#Crooks of the Waldorf

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Crooks of the Waldorf by Horace Smith. London: John Long, 1930. Dust jacket illustrator unknown. The book recounts "the escapades of Joe Smith (no relation to the author), the house detective at the original Waldorf Astoria on 34th Street and Fifth Avenue (now the site of the Empire State Building.)"

Below is an excerpt from the book. It can be read online here, but can't be downloaded as anything other than a JPG.

Top photo: Stuff Nobody Cares About Bottom screenshot: University of Michigan

[terrainofheartfelt]

Dair + Christmas

Dair + Christmas

“...And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap — You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mommy wear a kerchief in any context.”

Blair smiles to herself as she pads down the hallway, following the sound of Dan’s low, animated reading, interspersed with light, tinkling giggles from another, smaller voice. 

“Why not?” the tiny voice asks. 

“Oh, she’s just very picky about her accessories.”

Blair rolls her eyes, peeking around the doorframe to see the two of them: Dan, his stockinged feet hanging off the end of their daughter’s twin-sized bed, an old, illustrated hardcover in his hands, and Lizzie, tucked in the covers and tucked up under her father’s arm so she can see the pictures as he reads. She’s not quite old enough to make out the words on the page yet, but that doesn’t stop her from trying. 

“When out on the lawn –” 

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, honey?” Dan asks, unbothered by the interruption—they were expected and encouraged during storytime.

“What’s a sugarplum?”

“Oh, a sugarplum is what your mother calls me when she wants something.”

Blair clears her throat loudly, and Dan meets her eye with a grin, unrepentant. 

“Want to jump in, Waldorf?” 

She shakes her head, leaning on the doorjamb. “Just listening.”

His eyes hold hers, and do that soften-darken thing that they do, and then Lizzie wriggles next to him, demanding his attention, and he drops a kiss to the top of her kerchief-less head before he continues reading, the sight of them together tugs in Blair’s chest in a way she can’t quite explain, even though she’s felt it a hundred times before. 

She keeps her post at the door, listening to the rest of the poem, biting back laughter at Dan’s Santa voice (which sounds an awful lot like Sean Connery), and rolling her eyes at every other goofy answer he gives to Lizzie’s questions. When he knows she really needs an explanation, he’ll give one, honest and sincere, but mostly he just goes straight for the laugh. And with Lizzie, it’s easily won. 

“...and to all a goodnight!” he finishes with a flourish. “And to you,” he adds pointedly, ruffling Lizzie’s hair, “a goodnight, because it’s lights out.”

“Wait, one more!” Lizzie presses her cheek to his side, brown eyes going wide and pleading. “Please?”

Dan makes a doubtful hum, and strokes a finger down the slope of her nose. “But Santa can’t come until you go to sleep, Dizzy Miss Lizzie.”

“But I’m not tired,” she protests, even though her eyelids are drooping lower by the second. Her mother’s daughter through and through. 

Dan, knowing this, arches an eyebrow. 

“Pleeeease?” she tries again. “Sugarplum?”

Blair has to turn her face to the wall to smother her laugh.

“Alright, alright,” Dan says tightly, like he’s holding back laughter of his own, “but just because it’s Christmas.”

Despite how hard she’d lobbied for it, their little girl conks out halfway through The Polar Express, dozing soundly in the crook of Dan’s arm before the protagonist even loses his bell. 

“Pushover,” Blair whispers playfully after she shuts the door behind them. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dan loops an arm around her waist, steering her back down the hall. “Come on, Mrs. Claus, let’s put out these presents so I can get my long winter’s nap.”

One word prompts

[starshipsofstarlord]

Hi🥰 Congrats on 2k!!! For your blurb night, can I request the reader taking sleeping pills while her and Tom were waiting for their flight and Tom decides to mess with her when they already landed, telling the reader that they missed their flight and stuff like that?

Resting up for the flight

Pairing | Tom Holland x reader

Summary | Based on the request

Warnings | use of sleeping tablets, cheeky Tom, references to sex

2K blurb masterlist

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

“Don’t be one of those whities who claps when the plane lands, or as of right now, arrives.” You sighed, watching at Tom huffed at your reference, and glared with false betrayal towards you. The line that creased in the margin between his brows amused you, it showed the affect that you were having on him, to which was purposeful.

“Some days, i really hate that you were a fan before this arrangement.” He moved his finger in the space between the pair of you, hinting heavily at the secluded relationship that you were vouched in. It was true, you had been a supporting human within the base of his career audience, but you had no regrets throughout that phase, it had gotten you to where you were now; with Thomas Stanley Holland, the man that had once been a crush, and now, the infatuation was reciprocated, and more realistic.

“How are other days of this arrangement?” You sat up higher in your waiting area seat, looking him directly in the face with executing and wide eyes. “I mean, I’m sure there are a few benefits that I could easily take away, and forbid you from, with a simple word that has you aching to apologise for being so high and mighty about being a celebrity that I used to enjoy watching on a screen.”

“Used to?” He scoffs, shaking his head as he adjusts the cap on his head, leaning back further into the functional furniture of the aircraft. “So, if I believe that I am hearing you correct darling, no longer do you clench your thighs together when you see me through our television in that Spider-Man suit, nor do you take pleasure from seeing me when I get out of it either.”

“Nope.” A smirk covered your face, albeit accompanying your clear lies, that he saw through clearer than he could a window. But you saw this, as an opportunity. It would be easy to rile him up, and frustrate him for the rest of the three hour plane wait, leaving him lonely, and craving to irritate you in return, although, it would be impossible.

He watched your hands with laser eyes as you rifled through your hand bag, locating your pills that you had been permitted to have aboard the flight. To be more specific, they were sleeping pills, that would knock you out into a deep slumber, during the entirety of the time whilst the vehicle was in flight. “Night babe.”

The smirk remained, mocking him as you spilled a couple pills out into the palm of your hand, rolling them under your thumb as you sent him a wink, tossing the small medical pebbles into your mouth, as you reached for his water bottle, which aided in swallowing the tablets.

“Night dear.” Tom replied, as he watched you return the plastic and recyclable container that was filled with water, before your lashes fluttered inaudibly, resting on the beneath of your eyes, as you softly shook your head, before resting the side of it upon his shoulder, nuzzling into him, and inhaling his scent before sleep kidnapped you from consciousness.

A sigh left your lips, as you rubbed your cheek alongside the woollen texture of his black hoodie, feeling how his fingers toyed with the frontal strands of your hair. You could still smell his deodorant, it made you hum at the familiarity, and so the actor realised, that you must’ve forgotten of your attempts of burdening him with coupling annoyance.

“You awake baby?” His accent rendered through your ears, making your nod against him, alongside a small, and meek ‘yes’, that brought an adoring smile onto Tom’s face. “Good. I have to tell you something...”

His silence afterwards had you awakening from your deviant sluggishness, your lids peeling up as tucked into the crook of his elbow, glancing up at him with curious and crusty cornered eyes that had collected dust from your tiredness.

“Wait, what is it Tommy?” You licked your lips expectedly, the corners of your lips tugging up as he pressed a gentle and sweet kiss upon your forehead, retracting slightly, as his hand brushed upon the side of your face. “Tell me sweetie.”

“We um, you looked so pretty sleeping, and - we missed our flight...” instantly you tugged back to get a whole gaze over his face, a gasp pulling from your throat as you stared at him with utmost terror. You had to get home, if you did not, then your boss would be on your ass, and keeping hours of your pay check for your late arrival home.

“No.” You spoke, your lips rubbing together as your mind spiralled in a tornado of overthinking. “You should have woke me up Tom! We’re gonna have to buy new tickets, and who knows when they’ll be for. Next week probably, because they were booked for the holidays. I’m screwed, Waldorf is gonna fire me, and I need that damned promotion!”

Your hands raged in the air, grasping your head from shock as they shook frustratedly, your fingers pulling at your hair, as you glanced away from him, and towards the ground. “Maybe you shouldn’t have taken those tablets.” Tom muttered, his remark causing you to fill yourself up with rage, just as he wanted.

“So it’s my fault, because I was asleep? You were awake Tom, and -“ you stopped yourself from saying any more as your boyfriend began to cackle amusedly, covering his noir with his hand as you managed to hold up your glare on him. “And what are you laughing at Thomas?”

“Our flight is in twenty minutes.” He stated, smirking as you lightly kicked him and crossed your arms over the other. “Don’t pout, it’s hot, like really hot, but you’re not doing it for the reasons i want. And now, you aren’t even speaking to me, so that’s fun.”

“I can’t believe you made me feel bad.” You threw your hands up, exasperated by the situation, as you felt washed over with relief, knowing that the pair of you would return home on time, as expected.

“You felt bad? You sounded more like you were angry at me. I think you need to space out your emotions babe, it’s kinda difficult to decipher just how you are feeling.” In a sudden, you turned to him, sucking your cheeks in to compose an expression towards him, as your pupils focused harshly upon him.

“I think I’m going to take those benefits away...” Tom realised that he had messed up, and he was about to try and convince you that his joke was harmless, more so since you were going home, the place where he was eager to reap particular benefits of being with you.

[mysteriesofloves]

List 1 prompt 18

The first Sunday of opening is always the busiest day. They all think it’s odd that she comes here even on her one day off. But it’s the first time she really gets to take it all in, admire all the hard work she put in to make the exhibit perfect, see the faces and overhear the conversations. There haven’t been many things Blair has done that she’s proud of. She supposes they don’t understand her need to savour them.

And besides, it’s not like she has anyone waiting for her at home.

As the sky darkens in its winter-way, the crowds begin to dwindle, off to prepare themselves for another frigid week, until there are only a few faces left in each room. That’s how she hears him.

“She was the only woman Impressionist to be included at the 1874 exhibit, with only this and one other painting.”

The baby in his arms can’t be older than a year, eighteen months at the most. The man himself is a bit unkempt, hair unruly and scruff unshaven and about a dozen other un-things Blair usually looks for in a man. But there’s something charming in the hushed candour of his voice, talking to the baby as if they’re the same age.

It’s not easy to charm her. Which is why she clears her throat and says, “Actually — this one was painted just after that exhibit.”

If he’s startled by the interruption, he doesn’t show it. “My bad,” he says. “I’ve usually got a fact checker.”

“Mom?” Blair says, with a little nod and smile that’s about as subtle as she’s ever been.

“God, no. She’s the exact opposite of a fact checker,” he says, then adds, “And not around.”

She takes a half-step closer. There’s almost no one else there now, and the click of her heel echoes through the room. “With this one, the paint functions in two ways, as a vehicle for depiction and as a physical representation of itself,” she continues, raising a finger. “It creates a conflict between recessionary space, the same technique used in Manet’s Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe.”

When she finally looks back at him, his mouth is slightly agape. She adds, “That’s my favourite painting.”

“It’s...” he shakes his head, letting out a short breath that sounds like a sigh. “Beautiful.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“It absolutely is,” he says. So subtlety is neither of their strong suits. “You come here often?”

“Well, considering I work here, yes.”

He laughs, nodding. “See, my art history might be rusty but my making a fool of myself in front of very pretty women is just as sharp as it was in college.”

Her laugh is small but it still surprises her. He looks delighted by it.

“Dan Humphrey,” he says. “And this is Milo.”

He picks up the small chubby hand and wiggles it around in a wave. Instinctively, she waves back. She must be going soft.

“The writer?”

“You know, he’s trying, but he just can’t find the words.”

Blair purses her lips in an effort to not smile. “I read your latest piece in the New Yorker. It was sharp. Well-observed. Too many adverbs for my taste, though.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I revise the next piece in accordance to the likes of...?”

“Dr. Blair Waldorf.”

“Oh,” he says, which is the customary reaction. But then he smiles. “The curator.”

“People don’t usually read the pamphlet so closely,” she says. What she means is, people don’t usually identify me that way.

Dan shrugs. It jostles Milo slightly. “People don’t usually butt into intellectual conversations between a man and his son.”

“I’ll leave you two alone, then.”

“Please don’t,” he says. It’s quick enough that a younger her might’ve deemed it pathetic. But she thinks it just adds to the charm. “I mean, you obviously know more than I do.”

“Obviously.”

“For his benefit,” he says, shifting Milo from the crook of one arm to the other. “Tell us more.”

So she does. They circle around the entire exhibit until they’re back at the Morisot and the last ones left, Milo dozing off against Dan’s shoulder.

“Milo’s going to be with my dad next weekend,” he says. “But I was thinking of coming down by myself. Are you working next Sunday as well?”

“No,” she says. “But I can be here.”

“Hear that, Milo?” he says, still in earshot and loud enough that he must know she can hear, too. “Daddy’s got a date with the scary gallery lady.”

Blair blushes. God, she’s really going soft.

[starbuckie]

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

challenge: the cbc 1k writing challenge by @captainscanadian​

prompt: “do you treat all your hookups like this?”

pairing: carter baizen x reader

words: 4.7k words

warnings: fluff, angst, assault, swearing, some degrading comments, and implications of the sexy times 

summary: waling up next to one of New York’s most eligible bachelors brings on a lot more than what you expected.

a/n: what’s up y’all! i’ve essentially been dead for the past two weeks, but i’m back! i lost motivation for a bit, but i feel a lot better now, and what better way to come back then a little carter baizen? i ended up writing a lot more than originally intended, but i like the way it turned out. anyways, enjoy, and thank you for all of your support<3 

main masterlist || sebastian stan characters masterlist

As you awoke with a long stretch and yawn, memories of the previous night had you smiling like an idiot. Sunlight streamed from the half-closed blinds of your windows and the smell of coffee wafted to your room from the kitchen. You grabbed your lover’s dress shirt from off the floor and slipped a pair of satin slippers on your feet. 

The night before had been amazing. It had started with a beach reception when you had finally caught his eye. The two of you had been playing a game of cat and mouse during the whole wedding, only giving lustful stares and shy smiles, but when you finally had a hold of each other, your night only got better. The rest of the night had the sounds of only tearing clothes, pants, and moans. 

Snapping out of your sweet reverie, you stared at the man in your kitchen. His bare back was faced towards you, giving a great view of his shifting muscles while he made pancakes. A bowl of mixed berries were laid out on the table, along with strawberry syrup and mugs of Peruvian coffee. “Do you treat all of your hookups like this, Baizen?” 

Carter, finally noticing your presence, turned around and gave you a heartwarming smile. He flipped the last few pancakes over and walked over to wrap his arms around your waist. Burying his face into the crook of your neck, he mumbled, “Haha, cute joke. After everything we’ve been through babygirl, this was definitely not a hookup. And I only treat my favorite person like this, so eat up.” He gestured towards the food on the table and with a quick kiss to your lips, turned his attention back to the pancakes.

