#which upsets me because I seriously liked working the register when the customers were polite

[greentrickster]

You want to know something wild? If it paid a proper, living wage and didn’t come with a ridiculous 12-hour workday and possibly swing-shift, and had proper breaks, my ideal job would probably be some sort of factory work. Swear to anything you care to name, I did a stint in a factory my dad used to work for one summer and I loved it. The people who were my bosses were friendly and polite, I liked the semi-mindless nature of the work and also that it gave me some decent physical exertion, and my creativity went through the roof that summer! I had to wear hearing and eye protection, a safety helmet, protective gloves, and a high-visibility vest, that was the kind of job it was, and I still enjoyed it so much! I was really sad when the summer was over and I had to leave it. I actually tried to get re-hired as a full-time worker (the program I’d been in was legit just a summer thing for employee’s kids), and I made it through the preliminary application, but then they had us do one of those computer survey/test things that everyone on this site knows are bad and I didn’t make it past that stage. Even though people already working for the company knew me and, if they’d been asked, would have been able to confirm I was a hard worker who would be a good hire. -_-*

Basically, what I’m saying is, there are people out there, people like me, who would actually very much love to be doing factory work. I even liked working the cash register for retail work when I first started doing it - it wasn’t the baseline job that made me quit, it was the pay, the way the customers treated me, and the way upper management treated me (I only had problems with one of our floor managers, and even our store manager was a pretty goof egg, I’m talking corporate). There are people like me who genuinely want to do those ‘low grade’ jobs. It’s not the baseline service that bad, there’s nothing inherently bad about working a cash register or semi-mindless factory work, those jobs only become bad when the pay and treatment you receive for doing them are bad.

[joonie-beanie]

The OM! Characters as Retail Workers/Positions from my old job

Full disclosure: I’ve only had 1 retail job, and it was at a Homegoods. I worked there for 3+ years during college. Because I’ve only had this one experience, my below hc’s for the boys may be a little...specific to my previous job, and not universal traits that come with all retail jobs. 

Also I’m not including Luke because thattttt is child labor.

This is probably a very self-indulgent headcannon. Oh well.

Lucifer: 

(One of) the store managers. Specifically the assistant manager.

Nice to customers to their face, but will fantasize about stabbing them once they leave. 

Asmo once walked past the manager’s office and witnessed Lucifer professionally apologizing to a bitching customer over the phone, only to slam the receiver down moments later, sighing and mumbling “what an idiot.”

Very watchful of his staff. Do not slack off while he’s working....unless he likes you. In which case, he will take a moment to chat with you and give himself a much needed break. 

If he doesn’t like you, well...make yourself busy, or else you’ll get a stern talking to, and likely written up. Lucifer already has too much work to get done--he doesn’t want to babysit his staff.

Quietly schedules the people he likes to work during his shifts whenever he can, since he knows he can trust them to do their work. Not to mention, he enjoys their company a lot.

His favorite crew to have is Beel, Asmo, and Satan (and MC). Their schedules, of course, don’t always line up, but when they do he seriously thinks that he has the dream team.

Mammon: 

Cannot be trusted to actually organize the store, so he gets stuck at the registers.

However, the managers quickly realize that he's shit at anything front-end related aside from counting money (the man likes his money), and that he's prone to pulling out his phone when no one is around, so Lucifer forces him to work the floor. 

They start trying to give him more backroom shifts (because if he's not doing his work, they'll be able to tell easier).

HOWEVER--because Mammon is such a money lover, he’s very aware of every piece of expensive merchandise in the store. So if a customer attempts to switch tags, or peels the price tag off hoping to pull a quick one on the cashier, his coworkers always call him up so he can take a look.

Seriously, the amount of people that try to buy the $100+ gem rocks for $9.99 is crazy.

He feels very proud of himself whenever he manages to stop a customer from getting away with it.

He’s not the best worker in general, but the mangers would be lying if the said they didn’t appreciate his knack for remembering the expensive items.

Levi: 

Cash office.

Prefers to sit in the locked office by himself, listening to music on his phone as he runs checks the register balances from the previous day.

If he's not doing cash office, he's probably out gathering carts, or compacting boxes in the back.

Whatever keeps him away from the bulk of customers.

Whenever the managers need him to go help out on the floor, he gets permission to not wear his apron.

He seriously does not want anyone to talk to him. He just wants to work in peace.

Of course, if he’s seen organizing, or stocking shelves, customers tend to assume he’s an employee anyway--even without the apron.

Levi legitimately jumps anytime someone calls out to him and asks if he works there, and if he can help them. 

Oh, and he always brings his Switch to work and plays games on his lunch break. Do not talk to him if he’s playing his game--he will get mad at you.

Satan: 

Flow & mark-downs.

He's basically an all-rounder, but is superior to the others in putting out new merchandise (flow). He knows where things go, and how they should be organized. 

Secretly gets annoyed when customers ask him for help when he's in the zone, but is very good at faking a smile.

Will do what’s asked of him without any lip in return.

However, rude customers should beware of him, because his anger tends to flip on like a switch. If a customer is badmouthing him, or one of his coworkers--he has no issue telling them they’re a fool, and that they should just leave instead of causing issues.

He gets in trouble with management for doing this, but honestly has no regrets.

Definitely has regular customers that he is enemies with.

Gets left in charge of the store if the managers ever need to step away for their lunch break, or otherwise.

Asmo: 

Lead cashier. 

Super charming, great customer service voice. 

Always gives a good impression on the phone, and manages to make peppy announcements. 

If there’s ever a fundraiser going on, and the cashiers are supposed to ask for donations, Asmo is guaranteed to rake in the most.

He is very good at calming a customer if they're upset--apologizing and and being so sweet and polite that it’s nearly impossible to stay mad.

However, if they're rude to him, or his apologies go on deaf ears, he has no problem politely telling them to fuck off.

If he’s not at the registers, he’s probably off in the bath section--smelling soap--or the candle section--sniffing literally every candle in existence.

He’ll also be sure to get a whiff of whatever candle/soap a customer has brought to the register to purchase.

Runs off to visit other stores in the mall/strip when he’s on his break. (Aka. he spends way too much of his paycheck shopping).

Beel: 

Back room - heavy lifter. 

Dude spends most of the day in the stock room emptying the truck and building furniture.

Seriously can move big things with very little effort. He once carried an entire couch out onto the sales floor buy himself. 

While other coworkers may need to use carts or flatbeds to move larger items, Beel can legit just throw them over his shoulder and continue on his way like he’s not carrying anything at all.

He looks intimidating but is actually super friendly.

Will always work extra hours if you ask him to. Will also come in for extra shifts if you ask him to.

He always feels so guilty if he can’t accept, or needs to call off.

The type of coworker that goes out to buy snacks on his break, and ends up buy snacks for the rest of the staff. He just leaves them on the break room table with a note that says “Eat up :)”

Belphie: 

Closer - Sales Floor. 

The managers tried to work him on morning or midday shifts, but he was continuously too groggy, and ended up knocking things over on accident.

Hes more energetic at night, so they put him on the sales floor (since he’s honestly...not the best at the register. Don’t get me wrong, he can work the register as well as anyone else, but...he just...doesn’t sound friendly. (Lucifer: “Belphie...at least try to sound like you’re not working here against your will when talking to the customers. You applied for this job.”))

He honestly doesn't mind organizing merchandise, but gets annoyed if he ends up doing the bulk of the work. (Whether it’s because they’re short staffed, or because his coworkers are slacking).

Has no problem telling customers to gtfo when it’s closing time.

If people are still in the store 5 minutes after closing, he’ll follow them around until they finally take the hint and leave.

Always stops for fast food on his way home after work because making himself a meal sounds like too much effort.

Diavolo:

Store Manager.

Is very kind to all of his employees, but will also have hard conversations with them if there’s an issue regarding their performance that needs to be addressed.

However, he always does his best to maintain good relationships with everyone he works with.

Will buy lunch for the staff on busy weekends, even if he has to pay for the food himself. He wants to let his employees know that they’re appreciated, and while he’s the type to give verbal affirmation of a job well done, a luncheon doesn’t hurt either.

Even if customers are bitchy, he never raises his voice, or yells. He handles complaints like a champ.

If the customer physically or verbally abuses one of his workers, however...he will threaten to call the police. Do not fuck with his work children.

If his employees ever find him sighing, or looking like he’s stressed, then they know he’s definitely having a rough day. Please work hard, and help him out, and he’ll very much appreciate it. 

Barbatos:

The 4th key. (Basically a manager)

Some workers are scared of him because he always seems to be in a good mood--even if the store is packed, and things get overwhelming.

A very by-the-book type. While Lucifer and Diavolo may allow for some things to get overlooked, or for there to be a lapse in proper procedure, Barbatos is not like that. Rules are rules, and they shall be followed.

Honestly is a very nice guy, but working a closing shift with him can be the worst. Especially if Diavolo is the opening manager the next day. 

He will keep his staff there after closing as long as he needs to for the store to be in an acceptable condition. (The worst part is that Diavolo honestly is so easy going that if Barbatos had just opted to say “we were very busy and didn’t have the time to get everything done”, Diavolo wouldn’t blame him. Shit gets crazy).

Alas, Barbatos wants to please Diavolo and takes his role very seriously.

At least he brings in homemade baked goods for the staff sometimes. (His good cooking usually makes up for all the times he has kept them late).

Solomon:

Another all rounder. Usually get scheduled on midday shifts to bridge the gap between the openers, and closers. 

Is very good at keeping up his “customer service” facade. 

However, once there are no customers around his smile will fall, and he’ll mumble complaints under his breath. 

“Why does one couple need 15 candles?” “Lady, I don’t care about your chihuahua’s sleeping habits--just buy the pet bed already.”

Will always tease his coworkers if he gets along with them. Bickering with Solomon can become a very entertaining past time if he likes you.

Whenever new crystals, or rocks come in, usually he’ll spend a while inspecting them. Apparently he can tell which ones are real, or fake. (And he always ends up buying the real ones).

He’s the type of coworker that will sneak up behind you and scare you when you’re not paying attention. Just because he can. (Fight him, he loves it).

Simeon: 

One of the sweetest staff members, but he’s prone to getting flustered and making mistakes.

If he’s on registers, he’s so busy trying to start a conversation with the customer that he’ll short them on their change. 

Luckily, the customer is either patient in waiting for the manager to come up and open the register, or doesn’t care about the 22 cents Simeon forgot to give them.

He loves reorganizing the towel section of the store the most. Getting to stand there and refold towels almost feels like meditation to him.

Always goes out of his way to ask the customer if he can help them with anything, or if they’re finding everything alright.

Is prone to accidentally cutting himself when something sharp breaks. (It has literally gotten to the point where if a ceramic plate or something glass breaks, the managers have instructed Simeon to call someone else to clean it up, rather than doing it himself.)

Honestly, in the end, he’s a fabulous worker tho.

[thran-duils]

Watch Me Burn (P1)

Title: Watch Me Burn (Part One) Summary: Fem!Reader x AU!Cas. Fem!Reader x AU!Sam. This fic was inspired by both parts of “Love the Way You Lie” by Eminem & Rihanna. Castiel and the reader are toxic for each other and keep falling back together until the reader moved away. It’s been years and now she is back home, waltzing back into Castiel’s life. She is determined to do better this time, to make them work, but outside forces as well as the scars the two have left on each other weave their way into their reconciliation. Will they be able to overcome the past and new threats to their sustainability? Words: 4,465 Warnings (for the fic in entirety): Extreme angst, domestic violence, smut, unprotected sex, dom/sub dynamics, BDSM trust breaking, fluff, language, alcohol abuse, !!! eventual !!! happiness

Chapter 2 || Masterpost (mobile) || Fic masterpost

The bouncer at the door was different, not anyone that you knew. You wondered what had happened to Derrick, you had liked him. The new bouncer had eyed your shoulder bag and you asked if he wanted to look through it hardly keeping the condescension out of your voice. He had waved you through without batting an eye; the Prada bag and streamlined look of your outfit screamed elite, someone he could not fathom causing any real problems outside of acting like an entitled bitch if your drink order was messed up. Looks were deceiving but still, you knew he was probably wondering why someone like you was coming into this dive bar. You snorted, thinking fleetingly he might think you were from the health department.

