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chimerathewriter · 1 year

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Goody two shoes

Chapter 2 Tears and fruit tea

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Summary: Gloria wakes up with shocking news on her part and then she have to go with her parents and older brother great

TW: finally real tw body shaming, nigerian parents, low self esteem, misoginy towards heroines, dick of a borther,

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Gloria woke up with knocking on her door, she already knew who it was, she opened the door

" Eniola is 8 am, what do you want?" she asked obviously still sleepy, the other girls was blasting the tablet screen on her face

" What?"

" Read it"

" The worst hero ever, does Spider Thorn know she have to catch the thief not letting them go, I can't believe on what I'm about to say but it seems that we have to rely on spiderman not a spiderwoman" she quoted and there was tape of her and Hobie

" That asshole of J. Jonah Jameson" Eniola was fuming

" Eny calm down is not that bad" she yawned and sat down on the bed, her bestfriend followed her

" Yeah but the comment....."

" Let them be at the end of the day I'm still doing my job"

" Alright, anyway Miles and the group are going to look around are you coming" the girls sighed

" Nah Ikenna is back I'm going to lunch with the family, so after" she explained

" Are you going to be okay?" her friend gave her a worried look

" Yes don't worry" she smiled soon after Eniola left

After some times Gloria was finally ready to see her family, she didn't know why she was that nervous, well she knew her older brother was consider the perfect son, from education to job. He was the CEO of a big tech company in London. Even if they were sibling it never felt like they were, he was way older than her. Many people mistaken them for son and daughter.

The closer she got to her destination, the more her spidey senses tingled, since she got bit everytime her brother was near him her sense pricked

" There she is" she could hear her mother voice, she put on a smile and walked over, she hugged her brother

" Oh my god Gloria you've grown so much" he smiled

" Hi bro, is been a while" she sat down

" Now that everybody is here we can start ordering" her father said

" So how is NYU going?"

" Is going well, I'm almost done with coding project, how is London?" she explained

" A little bit gloomy, it reminds me of here"

" I have a friend from there his name is Hobie and....

" He? I hope you are not doing anything stupid" her mother warned, she rolled her eyes

" Gloria don't roll your eyes at your mother" her father pointed a finger at her

" Sorry mom, but you are exaggerating I said that he's a friend and I'm almost 20...and...." she stop and sighed

" Sorry mom but you don't need to worry, he's just a friend and he's not even my type" the waiter finally came with food, she hoped that with food the tension would have loosen up, but she was wrong.

" Is it not too much?" her father pointed at her food, she closed her eyes she knew exactly what was about to come

" I skipped breakfast to come here and....

" Your father is right, and too much food will make you sleepy and if you are sleepy you will study less" she exhaled deeply, she started to eat

" Mom I appreaciate that you are worried about my health but the food portion is fine" she

" I'm worried because if you gain weight....

" Mom please stop this a celebration for my coming back, I wiil be so sad if Gloria starves" Ikenna added, stopping their mother ranting, the lunch went completly in silence, with only some questions and answers.

" Oh I forgot what about that girl you were seeing what's her name... Amara...no Amaka yes Amaka"

" We are still together and going strong" he said all bashful, making all the family smile

" So when are you going to her father's house?" their father asked, the man smiled

" Very soon" they all clapped their hands

" Congratulation bro" she patted on his back

" Oh we are going to have grandchildren soon" their mother sang excitedly

" Mom I haven't proposed yet, I don't know if she will say yes"

" She will you are a good man" they continued to eat the atmosphere was , she looked at her phone and giggled

" Who is it?" her mother asked

" Uhm Eniola, her and Miles are near with some our old classmates from V.I.S.I.O.N" her smile deminshed

" So you are leaving soon?" she nodded in response

" Alright but first get changed" she looked at her mother confused

" Uhm what's wrong with what I'm wearing"

" Wait you are going to meet your firends like that mba agaghị ekwe omume, you stomach is showing is not looking good, like if you were some pounds lighter...." she stood up and all eyes were on her, her heart was beating fast, like somebody was about to rip it out

" Mom I'm going to go like this, and I thought you said I was beautiful"

" Yes you are, but I'm worried about you"

" Then please be less worried, you are always up my ass"

" Gloria..."

" Dad please as much I respect you I'm not in the mood for your shouting" she massaged her temples

I probably look like Miguel now

" Mom I know you love me but please let me be , I'm not a kid, I have my own job, and all my successes should make you think wow I have a responsible daughter"

" Alright sorry I didn't mean to make you feel a certain way"

" Thank you, I need to go, see you"

" Are you not coming home?" Ikenna asked

" No I will explain you later" she tip the waiter and left, not know that her friend saw what happened, she started to leave

Why do mom and dad do this everyday, first they compliment me and then demoralize me the worst way possible. Or are they saying the thruth do I really look that hideous?

Suddenly she felt a hand gripping her arm, she turned around and it was Hobie, he had a terrified look that turned into an angry one.

" Have you lost your mind? You could have been hit by a car" he shouted at her, she finally understood the situation.

" I'm sorry I... I don't know what got into me" her lips where shaking the the boy noticed her eyes becoming glossy

" Is fine are you alright?"

" Uhm yes I just need a cold drink" she dried the thin layer of sweat on her forhead, they walked towards a cafe the punk artist eyes never stop following

" Oh is that is not our girl Gloria" the cafe honour shouted making the girl smile

" Hi Aileen can I have alarge mango fruit tea with apple poppoing ball" they seated down

" So what about your new fine boyfriend" Aileen asked them

" No... no he's a good friend Hobie" the girls answered nervously

" What does your friend Hobie wants then?"

" What she order" he answered bluntly, he was not even answering he was still staring the girl who was seated in front of him

" What?"

" You literally got almost hit by car

" I got distracted okay" she tried to avoid his piercing black eyes, he gave up on having an answer they remained in silent, with the sound of people and children chatting

" Here you go your two mango fruit tea"

" Thank you how much..."

" Is on the house especially after you helped my kids passing their exams"

" Alright" the lady left them to the enjoy the drink

" So you helped her kids to pass their exams'" she nodded at the question

" Yes, many of their classmates were paying alot of money for tutors they even have one for every subject but they couldn't afford it so I offered myself, I had to convinve my parents though"

" Why? You are helping people who are in need"

" Right? But it seem that they don't get it, they thought it would have distracted me from my studies, they said if they couldn't afford it they should have never gone to VISIONS"

" Oh they are some capitalistic cunts" he commented leaving the girl speachless for later on bursting in laughter

" Yes they are"

" But trust me they were not like that before"

"Really?" he looked at her skeptical

" Yes, when they came here they lived in a bedroom apartment in Queens, after some years they had me we were still living in poverty they were kind, lovable and they were my parent"

" Then the money came and they literally froze the same people who told me that they would have supporting they.........." she felt tears going down her

" Sorry I don't know why I'm saying all of this" she laughed trying to dry her tears

" I'm so stupid"

" No you're not, some parents fucking suck and you should be feeling soffocated by those twats" he dried her tears, she didn't expect his hands to be this soft and warm, she felt her face heating

" Thank you" she whispered, he smiled making her more bashful

" We should go and meet the other" he cleared his throat

" Yes we should" they stood up

" Did you liked it?" she pointed at the drink

" Yes it was sweet" he smiled looking at her

" Good"

AN: Sorry this is another long chaoter epsecially for the mobile reader, I'm writing this on my lapton and I noticed that is too long on the mobile app.

