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embrosegraves · 3 months

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𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕪 𝕀𝕟𝕤𝕚𝕕𝕖

(request) Fernando Alonso x Fem!Reader As much as he loves it, Fernando is a bit confused as to why his wife is refusing to let him go anywhere.

Warnings: none. maybe some spelling errors.

Fernando is, in the words of many, a certified DILF. He’s always had the attention of women his entire career, however lately he has become more and more popular amongst teenage girls. You couldn’t blame them, of course not. If you were a teenager still, you would be the exact same. Even now, his teenage fans considered you, his wife, as “one of them”. You had fun chatting and interacting with his fans on social media because you all agreed on one crucial thing. Fernando Alonso was hot as fuck.

One afternoon, you had been lounging on your couch and scrolling through tiktok. A lot of Fernando’s fans tended to tag you in edits they’d made of him. Clicking on the most recent tag, a video appeared of a girl who only just looked the legal age.

“This is a message for F1’s resident MILF, Y/n Alonso.”

She spent the next few minutes talking about different clothing trends that she thought would look nice on Fernando. One such trend was a formal suit without a shirt or vest. You privately agreed that he would look amazing, but the one that really caught your eye was the trend that went around a few years ago. Of men wearing light grey sweatpants. Of course you knew why the trend was so…big. It made you curious as to whether Fernando also had a pair of grey sweatpants.

Getting up from the couch, you decided that you would look through the wardrobe and have a look. If he did, you were going to have to try and convince him to wear them for you. For science. You started looking through all of his clothes and were a bit disappointed when you couldn’t find any. Being so deep in your musings, you hadn’t heard Fernando come back inside from his workout in the backyard.

“Hola, Mi Amor.”

Fernando laughed at the shriek that left your mouth. Turning around you started scolding him for scaring you, until you realised what clothes he had changed into after he showered.

The grey sweatpants you had been looking for.

Fernando had apparently not noticed your brain short circuiting. Your husband wasn’t always the smartest, but at least he was pretty. He continued talking to you, completely unaware of the effect his clothes had on you.

“I was thinking we should go and get some groceries later. Mama sent me the recipe for this bread I haven’t had since I was a child.”

“That sounds great, Guapo,” you said, shaking out of your stupor, “but I think I’m too tired to get groceries today. We could go tomorrow if you’d like?”

“I can always go by myself if you don’t want to, I don’t mind.” Fernando frowned a little. It was almost lunch time, how could you be tired still?

Frantically you shook your head. Snaking your arms around his waist, you looked up at him through your lashes.

“No, I want to go with you, tomorrow. When I won’t be as tired.” You gave a demure smile, really trying to discreetly convince him to stay home. You knew that if your reaction to seeing your husband like this — in the comfort of your own home — was this dramatic, the teenage girls on tiktok would go ballistic. You had to prevent that as much as you could.

Which is why you knew that Fernando would bend to your every wish if you looked up at him and bat your delicate eyelashes. Just as you predicted, his hands gently rubbed the length of your body.

He smiled at you and nuzzled his ever-growing stubble into the crook of your neck. “Okay. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Can we lay down for now? At least until I need to make dinner.”

“We can do whatever you want, Corazón.”

Weeks later, Fernando had come home early from a race weekend. He hadn’t seen your car in the driveway so he assumed that you were either still at work (it was monday after all) or you had gone to the shops for something. The thought of being there for you to come home to, as you usually were for him, made him more giddy than he’d’ve liked to admit.

He had quickly taken a shower, putting on his most comfortable pair of grey sweatpants, and started to prepare a nice snack and drink for you. Just as he put the last thing on the plate for you, he heard your car pull up the drive. Excited to see you after so long apart, he opened the front door and started walking towards your car.

Still sitting in your car, you had been checking your phone when Fernando knocked on the driver's side window. Seeing him standing next to your car door, your eyes widened. You had immediately clocked onto the fact that he was wearing the sweatpants. Grabbing your things and opening the door, you got out as quickly as you possibly could.

“Welcome home, Mi Amo—“

“Get inside! Quickly!”

Fernando was confused. More confused than he had been a few weeks ago when you were too tired to go to the store with him.

“Why the rush?”

“No questions, just please go back inside the house!”

Despite knowing that you lived in a relatively private area, your neighbours usually stuck to themselves, you couldn’t help but worry that someone had gotten a picture of Fernando in his grey sweatpants .

Once you were both inside, Fernando sufficiently confused, you started to relax a little.

“Is everything okay Amor? Why were you rushing?”

You hummed. “Hmm? Oh, sorry I thought I’d seen some paparazzi. I was just a little worried.”

Later that same day, you were in your kitchen mixing yourself a cocktail to sip on while watching some TV. You could hear Fernando on his phone scrolling through his tiktok feed. Which would’ve been fine, if you hadn’t heard exactly what tiktok he was watching.

Fernando didn’t often get videos about clothes on his for you page, but he felt compelled to sit through a video that came up about possible outfits for him to wear. What had really gotten his attention was that the video had been addressed to you.

“This is a message for F1’s resident MILF, Y/n Alonso.”

He was intrigued so he continued to watch the video. it wasn’t until the girl started explaining the Grey Sweats Trend that he finally figured out why you didn’t want him going outside. Curiously, he checked the comments to see what people thought about the trends she pointed out, only to see that you had left a comment on the video yourself.

yn.alonso 🔵 I think I'm gonna gatekeep the grey sweats 🤭 fernandoFan14 creator I can't even be mad 🫠

Shutting off his phone he walked into the kitchen to find you humming to yourself. You had been trying to pretend that you hadn’t just heard what he was watching. You tried to continue making your drink as if nothing was suspicious but you had to freeze when Fernando wrapped his arms around your waist and pressed his whole body against your back. You didn’t often curse the height difference between the two of you, but with the way he was perfectly aligned with your backside, you couldn’t help it.

“Is everything alright, Cariño?” You asked, trying your hardest to ignore the way he was pressing and practically rubbing against you.

“I heard you were gatekeeping me from my fans.”

“Who said that?”

He chuckled. “You should know exactly who said it, Amor.”

He attached his mouth to your neck and started placing slow, open kisses all the way from your shoulder to behind your ear. You knew in an instant that it was going to be a long night ahead.

My mind has been so centred on ABIN that I've basically had writer's block for anything that isn't for that series, so I apologise for how long this request has been sitting in my inbox.

otherwise, I hope you all enjoyed <3

#formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fluff #formula one #formula 1 #fernando alonso x you #fernando alonso x reader #fernando alonso x y/n #fernando alonso #fernando alonso fic #fernando alonso imagine #fa14 x you #fa14 x reader #fa14 fic #fa14 imagine #fa14

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writtenontheport · 10 months

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Just a Morning at Portland Row

pt.2 : Just an Afternoon at Portland Row

Finale: Just a Night at Portland Row

Anthony Lockwood x (gn) Reader

Warnings/Tags: Nothing, just a lot of romcom cheese, Pining, Idiots in Love, Lockwood and Reader don’t really interact in this much, but they do, just not directly, George and Reader friendship, Lucy and Lockwood Friendship, George and Lucy being the lomls

Notes: George being silly, Lockwood doesn’t actually show up until after the cut, Lucy being the loml and being silly, might do a part 2 if I feel like it, sorry if they’re a bit ooc, I haven’t actually written in a while so I might be rusty.

Summary: You don’t live at 35 Portland Row, but you visit daily. Some part of you might be able to make the excuse that you’re doing it simply to make sure your longest childhood friend doesn’t die of self-neglect, but your better majority, and unsurprisingly George Karim and Lucy Carlyle, know better than that.

Word count: 1.6k+

The sound of a whistling kettle flits down the hall, and you quickly pull it off the stove. You listen for a moment telltale footsteps creaking around 35 Portland Row, and are relieved when only silence calls back. It’s too early in the morning for any of them to be awake, if what Lockwood had told you yesterday about another case was true. It seemed so when nobody came down to check on the kettle, and long after, you’d made your tea and settled down on the dining table. You ran your hands over the thinking cloth, pressing on the spaces between the ink and hovering gently where there was any. George’s caricatures of the other two made you giggle, and Lucy’s sarcastic comments tickled you funny. Lockwood’s was especially interesting, because he would write to you as if he was sure you would be reading it.

‘bread in the bread bin about to go bad, try not to eat it’ He’d written, right beside where he’d carefully written your name. The ink on this one was new, so you know he wrote it recently. A chuckle works its way out of you, and you fish a pen from somewhere on the table to write, ‘threw it out already, got you a new loaf’.

You’d always reply to Lockwood wherever and whenever he addressed you, and you wondered if he did it because his fleeting subconscious brought you up like yours did him. A smile wiggled its way to your lips, and you pulled your shoulders back to look down at the cloth.

“You’re already here,” someone said sleepily, the voice familiar as his handwriting. Looking up you spot George sleepily yawning, a palm to his eye and his glasses in his other hand. “Did you make yourself some tea already?”

“I did, might need to put on the kettle again, though. How are you already awake? Lockwood told me you lot were on a case last night somewhere far.” You pulled out of your seat just as George pulled into his, sleepily resting against the thinking cloth.

“He and Lucy dealt with it, as far as I know they came back after I fell asleep,” He said, tapering off into another, shorter, yawn. His curly hair was all over, and he had forgone his trousers again, but you weren’t one to tell him off for it. Often Lockwood would liken it to geniuses and their ‘weird habits’, George being the brains of the agency and all that.

“I saw their coats by the door this morning, dripping all over the floor,” George scoffed at that, picking his head up off the table just to thump it back down, “I mopped it up though, no need to worry.”

He looked grateful, especially as you pushed him a cup of hot tea and a donut.

“Lockwood should marry you for how much you pick up after him alone, at this point. Never mind all the times you guys act like you’re already basically married,” He’d said. Casual as he might have been, you find yourself choking on air.

“It’s not like that,” you cough, brows furrowing as George gives you an exasperated frown, “Come off it, it’s not like that. I doubt he’d… y’know.”

He rolls his eyes and tears off a chunk of donut; you take the out when he chooses to say nothing more. Changing the subject is easy with George, but he often makes pointed statements— when he notices something, he just has to say it.

“You brought some more flowers today, yeah? Are the red carnations for Lockwood?” He’d asked, sipping on his tea, more awake than before. As he ate you’d been rushing about the kitchen cleaning up what you could, so you close the cupboard just as he adds, “Do you reckon he’ll pick up on it this time?”

You freeze where you’re pulling a chair out for yourself, worrying your lip between your teeth. “He hasn’t before. I just… I don’t think he will. Get it, I mean. I just— I don’t know. What do you think, George?”

He hums at you, and shuffles to give you a quick pat on your shoulder. “I think you should just tell him at this point. He’s either being intentionally dense or is just being stupid about it.”

“Has he…” you gesture lamely with your hand, arm propped up on your elbow before you slump back in your seat, “Has he said anything about… maybe, liking me back?”

“He doesn’t need to, he makes it clear enough anyways. He’s always banging on about you,” He says, clearly frustrated. You give him a pointed look he doesn’t break, unimpressed as he always is. You sigh. It’s frustrating, but you know George wouldn’t say anything that wasn’t objectively the truth. “Whatever happens, if you do tell him, it’s not going to be as bad as you think.”

You sit in silence for a while after that, George scribbling on the thinking cloth as the seconds pass on by. An hour into your visit, you pull yourself up and out of your chair and head for the front.

“Tell Lucy and Anthony I said hi, please, George. I’ll be heading off now,” You say from the kitchen doorway, he nods your way with a wave, focused on the thinking cloth.

“Do you want me to tell him—“

“No, thank you, George,” You hissed, cutting him off. A grin finds its way on George’s face just as you run off.

An hour later, Lockwood finds himself in the kitchen just as Lucy’s finishing up her breakfast. George had woken up way earlier and had likely dove back into his research if his absence meant anything; you had been gone for an hour as Lockwood passes the doorway. Lucy’s grin turns teasing and Lockwood slumps into his chair.

“Did you see them before they left?” He asks Lucy, who hums a ‘no’ with a knowing grin as she sets down the papers. She reaches over to his side of the table, tapping on the cloth, before pulling the papers back up to her nose.

Pouring himself a quick cup of tea, Lockwood settles down to find where you’d earlier written ‘threw it out already, got you a new loaf’ and smiles. His hand traces reverently along the curves and lines of your inking, and can’t help his chuckle at the little smiley face at the end.

“What’d they say today?” Lucy asks, folding up her paper and propping up her elbows. Her teasing grin hasn’t once dropped.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He quips, pulling his shoulders back. Lucy doesn’t look willing to let up, wholly bemused.

“I bet you it’s something not at all even funny enough for you look as giddy as you do,” She grins, rushing out of her chair to read it before Lockwood can cover it up. Her jaw drops when she finds it, turning to Lockwood, who’d turned away and refused to meet her eyes.

“Look at you—“ She starts.

“Stop—“

“Giddy over the fact they went and fetched us bread?” Lucy gasps, wholeheartedly teasing Lockwood as he fumbles for words. Oh, if only you were here so she could do the same to you. “Like a schoolboy, you are, yeah?”

“Lucy,” he groans, hiding his face in his hands as he dumps his head on the table, “It’s not like that— I just. It’s a kind gesture, alright?”

