#i expected to see a glass or plastic gem on the other side

[peppermintprism]

I feel like tumblr might appreciate seeing the most cursed item I own. Here it is when I found it in the leaf litter while hiking in January of 2019.

#technically it was facing down when I found it #but I didn’t move it’s location at all to take this shot #just rolled it over #i expected to see a glass or plastic gem on the other side #I was surprised but not disappointed #cursed items #cursed #rings #ring #cursed ring #found objects #found items #witchy #I guess #pepperiginal

[wkemeup]

Sunrise (4)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 5.2k warnings: symptoms of depression, PTSD, anxiety, some really sweet moments to balance it out, more book recs 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

“You’re staring at the doors again, sweetie.”

Chin resting on your hands, arms folded out on the countertop of the library’s front desk, you tore your eyes away from the entrance to find Mrs. Jefferson peering over at you from over the bridge of her glasses. She smirked as she returned to her book, knowing she’d caught you in the act.  

“Have patience,” she said simply.

“Book club is tomorrow and—” you sighed, a heaviness returning to your body as you slumped back against the counter, stare drifting back to the doors at the entrance. The sun was beaming outside, reflecting in beautiful rays as it illuminated the walkway and touched over old oak and the colorful bindings of novels. 

You frowned. “I really thought he was going to come.”

“This James Barnes... he’s a soldier, yes? Like my boy?”  

You nodded, disappointment burning like a lump in your throat, though you swallowed it back. “A Sergeant. Sam said he came home a little under a year ago.”  

“Then he’ll come,” Mrs. Jefferson pressed confidently, sliding her glasses up her nose, the chain of purple beads clicking against the gem stones on her sweater. “Boys like that don’t break their word. Even if he is a bit of a hesitant one.”

You knew what she meant by that. Hesitant.  

No one liked to talk about the dangers of a soldier post-war. It was uncomfortable; the idea that they could still be fighting a battle long beyond the absence of a weapon in their hands and the threat of present danger. Heroes weren’t supposed to have chinks in their armor. They weren’t supposed to crumble and break under the weight of what happened beyond borders and the guilt they carried.  

They were supposed to be strong; a symbol of a great country and a willing tribute to place upon a pedestal. It was unacceptable to be a burden, unacceptable to do anything other than seamlessly integrate back into a society that they never really knew to begin with.  

It was all a farce; a rigged game set to line the pockets of the rich and exploit everyone else in its path – sent off to fight for a cause no one really understood or believed in. It left behind good men and women to the rubble; Bucky Barnes among them.  

Sam hadn’t told you much about Bucky before you met him, but you knew enough to tell that it was a struggle to get him to leave the apartment. He was isolated and quiet and hardly recognizable from the man you’d seen in photos. Only, it wasn’t the lack of his left arm that drew your attention when you first saw him, but the lingering sadness in his eyes.  

Sam had a picture hanging in the office that often pulled you in. Bucky stood on his left side, smiling so wide it left lines on his face. He was bright, light as a feather, only weighed down by Steve’s arm slung around his shoulders. You wondered if the man in the photo would have flirted shamelessly with you, if he’d have corny pickup lines or offer to take you dancing. He looked like the sort of man who had girls chasing his tail, a line of heartbreak in his wake. He was beautiful.  

It was strange to see him like that, comparing him to the man he was today. Now, it was like a cloud lingered over his head, draining the color from his skin and chipping away at his soul until it dimmed and crumbled and faded away.  

But you’d seen glimpses of the man in the photo. He was still beautiful; a little hurt and dragging his feet, but beautiful. His smile wasn’t quite as wide and the cloud was still present, but there was a peak of sunshine peering through. A single ray puncturing over stormy skies, but it was something. He’d laughed and teased and it was more than Sam had known him to do in months. You were determined to see the sun touch his skin again. If only he’d let you guide him there.  

“I’m going to go restock on the second level,” you conceded, pushing yourself up from the counter and sauntering over to the cart lined heavy with books.  

“Alright sweetie. I’ll be sure to page you when your Sergeant shows up.”

You felt a heat burning in your face at the very idea of ‘your Sergeant’. Mrs. Jefferson chuckled to herself, eyes still down on her book. She waved you off, not giving you a chance to object, even if you could string together a coherent sentence.  

***

Bucky couldn’t get out of bed.  

He’d been in this predicament hundreds of times before; staring up at the ceiling, wasting the days away as the curtains blocked the light and shielded him from the reminder of another sun daring to rise beyond his window. His energy would be drained and his willingness to so much as brush his teeth was obsolete. He’d known what it felt like to not be able to get out of bed.  

This was different.  

He had somewhere to be. He actually wanted to get up. He really fucking wanted to.

But the pain in his arm had flared to one of the worst episodes he’d had in months and it rendered him useless; the arm that was both there and not there. He could feel his left hand curl to a fist, could feel the itch on his palm, but when he tried to scratch it, he was only met with thin air, his right hand sinking to the mattress in search of the sensation that didn’t exist.  

It was infuriating.  

The nerve endings in his shoulder were going haywire. It felt like his arm was being ripped from his body and it took nearly all the energy he had not to let it consume him. He’d even gone as far to bite off a piece of his cheek in an effort to suppress the lump in his throat.  

Sam would have frowned at that, spewed him some bullshit about how crying can be therapeutic and Steve would nod his head annoyingly in agreement, but Bucky was tougher than that. He had to be tougher than that. If he allowed himself to unlatch that gate, it would consume him whole. He’d drown.  

Hinges squeaked at the front entrance as the door swung open and a pair of heavy footsteps came rushing into the apartment.  

“I’m coming, buddy! Hold on!” Sam called, the plastic swish of the grocery bag handing off his arms dropping to the floor. Bucky tried to concentrate on the sound of running water, the bottle of pills shaking in the small orange bottle, and not on the pain threatening to tear him in half.  

The door to his bedroom flung open and Sam rushed in with a glass of water and his fist closed around two red capsules. He paused in the frame, a frown pushing down at his mouth, and Bucky could only imagine what he looked like; disheveled, sweating, laying in day old clothes and muddled sheets. His right hand was shaking.  

“Alright, help me out, Barnes,” Sam said, setting the glass down on the bedside table. He placed a steady hand on Bucky’s back to help push himself upright. Bucky swung his legs off the side of the bed, finding his balance before Sam placed the pills in his hand.  

Bucky threw them back into his mouth, holding his hand out for the glass of water that would come next. It landed in his grip and he gulped down the medication. There was no instant relief with pain like this, but the knowledge it would soon wear off to something manageable was enough.  

“Thanks,” he mumbled out, voice tense as he struggled to find it.  

“Insurance companies are assholes,” Sam scoffed, shaking his head, though he patted Bucky on the knee. “Cutting off coverage for a fucking vet with no warning like that? Can’t believe you’ve been without this stuff for almost a week. It’s messed up.”  

Bucky had come to expect it. He knew something had to go wrong eventually with how things were starting to turn around. He’d actually been looking forward to seeing you at the library and almost went that next day if it wasn’t for the sudden attack on his own body. He'd tried to deal with it on his own, thinking he might sleep it off, but then it became unbearable. Insurance wouldn’t budge and he didn’t have the energy to argue on the phone with them all day. Thankfully, Sam did.  

Except now it was a day before the next book club meeting and Bucky didn’t know how he was supposed to face you. Part of him wondered if you'd be disappointed, if maybe you’d steal a glance over the doors and hope that it was him walking through, only to be let down as each day passed by. The other half wondered if you’d care at all.  

But he’d seen the way you’d smiled at him, how you’d lit up at the idea of him stopping by.  

You’d care.  

He wasn’t sure if that hurt worse, seeing as he never showed up.  

“You could still go.”

Bucky sighed at Sam’s suggestion. He wasn’t teasing him, wasn’t wearing that shit-eating grin. He was being serious. It was the kind of look that reminded Bucky that under it all, Sam was one of his closest friends, one of the few that stuck around when everything went to shit.

“She’ll want to see you,” Sam continued, nudging Bucky’s side with a soft smile, but Bucky shook his head, unconvinced.

“What am I supposed to say to her, Sam?” Bucky groaned, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “’Sorry I stood you up, but I felt like my hand was being sawed off on an arm I don’t even fucking have?’”

“Why not?” Sam shrugged, earning a glare in response he let roll off his shoulders with ease. “She’d understand, Buck. She knows what comes with the territory here. She’s a lot more familiar with this stuff than you think.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, a pang of jealousy burning hot in his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe you should ask her why she got involved with the VA in the first place.”

Bucky pressed his lips to a thin line, a silence coming over them. That was an immensely personal question; one akin to someone asking him how he’d lost his arm. He wasn’t sure that was an answer you’d be willing to share.  

Sam exhaled a heavy breath, patting Bucky three times on the knee before he stood up. “Let the meds kick in, but promise you’ll try to go, alright?”

Bucky stared up at Sam for a moment before he conceded with a short nod. The pain in his shoulder was starting to lessen, at least. It didn’t feel like his arm was being torn from his body or a knife was plunging into a part of him that didn’t exist anymore. It would likely get back to a place he could deal with within the hour.

“I promise,” Bucky said. “I’ll go.”

***

A brush of warm air filtered in through the vents as Bucky stepped inside the library. It was bigger than he remembered with large stain glass windows on the outer walls, filtering in a colorful sunlight onto the aisles upon aisles of books. At the center, just ahead of the entrance, was a reception desk. Bucky exhaled a tense breath in an attempt to rid himself from the nerves rattling in his veins and made his way to the woman sitting behind the counter.  

She was reading quietly in her seat, a pair of glasses on a beaded chain perched at the very tip of her nose. She didn’t look up in his direction until he stood at the edge of the desk, and only then, she caught glance of him over the top of her glasses before a smile rose on her lips.  

“Can I help you, young man?”  

Bucky cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to meet someone. She, uh, works here. Y/n.”

The woman nodded. She wore the kind of smile on her face Bucky was familiar with. He’d seen it in Sam about a dozen times in the last week; the kind of smile that said ‘I was right.’

“You must be Sergeant Barnes,” she said as she picked up the radio from the desk.  

Bucky nodded quickly, glancing over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he felt jittery. He tried not to let the fact that you’d clearly talked to this woman about him throw him completely off his game. If he even had game to begin with…  

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky replied with an even tone. She smirked.  

“Y/n,” she called into the radio, “you have a guest at the front desk.”

The woman held up a finger to him though it trembled with age, signaling for him to wait a moment. Bucky nodded, tucking his hand into his pocket as he silently made his way over to the series of chairs lined along the wall.  

He gripped his fist tight inside his pocket, trying to ignore the pulsing in his shoulder. It had lessened considerably since Sam brought him his meds, but it hadn’t gone away completely. Showering had taken longer than usual and it took him nearly four minutes just to pull a shirt over his head. His army jacket hung over his shoulders, wrapped in a protective layer, loose sleeve at his side. 

“If you’re pulling my chain, Mrs. Jefferson…”  

Bucky perked up at the sound of your voice. You were crossing the main entrance from the staircase, half jogging to the counter where the woman, Mrs. Jefferson, was grinning to herself from behind her book.  

You draped over the counter, toes barely keeping hold on the tile floors as you attempted to reach for her book, but she snatched it from your grasp just in time. You huffed, sinking back down the floor.  

“It’s not funny!” you whined and Bucky almost felt a little guilty for not making his presence known yet, but you were just so cute the way you slumped your shoulders and glanced back at the entrance.  

Mrs. Jefferson pointed over to where Bucky had slowly begun to make his way towards you, but you folded your arms over your chest. Bucky cleared his throat when he stood a few paces off your shoulder, but you didn’t seem to hear him.  

Mrs. Jefferson caught Bucky’s eye before she turned her attention back to you. “Sweetie, he’s—”

“He’s not coming, okay?” you groaned and Bucky felt a stone drop into his stomach. “I—I thought he would but… I was wrong.”

Bucky parted his lips to speak but suddenly his throat was dry. Mrs. Jefferson’s smile started to fade. Clearly, Bucky wasn’t the only one who heard the disappointment in your voice, the sliver of heartbreak, too. He tried to speak, to call your name, to say something, but he was marbled stone.  

“I’m going back to work.”

There wasn’t time to pull his words together before you slammed head first into Bucky’s chest. He stumbled back a few paces, surprised, and you gasped, hands flying to your mouth.  

“Oh God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t—” You stilled, taking in who was standing in front of you. “Bucky?”

He pressed out a smile, though his ears were burning red. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No! N-no, you’re totally fine! I didn’t—I didn’t think you were—” You blinked a few times before your eyes darted back at Mrs. Jefferson who only smirked from behind her book, adjusting the glasses on the tip of her nose. You turned back to Bucky, brushing out the hem of your skirt and wrapping the thick layer of a lavender colored cardigan tightly around your waist, almost like a blanket.  

You exhaled a nervous breath, a nervous smile lifting into your cheeks. “I’m happy you came.”

“It would have been sooner, I swear,” Bucky replied quickly, watching helplessly as your smile brightened into a laugh. “But, um, my uh—”  

He chewed on the edge of his lip. Was he really going to tell you what kept him held up in his room for days on end? Would it bitter the sweet way you looked at him to know that he was a mess under a poorly constructed surface, tied together with string and scotch tape? But you were looking at him so fondly, he wondered if there was anything he could say that could take that away.

“My arm,” he admitted, waiting for a flash of disgust on your face that never came. You softened a bit, but your eyes never left his. He cleared his throat. “It, um… It was just acting up. I ran out of meds and the pain it—it got bad. The kinda pain that sorta makes me wish I had the arm just so I could saw it off myself.”

Shit. He hadn’t mean to say that much but there was just something about the way you looked at him that made him feel like he couldn’t say a damn wrong thing. You pursed your lips, nodding in as much understanding as you could offer. You gestured to the staircase and Bucky followed you without question.  

“I would have been here last week,” Bucky finished because he needed you to know. He couldn’t stand the idea of you being upset, of that sliver of disappointment in your voice when you’d accepted he wasn’t going to show. He needed you to know he’d tried.  

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you said simply, though he could tell you appreciated it nonetheless. You offered him a smile, one that washed away any feelings of doubt that crept up to the surface. The pain in his shoulder was long forgotten when you looked at him like that.  

“I just wanted you to know.”

I just wanted you to know I’m trying.

He had something to look forward to now, a reason to get out of his bed and open the curtains and look at the fucking sun for once. He had reason to shower and go outside and shove away all the thoughts of self-doubt and paranoia because there was something incredible waiting for him beyond the door.  

I just wanted you to know you’re the reason I’m trying.

“Come on,” you grinned, leading him to the staircase. “I have a few books in mind you might like.”  

Your hand extended in his direction, but you caught yourself when you realized what you were doing. It was seamless enough that you easily played it off as you tugged your sweater tight around your body, but he noticed. It was an intimate gesture, a closeness he hadn’t known in years.  

He hadn’t remembered what it felt like to crave something like that.

***

It didn’t take long for Bucky to settle on The Martian by Andy Weir. It was the first book you pulled from the shelves, one amongst a series of alternatives you had ready in the event this one didn’t appeal to him. All it took was a single glance over the back cover, a slight incline in his brow, and he was sold.

“I trust you,” was all Bucky had said; so simply, as if it didn’t take the breath straight from your chest.   

Bucky didn’t have a library card you realized as you brought him back to the front desk. He’d sheepishly asked to check it out on your account, but you were determined to see more of him and you hoped that by getting him his own card, he might be more inclined to come back. Not that you explained it that way per say, but he didn’t object at least.

It had taken a lot less time than either of you anticipated and you found yourself following him to the exit, both of you dragging your feet.

“So, um…” he started, a nervous chuckle in his voice. “That was easy.”

“Yeah,” you scratched at the back of your neck, glancing to the clock hanging high on the eastern wall. “I hope you like it after all this trust you’re putting in my judgement.”

“I’m sure I will.”

A short silence swept over. Neither of you moving to leave. A couple swerved around you in an effort to get to the doors. The silence wasn’t awkward, but there was a nervous energy in it, like you were both waiting for the other to make the first move. Only, you both did it at once.  

“Would you want to—”

“I’m off at four—”

You bit down on your lips, suppressing a laugh. You gestured for him to go first. His looked so sweet with the pink in his cheeks. A man who had been once rendered as a weapon and he wore a blush in his cheeks. Your stomach held butterflies in its cage.  

“There’s a coffeeshop nearby,” he continued nervously. “I was thinking I could replace that coffee of yours I spilled last week…”

Your cheeks were starting to ache from how wide you were smiling. “Give me five minutes? I just need to wrap things up with Mrs. Jefferson and then I’m yours.”

Bucky’s eyes widened for a second, a flash of something unreadable on his face. He shook it off quickly and nodded, telling you he’d wait by the chairs along the wall until you were ready. It wasn’t until you were halfway to the desk that you’d realized what you’d said.  

I’m yours.

A harmless saying; one people used every day in passing. Still, you felt that same surge of energy at the thought. From the twists in your stomach and the stammer in your heart, you knew that if he’d asked, it would be true.  

***

Bucky watched as you scurried back to the main desk, a few quick glances back over your shoulder in his direction like you were making sure he was still there. You were smiling so wide, he wondered if it ached in your cheeks. He’d never known anyone to smile as much as you did, like you had this limitless supply of joy eager to be tapped into. He couldn’t help but feel a twist in his stomach, knowing he had been able to syphon some of that joy and bring it to the surface. It was him you were smiling at. It felt like a dream.

He glanced down at the book nestled into the sleeve of his bag; a stunning ombre in shades of orange to red to black, a lone astronaut in the center – like he was floating adrift. You’d told him it was a story of survival, of the intricacies of humanity and human connection. It was funny at times and filled with science beyond your pay grade, but it was mesmerizing.  

There was an unspoken hope he could read in your eyes that he might connect to the main character, Mark Watney in his search for connection, in his desperate hope to free himself from the isolation, in his resilience. You’d said Mark was an exceptional character, one with courage and determination to be admired.  

Bucky wasn’t sure he could stand up to the likes of Mark Watney, but he would certainly try.  

The glimmer in your eye as you spoke about the book, almost as if it were an old friend, was enough to convince him. For the first time in years, he felt the urge to read when he got home, just so he could see the look on your face in book club when you realized he’d already started it. He wanted to make you proud, wanted to see more of your smile. It was his new drive.  

A few minutes later, you came jogging back up to him. Your purse hung over your shoulders, a few new books of your own tucked under your arm. You’d done more than finish your shift at the desk though, he realized, because his eyes flickered to a reflective shine on your lips, one that hadn’t been there before. You’d put on lip gloss.

His heart flipped.  

“Ready?” you asked, gesturing to the doors. All bright eyes and sunshine as you looked at him.  

“There’s a café called Luciana’s not too far from here. I’ve heard good things about it. Might be quiet,” Bucky offered and a flash of something unreadable crossed your features. “Do you know it?”

“I go there every Sunday before book club! It’s my favorite,” you replied, nearly skipping in your steps. “Replacing my coffee and getting it right down to the same shop? I’m impressed, Bucky.”

He chuckled, hanging his head as he followed you down the descending staircase and into the heavy flow of pedestrian traffic. He’d forgotten how busy the sidewalks could get at rush hour and the smile quickly drained from his face, though he wouldn’t let you see.  

Bucky tried to focus on you as the strangers circled in around him, how you were laughing at the coincidence of it all, starting on a tangent of your favorite donuts at the shop. Your voice was like a beacon and he did his best use it as a guide.  

But he could feel the quicken pace of his heart inside his chest, how it thumped through his ribs and pulsed into his head the closer strangers got to him. He swerved out of the way of a tourist who was too busy looking down at his phone to notice Bucky in his path. He kept his head down, hand clenched tightly in his jacket pocket, eyes staring at the concrete.  

Teenagers were whispering behind him, snickering under their breath, and Bucky could hear the harsh ‘shhh’ of a father at wit’s end. His lungs felt tight, certain that the boys were mocking the loose sleeve hanging down by his side. He could have taken it if here were on his own. His ears would flush red and a wash of shame and embarrassment would flood his senses, but he could have taken it.  

Not with you by his side. Not when you could be privy to the harsh stares and the cruel voices, the validation to a fear he’d known to be true long before he met you – that he was a broken mess of who he used to be and he would never find that sense of normalcy again. He was kidding himself into thinking that you could ever want someone like—

“Bucky?”

When he looked up at you, your smile had fallen away, replaced with concern. It must not have been the first time you called his name. He didn’t know what to say. He felt small, like a child, embarrassed that even on a good day the influx of people still rendered him to a state of panic.  

“Come on,” you said quietly, glancing around to an alley off your shoulder. “Let’s take the scenic route.”  

He followed gratefully, staring at your shoulder blades as you led him away from the busy hustle of the crowd and along empty side streets and residential neighborhoods. It would take longer this way, but you didn’t seem to mind. You were too busy admiring the architecture of the brownstones and the beautiful array of plants and flowers hanging along the windows. In the open space, you skipped a few paces ahead, arms out wide and twirled around, simply because you could. You laughed and it echoed up along the buildings.  

Bucky could have handed you his heart right then. He could have pulled it straight from his chest and set it into your palms. He wondered if you would handle it with the tender sort of care he hoped you would. His heart was fraying and damaged, after all. It required a gentle touch.  

You fell back in line with him easily and you checked to make sure the next block wasn’t too busy before you led him down another side street. He tried to ignore the voices telling him he was a burden, that his baggage was dragging heavy at your feet, but it crept to the surface no matter how many times you smiled at him.  

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled out, willing his voice to be stronger than it felt. “I don’t know why this is such an issue for me. I was fine on the way over.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Bucky,” you said gently, slowing your pace until you came to a stop.  

Bucky dragged his feet, stopping along a bush of pink hydrangeas planted outside a stunning brick townhome. From the corner of his eye, he watched as your hand reached out to him instinctively, almost in slow motion, and you only paused as you realized what you were doing and pulled back. You cleared your throat.

“I’m not ever someone you have to apologize to about this stuff, okay?” you continued with a kind of sincerity in your voice, Bucky didn’t have a choice but to believe you. The way you looked at him nearly pulled him to pieces. “It comes and goes. Waxes and wanes. There’s no fault. No blame. Just tell me if something’s wrong, so I can help. That’s all I ask.”

Were you speaking from experience? Did you know someone who had been as shattered as he was? Was it the reason Sam wanted him to ask about why you were involved with the VA to begin with?  

It was quiet on the side street; the only sound the distant footsteps from traffic up ahead and the low rumble of car engines in the distance. A bird chirped from a low handing branch above.  

You shoved your hands into your pockets in an effort to keep yourself from reaching for his. He was surprised at the twist in his stomach when he wished you would have tried just one more time. Maybe he could have had some courage to take it.  

“Okay,” Bucky agreed, feeling a weight lift from his chest. When you smiled again it was small— a little heavy— but it touched your eyes. There was a relief in it, maybe an appreciation, too. It swept away some of the anxiety from his veins.  

“Okay.” Your smile widened as you continued to walk down the sidewalk. Bucky found himself feeling a little lighter as he followed behind.  

When the two of you approached the main street again along the block Luciana’s was tucked away in, Bucky didn’t feel as though he was suffocating anymore. He could sense his reflexes picking up, a subtle increase in his heart rate, but he walked a little closer to you, your hip bumping against his every so often and he found that it grounded him. It kept him firm on the surface when he felt like he was floating up into a distant unknown. He wondered if you knew the extent to which you affected him.  

Luciana’s was quiet inside as Bucky jutted out ahead of you to reach for the door. A soft strum of an acoustic guitar and a Spanish speaking singer’s intricate melody hummed over the speakers. He felt a solid breath of air fill his lungs, tasting of coffee beans and fresh pastries.  

“Welcome to—” a voice called from behind the counter before she paused, eyes falling on you. “Y/n!”  

A woman ran out from behind the counter, dressed in a stained apron and a long, bright pink dress, and held her arms out to you. You laughed as she enveloped you to her chest.  

“My darling! It is not Sunday, you know. You’re getting your days mixed up!” she exclaimed, wagging her finger at you. She didn’t even give you time to explain before she turned to Bucky, who suddenly felt a burn of heat on his face. “Ah! You finally brought me one of your boys!”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, turning to you quickly. His stomach dropped.  

“She means at the VA,” you explained, a little embarrassed at her implication as you shuffled your feet, eyes darting at the floor. Bucky raised an eyebrow in realization, eyes flickering back to the woman – who he assumed to be Luciana herself – as she scurried back around the counter. He noticed then that she was wearing slippers on her feet.  

“Come, come!” She called eagerly, waiting with a tapping toe at the register.  

You and Bucky exchanged a glance, a breath of a laugh escaping before you stepped up to the counter. You didn’t hesitate in your order, though you took some extra time in looking over the pastries and donuts after Bucky told you to pick something out for him. You put so much thought into it, it was really quite sweet. He waited until you reached down for your purse to slip his card over the counter to Luciana.  

She wore that same smile he’d seen on Mrs. Jefferson at the library. That smirk. Like they knew something he didn’t.  

You heard the ring of the cash registered and looked up at him, agape. You swatted his arm without thinking twice about it and there was a comfort in that. He laughed, taking his coffee and settling in at a table by the windows as you followed behind.  

As he watched you across the table, your eyes glancing out to the pedestrians as they walked back, nursing the steaming mug of coffee between your hands, that morning suddenly felt like it was a life time ago.  

Had he really been paralyzed with pain, unable to move from his bed, just a few hours earlier? It felt like a century had passed in between. In a rare indulgence, Bucky let himself wonder what it would feel like to spend all his time with you; if maybe time moved so fast it swept him off his feet or if it moved slow enough to allow him to catch every second.  

All he knew was that he wanted more.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic

[justthehiddleswrites]

Accidently Married | Tom Hiddleston x OFC | Chapter 3 | And Miss Out on Mum Meeting the Girl You Married Without Telling Her? Not a Chance

A/N:  Tom makes certain comments about an ex (who is unnamed).  It is a fictional girlfriend, take from it what you will.  Keep your hate to yourself.  

SERIES MASTERLIST HERE

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x OFC (Molly Bishop)

Summary: Tom is stuck in a news cycle from hell; Molly is stuck in the dead end job of bartending with a pile of student and credit debt.  Tom has an idea to solve all their problems.  Get married, get the paparazzi off his back, divorce after a year and Tom pays off Molly’s debts.  Tom has everything figured out, that is until he sees Molly as more than a just a friend and so does someone else.  In this vying for affections who will win, the handsome Brit or the boy from Boston?

This Chapter: Molly finally gets to meet Luke and they try to convince him that this marriage is not some elaborate plot to manipulate the press.  And Tom makes a critical error.  We learn more about Molly and her past. 

Warnings: fake marriage, smut (vaginal sex), mentions of:  child abuse/neglect, foster care, substance abuse, cheating.

TAGLIST IS OPEN! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED!  THANK YOU FOR READING!

–

Tom regretted drinking two cups of espresso the next morning before heading to Luke’s. He definitely regretted not eating anything more than a piece of toast with butter and marmalade. Even after Molly offered to make something for him.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to make you eggs, an omelette? I could probably manage some French toast before we have to leave.” Molly sipped her tea as she ate some oatmeal. 

French toast sounded divine at the moment as Tom’s stomach did somersaults. Molly’s knee bounced in the passenger seat on the way to the Prosper office. 

“Do you think Luke will yell at me?” Molly asked. “I don’t do well when people yell at me.”

Tom’s head snapped over at her. She sighed. 

“Foster parents are not always kind. Bio parents can be worse.” She wrung her hands. 

He reached over and squeezed Molly’s knee. “I promise I won’t let him yell at you.” 

“Thank you, Tom. Are we telling him the truth?” 

“Only if necessary.” 

“Then what are we telling him?” 

“That I went to Vegas, and I fell madly in love with you and on a whim we got married.”

“A fanciful tale.” Her head dropped to her chest. 

“Oh, I don’t know, darling. You sell yourself short. You’re bright, funny, caring and dare I even say easy on the eyes.”

Molly blushed. “Thank you. You are not so bad yourself. Although I seriously question your dietary habits.”

Tom chuckled. “I’ll work on it. And I hope after all of this we will be good friends.”

“Me too.” 

“Looks like we are here.” Tom parked the car on the street. He hustled around to open Molly’s door and help her out. “Time to face the firing squad.” Her eyes widened. “Kidding!”

By the time the meeting was done, Molly wished it had been a firing squad. 

-

“Luke, this is Molly Bishop, now Hiddleston.” Tom wrapped his arm around her waist. “My wife.” 

“My condolences.” Luke shook Molly’s hand. 

Molly’s brow furrowed. “I…” 

“Of all the stupid shit you have ever fucking done—” Luke started in on Tom. 

“Luke, watch your tone.” Tom jabbed a finger in his publicist’s face. “You are not to yell at Molly.” His bright blue eyes flashed and his fists clenched. 

Luke took a step back. “Right. Take a seat and let’s see if we can straighten this out.” 

They sat next to each other. Molly reached for Tom’s hand and he took it. Luke sat down behind his desk, staring at the two of them. Luke pinched his nose hard and took several deep breaths. Before speaking, he poured a glass of water and dropped two Alka-Seltzer into the water. Molly stared at the whole thing. Tom leaned over. 

“For later. Luke says I give him indigestion.” he whispered.

“And headaches.” Luke added.

“I can understand the feeling.” Molly muttered under her breath.

“I beg your pardon!” Tom twisted around to face Molly. “Et tu. Is this about the vegetables?”

“It wouldn’t kill you to eat one every so often. You’re not 21 anymore.”

Tom gritted his teeth. “I said I would work on it. Can we not talk about this right now?”

“You’re the one who brought it up. I was just making a comment.”

Luke’s head bounced back and forth like watching a tennis match, a smirk growing on his face.

“You two are good. Really good. Damn Tom, the lengths you will go to… hiring an actress to pretend to be your wife, that’s—”

“We got married, Luke. In Vegas.” Tom retorted. “Darling, do you have the copy of the license?”

Molly grumbled. “I do, but we are not done with the whole diet thing.” She rummaged through her purse and produced the folded piece of paper. “Show him the photos.” She whispered to Tom as she handed over the license. 

“I’m not showing him the photos unless I have to.” Tom hissed.

“Show me the photos, Tom.” Luke beckoned him. 

Tom side eyed Molly and handed over the license and his phone. Luke glanced at the license and then scrolled through the photos, eyes growing wider. He zoomed in on one and squinted. 

“Is that a spider ring?” he asked.

“His name is Clive.” Tom deadpanned.

Luke cuts his eyes at Tom. “Of course, you named it. You wouldn’t happen to have the ring, would you?” He turned to Molly.

She let loose a breath, exasperated. “Honestly,” she jabbed a finger at Tom and then Luke. “I was not expecting the Spanish Inquisition.” She dug through her purse again. “You are both lucky that I planned ahead.” Molly slammed the two Tiffany boxes on the desk. “There, here is your pound of flesh.”

Luke opened the boxes and found the spider ring and plastic gem ring. His eyes went to their proper rings and then ran his hands through his hair. 

“Holy shit, you got married.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “I have been saying that for the last 24 hours, mate. Can we move on?”

Molly giggled. 

“I… I… apologize. Sorry.” He sputtered, he turned to Molly. “I’m sorry, Molly. You have no idea the things this man has put me through.”

“I can imagine.”

“Hey! I—”

“Not talking to you, Tom.” Luke held up a hand. “I am talking to your bride. Clearly the reasonable one. Although she did marry you, so…”

Tom slumped in the chair. “Two of you. I thought you were on my side.”

Molly reached over and rubbed his arm. “I’m always on your side, honey.”

Tom smiled and leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, darling. Do you believe me now, Luke?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but yes, I do.” He slammed his hand on his desk, rattling his water. “Now let’s talk about these.” He held up several newspapers.

