#how to market a home inspection business | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cillianmesoftlyyy · 1 month

Text

The Castaway Pt. 1 | Matthew Joy x fem!reader

requested by @tkappi 🖤

Summary: You're running away from Mr. Daws, your adoptive father on Nantucket Island and happen to be saved by a curious sailor. You seek refuge on a whaling vessel in your hopes of making it to the mainland of Massachusetts. The man promises to help you, even if it costs him his job.

Warnings: Hints at possible sexual assault attempts from adoptive father, old-fashioned perspectives on prostitutes, 10-year age gap, mutual trauma.

word count: 4040k

Seventeen- Sjowgren 🎶

“Stop her!” Mr. Daws shouts from the doorway of his store in the overcrowded market. You duck between two men carrying a large basket of oysters, your feet nearly slipping in the deep layer of mud that has only gotten worse in the snowy winter months. Mr. Daws chases you but his rotund belly and smallish legs hinder his pursuit and you manage to put some distance between yourself and the angry fish-marketer.

“Thief! Grab her, by God!” You can hear the anger rising in his voice and notice that more people turn to inspect the scene. Thankfully, no one tries to intervene, they’re too confused by the scene to do anything. To the people of Nantucket, all they see is a young woman, probably 18 or so, in a printed blue dress holding onto her bonnet as she runs down the market lanes. They look for a thief or a criminal and see none, just a girl. You look like the well-off daughter of a merchant or clergyman in your colorful frock and braided blonde hair stuffed into the brown bonnet.

“For thee love of God, grab tha’ girl!” The man tries again to rally the bystanders as he lumbers after you, slipping and sliding in the mud. The passing of a cart cuts him off momentarily but you can still hear his voice calling from a too-close-for-comfort distance. You can’t help but smile as you race down to the docks, clutching a cloth duffle of bread, preserves, and personal belongings- some of which you did sorta steal but from your own home. Mud splatters up the back of your legs, staining your cotton pantletts and underclothes but you daren’t stop and incur the wrath of the fishman.

Your feet scramble in the mud, your boots losing traction. A frightened squeal escapes your throat as you keep running, praying that you make it to the docks and catch a sailboat before the man reaches you. This is not how it was supposed to go. Mr. Daws was not supposed to see you as you snuck out of the fish stall in the market, but he had. Mr. Daws is the man that wishes to marry you, and most shockingly, the man that adopted you a year before from the Nantucket Island Orphanage. He’d treated you well, buying you new frocks, and showering you with kindness until you turned 18… then his true intentions were revealed. He’d only shown you kindness in exchange for your trust. A marriage proposal from the man who by your understanding was your legal father was enough to shatter any trust or affection you held for him. And the things he’d tried to do… you couldn’t stay there any longer. Your only choice is to pay for passage to mainland Massachusetts on one of the many sailboats docked in the harbor.

“Thief!” He screams again and you nearly feel like sobbing because you can’t seem to outrun him in the horrible mud.

“Umph!” The sound of surprise leaves your mouth as you’re jerked to the side by a strong hand. You fall between someone’s arms in the cutaway of an alley and immediately struggle to remove yourself.

“A thief eh?”

You look up. A sailor smiles down at you, his hands still holding your shoulders in place. You look over at the busy market and the man follows your gaze, registering the look of fear in your eyes. Without a word, he pushes you into the shadow of a stall and covers any view of you from the street with his body.

“I hope whatever you stole is worth it,” the man mutters over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the busy market lane.

“I didn’t steal anything… well not really,” you whisper back, your voice dipping as you added the last part.

“I paid for ye!” Is the last thing you hear Mr. Daws scream as he limps right past you and the sailor. The sailor turns and cocks his eyebrow.

“He paid for you?” His tone is quizzical as he looks you up and down. You don’t look like a prostitute. “Aren’t you a little young?”

You look at the man for a moment, still in shock and totally unfazed by the man’s intervention on your behalf. You narrow your eyes, trying to understand what the man means and open your mouth slowly to respond but the sailor shakes his hand dismissively.

“No, no it's alright. That’s not important. Are you alright?” He glances over at the market again, checking to ensure the angry man wasn’t on his way back. You release the breath you were still holding and bury your face in your hands with a groan of relief but it’s still too soon to celebrate. Mr. Daws could be on his way back any minute now and see you. He could realize that you didn’t go down to the docks once the crowds of the market faded before the harbor. Your eyes snap open again and you grab the sailor’s forearms desperately.

“Please, can you help me?” You manage to ask, your heart still racing. The sailor’s brow furrows and he nods with visible concern.

“I can try, what’s happened? If you are a thief I won’t report you…”

Your knees buckle randomly and you collapse. You would have landed in the mud if not for the sailor grabbing beneath your arms and holding you up. He looks around for a place to set you but there is mud all around, so he exhales tightly and supports your body weight.

“I’m sorry,” you squeak in embarrassment and try to stand on your own.

“Never mind that, are you in trouble?”

You nod emphatically and glance over again at the market lane.

“Was that man chasing you?”

You nod emphatically again and nearly begin to sob for a second time. Your gasps of breathlessness make you feel lightheaded and weak. You lick your lips and try to take a steady breath so that you can speak.

“I- I’m running away. I have to get away from Nantucket. I was going to buy passage to the mainland but I’m worried he will see me and make me go back.”

“Go back… where?” The sailor tries to follow but you shake your head.

“I just need to get off this island. I need to get on a ship and go, go anywhere. Can you help me? I have money for the fare.” You reach into your pocket with a shaking hand to withdraw the roll of banknotes you’d stolen from Mr. Daws to pay for a ticket, either legally or under the table.

“Put it away,” the man nods towards your pocket and looks down at his feet as he thinks. You shove the money back into the safe pocket of your skirt and wipe a tear from your eye. Finally the sailor looks back up and nods.

“Can you walk?”

He lets you go for a moment so you can try to stand without assistance. Your legs are weak but the moment of helplessness has passed. You nod.

“Ok, follow me closely and take my coat.” The stranger pulls off his navy blue peacoat and helps you pull it on over your dress. He takes the duffle from you and when you start to protest, he shushes you with a finger to his lips. “Now take off your bonnet and put it in the pocket of your dress. Put on my hat.”

The sailor removes his cap and hands it to you. You tuck your hair beneath the lip.

“Good, now come on,” he grabs your hand and pulls you through the edges of the market towards the dock. His grip is tight and reassuring as you both walk quickly towards the dock.

At the harbor, the air is thick and gray. You can barely see the mass of shipmen working on the docks as they confer with other men. In your strange disguise, you look like a sailor’s wife wishing your husband farewell and indeed, you see wives doing just that as their husbands set off for whaling expeditions or fishing trips.

“There’s a ship here leaving for the mainland…” His sentence is cut off as you both approach the sailing boat. You squeeze his hand and duck behind a wall of water barrels. Quickly, he realizes what you’re doing and joins you.

“He must be telling the captain. Wait here.” The man tells you and steps back onto the busy path of the dock. He approaches Mr. Daws and the captain of the sailboat with a casual jaunt in his step. Mr. Daws turns toward the man and waves his hands about his head in his usual animated fashion. The sailor rubs his chin as he pretends to look interested. He pats Mr. Daws on the back and bows to the captain before walking back down the dock. The men don’t notice as he ducks behind the barrels beside you once again.

“Whoever that man is that you’re running from, he’s forcing the captain to postpone all his trips to the mainland for the next few days. You won’t be able to get on the vessel without being turned in.”

“Oh God!” You exclaim softly and sink down against the barrels, tears spilling down your pink cheeks. The sailor jumps at your tears and holds his hands out helplessly, unsure what to do.

“Oh please don’t cry! Look, I’ll take you aboard my ship. I stay docked for a few days and in that time, you may be able to board the sailing boat. If not, maybe we can drop you off at our next stop.” The man spoke quickly, his ideas coming to him on the spot. You pause your crying to look at him. You don’t even know who this man is, much less trust him to keep you safe aboard a random ship. But this is what you wanted. You wanted to get away from Nantucket in any way that you could.

“What’s your name?” You ask softly, wary to follow the man now that your shock has subsided slightly. The sailor chuckles at your question, his smile lopsided.

“Matthew, but we can introduce ourselves formally on the boat.”

You nod and wait for the sailor named Matthew to give you a sign that it was safe to move. He glances around the wall of barrels and after a few moments, his hand gropes blindly for your back. Pushing you along by your back, Matthew leads you down a dock and to the right where the larger vessels are docked. A ramp has already been set up and when no one is looking, Matthew scoops you up. You gasp, startled and very uncomfortable as he hurries up the ramp.

“Pretend you're a sack of potatoes or something…” Matthew mutters between his teeth and you dejectedly comply. He throws you over his shoulder and beelines for the passage leading below deck. You can tell immediately when Matthew passes through the threshold because the air is stuffy and humid. It smells like stale food and mildew but thankfully, it isn’t unbearable.

“We’re almost there,” he whispers as he turns a corner or two. The hallways are dark, only lit every few feet with a lantern. When he finally stops, he opens a door and steps inside quickly. He sets you down gently on your feet and steps back to give you room. You exhale slowly and look around. It’s a closet of some kind, full of extra rope and canvas for sails.

“You should stay here for a little while, at least until we know if you can catch the sailing boat. Just don’t wander about. This side of the boat isn’t as busy because we use it for storage and for our workshops but it wouldn’t be good to have you walking about…” He clears his throat pointedly and you realize suddenly, that you haven’t really gotten a chance to look at him since he pulled you to safety. His face had completely slipped from your notice all day, as desperate as you were to get away from Mr. Daws.

Matthew has a grayish face in the pale light below deck, and attractive hollow cheeks below prominent cheekbones. He has an impressive scar above his top lip, splitting his pallet down the middle at a diagonal. He is clean shaven but his hair is unkempt and about as long as you would assume for a sailor. His hair is a chestnut color, lightened from months spent beneath the sun at sea. And his eyes! You draw your eyes up to his. You’d never seen eyes quite like his, so dark blue they championed the color of the sea.

“Well,” Matthew clears his throat, trying to fill the period of silence that you didn’t notice, “now that you know my name, I think it’s only fair that I should know yours.” He keeps his back against the door, creating a respectful distance between you. You look down at your hands, for no reason really, though the blush spreading across your face may be one.

“Y/N,” you answer, looking up again. Matthew nods and trails his fingers absent-mindedly down the strap of your duffle bag still slung over his shoulder. He realizes the bag is yours and sets it down. Seeing him do this, you remember that you’re wearing his peacoat and cap. You remove them and hand them back to Matthew with a shy smile. Your body begins to drain of its initial adrenaline as you watch Matthew put his belongings on once again.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two, and when I come back, I’ll bring you some supper. If another man happens to open this door and see you…” Matthew trails off, his eyebrows pulling together. He looks just above your head on the opposite wall, thinking.

“What?” You prompt him, apprehension clear in your small voice.

“I’m trying to think,” he mutters and sighs gravely. “Tell them you’re my sister, blame it on me. It’s better for both of us that way if you’re caught. Besides, you’ll only be hiding here for a few nights at the longest.”

“Just until I can get safe passage on another ship,” you add with a tense exhale. You try to convince yourself that everything will be ok, despite the extremely strange circumstances.

As if he read your mind, Matthew promises you, “Everything will be fine.” You nod thankfully and watch as he ducks out of the room. When the door is closed, you hear keys jingling against the door which tells you the door is being locked. A rush of anxiety takes you and you rush to the door. The door to the closet is locked by the time you turn the doorknob. Your breath catches in your throat and you panic.

Oh God, I’ve been locked in a closet on a ship by a man I don’t know at all. No one knows I’m here besides him and if I draw any attention to myself and someone else comes… Damn it all!

You think and slide down to your knees behind the door. Matthew seemed so kind and trustworthy… but to be fair, so had Mr. Daws after he adopted you. Your stomach turns.

The closet has only one window, a dirty porthole, but no lanterns so save the aura of sunlight streaming in underneath the door, the room was dark. You stare at the face of your watch by resting your wrist beside the gap beneath the door. You’d decided to give Matthew the two hours he said he would need to return before screaming as loud as you can. You’d already watched one hour go by, fearful tears falling from your eyes. You have stopped brushing them away because it was straining a muscle in your neck. You’re fairly convinced that you have just left one horrible situation for another when you hear footsteps approach the door.

You scramble back in time to see the door swing open. The direct light behind Matthew is too aggressive for your eyes, so you blink and shield your face with your palm. You can’t tell if you’re relieved or not to see him.

“You locked me in,” you tell him flatly.

“Yes…” Matthew starts cautiously, hearing the tone in your voice. “My belief was that you would be safest if you were locked in.”

“Don’t please…” you ask softly and Matthew finally sees the tears on your face.

“Oh, child. Don’t cry again! I shouldn’t have locked you in. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m one of the only men on this ship with keys, so I believed this would be the safest arrangement.” Matthew closes the door quickly and crouches down to your level. “Are you alright?” He asks softly and sets down a canteen by your knees.

You wipe your stale tears and wipe your nose on your sleeve. When you nod, Matthew sighs in relief and pushes the canteen closer to you.

“Supper,” he opens the lid. You take the warm receptacle and drink the watery broth. “Now that we know each other’s names, will you tell me why you’re running away?” Matthew tries, his eyes watching your carefully for more tears.

“It’s a long story,” you murmur after you swallow some of the broth. Matthew twists his mouth to the side and sits down on a pile of coiled rope, exhaling loudly.

“We have a few days,” he shrugs and clasps his hands together.

“Right…” you concede and regard the man carefully, still wary.

“Why are you running away from home?” Matthew asks again, not harshly, but his tone is strained with fading patience. He’s risking a lot to hide you aboard, a young girl (and probable prostitute) he doesn’t even know. “If you don’t tell me, I’m likely to remove you from this ship.”

You shake your head wildly and stop him from continuing with an outstretched hand.

“No, please… I’m just not sure where to begin.”

Matthew nods and leans back against the wall, listening intently.

“Um well the man that I was running from is my father, though only legally. He adopted me a year ago.”

Matthew raises a quizzical brow but doesn’t interrupt.

“When I turned 18, just a few months ago, he tried to change the um nature of our relationship.”

“To what?” He leans forward.

“He wanted to marry me.”

“Oh…” Matthew grimaces and scrunches up his nose in disgust.

“When I refused his first offer, he kept asking but more and more forcibly…” You wring your hands uncomfortably.

“Did he try to take you?” Matthew asks without thinking of his audience. You narrow your eyes, confused again by his choice of language for everything.

I’m not sure…” you try to answer, not having understood his question to begin with.

“You’re not sure?” Matthew looks pointedly puzzled for a moment before exclaiming and rubbing his hand over his face. “So, I assume that means you aren’t a prostitute?” Matthew crosses his arms across his chest and cocks his head to the side.

“What?” You gasp in surprise, knowing what that word means.

“I just assumed when your, eh, father said he ‘paid’ for you,” Matthew shrugs apologetically.

“No!” you lower your voice, “I am not a bad woman. Mr. Daws had to pay the orphanage a certain amount to adopt me. He feels like he owns me now because of it.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you. Sailors happen to have a lot of respect for prostitutes.” When Matthew sees your mortified face he sighs again and shifts uncomfortably on the coil of rope. “Forgive me, I’m not used to speaking with young women. We don’t interact with many of you,” Matthew chuckles beside himself and gestures to you.

“But tell me,” he turns serious again, “what do you plan to do when you get to the mainland?”

You shrug honestly, “I’m not sure. I was going to find a family to take me in and work as a maid.”

“You’d do better as a prostitute,” he mutters beneath his breath, then at a normal volume, “Boston would be the place to go. They have wealthier families there. I don’t know how easy it will be to find a job as a maid, especially without references which I assume you don’t have.”

“I’ll do whatever work I can find,” you assure him quickly but then pause and add, “within reason.”

“Ah,” Matthew chuckles at you softly and crosses his arms over his chest again.

“And who are you?” You drink from your canteen as Matthew looks up at the ceiling.

“Well, I’m a whaler. I’m First-Mate on this ship, The Essex,” he turns his gaze to the side, leaning forward, as he tries to recall anything else to say.

“How long have you been a whaler?”

Matthew chuckles again and shakes his head, “A long time.” He meets your gaze with a sheepish smile, “Probably for longer than you’ve been alive.”

“I’m 18,” you say though Matthew had already gathered that from your last story. The truth still shocks him.

“You’re no more than a child,” he shakes his head in disbelief and runs a hand through his messy hair. As you watch him, you realize how old he could possibly be. He must be at least 30, you decide.

“Did you go to school?” You change the subject after a period of silence. Matthew raises an intrigued eyebrow at you and nods.

“Yeah, yeah I did. How could you tell?”

“The way you talk… and your grammar,” you stammer, not realizing how intrusive the observation had been.

“Hmmm,” he nods thoughtfully and scratches his chin. Did you go to school?”

“Some, the orphanage had a good schoolmaster. He was from Boston.”

“Must have been a pretty fancy orphanage,” Matthew laughs softly and clears his throat.

“Are you married?” You break the silence again and Matthew’s eyes shoot up to yours. He swallows tightly and you can tell you’ve stumbled upon a sensitive topic.

“I was,” he answers simply. You look down at the canteen in your hands, ashamed that you asked such a personal question of someone you don’t know.

“Smallpox,” Matthew whispers and you look up in shock.

“My parents too.”

You stare at each other in silence, save the muffled sound of waves hitting the side of the boat facing the harbor.

“Horrible disease. I hear that you go fairly quickly… I wasn’t there.” He moves as he tells you, hiding his emotion with his hands.

“I was there when my parents died but I have no memory of them, not even their faces.”

“How did you know how they died?” Matthew runs his hand over his mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek, an image of the communal grave on Nantucket Island springing into your mind.

“The island kept track of everyone who died from the Pox. My parents’ names are on the list.”

“How old were you?” He continues to ask. You furrow your brow, trying to remember.

“Just a baby, no more than three years old.” You sigh and look back up at Matthew. “What was your wife’s name?”

Matthew frowns when the conversation is turned back onto him. His face darkens and he exhales, not liking to talk about her.

“Abigail.”

You can hear the change in his tone and finish the broth instead of asking anymore questions. Matthew watches you drink the broth silently. When you finish, he takes the canteen and stands.

“I’ll go now, and I won’t lock the door this time.”

“Thank you for- for everything that you’ve done for me today. I owe you.” You stand as he had and clasp your hands together against your apron shyly.

“You're welcome child,” Matthew smiles with closed, full lips. “I’ll come back in the morning after I see about any ships sailing to the mainland. Goodnight.”

He leaves quickly, before you can say goodnight back. Once behind a closed door by yourself, you realize how dark the room had become. The sun is setting and you can just barely see it through the dirty porthole.

xxx

56 notes · View notes

mochatsin · 1 year

Text

MC GIVING GIFTS FOR THE BROTHERS

You’ve been racking up quite a ton of grimm with all the part time jobs you’ve worked in. You decided maybe you can go a bit off budget for once and spoil one of the brothers as a token of appreciation.

we stan a self-sufficient MC in this household. Just imagine your MC working in Akuber and other jobs earning that sweet grimm.

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

Lucifer

The seemingly endless amounts of paperwork that Diavolo has been leaving on his desk gave him quite the headache. He dreads going to his office every time, expecting to find another stack of student complaints and reports about his brother’s behavior.

