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queserasora · 4 months ago

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ACE X CHUBBY FEM!READER | NSFW, Soft Smut ™, Slow Burn Babeyyy WORD COUNT: 9k CONTENT WARNING: alcohol consumption (because I am sora and I am a grown woman who likes to write about alcohol), profanity (not a lot but enough), angst galore, a sprinkle of fluff because it’s cute decorations, unprotected sex (when will they learn???), groping, sloppy kisses because ace is passionate and means well but he is also eager, that being said oral female receiving with some sloppy head, nipple play, plenty of ass grabbing, biting, ace talks way too much for his own good, he is silly and just says things, and it might be embarrassing but that’s just how he is, you know i love my repeating themes so if you hate that please stay away!!, is a hurricane/storm a warning? then yes, i guess dangerous time to be partying and having sex but these are pirates, handjob, what else?, oh jealous ace is amazing, also flirty marco because i love marco sue me A SUMMARY:Ace comes aboard the Moby Dick, fire in his fists, fire in his eyes. Y/N wants to know his reason for fighting, but curiosity is a beast of a burden, and when feelings get swept up in the heat of his storm, Ace has to make a choice between reason and his heart.

I - A Disturbance : Wind & Fire

You were born in summer heat. Your mother’s arms welcomed you into her world, sticky with sweat but full to the brim with love. Her plush lips against your temple, baptize you with a kiss. You grow, not like a palm tree all spindly trunk and leafy green top, but like a wild hibiscus tree; small and closely rooted to the ground with bushy branches covered in small leaves reaching out to the horizon. Like the Hibiscus, you dance in the wind, laughter trailing behind you. In your hair, its red flower entangles in curls. The sparkling water of the beach is always warm when you swim it. Your mother grows weary of warning you about the currents, and the treacherous waves. Eventually she gives up, names you her little mermaid, and braids beads into your hair that sparkle in the sun. Despite your mother’s warnings you always find yourself there, at the cliff by the sea.

He is born in secret. He’s born because there’s nothing left. A mother’s dying wish whispered into the soft spot on his head, to a dark curl who can’t remember the words. In time, he runs as fast as his legs can carry him, through forests, creeks and mud. On the creak of the branches under his feet he tries to find that elusive promise; words he had sworn he never heard but somehow left a gaping hole. Sometimes he thinks he hears them in the howling wind. Sometimes he only feels it on the heat of his skin, when the sun is blistering hot above him. Heart torn in two, he always finds himself there, on a cliff looking out at the sea.

Like a Siren, it calls to them. On the horizon, the sun blinks as it sinks under the water, a fading beacon. The wind whips around their shoulders, tussling their hair with heated fingers. In their ears it whispers: come find me, I’ve been waiting.

You leave to the sea, as your mother always feared. She’s inconsolable at the dock. You laugh to keep from crying, and wipe away her tears with the back of a small hand. She makes you promise to look out for yourself. Don’t dive into the sea, she warns you with furrowed brows. Don’t be impulsive. Don’t head straight into storms. They forgive no one. You brush her worries aside with a kiss on her temple, before you bolt aboard the ship.

Several adventures later, you’re aboard the Whitebeard Pirates ship. You offer your knowledge and skills in medicine; pair it with a big bright smile and hope for the best. Lady Luck favors you, beckons you with curling fingers. Another nurse is just what their ship needed—at least for now. Marco takes good care of you. He is patient, and kind. He is also easy on the eyes. It doesn’t take long before you’re being saddled with responsibilities.

You try your best, thinking your experience in wound care is your strongest skill among a ship of pirates. You did not share their strength, and undying courage but you did have wit, and you have a sharp tongue. You wielded them when necessary, the edge of your words a sharp scalpel. If you throw your words out fast enough, hard enough to kick up some dust they might not call you on your bluff. Compared to them, you couldn’t help but feel like a soothing passing wind; barely noticed before you were gone, no impact, no trace left behind.

His entrance is violent, and eruptive. His presence disturbs the way of things, sending invisible critters scattering to seek refuge. You think you feel suffocating heat when you first see him. Portgas D. Ace is a forest fire at full flame, determined to devour everything, before you even noticed a spark. His eyes incinerate everything he glares at, thick brows furrowed together for so long you fear they are glued that way. Where his crew seemed agreeable even, accepting of their fates, he grew more restless by the day. You had to admire his tenacity. The sheer force of destruction his willpower possessed was alluring; dangerously seductive.

When he tries to take Whitebeard down for the 11th time, Marco is sick of it, and delegates you to the task. You swallow thickly, avoiding his gaze. You think Ace must not be a man of many words, as conversation is clipped and forced. It was just as well. The task was distracting enough. You try to remind yourself to keep your fingers moving as they brush over his skin when you apply antiseptic to gashes on his chest. He hisses, forcing your eyes up and away from the freckles you had been counting. His eye are dark pools that pull you into their depths, so deep you think they’re bottomless. In your mind, your mother’s warning echoes.

Don’t dive into the sea.

You blink, and look away, feeling heat spread across your cheek; splotches of shame kept in secret. You try to focus instead, on the gauze on your hand, the warmth of his body under your fingers when you press it against his open wounds. You look up through your lashes when you apply pressure, wondering if a day would come when he didn’t seem so closed off—so intriguingly unavailable. His jaw is set, teeth clenched so tightly all the time, you had half a mind to inspect his molars for cracks. His eyes flicker towards you and you pretend to inspect the bruise on his temple. You press a tentative finger against it, wondering if you could dip your fingertips into his thoughts that way. When he flinches, you move back to the gauze, wrap his wounds with soft bandage.

Your hands on his chest, you feel heat radiate from him, feel his heart beating steadily underneath. A heart never lied, each beat a tell tale sign. You try to listen closely to each secret told in a pulse against your palm.

Don’t be impulsive.

You were never good at listening to your mother. Your mouth was quicker than your mind; traitorous and vile.

“Why do you keep fighting, if you can’t win?” you ask him, slapping the bandages for good measure; assuring they stick, and assuring your message goes through. Ace flinches, and reaches for your wrist. His grip is strong, thick fingers wrapping around the width of your wrist. For a fleeting moment, you know you should fear him. You have seen what he’s capable of, but the heat from his hand melts away all preconceived notions.

“Sometimes,” he says blinking down at you. His brows are furrowed together—they always are. You see his adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. His thumb brushes once against the inside of your wrist. You think you hear a call—someone shouting from the sea. “Sometimes, you fight anyway. If it means protecting people you care about.” He lets you go, and you instinctively pull back, bringing your arm to your chest. He watches you fuss over your wrist momentarily before closing his eyes. He looks pained, and before you can offer him painkillers he’s speaking again: “Maybe it’s all I know how to do.”

II – The Depression : A Flickering Flame

He didn’t mind at first, but now it felt like he shouldn’t be there.

He shouldn’t be sitting on the edge of the thin mattress of the nurses station. He shouldn’t stand still when your short fingers tentatively palpated his injuries. He shouldn’t watch you, like a seagull over water, searching—praying, as your teeth sank into the plushness of your bottom lip.

There was so much he should and shouldn’t do, he no longer could keep it together. Ignoring you seemed like the right decision. It should have been easy. You were the enemy, if he wanted to be fastidious about it. A member of the Whitebeards Pirate was just someone else standing in the way of his goal. Most of all, his pride couldn’t stand it. It couldn’t stand the disappointed look in your dark eyes, and the way your mouth would twist into a little smirk when he would walk in. It couldn’t stand the way you would immediately retract from him at the slightest hint of discomfort, how you would look at him like he was a wounded bird, wings teared at the joints, unable to fly again, sentenced to death.

It was pride that kept his mouth sealed shut. It was pride that stapled his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He wished pride would leave him blind instead. He wished to not notice how soft your hands are, how small and cute your hands were against his chest. He wished to not notice how he becomes disgustingly interested in your short chubby fingers, and wonders what kind of reaction he’d get if he could nibble on one or two. He wished to not notice how obsessive his thoughts are over the appearance of your skin; golden, and glowing on the apples of your cheek—how soft they looked. He wished he didn’t think about it at night, when darkness wrapped her arms around him tightly. He wished he didn’t think about your lashes, the look you give him through them that fills his mind with smoke.