The place was fairly busy for 8:00pm. It was Friday, yes, but peak hours typically began around 10:00pm. Granted, you had been gone for a handful of years, so who knows what else had changed besides the bouncer.

Your eyes landing on him behind the bar caused you to come to a stop in the middle of the walkway. The light in his eyes was only rivaled by the dazzling smile on his lips. He was as you remembered: illuminating, his presence a force to be reckoned with. He knew the layout of his bar like the back of his hand, moving effortlessly around the other bartender to get whatever liquor the patron had requested while simultaneously taking another drink order from another customer. More times than you could count, you had leaned over that same bar, demanding passing kisses from him.

He was the reason you were in this dive bar.

Exhaling deeply, trying to rid yourself of the anxiousness that had just hit you like a freight train at the mere sight of him, you pushed yourself forward. Finding an empty seat at the bar, you slid in, placing your purse on the bar by your feet, tucked against the wall. Pulling your notepad, cell phone, and pen out out, you placed it all on the counter. You planned to look as chill as possible when he did notice you – you hoped it was him that came to serve you, not the other – to have the upper hand in the situation. At least for a little bit.

Keeping your eyes down on your work, you tried to focus on your project that had been thrust into your lap when you had been transferred back here – home – from the headquarters in Austin.

You could not help it and you looked up. Which happened to be the exact moment his eyes shifted from a patron, his smile wide and joking, and fell on you. You saw the moment it registered with him; his smile faltered, melting away to shock. Brow furrowed, he stared at you and you stared back. You offered an uptick in your lips at the corner of your mouth, which gave him cause to walk forward, closing the space between the two of you.

“Cas,” you greeted lightly.

He leaned in over the bar towards you and asked over the music, “What are you doing here, Y/N?”

It was not accusatory; he was simply confused.

Playing it cool, you shrugged, “Grabbing a drink after work? Is that alright with you?”

“After work?”

“Yes. Transferred back here just this week. Haven’t even unpacked yet.”

“You serious?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“That’s a loaded question and you know it.”

You laughed and he did too, the ice slowly beginning to melt.

“I’m serious,” you told him sincerely. “I’m back. And I came back to old stomping grounds.”

His eyes raked over you, lingering on your lips. He met your eyes again, slowly beginning to nod as he asked, “You still drink the same?”

Biting your bottom lip, you pierced him with a flirtatious gaze. Leaning in towards him in return, you said, “Make it a double.”

This time his eyes were alight only for you. “You got it, angel.”

Your eyes followed him as he mixed your drink, smirking every time he snuck a glance at you as if he was expecting you to disappear. He was as fit as ever, his strong arms tight in his shirt and round ass accentuated by his black jeans. You swore he had even more tattoos than the last time you had seen him – no, he definitely did. He had not had his left sleeve completed when you had left and there it was, looking pristine. You would have to critique the new additions up close and personal.

He brought your drink back over and you held out your card to him between your index and middle finger.

“It’s—” Castiel started to say.

“Just take the damn card. I need to flex somehow and show how successful I became,” you cut in.

Castiel chuckled, taking the card from you. “Open, I’m assuming?”

“Me or the card?” you quipped.

His eyes crinkled and retorted, “I think that answers that.”

“It sure does.”

Pushing away from the counter, Castiel said, “I’ll check back in.”

You watched him walk away, eyes zeroed in unabashedly on his backside, bringing the glass up to your lips and taking a swig. Oh, yeah. He never skimped you on the alcohol.

Smacking your lips, you picked your pen back up.

Only a few minutes passed before someone leaned on the bar beside you, closer than what was comfortable. Looking up, you found a younger woman leaning on her elbow, looking down at you with disdain.

“Is there something I can help you with?” you questioned, raising your brows.

“Yeah, there is,” the woman said. “You’re making yourself comfortable with someone who isn’t available.’

Clearing your throat, you placed your pen down again. Jesus, Castiel. Who was he sleeping with now?

“Is that so?”

“Stop flirting with him.”

“On the contrary, he was flirting with me.”

The woman let out a bark of a laugh void of humor, “Right. Yes. He is naturally flirty. He is a bartender, it’s what he does and it’s how he gets tips. Don’t be fooled into thinking it’s something more.”

The nerve of this idiot. If she only knew…

“Well, let’s make a deal,” you proposed, staring up at her with seriousness. “I’ll stop flirting. But, if I do, you gotta promise to not completely lose your shit when I go home with him still.”

Scoffing, the girl pushed herself up to stand tall. “I was trying to be polite about this, you bit—”

She was cut off by an all too familiar voice.

“Y/N. You are absolutely the last person I was expecting to see when I walked into this shithole tonight,” Maureen crowed from beside the pair of you.

You held the woman’s glare for a few more moments before tearing your gaze away to look at the aged woman. Maureen was one of Castiel’s regulars and it seems she was as regular as ever because she greeted the other woman, “Aspen.”

Her attention was back on you and your face broke into a smile trying to ignore the annoyance rolling around in the pit of your stomach, “Maureen, it’s been a long time.”

“It has,” she nodded in agreement. “What are you doing here? Trip?”

Shaking your head, you said, “No. I moved back.” You did not miss the slight twitch in Maureen’s face and you almost smirked in response. Almost. “Transferred back downtown. Same company, just better pay here for my position.”

“That’s wonderful,” Maureen said smiling but her smile did not quite reach her eyes.

She knew way too much about the past and you did not blame her for her reluctance to be truly happy about the news.

“You’ve said hi to Castiel, then, I’m assuming.”

“Yep,” you told her. You held up your glass and took a long drink. “Still remembered the regular. He has the memory of an elephant.”

Maureen chuckled, “He sure does. Aspen, want to accompany me over to the other side of the bar to wave them down for a couple shots? On me of course.”

Aspen was still glaring daggers through you, growing more and more upset with the unveiling of this friendly relationship between you and Maureen. You surmised she was quickly realizing you were more than just a woman who happened to just wander into the bar by chance tonight.

“Fine. Yeah, that sounds good,” Aspen finally said after what felt like forever. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

It was anything but a pleasure by the tone of her voice.

“Likewise.”

“I’ll be seeing you around,” Maureen told you and you nodded in acknowledgment.

The two of them walked off and you glared at Aspen’s back. What a conceited, entitled bitch. Now you were more determined than ever to take Castiel home tonight.

“Not that I have to try hard,” you muttered to yourself, picking your pen up for the third time tonight to try to focus on your report.

<> <> <>

At the other end of the bar, Maureen turned Aspen towards her and demanded, “What were you talking to Y/N for?”

“She was flirting with Cas!” Aspen spat at her. “And how the hell do you know her?”

Sighing loudly, Maureen said, “She used to live here.”

“I gathered that much.”

“Hey, cut the attitude. I’m trying to help you!” Maureen retorted, her tone tight. “Give Castiel space tonight. Trust me.”

“Okay, I—”

“You are sleeping with Castiel. Casually. Right? Unless something has changed recently?” Aspen’s silence spoke volumes and Maureen leaned in closer. “Trust me. Even if Castiel is a good lay, that –” she shot a look across the bar in Y/N’s direction. “Is not worth whatever drama you are going to be drowning in trying to hold onto his bed.”

“So, they’re a thing?” Aspen demanded.

Chuckling darkly, Maureen told her, “A ‘thing’ would be an understatement. Her and Castiel are absolutely toxic for each other. But, you know, like most toxic relationships, the two dancing just can’t seem to stay away from each other, no matter how many times they get burned or the damage they inflict on each other. No one can keep them apart from each other if they don’t want to be. And I’m going to guess – not to hurt your damn feelings – that Castiel is going to be occupied tonight.”

Aspen flicked her gaze to Castiel and jealously licked at her insides seeing him watching Y/N as he worked, his interest evident even as she was merely bent over her notebook writing away.

“We’ll see about that,” Aspen told Maureen.

Maureen groaned and waved her off, “Fine, if you won’t heed my word.”

Aspen pushed her way to the bar and pulled her shirt down, exposing the tops of her breasts before leaning on the bar.

“Hey, Cas,” she called sweetly as he neared.

Castiel gave her a smile, “Hey, Aspen. What can I grab you?”

“Uh, two shots of whiskey. On Maureen’s tab.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Castiel asked, “Maureen know about that?”

“Of course. I’m not a thief,” Aspen giggled, leaning further in.

Castiel set to pouring the shots, flipping the glasses onto the counter. “Well?” Aspen nodded and he teased, “Well, at least you’re a considerate thief if you are one. That’ll be a lesser dent in the bill.”

Aspen laughed at this and bit her lip, watching him put the bottle back down. He placed the shot glasses in front of her and she asked, “What are you up to tonight?”

Castiel froze only for a moment but she saw it, and in that moment knew that what Maureen said was right.

Clearing his throat, Castiel said, “I’ve got plans.”

“With what?” she pressed.

Fixing her with a gaze, Castiel said, “Stuff, Aspen.”

Clenching her jaw, Aspen picked up the shot glasses from the counter. “Right. Sorry that I asked.” Before Castiel could say anything else, she turned on her heel.

“So?” Maureen asked.

“Shut up and take this with me,” Aspen snapped, handing her the shot glass.

<> <> <>

A couple hours passed, small talk shared between you and Castiel in-between customers. He refilled your drink twice. You explained you were working on a report and he teased, asking if you could do it accurately with that much alcohol in you. You retorted to not underestimate your functioning alcoholism.

When he appeared again, he held out a fourth drink.

“This one is on the house.”

“I already told you –”

“Hey, I gotta be able to flex too right?”

Relenting, you took it from him. “Is this the only thing I’m getting from you tonight, Cas?”

“Absolutely not if you keep looking at me like that.”

Castiel’s smile was wolfish as he turned away from you and you felt butterflies. It was getting close to midnight. You hoped it was still true he never stayed past midnight, leaving that to his employees to finish up the last couple hours and close up the bar.

Aspen was at the bar again trying to talk to Castiel and you rolled your eyes watching the scene unfold. She looked far drunker than when she had spoken to you. It was blatant that she was flirting with him and becoming frustrated with his lack of reciprocity. And soon she was speaking loudly, and you doubted anyone in the bar was unable to hear the conversation from her end at least.

“Are you fucking serious?” she exclaimed over the music, her hands planted on the counter.

Two other women – Maureen was nowhere in sight – were at her back, trying to pull her away from the bar.

Castiel shook his head, ignoring her as he turned around and began punching on his cash register. Aspen was still trying to talk to him, but he was zeroed in on cashing her out.

He placed her card and the receipt in front of her with a pen. “Oh, fuck you, Castiel,” she slurred, snatching up her card. “I’m not leaving you a f-fucking,” she hiccupped. “Tip.”

Castiel said something in return, by reading his lips it was something along the lines of, “That’s fine. Just go home.”

“I’m not going the fuck home, Castiel. You’re being a jerk. I’ll find another bar.”

The women were trying to corral her away from the bar to the door no doubt.

She was resisting her friends, trying to get her credit card into her purse as they pushed her along. “Telling me I’m drunk. Kicking me the fuck out? Who the hell does he think he is?”

Aspen spotted you staring at her out of everyone else who was watching, and she pointed at you. “And that’s the fucking SLUT right there!”

Eyes were zeroed in on you now and despite yourself, you felt heat creeping up your neck.