“George makes us dinner everyday but you don’t kick your feet and giggle when he writes to you on the thinking cloth do you?” She goads, relishing in the way Lockwood looks up to glare.

“George calls me a dick when he writes to me on the thinking cloth,” He pauses just as your name runs out his mouth, frown softening, “They wouldn’t do that.”

Lucy rolls her eyes as she stands up, bringing her cup to the sink. Her hair is combed, but she’s still in pyjamas, so it’s likely she’s just woken up too. Lockwood reckons she hadn’t caught your visit, but he asks anyways. Lucy shakes her head just as she settles back down in her chair.

“Ask George, he probably woke up early enough.” She takes a generous bite out of her toast, the crunch of it waking Lockwood up. Last night had been exhausting, but luckily they’d gotten it under wraps. Lucy headed straight up to bed when they got home, but Lockwood had stopped by the kitchen to write you a note on the cloth just before he scrambled up the stairs to his room and passed out in his bed. George had been quiet when they got back, so Lucy was most likely right. Lucy shoves a plate of cheese on toast his way, and he takes it gratefully.

“I’ll just ask him later,” He says around a mouth full of toast. “Have you seen George today, actually?”

Lucy’s grin widens into something mischievous and cheshire, but she tucks it in quickly and simply hums an affirmative. Lockwood narrows his eyes at her, and she looks away.

“Whatever you two talked about—“

“Nothing!” She cut in, holding her hands up. “George says they left you flowers though, red carnations.”

Lockwood feels his breath escape him at the thought— you bringing him flowers? Damn his sleep schedule, he would have woken early just to see you give them yourself if he’d known. The thought of you and your care for him leaves him warm and defenceless; vulnerable in all the ways only you can make him. It’s so so sweet it has him pushing a hand on his lips to stop his grin from splitting his whole face open.

“God,” Lucy laughs, watching him with unfettered amusement, “You—“

“Where did George put them?” He cuts her off, earning a laugh at the grin he can’t hold back. Some part of him wants to make the excuse that he’s this happy and giddy because of how kind a gesture it is, but more than a majority of him knows that’s just not true.

When Lockwood finds the flowers in the library, he knows even in the deepest recesses of his denial and ache, that it’s not the kind gesture leaving him helplessly lost in love with you. Now if only he could find a way to admit that to your face.

A/N: Sorry if this isn’t the best, kinda just let my brain write and lightly edited it after.

#anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #anthony lockwood x you #Portie writes fanfic

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archiveikemen · 11 months

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'Absolutely Obedient Maid' Collection Event: Elbert

I do not own any of the Ikemen Series content being uploaded on this blog, everything belongs to CYBIRD. Please support them by playing their games and buying stories. Not 100% accurate, expect mistakes.

read this before interacting with my posts

Victor: I haven’t been seeing El at mealtime recently.

Alfons: Now that you've mentioned it, that’s right. I saw him nibbling on a small piece of bread at a strange time and eating a single leaf of lettuce the other day.

Alfons: But that’s all he ate. He doesn't eat a lot, he’s like a little bird.

Roger: With how little he’s been eating, he might be found dead in his room one day.

Kate: You’re kidding, right? It’s inauspicious to say that someone will die.

Alfons: Yes… El has always had a small appetite, so this is nothing unusual about him.

Alfons: If he keeps this up, it won’t be surprising to find him dead eventually.

Kate: That’s…

(It’s true that Elbert usually eats in very small portions.)

I thought that it was definitely due to the heavy feelings he was carrying.

(... This is worrying me.)

Roger: If you’re so worried about him, why don’t you go take care of the little bird, young lady?

Kate: What!?

Victor: Having Kate take care of Elbert? Hmm…

Victor: That’s a brilliant idea! The “Elbert’s Personal Maid Project”!

Alfons: You’re so awful at naming things, I feel like I’m going to cry.

(This just turned into something very absurd…)

…

Elbert: You’re my personal maid…?

Kate: Yes… I’ll do my best.

Elbert’s long eyelashes fluttered as he blinked. He was dragged into the garden by Victor.

(His beauty is breathtaking as always… no, that’s not what I’m here for.)

Kate: Please tell me what you’d like to do today, Sir Elbert.

(Although I became a maid on a whim… I was really worried about him.)

(So I’ll do whatever I can to help him.)

...

Kate: I prepared a meal for you. Here, please enjoy your meal.

Elbert: … You brought that all the way out here for me?

On the table set up in the gazebo, there was bread and soup in portions smaller than the usual.

Kate: I thought that a change in scenery would help improve your appetite.

Kate: But it’s alright if you don’t feel like eating.

Elbert: … Even if you went through the trouble of preparing the food for me?

(When someone finds it difficult and painful to eat…)

(Saying things like “please eat” to them can give them an additional burden.)

Even though you did it out of kindness, they’ll still feel guilty about not being able to do as you asked them to.

Kate: All I want is for you to get through today without worrying about too many things.

Kate: And I’ll eat the leftovers if there are any, so you don't have to worry about that.

Elbert: …

I smiled at Elbert who remained silent for a while.

Elbert: If I see you eating the food and enjoying it… it might give me an appetite.

He muttered under his breath.

Kate: Eh? But there's only enough food for you, Sir Elbert.

Elbert: It’s fine… eat my food. … This is an order from your master.

(...!?)

His command that sounded like a sweet whisper made my heart race.

(I didn't think he would make use of my declaration to be his maid…)

Kate: I- I understand… in that case, please excuse me.

I took a seat on a chair facing him.

Elbert: …

His ocean blue eyes resembling a pair of jewels were fixed on me, it was hard to not get nervous.

(I need to look like I’m enjoying the food… but that feels impossible.)

(Forget that he’s watching me. Focus on the food…)

I drank a spoon of the soup, careful not to take too much.

Kate: Mm…! It’s delicious.

The soup was so delicious that it felt as if it had relieved all the tension.

(The chef is amazing… I want another taste.)

Kate: … How do you feel? Has your appetite improved?

When I looked up at Elbert, he was staring at the soup in my spoon instead of the one in the bowl in front of him.

Elbert: I want you to feed me.

Kate: Huh…?

Elbert: … Feed me.

(Is this also an order…?)

Kate: Erm… here you go…

Elbert: Mm…

Elbert’s long eyelashes lowered as he put his lips on the spoon.

(I’m feeding Elbert soup…)

It wasn't anything wrong, but I still felt rather uneasy.

I watched him drink up the soup with his beautifully shaped lips, then withdrew the spoon.

Kate: How is it?

Elbert: … It’s delicious.

Kate: … That’s good.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

(If his appetite has been improved, that means he can finish the rest of the food on his own, right?)

That was what I thought, so I reached out to hand him the spoon…

But for some reason, I suddenly found it difficult to let go of the situation where I needed to serve Elbert as my master.

Kate: … Would you like me to feed you the rest of the food as well?

Those words slipped out of my mouth.

Elbert: …

I was overcome with embarrassment upon seeing Elbert stunned by my question.

(Why did I say that…!)

Kate: I’m just kidding, please forget I said that.

Elbert: … You say you're kidding, but it looked like you were about to feed me.

Kate: Wha…

Elbert didn’t mean that in a teasing manner, he genuinely thought that way.

My embarrassment increased tenfold and my face grew hot.

Kate: T-That’s not it, I…

Elbert: … I, too, think that I’ll be able to stomach more food if you feed me.

Kate: Huh!?

Elbert: Will you feed me if I order you to?

His words left me stunned.

(It’s good that he’s eating, and on top of that I’m his maid for today.)

(I don't have a reason to refuse his request.)

Kate: … No, you don’t have to order me to.

Kate: I’ll do as you wish, Master.

...

— In the end, Elbert finished all the food that was prepared for him.

(It wasn’t a lot of food, but I didn’t expect him to finish it…)

Kate: So you *can* eat this much.

Elbert: … Honestly, it was quite painful.

Kate: Huh!?

(Oh no, was I torturing him…!?)

Kate: U-Uhm, do you need medicine for your gut…? Ah, we ran out of water. I’ll go get more!

I stood up in a hurry and was about to leave when he suddenly wrapped his arms around my waist.

Kate: S-Sir Elbert…!?

Elbert: You don't have to.

Elbert: You don’t have to because… can you stay with me a little longer?

He pulled me closer to him and rested his forehead on my abdomen like he was seeking comfort from me. It made my heart hurt.

(If staying by Elbert’s side can help lighten the emotional load in his heart…)

Kate: Alright… I’ll stay here with you.

There was no fooling myself, I was enjoying serving him as a maid, so much that my heart was pounding wildly in my chest—.

I gently stroked his beautiful golden hair with my fingertips.

#ikemen villains #ikemen series #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #otome #ikevil collection event #niki translates

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potatoetree · 6 months

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I'm back with some more...

INCORRECT

QUOTE

GENERATOR

*Boaterm addition*

Scar: In case you haven’t noticed, I’m weird. I’m a weirdo. I don’t “fit in” and I don’t WANT to fit in. Have you ever seen me without this stupid hat on? That’s weird.

Mumbo: Are we really going to let Grian keep Scar?

Pearl: We kept Impulse.

Scar: Don't worry, I've got a few knives up my sleeve.

Mumbo: I think you mean cards.

Grian: They did not.

Scar, pulling out knives: I did not.

Grian: I don’t think the therapist is supposed to say ‘wow’ that many times during their first session with a client, but here we are.

Scar: I won a new phone in a race.

Impulse: Huh? What kind of race lets you win a phone, Scar?

Scar: A race between the store owner, the cop, and me.

Mumbo: *Stands in trash can.*

Impulse: Mumbo, not again! You're not trash, you're at least recycling!

*The Squad is on a hike*

Impulse: It’s beautiful out here.

Mumbo: And quiet.

Impulse: Too quiet.

Mumbo: Did we lose someone?

*cut to Grian with a bear in a headlock*

Mumbo: I’ve become a bread crumb dealer to four crows at the lake. They pay me with a bit of everything. Like shiny things, fabric, or pens. But recently they paid me with a 20 dollar bill they found somewhere. So I decided to buy them some more expensive bread. They loved it. So they understand what to do. Give me money. I’ve probably racked up about 200 dollars at this point. Is it morally wrong though, I mean. They’re the ones who steal the money from others. Or perhaps they just have a big pile laying somewhere. Should I keep on doing this?

Impulse: You sound like the start of a Batman villain.

Scar: I think we should have glow stick juice injected in our bones when we're born, so if we break our bones, we get a fun little surprise.

Impulse: What's the surprise?

Pearl: Blood poisoning.

Scar: *sneaking in through their window*

Grian: *turning in their chair and flicking the light one* You want to tell me where you've been all night?

Scar: I was with Mumbo?

Mumbo: *turning in their chair* Wanna try again?

Scar: Met a dumbass today. Awful.

Grian: You looked in a mirror?

Scar: Someday you will have to answer for your actions and god may not be so merciful.

Mumbo: I know you love them.

Grian: I am not in love with Scar!

Mumbo, staring at Grian: I never said who...

Grian: *realizes*

Grian: Shit. Well, anyways-

Scar: Pick a card, any card.

Grian: Fine.

Scar: Wait, that's my credit card!

Grian: You said any card.

Scar: I may be stupid.

The Squad: ...

Scar: Oh, did you think I was going to finish that sentence?

Grian: I am the most responsible person in the group.

Pearl: …You just set the kitchen on fire.

Grian: Yes, and I take full responsibility for that.

Grian: Go ahead, Scar. Let it out, cry. If you don't, your tear ducts will get blocked up, and then when you get old, you won't be able to cry.

Pearl: Just when we thought it was safe to let you back into the conversation.

Scar: Grian, I sense hostility.

Grian: Good, because I hate you.

Pearl (brainstorming ideas for pranking Grian): How much could a serial killer mask possibly cost?

Impulse: Well it’s hard to find a high-quality one made out of leather or silicone, but if you did find a good one like that it’d be a couple thousands of dollars. I can try to hook you up with one but I don’t know if I’d be very successful.

Pearl: Huh, that’s pretty interesting actually- Wait, how the hell do you know that?

Impulse: …I am very passionate about Halloween, Pearl.

Scar: *working in a flower shop and minding their own business*

Grian, storming into the store and slapping $20 on the counter: HOW DO I PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVELY SAY “FUCK YOU” IN FLOWER???

Mumbo: Why would you give a knife to Impulse?!

Scar, shrugging: Impulse felt unsafe.

Mumbo: Now I feel unsafe!

Scar: I’m sorry…

Scar: Would you like a knife?

Grian: Thought I was meowing back at my cat for the past hour, but it was just me and Scar meowing at each other from different rooms in the house.

Scar: Hello, I'm Scar. I work at a shop now. Here to help. Look, they gave me a badge with my name on it in case I forget it. Very helpful, as that does happen.

Scar: *running towards Pearl with open arms*

Pearl: *moves out of the way*

Scar: Hey, why'd you move?!

Pearl: I thought you were going to attack me.

Scar: I was going to hug you!

Pearl: Why would you hug me?

Scar: WHY WOULD I ATTACK YOU!?

Mumbo, trying to flirt: So, you come around here often?

Grian, confused: I mean, this is my house, so yeah.