Forty-five minutes later, they finally ended the meeting. Tom was starving. Luke grilled Molly about her background. By the end of everything, Tom now knew that Molly spent the ages of 12-18 in foster care, went to college where she worked two jobs to make ends meet, and has no contact with her younger brother who was adopted. Tom felt a twinge of guilt listening to Molly tell her life story. He never really bothered to ask. 

Luke led them to the door but stopped short. 

“How did your mom take the news, Tom?” Luke asked. Tom froze and paled. Luke leaned in. “You did tell her?”

Molly glanced between them. “I thought you called her when we got home.”

Tom ran his hands through his hair. Little bits stuck up. His mouth fell open and his eyes widened. “I forgot. I was distracted by someone yelling at me.”

“You haven’t told your mother about us?!” Molly screeched. 

Luke chuckled, which soon turned into a full belly laugh. “You are so dead, Tom.” Molly gasped. “You will be fine, Molly, but pray for your husband. There is nothing scarier in this world than Diana Hiddleston mad at her only son.” 

Molly gulped. “I will keep that in mind. Now if you excuse us, we have some calls to make.” 

Tom nodded, still reeling from the fact he didn’t tell his mum, or his sisters, that he got married. Fake or not. He hoped she hadn’t seen any of the photos yet. But knowing Emma and Sarah, they sent her the links. “Right, calls.” 

Molly pushed Tom out of the office and towards the elevator. She waved bye to Luke as the doors closed. 

“That went better than expected.” Molly shifted her weight from side to side.

“Yeah, yeah!” Tom blinked and came back to reality. “You were brilliant. What made you think to bring the rings?”

“People have the tendency to believe you when you can present physical evidence. That, coupled with the photos, lends credibility. I mean, who gets married with a plastic spider ring?” She laughed and Tom joined in. 

“Genius, really. Luke would have never—” Tom’s stomach rumbled. He blushed. “You were right I should have eaten something.” 

Molly stretched to reach his cheek and gave him a quick peck. “You will soon learn I am always right. Let’s find you some food and then you call your mother.”

“Fine.”

-

They found a place for Tom to grab a sandwich since it was too late for breakfast and not quite time for lunch. Molly stared on as Tom inhaled the sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of water. 

“Did you taste any of that?”

Tom glanced up at her as he poked the last bit of the sandwich into his mouth. “Yes.” 

She shoved a napkin towards him. “You have crumbs on your face.”

Tom swallowed. “Thanks.”

“Call your mother.” 

Tom slouched. “Can’t we wait until we get home?” 

“No.” She stared him down. “If you don’t do it, I will.” Molly lunged for his phone, but Tom was too fast and grabbed it first.

“I’m calling her right now.” He held the phone to his ear, praying it would go to voicemail.

“Tom!” Diana’s warm voice filled his ear. “How are you doing, love?”

“Doing good. A bit of jet lag, I was in Vegas over the weekend.”

Diana hummed. “And how is Luke?”

Tom chuckled. “Angry at me as always.”

“If you would just listen to him…”

“I like her.” Molly popped in.

Tom waved her off. 

“I know, Mother. Listen,” He fidgeted with his hair again. Molly realized it was an absolute tell when Tom was nervous. “I was wondering if you might like to grab some lunch this week. We can catch up. So much as happened since I last saw you.”

“I would be delighted, Thomas. Why don’t you come up to the house? Does Wednesday work for you?”

Tom mouthed “Wednesday” to Molly, who shrugged her shoulders.

“Like I’m doing anything? You and Luke are the only people I know here.”

“Right.” He returned to the call. “Wednesday is perfect, mum. Noon?”

“It’s a date. Don’t forget to bring that wife of yours, Thomas. I am quite keen on meeting her.”

All the blood drained from Tom’s face. “I… I… can explain—”

“I’m sure you can. On Wednesday. I have to go, love. It was good to chat.” The line went dead.

Tom stared at the phone. “I’m so dead. She knows about you.”

“Oh, she knows. You are her son. And didn’t you mention having sisters? They totally ratted you out.” Molly smiled at him.

-

Tom had some appointments on Tuesday which kept his mind occupied from seeing his mother the next day. Molly took some time to figure out how to change her name, get a new passport, and figure out how to maneuver life in a foreign country. Tom took her to get a phone that would work. 

“Here you go.” 

The first thing she did was snap Tom to add to his contact list. He was laughing in the photo.

“Don’t use that one!” Tom pouted. “Let me pose.”

“But I like this one. It captures your essence.”

But now it is Wednesday morning. Tom woke up early to go for a run. Molly was already up, sipping tea in the living room.

“Can I join you?” she asked upon seeing Tom in workout gear.

“I run about three miles…”

“Sounds perfect. Give me two minutes.” She bounded off the couch towards her bedroom. 

Tom fiddled with his headphones until Molly emerged in sneakers and workout leggings. Over the ear headphones around her neck. 

“Ready to go.” She tucked her phone into a pocket. “I will just follow you.”

“Let me know if you need to turn around.” Tom winked as they set off.

They returned home about thirty minutes later.

“Sure you don’t want to go another mile?” Molly bounced on her feet. 

Tom breathed hard. “Maybe another time. I’m a bit out of shape. You run?”

Molly nodded. “Most days I run. If I get up in time. I miss the gym.”

Tom chuckled. “We need to get you a membership. And I need to ..get into shape myself. Can’t let my wife show me up in paparazzi photos.” he half-joked. 

Molly coughed. “They take photos of you running?!”

“Sometimes.” He took a sip of water, his heart rate going back to normal. “Definitely now with you in the picture.”

Molly raised an eyebrow, stepping towards him, grabbing the water bottle from him. “Think they are out there right now?” 

Tom glanced around and sure enough, he spied a few cameras with zoom lenses down the street.

“Yup.” 

Molly wrapped her arms around his neck. “Maybe we should give them a more scandalous photo.” 

Tom leaned down. “What did you have in mind?” he smirked as Molly tugged his head towards her and her lips crashed against his. She sighed and Tom slipped his tongue into her mouth. Molly did the same. As he fisted the back of her shirt, Tom noticed one of Molly’s arms moving. 

“AH!!” He screamed as the cold water poured down on his head and Molly jumped back laughing.

“I thought you needed a little cooling off.” she laughed.

Tom lunged for her with a smile on his face, droplets of water falling from his hair. 

“You’ll pay for that!” Tom gave chase, while Molly dashed into the house, screaming and laughing.

She made it as far as the living room before Tom’s long legs caught up with her.

“Got you!” 

Tom grabbed her by the waist to pull her towards him, but their feet slipped and they ended up on the couch. Tom on top of her. Their eyes locked for a moment before Tom scrambled to his feet. 

“I’ll get you all wet.” he commented nervously. “I should…”

“Right.” Molly nodded, sitting up. “I’ll make some breakfast. Eggs and toast. I don’t know what your mother is planning on for lunch.”

“A light breakfast would be best.” Tom shook out his now soaked t-shirt and Molly caught a glimpse of his abs. 

“No problem.” She smiled. 

They both headed off in different directions. When it was time to leave for Diana’s house, Molly fidgeted with her casual dress and knee-high boots.

“Do I look okay?” she glanced at Tom in jeans and a sweater. “I’m overdressed. Look at you, casually gorgeous. I’m going to change. I have nothing to wear. Nothing to wear…” Molly’s face broke down.

Tom wrapped his arms around her. “What’s going on, darling?” She buried her head in his sweater. “You didn’t freak out like this when we went to go see Luke.”

“That was business. This is your mother. I don’t do well with families, particularly mothers. What if she hates me?” 

He kissed the top of her head. “First off, you look beautiful. Second, if my mum hates anyone between the two of us, it will be me. She is going to love you, darling.” 

Molly sniffled and dabbed her eyes with the back of her fingers. “Really?”

“I am 100% certain. Now let’s get on the road.”

Molly smiled and nodded. The fear wasn’t gone, but she felt better knowing Tom would be there with her. That fear came rushing back as they stood on the front step of the house of Diana Hiddleston. Tom reached for Molly first. 

“I’ve got you, darling.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek right as the door opened.

“Gross, Tom. And at Mum’s house no less.” Emma gagged.

Tom’s cheeks turned a bright pink. “Emma! I didn’t expect you to be here.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “What a surprise.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “And miss out on Mum meeting the girl you married without telling her, not a chance.” Emma turned to Molly. “Emma.”

“Molly B… Hiddleston.” She smiled and extended her hand. Emma shook it with a firm grip.

“The papers didn’t give a name. She seems nice, Tom. Clearly she doesn’t know the real you.”

Tom continued to blush. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Em. Can we come in or are we eating on the front step?”

Emma held the door open wide and stepped aside. They stepped inside. “Mum’s in the kitchen.”

As if on cue, Diana’s voice rang out. “Is that them, Emma?” 

“They just got here!” she yelled before turning back to them. “She’s been cooking all day.” 

Molly gulped. Tom squeezed her hand. An older woman with grey white shoulder length hair. She came up to Tom's shoulder, if that.

“You were supposed to tell me when they got here.” she scolded Emma.

“I was on my way to tell you.” 

“Go take the food out of the oven.”

“But…” Emma protested.

“Go, child. You’ll have the entire meal to listen to me yell. Right now I need a word with your brother.”

Emma pursed her lips as she walked into the kitchen but made a slashing throat gesture, mouthing the words “you’re so dead” at Tom before disappearing. 

Diana wiped her hands on her apron. “Now where is my new daughter-in-law?” 

Molly raised her hand. “That would be me. Molly, ma’am.”

Diana held open her arms and wrapped them around Molly tight. She realized where Tom got his hugging skills. 

“You are just a doll. Is my son treating you well?”

Molly nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“So polite and much shorter than the last one. Right at eye height for me.”

“Mother…”

Diana waved Tom off. “And please call me Diana or Mum or Mom. I promise I don’t bite.”

Molly giggled. “Yes, ma.. Diana.”

Diana hugged her again before spinning to face her son.

“Tom.” She crossed her arms.

“Mum.” Tom grew very interested in the rug on the floor. 

“Do I get a hug?” Diana smiled. 

Tom looked up and grinned. “Always.” The two of them hugged tight, Tom bending at the knees to wrap his arms around her. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” Diana pulled back.

Her hand reached out and smacked Tom right upside the head. Tom cowered, covering his head.

“Mum!” he howled.

“You got married and didn’t tell me!”

“I was getting around to it. Luke distracted me!” Tom explained. 

Diana smacked his arm. “Do not blame Luke for this, he is a saint! You were keeping this lovely girl away from me.”

Molly beamed as Diana smacked Tom one more time. 

“You think I’m lovely?” she asked.

Diana turned to Molly. “Oh dear. You are perfectly charming. Unlike my wretch of a son.” Another smack to the chest.

“Really, Mum? In front of our guest?” Tom flinched.

“Molly is family.” Diana stopped, took a deep breath, and smiled. “Now with that sorted, let’s go eat.” She spun on her heel and headed back to the kitchen. 

Tom hooked his arm with Molly’s. “My mother.”

“I like her.” 

-

Emma and Diane pumped the two of them for every detail about this abbreviated courtship.

“A chapel in Vegas, Tom? Romantic.” Emma sneered.

“I thought so.” Molly added.

“Thank you, darling.” Tom leaned against her. 

“Awww.” Emma commented.

Diana stood to clear the dishes as Emma examined Molly’s ring.

“Let me help you.” Tom rose to help, taking the rest of the dishes. Diana grabbed his arm when they reached the sink.

“I really like her, Thomas. You did well.”

“Thank you. She is something.” Tom smiled.

“Much better than the last girl you brought home.”

Tom frowned. “Mum, I…”

Diana held up her hand. “I know. Don’t mention her. But I will say this. There was something about her that didn’t sit right with me.” 

“You never said anything to me.”

Diana smiled softly and cupped Tom’s cheek. “You seemed so in love and happy. And all I have ever wanted for all my kids is to be happy.”

“Oh.”

“But none of that matters. You have Molly now and the two of you have years of happiness ahead.” 

Tom glanced over to where Emma and Molly hunched over Emma’s phone. Tom’s heart twinged with guilt. 

“Right. Of course.” He smiled.

Molly burst out in laughter.

“What is so funny over there?” Tom called out, heading over to the table.

Emma giggled. “Just some old pictures.”

Tom’s face fell. “No, you didn’t…”

Molly giggled. “You were so skinny and that hair!” 

The two girls fell into a fit of giggles as Diane placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“Yes, I like her very much.” she whispered. “Why don’t we pull out the old picture albums?”

Tom groaned. 

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston x ofc #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston fluff #tom hiddleston smut #tom hiddleston angst #accidently married

[lunewell]

The Lunewell Saga - Natura: Chapter 1

Finally, finally I can show you guys a preview of the horror book I’m publishing in October (:. You can find chapter 1 below, and if you’d prefer, you can read it on ao3 by clicking here!

Chapter 2 is now out and can be found here (:

Enjoy!

Book Sumary:

Zarifa Birch, an antique shop worker with an unusual past, has made a home for herself in the sleepy town of Lunewell. Though the shop she works at is not exactly ordinary, with cryptid items and odd occurrences, she has managed to carve the normal life she always desperately wished for out of it.

However, all that comes crumbling down, as a woman from Zarifa’s past throws everything into chaos. Faced with unimaginable horrors, seemingly unsolvable mysteries, and returning repressed feelings and memories, Zarifa along with her coworkers, must find a way to return the balance- and escape the cruel hands of death in this eldritch horror mystery.

Chapter 1:

Thorn’s Antiques and Restoration, tucked away in the tall trees that encircled the small town of Lunewell, wasn’t the place where one would expect a woman like Zarifa to work. The building was merely a converted two-story brick house, though even then the antique shop itself only operated on half of the ground floor and the basement, and the employees could consider themselves lucky if even so much as a single soul wandered in.

  From an outsider’s perspective, it made no sense. Zarifa did not originate from Lunewell, had little to no interest in antiques, and had a Bachelor’s in English of all things, whose only tie with antiques was the pompous, ivory tower assholes pestering both fields. However, if said outsider were to ask Zarifa herself, or any other of the two working in the building, why she had this job, she would have said that it was the only path she could have ever imagined herself working.

  Though even she had to admit, for as much as she loved her job, it could sometimes be… tedious. 

  Very tedious.

“How many crates of… art did we receive again?” Zarifa asked, white patched ebony fingers holding one of the many, many paintings of eerily realistic human eyes shoved haphazardly in a box. The crates had arrived this morning, heavy and worn, and were sitting in the off-white ‘employees lounge’, that only equated to a singular desk, a sofa, a microwave that never heated all the way through, and two uncomfortable plastic chairs.

 “Only two,” Bruin responded, not bothering to look up from the wooden desk, where he had his nose buried deep in a black title-less book. Zarifa would have asked what he was reading, but stares through dark thin eyes and sighs had long taught her not to. “Bought in by an Anthony Bell earlier this morning.”

  “Thank you,” Zarifa said, giving Bruin a warm smile that didn’t go noticed. She then turned to her other coworker, who had been sitting sheepishly on one of the back-destroying white chairs. “Why do we have two crates of creepy eye-paintings, again?”

  “Okay there’s actually a good reason this time boss,” Grant said hastily, chestnut brown hair messy and glasses half sliding off his face, “I was taking a walk to that cosy little bakery- you know, the one owned by that very sweet elderly couple on the other side of town, which by the way makes cakes straight from the heavens-”

  “So you were walking to the bakery, and then?” Zarifa interrupted.

  “Oh right. I had walked a little ways from the house, when I saw a white van stopped up by the road with a man looking quite pissed off outside. I went up to have a chat with him and found out he was an absolutely fascinating art major named Anthony who had run out of petrol. To make a long story short, I invited him in for a cuppa whilst he waited on the towing truck, found out he was getting rid of these absolute gems, and bought them off him.”

  Zarifa and Bruin, who had finally looked up from the pages, both stared at him. Bruin was the first to break the silence; “you bought antiques from an unverified source, in a van out of petrol, who you also invited inside my home for tea?”

  “Hey! I pay the rent too!” Grant defended, “and besides, I got, you know, the feeling off him. There was already a description of the antiques inside the box, meaning they’ve been passed around a little. If you two don’t want them here, I can take them.”

  “We can keep them,” Zarifa decided, looking at the realistic paintings once more. They were all extremely similar, each one having a blue iris and white pupils. As she moved around the box, it almost felt as though they were all following her movements. She shivered and put the lids back on; “I’ll carry this down. Grant, go open shop, and Bruin, go register these in the system, please.”

  Grant gave her a mock salute, before trudging out of the door and into the shop room, whilst Bruin nodded and turned to the big, archaic box of a computer sitting on the desk. Zarifa stacked and grabbed the two worn crates, surprisingly light in her arms, and made her way to the spiral staircase. They were narrow, seemingly ever looping steps falling into darkness that made walking down them almost impossible. She had once tried to convince Valour to install some lights over the stairs, to reveal the actual length of them and to make sure Grant would stop tumbling down into the abyss, but she had only received a stern no and an icy glare that could kill. 

  So her only options were to walk down carefully, whilst gripping onto the wall for dear life, like she was currently doing. The stairs went on for what seemed like minutes, nothing in her sight as she was swallowed in complete darkness, with no way to judge her surroundings except her shoes hitting the steps. Finally, a flickering light made its way up the stairs, and she saw the start of grey concrete.

  To say the archival basement was lit, was perhaps a bit of an overstatement. There was precisely one dim and occasionally flickering lamp in the room, slightly illuminating cobwebs glued to the walls and dusted shelves of antiquities, but not much else. However, the room was like a scorching desert sun compared to the void Zarifa had previously descended. 

  Making her way between the shelves, past the bag of hand-sewn doll-heads, slightly cracked vases, and mirrors so ladened in dust that one couldn’t see the distorted reflection anymore, she found a small group of paintings. Paintings were one of the rarer antiques for them to receive, so there was plenty of space for the two crates.

  Before slotting them in, she opened them, quickly counting the amount. There were fourteen in total, seven in each box, all in a roughly similar condition and all painted in the same way. Oddly enough, there was no signature nor name, but there was a little slip of paper at the bottom. She picked it out of the crate, and stuffed it in the pocket of her blazer, before closing the lids again.

  Zarifa slid the boxes between a painting of a single red rose titled ‘Chaos’, and a two-hundred-year-old painting titled ‘A Girl in Field’ containing a suspiciously girl-less field. There had been a debate on whether they were all just missing her, whether it was a mislabelled piece, or if it was supposed to be some kind of metaphor, but seeing as it was hardly the weirdest thing in the basement, they had all just grown to accept it. She shivered once again, the basement giving the feeling of being watched, and grabbed the golden butterfly that hung around her neck. She fiddled with the wings, every touch calming her slightly as she began making her way up the stairs. 

  The ascent up the spirals always seemed to take a considerably shorter time, perhaps because the imminent danger of falling had disappeared. Zarifa was up at the top in the blink of an eye, walking into the lounge to see both Bruin and Grant inside. Bruin turned to her from the computer; “‘Antique Eye-Painting x14’ has been written on the document,” he informed. “Did we have any other information?” 

  “I couldn’t find any signature or date on the painting itself,” Zarifa said, reaching into her blue blazer pocket and pulling the paper with a heavy brown tint out, “but there was a note accompanying it. The paper looks old enough to consider it an antique, at least.” 

  “Well, go ahead,” Grant piped up from the couch, “tell us about dear Anthony’s creepy eye pairings.” Zarifa nodded, unfolding the paper as carefully as she could, and began reading.

  ‘The Grey Man’ by Elizabeth B.- 1885

  He is watching from the water. Watching with the trees.

  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  The Grey Man is knocking 

“Grey Man?” questioned Zarifa, “that’s not a reference to anything, is it?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Grant said, sitting up from where he had flopped on the couch, “help us out Bruiny?” She heard a sigh from the corner, and a slight grumble, but he did eventually speak.

  “The Grey Man isn’t a reference to any historical event, no,” Bruin began, “but it isn’t something we haven’t heard before. I believe it’s referenced somewhere in Valour’s notes”

  A heavy silence fell over them at the mention. “Oh no,” Grant began, “no, no, no. The weirdly detailed cult worshipping cows with inverting eyes was enough, and the murderous glare Valour gave me afterwards almost made me piss myself. I am not going through those notes again, I don’t want to be skinned alive by our own version of Leatherface.”

  “That’s a bit far, isn’t it?” Zarifa said, “We shouldn’t go around accusing her of being a murderer, just because she’s a bit…”

  “Mental?” Bruin quipped from the back.

  “...peculiar,” she settled on, “she’s a bit peculiar.” Zarifa knew, of course, that calling Valour peculiar was a massive understatement- and even calling it a massive understatement was a massive understatement, but she would not be the one to speak ill about her boss with a potential murder streak thank-you-very-much.

  “Need I remind you of that day Valour came covered head to toe in ‘red paint ’ that smelled suspiciously like copper?” Grant said, “she obviously did some serial-killering-“

  “Killering?” Bruin asked with a cocked brow, turning Grant a salmon shade of pink and bringing a bright smile on Zarifa’s face that reached her dark brown eyes. 

  Grant made sounds akin to a drowning man. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally sputtered out, “what matters is that our dear creepy landlord was covered in what was clearly blood, passed it off as paint, and we just acted like it was normal!”

  “I don’t like it either, but I’m not going to be the one to call her out. Besides, maybe it’s a good thing. At least the days here are... interesting.” Zarifa said with a smile. “If we stopped the weirder stuff from happening, these days would pass slower. Especially since we don’t have any custom-“

  The sound of the bell that hung above the door, a loud and horrid thing, rang through the building.  

  “You were saying?” Bruin said, looking as amused as Bruin could be. Meanwhile, Grant shot up like a puppy, sprinting in an unprofessional manner towards the counter. Zarifa joined him, though her walk was much more slow and graceful. 

  She crossed through the shop door, which always stood wide open nowadays, and turned the corner. However, she stopped before she could reach Grant, who was staring at the stranger as much as she was. 

  Now, what needs to be said and understood about Thorn Antiques Shop, and the town of Lunewell in general, was that strangers were one of the rarest sights. Sure, occasionally one could find one of the neighbours’ relatives, or a gang of cyclists and hikers, and even tourists that had gotten hopelessly lost, which was impressive considering landing in Lunewell was a skill within itself, though these were few and far in between.

  The customer, who was scanning through the shop with what Zarifa could almost call interest, didn’t look remotely like a relative, a hiker, a cyclist, or even a lost tourist.

  She was short, with strawberry blonde hair tied into pigtails by two baby pink ribbons, pale but warm skin that made the light freckles on her cheek pop, and a stark black leather jacket which was visibly well-loved. There was something incredibly familiar about her, though Zarifa couldn’t pin down exactly what it was. 

  The customer’s fingers trailed over one of the antique chairs, before she sprawled over the priceless thing like a rag-doll. The violation snapped Zarifa out of her trance; “Excuse me, miss, but you can’t sit in those chairs!” she informed the customer, her voice raising a pitch higher when the blonde started fiddling with a lighter suspiciously close to the fabric.

  The customer’s head snapped up like a predator hearing prey, and for the first time, Zarifa noticed the woman’s eyes. The irises were a bombastic explosion made of hues of bright green, though it was almost impossible to tell from a first glance, as the pupils were blown so wide as to make the colour but a ring around a black hole.

  There was both something incredibly dangerous about the way she stalked over, sizing her up with those void eyes, but simultaneously, something incredibly intriguing- dare she say attractive- about the girl that made Zarifa want to keep her eyes on her forever.

  “Waste of a good chair, really,” the customer began, leaning over the counter, “what the fuck kind of shop doesn’t allow you to test the chair before you get it?”

  “I know!” Grant exclaimed, turning to the dark-skinned woman. “That’s what I keep saying! How can I know if the chair is good if I’ve never tried it!”

  Zarifa shot a disapproving look at him, irritated that he would encourage this girl. “What can we help you with, miss?”

  “Oooh, miss.” the woman drawled, “I’m looking for a collection of very… special papers that I left in the hands of one Valour Thorn a few years back.”

  “Special?” Grant asked, a look of confusion passing over his face. Zarifa was sure she mirrored the same puzzlement, but the woman merely grinned- an expression that yet again invoked that familiar feeling.

  After a few seconds had passed, and it had been made clear that she would not elaborate, Zarifa grabbed the notepad and pen on the counter and asked for her name. Maybe she was registered somewhere in the frankly ancient system. Assuming they even had a sort of registering system. She had never been the one to handle the technical aspects.

  “Lottie. Lottie Rose,” she said, and Zarifa’s hand froze on the paper. She glanced back up at the blonde, eyes wide and mouth dry. Of course, how hadn’t she seen it earlier? The clothes, the eyes, the lighter everything suddenly made more sense as her memory flooded back.

  “Lottie?” she whispered, faint as the whispers of a breeze, and there must have been something in her tone, because the striking green eyes widened comically, before the blonde suddenly burst out into a tension filled laugh.

  “Should’ve guessed it,” Lottie said after calming down, “can’t be that many Southern old-book nerds with vitiligo around. You should get name tags, I would have recognised Zarifa anywhere.”

  Her name was said in a smaller tone, filled with… with something that melted Zarifa’s insides like molten lava. They stood there in silent pressure, eyes on each other but gazes not quite meeting. It was for the better, as Zarifa’s heart was hammering hard enough that she was worried her ribcage might break. Whether it was from fear or something much scarier, she couldn’t quite tell.

  Grant snapped his fingers, both of them practically sighing in relief as the tension lifted; “Oh”, he began, smiling widely, "exes or childhood friends?” And just like that, the tension was back to crushing. 

  While Zarifa wasn’t quite sure of the state of her own face, Lottie had gone a complete shade of tomato red. “We’re neither,” Zarifa squeaked out curtly, Lottie nodding frantically along. “Can you give me a description of the papers?”

  Lottie straightened out at the request. “Can’t miss them. They’re in an ornate wooden and gold box, with a leaf engraved in the front,” she said, “it’s locked, as far as I know. Don’t know where the key is, but that’s hardly a problem.” She made yet another predatory smirk. 

  “I-I’ll go look for the papers, uh, in the back... miss,” she pushed herself from the counter at an almost inhuman speed and paced into the lounge. On her way, she bumped into one of the chairs, toppling both herself and the object. The sound alerted Bruin, who looked at her quizzically.

  “Was she your ex?”

  “No!” Zarifa exclaimed exasperatedly, “Not every woman I know is an ex!”  

  “No need to get defensive,” Bruin said, flipping a page, “I was just wondering if Grant’s observations were correct.” 

  Zarifa took a deep breath. “Sorry about that. I suppose her visit just… surprised me.” she straightened the chair, and looked at Bruin, “You haven’t seen a wooden and gold box engraved with leaves around here, have you? I can’t recall it, but you’re usually the one sorting the items, so I figured you might have seen it.”

  Bruin hummed, putting down his book and looking pensively at her. “I might have,” he said, after a quiet moment, “though if we do- or did, at any point, it’s not anywhere in the basement.” He glanced up at the ceiling, before returning to the book.

  “I suppose it’ll be upstairs, then,” Zarifa said, with a heavy sigh, “I’ll make Grant call Valour, see if she can bother to show up from… wherever she’s gone.” And try to explain to Lottie that those papers might be inaccessible, she thought, but didn’t add. Lottie was a lot of things, but patient and calm, she was not. 

  As she made her way back to the counter, gripping the golden butterfly hung on her neck tightly, she tried to calm her heart and thoughts. A part of her still refused to believe Lottie was here, after all these years, in an antique shop of all places. It almost felt taunting, in an odd way. The life Zarifa had tried so hard to run from and avoid sneaking through the door, looking more dangerous and simultaneously more intriguing than ever.

  What life had Lottie led? What had happened since that last night? How did she know Valour? What did she want with the papers? All the questions buried themselves into Zarifa’s head, burning and begging for answers. And as Lottie, drumming her fingers on the counter as Grant rambled off about something, came into view, she realised what Eve must have felt like looking at the apple.

  Lottie perked up as Zarifa entered the room, though as her eyes drifted to the empty hands, her smile fell. “Thought I asked for a box,” she said, a raised eyebrow and mean glare that would have been intimidating, had Zarifa not had to deal with years of Valour, and not known that for her, Lottie was all growl.

  “We do, most likely, have the box,” Zarifa began in her most soothing voice, placing her hands on the counter, “but, it’s currently upstairs, in Valour Thorn’s flat, to which none of us has the keys.”

  Lottie sighed, in an exasperated and slightly overdramatic way; “‘Course you fucking don’t. Guess she hasn’t changed at all, still closed off, disappearing, and secretive.” 

  Pot meet kettle, thought Zarifa, though kept her cranberry painted lips sealed. “Grant will give her a call in the morning,” Zarifa said, pushing over a blank slip of paper which had Lottie R- half-written on it in quite nice penmanship. “Just write down your number, and we’ll call you when she arrives.”

  Lottie pulled the paper closer to herself, though made no move to write. “Think she’ll even show up?” she asked, turning to Grant, who smiled at that.

  “Valour actually seems to like me,” he said, proudly, “or, tolerate, at least.”

  “Huh. Didn’t know people still practised witchcraft around this part.”

  “It’s all in my muffins, cakes, and pitiable nature,” Grant said, only half-joking, “I’ll give you a taste one time if you decide to stick around.”

  Lottie nodded, before scribbling onto the paper, and sliding it back. It contained no number, but the name had been completed, albeit with a much sloppier if artistic handwriting. “I’ll know when she returns,” Lottie said, bouncing from foot to foot. There was a firmness in her voice, and she said it with such confidence that Zarifa almost believed her. Almost. “How’s the nightlife here? Worth sticking around for?”

  “Horrid, simply dreadful,” Grant butted in, before Zarifa had the chance to give a quick answer and an even quicker goodbye, “but we do have a lot of pretty places to take a midnight stroll. Trees are lovely here, especially now in the autumn.” He paused, a contemplative look over his face, “Come to think of it, I do know quite a lot of dealers around here that can hook you up, if you’re up for it.”

  “Grant!”

  Lottie chuckled, amusement painted in neon on her face. Seeing some of that flame inside her come to light filled Zarifa with a sense of joy, that she pushed down with a strength bodybuilders would be jealous of. 

  “Oh, I like him,” Lottie declared to Zarifs, jabbing a finger in Grant’s general direction. Her green eyes- which Zarifa had to stop looking at, traced down from Zarifa’s own eyes before landing on her neck. Lottie’s posture, previously energetic and bouncy, froze. “You kept the necklace,” she whispered, though the sound felt louder than all the explosions of the universe.

  Zarifa’s hand was instantaneously on the golden butterfly hanging around her neck, shielding it from the world. The metal felt cool against her skin, even if she could feel her racing heart where her hand rested. “Felt it was a shame to let it go to waste,” Zarifa murmured, technically true, “so I just kept it.” She shifted in the silence for a while, doing her best to ignore Lottie’s eyes glued to the necklace, before clearing her throat and putting on her best ‘professional’ tone; “Was there anything else you needed?”

  Lottie shook her head, leaning back from the counter and adjusting her leather jacket. “No, I’ll be back soon,” she said, before speeding towards the door. She knocked into the vases, making them wobble like jelly, before pushing the door open like she was assaulting it, and leaving nothing but the sound of a bell and the distant thrum of a motorbike. 

  “Lottie, huh,” Grant said, his tone dazed as though he was lost in a daydream, “she was certainly interesting. I’m a fan. Think we’ll see her around more?”

  “Hopefully not,” Zarifa said, running fingers over the butterfly, “hopefully not.” 

#original writing #book excerpt #bookblr #writeblr #writing wip #The Lunewell Saga - Natura #the lunewell saga #natura

[chibinekochan]

72 Investigations - The mystery of the missing Ruri-Chan part 2

part 1

An au where the reader is a private eye/detective with their own Detective agency.