Racing thoughts, and a racing mind. It took everything in him to keep them quiet. Your voice is soft when you speak, and his lips part, a beating heart trying to scream but no sound comes out. His cheeks feel hot, and he swallows awkward conversation prompts down. He chooses, instead, to fix his thoughts on something else, something more urgent: like how to defeat Whitebeard.

He simply couldn’t afford to dawdle with you. Ace never thought twice on taking on a challenge, but you were a chasm he couldn’t bring himself to jump across. If he missed, the fall could be deadly. He blinks when you speak again, your eyes fixated on his face. Ace quirks his left brow, and thinks he’s offended you. He wants to speak quickly, heart beating against the sinew and bone keeping it prisoner, but the words tangle in his throat.

The door creaks open, and Marco walks in. You look away from Ace and smile at Marco, before forcing two round white pills into the crook of Ace’s palm.

“Make sure you take those,” you tell him, as you force his fist closed. “You hit your head pretty good.” You reach up to rap your knuckles against the side of Ace’s head lightly. “Gotta try to save whatever brain cell’s are left fighting for their lives in there.”

Marco laughs as you stand up. Ace hears you chuckling lightly, as it grows into laughter. He takes a sharp breath through an open mouth, watches you as you turn to look at him over a shoulder.

He wishes pride would hurry the fuck up and blind him. He wishes it so bad, he crushes the pills in his fist into dust.

The sight of your ass stretching the nurse’s uniform fills him with a heat he’s not very familiar with. It settles at the pit of his stomach, and he stares at the door even after you leave. It isn’t until Marco speaks that he brings himself back to the present.

“Why don’t you join, Ace?” Marco asks, as he settles on the stool you were sitting on moments prior. Ace frowns down at it, annoyed at his thoughts—he wondered if it was still warm, and he hated that Marco would know the answer. “You know, it’s not a bad deal. He treats us like his sons. We’re all a little lost out here, kid. You don’t have to be alone.”

Ace scoffs, mouth twisted into a crooked smile. He tilts his head as he watches Marco, trying to swallow the bitterness in the back of his mouth. His heart lurches, and he shuts his eyes. If he closes them tightly enough, perhaps the hopeless dream will go away. He never had a father figure, and never needed one. It was a lie he recited at night; a prayer to a faceless God.

“I don’t need a father,” he mumbles at last, picking at a string on one leg of his shorts. Marco laughs. Ace looks up, frown back in place.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Marco agrees, reaching up to rub the back of his head. “But why don’t you try? What do you got to lose? It’s not like you have any manners.” Ace begins to protest but Marco’s laughter caught him off again. “And you might learn how to properly talk to a lady.”

Ace thinks his head might start catching fire. He pats his hair quickly.

“I don’t need any help with that!” he says loudly, an elbow digging into a thigh as he leans forward to scowl at Marco.

“Oh, yeah?” Marco says trying to keep his laughter at bay. His smile is crooked, and insufferable. “Is that why you looked like a fish gaping for air when I walked in? Very convincing.”

Just when Ace thinks there is no way he could be more embarrassed, he feels his blush deepening, freckles almost obfuscated. He promises Marco to think about it, and he does his best, but thoughts of you plague him afterward. Your laughter that carried in the wind to him, the way it felt like it sank into his scars, the way it burned and made new ones in return.

III – A Simmering Storm

The needle on his back, sinks into his skin time and time again, embedding ink to stay forever. It is liberating, in a sense, marking himself with a brand of his own choosing. So much unlike the one stamped upon him at the time of his birth; the son of a monster, a nuisance, someone not worthy of the space they took up in the world. No longer did he have to search for reason, or an excuse. Ace could simply be, and he welcomed his newfound drop of happiness with a toothy grin.

A celebration at him joining the ranks, and being able to be commander of the second division seemed a bit over the top but he liked merriment—and the food and alcohol was too enticing. The darkening clouds in the distance threatened to dampen his mood, and the crowd on the deck of Moby Dick. Murmurs spread the word of an oncoming storm but nobody seems particularly worried. The only thing on their mind is how fast they could drink and eat before they got rained out.

The only thing on your mind was the blooming ache in your chest. You try to soothe it with a hand, smearing your palm against your voluminous chest. The crop top is soft under your skin. You try to memorize this, instead of the radiant smile on Ace’s face. He had never seemed so undoubtedly happy as he did now. A different feeling settled between your ribs, a pang so bitter it causes you to hiss. Jealousy was a monster you squashed down with angry fists every time you saw one of the nurses place a hand on Ace’s bicep. You never thought you would have to beat it down into submission while picturing the face of your own captain.

You’re happy for him, truly. You mutter to yourself, over and over, drink after drink. You’re elated, even, that he has finally come to accept the bright side of things. You’re happy that he has been given a position that you feel is well earned, one that you hope he can excel at.

You’re happy for him. You really are.

You’re so fucking happy it hurts to breathe. You force another deep breath into your lungs, the air is humid and the scent of rain floods your senses. You blink back the wetness in your eyes, and when Marco asks if you are okay you blame pollen. Marco tilts his head, but chooses not to pursue the subject. Instead, he swaps your empty cup with his. You barely notice. You’re too busy thinking about where the sea will take Ace next.

Something in your chest seizes—panic, or fear. It rises like heat from the ground, a crackling electricity flying up through the stale air that keeps you trapped on the ground. You try not to move too much, you fear jostling your thoughts, fear that if they move too much—touch a certain way, sparks would fly, singing you to a crisp; charred and useless.

He is happy, truly.

It wasn’t something he could have ever dreamed of or imagined. He smiles as people congratulate him. Alcohol tastes sweet on his heavy tongue. He barely tastes his food as he pummels it into his mouth. He pictures what it would be like, sailing away from this ship, to complete tasks he would be responsible for. He pictures what it would be like to tend to his own wounds, what it would be like to sit at whatever island he found, and not hear your laugh.

He is happy. He really is.

He’s so fucking happy, he thinks he feels sick. It’s not anxiety. Ace could never admit that. Anxiety over what? He did not fear death. He never had a good reason for living anyway. You could only fear death if you were bound to the living. Then what was binding him to this ship? It felt like a vortex, a cone ensnaring him and trapping him to his spot; a gust of wind that kept bringing him back to you, no matter how many times he moved around this damned ship.

He tries moving again, taking his mug of beer with him. You bump into him with your ass against his. He turns around, ready to pick a fight but sees your heated cheeks instead. You mumble an apology that he laughs off. His hand moves before he controls it, and he ruffles your hair—something he knows you loathe.

“I’m not a puppy,” you hiss, pursing your lips. Ace drinks quickly from his mug, to refrain from sighing.

“Then why do you look like one?” he asks you, and leaves through the crowd. You lose track of him quickly, and decide to stomp around on the spot. It was easier than to think about the way he had looked at you, and how it had set your face on fire.

You do your best to mingle. You notice he does the same, but you’re never far from each other. It feels comical in a strangely annoyingly tragic way. When you squeeze between Thatch and Izou to refill your cup, your hand brushes against something warm. You follow the hand to see Ace’s tattooed bicep. When your eyes meet, thunder splits the sky. You move quickly, wordlessly, determined not to see his face against for the rest of the night.

The sea has other plans. The ship begins to move more than usual, and your legs still not quite so strong, threaten to have you rolling over. You blame the alcohol of course, when you land on Izou’s back. He steadies you with a tight smile as you giggle, and spins you in place trying to send you in the opposite direction but your eyes meet Ace’s again. The ship lurches, and you stumble forward. His body is warm, and inviting, you giggle at the ridiculous situation—as people continue to bump into each other mid-party. You try to move again, but your legs betray you. His arms hold you up, and brings you closer to him. Your body is soft against his, plush and delightful. You look up at him with a tiny small, eyes hazy from the alcohol, and Ace swears he hears the sky split open.

You’re on your way again before he can say anything else. It was probably for the best. He loses track of how much he drinks. He could still feel his face, could still keep track of his thoughts—filled to the brim with you, and concludes he clearly hasn’t drunk enough. He holds on to this as he grips the railing so tight, it cracks under his fingers at the sight of you with Marco.

Marco was so kind, and so friendly. His hands were soft around your waist. You know it was shameful, to giggle at all his silly little jokes, but the alcohol has you feeling weightless—for once. You almost don’t feel the wind against your cheeks, you don’t feel it whipping your hair around. You let Marco pull you closer, his hand pressed against the small of your back. It was better this way. It was better Marco than a ship sailing to a destination unknown.

