#its like bringing store bought shit to a craft fair

[bananonbinary]

maybe im just a grump but honestly i treat stuff i dont want on ao3 with a very "i do not see it" kinda attitude. like, yeah, i think trollfics are annoying, and a friend made a strong case recently for why it's not really an appropriate place for ai-generated stuff either but like. any time i see something like that my response is "damn that's annoying" and then i ignore it.

there's very occasionally been like, actual campaigns to annoy users (like that time assholes put like 300 tags on all their trollfics to "protest"(?) something??), and in those cases i'll actually bother to report people, but if its only like 2 people that annoy me i don't see much point. they can go be annoying out of my sight i dont care.

[secretsickysideblog]

dumb lucky

"“you know my favorite color?” bucciarati slurs, brows furrowing. “anyway, it also came in purple, and black, and ivory, so I bought all of them, and uh…” “that’s cute,” bucciarati smiles, and abbacchio nearly dies at the way he looks while smiling unabashedly, weak as it may be right now. “you know my favorite color.”'

a mission takes bucciarati and abbacchio all the way to a town in piedmont where bucciarati finds himself fever-riddled in the midst of a snowstorm. abbacchio finds silver linings.

(sicktember day 1 - fever)

read under the cut!

It’s only tradition for things to go wrong for Passione. 

Well, perhaps that’s a lie--normally, they get dumb lucky. But this means that when things go wrong, they go incredibly wrong in multiple ways at once. It’s only fair for the amount of times the gang has narrowly escaped death by the skin of their teeth. And Abbacchio is grateful that neither he nor Bucciarati are running the risk of death right now; it could be much, much worse.

But this mission could certainly be going much better. After all, Abbacchio never thought he’d be buying fever reducers in a little town in Piedmont, Italy as a part of the job of Neapolitan Mafioso. He hadn’t expected to be led all the way to Piedmont in the first place. 

Easy mission my ass, Giovanna, he laments internally, rolling his eyes as he compares the prices between on and off-brand fever reducers. Abbacchio doesn’t usually bother to buy things like this, but Bucciarati’s fever--yes, a fever that had managed to swell up to a whopping 39 degrees overnight while on a mission--definitely needs to be treated. 

He settles on both bottles, and he grabs a pack of water bottles, too. Abbacchio peruses the shelves, considering what else Bucciarati might need. He’d rather not come trudging out through this snow again if he could help it; it started coming down last night and hasn’t shown any sign of stopping since. He grabs another thermometer, a can of soup, and he’s about to head to the register when he spots something else that catches his eye.

It’s a large blanket in blue--Bucciarati’s favorite shade of blue (not that Abbacchio bothers to remember things like his Capo’s favorite color), and god, does it look soft. His gaze wanders to the window. Snow falls in clumps, kicked up into a white mist by the wind, and Abbacchio could shiver just looking at it. He does shiver thinking about the short walk back to the motel through that storm. 

Abbacchio sighs, runs his fingertips over the inviting fleece. A blanket couldn’t hurt. 

He grabs it and tucks it under the arm without the basket only to spot that there’s another of the same in purple. And another, in ivory? Abbacchio isn’t someone tempted by luxuries, but blankets in the cold seem like a necessity. 

So he picks up both. Because Bucciarati has to sweat out the fever anyway, right? He’s too out of it to be angry, anyway. 

Abbacchio lugs the three heavy blankets and the basket of various other supplies to the register, fishing around in his pocket for his wallet. The cashier looks over his selection as she rings up and bags each object, smiling fondly. 

“Taking good care of someone, I see.”

Abbacchio huffs, lips quirking upward to a ghost of a smile. “Yeah, I guess I am. It’s about time he lets me.” 

“These blankets are on sale, you know. Buy one and the other is half-off,” and, in an expertly-crafted manner of egging him into it, the cashier finishes her sell with, “Everyone loves a good blanket. Perfect to cuddle up under.”

Abbacchio doesn’t anticipate growing the balls to ‘cuddle-up’ with Bucciarati, but something about the idea sways him into it. He stares at the blanket shelf in consideration for a long moment before giving in and grabbing a fourth, this one in black. 

The cashier is, clearly, proud of herself. Abbacchio can’t find it in himself to get as annoyed by this as usual. He did fall for her marketing scheme, after all. Can’t bitch about it if he gave in. 

Altogether, he walks out of the store with five bags slung on his arms, four of which are occupied by heavy fleece and tied off to avoid any of the snowfall. His boots feel like weights as he trudges through planes of muddy white, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck. His hands are freezing--he wishes he’d bought gloves. 

When he finally returns to the motel room, Bucciarati is curled up on the bed. He looks just about the same as he did when Abbacchio left which is, admittedly, like shit. His hair, lacking its typical braid, fell in uneven layers wherever it wasn’t sticking to sweat-soaked skin. The only real color in his face is across his cheeks in bright, splotchy red, and though his eyes are closed now, they’ve been glazed over all morning. 

Abbacchio shakes his head in disapproval, wondering how Bucciarati managed to just ignore this, because he knows damn well it didn’t just spark overnight. He must’ve been feeling at least vaguely unwell before they’d embarked on this (unexpectedly) lengthy journey. Abbacchio tells himself, as he has every time he starts thinking about how his Capo sucks at self-care, that he’ll just bitch at him about it later; criticizing a sick person is mean, and besides, there’s not enough cognizance in his fever-addled head to comprehend annoyance right now anyway. 

He unties his scarf, shrugs off his coat, and unbags the items on the small coffee table in the room. Bucciarati stirs into half-lucidity, as told by the mix of a groan and a whine that slips from him after a bit of shifting around. Abbacchio looks over to him, seeing his hazy blues blink open, and he immediately grabs the bottle of fever reducers to force down his throat now while he’s just awake enough to swallow and not awake enough to protest.

“Here,” he holds out a bottle of water and two of the pills for Bucciarati to take, which he does after taking a second to process the command. He moves sluggishly, but he manages to get the pills down and put the water bottle on the nightstand. Abbacchio feels his forehead with the back of his hand, frowning at how much he’s burning still.

He goes to pull away. Bucciarati doesn’t let him, grabbing his wrist and holding his hand there.

“What are you doing?”

“Cold,” he mumbles, letting his eyes flutter closed again. “Feels nice.”

Abbacchio opens his mouth, closes it. Thanks the lord above that Bucciarati can’t see the way his cheeks heat up as though he’s contracted a fever. After a moment of hesitance, Abbacchio brings both of his hands up to cup Bucciarati’s cheeks, and the other man sighs contentedly. 

“Well, if it’s cold you want, maybe you should go take a nap in the snow,” Abbacchio jokes.

“Hm,” Bucciarati takes a breath. “Perhaps I should.” 

Abbacchio stares down at Bucciarati. At the way his eyelashes, dark and thick, fan out across his cheeks. At his lips, still pretty and pink and miraculously not very chapped. Even now, sick as a dog, Bucciarati is gorgeous. Abbacchio could watch him forever, he’s sure, but then he realizes how creepy he’s being and abruptly pulls away. Bucciarati’s eyes open with a dejected look to them, and Abbacchio reminds himself that it’s not because it’s his hands, it’s because his hands are cold and Bucciarati is delusional with fever.

“Uh, so, I got you two kinds of fever reducer, and you’re gonna take it whether you like it or not,” Abbacchio starts to say, clearing his throat. Bucciarati hums, half-listening. “I got water. A can of soup, if you get hungry, but since you just woke up I’m sure you’re not yet.”

Bucciarati doesn’t respond, so Abbacchio assumes he’s right. He’ll make him eat something later. 

“And,” Abbacchio unties the other four bags, “I know you’re not looking to get warmer, but fevers have to be sweat out, right? I got blankets. They were on sale.”

Bucciarati almost whines, though it’s quiet, subtle. Abbacchio opts to ignore it, because it does nothing good for his heart. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but look, it’s your favorite color,” Abbacchio holds up the blanket in proud display. Bucciarati looks at it, but it’s clear that he’s not fully seeing it. 

“You know my favorite color?” Bucciarati slurs, brows furrowing.

“Anyway, it also came in purple, and black, and ivory, so I bought all of them, and uh…”

“That’s cute,” Bucciarati smiles, and Abbacchio nearly dies at the way he looks while smiling unabashedly, weak as it may be right now. “You know my favorite color.” 

Abbacchio takes the tags off the plush fabric and chucks it at Bucciarati. Bucciarati, as expected, makes no move to catch it. It takes him a minute to slip the fleece off of his head and onto his lap. This process is repeated four more times as a mountain of plush fabric piles up on the bed--the singular bed, which Abbacchio would be incredibly nervous about if this was a year ago, but they’ve been stuck in the ‘unfortunate’ one-bed scenario too many times for him to care anymore. 