Surprisingly though, he finds a bottle tied with a ribbon on his desk. But when he picked up and read the label, his eyes went wide to see it’s one of the finest brands of Demonus.

He knows his brothers well enough to cross them off the list of people to buy him this. Even if this was a prank from Satan or Belphie, the price tag is way too expensive for the both of them to even consider this. Perhaps it's the young prince then?

After closer inspection, he does find a small card for him and he immediately knows it's from you. ‘I bought this bottle for you since you’ve been working so hard. Take a break okay? — MC’

It’s the little sheep doodle at the end of the card that made him chuckle. It’s adorable, he thought to himself. He smiles before taking out his D.D.D. to call you.

“I found the bottle you left at my desk earlier today MC. You know you didn’t have to get me something so grand. I know buying this wasn’t easy.”

You explain that you bought it as thanks for all the times he got you out of the trouble the brothers would drag you in, and for making your stay in Devildom as comfortable as he can provide.

It’s not often he receives a token of gratitude from anyone in the house. For someone to be grateful for all the work he’s done, especially when it’s coming from you, he’s touched and speechless at the gesture.

You’ve been waiting for what seems to be a solid minute of pure silence. “Lucifer? Are you still there?” You asked, before you heard a light laugh from the other end.

“Well… enjoying this bottle all by myself seems rather lonesome don’t you think? After work, come to my room. Let’s have a drink together, just the two of us.”

Mammon

The poor guy has been trying to rack up all the grimm he can get but it’s as if lady luck decides to turn a blind eye. The stock market dropped today and now Lucifer confiscated Goldi because of his failing marks in class.

He’s been pretty much sulking all day. You try to cheer him up by hyping him for his next modeling gig. At least by then he’ll get some spending money right? But it doesn’t feel so comforting when you’re saying that over chat.

You’ve been busy getting some work done in your part time jobs, which means he gets to have less time with you. Making him extra sulky. You promised to drop by his room to give him a small treat once you get home, so at least that might lift his spirits.

He was expecting maybe a free snack, since you work in Akuber after all. What he did not expect was finding you on his doorstep with a paper bag labeled ‘Evil Devitton’ and no way did you actually go there?

He remembered the other day that he was complaining about how didn’t have any cash when the brand released a new watch. You have a little extra grimm to at least buy him this, but this is for all the times he’s helped you in Devildom (and kept you alive) since you’re ‘his first.’

You watched him stumble on his words and stutter, trying to think of what to say.

“T-THE GREAT MAMMON ACCEPTS YOUR TRIBUTE!” He tries to act all cool about it. You raised an eyebrow at him and crossed your arms. So he grumbles before letting out a soft “thank you” which makes you smile.

You scold him though every time he’d ask for treats or gifts, since he seems to be forgetting that the watch came from all your extra hard work. You don’t want to keep enabling his bad habits after all.

But you know that he cherishes your gifts. You found him flaunting the watch you gave him on one of his photoshoots from his latest magazine gig.

Levi

He’s been trying his hand at this market raffle. First prize gets a limited raffle-exclusive figurine of one of his favorite characters from this new series, a sales tactic to make people buy the store’s products for one entry.

Last you’ve heard from Levi, his luck (and his allowance) ran out from buying all he can for entry tickets, only to draw the wrong prizes.

He’s even begged for the brothers to buy from the store for a ticket or lend him some money so he can try again. A behavior that’s modeling his older brother. This catches Lucifer’s attention and he makes Levi put a stop to his shenanigans or he’ll do something about his Akuzon account.

Levi has been ranting to your chat while you were out finishing your shift. On the way home you decided to try your luck from that market raffle and behold, you won the first prize item. You know this means more to Levi so you went straight to his door.

The moment he opened, he immediately complained to you when it was announced that someone won the first prize raffle. “It’s just unfair! What if it was just some normie who won it?! Or someone unfamiliar with the franchise?! They’re never gonna appreciate the figurine!!”

When you finally showed him that you won the figurine, he would be excited (and jealous of your luck) because even if it’s not his, at least he gets to admire the figurine in your room.

He only stopped talking when you were handing it over to him, saying that he should keep it since he wants it more than you do. Eyes? Wide open. Jaw? Dropped.

“EH?! WHY WOULD YOU GIVE ME SOMETHING SO PRECIOUS?! I'M JUST A USELESS OTAKU AND-“ he would go on but you insisted.

It’s thanks for introducing you to some of your shows that became your favorites, as well as being your gaming buddy.

Levi.exe has stopped working.

The next day, you find the figurine you gave him on the best spot on his shelf collection.

Satan

Whenever you two would visit the library, he would always borrow the same book about magical spells. It covers 400 years worth of knowledge, so it was so thick that he can’t finish it in one sitting like he normally does.

He expressed that he wished he could add that book to his ever growing collection in his room, but he can’t exactly afford the cost for the book. Not to mention that he’s way too busy with other important affairs (feeding cats) to try to earn for it.

He went home late since there was a lot of work to be done at the council, and the dead hours of night won’t ever stop him from going to his usual spot to play with the stray cats.

He walks back up to his room only to find a big book resting on the foot of his door. Even a few feet away, he recognized the leather with gold imprinted designs and rushed towards it.

He can’t believe the book of magical spells was at his door! How did it even get here? He sends a message to the House of Lamentation group chat to ask.

Satan: Someone left the Index of Magical Spells at my door. Do any of you know who did?

Asmo: ohhh is that what MC has been carrying? Watching them lift that heavy book made me feel tired myself.

Finally getting his answer, he goes straight to your room with the book in hand. You were in the middle of writing your essay for class when he barged in.

“MC! I’ve heard from Asmo, but did you really buy this for me? This must’ve been so expensive! Not to mention really heavy…”

You explained that since you work part-time often, you’ve saved enough extra money to buy him a small thank you gift for helping you with your homework and pass your tests. It means a lot as a transfer student with little to no knowledge about this world.

“You didn’t really have to, your company is quite the treat itself. But I appreciate this. How about I help you with your essay? After that, maybe we can find some spells here that we can learn together.”

Asmo

As an Avatar of Lust who gets gifts from fans, he’s often showered with a lot of luxury brands and products. There’s not much you can actually get him when he seems to have everything he could ever want in Devildom.

You asked permission from Lord Diavolo to grab a few things up in the human world to bring to the House of Lamentation to make your room feel like home.

When you got back, Asmo was curious to see what you brought with you, so you allowed him to see what you have in your room.

You have your stuffed toy, your own blankets, some more of your casual clothes (that he’d love to mix and match on you soon), and so much more personal belongings but what got him curious is that small bag you have on your desk.

It’s a little kit with your own skincare products and personal perfume in a small container to bring along. He insists on having a whiff of your perfume and to your surprise, he loves it!

“I can’t believe it! They don’t have these kinds of scents here at Devildom! It’s probably because we don’t have the same ingredients. Ohh I'm so jealous of you right now dear! Maybe one day I can get one of my own!”

You just so happen to bring the actual bottle of perfume with you, so you dug up your luggage and offered to give him the perfume. The bottle has a very intricate design, since the brand was considered fancy in your world.

At first he was speechless, and you explained that you appreciate the moments he took care of your skin as well as the times he’d help dress you up for any important occasion (since you didn’t have much of a wardrobe when you moved in).

He’ll squeal in delight before giving you the biggest hug “DARLING! You have no idea how much this means to me!!!”

He’d brag to his brothers about receiving a gift from the human world by his beloved MC. Lucifer had to stop them when they also wanted to ask for gifts from you as well, saving you from the brothers trying to raid your room.

Beel

Beel has been studying hard lately since his grades haven’t been doing so well. Compared to Mammon’s, he’d say his grades are fine but if he doesn’t do better in his next test then Lucifer isn’t gonna lift the curse on the fridge that’s preventing him from getting his midnight snacks.

It’s difficult for him when his hunger preoccupies his mind way too often to focus. Sometimes he’d eat his homework when he can’t handle it anymore, and that’s not a good excuse against Lucifer.

There was a soft knock on his door and when he opened it, he found you holding two big bag of chips in your arms. They were so massive he barely saw your head when you carried it.

You told him that while you were out, you managed to buy a couple bags of chips, cheese puffs, and sweets that you stored in your room. You offered to sneak him a couple snacks for him, as long as he promises not to tell Lucifer about your secret stash.

“MC, you’re an absolute lifesaver right now” he says as he grabs a bag and starts snacking down on it. It was gone in 5 minutes, but it helped bring him back to focus.

You ask if he needs any help but he tries to refuse “you’ve already done so much for me though MC… you don’t have to teach me”

You insisted. Beel was the one who helped introduce you to some Devildom dishes that were safe for humans to consume, and he’s the one that reminds you to eat if you ever forget. Helping him by giving him your snacks is a small token of your appreciation.

For a few nights, Beel would chat if you’re free and you’d go visit his room with a few snacks while you help him go over the lessons.

With your help, he did a lot better at his tests much to Lucifer’s surprise.

Belphie

Belphie was beyond angry right now. He was trying to take a nap in the garden, and he found a perfect spot to remain undisturbed.

Mammon, under Lucifer’s punishment, was in charge of gardening duty. He didn’t know about his baby brother sleeping in the bushes when he turned on the sprinklers. Now Belphie was awake, drenched, and furious.

His favorite cow pillow had to be dried out, as well as some of his clothes that got soaked.

You heard about everything through Beel, he was worried about Belphie not getting enough sleep because he lost his pillow and has nothing to cuddle with. So when you got home, you made a quick stop at this nearby shop to buy him a little present.

Belphie was struggling to get some proper shut eye, not after Mammon ruined his afternoon nap and getting scolded by Lucifer when they ended up fighting and ruined the garden.

He felt something soft press against him and when he fluttered his eyes, he saw that you were holding this big cow stuffed toy with you.

You apologized for waking him. He asks what that’s for and you explain that heard what happened to his pillow. Beel told you about how much he wanted it, so you went ahead and got it for him.

It was your gift, since Belphie was always the one to remind you to rest. He would be the first to see the signs that you haven’t been getting enough sleep, so he would always remind you or even nap with you.

He has this soft smile on his face when he hugs the stuffed toy. It was so soft, just as he imagined it would be when he first saw it on display.

“MC… thanks. I hope that I’ll get to dream of you while hugging this… actually, come here. Let’s take a nap together, you’ve been working so hard lately. You need to rest.”

Belphie was able to peacefully sleep with the cow stuffed toy in his arms, resting with a smile on his face.

------------ OKAY THE COINCIDENCE??? IT’S NOT FUNNY ANYMORE BC as I was writing this I was actually stumped on what MC can give Mammon THEN I GET A CHAT ABOUT THE WATCH THAT HE WANTS!?!?

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #obey me scenarios

390 notes · View notes

avatar-anna · 2 years

Note

Hi I was wondering if you could write something about the fan!reader having a small business and Harry randomly checks out the shop and he immediately thinks she's cute or something? If really appreciate it :)

yes!! i... don't really know how i ended up with this fic, and i'm not sure i like it, so lmk what you think!

part two

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was there again.

You knew who he was, of course, how could you not? Harry Styles was the world’s biggest rockstar, known for his 70s-inspired sound, arms covered in tattoos, and elusive reputation. He was loved by millions, yet no one actually knew him, which you assumed was a part of his allure.

In short, Harry Styles wasn’t the kind of person you thought you would find at a Saturday farmer’s market, yet he was there. Every weekend. You weren’t one of his devoted followers, but as time went by and you saw more and more of him, you began to notice things about him. He dressed impeccably, but in a way that said he didn’t want to be noticed. His painted nails were always in various stages of chipped, which you started to believe he preferred it that way because you never saw him with a new manicure. And from what you could tell, he only ever spoke to the two or three friends he walked around with, so you tried to respect his privacy and not notice him. That didn’t stop other people from coming up to him and asking for a picture, but you let him be.

It was hard to do that when he kept coming to your stall every weekend and left empty-handed, though.

Harry Styles, you discovered, was not only the quiet and brooding type, but apparently, he was also the type of person to inspect every single thing in a store and then not buy anything. Not a single thing. Some days it felt like he inspected every petal and stem just to not buy a single flower, let alone a whole bouquet. And his brows were always furrowed, like the display wasn't up to his standards. You didn't know what kinds of flowers Harry Styles bought, but clearly yours weren't good enough for him.

A real head scratcher because he was at your stall every Saturday.

It made you question your stall sometimes—the way you arranged your flowers, the brown paper and ribbon and twine you wrapped them in; the bunches of lavender and rosemary, and bouquets of roses and daises and carnations and peonies, and all the other sweet-smelling flowers you grew at home and brought to the market every weekend. You couldn’t understand why your flowers weren’t good enough for him. Or why he kept coming back to your stall if they weren't.

Each time he stopped by your stall and didn’t buy anything, you got more and more annoyed, something that didn’t happen often. It got to the point that by the sixth time he walked up to inspect your flowers, you couldn’t sit by anymore. You were going to say something, you just had to work up the courage first.

You’d been on your phone typing up possible things to say to him, so you didn’t see Harry walk up to your stall, and when you looked up, you jumped. He was right in front of you.

“I, um, I wanted to ask for your opinion,” he said, his voice so quiet you had to lean in to hear him.

“My opinion?” you asked, looking at him skeptically.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I—I want to buy a bouquet of flowers, but I don’t know which ones to get. I'm meeting someone and am in a bit of a rush, so if you could just...”

He gestured like he wanted you to be quick in your assessment of your own flower arrangements.

You were curious as to why now, after weeks of him practically judging your stall, he wanted your advice, or to buy something. But when he said he was in a rush, you realized you were probably a last resort. Harry didn't want to buy from you, you were just a convenient option.

"Sure. Is there anything you're looking for in particular?"

"Flowers," he blurted, looking at you like he suddenly regretted coming to your stall at all. At that moment, you wondered where his normal group of friends was. Harry was rarely ever alone, and you would've loved a buffer between the two of you right about now.

Rolling your eyes, you said, "I meant, what's the occasion? Are you celebrating? Is it romantic? Are they for a family member?"

You hoped that your questions would clear things up, but he only looked at you with a deeper frown. "Does it matter? They're all flowers."

This was your moment. This was your opportunity to speak your mind and match his sour energy. But as you opened your mouth to tell him how you really felt about his judgy eyes and above-it-all demeanor, you chickened out.

"You're right. Here," you told him, pulling a random bouquet from your stall and handing it to Harry. It was a personal favorite of yours—lavender and daisies and baby's breath bundled together with twine—and a pretty neutral bouquet. Unless he was about to go to some sort of anniversary event with a significant other, in which something a little more grand would be more fitting. But he said it didn't matter, so you decided not to think into it too much.

"That'll be twelve dollars."

His brows raised in a way that made you dislike him even more, but he only pulled his wallet out and handed you a twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change," he mumbled, then walked off the way he'd come.

"Ass," you muttered.

Checking your watch, you realized the market was going to be over soon. And since no one was even looking at your stall, you decided to pack up for the day. You began pulling bouquets from their displays, already coming up with ways to repurpose the ones that were showing signs of wilting. You often dried them and made little bookmarks, plates, ornaments, and other kinds of decorations, but that took time and planning.

"Did Harry Styles just buy flowers from here?"

You looked behind you to where a girl dressed in bell bottoms and a crop top was standing, glitter-covered eyes looking at you expectantly.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Can I buy the same bouquet as him? Does he shop here a lot?"

There was an opportunity here. To lie or to tell the truth. Since you were still a little miffed by the singer's behavior, you went with a little white lie. "He comes here every week."

It technically wasn't a lie. He did come every week, but the girl didn't have to know that today was the first time he'd ever purchased anything. You had a lot of flowers to sell, and Harry was going to help you, whether he was aware of it or not.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The next Saturday came and Harry was back with what some might consider his “entourage.” If it was possible, he looked even moodier than he normally did, and he was headed straight towards you. You didn’t know what he wanted, nor did you care that people were gawking at him as he came into your stall. Thanks to him, business was better than ever, word having spread that the Harry Styles frequented your flower stand. You were in the middle of helping a bride with ideas for arrangements for her wedding, and you weren’t going to stop for Harry. He could wait.

“I need to speak to you.”

His voice made it seem like there wasn’t room for debate, but you didn’t see it that way.

“I’ll be with you in just a minute. Feel free to look around,” you told him, quickly going back to the bride to be.

You could practically feel him standing behind you, but you took your time helping the potential client. In reality, it was maybe two or three minutes, but when you turned around, Harry’s arms were crossed like you’d made him wait an hour.

Smiling, you asked, “How can I help you?”

“She didn’t like them.”

You knew what he was talking about, but an evil part of you kind of liked pissing the rockstar off. “Like what?”

Harry just continued to stare intensely. “The flowers. The ones I bought from you.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” you said, and you meant it too. You took pride in arranging your bouquets. “Did you want to buy more or did you just want to tell me that?”

“Well, I—” He paused, like he was choosing his words carefully. “I mean not really, but she said I had to.”

Your brows raised, both thoroughly confused and amused at the same time. “Okay. Well, have a look around, and let me know if—”

“There’s nothing here,” he interrupted. “She’s very picky. Likes to have stuff that other people don’t.”

Who was he dating? The queen? you thought. You understood getting the right bouquet and having a favorite flower, but you couldn’t just pull the ones you had apart and make Harry a new one. You grouped those flowers together for a reason.

“I mean if you think they’re unsatisfactory, then you could always just go somewhere else,” you said.

“It’s not me, it’s her,” Harry said. “I couldn’t care less, but she’s insisting, and I’m already here, so.”

He didn’t even realize that he just insulted you. And not only that, but he still expected your help.

Channeling all of your most calming thoughts, you took a deep breath and smiled. “Well, let me check the back for something more unique. Oh wait, there is no back,” you said with a shrug. If he didn’t care, then you didn’t either.

“Why are you being rude? I’m asking you for help,” he asked, seeming utterly confused.

It occurred to you then that the man in front of you might just be the brutally honest type, that he didn’t think he was being mean, just honest. He was, but you weren’t going to have it out with him about his behavior. If no one hadn’t called him out on it, you weren’t going to be the one to change his mind.

“I...guess you can come back to my garden and pick out a bouquet there, but it’ll cost you ex—”

“Done. When can we leave?”

“Market closes in an hour,” you said, eager to be rid of him for the time being.

“I’ll come back then.”

“Can’t wait,” you muttered. It was sarcastic, of course, but you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Harry was back in exactly an hour, his friends nowhere to be seen. He watched passively as you loaded wooden crates of flowers into your truck, and when you finally closed up the bed, you walked back over to him.

“You can just follow me in your car, I guess. I live about ten minutes from here.”

You weren’t surprised when all he did was nod. He followed you to the market’s parking lot, your eyes widening when he slid behind a sleek black car with tinted windows.

The entire drive, your mind was occupied. You wondered how the hell you ended up in this situation and pondered ways it could’ve gone differently. Perhaps you should’ve just told Harry to find another florist, or just let him pick apart your bouquets. But you were here, driving in your beat up, barely working, pick-up truck with one of the biggest celebrities of today trailing behind you in a car that costed more than you made in a year.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Take a look around and let me know if you see anything you like.”

“Okay.”

You didn’t want to leave him alone among the rows of flowers, but you also didn’t want to awkwardly trail behind him. So you settled for venturing to the next row over pretending to gather flowers while keeping an eye on him.

