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fgfluidity · 4 years ago

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mirror | manor (part seven)

Summary: After the events of Mirror | Void, a newly-christened Dark has two goals: take revenge on Mark, and, hopefully...

Find the DA.

Pairings: Implied but can be read as gen. [Damien/Dark x Da; Actor x DA]

Warnings: very brief mentions of blood, injury

They are exactly the same.

It’s what Dark notices, watching from the shadows. He doesn’t dare to be as bold in his scares, anymore, not now that Mark realizes he’s there.

Mark hardly seemed a bit frightened of him, so what would be the point in wasting his energy?

What he does, however, for the next several, long weeks, is watch.

The DA’s tastes are the same. They always enjoyed sweaters, regardless of the weather. Their preferred drink was just-sweet-enough tea, which was a remarkable amount of sugar for his own, more bitter palate. They liked records of swing music, crackling on a phonograph, all uncoordinated bouncing and cheer when just the right song came on.

Swap the records for clear, if compressed, if remastered, digital recordings, and—

They dance the same.

They style their hair the same.

They smile the same.

(Don’t you remember? Don’t you see? Look at me, please!)

Dark doesn’t voice Damien’s pleas. Their last parting was… not necessarily amicable. Nor the one before that. With their newfound freedom, they might make good on their threats.

Whose fault is that?

Though the voice didn’t appear in the void— he still can’t explain what happened there, can’t explain the feeling of being ripped apart, of pain without physicality, of Celine— it has been all-too-present Upside.

If his gut didn’t already burn, sharp pain in his twisted esophagus, he might say he’s choking on guilt. As it is, it’s close enough.

The interesting thing, though…

“Hey, get in here!”

Dark bristles, curls himself further into the shadows at the sound of Mark’s voice.

The DA shuffles in with a camcorder in their hands, a little uncertain. They quirk an eyebrow at Mark, who plops down on the couch with a whiteboard.

“Filming?” He asks, and when they raise up the camcorder with a little wiggle, “Don’t ruin the framing! Just get back in position.”

They roll their eyes. Mark doesn’t seem to notice.

“Okay, don’t look,” he warns, and begins to scribble on the board.

God, he’s a hideous artist.

Though he is correct about Bakersfield.

Purchasing a car, specifically to drive four hours to a chain restaurant. The whole plan is ridiculous, unnecessary, a frivolity.

(Aren’t all of his plans?)

Dark can’t help but smirk at that. Finally, Damien’s getting on board.

The van he ends up buying is suspicious, to say the least. Big, white, windowless— what would a van need with garish wood paneling?

On the inside?

The point is, throughout this asinine plan, the DA doesn’t say a word. They don’t open their mouth.

They communicate entirely through gesture and facial expression.

(As a sidebar, he nearly splits again at the brief physical affection of fistbumps, the warm little smile they exchange after the money changes hands and they drive away.

The false thanks that comes from Mark only angers him further, as the DA just grows bashful.

How could they do this?

How could they believe him?)

To Mark, to the people they meet, everyone and everything.

This continues even after the camera turns off. “You wanna get that edited for me?”

They sigh, a short little huff through their nose, give him a long-suffering sort of look.

“Hey, I’m a busy man!” He waves a hand, gesturing toward some indistinct and indiscernible Something in another direction. “I have my writing, my game videos, my skits— that you also said you’d help with, by the way. I can’t edit every last thing, myself!”

Their nose wrinkles— Damien has so many thoughts on that particular feature, the soft-heart— in frustration, and they gesture in the same direction.

“Oh, you don’t edit everything,” Mark scoffs. “Just most of it!”

At their continued consternation— stubborn, so damn stubborn— he rolls his eyes with a groan. “Just this one and I’ll get it next time. Happy?”

The DA raises one fist, then each finger slowly and individually. One, two, three, four— which they push at Mark as if in emphasis.

“What? You’ll do four more? If you insist!”

Dark, being the opposite of a fool, would guess that to mean ‘you said that the last four times.’

(That isn’t very fair, is it?)

Oh, what is his problem?

The DA’s face crumples a little, suddenly more confused than irritated, and Mark takes the opening.

“Hey, now,” he says, all affected softness and care. “Hey, I was only teasing. You do this one, I’ll handle the next ones. Cross my heart, if you want.”

Dark would be glad to take the shot, if he marked it correctly. As it is, it simply looks like he’s caressing his own chest.

Egotist would.

“You do such great work for me, you know?” Mark is so soothing, so gentle— so practiced. “You know I couldn’t do this without you, buddy.”

They’d never fall for such blatant flattery, back then. They were sharp as a tack and wiser to the ways of criminals— monsters— that you’d expect at first glance. They knew better.

Now…

Now, they soften, give Mark a begrudgingly fond little smile.

Mark must notice as the shadows flare, outside of the DA’s view, because his own smile quirks up just a bit more crooked, a bit more wicked. “Let’s get to work,” he says, “and then we can go get some dinner, you and me. Okay?”

Dark could swear he sees that smile grow again, but he only has a fraction of a second between Mark’s hand squeezing their shoulder and the pain of fragmenting into the void.

————

Damien…

He-

I know! I know he does. Keep a hold of yourself and you won’t have to worry about it.

————

He makes them sleep in the van.

The sight of them curled on the uncomfortable-looking ‘bed’ squeezed into the back of the van, sweat beading on their forehead and dampening their clothes, is near enough to make him split in itself. The world outside is blazing hot, heat blurring the air above the pavement, and though he feels little but cold in his stretch of the void, he can just imagine the unbearable heat within the walls of this oven.

It only gets worse when Mark smacks their face to wake them.

(He’ll lose his damn hand!)

Well. Perhaps his temper didn’t entirely come from Celine.

It’s all he can do not to leap forward out of the shadows when, after Mark asks why they’re even in this van to begin with, the DA with furrowed brow jabs a finger directly at him.

It isn’t safe! Why would he do this to-

Mark ignores it in favor of his whiteboard.

As the DA cradles their cheek, slightly more annoyed than hurt at the insult of being struck, Mark continues on with his asinine plans, an obnoxious rumble Dark can tune out with little enough effort.

At least they have a bottle of water to sip from.

And at least they aim to get proper cooling for the blasted thing. If his— if the DA must be in here it should at least be bearable.

For a given quality of bearable.

They’re less than a dog in Mark’s eyes, it seems, as the dog— Chica, and how interesting that she looks just like the hellhound at the manor— obtains a bed and pride of place before the newly-functioning air conditioner.

The other seat is taken up by some— some lackey.

(Now, that is hardly polite! I’m sure she’s a lovely young woman.)

She is! I know-

She associates with Mark willingly. An accomplice in his schemes gets no quarter from him.

The DA is… an exception. Mitigating circumstances.

————

Well, we can take care of her, too.

Celine!

————

The lackey is back.

Taking post with him, albeit unknowingly, in the shade of a makeshift hut. Waiting.

All part of Mark’s schemes, of course. What did he expect?

They’re friends!

(He may have asked her to meet with him but that doesn’t-)

No. He knows better.

And he just stops a smug smile, directed inwardly at his two voices of— of nonsense, as Mark and the DA enter.

The DA has a camera in their hand.

Typical. Further forced labor.

…

(They look so happy here.)

Dark shifts uncomfortably, slipping through to the next shadow as the group moves on. Damien’s wistful again, caught up in the glow of the sun on their hair, rivaled only by their smile as they rush with Mark from patch to patch of bright pumpkins. He doesn’t like it.

Wistful Damien forgets their purpose. Wistful Damien forgets that the only reason the DA is here to be happy is through deception, Mark’s selfish, evil machinations.

False happiness in a gilded cage.

Not his—

Not Damien’s—

How apropos. Cage.

He needs to warp away at the face they make at the sight of the petting zoo. For all that he may be able to (somewhat) tune out Damien’s musings, he’d never be able to counter Damien falling to pieces.

Or tolerate.

… Neither can Mark, it seems, as he proffers tickets with a smile.

He really does care, you know.

Ha, he’ll believe it when he sees it.

Once Mark’s finished with his celebrity moment, anyway.

Dark rolls his eyes so hard he’s sure he sprained something. If only his fans knew of his treachery.

Who is he kidding— they’d probably love him all the more.

The group picks up pumpkins as they go, loading them into a cart— of course— pulled by the DA. The patch is rather large, and one can only hold several pumpkins of average weight for so long.

“I’ll get this one for me— you know, because I’m short?”

Dark grits his teeth.

(I’m not short! We were all taller than average if I recall correctly, Marcus!)

Oh, full first name. Incensed Damien is fun.

Wait, is he—

The conscience nudges at him, again and again, until Dark follows its urging and he looks at Mark.

… Oh, this is wonderful.

He’s limping.

Weeks and weeks of wheelchairs, crutches, physical therapy. Years of a cane.

Nearly a century of being stolen goods.

Not only does he get Damien’s height, Damien’s face— but Damien’s weaknesses, as well.

(Just like we got-)

He’ll just file that away for now. For future reference.

————

So?

….

Oh my god, Damien. That is not the important part here.

He shouldn’t call them—

It’s objective! And not important! Stop being jealous and-

Celine?

Actually, no, channel that. Keep being jealous.

————

They get a small refrigerator and a television for the van.

Which are… somehow important for a four hour drive. Where Mark will be driving.

Nonsense, as per usual.

It’ll actually be nice to have. Something to do, a place to put food.

… The conscience makes a point, even if the only food he’s seen in this van in days is the kindly-donated bag of guavas currently resting beside the minifridge.

(They’ll have some creature comforts.)

At the very least.

Interesting, though…

That is, as the DA clambers out of the van, ostensibly to freshen up for bed, Dark fiddles with the television. It has no visible antenna, but perhaps they might be able to pick up something to watch, should they so desire.

After all, VHS tapes are a rarity, these days.

As he reaches for the screen, however—

It bursts into static snow, warping as he moves his hand, edging cyan and red in places.

Fascinating. From his static, his experience with Mark’s equipment, he should have guessed he may interfere with electromagnetic signals.

As for what he may be able to do with it…

That may take some experimentation.

————

How did we manage to-

I don’t know! But thank god Egos can’t die by injury. I’ve had more than enough blood and death in my life, thank you.

…

… I know. You don’t have to say it. We’ll have enough to cover the cost of a replacement… everything.

… Is Will alright?

He’s fine.

Really?

I promise, Celine. He’s… he’s in one piece.

————

Back before everything— before the void, before their deaths, before poker and abandonment and falling out— Mark’s Halloween parties were the highlight of the holiday season.

Damien remembers ghost stories, parlor games, dancing and music and food. A group of close friends to enjoy it all with. A guaranteed dance partner until his leg acted up.

Mark’s favorite holiday.

The actor in him made it his favorite: a chance to go all out in a brand new persona and make a spectacle of it. The generous, kind man in him made it a chance to spoil his friends and invite the general public.

This is not one of those parties.

This is a fraction of a shadow of them.

This is somehow an even worse idea than the whole road trip.

Turning the DA’s sleeping space into a haunted house? Taking an unmarked van into a private place and inviting people to come inside?

Nevermind that the false weapons and blood have a powerful effect on the DA; their face goes tight and sweaty, eyes wide.

They look away from the scattered assortment of decorations— fair, as he can hardly look at damnable and garish things himself— to focus their eyes on the television.

He’s been refining his static creation, fiddling with it while Mark and the DA focus on decoration, but—

A strange expression crosses their face. They scoot in a bit closer, eyes tracking over the brief flashes of color in the snow.

Their hand raises up—

He can nearly feel warmth—

(Please! Please, I’m right here, can you see me?)

Just a little closer—

“Hey!”

Mark snaps his fingers, which snaps their concentration in turn. Blinking as if to clear their vision, the DA shakes their head and turns to Mark.

“What’s going on? We gotta get this set up, we’re burning daylight.”

Mark shoves a sheet of blood stickers at the DA and rolls open the side door, hopping out with entirely inordinate energy.

As the DA follows suit, Dark considers what just happened.

If they weren’t interrupted…

Could they finally speak to each other again?

#fg writes #ego fanfiction #mirror manor #darkiplier #y/n district attorney #actor mark #other markiplier egos #dark x da

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alpaca-writes · 4 years ago

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Mystics, Chapter 7

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics by Lyrem, everything seems to be going well- their life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough, however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as perfect as they think...

Directory: [chapter one] [chapter two] [chapter three] [chapter four] [chapter five] [chapter six]

Tag list: @myst-in-the-mirror

CW: leg injury, knife whump,

---

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE GODS OF JUST AND UNJUST MEN

The man keeled over just as the darkness had engulfed him and the sensation of ground had returned beneath his feet. Ragged and shaking, he cried out in agony, clutching his right leg that poured deep crimson blood staining his fingers. A soft blue light emanated from a tunnel above his head, showering him in a beckoning glow.

Beside him, a woman formed from the drifting darkness of the abyss. Her black hair was pulled off to one side in multitudes of smooth braids that reached her hips. She knelt down in her simple white linen gown, and touched the man on the shoulder. He stared up at her, his face soaked with more tears than rain or sweat.

“Th-They don’t… They don’t remember me,” he stammered shakily.

The Goddess hushed him softly, and brought her hand down to the knife handle. She met his gaze, and searched his green eyes. He became lost in her mesmerizing essence and in one swift motion, she pulled the knife out of his thigh.

He launched onto his back, roiling in the unfathomable release of pressure in his leg. He was screaming, but the void consumed his cries until the very end.

“I gather you were unable to kill him?”

She had waited for him to stop screaming before tossing the knife down in a clatter by his head.

The man still laid on his back, caring not for the wound that was bleeding out with fearsome speed. His lower lip quivered and he closed his eyes.

“No,” he answered through gritted teeth. “He… He was in a meeting.”

The woman breathed out the last of her hope and stood over him, shaking her head.

“We don’t like excuses,” she expressed, circling him. “Lyrem is only a man, and Hades wants results. If you don’t deliver, then you don’t get to stay on Earth. Running away with another human is not what we asked of you, was it?”

He shook his head, wiping a hand over his face like he was shielding himself from the rays of her shame.

“Next time,” he said. Forcing himself to sit up, he looked at her squarely, and turned his face to stone to address the Goddess as she ought to be. “I’ll get him next time. Persephone, please send me back- I”-

“No.”

He forced on, “I’ll get him this time, I swear”-

“Ar”-

“SEND ME BACK!”

This time, his voice carried farther through the void and then it echoed back to them. He lowered his voice reactively, sensing that he had done something severely improper.

“Please… Send me back.”

Seeing his emotionally fragile form was endearing as well as tremendously unsettling. Persephone lowered herself to him as he laid there, barely supported by his one elbow. Huffing, she laid a hand against his leg. He stared into her perfectly dark eyes, trusting her once more with great effort.

“I can heal you partially,” she offered, “And with a bit of time, I’ll be able to send you back.”

“Don’t bother healing me if you can send me back now.” He argued, “Lyrem has Arch”-

“If I don’t heal you, you’ll bleed out and return here within minutes. And you will be of no use to us then. You’re a mortal, remember; dancing between worlds of life and death.” Persephone explained. Gently, she cupped his cheek with a soft, sympathetic hand. “The rules were never written for someone like you.”

He tore himself away from her grip, and gulped down the last option that he was given. He took some time, considering her words with the reverence that one would give to a wise crone.

“I don’t know how long they… Fine,” he finally agreed.

Arguing with Gods and Goddesses alike wasn’t a normal habit for him- but for now, he would take what he could get.

“But I promise you… I promise Hades… I will kill Lyrem. I’ll do it, no matter what it takes. I’ll deliver his head to you on a fucking silver plate if it means I can go back to my old life.”

“Usually, I would advise against making promises you cannot keep,” the darkness called through, washing over him. It was the voice of the Underworld; of Hades Himself. He could not be witnessed in the dark abyss, where only the dead contained the sight to see the God in His glory. The voice carried on, shaking the injured mortal to his very core as it rumbled through him like a thunder.

“But with you… I am willing to believe that there may be some hope for us all.”

Persephone blinked slowly; the words of Hades filling her soul like she had taken a breath of fresh morning air. She looked down to the human, allowing a small smile to sneak its way onto her face, as his filled with cautious determination.

-------------------

“I think I like them.”

Lyrem looked up from his two fingers of scotch whisky and smiled to the man sitting across from him in a matching orange armchair by Mystics’ storefront window. The lights of evening downtown glowed inwards, as the two of them caught up with each other. Lyrem had finished his story of the strange and annoying priest at the hospital- and the terrible treatment that his charge, Arch was receiving there.

“I thought you might,” Lyrem replied. “I’ve primed Arch with talents they’ll be able to carry forward for years and years to come.”

“And yet, you still cannot trust them to keep their memories.”

There was a twinkle in the dark eyes of his guest. Everything from his squared off top hat to his jacket and to his bejeweled cane spoke of decadence and divine tailoring. He smoothed his long black beard down to its tip with long fingers, studying his friend and regular supplier with great interest as he took his time with his response.

“I cannot be certain that they will follow me.” Lyrem admitted, taking a sip from the glass tumbler that sat in his right hand. “They are so connected with people… with life… How can one twist a mind that pure?”

“All that purity, it ends somewhere. Everyone has their limits. Goodness leaves us all in the dust eventually and your successor cannot be someone with sentimental ties. One day, even you will have to leave them behind.” The man’s pinky finger danced in the air as he raised his own glass. “Since you know, the Devil always comes to collect on her debts.”

Lyrem grunted rudely at the reminder.

“Any word on when that might be?” Lyrem asked with deepening interest in his tired face, “I know you have an ear to the abyss, Paimon. You can tell me.”

Paimon merely chuckled, and clicked his fingers. The record player began to set itself up, playing the tunes that were primed to go. The album was something picked out by Arch from the record store across town several weeks ago after they had grown tired of John Denver.

I wouldn’t want to be a chimney sweep,

All black from head to foot,

From climbing in them chimneys,

And cleaning out that soot…

“Just enjoy life, Lyrem- while you still can,” Paimon winked as he finished his glass and clunked it down. “Throw out your stoic wisdom, already, and prepare your charge for when you’re finally dead. That’s my advice.”

Sensing that Paimon was on his way out, Lyrem stopped him.

“One more thing... I suspect that a particular captive of mine has found a way out of the Labyrinth in the back room. There are no… other doorways that you neglected to mention when I purchased it off of you, are there?”

“I am leasing it to you, Lyrem.” Paimon corrected him with a shake of his head in pity. “Like all rental properties, sometimes renovations are necessary.”

Lyrem scoffed at his flippant response. But before he could say anything else, the demon had vanished from his chair.

“At least give me a bloody notice first,” Lyrem muttered to himself before finishing his glass with a final swallow. Only the melody would keep him company now.