“This is...so many,” Bucciarati murmurs, staring down at the pile. He runs his thumb along the hem of the blue one. “They are soft, though.”

“I don’t know if you can feel how cold it is in here, much less out there,” Abbacchio gestures towards the storm just beyond the windows, “but we needed them. I don’t know how long we’re gonna be stuck here, between your fever and the bastard we’re after.”

Bucciarati nods, absently petting the blankets. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Falling ill,” Bucciarati says it like it’s the most obvious reason to apologize in the world. “We’re stuck here. It’s my fault.”

Abbacchio rolls his eyes. “Stop apologizing for things you can’t control.”

Bucciarati looks like he wants to protest, but then his expression turns confused as if his own thought process doesn’t make sense to him anymore. Abbacchio snorts at the sight and shakes his head before climbing into bed beside the other man and urging him to lay back down.

“I’m all sweaty.”

“I don’t care,” Abbacchio pulls one of the many blankets around them up to his shoulders, and another about halfway above that. He lets Bucciarati kick the others aside. “You’re warm, and I’m cold. I’m finding silver linings.”

Bucciarati chuckles a little. If he were any more coherent, he’d make a joke about Abbacchio’s usual pessimistic cynicism being an act; the latter is almost grateful, at that thought, for the fever. The wind howls outside as the storm picks up. It’s definitely not an ideal situation, but it could be much worse.

Bucciarati turns to nuzzle his face into the crook of Abbacchio’s neck. Tentatively, Abbacchio wraps an arm around him.

Maybe this was just dumb luck in disguise. 

[thiswasinevitableid]

71. you’re famous and you want to hide out in my bookstore which is fine except the stupid paparazzi won’t leave and now there’s a photo of us in the tabloids and they’re printing misinformation and why the fuck won’t you clear this up on your twitter account

Sternclay, NSFW, please!

Here you go! Let's end this round of meet uglies with a bang

The post-holiday slump is always the worst; everyone maxed out their credit cards last month and doesn’t want to buy anything, and the tourists won’t be back until the spring. It’s not that he’s concerned about keeping the lights on; Bookworms is popular and has a prime spot downton. It’s that he’s bored out of his mind.

All his orders for the day are in, everything’s been received and shelved, and he’s running out of things to tidy. If he’s lucky, the clouds that have been threatening a snowstorm since this morning will burst and drive some people to shelter among the stacks.

Dingdong

Thank the lord.

“Welcome to Bookworms, can I help you?”

The man stays by the door, peering through the glass onto the street while pulling off his beanie, “Huh? Oh, uh, nope, just coming in to, uh, get out of the cold.” He turns, and two realizations slap Joseph in the face.

One: this is the hottest man he has ever had the pleasure of seeing.

Two: He’s seen this man dozens of times, just never in person.

Barclay Cobb is a Food Network darling who got his start on Youtube, sharing recipes from vintage cookbooks he found at garage sales. That’s not why he’s starstruck, but it is probably why the taller man is hiding in the craft books alcove and keeps nervously looking his way.

“I won’t tell anyone you’re here, Mr. Cobb.”

“Phew” the man sighs, unzips his jacket, “thanks man. Thought I’d be bundled up enough that no one would spot me while I was out, but I didn’t get my hat on in time coming out of the Chinese place down the block.”

“I love that spot, they have the best beer-braised duck.”

“Yeah, I always stop by when I’m in town, they’re food is worth getting photographed for.”

It’s odd, everything he’s read suggests chef Cobb is friendly and warm when approached by fans in public.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate that people like my shows but, I, uh, sometimes I just want to eat or walk down the street without someone taking pictures of me.”

“Do you want to head into the back sections? There’s no windows in that half of the store.”

“Sweet, thanks. Uh, would it be cool if I autographed any books of mine you have? I like doing that, means I can send a little business towards smaller stores.”

“Of course. Here, the cookbooks are on this wall.” He slips into his office to grab a sharpie while Barclay pulls a stack of books and sits down on the floor. As the scratching of the pen fills the air, Joseph takes a trip to the paranormal and occult section, coming back with three copies of The Case for Bigfoot.”

“Y’know, not everyone stocks these.” Barclay smiles as he adds the paperbacks to the pile.

“Which is terrible business; you’re just as famous in the cryptozoology community as you are in the foodie one. This is the best book on bigfoot ever written, and I should know; I run a, um, a blog where I review books on paranormal topics.”

“You a true believer?” The cook blows on his signature in the copy of Desserts for All Seasons

“More an optimistic skeptic; your book is perfect because you make your case using actual evidence instead of reporting the same ten, poorly verified stories that everyone includes in their books. And I appreciated that you included recipes from the places you visited; that was a very nice touch.”

“Funny story about that” Barclay freezes as the front door opens. There’s definitely more than one person coming in, and when Joseph pokes his head around the corner he sees fifteen people, all with cameras or phones.

“Shit. You might want to hide in my office for a few minutes.”

By the time the crowd reaches him, Joseph is almost done re-shelving the signed books.

“Good afternoon, let me know if you need help finding anything.”

“Uh, yeah, we do, someone saw Barclay Cobb in your store-”

“Strange, we’ve only had one customer” he winces as someone’s shoulder knocks a hardcover off its display, “I didn’t get a good look at them before they went downstairs.” He tips his head at the staircase to the YA and Graphic Novel sections and is promptly knocked into the shelf as the throng hurries away.

“Come on, I can get you out through the back door” Joseph whispers to the Red Dust on his Soul poster on his office door. Barclay is remarkably quiet for a man his size as they sneak across the floor and let frigid, January air rush into the store.

“Thanks man” Barclay whispers, “I owe you one.” He sets a big hand on Joseph’s shoulder, squeezes it with a wink, then pulls on his hat and disappears into a crowd coming off at the bus stop.

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

Joseph always comes in through the back, flipping on lights as he goes, so the sea of bodies pressed to the front windows like a zombie horde surprises him. He knows Barclay tweeted about the signed copies, but this seems like excessive excitement even for a celebrity chef.

“Morning, Joseph--whoa, what the heck?” Aubrey clocks in without taking her eyes off the crowd, “why is everyone here this early.”

“Fan culture. I think.” The registers finish waking up, “I’ll pay holiday rates if you open that door for me.”

Aubrey gives a thumbs up, unlocks the double doors, and is swallowed up so quickly he worries she might have been trampled until she emerges near the greeting cards. Some people swarm the cookbooks, but an alarming number cluster around the counter, all shouting for his attention.

“How long have you been seeing Chef Cobb?”

“What?, I, I’m not-”

“Does he often visit your store?”

“No! He just came by yesterday!” There’s a horrible clatter of all the books on display near the door taking each other out like dominoes.

“Do you fuck in the backroom all the time?”

“Oh come on” He pushes past the man who asked that, deals with shouting all the way to his office and slams the door. A quick Google search for “Barclay Cobb” brings up a blurry photo of them in the alley, Barclays hand on his shoulder, and multiple headlines speculating on why the reclusive chef and author has chosen a nobody bookstore employee (he’s the owner, damn it) as his lover.

Okay, there’s a logical, easy fix to this.

He opens the door enough to speak, whistles so everyone will be quiet and listen to him, “I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. Mr. Cobb isn’t in any kind of relationship with me; he just came into the store yesterday for some peace and quiet. So, if you’re looking for information about him, this is not the place for it. If you’re looking for the signed books, the cookbooks are there, and the paranormal section is just around that corner.” He gives his best customer service smile as the paparazzi exchange perplexed glances.

“...Is it true he bought you this store?”

“Wh--no! We rent this space.”

“From him?”

“Arggh!” He closes the door, slumps against it and cards his fingers through his hair. As he contemplates closing for the day, he spots a little, copper card on his desk. It’s Barclay’s, which is what he expected, but when he flips it over there’s a message scribbled in pen.

Main St Hotel, room 503, here until Monday.

He pulls out his phone, tells Aubrey she’s allowed to get the crowd out by any means necessary except for fire, and elbows his way out into the winter air.

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

Barclay almost purrs when he peers through the peephole in the hotel door; Joseph, as his nametag read, is standing on the carpet, looking twice as handsome as he did yesterday. His cheeks are even a little pink, and Barclay has some thoughts on how to make that blush deepen.

“Hey, glad you found-”

Joseph holds up his phone, screen in Barclays face, “please fix this.”

“Oh fuck.” He ushers him in, “I’m so sorry, I thought they’d stopped doing this shit.”

“No, and they’re fucking up my inventory as a result.”

“On it, lemme text my assistant, she’s good at drafting these kind of messages.”

“Thank the lord. Right, thank you for that, I’ll go now.”

