loke will not be disappointing any children today."

Gray was already at the first step of the grand staircase that led to the second floor. Still, Loke's voice reached him. He didn't have any doubts about that. They might look and act like a bunch of overgrown children, but the member of Fiore Knights were professionals. Plus, those cavemen were typically heroes to the young boys from the home. Gray was sure his men never disappoints, or their ego wouldn't allow them.

Hoopster ascended the stairs to the second floor, with his and Juvia's bags hanging on him, adding to his weight. But nothing he couldn't handle. He used the mid-morning sunlight to steer the carpeted corridor.

Gray paused to appreciate one of his favorite installments in the house. The floor-to-ceiling drapes were tied to the sides, putting the endless blue sky to view. The glass wall overlooked his mother's beautiful green garden; its continuous flow interrupted only by a white, double wooden door which led to the veranda. Gray reminded himself to show Juvia his mother's own grown garden. But the house tour would have to wait. There was somewhere else he wanted to take Juvia.

Gray dropped by at the guest room, wanting to know if Juvia settled in. He found her just coming out of the bathroom, sadly for Gray, all her clothes were still intact.

"Hey, beautiful."

Gray was such a smooth talker that his suave greeting earned a soft smile and a little blush from Juvia.

"Oh, hi. Hey, thanks for bringing those up." said Juvia as she took her weekend duffel and shoulder bag from Gray and placed them on the still made-up bed.

"That's all I get?"

The mattress dipped as Gray sat on the edge of the bed, next to Juvia who busied herself by taking out some cosmetic pouches and arranged them neatly on the bedside table.

"My arm felt really," Gray massaged his left shoulder where he carried Juvia's bags and twisted it behind, feigning muscle cramp. "sore carrying that leopard bag of yours. What do you have in there?"

He noticed the slight change in Juvia's blue eyes, probably remembering something – something naughty. The woman cleared her throat first, trying to fight the heat that was coloring her cheeks pink.

"Why?" she asked. "Isn't a 'thank you' enough?" Juvia was now taking out some other travel pouches inside the sequined bag.

Gray noticed she was trying not to meet his eyes, which was weird.

"Huh."

His girlfriend was acting really weird.

"What?"

Gray didn't answer. Instead, he pulled Juvia towards him, wrapping his arms around her waist and spreading his legs to let her even closer.

"Well, thank you is good but I need a…" Gray didn't finish his sentence on purpose and just puckered his luscious lips.

"You want a kiss?"

Gray thought he was being cute. He believed that too when Juvia finally gave him that beautiful smile.

"Yes, give me some of that sugar, please."

Juvia tucked strands of hair behind her ear before she pressed a quick peck on Gray's lips, resting her hands on his broad shoulders as she did.

"Like that?"

"Yeah, but more."

This time, it was Gray who softly brushed his lips against Juvia's, earning a soft 'mmm' from her. But he was the one who broke off the kiss too, albeit resentfully. It took so much of his will power to pull away from that kiss. But young, excited kids were waiting for him and his team. He was looking forward for it too.

"I know I promised to show you around the house." Gray looked up to his girlfriend who was still smiling at him. "But there's somewhere I'd like for you to see first."

"Alright."

Juvia awarded herself one last kiss before she pulled Gray off the bed and out of the guestroom. Downstairs, four Fiore Knights were waiting for them; and one of them – very impatiently.

"Geez, what took you guys so long? Let's go." Natsu didn't have any intention to let the couple answer. He just played with a rather smaller ball in his hands as he started to the door.

"Don't mind him, Juvia." It was Loke who apologized on behalf of his Vice Captain. "He isn't getting any of that lovin' so he's cranky." The rest of Fiore Knights followed behind Cranky. The couple, after sharing a short but guilty giggle, rounded up the close knit.

They took the Ghini for a spin. If Gray wasn't on the wheel with his eyes on the road, he would have enjoyed staring at his girlfriend by his side and it was a picture he'd forever etch in his mind. How her blue tresses rode the wind. How her eyes closed as she took in the breeze that hit her face. But most of all, the curve of her lips as she steal a glance at Gray and he'd catch her.

"You've never been to Isvan, right?" Gray kept his eyes on the road as he navigated the neighborhood. He'd steal a glance at Juvia who leaned back on the passenger seat, looking out into the rich neighborhood.

"Yeah. It's not as I expected."

Another glance showed Juvia now looking ahead the road as the Ghini purred into the main town and light traffic.

The Isvan Capitol was made of hard white-washed brick, topped with spiky spirals. It looked very polished and well-maintained. The surrounding buildings kept the motif going with needle roofs and that dirty white paint. It wasn't hard to spot the buildings which weren't part of the government compound. They looked like cream-colored boxes with solid paint and hard edges.

"It's very… current."

"It wasn't like this when I was a kid." Gray shared, both hands on the wheels as he maneuvered the packed four-lane.

"They named a gymnasium after you?" asked Juvia, amused eyes glued at the building bearing the Fullbuster name they just passed by.

"Not me, my dad." Gray clarified. "President donated it when I won my first national championship."

Juvia couldn't keep her eyes straight ahead as she kept seeing Gray's face all over town.

"Wow, my boyfriend is kinda important, isn't he?"

At one of the commercial buildings, a tarpaulin was hanging with words of encouragement for Gray and Juvia. They chose good photos of Gray and Juvia for the collage, same as the one they saw at the ballerina's hometown.

"That's right." Gray put off his sunglasses for a sexy wink. "Your boyfriend is a celebrity."

Juvia had to roll her eyes and they both laughed.

But Gray wasn't planning on taking Juvia on a town tour. That could wait. At the end of the brick houses, Gray followed the smooth curve. A minute-drive away from the main capital, the four-lane was sharply cut into two.

"This is what I am talking about."

Gray was more relaxed now, driving his billion dollar car into the countryside.

"This is what Isvan is made of."

The two-lane pavement was lined on either side by endless of green and nature, just the opposite of the white-brick capital. The wind colder on the skin as compared to that in the main town. The distinct smell of fresh air brought him back to his childhood, when life was simpler. When he was free to run around the rice fields.

"Hey! What is that?"

Oh, Gray sadly forgot about that.

"Slow down. Slow down!"

He was kind of proud of it. Or used to. Suddenly, a wave of embarrassment was weighing on him. Along with pesticides ads, why would anyone put up a billboard of his abs in the middle of the rice fields?

---

Writer’s Corner: Hi, you guys! I know I should be working hard since we’re on lockdown. I owe you guys some entertainment. I just got side-tracked. Anyways, I hope you had fun reading Fiore Knights interacting.

Also, it was more fun writing in Juvia’s perspective. But let’s shine some light on our best boy. I think you’ll get it in the next chap. 

Anyways, I just wanted to thank everyone of you who keeps inspiring me with your kind words. I’ve received a lot of love lately. I am very much thankful.

thank you to these people, some I have interacted with since the beginning, some I just met, but keeps supporting us until now. I apologize in advance if you don’t see your name here but please know you are all important to me. (your girl feeling a little emotional)

: @cobblepottantrum @sobatsu @alfys-world @jetblackrevival @welp-im-going-to-hell @hekaates @hiccstridhumour @juvialockseroff @icelyn20 @freeezingrain @gruviafan-forever @ship-ambrosia @justbeingtruemyself @gruvia-galaxy @shounenmangaotphell @shampooneko @celestialcontrail

Always, always thankful you guys!

[fics-not-tragedies]

Intervistare

one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight

It’s time for some Italian loving tonight, with a special dedication to @ivatsworld​ who’s obsessed with Santino just as I am 😈

SUMMARY: You’re a journalist who had the chance of having an exclusive interview with the heir of Camorra - the one and only Santino D’Antonio. Words:  3783; Warnings: smut ahead;

Readers tag list:

@spookier-than-u; @oreofenyloetyloamina; @derangedcupcake; @geostarr; @catsmieow; @wickedlangdon; @bodhi-black; @bugalouie; @onebatch--twobatch; @fandom-lover-4; @mikaneonox; @drunkonyellow; @spadesandaces2342; @harrisongslimited; @hhighkey; @lunilate; @i-cant-remember-my-old-login; @sgt-morgan; @coloursunlimited; @childrenofthegun; @weminiaturestrawberry; @silverlambcaptain; @scarletmoon83; @howtoruin-someones-perfect-day; @krazycags01; @charlottebonnie; @moonlit-raven-haven​; @girl-at-the-verge; @boopdedoop; @jardani-jovonovich-bitch; @ladyreapermc​; @wifeofdarklordsworld​; @mysticfluffyness​; @zombiepandajfish​; @kollover24​; @greenmanalishi​; @persephonehemingway​; @lovelycarose​;

You were tense to say the least. Not because of who he was, you’d come to terms with him being the biggest name you were interviewing yet, but because he looked quite uncomfortable, like he didn’t really want to be there. But there was no backing out now, from neither side really, and you’d been so excited so you tried to stay professional, not just get it over with but make it as good as you could, no matter how disinterested, reserved, distant he looked.

“Are you comfortable?” You inquired, looking at him doubtfully, “Is the coffee alright?”

He nodded slowly, holding the coffee cup in his hand, bringing it up to his lips to take a small sip. “Si, bella, thank you…” he said quietly, his thick accent making every word sound incredibly sexy.

Not just his mood was intimidating, the way he looked was too, the neatly tailored suit, his black coat threw nonchalantly on the armrest of the couch, the way his eyes kept piercing through you, the stare overly intimidating, and he just looked too well.

“Because I can get you something else…” you assured him, wanting him to be pleased with the drink you’d made him, you were desperate to make everything perfect.

It felt like you were the only two people in the whole building now, except for the security standing outside the door and lurking from every corner; he hadn’t been able to make any other time, it was past your hours, had gone dark a while ago, but you’d been willing to do this either way, if he was going to make the time to talk to you and grant you first and fully exclusive interview, you were going to make an effort and give it your all.

“It’s really good actually” he said, clearing his throat. “I like it, bella.”

You smiled, nodding and glancing down at your notes. “Okay, so… are you okay with me filming our conversation?” you asked, a faint smile hiding in the corner of his mouth, “I promise it’s only for my eyes, so I can refer back to it and go back and forth through it when I write the article.”

Santino nodded, “Yes, bella. I already agreed to that when you called.”

You nodded quickly, “Yeah, yeah, I just wanted to make sure again” you stammered.

He gave you a small smile, shifting slightly on the couch, “It’s fine, veramente. I bet you’re not the only one that would like to have videos of me” he chuckled.

You swallowed hard, your cheeks started to burn and you tried your best to calm down, and get your shit together.

“Okay…” you said, smiling, also clearing your throat. “Let’s… uh… let’s start then” you said, leaning over to press play on your laptop that you’d set up in front of the sofa you were both sat on, “Easy question to start with… how are you doing?” you asked, feeling like it was suitable to start on as he seemed to start flirting with you, “Like, not just your mood right now” you added with a laugh to seem a bit more deep, professional, “How are you generally… I can imagine that being a mobster isn’t an easy job… and I must say that I appreciate how you just simply agreed to talk with me, perhaps you want to show a warmer side of the mafia?”

He chuckled, the sound relieving you a little, hoping he was loosening up, “You’re right about that, bella. It’s not as easy as it might seem.”

You nodded, smiling, “So, right now it’s just… relaxing, recharging, taking a break from the usual… businesses?” you asked.

He sighed, stretching his arms out a little.

“Malavita is a form of an art really. With all of the power and money I have I could use it for anything I wanted.”

You smiled, nodding again, “Yeah” you said, “but isn’t it all like a burden for you somehow? Living in a constant state of danger? I’m sorry, I’m slipping into the heavy questions that early…” you laughed.

Santino shrugged, waving it off, “No, no, it’s fine, bella. I can understand that you have various questions… about various things… but I like to live in a constant state of danger” he leaned closer to you, “just like now… since you weren’t searched al momento dell'arrivo, how can I be sure you’re not having a gun or a knife… hidden somewhere.”

You nodded understandingly, smiling, “Right…”

“So… all the blood we, D’Antonios, have spilled is for our best. Our enemies have to die, so we can live.”

You laughed, “Yeah, I see that. And what’s made you stick with it, the fact that somehow it’s a family business?”

He nodded few times, before grabbing the coffee cup, “Yeah, I suppose…” he smiled, shifting and leaning back against the cushions of the sofa, turning his body slightly, so he was facing you more, pulling one of his legs up onto the other and taking another sip of his coffee. “It’s the only way of living I know.”

“But… haven’t you really tried, to escape this way of living?”

He shrugged, “I haven’t really thought about that… it’s more like I was already born into all that… born with murder coursing through my veins. I won’t describe myself as a bad person even though I kill people.”

“So, in your opinion, what makes a person bad?” you looked up at him from your notes and when your eyes met he couldn’t help but smile.

“I live by the codex, bella. A codex I have to work out myself… in my world there are three crucial rules: you don’t hurt women, you don’t hurt children and even a single word is worth more than anything. That’s how you make people trust you. You won’t hurt someone’s wife and kids even if it’s per vendetta. A loving woman is worth more than any amount of money, gold or anything equally pricey.”

You watched as he gently placed the empty cup onto the coffee table, “Would you like another drink? Perhaps some tea?” you offered.

He thought for a moment, “Veramente, bella, have you got… anything stronger?” Santino smirked.

You laughed, placing your notepad down and shuffling off the sofa, heading to the kitchen, “Really?” you grinned.

“I mean, not just for me, have a drink too…” he said and you could feel his eyes on you from behind you.

“I’m working…” you said, “And so are you, Mister Santino.”

“Please, just Santino!” he undid all of the buttons of his jacket, “Well, if no one sees that video, no one will know…”

You returned with two small glasses and a bottle of whisky, “Lucky me. Getting an exclusive interview and he’s even requesting a drink that’ll loosen his tongue” you joked.

“Well, you don’t seem as a person who would twist my words, then run them for printing. Also we both agreed that you’ll show me the final product of our discorso.”

You nodded quickly, pouring both of you a generous drink, handing him his before sitting back down with yours, picking up your notes again, “Absolutely” you said. “I don’t want you to think about every single word you say clearly because then it’s just going to be stiff and not very real, right? You’d be much more comfortable and more likely to just speak your mind and we can have a proper conversation.”

Santino smiled, nodding. “You know what you want, bella. Also you’re not trying to force me to say something that I’d regret later… you’re a true professional. You’re not one of those that’d like to force out a scandal.”

You nodded understandingly. “Yeah, but… that’s understandable” you smiled.

“But I feel … much more comfortable now, and it’s somehow like we’re just having a chat like… un primo incontro style…”

Your eyes widened and you blushed, trying to quickly think of something else to ask him, skimming your notes.

“To good journalism… and beautiful journalists” he said, quickly taking over your job of moving on and holding his glass up.

You laughed nervously, letting your glasses ring together, smiling at his words and taking a big sip of the whisky, the sharp aftertaste burning down your throat.

He smiled. “This is good…” he mumbled, “At least I know you have a good taste in liquor. So… now you can ask about the juicier things…” he joked.

“I don’t know about juicy…” you laughed again, “but I definitely have some few tricky ones, that I didn’t know if we’d get to, or if you were comfortable with…”

“Don’t be scared, either of asking or of me” his fingertips ghosted over the skin of your hand, a smile on his face.

You nodded, another blush creeping on your face.

“You said that ‘a loving woman is worth more than any amount of money’, is there someone in your life that you truly love?” his eyes seemed dull for a moment, it felt like he was deep in his thoughts, but he blinked them away.

“I’ve never really met someone I could adore… until now, I think” he probably sensed that his words made you uneasy, “Well, it’s definitely been one of the greatest conversations I’ve ever had in my life” Santino added quickly, laughing a little.

You smiled, flattered by the lovely compliment, “Wow, that’s… that makes me really proud” you said.

“You should be, bella” he said, sitting up straight and finishing his glass. “I’m actually… dying for a cigarette” he said, fumbling in the pocket of his jacket, “You smoke?”

You thought for a moment, then nodded slowly, “Yeah, I could have one too” you said with a smile, leaning over to finish and save your recording, before grabbing one of the ashtrays from the kitchen and placing it on the coffee table next to the sofa.

“It was a great conversation” Santino said as he handed you a cigarette and trapped one between his lips, lightning them both with a silver lighter.

“Thank you” you smiled. “I thought so too, I was a little nervous but that turned out to be unnecessary.”

He smirked, taking a drag from his cigarette, “Doesn’t it always?” a little chuckle left his lips.

“True” you laughed, nodding, also taking a drag and blowing it away from him. It felt like he moved closer, slowly reducing the distance between you two.

“So, any plans for now?” he asked, slowly moving even closer to you.

You shrugged. “Well, I didn’t know how long this was going to take so I didn’t make any plans…” you confessed, “I might order some food, start writing the article. Bit of lonely work. How about you?”

“I mean, quite the same” he laughed, “Mob life is a quite a lonely one, surprising.”

Your eyes widened as you looked up at him, biting your lip, “O-Or… perhaps … you could… just stay for a little longer” you suggested, “If you wanted, to just… have another drink?”

“I don’t want to keep you away from work, bella…”

You smiled, “Well, I asked, so…” you mumbled nervously, unable to take your eyes off his with how close he was and you wondered if he really was getting closer or if you were just imagining that.

“Magnifico…” he hummed, “Because I feel like the real conversation hasn’t really started yet.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes glued to his face, hypnotized by the way his lips moved as he spoke, his face was even prettier in person and you just couldn’t take your eyes of it, thought about what it would feel like if he just came a little closer, if he just closed the space between the two of you completely and then your heart fluttered when he did.

Your eyes stayed wide open for a moment, unable to believe that this was happening, how was this happening?

And then he already pulled back, eyes fluttering open, looking back at you, “Mi spiace, bella” he mumbled, the Italian accent driving you more and more insane with every word he spoke, “Was that okay… okay with you…? I… oh, bella…”

You nodded eagerly, reaching to cup the back of his neck, not giving him a moment of doubt and leaning up to press your lips to his, your eyes fluttering shut. Santino quickly stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and you felt how he hesitated for a moment, just like you had before kissing you back, one of his arms looping around you to pull you closer, his other hand cupping the side of your face. He tasted exactly the way he looked, sweet, like smoke, the whisky and something else that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, something mysterious…

You drew back, inhaling sharply and he giggled shakily, “I thought I just sbagliare…” he said quietly.

“No, no, I was just … caught off guard, I…” you took one last drag from your cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray just like he did with his.

“No, no, bella…” he said, his thumb grazing your lips, “don’t apologize” his other hand gently touching your neck, “I just… my first thought when I walked here was that you’re una bellissima donna… when we started talking… you’re voice was the most sublime music I’ve ever heard… I felt like we were on the same wavelength, I think that’s how you say it in English…” he smiled again.

“No, no, I agree!” you assured him quickly, pressing your hand to his chest, “I … just wasn’t sure if you… felt the same…”

 “I do, bella. There’s something magic about you…” he smirked.

You poured both of you another glass of whisky, a little more this time and you kicked off your shoes, getting more comfortable on the sofa, Santino doing the same, pulling up his legs and leaning his side against the back of the sofa to face you properly.

He smiled back at you, sighing, “I know you can see me as someone who’s ruthless… someone rotten to the core, but I rarely pull the trigger, I just make orders.”

“That’s understandable. You have a whole army of people to do that for you” there was a faint smile on your lips.

“Bella?”

“Y-Yes, Santino?”His voice sounded serious and you looked back at him curiously, swallowing.

“Can I kiss those lips again?”

Your heart skipped a beat and you found yourself nodding, placing your glass down on the table but holding his gaze.

He smiled softly, biting his bottom lip before shrugged off his jacket and leaned in again, his hand moving to the back of your head to draw you close, pressing his lips to yours again, less hesitant this time, more confident, like he wasn’t all that before and it felt more like he meant it, like he now knew what he truly wanted.

You sighed softly against his lips, returning the kiss, moving your hand to the side of his face, brushing your thumb along his jaw, a slight gasp falling from your lips when you felt his tongue slip past them to dance with yours, deepening the kiss.