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#hobie x reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x black reader #hobie brown #spiderman atsv #miles morales #spider gwen #oc #black oc #black plus size reader #plus size reader

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billetwoes · 7 months

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Too Serious! Billet Woes Part 3

Disclaimer: This is my first attempt at fanfic. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, rudeness is not.

Word Count: 4,255

Synopsis: It has been slightly over a week, and so far so good. Everything seems to run smoothly as expected, until Tomas decided to have a serious conversation with you.

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The next morning went on as normal. Breakfast consisted of a savoury breakfast crepe consisting of truffle oil scrambled eggs, spinach, mushrooms, leeks, and red peppers with hollandaise sauce (Yay to the Vitamix!) topped with cilantro. You made some potato wedges fried in beef tallow and seasoned it lightly with a Parmesan, truffle and black garlic seasoning.

“Hmm, by the way, I wanted to ask you first,” Tomas began, washing his food down with a swig of orange juice, “A friend of mine wanted to send me an important package. Would it be alright if I gave him your address?”

You furrowed your brows, as you are apprehensive to give out personal information.

“If you’re uncomfortable, I understand,” he went on further.

You sighed and then thought of a solution.

“You can give him my business address. It’s a UPS mailbox, so I can pick it up for you when it arrives. Plus, it’s safer,” you offered.

“Great!”

You gave him the details and were told that his friend would be sending something via same-day shipping.

Once breakfast was done, you did your routine clean up and making sure that the cats were well-fed. Once you let the kitties out of the workshop, their demeanor changed rapidly to happiness and started to roam around the house. You noticed that Bijoux had been slowly yet surely warming up to Tomas and was now allowing him to pet her.

Minou was not having it; she gave a jealous yowl and swatted at Bijoux violently. She hissed then began to circle and rub her body around Tomas’ booted legs. Bijoux huffed and then left for her favourite cat tree.

“No, no! Don’t do that! There’s plenty of pets to go around,” he chuckled, picking up Minou and chastising her gently while scratching her behind the ears, “I let you sleep with me already. Give your sister a chance.”

“He’s such a good cat dad,” you mused. It was a nice to see that both the girls have taken to your guest very well. In fact, you were missing the warm lump of Minou’s body between your legs, where she typically likes to sleep.

He then set her down, while she protested pitifully. He picked up the lunch bag and headed towards the door, “Shall we?”

You are starting to like driving at this time of the morning, as there was no traffic at all! Lord Liu Kang really did think this through and was grateful for the consideration of your lifestyle. Plus, you found your energy level to gradually pick up.

After you dropped off Tomas at the muster point, you decided to treat yourself to a Starbucks before heading back home to clean up some more, spend quality time with the girls, and work on more orders. You loaded the packages in a couple of tote bags and took them to the post office before heading to work. You checked your Etsy account and were pretty pleased that you will be getting a nice pay soon.

During work, you got a notification that the package had arrived. “That was fast!” You thought, amazed. The shipping cost must be awfully high.

When work ended, you bumped into a couple of colleagues on the way out.

“Hey there, girl! How was your day?” a well-dressed slender and tall man with short, curly brown hair in his early thirties greeted you with a hug.

“Hey Andrew! It went well. Uneventful, but boring is beautiful,” you replied cheerfully, “How was yours?”

“I love it when you say, “Boring is beautiful!” a tall Nigerian lady laughed. Her name is Alisha, who is level-headed, no-nonsense, but positive and funny with great fashion to boot. The two of you have been good friends since you started working where you work.

“Right? I have no complaints; nothing bad happened, so,” you responded just as cheerfully. “Are you going to the staff get together?”

“Oh, no, I’m leaving in a week, remember?” Andrew reminded, looking sad, “I’m moving to a different city.”

“Aww, that’s right! I’ll miss you, hun!” You hugged your colleague with a sad pouty face, “We wish you all the best!”

Andrew hugged you back firmly, then Alisha hugged Andrew.

“We need to go for dinner before you go!” Alisha said, “The three of us.”

“Yes! We should do that,” Andrew agreed, “Oooh! How about Uccelino?”

Your eyes widened along with your smile, “Yes!” You exclaimed, pointing a finger, not at him but to emphasize what he said, “Love that place!”

“Sounds great! Let’s keep in touch, k?” Andrew started to walk away, “Bye, ladies!”

“For sure! See ya!”

“Take care!”

“How was your day, Alisha? How was Madison’s performance?” You asked about her 5-year-old daughter.

“Oh, you know, she loves performing. She lights up every time she gets to sing. She was so excited to be a fairy and was showing off her dress to everyone,” Alisha shared happily, “She says she can’t wait for her next performance!”

She pulled out her phone to show you a few pictures of a cute girl in a yellow organza-tulle dress with a tiara holding a wand with a large star on top; she had the biggest smile and twinkling eyes. She then showed a video of her singing “When You Wish Upon A Star”.

You can’t help but coo because this was the cutest thing that you’ve seen ever!

“Aww, she’s so precious! She’s got such a beautiful voice!” And you meant it. Some children are gifted with beautiful voices, and she sounded like a miniature Marcedes from Glee, “I hope that she goes far, because, girl, she’s got it!”

“Thank you so much,” Alisha beamed, clearly touched, “I am proud of her.”

“You should be!” You were hit with this realization that these are the kinds of moments that the Earth Realm and Outworld Protectors were protecting, and you felt guilty for taking the days that have been passing your life for granted. You respect and appreciation for them have deepened.

You and Alisha continued to chat all the way to the parking lot.

“Anyways, I gotta pick up the kids. See you tomorrow, girl!” Alisha hugged you, and you’ve always felt good interacting with her.

You hugged her back and you exchanged good-byes.

You nearly forgot to go to the USP store to pick up the parcel and accidentally sideswiped someone in reaction to turning back to head in the opposite direction. You heard a loud series of horns at you.

“HEY, BITCH! WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING!!!” You heard a driver shout at you.

“I’m sorry!” You waved apologetically. Red-faced, your alertness returned in a flash while feeling yourself shrinking. Taking a few deep breaths, you calmed yourself down enough to stay focused on your way to your destination.

You entered the store to open your mailbox, but it was empty, which meant that it was a larger package. You walked over to the clerk and gave your box number. The clerk went to the back and produced a box for you, which you received. You thanked the clerk and headed back to the car. Once in, you inspected the box; it was a 4”x 4”x 4” made out to “Tomas Vrbada” from the US.

You let out a “Hmm,” raising your eyebrows before stating the car. Then you noticed the time. You were 20 minutes late from picking up Tomas! You cursed under your breath but the initial shock of a near miss followed by being cussed out by an angry driver was still fresh, so you took a moment to calm down. Once you were ready, you shifted your gear to drive.

When you arrived at Lisa’s friend’s place, his name is Kyle, you drove up to the driveway where you saw Tomas and another warrior sparring. He delivered two kicks, which his partner blocked.

Upon noticing you, he stopped what he was doing, picked up his mask and lunch bag, said his goodbye to his partner and walked towards you, sweating and smiling. His grey ninja uniform made him look formidable and intimidating, and you reminded yourself that this man was capable of killing someone. However, every time he was friendly and polite in behavior, it threw you off and had cognitive dissonance. You smiled and waved sheepishly.

“Oh, my god! I’m so sorry! I didn’t meant to make you wait!” You apologized profusely, looking shameful, “I had a difficult time on the road.”

“Don’t apologize! I kept myself occupied,” he said reassuringly, still slightly out of breath, “How was your day?”