Roles will be played by the demon brothers and other beloved obey me characters.

Y/N (Your Name) will be used for the reader's name.

Gender-neutral reader insert.

In our first case, you get hired by the wealthy hair Levi to find a mysteriously missing item.

You head outside, there is a car waiting.

"That's my car right there. I have a driver of course." Levi points to the expensive-looking car.

He really is a rich heir after all.

"It will be very cramped." Satan sighs.

"Nobody told you to come along." You huff at him.

"I'm sitting next to Y/N." Asmo seems rather cheerful.

"No, you aren't." You shake your head and head towards the car, you need the money from this job.

His driver seems rather impatient. "Can we start driving? I've got better things to do."

"Mammon, I said it before, and I'm going to say it again until your debt has been paid off you are my driver." Levi huffs and sits down next to you.

In the end, Asmo is forced to sit in the front, next to Mammon.

Mammon huffs and mumbles about unfair treatment.

Satan is busy looking out of the window, likely looking for cats.

Asmo tries to flirt with Mammon but quickly loses interest.

Finally, you arrive at Levi's home. It's a very lavish-looking mansion. Somehow it is exactly what you have been expecting.

You get out of the car and stretch a little after being cramped into the car for such a long time.

"This was one annoying car ride." Satan complaints.

"Just go home then, nobody invited you." You glare at Satan.

"I don't know what you want. I had a great time. Now look at that mansion, you should invite me to your next party." Asmo winks towards Levi.

"Umm… I don't do parties." Levi shifts uncomfortably around.

"Too bad." Asmo shrugs.

"You need to behave. Don't screw up my chance to earn some money." You hiss at Asmo, who just smiles at you.

"You should say that to him." Asmo points towards Satan, who somehow found a cat.

You sigh and start your investigation. "Where is the room in question?"

"It's the room with metal bars." Levi points to a room on the first floor.

You carefully go closer, looking for footprints or anything else that is suspicious. Sadly the ground is dry and there is nothing to find.

"Let's go inside next." You head back to Levi. "That was like some real detective work right there." He seems impressed.

"I couldn't find anything yet though." You feel a bit embarrassed by his compliment.

"I'll now show you the scene of the crime. Sadly I had to close the window, to protect the rest of my collection." Levi has obviously seen some crime dramas.

"It's alright. Please stay out of the room."

You get some tools out, your camera and dusting set, and then carefully walk over to the stand for the stature.

It's dead center in the room. The glass from the former case is shattered across the floor. Most of it is lying on the opposite side of the window.

Next, you go towards the window while looking for footprints. You only see a bit of dirt under the window. It looks like something or someone came from this window and went in the direction of the class case.

"How often do you open the window?" You ask Levi.

"Two times a day. Once in the morning and once in the evening." Levi answers promptly.

You look at the mechanism that closes the window. It looks pretty standard. You open the window and find the metal bars are all intact and way too small for any person to fit through. Then you see a small amount of white hair. You put it in a small plastic bag.

Then you look at one of the still intact glass cases. "Do these have some sort of alert when you lift or touch them?" You ask Levi.

"Yeah, but I tend to forget to turn them on and off. I know it's a bad habit." Levi sighs.

You nod, and then you see a black card in front of one of the other class cases.

"Oho, a calling card of the sunrise thief." Satan notices the symbol right away. This doesn't surprise you since it contains a cat and a sun symbol.

"It looks like one, but he is known for leaving messages on the cards. I can't think of him stealing something of such little value either. It might be a fake one." You still bag it as part of the evidence.

"Yeah, he probably would be more interested in this huge gem here." Asmo looks in awe at a huge green gem in the corner of the room.

"That gem is a prop from a show. I had the real gem but sold it after I found the one they used. It's so much cooler, to be honest." Levi seems pretty proud of his collection.

"That is an interesting fact, but I don't think the sunrise thief has anything to do with Ruri-chan." You shake your head.

"You closed the door last night, is that right?" Moving on to your next question.

"I do that every evening, but it's never locked," Levi adds another interesting fact.

You nod. "I need to close the door for a moment." You do just that and dust the door handle but nothing.

Well, this would've been too easy.

You open the door again. "Were all the entrance doors locked last night?"

"Yes, the front door is always locked unless I have guests and the same goes for the back door. The front door was definitely locked this morning as well." Levi seems to recall this fact.

"Okay, can you lead me to the back door?" You have a feeling about what happened at this point, but there are still some open questions.

"You mean us." Satan chimes in.

You only shake your head at him.

"Here is the backdoor. What the hell happened here?" Levi hasn't been in the room yet and is very surprised.

There is stuff scattered everywhere. It looks like something ran right towards the window and knocked everything in its path.

You carefully walk over to the window that is still a bit open and look outside. You can see a few plants outside have also been knocked over. You try opening the window, but it doesn't budge. No human could squeeze through here.

"Could you unlock the door?" You turn to Levi. He nods and opens the door.

You look under the window. There is a small indent on the floor that looks pretty suspicious.

Now almost everything seems to add up. "But if I'm right then where is the stature?" You say this mostly to yourself.

"You are definitely missing a suspect." Satan grins at you, this kind of smile really irks you. He has clearly solved the case completely.

"The person with debt big enough to be forced to work for Levi?" You know right away who he is talking about.

Satan nods. "Time to face the thief."

"Well from my point of view you already faced the thief earlier, and I'd say you were pretty friendly with them." You sigh and eye Satan. He just shrugs. "I'd say the human is the true criminal here."

Levi looks at you two in confusion.

"Just kiss already and tell us who did it. I have an important appointment." Asmo sighs loudly.

You glare at Asmo. "Fine, let's move to the front of the building. With a bit of luck, Ruri-chan is there."

Levi's face lights up with the sheer mention of this name. "Do you think so?"

"I hope so at least." You try not to get his hopes too high.

In the front of the building, you can Mammon, fidgeting with something.

Levi sees the Object and practically runs over to Mammon. "My Ruri-chan!" He takes his precious statue from Mammon. "You filthy thief! How could you do this to my poor Ruri-chan?" Levi carefully pets his stature.

"He didn't take Ruri-chan. He just found her behind the building." I intend to clear Mammon from the accusation.

"What? How do you know that?" Levi seems surprised.

"It would have been impossible for him to fit through the metal bars to get into the house. Furthermore, all doors were locked, and none of them looked like they were tampered with." You start to explain to Levi.

"What about the kitchen window? That was somewhat open." Levi doesn't seem to believe it.

"The window is stuck in a way that no human could fit through it. You can try opening it, but it will not move." You continue with your explanation.

"I suppose that's true but who kidnapped my Ruri-chan?" Levi holds his statue closely.

"I don't think the thief intended to steal anything. Since the culprit was the cat." You point at the cat that is peacefully sleeping in Satan's arm.

"Hey, hey don't you go accuse cats of stealing. She just wanted to play." Satan huffs.

"Regardless, it was the cat. The first hint is the small gap between the iron bars in front of the window. Only a cat would fit in between them. Then I found a bit of cat hair between the bars. The lack of finger or footprints supports the theory. I'm not quite sure what led to the cat pushing the glass case down, but I suspect she just got very startled by the sound and took Ruri-chan and ran off with her. Then she escaped through the kitchen window, where she dropped Ruri-chan. In the end, Mammon found it there and took it." You finish by explaining the whole rundown of events.

Satan nods along." The poor cat."

Levi seems surprised by the rundown but seems to accept it. "I need to leave the window closed from now on and I will get to fix that window. Regardless, I'm very glad you found my Ruri-chan. Thank you very much Y/N." Levi seems to be moved to tears.

"I'm glad that everything is well. I hope Ruri-chan wasn't damaged, I mean hurt too much." You couldn't take a closer look at the statue.

"She seems fine, but I will give her a good cleaning and check of injuries just in case. I will tell everyone you did a great job." Levi carefully holds his stature and then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a big stack of cash. He then proceeds to hand it to you.

You look at the number of big bills. "This is way too much." It's more than enough money for a good half-year of rent.

"You have earned it for bringing Ruri-chan home. Thank you again." Levi is pretty insistent about it and holds out the money.

You reluctantly take it. "Thank you for the payment."

"No problem. I will now take care of Ruri-chan. Take them all home Mammon." Levi glares slightly at Mammon, who shrugs and gets the car ready.

"Isn't that lucky you should invite me out sometime but for now I have to go. My nails aren't going to paint themselves. Bye, bye." Asmo casually waves and walks off.

You can't see Satan anywhere and frankly don't care enough to look for him.

You go to the car and get inside.

"Are the others not coming?" Mammon doesn't sound like he cares much but asks anyway.

"Yeah, it's just us now." You shrug.

"OK, where do you want to be dropped off?" Mammon starts the car.

"Just drop me back where you picked us up." You give him a small smile.

"Alright." Mammon then drives you back home.

"We are here but here... take my card." Mammon awkwardly hands you a business card with his number. "Since you helped me I'll give you a discount." This seems to be his way of thanking you.

"Thanks, Mammon I will definitely use this sometime. Have a nice day." You give him a pleasant smile, which seems to surprise Mammon.

"Thanks, same to you. See ya." Mammon blushes a bit.

"Goodbye." You get out of the car and go straight to the café.

With a big smile, you open the door.

Only Beel is there right now. "Welcome, you solved the case I guess?" He smiles at you.

"Yeah, and I got a big payment. Now I won't have to worry about rent for a while." You show off the bundle of cash to Beel.

"Great. I will give the rent to Belphie later." Beel nods with approval.

"Is he taking a nap?" You shake your head and look at the cake options.

"Yeah, he worked hard today." Then Beel’s stomach starts to rumble.

"Sounds like you need a break too. Want me to take over for a bit?" You know Beel doesn't get to take a break that often.

"I only need to eat, and you paid rent, so you don't need to work now." Beel is reluctant.

"Don't be silly, we are friends. You helped me out so much by letting me work here. It's only for a bit anyway. You can pay me with some cake today." You glance at the delicious selection.

"It's a deal then. I'll be in the back if you need me." Beel instantly agrees and you take over for him.

This case was a pretty big success. Pretty pleased with yourself you take care of the café until Beel comes back.

#obey me #obey me fanfic #detective mc au #72 investigations #omswd #obey me shall we date #obey me one master to rule them all

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Not by the Moon | 01

Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU

Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing, allusion to anxiety

Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.

Unchanging.

None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.

And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.

That is when Time truly started ticking.

Next chapter

Masterlist

There is nothing quite like visiting a bookshop on a rainy autumn day, walking the pavements that will soon deepen in their shade of grey as the scarlet and burnt orange leaves will be decorated with tiny watery crystals. The fierce wind preludes to the sorrow of the gloomy clouds overhead, the chill creeping beneath the navy trenchcoat cooling the little skin bared by a simple ink black V-neck shirt. Caffeinated bordeaux sneakers hasten their step when leaving the district ruled by busy city life and entering the artisans district on the east side of town, where the boroughs are ruled by artists, individual shops, cafés and independent bookstores that each have their own vibe.

For a while now, a specific one has yet to be visited, intending to drop by ever since that long walk that lead through many a cobblestone street lined with brownstone houses and not a single business anywhere in sight. Except for Paper Souls, a hidden gem tucked away at the edge of the area where homes and commerce just meet and have resulted in a small store disguised as a proper worker’s house. As can be judged from the window display, the shop sells both well-known titles alongside more obscure ones, bound in editions fresh from the press and those having lived a ready life on someone’s shelves.

A second before the first tears of the heavens fall and make their presence known by ticking against the window, the bookstore is entered with a low sigh of delight. Nothing comes remotely close to the distinct scent of books, this specific combination of mustiness and ink laced with the fragrance of the weather outside and perfumes of customers. Or, in this case, solely the owner’s.

Here and there, a rumour about the man ruling the paper kingdom has been picked up and it is safe to say not all have been positive. A subject that has been frequently touched upon, oft causing more of a stir than the overall intimidating attitude, are the differently coloured eyes. One brown like hazelnuts at the end of the year and the other as blue as the ocean far outside the harbour.

The ones belonging to long blonde locks with dark roots looking up from the current read behind the counter and which are briefly met with a polite nod and casual greeting. At least one aspect of the groundless gossip is true because the disgruntled stoicism on the handsome face acknowledging the professional meaningless acquaintance silently makes the heart race and constricts the throat. It awakens the need to run and hide somewhere among the chestnut shelves, become a character in a tale so as to vanish and thus avoid upsetting the clerk by merely being present. Which might be the biggest problem, considering today’s goal of staying inside and spend it as is habitually done.

Don’t be silly. Just find a book and settle down somewhere to read a few pages. As long as you’re quiet, nothing’s gonna happen.

Thus, mayhaps repeating the self-chastisement once or twice, the creaking worn floorboards are walked upon as ghostlike as possible though every step makes the Body cringe due to the loudness disturbing the silence. 

And him.

The young man whose gaze is momentarily met before fleeing to the vintage couch in an incline with a gorgeous Penguin hardcover copy of William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, which has been found in the poetry section across from the counter. Breath was held while standing on the tips of the toes while reaching for the thin volume on one of the highest shelves, hoping to not attract attention and refusing to use one of the nearby dark-wooden stools to climb atop because such acrobatics would likely not sit well with the person causing the hairs at the back of the neck to stand on edge.

A sigh of relief cannot be helped when loosening the buttons of the trenchcoat and tossing it over the arm rest before snuggling up in the corner of the sofa. Finally a moment devoid of stress, a chance to be carried off by the works of a beloved poet and artist embodying the truth of childhood and adulthood.

But being brought back all too soon from criticism on the corrupt Catholic Church by the oppressive presence of loose ripped jeans which are perceived just above the edge of the mustard cover. Despite being barely able to gather the courage to look away from the page, lashes nevertheless look up to hands tucked into denim pockets and non-matching irises peering down. Curiously, though it is also alarming, the gaze from above is awkward as if unsettled by the mere presence of a well-meaning bookworm which confirms the assumption about being a nuisance.

Although, the paradoxically misplaced inquiry spoken in a husky voice undermines the deduction. The lowering of broad shoulders does too, allowing personal defenses to waver a bit in the pursuit of kindness. ‘’How do you like your coffee?’’

Bewildered yet finding no clear reason for the kind question in the stoicism of two-toned locks, the simple reflex of asking for a repeat is acted upon with a sheepish tongue that does not know what to make of the situation. ‘’Sorry, what?’’

‘’Coffee. How do you drink yours?’’ A gruff slightly chubby thumb points toward the door, the glass decorated with autumnal tears. ‘’It might be raining, but I still need caffeine. Figured I might as well buy you something too. So, what should I get?’’

What do I do? Do I accept the offer? I mean, he offered it, but declining would still be polite. Then again, it’s free coffee.

‘’Oh, uhm, that’s very sweet of you.’’ The bundle is put down in the lap, flabbergasted shy hands tucked between the thighs while trying to stay as small as possible. It is a silly instinct, but the closeness of the intimidating bookshop clerk calls for it. Moreover, the deep slightly hoarse tone that sounds both as if still recovering from something and being exhausted with the world does not make matters better. 

However, albeit for a split second that is not credible enough, little will-o-the-wisps illuminate the entrancing wildness of an ocean and hazelnut forest as a quicksilver smile flashes over roseate lips. A beautiful fleeting sight which might never have arisen from the solemnity resting like a mask on the youth’s face.

A daydream.

Indeed, surely that is what it must have been. What other reason could there be to show a sign of being pleased with someone who does not feel particularly welcome and at ease in this paper kingdom?

Led astray by the unfocused train of thought, distracted by what may or may not have been witnessed, the actual answer comes out on a mumble. All the while boldly looking back, wondering. ‘’An iced vanilla latte... would be nice.’’

Acknowledging the order with a mere low rumble similar to a wolf’s, the clerk sets off on a caffeinated journey and leaves an affected soul behind. 

While still being highly uncomfortable with the lad’s presence, the thought of what just happened and the offer of a drink that was not in the slightest reluctant imprints a warm impression on a racing heart. Yet, before any ungrounded fantasies arise, the poetry bundle is quickly picked up again and later exchanged for a thick volume of Keats’s poetry that has been picked up in a rush to seemingly have never moved from the leather couch. To not leave a single trace of chaos which might trigger the wrath of the bookshop keeper and perhaps end up in being drenched by cold coffee. 

All the fear is evidently in vain because, when being once again engrossed by poetry, the ghost of a touch over the cheekbone breaks the spell. As if awakening from a dream, the suggestion of the outstretched cold drink passes unnoticed. Instead, it is replaced by a look at ripped jeans beneath a loose tartan blazer, resulting in the novel discovery of a little gem embedded in the right nostril. 

The rattle of ice entrapped in plastic fully awakens the senses as well as the sharp rustle of a paper bag bearing the logo shaped like an apple out of which a bite has been taken. ‘’Here. It’s on me. Don’t think anything of it, I just don’t want you to get dehydrated or hungry.’’

‘’Right.’’ With trembling hands expecting to have the food carelessly thrown into the lap and drink pushed into the palm, the surprising meal is accepted. Without the slightest sign of pushing. ‘’Still, thanks.’’

Once again, a beastly grunt is all that is received in return before checkered trainers retreat to the front of the establishment. Strangely, they soon return with the current read which was enjoyed behind the counter alongside the cold brew that was picked up to battle the fatigue that noticeably laces demeanour. Because, when sinking back into the sofa after having been gestured at to scoot over and haphazardly making room, lashes flutter shut for longer than a mere blink. Notwithstanding, they are awake enough to notice the shift in reading. ‘’Keats?’’

‘’Uh, yes. He’s one of my favorites alongside Blake, Donne and, on occasion, Wordsworth.’’ Personal enthusiasm takes over when mentioning the last poet with whom there is a love-hate relationship, erasing any anguish at being close to the keeper of the kingdom and thus making it possible to ignore the few centimeters of space between bodies. ‘’Even though he’s basically a fraud by turning his sister’s experiences into poetry. It makes one wonder whether he had any talent to come up with something himself. Now, I do believe some of his works are genuinely his, but not all. Sorry, I’ll- I’ll shut up.’’

Questioning chestnut and water reintroduce the silence disturbed by autumnal rain accompanied by howling winds, stretching out over the empty streets. Nobody likes a blathering fool, least of all the stoic who surprisingly has decided to join one’s company. 

Or, so was the original thought that is now nullified by a sliver of a smile and something inaudible smokily mumbled beneath breath. There is no courage to inquire about what was said nor ask for a reason for being evidently entertained, simply rapidly picking up the volume again to resume reading with an overheated, ashamed mind.

Here and there, however, sneaky peeks are thrown in the direction of bleached locks thoroughly enjoying Dante’s Inferno, a work that has been on the to-be-read list for the longest time and somehow has never been crossed off.

Come on, you can do it. Ask him how it is, whether he likes Dante. Don’t be a marshmallow. Okay, one, two... fuck.

‘’How’s Keats?’’ Beating the barely daring tongue to it, the young man interrupts the hardly focused enjoyment of poetry that maybe lasted about fifteen minutes.

‘’Good.’’ More wants to be added to the opinion, but cannot be shaped nor voiced due to the bafflement at seeing sincere interest pierce through an unwavering expression. On the other hand, another unnameable sentiment underlines attitude too, floating ever so slightly beneath the surface. 

‘’You haven’t touched your food.’’ Lips slightly pout when glancing at the paper bag that rests on the trenchcoat that had hastily been draped over the other arm rest when bleached locks sat down, colourful irises dimming. 

Worry.

Why does it affect him? What does it matter if I eat or not?

To hopefully grant a bit of reassurance, an absent-minded promise is made before diving back into the misery of a nightingale. ‘’I’ll eat in a bit. Just one more poem.’’

As fast as lightning, the volume flies from hapless palms and the scent of books mingled with musky mint suddenly leans over to grab the purchased treat, fingertips pressing against the side of the thigh. Every muscle tenses up at the new form of intimacy, inwardly praying for the tartan blazer to return to his place as soon as possible. ‘’No, it’s already two o’clock and I’m sure you had breakfast early. You should eat. Where’s your coffee?’’

A trembling finger points to the untouched iced vanilla latte on the floor, put just in front of the sofa. Hands rise even higher when the bookshop keeper’s heartbeat and heated broad chest can be temporarily felt when slightly chubby digits lean over to grab the plastic cup. ‘’I’m not…’’

‘’What?’’ Clearly not understanding the need to keep looking away, unsteadily focusing on the sides of the nearest bookshelf, the question comes out agitated as the retrieved items are pushed forward, unmistakably intended to be taken. The shift in behaviour is as little comprehensible as the likely appearance of warm rosy cheeks going paired with a fist pressing on the lips, tongue-tied.

Mentally chastising oneself for the awkward display, courage is forcibly gathered to face the puzzled grumpy young man and answer with a whisper. ‘’I’m not comfortable eating in public.’’

‘’We’re not in public.’’

‘’Or with people I don’t know.’’

This revelation is clearly unexpected, eyes widening when reluctantly elaborating on an irrational fear with folded hands tucked between the thighs. For a second, there is nothing but an uncomfortable hush in which the worst outcome is vividly painted in the mind. Fortunately and oddly, it is broken as the stoic’s attitude shifts to something that has not been witnessed before and which goes against any rumour floating around town. 

A gentle smile plays around the corners of the mouth as the tense grip on the food and drink loosens, gently putting the rustling bag in the lap and a warm palm grabbing one hand to place the lukewarm cup in it. ‘’There. I’m Jaebeom, JB for short. Now, can you please eat something? And I promise I won’t judge you.’’

‘’Shouldn’t- Shouldn’t you eat something too? You look like you could use some energy.’’ Up close, the fatigue has become visibly noticeable outside the moment of sitting down and closing eyes for a little bit longer than would suffice for a blink. Affected by the niceness of the gentle acquaintance and thoughtfulness, the croissant in the bag is torn in half to offer a part to the current company. ‘’How about we share this?’’

‘’You don’t have to.’’ A low breathy chuckle rolls forth at the gesture, strangely elating the heart and stirring up a storm of butterflies in the stomach. Again, the same unintelligible phrase that was muttered under breath earlier seems to be repeated.

A penny for your thoughts. What did you say?

Putting aside curiosity to not prematurely cross any boundaries of politeness, what wants to be asked is suppressed and reformed into a request for sharing. After all, the lack of energy outlined by vague dark circles beneath non-matching irises is truly a cause for concern. ‘’Please? I don’t have that big of an appetite.’’

With a resigning sigh, the offer is accepted. Much to the strange delight of the soul who still is not entirely trusting of the bookshop keeper yet already has the mental defenses down a little bit more than before. ‘’Alright, if you insist.’’

What follows is an absolutely adorable though also surprising scenario as the pastry is enjoyed in one bite, the food disappearing without any trouble. Nibbling on the other half, staring cannot be helped as a sip of coldbrew is enjoyed to wash the treat down. However, the unintended impolite mannerism, of course, cannot pass under the radar. Hence is why dark brows furrow in puzzlement when remarking upon being a point of attention. ‘’What?’’

‘’Nothing. You just…’’ a moment is taken to try and find the right word yet failing to think of one which accurately describes the eating manner, ‘’you just wolfed that down.’’

‘’Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I can be a bit, well, unmannered at times.’’ The gaze focusing on the iced black coffee adds to the sorrowful side profile, unwillingly nostalgic, but unapproachable for comfort. ‘’I try not to be. I’m trying to, no, never mind.’’ Another sip. ‘’Forget it. Just eat and stay as long as you like.’’

‘’Jaebeom?’’ In a reflex, after swiftly wiping fatty fingertips on the coarse paper napkin, the bookshop keeper is grabbed by the sleeve as he tries to move away. Alarmed by the sudden bold move, non-matching irises briefly flare with an odd mixture of fear and annoyance before seemingly realizing something and thus calming down. All this goes hidden behind a badly enacted tolerating low hum. ‘’Can you, I mean, only if you don’t mind, could you... could you stay here? For a little while? At least sit down for a few more minutes. I promise I won’t stare as I did and actually read.’’

‘’You want me to... stay?’’ Dark brows furrow in a strange confusion, uncomprehending of the normal request. Although, perhaps it is not so casual seeing as it needs to be thought about. ‘’Stay? Here?’’

‘’If you don’t mind? I’m sorry if I freaked you out, I really didn’t mean to.’’

‘’You didn’t. I should be the one apologizing for being so distant.’’

‘’I don’t blame you. You barely know me.’’

‘’I don’t know you.’’ The observation hits hard, the sternness of the reply crucifying the heart and constricting the throat. How odd a fact should have this result. Withal, the misplaced hurt is a little soothed by the promise that follows. ‘’I’ll stay. But I’ll be closing in about two hours.’’

And thus, for one hour and a half, the paper kingdom falls quiet. Solely the tinkering tears of heaven decorating the glass of the windows, howling winds stirring the richly warm leaves into dance and occasional wandering lonely umbrella break the silence. Inside, the only noise to disrupt the hush is the turn of a page or sniffle that may or may not prelude to a cold. 

However, all tranquil beauty knows an end for Time always runs out. Henceforth, it is at half past four that a light tap goes paired with the barely audible comment “you have to go”. Likely due to the aftermath of being pulled from a world of poetic Nature into gloomy Reality, there is a wrong perception of Jaebeom’s voice. Surely, the sorrowful reluctance is imagined.

As you said, you don’t know me.

The mere thought pains Body and Soul when grabbing the navy trenchcoat off of the faux leather arm rest, stepping towards the bookshelf where Keats was found and the exit afterwards. No chance of wandering a little longer between the books is given, the clerk following closely behind and unconsciously guiding feet towards the entrance.

‘’Y/N? Will you, uh…’’ Restless trembling palms hover in the air like two bent paws failing to illustrate something, a rosy flush spread over the cheeks, ‘’Can I put your jacket on? I mean, let me help you put your jacket on. That’s how you say it, right?’’

With an affirming hum, big palms with slightly chubby digits are allowed to help dress into the piece of clothing.

Glide over the side of the neck when collecting hair to make it flow over the collar instead of being tucked beneath it, leaving a trail of goosebumps and sharpening breath. 

All the while maintaining eye contact, both our faces distorting with timidity. It is then that glances are haphazardly thrown around the empty store to avoid each other for a second wherein composure is hopefully found. 

And it would appear that the buff tall blonde youth is the first to do so, speech matter-of-factly when voicing an unspoken suggestion while holding on to the upper arms. ‘’I haven’t even asked your name.’’

Bashfully, the answer is uttered in a proper vis-á-vis with entrancing two-toned irises though the urge to bolt out the door remains. Nevertheless, the rapid loss of contact is disliked, JB realizing how the intimacy might come across when glancing at the fingertips digging into fabric, almost begging to stay. ‘’It’s Y/N.’’

The instinct to flee is lessened by the step forward thoughtfully repeating the name, carefully feeling out the syllables as if comprehending a siren’s song. ‘’I had a good time, Y/N.’’

‘’Me too.’’ It is true because, despite the distance that was endeavoured to be closed with food, reading and shallow conversation, the time spent together was actually quite enjoyable. Notwithstanding, too much of the clerk remains unknown to say whether all has been out of politeness or if any sincere trust has been shown.

‘’Even though you’re still scared of me?’’

‘’I’m not!’’ A sigh rolls off the tongue at the sight of a smug grin on roseate lips knowing better than to lie about genuine sentiments. ‘You’re just... just kinda intimidating.’

‘’Kinda? To me it seems like a whole lot more than ‘just kinda’. You almost seem eager to go even though you were hesitating earlier.’’ Bright hazelnut and the summer sea are overcast by lonely grief putting on the airs of suppressed rage, painfully re-establishing and enhancing the distance that was briefly shortened with a step backwards. ‘’To get away from me. Make up your mind.’’

‘’Yes, I’m intimidated by you. A lot.’’ The renewed cold emptiness is warily bridged, planning out the words to say to not make matters worse. ‘’And, to be honest, I don’t want to go. Still, it’s because you intimidate me I might seem uneasy and glad to go, but I can assure you I’m not. I really had a good time. We might not have talked a lot, but I still had a splendid afternoon. With you. And for that, I’m grateful. I’m sorry I confuse you, make you feel awkward because of my behaviour.’’

The waterfall of a confession catches the bookshop keeper off guard, but also manages to make tense broad shoulders lower their defenses as colourful eyes calm down. Digits rise from the pockets of loose ripped jeans to envelop the upper arms once more, this time rubbing them reassuringly and let the personal walls crumble too. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of me nor apologize. Look, we’ll talk about this another time. For now, you have to go and I have to close the shop. Get home safely and don’t catch a cold.’

‘’You too.’’ 

‘’Don’t worry. I won’t.’’

With a last nod and gentle smile relieved at the prospect of good health, warm palms are stepped away from.

The watery autumn chill cools the heat from being seen off by blonde locks.

I couldn’t get sick even if I wanted to.

When the enchanting scent of summer citrus, autumnal blackberries and juicy peaches has faded, the two volumes that were touched by it are picked from the shelves without a clear understanding of why. Neither is there a sense of comprehension when it comes to the sheer curiosity about what it is that the adorable shy doe so likes about these specific poets. Notwithstanding, both books are picked up and put on the counter alongside the current read to take upstairs after sweeping and properly closing the shop.

Which does not take long, soon after already stumbling up the metal stairs to the apartment above the establishment with a famished stomach and tense muscles, watching the oppressive concrete clouds slightly give way to the lilac dusk before heading inside. Fortunately, dinner has been prepared in advance so the various side dishes solely need to be warmed up in the microwave just like the rice in the cooker. The hair dye job, however, will have to wait until tomorrow. That is, if it is remembered like the face of the local historian who seems awfully fascinated by the affliction distorting identity.

Shedding off the weight of the day, clothes are removed and tossed on the couch to be replaced by the bathrobe that was put there in the morning after yet another long night filled with amnesia. Afterwards, bare feet trod to the kitchen to retrieve the cold dishes from the refrigerator and put them in the microwave to heat up. 

It’s getting late, but at least there’s still some time to read. Funny how my last thought is of you.

Just as the melancholic thought arises over a big bowl of bibimbap accompanied by William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, the screen of the phone on the counter lights up after a brief buzz. When getting up to check, the message appears to be from the supernatural scholar.

“Good luck tonight. I’ll be at your place around 7. Hopefully, you’ll be yourself again. If not, I’ll wait outside. Jinyoung.”

As always, the text is signed with the young man’s name to help ease the recovery of ever-fading memory. Even after living around three years among humans again, the ability to recall actual names alongside how to enact civilized behaviour remains hard.

And becomes more difficult with every passing day.

For now, I want to try. I want to speak to you at least one more time and explain myself. Part ways on good terms, let you know what I am.

A smile cannot be helped at the sight of the bowl next to the mustard poetry bundle, vividly re-imagining how it was held by small hands on the faux leather sofa this afternoon. 

How those same tiny digits tore off half of the croissant without hesitation and offered it to an animal, nibbling adorably on theirs while endeavouring to put on a human act and failing due to the hunger always preceding hell.

But a fantasy never lasts.

Time never stops. 

It solely ticks.

Runs out.

Hopefully, I’ll remember you.

And the moon cannot be sworn by for She cannot stay away nor remain the same. 

That night, the name of the bookish fawn is the last powerful word to recall before losing a grip on the world in the cold dark illuminated by artificial light. 

Naked and shackled beneath the concrete ground.

Hoping for a memory. 

Y/N.