You felt a fire coiling in your stomach, trying to compose yourself, to not get lost in the kiss but he tasted incredible, felt incredible, smelt incredible, he was intoxicating and you wanted more, tried to hold yourself back but you couldn’t, cupping his face with both hands to keep him close, kissing him back more eagerly, the alcohol loosening your inhibitions, making you more confident than you normally would’ve been in any sort of position like this. Not that you’d ever been in one, not that you’d ever had the chance to be with someone like he was.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer and you shifted to climb into his lap, sighing with relief when you sank into his arms and it was much more comfortable to kiss him this way, pressing yourself close to him as you moved your tongue with his and his lips became more demanding, eager, almost desperate for more.

You didn’t know what had gotten into you, didn’t recognize yourself, or the confidence you had, your hips grinding forward into his, your face flushed, heart racing as he tightened his arm around you, groaning softly into your mouth. One of his hands moved slowly up your side before cupping your breast over your shirt, groping, kneading before tugging up your shirt, both his hands wandering underneath and you moaned against his lips as he massaged your breasts through your bra.

As you moved to grind your hips forward again, aching for some friction, something to tend to the ache between your legs that was growing more and more prominent the more he touched you, the more he moaned, mumbled your name, sucked on your tongue, “S-Santino…” you were unable to stop the little moan from leaving your mouth.

“Are we making love tonight, bella?” he drawled when he felt your hips grinding down again, hands moving slowly down your hips. He was hard, straining in his perfectly tailored trousers.

You whimpered at his words, couldn’t help but nod, “Y-Yes…” you whispered.

“Mmm, perfetto…” he mumbled, making you giggle against his lips and he pushed up your skirt, hands roaming your thighs and spreading them further apart in his lap, allowing you to press up closer to him, whining when you felt the rough fabric of his trousers brush up against your wet folds, just grazing your clit slightly.

“O-Oh, fuck…” you whispered.

He was quick to unbuckle his belt and you lifted your hips to give him enough space to tug down his jeans far enough to reach into his underwear, giving his hard cock a few pumps and you watched him, mesmerized, licking your lips.

Then you just switched his hand with yours, giving him a few more pumps, stroking him slowly, enjoying the look on his face as he slowly relaxed, his eyes fluttering shut, lips parted slightly, little moans you couldn’t figure out falling from his mouth.

You couldn’t believe this was about to happen, doubted it was for a moment but here you were, on top of him, aching for him to be inside you and soon you couldn’t wait any longer, sitting up on your knees to position yourself above him, whimpering when his tip brushed up against your clit and you pulled your thong to the side, whining when your wet heat enveloped him, you were so wet that he slipped inside easily, before you could properly adjust, falling against him, your chest pressed up against him.

He groaned, throwing his head back as he sank inside you slowly and you squirmed when his cock was buried all the way inside you, throbbing, stretching out your walls, “Excuse my words, bella, but la tua figa è perfetta…” he muttered, his hips bucking up.

You whimpered, arms wrapped around his shoulders as you tried to lift your hips, only to sink back down on him again, moaning softly at the friction, his cock rubbing up so tightly against your walls.

“Take this off…” he groaned, pushing your shirt up properly and you tried to sit up straight so he could pull it over your head, grabbing at your tits again as you started rolling your hips, adjusting slowly to his size and starting to pick up the pace, bouncing in his lap, whining softly each time his cock reached deep inside you, brushing up into just the right spot and you reached between your legs to rub your clit.

He moved his hips with yours, bucking them up and groaning, massaging your breasts and dragging your bra down so they spilled over, making you whine when he rolled your nipples between his fingers, teasing, attaching his lips to your neck and sucking needily on your skin.

You picked up the pace, hips rising and falling faster, it was a quick grind, a fast build up and you could tell he was getting just as close just as quickly, your walls clenching around his throbbing cock.

“C-cazzo, bella! You’re fucking gorgeous…” he panted, his hands dropping to your hips to guide your movements, bouncing you faster in his lap as he started pushing up inside you, his snapping up again and again and again, making you cry out, whimpering his name each time he drove his cock deep inside you.

“Santi!” You moaned loudly, glad you were all alone now. “Oh, fuck Santino! I’m… I’m so close… I’m gonna…”

“Me too, bella, come on, let go, let your pretty little cunt come all over my cock…”

His filthy words were doing it all, encouraging you as your hips slapped together and you fell against him, your hard nipples brushing up against his chest as you gripped his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin through the fabric, whining, squirming as your walls gripped his cock, fluttering around him, the pleasure rocking through your body.

Triggered by your orgasm, he followed suit, burying himself deep inside you, holding you close and whimpering as he bit down on your neck.

“Santi!” you whined, moving your fingers to the back of his head, nails scraping against his skin gently, riding out both your orgasms, sighing as his cock brushed against your sensitive walls, a quiet whimper escaping your lips when he slipped out of you.

“Cazzo… oh, bella…” he groaned, tucking himself back into his underwear, fixing his clothes.

You shifted off his lap, your legs shaking as you stood up to fix your own clothes, picking up your shirt and pulling it back on, turning around when you felt his hand close around your wrist and he pulled you down on the sofa beside him again, your head falling down on his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you.

“Come here…” he mumbled softly, pressing an absent kiss to your hair, his hand brushing up and down your arm.

You were surprised by the tender nature of his touches, had thought he’d really just want to grind it out quickly now but he still seemed interested in spending more time with you and you were pleasantly surprised, cuddling closer to his side to cherish the moment.

“If you want me to go just say a word, bella…” he mumbled quietly against your hair.

“I don’t…” you sighed, speaking into his chest and wrapping your arm around him.

[nekoannie-chan]

I’m better

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader.

Word count: 1090 words.

Summary: For Y/N being part of the STRIKE team wasn't the best, they underestimated her, but Steve would be in charge of brightening Y/N's day.

Warnings: Underestimation, some bad words.

A/N: This is my entry to the @itsunclebucky ‘s 300 Writing Challenge with the dialogue prompt #10:

“When did you become so smart?”

“When I stopped listening to you”

Also is my entry to the @littlecrazyfangirl-98 ‘s Mi’s 650 Follower Writing Challenge with the dialogue prompt #7:

“Why are you so shocked? I told you I could do anything for you and I meant it”

My native language is Spanish so I wanna improve my writing skills in English if you notice any mistake please let me know and I will correct it.

I don’t give any kind of permission that my fics be posted in other platforms or languages (I translate myself my work) or the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this), I did them exclusively for my fics, please respect my work and don’t steal it. There are some people here who make dividers that anyone can use, mine is not this type, please look for the other’s people. The only exception is the ones I gifted ‘cuz now belong to someone else. If you find any of my works on a different platform and is not one of my accounts, please let me know. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own Marvel’s characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.

My other media where I publish: Wattpad, Ao3, ffnet.

If you like it please vote, comment, and give me feedback to improve my skills and reblog.

You hated when they underestimated you, sometimes she is the only girl on the team she was not the best in the world and much less if it was STRIKE, several times you had asked to change your team, but the request had been denied. Your only salvation or at least the one that made missions and training more passable and bearable was your boyfriend Steve.

On the last mission, you had ended up very angry after the incident, it hadn't even been your fault those things had not gone as they should, but the other team members had not followed the instructions making everything chaos, the worst, they had blamed you.

Rumlow had yelled at you while scolding you, the rest of the team insisted that it was your fault instead of taking responsibility until Steve managed to put everything in order and reassure them.

"Calm down, next time I'll ask that it's just a mission where you and I go," Steve promised.

You were in your office typing furiously to be able to write the mission report, you had to make it very clear what had happened because you imagined what the others were going to put, you didn't even notice when Steve came in with a cup with coffee.

"Are you angry?" He asked.

You looked up and with a smile thanked him for the coffee.

"No, I just thought people think I'm not capable of doing things, you saw it doubt what I can do," you answered by drinking the cup.

“You are very smart.”

"But that doesn't seem enough for those idiots, I already asked, I don't know how many times the change of team and they always deny it to me," you said annoyed.

“Who?”

“I have not the slightest idea, it seems that it is not Fury, but it is before the negative.”

"Need help?" Steve offered.

"I'm almost done with this, thanks."

“Do you want to go to dinner later?”

"Sure, it sounds good," you agreed.

You printed the document, you had to deliver it the next day, you left everything to be the first, so it would be more likely that they believed your version to that of your colleagues.

"Why are you with me?" You asked suddenly.

"Because I love you," he replied.

“Why?”

“You are cute, funny, and intelligent, I like how your nose wrinkles when you don't like something, you have the patience for me when I don't understand or don't know something from this time…

You kissed him, he had told you enough reasons.

"I would be able to do anything for you to make you happy," you said.

As Steve had promised you on the next mission, only the two of you were going.

The mission went well until you found that the door had a code, no one had informed them of that and obviously, you did not carry the necessary equipment, although perhaps it would not be useful since it looked old.

"Ughh maybe we should just blow it up or shoot it or something," you suggested exasperated after reviewing it for a long time.

You had not the slightest idea how to open it, at the Academy you had never been taught something like that, at least not with something so old.

"I don't think it's a good idea," Steve replied.

"Then what do we do?"

“Wait.”

Steve recognized it, it was like the one in the chest where his mother used to keep the money, and it took him a couple of minutes to open it.

"Ready, we can continue," he reported.

“When did you become so smart?”

“When I stopped listening to you.”

"It's not funny," you replied, pretending to be offended.

"Come on honey, I was kidding," he said and gave you a few small kisses as an apology.

You took the contents of the box to leave, Steve went ahead to verify that there was no danger and they could leave.

He had not noticed that an enemy appeared behind you, you immediately noticed him and attacked him quickly to prevent him from going backward, upon hearing the shot, Steve turned around alarmed, he was speechless when he saw how quickly you had acted.

“Why are you so shocked? I told you I could do anything for you, and I meant it.”

"Yes, you did," Steve said, remembering it.

"Well I think we should go," you said.

For that mission, they had received congratulations from the superiors.

You were walking slowly to the gym, you didn't feel like going to train with the team, it was exhausting, but not only physically but also mentally, you kept thinking that they were idiots, you were just trying to take a little more time to win More patience, of course, you would appreciate that there was an emergency mission or that the Earth exploded or something happened that prevented the training from taking place.

"Y/N!" Steve called reaching you.

"Steve."

You stopped when you heard him, he stopped in front of you with a smile.

"I have a surprise for you," he said.

He stretched out his arm offending you a folder, you took it and opened it with curiosity, and you smiled when you saw that it was the approval of your change of equipment.

"I wanted you to find out as soon as possible," said Steve.

You rushed him completely happy.

"Is this real?" You asked.

You wanted to check that it was not a dream or hallucination or that you had not read correctly.

"That's right, your request to change teams has been approved," he confirmed.

"Will I no longer have STRIKE training?"

“No, it will not be necessary, the training will only be you and me from now on; By the way you have to think of a name for our new team “, Steve informed you.

"STRIKE and all its members can get screwed then!" You exclaimed with joy.

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to say those things doll, they could hear you," Steve "scolded" you.

"I don't care if they find out, I'll finally get rid of them," you replied.

It was true you did not care if they found out or not, you just wanted everyone to know how happy you were now, miraculously your day had improved and by far.

Steve hugged you.

"I love you, you are the best," he said trying to reassure you.

"I love you too, Stevie."

You kissed him, you didn't care if someone else saw them.

[luulapants]

Hale Royal Family AU - Part 5

Based on @shey-elizabeth​‘s post:

”Me reading the Prince Harry-Meghan Markel royal family drama:

Wait… I think I read this fic already. (Starts scrolling through my AO3 history)

#random #royalty au #someone write me a steter fic #reading the news before coffee”

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

September 2019

“Lady Danu’s is the largest adoption service for non-human children in the state. Which, as you can see, isn’t saying much,” Dot, the facility director, explained. She made a sweeping motion with her hand to indicate the relatively petite size of the facility. It was a large estate house, but certainly not large enough to hold more than a couple dozen children at a time. “Placements, of course, can be tricky for our kind, but we place exclusively with non-human or mixed families, and we have nearly unheard of retention rates for family placement.”

As they made their way through the front hall, Peter peeked into an empty room, which looked to be some sort of study room. There was a chalkboard on one wall, bookshelves on the opposite. The tables and chairs in the middle had bits of paint and marker stains.

Peter thought about all of the obscenely expensive furniture in their home and found himself horrified almost to the point of delight at the thought of little finger paint hand prints marring the wood.

Stiles squeezed his hand as he tugged him along to keep up. “What age ranges do you have?” he asked.

“We have a couple of teenagers at the moment, brother and sister, but that’s not typical,” Dot answered. She started up the wide wooden staircase. Teenage wolves would typically stay with their packs if any remained. Either they weren’t wolves or they had lost absolutely everyone. “They’ve taken over part of the basement so they can have their own space.”

Peter found himself wanting to ask about the teenagers, see if they needed some help. Maybe he could make arrangements for them. But that wasn’t what they were here for. This was the compromise: instead of surrogacy, they could adopt, so long as it was a werewolf baby.

“Eight through twelve are on that end of the hall,” Dot said, pointing toward a large set of French doors. “Four through eight next to them. Babies and toddlers have the largest space, over here.”

Lady Danu’s was partly funded by the druid’s council, Talia had explained as she gave him the pamphlet for the facility, but the majority of their funding came directly from the royal family. Their doors would be open to Peter and Stiles. There would be no wait list, no agony of false hope. One visit, and they could walk out with a bundle of joy that would satisfy both the family and the press.

Well, she hadn’t said it like that, but she may as well have.

----

She had brought up the subject over brunch, just the two of them. Peter had known something unpleasant would come up – the last time they’d had brunch, just the two of them, had been after Stiles’s infamous leather rant.

“I heard you and Stiles have decided not to pursue surrogacy,” Talia had said over the soft scrape of her knife against porcelain. She lifted a bit of egg to her lips, staring him down while she chewed.

Peter nodded, resigned to let this argument happen. He reached for his wolfsbane mimosa, knowing he would need at least a bit of a buzz to get through. “We discussed it and decided it wasn’t for us,” he explained. “It doesn’t seem right, going to all of that trouble and expense to bring a child into the world when there are children already here, needing homes.”

“Adoption, then?”

“That’s the idea.”

She sighed, and Peter felt a vein in his temple throb in irritation.

“I don’t see why it should matter to you or anyone else,” he snapped.

Talia set her fork down and fixed him with a tired expression. “Of course it matters, Peter. Our bloodline -”

Peter barked a laugh. “Our bloodline? Dear sister, I don’t know if you’ve gotten a good look at our family tree lately, but it’s practically overgrown. I’ve lost track of how many nieces and nephews I have these days.”

“You’ll adopt a werewolf, then?” she pressed.

Then it was Peter’s turn to set down his fork, letting it slam noisily against the table. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but my husband is a human. We may very well adopt a human.”

“Peter,” she practically growled.

He raised his voice, couldn’t help it. “How are you talking to me like I’m being unreasonable when you’ve practically ordered me, as my alpha, to acquire a baby by any means necessary?”

Talia, stubbornly, infuriatingly, kept her voice calm, though condescending. “I know you’ve made it your personal brand to challenge tradition at every turn. And might I remind you, I have been extremely accommodating to it thus far -”

Peter flashed his eyes at her. “Oh, yes,” he shouted, “you didn’t excommunicate me from the family for marrying a man! Have they put you up for sainthood yet, Your Majesty?”

She stood abruptly, her chair clattering to the ground as her eyes flared bright red.

As he felt himself involuntarily cower in response, Peter felt his rage boil down into a quiet resentment. Talia was his alpha and his monarch, but she was supposed to be his sister first. That she would pull this sort of tactic on him stung in a way he hadn’t been prepared for. “Really?” he asked, voice softer than he wanted it to be. “Over how Stiles and I start a family? That’s what you pull rank for?”

Talia softened, her eyes fading back to human. A servant hurried in and righted her chair for her. She sat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It should just be about you and Stiles – I know that – but it’s not. This world we live in, our position is more tentative than it seems. Peter, our traditions are more than media grabs and money. Humans fear us, instinctively. We are predators. We are stronger than them. We’re a threat.” Her words came gently. Practiced, but honest. “By all logical strategy, they should hunt us, eradicate us, as they did for centuries.”

“Like they still do in many parts of the world,” Peter conceded.

“Exactly.” She offered a weak smile. “And do you know why they don’t, here in this country?” He did, but ducked his head, signaling for her to continue. “Because our structure of monarchy gives us an appearance of structure, of stability. It makes our kind seem integrated and like less of a threat. We let them see into every corner of our lives, poke and prod and evaluate. We show them that we have nothing to hide, and they transfer that sense of trust to every member of our species.”

Peter had received lectures of similar flavor from their parents, but they hadn’t been so brutally honest. He lifted his eyes to meet Talia’s. “And you think that the species of mine and Stiles’s child will make so much difference to that balance?”

“No,” Talia admitted. She reached for her coffee. “But a member of the royal family that challenges our traditions at every turn? That might.”

----

So he and Stiles found themselves in the babies and toddlers wing of Lady Danu’s Home for Children. A caretaker sat in a rocking chair in the corner, bottle feeding an infant. Another stood by the cribs, a baby in each arm, rocking and humming. It felt strange to Peter – no, downright bizarre – to come here and pick out a baby like one picked out a pair of shoes at a clothing store.

“I’ll leave you two to discuss for a little while,” Dot said. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I’ll be just down the hall – anyone here can come fetch me for you.”

Once she was out of the room, Stiles stepped in front of Peter with a slightly panicked expression. “I have no idea how to do this,” he whispered.

“Do I look like I know?”

“Are we just supposed to… pick one? It feels weird.”

One of the caretakers glanced up at them, clearly listening in, and Peter huffed a sigh, glancing around the room. “Let’s just… try to settle in for a few minutes?”

This wing of the home was rather large. They had come into the section for the youngest babies. Another set of doors lead through to a play room for the toddlers where a handful of drooling, chubby little were-tots sat around a kitchen play set, gnawing at plastic fake fruit and miming cooking with a sauce pan.

Peter wandered over to them, giving a wave. One little boy stared up at him with wide eyes, most of his own fist crammed into his mouth. It was refreshing, at least, to not be greeted with a bow.

He glanced around to see where Stiles had ended up and found him sitting on a play mat where an older girl with poorly brushed hair sat with a baby girl, maybe a year old, propped up on a pillow. The older one wore overalls and had a toy dinosaur in her hand. “Who?” she asked Stiles, a bit rudely.

“I’m Stiles. Is it okay if I sit with you?” Stiles had already sat down, but seemed to be second-guessing it under the girl’s intense scrutiny. When she didn’t answer, Stiles asked, “What’s your name?”

She turned back to the baby, ignoring Stiles. “So T-Rex can eat this guy,” she explained to the baby, holding up a smaller dinosaur toy, “but dog is too big.” Peter’s eyes settled on a big stuffed dog next to her and smiled.

“That’s Malia.”

Peter jumped a little, not having noticed the caretaker coming up behind him. He turned and smiled at her. “Isn’t she a little old to be in here?”

“She’s five,” the woman agreed, “but she’s been having some trouble fitting in with the kids in her age group. She’s great with the babies, though.”

“Rawr! I am hungry!” Malia said, rocking the T-Rex back and forth.

Stiles stretched and grabbed another toy off the floor and offered it up. “Can he eat this?”

Malia stared at him suspiciously for a moment, then broke into a bright smile. “Yeah!” She snatched the toy out of his hand and fed it to the tyrannosaurus with delighted violence.

Laughing softly, Peter watched as she slowly accepted Stiles into her game. “How long has she been here?”

“A couple of months.” The caretaker hesitated. “She’s not a wolf,” she told him. “She’s a were-coyote. There were some… safety concerns. With the mother. She was removed from her custody.”

The mother-child dynamic for coyotes was a troubled one, Peter knew. Their powers were passed down during pregnancy. He frowned. “Thank you for explaining,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Tracy. And I know who you are, of course.”

Peter ducked his head and smiled. “Of course.”

He made his way over to Stiles, watching the way his face lit up as Malia’s game devolved into a toy massacre. The baby seemed just as fascinated with her, taking toys as Malia handed them to her, then sucking on them.

Talia would think this was just more of his defiance, more of his stubborn desire to fight tradition. But maybe this could be a compromise on a compromise. Not a baby, no, but young enough. Not a werewolf, no, but not human.

Peter crouched besides Stiles and nudged his shoulder. “What do you think?”

Stiles glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?” He glanced at Malia, then back to Peter. “She’s not...” Not a baby, he meant. He didn’t even know about her being a were-coyote.

“I don’t care,” Peter assured him.