“Well, other than nearly sideswiping someone, I’m alive,” you admitted sheepishly, “Totally my fault.”

“I’m sorry to hear that! Are you ok?” His expression was genuinely concerned, and it was reflected in his voice. Those eyes, though. So piercing!

You were touched by the concern he was showing and relaxed a little. “I am, thank you for the concern. I’m sorry again for being late!”

“You don’t need to apologize so much, Y/N. I’ve noticed that tendency in you.”

“I’m sorry,” *shit!* you did it again! You mentally beat you head on the steering wheel again and again.

He laughed, “But then it must be a Canadian thing, yes? So I’ve been told!”

Yet again, another save. He must have this sixth sense of you being embarrassed and verbally taking you out of it. Well, there’s a positive!

“Oh, I’ve picked up your package.” You reached to the back to get the box and handed it to him.

He received it gratefully, “Thank you for doing this for me. I wonder what he sent…” he muttered, inspecting the box and shaking it.

You kind of stared into space for god knows how long.

“Y/N…Y/N…hello?”

He waved his hand in front of your face to snap you out of your fog.

“Are we going home? I am starving and want to see what you will be cooking next!”

“Oh, right! I’m sorry!” You shut your eyes tight, and he laughed even more. Smiling stiffly, you started the car, “Let’s go.”

You were grateful that you managed to bring the both of you home safely. As soon as you entered your apartment, you made a beeline to the coat rack to hang your purse and coat, then straight to the kitchen. Using whatever’s left of the shock in your system, you channelled that into preparing your meal. You vaguely heard Tomas go into the guest bathroom and a few minutes later you heard the shower.

Food time: Pressure Test! (skip if you’re not interested)

You took out ingredients and mentally started to plan on making your meal. You first pre-heated the toaster oven to 400 F, then took out the container of tomato basil bisque that you have pre-made during the weekend out of the freezer, which you threw into a medium sized pot to boil. You were grateful for having pre-made some soups and pre-portioned main courses for lazy days and for frantic days.

Next, you tackled the ceasar salad. You took out a bag of romaine lettuce to cut up, then soak in a bowlful of water and some vinegar to sit for a few minutes. You would have made the dressing yourself, but since you were ridiculously late coming home, you had to cheat. Luckily, you had THE BEST ceasar dressing from Costco!

Next, you heated some water for pasta and you chose spagettini as the pasta of choice. The boiling comes later.

While that was happening, you went to the fridge and pulled out a package of 4 chicken breasts, which you butterflied, seasoned, layered basil and half a bag’s worth of Italian Cheese, and then rolled them up. You washed your hands thoroughly to prevent killing anyone so that you can prepared the dredging ingredients in three rectangular deep dishes. You added salt, pepper, Italian herbs, garlic and onion powders, paprika and shredded parmesan cheese. The doubly dredged stuffed chicken breasts, which were held by toothpicks were pan fried on both sides until golden brown, and then transferred to the oven to cook the rest of the way.

While that was happening, you decided that it wouldn’t hurt to handwash the dishes under barely tolerable hot water and soap, which you did in a jiffy, while also effectively washing your hands, too.

To jack up the chicken, you sauteed mince garlic and onion then threw in a can of crushed Roma tomato sauce, and seasoned to taste to which you put on top of the breaded crispy chicken at the 15 minute mark, topping it with more Italian cheese then sticking it back to cook the rest of the way for a total of 25 minutes and a little longer until the cheese is golden brown, which the latter happened. Once done, you made sure that all the toothpicks were removed, again to not kill anybody.

You lowered the temperature of the soup after it was thoroughly melted and piping hot down to a simmer and you washed the tomato sauce pan thoroughly.

For the final task, you made the Aglio e Olio Pasta as the companion pasta for your chicken. You turned up the heat to boil the pasta water and threw in the pasta once boiling. You took a clean stainless steel pan and poured the amount of olive oil required for the recipe and heated it up on medium-low, then thinly sliced 1 ½ bulb’s worth of garlic which went into the pan along with chili flakes to infuse the oil with flavors until the garlic started to turn brown. Dragging the perfectly cooked pasta pot right up against the pan you used tongs to transfer the spaghettini into the pan and added pasta water and salt as needed in between tossing the pan’s content until it was beautifully glossy. Once this was done. You threw in chopped Italian parsley and tossed some more.

You turned your attention to the lettuce, which you drained then spun in a salad spinner until they are as thoroughly dry as you can get them. You completed the ceasar salad in a large wooden bowl and topped it with store-bought croutons and wide shavings of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese.

(The end 😊 Can you guess how long this all took on a time crunch?)

By this time, you had noticed that Tomas was sitting on the dinner table, now wearing a fitted gray t-shirt and pajama pants, looking at his phone intently. He was in his own world, which made you feel relieved, because that bought you some time to make some of those herb and garlic sourdough toasts, which you forgot to make.

You quickly set the table and plated the food with the chicken beautiful with the golden-brown cheese on top on one side and the Aglio e Olio on the other, making the Italian Flag proud! Next were the bowls of soup, which you decorated with two whole basil leaves, then assembled the toasts neatly on a separate plate. You bought a bottle of cold sparkling Italian lemonade from the Italian super market, which you’ve been stocking up on.

Hooooo boy, you felt like a hot mess after all was done. You quickly went to change you clothes so that you don’t look like a hot mess before finally sitting down at the dinner table ready to eat.

“Itadakimasu!” He exclaimed happily, “Let’s eat!”

You quietly dug into your food, and you didn’t realize how starving you are until you reached your last bite in under 15 minutes. You surprisingly beat Tomas, who was halfway done, partly because he was also paying attention to his phone.

You happened to look up to ask him how his dinner was and you were startled to see him staring at you. If you’ve watched Season 4 of Love Is Blind, he had the same intense, creepy stare as Zach. His lips were curled up in a smile.

You decided to ignore the sensation of your skin crawling to ask him how his dinner was. He didn’t reply and continued to stare at you with that smile.

“What?” you asked, you shifted your eyes to one side briefly before returning to his stare, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Why are you so serious?” Tomas asked, now grinning.

“I’m sor-what?” you spat out, stunned.

“You’re so serious,” he repeated. He pursed his lips, seemingly deep in thought, “Am I scary?”

“No, you’re not scary,” you answered slowly after your own pause.

“Then why do you look.....serious? Why are you so quiet?” he asked. You perceive there to be a slightly teasing tone in his voice, “Are you normally like this around people?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean,” you said, confused. Is he right though? In your head, you went over your interactions with him from the past week. You were civil and respectful in your interactions with him and have done your best to make sure that he was comfortable. However, you remember the first evening when he made the comment about how you were serious. In your defense, you tended to be focused when you’re working on a task.

“You’re doing it again, you have that look in your face! It’s like you’re……uh…….pondering the meaning of life!” he quipped with the same creepy expression, this time his eyes looking off momentarily to the side before returning to yours, “Like figuring out how the……….caramel got into a Caramilk Bar.”

You nearly choked on your drink. That came out of nowhere! Did you hear this right? Was he joking?

You opened and closed your mouth a few times trying to respond to him, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Tomas. I shouldn’t ha-“

“I interrupt you, sorry!” he countered, “I didn’t say that you made me uncomfortable. I said that you were serious. And to be honest……”

“Okay?” you were paying attention now. You felt terrible, as you can feel a mental lashing from your perfectionist brain beginning.