“Latonya, get her home, will you?” Castiel called out and one of the girls helping her along promised Castiel she would, which made Aspen start swearing at her now as they forced her out the door onto the street. The bouncer moved into the doorway in case she decided to try to come back in.

“Jesussss. Haven’t seen her that drunk in a long while,” Maureen sounded from beside you and you jumped.

“Christ, Maureen. Announce yourself or something, huh?” you snapped, picking up your drink and taking a long drink trying to forget that you had just been called out in front of an entire bar by a drunken floozy.

“You’re already causing waves and you’ve only just returned,” Maureen told you, leaning in and you smelled the beer on her breath.

“I can see that,” you said sourly.

Maureen laughed before leaving you alone again. Scowling, you downed the rest of your drink, now praying Castiel was leaving soon so you could get out of here.

He was approaching you and told you sincerely, “Sorry about that.”

“Nice friend you have there.”

“I think you know what that was.”

“Sure do. Apparently, I’ve got competition.”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

Snorting, you asked, “Right. Speaking of that, you still in the same spot?” Castiel pointed at the ceiling and you smiled. “Good. We don’t have to go far. When I said I hadn’t unpacked, I should have said that I haven’t because all my shit is in storage still and I’m staying at a hotel currently.”

It was Castiel’s turn to snort. “I would think you would try to look for a place before moving back.”

“I mean, I did. But then I thought that I might already have a place…” The alcohol was making you bolder to divulge your true thoughts.

Castiel caught your meaning. “That was mighty presumptuous of you.”

“I guess,” you shrugged sheepishly. “But then again, I thought I would already be on my back on the stockroom floor by now too.”

Castiel’s eyes flashed and you knew that had tipped things in your favor.

“Don’t leave. I’m off in a few. I’ll close your tab out.”

“Whatever you say,” you told him flirtatiously.

<> <> <>

You barely recognized his room when you stumbled in. Gone were the collection of beer cans and alcohol bottles, his ash tray was not in sight. Clothes were strewn around the room but there was a sense of cleanliness that was foreign to you. He had bought a proper bed, his mattress no longer on the floor. A large area rug covered the floor and you did not doubt that if you lifted the edge of it you would find the stains on the cream carpet where the two of you had spilled so many of your drinks and late night snacks.

His walls held proper framed posters; he had a lamp now, the only light illuminating the room right now. It was grown up. You had been surprised to see how tidy the rooms outside his room were and that had been jarring, but you had been sure you would find familiarity in here of all places.

“What are you looking at?” Castiel asked from behind you, his hands finding your sides, caressing.

“Where did my messy Cas go?” You asked turning in his arms, smiling up at him.

“You approve?” he murmured, kissing down your nose, his touches becoming deeper, squeezing you now to him.

You did. Really. It was a good change.

“Mhm, as long as you haven’t cleansed everything about yourself,” you teased, returning his nuzzle. Pulling away, you turned away from him again, tearing off your shirt and tossing it carelessly on the floor.

Castiel’s hands were at your bra before you could reach it, undoing the back without hesitation. He turned you around forcibly again and he grasped your face with one hand, yanking you to him, his lips crashing into yours. Your touches and clutches were desperate, wanting to explore every crevice and remember every curve of the other’s body that you had been deprived of for so long.

You fell into each other naturally, muscle memory helping you melt into the embrace. It felt like home.

His fingers were on the button of your jeans, tugging them down and you helped him kick them off.

Kneeling on the midnight blue, shag rug, Castiel kissed the hem of your thong above your sex before biting down. He pulled it down long enough to expose the top of your folds and he moaned lightly, inhaling. Hands on the sides he yanked the thong down your legs, tossing it aside when it was free.

Your leg hooked over his shoulder and his hot breath met you. His tongue was tantalizing, causing your fingers to grip his hair to pull him closer to encourage him to go deeper. His chuckle against your sex sent shivers through you and he obliged. A soft moan left you, closing your eyes to push yourself further into the sensation. Throwing your head back against the wall, you held onto Castiel’s head as his tongue explored your wet folds.

Castiel’s hands gripped your ass tight, holding you in place as he curled the coil in your core tighter and tighter with each passing second. A rough suck at your nub drew a cry and he flattened his tongue, licking you from bottom to top before delving inside. You rocked your hips as his speed increased chasing the high that was just out of your reach.

You were so close.

Then he pulled away and you exhaled in disappointment.

“You got something to say?” Castiel husked, staring up at you.

You remembered all your training. You nodded fervently, “Please, sir. I want to cum!”

“That’s my good girl,” Castiel growled before diving back in.

Shaking, you braced yourself as you came on his tongue. You rode his face through your climax, and he did not relent until you were done.

Castiel pulled away, his lips glistening. “That was a good one, angel.” You nodded breathless and he simpered in approval at your exhaustion. “Come down here while you’re still good and wet for me.”

You let him pull you down to the ground and Castiel climbed on top of you, smothering you with wanton kisses. His knees barred your legs from moving, holding you in place as he left a wet trail of nips down your neck to your breasts. You gasped when his teeth bit at your nipple, sucking it into his mouth.

“On your side,” he ordered you and you rolled over as he worked on freeing himself from his jeans.

When he slid in from behind, you held tight to his arms, moaning in tandem as you stretched around him. Castiel held your leg up as he built his pace. He was going to leave marks on your neck, and you did not give a shit. His hand slipped down to your pussy, rubbing your clit in tandem with his thrusts.

“Mhm, yes!” you groaned, arching your back.

“Who’s my good girl?” he growled against your ear.

“Me, sir!”

Your fingers dug into the rug, giving grounding as Castiel plummeted into you. He husked titillating things into your ear as he brushed your core, his speed on your nub increasing. You praised him, thanking him for fucking you so well, begging him to cum inside, and he groaned in pleasure.

Skin rubbing against the fibers of the rug, your breath quickened, begging Castiel to not stop.

Castiel’s arm locked against you when you clenched around him and he followed shortly after with a loud shout, emptying himself inside you. You keened feeling him twitch inside, relishing in his tight grip.

Relaxing back against him, you craned your neck to see him.

“Are we sleeping here?”

“No,” Castiel said sounding sleepy. “I’ll have you in a proper bed soon, angel, despite how comfortable this rug is. Just give me a minute more to relish in you.”

How you missed him and this. It was times like now that made you almost forget.

Almost.

You looked around the dimly lit room, trying to relax your breathing further.

Eyes landing near on the wall, you noticed the drywall was fixed on the right side of the bathroom, and memory seeped in. You remembered that fight in vivid spurts, the alcohol blotting out some of the other moments that had escalated tensions...

Castiel followed you into the room on your tail. Haphazardly, you threw his jacket off of you onto the ground, moving to go to the bathroom to take a shower in a vain attempt to maybe sober yourself up a little. You kept chastising him over your shoulder though, mocking him. “Oh, you’re a real fucking man, Castiel! You beat up a guy two inches shorter than you! And for what? Cause he asked me to dance?”

Castiel’s grip on your wrist was like a vice and you cried out, half in anger and half in annoyance.

“No, Y/N, because you had to go grind on him!” Castiel spat at you, his nose inches from yours.

“Jealous much? Can’t even let me fucking dance with someone else without going alpha.” You leaned in, scoffing. “You’re fucking crazy, Cas.”

“You did it on fucking PURPOSE, Y/N! To piss me off!”

“And?” you laughed shrilly, yanking away from him the split second he stared at you flabbergasted and picked up your beer can from the night before on his nightstand and taking a large swig. The beer was slapped out of your hand, spilling the contents on you and onto the carpet. “What the—” was all you got out before Castiel shoved you up against the wall.

“Well, it fucking worked. So, what now, Y/N?” He shouted in your face. “Huh? What was your big fucking plan! Tell me!”

Recovering, you donned a self-satisfied mask, not wanting him to get the better of you. Throwing your hands out sheepishly, you told him, “I just like winding you up. Sometimes it makes the sex better.”

Rage radiated off of him as he let out a half laugh, his smile more ferocious than anything. You barely registered his face drop before he cocked his arm back, his fist breaking through the drywall right next to your head.

“That how angry you like to make me?” He resumed yelling in your face, and you could not hide your shock, your mouth falling open. “Too far? Right there? You tell me, you manipulative bitch!”

Fury tore through you now that he even dared to do that. “Oh, you wanna hit me now, you asshole? Is that it?”

“Oh, fuck off, Y/N!” Castiel snarled at you, turning away from you, his fist white from the debris falling from the hole.

“You don’t just get to walk off now!”

“Back off!” Castiel shouted at you over his shoulder, walking out of the bedroom and slamming the door behind him so roughly it shook the frame.

Your hand was on the door handle, throwing it open to follow him. You were not finished with him yet…

It was patched like it had never happened, your memory serving as the only evidence it had ever been broken in the first place. Your eyes traveled around the room, taking in the memories from each corner of this room where you had spent such a substantial time. Each crevice held a memory, some good, some bad.

The past would not determine the future, you told yourself firmly. You would not let it.

Castiel had fallen asleep on the rug even though he had said he was not going to. Reaching up, you tugged the folded blanket off the end of the bed and threw it around the pair of you.

You snuggled in closer to him, holding onto his arm tightly, willing yourself to fall asleep comfortably in his arms.