Stiles reached over and brushed his fingers against the nape of Peter’s neck, scenting him. He bit his lip, then turned back to the Malia. “This is my husband Peter,” he told her. “Can he play, too?”

Peter waved at her. “Hi, Malia.”

Malia sniffed at him very obviously, her little nose scrunching as she did so. “You have to bring a food for T-Rex,” she told him, her brow furrowing and eyes flashing blue. He knew already that she would be an absolute terror. Forget finger paint on the nice furniture – she would rip it to shreds.

“Fair enough,” he agreed.

----

In one of her less thoughtful attempts at reassuring Peter and Stiles about fatherhood, Laura had told them, “You know, a lot of what people talk about when they talk about being ‘ready’ for parenthood, it just doesn’t apply in our world.”

They had been playing bocce in Laura’s garden, Marco lining up his bowl.

Stiles huffed a laugh. “Why, because we don’t have a choice?”

“No, you absolutely have a choice,” Laura said, and Peter had wondered if she really believed it. “But a lot of the things new parents struggle with – the late nights, the feedings, the expense – we don’t have to worry about that. You would have a wet nurse and a couple of nannies. You already have staff for meals and laundry.”

Peter knew she didn’t mean it to sound as callous as she did. As much as she had inherited her mother’s leadership skills, her poise and ferocity, she had inherited that emotionally tone-deaf streak as well.

Stiles had watched Marco bowl his shot and shoved his hands in his pockets. “That doesn’t sound much like parenting to me,” he had admitted.

A few short months later found Stiles in their daughter’s room, calling for their morning nanny, yelling, “Oh my god, where is Hayden?” while Malia wailed like an air raid siren, shrill and with a truly spectacular lung span.

Peter rushed down the hall to find Stiles kneeling in front of their daughter, frantically trying to extricate a hair brush from the back of her head while she writhed and screamed.

“Malia, please hold still!” he pleaded. “Pulling is just going to  make it hurt more!”

“HURTS!” she shrieked.

“I know, I know, I just -”

“We gave Hayden the day off, remember?” Peter knelt down on the other side of Malia. He reached for her and, though she flinched back at first, managed to press his fingers to her cheek. One tiny, barely-there tendril of black crept up his fingertip. “Now, Malia, that barely hurts at all,” Peter chided. “What are you throwing a fuss about?”

She sobbed loudly and thrashed away from them both. Stiles finally gave up and let go, letting her run away with the hairbrush dangling from the back of her head. Malia threw herself onto her bed to sob into her arms like a distressed Jane Austin heroin.

Stiles held his hands out helplessly, looking to Peter for confirmation that, yes, this was the most absurd show of melodrama this house had ever seen. It was saying something, seeing as Stiles lived there.

They both got up and approached the bed. Peter sat on the edge, not reaching for her just yet, since she was still heaving angry sobs against her comforter. “Malia, sweetheart,” he cooed. “You’ve gotten yourself all worked up. Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

It took a moment, but she sucked in one long, shuddering breath. Peter smiled and reached over to rub a hand over her back. Instead of settling, though, she fucking growled at him.

“Malia,” Stiles started to chide, because they had talked about the growling.

But then her whole body started to tremble uncontrollably. In a blink, Peter found a coyote pup curled up on the bed where his daughter had been, her dress pooled around her. The hairbrush, liberated for lack of hair, fell off to the side.

Peter looked up at Stiles and smirked, shaking his head. She did have quite the flair for the dramatic. “That bad, hm?” he asked, teasing a little.

She growled again.

They were supposed to take her to Talia’s today. His sister had come over to meet Malia a few days after she moved in, but the poor girl had still been reeling from the change, too shy, and they let her retreat up to her room to play before more than a few minutes had passed.

Today, she would finally be meeting the rest of the family.

Peter slid down the zip on the back of the dress, and Malia immediately began to wriggle free of it. Her little dress shoes had dropped to the floor at the edge of the bed. He had to help tug her hind legs free of the tights, though. “Alright, come on, then,” he said, scooping her up off the bed. She growled again and he pressed a finger to the top of her nose. “None of that, now.”

Her eyes shone blue at him, but she settled. Peter passed her off to Stiles, who carefully folded her tail down to hold her against his chest with her front paws curled over his shoulder. “You know, you’re much more snuggly like this,” Stiles commented. “We’ll just have to work on human cuddles, okay?”

“What are the chances we convince her to shift back before we have to leave?” Peter asked doubtfully.

Stiles shook his head. “Hey, if anyone can appreciate a full shift, it’s Talia, right?”

----

“Princess Malia Bit The Queen!”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. The tablet was balanced on his knees. Beneath the headline, a photo of Malia waving at the camera. Beside it, a stock photo of a coyote. A real coyote. An animal.

“Who leaked this?” he growled.

Stiles shifted closer to him on the bed, nudging their shoulders together. “Come on, Peter. She’s five – who’s actually going to care? It’s a little funny, isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” Peter gritted out. His mind flashed back to the talk Talia had given him before they went to the children’s home, about the games of public perception they were playing. He sighed and looked over at Stiles. “Malia’s species is nearly extinct outside of Mexico, and they’re still hunted like animals in parts of Mexico. Most humans in the US and Canada have never met a were-coyote.” He tapped the screen. “This is the impression they’ll form of them. That they’re wild, violent, dangerous. Uncivilized. They’ll take this one little girl, and they’ll extrapolate it to every were-coyote. Or they’ll say that clearly she was abused – that were-coyotes must be unfit parents.”

Horror overtook Stiles’s expression, his eyes moving back to the article as if seeing it for the first time. “Fuck. They can’t – she’s a little kid. They can’t put that on her.”

“They will.” Peter rubbed at the back of his neck. He felt wrung-out. It was only ten o’clock. He and Stiles had been getting to bed earlier, so they would have time to start their day before Malia woke up. “God, what were we thinking?” he muttered.

Stiles slipped his hand up the back of Peter’s neck, fingers sliding through the curls on the back of his head to scratch his scalp. “We had no way of knowing it would get leaked,” he reassured. “It happened in Talia’s house, for god’s sake.”

“Not that,” Peter sighed, leaning into the touch. “I mean, what were we thinking, bringing a child into this life at all?”

The scratches stopped. “Peter,” Stiles breathed. “You’re not saying...”

Oh, god. Peter pulled away so he could look Stiles in the eye, wanting to be very clear on this. “No,” he said firmly. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t even think about...” He couldn’t say it, couldn’t say, returning her, like Malia was an ill-fitting jacket and not their family.

“Okay, good,” Stiles said, still looking panicked by the idea.

“But I still wonder,” Peter explained, “what gave us the right, you know? To put her in all of this mess? She never asked for any of this. She never asked to grow up endlessly scrutinized by these vultures.”

Stiles’s expression softened. He reached out and cupped Peter’s cheek. “Neither did you.”

“It’s different,” Peter insisted.

“Why, because you’re Hale blood?” Stiles challenged, though his tone stayed gentle. “Because you’re over it? You’re clearly not.”

His husband’s ability to call him on his bullshit was one of the reasons Peter had fallen in love with him. It was also deeply, deeply annoying. “I just...” He closed his eyes, trying to get his anxieties into some form coherent enough to be voiced. He settled on: “I don’t want her to grow up resenting me for bringing her into this world.”

“Don’t you mean ‘resenting us’?” Stiles cocked his head to the side.

“I brought you into it, too.”

Stiles glared at him. “Peter Hale,” he scolded.

“I know, I know, you chose this,” Peter agreed.

“And, again, I’m the only one in this household that did,” Stiles reminded him. With a sigh, Stiles caught him around the shoulders and reeled him in until Peter was snuggled against his side, head on Stiles’s shoulder. He was quiet a moment before he asked, “Did you resent your parents?”

Peter didn’t talk much about them, and Stiles respected that, understood that Peter had never felt close with them, that they hadn’t been warm people. The press brought them up sometimes, usually around the anniversary of the accident. A helicopter crash in the Rockies. Conspiracy theories had flown about for months, most insisting that militant anti-were hunters had shot the helicopter down. When they finally found the black box, it revealed nothing but a simple engine malfunction.

Peter had been just shy of his thirteenth birthday. He remembered how numb he felt, walking down the street in the funeral procession with a stiff expression as the public wailed in mourning around him. He remembered thinking that these people, these strangers, had been allowed more emotional closeness with his parents than he had. They had owned his parents in a way Peter had never been allowed.

“I did,” Peter admitted quietly. “Sometimes I think I still do.”

Stiles pressed two fingers under his chin to tip his head up, and kissed his lips, soft. “We’ll protect her, okay?” he said. “Whatever it takes. We’ll make sure it isn’t so bad for her.”

Letting out a breath, Peter leaned up and kissed him again, then again until he was pressed flat on his back on the bed. Hovering over him, Peter took in the soft flush on Stiles’s cheeks, the sweet adoration in his eyes, the gentle curve of his mouth. “I love you,” he murmured. “More than I can ever say.”

[gainerstories]

Muffin Tops: Epilogue (Community Story)

Written by: Gainer Stories

Hayden unlocked the front door of Muffin Tops and waddled inside, followed by his husband. They walked to the back of the bakery and up a spiral staircase to their office. The duo had been proud business owners for a mere six months, and proud husbands for nearly a year. Out of breath from the stairs, they each plopped down in their reinforced office chairs. Every morning they arrived one hour before opening to discuss cash flow, changes to that day’s menu, and issues concerning staff. Business was booming since they had opened, with both men astonished at their income. They chose a location far from the beach and innovated a regularly updated gourmet menu to differentiate themselves from Thick Treats Bakery, and it was definitely paying off.

“Here’s today’s menu,” Hayden said passing Diego an iPad for review.

“Sounds delicious, save me some of the cherry devil cupcakes will you? And perhaps we should up the price point on those-- they went fast last time,” Diego replied while absentmindedly rubbing his protruding beach ball of a gut.

“Perfect, and let’s discuss Adrian,” Hayden said. “He’s such a sweet kid, but he’s horribly awkward with the customers. I gotta say that I haven’t minded watching him put on that little paunch since he started, but…” Hayden shrugged.

“But we should consider letting him go. It’s a shame because he’s really thickened out. That ass is seriously juicy now! I was watching him bend over to take trays out of the oven and his pants can’t even contain that furry ass crack from showing.”

“He does love sampling my concoctions, I can’t complain there. I bet he’s put on a solid twenty pounds of chub in two months…”

The couple decided to keep a closer eye on Adrian, his work performance and his gains, before pulling the plug. After finishing up their meeting, Hayden rolled his chair over to his husband to plant a smooch on his chubby cheek, their bellies grazing each other. They were nervous to go into business together, but it had only made their relationship stronger. Besides, Diego didn’t spend every day at the bakery, leaving day-to-day operations up to Hayden. Now that he had a bank account to match his waistline, he was going to the gym again and sprucing up an old Jaguar in his free time.

“I’m gonna get in my baking gear and head down to the kitchen,” Hayden said.

The baker hoisted himself from his chair causing his pale belly to swing out of his too-tight T-shirt. Hayden hadn’t put on too much weight since their wedding, maintaining the fleshy form of a baker that knew his craft. Small moobs rested atop his swollen, hanging, midsection that barely fit in any clothes. He’d taken to wearing obscenely small shirts under his baker’s jacket because Diego liked the surprise when he ripped it off. On workdays Hayden exclusively wore sweatpants, and the rest of the time he usually had to wear suspenders with his jeans. A jolly double chin spilled out around the collar of his baker’s jacket, occasionally causing a slight rash on particularly sweaty days. The last ten or so pounds seemed to collect mostly on his thighs, which were chafing like crazy. He was definitely feeling the discomfort of being obese, but ameliorated the pains by training his employees to take over his most labor-intensive duties.

Diego remained in the office for a couple hours doing paperwork. Muffin Tops was a-flurry with customers as usual. Feeling accomplished for the day, Diego grabbed his gym bag and locked the bathroom door to change. He stripped off his skin tight jeans and slid booty shorts over his bulbous butt. He was happy that his ass grew just as fast, if not faster, than the rest of him. It had developed an overhang of its own and required special tailoring for all his jeans. The only downside was that it was constantly sweating. All that meat packed into the seat of some tight denim caused a serious case of swamp ass. He didn’t mind, however, and relished the way it bounced in tandem with his belly when he walked.

Next, he pulled on his muscle tee. This was his sluttiest and favorite type of clothing. About thirty pounds ago he had cut the sleeves off a bunch of black tees. Since then they became faded and tattered from overuse and as of late a sliver of belly peaked out everytime he lifted his arms during a workout. His perfectly rounded and wobbling belly, crisscrossed with bright red stretch marks, garnered lots of stares at the gym. His pecs also were somewhat exposed in his shirt. The muscle undergirding his chest and arms was coated in a layer of pudge that connected both parts of his body with more stretch marks. When Diego was swole, it looked like he was about to burst.

Dressed in his skimpy ensemble, he lumbered down the stairs and towards the front of the store. As he approached the front counter a familiar, yet hard to place voice uttered his name.

“Diego?”

Confused, Diego stared at a large man in front of him, trying to place where he’d seen his face before.

“Diego, it’s me… Bradley. Your former boss.”

“Oh my god, Bradley. You…” How the tables had turned. It seemed like just yesterday that Bradley didn’t recognize Diego’s fattened physique. Now Bradley was giving him a run for his money.

“Yeah, you’re not the only one who got thick,” Bradley, beat red, awkwardly muttered and shrugged.  

“I… well, I mean, yeah married life and running a bakery has done a number on my waistline,” Diego proudly gripped his gut with both hands and gave it a firm jiggle. He no longer had qualms about showing off, even to someone like Bradley. He was proud of his body.

“No shit, you run this place? That’s amazing dude, I live for your coffee cake. Come here a few times a week before work. I uh, got promoted to an office position at city hall... Hence this gut hangin’ off of me.”

Diego looked down at the former lifeguard’s torso. Bradley’s beach body had completely gone to pot in a little over two years. Diego couldn’t believe his eyes. Bradley still retained some muscle, but for the most part his chiseled physique and sunkissed skin had become swollen, fleshy, and pale. He also wasn’t used to seeing Bradley in a button-up, especially one so snug. His love handles warped the the geometry of the plaid print, accentuating the distendedness of his belly. Diego also noted how his chest had begun to sag and even his cheeks were puffier. For a few seconds they were both just staring at each other, taking in their swollen fatty forms bursting at the seams of skimpy clothing.

“Hey Adrian, give my friend here the employee discount from now on,” Diego shouted and turned to face Bradley. “From one former lifeguard to another: you look better with some chunk, Bradley,” he said and patted the man’s gut. “I gotta head out but I’ll see you around. Enjoy yourself,” he said with a wink.

As Diego strutted out the door he could feel Bradley’s eyes on his bouncing behind. The encounter was extremely gratifying to Diego who worked out even harder at the gym because of it. By the end of his workout his limbs felt like jello and he knew he was gonna be sore the next day. Even still, he was electrified with verve. He felt ecstatic, hungry, and horny.

Diego spent the rest of the afternoon at his favorite burger joint and then the beach. He scarfed down a double cheeseburger, fries, and a slice of pepperoni pizza. Before leaving he filled up his large cup of coke one more time and waddled out to his car. On his way to the beach, he stopped at a corner store for a bag of pork rinds. The next two hours he spent shirtless in the sand, like an Adonis grown fat with wealth. Lathered in sunscreen, his naked torso glistened and gurgled in the sun. He had learned to be careful of getting an uneven tan with his new belly. Too often, only the top would tan leaving a pale crescent of underbelly. This meant fully reclining on his back to ensure the pillow of fat on his abdomen got full exposure. As he lay reclined, fantasies of the newly fattened Bradley drifted through his mind.  

Following his beach romp, Diego was even hornier than before and headed straight to Muffin Tops where Hayden was closing up. His dick nearly hard before he even got there, Diego swung open the doors and confidently marched over to his husband. His whole body jiggled and swayed and Hayden was in awe.

“Wow, who is this tanned hunk of meat approaching me?” Hayden said starry eyed.

Diego pushed the baker onto the counter, ripping off his baker’s coat, and kissed his mouth like it was the most delicious pastry on earth.

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

ASoUE REWRITE - Season 1; The Miserable Mill - Part i.i

⇢ Klaus x Reader⇠

*not my gif*

    "Get a job, hitchhikers!" The man called, pulling his truck away.

    The Baudelaire children had managed to escape the clutches of Count Olaf once again. While Mr. Poe, the man responsible for putting them in dangerous situations on multiple occasions was distracted with Count Olaf, the children noticed a pickup truck that bore the name LUCKY SMELLS LUMBERMILL. The three Baudelaires were able to slip away and climb into the truck bed unnoticed and were carried off into the woods as stowaways. But of course, eventually, the driver had spotted Violet and proceeded to kick the children out, leaving them to wander the woods.   

After what felt like hours, the children found themselves at the edge of a familiar-looking scene. It was the grey and ashy remains of what was once a thriving town.

    "It looks like there was a fire. Everything's gone." Klaus said somberly as him and his sisters trudged through the ashy remains of the town.

    Ahead of them, a long stretching fence with the words LUCKY SMELLS was printed in large letters across. Behind it stood the towering structure of an old factory building.

    "Not everything." Violet countered, looking at the approaching lumber mill

    "Lucky Smells Lumbermill," Klaus said.

    "Maybe this is where all the clues lead us. The secret safe and the strange photographs at Aunt Josephine's." Suggested Violet.

    "The secret message and the statue lady at Uncle Monty's" Said Klaus, referring to the mysterious woman who was disguised in the middle of Montgomery Montgomery's maze who had helped them in their desperate time of need.

    "Eebee," Sunny said, which meant something like "Count Olaf. He's just strange."

    Violet looked at her sister and gave a look saying she agreed. Her lips pressed into a firm line.

    "The only thing standing between us and all our parents' secrets..." Violet trailed off, as the three came to a stop in front of the enormous wooden wall.

    "is an enormous wooden wall." Klaus finished. "What if we don't like what we find? Knowing can be a terrible thing."

    "But not knowing, isn't that worse?" His older sister countered.

    Klaus sighed, looking back at the enormous wall, knowing his sister was right. Meanwhile, Violet, who had been carrying the youngest Baudelaire sibling, turned to rest her baby sister on a nearby wheelbarrow where she could rest comfortably as she tied her hair up in a ribbon.

    Anyone who truly knew Violet Baudelaire knew that whenever she tied her hair back in her ribbon, it meant her brain was hard at work thinking of an invention. Violet was one of the greatest inventors of her time and she is well known for her ability to create a high functioning device out of nothing but the scraps around her. A skill that has proved more than helpful when it came to escaping Count Olaf and has gotten her and her siblings out of his clutches on more than one occasion. The ribbon was to keep the hair out of her eyes, and it never failed to help her think.

    She tied back her hair as she stared at the wall before her, all ready planning her next possible invention.

    "I bet I could invent a catapult to get us over."

    Meanwhile, Klaus was recalling all his acquired knowledge on walls and their infrastructure from his love of reading and his years of research. Another skill that has proved helpful to the children when surviving in a life on the run from Count Olaf.

    "I read about walls. The Wall of Jericho, the Great Wall of China." Klaus recalled.

    "All I need is a lever, a counterweight, and a very large spoon." Violet finished, as she tied the knot on her ribbon.

    "Pink Floyd's The Wall. Although mother wouldn't let me watch that one," Klaus chuckled weakly at the memory of his dearly departed mother.

    The siblings were taken aback to hear the creaking of the doors to the wooden wall and turned to find their clever baby sister at the gate.

    "Sunny," Violet said in surprise.

    The babbling toddler had managed to push open the gate with no trouble and sat on the ground gazing up at her older siblings.

    Violet gave a half-smirk and walked forward, picking her baby sister up from the dirty ground and piles of wood chips and wood dust. She walked back to stand next to her brother once more.

    Klaus frowned, and gestured to a sign in big red letters that read,

    "WARNING: Trespassers Will Be Put To Work"

    "Does this make us trespassers?" Klaus wondered.

    "We're children," Violet said.

    "Those aren't mutually exclusive." Klaus frowned.

    "If we get caught, we'll just say we were on a school trip. Come on." Violet eased, walking forward, although she wasn't feeling as confident as she appeared.

    Klaus followed in his sister's footsteps reluctantly, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

    They walked forward towards the front doors of the lumbermill and Klaus asked the obvious question that was on all of their minds.