Grian: Everything will be ok. You can not stop it.

Grian: Everything will be fine. You have no choice.

Scar: What the fuck kind of pep talk is that?

Grian: Ominous positivity.

Scar: *in a jail cell* What about my Miranda rights!? You’re supposed to say I have ‘the right to remain silent’”! NOBODY SAID I HAD THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT!

Pearl: *in the cell next to them* You have the right to remain silent, what you lack is the capacity.

Pearl: I’m going to dunk on you.

Mumbo: Bring a ladder.

Pearl: I have the sharpest memory here - name one time I forgot something!

Mumbo: You left me, Grian, and Scar in a Walmart parking lot at 2am a day ago.

Pearl: I did that on purpose, try again.

Scar: Do you ever feel bugs on you when really there’s nothing there?

Pearl: Those are the ghosts of the bugs you killed before.

Scar:

Scar: *sobs*

Mumbo: You fucking scared them, you idiot.

Scar: Is letting someone win at chess sapiosexual bottoming?

Pearl: Can everyone in this godforsaken group please learn the skill called "Think Before You Speak"?

Grian: Ya know... it might be.

Scar: Impulse has no idea I’m high.

Impulse: You’re high?

Scar: Oh, I’m sorry.

Scar, leaning over to Mumbo: Impulse has no idea I’m high.

Grian: Let's just agree to both say we're sorry on the count of three.

Grian: One... two... three.

Pearl: ...

Grian: ...

Grian: See, now I'm just disappointed in both of us.

#grian #incorrect hermitcraft quotes #hermitcraft #mumbo jumbo #boatem #impulsesv #pearlescentmoon #goodtimeswithscar

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pleasuretrade · 1 month

Text

hi here's the very rough(!) first chapter of a fic that i'm not done with.

if anyone wants to beta or just offer feedback i would be grateful :') but i'm writing this very slowly and don't plan on seeing it done for at least a few more months

March x Healy

Summary: 1980. March and Healy take your classic "reunite me with my estranged adult child" case and may or may not wind up getting involved with a cult, irritating 80's toys, shady business, gardening, and drugs. Oh, and they're pretending to be boyfriends because that's totally a perfect cover??

Rating: 18+ for the eventual porn

Length: I'm gonna guess 30k? I'm at 15k rn and we're maybe halfway through. frankly i got no idea

Tags that aren't exhaustive and mostly aren't applicable to this first chapter, but just a sneak peek: pretending to be boyfriends and there's only one fucking bed anyway bitch, March wearing jeans

The thing about kitsch dolls was that they were supposed to be cute. In abundance they became disturbing. An uncanny noise of soft pastel abstraction, dotted with innumerable eyes, staring at you from living room walls and display cabinets. It didn’t help that almost all of them were religious; angels with halos, praying children, robed biblical figures. March felt like he might combust if he made direct eye contact with the teeming mass of holy ceramic.

“March, did you write that down?”

Holland whipped his head toward Healy, and then at their client, and then at his open, empty notepad. See, you shouldn’t have that many dolls in one room, it’s distracting. It’s weird. “Sorry, ma’am, could you repeat that?”

“Benjamin Larry Hooper. We called him Benny.”

“Bejamin….L… Hooper… Benny.” March mumbled, pen dashing across the page with a show of gumption.

Mrs. Hooper nodded at him, all patterned dress and curled hair, hands placed politely on top of their respective thighs. “He was fifteen when he left, he’ll be twenty-six now. Tall for his age, I’m sure he’s giant by now.”

Holland wrote in big block letters: DOB 1953 TALL

“This is my most recent picture of him, just a few months before he left.” Mrs. Hooper, Francis, reached across her doilied coffee table to hand Healy a framed photograph. It was obviously some kind of family reunion, the photo lined with folks like a tin of sardines. “That’s Benny.” she said, tapping a young man sitting cross legged in the very front row.

Benny Hooper looked like any other fifteen year old at a family reunion, irritated or bored or both. He had a great mop of hair, a downright halo of pitch black curls reaching every direction. The slacks and short sleeved button-down were probably not his normal choice of attire, so that wouldn’t be helpful even if the kid had disappeared less than a decade ago. The shot was too wide to memorize the details of someone’s face on top of being old. The Benny in the photo hadn’t even finished puberty yet. Overall, the photo wasn’t great.

“Very helpful, thank you. We could use any other photographs you have, too.” Healy smiled pleasantly the way he did. It was freakish, the way the guy could go from deadpan bruiser to soft-eyed teddybear in an instant.

Holland smiled along, ignoring the everpresent eyes of Mrs. Hooper's kitsch, even though he knew that there was no chance in hell they were finding Benny Hooper.

“There’s no chance in hell, man.” March lit his cigarette in the passenger seat and donned his sunglasses.

Healy tapped his fingers where he rested his arm in the open window. “We have a lead.”

“If you wanna call maybe seeing a glimpse of someone you haven’t seen in eleven years driving a truck a couple of times a lead, sure, we have a great lead. Can we stop at Hammy’s? Told Holly I’d bring home dinner.”

“Y’know, I bet I could count on two hands the number of times you’ve gone proper grocery shopping since I’ve known you.”

“That’s not true, you went grocery shopping with us like two weeks ago.”

“And you bought eggs, bread, a gallon of neon colored juice, a gallon of whiskey, and five frozen pizzas.”

“Are those not groceries? Is that not sustenance?” March waved his cigarette for emphasis.

“Anyway,” Healy redirected, taking the turn toward Hammy’s, “all we have to do is stake out the spot she saw the truck, right?”

“If everything worked out just that easy we’d be out of a job, Jack.” March took a drag from his cigarette, thanking the stars that loaded, aging ladies were willing to shill out for the most unfeasible asks imaginable time and time again. Healy let it sit because he knew it was true by now, well over two years down the line as a PI.

“Why do you think the kid really left?” Healy asked after a while, expertly flat when Holland had figured out eons ago that the guy really was invested in each case, even the small ones.

“I don’t know, too many doilies? An aversion to puce colored carpet? I wouldn’t stay long either.”

Healy ignored him. “I find it hard to believe he just up and left for no reason.”

“Maybe Mrs. Hooper’s chicken is dry.” Healy purposefully hit the curb pulling into Hammy’s, jostling March’s cigarette nearly out of his hand. “I mean, it’s not like it matters. Even if we find the kid, he’s not comin’ back. Ten fuckin’ years. Remember that girl, Arrow or Rainbow or whatever she named herself?”

Healy grunted in reluctant remembrance. They’d found her after a long, boring two months and by the end of it all she’d had to say was ‘thanks for letting me know my family's looking for me, you can go now.’ Not that it mattered much to Holland. They made out with enough money to take a couple of weeks off so they could take Holly to Catalina Island. She got food poisoning on the first day but still claims it was the best trip they’d been on in years (which wasn’t very meaningful considering they’d gone on maybe three of them since she was little).

“Guess you’re right.” Healy parked the car in the crowded parking lot. The line at Hammy’s was always so damn long. “Not getting paid to psychoanalyze the guy.” He sounded reluctant. Any time Healy couldn’t slip in one more act of Good it made him feel like a failure. It was something March secretly admired, however harebrained it was. He glanced a punch off Healy’s shoulder before getting out of the car. “That’s the spirit.”

“So why do you think he really left?” Holly asked through a mouthful of burger.

“Jesus, you two should become shrinks.” March grumbled.

Healy sat comfortably sunken into the couch, a March sitting cross legged on the floor on either side of him. “It might be useful to know.” he added.

“Right. Like maybe you’ll be able to narrow down what kinds of places he’d go if you knew.” Holly agreed.

“Our only lead is a truck. Anyone can drive a truck. I don’t care why he’s driving it. All we have to do is follow.”

“So you admit, it’s a lead.” Healy pointed at him with a french fry.

“It’s a crumb of a lead. It’s the suggestion of a lead. It’s a lingering scent of maybe a lead.”

“Says the guy with no sense of smell.” Healy winked at Holly, who bit her lip to stop her smile from blooming. “A lead’s a lead.”

“Did you notice anything about Mrs. Hooper’s house? Like, anything that might make someone want to run away?” Holly was fifteen and already putting in more work than March.

“Yeah, puce carpet.”

Healy nudged March with a socked foot. “She seemed nice. Boring, maybe. Said her husband died a few years ago and her other kid’s off at college somewhere, so the house was pretty quiet.”

“Boredom could drive someone away.” Holly said thoughtfully.

“And if it did that still gives us absolutely nothing to go on. Some kids just hate their parents, alright? Guy probably just hitchhiked to New York or something.” March said.

“Sounds nice.” Holly murmured under her breath. Healy nudged her with his other foot.

March, begrudgingly, loved the gentle way Healy mediated. Fatherhood was something Holland hadn’t really been prepared for, much less being the single dad of a teenager. It didn’t help that he was a big time fuckup or that Holly was too smart for her own good. Having another person in their lives— having Healy in their lives— was a saving grace.

Recently, Holly had started dating her first boyfriend. Or at least the first that she’d admitted to when she’d lost all plausible deniability after that time they’d picked her up from school and seen her drop some young punk’s hand like a hot iron. It was a point of contention now, between Holly and Holland. Boys were pigs, and Holland would know, he used to be one. It was one of the endless number of things Healy had become referee over, but also something Holly had adopted a near constant attitude because of.

“So when are you starting the stakeout?” Holly asked, fiddling with the cracked straw of her milkshake. March looked at Healy for an answer. He was always better at managing their schedule. Unlike March, he usually remembered what day of the week it was. Healy looked back at him and shrugged. Wasn't like they had another case on, much to the dismay of their wallets. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

Holly got that look on her face. “Can I come?” Tomorrow was a Saturday.

March shook his head. “Don’t you have normal teenage things to do? Shouldn’t you be like sneaking vodka out of someone’s mom’s cabinet on a Saturday?”

Healy chimed in before she could argue. “It’s gonna be boring anyway, Holl. You’ll be sitting in the backseat twiddling your thumbs all day.” She knew that. She’d been on stakeouts with them before. But Healy’s say was more valuable to her than her dad’s, apparently, so she dropped it.

It was late when Healy headed home, agreeing on the asscrack of dawn to reconvene and start their stakeout.

“Why doesn’t he just live here? You guys spend every day together anyway.”

March wandered into the dimly lit kitchen for a glass of rye. Their (second) rental, real house unbuilt as ever, was always so still when Healy left. Another item on the laundry list of things March tried not to think about. “Because he’s a grown man, Holly, with his own house.”

“I wouldn’t call that dump a house, and anyway it’s an apartment. He should be sleeping here and not in an attic with a laughtrack that plays until two in the morning.”

“Well then you can invite him to stay for a sleepover next time. You guys can paint nails and read magazines.” Holland wasn’t stupid. He knew that wasn’t really what girls’ sleepovers were like. One time he’d walked in on Holly and her friend eating donuts and saying such depraved things about Joe Strummer that he’d vowed to not open the door without knocking ever again. He never looked at that Clash poster on her wall the same way.

Holly scoffed in time with the ice tinkling into Holland’s tumbler.

The sun shone way too brightly for Holland. When he’d woken up he’d still been a little drunk, but now out of the house and into Healy’s car a hangover had eagerly seeped in. They’d agreed to start the stakeout before the sun came up, but March had skillfully convinced Healy to take him through a drive-thru breakfast and they were running late. He now nursed a coffee as the sun rose into the perfectly wrong spot in the sky. They watched cars zip lazily by from the corner of a parking lot.

“I just think it would be good to have a dog around.” They’d had this discussion every other day for a month now. March wanted a dog in the house for the very logical reason of alerting them to intruders, Healy nay-sayed because he was a killjoy with no imagination.

“I’m telling you, March, putting in a doggy door just isn’t gonna be enough for a German Shepherd. And we all know you’re not gonna walk it.”

“Why do you even care so much, man? It would be my dog.” And more importantly, why did Healy even have a say in whether or not they got a dog?

“I care because I’d somehow get stuck taking it out half the time. And your sorry ass wouldn’t train it. We’d have an untrained, overpriced menace tearing around the house.” The house. Not Holland and Holly’s house, but The House.

“Well, whatever, even if that was true it’d make a good guard dog, right? No one’s getting past a pent up, feral German Shepherd. Might shit on the carpet but it’ll take a guy’s dick off. Balls too.”

“You should really consider a shrink. I think you’ve lost your damn mind.” Healy shook his head, but Holland caught his smile.

“You taking new patients, doc? I’ve been told by my teenager that I’m a headcase.”

“I could make some room in my busy schedule. Gonna cost you about the same as a purebred German Shepherd, though.”

March smiled and leaned back into his seat. Absolutely nothing of interest was happening outside at all, which was just fine now but give March three or so more hours and he’d start going stir crazy and the headache wasn't helping.

Mrs. Hooper had seen the truck twice, once in the morning and once in the early evening, which gave them an unfortunately broad window of time. She’d described it as a white, short cab semitruck, maybe a GMC, with a small trailer on it, which narrowed it down almost not at all. It sounded like every third short haul semi chugging around Los Angeles, of which there were many. Very many.