pic source (i know that pinterest is the *least* source reliable but that’s where I found it!)

~~~

CASTIEL FOREVER TAGS: @willowing-love​ @perseusandmedusa​ @greenappleeyes​ @afanofmanystuffs​ @earthtokace​ @shikaros-blog​ @marisayouass​ @splendidcas​

[thebaconsandwichofregret]

Happy False Value Day everyone!!!

As many of you know Ben Aaronovitch used to work for Waterstone’s, a bookshop chain in the UK, and because he’s quite proud of having worked there (and they are proud of having once employed him, no seriously, every time I even look at one of his books in one of their shops a member of staff spontaneously appears to tell me “He used to work here you know!” If I had a pound for every time I’d heard that I could afford to buy the Folly) he gives Waterstone’s a special exclusive short story in the first run of every new Rivers of London book. 

Obviously this is great for those of us who are UK fans. 

It’s less great for those of you who are international fans. However in the spirit of International Magical Cooperation I managed to get my hands on my copy ever so slightly early and so I have here for your reading pleasure, the exclusive short story from False Value - A Dedicated Follower of Fashion

Please note that this story contains mentions of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll

A Dedicated Follower of Fashion

By Ben Aaronovitch

You know that song by The Kinks? Not that one. The other one. No, not that one either. Yeah, that one- ‘Dedicated Follower of Fashion’. You wouldn’t believe it to look at me now, but that song’s about me. 

These days my daughter does her best to keep me looking respectable, and I haven’t the heart to tell her that I’d much rather wear my nice comfortable corduroy trousers, with braces, and leave my shirt untucked. But back in the sixties I was the dedicated follower of fashion. And it’s true that they sought me here and they sought me there but, as Ray Davies knew perfectly well, that was probably because of the drug dealing. What can I say? Clothes aren’t cheap. 

I was a middleman buying wholesale and supplying a network of dealers, mostly in and around the King’s Road. I rarely sold retail, although I did have a number of select clients. And of course nothing lubricates a soirée like a bowl full of alpha-methylphenethylamine. It was all going swimmingly until some little shit from Islington stiffed me on a payment and I found myself coming up ten grand short. And, believe me, ten grand in 1967 was a lot of money. You could buy a house in Notting Hill for less than that - not that anyone wanted to, not in those days. 

Now, I’ll admit that as an entrepreneur working in such a volatile industry, I probably should have ensured that I had a cash reserve stashed away against such an eventuality. Mistakes were definitely made. But in my defence, not only had I just discovered the joys of blow, I was also distracted by my infatuation with Lilith. 

Now, I’ve always cheerfully swung both ways and, to be honest, I’ve always been more attracted by the cut of someone’s trousers than what was held therein. But when I met Lilith it was if all the cash registers rung out in celebration. She was so like a man in some ways and so like a woman in others. I’d love to say that it was the best of both worlds, but looking back it was a disaster in every respect. Although a completely exhilarating disaster, like a roller coaster to an unknown destination. I tried explaining what she was like to Ray Davies and that beardy writer who ran that sci-fi magazine, but they both got her completely wrong. 

So there I was, suddenly ten grand down to people whose names you’re better off not knowing - let’s just call them the Deplorables and leave it at that. If I tell you that their nicknames were Cutter, Lead Pipe and Gnasher, that should give you a flavour of their character. You could call Cutter the brains behind the gang but that would be risking an overstatement. Organised crime in the good old days required little in the way of actual brains and relied much more on a calculated defiance of the social niceties vis-à-vis psychotic violence. Terrify your rivals, bully your customers, and hand out a bung to the local constabulary and you were away. 

And it goes without saying that aesthetically they were a dead loss. 

The Deplorables had a straightforward approach to those that owed them money which I will leave to your imagination - suffice only to say that it involved a sledgehammer and, of all things, a marlinspike. 

But I had no intention of losing my knees, so I had arranged a couple of new deals that would net me a sufficient profit to cover both what I owed the Deplorables and the same again to appease them sufficiently to save my poor knees from a fate worse than polyester. 

I know some of you are thinking that polyester was hip and groovy back in the Swinging Sixties, but trust me when I say that it was an abomination from the start - whatever the elegance of its long chain polymers.

In order to keep body and wardrobe together while I waited for these deals to come to fruition I decanted, along with Lilith and my faithful sidekick Merton, to a squat in Wandsworth just off the Earlsfield High Street. Now, I normally shun the transpontine reaches of the capital. But my thinking was sound. With my reputation as a flower of Chelsea and the King’s Road, I reckoned that nobody - least of all the dim members of the Deplorables - would think to look for me across the river. 

‘No fucking way,’ said Lilith when she first saw it, ‘am I living in this shithole.’

Squats come in many flavours. But political, religious or student, they are almost always shitholes. However, I could see this one had potential and Nigel, God bless his woolen Woolworths socks, had at least kept it clean. 

But not particularly tidy. 

Outwardly Nigel was definitely one of the children of Aquarius. Inside he had the soul of an accountant, but alas none of the facility with numbers. 

According to Nigel, who could be dull about this sort of thing, the building we were squatting in had been built in the eighteenth century as an inn that specialised in serving the trade along the river Wandle. This was news to me, because I had assumed the rank channel immediately behind the house was a canal. 

‘There used to be factories up and down the Wandle,’ he told me despite my best efforts to stop him, ‘all connected up with barges. And this is where the wartermen used to get their drinks in.’

With the collapse of that trade it was converted into a grad town house, a status it retained for a hundred years or so before providing slum housing for the unwashed multitude. Occasionally on its hundred-year odyssey it would surface into the light of respectable society before descending once more into the depths of squalor. 

Which is where yours truly arrived to bring a touch of colour and a modicum of good taste to the old place. 

Looking back, I believe that might have been the start of the whole ghastly business. 

Now the thing about the drug trade is that it overlaps with the general smuggling industry. As a result a man with the right contacts can acquire much in the way of valuable cloth - Egyptian cotton and the like - without troubling the good people of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. Then such an individual might use his reputation for fashion to sell on said items to the East End rag trade at less than wholesale, cash under the table, no questions asked and no invoices raised. Not as lucrative as a suitcase full of horse, but safer and more dependable. 

Cloth, even expensive cloth, takes up considerably more room even than Mary Jane, so the fact that the old building had a beer cellar capacious enough to store the stock was the other reason I’d chosen it as a bolt-hole. Merton and I pressed Nigel into service to help us carry the bales, wrapped in tarpaulin for protection, down to the cellar, which proved to be mercifully dry and cool.

It was surprisingly cool - you could have used it as a pantry. 

‘That’s because of the river,’ Nigel explained. ‘It’s just the other side of that wall.’

I touched the wall and was surprised to find it cool but bone dry. 

‘They know how to build houses in those days,’ said Nigel. 

Once we’d moved the good in, it was time to deal with the ever simmering domestic crisis that was life with Lilith. In the latest instalment of the drama, she had ejected Nigel from the master bedroom and claimed it as her own. This was less of a distraction than it might be because Nigel, like nearly all men, was clearly smitten with Lilith and acquiesced with surprisingly good grace. 

And so we settled in companionably enough, especially when Lilith and Nigel discovered a common in the works of Jack Kerouac. I could see that at some point I would be bedding down with Merton for a night or two. I won’t lie and say that I didn’t find Lilith’s peccadillos upsetting but Merton, bless his acrylic Y-fronts offers compensation in his own rough manner. 

Things started to go wrong the night of the storm and consequent flood. And while our decision to drop acid and commune with the thunder- Nigel’s idea, by the way - probably wasn’t to blame, it certainly didn’t help.

I don’t normally do hallucinogenics as they often disappoint. You go up expecting Yellow Submarine and get a lot of irritating visual distraction instead. My colour sense is quite keen enough, thank you, without having a pair of purple velvet bell-bottoms start to shine like a neon sign. 

The master bedroom - now Lilith’s domain - contained, of all things, a king-size four-poster bed that was missing its curtains. But since I’d arrived, it at least had matching cotton sheets in a tasteful orange and green fleurs-de-lis pattern. They matched the old wallpaper with its geometric tan and orange florets that still showed the retangular ghosts of long vanished photographs and paintings.

At some point - Nigel had said the 1930s - the owners had installed an aluminium-framed picture window that ran almost the length of the room and looked out over the canal, or more importantly, up into the boiling clouds of the oncoming storm. 

Lilith started on the bed with all three of us, but I can’t take anything seriously when heading up on LSD, least of all sex. So I quickly disengaged and chose to sit on the end of the bed and watch the storm. I doubt the others were troubled by my absence. 

I watched the storm come in over the rooftops of South London with lightning flashing in my eyes and that glorious sense of joy that only comes from something psychoactive interacting with your neurones. I lost myself in that storm and, in it, I thought I sensed the roar of the god of joy, whose acolytes dance naked on the hilltops and rip the goats apart. 

But the mind is fickle and darts from thought to thought and I became fascinated by the patterns the raindrops traced down the window glass. Then the play of light and shadow drew me to the walls, where I found myself pulling at the torn edge of the wallpaper. Like most squats, damp had gotten into the room at some point in the past and the top layer peeled away to reveal another layer below - a vertical floral design in red, purple and green on a pale background. Carefully I stripped a couple of square feet away. And while behind me Lilith howled obscenities in the throes of her passion, I started on the next layer. This revealed a faded leaf design in silver and turquoise. The colours pulled at me and I realised that if I could just find the original surface I might open a portal to another dimension - one of style and colour and exquisite taste. 

But I had to be patient. Clawing the walls would disrupt the delicate lines of cosmic energy that flowed along the pinstripes of the layer of blue linen-finish paper. Delicately, I peeled a loose corner until I uncovered a beautiful mustard yellow bird that glowed with an inner light. Gently and meticulously I revealed more. A trellis design overgrown with olive and brown brambles sporting red flowers and crimson birds. I knew it at once as a classic design from ‘the Firm’, the company founded by William Morris to bring back craftsmanship to a world turned grey and smoky by the Industrial Revolution.

I was ready for a hallucination then, and willed my mind into the pattern in front of me, but nothing happened. The wallpaper shone out of the hole in the wall, the light shifting like sunlight through a real trellis, real birds, but that achingly rational part of my brain stayed aloof. Chemistry, it said, it’s all chemistry. 

At some point Nigel escaped the bed and fled whimpering into the cupboard and closed the door behind himself. 

The trellis and its mustard-coloured birds mocked me from the walls, 

‘I think we’re sinking,’ said Merton, for what I realised was the third or fourth time. 

I was still coming down and it took concentration to focus on Merton, who was stark naked and pacing up and down at the foot of the bed. Lilith was sprawled face down, arms and legs spread like a starfish to occupy as much space as possible. There was no sign of Nigel, and in my elevated state I seriously gave consideration to the thought that Lilith had devoured him following coitus. 

Merton rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, as if testing his footing. 

‘Definitely sinking,’ he said, and ran out of the door. 

I flailed about a bit until I found a packet of Lilith’s Embassy Filters and a box of Swan Vestas, managed to not light the filter on the second attempt and dragged in a grateful lungful. A burst of head-clearing nicotine helped chase away the last of the lysergic acid diethylamide and I was just trying to determine whether I’d hallucinated a naked Merton when he reappeared.

‘I’ve got good news and bad news,’ he said. ‘We’re not sinking but we’re definitely flooding.’

The cellar was divided into two parts. The stairs led down to the smaller part of it, essentially a wide corridor which used to house, so Nigel insisted on telling me, the coal chute - now bricked up. A big metal reinforced door opened into the larger part of the cellar - the part with over ten grand’s worth of fabric stored in it. The door was closed but the corridor part was two inches deep in filthy water. 

‘Don’t open the door!’ called Nigel from the top of the stairs. 

I had no intention of leaving the dry section of the stairs, let alone risking the cuffs of my maroon corduroy flares in what looked to me like sewage overflow. Merton, who’d been trying to force the door open, now splashed back as if stung. For a man who I’d once seen cheerfully batter a traffic warden for awarding him a ticket, it was odd how he never argued with Nigel - not about practical things to do with the house anyway. 