You sat in one of the chairs and took a sip of steaming coffee and looked out of the ceiling to floor windows surrounding the room. The New York City skyline would never get old from this view, no matter how long you and Carter had had this penthouse. Sighing, you looked down at your left hand, the sun casting light on the diamond on your fourth finger. 

You had been engaged for only six months, but it didn’t feel like anything new. At the age of 33, you didn’t feel any different than you did ten years before or even ten before that. Hell, you always knew that you would be Carter’s friend, but one drunken night had changed that very quickly.

As your fiance joined you at the table, he set a plate of warm pancakes in front of you. Sure, he could have had your housekeeper, Marybeth do it for him, but he also liked pampering you himself. Together, you sat in silence and stared out the windows. Carter tore his eyes away from the city to study your face. He would never understand how after twenty years of friendship, it ended with him finding his one love and putting a ring on your finger. 

“Hey, baby?” He asked, and you hummed and met his gaze. “How’d we even get here?”

You smirked and replied with, “Well, I walked from the bedroom, but I don’t know about you?”

“Don’t be cheeky,” he said, pinching your elbow. You swatted his hand away and smiled. “Anyway, what I meant to say before I was so rudely interrupted, was how did I end up with the most beautiful girl on the Upper East Side?”

“Well, if I recall, it started with me being fed up with your stupid ass, and you finally confessing that you had been madly in love with me since we were thirteen.”

“And I still am.” He moved towards you to place his lips on yours. “You’re mine now, baby.” You grinned against his lips and went to sit on his lap.

“Mr. Baizen, you’ve had me from the moment I laid eyes on you. With that cute little schoolboy outfit, and your hair! Oh god, remember-”

With a playful glare, he cut you off as you giggled. “We do not need to talk about my middle school style, fiancee, but I will gladly talk about when I fell in love with you.”

“That sounds good.” You smiled at each other and went back down memory lane, into your long, long, shared history.

20 YEARS EARLIER

Looking in the mirror, your maid had finished tailoring your school uniform. When she deemed you presentable she scurried out of the room to help your mother, and you immediately went to call your best friend.

“Carter, are you ready for our first day? We’re finally in eighth grade. Next year I’ll be headed off to Constance and you’ll be going to St. Judes, and there’s gonna be a whole ton of hot guys-”

Your friend’s chuckles were heard through the phone. “Y/N, we haven’t even begun the first day yet.”

“Yes, I know, but we’ll be one step closer to the best years of our lives!” Your mom’s voice called you from downstairs. Oh crap. Only the Lord knew that Andrea L/N did NOT want to be kept waiting. “Okay, my mom’s coming, but we’re coming to pick you up right now. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“See ya soon, Y/N.” You smiled at his voice and responded.

“See ya soon, Baizen.” You hung up the phone and ran to your vanity. Making sure your mascara wasn’t smudged while you had dressed, you spritzed on the Chanel perfume you had stolen from your mother's room. Truth be told, you only dressed up for Carter, but you would never tell him that. 

His parents were two of New York’s socialites, famous and wealthy, so they got along well with your parents. Though your dad didn’t pay too much attention to you, your mother made sure you kept up with your grades and social life. She was always the shoulder to cry on, offering you wisdom and advice. Not to mention, but your mom was a fantastic shoe designer. She was truly the greatest woman you knew. The two of you grew up closely with his sister Caroline, from the time you were babies to now. Caroline had gone to a boarding school in France in the fifth grade, but that didn't tear your friendship, and only made it stronger. However, while you stay poised and polite, Carter had always had a bit of a bad boy streak. Albeit, he was charming and sweet, sometimes too much for his own good, but the two of you were opposites. Yin and yang. Sun and moon. At the age of thirteen he was the Upper East Side’s darling sweet-talker, who had girls and boys alike fawning over him. 

Including you.

You never realized when you had started developing feelings for your friend, but it was a huge shock to you. It helped that he was cute as hell, but you got to see the sweet side of him, that was respectful and caring. He always made sure you were comfortable and happy, giving you a small sliver of hope that he liked you back. You always helped him, whether it was being a wingwoman, or giving him schoolwork, you were always there at his beck and call. 

The next seven years were absolutely painful for you, however. In high school, he charmed the skirt off of every single girl at Constance, and constantly blew you off for hookups and dates. When he was cut off and went to travel the world, you called him to make sure he was okay, though he always seemed fine to you. You stuck with him through everything, and the more you went on, you barely knew the man who claimed to be your best friend. 

Dating Serena was the last straw. You were twenty-one, studying political science and business to hopefully one day become a lawyer. Your father had disapproved of your majors, but your mom fully supported you. 

Sighing and putting your textbook away, you stood up and went to put something on for the party you were invited to. Normally, you would have stayed in your NYU dorm, but Carter had miraculously managed to get you to leave, claiming you needed to meet his girlfriend, who you didn’t know at the time. You grumpily slipped on a champagne sequin dress, and grabbed your white stilettos to match. After hailing a cab, you were off to Blair Waldorf’s house, unknowingly driving to the end of you and Carter’s friendship.

You had to admit that the party wasn’t half bad. Blair certainly knew how to decorate, and it wasn’t hard to believe, considering her mother was the infamous designer, Eleanor Waldorf. You bumped into a lot of old classmates from your high school years, and grudgingly exchanged greetings. When you finally found Carter, he had his arm slipped around the waist of a pretty blonde, making your heart drop to the pit of your stomach. He turned around, and let out a smile that normally would have made you happy, but instead filled you with dread. 

“Y/N! You made it! This is Serena Van der Woodsen.” As you went in to hug your friend, you were stopped by none other than Serena's hand stuck out for you to shake. 

“Hi, it’s so nice to meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard so much about you.” You stared into her blue eyes, and were immediately filled with envy and irritation.

You had no right to be mad. You knew Carter could date whoever he wanted, but at this point you didn’t care. Exhausted, you started to yell at the couple.

“Really, Carter? You go off to travel some other goddamn countries and come back to date a high schooler? A child? Who the hell do you think you are?” The entire room went silent, all of their attention focused solely on the college girl who went crazy. Serena stared at you, absolutely dumbfounded. As she came to her senses and started to yell back, Carter stopped her.

“Y/N, let’s go outside,” he gritted out. His eyes were burning red, and you could tell he was furious, which was never a good thing.

However, at this point your emotions were so heightened that it rivaled his anger. Once the two of you were outside the building, he started lecturing you. “What the fuck was that, L/N? I introduce you to my girlfriend, and you start yelling at her. You have no control over who I date, and you have absolutely zero right to insult them. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

He knew he had hit a sore spot there. He knew your deepest insecurities, how you were self-conscious about your body, and how you were saving yourself for the one. No one had ever looked at you throughout high school, and even if they had, you would’ve been too blinded by Carter to see any of them. He had always had you wrapped around his finger.

You chuckled mirthlessly. “You are such an asshole, Baizen. I have been there for you for years. I was always there to make sure you had done your homework, I looked after you, I fucking lied for you. I have done everything for you, and for fucking what?”

“So you yell at my girlfriend? I never knew you could stoop so fucking low, Y/N.” He glared at you, on the verge of tears, and saw that your face was already wet as well. “Oh, poor you. Cries whenever someone raises their voice at them. You had no right to say those things about her. What are you, jealous?”

Your heart stopped beating in your chest. It was the longest five seconds of your life, as tears ran down your face in hot paths, and he stared at you, for once, not knowing what to say. 

“You are.” His gaze turned sympathetic. “Wait, Y/N, I never knew-”

“It doesn’t matter, Carter,” you yelled, “I don’t fucking care anymore. I’m not gonna go on loving you, because it’s never gonna happen and I can’t sit around to wait for you. I’m done.” With that, you left, his last memory of you stomping off into the streets of Manhattan at midnight. 

PRESENT

“That wasn’t my best moment exactly.” You cringed, face flaming from your actions that had taken place that night.

Carter placed his hand on your jaw and rubbed your cheekbone. “It wasn’t your fault, I was kind of an idiot. But in a way, I’m kind of grateful, because that really woke me up to what was happening outside of that little bubble I was in. It made me see what I had lost, and remember that it was you who finally saved me from the hole I was digging myself farther into. You were my hero. Still are.”

You grinned bashfully. “But then we ended up seeing each other two years later at that other party.”

“Oh god, the party,” he smirked, “we had some fun then, didn’t we?”

“I can’t remember, we were both drunk as fuck.” 

10 YEARS AGO

The last two years had changed you. You had still focused on school and kept up with your studies, but the old Y/N was no more. Carter Baizen had ruined your life, and now you were just getting a taste of what you had missed out on in high school. A barrier surrounded your heart, with the one rule of no man staying in your bed for more than a night. You had a reputation to uphold, of course. Every social event now had your name on the attending list, and guys were lining up at your feet for a night with you. Your hair was longer, the clothes you wore out flashier and your style rivaled that of Serena Van der Woodsen’s. You were unattainable and everyone knew your name.

Your father’s private jet flew in on the evening of December twentieth. Merula, your family’s maid, helped carry your bags from the jet and your mom greeted you with tons of hugs and kisses. However, that didn’t last very long, as you had a party to attend. Going up to your old room, you took a quick, yet luxurious bath, and went to fix yourself up. Your old closet was still intact, and you were happy to know that the short red dress you had bought five years before still fit you. After you slipped on the dress and your black heels, you curled your hair in loose waves, and swiped on some dark red lipstick.

You were dead set on getting laid tonight. But then again, when weren’t you?

With a goodnight call to your mom, you ran out to the limo waiting outside your family’s penthouse. Giving the driver the address, you pulled your compact mirror from your Valentino clutch. Flawless. Like any other night. Paying attention to your looks was now tiring. And this life was lonely. You hadn’t had any friends besides Carter at the beginning, but now you were truly by yourself.

Carter. You hadn’t thought about him in a long time. In your furious haze after the incident two years ago, you blocked him on all forms of social media, and ignored any headlines from Gossip Girl including his name. It was lonely, naturally, but you had enough men filling your bed to avoid you from the empty void in your chest. The void that was filled with whispers telling you to apologize, to call him, to take him back, because the truth was that you missed him like hell.

The party was full of college kids, neatly dressed in the chandelier-lit room. Ugh. So far you couldn’t see any lookers. A couple of guys who looked like they were in their late twenties were eyeing you up from the corner, and grabbing a flute of bubbly champagne, you headed in their direction, licking your lips. As you crossed the room, you could feel more eyes on you but you didn’t dare look at them. No, you liked being in charge, controlling the room. Heels clicking against the marble floor, you blatantly checked out the tall blonde in the middle. He was pretty handsome. Cropped hair, a muscular frame, and electric blue eyes that kind of reminded you of Carter. 

Stop thinking about him, go get laid.

You stopped in front of him. “Hey, pretty boy. Can I get your name?” 

He wasn’t even fazed by your flagrant introduction. You were absolutely shameless, and though you received glares from the other women in the room, you couldn’t have cared less. “I’m Steve. What’s your name, beautiful?”

You opened your mouth to speak and Steve’s eyes widened as he saw the figure that shouted out your name, abruptly stopping you. “Y/N?”

Freezing, you prayed that it wasn’t him. His voice that haunted you daily, and made guilt and sadness pool in your gut. It had to have been your imagination. You started again. “Sorry, but I’m-”

“Y/N.” Turning around, you came face to face, well, face to chest with Carter Baizen. He had grown taller since you had last seen him. Even with the noticeably darker bags under his eyes and growing hair, he was still as gorgeous as ever. 

“Hey, Carter.” Steve had walked away by then, not wanting to intrude, but at that moment, he was the only person you needed. Heart beating in your chest, you finally met Carter’s eyes. “How are you?”

His mouth was gaping a little, taking in your form, seeing that it was so much different than it used to be. “I’m good.” Pausing for a moment, he added, “You look great.”

A blush rose to your cheeks and you managed to mumble out, “Thanks.”

“Can we talk?” 

That’s how you ended up outside on an empty balcony overlooking Manhattan. Taxis and honking were heard, but it was fainter due to blood rushing in your ears. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off. “Carter, before you say anything, I want to let you know that I’m sorry. I really am. Last time we saw each other, I knew what I did was wrong, and though I was in love with you, I had no right to be upset.” Sighing, you placed your hand in his. “Can we be good again? I really hate how we left things off.”

Silently, he nodded his head, eyes wide and subtly taking you in again. The last two years hadn’t been kind to him, after Serena dumped his sorry ass, and he ended up with no money and nowhere to run to. His mom had allowed him to stay in the family house for a while, and his father was even giving him a second chance at running the company, but it wasn’t easy for him. He was slowly spiraling down, and only when he saw you did he wake up and take a look at himself properly. He looked like a piece of garbage next to you. He hadn’t even gone to school, and here you were, even more beautiful, which he never thought was possible, and a successful law student at Harvard.

“We’re good, Y/N. I brought you out here for another reason though.” He paused and looked at you as you nodded for him to continue. “It’s been a few years, I know, and I shouldn’t be saying this now, but I miss you so much. These past few years have made me realize how much of a fool I am for you, but God, I’m in love with you, Y/N, I always have been.”

You stood up, anger coursing through your veins. Now? When it’s most convenient for him? No. You needed to get drunk. “I’m sorry Carter, but I fell out of love with you one hell of a long time ago.” Swallowing the lump rising in your throat, you continued your lie. “You made your decision, I made mine. I wanted to be friends, Carter, but I can’t have that laying around us.”

Stomping away, you heard the crestfallen voice of Carter. “Y/N, wait, please.” He stumbled his way over to you, and caught your hand again before you ripped it away. “Please, Y/N, please, I’m in love with you. I’m sorry I was such an ass, I was so stupid, please.”

Tears fell from your eyes as you shook your head. “I need a drink.” 

He numbly nodded as you made your way back inside, asking one of the servers for a gin. You needed to get drunk. It was a necessity at this point, and as you got more and more tipsy through the night, you found your way back with Steve. By now the party had started to get crazier, people making out in corners and drunkenly stumbling everywhere. Steve held you up as you grinded against him, but stopped when you felt his hand go up your dress. 

“No, no thank you,” you slurred.

He smirked, giving you a steely glare. “You’re asking for it with this slutty little dress and winding me up.” He forcibly grabbed your wrists and started to drag you to a bedroom. “I own you tonight, baby.”

Before you could scream, someone came over and punched Steve in the jaw. You were speechless, staring at his already bruising face. Once again, you were being pulled away, only this time, out of the party. The person dragged you back to your place, and your drunken mind asked, “You wanna come in?” 

Without another word, the two of you were attached by the mouth, clothes being thrown haphazardly around your room. Earlier events from the evening wiped from your memories, and you could have only hoped that your parents weren’t home. Falling into your bed, you and your unknown lover tore up the bedsheets for several hours until you both drunkenly passed out.

When you woke up the next morning, you looked up. You silently thanked yourself for closing your windows before you had left the other night, and only then realized you were cold, naked, and in your own room. 