“Wait” Barclay reminds his instincts that blocking the door is rude, “do you wanna stay a few minutes? You look kinda stressed.”

“Because my store is being overrun!” Joseph snaps, then takes a deep breath and straightens his sleeves, “I’m sorry, that wasn’t called for, this morning has just been a mess. And it, um, it’s a little bittersweet to have people thinking I could land a hot chef when I can’t get past a first date with most people. Um, sorry. Too much information. That’s a bad habit of mine.”

Barclay tucks his hands into his pants pockets, “About that. Y’know how I left my card?”

Blue eyes blink, then brighten, “I thought that might be the reason but I dismissed it as wishful thinking.”

“Nope. A guy who's hot, nerdy, and competent enough to sneak me away from the paparazzi? Sign me the fuck up.”

“I’m not opposed to a, um, tryst, but I really, really need to get back to the store, I can’t abandon Aubrey to deal with this mess on her own, that’s not fair, and now we’ll have to reorder things too....” He laughs, a tense sound, “good lord, I get a chance to fuck a celebrity crush and I’m turning it down for work.”

“Hey” Barclay sets his hands on Joseph’s shoulders, “it’s okay. You’re not the first guy to be married to his job. But, uh, out of curiosity, you got any vacation days to spare?”

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

“This is all yours?” Joseph takes in the sprawling farm as Barclay unlocks the front door of a charmingly rustic house.

“Yep, all the way to the creek and all the way to the road. Might surprise you, but I like my privacy.”

“I’d never have guessed.” He replies with faux shock.

“Smartass.” Barclay kisses his cheek, holds the door open with his shoulder so Joseph can pull his bags inside. He packed as light and efficiently as he could for two weeks away (he’d initially planned on one until Aubrey and Moira ganged up on him and told him he hadn’t taken a real vacation in years so he was taking one now, damn it) but his suitcase is still heavy as he rolls it to the stairs.

“I got that.” Barclay shoulders his own travel bag and hoists Joseph’s in the other hand, carrying them to the second floor like they’re nothing more than pillows.

The week the chef was in Madison, Joseph went to his hotel almost every night. Fell asleep in his bed more than once, when discussions of fusion cuisine or the Fresno Nightcrawler turned into frantic, heated kisses under the covers. It’s only when the cook drops all luggage into the master bedroom that the truth of why he’s on this trip sets in.

“You really invited me all the way here because you think I’m hot.”

“Yeah but no.” Barclay drapes his arms over his shoulders, lips still a little chilly as he kisses them, “brought you here because you’re smart” another kiss, this one on his jaw, “and funny” another, on his nose, “and you’re the biggest bigfoot fan I know.”

“You wrote a book on it!”

“Point stands. And yeah” he pushes Joseph back so he lands on the bed, crawling atop him as he growls, “I invited you here because you’re so hot I wanna pour sugar on you and see if it melts. Now get your pants off; I’ve been thinking about sucking your dick since we left the city.”

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

“How did the whole bigfoot thing start?” Joseph sips his Irish Coffee as Barclay puts his feet into his lap.

“Guess the same way any famous person ends up with two gigs; I was doing the thing I love, then was dicking around on cryptid hunter forums and found out I was also hella good at researching bigfoot. By the time I got really into it, I had enough cash that I could write my book without worrying about going broke. Helps that I’d handed off The Arch and The Lodge and was just the exec chef on them, since then I could travel if I needed to.”

Joseph nods, moves one hand down to rub Barclays foot; in spite of no longer working the kitchens of his five restaurants or having to test recipes for the books right now, he spent most of today on his feet making elaborate meals for two. Joseph teases him that he’s trying to stuff him to the point he can’t leave. Barclay always chuckles and says he doesn’t know how right he is. The last two days, Joseph then wraps his arms around his boyfriend and tells him he’d stay forever if he could.

He’s never thought of himself as romantic; he’s pragmatic, knows that relationships are things built out of time, trial, and error. But god help him, he’s fallen for Barclay like they’re rom-com leads with only ninety minutes to reach their happy ending.

They’re out near the creek--really more of a small river--the next morning, talking about books and speculating on the existence of life on other planets, when a storm sweeps through the trees. As trunks groan and roots pull loose from the snow, Barclay calls, “we better head back.”

He gives a thumbs up. Then the ice under him cracks.

He doesn’t correct course quickly enough, the rest dropping from under him and dunking him in freezing water. It’s deep, too deep to stand, but he’s a decent swimmer and kicks towards the surface. When the shadow covers the opening with a boom, panic threatens to push the rest of his precious breath away.

The tree that fell across the ice is heavy, and no matter how he pushes it won’t give. He bangs on the ice on either side, trying to get it to crack, but his lungs scream and his limbs alert him that the cold will soon shut them down.

He closes his eyes, trying to think, not ready to give up, not with Barclay so close. There’s a groan of wood and frozen water. His mouth opens without permission, desperate for air, and chokes him on frost instead.

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

“...be dead, please don’t be dead, please please please don’t be fucking dead.”

“Nnff.” That’s not what he meant to say, but it seems to calm the voice above him.

“Thank fuck. I’m so sorry, I got to you as fast as I could, do, do you need anything?” Barclay sounds exhausted.

“Cold.” He mutters.

“I’m trying to warm you up gradually, that’s what the first aid book said but, uh, here.” Warm, fuzzy arms draw him into a hug.

Wait.

The first thing he sees when his eyes flutter open are arms covered in reddish-brown fur. When Barclay rubs their cheeks together, it tickles more than his beard usually does.

“Barclay? What the hell is going on?”

“Uh. So.” He’s rolled with ease to face a creature he’s never seen and eyes that he’d know anywhere, “I’m bigfoot. Or, uh, a bigfoot. Maybe that’s kinda obvious now.”

His brain crackles to life, “What better way to stay undiscovered than get famous by giving people the wrong information about you.”

“Some of it’s true. Just not anything people could use to actually find me.”

“Smart, big guy” Joseph pets his face.

“You’re taking this pretty well.”

“I think my system is too shocked to experience more shock.” He shudders, “relatedly, how’d I get out of the river?”

“I lifted the tree off and pulled you free. Took my disguise off to do that and, uh, the fucking thing fell into the water when I got you. So I’m gonna be stuck like this until a friend of mine can get me a new one.”

“No complaints here. You look incredible.” He runs his hands up and down Barclay’s side and chest, warmth seeping into his fingers as he does, “But I’m a little surprised you were willing to risk someone seeing you or me blabbing to someone and trashing your whole life in the process.”

A low rumble as Barclay kisses his forehead, “It’s worth it. I, this is gonna sound so fucking cheesy, but I haven’t felt this way about someone in a long time, and there was no way I was gonna lose you.”

“Oh.” Affection and surprise well up in his throat, pressing down his words so all he can do is nestle closer to the cryptid and let himself be loved.

His mind rebounds quickly from his misadventure. His body would like him to remember it for a while so he doesn’t put it in such jeopardy again any time soon. Instead of helping Barclay with cooking and chores, he lays under the covers while the storm rattles the roof and the cook clangs pots on the lower floor.

Barclay, attentive to a fault, is downright doting now that he’s stuck in bed. He’s never without a hot drink or something to read, and the cryptid is happy to answer the majority of his questions about the finer points of being bigfoot. When it’s bedtime, his boyfriend pulls him atop his massive frame and cuddles him, whispering over and over that he’s glad he’s okay, until they fall asleep.

Today followed much the same pattern, though when dinner time rolls around he gets a fantastic surprise.

“Chocolate fondue?” He peers hopefully at the bed tray in Barclays hands.

“Only the best for you, babe.” The cook sets the burnished wood down on the bedside table, “we lucked out, the berries I bought last week are ripe.”

Joseph reaches for the fork, but Barclay beats him to it.

“You should save your energy. Since you’re, uh, still recovering.”

He shrugs, sets his hands in his lap and opens his mouth for a chocolate dipped raspberry. It doesn’t take long to spy Barclay’s ulterior motive. The cook has a whole wardrobe designed to fit his cryptid form, but it’s having trouble concealing certain things.

“You’re getting off on this.”

“I, uh, I, maybe a little” Barclay blushes under his fur.

Joseph raises an eyebrow, tilts his head at the bulge in Barclay’s pants, “You call that ‘little’?”

A rumbly whine, the fork paused halfway to Joseph’s mouth, “I can’t help it. I’ve got a thing for taking care of partners, especially ones who are all competent and put-together the rest of the time, and you look so good when you eat and, ohfuck.”

Joseph inhales sharply as chocolate hits his exposed upper chest. It’s not hot enough to burn, and he moans as the sensation seeps across his skin. Barclays eyes, wide and ravenous, keep flicking between the splatter and his face.