Harry barely said a word as he walked up and down your garden, his face as void of emotion as always. You wondered if he ever smiled, or what his laugh sounded like, but you quickly shook those thoughts away.

“I can’t find anything.”

Having gotten lost in picking out marigolds that looked ready to be picked, you startled at Harry’s sudden closeness. It appeared he was very sneaky.

“I’m sorry about that,” you said, though you kind of expected that from him. “I don’t have anything else to show you.”

“I just don’t know what to get for her, and she’ll have my head if I don’t get it right,” he said, and for a moment it sounded like he was genuinely worried about the possibility of his head being removed from his neck.

Harry claimed he couldn’t find anything, but it looked to you like he wasn’t going to leave here empty handed.

“Um...” You quickly scanned the row you were in. Spotting some pink carnations and wild daisies, an idea sprouted in your head. You snipped stems and went to another row to pull some other flowers to match. “Here. Carnations symbolize gratitude and the wild daisies beauty and hope. And the little purple ones are unique and will tie the whole thing together once I wrap them in purple paper. Does that work?”

Harry took the flowers from your hands and inspected them like he was about to give you feedback on your choice. Why he would do that, you weren’t sure. You didn’t go to his home and criticize his music.

But all he said was, “Flowers have meaning?”

You breathed heavily through your nose. “Yes, they do. Now, if you’d like, I can wrap these up for you. Put a bow on them maybe?”

Harry looked like he wanted to ask more about flowers and their meanings, but he just nodded.

You led him away from your garden and into your garage, which you’d converted into a workspace years ago. It was covered in unfinished projects and snipped stems and stray petals, but honestly it always looked like that.

“Um, there are small animals following you.”

“Oh!”

Turning around, you saw that Harry was right. There was a line of ducklings following you towards the house. Bending down, you cupped your hands and let a couple hop in.

“This is Melon, Sandy, and Hank. They hatched recently, and now they follow me everywhere.”

Harry peered down at the ducklings curiosity wrinkling his brow. “They...follow...you?”

“Yep. Do you want to hold one? Actually, why don’t you just take these while I go wrap up your flowers.”

You handed the ducklings off to Harry while you darted into your workspace, making quick work of cutting ribbon and tying a knot around the sweet peas’s stems. When you returned, Harry was holding two ducks while one somehow made it onto his shoulder and was burying itself in his hair.

“Sorry, I should’ve mentioned that Melon does that,” you said.

It was a risk to step into Harry’s personal bubble, you didn’t think he would be the type to appreciate that, but he also looked slightly freaked out that a duckling named Melon was trying to make a home out of his hair. Carefully, you removed Melon from strands of hair until he was safely back in your hands.

Harry quietly took the packaged flowers from you and handed the other ducklings back. Figuring he was in some kind of shock from holding the three ducks, you left him to his silence and showed him out.

“Do you own a lot of animals?”

The question surprised you, but only because you assumed Harry would want to leave as quickly as possible. “I don’t really see myself as an ‘owner,’ but I technically have a cow. And Cheese. And deer show up every now and again.

“Cheese?”

“A tree frog,” you clarified. “I was high when I named him.

That time you were sure the corner of his mouth flickered. “That’s...unusual.”

“What? Getting high?”

“No, the cow and—”

“That was a joke,” you said, stopping him even though his flustered state satisfied you to no end.

“Oh. Well here,” he said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet and pulling out a bunch of bills.

You started at them in shock. There was easily a hundred dollars in your hands. “I don’t need that mu—”

“Just take it. Please,” he insisted.

For a brief moment there, Harry seemed... different. You couldn’t really pass judgement because you didn’t know him, but the last couple minutes, he wasn’t so tense and wasn’t frowning so much. More awkward than broody. But he seemed closed off again,so you just took the money like he told you to.

Harry quickly sped off after that, and you were left alone in the dust, literally, trying to comprehend the day you just had.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Wiggles says you own a cow.”

Your first instinct was to look up, not down, so you didn’t see her at first. When you realized it wasn’t an adult that was speaking to you, your eyes shifted downward.

The first thing you saw was blond hair slicked back into a ponytail, the next thing was the coffee cup. She looked like she was nine going on twenty-nine with a plaid skirt and sweater vest. Who was this girl and where did she come from?

“You realize coffee stunts your growth, don’t you?” you asked, though a smile played at your lips.

She looked down at you the best she could at her height. A very commendable effort, you decided. “It’s decaf.”

“Fair enough. Who told you about my cow?”

“H—”

“Lucy, there you are!”

With wide eyes, you watched as Harry jogged over to you and the young girl. Lucy.

It seemed Harry switched out his usual group of friends for this young girl. You knew you probably shouldn’t have, but you couldn’t help but ask, “Wiggles?”

At that, Harry glared down at Lucy. “We talked about that.”

Lucy shrugged. “You talked. I listened, and then I silently disagreed.”

You immediately liked this girl.

Turning away from Lucy, Harry looked at you with pink cheeks. “Sorry about her. We were just leaving, actually.”

“Oh. No worries, she just—”

“You came all this way and you’re not gonna give it to her?” Lucy asked.

It seemed as if this girl was Harry’s kryptonite, as he began to blush even harder. Sighing, Harry set the drink in his hand down on the table you were sitting behind. The drink you always ordered.

You looked at the drink, astonished. “How did you—”

“I just noticed the label, and I knew that that coffee shop is close by, and I mean the drink is green so all I had to ask for was the green one. It’s not like it was hard or anything.”

It sounded like Harry was trying to convince himself of that fact and not you, but the fact that his moody, broody exterior wasn’t as thick as you initially assumed put a smile on your face.

“Thank you. I don’t know why you got it for me, but thank you.”

Scratching the back of his neck, Harry said, “Well, I told Lucy about the florist who owned ducklings and a cow, and she insisted that I take her, and when I tried to explain that your house wasn’t a petting zoo, she said—”

“That everyone has a price, and Wiggles has a very big wallet,” Lucy supplied helpfully.

Lots of things shocked you at the moment, it was hard to pinpoint which one had your mouth slightly ajar.

Harry had...a child? They didn't look anything alike, but that didn't say much. But not only did he have a child, who was just as blunt as Harry was, he talked about you to her. You were curious to know in how much detail, but you didn't dare ask. It was clear Harry—Wiggles—had his hands full.

"I was just bringing this as a thank you for your help last week. That's all," Harry said, looking you dead in the eye. It was like he needed you to know he had absolutely no ulterior motives with the coffee. Not that you expected him to. As far as you knew, Harry had never been photographed with anyone romantically, but you had a feeling a florist and cow owner wasn't his type.

"Thanks," you said, picking up the drink and taking a sip from the straw.

It was awkwardly silent after that. You didn't really know what to say, and from the looks of it, Harry didn't want to say anything. His mask of indifference was back, but he made no move to take himself and Lucy away.

"So is it like one of those black and white cows you see on milk cartons, or is it—"

"Lucy," Harry hissed.

"What?"

The pair had a very interesting dynamic. The way they interacted felt more sibling-esque than father-daughter, and now you really wanted to know what exactly they meant to each other.

"She's a miniature cow with brown hair," you said to Lucy, not minding her curiosity one bit.

"Miniature?"

You nodded. "She won't grow to be very big. Wanna see?"

Harry stood with his arms crossed while you and Lucy looked at pictures of your pet on your phone. As you scrolled, the young girl peppered you with questions, and while you were more than happy to answer all of them, you could tell that Harry was even more ready to leave.

"You really live there? It looks like a fairy's home," she said, admiring the picture of Petal the miniature cow dozing in the garden.

"I do."

Lucy turned to Harry, and while his arms were still crossed and his face was still pretty stoic, something in his eyes softened when he looked at her. "We have to have our next tea party there."

"You can't just use someone's home for your tea parties, Lucy," Harry said, sounding like he'd had similar conversations before.

"Well obviously Y/n would be invited too," Lucy said with a roll of her eyes.

Sighing, he told her, "You can't invite yourself over to someone's house, Lu—"

"It's fine," you said, even if Harry was technically right. "Lucy, why don't you go pick out a bouquet of flowers. Free of charge."

Lucy's eyes lit up, and she scampered off to inspect each one, much like Harry often did when he stopped by.

Now that you and Harry were relatively alone, you were able to digest some of the information you'd learned in the last few minutes, the first being that Harry Styles, the Harry Styles that toured the world as a rock star and sang about sex and hallucinogenics, went to tea parties with a girl who couldn't be older than ten years old and called him Wiggles. Who knew that was what he was hiding under that broody facade?

"I'm sorry about her, she has no sense of personal boundaries," he finally said, breaking you away from your thoughts.

"Like I said, it's fine. She just made my day."

That made Harry smile just enough for a dimple to indent one of his cheeks. It made you wonder what his actual smile looked like. Attractive like him, you assumed, though you doubted you would ever see it.

"Thanks. And don't worry about the whole tea party and coming over thing, she'll forget about it by tomorrow."

Harry was saying one thing, but it didn't sound like he was all that convinced, and after witnessing Lucy's fascination and persistence yourself, you knew that she would probably nag Harry about it for days, maybe even weeks, to come.

"I...wouldn't mind if she came to visit Petal, but I will require one thing."

Harry looked skeptical but also relieved that he wasn't going to have to repeatedly tell Lucy no. "Deal. What is it?"

"I need to know how Harry Styles got the nickname 'Wiggles.'"

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Suddenly knowing things about a celebrity was weird.

To you, Harry had just been some guy that was popular on the radio and really had a problem with your flower arrangements, and now he and his...well, you didn't know who Lucy was to him, but they were coming over to your house so that she could meet your pet cow.

Life was utterly bizarre (cow pun intended).

You didn't really know what to expect from Harry. He was quiet and standoffish and had this uncanny ability to make you question every little thing you did. You were used to seeing him from a distance, watching him as he silently judged your bouquets of flowers, and now you were spending an extended period of time with him. You weren't sure why you cared, but you did.

So you put a little effort into what you were wearing for your guests, but not to the point of looking like you were trying too hard. A bandana over your hair, a pair of jeans that didn't have grass stains on them, and a green turtleneck sweater that made your eyes pop.

Lucy and Harry were right on time, something you were expecting from them. This whole arrangement was strange, but seeing Lucy's eyes widen as she took in your garden in person made it all worth it.

Harry was pretty much silent as you showed Lucy all the different types of flowers and how to properly pick them. He trailed behind the two of you like some kind of bodyguard, boots kicking up dirt and crunching gravel as he walked.

"Is he always like that?" you couldn't help but ask Lucy. You wondered if it was just you who had that affect on him, or if that was just his natural disposition.

"Mm, kinda. He's just shy. Doesn't know how to talk to girls."

You didn’t know what you were expecting, but that was not how you assumed Harry Styles would be. You weren't a huge fan of his by any means, but you didn't live under a rock, either. Girls practically threw themselves at him, you guessed he had no issue flirting with girls.

Not that that's what you thought Harry wanted from you. His feelings towards you were pretty clear, you thought.

"I can hear you, you know," Harry called from a few feet behind you and Lucy. She giggled, like that was exactly her plan, but you just blushed. He didn't need to know you were asking about him.

"And here's Petal. She mostly just sleeps and eats all day," you said a while later. Lucy had insisted you showed her everything, and after an hour, you finally made it to where Petal was napping in the afternoon sun.

"She's so cute! Isn't she cute, Wig—I mean Harry?"

You stood back after telling Lucy where the best places to pet Petal were so she wouldn't get spooked, more than happy to just watch like Harry was.

You tried not to, but you couldn't help but steal glances at Harry. Your eyes caught on the sharp angle of his jaw the curl of his lashes and the point of his nose. And when you settled on his hair, you couldn't help but smile.

"You—You have something in your hair," you said, and before you could think, you were reaching up to pluck the dandelion tuft from one of his curls. The image of Harry's hair dotted with flowers made you smile even wider.

When you pulled back and saw his wide eyes, though, you immediately took a step back. "Sorry, I should've asked before invading your space like that."

Harry cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. "It's fine."

Not that you really expected to, but you couldn't read Harry for the life of you. There were moments where you thought he was just awkward like Lucy said, and then there were those where he just seemed inexplicably cold. Maybe it's just me, you thought, and you couldn't help but feel a little disappointed by that.

When you turned back towards Lucy to ask if she wanted to go find your ducklings, you missed the way rested his face in his hands.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You weren't sure how it happened, but Harry and Lucy were suddenly a part of your life.

Well, that wasn't totally true. Lucy kept inviting herself over, and you learned very quickly that Harry had a hard time telling her no. Not that you minded. Lucy was sweet, and it was nice having people around.

Harry remained as cold as ever. Over the last few weeks, you knew almost everything about Lucy. As she helped you pick flower crowns, she told you how she preferred her coffee, while you showed her how to make flower crowns and preserve dried flowers, she revealed that Harry was her godfather who helped take care of her, and she told you about her classmate that sang a little too loudly during music class. And while you brewed tea for her tea party, she broke down her meal schedule, from breakfast croissant all the way down to her bedtime glass of steamed milk (non-dairy, of course).

And yet, in all that time, Harry remained a mystery. Unless Lucy included him in a story, you knew as much about him as you did when he was merely someone who came by your stall at the farmer's market.

It didn't bother you, but you were curious as to why stayed so far away whenever you and Lucy hung out.

"Are you free on Saturday night, Y/n?"

You looked up from where you'd been braiding little flowers into Lucy's hair. "I think so. Why? Are you asking to come over?"

"No, I have plans, but you should definitely go out."

She did that a lot, you learned. She liked to tell you what to do with your life and give you advice on how to spend it. Most of it you ignored, seeing as she was nine—though you did take her up on a coffee recommendation she gave you a week ago—but for the most part, you humored her.

"And where should I go?" you asked.

"Wiggles is playing at the Troubadour. You should go see him perform."

Looking over to where Harry sat on a patio chair, you assumed he would be on his phone or staring off into the distance, but his eyes were already on you and Lucy, watching the conversation play out.

"Um..." You weren't really sure how to answer with Harry staring you down like that. Did he want you to say no? Yes? You couldn't tell. "It's kind of last minute, don't you think? I think it might be sold out by now."

"He could work something out. Couldn't you, Harry? Don't you want Y/n to see you perform?"

You didn't know him, but one thing you could assume about Harry Styles was that he didn't like being put on the spot. Looking at you, he said, "If you want to come, I could figure something out."

Lucy jumped up and clapped. "See? Perfect! Now your night won't be boring and Wiggles will be so excited you're coming."

He certainly didn't look very excited. His face morphed into a grimace, though you tried not to be too offended by that.

When it was time for Lucy and Harry to leave, you pulled Harry aside once Lucy was buckled up in the car.

"I won't come if you don't want me to."

Harry shook his head, curls bouncing around his shoulders as he moved. "No, you should. The Troubadour is a cool venue."

"Uh...Okay. Sure. I guess it wouldn't hurt to have plans on Saturday night."

Giving you a curt nod, he said. "Great. I'll text you the details on Friday."

"Cool, I'll see you—then," you said, but he'd already spun around to get in the car.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"The Troubadour is a cool venue?" Lucy mocked with a giggle.

Harry rested his head on the steering wheel and blew out a heavy sigh. "Shut up, Lucy."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You were overdressed.

Or perhaps not appropriately dressed was a better way to put it. You weren't the type to wear a lot of black, but maybe you should've gone out and bought something more suited for a rock concert at the Troubadour. You were in a pair of denim overalls with a floral blouse underneath, a small bouquet of flowers in your hands to give to Harry after his performance.

Everyone at Harry's show was intense, and you were suddenly very glad that you were watching from the second floor. There was a lot of pushing and shoving right in front of the stage, people reaching out in the hopes that Harry would touch their hand.

And Harry. Well, at least now you knew why everyone loved him. Everything about him was hot as he sang onstage. He played guitar, his chest was on display with the button-down that was barely buttoned, and eyeliner was smudged around his eyes, making his green eyes pop. A few times, he looked up to where you were, and you blushed every time. You thought he was cute, like most of the population, but to you that was just a fact. Now, though, butterflies stirred in your stomach.

Maybe it was that Harry seemed to come alive onstage, or that you were finally seeing a side of him other than the quiet, indifferent person you'd become acquainted with through Lucy. Whatever the case, you enjoyed seeing Harry like this, less stoic and more energetic.

When the show was over, you waited and debated. You'd brought flowers for Harry, but his text didn't say anything about the two of you meeting afterward. In truth, your connection was mostly through Lucy, and without her here, there was no reason for you to see each other.

Harry "Wiggles" Styles: You can come backstage if you'd like.

That was certainly unexpected. You made your way to what you assumed backstage, smiling at people as you passed. Some smiled back, and some glared at you when they realized where you were headed.

There was a security guard in front of the green room, but he must have been expecting you because he stepped aside before you could say anything.

"Oh! Sorry! I'll wait outside!"

Apparently, the security guard wasn't aware that Harry was changing out of his stage clothes. He'd been slipping his patterned button-down off his shoulders. You were quick to turn around, but not before catching a glimpse of broad shoulders and an entire chest covered in tattoos. Your heart had just stopped racing after his final performance, but now it was fluttering all over again.

"It's fine, Y/n. You can turn around."

Slowly, you turned on your heel. Harry was already in a t-shirt, a faded Ramones shirt with a stretched collar that revealed tattoos inching up his neck.

"These are—These are for you."

"Thanks."

You awkwardly handed over the flowers for him to take, Harry's fingers brushing yours when he eventually did. You weren't sure why you were so nervous all of a sudden. You'd seen Harry numerous times, so you didn't know why this felt so different.

"I really enjoyed your show tonight. I can see why so many people like you. And the, um, the part where you drank water and then spit it out was cool too. I think the girl next to me almost fainted."

Your nerves were palpable, so you weren't surprised when a smile itched at the corner of Harry's mouth. "I'm glad you had a good time."

Neither of you knew what to say now. Both of you stood in the middle of the green room, Harry holding the bouquet of flowers between ringed-adorned fingers and you wishing you hadn't given them away just yet so your hands had something to fiddle with.

"Well, thanks again for this. I had a lot of fun. Though maybe I should thank Lucy. She kind of forced your hand."

Harry was still staring at you with an unreadable expression. You wished you knew what he was thinking.

"I'm—I'm glad you came tonight," he said.

Your brows raised in surprise. "Really? I kind of thought you hated me."

Why did you have to go and say that, idiot? you thought. Now things were even more awkward than they were before.

Harry frowned, looking genuinely hurt by what you said. "I don't hate you. You think I hate you?"

"Well, no, I mean kinda? I guess I just took you not talking to me as disliking me, and before I even met Lucy you would always look at my stall with this hard expression on your face, and then you would never buy anything. Which is fine except you kept coming back so, I don't know, it just felt like my work wasn't good enough for you and you're always glaring and it—it's just this feeling I have."

You took a deep exhaled, having said all of that in one breath. You didn't come to Harry's show tonight with plans to say all that, but now that you did, you felt a bit better. Though now you worried you may have hurt Harry's feelings.

"I—I was just trying to come up with something," he said.

"Come up with something?"

"To say. To you. I don't know anything about flowers, and you make me nervous, and the fact that I couldn't just make myself go up and talk to you frustrated me to no end. I just didn't want to look like an idiot in front of you."

"Oh."

You had no idea how to respond. All this time, you thought Harry didn't like you, only to find out that he was...nervous to talk to you? You remembered Lucy saying that Harry was shy, but you didn't think it went that deep. Apparently, it did.