He drops the mug of beer. It splashes on the deck, and he feels liquid splash against his knee. Ace clenches a fist as he moves, fire erupting from his knuckles before it swallows his hand whole. Drops from the sky grow heavier. They sizzle as they reach his wrist, little wispy vapor rising from the flames like warning flags. Ace breathes through his nose and wills himself to smother the flames. They die out by the time he reaches you, but there’s a fire in his chest, flames behind his eyes he can’t control.

The sight of Marco’s hand very comfortable in the small of your back almost threatens to set him on fire again. Marco’s mouth is so close to your ear, Ace thinks he must smell the lotion off your skin the same way he smelled it off you so many times before; the one that always drove him mad, who forced him to imagine tropical islands, to dream of coconuts and beaches, of you and sandy dunes. Your smile takes his breath away, and when he sees it’s aimed at Marco it fills his lungs with lead instead. Your lashes flutter, and Ace sees a drop of water fall and cling to the apple of one your cheeks. He follows its path until it rolls off from your jaw.

As the last rays of light glints on the surface of it, a spark goes off.

His hand is around your wrist. Marco moves away slightly, only pulling away to look at Ace with a quizzical expression. His smile is frozen in place as he tries to assess the situation. He laughs, and naturally Ace feels like he should punch him in the mouth for it. Marco looks over to you, to pull a response from you when he begins to talk but your eyes are nowhere near on him. You are too focused on Ace’s face instead.

You zone in on the arch of his left eyebrow, the narrowing of his dark eyes, the slight curl of his top lip. Rain starts pouring down. You watch rivulets of water streak down the side of his face. You try to breathe as he watches you, try not to think about his fingers wrapped around your wrist but you can’t stop yourself from wanting to know. You want to know what it means. You want to decipher that look in his eyes, the dark clouds forming, the way you think you see lightning.

Your mother’s words ring one more time. Don’t head straight into storms.

A gust sweeps you off your feet, a dream so airy and full of promises you think you can fall forever if it meant he’d look at you this way for another breath, and another.

IV – The Hurricane

It wasn’t enough.

He could consume every drop of alcohol aboard the Moby Dick, pour into his mouth ounce after ounce like his life depended on it, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

There’s nothing, not a sobering thought, not the lightning in the sky, not the dark clouds in the distance, that could free him from the hold you have on him. Your eyes are so big and round you remind him of the softness he hated in himself, the same he tried to strangle with his own hands. In you, it only made him want to kiss you. Right there. Right now. Ace swallows down the last of his apprehensions. He tightens his grip around your wrist, and thinks everyone and everything could go to hell and stay there. If he caused a scene by dragging you away, he simply did not care.

Nature had other plans. The wind picks up, the sea fights back. Waves rise, and rock the Moby Dick—a feat that’s not as easy as it sounds. Marco gives you one last look before he scrambles away, shouting orders to the crew. They desperately climb to close the sails, but you can’t finish watching them work. Ace drags you away from the deck, down a path you’re ashamed to be familiar with.

In his room, he finally lets you go and you stumble forward with momentum. You hear the door close, and a lock click. You spin around belatedly, trying to keep your arms from swinging too much and losing your balance to see Ace’s back pressed against the door.

He watches you from where he stood, hair soaked through. His raven curls are slicked against his forehead, so he runs a large hand through his hair, pushing it back and away from his face. He can’t be bothered to find his hair a nuisance. Not when you’re standing in front of him, wet from head to toe. You’re out of your nurses’ uniform, something he is not used to seeing. Your hair is lose and partially wet, wavy tendrils sticking to your cheeks and shoulders. Your round face looks precious, he swallows as he fights the urge to cradle it in his hands. Your wide eyed expression forces a chuckle out of him, one he tries to hide on the back of one hand.

He notices belatedly, and with a little remorse, the slight blue tint on your bottom lip and the redness on your cheeks. Your eyes are hazy, heavy lidded, and he tilts his head at you, dopey smile on his face.

“You were having fun,” he mentions, eyes trailing away from your cheeks to your torso, the dips on your sides that make your waist. The soft rolls that settle there make him want to touch you. He raps his knuckles on the door behind him instead, fingers tapping without rhythm; anything, and everything to keep himself controlled, especially at the sight of your wide hips, the thickness of your thighs.

“Yeah, I was actually,” you finally find your voice to speak. You swallow with difficulty, slapping a hand against a thigh, over your wet jeans. “Anyway,” you mumble, pinching the bridge of your nose. You should stay focused. You do your best, but the sight of Ace’s bare chest reminds you of how warm he is and how frigid your fingers currently are. You’d love to warm them up right now, skim them over his toned abs. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” he asks you quietly.

“Drag me here. Can’t you see?” you start, licking your lips, feeling very very parched when you follow the small trail of hair beginning at the bottom of Ace’s belly button, and disappearing underneath his shorts. “I have working legs!” You make a show of lifting each one, one at a time, and pointing obnoxiously. “See? Perfectly healthy.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pushing away from the door. He walks slowly towards you, steps hesitant and careful. His eyes roam over your body. You watch him drag his gaze from the top of your head, to your feet, and back up again at an excruciatingly slow pace. Your heart accelerates, and it thunders in your ears. “You’re perfectly healthy,” his voices comes in softer now that he’s standing in front of you. “I can see that.” Ace hands wrap around the roundness of your shoulders. He slides them down slowly from the short sleeves of your crop top, thick callused fingers skimming along the back of your plush and soft biceps. Your skin is soft, tantalizing. It feels as if he shouldn’t touch you. It feels sinful, something he has no privilege to but he continues anyway, down to your wrists until his fingers grip yours gently. Ace tightens his hold on your hands and pulls you closer to him.

He wraps your arms around his waist. You don’t fight him. You move; a leaf carried in the wind. Your fingers grip around his belt loops, as he dips his face to the crook of your neck. His hot breath fans against your skin, when he drops the softest kiss—his lips, or the wind, you’re not sure. He nuzzles the exposed skin, using his nose to move the neckline of your crop top as much as he can to drop more soft kisses. You’re colder than he expected, so he holds you tighter, until your softness fills all his hard edges and gaps. Your curves are a pleasant surprise. He had expected some of it from the way you filled the skirt of your uniform but seeing you out of it had been a vision he shouldn’t be worthy of.

He shouldn’t be worthy of any of it. He shouldn’t enjoy the way your hips feel under his hands, but he still runs them over them up and down, over and over again. He shouldn’t enjoy their width, the way the flesh caves under his grip, how his fingers dig deep and it still isn’t enough to touch all of you. He shouldn’t enjoy the way your skin feels so impossibly soft against his lips, as if it melts under his heat; snow under a sunny sky. He shouldn’t enjoy the scent of your skin, the scent of your lotion that brings him to the brink of madness. He shouldn’t enjoy the way you sigh his name when he sucks on your pulse, and grabs your ass. He shouldn’t tell you the way he thinks no matter how much alcohol swims in his veins. He shouldn’t tell you the way he feels, but words bubble up his throat and out his mouth—a freshwater brook whose source he can’t define.

“You feel so good,” he moans against your ear, when he pushes his hips forward. Your eyes flutter at the feel of his erection against the softness of your belly. “I love touching you, Mermaid.” The nickname usually bothers you; given in passing because you loved swimming in the sea despite the dangers, but from his lips it feels like a spoken song; a poem only for you. “You smell so good,” he licks the shell of your ear, bites on the sensitive cartilage on top. You gasp, and dig your nails into his back, desperately holding on to whatever was left of your self preservation. “Do you know how sick I was?” He thinks he should punish you, and so he does, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck. You yelp, and slap his back but it doesn’t deter him. He smiles against your skin, licks the blooming bruise with a flat and sloppy tongue. “When Marco’s hands were all over you. I thought I was going to burn. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand a second of it.”

His words sound desperate. You try to stay present by drawings circles on his back with your fingertips. The storm screams outside the room. You hear the wind pick up its shrill song, tinny and distant. Water pelts against the small circular window on the door, a drumming sound that soon grows deafening.

“Ace,” you try to interrupt his rambling, but his hands are tangled in your hair. His lips brush against your temple, before he speaks against your head.