The honey from the bee,

The shellfish from the sea,

The earth, the wind, a girl,

Someone to share these things with-

Lyrem switched off the record abruptly and then picked up the empty glasses left on the corner table. Paimon’s words rang in his head as though they were warning him. He had been sensing for quite sometime that Hekate had grown impatient with his antics. He had been given many gifts from the underworld’s many inhabitants in his short time on Earth, and as a result owed many debts; some debts simply would not be repaid in the bones of ancient Mayan sacrifices- though sometimes they did make thoughtful gifts.

Demons and divine spirits, Gods and Goddesses alike, all had some opinion on Lyrem Nomadus. At one time or another he had procured an item or two for almost all of them- whether it was something as frivolous as an original Da Vinci sketch or as dark as a human heart for ritual consumption. Whether they had a fair opinion of the man, or a sour one, they would all agree that for a human, he was really rather quite useful and would go the extra mile to make them happy as long as he was paid in full with their favors.

Lyrem was well aware that those days of retrieval and dealing were long past him now. His age was beginning to show in all the worst ways. Sentimentality becoming the latest of wrinkles in his pallid complexion. The first wrinkle of which was when he had removed memories from Maria, his one and only love, so that she could be happy living out the rest of her life with a normal human. Meeting Arch, and the strong connection that they had grown, was just another one of the latest displays of his sentimental nature. The visit from his old friend this night yet again, a reminder that his good work would soon be coming to an end.

Lyrem had to be sure that Arch was prepared by any means necessary. This meant there could not be room for distractions. There was no room for failure. If Arch was unable to make use of the gift they were given, then they would die before they even started.

“What now?” Paimon returned, sensing Lyrem call for him in short thoughts. The demon stood, leaning against his cane by the door, regarding Lyrem with a tired interest.

“I have an idea,” Lyrem postulated, placing the tumblers on the counter as he paced the store’s sale floor. “-but I will need your help to locate a shape-shifter.”

Paimon perked his head higher, as Lyrem continued hesitantly.

“One, preferably, that is extraordinarily good at acting.”

Paimon’s lips curled as his eyes danced with amusement, and nodded.

“I’m always willing to help out an old friend,” he smiled.

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grapefruitsketches · 5 years ago

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Untamed Spring Fest 2020 - Day 20: Fond

1,479 Words - Nie Brothers, POV Nie Mingjue, pre-canon

When you kill a beast, you do it all at once or not at all. Anything else is just cruelty. Nie Mingjue just hopes his brother can avoid such beasts entirely.

The Red Blade Master rarely had nightmares. But when he did, they always featured Nie Huaisang.

Huaisang caught up in the fury of a battlefield. Huaisang hit by a stray arrow at an archery competition. Huaisang burned in flames, drowned in water, falling from snowy peaks. He dreamt of wild boars, of qi deviations. He had helplessly watched his little brother die in so many painful, awful ways. Then he would wake up, and quietly creep through the Unclean Realm to find the boy still dozing, splayed out on his bed and snoring without a care in the world.

So Nie Mingjue wanted his brother to learn to fight - to defend himself, to tread cautiously but surely through whatever situation life through at him, to be the kind of man who could face any danger, and win. But more so he realized, as he watched his gentle brother tend to birds or excitedly read out a poem he had found particularly striking, he wanted his brother to be the kind of man who would never have to face any danger at all.

When Huaisang had expressed a total disinterest in the blade, for the sabres, and a preference for curling up with a book or wandering the marketplaces, looking for treasures, Mingjue couldn’t say he was too disappointed. He was almost relieved, when Huaisang had asked if he might spend less time training his cultivation, and more time learning about the various beauties and joys of life that were so absent the mountain fortress they called home. But Mingjue hadn’t been able to grant his request. He made sure Huaisang had some spaces in the Unclean Realm to himself, but he knew he couldn’t let his brother retreat from training entirely. The other disciples would question the decision to lessen the troops even by one. It would make Huaisang a target. Still, he worried that Huaisang’s life in the Unclean Realm would force him to sideline the things that would truly make his life feel worthwhile.

And this risk to his brother’s wellbeing could not be tolerated.

“What is that?” the young clan leader asked as he approached his brother in the garden. His brother quickly hid the book he was reading behind his back.

“Uh… nothing…” he avoided his brother’s stare.

Mingjue rolled his eyes and quickly grabbed for the book, glanced at the cover, and sighed, “So you are reading these kinds of things too now?” he tossed the book to the side, and it landed gently in the gravel lining the path.

“I… I like the art?” Nie Huaisang tried.

Mingjue shook his head, “I have never understood the appeal of these things,” he shrugged, picking the book up only moments after he had thrown it there and dusting off the cover before returning it to his brother, “But I suppose there’s no real harm to them.”

Huaisang grabbed the book back, blushing fiercely, and tucked it away in his sleeve, still avoiding eye contact.

“Listen. Huaisang. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

His little brother looked up to him, confused, “To me?” Usually it was the younger looking to ask his brother for something - permission to walk through the mountain paths, money to purchase more fans, more paintings, more of… those books, as Mingjue now knew.

But the Red Blade Master was firm, “Yes.” He swept his sleeves back as he sat down on the bench, next to his brother, “As you know, the Lan Clan hosts an annual lecture, open to the disciples of the main clans.”

Huaisang nodded slowly, starting to realize where this might be going.

“I would like you to attend this year.”

“But… Dage…” Huaisang looked up, pouting, “No one my age will be going for another few years!”

“The other disciples your age take part in all their own sects cultivation training. I am willing to accept that our clan’s methods don’t suit your… temperament,” it was the kindest way Mingjue could think to express it, “But I cannot have you lie idly around all day either. Besides,” his tone became kinder at Huaisang’s woeful expression, “There are plenty of disciples your age in the Cloud Recesses. I have been talking to Xichen about the possibility of you attending at your age, and he thought you might be a good companion for his brother. He is also around your age and will be attending the lectures.”

Nie Huaisang’s face brightened, “Really? A companion?”

If Mingjue expressed his emotions even half as readily as Huaisang, he would have smiled at this. Mingjue had talked about more with Xichen than just Lan Wangji, but their mutual concern for their brothers’ loneliness had come up more than once. Mingjue thought the gentle pastimes of the Lan clan might suit his delicate brother’s preferences more than the frequent impromptu spars and spot check drills favoured in the Unclean Realm. Huaisang had few if any friends in the residence, seeming to prefer the chatter of merchants or the company of fiction.

Huaisang leaned back, “But… but Dage…” he bit his lip, “The Cloud Recesses it’s… well, they’re very strict there, right?”

Mingjue nodded, “Yes. And I expect you to make our sect proud.”

Huaisang picked up the fan that was lying closed by his side, and tapped his hands nervously with it, “I just…” he whispered, “I don’t want to let you down.”

“Then don’t!” Nie Mingjue replied, hoping that if he said it so confidently it would be easy, “It’s time for you to live the experiences you spend so much time reading about!” he had a sudden recollection of what book exactly Huaisang had been reading when he’d found him, “…Some of the experiences at least. Grab life by the hands!” he gestured as if to strangle some unseen person standing before him.

Though Nie Huaisang smiled at his brother’s vigour, his eyebrows pinched with apprehension, “Um… I’d really rather not…” he sighed.

Nie Mingjue, who they both knew had never really needed Huaisang to agree to his plan, said “Nonsense! You will love Cloud Recesses. You can read books all day, and there’s no fighting allowed inside.”

This made Huaisang smile, before his eyes snapped wide and he looked in shock to his older brother, “Wait, no fighting? I thought you wanted me to live up to the Nie values? How am I supposed to do that without…?”

“When you kill a beast, you do it all at once or not at all. Anything else is just cruelty.” Mingjue advised, “We both know you are not a warrior. But that is not the only thing that makes us Nie men. We train ourselves in what we are best at. If a quieter method suits you, we should make sure you have the chance to develop that skill. Explore the world, find things that please you, but also,” Nie Mingjue gripped his brother by the shoulders, pressing on urgently, “Make friends. Learn new ways of doing things. Understand this world and how it works. If your strengths are in beauty and stories, make that the strength you use in the world.”

Nie Huaisang nodded hurriedly at his brother’s intense stare, still fidgeting with the fan. The Red Blade Master’s gaze drifted towards the movement. He grasped the wrist of the arm holding the fan, lifting it forcefully up to Nie Huaisang’s eye level.

“This fan. If you can find a way to make this pretty fan you like so much as powerful as my Baxia? Then you will be truly carrying on the Nie legacy, able to use the strengths at our disposal, whatever they may be, to confront our enemies.”

“Ah.” Nie Huaisang nodded, but his one raised eyebrow revealed his skepticism.

When Mingjue had mentioned Huaisang’s penchant for fiction and interest in the intricacies of the world around him to Xichen, the Lan clan leader had suggested that perhaps he would make a better politician or strategist than fighter. Mingjue agreed that his brother had this potential. He often seemed to notice and interpreted subtleties in disciples’ or servants’ actions that would prove to be prophetic, noticing the first red nose of a cold that had swept through Qinghe, a dazed look of a returning disciple that had proved to be a concussion, and once, memorably, a sly exchange of glances that had turned out to be the earliest sign of a hidden romance between one of their top disciples and a servant.

But Nie Huaisang had no desires for such greatness, no desires to wield his talents for more than frivolous gossip. And weeks later, as the Red Blade Master fondly watched his brother say goodbye to each of the birds in his garden in turn, before grabbing the bag that Mingjue knew contained hidden books throughout the lining, only hoped his brother never changed.

#untamed spring fest #nie brothers #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #the untamed #cql #mdzs #my writing

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ineffable-snowman · 5 years ago

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Fic: Maybe Someday

I finally finished a somewhat longer (7k) Good Omens fic. You can also read it here on AO3.

Many thanks to @tickety-boo-af, who was a super nice and helpful beta reader!

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

One Saturday afternoon, Aziraphale miracled the buttons of his vest a shade darker. Normally, he was against using miracles on clothes because he believed in tailors but it was only a minor change and it was meant as a symbol. Because he had a plan.

As far as Aziraphale knew, most humans put a lot of effort into their corporation to look nice for their, well, date. (There really was no way to still call this a “meeting” when neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had a job anymore.) Humans did it to give the other person something pleasant to look at, as Aziraphale understood. He was glad Crowley did not follow Hell’s fashion choices because he was not ready to put dirt or even worse on his face. There was no doubt what Crowley liked: black and tight-fitting clothes. But Aziraphale didn’t own any black clothes and he was pretty sure that trousers like Crowley’s would just look ridiculous on him.

Searching through his bookshop, he found some clothes from the last two centuries in a wooden chest squeezed under several books. After he had encouraged the moths and spiders to leave, he scrutinised the clothes. Most of them had moth holes and smelled a bit. But nothing a thorough miracle wouldn’t fix. He had liked the hats in the Victorian Age. But maybe not the best memories for Crowley. What about that cravat from the Sixties? Fashion had been crazy then and even Aziraphale had decided to purchase something new. But mostly he had tried to give Crowley a reason to live – because then Aziraphale had still worried that Crowley wanted to use the holy water on himself. It had been utterly frightening to find the fine balance between promising Crowley something more (but at the same time not promising too much and not too obviously) and stopping him from getting himself into even more danger.

But that was over now. And the cravat had looked a bit dashing, hadn’t it? It would be quite fitting to wear this again when Aziraphale wanted to take the next step in their Arrangement…or was it a Relationship now? He felt that it should be, but it was not, not really. Aziraphale knew what a romantic relationship looked like, he had read enough books. And the things that, according to human literature, were supposed to happen had not happened between him and Crowley.

Aziraphale had cautiously placed his hand on the table between them when they were dining at the Ritz. Crowley had not taken it. Aziraphale had lingered after Crowley had dropped him off at the bookshop and accompanied him to the door. Crowley had not kissed him goodnight.

After a few weeks of nothing happening, Aziraphale had had the sneaking suspicion that Crowley held back because of him. Maybe Crowley was trying to take things slow because he did not want to scare Aziraphale off like the last time when Aziraphale had told him that he went too fast. Aziraphale had always felt deep regret whenever he had had to stop Crowley from doing something dangerous. It had not seemed fair to stop someone from loving, of all things.

He told himself that he should be happy, and what if they were taking things slow? They had all of eternity. But there was still this nagging feeling that Crowley was holding back. It didn’t seem right after everything that had happened. Maybe it was now Aziraphale’s turn to move things forward. To grant Crowley permission. To show him that there was nothing to fear, that Aziraphale would not reject his love, ever again.

How to do it? It certainly was not Aziraphale’s strongest suit. But he had read enough to get an idea about…flirting? Courting? Dating? The words seemed terribly frivolous but then most humans would consider getting dinner together at expensive restaurants a date. So they were already doing it. Now it was up to Aziraphale to “spice things up.” Tastefully, of course.

And that is how his beloved vest ended up with miracled buttons.

When they had their next dinner date (Aziraphale had read a promising review in the newspaper about a fancy new French restaurant), he miracled the cravat clean and tied it carefully. He fretted a bit with his shirt and could not decide: Was it indecent to leave the top button open? He did not know that restaurant yet. What if they expected a certain dress code? What would Crowley think if he – well, no, Crowley certainly did not mind showing a bit of skin if his own clothing decisions were anything to go by.

Aziraphale left that button decision for later and focused on his hair first. He had decided to use a tiny bit of product to make his curls less frizzy and more defined as his barber had always suggested he do but so far Aziraphale had never seen the purpose of that. He had just finished his very careful application when he heard the familiar honk of the Bentley.

“Dear Lord, is it already time?” Aziraphale glanced at the cuckoo clock. Crowley was fashionably late as always. Aziraphale grabbed his coat, opened the top button in a desperate last minute decision and hurried outside.

Crowley was casually leaning against the Bentley, as he always did. He gave Aziraphale an intent look.

Aziraphale’s heart hammered, not only from the physical exertion. “Running a bit late,” he said with a quick nervous look to make sure no one was staring at his new outfit. He felt terribly exposed. “Please don’t make up for it by exceeding the speed limit more than is strictly necessary.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Let’s go?”

Crowley went 70mph, which Aziraphale took as a sign of goodwill on his part.

After ten minutes of silence, during which Aziraphale had to force his nervous hands down to keep them from closing the opened button, Crowley eventually asked, “What happened to your bowtie?”

“Oh, er, I thought it-it would be nice t-to try something new once in a while.”

Crowley gave him a sidelong glance. “That cravat is hardly new, is it?”

Oh, so he noticed! Aziraphale was not sure if that frightened or elated him. Somehow it was both at the same time.

The Bentley’s tyres skidded on the pavement, the car slid for some meters and Crowley hurled a very rude word at the street.

“Well, not everyone acquires new clothes every decade,” Aziraphale said reproachfully, gripping the door handle very tightly.

Fortunately they arrived at the restaurant without discorporating. Aziraphale kept nervously touching his cravat upon entering. “You don’t think it’s a bit too, well, risqué?” he said under his breath.

Crowley smirked. “We’ll see if they throw you out when they see you.”

“Oh, don’t mock me, you old serpent.” But it oddly helped calm his nerves.

No one threw him out and no one gave him funny glances for his attire. No one but Crowley. Now that they weren’t in the car anymore but seated opposite each other at the small table, Crowley looked at him all the time. Let him stare, Aziraphale told himself. I dressed up for him to look at me. He deserves this. No hiding anymore. It was exhilarating and frightening, Aziraphale’s breath was a bit quicker than usual and he was certain that Crowley noticed. But Crowley didn’t mention it. In fact, he was unusually silent. They did some weird small talk about the weather, about the menu and the wine… which Aziraphale almost spilled. Well, he did actually knock over his glass with his shaking hand but, with a quick-witted miracle, he saved the tablecloth and himself the embarrassment. Crowley noticed, of course, but he didn’t comment, just raised his brows.

Once they had their food, things went a bit smoother. The food was excellent and it made conversation easier. Aziraphale’s main dish, wild pheasant in mushroom and wine sauce, turned out to be a perfect choice, and Crowley let him try (and then offered him the bigger part of) his wonderfully glazed potatoes.

Again, Crowley did not take his hand when he placed it on the table after they had finished dessert.

When they left the restaurant, Aziraphale decided to be brave. “Could you give me a lift?” he asked, purposefully repeating the words from 1967.

Crowley stopped and turned to him. “’Course. What else would I do with -” He indicated first Aziraphale, then the Bentley. “Kidnap you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind,” Aziraphale said lightly.

Crowley’s brows climbed up into his hairline. “How on earth am I supposed to take that?”

“Er. Probably with the knowledge that the wine has been a bit on the stronger side. Oh dear.”

“Right.” Crowley climbed into the car and waited for Aziraphale to follow. “So. Where do you want me to give you a lift to?”

Aziraphale briefly considered the notion of replying with something dramatic like, “To the stars,” but he had said and done enough foolish things for today. But then he couldn’t just say, “Back to the bookshop,” either, could he? He racked his brain. What to do at night in London?

“I was wondering, have you ever been on the London Eye?”

“Sure. ‘S nice. But I thought you hated it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did. In a very polite but scathing way.”

“Well. I thought I could give it a try. If you were amenable, that is.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He sobered up to drive them there.

Usually the London Eye closed at 20:30 but they were miraculously lucky that there was still a lovely young lady who was busy with cleanup. She agreed to let them into the VIP pod and turned the wheel on to move again. Aziraphale tipped and blessed her generously.

It was true, he had been reluctant when the London Eye had been installed, especially when he had heard that Crowley had somehow been involved. Tourist trap, disfigurement of the skyline etc. But once they were up in the air, he had to admit that the view was splendid.

“Marvellous what these humans come up with,” he said upon looking at the thousands and thousands of lights of the city below. They had seen how a small village had turned into a dirty industrial town, then a majestic imperial city, then a tourist destination. They knew all the buildings (and had met most of their builders).

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed softly. “Glad they’re still here. Would be a bit boring otherwise.”

Aziraphale turned away from the city lights to smile at Crowley. He had taken his glasses off to better enjoy the view and was leaning against the glass. At this moment Aziraphale felt like his heart could burst with love. For the world, the stars, the humans, and for this wonderful demon who had been here with him through everything.

“Yes. I am glad, too.”

For some reason the observation wheel took them on two more rounds.

“Funny, I only convinced it to go one more round,” Crowley remarked.

“Goodness. So did I.”

They exchanged a quick glance and a smile and then they enjoyed the view and each other’s company. During the next round they reminisced about the people, events and buildings they had seen during the last centuries. There had been fires, diseases, two wars, and yet nothing had ever stopped the humans from rebuilding and making things better again.

During the third round they had a heated argument about architecture. Crowley seriously argued that that horrible Gherkin was an enhancement of the city but St. Paul’s Cathedral was “not very inventive” when he knew Aziraphale had had a bit of a hand in it!