The only thing they had to go off of was that the second time around she’d seen what she thought was some kind of blocky hand-lettering on the driver’s side door, done in “nearly illegible” multicolor. When Healy had asked what she meant by “multicolor” Mrs. Hooper had only elaborated as “horribly garish.” So at least there was that.

The odds that the guy driving the bespoke truck was this Benny person were essentially zero. That was about half their cases these days, desperate longshots funded by desperate rich people. The other half was still taking photographs of idiots who fuck with the curtains open. It was wearing a little thin. Couldn't people invent more important problems to investigate? Whatever. A job’s a job’s a job.

The coffee in March’s cup had gone cold just in time to meet the creeping heat from outside. He downed the tepid sludge before wrenching the little metal fan out of the back seat and plugging it in. It whirred to life gracelessly.

“Hey.” Healy tapped him on the arm, which startled and excited Holland enough that he flung his empty coffee cup onto the floorboards.

“What—what, you see something?”

A short cab semi puttered toward them from a distance, aiming for a perfectly timed red light. Healy pulled up the binoculars and squinted through them, waiting for the cab to pull into view enough to see the driver’s door. March’s breathing was shallow in anticipation.

The truck moved, and Healy tutted, and March could see the glaringly blank door even without the binoculars. “Driver’s blonde. Ginger beard.” Healy said, still staring through the eye pieces like the truck and driver might magically change. “False alarm.”

“They’re all gonna be false alarms. This is gonna be like finding a needle in a haystack, only the needle was never in the haystack to begin with.”

Finally, Healy let the binoculars fall into his lap. “I ever told you how much I love your optimism?”

#the nice guys #the nice guys fanfiction #march x healy #healy x march #nice guys #holland march #jackson healy

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pancakes4two · 1 year

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ANYWHERE WITH YOU - TWO

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | TALK TO ME

⭐️ NEXT CHAPTER ⭐️

word count: ~2.5k

warnings: language, drug reference, the notebook spoilers (in case you haven’t seen it yet)

preview: “That’s the worst shirt I’ve ever laid my eyes on in my entire life,” you try to say as nonchalantly as possible, but a traitorous smile threatens to make its way onto your face. “I can’t believe that’s the kind of thing you choose to have your manager fly here overnight. It’s so stupid.”

“This old thing?” Harry smiles, flicking his hair back dramatically and running a hand down his shirt. It’s an oversized tee, a faded cream color. Across the front, metallic letters spell out the words: COKE IS A JOKE, AND I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE NEXT LINE!

✽ ✽ ✽

You come back home to Harry cooking in the kitchen, ingredients strewn about haphazardly on the counter as he loudly sings along to a Shuggie Otis record. He tosses a rag over his shoulder, seemingly blissfully unaware of your presence at the doorway. It isn’t until he bends down to put something in the oven that he sees you, and you end up startling him so much he slams the oven door closed and has to take a moment to steady his breathing.

Harry leans on the counter, palm pressed deeply into the surface, other hand on his hip as you laugh wildly at his reaction. “Why would you scare me like that?”

“You scared yourself,” you wipe at your eyes, “I wasn’t even making an effort to scare you. You’re just jumpy for no reason. Oh my God. That just made my whole day.”

“Fuck you,” is Harry’s answer, though it has no bite behind it at all. He turns around to stir something in the pot. You make your way to the barstools, dropping your blazer on the empty seat beside you and snap at him.

“Hey, turn around,” you order, watching steam waft up from the boiling pot.

“What?” Harry obliges, facing you with a brow raised.

“That’s the worst shirt I’ve ever laid my eyes on in my entire life,” you try to say as nonchalantly as possible, but a traitorous smile threatens to make its way onto your face. “I can’t believe that’s the kind of thing you choose to have your manager fly here overnight. It’s so stupid.”

The shirt is so infuriatingly Harry that it actually hurts you a bit to look at.

“Where’d you even find a shirt like that? Like seriously,” you say, “who the fuck even sells something like that?”

“I wish I knew,” Harry sighs, reverting his attention back to the stove. “Mitch got it for me last Christmas.”

“Jeez. Anyways, what evil potion are you concocting on my stove tonight?”

“You had some leftover peas in your fridge so I’m doing a soup with that,” Harry says, “And there's sourdough baking in the oven. Been weirdly into making bread recently.”

“You and those goddamn peas,” you laugh. You hadn’t even known that he’d gotten into baking. Something slightly bitter stirs in your stomach at that, a reminder of how the two of you had inevitably grown apart in the last few years, no longer sharing every single new hobby and interest with the other.

“Excuse me? There’s absolutely nothing wrong with liking peas. They’re an excellent legume,” Harry quips, pulling the spoon he’d been using to stir the soup out of the pot and extending it towards you. “Try this and tell me if it’s any good.”

And, well, you’re not surprised that all of your jokes about him poisoning you or sending you to the hospital with a nasty bug in your stomach from his cooking turn out to be absolutely meaningless. The soup is perfectly seasoned, hearty and umami in just the right balance. And God, you’ve always found it incredibly endearing how he always seemed to be good at everything he did. “It’s good. Don’t add any more salt.”

Harry just smiles at that, warm and big. The oven beeps behind him, and he shoves a hand into an oven mitt. “Now go sit down at the table and make yourself uncomfortable. I am both your chef and server tonight!”

You roll your eyes at him. “How do I know you’re not going to spit in my food or sprinkle sugar on the top instead of salt?”

“We’ve really got to work on your trust issues, Y/N,” Harry says, a steaming pot of soup in one hand and a plate covered in sliced bread in the other. He navigates to the dining table with ease, dodging the shoe rack in the entryway and an old New Yorker magazine that had fallen face down onto the floor. It’s as if he’s lived in your apartment for years, not two days.

“Dinner is served, sans any spit or sugar,” Harry sings into your ear, before taking a seat across from you. “Hmm. That could make for an interesting album title.”

“Why do I even put up with you?” You grumble to yourself, watching Harry reach for your bowl and fill it with soup. “If the world heard even half of the shit you say on a daily basis, you’d be left with no fans. I’m telling you, there’d be a mass exodus.”

“Aww, I know you don’t mean that,” Harry replies, kicking you under the table, “You’ve put up with me for the last twenty years. Some would even venture to call that obsessive behavior.”

“Please. You’re the one who’s obsessed,” you retort, pulling apart the slice of sourdough on your plate and tossing a piece of the bread at Harry. It lands in his hair. “Did you even go into the studio today? Or is this whole ‘I need a new place to stay to break my writer’s block’ thing just a ploy to spend more time with me?”

“Darn, you figured me out,” Harry jokes, finding the sourdough bit and tossing it back at you. “The album isn’t real. I just needed an excuse to spend every waking minute annoying you—that’s my real passion in life, not music.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded,” you smile, “I’m sufficiently annoyed. My buttons are pushed. My bones are picked. Can I please have my apartment back to myself now?”

“Lying is a sin. You love having me here,” Harry responds sweetly, used to your sarcastic quips. And maybe he’s right: you’d forgotten how easy it was to fall back into a comfortable rhythm with him, how nice it is to come back home from work and know your best friend is sitting on your couch, waiting for you to take your shoes off so he can bug you about a lyric he can’t seem to quite get right.

✽ ✽ ✽

It’s a Monday evening and you’re sitting at your desk, drafting up PowerPoint slides for a future lecture when Harry bursts into your room, yelling incoherently.

“Hellooooo? Y/NNNN?” He drags out, coming up behind you and resting his chin on your shoulder when it becomes clear that whatever he just said had fallen on deaf ears. “It’s rude to ignore someone, you know.”

“Ugh,” you exclaim, pushing his head away. His curls are slightly wet, like he’d just gotten out of the shower or finished a workout. “I’m busy. What do you want?”

“Wanna see a movie with you,” Harry mumbles into the fabric of your shirt. He reaches in front of your face and covers your eyes with his hands, effectively blocking your view of your laptop screen. “I’m bored. And I know you are too. You really don’t need to be working on slides for a lecture that’s a week away.”

“What movie?” you ask, because it’s hard to say no when your six-foot tall, overgrown puppy of a best friend is clinging onto your back, refusing to let go until you give in to his request. “And don’t you dare say Cats. Because I will pack your bags and throw you out onto the street.”

“How dare you imply that Cats is anything less than a cinematic masterpiece,” Harry scoffs, “and as much as I would love to rewatch it with you, I wanna see The Notebook tonight. They’re showing it at the IFC Center.”

“You want to see a movie with me, alone, in the middle of Manhattan?” It’s a fair concern to have—the two of you don’t like to be seen out in public together, and getting spotted in New York City is easier than counting up to ten for Harry.

“I can call for a car to pick us up,” he says nonchalantly, because right, that’s the kind of thing he can do now, “and it’s so late, I doubt anyone will be in the theater. Come on, let’s go out. I wanna do normal, roommate things with you. Feel like an actual twenty-seven year old with a regular job tonight.”

And that stings a little, even after all this time—the thought that all the ordinary things you used to do together have now been shrouded in secrecy. You can’t remember the last time the two of you were able to go out for a drink together, or the last time you were able to show up to his house alone late at night because you needed advice. It stings more knowing how much Harry is affected by all of this. You can’t begin to imagine how it must feel for him, having to spend so much time alone when he’s not writing or in the studio, worried about even looking at other people the wrong way, because at every corner there’s a tabloid waiting to exploit all of his personal relationships.

“Give me ten minutes to finish up this last slide and we’ll go,” you say, pinching Harry where you know he’s ticklish so he twists away from you.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to say no to me,” he grins, leaving your room with a pop of his hip. He pulls out his phone, presumably to call his driver, and you’re left thinking that he has a point—you really have never been able to say no to him. Especially not when he turns back around and smiles at you with a gleam in his eyes, like you’ve just given him the greatest gift in the world by agreeing to watch his favorite romance film with him. As if you hadn’t already seen it twenty times over together.

✽ ✽ ✽

It turns out Harry’s right, when the two of you arrive at the IFC Center just past eleven. The area surrounding the theater is empty, uncharacteristic for Greenwich Village on a weekday evening, but you’re glad for it. The two of you slip in through the front doors without any fuss, and you’re immediately greeted by a cool gust of air and the smell of buttered popcorn. You walk up to the counter and buy two tickets for The Notebook, noting when the cashier pulls up the seat selection map that your theater is also empty. Harry’s standing behind you, with his hoodie pulled up, face covered by a mask. His brows are furrowed as he stares ahead of you: he probably looks terrifying to the workers in the theater, looking at a wall as if he wants to burn a hole through it with his eyes, but you know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s contemplating whether or not he wants to spend $9.99 on a bucket of popcorn, when you both know he’ll be finished with it by the time the previews end, before the movie’s even started.

“Will you just get the popcorn?” You groan, “If you finish it too fast, you can always just steal from mine.”

“So chivalrous of you,” Harry says, walking up to the counter. The transaction goes smoothly, the worker unable to recognize him through his mask. With popcorn buckets in hand, the two of you head into theater number eight and take the two middle seats in the last row. The obligatory trailer reel starts right after you sit down, and Harry makes a comment about how he really wants to see the new Timothée Chalamet movie. You tell him if he wants to see it so bad, to just text Timothée himself and ask for a free ticket. That earns you a fistful of popcorn to the head, which to be honest, you deserved.

No one else walks in for the remainder of the trailers, so the two of you finally relax knowing that you’ll have the theater to yourselves. When the movie starts, you hear shuffling to your side and find Harry’s hand shoved into your popcorn bucket. He’s rifling through it, picking out the big pieces and leaving the kernels for you. Classic.

“Seriously? That must be a new record for you. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t shame me. You promised me I could have some of yours,” Harry whispers, “Now shh. Movie’s starting.”

The remainder of the movie passes by like the last twenty times you watched it together. Harry mouths along to most of the dialogue, because he basically knows the script like the back of his hand by now. He gets too excited when Rachel McAdams yells at Ryan Gosling, shouting out loud, “You tell me when I’m being an arrogant son of a bitch and I tell you when you’re a pain in the ass!” Which leads you to slap a hand over his mouth, shutting him up.

“You’re a pain in my ass. Was putting the quote in one of your songs not enough? You have to recite the line for me now too?”

Harry ignores you and just sighs wistfully. “God, Rachel McAdams is just brilliant.”

Unsurprisingly, he cries at the end when older Noah makes his way over to Allie’s bed, climbing in next to her and grasping her hand. You can anticipate his reactions perfectly. As if on command, the camera starts to pan out on the two of them lying next to each other, and Harry whispers to himself: “She finally remembered him.”

The lights in the theater come on, and you turn to Harry, who’s still sniffling and wiping at his eyes.

“You literally already know how it ends,” you laugh, pinching his nose, which has turned pink at the tip from all his crying. “I don’t get how it still hits you this hard every time.”

“It’s just such a good film,” Harry says, pulling you in close. He’s so warm and the theater is so quiet you can hear his steady breathing. “You know, if you end up in a nursing home one day, I’d totally come in with a notebook of our memories and read it to you.”

You laugh against his chest—if only the two of you could stay like this for a moment longer. “Why would I ever forget you? You’re like a parasite, stuck annoying me for the rest of my life. I’m pretty sure you’re permanently seared into my memory.”

You play it off as a joke, Harry pulling away from you as you get up. You immediately miss his warmth, and a tiny voice in the back of your head whispers what you’re too afraid to say out loud: How could I ever forget you?

