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monstersandmaw · 5 years

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Poodle the Gnoll... (sfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

So, @thecriticalcanuck has been patiently trying to get a commission off me for months for this story, and I finally had the chance to do it, so here it is.

We’ve met ‘Poodle’ before, in a snippet where he sat chatting with his friend beside a river which I can’t seem to find any more :( , and in a series of asks/idea-bouncing sessions which you can read by following the 'fluffy gnoll’ tag linked.

This story features a male gnoll, nicknamed ‘Poodle’, who ranks absolutely at the bottom of his clan because of his ridiculously fluffy coat. Humans coo over him, gnolls laugh at him and abuse him, and he has only one friend in the whole world, a mid-ranking female gnoll.

I used my previous headcanons about gnolls and their society for this one (based off hyena society), in case anyone’s curious about the social dynamics and roles etc.

Length: 3337 words Content: bullying and abuse, both verbal and physical, young orphaned child, angst, and, well, fluff.

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“Oi, Poodle!”

The shout rang out but he barely had time to flinch before a pail of freezing river muck was upended over his head. The fur, which had been standing wildly on end in the stiff wind blasting across the hunting plains, became plastered to his head in seconds, and the yipping, wheezing laughter of the other gnolls carried a long way across the whispering grasses. The commotion drew a small crowd, and his heart sank. Here we go again.

He cursed as the foul slime dripped down his face and into his bright, golden eyes.

“That’s hilarious! Look at him!” one of them snickered, shoving the distracted, muddy gnoll over so that he landed hard on his hip, causing more laughter.

“Hey, you could use all that shit to style that fluff of yours, Poodle,” another sneered. “Give yourself a nice quiff or something!”

“Yeah, slick it back off your face. Show all the girls those pretty eyes…”

“Or don’t! Who’d want to look at you?”

The group of four females and one male paced and circled around him as though he were a wounded satyr as he rubbed the mud from his face. He bit back the habitual hurt that blossomed in his chest at their words.

He was used to it.

He’d always had a coat that was three times thicker and fluffier than any other gnoll, and, being a male, he ranked lower than any female in the clan, and because of his looks, he fell below all of the other males. It didn’t matter that he was damned handy with a war axe. Outside of a raiding party, he was bottom of the pile, and even during a fight he ranked pretty low.

“Get up,” a harsh female voice snapped, and as she joined the hooting and guffawing gnolls, she cuffed him around the ear so hard he saw stars. “For fuck’s sake, look at you. Go and bathe. We have to go into town and I won’t have you stinking like the back end of a minotaur.”

He sighed. “Yes mother.”

“‘Yes mother’,” the others all parroted, still snickering.

The high-ranking female only shook her head in disgust at the sight of her son and stalked away as he pushed himself up onto his hind legs and shuffled off towards the winding, fast-flowing brook to wash himself off. And of course, the torment didn’t end with that single bucket of sludge.

Herah and her best friend, Zila, were apparently not satisfied with simply messing up his coat, and followed him down to the freezing water. He was struggling to rinse the disgusting slime out of his thick fur as they trotted the last few yards over to him and pounced on him while he had his head under.

“Wash it out well and good, Poodle,” Herah snarled in his ear as she yanked him back up, sputtering and coughing.

“No one’s going to groom you, Poodle. But we’re gracious females. We’ll offer our help…” Zila added, placing her paw-like hand on the top of his head and dunking him again.

Water rushed into his open mouth and he began to cough and struggle, but Herah was huge. As the daughter of the clan’s lead female, she was built for brute strength, and there was no arguing with her. She and Zila were his chief tormentors.

Beneath all the fur, he was a lithe, muscular gnoll, and might even have been an attractive prospect for one of the females, but because of his stupid pelt, he’d never attracted anything but derision and ridicule from the females, save for one.

Herah and Zila soon grew bored with ‘washing their little puppy’ and had left him, bedraggled and gasping on the riverbank. By the time his thick, wet fur dried off, he’d be even fluffier than he had been before all this started, and from the howls and shrieks of laughter and the looks on the bullies’ faces as he approached to the camp, that had been their plan all along.

Kira trotted over to him just as he returned, somewhat shakily, to the encampment and gave him an affectionate noogie on the top of his head. She was taller than him, but not by much. “What’s up?” she said. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “The usual.”

“You get ‘Poodled’ again?” she asked, ears flicking softly.

He nodded.

“Come on, a group of us is going into town. Your mum has some things she wants to trade, and I want to talk to the blacksmith to see if I can get a new axe. You want to come with me?”

“Mother says I have to come anyway. Normally she shuts me away in her tent when she has to go, so I don’t know why I’m coming along this time. Maybe she thinks a bit of light relief among the clan while the humans coo over me will be good for morale…”

Kira punched him on the arm. “Don’t let them get to you.”

“Easy for you to say,” he snarled, lifting his lip slightly in a gesture that would never have been tolerated amongst the other females. His best - and only - friend merely laughed and slung an arm around him, nuzzling her wet, blunt nose into his ear and eliciting a high, silly laugh from him in response.

As he’d predicted, the harsh prairie winds whipped his soft fur up into a mass of dandelion fluff by the time the small contingent arrived at the nearest town. Ordinarily, the arrival of eight or so gnolls at a human settlement would have sparked panic, but this clan was known here, and had agreed not to raid the inhabitants, in exchange for the right to trade and some degree of protection for them from other neighbouring clans.

The two friends followed the rest of the group into the backwater town, and while his mother and a few of the other high ranking females took themselves off to barter for better weapons from the blacksmith, the pair waited by the fountain at the centre of the town. Hierarchy was everything, and, whether at war or trade, the elite got the first pick of everything.

Lingering in the shadows, two females were watching him and occasionally yipping and laughing. He kept one large, rounded ear locked onto them, listening as they gossipped amongst themselves.

“They’re doing it again,” he muttered softly to Zila out of the side of his mouth.

“What?”

“Herah and Zila… they’re making bets on how long it’ll take for a human to coo at me.”

“Oh fuck them,” she growled, but no sooner had she said it than a pair of human women began pointing at him and covering their mouths in a poorly veiled attempt at hiding their giggles.

He flicked a piece of gravel into the well and turned away.

As he turned, he caught sight of a human girl in a ragged, faded dress, with bare feet and dirty hair. Something lurched in his chest at the sight of someone so vulnerable wandering around on her own. The other gnolls spotted her a second later.

They dropped to all fours and began to whoop and yip as they advanced. He didn’t think they’d actually hurt her, but the look on her face told him that she didn’t know that. He’d been in that girl’s position before. He knew what it felt like to have two full-grown females advancing on him, licking their teeth and laughing softly.

Instinctively he made a step towards them but Kira grabbed his arm. “Leave it,” she warned. “It’s not worth it, and they’ll tear you to pieces. You’re not protected by the treaty; she is.”

“I don’t care,” he said, yanking his arm free. “It’s wrong. They can pick on me all they like, but she’s…” he choked a little. “She’s just a kid, Kira.”

Kira’s face softened, and he made a split second decision.

Dropping to all fours too, he trotted over to them and circled round in front of the advancing females and behind the girl. He sat down beside her like a huge guard dog, ignoring the way it instantly demeaned himself further in their eyes, and stared straight at the females.

Taken by surprise by his gesture of absolute defiance, they drew up short. “What’s this, Poodle?” Herah asked in a soft, dangerous drawl. He fought off a shudder of fear.

The little girl heard the nickname, however, and giggled, all fear forgotten. “Poodle!” she exclaimed and grabbed hold of his arm, hugging him and pressing her mud-smeared cheek against the soft fur and snuggling him. “Poodle,” she repeated, almost like a prayer.

The gesture sent something soft and protective shivering through him in a way he’d never experienced before. Male gnolls were fairly well known for being the broody, protective ones, while the females were aggressive, warmongering protectors, but he’d never felt anything like that; no desire to mate, no desire to raise a brood of pups, and yet, confronted with this small, helpless human who found his fur a source of comfort instead of ridicule, he felt that feeling surge in him. He blinked, fighting the unexpected prickle of tears. It was a brotherly, even paternal, kind of protection that he’d never experienced, and it lent him strength.

He stared the females down hard. On this, he would not back down. “Pick on someone your own size,” he growled. “There’s no sport to be had here.”

“Well, well.” Herah lowered herself down slowly onto her haunches and tilted her head, smiling humorlessly, and her friend, Zila, took a step closer to him, lips curled, canines showing.