"So you...like...me then?" you asked. It sounded to you like Harry had a crush, but you weren't going to make any more assumptions.

"Yeah, I—I've been working up the courage to ask you out for weeks, but Lucy beat me to it. Nosy little menace."

You couldn't help but smile at the mention of Lucy. She really was the cause of all this. "Her heart was in the right place?"

Harry nodded, but he wouldn't meet your eyes. "I understand if—if don't want to. Go out with me that is," he said, pink tinging his cheeks. "Now that I know you thought I hated you and everything. But I don't. You should know that, at the very least."

He looked so defeated with his hair hanging in his face the way it was. All of this was coming as a surprise to you, and as such rendered you speechless. But the longer you went without saying anything, the more Harry seemed to deflate.

"You, uh, you haven't actually asked me yet," you found yourself saying.

You thought Harry was a mystery, and in some respects, he was. He'd been a little rude to you the first few times you spoke to him, but everyone had their off days, and he hadn't been like that since he and Lucy started regularly coming to your house.

And without actually speaking to him much, you knew quite a bit about him. You knew he had a goddaughter, whom he loved very much and let call him Wiggles. You knew that he seemed to have a hard time expressing his feelings unless he was onstage. You knew he had a close group of friends that he hung out with regularly. And you knew he let Lucy put flowers in his hair (but you only knew that because she told you).

It was a short list, but you found yourself wanting to add to it.

Harry looked at you, hope etching his features. "Right, um. Would you like to...to go out sometime?"

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As your truck pulled into the driveway, you sighed.

You felt like Cinderella after the clock struck twelve. You checked in on all your animals, making sure they were all accounted for. As you finally made it to your bedroom, you replayed the night's events over and over.

You didn't think that was where the night was headed, you almost couldn't believe it. The last few hours felt like a dream, one that you would wake up from any minute now.

But then your phone chimed, and your heart did that weird fluttery thing when you saw who the message was from.

Harry "Wiggles" Styles: I had a really good time tonight.

Harry "Wiggles" Styles: Is it too soon to ask for a second date?

#harry styles #harry styles au #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you #harry styles writing #harry styles fluff

1K notes · View notes

throneofsapphics · 1 year

Text

have your little girlfriend

Rowaelin x f!Reader

Summary: “You look so pretty with that blush. I wonder how far-”

“Not here.” Y/n interrupted, placing a finger to her lips. Aelin nipped at it with her canines, but kept her mouth shut.

Word Count: ~3.4k

Warnings: mostly smut, slightly dark Aelin, possessiveness, light d/s dynamics, minors dni please!

series masterlist

Aelin took off a few hours early, Rowan staying behind to finish up negotiations with Darrow and the rest of the council. He could manage an afternoon with them, she’d reasoned. Besides, she’d barely seen her girlfriend in the last few months, all of them being busy. Y/n was making preparations for Yulemas, stocking up on the crafts and chocolates she’d make for her market stall. Aelin still doesn’t get how people will brave the markets in the middle of Terrasen winters, but Y/n is out there every Saturday, without fail. And every Saturday she can, she goes to visit and pretends to be a stranger inspecting the wares.

Hopefully she timed it right, in theory she’d arrive just before closing. Her cloak pulled tight around her, she took to the streets. The day is milder than usual, just a chilly breeze flowing through.

Y/n was distracted, speaking with someone at the far end of her table, and Aelin snuck around to the other side, picking up a small box of chocolates and pretending to examine them. One of the sellers - Edde - on the other side caught her gaze, giving her a small grin. They were used to her antics by now.

“How much for these?” She asked, after the person had walked away. Y/n’s face lit up, her nose red and cheeks red from the cold.

“For you?” She took the box from her hands, squinting at it. “Three silvers.”

Aelin pretended to look outraged, “That’s robbery.” She narrowed her eyes, fighting the smile that crept on her face.

“If you can’t afford them,” Y/n moved the box to the side. “Just say so,” She shrugged.

Aelin rolled her eyes. “What about this?” She asked, picking up a small ornament. A delicately carved wooden snowflake, painted white with small blue swirls. She ran her fingers over it - all completely smooth, not a rough edge on it. She noticed the rest of the table was nearly all bare - y/n must’ve had a busy day, although she’s not surprised.

“Free, for you.”

“A snowflake, but not chocolates?” Aelin pouted as Y/n leaned her hip against the table.

“If you don’t want it..” she began, reaching her hand out, palm up.

Aelin snatched it back, sliding it into her pocket. “No, I’ll keep it.” Still, she tossed a few silver coins on the table, which Y/n picked up, and shoved back at her. That fight again. They did this little dance every time. A few silvers seemed to bounce between them. If she didn’t take them back, they’d show up in her pocket, on her desk, in a drawer; anywhere she could find them. And places y/n hadn’t been. Sometimes she wondered if she bribed Fenrys or Aedion to return them.

She pushed the open hand away, and Y/n huffed, handing her a box of chocolates instead. Those, she accepted without complaint and started eating as Y/n began packing up for the rest of the day. Chocolate and Hazelnut. Aelin fought the urge to moan loudly. The market had begun to empty around them but a few other seller’s remained, all packing things up.

“All set.” Y/n announced, dusting her hands off. Everything was loaded onto a small cart with a handle. “Can I expect a shadow on my way home?”

“Of course,” she answered - the words muffled by the chocolate in her mouth. “Are you going to let me help this time?”

“No.”

“It was one time.” Just once, Aelin had knocked the entire cart over, boxes of chocolates spilling into the dirt. Y/n had laughed it off, but never let her help again. That included loading any merchandise. Rowan could help, but Aelin? As soon as she got close to it, her hands were swatted away.

Y/n leaned over the table, licking her thumb before brushing it over the corner of Aelin’s mouth. “You had something there.” Quicker than the other female could react, Aelin caught her hand, sucking her thumb into her mouth.

Her eyes widened, cheeks flushing. “There’s still people.” She hissed, looking around furtively.

“Just cleaning up,” she released her finger with a smirk. “You look so pretty with that blush. I wonder how far-”

“Not here.” Y/n interrupted, placing a finger to her lips. Aelin nipped at it with her canines, but kept her mouth shut.

Aelin played the long game. She knew she wanted Y/n as soon as she saw her, and brought Rowan in on it as well. He was amused by the entire thing, and told her to ‘have her little girlfriend,’ even though he enjoyed her presence as well. And watching the two of them occasionally. Maybe it made her a bit possessive, but any time Rowan was around her, she was there as well. Any time he touched her, Aelin was directing the show, speaking into his mind. She had a feeling Rowan liked being told what to do sometimes.

Y/n, on the other hand, completely submitted to her. For the most part. She’d melt under her touch, blush at any little thing Aelin did to tease her, and look at her with adoring eyes that made her heart flutter.

She remembers vividly the first time she got to touch her in all of the ways she’d dreamed about.

She whimpered under Aelin’s touch, her head propped up on a pillow while Aelin sucked gently at her nipple.

She glanced nervously at Rowan in the corner, but before she could catch any reaction from him, Aelin’s fingers gripped her chin and turned her focus back to her.

“Look at me. Not him.” She said in a low voice, her hand drifted to the back of her head, twining her hair between her fingers before pressing her lips against hers. Her grip tightened, and Y/n’s let out a soft moan, lips parting slightly to let Aelin bite her bottom lip. It was like everything went silent – the rest of the world drowned out. All Y/n could feel was her soft lips and the gentle pressure of her chest and body melting into hers. Her hands stroked Aelin’s shoulders, trailing down her back with light and gentle touches. When she got the chance, she nipped at Aelin’s bottom lip. Her hand immediately moved from the back of her head to her neck, squeezing gently.

Y/n’s core throbbed and her heart rate went up. She could feel the smirk on the Queen’s face, and saw it when she moved to straddle her legs.

She tried to sit up, but Aelin clicked her tongue and pushed her shoulders back down, one hand grabbing both of her wrists before pinning them above her head. “Can you keep them there, or will I have to tie them to the headboard?”

She shook her head.

“Words,” Aelin purred, flicking her nipple.

“I can keep them there.” Y/n breathed, whimpering slightly from the touch.

“How good.” Rowan spoke for the first time. “I wonder how long that will last.”

Y/n looked back and forth rapidly between him and Aelin. “Rowan.” She said, her voice a warning, “eyes on me, sweet thing.” Her thumb dragged across her cheek before she pressed her fingertips against y/n’s mouth. Her lips parted, and Aelin’s fingers pushed her. Y/n’s tongue swirled around them, tasting the faint hint of chocolate from earlier.

Aelin’s breaths grew heavier, her eyes glazed with lust, but she kept leaving feather light strokes on her body, never touching exactly where she knew the female wanted.

“So sensitive,” she teased when Y/n keened into her, her nails dragging down her front, skirting her breasts.

Aelin watched as her control slipped, her hands shifting, fighting the urge to reach down and touch her.

Finally, she caved and her hands moved, reaching down to touch Aelin, but before she could reach her - Rowan was there, one of his hands snatching both of hers and pulling them back above her body.

“I believe she told you to keep them above your head, are you not capable of listening?” His voice was a low growl as his lips lowered to brush over her ear.

“I’m sure it was an accident, wasn’t it darling?”

She nodded rapidly.

“Words.” Rowan said this time, his hand squeezing around her wrists.

Don’t scare her. Aelin said directly to him. He ignored her.

“It was an accident,” Y/n blurted out, her chest starting to turn red as well. An ice kissed wind wrapped around her wrists as Rowan removed his hand, taking a few steps back to observe again.

You want her. Don’t you? Aelin purred.

I’m only making sure she listens.

Aelin would’ve rolled her eyes if she wasn’t focused on the sight in front of her. Finally, she gently squeezed one of y/n’s nipples twisting slightly and thoroughly enjoying the gasp that left her lips. Desire built in her own stomach as she watched her come undone.

She gave her no warning as she shifted, pushing one of y/n’s legs up next to her chest and plunged two fingers directly in her.

“Gods Aelin,” she moaned, head thrown back, but her hands didn’t move an inch - a few words from Rowan had her obeying perfectly, Aelin noted that for later.

One of Aelin’s hands pressed down against her stomach to pin her to the mattress while the other one absolutely destroyed her. “So pretty, falling apart on my fingers, hm?” she teased her. Y/n could only whimper in reply, an orgasm quickly approaching. “Go on,” Aelin coached, “fall apart for me.” And she did - finishing with a loud moan as Aelin continued fucking her through it.

‘Gods gods gods’ y/n thought, but couldn’t speak as words were lost to her.

“Please, it’s too much.” Y/n managed to say after the third one. Her body writhing, almost shying away from her touch.

“You can take it,” Aelin demanded, “one more for me, sweet thing,” and she leaned down, digging her canines into the soft skin of y/n’s inner thigh as she screamed, releasing barrelling through her as she clenched tightly around her fingers - tight enough Aelin almost hissed.

“Such a good girl,” She purred, finally giving her abused cunt a break. “You can move your hands now.”

She did, making grabby motions at Aelin to come up closer to her.

“Can I touch you, please?” She nearly begged.

Aelin’s eyes gleamed, “I suppose,’ she drawled and shifted up, lowering herself over y/n’s face and enjoying the surprised look on her face. She got over the surprise quickly, and wrapped her arms around Aelin’s thighs, giving small kitten licks to her clit.

“You taste how wet I am?” Aelin moaned, “all for you, love.”

Y/n moaned, letting the vibrations soar through her body before sucking on her clit. It didn’t take long before Aelin was grinding against her face, using y/n’s flattened tongue to bring herself to release. Her hand gripped Y/n’s hair, her thighs squeezing around her head as she rained praises on her.

Panting heavily, Aelin climbed off, leaning down so she could kiss y/n and taste herself on her mouth. Y/n let out a contented sigh, melting into her. Their bodies glistened as they pressed together, legs tangled up.

“I hope you didn’t think we were done,” Aelin said, and nudged her chin to Rowan. “He hasn’t gotten to taste your sweet little pussy yet.” Y/n, bless her, whimpered as she glanced towards the brooding Fae male - trembling with restraint, pupils blown wide. “I’m kidding,” Aelin murmured, “he doesn’t get you yet.” The resounding growl rumbling through her mind had Aelin hiding a smile.

Aelin’s streak for voyeurism always put her on edge. A good one, but still on edge. She could feel her heart racing, cheeks flushing bright pink, and something starting to coil in her stomach. She turned away immediately, like the wind might hide her scent. By Aelin’s small laugh, she knows her girlfriend’s already noticed it.

Girlfriend. That was still new. Well, new for an immortal. Aelin saw her one day, while she and Rowan were walking through the market - nearly everyone gawking at them, and stopped by her stall and bought some chocolates - insisting she pay for them. Y/n had been a stuttering mess, and she seemed amused by it. Then, Aelin started coming every Saturday she was there, having a knack for showing up just before she packed up. Rowan would wait patiently with a vaguely amused expression on his face. They started staying longer and longer, asking her more about herself and her life. After a year, Y/n finally asked Aelin why, one day when Rowan hadn’t come. In the beginning, she found the Queen much less intimidating.

“You make the best chocolates,” she’d shrugged, with a half smile curving her lips. Y/n knew that was a lie. There were expert chocolatiers in Orynth with decades of experience on her, but she took the compliment anyways and thanked the Queen.

Once, she’d been sick for a few weeks, and missed three weekends. Aelin had asked around, found out she was ill, and showed up at her home with a get-well basket. One of the sellers told me about it the first weekend she was back, hiding her mouth behind her hand like a gossiping schoolgirl.

Ever since she showed up at her home, things escalated from there. They’d offer to walk her home. Most of the time it was both of them, but Rowan never came without Aelin. She found herself looking forward to seeing them, and had to fight the small urge of disappointment when they couldn’t make it. There was no way of telling whether or not they’d be there, but she always lingered until the last minute - until she was the only vendor remaining, before packing up to go. She could’ve sworn a white-tailed hawk had followed her home a time or two.

“Let’s go,” Y/n smiled at where Aelin was still licking her fingers, and held out her hand for the empty box. Aelin ignored it, lacing their fingers together. “I can’t pull this one handed,” she protested weakly, and Aelin switched so her arm would wrap lazily around her shoulders. Warm heat caressed both of them on their way home, keeping her at a comfortable temperature despite the wicked chill outside. They finally made it back to her place to find the one and only Rowan Whitethorn leaning against her doorway.

“How did I know this is where you’d sneak off to?” He asked Aelin and the Queen leaned up on her toes to press a kiss to his lips. He deepened it, one hand burying itself in those golden strands, and Y/n snorted before skirting down the small alleyway towards the shed where she stored everything. She had half a mind to enter through the backdoor and lock the two lovebirds out, but Aelin would only pick the lock. Maybe she would, just to see how long it would take them to notice. Less than five minutes later, her front door clicked open, revealing a glowering Aelin.

“Leaving us in the cold.” She tutted, sauntering inside.

Rowan stood by the door, assessing.

Y/n cocked her head and gave him a once over, “you can come in, your Highness.” She said mildly. His eyes flared, but she turned her back, starting on tea. Rowan had always been reserved around her in comparison to Aelin - who currently had her arms wrapped around her waist, peppering kisses on her neck. She’d asked Aelin why once,

“Because you’re mine.” She answered with a grin, but pure possession laced her tone. “Mostly mine.” She amended after seeing Y/n’s furrowed brow.

“What would you do if I told you to get on your knees?” Y/n let out a small yelp, and only Aelin’s quick hands kept the kettle from crashing to the ground.

“Gods, Aelin.” She groaned.

“That didn’t answer my question.” She nipped harshly at her ear, drawing a discontented grumble out of her and Aelin’s arms tightened around her.

“Are you going to make her ask twice?” Rowan demanded from the side. Aelin’s arms were tight enough around her she couldn’t jump again. Y/n rolled her eyes, enjoying the way the male seethed.

“We’ve both asked you a question now.” Nimble fingers pinched her hip.

“Ouch.”

“And you still haven’t answered it.” Aelin’s lips grazed her ear. “What am I going to do about you?” Y/n whimpered. “Should I turn you over to him?” She stiffened, gaze naturally looking towards Rowan - who’s eyes flashed, promising something she’d either hate or love. Maybe both. She scented his arousal, and forced amusement into her eyes, trying to fight down the small bit of fear.

Aelin’s hand formed a necklace around her throat. “He loves brats like you.” She squeezed gently. An involuntary shiver ran through her body.

“I doubt he’s willing.” Y/n turned her attention back to the stove in front of her.

“I doubt he’s willing.” Complete dismissal. Aelin could feel the tentative restraint holding her mate back begin to snap.

May I? Rowan’s voice thundered through her head. She’d enjoy watching this.

Go ahead. Aelin stepped back - noticing Y/n’s body stiffen, she could tell something was off. Sure enough, an ice kiss wind smothered the fire she’d lit under the burner.

“Excuse -” She started to say after the flame extinguished, but her words were cut off by the rough and calloused hand around her throat and the large body pressing into her back, pinning her hips up against the counter uncomfortably. Her throat bobbed against the hand, which only tightened. She froze completely as he nipped at the pulse point on her neck, an uncomfortable combination of fear and arousal flooding through her body. She knew if she said the word, Aelin would make sure everything stopped. But … maybe she didn’t want it to.

“What was it she asked you?” His hand grew tighter with every second she didn’t answer.

“She asked what I would do if she told me to get on my knees.” She managed to croak and the hand left her neck. She gasped for breath but his body remained pressed up against hers.

“And what would you do?” His voice was deceptively light.

“Consider it.” She shrugged, trying to light the fire again. Faster than she could think, her hands were pinned behind her back and her body bent over the kitchen table.

“Wrong answer.”

“Isn’t that up to her?”

Fingers pressed under her chin, lifting her head to see Aelin sprawled in the chair across from her, legs propped up on the table, pupils dilated and a lazy grin on her face.

“Considering it?” She hummed. “That’s no way to treat your girlfriend.” Y/n pouted and Aelin flicked her nose.

And what would you like me to do? Rowan asked Aelin, well aware she still planned on running the show.

Your choice. That surprised him, and his eyes widened but Aelin grinned like she’d given him a present. She had, in a way.

“Lucky for you,” he said softly enough she could barely hear, head tilting slightly to try and hear him better. “I put brats in their place.”

She melted underneath him, body going limp against the table with a small whimper. He looked at Aelin amusedly. That easy?

Just wait. Her eyes were fixed on Y/n. A foot stomped harshly enough on his insole he grunted, grip loosening ever so slightly - out of surprise, and she wiggled out of his grip, darting around the table to sit in Aelin’s lap instead, arms clutching around her shoulders. Aelin rubbed comforting strokes up and down her back, barely concealing her laughter.

Y/n’s head turned just enough so he could see the teasing smile on her face. Check. She seemed to say.

Aelin huffed as he tugged the female out of her arms, throwing her over his shoulder with a small slap to her ass, ignoring how she wiggled and the fists thumping half-heartedly against his back. “Fine.” He grunted. “You can get fucked like a brat instead.” He heard Aelin stand, trailing after them to her bedroom. Checkmate.

#rowaelin x reader #poly!rowaelin #aelin x reader #rowan whitethorn x reader #rowan whitethorn x y/n #aelin galathynius x y/n #aelin galathynius x reader #throne of glass #throne of glass imagine #throne of glass smut #throne of glass fic #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #poly!rowaelin x reader #not proof read #aelin x y/n #I should be sleeping now

332 notes · View notes

shioritsumi · 2 months

Text

Took me long enough to get to Bingge but he deserves his own post....