“It hurts my feelings,” he finished, expression changing to that of a pouty demeanor, like a 10-year old, “You want to know a secret? I’ve never told any one about this, not even my own brother……..The Grand Master of the great Shirai Ryu……Best Clan ever.”

He gestured for you to come closer, and you leaned forward a few inches.

He gestured even harder, “Closer! Closer! You’re too shy!”

You gave a slight incredulous scoff and leaned forward a few more inches.

“Closer!” He beckoned even harder.

You stopped just over a feet away from him, “No, this is close enough.”

“Okay, I’ll lean closer,” he bobbed his head side-to-side and leaned closer so that his face was 6 inches away from yours.

You instinctively leaned away from him. You were made to feel uncomfortable with this sudden behavior change, and you kept wary eyes on him as his piercing silver-gray eyes bore into yours.

“What is your secret?” You asked.

After a long pause and eyes still locked into yours, he said, “I’m a Cancer.”

A burst of involuntary laughter erupted from you. You leaned your elbows on the table with a thud, and burried your face into your hand, convulsing.

“This is funny to you?” Tomas asked, “I’m telling you my secret……..it is very precious to me!”

It was hard to take this seriously, and you couldn’t help but find this sudden shift of behaviour amusing.

He waited until you to calm down. “I-I’m so-sorry! I-I d-didn’t me-mean to-“

“I interrupt you again,” he cut you off, waving his hand dismissively, “As I said, it is a precious secret…very…very…..very………very precious.”

Swallowing hard, you managed to stop laughing, “Thank you for sh-sharing your secr-secret with me.” Your were finding it hard to keep a straight face, so you smiled and gestured for him to go on.

“I know I look scary on the outside………like, very…very, very, very, very, very scary. I look tough like a Russian Villain!” This he said with an over-exaggerated tough guy look pumping his fist in front of him. Then he softened his demeanor to the same pouty expression, “But I’m very soft in the inside.” He rubbed his left chest emphatically, “I’m a sensitive man. Very, very, very, very, very sensitive……….like my feelings get hurt very, very easily.”

“How have I hurt your feelings, Tomas?” you asked trying to be empathetic, a chuckle betraying you.

“You don’t talk to me,” he answered, still pouty-faced.

Despite your amusement, you were taken-aback since you’ve always responded to his questions and when he initiates conversations. To be honest, you’ve always kept to yourself and minded your own business, until you got to know someone well enough to open up to and engage in more than superficial conversations,

“I don't talk to you?" You repeated, "What do you want to talk about?”

“Ask me about………my hair,” he said, “Ask me why it is gray.”

Now that he brought it up, you seized the opportunity to satisfy the curiosity, “Is that your natural hair colour?”

He cocked his head to one side, “My mother was a moon sprite…my father was a fire lord….he is human. It’s a sad story, I’m sorry.” His face contorted as if about to cry.

“No, no, it’s okay. I’m listening,” you reassured, “I want to hear it.

“My people were persecuted, so my mother put me in a basket to help me escape. It travelled down the river from my kingdom all the way to China and my hair turned from red to gray……because it was cold. My fire became smoke,” he finished now with a deadpan expression, “The end!” He finished in a sing-song voice with a cheery expression and raising his hands with upturned palms.

Reluctantly, you told him it was a good story. It sounded ridiculous to you, but knowing about the existence of magical realms and beings, you thought that there may be plausibility in his story and that he’s using humour to cope. It is also possible that he was trying to connect with people and was secretly lonely. You now felt terrible for laughing.

“Thank you for sharing your story with me, Tomas. I’ll be sure to ask more questions about you,” You reassured, “I normally don’t ask a lot of questions when I don’t know people very well, because I don’t know if a question is personal or not.”

“What personal questions?” Tomas asked, leaning in curiously, eyes wide like a child.

“Well, you know, like if someone’s married, how old someone is, or what their family life is like, or-“

“Are you married?” he asked.

You paused, “I decline to answer.”

“How old are you?”

“I’d rather not say,” you replied warily.

“Why?”

“And it’s rude to ask someone that.”

“Why?”

“Some people are sensitive about their age.”

“Why?”

You paused, “They just don’t like being asked that question.”

“Why?”

“Okay, this is getting nowhere,” you smiled awkwardly, trying to get out of the topic.

“You’re being serious again!” Tomas exclaimed, “Even your food is serious.” He gestured at his plate.

You blinked, “I’m sorry, what? My food is “serious”?”

“Your food………it’s too serious,” he picked up his fork and poked through the salad, the chicken, and the pasta, “Where are my brownies? Where are my Skittles?”

The then spooned the soup, pretending to look for something, “Where is my ice cream?”

You shrugged, “Well, I want to make sure that you eat health-“

He held a hand up to stop you, “Sorry, I interrupt you,” he said, “Now you hurt my Cancer feelings again.”

“Go on, please explain,” you gestured for him to continue.

“I like tasty food…..just not too serious…….If everything is too serious, there is no fun.”

Nodding slowly, you agreed empathetically, “You’re right.”

He slammed a hand on the table, “Of course, I’m right!”

This action made you jump, but you looked at him expectantly to continue.

“I am a human being! I have feelings,” He said, rubbing his left chest again, “…..…needs……..I want fun! Please consider my feelings.”

“You right, I’m sorry, I sh-“

“I don’t want your, “I’m sorry!” he said loudly, he slammed his hand on the table again, “I want action!”

You shut your eyes with a suppressed smile, processing the interaction. You were undoubtedly amused, but what part of this was serious? You wanted to read between the lines to find the meaning, but that was a task for later.

“How about this?” you began slowly, “Why don’t I bring you on my next Costco run after I pick you up during the weekend, then we’ll eat out. What do you think?”

“No serious?” He asked, wide-eyed.

“No serious,” you affirmed, nodding and smiling.

“Ok!” He then cracked a wide, innocent smile, “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome!”

You let him finish his dinner, and proceeded to clear the table and clean up after he was done. Once your duties for the evening were done, you headed to your room and hit the shower.

He reverted back to the self that you were familiar with, like the entire strange conversation never happened. But you got a good laugh out of it.

You let the cats out. Instantly, they gravitated towards Tomas, who gladly indulged them. He also insisted in helping you, you explained that since he was a guest, he wouldn’t be doing any of that. However, interacting the kitties would always be welcomed.

Was it ever an interesting day, and it ended with you laughing your self to sleep. Little did you know, your dinners would become…interesting.

#mk1 tomas vrbada #tomas vrbada #tomas x reader #mk1 #mortal kombat #funny #comedy #mk1 smoke #smoke #mk 1 smoke x reader

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 29 days

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M was apparently having food and drink shipped into Nigeria from out of the country for herself to drink and eat … wtf

Sorry, I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. A lot of people bring their own food and drinks on vacations like that.

I mean, just go look at all the people who smuggle Dr. Pepper into Disney World or everyone who brings Diet Coke for a cruise or to Europe. Heck, I’ve even done it; in my picky-eater days, I brought a whole family-sized box of Cheerios on a school trip to Rome because we didn’t know what the breakfast options were going to be like and my mom was worried I wouldn’t eat. (Don’t worry, my culinary tastes have improved drastically since high school.) I have another friend who packed an entire suitcase with jars of peanut butter when she went to study in the UK for a semester.

And besides. If Meghan has the money to bring her own food and drink, that’s fine. The problem begins when she tries to expense it to her Nigerian hosts, like she made demands when she arrived and they had to make extra procurement for her. That’s rude.