“Careful, Poodle,” she crooned in a low voice. “You’re courting more than just ordinary trouble if you keep this up.”

The little girl let go of him and, putting herself between the two gnolls, she crossed her arms across her chest, pouting and staring up at the female. “Leave Poodle alone,” she squeaked. “He’s a nice friend.”

Herah burst out laughing so hard she toppled over sideways, one hind leg kicking. “Oh my fuck,” she swore. “That’s precious. That’s so fucking precious. You just got told off by a fucking human pup, Zila!”

Zila took exception to that and launched herself at her friend, and the two began to scrap in a cloud of snarls and dust.

Taking the opportunity, he stood up and took a step away. Halting suddenly, he glanced down at the little girl and saw her wide eyes staring up at him. A heartbeat later he found himself saying, “Come on. Let’s leave them to it.”

Before he could turn and walk away, she slid her hand into his leathery palm and squeezed her fingers around his index finger. Tears swam in his eyes but he swallowed them down and led her quietly away from the fighting females.

Kira stood by the fountain still, her ears pricked forwards and a dumbstruck look on her face, but she was no longer alone; she’d been joined by a male human.

“Getting yourself into trouble again, I see, Elsie…” he chuckled at the child. “Ah, it’s a shame she’s got no one to look out for her.”

“What?” the gnoll asked, his grip tightening on her hand slightly.

The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said heavily. “She’s nearly four years old, but her folks died a little while back and she just sort of… drifts from home to home. No one has the time or the funds to support her really.”

Kira turned her head as the group of females left the blacksmith’s, and she said, “They’ve finished. Come on, let’s go. Leave her…”

He shook his head. “You want to come with us?” he asked, and Elsie nodded.

“I love Garrett!” she giggled. “He gives me cookies sometimes.”

The fighting gnolls gave a snarl and the child cowered slightly, scuttling around to his other side.

“You can’t keep her,” Kira hissed.

“I know,” he retorted. “But while they’re there, I can’t just…”

His friend sighed. “You’re too gentle, sweetheart,” she said.

The blacksmith’s was empty in the wake of the small trading party, but the half-orc was still standing there and watching their approach from his doorway. “Well, well, Elsie,” he said when he saw the three of them. “You’ve charmed yourself a new friend, have you?”

“Poodle is my friend,” she said proudly, and, embarrassed, his rounded ears swivelled back to lie flat against his fluffy head.

“Poodle, eh?” the blacksmith chuckled, looking the gnoll up and down. “Well, I’ve met stranger folk than you. What can I do for you?”

While Kira headed off with Garrett to look at the remaining selection of war-axes, Elsie reached her hands up and demanded, “Pick me up, Poodle!”

He swallowed thickly. How could something so defenceless and so… so useless be so… endearing. Was this what it felt like to be a ‘proper’ male in the clan? To have his protective and nurturing instincts toyed with by the innocence of little ones? Acting on those instincts, he stooped and picked her up, settling her down on his hip and letting her sink her fingers into the thick fur of his mane. He was wearing his usual leather jerkin, but her explorative hands reached for his curved, sensitive ears, and she laughed wildly when he flicked one out of her tickling fingertips. He found a little smile on his own muzzle, and her hands then found that, and began to play with the soft, fuzzy velvet of his dark nose and lips, poking and pulling at him.

“Stop that, you pesky little scrap,” he chuckled as she yanked his ear again.

Kira returned a while later to find him sitting with her in his lap on the floor at the foot of an anvil, whittling a little dog out of a spare piece of kindling with his belt knife. It wasn’t a whittling knife, so it wasn’t the cleanest of sculptures, but her friend had always had an artistic flare.

She paused and watched him until he eventually looked up at her. Kira took half a step back at the look on his face. She’d never seen him look like that. Gone was the haunted look, the hunted, jumpy glances, the humiliation and torment. He looked soft and sweet, and truly happy. She swallowed the lump in her throat and sighed. Her own female urge to protect her friend suddenly intensified.

As if responding to that, he tilted his head and whined a wordless question at her.

She smiled and shook her head. “What are you making?” she asked, coming over and adding, “Mind if I sit too?”

Garrett looked out of the doorway into his workshop but didn’t interfere. The half-orc left them to it, pleased that Elsie was finally getting some attention.

“I’m making her a little poodle,” he said.

Kira leaned her cheek against his shoulder and murmured, “You could leave, you know?”

He stiffened at that, the knife falling quiet in his hands. He drew a deep breath and then let it go gently. Elsie was looking at the half-formed sculpture that lay across his palm and started to fiddle with it, her fingertips tracing the outline of the figurine. Then she yawned openly. “I could,” he said. “But… you mean, with her? Fuck, Kira, I’m a nobody. What would I do with a child? I don’t know how to raise a gnoll, let alone a human.”

Kira shrugged. “I think you’d do alright. You’ve got the empathy, you know. I think you’re the first person who’s really understood her. Or maybe she’s the first person who’s really understood you…”

He looked up at her and blinked. “Come on,” he murmured. “You get me…”

She nuzzled his ear the way he liked. “Mostly, but… I’ve never been alone the way you have. I’m a female. I have rank -”

“Despite hanging around with me,” he joked.

Kira didn’t laugh. “Yeah. And that sucks. Your parents have practically disowned you, you’re the clan’s whipping boy, and you’re miserable. Think about it… alright?”

Elsie sighed and he felt her weight sink against his chest. She yawned again and leaned further into the warmth of his body. He murmured her name, but she was closing her eyes already. “No, no, no,” he said. “Don’t…”

He looked up and found that Garrett had returned, clearly wanting the use of his forge back.

“Where does she live?” he asked, keeping his rough voice low and quiet.

“She sleeps at the temple,” he said. “The priestess takes care of her mostly. When she’s got time…”

“I’ll take her back then.”

Kira took the half-finished figurine from him and slipped his belt knife back into the sheath for him, and he stood carefully. The action slightly dislodged Elsie, but she shuffled and clung to him. He looked up at Kira and said, “I… I can’t…”

“C’mon,” she said, nodding a grateful farewell at Garrett, who returned the gesture and watched the strange trio leave his workshop and head towards the temple at the far end of the town. Kira looked at the way he held her and said, “Buddy, you’re a natural at this. They missed a trick back at the clan with you…”

He smiled. “I’ve never… I mean…” he swallowed.

“Playing house, Poodle?” a shout rang out across the street, and he froze, tail stiffening. “Happy families?”

Herah and Zila were stalking down the road, and they’d gathered a few of the others too.

Kira braced herself beside her best friend, and Elsie stirred in his arms, waking as the tension rolled through the group. “Poodle?” she murmured.

“Shh, it’s alright,” he said gently. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

With the innocent faith of a small child, she believed him and turned her face from the others, burying it in the thick mane around his neck.

“No gnoll wants to mate with you,” Zila jeered, “Not even Kira here, so you’ll, what, steal a human child?”

“It’s not even stealing,” Herah cackled. “They told me that one wants that one. He’s literally just picking up the trash.”

Something snapped in him then and, unthinkingly, he handed Elsie to Kira. His lips curled back and his hackles rose. “Say that again and I will kill you,” he said. “I mean it.”

His hand found the haft of his axe and he shifted the weight of it, ready.

Herah actually faltered. They’d seen the way males could get when defending the pups, but admittedly, that was over gnoll pups; clan pups. This was new for them.

Kira murmured something softly to him and he twitched his ear. “What?”

“Leave it. It’s not worth it. If you get hurt, you won’t be able to see the priestess and ask if you can take care of her.”

The steady gaze and sound advice of his life-long best friend filtered slowly through the pounding rage in his skull and he finally nodded curtly, returning the axe to its holster. Elsie was nervous, her eyes wide, but he took her gently back from Kira and turned to Herah.

“I’m leaving.”

He turned his back on his clan, the folks who had made his life a misery, and, with one final look at Kira, one final smile, he added, “Thank you.”

“I love you,” she said. “Take care of yourself, and her, alright? Don’t vanish forever…”

“I promise.”

With his back to the red disk of the setting sun, he made his way to the temple. The priestess was more than happy for him to take the child, deciding that she’d rather keep the temple offerings to feed her own habits than feed the girl, and he continued on his way out of the other side of the village into the quiet evening.

“Poodle?” she asked sleepily. “Where are we going?”