“Looks like you made a mess, big guy.” Joseph begins undoing the remaining buttons on his pajamas, “you should clean it up.”

“Fuck yeah.” Barclay lunges, mouth first, lapping and sucking at the marked skin as Joseph laughs. Their shirts hit the floor together as he digs his nails into auburn fur. Barclay grunts at the pressure, sits up with a grin, and drips a line of chocolate down the right side of Joseph’s ribs.

“Oops. Better fix that too.”

“Cleanliness is importantAH, ahhnn.” He squirms a bit as Barclay nuzzles his stomach before dragging his tongue up his skin. There’ve been times he mourned the fact T didn’t make him as hairy as some other guys, but right now he’s grateful for the clear canvas Barclay can mark however he pleases.

“A mess can be more fun.” The cook licks his lips, sucks a hickey above his belly button, “and by the time I’m done with you, babe, won’t be a single part of you that isn’t one.”

“Then get to it.” He shoves his pants down, lets Barclay pull them the rest of the way off and fold them. He lays back, resting his arms behind his head, and moans as the cook drizzles chocolate on each hip. Joseph feels like a gourmet dessert and, from the growls between his thighs, Barclay intends to treat him like one.

His boyfriend is always enthusiastic when sucking him off, but tonight he throws finesse out the window in favor of burying his face at the crease of each thigh in turn, licking his hips clean while clawing at his calves and sides. He lifts his head, wipes his mouth with a satisfied grin that shows the points of his teeth, and dives down again.

Joseph yelps with pleasure, the hint of fangs hitting all his buttons, lighting him up like downtown on a dark night. It’s intense, the scratch of fur on skin just different enough from the usual beard to remind him of who’s down there, and his legs try to kick closed. Barclay growls again, holding them open with ease.

“Not until I’m done with you, babe.”

He surrenders to flood of feelings from both outside and within him, Barclay’s sheer delight at his body rendering all his doubts and worries toothless and small, quieting them until all he can think about is incredible creature holding and all he can say is some variation on-

“Barclay, please, right there, lordalmighty that’s good, that’s so good big guy, please.” He squeezes his eyes shut, craving the impending orgasm more than he has words for. Barclay sucks determinedly and huffs, pleased, as Joseph's thighs tense in his hold and his climax chases away the remnants of yesterday's aches.

As his brain insists that really, body, opening our eyes isn’t that hard, there’s a metallic zip and strong legs bracketing his thighs.

“Here I thought you couldn’t look any better.” He murmurs as Barclay gleefully strokes his cock, “as soon as my brain works again, I’m coming up with so many ways to use that gorgeous thing.”

“Can’t, fuck, can't wait to hear ‘em, but I only got one for tonight; I’m gonna use it to cum alllll over that fucking perfect body, fuck, Joseph, you look so good when you’re ruined, fuck.” An impressive amount of cum spatters up his stomach, chest, and neck as Barclay howlgrowlpurrs and then sets his hands carefully on the bed.

Joseph’s whole body is sticky with chocolate, sweat, and cum, and Barclay definitely has at least two of those things mussed into his fur.

“You’re right, big guy, a mess can be fucking amazing.”

That being said, being sticky gets old quick, and soon they’re in the tub, Joseph whistling as he shampoos Barclay’s chest. The cryptid hasn’t stopped purring, and every time he looks Joseph’s way the sound deepens.

“When are you next in the city?”

The cook yawns, “Was gonna check on how the new chef de cuisine is getting on at Kepler in about two week.”

“Would you like to stay with me? It’s not fancy, but it’s close to the Ismuth, so you can get to Kepler on foot without trouble, and there are fewer crowds there this time of year. I suspect paparazzi are also less likely to track you down at some random house than at a hotel. That might make up for my lack of, um, high class amenities.”

“Good point. But I gotta be honest babe; as long as you’re there, that’s all I need to be happy.”

[artificialqueens]

After The Glitter Fades, Chapter Two (Shalaska) - Citrus

A/N: here’s the next chapter of ATGF! if you liked it, please consider sending me feedback either here, on my blog aqcitrus, or over on ao3 at artificialcitrus! this chapter gets a little smutty, so be warned :) lots of love from your local witch, Citrus xoxo

-

“I can’t do this!” Alaska exclaimed, crossing her arms in front of her chest in frustration. She and Sharon were sitting cross-legged on the older girl’s living room floor, various tools of her craft littered all over the carpet. Alaska glared at the little bowls of herbs in front of her like they had kicked a puppy.

Sharon rubbed her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Yes you can, baby. Nobody gets it right on the first try, I promise.”

Alaska scowled. “I bet you did.” Sharon chuckled at her girlfriend, who was pouting like a petulant child.

“Of course I didn’t. Mom had to help me every single time, I had an awful memory for these things at first. It’ll become second nature, I swear.” She took Alaska’s hand, kissing the back of it in reassurance before pointing to one of the tiny bowls of herbs. “We’ll try again with an easy one, okay? What’s this one?”

“Lavender,” Alaska grumbled. “That one’s easy.”

Sharon laughed brightly. “And what is it good for?”

“Um, sleep… relaxation, meditation, stuff like that. It’s calming.”

“Good! How about this one?” She pointed to another bowl, and Alaska looked at it for a moment, picked it up. She smelled it, letting the bitter scent give her the answers she needed.

“Sage. For cleansing.” Sharon’s finger moved to another herb. “Bay leaf, you write a wish on it and burn it. Stop giving me easy ones.” The experienced witch smirked and pointed to a different bowl. Alaska picked it up, trying to decipher its name from its scent. It wasn’t one she remembered, and she wanted to cry in frustration; if she was having difficulty with the smallest of tasks, how would she ever be able to cast a spell? Alaska put the bowl down, shaking her head. “I give up. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Sharon’s face fell. “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I’m working you too hard; I shouldn’t be making you identify herb correspondences yet, that’s much too advanced. We can do something different.”

Alaska shook her head. “I don’t want to do this, Sharon. I don’t want to learn this shit anymore. I’m done.” Sharon looked at her for a moment, clearly trying to read her, and Alaska bristled. “Stop doing that!” she burst out, standing up so abruptly that the herb bowls were knocked over and their contents spilled over the carpet. She didn’t care. She glared at her girlfriend– why was she just sitting there? Did she even care?

“I care about you, Lasky,” Sharon said softly. It should’ve made her feel better, but the only thing on her mind was that Sharon wasn’t supposed to know how she felt without Alaska having to speak. It was getting on her last fucking nerve.

“If you really cared about me, you’d stop trying to get in my head,” Alaska retorted. “I don’t want you to do that, I hate when you do that. It’s not fucking fair of you to read my fucking mind!”

Sharon’s face fell, and she took a shaky breath. “I had no idea you felt that way,” she said, her voice very small. Alaska scoffed, caught up in her frustration and letting it morph into anger.

“I’m sure you had some idea, since you’re always inside my fucking head,” she retorted. “It’s bullshit, Sharon, I’m tired of it! I’m sick of always feeling like an outsider, like I’m stupid because I don’t know anything about magick. You have your coven, your mind-reading powers, your witchcraft… And I’m never in the loop.”

Sharon was sitting in silence, motionless and almost expressionless, and Alaska wanted to shake her, scream at her to listen, to show some sign that she gave two shits about her. Instead, the witch just drew in another breath, tears spilling over her dark lashes.

“I’m sorry, Alaska,” she said in what was almost a whisper. “I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t want to press it, I wanted you to bring it up on your own time… I had no idea that you felt so excluded.” She stood up slowly, coming face-to-face with her girlfriend, and reached for her hands. “What can I do to fix this?”

Alaska shrugged, not moving to accept Sharon’s hands, but crossing her arms instead. “Does it matter?”

An expression of horrified shock crossed Sharon’s face. “Alaska… Of course it matters! You mean everything to me, baby, surely you know that.”

“I mean… sometimes I feel like I’m your mistress, and witchcraft is your real love.”

Sharon bit her lip, stepping forward and opening her arms to Alaska. “C’mere. Please.” Alaska moved into her arms, sinking into her embrace almost immediately as Sharon’s arms wrapped around her and held her tight. “You’re the most important thing in my life, Alaska,” she murmured, her voice still thick with emotion. “I can’t change who I am, but you need to know that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I have no fucking intention of letting you go. Not now, not ever.”

Alaska leaned into her body, arms circling around her waist as their foreheads touched. “I’m sorry for getting so upset over something stupid,” she whispered. Sharon laughed thickly and stroked her soft blonde hair.

“We all do it, baby. Next time you have concerns like that, though, I want you to bring them up. I might be clairvoyant, but I’m really not a mind-reader. I want you to be able to talk to me, sweetheart.”