But if all she did was make her preferences known and Nigeria decided to provide them (like on Below Deck when the guests make preferences for specific foods and brands), then that’s on Nigeria or Invictus Games or whoever planned this. Can’t really fault them for wanting to do everything they could to make her happy.

I just haven’t seen a whole lot about this so I can’t really judge.

#sussexes #invictus games

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goodluckclove · 24 days

Text

Songbird Blog Takeover II: Scott Skylark Kaufner Intro

Hello, everyone!

First off, I should say that this isn't Scott. I'm his sister Tenzin, stepping in to craft a bit of an intro post on his behalf. Katy suggested that we just explain the concept well enough for him to do this himself, but I kind of shot myself in the foot fifteen years ago by making the internet out to be a singular entity that already knows about him. It was the only way I could get him to go online without someone else in the room, but I can't exactly back track and finally explain the whole concept of all of you being individuals with your own lives.

it would either fascinate him or push him into a massive existential crisis. He's agreed to use my old iPhone to post today (I showed him speech to text since touchscreen keyboards are hard for him), and that alone is such a push in the right direction that I don't want to rock his world too hard beyond that.

Anyway, here's what you need to know!

My Brother: The Basics

Scott is 30, Greek-Romanian, and an intersex man (Klinefelter's syndrome). He's an alloromantic asexual - I think sex-repulsed, but I haven't asked him directly for obvious reasons - and could be considered gender nonconforming.

He is also Traditionalist Birthright, and up until the age of 12 was raised entirely without gender.

Because of this, and as he lived exclusively in a witch town until his late twenties, he has nearly zero experience with most forms of bigotry. He does not think his upbringing was unique and does find his form of gender expression to be at all remarkable.

He definitely knows about ignorance though. He's not stupid. Once we were in a gay bar in Portland and a woman who was flirting with me made a sort of fetish-y remark about me being Nigerian and Scott heard and lectured her for ten minutes about the importance of broadening your horizons so you don't make "foolish fucking comments to nice people you've just met".

Scott doesn't know that much about birthright culture. Believe it or not, being a Traditionalist actually means he refuses to learn anything about his own history, instead choosing to see himself as a little creature being cared for by a loving and bountiful earth.

There's a whole thing with birthrights surrounding their middle name. It's considered a special rite of intimacy reserved for loved ones and the most trusted individuals in their lives. His first name is Scott, but considering that he thinks you are all one being he's known since childhood, I'm pretty sure you could call him Skylark if you want.

Scott is very passionate about Greek Mythology, music (He's been playing the piano since the age of two), breakfast foods, gardening, being outside, cats, bugs, food service, libraries, medicine, and uplifting movies about animals. He has seen The Adventures of Milo and Otis twenty-one times. I know this because I have also seen The Adventures of Milo and Otis twenty-one times.

That's all I can think to say. Scott is not at all technology or internet-savy beyond what he's needed to know for work and what he watched me do from over my shoulder. I'm kindly asking that, in turn, you dial back the chronically online high-octane absurdo-nihilism and just be nice to him. He's frankly excessive in terms of allyship, somehow being both sex-repulsed and deeply sex and kink positive (please don't ask why I know this). Katy him what he thought of the furry subculture and he nodded very seriously and said that he found them all very impressive. I don't know what that means. He refused to elaborate.

Scott just told me that he's taking the phone and going out to "show the internet his day". He seems excited.

Please, please be nice to my brother.

This is a Songbird Elegies blog takeover! Find out more about what that means by going here!

#songbird blog takeover #scott posting #blind trust #writeblr #writing community #writers on tumblr #authors of tumblr #writing #queer writers #on writing #blog intro #indie author

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choicesmc · 4 months

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Must know 1 and 6 for Fiona (detailed hc ask)

oh! thank you for the asks! referencing [this] ask game

1: What does their bedroom look like?

I liked this one! despite all the time i've been rotating Fiona in my mind, I've never really thought about what his bedroom looks like! It was fun ^^

Fiona’s bedroom is pretty intimate. It’s a lot larger than he can fill but the things in there are pretty significant to him. It’s the heart of his house –no one, not even lovers, are allowed in without express permission.

Upon entering the room, the main attraction is the four-poster bed in the middle of the room. Beautifully dark green curtains hang off the canopy and serve as black-out curtains. (He doesn’t actually sleep in it that often. A lot of times he ends up asleep on the couch! But when he can… he sleeps in style –matching pajamas and everything!)

To the left, a large vanity table with a mirror holds all the creams, powders, and lipsticks that Fiona could want. Most are neatly displayed and only the ones he regularly uses are on the countertop for easy access.

To the right, he has a study table. A couple of physics and calculus textbooks (mixed with the odd law study guide here and there) litter the top of it. Most of them are holdovers from when he was a physics professor at a city university. (He adores that period of his life more than he’d let on. In the bottom right drawer are letters from former students, some thanking him, some drawings of him, and some pretty holiday cards addressed to him.)

Like I said, it’s a large room. There isn’t much in it, but Fiona prefers it that way. Better to leave room from other stuff he’ll need than overcrowd it with meaningless ornaments now.

6: Eating habits and sample daily menu?

time for me to dump all my foods in here too because Nigerian food rocks and I cannot be convinced otherwise <3

Fiona’s a very ethnic eater. A majority of food is Igbo/Nigerian food though he’s amenable to other cuisines. In addition, he doesn’t eat the same food twice in a week, skipping breakfast is fine (and maybe even lunch) but missing dinner is a crime, and coffee’s a no-go. Doesn’t like the taste. Doesn’t like the effects. Doesn’t like much of anything about it.

He only drinks it socially and even then it’ll be decaf.

Back to the daily menu, though! Coffee’s got me on a whole different tangent xD

When he has breakfast, it’s something light: eggs and bread, pancakes, chicken nuggets, etc. Things that can be whipped up pretty quickly. He likes drinking hot chocolate in the morning, no matter the season –a holdover from childhood– though these days he’s more likely to start the day with cold milk rather than hot chocolate.

For lunch, it’s more of a wild toss. When he decides on lunch, it can be yam and stew, lasagna, rice (coconut, jollof, or fried), or a handful of ethnic dishes he can make. Sometimes, the team goes out to eat and Fiona isn’t one to deny team-building opportunities.

Dinner, however, is a requirement. His very favorite dish after a long day at work is: eba/pounded yam and soup. He likes to order it from Igbo restaurants but, on good days, he’ll make it himself. Alternatives for the rest of the week include: abacha, pepper soup, beans + plantain, and okpa.

#laws of attraction #oc/mc #asks answered #fiona lightwood

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mooifyourecows · 2 months

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What food do y’all have in good ol’ ‘Mercia?

all of it

honestly though it depends on where you are. America is a big immigrant country, with people from all over the world bringing their authentic food with them. if you're in a big city with a big variety of people (Chicago, NYC, LA, etc), you can pretty much find ANY kind of cuisine possible. If youre touring around Chicago and suddenly think "MAN i could really go for some moi moi rn..." you're in luck! you can easily find a nigerian restaurant to meet your needs no problemo!

now if you're in a small, podunk one stoplight town, variety is a lot harder to find. You WILL almost always have Mexican food as an option though. Good mexican food too. made by actual mexicans. i've been to a lot of mexican restaurants here in America on account of it is my favorite and I've never encountered one owned or operated by non mexicans. other than like... fast food like taco bell and such. white people mexican restaurants don't last long because they have to compete with authentic deliciousness and that's just not possible (obviously this is just my personal experience and i have not been to EVERY town in america so i'm sure there are some exceptions)

Different parts of the country have different popular foods. In coastal states you'll find a lot of seafood, naturally. Maine is rollin in lobster (joke about lobster rolls), and you'll find several different types of BBQ, from Texas to Kansas City to Memphis to a backyard near you 🫵. Southern Soul Food is one of my faves, what with the jambalaya and the gumbo and the corn bread and mac and cheese and so on and so forth, deliciously 🤤 (i swear if i ever make it to New Orleans one of these days, i'm not going home without gaining at least 50lbs)

We have a big pizza culture here and you can find different pizza types all over the country. There's some debate about which pizza is the BEST pizza, mainly with Chicago deep dish and NYC style in a neverending battle of butting heads. (personally i'm just happy to get any pizza so i can't say who is better)

Then there's the stuff like Philly Cheese steak, the Reuben, pies (so many pies, but namely apple and pumpkin are the big ones), New England Clam Chowder, buckeyes, cheese curds, tex-mex, etc.