“I felt sick watching you. It felt like I was in pain,” he groans into your hair. His hips press against you again. You bite down on your lip hard enough to inflict pain. You rub circles on his back, and force yourself to focus once more. His words come in belatedly, sound traveling a long distance in the air. You press your small hands against his chest.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask him, brows furrowing together. Leave it to Ace, to be injured in a moment like this. You shake your head, not sure to trust yourself or his words. You should have drank less. You should have stayed away from Ace. You should have left with Marco instead. Ace presses his forehead against yours. His breath tickles your nose. He moves his hand over yours. His fingers clutches your hand, and warmth seeps from him to you. You feel it sink it, seep into the rest of your arm and down to your elbow leaving a tingling sensation.

“Here,” he breathes out in a whisper. He squeezes your hand, presses it closer to his chest. “In here.” He pats your hand once, and again, repeatedly in a rhythm that matches his heart beating under your palm. Ace moves slowly, and gently brushes his nose against yours. His heart beats faster under your hand. Your eyes are tethered to his mouth. You can’t look away from the sight of his lips parting, as if he couldn’t catch his breath. You feel your mouth do the same, feel the air in your lungs run out; breathing is not enough, nothing is enough. His head tilts, and you follow his lead; reflections on still water.

“Idiot,” you finally whisper, a breathy laugh bouncing away from your mouth. He feels it reach his lips, and he swallows it whole in his mouth. “You mean your heart?”

“Yeah,” he admits fighting a smile, his lips brushing against yours. “My heart.”

You should laugh it off. You shouldn’t take him seriously. A drunken confession would be forgotten the moment the sun rose again but there is a screaming in the back of her mind—distant and ancient like Sirens on rocky shores. The storm grows louder outside. You had always thought you were a serene passing wind, something to soothe and lick old wounds better; something to be forgotten once you left, but the heat of Ace’s breath against your mouth, spun around you in circles. It transformed you into something bigger than you thought you could be. You wanted to be bigger. You wanted to be something destructive, something that would tear him from limb to limb, leave him with the wreckage of your path so he could have something to remember you by when he was gone.

You reach out, hands seeking a target. You clasp his face as you smash your mouth against his. He hums into the kiss. It’s clumsy and forceful. You leave him no room to push back, no gap to slip his tongue past your defenses. It isn’t until he is grabbing fistfuls of your ass to pull you closer to him, to rub his bulge against your belly once more that you concede. You gasp, and it’s the only weakness he needs to exploit. His tongue strokes against yours, hunger forcing him to be overzealous. He is sloppy, and imprecise, kisses so wet saliva coats your lips, making them shiny under the yellow sconce’s lights of the room. Ace knows he should slow down, show a little finesse but your ass feels divine in his hands. He had been watching it the whole time during the party, watched you saunter back and forth, hips swaying; teasing him.

He moves against you, and you step backwards, the ship swaying enough to make you forget your route. You land against the wall with a thud, your plush ass making you bounce slightly in Ace’s embrace. He laughs against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. “Nice,” he mumbles before he takes your bottom lip for a long and noisy suck. “It’s like a safeguard.”

You groan, hands traveling down the wideness of his back, and over his shorts. They settle over his ass, and you return the favor, digging your fingers into the muscle. He groans loudly, pushes his hips immediately against yours and grinds against your lower belly. The smell of wine on your mouth threatens to intoxicate him further. He closes his eyes as he pushes against you, feeling precum starting to soak through his underwear. Your tongue feels perfect in his mouth. He sucks on it time and time again, taken in by the sheer softness of it. How it doesn’t feel unfamiliar at all, as if he had kissed you thousands of times before.

He wished he had kissed you that many times already. He wished he could tuck away those memories somewhere no one could take them away from him.

Every time he kisses you, it feels like dying, and it feels like coming back to life. You’ve died hundreds of times already, hundreds of little deaths by his hands and by every stroke of his tongue. You think you smell smoke in his hair when he holds you close, when he whispers sweet things in your ear before biting down your neck, leaving a trail of bruises in his wake. His hands are weapons he uses to tear your down. Their heat eviscerates all your defenses. It kills you how they feel so hot, even over your clothes. How when he drags his palms over your belly, you want to feel them lower, towards the center of your legs. Your belly is soft, and pliable, he squeezes and kneads until he memorizes it. His hands move to your sides, where he grips the soft flesh, the rolls that are tender in his hold.

Your cheeks color, and your heart flutters. Embarrassed, you swat his hands, and move them away from your waist.

“Don’t push my hands away,” he says annoyed, going back to grab your sides. “Before I–”

You cut him off with a kiss, pressing your mouth hotly against his. You wrap your arms around his neck. “Shut up,” you say breaking the kiss. You kiss the corner of his mouth, and up his jawline. “If you say it—I’ll leave.” You press your mouth against his pulse, and a soft spot behind his head. “I’ll walk out right now. Don’t even say it.”

He kisses you, and you crumple under the weight of it. It feels like a last desperate attempt at silencing you, at keeping you here with him. His heart is in tatters. He tries to ignore the debris of it, the way it splinters off into pieces. Ace deepens his kisses, crushes you against his chest, and traps you tightly between him and the wall. He knows the truth. He knows the more he kisses you, the more he’ll discover all the things he wondered about you, the more he’ll become familiar with your softness—the more he’ll miss you. A feeling of unworthiness crawls out of a well. He tries to smother it with another kiss, one you moan into. You bring a leg up and he holds on to it, hooks it around a hip and pushes against you, his cock feeling painfully hard. He thrusts his hips, and he tries to forget every touch of your fingers on his back, how your trail them along his muscles, leaving memories in them he could never forget, memories you shouldn’t give him so willingly.

He should be the one to walk out without a further word. If it hurt you, it would mean you’d never look at him again. That was the right thing to do. He should let you go immediately. He should stop craving the heat of your body. He should stop pushing against you, and moaning into the crook of your neck, giving into every desire and fantasy that had filled his body since he met you.

He should. But he couldn’t stop himself from being selfish. Just this once. For once, he wants to seize a semblance of happiness by his own hands without needing a reason for it—without needing a reason to simply exist.

Ace brings you to his bed, pushes you down until you’re seated on the edge of his mattress. He kneels before you. You blink, mouth surprisingly dry considering all the wet sloppy kisses Ace had been giving you. You lick your swollen lips, and think you taste beer in the corner of your mouth; residual of Ace’s conquest. Ace kisses your cheeks—one at a time. He reaches around you to the bow holding your crop top together. He unties it easily, and just as easily pulls it over your head. You don’t know where it lands, and it honestly doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is the way Ace’s eyes land on your breasts, the way he licks his lips as if he’s gearing up for a feast.

He wasn’t expecting you to not a have a bra, but he couldn’t complain either way. Once again, he is amazed at his sheer stupidity. How he had never noticed the size of your breasts, how large they were and how beautifully they hanged from your frame. He swallows thickly, wishing he had done this sooner. He presses his mouth against the middle of your chest, hands tentatively taking in the weight of your breasts. He palms them gently, cupping and lifting as he moves his fingers. His intentions are well meant. Ace would love to take his time with you, but you react so deliciously when he flicks his thumbs over your hardened nipples, mewling against the top of his head that he felt like he had no choice.

If his hand felt like furnaces, his mouth is incomparably vicious. The heat of his tongue is paralyzing. When he sucks on a nipple, his free hand twisting the other one between thumb and index finger, your toes curl. Your panties cling to your folds, covered in your slick since earlier. You whimper, embarrassed and aroused as Ace continues his streamlined assault. His teeth leave marks over the swell of your breasts. You respond to every lick and nibble he gives. Your soft moans leave goosebumps on his skin, reminding him that this is him making you moan, him who has you scraping your nails against his scalp.

He shouldn't—but he smiles—thinking Marco can go kick rocks. He bites down on a nipple, a bit too hard, at the thought. He should mark you more, lest anyone get any ideas.

And like that, his heart aches. Ace sighs against the side of your breast, licks over a bruise in apology. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge thoughts that had no business polluting his mind. He wonders what would happen if he leaves you for too long. Would you move on? His fingers stumble to unbutton your jeans so he tries again. Of course, you would. Who wouldn’t? Marco seems to like you, and what’s not to like about Marco?

Desperate, he finally unhooks the button. You fall back on the mattress with a surprised squeak when he pushes you. Ace tugs your jeans off. You see him standing between your legs, as he unbuckles his belt, and drops his shorts. You hear the thud on the ground, the creak of the mattress as he joins you.