-Bingge knew the modern world would be different, but the technology is much easier for him to grasp than he'd thought and a lot of functions of daily life are simple or hardly changed at all. Society, however...it hasn't changed, exactly. Shen Tianyu talks about his divorce and Bingge has to get reminded inflicting random violence upon people isn't legal. "I'm disappointed too, man, but we both have to live with it."

-Bingge needs time to adjust to not being a demon lord and instead just being a tall muscular citizen. Blending into human society isn't something he has recent experience with, and he has to re-learn it.

-Shen Tianyu lives in a penthouse apartment, and Bingge still isn't certain if he likes having to take the elevator so often just to get in and out of the home. "Did you make your kid do this every day?" "Xiao-jiu isn't old enough for school yet, and this was my second home anyways-I stayed here when i couldn't go home since it's much closer to work. Now it's just....home, I guess. What else did you want?"

-Every time Tianyu talks about his marriage, Bingge gets sad. He managed to become demon lord of his realm, he knows what it's like to rule....but Tianyu talks about things as though despite everything he's had very little control over his own life. He loves his son but he didn't personally choose to have kids. He was "strongly encouraged" to go into business, rather than choosing it willingly. Bai Lianhua pursued him first, not the other way around. The more popular a person or competitive the market, the more easily Shen Tianyu could be compelled to join the race for it. Bai Lianhua effectively convinced him to court her by reminding him frequently lots of guys were after her but she was there with HIM.

Bingge is quick to realize this means Tianyu has done very little for himself in his own life. Which sets him about trying to seduce Tianyu in a strange complicated reasoning that he wants Tianyu to choose him of his own free will and not just because he's the all-powerful demon lord lusted over by countless women. How does one court a competitive man with crippling depression when you are the most desirable bachelor in a stallion novel?

(by the way, Tianyu likes Bingge bc he hears all his trauma and just laughs and goes 'mine is worse'. It's like his friendship with Shang Qingshui but better because Bingge knows when to stop.)

-Bingge ends up reading PIDW and is of the opinion the author has never had sex with a woman. Shang Qingshui can vouch for this, and Shen Tianyu thinks they should both think before they open their mouths.

-Bingge ends up finding all the Luo Binghe merchandise and doesn't know how to respond. "It belonged to my brother, but after he died....I dunno, it's a little like still having him around, since he cared about these things so much. My sister has the other half of his collection if you want to see it." Bingge is extra confused and he just inspects the merch because what even IS this. Some of the figures are fully sculpted in every way....EVERY way. His brother BOUGHT these? With his own money? "Well yeah, you were his favorite. I don't blame him."

-The more Bingge is told about Shen Yuan, the more confused he gets. His siblings describe him as smart, with a photographic memory, and decent looks "but he's definitely related to us". Bingge is absolutely concerned by this one. Hanjun seems to be the only sibling with his shit together properly, having started his own nutrition company and doing quite well. They're all possessed of a dark sense of humor, a sharp tongue, and a tendency to get hyperfixated on fictional characters. So what does this mean about the recently deceased Shen Yuan? "Oh come on, I bet you'd like him if you met him!" Bingge.....isn't sure of this.

-fun possible scenario popping up when Hanjun invites both Bingge and Tianyu to his wedding. Bingge swears he's not a maiden, but he definitely stresses out the most about being invited to a wedding for his boyfriend's family like they're a legit real couple and they NEED to make a good impression ("like we're a legit real couple? Bing-er, we ARE a real couple, stop stressing" "NO" ) they need to wear the right clothes, they need to bring the right gift do they need a sword because he has swords.

-Shen Jiuyuan and Bingge have to talk about it once the truth comes out to Bingge. For the longest time they aren't sure HOW to talk about it, and Jiuyuan doesn't want his new dad to know. They can't act like they don't have history, especially history as bad as it is. But this is a brand new life for Shen Jiu, and he has a father who loves and dotes on him endlessly, constantly apologizes when he's wrong and doesn't lecture him overly long when he's rude or violent. (Tianyu recalls being a difficult child himself, and currently figures the attitude and violent issues are just a result of being related to him-Shen Yuan was probably the only Shen son who didn't have a similar childhood and that was the result of having two older brothers.)

They may not necessarily like each other, but they love Tianyu, and he loves them. Over time they learn to tolerate each other and even share a few moments. Bingge is just mildly confused as to how going to a completely different world to find a new better shizun turned into karmic retribution for killing his own shizun. How did things work OUT like this?!?

-Bingge being prepared to hear about Tianyu's childhood full of soft comforts and spoiled luxury and instead he's told about a mostly ordinary upbringing because his family wanted to foster responsibility in their kids. (although they did always have good things and vacations and whatnot available) And Tianyu's stories of his childhood are most stories about being an absolute gremlin when he was a kid. "One time Hanjun had to fish me and A-Qing out of the river, alongside six other people because turns out that peg was important and i got grounded for two weeks." "I threw a snake at Qingshui's head once. We were ten, and in my defense he told my crush Mianmao i had 'snake eyes' so it was karma. He got bitten and i was suspended for a week." Tianyu just pointing to a super tall building and being like "I jumped off that when i was 15."

Turns out his new shizun was an unhinged child, and the only reason Shen Yuan wasn't is because Hanjun had already witnessed it previously and made sure Yuan didn't even have ACCESS to the most unhinged experiences Tianyu made for himself. Bingge silently wonders how he did indeed find someone to match his freak so perfectly, on ACCIDENT.

#svsss au #luo bingge

9 notes · View notes

fatuismooches · 1 year

Note

I'm been so active with my scenarios that i surprise myself. Here is yet another!

Have you finished the current event storyline? I skipped all dialogue BUT stopped at the very end and i must admit those couple of lines were all that matters.

They. Are making. Harbingers-inspired. Toys.

Okay. I'm going crazy just at a thought of Reader buying these. This Ask would become far too long if i put all Harbingers here, so imma do my favs!

~~~

Dottore walked to Reader's room to make sure they took their daily medicine. The first thing he sees is you sneakily stuffing something underneath the pillows. He gets suspicious and demands to show whatever that is immediately.

... Why do you have a plushie of him?

Zandik has more questions than answers when he picks up the toy. Reader explains that they bought it from the local market which just received an import of Fontainian toys. Upon closer inspection, Dottie realizes that the toy craftsmanship is exquisite and it's not exactly a plushie, but rather a clockwork meka mechanism with only a couple of parts covered by soft fabric. All sharp points were polished, metal is durable and high-quality. His curiosity is piqued and he'd love to tear it apart and find out how it was made, but Reader protests immediately, snatching the toy from him protectively. Welps. Fine, you get to keep it. You can play with it when he is away on a mission or all of his Segments are busy. His heart always melts when he finds Reader taking a nap, their arm clutching the toy close to their chest. Zandik can't help but feel a bit envious - why would you cuddle a piece of metal when you have him? >:(

~~~

Childe returned home and the first thing that caught his attention was a loud noise of arguing upstairs. When he arrives to the scene, he is both confused, curious and amused. Reader and Teucer are having a tug of war over a toy? That's a first - you two usually get along perfectly.

Upon taking a closer look, he notices that they are fighting over a toy that looks just like him. Childe quickly separates them by taking the toy away and while they say their "sorry" to one another, he takes a good look at the cause of commotion. For his surprise, that IS a toy representing him. Reader explains that they took Teucer shopping and came across this store that sold toys based on....... Snezhnaya's best toy salesmen and saleswomen. Unfortunately, there was only one Childe left in stock. After returning home, the two got into an argument who it belongs to.

Childe cannot help but laugh at the situation and makes a deal that the two of them make a schedule: Teucer gets to play with it for one hour, then passes it for the Reader to play with for another hour, and so on.