    "What exactly are we looking for?"

     "It's like father said about fine art. We'll know it when we see it." She suggested. "I think we're in the right place."

    However, the three siblings stopped dead in their tracks, fear creeping in fast as they all saw the same terrifying building that stood tall in the lumber yard.

    You see, ever since the Baudelaire's were sent to live with the wretched villain Count Olaf, there was a symbol that haunted the children almost as much as the man himself. A symbol that followed Count Olaf and the children everywhere they went. This symbol was of an eye.

    A symbol that took form in a building.

    There before them stood a menacing building shaped like a giant eye. And not just any eye, but the exact same eye that was tattooed on a very villainous man.

    "I think we're in the right place," Violet said, stopping at the sight of the odd building.

    "Or the very, very wrong place," Klaus said in despair.

    "It could just be a coincidence," Violet offered, trying to ease her siblings' mind as well as her own.

    The woman in white who was pacing in front of the window in the eye-shaped building did not go unnoticed by the Baudelaires.

    "Maybe we should leave," Klaus said.

    Klaus had not realized how on edge he had been until he yelped in fright when he felt a hand tap on his shoulder, startling his sisters in the process.

    The three children whipped around to face an equally startled man who was not expecting the whole ordeal.

    The man sighed. "Forgive me. I thought you might be trespassers. But now I see you're just children."

    Klaus frowned once more. "They're not mutually-"

    Violet jumped in before her brother could accidentally give them away. "We're on a school trip."

    Klaus nodded. "Right, because we're schoolchildren." Klaus agreed less than convincingly.

    "Well, this lumbermill is hardly a safe place for children, yet I suppose that hasn't proved a problem yet. Nevertheless, I should know, I run it."

    The two oldest Baudelaire's shared an equally confused look before looking back at the man.

    "Pardon?" Violet asked.

    The man seemed to distract to noticed because he continued. "I'm Charles."

    The two Baudelaire's seemed to remember the photograph at the same time and they both eagerly scrambled to pull it out, and Violet handed it to Charles.

    "Do you recognize any of these people?"

    Charles took the photograph and gave it a look. The children noticed his eyes widened in shock but he quickly tried to cover it up. All he did was force a smile, and handed the children the photograph.

    "I think you better come see my partner," Charles said and began leading the children across the lumber yard, hiding his uneasy frown.

    Violet did not skip the opportunity to ask questions. "Do you know what happened to the town over there?"

    "Well, it's a sad story. Paltryville used to be booming," Charles explained as he led the three children to the office building. "We had a world food market, two hot yoga studios, and there was even talk of a water park. The name Paltryville was a misnomer. And then one day, the whole town burned down in a terrible fire."

    The three children shared uneasy looks at the mention of yet another devastating fire, like the symbol of the eye, fire was another thing that seemed to haunt to the children and was a key factor in their seemingly endless misfortune.

    "Luckily," Charles continued. "the lumbermill survived... and the eye-shaped building, which actually belongs to... oh, look, here we are."

    The children were disappointed to be cut short of answers yet again and sighed.

    Charles stepped forward and opened the door for the three children and the Baudelaire's stepped inside, hearts racing.

    Charles led them down the long hallway and when he reached two double doors.

    "Uh, children, I'd like you to meet..." he pulled back the sliding doors revealing a man surrounded in a cloud of cigar smoke.

    The man turned around, exhaling a large amount of smoke. "Call me Sir, everybody does 'cause I tell 'em to. I'm the boss. They have to do what I say, even my partner here."

    Charles coughed at the overwhelming amount of smoke.

    "Doesn't 'partner' mean 'equal'?" Klaus asked, confused by the situation.

    The two men shared a look and finally, Sir spoke for the two of them. "I do all the work. He irons my clothes." He said gruffly, taking another puff of the cigar.

    Charles lightly scoffed. "I also cook your omelets." He then gestured to the children. "I found them wandering unsupervised, poor dears."

    "Well, you know what we do with trespassers, don't you, Charles?" Said Sir.

    "But they're only children." Charles plead. "I thought we could take them in. Give them a loving, normative home."

    "Nonsense. I believe you treat children like grown-ups. Put 'em to work in the mill. It'll teach them responsibility. It'll teach them the value of hard work. And it'll teach 'em how to make flat wooden boards out of trees."

    "But, Sir-" Argued Charles, not before he was soon cut short by his partner once more.

     "Don't argue with me. We're partners. We've done it already, and there hasn't been a problem."

    Once again, Klaus seemed taken aback by the indication that another child was working here was continuing to be slipped into the conversation without any explanation. He was a bit upset that his sisters hadn't seemed to have noticed.

    "If we work in the mill, do we get to stay here?"

    "'Get to?'" Klaus didn't know what was more upsetting about this whole ordeal; the obvious breach of child labor laws or his sister's eagerness to stay and participate.

    "Bleyb" Sunny cooed, which meant "Stay here?"

    Sir smirked and gestured to Violet. "This one gets it. In this economy, children are lucky to have a job at all. What's your name, young lady?"

    "Violet... Baudelaire."

    Sir seemed shocked at the news.

    "A Baudelaire." He murmured in disbelief.

    "Wait, do you... do you know that name?" Klaus asked eagerly.

    Sir's voice lowered and his tone grew grim and serious.

    "Of course I do. Every man, woman, and child in Paltryville knows the name Baudelaire."

    "Why? Did you know our parents?" Violet asked.

    Klaus immediately stepped forward and showed the man the photograph. "Who are the other people in this photograph?"

    "Ack" Sunny said, which roughly translated to "What's with the eye-shaped building?"

    "I don't understand what 'ack' means, but if you want to know about your parents, they-" before he could finish, Sir erupted into a coughing fit caused him to gag.

    Charles started to pat his back. "Sir."

    "Every time we are about to get some answers. Seriously?" He turned to his sisters and quickly vented.

    Sir cleared his throat. "It's these cigars. I hate the things, but I can't quit smoking 'em. I'm the boss. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. There's a reason this town will never forget your parents. They're the ones that burned it down."

    The three children gasped in disbelief.

    "Our parents did what?" Klaus asked, not wanting to believe what he just heard.

    "I'm an important man. Don't make me repeat myself. They burned down the town! They're, um... not anywhere nearby, are they?"

    And just like that, it felt like another punch to the gut for the children.

    "They died... in a fire," Violet answered, in a monotone voiced, knowing if she showed any sliver of emotion she would collapse into tears.

    "Good." Sir said, nodding. "What goes around comes around. It's a terrible thing, startin' a fire."

    Sir had walked over to his fireplace and threw another log onto the dwindling flames as he spoke, the Baudelaire children were listening, unable to believe such harsh and vile words spoken about their late parents.

    "Why are you still standing there? You got work to do in the morning." Sir barked.

    The children felt as if their feet were glued to the floor, their limbs were frozen. They felt numb and were still processing the terrible information they had just received. How could they possibly find the courage to get to work now?

•••

    That night in the lumbermill workers' dorm, the Baudelaires pondered what they'd heard, and the weight of it felt like it had aged them a hundred years. Though, of course, it hadn't.

    "Did you hear about the new recruits?" The woman at the nearby table asked as she tinkered with a small device.

     If you are gossiping about someone and you don't have anything nice to say that that can be considered a very rude thing to do, but to do so when the person in question is well within earshot makes it a truly awful thing to do. Much like Norma Rae, Ceasar and Jimmy were doing, as they spoke illy of the Baudelaire's when they were only a few feet away.

    "They're Baudelaires." Sneered Norma Rae.

    "I hear their folks were arsonists." Mumbled Jimmy, his eyes never leaving his book.

    "I hear they checked out library books and never returned them." Grumbled Ceasar, in between bites of food.

    "I hear they drank blood from the skulls of chupacabras." Said Norma Rae.

    "You mean they drank from baby's skulls like chupacabras."

    "I know what I heard."

    "Now, that's enough you three! You're just making stuff up at this point." Came a young voice, much to the Baudelaire's surprise.

     The three children looked up in shock to see a young girl, who looked to be about a year or two younger than Violet, come walking up to the table, a small dinner tray in hand. She was dressed in a uniform identical to other lumber workers and was sprinkled with sawdust.

     The three were at a loss for words as the stern look directed at the other three lumber workers softened when she turned to look at the Baudelaires. She smiled warmly.

    "I apologize for the unwelcoming environment. I know how hard it is to lose your family in such a terrible manner. Is this seat taken?" She asked hopefully.

    The three Baudelaires looked at one another and then back to the friendly stranger and the eldest sibling smiled politely, gesturing to the open seat across the table. "Not at all."

    "Thank you," the girl smiled and took a seat.

    "Thank you. For saying those things, I mean." Klaus stuttered.

    The girl smiled at him and he smiled back. She sat up straight and looked at the three.

    "Where are my manners? I'm Y/N, Y/N L/N." Y/N held out her hand and shook each hand. First Klaus, then Violet then little baby Sunny.

    "It's nice to meet you. I'm Violet Baudelaire, this is my sister Sunny and my brother Klaus."

    "It's nice to meet you three, as well. I'm just sorry we couldn't meet under better circumstances. Tell me, if you don't mind me asking, what brings you three to Lucky Smells?" She asked, taking a bite of her food.

    "Yebo," Sunny said.

    Y/N tilted her head to politely show her confusion.

    "What my sister means is, it's kind of a long story." Klaus smiled weakly.

    Y/N straighten up and looked at sunny and smiled, "Well, if you're willing, I'm all ears, Sunny."

    Sunny smiled at the girl, much like her siblings, she was already beginning to feel at home from the girl's welcoming presence.

    So the three siblings shared their terrible tale. Everything from the gloomy day at Briny Beach, to the current day and how Charles put them to work after telling them their parents had caused the fire. Once they had finished, the Baudelaires grew worried that their new companion grew quiet.

    "I'm- I'm so sorry Baudelaires, that sounds... unspeakably terrible."

    The Baudelaires sighed.

    "It was. It... is." Violet said glumly.

    "Wait, so, you don't believe our parents started the Paltryville fire?" Klaus asked hopefully.

    Y/N smiled sadly. "No, Baudelaires, I don't. I never have. This probably doesn't help, but I'm afraid I'm the only one who thinks so."

    "It does help," Violet said, much to Y/N's confusion. "At least someone believes us, I mean. It's better than no one."

    Y/N smiled sadly at the kind nature of three children. Despite all their hardships, they were still truly good and kind people.

    "Now, if you don't mind us asking, you know why we're here but, we don't know why you're here. You're so young, how did you find yourself working at a dangerous place like this?"

    Y/N grew somber and folded her hands in her lap and looked at the Baudelaires. "My parents and I lived in Paltryville all my life. But when the town burnt down, my family perished as well. I had nowhere to go, and no one came to get me like this Mr. Poe you told me about. So I had to fend for myself."

    The Baudelaires nodded in understanding as their new friend told her story.

    "I knew that Lucky Smells provided housing for their workers so I applied and I was rather shocked at how little they needed convincing. Quite concerning actually," The Baudelaires all nodded their head eagerly in agreement. "Anyways, I've worked here ever since."

    It was quiet for a moment and then Y/N continued. "My parents spoke of yours often Baudelaires. It seems they were friends. Colleagues even. I would always ask in what but they'd refuse to tell me. Anyways, they always spoke highly of your parents. My mom even said that your parents saved their lives once. That's why I refuse to believe your parents ever could have done something so wicked. I trust my parents and they say yours were good people and I stick by that."

    "Thank you, Y/N," Klaus said, smiling at the girl who smiled back.

    "Geebo" Sunny said, which meant "Get a room!" It caused Violet to fight a smirk and Klaus shook his head to clear his thoughts and partly to hide the creeping blush.

    Suddenly, the high pitched ring of the speakers pierced the silence and a booming static muffled voice rang out. "Lights out. Two seconds."

    Then, all the lights in the cabin, save for the lit candles, shut off simultaneously.

    "But it's only six 'o clock," Klaus said.

    Suddenly, a large, happy man walked by towards his bunk bed. "Oh, boy, more time for dreaming." He said cheerily.

    "That's Phil. As you can see he's a bit of an optimist."

    "Did someone say my name?"

    "Hi, Phil! I was just helping the Baudelaire's get acquainted. They're the new recruits everyone has been talking about."

    "Oh boy! New friends!" He wheezed in delight. "I'm Phil, and I'm excited to work with you kids."

    Violet smiled weakly and gestured to her siblings.

    "Thank you. I'm Violet. These are my siblings, Klaus and Sunny."

    "Listen, I... I know things seem dark. But you have to look on the bright side. So your parents burned down towns. You don't have to be like your parents. My parents were Olympic athletes and look at me." He smiled a toothy grin. "I work in a lumbermill."

    Y/N sighed at Phil's comment and about the Baudelaire parents, feeling bad for the poor orphans and embarrassed knowing her friend didn't realize what he had done. She quickly tried to change the subject.

    "Phil, did you have you have something there?" She asked, gesturing to his bag in the table.

    The optimist's smile grew and he reached for the bag pulling out some pamphlets and a set of uniforms for the children.

    "Who wants a welcome packet?"

    The Baudelaires felt unsettling feeling growing in the pit of their stomachs as they thought of what might lay ahead of them in the morning. But nevertheless, it seemed a bit of the man's optimism had rubbed off on the children, especially a certain speckled Baudelaire, in particular, knowing they had made a new friend their age.

    For the first time in what felt like months, the children felt as if they weren't so alone. Having someone who understands exactly what you are going through during a particularly traumatic time can be a very fortunate, very rare thing. Someone to share you're experiences and hardships with, someone to complain to who'll say "My entire family perished in a terrible fire and an evil and treacherous man is following me and conspiring to get my family fortune as well!", rather than the less than comforting "Look on the bright side, at least you survived. And there is no way that man could ever find you in disguise a fourth time!" can sometimes be the most therapeutic experience. And that is exactly what the Baudelaires and Y/N L/N found when they found each other.

•••

    "I do hope I'm not intruding," Y/N said as she returned to the table, having washed her dishes.

    The three smiled at Y/N. "Not at all," Klaus said.

    "I would be more than happy to offer my services to you three. I like you Baudelaires, and I'll help in any way I can to help clear your parents' names and I'll keep an eye out for this vile man Count Olaf, you've told me so much about."

    The three shared a look. Violet looked to the girl and leaned in concerned.

    "That is a very kind offer Y/N, but I'd hate to put you in danger. I dread to think what would happen if he ever caught up to us and knew you were helping us. He isn't afraid of hurting innocent people, and certainly not children,"

    "And I appreciate the concern, Violet. But I want to help." Y/N looked around before leaning in and whispering. "I don't know much, but my parents were apart of something big and I think we are after the same answers. If we work together, I think we can find out what's really been going on. I hadn't mentioned this before, I hardly speak of them, but I too have siblings as well"

    The faces of the Baudelaires fell, even baby sunny let out a sympathetic coo, and Y/N leaned back.

    "It's true. They died in the fire. B/n and S/n. They were twins." She trailed off at the mention of her siblings. "I loved them and I miss them every day. Maybe, just maybe I can find some answers and find out why all these fires are being started."

    It was quiet for a moment. Then Klaus spoke up.

    "I'm, so sorry for your loss."

    She smiled sadly. "Thank you, Klaus. And I'm sorry for yours. But, you must know, I can hold my own. And I am not afraid of facing Count Olaf if it means looking out for you three. And I'd be more than willing to help in any way I can if you'll let me."

    "Thank you, Y/N. We really appreciate it!"

    "So, what can I do to help."

    "Unfortunately, we're not even sure what we're going to do yet. We were going to come up with a plan tonight."

    "Okay! Well, here's a map of the mill. Maybe this will help." Y/N said, unfolding the large map that had been on the table, while Klaus began reading through the welcome manual.

    "Oh, look Klaus. The mill has a library. Maybe you can research what happened here and clear our parents' names."

    "Oh, yeah. I've never actually been there before. I forgot it was there. Break times are so short but I bet you could go during lunchtime," Y/N offered.

    Klaus chuckled and gestured to the Manual. "Look. The mill has machines. Maybe you could invent a way of making planks out trees faster."

    "Yeeb" cooed sunny, as she pointed to a coupon. "Look. It's that eye building."

    "Y/N, what can you tell us about this building?" Violet asked as she leaned forward, examining the picture.

    "Oh, you mean Dr. Orwell's office? She's an optometrist who works just across the mill. I hardly ever see her. She's a bit of a recluse."

    "Hmm," recalled Klaus. "Father always said he didn't trust them. Or optimists now that I recall."

    "But what does an optometrist's office have to do with Count Olaf?" Violet wondered. "Maybe Phil was right. We should look on the bright side. This mill may be miserable, but since we got here, we haven't seen Count Olaf. And we met you, Y/N." The new set of friends smiled at each other. "What if that eye really was a coincidence? What I'd we finally found a place where Count Olaf won't find us?"

    "Hopefully, you're right Violet. Here, let's see what we can do," she reached for the manual and map and the four children began planning for tomorrow.

•••

    Later that night, the children lay in bed. Y/N was already fast asleep in her usual spot on the bottom bunk. Klaus was next to her in the adjacent bunk. Violet and Sunny shared the top bunk above Klaus.

    "Is Sunny asleep?" Whispered Klaus in the dead of night.

    Violet turned over to get a peek at her sister, who was sleeping soundly and smiling, as she occasionally nipped at the air. Violet smiled fondly.

    "She's dreaming about biting something. Why?" Replied Violet.

    "What Sir said about our parents. You don't think it could be true." Klaus asked.

    Violet frowned. "Of course not."

    "Then you agree what we have to do."

    "Of course," Violet said. The two siblings then spoke at the same time. "Clear their names."

    "Get out of here. Wait, what?" Klaus asked bewildered.

    "If we clear their names, maybe we can finally get some answers. Besides, what about Y/N?" Violet asked.

    At the mention of their new friend, Klaus turned his head and looked over at the sleeping girl. Unlike Sunny, she looked troubled as she slept. She hugged her pillow tightly and a frown was etched onto her face.

    Klaus bit his lip and turned, focusing his gaze on the top bunk above him, not wanting to think about leaving the girl he just met.

    "She's wonderful, and it's very gracious of her to offer to help, which is all the more reason to get out of here while we can. If Count Olaf catches up to us, we'd be putting her in danger. And I'm sorry, but I can't help but think, maybe our parents wouldn't want us here anyway."

    "Then they shouldn't have left us alone." Violet snapped.

    Klaus was shocked at his sister.

    "You know that's not what they did."

    Violet took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I know it's not their fault. And I know you're just trying to be cautious."

    Klaus sighed. "I guess we're not seeing eye to eye."

    It was quiet for a moment, and then Klaus spoke once more. "I wish they were here. Our parents."

    "I know." Replied Violet, in a sad tone. "I don't like this place either. But staying is the best way to find out what our parents were hiding."

    "The best way to find out would be to ask them. But we never can."

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

The Angel’s Share - Ch. 2

Chapter: 2 of ?

Rating: PG-13

Summary: We are introduced to the female lead in the story, Katherine Adams, AKA Kate, who runs into Sir Thomas Sharpe.

Permanent Taglist for hopelessromanticspoonie: @just-the-hiddles @nonsensicalobsessions @vodka-and-some-sass @myoxisbroken @brokenthelovely @blah666 (could not be tagged)

Taglist for The Angel’s Share: @rjohnson1280 @alexakeyloveloki @villainousshakespeare

If you would like to be added to either taglist, please comment or send an ask!

Co-written with the ever-amazing @yespolkadotkitty! She’s a rock star!

“You owe me a drink for this. The good stuff, not the bottom of the barrel well booze that you give Frank when he’s three sheets to the wind.”

“Well, maybe it’ll be Crimson Peak, if you give it a good review. Thanks so much, Kate. I can always count on you!” Eddy sang her praises into the phone, punctuating his statement with a cough that sounded more canine than human.

“Please don’t mention it,” she grumbled snarkily, ending the call with her boss, the owner of The Dapper Tap, and sliding her phone into the ridiculously tiny clutch that she had dug out from the recesses of her less-than-tidy closet. She felt almost naked without her standard large black purse slung over her arm, holding all of the essentials and then some, but that wasn’t proper for the launch of a new line of whiskey.

Proper could kiss her arse.

She passed the cabbie a handsome tip as she got out of the cab as gracefully as she could manage. Thankfully the event wasn’t held in the heat of the summer day, and her flowy red dress would provide a bit of a breeze as it brushed against the tops of her knees with each quick step toward the building.