The last ten minutes they spent in companionable silence sitting very close to each other.

When Crowley dropped him off at the bookshop he wished Aziraphale a good night but still didn’t kiss him.

“Crowley, wait!” Aziraphale said urgently just before Crowley could get into the car and leave.

Crowley stopped dead and turned abruptly. “Yeah?”

“I-I-I just wanted to say.” His human heart was beating erratically again. “I really had a lovely evening. Thank you very much.” He smiled tremulously.

“It’s not like I personally caught your pheasant and cooked it.”

“No, thank goodness you didn’t.” They had never got the hang of preparing human food. Although Aziraphale had become quite experienced with tea during the years and had, once, succeeded at semi decent biscuits. “But, I believe you had a hand in the creation of the London Eye. Which was rather, er, nice.”

“Eh, I was mostly responsible for the pricing and marketing. The rest was all the humans.”

“Still. It was a lovely evening.”

Crowley made a sort of agreeing noise. “You, I mean, the – it suits, um, you – look good.”

Before Aziraphale could say anything, the car doors banged shut, the engine whined and the Bentley raced away, leaving him standing in front of his bookshop, lost for words but smiling giddily.

So the dressing up bit had been a success. Aziraphale decided to repeat it. He grew a bit more comfortable with the opened button, and asked his barber for recommendations for the best hair product. He even gave his wings a very thorough preening. One could never know what would happen.

He found that he liked dressing up for Crowley. He always felt nervous anticipation as he got ready before Crowley arrived to pick him up. That was probably what all those romance novels meant with “butterflies in one’s stomach” (which Aziraphale thought was a rather disgusting image).

He also liked it when Crowley looked at him for longer than strictly necessary although it made his insides churn at the same time. Funny, these inconsistent emotions.

Still, Crowley did not kiss him. Although his glances were so intent they almost felt physical, he had not even once touched Aziraphale purposefully. Every time they met, Aziraphale expected it to happen and was nervous and excited. Every time it did not happen, he was both relieved and disappointed. But most of all he was worried. He didn’t want Crowley to think that he wasn’t allowed. He didn’t want him to doubt Aziraphale’s love for him.

So Aziraphale did the bravest thing he had ever done, something that took even more courage than disobeying God Herself by giving the humans a flaming sword, or marching into Hell in Crowley’s body. When Crowley dropped him off this night at the bookshop, Aziraphale did not leave the car but turned to face Crowley.

“You can kiss me, you know,” he said in a very small voice. “If – if you wanted to, that is,” he added quickly. He did not want to presume anything.

“If I – what?!” Crowley’s mouth hung open.

Aziraphale expected hellfire or the holy army of angels to rain down on them but nothing whatsoever happened. It was very quiet in the car. He could feel his chest lift and fall quickly and he kept looking at Crowley, who was still gaping at him.

“What about you?” Crowley said eventually, still not looking away.

“What?” Aziraphale’s voice came out high pitched.

“Do you?”

“I’m afraid you will have to elaborate, my dear.”

Crowley finally turned away and spoke determinedly to the front window. “Do you. Want me. To… kiss you?”

“I…” Aziraphale trailed off. This was not going according to plan. And he did not have an answer to that question. Did he want Crowley to kiss him? He supposed he must. This sort of thing was supposed to happen, right? All the humans liked it, all the poets had sung its praises, so it must be good. “I-I-I wouldn’t mind,” he finally allowed.

“Right.” Crowley was still staring straight ahead. His fingers were drumming an erratic rhythm on the steering wheel. “Get out of the car!” he suddenly snapped.

Aziraphale winced in shock at the harsh tone. “I-I-I’m terribly sorry if I have overstepped any boundaries,” he was quick to apologise. “It seems I have not read the situation correctly.”

“I said,” Crowley reiterated and his voice was dark and faintly demonic, “get out of the car.”

“Crowley, please let me -”

“No.”

The door on Aziraphale’s side flew open. He gingerly stepped outside. “Well,” he said helplessly, hovering next to the car, wringing his hands, “have a lovely evening.”

Aziraphale spent the next few days brooding over how everything could have gone so terribly wrong so suddenly. They had had a perfectly fine dinner at his favourite Italian restaurant. Crowley had kept looking and sometimes even smiling at him and had offered him his tiramisu. They had reminisced about their time in Rome, and Crowley had good-naturedly mocked him (at least it had seemed good-naturedly at that time) for having tempted him with oysters.

So what had changed?

What was so horrible about the idea of a kiss?

Aziraphale had been so sure that Crowley loved him. Could he have been wrong? So maybe he did not love Aziraphale in the sense that he wanted to kiss him but was that a reason to be so offended and reject Aziraphale so rudely? Yes, it had hurt. And even worse was that he had not heard from Crowley since then. Since the averted Apocalypse they had hardly spent a week without seeing each other or at least speaking on the telephone. But no sign from Crowley for several days now.

His other idea was that it was Crowley’s usual offence when being called nice or any such thing that was not appropriate for a demon. But he had seemed free at last from those hellish expectations – or at least more relaxed (no one knew better than Aziraphale that you couldn’t just change 6000 year old habits), because there had been no more angry outbursts or even wall-slamming when Aziraphale had complimented him but he had only rolled his eyes, like he had needed to at least keep up appearances. Was insinuating that he loved just too much?

Whatever the reason, Aziraphale was deeply unhappy with the state of things. Oh, they had had much worse fights before. Aziraphale knew Crowley’s dramatic departures. He knew that Crowley could spend years or even decades sulking. But ultimately he had always come back, often to save Aziraphale’s corporation in an even more dramatic fashion. Yes, it had always been deeply touching (and also a bit exciting, if Aziraphale was entirely honest) and he did not doubt for a second that this time Crowley would come for him if he found himself in a dangerous situation. And yet, he did not want that. He did not want to spend years apart and he did not want Crowley unhappily sulking. No, he had almost lost Crowley in that blasted Apocalypse business, he was not going to let a stupid misunderstanding get in the way now. If Aziraphale had learned anything from reading and watching all the great tragedies of human literature, it was that a lot of these could have been avoided by sensible communication. (He had had a very heated discussion with Will about the ending of “Romeo and Juliet”. Will had unfortunately entirely disregarded Aziraphale’s suggestions for an alternative ending, which had led to the decision to keep his Shakespeare collection incomplete and to the steadfast refusal to ever watch that play again.)

So, communication. Humans did it all the time and they were amazingly successful considering they had such a short time. So he should be able to pull it off, too, with his millennia of experience, right?

He spent a week wondering if he should write Crowley a letter (he composed several drafts), contact him via phone (he dialled the number but always put the earpiece down at the last moment) or go to see him in person (he rehearsed every possible conversation in his head and some out loud).

Once, he thought he saw the Bentley speeding past the bookshop.

It was then that Aziraphale decided to go to see him in person. He did not put on the cravat or use hair product. His hand was shaking when he rang the bell. Crowley did not buzz him in but used the intercom.

“What?” he snapped.

“Er, hello. I – I think we need to talk.”

“Oh?”

“I think there has been a – a misunderstanding and I would really like to apologise and-”

“Right. Come in. Or – let’s go for a walk? Weather’s nice today.”

“I don’t really mind.” As long as they were together and talked this through and agreed to still be friends, Aziraphale was really fine with anything.

“Decide, angel,” Crowley’s voice came impatiently out of the intercom.

“Oh, well, then let’s head to St. James’s. The weather is rather nice, isn’t it?”

Just a few minutes later, Crowley was standing outside, hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale.

“Thank you for, for agreeing to talk with me,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley just sighed but he followed him to St. James’s anyway, silent and moody and with his hands in his pockets but he was there and willing to listen and that was all that mattered for now.

Aziraphale needed three circuits through the park until he found his courage to start the actual conversation. “It seems there has been a misunderstanding because I misinterpreted certain things. I was operating under the assumption that you were interested in pursuing a…” He faltered. “A… romantic relationship. Romantic relationship in the sense of… a relationship. Not related to the Nineteenth Century, of -”

“I know what a romantic relationship is, for hea- whatever.”

“Oh, good. I mean, I’m terribly sorry that I offended you. But I’m afraid I am still not entirely sure if it was the insinuation of a, er, romantic relationship or a, a… Good Lord.” Aziraphale quickly glanced around to make sure that nobody overheard them, and lowered his voice. “A kiss. Or the, the suggestion of your capacity to love.” He cleared his throat. “So, obviously, you can rest assured that I will absolutely never mention the – the things again if any of them bother you. Although I should say that I firmly believe that you are capable of love, even though you may not be interested in a romantic relationship, because there are so many different types of love – I, as an angel, should know–“

“That’s not the point,” Crowley snapped.

“Well, then, pray tell what is the point,” Aziraphale retorted in much the same manner because he was getting a bit impatient. Communication only worked if both partners were willing to be open and honest and he felt like he was doing all the work here and was making a complete fool of himself by stammering and blabbering and talking about things widely out of his comfort zone while Crowley just sulked. “It would be jolly helpful if you could at least tell me what offended you so I can avoid it in the future.” He stopped in his tracks and stood in front of Crowley so he was forced to stop too. “You know, because I would rather like to salvage our friendship.” He relented a bit. “You are too important to me, Crowley,” he implored more softly.

Several complicated emotions flickered over Crowley’s face and Aziraphale regretted that they had not stayed at Crowley’s flat because then he could at least have seen his eyes and maybe understood a bit more. The emotions finally settled on a sneer. “Oh, so we’re friends now?”

“Please don’t be difficult,” Aziraphale admonished.

Crowley finally tore his hands out of his pockets and threw them in the air to gesticulate wildly. “Difficult, now that’s a bit rich! You are difficult, telling me to kiss you and – and talking about romantic relationships out of the blue!” He spat the word ‘romantic’ like it was an insult. Aziraphale felt insulted.

“Right.” He adjusted his bowtie and turned away to…to look at the ducks. “Oh, look, I think I haven’t seen this young swan before. Have you by any chance brought something to feed them?”

At the next moment, Crowley was shoving fruits, frozen peas, three sorts of bread and on top of all that a packet of oat flakes into Aziraphale’s arms.

“Oh. Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale balanced all the hastily miracled food in his arms and started feeding the ducks. He was ever so grateful when the ducks accepted the food that he carefully threw them with trembling hands. If Crowley could not accept what he offered, well, at least the animals were appreciative.

He heard Crowley sighing next to him. “Aziraphale, listen, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I think I explained it all just now and I told you it was obviously a misunderstanding, so why-”

“Why do you think you have to enter into a, nrhm, romantic relationship with me?”

Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly on the ducks. He was glad he had more than enough food to keep them and himself occupied for a while. “They are not really big on love in Heaven. They say they are, of course, but it’s very different from down here. Over the years you have been very helpful and generous with me, in a way that I was not used to, and I suppose that’s why I mistook your friendship for…love. I don’t want to belittle our friendship by that because it means the world to me and I wouldn’t want to lose it, not for anything.” He felt tears prickling at his eyes. He squatted down to pet one of the older swans that knew him and was therefore trusting enough to let itself be touched. It was only a small comfort. There was a long silence until Crowley cautiously knelt down next to him. The swan startled and fluttered away. Crowley cursed loudly and thus roused even more ducks nearby.

“Sorry -” Crowley stood up hurriedly and took some steps backwards. “Sorry, didn’t mean to…”

Aziraphale turned to him. He looked lost and like he did not know what to do with his long limbs. Aziraphale took a deep breath and stood up. “I’m being silly. Bit emotional. Goodness.” He forced a chuckle. “Don’t mind me, dear.”

“Stop it.” Crowley lifted a hand, made an aborted gesture, let it fall again. “We’re still friends, of course. No need to worry. You don’t have to do anything.”

“Oh, good.” Aziraphale smiled tremulously but gratefully.

“Can I…” Crowley looked doubtful, hesitated. “How about a hot chocolate? Some pastries?”

Aziraphale felt the tears prickling again. Dear God, he was so in love. “That would be lovely.”

“Good,” Crowley said in relief, Aziraphale suggested a café nearby, and when they walked there side by side things felt almost normal again. Almost. Somehow Aziraphale still did not feel like going inside the café and sitting there between all these humans. He felt too vulnerable.

“Can we maybe just go back to the bookshop?” he asked.

“Sure, of course, yeah, why not.” Crowley paid for the chocolate and the pastries and they made their way back.

When they arrived at the bookshop Crowley was oddly hesitant and hovered in front of the door.

“Won’t you come inside?” Aziraphale asked hopefully. “I couldn’t possibly eat all the pastries by myself.”

“Oh, no, it’s good, they’re for you.” Crowley shoved them into Aziraphale’s hands.

“Ah. I see. Thank you. I’m sure they will be wonderful.”

“Yeah, sure, enjoy.” And he was gone.

Again Crowley did not seek him out for days. The days turned into weeks and not a word from him. But then one day a plain package was delivered to the bookshop. Attached was a short note in Crowley’s familiar handwriting:

Got this at an internet auction. Guess this was still missing from your collection? C.

It was an edition of Christine de Pizan’s early poems. There was even a signature. It was a very rare manuscript and a wonderful addition to his collection but the other signature – the “C.” – was so much more important. Still using the abbreviation in case the letter fell into the wrong hands.

Aziraphale rummaged through his bookshop until he found the most beautiful stationery he owned. Then he chose his favourite fountain pen to compose a reply.

My dear C.,

Thank you ever so much for that generous gift! It was such a pleasant surprise when the postman delivered the package this morning. A signed work from Christine de Pizan was indeed missing from my collection. You might remember that I, unfortunately, did not really appreciate Christine’s writing choices during her lifetime and therefore never thought to personally ask her for a signature. I’m all the more looking forward to reading her poems today.

It seems I sometimes need a bit of time to fully appreciate good things for what they are.

I was really grateful for the thoughtful gift and was very glad to hear from you again. I hope you are faring well? After spending so much time together during the last years, I find myself missing your company. Please ring me up if you are in the mood to have lunch together or just to meet up and talk.

Yours

Aziraphale

He made sure to write his full name and hoped Crowley would understand it for the gesture it was.

Maybe he did because just two days later Aziraphale’s phone rang.

“So. I was thinking of going to the Globe tomorrow. Was wondering if you wanted to come, too. They’re putting on a new production of -”

“Yes! Yes, that sounds lovely, I would absolutely love to go – sorry, I interrupted you. What production did you say they were putting on?”

“Romeo and Juliet. Still want to go?”

Aziraphale briefly hesitated. He had vowed never to see that play again. But then, it was not so much about the play but about the company. It certainly would not do to reject Crowley now that he was reaching out again. “Yes, why not?”

“I thought you didn’t like that one.”

“I thought you didn’t like the gloomy ones.”

“Ah. It’s a modern production. They could’ve changed everything, who knows.”

“Well, you know I’m not usually a fan of these modern reinterpretations but it could only improve Romeo and Juliet.”

Crowley snorted and just like that everything was easy again. They bickered over modern theatre, discussed Shakespeare’s works and reminisced about the good old times (Crowley especially missed throwing tomatoes and eggs at the stage when the play was bad).

They spent almost an hour on the phone. The only thing that struck Aziraphale as slightly odd was that Crowley did not offer to pick him up but just told Aziraphale to meet him at the Globe tomorrow afternoon at 3pm. It was fine, he told himself. At least they were going to do something together again. Small steps. It would all be fine.

They did change a few things about Romeo and Juliet, mainly it was set in modern day England and featured two young humans of opposing religious and political views falling in love. They did not change nearly enough. Aziraphale could not even stomach the pastries and the wine that Crowley brought him during the intermission. He knew it was going to end just as horribly as always and was tensing up more and more during the second part.

“You alright?” Crowley whispered just before Juliet decided to take the drugs.

“Yes, yes, totally fine,” Aziraphale sniffed and dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief.

“You want to leave?”

“Oh God, yes, please!”

He grabbed the pastries (wouldn’t do to waste perfectly good food just because of a stupid, miserable play) and, to the dismay of the humans seated around them, they hurried out of the theatre. They left just before Romeo discovered Juliet’s lifeless body.

“I really hate that one.” Aziraphale dabbed his eyes again. “I don’t see why a good writer like William Shakespeare would waste his talent on something like that.”

“You could’ve just said no, you know, didn’t have to come.”

Aziraphale decided not to point out that Crowley looked quite miserable, too, and did not ask why he had chosen to see that play in the first place. Instead he said, “Next time we go to the theatre, I pick the play.”

“Fine. As long as it’s not Winnie-the-Pooh.”

Aziraphale went on a rant to defend Winnie-the-Pooh and by the time they arrived at the Bentley, he had almost forgotten about the gloominess that was Romeo and Juliet.

“Alright.” Crowley hovered in front of the Bentley. “You want to head back or still do something else?”

“Maybe…maybe we could go for a picnic?” Aziraphale kept watching Crowley very closely. He did not want to make him uncomfortable again like with that disastrous suggestion of kissing.

“Uh, sure. St. James’s?”

“I was thinking more about heading out to the countryside.” Aziraphale would prefer some peace and quiet right now. Not the usual busy London places. No humans to worry about. “If – if that was alright with you.”

“You sure?”

“Well, yes, of course. I just suggested it, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, well, you sometimes say one thing and mean something else.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale smiled in regret. It had been their way of communication for more than 6000 years. Saying one thing, meaning another. Over the centuries they had become rather good at navigating the silent conversations that took place simultaneously, had developed their own code. It seemed that that code did not work anymore and that there were new rules now that they were free from their respective head offices. Aziraphale was determined to figure out how this new communication between them worked. He would make it work. “You are right, I did not really want to see Romeo and Juliet,” he admitted. “But I thought it would be nice to meet up again. And I’d very much like to spend some more time with you aside from that wretched play. We could also go for a stroll at St. James’s or have tea or even go to the movies if you don’t want to go for a picnic. Or just go back to the bookshop or your place to have a drink.”

“Hm, suppose I owe you one for making you sit through that stupid play. A picnic it is then. Where do you want to go?”

“Oh, how about a picnic at the beach?” Aziraphale suggested enthusiastically. The weather was nice enough for early May and he had not been to the seaside for quite some time.

“Okay. Uh. You want me to drive us there?”

“Obviously. How else do you expect me to go there? By public transport?” Aziraphale grimaced in disgust and was relieved to see Crowley grin at that.

The drive to the seaside was relaxing (as far as being driven by Crowley could ever be. To his credit, he did not go over 80mph). They did a bit of small talk to avoid getting hung up in miserable thoughts about Romeo and Juliet, greatly enjoyed the fact that the Bentley was willing to play something else than Queen’s Greatest Hits, and stopped at a little supermarket to get a bit of food and several bottles of red wine for their picnic.