Nigel, resplendent in a genuine Indian cloth kaftan - or so he claimed - passed me and stepped gingerly into the water. Reaching the door, he rapped sharply with his knuckles just above the waterline, then he methodically rapped up the door until he reached head height. After a few experimental raps to confirm, he turned to me and told me I was deader than a moleskin waistcoat. 

‘The whole room’s flooded,’ he said. ‘Probably not a good idea to open this door.’

I sat down on the stairs and put my head in my hands. I did a mental inventory of what I’d stored and how it had been packed. It was bad, but if we could pump out the room half of it could be salvaged - especially the silks, since the individual rolls had been wrapped in polythene. 

Thank God for Hans von Pechmann, I thought, and got to my feet. 

‘We need to drain the room,’ I said. ‘Nigel, get a pump and enough hose to run it back out to the river.’

Nigel nodded.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, and practically skipped up the stairs. 

‘Put some clothes on before you go out!’ I called after him. 

I told Merton that when we had the pump and the hose, he would have to cut a suitable hole in the door -  near the top. 

‘Will you need tools?’ I asked. 

Merton eyed up the door. 

‘I have what I need in my bedroom,’ he said.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’

It took Nigel the best part of the day to source the suitable equipment. In the meantime, I sent Merton out to the local phone box to see if I couldn’t rustle up another life- and kneecap-saving transaction. Ideally, I should have been making the calls myself but I didn’t dare show my face on the street - it’s a well-known face, even in South London. I spent the time cataloguing my wardrobe, alas much reduced by my exile, ironing that which needed ironing and casting away those items that had fallen out of style since my last purge. 

Some things never go out of style - some things, thank God, will never come back. Let us hope that the lime-green acrylic aquiline button-down cardigan is one of them. I really don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it. 

Apart from a spectacularly noisy toilet break, Lilith stayed blissfully asleep in the main bedroom until teatime and then vanished into the bathroom for the next two hours. 

Once Nigel had returned with the pump and the hose, Merton used his hammer and chisel to cut a rough hole, six inches across, near the top of the door. Nigel had brought down the cream-coloured hostess trolley and mounted the pump on that to keep it out of the water. Once it was rigged we ran a hosepipe up the stair, down the hall, across the kitchen and poked it out the back window. Merton stayed to supervise the outflow while I returned to the top of the stairs and gave Nigel the nod. 

It looked ramshackle and was, indeed, held together with string and gaffer tape. But like most things that Nigel built, especially his improvised hookahs, it was perfectly adequate. The pump puttered into life, the pipe going through the hole in the door stiffened, there was a gurgling sound and I followed the passage of the water upstairs and into the kitchen. There, an arc of water shot from the hose and into the river beyond. 

‘How long until it’s pumped out?’ I asked.

‘A couple of days,’ said Nigel. 

When I objected, he pointed out that it was a small-bore hosepipe, that the cellar was large and that we didn’t know how the river water was getting in. 

Some things you can’t control, I suppose, such as Lilith - who I found sitting in the kitchen in a loose yellow kimono, drinking brandy and letting her assets hang out. 

‘It smells different in here’ she said.

I pointed out that the window was open to allow egress of the hosepipe and was thus allowing fresh air, to which Lilith was generally unaccustomed, to enter the room. Lilith grunted and said she was going out that evening to meet some friends in Soho. 

I tried to talk her out of it but she insisted, and there was no stopping Lilith when she was set on something. 

‘What if the Deplorables see you?’ I asked.

‘Darling,’ said Lilith, throwing an orange ostrich feather boa around her neck, ‘the Deplorables never frequent the places I do and in any case - I’m invisible.’

I was making another calming cup of tea when I realised that Lilith had been right. The kitchen smelt fresh and, oddly, sun dappled - of you thought sun dappled was a smell. I went to the open window and took a deep breath. Not normally something I’d recommend given the foetid nature of the Wandle - which still looked more like a canal to me - behind the house. The air was fresh and another thing I noticed was that the water shooting out of the hosepipe was clear. I pulled the pipe in a bit and had a closer look and then an experimental tate - just the tip of the tongue, you understand. It was plain, clean water. Perhaps, I thought, the cellar had been flooded by a burst mains pipe. If so, then there was a chance that much of my stock might survive relatively intact. 

I also noticed that the house had a small back garden, or rather a side garden, an overgrown patch of weeds and brambles that filled a roughly triangular space between next door’s garden wall, the river and the side of the kitchen. I replaced the hose and went looking for the door that led to the garden. I’m not a horticulturalist myself, but to a man in my position, knowing there’s a back door - for egress in extremis - is always a comfort. 

It took three days to drain the cellar, which passed as quickly as two quarters of Lebanese cannabis resin could make it. Now I’ve never been one to get the munchies, but Nigel could consume an astonishing amount of fish and chips, and poor Merton was forced to make several supply runs. On the morning of the fourth day, Nigel declared that we could force the door and I went to fetch Merton. 

Who was nowhere to be found.

His room was as he always left it, the bed made with military precision and knife-edge creases. Merton was a thoroughly institutionalised boy, but what institution - the navy, prison, the Foreign Legion - I’d never thought to ask. His clothes, though dull, were hung or folded with the same admirable care. His tool case was missing but the canvas bag containing his baseball bat, bayonet and the long wooden stick with the stainless steel barbs that I didn’t want to know the purpose of, was tucked into the wardrobe next to his two spare pairs of Doc Martens boots. 

I returned to the basement corridor, which Nigel had mercifully mopped clean once the muddy water had soaked away. Nigel was standing by the door to the cellar, stock-still and staring at something on the floor. 

‘What is it?’ I asked.

Nigel pointed mutely at a battered blue metal toolbox sitting by the door. Its top was open and its trays expanded to reveal its rows of neatly arrayed tools and boxes of screws and nails.

‘He must have gone inside,’ said Nigel. His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. ‘Inside there!’

Since I had no idea why Nigel was so agitated, I reached out and pushed the door open. It opened a fraction and then pushed back - as if someone was leaning against the other side.

‘Merton,’ I said, ‘stop fucking about and let me in.’

I shoved harder and the door opened a crack and out poured a weird sweet smell like cooked milk. And with it a sense of outraged dignity which so surprised me that I jumped back from the door, which slammed shut. 

‘Is he in there?’ asked Nigel.

‘Must be,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure I believed it.

Neither of us could match Merton -  because that’s who it had to be - for physical might. I mean, I employed him precisely because he could intimidate your average creditor just by breaking wind. So we trooped upstairs for a cup of tea and some pharmaceutical reinforcement. 

‘Got any more black beauties?’ asked Nigel, who never could separate his biphetamines from his common or garden amphetamines. I swear, you try to educate people but there are limits. I gave him a couple of ludes, and given the day we’d had so far, took a couple myself. Lilith returned fabulously drunk at two in the morning, and we all piled into bed and didn’t get up until the next afternoon. 

The door to the cellar remained closed and Merton’s tool case was still where he’d left it. I tried the door, but it was stuck fast with no give at all. I even tried knocking it down, like they do in films, but all I did was bruise my shoulder. 

If Merton was in there, he wasn’t coming out until he was good and ready. And since I wasn’t getting in, I had to accept that I wouldn’t be realising any value from my stock of fabrics any time soon. Still, I’d already written down their value and put other deals in motion to generate cash flow - another drug deal, as it happens. A stack of Happy Bus LSD out of Rotterdam. A little bit riskier than my normal deals, but needs must, as they say.

Without Merton, I was forced to rely on Nigel to go out and make the necessary phone calls. Unlike Merton, who followed instructions without question, I had to explain everything to him as if he were in a spy movie with Michael Caine. Once he had the gist, he darted out the front door wearing an RAF surplus greatcoat. As I watched him go from the upstairs window, I realised that his hair had grown long enough to reach between his shoulder blades and wondered why I hadn’t noticed. 

The next couple of days went past with no sign of Merton, and I only managed to keep anxiety at bay with the help of my dwindling supply of cannabis resin and long punishing nights with Lilith. 

The door to the cellar remained closed. 

When I had nerved myself up to go look, I noticed that something had been jammed into the cracks around the edge of the door - as if it had oozed out from inside the cellar in liquid form and then set on contact with air. I took a set of pliers from Merton’s tool case and worried a fragment out. It’s a long time since I’ve prepared a slide in earnest, but while I didn’t have a microscope I did have a jeweller’s glass I keep for checking crystal shape. Under magnification the fragment revealed itself to be a tangle of threads - blue cotton, my good Egyptian cotton at a guess. I picked at the tangle with a pair of tweezers and a strange notion struck me -  that the threads weren’t tangled randomly, that there was a pattern to the knots.

I could imagine a circumstance where the pressure of water could both shred the original weave of a cloth and then tangle the threads. I could even imagine water pressure forcing the threads around the edge of the door, but it seemed unlikely. Before I discovered fashion and pharmaceuticals I did a degree in chemistry. Started a degree, to be precise - I stopped paying attention in the second year. But I always thought of myself as rational even when under the influence. 

If I’d known what I know now, I would have run screaming from the house and taken my chances with the Deplorables. But I lived in a much smaller world in those days. 

Although large enough for my Rotterdam connection to agree to a deal. Not only that, but it seemed my credit was good enough for me to procure a sample shipment on good faith. With the profit from that sale I could finance a larger shipment and thus dig myself out of my financial predicament and quit the squat - and it’s creepy basement.

The only catch being that I would have to provide my own mule to bring the sample in. Normally you don’t use your friends as mules, not even friends of friends. What you really want is a gullible person who’s been talked into it by someone you only know through business. I knew a guy who could meet a girl at a party and have her on a plane to Ankara the next day. He made a living recruiting mules and didn’t mind some wastage at all - right up to the point someone’s mother gave him both barrels of her husband’s grousing shotgun. The police never caught her and only Merton and I turned up for the funeral. 

It wasn’t hard to persuade Lilith to fly to Rotterdam - especially first class - and the beauty was that wherever she touched down, she paid for herself. Or to be strictly accurate, other people took care of her needs for her. The downside, of course, was that you had to allow her time to party - in this case, at least a week. You’d think that without Lilith sharing the high thread cotton sheets of the four-poster bed I’d be getting more sleep, but I found myself spending most of every night staring at the underside of the bed’s canopy. 

It didn’t help that I had to ration the Quaaludes - I needed them to keep Nigel functioning. 

‘There’s something in the cellar,’ he said, and refused to go down into the basement. 

I, on the other hand, found myself increasingly drawn to the cellar door. Especially when it started to flower. 

It started with a spray of cotton around the door frame, overlapping triangular leaves of white and navy-blue cotton that stuck to the bricks of the wall as if they’d been glued in place. I took a sample and found that instead of regular weave, the cloth was formed by the intertwining of threads in a complex pattern. Some of the threads amongst the white and blue were a bright scarlet and spread through the fabric in a branching pattern like streams into a river basin. Or, more disturbingly, like capillaries branching out from a vein. 

I did make an attempt, cautiously, to scrape one of the ‘leaves’ off the wall with a trowel I found in Merton’s tool case. But even as I pushed the blade under the edge of the cloth I felt such a wave of disinterest -  I cannot describe it more clearly than that- that I found myself halfway up the basement stairs before I realised what had happened. 

The next day the cotton leaves had spread out at least another six inches and surrounding the door were tongues of crimson and yellow orgaza. Individual threads had begun to colonise the door proper - curling into swirling patterns like ivy climbing a wall. I spent an indeterminate amount of time with my back to the opposite wall, staring at the pattern to see if I could spot them moving.

I wondered what it meant. Perhaps Nigel was right, and the Age of Aquarius was upon us and we had entered a time of miracles. 

When I was upstairs I tried to put the cellar out of my mind and concentrate on plans for the future. I had fallen into drug dealing almost by accident and had always found it an easy and convenient way to keep myself in the sartorial fashion I aspired to. But if my run-in with the deplorables was an indication of the future, then perhaps it was time to pack it in. A boutique of my own instead, one in which I could serve both as owner-manager and inspiration. Before the merest thought of doing actual work, no matter how supervisory, had filled me with disgust but now … now it seemed attractive. 

