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svtxsoju · 4 years

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02. morning glory fizz | dear miss soju

ღ Synopsis: College is hard. Love is even harder. Good thing the students of Mansae University can write in to Miss Soju, the campus’ very own romance advice columnist! The only problem is she’s never been in a relationship. Ever. There’s no telling what kind of chaos she may cause in the love lives of several of MU’s most eligible bachelors. Too bad no one knows who she really is! ღ Characters/Pairings: college AU! Seventeen & OC’s, Joshua x baking major!OC, and more TBA! ღ Genre: Romantic Comedy, Slice of Life ღ Warning(s): Mentions of alcohol, suggestions of sex, language ღ Word Count: 4.9k words ღ Binu’s Note: a week late but better late than never i guess 😌 i’ve been avoiding tumblr to finish writing this, but i just kept getting distracted by choi seungcheol. hit that mf like button if you relate. i’m so excited for the special album y’all the teasers and concepts are so sadkfklsj i love seventeen

anyway, i apologize not only for the late update, BUT ALSO bc this chapter is also a lot of exposition again 😔🥺 i promise i’m done setting it all up and that some real shit will go down in the next chapter!! hopefully people will still be able to enjoy this chapter huhuhu 😭💗 if you’re reading this, i love u and i hope u have a good weekend!!

《 ⊛ Author’s Note & Credits ⊛ Disclaimer ⊛ Masterlist ⊛ 》

《 Previous ⊛ Next 》

Having already completed the first half of her college career, Joohyun was well aware of the value of sleep. And yet, like most college students, she could never seem to manage a decent sleeping schedule. She had only slept 2 hours when her alarm went off at 5:30AM. She groggily rolled out of bed, mentally cursing her past self for thinking that this was a good idea when clearly, the best idea at the moment was to snuggle back up under her covers and sleep in until afternoon. Only one of her eyes seemed capable of staying open as she pulled on her clothes and got ready for the day. When she suddenly heard the front door close behind her roommate, she cursed out loud, throwing her laptop into her bag before she rushed out the door. She half-wobbled, half-hopped along the second-story walkway while she tried to get her shoes all the way on.

“Bok Bongseon! Wait for me!” Joohyun called out in an aggressive whisper.

“HOLY SHIT! You scared me, Joo!” her roommate, a shorter girl with full cheeks and pouty lips, screamed at full volume. She clutched at her racing heart and leaned against the wall while she caught her breath.

“Shut up, people are still sleeping!” Joohyun linked arms with Bongseon and dragged her down the steps leading to the street. It was still dark outside, but she could already hear the faint bustling of the mart located below their apartment. It was nice to know that they weren’t the only two people in Seoul insane enough to be awake at this hour.

“I thought you were the ghost of my grandma, you bitch! You know she visits me in my dreams to tell me how disappointed she that I’m a baker,” Bongseon said indignantly, though she still cuddled closer to Joohyun when they were hit by the morning chill. Once they reached the street, they both headed towards the train station without having to say a word. “What are you even doing up?”

“I am simply accompanying my favorite roommate to work to make sure that she gets there safely,” Joohyun crooned sweetly, and made kissy faces at the girl, who in turn pinched Joohyun’s lips between her calloused fingers. She tried to protest but could only let out pained whines until she was mercifully released. “Ow!”

“Sorry but I cannot fulfill your roommates to lovers, 12k slowburn fantasy,” Bongseon continued on nonchalantly as they climbed down the steps to the platform. “You had your chance, but I am a taken girl!”

“Oh, so you and Josh are together today?” Joohyun teased. Although it probably wasn’t the best idea, considering her lips were slightly throbbing from the girl’s attack. “I’ll just wait until tomorrow then.”

“Wow, bold words coming from Miss Fish Lips.” Bongseon raised an eyebrow and smiled tauntingly. “Understandable, considering that that was probably the most action your lips have gotten in your entire life. I could probably set it up on a blind date with my fist, if you’d like.”

Joohyun’s laughter echoed off the walls of the mostly empty station, startling the only other person waiting for the morning train (an old woman, who was still half-asleep prior to being rudely awakened by two very loud girls). Bongseon often made some colorful threats, morning or not, but Joohyun was one of the very few people who could be assured that her words were empty. “Don’t you know that it’s rude to stare, lady?” she barked at the old woman, who was openly glaring at them. Everyone else, on the other hand, was subject to Bongseon’s sharp temper.

This even included her boyfriend of approximately 4 years. ‘Approximately’ being the key word, because the two often took breaks-- a natural phenomenon when one partner was easily provoked and the other loved to do the provoking. Jihoon had told Joohyun that the two had met at the cafe in their freshman year, when Bongseon came in as a part-time baker and Joshua was merely a barista trainee. They started dating within a month and moved into an apartment together in two. That went just as well as anyone would expect. By the grace of whatever entity that was chaotic enough to keep their relationship intact, they made it 7 months before nearly breaking things off for good. As luck would have it though, a new hire and his roommate were in the same exact predicament as them. Kind of.

Joohyun shuddered to recall her freshman year when she and Jihoon somehow convinced themselves that it was a good idea to share an apartment. In principle it made sense; they had lived across the street from each other since they were in diapers. Two exhausting months into trying to irritate the other into breaking the lease first, they met Bongseon and Joshua when Jihoon started working at Smile Flower. It didn’t take long for Joohyun to suggest the switch— she would move in with Bongseon and Joshua with Woozi. Just like that, she saved both Bongseon and Joshua’s turbulent romance (temporarily) and her and Woozi’s fractured friendship (now thriving).

She and Bongseon have been roommates ever since, and Joohyun knew her life was a little easier for it.

“Joohyun, you better stop looking at me with those heart eyes before I really act up,” Bongseon warned. They had boarded the train, but hadn’t bothered to sit down since Mansae University station was only two stops away.

“But I just love you so much,” Joohyun pouted, affectionately resting her head on her friend’s shoulder. “What does Joshua have that I don’t?”

“A dick. And that’s about it.”

“Damn you, heterosexuality!”

Bongseon snorted out a laugh. “Seriously Joo, how are you awake right now? You’re only ever this lovey-dovey when you’re severely sleep deprived. I know you don’t have classes until 3PM today. You also don’t have your internship today,” Bongseon narrowed her eyes when Joohyun visibly tensed up at the mention of her current occupation. “Also, since when do you watch Youtube videos until 2am? And don’t think I didn’t notice that all of them were titled ‘Relationship Q&A’s’ and ‘I confessed to my crush and he said this!!!’. Got something to tell me, missy?”

It was so quiet on the train that Joohyun worried that Bongseon could hear all the wires in her brain short-circuit. With Bongseon’s cross-examination skills, it was a wonder why she pursued baking instead of joining her family’s firm. Come on, Joohyun, just tell a white lie. Easy, simple. Don’t need to overcomplicate things. “Oh, uh I— um— well, I j-just thought they were entertaining?” She was done for.

“Right. You thought random couples self-indulgently talking about their love lifes for 40 minutes with default iMovies effects were entertaining.”

“Y-yes?” Joohyun threw in her most convincing smile for good measure, but it did nothing to soften Bongseon’s hard gaze. “It’s my new guilty pleasure, haha!”

“Hm, interesting,” Bongseon was momentarily interrupted by the sound of the arrival bell. Joohyun eagerly pulled her friend towards the exit, hoping that the distance from the train could also get her further away from the topic. Unfortunately for her, Bongseon did not plan on dropping it so soon. “You sure you don’t want to tell me anything, Joo? About your internship?”

Joohyun began to sweat. Was she really that transparent? “Okay, don’t get mad--”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m super jazzed that you’re getting into relationships and everything, but really Joo? Youtube? You could just talk to me if you need help talking to your new crush at your job!”

“Oh.” Joohyun would have let out a sigh of relief if she wasn’t out of breath from climbing the mountain of stairs up to the sidewalk. “Right. Confessing. To my crush. That I definitely have.”

“It’s okay to admit you have one, Joo. I’m no stranger to workplace romance,” Bongseon said, her breathing completely even. A measly flight of stairs was nothing compared to eight hours of kneading dough. “Who’s the lucky bastard, Joo?”

“Well, I’m not sure I would call it a workplace romance, per se…” Joohyun laughed nervously. There was no way she could stick another clean landing if she kept talking.

“Shut up, I bet that guy is in love with you already. Who wouldn’t fall for the only editing intern at The Front?”

“Haha, I don’t know…” Probably no one, because the only editing intern at The Front doesn’t exist?

Joohyun could not be more relieved to see the small store front of Smile Flower Cafe. It was one amongst the many cafes located near campus, but Joohyun felt like nothing really matched its comforting home-like ambience. But that probably had less to do with the soft wooden floors and pastel ceramic mugs, and more owed to the three years Joohyun had spent hanging around there, usually bothering Jihoon and joking around with Josh.

The two boys already stood waiting at the cafe’s entrance, too bleary-eyed to notice Joohyun and Bongseon quickly approaching. “Hey, ugly!” Joohyun called out, snickering when both of them turned to look at her.

“What the hell, why are you awake?”

“Good morning to you too, Jihoon,” she answered, blowing him a kiss. “I’m actually here to see you, believe it or not. Don’t you feel special?”

“Oh? That’s interesting, because you told me that you came here for me,” Bongseon broke away from exchanging actual kisses with Joshua to look between Joohyun and Jihoon in a way that Joohyun did not like too much. “I guess it wasn’t a workplace romance after all.”

Joshua mirrored his girlfriend’s implicating expression as he unlocked the front door, simply because he knew it made his friends squirm. “Wow Joohyun, you woke up this early just to talk to Jihoon? You really couldn’t wait to see him, huh?”

“Uh, yes because I need his help—”

“Ah, his help, gotcha! Come on, Bongseon, I’ll go help you in the kitchen while these two help each other out here,” Joshua snickered. Before Joohyun or Jihoon could roast the couple in retaliation, they had already disappeared behind the counter.

After years of similar taunts, all Jihoon could do was shake his head. “Okay Joo, what is so important that you need my help at 6 in the morning?”

“I wrote my first response last night!” Joohyun whispered excitedly, taking out her laptop from her bag. “Well, a few hours ago. I wanted to show you before continuing on with the rest! Here, look.”

① Dear Miss Soju,

I just started my first year at MU and she’s an exchange student from New York. We met at a party and talked for two hours about comics, aliens, anything we could think of. It was perfect. She even asked me to walk her home. When the time came for me to make a move though, I kind of dropped the ball. Since we had just met that night, I didn’t want to come off too strong. Now I really regret it - I don’t even have her phone number. I feel like such an idiot! I can’t stop thinking about her, but I don’t even know if I’ll ever talk to her again. Did I make myself seem disinterested? Will we meet again? Will she even remember me?

Sincerely,

Big Cringy Idiot

She let Jihoon read the asker’s message first, then scrolled down to show her answer.

Dear Big Cringy Idiot,

You and your crush seem to have a lot in common. There is nothing wrong with being nervous around someone you like. In fact, it is fairly normal and is a good sign that you like this girl very much. She also seems open to any future possiblities, since she did ask you to take her home. You need not worry about coming off too strong in this situation, although I do admire your dedication to respecting women’s boundaries. I hope you are able to find this girl again so that you can truly tell her how you feel. Best of luck to you!

Sincerely,

Miss Soju

“Joo, that was…”

“Poetic, beautiful, life-changing?” Joohyun grinned, and nudged her best friend with each suggestion.

“Boring. It was boring.” Joohyun’s face fell, and Jihoon could only offer the girl an apologetic smile. “Dude, you’re gonna put people to sleep if you keep it up like this. I almost took out a pillow to take a nap on the floor.”

“But this is how I write my articles— Informative and concise! How else am I supposed to write it?”

“I mean, that’s great for reporting articles, but this is an advice column. It’s supposed to be fun, sarcastic maybe. Like your promo piece! That was good.”

“I wrote that as a joke, hoping they would fire me for it,” Joohyun admitted, eyes wide in panic as she looked at her best friend.

“Huh. Well, I think it would sound better than this Wikipedia article you got going on,” Jihoon shrugged. “Try to be fun!”

“I am fun!” Joohyun cried out defensively, her nostrils flaring with passion. When Jihoon responded with a doubtful look, she let out a dramatic gasp and snatched up her laptop, stomping over to her favorite corner in the cafe. “I can be fun! I’ll show you fun!”

“Atta girl,” Jihoon’s signature cackle filled the cafe, further fueling the girl’s aggressive typing.

Just another morning in the life of So Joohyun.

To the surprise of the cafe’s current occupants, a student already tapped at the glass entrance, clearly in desperate need of his morning americano. He had walked all the way from the freshman dorms after a restless night of tossing and turning. When his phone screen told him it was already 6:05AM, he decided to just give up on sleep altogether. So there he was, trying to start off his day right, at Smile Flower Cafe, only to be stopped at the door by the grumpy barista with the red hair. He always felt like the other one was way nicer, especially since he would go out of his way to sneak him free cookie samples and made pleasant small talk while ringing him up (what was his name? Jonathan?).

All the red-haired barista ever did was scowl at him when he asked for a student discount. Now, he scowled at him as he gestured at the sign that indicated that the cafe would not be open until 7AM. The fatigued freshman had half a mind to make some choice gestures of his own, but he refrained and just whipped out his phone instead. He gave the mean barista one last pout before turning around and walking towards the 24-hour convenience store on campus.

➠ [ to: vernonie 😌😎 ] Good morning king. Are you still on your shift ?

➠ [ from: vernonie 😌😎 ] gm seungkwan pls k*ll me

Seungkwan took that as a yes. It didn’t take long for him to arrive, the entrance bell ringing lightly when he stepped into the small store. At the register sat his roommate, who was clearly fighting to keep his eyes open. “Wol-cuh ‘n—” he tried to greet through a wide-mouthed yawn. “Excuse me, welcome in! Oh, hey Seungkwan.”

Seungkwan answered with a grunt and headed straight for the refrigerated coffee section, choosing the largest can.

“Uh dude, you good? You look like—”

“Like I haven’t slept all night? I am aware,” He immediately opened his coffee and took a long gulp of the beverage in hopes of feeling even a little better. When it did nothing after 30 seconds, he frowned at the concerned cashier. “Vernon, I will not be paying for this drink, because it is clearly defective. Coffee is supposed to fix everything.”

“Is this about your audition today?” Vernon asked, eyebrows furrowed. “Your monologue sounded really solid last night though. Your audition songs were great too. You totally got this in the bag!”

“It’s not just about the audition, sweet Vernon,” Seungkwan sighed. “It’s about who I’m going to see at the audition. I still don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”

“Oh yeah, you are probably going to see them later.” For the past week, all Seungkwan could talk about was the theater tech sophomore that he had met at the theater department’s welcome party. They had sat beside Seungkwan and had helped him through all the fast-paced drinking games, and even took some of his shots when he kept losing. Surely, this was what love felt like.

That was what Seungkwan hoped anyway, because whatever it was made him feel all warm and tingly inside (or it could have just been the alcohol). Nevertheless, he had made big plans to confess to his crush as soon as possible. His dilemma for the past several days was merely a matter of how it would be done. “Not probably! I know for a fact that they will be there, because they told me that they couldn’t wait to see me,” Seungkwan let out a wail and slumped over the counter. “They’re the sweetest, most beautiful person to ever walk the earth and I just want to tell them that I would actually jump off a bridge for them. Why is that so difficult?”

Vernon nodded sympathetically as he always did. “I mean, if you’re not ready today, maybe you could wait?”

“Wait?! No offense babe, but last time I checked, waiting didn’t get you anywhere,” Seungkwan said, patting his roommate’s arm. Vernon cringed as he was forced to remember his own romantic blunder from the past week. “Clearly, we are both in major need of help. That Woozi guy’s show didn’t do anything for us! Also, we still haven’t heard from that Miss Soju character and it’s been what? Two days? If she’s such an expert, she would know that love is time sensitive!”

“Ugh, I know. I keep refreshing The Front’s website just to see if she’s posted it yet.” Vernon sighed forlornly, which was a common punctuation to his sentences lately. “It’s getting me really antsy. What if she doesn’t even choose to answer our emails this time?”

Seungkwan quickly covered the other freshman’s mouth. “Don’t say that! The universe manifests what we say will happen. We should ask for divine intervention instead.” He cleared his throat in preparation and threw his hands up to the sky. “O Eros, god of love, please shine your blessings down upon my and Vernonie’s love lives for we are but two humble, clueless freshmen in need of romantic guidance. Send down two of your swiftest, sharpest arrows, so that those that we desire may hear your soft whispers—”

Ding. The sound of the entrance bell rang once more, stopping Seungkwan’s prayer short, much to his irritation. “Is this a bad time?” the new customer, an ethereally handsome blonde, asked amusedly. He strode into the store and grabbed two spicy tuna triangle kimbab’s before approaching the counter.

“Jeonghan hyung!”

“Ah, Vernon!” Jeonghan smiled. “I didn’t know you worked here. You should come by my and Cheol’s apartment again soon, that was fun!”

“Hyung, this is my roommate that I told you about-- Seungkwan. And Seungkwan, this is Seungcheol hyung’s roommate,” Vernon said all while ringing up Jeonghan’s food. On the side, Seungkwan bowed sheepishly after unfreezing from his previous pose. “How’s your morning going? You wake up pretty early!”

Jeonghan laughed heartily, shaking his head. “Oh no, I just finished an all-night stream. I just came by to get a snack before heading to bed. Seems like you two have been having a fun morning, though. Do you two always start your day off by praying to the ancient Greek god of desire?”

Seungkwan flushed a deep pink. “Uh no, it was more like a cry of desperation. Vernon and I are having a pretty tough time confessing to our crushes, so I figured we should just try out anything that might help us. Nothing else seems to be working…”

“Wait, that’s so cute,” Jeonghan cooed.

“Would you be able to give us some advice, hyung?” Vernon asked. He didn’t know anything about the senior’s love life, but he did give off the vibe of someone who would know… a lot.

Jeonghan’s eyes twinkled dangerously, a lazy smirk on his lips. “I mean, I could go talk to your little crushes for you, if you’d like. I’m sure I could get some sort of response out of them.”

One look at Jeonghan had Vernon and Seungkwan shaking their heads vehemently.

“No, we’re good.”

“Yeah, no thanks.”

“Mm, good call.” Jeonghan took his food from the counter, and winked at the two boys. “I really wish I could help you both more, but I’m sure you’ll get what you’re waiting for soon! Today, if you want it enough.”

There was something in the way that the senior stated those words that made Seungkwan believe him without a question. It wasn’t a naive suggestion or an optimistic prediction; Jeonghan spoke like it was the truth plainly written on the walls. He finally felt a long-awaited wave exhaustion wash over his anxieties, softening them until they fizzled away alongside the ebbing foam. All that was left behind were grains of sand. Suddenly, Seungkwan yawned, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up in his twin bed at the dorms.

“Well, I should be heading off to bed! Looks like you should be too, Seungkwan,” Jeonghan said, suppressing his own yawn. The freshman nodded in agreement. He definitely needed to rest up— this was going to be a big day, after all.

“Say hi to Cheol hyung for me when you get home!” Vernon said.

Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully as he made his way back to the entrance of the store. “I will if he’s there! He didn’t come home last night.” He turned to leave the boys with one last sleepy smile, seeming to laugh at something only he knew.

“At least one of us is doing something right.”

“Jihoon, why can’t I get this right?”

“I’m sorry! This just sounds nothing like you,” Jihoon shrugged. It had been a rather busy morning, but things slowed down as it approached noon, giving him the chance to look at Joohyun’s fourth draft of responses. “I’ve never heard you say stuff like ‘rad’ or ‘hella’... Like are you aware that you sound like a skater from the late 90’s?”

“That’s because the reference I’ve been using is from 1997!” Joohyun huffed in frustration. She was already backspacing albeit with a little more force than necessary. “I wasn’t even born in ‘97!”

“Exactly, so stop trying to write like that. What if you tried to—”

“Eat my ass, Hong!” The sound of the kitchen door slamming open interrupted Jihoon’s (probably unhelpful) suggestion, and the two best friends watched as Bongseon stormed out of the cafe in a familiar rage. Luckily, there were no customers to witness it this time.

Instinctively, they looked to the kitchen door, where Joshua stood with a resigned smile on his full lips. “Oops,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck apologetically. “Guess it was too soon to joke about our last break. Sorry about that, Jihoon. I’ll try to call in the head baker early to finish up the rest of the pastries for today.”

He walked over to where they sat and plopped himself across from Joohyun. She offered Joshua a look of sympathy, but he responded by twisting his face up in a dumb expression, reassuring her that he was just fine. Still, she couldn’t help feeling worried for both of her friends. No matter how many times Bongseon and Joshua broke it off and no matter how much Joohyun joked about it, she knew that their strong feelings for each other meant that it hurt a little every time they got into a fight. At least, that’s what she gathered from the various nights she spent soothing Bongseon while the girl cried into a toilet bowl, soju bottle still in hand.