“You know that’s not my name, little one?” he chuckled fondly as she yawned, settling herself more comfortably into his arms.

“What’s your name?”

As the sun sank below the hills, he paused. Turning into the very last rays of red light, he looked back. “Aten. My name is Aten.”

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If you like gnolls, you can read Brenn’s story here: Male gnoll/hyena boy (Brenn) x female reader Part One (nsfw) Part Two (sfw ish) Part Three (sfw) Part Four (nsfw) Part Five (nsfw) Part Six/Epilogue (sfw)

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#exophilia #gnoll #sfw story #male gnoll #female gnoll #angst #fluff #exophilia commission

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emospritelet · 5 years

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Honourable Members

This is partly the fault of @thestraggletag for this post and the subsequent dream I had. It’s also the fault of Bobby for posting pics of his new project. I know I said I wouldn’t post it until it was done but I am weak. Should be a three-parter. Part two is almost done. See AO3 re the fictional political parties and Government departments. Sorry about the title: I am a child :)

AO3 link

If there was one thing Robert Sutherland hated more than any other, it was giving interviews to right-wing lifestyle journalists. He’d had to suffer through many an indignity in his working life, but relatively little of that life had been under public scrutiny. He had had what was diplomatically described as an inauspicious start in life, but had developed an interest in politics after becoming a union representative at the factory where he had started work at sixteen. Coming to Westminster as a backbench MP had opened his eyes to the reality of trying to represent the people he served in a place rife with deep divisions and party infighting.

One of the hardest lessons he had learned was that honesty and integrity did not automatically lead to political success. A less surprising, if more irritating realisation, was that once you made it to the House of Commons, and especially to the front benches, it was open season on your private life as far as certain sections of the press were concerned. He thought that it was probably fortunate that he had gotten divorced five years earlier, before becoming leader of his party, but it didn’t stop the speculation about potential love interests. Since leading his party through a successful election campaign, ousting the British Unionists from power in a crushing victory and entering 10 Downing Street, the interest from the press had only grown, and with it the amount of salacious gossip that he tried hard to ignore.

He supposed it was hardly surprising; he had been single since the divorce and happily so, but a vacuum always tempted people to fill it with their own rumours. His Principal Private Secretary, Carrie de Ville, had assured him that giving interviews to publications such as Green Space would improve his polling amongst right-wing middle class women, but he was beginning to wonder if the current discomfort he felt was worth it.

The current subject of his disdain, Ms Tamara Finlay-Warburton, was perched on a chair in the White State Drawing Room, a porcelain cup of tea steaming in its saucer on the table beside her. The red-haired woman had been servile to the point of revulsion, but there was a predatory gleam in her blue eyes that told him she was in no way to be trusted. 10 Downing Street’s resident cat, Arthur, had taken one look at her and scurried off, and he considered that a black mark against her character before she had even opened her mouth.

“So,” purred Ms Finlay-Warburton, tapping her pencil on her notebook. “Still unmarried, after all these years. It must get lonely, having no one to share your success with.”

“Can’t say I’ve thought about it,” he said. “A little too busy with matters of state.”

“So there’s no special someone?” she pressed. “No dirty little secrets? We’re all aware of how indispensable your secretary is.”

“Yes, Carrie is my right hand woman,” he said honestly.

“So there’s no sexual tension there?”

He blinked at that.

“Uh - no,” he said. “Our relationship is very professional.”

“But so many relationships start in the workplace, don’t they?”

“That may be true,” he said, feeling his irritation grow. “But she’s already married.”

“Well, it’s not as though that’s a barrier to anyone these days,” she said airily. “You can imagine the opportunities for gossip, I’m sure.”

“Did you do any research before this interview?” he asked waspishly. “She’s married to a woman!”

“Oh.”

She looked momentarily stumped, and shuddered delicately, as though Carrie’s private life was somehow distasteful. It made him dislike her all the more.

“Well, I did a piece on her last year,” she said. “I must have forgotten that, but then I was concentrating on her time at university. Quite the wild thing in her youth.”

“I couldn’t care less what she got up to,” he said, reaching for his tea, and counting down the seconds until the allotted fifteen minutes was up. “She’s extremely competent.”

“So, no sparks flying from that direction,” she said vaguely, scribbling in her notebook. “Of course, the other rumour is that you’re having an affair with the intern. Comments?”

Sutherland almost spat out his tea.

“Alice?”

She sat forward, pale eyes gleaming.

“Why so surprised?” she purred. “Pretty young girl, blonde curls, all that energy and innocence of youth. A little odd, by all accounts, so she probably needs taking under your wing and protecting. Plus, I hear she’s always pulling your tie straight and dusting your shoulders. Rather familiar for a mere minion, wouldn’t you say?”

“I can assure you she’d think the idea of the two of us sleeping together both hilarious and revolting,” he said tersely. “And don’t ever call her a minion in my presence again.”

“Ooh, looks like I touched a nerve,” she said, with a smirk. “No need to hide your office romance from me, Prime Minister.”

“I’m not,” he snapped.

“And why should my readers believe that?”

“Because I’m a massive lesbian!” announced Alice cheerfully, breezing into the room with a leather folder in her hands and her blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Going from what you write in that magazine of yours, I’m probably at least partly responsible for the decline of society, but I have to say I’m having a lot of fun with it.”

Ms Finlay-Warburton looked as though she’d bitten something sour, and sat back as Alice leaned over to place the folder in Sutherland’s hand. Alice grinned and leaned closer, making her shrink almost into the cushions of the chair.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Alice pleasantly. “You’re so not my type. I did put my nasty gay hands all over the biscuits though, so I hope you didn’t eat any.”

Sutherland bit the inside of his cheeks to hide a smile, and she winked at him.

“Carrie said to tell you that the car will be here in a moment, sir,” she said.

“Thank you, Alice.” He stood, tugging his cuffs straight. “Ms Finlay-Warburton, you must excuse me. Prime Minister’s Questions, you know. Ms de Ville will show you out.”

He strode out of the room, wanting to sigh with relief, and made it to the waiting car without incident. It idled outside Number 10, the engine purring as they waited for Carrie to emerge with his briefcase. She appeared in less than a minute, sharply-tailored charcoal grey trouser suit and white silk shirt beneath a gleaming bob of blonde hair. She slid onto the back seat beside him, setting the briefcase between them, and the door thumped shut before the car pulled away. Sutherland slipped the leather folder into the case, and Carrie looked at him with some amusement.

“I hear the interview went well,” she said wryly. “She seemed not to want to shake my hand, so I can only assume she’s remembered I’m a raging homosexual.”

“I don’t understand why you delight in inviting bigots to interview me.”

“Oh, it’s fun,” she said airily. “They’re always the easiest to offend. Besides, it’s a section of society in which you need to improve your polling. You’re falling down with the ‘traditional family values’ mob.”

“I don’t need the support of intolerant arseholes,” he said sourly.

“Now now,” she chided. “That’s not the attitude to take. Their votes are as good as anyone’s. And not all of them are like Ms Fanny-Wobblebum, I assure you.”

“Bloody gossip-monger!” he grumbled, running a hand through short, greying hair. “She could have asked about the new policy on free childcare or the money for women’s support services, but instead it’s a bunch of bloody shite about work-based romance! Are they expecting me to be shagging half my staff?”

“Probably.”

“Well, they’re in for a disappointment.”

“Oh, they’ll just make something up, you know how it goes.”

“They’re welcome to.” He sat back with a sigh. “Any idea what’s coming up in PMQs?”

“Other than the usual?” she asked. “Nothing I’ve heard. We’re as prepared as we can be.”

“Good.”

The Commons was in excellent voice, the benches filled with MPs, almost all of whom were awake and contributing to the noise. Sutherland tuned it out, tapping his fingers on the papers in front of him, the crisp white cuffs of his shirt just visible above the sleeves of his black suit. He knew the contents of his papers by heart, but having them there was useful nonetheless, allowing him to collect his thoughts when necessary. Prime Minister’s Questions was in full swing, and having delivered a ringing endorsement of the government’s economic record in response to a question from his own side, he was waiting for the resulting shouts of derision and braying cheers to die down before the first of the questions from the Opposition back benches.

“Miss Belle French!” bellowed the Speaker.

Sutherland’s brow crinkled for a moment. French, French. Ah, of course. New Liberals. Just won the by-election in Avonleigh. Carrie says she’s one to watch.