#ksmutclub #GOT7 #GOT7 smut #GOT7 x Reader #Jaebeom #Jaebum #Im Jaebeom #Im Jaebum #GOT7 Werewolf AU #Werewolf!Jaebeom #Werewolf!Jaebum #Not by the Moon

[brideofcthulhu10]

Hi! Uh so Billy aka Dwayne and I have the same birthday (June 23). I don't really like my birthday because I've never gotten to celebrate. I haven't had a party since I was a kid and now I just always spend the day sad and with no friends. If you wanna write something with the lost boys celebrating Dwayne and reader's birthday together, I'd really love it. (No pressure tho. I really love your blog and hope you'll have a great day ✨)

Aw, I’m sorry to hear you’ve not been able to celebrate your birthday for such a long time. Hopefully I can give you a little taste of a great birthday with the boys, and a very special (belated) birthday to you from myself and all of my readers, you are an honorary Fang Babe which makes you a part of a community that’s there for each other! If you ever feel sad, I got my DMs open 24/7 if you ever need to just vent up a storm! All are welcome. 

Happy Birthday to You Both

Dwayne x Fem!S/O

Today was supposed to be special, yet the entire day everyone was so preoccupied with their own little lives that no one had even bothered to remember it was your birthday today. It was absolutely miserable. All the while your boyfriend Dwayne was currently tucked away at the abandoned hotel hiding away from the sunlight. Bursting into flames was certainly an occupational hazard. By this point the whole vampirism thing had come and gone, and while it did frighten you, nothing was more frightening than being without your dark crow.   

Rather than stay at home to be ignored you opted to go out for the afternoon, browsing shops for a special occasion. No, not yourself. See, as luck would have it, June 23rd also held significance to Dwayne. Marko, one of the younger members of the coven, had told you two weeks prior it would be Dwayne’s birthday as well. You had to keep your own secret. Not at their request, but your own. Overshadowing his birthday would be dreadful, you hated the idea of taking it from him. Besides, no one remembered anyways. 

Weaving through brightly lit shops, you pondered each piece wondering what would suit him best. Clothes were out, maybe a new skateboard? Just looking at the little white tags stuck to the back of them made you cringe. Okay, so that was out. You weren’t made of money. 

There was an old mystic shop selling a handful of oddities, somewhere called Madame Medusa’s Mystical Boutique. A few interesting necklaces caught your eye, but one seemed to be directly calling you. It was a crow skull attached to a leather cord, bordered by two carved red beads on either side. Two thick black feathers were wedged between the beads. Gently you slipped it off the hook, running your thumb over the chilled, smooth surface. 

“It’s a lovely item, isn’t it,” an elderly woman asked. Truthfully she startled you from behind the counter, almost making you jump a few good inches. 

“O-Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see-”

“Don’t worry dear, hardly anyone does,” she chuckled, tenderly plucking the skull from your hand. “Shall I wrap this up for you?”

“Oh- Well I wasn’t, I mean it’s nice but-,” you stuttered, but already she was shuffling towards the counter again. Boy pushy woman. You didn’t even know how much it cost, you weren’t exactly on a budget but you couldn’t be going on any big spending sprees.

“Hush now. He’s going to be waiting for you, somewhere nearby. I can guarantee that this is the one you’re meant to give him,” she insisted, wrapping the necklace under aged brown paper. 

“Yeah, I’m sure he’d like it but-,” you couldn’t help but trail off. How- How did she know?

The woman pushed the little baggie your way, giving a tender smile before she began to hobble towards a curtained room behind the counter.

“W-Wait, I didn’t even pay for it!”

She waved off your concern, looking behind her shoulder while she parted the curtains in her path. 

“Consider it a present from those who neglected you. Take it to him, you’ll see..” And with that she vanished behind them, leaving you stunned where you stood. Silently you glanced down at the small plastic bag, almost jumping in place when a dusty old grandfather clock began to ring through the store. One, two, three, four, five, six. Oh! It was already six o’clock. Crap the boys would be up any minute!

It didn’t take too long to spot the gang of vampires sitting on the worn, wooden banisters talking amongst themselves. Dwayne was just as eager to spot you, sweeping between the boys and lifting you up in his arms. “Happy birthday, princess,” He gushed, planting tender kisses all over your cheeks.

“How did you know? I didn’t-”

“My bad,” Marko spoke up. He leaned back from behind Paul to wave your way, as if he were waving a flag of defeat. Damn. You weren’t even sure how Marko figured out your birthday in the first place, there was just no keeping secrets from that guy! 

Dwayne set you down, although he carried a much more concerned expression this time. “Why keep it a secret in the first place, Y/N?”

You fiddled with the bag still clutched in your hand with eyes cast downward towards your feet hoping a good excuse could get you out of just admitting you’d rather play backseat. But, you didn’t. Not that you couldn’t come up with any excuses. Rather, you didn’t want to be sidelined even for your boyfriend’s birthday. It was yours too, and for the past several years it seemed like you were constantly being set aside so that other things could happen. Your sister’s wedding, that trip to Colorado your parents took, grandma and grandpa visiting, your brother’s soccer games- everything seemed to take precedence over the celebration of the day you were born. And worst of all is you never got your Sixteen Candles happy ending. No one would really recognize they screwed up. You wouldn’t be apologized to with tearful shock when your parents realized they forgot your birthday, your friends- if you could even call them that at this point- wouldn’t try to cheer you up, and there was no handsome crush ready with a birthday cake to make it all go away. It’s like Dwayne already knew your feelings because before you could get a word in he pulled you into a crushing hug. Your head pressed against his chest. Sometimes you forgot he had no heartbeat and instead only listened to him rumble when he spoke to you.

“Just because today is for me, doesn’t mean it isn’t for you too, princess.” 

Those words hit you harder than you anticipated. Your throat felt as if it were swelling, dry with each labored swallow, and a tight pressure squeezed the bridge of your nose. Inevitable tears eagerly rushed down your while burnt cheeks. 

Dwayne only held you in place. He never let go until you were the one ready to release him, wiping away those pesky droplets of emotion staining you. “Now, I was saving this for when we took you to the hotel…,” he began with his hand jammed into his jacket pocket, rustling around for whatever it was he needed. “But, I figure maybe you need it now.”

A thick banded ring of aged silver sat in his calloused palm, an oval cut of turquoise clasped in place by a weaving border. Veins of black and copper split through chunks of blue-green paths. Rather hold it out to you, Dwayne tenderly took your hand into his own to slip the hefty piece over your ring finger. It nestled perfectly in place and you couldn’t help but let out a breathless laugh, slinging your arms over his neck. He already knew what to expect. Iron arms engulfed your waist and lifted you up. His stubble scratched the edges of your mouth when you crashed your lips into his. The sensation was overwhelming. It wasn’t just that he got you this, it was what he had gotten you. 

Dwayne had often told you myths and lore on lazy nights when the hunting grew slow and the hours were long. Once you found yourself admiring a very similar cut of jewelry decadently adorned with many fine cuts of turquoise, finding your curiosity piqued when asking him what the significance was to all these pieces. Why was it such a commonly used stone in so much jewelry, especially with Native American tribes.

“From what I can remember,” Dwayne thought back at the time, leaning over you to admire the pricey baubles kept protected under a thick sheet of glass “, my grandmother told me that every tribe has always valued it. I mean, they all have their reasons. It’s a powerful gem that carries protection, life and strength. I’ve even seen it change colors depending on where you find it. I hardly ever saw it though when I was alive, even back then it cost a fortune.”

But now, through one way or another he’d remembered how you admired them from afar, yearning to have a ring like that of your very own. The one to five hundred dollar price tags always scared you off whenever you’d come to find them in stores- at least, the real ones. For once you didn’t care how Dwayne had acquired your gift. Gift! Oh!

“Oh, hold on,” You interjected between kisses with the little bag presented before him. “I um, got you something too. From that crazy lady in the mystic items shop!”

A warmth spread through your chest watching him lay the necklace over, the skull placing perfectly atop his many others. It suited him perfectly. 

The whole night was just perfect. You spent the entire time going on rides with the boys after they spoiled you for dinner, later dragging you to the hotel where you realized what Dwayne meant earlier. There were streams of colored paper hanging off the rafters and old piping, red balloons tied to the furniture, and a banner of paper reading out “Happy Birthday Dwayne and Y/N” written in big, red marker letters. You couldn’t even make a wish when they brought out a cake for the both of you. After all, what more could be asked? They had already given you the most perfect birthday you could have ever hoped for. 

#lost boys 1987 #lost boys imagine #the lost boys #lost boys fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfiction writing #lost boys #fanfic #80s movies #answered asks #answered #character asks #ask me stuff #asks open #lost boys dwayne #lost boys drama #lost boys vampires #vampire drama #vampires #vampire boys #vampire

[neerasrealm]

platonic ivan x reader. ft. am dhaegar. please. my soul needs it.

AYY this is based off a convo we had in pms. sorry this took so long HDFHSJ i just kept losing energy n stuff whoops. but anyway iVAN MY BOY!! i dont write about my ocs nearly enough lol. this is set in the future au i guess? idk its a few months after zalgo gets yeeted into a coma and his brother Am has finally decided to stop sulking in the void. and also Ivan is his pet cat

It’s...such a big house. Bigger than you thought it’d be. When they told you they were going to live somewhere among humans, you thought they’d try something...subtle. Simple. Quaint. But no, apparently their idea of ‘’blending in with normal people’’ is a gigantic, upperclass house in New Orleans. It’s so….fancy. It makes you feel guilty for only bringing a basket of cheap store-bought muffins as a housewarming present. Should you have brought champagne? Do- do they even drink champagne...?

You open the metal gate and walk down the garden path. It’s all so...rich...and white. You stop on the porch and grab the fancy door knocker. When that doesn’t get a response, you look around for a doorbell. Oh! Okay- you ring the bell and step back a bit. There’s some muffled thumps from inside, and a silhouette appears in the glazed glass of the door and then-

‘’y/n!’’ the door swings open and someone reaches out, yanking you inside. You’re hugged tight against a strong, cold body. You hear the door shut behind you. If anyone was watching you from outside, they’d probably assume they just witnessed the last moments before your murder. But no, you’re not going to be killed, even though the hug you’re stuck in feels like it. 

‘’Ivan- Ivan, buddy, you’re crushing me-’’ you grunt out. You’re dropped and you shift your muffin basket in your arms. Yeah no being hugged with a muffin basket in between you isn’t good, don’t recommend. Thankfully there’s plastic over the muffins, so they’re fine. Mostly. You look up at your friend, Ivan. from the name you’d be expecting some burly russian stereotype, but no. Because stereotypes aren’t funny 90% of the time. 

Ivan is tall and strong, yes, but- well- he’s not...human. He’s a demon. Specifically, a demon made of ice cream. Yeah you heard me. His hair, if you could call it that, is just some drips that hang over the top of his head like hair, covered with pink and green sauce and random sprinkles. His ‘skin’ is coloured cream and pink, with the occasional splatter of chocolate. His hands are the same, but with the addition of claws. His legs are bent, like an animal’s, and he has a large tail that swishes behind him, topped with an ice cream scoop of all things. He’s wearing his usual pink button-up shirt and blue jeans. He grins at you with colorful gumdrop teeth, the cones on the top of his head tilting up as if they were ears. You soften and smile at him.

‘’It’s good to see you too, bud.’’ you murmur. You glance around the front hall. ‘’So...this is where you guys are living…?’’

‘’Uh-huh!’’ Ivan gives a nod and looks around. ‘’Pretty fancy, huh? Never thought I’d see a loser like me in a place like this…’’ 

‘’Yeah, your truck out front looks so out of place.’’

Ivan turns to you and glares at you. ‘’Hey! Be nice to Vanessa!’’ he growls. You laugh a bit.

‘’Sorry, sorry.’’ you reply quickly. Ivan loves his truck. He did live out of it for years after all, so you can’t really blame him. ‘’So...is she retired now?’’ you ask. He blinks.

‘’Heheh, no. She’s got fuel in her yet. I’m just gonna stop sleeping in her.’’ he shrugs and turns. ‘’C’mon, lemme show you around!’’ you follow after him quickly. The front hall is large, with doors to either side and one at the back besides the stairs. You follow Ivan through the door at the back and find yourself in a large room. To your left is the kitchen. It’s large and modern, with not one but two ovens stacked on top of each other, AND a kitchen island. Across the wall from you is a series of full-body windows that bask the room in light. There isn’t much else in the room- in fact, the only furniture is boxes, wooden stools and folding chairs. Actually looking closer- the boxes being used for tables are from Ikea. You look at Ivan.

‘’...where’s your stuff?��’

‘’Oh! We haven’t built the furniture yet.’’ Ivan chuckles. ‘’It’s fine! We’ll get to it soon.’’ he adds.

‘’...huh.’’ you reply. Ivan looks away from you and frowns. He pads away from you, the claws on his feet clicking against the tiles.

"Am! Am, y/n is here!" He calls. You hear thumping coming from another room and then a large, eldritch creature steps into the room. He's gigantic though you know he's not even at his full size. His body is covered in soft fur, save for his hands, feet and face, which are all made of ice. A collar of bright amethysts circles his neck. He has no mouth, just dozens of eyes. The biggest one, right in the centre of his head, is closed. He has a gigantic tail, spiked with sparkling gems, and a pair of wings that are just barely visible behind him..

"Y/n!" He exclaims in a deep, but surprisingly soothing voice. How he speaks with no mouth you have no idea but at this point you've given up on questioning that kind of thing. He walks towards you and crouches down, tugging you gently into a very careful hug against his chubby, fluffy body. You laugh a bit. Am is a lot more gentle, like a kind old grandpa. You pat his chest.

"Hey big guy." You greet. He chuckles a bit and moves away. You hold up your muffin basket. "Brought you a housewarming gift."

His eyes, at least some of them, widen. "Oh!" He reaches out and gently takes the basket in his big ol hands. "Thank you y/n, you shouldn't have." He murmurs. Ivan skitters over and grabs one, unwrapping it quickly and taking a bite.

"Yeah, you shouldn't have." He parrots through a mouth full of muffin. Am pets his head affectionately.

"Yeah I did." You say with a smile. "It's a human custom. You are trying to learn to fit in with them after all." You add with a wink. Am looks surprised. 

"Oh! Oh- well, alright then." He gives you a sheepish look. "Come, come, sit down. Can't leave you standing there." He gestures for you to follow him over to the other side of the room so you can sit down in one of the lawn chairs. Ivan runs after him, far quicker than necessary, and throws himself onto...a box. He lays down, curling up like a cat. Am pats his head as he walks past him and sits on the ground. You roll your eyes and go over to join them.

"So how're things back at the mansion?" Ivan asks as you sit down in a cheap blue lawn chair. 

"It's alright. Crowded- since we got so many new people…" you chuckle a bit. "There's these two kids, Doby and Toby and I can't tell which one's which! They hang around each other constantly! And then you throw Cody into the mix and I have no idea who's who!"

Ivan laughs, his tail swishing. "Sounds rough," he takes the last bite of his muffin and crumples up the wrapper. "How're the kids?" 

Ivan has always had a soft spot for children. Especially the ones in the mansion. "Sally is- well- Sally. She's still trying to keep everyone in high spirits. Slendra...she's become really mature honestly. She helps EJ in the medbay, she cooks meals, she cleans and gardens- she's a good kid...I think she's trying to help keep Slender from overworking himself."

Ivan smiles. "Awe. That's sweet."

"She's such a kind girl…" Am murmurs. You smile a bit. Slendra is technically his niece, and even though they barely know one another, the two seem to adore each other.

"Yeah, she is." You recline back in the chair. "So how's living together going?"

"Oh it's wonderful!" Am chirps. "All these years I watched over the human world but- living here is so much different!" 

"He lost his goddamn mind when we went to ikea." Ivan says, looking at you. You laugh. 

"Well- it's gigantic!" Am replies defensively. 

"That's a lot coming from you, big guy." You say with a smirk. Am laughs.

"Fair, fair." 

‘’So what’s your favorite thing so far? You’ve never like- done anything with humans before, right?’’ you cock a brow curiously at him. Am hums and squints a few of his many eyes. Ivan watches him curiously. 

‘’Coffee?’’ he suggests. ‘’You drink a lot of it.’’ Am shakes his head. ‘’Cooking? You had a lot of fun doing that!’’

‘’No, no.’’ Am waves him off. He looks at Ivan for a long moment. ‘’...I think it’s you.’’ 

Ivan blinks. ‘’Me?’’

Am looks pleased with himself. He nods, then reaches over and gently pats Ivan’s head with one of his giant fingers. ‘’Yes. I think you’re my favorite.’’ he chuckles.

‘‘That’s a cop-out. He isn’t even human.’‘ you mutter.

#creepypasta #creepypasta oc #creepypasta hcs #creepypasta hc #creepypasta fanfiction #creepypasta fanfic #ivan tag #am dhaegar #writing #request #requests #writing requests #future au #<- kinda?? #ask #frozensriracha

[chickensarentcheap]

Best Part of Me -Chapter 19

Warnings: none

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @alievans007​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​

“I don’t think your husband likes me very much,” Salena comments, as she and Esme lounge in the shade of the back patio.  

They share a pitcher of non-alcoholic sangria while watching as Chloe entertains the kids in the pool and Kyle and Tyler –chatting amicably- busy themselves at the barbecue; both shirtless and tanned and buff in their remarkably different ways, both clad in swim shorts that sit dangerously low on their hips.  There’s no sign of Ovi; he’d run into town on an errand over an hour again and had yet to return.

“Don’t take it personally,” Esme says, as she stretches her legs and places her feet in the chair across from her; one hand nursing her own drink as the other holds the bottle Addie nurses from as she lays along her mother’s thighs.  “He doesn’t like anyone.”

“I’d laugh, but I don’t think you’re joking.”

“It’s not that he doesn’t like people. He’s just very...I don’t know...guarded. He doesn’t trust as easily and quickly as I do. And he has his reasons. Very valid ones.”

“From his military days?”

“That and what he did afterwards. It wasn’t an easy life. For him more so than me. I wasn’t as involved as he was. I was just the ‘brain side’ of things; he was all physical. And it did a lot of damage. Mentally.”

She refuses to delve further into it. It’s not her story to tell; finding it disrespectful - not only to Tyler himself, but the struggles he’s endured and the progress he’s made- to discuss it with anyone without his knowledge.

“And physically by the looks of it,” Salena says.

Esme nods. “The last job we were on...the one that nearly killed him...it caused the most issues. It was a long haul. Months in the hospital, months in inpatient therapy. If you could see what he was like then, you’d see how far he’s come. How hard he to work to get where he is now. I’m proud of him. I don’t tell him that often enough. I should pretty get on that.”

“Well I may not know exactly what you’re talking about or what happened on this last job you worked, but he’s lucky to have you. You’re strong as hell. If you’ve managed to stick around through all of that and through all of whatever happened in Colorado...”

“I guess maybe I’m old fashioned in thinking that you don’t just walk away from things...from people...without trying to work on them first. And I know he comes across pretty intense, but he’s worth it. I wouldn’t have put all the time and the effort into it if he wasn’t.  He’s a big man with an even bigger heard. You just have to give him a chance.”

“Think he’ll give me a chance?”

“It’s going to take some time. It’s just who it is. He doesn’t like people in his space. Don’t let him get to you. He’s not doing it to hurt you. He’s doing it to protect himself.”

“Men are brilliant at that, aren’t they?” Salena smirks. “Guarding themselves like that? “

“And he’s twice as bad as your average man,” Esme says. “I love him...with all that I am and all that I have...but he’s exhausting.”

The other woman laughs at that. “You know what’s exhausting? Your children. Are they always like this?”

“Always. From the time they get up in the morning. They can’t sit still. Ever. They're all energy, stamina, and fearlessness. Have you seen my son’s face? He got into a fight at school. Defending his brother. Four older kids jumped him, and he kicked their asses. All of them. AT the same time. And I’m not naming names or finger pointing but guess what parent he gets THAT from. Here’s a hint: it’s not me.”

“I don’t think they got anything from you,” Salena remarks. “Are you sure you gave birth to them? Because not one of them looks like you.”

“Right?! I told you. I wasn’t joking. They all look like him. They’re exactly like him; head to toe. Inside and out. How unfair is that? Mind you, it’s still touch and go with Tanner. Personality wise. He’s on the fence but he leans more towards me.  That other ones? All Tyler.”

“Strong genes.”

“Whatever you do, do not say that to him. Because we’ll get into a conversation about it and you’ll have to hear about his dominate DNA and his super sperm and no one...and by no one, I mean me...wants to hear that.”

Salena laughs and reaches for the pitcher of sangria and fills both their glasses. Well you did get one that looks like you. That little nugget is definitely all mommy.”

“So far,” Esme agrees. “But she’s a tough little thing. She probably should still be in the hospital because of how small she was when she was born and all the problems she had, but she was not having any of it. There was no way she was staying there, and she proved all the doctors.  She is a little nugget,” she leans down and presses a kiss to Addie’s forehead, then places the empty bottle on the table and lifts her to her chest. “Won’t be for long eating the way she does, mind you.”

“Speaking of eating,” Salena comments. “I see something I’d like to eat.”

Esme glances towards what has captured her friend’s attention; both Tyler and Kyle standing at the side of the barbecue, the latter talking animatedly about one of his especially daring fireman rescues and dramatically flexing his biceps.  

“Okay as much as it grosses me out because he’s my brother. I’m hoping it’s Kyle you’re talking about and not my husband. Because I have to draw the line somewhere on comments I won’t allow.”

“Honey, your man is fine as hell and I was not expecting THAT when I walked over here today. Not in a million years was I expecting him to look like he does. When you said retired, I thought you meant old man retired. But I’d never disrespect you by taking things too far. I definitely was talking about your brother.”

“Ewww,” she wrinkles her nose in disgusts, then holds Addie out at arms lengths, one hand under her bum, the other supporting the back of her head. “...can you believe that, Addie?  Someone finding Uncle K attractive? Uncle Shrek is more like it.”

“I know you aren't talking about me,” he comments, as he steps up onto the patio, a slight sunburn gracing his broad shoulders, ball cap backwards on his head, sunglasses on.

“You’re the only uncle here so if the shoe fits...”

“See what I put up with?” He winks at Salena. “Thirty-five years of this. Her talking shit about me like that. You think she’s all sweet and cute? Try growing up with her. Pain in the ass.”

Esme smirks. “Kyle used to undress all my Barbies and put them in compromising positions together all over my doll house. And then he’d try and convince our mom that I did it.”

He grins at the memory. “You were a twisted little thing. Even then.”

“I was five! You were eight and sneaking peeks at Mike’s porn collection he kept under his mattress. Don’t even try to deny it. Perv.”

“I was...curious...” he reasons.

“He also used to like walking around in mom’s high heels. He used to steal them out of her closet and parade around like RuPaul.”

“Why is why my calves and my ass are as fabulous as they are,” Kyle concludes. “You ladies need anything? Kids want something to drink.”

“I’m fine,” Esme says. “But Addie needs something?”

“What’s that?”

She holds the baby out to him. “You’ll smell it in about five seconds.”

“Really, bean?” he grimaces as he takes her from her mother. “How does someone so small smell so bad?”

“Because she’s a Rake and they’re all rotten inside. Big and small. Thank you, big brother. You’re a gem.”

“And you’re still a pain in the ass,” he playfully retorts, and then disappears into the house.

“Oh yeah,” Salena sighs. “I would definitely eat that.”

“Please tell me you’re not talking about my brother’s ass when you’ve only known him for two days.”

“I don’t mean eat in a literal way. Or maybe I do. Because I’d let him eat mine like a cupcake.”

“Oh my God,” Esme nearly spits her drink across the table. “That’s my brother! And I have my kinks but...ewwww....” she gags. “...even I draw the line somewhere.”

“Oh, come on! You mean you’ve never done it or had it done?”

“No. Hell no. Just....” she makes a retching noise.  “...I think I’m going to puke.”

“Does he do that sort of thing?”

“I don’t know. He’s my brother. I don’t know what he does in the bedroom. I don’t even want to think about it. He did have an ex-girlfriend that was a dominatrix though.”

Salena’s eyes widen.  

“He met her when there was a fire at a sex show. I do not make this stuff up. It’s the honest to God truth. He’s a fireman. He has met women in the weirdest situations.”

“Has he ever been married? Any kids?”

“No and no.”

“Single?”

“Sadly, no. But he can be. Do you want him to be? I can make it happen.”

“I do not want you breaking him and his girlfriend up just for me.”

“Oh, I don’t like her anyway. We have history. And not good history, either. I can hook you up. Want me to take one of the team? I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do what?” Tyler asks as he joins them on the patio, Declan on his hip, wrapped in an oversized beach towel.

“Nothing,” she quickly and innocently replies. “I’m doing absolutely nothing. What are you doing?”

“I’m bringing you your kid. He wants mommy.”

“Sure he does. You’re his favorite. Don’t bring him here.”

“I’m busy doing shit. Here... go see mommy...” he places Declan in her lap then places a hand on the back of her neck and a kiss to her cheek. “Do I even want to know what you two are doing?” he asks, as he grabs a disposable plastic cup from a stack on the table and pours himself some of the sangria.

“We were just talking about eating ass,” Esme replies, and he scowls. “Were your ears burning, honey? Because they should have been.”

“We do a lot of weird shit, but we don’t do THAT.”

“Salena wants Kyle to eat her ass like a cupcake.”

He nearly chokes on a mouthful of sangria.

“You never learn your lesson about walking in on girl talk,” Esme says. “You wanted to know what we were doing, now you do. Hey,” she snags him by the wrist before he can walk away. “I need you to me a favor.”

“If it involves THAT, you married the wrong guy.”

“Salena wants to feel you up. Let her touch your arm.”

“What?” he laughs. “Why?”

“She told me that she asked you earlier today and that you said no. Because you said it was disrespectful towards me letting another woman do it. Which is very sweet, and I love you very much for, by the way.  So she asked me to ask you. If she could touch your arm.”

Tyler glances back and forth between the two women. “You’re kidding, right?”

“She’s curious. She’s never seen arms like that. She’s lived a sheltered life. If I didn’t know you, I’d want to touch them too. Please? Make her day. Just flex and let her feel them. I promise I won’t get mad.”

“You’re both fucked,” he declares, but relents; quickly flexing his left arm and allowing Salena’s hand to explore. Starting at the shoulder and travelling over both bicep and tricep before ending up on his forearm. “You’re lucky I love you,” he says to his wife, palms coming to rest on the arms of her chair as he leans down to kiss her; long, soft, and enough to make her toes curl.

“Do I get kissed like that too?” Salena inquires as he walks off, frowning when she gets the middle finger in response.

“That wasn’t so bad was it?!” Esme calls after him. “I love you! Just so you know!”

“I now understand why you have five kids,” Salena says. “Because if I had a body like that next me in bed every night...”

“Sorry. He’s taken. He’s all mine.”

“Lucky bitch.” Salena mutters, and then playfully digs her elbow into Esme’s side. “This must be the bonus kid.” she says, as Ovi steps through the sliding doors; giving a sheepish smile and a small wave, clutching a colorful bouquet of flowers in his other hand.  

“This one is my favorite,” Esme declares. “Just don’t tell the others.  Why are you all dressed up?” she asks him, studying the short-sleeved button down and his neatly pressed khaki pants. “You clean up good.”

“Just wanted to look good, I guess. These are for you,” he offers Esme the flowers. “Just because.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Ovi,” she presses a kiss to his cheek as he leans down to embrace her. “I wasn’t THAT mad at you. You didn’t have to get me flowers.”

“I know. But I wanted to.”

“I’m going to go and get a refill,” Salena announces, as she stands and grabs the nearly empty pitcher of sangria. “Seems like you two need to talk. And who knows, maybe Kyle needs some help.”

“My brother knows how to change a diaper,” Esme retorts. “No groping him in front of my kid!”

“I make no promises,” her friend laughs, and then disappears into the house.

****

Ovi slips into the chair alongside of her, greeting Declan enthusiastically as the toddler climbs off Esme’s lap and into his.  He’s a favorite with all the kids; affectionate and compassionate and possessing the patience of a saint.

Smiling, she lifts the flowers to her face and inhales deeply, then leans sideways in her chair and presses a kiss to his cheek. “They’re beautiful, thank you. That’s very sweet of you. Tyler’s going to be worried you’re setting the bar too high for him.”

Ovi chuckles at that.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she insists. “You know that, right? I don’t you buying me thing to get back on my good side. You could have just come and talked to me.”

“I know. I guess I was just afraid to. After what happened the other night, I was worried I’d only make things worse. I never meant for things to come out like that; I wanted to talk to you myself. I didn’t want you finding out like that.”

“Well Chloe has a real way of making a mess of things.” Esme concludes. “I guess she told you? That I confronted her. Gave her shit?”

Ovi nods.

“She said a lot of things that were out of line. About me. About my kids. About Tyler. And you know defensive I get. Especially about him. He’s the person she should be talking shit about. Considering he’s the reason you’re even here. That he nearly died making sure you even got to see your fifteenth birthday.”

‘I know. And I told her that. That she had no right saying things about him. That he doesn’t deserve it.”

“No. He doesn’t. And you know what else he doesn’t deserve? Getting dragged back into this bullshit. He gave it up, Ovi. The job. He walked away. Not just to save himself, but to keep his family together. You know important that is to him. Having a family.”

“I do,” Ovi confirms.

“Then why couldn’t you just let him have a life? Why couldn’t you just let him rest? He deserves that. Hasn’t he done enough? Hasn’t he sacrificed enough for the job? For you?”

“I didn’t mean to drag him into it. I just thought he could help with some things. Maybe do some easy jobs from time to time. Until we could get things off the ground.”

“There is no such thing as an easy job,” she argues. “There’s always a chance that something will go wrong. That you could get hurt.  Or worse. But then you went to Nik? Before you even talked to Tyler? What the hell? He’s the first person you should have went to.”

“I just wanted advice,” he attempts to explain. “About how to talk to him about it. And I figured...”

“The last person you should be going to about how to deal with Tyler is Nik. Trust me. She doesn’t even know how to deal with Tyler properly. She just knows how to take advantage of him and manipulate him. You realize that’s what she did, right? That she used his PTSD against him and all the fear he had about not being to provide for his family. She completely fucked with his head. That’s not okay, Ovi. That’s nowhere near okay. Yet you turn around and trust her before you trust him?”

“I never thought about all of that,” he admits. “And I really did only go to her for advice. And then she offered me a job and...”

“Did you really tell her that you felt you something to prove to him?”

Ovi blinks. “What?”

“She told Tyler that he’s the reason you started thinking about the job.  That he made you feel as if you needed to prove to him that you were worthy of his love. That you were worthy of being treated like one of his kids.”

“I never said that. I would never say that.:

“Are you sure? Because that’s what Nik told him. That he’s the reason you wanted to do the job. That he made you feel like you had to.”

“I would never say that!” he insists. “Not everything he’s done for me. Not just in Dhaka but when he came to Mumbai to help, when he talked to my father about letting me live with you, everything in Colorado, and now here.   I would never say that about him. And he’s never made me feel like that. Ever.”

“Are you bullshitting me? Because if I find out you’re lying to me and you did say all that about him...”

“I swear! On my mother’s grave. I never said anything like that. And I never will. Why would Nik tell him that?”

“Because she’s Nik,” Esme grumbles. “Because she wants to manipulate him into her helping. And it worked. You know he agreed, right? To help you. To train you?”

He nods.

Esme scoffs. “You’re going to need a bigger set of balls because he is going to hard core on you. He won’t show you any mercy. You think basic training for the military sounds tough? This will be ten times worse. And when he’s in that ‘zone’, he’s ruthless. Savage. He will break oyu. I’m not even joking. You really think you’re ready for that?”

“I guess I’ll find out.”

“Oh you’re going to find out. When he has you passing out or puking all over the place. I am telling you; you need to be prepared. You need to be ready. Because he will not go easy on you. He might even go even harder on you than anyone else. Consider yourself warmed.

Ovi sighs heavily.