When they arrived at the little beach, the sun was already getting low and it was a bit chilly. Nevertheless, Aziraphale greatly enjoyed their picnic. The wine and cheese were surprisingly good. Maybe it had been a little demonic miracle or maybe it was just that everything tasted perfect when you were having a picnic at sunset with the demon you loved. He did not really mind the wind or the sand that was getting everywhere either. Everything here felt easy, and Aziraphale chuckled fondly when Crowley tried to chase a bunch of seagulls away, who weren’t really bothered by his demonic threats.

“It’s all your fault.” Crowley flopped dramatically down next to Aziraphale. “Feeding a seagull. Really, angel. You should know better.”

“It looked very hungry,” Aziraphale said in apology and smiled down at Crowley. His limbs were spread everywhere, his chest was lifting and falling quickly because he was still out of breath and his sunglasses reflected the clouds of the evening sky. Aziraphale wondered what it would be like to run his hands through Crowley’s hair. He thought he would like that. Or sit a bit closer (after all, it was a bit chilly), their shoulders and thighs touching, maybe even holding hands. That would be nice, too. Or a kiss. Because that was a thing, wasn’t it? When you were drinking red wine at a beach at sunset with the one you loved there was meant to be a kiss, right? But he was not sure anymore if that was something Crowley wanted.

“You alright? Something on your mind?” Crowley put down his sunglasses and squinted up at Aziraphale. Always looking out for him – making sure he was comfortable, getting him his favourite food, chasing away seagulls... Aziraphale swallowed. God, he was so in love.

“Are you happy, my dear?” he asked softly.

“Huh, I – yes?”

“If there’s anything you wanted…,” Aziraphale prompted cautiously.

Crowley scrambled into a more upright position. “More of that wine.”

Aziraphale chuckled awkwardly. “Ah, yes, of course.” He handed the bottle to Crowley. He liked sharing a bottle. It was oddly intimate to put his lips where Crowley’s had been just moments before. He liked the brief, casual touching of fingers when they exchanged the bottle.

Crowley chugged down a large part of the wine. “Why -” He glared at the bottle so hard that the label crumpled in nervousness. “Why would you ever think that I’d – that I’d enjoy… kissing you against your will?”

Aziraphale froze. “What…what do you mean?”

“That’s what you were offering. Wasn’t it?” Crowley finally directed his glare at Aziraphale.

“Er, I, what? Who said it was against my will?”

“Oh, come on, you were scared shitless.”

“I really wasn’t.” Aziraphale was a bit affronted because he had felt it had been a rather brave thing to do and now Crowley was belittling him for it.

“You were. You were – were fidgeting like you were talking to Gabriel or the other fuckers.”

Aziraphale huffed in indignation. “I most certainly did not offer Gabriel or any of the other angels to kiss me.”

“Pff. Thank – Someone. My point is, I’m not – I’m – I won’t kiss you. So. You don’t have to be scared.” Crowley glared at the bottle again and it burst in his hand.

Oh. Without thinking, Aziraphale cradled Crowley’s hand that was sticky with red wine (and maybe even blood) in his hands. ��Crowley, no, I’m not scared of you. Never.” He sent a quick healing miracle, just in case. “My dear, please don’t ever think that. And I’m sorry to say so but you are the least scary demon I have ever met.”

Crowley chuckled weakly. “Wow, insulting me now, that’s real low, angel.”

“Ah, well. I suppose you managed to scare the seagulls away. Eventually.”

“God, you’re such a bastard.”

Aziraphale smiled, squeezed his hand and then let go a little regretfully. He found he rather liked touching Crowley like this. But communication first. “Now, you may be right in that I was maybe a little, tiny bit nervous. But I’ll have you know it’s perfectly normal to be nervous before your first kiss.”

“Says who?” Crowley put his sunglasses back on.

“Books.”

“Aaaah.”

“Yes. Basically every love story ever. Well, every love story that features a kiss.”

“There don’t have to be, ah, kisses. This,” Crowley made a vague gesture that encompassed himself, Aziraphale, the beach, the dusky sky, the sea, “is just fine.”

“Are you sure? I’ve made you wait for so long -”

“No, no, no. It’s not – it’s not waiting, like this. It’s… good. Urgh, did I really just say that? I meant – happy. I’m happy. And I’d be happy if it was always like this. You don’t have to do anything.”

Aziraphale inhaled and exhaled slowly. He had never felt so free, so safe in his life. “I love you,” he said and the words came as easily and naturally as the waves rolling constantly onto the beach. He felt tears in his eyes, tears of relief and happiness, and he was glad it was almost dark by now so Crowley hopefully couldn’t see them and worry again.

“Y-Yeah?” Crowley croaked.

“Yes. I do. I absolutely do.” Oh, he had not known how much lighter he would feel when the weight of millennia of fear and guilt lifted from his chest! “I do, my dear,” he repeated, giddy with it that he was finally allowed to let it all out. And then, because he was feeling particularly daring, “I think I would like to try hand holding. What do you think?”

“Nmmm, yeah?”

Aziraphale offered his trembling hand, and just to be perfectly clear, he whispered, “I’m not scared.”

Crowley grabbed his hand and squeezed it so hard that Aziraphale was momentarily worried that he would break his fingers. Very slowly he rubbed little circles with his thumb on the back of Crowley’s hand to make him relax, trying to show him that he would not let go, never again.

No one said a word. They just stared into the dark sea and listened to the crashing of the waves, the cries of the seagulls and to each other’s breathing, which was eventually slowing down. Finally, Crowley’s hand in his unclenched a little. Aziraphale kept caressing circles onto it and savoured every minute. He liked that Crowley’s hand was still sticky with red wine and a little cold. In fact, now that the first excitement of the touch had worn off, Aziraphale noticed how cold it was. It was just spring and neither of them had thought to bring a coat.

“Are you cold?” Crowley asked. “You want to go back?”

“No! Absolutely not! Not cold at all!” Aziraphale said through clattering teeth. “Let’s stay.” He inched infinitesimally closer to Crowley but without actually touching. Huddling for warmth was probably a bit much as they were just figuring out hand holding. Maybe in a few months or years. Or even decades. They had all the time in the world. And hand holding was fine. In fact, it was so fine that Aziraphale never wanted to stop, no matter how much he trembled from the cold.

But then Crowley conjured up a little fire and it wasn’t only cosy and warm but also excitingly romantic. At night at the beach, hand holding in front of a fire! “Oh, that’s lovely,” Aziraphale sighed happily. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Nah. There’s a sign at the entrance of the beach that says that it’s forbidden to make camp fires here.”

“Ah, I see.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand gently. “Should I thwart you then?”

“You can try.”

“Maybe later.”

He did much later, in the next morning when the first humans came to the beach for jogging and walking their dogs. It was time for them to leave and go back to London. Aziraphale’s limbs were cold and stiff when he extinguished the fire, collected the empty wine bottles and leftover food (and he almost had a cramp in his left hand). But he couldn’t have been happier. The Bentley graciously played them piano preludes from Debussy when Crowley drove them almost slowly through the countryside.

They stopped at a little café to warm up with hot drinks. When Aziraphale put his hand on the table, Crowley’s own inched closer until their fingertips touched, like a silent question, and Aziraphale turned his hand open to welcome him.

#good omens fic #Aziraphale #crowley #Ineffable Husbands

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trevorbarre · 4 years ago

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Bob Dylan, Miles Davis and Others: How Much More Can You Take?

Listening to and watching ‘Eat the Document’ has precipitated my latest ‘Dylan phase’. (I discussed a while back how I periodically return to certain artists/bands, and binge for a few weeks on their works: Dylan, Miles, the Grateful Dead, Zappa and Beefheart, and several others.) So, one side-effect of this phase is that I bit the bullet and made two entirely frivolous purchases :

The Real Albert Hall 1966 Concert - I’d like to get the 36-CD set of the entire European tour of that year,but I guess that even I have a breaking point as to just how many versions of ‘Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues’ I can stomach. I originally bought the vinyl bootleg in 1974.

The Bootleg Series Vol. 14, More Blood, More Tracks - being the legendary New York outtakes for Blood On the Tracks, which I’ve had in ‘real’ bootleg form, as Passed Over and Rolling Thunder, since 1977.

Talk about Unnecessary Pleasures! However, it feels good to give oneself small, guilty pleasures in times such as these. It also got me thinking about how ‘bootleg culture’, at it’s peak probably in the mid-70s, became commodified and institutionalised in the CD era (now itself passed over?) CBS Records, in particular, with it’s two major cash cows, the gifts that keep on giving (i.e. Dylan and Miles) have milked these two cows for all they are worth. Bob D. has provided the material for his ’Bootleg Series’, as mentioned, and it a testament to his genius that this lengthy series is a mostly unalloyed pleasure. Similarly, Miles has posthumously received a ‘Legacy’ imprint, to release his works in box set form (and to bequeath us all the stuff that Teo Macero saw fit to leave out). But the label can ultimately be forgiven, even if just for the mammoth Live at the Cellar Door performances from 1970.

I both pity and envy those who are getting into these two musical artists. Whether or not one sees CBS ‘exploiting’ them, the label has provided a vast treasure trove of studio and live albums, official and ‘unofficial’, to the extent that their discographies are now almost unmanageable to the average listener. They both have very complex recording histories at the best of times. Getting hold of their extensive ‘packages’ and giving them even a semi-cursory listening is the work of several months at least (the Dylan European Tour set covers 29 hours of music alone!) Having said that, Dylan’s case is exceptional for a ‘rock’ artist, both in terms of quantity and of quality. But some of my other recurring faves also present a ‘tyranny of choice’ for the listener, both for neophytes and, increasingly, for longstanding fans. as we will see. But when is ‘much’ ‘too much’?

To be continued...

#CD

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bubmyg · 6 years ago

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generationsuga - myg

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre/warnings: dancer!yoongi, fluff, brief mentions of tap dancer!jin, taehyung and jeongguk are the justin bieber of 2012 in this universe

word count: 2,756

summary: he’s a commercial hip hop dancer who takes small jobs here and there but mostly spends his time at the small studio he owns with you. you teach ballet and jazz technique classes to disinterested kids who are mostly there for the guy (yoongi) who had an “epic” fifteen second b-boying solo in a kim taehyung video or the children figure out that they have to pay attention to you or else yoongi makes them do wall sits.

There was an extra crack in his spine when he straightened from the stereo but the music emitting from the same chipped speakers wasn’t unfamiliar, track seven on disc three of a five disc set he’d bought before the official opening of the studio. Warm up music, a low fi beat with just enough accentuation to be useful in improv, track seven one he never used (in fact, he barely used disc three at all) because the kids complained enough about stretching and he didn’t need the added distraction of Yoongi, this is making me fall asleep!

The top 40 playlist filtered through Seokjin’s Spotify membership did the trick instead.

The second catch in his spine wasn’t surprising but new in comparison to the wood floors underneath his sneakers, shining from their weekly Wednesday visit by the cleaners. They’d been there for years, just as the mirrors stretching the length of the far wall, complete with two elevated barres, a stack of mats, and an ever growing collection of forgotten pointe ribbons.

Yoongi stared at himself through the same smudges in the mirror, fingerprints appearing no matter how many times he told his classes not to touch them, counting subconsciously in his head and his body moved a fraction before eight without having to be told. His shoes were new, laced for once because you’d scolded him of rolling his ankle and he no longer had the luxury of healing quickly from injuries. Minimal scuffs lined the soles but a new one formed when he toed into the floor, legs freezing while his upper half rolled with an elongated hi-hat. He added an arm without thinking about it, one on his chest, latter pressing straight, wrist locked and palm flat.

The next half a count and he jerked his arm backward, moving in the opposite direction from the flow of his hand, wave of locked fingers catching on the reflection of a variety of plaques hanging on the far wall. His hand in the mirror followed the journey of his career, from a young student with a hat way too big for his head and ambitions to match, ones that jerked his shoulder out of place when he insisted he could copy the ridiculous b-boy position he didn’t even know the name for. He cut the position from his piece and earned his first award, his first scholarship, his first opportunity.

The in between was frivolous, scholarships earning classical training that laid the base for his first appearance, a background dancer on a children’s television show. He was seventeen and had grown into his snapbacks just a fraction more but not enough for him to stand out in the middle row of the formation. University came and he continued to get by on his basics, joining way too many clubs that let him exist without straightening his elbows and extending through his ankles. It was coincidence and talent that brought him to his senior showcase hours after a near breakdown as what would come next, a talent scout scouring the corridors after the show until they located the bleached blonde and offered him an audition for an upcoming music video.

His picture with Kim Taehyung, Tae, became a collage, frames cluttered together on the studio wall with each new video he entertained with the superstar, his friend. Superstardom of Yoongi’s own in the dance world that led him to his quiet house on the outskirts of the city limits within walking distance of a tiny studio he’d bought after a year of sizable paychecks. The bill of sale was framed too, on top of a hoard of receipts from the mirrors, the floors, the mountains of paint, and the new computer Seokjin insisted he buy him if he were going to operate the front desk. He didn’t know he kept it all but he didn’t know why he’d throw away evidence of his passion, either.

The accomplishment wall ended but his focus traveled to the glint of the diamond band shoved snug underneath his knuckle. It wasn’t new and neither were you. The various frames of glossed pictures, diplomas, scholarship announcements, and flimsy receipts were tainted with you.

Your forgotten ballet slipper in the corridor of his first school and your bashful smile when you informed him you had already purchased another pair by the time he returned it to you. The ice you’d brought him for his shoulder and the teasing scold that sometimes practice does make perfect. The easy arch of your back and elongation of your calf on the barre that he could only gape at for thirteen different reasons. The bounce of your stature in the back row of his first television show and his internal decision that he’d rather have your smile lighting up the screen than a half second glance of him completing the choreography. That same smile peeking out from behind his dorm room door, a half second visit to collect your brightly colored bag stacked on top of his stark black one but ending in you being late because his lips pressed against yours one too many times. The flowers in his arms after the talent scout tugged on his elbow from you, your arm falling from around his waist as he chatted with the man but your proud affection never faltering.

The picture in the middle of his Taehyung collage with you wrapped up underneath his arm, your first and only public duet three days before your wedding and a week and a half before the official opening of the studio. Your signature was squished next to his on the bill of sale. Your name was first on the owner tagline underneath the ridiculously large neon sign hanging from the front of the building

“Why get GenerationSuga in size seventy-eight font when you can get it in size two hundred font for twenty dollars more?” Seokjin achieved his wish in the same way he garnered Yoongi’s credit card to buy new tap shoes (“If you’re going to make me teach and run your entire establishment, the least you can do is buy me some proper equipment”). Persistence.

Yoongi was mid turn when the door opened, ball of his foot planted behind his opposite heel, turning him a rotation and a half until he was planted. The indentations in his cheeks grew higher, encompassing his teeth and then his gums as he watched you shake your head, nudging the studio door shut with your hip.

“Pirouette,” He teased, “and a half.”

“You never were good on relevé,” You stepped around him, discarding your half soles and tattered jazz shoes next to the pile of pointe ribbons.

He cocked an awkward pose in response, “And you never could quite count anything other than Beethoven.”

The music had shifted, track eight, something slow and ridiculous. Not quite slow dancing music but not quite dancing music in general. You snagged Yoongi’s hand and dragged him closer. He avoided squashing your bare toes and corrected the position, arm around your waist and hand clasped in yours.

“Why didn’t we ballroom dance at our wedding again?”

Yoongi wrinkled his nose, spinning you in an off beat circle that curled your toes in delicate placements around his shoe clad feet. “Shoulder…” He’d barely been able to hold onto you without crying (for seventeen different reasons, pain the primary) and you said nothing just like you hadn’t since holding ice on his sore muscles years prior in the dingy boys locker room. You’d advised against him trying that one faithful position on set before the first take of your shared Kim Taehyung video. The video was shot in one take because he managed it and then could barely move the rest of the day. Or the next three days. Or the next week.

You hummed, pattering fingertips into the spoken muscle as he twirled you back in, holding you close. “I can’t count and you’re stubborn,” You dug your thumb into his collarbone, “Why do we own a dance studio?”

He dipped you mostly because you knew exactly where to press to make the already weakened muscle give out. “We can sell it to Jin,” Yoongi told the brush of his lips against your cheek, “The kids already adore him. His tap empire would flourish.”

Something shifted in your eyes when you nodded, aiding Yoongi in dragging your figure back up. Softly you moved, resting your cheek against his chest as you moved in a minuscule circle about yourselves, shoulders sagging as your fingers twisted into his shirt.

“What?” Yoongi’s lips bumped against your hairline, “The only person better would be you. You’re—”

“The kids hate me.”

Yoongi stalled your movements. It was silent in the studio. Track eight was the last one on disc three.

“The only way they could hate me more is if I actually used Beethoven in my classes,” You continued, voice grumbled and muffled against him.

He began moving again, back and forth rather than in a circle. Thumbs gentle on the small of your back, lips coating your ear, “Were they bad again?”

Something like terrible left your lips and Yoongi sighed. Well known in the dance world meant idolized by children meant children enrolled at his studio meant children who only wanted to come to his classes and skip everyone else along the way, even if it was in the contract, if they were training just as he and you had in your youth, or if they were simply recreational students with homemade posters of him plastered on their doors. You didn’t take it personally but sometimes it was hard not to.

Yoongi took it personally.

“What if we add an extra hour of technique in today?”

You peeled your cheek from his chest, giving him prime opportunity to cup your face even as you frowned. “Why would we do that? Your supposed to have them next—”

“I will,” He beamed and pecked the confused wrinkle of your lips, “You can teach my class today.”

You stared at him as he continued to poke his thumbs against the side of your lips just to watch your cheeks inflate and deflate. “...you want me to teach a hip hop class?”

“I have some things in mind for warm up today but then yes,” Yoongi kissed you harder this time, letting his nose brush against yours as he pulled away, “I want you to do whatever you want.”

You watched as he strode across the studio, opening the door with a delayed greeting, the sugary sweet hey, guys! on his lips stalled by the tumbling rush of children through the door, chanting Yoongi! like bored parrots. It was like your presence sucked away their voice and enthusiasm, the ripple effect of silence traveling from the first child who saw you all the way to the last until it was just a low murmur among themselves.

“Get your shoes on,” Yoongi was saying, taking to the sound system in the corner to press the auxiliary cord into his phone. “We’re going to do something a little bit different today.”

“Is Miss helping today?”

There was a groan at the suggestion, muffled and panicked on the tail end that they’d actually let it slip and Yoongi smiled in the general direction of the offender.

“Yes, actually,” Your head snapped up when the beginnings of Fur Elise crackled out of worn speakers. “I’ll be running warm ups and then Miss will be taking over from there. Head on over to the wall for me, line up.”