“What the fuck.” You whispered to yourself. Throwing on a robe from your closet, you looked around seeing the scattered clothes from you and whoever you had spent your night with. They were still here.

You flew down the stairs at a record-breaking speed, and slid into the kitchen, risky business style, and saw a familiar head of brown hair sitting at the table. “What the fuck, Baizen?”

Carter calmly turned around, smiling as he blew into his coffee. “Damn, Y/N, good morning to you too.”

Scoffing, you grabbed the newspaper he held in his hands and started to whack him with it. “Ow, what the hell?” He grabbed your wrists to calm you, then pulled out a chair next to him for you to sit. Reluctantly, you sat and frowned at him, raising an eyebrow to ask what happened. “Do you treat all your hookups like this?”

“Did we…” You didn’t even want to finish that sentence.

“Sleep together piss-drunk after you told me you didn’t love me back after two years? Yes, we most certainly did, beautiful.” Though your face burned red at the old pet name, you asked for what had happened. “Well, the asshole you were dancing with tried to get you in bed, but I came over and punched him, while we were both still drunk, and I got you back here, and you offered me to come inside and we fucked.”

Your eyes were comically wide, and he would have found the situation really funny if his heart weren’t beating erratically inside his chest as he awaited your full reaction. “So,” you started, “you're still in love with me.”

He tried not to let his embarrassment show, but his cheeks flamed anyway. You smiled genuinely, but you were terrified of whether he meant it or not. “Do you mean it, Carter?”

You stared into the depths of his eyes and he answered, “Yes. I’m so sorry that I was a horrible, horrible friend to you, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness. And I know you already expressed how you felt about me, and let me say, I understand completely. If you want me to, I’ll walk out of that door right now, and you won’t have to see me again. But if you let me stay , I’ll spend every waking moment of my life making sure you feel happy and loved, and making it up to you.”

He stared at you with pleading eyes, and held your hands gently. Suddenly, stinging tears obstructed your vision, and you whimpered. “I love you, Car,” you gave him a watery smile, “never stopped.”

His eyes started to tear up as well, and smiling you finally pressed your lips to his, taking in the moment. The past few years had been torturous for you both, dealing with the loneliness and pain from your broken friendship, but slowly and surely you two built trust. It took a long time, and you took the relationship slowly, but patience was key, and it was all worth it in the end.

PRESENT

“And now we’re here?” You asked. Carter combed his hand through your hair, the soothing action making you rest your head on his shoulder.

“And now we’re here.” He glanced down at you, smiling and pecking your lips.

“Damn, we had one dramatic-ass story.” He chuckled at that and sighed.

“We sure did, baby. But hey, look at us. We’re on top of the world right now. We have a wedding in a few months, you don’t have any cases, and I have the most beautiful girl in the world in my arms right now.”

You smiled against his neck. “Hey, Car?” He hummed against your hair, looking out the window. The sun had fully risen, making the room glow. “I know we haven’t had this discussion in a while, but are we ready to have kids?” His brow furrowed, but he said nothing. “Car?”

“I mean, sure, we’re both doing so well right now, and we could raise a kid here, right? We’ve got an empty bedroom right across from ours, and we’ve got plenty of space here. I think with the combination of me and you, we’d have a pretty great kid. They’d definitely have my eyes though.” 

“They better have your eyes.” You looked up at him. “So pretty.”

He chuckled and kissed your forehead. “The wedding’s coming up pretty soon though, so we can start trying after that.” You laughed as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Before we get too old.”

You smirked and rolled your eyes. “We’re thirty-three, Carter, we aren’t that old.”

He laughed and said, “I guess you’re right.” Heart beating in your chest, you sighed loudly. “What brought this on?”

You cupped his cheek and took a deep breath. When you had taken the test a week before you had been elated, only to freak out after realizing Carter might not feel the same. But you had been okay for ten years, right? When the two of you had finally gotten together, it did take a lot to find that balance in your relationship, but hell, you were getting married in a few months. Carter was your best friend, number one supporter, and fiance, so you prayed that he would be just as excited. 

“Carter, I’m pregnant.” Looking at him dead in the eye, you hoped that he would be happy. You awaited his reaction for a few seconds, and you wanted to scream in anticipation.

And then you saw it. 

His eyes started to water, and his hands moved to your stomach. ”Really?” He asked, voice wavering. You nodded, eyes beginning to tear up as well.

“We’re having a baby, Mr. Baizen.” You laughed joyfully, as he picked you up by your waist and you wrapped your legs around him. Hands found their way around his neck as he pulled you in for a kiss. 

Tears poured from his eyes, as he laughed. “I love you so, so, much, baby.” Hiding your face in his neck, you giggled some more. “God, we’re having a kid. I swear on my life, I’ll do everything to make sure you and this baby are happy for the rest of our lives.”

And he did. Not such a bad hookup after all, now was it?

[haletwinsstan]

So inspired by @that-crooked-smile I’ve been thinking about casting the Cullens as Muppets and will thus now entertain you with my casting choices but not with nice edits bc we all know I’m not talented like her okay let’s get into it

Miss Piggy plays both Rosalie and Jasper, it’s a stretch but I think she’s got it in her. It isn’t clear when she’s who because she’s mainly just... Miss Piggy

There’s a scene where Edward confesses he watched Bella sleep and Miss Piggy beats the shit out of him we’re not sure who she is then but my money’s on Rosalie

Kermit plays Bella no one else has the range man, I mean the scrunch alone describes so many of Bella’s moods

Edward says he won’t fuck her? Scrunch! Have to go live with my dad in Forks? Scrunch! “You’re my own personal brand of heroin”? Scrunch! Mike Newton says literally anything? Scrunch!

Emmett is played by Animal because same energy

Carlisle would totally tell Emmett to take up a hobby to calm down and Emmett would pick alligator wrestling 11/10

Fozzie Bear plays Esme because the mom friend energy is unparalleled

Edward is played by the Swedish Chef because he has so many weird lines it wouldn’t make a difference if he was doing them in unintelligible ‘Swedish’

Urkeburdevur heroin! Burkurvur spider monkey!!

Sam the Eagle plays Carlisle because 1. He finds out halfway through Carlisle is English and freaks the fuck out and 2. Sam the Eagle is the most tired dad friend I’ve ever seen

They bribe Sam to keep playing Carlisle by also promising him the role of Garrett in Breaking Dawn

Alice was the hardest but I think Gonzo the Great would make a fantastic Alice because he’s got huge eyes that can open super wide whenever Alice has a vision

Plus major crackhead energy comes off him too

Bonus: the Volturi are just Statler and Waldorf who roast the fuck out of the Cullens and then send them on their merry way

[96harmony96]

Chapter 2

Just before I exited the elevator into the vestibule of Waters Field & Leaman, the advertising firm I worked for on the twentieth floor, Lauren whispered in my ear, “Think about me all day.”

I squeezed her hand surreptitiously in the crowded car. “Always do.”

She continued the ride up to the top floor, which housed the headquarters of Jauregui Industries. The Crossfire was her, one of many properties she owned throughout the city, including the apartment complex I lived in.

I tried not to pay attention to that. My mom was a career trophy wife. She’d given up my father’s love for an affluent lifestyle, which I couldn’t relate to at all. I’d prefer love over wealth any day, but I suppose that was easy for me to say because I had money—a sizable investment portfolio—of my own. Not that I ever touched it. I wouldn’t. I’d paid too high a price and couldn’t imagine anything worth the cost.

Megumi, the receptionist, buzzed me through the glass security door and greeted me with a big smile. She was a pretty woman, young like me, with a stylish bob of glossy black hair framing stunning Asian features.

“Hey,” I said, stopping by her desk. “Got any plans for lunch?”

“I do now.”

“Awesome.” My grin was wide and genuine. As much as I loved Cary and enjoyed spending time with him, I needed girlfriends, too. Cary had already started building a network of acquaintances and friends in our adopted city, but I’d been sucked into the Lauren vortex almost from the outset. As much as I’d prefer to spend every moment with her, I knew it wasn’t healthy. Female friends would give it to me straight when I needed it, and I was going to have to cultivate those friendships if I wanted them.

Setting off, I headed down the long hallway to my cubicle. When I reached my desk, I put my bag and purse in the bottom drawer, keeping my smartphone out so I could silence it. I found a text from Cary: I’m sorry, baby girl.

“Cary Taylor,” I sighed. “I love you . . . even when you’re pissing me off.”

And he’d pissed me off royally. No woman wanted to come home to a sexual clusterfuck in progress on her living room floor. Especially not while in the middle of a fight with her new girlfriend.

I texted back, Block off the wknd 4 me if u can.

There was a long pause and I imagined him absorbing my request. Damn, he texted back finally. Must be some ass kicking u have planned.

“Maybe a little,” I muttered, shuddering as I remembered the . . . orgy I’d walked in on. But mostly I thought Cary and I needed to spend some quality downtime together. We hadn’t been living in Manhattan long. It was a new town for us, new apartment, new jobs and experiences, new partners for both of us. We were out of our element and struggling, and since we both had barge loads of baggage from our pasts, we didn’t handle struggling well. Usually we leaned on each other for balance, but we hadn’t had much time for that lately. We really needed to make the time. Up for a trip to Vegas? Just u and me?

Fuck yeah!

K . . . more later. As I silenced my phone and put it away, my gaze passed briefly over the two collage photo frames next to my monitor—one filled with photos of both of my parents and one of Cary, and the other filled with photos of me and Lauren. Lauren had put the latter collection together herself, wanting me to have a reminder of her just like the reminder she had of me on her desk. As if I needed it . . .

I loved having those images of the people I loved close by: my mom with her golden cap of curls and her bombshell smile, her curvy body scarcely covered by a tiny bikini as she enjoyed the French Riviera on my stepdad’s yacht; my stepfather, Richard Stanton, looking regal and distinguished, his silver hair oddly complementing the looks of his much younger wife; and Cary, who was captured in all his photogenic glory, with his lustrous brown hair and sparkling green eyes, his smile wide and mischievous. That million-dollar face was starting to pop up in magazines everywhere and soon would grace billboards and bus stops advertising Grey Isles clothing.

I looked across the strip of hallway and through the glass wall that encased Mark Garrity’s very small office and saw his jacket hung over the back of his Aeron chair, even though the man himself wasn’t in sight. I wasn’t surprised to find him in the break room scowling into his coffee mug; he and I shared a java dependency.

“I thought you had the hang of it,” I said, referring to his trouble with the one-cup coffee maker.

“I do, thanks to you.” Mark lifted his head and offering a charmingly crooked smile. He had gleaming dark skin, a trim goatee, and soft brown eyes. In addition to being easy on the eyes, he was a great boss—very open to educating me about the ad business and quick to trust that he didn’t have to show me how to do something twice. We worked well together, and I hoped that would be the case for a long time to come.

“Try this,” he said, reaching for a second steaming cup waiting on the counter. He handed it to me and I accepted it gratefully, appreciating that he’d been thoughtful about adding cream and sweetener, which was how I liked it.

I took a cautious sip, since it was hot, then coughed over the unexpected—and unwelcome—flavor. “What is this?”

“Blueberry-flavored coffee.”

Abruptly, I was the one scowling. “Who the hell wants to drink that?”

“Ah, see . . . it’s our job to figure out who, then sell this to them.” He lifted his mug in a toast. “Here’s to our latest account!”

Wincing, I straightened my spine and took another sip.

* * *

I was pretty sure the sickly sweet taste of artificial blueberries was still coating my tongue two hours later. Since it was time for my break, I started an Internet search for Dr. Terrence Lucas, a man who’d clearly rubbed Lauren the wrong way when I’d seen the two men together at dinner the night before. I hadn’t gotten any further than typing the doctor’s name in the search box when my desk phone rang.

“Mark Garrity’s office,” I answered. “Camila Cabello speaking.”

“Are you serious about Vegas?” Cary asked without preamble.

“Totally.”

There was a pause. “Is this when you tell me you’re moving in with your billionaire girlfriend and I’ve got to go?”

“What? No. Are you nuts?” I squeezed my eyes shut, understanding how insecure Cary was but thinking we were too far along in our friendship for those kinds of doubts. “You’re stuck with me for life, you know that.”

“And you just up and decided we should go to Vegas?”

“Pretty much. Figured we could sip mojitos by the pool and live off room service for a couple days.”

“I’m not sure how much I can pitch in for that.”

“Don’t worry, it’s on Lauren. her plane, her hotel. We’ll just cover our food and drinks.” A lie, since I planned on covering everything except the airfare, but Cary didn’t need to know that.

“And she’s not coming with us?”

I leaned back in my chair and stared at one of the photos of Lauren. I missed her already and it’d been only a couple of hours since we’d been together. “she’s got business in Arizona, so she’ll share the flights back and forth, but it’ll be just you and me in Vegas. I think we need it.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled harshly. “I could do with a change of scenery and some quality time with my best girl.”

“Okay, then. She wants to fly out by eight tomorrow night.”

“I’ll start packing. Want me to put a bag together for you, too?”

“Would you? That’d be great!” Cary could’ve been a stylist or personal shopper. He had serious talent when it came to clothes.

“camila?”

“Yeah?”

He sighed. “Thank you for putting up with my shit.”

“Shut up.”

After we hung up, I stared at the phone for a long minute, hating that Cary was so unhappy when everything in his life was going so well. He was an expert at self-sabotage, never truly believing he was worthy of happiness.

As I returned my attention to work, the Google search on my monitor reminded me of my interest in Dr. Terry Lucas. A few articles about her had been posted on the Web, complete with pictures that cemented the verification.

Pediatrician. Forty-five years of age. Married for twenty years. Nervously, I searched for “Dr. Terrence Lucas and wife,” inwardly cringing at the thought of seeing a golden-skinned, long-haired blonde. I exhaled my relief when I saw that Mrs. Lucas was a pale-skinned woman with short, bright red hair.

But that left me with more questions. I’d figured it would be a woman who’d caused the trouble between the two men.

The fact was, Lauren and I really didn’t know that much about each other. We knew the ugly stuff—at least she knew mine; I’d mostly guessed her from some pretty obvious clues. We knew some of the basic cohabitation stuff about each other after spending so many nights sleeping over at our respective apartments. she’d met half of my family and I’d met all of her. But we hadn’t been together long enough to touch on a whole lot of the periphery stuff. And frankly, I think we weren’t as forthcoming or inquisitive as we could’ve been, as if we were afraid to pile any more crap onto an already struggling relationship.

We were together because we were addicted to each other. I was never as intoxicated as I was when we were happy together, and I knew it was the same for her. We were putting ourselves through the wringer for those moments of perfection between us, but they were so tenuous that only our stubbornness, determination, and love kept us fighting for them.

Enough with making yourself crazy.