“Name, please?”

Her feet, clad comfortably in black sandals because she was not being paid enough to wear heels, had taken her right up to the entrance to the historic-looking red brick building without her noticing. She startled and lifted her distracted gaze up from where it had been trained on the lush green grass, taking in the attendant standing guard at the entrance. Dressed in a suit that had to be far too hot, he looked about as pleased as she did to be there.

“Katherine Adams, representing ‘The Dapper Tap’,” she stated clearly, brushing her caramel colored hair out of her face as she stifled a sigh.

The young man, he was practically a boy, checked a clipboard he had pulled out from behind his back before waving her through. “You’ll find everything straight on through the hallway and out the other side.”

“Thanks,” she nodded once, skirting past him, noticing he wore an earpiece. This was clearly an event with proper security. 

Whoever had thrown the event, Eddy hadn’t mentioned it amid his coughing fit, had pulled out all the stops. Coming out onto the lawn that had been indicated to her, the spectacle was quite a sight to see. Music from a small band set-up on a wooden stage drifted to her ears, bouncing off of vine-covered walls and only faintly muffled by the guests already in attendance. Small, but tall tables with wrought iron and wood stools were scattered around at regular intervals, offering a place to rest a glass while exchanging handshakes and business cards. The occasional waiter parted the crowd, carrying finger foods to dull the effects of what would most likely be too much whiskey passed around amongst those in attendance.

Best get on with it. Pasting on her best customer-service face - a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes - she thrust herself into the small, obviously curated group of attendees, searching for a familiar face amongst the crowd as she made her way to the bar where the liquor in question was served. She plucked a napkin from one of the various small stacks dotting the bar, glancing quickly at the finely printed script on its soft surface.

Crimson Peak, the finest barrel-aged whiskey produced by the Sharpe estate.

“Straight, please,” she told the waiting bartender, preferring to taste the varying flavors of the alcohol without the diluting effects of ice or mixers, although that would surely help the heat concentrated on the back of her neck from her thick mane of hair.

Cupping the glass and placing a few bills pulled from her bag into the tip jar - as a former bartender, she knew the importance of tipping - she turned around and headed to an empty table, chewing idly on her bottom lip as she slowly inhaled the bouquet of the amber-colored liquid.

It wasn’t unpleasant, with layers of oak and smoke that tickled her nose. Pulling a sip into her berry-stained lips, she allowed her gaze to roam the grounds, searching for the man responsible for the expensive sales pitch in question. His unforgettable face, all high cheekbones, guileless blue eyes and a poet’s mouth, had been plastered over tabloids several times over recent years, his nights spent on the arms of beautiful society girls in the doorways of exclusive clubs in Mayfair and West India Quay serving as pressing news for countless sycophants everywhere.

And then he’d dropped off the face of the World. Or so it had seemed.

Why he had reappeared now, hawking his wares, was anybody’s guess. It wasn’t her prerogative to question the comings and goings of people born with silver spoons in their mouths. She had a living to earn; a life to live. And it didn’t include hobnobbing with the upper classes in venues that cost more than a month’s worth of her wages.

Her mission was simple: meet the man so she could prove to Eddy that she’d showed up, sit through what would surely be a presentation full of hot air (him) and eye rolls (her), take the sample bottle that would probably be offered, and hop in a cab home in time to watch her favourite late-night detective drama before bed. It was rare that she had a Friday night off, and she wasn’t going to squander it staring up the noses of the gaggle of holier-than-thou guests milling about on the lawn, likely talking about croquet and the best way to roast a pheasant in your Aga these days.

There.

Stuck in what was surely a dull conversation with a portly man with the ruddy face of a man who seemed to know his liquor, and a tittering socialite whose smile stretched too wide over her heavily made-up face, stood a fallen angel in a masterfully cut suit.

His midnight-black hair framed his face, a riot of waves and curls that looked soft enough to sink her fingers into. His blue eyes met hers across the expanse of lush green lawn, his irises the striking colour of the ocean at dawn. His sharp features, softened by a mouth made for sweet nothings and sin, could have graced any number of magazines. His tall frame was draped in what was surely Armani, the tailored navy fabric skimming his long limbs, the crisp white shirt flirting with a carefully revealed triangle of his flat chest.

Sir Thomas Sharpe. The socialite’s date of choice some years ago.

His gaze held hers and he glanced down at the ruddy-faced man. “Excuse me. I’ve seen someone I must catch up with.” His beautifully enunciated words carried to her across the stretch between them, and he headed towards her, a friendly smile tipping up the corner of his mouth. Serious, he was handsome, but the smile elevated him into downright stunning.

Shame this was one tall drink of water that she’d never sip from. Even if he had been her type, which he most definitely wasn’t - far too posh - she wasn’t his, her curves a little too pronounced and soft in comparison to the athletic, ultra-toned models he was used to cavorting with about town.

“I owe you one,” he murmured as he approached Kate. “Thanks for saving me from being quite literally bored to death.”

Kate looked up at him, unimpressed. She cocked her head slightly, genuinely curious. “What percentage of the time does that line work? Fifty? As much as seventy, maybe?”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon-”

A glass being clinked over the PA system interrupted whatever he had been about to say. ‘A glorious pearl of wisdom, no doubt’, Kate thought with an internal eye roll.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Please take your seats in the drawing room where Sir Thomas Sharpe will give a short presentation on his single estate whiskey, Crimson Peak.”

“Looks like you’re up, Sir,” she said, her distaste for the title dripping from her words much like the condensation on the outside of the glass she held carefully in front of her. She gave a slight mock bow at the waist, gesturing for him to go ahead of her into the grand stone archway of the - hopefully air-conditioned - building.

“Miss,” he began, in that James-Bond-dipped-in-chocolate voice, but she shook her head. “I truly didn’t-”

“Good talk, GQ. See you in there.”

And she strode away without a second glance, lifting the glass to her lips for a sip. The rush of oak and woodsmoke on her tongue faded away to the dance of an aftertaste, heady, with a hint of sweetness, like a half-remembered song.

Funny, she’d expected it to be awful. Not soulful.

It made her wonder.

[moeruhoshi]

What about one where Lucy sees Natsu’s latest pictures from a “sexy photoshoot” he had to do for Weekly Sorcerer and afterwards she can’t stopping checking him out/fantasizing about him while out the guild. Later when he sneaks into her apartment she can’t take it anymore and just jumps him right there. They can already be dating or right on the edge of becoming a couple at the start of the story, your choice.

Lucy heard the familiar sound of mail being pushed through the slot of her door, excitedly pulling her out of bed to run and collect the pile. It was the release date for the newest edition of Sorcerer Weekly and she was excited to see if they had printed her letter about requesting more female mages for positions other than those that wanted a girl with good looks. Not that she didn’t go on one of those at least once a month (for a break from heavy fighting) but she liked to kick ass a lot more than showing off her chest. She dropped the other envelopes onto her table and made herself comfortable with a cup of tea and sat in her armchair, flipping through the magazine with absolute patience. She had worked with Jason before and knew just how much work went into each page so she was respectful and took the time to read them all. Lucy squealed when she came across a page he was kind enough to dedicate, though was a bit stifled at the sight of her old photoshoot pictures surrounding the article. Halfway through her mug and into the ‘Guilds of Fiore’ photo spread, landing on the exclusive section for Fairy Tail.

“I wonder who he chose this time,” She snickered, thinking about the last magazine which featured Gray and Juvia. It was a bit of an intimate photo shoot, Jason wanting to get Gray’s icy personality across to his female audience. Juvia has made a surprisingly good actor; a kabedon photo that had featured them both in underwear was one that Lucy would never have thought Juvia could stay solid for. Gray was a pile of embarrassment afterwards but Juvia was overjoyed to have had such close moments with her beloved.

Lucy choked as she flipped the page, glad she hadn’t been drinking at that moment or else the magazine would’ve been soaked. Natsu sat with his vest low on his arms, leaning back on a bed with red satin sheets, his chest thrust out, and his scarf discarded to his side. His eyes were buried with an unknown lust, lips lazy, and hair ruffled. In the next photo, he ditched his vest and thumbed the waistband of his pants, the front dipping low enough to show the pink hairs that curled into his v-line. It was angled from below to focus on his lower body, his eyes cast down and teeth catching his lip in a seductive hold. She blushed as she turned to the next layout, heat pooling low in her stomach at the sight of Natsu sitting in a throne, fire swarming around him as he sat with a serious look, pulling on his tie to loosen it. She was surprised to see him in such a formal outfit, especially with the title underneath calling him the ‘Heir to the Dragon Throne'. She chuckled for a moment, the other slayers would probably fight him for the title. Lucy let a whimper slip at the sight of him in black briefs, his thighs thick and spilling from the lower bands. He crossed his arms and had his scarf tied around his forehead; she always loved that look. Lucy licked her lips at the sight of his slight bulge, whether he was turned on or not, he always had a nice shape. She kind of wish Jason had asked her to join him, she would’ve liked to have Natsu pin her to those satin sheets.

The last few photos were simple shots of him showing off his muscles and in his regular clothes to show off his signature moves. Looking at the excitement on his face while he did a kickflip was probably more stimulating for her compared to the staged sexy looks he made.

The orange tinge in the sky and the rumble of her stomach were enough to pull her away from admiring the few photos for who knew how long, telling her to make her way to the guild that evening for dinner. She sighed lovingly, fueled on the energy of admiration for her partner, her mind swirling with heated thoughts of the dragon slayer.

Lucy wasn’t subtle as she mindlessly watched Natsu fight with Gray and Gajeel, her eyes wandering to his exposed abdomen and wild eyes as he fought. Mira caught her stare as Lucy was weirdly shoving her soup spoon into her mouth, whispering to Cana to pay attention to the celestial mage. Mirror images of him scantily clad on the bedspread flooded her mind as Natsu delivered a gut punch to the ice mage, her cheeks flushing at the view of his sweaty chest.

“Say, Lucy-chan, did you see Natsu in the Sorcerer Weekly spread?” Cana hummed, snickering as the blonde let the spoon slip from her lips and splatter in her dish. She squealed as the hot liquid jumped out at her, thankfully only spilling onto the table and not burning her thighs.

“U-Um, yeah? What about it?” She tried to play off her obvious blush, pouting as she noticed the girls that had gathered at the bar to giggle and gawk at her.

“It’s just that we got to see so much of him, you know?” Levy wondered aloud, the lot of them getting a kick out of her fiercely red cheeks.

“S-Shut up! Like I care…” She mumbled, it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen that much of him anyway, they shared quite the intimate friendship. They’d been in more than one awkwardly affectionate tussles that had almost led to something more. Lucy couldn’t help but let one or two soft moans past her lips when he pinned her to the bed, both of them tired with heaving chests. She would always try her best to look to be ready to kissed, usually always wearing chapstick and a low cut shirt, her hair tousled from their wrestling. He’d grin above her, his chest rumbling with a purr before pulling away with a laugh and stretching, always saying that Lucy could never beat him.

She was quick to escape the guild before Mira could have the girls surround her, sighing in the cool breeze that fanned her face. Frowning, she rose her hands above her head, ready to take a hot bath and fall asleep with her personal fantasies of Natsu. She might consider getting that bedspread herself if it looked as soft as it did under his hands.

“Oi, Luce,” Natsu grunted as he lugged himself through her window and plopped down on her bed. She sat in front of her mirror, setting down her hair dryer as she just finished using it. “You left without me.”

“Sorry about that,” She gave him a small smile, taking his hand that he held out for her. She shrieked, laughing as he pulled her against his chest, pulling them both down to fall onto her pillows. “The girls were pretty adamant about talking about your photo shoot.”

“I already forgot about that,” He groaned, tossing his vest to the floor and kicking off his pants, his scarf draped over her headboard. “Did I look good?”

“Surprisingly,” She laughed, “How did Jason ever get you to look so serious?”

“With a potion,” He snickered and draped an arm over her waist.

They laid quietly for a few moments after that, Lucy lazily drawing circles on his chest and Natsu shuddering under the light touch.

“You look nice in a suit.” She hummed, imagining what it might feel like to pull him by his tie and down to meet her lips.

“Eh, that thing was so damn stuffy,” He cringed at the memory.

“You seemed like you were having a lot more fun when he took photos of you fighting.”

“Of course! Letting my fire burn up the studio was the best part! Who gives a crap about me in my underwear?” He scoffed as Lucy giggled.

“Well,” She gathered her courage for a moment to pick herself up and throw a leg over his waist. Natsu’s eyebrow rose for a moment as she straddled him, her hands splayed out on his chest. “I do, just a little. Everyone got a peek at my partner. I kind of liked having you all to myself.”

“Oh yeah? I didn’t know you were the type to get jealous, Lucy.” He smirked, his hand rising up in her thigh. It rose goosebumps on her skin, her heart beating and lust for him resurfacing.

“Not usually,” She bowed against him, lips hovering over his as she smiled. “But I don’t want anyone else thinking about you the way I had been.” With a slow rock of her hips, Natsu purred as she kissed him, hands eager to tangle in his spiky pink locks.

“What were you thinking about?” He groaned as she riddled his neck with open mouth kisses, her body eager to get out all her pent-up feelings.

“Your chest,” She moaned, suckling down his thick pecs, fondling his tanned skin greedily. “It’s so sexy.”

“Fuck, Luce…” He panted as she licked down to his belly button.

“Down here,” She smirked and toyed with the pink hairs that streamed below it, teasing his v-line with her nails. “I want to see it before anyone else.”

“And your thighs,” She indulged in the sight of him writhing, light kisses along his inner side. “You have so many cute parts, Natsu,”

Lucy yelped, suddenly pulled away from in between Natsu and thrown onto her back. He growled and forced a deep kiss onto her, both melting into the excitement of their embrace.

“You have no idea,” He rasped into her throat. “How long I’ve wanted you, Luce.”

“Tell me, Natsu,” She grinned as his predatory gaze held her down.

“You walk around looking so fucking hot like I don’t notice your hips or your chest when you bend over. Beating up the jerks that dared to try and touch you was barely enough.”

She bit her lip as he grinned above her, eyes giving him permission to let loose what he had been holding back.

“I love you so much, Natsu.” She mewled as he sunk a deep bite into her sensitive nape.

“You’ve always been my girl, Luce.”

[lostinfic]

Dissonance and Harmony | 6

Pairing: Roderick Peterson (Nativity 2) x Alison Crosby (The Canterbury Tales).

*You don’t need to have seen either film.*

Summary: Alison wants to boost her pop music career whereas Roderick needs to restore his reputation in the world of classical music. Neither of them is above using “irregular” means to get what they want, so when she joins his choir, they are in a unique position to help each other… if only they could get along.

Rating: M  |  Word count: 4k

A/N: I'm far from a music expert, researching songs for a mash-up was holding me back from writing so I had to make up one of the songs.

Ao3

♪ ♪ ♪

Alison still can’t believe Roderick not only agreed to add mashed-up songs to their repertoire— on a trial basis only— but has also invited her to his home.

She stands on the sidewalk, staring at his beautiful Georgian building in Kensington and its liveried doorman. Her phone pings with text messages from Marcus, Janet and Abel.

“How’s it going?”

“What’s his place like?”

“I bet he has one of those hairless cats”

“He’s not a Bond villain!” Alison replies.

“He looks like one”

“Ali watch out for shark tanks lol”

She mutes her phone and heads in.

Roderick greets her with a smile she can only describe as uncertain. Perhaps he’s as surprised as her by her presence in his apartment.

Inside his own home, she expected him to wear a different outfit, more casual than his typical turtleneck and jacket, but he’s not. And he still calls her “Miss Crosby”. Everything to indicate this is no different than their regular choir meetings.

Alison hangs her jacket by the door, regretting her leopard print crop top and pink dungarees.

“Where’s your music?” he asks. She holds up a USB thumb drive. “Convenient but poor quality. Would you care for a drink?”

“Sure, whatever you’re having. What’s your poison?”

“Mint tea.”

“Oh. Spiked with rum?”

She follows him into the open-plan kitchen on the left. It has the same sleek minimalism as the theater, white cupboards without knobs, bare countertops. Where’s all your stuff, she wants to ask.

Beyond the black marble island, the living room stretches to high bay windows, a baby grand piano stands in front of them. The sun is setting over Holland Park, and orange rays play across the glossy black lid of the Steinway.

It’s beautiful but empty, something out of a magazine, the bones of a home she wants to flesh out with silly cookie jars and fuzzy blankets.

Roderick prepares two cups of tea.

“Don’t you have a butler or something to do that for you?” she jokes.

“I gave him the night off.”

“Wha’, really?”

“No.”

He hands her a steaming mug. She detects a hint of alcohol in it.

In the living room, opposite the leather couch, where a TV usually stands, shelves line the wall, stacked to the ceiling with vinyls, CDs as well as pictures and awards. Everything symmetrically arranged.

Alison whistles and takes a closer look.

“You must think it’s vain,” Roderick says.

“Nah, I have a wall of my achievements too, mind you it’s not as impressive.”

The first photo to catch her eye is one of Roderick holding two babies. His twin brother’s sons, he explains with warmth in his voice, he has already started introducing them to classical music.

“Very cute,” Alison says.

“Yes, they are.”

“I was talking about you.” She winks to indicate it’s another one of her flirting jokes.

Roderick rolls his eyes. “Shall we begin our research?”

But Alison is more interested in looking at the other pictures. Many of them are of his former choirs. She picks one up: Roderick fifteen years younger, a jacket too large for his slim body, wire-framed glasses, smiling with pride.

“Do you prefer conducting children or adults?”

“It’s different. I like both… But shaping young minds, giving them the gift of music and self-discipline, it’s very rewarding.”

He wipes specks of dust off several frames, lost in souvenirs, smiling to himself. They’re obviously important to him.

Maybe one day we’ll be on that shelf too.

“You know, for what it’s worth,” she says, “you gave me that gift too. The self-discipline. And I appreciate choral music a lot more.”

“As you should. I’ll fetch my laptop for your music.”

So much for trying to make him feel better.

Roderick sets his Macbook Air down on the coffee table. Meanwhile, she pulls a list of songs from her front pocket, suggestions sent by her friends, and reviews it.

As he browses her music collection, she peruses the albums on his shelves.

Alison loves every genre, from K-pop to opera, traditional Celtic ballads to hip hop, and Bollywood movie soundtracks, of course. As far as she’s concerned, there’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure. Roderick’s collection, on the other hand, consists exclusively of classical music, some contemporary composers and a little jazz.

“No Led Zep or Beatles? That’s your generation, innit?”

“My generation?” He scoffs. “I’ve been listening to Mozart since I was in the womb.”

She picks a few CDs at random and scans the songs listed on the back. As it happens, one is an album of Mozart’s piano sonatas. On the cover, there’s a painting of the composer as a child.

“How old was Mozart when he wrote his first piece?”

“His first simple one, that was around 5 years old.”

“Wow. And you?”

“Seven.”

Alison’s jaw drops, and she takes her eyes off the CDs to stare at him.

“You’re a proper prodigy. Still, you must’ve had like a teenage rebellious phase where you listened to The Clash or something.”

She tries to picture him as a teenager with acne and spiked hair, but she can’t.

“My father forbade other genres of music,” he explains. “My brother Donald did have a phase like that, and that’s why he’s a primary school teacher and I have an O.B.E.”

“As long as he loves his job, that’s what matters.”

“I’m happy with my work,” he retorts. “For your information, I do listen to other music. Sometimes. It’s necessary in my work. I’m not a neophyte.”

“Like what? Name one popular artist you genuinely love.”

He ponders her question for some time while Alison taps her fingernails on the shelf.

“Queen,” he finally answers.

Alison agrees wholeheartedly with him. However, when she suggests they use one of Queen’s songs for a mash-up, he rejects the idea right away, calling it “sacrilegious”.

“Who is your favourite composer?” Roderick asks in return.

Is it a test? What if she picks the wrong composer? She bites her thumb nail, as she frantically searches her memory for a name. “Vivaldi?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m sure I’ve some Vivaldi on that USB drive. Look, I don’t know, okay? I really do love classical music, and I’m trying to learn more about it, but the titles are all the same: symphony No.8, No.3, No. 4., Opus 8. And all the Russian names and Italian ones sound the same.”