Even as a trained classical dancer, wall sits to a repeating playlist of Fur Elise were among even your own personal hell. The same fury of the children seemed to be turned on you as well, the difference in their usual serene classroom, warm ups skipped by Yoongi in favor of learning a new combination. Their narrowed eyes lasered into you from your frozen spot at the barre, attention only shifting when Yoongi began to speak.

“I’ve heard that your attention seems to be lacking in technique class,” He cocked an eyebrow at a young boy in a baggy tank top until he sunk further onto the wall, “and jazz. And anything that frankly is not this class right here. Is that true?”

Silence.

“You know, I was a young dancer like you guys once. I didn’t use think the basics were important, either. I slopped through jazz one and two. I never made it past two. Everyone else in my class graduated with jazz five. They had to make a special exception for me because my work ethic was horrendous and the instructors were, frankly, tired of dealing with me.”

Someone whined. It’d barely been forty seconds on the wall.

“I don’t want you guys to be like me. I want you to be better than me. Feature in a Jeon Jeongguk video,” A little girl’s eyes lit up, causing her to come out of position. Yoongi didn’t scold her because he didn’t blame her. “And who better to learn from than my lovely partner in crime…”

Your skin flushed hot and you smiled bashfully when several pairs of eyes turned back to you this time without malice. Partially with indifference, partially in apology. Whether it was wall sit induced apology or not, you indulged in it.

“If you’re good and pay attention, we won’t have to do anymore wall sits,” A nod and they all came off the wall with a sigh of relief. “...so pay attention.”

“I won’t go too hard on you guys,” You spoke up finally, arms unfurling from your chest to hang awkwardly at your sides. “Correcting Yoongi’s technique violations in his hip hop lessons is a tiring endeavor.”

There were a few giggles as the hoard of children began to shuffle toward you. Small victories.

“Alright...uh. Spread apart for me…”

Yoongi shut off Fur Elise as you began to lecture on extending through your turnout. Proper arm placements. Pretty hands versus hamburger hands (“I’m not the hip hop expert but I’m fairly certain there’s limited times you need to look like you’re hoarding multiple McDonald’s cheeseburgers in your fists.”). More giggles.

“Oh, so…” Yoongi shoved himself up off the stool in the corner, standing next to you. He cocked his hip at the worst angle he could manage, toes sickled and turned as far inward as he could manage. Ankle weak behind the laces of his sneakers. He made crab hands, snapping them each at you, “Like this, right?”

You glared at him, fond and hopelessly endeared as he hopped, changing legs. He winced as a muscle in his knee twinged but he kept up the act. “See? I can do it to the other side too. That’s important, right? To be able to do things on both sides?”

“You have to be able to do it correctly on one to say you can do it on both.”

Yoongi’s lips twitched and you scrunched your nose at him. Battle cries.

“Mhmm, I think some wall sits might be in order for the teacher this time,” He took a menacing step toward you and you held your ground.

“Make me.”

He caught your waist to the tune of shrieking giggles, lifting and dragging you away until you were out of the studio followed by a train of protesting children.

Bring our teacher back, Yoongi!

Yeah, you can’t steal them! They’re ours!

Bring them back!

Yoongi carried you past the front desk, lips behind your ear while you struggled, gasping for breath between laughter, chaos so much you barely heard Seokjin’s chair clack against the wall and his shouts of Hey! No running in my lobby! Seokjin’s herding and Yoongi’s lead dragged you into the opposite studio, your studio, where he plopped you down on a stack of mats similar to the one in his studio.

A labored breath had your surroundings clearing, finding him hovering above you, shoulders sagging as he tried to collect himself as well. The children were shrieking but you took no mind to it, a smile overtaking your features seconds before Yoongi’s lips descended onto your own. More yelling but it faded away this time as the children fled the scene, entering another Seokjin tyraid as he yelped, “What did I say about running?”

“I stand by my statement. Your turnout is horrible.”

Yoongi nipped at your bottom lip, grinning into the next press of your lips.

“Care to give me a private lesson later?”

#bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts fluff #yoongi scenario #yoongi scenarios #min yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #min yoongi imagine #yoongi imagines #bts x reader #bts x you #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi fluff #listen idk really what this is but :-(#dancer yoongi is cute and whipped :-(

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marksarmel · 5 years ago

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Another edition of What I’m Consuming for you to consume.

What I’ve Been Consuming 05/13/20

Look, we are not heroes for staying home and watching ungodly amounts of tv, but it’s the smart thing to do. So let’s all be smart while calcifying our brains with movies, tv, video games, comic books, Zoom meet ups, the FUCKING INTERNET that contains the entire collection of human creation and knowledge and our favorite snacks. I’m settling in with Flaming Hot Cheeto’s popcorn, Pork Rinds and the occasional edible with my favorite cocktail. I wash all this down with my nightly dose of Simvastatin, my cholesterol medication.

Also, let’s get out and walk around since it’s beautiful weather right now. This is especially important for those of us in the Midwest who were blessed with snow just last week!

Recently finished the Amazon series Hunters. It was good, but looking at it as a whole it seemed to be holding something back. The characters felt like they were supposed to be larger than life and more bombastic, but they were instead subdued. Even Al Pacino is reserved. Was it a comic book adaptation or an inspired-by-actual-events type show? it was a compelling story somewhat overshadowed by not being sure what kind of show it wanted to be.

Midnight Gospel! Oh my god where to begin? This is simply great tv. The rhythm of the show sets in super fast and all you can do is hold on for the duration. I’m nearly done with the season and it’s deconstruction of philosophy and life and death are pretty timely, but never preachy. Just sit down and enjoy. Best served with a side of your favorite marijuana infused edible.

The new limited series RUN from HBO quickly got me hooked. It’s premised on two old lovers who have a pact to meet again if one texts “RUN” to the other. After 15 years one texts the other and our story begins! It was no struggle for me to dive into this show since I’m already well along in my Merrit Weaver addiction. She has been a spoonful of sugar with a side of cake in shows such as Godless and Unbelievable. I’m making room on my calendar now to watch her in Nurse Jackie and I’m super embarrassed to admit that I had no idea she was Denise in the Walking Dead. Ok, enough about Ms. Weaver, Domnhall Gleason is in this show too.

I’m rewatching Watchmen because it was one of the best shows of 2019. It is great to see Damon Lindelof stick the landing like Simone Biles on this one. It was completely engrossing in every way.

For a much needed salve of humor in these times Middleditch and Schwartz is absolutely sting free healing. It’s a short three episodes and all three episodes are solid, but one and two are the best.

Killing Eve is back and I couldn’t be happier! So so happy to have all of these characters in my life. So so sad at what happens to them.

Quick Bites - Last Week Tonight with John Oliver is still living its best life. Real Time with Bill Maher not so much. Still keeping up with Homeland, but season 5 is not the best. The Westworld season finale wrapped up a wobbly season with a solid if forgettable final episode. I miss the heady hard to understand first two seasons. Props for some good action sequences this season though.

I need to get back too… I started Lock and Key a while back and lost it somewhere in the ether. Also, an FB convo reminded me to get back to Doom Patrol. I never finished Counterpart either. (Looking back at my post from last moth I see that I also mentioned getting back to Counterpart then too, so it’s probably safe to say I won’t be getting back to it.) Not sure if these shows were good or bad or just not coming at me the right way. Oh, oh! Devs I do want to finish that, but yes I do agree with others comments that the main character’s acting is… not the best.

MOVIES

The Apostle - Starring Dan Stevens from Legion, The Guest and Downton Abbey this movie starts out a bit slow, but winds itself up to a flat out bonkers ending. Worth watching with the lights off and no bathroom breaks.

I started the great Korean action flick The Villainess, but I fell asleep before finishing it. Can someone call a movie great if they fall asleep during it? If that someone was absolutely thrilled by watching the opening sequence then yes, yes they can.

GAMES

Still finding myself indulging in the occasional Mario Kart binge. Also got some friends together for Bomberman which is frivolous fun. Spent a few hours back with Mario Odyssey too. Purchased Child of Light a few days ago so I’m hoping to get to that soon.

BOOKS/COMICS

Not much in the way of books month. In the comics world I did start JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, but was thrown off by the revelation that the book I’m reading, which is marked book 1, is actually part two in the story. Shrug emoji.

I did finish the first trade in the Outcast series from writer Robert Kirkman, now superrich and superfamous creator of The Walking Dead and not so famous, but no less talented, artist Paul Azaceta. It is filled with great dread and atmosphere. It does not wrap up the story in the first trade which always irks me.

MUSIC

I was excited to see that Fiona Apple’s new album “Fetch the Bolt Cutters” came out! Then I listened to it. And listened to it again, and then listened to it one more time. It is an uneven album that frustrated me with how many songs are filled with the same refrain. I love the music, the writing not so much. That being said Under the Table, Rack of His and For Her are repeat listens for me.

Drake dropped a new album/mixtape called ”Dark Lane. Demo Tapes” and so continues my love/annoyance with Drake’s music. Listening to Drake’s music is like being in a 60+ year marriage and still being very much in love, but absolutely hating how your partner chews with their mouth open.

RANDOM NOTES

I discovered Coco Rico soda in a local Asian Market. It’s a lovely sweet coconut beverage.

As mentioned earlier Flamin’ Hot Cheetos Popcorn is becoming my new go to snack. Move over Doritos Cool Ranch because Chester Cheetah is here!

I was in a good running routine and then it started snowing and raining all the time. Back to the couch for me.

That about sums it up for this month. Don’t be afraid to skip your next work Zoom meeting. The work will be there tomorrow.

#Watching tv #playing games #listening to music #reading comic books #what i'm consuming #MarkSarmeldoesthesethings

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spaceiplier · 6 years ago

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SPACEIPLIER: Homestuck

((THIS IS A JOKE. IT’S JUST A JOKE. IT'S NOT CANON. HAPPY HOMESTUCK DAY.))

A young man stands in his bedroom. It just so happens that today, the 28th of June, 3516, is this young man's birthday. Though it was twenty-five years ago he was given life, it is only today he will be given a name!

What will the name of this young man be?

ENTER NAME.

SALLY MCSAGGYTITS

TRY AGAIN, SMARTASS

TRY AGAIN.

MARK FISCHBACH

✔

EXAMINE ROOM

Your name is MARK. As was previously mentioned it is your BIRTHDAY. A number of CAKES are scattered about your room. You have a variety of INTERESTS. You have a passion for REALLY TERRIBLE MOVIES. You like to program computers but you are NOT VERY GOOD AT IT. You have a fondness for PARANORMAL LORE, and are an aspiring AMATEUR PILOT. You also like to play GAMES sometimes.

What will you do?

Mark: Quickly retrieve arms from drawer.

Your ARMS are in your SPACE CHEST, pooplord!

Remove CAKE from SPACE CHEST.

Out of sympathy for Mark's perceived lack of arms, you pick up the CAKE for him and put it on his BED.

Mark: Quickly retrieve arms from SPACE CHEST.

You retrieve your FAKE ARMS from the chest. You use these for HILARIOUS ANTICS.

You CAPTCHALOGUE them in your SYLLADEX. You have no idea what that actually means though.

There are other items in the chest.

Mark: Examine contents of chest.

In here you keep an array of humorous and mystical ARTIFACTS, each one a devastating weapon in the hands of a SKILLED SPACEFARER or a CUNNING PRANKSTER.

You are neither of these things.

Among the ARTIFACTS are: TWO (2) FAKE ARMS [CURRENTLY CAPTCHALOGUED IN YOUR SYLLADEX], ONE (1) PAIR OF TRICK HANDCUFFS, ONE (1) STUNT BLASTER, ONE (1) PILOT’S HELMET, ONE (1) PAIR OF BEAGLE PUSS GLASSES, SEVERAL (~) SMOKE PELLETS, SEVERAL (~) BLOOD CAPSULES, and ONE (1) COPY OF COLONEL SASSACRE'S DAUNTING TEXT OF SPACE FRIVOLITY AND PRACTICAL JAPERY, and ONE (1) COPY OF HARRY ANDERSON'S "WISE GUY", BY MIKE CAVENEY.

Some of this stuff may come in handy at some point. For now, you decide to just take the SMOKE PELLETS.

Mark: Captchalogue the smoke pellets.

You stow the SMOKE PELLETS on one of your CAPTCHALOGUE CARDS in your SYLLADEX.

You still aren't totally sure what that means, but you are starting to get the hang of the vernacular at least.

You have two empty CAPTCHALOGUE CARDS remaining.

Mark: Equip fake arms.

You aren't totally sure if "EQUIP" is a verb copasetic with the abstract behavioral medium in which you dwell, but you give it a try anyway.

Unfortunately, you cannot access the FAKE ARMS! Their card is underneath the one you just used to captchalogue the SMOKE PELLETS. You will have to use the pellets first in order to access the arms. But this is probably unadvisable, since you'd just make your room lousy with smoke!

Your SYLLADEX'S FETCH MODUS is currently dictated by the logic of a STACK DATA STRUCTURE. You were never all that great with data structures and you find the concept puzzling and mildly irritating.

But with any hope, perhaps you will advance new, more practical FETCH MODI for your SYLLADEX with a little more experience.

Mark: Examine Space Sleuth Poster.

Is it even possible to get any more hard boiled than that? You really doubt it. This poster was one of your wisest purchases.

There is a nice spot on the wall next to it. You've been meaning to hang another poster there soon.

Mark: Read note on drawer.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY SON

I AM SO PROUD OF YOU”

This note is rich with the aromas of MOTHERLY HERBS AND SPICES.

Beside the note is a ROLLED UP POSTER.

Mark: Take poster.

Another BIRTHDAY ARTIFACT. You wonder what is printed on the poster.

You'll need some way to hang it on your wall.

Mark: Acquire hammer and nails. They will come in handy.

You first place the HAMMER into your SYLLADEX.

But now all of your CAPTCHALOGUE CARDS are full. You wonder what will happen if you try to take the NAILS

You guess it doesn't hurt to try.

Mark: Take nails.

You captchalogue FOUR (4) NAILS into the top card, and push all the ARTIFACTS down a card.

The FAKE ARMS are pushed entirely out of the deck!!!

Oh well. They're probably completely useless anyway. But you probably don't want to do that again, unless you want to drop the SMOKE PELLETS and suffer the consequences.

In any case, you now feel like you have gathered enough things to get down to business and do some really important stuff. The next thing you do will probably be exceptionally meaningful.

Mark: Squawk like an imbecile and shit on your desk.

This is the dumbest idea you've had in weeks!!!

STUPID STUPID STUPID.

And yet the polished surface of your desk...

It beckons.

Mark: Combine the nails and hammer.

You MERGE the top two cards.

The HAMMER and NAILS are now captchalogued on the same card and can be used together.

Mark: Use hammer/nails on poster.

You use the HAMMER and NAILS card IN CONJUNCTION with the card beneath it.

Mark: Nail poster to wall.

You use the HAMMER, NAILS, and POSTER on the blank space on the wall.

It's glorious. Exactly what you wanted. Your mom really came through this time.

Mark: Examine Con Space poster.

PUT THE KHARAPIN BACK IN THE BOX.

I SAID, PUT THE KHARAPIN BACK IN THE BOX.

WHY COULDN'T YOU PUT THE KHARAPIN BACK IN THE BOX?

Mark: Examine Deep Impact poster.

Morgan Saorman's genteel, homespun mannerisms were perfect qualities for a president residing over a crisis.

STARS RISE. PLANETS FALL. HOPE SURVIVES.

WOW.

Films about impending apocalypse fascinate you. Plus, a Velm president??? Now you've seen everything!

Mark: Examine calendar.

You've marked your birthday, the 28th of June. Another day you marked was supposed to be the arrival date for the highly touted SBURB BETA LAUNCH.

It's been three days already. It's starting to become a sore subject with you.

Mark: Eat cake.

You are sick to death of cake!!! You've been eating it all day. And you have no intention of clogging your SYLLADEX with it either. The CAKE stays put for now.

You hear a notice from your COMM. Someone is messaging you.

Mark: Examine incoming message.

You pick up your COMMUNICATOR. This is where you spend most of your time. You decorated your screen with some rather handsome WALLPAPER which you made yourself. You are really proud of it.

Your COMMUNICATOR is also littered with various PROGRAMMING PROJECT FILES. You are so bad at programming sometimes you wonder why you even bother with it.

Your PESTERCHUM application is flashing. Someone is trying to get in touch with you.

Mark: Open Pesterchum.

Only one of your CHUMS is logged in. He's sent you a message.

Mark: Open message.

-- turntechLizardhead [TL] began pestering ectoPilot [EP] at 16:13 --

TL: hey so what sort of insane loot did you rake in today EP: i got a little monsters poster, it's so awesome. i'm going to watch it again today, the applejuice scene was so funny. TL: oh hell that is such a coincidence i just found an unopened container of apple juice in my closet it is like fucking scarlix day up in here EP: ok thats fine, but i just have one question and then a word of caution. have you ever seen a movie called little monsters starring howie mandel and fred savage? TL: but TL: the seal on the bottle is unbroken TL: are you suggesting someone put piss in my apple juice at the factory EP: all im saying is don't you think monster howie mandel has the power to do something as simple as reseal a bottle? EP: try using your brain numbnuts. TL: why did the fat kid or whoever drank it know what piss tasted like TL: i mean his reaction was nigh instantaneous EP: it was the 15th day in a row howie mandel peed in his juice. TL: ok i can accept that TL: monster B-list celebrity douchebags are cunning and persistent pranksters TL: also fred savage has a really punchable face TL: but who cares about this lets stop talking about it TL: did you get the beta yet EP: no. EP: did you? TL: man i got two copies already TL: but i dont care im not going to play it or anything the game sounds boring TL: did you see how it got slammed in game bro???? EP: game bro is a joke and we both know it. TL: yeah TL: why dont you go check your mail maybe its there now EP: alright. Mark: Look out window.You see the view of your yard on VENTOS BETA from your window. Hanging from the tree is your TIRE SWING. In a kid's yard, a tree without a tire swing is like a proper gentleman without a monocle. That is to say, HE CAN HARDLY BE CONSIDERED A TERRIBLY PROPER GENTLEMAN AT ALL. And there beside your driveway is the mailbox.

#not official story #markiplier #homestuck #happy homestuck day you nerds #this is just a joke #a goof #a jape #please don't take it serioiusly

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sunyoonandstars · 6 years ago

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🥀 Sanguinem || BTS Vampire! Mafia Boss! Taehyung x Vampire! Reader || AU SERIES || Chapter 1

October called for a fantasy AU. So, here you go, guys. Enjoy!

📃 Sanguinem Masterlist

🎶 PLAYLIST 🎶

Pairings Vampire Mafia boss! Taehyung x You Vampire! Jimin x You

Word count 2.250

angst, hints of/at and future smut, hints of fluff if you squint maybe?