I checked my e-mail, and found my daily Google alert on “Lauren Jauregui.” The day’s digest of links led mostly to photos of Lauren, in black tie sans tie, and me at the charity dinner at the Waldorf Astoria the night before.

“God.” I couldn’t help but be reminded of my mother when looking at the pictures of me in a champagne Vera Wang cocktail dress. Not just because of how closely my looks mirrored my mom’s—aside from my hair being brown, long and straight—but also because of the mega-mogul whose arm I graced.

sinu Cabello Barker Mitchell Stanton was very, very good at being a trophy wife. She knew precisely what was expected of her and delivered without fail. Although she’d been divorced twice, both times had been by her choice and both divorces had left her exes despondent over losing her. I didn’t think less of my mother, because she gave as good as she got and didn’t take anyone for granted, but I’d grown up striving for independence. My right to say no was my most valued possession.

Minimizing my e-mail window, I pushed my personal life aside and went back to searching for market comparisons on fruity coffee. I coordinated some initial meetings between the strategists and Mark and helped Mark with brainstorming a campaign for a gluten-free restaurant. Noon approached and I was starting to feel seriously hungry when my phone rang. I answered with my usual greeting.

“camila?” an accented female voice greeted me. “It’s Magdalene. Do you have a minute?”

I leaned back in my chair, alert. Magdalene and I had once shared a moment of sympathy over Corinne’s unexpected and unwanted reappearance in Lauren’s life, but I’d never forget how vicious Magdalene had been to me the first time we’d met. “Just. What’s up?”

She sighed, then spoke quickly, her words flowing in a rush. “I was sitting at the table behind Corinne last night. I could hear a bit of what was being said between her and Lauren during dinner.”

My stomach tensed, preparing for an emotional blow. Magdalene knew just how to exploit my insecurities about Lauren. “Stirring up crap while I’m at work is a new low,” I said coldly. “I don’t—”

“she wasn’t ignoring you.”

My mouth hung open a second, and she quickly filled the silence.

“she was managing her, camila. She was making suggestions for where to take you around New York since you’re new in town, but she was doing it by playing the old remember-when-you-and-I-went-there game.”

“A walk down memory lane,” I muttered, grateful now that I hadn’t been able to hear much of Lauren’s low-voiced conversation with her ex.

“Yes.” Magdalene took a deep breath. “You left because you thought she was ignoring you for her. I just want you to know that she seemed to be thinking about you, trying to keep Corinne from upsetting you.”

“Why do you care?”

“Who says I do? I owe you one, Camila, for the way I introduced myself.”

I thought about that. Yeah, she owed me for when she ambushed me in the bathroom with her catty jealous bullshit. Not that I bought it as her sole motivation. Maybe I was just the lesser of two evils. Maybe she was keeping her enemies close. “All right. Thank you.”

No denying I felt better. A weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying around was suddenly relieved.

“Something else,” Magdalene went on. “she went after you.”

My grip tightened on the phone receiver. Lauren always came after me . . . because I was always running. My recovery was so fragile that I’d learned to protect it at all costs. When something threatened my stability, I ditched it.

“There have been other women in her life who’ve tried ultimatums like that, camila. They got bored or they wanted her attention or some kind of grand gesture . . . So they walked away and expected her to come after them. You know what she did?”

“Nothing,” I said softly, knowing my man. A man who never spent social time with women she slept with and never slept with women she associated with socially. Corinne and I were the sole exceptions to that rule, which was yet another reason why her ex sent me into fits of jealousy.

“Nothing more than making sure Angus dropped them off safely,” she confirmed, making me think it’d been a tactic she’d tried at some point. “But when you left, she couldn’t chase after you fast enough. And she wasn’t herself when she said good-bye. she seemed . . . off.”

Because she’d felt fear. My eyes closed as I mentally kicked myself. Hard.

Lauren had told me more than once that it terrified her when I ran, because she couldn’t handle the thought that I might not come back. What good did it do to say that I couldn’t imagine living without her when I so often showed her otherwise with my actions? Was it any wonder she hadn’t opened up to me about her past?

I had to stop running. Lauren and I were both going to have to stand and fight for this, for us, if we were going to have any hope of making our relationship work.

“Do I owe you now?” I asked neutrally, returning Mark’s wave as he left for lunch.

Magdalene exhaled in a rush. “Lauren and I have known each other a long time. Our mothers are best friends. You and I will see each other around, Camila, and I’m hoping we can find a way to avoid any awkwardness.”

The woman had come up to me and told me that the minute Lauren “shoved her dick” in me, I was “done.” And she’d hit me with that at a moment when I was especially vulnerable.

“Listen, Magdalene, if you don’t cause drama, we’ll get by.” And since she was being so forthright . . . “I can screw up my relationship with Lauren all by myself, trust me. I don’t need any help.”

She laughed softly. “That was my mistake, I think—I was too careful and too accommodating. she has to work at it with you. Anyway . . . I’ve taken up my minute. I’ll let you go.”

“Enjoy your weekend,” I said, in lieu of thanks. I still couldn’t trust her motivation.

“You, too.”

As I returned the receiver to its cradle, my gaze went to the photos of me and Lauren. I was abruptly overwhelmed by feelings of greed and possession. she was mine, yet I couldn’t be sure from one day to the next whether she’d stay mine. And the thought of any other woman having her made me insane.

I pulled open my bottom drawer and dug my smartphone out of my purse. Driven by the need to have her thinking as fiercely about me, I texted her about my sudden desperate hunger to devour her whole: I’d give anything to be sucking your cock right now.

Just thinking about how she looked when I took her in my mouth . . . the feral sounds she made when she was about to come . . .

Standing, I deleted the text the moment I saw it’d been delivered, then dropped my phone back in my purse. Since it was noon, I closed all the windows on my computer and headed out to reception to find Megumi.

“You hungry for anything in particular?” she asked, pushing to her feet and giving me a chance to admire her belted, sleeveless lavender dress.

I coughed because her question came so soon after my text. “No. Your choice. I’m not picky.”

We pushed out through the glass doors to reach the elevators.

“I am so ready for the weekend,” Megumi said with a groan as she stabbed the call button with an acrylic-tipped finger. “A day and a half left to go.”

“Got something fun planned?”

“That remains to be seen.” She sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Blind date,” she explained ruefully.

“Ah. Do you trust the person setting you up?”

“My roommate. I expect the guy will at least be physically attractive, because I know where she sleeps at night and paybacks are a bitch.”

I was smiling as an elevator car reached our floor and we stepped inside. “Well, that ups your odds for a good time.”

“Not really, since she found him by going on a blind date with him first. She swears he’s great, just more my type than hers.”

“Hmm.”

“I know, right?” Megumi shook her head and looked up at the decorative, old-fashioned needle above the car doors that marked the passing floors.

“You’ll have to let me know how it goes.”

“Oh, yeah. Wish me luck.”

“Absolutely.” We’d just stepped out into the lobby when I felt my purse vibrate beneath my arm. As we passed through the turnstiles, I dug for my phone and felt my stomach tighten at the sight of Lauren’s name. she was calling, not sexting me back.

“Excuse me,” I said to Megumi before answering.

She waved it off nonchalantly. “Go for it.”

“Hey,” I greeted her playfully.

“camila.”

I missed a step hearing the way she growled my name. There was a wealth of promise in the roughness of her voice.

Slowing, I found I was speechless, just from hearing her say my name with that edginess I craved—the sharp bite that told me she wanted to be inside me more than she wanted anything else in the world.

While people flowed around me, entering and exiting the building, I was halted by the weighted silence on my phone. The unspoken and nearly irresistible demand. she made no sound at all—I couldn’t even hear her breathing—but I felt her hunger. If I didn’t have Megumi waiting patiently for me, I’d be riding an elevator to the top floor to satisfy her unvoiced command to make good on my offer.

The memory of the time I’d sucked her off in her office simmered through me, making my mouth water. I swallowed. “Lauren . . .”

“You wanted my attention—now you have it. I want to hear you say those words.”

I felt my face flush. “I can’t. Not here. Let me call you later.”

“Step over by the column and out of the way.”

Startled, I looked around for her. Then I remembered that the Caller ID put her in her office. My gaze lifted, searching for the security cameras. Immediately, I felt her eyes on me, hot and wanting. Arousal surged through me, spurred by her desire.

“Hurry along, angel. Your friend’s waiting.”

I moved to the column, my breathing fast and audible.

“Now tell me. Your text made me hard, camila. What are you going to do about it?”

My hand went to my throat, my gaze sliding helplessly to Megumi, who watched me with raised brows. I lifted one finger up, asking for another minute, then turned my back to her and whispered, “I want you in my mouth.”

“Why? To play with me? To tease me like you’re doing now?” There was no heat in her voice, just calm severity.

I knew to pay careful attention when Lauren got serious about sex.

“No.” I lifted my face to the tinted dome in the ceiling that concealed the nearest security camera. “To make you come. I love making you come, Lauren.”

she exhaled harshly. “A gift, then.”

Only I knew what it meant for Lauren to view a sexual act as a gift. For her, sex had previously been about pain and degradation or lust and necessity. Now, with me, it was about pleasure and love. “Always.”

“Good. Because I treasure you, Camila, and what we have. Even our driving urge to fuck each other constantly is precious to me, because it matters.”

I sagged into the column, admitting to myself that I’d fallen into an old destructive habit—I’d exploited sexual attraction to ease my insecurities. If Lauren was lusting after me, she couldn’t be lusting after anyone else. How did she always know what was going on in my mind?

“Yes,” I breathed, closing my eyes. “It matters.”

There’d been a time when I’d turned to sex to feel affection, confusing momentary desire with genuine caring. Which was why I now insisted on having some sort of friendly framework in place before I went to bed with a man. I never again wanted to roll out of a lover’s bed feeling worthless and dirty.

And I sure as hell didn’t want to cheapen what I shared with Lauren just because I was irrationally scared of losing her.

It hit me then that I was off balance. I had this sick feeling in my gut, like something awful was going to happen.

“You can have what you want after work, angel.” her voice deepened, grew raspier. “In the meantime, enjoy lunch with your co-worker. I’ll be thinking about you. And your mouth.”

“I love you, Lauren.”

It took a couple of deep breaths after I hung up to compose myself enough to join Megumi again. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yes. Everything’s fine.”

“Things still hot and heavy with you and Lauren Jauregui?” She glanced at me with a slight smile.

“Umm . . .” Oh yes. “Yes, that’s fine, too.” And I wished desperately that I could talk about it. I wished I could just open the valve and gush about my overwhelming feelings for her. How thoughts of her consumed me, how the feel of her beneath my hands drove me wild, how the passion of her tortured soul cut into me like the sharpest blade.

But I couldn’t. Not ever. She was too visible, too well known. Private tidbits about her life were worth a small fortune. I couldn’t risk it.

“she sure is,” Megumi agreed. “Damn fine. Did you know her before you started working here?”

“No. Although I suppose we would have met eventually.” Because of our pasts. My mother gave generously to many abused children’s charities, as did Lauren. It was inevitable that Lauren and I would’ve crossed paths at some point. I wondered what that meeting would have been like—her with a gorgeous blonde on her arm and me with Cary. Would we have had the same visceral reaction to each other from a distance as we’d had up close in the Crossfire lobby?

she’d wanted me the moment she saw me on the street.

“I wondered.” Megumi pushed through the revolving lobby door. “I read that it was serious between you two,” she went on when I joined her outside on the sidewalk. “So I thought maybe you’d known her before.”

“Don’t believe everything you read on those gossip blogs.”

“So it’s not serious?”

“I didn’t say that.” It was too serious at times. Painfully, brutally so.

She shook her head. “God . . . listen to me pry. Sorry. Gossip is one of my vices. So are extremely hot women like Lauren Jauregui. I can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to hook up with a gir whose body screams sex like that. Tell me she’s awesome in bed.”

I smiled. It was good to hang out with another girl. Not that Cary couldn’t also be appreciative of a hot guy, but nothing beat girl talk. “You won’t hear me complaining.”

“Lucky bitch.” Bumping shoulders with me to show she was teasing, she said, “How about that roommate of yours? From the photos I saw, she’s gorgeous, too. Is she single? Wanna hook me up?”

Turning my head quickly, I hid a wince. I’d learned the hard way never to set up an acquaintance or friend with Cary. He was so easy to love, which led to a lot of broken hearts because he couldn’t love back the same way. The moment things started going too well, Cary sabotaged them. “I don’t know if he’s single or not. Things are . . . complicated in his life at the moment.”

“Well, if the opportunity presents itself, I’m certainly not opposed. Just sayin’. You like tacos?”

“Love ’em.”

“I know a great place a couple blocks up. Come on.”

* * *

Things were going well in my world as Megumi and I headed back from lunch. Forty minutes of gossip, guy-ogling, and three awesome carne asada tacos later, I was feeling pretty good. And we were returning to work a little over ten minutes early, which I was glad for since I hadn’t been the most punctual employee lately, even though Mark never complained.

The city was thrumming around us, taxis and people surging through the growing heat and humidity as they crammed what they could into the insufficient hours of the day. I people-watched shamelessly, my eyes skimming over everyone and everything.

Men in business suits walked alongside women in flowing skirts and flip-flops. Ladies in haute couture and five-hundred-dollar shoes teetered past steaming hot dog vendor carts and shouting hawkers. The eclectic mix of New York was heaven to me, stirring an excitement that made me feel more vibrant here than anyplace else I’d ever lived.

We were stopped by a traffic light directly across from the Crossfire, and my gaze was immediately drawn to the black Bentley sitting in front of it. Lauren must’ve just gotten back from lunch. I couldn’t help but think about her sitting in her car on the day we’d met, watching me as I took in the imposing beauty of her Crossfire Building. It made me tingly just thinking about it—

Suddenly, I went cold.

Because a striking blonde breezed out of the revolving doors just then and paused, giving me a good, long look at her—Lauren’s ideal, whether she’d been aware of it or not. A woman I’d witnessed her fixate on the moment she’d seen her in the Waldorf Astoria ballroom. A woman whose poise and hold over Lauren brought out all my worst insecurities.

Corinne Giroux looked like a breath of fresh air in a cream-colored sheath dress and cherry red heels. She ran a hand over her waist-length hair, which wasn’t quite as sleek as it’d appeared last night when I’d met her. In fact, it looked a little disheveled. And her fingers were rubbing at her mouth, wiping along the outline of her lips.

I pulled my smartphone out, activated the camera, and snapped a picture. With the proximity of the zoom, I could see why she was fussing with her lipstick—it was smeared. No, more like mashed. As if from a passionate kiss.

The light changed. Megumi and I moved with the flow, closing the distance between me and the woman who’d once had Lauren’s promise to marry her. Angus stepped out of the Bentley and came around, speaking to her briefly before opening the back door for her. The feeling of betrayal—Angus’s and Lauren’s—was so fierce, I couldn’t catch my breath. I swayed on my feet.