She expects a sneer or a lesson, but he says, “I envy you in a way. You have such wonderful music yet to discover. I wish I could listen to my favourite composers for the first time again. Erase my memory and relive that instinctive reaction to the melody.”

“So, who’s your fave?”

The look on his face isn’t unlike a kid’s who would have to choose between a kitten and a puppy. He scans the shelves and picks a record. The sleeve is worn out, the corners peeled to the brown cardboard. He lays the disc on the turntable and delicately places the needle over it. “Close your eyes.”

Alison sits down next to him, legs crossed, and closes her eyes.

The piece starts slowly with light, ethereal flutes. As more instruments join in, the tempo increases. Bouncy woodwinds, then a staccato of strings, counterbalanced by somber brass. Percussion thunders in. The melody surges into a crescendo that makes her heart beat faster, and ebbs to a wistful air, like a stream in a forgotten forest. A lump rises in her throat. When the song ends, she keeps her eyes close for a few seconds, savouring the chill the finale gave her.

“That was gorgeous.”

“Has a pop song ever done that to you?” he asks insolently.

“Many times, as a matter of fact.”

She scrolls through her music library to the letter L.

“Leonard Cohen, that’s cheating,” Roderick declares.

“Fair enough. So, do you think using his ‘Hallelujah’ would be sacrilegious too?” He hesitates, but Alison insists. “If you don’t want us to use commercial songs from pop stars because you don’t think they’re good enough, and none from artists you respect, I don’t know how we’re going to do this.” She crosses her arms on her chest. “Was that your plan all along? Agree, but then make it impossible?”

“No… but that song is in quadruple meter, it’s uncommon. Then again I suppose there are plenty of Hallelujah songs in choral music, maybe we can find one that will fit.”

“That’d be brilliant!”

He writes the title down on a notepad, and they start searching for other songs.

In order to create mash-ups, the songs must have the same meter and chords so the musical elements can be seamlessly laid on top of one another. But the songs must also carry similar emotions and themes.

They set to work, queuing songs on the computer and pulling albums off his shelves.

With each piece, Roderick shares some trivia about the composers. “Did you know Schoenberg had a phobia of the number 13? And he died on April 13th.” Or “Mozart wrote the overture to Don Giovanni on the morning of the premiere, whilst he had a massive hangover.” “Tchaikovsky, now he was a piece of work, he would hold his chin while conducting because he was afraid his head would fall off.”

Alison cracks up with each fun fact and asks for more. His limitless knowledge amazes her. Although she’s learning, Roderick is not in teacher mode; his eyes sparkle, and his whole demeanour bursts with energy. He discards his jacket and ruffles his hair, and keeps changing track before the previous one is finished because he's too excited to make her hear the next one. “You’ll love Vivaldi’s ‘Gloria’.”

Alison shares her music and trivia too: Joan Jet, Elton John, Nirvana, ABBA. “You’re tapping your foot!” Alison points out gleefully.

“I’m not!”

“Yes you are, you love it.”

“It’s repetitive.”

“It’s catchy. Number one hit. Everyone loves it... Even you.”

She bumps him with her shoulder, and he sighs.

“Why won’t you admit it?” she asks.

“I’ve fought all my life against this type of commercial music.”

She rolls her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying something catchy. Takes a bit of pressure off our shoulders. It’s a happy song, just go with it. It’s like Schumann said.”

“Quoting Schumann now, are we?”

“I am.” She juts out her chin. “More or less. I don’t remember the exact words. But he said that artists must send light into people’s hearts. ABBA does that.”

“You want light in your heart? Surely nothing can possibly surpass ‘Ode to Joy’.”

Beethoven’s ninth symphony starts slowly, and Alison pretends to snore just to taunt Roderick. But the music escalates, and when the voices join in with a jubilant “O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!” Alison springs to her feet and pretends to conduct the recorded choir. She waves her hands as she pleases in exuberant movements.

“No more tea for you. You don’t know what you’re doing,” Roderick says, but he’s laughing.

“I do know! I’m making a fool of myself.” She grins.

Roderick steps up behind her and places his hands on her upper arms.

“Let me show you.”

Despite the space he carefully left between them, his breath brushes her ear, and her breath catches in her throat.

He guides her arms to conduct properly, up and down, along the tempo. It’s a dance of sorts. Two bodies moving to the same rhythm.

“Hold it… now drop.”

A beat of silence and the symphony slows to one instrument, and Roderick moves her arms in long, smooth strokes. Slowly, the tempo increases again into a steady pounding of brass and chords. Her hands thrust through the air as the fortissimo builds up, faster and faster, toward the finale. Roderick’s grip tightens. Her breath quickens. Her heart beats louder than the fourth movement. The symphony reaches its climax. Notes and voices erupt in an intense finish.

The symphony ends and Roderick’s hands stay on her arms. She leans back against him. For a moment, everything is still. The vinyl crackles. His chest swells with sharp breath.

Another song begins and startles them.

“I can do your job now,” Alison jokes to dispel the tension. “More tea?”

She scurries to the kitchen with heated cheeks.

What was she thinking? He’s the conductor of her choir. And the only professional contact she has who might actually help her career.

By the time boiling water is poured in the cups, she’s convinced herself nothing happened.

“You would have liked Beethoven, I think,” Roderick says when she hands him the mug.

“The man himself, you mean?”

“Yes. Even when he started losing his hearing, he made a point of going out with his friends every day. He was a bon vivant.”

She wonders what that has to do with her. Is he saying she’s like Beethoven? Is that a compliment? A very roundabout compliment.

“I think that’s the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

“I know I’m not the most… genial person, but I hope you know I do think well of you, Alison.”

“I think well of you too.”

They smile at each other.

The thing is, even if he’s not the most expansive person when it comes to compliments and encouragements, and despite how much she craves validation, at least one always knows where they stand with him. He’s honest. For someone, like Alison, who has been fooled by flattery in the past, there’s some comfort in that.

They get back to work. The list of songs grows, but they have yet to be paired in a satisfactory mash-up. Roderick outright rejects many songs he deems too commercial (”mass-produced music is the very antithesis of art, it has no soul”), but overall he proves more open-minded than she expected.

They make each other listen to various pieces. Each song invites the other to step into their inner world. It’s not just trivia they’re telling now, but meaningful anecdotes associated with Haydn, Cher, Stravinsky and Tupac.

Time flies, but Roderick never forgets their task. It helps that he enjoys the musical gymnastics of fitting the songs together. Alison looks over his shoulder as he scribbles notes on blank music sheets. After one listen of the songs, he can already identify chords that overlap. His fluency is astounding.

“Can you find me Alessandrini?” he asks, still writing with one hand, the other pointing vaguely towards the shelves.

His collection is sorted in alphabetical order, she spots the album on the highest shelf, but she's shorter than him and has to stretch as high as she can to reach it. Unsteady on her tiptoes, she retrieves the album but also knocks a picture frame off the shelf. She catches it just in time: it’s a selfie of Roderick with Angel Matthews, on holiday judging by the palm trees in the background. Angel is his ex-girlfriend, or so the Internet told her, but if he still has a picture of her in his living room…

She's not even that pretty.

Roderick takes the photo out of her hands.

“I thought you’d broken up”, she says.

“We have.” He replaces the frame on the shelf, face down. “How do you know that?”

“I googled you.”

“Uh. What else did Google have to say?”

He knows. He’s definitely the kind of person who would search for his own name.

“The usual: career, discography… and that you stole a song from another school during a competition last year.”

His features harden. “I see.”

“Did you?”

“Tell me, Miss Crosby, do you think I could do something like that?”

“No. I— I don’t know. Maybe? But I can’t understand why you would.”

He’s a competitive person, and his desire to use Marcus’s handicap and Alison’s beauty to gain an advantage says a lot about that, and yet blatantly stealing another school’s original song right before the competition seems a step too far.

Without answering, Roderick picks up their empty mugs and disappears into the kitchen. Alison waits, wringing her hands. They were having such fun and she's ruined it. He's not going to think well of her now.

Roderick comes back with refilled cups. Alison chokes on the first sip, it’s more rum than tea this time.

He walks across the room to the windows, and back. Finally, he says, “At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing for my students. I was invited to this competition to give it some credibility. I was under the impression our victory was guaranteed. But when I saw the judges and the audience, I knew they would be swayed by emotional appeals and catchy tunes, rather than our musical excellence. My kids were perfect but what if the judges didn’t see that? And there was my brother and my father there.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I made a bad decision. It was blown out of proportion by my detractors.”

“Is that why Angel broke up with you?”

“No. If anything, she encouraged me. But when it turned into a scandal, well…” He shrugs and goes to sit on the leather couch. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Alison isn’t convinced by his explanation. After some hesitation and a few more sips of rum for courage, she sits down next to him.

His straight back progressively hunches over as he circles the rim of his mug with his finger.

“It happened at a peculiar time in my life,” he says without looking at her. “The problem with being a prodigy is that one’s career begins early and therefore… ends early.”

“Are you thinking of retiring? You’re not even 40 yet.”

“I don’t want to. I’m not ready to let music go, but what if she’s ready to let go of me?”

“Oh, Roderick. You always look so confident, I had no idea.” She tentatively strokes his arm.

“Don’t take pity on me.”

“I don’t. I sympathize. I know exactly how that feels.”

He scoffs. “You’re too young.”

“Okay, maybe not exactly, but when I had my birthday last August, I felt like I was getting too old for this, so I told myself I had to make significant progress in my career this year or I would quit. The choir is my last chance.”

“Mine too,” he says.

What a pair they make.

“No, it’s not. It can’t be. You’re a bloody genius. And, you know what, I’m not that old. We’re so daft.”

Roderick chuckles and pats her hand. A fond, but almost paternal gesture, except his hand lingers on top of hers, his thumb rubs along her knuckles. Their eyes meet, he’s not hiding behind his severe glasses anymore, he’s letting her see him, and her heart melts. She gives his hand a little squeeze.

Roderick’s ears perk up, and he looks to the computer. “What is this?”

“Uh? Oh, that’s Florence and the Machine, I think. Yeah, ‘Shake It Out’.”

“This has great potential for choral arrangement.”

Roderick puts his glasses back on and hurries to the piano. He finds the partition online, gives it a cursory glance, and, after another listen, plays the first verse on the piano. Just like that.

“You know the lyrics? Go on.”

Alison sings the intro A Capella, “Regrets collect like old friends Here to relive your darkest moments I can see no way, I can see no way And all of the ghouls come out to play”

He holds her gaze as they adjust to each other’s rhythm. He tweaks the song here and there as she keeps singing. He’s got an idea, she can tell, he slows down after the chorus and he’s looking at her, expecting a reaction, an understanding.

“Wait, play that last part again,” Alison says.

Pride curves his lips into a smile.

“It’s like…”

“Yes.”

“Opus 16!”

He replays the passage and segues into the second movement of Ralph Vaughan Williams’s “Opus 16”, a song the choir already knows.

“We have our mash-up!” Alison says, clapping her hands.

“I think we might.”

They analyse the two songs side by side, trying out different points of transition and choral arrangements.

“Does it work thematically too?” Alison asks.

“Yes, it’s about rising from dark times. Williams wrote it after a hard time in his life, when he thought he’d lost his muse. See this line here: ante lucem tenebris it means dark before light.”

“I had no idea.”

‘Opus 16’ has never been one of her favourite chorals, she liked that it was a bit more upbeat, but now that she understands its meaning, she’s excited to sing it.

She can see it so clearly in her mind’s eye: the concert begins in a very traditional way, they’re in formation, wearing those black robes, singing the classics. And then “Shake It Out” begins, she steps to the front of the stage and discards her robe. Her colleagues follow suit and maybe dance a little. The lighting changes too, curtains part behind them to reveal colourful stage props. The second part of the concert consists of upbeat songs and more mash-ups. People in the audience stand up and clap their hands.

Roderick arches a dubious eyebrow at her suggestion.

“It’d be brilliant,” Alison insists.

“I’ll think about it.”

She stands by the piano and they go through the first half of “Shake It Out”. After the chorus, he slows the tempo, they stay in sync, eyes trained on each other, nodding along the notes. The transition into “Opus 16” is a little rough, but it works.

When she hits the high note in the third verse, her voice falters. Roderick abruptly stops playing, and the disappointment in his eyes cuts her deeper than any of his harsh words ever has before.

“I can do it,” she quickly says. “I’ll work day and night.”

“Clarissa would be able to do it.”

“No! I will. I can do it.”

“You must do it,” he says. “Again, from the top.”

Alison straightens her shoulders and gets ready to sing, but after three cups of tea, she needs the toilet.

From the bathroom, she hears the music Roderick is listening to on the computer. He selects more songs by Florence + The Machine.

She smiles smugly to herself. She did it. She changed his mind.

He skips to another song: “I know that it’s over They say that time’s a healer I’m ready to rise again”

“Oh no no.” She stands up from the toilet, but she’s not done pissing. “Fuck.” She hurries as much as she can.

When she returns to the living room, the song is still playing and Roderick’s face is a haughty grimace.

“Is that you?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s an original song I recorded a while back. In Canterbury.”

“It’s horrendous.”

Alison flinches. His words sting.

“Yeah, it’s silly. Can you stop it?”

“My pleasure. Let’s try the mash-up again, shall we?”

“Actually, it’s getting late, I should go."

“Already?"

I’ve to go if I want to catch the last bus.”

“The bus? At this hour? You must take a taxi. It’s safer.”

“It’s kind of a long ride, I can’t really afford it.”

“Let me call you one, I will put it on my tab.”

Before she can protest, he’s on the phone. She’s too tired to put up a fight.

“He will be here in ten minutes.”

Roderick holds up her coat so she might slip it on.

“I’ll wait downstairs,” she says.

“You’re welcome to wait here.”

“Nah.”

“Okay. In that case, thank you for your help.”

After shifting awkwardly on his feet, he holds up a hand for her to shake.

“Sure. See ya later, Mr. Peterson.”

[biuebirdy]

Fire & Feather a Good Omens Fanfic

Hi everyone! I just posted a new Good Omens fanfic on A03 If you want to read it over there please click the [Link] If you really enjoy this fanfic, please consider buying me a coffee it would definitely help me create more for you, but is 100% not necessary! [Link]

Nothing felt as utterly fantastic as the feeling of lips trailing down the back of his pale neck, drawing a soft purr from the throat of Azi, the twin tattoos symmetrical across his spine, resembling what some people from the Japanese region might call 'chibi' seemed to flutter on his skin like a moving photograph as the familial purr of a British sounding demon danced across his ear.

"You know Crowley, there are much easier ways to wake someone up then gentle kisses and a sweet sound." Azi's voice was like the soft tinkling of a bell, his eyes meeting the golden snakeish ones his lover possessed. Aziraphale was laying on his front, the arm of his lover in a vice-like grip to his naked chest, feeling the so-called 'glow' humans got after a night of...the angel blushed, lovemaking. Crowley leaned over him, trailing kisses along the curved edges of the cartoonish looking white wings, unable to help himself when he saw the usually so prim and proper angel covered with barely more than a comforter, the curves of that sexy arse of his blushing almost as pink as his angel's cheeks were. Thanks to a few punishing spanks the angel had asked for quite explicitly.

"Pfft, and miss the opportunity to see this? You look good enough to eat, wanna go for round two, or does the holy spirit still need a recharge?" Crowley's fingers held up the angel's chin a few fingers holding his jaw in a firm but loving embrace. Yet, Azi found himself laughing quietly again like he was afraid a sound too loud would break the moment they were having together, six thousand years and it still felt so fresh in his mind knowing his demon loved him, though saying it was so embarrassing for him. The angel sat up, unabashedly, his naked body sat for full view, bite marks and hickeys and scratches from his demon littering his pale skin. Crowley paused in his tracks, and an odd well of possessive pride gripped his chest, something he knew usually was exclusive to humans...yet he knew of a demon or two that would kill for their mate, given the chance, or not, demons were the jealous sort. Azi's pink cheeks went to a near cherub red when Crowley reached a few fingers forward and drew his warmer than average fingertips down a scratch on Aziraphale's ribs, shuddering softly when Azi smiled in a way that asked with no words if he liked the view he had. The demon knew him so well...he nodded without the words ever having to be spoken aloud, something Aziraphale was quietly proud of. The silence stretched on, but it never grew stale or awkward as the moment turned loving on its heel. The angel leaned forward in the quiet, and pressed his pale lips to Crowley's chapped and rougher ones, breaking the spell when he grew too embarrassed to take much more of the other man's roaming eyes. Crowley closed his eyes immediately, before he pressed back, his hand finding its way to Azi's curly white locks, holding him firmly in place, before he pulled back, smiling to his angel. Aziraphale paused when his demon didn't speak, and moved to kiss him though it was odd he was being held back, Azi gently touched Crowley's hand on the back of his hair and started to speak. "Love? What's going on-" Suddenly as if out of nowhere, the gut feeling you have when you fall suddenly gripped him like an ice cold fear, and the back of Aziraphale's chair slammed into the ground of the bookshop making him cry out in fear and confusion. The Angel sat up after a few minutes, looking around, he touched his cheek feeling dried drool there, feeling it warm up like a sudden blaze when he realized what...exactly he had been dreaming of...his best...friend, his...Aziraphale blushed even harder, and sat up on the back of his chair, covering his face in his hands he groaned, embarrassment more intense than any human could handle coursing through his veins. "When did I turn into such an...embarrassment..." He whispered to himself, hoping silently, berating himself would make the implications of such a well...thought out dream would just disappear with the reality it came with. After a minute, Azi stood, brushing off his coat, with a quick glance in the almost ancient mirror that hung on one of his less cluttered walls. He took a long shaky breath, trying to push away the implications his celestial mind tried to scream at him. He picked up the chair by the back, sitting it upright, he found himself pausing, his mind wandering...The way Crowley's fingers had felt almost too warm to him, like he had the fire of hell...the passion of a burning blaze in every trendil of his dark essence...Aziraphale found himself smiling to no one but the thoughts in his mind. With the apocalypse averted just days ago, he was surprised he was already back to having the dreams of his special acquaintance. They had started nearly a thousand years ago, he had woke up in a dark room panting breathy, his dream much more interested in what comes before the pillow talk. He had woken up tired even for her almighty's sake! Yet the dreams never ceased, he got them almost once a week now, and though he would never admit it he relished the way it felt to be held and loved, and those soft butterfly kisses, especially by his demon. Azi shook himself though to bring himself back down to earth, drawing a little chuckle from him at the sheer hilarity of such a phrase, like he had gone to heaven for a moment with Crowley, now that...was definitely what the humans would call a cheesy line. Azi was going to be on his way to pick up an older book he had his eyes on for quite some time, a leather-bound original printing of the first book in the Sherlock Holmes series! He glanced at the clock, sighing in relief when he realized he had barely been asleep for an hour, and had an hour still to walk a few blocks to pick up his prize! The Angel fixed his coat as he walked out the door of his store, fiddling with the buttons but never bumping into the stray pedestrian. This was one of the Angel's favorite past times, walking among the humans down the street, the color of their souls shifting and changing with the thousand thoughts that raced through human heads. Aze often thought to himself, as he put one foot in front of the other, that humans thought so fast, almost like they knew their life was fleeting. It was beautiful how they always left a mark on the world, no matter how small, writing timeless stories, or planting a bed of flowers children would see and remember for years to come. Aze was never in a rush, he himself was timeless, watching the lives around them, glad he could be a part of them for even a moment. It almost saddened him when he made it to the old pawnshop that had been there for decades, run by the owner's father, his grandmother, and so on and so forth. Walking inside, Aziraphale came up to the counter and rang the little bell with an almost childlike fascination, the old rhyme coming to his mind about an angel getting its wings, he almost rang the bell twice, wishing somewhere in the universe a childlike angel's feathers came in, but no...Azi was never a child, though he dreamed about it sometimes. The owner came out, a short man with darker skin and a flop of bright pink hair, he wore a dark button-down shirt, and jeans, looking an odd mix of dapper and casual, it by no means looked bad, Aze thought he'd try it out, to impress Crowley's fashion sense.

"Ah, Mr. Aziraphale, glad you came in today, I almost walked over to your shop just to see what I could pick up, you've been busy haven't you, collecting?" The young man said although he dipped under the counter to bring up a blue book, bound in cracked leather, something Azi could easily fix. Though not by miracles, he loved the feel of old leather under his fingertips.