“It’s okay, Josh, you probably don’t have to worry too much. Knowing her, she’ll probably be back in 30 minutes to make up with you and then Jihoon will have to find someone to take over your shift,” Joohyun piped up. “But please take it back to your apartment this time, because I don’t make enough money to have every surface of my apartment sanitized again.”

Joshua let out an easy laugh, as though he were not a man in deep shit. “Thank you, Joo. You always know what to say to make me feel better,” he sighed. “I should probably go after her. I’ll be back soon, Jihoon!”

She waited for him to disappear out the door before turning to her best friend. “Wow, that’s gotta be a new record for them, right? I didn’t even know they got back together until this morning.” Joohyun was surprised to find that Jihoon had been silently staring at her for a good minute now. “...Why are you looking at me?”

“What you said to Joshua,” Jihoon simply replied.

“Oh, I was only joking about the sanitation thing. I just walked in on them once in the kitchen—“

“No I mean, how you said it. Maybe that’s how you should be writing your responses.” Jihoon grinned, watching as Joohyun gave him that look again, the one where she looks at him like he’s speaking from a third head. But he knew that this was going to be another Jihoon Genius moment, which seemed to be happening more frequently lately, much to his satisfaction. “Like you’re talking to one of your friends. I mean, it made Josh feel better, right?”

Joohyun’s eyebrows scrunched together and she mulled the idea over. Without another word to Jihoon, she began to slowly type on her laptop, gradually tapping faster and faster as she gained momentum. Her best friend giddily returned to his place behind the counter to tend to the customers that just walked in. He knew that once she got into a groove, there was no hope of stopping her.

An hour later, Joohyun finally pushed away her laptop and waited for Jihoon to finish wiping down a table before calling him over. For some reason, she was anxious to show him the final product and even when he already sat besie her, she hesitated for a beat. Usually, her writing was professional and objective, always ending with a declarative period. She had spent years perfecting her reporting style so that when she presented the facts, that’s all they were. This, however, felt personal, like it was a part of her. And even though Jihoon probably knew her even better than herself sometimes, there was something so vulnerable about showing someone a side of her that she had only just discovered.

And yet, she was curious to know— desperate to know: was it any good?

“Well?” Joohyun watched for Jihoon’s reaction closely, both impatient and terrified to hear his thoughts.

“Joohyun, this...” Jihoon started slowly. She braced for impact. “This is it. I think you’ve found Miss Soju’s voice.”

She exhaled. “R-really?”

“Yes, really. You answered the questions so thoughtfully, so you know it’s not just some generic bullshit you found on the internet. Plus, it was fun to read, like I think I’d read this even if I didn’t send a letter in,” Jihoon gushed, all while skimming over the words again. He turned to smile brightly at her, reminding Joohyun of a much younger Jihoon back in their elementary school days. “Most importantly though, it’s so you.”

Joohyun returned the smile, just as brightly. Warmth bloomed in her chest and across her cheeks. “Thanks, Jihoon, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Honestly, me neither,” Jihoon laughed.

“Um, can I ask you one more thing though?” Joohyun scrolled down to the last two entries, both of which asked for advice on how to make things official with a guy they’ve been talking to. The two letters were extremely similar in detail, but had been sent from two different emails and two different signatures. At first, she thought that maybe her judgement was muddled by her lack of sleep, and as the day went on, she figured her inability to recognize any nuance between the two letters was thanks her lack of experience.

There was just something about the way they had described the boy. She knew that intelligent, funny, kind-hearted, and unbelievably handsome were pretty generic adjectives. But what were the odds for both letters to also mention his infectious laugh and deep, dark eyes? “Do you think these two are from the same person? I’m trying to go for a confession theme for this article, so I included them both, but I’m afraid they’re too similar.”

Jihoon read them over a couple of times, then shrugged. “They do sound pretty similar, but a lot of people go through that sort of thing. Also, so many people describe their crushes like that, but let’s be real, most of them end up being fuckboys. So trust me, both those people probably need your help. I mean, what’s the harm in publishing both, right?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Joohyun bit her lip, needing every ounce of reassurance she could get from her best friend. She read over her writing once, twice, thrice more. This was it. No more edits and no more excuses. Her finger hovered over the mousepad. “Okay, I”m going to send it in for approval now. Jihoon, you are about to witness me publish my first article for The Front.”

Joohyun took a deep breath and clicked. Finally.

28 notes · View notes

hazelandglasz · 4 years

Photo

Sweet, Sweet Temptation

Word count: 12.727

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Pairing(s): Arizaphale/Crowley (Ineffable Husbands) ; Hastur/Ligur ; Beelzebub/Gabriel (Ineffable Bureaucracy); Background Minor Relationships

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Gabriel, Beelzebub, Hastur

Tags: Alternate Universe-Humans, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Food Porn, Bibliophile Aziraphale, Gourmet Aziraphale, Slow Burn, Awkward Flirting, Romantic Fluff, Fluff and Humor

Summary: Anthony J. Crowley started working at Heavs and Hens, F.A., but they thought he asked too many questions, and frankly, he didn’t like his colleagues’ attitude. (Well. Except for one, but he never got the chance to get close to the blond cutie.) So he left. Now he’s working in a pastry shop and life is infinitely better. (Well. Most of the time, since neither his boss nor his colleagues are too often in the shop and he’s left to his own device, which is really for the best.) Baking is fun, tempting customers is even better, and if there is a certain blond who keeps on coming back to the shop, well, Anthony is not one to deny himself that pleasure.

A massive, massive thank you to the artists who managed to create such beautiful art for this fic, to the mods who set all this process up, and to my betas for blessing this mess!

Artist: IG Hufflepuffbetty (Art Post) / @hufflepuff-betty

Artist: @scribblemakes

😇😈😇😈😇😈

They say they fired him, but if you were to ask him, Anthony J. Crowley would tell you that he quit before they could.

Or, more accurately, he would tell you to bugger off and leave him alone, but if he felt like giving you an answer, that is the one he would give you.

Joining the financial advising firm was never his idea of a good time, really, but he did because he could and that it made his mother happy. But as weeks went by, Crowley discovered some things.

About himself, and about the firm’s ways, and both were inextricably in opposite directions.

He discovered that the more answers he found, the more questions he got.

That questions were not exactly welcomed, at Heavs and Hens.

That asking questions was the equivalent of lighting yourself on fire in the middle of a family dinner--a sure way to get everybody’s attention, but at what cost?

That fairness and obeying to the idea of the law was not a top priority for the partners.

And that fairness was one of his major core value (along with curiosity, which, if you have paid attention, should tell you how bad an idea it was for Crowley to work there).

So he quit, not with a bang, but with a swagger.

(And a comfortable “keep your mouth shut” pocket money.)

Oh, Crowley doesn’t hold any lasting feeling toward his former colleagues--especially not for Gabriel, that pompous ass who kept on stealing all of Crowley’s ideas and notes for his own credit--but there is a, oh, how can he put it into words, a chance of something greater that was missed with one particular junior adviser.

The man must be approximately Crowley’s age--old enough to be an adult, young enough to still have hope and energy--, with curly hair so blond Crowley isn’t quite sure it is natural, blue eyes that remind Crowley of a Spring sky, and the perpetual shadow of a smile on his rosy lips.

Yes, Crowley could wax poetics about this angel of a man who passed his desk once, eyes on a pocket watch while Gabriel was berating him for being too soft with the clients.

Crowley also knows one thing about this former colleague of his, that could-have-been-something-more-but-wasn’t, one thing that nobody else knows--if they knew, Crowley has no doubt about whether the man would still be working at the company or not.

(The answer is a resounding “not”)

The man, Mr. Eastgate is all Crowley knows to call him, is not as robotic as the other employees and, behind his soft smile and perfect attire, hides just enough of a dark side to be interesting.

How does Crowley know this to be facts?

Crowley saw a memo that miraculously disappeared from the system the following day.

A memo stating that while Mr. and Mrs. Godson would have been very interesting clients for the firm to acquire--read, very profitable clients who would have ended up with the clothes on their backs, if at all--, Mr A. Eastgate thought it best to tell them to invest their savings in a more secure venture, such as Apple shares or any other investment they could actually profit from in the future.

Which, if you weren’t aware, goes against the grain for a financial advising firm.

Tells you a lot about the kind of ethic and the character of Mr. Eastgate, that’s for certain, but where Crowley wouldn’t have been able to resist the need to rub it in everybody’s face, Mr. Eastgate apparently possesses much more diplomatic talents and decided to just …

Swipe it under the proverbial carpet, and play dumb whenever asked about it.

Crowley has to admit it: he respects that.

In addition to his already unbearable crush on the guy for simply looking cute, that’s the only reason he has a pang of regret as he leaves the firm’s building with his potted plant and his severance check.

So long, Mr. Eastgate.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale may not be the best financial advisor in the company, let alone in the world, if only because he doesn’t like putting people in harm’s way, and financial enterprises often lead to harmful conclusions.

But he’s good with numbers, and people listen to him, so, financial advisor it is.

When A.J. Crowley is summoned in the boss’s office and leaves with a smile on his (handsome, unusually handsome) face and a swagger to his walk, sunglasses firmly in place even indoors, Aziraphale feels something akin to regret to see him go--the man was probably the only of his colleagues Aziraphale could stand.

Sad to see him go, but delighted to watch him go, if you can catch his drift.

Good Heavens, what a sight.

Anywho, Aziraphale needs to get back to work, now, doesn’t he?

After all, collecting books is one pricey hobby.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Plant in hand , Crowley lets himself stroll the streets down to the parking garage where he left his beloved car.

As content as he may be to be done with all of those self-righteous lunatics, a question keeps on nagging him:

What is he to do with his life now? Pester his neighbors until they want him blown to smithereens?

Not that he would particularly mind, Crowley delights in being a bother to his admittedly boring neighbors.

But there is a limit to the amount of little offenses one can come up with on a daily basis, isn’t it? And staying idle is really not in his temperament; again, lounging in the sun and doing nothing is a fun past-time, but there always comes a time when his mind cannot stand the passivity.

No, there is no way around it: Crowley needs to find himself a new job, one that will not make him feel like needles are piercing his skin every time his values system is breached.

A quiet, nice job, with almost non-existent colleag--

Oh, look at that shop window.

All thoughts about his future, near and far, come to a standstill as Crowley pauses in front of a bakery.

“Tempting Bites”, an interesting name for sure, but it is the content of the window that really gets his interest.

The cakes are all, indeed, bite-sized, but elegantly decorated--if a little on the morbid side, if Crowley is actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

Yep, that is a tombstone on that grey-glazed éclair.

The pastry cannot be bigger than Crowley’s index finger (sure, he has long, pianist hands, as his mother called it, but still, it is a size-reference) but the fondant is still delicately decorated to mimic granite, and the tombstone is engraved and, dare he say it, sculpted to perfection.

The woman behind the counter glares at him, raising one eyebrow when he replies with a smile.

Daring him to enter her queendom, no doubt, and Crowley has never been good at resisting a dare.

“Good morning,” she says in a deadpan tone, “may I tempt you with one of our delights?”

Crowley’s smile only widens. “I would love to try the éclair in the window,” he replies, eyes perusing the store’s shelves. “And may I get a bag of chouquettes?”

The puff pastries are just, well, too tempting to pass, what with the black and red pearls of sugar decorating them.

“Temptation accomplished,” the salesperson says in a monotone, ringing his purchase. As Crowley goes to pay, he spots a sheet of paper behind them.

“You are hiring?”

They blink at him before sighing. “Yes, we do. Do you have any experience in baking?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Do you mind if the hours are long and the pay minimal?”

Crowley beams at her, leaning over the counter. “Not at all.”

“Are you a felon?”

“Would that matter?”

For the first time since he entered the shop, the hint of a smile appears on the person’s face. “Not at all,” they reply, “but I have to ask.” They shrug, pulling a piece of paper from under the counter. “Here, fill this and send a picture of your I.D. to the number inscribed on top.”

“Right away, boss,” Crowley replies, giving them a jaunty salute with the piece of paper.

“Call me Beelzy.��

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Okay.

If we’re going to continue with this story, there are a couple of things you need to know about Aziraphale Eastgate.

First of all, as previously stated, he is quite the bibliophile, collecting all first editions of British children’s books.

(Yes, it is a collection that requires a lot of time, care, and money.)

(Yes, Mother, he’s aware that he is an adult and that there are better things he could do with his money than chase after kiddy books.)

(No, Mother, he has yet to find a woman to marry and carry on the Eastgate’s legacy.)

((If only she knew.))

Second of all, but perhaps not entirely unrelated to the first point, Aziraphale considers himself an epicurean. A lover of good and beautiful things. A man capable of appreciating the finest things in Life, from a good book to a good meal.

After all, C.S. Lewis said it quite eloquently, “Eating and reading are two pleasures that combine admirably.”

Third of all, as brave and smart as he vows to be on a daily basis, Aziraphale hates being confronted.

All three are needed to understand how conflicted Aziraphale has always felt about the bakery around the corner near the office.

(All right, so maybe the fact that he is a bibliophile is not particularly relevant to this part of the story. But presenting Aziraphale without insisting upon his love for books would be criminal, criminal indeed.

Back to the point.)

Because on the one hand, bakery! Provider of scrumptious cakes and food!

But on the other hand, the person usually behind the counter makes him feel like he’s about to enter a ring just to prove himself worthy of the cakes.

Oh, he has seen many of his colleagues and many people coming out of the shop with little black bags, so the confrontational attitude may just be in his head, but still.

For now, he has only savored the pastries with his eyes, for their aesthetics and satisfies his need for sweet goodness in other places.

(No one needs to know about this, but his favorite place is a little, how should he say, hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the Theater district that serves the finest sushis in all of London and got him addicted to crepe cakes. Di-vine, to say the least.)

That being said, he’s reconsidering his avoidance of the bakery.

The sight of a certain shade of red hair behind the window is most definitely to be blamed for this change of mind, but Aziraphale would never admit it, even under threat.

(It depends on the kind of threat. Though he tends to avoid it if he can, Aziraphale is more than capable to handle a little brawl, shall the need arise. But threaten his books or his closet, and chances are Aziraphale will fold like a … well, like a crepe.

Oh, crepes.)

As it is, Aziraphale is not so easily tempted, so “Tempting Bites” and his possibly newly hired and very tempting salesman will have to work a little bit harder at convincing him.

Or, to be more truthful, Aziraphale will need to be sure that it is his infamous former colleague who is now behind the counter, in order to ensure a fruitful encounter.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley is many things, but he is not a liar.

When Beelzy asked if he had any baking knowledge, he did not lie when he said none whatsoever.

But. He is a very fast learner.

“Crowley!”

And. He has a lot of imagination.

“Crowleeeeey!”

Not necessarily a bad combination--he supposes it depends on who you asked.

“What. Is. That.”

Crowley beams at his boss and at his colleague.

“That, my Lord,” he replies with a small curtsey, “is a pumpkin brioche.”

“A … brioche.”

“Yes.”

“A bit on the nose, Crowley,” Hastur drawls from behind him. “An orange brioche, shaped like a pumpkin, and you flavor it with pumpkins.”

“Try it, Hastur.”

“No thank you.”

“Try it before you ditch it.”

Hastur rolls his eyes at him but takes a knife from his pocket anyway, cutting two slices of the brioche.

Beelzy’s face barely shows any reaction, but then again, their face is usually expressionless. As it is, the slight uprising of their eyebrows is all Crowley needed from them.

Hastur’s reaction, in comparison, is far more immediate and satisfying.

“WHAAAAA--”

“Yes, Hastur?”

“But--! How--! Beelzebub, how did he do this?”

Beelzy takes another bite, waving the slice in the air. “Well, there are definitely spices in the dough of the brioche--you’ve been too generous with the cinnamon, Crowley, curb your enthusiasm there--reminiscent of the infamous pumpkin spice latte, and there is the matter of the gooey center … Citrus?”

“Lemon zest and orange compote.”

They nod, swallowing the remains of their slice of brioche in two bites. “Good product. We’ll get the high school population and the office population tempted in no time.”

“Only a matter of days until they’re ours.”

Hastur recovered from his shock--or from his distaste of cinnamon, whichever sounds best--and is now smiling like he came up with Crowley’s creation.

“I’m glad you approve of my idea, my Lord,” he simply says, pushing Hastur out of the way with a hip check.

Beelzy leaves the kitchen as the bell above the door rings and Hastur comes far too close for comfort.

“One of these days, Crowley,” he croaks, “one of these days, you’re going to run out of ideas. And then--”

“And then we’ll be more alike than ever, Hastur! Won’t it be wonderful?”

Hastur snarls one more time before pulling his phone out of his pocket--to text his boyfriend about all the things he wishes he could do to Crowley to make him suffer, no doubt.

Crowley picks up the last piece of brioche from the plate and nods to himself. Indeed too much cinnamon, but he lost track of his spices while he was preparing his test batch.

See, a certain blond head happened to walk by the kitchen’s window when Crowley was seasoning his dough, and, well.

Crowley preferred to follow its tracks than to follow his idea.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

That is most definitely Anthony J. Crowley arranging small brioches in a basket in the bakery’s window.

Aziraphale finds himself dry-mouthed at the sight of these long fingers carefully placing one delicate peachy confection after another on a checkered napkin, and he would have an awfully hard time telling you which of the two brings him to push the bakery’s door.

“Good afternoon, how may I tempt you--,” Crowley starts, spinning on his toes before coming to a stop as he sees Aziraphale.

The way he stops and the way he gawks at him from behind his tinted glasses makes Aziraphale blush and preen.

“--today,” Crowley finishes his welcome, a small smile appearing on his face. “Well, well, well. Welcome, Mr. Eastgate.”

He knows who I am.

He knows my name.

Say something, Aziraphale, before he thinks you are under the influence of something illegal.

“Hello, Crowley.”

There, short and to the point.

Oh, dear Lord, he’s leaning against the counter like some sort of Michelangelo’s sculpture.

“Tempted by something, Mr. Eastgate?”

“Oh please, call me Aziraphale, Mr. Eastgate is my brother Uriel.”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley repeating his name should not awaken such warm tingles in his lower regions, and yet, here we are, aren’t we?

Maybe it’s the way his tongue seems to hiss on the ‘zee’ sound and curl around the last ‘el’, maybe it’s the way he says it like Aziraphale himself is the delicacy about to be devoured.

“Earth to Aziraphale?”

Oh, right. He didn’t enter the shop just to leer at his former colleague and ever-present fantasy-man.

“Forgive me, Crowley,” he manages without a stutter, “I was, um, that is to say,” so much for not stuttering, well done, “your buns caught my attention.”

An army of angels passes by, as Crowley’s smile widens into a smirk. “Did they now? Flatterer.”

Aziraphale blinks at him until the words that left his mouth fully register. “Oh! Not those buns! I--I mean! The edible buns! Brioches! In--in the window!” He groans, placing his hand over his face. “Can the floor swallow me now, please?”

“What a waste it would be,” Crowley says quietly, his smile less mocking and more … gentle. “Don’t worry, Aziraphale, your appreciation of all my kinds of buns will be my little secret.”

Aziraphale can literally feel the color of his face taking a turn for the crimson. “G-g-good to know.”

“Now, about the pastries in the window, would you care for one?”

Aziraphale relaxes with a deep breath. “That would be lovely, yes, please.”

Crowley nods and goes to pick a couple of perfectly round orange brioches to put in a paper bag, and Aziraphale watches him carefully.

There is clearly more to Mr Anthony J. Crowley than meets the eye (and a sight it is already, look at those lines, those curves!).

What a pity that he didn’t get closer to the man when they shared an office--now, if he wants to be better acquainted with him, Aziraphale will have to come to the bakery quite often, won’t he?

As he takes a bite of one pumpkin-flavored brioche at the bus stop, letting moans that scandalize and, or, amuse his fellow commuters, Aziraphale comes to realize that it won’t be much of a hardship to pursue a friendship with his former colleague, present favorite baker.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to cross the street and turn toward the bus stop to fall to his knees behind the counter, one hand pressed against his heart.

So not only the man looks like an angel, but he decides to attack Crowley with puns, albeit unintended, and a delicious flush that Crowley wanted to follow under that crisp, white shirt?

Cruel, cruel, cruel.

Cruel and delicious torture.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

As time goes by, Crowley comes to really appreciate his new job.

Sure the hours complicate his social life, but Crowley never really had a social life to begin with, and he’d rather be in the lab in the early morning to tend to his garden of herbs and berries and try new recipes than go out and, what, dance on a sticky dance floor in the hopes of finding someone who will only be second-best to the man he really yearns for ?

He’s not that much of a dancer anyway.

And he has standards.

“I’m warning you, you better do as I say or there will be consequences.”

Luckily for him, now that both Beelzy and Hastur know he can hold the fort alone, they tend to mysteriously disappear and leave him to his own device.