“Why are you even doing this?” she asks. “Getting involved in the job? I don’t get it. I can’t even wrap my head around it. After everything that happened in Dhaka. Everything you saw. Why? Was that not traumatizing enough? Because it sure as hell was for me. And I already had firsthand experience in absolutely shit shows. But that? On the bridge? That was fucked up, Ovi. And I don’t think I’ll ever get over that.”

“You went through more than I did,” he attempts to reason. “You stayed there. With him.”

“Well someone had to because Nik sure as shit wasn’t sticking around.  And this isn’t about me and what I did. This is about you wanting to do the job and me not understanding why. Is it Chloe? Did she put you up to this?”

“I swear it was not her.”

“Then what the hell? It’s not Tyler. It’s not Chloe. Is it me? Did I say something or do something because I...?”

“No!” Ovi interjects. “It’s definitely not you. You’re my mom. The only mom I’ve ever had. That I remember. It’s not you.”

“Then help me understand this,” she implores. “Because I don’t get it. I don’t get why...after everything you’ve been through and after everything that Tyler’s been through...you’d want that life.”

“I honestly don’t know,” he admits. “I just want to do it. I have to do it.”

“That makes absolutely zero sense. Ovi, you need to listen to me. Because I’m going to talk you like a mother. Actually, I am going to resort to begging you. Forget about this. The job. Don’t do this. It is not the life you want and it’s not the life I want for you. I’ve lived that life. Long before you came along. Before Tyler even came along. I have seen what happens to people. Good people that thought they could handle the job and couldn’t. And it didn’t end well. The job destroys you. Slowly. It kills you from the inside out. Until you either put a bullet in your brain or someone else does it for you.”

He nods slowly and swallows heavily, considering her brutally honest words.

“The job never lets you go,” Esme continues. “Even when you walk away. You see that. You’ve been with us for five years now.  You see what it’s done to Tyler. You know the demons he battles with every minute of every day. You’ve seen him when he’s been in the darkest possible places and he’s wanted to kill himself. You’re here on the days he can’t even get out of bed. Why would you want that for yourself? I don’t want that for you. And I know Tyler doesn’t want that for you.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes back tears. “That he’s gone through all of that. That he still goes through it.”

“But you’re still going to do it, aren’t you.  You’re still going to go through with this.”

He nods.

Sighing heavily, she shakes her head in disbelief, then places her elbow on the arm rest and her cheek on her palm.  She glances out towards the pool where Tyler now stands at the edge; arms crossed over his chest as he looks down at Millie, who's in the midst of a rather animated tale, hands wildly moving and gesturing with nearly every word. She’s tall and lanky yet still looks so tiny alongside of him, and when stops talking she copies his stance of arms over chest, hip slightly cocked to the side.  Their resemblance uncanny as they stare one another down; same color and texture of hair, same skin tone, same facial expression.

He breaks first, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. And Millie giggles when he effortlessly scoops her up off the ground with one arm, then shrieks when he tosses her into the water. The twins want in on the action and they quickly scramble for the ladders on the sides of the pool, their bare feet smacking against the deck as they rush towards him.  The fun lasts for several minutes; the kids squealing and each time they’re hurled into the water, making it a competition on who can make the biggest and loudest splash. There’s a smile on Tyler’s face. A genuine smile. For a long time, he’d had to force them for the sake of the kids; the depression so powerful and profound that most days just putting one foot in front of the other was considering tremendous progress. But it’s real now; lighting up his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. And it’s so beautiful.

“Ovi,” Esme begins, as she struggles to hold back the fold of threatening to me. “I need you to listen to what I’m about to say. And it’s going to sound super harsh and I’m sorry for that and you know that I love you like you’re one of my own.”

He nods.

“But if something happens and you fuck up and you need Tyler to come and save your ass, you better make sure he comes home. Alive. Because if he doesn’t, I will never...ever...forgive you. Do you understand me? If something happens to him and he doesn’t make it out of there and you do, I will spend the rest of my life hating you. Because that is my husband. The father of my children. The love of my life. And if he dies, I will hold you responsible and I will make sure it haunts you until you take your last breath.”

The sliding door opens and Salena and Kyle step out, chatting and laughing as if they’ve been friends forever, Salena now sporting his baseball hat.  And Kyle frowns when he sees his sister’s tear stained face and her attempts at brushing away the remnants of her emotional meltdown.

He glares at Ovi. “What the hell did you do to my sister?”

“Nothing,” Esme answers for him, using the back of her hand to clean up the last of the tears. “You know how I get; how I cry for the stupidest reasons sometimes. I just had a baby three weeks ago. My hormones are still messed up.”

“You sure?” her brother asks. “Because...”

“Because what? What are you going to do, K? Beat him up? I already have one overprotective man in my life, I don’t need another. I’m fine. It’s just my emotions; all over the place.” She gives him a reassuring smile as she pushes her chair away from the table and stands up. “I’m going to go in and start bringing things out. If you want to hold onto little bean there...”

“You kidding? I’m going to hold her forever. I’m never giving this one back.”

“You might have to fight her for over that.  He’s sort of attached to her. That’s his last one and he’s enjoying it all he can.”

Kyle shakes his head. “I keep telling you both. Go for the even half dozen. The procedure can be reversed and then just get it done again after the sixth.”

“Yeah, that’s a no from me, Kyle.  We’ve reached our limit. Five is fine. Neither of us are OCD enough to make it an even number.”

“One more,” he encourages. “A boy.”

“You’re insane. Three boys are enough. More than enough. You want babies, you have them. Find someone that’s actually willing to have sex with you and put your spawn in them. My baby making days are over, thank you very much.”

“I’m kind of one Kyle’s side here,” Salena says. “One more wouldn’t hurt. And you guys make really cute kids, so...”

“No more babies,” Esme insists. “That’s it. We’ve reached the end of the line. And don’t even think about putting this bullshit in Tyler’s head because he comes to me and suddenly thinks another one is a good idea, I’m coming to kick both your asses.”

“Do you want some help?” Salena inquires as Esme heads for the door.  “I don’t mind.”

“I’m fine. I’ll call you if I need you. You’re a guest. So just sit down and do guest stuff. Or get Kyle to flex and feel up his arm. So you can see the difference. Boy versus man. And you’re the former, Kyle. In case there was any doubt.”

“That’s harsh,” he complains. “My arms are just as big.”

“Sure,” his sister agrees. “If you put both of yours together. Then they’re as big as one of Tyler’s.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re a savage, kid. A straight savage.”

“Personally. I think your arms are just right.” Salena drawls, then gives him a wink before following her friend into the house.

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #extraction #best part of me #chris hemsworth character

[niallsstainedcoffeecup]

The Third Birthday Party

Harry and Y/N plan the perfect birthday party for their son, Oliver.  Whenever the party strays from the plans, Y/N panics while Harry calms down his wife.  I hope you all enjoy.  Feedback and Requests are welcomed.  Lots of Love! ----------------------------------------

          The black lamp cast a warm, yellow glow around the bedroom.  The fresh paper pages brushed across Harry’s fingertips while Y/N’s whirring laptop eliminated the comfortable silence in the room. Harry pushed the thick, black glasses further up the bridge of his nose.  An exasperated sigh parted Y/N’s lips, a common noise Harry heard when Y/N emailed co-workers, but Harry counted five irritated sighs within the last hour, five sighs on a Friday were rare.  Harry tucked the homemade bookmarker, the one Oliver created last week in daycare, between the page’s spine.  He placed the folded glasses onto his nearby bedside table.           “Okay, what’s wrong?” Harry asked, facing Y/N’s scowling face.           Y/N huffed, keeping her eyes locked on the computer screen, “I’m looking over Oliver’s birthday itinerary.  Did you double-check with the museum about having that dinosaur man attend the party?”           Harry nodded, recalling the conversation with the museum’s secretary, who promised Mr. Archie Ohlogist would attend Oliver’s third birthday party.  Oliver adored dinosaurs, and when Anne took Oliver to the museum, Mr. Archie Ohlogist informed Oliver about the dinosaurs through cheerful tunes.            “Why do you keep checking the itinerary? Why does our three-year-old’s birthday party have an itinerary?  We never stressed over his birthday before,” Harry mumbled, pressing his lips to Y/N’s shoulder.           Y/N huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose, “We never stressed over his birthday because he couldn’t remember them. Your grandmother told me that children begin remembering memories when they turn three.  I do not want Oliver’s first memory to be about the worst birthday party ever.  He will think we are the worst parents.”           Harry chuckled, slipping the laptop from Y/N’s grip, “Love, you are far from the worst parent.  Tomorrow, Oliver will have the best birthday.”           Y/N giggled, cupping Harry’s jaw, “I love you. What would I do without you?”           Harry’s smug grin spread across his face, “You would still be looking over that itinerary.  I love you too.”           Y/N pressed her lips onto Harry’s rosy lips, “We should go to bed.”           “Are you sure?  We can practice making Oliver a new sibling,” Harry purred, nuzzling his nose against Y/N’s warm neck.           Y/N giggled, pulling Harry’s head away from her neck, “No, Oliver expects pancakes in the morning, and he only eats daddy’s pancakes.”           Harry smirked, flicking the lamp’s switch until the darkness swallowed the room, “I can add chef onto my long list of talents.”           Y/N snorted, wrapping her arms around Harry’s waist while she nuzzled her head against Harry’s back, “I wish I listened when the fans warned me about your praise kink.”           Harry chuckled, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s knuckles before closing his eyes.  The comfortable silence returned, lulling the couple to sleep.  Harry’s warm body washed away the worries from Y/N’s dreams. *          *          *          *          *          *

          Tiny footsteps approached the white bedroom door.  Oliver clutched the stuffed lime-green dinosaur under one arm while his other hand twisted the doorknob.  He tiptoed toward the loud snores coming from Harry’s open mouth. Oliver reached up, poking Harry’s bare bicep until Harry startled awake.             “Hey, little man.  Happy birthday,” Harry croaked out, gripping Oliver’s small hips to lift him onto the mattress.           Oliver giggled, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck, “Thank you, daddy.  Can we wake up mommy?”           Drool trailed down Y/N’s chin and onto the dark sheets.  Stray strands of hair covered her forehead while the rest tickled Harry’s arm.  Harry chuckled, glancing down at his beautiful wife’s fluttering eyelashes, “No, we better leave her asleep.  Are you excited about your party?”           Oliver nodded fervently, “Nana Anne and Aunt Gem are coming.”           Harry chuckled, tickling his son’s chubby stomach, “Do you love Aunt Gem more than me?”           Oliver squealed, squirming in Harry’s arms, “No, I love you because you’re my daddy.  I love Aunt Gem because she gives me chocolate.”           Harry nodded, “That is a good reason to love Aunt Gem.  Well, we need a proper breakfast to leave us energized for the party.  Should we eat oatmeal?”           Oliver scowled, sticking his pink tongue out to show his disgust.           Harry chuckled, cupping his jaw while acting as if he were deep in thought, “Hm, should we eat eggs?”           Oliver shook his head, pouting the more his father did not understand that he despised eggs.             Harry gasped, “What if we cooked pancakes?”           Oliver’s beaming grin spread across his face, “I want pancakes.”           Harry’s smile dropped, resulting in Oliver’s smile falling too, “We could make pancakes, but I can’t cook them alone.  I need two helpers, one person for mixing, and one person for reading the recipe.”           Oliver grinned, glancing down at the dinosaur still under his arm, “Theo and I can help you, daddy.”           “Theo the dinosaur can read?” Harry wondered aloud.           Oliver nodded, “He helps me read big books with mommy.”           Harry chuckled, “Okay, well, we better start on the pancakes.”           Harry carried the two tiny chefs toward the kitchen, where the pancake mix awaited Harry’s arrival.  Harry placed Oliver onto the gray marble counters while he scooped coffee grounds into the black coffeemaker.  A shocked gasp parted his lips when his eyes noticed the heavy rain trampling the freshly planted roses.  Yesterday, Harry and Y/N built sandpits, which contained plastic bones and treasure that the children could dig through during the party.  How could Oliver and his friends dig through the muddy sand and the rain? *          *          *          *          *          *

          Oliver dipped the thin pancake inside the syrup pool that he poured without Harry’s help.  Harry grinned, watching his son bounce his head from side to side while chewing the pancake.  Harry sipped the plain coffee and helped Oliver wipe the syrup rolling down his arm. Y/N shuffled into the kitchen, smiling widely at her son’s dimpled grin.           “Happy birthday.  Did daddy make you pancakes?” Y/N asked, pressing a kiss atop Oliver’s curly, brown locks.           Oliver nodded, pressing his sticky lips against Y/N’s cheek, “I like when daddy cooks pancakes because they don’t taste bad.”           Y/N giggled, rolling her eyes playfully, “You burn the pancakes once, and now, your son thinks you can’t cook.”           Y/N wiped the dried syrup off Oliver’s cheeks while ignoring Oliver’s complaints about being cleaned.  She decided she could wash the syrup off during Oliver’s bath.  She shuffled across the kitchen, wrapping her arms around Harry’s shoulders.           “Good morning, I missed you,” She whispered, pressing her lips onto Harry’s shoulder.           Harry spun around, smiling at his wife’s stunning smile, “I missed you too.”           Y/N giggled, brushed her lips along Harry’s soft lips.  Harry captured Y/N’s lips between his, allowing her to taste the mixture of syrup and coffee on his breath.  Y/N smiled, breaking the kiss before Oliver whined with disgust.             “Are you excited about your party?” Y/N asked, looking through the fogged kitchen window.           Y/N’s smile dropped the minute she spotted the rain pouring from the dark gray clouds hung above the neighborhood.  Her panicked mind roared over Oliver’s cheerful response.  Y/N and Harry planned the outdoor birthday party, without purchasing any inside activities, in case the weather turned their back on them like today.             Y/N spun around, noticing Harry’s sympathetic frown, “Have you checked the weather?”          Harry nodded, “The weatherman doesn’t see the rain stopping anytime soon.”           Y/N frowned, “We should cancel the party.”           Harry’s eyes widened, which led him toward Y/N’s tense figure, “Hey, it will be okay.  We can host the party inside.  I can go purchase a few games for the guests.  Oliver will still have the best birthday ever.”           Y/N smiled, hugging Harry’s sturdy figure, “I love you.  I will bath Oliver while you go to the shops.”           Harry nodded, kissing Y/N’s forehead before exiting the kitchen.  Y/N calmed her nervous heart with a few deep breathes before focusing her attention on the grinning little boy.  Oliver dipped his fingers inside the syrup pool, then dragged his fingers along the marble counters.  Y/N groaned, canceling Oliver’s art time by freeing him from the high chair.  She carried Oliver into the bathroom with the hope that the birthday could be saved. *          *          *          *          *          *

          Harry loaded the board game boxes into the sleek black car’s trunk.  He slipped the thin phone from his pocket, typing a new message to Y/N. Hey love, I bought enough board games for the party.  I’m heading home -H. The car’s engine roared to life while Harry skipped through radio stations.  Harry’s rings slapped against the steering wheel to the catchy beat.  An incoming call interrupted the radio host’s laser hair removal ad.           “Hello?” Harry answered, turning the radio down.           “Hello, is this Mr. Styles, this is Elizabeth with the museum,” The young girl mumbled softly.           Harry frowned, “Yes, this is Mr. Styles. Is there a problem?”           “I’m afraid there is a problem.  You hired Mr. Archie Ohlogist for your son’s birthday; however, Mr. Archie Ohlogist called in sick with the flu,” The young girl mumbled through fear.           Harry’s knuckles turned white from the grip around his steering wheel.  He promised Y/N that Oliver’s birthday party would happen without any problems, but here they were without the main entertainment.  Harry thanked the young girl for informing him, but his heart sunk when he pulled into the driveway.  He dropped the board games near the front door and kicked the wet loafers from his feet. His ears caught Y/N and Oliver singing along with Mr. Archie Ohlogist’s dinosaur rap album, which only worsened the churning in Harry’s stomach.  Harry trudged upstairs until he entered Oliver’s clean room.  Y/N buttoned Oliver’s salmon pink pants that she paired with Oliver’s black and white dinosaur shirt.  Y/N spotted Harry, shooting him a grin that faded once she spotted the pain in his eyes.           “Oli, I need to talk to your father.  Can you stay in here?” Y/N asked, wiping the stray curls from his eyes.           Oliver nodded, walking across the room toward the toybox filled with costumes and toys.  Y/N followed Harry into the hallway, where Oliver couldn’t hear the bad news.           “What happened? Y/N asked, crossing her arms across her chest.           Harry frowned, “Mr. Archie canceled on us. He caught the flu, so he won’t be here.”           Y/N shook her head, “Are you joking?  I can deal with rain, but now, the one person that our son wanted at his birthday party will not be here?  What will I tell him?  He will remember this birthday as the one where he wanted Mr. Archie, and we surprised him with some knock-off instead.”           Harry chuckled, wrapping his arms around his wife’s tense figure, “Hey, it will be okay.  One year, I asked my mom for batman pajamas, and she surprised me with spider man pajamas.  I didn’t get what I wanted for my birthday, but that didn’t matter because I got a gift while other kids never got gifts.  Our son will be okay.”           Y/N nodded, pressing her lips onto Harry’s lips, “I love you.  Will you tell Oli about the change of plans?”           Harry nodded, heading inside Oliver’s room while Y/N jogged downstairs.  She listened to Harry and Oliver sing Harry’s album while she cleaned around the living room. Her heart reassured her that Oliver would remember this birthday with positive memories. *          *          *          *          *          *

          The doorbell’s chime informed Oliver’s eager heart that one of his guests arrived.  A squeal bubbled past Oliver’s lips while his tiny hands shoved past Harry’s long legs. Oliver’s small feet carried him faster than the wind toward the front door.           “Who is it?” Oliver sang, reaching for the handle.           A muffled giggle slipped through the door, “Oli, it’s Aunt Gemma and Nana Anne.”           Oliver trusted the voice behind the door, but before his fingers could twist the knob, Harry’s booming voice startled Oliver’s hands away, “Oliver Styles, what have mommy and I told you about opening the door for strangers.”           Oliver pouted, facing his father’s furrowed eyebrows, “Aunt Gem told me that it was her.”           Harry frowned, scooping his son into his arms, “I understand, but that person behind the door could lie to you.  You should wait for mommy or daddy to open the door.”           Harry swung the door open, inviting his sister, his sister’s boyfriend, and his mother into the warm house.  Anne, Gemma, and Michal ditched their soggy shoes and dripping umbrellas.             “How is my birthday boy?” Anne asked, stealing Oliver from Harry’s arms.           Oliver giggled, dodging Anne’s lips that pressed kisses across his soft face, “I’m well.  Nana, did you see the rain?”           Anne nodded, “I did see the rain.  I’m glad that we are inside, so we don’t get sick.”           Oliver nodded eagerly, making everyone laugh from his antics, which caused him to crack more jokes.  Anne grinned, recalling moments when a three-year-old Harry performed music for his grandparents to bring smiles to their faces. She couldn’t believe how much Oliver acted like Harry did growing up.             “Can I hold the birthday boy?” Gemma asked, reaching for Oliver.           Anne grinned, passing a beaming Oliver toward Gemma.  Anne followed everyone into the living room, where she greeted Y/N and Harry without the toddler in her arms.  Gemma plopped herself and Oliver onto the black couch beside Michal.           “Do you feel old?” Gemma asked, poking Oliver’s dimple that all the Styles inherited.           Oliver giggled, shaking his head, “I’m still a baby.  Did you bring chocolate?”           “Oliver, we do not ask other people for candy,” Y/N warned the now pouting Oliver.          Gemma grinned, “It’s okay, Y/N.  I know that my nephew isn’t a mean kid.  He happens to be the sweetest little boy ever, and that is why Uncle Michal and I brought you some chocolate.”           Oliver cheered, yanking the chocolate bar from Gemma’s hands, “Thank you.”           Gemma nodded, admiring the way Michal helped Oliver unwrap the chocolate bar.  Harry grinned, wrapping his arm across Y/N’s shoulders.           “Thank you for giving our child sugar.  I can’t wait until you and Michal have children so I can fill them up with sugar,” Harry chuckled at Gemma’s playful glare.           Anne rolled her eyes, laughing softly at her children, “Y/N, they never grow up.  They can be twenty-something, and still, act like children.”           Y/N giggled, pressing her lips to Harry’s cheek, “Trust me, sometimes I feel like I have two children rather than one. When we go grocery shopping, Harry and Oliver whine until I let them leave for frozen yogurt while I finish the shopping.”           Harry pouted, crossing his arms over his chest, biting back the smile that threatened to unravel when everyone laughed.           Y/N pressed her lips against Harry’s dimple, “I’m kidding.  I love you.”           A dazed smile replaced Harry’s pout as he admired Y/N’s beauty, “I love you too.”           “Aunt Gemma, can we play hide and seek?” Oliver asked, wiping his chocolate-covered hands onto his t-shirt.           Gemma agreed, cleaning Oliver’s hands with a nearby napkin.  Gemma counted while Oliver and Michal searched for hiding places.  Y/N, Harry, and Anne watched Oliver play while they discussed recent events.  Y/N’s eyes noticed the clock ticking the time away, which left her wondering where the rest of Oliver’s guests were. *          *          *          *          *          *

          The messages flooded Y/N and Harry’s phones.  Adam and his family couldn’t attend the party because one of Adam’s kids caught the flu.  Oliver’s preschool friend, Danny, couldn’t attend the party because his mother couldn’t drive through the heavy rain.  Another friend would not attend the party because the parents did not get off work early. The guest list slowly dwindled until the only guests were the three guests, who were currently dancing with Oliver. Y/N huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose while Harry mumbled reassuring messages into Y/N’s tense shoulders.           “Hey, Oliver doesn’t care about the guests. Look how much fun he is having with my family,” Harry mumbled, peppering kisses up Y/N’s neck.           Y/N shrank from Harry’s lips, “Harry, I do not need your positivity right now.  What will Oliver remember from this birthday?  Nobody showed up, his parents failed to book his favorite dinosaur man, and we could not celebrate outside because of the rain.”           “The party might not fit our expectations, but our son loves the party.  He doesn’t need sandpits, tons of guests, and the dinosaur man for his birthday because we taught our son that all he needs is his family.  We did not fail our son, and we are not bad parents.  I love you, but I need you to stop worrying about Oliver’s memories.  I can barely remember shit from when I was three,” Harry firm lips and furrowed brows presented his stern message.           Y/N frowned, “I apologize for freaking out about the birthday party.  I want the best for Oliver, and I took things negatively when they didn’t work out with my plan.”           Harry captured Y/N’s lips with his own, pulling her body closer until their chests were flush against each other. Y/N smiled, wrapping her arms around Harry’s neck while Harry’s tongue explored her warm mouth.  Her fingers raked through his short curly hair, which brought Harry’s soft groans out.             “Oi, I didn’t visit your house to watch you two make out.  You better pull that roasted chicken from the oven before it burns,” Gemma scolded the blushing couple.           Y/N lowered her head, tearing away from Harry’s arms to grab the chicken from the oven.  Harry chuckled, catching his breath while avoiding his sister’s disgusted expression.  Gemma poured the sparkling red wine into glasses, holding back the laughter that stemmed from her brother and sister-in-law’s embarrassed grins.           “Well, I will leave you two to finish dinner. I pray that you focus on the food this time rather than one another’s mouths.  Your son is starving,” Gemma joked, shooting Y/N a wink before disappearing from the kitchen.           Y/N rolled her eyes, smirking at Harry’s flushed cheeks, “We are never making out with your family here again.”           Harry gasped, “Why not?  Gemma doesn’t care if we make out.  She’s lucky that she walked in on us making out, rather than us fucking.”           Y/N’s eyes widened, “Harry, your mother is in the next room.  Could you be any more vulgar?”           Harry smirked, pressing his palms against the cool marble counter, “I could, would you like to see it?”           Y/N chuckled, rolling her eyes, “Shut up, and help me carry the food into the dining room.”           Harry nodded, slapping his wife’s butt before grabbing the mashed potato dish from the counter.  Y/N rolled her eyes playfully before following Harry with the roasted chicken dish.  After the couple placed the dishes onto the dining room table, the family gathered around the table for the birthday feast.  Oliver munched on his favorite meal, roasted chicken with mashed potatoes and peas.  He finished the meal with the thought of birthday cake lurking within his mind. *          *          *          *          *          *

          “Happy birthday to you,” Everyone sang, watching Oliver’s dimpled grin grow wider with each verse.           Oliver’s eyes flickered between his singing family and the dinosaur-themed cake.  The brown frosting mimicked mud puddles that the plastic dinosaurs walked through.  The green frosting mimicked the grassy field where fondant trees grew.  Once everyone hit the last note, Oliver inhaled deeply, puffing his cheeks out before blowing onto the three rainbow candles.  He repeated the action until he extinguished all three candles.  Everyone clapped while Harry sliced the cake into individual slices.  Oliver licked his lips, poking his fork into the spongey chocolate cake.           “Who made the cake?” Anne asked, eating around the sugary icing.           Y/N grinned, wiping green frosting from Oliver’s eyebrow, “I found a local bakery that specializes in children’s cakes. The lady met with me and Oliver, where she sketched out Oliver’s dream cake.”           “That’s awesome.  The cake tastes delicious.  Do you like it, Oli?” Michal asked, chuckling when his nephew nodded through his mouthful of cake.           “Oliver isn’t the type to refuse any cake,” Harry informed his family.           Y/N giggled, nodding her head, “One time, Oliver visited my grandfather’s house, where he found my grandfather’s carrot cake.  The cake contained more carrot than actual spice cake, but Oliver finished every crumb and even licked the plate.”           Oliver chuckled as if he couldn’t believe the silly story.  The table erupted into laughter, which only increased Oliver’s giggles.  Once Oliver finished his slice of birthday cake, Y/N and Harry knew Oliver had an hour of energy left until he crashed.  If the couple waited any longer to unwrap presents, then Oliver would grow cranky from the need for sleep. *          *          *          *          *          *

          Oliver’s small hands ripped the sparkly green wrapping paper from the box.  Harry knelt beside his son’s small frame.  He helped Oliver rip the stubborn wrapping paper from the white box.  Once Oliver tore off the final piece of wrapping paper, he opened the white box, which contained gray and red dinosaur pajamas.           “A new set of dinosaur pajamas.  What do we say to Nana Anne?” Y/N asked, patting Oliver’s back.           Oliver smiled, toddling toward Anne’s open arms, “Thank you, Nana Anne.”           “You’re welcome, my sweet boy.  I also brought you a second gift,” Anne mumbled, pressing her lips against Oliver’s forehead.           Oliver returned to the pile of gifts, where he found Anne’s second gift.  He tore the box open, revealing two new stuffed animals.  Oliver squealed, dropping the gray dinosaur for the pastel pink unicorn.  Last week, Anne visited the shops with Oliver and Y/N.  In the toy store, Oliver stumbled past pink and blue princess costumes toward the pastel pink unicorn.  Anne purchased the toy without Oliver’s knowledge, while Y/N showed him the new costumes.           “What’s her name?” Harry asked, rubbing his son’s back.           Oliver snorted, “Daddy, Ron isn’t a girl.”           Harry chuckled, nodding fervently, “Right, I apologize.  Men can like the color pink too.  Does Ron like the color pink?”           Oliver grinned, “He loves the color pink.”           Gemma and Michal purchased Oliver a new racecar set.  Harry and Y/N showered Oliver with multiple gifts that ranged from new outfits created by Harry’s stylists, toys, children books, and costumes that ranged from pink feather boas to a miniature Elvis costume.  Oliver thanked everyone for the gifts with a hug and a kiss.  Gemma lifted Oliver onto the couch, where he snuggled into her side while Harry and Y/N cleaned up the piles of torn wrapping paper.  Y/N glanced up from the sparkly paper toward her son’s drooping eyes.             “He’s going to sleep good tonight,” Michal whispered, chuckling when Oliver’s head jerked backward startling him awake.           Harry hummed in agreement, “Oli, what do you say that we give you a bath and put you in your new pajamas?”           Oliver shook his head, burying his face further into Gemma’s side.  Gemma smiled, rubbing Oliver’s back.           “We can bath him tomorrow.  He didn’t make a total mess with the cake,” Y/N mumbled, cutting the tags from Oliver’s outfits.           Harry nodded, “Okay, Gem, do you mind holding him for a bit longer?  Y/N and I want to clean the kitchen before we go to bed.”           “I don’t mind.  I love cuddling with my nephew,” Gemma promised, wrapping her arm around Oliver.           “I can help you two,” Anne whispered, following Y/N and Harry into the kitchen.             The excitement quieted down the minute Oliver’s tiny snores echoed throughout the silent living room.  Gemma and Michal cuddled with Oliver while Y/N, Harry, and Anne cleaned the kitchen from dinner.   *          *          *          *          *          *

          “You have a real special kid.  Call us anytime you two need a babysitter,” Gemma hugged Y/N and Harry.           “Thank you for coming.  You three gave Oliver a birthday that he won’t forget,” Y/N mumbled, hugging Anne, Gemma, and Michal.           Y/N took Oliver’s sleeping figure from Harry’s sturdy arms.  She carried the heavy toddler toward his bedroom.  Harry’s heart fluttered, and a smile spread across his face as he watched his wife carry their son toward the room.  Once Y/N disappeared into the dark hallway, Harry faced his smirking family.           “Harry, you are blessed.  Y/N is an incredible mother and wife, and Oliver is such an angel.  I hope you cherish them,” Anne reminded Harry.           Harry nodded, hugging his mother, who never became used to Harry’s lifestyle.  She often reminded him about the day when a sixteen-year-old Harry entered the world of fame forever.  Now that Oliver entered the world, Harry understood the sorrow yet pride that she felt. Harry hoped Oliver chased his dreams, but he would struggle to let him travel across the world at sixteen.           “I love you, mom,” Harry pressed a kiss to Anne’s temple.           Anne pecked Harry’s nose, “I love you too. I hope you three have a wonderful night.”           Harry waved goodbye as the car drove off down the narrow streets.  Harry closed the front door, tiptoeing toward Oliver’s bedroom, where he heard Oliver gushing about his birthday party.  Oliver’s groggy voice mumbled incoherent praises while Y/N tucked him into the blue sheets.           “Thank you, mommy, for the best birthday ever,” Oliver whispered, shutting his eyes.           Y/N smiled, pecking Oliver’s forehead, “You’re welcome.  I love you, Oli.  Sleep tight.”           Y/N flicked the lamp switch off and maneuvered past the toys strewn across the floor.  A squeal flew past her lips the minute she closed Oliver’s bedroom door and found Harry standing there.  Harry chuckled, dodging his wife’s soft slaps as she calmed her breathing.           “What did Oli say?” Harry asked, tugging his wife toward their bedroom.           Y/N grinned, “He thanked us for his birthday party.”           Harry tutted, shuffling across the bedroom toward their bed, “No, I heard him thank you.  You saved the day.”           Y/N shook her head, walking until Harry tumbled backward onto the bed, “We saved the day.  I couldn’t do it without you being there to calm me down.  You were right.  Everything would be okay.”           Y/N straddled Harry’s waist, admiring the way the moonlight splashed across his face.  Her eyes traced the freckles dotted around his tan skin until they landed on his rosy lips.  She lowered her head, brushing her lips against Harry’s stubbly jaw.           Harry groaned, “I love when you tell me that I was right.  Can you say it again?”           “You were right,” Y/N purred, trailing her lips down Harry’s neck.           Harry chuckled darkly, “I love you.”           “I love you too.  I also think you were right about practicing for making another baby. Maybe we should start practicing,” Y/N sat up, searching Harry’s eyes for disapproval.           A wide grin unraveled across Harry’s face, “Yeah?  You want another baby with me?”           Y/N nodded, biting back the dazed grin, “I want more children with you.”           Harry giggled, pressing his lips onto Y/N’s lips.  The couple shared urgent kisses as if each kiss might be their last.  Y/N’s heart fluttered from Harry’s excitement and the feeling of his lips on hers.  Later that night, Y/N and Harry discussed their hopes for the future.  Harry and Y/N couldn’t wait until another baby entered their lives.