“Thank you, Mr Speaker.”

He glanced around, trying to see where the voice was coming from. There. God, she’s tiny! A young woman was standing in the top right of the rows of benches. Small and pale, with deep red lips and chestnut hair tied neatly back, she was dressed in a very respectable dark blue dress and jacket. She was perhaps five feet four, although his guess could be off by an inch or two, depending on how high her heels were. She was also incredibly pretty, but he did his best to ignore that fact.

“Mr Speaker,” she began, “last week in my constituency of Avonleigh, I received some truly shocking news regarding Government contractor Wolsingham plc and its negligent attitude to its waste treatment facility. It appears that waste material from the production plant bordering my constituency has been leaking out and is in danger of polluting the water supplies used by local farmers.”

A familiar noise rose in the House, a booming chorus of denials from the Government benches, and roars of support from the Opposition. Sutherland wanted to sigh. Questions about Wolsingham plc were inevitable, he supposed; nothing stayed secret for long in politics, but he had hoped to avoid the issue for a little longer.

“Rumours have also spread,” she went on, “that the company itself is failing and that its assets are being sold off piecemeal while it destroys the land around it!”

The noise had increased to a roar, the odd bleating noise from some of the older politicians, order papers being waved.

“Having - having made some enquiries—” Miss French was having to shout to be heard over the din. “—I was shocked to discover that not only was Wolsingham plc fully aware of the pollution, but had done - had - had done—”

The clamour from the House had reached a level loud enough to drown her out, and she bit her lip, clearly frustrated.

“Order!” shouted the Speaker, calming the noise somewhat. “The Honourable lady must be allowed to put her question! Which I have every hope she will do very shortly, rather than treat us to a lengthy speech! Miss French!”

“Thank you, Mr Speaker.”

She was still looking frustrated, and Sutherland sensed that she would abandon the speech, ask her question and be done. Good.

“My constituents are concerned that special interest groups may be influencing Government policy regarding Wolsingham plc,” she said. “Particularly in respect of their continued breach of environmental legislation, and the company’s future financial viability. What assurances can the Prime Minister give me to take back to my constituents that their concerns are being addressed?”

Sutherland nodded as he stood up at the despatch box, catching her eye. She was staring at him with a strange mixture of caution and hope.

“Let me be amongst the first to welcome the Honourable lady to the House,” he said. “I trust that she will serve her constituents well, and the country as a whole. This Government is - aware - of the reports of which she speaks, and I can assure her that they are being looked into. A statement will be made in due course.”

He sat down to indicate that he was finished, shuffling the papers in his hands. Miss French was bouncing on her toes, mouth opening and closing and looking outraged, but the Speaker called another name, and she was forced to sit down, her face like thunder. Sutherland tried to put her out of his mind as he listened to a question from his own side. A pity she had chosen to raise the bloody subject today, but there it was. No doubt the press would now start digging around, and the whole shit show would be wide open for all to see before they could get everything sewn up. New MPs. Always so bloody idealistic.

Once PMQs was over, he gathered his papers, slipping them into his briefcase before stepping away from the despatch box. There was to be a debate on renewable energy, but he left the Environment Secretary to make the Government’s arguments. Carrie was waiting for him in the lobby, foot tapping impatiently on the stone tiles. She flicked her hair out of her eyes and arched a brow at him as he left the chamber.

“Well, that was reasonably successful,” she said, taking the briefcase from him and shoving it at one of her assistants as they began walking. “I thought we might go through the preparations for the President’s visit after your four o’clock.”

“Yes, fine,” he said. “I believe her wife is coming too?”

“So my counterpart across the pond tells me.”

“Good. We’ll host them at Chequers, but I’ll leave any decisions on menus and entertainment in your hands.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Prime Minister!”

He wanted to sigh as a clear voice cut across the lobby. Miss French. Of course. He kept walking, shoes ringing on the gleaming tiles.

“Prime Minister, if I might have a word?”

She trotted up beside him, but he didn’t slow his stride. Carrie looked at her somewhat askance, but said nothing.

“What is it, Miss French?” he asked dismissively.

“My question about Wolsingham plc,” she said, her voice impatient. “You completely shut me down!”

“No, I gave you an answer,” he said. “Just not the one you wanted.”

“I told my constituents I would raise the matter with you personally!”

“And so you have,” he said, and turned away from her to Carrie, who was watching him with an amused glint in her eyes. “Carrie, can we fit Mr Llewellyn in before six, do you think?”

“I could find ten minutes in your diary, sir, no more. And even that would be a squeeze.”

“Do that, then,” he said. “If you can get one of your staff to prepare a one-page briefing paper beforehand? I’d rather not go in cold.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you.”

They walked on, and Miss French trotted to keep up.

“Prime Minister, might I schedule some time with you to discuss my concerns?” she asked, and he glanced across at her.

“Put your question in writing to Ms de Ville, Miss French, if you’re unhappy with the answer I gave,” he said impatiently.

“It wasn’t an answer!” she retorted. “It - it was a fudge! You didn’t tell me anything!”

“As I said, put any further requests to my secretary in writing,” he said.

“A letter?” she scoffed. “Should I sign it with a quill pen? This isn’t the nineteenth century!”

“There are still protocols to follow, as you’re well aware,” he said. “I’ve already said we will be making a statement in due course, and I have nothing further to add at this time.”

He walked on, the entrance looming in front of him, spring sunshine spreading across the tiles. He could hear the rapid click of Miss French’s shoes as she sought to keep up with his stride, and rolled his eyes as they stepped out into the warm spring sunlight. The press pack waited some way beyond, cameras clicking and flashing, reporters waiting with mikes outstretched, and Miss French was still at his heels like an insistent terrier.

“Prime Minister, I really don’t think you understand how worrying this is for my constituents,” she said, a little breathlessly. “If we could just sit down to discuss the matter, I’m sure we could—”

Sutherland stopped abruptly, spinning on his toes to face her as he finally lost patience.

“Miss French, are you deaf or merely stupid?” he snapped. “For the last time, I have nothing to say to you regarding Wolsingham plc and this will remain the case until the Government delivers its official statement on the matter!”

She stared at him, strands of chestnut hair buffeted by the wind. Her eyes were wide and very blue, her cheeks smooth and pale. She had full lips, painted with a deep red lipstick that outlined them perfectly. They were slightly parted in shock at his outburst, but there was also fire in her eyes, something he recognised well from his own youth, when he had been filled with ideals, with the desire to do good. It made him feel old and irrelevant. An ancient political dragon, facing a young would-be slayer, Chosen One of the people. Oddly, it also made him want to stand his ground, to roar and belch out flames one last time to protect what he hoarded. Instead, he tried for a more measured, dismissive approach. The young firebrand was gone, after all, mellowed by the years into the elder statesman.

“Put your concerns in writing,” he said, more calmly. “Ms de Ville will bring them to my attention as she sees fit.”

Miss French worked her jaw a little.

“I thought at least you might hear me out,” she said. “I’m aware you were born and raised in a deprived community, you must know how dependent my people are on the land around them, and—”

“I got where I am by knowing how to pick my battles,” he interrupted. “Something you appear to have no concept of, but which you’ll learn in time, I have no doubt. If you want to be anything other than a voice in the wilderness, you need to learn how to bend in the wind, follow protocol, and understand that sometimes progress happens in ways you may not always like.”

“I came here to serve my constituents!” she protested, raising her hands and letting them fall. “To give a voice to those who can’t speak out for themselves, to - to help people! Not to become part of the problem!”

“Enjoy your time on the back benches, then,” he said, his tone dismissive. “Spend time in your constituency, and leave the politics to those of us who are in touch with reality. While you’re listening to tales of woe and patting shoulders and kissing babies, you’ll become increasingly irrelevant.”

She opened her mouth angrily, but he cut her off.

“You’re not part of some Borough Council anymore,” he said scathingly. “Time to grow up. See the big picture.”

“Don’t patronise me!”

“Don’t act like a child, then.”

She took a step towards him, eyes flashing with the light of challenge. It was giving him a tiny thrill, a tight ball of fire in his chest that was sending a pulsing trail of heat down to his groin. No one had dared to get in his face to this extent for years, instead shouting their insults from across the benches or making sly comments about his alleged incompetence to the press. To have someone go toe-to-toe with him outside the Houses of Parliament was almost exhilarating.