All the better for Crowley to experiment to his heart’s content.

All the better for Crowley to enjoy the company of one particularly faithful customer, too.

Aziraphale comes almost every day now, several times on particularly gruesome days in fact.

By some kind of magic, the shop manages to always be empty when Aziraphale enters it, allowing Crowley to take a break with a man who is slowly becoming a friend.

Crowley doesn’t talk much, not in his nature really, unless a bottle of strong alcohol is involved, but he is a good listener.

And there are very few things in this world as entertaining and satisfying as Aziraphale daintily devouring Crowley’s cakes while ranting about his colleagues.

The man is made of contrasts, and Crowley …

Well, Crowley loves it.

Him.

Whatever.

You’re not in his head.

So what if he made a detailed mental list of all of Aziraphale’s preferences in the matter of tastes, uh?

What about it?

So what if his heart tries to compete in the Gymnastics Olympics every time the doorbell rings?

What are you going to do about it? Mock him? Tell him that he is an idiot for pining after a man who, clearly, seeks his company?

(Well, you wouldn’t be completely wrong about that, even Crowley would admit it. Not out loud, never out loud, but he would admit it.)

Trust him, he knows that this is bordering on ridiculous, this pinning and sighing and burying his feelings in yeast and flour whenever Aziraphale leaves.

Ridiculous, yet productive.

He just put a batch of his matcha, sesame and crushed hazelnut loaves out of the oven, right before the end of the working day, when Aziraphale comes in.

“Hmmm, that smells heavenly.”

“That’s the yeast fucking.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them--he entirely blames Hastur for the phrasing (and his twisted mind for actually enjoying it)--and he looks up toward Aziraphale in alarm, with an apology on the edge of his lips.

Except that Aziraphale, while clearly startled by Crowley’s words, seems to be even more enthused by them, if the beaming smile on his face is to be trusted.

It’s blinding, truth be told, even with the protective sunglasses Crowley has to wear at all times to protect his sensitive eyes from any light.

“The yeast f--”

“I mean, it’s the dough,” Crowley interrupts. He’s not sure he would survive hearing Aziraphale actually curse.

He’s already as infatuated as can be, there is absolutely no need to add another layer of hidden bastardry into the mix.

Aziraphale hums, his amused smile hiding possibly jokes that would kill Crowley on the spot.

“And what, pray tell my dear, did you do to make the dough rise so deliciously?”

A thousand arrows into the chest probably wouldn’t hurt as much as this.

(Probably.)

Either Aziraphale has taken a secret vow to kill Crowley with innuendos while not doing anything about … whatever is brewing between them, or he is really that oblivious and Crowley’s mind just has a dirty filter.

Whatever explanation works, Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Green tea and roasted sesame seeds,” he replies before shimmying his shoulders. “And my personal touch.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink. “As in …?”

“As in, that’s my secret and you won’t get it, as angelic as you may appear.”

Aziraphale looks surprised for a moment, before turning bashful. “An-angelic? Me? No, I’m not, I’m just... I’m just me.”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, mentally listing everything he would love to do to the people who ate this man’s self-esteem.

Then he starts mentally listing everything he could do to restore said self-esteem, and, folks, it takes a turn for the graphic with the speed of light.

“You are just you,” he finally says, leaning over the counter with his chin in his hand, “and that’s all it takes for you to be angelic.”

The blush on Aziraphale’s face darkens, but his smile is more assured already. “That’s … probably the nicest thing anyone has ever s--”

“Oh shut up,” Crowley sneers as he straightens up, “I’m not nice.”

Aziraphale makes a show of zipping his lips shut, but his shy smile is still there when he leaves.

😇😈😇

When Crowley leaves the shop, not too long after Aziraphale, the skies have taken a turn for the gloomy and seem ready to open and throw a flood on them all.

Crowley allows himself a moment of self-pity. Even if he takes the bus instead of walking home like he intended to, there is no actual bus-stop.

Hence no shelter.

Hence his new boots getting soaked and his evening ruined.

Raising his head to the heavens just as the first drops fall, he mouths a heartfelt “why” before making his way to the aforementioned bus-stop.

Only to find a blonde head and a beige trenchcoat waiting under the most Aziraphale-Esque umbrella possibly conceived.

“Aziraphale?”

The man in question looks startled before beaming at him. “Crowley!”

Without another word, he lifts the umbrella higher, giving Crowley some room to shelter himself from the downpour.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had dinner plans for the evening,” Crowley says, digging his hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing something stupid.

Like, on the top of his head, snake his arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

That would be a terrible, awful idea.

A deliciously awful idea.

Aziraphale shrugs. “I did,” he replies, looking at Crowley from the corner of his eye, “and then decided I would rather be at home, with a nice cup of cocoa and a book--and some secret bread someone just created.”

His bus comes and leaves and Crowley cannot be bothered to leave the cocoon of warmth that the umbrella provides.

“Which bus are you taking?” Aziraphale’s voice is muted as if the umbrella really shelters them both, not only from the rain but from the rest of the world.

“I--I think it just drove away.”

Aziraphale looks at him more directly, a crooked smile on his face. Not mocking, no, just …

A smile that speaks a thousand words.

A smile that says, “I know what you did, and I know what it tells me about you and about us, but I won’t say it aloud. For now. Because this is comfortable and nice too.”

Or at least that’s how Crowley reads it.

“Looks like mine is delayed,” Aziraphale simply says. “How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”

Crowley smiles, tired but content. “What do you have in mind, Mr. Eastgate?”

“If there is enough cocoa for one, there is enough for two, my dear Mr. Crowley.”

😇😈😇

For the life of him, Aziraphale doesn’t know what he was thinking.

He entirely blames Crowley’s tight pants and warm smile and--and ...Well, he entirely blames Crowley for being Crowley for his enthusiastic yet unplanned invitation to go to his place.

If he has to be completely honest, Aziraphale’s place is … Not somewhere you invite someone without careful planning beforehand.

(Especially someone who could potentially see more of the place than any random guest, and is possibly someone Aziraphale would like to see in the said apartment more often than not.

Possibly.

As in, always and forever.)

Because, and not that it is a piece of information that is absolutely needed but it bares being told at least once, Aziraphale is messy.

“Ooooooh,” Crowley starts, low under his breath the moment Aziraphale lets him in, an amused look on his face. “You’re messy.”

It does bare being told twice, to be honest.

What puzzles Aziraphale is the sheer delight in Crowley’s voice. He glances around the living room, slash, kitchen, slash, dining room, slash, personal library, and tries to give it an objective look.

There are empty, dirty mugs in the sink, but otherwise, the kitchen area is clean-ish.

There are … oh dear Lord, there are dirty clothes on the couch where Aziraphale came home last night, too tired to get to his bed but not tired enough that he didn’t feel like indulging in a little one-on-one session with himself and his thoughts before succumbing to sleep.

(If said thoughts involved the very person now standing in said living room, well, that’s for Aziraphale’s shame to feed on.)

Three books are opened, stacked in a precarious pile on the coffee table.

At least Anathema is nowhere in sight. With any luck, she’s asleep on Aziraphale’s bed and won’t bother sniffing around.

(Aziraphale feels like introducing Crowley and Anathema would bare more consequences than introducing Crowley to his family.)

Some shoes and ties create a parkour-worthy arrangement around the room.

On his shelves, it’s not a mess. It’s the perfectly organized chaos Aziraphale has chosen as his way of putting his collection together.

All the editions of one book together, naturally, arranged per publication date, of course.

So it looks a bit in disarray in relation to the sizes and the conservation states.

That doesn’t bother him in the slightest, but he can see how, added to the rest of the room, his shelves give a distinctively chaotic vibe.

Still, Crowley is not running for the hills or making fun of him as some other people did in the past.

(Gabriel is a judgmental asshole who wouldn’t make the difference between a sketch by E.H. Shepard and a napkin at the bottom of a dump, and he can suck on his minimalistic design for all Aziraphale cares.

Still hurts when he makes fun of Aziraphale’s prized possessions.)

No, quite the contrary. Aziraphale can only gulp when he spots Crowley strutting, really, the man is strutting in his living room, caressing the back of Aziraphale’s chair or browsing the shelves, the same delighted look on his face softening as he goes.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he says suddenly, voice barely above the sound of the rain hitting the window. “How did you get your hands on this one?”

Aziraphale forgets all of his embarrassment at the state of his home to see what caught Crowley’s attention.

“Sendak?”

“Not just any Sendak, you little minx. Quite the controversial item, isn’t it?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale can tell that his cheeks are now matching some of his books binding. “Well, no respectable collection--”

Crowley snorts and raises one eyebrow.

“No collection would be complete without Sendak’s entire body of work, now would it?”

“Dreaming about baking in the nude, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s brain flies out the window and into the gutter. “I--you--but--”

Crowley snickers, reaching for the copy of “In the Night Kitchen”.

Aziraphale takes it first, clutching it to his chest. “You demon! Do you enjoy making fun of me?”

Crowley’s smile slowly melts away. “I am not making fun of you, honest. It’s just …” Crowley looks frustrated, searching for his words and that alone appeases Aziraphale. “I like finding out that there are more layers to you than what you usually let people know, okay?”

It’s raw and honest and, frankly, adorable.

If Aziraphale wasn’t so worried about losing Crowley’s friendship, he would jump in his arms right there and then kiss the sarcasm out of him.

(It would take a while. Maybe even a lifetime. That doesn’t bother him. He’s willing to spend that time on this task.)

As it is, Aziraphale simply puts the book back on its shelf before clasping his hands in front of him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Aziraphale chances a look at Crowley, who is busy pretending he finds the pattern on Aziraphale’s floor mind-riveting.

“How about that cocoa to go with your loaf?”

Crowley visibly chokes on air.

“Of bread! Your loaf of bread! That I bought!”

“... Right.”

Aziraphale all but runs to the safety of his kitchen where he gently smacks his head against a cupboard.

“Are you all right, Aziraphale?”

“Y-yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale closes his eyes one moment before letting out a deep breath. “Do you have a milk preference? And do you want some sugar in your ….?”

Crowley appears next to him. “I wouldn’t mind if you have sheep milk--easier to digest.” Crowley takes a step that puts his hand almost on top of Aziraphale’s. “And I think I have all the sweetness I need.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale is absolutely not using his countertop as a crutch to keep himself upright while Crowley is standing so close to him.

Dear Lord, he smells like a cologne-scented pastry, and that is more appetizing than it should be.

“Perhaps if you mixed some honey in it, though …”

Aziraphale can’t help but beam at Crowley. “Now that’s an excellent idea, my dear! Go, sit, I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

Crowley frowns at him, silently muttering “a jiffy?” but still complies with the command.

Aziraphale focuses on preparing their drinks, cutting slices of the delicious green tea loaf and putting them on a clean plate--more of a feat than you’d think--before joining Crowley.

And that’s when he almost drops the tray.

Because Crowley is not sitting on the couch, oh no Sir.

Crowley is sprawled on the couch, spread on the pleather like caramel on a crêpe.

“Com-comfortable, I believe?”

“Hm-hm.”

Aziraphale straightens up and bumps his hips against Crowley’s feet. “Leave some room for me, will you?”

Fussing over the cups and saucers, Aziraphale completely misses the fond look Crowley addresses in his direction as he sits more properly.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

“What are your plans for the weekend?” Crowley asks, wondering if today is the day he’ll finally get brave enough to ask Aziraphale if he’d like to--

“Would you care to accompany me to the auction I texted you about? Afterward, we could go get some sushis ….”

“Why do you need me, exactly?” Crowley cuts in. “It’s not like I know anything about books.”

(This is a blatant lie, for once. Crowley knows it, you know it, his shelves of astronomical and botanical books and romance novels know it. Aziraphale, however, does not. This will have to wait for Aziraphale to actually come to Anthony’s place, and, well, sorry dears, but Crowley is not there yet.

Pace yourself and enjoy the moment, will you?)

Aziraphale toys with the paper napkin, wringing it into oblivion. “Well, if I remember our brief moment as colleagues, you always seemed to be the … responsible, shall we say, um, perhaps, the sensible kind of fellow.”

Crowley barely resists the need to bark a laugh at that. As it is, he keeps it to a smirk stretching his lips as he leans back in his chair.“Hardly.”

“Now come on, dear,” Aziraphale tuts, oblivious to the way Crowley’s eyes widen at the term of endearment, “you would do a fantastic wingman to contain my enthusiasm.”

Crowley briefly raises his eyes to the ceiling--dear God, there is no way his former-colleague-turned-friend-could-be-more is not doing it on purpose, is there?--before sighing. “Why is there a need to contain your enthusiasm?”

Aziraphale gives him a look.

“No, seriously, Angel,” he continues, this time being the oblivious one to the stunned look on Aziraphale’s face at his choice of words, “you do make a decent living, working for those vampires, why would you need to, um, contain your enthusiasm?”

“Because that’s the … reasonable, err, thing to do?”

“Screw reasonable, Aziraphale!” Crowley exclaims. “You’re not harming everybody, you are not going to spend all of your money during an auction. After all, there is only one book fitting your collection--”

“Oh. You looked at the catalog I sent you?”

“Of course,” Crowley shrugs, mildly offended. “So if you’re only looking to buy one book, why not splurge a little?”

“When you put it that way …”

“Treat yourself, Angel!”

“Clever tempter.” Aziraphale tries to look angry, but it only comes out as unbearably cute.

Crowley lets himself smile as fondly as his heart desires at Aziraphale. “Not much to tempt when it’s already what you wanted to do.”

“So?”

“So…?”

“So, will you come with me, Crowley?”

Oh, right, he never actually gave an answer did he? “I guess. If nothing else more interesting comes my way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What? I may have hundreds of invitations waiting for me to give them a reply.”

“Dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice just lower enough to awaken an unidentified heat in Crowley’s stomach, “you’re the one who asked me if I had plans over the weekend.”

With a pat on Crowley’s knees, Aziraphale is up and already at the door with a wave. “See you Saturday on New Bond Street, Crowley!”

Crowley is left stunned in his chair, looking after the blond curls bobbing down the street.

The little devil.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

To be completely honest, Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley would show up.

After all, it is his only day of freedom before going back to a job that is far more physically demanding than Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale would completely understand if Crowley decided to just sleep it away.

(He would understand. He would be disappointed and sad, but that would be for him and for his pet to know.)

But no.

Next to the entrance of the auction house, in all his glorious lankiness draped in black, stands the man starring in a lot of Aziraphale’s dreams lately.

Oh, kindly get your mind out of the gutter, not all those dreams are of the pornographic variety.

(The key-word here being “not all”.)

Crowley’s hair is out of his usual messy bun, flowing in crimson rivlets around his angular face. Sunglasses firmly in place even though it is a cloudy day in London.

As for the rest of his attire, one would call it “punk chic” if one even dared to try and qualify Crowley’s …

Well.

Crowley as a whole is inqualifiable, isn’t he? Almost …

Ineffable.

And here he goes again, waxing poetic over Crowley while being too shy, awkward, afraid, to do something about it.

Would that be so hard? “Hey Crowley, thanks for coming, after the auction, would you fancy some dinner? No, not like the hundreds we already shared, no, this one would be special. A date. I’m asking you on a date. No? Preposterous? Oh, alright, back to business as usual then, see you Monday at the bakery.”

See? Not that hard. Hardly more than a band-aid ripped from one’s skin.

… Right. As if that simple mind simulation didn’t rip Aziraphale’s heart out of his chest, stomped on it before putting the beaten pulp back for him to heal.

“Right on time, Angel.”

The pet name never fails to cause more aortic gymnastics and Aziraphale beams at Crowley. “If right on time means half an hour before the auction, then, yes, right on time.”

Crowley digs his hands in his pockets, face turned to the ground. “I know you want to find a good spot to observe without being observed,” he mumbles as they enter the auction house and are directed toward the room. “Half an hour to do so sounds reasonable.”

“I appreciate the effort,” Aziraphale says lightly, lighter than he really feels. “I thought reason was your kryptonite.”

A crooked smile appears on Crowley’s face, and he pulls his glasses down just enough for Aziraphale to see him wink. “Among other things, Angel.”

Crowley takes two strides as Aziraphale is glued on the spot.

That--that was flirting, wasn’t it?

It has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Aziraphale is going to lose his darn mind trying to read between Crowley’s lines.

(And he loves every second of it, don’t get him wrong.)

“Now, do you prefer to sit in the back, or somewhere in the middle? I’d prefer somewhere where we can talk without disturbing anybody, even if the walls have ears,” Crowley is rambling, strutting--there is really no other way to put it--strutting his stuff back and forth across the room where the auction will be held. “Do books have ears?” he mutters, to Aziraphale’s complete delight, before snickering in a way that can only be described as adorable, as much as Crowley denies being anything approaching “adorable”, “cute” ou even just “nice”. “Though I suppose they can be eared.”

It requires a lot of focus on their surroundings and a massive amount of self-control for Aziraphale to keep himself from throwing himself at Crowley and kiss the living daylights out of him right then and there.

“Get it?” Crowley insists, his smile far too much for Aziraphale to handle. “Dog-eared?”

“I get it, dear,” Aziraphale says, willing his cheeks to return to their normal, pale complexion. In a very satisfying turn of event, his blush seems to transfer to Crowley’s cheeks, too. “Very funny, and contextually appropriate. Kudos.”

Crowley gives him a little curtsey before pointing at different seats. “So? The choice is yours, Angel.”

Oh, Aziraphale knows that there is a slight percentage of Crowley’s choice of pet name which is vaguely mocking. He knows.

He does love being called “Angel” by a man who looks like one himself, only in a more lustful way.

(Can angels be lustful creatures? There is a probably a whole moral and theological debate to have there, but he’ll keep it in mind for their next date-not-a-date-God-he-wishes-it-was-a-date.)

“Right this way,” Aziraphale points to two seats in second to last row, somewhere around the middle. “Perfect view, perfect to bid.”

As if summoned by magic, a paddle seems to appear in Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale eyes it warily as Crowley twirls it in the air. “Planning on bidding, dear?”

“Yep. You should get yours too.”

“Seriously?”

Crowley looks over the rim of his sunglasses to look at Aziraphale. “Deadly.”

Aziraphale attempts to glare a him as he stands, taking a double take to make sure that his companion is not pulling his leg. When Crowley has the audacity to make a “go on” motion, Aziraphale huffs and puffs all the way to the paddle counter.

“And what, pray tell, do you plan on bidding on, exactly?”

“Something awfully overpriced, just to make some idiots pay more than they should.”

“Oh, be serious, Crowley.”

The room fills up one person at a time, but as far as Aziraphale is concerned, it’s just the two of them.

“If you must know,” Crowley replies, a faint blush appearing on the apple of his cheeks (and on the tip of his ears, that is just … Aziraphale has no words), “while browsing the catalogue you sent me, I spotted a copy of a book that could look good on my shelves.”

“As in …?”

“As in, wait and see, good things come to those who wait, for Pete’s sake!”

Aziraphale smiles crookedly at that, as discretely as he can manage.

If he had any doubts, they’re all gone now. There is definitely more to Crowley than meets the eye. The man is not as blasé as he would like to appear.

Or maybe, just maybe, he only lets Aziraphale sees under all that nonchalance to show his true self.

That possibility almost makes him faint.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention,” the auctioneer calls with a too-white smile. “Let’s begin with the first lot of this English literature, History science and Children’s book auction, shall we?”

😈😇😈

It’s not that Crowley is a bibliophile--far from it.

He simply has a profound respect for books and the answers they can provide to all the questions in the Universe.

And sometimes, just for the fun of it, he likes to splurge on books which show how far Humanity has come, in terms of knowledge.

The irony of it all, and, though he’ll never admit it, the hope that lies between those lines.

If humanity is capable of growing out of a pit of superstitions and darkness, the future cannot be as bleak as it looks, can it?

Which leads us to the present moment, to the book he spotted in the aforementioned catalogue and wishes to purchase if it fits his splurging budget.

Rachel Bell Maiden’s “The Canape Book”.

The small book doesn’t look like much, on its podium, barely held upright by the handler’s gloved hand.

And yet, Crowley wants it like he doesn’t often want for things.

(A look on his left tells a different story, but a, this is not the place nor the time, and b, Crowley himself doesn’t want to admit to himself that he yearns.

Humans can be stupid like that.)

The green binding is pretty unique, or so Crowley has learned online, and he really, really ...

“Starting the auction at 200 pounds, do we have a bidder, I have an offer at 250 pounds …”

Crowley raises his paddle like a sword in the air.

“300 pounds to paddle 666. I have an offer at 325?”

One more lift.

“350, 350 to paddle 666. What about you, Sir, care to raise the stakes? No? On the phone?”

The auctioneer looks around the room and Crowley starts sweating. As it is, with the fees, and everything, the book is going to be right on the verge of extravagant for his budget.