Alaska nodded. “Okay,” she agreed quietly, “I’m sorry for all the stuff I said, too. I don’t really believe that. I was just overwhelmed, and I lost my temper.”

Sharon smiled and pressed a fleeting kiss to her lips. “I love you, Lasky.”

“Love you too, Noodles.”

By the time October rolled around, Alaska had done a few simple spells with Sharon’s help, and was growing excited for the coming Sabbat. On the second day of the month, she entered Sharon’s apartment and was confronted with ridiculously cheesy Halloween decorations covering the entire apartment. When Sharon emerged from her bedroom in a jack-o-lantern hoodie, Alaska had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.

“What’s so funny?” Sharon asked as she crossed the room to pull Alaska into her arms. The blonde shook her head, grinning.

“Of course you’re a slut for Halloween,” she answered. “I should’ve expected this from you.”

Sharon snorted, pressing a kiss to Alaska’s cheek. “Probably, yeah,” she agreed. “Listen, I grew up with Samhain, and I never got to have a real Halloween until I was, like, six,” she said. Alaska furrowed her brow, confused, and Sharon continued. “Mom never really understood the whole trick-or-treating, store-bought costume thing, and she hated that witches were so demonized. But she wanted me to be happy, so she’d make me whatever costume I wanted, and I could wear it during our Samhain ritual.”

“That’s adorable,” Alaska grinned. “I bet you looked so cute. Did you ever dress up as a witch?”

Sharon rolled her eyes. “I’m dressed as a witch every day, Lasky.”

“You know what I mean!”

Sharon laughed, nodding, and Alaska joined in her giggling. “You’re a dork.”

“You love me,” Alaska shot back with a grin. Sharon smiled, pulling her closer and nuzzling her neck.

“Mmm, I do,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the blonde’s jaw. Alaska’s breath caught in her throat at the sensation of Sharon’s soft lips against her neck, her warm breath making her girlfriend shiver. Her hands slipped under Alaska’s shirt, holding her waist, and continued to trail her lips over her neck. Alaska whined softly, tipping her head back a little to give Sharon better access, and the brunette chuckled against her skin.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Alaska whined, “It’s been ages.”

Sharon nipped at her ear, huffing out a little laugh. “Has it been that long? I haven’t kept track, I’ve been so busy with work… Have I been neglecting you, my love?”

Alaska shook her head weakly, trying to focus on Sharon’s words instead of the way her hands were roaming, slipping lower and lower on her body. “We’ve both been busy,” she said, the sentence coming out as more of a whine. She blushed, leaning into Sharon as the witch moved one hand to cup her crotch and the other to rub at her hip.

“Mm, yeah,” Sharon agreed quietly, sucking a little love bite into Alaska’s neck. “Maybe…” she began, skimming her hand from Alaska’s hip down to her thigh and back up again, “Maybe you could, um… come over more?” she proposed nervously, burying her face in Alaska’s neck to hide her light blush.

“I’d like that,” Alaska smiled, choking back a noise as Sharon’s hand squeezed her through her jeans. “Sharonnn,” she whined, “Stop teasing…”

“I thought you liked it when I teased you,” Sharon purred, undoing Alaska’s fly and sliding her hand into her pants. Her fingers brushed against soft lace, and she smiled. “Aww, baby, did you dress up for me?”

Alaska flushed, biting her lip. “Not- not on purpose,” she answered, “I just… wanted to feel cute.”

“You feel plenty cute to me,” Sharon teased, rubbing her through her panties and feeling the delicate fabric begin to dampen. Her girlfriend whimpered, knees weak, and Sharon withdrew her hand to lay Alaska down on the carpet on top of a few soft pillows that she always kept on the floor.

The blonde pulled Sharon against her body, hard and fast, to bring their lips together and kiss her hungrily. Everything about Alaska’s kisses were desperate and needy, and she whined impatiently as Sharon slid her jeans down her legs and resumed her gentle teasing. Now that Alaska’s legs were bare, Sharon could see that her panties were pale lavender and completely made out of lace, barely shielding her from Sharon’s appreciative gaze.

“These are nice, Lasky,” she commented, pulling on the waistband of the panties before letting them snap back against Alaska’s skin. “They new?”

“I’ve been saving them,” Alaska whined, spreading her legs and tugging her sweater over her head, urgent and wanting. She slid a hand down her torso, letting it rest on her abs, and Sharon kissed the area repeatedly as she continued to play with Alaska through her underwear.

“Saving them for a special occasion, huh? They’re cute, baby, I like them. I’d like ‘em better off, though,” she added, and Alaska whined weakly and moved to help Sharon slide the offending garment down her legs. Sharon’s teasing had paid off; Alaska was flushed pink and dripping, and Sharon had a feeling that her cute new panties were probably soaked.

“God, Sharon, please,” Alaska choked out, wiggling her hips impatiently. Sharon grinned, pulling her hair back into a quick ponytail and licking her lips before she knelt between Alaska’s toned thighs and pressed her mouth against her.

Alaska let out a sugary moan as Sharon kissed her open-mouthed, her tongue making sloppy circles over Alaska’s aching pussy as the blonde’s back arched. One of her hands moved to grasp at Sharon’s head, and the other splayed out against her abs as she struggled to keep herself quiet.

Of her girlfriend’s many talents, the one that Alaska found herself most often appreciating was her spectacular oral finesse, and she once again praised the heavens silently as Sharon worked her mouth against her. Her mouth was hot and wet against Alaska’s pussy, her tongue licking her roughly before switching to gentle kitten licks on her clit, then long, full strokes against her entire slit, and she was turning Alaska into a whining mess with ease.

From Sharon’s perspective, Alaska’s moans and whimpers were absolutely adorable, and only served as encouragement for her to keep going. She loved how wet Alaska got, how her juices would drip down her thighs and gather thickly on Sharon’s tongue, and her sweet, delicate flavor. She whined and begged, always desperate for more, and her muscular thighs trembled on either side of Sharon’s head as the brunette ate her out like Alaska’s pussy was her last meal on death row.

Alaska was moaning freely now, too lost in pleasure to be embarrassed by how loud she was, and Sharon redoubled her efforts. The blonde came with a series of whimpers and moans that could’ve been an entire sentence, her voice breaking on the sounds as Sharon kissed and licked at her sensitive inner thighs, bringing her back down.

“Fuck, baby,” Alaska breathed, her voice ragged, and Sharon chuckled, pressing a light kiss to her inner thigh. “That was so good. Fuck.”

“I’m glad,” the witch grinned, moving up Alaska’s body to capture her lips in a sweet, languid kiss, tongue lapping against Alaska’s own. “Let me grab you a fresh pair of undies, okay? I think yours are soaked through.”

Alaska flushed, but nodded in agreement anyway. Over the months, a sizable portion of her clothing had managed to work its way into Sharon’s closet and drawers, so she knew Sharon would be able to find a pair of her panties pretty easily.

Once Alaska was dressed again, they cuddled up on the sofa to make plans for the coven’s Samhain celebration. Since it was Sharon’s favorite Sabbat, she usually planned the entire thing and acted as a hostess, and this year would be no different. Alaska helped her with the organizational aspects and would offer insight if she needed help making a decision about something, but otherwise it was all Sharon. Alaska greatly admired her girlfriend’s tenacity and passion for her craft, and mused on that thought a bit as Sharon went over the decorating plans for Supernature.

Jinkx and Sharon were swamped with Samhain candle orders, crystal bundles, and all manner of spell requests. The Halloween season was popular for tarot readings, and Sharon wasn’t too excited about the upcoming workload. She worried, secretly, that the number of clients would take away from her time with Alaska. In addition to her packed reading schedule, she always helped Jinkx out with shop orders, often leaving her exhausted and drained at the end of each day.

The week before the celebration, they had another fight.

“Please, Sharon, I just want us to go to Courtney’s Halloween party. We don’t have to stay too long, I promise.”

“How many times am I gonna have to say no?” Sharon exclaimed. “Samhain is one of the most sacred nights of the year! Trust me, I fucking love Halloween, and if this party was on any other day I’d say yes, but on Samhain itself I’m committed to my coven and my craft.”

Alaska crossed her arms, frowning. “You’re being really fucking unfair about this, Sharon,” she accused. “All of your friends have met me, but almost none of mine know you! Can’t I show off my girlfriend a little?”

Sharon’s hand flew to her forehead in exasperation. “Look, baby, I know it’s tough. There’ll be other parties, right? This celebration is really important to me. I can’t just skip it, that’s so insane! Do you have any idea how much this means to me?”

“And what about this party? Maybe it means something to me, Sharon. Maybe I want to introduce you to my friends because I’m in love with you! You’re being so fucking stubborn, I can’t believe you!”