“So, one little push back from a woman, and the misogyny surfaces,” she said, in a flat tone. “Why am I not surprised?”

“My assessment of your behaviour is based on your inexperience and current attitude, not your gender.”

“And you want to teach me a lesson, is that it, sir?”

Oh, his mind did not need to go there! He yanked it back before his imagination could cause too much mischief.

“I have every confidence that your peers will do that, Miss French,” he said coldly. “Do us all an enormous favour and try not to get above yourself in the meantime.”

“If you think you can pat me on the head and shut me up, you’re mistaken!”

He smiled at that, knowing how it would irritate her, and was proven right as her glare intensified.

“Well, I must say this passion is admirable,” he drawled. “But ultimately pointless. Political naivety may play well in whatever backwater constituency you managed to claw your way into, but in Westminster it’ll get you eaten alive.”

“I have no intention of - of letting you eat me!” she snapped.

A faint blush had risen on her cheeks, and he felt an odd lurch in his belly as his active mind helpfully provided an alternative meaning for that phrase. She was glaring at him, eyes shooting blue sparks, chin raised as though she would bite him.

“Then take my advice,” he said. “Pick your battles. Fall in line. And wait your bloody turn.”

“So, they got to you, too?” she said bitterly. “I might have known. I knew there had to be some reason everyone’s lips are sealed. Wolsingham has his dirty little fingers in every political pie going, it seems to me.”

As fascinating as she was, Sutherland had had enough. He raised an admonitory finger, leaning in as his eyes bored into hers and she met him stare for stare.

“You’re new here, Miss French,” he growled, his accent thickening. “So I’m gonna let that one slide. You ever question my integrity again, and you and I are gonna have a problem, understood?”

She swallowed, sudden fear in her eyes. It was gone almost as quickly as it had come, her jaw tightening as she faced him down. Really, she was magnificent. There were flashes in the air around them, the click of cameras, and he wanted to groan as he remembered they were in the sights of the entirety of the Westminster press. At least they were out of reach of any microphones, he supposed. He leaned back, swallowing his anger, and nodded curtly.

“Good day, Miss French.”

He turned on his heel, Carrie side-eyeing him before following him to the car. Reporters clamoured, questions being fired at him, but he ignored them all, slipping onto the back seat and staring straight ahead as Carrie got in on the other side. The door closed with a heavy thump, and the sounds of the waiting press were cut off immediately. Thank God for armour plating.

“Well,” said Carrie, as the car pulled slowly away. “That was - bracing.”

She sounded highly amused, and he decided to change the subject before she could start teasing him.

“Who’s next?” he asked.

“Lunch first,” she said promptly. “Then I thought we might go through the Select Committee papers before tomorrow. And you have a four-thirty with the Chancellor.”

“Fine.”

Sutherland sat back as the car headed for Downing Street, trying to ignore his thumping heart. Miss French was a mouthy nuisance, to be sure, and he wanted to put her from his mind, but the encounter had made him feel more alive than he had in years.

The heavy tick of the clock on the wall showed that it was after ten, and Sutherland pinched the bridge of his nose to clear his eyes. A large tabby cat with white socks was settled comfortably on a pile of discarded papers to his left, purring contentedly. Arthur’s job was supposedly to catch mice, but he seemed to spend most of his time sleeping as far as Sutherland could tell. He didn’t mind that too much; he liked cats, and it was nice to have a little company in the evenings when he finally stopped working. He scratched Arthur’s ears, receiving a nuzzle in response, and set the final document aside just as Carrie entered. She had a glass of whisky in one hand, a pile of newspapers in the crook of her arm and a wide grin on her face.

“Well, at least you made the front page.”

She dropped the first editions of the next day’s papers on his desk, startling the cat into a standing position. He lashed his striped tail before settling down again, tucking his feet under as the top newspaper—a copy of The Sun—slithered off the pile into Sutherland’s hands. A picture took up almost the entire page, a close-up of he and Miss French practically nose to nose, glaring at one another with every ounce of the mutual disdain they could muster. The headline above, in thick red letters, shouted GET A ROOM!

Sutherland groaned under his breath as Carrie chortled, and despite himself he read the opening paragraphs of the drivel masquerading as an article. Sparks flew this afternoon outside the Houses of Parliament as Avonleigh’s stunning New Liberal MP Belle French went toe-to-toe with the PM! Petite brunette Belle (29) let Sutherland have it with both barrels! You could cut the sexual tension with a knife, and your Sun reporter wonders how they might break their deadlock outside of a bedroom! Policy difference or lovers’ tiff? See more on page 2! Pages 4 and 5: Belle French - bombshell or bitch?

He tossed the paper aside in disgust, and Carrie caught it, grinning at him.

“Now now,” she chided. “Don’t blame the press for the stories they cover.”

“It’s The Sun,” he growled. “One flash of a pretty woman’s legs and they collectively lose their tiny minds.”

“So, you think she’s pretty?”

“Please tell me she didn’t give an interview,” he sighed, ignoring her question.

“Not that I can see,” she said. “But the two of you made the front of every tabloid there is. Even pushed the latest horror story about a new Ice Age off page 1 of The Express.”

“Wonders will never cease,” he remarked.

“I expect she might use the sudden interest to publicise her concerns over Wolsingham, though.”

“Well, that can’t be helped,” he sighed. “It’s all gonna come out soon, anyway. However things go. Did we hear anything from DII?”

“Talks still ongoing with potential administrators.”

He grunted. Lengthy talks about financial viability never boded well, in his experience.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, looking the paper over. “They’re not wrong. You could cut the sexual tension with a knife.”

“Fuck’s sake, Carrie…”

“I’m teasing.” She rolled up the paper and swatted him with it. “I’m sure your intentions are completely honourable.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, hers might not be…”

“Can we leave Miss French out of this?” he snapped. “Is there any actual news I need to hear?”

“Apparently William Hill’s have slashed the odds on you getting married during this Parliament to seven to one.”

“Carrie!”

“Alright, fine!” she sighed. “The Guardian didn’t mention the spat; however, they have picked up on the precarious position of Wolsingham plc and are starting to put feelers out. You have a nine o’clock tomorrow with the Minister. There’s a briefing in the folder at the bottom of that pile.”

“Thank you.”

“The Telegraph, Independent and Financial Times are focusing on the prospective deal with the US, unsurprisingly,” she said. “I thought we might release the President’s proposed itinerary tomorrow.”

“Yes, fine,” he said absently. “Are we expecting any protests?”

Carrie snorted, setting down the glass of whisky.

“Since that bigoted, racist disaster was ousted and thrown in jail, public perception of the White House has improved greatly.”

“Not wholly surprising,” he remarked, and she nodded.

“A few small groups have requested permission to march,” she said. “Mainly pacifists, anti-capitalists and anti-pharma, nothing to cause any real disruption.”

“Fine,” he said, pushing the pile of newspapers away and sitting back in his chair. “Go on, get home. I’m sure Ursula would like to see some of you this week.”

“I’m sure she’d like to see all of me,” she said, with a wink. “Are you sure? I can stay if you need my input on anything.”

“Go home,” he said firmly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Don’t stay up all night. And try not to let the gutter press give you nightmares, hmm?”

“Would you bugger off before I change my mind?”

She swept out, chuckling, and he sighed, reaching for the glass of whisky she had brought him and sitting back in his chair. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break. There were some papers he wanted to look through, but nothing that needed his immediate attention. He sipped at the whisky, enjoying the smooth burn on his tongue, the warmth of good alcohol and the taste of honey, peat and smoke.

The image of Belle French kept swimming to the front of his mind, blue eyes sparking with anger and passion, and he scowled to himself, shoving the memory away. So what if she had intrigued him? She had all but accused him of impropriety in respect of a Government contractor. The fact that her claim was bollocks was beside the point; she had no business throwing around accusations with the press pack just out of reach. He recalled that Carrie had caught some of her campaign on a visit to Avonleigh, and had been impressed with the dedication and passion she had seen, but if Miss French was to succeed, she would need to learn to bend a little. She wouldn’t last long in Westminster if she couldn’t rein in her clearly impulsive nature. Her fellow MPs would soon steer her right.

He shook his head, wondering why he was wasting time thinking about her future. It wasn’t as though they would be working together, and she was on the Opposition benches, if not in the official party of Opposition, so hardly likely to be looking to him as a potential mentor. Even if she was, the woman was clearly wet behind the ears and he didn’t have the patience to deal with that level of inexperience. Besides, it was unlikely they would cross paths unless he wished it; as a new back-bencher she had been lucky to get to ask a question at PMQs. There would be no reason for him to have to endure her impertinence again.