But it is a good purchase, if only to find recipes to try with Aziraphale, sandwiches and cocktails that will make for splendid afternoon and fantastic evenings, perhaps a prelude to more if they--if he ever gets himself together.

“Going once, going twice …”

“Come on,” Crowley mutters between gritted teeth.

“And sold to paddle 666, congratulations sir.”

“Yesss,” Crowley cannot help but hiss as he puts the paddle away.

Still in the rush of the auction--and yes, it was a rush, shut up--he slides his hand over Aziraphale’s next to him.

And Aziraphale doesn’t move it away.

Oh, no, quite the opposite actually: he turns his hand to clasp Crowley’s firmly and doesn’t let go.

“Congratulations, dear,” he whispers, close enough for his breath to tickle Crowley’s skin. “I hope to be as successful in my own endeavor.”

Crowley smiles bashfully. “Thank you, Angel.”

The fifty or so lots after that go by without Crowley noticing them.

A not so small part of him wishfully thinks that Aziraphale doesn’t pay much attention to it either.

When Aziraphale straightens up in his chair, paddle at the ready, Crowley turns his attention back to the room.

The big lot of the sale isn’t up yet, but a few heads are turning toward the three tan-leather bound books.

“Now, lot 69, a 1840 printing of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, in 3 volumes, signed by the illustrator George Cruikshank, we have a lot of interest from buyers over the phone, let’s start this auction at 1200 pounds. 1200, 1300, thank you Sir, 1400 for you Emma, 1400 over the phone, 1500 for me, 1600 over the phone with Tang, 1650 for me, 1650, do I have more bidding?”

Aziraphale raises his paddle and Crowley can feel his heart beating faster in his friend’s behalf.

Well, “friend”.

Whatever they are.

“1700 pounds for the paddle 29472, thank you Sir. 1700 in the room, not with me, not on the phone.”

Aziraphale wiggles in his chair, a proud smirk on his face.

“And 1800 for the paddle 75005.”

Aziraphale and Crowley snap their head toward the part of the room pointed by the auctioneer’s hammer. A smug looking person raises one eyebrow at them.

Aziraphale scowls at them and lifts his hand.

“1900, paddle 29472.”

“2000, paddle 75005...”

Crowley glances back at the catalogue when Aziraphale reaches 3000.

“Angel,” he whispers, “you’re at the higher estimate.”

“These books are mine,” Aziraphale growls back, and while the sound goes straight to Crowley’s bloodstream, it may be time for this whole affair to end.

Glaring at the back of Mx. 75005’s head, Crowley waits for them to lift their paddle, again, and turn to smirk at them, again.

Which they do--so predictable.

Crowley discreetly brings his thumb to his throat and hisses.

The person seems appropriately taken aback.

Aziraphale lifts his paddle one more time, bringing the auction to 3500 pounds.

“3500 pounds for paddle 29742, do you wish to continue, Sir?”

The person hesitates, glancing at them one more time. Crowley lowers his glasses to glare them into submission.

And then they shake their head.

“We’re at 3500 pounds for the gentleman with the paddle 29742, do I have any more bidder? Going once, going twice…”

Aziraphale is the one reaching for Crowley’s hand this time around.

“And sold. Congratulations, Sir. Now, moving on to lot 70 …”

“Unless you wish to stay for what most of these people consider to be the important lot of this sale,” Aziraphale whispers, his hand still clasping Crowley’s, “we can take our leave.”

“Do you want to see how it goes?”

“Nah, I’ll check the final results online.”

“Sure?”

“Sure. Let’s go. I feel peckish.”

“Peckish.”

“Indeed. How about some crepes?”

“Lead the way, Angel.”

😈😇😈😇😈

“Well, wasn’t that fun?” Aziraphale says happily, hands clasped in his back as they walk down the street.

“It was fun,” Crowley replies, a crooked smile on his face. “Especially to see that side of you, Angel.”

“Which side, my dear?”

“The feisty, slightly bastardish side, of course.”

Aziraphale wants to protest, he does, but even if he felt like lying to Crowley, he couldn’t possibly procede. And he can admit that he did let out his … inner bastard.

“Right. Well. I’m glad you enjoyed that.”

“You have no idea.”

Crowley’s voice catches Aziraphale’s attention. It’s soft suddenly around the edges, almost tender, almost fond.

Almost smitten.

Aziraphale searches Crowley’s face for more clues, but beside this smirk that has indeed softened into a grin, his blasted sunglasses block Aziraphale’s “reading”.

“Crowley …”

“Angel …”

They both start at the same time but Crowley shakes his head before Aziraphale can tell him to go ahead. “Never mind that. Where are you taking us?”

Aziraphale considers pushing it, once and for all--speak your mind and heart, damn you, so I can snog you senseless in the middle of Oxford Circus--but Crowley is not the kind of man you can push into confession, that much Aziraphale knows now.

“To my secret spot.”

Crowley’s face instantly matches the crimson lining of his jacket. “Cool. Do you take all your dates there?”

“I never brought anyone there, I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale replies over the pitter patter of his heart at the mention of this afternoon being a date. “But I--I want you to be my guest there.”

They reach a crossroad and Aziraphale brings his hands in front of him, nervouser and nervouser as Crowley remains silent.

Until, that is, Crowley’s hand enters his line of vision.

“Crowley?”

Crowley is not looking at him, but he still wiggles his fingers, prompting Aziraphale to take it.

“I would love to see your secret spot, Angel,” Crowley finally says, voice barely covering the hubbub around them. “I am--I am honored.”

It’s only because he knows the way so well that Aziraphale doesn’t lose them both in the streets, floating as he is on his very own cloud.

“This,” Crowley says with as much doubt as he can put in a single syllable, “is where you take me to have crêpes?”

“Indeed it is.”

“This restaurant? Really?”

“Don’t pass on such a hasty judgment,” Aziraphale tutts. “‘For by your words you will be acquitted and by your words you will be condemned’.”

Crowley groans as he follows him inside the tiny Japanese restaurant. “Quoting scriptures at me now? Why, oh why would you do that?”

Aziraphale salutes the owner before taking “his” seat, inviting Crowley to join him. “If only to make you admit that you knew the source of my quote, you fallen soul. And to gently ask you not to say another word before you have a chance to try their desserts.”

“Fine, fine, I suppose I can put my judgmental side on hold for a moment with you.”

Oh. Wow. That’s too much, too fast, wow.

All Aziraphale can do on the outside is clearing his throat and pulling the menu in front of him.

“I mean--” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale cuts him short.

“Should we split one plate of crêpes, or should we share two plates, I don’t know, I--I, um, I know I have built an appetite with the adrenaline and all, but how do you feel?”

Crowley shrugs, pulling off his glasses to clean them with his scarf. “You’re the connoisseur, you decide. I’m putting my faith in you, Angel.”

But all of Aziraphale’s knowledge and appreciation for the crêpe cakes on the menu flew out the window the moment Crowley’s eyes came into view.

They’re such a peculiar shade, a mesmerizing golden amber Aziraphale could bask in for all of Eternity.

“-raphale?”

“Uh? Sorry, my dear boy, I was--I was lost in thoughts.”

“Pure, happy thoughts?”

“Enough to make me fly if I had any fairy dust.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth, the smile left behind enough for Aziraphale to gather that he has a joke on the tip of his tongue and is refraining out of the goodness of his heart.

“You were saying?” he asks instead, folding back the menu to focus on Crowley, now that those jewelled eyes are once again hidden.

(What a shame, but what a relief for his poor heart, too.)

“I was asking you what was your favorite cake?”

“Depends on my mood,” Aziraphale replies, more comfortable on the subject of food. “A good vanilla crêpe can do the trick but when I feel like treating myself properly …”

“Yess?”

“Chestnut and chocolate is my go-to.”

“An interesting combination.”

“A scrumptious combination!” Aziraphale claps his hands. “Oh, that makes my decision easier. We must simply try that.”

Aziraphale’s favorite waiter approaches and they exchange a few words in Japanese before Aziraphale places his order.

As he leaves them to it, Aziraphale turns back to Crowley who is gawking at him.

“What?”

Crowley clears his throat and chuckles awkwardly. “You--you speak Japanese?”

“Oh, yes, I do, don’t I?”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, fingers drumming on the tablecloth.

Aziraphale starts fidgeting under such intense scrutiny. “What’s so special about it, anyway? I’m sure you speak other languages, too.”

It comes out a bit more defensively than he really intended to. There is just something about Crowley that reveals his darker side.

Crowley smirks, still drumming on the table. “I speak Scottish, if that counts.”

“Of course it does.”

“And I suppose I can manage with French, but nothing as … exotic as Japanese.”

“French?”

“Tout à fait.”

Isn’t it funny, how we sometimes discover things about ourselves late in life?

As it is, until this very moment, Aziraphale had no idea that a few words uttered in French could affect him as it does.

But affected he is, and to his core.

“Mighty useful, French, when you enjoy baking,” Crowley continues, seemingly unaware of the sudden heat threatening to consume his companion on the spot. “So many French words just to talk about ingredients. Beurre noisette, crème pâtissière, sucre boulé …”

“Would you teach me?”

Crowley stops in his tracks and looks at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. “French, or baking?”

“Both?”

Oh, it’s not that Aziraphale doesn’t see how either lesson could turn into an apocalyptic sort of disaster. He does, he absolutely, with great clarity, does.

But on the other hand, this kind of apocalypse would inevitably lead to him and Crowley spending more time together, getting closer, until Aziraphale would be able to whisper his freshly acquired vocabulary into the meat of Crowley’s skin.

So, yes, Aziraphale would take the risk of an apocalypse of embarrassment for the reward of successfully wooing Crowley.

“That could be fun,” Crowley replies just as the crêpes land on their table, his hand suddenly covering Aziraphale in a sneak attack. “If you teach me something in return.”

Oh, boy.

“What would you want me to teach you?” Aziraphale asks.

“You could teach me Japanese,” Crowley replies, taking his hand back--both a blessing and a curse. “Or fencing.”

Aziraphale freezes. “How do you know I fence?”

Crowley sits back in his chair, cup of tea in his hand as he slouches. “Something in your posture, Angel,” he replies, gesturing in Aziraphale’s direction. “It was either fencing or horse riding.”

“And how do you know it’s not horse riding?”

“Hard on the buttocks, horses. Bit of a flaw in the design, if you ask me. But you don’t strike me as someone who would inflict such pain on his buttocks.”

Such a sentence promptly produces images of Crowley thinking about the comfort of his buttocks, which, if you are in Aziraphale’s mind, doesn’t take too long before derailing into Crowley taking care of his ass.

Not that Aziraphale’s mind needs much prompting to go in that direction nowadays.

“Touché,” is all he can say without making a fool of himself in the middle of his favorite restaurant. To cover for his sudden silence, he picks up a fork to dig into the crêpes.

Ah, crêpes.

Even when they are average, they are the superior dessert, snack and culinary creation altogether.

Aziraphale takes a moment to enjoy his first bite. Much like a French philosopher, Aziraphale thinks that as enjoyable a thing may be, nothing can surpass the happiness brought by the first bite, first sip, first encounter.

The crêpes are thin yet soft, with a delicate crispy ring on the edges. In the center, the pieces of chocolate are on the verge of being completely melted, but not yet, while the crushed chestnuts are bringing some texture to the whole plate.

Aziraphale hums in his delight, before pushing the plate toward Crowley. “Where are my manners? You’re the one who has to try this for the first time.”

Crowley picks up a fork, turning the plate so he can face an untouched part of the crêpe. Aziraphale carefully watches his face for his reaction.

His mind takes another turn for the gutter at the way Crowley flicks his tongue at the fork before closing his lips around it, but then.

Then.

Crowley’s eyes widens, visible even from behind the tainted lenses and he lets out a soft, heartfelt moan that seems to fly directly through Aziraphale’s veins and straight to his heart.

“That’s--” Crowley starts, a pink flush appearing on his high cheeks. “It’s delicious!”

A small part of Aziraphale’s mind takes pride in making his … friend discover such a pleasure, but most of it is entirely consumed by the way Crowley looks at the moment.

Amazement colors his features, and the largest smile Aziraphale has ever seen on his face stretches his lips.

If Aziraphale thought he had a crush on the lanky man before, that is nothing compared to the rush of, well, Love he feels right now.

“I can understand why you kept this place a secret, Angel,” Crowley says, picking a second piece of the crêpe cake. “This is truly a slice of Heaven.”

Aziraphale lets out a short giggle before smothering it with a forkful of cake.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley removes his glasses completely before cupping his face in his palm. The sight of those golden eyes, with their oh so particular shade, short-circuits Aziraphale’s brain.

Particularly because of the fondness warming them.

“May I tempt you for dinner?”

“T-tempt me?”

Crowley cocks one eyebrow at him. “Well, asking you for dinner on my terms means making you leave work early, thus tempting you away from them all.”

“Them?”

“The parasites who used to be my colleagues.”

And just like that, the warm feelings in Aziraphale’s chest melt away. “Parasites?”

Crowley must hear the change of tone in his voice. “Well,” he straightens up while managing to still slouch in his chair, “you know. Gabriel, Michael, all those who act all holier than thou.”

Aziraphale feels hurt--he isn’t quite sure if he feels attacked or if it’s just a sense of professional duty. “Aren’t I one of them too?”

Crowley puts his sunglasses back on. “You work there, yes, but you are not one of them,” he replies emphatically.

“How so?”

“I know so.”

Aziraphale swipes his face with his hand. “I know I should take your words as a compliment, but what makes you so sure that I’m not like them?!”

Crowley smiles at him, blinding and, and, loving, yes. “I know you would never take advantage of the people who have faith in you,” he replies simply. “And that you are more layered than any of those buffoons.”

“Oh.”

“And given the chance, you wouldn’t work for them.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Crowley. “Oh really. And what would I rather do?”

“I think that you would be way happier if your job involved books and making people happy.”

Aziraphale blinks at the image those words paint.

Far too appealing an image. He needs to stir the conversation away from it.

“To answer your earlier proposal …”

“Hmm yes?”

“I would love to let you tempt me.”

“Great.” Crowley beams at him. “Meet me at the bakery around 5pm.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

😈😇😈😇😈

The thing you need to know about Crowley is that he’s a perfectionnist.

Oh, maybe you already gathered as much about him from the rest of the story already.

But anyway, that is to say that in preparation for his date--because yes, this is officially a date, if the previous day wasn’t already one--, Crowley spends the night trying to figure out the best sweets to treat his angel to.

(Yes, his. Aziraphale is his. Move on.)

He considers making a decadent crepe cake, perhaps even on with a heart hidden in its center, cliché be damned, but does he really want to enter a competition with Aziraphale’s favorite dessert on their first date?

No, he doesn’t. Maybe later, once they will have dated for a while, for a special occasion perhaps.

No, for now, Crowley needs to blow Aziraphale’s mind and tastebuds.

(No, Crowley is absolutely not considering blowing anything else. Who do you take him for?

… If the mood seems right.

Maybe.

Possibly.)

The rest of the meny is fairly simple: Crowley knows Aziraphale’s tastes now. Fresh, quality ingredients, some fancy ones but nothing that can take him away from the ultimate prize that is the dessert.

So he decided to start with oysters (which doesn’t require a lot of preparation, juste the mignonette sauce).

Pros: it’s easy, fresh and aphrodisiac.

Cons: the shells. But Crowley will deal with them later.

For the main dish, Crowley goes with a pancetta and butternut squash risotto.

Pros: he can prepare it in advance and simply reheat it when needed (and he totally prepares it while considering his dessert options).

Cons: well, there are ways to fail at making a risotto, but this is not Crowley’s first risotto. He knows where the potential failure lies, and he sidesteps it like a pro.

And now back to the dessert.

If everything goes as well as Crowley wishes, thinks, hopes it will go, then by the time they get to dessert, they will both want to get closer.

Maybe kiss.

Maybe hold each other.

(Oh, to feel Aziraphale’s soft body pressed against his. Now that would be his treat.)

In order to to so, Crowley has two choices, really.

Either a dessert they can feed to each other, like an ice cream or a mousse of some sorts, or a dessert they can nibble on, like some kinds of biscuits or--

Hold that thought.

Crowley applauds himself before going through the pages of his book.

“Good Nommins: Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Recipes”, a book he got from his great-great-great-great aunt. All of Crowley’s recipes are a variation he played from those ancient recipes.

And there is something he thinks will do the trick.

So, yes, he spends the night trying recipes, finding ways to recycle what doesn’t make the cut (an unsuitable cookie is only a good cheesecake crust waiting to happen) until Crowley is sure he has the right treat.

And now he is.

At 5 a.m.

Which means that there is no point in going to bed now, is there, since he has to be at the bakery in one hour.

That’s alright, though. Crowley doesn’t really mind, especially considering the ultimate goal. Mission Woo Aziraphale Eastgate out of his waistcoat, dot dot dot, is a go.

😈😇😈

Crowley is waiting for Aziraphale in front of the bakery and he does his best not to be nervous.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Crowley is too tired to hide that Beelzy managed to surprise him.

“I’m waiting. For my, um, my friend.”

“Right,” they drawl, fixing the brooch on their lapel. “Your … friend, the blondy from the vampire office.”

“You know them?”

“Got my loan from them.”

Crowley can’t help but pull a face.

“And my regular booty call.”

Crowley’s grimace takes a turn for the worse. “Isn’t that what people call a boyfriend?”

Beelzy makes a gagging sound. “Don’t be gross. Okay, I’m off. See you tomorrow? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Should I worry?”

“Do or do not, I don’t care. Bye!”

Crowley is still frowning after them when Aziraphale taps on his shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Good afternoon, dear!” Aziraphale says, rocking on his heels. “So, where are we going?”

Crowley leans in to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, bringing the rocking to a stop.

“Follow me.”

😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale doesn’t quite know what makes him trust Crowley so much that he’s willing to follow him through the streets of London until they reach what looks like an old factory.

“What is--where are we, dear boy?”

“My place, Angel.”

(I told you it would come in the proper time, didn’t I, dear readers? Good things come to those who wait.)

“Your--your place?”

“I thought it would be better to have an intimate setting for our, err, first, you know,” Crowley says while opening his door.

Aziraphale’s brain has already melted at the word “intimate”, but the design of Crowley’s flat finishes the job.

Given the look of the building, Aziraphale expected something rough, somehow bohemian. The idea doesn’t quite fit Crowley’s general look, but what does he know, right?

But that flat!

Everything is sleek and modern, except for the kitchen which has a wooden counter, but even that part of the flat is in the darker shades, black wood and metal.

Though the space is not big, the whole space is tidy and sparkly clean, a complete opposite to the way Aziraphale himself keeps his own flat. Next to the windows, which could be seen from the outside, stand giant plants. Monstera, succulents and alocasia fill in the space, probably eating up the light during the day.

It’s the most luxurious private garden Aziraphale has ever seen. Next to them, in the biggest sunlight spot, stands a vivarium with a napping snake.

Now, that fits the picture of Crowley he has built in his mind.

“Welcome to my casa,” Crowley tells him, taking off his jacket and sending it with a scary accuracy onto the hook. Aziraphale doesn’t trust his own talent and goes to hang his own coat. “I hope you don’t mind Newt?”

“You have a lovely home, Anthony,” he replies instead, looking around. A door is closed, probably leading to Crowley’s private parts of the flat--and Aziraphale is now very intrigued to know more about the kind of bedding Crowley likes to sleep in, while the main room is split between the living room, where the plants are, and the kitchen, where Crowley is standing.

His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, good Lord.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley replies softly, simultaneously opening the refrigerator and turning the fire on under a large pan.

For some reason, hearing his first name in Crowley’s mouth is even better than the pet name he got used to.

“Is there something I can do?”

“Make yourself comfortable, angel, and perhaps open a bottle of wine?”

Aziraphale works quickly to open the bottle of red wine in order to be able to return to his gawking at Crowley in action.

“Anthony?”

“Yes?”

“This is a date, right?”

Crowley freezes before nodding.

“I’m really glad it is.”

Crowley comes to sit at the table too, a large plate covered in oysters and a light vinegary sauce. He has a small smile, almost shy. “I’m really glad too.”

“Oh, oysters,” Aziraphale can’t help but sigh happily. “How did you know that they are my “péché mignon”?”

“I had a hunch,” Crowley says, pushing the plate toward Aziraphale.

“You have a lot of them, about me?”

“Quite a few.” Here is that smile again, soft and warm and reaching into Aziraphale’s body to seize his heart in the most tender way.

Aziraphale tries to hide his blush by slurping on an oyster, the peppercorn and the vinegar heightening the ioded taste of the mollusk.

“That’s delicious.”

“I’m glad.”

“How are you so good at cooking?”