He cages you in, and you immediately reach out. Your fingers splay against his broad chest. His shoulders are wide, and strong, muscles rippling with every movement he makes. The yellow lighting of the sconces compliment the golden tone of his skin. You bite your lip, and rub your legs together, deeply aroused when you brush your fingertips against his muscular abs. Lightning strikes, and bathes him in a flashing white light. You see for a moment, every freckle on his shoulder, and chest. You run your fingers over them, connecting the dots, making up little galaxies on his chest and shoulders and committing them to memory. You’d remember these later, on lonely nights, and hold your hand to the ceiling, pretending that if you trace over the memory of them you could bring Ace back to you like a spell; like a wish.

His kisses scatter your thoughts, little stars clouding your vision. His mouth is on your neck, and on your chest. Heated, and wet. He leaves hot wet trails of saliva wherever he goes, coating you with his smell. He kisses your belly, and nibbles on the soft flesh underneath your belly button. His fingers dancing over your thighs. Ace moves lower as you hum, parts your legs to drop kisses on the inside of your thighs. For a split second, you consider being embarrassed at the state of your arousal but you are past the point of caring. Soaked right through your panties, all you want is for Ace to keep kissing you.

He smells you before he sees it—before he sees the big wet spot in your underwear. Ace chuckles, and you reach out to swat at his head but he is faster than you—as usual. He grabs your wrist and kisses the inside of your palm.

“Don’t be like that, Mermaid,” he says in a good mood, smile wide and crooked. He looks up at you through black lashes, a faint flush over his cheeks. “I know how much you love being wet.”

You think about screaming, and beating him senseless for saying something so embarrassing but when he pulls your panties down in one quick move you are left speechless. Just as quickly, his mouth is on your pussy. He gives long, meticulous licks; ones he uses to slurp up every drop of your arousal. He uses his fingers to part your folds, and traces your slit with the flat of his tongue. Your back arches, and you moan loudly, hands flying to tangle in his black curls. He is noisy, but he does not miss a spot. He slurps up a lip, sucks on it gently. He flicks his tongue around your sensitive nub, making you shiver and tremble.

Just when you think you can’t take the heat of his mouth any longer, Ace pulls your lips apart again, and slips his tongue inside your aching pussy. He thrusts it in and out, upping the pace the more you moan. He slurps up, wet and noisy to suck on your clit. His fingers tease your entrance before he slips two inside you. He scissors his fingers inside, the squelching so loud and lewd, you’re forced to slap a hand to cover your mouth. It is sinful, and you wonder if you should worry when you grow hornier the louder the wet sounds get. He curves his fingers, seeking out that spot that makes your toes curl. His moans against your clit as he sucks vibrates against you, and you cry out as you cum. Your pussy flutters around his fingers as you reach your peak, little tremors running their course throughout your body.

The way you look so disheveled makes him want to stay down there longer. He’d love nothing more than to feast on your pussy all night long, but his throbbing cock is becoming increasingly harder to ignore. He moves to climb over you, but the ship tilts when a particularly large wave comes. Ace sways, but you reach out to grab him by the arm before he rolls off the bed. You pull him towards you, and laugh at Ace’s shocked expression. He laughs with you for a moment, before it dies out. Your eyes captivate him—their sparkle too bright to be dimmed by the yellow lighting of the room, or even by the darkness of the storm outside the room. Ace kisses your cheek, and licks your ear. He laughs into your hair when you yelp, and hit his shoulder with a tiny fist, your own laughter overtaking his.

“Your laughs always carries so easily,” he says quietly, a hand brushing hair away from your face. You wrinkle your nose up at him. “You know that? I always hear you wherever I go.”

There’s a breath that refuses to come back to you. It stays there behind Ace’s smile. You swallow, following the path of his trail of dark hair that starts at his belly button. You grip the tip of his cock gently, and watch his brows knit together, teeth clenching to keep from moaning. You brush a thumb against his slit. His lips part, eyes fluttering close, and as you squeeze your hand down his shaft, he lets go; a moan flying past the front of his teeth. He is thick in your hands. You move them gently at first, taking in the sight of him above you. His dark hair spilled around him like a curtain.

His eyes that he fights so hard to keep open but flutter close every time you squeeze his pink tip just right. He cusses under his breath, upset he can’t watch you jerk him off, how he can’t keep the sight of your white teeth sinking into your berry colored bottom lip in his vision.

You are mesmerized by the sight of him. You try your best to commit to memory the planes of his face, the sharpness of his jawline. You rub your legs together as you stroke, enjoying the way your slick slides down your thighs. You love how vulnerable he looks, how soft his expressions is as he gives in to you, his dark lashes that flutter open and close, the freckles on the bridge of his nose; everything leaves their residue behind like sticky fingers on glass.

You feel his hand swat yours away from his cock. “Stop,” he whines in a hiss, eyes opening partially. He frowns down at you, cheeks bright red, mouth hanging open. “I don’t want to cum like that. I want to cum inside you. With you.” There’s no time to think, you feel him shift your legs, and feel the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. He pushes inside you, slowly, inch by inch. Your mouth drops open, a sound that refuses to leave your body. When he bottoms out, you moan gently, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

Your thighs are thick and plush as they tighten around his strong hips. Ace feels as he would be swallowed whole—like a small vessel in a raging sea. If you wanted to drown him, he’d let you, if that’s what you really wanted. He grunts with every slow thrust of his hips, wanting to feel you first, let you adjust around him. He’s only begun, but he feels you fluttering around his cock, senses the tightening of your grasp around his shoulders.

He picks up the pace, as the storm rages. You’re panting against his hear, so loud that even the thunder can’t drown you out when you moan. Lightning splits the sky, over and over, bathing your sweaty body underneath him in bright white. He tries to remember the pieces of you, the soft breasts pressed against his chest, the sight of his cock disappearing into your soaking pussy. He tries to remember the sound of the rain, how it compliments your voice when you sigh into his neck. He pushes against you faster, deeper, your moans grow closer and louder. The scent of rain and wet wood floods the room along with the scent of your arousal. Ace can almost taste it on his tongue all over again, as he breathes through his mouth, panting loudly—moaning when you clench around his cock again.

His cologne makes you delirious—mahogany, and sweet blossoms, or it’s the thickness of his cock or both. You bite his neck, scream into the crook of his neck when he picks you up slightly by the hips, when he angles his thrusts and slaps his hips against yours viciously enough to bruise. His cock pushes against your gummy walls, stretching you out until it’s almost painful. He is so hot and warm inside you, you feel like you’re melting, as if your body is built by nothing but pleasure and pleasure alone. You bite his shoulders, leaving marks behind. Your attack is as relentless as his thrusts. You continue to sink your teeth into his shoulders, and his neck, you nibble at his jawline.

He loves it. He loves the pain you leave behind. Ace digs his fingers into your hair, and he tilts his neck to give you more access—anything to keep you going. He groans with every thrust into your pussy, his heavy balls slapping against your thick and plush ass so noisily he worries for a second someone might hear.

“Go ahead,” he whispers to you when you nibble on his neck once more, groaning right after. “Make it hurt.” It is a fitting punishment, he thinks. Pain always left the deepest scars. If it was you, he’d take the scars with him.

The wind picks up more, the shrill tinny scream rises, banging against the round window on his door. It pounds at the glass, demanding tribute. Ace cries out when your pussy clenches around his cock, his body tensing before it relaxes at his climax. He releases, spilling into you, hot cum that oozes slightly out of your cunt. You stay tangled with him in his bed sheets, lightning coloring your bodies in bright white every now and then. Heat envelops the room, a humidity so thick it feels suffocating; muggy. Your bodies covered in sweat, are slippery, almost uncomfortable but you don’t care.

You don’t care about the incessant heat beaming off his body, you don’t care how his hair sticks to your skin when he nuzzles in your neck, you don’t care bout the storm outside the door, the angry sea. You bring your hand to Ace’s chest, feel his heart thumping against your palm. What you care about is there, under skin and bone, just out of reach.

You shut your eyes when he kisses your lips, when he holds your face in his hands.

Your mother’s words cut through the screams of the hurricane outside. Don’t head straight into storms. They forgive no one.

But who was the storm? Was it him? Was it you? Who’s to forgive if there’s no one left in the wake of the storm?