#mine #writing #story #fanfiction #fanfic #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #one direction #one direction imagine #one direction imagines #1d #1d imagines #1d imagine

[twitchesandstitches]

Average Day for Hyper Muscle Polypa

commission for a slice of life story featuring the hyper amazonian and muscle gut Polypa from one of my most frequent comm-ers!

Features hyper muscle, mini-giantess aspects, and a vore scene later on.

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It took some time for the mutated troll woman, Polypa Gozee, to wake up all the way. She rolled and shifted around in her recuperacoon for a while, her impossibly muscular and oversized body straining the poor device’s ability to contain her. The questionably fleshy recuperacoon’s surface was strained particularly hard by one especially huge lump forcing out its front, and two significantly smaller (but still quite big) spheres on top of that. As she woke up, they shifted heavily, forced this way and that way as she slowly got to her feet inside the sopor slime. And then, she yawned heavily, so hard that the windows of her hive almost rattled. And then, there was a gurgling growl from her massive stomach that did make the windows shake almost out of their frames, and the sound knocked down a couple trolls who had been walking past the huge and overbuilt complex of her hive.

It was surprisingly large for an oliveblood, who never got the kind of resources for something like that. But when it came to questions about Polypa, her hive being too big was really the least of it.

And in any case, even her hive, engineered as it was to cope with her unique and empire-compliant mutations, couldn’t quite cope with the kind of power even her hungry rumblings could perform.

Consider a view through her hive, through its many winding hallways, its twisting corridors, the walls with handholds put into them near furniture at just the right angle for beings of a considerably smaller size to move up, and a general sense of scale. Walking into this home was a bit like being transported into a world where you were suddenly far smaller than you ought to be; everything suddenly looked massive.

It was also the home of a fangirl, it seemed. Finished assembly kits for many different series lined the shelves end to end, arranged into complicated dioramas telling their own self-contained stories. Models and miniatures, patiently handpainted with a few sloppy mis-strokes that indicated someone not well suited to precise movements, occupied display shelves.

And the scale of the rooms, and its furniture, were massive. Most trolls were giants compared to the unfortunate aliens they met, save perhaps for the mineral entities known only as the Gems, and the titanic shapeshifting robots known as the Autobots, whom had called an alliance together specifically to stonewall the Condesce so badly that in her frustration she had postponed her eternal conquest and allowed the adult trolls to return to Alternia, to repopulate and bide their time. And even so, the size of these rooms would make even the biggest troll brute feel like a lost infant wriggler. A chair alone, for instance, was more than ten feet across (by the measurements of humans, at least), and higher than most trolls were tall.

The walls were decorated in the colorful and bright shades of various animated series, some fairly obscure and some autographed in the careful, pictogram calligraphy of the written languages in the regions they had originated in. Most of these were of cute characters, with incredibly buxom, amazonian troll-women as the primary focus; given that the cultural expectation was for women to be more ruthless, cruel and ferocious than the smaller and frailer men, they also tended to be somewhat bloody and gory. Even the cutesy and lighthearted shows featured at least a few bloody heads on pointy sticks here and there. Fuchsia princesses predominated, their frilly dresses and armored attire suggesting a few popular trends from a troll genre broadly similar to the romantic and self-discovery of human shoujo series, but other posters, as well as a truly shocking breadth of collectable miniatures, models and dioramas constructed from those very collectibles, had the softer and more stylized looks of something like action-packed shonen series.

(Those were not quite the same terms as trolls themselves would have used, but in lieu of direct translations, those terms suffice to get the general vibe of those genres across.)

It bore some repeating that the collectibles weren’t just fairly diverse, but they were hand-painted, though not handcrafted. They’d clearly been bought from a store or assembled from kits, but they had been painted at home, with a lot of love, if not necessarily a lot of skill. They were something of a contrast to the bloody trophies kept in little glass desks throughout the home, like a predator’s way of saying ‘heck yeah, I killed THAT’.

They were unlabeled, preserved in jars and transparent boxes and even living jelly spheres that kept particularly brief things going, but they were clearly trophies from dead trolls. A broken horn there, its base scarred by some kind of horribly vicious digestive fluid that still tinted it olive-green. Several orange-red bones, preserved in fluid. More than one or two skulls, and there weren’t many of these larger trophies. There were necklaces and bracelets of teeth presumably taken from dead jaws, torn out and strung up, and it was always one tooth per kill. There were many necklaces, a bit bloody from their original owners, mostly in the colder shades.

There was another oddity of them; the hive was mainly made of a blend of the various living substances trolls built their homes out of, interlaced with a tough resin that was pretty similar to some plastics and provided al ot of structural strength, and the composite was a hardly material that would gradually heal most damage done to it. It was, after all, a living thing. However, this hive’s walls were coated in a glassy substance often used in fireproofing; it had a very high melting point, and saw a lot of industrial use. It protected the cases all her books, movies, animations and various collectibles were all set in, and the impression was that she was worried about fires. There were still a few scorch marks, here and there, in the shape of handprints and footprints.

Now, consider her bedroom.

It was a surprisingly small space. There were fewer collectibles and trophies compared to the rest of her home, and only a few photos. Most of those were on a small desk on the other side of the room from her recuperacoon, and generally showed her with the long-dead lusus who had raised her from wrigglerhood. There was one photo from before her adult molts, with her moirail Tegiri. The photo showed her towering over him even them, one buff arm looped around his neck, him with a stoic expression of long-suffering complacence, and the other photos of them largely followed this trend, even some of the more recent ones that had so much trouble fitting her into frame. Besides them were the ashes of her lusus, preserved in a jar. They were positioned in a way that the sleeper would immediately see them as soon as she woke up.

Most of the room was otherwise taken up by a monstrously huge recuperacoon; a gigantic cocoon, oozing a green ooze with sedative qualities to soothe the mindness rage and lust for blood inflicted upon trolls by mysterious entities in the distant past. It filled up the entire room, which was still a fairly large room despite being small by the hive’s general template standards, and was filled nearly to capacity by a very big, extremely feminine, and rather rigidly built body that had been tossing and turning for some time.

A pair of horns poked out the ground; using human measurements and scaling them up to troll size, they would perhaps have been about five feet long each and two feet wide, from a height of nearly 20 feet, bringing the height of the recuperacoon and its occupant at around 25 feet, by the measurements of trolls (which used different terminology, but was fairly close to the human Imperial measurements).

Both horns extended at an angle, branching into heavy hooks, and one had a large chunk broken out of it, still raw and green all these molts later. They rose up as Polypa groggily stood up to her full height in a slow and groggy way, her amazon figure looking like something being constructed out of the cocoon. It became clear, as the huge distensions at the front moved upwards, and the cocoon shrank inwards as more Polypa rose up, that it was almost all her. Massive shoulders rose out of the cocoon, each one at least a few feet around and looking even bigger from inhuman levels of muscular development; alien analogues to deltoids extending at least a foot away from her in ropey curls, the chitinous armor of her black skin adhering to her form as closely as latex.

The first impression of her was ‘no troll should be that big’. Her presence was a physical force, distorting attention around her like a lead weight shot of a cannon into a wall. The second impression was of sheer, unbelievable muscle mass, swelling out of her to such an extreme that it was hard to tell what was actually her main body, and what was muscle grown so huge and heavy that it had swelled out into a kind of meaty carapace.

Polypa kept rising upwards, and the two huge lumps surged out as a pair of gigantic rumble-spheres, or breasts by human nomenclature; if her belly had been slimmer, they would have dipped down all the way to her thighs, heavy and laden with some form of nectar. Certainly her nipples (or sap ducts, as trolls considered them) were enormously huge, puffy and ready to disgorge into a receptive mouth. Each rumble-sphere was wider than the entire circumference of her body by a foot or so, and would likely have projected out by eight feet, at the least.

They nonetheless looked small compared to her belly, which was the much larger lump beneath her boobs. It flopped out through the lip of the cocoon, which made it deflate and contract in relief around the rest of her admittedly still gargantuan body like a living film. Her stomach surged out and smacked heavily into the ground, denting the floor beneath it, and settled; all of Polypa’s body, nude as she was in the sopor, was absurdly muscular, her body mutated to increase her muscle development to the point that most of her apparent mass was…

Well. Very little of it was her actual body. She was a massive troll even for her size, but most of her bulk was just muscle mass grown straight from her body. Her head, dwarfed by her growth, poked out like someone piloting a mech made of muscles, and seemed startlingly small compared to her overall size.

This beefy carapace was bulkiest around a few specific areas, such as her arms and legs, but nowhere was more heavily muscled than her stomach. Round though it was, abdominal muscles completely encased it, so solidly defined they looked like carved markings on an anatomical engraving; latissimus dorsi like slabs lined the sides beneath her rumble-spheres, external oblique were a muscular rim jutting out over even her enormous hips, and her abdominals proper stuck out so much that they made her belly a surprisingly gravid globe.

That it was nearly as long as she was tall, and wider besides, gave such an awe-inspiring sense of mass. It gurgled faintly, mysterious chemical processes going on in that magnificent gut; it was the secret to her tremendous growth, it's perfect digestion breaking down all food and turning it into raw mass to fuel her increased size and muscle mass. Bones, trees, poisonous fungi, other trolls; if it was organic, Polypa could digest it and neutralize all poison, making them all nothing but fuel for her magnificent form.

It was quite sensitive, to boot; Polypa shivered as her nook and bulk (both swollen to extreme heaviness beneath her belly) rammed into its lower regions, and she grinded her hips into it as an automatic reflex, enjoying a particular abdominal crease she clenched around herself right there, and spent about five minutes ramming into herself, until the early morning lust resolved itself, and her head cleared.

Polypa stepped out of her cocoon, thighs nearly eight feet across and as hyper muscular as the rest of her moved out, her digitigrade legs flexing and the clawed toes powering her out of the cocoon. A short, slim tail bulging with more muscle slapped against a huge butt rather softer-looking than the rest of her body. Her mane of hair fluttered down, messy from the sopor and sliding against her butt too.

Sopor slime dripped off her face, off the scars. The burns were terrible, distorting almost all her face except for a small circle around one eye into a mass of off-green crags and pinched sections, the chitin there half-melted. Even her lips, massively puffy and swelling outwards, had uncomfortable streaks tinting them a faint green from those old injuries. The burns continued down her neck, at least until the swelling piles of her neck muscles swallowed them up.

The chitinous carapace of much of her body still bore some sign of those old burns, all the same. Down her back, a meandering trail across her arms, erratically spiraling around the base of her tail, and a few dappled spots on her thighs and finally the heavy tread of her feet, and even that was still scarred by old fire.

And as she walked out, her body shimmered, psionic energies in her eyes, and heat pulsed out from her hard enough to nearly evaporate the slime off her body on the spot.

With a grumble, Polypa sloughed off, dripping sopor slime off her nude body all the way to the showers, her digitigrade paws scraping her short claws against the ground, and her tail dragging behind to make little trails in that slime behind her.

The shower woke her up a little bit, though it wasn’t easy. Polypa didn’t do well in confined spaces, and even if her shower had been built for over a couple dozen trolls (if they didn’t mind getting unnecessarily intimate), she filled it pretty much to capacity. Her stomach did, mostly, which was the main issue. She kept bumping into things as the water washed the slime off her, and she hissed with suppressed pleasure as her stomach ground sensually into the hydration spigots. There was so much to… entice her. Polypa’s butt ground against the wall, her rumble-spheres were pushed into the ceiling, she had to wedge her face into those rumble-spheres just to avoid headbutting her own ceiling.

And then. Her soft and sensitive muscles pressing into each other with an overpowering friction with every other movement so that this tight space was a sweet kind of hell. And her rumble-spheres, packed tight and full as they were, kept getting pressed against each other, and her face, and the walls, and her own massive arms, and kept gushing out sparkling and frothy streams of green nectar right all over her front like a hose going off, so much that she almost screamed.

A lot of green fluids wound up washing down the drain when she was done. It wasn’t just her nectar either.

Polypa finished her shower, with some embarrassed difficulty, but figured it was best to get that sort of thing out of the way so the need as fierce as her hunger or various other cravings didn’t overwhelm her during her morning run.

A small towel hung by the shower, far too small to dry her off. And the reason why became clear, in this bathroom with the walls so very heavily reinforced by fire-preventing slabs. Heat pulsed from Polypa, and she felt her muscles swell up a bit as she tapped into just a small store of the psionic powers unlocked by her mutations. It was enough for her rather singular talent.

There was probably a technical term for it. In plain terms, she burst into flames.

Heat swirled around her as she glowed, her scars shining even brighter so that their ragged dips and swirls looked like mystical runes, and then she ignited completely, flames exploding from her. It whirled around her like an aura, blasting into every inch of the room with so much force that it was like an explosion going off. The room was reinforced to deal with it, and there was no damage caused.

After a few moments of this, Polypa shut it off. The flames that her body was continously creating and converting raw psionic energy into fire simply went out. She was left still smoking, an exhiliaration and rush still pulsing in her, and there was a faint steam from all the water being evaporated right off of her.

Polypa thought to get dressed, but the pressure in her rumble-spheres demanded otherwise.

She left her bathroom and went to a storage cabinet in one of her hallways. With a stoic expression, she hauled out a milker and slapped its cups to her engorged nipples, her rumble-spheres still totally full, and powered it on as she did her stretches: she bent low, tensing her back and adjusting her back shell and twisting her muscles in various directions, as the milker went to work. She panted in relief and pleasure, both from the feeling of her muscles working, and the sweet delight of being milked.

She twisted her arms up, one after another, and they were massive, broader across than the average troll’s entire body, her biceps nearly eight feet across each, bigger even than her torso. Her rumble-spheres bounced atop her gut, rivers of green flowing down the tubes, and she very carefully maneuvered her arms so she didn’t get lost in the moment and popped something loose; the mess would get everywhere. ...Again.

Then her hips; enormously wide even on her titanic body, swayed back and forth as she limbered up. This went on for about five minutes, and her industrial-grade milker sucked her nectar with commendable ferocity, its contents ejected in several tanks large enough to feed a dozen trolls each for a day. A large milking lusus might be expected to fill one or two a month; Polypa went through a dozen in just those five minutes alone. She kept doing more stretches, and ten minutes passed as she warmed up her body with a variety of movements to wake herself up as much as possible, until a faint burn suggested she was done.

Her belly rumbled, and a faint but demanded emptiness inside her beckoned. Polypa glanced at the many nectar tanks, and reached for the closest one.

The first to slake her hunger, but far from the last. A body like hers demanded a lot of food.

-----

A while later, her belly was stuffed with her own nectar and happily gurgling it away,, and Polypa set off at her morning run, to the expectant delight of the neighborhood.

Her belly was a bit more distended, sloshing audibly with each heavy slap against her bulbous thighs, a slight swelling in the lower regions suggesting various splinter-stomachs had been filled up and were happily digesting her breakfast. Polypa struggled to maintain her sense of decorum, frowning faintly. ‘Can’t believe I went through almost the entire morning stack’, she thought grimly, only a few of the tanks she’d produced tucked under one arm, ready to be sold.

She’d changed, too, after her milking; a sports bra did an admirable job of at least supporting her massive rumble-spheres even if it couldn’t do much to conceal the puffy juts of her nectar-ducts, and a pair of micro exercise shorts showed off her spectacular leg muscles to all their extreme spectacle. Bandages wound around her face, soaked in a sopor derivative to minimize pain to her scars, leaving only one olive-green eye to indicate her feelings. Her big lips did press against her bandages, but she rather liked the impression of that.

More bandages covered pretty much most of her limbs. It was a bit time-consuming to put them all on, but she felt much more comfortable when she had them worn. The sopor treatment kept her scars from hurting or feeling too sensitive, and it also helped her control any periodic outbursts of psionic flames if she got too worked up or surprised. The bandages wound around her arms and fists completely, thin enough to show off her build, and were a bit more sporadic around her legs. They only needed a few loops at the base of her tail, which was just as well; it was hard enough getting that covered.

The bandages had to be changed daily, and more than once Polypa considered moving in with her moirail, Tegiri. He would be happy to help her keep her bandages changed, and she did need to change them every day. It was a lovely thought, imagining him living with her and patiently working the sopor into her scars, or to cuddle him and kiss him, platonically, between his horns, a gesture so pale it almost made her blood-pusher twist in longing.

She wasn’t quite sure if she was ready for that, though.

And her flaming psionics, she thought grimly as she walked, was something to be careful about. Tegiri knew, yes, but even during her occasional expeditions into arson Polypa didn’t like anyone seeing her. Not even her enemies as she slew them. Mutations were treated leniently if you could be useful to the Empire; even something as dramatic as Polypa’s transformation was fine, as long as she could fight for her empress. Olives with psionics were rare, but not too unusual, and her muscles being produced by an excess of psionic energy made an okay explanation, but still: Polypa didn’t want to take any risks. Not to herself, not to Tegiri, not to any of her friends.

Eventually, these serious thoughts winded down, and she got to the serious work of just jogging and getting herself warmed up for the day.

As she ran, her hair swayed with the movements of her monstrously wide hips, gathered into a loose ponytail, the loose bits of mane lengths making a dramatic display against her slabbed back.

Her mouth still cold with the taste of her own delicious nectar, Polypa picked up her speed a bit, her early morning grumpiness fading into a calmer alertness. She didn’t have much to do today; she’d probably have what she euphemistically called ‘commissions’ be brought her way (and that would be another breakfast sorted out, if it happened soon), and certainly she’d meet up with Tegiri in a few hours to do some friendly shopping. There was a particular show she’d recently gotten into and she wanted more merchandise for it, though she was pretty sure Tegiri had mixed feelings on it.

He hadn’t said anything negative about it, though. He normally never held his tongue, and that was a great show of respect. She felt a bit happier thinking about that; it was good to know there were people on your team, however it was expressed.

Polypa completed a couple laps around the neighborhood block she lived, and attracted a small group of muscle enthusiasts, troll boys automatically lured to the biggest and most imposing girl around, and a few who just really wanted to try to be the ones to beat her. They might have been trying to play it cool, but their tails were whipping excitedly, smacking into each other like a little soundtrack playing for Polypa.

She did her best to mind her own business and not bother them, but she just knew they’d be fixed on her. She felt their attention refocus at every wobbling gyration of her swelling backside as her thighs beat it up and down, at the gravid thundering of her gut smacking up and down with her stride-strokes, and a great surge of pride flowed through her at this. Not so long ago, she had been a slimmer troll, and it had been hard to get noticed at all.

Now everyone noticed her. It was gratifying, to say the least.

She kept these thoughts to herself. She always did her best not to say anything to anyone at these times (unknowingly giving herself a reputation for being distant and imposing). She did love the blushes, the looks of shamed infatuation they sent towards her immense bulk and power, but she just had no idea what to do with herself then. She had little experience with it; before moving to this more upscale area, Polypa’s neighbors had generally shied away from a monster like her as a matter of common sense.

Here? People would run right up to you and dare you to snarl back, just as a challenge. Polypa was a direct troll, but she needed a bit of a run to do challenging right back; she usually approached it from the side. She always had a bit of a tense moment whenever someone approached her.

Fortunately, today she didn’t really have to do that. It was a tealblood woman, a stout and busty girl in the uniform of a legislacerator trainee outfit, that ran in a game attempt to keep up with her longer stride. Polypa didn’t know her name, just that she was a reasonably friendly neighbor. “Morning, Miss Goezee,” the competitor said politely, from somewhere around Polypa’s knee at a comfortable distance.

“Sup,” Polypa said shortly.

She noticed her early morning companion glanced up at her, and Polypa was smugly gratified to see a faint tremor in her blinking eyes. A nervous sort of look, even after her living her for half a sweep. Her eyes couldn’t keep from studying the rigid swells of Polypa’s monstrous biceps; the spiky protrusions along her chitin, and the way her chitin slotted so perfectly against the growth of her muscles. The extreme swell of her thigh muscles, her legs swinging out and then slamming back together in a shockwave that sent her belly jiggling right up and down.

Polypa put a little extra swing into it, just for an impish thrill. She had an uncanny control over her muscles, able to flex them in ways impossible for normal trolls, and she flexed at her butt at just the right time to make it wobble in every direction at once, a careful set of clinches threatening to make her sweatpants tear in very sexy ways. Her thighs swelled and contracted, muscles sliding against each other with an audible noise, veins standing out like swollen tubes against her bandages and clothing. Her tail lashed out, accidentally smacking against the tealblood’s shoulder, and then into Polypa’s enormously round bubble butt.

This went on for some time, as they ran a couple laps around the neighborhood, a sweet burn filling Polypa’s muscles with a relieving sense of exercise, the wear and tear making a strange euphoria for her. Polypa’s teasing escalating a bit, to the point that she was briefly blinded by her rumble-spheres slapping up right in front of her eye, blocking her vision, but she still had a sense of her surroundings, and she smirked smugly when the tealblood’s composure slipped, just for a moment. Polypa heard a faint panting noise from her, a sound of longing, desire, and quite a lot of envy.

“Something wrong?” Polypa said, her tone flat and calm enough that she sounded perfectly serious.

The tealblood flinched. Her tail, long and slightly broad like some kind of reptilian monster that snapped at things in rivers a lot, shook a lot with a cute wiggle at the tip. “Absolutely not, Miss Goezee! I was just…” She paused for a brief moment, just enough to sound genuine while also giving her time to come up with an excuse. “Thinking. Yes, indeed.”

Polypa chuckled, in a way conveying that she absolutely did not buy it at all. The tealblood had the dignity to at least scoff and turn her gaze pointedly aside. And, for a while, they and the small crowd of admirers and the curious that Polypa tended to accumulate like an elder god attracted worshipers carried on in silence. Companionable, between Polypa and her neighbor. Tense and adoring and lustful, from the crowd of trolls from across the hemospectrum, their shining eyes fixed on a juggling butt big enough for them to sleep on, on the undulating wobbles of a belly they could all have been sucked down into, the hypnotic wiggling of her muscle-swollen tail, and the slightest shift of her ponytail across shoulders broader than any of them were tall.

Being around them made Polypa feel bigger; it made her feel good. She wondered, sometimes, if the Condesce or her Heiresses ever felt like this, and she supposed that they were so confident and on top of the world that their baseline mood was somewhere past the soaring feeling she got when she really worked out just how much people adored her, sometimes.

Perhaps to change the subject, one of the runners spoke up, his chunky tail curled like a bit of punctuation with a tuft of fluff at the tip. He sped up just to keep pace with Polypa for a brief time; getting too close was an extremely bad idea, as with the one troll who had accidentally been hip-checked by her and had sort of… splattered. “How’d do you get your belly to stay stable like that?” He asked, apparently honestly curious.

Polypa glanced down at him, and he froze up so much he almost tripped in the resulting leg confusion. Fortunately for his dignity, he managed to keep moving. “Whaddaya mean?”

“Your stomach should be hitting the floor. It’s, big. Really, really big. How do you keep it up like this?”

“I got real good muscle control, and VERY strong belly muscles.” Polypa raised her arms up over her back, and just for a moment, relaxed. The muscles lining the side of her belly went limp, and her stomach sank against her approaching leg, kicked back into the air. Polypa winced at the sensation overload, and the heat in her hips, but she mastered it and devoted a tiny bit of concentration to her belly muscles again. They stiffened, encircling her gut like a built-in girdle or harness, and pulled up, raising her stomach to a marginally more practical level.

He goggled. “How do you even keep concentrating enough for that!?”

“It’s a gift.” She wiggled one huge claw scoldingly. “Pretty sure it's rude to ask too much about hemospectrum-compliant mutations, kiddo!” He swallowed, taking the point, and slowed down until he was again part of the crowd.

Polypa secretly crowed to herself as she passed the rest of her morning run in relative silence, the milk jugs nestled into her biceps already processed to food-quality levels by the sheer force of her body’s impact on them; she needed very sturdy containers just to survive it, and avoid additional leakings. But she loved those kinds of questions. Seeing those tiny faces off the ground, staring up at her in envy, in awe, in open admiration of her and the smallest details of her body…

She loved it. She got questions like that every day, and she had gotten good at pretending to be the confident and cool badass she assumed people expected someone as big and strong as her to be. She privately made a note to study some shows later, to really look for hints on being as cool and inspiring as possible. She was pretty sure she’d missed on the empathetic and distant vibe that she was trying really hard to project.

One by one, people peeled away, still giving her longing looks. Polypa felt a vague sense of loss, as if not having worshipful eyes on a particular part of her body at once was a physical pain to her.

Ah, well. She continued onwards, leaving her neighbor and the others behind to their own business.

-------

Her own business came up as she fitted herself, with some difficulty, into a warehouse used by an acquaintance who sold slightly illicit and moderately discouraged merchandise. She felt her palmhusk, as trolls called their equivalents to cellphones, vibrating in a concealed pocket against her vast hip, and her tail looped in to fetch it out as she dropped the milk jugs onto a counter. With a sense of irony, she peered down at a yellowblood, who put some effort to look spooky, from between her other milk jugs (to turn a phrase) and said, “The regular stuff, on demand.”

The yellowblood whistled, tapping the jug. It gave the faint echo of a container full of liquid, and he popped it open to dip a cup in. He took a swig and visibly wavered back, his tail slapping against the ground to keep him upright. “Geez, that’s almost as strong as a dose of the mind honey! Without the side effects, too.” He wiped off a smear of green nectar from his mouth and sealed the jug up again. “The stuff you bring in keeps getting thicker and stronger; I’m making a killing off it! Where the hell are you getting this stuff?”

Polypa, as far as she knew the only troll who had mutated to produce nectar in these amounts, shrugged. “Hey, don’t make me give up trade secrets, buddy.” Her palmhusk continued buzzing insistently.

“Fair enough.” He turned around and got to a load-bearer, his own mild psionics levitating the jug to it.

Polypa turned around, discreetly. The other troll’s back was turned, and she never could be too careful, given her real line of work. Her palmhusk wasn’t holding a call, just a text message. Her expression didn’t change as she saw the plain message there.

It didn’t have a return name; she made a point to avoid specific names, even from repeat commissioners. She didn’t want to get embroiled in political conflicts or highblood power struggles, or even underground revolutions she hadn’t made a choice to side with. She did what she had to, as everyone did. Nevertheless, she was pretty sure she knew this one; as usual, it was signed off with a strange sign that looked a bit like a pair of shackles, or crab’s claws.

The message, unsigned, read: ‘cerulean target. Is in your vicinity. Has unfavorable proclivities, if that mmmmatters mmmmuch for your commmmfort.’ this was followed up by a photo of a tall troll woman; her skin the deep black of a grown troll, her armor polished and chipped away as if to imply she had no need of natural protection; her claws long and thick, her fangs almost like a rainbow drinkers, and her huge belly and massive rumble-spheres so enormously swollen even in her clothes that Polypa was stunned. That was a lot of troll.

Her appetites had shifted over the years, and her belly rumbled at the sight of her… well, prey.

Polypa checked her appointment schedules, and studied the time. She calculated the odds of resolving this in, say, twenty minutes or so.

Okay, she decided. She might cut it kind of close, but she could pull it off.

She banged a hand on the counter, almost cracking it into pieces. “Gotta head off, man. See you with my next batch tomorrow!” She paused. “Um. Someone else busted up your counter!”

“No they didn’t!” he scolded her from deeper in the warehouse as she hurried away.

-------

As a rule, Polypa didn’t much like going into rich areas, even if she was big and imposing enough to pass as any shade of highblood she cared to attempt. She didn’t care much about the hemospectrum as some did, but the idea of pretending to be a colder shade just gave her the screaming willies.

For such a massive troll, Polypa moved through it in complete silence. She didn’t move in the open, either, but she climbed up sheer walls, above the oblivious highbloods and driving her claws on both hands and feet right into the plasticine exteriors, and hauling herself up. The weight of her belly pressed against the walls, and wiggling her legs underneath her stomach, provided so much leverage that she was effectively catapulting herself upwards. It was a bit of a mystery how she was able to still be silent, doing that.

Her biggest advantage, as far as potential onlookers were concerned, is that trolls didn’t often look up.

She slid against the wall, moving so smoothly and quickly she seemed to be sliding straight up it. Her inability to see over her gigantic rumble-spheres or in front of her at all from her belly, it did not hamper her very much. Polypa’s muscles weren’t just impossibly strong, flexible, or in some way fusing with her body fat, but a unique property of their outer surfaces functioned as an all purpose sensory organ. Her twitching, veiny and swollen muscles could ‘see’ as well as anything else, and given that even the compact muscles stuck out a full foot away from her body, she had a 360-degree view of everything around her, to the smallest detail.

So up she went, hopping from one wall to the next, leaving behind surprisingly little damage. These buildings were made from very high quality breeding lines of bio-structure, and they’d eventually heal the damage. Not quickly, but they would repair themselves. Holes in the wall from her claws that would heal eventually, and deeper dents where her belly had moved up there, impressions of her abs.

Polypa climbed up to the ceilings, and quietly made her way to the next rooftop, and all the while, her muscles kept twitching.  Her unique vision showed her an elaborate neighborhood of sprawling buildings and expansive complexes, most of them shining with gilt and complicated murals that advertised how fabulously rich they were.

Polypa turned her attention from the most opulent buildings to the ones that were still richer than anything she’d normally have gotten in her entire life, the ones that had a little less gold or imported coral hauled right from the seas where the Condesce supposedly had arisen like a particularly bloody-handed goddess out of ancient fables. Highbloods, as a rule, had the money to afford decorations like that as a matter of course, but the warmer their shades, the less extreme it got.

She flowed across what were probably proper blueblood homes, the wings of the mansions providing plenty of space to move skyward and get a better view for her target. She turned herself slowly, biceps swelling and pivoted in such a way that was probably a little similar to a telescope aligning itself for the best possible vision. The armored sections shone like polished latex, and she moved carefully towards manors that were less gilt-studded, but far more rich than teal homes like what Tegiri lived in.

The homes of cerulean trolls. Tradition and population distribution usually saw them living near the sea, perhaps an echo of their traditional role as naval powers, but that wasn’t really an option for the few ceruleans in subgrubs like this. That said, they tended to look a fair bit like boats that had been flipped around, and Polypa found what she was looking for sitting around all seductively near a energy-burst shop designed to look like a swashbucklers arena, and considering the many flags around it, it made it quite useful for Polypa to gently swing her way across the rooftops to it, and then down.

The troll matched the photos. She was tall, perhaps nearly up to Polypa’s mid-thigh, her horns dramatically hooked at various angles; even the gashes in her horns looked hook-shaped. Her stance was haughty, her high ankles and foot-claws secured in spiked high heels that made her look even taller than she already was. Every bit as buxom and stout as her photo had suggested; the tight skirt and half-dress she wore clung to her body like a wrapper, and the whole image would have been nicely set off by long hair, rather than the short and prim bun she actually did have her quills pulled into.

Between the fishnets, her glasses, and the general air of cold disdain she projected, Polypa felt that she was giving an impression somewhere between ‘high class dominatrix’ and ‘librarian you do NOT want to cross’. Polypa withheld other judgments; she was a mercenary, not someone who made judgments. Still, she was getting very good at giving a feel off people, and she did not like the feeling she got off this troll.

And no one came her way if they didn’t deserve to be killed, in some way. Her callsign for this business was ‘Goezee’s Lightbulbs; I Make The Universe Brighter’. Nothing made things brighter like getting rid of people who made it worse.