"Oh my yes, I came upon a most rare piece to my collection days ago, sadly the Original must be given back to the owner, but that is what we have pen and paper for." Aziraphale spoke with a playful gleam in his eye, he of course gave the charming young witch her book back, but he copied down every prophecy, wanting to connect them all to points on a timeline, it was like a wonderful puzzle and he would have seen it all first hand in the past he hoped there was a prophecy about Crowley, just so he could show the demon.

"Rare find? Don't tell me you found the book the ancient Pharoh Child King kept? Records of his time alive, be careful Mr.Aziraphale some people are right bloodthirsty for this kind of thing." This brought a playful smile to the ethereal beings lips, how sweet for this human to care instead of wanting to take, The envelope in his hand grew a bit fatter, as he passed it over and took up the book smiling.

"Oh it is quite rare, but I have to verify it's accuracy, and speak with the owner before I go giving away facts and details about it, to keep it all quite above board." The pawnshop owner smiled, and gave a nod to the man in all white, before he put the cash under the counter, to put away in a safe once the shop was empty, not wanting to risk someone breaking the code, he was a nice man, but being too trusting was the death to many.

Aziraphale gave a jolly wave to the man before he walked back outside, though he didn't head back to his bookshop right away, he zoned out, hugging the book to his chest almost like a child with a new toy they can't believe they actually managed to get, his body kept putting one foot in front of the other, and he found himself walking along the sidewalk of a line of clubs, strip clubs, music clubs, it was what humans used to entertain themselves...a sinful hotbed, had he come here because he couldn't rip his mind away from the thought of Crowley? He almost stopped walking, losing himself for a second as he wistfully imagined Crowley, maybe thinking this way about him? Could Demons think this way? A few days prior Crowley couldn't feel love at the paintball playing field, could he feel that amount of care for someone? The thought worried the angel, did you lose the love you had in your heart when you fell? No, no that thought was silly Crowley had things that were very clearly important to him! His Bently and...perhaps if it wasn't too wishful thinking, Azi was important to him as well. The angel was so lost in thought he slipped into a restaurant nestled in between two clubs thumping an odd mix of music on either of the small establishments walls, it was oddly soothing with how quiet it was, and Azi found himself sitting down at an old booth with leather that felt much older than what his new possession was bound in. A short pixie like woman with a mess of crimson hair handed him a menu, though she looked somewhat sad, and Azi couldn't bear that! A woman who worked to serve the good people of London deserved more...after the mess with the apocolypse, no one would be here to reprimand him for excessive miracles...The Angel had a smile that some, especially one, would call devilish.

"Angel, don't push it quite yet, we only barely got off scot-free, don't want to give them a reason to come back now do we?" Azie didn't even jump, instead he glanced to the demon with a soft smile on his face, folding his hands on the table he gave Crowley his absolute full attention, as he always did when he was around. The demon smirked back the two grins so different but similar, they were happy to see each other.

"Oh I suppose, but I'm still just so giddy from what happened, the way we escaped repercussions, it was quite exhilarating! And now, as you said...there are no sides we are on our own side, and it's oddly comforting I must say." Aziraphale glanced at Crowley to see his reaction though he already knew what he was going to say.

"Comforting? sitting across from a demon in a hotbed of sin? You can be so odd, angel." Yet Crowley's tone was more than pleased, and Azie had a knowing smile on his face as the waitress came by, nodding to them both she set down tea and coffee, black for the demon, milk for the angel. For a while neither of them spoke, not feeling like they had to fill the silence, six thousand years had taught them patience, in a way.

"Yes, I'd say comforting, though Gabriel would have my halo if he were ever to hear that." That made Crowley let out a low laugh, he wished he could be as comfortable as his angel, but he had come to see him for a reason, one that he knew would upset his poor angel, but he had to know.

"Angel..." There was a pause as Azi looked at him while sipping his drink, in his mind he was thinking about ordering a snack, he wasn't sure of what but food always was quite enjoyable. Crowley almost lost his nerve then to tell him, it was one thing tempting humans and taking credit but his angel was different, he didn't want to upset him. "about when we swapped places..." Crowley paused too long, Azie lit up as he expected Crowley to comment once again on how well he did masquerading as his companion.

"Oh my yes, wasn't that fun? You wouldn't believe how hilarious it was to flick the water at the window the demons were all behind, they were like frightened puppies!" Crowley winced, but forced a smirk, nodding along with his angel who seemed overjoyed Crowley was proud of his performance.

"You're good at being me huh angel?" That was it, Crowley had lost his nerve, how could he tell his angel what his brethren had done to him?

"What did you do at mine? You haven't told me, I doubt you could have gone and not pulled off something quite spectacular, it's in your nature!" Azi had no idea what he had asked of his demon, but Crowley couldn't keep it locked away anymore, he set down his coffee slowly. This took the attention of the angel, when Crowley had something to brag about he bragged big, letting out a funny little wa-hoo when he did so, something Aziraphale never really understood.

"Angel...you didn't get a trial, it was an execution." Azi would have told anyone that, when humans say their blood ran cold, it wasn't like a dip in a pool on a warm summer day, it was like fear froze your blood in spikes, puncturing your heart. His face, which was so happy a moment before paused, and he looked like a puppy who had been abandoned on the side of the road, he put his hands on the table, trying to wrap his head around it, his voice shakey like he was trying to somehow justify it for himself.

"But...Crowley, we're the good guys." Crowley would be lying if his heart didn't ache for his friend, but it nearly broke at what he said next. "If they're the good guys, am...I bad? I...was trying to save lives, save this! Adam...everyone..." Azi was in distress, not sure how to react to this he just covered his face with his hands, leaning his elbows onto the table in front of him, taking deep steadying breaths. Crowley reached out and pat his arm, murmuring softly, the cafe was empty now, the waitress out back having a smoke at the small trendil of temptation the demon had offered to give them privacy.

"No Angel, you're not bad, their system...the way they work, is with absolute certainty in themselves, it's flawed, you care, if that gets you killed then screw their system you still have our side, and I'm not going anywhere." It was odd for Crowley to say such nice things to anyone, but to Aziraphale it was understandable, the angel let his hands drop from his face, and willed away the tears he was about to have. He didn't want his friend seeing him so upset, so he tried to smile, pulling out his wallet with his appetite all but disappeared. Crowley frowned as Azi stood up and gently put enough money on the table for their drinks.

"I hope you don't mind me cutting this short, the bookstore needs this old Sherlock Holmes in its shelves." The demon simply nodded, knowing he just needed his time alone. Though Azi's wings, invisible to the human eye, but not to his, were hanging down, he had so much to think about. When Azie walked out of the coffee shop, Crowley groaned, running a hand through the wine red hair he loved.

"Fucking winged pricks, stupid assholes." He didn't know what else to do...in the morning perhaps he'd go to his Angel and find a way to cheer him up, they could go see the moon, or take a vacation to Alpha Centauri, something to get his mind off the sadness he had in his heart.

Though all Crowley would find the next day, were white feathers in Azie's bed.

[lubdubsworld]

A Velvet Promise ( Kim Taehyung x OC)

Rating : 21+ 

Warnings : Smutty Smut. Angsty angst. 

Summary :

 Kim Namjoon : "What do you mean Taehyung's getting married?" . 

Park Jimin : "Hyung, he's... I mean , you know he's going to hurt her. Like really badly?" .

Jeon Jung Kook : " She seems so innocent. She doesn't deserve that. " .

  Kim Taehyung : " Why would i call off the wedding? I've always wondered what it's like to fuck a virgin." 

Choi Minho : " Kim Taehyung is a psychopath. Anyone who thinks otherwise is delusional."

 " I'm not a toy you can use and toss. If you touch me again, I'll choke the life out of you.."

 " Is that a challenge babe? Because you're not keeping me away from your bed." 

Prologue

"She looks like a two piece whore, Uncle." Taehyung said casually, fingers curling casually around the flute shaped champagne glass. Manicured fingers tapped on the expensive Oakwood finish of his desk as he stared disdainfully at the small 6 by 10 inch photo on the table. 

The Photo showed a young woman of about twenty one or twenty two with plain mousy brown hair and rather indecently plump lips. She was staring away from the camera, probably unaware that her picture was being taken. Only her upper body showed and she had a slight, unremarkable figure, a little on the thin side . 

There was a rather endearing hello kitty pin on her hair and Taehyung leaned forward eagerly, edge of his nail digging into the Polaroid and scratching out the little pin rather vindictively.

He had just spent an hour listening to his uncle describe Jung Yerin, yet that little hello kitty pin told him more than all that useless information. Jung Yerin had grown up in a simple, conservative family. She looked like she had been sheltered from every evil, likely raised by loving parents who catered to her every need. she probably wore satin ribbons in her hair and peep toe sandals with knee length chiffon dresses, always smelling like sunshine and summer rain. 

Would she scream really  loud when he fucked her for the first time?

He hoped so.

His uncle was staring at the Polaroid and swallowing nervously, his gaze fixed on the little tear that his nephew's nails had made on the print.

Mianhe, Yerina.

"So, you will marry her? You really don't have to. She's already dating someone.  " He tried weakly.

Taehyung sighed and stretched luxuriously.

"Would that even matter, anyway? her father is positively gagging to have me as his son in law.  Besides, do you have any idea who she's dating, uncle?? " He grinned ominously, fingers gripping the edge of the table as he thought of the other man.

 Fuck, he wanted to pump a dozen bullets into his fucking head.

He struggled to get his head on straight. Once he had her , he would win.

" I'm marrying her. Because I need her. She's going to be my winning card ,  samchoon." He drawled.

Marrying Yerin would be the final move in this game.

Finally, Finally Kim Corp., would be his, exclusively and Choi Minho could go  suck his dick. 

Check and Check Mate.

Chapter 1

"He's busy, right now. You should come back later." The lady at the desk said firmly and i shuffled awkwardly on my feet. I re-read the small scrap of note that he had had delivered to my home that morning . 5.30 P. M , it said clearly . i glanced at the clock. I was exactly on time.

"I'm his fiancee. Are you sure he's not waiting for me? " I said desperately, clutching the designer bag that felt awkward on my shoulders. I'd gone to the salon and fixed my hair, bought a dress and this sparkly bag all because I'd wanted to make a good impression. Even the brown heels felt like they were cutting off my circulation as I tried to get some weight off my ankles.

"He's in a conference with  We have strict rules about interrupting practice, Miss. These are planned over a month in advance, just to avoid things like this. You should have made a proper appointment before turning up out of the blue." She said loftily and i sighed.

"Is there, at least a place that i can wait at?" I said finally and she gave me an amused look.

"I'm sure the bus stop outside has a shelter."

Blinking in shock , I bit my lips and slowly walked back out of the building. Bet she wouldn't be laughing once she realized just who I was. Sighing , I made my way to the bus stop and collapsed against one of the hard metal seats. My feet were killing me and the late evening sun fell right on my  face, warming me but making me blink back against the glare. 

The last bus to Daegu would leave in a few hours and if i didn't get  moving i would be stuck here for the night. I stared at the setting sun and felt misery creep up. On the huge billboard, opposite the busstop the placard carried a photo of  Kim Taehyung.

 He looked like something straight out of heaven. I remembered that that was what he was touted as in his band, the fallen angel. He definitely fit the bill, i thought grimacing at how frighteningly beautfiul he was. There was something about his too-perfect looks that really made a shiver run up my spine.

He looked inhuman. Frighteningly so.

Swallowing the dryness in my throat, I glanced at my phone.

 7 missed calls from Choi Min Ho.

i couldn’t deal with that now. 

. Sighing, I flipped the phone open and dialed my father instead feeling relieved as he picked the phone up.

"Yerin-ah!! Why don't you listen to me when i tell you to leave your phone on at all times!! i hate not knowing where you are!" He said desperately and I felt a little smile coming on.

"Appa! I'm fine... I just had the phone in my bag."

"How's my son , doing?" My father said fondly and I glanced back up at the huge billboard. Taehyung was wearing a blinding box-shaped smile that made him look so very innocent.

"He seems happy." I said absently, turning around to glance back at the building I'd just been politely kicked out of.

"I'm glad. He's a very nice young man, Yerin ah. He'll take really good care of you and it's what your mother wanted, remember?" He said gently and I felt sorry for the way my father sounded.

 Like he was trying to convince himself that he was doing the right thing as well. I scratched the edge of my bag, trying to think of something to say.

"I know. I'm sorry if I seem uninterested in him. I really am not. " I said softly.

My father sighed.

"I wish your mother was here. She always knew what to tell you to make you feel better." he said gently. " Appa is bad at this."

Tears stung and I swallowed, choking out a laugh, instead.

"You do too. You’;re enough, Dad. i swear, you’re all I need.  " I said softly.

Silence.

"And you’re the only reason , i’m still alive, Yerin. " He whispered. 

I couldn’t bring myself to reply. 

“Did you speck to minho?” my father said hesitantly and i flinched. 

“Not yet.”

“Be gentle with him, Yerin. He’s not going to take this news well and it’s best if we don’t make him more angry than he already is." he said nervously. 

I swallowed because the fear in my father’s voice was eveident. 

I hung up after that , telling him I would try to talk to min ho and get back as soon as possible. 

I glanced at the phone again. 

A few more calls from Choi Min Ho.

Minho was four years older than me , a confusing combination of older brother and guardian. 

He had a lot of control over me and my father trusted him when he made decisions for me.

Min Ho was one of the scariest people I'd ever met, simply because he didn't take no for an answer.

 I had first met him when i was eight, one of my father's students from high school. The year I turned fourteen he had debuted as an idol to become a trainee with SM entertainment and he had liked, of all things, my voice.

"I'm not allowed to call anyone from there. Just two people. One is my mom. The other is going to be you." He'd said with a very firm look in his eye.

 My father had given me an uncomfortable look but he had agreed that it was good for me to have an ' oppa' . Someone who would take care of me when my father wasn't around. 

Minho had been a constant in my life afterwards. 

Over the years his role had somehow shifted, from overbearing brother to something more like a boyfriend . He had his own band of guys always following me, making sure i didn't speak to any boys or befriend them. 

No concerts, no gaming arcades. No ice cream parlors or karaokes. 

And my father had been too deep in his own sorrow and his work to actively care. I ended up being smothered and suffocated, his relentless control driving me insane and scaring me in its intensity.

It still scared me.

I took a deep breath before dialing the number carefully.

"Oppa." I said softly and I could hear heavy breathing .

"did you tell him you aren't going to marry him?"

I bit my lips.

"It's not... It's not that simple ." I tried to get my thoughts in order but Minho snarled  out loud , the anger palpable through the phone.

"I told you why he's doing this didn't I? He  wants those godawful shares your mother left you, so he can take my company away from me. The company belongs to me, you know that. Don’t think for a second that he wants yo- "

The phone got snatched out of my hand roughly and I jumped, terrified .

It was Taehyung.

He stared at me wordlessly, pressing the phone to his ears and smiling thoughtfully while Minho continued his charade.

"Really hyung? Still misleading young girls, because you’re too much of a pussy to come face me like a man?  " He smirked, eyes pinning me on the spot and I flinched.

I couldn't hear what Minho said but Taehyung laughed.

"Oh, no hyung. That's not happening. I'm not letting her go . Not now, not ever." He reached out and lightly wrapped a lock of my hair around his forefinger before giving it a sharp yank that made my scalp sting.

And then he hung up, before lightly pulling the battery out, dropping the phone to the ground and stepping on it casually, and i stared , stunned as the parts cracked underneath his boots. My throat dry and heart pounding somewhere in the vicinity of my throat , I stared at him.

"Tell me, Yerin ssi... Did Minho Oppa already test and rate the goods that I'm going to be stuck with for the rest of my life?" He gave me a humiliating once over and I tried to process the sheer hurt and embarrassment that filled me up.

" It's not.. we're not..." my voice cracked from how close he was standing, tall, intimidating and terrifyingly handsome.

"Fucking? You expect me to believe that Choi Minho did not take you into his bed? Do I look like a fucking retard?" He said, his voice resonating so deeply that I could feel my fingers start to shake. I stared at him.

"You can believe whatever you want." I said finally.

He stared at me some more and then reached out fingers lightly closing over the chain around my neck. i startled when his fingers traced the heart shaped locket.

"Let me ask you something...Do you believe what Minho says? About me just wanting you because of the company he swindled his way into? " He said casually and I hesitated.

"No. No, I don't." I shook my head and he grinned.

"that just proves you're a fucking idiot. Because he is right. I don't give a flying fuck about you. But I'm going to marry you, you know why? Because every time I touch you, every time i kiss you, Choi Min Ho will likely implode and i'm really  really  looking forward to that." He said softly .

I stared at him trying to dredge up some emotion and finding, that I wasn't even surprised. I had known from the first time he'd agreed to marry me that it couldn't be for a noble reason. I thought of Minho with his controlling suffocating way of keeping me in a stranglehold and I thought of Taehyung with that frighteningly beautiful smile and stone-cold hatred radiating off his gaze and I realized that it wasn't about me at all. 

I was just going to be collateral damage in whatever game these two were playing with each other.

"What do you want?" i said finally.

He gave me a little smirk.

"Come home with me. Now."

I jumped a little.

"Are you crazy.. I .. My father is waiting for me..."

"So? What if you spend a night with me? We're getting married anyway aren't we?" He said causally.

I shook my head quickly.

He fumbled with his pocket and pulled out his phone, turning on the camera and holding it up  till it focused on the pair of us.

"what do you think you're doing?" I said nervously.

His eyes darted to my lips again and I didn't even blink, staring straight ahead as he casually wrapped an arm around me, pulling me close and pressing his lips against mine before lightly clicking on the screen, capturing the kiss on film. I stayed still as he pulled away and casually tapped into the phone. A second later he showed me the phone and my heart skipped a beat.

He had sent the photo to Minho. 

I stood still trying to think straight as dread swept through me.

"imagine what Min Ho will do to you if he gets his hands on you .... " He said casually." Still going to refuse to come home with me? "

i stood there trembling in disbelief.

Min Ho could be aggressively violent when he was angry  I didn't even want to think about what he would do to me. i stared at the shattered phone on the ground .

"You're a psycho."

He smiled then , wide and shameless.

"And you’re my property . I'll go get the car." He said casually, before turning around and heading back in. 

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

I buckled up my seat belt and stared straight ahead, my head spinning with just one thought.

How did I convince this man that I didn't want to fight him?

It was raining now, so damn heavily that I couldn't see a thing in front. Taehyung was driving through deserted streets and I assumed this was where celebrities lived, far from prying eyes. i wasn't particularly scared. Taehyung didn't look like he would physically hurt me . But I could tell that he thought that I was in love with Choi Min Ho.

"Can I just tell you something?" I said finally, deciding on the truth.

"I don't fucking care what-"

I ignored him and jumped headlong into it anyway.

"Min Ho isn't my boyfriend. I just... I've known him for a long time and he cares about me. He's just being a little over protective. He'll get over it soon anyway. It's not like he's in love with me or anything . I just... my father really wants this marriage to work between us and I really don't want to disappoint him. It's okay even if we don't have a real marriage. I just don't want my father to be unhappy.  " I took a deep breath risking a glance at him.

He didn't reply, staring straight ahead as he drove carefully through the late evening traffic.

"Are you listening?" I said impatiently and screamed when his hand shot out suddenly, gripping the top of my thigh so hard that searing sharp pain shot up through my leg. I gripped his wrist, yanking it off my leg and glared at him in stunned surprise. 

He looked like art, his side profile so flawless that I wanted to puke a little.

"Two things. Don't interrupt me when I'm driving.  And Two. Don't go on hour long rants until I ask you to, which will be...let me guess... never. Since it's the first time I'll forgive you. and if you think, for a second that I care about your father or your fucking oppa or your goddamn feelings, now would be a good time to get rid of those delusions. I'm marrying you. It will be a  real  marriage in  every  sense of the word. I want children. I want you to cook dinner for me when I come home every night, send me off with breakfast and let me between your legs when I ask you to. "

I clenched my fist, anger bubbling over and threatening to spill over as a scream. I almost did but then stopped.

My mother's voice came into my conscience soft and soothing,  

raise your words, not your voice. 

"I'm enrolling in University next week so you'll have to hire someone instead. I'm not going to be your maid. ." I said firmly

Taehyung laughed at that.