🥀 Warnings 🥀 mentions of blood, death, violence, emotional/physical abuse (nothing gruesome, though, I swear)

When your eyes met for the first time, it was as if you could feel the entire universe implode around you. The sight of his inky black orbs knocked the air right out of your lungs. You couldn't quite believe he was real at first, were convinced your mind was playing tricks on you when he suddenly started walking towards you, making his way through the crowded bar without once breaking eye contact. You could feel his presence even from afar, drawing you in like a magnet.

"I was looking for you, angel."

Those had been the first words Taehyung ever aimed at you. And your first kiss, right then and there, sealed the deal. You readily offered him your everything. And he did the same. Or so you thought at the time.

CHAPTER 1 || decay

You never thought you'd see him again. Kim Taehyung. The love of your eternal life. Unfortunately.

What you wouldn't give to rid yourself of the ghosts of the past, to shed every memory of him like dead skin and be reborn a new, free person. The woman you used to be. Before your paths had crossed centuries ago. In a Paris ravaged by the Second World War, it's glorious beauty tarnished by hunger, grief, and omnipresent anguish that seemed to seep out of every broken window and every pile of rubble like quicksilver, heavy, smothering, contaminating the air and poisoning the people. Watching those tiny, meaningless humans desperately struggling to get back on their feet and restore their precious, shallow city to its former grandeur after years of senseless warfare and pointless destruction, you almost felt pity for them. Almost.

Over time, you had learned to know better than to feel for them. Those small-minded, greedy creatures that kept on repeating the same foolish mistakes over and over again. Death, destruction, hatred, jealousy. They never learned. They didn't want to learn. You had realized that soon enough. It only took you about two hundred years of immortality to see through humanity and come to terms with the fact that it wasn't you who was the abomination, but, in fact, the very humans you envied so much for their capability to lead the ordinary lives they didn't value. Money and lust, consumption and splendor were all that was on their minds. And you were disgusted by their ignorant frivolity. Which only made it so much easier for you to view them as what they were to you: No more than a source of food. It didn't take you long to entirely abandon your guilty conscience and lose all sense of compassion for the dozens upon dozens of existences you put an end to.

That was until you met him.

Nothing was what it used to be starting the very second he entered your life. You had never even contemplated the reality of destiny, had never even considered the actuality of fate to be a possibility, just like you had always denied the presence of a higher power, a divinity so to say. Because, if such a higher power were to be, how and why would he allow something like you to be born? A creature abhorrent to nature that needs to kill mercilessly in order to survive?

Coming across Taehyung, however, led you to call your previous beliefs, or rather their denial, into question. Because you knew the moment you first laid eyes on him: He was meant to be yours, and you were meant to be his. Two of a kind, your lives had been linked long before you were even aware of each other's existence. He held the piece your soul had been missing ever since you awoke at the bottom of a cliff with broken limbs and the burning desire to drink human blood over four hundred years ago, without any memory of how you had gotten there and who you had been before. Taehyung was your mate. The two of you were meant to be. For some reason, you were certain of that fact. More certain than of anything else in your life.

"I was looking for you, angel."

The first weeks and months were unbelievably intense. You spent them in a dreamy haze, rarely ever leaving your shared hotel room, breaking quite a few beds. Your hunger for each other rendered your never-ceasing thirst for blood meaningless. You went without feeding for days on end. And when your cravings eventually got the better of you, and you were weakened to the point that you were barely able to move your limbs, Taehyung presented you with the ultimate solution to all your problems: Sanguinem. A synthetic substitute for human blood. A drug. Solely designed to fit and sustain the Vampire metabolism. Created by Taehyung himself, invented over the course of centuries. And, just like Taehyung, the Sanguinem came to you as both your salvation and your undoing.

Sanguinem was blood in its purest, most refined form, offering an all-new kind of high. One that lasted for days but left you with an insatiable longing for more. Just like he did.

Soon, you could no longer imagine yourself without Taehyung by your side. And, just as well, you could not go a week without your dose of Sanguinem. Taehyung had managed to do what turned out to be his intention from the start: He had made you into his willing puppet, his property. When you were finally onto him and his malevolent agenda, though, it was already too late. There was no going back. Or at least it seemed that way to you. Because, back then, you were too weak. Too weak to resist, to fight off the effect Taehyung had on you, to escape his control. And once he was sure his power over you was absolute, Taehyung introduced you to his 'Crimson Circle'. A ruthless and influential organization that did not only reign over Paris, as you came to know, but dominated the market for blood substitutes all across Europe and East Asia and basically 'owned' nearly every single vampire inhabiting the area.

You see, the Crimson Circle didn't demand payment solely in the form of money. If you didn't have the financial means to purchase the Sanguinem, there were always other ways to reimburse them. Services one was to provide. Debts that were to be repaid at a time when it came in handy to Taehyung and his mission – which was to protect and preserve the vampire race by seeing to it that a strict set of rules was being followed by every individual within his reach. A mission no one but Taehyung had been strong enough to fulfill so far, but that was more than necessary to be carried out since, during that time, vampires were close to extinction due to the atrocious name they had made for themselves.

Your likes had been hunted and slaughtered systematically ever since human technology had evolved to a level that enabled them to develop weapons effective enough to combat vampires despite their unnatural strength and heightened senses. Under the cloak of World War One and Two, thousands upon thousands of your kind had been tracked down and executed without trial. Because your species wasn't considered human. You didn't have rights, were mere monsters, soulless, deemed to be even below animals.

So, keeping a low profile, which meant keeping fellow vampires in line and sparing human lives whenever possible, was of immense importance when it came to remaining undetected and maintaining a steady count of your kind. And, somehow, Kim Taehyung seemed to be just the man to accomplish that.

He was both cruel and caring, cold and deadly yet gentle and beautiful. A riddle. A living, breathing oxymoron, oozing the kind confidence and innate authority that allowed neither resistance nor objection and demanded to be recognized.

Taehyung taught you to respect life again, reintroduced you to that softer side of yourself you believed to have killed and buried centuries ago. He gave you, and so many others, a purpose while steadily expanding his network and consolidating his position as the unchallenged leader of the Crimson Circle.

And you admired him. No. You loved him. With all that was left of your heart.

Years passed. One, two, five, ten, fifty of them. And, all the while, you were Taehyung's number one. His queen. His sanctuary. His pride and his right-hand woman. Boastfully, he showed you off. His brightest jewel and most valuable possession. And, most of the time, he approached you with reverence and care, handled you like the divine creation he saw in you.

At the beginning of his reign, Taehyung still asked and valued your opinion on matters of high importance and demanded your presence at all his meetings. He never wanted you to leave his side, and his underlings learned to respect you. Nobody dared to question your dignity or position, and whoever did have the audacity to disparage you in any way possible had to pay with their life. Taehyung usually saw to it that he made short work of them in a quite public manner, setting a warning example for future offenders as he did with everyone who thought it to be a good idea to bend or even go so far as to break his meticulously implemented set of rules.

For the first time after seemingly endless years of solitude, spent on the run, in fear and isolation, you felt safe, valued, appreciated, and cared for.

Quickly, though, after a couple of decades that was, the tide started turning. It was little things at first. Sudden shifts in Taehyung's mood. Displays of unnecessarily violent behavior, not only towards his subordinates but directed against you, as well. He became greedy, driven by lust and rage, impatient, voracious, jealous for no reason.

At some point, you were forced to admit to yourself that it was time for you to go, to leave Taehyung behind and get as far away from him as possible. Before it was too late. Because the power – and his unappeasable thirst for more of the same –, as well as the need to adopt a certain coldness in order to sustain it, were beginning to consume him.

What had started out as the noble endeavor to turn the vampire race into one that was respectable and could be part of the world it inhabited without disrupting it quickly turned into a dark, all-consuming vortex of corruption and intrigue. With each day passing, Taehyung diverged further and further from the man he had once been, the man you had hopelessly fallen for, and instead became the very monster people had always feared your kind to be.

He became unfaithful to you, had affairs, held orgies. Started to treat you more and more roughly, both in bed and in life. To consciously and continuously degrade you, making you feel worthless and inferior and punishing you for his mistakes, abusing you both mentally and physically – a pattern that only led him to despise himself even more, plunging him deeper and deeper into a vicious, unending cycle of self-hatred and violence.

When Taehyung had formerly preached the value and appreciation of both human and vampire life, he now murdered dozens of innocent souls of either kind in cold blood, just for the thrill of it and to act out the anger that would otherwise have been directed at himself or, even worse, you. Because, back then, there was still some part left in Taehyung that wanted to protect you. Shortly after, though, that last, compassionate fragment of him, too, ceased to exist, going out like a fickle flame once he stopped fighting the process and succumbed to the darkness that was slowly but surely making itself at home in his very core, spreading like a tumor.

When there was finally no more warmth left in his gaze as it fell upon you, you knew you had to move on, however much it pained your heart to abandon Taehyung in such a state. Entirely consumed by evil. Because you had allowed him to be corrupted, lacking the strength to fight it for the both of you.

You could tell by the way he sometimes still looked at you, quietly longing for the comfort you had once provided, that he was crying out for help. That he wanted to be saved. That he needed you to chase away the darkness in his stead and help him reemerge as the beacon of light he used to be. But you were too scared. Afraid that he would drag you down with him. And that there would be no going back.

So you ran. Literally ran for your life. As far and as quickly as your legs could carry you. In the dead of night, while Taehyung was once more being pleasured by half a dozen recently turned female vampires, you packed up your things and fled Paris with the help and in the company of your and Taehyung's dearest confidant, Jimin, vowing to yourself to never look back.

And you never did.

As a matter of fact, Taehyung barely ever crosses your mind these days.

But you have a feeling that is about to change when you turn around behind the counter of the bar you currently work at to pour another stranger yet another drink. Only to stop and stare when your unsuspecting eyes meet a set of onyx orbs you thought you would never get lost in again.

“I was looking for you, angel.”

To be continued ...

← Previous Part | Next Part → Coming soon!

Hope you liked it so far. 🙃 I’ll try to update as soon and as often as possible. But there are a few changes taking place in my life right now, so I can’t make any promises.

Here you can find my full Masterlist in case you feel like checking out more of my BTS fiction.

NONE of the GIFs used are mine. Credit goes to the initial creators. Thank you for your hard work and dedication.

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johnny-and-dora · 6 years ago

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holding back the flood

“Oh god. Their baby is the size of a cherry. She’s tearing up again.”

or, the one where jake and rosa take care of a extremely stressed, highly emotional and mildly pregnant amy. (future fic) read on ao3

Amy really doesn’t know why she’s crying.

As a Santiago, she prides herself on having at least a reasonable amount of self control when it comes to emotional displays in the workplace; she was taught long ago that they were highly inappropriate, after all, and she takes great pride in being a teacher’s pet/star mentee.

Disregarding Holt’s advice (which isn’t something she often does), one of the thousands of things she’s learnt since she became a sergeant is that it’s optimum for everyone’s productivity – and overall physical wellbeing – if she can keep stress braids, Santiago-scale freak outs and full-on weeping to a minimum at work.

(No-one needs to mention the Great Printer Catastrophe again – and absolutely no-one needs to mention that she’s permanently banned from being anywhere near the machine if it’s ever low on ink.)

Badly timed, apocalypse-inducing paper jams aside; Amy is a strong, emotionally resilient, rational woman. She rolls her eyes and smiles at Jake when he cries at films, she flawlessly multitasks with letting her anxiety get the best of her, and she tries her best to remain professional at all times (ignoring the extremely few instances in which her husband has tempted her into Supply Closet C). She cries when she wants to, when she needs to, but as a rule, she absolutely holds it together at the precinct, especially in front of her officers.

At least, that’s what she’s been firmly trying to tell herself for the past few days, because her usually reliable ability to “hold it together” currently seems about as unstable as her current hormone levels.

Since she got into work this morning, she’s cried four times already – once because they were out of granola, once because Charles’s lunch smelled at least ten million times worse and at least ten times more eye-watering than usual. Once, most unceremoniously, in a toilet stall on her break because her head wrecks and she’s so nauseous she can barely enjoy filling in paperwork anymore, and once because she suddenly remembered the sonogram picture, grainy and monochrome and forever universe-changing, that currently takes pride of place in their kitchen, stuck lovingly with an old I LOVE NY magnet to their fridge.

Notably - and most likely the shining, golden solve for why she might be spending 3pm on a Thursday afternoon sobbing her little heart out in the evidence lock up, riding out her own little hormone rollercoaster - Amy is nine weeks pregnant.

(Now is not the time, but something in her lights up every time she actually dares to think the actual word “pregnant” into existence; she fondly remembers snapshots of the past two months, the swell of joy in her heart at those two life-altering little lines, another test passed with flying colours. The look on Jake’s face when she told him, the way he’s been doing everything he can to take care of her. The time he came home with a little pair of baby sneakers that he “couldn’t resist” and she kissed him after lecturing him about how now wasn’t the time for frivolous purchases and they needed to be balancing their finances.)

(In short, they’re having a baby - and it’s terrifying and exhilarating and extremely, extremely nauseating, and she’s never been happier in her life.)

(And yet, she still can’t quite seem to stop crying.)

The emotional carnival ride of growing a human aside, she really doesn’t want to have an emotional break-down here, of all places, the one place in the precinct that’s meant to keep her steady. Quite frankly, Amy does not have the time to spare for these gross, irritating emotions right now. There is no time reserved in her tightly packed schedule for emotions of any kind, let alone multiple confusing and upsetting ones all at once.

She can’t even really note anything currently worth crying over. It’s just a simple detailed and meticulously planned patrol schedule due by the end of her shift that’s proving slightly harder to organise than first anticipated. Easy. Not a problem that she hasn’t solved a thousand times before.

Of course, that’s also on top of the thirty slide presentation about increasing productivity and efficiency within the precinct she has to give tomorrow that she’s barely had the time or energy to actually prepare for. And the in-depth evaluations she has to hand in of her entire squad by Monday.

And the fact that she’s already behind on the research for her pregnancy binder, and she still hasn’t revised their monthly budgets - because once she finally gets home she’s too exhausted to do anything other than sleepily curl up on the couch next to her husband, using Jake as her personal space heater while he strokes her hair and tells her about his day. She’s even too tired to yell at the TV during Jeopardy.

It’s nothing. At least, it’s nothing she would usually be worried about, tasks to complete that she would normally even be a little excited to feel the adrenaline rush of finishing early and getting some sweet spare time to revise her eighteen step plan to increase arrest numbers by 30% by December. Santiago-style.

And yet, to pregnant Amy, what usually constitutes as ‘nothing’ seems to currently signal the end of days - and so, here she appears to be.

Hormones raging, freshly applied mascara once again ruined, eyes red and puffy, breathing irregular, neon sign brightly flashing with the words “hot mess” directly above her head. She’s hiding, not exactly inconspicuously, between the endlessly neat rows of closed cases, knees hugged as close to her chest as possible while taking tremendous care not to squish the ever-so-slight, barely noticeable bump that remains breath-taking proof that she’s growing an actual, real-life, cherry sized (as Jake cheerfully informed her this morning over breakfast) human being inside of her.

Oh God. Their baby is now the size of a cherry. She’s tearing up again.

She decides after a while, with the shred of rationality Amy seems to have left, that she is currently a hot mess that only one person is fully equipped to deal with. She reaches for her phone, sniffling, trying her best keep her breathing steady, anxiously fiddling with the shining silver wedding band on her ring finger.

She’s about to text a “Code Blue, Evidence Lockup” to Jake (who she thought she couldn’t love more up until about three weeks ago, when he woke her up at 3am with a meticulously crafted colour-based code system they could use to covertly deal with pregnancy situations - it made her both very emotional and super horny) – but she feels a flash of panic when it’s not in its usual place tucked safely in her back pocket. Her heart quickly sinks when she realises it must be still in the top drawer of her desk.

She lets out another stifled sob of dread and embarrassment and frustration and practically every range of negative emotion under the sun - which is, obviously, exactly when she hears the door to the evidence lock-up swing open.

A spark of fear immediately ignites in her chest as her heart starts racing – not now. She instinctively squeezes her eyes shut, hoping desperately that if she makes herself as small as physically possible, even in her current state, she’ll be able to completely disappear.

The Nine-Nine have seen her in a much worse state, sure. She’s more sure than anything that her chosen family would be able to make her feel better in practically any kind of situation. And yet, pretty much her worst, world-ending, blood-pumping fear right now is anyone – except Jake, seeing as this is the job he kind of signed up for when he married her - having to deal with her like this.

As weighted footsteps inch agonisingly closer, her heart plummets even further at the absence of the familiar sound of well worn sneakers – instead, she hears the equally familiar yet less comforting click-clack of black high-heeled boots on the cold concrete floor. She prepares for the worst.

The next thing she hears, deep yet uncharacteristically quiet and almost with a note of panic, is an unusually soft “Amy?” – when she finally opens her eyes, Rosa swims into view, eyes so comically wide that she can’t help but exhale a shaky, weak laugh. This is going to be fun.

“Heyyyyyyyy, Rosa.” She gives a little half-hearted wave despite herself, deciding to fully embrace the slightly hilarious and extremely mortifying situation.

(It could be worse. At least it’s less mortifying then being walked in on when making out with your boyfriend of one day, resulting in the heart attack and subsequent death of your new captain. Jake and Amy hold a lot of precinct records between them – the award for “highest amount of captains accidentally killed” is probably the one she’s least proud of.)

“Um, hey. Are you...”

“Chill? I’m chilled. I’m to-tal-ly chill. Chilled.”

If possible, Rosa’s eyes get wider.

“Do you possibly happen to know where my husband is, by any chance?” She laughs nervously with this sort of manic grin plastered on her face, putting all her energy into seeming like a normal human being. She’s failing miserably.

Rosa raises an eyebrow, but thankfully decides to indulge her.

“...He’s working on Charles’s B&E, some lame cheese shop downtown that Charles is too devastated about to get any actual police work done. They left like twenty minutes ago.” Amy exhales, trying not to let her face fall too hard.

“Right. Chill. Do you mind if I text him? I left my phone downstairs and I can’t exactly go down looking like...this.” She’s barely finished her sentence before Rosa is handing her phone to her, and she takes it gratefully.

She quickly finds Jake’s contact and involuntarily feels her lips tug up into a small smile at the incredibly unflattering dorky candid - from easily a decade ago, maybe even the Academy - that is his contact picture.

(Some things never change. She’s very glad his hair has.)

To: Jake Peralta, 15:06 Hey babe, it’s Amy. Code Blue, Evidence Lockup. I know you’re with Charles so don’t drop everything and immediately rush back here, just come when you can. Using Rosa’s phone because I left mine downstairs. Love you x

The painstaking minute and a half she takes to type out and send it to him – all while her hands are shaking from the incessant and deafening panic alarm sounding in her ribcage - are made even worse by the intense burning sensation of Rosa’s direct gaze on her the entire time. Hold it together, Amy.