✽ ✽ ✽

taglist (message me to be added!): @daydreamingofmatilda @onceuponahuntersrealm

a/n: thank you for all the love on the first chapter! i’d be so so happy to hear what you all think, please feel free to leave comments in the replies or in a reblog. ur feedback means so much to me and it really helps with motivating me to write more!

#harry styles #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic rec #harry styles fanfiction rec #harry styles fanfic rec #harry styles rec #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles imagine #harry styles reader insert #anywhere with you

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the-lonelybarricade · 1 year

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Darling, Let's Run

Part II: Along the Reaches of the Street

Summary: A month after her sister mysteriously went missing, Feyre receives a letter instructing she leave the village immediately. And the letter's messenger? A curious black cat.

A sequel to They Are the Hunters, We Are the Foxes. While I recommend reading it first, it is not necessary.

Read on AO3・Feysand Month Masterlist ・Series Masterlist

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The village was busier than Feyre expected it to be.

As winter approached, she always found the markets grew quieter. Merchants were less willing to travel so far as her ramshackle village if it meant facing harsh weather and highwaymen. But it was market day, and snow hadn’t fallen, so the brisk morning was swept with patrons and vendors alike.

Feyre remembered how much she used to love market days as a little girl. Before their father had taken ill, he used to run a stall at this very market. A merchant who peddled exotic wares he traded off of travelers that passed through her village. Feyre used to regard it with so much whimsy, marveling at her fathers wares as she imagined that she might one day visit such far away places. Now that memory haunted the market like a ghost.

If it were a year where she had managed to catch excess game, she would have at least been weaving through the stalls looking for an interested buyer. Instead the smell of fresh bread and spun sugar wafted through the air, taunting Feyre until the dull, constant pang in her stomach flared to the point of nausea.

She quickly set her sights away from the stalls.

Feyre pretended not to notice the lingering stares of her fellow villages, either. Some of their words trailed her, as readily as the cat that slunk in her shadow. Lord Nolan… murdered… unusual… Guilty. She walked as though she couldn’t hear any of it—just as Nesta had been doing since the moment they had all learned of Lord Nolan’s murder.

Stupid, a cruel part of her whispered as she headed towards the barn Issac’s family owned. She could already see him leaning against a building, arms crossed as he surveyed the crowd. Stupid to think he would still want her with the way the Village has been talking.

Their eyes met, and he inclined his head down that decrepit path towards the barn.

Feyre always used to meet him on market days, but she hadn’t shown up to one in well over a month. Had he waited for her at every single one, she wondered, or had it simply been fortunate timing?

In any case, she followed him down that path, until they were far enough away from any prying eyes.

Issac turned, lips set into a grim line. “What are you doing here?”

It was rare for them to talk beforehand—usually by this point their mouths would be occupied. It shook Feyre off guard enough that she needed a moment to think of a response. “It’s a market day,” she said lamely.

He stared pointedly at the plain dress she wore, and Feyre did her best not to shift under the weight of his scrutiny. She hardly ever wore dresses. Under the smirch of poverty, it felt too much like a child playing pretend. And with the way men’s gazes tended to stick to her and her sisters, she tried to avoid the extra attention when she could.

“Funny,” Issac said, “you haven’t been showing up to many of those recently.”

Feyre reeled at the frost in his tone, so unexpected from the soft-spoken man she’d come to associate him as. She squinted. “Are you… angry with me?”

A muscle feathered in his jaw. “People are saying your sister murdered Lord Nolan. That you helped her get away with it.”

“My sister is missing,” Feyre said, without needing to force the warble in her voice.

Issac sighed, running a hand through his hair. His eyes darted to something over her shoulder, and Feyre turned to see the cat walking through the center of the alleyway, seemingly unconcerned with stealth. He settled himself at Feyre’s side, a predatory gleam in his eyes that made Issac shift weight on his feet.

He pitched his voice low, like he suspected someone might overhear. “And the black cat that suddenly follows you around… It’s a bad omen, Feyre. The others are warning people to stay away from your family.”

“The villagers are narrow minded fools,” Feyre said hotly, wrapping her arms around herself. “And I always thought you above that kind of thinking, Issac.”

He had the decency to look ashamed. His eyes were gentler as they swept over Feyre. “Did you come for a specific reason?”

Feyre leaned forward, suggestively dragging her eyes to those barn doors. She dropped her voice low, leaning closer to let it drip like honey over his skin. “You don’t believe I wanted to see you?”

She watched the caution in his eyes slowly fizzle, replaced by a heat that confirmed he hadn’t found other girls to occupy his time while she’d been away. Not that Feyre would have particularly minded. There was no love between them, and she knew she would hardly think of him once she was in Velaris.

After a moment’s consideration, Issac nodded and slid the barn doors open.

This, at least, was familiar. Her mouth found his the moment the doors shut. It was dim in the barn and in those moments where her eyes adjusted, all she knew was the feeling of Issac’s warm breath, the way his callused hands scraped against her back as he slid them beneath her tunic. For just a moment, she could forget why she had come. The murder, the hunger, the poverty, for a minute they all drifted until there was just this warm body that reminded her she wasn’t entirely alone in the world.

Feyre tore at his shirt, needing to feel the skin beneath, to feel the heart hammering in his chest as an echo to her own. She stifled a moan as Issac grasped her breasts, feeling a spark of relief at his roughness. She didn’t want him to be gentle—not when the world made her so angry and scared, and the only place to bleed that wound was in the way she gripped his hair and tugged like she wanted it to hurt. In response, Issac tore his lips from Feyre’s and bit her neck. Hard, just as he knew she liked it. She moaned, but it was drowned out by the sound of the barn doors opening.

They broke apart as sunlight poured into the space, falling over them like an accusation. She strained to make out the figure strolling in on long, even steps.

“Am I interrupting something?” a deep voice purred.

“Who are you?” Issac asked sharply. Feyre noticed the way he stepped in front of her, ever so slightly, and she couldn’t decide if it was in an effort to protect her or to conceal that he had been having a tryst with an Archeron.

Her eyes were still adjusting to the intrusive light, and she couldn’t see the stranger’s face until he stepped further into the barn, revealing the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Everything about him radiated sensual grace and ease as he stalked around them in a wide circle, ignoring Issac’s question entirely.

His short black hair gleamed like a raven’s feathers, and even in the shadows his golden skin seemed to glow with youth and wealth. Wealth that, if Feyre couldn’t detect from his strong build and healthy features, she certainly could have inferred from his clothing. His fine, silver-trimmed black jacket looked better suited to a royal court than the shambles of their village. But most intriguing of all were his deep, near violet, eyes that twinkled with amusement as they beheld Feyre.

“A barn is hardly a place to take a lady,” he said with a tut, making his way towards one of the occupied stalls. He extended his hand towards the chestnut mare inside, skimming his hand along its neck. “So many prying eyes in here. If you’re in a pinch, at least pick an alleyway with a decently sturdy wall.”

“This is my family’s barn,” Issac said, face redder than she had ever seen it. “You need to leave.”

The stranger waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve simply come to take the mare I’ve purchased.”

Feyre’s heart sank into her chest.

Issac’s brows merged. “What?”

“I purchased this horse from a farmer just a moment ago,” the stranger answered, appraising his new mare with a diligence that felt misplaced. Anyone who was looking for prestige wouldn’t seek it here. And if Issac’s father truly was selling his horse… it dashed any hope that Issac would lend the mare for her own journey.

Issac glanced between the stranger and Feyre before taking a deep breath. “I need to confirm this with my father. Feyre, please… make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

She watched him disappear around the corner, seemingly far more concerned about his horse than leaving Feyre alone with the strange man. He was watching her again, and she couldn’t notice that much of his amusement had faded.

“You seem disappointed,” he noted, abandoning the stall in favor of circling towards her. “Really, you should be thanking me. Hay can be dreadfully itchy.”

Feyre crossed her arms defensively. “It’s softer than an alley wall.”

He laughed—laughed in a way that made her blood boil. Like those piercing violet eyes swept over her and saw far more than she’d ever intended him to. He smiled, as sweet and intoxicating as honeyed wine. “I get the feeling, Fay-ruh—” he rolled each syllable of her name over his tongue as if he were tasting it—”that you don’t like things soft.”

Inviting a conversation about what she liked seemed too dangerous a territory when she was alone in this barn with him. Especially when he insisted on moving closer, closing the distance between them with each lulling step. For some reason, she couldn’t find it within herself to step back.

“So long as we’re examining the other, maybe you can tell me more about this horse you’re purchasing.” She angled her head. “And what you’re doing in this village, for that matter?”

His eyes flashed. Excitement, she thought. Some strange thrill of a game, which she felt sparking in her own chest as he prowled closer still. Until he was standing before her and she could see the way his long eyelashes brushed his cheek as he flicked his eyes downwards.

“I’m stopping amid my travels,” he said, lips twisting into a smirk. “And I needed a horse.”

Feyre raised a brow. “Most people amid their travels already have a horse.”

He leaned towards her, almost conspiratorially. So close, she could feel his breath on her face as he murmured, “Does my purchasing another one offend you?”

“It inconveniences me,” was her shoddy defense.

“Mmm, I can see that. I assure you, once I procure my horse you can return to fucking the farmhand in the hay.”

Her cheeks flamed, but she refused to be ashamed when he was staring at her like he was merely an invitation away from doing the same. “Where are your travels taking you?”

He was staring at her mouth, eyes dark and swirling with something she couldn’t quite place. “Velaris,” he answered.

Her heart stopped. She must have misheard him.

“Velaris?”

“Ah.” He pulled away, looking considerate. “I recognise that look in your eye, Feyre. Looking to get out of this quaint little village? See the world?”

He hadn’t been looking at her eyes at all. She wanted to point it out, but Feyre felt more compelled to learn what he was calculating behind that cunning smile. She challenged, “What if I am?”

The stranger splayed his hands amicably. “Then I might be in a position to help.”

“At what cost?”

His smile didn’t waver. “Who says there’s a cost?”

“With men, there is always a cost,” Feyre said flatly. And by the way he was looking at her, Feyre could already guess what that cost might be. Had already contemplated if she was willing to pay it.

“Feyre darling,” he said, her name like a caress on his tongue. She could almost feel it gliding against her skin, until her hair was standing on edge. The stranger whispered, “I’m not like any man you’ve ever met.”

Something in her chest tugged, like he were pulling an invisible string as he slid his hands into his pockets, urging her closer.

She was relieved when Issac returned, stone faced. It gave her a moment to take a steady breath and attempt to calm her racing pulse as the stranger returned his attention to the mare he had in fact purchased.

Issac handed him the lead, wordlessly opening the stall. Though they fucked more frequently than they spoke, Feyre knew he cared very much for that horse. Watching a stranger lead it out of the barn must have been no easy deed, and Feyre wondered what had compelled Issac’s father to sell it. Were they facing hard times as well, or had that man simply offered a price Issac’s father couldn’t refuse?

It was the latter, Feyre suspected. The man sent her a wink as he led the horse towards the open door. He paused, turning his head to call to Feyre, “I’ll be staying at the inn by the tavern. If you reconsider, that is.”

Then he was gone, leaving Issac glaring in his wake.

“What was that about?”

Feyre shrugged, searching for an explanation—or an excuse. With the barn doors open, it didn’t take long for her cat to come slinking in, striding right up to her.

“He wanted to buy my cat, too,” she blurted, leaning down to collect him. The cat lifted into her arms with ease, purring as it tucked its head against her shoulder. “Must be putting together a circus.”

Issac snorted, staring at the cat with thinly veiled contempt. The cat almost looked smug, as though it knew exactly what it was interrupting. “I’m surprised you didn’t sell it.”

Feeling oddly sentimental, Feyre pressed a kiss to the black fur between its ears. She was grateful the cat was giving her an excuse to leave, now that Issac couldn’t help even if he wanted to.

Feyre shrugged. “I’m starting to feel attached to it. Maybe I’ll even give him a name.”

She left with a hasty kiss to Issac’s cheek, inwardly laughing at how the cat glowered over her shoulder the entire time.

Prick, she thought privately. I’ll call him Prick.

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#feysandmonth2022 #feysand #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysandfanfiction #Cat!Rhys #Darling Let's Run

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adobe-outdesign · 2 years

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Can you tell us your thoughts on the new scarvi mon if you haven’t already?

(Note: This is a special-edition review in honor of the recent reveals. Reviews after this will follow the usual earliest-first release.)

Fidough is a fun concept. We haven't really had any bread Pokemon before, so that's a unique niche for it to fill—even if, admittedly, I'm a little burnt-out on dog Pokemon due to their abundance.

It also seems to be based off of ensaïmada, a type of Spanish pastry. Assuming this was the intent, it makes for a nice little cultural reference that's still easy to understand for people who don't know what ensaïmadas are.

Also, that pun name is to die for.

Visually, I like the simple yellow and cream color scheme, the little "hair buns" that are literally buns as well as ears, and the little ruff around the neck. For a creature made of dough (or maybe it just looks like it's dough? it's not entirely clear yet), it feels fairly organic.