That, more than anything else, gets Crowley started, and the hours tick by as they devour the plate of oysters and then the entire pan of risotto, spoonful by spoonful, while Crowley talks about his childhood, his desire to cook and his incessant need to ask questions to understand, really, the why’s and how’s of the universe. Aziraphale interjects some questions, mostly savouring both the food and the way Crowley seems to lighten up from the inside as they move to the plush looking couch in the living room. Truth be told, he becomes more alive the emptier the bottle becomes, sure, and his speech makes less and less sense, but it only makes him more attractive in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“And then, then--” Crowley pauses, pouting. “What was I saying?”

Aziraphale blinks, and yes, he is quite inebriated himself. “Something about fish soup?”

“Bouillabaisse! Yes!”

“What about bulibaze?”

“... I don’t know. But it’s bloody good.”

Aziraphale starts giggling, and when he looks up again to pour himself another glass, Crowley is sitting far closer than he was just a moment ago.

“Oh.”

Crowley’s hair is ruffled and soft-looking, begging for Aziraphale to pass his fingers through them. His eyes are dark, a golden circle surrounding his irises. And his mouth is …

It’s calling for Aziraphale’s touch, that’s what it is.

They both lean closer, and Aziraphale licks his lips the moment Crowley bites on his lower lip.

“I have dessert.”

“You--uh?”

Crowley leans back, still close enough that Aziraphale can feel his body heat radiating on his left side.

“I prepared a dessert. For you. A special dessert.”

I could be happy with you as my dessert, fleetingly crosses Aziraphale’s mind but in the ranking of his sins, gluttony must supersedes lust because he is immediately curious.

“A special dessert for me?”

Crowley winks, the devil, before jumping out of the couch and sautering to the kitchen.

While he waits, Aziraphale tries to compose himself.

Oh, he has every intention of bringing what almost happened to something that definitely happened, but he doesn’t want it to be a drunken, or worse, rushed moment.

Hence the composing.

“Tadaaa,” Crowley singsongs as he brings a plate to his coffee table. The plate is covered in thin golden biscuits, as thin as paper, rolled up and folded.

“Oh, lovely!” Aziraphale picks up one of the biscuits. It’s amazingly light and buttery. “What are those?”

“They have two names,” Crowley explains, pushing forward Aziraphale’s glass. “They’re known as gavottes, or as crêpes dentelles.”

Aziraphale recognizes the first word. “Those are crêpe biscuits?”

“Yes.”

“And you made them for me.”

“... Yes, angel.”

Aziraphale delicately puts the biscuit back on the plate.

“What are y--”

Crowley doesn’t get to finish his sentence, his lips otherwise occupied by Aziraphale’s.

After months of dreaming about it, picturing how it would be, the reality of kissing Crowley is even better than he imagined. It’s soft and passionate and clumsy and perfect, all at once.

Crowley wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer until Aziraphale is practically lying on top of Crowley on the couch.

Clumsy? Definitely.

Uncomfortable? Just a little bit.

Everything Aziraphale wished for? And more.

Crowley moans into the kiss, and it’s not necessarily the good kind of moans. Aziraphale pushes himself up. “Everything alright, my dear boy?”

“Hm-hm,” Crowley replies, looking a bit dizzy. “Just, let me--agh--” Crowley winces, reaching behind him and picking a book. He glares at it, putting it on the table, before returning his gaze to Aziraphale. The love and adoration in those golden eyes render Aziraphale silent. “Better. Now, where were we?”

Aziraphale smiles, caressing Crowley’s cheek. “At the beginning of forever, I believe,” he whispers, before diving in for another kiss.

(They do get to the gavottes, eventually, once Aziraphale is out of his waistcoat and his shirt is opened, and once Crowley’s pants have been opened.)

😈😇😈😇😈

It’s a heartbreak to part, but on the other hand, they make the journey from Crowley’s flat to the street where they both work together, so Crowley counts that as a win.

He waits for Aziraphale to pause at the entrance of his building, smiling at him one more time before they meet again in the evening, before entering the bakery.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see.” Beelzy’s words contrast with their tone, but Crowley is used to that by now.”

“What can I do for you, my Lord?”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“I--I do. Did I give you the impression I wanted to leave?”

“No. Then again, I don’t usually care.”

“Oh. Then why--”

“I don’t want to work anymore. So. Are you interested?”

Crowley feels like he has entered the Twilight Zone. “Interested in?”

“In the shop, you imbecile. Wasn’t I clear?”

“Not really, no. But I could be interested.”

Beelzebub smiles at him. “Not so dumb after all then. Take your time, think about it, and come back tomorrow with your answer. I’m off now.”

With that, they walk out of the shop, leaving him alone with more to think about that he thought he would have on this day.

😈😇😈

“Are you interested?”

Crowley walks back and forth in Aziraphale’s living room, after retelling him of his boss’s proposal.

“I am! Of course I am!” he exclaims. “Fancy me, business owner. In charge of …”

“Of everything.”

“Oh God.”

“I’m sure you could do it,” Aziraphale points out, before sipping out of his mug of tea. “You have all it takes to turn this business into a success.”

“Except for the will to be responsible for it.”

“Hm.”

Crowley pauses. “Do you really think I could do it?”

“I do. You’re smart, creative, intuitive. You can do it.”

Crowley leans over the table to kiss Aziraphale before resuming his walking around. “But what of the money?”

“You have your severance money from Heavs.”

“True.”

“And, um.”

“What?”

Aziraphale wiggles on his spot. “I could, um, invest in it too?”

Crowley freezes. “You? What?”

Aziraphale stands to come in front of him. “I have money I could invest in your business.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth like a fish; he’s sure it’s not attractive, but he can’t do anything else.

“Or better yet?”

“Better?”

Aziraphale nods. “I could … be a partner.”

Crowley feels his face heating up but he focuses. “A partner?”

“Yes.”

“Care to develop on that idea, Angel?”

“I could--that is, I have been thinking.”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and then unloads all of the following in seemingly one breath.

“I have been miserable at my job for a while now, even though I’m quite good at it. I just, just, have enough of it, and I don’t think my soul can take much more of it. Meanwhile, I can see myself having a library of sorts, making my books available for all to peruse and enjoy while, I don’t know, maybe, savor some mini pastries?”

Crowley stares at him.

That idea is crazy.

Demented.

Completely out of this world.

Doesn’t make a lick of sense.

… Exactly what he wants, without ever knowing he did.

And yet, what comes out of his mouth next doesn’t make much sense either.

“You’d let people eat or drink near your books?”

Aziraphale had his mouth open to keep on babbling about his plans, but Crowley’s interjection brings him to a halt and he beams at him.

“I would. Would be rather hypocritical of me not to when I do it so often, wouldn’t it?”

“Ah. Right.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and brings it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Was that your only objection, my dear, dear boy?”

Crowley’s brain fires up before he can get back to his senses. “I would love for us to be partners.”

“You would.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever had a better idea, Angel.”

Aziraphale pulls on Crowley’s hand, pulling him closer, pulling him to him so they can kiss. “I do have a lot of ideas, Anthony.”

“Can’t wait to test them all, Aziraphale.”

(It takes them a moment to get their shop running, but eventually, Londoners get to enter “Above and Below”, thus named for the nurturing of the mind, through the books-- above-- and the body, through the food--below.

Crowley finds a way to make one-bite delicacies that match some of the books and Aziraphale is the one making the match when it’s not obvious.

They work well together, what can we say?)

~~ The End ~~

#good omens big bang #gobb #masterpost #sometimes i write #hufflepuffbetty #scribblemakes #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #good omens au #food porn a plenty

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fuzzhugs · 5 years

Text

Smile - Redwall Fanfiction by Fuzzhugs

Plowing a field by paw was strenuous, tedious, and exhausting work, but the smell of food wafting from the farmhouse kept the laborers optimistic that their efforts would be well-rewarded.

One of the day-laborers, a weasel with striking blue eyes, paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. He was young, only a few seasons into his adulthood. With boundless energy, this was work he was well-suited toward. As he rested, he saw another weasel approaching, the daughter of the farmer who had hired him and his friends to work on his farm in exchange for food and shelter. Her name was Maudred, and the laborer had grown quite close to her in the few weeks he had been working. When Maudred drew close, she offered him a canteen of water with a smile on her face. It was a warm, friendly smile just like that which had drawn the laborer to her in the first place.

Relieved to have something to drink, he took the canteen and downed most of the contents in a few large gulps. “Thanks,” he said, handing the canteen back. “It’s been a hot one today. Is dinner going to taste as good as it smells?”

“You bet it will. I made the blueberry pie myself.” She winked. “I know it’s your favorite.”

“Well, then I’ll be sure to have seconds and fully appreciate your work.”

“It’s hard work, cooking for an army of hungry beasts.”

“We should probably switch jobs then. I can take over in the kitchen and you can come out here and plow the fields.”

Maudred laughed. “At least we wouldn’t have to worry about eating. We’d all have died of food poisoning after the first night.”

The laborer held his arms out in mock offence. “Are you saying I can’t cook?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying.” Maudred winked and lightly kissed the laborer’s cheek. “But you can help with the dishes any time you want.”

The laborer leaned on his hoe and sighed as he watched Maudred walk away toward the farmhouse. He was thankful he and his wandering companions hand come across this farm when they needed help. They hadn’t eaten so well since they had left their homes to lead a life of adventure, living off the land, scavenging, and sometimes begging. Having a place to call home, even if it was only temporary, was nice.

“Hey Ferahgo!” one of his companions shouted from across the patch of soil, how about you do some work like the rest of us?”

“I am!” Ferahgo shouted back. “Impressing maids is a very difficult job.”

As promised, dinner was delicious. The serving table was packed with crisp salads topped with juicy tomatoes, bowls full of berries and nuts, plates stacked high with scones and honey. To drink there was mint tea (still cool from the farmhouse cellar), nutbrown beer foaming in mugs, and sweet raspberry cordial. The laborers ate at every available flat surface around the farm: inside at the table, on the floor, outside around tree stumps, plus a few on the patchwork picnic blankets spread all around. All the while, Maudred was hurrying about, making sure everyone had enough to eat and drink. The laborers were a mixed bunch. Besides Ferahgo and his friends, there were itinerant hares, some otters from the nearby river, two or three wandering hedgehogs, and a large number of others of various species who, like Ferahgo’s group, traveled around looking for enough work to fill their bellies.

Maudred was so busy seeing to everybeast’s needs, she hadn’t had time to sit down and eat herself. Ferahgo noticed, and eventually forced her to take a break and have something to eat while he took over the dispensing of food and drink.

When dinner was over and everybeast, including Maudred, had eaten their fill, most of the laborers went off to the barn where they slept to enjoy some music before they went to bed, but Ferahgo stayed behind.

“Aren’t you going to go with your friends?” Maudred asked as she picked up the plates that had been left lying around.

“I think I prefer different company tonight,” Ferahgo said, starting to make his own stack of dishes.

“You don’t need to do that,” Maudred told him. “You’ve worked hard enough today.”

“You did say I could help with the dishes any time I wanted.”

“If you insist.” Maudred picked up her stack of plates and started for the farmhouse. “You can wash.”

The wash-bin was large enough to be a bathtub and was filled with soapy water and no small number of dirty dishes. Ferahgo started washing as Maudred wiped the dishes dry and put them away until they would be used again the next evening.

“This is certainly easier,” Maudred said. “Maybe I should have you help me every night.”

“It’ll cost you,” Ferahgo teased. “You might have to kiss me again.”

“A sacrifice I’m willing to make,” Maudred teased back. “Maybe I should kiss your friends as well. Might get them to do all my work for me.”

Ferahgo flicked some water at Maudred. She looked at him slyly and brushed the drops from her fur. She dipped her paw into the water and splashed him. Within moments, events escalated into a full splash-war. When the suds settled, both Ferahgo and Maudred were soaked through to the skin and in a fit of laughter.

Maudred took a clean cloth and wiped off Ferahgo’s face. “You clean up nice,” she said to him.

“You always look nice.”

Ferahgo and Maudred finished washing the dishes together and then cleaned up the kitchen, making sure to mop up the puddles from their aquatic battle. Afterward, Ferahgo waited while Maudred went to put on dry clothing. She came back out wearing a simple cream-colored dress that beautifully complimented her brown fur. She took Ferahgo’s arm and led him to a private spot outside beneath and oak tree. They lay there together and watched as the stars came out. They had both watched the stars many times before, but there was something special about sitting and quietly watching the distant points of light with somebeast close by.

Though they sat in silence, Ferahgo could tell something was bothering Maudred. He shifted closer and placed his arm around her. “What troubles you, Maudie?”

She sighed and looked into Ferahgo’s blue eyes, which sparkled with starlight. “The time for planting is almost over. Once the seeds are in the ground, father and I will not need so many laborers. Father already asked the Brownspikes and the Streamdogs to stay on to help with weeding and irrigation. I’m worried that you’ll leave and I’ll never see you again.”

Ferahgo sat up in front of Maudred so he could look directly into her eyes. “Do you think I care so little that I’d simply leave and never come back? This area is plentiful in the spring and summer. My friends and I can stay close by. When harvest comes, we can come back.”

“And after that? What then? What will you do in the winter?”

“I’ll…I’ll think of something,” Ferahgo stuttered. “I’m not going to disappear. Even if I have to spend the winter a little further south, I’ll be back in the early spring.”

“And what about after that? Will it be like that forever? Planting and harvest with months of absence in between? I don’t want you to go.” Maudred sniffled and wiped her teary eyes.

Ferahgo put his paw on her cheek and leaned in close. Their noses were nearly touching. “Come with me.”

“W-what?”

“Come with me and my friends. Come wander with us. Just for the times when we aren’t here. We won’t go too far, and if you get homesick we can always come back, and-”

Maudred pulled Ferahgo to her and kissed him. Ferahgo, though initially surprised, did not resist and let her linger for as long as she wanted. When they separated, Maudred leaned back against the tree and contemplated her future.

“I’ll have to ask my father. Even with just him and a few laborers, there’s a lot of cooking and cleaning, never mind the laundry, the sewing, keeping inventory, and a dozen other things I do around here.”

“I’m sure you father can manage without you. He was running this farm before you were born, remember.”

“That’s true,” Maudred said. “Now how about you? What do you think of all this?”

“To be honest, I’m still recovering from that kiss. Wasn’t really expecting that. Not that I didn’t enjoy it.”

Maudred blushed. “I’m glad you liked it.”

Ferahgo moved next to her beneath the tree. “I’m going to be washing dishes forever, aren’t I.”

Maudred gave him a playful shove. “Shut up, you idiot.”

His eyes still sparkling in the starlight, Ferahgo smiled.

Several seasons later in the late autumn, Ferahgo’s group of wanderers had made camp at the bottom of a small valley sheltered between several hills. A stream running nearby supplied them with fresh fish, and berries and nuts grew abundantly in the woods. It was an ideal place to stop and store up for the winter. The group had grown beyond Ferahgo’s original group of friends in recent seasons. Besides Maudred, the group now included a dozen new members, each one content to enjoy the nomadic lifestyle, occasionally stopping to work at the farms or fisheries they happened across in their travels.

The nights had been growing colder, and everybeast slept with a small fire blazing near his or her tent. Ferahgo and Maudred were no exception.

The two weasels had been together since Maudred had left her family farm. Though they had never publically declared themselves to be mated, they still lived under that assumption and casually referred to each other as ‘husband’ and ‘wife.’

With their own fire warmly glowing not too far away, Ferahgo and Maudred settled down for bed, cuddling close to stay warm during the frigid night.

Though his eyes were closed and he was gently dozing, Ferahgo could feel Maudred’s eyes on him. Opening his eyes, he looked at his wife, gazing at him with an uncertain look.

“Maudie, what’s the matter?”

Maudred shifted uncomfortably. “It’s probably nothing. Don’t worry about it, Ferah.”

Ferahgo rolled onto his side and leaned on his elbow, looking skeptically at his wife. “Love, something is bothering you. Let me help.”

“It’s really nothing.” She sighed, and then looked down as she ran a paw over her abdomen. “I think I might be pregnant.”

Ferahgo’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “Oh Maudie, that’s wonderful. How long have you known?”

“I only said I might be pregnant. I don’t know for sure yet.”

“But you have felt signs?”

“For the past few days, yes, but it could just be an upset stomach.”

“When will you know for certain?”

“I suppose if it doesn’t go away, that means it’s a baby.”

Ferahgo cuddled against his wife. “Why did you wait to tell me?”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case I was wrong. You’ve talked a lot about wanting a family of your own someday. I hope I’m right. I’d like to have a little one of our own too.”

Pulling her close, Ferahgo kissed her on the forehead. “I’d like that a lot: you, me, and our child. Who needs anything else?”

Bringing the covers up, the two weasels once again settled down to sleep, dreaming of the future they would have together.

Gone.

Ferahgo sat alone in his tent, staring at the ground, utterly expressionless. He had heard nothing from the midwife for almost half-an-hour, and Maudie’s cries of pain from the birthing process had long been silent. Ferahgo knew what that meant, but he didn’t want to see it. If he didn’t see it, then it wasn’t real. If he didn’t see it, there was still a chance everything was fine, and he and his wife would be cradling their newborn, smiling and making silly noises to him as he looked at the world with new eyes.

Head in his paws, Ferahgo broke down sobbing, his grief unending. She was gone. He knew she was gone. Gone. He did not know how long he wept, but he only stopped when another beast entered his tent. With has much mental effort as he could muster, Ferahgo tore himself from his grief. “What is it?” he said without any real interest.

Della, the midwife, spoke calmly to him, not that it did much good. “As you’ve figured out, Maudred did not make it. I’m sorry, Ferahgo. I did everything I could to save her, but she lost too much blood.”

Ferahgo stood up. Now that he knew the truth, there was no point hiding from it. “I want to see her.” He started walking automatically toward the midwife’s tent.

“I don’t if that’s a good idea, boss. In your state-”

“I said I’m going to see her.”

His walk to the tent was a daze. He would later recall a number of creatures offering him their sympathies, but he would not remember who had been there. Entering the tent, he looked down at the mess of bloody blankets. The only clean blanket in the place covered his wife’s body. He delicately took the edge and pulled it away from her head. Maudred’s eyes were closed and her mouth was slightly open. She did not look she had been in great pain. Ferahgo gently ran a paw along her cheek. She was still slightly warm to the touch. Gone.

“I did this to you. I brought you out here. I slept with you. I made you pregnant. It’s my fault. I did this to you.” Ferahgo let out a scream of grief and rage. He pounded the earth next to where Maudred lay. A pair of gentle arms held on to him, holding him as every single ounce of emotion flowed out. Ferahgo never knew who it was that held him as his grief tore him apart.

After some time, he stopped. He made no more noise. He was empty. There was nothing left inside. He placed the blanket back over Maudred’s face, stood up, and went to leave the tent.

“The baby?” he said at the midwife as he passed.

“Your son lives,” she said. “I am having Dapplefur watch over him for now. She had her own little one a week ago. She will nurse him for now. He will be cared for.”

Ferahgo nodded and turned to go back to his tent.

“He will need a name,” the midwife said.

“Klitch,” said Ferahgo without hesitation. “We had talked about it, me and her. Klitch. After one of her uncles.”

He reached his tent and closed the flap behind him, shutting out the rest of the world. He collapsed onto the bedroll and inhaled deeply, taking in his wife’s scent while it still lingered. Rolling over, he stared at the ceiling of the tent.

Gone.

Anybeast entering the camp would have had no way of knowing that Ferahgo was present. Unless that beast were to stick their head directly into his tent, it was unlikely they would ever see him. Ferahgo seldom left his tent, and the times he did were usually at the urging of one of his close friends to go see his son.

The situation in the wanderer’s camp was poor. While everybeast was largely capable of scavenging and gathering for his or herself, they relied on Ferahgo to lead them to a good spot where wild edibles were plentiful, but Ferahgo had made no effort to find a spot for the coming winter. In truth, Ferahgo had little concern for himself or for the camp, rarely eating or talking to anyone. He had grown thin and ragged; even his blue eyes had lost their shine. Indeed, his only concern was for his son.

On this rare day, Ferahgo had left his tent to go feed little Klitch. Though he was still nursing, the midwife had recommended starting him on squished berries and vegetables. Little Klitch seemed to enjoy the experience greatly, smiling and laughing at the spoon as it zipped around his face before going to his mouth. Such times seemed to lighten Ferahgo’s mood as well.

“Here comes a birdie looking for its nest. Where’s it gonna land?” Ferahgo said as he trailed the spoon around. “Here it comes. It’s going to land.” He popped the spoon into Klitch’s mouth and let him swallow the vegetable mush. “That’s a good little weasel. Going to grow up big and strong like your daddy.”

The feeding was interrupted by Dewnose the stoat, one of Ferahgo’s friends who had been part of his original group. “Boss, we need to talk.”

Ferahgo continued to feed his son as he talked to Dewnose. “What is it?”

“Boss, we need to do…something.”

“Something?”