Diners are kinda the backbone of American eating, if you ask me, because you're destined to find diners everywhere. they're comforting, they're familiar, they have big menus, and they're within budget. Diners usually serve breakfast all day too, so you can swing in late in the evening (or even in the middle of the night) and order a big plate of chicken and waffles and a warm slice of apple pie à la mode any damn time you want!

I hear non americans are always baffled by biscuits and gravy, because it definitely doesn't LOOK appetizing but it's SO good. country gravy with a spicy sausage on fresh, flaky biscuits? Yall i'm gettin hungry just thinking about it. that was the meal i ate, hungover, after my 21st birthday, and i didn't regret a single bite mmMMm

i also hear that non americans don't eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but those are a big part of American culture, especially when you're a kid. aint nothin hit harder at lunchtime than takin a big ol bite of a gooey pb&j and chasin it with ice cold milk

Thanksgiving dinners are also iconically American food culture. gettin 20 of your family members together in one house, cookin a big ass turkey and serving it with a plethora of homestyle sides like stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, yams, mac and cheese, buttERNUT SQUASH, ACORN SQUASH, PUMPKIN PIE OH MAN OH MY i think i need to eat something before i gnaw through my arm

there's great native food too! frybread and succotash and what not. corn is a big thing for the indigenous people here and they popularized a lot of uses for it. I unfortunately haven't had a lot of it so i can't really speak on what's great and all, but if you just look up Native American food, you will see corn's influence lol

and OF COURSE we got the hamburgers and hot dogs. i know that fast food joints like mcdonalds have spread everywhere these days like a blight on the earth, but they're like... gas station burgers in comparison to the good stuff you can get. same with hotdogs. like i know that you can buy hotdogs from the store in a lot of places (for some reason in jars of liquid in the UK, i learned recently, which is..... fun) but they're not the same as getting a delicious hotdog with the works at a baseball game, you know? it's not the SAME. there's so much variety with what you can do with burgers and hotdogs! and Americans love to grill. it's pretty normal for households to have a grill they bust out every summer for backyard BBQs and cookouts.

anyway, i can't really tell you more about specific foods only in america because i genuinely don't know which foods here haven't either been brought over from somewhere else or have breached containment and gone off to other countries. i sometimes see restaurants in other countries have a "USA style" food and it seems to almost always be the most comically disgusting thing i've ever seen. (like pizza with fries and hot dogs as toppings lmaoooo)(ngl tho, i'd try it)

if anybody has some iconic American food to mention, feel free to do so! 👀

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amnotaqueen · 5 days

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He Doesn't Want To Do Anything For Me

My narc husband has double standards and is shockingly selfish. I'm always being berated as a wife and being treated as if my role is to cook for him, have sex with him, and do whatever he asks me to do. He hyper focuses on cooking. Doesn't seem to have any significance that I clean house, do laundry, tutor and care for our special needs son during the day as well as cook. He only focuses on if and what I have cooked. And he is difficult to prepare food for. He doesn't like American food because it is unhealthy. He wants everything made fresh, no canned goods, nothing with preservatives. His meat he likes overly cooked, just about burned. He does not want carbs except for green plantain and this type of wild rice he gets from Nigeria. He loves Nigerian vegetable soup, pepper soup, and other soups from Nigeria. I've attempted to make Nigerian soups and dishes. He may act like he likes it the first time, so I make it again only for him to not eat it. There is always a problem, and he expects me to spend hours and hours in a day, all day, just preparing his breakfast, lunch, and dinner everyday. He couldn't care less about cleaning, laundry, doing activities with our son, etc. I do the best that I can with my background, time, and energy. I can't make everyday just about making meals my husband wants. My son is a picky eater and I myself do not prefer or want Nigerian foods all the time. He was actually telling his friends that I don't cook when actuality I DO cook but he rejects what I make most of the time. So if you are always cooking food for someone who never likes your food, doesn't eat it, would you keep making their food or would you allow them to prepare their food exactly how they like it so no food goes to waste and you haven't wasted your energy?

My role as a wife is to please my husband no matter what. Support my husband at all costs. I have to do my role. It's my obligation. But he doesn't see himself as having any obligation to me. As a 'Christian' head, he is supposed to provide for his family materially, physically, mentally, and emotionally. He doesn't want to provide a thing for me. There was a time when he got mad at me for disagreeing with him, and he took the credit card from me. He wouldn't put gas in the car that I used. This was when I was not working. I had to stop working because our son was having issues at school. Even though I was not working, he seemed to expect me to put gas in our car. He berated me for not working too, ignoring the reason why I stopped working, as if I were just being lazy.

So he expected me to chip in and help financially, but he never chipped in to help with, say, cleaning the house. He believes I exist to help him but he never raises a pinky to help me of his own initiative.

My husband does not give me an allowance. He does not pay for my nails to be done. He does not pay for my hair to be done. We rarely go out on dates. The only money I spend is on food, gas, groceries, things needed around the house, toiletries. Anything outside of those things like clothes, make up, hobbies, supplements for our son, and treats I have paid for from my own savings or my mom has bought me and my son things. He pays mortgage and car note and insurance which I benefit from. But many husbands take pleasure in being the provider, providing for his wife and children. They want their wives to have nice things, look nice, and feel nice and are happy to contribute financially for that purpose. Not my husband. He wants his money for his own personal agenda.

He tells me I am ungrateful when HE is the one who is ungrateful. I never say thank you, he said, when he never says thank you to me and instead insults me everyday. What am I supposed to be thankful for exactly? Thank you for being resentful for anything you may do for me financially and for berating me constantly?

I can't be tired. I can't get sick. He refuses to help out in any meaningful way. It is I who should help him, not the other way around. He has left me home sick with our son, expecting me to cook and clean and care for our son as usual.

I'm afraid to ask him for anything. I try not to. That's exactly how he likes it.

#narcissism #bad marriage #emotional abuse #narcissistic abuse

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morethansalad · 2 years

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Savoury Oats Jollof (Vegan)

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nollykrosstv · 2 years

Video

Romantic Breakfast (EXCLUSIVE MOVIE)RAY EMODI MERCY MACJO 2021 NIGERIAN ...

#youtube #Romantic Breakfast (EXCLUSIVE MOVIE)RAY EMODI MERCY MACJO 2021 NIGERIAN MOVIE|2022 NIGERIAN MOVIE

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grace-nakimura · 7 months

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whoops. (1/2)

rating: pg-13 at the most, and most of it is for language. pairing: past - and kind of present - grace nakimura/gabriel knight. trigger warnings: pregnancy. mentions of the occult. grace's lack of brain cells (affectionate). not beta'd. summary: eight weeks after the events that took place in rennes-le-château, grace finds her hopes into being a big damn hero put on a hold. also known as, no one is going to write it, jane has left us on read about it, so i'm going to do it.

eight weeks.