Evolution-wise, I agree with the consensus that it should become fully baked bread; it would be especially fun if it had to be given a fire stone or something to evolve, or to get hit with a fire-type move as a baking reference. Hopefully it would stick to some kind of Spanish baked good to fit the region, but I don't know enough about Spanish breads to offer any opinions.

Also, I like the bit of lore that it's been considered a valuable Pokemon because its breath contains yeast that can be used for cooking. It's a nice bit of worldbuilding.

Cetitan is definitely a stand-out for me. It's been a hot minute since we had a traditional "Pokemon-that-looks-like-an-animal-but-is-also-an-abstact-monster" kind of look, and a whale that has legs and walks around on land is perfect for that. The concept is probably based off of how whales are descended from land dwelling animals:

Though it's also possible it's a reference to the ningen, a modern-day Japanese yokai that's basically a white whale with arms and legs. Regardless, it's a very cool and very monster-y design.

Visually, I like how the pink adds some nice pops of color, and I adore this thing's mouth; three horns in a V shape, with an incredibly messed up mouth that isn't even immediately visible:

This is what defiantly makes the design for me. A land-whale Pokemon is already cool, but slap that mouth on it and it's an instant 8/10 for me.

I say 8 out of ten because there are some very minor things that bug me about the design, though they're mostly nitpicks. The random grey spots under the arms aren't needed, I would've rather seen one of the horns be pink instead of the flippers, and I don't get the pattern under the stomach. It just feels a bit over-detailed when it would look fine with just spots (as in, without all those little connecting lines everywhere), and I don't really get what it's trying to accomplish. Overall, however, this is a great design.

Side note: if I had to wager, Cetitan is either non-evolving, or likely has a pre-evo. And if it has a pre-evo... is it possible it would be the famed dolphin Pokemon everyone's been waiting on, seeing as they're both part of the Cetacea infraorder (and, you know, that's where the English name comes from)?

And Paldean Wooper is just ideal, as far as I'm concerned. It changes up as much as it can from the original design—front markings, colors, mouth size, and gills—while still remaining clearly recognizable. I wouldn't have minded a little something done with the tail, just because it's the only big element that remains the same (maybe just make it a pinch smaller or something minor like that), but otherwise it has a good balance of new vs old elements.

The big thing that makes the design however is the gills: this new Wooper is poison/ground instead of water/ground, so the gills have been changed to make the entire head a skull and crossbones. That is an absolutely brilliant design choice, and whoever came up with it deserves a raise. It also helps give the design a specific concept that keeps the changes from feeling too bland or arbitrary.

I am curious about the evolution. Is it going to become a regional Quagsire, or more get a new regional evolution? I do love Quagsire, but it might be more interesting to get a more axolotl-ish Pokemon, maybe taking elements from the Iberian ribbed newt that P. Wooper here seems to be based on, in all its rib-breaking glory.

So as a whole, all three of the designs are a very strong showing from Scarlet and Violet. Fidough has a fun concept, Cetitan is a great "monster" Pokemon, and P. Wooper has a brilliant design and is everything you could want from a regional. Here's hoping all of the new 'mons are this good.

#pokemon #pokemon scarlet and violet #fidough #cetitan #wooper #paldean wooper #pokemon reviews

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thran-duils · 1 year

Text

Cut Your Teeth (Part Eight)

Title: Cut Your Teeth (Part Eight) Summary: Lord Rogers oversees multiple villages in the country side and is on his yearly rounds of collecting taxes from his constituents. Y/N’s family has recently moved to one of his villages from another part of the country and is eager to please him. Her family’s offering of two goats and a bag of coin pales in comparison to the payment he really wants though as soon as he lays eyes on Y/N. He orders her to return with him and upon being in the municipality capitol, Y/N finds herself faced with a woman her age that sweeps her off her feet, pulling her away from the powerful man that wants her hand in marriage. Fic is 18+! Words: 1,705 Warnings (more may be added): Non-con, homophobia, forced relationship, violence, domestic violence

Part Seven || Masterpost (mobile) || Fic masterpost

(Steve artwork was tagged on pinterest to petite-madame)

Squirrels darted across the cobblestone in the garden as you sat at the table, waiting for the servants to bring out your breakfast. The squirrels eagerness to search for food served as a reminder fall had arrived and they were preparing for the winter ahead. Your book drooped in your grasp, your attention following the scampering instead. You never thought you would be jealous of a squirrel – but they had the freedom to go where they pleased.

Your food was placed in front of you, and you thanked them, closing your book and laying it on the table.

You heard Steve’s voice from inside the house and you sighed, buttering your bread. As his footsteps drew near, you looked up as you took a bite. He was dressed only in his robe – he must not plan to go anywhere today. He had been home for over a couple of weeks, leaving during the day, and returning to bed you at night. Your bruises from the night he came back were almost faded – without resistance following that night, he had not made new marks.

Instead of greeting you with a good morning, he pulled his chair back, commenting, “You’re inviting those rodents to come grab your food by letting them get so close.”

“They aren’t bothering me.”

“You haven’t bled,” Steve changed the subject without bothering to respond to you.

It was true. He had come home what should have been about mid-cycle for you and it was time for your monthly bleeding or should be.

“There’s still time,” you replied, staring down at your bread.

“For your sake, I should hope there’s not,” Steve replied coldly as his food was placed in front of him. His eyes were boring into you.

What pleasant breakfast discussion. You should have gotten up earlier so you would not have to suffer his mood and abrasive comments.

“So for my sake if not… you will allow another man to pay to be in between my thighs?” you asked him indifferently in return, dipping your knife back into the butter. “You would think with the amount that happens here, one might start questioning the men instead of the women for fault.”

Steve’s fist hit the table and you startled at the china rattling, dropping your butter knife adding to the clatter.

“How many times must I remind you to bide your tongue, woman?” he sneered. You bristled at the term ‘woman’ and even more so his condescending tone. But yes, you had forgotten your tongue and let it get away from you once again. “I have no plans to have you lay with another man. Considering I’ve been one used in those circumstances, I do not doubt I have no fault in this. No, this will fall at your feet.” There was a malicious glint in his gaze and you tore your own away, not being able to stand to look at him any longer. “So, if you are smart, you would realize you should hope you have taken my seed and do well with it. If not, well… I may have to get creative in other ways. I will not have a barren wife.”

The hair on your arms stood on end with the chill in that comment. He snorted, picking up his own bread to begin buttering it. Hand shaking, you reached forward to grab yours up off the table. You could not imagine what cruel ends Steve could and would go to if you did not fulfill what he wanted. It almost made you prefer the idea of home. At least there you knew what to expect.

<><><>

Lettie and you sat close, looking out over the viewpoint from the Barnes’ back yard. The water stretched out ahead and the breeze from the surface reached you. Saskia sat at the head of the triangle, working on her needle point. She was focused, happy to stitch a design for her expected child. Hearing Steve’s threat the other week, you were having an easier time understanding how Saskia could reconcile the vile act she had been subjected to with the news of her pregnancy. Being pregnant was the key to the women of the capitol’s safety.

You were working on a painting; hand stitching never having been a skill of yours. You were being careful to not spill the paint on the blanket you were sitting on. Lettie was watching you work out of the corner of her eyes, her hands stilling every time something caught her eye on your canvas. You had not failed to notice that she was stitching lilacs – she had mentioned they were her favorite. Like Saskia, she was a natural at stitching and the different shades of purple were coming together to create a realistic rendition of the sweet smelling flower.

“Lord Parker was asking after you,” Saskia said to Lettie out of the blue breaking the silence.

Your heart skipped a beat, your hand faltering. You swallowed, making sure to not steal a glance at Lettie although you felt her freeze as well. There were only a couple of moments of silence.

“Oh?’ was all Lettie said, nonchalant.

“He seems interested,” Saskia replied, eyeing Lettie with a coy glint.

Lettie cleared her throat and asked evenly, “Isn’t he… young?”

Saskia snorted, “Younger but not too young. You would do well to see if he will pursue further. He is Lord Stark’s ward after all. He’s not a nobody.”

Laying her work at her lap, she made eye contact with Saskia now. “What do you propose I do?”

“Oh, Lettie. You know what to do. Flirt. But not overtly. Catch his attention. Draw him in with your eyes. Be coquettish. You have watched the other ladies. Surely you’ve picked up on how this game works.”

She certainly did. But it had not been tried on a male as far as you knew. She had done well enough to draw you in though. You were feeling jealously beginning to scratch away in the inside at the thought of her flirting with Lord Parker… being courted. And if it led to -- no, you pushed the thought away before you got too lost in a spiral.

“I suppose I have.” Lettie responded. “I’m just… uncertain.”

“Like I said. He’s not a nobody. This could be a fruitful match. And who knows? Once you begin to know him, perhaps there will be a spark.”

You wondered if Saskia had felt that hope when she had been courted by Bucky. And if she had, when that spark would have died when he showed his true nature. Lord Parker being under Lord Stark’s wing led you to believe there was very little change Lettie would ever feel anything for him and vise-versa.

“One can only hope,” Lettie said quietly.

“I will ask Bucky to invite him and Tony out to lunch this week.”

“Would you like company if Lettie is going to be preoccupied with Lord Parker?” you asked trying to keep the desperation out of your tone at wanting to be close by during this exchange.

“Oh, Y/N. I did not mean to leave you out. Of course you and Steve are welcome to come. And yes, I would like someone to talk to rather than staring off into space while Tony and Bucky talk about lords know what while Lettie and Peter get to know each other.”

You forced a small smile, “Wonderful. I look forward to it.”

<><><>

Lettie looked so uncomfortable with Peter hanging off her arm. He had not left her side since she was introduced to the room. You suspected this whole thing had been set up by the two families to get Lettie off their plate. She was a good match but Saskia having a hand maiden for too long would look improper in the capitol’s eyes.

How you wished to be the one on her arm and not him.

He had kept her on the dance floor for the majority of the time and the slight twinge in her expression told you her feet were beginning to ache. Steve had been preoccupying himself with a separate group than the one Tony was socializing with, which meant that she was not left beside you when Peter went to fetch her drinks.

You locked eyes and tried to give her a reassuring smile. The one she gave in return was weak.

“She shouldn’t look so miserable,” Saskia whispered in your ear, startling you. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s okay,” you said, running your hand over your ear nervously. “She is probably just nervous. I don’t believe it is ingratitude for the situation.”

“Nerves or not, we ladies taught her better. And I explained it to her. You explained it to her how important is that she finds favor with him, and this goes through,” Saskia continued. You held your tongue at the comment that you were pushing Lettie towards this. “They will make a lovely match. Think of how lovely their children will be.”

You smiled convincingly and gave a curt nod.

“Perhaps I can get Bucky to invite Peter and her over here…” Saskia said more to herself than anything before turning away from you.

Sighing, you looked to the other side of yourself and gave a slight tug on Steve’s satin sleeve. His eyes slid towards you away from the conversation and you gestured with your glass for him to fetch another. You wanted another to try to distract yourself from the idea of Lettie having children.

“No more wine,” Steve said in hushed tones in your ear. “You’ve had a glass, you should not risk more with the babe. Be happy I let you have the one… soon it will be none when I can officially announce once you are a month past your date. And that is coming up quickly.”

Your hand dropped and you began to turn back away from him but he caught you. He took your goblet and said, “Water will do you well.”

He left and you stood alone.