He drank the last of the whisky, putting down the glass with a clunk and making the rare decision to go to bed at a reasonable hour. Arthur seemed to sense that he was making a move, and stood up, stretching paws in front of him and curling his tail over. Sutherland petted him, pushing back his chair and heading for the door, the cat sauntering in his wake as he prayed for a decent night’s sleep, free of dreams of fiery young blue-eyed goddesses with perfect lips.

#fic: honourable members #sutherelle fic #my fic #rumbelle fic #anyelle #sutherelle

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talkiermango502x · 6 years

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New chapter posted!

Chapter 9 of The Soul Mate Swap is up! Hope everyone enjoys it! Poor Natsu is having a rough go of it.

Link: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/11537861/9/The-Soul-Mate-Swap

Chapter 9

A/N: This chapter takes place at the same time as Chapter 1. It's only been a few months since Lisanna's death. This chapter coincides with Lucy's first Soul Mate Swap.

January 1, x784

It was a busy day at the Guild. Quite frankly, it was chaos every Soul Mate Swap.

Mira was racing back and forth, taking orders and filling drinks as fast as she could. Elfman was manning the grill, a steady string of curses grumbled under his breath. Gray was acting as bartender, looking as unfazed as always as he mixed drinks, ignoring the women who came to lean against the bar, hoping to catch his attention.

"Can I take your plates?" Natsu asked, not even waiting for a response as he yanked the plate away from a table full of boisterously loud men.

"We're not done!" one man shouted as Natsu walked away with his leftover French fries, but Natsu didn't pause to acknowledge him. He sat the plates in the sink with a little more force than what was necessary.

He returned to the dining area and weaved through the crowd to a table of gossiping teens. Ignoring their presence, he began wiping down the table.

"Hey!" One of the teens pounded her first on the table. "We're still sitting here!"

"You finished your food thirty minutes ago," Natsu said in a dead voice. "Now you're just taking a table away from someone who wants to eat."

The teen sneered, but the group got up and left, muttering about shitty customer service. But Natsu didn't care. He kept his back to them and continued cleaning, his face stony. He went back to the kitchen and sighed when he saw the overflowing sink full of dishes.

The clinking of dishes could be heard from the dining hall, causing Mira to shoot Gray a worried look. He just shrugged before he gave the cocktail he'd made to the flirty woman across the bar, and then walked into the kitchen. Elfman gave him a shrug when he walked by, not sure what had gotten into Natsu.

"You washing those dishes or breaking 'em?" Gray asked. He leaned against the door to the dish washing room, watching as Natsu practically slammed the plates down while washing them.

"Fuck off, Ice Breath," Natsu replied, not halting his work.

"Can you maybe take the attitude down a notch, jackass?" Gray snapped. "Mira and Elfman are working their asses off to keep this place running. No one needs your dramatics."

Natsu slammed a plate down, and then turned around to face the other man.

"What do you want from me?" Natsu growled back.

"Maybe be nicer to the customers and not kick them out of their table, huh? And maybe you shouldn't take their plates away while they're still fucking eating!" Gray said, his voice rising.

"Don't you have drinks to make? Just leave me the fuck alone."

Gray sighed. There was just no way to get through to this idiot.

"Just get your shit together Natsu," Gray said as he walked away.

Gray felt a little guilty. He knew Natsu wasn't handling Lisanna's death well, especially not tonight. In a few hours' time, the Soul Mate Swap would start. Gray didn't know what to expect. Lisanna had only passed away a few months ago. Gray snorted to himself as he continued mixing drinks. Natsu had always been emotionally constipated. It was no wonder he'd rather slam plates and pick fights with customer than just address his feelings, Gray thought to himself. He worried about tonight. How would Natsu handle his first Soul Mate Swap without Lisanna?

Near the end of Natsu's shift, Mira came to find him. She looked nervous as she approached him where he was washing dishes.

"What are you doing tonight?" Mira asked in a hesitant voice.

Natsu just shrugged.

"Laxus is having a party if you want to come along," Mira offered. "We'd love to see you. Gray said he might be there too."

Natsu made the mistake of looking into those pleading blue eyes and couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. He knew he'd been avoiding, well, everyone if he were honest. But he'd particularly tried to avoid Mira and Elfman. It was only out of financial desperation that he even returned to work at the Guild. He heaved a sigh.

"Sure," he said. "Might as well."

"Great!" Mira said excitedly and gave Natsu a quick hug. "I'll see you then." She smiled sweetly at Natsu before returning to the bar.

Natsu sighed for probably the hundredth time that day. It was going to be a long night.

When Natsu arrived at the party, it was in full swing. Music poured out of the house, blasting some terrible music Laxus had no doubt picked out. Natsu rolled his eyes. The guy really had terrible taste in music. He cringed at the screaming voice coming from the speakers.

Mira enveloped Natsu in a long hug as soon as he arrived, going on about how much she'd missed having him around. She was eventually dragged away from Laxus, who didn't waste words on Natsu, only giving him a nod in greeting. He couldn't really expect more from Laxus. The two of them had had a "friendly" feud going since Natsu was a kid. While they were practically family, that didn't stop Natsu from always picking fights with the elder (and always getting his ass handed to him).

Natsu weaved his way through the crowd, being greeted here and there by friends and classmates. He didn't have the energy to provide much in the way of conversation. He checked his watch. About two hours until the Soul Mate Swap. He felt a knot in his stomach. What would happen? Would he swap with someone? He still struggled to wrap his head around the fact that he and Lisanna were not destined soul mates. He couldn't imagine loving anyone but her. It felt like a betrayal to her memory to even consider it. She had chosen him, right? That night that felt so long ago. Natsu felt a pang in his chest as he remembered.

Finding a spread of alcohol and food in the kitchen, Natsu quickly helped himself. He poured himself a shot of something, grimacing when he realized it was some sort of cotton candy vodka and didn't burn as much as he'd been hoping for. He browsed through the drinks, taking a shot here and there.

All the while, his thoughts circled around Lis. She had dragged him to so many parties just like this one. Why wasn't she here now? He should be swapping with her tonight, he thought dismally. Hell, he should have swapped with her a year ago. He never did find out who her bastard soul mate was. He downed another shot, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"You keep up like that and you won't make it to midnight," a flirty voice said behind him.

Natsu spared a glance at the girl who had come up to stand close beside him, a coy smile on her face.

"That's the point," Natsu replied dismissively.

"Why don't you come drink with me and my friends?" the girl asked, eyeing him appreciatively. Natsu felt a twinge of irritation.

"Nah," Natsu replied, shrugging off her hand. He didn't even look away from the alcohol.

The girl scoffed.

"Suit yourself," she replied and wandered off.

The party went on, with Natsu downing drinks as quickly as he could get his hands on them. Gray showed up at some point and promptly picked a fight with Natsu. Mira was kept busy trying to keep the alcohol out of Natsu's hands and to keep him from actually battling Gray, but he was too determined. Mira just shook her head. At least he was out of his apartment, right? She wondered. This didn't really count as drinking alone, she tried to convince herself. Natsu is just…drinking himself into oblivion…alone… on a couch… at a party where he refuses to talk to anyone, Mira thought. She couldn't even convince herself that this was any sort of improvement. She instructed Laxus to keep an eye on him as much as he could. Laxus just grumbled. Natsu could get downright belligerent if anyone tried to interfere with his drinks.

Natsu was lying full-length on the couch, head leaning over the side as he tried to quell the nausea in his stomach. The crowd in the living room was chanting something he couldn't quite make out. The room was spinning. He was just thinking he should make his way to a bathroom or a sink or even a trash can when he suddenly felt a mysterious, intense pressure on his body, making him dry heave.

The next moment, he blinked to find himself standing in a crowd on what appeared to be a pier by the ocean. The air was salty, the breeze chilly, but it felt good. Natsu looked around curiously, noting that his nausea was gone, replaced instead by what felt like butterflies in his (well, his soul mate's) stomach. Around him was generalized chaos. There were a couple of girls standing beside him, but all three took off running in opposite directions. Many other people were running around as well. Some couples were kissing or hugging. Natsu snorted as he saw one of the girls quite skillfully climbing a flag pole, laughing uproariously. Huh. It was fascinating to him that she hadn't fallen flat on her ass.