#ace x reader #ace x you #ace x y/n #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader

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deathinfeathers-a · 1 year ago

Text

Collision

She still remembers how big his hand felt clutched about the back of her neck like a vice, dark fingers applying just enough pressure to her carotid arteries to make her head feel light and flimsy. But she was still alert and keenly aware of the mess she'd made. The trouble she was in. The looming threat of oblivion creeping in out of the corners of her vision, an abrubt and unceremonious end to a short and miserable story. Only appropriate, Eluthéria supposed—that she would find her end in the clutches of the man she was born to live and die for.

Commander Adam hoisted her Petite frame off of the shiftless cadaver upon which the dimunative soldier had perched like a peckish kerstrel. She heard him click his tongue through the thumping heartbeat in her ears, but she couldn't see him. He made sure to angle her head far away from his person, tapered talons digging deep trenches into the base of her skull. She struggled to find her footing. Skinny arms rose to cross themselves over her naked chest—the motion exacerbated the cat-o-nine-tail's latest object of vicious art stretching astride her pale back. A fresh, abstract portrait in the museum of suffering that is her frangible body.

"Drop it."

She'd only ever heard his voice booming from the Carmine pride skies on the eve of new years, the thunder which heralds the great annual slaughter of the wicked and damned. It didn't sound half as imposing inside this cramped stone chamber, but she would not make him tell her twice. Wouldn't dare—not inclined to make her suicide any more torturous than it needed to be. Spindly fingers uncurled from about the circumference of the spear-head she'd illicitly nabbed from the arms depot. Blessed. Deadly.

It clattered to the ground at her feet. The pool of ichor dampening the sound of metal meeting with stone but she flinched anyway. That made him laugh. It's was soft but pointedly derisive sound.

"Woof! Feisty little thing. A bit on the scrawny side. Are they skimping on your rations? For shame. C'mere. Let me look at you."

With that, his big hand slid Up along the meager curve of her neck, his fingers, thick and coarse, bunched her ratty bird's nest up into the hollow of his palm, which promptly balled into a tight fist, flush against her scalp. Adam turned her head on the axis of her spine so that she would face him, vis-á-vis, his gilded lightning against her ruby flames.

She remembers thinking that he had beautiful eyes. An odd thought to dedicate to somebody so vicious, maybe, but she always had a way with finding beauty in the macabre.

Those eyes roved her tremulous form, clad only in a threadbare pair of boxer type shorts.

She'd never felt so naked. Not because his gaze was overtly lascivious in nature but because it pierced and bored through her, like he was looking right into the core of her being. For a moment she wondered if he might be able to read her mind, but she banished the notion quickly. If he could see the playback of the events which had transpired inside this chamber, now tomb, he would not be so soft. This was his subordinate, after all, a trusted comerade in arms, and she had not been kind in her ministrations. She made him suffer, the same way he had made her suffer.

And she enjoyed every second of it.

If the commander had not barged in, she would've liked to spend more time with his body, looking at his insides, picking them apart, watching as every sign that this thing had ever been alive slowly evaporates, and chiseling it all into the deepest niches of her mind so that these precious moments might continue to bring her joy for the rest of her life—however short it might be.

But when does she ever get the things that she wants?

"You know, ordinarily, this type'a stunt might have left me a touch, hmmm, irked. But hell, i gotta tip my proverbial hat to you, pretty bird. Impressive work! Really! The cards weren't exactly stacked in your favor—I mean, obviously...look at you! Shrimpy little cherub looking ass! Hah! And yet here you are, alive and kicking. I dare say we might be looking at an act of divine intervention. What a world!Allelujah, amen and all that good shit!"

Swaying on her feet, Eluthéria looked up at this man, who was easily twice her size, with all the bewilderment of a toddler hearing a foreign language spoken at her for the first time in her life. She saw his lips move, heard the sounds but she couldn't by any means process what exactly he was trying to tell her. Adrenaline. Exhaustion. Fear. It all bore down on her like a big stack of cinderblocks, threatened to crush her frangible faculties under it's enormous heft.

Tears. First one. Then two. She blinked, and all at oncethe floodgates ruptured. This took him off guard.

"Oho, no, no! None of this sniffling nonsense! You don't perform a top grade kill like that and then cry about it! Come on, girl, suck it up."

Adam swiped a calloused hand somewhat brutishly across her porcelain countenance, whisking away the brunt of the tears and the blood and the sweat. She didn't object. she wanted to, make no mistake. The touch of his skin against hers felt like needles in her brain, an absolutely vile sensation, she wanted nothing more than to be rid of it, but she hadn't the verve to make a fuss.

He shrugged his intricately embroidery cloak off his shoulders and draped it around hers.

Warm.

"Alright, come on, let's see if you've got any more fancy tricks up your sleeve, eh?"

His grip on her stark white locks slackened, and he ushered her towards the steel doors.

She remembers thinking that this was the day she was going to die.

In many ways, she supposes that wasn't an entirely inaccurate assumption.

#;drabble

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falling-hand-in-unlovable-hand · 2 years ago

Note

draw what your ocs' + the order's eyebrows and/or hands look like :)

so a bit of a warning- i went fucking insane with this

[actual size chart!]

first up- nari! very tiny hands 👌thisss big

golden wood nails (retractable! thank u crow i totally stole this from minor arcana) very soft fingers, without much definition on any of the knuckles or joints, kinda like a small child’s hand but with more calluses

this bitch is spindly, fite me

most of his fingers are crooked, and long compared to his palm, and he’s got really defined tendons and knuckles- his nails are thicc, and a touch too long because cutting them is a whole thing (they’re so cracked😩)

and ofc the whole blackened frostbitten and rotting thing

the birddd

their hands are really square and strong and their fingers are thick, really calloused from training and forging- also what some of their scars are from (that and fights), speaking of that, their knuckles are often bruised

their nails are longer then’s practical but they’re more like talons tbh

bitterroot!

her hands are hella pale from always being in gloves, and her fingers are v long and crooked, esp her pointer- her scars are from being a dumbass with chemicals and smashing people across the face w glass beakers <3

forgive the reused art and the lumpy ass sketches😭

this wasn’t super visible in their main sketches but all their hands get paler at the palm-

bellroc, for obvious reasons, but skrael and nari have it visible too (except skrael’s fingertips where it’s all blackened and rotting)

oh and here’s the progress video

#hi. so i might’ve gone a bit overboard but i WILL talk about my designs all day so …….😅#kiwifae draws #the arcane order #bellroc #tales of arcadia #bellroc keeper of the flame #skrael #wizards toa #nari #i’m putting this in the tags i put so much effort in #nari of the eternal forest #skrael of the north wind #ask #mwhahahshdnfjjd the tumblr image limit cannot stop me anymore >:3 #bitterroot #my ocs #bro i was so excited to come home and do this

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jojo-reader-hell · 4 years ago

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Hi :o) can I request a few headcanons of how Jonathan would act with a tiny s/o? If not that's totally ok! Also don't worry about making it fast, your writing is so good that I'll wait however long it may take. Your writing is great! :o)

Bigge Jojo is my life.

* Him bigge mann.

* Your Jojo is such a lap dog, holy mother of god. He’s like if a Tibetan Mastiff was in a man’s body, he’ll lay his big head on your little lap, begging with his eyes for you to pet his head so he can fall asleep.

* He gets anxious if you have children. He doesn’t want you to hurt yourself trying to either pick them up or bring them into the world if you’re AFAB. Needless to say George II and Giorno are going to tower over you the minute they hit their little growth spurts.

* Giorno is probably the only child you’d have that stays smaller than you for a while, then suddenly when he’s a teenager he’s able to pat your head and no longer able to be held like a baby.

* “Where’s mummy boys?”

* You: scowling looking up at everyone pretending like they don’t see you.

* Jonathan loves to hold your little hands in his. They dwarf yours, alone his palm is the width of your entire hand, coupled with long spindly fingers.

* The tip of your finger is literally the size of the writing callous he has on his middle finger.

* He squeals, like honest to god high pitched soprano SQUEALS, when he sees how tiny your shoes look next to his.

* Jonathan will notice you laying in bed reading, and the next thing you know he’s curled up next to you big spoon, trying to play footsie with you.

* He can’t reach you.

* Either you slide down so he can reach you, or he’ll slide up practically off the bed to do so.