In hindsight, she should’ve known something was amiss; no, it wasn’t her being late, either. Grace had dealt with irregular periods since she was thirteen. After the first month of nothing, she didn’t think much about it. She was too busy settling into a flat in Mumbai and chalked it up to her body working like it usually did—coffee and those powdery doughnuts convenient stores like to sell—to pay too much attention. Then the second month went by, and Grace said, “well, might be stress,” because she was once again going halfway around the world trying to be a Big Damn Hero.

Better reasons this time around, but the same story.

Her jeans fit a little tightly. Her breasts were sore, tender really. It was the heartburn—Christ. She was thirty. Surely, thirty was too young to worry about heartburn? Especially after eating a jalapeno, when she grew up eating spices that were way warmer—that made her suspicious. Maybe she was sick; maybe it was some sort of stress of moving across the world, with only a letter to a man she would always love more than he’d love her, and a short phone call to her parents in New York.

Sometimes she thought about e-mailing Gabriel.

She never did. Not because she hated him, but because she was afraid he hated her.

I wouldn’t blame him if he did, was what she told herself, because for all his faults, she wasn’t always innocent either.

“You’re young,” Gerde had told her when Grace chalked up the courage to give her a real, sincere apology. Grace had bristled at that at first—twenty-four wasn’t young; she was a grown woman—but Gerde just gave her a knowing look that said, see? Then they shared a beer and spent most of the night talking about history, about philosophy, and for a rare time she saw how Gerde spoke about the late Wolfgang without hedging on sadness, but a sort of fondness, and Grace remembered thinking, wow, I hope I love someone like that one day.

She had a photo of him, of Gabriel, in her wallet. Of course, it wasn’t only him, but Mosley was there, too. Gabriel had his arm around his best friend while looking into the camera with a smug grin.

Out of all the things she missed about Gabriel Knight, it was that smug grin of his.

Eight weeks. Eight weeks passed and she spent it making her small flat livable, while pouring herself in whatever Chandrel threw at her. Mostly, it was meditation—apparently, she had trouble centering herself and opening her mind, ergo, she was stubborn—and research. Which was fine. Learn how to count before you could add or subtract. Didn’t stop her from being restless and wanting to advance when she was four, and it was still the same at thirty.

What gave it away, what finally made her think, huh, my body has been acting weird so I should investigate it, was the smell of incense. It was during a meditation with the other initiates when something when she got a whiff of something so foul, so unimaginably rancid, she shot up from the pillow she saw on to throw up her breakfast in a potted plant.

“Meditation isn’t for everyone,” a Nigerian undergrad named Aretta joked, but her brown eyes were sympathetic when another wave of nausea hit.

That day she purchased three pregnancy texts. She realized a little too late where she purchased from did not have an English translation so, with swallowing her pride and humiliation, and because she felt she needed to apologize for what happened earlier, she handed the sticks to a baffled Chandrel who was outside, trimming the weeds on his knees.

“Sorry about...” she trailed off, not wanting to allow the word ‘vomit’ to escape her mouth, ‘else if she thought about it too much, she might repeat it. Chandrel was proud of his garden, and he had been nothing but a good friend; he didn’t deserve that. “Um. I don’t... I know a few words in Hindi, but I don’t know if this is Tamil, or...”

“Marathi,” Chandrel said with bemusement. Sometimes, when he spoke to her, it felt like he was speaking to a child, and while a part of her wanted to bristle like she did when Gerde called her young, a larger part of her allowed herself to be humbled. Maybe the meditation thing was working, or maybe she was simply growing up. He took the tests—a brow quirked knowingly—with brown eyes staring at the results for a moment, before handing them back to her. “Congratulations are in order, I assume. Or condolences.”

Whoops.

twelve weeks.

She had typed out an e-mail to Gabriel about, oh, five thousand and twenty-two times. Sometimes she just ranted at him, blamed him, as if she wasn’t a willing participant; as if she hadn’t thought about what happened—although maybe she would’ve wanted the situation to be a bit different—a thousand times before it did. Sometimes she gave into self-flagellation and apologized to him. For envying him. For wanting to be him at some point, even if half of that want was merely her doing her best to ignore the growing unrequited feelings that blossomed without her saying so. For leaving without a proper goodbye because, despite it all, he changed her life for the better.

She went to New Orleans to grow up, to make her own choices, and applying for that job at Saint George’s did exactly that.

The ones that she’d never send were the ones to which she told him she loved him. That it was fine that he didn’t feel the same, she heard him tell Mosely as much, and what happened, while it meant a great deal to her, probably wasn’t the wisest idea for either of them. That wouldn’t change how she felt and maybe, someday, they could continue being friends. Just friends with a Whoops in their lives.

Sometimes she wrote letters, actual handwritten letters, even if the new millennium was dawning and no one wrote letters anymore. Hell, it took Grace weeks to convince him to use a computer than his typewriter.

She knew she could call. At least, she could call Gerde, who was a good friend, had been a supportive friend even if their initial meeting was awful, if only to reassure her that she was fine. She hadn’t spoken to her since returning briefly to Rittersburg to collect her things. They had hugged, Gerde had wished her well, and while the woman wanted to pry, she had the grace to keep any questions silent.

Every e-mail was deleted; every written letter was crumbled up and tossed in the bin.

“I have bigger fish to fry,” she had told herself, unconsciously rubbing the small bump. Most women don’t show their first time around, or not really, but Grace found herself rubbing that spot where the smallest of bulges formed more and more as of late. “I still have to tell my parents.”

Thinking about telling Gabriel made her heart hurt; telling her parents made her heart go into overdrive into a flat-out panic attack. Not good for Whoops, the doctors had said, so she decided not to tell them. At least, not yet. Maybe when she could look her very, very traditionalist parents, who came to America when she was three so she could have the best life possible, in the eye and say, “well, you always wanted to be grandparents!” without dying from sheer terror.

“What are you going to do about Whoops?” Aretta had asked, braids placed in a bun on top of her head as she walked with Grace arm and arm toward some hole-in-the-wall food joint that Grace had been constantly craving, regardless of heartburn. While low-rise jeans were becoming a style, Grace enjoyed the high-rise variety, especially when she knew soon most of her blouses would not fit. They were already snug at the bust area, much to both her horror and slight amazement. “Have you considered—”

“Everything,” she told the younger woman with a great big sigh. “I even started to make an appointment at the clinic like you suggested, but...”

Aretta did not, nor would she ever, judge, and merely offered a small smile. She and Gerde would’ve gotten along a lot quicker than she and Gerde did. Then again, that was Grace’s own blunder, not Gerde’s. “It was only a suggestion, Grace,” Aretta soothed, “the choice is yours alone. It is your body, after all, not mine.”

Grace nodded and offered a small smile.

Having their fill of samosas with chola, they spent the rest of their time going over the bestiary sitting crisscross-applesauce in the middle of her flat, that still had yet to be fully unboxed, scribbling their own experiences—well, Grace’s, anyway, since all Aretta knew was what her mother had taught her—in the margin of their notebooks.