“Thank you.” She hands Rosa her phone back, wishing more than ever that if she concentrated hard enough she could just disappear from sight completely. An awkward silence descends over them both, bringing with it an inevitable thickness in the air not unlike the first warnings of a thunderstorm. It’s unbearable.

It’s not like they’re not close enough to talk about exactly why Amy is sobbing hysterically in the evidence lock-up at 3pm on a Thursday – far from it, in fact. Ever since Florida, Rosa has become more and more of a valued and surprisingly skilled confidante, even if most of her solutions to Amy’s problems are tequila and Nancy Meyers films. (It, somehow, always seems to work.)

If anything, Amy is desperate to tell one of her closest and best friends all about how nauseous she is and how stressed out she feels and how, by the way, she’s casually just in the early stages of growing a human inside of her and she feels even more panicked than usual and what if she can never get the balance of being a mother and focusing on her career right and-

But she can’t. Because they can’t tell anyone, no matter how much Amy yearns to share this joy with the people she cares about the most, and how much Jake wants to gleefully yell that he knocked his wife up at virtually everyone they pass on the street. They’re just not ready – in truth, she isn’t ready for it to be official, real and an unavoidable, gargantuan force of change.

Thinking the word ‘pregnant’ into existence is enough to cause a hurricane of raw emotion – but it’s a light breeze compared to actually saying out loud.

And yet, they both known Rosa won’t leave until she gets some sort of answer out of her. They’re at an impasse – an uncomfortable, awkward, silent impasse.

Rosa’s gaze is scrutinising and calculating and Amy genuinely wouldn’t be surprised if lasers started shooting from her eyes at any second – it’s something of a old western movie stand-off parody, except they’re waiting out who’s going to suck it up and actually start the conversation they should probably be having right about now, no matter how uncomfortable both of them might be.

After an excruciating eternity of roughly ten seconds, the other curly-haired and always slightly terrifying detective eventually sighs and resignedly slides down on the floor next to her, discarding whatever file she had to the side. Her expression (as usual), is unreadable as she clears her throat.

“So - are you going to tell me what’s causing...this...” - Rosa makes an awkward sweeping gesture in her direction, which she assumes can only be in reference to the whole aforementioned “hot mess” state that she’s currently wallowing in – “or am I going to have to interrogate it out of you?”

“Rosa, honestly. I’m fine.”

“You and I have a very different definition of what ‘fine’ is, Santiago.” Amy just shrugs, so Rosa folds her arms and extends her legs across the floor like she’s prepared to be here all night, in true Diaz interrogation style. Amy’s thinking about laser eyes again before her friend’s expression unexpectedly softens.

“Do...you want to...talk about it?”

“I don’t know.” It’s an honest answer, to her credit. Despite everything they’ve been through, seeing Rosa try to talk about feelings can still be a little like imagining a turtle out its shell, and Amy’s really not prepared to honestly talk about her physical and emotional state right now.

She just wants her husband to bring her some chocolate and give her a slightly inappropriate-for-work and yet badly needed neck massage, and Rosa is not someone she’d willingly go to for either of those things.

She sighs again, averting her gaze from Amy’s face to seemingly anywhere in the room before she starts talking again.

“Look dude, talking about your feelings is gross. If you don’t want to talk about it and you just want to sit here and cry it all out, I get it. I’ll stay here as long as you need, then go file my arson case and pretend I didn’t see anything. But...I’m here for you. Even if your feelings are the grossest or lamest, if you wanna talk, I’ll listen. Okay?” She finally brings herself to look at Amy directly, dark irises electric with the most intense sincerity she’s ever seen.

Okay, yeah. She’s definitely going to start crying again.

“Wait, I didn’t mean –“ Rosa begins; but Amy is already hugging her, forcefully and tightly and awkwardly from the side, tears once again free-flowing. She smiles brightly and tenderly at the way Rosa only stiffens up for a second before equally as awkwardly leaning into it, patting Amy reassuringly on the shoulder with her free arm.

They stay like that for a good minute, Amy sniffling and basically doing the exact opposite of holding it together, but also feeling like its okay. Like nothing she can do or say will end the world if she doesn’t let it. It’s a refreshing change of pace.

This, of course, means the second she finally finds the strength to detach herself from her best friend; well, it just kind of comes spilling out.

“I’m pregnant.”

Rosa’s eyes suddenly become comically wide again, and Amy laughs for real this time, bright and shining and clear.

“Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm. 9 weeks yesterday.”

“Nice.” Rosa smiles, a genuine, rare glowing Rosa smile, giving Amy a light shove of encouragement. When Amy breathes out, it somehow feels like a huge weight has lifted from her shoulders. She grins.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. I feel sick all the time, all my clothes are becoming too tight, I can’t drink caffeine or alcohol or shame smoke and I’m so stressed out and emotional that I cry at literally everything – but, y’know.”

“You’re having a baby.” Rosa says with this kind of awe, and Amy gets this warm glow in her chest.

“Yeah.” She smiles. “I’m having a baby.”

“That’s...a lot.”

“Yeah. Everything’s just...a lot, right now.” She sighs heavily, still weighted with something she’s been worried about for the last week or so.

“We haven’t told anyone else yet, but – well, do you think it’s obvious?” She finally plucks up the courage to ask the question that’s been nagging at her mind ever since she started to have a little more trouble fitting in to her sergeant’s uniform, and the other detective pauses thoughtfully for a second to think about it.

“I don’t think so. You’re not...showing, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

“No, no. We just... we didn’t want to tell everyone until...y’know. We were ready and it was the right time and...” She trails off, making a casual sweeping sort of gesture that somehow encapsulates her worst fears, and Rosa nods.

“I had my suspicions – you haven’t come out with us to Shaw’s in a long time, I haven’t seen you drink caffeine for a month, and you’ve been having even worse reactions to Charles’s disgusting food than usual. You don’t have to be a detective to start threading those symptoms together.”

“Damn. I thought we were doing a pretty good job of keeping it secret.” Amy sighs, folding her arms tightly across her chest, but Rosa just shrugs it off.

“You are. I saw all that but I still wasn’t sure. It just so happens that most of the people you’re trying to keep it secret from are highly trained NYPD detectives.”

Amy exhales a shaky half laugh and smiles, properly and genuinely, at the way her best friend looks at her with this kind of rare and precious softness, the corners of her mouth ever so slightly upturned into a smile.

“Also, I caught Jake on a baby name website last week and he panicked and told me he was brainstorming names for the monitor lizard you guys are thinking of adopting.”

“Oh, my god.”

“Yeah.” Rosa grins and Amy laughs at how wonderfully, amazingly stupid her husband can be, and her heart is actually warmed by the idea of Jake looking up baby names when he’s supposed to be working despite how irresponsible and stupid that is.

Somehow, she already feels better that she has all day, and there’s not a bottle of tequila or a DVD copy of The Holiday in sight. Another successful solve for the Sleuth Sisters (she’s still proud of that name and their corresponding cool-as-heck handshake, okay).

“Is that...why you’re here? You’re worried about everyone knowing?” Rosa asks, a little more tentatively than usual now she understands Amy’s fragile state a little better. She makes a face.

“Maybe. Honestly, I don’t really know why I’m here. It’s just between this stupid patrol schedule and this presentation I have to give tomorrow and my squad evaluations and my pregnancy binder and my actual pregnancy – well, I don’t know if I can handle it, okay?”

“...And that freaks you out because normally it would be something you could do easily.” Rosa nods, understanding, and Amy gives her a weak smile, letting her hands drop and rest naturally, almost protectively on her stomach.

“Amy, you are two months pregnant. There’s no way you can get done what you’d usually be able to get done by yourself, because you’re busy being exhausted from growing another human being inside of you. It’s perfectly normal to not be able to take on your usual superhuman workload, you nerd.” Rosa says, with this familiar exasperated disbelief at Amy’s overworking brain.

“I know, I know. It’s just...frustrating. I’m already struggle to balance family with career and the baby isn’t even here yet. It only just became a foetus, Rosa. A foetus!”

“Okay, okay.” Rosa puts her hands out like she’s trying to steady a horse, clearly fully aware that Amy’s about five seconds away from a Level 3 Santiago Scale Freak Out, Pregnant Edition – something neither of them are fully prepared for.

“I don’t have an answer to the whole baby and career thing, but you don’t have to think about that right now – you need to focus on you.” Amy clearly doesn’t look convinced enough, so Rosa sighs and tries again.

“Tell Holt you’ve been sick recently and you don’t feel ready for the presentation, and he’ll 100% understand, dude. Get Jennings to help you with the patrol schedule seeing as that nerd loves paperwork almost as much as you do, and you know your officers better than another sergeant in New York, so those evaluations will be easy – you could probably motivate them to even do it themselves. Problem solved, you get to go home early and kick your feet up with a non-alcoholic cocktail.” She flawlessly monologues off a game plan with an exceptional ease that leaves Amy in a state of awe.

“Wow. I...erm, yeah. That’s super helpful, actually.” Rosa nods, like it’s nothing that she’s just solved basically the entirety of Amy’s current mental-breakdown-inducing stressors in a matter of seconds, and then softens.

“You’re going to be fine, Amy. Trust me. Once the whole squad knows we’ll be queuing up to help you guys out.” She, of course, knew that already – but it’s nice to hear it out loud, a promise engraved in the unbreakable, indestructible bond of the 99th precinct. She’s definitely less close to tears now, which is always a plus.

She always knew she could count on her parents to help out, of course, and maybe a couple of her brothers when they weren’t busy graduating med school or travelling the world or having kids of their own. But it’s nice to know, to have it spoken, that she’ll always be able to count on her other family, too. That there are so many people who are more than willing to ride her stupid emotional rollercoaster with her, even through the seemingly endless loops.

“Thanks, Rosa.” “Anytime.”

As if on cue, their little bonding moment is abruptly hijacked when Jake comes crashing into the evidence lock-up – chaotic and electric and as hectic as she’s come to expect in the many, many years she’s spent slowly falling more and more in love with him, his eyes slightly wild , extremely out of breath. Amy’s heart rate spikes again as she realises with a jumble of adoration, frustration and amusement that he ran all the way here just to take care of her.

Not for the first time, amazingly not even for the first time this week, she quickly realises that she really couldn’t have found a better person to share the rest of her life with. She whispers a silent thank you to the universe.

“Ames! I’m so sorry it took me so long” – he pauses to take another breath – “I had to run from that stupid cheese shop, and I know you said not to drop everything and immediately rush back here, so I obviously dropped everything and immediately rushed back here, ‘cause I knew that you were just downplaying it and if it’s a Code Blue that’s important and-“

It seems to be only then that he notices Rosa watching them both, who gives him a subtle nod, unable to completely keep the smile from her face. Frozen, his eyes flick repeatedly and chaotically from Rosa’s to hers, as if he’s trying to telepathically figure out whether he can talk about the baby or not.

He looks like a cartoon character and/or absolute, complete utter idiot, and Amy laughs melodically, deciding to put him out of his misery.

“Jake, it’s okay – she knows.”

“...About the monitor lizard we’re planning to adopt?” He says slowly, and Amy and Rosa both roll their eyes simultaneously; neither of them bothering to poorly conceal their smiles anymore.

In lieu of an answer, Rosa gets up from the floor and punches Jake in the shoulder, smiling wider than Amy thinks she’s ever seen her smile (except maybe when Alicia is around). It’s extremely heart-warming and only slightly unnerving – she doesn’t think she’s ever recorded so many genuine Rosa smiles in one day - except maybe on her and Jake’s wedding night, or when she oh-so casually mentioned over lunch a few months ago that she and Alicia were moving in together.

It’s different and unexpected and unusual in the best way possible – sharing this joy, especially with someone she cares about so much. Suddenly, she starts to understand why Jake wants so badly to yell it out into the street.

“Dude. I know. And for the record, I think you’re going to be a great...monitor lizard keeper.” Amy smiles as she sees the tension practically seep out of Jake’s frame and he relaxes a little, grins at Rosa, bright as the sun. She loves him so much.

“You really think?”

“I know. You two are going to kick ass at this. A thousand push ups.” Rosa practically radiates sincerity as she places a hand on Jake’s shoulder. She doesn’t have to be a detective to know that she’s not the only one in the room who’s definitely on the verge of tearing up again. Jake, if possible, smiles even wider.

It’s all very disgustingly heart-warming and Amy thinks if it carries on much longer there’s a high chance that Hysterical Cry #6 could happen at any minute.

“Thanks, Diaz. We’re hugging now.” “No, we’re not.”

“Yes we are, c’mon, we’re having a moment.” Before she can object further, he hugs her tightly and Rosa hugs back - without hesitation or apprehension or any of it, just warmth. Amy takes the opportunity to wipe fresh tears away.

“Ames, you wanna get in on this?” Jake says after a minute, and she shakes her head.

“Nah, I’ve already had my one allocated Rosa hug today.”

“Just get in here, Santiago.” Rosa grumbles, slightly muffled, and Amy more than happily obliges, carefully lifting herself up and gladly sandwiching herself between two of her favourite people in the entire world.

Somehow, she can’t seem to remember what she was crying about.

“God, you guys’ lameness is infectious.” Rosa says after they break apart, quickly wiping her face with her sleeve like if she does it fast enough they won’t see. It doesn’t work.

“I’ve got to get out of here.” “...Haven’t you actually got an arson case to file?” Amy says, concerned, but she just shrugs it off.

“It can wait. You gonna be okay?” Rosa asks, and Amy pauses for a second, still hyperaware of the anxiety pushing down at the bottom of her stomach like lead and making her slightly dizzy. But then Jake squeezes her hand gently, anchoring her back down to reality, and she smiles.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Good. If you need anything, ask, dummy. I’m not massaging you, though. That’s Peralta’s job.” She adds as an afterthought, which makes Amy laugh.

“Ah, a job I do with zero experience, very little skill and far too much confidence. The Peralta speciality.” Rosa rolls her eyes and casually strides out of the evidence lock-up like she hasn’t just been given the life-changing news that the Peralta-Santiagos are expecting - like she hasn’t just spent the last fifteen minutes flawlessly consoling a highly emotional and mildly pregnant weeping police sergeant like it was nothing. Amy has really no idea what she would do without her.

She watches her go with a sense of awe and peace and finally, sweet contentment - before turning to Jake, who smiles that soft smile that’s guaranteed to melt her like butter even when she’s not crazy hormonal and super horny. He squeezes her hand again, another secret coded language they’ve been speaking for almost a decade with remarkable ease.

“You sure you’re okay? I can go get chocolate if you need it, I know where Scully keeps his secret stash.”

“Mmm. I’m okay. Better now you’re here.” She says, wholeheartedly meaning it, and he carefully, tenderly hugs her, placing a chaste, appropriate-for-work kiss on the top of her head in a way that makes her think this is it. They’re having a baby. Amy wants to yell it out to passing strangers in the street.

“We’re having a baby.” She opts for the more practical decision of whispering it gently with this sort of quiet, glowing glee - he matches it in the way he looks at her, in all her red-eyed, mascara ruined glory, like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Hell yeah, we are.” He whispers back, grinning ecstatically, and her heart is New York lit up in Christmas lights.

She’s still a little stressed beyond belief about that patrol schedule, and the inevitably anxiety inducing email she has to send to Holt about putting off the presentation for a couple of days. She’s still behind on the pregnancy binder, and their monthly budgets, and every day the cherry sized piece of her heart that’s growing ever bigger in her stomach provides a whole new set of challenges she’d rather openly weep about that actually get on with overcoming.

But she has a dork of a husband who will willingly drop everything and sprint 20 blocks just to take care of her, and a terrifying best friend who can solve her greatest problems and quiet her worst fears without a bottle of tequila in sight. She has a family, one that is always growing bigger and bigger – a totally bizarre, mismatched, unique and strange family, but one that she grows more grateful for every single day.

So when Jake hurriedly whispers a “love you” and kisses her softly before running back to tell Charles that the owner definitely broke into his own shop for the insurance money, and when Amy finally returns to her desk, smile on her face, to find Gary eagerly waiting to help her figure out the patrol schedule as Rosa so wisely predicted, she is no longer crying – she’s still nauseous and exhausted, sure, but happy, so deliriously happy, and so deliriously excited to finally embrace hurricane of change.

She opens up her phone’s calendar, where she quickly types “Announcement Day!” into the slot six days away, before sitting back in her chair, deciding what episodes of Serve and Protect they’re going to watch tonight, glowing smile on her face.

Then, and only then, Amy just grips the bar in the carriage of her own little emotional rollercoaster before it can start up again – and she holds on tight, waiting patiently to enjoy the ride.

#my writing #b99 #brooklyn nine nine #brooklyn 99 #b99 fic #peraltiago #jake x amy #sleuth sisters!#i hope you like this #<3333 #shut up sian

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thequeenofcronuts · 6 years ago

Text

Justify My Love - Chapter 2 - Sad, Ain't No Shine

Read Chapter 1

Book: The Royal Romance

Word Count: 2,034

Pairing: Maxwell x MC (Kristina)

Warnings - Rather Mild Language

A/N In this TRR au Series: Kristina (MC) decides she cannot stay in Cordonia after the events of the Coronation Ball. Not so much caring about her own reputation, but caring for the life of the man she has been falling for, which is not the prince. She returns to New York and is faced with her heartbreak and regret while Maxwell is left in Cordonia struggling to understand the truth behind his feeling. Will they let each other go?

**All characters and named places are owned by Pixelberry Studios. Rights to the songs used as titles in this series belong to:

Justify My Love (Madonna) - Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, Universal Music Publishing Group, Reach Music Publishing, BMG Rights Management

Sad (Maroon 5) - Universal Music Publishing Group

tags: @littleblossom357 @alj4890 @cosigottahavefaith

——————————

-Sad-

Kristina's POV

Kristina stands at Daniel’s door giving him a tight hug. “Thanks for everything these last two months. Letting me stay with you, helping with a job that isn't back at the bar, and for understanding that I don't ever want to walk into that bar ever again.” As she steps back Daniel has a sly grin, “Someday Kris I’m going to get out of you why you hate the bar so much, well more than because the boss is ass. And why you won't let me set you up on a date. But all in good time though, Kris, all in good time I’ll get it out of you.” He playfully punches Kristina on her arm. “But seriously Kris, it is great having you back and I wouldn't hesitate to help you all over again.” Kristina gives him one more brief hug. “Well, off to my shoebox size apartment. Heh, probably not even shoebox size, maybe just the size of one shoe.” “See ya soon Kris!.” “Soon I’m sure, Daniel. Be sure to give my best to your new love.” Kristina pretends to swoon and Daniel rolls his eyes.