* Jonathan wants to be considerate of your feelings, so he’ll make sure everything you need is within reach for you.

* However sometimes you do need his help.

* This himbo…

* He lifts you up by the waist and holds you midair to let you get the item yourself.

* Unless you really need him to get it. Then he will do it for you.

* Be prepared to cook gigantic ass portions of food for your big boy. It might get to the point where you really gotta get in there with that arm strength.

* Loses his collective shit if you make him miniature desserts.

* I think he might actually start getting into miniature collecting because it reminds him of you.

* If he starts losing himself in collecting miniature items, he will personally have a curio cabinet commissioned into the shape of a house, and he’ll make you a “house” out of the miniatures.

* Jojo’s like a puppy when he shows you.

* “Look my love! It’s a lovely little house just for you!”

* hELP LORDT

* HE IS TOO PRECIOUS.

#jonathan joestar x reader #Jonathan Joestar #jojo’s bizzare adventure #jjba #jjba phantom blood #phantom blood #jjba pb #jojo’s bizarre adventure phantom blood #no more ugly ass canon giorno mom #giorno giovanna #george joestar ii #jjba headcanon #jjba headcanons #jjba hc

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gyuphorias · 3 years ago

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please don't tell me i'm the only who is obsessed with Gyu fingers... i mean there are so sexy because he used to play the guitar

NAH UR RIGHT UR RIGHT! SPEAK UR TRUTH!! long, spindly fingers and big ass palms OH he is so fine. i want him to hold my hand and choke me so fucking bad 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

#🌙 — talking to the moon #☄️ — hard thoughts #☄️ — txt

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shoutogepi · 5 years ago

Text

As Long as You’re Safe

Bakugou Katsuki

word count : 2.1k smol boi (blurb!)

[ ☁︎, ☀︎ ]

themes : Soooo not really sure what to call this?? Kinda angst?? But super fluff ending :3

blurb : They are fighting a villain who has the ability to see into their opponent’s memories, and also convey scenarios and images into their opponent’s mind, making them feel like real life. The villain accesses their memories of you, and realizes that that is a very weak spot.

author’s note : idk i felt like I needed a fluff sponge to clean up that nasty first post haha so heres my best janitorial work!

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🅃he air whipped past Bakugou’s face, eyes turning into venomous slits as he finally was able to see the villain he had been called in to handle. He had been on patrol on the other side of the area, but when his sidekick didn’t respond to his messages, a gut feeling had urged him to come as backup. The agency had called when he was already halfway there, confirming his suspicion.

This was the guy? Tch. Bakugou snarled at the thought of this wimp being able to beat, well, anyone. The guy was slender and looked like he had almost no muscle or body fat. But he had to have a good quirk if he had taken out a handful of people already, so Bakugou regarded him with careful contempt. The explosions in his palms stopped as he fell from the third story of the building he’d been perched on, hurtling toward the ground.

“Hey asshole,” Bakugou yelled as his boots touched the pavement of the sidewalk. He stretched his palms in a wicked manner, cracking his neck in a swift motion.

The villain turned, a look of disgruntled annoyance simmering to the surface of his face. A malicious smile overtook his thin lips, and a glint in his eye made Bakugou growl. The man faced him directly now, and the terrified pedestrian he had been toying with sobbed as they ran towards the safety of the crowd gathering a respectable distance away. Bakugou grimaced as he noticed the limp body of his sidekick, sat up against one of the storefront’s flower barrels with closed eyes and a pained expression. From just a glance, he could tell they were alive… but they probably didn’t feel too great.

“Ground Zero,” the spindly man smiled, but to Bakugou it looked more like he was baring his teeth like a rabid dog. “How nice of you to grace me with your presence! I didn’t know little old me could pull in a top hero.”

Bakugou barked a short laugh. “You only got me ‘cause of sheer luck, dumbass. I have no clue who you think you are, but you’re about to be very well acquainted,” he paused, rolling his right wrist for dramatic effect,” with my fists.”

He expected a range of reactions from the villain. He had been doing this pro-hero gig for awhile now, so he’d learned the ropes-- and this guy didn’t seem like the type to have an ass-whooping quirk, so he could most likely afford to physically attack.

“Now that is an interesting game plan, Bakugou,” the villain stated, voice dripping with rancor. His words shocked Bakugou for a moment, and just as a thought formed in his mind, the slender man vocalized it. “Oh shit, this fucker can read me like a book,” the man paused, an amused smile on his face,” wow, you have quite a way with words.”

“Tch. I don’t care if you’re in my head asswipe, ‘cause your skull is about to be crushed into the ground,” Bakugou replied, foot planting behind himself and getting ready to pounce.

“Hmm, are you sure? Will you treat me roughly?” the man continues seamlessly, making Bakugou’s eyes widen in confusion. Treat him rough? Who the hell does this guy think he is? Was he hitting on him? The villain’s smile only broadened, the sneer on his mouth flushing Bakugou’s stomach with dread. “At least, as rough as your girlfriend likes it?”

Bakugou’s mouth dried at his words, body stuttering as he processed the them. Why the fuck was this freak talking about Y/N?

“Y/N, yes-- what an extravagant creature. I wouldn’t have pegged her as someone who likes to be choked. Are you sure you can handle fighting me? It seems like you had an exhausting night, and rest is important for the body.”

Bakugou’s breath is stolen out of his lungs, his wide eyes turning into furious crescents at the villain’s words. That was private! The villain’s words automatically triggered his memory, even if he was trying his best to push the image away. You, underneath him last night, shaking and whimpering and making that irresistible expression as he fucked you raw. A light blush bloomed on his cheeks at the recollection, but he shoved it away as fast as he could. His eyes met the villain’s again, but this time, the shadowy figure’s features had morphed into a terrifying grin, eyes bulging out of his skull with disgusting delight.

“Oh, thank you so much for sharing that with me. Maybe I’ll try out choking her myself!” he laughed, voice oozing with excitement as he wrung his hands together.

Bakugou snapped out of his surprised state, shaking his head and clenching his eyes shut. He just had to wreck his loser and then he could go home to you.

Nothing could prepare him for what happened next. He looked back up at the villain, and his stomach plummeted fifty meters into the concrete below him as he registered the horrific scene.

The villain was standing in the exact same spot, but he had his arms wrapped around your throat. You were trapped in his hold, big desperate eyes full of tears that slid down your cheeks and fingers clawing futilely at his hold. You were wearing that maroon lingerie from last anniversary that drove Bakugou wild, your hair clinging to your wet chin as you sobbed. The noise was enough to make Bakugou’s knees shake, his heart felt like it had leapt into his throat.

“S-Suki,” you whimpered, slicing his heart into two.

Bakugou’s lips trembled at your cry, his hands clenching into fists at his side. His voice was much softer now, and he was surprised to find it didn’t break,” Let her go.” His feet planted square, he stared down the villain with a burning determination, steam practically pouring out of his nostrils.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” the man chided, one hand leaving your delicate throat and sliding down your chest. Bakugou’s fingernails broke into the flesh of his palms as the villain’s hand ran over your breast, lingering there as he gauged Bakugou’s reaction. The choked sob that came from you made Bakugou see red.

Bakugou stepped forward but immediately regretted it as the villain’s hand on your throat turned white. He watched in horror as you sputtered, face turning pink at the exertion of wriggling in his hold, grasping at his hand to no avail. “Stop! Please!” he yelled, throwing his hands up in front of him and taking a step back.

“Ground Zero!” Bakugou’s eyes hesitantly left your figure for a moment, trying to find the source of the shout. It sounded like someone was calling him, but from somewhere far away… or like he was underwater. He looked around, realizing the crowd of onlookers had vanished, and the unconscious body of his sidekick was gone as well. Actually, you three were the only people on the busy Japan street.

Just like that, the gears click into place. Looking back at the villain, his rage bubbling inside, he snarled and pushed his body off the pavement, explosions dancing on his palms to seal the gap swiftly.

The villain looked irritated at being found out, but that didn’t stop him from snapping your neck. Bakugou tried not to look at you, but the thought that you had been real just a moment ago made his chest tight as your gaze glazed over and your body slumped to the ground. He screamed as he drew back his fist, concentrating his power on his hand just as it connected with the spindly man’s jaw. His head flew backwards, a sick crack sounding as his body was flung into the air behind him.