"Are you honestly that naive? Who's going to pay for your fucking tuition huh? Sure as hell ain't going to be me. And trust me, if your father interferes, I won't think twice about shutting him down. I'm your husband. I get to decide whether or not you go to a damn college and honestly, I really don't see the point. You're going to spend the rest of your life taking care of me anyway? You don't need anything more than what the Good Lord gave you between your legs ...."

I should just stab him with a kitchen knife in his sleep.

" I don't know why you're acting like a bastard but I hope you get over yourself and actually think like a decent human being for once. This isn't really funny anymore. " I whispered.

Taehyung scoffed.

"It's cute that you think I'm joking. I'm not. Choi Min Ho deserves to rot in hell and he's going to pay for what he put me through. And experience tells me that nothing hurts him more than someone coming near his precious Yerinie...." He drawled.

"Look, i get that you and him have some bad blood or something but you're the worst kind of coward if you want to drag me into it." I said frustrated and upset.

"Maybe. I'm not looking for your damn approval, anyway . I can't let you go back to your father's because something tells me that son of a bitch is probably waiting to get his hands on you. " He swore.

What kind of paranoid nonsense was this?

"Minho is not insane like you!!" I snapped.

Taehyung scoffed.

"Yeah, right. He's a fucking murderer is what he is!" He shouted .

I opened my mouth, ready to give him a piece of my mind , when I got flung across the dashboard, the belt digging into me and keeping me from crashing through the windscreen as Taehyung stepped on the brakes, so fast the car skidded, turning 180 degrees before coming to rest on the side.

The Van came out of nowhere

I gripped the dashboard when the car came to a halt, winded and heart pounding. Through the haze of the rain I could see a black van and a figure jump out of the back seat.

Next to me Taehyung groaned and I watched as he gripped the steering wheel tight staring out at the figure. Recognition flooded his face and he snarled.

"Fuck!! Fuck !! Fuck that bastard, I'm going to fucking rip his head off!!" Taehyung was storming out of the car, flinging the door open and climbing out, the rain drenching him within seconds. He leaned back  in, sticking his hand underneath his seat. As I watched, horrified, he pulled out a huge golf club, hitting the tip on his palm before turning back around , murder written large on his face.

I could only watch as he stalked over in the rain, raised the club high over his head before bringing it crashing down on top of the  windshield shattering it before swinging it down again  and putting a dent on the hood. 

I screamed, fumbling with the seat belt.

 I had to get out of here. 

Kim Taehyung was out of his  mind!

But the moment I stepped out of the car, a hand closed over my hair, fingers gripping the strands at the back of my head, yanking me so hard that I lost my footing, knees scrapping against the rough gravel as I got dragged upright.

"Jagi... where do you think you're going?"

Choi Minho.

Stunned, I kicked out, eyes watering from how hard he was gripping me. The pain didn't last long, Taehyung's foot coming out of nowhere and kicking him right in the chest till the older stumbled back , grunting in surprise. I rubbed my scalp and stared as Minho pushed back, landing a few strong punches on Taehyung, who was already bleeding from the corner of his mouth.

"What are you doing?!!" I screamed , sure that this was some god-awful dream. Both of them stopped and stared at each other, sopping wet as the rain poured down on us, glaring daggers.

"If you fucking touch my wife again , I'll rip your heart out with my bare hands!" Taehyung snarled and Minho scoffed, swiping at the blood trickling down his cut lip. Instinctively I felt worry. Choi Minho was a little too much but i didn't want him hurting. I moved, almost reaching for his arm but Taehyung's fingers closed over my wrist, cutting off circulation and pining me to his side.

"Your wife? Delusional much! She fucking belongs to me and you know it!!" He snarled, diving for Taehyung again. I screamed as they went down in a splash of rainwater, landing on the gravel trying to pummel each other to death.

"Stop it ! What are you..." I couldn't finish, blinded by  sudden flashing lights and then there was another car skidding to a halt in front of us. Taehyung and Minho stopped, moving away from each other and jumping to their feet looking like death.

The car door opened and I felt a sigh of relief.

I watched as Minho's older brother stormed out looking furious.

"You little trouble makers , I swear to God I should just call the cops and end your fucking lives once and for all" He shouted and Minho froze, grimacing.

"Try something like this again and I will fucking end you. !" Taehyung snarled, fingers curling around my arm as he yanked me away. Minho fixed his gaze on me and shook his head.

"You think this is over, Kim fucking Taehyung??! I will destroy everything you love!!" He screamed.

Taehyung turned and gave him a cold glare.

"You already did , you fucking piece of shit. I hope you burn in hell for it!"

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

"Stop looking like I'm going to eat you up." Taehyung commented mildly, punching in the digits to his security code while I shivered next to him. Every inch of me was sopping wet, dripping rain water into the expensive carpet of the hallway. The condo was clearly worth a few millions at least and  I felt ( and probably looked ) like a sewer rat i. I gave him a tired look.

"You're welcome to try. I'll scratch your eyes out." I muttered and he let out a laugh.

"Fiesty. I can see why that guy pants after you so much."

I sighed, too exhausted to fight back. Once the door opened, I stepped into the condo, feeling even more out of place. Taehyung's apartment was more convenience than style, I thought, staring bleakly at the unfamiliar furnishings and the stark black and white decor.Each perfectly polished surface was adorned with a certain type of artifact or decoration, the overall theme somewhere between modern and youthful. I stared at the paintings on the wall, abstract splashes of color against the snow white walls , offset by the thick black frame each one was imprisoned in.

"The guest bedroom is there and you can go get a good night's rest. It locks on the inside, so don't stay up all night worrying if i might come in. We probably have to meet reporters tomorrow and I'd rather you not look like a raccoon. So get a good night's sleep. " He said casually, slipping out of his jacket and tossing it on the couch.

"Call my father and tell him I'm here." I said softly and he grinned.

"Abeonim  would probably want to move the wedding date up. Is that okay with you?" He sneered.

I stared at him, refusing to rise to the bait.

I didn't spare him a glance, moving quickly to the smaller bedroom and locking myself in. I double checked the lock, making sure it didn't open , before dragging myself to the bathroom.

I peeled off the drenched clothes, suddenly aware that I didn't have anything to change into. It was already nine and I could feel hunger pangs begin to claw at my insides. But starving was a lot better than going out and breathing the same air as Kim Taehyung. Groaning, I turned on the hot water and stood under the spray, letting it warm me a bit. Afterwards, I rinsed my clothes in the small tub, using shampoo for want of anything else. I would have to wear those again tomorrow .

I picked at the gravel that was lodged into my skin, the bruise slowly growing darker and congealed blood sticking to my skin like paint. I grit my teeth and cleaned it up as much as I could, wincing from the dull throb combined with the sting.

There was nothing in the closets or the linen cupboard except for a single towel. Sighing in defeat, I wrapped it around my hair, towel drying it and my body before slipping into the sheets, feeling like a sitting target. Being naked in a bed with Mr. Psycho a door away felt mildly suicidal. I mourned the loss of my phone, thought of my father waiting for me to get home. Hopefully the crazy guy would at least tell him.

Slowly sleep took over and I found myself drifting off to sleep.

I woke up to the sun streaming into the room, lighting the bed. The first thing that stuck me was that I wasn't naked anymore.

I stared down at myself, the white t-shirt and decidedly  male  boxers looking completely out of place on my body and I clutched at the covers, mortified. What on earth?

I opened my mouth, ready to scream bloody murder when a familiar voice came drifting through the door to the bedroom. ( it was ajar and it stuck me that I was a complete idiot. This was his house. Of course he had a key to get into the guest bedroom, what had I been thinking?!)

"She's probably still asleep, sir. " Taehyung was saying and I felt a pang, knowing how much my father liked boys who called him sir. My father loved guys who respected elders. One of the things he had always told me about Taehyung was the latter's love for his family. The way he put family above anything else. And I could tell from the way he talked to my father that he really did consider him family.

Trying to smother the painful tug on my heartstrings , I crawled out of the bed, slowly making my way out.

"Yerinie!!" My father rushed to my side, looking anxious." Are you okay, child?"

I nodded, unable to bring myself to look at Kim Taehyung.  He saw me naked.

"I'm fine daddy. Sorry about last night." I said quietly and my father nodded before pressing a bag into my hands.

"Taehyung asked me to bring you a change of clothes. Go get yourself changed." My father said briskly and I finally risked a glance at the guy. He wasn't even looking at me, carefully setting the table for breakfast and filling a glass with milk.

I sighed in defeat.

Half an hour later, my father had left with promise to meet us at the company where people would be interviewing us about Taehyung's ' accidental posting' of the photo in the fan cafe.

"There are some interview questions here that we should probably go over." Taehyung said casually, before giving me a once over.

If he says anything I swear to God, I'll rip his fucking tongue off.  

I grudgingly moved to the table and sat next to him. I tried to cram all the insipid information he fed me, about where we'd met, what we liked about each other and a couple more cheesy questions. About half way through, his phone began buzzing next to me and I glanced at the phone.

Choi Minho.

Oh, God.

Taehyung gave me a wide smile.

"Pick it up." He said casually. I jumped.

"What?"

"I said pick the phone."

"I'm not-"

"PICK THE DAMN PHONE!!!!" he brought his palm down on the table with such force that the decanter full of water fell over, sloshing liquid all over the table.

I went still, heart pounding inside my rib cage as i fumbled with the phone, sliding the little green icon to attend the call.

"Hello..."

"You filthy fucking whore..."

"Oppa.. what..."

"You fucking had sex with Kim fucking Taehyung after everything I told you!! What kind of a slut are you?!!" He sounded like he was a syllable away from an aneurysm and I bit my lips, too stunned to reply.

"I did not. Why would you think that?!!" I cried out, stunned.

"He sent me the damn pics, you little bitch!! I saw you naked and in his bed with him... But you know what, if you think this is going to keep me away from you. You're dead wrong. Just be sure that when I do get my hands on you, I'll..."

I hung up, stunned and disoriented.

"You sick bastard." I whispered, staring at him as my voice trembled. He grabbed his phone , fumbled with it and then slid it across the table to me.

There on the screen was a photo of me in bed. I was facing away from the camera, nothing except for the soft white sheet over my waist, my back bare and stark against the black sheets. But I wasn't alone. Taehyung lay on his side next to me, shirtless, grinning into the camera  and offering a middle fingered salute.

He'd sent that pic to Minho.

I wanted to puke.

"Why.. Why would you do this...?" I said stunned .

He smiled.

"I told you. He's going to hell. But I'm just gonna repay him for all the shit he put me through before I send him there. And you better listen to me. unless you want that pic to land on the fancafe too."

This time I couldn't stop the bile that rose up.

Running to the bathroom, I lost my breakfast all over the commode, gasping for breath as sick disgust began to spread all over my skin.

Outside the bathroom Taehyung made a noise of impatience.

"Get ready. We have an interview in an hour. "

[lsttcs]

It Starts the Jersey Standard Ring Corners

A song on the radio was overheard and gave inspiration to the most official of supplies. A terse and business neutral salt played like those we could not tell if they were rust remains or shadows top of our reflexive. It played at an IC timer around major masonry and stoops of benches, regardless of preceiver’s knowledge of with or without benches. It started them, so tin in finish that it was morally comatose whether these things were hanging. It was every trudge or grasp’s agreement but what they were. On the radio somewhere else “I never thought it would come to this.” Same song? There is no rating. We hide in holes and notes copulate with wind instruments.

Keep Klobbsin my Heartbeat

A new sonata. The shear number of said sonatas can desensitize you, if you framework aware, stumble upon it’s notational digit timer of quantity, or you affectianados (everyone sucks except for the poster image, created General Mills, division, Life, Cereal being) get your tentacle doos involved with those compositions. Towards every piece in their right refer is of cartridge? Well it’s chaotic, but as it’s the only thing worth listening to, every boring take at age for whatever it is can round out now stated year lengths until the refer, sips, might as well be, dead, kill ‘em dead Cereal Box Poster Boy! 50 out of 50. Makes me feel 30 again. 1! First place

Big Gigantic Say My Name de-a speak

Times the one now we have Quine and we’ve done that before the finger hurting. We all voted except me for Jill Stine. I had a baby, I’m smoking, the wrestler tapping shoulder hit song, mixed my name, the biggest misses and as reviwed- big gigantic and samples. Grow up to be a musician like that other baby weird made. They living wrong ones but ate many, me.

Cold Case Reopened DMV. OMI Dals

House of printing. Why would the staple no the emblem. Trick was we go free. Not illegal. Can I get a bud light hop scotch maybe they will get them asylums are for and buds are for. I can’t I- see it. I can’t see four buds. I can’t see for law as a token to television we have kept photos. They will be in our digital butterfly study version.

Times memento there is

Never held a real WiFi as the picture. Sacred. Does never thing coming exclusive vote on continuum and warrants complete feet shoes. It’s not to stay the same way you’re always after getting it as. Could talk to refer and layer up there are effectinados of all in one as won too thing and waves pristine. 

Run Sun Bushes Complaints

An outlying city smells like a crazy kind of capital well and well by minute and flowerful standards outlying a capital. Crazy kids moving in an out biting down like the dust from their teeth as they play zombie like their famous game boxes to advert advertisements!And of course to like a jingle, to like an ignore. They’d only get about four of them. That’s how far their minds stretch to the cheaters, the worst people; themselves off event to what is factual and causial, themselves sticking. Let’s hope they get lots of neighbors because these bushes grow. 25 24 23 22 21 21? The dust is harmless and the place brings us together.

A nice reproduction of the scholastic club

The one man trotting can be well adigenied for such as, writing, ice, reprocessing, and melting. So when it’s the most force you know the sauna will give you lab and as and so as such we make rebirths daily on why were so cactus. Ordered the burrito book bundle. Do you be leave they hot me? They gave me my truth and I waded. Truest misspelling. Muses. And in touch restaraunt.

As the Rounding of the Four Kinds of Failure

Packed snow, why we come there? The center album, how does news fit in a cassette disk? Well it corrects. Missed what I forgot platform. Ice on the swoges... There was an older announcer! He wrote about socks, literally. Someone said “nice ankles” and he was cold. This is what we feed off of. So it actually is that world, expect dumb, storm; scale.

So as do I yeallll. Reaches response. Retrofit

Wags one happy   Ged. Factual. Speculative. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm. And do I sopsD++ was

Fort scoops Toss Bark correct Term

Little critter but one of us leaves on loggy, wobble, trust. Can get a drip on my trail. I stink my methods back and curl the packed goes. Same paper phospori, it balls. They’re gonna get them. Where the needles go is a staple. We know it’s thundering down. They’ll get them and set us free to one poster as sleays. The poster of the weather. And the balance. Perverts. Keep sheath longer. Fierce and growth wear of berry, so far under the real in. Smelt a hole like a face on what looks like

The problem with Sterile-Gennics in the Literature Publishing World

The nature to delve into a hobby or a passtime is regulated by the hegemonics of our cultures and doctrines, those hegemonics are at the whim of the trials, strife, trepidation, and changes of our world’s sects of securities. Something widely acceptable or pressable creates it’s own world. You have the, do you delve in to the, is this kind, do you follow such. When it is not safe for suppossed outsiders to create and consign their own literature, is it wise to say it’s safe to have a public sphere of literature commerce and communication. Perhaps the whole arena is in a flawed balance. When will there be pages, right? When will we be secure and happy? Whose writ to trust?

I guess it’s not time for everybody, by Jesqual Raymond, as read

Can You Write Style Lit Hedge (gold 290apczx)?

To build a home thought lost on the vocation ungratituitized but we stay an age concerning size by the appendage that blocks our pens, our keyboards, not with three display of evidence (same movie though) but by one object of that same evidence as at least apparent as three, in reverb, and being and sentient, in tethering. The games of aiming stuff so we can take your size to any outrageously decorated tiki or tribal bar and get what was had by such of us,  

run train, drink, meal, your only concern? 

Trains rush to magnets. Though it might have finagled the ionosphere, though still hit you. 

Perhaps the big stuff, galactic compositary fennel? They only keep them evident in their static state because they must drip corrosive agitating acid out of their builds at those moments, and ew, gross. Don’t match wrong and understand the nature of everything, pig, size, house?

We burn a reference t-joke

Bad clothing everywhere. They must be voting on the poem I don’t have the pet name to scroll to and the statitude I don’t have the wealth to research from. So instead once. It was an ordinary day. A friend was told about a debate about the axiom of voting in a proto platform. Heat seats and engineering. Bad fashion, bad but this is who we are. Sitting on the seat warmers. So one day you reach foundation platform proto to the eight. That hot. A course and fucking the treck. We are so colored as a infiltration and of our disgust. That’s how they ran the ones who didn’t care from they looked but were off put in those social instances by how they looked. So they ate a lot of my media. Cataloguing is a media. They didn’t smell, t-shirts! But with Pittsburgh in the World Series and not even a single Pirates shirt, they had eaten me. And so, here I am. A captain of creating more. The show is automatic. They keep coming. And so do the layers. Some players would call it more than design, some design, treasuary, intelectualism. The wood grains. Horrible. They ate my media that I have bled, sweat, cried, and fucked for. And next I get the infiltrates $100 Captain and Cranberry. To the subconcious. They’ll soon smell like the football with out that. Sports of called shots and babies of fingers not stretching. It didn’t go out of the park. They ate the pleasure reference and it goes around. Lump sums and tresspassing. I have nothing against the industry other than it should be spectoral but I can’t protect their foulness much longer. They serve Bud light, they serve Jameson. They wear clean new clothes. It was a show.[the trick is I wrote this about the good fashion sense wearing one bad outfit]

A Masked Tarkovsky Wind up Boarding Route

The things estranged from our favorite show to never walk far along in culture, I mean choose right, MythBusters has the last retro jukebox of it’s sort, in one kind of truth, out, one sort of distance. We seed four types of film schools, one part of the five act system should come free, it’s to our products. These presidents.were there. Though, the closest thing I had to collaborative assistance, at 4:04, threw the- we went through this together, I hope my enthusiasm of this height- anthematic has grasped.

On our and only our Sectionism

Only lodged complaint you can rectify is a stance thing. Margins, border width. That someone lifted your phone number slightly unknowingly with google voice. Then you could have a digression section in our paper because we are under staffed. Until then, at this level of poverty, fall into a pressing, why don’t you.

The Cover no More Pain

Throughout our great nations, centers, abodes, and nooks the wellspring of the pageantry of the automation of donestification are gleaming to a vibe they can handle and itching at trying the pulley of their trades and tariffs. This is made at the expensive of the advent of plastic in music mixology art and liner covers and the closest thing to canibism of the array and diospora, most easily reduced into the canibalism of the sanctimony of wind as a current and the kitchen utilization of the group and transit’s temporal. All across the world those in more dated to completion of containment are licking their lips for these professionals and vigilantes.

Letters to the Editor

Things I don’t like... Baseball jokes and baseball weights. Nostalgic bats and guitar lesson bass lines, heavy but one or two times. Non payout drinking games, such, frozen, staring too hard at Nascar Racing for extra payouts under fruit. Relationship as manifest section on resumes, those as buffers and bristles. 

Lost and found

Frumogate with Lickly case:series phone, found at I hope the airs stays good. It seems agrandiose to state it like this but we print truth so we’re repeating it. It was notified to us

Lost every finger print they had to slide in on a label of baking powder. Found at the heighest circular squared cylinder

The Fluff Compass tack 209 pen. Send fifty from your life savings to the first person on your money transfer application whose username starts with a J, second word smaller to retrieve.

A stiff collar. Where people meet. “The capable against the incapable.” Stated as, in a case of four.

Time Capsule:

By sitting too close to the tap, covid manuscript was lost all that remains sucked, funny gifs. This is the style of some writing of the last ten years. We remain deleted in this section due to our class of typeface preparing tech precious to us. May all live happy and healthy.

As a Represational there Are 3

Three cigarettes from the window. Forgot the name. In ten years to be third. Reminder this, this is the riddles Section.

We are sad And Smiling Through LimeSlices

Collected Caps 1111 321 4752

Advertising Department 1111 144 4418

Art Director 1111 538 7091

Writing Department 1111 890 9000

Parole Repositianry 1111 531 6805

Grand Euolgic Epiathy Repository 1111 176 4523

From forthcoming life as human whatever PIECE 90’s-2021 “Or did we mess up?””🗒a, is that two pages collaborative pressing. March/7/21. Not about a single syndrome and certainly not a single employer. Love you I said. 

-‘to write so nicely it must further be given to engineering ‘no hearts looking’’-our staff