“Me? This is an incredibly important celebration to me, Alaska! You have no idea how close it is to my heart! It’s so much more important than a stupid little party with your stupid little friends!” Sharon regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, but the damage was already done. Alaska’s shoulders shook with rage as her eyes filled with tears, but her voice was dangerously quiet when she next spoke.

“So my friends are stupid, but yours are the priority? That’s bullshit, Sharon, and you know it. You’re just selfish. You don’t want to do anything that doesn’t have to do with your little fucking kumbaya circle, even if it’s something that would make me happy. I should’ve known you were a wicked fucking witch.”

Before Alaska could move, Sharon simply nodded, defeated.

“Okay,” she said flatly, her voice completely devoid of any emotion at all. “Dinner’s in the fridge, and I just changed the sheets in the guest room.” With that, she left Alaska in the living room, retreating to her bedroom. The click of the lock echoed through the apartment like a gunshot, and Alaska collapsed onto a cushion, bursting into tears.

-

As soon as Sharon slammed the door, hot, angry tears welled up in her eyes. She blinked, letting them run down her cheeks before wiping them away with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her whole life she’d had to deal with the “evil witch” stereotype, but never in her wildest imagination had she considered the possibility that Alaska believed it.

She knew she shouldn’t have insulted Alaska’s friends, but she was hurt that Alaska didn’t understand or care about the importance of Samhain to Sharon and her coven. Her coven was her family, and the Sabbats were more often than not the days when she could feel the most connected to her mother. Sometimes they even spoke, and those were the times that Sharon treasured more than anything. She couldn’t believe that Alaska didn’t understand.

Picking up the amethyst point that sat on her dresser, she held it close to her chest. She needed to meditate, needed to clear her head of the negative thoughts swirling inside her. Grounding herself was usually straightforward and easy, but she was having trouble right now, and it took her a moment to figure out why.

She could hear Alaska crying.

Sure, it was faint and quiet, but Sharon had the unfortunate gift of clairvoyance, and she could feel Alaska’s anguish tugging at her heart. She was upset that she’d been selfish, and scared that they were over for good… Sharon’s heart broke for her all over again. But then, an angry little voice reminded her that Alaska had been the one to antagonize her and insult her. Why should Sharon feel bad that Alaska was crying? She probably just wants pity, the nasty side of Sharon told her, She’s the one who hurt you, you didn’t hurt her.

Sharon plugged in her headphones and ignored the sounds of Alaska’s sobs.

Take off your feathers of lies, set them alight

Like all your saints have done

Shake out the wicked inside, watch it collide

And soon you will become divine

But can I be a little evil, sometimes?

Can I fake a smiling ego, when I’m not fine?

Can I doubt that we are equal, and both right?

‘Cause I don’t see like you

And I feel evil sometimes

Alaska slept in the guest room that night, feeling lonelier than she ever had in her life. The sheets smelled like their laundry detergent, which was a small comfort, but they didn’t smell like Sharon. The bed was cold without her, and the room felt stale and chilly. The worst part of the night was knowing that Sharon was just on the other side of the wall, and there was nothing that Alaska could do to get through to her.

She’d knocked on Sharon’s door several different times, ready to apologize and face her girlfriend’s anger for what she’d said to her, but there was no answer. The faint glow from underneath the door told Alaska that Sharon was probably practicing spellwork, which she often did when she was upset or stressed or angry. After the third time knocking, Alaska had simply given up for the night. She didn’t bother reheating the food that Sharon had made, didn’t even bother to eat it cold; she simply wasn’t in the mood. Instead, she stripped off her clothes and went to bed alone; her pajamas were in their- Sharon’s- bedroom.

Alaska awoke at midnight to the sound of music and the smell of weed, and sighed to herself. Sharon had put a record on and was clearly smoking her feelings away, and Alaska wished that she could do the same. Maybe approaching Sharon when she was stoned wasn’t the best idea in the world, but she had to try something… She threw on her underwear and left the guest bedroom, determined to make things right.

Sharon sat cross-legged on the carpet, only a few puffs deep, and Alaska joined her on the floor. Wordlessly, Sharon passed her the joint.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Alaska said softly after her exhale. Her fingers brushed against Sharon’s as she passed the joint back, and their eyes met. “I swear I didn’t. I don’t think of you like that. Never have.”

“Everyone has at some point,” Sharon answered flatly. Alaska shook her head.

“You remember the ren faire? Where we met?” Sharon gave her a “duh” look, so she continued. “I thought you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. You just had this… confidence. This inexplicable magick. I was drawn to you from the minute Jinkx dragged you out from the back of the tent.”

Sharon looked up at her. “You’re just trying to get me to stop being mad at you,” she accused weakly, but her eyes were wet. Alaska laughed dryly and shook her head.

“I mean it. Your magick is incredible, Sharon. It makes you who you are. I would never think that it made you a bad person. I’m sorry for saying what I said.”

“I’m sorry too. Samhain is really, really important to me, but I shouldn’t have said that your friends were stupid, or brushed off what you wanted to do. I’m really sorry, Lasky.”

“I know.”

Almost without intending to do so, they’d moved closer to one another, and Alaska was the first to close the distance between them. The kiss she gave Sharon was soft and fleeting, one hand cupping her cheek as her lips pressed chastely against her girlfriend’s. Sharon whined when Alaska pulled away, clearly wanting more, and Alaska chuckled.

“Not tonight. I’m supposed to be mad at you, remember?”

“Supposed to be?” Sharon echoed. Alaska shrugged.

“It’s hard to stay mad when I love you so much.”

[empireofwrestlemania]

The Wands Of Jericho

All in the shop stood still. The shelves were messily stocked with long, slender boxes, and the counter in the front corner was untouched, covered in a mess of paperwork and materials. The building was utterly silent, and from within, nobody could be seen.

Above the front door, a small bell tinkled. The door was gently pushed open, and almost immediately, the store came to life. Flames began to flicker atop the candles nestled in the shop’s handful of intricate wall sconces. The breeze created by the opening of the front door ruffled through the paperwork on the front counter. A young woman had entered, and was curiously looking about.

Clad in an elegant gown of pink stripes and covered by a loose cloak of patterned furs, her brown eyes gazed curiously about. She lifted one hand, tucking a loose lock of blonde hair out of her face and approaching the counter.

“Hello?” she called out boldly. Her long sleeves draped down near her knees as she rested her hands on her hips, waiting to see whether or not her call would be answered.

In the back, there came the sound of a slight crash, followed by a door being flung open. A man emerged, clad in flowing black robes that were illuminated by tiny globes of magic that flickered on and off as he walked.

“So sorry,” he said, his arms full of heavy, leather-bound books. He scrambled towards the counter and then dropped the books on top of it, grinning at the woman. “How can I help you?”

“I need a wand,” she said, her hands still resting on her hips. Her voice was tinted with a slight accent.

“Well, of course you do,” the man said with a chuckle. “More specifically, though. You’re a witch, then?”

“Yeah,” she answered with a nod, twirling a lock of hair around one finger. “My name is Carmella. I had a wand, but I just moved to town and it got broken along the way.”

“And my name is Jericho - ah, I do wand repair as well, if you’d like to keep your old one,” the man said.

“No, it’s really broken. I mean, really, really broken,” she replied, and he nodded.

“Fair enough,” he replied, adjusting the neck of his robe slightly. “Well, what kind of a wand was it? I might have something similar - it’d feel right, although there’s not really any way to say if it would work right without testing.”

“Honestly, I don’t remember,” the woman replied, shaking her head. The man inhaled deeply, then nodded.

“Right,” he said. “Alright. We can work with that. So let’s see...” He hurried behind the desk, pulling out a simple wooden box. When he unlatched it, four items were visible within, sitting upon a cushion of blue velvet: a mermaid’s scale, a strand of white hair from the mane of a unicorn, the dismembered hand of a smark, and the claw of a werewolf. “These are the ingredients I use most commonly in my wands,” he said. “Pick each one up, see if you can channel any magic through it.”

“Well, alright,” Carmella said. First, she lifted the mermaid’s scale. It was a gleaming turquoise colour, glimmering as she turned it over between her fingers. He could see her concentrating, but nothing seemed to be happening. She opened her brown eyes and looked at him in frustration. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “But that’s alright! Keep trying, one of them is bound to click with your particular abilities.”

Returning the scale to its place in the box, she then lifted the single strand of unicorn hair. Delicately, as if afraid of breaking it, she let it dangle over the tip of one finger. “Are these ingredients easy to come by?” she asked him casually.