I didn’t trust these feelings. 

I needed out of the squat. I needed to be strutting down the King’s Road or Carnaby Street. I wanted back out into the world, where I could be as dazzling and as splendid as the first acolyte of the goddess of fashion. 

But you need working kneecaps to strut your stuff. And so I stayed where I was. 

By the third day the door was completely obscured behind a tapestry of red, black and gold thread, and wings of cotton spread out across the walls and ceiling. The organza had likewise spread and a third wave of pink and yellow damask now framed the doorway. By the sixth day the entire corridor was curtained in swathes of multicoloured fabric, so that it seemed a tunnel to a draper’s wonderland. 

I no longer dared leave the safety of the foot of the stairs and yet I still found myself walking down them three times a day to look. The urge to walk into its warm comforting embrace was terrifying. 

On the seventh day, Lilith failed to return. I started to seriously worry on the eighth; on the ninth, I fell into such a despair that no amount of near pharmaceutical-grade Drinamyl amphetamines could lift me from it. On the tenth, a postcard arrived with four jaunty pictures of a tram stop, a fountain, a town square, a gigantic statue of a man holding up the sky and Groeten uit Rotterdam written across the front. 

On the back Lilith sent me love and kisses, explained that she’d met a splendid sailor or three and would be staying on in the Netherlands for a bit, but not to worry because she’d found a perfectly wonderful Spaniard to courier my product back to London. Thoughtfully she’d written the travel and contact details of the Spanish courier on the postcard - in plain English. 

With a heavy heart I sent Nigel out to pick up the package and when he failed to return I was not surprised. 

We live in a universe constantly assailed by the forces of entropy. Nothing good, pure or beautiful can stand up to the relentless regression towards the mean, the dull and the shabby. A minority have always striven to be a beacon in the gloom, a constant source of inspiration to those around them. Some worked through the medium of paint, or music, or literature, but I have sought to make myself the living embodiment of style and culture. 

God knows it hasn’t been easy. 

But a man should always know when he’s been beaten. That morning, as I sat in the kitchen, futilely waiting for Nigel to return, I realised that that time, for me, was nigh. I went upstairs, stripped myself down to my underwear - not nylon and not frilly, thank you, Ray - and after taking a deep breath to steel myself, donned a pair of brown corduroy trousers and a matching moleskin shirt. A pair of Hush Puppies and one of Merton’s donkey jackets completed my transformation. I looked in the mirror -  I was unrecognisable. 

Stuffing the last of my cash reserves in my pockets, I headed for the front door. I paused by the basement only long enough to ensure it was closed. From behind it came a noise that might have been a giant breathing, or water flowing, or shuttles running back and forth across lines of thread. 

I shuddered and walked boldly out into the sunlight. 

My plan was simple. Take the train to Holyhead, the ferry to Dublin and then, via a few contacts I still had, to America and freedom. 

I didn’t even get as far as Garratt Lane before I ran straight into Cutter. I tried to braout but somehow he recognized me instantly and called out my name. 

I turned, ran back to the squat, slammed the door behind me and went for the back door. There I could escape via the garden, over the wall and run for Wimbledon Park station. 

But Lead Pipe was waiting in the kitchen, with a cup of tea on the go and the Daily Mirror open to the back pages. 

‘About time,’ he rumbled when he saw me. 

Three guesses where I went next. 

I was down the stairs and into the basement corridor before I even noticed that the walls had grown a fringe that glowed with a soft golden light. I was prepared to throw myself frantically at the cellar door but I found it open. I ran inside with no brighter plan than to barricade myself inside and hope the Deplorables grew bored.

Inside the cellar was a riot of colour. The walls were arrayed with purple organza and burgundy charmeuse, while sprays of a brilliant blue habotai framed cascades of fabric woven in a dozen colours - scarlet, yellow and green - into tangles of vines, leaves and flowers. Globes of light hung suspended from golden threads in each corner, illuminating a bundle of gold and black embroidered silk suspended from tendrils of lace - like a cocoon from a spider-s web. 

Around me was a giant’s breathing and the warp and weft of a loom gigantic enough to weave the stars themselves. I could no more have stopped myself from grasping that bundle than I could have stopped myself breathing. 

The bundle was warm and squirming in my arms. I unwrapped a layer of gauzy chiffon, gazed down on my fate and was lost. 

‘Oi,’ said a voice from behind me. 

I turned to find myself confronting the sartorial disaster that were the Deplorables en masse. I won’t describe their appearance on the off chance that children may one day read this account. 

‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ I asked, because politeness is always stylish. 

‘Yeah,’ said Cutter. ‘You can give us the ten grand you owe us.’

‘Plus interest,’ said Lead Pipe.

‘Plus interest,’ said Cutter. 

‘I’m rather afraid I haven’t got it,’ I said. 

‘That’s a shame,’ said Cutter, and he turned to Lead Pipe. ‘Isn’t that a shame?’

‘It’s definitely a shame,’ said Lead Pipe. 

The bundle in my arms squirmed a bit and made happy gurgling noises. 

‘Since the money is not forthcoming, I’m afraid we’ll be forced to take measures,’ said Cutter. He looked once more to Lead Pipe. ‘Is your sledgehammer ready?’

By way of reply, Lead Pipe held up his sledgehammer and I couldn’t help but notice that there were brown stains on the long wooden handle. 

‘And Gnasher,’ said Cutter. ‘Do you have a marlinspike about your person?”

Gnasher grunted and held up a pointed lump of metal that I can only presume, in my ignorance of all things nautical, was a marlinspike. 

Cutter turned back to me and smiled nastily.

‘I’d say that you should take this like a man,’ said Cutter. ‘But that would be a waste of time.’

Never mind his rudeness, I had more pressing concerns. 

‘Shush,’ I said. ‘You’ll wake the baby.’

Cutter’s face suffused to a fine shade of puce and he opened his mouth to continue his ranting, so I twitched aside the fine damask sheet to reveal my daughter nestled in her bundle of silk and high-thread Egyptian cotton.

Her beautiful brown face broke into a charming smile and, opening her chubby arms in a benediction, she laughed - a sound like water tumbling over stones. 

Cutter gave me an astonished look and whispered.

‘Is this your…?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered back. ‘Her name is Wanda.’

‘But,’ said Cutter, ‘you can’t keep her here.’

‘She likes it here,’ I said indignantly.

‘It’s a dump,’ said Lead Pipe in a low rumble. ‘It’s not fit for human habitation.’

‘He’s right,’ said Cutter. ‘There’s damp and mould and the kitchen is a disgrace.’

‘And there’s no nursery,’ rumbled Lead Pipe.

‘And the garden is a jungle,’ said Gnasher. ‘Totally unsuitable.’

‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I can’t attend to any of these details if you break my legs.’

‘Obviously, we have to deal with the immediate shortcomings of the house before we return to the matter of breaking your legs,’ said Cutter. ‘Don’t we boys?’

‘I know a couple of builders,’ said Gnasher. ‘And Lead Pipe has green fingers. Ain’t that right?’

Lead Pipe cracked knuckles the size of walnuts. ‘That’s true,’ he said. 

‘Really?’ I said.

‘You should see his allotment,’ said Cutter. ‘He has compost heaps you wouldn’t believe.’

I thought of the rumours of what exactly happened to people who crossed the Deplorables and I decided that I actually did believe in those heaps. 

‘About my legs,’ I said but Cutter wasn’t listening.

‘And there’s the roof,’ he said, and the others nodded. 

‘About my legs,’ I said louder and then wished I hadn’t, because the trio were jerked out of their dreams of home improvement and focused on yours truly in a somewhat disconcerting manner. 

‘What about them?’ asked Cutter, taking a step towards me. 

‘I thought we might reach a more mutually beneficial arrangement,’ I said.

‘What kind of beneficial arrangement did you have in mind?’ he said. 

‘There’s the matter of the way you dress,’ I said. 

Cutter pushed his face towards mine. 

‘What’s wrong with the way we dress?’ he said. ‘It’s practical.’

‘Stain resistant,’ said Lead Pipe. 

‘Yes, but,’ I said, ‘it could be so much more.’

And Wanda laughed again and this time behind the chuckling stream was the crisp snap of fabric shears and the whistling hum of the shuttle as it plays back and forth across the thread.

‘But first,’ said Cutter, waving a blunt finger in my face, ‘we have to sort out the playroom.’

And that was that. I gave up the pharmaceutical trade and opened a boutique instead. Cutter and his boys were my first customers, and while they never stopped being an unsavoury gang of foul-mouthed thugs, at least when they broke legs they were well dressed doing it. 

Merton, it turned out, had fled the squat the day we pumped out the water and, being in need of some security, assaulted a police officer so that he could spend a couple of nice peaceful years at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Lilith visited him regularly, and after he got out they ran an animal sanctuary just outside Abergavenny until their deaths, within three months of each other, in 2009. Nigel is still alive and taught cybernetics at Imperial College until his retirement a couple of years ago. 

My daughter and I never got around to giving the boutique a name. It was always just ‘the shop’ and given that we never advertised it’s a wonder that we stay in business. We’re always at the cutting edge of fashion. We were out of flares while the Bay City Rollers were still number one and stocking bondage trousers before John Lyndon had dyed his hair. We’ve moved the shop a couple of times and, while we’re hard to find, we’re always close to the river. 

So if you want to know what the herd are going to be wearing next spring, and if you can find us and are prepared to pay the price, you too can join the ranks of the stylish, the à la mode, and truly become a dedicated follower of fashion. 

END

[yoondoze]

ultimatum | l.dh

donghyuck is a cute regular who has seen your spectacle reserved for rude customers a number of times and just can’t get enough of it.

pairing: donghyuck/reader

genre/au: fluff, coffee shop! au

word count: 2.2k

warnings: none

a/n: i kinda forgot that i had this in my drafts and decided to finish it! this was the mcdonalds au i once mentioned but thought that a coffee shop might work better. hope you enjoy <3 also, this was inspired by an incident from this post

When you’ve been working in fast food for long enough, your skin gets real thick.

There was just about nothing that could get to you, not even the wrath of a fifty-year-old man with a heavy southern accent calling you a whore because a barista accidentally gave him whipped cream when he didn’t ask for any - even claiming that whipped cream was emasculating! It wasn’t your fault and you knew it, even though he treated it like you killed his firstborn son. Still, you didn’t let it stress you out. You were tougher than nails - in fact, you were the type of person to throw nails into your mouth like sunflower seeds, chew them, and spit them out. When you were at work, anyway.

However, that didn’t mean you enjoyed dealing with it. Sometimes, you couldn’t get customers to leave you alone - Jesus Christ lady, I already gave you a refund and a coupon if you ever want to come back (please don’t), what more do you want? And you had a perfect way to get rid of it.

It was just a thing. Your coworkers laughed til their ribs hurt every time you pulled it and it was undeniably hilarious. You knew you weren’t supposed to anymore and perhaps it was a bit manipulative, but in your book, they deserved it.

And here we go again. 

“There are no straws left,” she said abruptly. Her horribly cut side bangs swept to the right of her face screamed that this would be more troublesome than you were willing to put up with. When you looked over, she was correct. There were no more straws left in the basket on the counter. Big whoop.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” you replied in your most polite, high pitched voice, “I’ll be right on it in a moment.”

You continued taking the current customer’s order, hoping a coworker mulling around might have heard it and would get her the damn straw. No one stepped up though, leading you to believe that they almost wanted it to escalate, especially when Jisung - who was “busy” making a drink - gave you a look. Nothing had happened all day and everyone was bored out of their minds.

“Alright, your total will be-”

“Excuse me?” Her eye twitched as she interrupted you.

“One moment please ma’am, I’ll be right with you.”

“...Are you kidding me?” She scoffed. “All I need is a damn straw, and you kids are just going to ignore me?”

In the blink of an eye, you were wearing an anxious expression like a mask and your voice was faltering with worry. The customer who was right in front of you, who was actually quite pleasant, was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the woman leaning into his bubble just to get in your face.

“Ma’am, I’m dealing with another customer-”

“And you were dealing with me first!” she yelled, bringing up a poorly manicured finger to point at you. “This place is horrendous. I cannot believe how low the bar is for the service I am receiving right now. You are one lazy little girl, and let me tell you, not one member of your generation is fit for the workforce right now. Always in your phones, not even able to refill the straws! When I get home, I am going to leave a Yelp review that will bring this place to the ground!”

You had to stifle a laugh in your throat.

It was dead silent. Conversations came to a halt, food was left half-chewed in people’s mouths as they focused on the ordeal up at the register. Some people in the place had seen you do it once or twice, if they came here regularly when you were working. Those people met your eyes and watched with excitement. One who you were familiar with, Donghyuck, looked up from his phone and raised his eyebrow at you from a corner booth, anticipating your next move.