Polypa waited, and mulled over a few plans to draw her out, and they all fizzled up as her target got up and swaggered towards the side of the building, out of sight of the main street on some errand, and most importantly from a tactical perspective, right below Polypa.

Her target didn’t look up, either, and it was a grave mistake for her.

Briefly praising the good luck of this morning, Polypa swung her gut off the gargoyle she had positioned it on, and the bit of statuary broke off in surrender to the inexorable pressure of Polypa’s body; it plummeted down, banging against the ground right next to the cerulean; she paused, her haughtiness freezing and her swinging stride halt. “What?” She said, looking for the noise. And above her, as the gargoyle piece had fallen, Polypa had taken advantage of it and crawled down the side of the building just like she had crawled up other walls early, her eyes glowing a faint green.

No one looking in from the street could see them, despite Polypa’s immense size. All the better.

The target picked up the gargoyle piece. “Who is littering around here?” She wondered aloud, not noticing a massive shadow falling over her until Polypa landed on her, belly first.

The noise was surprisingly soft, because Polypa held her gut back as much as possible, so it wouldn’t hit with all its force, but it was still enough to break nearly every bone in her target’s body, and the volume of it muffled her pained screams. Polypa didn’t say anything to her: not ‘shush’ or ‘be quiet’, or anything like that; she took it as a matter of professional dignity not to open up a dialogue with her targets. She had standards, after all.

Polypa’s belly wriggled, and the abs writhed, and clenched in ways that grabbed at her target’s body, slowly hauling her up with a few solitary whimpers. They kept her pinned firmly into Polypa’s belly, so that she couldn’t yell for help or otherwise alert anyone, and Polypa hissed at the marvelous bulge-pumping shiver of the curvy body being slid against her stomach, her muscles twitching and giving under her, molding to her and little fibrous bunches clutching her as tight as firm hands, and the yielding of her target’s own body. Her waist was wide against her, her rumble-spheres squished so nicely into her.

‘Focus’, she told herself as she did her best not to pant or anything. Stay on track. Do not get all… ravenous.

Her target was forced up into her rumble-spheres, and by now Polypa was able to grab her with her hands, forcing her upwards, making sure to squeeze her hard enough that she couldn’t breath enough to yell. And now Polypa was tugging her bandages off, just enough to reveal her mouth.

Her target’s face briefly curled into disgust at her scars, and Polypa was gratified to see her face sour into a horrified look as Polypa’s mouth widened. “No! You don’t dare-!”

Polypa’s massive lips met against her face, sucking on her so hard the breath was forced out of her air-sacs, and then her face slid right into her mouth, resting on her tongue. Several tickling feelings went on in Polypa’s jaws as several biological locks opened themselves; sinews and chitinous ‘pins’ kept her lower jaw together. A troll’s lower jaw was actually a pair of mandibles, normally locked together. But they could separate, to swallow particularly big meals.

Such as this cerulean, for instance.

Polypa’s lower jaw split, gaping wide and spreading wider than her face, her mandibles spreading out into her rumble-spheres, and a thick, green membrane connected them. The cerulean’s face was mashed into this, outlined against its surface, her rumble-spheres and shoulders mashing into the rubbery ring that was Polypa’s lips; without any real effort, Polypa pushed her in, her head, her rumble-spheres and her shoulders all easily sliding down her throat.

Polypa swallowed. Her throat muscles were as strong as the rest of her; more bones broke, and she felt her prey squirm in pained reflex as her chitin was pulverized nearly off her body, shards and fragments sliding down her moist insides. The lovely sensation of a solid, moving mass sliding down her mouth, moving down her meat-slide. Her prey’s thick body, her big belly, her huge butt; none of it posed a hindrance. It all slid down with a delicious ease, down into her guts.

The plural mattered. Polypa’s on-going mutation had multiplied her stomachs into a complex network to digest her food, treating them to a chemical process perhaps more similar to industrial refinement until they were a raw biological soup, or perhaps an organic grist, that her body simply absorbed and converted into energy and more muscles.

Her digestive fluids gushed in, drenching the cerulean still doing her best to wriggle inside Polypa; she said something, but Polypa’s belly was several feet thick, her abs even bulkier, and any sound was muffled. Polypa simply enjoyed the sensation, for a while, and lay there.

The first stage was simple enough; her pre-treatment fluids gushed in, drenching her prey and invading her body through her mouth, absorbed through her skin, plumping her up and softening her skin, bones and muscles.

Fifteen minutes passed in this manner. Polypa suspected she was pushing her luck, in her meeting with Tegiri and hanging around this neighborhood without getting noticed, and shakily stood up. It was harder to get up now, with an additional weight inside her, but it felt very good, her sliding around inside her-

Oh, she just slid down, into a secondary stomach. She must have been primed and, well. Juiced; Polypa suspected that anyone in that situation probably looked considerably puffier and slimy. She was still wriggling in there, though not very much.

As Polypa hurried out of the cold neighborhood, other fluids pumped into that belly, efficiently absorbed by the treated flesh of her target, who was pinned down, compressed by the stomach walls pressing down on her like a trash compactor. Polypa felt her wriggling slow down, and something in the texture of the troll in her guts shift. It wasn’t much of a change. It took days for her live prey to fully digest, and they were zoned out of their minds for most of it, and there wasn’t any particular change at this point, but Polypa supposed this stage of the digestion process started doing something to their body. Made it a bit more fluid, perhaps.

As Polypa went on her way, hurrying along and enjoying the bubbling sensations going on inside her, the cerulean calmed down completely. She felt a few solitary wriggles, possibly out of habit. Her belly muscles kept her pinned, but only because that was her default flex; the chemicals injected into her must have had a sedative quality, perhaps not too different from the sopor, because all her live prey went very quiet and peaceful extremely quickly.

Polypa called a buggy, and put her target out of her mind, apart from a few pleasured shivers at the way she slid down into another belly to be pumped full of digestive fluids on the gradual route into being reforged into bulk for Polypa’s muscles, thicker nectar glands, a bigger butt, perhaps a few more inches to her height, and incidentally making the universe better for her absence.

Alternian society did not have much of a problem with this sort of thing; Polypa upsetting the hemospectrum would have been the issue, and she didn’t much care anymore.

As her buggy arrived, Polypa mused that as so much of her bulk had come from assassinations she had carried out like this, her body was a testament to the number of people she’d removed from the world. She flexed a little bit, and catching a sight of her magnificent biceps, and a glimpse of the gigantic abs rising up even over her cleavage horizon, it was a warming thought.

Polypa sent a quick message to her commissioner. ‘Job’s done * will update you further in a few days.’

She received a fairly prompt reply, so ambiguously worded that they could have been talking about artwork or a coding commission. ‘That was speedy. Will update you for any further jobs. You how it is; always a little mmmmore to do.”

Polypa texted back. “Sure thing * always good to do your work * you’re reliable at these, you know that? *|’

Before she left, Polypa bent low, picking up the gargoyle statuary she had destroyed, and deposited it in the nearest salvaging bin. She might have been an assassin, but she wasn’t a litterer.

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

Tegiri was a quiet troll, and had a way of fading away even when he was the only guy in the room. In a crowd, he became a background detail, lurking there, and drifting like a shadow.

Here and now, his shift from passively lurking to moving so abruptly he appeared to have materialized, was marked by an especially large buggy not so much rolling up, as sliding in, a bit like a cholera-bear that was opting to move without actually engaging it’s legs at all.

It rose up as its passenger departed. The long, heavy horns of Polypa appeared over the other side, and then rose up as she stood to her full size, stretching. People around froze up and turned to look at her bulbous form with awe, their eyes fixed on the shift of her platform-sized shoulders, and those closer to her were totally still, their eyes wide, completely overwhelmed by the sheer scale of Polypa unexpectedly appearing before them.

‘Weak’, Tegiri thought unsympathetically. If you couldn’t handle a little bit of majesty in your life, how were you supposed to serve the Condesce?

His secret shame was that he sincerely believed, in the rare moments where he could admit it to himself, was that he thought that Polypa looked far more impressive and mighty than the to-scale images and models he had seen of the Condesce.

A great heresy, to be sure, but he didn’t care about that anymore. It bothered him that he didn’t care, but as the days went on, it didn’t bother him as much.+

Polypa bowed again out of sight behind the buggy, to discuss something with the driver. At least, if you didn’t count her belly sticking out and rising above it, with her rumble-spheres buoyed atop it, and her backside very plainly visible from the other end, her tail curling around one leg and the tip wiggling anxiously. Tegiri couldn’t hear the fine details of what Polypa might have been saying, not over the soft murmurs from the crowd around both his side of the street and hers, but he had his suspicions; the buggy WAS a lot lower in the street, and any vehicle trying to carry her tremendous weight was bound to sacrifice itself in that noble goal.

The buggy tipped over briefly; Tegiri supposed that Polypa had thrust one muscular arm in it, with such force that the air moving from her hand alone had nearly knocked it over; if he knew Polypa, it was to over-pay the driver in apology for any damage transporting her had incurred. He made a point to suggest to the local consort-governance, running the city on behalf of the Heiress, to make a budget specifically for repairing damage caused by especially big trolls like her.

Then, she was moving across the street. Slowly, yes, actively trying not to put so much force as she could into it, but she still moved so fast that she seemed to have bounded straight from one side of the street to the next. He didn’t blinked, but it felt like he had, because now a vast shadow loomed over him, and it was Polypa, her body blotting out the moonlight, her squishy chitin shining an iridescent pink and green  He mostly just saw her stomach, her great work and the pride of her carefully sculpted body, and he felt a great surge of diamond-pale affection as she patted her belly, smiling faintly down at him. Long ago, their most ancient ancestors had gathered, and the small weak ones had gathered to the big, strong troll-women to protect them, and he supposed he felt something of that.

The oldest forms of the quadrants had been built from strong things. Love, certainly. Affection, reassurance. The need to stabilize others. Safe venues to voice the aggression and test oneself against a worthy lover. And for Tegiri, one of the strongest feelings was loyalty.

He saw a hand move from inside her stomach. Briefly, barely budging against a broad abdominal, and no one else could have seen it but him, his eyes adapted to note anything that might be wrong with Polypa.

Polypa’s express changed, just for a moment, and Tegiri knew what that had been. He knew the fear of disapproval.

Tegiri gazed up at Polypa, and followed up on a decision he had already made some time ago. He patted her stomach, almost stroking her belly, at the spot where her prey had moved. “You’ve been doing art commissions already?” He asked. “This early in the morning?”

Polypa stared blankly, until her one revealed eye blinked. Oh, right; the code they’d agreed to. “Yeah; figured I might as well do it as early as possible… thought I’d get it done before meeting up with you. I wasn’t trying to delay meeting up with you, or anything!”

“IT’s fine, it’s fine!” Tegiri said quickly. Polypa instantly calmed down, her raising chitinous plates lowering into something less agitated. “I just wondered… you didn’t have to use, ah.” He thought of a way to phrase it without giving her away. “Colder shades in your work, did you? That can be troublesome.”

She worked out what she meant, and like a mountain inclining, nodded her head gravely. “Yeah. You know i usually do.”

Yeah, I killed a highblood today. Again.

It was a bold thing, he knew, to just say that to a tealblood, one charged with enforcing the law, with killing mutants and accusing those they felt like bringing low. In sweeps not so long ago, when he had been younger, he would have enforced his imperial duty, without a second thought.

Now, though…

He patted her stomach again, and Polypa purred shortly, a dense rumble that spread out and made the windows rattle. “Well, you do what you must,” he said firmly. “I support you regardless, my moirail.”

Polypa grinned, leaning down (knocking a few people away with her on-rushing belly, and she was too focused on Tegiri to notice or care much) and raised a fist, extending two claws in a triangle shape.

He extended his own claws in a similar pose, and pressed them against digits nearly thick around as his entire arm, and completed the diamond. Then her hand moved downwards, to his sleeve, and took a gentle but inescapably firm grip, pulling him protectively close to her leg. “C’mon, let’s get our shopping in,” she said, smiling behind her bandages.

Tegiri was not much for open displays of emotion. He found big smiles a hard thing to maintain, a performative thing that he struggled with. Nevertheless, he smiled easily around her. Being around her made a lot of things easier.

Accepting things he’d never thought he could ever begin to even consider, for one.

Polypa led him onwards, and though there wasn’t really anything he could realistically do to stop her, she would if he asked, but he saw no reason to alter her course. He was loyal to her above all else now, even though the changes to his world view this demanded was upsetting at first, and would accommodate her however she wanted.

Even if it meant indulging her fondness for some anime series he absolutely detested, but when they left, carrying quite a lot of new model assembly kits from a recent series she’d absolutely fallen in love with, Tegiri felt fine with that.

It was all just part of the routine now, and he didn’t mind being adaptable.

#/ #// #/// #//// #///// #queued #commissions #my writing #fics #twitchy!homestuck #twitchy!polypa #twitchy!tegiri

[imaginedisish]

Bizarre Love Triangle, Chapter 1 (Bandersnatch) (Colin Ritman x Reader) (Stefan Butler x Reader)

|Chapter 2|

A/N: Heyyyy guys!!! Sorry this took so long to get up! I hope you enjoy my FIRST MULTI CHAPTER FIC!!!! It’s based on two anon requests, one regarding Stefan x Colin x Reader, and another about Colin and the reader working for Tuckersoft and falling for each other. To those two anons, I hope this satisfies your requests :) The title is based on the New Order song of the same name, btws... Okay, that’s all! Thanks guys! Enjoy! Get ready for one hell of a bizarre love triangle... 

Summary: You and Colin are best friends, and have been for quite some time. One day, he introduces you to Stefan Butler, and you immediately fall for the emerald eyed boy. However, Colin quickly becomes jealous, and drama ensues...

Warnings: Maybe some language, mega canon divergence, jealous!Colin. That’s it for now...(smut will happen later y'all so just be ready for that) 

Word Count: 2,224 :)

Sunlight creeps through your curtains, the rays stretching their glowing arms across your bed, brushing against your face. You eyes reluctantly open, and you turn over in your warm bed. You look over to the clock. 

7:29 am, it reads.

“Dammit,” you sigh, pushing yourself to sit up. Suddenly, your alarm starts blaring throughout your flat. You groan in annoyance. 

I know when to go out, know when to stay in, get things done, David Bowie sings “Modern Love” from the little clock on your nightstand. You can’t help but dance along. 

“Never gonna fall for! Modern Love! Walks beside me!” You sing along with the song cheerfully, until you hear a knock at the door. You assume it’s just the neighbors complaining about the noise. You trod over to the front door, and open it hesitantly. 

To your surprise, it isn’t the neighbors. A smile stretches across your face.

“Colin!” You wrap your arms around the pretentious blonde boy, and he lets out a small chuckle. 

“You’re chipper this morning,” He says, beaming. You giggle as he hands you a cup of coffee. You open the door all the way, and motion for him to come in. He does so, and you shut the door behind him. 

David Bowie’s voice still rings throughout the flat as you pull out a chair from your kitchen table. Colin does the same, sitting across from you. 

“Thanks for the coffee,” You say, and Colin nods in response. You and Colin were best friends. You had been through grade school with each other, then high school, and even college. You two faced every hardship and challenge life threw at you together. You held his hand when Kitty left him, and when she took Pearl with her. He refused to leave your side when your mother passed away, when it felt like your life was falling apart. You told each other everything, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. 

Now you two worked as game designers at Tuckersoft, an up-and-coming video game studio. Your coworkers had a bad habit of putting Colin on a pedestal, never telling him the truth or their honest opinions on what it was that he created. The other women working in your office were either head over heels in love with him, or incredibly intimidated by him. The men who worked in your office either wanted to be him, or be liked by him. 

You, however, made sure to tell him the truth. It was almost your responsibility to deflate his ego every now and again. You weren’t intimidated by his abilities, nor would you ever let how you feel about him get in the way of work. You cared about him too much to allow a game of his to flop, so you always gave him your honest opinion on everything he produced, and he always listened. 

“Oh, I forgot something!” Colin says as he reaches into his army green messenger bag. He pulls out a plastic bag. “I picked this up for you.” Colin smiles, passing the plastic bag over to you. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” You say, your gaze meeting Colin’s deep blue stare. 

“Go on, open it.” Colin beams up at you. You smile back, opening the bag, the plastic crinkling under your touch.

You’re shocked as you pull out a first edition copy of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, and Transformer by Lou Reed on vinyl. The Bell Jar was one of your favorite novels, since you fell in love with Sylvia Plath in high school, and you had been searching for Transformer for months. Unfortunately, you failed to find it each and every time you and Colin went out to search in the shops. You were amazed to say the least. 

“C-colin, h-how…” You trail off, still in awe at Colin’ gift. 

“The Lou Reed is first edition too,” Colin says, pointing to the record in your hand. Your jaw drops. “That was a part of the first batch to be pressed.” He adjusts his silver glasses nonchalantly, sitting back in his seat. 

“Colin this is incredible. You really shouldn’t have done this. I mean it must have cost you a for-,” Colin cuts you off. 

“Don’t worry about cost.” Colin stands up from his seat. “Drinks at the pub after work? I want you to meet a new friend of mine.” 

“Yeah, sounds good,” you say, standing up as well. Colin walks over to the front door. 

“See you at work,” Colin says, giving you a two finger salute from his forehead with one hand, his other on the door knob. You smile, waving goodbye as he walks out. 

The day goes by relatively quickly. Still, you count the hours until you get to leave, looking at the clock every five minutes, expecting an hour to go by each time you take a glance. 

Finally, five o’clock hits. You gather your things, and head over to Colin’s cubicle. 

You reach his cubicle, but Colin is nowhere to be seen. His things are gone, and his computer is off. You assume he left early, and was most likely already at the pub. You make your way out of Tuckersoft, and onto the streets of South London. 

You put your headphones on as you walk down the street, Panic by The Smiths masking the chaotic noise of the city. 

After a short walk, you approach the pub. You take your headphones off, and place them in your brown messenger bag as you pull open the door to the pub. 

A head of spiky blonde hair immediately catches your eyes across the bar, and you walk over to him.

“There she is! The woman of the hour!” Colin says cheerfully, a beer in his hand. You can’t help but let out a small laugh. 

“So who am I meeting, this evening?” You ask, a smile plastered across your face. Colin puts his beer down. 

“My friend, Stefan. He works for Tuckersoft now. He’s that kid producing his own game at home,” Colin states matter of factly. You nod your head. “Here he is now! Stefan!” Colin stands up, waving to someone behind you. You turn around. 

His eyes glow in the dimly lit pub. It’s almost as if they were carefully crafted with millions of emerald gems. His brown hair his a cute, fluffy mess. His pale, thin, red lips curl into a small smile. He nervously waves, and makes his way towards you and Colin. 

“You didn’t say how cute he was, Colin!” You jokingly punching the blonde boy across the shoulder. 

“Hey, that hurt! You better watch yourself, (Y/L/N),” Colin says, making the I’m Watching You, gesture with his hands. Stefan finally reaches where you and Colin are. “Hello, whizkid!” Colin pats him on the back. 

“Hi, I’m (Y/N), Colin’s friend,” You say, extending a hand out towards Stefan. 

“I’m Stefan,” he says, accepting the gesture, taking your hand in his. “Colin has told me a lot about you.”

“Likewise.” You smile at him, hesitantly releasing Stefan’s hand from yours. “So how come I don’t see you around the office?”

“I w-work from home. I prefer working alone,” Stefan says, his eyes still shining brightly. 

“I think I’d drive myself insane working at home,” You say back, giggling slightly. 

“Music and books tend to keep me sane,” Stefan says, a shy smile slowly spreading across his face. 

“What do you listen to? Any favorite authors?” You ask. 

“I like Frankie Goes to Hollywood quite a bit, Talking Heads as well. I love Bowie, though. And of course The Beatles, Lou Reed,” He pauses. You can’t help but grin. He likes exactly what you like. “My favorite novel is probably Bandersnatch by Jerome F. Davies. That’s actually what I’m basing by video game off of. It’s a chose your own adventure.”

“That’s amazing! Davies was a genius,” You say back to the fluffy haired boy. 

“He really was! Well enough about me, what about you?” He says, his shyness fading away. 

You talk about Joy Division, The Cure, The Smiths, Queen, Sylvia Plath, J.D Salinger, Ernest Hemingway, and more. Everything you say, he agrees with. Everything he says, you agree with. You two were really hitting it off. 

Colin wasn’t saying much. His lips practically never left his drink. And when they did, it was simply to ask for another. 

“I’ll be right back, going to hit the washroom,” Stefan says. You nod, and turn back to Colin. 

“Are you alright?” You ask Colin. He turns to face you. 

“I’m fine,” He says harshly, turning his head forward again. 

“D-do you know if…” You trail off. “If Stefan is single?” You say finally. Colin whips his head back towards you. 

“What? Whizkid? No way. You’re not actually into him, are you?” Colin says, anger in his voice. You’re confused as you search Colin’s eyes for some sort of explanation to his rash behavior. 

“Why are you acting like this?” You question, annoyed by Colin’s reaction. Colin shakes his head in disapproval.

“He’s single, sure, fine, whatever,” He says, his cheeks becoming extremely red. You don’t understand what the problem is. Colin introduced you to Stefan, so what was the big deal? 

“Did I do something?” You ask Colin. You and Colin never fought. He never once treated you like this. You were extremely taken back. You frown, upset. Colin recognizes the sadness in your face. 

“No, no. I-I’m sorry,” He says, trailing off. Colin fiddles with his beer, and turns his head back to face the barkeep. “Another, round, mate.”

You see Stefan walking back towards the bar. A few seconds later, he reaches you and Colin, but doesn’t sit down. 

“It’s getting late, I think I’m going to head out,” Stefan says apologetically. You hear Colin mumble a finally, from behind you. 

“It was great to meet you,” You say, smiling. “But don’t go just yet, I have something to give you.” You grab a napkin from the holder in front of you, and you reach into your messenger bag in search of a pen. You quickly write a set of numbers on the napkin, handing the paper to Stefan once you’re done. “This is my phone number, call me.”

Stefan takes the napkin from your hand, beaming with joy. “Y-yes, t-totally. I-I w-will,” He stutters. Stefan says goodnight, waves, and walks away. 

“Y-yes, t-totally. I-I w-will,” Colin mocks as the fluffy haired boy walks out of the pub. 

“Colin, come on. I thought he was your friend. Aren’t you two close?” You question curiously. 

“Well I’m not the biggest fan of my two closest friends leaving me to be a third wheel,” Colin states, annoyed. There was a certain nervousness in his voice that you hadn’t ever heard before. It was almost as if Colin was lying to you. You knew he wasn’t telling you the complete truth. 

“Are you sure that’s it?” You ask, expecting him to say something more. 

“Yep. Now can we get out of here?” Colin puts 15 pounds on the bar top, and hops off the stool he was sitting on. “I’ll walk you home.” 

The walk home was quiet. Colin usually had something to talk about, but not tonight. After a few minutes, you reach your building. 

“Thanks for walking me home, Colin,” You say, smiling slightly. Colin steps forward, wrapping his arms around you. 

“Anytime,” Colin says into your neck, sending chills down your spine. This wasn’t like him. Something was up. You pull apart from his embrace. 

“Get some sleep, okay?” You say to him. He nods in response. He must’ve just drank too much, You think to yourself.

“Goodnight, (Y/L/N),” Colin says, walking away.

“Goodnight, Ritman,” You shout. You make your way into your building and up to your flat, unlocking the door and stepping inside. 

The minute you pass through the doorway, your phone begins to ring. You walk over, picking it up. 

Who could be calling so late? You think to yourself.

“Hello?” 

“H-hi, (Y/N)?”

“Stefan!” You can’t help but smile. 

“I-I h-hope it isn’t t-too l-late,” He stutters nervously. 

“No, not at all. What’s up?” You ask, your smile growing wider. 

“W-well, I-I was wondering if you,” He pauses. “I-if you w-wanted t-to go on a d-date sometime time?” You eyes light up with excitement. 

“Yes!” You practically scream. “I’d love to!”

“Does tomorrow at six work for you?” Stefan asks, no longer stuttering, his nervousness fading away. 

“Yes, that’s perfect, more than perfect, even!” Your heart flutters in your chest. 

“Great. I’ll pick you up at six tomorrow,” He says, excitement in his voice. You give him your address, and solidify the plans. You say goodnight, and hang up the phone. 

Then, your mind lands on Colin. Let’s just hope he doesn’t freak out too much, You think to yourself. How on earth am I supposed to tell him about this?

You try not to think about Colin’s opposition to your newfound relationship as you get yourself ready for bed. 

You were going on a date with Stefan tomorrow, and that was all that mattered. 

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[wanderer-of-sol]

Wanderer of Sol - Business Chapter 2

Chapter 1 here

Chapter 2

The loading ramp dropped it's last foot or so with a thump and a small cloud of dust. Robin said she'd get around to fixing that, but the crew had been strapped for cash. As Gomez and his men walked up the ramp, the idea of their deals on Mars going well crept into Robin's mind, and she thought to make good on fixing that door the next time they docked for more than an hour. Wanderer was flanked by the two girls he flew with, Gomez by two men who were big enough to be two men a piece. A little overkill, honestly.

“How you doing Jon?” Gomez reached out to Wanderer's waiting hand as they shook. His men rolled large containers behind them, filled with the objects of Wanderer's desire.

“I'm doing good Gomez. How's business?” Wanderer inquired, as Gomez's goons opened the containers for Wanderer to inspect.

“Eh, it could be better honestly. I'm running low on inventory, low on credits. I can't find buyers the way you can. I don't even know who would be interested in this crap. But they pay top dollar for it, if you manage to find them.” He explained while Wanderer rifled through the boxes.

“Hey, careful what you're calling 'crap', Gomez. We both know this stuff is premium, to the right clients. You'll find them, with experience, and making new connections.” Wanderer responded, hefting a tome, bound in some kind of unidentifiable skin, encrusted in empty sockets, the gems that once adorned it had been pawned long ago, leaving behind nothing but vellum and ink to be appraised by those who knew it's true value.

“Very true, Jon. And that reminds me, I wanted to ask. How do you not have any security, hauling valuable antiques all over the system? Don't you have run-ins with the pirate federations?” Gomez asked while watching Wanderer sort the goods into piles that only he understood.

“We've got Security. Head Security Officer Munin's right there. You've met her, before.” Wanderer pointed over his shoulder lazily with this thumb. Gomez smirked a little until he realized she was leaning on a long club with nails driven through it in odd and crooked angles. She just shot him a look that could kill and he turned away from her, back to Wanderer. “And I've bought favor with a few pirate fleets over the past few years. Anyone who's terf we pass through, at least. Decent people, pirates. That and they're terrified of me. This all looks pretty good, everything I asked for is here. Let me show you what I've got and we can get this trade underway.”

Wanderer lead Gomez past Munin, who looked like she was ready to swing her bat as his head, to a large cargo container. “Everything in this container is in the price range you specified and is more or less one to one with everything you've brought to trade” He explained as he popped the lock on the container, showing walls of books surrounding boxes and crates full of strange statues, antique swords and rifles, and bones from unspecified creatures any would be hard pressed to identify. Gomez could only let out a “Wow” as Wanderer continued. “If you're looking for something in a higher or lower price range, I've got other containers.”

“That's a lot of inventory, Jon.” Gomez said, taking off his sunglasses, and replacing them with prescription reading glasses to skim over the contents. “I'll take all of it.”

“I donno if you heard me correctly. Each item in here is worth the same as one of your items. Now, if you've got enough credits for a few thousand books and everything in these crates then-” Gomez put his glasses back in his pocket while interrupting Wanderer mid-sentence.

“No, I heard you. I said, I'll take it all. Jon, I hate to do this to you, but this is a robbery. You honestly can't expect one girl with a bat to be a real deterrent when dealing with something of this value. I have word that there's a new buyer entering the market and I have to establish a name for myself in this trade, and you've got a collection worthy of making a name for anyone.” Gomez explained, pulling a gun from his coat and pointing it at Wanderer's chest. Wanderer raised his hands slowly above his head. With Gomez standing in the entrance of the container, it would be difficult if not impossible for Wanderer to safely disarm him, or find a way past him, to his security officer, and there was no way he could move fast enough to get behind one of the boxes. For the moment he was a hostage in his own ship, at the gunpoint of someone he had hoped to do business with in the future. Unfortunate.

“And not to be unprofessional...” Gomez continued “But we can't have anyone knowing where my new inventory came from. It might tarnish the name I'm trying to make. And thankfully, 'Jon Dillir' doesn't exist in any citizenship records, so no one would miss you, or your ship. So Jon, or whoever you are, if you have any last words, or prayers, I'll give you the chance to say them, then I'll make it quick and painless. Though I can't say the same for the girl with the bat” He said, aiming the pistol between Wanderer's eyes. With a crack, the two goons approached Munin slowly, extended taser rods from their coats, igniting them into a shower of sparks and arcing electrons. Munin was more than ready to throw herself at both of the mountains of muscle stalking up to her, one step at a time, but she knew she had better let Wanderer say his prayer first. And he did.

Wanderer closed his eyes and began to whisper. The words were so soft, even Gomez couldn't hear them at point blank. Not that he would know the ancient words that lifted from Wanderer's lips. They weren't for him, and they certainly weren't for any god. “Alright. I'm ready if you are.” Wanderer said, staring into the eyes of the man who would kill him.

“Thanks for letting me know you were done. It's been good doing business with you, kid.” Gomez replied. He pulled the trigger only to hear an empty click. He pulled again, and nothing. A few more times and nothing. Cocking the gun again ejected a dud round, and another click, and another. “The fuck?” Gomez asked aloud just before there was the first and only bang. He dropped to his knees and held his leg. Robin was standing off to the side, brandishing her pistol in his general direction. That shot was like the signal to start a race, as Munin leapt at the closer of her two attackers, never even looking back to see if Wanderer was alive. She brought the bat across his face in a gorey eruption of red and sparks, as the side of the mountain caved in like a defunct volcano. The look on her face was manic and blissful as the brute's cybernetic implant got tangled in the nails of her bat, and came out with a swift yank and the spurt of more blood.

Wanderer casually walked over his would be killer and snatched up his pistol, ejecting the remainder of the clip onto the floor, before pushing out a pin and pulling the slide off the top. The whole time, walking out of the container and towards Munin, he resumed whispering at a fast pace, his arm extended to the remaining attacker. As the other man brought his stun baton down on Munin, the spark fizzled and died with the completion of Wanderer's prayer. He had just hit a murderous anarchist with what was little more than a plastic rod. She pulled a knife from her boot and swiftly jabbed it between his legs, as he promptly dropped to his knees and bled for her.

Wanderer turned his attention back to the crippled Gomez who was muttering something to himself, now that the threat was taken care of.

“Where the fuck did that bitch who shot me even come from?!” He screamed loud enough for her to hear.

“I'm wearing my gray glamourred overalls. The second you guys started paying attention to Munin you totally forgot I was even here.” She explained before returning a question. “Don't you read the stuff you sell? It's like one of the most basic of the basics.”

“That bullshit about magic? It's all bullshit that rich gullible fucks buy.” He replied while clutching his bleeding leg and cursing.

“Sure, man. Did you see what just happened to you? I mean, fuck. Munin's turning your boyfriends into soup as we speak.” She said walking across the room to confront Gomez up close, and to put her back to Munin's repeated bashing of the corpses laying near the loading ramp. Gomez had actually already forgotten who he was talking to until she was standing right in front of him.

“It's true Gomez. I wasn't telling you I was ready to be shot, I was telling her that I had successfully jinxed your gun and she was clear to take the shot. Then I turned off your goon's cattle prod with the same kind of jinx.” Wanderer wanted to be clear, this all went according to his plan, not Gomez's. “Now I've indulged you with one truth. Your turn to tell me everything you know about this new buyer in the system.” Wanderer thought his proposition was fair, but Gomez was still sore about the happenings as he promptly told everyone there to go fuck themselves.