Little did you know, Childe went to the same store the very same day and made a pre-order. Less than a week later, Reader, all three young siblings and even Childe himself had a clockwork meka toy of the best salesman in Snezhnaya!

~~~

I wish i could write Columbina, Arlecchino and Pantalone as well (heck, i'd love to do all of the Harbingers HMPH) but yeah 😅 I managed to zone-out midway writing this and now i don't remember what i wanted to write for these three so... Maybe next time!

Hope you have a pleasant day/evening/night~

- 🐺

Harbinger stans are so funny, we see a random NPC mention the mere word of them and all of a sudden we're going crazy (it's me, i'm Harbinger stans)

LMAO DOTTORE 😭 You've never been good at hiding things from him unfortunately... and of course you have to give in eventually, embarrassingly enough showing him a toy you blew your Mora on (well spent though!) Dot shares your enthusiasm for the toy... just not the same type. You do not want him to open it up like a Ruin Guard and then get bored with it and leave it disassembled like his countless other projects! 😒 He lets it go... but he also can't help but wonder out of all Harbingers, why he was chosen for a toy. It must be that damn banker's scheme...

He does find your affection for the toy a bit cute... at first. Though he was interested in it at first, he's growing to resent it a bit... is it really all that fun to play with. Not to mention... he could totally make a better toy if he tried, the one you have would pale in comparison to his masterpiece! ... He doesn't say that out loud, though. Though you might find a better mechanism on your desk later down the line in hopes you discard that one to the side.

I don't think i could ever argue with baby Teucer he's far too precious 😭 He can have all the toys he wants I'll just ask my rich bf (Childe 🤭) to buy it later with his no doubt plentiful connections lmao. No doubt he's the kind of guy to buy out the whole stock and then give it to everyone in his family, and the neighborhood kids who adore him too 🥺 Bina would be ALL over this toy lmao she'd love it! But she'd also want a toy made of you so she can put them together in her room and make them hold hands <3 Arlecchino wouldn't care much... until she finds out you brought a few for the children to play with as well. For Pantalone... you know that man already knew it was being developed he's all in the market for it and everything, he's getting that Mora I'm telling you 😭 He'd get one for you too of course ❤️ Capitano is the kinda guy who would play with it in private... (just don't show it more attention than any of them)

#smooches talks #🐺 anon #BEGGING for more mentions of the harbingers even one sentence #fontaine better deliver smh #dottore love notes <3 #childe love notes <3 #columbina love notes <3 #arlecchino love notes <3 #pantalone love notes <3 #capitano love notes <3

41 notes · View notes

hermesserpent-stuff · 7 months

Text

HI! this is so chock full of spoilers for stolen heir. like 10 chapters ahead or so. but i had to write it and i had to share because viggo and ryker are my world when hiccup and dagur are not busy being my world

Hiccup puffs out his cheeks as he considers the Gronckle iron that he had gotten his hands on. It is both a fascinating and frustrating metal. It is very strong, but can be riddled with impurities, with its creators seeming to have no method of getting out the impurities. On top of that, it had to be melted at a consistently high temperature that was hard to maintain. Hiccup had made a ton of modifications to his forge on Áræði that let it burn hotter than any forge on Berk had ever managed. And since that one dream he had mixed in some offerings and specifically birch logs. It made any Gronckle iron that he melted down much purer. But he wants it to be more refined. He scrubs at his face with sooty hands, having just ended a session in his far smaller smithy located at the back of their shop in the Northern Market. There had to be a…

Water.

What if he did the quenching process differently?! With pressurized water pushed through a hose that cooled the metal in a different fashion. And maybe some sort of filtration system to keep out soot and other undesirables! He grins and starts darting about for supplies. It comes together quickly and he turns a few knobs on the small forge to get it to heat higher. Not as efficient as his one at home, but it will melt what it needs to.

He is quickly working on making a small dagger to test the technique on, and is pleased with the results as he starts to hammer the metal into the shape he wants. He hears a knock on one of the nearby work tables, his brother's normal signal that he is there so as to not startle Hiccup.

“In a moment, I'm trying something new, Dagur!”

He chirps, adjusting the nozzle for the water and then working the modified billows to build up the water pressure for when he needs it next. Hiccup forgets that his brother might be waiting as he works, giving a final thought of if it was truly important, his brother would rouse him from his work, before fully losing himself in twisting knobs, hammering, billowing, and testing out his new water system.

The dagger is a fairly standard design but far stronger and if Hiccup is not mistaken, definitely going to hold its sharp edges much longer than a standard blade. He holds it up to inspect it and gives a satisfied nod.

“Impressive. That metal looks far more refined than anything my village has managed.”

Hiccup startles and drops the blade with a yelp, nicking his hand and falling back towards his makeshift water tank. A set of arms catches him. Not his brother. Hiccup is not sure who it is. He vaguely recognizes it as someone who had visited the Northern Markets fairly frequently, often near one of their largest buyers, Ryker. Ryker who is standing at the edge of Hiccup's little forge area that is divided from the main selling area by a bit of leather acting as a curtain.

Hiccup turns bright red with embarrassment.

“Err, hello…”

“That looks like a nasty cut, my dear, you should treat it. Do you keep medical supplies back here?”

The man asks and Hiccup nods. Hiccup is gently placed back on his feet and he scurries to the medical box his brother always kept stocked.

“So, uh, sorry, for ignoring you! And how can I help you?”

Hiccup is not the strongest at interacting with customers. Most Vikings tended to favor and like Dagur's more abrasive interactions. But Dagur must have gone to go get something if these men are back here. Ryker is nice enough for a dragon hunter though, so Hiccup's eyes dart to him while speaking. But oddly enough, for a man who commanded others and took charge every other time Hiccup had seen him, Ryker looks to the other man and waits for him to speak.

“I am Viggo Grimborn of the Acumens tribe. My brother here has been purchasing a lot of our weapons from you lately and I wanted to come and meet the mind behind them. I find many of you more inventive weaponry endearing and have a pet project I would like a second set of eyes on.”

Hiccup blinks and freezes mid wrapping. The chief of the Acumens. He knows the name Viggo Grimborn from many whispers in the market. And the man likes his weapons?

“What was your favorite?”

Hiccup blurts out and then just about bites his tongue off. Stupid. But Hiccup normally just sells axes, swords, and Maces. Ryker was one of the few to buy Hiccup's stranger weaponry. Viggo smiles and it is a lot like a smooth stone in a river bed. A little cold, but no cracks or faults present. And it could potentially warm if the water and weather allowed.

“I liked the bola launchers.”

Hiccup lights up. One of his earliest true inventions that he had been perfecting.

“Oh! Yes. Those are quite useful. Have they been giving you any trouble? I know the older models need a little calibration and beeswax to stay on target.”

Viggo's smile warms a little.

“The written instructions that came with them were quite useful. I particularly enjoyed the step by step diagrams for those of us who bore of words.”

The last sentence is paired with a teasing smile and a glance at Ryker who rolls his eyes. Hiccup finds himself settling, soothed by the approval and the brothers' interaction with each other. Hiccup finishes wrapping his hand as he replies.

“Oh good. I had hoped the doodles I did were helpful. They felt like such a flight of fancy at the time, and I didnt really put all the detail and time I could have into them…”

Hiccup scrunches his nose as he catches himself babbling. He closes his mouth with a click, and notes the odd look that enters Viggo’s eyes and then quickly fades. Shoot. He is going to annoy them with his talking and then he’ll never get to see the project that Viggo wanted consultation on. Which would be a shame, because it would be his first consultation, and maybe could lead to his first specialized request. At 14, it is a bit early in his smithing career to get a specialized request, but then again most 14 yearolds are apprenticed and not running their own forge. So really-

He bites the inside of his cheek to halt his flyaway thoughts and blinks hard to ground himself back in the room.

“Consultation?”

He squeaks out weakly and flushes deep red in embarrassment. At this rate they probably will get annoyed enough to stab him. He had seen it done to another merchant who refused to give a straight answer. Which vikings generally prefer. Straight and short and to the point, with out wandering too far afield-

“Yes. I have an idea for a type of ship, but I wanted to speak with an expert smith first.”

Hiccup preens a little at the implied praise and then takes a breath. Do not get too invested in the praise, people were always saying nice things to Dagur to try and get what they want out of him. He twists his fingers in his smith apron.

“Uh, sure, I can take a look, but you might want to call on the blacksmith who comes to the Market from the Hysteric tribe. He makes some really good weapons and ship equipment. He definately knows more about ships than I do.”

Hiccup rocks awkwardly, prosthetic creaking very softly.

“But he’s not half as inventive.”

Hiccup turns bright red again and really wishes that he could stop getting embarrassed.

“Okay. Alright. Err… I'm not used to consultations, to be very honest. I'm not sure…”

He tilts his head to the side as Viggo starts to look disappointed. He had heard Ryker mutter about his brother’s Maces and Talons obsession a little irritably in the past.

“Maces and Talons!”

His outburst startles both men and he fiddles with his apron.

“I mean, I’ll look at the idea if you play me in Maces and Talons. And if you choose to hire me to try and construct anything, like test models, then we’ll talk about prices.”

Hiccup ends with false confidence, fingernails pressing into his palms to indent crescent moons where there are no wrappings, holding tight to the steadiness in his voice. Ryker grins and Viggo looks interested.

“Alright. I saw a metal set on my way in here. Did you craft that?”

“Yes, and we can use it to play.”

Hiccup says with a firm nod to himself and he marches out to go and grab the board. Dagur and him had played a few times but they had grown used to eachothers play styles and Hiccup is eager to test out something new, especially because he cannot show his face a the Meatheads yearly tournaments. Too much risk of his father finding him.

#hiccup haddock #stolen heir au #httyd #httyd au #hermes speaks #how to train your dragon #viggo grimborn #ryker grimborn #wip

15 notes · View notes

buycommercialpropertiesindubai · 3 months

Text

Maximizing Your Investment: How to Buy the Best Residential Properties in Dubai

Maximizing your investment in Dubai's real estate market requires strategic planning and informed decision-making. This blog provides tips on how to buy the best residential properties in Dubai to achieve maximum returns.

For more information on home loans, visit home loan dubai.

Setting Investment Goals

Define Your Objectives: Start by defining your investment objectives. Are you looking for rental income, capital appreciation, or a combination of both? Clear objectives will guide your property search and decision-making process.

Risk Assessment: Assess your risk tolerance level. Higher-risk investments may offer higher returns but come with increased volatility. Lower-risk investments provide more stable returns but may have lower potential gains.

Investment Budget: Define your budget and consider financing options such as home loans and mortgages. Ensure you have sufficient funds for the down payment and additional costs.

For property purchase options, explore Buy Houses in Dubai.

Market Research and Analysis

Market Trends: Stay informed about current market trends, including property prices, demand and supply dynamics, and future developments. Utilize online resources, real estate reports, and market analyses to stay updated.

Location Analysis: Analyze different neighborhoods in Dubai to identify areas with strong growth potential. Consider factors such as infrastructure development, proximity to business hubs, and planned projects.

Rental Yields: Research rental yields in various neighborhoods to identify areas with high rental demand and attractive returns. Properties in central locations or near key amenities tend to offer higher rental yields.

For mortgage services, consider Dubai Property Mortgage.

Choosing the Right Property

Property Type: Decide on the type of property that aligns with your investment goals. Apartments, villas, and townhouses each have their own advantages and considerations. Apartments generally offer higher rental yields, while villas may provide better long-term appreciation.

Developer Reputation: Research the reputation of the property developer. Established developers with a track record of delivering high-quality projects on time are usually a safer choice.

Property Condition: Inspect the property thoroughly to assess its condition. Check for any structural issues, maintenance needs, and potential repairs. Hire a professional inspector if necessary.

For rental property management, visit Apartments For Rent in Dubai.

Legal and Regulatory Considerations

Title Deed Verification: Ensure the property has a clear title and is free from any legal disputes or encumbrances. The DLD provides title deed verification services to help buyers confirm the property's legal status.

Sales Agreement: Review the sales agreement carefully and seek legal advice if needed. Ensure all terms and conditions are clearly outlined, including the price, payment schedule, and any additional costs.

Residency Visa: Property buyers in Dubai may be eligible for a residency visa. The visa duration and requirements vary depending on the property's value and the buyer's nationality. Consult with the DLD or a legal expert to understand the specific visa requirements and benefits.

For property sales, visit Sell Your Apartments in Dubai.

Financing Your Investment

Home Loans: Explore various home loan options offered by banks and financial institutions. Compare interest rates, loan terms, and eligibility criteria to find the best deal for your needs.

Mortgage Pre-Approval: Obtain a mortgage pre-approval to determine your budget and streamline the buying process. A pre-approval demonstrates to sellers that you are a serious and qualified buyer.

Down Payment: Ensure you have sufficient funds for the down payment, typically 20-25% of the property's value for expatriates. Consider additional costs such as registration fees, agent commissions, and maintenance charges.

Real-Life Success Story

Consider the case of Laura, an investor who successfully maximized her investment in Dubai's real estate market. Laura conducted thorough market research, identified a high-potential neighborhood, and selected a property from a reputable developer. By following the steps outlined in this guide, Laura secured a high-yield investment and has seen significant returns on her investment.

Future Trends in Dubai Real Estate

Sustainable Developments: There is a growing demand for eco-friendly and sustainable properties in Dubai. Developers are increasingly incorporating green building practices and energy-efficient features into their projects.

Smart Homes: The adoption of smart home technology is on the rise. Properties equipped with advanced security systems, automated lighting, and climate control are becoming more popular.

Mixed-Use Communities: Integrated communities that offer a mix of residential, commercial, and recreational facilities are gaining popularity. These developments provide residents with a convenient and holistic living experience.

Conclusion

Maximizing your investment in Dubai's real estate market requires strategic planning, thorough research, and informed decision-making. By setting clear investment goals, conducting market analysis, choosing the right property, and navigating legal considerations, you can achieve maximum returns. For more resources and expert advice, visit home loan dubai.

2 notes · View notes

vitaminseetarot · 6 months

Note

Tarot Game colors

⭐️🍃

Hello ⭐️🍃! Thank you for playing! Your cards are Art District (olive brown) along with the Empress card. Your current aura is busy, accomplished, and of course very creative. You must be doing something very artistic, like painting or pottery making. It could even be in tech, if you're building something. It could be a costume for a big comic con like convention. I'm sensing whirring of energies around yours, like you're very involved with multiple people at once. It reminds me of artists with their stands in art walks, or farmers by their stands at farmers markets. As accomplished as you may feel about your progress, a large part of you can't wait to get home and take a breather. You may be wondering, "why am I not more grateful of this opportunity?" There's nothing wrong with feeling a little burned out, though. You have a right to lock the doors, pull out some fluffy pillows, and lay in bed to pamper yourself for the next week. It doesn't indicate a lack of gratitude over how far you've come. As long as you can see in yourself that you deserve to feel proud over how much you've done recently, it's okay to want to step away from the noise for a while. Especially if you're not used to receiving this much attention for the work you're putting in. It can be tiring to do even a job you love when so many people are inspecting it, even if they appreciate what you do. You don't suddenly hate what you love, you're just tired. Give yourself a luxury spa day to recover from the energy drain and before you know it, you'll be back in the swing of things again.

#vitaminsee #vitaminseetarot #vitaminseetarotgame #march palette game #aura readings #tarot game #tarot blog

3 notes · View notes

imperiallife · 1 year

Text

Heat Death of the QT Taxi and How the Rakata (and Czerka) Might Save Us All

Editorial by The Editor

Well, my fellow sentients, rumors and threats of the price hike from free to astronomical of the QT Taxi service have now materialized and are very, very real.

Quasar Transit "QT" Taxis, a subsidiary of the Galaxy-wide BW Travel conglomerate that provides a number of convenient services for planetary and personal stronghold travel, has now tacked on a variety of unpredictable and expensive fees for everyday commutes. Once affectionately known as "Quick Travel," QT Taxis had been an extremely popular method of hiring speedy point-to-point transportation based on the user's ultra-current, mapped data of planetary features, local weather patterns, and pre-set "bind points." This enabled hired drivers to rush busy clients to an easy catalogue of destinations without wasting time on new travel path calculations. An extension of QT included travel to personal strongholds once the already-high fees for addition to the travel directory were paid. For civilians, soldiers, mercenaries, and Imperial and Republic government actors alike, this service was a godsend in navigating around war-torn and contested territories, no doubt playing a crucial role in shaping the face of the Galaxy as we see it today.

Alas, QT is free and convenient no longer.

BW Travel has decided to act on their monopolization of galactic transportation and instituted a draconian series of fees for all QT services, above and beyond fees already paid for increased convenience. Citizens of the Galaxy feel catapulted back in time to a primitive era when hiking on foot across vast and dangerous distances to locate taxis and QT bind points was the norm. Indeed, the new reality is eerily similar, with the vast majority of citizens forced to make anachronistic pilgrimages to standard planetary taxi hubs to avoid insane QT fees they're no longer able to afford. While standard taxi fares remain in the tens of credits, QT is now on the order of hundreds and thousands. Once, going home was a refuge - now, it's a calculated decision based on a nail-biting inspection of one's wallet and desperate hope for a decent payout from the next job. But it's credits up front for QT - cough up the payment, or GTFO. Not even bounty hunters mandate full payment for the most dangerous targets before the job is done! Many sentients face sleeping in the cold and the elements across the long hike, now.

Spokesmen for BW Travel claim justification as part of a multi-pronged effort to "reduce inflation" and "stabilize the galactic economy." But who made them judge, jury, and executioner? As many others suspect, this action reeks of Hutt involvement, of gleefully greedy string-pulling behind the scenes and beyond the reach of the actual governing Imperial and Republic factions. What of their self-determination? Is that not a prerequisite for basic state autonomy? Shouldn't those involved in the doings of the Galaxy know how best to fix the economy? Shouldn't they have a say in it? Or is that a lie now, with shadowy and malicious puppet-masters finally making themselves known? Who is it that thinks they have the right to "fight inflation" by inflicting penalties for basic, everyday tasks upon the poorest citizen? Meanwhile, the proud, the few, the galactic billionaires sprinkle out their pocket change on these fees with one appendage without so much as batting an eyelid, even as they make another billion with the other appendage. Do they even notice?

No.

Hutt corruption though and through. BW Travel ignored all "consultations" with citizens from every economic bracket, who unanimously advised them to stop, to consider other ways. Even those billionaires who play the Galactic Market like a fiddle say, "give us things to buy. We will voluntarily spend away our credits, if only we could! You criminalize the poor, the new, the young, and do nothing to us."

Criminalization, it is.

Yet. There is hope on the horizon. You, dear reader, have no-doubt heard of Czerka Corporation, the droid and arms manufacturer, and are at least vaguely familiar with their technological fingers in a Galaxy-spanning array of interests. You have also no-doubt heard whispers of the ancient Rakata, old and unknowable stellar gods. But have you heard of their transporter technology?

Czerka has.

According to an anonymous source inside the corporation, Czerka seeks to miniaturize the Rakata's miraculous and mysterious transportation technology. With a small, handheld device, incredibly similar to the QT comm in your pocket right now, Czerka foresees building a new transportation network upon the broken back of QT. Powered by ancient Rakatan ingenuity and using existing QT bind points, Czerka's "RT" tech would let you travel the way you do now, with almost no noticeable change - except for the travel being virtually instantaneous, of course.

Wonderous.

What does Czerka get out of it, you ask? What incentive could they possibly have? Well, the projected flat fee of 5 measly credits isn't free, of course, but with billions in the Galaxy travelling multiple times, every single day, does it need to be more?

It just needs to be affordable to everyone.

Czerka won't say how far off this development is, or even how probable it is. All we know is they're working on it.

At least someone is. At least it's not someone who knowingly fired a proton missile into our faces.

Only time can say how this will all fall out.

To the billionaires: keep making your credits. Drop a cool million on a few young'uns once in a while. To those just starting to make their way in the Galaxy: hang in there. Get a taste of the olden days, the days the billionaires still reminisce over. Learn to love the journey. You'll get there.

To all of you: keep talking at that slimy Hutt, BW Travel. If you haven't, start. Credits speak, even if it seems like no one is paying attention, and sometimes even the Hutts see fit to listen to the experts.

#Imperial Life #Imperial Life Magazine #SWTOR #Star Wars #Editorial

28 notes · View notes

terrence-silver · 2 years

Note

How would Terry react if beloved was sick one day after eating some bad eggs and threw up on the Persian rug?

Inspired by the fact that I got sick the other day and wrote myself (and @atmostories) a funny little self-care fic on Discord. 🐔🥚🍳

---

On route 101, there's a farm just outside of Santa Monica. Terry Silver has a trip.

And it is a matter of zeal that takes him there --- a place he handpicked, personally, after much pondering, vetting and deliberation, having disqualified several other spots and smaller family establishments once it turned out they were inadequate to what he was looking for. For the particular stock he had in mind. For the quality of produce he needed. Could've hired a driver. Could've been chauffeured there. Could've even driven there himself, but no, it is a helicopter or nothing at all that has him lowered out into the open plain field just outside the wide, spacious fencing enclosing around the homestead. His people let these people know he was coming, announcing his presence in advance purely so he'd ensure they were present to negotiate and do honest business with him personally. He buttons his corporate blazer up as he looks around, though the gold rimmed shades of his glasses, concealing the intent his gaze as he steps off the helicopter, polished leather shoes landing in a grassy patch of dirt, a small measure of discontentment interrupted by the elderly couple, stocky and homely, ironically seeming like they could be his own age even though they appeared older, peer at him huddled near the front gate, waiting to approach. Barbara and Herbert. He looked into their files. They seemed like they belonged in a rustic Norman Rockwell painting. The five stars they had on Yelp for admirable hospitality and favorably reviewed products as only a bonus.

Good.

-"Mr. Silver!"- The husband steps forth first with an air of hospitality laced with nervousness.

Holding unto his cap to avoid it being blown off of his head by the intensity of the spinning propellers overhead. They shake hands. Adequate squeeze. Terry Silver has to quirk up his mouth into a smile. He's merciful. He tries not to apply too much strength seeing as how the guy already seemed daunted enough by the mode of transportation he arrived in. It was only the most practical way to get here so quickly. And he needed to get here extra quick. -"How nice of you to visit us on such a short notice! We've got what you ordered."- The man fidgets with a polite, albeit awkward smile and his wife nods in approval as they lead the way forward, directing him, kindly, not to step here and there, to avoid the mud. -"I've seen my share of mud."- He reassures them, somewhat more cryptically than he would've liked, slipping off his shades to look at them and really take them in, passing through the gate and the decorative style wooden arch with a sign that promptly said 'Barb and Herb's Fresh Farm Eggs!'. Well now. -"Are they as fresh as the advertising claims?"- He has to ask, pointing a bejeweled hand at the welcoming plaque, making a joke that was anything but. Terry really needed to know with certainty, otherwise he wouldn't waste his time with this shit when he could import, from literally anywhere in the world.