You shot a look over to Lettie and found her turned away from you as well, Peter’s hand flexing on her back possessively.

~~~

Marvel tags: @coconutqueen21 @agustdowney @biiskuitx @buttercupfangirl @namjoonwatcheshentai @kaylamcd2000 @damntonystarkandhissmile @aditimukul

Fic tag: @blossom862

(I removed tags that were no longer working - please let me know if you want to be removed from tags)

#steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #dark marvel #dark!steve rogers x reader #my shit

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coulsons-fullmetal-cellist · 1 year

Text

Disgusting Degustation

(Dieter x Horror Lover female)

Words: 3, 549

Check out masterlist here

Summary: you and Dieter receive an invitation to a hot new restaurant, but you recently watched a horror film about a restaurant

Warnings: lots of pretentious food and pretentious people describing said pretentious food, gagging on food, bad smelling food, a million references to The Menu because that film is awesome, so spoilers if you haven’t seen it yet

Dieter came home with an intriguing surprise for you.

“So, I’ve got this invitation,” he said handing you a piece of black card.

“I’m intrigued.” You looked at the gold lettering spelling out Stones Forest, “Looks like a vampire invitation.”

“No, it’s some new restaurant opening this week and my manager says I’m to go to drum up publicity or something. You’re my plus one obviously.”

“Obviously?”

Dieter gently grabbed your left hand and kissed it, fiddling with the engagement ring sparkling on your finger. “Obviously. And apparently there needs to be more photos of us going out as a happy engaged couple. Can’t have them thinking we just hibernate like hermits.”

“But we do hibernate like hermits.”

“Well, it’s free food so, are you interested?”

“You should have started with the free food.”

*****

Later that night, Dieter found you huddled up in bed staring at your phone, a concerned look on your face.

“Everything okay honey cakes?”

“Yeah, I just decided to see what the menu is like and…there doesn’t seem to be one.”

He snuggled into bed next to you. “Maybe it’s so new they haven’t put it up yet?”

“Maybe. All they say it’s some tasting menu; ‘An exploration of culinary history through experimental gastronomy’.”

Dieter scoffed, “Sounds pretentious.”

“Definitely. I’m just concerned they’ll have things that we wouldn’t want to eat.”

“Hey, if there’s meat and bread, I’m happy.”

“I hope they don’t have seafood. Or anything slimy. I don’t want to be vomiting up the place like Regan.”

You both scowled at the thought of that.

“Lovely image to put in my head honey cakes. Don’t worry, I’ll eat whatever you don’t want, okay?”

“You sure?”

“I’ve probably had worse in my mouth.”

*****

The day finally arrived, and you were ready for any horror movie related situation. Your chosen outfit was cute, sophisticated and gave you the freedom to run or climb a wall if the need arose. And pockets, plenty of pockets.

Dieter fell asleep on the journey over, leaving you to stew in your overthinking brain. You tried to look up anything you could about this hot new restaurant with its hot new chef, but there was surprising little information available. It made the suspicious bubbles pop. Dieter awoke before you arrived, probably sensing the nervous energy radiation off you. He gave you a comforting squeeze.

“You doing okay honey cakes?”

“I’ll be fine. We’ve got out spare napkins and bag to secretly dispose of gross food. I’ve got pepper spray in case we’re led anywhere strange. And if they offer up s’mores for dessert, we run.”

“Are you talking about that movie we saw?”

“Of course, I’m talking about The Menu.”

Surprisingly, Dieter didn’t find the film scary at all. Mostly because you never mentioned that it was a horror film.

“Do you really think someone is going to go unhinged over serving us dinner?”

“Maybe. It only takes one pretentious hipster chef to see the film as an inspiration board.”

*****

Well, you weren’t on a secluded island. You didn’t see anyone carrying any angel wings, and nothing jumped out on the walk there. The piney forested pathway would be romantic if you weren’t on high alert. A flash of cameras fluttered in the distance reminded you that the press was there to record the esteemed event.

Joining you were other couples; an elderly old money type; a preppy foodie influencer couple; lauded food critic Minty Divine and her magazine publisher and two investment banker money bro types with their dates who clearly understood tailored fashion better than the men.

Wait, that meant you and Dieter were the movie star couple. You were hoping the chef hadn’t seen any of his films on his one day off and hated it, laser printing the poster on a tortilla.

“Oh my god, Dieter Bravo!”

The foodie girl was dragging her boyfriend over to the two of you, her basically fawning over your fiancé while he looked bored to be here.

“I absolutely loved you in Cliff Beasts 6! Could I get an autograph or…?”

He was already put off and then some, dragging you over to a waiter carrying a tray of drinks, pretending he didn’t hear her. Sadly, libations were of the alcoholic kind only, so you shared a glass of wine. Dieter was cutting back and you never really enjoyed the taste, also you were designated driver. He hugged you close while sharing sips, looking the perfectly in love couple for the press, not that you were pretending.

Misty Devine sauntered her way over, arms outstretched, cigarette waving, and a smugness plastered to her, and her partners faces.

“Mr. Bravo! She exclaimed, completely ignoring you, “May we say bravo on your latest performance?”

He nonchalantly shrugged and gestured to you “Have you met my lovely, wonderful bride to be?”

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure” which was a lie as you met last month at a function. “So, how are wedding plans? Have you set a date?”

“October 1st” Dieter proudly announced, kissing your cheek.

“A fall wedding? How quaintly chic. Have you decided on a caterer?” she didn’t let you answer and made no attempt to blow her cigarette smoke away from you, “Let me tell you what’s déclassé: food trucks. Who serves street food at a wedding?”

Neither of answered as you already booked a taco truck and a cupcake van.

A gong sounded, thankfully saving you from having to socialise further. You were all led from the sunlight through the imposing restaurant doors and into sudden darkness. The hallway was dimly lit, hiding whatever secrets it held. After a few hesitant seconds, sunlight mutely streamed in from a skylight, revealing an unusual dining setting: it looked like a giant metal circle had its centre removed, legs added and bar stools surrounding it. It made the whole thing look like a cross between a steampunk Knights of the Round Table and an industrialist Last Supper.

“Well, the table isn’t stone so already I’m disappointed.” Dieter whispered to you.

“This is too much like Circle.” You whispered back, “If we have to start voting on who lives and who dies, we’re outta here.”

*****

When everyone was seated, the theatrics began. The skylight served as a spotlight for the elusive chef; he certainly did not look the part of a chef, more of someone who raided a denim store. At least he didn’t clap for attention, just expecting attention to be immediately drawn to him.

“Welcome one and all the Stone, I am your humble chef this fine day. Forest Stone is my name, and I will take you on a journey of our past history through food.”

“Pretentious much?” Dieter whispered into your ear.

“This bill of fare will be an Omakase; I will give you glimpses into my own personal journeys, and I will honour said locales with these humble victuals.”

“What the fuck is he saying?” you shrugged in response.

“If you look forth, you will see our menu where we’ll take twelve journeys to locations that have inspired me.”

You all looked down at the table where a piece of black card was laid out. Reflected in gold lettering were twelve words: Forage, Fire, Bowl, Knife, Leaf, Water, Bone, Rock, Fork, Spoon, Table and Air.

“Mmm, that rock sounds tantalising” joked Dieter.

“I’m more interested in leaf.” you joked back.

The doors opened again, and twelve servers marched out, stopping in front of each waiting diner.

“Forage was inspired while I was hiking the Appalachian trail. I realised how man has been feeding themselves for thousands of years. Gatherers were our first chefs and his dish honours that. Now, if you will hold out your hand to receive this humble dish.”

Everyone reluctantly held out their hands, you put yours out last after having a fleeting image of knives appearing. The only thing that did appear in the palm of your hand was a sticky blob of orange.

“What we did was hand pick clementines, reduced them down with Oolong tea and smoked sugar to create a humble marmalade to place in the palm of your hand. Enjoy a gatherers experience.”

He left along with the servers, leaving the rest of you to mull out your befuddlement. Most just shrugged at the absurdity and proceeded to eat from their hands.

Minty Devine started her food critic spiel: “This almost frugal presentation reminds one of one’s sense of place. The terroir characteristics come out in a toothsome mouthfeel.”

It was toothsome alright; it felt like a bitter mouthful of sand making you reluctant to chew or swallow. You discreetly managed to placate the mouthful to a napkin and into your pocket bin bag. The foodie couple next to you were giggling at the absurdity of it, then you looked to Dieter who had a big look of regret on his face.

“You swallowed it?”

He nodded, “Not the worst thing I’ve swallowed.”

*****

“The inspiration for Fire came to me while I was backpacking through South America. I encountered so many wonderful cuisines in the colourful culture. I felt a connection to my ancestors through the spice and the earth. This dish I will leave to be a surprise for you.”

You were handed a toothpick. On it was a tiny red candy which created the fires of hell within your mouth.

“A confetti of electricity dances across the tongue, igniting all senses. Absolutely to die for!”

Most of you probably did die, at least your tastebuds did. The meagre serving of water was not enough to quash the spice and the lonely napkin was not enough to wipe away the tears and snot running down everyone’s face. You handed the poor foodie influencer a tissue as her mascara was now down to her chin.

*****

“Bowl was inspired when I went white water rafting in the Grand Canyon. The rapid churning waters in a rocky surrounding reminded me of how small we are on this planet. So we have created an emulsion of La Bonnette potatoes and moose milk, laced with Persian blue salt and served it in the manner of those rapids.”

“Does he mean soup?”

“I hope so.”

What was presented to you, however, was not soup; a big bowl was placed down, and the servers sprayed in the supposed soup so all you were left with was foam. And no cutlery. What followed was an awkward display of failed attempts to of drinking the foam from a too heavy bowl. Those of you with sensible hairstyles and clothing managed to not make quite the mess.

“Oh, a zinfandel of flavour zips in lip-smacking fashion and provides a guilt free delight!”

“Tastes like salty water to me.” you quietly confided to Dieter.

*****

“I stood in the middle of the Colosseum, watching the sunset and it reminded me of man’s foibles and violence, and I had to humble myself for this dish. We created a compound butter using small batch butter and blended it with Miche bread, anchovy relish and frost snow. We served it the way the gladiators would have.”

This was not how they would have served it. What you were given seemed like someone forgot to scrape of their butter knife.

Dieter gave you a cheeky look, “Hey honey cakes, does this seem familiar?” he took a long, sensual lick of the knife but his face dropped from one of delight to one of disgust. You took his gagging licking it off onto his napkin as a sign to sneak into your pocket bin.

“Ambitious flavours combine together to challenge one’s flavour palette.”

Everyone’s tastebuds were feeling challenged right now.

*****

“When I was walking the Great Wall of China, I realised how close with nature mankind used to be before civilisation and industrialism destroyed our connection. So, I’m bringing back nature through this infusion of Summer Cypress and Fennel pollen in humble presentation.”

It was a piece of edible paper in the shape of a leaf. At least it was actually edible if paper was edible. Some were laughing and welcoming the bland break from this ridiculous ordeal.

“Simple yet elegant in presentation, but the crunch ignites a bouquet of transcendence.”

You weren’t even hallway through this, and you’d had enough of this nonsense. You didn’t look to be the only one.

*****

“I once took a gondola ride in Venice…”

Dieter groaned at another pretentious chef story.

“And being surrounded by all this water reminded me of all the unexplored regions of the planet we have yet to explore, so now we honour the ocean with a trio of abalone, glass eel and golden tigerfish which we put through a special process of jellification and humbly served like the waters of this planet.”

You would have welcomed drowning in a bowl of broken emulsion.

Instead, you were given a shot glass. “Well, it looks like water.”

Dieter, being much braver with putting things in his mouth, tossed back the mystery liquid. What followed was a comedy of everyone on the verge of gagging and spitting said liquid back into the shot glass. The foodie influencer girl looked to be on the verge of tears along with the money bros dates. Dieter took your untouched glass away from you, shaking his head and mumbling at you not to try it.

“Presentation devoid of any frippery, letting the craft speak for itself. The shimmering concoction slithers down the throat.”

That comment almost made you gag.

*****

“I stood barefoot on the sands of Bali and the sand touching my toes reminded me of prehistoric ancestors that have now been reduced to what lies beneath my feet and I had to humble myself. We all turn to dust and bone in the end so now we have for you a leg of Ayam Cenami black chicken which we sous vide and dusted with powdered cavolo nero. To be eaten on the bone.”

Everyone was given a comically mouldy looking piece of tiny chicken. Dieter took a tentative bite, then nodded to you that it was safe.

“Reminds one of the ethnic grubs but proves to be an appropriate banquet of nom.”

Everyone sighed in relief that this was at least edible. You thought it was a bit dry.

*****

“And now for a palate cleanser. The idea came to me while I was campervanning in Hawai’i. I discovered Kona Nigari water, so we had it imported here, and we laced it with rose petals and liquorice to provide a refreshing reprieve.”

A rock was placed in front of everyone. The servers then poured water over said rock, creating a waft of steam clouding everyone’s faces and some glasses. A literal spa treatment was an actual relief in this weird hellscape.

“A kaleidoscope of fragrance for a flawless pillowy vavoom.”

*****

“Fork was inspired when I took a helicopter ride over Iceland. The vast volcanic landscape was truly breathtaking, so to honour that, we wrapped Kobe beef in Jamon Iberico de Ballista,” he exaggerated his non-English words, “then we lightly charred it like a volcano would.”

Well, he was certainly right about that. The meat on the fork handed to you looked like it was left in a volcano for longer than intended.

Dieter happily munched away at the crunchy piece of meat, “Bit chewy.”

He noticed your lack of interest in your fork, so you handed it over to him, “Do you want mine?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking hungry.”

There was a lot of chewing for so small a piece of meat. “At least my jaw is getting a good workout. Good news for you honey cakes.”

Minty Devine did not seem so put off by the chewing, “A melt in the mouth experience that pays off in a delicate mouthgasm.”

Dieter snorted, “She said mouthgasm.”

*****

“I felt humbled when I received a personal invitation to the Vatican.”