“You don't know shit, 'Jon', or whatever the fuck your real name is.” Gomez was fuming that he had gotten his ass kicked so hard.

“Gomez. You're real name is Francisco Mortim Santos. AKA, Frank, Mory, Mort, Fred, Mark and like a dozen other boring names. Your family are immigrants from the Beja-Faro Republic of Lesser Portugal on Earth. Moved to Mars when you were 6. A few years ago your dad died and you actually sold your own mother for medical testing. That's fucked, Gomez. You're also wanted on several planets, moons, and satellites for everything from blackmail to murder. Eh, you've probably done worse, huh?” Wanderer had began to reveal some of the research he had done going into the deal, but Gomez was just saying “fuck” over and over again with every fact dropped in his lap. “So how about this. You tell me everything you know about this new client you want to impress so much, and I don't drop you off at the nearest police station with all the files and identification documents I dug up on you? You can just hobble out of here, scot-free.”

“Go fuck yourself, Jonny.” Crept out of Gomez's mouth between waves of pain. Robin was pretty sure her bullet was lodged in his shin bone.

“Let me make him talk.” Munin said, prying her bat out of the puddle of gore and machine near the loading ramp. “These guys are fuckin' cheap androids. I need some real blood before the day's over. Not this synthetic shit!” She yelled, hitting the bat into the side of the container housing Gomez. Wanderer wasn't sure if the bloodlust in her eyes was real or if she was putting on a good act to scare him. He was pretty sure, before the fighting broke out, that those guys were androids. Robin thought it was obvious. Regardless, she was getting blood all over the container, and it was probably best if Wanderer tried to keep her calm. “Munin, chill. That's not very professional of a Head Securi-” She brought her bat down on Gomez's hand with a audible crunch. Robin winced and turned away as Munin twisted the nails embedded in his hand and he let out a drawn out scream.

“Alright, Gomez. I'm a pretty busy lady. We've got two more deals after this. I have to go clean all this blood off and do laundry before that, and adding your brains to my coat won't take any more detergent. Tell the man what he wants to know and I'll only brake one of your legs. I'm feeling nice, so the one that's already fucked. Sound good?” Munin thought her ultimatum was completely reasonable, but the  next words that came out of Gomez were “What the fuck is wrong with you?” and that was not the correct answer. Wanderer had already turned his back to Munin, knowing how into her work she can get.

After that, Gomez was ready to talk.

“Ceres! The planetoid just changed hands, and word has it, fuck, word has it that the guys who bought it are really into this shit. They're loaded, but they won't deal with just anyone. They said they want people who can prove they're passionate about the product. Fuck me. I think I'm gonna puke.” Gomez spilled his guts, both figuratively and literally.

“Huh, well, that's the first I've heard of this. Gomez, today's your lucky day.” Wanderer explained to him. “I'm keeping this small stack of books that interests me, as compensation for all the emotional distress you've caused me and my crew. And I'm keeping this container to pay for the damage you've caused to my cargo with all the bleeding and vomiting and stuff. The other container of yours is still yours to keep. If you pawn it off you should be able to afford medical attention for your leg and hand. Munin, you want to show Mr. Santos the door, and I'll start getting laundry together and request launch clearance?” Wanderer stated in a pretty matter of fact tone. Munin was already picking Gomez up by the back of his shirt and dragging him towards the loading ramp. She passed Wanderer with an affirming “Sure thing, Captain.”

He responded with a casual “Awesome, thanks. I'll get the hot water started for a shower too. I really don't want you tracking viscera all over the ship again, and you need to be presentable when we land in Sacra Fossae.”

“Sweet. That's kind of you boss.” She replied, throwing Gomez the full length of the loading ramp onto the pavement, then kicking his container at him. “I'll clean up this mess, then I'll be up.”

Wanderer made his way back towards the common area and hesitated outside Robin's room. “Hey, Robin. How you doing?” He asked, shouting into her room through the door. The door slid open and Robin appeared. She had changed out of her work clothes and into something more comfy.

“I'm good, Wanderer. That got a little rough, and I threw up on my enchanted overalls when Munin went all blood lusty. But I'll be ok. Just another day in the life, when you're a boat full of mages dealing with criminals and miscreants.” Robin was a little shaken. She didn't have a problem shooting someone, she'd done it before, but she preferred quick and painless, non-lethal if possible. This was the opposite of Munin in every way.

“Well, I'm about to do some wash, if you want to throw you're overalls in there. I'm using the enchanted soap, so you don't have to worry about all the blood on Munin's stuff staining.” He explained. Making casual conversation was probably the second best way he knew, excluding casting a spell on her to keep Robin relaxed and not over thinking the ordeal they just had. The first best way was to keep her mind preoccupied, which is why he then handed her a book he had taken from Gomez. “I thought you might find this interesting. Thanks for having my back today.” He gave her a smile as his grasp left the book.

Robin's eye's lit up. The book wasn't nearly as old as most of the others from the collection, but it was exactly the kind of thing she would enjoy. An old programming text book, maybe only a couple hundred years old, still in decent condition. Flipping though it's pages, it was littered with loose leaves and notes in the margins, all about technomancy. It was so hard for Robin to find research material on her unconventional school of the arcane arts, but somehow Wanderer always found exactly what she was looking for.

“No problem, and thanks man. This is awesome.” She had already cracked open the cover to give it a proper read. Her eyes were transfixed as they followed line by line.

“Hey, I'm going to get air traffic control taken care of, then laundry. Don't forget your overalls. Robin, I can see you're already in a trance. Witch, you in there?!” Wanderer tried for a moment before giving up, walking into the bathroom, to turn on the water heater, and heading to the pilot's cabin to call in their refueling and launch request. Soon they would be back in the air, but if Wanderer managed his time correctly, it would be just enough time to get some chores done and resupply before having to pay any additional parking fees.

Chapter 3 here

[thenickelportrust]

Raf’s Perspective Short

I close my eyes, and take a deep breath- but then pretty much immediately regret it. The air is thick and toxic with the smell of many different pseudo-flowery perfumes, and colognes of varying indescribable artificial flavors. The heaviness of it all chokes up my lungs, and I find myself squeezing the glass in my hand even more. I don’t drink from it, no, I don’t dare do that. It’s just… something cool to hold onto into this body-heat induced humidity. That, and it at least keeps the many servers dancing around in black and white uniforms from approaching me.

Even so, I’ve done my best to find what little breathing space I can in a room this crowded. Which, honestly, I really didn’t have a choice in. If you’re not willing to muscle your way through this crowd of gem-dipped dresses and crisply steamed bowties you end up shoved into the far corner either way. It’s… kind of funny, when I think about it, that such an elegant extravaganza could really be so… barbaric.

I find myself scanning the crowds, thick throngs of people that blur together into little more than a mass of swirling colors. I tell myself that’s for the better. I tell myself that I’m not disappointed. I tell myself that I’m still only here on business.

But… he was right, wasn’t he?

Closing my eyes, I let my head thump back against the soft, velvet curtains that hang uselessly, decoratively, around the wall.

Mambo pushed his glasses up with the back of a white-gloved knuckle. He quickly tears the plastic from his hands and tosses it into the trashcan beside his workstation- the clean silver steel painted a dark, bloody red where he was working. He’d said nothing for a long while, only stood from his stool and ambled across the floor to the sink. Wordlessly, the woman called Rhumba moved into his place with a rag at the ready, swiping up all that needed to be cleaned. Though her face wasn’t visible behind the gas mask, I heard tiny grunts of disgust. Nobody likes cleanup duty, but it’s become something of an initiation task within Mambo’s employees…

Is ‘employees’ even the right word?

”You’ve been awfully quiet,” Mambo didn’t respond verbally, he shrugged, letting the water run over his hands without moving the for a long while. Just staring at the space between finger and fingernail. “I was hoping you could tell me what you think…?”

Mambo sighed, quickly finishing washing his hands and shaking them out. “Rhumba.” One word, and the woman disappeared silently, dropping the rag and scurrying towards the door, I stopped her, gave her a quiet word of thanks… which, again, I couldn’t tell her reaction to under the mask. Mambo’s lip curled upward in disgust at the sight of the rag, his dark eyes squinted at the offending cloth, “She could have at least taken the disgusting thing with her…”

”She’s new, she’s learning.” I coaxed him away from the fixation, “Besides, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody meet your expectations. Not at first, at least.”

”Don’t be ridiculous.”

”If I’m wrong then I’d be happy to know who it is.” I grinned, though looking back I’m not sure if he could tell that I was smiling behind the mask, “Because they must be able to work miracles.”

Mambo huffed, but didn’t say much else. He glanced once at me, slicking back his dark hair with whatever water was left on his hands. “You can take the mask off, if you want. I don’t have any more appointments today.”

”Ah, right,” I couldn’t help but sigh once it comes off- as much as I’ve worked on making it breathable over the years, everything still seems much more stuffy underneath the full-face mask. I fiddled with it in my hands, “So…”

”Professional or friend?”

”... Do you mean your advice?” I questioned, Mambo nodded. Pausing, I couldn’t help but wonder just how the two differentiated. He’s never been one for mincing his words out of ‘friendship’ or anything of the sort. It’s… been one of the many reasons I’m able to speak openly with him, knowing that Mambo will offer what he believes to be the truest answer. “Both.”

Mambo nodded once more, but he didn’t reply immediately. Instead he took off his glasses, fetching a cloth from the pocket sewn into the inside of his long white coat, and cleaned the lenses first, rubbing them over in small, careful circles. ”Well,” He drawled, speaking with slow confidence, “As your friend, it pains me to tell you to go… yet I suppose I must.”

My eyebrows shot up, ”I… wasn’t expecting that.” I slumped against the side of the wall, running a hand through my hair- which caught at different intervals, having gotten messed up from being bunched underneath the mask all day. A weak laugh escaped my lips, “I was… sort of hoping you’d say the opposite.”

”You don’t want to go?”

”I-…” I let my hand fall to my side, “I don’t know…” I hate how quiet my voice sounds. The far wall is a dull, dark grey, turned bluish-white in the work room’s fluorescent lights. “I-It doesn’t matter what I want, anyways. That’s not… that’s not important...”

”And that’s where, as a friend, I disagree.” Mambo slipped his glasses back onto his slightly hooked nose, thin, sharp lips twisting into a frown. “And as a medical professional. Though I deal with the body and not the mind, I know that it can’t be healthy to-”

”It doesn’t matter.” I repeated, trying my best to sound forceful… but force had never been my speciality. It was one of the reasons why ‘Harbinger’ never spoke. “I’m sorry- I-...” I inhaled sharply, that slightly acidic smell of antiseptic filling my nose. Mambo said nothing, he folded his arms, but his face was as serene as ever. “I’m sorry…” The silver eye of the mask scrunched together in my mask- crushing and stretching, crushing and stretching.

”You have nothing to apologize for.”

”If only,” I attempted another smile, but Mambo didn’t return the gesture. “Well… what about as a professional? What do you think then?”

Again, it took Mambo quite a while to answer my question. He looked away first, unfolding his hands and sauntering over to the bloody table. He ran a hand along one of the few clean spots, lift it and rubbing invisible dust between the two fingers. Mambo then stared at a vial for a while, lips pursed and eyes squinted in a familiar thinking expression. Like before, the words came out with slow deliberation, but this time it seemed to originate not in confidence, but a kind of reluctance, “As a professional… I believe that it would not be in your best interests to attend Miss Waltz’s… soireé.” Mambo’s nose wrinkled once more, he picked up a vial, turned it around in his hands- the bright pink liquid sloshing around.

”Why not?”

Mambo’s back was turned to me, and I couldn’t make out what he did- having only the slight clinking of glass and occasional tick of a burner coming on and clicking off to cue me into… whatever it was he was doing. When he turned around again, however, he held the same vial- the pink fluid now fizzing in rapid bubbles. Mambo turned it around in his hand once more, letting the bubbles catch the light. Strawberries filled the air, the sickly sweet smell covering the sharp antiseptic stench. Mambo then walked over to the sink, “Despite the fact that I’d already believed the rewards to not outweigh the inherent risk.” And promptly dumped the contents of the glass vial down the drain. “I believe that this added factor unbalances the scales even more. It’s become far too… personal… to have success be a viable outcome.” His eyebrows shoot up then, “Though I suppose you’d be the best advisor when it came to that, Harbinger. Tell me, how do you see this plan of yours going?”

There was a small crack in the tiled flooring, no bigger than a strand of hair, snaking through the white ceramic. “I’m not sure I trust my judgement on that…”

”Then don’t.” Mambo tilted his head ever so slightly, “Trust your powers, instead.”

”My powers…”

”Yes. What do your powers tell you, Harbinger?” Mambo took a single step forward, “What do you see?”

The past has always been a… close acquaintance of mine. Though I’m not sure I’d call it a ‘friend’ anymore, it’s still familiar. So familiar, that it almost feels odd when I’m reminiscing about my own past. It seems much more… blurred. Duller. Like someone forgot to clean the lense of a camera and now everything is coated in a fine fuzz and made slightly duller in color…

When did I become more familiar to stranger’s pasts than I did mine own?

I shake my head, lifting it from against the curtains.

I open my eyes, and I see the party. The grand ballroom with it’s split level flooring and the wall made of glass. An endless sea of people milling about, twirling skirts catching on chandelier light and jewels competing against one another to shine the brightest- look the most expensive. False smiles behind false teeth, drunk breath and staggered steps loping from one socialite to the other. I stand among the throng, looking up at the split level with a kind of disastrous awe. Shoulders shove me from one side to the other, pushing me from person to person. Occasionally making quiet, awkward eye contact with each person- stuttering out what I can manage of a ‘hello’ before being pushed onto the next unwanted social situation. I never encounter anyone I know, all the faces seem strange and unfamiliar and, after a while, almost inhuman-

I encounter someone I know, but it is not… not them. I do not know whether to feel happy or sad about that, I do not know if I am relieved or disappointed. I cannot speak to them properly, because any conversation is clouded by these whirling, ambivalent emotions. I end up making up some excuse, I leave and-

I do not encounter anyone I know, and yet they let slip a familiar name. A name that makes me freeze, makes my bones seem to seize up and a breathless, “How do you know them?” wheeze out. My chest feels tight, like my heart is about to pop and-

I do not encounter anyone I know, but they introduce me to someone I do, another stranger-

Someone I know-

Them.

I meet their eyes, familiar and strange and-

I open my eyes with a gasp, shaking my head and silently cursing myself. There’s a pain in my heart, and part of me wants to go back. Part of me wants to close my eyes again, slip back into that… day-dream future.

It can’t be a possibility. Though part of me knows it is, the overwhelming other half refuses to acknowledge it.

Besides, I already know how it would end. Even without seeing it, I know…

The delicate clinking of glasses draws my attention away from my small corner of the world- a large group is approaching. All giggling in a high-pitched tone that seems to be vying against the pitch of the glasses clashing gently against one another. I move away, towards the velvet-lined staircase. Staring at my feet as they move, almost hypnotically, one in front of the other.

I stand at the top, my hands curled around the railing, scanning the crowd.

But the crowd is an ocean. And after a while all the waves start to blur into one, neon-colored tsunami. It makes any one face indistinguishable and though I’ve climbed to what feels the top of a grand king’s tower it helps none with fishing for that one familiar face. A haze at the edge of my vision shifts and-

But the crowd is sparse that night, sparser than Waltz would have wanted, but it makes it easier to look through the crowd. I see no one I recognize, everything still just an acrylic painting- realistic and dreamy, beautiful and untouchable. Unrecognizable-

I stand at the top, my hands curled around the railing, and I recognize someone. It is not someone who would recognize me. Not now, not after so long. She mills about the crowd, and though I spare a brief thought as to why she’s here it doesn’t stick for long. Anything is possible. Even-

I want air. It’s hard to breathe in this cluster, being choked now not only by perfume but the pressure of what seems to be a thousand bodies packed into a space that was only ever made to hold a hundred. The railings. Space. Air. I shove my way through the crowd until I stand at the top, my hands curl around the railing until my knuckles turn white. Leaning slightly over the side just to take a gasp of that precious commodity- personal space. My eyes lift, up and past the twinkling, sparse lights of the chandelier. Tiny crystals linked together in patterns so thing they look like a million strings draped over a golden, light-bearing skeleton. Through swirling fabrics catching on heeled slippers and oiled shoes. Along the walls with engravings reminiscent of an Queen’s tomb carved into the belly of the room. Over the rug with strands so fine that it takes on the look of a bloody red field, or a battle-stained river. Surging past the masses of bodies, drawn almost my a rope, until-

They stand there. Separated from the crowd and in much the same corner I stood in before. If I hadn’t moved, perhaps we would have collided- and that thought carries with it all the same emotions of encountering someone I wouldn’t know, but would mention someone I do. Regret and relief, a kind of elation and a deep, clawing sadness. A name rises and chokes in my throat, lingering on the back of my tongue. Sweet-sounding, even when I don’t say it the sound still echoes around my ears, until it becomes all I hear. No clinking glasses, no high-pitched voices, no false laughter. Just a name. Simple and yet… nothing could ever sound more complex. Not the most elegant song, not the strangest animal, nothing.

I should tear my eyes away. I should look away. I should but I can’t seem to. I can’t seem to close my eyes. I can’t seem to look away. I find myself caught on one person in a crowd of thousands. They are dressed elegantly- and in an instant I feel like I am no longer clustered by a thousand strangers, but among a few dozen friends. Standing at the end of an aisle and-

I stand at the top, my hands curling around the railing until my knuckles turn white.

What do you see?

#model citizens unmasked #rafael darzi #short story #im gonna put all the shorts here as well for organizations sake #shorts

[ebthblog]

Buying Gemstones Online

Precious or semiprecious, loose, or set, gemstones in all forms are among the most common luxury items available for sale online. Shopping for gemstones online means you have access to a wider range of options than you'd find in any brick and mortar jewelry store. You're more likely to find exactly what you're looking for, but it helps to understand what you're looking at. With the right approach, it's easy to purchase the gemstones you’ve been hoping for.

Important Terminology for Gemstone Shopping

First, you'll want to understand the words used to describe the item you're looking at. Product descriptions should give you all the basic information you need to understand a loose gemstone or gemstone jewelry piece. It's helpful to understand the exact meaning of some jewelry and gemstone terms so you can easily identify what fits your preferences.

10K Yellow Gold Synthetic Opal and Diamond Earrings

Sterling Silver Pink Glass Cat's Eye Bracelet and Pendant

Cabochon: A cabochon-cut gemstone has a smooth, polished surface, often in the shape of a dome, with a flat back. Cabochons have a mesmerizing look that resembles the ethereal beauty of a dewdrop, showcasing the color of the stone without any manmade variations. This is a popular cut for gemstones that make their own fire, like opals and moonstones.

14K White Gold Diamond Solitaire Ring

14K White Gold 1.68 CT Ruby and Diamond Ring

Faceted: Faceted gems are cut with multiple flat surfaces, typically on all sides of the gem. This introduces multiple reflective surfaces that help bring out the natural glimmer in transparent stones such as diamonds. The facets, also known as faces, create reflective surfaces for light within the stone, which enhances their sparkle and gives the stone a carefully sculpted look. Faceted gems are more widely used in jewelry than cabochons, and most loose gems you find will be faceted. There are different styles of faceting cuts that result in different designs on the face of the stone, and some, like the princess or cushion cut, are particularly coveted for the unique brilliance they bestow.

Loose 1.01 Carat Pear Cut Diamond With GIA Report

Carved Jadeite Pendant

Loose: Ideal for those who want to create their own jewelry designs or replace missing stones in existing jewelry, loose gems are an ideal choice. These gems are sold without any attached jewelry findings. They're typically cut and polished, meaning they're ready to be set into a jewelry piece of your choice.

Vintage 18K White Gold and Sapphire Ring

14K Yellow Gold Emerald and Diamond Flower Ring

Precious: There's some variation in how the word "precious" is used to describe gemstones, but technically, only diamond, ruby, sapphire, and emerald are true precious gems. These four have been considered the most valuable and beautiful stones throughout history, and are also among the hardest. These stones tend to command higher prices than others, not necessarily because of their intrinsic value but because they're more culturally valued.

14K Yellow Gold Jadeite and Nephrite Cluster Ring

14K Yellow Gold Jadeite, Nephrite and Diamond Ring

Semiprecious: Any gemstone that's not a precious stone can be considered semiprecious. As noted above, this doesn't necessarily mean that the stone is any less rare, though a semiprecious stone typically is less expensive than a precious stone of similar size and clarity. Opal, aquamarine, amethyst, topaz, pearl, garnet, turquoise, and tourmaline are all examples of semiprecious stones. There are some semiprecious stones, like tanzanite, that are much rarer than any of the precious stones.

14K Yellow Gold Diamond Band

14K Two Tone Gold Emerald and Diamond Ring

Set/Setting: The words "set" or "setting" in a gemstone product listing indicate that these stones are already integrated into a piece of jewelry. Prong settings are the most popular; these settings use four or more small metal tabs that cradle the stone and fold over the top to hold the stone in place. Most other types, like the bezel setting, use more metal than the prong setting and create a different look for the jewelry piece that some people prefer, especially for cabochon stones.

Authenticating Stones from a Distance

Authenticity is the make-or-break factor for a gemstone. From glass to plastic and lab-created simulacra, there are many convincing ways to fake the appearance of an authentic gemstone. These fakes aren't as valuable as the real thing, even if they're very convincing. Additionally, there are some semi-precious gemstones, like cubic zirconia or green amethyst, that can stand in for precious gems. The difference may not be immediately apparent, but you don't want to get caught paying emerald prices for a green amethyst.

Before anything else, look for words like "authentic" or "genuine" as you read gemstone descriptions. If you see words like "imitation," "simulated," "lab created," or "assembled," that means you're not looking at a genuine gemstone. If none of these words are used, ask for more information.

Independent organizations such as the Gemological Institute of America (GIA) offer certifications for precious stones such as diamonds, and you should be able to review these certificates before you buy. If such certification isn't available, treat the gemstone listing with caution. Professional authentication by a certified gemologist is vital to ensuring you get what you expect. Make sure your purchase includes a copy of authentication information and that you keep a record of any authenticity claims made. When you receive the gem, take it to a trusted jeweler for authenticity verification.

Finally, you should be aware of the stone's size, which is measured by weight in carats (c. or ct.). A jewelry piece that includes multiple stones may be worth paying more for and should list total carat total weight (CTW, CWT, or TW), which indicates the collective carat weight of all the stones in the jewelry rather than the weight of each stone. Diamonds may also include a clarity rating that goes from perfect to flawed:

Flawless (FL)

Internally flawless (IF)

Very slightly included (VVS)

Slightly included (SI)

Included (I)

Inclusions are bits of mineral impurities that can cloud or interrupt the clarity of a diamond or other gemstone. Flawless diamonds are the most valuable, while most natural emeralds have inclusions that don't impact their value.

Shopping for gemstones on EBTH opens you up to a world of loose estate sale stones with auctions starting at just $1. Our trusted staff researches, certifies, photographs, and writes about each of the items for sale. You'll enjoy the extra peace of mind from having this added layer of expertise and care for when you shop for gemstones online.

#Buying Guides #EBTH #Features #Everything But The House #Buy #Buywithus #Gemstones #Jewelry

[ahqueenoh]

Berlin to Budapest.

If like me you have the travel bug, but equally prefer travelling alone, I couldn’t recommend Contiki more! They are a travel company for 18-35 year olds and they go (almost) everywhere. Every trip is an adventure and the people you meet along the way make every moment worth the long flights and sleepless nights.

This is my third time travelling with Contiki (my 4th is already booked! Bring on January!) and as the title suggests, we went from Berlin through Prague, onto Krakow and finished in Budapest. I had a wonderful time and many delicious meals, starting with Berlin Street food!

During the Second World War a woman called Herta Heuwer would approach US soldiers and swap liquor for ketchup and curry powder. She would combine these together, pour it on top of a sausage and you had Currywurst (pronounced curry vurst)!

Still a traditional street dish in Berlin you can find the kiosks EVERYWHERE. So of course I decided to try this special meal.

In all honesty, I did not know what to expect, I had been to Germany before and was still on the fence about the cuisine, that coupled with the idea of curry powder and ketchup did not fill me with joy.

Nonetheless we queued and paid, I went for Currywurst with chips (fries) and a drink, so if it was inedible I at least had something to last me until dinner.

In our group, we were also surprised to see that the kiosk offered vegan and vegetarian Currywursts so for all you none-meat eaters you too can enjoy this dish.

And enjoy it we did, the first taste to hit you was the sweetness of the ketchup, followed closely by the warmth of the curry powder. Of course you could taste the sausage too which added to the pleasure of this street dish. There’s something unique and indescribable about German sausages but I couldn’t imagine enjoying a Currywurst without one.

Since the dawn of the 20th century, Germany has gone through two world wars, the Nazis, the Soviets and five currencies. It is now one of (if not) the strongest economies in the EU and its capital is a diverse city that boasts being one of the safest cities for solo travel, a hub for street art, nightlife and reinvention. Nothing quite sums up all that history like this eclectic street dish, so should you have the pleasure of being in Berlin I can’t recommend Currywurst enough.

The adventure didn’t stop there, almost as soon as we arrived in Berlin it was off to Prague, which was certainly one of the most beautiful cities on this trip, but one of the biggest highlights for me (of course!) was the food.

We had the joy of attending a restaurant called Michal’s, (organised by Contiki) to enjoy a traditional Czech meal in the heart of this stunning city.

We began the meal with bread, soup and a garlic butter, the butter itself merits an entire blog post, it had the texture of cream cheese, the taste of butter and just the right amount of garlic.

For me, the soup was the real standout of the meal, I will go out on a limb and say, there is nothing more special in east Europe then their soups. Light, rich and full of big chunky vegetables and meats these soups are the cure to your worst break up, hardest heart ache and the most dismal of dismal days. We do not have the equivalent in England and it breaks my heart a little every time I eat Heinz Canned Tomato Soup (which gets far to much glory in the UK).

I could’ve easily eaten ten bowls of the beef soup but I was promptly presented with a platter of meat and potatoes. Again another triumph, so tender it fell apart on the journey from platter to my plate.

Czech cuisine is not for everyone and is rich and heavy to the extreme, but for me it is the sort of comfort food to make your soul sing and to bring all kinds of people together.

The restaurant certainly succeeded in bringing our tour group all together, a band played traditional music while two people danced. Of course there was some audience participation from inhaling enough water through a plastic sword to fill three wine glasses (my personal sucking skills won me a small bottle of liquor) and the dancers selecting some of our group to get up and dance.

Overall a joyous evening, full of food, laughter and copious amounts of wine.

A must do if you’re in Prague.

We waved Prague goodbye and zoomed off to Krakow (well, not quite “zoomed”, one cannot simply “zoom” in a coach containing 31 passengers and their luggage).

Sadly we were greeted by torrential rain which put quite the dampener on our first day and the chocolate box Old Town Square, but! In the spirit of making the best of a bad situation we persisted with a bicycle tour (which was rescheduled to the next day) and wondering the Cloth Hall, now a tourist market hall featuring the finest souvenirs this side of Poland, and generally getting rather soggy.

After drying our toes, Contiki had organised another restaurant extravaganza, this time at Kogel Mogel, rated highly by Michelin and known for their Perogis, we were given the chance to experience fine food and a cooking lesson.

Of course we started the meal with the aforementioned Perogis, almost anything can go in these traditional dumplings, usually they are filled with potatoes, meat or cheese (my personal favourite is red cabbage). The dumplings KM served us were a selection of potato and cheese, deer and pork.

Perogis always baffle my brain a little. While in your mouth the dough feels thick and heavy but the filling is often light and fluffy. You anticipate bloating and stomach ache but instead feel warm and satisfied.

The restaurant was kind enough to show us how to make Perogis and to let us have a go. The recipe and execution was simple enough so we gave it a go, needless to say I was hopeless but I got better, as with most Eastern European food, the key seems to be a caring hand and lots of love, a skill I can utilise when eating Perogis, not so much when making them.

After marvelling at our peers Perogi talent we returned to the table for our main course which was delicious but the standard meat and potatoes.

Now back to the Perogis, we had another dish of desert Perogis which I am ashamed to say I did not enjoy, for the simple reason they were stuffed with plums, a fruit I find so disgusting I am offended at its very presence on my plate.

However this has given me a vocation, I am now on the hunt for more sweet Perogi flavours to try.

Alongside the plums we had a dish that seemed to be like a Creme Brûlée but was not, this compote like desert, was extremely sweet and just hit the desert spot I had been craving since Berlin.

If you ever find yourself in Krakow it would be plain old bad manners to dine anywhere else but KM.

Our last stop on this epic adventure was Budapest. Technically three cities, Buda, Old Buda and Pest (pronounced Peshed) this was our sweetest stop on the trip, which was an ideal ending for me, as a large woman with an even larger sweet tooth I was certainly missing the sweet treats I love to indulge in at home.

Introducing Ruszwurm, a gorgeous confectioners established in 1827 and still going strong today, you can find this little gem on the Buda side of the city, within spitting distance of the Fisherman’s Bastion.

My first tip would be to go in a small group. I decided to go on a day the rest of the group was going to the famous Budapest Baths, another must do, so I was able to find a seat easily.

I was absolutely desperate to try the famous Ruszwurm Vanilla Kreme, a cake that is 90% cream, sandwiched between two thin biscuit/cake layers.

As soon as it arrived I regretted coming to the confectioner alone. It was large and thick and I didn’t think I was going to be able to finish one alone.

How wrong I was! This cake is the most delicious cake I have ever had the joy to taste, it has already had a reoccurring role in my dreams and I went back the next day with a few of my Contiki friends for another slice of this devilish Kreme.

Like Perogis, this cake will mess with your mind a little. It is able to stand securely with a solid thick looking cream centre and the biscuit like pieces, provide a strong hard looking foundation for the cream to sit on, but once on the lips, the cream melts into a light, perfectly sweet, whipped vanilla taste that makes me weak at the knees, the matching wafers crumble and crunch providing an excellent contrast to this sweetest of sweet treats.

This Vanilla Kreme was clearly made by a man who sold his soul to the devil and I thank god we cannot find this cake in London otherwise, within a week, I’d be bleeding cream.

If you take nothing else from this post, you must go to Ruszwurm when in Budapest.

Honourable mention:

Beetroot Soup- a delicacy in Poland that also contains little meat Perogis. This vibrantly coloured soup has a mild pickle taste that I deeply enjoy and with the accompanying Perogis is a must have lunch dish.

Central Market Hall- located on the Pest side of Budapest, this old market hall plays host to excellent street food and souvenir stands alike, an excellent stopping point for food and presents (for all the haters at home who wish they were in a city like Budapest). The “must have” street food is Langos, essentially fried bread with sour cream and cheese (most places will allow you to add various other toppings as well). Goulash is also a popular choice in Hungary and makes for a convenient lunch. Neither of these meals are a Burger Queen approved “must” I found Langos too doughy for my taste and strikes me as a pretentious pizza (not quite why I travelled all the way across Europe.) and goulash has nothing on my favourite Polish or Romanian soups.

For me, the must have is Cabbage Rolls, a dish I had the delight of eating when I worked with some fantastic Romanian women and went to Bucharest. It is the must eat meal of choice in the iconic Central Market Hall. You are served a huge portion with a side of additional cabbage. The “roll” is pork and rice (vegetarian options available) wrapped in pickled cabbage I love them so much I would marry them if I could.

Needless to say Romania and Hungary share a border and a close history so the Cabbage Rolls are (almost) as good as Romania.

#belin #burgerqueenblog #budapest #prague #krakow #food #delicious