“Something about food, boss. Autumn’s almost over and we’ve nowhere near enough food. We’ve been kipped here so long everything’s been picked clean. We’ve got enough for day-to-day stuff for now, but once winter hits-”

“We’ll get through it,” Ferahgo said without much concern. “We’ve gotten through rough winter’s before.”

“Not with this many mouths to feed, boss. We need to do…something. Move the camp or…I don’t know. You’re the one who’s good at planning and stuff. What do we do, boss? If we don’t get a lot of food soon, we’re going to die, boss. You, me, your son, and everybeast here.”

Ferahgo stopped the spoon halfway to his son’s mouth, a grimace on his face. Klitch fussed as he tried to get at the just-out-of-reach morsel.

Silently standing, Ferahgo handed Klitch back to Dapplefur and gestured for Dewnose to follow him. Returning to his tent, Ferahgo belted on the knife he normally kept for skinning fish. “Go get Crabeyes, Doghead, and Badtooth. Dethbrush and Grabble as well. Tell them to bring weapons.”

“Weapons, boss? What are you-?”

“You said you wanted food, didn’t you? It’s too late to move camp. So unless you want to starve this winter, go and do as I say.” The tone in Ferahgo’s voice indicated that dissent was not an option.

As Dewnose went and did Ferahgo’s bidding, the weasel spun the knife around in his paws. He could do a few good tricks with it, but he had never used it to hurt any living creature, save for fish. He hoped that he wouldn’t have change that now. He really didn’t like what he was about to do, but for his son, the only thing he had left of Maudred, he would do anything.

The others came to him quickly, armed and ready to go. Ferahgo led them off out of the valley and over the hills. They followed the river for miles until they came to a farm. Most of the working day was gone, so the farmer’s would likely be inside. Silently, Ferahgo signaled for his crew to move toward the barn where all the stored food would be kept.

Dewnose and Badtooth unbarred the door and opened it. Inside the barn there were stacks and stacks of food: flour, wheat, dried fruits and vegetables, nuts, and jars and jars of preserves.

“Start with the items easiest to carry. We’ll take whatever we can.”

“Boss,” Crabeyes interrupted, “I don’t think this is right, taking everything from these farmers-”

“We aren’t taking everything. We seven couldn’t possibly take everything with us. We’re just going to take enough to survive. We’ll leave them plenty to live on. Maybe you don’t like it, but once winter hits and it’s your stomach grumbling, you’ll be thanking me for this when you have food to put in your belly.”

There were no further complaints, and the crew began loading everything they could into sacks. The sacks were half-filled when a voice stopped them dead in their tracks.

“What in Hellgates do you think you’re doing?” A hedgehog stood at the barn entrance holding a large club. He was backed up by five others.

Ferahgo stepped up to meet him. “We’re going to starve. We won’t make it through the winter unless we get food stores going. If we have something to trade we can-”

“Trader’s usually ask before they start collecting goods,” the hedgehog said. “You lot are nothin’ but thieves.” He raised his club. “I’m gonna give you ‘til the count o’ ten to get out o’ here before I start smashing skulls.”

As the hedgehog began counting, Ferahgo quickly surveyed his crew. They were all looking to him for their next move, but he could see the tension in their bodies. They were ready to draw the weapons they had brought. They knew they needed this food, and they were willing to do whatever it took to get it back home to their families.

The hedgehog finished his count and Ferahgo took out his knife, spinning it around a few times for effect.

“You’re gonna regret this, weasel,” the hedgehog said, drawing his club back. He sprung forward with surprising speed, but tripped on a hole in the uneven dirt floor. His momentum carried him right across Ferahgo’s blade. Blood spurted from the hedgehog’s throat as the thrashed on the floor before going still.

“Murderer!” one of the other hedgehogs screamed. “Assassin!”

What happened next was forever a blur in Ferahgo’s memory, but there was combat, and when it was over, the hedgehogs were all dead and Ferahgo’s crew was covered in blood.

Ferahgo cleaned his blade on one of the dead farmer’s tunics and returned it to its sheath. “Take everything you can carry,” he said, reiterating his previous command, steeping over the bodies without a glance. “We’ll come back for the rest later.”

Nobeast said a word as they trekked back to their camp, their costly burdens weighing them down, but the others noticed Ferahgo had developed a crazed look in his eyes.

The rest of the camp was surprised to see them return coated in blood, and everybeast quickly came out to see what was going on. The entire camp, around forty in all, assembled as Ferahgo began to speak.

“For seasons, we’ve lived off of the meager food of the forest or the pitiful wages of a farmhand. We are not vagrants. We are not slaves. We are better than that. Living season-to-season, even day-to-day has been a struggle for far too long. From this day forward, we are no longer slaves to nature nor slaves to any other beast. What we need, we will take! The riches of the land will be ours! Where we are denied what is ours, we will leave only bodies! Be loyal to me my Corpsemakers, and I will show you what true wealth is!”

Around three-quarters of the group, already on the verge of dire hunger, cheered for Ferahgo. Many of the others cheered as well, if only so that nobeast would see they weren’t cheering.

Ferahgo went back to Dapplefur’s tent and picked up his son. Feeling alive once again, he playfully swung his son around. “Don’t you worry, Klitch. Daddy is going to keep us all safe and fed. Everybeast will come to fear us, and we will lack nothing. Anything that we want will be ours.”

Putting his son back down, Ferahgo left to organize a return trip to the farm.

A fierce wind flew in from the north, bringing a blast of frigid air and the first flakes of winter. Ferahgo laughed at the wind, for the chill of winter was no longer any threat to him. As the wind continued to blow and gust, a manic grin appeared on Ferahgo’s face, and his blue eyes shone with a cruel light.

The coming winter would be cold, but not as cold as the smile on the face of Ferahgo the Assassin.

#redwall #redwall fandom #redwall fanfiction #redwall ocs

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christophe-delorne · 5 years

Text

Good Dog

Chapter 8

Warnings: Excessive swearing

Pairings: Gregory x Christophe

AU: Adulthood

The bar was noises and crowded, far more than Christophe would ever feel comfortable in but his paranoia was drowned in alcohol. It wasn't unusual for him to get drunk but to do so in a public place was out of the ordinary and only because he had been coerced into it by one Kenny McCormick. The guy was convincing as hell and likely the only other person Christophe moderately tolerated. Other than Gregory. Though right now Gregory had been the deciding factor in why Christophe had ever agreed to go out and drink with Kenny in the first place, he needed to do something that he would consider a bit reckless for him to do. Kenny though, seemed all too entertained by Christophe's crass nature, maybe because the Frenchman was bluntly honest, unlike the blond's childhood friends. Both had shared the experience of death, Kenny seemed more used to that kind of thing that Christophe, not that Christophe was frightened of death by any means but or was heyo willing to dive right into it either.

"Glad to finally run off and have some fun, huh?" Kenny's voice broke through Christophe's haze, making the Frenchman turn to glare sourly at him. Kenny looked different from earlier today, looking less like a bum and more like a nine to five business man. It was not surprise, Kenny was a man who could easily blend in and that was something he used to his advantage.

"Fuck off, you just caught me at a bad time. Or a good one considering how you are." Christophe tapped the bar counter to gain the bar tender's attention and give him a refill on his drink. "And since you invited me, you're paying the bill."

Kenny placed a hand over his chest as if wounded by Christophe's words. "You expect poor lil' ol' me to pay? You're the hot shot merc with loads of cash you probably store under your mattress."

"That would require me to have a mattress in the first place."

"Right, right, I bet Gregory doesn't let his favorite lil' pet up on the furniture now does he?"

"Shut up." Christophe downed the shot, needed that burn to make him forget everything else that bothered him in his life. Like how right Kenny actually was.

Kenny laughed and clapped Christophe on the shoulder, obviously being able to read the mood the statement had put the Frenchman in, that was enough of an answer for him. "You know, you could always ditch the pompous dick and work for me. You know I treat my friends right even if they're idiots."

Christophe knew that Kenny was an honest man, far more generous and kind than he lead others to believe. A man of justice, even since he was a kid he hadn't hesitated to give his own life to bring peace to a world that didn't deserve it. Christophe couldn't share that sentiment, if anything, he needed Gregory to keep him going. No matter how much he hated the man, Christophe needed Gregory and while Gregory would never admit it, he needed Christophe as well. They were fit for each other, no matter how many girlfriends Gregory had, they were replaceable, Christophe was the one thing in Gregory's life that the seemingly impenetrable Brit that was ever stable in his life. Christophe stared down at the worn wood of the bar table, knowing that he would eventually need to go find where Gregory was staying which would likely lead to some sort of bitchfest.

"You already know that I can't fuckin' do that." Christophe pushed the tumbler away from himself, done drinking for the night. He was buzzed enough and didn't want to be completely impaired, even if he did trust Kenny, he didn't trust anyone else in this bar, or so he thought.

Just as he was about to stand up off the barstool, a hand fell on his shoulder. Instinctively he grabbed it and yanked, planning to throw the perpetrator over the bar for making the mistake of touching him, especially from behind. However, the owner of the hand seemed to have expected the motion and grabbed at the back of Christophe's hair with his free hand and giving a violent yank back, causing a hoarse cry of anger and foreign swear words to come spilling out of his mouth. His head was forced to tip back, green eyes locking onto smug, pale blue ones. It appeared Gregory had lost his patience in waiting for Christophe to return to him.

"You kept me waiting long enough, Christophe." The polite tone was deceptive as Gregory turned his head to look over at Kenny who was doing his damnedest to innocently drink the beer he ordered, pretending he wasn't there and failing. "I should have known you'd be the cause, Mr. McCormick. Though I should have guessed you'd come snooping around, I was hoping you would but not so soon." Gregory pulled upwards on Christophe's hair, making the Frenchmen swear as he was pulled to his feet.

"Well, you know me, I always do enjoy getting into the center of mischief." Kenny downed the rest of his beer before standing up, giving Christophe a look, not out of pity but almost out of understanding. "Anyways, just thought I'd show the old dirt dog some fun while he was off the leash."

"While I am thankful that he hasn't gone off and done something regrettable, I still prefer that Christophe not go off while we are in the middle of work."

"Ohoho, work you say? And what interesting things could possibly require the insistence of British upper crust and a mysterious Frenchman in Denver?"

"Likely the same reason why you're here, Mr. McCormick."

"Jeeze, Mr. McCormick, really? You make me sound like a honest, hard working man. Work is hard, but definitely not honest." He pulled out his wallet, placing down money for the bill, paying for Christophe's as well.

"I do enjoy formalities. However, I must excuse myself and Christophe, we have things to attend to and this little adventure has put us behind schedule. If we need your assistance, I will be certain to contact you." Gregory nodded briskly as if his words were the final say in the conversation. Kenny took the hint and waved them off with a sigh.

"Yeah, whatever, but just so you know, my services ain't free."

"Duly noted."

Gregory turned, still holding Christophe by his hair as he dragged the stumbling, disoriented Frenchman out of the bar. Already there was a taxi there waiting, not one of the public transports either. It appeared Gregory had hired a chauffeur to drive them around during their stay in Denver. Figures, Gregory wasn't the type to bother with a vehicle that wasn't exactly the cleanest or the nicest. That and having one or two designated drivers were preferable in this sort of mission, dedicated to serving them without being distracted by other customers. Gregory opened the back door, shoving Christophe into the backseat. It was unusual for Gregory to enter after Christophe, a sign of how upset the man was.

"You simply cannot leave like that in the middle of a mission."

"Shove it up your ass, prick." That got him a brisk slap upside his head, making Christophe turn his challenging glare at Gregory. He wasn't going to regret his decision and if anyone should apologize, it should be Gregory.

"You were rude to our host and you didn't answer my texts."

"First of all, fuck you and that cunt. Secondly... Fuck you." Maybe he had drank more than he thought, trying to remember his line of thinking was difficult, especially when he felt so pissed off with the man beside him.

"Wendyl had inside information on our target, so we need them to carry this mission out."

"What the hell even is this mission, you've told me fuck all and it's starting to get on my fuckin' nerves. Tell me what the shit is goin' on, Greg." He was used to just doing as he's told, but this, being back here so close to the worst time in his life. He wanted answers, he deserved some sort of explanation that would give him a good enough reason to stay near that he'll hole of a place. Not to mention deal with the people who were a part of it. A part of a war that he had no real stake in. A war that had changed both him and Gregory for the worst. He couldn't care less about what had happened to him, but...

Gregory sighed, running a gloved hand over his jaw, a sign of him thinking, choosing his words carefully. Which meant the blond wasn't ready to give Christophe the full details on this mission, which made him listen to Gregory's words with a grain of salt. "There have been reports of a new addictive drug on the market, one that is spreading far too quickly to be created by just some small timers." Gregory looked out the window, mulling over his thoughts and seemingly his anger had lessened. "It started showing up in Europe recently, the supply is thin, so people have begun killing each other over it. I managed to trace it back to Hall as the supplier, but I know a man like that wouldn't dirty his hands too much in drug trade, so someone must have offered him something too irresistible to pass up."

Christophe rubbed the back of his head, his scalp still sore from where Gregory had yanked on it. "So you were pulling all the information he had on the one who bought him?"

"Correct. I found out that he'd been promised a good deal of power and control in Europe in the coming years once whatever plan this organization was brewing up came to fruition. Such a promise means that the current powers would have to be cleaned out and replaced. Something that can only be done if something drastic happens. Something I intend to stop."

"Fuckin' hell. You know I hate missions that force me to do heroic things. I'm not doing it, not again."

"You don't have much of a choice in the matter, or have you forgotten you place once again?"

Christophe turned his head, avoiding Gregory's dangerous look, instead preferring to look out the window at the buildings moving past at a slow rate, it appeared they'd managed to get into afternoon rush hour. He hated being in the car, much less in traffic with a man who oozed anger while having the damnedest calm expression on his face. Even with the distraction of the conversation, Gregory hadn't forgotten Christophe's transgressions as expected. However, Christophe didn't know what to expect from the Brit, while everyone around Gregory thought of him as harmless, Gregory didn't hold back when it came to the Frenchman.

"I won't sacrifice my life again, Greg." Christophe stated firmly. "Never again. Nothing about this shitty world is worth my life for."

"Oh? Not even me?"

It was a trap question, one Christophe wouldn't fall for. He would never admit how much he cared for Gregory, though at this point he wondered if it wasn't even out of care for the man. Did he truly care about Gregory? Or was he just following routine, following the only thing he ever knew because it was familiar and safe. His entire life was chaotic and dangerous, ever changing except for one person. Once upon a time, when they were kids, he might've fancied such a notion, he had envied Gregory then. He had wanted to gain Gregory's attention, to cur favor in order to gain a reward. Eventually, that had stopped, there were no rewards, no more kindness left between them. Whatever youth that they had left had been ruined I that little mountain town in Colorado. They were adults, able to see the reality of their situation and yet unable to fix it, some wounds never did heal, on,y festered and grew into something more dangerous.

Christophe didn't respond, knowing he was only tempting Gregory's anger later. He wanted it, craved it almost, it had been so long that he wanted any kind of attention Gregory could give him. He knew it was wrong, he hated, loathed that part about him and yet he didn't want to change it. What sort of better world would be out there for him anyways? Did he even deserve anything better than this? He had done terrible things, had cursed God himself more times than he could count. So no, he deserved Gregory, deserved that sort of punishment. Christophe glanced back over to Gregory, the temptation was there, could he piss Gregory off enough to make the man forget everything else and focus on him? He would likely regret it, but the alcohol in his system had loosened his caution around the Brit.

"What makes you different from all the rest of the pieces of shit?"

Gregory seemed slightly taken aback by Christophe's statement, staring at the Frenchman as if hurt by it. Christophe hoped so, sure it was petty of him but he wasn't really in the right mindset to be reasonable and rational. It took a moment for Gregory to recover, but when he did, he moved closer, pressing close to Christophe's side. Instantly, he became aware of the touch, the subtle but elegant cologne wafting up, bringing back memories that made him feel mixed emotions. His eyelids lowered, regretting drinking, lowering his guard around Gregory was the worst mistake he could make. However he wanted to finally let his guard down, wanted to feel something that he scorned and locked away to keep himself safe. He felt warm breath on his ear, damning him to lifetime of torture that he'd reluctantly savor as his eyes closed. Words, soft softly whispered, sounding almost deceptively affection teased him for the rest of his days.

"Because I'm the only one you care about."

#gregstophe #gregory #christophe #south park #fanfic #fanfiction #au #alternate universe #good dog #gregory of yardale #the mole #ze mole #sp #rp

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feelingfredly · 5 years

Text

The Fox Guards the Wolf

Part Twelve

Protecting the Pack

The pachinko parlor was dark and quiet. Anyone looking in from the street would think it was empty, but the locals knew better, and knew better than to comment.

“It was terrible, just terrible.” Mahjong tiles clicked in the background, and Kisuke wondered whether the players in the back room were there to put him at ease, or to remind him that even having a room full of witnesses wouldn’t keep him safe if Mamushi decided it was not to be so. “And with one of my pets, no less. It’s almost as if someone was trying to send a message—the question being, was it a message for Okura-san, or a message for me?”

A tattooed hand reached out and poured whiskey into Kisuke’s glass. The blond had brought a bottle as befitted a guest in Mamushi’s house, but he would never be so rude as to pour his own. “But we both know Okura-san tends to underestimate the importance of self-preservation when he sets himself upon a particularly focused path. It isn’t a surprise that he overlooked the threat. He has always believed he was the most dangerous animal in the room. It was a misconception that was bound to bite him sooner or later.”

Mamushi sipped his own drink and clicked his tongue in disapproval. If it weren’t for the scars on his face and the tattoos covering his arms, he would look like a disapproving uncle. As it was, he looked like exactly what he was. Deadly.

“I hope he has learned his lesson.” Black eyes focused on Kisuke. “I would hate for someone to get the wrong impression. My poor pets have a bad enough reputation as it is.”

And there it was: a warning not to drag Mamushi into his business again. He’d be a fool to ignore it, but time would determine how things played out. Perhaps he could sweeten the man’s disposition, though, just in case.

“I’m sure he has, Koyama-sama.” Kisuke made a sound in his throat. “Another mistake like that could be deadly, and while Okura-san may not always have the strongest sense of self-preservation, I think after this close a call he will understand the need to be extra careful.”

His whiskey was almost gone, but Kisuke didn’t put his glass down. He swirled the amber liquid slowly. “I did hear he refused to remain under a doctor’s care. Already back to work, and on such clever things, too! One of the people he recently hired came straight from one of the United States’ finest computer science programs. They say Taka-chan recruited him right out from under his own government! It is impressive, even though it is rather depressing to know that there is so little loyalty to one’s own people these days.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a panda shaped thumb drive and slid it silently across the table. “I think loyalty is supremely important, don’t you Koyama-sama?”

The panda disappeared with a quick flash of fingers.

“It is amazing what people can do with computers.” The old man nodded his head sagely. “My grandson is studying them at the University of Tokyo. He intends to come back and work with his father. He has made the family very proud.”

Kisuke saluted the news with his glass. “Knowledge is almost as important as loyalty. You are lucky to have his intelligence, and your grandson is lucky to have such a supportive family.”

Koyama gave a wily smile. “He is the epitome of the Japanese businessman. Not just some bakecho. Smart. He’s free from the bouhaijoukou, but he will be as dangerous in the boardroom as any of my family has ever been outside of it.”

“The news loves to report on the death of the Yakuza, Urahara-san, but they have forgotten one important thing. Evolution. Everything that lives, changes. Family and history are important, but survival is what truly matters, and he is a survivor. He may never wear these tattoos, but he is still my grandson.

The whiskey bottle reappeared, and refilled both glasses.

“Okura-san believes that the new ways will sweep away the old, and in some ways he is right. In others, though, he is being short-sighted and running the risk of again being bitten by the snake he doesn’t bother to look for.” The old man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It is a pity he has forgotten the lessons of his sensei. He would do well to accept his place in the larger scheme of things.”

Kisuke couldn’t help but agree. Taka-chan never accepted his place in the world. Never accepted anyone telling him where to stand, or what to do. Failure had been enough of a stranger to him that in the end he was like a child who felt betrayed that the stove had burned him. Every criticism was personal, and every debt had to be repaid with interest.

“Okura-san is undergoing his own evolution, Koyama-sama. It will take time to see how he will answer the challenges posed to him.”

He sighed like a tired father. “Answers are never easy. They always lead to bigger questions, and the cycle starts all over again.”

They sat in comfortable silence, the ivory clicking of tiles the only reminder that they weren’t alone in the world, but there was still work to be done.

“Since your grandson is studying computers, maybe you could ask him a question for me.” Kisuke glanced back at the men in the next room. Four of them were armed. Two were clearly listening in on their boss. One was fiddling with his phone, which could be anything, but was probably him trying to record the meeting. “You remember my friend Tsukibishi-san? He was telling me about something called data scrubbing the other day. I must admit, it was a bit beyond me, but the one thing I kept thinking was… if someone could create a tool so they could go into files full of data and make sure something is included, or isn’t included… what is to keep them from putting in information that is simply fiction? Could they just change them? I mean it just makes sense to think that if someone could write a program that did one of those things… they could write a program that did the other.”