“Hey.” Megumi caught my arm to steady me. “And we only had virgin margaritas, lightweight!”

I watched Corinne’s willowy body slide into the back of Lauren’s car with practiced grace. My fists clenched as fury surged through me. Through the haze of my angry tears, the Bentley pulled away from the curb and disappeared.

[intervieweird]

CARAVAGGIOVAGABOND:

“ I UNDERSTAND YOU. ”

Daniel lays on the bed, four fingers of whiskey full, plied with a fifth of vodka and the stirrings of something frothy in his stomach. He figures he’s got enough booze fermenting in him to make a brewery.

He puts out his butt in the ash tray, burnt to the filter and bland as the scratch in his throat. Everything else in the room swims as he stirs; a blurred wave of neutral tone and unexpressive landscape paintings.

But not those eyes. Those eyes stay right where they are.

“Yeah?” He asks, pleasantly slurred and sluggish, moving his limbs mechanically on the bed to turn and face the creature watching him from the chair. He feels good now. Real good. Warm and tingling all the way to his toes, though the way his brain is having trouble keeping up with his eyes tells him he’s going to feel it in the morning. He just can’t mix his spirits like he used to. “And how’s that?”

caravaggiovagabond: @intervieweird cont. from [x]

The dimly lit, unspectacular hotel room isn’t exactly Armand’s usual preference, but currently he’s given little choice but to follow wherever his current obsession leads him. Tonight, that just so happens to be by his bedside, the young man lying charmingly inebriated across the bed.

To see Daniel in such a state is also not Armand’s preference – he would much rather that he was active, coherent, and fit enough to be dragged from pillar to post all over the globe. Those plans, however, are quite clearly foiled as it’s looking very much doubtful that Daniel will be able to travel even to the bathroom unassisted, never mind anywhere further afield. He dips into the mortal’s mind for just a moment, morbidly curious, but soon pulls away again, the dizzy, room-spinning stupor clouding his thoughts not at all a pleasant experience to him even secondhand.

With a sort of languid, animalistic grace, the vampire slips from the chair that he’s taken up residence in, half-crawling to the side of the bed where Daniel now faces him and crouching beside him at eye level, both arms folded on the mattress near the man’s face, his marble cheek resting against the thick, baggy sweater clothing his own forearm.

“Because we are kindred spirits,” he murmurs, cool, iron-scented breath a sigh against Daniel’s heated cheekbone, amber eyes fixed on him as one fingertip emerges from the cradle of his folded arms to prod at Daniel’s shoulder.

Armand is like a crooked creature, skewed limbs unfolding, too long. A monster. A monster crawling from under the bed and slipping under his skin like an itch. It’s a trick of the eyes, Daniel knows. Mortal eyes; eyes made of cells dying every second. He remembers what Louis told him once, how the undead moved too fast to process with the feeble chemical impulses of the human brain. Maybe it’s the old, primitive vestiges that are telling him to run, run, flight sparking in the dull grey matter, clogged with fatigue and poison.

But Daniel doesn’t run, and he wonders, distantly, why.

He turns towards death at his shoulder, a frown on his face as he fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand.

“Quit poking me.”

His vision blurs, sets, settling into a fixed image of that beautiful damned boy. Daniel peers at him, curious, and he wonders if Armand hears the catch in his throat, the fine movements of the muscles, the ache in his jaw as he feels it clench. “What makes you say that?”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

“Don’t you feel it?”

The words are barely more than a whisper; seductive, addictive, persuasive, a gentle smile twisting the corners of the boy-demon’s mouth upwards at the other’s tense reserve and slurred reprimand. He stops, his fingertip resting only gently now against Daniel’s arm as though in rebellion, staking a silent claim.

“I feel it, Daniel. Your heart sings for me.”

Armand’s sharp fingertip is removed from his arm, slender hand sliding across the mortal’s prone chest to clutch the sheets on his far side, using them as leverage as the boyish frame pulls itself effortlessly upwards. He kneels beside Daniel on the mattress, leaning over him until tangled, auburn curls almost brush his cheek, staring down at him with that frighteningly preternatural, chestnut gaze as though he’s the most fascinating specimen of human life.

His demand is unspoken but nonetheless powerful. He will be taken notice of. Daniel will listen to him.

“Sometimes you run so far and so fast that I almost start to believe you don’t want to be found. Almost.”

Does he? Does he want to be found? Sometimes, no. Sometimes he’s felt the safest in a Fresno flop house or Amsterdam bordello, red light winking at him through the vinyl slats, an unfriendly demon eye, haunting him like his own vision of the devil.

And sometimes - sometimes he’s slumped over a payphone, coins rattling like his fingers on his last pack of smokes, and he calls Armand to take him home.

And isn’t he here now? Didn’t he come? Daniel doesn’t recall the push and the pull, doesn’t remember where the knot of their tug-of-war finally crossed the mark. Armand finds him anyway, in the Waldorf-Astoria or slumming it on a bench in Hyde Park. And as far as he runs, doesn’t Daniel also let him?

“You think?” Daniel growls, scratchy-timbered and aching for a glass of water. But his hand finds its way to touch that cheek - so fucking glacial, his fingertips brushing against a cold steel hull, for all the perfect flesh didn’t give. A chill runs up his arm, to touch this thing looming over him. This beautiful, awful thing. He laughs, low and throaty. “Maybe I should buy a submarine.”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

His beloved’s short-tempered quips might be more painful to hear, were it not for the fact that Armand knows (perhaps even better than Daniel himself does) just how besotted he is. Even were it not for the promise of the Blood, he knows that Daniel could not turn away from him now even if he so desperately wanted to. Their lives and fates have become so intertwined – after all, how could Daniel turn his back on the one person who understands him more than any other?

The reporter’s hoarse laugh has a wry, little smile blooming on Armand’s face all over again, the touch to his cheek pleasantly warm. He turns his head so that those brave fingertips catch just barely on the corner of his lips, dangerously close to teeth that could rip them off without hesitation. He wonders, if Daniel came face-to-face with a wild jaguar would he try to pet that, too?

“You know I could buy that for you too if you really wanted,” he husks against the prone fingers. “But wouldn’t you be terribly lonely all the way down there without me?”

With lazy, feline grace, he topples over, rolling across Daniel to tuck in against his side, writhing his way close beside the boy and resting his pretty, auburn head against Daniel’s shoulder, pressing so tightly against the inebriated young man that he has no choice but to pay notice.

“You could just love me instead, Daniel.”

It’s a strange kind of heaven they make together.

It takes no thought for Daniel to fold around the boy in his arms, to breathe in the copper curls, the slight body crushed, crushing - against him. Armand is so slender, so terribly, deceptively delicate. It’s almost a tragedy, the two of them embracing like this in the wan yellow light, midnight minutes ticking away like so many hours of his life.

“Of course I would.” Daniel murmurs into his hair. Muscles spasm at the corner of his lips, but it’s no smile. “I’d go crazy.”

His hand tremors.

“I would. I do. You don’t need to give me anything. Except the one thing you won’t.”

He regrets immediately, pang like a hot knife cutting through his gut. His stomach cramps, a shiver twisting through him as he swallows back bile. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he wants to say. I didn’t mean it, he wants to confess, and hold that cool body closer against him. But he did mean it, all his wretched viciousness and bitter hooch breath. He meant it, like he meant it all those times before.

“So do it. Goddamnit, why won’t you do it?”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

As quickly as he’s enveloped by the docile affections of his lover, they’re whisked away again as the age old argument once more raises its ugly head. He feels a strange, rather hollow sense of loss as the easy domestic bliss crumbles around them, Daniel’s hand shaking against him with all the bitterness and animosity that the young man can muster towards him.

Face betraying his disappointment, even though the regret underlying Daniel’s brash reaction is prominent against his mind, Armand pulls back, disentangles himself from the embrace as though it’s a punishment, sitting instead straight-backed against the headboard.

“I’ve told you so many times before, Daniel. The answer hasn’t changed. The answer will not change, regardless of how many times you ask me.”

Sad doe eyes glance reluctantly towards his companion, a frown disturbing the otherwise smooth flesh between his brows.

“I couldn’t bear to live with your eternal resentment, my love. Why can you not trust me when I tell you that this - whatever you think it is - is not what you want?”

If you loved me, you would not ask of me the one thing that I cannot give you.

“So you can bear to live with me dead? The fuck am I supposed to feel?” Daniel leans forward, coils of bedsprings protesting against the shift of weight. His feet swing over the side of the bed, barefoot on the whorls of carpet. His back is a faceless, unfriendly plane to Armand, slouched over his knees in as his head bows into his hands.

He can’t bear to look at Armand. He can’t bear that too-knowing, mournful look. Ages old.

“I’ve heard this before.”

From Armand, from Louis, too. It’s no gift, you don’t want this. But Daniel does want it. He can’t help but want it, this singing, killing blood in him. Only in drops! Agonizing, evil drops that Armand would dole out as he saw fit. And what did Armand care about agony it put him through? It’s a selfish, unjust thought. But he still thinks it.

That honeyed voice slithers into his mind, same as it always had. Daniel knows it so well now, he can hear it whispering things to him in the electric pulse of his brain, in the moments before sleep - in his dreams - in his nightmares - when he wakes. He hears it, knows its timbre, its faint accent and the way it sharpens when Armand feels pain, or rage, or the way he’s feeling right now.

“I’m tired.” He sighs. His body aches, and he’s dizzy even when he presses the palms of his hands to blackness against his eyes. And he’s tired of this fighting. Tired of hurting, tired of being hurt.

“I want to go home. Take me home, Armand.”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

In an act of uncharacteristic vulnerability, Armand stays rooted to the spot, moving only to pull his knees upwards to his chest as though trying to make himself smaller, as though wishing he could disappear altogether. He feels chilled right through to his bones by Daniel’s bitterness, the hateful burning of tears already working behind his eyes.

“You don’t know what you are asking me for,” he hisses defensively, his whole posture mimicking that of a coiled viper. “You have so many beautiful years, Daniel, and you would squander them away to become… this!”

In one whip-quick, agitated movement, he gestures towards his own being with one hand before pulling it back in towards himself, covering the palms of his hands with his sleeves protectively.

“Death is better than this, believe me; I’ve seen both and I know which one I would choose - which one any of us would choose - if given my time again.”

Face pinched with pain, he drags his sleeve across his eyes briskly where vicious red begins to well up from his tear ducts, leaving coppery stains smeared across the white cable knit, the evidence of his shame. Truthfully, he can’t even think of turning Daniel, of making him cold and distant, his stomach twisting with some strange, foreign anxiety at the idea alone. He wants to obey Daniel’s wishes, to take him home and forget all of this nastiness, but he CAN’T, the atmosphere too oppressive, choking his voice as he forces it out.

“Don’t you think I realise the consequences of my choice?”

“God damn you!” He grates, suddenly explosive. He moves with combustive, kinetic energy, hand swinging like a mallet against the bedside radio, plastic pieces imploding with a clatter against his fist and falling with a muffled thump against the motel carpeting.

“How the hell can you be what you are and tell me you love me, you son of a bitch.” He rounds on Armand, rage whiting out the image of the huddled, wounded boy curling into himself on the ruined bedspread. “What kind of sick nerve you’ve got. Maybe it was better when you let me starve in that cesspit. At least I came to terms with croaking it. Now you’re killing the both of us. So do the fucking vampire bullshit already. Put me down like a dog. Is it better now, Armand? Is it really any fucking better? I don’t want any goddamn twilight years! I want all of it! I want to be with you!”

His face is feverish, wild and glistening. For all the unsteady, gut-roiling omen of his liver, Daniel holds his ground. He boils with blown-out pupils, sweat pricking at his temples and chest and the soft flesh under his arms. “I want the blood. I want it. What’s the point without it?”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

It’s impossible to suppress an overtly human flinch as the radio goes to pieces and he can’t help but stare at the action bitterly, desperately wanting to reciprocate. One small, white hand balls into a fist, desperate to lash out, but no matter how badly tempted he is, he won’t – he could never put Daniel in harm’s way and with his preternatural strength, there’s no promising his safety were Armand to lose his temper.

“Stop it! STOP IT!”

The hoarse cry boarders on a scream, both fists slamming down either side of him on the old, worn mattress, undoubtedly adding a few more broken springs to its collection.

“How could you do it to me? Why are you doing it to me?”

Staring up at his lover balefully, he can’t stand to hold his anguished stare for long, burying his blood-streaked face in both hands, unrestrained sobs wracking his body now. He isn’t sure what’s worse – Daniel’s rage or the incessant reminder that someday, Armand will have to let him go. He isn’t ready for it; he isn’t sure he’ll ever be ready for it. And as much as it breaks his heart, the thought of cursing him for all time is still inconceivably worse.

“Why isn’t this enough for you, just as things are? Am I not enough for you, Daniel?”

Even Daniel flinches, eyes shuttering like from the flash of a camera bulb. His head turns - involuntary - for only a split second, but he feels stung; wounded by Armand’s naked despair, wounded that even this isn’t enough.

His hands hurt - every fiber of him hurts - a live wire, raw and ragged and sparking. That’s Daniel Molloy, boy-reporter: a ruined man, shorting out and burning himself up from the inside. Is this enough for you? He thinks. Enjoy before your warranty expires.

“Stop it, Jesus, you’re gonna — ” Daniel grimaces, blinking away the sight of Armand on the bed like that, so fragile and so monstrous. He isn’t sure what he meant to say, what words died in his throat as he half looks away, embarassed and ashamed by the nakedness of feeling. "Don’t you dare ask me that. Don’t you fucking ask me that. It’s not the same.”

Light pulses behind his eyes, pulls on the nerves woven through the lattice of his skull like the fistful of a careless child, and he brings up a hand to squint away the pain.

Fuck. Fuck.

“This isn’t some ‘til-death-do you-part’ bullshit vow. Don’t you have any idea what it’s like?” Daniel leans into the pain - it’s pissing him off, sharpening the edge. He offered an out - he did. And he knows it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t real; it was just some half-assed excuse, too tired for this familiar old fight. But Armand wouldn’t let this of all things die, and Daniel found his second wind. “Don’t come at me with pretty words about mortality. I’ve heard it before, from you and Louis and Keats and Neruda and Shelley. It’s all the same.”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

After everything that he’s lived through, consensually or otherwise, Daniel is the only one who, in this day and age, could possibly rip such unfiltered feeling from him – intentionally or otherwise. The intensity of this - of what they are - has such a habit of racing from 0 to 100 in milliseconds; entwined as lovers one moment and a raging war the next. And for what? All because Armand loves him more than Daniel thinks, than Daniel could ever comprehend. Even wretched and enraged, Armand could never bear to part with this and trade it for some cold, dead imposter.

“Then why won’t you listen?” he begs. “Do you think that we all say it for the sake of our hea-ealth?”