“They are, for the most part,” Jericho replied. “There’s a merchant in the Capital City who occasionally sells mermaid scales - no idea where she gets them, only that when I need them, I head up there. I have a small house in the Capital, so I don’t need to worry about spending money on an inn while I wait for her to make an appearance in the market - sometimes it takes a couple of weeks, but I’m able to get a lot done while I’m up there.”

“And the unicorn hairs?” asked Carmella, setting the one in her hand back down in the box. It was obvious that it wasn’t going to be doing anything for her any time soon.

“They wander wildly enough, and anyone who has the patience and good intentions to approach them should be easily able to take a hair or two,” he replied with a shrug. He smiled slightly, seeing how uneasy she was as she carefully took the tiny smark hand, lifting it by one finger. “There’s also a unicorn farm near the border of Empire Central and the Flair King - er, sorry, Queendom - that sells them to me on occasion.”

“Do I even want to know about the hands?” Carmella asked, pausing for a moment to focus some magic through it. Nothing happened, though, and she was quick to give it up and return it to the box.

“Oh, those are smark hands! The little shits are everywhere in the Wooded Kingdom,” said Jericho with a laugh. “I’ve got a handful of suppliers who’ll go into the forest just to kill smarks. They reproduce like crazy when they need to, though, so the woods never seem to run out of them...”

“Ohh,” murmured Carmella with a nod. “Smarks, yes. I’ve heard of them.”

The last ingredient left was the werewolf’s claw. She lifted it up between two fingers, turning it over in her hands for a moment to examine it before stopping to concentrate her magic. Surely if the other ingredients had failed, this had to be it, right? But as hard as she was trying, nothing seemed to be working. A sigh left her lips.

“I swear I do have magic,” she said, “just none of these will take.”

Jericho had a curious look on his lips, gently taking the claw from her and setting it down in the box. “I believe you,” he said, his tone soft and gentle. “This just means that we have to move up to the next tier of magical items - the more rare ones.”

“That means more expensive, right?” asked Carmella, and he nodded.

“It does,” he said. He shut the box, setting it back under the counter where he’d first found it. He then pulled out another box, this one smaller, and sporting a tiny golden lock. From within his pocket, he produced a set of small golden keys, and he unlocked it. When he opened the box, another scale could be seen - this one was a deep olive green, though, and substantially larger than the mermaid scale.

“What is it?” Carmella asked, hesitantly picking it up and setting it down in the palm of her hand.

“A dragon’s scale,” said Jericho.

“I thought dragons were extinct,” Carmella asked, raising an eyebrow.

“In the Empire, they essentially are,” he replied. “There’s a far-off island where they still exist, though - Emperor Vince’s magic shields the Empire from the dragons, keeping them on their island and away from us. Getting these scales is tricky because you have to find an adventurer or a dragon-slayer willing to travel all that way to the island - and you have to find a boat that’s willing to take them.”

“How do you get them, then?” asked Carmella.

“A few ways,” he replied. “On rare occasion, the wandering merchant Dolph has some in his cart. He can never remember where he got them, but I buy them off him whenever they’re available. Sometimes I’ll have to actually hire an adventurer, though - that’s always tricky, but sometimes it works out. Usually they don’t even interact with the dragons, they just find scales the dragons had been shedding and they take those. Go ahead, try it.”

Carmella was quiet for a moment, focusing. Though she tried with all her might to channel magic into the dragon scale, nothing was happening.

“I really don’t know why nothing is working,” she said, shaking her head as she placed the scale into the box. “I never had to go through all this when I had my last wand.”

“Where did you get your last wand?” asked Jericho, closing the box and locking it up.

“My mother bought it for me up in the Stone Kingdom after my powers first started to show,” Carmella replied with a shrug. “It always worked.”

“Hmm,” Jericho murmured thoughtfully. “Your mother is - or was? - a witch, then?” he asked, setting the box back into its place beneath the counter as he spoke.

“Yes,” said Carmella with a nod.

“It’s likely that she knew what to get for you, then, based on her own magic,” said Jericho. “I find that wand types tend to be hereditary. My father’s wand used a mermaid scale, and so does mine. Here, try this.” From beneath the counter came another box, this one locked as well. When he opened it, Carmella peered inside and saw...

“A pebble?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not just any pebble,” said Jericho, lifting it up and eyeing it closely for a moment. “It’s a stone from the streets of the Hall of Fame itself. Nearly impossible to come by, exceedingly rare - very few people make that journey and come back to tell the tale, let alone bring relics with them. Even fewer of those people are willing to sell a pebble to a wandsmith.”

“So it’s basically impossible to get?” asked Carmella.

“This is the only one I’ve got for an indefinite amount of time,” Jericho replied.

“Then I’m not sure I want it,” said Carmella, shaking her head. “That’s not fair to you.”

“It will be once you pay for it,” Jericho said with a smile. “Rare ingredients make for expensive wands.”

“I can afford it, I just don’t want you to use up your only Hall of Fame pebble on my wand. Not if you aren’t able to easily replace it.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said with a shake of his head. “Just try it. This might not even be the ingredient for you.”

“If you insist,” Carmella said. She outstretched her hand to take the pebble from Jericho. The moment he dropped it in her hand, though, it started to heat up - enough to feel warm, but not enough to cause her any pain. A soft golden glow began to emanate from seemingly within the pebble, and Carmella’s eyes widened. “This is it,” she said quickly, looking up at him.

“Interesting,” Jericho said with a nod. “It looks like the pebble is your magic’s ingredient of choice. Give me a few days to craft your wand, you can come pick it up by the end of the week.”

“And how much will it be?” she asked, handing the pebble back over to him.

“For you? Let’s say five hundred gold,” he said. “You can pay half now and half when you pick it up, if you’d like.”

“I’ll just pay it all now, I don’t like to owe anybody anything,” Carmella replied, pulling a bag from within her robes and beginning to count out the gold pieces. “What did you mean when you said ‘for you’? As if the price would be different for someone else?”

“I see bright things in your future,” he said. “The magic within that pebble is immense - for your skills to click so inherently with the magic of the Hall of Fame... I believe, Miss Carmella, that you’re going to be a remarkable witch one day.”

“So...does that mean I got a discount for that?”

“Yes, you got a discount.”

It took several minutes for them to count and recount the five hundred gold pieces from Carmella’s bag, but before long, they were both satisfied. Jericho deposited the gold into the safe behind his counter, reasserting to Carmella that her wand would be ready by the weekend. They said their farewells, and she turned to leave.

As she reached the door, she paused. She turned, wanting to offer him one last thank you, but he was gone. All that remained were messily stocked shelves and a front counter covered in a mess of paperwork and materials.

Tagging: @hardcorewwetrash @macfizzle @she-reigns-in-this-yard @xxshamelesspunk247xx @sonjashuterbugjohnson @sisteradelaide @queenreignsempire

[jazfood]

The inglorious rise of Two Buck Chuck

The tale of two men, one wine brand, and the economic revolution of an entire industry.

BY ZACHARY CROCKETT

Walk into almost any Trader Joe’s store and the first thing you’ll see is an enormous display of Charles Shaw wine — or, as it’s more affectionately known, “Two Buck Chuck.”

At $2.99 per bottle, Two Buck Chuck is one of TJ’s all-time best-selling products. Since debuting in 2003, it has won the hearts of critics and customers alike and has sold over 1B bottles.

“I’ve tried a lot of cheap wine,” a young Trader Joe’s-goer in Austin, Texas assures me. “Charles Shaw is the crème de la crème.” Clutching two bottles of 2017 vintage Chardonnay, a shopper in Palo Alto, California adds that it “goes down smooth and [is] cheaper than water.”

How is a supposedly decent wine sold at such a low price-point? And where did it come from? This is the tale of one wine brand, two men, and the economic revolution of an entire industry.

Will the real Charles Shaw please stand up?

Charles Shaw embodied the elitist aura of the wine industry.

He obtained degrees from West Point and Stanford Business School. He worked as an investment banker in France and spent his summers wearing polo shirts in Nantucket. He could sniff a glass of Gamay Nouveau and pick out the “notes of banana.”

In the early ‘70s, while banking in Paris, Shaw fell deeply in love with the craft of winemaking.

So he quit his banking gig, bought 20 acres of land in Napa, California with his wife’s inheritance, and launched Charles F. Shaw Winery.

Shaw’s wines were not crafted for the plebes. Debuted in 1978, his flagship bottle, a Beaujolais, retailed for $13.50 ($35 today), and won international acclaim. “It had an amazing garnet color and was really quite striking, he later told Thrillist. “I liked to drink it with a Tiffany's all-purpose glass.”