-"Fresher, sir!"- The man reassures eagerly, rubbing his hands together, red in the face with excitement and work. -"For all I mind, you can watch the hen pop them out and take them home still warm!"-

-"Herb."- His wife chastises him softly, quenching his abundance of enthusiasm, it appears, lest he oversteps a certain boundary of comfort with Terry, not realizing how amused he was with all of this as he's led through fenced off portions housing cows, sheep and as marketing promised; chickens galore. Workers shoveling and feeding the animals hay looking up from their duties to inspect the newcomer from afar. One of them even slips out his phone to snap a photo, promptly frightened back into place by one of the managers who whispers something discreet into his ears. Terry didn't mind being recognized either, in fact, he relished in it quietly. For once, he actually wasn't doing anything illicit. Being immortalized here, for all places, could only add to his image, not subtract from it. He was thinking well ahead. -"No, that is quite alright."- Terry interjects with the wife softly, amused, who appeared like she was continuously trying not to look at him like he was an alien from another planet, only her kindness holding her back from it, a sentiment that Terry appreciated. -"I actually wouldn't mind buying them right from the source."- He tries not to sound hyperintense about it, but he is intense about it as a barn comes into sight; newly built. Fresh paint. A facility in its own right. Neon, white bright lights emanating from inside, alongside the cacophony of clucking and thousands of hens, neatly categorized, each into it's fenced off portion. It is warm enough inside for Terry tilt his head, cracking his neck.

Game on.

-"Mr. Anderson."- He almost sounds like a Matrix villain as he utters the farmer's surname, standing speculative at the doorway of the state of the art yard barn. He realizes that. Even as the man was so enthusiastic to show him around immediately, wife in tow. -"Who would you say is your champion among these?"- Terry inquires speculatively, in vague terms, lifting his hand to discreetly, in circularly elegant motions wave at the scene, looking around, twirling his pinkie ring, unsure how to else to phrase 'So, which hen among all of these has the eggs of the most favorably high quality worthy of my home's plate?' Understanding, once more, that he was sounding oddly like a Sensei picking a prize fighter for the ring and the mat, the professional bleeding into the private, luckily, the guy understands his intent. Funny that. Funny how they weren't quite so different, ironically. Appearantly, the man won the annual competition for 'The Best Chicken of the Valley' five times in a row, accolades and all. Herbert Anderson knew a thing or two about champions and victory too. That's why Terry Silver picked him, precisely, out of every home grown farmer in a hundred miles vicinity. Not that distance would ever stop Terry. He'd go to the ends of the world. Get on a jet. An airplane. On an overseas cruiser. Extreme circumstances, turns out, required extreme measures. Yet, it was preferable if he had his product now, today, as late as this very evening, making travelling long distances, or having someone travel it for him the less favorable option, for once.

Wherever it took, to buy some eggs. Literally whatever, no matter how…absurd.

-"Noah! Get Helga!"- The old farmer alerts one of his workers manning the chicken coops. And the boy is immediately underway, practically running, down the elaborate, colossal hangar. They follow suit, the three of them, through the expansive maze of feathered birds. There she is, finally; the titular, plump, well-fed Helga. In an accommodation entirely of her own. Coop 787900. A highlighted notice next to her coop, listing all the prizes and medals she's won. The animal was appearantly a more accomplished chicken than most fighters were fighters.

-"She's a fine, pedigreed Buff Orpington, isn't she? One of a kind."-

Herbert beams up at Terry, talking about her like he was talking about a superior, keeping a respectful distance from Helga, tuckered into her nest made out of clean, shiny straw, all puffed and puckered. Terry could swear that that chicken looked at him in a challenging manner he could appreciate. -"And her eggs are as pale as an angel's feather from the outside, and as yellow as a burning ember from the inside."- Her owner describes, but no, Terry learned a long time ago, that whenever you intended to invest in a product, you'd have to sample it first. Be it a car, coke or a suit. Pale as an angel's feather, though? Yellow as a burning ember? Waxing poetically, surely, but that marketing tactic description sounded apt to what he was searching. -"How about taste?"- He inquires just that, maintaining firm eye contact with the hen. He wouldn't leave here until the bird's eggs were to his specific liking, and no, he couldn't leave the choice up to his some random intern, secretary, or chef's assistant he'd send over here in his stead. He had to make the decision. Only he. And immediately, the famer perches up, waving the assistant over, who, as if this was somehow anticipated was by Terry's side, opening and showcasing an antiseptic, clinically neat, small crate labeled 'Helga'. Eggs inside pale, still warm, demonstrating their shape, consistency, coloring and texture. Within another second, the boy rushes over to what seemed like a lab table in the middle of the barn, and there amidst of it, bottles, flasks, containers and a…stove. He was frying an egg, in front of him, in the flesh, in a white pan, making a showcasing in the flesh. These guys really wanted to make a buck badly, huh? Were willing to put up a whole elaborate show for it too. Not bad at all. Men of business, truly. Within less than a minute, it served and handed to Terry for a test. -"You be the judge of that."-

The silent assistant holds the plate and the farmer encourages. Fork in hand, Terry tries. The egg yolk golden covered with a thin crust that breaks, leaking a solidified liquid.

Rich.

Savory.

It's whites chewy, appropriately balanced and salty. Rushing down his tongue like an elixir, taking only a couple of mouthfuls for him to feel sated. Terry closes his eyes for a second, measuring the taste like it was a fine, rare Whiskey. Deciding whether he approved of it or not, as everyone watched him, bated breaths. He did want to torture them a little, admittedly.

-"What do you need the eggs for anyway?"- A voice interrupts his careful, slightly sadistic, deliberately drawn out reverie of anticipation and Terry can't help but take a sharp intake of breath he immediately attempts masking. The young farmhand with somewhat vexed eyes. Ah, yes. Impertinent youth. Didn't realize the gravitas of all of this. -"Noah! Don't be inappropriate with the gentleman! Mr. Silver is a very important guest and we're honored for him to test our product!"- The wife shoots in, feeling like she has to de-escalate. Feeling she might lose a customer over this. She wouldn't. Terry Silver's already made his decision. He just enjoyed dragging things out to poke at people a little. Gage their reactions. Watch them squirm in an elaborate 'Will we or won't we'. -"No, that's quite alright."- He manages a chuckle, sounding low and hushed, even to his own ears, taking out his silken monogrammed handkerchief to wipe his mouth once nobody offers him one (Takes everything within him to forgive that misstep, reminding himself not everyone was raised a Silver) and hand the boy back the plate, fork and all. -"You see,"- Terry waves his hand in vague circles with a smile, trying to explain himself. -"I have someone back home who recently got sick off one of these."- He begins, nose pointing at the container of eggs on the clinically clean working surface, trying not to crinkle his nostrils too much, lest it seems like he actually feels a certain distaste towards eggs as a concept starting as of yesterday. -"And in maintaining a fulfilling diet, I need to her to intake an appropriate amount of vitamin B2, B12 and Selenium."- Terry reaches out, plucking one of Helga's prized eggs out of it's special box, holding it up for emphasis. Investigating it. Not a single blemish. Immaculately pristine crust. Admirable shape. Good curvature. Polished. It even smelled nice. Healthy.

Perfect.

-"From the right source, of course. Only the best."- He grins into his chin at his hosts. Throwing them crumbs of flattery.

-"And yours, of course, I found, is the best. Homegrown too."- He brightens up, spreading his arms, feeling a bit like a TV-evangelist about to sell the masses snake poison. Herbert Anderson has to smile along with him, perking up. Turns out, talking about investing into local economy and local entrepreneurs always served to oil up people's gears the right way, especially when dealing with these working class types hungry for acknowledgement amidst a budding, competitive market. Practically starved for it. -"Why, sir, I'm so happy that…"- But, no, Terry hasn't the time for pleasant small talk and empty exchanges --- not now when he's hit a bingo. You vomited all over the Persian Carpet last night as was due courtesy thanks to the rare eggs Rene prepared and now, Terry was on the hunt to fix the quality of his own kitchen's products. Feed you better than before. Take care of you. Take care of you in every way conceivable, with any resource he had. Nothing was too stupid or too much. -"I'm buying the eggs."- He pushes in, stepping forward, towards the farmer, looming over him. -"And I'm buying Helga too."- He adds, slowly, and this time, he finds Barbara crossing her arms over her chest and the farm boy looking perplexed. Herbert's color drains from his sun-kissed face. He doesn't have time to formulate words. His wife doesn't have the time to nag either. Terry doesn't let them. -"Of course, I'll pay you handsomely. More than anyone else ever will. You'll find she'll have a good home with me at Sierra retreat. You'll find I have an appreciation for champions."- Terry amps up the heat, flaunting his postal code --- one of several --- in case it wasn't obvious enough by the helicopter, his suit and the secretary that contacted Herbert Anderson of Herb and Barb's Fresh Farm Eggs that Terry Silver wasn't coming here on a budget. -"A champion like that,"- He clicks his tongue, pointing at Helga clucking from her coop. -"Deserves to live comfortably."-

Spotting hesitation in the couple's collective expressions, he reaches inside his blazer.

-"Cash or card?"- He suggests, raised chin, opening his ultra slim, black crocodile Stefano Ricci wallet purely so they'd spot the vague hint of green inside. They immediately relent. Just as he thought --- their disposition visibly changing, body languages shifting. Money talks, even though these people were far from economically impaired. They seemed to be doing good for themselves out here. -"What do you need Helga for, if I can ask. I mean, sir, I'd feel awfully sorry if she was bound for a Sunday roast, if you know what I mean. I groomed her from an incubator egg."- There's something pathetic about Herbert's pleading and prolonging, stretching out these negotiations for far longer than Terry intended them go on, but he found he couldn't be as irritated as he wished to be, coming prepared to do business however long it took. Something peculiarly peculiar about a man's devotion to his bird, paired with his fear that Terry might order his cooks to prepare eggs and meat tonight. Oh, but the loyalty of all of this. It was funny. Maybe even touching. -"I want my wife to have a steady income of high quality eggs back home, which Helga can provide."- Terry confesses, bluntly and they all seem…surprised. Like it wasn't the answer they expected to hear out of him. They undoubtedly supposed the man from LA needed a chicken to devise an anti-aging crème concocted from its boiled liver or whatever new age bullshit these people thought of him, but no, his response has them lost. So, he briefly clarifies, saying nothing but the truth. When you got sick, briefly, it is like Terry's gotten sick with worry too, infected by it all, against all better judgement, control and logic, imaging you dying way before your time, even though he knew how ridiculous and downright mad the notion was. He couldn't help but think about you lurching over and heaving your own heart out. Leaving him. Being stolen from him over another stupid mistake that was his fault. He was so afraid.

Haunted over everything, every mundane nonsense, ever since he's met you.

-"I am very meticulous about what she puts in her mouth."-

Barbara Anderson's expression softens and only then does Terry know this is a done deal.

He's won.

----

On the ride back home, Terry has Helga sitting in his lap. Surrounded by a collection of accolades fastened and strapped into place, to avoid them accidentally thumbing 12.000 above ground, into the nearby fields, golden trophies sliding into the sliding chopper door. Last thing he needed was being responsible for the death or severe injury of some passerby, fisherman or hikers smacked square across the scalp with a 'California's Prize Hen Queen of 2018' award conveniently shaped like a golden chicken perched up proudly on one foot, bearing a crown --- he has to chuckle at that one. He understood how downright absurd this was. Love and the things one did because of it, perhaps, had inherently absurd elements. Devotion too.

A container of eggs neatly airlocked, by his side --- the bird takes to helicopter flying surprisingly well.

The pilot has him face to face with the skyline of Los Angeles well within the hour, the veil of clouds and smog clearing to reveal the network of streets, houses and buildings down below as his hand smooths the bird's golden feathers --- he could be home with you and you wouldn't even wake yet from him instructing --- no --- ordering you to rest and stay put. You would have your allotted meal, all the food groups involved, all the medications, vitamins and proteins due on your plate. All greenery he had ordered over to the mansion, the tender meat prepared by a Michelin star chef, cheeses imported over from France --- an intensity amplified by the fact you landed yourself with something uncontrollably unexpected; food poisoning. The sole bad egg that, for some reason, didn't agree with you. Even the doctor he flew in for a mandatory check up said you were entirely fine, but he wouldn't leave it at that. He couldn't. He flew in another one, and he just about said the same thing and it is like these payroll medical practitioners were out to deliberately rile him and prod at his thinning patience. He wasn't young anymore. He was an old man not to be trifled with. Truth was, Terry was on a tirade as of late, going to great lengths to ensure your biorhythm was running to perfection and that you were fed the way he felt you deserved to be fed. Clothed. Bathed. Taken care of. These eggs, well, happened to be the last agenda on his scheduled list. Now, he had the one producing it too. Helga clucks as he pets her. He was more prone to snakes, Anacondas, Boas and Cobras himself, but a domesticated bird would do, even though his father always tended to say a chicken was a poor man's dish, refusing to ever eat the damn thing and anything lower than a Bourbon Red Heritage Turkey. Yet, Terry would have a coop erected for her. Acquire a worthy Rooster. Hire a couple of workers to tend to her. Manage her. -"Helga," - Terry purrs at his newly acquired friend.

-"You'll serve my love very well, won't you?"- That evening, Rene fries you and him a pair of eggs each and you dine heartily, post-recovery. After some micromanaged consideration that you handled the meal favorably, Terry is pleased with his purchased investment. Come morning, seated on the leather arm chair in the lobby, he brings in Helga from the coop to pet her as a reward for a finely provided service.

#terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #fluff #humor #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #in which beloved gets ill

36 notes · View notes

robertvilleneuve · 2 years

Text

Robert Villeneuve Sturgeon Falls - Considering Buying a Commercial Building - What You Should Know First?

When purchasing a commercial building, it is vital to do homework and ensure the property is a good investment. Commercial real estate is more challenging than a single-family home, so you will want to do due diligence first. According to Robert Villeneuve Sturgeon Falls, a commercial real estate expert, you must consider these things before making a decision.

Location Anytime you buy a commercial property, consider the location if you plan to utilize the building for business purposes. The surrounding neighborhood and infrastructure can either lower or raise the property's value. When it comes to location, there are questions you have to consider, such as: • Is there any similar business located near the place? • Will you have access to any support services, including parking? • What is the market trend for that area? • What is the zoning regulation where the building is situated? Considering these factors from the beginning could save you from having to cope with many possible issues down the road.

How is the Structure Categorized? A commercial structure is a property that is employed for business purposes. However, there are different categories for different kinds of property. For example, office structures are classified as Class A, B, or C. Class A structures present the lower risk, while Class A comes with the highest risk. Industrial structures and retail stores also have their titles; therefore, it is vital to know how the property you are considering purchasing is categorized and what it means for you as an owner.

Condition of the Building Understanding the building classification is practical; however, you will also want to consider the existing condition of the building. What was the structure previously used for, and what type of wear and tear has it been in over the years? Most properties come with hidden costs, so you will want to know about these things beforehand. Before purchasing, inspect it thoroughly so you can uncover any possible issues, like asbestos or mold.

If you need more advice about commercial building procurement, you can keep in touch with Robert Villeneuve West Nipissing.

#Robert Villeneuve West Nipissing #Robert Villeneuve Sturgeon Falls

21 notes · View notes

scrumpledorph-writes · 8 months

Text

Koben’s Requisition (Shopping Trip)

My wounds have had long enough to heal. Left arm is still a little tender, but I don’t think I can bear sitting around doing nothing all day again. Already deviated from my sleeping schedule by fifteen minutes last night. I should go scope out the landscape around here, pick up a few essentials while I do it: a change of clothes, a spare blaster, maybe some thermal weave if I can manage that discreetly. Date night tomorrow too; so I should get a second change of clothes. A nice one.

No getting around wearing the armor into town again. As much as it draws attention, it at least gives people the proper impression. Not much difference between a body glove and a cat suit to a civilian eye, and just the thought of being propositioned has me recalling all the practice I had on how to snap a wrist. I don’t think the blood would wash out if someone tried to perform an unannounced physical inspection. The blaster rifle should probably stay home though.

Only twenty minutes across the flats to town, this speeder performs exceptionally far above the standard set by all the taxi speeders I’ve been calling. Could be made with illegal parts, or stolen Imperial tech. If that’s the case, somebody will come looking for it. They likely wouldn’t be expecting anyone to put up a fight, and their body wouldn’t last more than a few days on the sands – scouring winds for the flesh, scavengers for the bones, but that would leave a loose thread for whoever sent them. They’d send a bigger force to follow up, one of them might report back, and I’d be left looking for another little nothing planet to start all over on, alone.

I should have this thing inspected. Brayli’s a speeder mechanic, but I don’t know if it would offend her to blend her work and private life, even if I offer to pay. She probably wants to get away from work when we’re together. I could find another mechanic, but then she’d wonder why I didn’t bring it to her; if I don’t think she’s a good enough mechanic to do the job. Maybe I should bring it in now, while we’re not on a date and she’s a speeder mechanic first. Just bring in the speeder I stole off a bounty target, I’m sure that won’t cause any problems. Stupid; bad idea.

Think about it later, stick to the plan for the day so I can at least get something important done. Blaster first, it’s the easiest to carry around. Should just assume anything I can find around here is illegal, so who looks like the most credible illegal dealer? Is that a squadron of Jawas running a stall out of a speeder truck? Never seen that before. They at least probably stole it first hand, so I’d be getting it second hand, which beats third or fourth from any of the rest of these shops. They’re looking at me expectantly—too bad I don’t speak Jawa.

‘Hey miss! You in the suit! Were you hoping to do business with my fine companions?’ Long loose coat, loping posture, smile too wide for his head, voice like a tread on gravel. Shifty, probably a conman. Unfortunately my best bet. ‘I was.’ ‘Ah, but you don’t speak Jawa do you?’ ‘No.’ ‘Ah that’s alright my friend, few people do.’ He’s trying to put his arm around me. Too friendly. Firm hand on the wrist, firmer shake of the head. ‘Ah, straight to business with you, I can respect that.’ He’d better. ‘So, what is it you’re in the market for?’

‘Blaster pistol. Highest power you have. Discretion is no concern.’ ‘Highest power you say? I hope you have your papers.’ He’s laughing, slapping two of his four spindly hands against two of his twig like knees. Trying to draw me in, establish a connection he can exploit. ‘I don’t.’

He’s standing up straight now, but with how crooked everything else about him is it makes him look off balance. ‘Ah ha, well, that’s no matter. Only a joke. Please, feel free to browse. We keep the batteries stored separately, so by all means inspect the merchandise, give the triggers a test squeeze or two.’

Surplus, worn out, stripped, knockoff. I should have expected none of these would meet any official standards. Good thing I carry a pocket tool. There might be one good blaster spread across this entire inventory. ‘Hey hey, whoa lady, what do you think you’re doing?!’ He’s spineless, maybe literally; push a little harder and he’ll fold.

‘You claim to sell blasters. These aren’t blasters, they’re piles of scrap. Most of your customers won’t know the difference until it kills them, but if you cared about that you wouldn’t be selling them.’ Guilt. Not the guilt of knowing his shoddy goods have killed his customers, but of knowing he’s been caught. ‘Let me pull a few of these apart, put together a complete, functional blaster, pay you for the parts since I’ll be handling all the work – then you can put the rest back together and get back to scamming people.’ His face looks more red than an imperial saber and pressurized as a grenade.

‘Two thousand credits for the privilege of picking and choosing.’ ‘A good heavy blaster is worth seven hundred new; five hundred and fifty for your secondhand wares.’ ‘That’s in the core worlds where you can get one made easily, fifteen hundred for the import fee.’ ‘Your Jawa partners stole these off corpses, I can see the kill tallies carved into some of them. Seven hundred and fifty.’ ‘And they risked their lives getting to them before the Tuscan raiders! Twelve fifty.’ ‘Nine hundred and I’ll put the ones I have to take apart back together myself.’ ‘One thousand for insulting the quality of my wares!’ ‘Done.’ Emperor that was exhausting. Used to be able to just serve up a writ of requisition to commandeer things like this. Or arrest the vendor.

I can’t believe it took two hours of sifting through and comparing their whole stock, but I finally have an acceptable blaster. Thick grip, long barrel, wide firing chambers, compact sight. Imperial steel through and through, none of those ornamental engraved wood or softer metal inlays that are popular with civilians. Just a needless point of failure. Reminds me of my academy days, stripping and reassembling a blaster over and over until I could do it with my eyes closed and an alarm siren wailing. Now I just need a holster and some practice shots to get used to the weight.

‘Finished. I’ll take five batteries for it. I’m done haggling for the day, and I know how much a battery costs. Twenty five credits per unit.’ He seems as fed up with me as I am with him, he’s not even feeding me excuses any more.

‘Say, not bad work you did putting these back together. One connoisseur of fine weapons to another, perhaps my wares may not be of the highest quality on the maintenance side of things. That’s why I have to sell them on the street. How would you be interested in a business proposition?’ Oh, he stopped haggling so he could get on my good side. How shrewd. Still, bounty work is inconsistent even under the best conditions. A fallback option wouldn’t hurt.

‘I have other avenues of employment, and I only work freelance. Whatever you’re suggesting would likely be bottom priority. If you’re still interested, keep talking.’ ‘I’m sure you noticed a lot of the problem with these blasters is wear and tear. Jawas are great at finding things and taking them apart, but not quite so good at putting them back together in good working order. How would you like to be my refurbishing specialist? Your blaster’s looking great, and all you had was a pocket tool and a folding table on the street. With a proper workbench and suite of tools, like the ones I’ve got at my workshop, you could probably get these good enough for the Troops!’ Delusions of grandeur. I don’t have time to get wrapped up in some small time scheme.

‘So you can peddle them to passersby? Sounds like wasted effort. The Empire has industrial grade contracts.’ ‘Ah that may be true my friend-’ ‘We aren’t friends.’ ‘-My potential business partner; but the local gangs are always looking to expand, and that means they always need new blasters.’ High quality blasters in the hands of the local gangs means higher quality blasters being pointed at me on the job.

‘Do you think I wear this armor because it’s comfortable?-’ It actually is, the body glove was vacuum contoured perfectly to my body, with all the plates machined to match. I used to sleep in it on long operations, just to be safe. But that would undermine my argument. ‘-My primary earner is bounty work. Being shot at by military grade blasters already sounds like a losing proposition, knowing I’m the reason they have them would just be insulting.’ ‘Mm. I understand. Take my comm number. If you ever change your mind, let me know.’ Doubt I’d ever make enough off of this to be able to stop doing bounty work, but fine.

That ate up too much of the morning. I was hoping to take a shuttle to the system capital early so I could beat the commute, no way I’d find anything approaching fancy on this planet, but at this time of morning there might as well be a blockade on intra-system traffic. Guess I can pick up those civilian clothes now.

I’m a little surprised to see she has an actual building to operate out of, but the desert winds aren’t kind to lighter fabrics so she must get a lot of repeat customers. Half filled racks of disparate pieces of clothing. A lot more variety than I’m used to. Could branch out from imperial black on imperial black. Not a lot in my size though.