His voice, though reedy and underdeveloped, has always been so clear. Now, it is broken with hiccuped sobs and jumping like a scratched record.

“Of course I know what it’s like, I’ve been on both sides, haven’t I? And believe me, I would take death first. I would take death one thousand times before this!”

If it was so simple, if he thought that he could live with himself for it, of course he would change Daniel. But he knows that to do so would be a date worse than death. All of it, from the process of creation itself to the loss of the very essence of Daniel’s humanity… he can’t. He curls in on himself, arms coming to wrap loosely around his torso as though trying to comfort himself, the fight suddenly seeming to drain out of him and leave him helpless instead. He wipes his sleeves across his face and then leaves his wrist there to cover his mouth, to stifle any further cries.

It’s so much easier to be angry. It’s easier when Armand is angry, too. But this - this wretched, hiccoughing misery - Daniel doesn’t know what to do with this. How small Armand looks, folding in on himself in a kind of helpless resignation. Armand - giving up ? - he doesn’t know what it is, but the wrongness of it makes him angry.

How’s this any better? Daniel thinks. Living off crank and cough syrup. Not eating, not sleeping. He hasn’t seen the sunlight in weeks. This isn’t being alive. This is barely being human.

Where the hell do we go from here? It’s as much a thought for himself as a challenge, bold-faced; direct - to Armand. Where the hell do we go?

Daniel stares at him, bleary-eyed, barefoot among the broken things.

“Quit it,” he says lowly. “C’mon, just — ” Just what? Now that’s bad writing, building the suspense without fulfillment. This makes for the shittiest story. Daniel has always loved speculative fiction; worlds parallel to their own, something just close enough to see the reflection of what you know. But something different, something bigger than the awful, looming monotony of an ordinary life. It had been so goddamn simple to transcribe Louis’ words, to insert himself only in the spaces left in-between. “The boy” wasn’t really him, wasn’t really Daniel so much as it had been the world. The audience’s oeuvre into this fucked up, violent, beautiful other life he had tumbled into.

But he’s living it now, or - living alongside it. That’s worse. To be so close to feel it and never to break inside. No matter how many times Daniel might beat his fists against the shell, no matter how it fractures - how Armand fractures - he can find no purchase. And each time, he finds himself slipping, loose and unstrung, falling deeper and deeper into the void. Don’t you see, Armand? One of these days, I’m not going to get out again.

He doesn’t want to write this story anymore. Not now, not that it’s his.

“Goddamn you. So just kill me already. You’re doing it anyway. God damn you.”

Daniel’s fists clench and unclench, casting long, distorted shadows in the shitty light of the flophouse room. He sits again on the bed with the creak of the cheap metal springs, hunched and sullen next to the figure of the wounded boy weeping silently beside him. Daniel says nothing else, staring hollowly at the stain in the peeling wallpaper, imagining it resolving into the shape of a long-legged insect with fractal wings and the smell of blood.

[gotham-ruaidh]

Truth to Triumph

Previously…

Chapter 20: The Waldorf-Astoria

October 21, 1904

A 1903 view inside the original Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. This iteration of the hotel was demolished in 1929 to make way for the Empire State Building, on Fifth Avenue and East Thirty-Fourth Street.

“This room is so ridiculous.”

 Dr. Claire Fraser rolled over to see her husband’s sleepy smile. “How many geese do you think were sacrificed for this mattress?”

 Jamie gathered his wife closer. “Well, we can’t help that Mr. Pulitzer wanted to be so generous.”

 Claire snorted, tangling her legs with Jamie’s as the first sunrays darted through the parted velvet curtains. “This bedroom is bigger than our entire floor at the brownstone. Everyone from our wedding could have fit.”

 “Though it wouldn’t have been as much fun, hmm?” he nuzzled.

 “No,” she agreed – memory full of dozens of images.

 The way the sun shone through the stained glass windows at the Church of the Epiphany, and how Henry’s black leather shoes seemed dipped in color as he proudly carried their wedding rings toward the altar. Her father’s kiss on her cheek, after walking her down the aisle and placing her hand in Jamie’s. The smiling faces of Joe and Gail Abernathy, and Herr and Frau Müller and Petronella and little Clara, and Mrs. Crook and Lizzie and Nanny Fitz, beaming from the front row. How her mother had dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief.

 How Jamie’s eyes smiled as Father Kenneth led their vows.

 Something monumental, said so simply.

 Sealed with a kiss.

 And then the delicious lunch back at the brownstone. Nothing too fancy – cold cuts, a loaf of wonderfully hearty German bread the Müllers had brought from Yorkville, roasted root vegetables, and an apple crisp for dessert. Champagne to toast – then wine, later on.

 Followed by Claire and Jamie – Mr. and Dr. Fraser – surrounded by friends and family as they opened the gifts they insisted they did not need.

 A book of Psalms, from Father Kenneth.

 Two beer steins and a lovely embroidered tablecloth from the Müllers.

 Three bars of Mrs. Crook’s homemade lilac soap.

 Monogrammed handkerchiefs from Lizzie.

 A cozy knit blanket from Nanny Fitz.

 A pocketwatch from Henry – his father’s – and a garnet necklace from Julia – her mother’s.

 And finally, the most monumental gift of all –

 “These are adoption papers for Henry,” Joe Abernathy explained as he handed the small envelope to  Jamie. “You can sign these right now, and I can file them with the court tomorrow.”

 Jamie turned to his son, looking smart in his best suit.

 “Are you all right with that, Henry? May I become your papa?”

 Henry’s small brows creased. “But you already are.”

 “I thought you’d squeeze my hand right off, in the carriage on the way here.” Jamie kissed Claire’s brow, shifting a bit on the impossibly soft mattress.

 “I couldn’t believe it was happening.” She sighed, so happy. “It’s just – ”

 “I know, my love. It’s everything.”

 He pulled back a bit, and she scooted up a bit, and they lay face to face on their shared pillow.

 “Can you believe we have forever together?”

 Tenderly he stroked her cheek. “No. But can you please remind me every day?”

 --

 “WOW!!!”

 Claire rolled her eyes as Henry Fraser darted past her and sprinted straight for the bed.

 “Hello to you too,” she laughed. “Did you miss me?”

 “He was out like a light after the two of you left.” Julia marveled at the sumptuousness of the suite. “You know, I’ve never been to the Waldorf-Astoria. Your father has, for work-related dinners – but I had no idea these rooms were so…”

 “Over-the-top?” Jamie grinned as he kissed his mother-in-law hello.

 “Did you really sleep in here?” Henry’s muffled shout floated from the other room.

 Jamie shook his head and disappeared into the bedroom.

 Julia turned to her daughter – her only living child – and squeezed her hands.

 “How are you, lovie?”

 Claire beamed. “Oh, Mama. I never imagined this would ever happen.”

 Joy bloomed in Julia’s heart. “My darling girl. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

 Tears shone in Claire’s eyes. “I am, Mama. I very, very am.”

 Jamie reappeared, Henry hoisted high on his shoulders. “Do you know what’s even more amazing?”

 “What?” Henry almost vibrated with excitement, reaching up to touch the ornate ceiling as Jamie’s strong hands held him steady.

 “The restaurant! I hope you’re hungry!”

 Their laughter – father and son – echoed in the hallway. Claire’s heart couldn’t feel any lighter.

[bitmiscuous]

@bwaldrfs​​​  :     “If I’m a monster, what are you?”   /   prompt.

✝     ———-  MONSTROSITY      manifests in many forms  /   some haunt the shadows of your mind  ,     infirmities that wait for father time’s nod to strike   .     others knock on windows with crooked ,     spindly fingers during stormy nights .        but most   -    like her  ,     wear skin and bones  ,      and go about unnoticed in a crowd .       in the simplest of forms   ,     when stripped of the shackles of morality and consequence   ,            pain      &       greed      &     love     make     monsters    of us all  .

❝      depends      on who asks .      ❞       an unsatisfactory conclusion  ;     he feeds her with nothing but scraps    ,          denying her the satisfaction of a simple answer  .       ❝        you know better than to ask .      my      monstrosity      pales in comparison to some of your peers  ,     to your own .             you are a cruel little thing  ,        waldorf  .       ❞    

[jellybeanbeing]

Books I Read In 2019 (31 books)

January Books (3)

On the Jellicoe Road by Melina Marchetta 5/5 stars

Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson 3.7/5 stars

Leftovers by Heather Waldorf 2.5/5 stars

February Books (2)

Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo 5/5 stars

Crooked Kingdom by Leigh Bardugo 5/5 stars

March Books (4)

King of Scars by Leigh Bardugo 3/5 stars

Speak: The Graphic Novel by Laurie Halse Anderson, Illustrated by Emily Carroll 3.7/5 stars

Town of Cats by Haruki Murakami 4/5 stars

Saving Francesca by Melina Marchetta 2.5/5 stars

April Books (2)

Daisy Jones & The Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid 4/5 stars

Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood by Marjane Satrapi 3/5 stars

May Books (3)

Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return by Marjane Satrapi 3.5/5 stars

The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater 5/5 stars

The Dream Thieves by Maggie Stiefvater 5/5 stars

June Books (3)

Blue Lily, Lily Blue by Maggie Stiefvater 4/5 stars

The Raven King by Maggie Stiefvater 5/5 stars

Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman 3/5 stars

July Books (3)

Shuffle Repeat by Jen Klein 3/5 stars

A Study in Charlotte by Brittany Cavallaro 5/5 stars

The Female of the Species by Mindy McGinnis 4/5 stars

August Books (3)

The First Time She Drowned by Kerry Kletter 3/5 stars

A Reaper at the Gates by Sabaa Tahir 4/5 stars

I’ll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson 5/5 stars

September Books (1)

The Last of August by Brittany Cavallaro 3/5 stars

October Books (2)

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern 4/5 stars

Hamlet by William Shakespeare 3/5 stars

November Books (1)

Call Down the Hawk by Maggie Stiefvater 4.5/5 stars

December Books (4)

Running in the Family by Michael Ondaatje 4/5 stars

Eliza and Her Monsters by Francesca Zappia 2/5 stars

Radio Silence by Alice Oseman 4.5/5 stars

On the Jellicoe Road by Melina Marchetta 4.5/5 stars

[ontherockswithsalt]

This Charming Man - A New Joble Fic

Summary: Noble Sanfino is a hustler. And for a hundred bucks a pop, he’ll satisfy a man’s urges and send him on his way so he can pay the rent. It’s not exactly a life of luxury, until a handsome and wealthy lawyer named Jamie Reagan gives Noble a taste of that life -- for one week. But in the end, what’ll it cost them both? 

A Blue Bloods/Pretty Woman crossover with adult language and explicit depictions of sex. Rated E.

Author’s Note: This story is an intentional homage to the 1990 movie, Pretty Woman and you’ll see several direct quotes and similar threads of the movie’s plot, twisted and tweaked for Jamie Reagan and Noble Sanfino. The time period is the same, and the story is told in Noble’s POV. :)  

And I need to make a blanket disclaimer that I do not intend to make light of or glamorize the sex worker industry. The movie does, and that tone is carried out similarly in this fic. This is meant to be pure summertime trash and just for fun. I hope you enjoy! 

Chapter 1.

“Tomorrow, your shit’s gonna be on the curb, Noble. And I’m changing the locks!”

“I’ll have your money by the morning!” I shout. “God damn.” Ducking down, I manage a quick glance in the crooked hallway mirror, ruffle a hand across my tamed, wavy brown hair and reach for the door.

Johnny’s hardly ever home, but when he is, he’s barking at me about rent money or the bills. I skate by as best I can and avoid my apartment when I know I’m late and he’s looming. But he’s in this hustle too, he should get it. I’ll manage, I always do.

I swing around the handrail and with quick steps, head down the cramped stairwell. Then I push through the squeaky, gated door onto Catherine Street. Spice and smoke tinge the night air, but if it weren’t for that, I’d say it’s a pleasant and promising September evening. 

I live in Chinatown, four flights above a narrow restaurant called Delightful Food -- and it’s exactly the opposite, I don’t recommend it. 

My life story doesn’t matter. Either I escaped or got lost at some point years ago, but ultimately here I am. A hustler. A rentboy. A prostitute. Whatever, I get paid to do something I’m good at and I don’t let it mean much more than that.

-----

You’re not crashing at my place, Noble. No.”

“A couple days.” I plead, letting my arms fall across the bar. 

“It won’t be a couple of days and you know it." Bianca moves behind her post there, scooping ice into a martini shaker. She lifts out a sticky bottle of tequila and turns it over for a lengthy pour. "My roommate’ll kill me.”

“She wouldn’t even know I was there--”

“No.” She cuts me off. “I already let you drink for free. I’m not letting you live with me for free. Pay your damn rent!”

“It’s this new guy. He wants a fifty percent cut,” I explain. “Thinks he finds us better johns. High end guys, but they’re all bogus.”

“Well you know how I feel about it.”

“Don’t start, Bianca.”

“Fine. Then your two bourbon sours’ll be six dollars.”

With a roll of my eyes, I nod and finish off what’s left of my drink. Pushing back my bar stool, I slide the empty glass her way. “Send me the bill.”

I leave my sister with one curvy smirk before I turn and make my way through the crowded dive.

Once out on the curb at Houston Street, I fish my pack of smokes from the chest pocket of my white polo shirt. Retrieving one, I prop it between my lips and shield the end while I give it a light.

I don’t like to let myself stop and decide how I got here. I do that, and I fall into a spiral of shame and questioning that, in the past, has only led me to worse decisions. 

When I stay in control, at least I’m healthy. And that’s when I make the best money anyway. But it gets harder to hang onto that control when the outlook is grim. And considering I may not have a place to live tomorrow, my mind is already spinning and looking to escape with a tempting hit. Maybe if it’s strong enough, tomorrow won’t exist for me. That’s not such a bad idea.

My corner is on 1st Avenue down in the Bowery. People think all the action these days is in Times Square, which is true for a certain clientele. But with men looking to hook up with other men, most know they’re better off finding it downtown.

When it’s a business transaction, it’s easy for me to detach, to not get offended or judge what someone wants once they’ve paid me. 

But at the same time, I can’t be completely removed. A lot of these johns just want to feel validated, or be charmed or have someone to flirt with and not worry that they’re gonna be jumped or killed or outed. 

And yeah, for the most part, they want to be fucked. Almost always, the guys who pick me up are married -- to women -- and haven’t enjoyed sex for as long as they can remember. 

So it’s a balancing act of pleasing them and looking out for my own ass.

The roar of an engine that sounds far too foreign to this neighborhood snaps my attention. Leaning against a newspaper box, I take my time with a long drag from my cigarette as I watch the slick silver sports car make its way up the block. There’s rent baby. 

And that’s a goddamn Lotus Esprit. Who’s this asshole?