Something fell in Natsu's face and he flinched before realizing it was his soul mate's long, golden hair. How troublesome, he thought as it whipped around him in the breeze. He kept trying to shove it out of his face but it stuck to something sticky on his lips. What was that? Lip gloss? Hmm, tastes fruity, he thought, licking the substance curiously.

Natsu shivered lightly and looked down curiously to find his soul mate was wearing a skirt. Natsu himself usually ran on the warm side and rarely experienced cold. But it was clear his soul mate wasn't dressed for the weather. He shook his head. He crossed his arms, trying to warm himself slightly. He wondered how long it had been and searched the girl's pockets until he found a phone. The picture on the screen was of a small, white dog. The clock on the screen didn't show the seconds, so he slipped the device back into his pocket. He sighed and looked around at the ocean beside them. He briefly wondered what city they were in. It looked rather familiar. Was this Hargeon or was he still in Magnolia? He looked around for some sort of indicator, but didn't find an answer.

Just as quickly as it had happened before, he felt a sudden, intense pressure return followed by roiling nausea and dizziness. Man, he'd forgotten the state of his own body. He found himself on the floor, dry heaving and coughing heavily from the intense nausea. Seated on the couch opposite him, Natsu saw Laxus staring at him with a furrowed brow as if thinking hard about something.

....

To read the rest of the chapter, please view it here: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/11537861/9/The-Soul-Mate-Swap

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gethealthy18-blog · 5 years

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What Your Zodiac Sign Says About Your Style

New Post has been published on http://healingawerness.com/getting-healthy/getting-healthy-women/what-your-zodiac-sign-says-about-your-style/

What Your Zodiac Sign Says About Your Style

Nooraine Hyderabd040-395603080 August 20, 2019

We all have a fashion freak inside of us. You could be going bonkers over the latest trends, or you have your set eyes on something classic from your mum’s wardrobe. They say that your zodiac sign decides what’s in store for you – from your relationships to your career to, most importantly, your sense of style.

Be it the crazy, wild Libra woman to the passionate and fierce Taurus, we have analyzed the personal style of every woman of the zodiac.

Curious to find out what your zodiac sign says about your sense of style? Let’s dive in to see how you can create some chic outfits that reflect your zodiac sign and define your personality!

How To Dress Like Your Zodiac Sign

There is a strong link between fashion and zodiac signs. This article will explore how you can and play around with color, detailing, layers, and accessories to style yourself based on your zodiac.

ARIES

March 21 – April 19

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Aries women are quite the risk-takers and don’t lack excitement. Even though you are weak for the classic style, it’s never too hard for you to sport some comfortable and funky streetwear.

Style Qualities

You have a deep love for all things classic and carry them off with grace. From maxi dresses to trench coats, you love nothing more than a timeless outfit. At the same time, you do not shy away from accessorizing with junk jewelry or opting for a comfortable pair of jeans and boots. You are the perfect combination of girl-next-door and a classy woman.

Strengths

Challenge seeker

Independent

Assertive

Likes: Comfortable clothes, privacy, spending quality time with friends and family, playing and watching sports.

TAURUS

April 20 – May 20

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You exude confidence, loyalty, and ambition. There could be nothing more apt to represent your zodiac sign than the bull. You adore simplicity but also love bold accessories and jackets.

Style Qualities

A fashion-forward aesthetic soul – that is what you are, dear Taurus woman. Your wardrobe is mainly filled with basic tees and bold-colored jeans. You love pairing pretty floral scarves with bold accessories. You swear by pastel shades. Be it Tiffany blue, powder pink, pastel yellow, or shades of brown, you are a sucker for them all.

Strengths

Emotional maturity

Ambition

Loyalty

Likes: Good food and occasional drinks, active social life, music, security, and stability.

GEMINI

May 21 – June 20

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A mix of yin and yang, you know how to look at both sides of the spectrum. You are blessed with a creative mind and a strong imagination and never let yourself get bored. The attention you get when your outfit is on point makes you feel confident and wanted.

Style Qualities

You absolutely hate wearing the same outfit twice. And if you do, you team it up with something that makes it look completely different. You are a fan of experimenting with new pieces to see what works for you.

Strengths

Smart and inquisitive

Passionate lover

Can smell bullshit from a mile away

Likes: Spontaneous plans, sarcasm, exploring new places, and books.

CANCER

June 21 – July 22

Hi there, over-thinker. You love hugs, don’t you? You are calm and observant. If people think you are unusually quiet, it is probably because you’ve zoned out. Dressing up, even for the most casual events, makes you happy.

Style Qualities

A massive hoodie and sneaker collector. You love outfits that keep you cozy but still look feminine. It is a well-known fact that you are a sucker for shades of gray, white, and olive green. You cannot do without your favorite accessory – shades. You adore watches and striped T-shirts as well.

Strengths

Affectionate

Adaptable

Romantic

Likes: Being alone, cuddles, TV shows, wine, and cheese.

LEO

July 23 – August 22

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You are both strong and harsh yet sensitive and empathetic. You are a notorious bee that likes to buzz around, spreading good vibes. You don’t always mean to, but you have a knack for attracting attention. Your creativity and wild personality never cease to amaze people, and this shows in your sense of style.

Style Qualities

Guess who has a sweet spot for tank tops? You love a casual outfit but like to keep things interesting. Satin tank tops, jean shorts, and mini skirts are your favorite go-to outfits. Your most prized accessories are watches and sunglasses. They make you look hot and smart at the same time.

Strengths

Honesty

Never backs down from a good challenge

Unemotional

Likes: Keeping your circle small, going on adventures, handling your own issues, pop-rock music, and bacon.

VIRGO

August 23 – September 22

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Your best friend is music, and you are anything but a people-pleaser. You tend to get very empathetic and emotional, and that’s what separates you from the rest. You hustle to get what you want. When styling an outfit, you love experimenting with the silhoutte. You also have a special place in your heart for kimonos.

Style Qualities

A kimono paired with sneakers makes you feel happy. You value comfort, and most days, you opt for shorts and tanks. Your wardrobe is also filled with outfits with interesting and unique silhouettes.

Strengths

Realistic

Trustworthy

Observant

Likes: Books, coffee, nature, and napping.

LIBRA

September 23 – October 23

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When someone tells you not to do something, you do it twice and take pictures! Stubborn, crazy, and filled with a lust for life – that’s what you are, Libra girl. Being an active talker and a social butterfly, you love surrounding yourself with people you adore. Your sense of style is a mirror of this entertaining personality.

Style Qualities

You are a complete freak for crop tops, shorts, and palazzo pants. You love having your outfit speak for itself. You rock in pretty summer dresses and classic maxi gowns. You love accessorizing with shades, watches, and belts. You are a fan of boots too.

Strengths

Good judgment

Will not take crap from anyone

Street smart

Likes: Being in a relationship, coffee, spontaneous plans, and partying.

SCORPIO

October 24 – November 21

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Look who we have here. It’s little Miss Perfect! You are always one to plan everything to perfection. Scorpios cannot stand being unorganized. You make it very easy for everyone to love you, and you can never stay mad at anyone for too long.

Style Qualities

Scorpios adore formals. From pencil skirts to collared shirts, you love it all. It gives you a sense of strength and confidence. Another thing that gives you life when you dress up is makeup. You love enhancing your eyes with kohl, mascara, and eyeshadow. It adds mystery to your personality and spices up your outfit.

Strengths

Self-dependent

Unapologetic

Humorous

Likes: Being dominant in most situations, tea, a good gossip session, and sarcasm.

SAGITTARIUS

November 22 – December 21

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You may be funny and gullible on the outside, but on the inside, you feel emotions deeply and are pretty sensitive. Your mood swings can give anybody a whiplash. You go from 0 to 100 real quick, and it is hard to keep up with you. Your wardrobe mainly consists of pieces that bring you comfort and warmth.

Style Qualities

On most days, you opt for feminine cardigans, sweatshirts, and hoodies. You love sticking to basic polo T-shirts. For a Sagittarius, comfort is key. You like to keep your outfit neat, basic, and pleasant. You seek peace in your clothes, and sweaters offer you just that.

Strengths

Passionate about your feelings

Not afraid to be unique

Goal-driven

Likes: Sitting by yourself, drinking coffee, reading books, romantic-comedy movies, and ice-cream.