Whoops still hovered in the background. Hard not to when all she felt was bloated, gassy, or rarely—and she counted herself grateful since her mother had often said that carrying Grace meant she was spending more time over the toilet than having any sort of pregnancy glow—throwing up. Tucking her raven hair behind her ear, thinking she ought to give it a trim because it was growing too long, she blurted out, “What if I keep it? Whoops? I mean, it shouldn’t be too hard, right? Women have kids alone all the time.”

Aretta made a noncommittal sound, and Grace continued, “I don’t need Gabriel. He always said he was terrified of settling down, anyway, so, me not telling him is just honoring his wishes.” Another noncommittal sound came from Aretta who, if Grace was anywhere but her head, would think it almost sounded amused. “He compared me to a nagging Ikea furniture, anyway, so there’s no loss there. Really. Also, my parents? Well, they can’t kill me if I show up in Manhattan in a year from now just, you know, shoving a baby at them and say, surprise! I can say I adopted it!”

“Mmm,” and for being younger than Grace, with those dark discerning eyes and a patient grin. “It is your choice, like I said,” and this would be when she finally would take her eyes from the notebook she had been scribbling on, a toothy grin that showcased her gapped teeth she wore proudly. Not like Grace. Grace begged for braces to correct hers. “You do not need to convince me, Grace, but I think you need to convince yourself.”

Which, when Grace came down from the neurotic burst, she had to release it like the gas that kept her up all night, she allowed. And after a long moment, after deliberating every pro and con, imagining every sort of scenario, Grace was left with this. “I want to keep Whoops.”

Aretta snorted, “You might need to figure out a name other than Whoops, then.”

twenty-four weeks.

It was closing in at the cut off where she could travel internationally. The midwife she had been seeing so far had told her she was pushing it, but since her pregnancy was going on without a hitch, then it should be fine. The old woman even gave her a doctor’s note in case there was any trouble.

Aretta drove her to the airport. Chadrel had to run the academy but gave her his blessing. “The both of you are always welcome back, Grace,” he had told her.

“It’s not forever,” she reassured him with a laugh. She never got to get her hair trimmed, decided to wear it in a braid because it was the easiest thing she could do in the mornings. “We’ll be back soon. Just need to tie up some loose ends.”

A knowing look, “I take it you aren’t going to the States?”

“Not until Whoops is born and I can hide behind her, because I’m pretty sure my mother won’t kill me if I’m holding a baby.” It was the only thing that kept her nerves at bay, really, when it came to telling her parents. They were traditional, yes, but Grace knew they loved her more than life itself. She was their only one, after all. They never understood her wanting to go to New Orleans, or wanting to go to Germany, or even India, but they had supported her, nonetheless.

Mostly, she just didn’t want to disappoint them.

Just like she hoped her daughter, her Whoops, wouldn’t be disappointed by her.

Funny. For a while, she had thought she was carrying a boy; she had assumed that most of the Ritters were males, anyway.

She had written to Gerde a week before she bought her ticket. She hadn’t told her about Whoops, yet—which was a bit mean, really, just showing up pregnant, but for all Grace wanted to be a big damn hero she was mostly a big damn coward—but did ask if she could stop by. This sort of thing was a conversation one had in person, not phone or e-mail or letter.

Of course, Gerde had written. We left your room the same. Gabriel has been out a lot, recently, but I know he would be happy to see you.

“You’ll call, or write, when you get there.” No questions, but straight facts as Aretta pulled her into a hug, which she returned as best as her bump allowed. Although small, it still made moving around difficult. “You gave me the address to that big fancy castle. If you don’t write, you bet your ass I will.”

And with that, Grace boarded the plane, not yet waddling like a duck, thank God.

While Mumbai wasn’t as cold as Germany, and she would spend a great deal of the flight burning up, she dressed in her warm maternity clothes. Rittercastle was in the mountains and while she remembered it being picturesque and almost something out of a fairytale, she also remembered how cold the castle was even with heating installed, and how she spent more nights next to a fire than not. New Orleans spoiled her. She grew up with the cold. Now she couldn’t stand anything below fifty degrees.

Two things that were fortuitous when Grace Nakimura made it to Rittersburg Castle: one, light snow which made finding a cab to take her to her destination rather easy; two, when she arrived, Gabriel wasn’t there, which would give her even more time to explain herself.

She used that time to explain to Gerde who, when she opened the door to greet her, noticed her bump as soon as Grace walked inside.

“You’ve been busy.”

Grace smirked, “you have no idea.”

And that was how she spent the first night in Rittersburg after many months; sipping hot cocoa, sitting on the couch beside Gerde, telling her everything that happened. From Chadrel, to what happened in France, telling her about Aretta, and then to Whoops. Gerde snorted into her own cup of cocoa at the nickname. “Whoops?”

“It felt appropriate,” Grace defended, “and nothing seems to fit her.”

Gerde’s blue eyes twinkled. “Her?”

Grace gave an almost shy smile, nodding. She felt ridiculous for being so bashful about Whoops. From the moment she felt her fluttering about inside her, letting Grace know that under no uncertain terms she was there, to even showing everyone at the academy the sonogram photos she had taken. It was ridiculous. She knew this was ridiculous, entertaining raising a child, but as every single day went by, she couldn’t see a life without Whoops.

“You haven’t told Gabriel,” Gerde surmised. Grace nodded, causing the blonde woman to place her cup on the coffee table in front of them, and gave her a look that was far older than a woman of her age. Sometimes Grace forgot she was technically older than Gerde with how she carried herself. Just like Aretta. “I am going to be honest with you, Grace, he’s been—sad.” Gerde made a face as if saying, no, that wasn’t the right word for it, and began again. “He still jokes, he still writes, but there is something missing. He still talks to his grandmother, but that seems to be the only thing that really makes him happy.”

Well. Shit.

“You think Whoops would make him happy?” Grace asked, incredulously; easier to be obtuse than understand that, with how Gerde sounded so somber, Grace had to at least be partially the reason for his moods. Grace wasn’t arrogant enough to assume she broke his heart, but she knew that, while he’d never return her feelings, he still cared about her. That they were friends.

Gerde allowed Grace to take the easy way out, if not for now, with how she snorted once more. “For a man who swears he is terrified of the idea of family, he keeps his own close to his heart,” which was fair. Rebecca Knight all but raised Gabriel, after all; if Mosley and Grace were his friends, Rebecca was his best friend, his world at that. And the fact he did mourn Wolfgang, even if he only knew him a brief time, the reason why he began the journey was to honor him in some way. A sense of duty.

Well, that was how Grace saw it, anyway.

She also remembered how he would always make time to visit his grandfather’s, his mother’s, and his father’s tomb, too.

“I’m afraid,” Grace admitted, still sipping on her beverage. “Not...not just for me, you know, but her. I know Gabriel can be the world’s biggest ass, so can I, and I am not worried about him being an ass to her—damnit.” A groan. “I chose to be a Schattenjäger. Gabriel had to become one.”

“And you are afraid that your daughter will not have a choice?” Gerde summed up effortlessly. “We all have a choice, Grace. That is one choice she will not have to make for many years yet. If I were you, I would focus on telling Gabriel—”

“Tellin’ me what?” A heavily accented voice accompanied by boots on the castle ground.

Grace began to choke on her cocoa, causing Gerde to move and pat her back.

#myfic #based off my hc & my hc from my rp blog #gabriel knight #grace nakimura #tho it's mostly about rekindling their friendship and a maybe #whoops actually holds the braincell #icb i am tagging this but the fandom is small its ok #also splitting this up into two parts bc its over 5k #i don't know how to do small one shots anymore i guess

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