He gave a light-hearted shrug. “But I suppose that’s what Okura-san’s highly paid recruits from the USA are here to stop, hmmm? I’m sure they can make sure that everyone’s data remains safe.”

The old yakuza boss froze for a second with his glass halfway to his lips.

“Stop? Yes. It would be very good of them to make sure of that. I mean, a tool like that could cause trouble,” he said, eyebrows drawn together thoughtfully. “Someone might end up paying their laundry bill twice.”

Kisuke nodded. “And while the washerwoman might be pleased, the butcher,” he swallowed a mouthful of whiskey and looked solemnly across the table, “would be very disappointed.”

Both glasses settled back to the table. Kisuke looked at the yakuza boss and wondered once again how he’d managed to get into a position where protecting the old gangster’s interests was the best of his choices. But, as long as the gangs were more useful and less noticeable than Tessai and his troops, he would play this game. Anyway, there were just some things the Director didn’t need to be involved in. Like protecting the Kurosakis.

He let the data manipulation concept linger between them for a moment and then spoke again. “If someone were to alter a business’s records, it could cause some embarrassing mistakes. One might lose enough face that one couldn’t even stay in business. That that would be most unfortunate.”

Koyama’s fingers lightly touched the pocket where he’d stashed the thumb drive.

“Most unfortunate,” he agreed. “Luckily, good businesses develop good relationships, and the trust between them protects them both.”

“It does, indeed, Koyama-sama,” the blond nodded, satisfied that his message had been received loud and clear. “It does indeed.”

***

Ichigo watched the darkened windows of the pachinko parlor and fumed.

Everyone living within a five-mile radius knew this wasn’t just Inagawa-kai territory. This area belonged to Mamushi, and he was worse than the Kumichō when it came to keeping unwanted visitors away. That didn’t matter to Kisuke, though. He just waltzed through the front door like he owned the place.

I’m going to beat him with his own cane when he gets out of there.

He didn’t know why it made his skin itch. Kisuke could take care of himself, but something about the situation was just wrong. He’d been watching the doors for almost an hour, sipping his lemonade and pretending to read under the little summer awning behind the bus stop, but it was getting darker, and he was going to have to move soon or become much too obvious in his stalking.

Like the man across the street.

A few minutes after Ichigo had arrived, he’d noticed him standing carefully carelessly at the corner. He wandered into the convenience store a few times—never for more than a minute or two—and then resettled himself where he could watch the pachinko parlor doors.

“Hey hey, writer man,” a voice at his elbow startled him and he jerked his head around, his hand half-raised to defend himself before he could stop himself. “You don’t need to worry about Getaboshi. Boss knows he’s cool. Door’s always open for Sandal Hat.”

Unsurprisingly, the words of comfort didn’t help, coming as they did from someone Ichigo recognized from the neighborhood as one of the Kumichō’s strong arms.

“Thanks for the word, but I’m not worried,” he said. Both of them knew he was lying, but still, he had to save a little face. “Just making sure that no one else is poking their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

He jerked his chin in the direction of the man on the corner. “Some folks just don’t seem to belong around here, ne?”

The laugh that escaped the muscle man next to him sounded like air leaking from a balloon.

“Him?” The thug sneered. “He been sneaking around for weeks. Thinks he’s slick but he smells like warehouse. Tagged him early, though, so it’s easier to let him be. Not like pulling him in will stop them watching. This way we don’t have to work at watching them back.”

Ichigo refused an offered cigarette and nodded his understanding, but wondering what smells like warehouse meant.

The redhead stared for a moment at the man next to him, bothered by a familiarity he couldn’t place. “Do you have a younger brother?”

The wheezing laugh escaped again.

“Wondered if you’d remember,” his new friend nodded. “You broke Koito-chan’s nose last year. He invited you to join the business, and then wouldn’t take your not-interested gracefully, so you made sure he got the message another way.”

That explained it. Masuda Koito had been in his class in middle school before joining one of the enforcer teams that worked the neighborhood. This guy looked just like Koito would in another five years. Bigger, meaner, and a whole lot more confident. Luckily he also looked like he didn’t hold any grudges.

“Hope it didn’t cause him any trouble,” he said, but the bigger man just smiled around his cigarette.

“He looks better now, anyway. Too baby-faced before.”

Ichigo didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded, and looked back over to the pachinko parlor. Nothing had changed.

“So, Masuda-san,” he asked. “You watching me, or you watching the shop?”

The cigarette shifted, and then a shoulder raised briefly. “You. Just a little added security. Gotta make sure Koguma stays out of trouble, you know?”

Ichigo knew. All the people in the neighborhood knew his dad and the crescent-moon shaped scar that he’d gotten across his chest when he’d waded into a yakuza turf-war and walked out not only having stopped the worst of the fighting but having saved the life of one of the Inagawa-kai’s favored sons. Shinobu-san said the scar made him look like a moon bear, and from that point on the Kurosakis were known as Tsukinowaguma and his cubs.

“Koguma, huh?” He snorted. Little bear. Great. “What does that make my sisters?”

Masuda grinned and pinched out his cigarette, sticking the butt in his pocket. “Don’t tell them, but Rilakkuma and Tarepanda. The guys can’t agree on which one is which, though.”

Not tell them? Ichigo thought. I’m going to buy two plushies and put name tags on them.

It almost made Koguma worth it.

“Warehouse is on the move.” Masuda straightened and looked towards where the other watcher stood. “You following or staying put?”

Ichigo was torn. He wanted to stay and make sure Kisuke was safe, but he knew Masuda and his kind. If he said no one had a beef with the blond then it was true. Mamushi’s men wouldn’t hesitate to declare someone persona non grata, and they were oddly honest for thugs.

He slipped his book back into his bag and tucked away his lemonade bottle.

“I think I’m going for a walk.” He rolled his shoulders and gave Masuda an innocent look. “I hear the warehouse district is very photogenic at twilight.”

The older man had his phone out and was texting rapidly.

“You want me to have them tell Sandal Hat where you’re heading?”

Ichigo thought it was likely that everything he owned now had trackers hidden in it, but that didn’t matter. If he was going to be pissed when Kisuke kept him out of the loop, it would be the height of hypocrisy to do the same.

“Yeah,” he sighed. He felt like he was checking in with Isshin before heading off with his friends. This was so not cool. “You might as well.”

***

The man who’d been playing with his phone rose from his chair and made his way over to Kisuke and Mamushi.

“Excuse me, Boss,” he bowed to them and held up his phone. “You said you wanted to be kept informed. Masuda-san says the target is on the move. He is going to follow him and see where he goes. Plus, he says he’s got company.”

The older man gave Kisuke a wily little smile and finished the last of his whiskey.

“Don’t tell me Koguma-chan is accompanying him?” he said, the smile spreading wider.

“Yes, and he asked us to pass the information along to Urahara-san.” With that he gave Kisuke a little bow of acknowledgement, before turning back to his boss. “They will check in as soon as they know anything useful.”

Mamushi let out a creaking laugh. “Your new protégé would have made an excellent addition to the Inagawa-kai, Urahara-san. It is too bad that the things that would have made him so successful are the very things that will prevent him from ever accepting that role.”

“Koguma-chan?” Kisuke sighed. “He strikes me more as a fox kit, like his mother. Either way, I thought he had a little more restraint than to wander off with strangers, but I suppose enthusiasm trumps caution in this case.”

“Masaki-chan was a clever vixen, but he is like his father in this, I think. Either way, Koguma-chan will never turn against you.” With that judgement the older man stood and gave Kisuke a minute inclination of his head. “You might want to keep an eye on him, though. Okura-san might not appreciate his replacement wandering into his territory.”

Kisuke started to argue with the term replacement, but he didn’t. That was exactly what Taka would think of Ichigo, regardless of the fact that Kisuke had never allowed Taka that close, even after years of training together.

He rose and bowed low in return, indicating his appreciation and respect.

“Cub or kit, he has a talent for finding trouble. His curiosity is almost as bad as a cat.”

The old man waved him toward the door. “You would know, Urahara-san,” he laughed once more, and walked away into the shadowy rear of the parlor. “Tell Yoruichi-san hello for me, and that her uncle misses her.”

#Bleach #UraIchi #Urahara Kisuke #sneaky yakuza dudes

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your-highnessmarvel · 6 years

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Gate Keeper (part one)

Summary: Some say it’s not the journey that matters, but the destination. The destination justifies the journey. However, for him, the hunt was much more pleasurable than the meal.

Word count: 2146

Warnings: none for this part.

Pairings: Tom Hiddleston x reader

A/N: I would just like to clarify that here, in Quebec (Canada) the legal age is 18. For us, when you are in college, typically you are of legal age. I wanted to clarify for those who live in countries where legal ages are older. If you have any questions, feel free to drop by my ask box. You can always submit your ideas for oneshots or imagines in my ask box as well. Enjoy!

Hiddleston et al. was a company reputed for incredible lawyers and extraordinary staff. This company was a model for any type of retail or sales companies wishing to attain perfection. It was well divided, well organized, and management was exemplary. Staff workers ranged from secretaries, to juridical duties, up to lawyers. As a law student just beginning in college, you were ecstatic to be hired at Hiddleston et al. Even if you were hired just as a clerk for the juridical secretaries, it was still a very good employment to put on your resume. Your friends made fun of you for being just a clerk, but you were there, in the midst of the law, filing through files of fraud. You were hands-on participating, even if just a little.

After a year of working there as a clerk, you’d become used to who was who. Low branch workers reported to the secretaries who then reported to the lawyers. You weren’t sure how many lawyers exactly there were, as you’d never been upstairs in the penthouse bureaus, but you knew there were many. You’d seen many of them as well; prancing around downstairs to stare at the pretty new low branch secretaries or asking for a refill. Some were professional and only came downstairs to retrieve important and locked-away files.

You’d been promoted by one very kind lawyer as the “gate keeper.” Your job was to guard all the files that had been settled and solved, which were locked behind a double metal door much resembling that of a prison. You were content with the job. You worked there Monday and Wednesday nights, sitting at your own little desk, guarding the gate. You had time to secretly squeeze in homework because no one came to the old, solved files well into the soiree. Even when someone caught you doing homework, they weren’t very much bothered by that.

Monday night. Everything had been perfect. Your college R-score was exactly where you needed it to be to be accepted in University with honors. You had woken up bright and early that morning with enough energy to complete the day. Work started at five and you had been at your desk with your textbooks open at a quarter before.

The usual suspects came and went through the gate, which you could open with the keys your head of management had given you. You knew the files room like the back of your hand, having spent over a year there as a clerk, cleaning and filing. You knew where the Brownsend fraud files were or where the box for the state money laundering was stored. Every piece of information was yours.

Well passed seven, the door opened, and you looked up from your notes. A freakishly tall man walked in, wearing a white dress shirt which he’d rolled the sleeves to expose chiseled forearms. He wore a black tie, loosely hanging from his neck, as if he’d been here for a very long time. He adorned a look of exhaustion; his light blond brows pulled in a tight frown, fatigue plaguing his blue eyes, curly blond hair disheveled. Even despite the tired look that he wore, he still looked impeccable with a crispy white dress shirt and grey dress pants. Too impeccable.

This must be one of the lawyers.

You looked down at yourself. You were wearing dirty sneakers, a pair of black skinny jeans, and a blue sweater. You were not dressed to impress, but you had been placed in the dark files room as the gate keeper and you barely saw anyone, so what was the point of dressing up?

He approached your desk, a smell of pine wood and cologne assaulting your senses. From where you stared up at him, you could see he was obviously older than you, maybe too old for you. But he was still so freakishly good looking, adorning this aura of confidence and masculinity that made you squirm slightly. Slightly.

“Miss Y/L/N.” His voice was low and echoed in the room, his blue gaze landing on you. How in the hell did he know your last name? He took his right hand out of his pocket and pushed a small piece of note paper onto your desk, revealing beautiful writing. Who knew such an arrogant man could have exceptional calligraphy? “I need these files.” He gave you a look while you bent slightly over to retrieve the note.

You nodded, unable to form words as you caught his smell again. A shiver sliced painfully down your spine and you found yourself slightly wobbly as you stood. He followed you with a magnetic gaze, while you unlocked the first door. As you made your way to the second, you glanced behind you out of curiosity and was surprised to find him standing respectfully behind you.

“No one is allowed in here but me,” you said, hoping that the sound of your voice was confident and not scared. He rose a brow and the corner of his lip lifted in a sultry smirk.

“I’m sure we can make an exception for me,” he answered. He was so much taller than you that you had to look up, almost craning your neck, and it made you tremble ever the slightest.

“If my manager catches me letting people in and out, I am going to lose my job,” you insisted, hands on your hips, trying to sound patronizing.

His smirk widened. “I am not just people, Miss Y/L/N.” Your heartbeat quickened. He took a small step forward, rising his brows and gesturing to the key dangling from the lock, as if insisting for you to open it already. He extended his hand. “Tom.”

You scrunched up your face, unable to decide if you wanted to keep defying him or accept his courtesy. “Y/N.” You decided that the more friends, the merrier.

He smiled widely, showing all pearly whites and you shook his hand. It was warm and engulfed yours almost completely.

You unlocked the door and it screeched on its rusty hinges, hanging open for you both to stare into the dimly lit hallway. “Excuse the darkness,” you said. “I’m not tall enough to change all the bulbs.”

He walked in ahead of you, while you made sure to lock the second door behind you. “I’ll get someone down here to change them then,” he answered, hands in his pockets, waiting for you to take the lead. You frowned. Who was this man?

“No one comes down here anyway,” you mumbled as you made your way down the hall. “And usually, I’m the only one in here.” You shot him a look over your shoulder to emphasize your anger at the fact that he had ignored and insisted to break the rules. If you were caught, this was a serious offense.

“I know,” he mumbled from behind you.

You turned right and down a short hallway, the shelves stacked with dusty boxes on either side of you.

“This file,” you said, “is in the oldest wing of the room. What could you be working on that requires you to go back to-“ you looked at the paper between your fingers- “1968?”

He kept quiet for a few steps before answering. “It’s a big project, Miss Y/L/N.” You felt a strange burning in your stomach.

“Is it too much to ask you how you know my last name?” you asked.

“I just know my employees,” he answered.

You were about to turn around and question him more, but you had reached the right aisle and he had seen the date on the box. Even when you opened your mouth to protest (because only you could handle boxes), he reached over and grabbed it anyway. “Here we go,” he sighed.

He stepped quite close to you, the smell of him invading your senses and you found yourself clutching the keys to your chest. He looked down when he noticed your discomfort. A smirk graced his face, folding the skin adorably on his cheeks, yet the mischievous look in his eyes was everything but adorable.

“You’re not allowed to handle the boxes, Tom,” you said, voice raising just a little bit. “I am to hold the box and hand you the files. You shouldn’t even be in here.”

You risked a look upwards. He smirked again, leaning back as if finding all of this so hilarious. “You don’t have to worry about the rules with me, Y/N.” There was something less hilarious and more predatory in his tone. You couldn’t help the faint heat in your stomach as his eyes slowly raked up and down the length of your body.

“I don’t want to be fired,” you admitted, squinting your eyes as if an angrier look would scare him away.

He let the box hang from his right hand, the weight of it making him lean slightly to one side. He came so close to you that your chests brushed. A breath caught in your throat, your neck taunt, and your hands still painfully clutching the keys. He huffed, as if your reaction was hilarious and not a warning to back off. Your heart raced against your breastbone, making the vein in your neck strain against your flesh. His eyes wondered to your neck, a sly smile stretching his lips. “I will make sure you are not fired,” he said, voice low and raspy.

You tried to speak, yet the second your lips parted, his index finger was resting against your mouth. Startled, you frowned and took a step back. You hit the metal shelf with a clonk, Tom still staring at you with malice.

“I should get back,” you mumbled. He was making this whole situation quite uncomfortable, yet he was incredibly good looking and made heat pool in your stomach. However, keeping your job was more important than how this man was making your insides feel.

“What is there for you to go back to?” he asked, frowning slightly. “Your homework?”

A frown knitted your eyebrows deeply. Again, when you opened your mouth to ask him how in the hell did he know all these things about you, he had used his free hand to grab a lock of your curls. You were taken by surprise, your eyes shooting from his fingers up to his eyes and back. He stared at you with mischief, his fingers rubbing the locks between his digits. Then he let the locks fall back onto your chest and deftly moved his fingertips to skim along your exposed collarbone.

“How did you work here, right under my nose, and I never noticed you?” he asked, his face taking a genuine look of concern as he skimmed his fingers along the inside of your clavicle until he reached your neck.

The box made a startling sound as it hit the ground, making you jump. He smiled at your giddiness, taking the opportunity to step a little closer. His fingers continued their journey until they were running along your jaw. A shiver made goosebumps bubble on your flesh, your neck peppered with little bumps. This pleased him even more when he saw that, his smile growing even larger.

“Such a fine little creature.” The proximity of his body was making you feel like Jell-O. Your knees were about to buckle, the electricity running from his fingers and into your flesh was making you dizzy. His smell, which was invading your senses, was driving you crazy. He was barely touching you and you could feel the dampness in your panties. Who the hell was this guy?

His thumb pressed against your lower lip, encouraging you to open your mouth ever the slightest. He smirked, content that you were obeying his silent commands. You were wondering how you could be letting his happen when he leaned in a pressed a soft, almost chaste kiss to your lips.

Your eyes widened exponentially. Extremely surprised, you were unable to process any thought, therefore letting him press his mouth harder against your own. Quickly, he retracted, using his thumb again to keep your lips slightly parted.

He stared down at you with content. Your cheeks were blushed adorably, your eyes still wide in shock. He chuckled lightly. “I hope it wasn’t that bad,” he said.

You were on fire. Your insides were coiling with flames and electricity ran rampant in your veins. He had given you a simple kiss, yet your whole body had risen with arousal as if he had stripped you naked. You could only stare at him, bewildered and confused.

“Wear a skirt Wednesday,” he commanded in a less-than-sweet tone. You frowned, taken aback by his sudden frigidness. You watched him pick up the box, give you a tight-lipped smile, and smoothly grab the keys that you were still clutching.