TOP: Charles Shaw (left) samples a glass of his 1986 Gamay Nouveau (The Tennessean, April 23, 1987); BOTTOM: An advertisement for one of Shaw’s “fine boutique wines” (San Francisco Examiner, 1990)

Charles Shaw Winery soon expanded to 115 acres, 60 employees, and 15k cases per year. Business was booming. Shaw and his wife, Lucy, epitomized the Haute couture of Napa Valley: Tall, elegant, and beautiful, they turned heads at fancy galas and industry events.

Then, in the late ‘80s, things began to fall apart.

Shaw lost “hundreds of thousands of dollars” after a supplier error tainted 1.4k barrels of wine. He dealt with a devastating root louse infestation that claimed 50 acres of his vines. He over-anticipated the demand for Burgundies. He went through a nasty divorce that took a toll on his management. Then, a recession hit.

By 1992, Shaw was $3m in debt and filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. He “stashed the last of his cash under the floor of his car,” took a final glance over his trellised hills, and left town.

The box wine baron

Fred Franzia did not share Shaw’s air d'élégance.

He was unrefined and heavyset, with a body shape the New Yorker likened to a “gourmet marshmallow” (Business 2.0 Magazine called him “a cross between John Madden and Shrek”).

Reclusive and gruff, he shied away from public appearances and scoffed at Napa Valley’s wine snobbery. He referred to winemakers as “bozos.” He didn’t care for France.

Franzia came from a long lineage of winemakers. His great-grandfather, Giuseppe, had immigrated to California’s Central Valley in 1893 and set up Franzia Brothers Winery (later sold to Coca-Cola); his uncle, Ernest Gallo, had built the largest wine exporter in California.

In 1973, Franzia launched his own wine company, Bronco Wine Co. In a rickety wood-paneled trailer held together with duct tape, he set out to produce extremely cheap, high-quality “super-value” wines — wines that rejected the pretentiousness of Napa Valley.

TOP: Fred Franzia (right) breaks ground on Bronco Wine Co. with his brothers (via Bronco); BOTTOM: Franzia inhales grapes (via Michael Kelley, Business 2.0 Magazine)

Initially, Bronco operated as a wholesaler, buying bulk wine and selling it to larger wineries at a profit. But soon Franzia saw an opportunity to produce his own cheap wines — wines, as he later put it, that “yuppies would feel comfortable drinking.”

He developed a strategy of buying out distressed wineries with distinguished-sounding names — Napa Ridge, Napa Creek, Domaine Napa — and using them to sell his stock of less-desirable Central Valley wines. Through a legal loophole, he could say the wines were “Cellared and Bottled in Napa,” so long as the brand was founded prior to 1986.

On a summer day in 1995, a few years after Charles Shaw Winery went bust, Franzia purchased the winery’s brand, label, and name for a mere $27k.

"We buy wineries from guys from Stanford who go bankrupt,” he later boasted. “Some real dumb-asses from there."

Unbeknownst to the real Charles Shaw, Franzia was about to transform his once-fancy wine brand into an impossibly cheap “everyman’s juice” — and change the wine industry forever.

How Franzia “shorted” the wine business

In the late 1990s, there was a wine boom: Vineyard acreage grew by 24% and suddenly everyone from car mechanics to plumbers was putting up vines on spare California land.

Soon, there were rumblings that the industry was over-producing grapes and could face a crash. While most dismissed the warning, Franzia hedged a bet on it.

He constructed a faux-Tuscan, 92k-square-foot bottling plant with high-speed lines that were capable of producing 18m cases per year — 2x the amount of wine in the entire Napa Valley. He also stopped producing wine altogether, and his 452 stainless steel storage tanks sat empty, waiting for the market to go belly-up.

A small portion of the vineyards at Bronco’s San Joaquin Valley vineyard in Central California (Bronco)

Franzia’s intuition paid off. The industry soon faced a massive glut, and while other vintners suffered surpluses, he bought up as much cheap wine as he could get his hands on.

Wineries were forced to “purge” massive quantities of their high-quality wine, or risk oversaturating their own market. Franzia was able to suck it up for as little as 50 cents/gallon — an astonishingly low price compared with the going rate of $10/gallon just a few years earlier.

Franzia had let the Charles Shaw Winery brand sit dormant since purchasing it years before. Now, he was ready to bring it back to life.

Using the exact same name and label (which pictures Shaw’s old tennis court pagoda), he launched a large-scale production effort. His facilities ran 24 hours a day, 7 days per week — and in a short time, he’d churned out a two-story-tall stack of Charles Shaw cases ready for distribution.

The inglorious rise of Two Buck Chuck

Trader Joe’s already carried several other wine brands operated by Franzia, and they were willing to give Charles Shaw a whirl.

In the Spring of 2002, the label made its retail debut at the shockingly low price of $1.99 per bottle. Early on, in an internet chat room, a Trader Joe’s employee dubbed it “Two Buck Chuck” — a moniker that caught the eyes of budget-conscious shoppers. 

These were the days following the Dot-Com bubble and the early 2000s recession: There was a demand for cheap wine. But nobody — not even Franzia — could’ve anticipated the wine’s success.

Come Fall, certain locations were selling up to 6k bottles per day. People would come to Trader Joe’s and fill up their SUVs with dozens of cases; some days, customers would line up outside the stores before they opened, and an entire supply would sell out in minutes.

Charles Shaw wines were met with surprisingly good reviews (via assorted newspapers 2003-4)

“People went apeshit,” Keith Wallace, a wine expert, told Thrillist. “It was the ‘Macarena’ of wine… And it was this blue-collar pride thing. People thought, ‘This bottle is just as good as one that's $20. Screw those snobs.’"

By early 2003, Charles Shaw had already sold 60m bottles, accounting for 12% of all of California’s wine shipments within the state. It was, by wine experts’ estimation, the fastest-growing wine in US history. When Franzia sold his 400-millionth bottle of Charles Shaw in 2009, he had only one thing to say: “Take that and shove it, Napa.”

For a $2 bottle, it performed astonishingly well in competitions. The Chardonnay won a double-gold at the 2007 California State Fair, and Wines & Vines Magazine rated it higher than a $67 bottle in a blind tasting.

Two Buck Chuck, declared one critic, had “revolutionized wine drinking” forever.

How to make money on a $2 bottle on wine

Franzia pulled off something wine experts never thought possible: He managed to produce a rock-bottom-priced wine that people actually like to drink — and make money on it. How on Earth is that possible?

For starters, though the Charles Shaw label boasts “Cellared and Bottled in Napa,” most of the wines’ grapes come from the Central Valley, where Franzia owns 35k+ acres of vineyards. Though he capitalizes on the Napa name, his operation is rooted in an area with dramatically cheaper land and operation costs.

Franzia’s enormous holdings have allowed him to produce Charles Shaw wines at an extremely low price point (The Hustle)

These days, most Charles Shaw bottles contain a blend of bulk-purchased grapes and grapes grown by Franzia on his own land. Using a suite of 700k-gallon tanks (most small wineries use 700-gallon tanks), he is able to pump out 90m gallons of wine every year.

Franzia also has a hand in nearly every part of the supply chain: He maintains his own bottling plant (which produces 250 bottles per minute), a 62m-gallon storage facility, and a distribution network that includes a fleet of steel tanker trucks.

Lastly, every corner is cut: He uses oak chips to ferment his wine rather than barrels; he swaps real corks for composites; he subs traditional wares for lightweight bottles and crates.

Franzia has stated that his tactics would make the average farmer “shit in his pants.” But his robust empire, tremendous output, and ruthless bulk-buying tactics have allowed him to keep prices down and earn reported revenues of ~$500m per year.

Just business

Today, Charles Shaw lives in Chicago and works at the Chicago Board of Trade, a futures and options exchange.

At 74 years old, he has mostly moved on from wine — though he once referred to the continued use of his name as “embarrassing and demeaning.” He has never seen a penny from Two Buck Chuck.

"It's not a Napa wine, and not of the quality of the Charles Shaw brand [that was] estate grown with layers of complexity,” he told the Napa Valley Register, during the height of the Two Buck Chuck boom in 2003. "To take [my name] and come out and have a lesser wine from another appellation — that isn't what I started out to do, was it?”

Charles Shaw and Fred Franzia today (The Hustle)

Franzia, on the other hand, continues to rake in the big bucks from his Charles Shaw and his other 150 labels.

On his compound in the sparse agricultural town of Ceres, California, he works 100-hour weeks. As his friend, Michael Mondavi, once said: “He sleeps, drinks, eats the wine business... He doesn’t worry about yachting or golf. Just business.”

His role in changing the wine industry has earned him near universal hated by “true wine people”  — mainly vintners who claim he’s “cheapened” the good Napa name. But this doesn’t bother him much.

“You tell me why someone’s bottle is worth eighty dollars and mine’s worth two dollars,” he retorted. “Do you get forty times the pleasure from it?”

- thehustle.co