That coat looks reliable, nerf leather lasts almost as long as plastoid. Still has most of its color, looks about my size. ‘Do you have anywhere I could try things on?’ A single disinterested finger from the other side of a holovid. Fine by me, I’ve been marketed to enough today. Over the shoulder and keep looking. Slim pickings for pants, and cloaks aren’t much my thing. Always get worried that there’s nothing under them whenever I see someone wearing one, or worse: that they’re hiding a lightsaber.

One pair of denym pants that looks like it could fit around my thighs. Another durable bit of civilian wear – no reason to compromise on that principle just because I’m stepping out of my armor. A shame it looks like it just came in from a few years sitting out in the suns, but it should do.

Those are some nice boots. Sturdy, reinforced worker’s wear. Maybe I can keep a little black in my wardrobe. The Empire puts everyone in it for a reason, right? Slimming, obscures your silhouette, muffles features. They have a nice clack when I tap the toes, could probably stop a blade if it really came down to it. Vibro-blade would probably still go through them like paper, but normal people take that risk every day and most of them make it out okay.

A nice looking holster. It looks new—brand new; too new. Imperial black, with a belt loop to fit any size and shape of blaster pistol. This is an officer’s holster. What would an officer be doing this far out? Hopefully not looking for me, and if so, hopefully this was picked off their corpse. Doubt the girl behind the counter verifies her sources. I’d have no choice but to buy it just to destroy it; the fact that it fits my blaster well is just a bonus.

This shirt might have been imperial black at some point; another casualty of the triplicate suns. Really need to consider moving to a system with fewer of those. A softer retirement than most imperial uniforms get though; no cuts or burns. It’s also the only shirt here that can fit over my shoulders, so I don’t have a choice.

I’m not sure I like civilian clothes. Even in the regular Storm Corps the glove was vacuum fitted despite the plates being mass produced, but after ten years of custom machined Purge Corps plates contoured to my musculature, these generically cut fabrics feel like they’re strangling me. I can feel the stitches on the jacket strain if I deviate too far from rest, not to mention the cuffs hanging up on my elbows. The pants would probably rip wide open if I had to sprint or lunge at something, even a crouch feels like I’m pushing my luck. The shirt has the opposite problem – loose fitted to the point of bunching and folding under the jacket so badly I’m constantly pulling on the collar to keep it facing straight. Boots and holster fit well though.

Fifty credits for it all, not a single word from the shopkeeper. One of the better interactions I’ve ever had with one. Easier to carry it around than my armor, so I guess I’ll have to head back home and change into it before I head off world. Less likely to get stolen if I leave it in my speeder too. Surely the people around here aren’t that desperate.

I doubt the morning rush has finished yet. The less time I can spend on a crowded ship the better. Maybe I can ask Vranki to order me in that sheet of thermal weave, a crime boss is sure to understand the value of discretion. If she’s halfway competent it should be no problem to source, and if not I should probably start looking for another employer.

‘Hey Trooper. Wish you chose a different code name, kind of confusing when I have to call out regular troopers.’ Good to see he remembers me, I think it’s a faux pas to disarm someone two times. ‘I’ve spent so long being called that I couldn’t think of anything else.’ Not a lot behind the eyes in that nod he’s giving me. ‘Nice blaster by the way! Where’d you get it—I’ve been thinking of upgrading. Just in case a fire fight ever breaks out, y’know? Can barely hit a bottle past ten feet with this thing.’

‘I had to splice together six blasters to make this one.’ ‘Oh no way, that’s crazy. Could you take a look at mine? Maybe it’s just rusty or something.’ Hard to picture this guy ever being a serious threat no matter how good a blaster he has. No rattling, no visible wear and tear. Likely doesn’t get fired often enough for that. Even a pretty good scope, but it’s completely warped. ‘Everything’s fine but the sight, what happened? Did it get run over, dropped off a roof?’ ‘That’s the bit I use to crack open beers when a shift is dragging on.’ Glad I’m wearing my helmet so the disgust on my face can’t sour our working relationship. ‘Don’t do that.’

Nothing seems to change much around here. Still dark, loud, and smoky: all problems my helmet solves. Surprised Vranki has time to see me, I figured there would be a lot more overhead on running a gang. A lot of it must handle itself now that I give it a second thought though: addicts just need some space to dissociate, and I’ve never seen someone paying for sex unhappily. The problem solving flow chart is probably a lot more linear without having to worry about court reprimands or public scandals—just use violence until the problem is gone.

‘Ah, Trooper! Glad to see you up back up and walking without that nasty limp. You here for work, or did you need a little help unwinding?’ ‘Neither ma’am. I would like to make use of your front companies if possible.’ ‘This isn’t Coruscant, why would I need to bother with those? Everybody in town knows who I am and what I do, and the only people who’ve given me trouble over it so far are people trying to compete.’ That’s a worryingly lax attitude, but the sooner I restore my armor’s integrity the better.

‘I need a sheet of thermal weave, but I don’t want my name on the purchase. Could I proxy it through you?’ ‘Of course! Normally that sort of business would start running into exorbitant fees, extortion if I’m being honest with you—woman to woman; but since we’re professional associates I’ll let you off with just a ten percent surcharge. I’m still running a business after all.’ ‘Fine. Give me the price as soon as you have it. If it’s too much, give me a target to make up the difference.’ ‘Oh don’t worry, I have no shortage of work for you if it comes to that. I should have a quote for you by the end of the day, not like it’s illegal or anything. Has anyone ever told you you’re paranoid, dear?’ I doubt it would be worth explaining how criminal activity looks from the enforcing side of the law. The Empire has a loose grip out here, but it tightens every day.

Suns are out in earnest now, traffic should have broken up. Just need to stow the armor at home and head to the spaceport. Things have been happening fast enough lately that I’ll likely be home by the time I’ve parsed them all in a sitrep. Vranki raises a lot of red flags – she makes half the rookie mistakes I spent seven years busting people on, and seems proud of it. She’s only gotten big because there’s no law out here to crack down on her, but once there is her operation is done. I need to not be a part of it by then. There’s no such thing as an honorable discharge from a crime boss’ service, so I might need to ingratiate myself to someone else more discreet and help with a hostile takeover. Should take my next contract from someone else too, better not to establish a pattern before breaking it.

Situation at home is appreciably unchanged. Looks like the wind rustled the shutters though, wish those stayed shut. Better not to invite any prying eyes or opportunistic scavengers in, even this far from town. Armor’s safely tucked in the alcove, casual clothes are on, time to go.

III

Honestly glad there’s no good tailors on Doobinth, I could use an afternoon away from this planet. Waterproofing is easy, but sand infiltrates every crevice in a piece of gear better than any assassin I’ve ever worked with. Maybe I can take Brayli off world for a date some time. I hear the capital is interesting. Not nice, considering it’s a hyper dense ball of iron that cooks you alive if you leave the arcologies—with rivers of mercury flowing across a lot of the surface, but apparently there are some breath taking views. I can’t even imagine how it got chosen to be the capital though.

Hang on a second: why does it smell like exhaust inside the ship, and why does it make me feel...nice? Better look around, just to be sure there’s no leak. It seems to be coming from that woman over there. That Nautolan with pink skin and tight coveralls who needs two seats. What’s Brayli doing on this shuttle? Should I talk to her? If she sees me I have to, it’s not nearly loud enough to pretend I didn’t notice her. We aren’t scheduled for a date until tomorrow though, she probably wants to be alone. Likely left the planet to get a break from me, I shouldn’t be too pushy. Just leave her alone.

‘Hey Koben, is that you?’ Oh, okay, never mind, impromptu short date. Public transportation through the void of space is romantic, right? It doesn’t matter, you need to get up and use your legs to walk over to her so you aren’t shouting across the cabin. ‘Oh, hey Brayli, it’s good to see you! I just happened to be heading to Saraz myself for some-’ Don’t ruin the surprise by telling her you’re going to spend a sizable chunk of your blood money on a dress from a tailor you’ve only heard about on the HoloNet; that would look stupid for two reasons. ‘-sightseeing.’ ‘Lucky you. Some oil baron who only drops by for the winter wants me to supe up his speeder so he can blast across the dunes, and the folks who make the parts for it don’t deliver. Just my luck, huh sugar?’

A pet name. A friendly elbow. That soft, warm laugh she does. How do I respond. Do I put my arm around her? Kiss her? Not in public, surely that’s too far too fast. I’ve been in situations like this before. This is a tightrope, she’s testing you. Fall and it all ends once we land. I recognized it, that’s the first part of the test, now all I have to do is figure out the answer.

‘You alright? You look a little pale, the shuttle making you sick?’ ‘No! I’m fine! I’m sorry. You’re very unlucky. I hope those parts are easy to transport.’ Feels like I just got hit by a speeder. ‘It’s just a few little nuts and bolts. The kind that are just a tiny bit off from industry standard so they can sell you replacements.’ A second part of the test, breadth of knowledge review, I can handle this.

‘Oh! I know what you mean, blasters have that problem all the time. The Empire published standard dimensions for chamber dimensions, seal sizes, firing power outputs, every characteristic that could possibly be regulated, because practically every culture had their own informal standards. Steep fines for intentional propagation of non-regulation part dimensions. The reason they do it is because they need to be able to requisition replacement parts from as many potential sources as possible, for when troopers are on long field operations and left cut off from official support lines. Of course, with how many blasters are rarely used, and passed down from father to son for generations in particularly egregious cases, there’s still quite a sizable market for unlicensed blaster parts. This one here I actually spent an hour just this morning putting together because of how many parts felt like they fit, but started to squeak or jostle upon further inspection. A lot of people think that they can get by with a fit that’s close enough, but with how much stress is placed on a blaster during use, the best result is that your blaster falls apart on you, and the worst is that it explodes in your hand.’ That should be sufficient.

She’s laughing again, and now our thighs are touching. There’s ample space for them not to be if she wanted, which must mean I passed. No other place for it now, so it’s safe to put my arm around her. This is nice. I hope the transport stalls out.

‘Wow, and here I thought troopers just fired blasters. I’m starting to think you’re secretly an engineer just trying to impress me with all that trooper talk.’ Teasing. Lighthearted teasing, I remember this from my academy days. ‘How do you think I got the armor?’ ‘Made it yourself in a workshop. It only looks real; the plates are rusty sheet metal you pulled off a speeder and painted up pretty. I could probably snap chunks off of ‘em!’ She’s grinning, and so am I. I hadn’t realized.

‘No way to prove that now, since I left the suit at home. Can’t risk depressurization with some sharpshooting, and there’s no floor space to spar a few rounds.’ She’s trying to lean in close, but her head barely reaches up past my chest. ‘Oh don’t worry, I’ve got the perfect spot to spar a few rounds at home.’ Now would be a good time to cross my legs, just to be safe while that image runs through my head. ‘Haha, yeah, well—I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it until we get around to that.’

Transport just arrived. I don’t want to get up yet, and neither does she. ‘See you tomorrow night?’ ‘Of course. Oh, nice new duds by the way – I’d been meaning to say. You finally get tired of catching heat stroke in that suit?’ No time to explain how sophisticated the temperature regulation is, only time to smile and laugh. All the time in the galaxy for that. ‘I got tired of having to wipe the sand out of the cracks every night.’ ‘Maybe you’ll get used to desert living yet. Shuttle’s just about empty, should probably head out, catch a taxi before they’re all snapped up. Bye sugar.’

Hard to believe this place is in the same system as Doobinth. Everything’s bright, clean, crowded, and loud. It has its charms, but I’ve been out of big cities long enough I think I’m starting to prefer wide open stretches of nothing. This place looks surprisingly barren for a clothing shop. Figured there would be a lot more on display, but all they have is fabric samples. ‘Good afternoon madame, welcome to my humble boutique. How can I assist you on this fine day?’ His voice is coming out fast and nasal, wonder if it has to do with how much neck it has to traverse. Not used to looking up at people.

‘I have a date tomorrow and need a nice dress.’ ‘But of course, a trifling matter.’ ‘I don’t see any to try on.’ ‘Oh no my dear, you do not -try on- art! Everything we Kaminoans create is art, and art must be made bespoke, one of a kind, by and for those whose ambition wills it into being. Please remove your jacket; my droids will take your measurements and then we may begin holo-projecting potential designs over you.’

All of these designs look awful. My shoulders keep jutting out, my waist is a straight vertical line, and all these silky smooth fabrics just draw attention to how cracked and worn my skin is. I’m stupid, this is stupid. Dresses are for women with the luxury of sitting in a temperature controlled office all shift and taking monthly salon trips. Ones who’ve never had to practice knife fighting or crawl through suppressive fire. Real women.

I’m crying. Haven’t cried once since the Empire took me in, and now I’m crying because I don’t look good in a dress I could never have imagined affording until now anyway. What a joke. ‘Oh please do not cry madame. What troubles you?’ ‘I don’t think a dress is for me. I’ll be on my way.’ I guess she’ll have to be satisfied with these clothes.

‘Oh you must not go! In all my years I have never had the pleasure of working with one such as yourself!’ ‘Someone built like a slab of wrought iron?’ He looks offended. Don’t know how he has the gall to be the one offended here, but that’s self proclaimed “artists” I suppose. ‘That is how you think of yourself madame? Do not say such things!’ I’ve spent the better part of my life taking orders, but a scrawny seamster is a step too far.

‘And why shouldn’t I?! I could go to Coruscant with more credits than I’ll ever see and still not find a tailor who can make me look pretty!’ ‘You would not, that is true, but that is because you would be looking on Coruscant. That is a planet of high society, a world where there is no need for one to hone one’s body. Within those confines of course there would be nobody who would know what to do with a specimen of your caliber.’ That makes a nonzero amount of sense.

‘What is my caliber then, how would you dress me?’ ‘Dry your tears madame—whilst I tell you all I could see from the moment you walked into my shop. Your physique is sublime: a sculpted, chiselled testament to the endurance of the natural form. This could be the result of costly bodily sculpting technology, that is perhaps true, but such technology is unheard of by anyone living this far from the core worlds. An employer of such methods would have no reason to visit my establishment, and thus you must possess a physically demanding employment to maintain it naturally.’ I never figured it was that noticeable. It must be easier to make out through normal clothes than under armor.

‘Compounding this, your posture: the proud and yet restrained bearing of a soldier! Your eyes scanned uniformly across my shop, shoulders level, gait even. Such is not the behavior of a mere athlete or physical laborer. Even in so safe an environment as a shopping district you stay alert – vigilant for threats. Had I a blaster pistol in my hand when you walked in, no doubt you would have taken it from me.’ That is a difficult habit to unlearn.

‘You sound like a detective, but none of that makes me look any prettier in a dress.’ ‘Of course; nothing would make you look pretty in a dress. I knew that from the moment I saw you.’ ‘Then why put me through that?’ ‘Though I gleaned much from your bearing, I am no Jedi: I had no way to see inside your mind.’ Really need to learn not to tense up just from hearing that word some day. ‘I apologize for the distress, but more important than showing you what would work was showing you what would not. Now that you’ve realized a dress does not suit you, I would be happy to tell you what will.’ ‘Go on then.’

‘To accentuate and flatter your powerful form is the purview of a suit, madame.’ Oh, he’s right, these look amazing! ‘From your smile I see you begin to understand, but I will elucidate: there are as many forms of beauty as there are cultures in this galaxy. While you are a human, you are also a soldier – you come from a culture of power, strength, discipline; it would be foolish to force the beauty standards of the cosmopolitan worlds upon you.’

High shouldered, sleek limbed, and just a little imperial black for the under layer. I can see why this place has such a high recommendation, if the real thing looks half as good as this holo-projection it should be the second fanciest set of clothing I ever wear. ‘It’s perfect. I never knew how good red looked on me. I have one request though.’ ‘But of course, it is only fair that the canvas be comfortable with the art placed upon it.’ ‘Do you have any blaster resistant materials?’

That laugh is a lot deeper than his usual speaking voice. Hearty, makes him sound strong. ‘Oh, a daunting task, but you are in luck. Many of the people who care to buy tailored clothing in this system are members of the less savory side of society, and as such would prefer not having to compromise protection for style. I cannot guarantee it will prove immune to high power weaponry, but most common blaster pistols should take no fewer than two shots to damage this mesh. If you find yourself utilizing this property, fear not, because all my works come with a lifetime warranty.’

‘You’ve really surpassed all my expectations, I have to say. When will it be ready, and how much will it cost?’ ‘No more than two hours, and five thousand credits will suffice.’ The credits are easy, but I have no idea how to spend the next two hours. I never appreciated the utility of long patrols until now.

‘Can I ask you a non-work related question?’ ‘But of course madame.’ ‘I don’t know a good way to pass two hours around here. Do you have any recommendations?’ ‘Oh it would be my pleasure. If you are in such a mood as to spend more credits, I would recommend that you purchase a pair of boots to match the suit. Yours are passable, but red leather would certainly complete the ensemble. As for yourself, and please do not misunderstand me – the rugged, down to earth look has a charm all its own – you may want to seek out a salon, if for no more than a manicure.’

‘A salon? That sounds like an excessive measure.’ ‘Consider it a part of the ensemble. Just as one would not expect to see a full face of makeup underneath a trooper’s helmet, so too does one expect not to see a woman in a five thousand credit suit have dirt under her nails.’ For how much he talks, I have to give him credit: it makes a lot of sense. Definitely not just talking to hear the sound of his own voice. ‘I failed to consider that before, thank you.’

The boots were easy, managed to find the exact same shade as the suit to avoid any dissonance. Not usually impressed by civilian craftsmanship, but these are almost as comfortable as my old ones. Good flex, breathable, spacious. I’ve never owned clothes that weren’t made for fighting in before; I feel protective of them already.

I’ve never been to a salon before. No that’s not true, I raided an illegal one once, but I’ve never been a customer. ‘Hi there, welcome, can I get your name?’ Oh hell, should probably not leave too much of a paper trail. Been getting too comfortable lately, think of a fake name. Nothing’s coming to mind. Just Hers. Can I use it? It’s not like she’s around to be upset, and it’s the least she can do to make up for everything else. ‘Tessa Revilane.’

‘Well Mrs. Revilane, I don’t see you on the list, but you’re in luck: we just had a cancellation so I can squeeze you in.’ Her smile is fake, but polite. Wouldn’t look out of place placating an officer. ‘What was it you were looking for today?’ ‘I have a date tomorrow and I want to look pretty.’

Just relax. It’s okay to close my eyes around these unfamiliar women with scissors. They’re just civilians, if they were Imperial assassins I would have recognized their body language. The chair is adjusted for my height, and I’m being washed with water instead of sonic vibrations for the first time in years. I should enjoy it.

‘Goodness, you really needed this cleanup. How do you even get your fingernails into this state?’ ‘I wear gloves most of the day. Trim them with a knife when they get too long.’ Wow. These women must take this deathly seriously, I’ve never heard such an affronted gasp from so many people at once. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place dear. I’ll have them fixed up for you in no time at all.’

The warm water is nice, but being detailed like this by three different people makes me feel like a droid in a repair bay. ‘Not often I work with hair this tangled. This might take a few brushes, and there’s a strong possibility of pulling, is that alright? I can skip it if it would be too painful.’ ‘That sounds fine.’ I’ve taken serrated vibro-blades between the ribs, I’m sure this will be triv-ow. Easy to forget how sensitive the scalp is wearing a helmet all the time.

‘Please don’t be offended by my saying this ma’am, but these callouses are so thick I don’t think a foot soak will be sufficient. We have a micro-vibrational cleaner that detects changes in tissue density in order-’ ‘Will it make them pretty?’ ‘Yes ma’am, very pretty.’ ‘Go ahead.’ Never worn an open toed shoe in my life, but I’m here, no use taking a half measure. It tickles. That feels nice.

I’m starting to see why the officers made such a big deal about their grooming, it’s really relaxing once you get used to being touched. The prices weren’t that steep either, for a bounty killing salary. Maybe I should make this a regular routine. Come here once a month, get to know them by name, make small talk. Then they all recognize me when an imperial detachment comes looking. Better keep it to just this once, and put effort into savoring it.

‘Well, we’ve done all we can out here, and if I may say so myself we’ve done quite a great deal. There is an optional full body massage we can have done for you in the back, a masseuse droid handles it to reduce any feelings of awkwardness. If not, we can get to painting your nails and styling your hair and you can be on your way.’ A massage. Never had one of those either, usually just been injected with a relaxant whenever a medical droid’s scalpel was having trouble penetrating. Why not? ‘I’ll take the massage.’

Now this is luxury. Most luxuries serve a practical purpose: they’re a status symbol to separate the wealthy from their servants at a glance. Investments in psychological domination. Jewellery, clothes, fancy speeders, large apartments; things to be seen, not enjoyed. This is different. Nobody will ever notice this but me. I have so many credits I can afford to throw them away just for my own pleasure.

Each manipulator digit feels like it’s giving me a stim injection. I never realized how much tension impairs physical capacity. My physical conditioning regimen has largely compensated for it and kept me effective, but right now I feel like I could do a standing jump over a speeder. The oil feels nice too. Like the cool tingle of hypoxia settling in, but I can lie here and enjoy it without dying. It might not be a good idea to come to this salon again, but surely the Empire would never track someone buying a masseuse bot, right?

Even my clothes feel different putting them back on, everything is so sensitive and providing me so much feedback. I thought with bacta eliminating scarring that there would be no difference, but this must be how molting species’ feel.

‘That was amazing. I’ve never felt anything like it.’ ‘That’s great to hear! Just sit back down and we can handle your hair and nail polish.’ A holodisplay of potential colors, but I don’t need to look. ‘Imperial black please.’ Applied in under a minute. They look pretty. My fingers look...pretty. I look pretty.

‘Is everything alright miss? Are you allergic to the nail polish?’ Crying again. A different sort of crying, not one I’m familiar with. ‘No ma’am. I’m not sure why I’m crying. Just ignore it, and give me the same hairstyle I came in with please. I’m happy with it.’ Not much room for a fashionable haircut under a helmet. Even in the same style, it looks completely different now.

Six thousand credits. Four month’s salary for a set of clothes and a deep clean. I’d have scoffed at that last week, but thinking of how Brayli’s going to react when she sees it is invigorating. It’s going to be great. ‘Hey lady, hand over your credstick!’

Wow, I even look rich enough to get mugged. A back alley is a back alley no matter what planet you’re on I suppose. It only ever makes the situation worse, but I can’t stop myself from laughing at this guy. I’ve had some desperate people rush me with a knife, but this is just ridiculous: he’s grip is loose, his stance is terrible, and that blade looks like it would struggle to cut bread, never mind skin. Oh well, what can you do?

Grab his wrist, angle the blade away, pull him in, punch him in the throat, let him down gently so he doesn’t get concussed by the ground. Over and done, simple as that. Nails are intact, suit is still clean. He’s reeling pretty hard, I should call him an ambulance. Done. What a way to cap off my trip.

I could go for a walk back to the spaceport. Get used to the way these new clothes fit, break in the boots. How to pass the time? Already got everything done today, no topics for a mental evaluation. Maybe a marching tune. It must have been ten years since I’ve whistled one of those. The imperial March is always a classic.

VII

Back home. Probably shouldn’t wear this suit out too much, I can leave it off for the night. It’s still a bit too early to go to bed though. Maybe I can get my workout in early, then spend the rest of the evening practicing with this new pistol. That sounds like a good way to cap off the day. I can’t wait for tomorrow.

#writing #star wars #my oc #oc #Koben Tarani #sapphic #transgender

2 notes · View notes