But it sputters at the corner as the driver turns onto Delancey Street and stalls out.

Pushing myself off the box, I start that way, angling my head to peer inside the open passenger window.

Behind the wheel is a guy about my age, neat chestnut brown hair, his face all angles, wearing a suit he doesn’t look comfortable in. But damn, it works for me.

“Hey handsome,” I murmur the casual greeting as I linger on the curb.

The driver turns to look at me, confusion drawn between his brows. 

“You wanna have fun tonight?”

Holding his hands up from the steering wheel as if to stop me right there, he blinks hard. “No, thank you.” Then fumbling with the gearshift, he turns his attention to it and I hear him mutter, “Come on, fucker.”

“Need some help?” I offer.

Managing a deep breath, he sits back a little in his seat. “Yeah, can you tell me how to get to the Waldorf in Midtown?”

“Sure.” My answer hangs there while I lift my smoke for another drag. “For five bucks.”

He coughs out a disbelieving laugh. Oh damn. That stupid boyish smile of his changes his whole face. But it’s quick to morph back into one of disdain. “Five dollars for directions?”

“You’re a long way from Park Avenue.” I shrug, then lean closer to prop my forearms in the open ledge of the window. “Price just went up to ten.”

“You can’t do that,” he remarks.

“I can do whatever I want, babe. I'm not lost.” I hold his perplexed gaze for a moment, gleaming beneath city street lights and the glow from his dash. Then I straighten up only to turn around and lean my weight against the passenger side of his car. 

I hear him shift and I smile to myself at how dismayed he is. It’s pretty fucking cute.

“You got change?” He finally speaks up. 

I turn to see him present a twenty between his fingers. After averting a quick glance down the block and finding it clear, I flick my cigarette to the sidewalk, reach down and pull open the door. 

I drop into the passenger seat and take the bill. 

“For twenty, I’ll show you personal. Head straight, hang a right on First Avenue.”

[terrainofheartfelt]

A Moodboard for Dair Appreciation Week, Day 4 - AU theme

(also in honor of AW, I’ve slipped in a new scene (😏) that I wrote after first posting because my brain loved living in this universe. I’ve pasted the bonus scene below the cut some smut is involved)

a Heart in port | part 2 of floating castle dreams

19k words | Rated E | Companion to the Gossip Girl / Little Women AU 

Futile - the winds - To a Heart in port - Done with the Compass - Done with the Chart! (x)

"Dan takes such care with her now, as if to assure her. But she knows how he loves her, she can feel it in all he says and does."

“Dorota?” she asks absentmindedly. 

“Evening, Waldorf.”

A grin spreads over her face, and she  turns in her seat to look at her husband. “How many times do I have to tell you? My name is Humphrey.”

“Oh I don’t know,” he says as he saunters over to where she sits, “A dozen more at least. I’ll never tire of hearing it.”

Blair laughs, warmth spreading through her chest that has nothing to do with the fire in the hearth. When Dan finally reaches her, she springs up into his arms. 

“Welcome home, love,” she says softly into his ear. “Although, I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.”

He hums. “I know, but I couldn’t wait to see you.”

She pulls back slightly, still in the circle of his arms. “Aren’t you quite the sentimental?”

“So I’ve been told,” he replies with that smirk that makes her heart quicken. Then, unable to wait any longer, she leans up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “God I missed you,” he murmurs against her lips. 

“And I you,” she answers. 

He ducks down for another kiss. “I am never leaving again.”

Blair laughs. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, dearest.”

His hands flex on the small of her back, making her shiver. “Then I am taking you with me.”

“Now those are much more agreeable terms,” she concludes, curving into him and smoothing her hands over his shoulders. “How’s Jenny faring?”

“Oh, perfectly fine. She’s far too busy and important now to even say goodbye when her elder brother leaves town.” 

“Just as she planned then,” Blair teases, making him laugh. “And what of your meeting?”

Dan’s face lights up, his smile wide. “They want to publish it.”

Her mouth falls open, “They do?”

He nods, eyes twinkling. “There’s still some I’ve left to write, and I want you to look at the papers before I sign them, but,” Dan bites his lip, barely containing his excitement, “Karp wants my book. My book.”

Blair’s smile matches his. “Congratulations,” she whispers, suddenly feeling on the verge of tears. 

“Thank you,” her husband whispers back. “For all of it.”

She exhales, a little half-laugh, half-huff of happiness. “I can’t wait to tell the club. V is like to have a heart attack.”

Dan chuckles, but his face falls a little, growing thoughtful. “I don’t want to say anything just yet. I’d rather wait until there is an actual book to show.”

“As you like, I suppose,” she agrees with a sigh, before pulling him back into another hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Surely you must know, it was all for you,” he replies with a kiss to her temple. “You and your bullying.”

She giggles as she pulls away, keeping her arms around his neck, “Then I suppose you had better give me credit.”

“Oh, I intend to,” he says with a crooked grin, before leaning down to kiss her deeply, walking her backwards towards their bed. 

“Wait - Dan, don’t you -” she starts, speaking in between kisses, “Aren’t you exhausted?” Another kiss. “Have you even eaten?”

He shakes his head, his eyes blazing and serious, “I just want you.”

She barely has time to enjoy the shiver of pleasure down her spine before her husband lifts her and playfully tosses her onto their bed. She laughs, but quiets under the intent in his stare as he follows her down. It sends a rush of heat straight between her legs, and Blair pulls him down into a kiss, opening her mouth to his, unable to hold his gaze without doing something about it. 

“Dan,” she struggles to say as he breaks away to leave kisses down her jaw, “you are -” she breaks off with a gasp as his mouth latches on to a spot in the crook of her neck, “entirely overdressed.”

He laughs softly and moves away, but only long enough to rid himself of his clothes. When Dan returns to her arms, Blair hums in satisfaction at feeling nothing but his warm skin under her hands. 

Dan’s own hands slip under her dressing gown, and he moans at the realization that there’s nothing underneath. He scrambles to undo the ties, then pulls the fabric aside, baring her to him. 

“God you’re perfect,” he breathes, his eyes moving over her in awe. Blair feels that now-familiar, heavy tenderness under his gaze, only now their time apart has colored it with impatience (more so than usual). Two weeks was too long, in her opinion, and she desired all of him at once: his mouth, his hands, his cock, and couldn’t bear to tolerate any more waiting. 

Thankfully her Dan doesn’t keep her waiting long. He takes her mouth in a kiss, then moves straight to her chest, kissing her sternum before directing his attentions to her breasts. 

At the first touch of his mouth to her nipple, Blair cries out and pushes him back reflexively, the feeling too sharp, painful rather than pleasurable.

Dan breaks off immediately, looking at her with worry. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she assures him, shaking her head half in answer, half in confusion. “No, I just…” she cups his face in her hand and runs her thumb over his bottom lip, “I want your lips elsewhere.”

Concern remains in his eyes, but he still smirks up at her. “Is that so?” he asks, nipping at her hand before slipping down and settling between her thighs. Blair had meant for him to come back up and kiss her, but she supposes she’ll allow this development. 

Dan gives one long, slow kiss to her core, then pulls away, running the pads of his fingers over her folds. “Is this what you wanted, sweetheart?” he asks lowly, before leaning back in to part her with his tongue.

“Yes,” she moans, her fingers twisting into his hair, “Dan, yes.” 

She tells him so several more times.

Later, they lie together, both satiated, with sweat-slicked skin and sleepy eyes, Dan’s head pillowed on her stomach. 

“You know,” Blair muses, carding her fingers through his curls, “with a homecoming like that, maybe you should go away more often.”

Dan chuckles, “Oh, bite your tongue, Waldorf.”

********************

[winterhawkkisses]

this valentines idea is so cute! would you be able to do a domestic lazy day for winterhawk + lucky for @awstark? thanks sm

Happy Valentine’s, @awstark! 

Clint stumbled out of bed at the usual time, the scratch of claws on hardwood as a gentle alarm. There wasn’t any light to creep around the edges of the curtains, not yet, caught just on the cusp of day; the sleepy orange streetlights had given in to the twilit dawn and everything was held static and waiting for the sun.

There was enough of a routine to this, enough of a pattern that he didn’t bother turning a light on. He stumbled over misplaced shoes in the darkness, grabbed sweatpants and a shirt that was a little baggy across his chest. He scratched idly at his stomach, yawning as he stumbled down the stairs.

The coffee maker wasn’t ready to be switched on like it usually was, and Clint cursed his sleepy midnight safe in nonsensical epithets that were still halfway caught up in the sticky threads of dreams. He shoveled grounds into the machine, switched it on and shoved his travel mug directly under the spout. Something tugged vaguely at the back of his mind, something he’d seen or something he’d dreamed, but his brain was still working at less than half speed and his thoughts were duvet heavy and pillow slow.

A hooded sweater was draped over the back of the couch, a pair of jeans hanging off the side of the stairs; he regarded them for a minute and then pulled the sweater over his head. He pulled the hood up and crooked his neck so he could shove his nose into the shoulder of it, not altogether processing while it smelled so good.

Clint’s bow and arrows were tangled in an unforgiveable mess a few feet inside the front door, and he nudged them carefully to one side and made a mental note to separate them later. Made a mental note to find his phone, too, and possibly his charger, and possibly spin a roulette wheel to find which outlet was gonna work.

Another couple minutes was lost while Clint patted idly at his pockets for his keys - they were usually in his sweater, and it took him a minute to find them in the other sweater that was draped over the kitchen counter. He figured he maybe ought to get one of those whistling key rings they were so hot on back in the ‘90s. Whistling, though, that struck a chord. Clint whistled and listened to the clatter and jingle of Lucky’s approach; apparently he hadn’t followed Clint down the stairs like usual.

His sneakers, at least, were by the front door. Clint stepped into them, the laces loose enough that he was trusting to an unfriendly fate that he wouldn’t have to run. He snagged Lucky’s leash from the door handle and shouldered his way through the front door, letting it gently close behind him without locking it, 'cos there wasn’t much of anything he had for people to steal.

There was still a chill on the morning air but it was shaping up to be a nice day. Clint ducked his head and tucked his nose into the sweater, grinning a little at the smell of it. Good associations. Couldn’t think what they were.

The usual route was dictated by the friends Lucky had made. Mrs Tkacz and her miniature schnauzer came up Quincy just as he was about to close the door, and he grunted a greeting while their dogs got friendly and then helped her inside and up the first flight of stairs with her shopping. By the time he’d jogged downstairs again the sun was peeking along the length of the street and Lucky was eager to get going. Mighta been because of Elvis and his poodle, Anthrax, who had spikes on her collar and a pink bow on her head; she was openly disdainful of Lucky while he panted after her, which Clint identified with on a level that was soul deep.

Some days they’d turn at the end of the street and head for the little park where the bulldogs, Statler and Waldorf, liked to hang out. For some reason Lucky was a little antsy today, though only halfway along their route and already eager to head home, so Clint let him lead the way, sparing a nod for Mr Cox and his cocker as they passed.

He tied Lucky up outside the bodega on the corner, grabbing some toaster pastries and a roll of oreos, pondering shitty corner store coffee 'cos he’d left his travel mug no doubt leaking onto the counter. He had five bucks in his pocket, but it took some fumbling to find it, and when he stepped back out onto the street he basked in the sunlight for a second, reaching back into the pocket of his sweater to find what had tangled around his fingers, there.

For a good thirty seconds, Clint stared down at the cotton-wrapped elastic band, his mouth hanging open. Then he unhooked his dog from the streetlight and raced along the street towards home.

If he hadn’t had Lucky he’d’ve just headed straight up the side of the building, the fire escape a starting point for a route up drainpipes and window ledges. As it was he had to politely hold the door open for Graeme and his Maine Coon - who Lucky kept his distance from these days, 'cos that lesson had been learned - and try not to make his frustration too blindingly obvious as he got stuck behind Mr Bartley’s slow way up the damned stairs.

Clint smoothed his hair before pushing the door open, ushering Lucky inside, and collected up the discarded clothing for convenience’s sake, two pairs of pants, the shirt he’d been wearing, the hooded sweater that actually belonged to him -

When he got to his bedroom door, he was finally awake enough to appreciate it. The sight of Bucky Barnes in his bed. Awake enough to know that it hadn’t been one of his dreams, this time; that Bucky was exactly as good a kisser as he’d always suspected; that somehow he’d persuaded Bucky to stay.

He sat himself down on the edge of the bed, ran a careful hand over Bucky’s shoulderblade and melted as Bucky stretched into the pressure, the part of his face not hidden by the pillow wearing a genuine grin.

“Hey,” Clint said, soft as barely waking, and ducked to brush his lips against the skin of Bucky’s neck. “Morning, sweetheart. I’m so glad you’re here.”

[asecondglassofcinnamonwine]

Harlem Shuffle by Colson Whitehead

Ray Carney is the owner of a furniture store in Harlem, trying to get by and provide a better life for his growing family than he had as a kid. Occasionally his cousin Freddie swings by with a radio or a TV or some jewels, Ray doesn’t ask questions on where they came from, and he sells them on and gives Freddie his cut. Then one day Freddie drags Ray into a much bigger crime: a heist at the ritziest hotel in Harlem - the Waldorf Astoria of black NYC - the Hotel Teresa. They’re way in over their heads, and throw Ray into a crooked life of crime far darker than what he would have otherwise chosen.

[yoosungiib]

RFA + Minor Trio: Christmas Morning (☆ω☆*）

Merry Christmas!!!

Cheritz has done so much for us this Christmas with the 30% off on the Christmas DLC, Mint Eye Special believer package, and the announcement for the release of Ray’s route! I want to give a special thanks to Cheritz for making such a wonderful game and bringing so much cheer to fans around the world!

I want to thank you guys for all the Christmas wishes I have received, and for you guys being so supportive of me and my blog!

My gift to you guys!: I’ve written a mini-fic for Christmas morning with the RFA and minor trio. This is my first mini-fic scenario sort of thing so I really hope you guys like it! I hope this Christmas is wonderful for everyone, filled with joy and presents, and well spent with family! I love you guys, and once again, Merry Christmas!