The first time viewers were in for a treat.

Cue the waterworks. Your eyes filled to the brim with glassy tears, something you learned to do on command since you started working here, and brought your hands to your face. It was just natural at this point.

In a choked voice, you stumbled over your words, “I, I’m so sorry ma’am, it’s just that I… It’s my first day today and…”

You watched as her anger melted away and guilt began to take place. “I’m so sorry for messing up, I just got overwhelmed and…”

“No, no, no darling, I am sorry for yelling at you and I shouldn’t have. You’re new and it was my fault…” Her cheeks were incredibly red at this point, eyes wide and absolutely astonished. While you kept crying, sobs comparable to those in an afternoon soap opera, she had no clue what to do. Everyone in the store was looking at her with judgemental eyes, even her kids sitting at the booth. You spared a quick glance to Donghyuck, who gave you a concealed thumbs up as he tried not to laugh.

Instead of finishing the conversation, she simply hurried away back to her table, embarrassed, putting on her jacket and quickly pushing her family out. Trying to hold in your laughter, you ran to the back and let another watching worker take your place.

The others on break burst into laughter when you walk in and you couldn’t help but join them. It just felt good to see rude customers get what was coming to them, even if you had to lie a little. You wiped your eyes and patted your face dry with a towel as they complimented your performance. It was unbelievable that you weren’t being cast in movies instead of working a minimum wage barista job.

“Oh my god, Y/N, you’re so good at that!”

“It never gets old, I swear.”

“Just don’t let the manager find out you did it again.”

That was the one problem you had with the joke. Your manager, Doyoung, was strict and held way too much pride in his direction of the café. He maybe smiled at it the first time and then warned you not to pull the act again or there would be consequences. Since then, it always had to be something just between the employees. He was friendly but took his work in the fast casual business seriously and wouldn’t hesitate to let you go if you presented any problems, and unfortunately, you needed the money.

“Well, I’m not letting him know anytime soon, so you better not either. I’m your only source of entertainment around here, anyway,” you laughed, setting down your towel.

After it was safe to go out again, you received a few comments from customers who had witnessed it. Some were apologetic, clearly those who felt sympathetic for the new worker. Others were happy to praise your acting, and the shared laughter made you forget about the possibility of getting fired for it and wondering if it was worth the effort.

It was a little while later that you noticed that Donghyuck still sat in his corner booth. It surprised you, as the boy was typically only here for an hour max to do schoolwork before heading home. To be completely honest, you were always a bit disheartened when he left. You thought you worked better when there was eye candy present, encouraging you to do your best. Not like correctly making lattes would impress him, but you get the gist. 

You memorized his order fairly quickly when he first started coming around and always tended to him with much more care than other customers. Your coworkers noticed it and teased you about it constantly - especially Jisung - but nonetheless let you have your fun.

Donghyuck was fairly talkative. Typically you would only listen half-heartedly when it came to customer conversations, but you paid full attention when he was speaking. He talked about his group of friends at school, his teachers, and sometimes you were even treated with a fun story of something that had happened recently. He was really kind and charming, not to mention that he was so cute that it made your heart hurt sometimes.

Occasionally you left a smiley face next to his name on the cup when you were feeling lucky, but not much came of it other than a small laugh, which you were still delighted to see anyway. Jisung suggested for you to write your number down a few times, but you wouldn’t be able to deal if he rejected you like that.

In other words, you had a big fat crush, and him staying later today gave you an ounce of sweet, sweet hope. 

It was close to the end of your shift when he came up to the counter. Jisung had gone to the back to get his things since the place was pretty empty, so it was just you.

He looked like he was just going to leave, with his backpack slung on his shoulder and all, but he didn’t. You tilted your head to the side as he approached the pick-up counter rather than the registers. “Not ordering?” you asked.

“No, actually,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “I, uh, I just wanted to talk to you for a little.”

It was safe to say that your heart leaped from your chest. This had to be it!

“Oh, okay... well then what’s up?”

He sighed and then smiled. “That act you pulled earlier… I swear, I never get tired of it.”

You laughed in return. “Yeah, me neither… I don’t know, it’s pretty entertaining for me, too.”

“How do you do it?” he leaned in closer and lowered his voice for dramatics. “Like, you start crying on demand. It’s amazing!”

You could only shrug, trying to keep your cool as he talked. “I couldn’t tell you. I just make myself get really upset, like it’s actually my first day, and go from there. I’m no actor, but... I’d say it’s pretty convincing.”

“No, it’s definitely convincing. I think I’ve seen it happen about four times now, including today. It’s great, like you just flip a switch and boom! Oscar-winning performance.”

The two of you giggled over it, sending your heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. You couldn’t see yourself in a mirror but were sure your face was flushed red. Eventually, as the energy started to die down, he began again.

“Anyway, so I think you kinda know that I’m not just here to talk - I, I mean I like talking I just had something else to say-”

“It’s fine,” you said, grin prickling at your lips, “Don’t worry.”

He sighed, fingers entangling themselves as they rested on the counter. Donghyuck cleared his throat and then he said quickly, “This is a bit awkward and probably not the best place to ask but since I don’t know when else I could do it… would you go on a date with me sometime?” 

He waited for your response with wide eyes, chewing on his bottom lip. You were so shocked that you couldn’t get any words out. It was your dream come true, yet you were still screwing it up.

“Um, you know what, nevermind, it was stupid of me to ask and especially while you were at work-”

You waved your hand as you realized where he was going. “No, no, it’s fine! I was just surprised, that’s all!” It was especially shocking that he was so flustered. From what you had seen from him, he was calm and collected. This wasn’t smooth as you imagined, but it was incredibly endearing.

You bit your lip mischievously. “I mean… I don’t know, Donghyuck. You’re a customer. Why should I?”

Fortunately, he received your playfulness well. What you didn’t expect was for him to come back even stronger. “Well, if you want to get serious… I’ll leave a complaint that you fake cry to make annoying customers feel guilty?”

A loud, hearty laugh made its way out of your chest. “Okay, fair enough. As long as you don’t tell my manager, I’d be happy to go on a date with you.”

You gave him a cheeky wink and grabbed a notepad and a pen and started to scribble down your phone number. When you handed it to him, that adorable signature grin spread across his face.

“Okay, I’ll... call you sometime. Thanks, Y/N.”

Then he was off, out the door with a certain bounce in his step that made you giddy, too. You had to turn around, letting yourself do a little dance of joy. At that moment, Jisung came out from the back with a smug look on his face. He punched you on the shoulder lightly as he walked out behind the counter.

“Finally,” he laughed as you protested. “It’s literally been months.”

You squinted your eyes as you stared at the boy who was now cleaning up. He had been gone for quite a long period of time, and wasn’t he just getting his things? “Did you have anything to do with this?”

He just smiled to himself as he washed his hands.

“Jisung!” you whined, swatting at him. 

“Hey, hey, I only dropped some hints! Nothing explicit, it’s not like I paid him… just some hints!”

Scrunching up your nose, you crossed your arms and looked away.

“C’mon, Y/N, I’m your wing-man! You needed it and you know it.”

“Okay, maybe!” you threw your hands up in surrender. Then, in a small voice, you mumbled, “Thanks.”

But that pretty much decided it. If you could get yourself a date with the cutest boy you’ve ever seen out of it, the risk of being fired was more than worth it.

[mspicata]

Muta wasn’t the type of person to get into politics, even among the notoriously unaffected Aburame that rarely sided with or against other clans on any matters. He barely had a perception of the subject in the first place, as it just wasn’t important to him- until it was. 

“Hey, Kako, don’t we need to turn that way for Mari’s?” Shisui paused by the intersection, brows furrowed as he glanced down the turn and back the direction they’d been walking down.

Kako shook her head. “You’re right, but that’s not the right grocery store. The client specified ‘Fresh Nin’s’. Has the best deal on salmon this week.”

Muta wasn’t familiar with either grocer, but the client had said-

“What? He definitely said it was Mari’s!” Shisui scowled. “I paid attention to the briefing, even though it’s literally just grocery shopping. Which is boring, even for a D-rank.”

Kako paused for a moment, and then made a short sound of understanding. “You’re right, he did say that, but the directions he gave us have the other place written down.” She held up the ‘map’, a hastily sketched-on napkin from a man that clearly didn’t trust three new genin to complete a simple task despite hiring them. It also had the other grocery store written down on it.

Shisui grabbed the napkin, stared at it, and then let his shoulders slump. His face slumped as well, and Muta was suddenly at a loss. For an uncomfortable moment, Shisui said nothing, and even without Kikaichu pheromones to help, Muta could feel the surrounding positivity drain away.

Then,Shisui brightened up with a wide smile across his face. “Oh well! Sucks to be that old geezer, Mari’s is way better.” Like the mix-up hadn’t even happened, Shisui marched forward, catching up to and then passing Muta and Kako both.

Muta wanted to stop, to say something. He knew he wasn’t great at reading people’s moods or understanding micro-epressions- something to work on, but there was a reason that Aburame didn’t do espionage. But, he was sure that Shisui looked more upset than he should have been from a simple error based on the client’s own misinformation. Should Muta say something comforting, like “It’s okay, mistakes happen.”? Or “It’s not your fault, clients are expected to be clear and accurate about their missions and you can likely file a complaint about it”? Or maybe he shouldn’t say anything at all, because Shisui might be embarrassed or Muta himself might be reading too far into it.

“Hey, Kako, let’s switch!” Shisui spoke again suddenly. In his hand, lifted to eye-level dangled the moneybag that was their mission allowance. The same moneybag that Shisui had eagerly called dibs on at the start of the mission.

Kako tilted her head, frowning as if she also didn’t quite understand where the request came from. Then, something about her posture changed as well, though it wasn’t as obvious, and she nodded. “All yours,” she said lightly, passing the paper over.

Muta opened his mouth, and then closed again. He was missing something. Kako’s movements were a bit sharper and more abrupt as she stared forward more intently than before. His kikaichu shifted, crawling inwards in response to his tense concern. But what could he say, really? Muta had known these people for two weeks and four days- for all that they’d both been more friendly than expected, he couldn’t just interrogate either of them.

With another turn and three more blocks, they arrived at the store. Kako went in quickly, while Shisui stopped at the door. “Hey, Muta, you should go help Kako. I’ll wait here and,” Shisui’s mouth twisted, smile dropping for a moment,” Uh, I’ll secure the entrance. Guard it, I mean. It’s good practise for a real mission.”

“This is a real mission,” Muta found himself saying, as the only response he could think of. And then, because it was getting too strange and confusing, he bit the bullet and added, “Is this about the client’s mistake? Are you... okay?”

Shisui’s eyes went wide. “What!? No, of course not. It’s just- a real mission, like you said!” Shisui fake-laughed, badly.

“Are you sure?” Muta tried again. If something was wrong, he wanted to understand.

“Of course, it’s fine! Now go on in, or it’ll look like Kako’s doing all the work, and you know, I’m pretty sure she’s Amano-sensei’s favourite already.”

Frustration churned with Muta’s kikaichu, but outwardly he only breathed and abstained from making the obvious correction that Amano-sensei is too good to pick favourites. Then, he nodded and went into the store, feeling confused and out of depth.

The first thing Muta registered after opening the door was that Kako was most definitely angry. If she was an Aburame, her kikaichu would be practically spitting mad, buzzing at a low rumble, a thunder to be wary of. Instead, she stared silent daggers at the cashier. The cashier, meanwhile, avoided her gaze to studiously bag the small pile of items.

Muta only stared, stepping briefly out of the entranceway as another customer stepped in. Kako dropped the money on the counter, still glaring, and swept the bags up, stomping straight out of the store without looking up even once. Muta resolved to force a conversation about it after the mission- he needed to know his teammates better, what set them off and what didn’t. Before he could turn and leave, however, he heard something.

“Hey,” The customer that had just walked in made a beeline to the cashier. “You know there’s an Uchiha loitering outside, right?” They stressed the clan name, something seeping into their voice.

The cashier’s eyes darted around, focusing briefly on Muta before disregarding him. “Yes, but don’t speak so loud. There was this girl with him- I thought she might murder me!” They scowled at the customer’s immediate scoff. “You never know when Uchiha are involved.”