“Of course, you did.” You mumbled into Dieter’s shoulder.

“I partook of Scotch Whiskey which as a favourite of the Popes, so to honour the experience, we took this whiskey infused it with Yatsu Gunbu fungus, and used this infusion for Serbian Pule cheese, which is 60% Balkan donkey and 40% goat.”

“Donkey cheese?” asked the foodie influencer girl, “Sounds cute.”

But it wasn’t cute, it was ugly, it was foul. You were handed a spoonful of something that looked like it was sneezed out. The smell that reached your nose was something truly awful. Into the pocket bag it swiftly went.

“Hm, a silky unctuous spoonful that oozes a challenging work, enrobing the tongue.”

A few shady looks went Minty’s way, clearly no one agreed with her up to this point.

*****

“This penultimate dish was inspired by a spontaneous trip to Japan. I experienced such delights, and the culture truly humbled me. We gathered together Densuke black watermelon,” he took on a terrible accent with the Japanese words, “Ruby Roman grapes from Ishikawa, and white jewel strawberries from the Saga prefecture, which we specially processed in a way to intensify its flavours.”

The servers left you with three small piles of colourful powder.

“If they expect us to snort this, I’m out.” declared Dieter.

“No, I think we have to use our fingers.”

“Would’ve been less offensive served as Pixie Sticks.” He was glaring at the money bros jokingly miming snorting the powder.

It was tasty but it felt silly to having to lick it off your fingers.

“A joyful take which plays off together and the flavours barely fight one another.”

“So, fancy Pixie Sticks.”

*****

“We have arrived at our final dish. I hope you enjoyed this adventure as much as I have.”

Everyone looked exhausted. The chair you had been forced to sit in for the past three hours were cutting into the back of your thighs and no back support, torturing you and probably everyone else. The old couple looked like they were about to keel over.

“I was taking a hot air balloon over Giza and the whole world felt so small to me. It truly humbled me.”

A mental drinking game was taking place whenever he mentioned the word humble.

“So, to honour that” take another mental drink at the word honour, “we whisked together Iranian pistachios, Mahleb and Peri Bali honey and sprinkled it with gold dust to create this inspirational dish served in manner of its name.”

The servers were standing in front of each of you holding a balloon, smiling like Pennywise. The balloon suddenly popped above you a left you covered in strange dust. The older couple were startled awake, and several others started sneezing.

“A literal explosion of flavours popping in playful manner invoking a breeze of butterflies.”

Everyone would happily form a queue to stab this food critic.

*****

After receiving your gift bags, you were finally allowed to leave. The chairs did their tortuous job, the older couple facing the worst damage and needing help getting to the door. The backs of your thighs had gone numb, making your walk into an awkward hobble.

Dieter ran off like a final girl, only stopping when he realised that you weren’t there.

“Are you okay honey cakes?” he panted when he ran back.

“Those chairs murdered my legs.” You winced as feeling was painfully returning, so Dieter gently picked you up and ran all the way back, awaking the sleepily awaiting press and scaring them by his yelling of “Freedom!”

He gently placed you down in front of the car and you thanked him with a kiss to the cheek. You both let out a relieved sigh to be seated in comfort again.

“That was officially the worst food experience I’ve ever had.”

“I’ve had many bad things in my mouth, but nothing that bad.” Dieter replied, “I’m also starving, you starving?”

“I’ve had about two things to eat so yeah, I’m starving.”

“I’d love a burger.”

“And fries?” laughing at the cinematic parallels, “You know what would be amazing? If the place burned down. It would be amazing to watch while we eat.”

Dieter gave you a smouldering look, “Are you planning to burn it down?”

“Would you like me to?”

“You’d look very sexy if you did. If you can get away with it.”

You ran your hand up his thigh, “I can find a way to make it look like an accident. But I’ll need an alibi.”

“I’ll always be your alibi,” his voice came out husky as he kissed you. You kissed him back with equal fervour until your stomachs reminded you that food was needed.

*****

Sadly, the place did not burn down, but it was burned in reviews. The foodie influencers had recorded and streamed most of the ordeal, and the whole thing was mocked online.

Minty Devine had her food critic credentials questioned as well as mocked.

It was exhilarating to watch while parked in the drive-thru, eating your burgers with fries. The menu provided in their gift bags not even good enough to wipe your mouth with.

“You should have done the speech,”

“What speech?” asked Dieter.

“I know you had Margot’s speech memorised.”

“Would you like to hear my rendition?”

“I’d love to. But when we get home.”

Films referenced: Circle (2015), The Menu (2022)

#pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #the bubble netflix #the bubble #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo #love of horror fanfic #love of horror #dieter fanfic #dieter x reader #the menu 2022 #the menu #dieter x honey cakes

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cheeto-flavoured-pasta · 10 months

Note

Hello, and happy Blorbo blusday!! I'm well *checks clock* 1h late gasp! As an excuse I can only say that today I have been packing and I forgot it was Thursday. (As usual I am @writeblr-of-my-own) ANYWAYS. For today's question, I'd like to know about food preference and cooking skills of your blorbo(es)! What can they cook, what they like to eat, whether they are good in the kitchen, or better away from it and close to a fire extinguisher!

Ah yes, the cooking skills of my characters. They vary a lot. For my main baby — I mean, for my main work in progress, APS:

Talia is utterly awful in the kitchen. It’s probably why you’d hardly ever see her cook an actual meal; she’ll just be eating cold food like sandwiches or ordering takeout. In any emergency, she’ll just grab some instant noodles and heat that up. Her roommate Melissa is trying to teach her how to cook without destroying their dorm room…

Caster comes from a very high-class family, so you’d think he’d be used to having chefs to cook for him, but his family makes everyone provide food for themselves. He’s fairly decent at cooking and usually makes fancy dishes like various soups, stews, rice plates, etc.

Cassian is fairly OK at cooking — he kinda just lies somewhere in the middle. He knows how to cook “basic” foods (eggs, chicken, rice, pasta, potatoes, veggies, etc. etc.). He likes ordering takeout more often or getting microwaveable food though since he gets pretty lazy.

Melissa is good enough to teach Talia how to cook safely, so she’s a fairly decent chef for the most part. She’s a bit of a health kernel (not a health nut, but a kernel) so she learns how to cook whatever seems the most friendly to her diet and has the most nutrients.

For Don’t Leave (my side-WIP which is more familiar since I made an intro of it recently):

Kaguya had to learn how to cook on his own because his adoptive parents kinda just shoved the responsibility on him. If he comes to his house late and they already cooked dinner, it doesn’t mean he got to have any spare food his parents made. It means he has to go to Bayholde’s market and cook his own dinner by himself. He usually makes a lot of meat-centric dishes, like wild boar or deer meat (I mean, the only food source Bayholde has is a nearby forest anyways) and occasionally some steamed veggies or fruit on the side. He really likes buttered bread, but the butter is running out in the town market really fast.

I haven’t said too much about June, but she quite literally does not have a place to cook so she doesn’t know how to make food in the first place. She eats when she visits Kaguya or her other friend, and if she needs a snack, she’ll try to grab something off the street (not literally, of course; that would be gross) or get someone to share with her.

(I wish I could do more characters but this would just be a longer list of me talking about people nobody knows about ;-;)

#writeblr #writing community #writers of tumblr #writing #author's work #ask answered #writing ask #writing answers #oc asks #blorbo blursday #blorbo ask

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trans-girl-nausicaa · 1 year

Text

OAKBOUGH: A CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE STORY.

CHAPTER 5.

Read the rest of the story: https://www.tumblr.com/trans-girl-nausicaa/tagged/OAKBOUGH

>Talk to Paul about his theories.

You look at Dr. Indigo.

“No, that’s okay. I’ve decided I don’t want to have a, uh, appointment right now,” you say.

She looks a bit confused.

“Um… If you’re sure, then OK. But just so you know, you can still come talk to me later, if you want. Come to the medical center if you want to set up an appointment.”

She looks at you intently. Then at Paul, and then at Arid and Butterfly. Arid shrugs.

Dr. Indigo turns around and leaves.

“…What was that?” asks Arid.

“I don’t want to talk to a psychiatrist,” you say.

“I want to talk to this guy right here,” you say, patting Paul on the back.

“I really don’t think-“ Arid starts, but Butterfly stops them.

“Look, let’s just let this matter go for now,” Butterfly says to Arid, quietly.

“You want to hear my theories?” asks Paul, eyes shining.

“Yes,” you say.

“Oh! Oh this is excellent! Oh, I should make some tea~”

You follow him as he scurries back into the visitors center.

Butterfly and Arid watch you.

“See you around,” says Arid.

“Come find me if you… need anything,” says Butterfly.

The kitchen of the visitors center is… kind of a mess, although underneath the clutter it looks kind of upscale. The countertops are granite. There are boxes of ingredients splayed across the counter.

“Oh! I forgot I was totally in the middle of something!” says Paul. “Silly me!”

“Can I… help you clean up?” you ask. You figure it’s only polite.

Paul smiles brightly. “Thank you so much! Usually I have to do it all myself.”

Paul puts back the ingredients and you wipe off the countertops.

Just as you finish, the oven beeps, and Paul pulls a large round loaf of bread out of the oven.

It has a golden-brown crust, dusted with flour.

“It’s my special sourdough! We can have some later, I can’t cut it when it’s right out of the oven. The gluten is still developing! …Unless you’re gluten-intolerant?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine with gluten,” you say. “I work in a brewery, so there’s basically gluten in the air there.”

“That’s so cool! Some of our members have been talking about doing some brewing, like microbrews or something, but we haven’t made any concrete plans yet.”

“For an insurrectionary organization, you guys are kind of… domestic.” You aren’t sure which word to use.

Paul giggles.

“Oh, we’re just lucky! I mean, we’re basically squatting here. That is, we ARE squatting here. This whole neighborhood was property of the Central Bank of California before it collapsed.”

You nod. You remember the most recent housing/financial crisis.

“But didn’t all of their assets get seized by the federal government when they failed?”

“Yes! But so did tens of millions of other homes. And the federal government is moving at a glacial pace to even begin to keep track of its own ‘assets.’ So for the moment we’re totally free to keep using this whole neighborhood as one of our bases!”

“Wow.”

You think for a second.

“Are you sure it’s okay to tell me this?”

“Oh, don’t worry. You could have figured that stuff out on your own. I’ll never tell you any of the truly sensitive stuff about the Sands of the Mojave. On the other hand… My theories on Human Displacement are well known on the base. Though I think most people don’t take them seriously. Would you like to continue this conversation in the parlor? We don’t need to stand around in the kitchen,” Paul says.

You agree, and the two of you go to a back room of the house. There are four chairs set around a cherry-colored wood table.

You sit down.

Paul realizes he forgot about the tea, and returns to the kitchen.

You fidget quietly.

Paul returns with a tray, on which he carries two cups of tea and an overstuffed red binder.

The tea is chamomile.

The binder is labeled “HUMAN DISPLACEMENT.”

Paul opens it and quickly scans a few passages.

“I just want to make sure… that I explain this right,” he says.

“So… This is going to be pretty hard to hear, I think. And… You’re the only victim of Human Displacement that I’ve actually met, so this will be somewhat of a learning process for both of us.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” you say.

“What IS ‘Human Displacement?’”

Paul nods and purses his lips.

“Well, it’s… a phenomenon where… A person disappears from one location and appears in another location, taking the physical place of another person.”

“So… Teleportation? Wait, you’re saying, like, a paranormal phenomenon? Like alien abductions and shit?”

“No, no no. This isn’t paranormal at all. Human Displacement is caused by particle emitter experiments run by DARPA,” Paul states matter-of-factly.

‘Of course the anti-government extremist thinks that the government is responsible,’ you think to yourself. But you are intrigued by what he is saying.

“So, wait, if it’s a type of teleportation… Then Wasp Ghelsig is a real person?”

“Well… They were a real person. They’ve been displaced. By you. When you teleported.”

“…Which means they are…”

“Reduced to subatomic particles.”

“Jesus,” you say.

“Yeah,” says Paul.

You are both silent for a moment.

But you’re still curious.

“What about the drivers license? How come it had my picture in it?”

Paul steeples his fingers.

“So… There’s a recently-discovered type of subatomic particle that DARPA has been experimenting with. Well, it’s both a particle and a wave, but that’s not important. You haven’t heard of it, I guarantee it. They haven’t released any information on it because they want to monopolize the weapons applications of it. It’s called the ‘Domino Particle,’ because it, well, it can affect causality.”

“Causality?”

“Yes. Your physical body, including your memories, didn’t just displace Wasp Ghelsig’s body and location, they also displaced Wasp Ghelsig’s past. So anyone who knew Wasp will remember them as looking like you. And yeah, any photograph of Wasp is now a photograph of you.”

“That’s so fucked,” you say.

“Justice is never going to believe this.”

“Who’s Justice?”

“Wasp’s wife.”

The two of you are silent again.

Just then, you hear some frantic footsteps.

The door opens, and a light-skinned woman in grey coveralls strides in to the room. She’s wearing a choker necklace, the one piece of fashionable flair in her utilitarian ensemble. Her shiny black hair is in a ponytail.

“Paul! I need to talk to you- Did any visitor come through by the name of Wasp Ghelsig?!”

“Uhh…” says Paul, and glances at you.

“Well, that’s SORT OF my name,” you say, slightly irritated.

“Okay, sorry if I deadnamed you or- or something, It’s just- Okay, Hi, Welcome To The Sands Of The Mojave Base Number X, I’m Snoust Cranine, I’m the public relations director. We have a situation. There’s a reporter here with questions, so, and, the thing is, you were present at the scene of a S.O.T.M. offensive action, right? Where two cops were shot?”

“Uh… yes,” you say.

“Okay, this reporter is here from the Cali Times. She wants to know what happened to you. She’s being very impatient. So… We need to tell her something about your status ASAP, or they’re likely going to report that we’re holding you hostage. Which we aren’t. I can help you prepare a statement, or I can make a statement on your behalf. I just need to know what message you want to send.”

STATS:

AGGRESSION: 5

CAUTION: 5

HOMOSEXUALITY: 5

ENDURANCE: 5

SKILL: 5

INVENTORY:

CASH: $50

MULTI-TOOL

EQUIPMENT:

SUNGLASSES

T-SHIRT

JEANS

HIGH-TOP SNEAKERS

#choose your own adventure #OAKBOUGH

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