CAPRICORN

December 22 – January 19

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You either eat too much or sleep too much. Capricorns are like the human version of pandas – cute and cuddly. You live inside your head more than in the outside world. You tend to shut people out if they break your trust. Your dressing style is the ultimate embodiment of sophistication and poise.

Style Qualities

You are a huge shoe collector. Your love for shoe makes you experiment with new pairs frequently. Mules, sneakers, wedges – name it, and you’ve got it! Capricorns have a sweet spot for floral blouses and V-neck tops.

Strengths

Determined

Competitive

Sophisticated

Likes: Binge-watching movies, napping, shopping, and traveling solo.

AQUARIUS

January 20 – February 18

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You are that sweetpea who wants to do good to everybody. You love the idea of independence so much that you never let anybody help you solve your problems. You give your all to everything you do. You love pastel hues that add a soft aura to match your personality.

Style Qualities

You happen to love shades of blue. And why not? You are the water-bearer of the zodiac. From camisoles to flowy blouses and dresses, you carry them all off with elegance and femininity.

Strengths

Approachable

You tend to think five steps ahead at all times

Emotional maturity

Likes: Living on your own terms, music, impromptu adventure trips, and swimming.

PISCES

February 19 – March 20

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Nothing about you is common or ordinary. You tend to come across as fierce but also have an adorable side to you. You don’t trust people easily and often hide your pain. You like to socialize, and your vibe is nothing but entertaining and happy. Your wardrobe is comprised of everything that makes you feel alive and happy.

Style Qualities

You don’t think too much about shopping for specific brands. If it looks good on you, you go for it. You tend to gravitate toward tank tops. You prefer shorts over jeans and accessorizing with caps and shades. You like keeping the vibe of your outfit fun, adventurous, and crazy.

Strengths

Finds joy in small things

An eye for detail

Progressive

Likes: Originality, baking, artwork, and long drives at night.

Each of these zodiac signs has a fun and exciting sense of style. Glam up your wardrobe according to your zodiac sign to look your best! Have any more questions about dressing according to your sun sign? Leave them in the comments section below, and we’ll get back to you.

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Source: https://www.stylecraze.com/articles/zodiac-sign-style/

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divorceyourring · 6 years

Text

Why I Need My School Mom Tribe · Divorced Moms

For me, single Mom survival wouldn’t be possible without my school Mom tribe.

It happened again last night.

I looked at the upcoming week and wondered how I would make it to Friday. Two nights of soccer practice. One night of gymnastics. Five nights of dinner to plan and make and clean up from.

Four nights of homework.

Five days of lunches to pack for three kids who won’t eat cafeteria food.

School picture forms to fill out and uniforms to iron.

Two class Halloween parties to coordinate. Not to mention that little thing that I do during the day called work.

The excitement of the first day of school has faded and the reality of the work-school-sports-homework juggle with three kids has set in. And when you are the only adult in the house like I am, it can also be the time of year when you are one missing cleat away from losing your mind in a way not even a Pumpkin Spice Latte can fix.

Most days, despite the odds, four of us are out the door to school drop-off and work on time. Lunches are in backpacks and permission slips are signed. I cook dinner and we get through soccer practice and gymnastics and bed time with only a few tears (mostly mine).

I have come a long way from that newly-divorced, mom of three-kids-under-five, who barely crawled into a laundry-free bed at night.

So how do we make it work, especially when I don’t have family nearby to help?

Some days, I have no idea. And other days, it doesn’t. But on the days that it does, it’s often thanks to a group of women in my life: my School Mom Tribe.

This is not the kind of group who does Girls’ Nights or brunches or weekends away together. They weren’t there when my kids were born or when my marriage fell apart. I don’t call them to vent when I’ve had a long day. My School Mom Tribe is the group who sends me a copy of the spelling words when I spill coffee on them the night before the test.

Who offers to carpool to the birthday party when I can’t be in two places at once. Who sends me pictures of my kids at school events and field trips when I have to work. Who texts to ask what I actually need for that classroom Halloween party instead of just sending in napkins.

If you’re picturing a group of parents standing around gossiping at drop off each day or a bunch of hovering, helicopter parents, think again. You won’t find us with perfect blow outs, wearing matching yoga pants, micro-managing our child’s every move and baking intricate afterschool snacks each day.

In fact, you’re more likely to see us dressed for work, dashing out of the school parking lot to make a 9:00 a.m. meeting. We are working parents. We are married and single and divorced and remarried. We live in big houses and small houses and apartments. We are different ages (though my daughter proudly informed me last week that she won a “who-has-the-oldest-mom contest” with her friends).

Some of us have only children and some of us have four. We send in delicious cookies from the grocery store and we send in Pinterest treats, too. But we have one important thing in common: our kids.

I didn’t always have a School Mom Tribe. When my daughter started kindergarten, I didn’t know any parents at her school. And I managed to keep it that way for the entire year. I didn’t talk to anyone at pick up; I didn’t volunteer or join the PTO.

I honestly can’t even remember sending anything in for class parties. It was the year I filed for divorce and there was no energy left to make new connections. Everything was just so hard.

When she started first grade, though, I decided it would be different. I didn’t have more time than I did the year before, but I needed to make connections. We needed to be more connected. We needed a school community.

So I showed up. I volunteered to be room parent, which led to emails with other parents, which to led chatting at drop off and pick up. Eventually, I started hosting movie nights and group activities at our small house on a Dollar Store budget. Everyone in the class was welcome (which, thankfully, was possible with a small class size). It gave the kids a chance to connect outside of school and the parents a way to get to know each other, too.

Slowly, a group started to form. We would visit at birthday parties or soccer games and text to set up play dates. Then, came the social media connections and glimpses into our lives outside of the school parking lot.

“Love M’s new haircut!”

“Aww… A was such a cute baby!”

By the time our kids were in second grade, a group message began and our safety net took shape.

“Hey, does anyone know if tomorrow is a dress down day?”

“Is the field trip form due this week?”

“What time does the costume parade start?”

My School Mom Tribe understands the juggle. They do the same balancing act that I do. They are trying to find a way to make it to the meeting at work and to the Color Run at school. They want to remember when the permission slips are due and when it’s Crazy Hair Day.

Knowing that there are other women whom I can rely on when life is overwhelming often means the difference between feeling like I’m not enough and feeling like I’ll make it to June in one piece.

Here’s the best part about our School Mom Tribe: it is open to anyone.

Your son goes to school here, too? You’re in.

Come sit next to me at the school concert.

You can’t be at the concert because you have to work? Don’t worry. I’ll text you a video.

We are in this together. The School Mom Tribe has my back and they are happy to have yours, too. If you want to see what women supporting women looks like, come sit with us.

Maybe you’re reading this and thinking, The parents at my school are too cliquey or judgey or unfriendly. Or I want to be part of a group, but I just don’t have time or energy to make this work. I know. I’m a working, single mom to three kids, including twin boys. I didn’t have the time or energy either. I am not naturally outgoing. And, yes, it can be intimidating to start a conversation with parents whom you don’t know well.

It took time and effort and energy, but trying to connect was worth it for me. And if you are wondering just how you will make it through another school year, it might be worth it for you, too.

What is there to lose by asking “How are you?” while waiting in the pick-up line. Or by sending a quick email to classroom parent offering cookies (the grocery store kind) for the holiday party. Or by following another parent’s business on Instagram and liking a post about her work.

It just takes one little step and before long, the small conversations could turn into longer chats at school functions. And then, one day, a parent might message you a picture of your child at the birthday party you missed because it wasn’t your weekend.

Slowly, you might feel less alone in the School Year Shuffle. And on the days when it feels like you don’t have enough hands, you will.

My School Mom Tribe has saved me more than once.

They have carpooled with me so that my daughter could be at a school rehearsal at the same time my boys had to be at a birthday party.

They have stayed when I’ve hosted drop-off parties to help me manage sugar-crazed kids and clean-up afterward.

They have texted me things like, “You’ve got this!” at precisely the moment where it doesn’t feel like I do. And we have sat together at more school functions than I can count, making things like freezing at a Friday night football game fun.

Is having a School Tribe the only way to make single-parenting work? Of course not. And if this is not for you, that’s fine.

But it is for me.

My School Mom Tribe is not a group of friends that likely would have formed in high school or college. We are as different as our children are.

We are friends because our children happened to be in the same class at school.

And I am grateful that we are.

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