“Seriously, though?” The customer lowered their voice, likely thinking that it would prevent Muta, the only other person in the store, from overhearing. “I don’t think even they would get away with that. The Hokage would have to take care of them if they started disappearing people. And even if they did, normal people like us are probably beneath their notice” Venom dripped from their lips.

Muta, for his part, felt the world tilt. The Uchiha were a highly respected clan. One of the founders. People couldn’t just believe things like this, could they?

The cashier wasn’t done. Responding in an equally low voice that was nothing to Muta’s trained senses, they huffed, “ I did have to kick some of their spawn out of the store the other week. You’d think they’d know by now we don’t want their business here.”

Muta felt cold. He’d heard enough. With a quick, sharp movement, he turned on the spot and left before he could get in trouble for threatening a civilian.

His teammates were a short distance away, just out of sight of the front door. Shisui still had a fake grin on his face, while Shikako’s sharp expression softened just enough to give him a look of understanding, like she knew what Muta had heard.

With a painful jolt, Muta realized that she did. She knew that some people hated the Uchiha enough to refuse them service- knew from the moment where Shisui asked not to hold the money anymore- not to be the one paying, when he’d heard they were going to this particular grocer--

Muta understood.

“How often does this happen?” He asked.

Shisui’s smile fell flat, and he let out a great gust of air. “It’s not a big deal, Muta, really.”

“How long has this been happening?” He asked. Shisui looked away.

“Since the Kyuubi.” Kako answered, eyes catching his and holding them in a steady stare.

For once, Muta understood the words unspoken. Konoha was slowly rejecting an entire clan, and their teammate by extension. Something like this didn’t just happen, and when it did, it meant something very ugly and very serious. They would both have to keep on the lookout, for Shisui’s sake.

Perhaps, Muta decided, it was time to learn more about village politics.

[cami-chats]

Title: The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker-- Only Not the First and Third Ones

Link: AO3

Square Filled: Character Is A Baker

Ship: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark/Steve Rogers

Rating: Mature

Major Tags: Mention of a lesbian trying to force herself to be with a man

Summary: Pepper meets a gorgeous baker, now she just has to convince Tony to give a new relationship a try.

Word Count: 2231

Created for @mcukinkbingo

Full text also below

The first time Pepper saw him, she didn't give him more than a cursory glance. She hoped it didn't come off as rude, but the truth was that was was trying to make a purchase while talking on the phone, so there was only so polite she could have come across as. Honestly she was so frazzled that she didn't even think about how the blond haired, blue eyed man with muscles stretching his shirt was basically the human form of an all-american apple pie until she was back at the Tower, setting down the box of muffins on the conference table.

Huh. He was... not bad. She'd drop by again when she had a chance and see if he was there. If he wasn't, she'd keep trying until he was, and if he was, she'd try to feel him out for the basics. Namely how much of a judgmental asshole he was, but sometimes that was hard to find out from small talk.

She saw Mister Certifiably Gorgeous the next time she went in, but it was rather busy for her to do any kind of vetting. She left a big tip, tried to make her thanks as genuine as possible, and didn't even think about distracting him. She did find out that his name was Steve though, so she left feeling triumphant. The little flutter in her stomach let her know that she needed to tell Tony about him, so she made a mental note to talk to him before they went to bed that night.

With the minor explosion in R&D that day though, she forgot until they were at the brushing-teeth phase of the night, which was a little later than she preferred to have these talks. Pepper knew that Tony didn't mind, so she didn't put it off any longer. "I met somebody."

"Yeah?" Tony swished some mouthwash then spit it out, making a face at the spearmint taste instead of peppermint like he preferred. "Man or woman?"

"Man. His name's Steve, he works at that new bakery on the corner."

"Is he interested?"

"Well..."

Tony looked at her, then chuckled. "You didn't tell him, did you."

"I didn't have a chance," she said defensively. "We haven't even talked outside of customer-employee conversations."

"And you're telling me about him because?" Tony asked, looking a little confused. It wasn't an unfair emotion considering the fact that they usually had a little more attraction from the third person than this, but Pepper was a little offended all the same.

"He's really gorgeous, Tony."

He laughed again, moving towards their room and pulling back the blanket. "Well why don't you flirt a little and see how it goes."

"You don't want to meet him?"

Tony shrugged, his shoulders slightly tense.

Pepper softened, walking to him and setting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry about Wanda, but they won't all be like that." Wanda had been a lesbian that was half in love with Pepper, and thought that she'd be able to stand Tony as part of the deal as long as she got to be with Pepper. Needless to say pretending to be bisexual hadn't ended well for any of them, especially when she insisted she was okay to have sex with Tony. It was... one of the worst break up's they'd ever had, and it had only ended a month and a half ago.

"I know," Tony said. "It's just. Ugh I don't know."

"You're scared," Pepper supplied.

"No I'm not."

Pepper didn't say anything, knowing that the lie made him feel less vulnerable while at the same time knowing that Pepper wasn't fooled by it. She kissed the back of his head. "I'll see if he's interested and keep you posted, okay?"

He nodded, turning his head for a proper kiss.

She hummed, leaning into him.

"Pep, we just got clean."

She raised an eyebrow. "Your point being?"

Tony laughed again, and she loved the way it lit up his eyes. "Nothing," he said, shaking his head.

"That's what I thought."

*

Pepper flirted the next time she went in, and the time after that Steve flirted back.

"Hey Pepper!" he said, grinning widely as he walked out of a back room, his apron dusted with either flour or powdered sugar, she didn't know which.

"Hi Steve," she said, smiling back just as big.

Sam, the man who had been preparing to take her order, looked between them. "I guess you'd rather take care of her Steve?"

"Yeah." Steve walked up to the register as Sam moved to the side, still smiling at her. "I was hoping you'd come in today, it's been a while."

"Two days."

"A very long two days," he said, pulling a solemn face as he talked before smiling again.

Pepper swallowed, willing her tingles to calm down a little before she got so wound up that she accosted Tony in his workshop for an afternoon quickie. "What were you doing back there?" she asked, glancing at his spotted apron.

He glanced down too, like he needed to double check that there was a reason she looked there as she asked. "Cake order for tomorrow."

"You bake?" she asked, surprised.

Steve blinked, the expression of a man that was so used to people knowing he did that he'd forgotten it wasn't stamped on his forehead for new people to see. "Yeah," he said, laughing a little. "There's me, a night baker, and a couple part time bakers to cover our off days."

"I'm surprised you even have days off," she said. "I feel like you're here every single time I come in."

"Well I try," he said, smile turning shy. "Did you uh, need to order still?"

"Oh! Yes." In all honesty, she'd forgotten that she had come here to get food, caught up as she was in talking to him. "What hasn't been selling today?"

"You want to buy our least popular products?" he asked, a faint, disbelieving look on his face.

She narrowed her eyes at him, personally offended somehow. "Steven," she said, unconsciously folding her arms over her chest as she looked sternly at him. "If you are trying to convince me that buying food you made would be a mistake, we're going to have a problem."

Someone that Pepper only recognized in passing around the store snorted as he walked by. "You haven't been on a date yet, an' she's already settin' you straight." He pat Steve's shoulder, leaning in to say something that she couldn't catch. Whatever it was made Steve blush harder though, so perhaps she didn't want to hear it.

"Go away punk," Steve said, shoving playfully at him. "Sorry about him," he said bashfully, smoothing the front of his apron for something to do with his hands. He glanced at the door his friend had gone through, then turned back to her. "So uh, you can definitely say no and we can forget all about it, but would you maybe um- want to go on a date with me sometime?"

Pepper blushed lightly, a dusting of pink across her cheeks. She wanted to say yes so badly, but going on a first date with someone and then explaining the situation was so much worse than explaining it beforehand. "Ah. It's... complicated."

"Oh." Steve's smile was fading now, and she hated it. He looked like a golden retriever that was just told it wasn't allowed to be pet. "Sorry uh." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "So what can I get for you?"

"Steve. When I said it's complicated, I didn't mean 'I'm taken so back off', I meant it takes some time to explain and most people aren't okay with it."

"So you're... poly?" he asked tentatively, probably afraid that he was wrong and she'd get upset.

She smiled though, relieved. "Yes. And we date as a pair, so I didn't want to agree to anything without him. If you're still interested, we can all meet up when you're free. If you're not, no harm done." She reached into her pocket for a card and a pen. "Take some time to think about it," she said, scrawling her personal number on the back, "and get back to me." She held it up, holding her breath until he took it from her.

He nodded, tucking it into his back pocket, obviously taking her seriously.

"Great," she said, unable to keep the relief from her voice. "Take some time to think it over, there's no pressure." She smiled reassuringly and left. It wasn't until the door was closing behind her that she paused, realizing that she hadn't bought anything. It would probably be more embarrassing to turn back now than to deal with it later, so she kept walking.

Of course that was the moment that Tony texted her, asking if they had anything with cherries and if they did would she please get him five. She took a deep breath, bracing herself as she turned around and walked back in.

Steve was shocked to see her again, and she waved sheepishly. "Tony's craving cherries," she explained, going back up to the counter. "Do you have anything like that?"

*

"I talked to Steve," Pepper said, sliding Tony the pastries.

He shoved a whole one in his mouth before he responded. "How'd he take it?"

"He needs some time to think. I gave him my number but," she shrugged. There was nothing they could do but wait-- or so Pepper constantly had to remind him so that he didn't gift people with Ferrari's at every turn.

Before she could worry too much about future bakery purchases, Steve texted her that night.

It's Steve (from the bakery). Can I meet your partner before I agree to anything?

Absolutely. We'll drop by tomorrow? At 3?

Sounds good. See you then.

*

"Okay Tony what are we not going to do?" Pepper asked as they walked to the bakery.

"Pepper," he whined. She shot him a sharp look, and he rolled his eyes. She was always so uptight about new people and he wished there was some way he could force her to relax a little. Tony heaved a sigh before dutifully repeating, "We are not going to proposition him or otherwise try to scare him off, and I'm not allowed to casually hand him a hundred dollars."

"You're not allowed to hand him any money. Leave all exchanges of paper-- monetary or not-- to me. He's going to think he can hand you things otherwise, and you'll pretend to be okay and then you'll panic when we get back to the tower. Hands to yourself for the good of mankind."

"I don't think the good of mankind hinges on whether or not I panic."

"I disagree."

They were still bickering goodnaturedly as they walked into the bakery, and Pepper had to poke him hard in the arm to get his attention. "What?" he asked, rubbing his arm with a betrayed look on his face.

She nodded at something, and Tony turned to look.

Then he froze. "Wow." He was pretty sure there were Greek statues that looked exactly like this man, only not quite as pretty. Steve-- because that must have been who it was-- was certainly more attractive than any slab of marble could be, no matter how nicely it was carved. "Do you think he takes steroids?" Tony asked under his breath. "There's no way those muscles are natural."

Pepper looked at him disbelievingly. "People say the same about your ass."

"They say I take steroids to get it that way?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Not the time Tony."

"You always say that."

"That's because it's always true."

"You're so mean to me."

"Only as mean as you are to me," she said, shooting him a saccharine smile.

"Am I interrupting something?" Steve said, standing a few feet away as he looked between the two of them, looking like he was legitimately concerned that they were having a fight and not just arguing for the fun of it.

"No," they said in unison, and it sounded like the truth instead of when most couples said that as a complete and utter lie.

"You must be Steve," Tony said, grinning at him.

"I must be." Tony knew there was every reason for him to look nervous, but he still had to swallow down the urge to tease him about it. "And you're Pepper's boyfriend?"

"I prefer partner."

Steve winced. "Right, sorry."

Tony waved the apology off. "It's fine. I'm Tony, by the way." He fake glared at Pepper. "I guess someone hasn't been talking your ear off about me as much as she's been doing it to me about you."

"I have to talk about you all day, I didn't feel the need to inflict you on Steve."

"You're inflicting me on him now," Tony grumbled.

Steve looked like he was starting to have doubts, so Tony tried to dial it down a little.

*

How they ended up getting a date after that, Tony had no idea.

*

How they ended up spending morning-afters with Steve making muffins in their kitchen, neither Pepper nor Tony knew, but they were going to enjoy the hell out of it. Especially since sometimes Steve would bake shirtless and they'd get to see the hickies they left from the night before on him.