Please do not request for mini Fics -- I only will do mini fics for the holidays (Christmas, New Years, Halloween, etc.) I only take requests for headcanons, which will be reopening around New Years, I hope. I still have quite a lot to do -- I have 42 in my inbox. Thank you :)

RFA + Minor Trio: Christmas Morning

~~~

★ Yoosung ★

The hours seem to go by endlessly as I lay awake with my cheek squished against Yoosung's chest, the sound of his beating heart ringing in my ear. His arms are wrapped snug around me, keeping me close and secure, safe. I feel as if I’ve been awake for hours; I must have only gotten a couple hours of sleep. But it’s so hard to sleep knowing what awaits under the Christmas tree, and the joy that will come with it being Christmas Day. I’ve always been like a child who is awake at an abnormal time on Christmas because they are so excited.

I bite my lip as I listen to Yoosungs breathing. It isn’t steady like it's normally is when he is sleeping. Right now it is uneven and a little rigid. Being so close to his chest, it’s a bit hard to maneuver my head to look up, but I finally do and I see his eyes wide open, violet orbs staring directly out the window as bits of snow comes down. “Yoosung?” He looks down at me and grins, a small blush appearing on his face as he pets my hair a bit.

“Oh, cutie, you’re awake. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

I grin, nestling my face against his warm chest. “Of course not. How can I sleep knowing it’s Christmas and what pleasures await us,” I say. Yoosung makes a sound of agreement, his hand continuing to play with my hair. “You know,” I start a little nervous, “We could get it up? If you’d like.”

Yoosungs ministrations to my hair stops as he pulls back, looking down at me with the same childlike excitement I have. “R-really?” I nod and he grins. In an instant the both of us are bouncing out of the bed, rushing to put our slippers and robes on before running through the door and to the living room, giggling like children as we flop on the ground besides each other and start to rummage through our gifts.

♪ Zen ♪

“So, Happy Christmas. I love you, baby. I can see a better time, when all our dreams come true.” Zen’s soft singing pulls me out of my deep slumber. Slowly, my eyes peel open as the sun shines through the window on the 46th floor of the Waldorf Astoria hotel in New York. Zen sits on the edge of the bed, his hands by either side of my head as he looks down at me, grinning now that I’m awake. “Merry Christmas, Jagiya.”

“Merry Christmas, Zen.” He bends down for a gentle kiss, the carrase of our lips soft and warm against each others. He pulls back and smiles once again, his hand moving to stroke my cheek and push a few strands of hair behind my ear. I boop his nose, in which he chuckles. “Were you singing Fairytale in New York?”

“It fits the occasion, don’t you think? It’s Christmas morning, we’re in New York, we’re the perfect couple,” he says, his voice becoming quieter as he leans back down to kiss me some more. With my hands in his long silver hair, I greedily accept the kiss but pull him back up quickly.

“You have heard the part where they start criticizing each other, right?” You laugh as his eyes widen a little bit and his face becomes slightly pale as he thinks back to the song. He smiles impishly as he rolls next to me in the bed, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me against him.

“We’ll just ignore that part, ok? For the most part, it’s about two people who love each other. But anyways, what do you want to do first this Christmas? We could open each others present, go take a walk, get some breakfast first if you want.” I smile into his neck, shaking my head as I tighten my arms around him.

“How about we just lay here for awhile. I just want to hold you.”

Zen smiles, kissing the top of my head then resting his cheek on it, his large hand stroking my arms tenderly. “Of course, baby.”

❀ Jaehee ❀

I am surprised to wake up on Christmas, the clock on the dresser reading 6:23 am, and to see that the spot in the bed besides me is empty. Normally Jaehee is awake before me but I surely thought that it being Christmas she would sleep in or wait for me. But alas, she isn’t there, and the bed feels cold with her absence. I swing my legs off the bed, the duvet falling to the ground too, put on my fuzzy socks and go to find Jaehee.

As I thought, she is sitting by the tree with her legs curled up and a cup of coffee resting on her knees as she admires the sparkling lights and orbs that decorate it. I smile, quietly coming in and sitting besides her. She jumps a little but grins when she sees it is only me, and allows me to rest my head on her shoulder and wrap my arms around her. “Merry Christmas, Jaehee,” I whisper into her ear, watching as she shudders slightly.

“Merry Christmas, sweetie,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn't wait for you. I just really wanted to sit by the tree. This is the first real tree I have ever gotten, and it smells so nice and we did such a good job at decorating it too. It’s so peaceful.”

I nestle my cheek on her shoulder and take her hand in mine, enjoying it’s warmth and giving it a tight squeeze. “Don’t apologize. I know what you mean. It’s beautiful.”

Jaehee nods in agreement before reaching over to put her cup on the ground and moving off of the couch, making sure I don’t hurt myself as she moves. She sits on the ground and looks up at me, smiling as she reaches her hand out for me to take. I take it and she pulls me to the ground to join her. We both grin as we look at the presents under the tree, excitement now consuming the both of us. Jaehee grabs a gift wrapped in golden paper and hands it to me, her small form bouncing. “Open that one first, please. I’ve been so excited to give it to you since I first bought it. I think you will really like it.”

☂ Jumin ☂

If it wasn’t that Elizabeth decided she wanted to play at 5 in the morning, I would still be asleep, and yet here I am awake in the main foyer playing with Elizabeth in front of the tree. Playing with the cat, I realize that I probably would have awaken pretty early anyways. I’ve always been one to be up early on Christmas, unable to contain my excitement, even as an adult. I dangle a filament of tinsel in front of her, giggling as her little paws swipe at the golden thread. “You really like this, don’t you? I’ll talk to Jumin about getting you a toy that is a little something like this.”

As if on cue, I hear the door of our bedroom opening, and the sound of slippers flopping against the tile floors of the penthouse. I crook my head to the side and see a very tired Jumin come from behind the corner, his raven coloured hair disheveled and bags under his eyes. He wears a blue robe that hangs open barely covering his bare body. I pout, putting the tinsel down and walk over to Jumin. I wrap my arms around his neck and he places his hands on my waist, keeping me steady as he bends down to kiss the top of my head. “Honey, go back to bed,” I say. “You look exhausted.”

“Nonsense,” my stubborn husband says, peppering a few kisses to my face. “It’s Christmas morning, and I know how my love gets so excited. I cannot leave you alone at 5 in the morning, anxious and excited to open your presents. What kind of a husband would I be?”

I chuckle, taking his hand and leading him to the elegant tree we had professionally decorated. I would have preferred that the two of us decorated together, but I have to admit that the professionals who put up the large tree and decorated it with lights, tinsels and colourful ornaments did a wonderful job. “Look at this,” I say softly taking the tinsel in my hands once again. Elizabeth who lays on her stomach flips immediately onto her back as I wave the tinsel once again in front of her. “Here, you try. She loves it.”

Jumin takes the tinsel from me, grinning as his cat swats her paws back and forth and tries to bite at the tinsel. He puts it down after a minutes to delve his face into her stomach and kiss it, however, when he comes back up he grimaces as he coughs up white fur. I let out a loud laugh as I wrap my arms around him and pull him towards me to help get the fur out of his mouth. When all the fur is gone, he smiles and bends down to kiss me. He takes my hand in his and says, “Merry Christmas, my love.”

☺ Seven/Saeyoung ☺

BOOM!

I jolt awake in the bed at the loud booming sound that radiates through the house, and a few other crashing sounds becoming evident now that I’m sitting in the bed with full attention. At the sound of another loud bang I jump out of the bed and rush towards the sounds, tripping a couple times on clothes left on the ground. “Saeyoung! Saeyoung, are you ok-” I stop in my tracks at the sight of my boyfriend in the kitchen attempting to make breakfast. However, what strikes me is he is dressed as an elf and his poor brother cowards in the corner trying to hide himself since he is dressed up as Santa. “This is so embarrassing,” the younger twin mumbles into his hands. What should I have expected, I think to myself as I let out a tired laugh. Saeyoung just smiles and starts to jump up and down, running towards me and scooping me up in his arms, spinning me around. I can’t help but giggle. “Saeyoung, what are you doing?”

“Saeyoung? Who is Saeyoung? I am Hermey the elf! And I have ditched elf practice to come and take the place of your boyfriend who has lots of work to do this Christmas. So sad,” he says making the sign of the cross. “But please, feel free to treat me as if I were your boyfriend, the notorious 707. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” he says bending down to kiss me, but I turn my head so his lips make contact with my cheek. I laugh, pushing him back and going towards Saeran to help him with breakfast.

“I’m sorry, Hermey, but I can only kiss Saeyoung. I’m sure you understand.”

Seven frowns, his face becoming as red as his hair as he stutters now tongue tied. “What??? But I look just like him, don’t you think? What if I put mistletoe over our heads?” he says trying again, yanking me towards him with a grip on my waist. I smirk as I pry his hands off of me, wagging my finger in front of his face.

“I’m sorry, Hermey. But I will only kiss Saeyoung.” As I expected, he flings the elf hat off his head and reaches for me once again. Mocking surprise, I exclaim, “Saeyoung! That was you the whole time?” He just frowns and cups my neck, leaning down to kiss me. And this time, I do not stop him.

❆ V ❆

The smell of new paint and freshly brewed hot chocolate tickles my senses, pulling me away from my dreams where I danced with V till midnight Christmas Day. It takes a few moments for me to open my eyes, the thought of getting out of my warm bed almost dreadful until I remember it’s Christmas. I hear a soft chuckle coming from the end of the room. I finally open my eyes and see V by the window at an easel, painting the sunset outside. He rarely ever brings his paints into our room. I smile and try to push myself out of bed, but it’s so warm and comfortable that I just fall back down. He laughs again, this time getting up from the stool he set up by the easel, and coming to sit on the edge of the bed besides me.

“Sweetheart, do you know what time it is?” I shake my head and V smiles, taking out his phone and displaying the time. “11:30! I have never met someone who’s able to sleep until almost noon on Christmas Day. You never fail to surprise me, my sweet.” I grin, my hand weakly reaching to stroke his cheek.

“What can I say. I treasure sleep.”

“I made you some hot chocolate,” V says, cupping the back of my head and helping me to sit up. He then brings the cup to my lips, helping me to sip down the hot drink. The warm liquid trickles down my throat like a gentle caress. After having a few sips of the warm drink, I feel much more awake and lively, and now eager to go to the tree and see what awaits beneath it. “Ah, I thought that would wake you up. But first,” V pulls from behind his back a piece of mistletoe. “You have to kiss me. This will be my reward for waiting so patiently for you to wake up.”

I giggle, raising on my knees before V, wrapping my arms around his neck, my hands going into his soft, blue hair. I pull his lips down to mine and kiss him rather dominantly. He is not one to fight for power or control, so he lets me take the lead. Our tongues dance together till we finally pull back from each other, a string of saliva connecting us. “I hope that was a good enough reward.” He let out a deep chuckle before swooping me up, taking my hand and running with me down to the living room where the tree was.

☻ Saeran/Unknown ☻

It is the gentle caress against the crown of my head that lulls me from my slumber, the tender ministrations of Saerans thumb stroking the hair out of my shut eyes, and his warm breath that lightly graces my face as he bends down to kiss my cheek. His lips linger against my skin before he leans back up, the both of us smiling at each other with a crimson blush on our faces. He leans down again but this time places his lips against mine. The kiss is soft, gentle, and sweet. Unlike our other kisses, no one is fighting for dominance, our tongues are in no brawl; the kiss remains loving, and the only fight between our lips is the fight on who can give the other the most affection. His hands roam up my sides, gently pawing at my breasts and the soft skin of my tummy. “Merry Christmas,” he whispers against my lips. “I’m so glad that I can spend my first proper Christmas with you.”

“Oh, Saeran,” I whisper, my hand moving to touch his pinken cheek, then moving down his forearm. “I’m so happy to share this special day with you and the rest of our family. I didn’t make you wait too long, did I? Is Saeyoung awake?”

Saeran scoffs, smirking as he looks towards the door. “Of course he is. Santa came last night. What do you expect?”

I let out a screech then a laugh as Saeran suddenly lifts me up and throws me over his shoulder. Though blood rushes through my head almost painfully, it’s fun to be slung over him and carried down to the living room. He puts me down carefully besides the tree next to a pouting Seven who sits with his arms crossed staring at all the wrapped gifts. “Out of all the days you decided to sleep in, you decided it be Christmas? I’ve been waiting for hours!” The older twin exclaims before getting a smack to his head by Saeran.

“Be grateful you didn’t get coal, stupid brother. You’ve been a pain all year,” Saeran says sitting besides you. He reaches under the tree and pulls out a bag with a kitten in a santa hat on it. He smiles towards me, and hands over the gift. There is a glimmer in his mint eyes that I have never seen before, and I can’t help but wonder what just might be in the bag. “Open it. I was going to have you save it till last, but… I can’t wait that long.” Slowly, I pull out the red tissue paper and I see a small blue box. I look up at him, my eyes wide, but he just continues to grin. Is it…? I take out the box and hold it in my hand, my thumb rubbing the soft velvet. I pop open the box, and like a switch had been turned on I begin to bawl as I see the diamond ring and the carving in the gold that reads, My Paradise. I look up at Saeran to see tears running down his own face. “Will you marry me?” I nod my head and fling my arms around him. When all the rest of the gifts are opened by an eager Seven and a tearful us, Saeran slips the ring on my ring finger, and I think to myself that I couldn’t have asked for a better Christmas.

✌ Vanderwood ✌

Across the room, hanging on the flower patterned wall hangs a wooden clock, carved with birds and over naturist materials. The clock just strikes 3:07, and yet I lay in bed wide awake besides my husband who sleeps soundly with his back towards me. I turn to look at him, and I smile as I listen to his steady breathing. As much as I love to watch him sleep and to see him so peaceful, I cannot wait any longer. I turn on my side and wrap my arm around his torso, giving him a tight squeeze. His steady breathing stops, and I know he is awake. “Vanderwood?”

“Go back to sleep, MC,” he snaps, his voice husky.

"Vandy, it's Christmas-"

"It's 3 in the morning."

I groan, rolling back onto my back and crossing my arms. I continue to listen the the ticking of the clock, hoping that it will lull me to sleep, but alas it doesn’t and I still lay wide awake till 3:15. I turn my head back towards Vanderwood, and I notice that his breathing hasn’t gone back to it’s anchored rhythm. He suddenly rolls over to face me, a face the mirrors the infamous meme of Grumpy cat, but at the same time I can see love and adoration in his eyes. He lets out a sigh as he outstretches his arm and pulls me close to him, flush against his chest. “Instead of listening to the clock, listen to the beat of my heart. You will find yourself becoming tired, and you’ll fall back asleep. Before you know it, it will be Christmas morning, and you will be opening your presents, drinking hot chocolate, and we will be by the fire.”

I close my eyes and nuzzle my face into his warm chest. His arms tangle around me, holding me close and keeping me secure against him. The beating of his heart soothes me with it’s drum-like sound. “Just focus on that,” I hear him say again, his voice gradually quieting and he falls back into his slumber. I close my eyes, and I can finally feel myself growing tired and descending into siesta.

Just as the both of us are beginning to fall back asleep now wrapped in each others arms, my head tucked underneath his chin and my arms wrapped around the torso, I hear the creaking of our door opening. Vanderwood mumbles under his breath, “Oh for fucks sake,” just as our two children jump on top of us screaming at the top of their lungs, “It’s Christmas!!!!!”

~~~

Thank you, and merry Christmas!! And please take the time to tell me which of these was your favorite! I’d love to know. (ฅ'ω'ฅ)