**********

The next morning Kristina bites the bullet and forces herself to go shopping for some new clothes for work. Daniel helped her get a pretty sweet hostess job at a swanky restaurant. I’m so glad as a hostess I don't have to wear any uniforms, but I need to step it up in my closet. The hostess is the first impression given at the restaurant. Not that her manager doesn't mention it to her every single shift. Sighing she heads out to the street in front of her building and hails a cab. Immediately once the cab starts rolling she is already regretting her decision, but she has put this off for as long as she can. Shopping without Maxwell. This is going to majorly suck. Waking up to my stupid alarm on my phone each morning hurts enough, so this should be just shitty.

Kristina had always loved shopping, and when adding Maxwell to the equation it was just about as entertaining as anything could get. Standing outside the strips of shops she sighs, then takes a deep breath and walks into the first shop. After hours of torture she's finally home with a decent start to a work appropriate wardrobe. She falls back on the quite small couch and surveys her kingdom. Heh, yes my palatial manor indeed. Without moving from the couch she looks into the “kitchen” with its sink, hot plate, and mini fridge, then into the “bedroom” which has a twin bed and just enough room for the tiny table holding a really, really small TV, and then into the bathroom which is barely larger than one in a camping trailer. But the apartment is clean, and in an okay-ish neighborhood.

She curls up on the couch and lets her mind wander….

"Oh come on Kristina you can totally pull this off.” Maxwell throws the distressed skinny jeans and the colorful tube top at her. “ Maxwell, I know we're buying clothes for the few times there aren't planned activities, but I still don't think Bertrand would approve.” “Who cares, I’m sure the gang will take a night to sneak out and go to a club or something. We all had fun at Drake’s birthday outing, I mean even Drake did. Now go try it on!!!” He gently shoves her into the direction of the changing rooms. After a few minutes…“Ok, I’m coming out.” Maxwell is waiting and is almost giddy as he sees his masterfully matched ensemble. “See, told you! Looks fabulous on you, which means you're buying it.” Kristina stands at attention and mock salutes Maxwell as she heads to change back into her clothes.

As Kristina returns from the changing rooms to head to the cashier she sees Maxwell having his own little dance party to the music being pumped out of the store’s, not so fantastic, speakers. She smiles, makes her purchase, and heads over to him. “Okay, bought your masterpiece of an outfit, lets roll.” “But Kristina, this is one of my favorite songs!! We have to dance to this one before we leave.” “Maxwell, in the clothing store we have to dance? Is this a manner of life and death?” She chuckles. “No, but it is a matter of honoring the music.” As he dances around some clothing racks Kristina figures why the hell not. He is having a blast and everyone else that has been staring have gotten bored and gone back to their shopping. Three ‘Must dance to’ songs later Maxwell concedes it's time to go, but only when Kristina mentions an ice cream break. Maxwell grabs her hand and practically drags her behind him. Both laughing hysterically they pop into the ice cream parlor and each have sundaes that were way too big to finish.

On the ride back they car sing and of course car dance, which Kristina found to be just bobbing your torso back and forth whilst being buckled in, but fun none the less. When they arrived back they were pretty hyped on sugar and headed inside arm in arm. They were rather enjoying Bertrand's disgust when he sees their frivolity, and laugh as he gets even more flustered when they declare a race to their rooms to see who can be dressed and down in the dining room first.

“Oh Maxwell, my life is so boring and miserable without you.” Kristina says out loud to no one.

Still on the couch, she has the same daily war raging in her head. Did I choose the right thing by leaving? Yes, of course it was the right thing to do. I no longer could help House Beaumont and I, obviously, could never tell him how I feel now. Heh, I can’t imagine how that confession would help, between the unneeded pressure it would place on him, and his inevitable rejection. If there was any hope for me and him, leaving the way I did crushed that. Should I have made sure to tell him about my feelings before the Coronation? That wouldn't have ended well either because if by some miracle he felt the same for me what would have happened with us in the end? Between the state of House Beaumont, me not winning the crown, and my new reputation?

“Ugh!” she sighs out as she picks up her phone, starting to type THE text for the millionth time, and just as quickly deleting it for the millionth time. What could I even say after all these weeks? What could I even say to him when I myself am barely holding on?

——————————

-Ain’t No Sunshine-

Maxwell's POV

“Look Savannah, I’m sorry I changed your whole life plan. I even screwed that up.” Savannah heavily sighs. She and Maxwell were out on the patio overlooking the estate grounds. “Maxwell, for the thousandth time, coming home was what I wanted to do so deep down inside. Truly. I just wasn't brave enough to do it on my own. Now Drake and I talk daily, and Bertrand and I can start to see if there is anything salvageable between us. I stand by all my decisions in the past weeks.” Maxwell went to open his mouth, but Savannah put up her hand to stop him from saying what she already knew he was going to say. “Max, there is no fault you can take on here. I know you think talking to me about everything from House Beaumont to Kristina leaving was the catalyst for what you think is the upheaval of my life, but honestly it was the best thing. I just hate how it took your heartbreak to set things right for me.”

“Savannah, I never meant t-“ “Maxwell, if you hadn't opened up to me, I would have strangled you when I eventually found out. Even if you may never end up being my brother by law, I already see you as one.” Maxwell finally has a small hint of a smile as Savannah said that last part. “And you're my sister, Savannah. I have to admit for my own selfish reasons I’m glad you're home. You're the reason I’m making it through my days.” She put her arm around him. “Maxwell I have to ask, I know again, but why, well why are you doing what you're doing here?”

“Savannah, Bertrand needed me to stay home while he went on the Engagement Tour to keep our presence in Court. We all know I would have messed that up, and he needed me here to work on getting us into the best shape possible.” “Which,” Savannah looked at him with a pointed and knowing looking, “kept you from being outside this house and around people. Max, the fact you're choosing spreadsheets and managing much of the Estate’s needs is not you. You don't smile, you don't go out, you don't joke…you aren't you. At all. And I’m worried.” Maxwell rolls his eyes, “Well, Bertrand is happy, and I’m actually pulling my weight for once. I’ve got my spending under control and he knows about the support I was offering you. I’m finally growing up, and he’s happy. It's a good place to be.”

Savannah abruptly stands up and bores her eyes into his. “You aren't growing up, you are hiding. You are hiding from everything and everyone one. You're hiding from your feelings about Kristina. You aren't helping Drake and Hana look for Tariq. You aren't going out. You don't smile, sing, dance. And the woman you talked to me about for hours in Paris is now a taboo subject with you.” Maxwell shoots up and takes several steps back from Savannah, backing toward the door leading inside and to his escape. “I am busy doing what Bertrand needs. There is no more time for my childish antics. Looking for Tariq is a waste of time, it won't make anything different or bring things back to the way they were before that night. Krist…” his eyes close and he rubs his temples “she won't even answer anyone's calls or texts. She's let her voicemail fill so you can't leave her a message. She could have blocked our numbers for all we know.” Maxwell was begins to shake. “If by some crazy, impossible miracle they find Tariq there is no way to let her know about it. Plus she made her feelings very clear when she walked onto that plane.”

“Bull shit Maxwell, you know that’s all bull shit.” Maxwell’s jaw drops Savannah didn't ever swear. What the hell is going on here? “All those sad excuses are just that, excuses for not owning up to your feelings. I don't care how many times you tell yourself Kristina was just a friend, and how she only felt friendship for yo-” Maxwell interrupts with a hollow, biting laugh which was completely void of his happy go lucky self. “Friendship? She turned her back and walked onto that plane without a glance back.” “Oh come on Maxwell, get your head on straight. How can you entertain the thought that you know what she was feeling and thinking right then at that moment when you can't even own up to your feelings right now.” He crosses his arms and sharply asks, “And what exactly are these feelings which are apparently mine that I don't know of?” Savannah throws her hands in the air and walks two steps toward him. “I could stand here and tell you, but you’d come up with some new ridiculous excuse. Maxwell, I’m done with you today, but you need to think about all this, and soon or you're going to be miserable for the rest of your life.” Just as he was going to respond they both were snapped out of the conversation by the sound of a truck barreling up the drive. Drake’s truck. “Just great” Maxwell mumbled under his breath.

Drake left the engine going as he jumps out of the truck running up to Savannah and Maxwell. “We’ve narrowed it down! We know what city Tariq is in!”

Go to Chapter 3

#the royal romance maxwell #the royal romamce fanfic #the royal romace #choices the royal romance #maxwell x mc #maxwell beaumont #maxwell beaumont x mc #trr maxwell #trr maxwell x mc

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raisingsupergirl · 6 years ago

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6 Ways to Enjoy a Caribbean Cruise When You're a Cheap Introvert

The word "vacation" means something a little different to everyone. Pristine ski slopes, powder-white beaches, Amazon jungles, rolling Highlands, a cabin in the woods—the settings are as various as the activities. But in general, the point of vacation is to change your scenery, to recharge, and to reaffirm your appreciation for life. As for me, it doesn't matter where I am so much as what I'm doing. Rather, what I'm not doing, which is anything. Daily life is way too busy already. Vacation shouldn't be. It should be a time when I can sit back, take a deep breath, and forget about all of my worldly stress. Which means, ideally, that the vacation won't cost much money or force me to be around a lot of people since both of these things cause me stress. So why, oh why, did I agree when my wife suggested that we go on a cruise?

To put it simply, she tricked me. "I earned it through Beach Body," she said. "All we have to pay for is our plane tickets," she said. Whoa, a free vacation? As someone who hates spending money on frivolous luxuries, the word "free" is of particular appeal. But I should have known… Nothing's free in Waterworld. And as our departure date neared, I started regretting the decision before I ever stepped foot on the boat. But since we'd already committed, I knew I had to make the most of it. I knew I'd regret it even more if I spent money to be surrounded by strangers if I didn't find a way to enjoy myself. And when I started looking for that silver lining, there was plenty of joy to be found. In fact, by the time we returned home to our screaming, squealing daughters, I was actually happy that we'd made the trip. The reasons for my change of heart are many, but there were six things that really made all the difference, and here they are...

1) Understand what you're getting into. You're not going to a resort. You're not going to a hotel on the beach. You're boarding a floating city that will carry you thousands of miles across open, international waters, some of which are over a mile deep. This city is filled with thousands of other people, the majority of whom you've never seen before and will never see again. Once this city leaves land, it has a finite amount of everything. This is hard to remember when you shower with drinkable water and eat so much gourmet food that the mention of chocolate lava cake makes you want to throw up, but if you only bring a 3 oz bottle of contact solution, you will be keeping track of how much you use each day and calculating if you'll have enough to last you until you return home. At least, I did. I'm sure it's different for everyone, but this fact really made the ship's extravagance all the more amazing for me. Especially when I counted over 100 events on ONE day's itinerary list—everything from no-limit Texas Holdem in the casino to competitive rock climbing to fully immersive ice-skating shows, all on that one single boat. My wife and I fell into a rhythm eventually, which allowed us to spend less time wandering aimlessly and more time participating in the things we loved (mostly eating and falling asleep in lounge chairs on the top deck), but it took a while. Which is why I wish someone would have told me this piece of advice before I left—YOUR FIRST DAY WILL BE STRESSFUL.

Whether you're flying or driving to your port, travel isn't much fun. And when you begin the boarding process at your ship, it just gets worse. It's like TSA security combined with border security, and then you add in the cruise line's private rules and regulations, and you're rushed through the whole thing as fast as humanly possible. And when it's all done, you're shoved onto the floating city and set loose. The experience reminded me of the time when I took a bus into NYC's Union Station, and then walked up the steps and took my first glimpse of Times Square. Trust me, you're going to want to find the nearest chair and just sit for a moment. Even though there will be people running around everywhere, you're in no rush to go anywhere or do anything. Just take a minute (or thirty) to look around, people watch, and breathe. Slowly, you'll start putting the pieces together. Your room and your checked luggage (yes, you have to check your luggage when you board the ship) won't generally be ready for a few hours, so you can grab a bite to eat (once you figure out which restaurants are included and which cost money, but more on that later) or just wander around for a while. It's likely that you'll get lost, but that's okay. Even though it looks like you're in the middle of downtown, you really are on a ship. You can't get that lost. Most importantly, just remember that your first day will be spent learning the rules and settling in. There will be little to no relaxation. As long as you go in knowing that, you'll be much less frustrated and anxious. At least until you start trying to figure out what foods and activities are "complimentary," and which cost extra. Which brings me to my next point…

2) Buy everything ahead of time, or not at all. If you drink alcohol, you have two options—spend a boatload (pun intended) of money or smuggle in your own booze. If you choose the former option, you can go about it two different ways. Either you can pay per drink (which is really only an option if you plan to drink sparingly since they're $10-$15/drink) or purchase a drink package. If you go for the drink package, buy it ahead of time. In our case, it was about $50/day if you purchased it ahead of time and about $80/day if you waited to buy it on the boat. POINT OF CLARIFICATION: You CANNOT buy a drink package for just one or two days. It's all or nothing, so the "per day" breakdown is misleading. Which means you'll be spending $250 on a 5 day cruise (and remember that your first day is pretty much a wash anyway) for all you can drink IF you buy it ahead of time and about $400 if you wait to buy it when you board. MORE CLARIFICATION: You CANNOT buy just one drink package if you are rooming with someone (a spouse or otherwise). The other person also has to buy some form of drink package (the soft drink package was around $200 for the week on our cruise). In short, if you plan to buy the ship's alcohol, save up your money and come to terms with how much you'll be spending on it. Otherwise, it'll just make you mad every time you swipe your card, and then there's really no point in doing it in the first place.

BUT, for those adventurers among you, if you want to partake in some adult beverages but don’t want to take out a second mortgage, you can try your hand at bootlegging. Googling the topic will bring up a host of sneaky options, but basically you pour clear liquor into some different bottle (contact solution, rubbing alcohol, etc) and try to pull a fast one on the x-ray security, or you can do what we did and buy plastic Rumrunner flasks, which are invisible on the x-ray machines. For us, it worked like a charm (be sure to push all the air out if you're flying so they don't expand and leak in your checked baggage), but it was a little stressful. ALSO, many cruise lines allow you to carry on a couple of bottles of wine, so be sure to take advantage of that if you can.

But enough about alcohol. If you plan to buy excursions, be sure to buy those ahead of time also. We didn't do any, so I couldn't tell you if they will be cheaper, but I CAN tell you that it's exasperating watching your room charges continue to climb throughout your trip. A "free" show one night charged $2.50 for a bag of popcorn. Yes, you read that right. I had just eaten a "complimentary" New York strip steak at dinner, and then they wanted me to pay $2.50 for a bag of popcorn thirty minutes later. So the more stuff you can buy ahead of time, the more likely you'll be able to swallow those silly little charges as you rack them up. Either way, realize that unless your cruise is truly all-inclusive, some charges most definitely WILL apply, including tipping your waiters and other helpful staff.

3) Get a room with a view. This is one of those things we sprung for ahead of time, and even though I am cheap, I'm SO glad we paid extra for a balcony. THIS is the primary reason to go on a cruise—falling asleep to the sound of crashing waves (keep your door slightly open at night), waking up to a brilliant sunrise stretching out across thousand miles of sparkling, blue water, and enjoying a glass of smuggled rum (mixed with some orange juice and a pineapple wedge—which were free when we put them in our water bottle during a meal but cost extra otherwise…) as the faint outline of a Haitian island formed on the horizon. It's pretty hard to top that, especially if you're an introvert like me. All of the view. None of the crazies. Also, it helped my wife and me when the boat really got to rocking. We never experienced any seasickness, but there were times when it was nice to see what we were feeling.

4) Exercise. Yes, seriously. The cruise I went on was actually hosted by Beachbody®, the fitness company that my wife works for, so we participated in some fairly insane group workouts every morning (imagine a couple hundred people jumping up and down at the same time across the entire top deck of a ship), but even if it had been a different situation, I would have still exercised ever day. Why? Well, if you haven't noticed how much I've been talking about the copious food and drink stashed away on cruise ships, let me say it again—you will eat and eat until you can't see your toes, and then you will eat some more. And the food is great (we ate in the main dining hall every evening, which didn't cost a dime, even when I ordered two or three appetizers and my wife ordered two or three desserts), but even the best surf 'n turf turns bland when you're putting in twice the amount of calories that you're burning off day after day. So yes, take a minute (or sixty) every day to work up a bit of an appetite. Swim, jog, lift weights, or just use the stairs instead of the elevator when you're exploring your little ship's sixteen floors. The more you get that blood flowing, the better everything will taste, and the better you'll feel when you do lie back and fall asleep in the sun (oh, and remember the sunscreen, especially if you go after a long winter like we did!).

5) Appreciate wherever you make port. This is another big reason to consider a cruise over a resort (along with getting the room with a view overlooking the vast greatness of the ocean). Watching an island slowly appear and unfold before you as you pull into port is magical. And the chance to experience multiple destinations in one trip is undeniably appealing. But don't squander that chance. When you do reach your ports of call, go explore! A beach is a beach. An ocean is an ocean. Yes, the Bahamian waters are the most beautiful I've ever seen, but it's what I found on land that made the trip really worth it. Walk a while and find the locals. Get away from the tourist traps and enjoy the real Caribbean culture. Take in the sights, sounds, and smells of a different world. As much as I don't like crowds, I LOVE new cultures. Earth is a beautiful place, and humanity is so much more interesting and diverse than your hometown. And if you're lucky enough to make port at a smaller island, you'll enjoy it all the more. Our cruise line (Royal Caribbean) owns Labadee, Haiti, and we were able to kayak around to Labadee's actual fishing village, which is ONLY accessible by small boats. It was an experience I'll never forget.

6) Go again (or don't). Finally one last piece of advice. As I've already mentioned, cruise ships are overwhelming. They're stressful at times when you're inexperienced with their rules and operations. There's so much to see and do that it's hard to fully relax until the cruise is almost over. Ironically, that's why so many people only choose cruises for their vacations—they already put in the work of that first one. After a couple, that first wasted day becomes more enjoyable, and every other day is filled with countless possibilities. Like I said before, it's like being in the middle of NYC… in the middle of a tropical ocean, and you don't have to worry about your wallet getting stolen. I'm still not sure if it's exactly my thing, but it's pretty clear that if I ever do go again, it'll be a more enjoyable experience than the first. And to even suggest that my first time wasn't enjoyable is just silly. It really was magical. Frustrating at times, and not as relaxing as a resort on the whole, but definitely well worth it. Even if I did gain ten pounds in five days. And hopefully my experience will make yours all the more enjoyable. Bon Voyage!

#cruise #caribbean cruise #royal caribbean #nassau #bahamas #labadee #haiti #vacation #vacation tips #drink package #smuggling alcohol #rumrunner #beachbody #10 year anniversary #momblr #dadblr #mumblr #come sail away #team beachbody

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