Your boss was so going to fire you.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston oneshot #imagine #oneshot #reader imagine #tom hiddlestonxreader #tom hiddlestonxyou #tom hiddleston x you #tom hiddleston x ofc

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topicprinter · 5 years

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PART 1. Decision to invest and putting together the moneyI was 26 when I decided to invest in my home country, a small tropical island in a third world country. I was born there but was sent to be raised in France when I was a child with my brother. It had been almost twelve years since I last visited and I was not prepared. Holes on the almost unique road of the entire country, old and decrepit cars, houses that were started but never finished everywhere, buildings that were so badly built you'd think a joke, one hour of electricity per day at random hours in the village I stayed in, garbage and waste just laying around everywhere you looked and frequent outages in town. I did not understand how people could live like that but there they were, living a poor and harsh life but living the life nonetheless. "So many opportunities!" we thought with my brother. "We should invest!"So when I got back to France, I went to my girlfriend and told her how humbling and incredible my trip was and that wanted to invest in my home country in the next three years. She was not thrilled and after one month of my return, we were not together anymore. Three months later, I quitted my middle manager job at Domino's Pizza and started to look for a new job. Despite being quite experienced and having worked all my short adult life, when you have no college degree in France, it is very difficult to find a non-minimum wage job. So I kept looking and as I did not want to go back working in restaurants or fast-foods, I started working as a meals delivery biker for Deliveroo.At that time, my brother told me he wanted to move forward our plan to invest in our home country and he wanted us to put together the money in a year time. I agreed. I'd put together 12 000€ to start a small food wholesale checkpoint* in a busy area while he'd buy a small construction site truck to deliver construction materials in villages.*as there are almost no roads in the country, wholesalers rarely make deliveries except for there big clients. Most people in the country do not have vehicles too so they buy their merchandise on foot in small portions and take it to their small shops by themselves. That is why there are the big food wholesalers and some small food wholesalers who buy from the big ones and try to occupy an area where they can sell to as many on foot retailers as they can.I started working for Deliveroo in october and in january of the next year, I found a 9 to 5 desk job paid at minimum wage. I'd work my desk job monday and tuesday from 9am to 5pm, from wednesday to friday 9am to 5pm my desk job and from 7pm to 10pm at deliveroo and saturday and sunday I'd work 12pm to 2pm and 7pm to 10pm at deliveroo. Sometimes I worked more, sometimes I worked less. But I'd put together 12 000€ on the time we decided with my brother.PART 2. Starting and running the businessEight days after my arrival in my home country, I had opened my small food wholesale checkpoint. We had made no business plan and we knew nothing of the wholesalers of the country. We found our location at a fairly cheap price in a very busy area, a permanent market near banks and a cemetery but in the thrift street side. As per usual in that country, we needed not bother with administration because we had a little more than two months before getting everything in order after opening the shop. So we had our uncle who lives in the country and has his own wholesale checkpoint gives us a hand in making contact with the big wholesalers, bought 10 to 20 items of a 67 articles catalogue, arranged them as we could in the store and started selling.So this is a very small country and a very poor one. Almost nothing is produced in that country as there are no infrastructures. Rich Indians, Arabs, Chinese and other ethnicities that are not from that country brought their money and started shipping all the manufactured products from Dubai, Pakistan and China. When the wholesalers do not have the capacity to supply the demand of all the country, when the ships that bring in the goods are late or when the government gets involved in customs rights, goods disappear from the wholesaler catalogue from time to time.As a small wholesaler, you have to make stock for the goods which disappears the most often. And that is something I did not know because it never came to my mind.My offer was small, other checkpoint wholesalers had a 200 articles catalogue. Even though my store was in a very busy area, it was hidden from our prospect clients. We had to buy articles everyday to refurnish our store. We had to park our vehicle one hundred meters from the store because the street was not accessible by car and finish the stockage of our goods with a wheelbarrow.Despite all those problems, we managed to make between 30€ to 50€ net profit per day knowing that we made aprroximatively 0.7€ for each item we sold and each item cost approximatively 13.5€ each. In our big days, we made between 50 to 100€ profit per day. In a third world country, it is pretty solid business. I was thrilled. My homecountry has almost no tax. Everything we earned was for us. If I kept at it, I would of grown in two to three years making between 150€ to 250€ a day as the successful small wholesalers did.Except... Except I kept loosing money and I did not understand! How could I lose so much money? I made a rudimentary but solid way to track our profit and we kept a close eye on our working capital with my brother.So I confronted my brother. He told me he had problems with his truck. It was not solid enough and he needed money to repair it. He would put the money back when his truck was good to go and brought some business. I told him that it was not how business worked. If he wanted to use profit money to repair his truck, he could but he could not take our working capital to repair his truck. He said that he understood. It would not happen again.Three months later, we were 3 000€ down on our working capital. I confronted my brother again. He said he may have taken some money to repair his fucking truck. I was furious! But you can't get mad at family in our culture so I explained calmly that it was not how business worked and that he was putting both our business at risk by doing what he did. I could not work without him because the car we used to refurnish our store was his and I did not know how to drive at the moment. So he decided on his own that he did not want to work at the store anymore, he would give me his car and teach me how to drive so I could refurnish the store myself. I agreed but at that time, a depression hit the country. Apparently, it happens every year and lasts for three to four months. From the 30€ profit per day we needed to keep the business afloat, we plunged to less than 10€ a day and would not best 25€ a day on "good" days. Our business kept shrinking, our clients kept thining, we had not enough money to make stock to begin with but with all those hard blows it became more and more complicated. It became a vicious circle and I was miserable.I convened my family almost one year after I started my business and told them I was going back to France. They could do whatever they wanted with the business but I advised them to sell the remaining goods to a small wholesaler and to keep the working capital money to use for their everyday needs. Or to relocate to a smaller location with a smaller rent and sell retail. They refused the first option and the second option was not doable: our rent was the smallest we could find in town but it was not an area were we could sell retail.PART 3. Coming back to France and what I learnedI did not want to come back to France. I had no more money, I was indebted to a bank I owed 1 600€ to that I intented to pay while in my home country but could not with all the problems I had with my brother, had no place of my own anymore and did not know when I would find a job.My uncle allowed me to stay at his home as long as I wanted. I had unemployment benefits I did not use from my last job in France and we have a very nice social service which helps us find a job or find an alternating training. Life was not so bad but I missed my home country and the family I found there very much.It's been seven months since I came back to France now. I'm still unemployed, still living in my uncle's home, still indebted. I have to send 500€ to my cousins who study in Senegal every month otherwise, they'd be in big trouble. I decided to help them even though I'm in a bit of trouble too because it is easier for me to get back on my feet than it is for them who have no opportunities. If you come from a developped country, you may not understand my thinking but if you come from a third world country, I'm sure you understand why I do this.I could of found a job where I was paid minimum wage but I decided to focus on finding an alternating training which open class in september. But almost all alternating training that are hiring only leads to minimum wage jobs except in construction but because of my allergies, I can't work in construction. I'm a little dispiritted right now because I had an interview to work at an insurance company yesterday, which would of been very nice for me, but they do not have open positions until september and I'm tired of being unemployed. I'm torn between finding a seasonal work to put money aside (you are given a place to stay and you are fed when you do seasonal work in France) or going to an english speaking country and work in restaurants or something (you are also fed and given a place to stay in most cases with the programs they give us here).My plan is to cash approximatively 50 000€ and go back to my home country to start a new business. I know what to expect and how to make money in that country now.I learned so much. I learned how to properly plan a business. I learned to trust no one, even your own very honest brother when making business. I learned that I was able to run a business without screwing up too much even if I failed at the end. I learned that I did not fear failure. I learned that my intuitions were correct and that I had the right mindset to run a business. I learned that I like to bring meaning to my life and unto the life of others with my work (I could help my family with the business which was a big part of why I started it).I learned that I could be at my lowest but still smile and enjoy life.

#/r/entrepreneur #reddit

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yes-dal456 · 7 years

Text

Fat Bottom Girl

“Left alone with big fat fanny She was such a naughty nanny Heap big woman you made a bad boy out of me” – Brian May

The sticky, sweet smell of cotton candy combined with the stench coming from the animals, and mixed with the iron taste of diesel fuel. It was an odor particular to the carnival that she would never forget.

The word carnival has two meanings. First, according to Webster:

A period of public revelry each year that takes place before Lent; and second, A traveling amusement show.

Circus folks, whom I have interviewed extensively, are quick to point out the differences between them and carnival folk or more derogatory “carneys.” The circus, burlesque, and other forms of early American pop culture have been the target of my work over the past decade. After meeting someone who essentially grew up on the carnival grounds I thought I should take a look at the life of the showgirls in the carnival. Many of my burlesque ladies had certainly worked the carnival circuit including stars Sally Rand and Gypsy Rose Lee, making gobs of money with their Royal American Girlie Shows. According to Sally Rand’s son Sean, it was Gypsy who encouraged his mother to join the grueling schedule of upwards of 30 shows a day for thousands across America.

But before we get into that let’s examine carnival.

The carnivals were ― and are ― loaded with games of chance, heavily favored on the side of the concessionaires who run, and lure and can cheat the carnival rubes out of hard earned quarters (at least back when a quarter meant something). There was of course the side show with real and bogus “Freaks” and death-defying rides. With its geneses in the Chicago Columbian Exposition of 1893 the carnival would become known as a raucous, popcorn smelling afternoon where one tried to hang on to their wallets walking the midway. Staring in the mid-1920s most carnivals set up in a field or wherever they could for several days and took in thousands in attendance. Folks were bug-eyed over scandalously skimpy-dressed beauties and freaks of nature. Staged shows under the tens included many of the biggest vaudeville acts of the early 20th century. The freak show, which included animals as well, employed many with abnormal physicality, such as Daisy and Violet Hilton, the subject of my documentary “Bound By Flesh.” The Siamese bound sisters were stars on both the vaudeville stage and carnival and circus circuits.

Like in the circus, many who felt they didn’t belong in the “real world” ran away and joined a carnival, sometimes for the first time in their lives finding a home and communion with like people. Oddities, outcasts, disenfranchised. There was every sort from the obvious runaways, drug addicts, perverts, women who had escaped abusive relationships. There were families, perverts. “A lot of temporary and seedy characters.” Everyone was escaping life back home, whether it was too ordinary for them or too troubled. All found a place where they belonged even if just for a season under the canvas amongst others who asked no questions. They were birds of a feather.

When she was about 12 years-old, brown-haired Christy escaped a “mean, drunk little guy” whom her mother had married. “He was beating on my mother,” she recalled, “so I kicked the shit out of him.” Standing 5’8” and weighing between 160 and 170 lbs, her stepfather who stood 5’2” was no match.

Life had been anything but idyllic for Christy in a tiny navy town outside of Seattle, Washington, in the 1950s.

With a beautiful mother who worked various small jobs while raising four kids and an alcoholic stepfather she hated, Christy and her brother Chuckie tried staying out of the way of this pint-sized wife and child beater. Tragedy struck during the summer of Christy’s 8th year of hell on earth. Nine-year-old Chuckie and his best friend Jeff had been goofing around and got hold of a gun which went off in Chuckie’s hand, killing Jeff. It was particularly memorable for Christy, as Jeff had been her first sexual encounter. Yes, at age 8.

Ralph, a family friend, owned a carnival. With the promise that she could work there someday, Christy took to hanging around Ralph and his carney friends. Hanging around the sawdust lots and learning to “buy” a 25-cent soda from a machine for three pennies after shaving the edges to make them the size of dimes she found “sanctuary” from her home life.

Meanwhile, the abuse from her stepfather continued. When he wasn’t drunk, he was regularly beating on his wife and terrorizing the kids.

Running into a travel carnival that pulled into town, Christy begged her mother to let her join. She worked there the entire week the carnival was in town. Soon things went bad at home. “My mom and I decided I shouldn’t be around during the summer.” She turned to Ralph who let her join his operation at age 11 or 12.

She joined the tradition of the roaming life, traveling from town to town, pulling into large lots and anywhere the midway rides could be set. This was in the 1960s when someone her size was not only an oddity but worthy of making a living in the sideshow. By this time in history, the “born freaks” were fewer and far between in the Freak Shows. Still, for a quarter or two one could see two-headed cows, or two-headed chickens. One fake act was the “man eating chicken” who sat and ate a piece of chicken out of the KFC bucket on his lap. Jokes too.

Christy’s size had never bothered her. Everyone in her family was pretty heavy, but Christy was the most eye-catching. She knew people made fun of her. But on the carnival her size brought her a different kind of attention. It was positive and accepting. She would make a successful career both on the midway and on the burlesque stage because of her generous frame and her zest for entertaining.

Christy kept up with her schooling, but started a month late and left a month early until she graduated. By then so in love with her “other life,” she skipped the graduation parties and flew straight to Portland, Oregon, to work a festival and “traveled the rest of [her] life.”

She worked various jobs on the midway; selling tickets, serving food, cooking and counting quarters and rolling them in sleeves. “I loved making money!”

During breaks she rode all the rides, especially thrilling at the Sky Wheel where she could soar above her troubles below. The fun houses with their distorted mirrors was a particular favorite. She learned how the games were rigged. “I was around,” she said, “during the days of big money... and games you could never win.” Though some shows were “Sunday school shows” (meaning honest run) other shows took the rubes for everything which was done by paying off cops and never returning to the town once they pulled up stakes.“Everyone made money.”

Like in the circus, her coworkers were transients. Christy recalled one group of Gypsies from Turkey pickpocketing “marks” on the midway by reading their mannerisms, their clothing, their walk, and even their particular body odors. When not on the midway the Gypsies could be found in the town’s department stores shoplifting (with the help of Christy being the distraction. She would pretend to faint, pulling down a large display case with expensive goods on the way to hitting the ground). So crafty were the Gypsies, sewing inner pockets and such Christy was witness to one girl who carried a television set between her thighs as she coolly walked out the store. It would take a few more heists before Christy’s conscious got the better of her and she quit the extra gig (and the $100 that came with it).

However, her training among the Gypsies educated her in how to read the marks on the midway and she was hired to be what was called an “agent.” An agent leads a customer to a particular game he or she seemed best suited too. They then encourage the mark to spend, spend, spend.

Jamming the midway were kiosks or individual booths. They were plentiful and varied. There were psychic readings of palm and crystal balls, “knife sharpening, religious displays, impromptu artistry, beaded costume jewelry, dancing, magic and of course in the back there was prostitution, drugs and alcohol.”

Ralph essentially mentored Christy. His carnival traveled by truck. Sometimes his smaller carnival (only 12 midway rides) would merge with other carnivals for larger towns and crowds.

Christy met legendary fan dancer Sally Rand who was touring with the prestigious Royal American Shows. The Royal American claimed to be the world’s largest touring midway. Nearly a hundred train cars pulled performers, rides, and the president of RAS and his family. Part of the benefit of train travel ― besides rest for the performers and crew ― was that rides and amusement arrived wholly put together. Their record of unloading from the trains to set up an operation was a fast and furious five hours. Besides Sally Rand, Lois De Fee and Gypsy, Elvis’ manager Colonel Tom Parker began his show business career working for Royal American.

Christy’s job was to patrol the parameter of Rand’s tent to prevent anyone from trying to bypass the front and take a free peek. Christy didn’t consider it work. She thought of it more like fun.

It was at the carnival where Christy got her first look at a girlie show. Run by a dark-haired gal with big boobs who spoke in a little girly voice, she went by the name of Delilah Dante. Delilah ran her own girlie show.

It was a grueling life for the burly girls. When I interviewed Dixie Evans (a.k.a the “Marilyn Monroe of Burlesque”) she talked about loving the carnival and circus route working 30 shows a day and being so tired at the end that all she wanted as she passed out on the ride home was to eat Chinese and count her big, fat bankroll.

Delilah’s show was in a large tent with “plank seating” to accommodate 80 likely horny men. Sometimes more could be squeezed in. It was a 10-minute show that ran 25 times a night. To make the men buy tickets and convince them of the dozens of beauties they would see inside the tent, Delilah would have Christy and anyone else on the midway dress up in elaborate headdresses and stand in half shadows on the stage, where the men could peek through the front flaps and see shadowy figures moving about. After the men paid their quarter, the only eyeful they got was Delilah. But it was with Delilah’s feather boas and running across the sage that Christy felt sexy. She decided she would become a dancer.

Among the various types of misfits running around the midway, Christy noted that the diversity of character created strong bonds. Even with occasionally deep psychological ― sometimes physical ― challenges, they found refuge. Birds of a feather. And, Christy noted after hours, “bed hopping was rampant.” No matter whether it was men with men, women with women or some mix of group sex, it was family. A very close family.

Not only was sex among the carneys a regular occurrence, but they were also targets for the local “lizards.” Lizards could be any man, woman, or teenager who hung around the lot looking for an easy target. A quick, no-hassle one night stand would ensue. There would be no drama as there was always another town calling the carnival away. No bonds, no attachments.

At the end of the season, Christy would take her money and fill coffee cans with the cash, hiding it in her room. When her mother discovered one of the cans, she worried over what type of work Christy was doing to rake in such dough. Over the years, Christy worked the carnival her siblings (she had two half-sisters) and mother also worked, though none of them loved it like she did. Christy was happy as a clam and wanted to soak up everything she could learn about working at the carnival.

Back home, she waded through school and roamed the seedier streets of Seattle, where at 16, she learned to master a sexy street swagger from a prostitute named Tanya. She became friends with Tanya. Tanya thought Christy had what it took to be a hooker and suggested the market would be profitable for a fat girl. Tanya was right. She was a hit and had no competition. She was “so big I was like a billboard on heels.” Her size didn’t make her lack confidence. She knew she was alluring.

Venturing to Hollywood, she had a memorable encounter with Hollywood’s Stanley Kowalski. A man asking for her particular services showed up wearing a floppy hat (obviously to disguise himself) clutching a brown paper bag in his hands. “Nice to meet ya,” he said. Reaching into his bag he pulled out women’s lingerie and a stack of cash. Fannie disappeared to make espresso and when she returned, the world’s greatest actor was nude. As he pulled on a pair of stockings, she told him, “honey you are so sexy.” Turning on a Marvin Gaye tune, she gave him a wig and makeup which she helped apply to his gorgeous face. Thinking he wanted to see himself she held out a hand mirror, but he brushed it aside. Silence followed as he sashayed around her room in heels and lingerie drinking espresso in a “feminine” sort of way. They had no conversation and when he was satisfied with whatever he was exploring he pulled his clothes over the bra and panties kissed Fannie’s hand and left. His latest film “Last Tango in Paris” had been playing and Fannie “figured he was just going through a phase.”

By the time she was 18, she stood 6’2” and weighed 240 pounds. She decided to change her name to Fannie Annie. She got a job working a girlie show. She loved it, especially the pretty clothes. To her, it was ironic that offstage she deflected looks of “disgust,” but onstage the little fat girl ― all grown up ― was adored and accepted. With the help of the Mob and a breast enhancement she became known as “the world’s fattest stripper.”

As Fannie she commanded the stage, she’d hurl insults at customers in the clubs who were “overjoyed” with her “fatness.” She pushed men’s faces into her heaving bosoms. “My size overwhelmed.” It was as if none of them had seen a fat boob before, so she pulled them out of her costume. “The crowd went nuts as they threw money” on the stage. As a finale, Christy would push the man on the floor, lift her skirt, and lower herself onto his face.

The work was nonstop and so was her ballooning size. Soon, she was 400 pounds with an 88-inch waist line. She broke chairs and “fell on [her] ass more times” than she cared to recall. She continued to tour clubs and returned to her first love, carnivals. “It was where I really wanted to be.” One of her signature tricks was to invite a bachelor to the stage where not only did she smother his head between her breasts and “tit slap him,” but also pull his pants and underwear down for a parade around the stage.

By the 1980s, a 600-pound Fannie would own her own kiddy carnival with ponies and a petting zoo. She was still getting little respect in the real world because of her size. I asked her if she ever wanted to change her weight and she told me no. “I just accepted it and lived my life and took advantage of being super sized and made a living out of it.”

And though she enjoyed a long career in the clubs, it was the carnivals she loved for the travel and the money and the camaraderie. (She didn’t as much care for the hot tents and trailers or the lack of restrooms). Little fat Christy had grown into a star. “I really loved all the life lessons. All the carnival and circus people really made me feel like family! How could you not love it!” And though unideal and filled with challenges and grifters with few heart-warming stories, it was a place of belonging for many runaways like Christy and Annie were.

In 1996, Fannie Annie retire from the roaming, performing life. She spends her days making a cruelty-free boa Star Boa for today’s current crop of burlesque dancers.

Leslie Zemeckis is an award-winning documentarian whose film “Behind the Burly Q” chronicles the history of burlesque. Her film “Bound by Flesh” is a Netflix hit about Daisy and Violet Hilton of “Sideshow” fame. Zemeckis authored “Behind the Burly Q, the book based on her film and “Goddess of Love Incarnate” about burlesque stripper Lili St. Cyr. Zemecki. Her current documentary Mabel, Mabel, Tiger Trainer, on the world’s first female trainer Mabel Stark premiered at the Santa Barbara International Film Festival going on to win numerous awards.

She has created the only comprehensive burlesque site bringing together the burlesque community under one roof (www.theburlyq.com) and has create the first line of burlesque, showgirl, pinup (and flamingo) emojis (Burlyqji.)

Zemeckis is currently writing her third book, set to co-star in a film opposite Steve Carell, and developing several other films. She continues to chronicle the vast untouched history of burlesque and has one of the largest personal collections of burlesque memorabilia, with items from Gypsy Rose Lee, Blaze Starr, Lili St. Cyr, Ann Corio and many many more. @Lesliezemeckis, http://ift.tt/1SoCEhC Follow Leslie Zemeckis on IG and Twitter.

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imreviewblog · 7 years

Text

Fat Bottom Girl

“Left alone with big fat fanny She was such a naughty nanny Heap big woman you made a bad boy out of me” – Brian May

The word carnival has two meanings. First, according to Webster:

A period of public revelry each year that takes place before Lent; and second, A traveling amusement show.

But before we get into that let’s examine carnival.

Life had been anything but idyllic for Christy in a tiny navy town outside of Seattle, Washington, in the 1950s.

Meanwhile, the abuse from her stepfather continued. When he wasn’t drunk, he was regularly beating on his wife and terrorizing the kids.

She worked various jobs on the midway; selling tickets, serving food, cooking and counting quarters and rolling them in sleeves. “I loved making money!”

Ralph essentially mentored Christy. His carnival traveled by truck. Sometimes his smaller carnival (only 12 midway rides) would merge with other carnivals for larger towns and crowds.

In 1996, Fannie Annie retire from the roaming, performing life. She spends her days making a cruelty-free boa Star Boa for today’s current crop of burlesque dancers.

Zemeckis is currently writing her third book, set to co-star in a film opposite Steve Carell, and developing several other films. She continues to chronicle the vast untouched history of burlesque and has one of the largest personal collections of burlesque memorabilia, with items from Gypsy Rose Lee, Blaze Starr, Lili St. Cyr, Ann Corio and many many more. @Lesliezemeckis, http://bit.ly/2rTi0RT Follow Leslie Zemeckis on IG and Twitter.

type=type=RelatedArticlesblockTitle=Related... + articlesList=5925ca9fe4b0ec129d31c170,58bd973ee4b033be146708b2

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://bit.ly/2rT91zZ

#Healthy Living - The Huffington Post

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