Bakugou landed on his feet, and braced himself for a second as he closed his eyes. Not real, not real, she is not real. Opening his eyes, he looked at the spot your crumpled body should have been, only to find that it was empty. He breathed out a sigh of relief, attention sliding back to the unconscious villain in the middle of the road. He ignored the cheers erupting from the crowd behind him, feet moving on their own accord toward the villain’s figure to finish the job.

It was hell waiting to get back to you. Bakugou had to wait for the police to show up and take the loser off his hands, then he had to pretend he was fine and sign a thousand autographs, and then to top it all off, he had to take his damn sidekick back to the agency across town. The suspense was killing him. Even if he knew that it was stupid… a small, okay-- maybe large-- part of him needed you in his arms, and to know you were truly alright.

After he was done with the agency, he nearly ran all the way home. Using his quirk to shoot himself through the starry cityscape, the wind rushing through his hair, his chest still felt just as tight as it did earlier. It seemed like an eternity had passed as he finally planted his feet on the sidewalk, hand grabbing the main entrance door and nearly ripping it off its hinges. The security guard barely had time to recognize him and buzz him in, and he sure as hell didn’t bother with a “good evening”. He beelined past the elevator, instead opting to dart into the stairwell and propel himself up to the sixteenth floor with his quirk.

His legs couldn’t carry him fast enough, and he dashed through the hallway with urgency. His eyes finally landing on the door, he prayed it was unlocked because he really did not want to blast through the lock but damn it, he might just have to. He nearly cried as he jiggled the door handle, confirming his fear. His palm on the metal handle, he closed his eyes and wondered if you would kill him for blasting through another locksmith’s fine work.

But then the handle turned ninety degrees, and the door cracked open to reveal your bare face, hair looking frazzled as you blinked at him.

“Suki!” your plump lips split into a joyous grin and Bakugou’s soul almost left his body in sheer relief. You pulled him into the apartment, shutting the door behind him and wrapping your soft arms around his torso. “I was so worried about you! I saw the end of your fight on the news, are you okay?”

Bakugou couldn’t say any words, his throat felt thick and his eyes stung as he crushed you into his chest. His head hanging down to sniff your precious head, his lungs rattled as he tried not to burst into tears. You fit so perfectly in his arms, he couldn’t help but thank the universe that you’re safe, and you’re here, holding onto him tightly as he barely kept it together.

You frowned at his silence, but you decided to comfort him anyway because he seemed like he really needed it. Your fingers brushed along his spine as he clutched onto you, gathering his emotions. You weren’t used to seeing him so choked up, but you knew there must be some reason as to why he’s so silent. “It’s okay, baby,” you whispered, making a small sigh fall from his lips.

He finally looked you in the eye, and your stomach fluttered with butterflies at his expression. “I love you, Y/N,” he mumbled, warm hands taking your face and pressing your lips to his. You hummed happily against his mouth, hands lacing behind his neck in compliance. He pulled away, one last shred of doubt left to address. “Are you okay?” he inquired quietly, almost bashfully. His gaze was directed to the collar of your shit that his thumb was playing with, and you took his jaw in your hands to make him look at you.

His scarlet eyes looked so concerned and scared, your heart ached for him. “Of course I’m okay Katsuki,” you answered, looking at him deeply,” I have you to protect me!” A small smile adorned your lips as your nails scratch gently at his scalp. “Are you okay, my love?”

One corner of his mouth quirked up adorably as he tried to put on his brave face for you. “I’m okay,” he whispered, eyes closing as his lips touched your forehead gently,” as long as you’re safe.”

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

masterlist (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

please stop by and say hi!! i’d love any feedback <3 thanks for reading!!

𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐩𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

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daincrediblegg · 5 years ago

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As Time Goes By (1/2)

Pairing: Arthur Fleck x Co-worker!Reader Word Count: 1803

Author’s Note: Lmao so I’m deadass 3 days late with this, but I got inspired for it literally on New Years Eve, and it’s been running away from me ever since (mostly ‘cause I actually came down with a pretty bad infection, and now I’m apparently allergic to the antibiotic the doctors gave me for it. It’s not been fun the last few days). Here it is now in its final form (split into 2 parts for my own sanity and yours), and with it, I thank you all for coming in at the butt end of 2019 and playing a big part in saving my ass. All your fanfic, all your art and acceptance of mass mutual love for this boy, and whether you’ve reblogged and liked or commented on my art or what little writing I’ve done or even my dumbass tag meta, I’m incredibly humbled and screaming about it literally all the time, and I love you all. Hope to talk to more of you in 2020 to keep the clown love going strong, and I’ll see you all very soon for part 2 ;)

Arthur hadn’t really believed it when he’d been invited.

In his 33 years of life he had hardly ever been invited to anything. Birthdays, Christmas parties, dinners, drinks. If he had been offered any of these occasions, he’d often be forced to turn them down. He could justify to himself that he’d hate to leave his mother alone on any given holiday (let alone any day, with how poor her health was), but deep down, he felt the gesture empty. If he went, he’d be no more than he already was- an invisible man. Nobody to talk to, nobody to really celebrate with despite festivity cascading all around him. All because nobody really wanted the freak there anyway. Why go to all the trouble when he could be far more comfortable at home alone instead?

But when Gary had approached him one sunny Gotham winter morning as he was buttoning his golden vest, and said that the rest of the guys were planning to go to a bar on Nolan and 3rd to celebrate the New Year, he actually thought about going.

He was sweet to do so. Always nice to him. He’s sure the other guys wouldn’t think to extend such a courtesy to him, let alone want to. He knew what they thought of him, and frankly he didn’t think too highly of spending more time with them either. He was ready to make his usual excuse- that meds needed to be picked up, that his mother needed tending.

But it was four little words that Gary had said- soft enough and potent enough to make him reconsider.

“She’ll be there too.”

His eyes find her almost immediately, and Gary’s eyes follow- by the vanity, where she tugs down her wig to cover her hair- bright red spun yarn, dressed in a pair of braids. Her fluffy underskirt poking out a brilliant white under her blue polka-dot dress as she leans closer to the mirror.

She’s lovely. Always has been. In and out of makeup. Always wishing him a good day, laughing at his jokes. She even asks for them- on days when she drags her feet up that long staircase, tired eyes hoping all the more that whatever he has for her will do the trick that he loves best- a smile, no matter how soft, and a chuckle, whether it leaves her chest or not. Anything is enough for him.

He knows he’s going, deep down. He knows it surely as his heart starts thudding against his fragile ribs just a little harder as she smoothes her hands down her plush skirt.

“I-... I’ll think about it.” he concludes softly.

“All right. I hope you will. It’d be good to see you there, mate.”

They share smiles- genuine ones, before Gary gets back to his locker, dragging out his own jacket and wig. Just then, he sees a flash of pastel blue flutter past him, and his eyes flit up to her face, full of warmth as she waves a gentle goodbye to him.

“Have a good day, Artie.”

Chills shoot up his spine in a rush. A hit of joy. An impossible wish, but one spoken true all the same. He wonders if there’s invisible cherubs behind him, stabbing him with arrows.

Arthur lifts his hand, wiggling his fingers weakly as he smiles back at her.

“Have a good day…” he repeats.

Her smile gets wider before she turns her attention to the dwarf next to him.

“You too Gary.”

“And you!” he shouts after her, as she finally picks up her bag and trots down the stairs. He knows his eyes aren’t the only ones on her when she leaves, but he hopes that his eyes are more important than most.

“How come she never tells me to have a good day?” Randall quips with a shrug. Gary rolls his eyes as he turns to him in reply.

“Maybe because you’re an arse-hole.”

He laughs at that. Neither the laugh he pushes out of himself for courtesy, or the ones that force themselves out and choke him. He laughs for real, and he knows he’s going.

He has to.

His mom is nodding off, thank God.

She’s been fed, and they’ve watched a bit of the Live Gotham New Years Celebration coverage on TV- Murray Franklin, hosting- from her bed. The lights are out, save for the soft blue glow of her TV, and it’s just enough of a sleeping potion to start putting her under. She always gets like this, in truth. Out cold long before the night really has a chance to even begin. It’s a blessing, really. Especially tonight.

Because it gives him plenty of time to get ready.

Sure, he doesn’t have much of a choice in what suit he wears- the only one he owns being a deep maroon, a hand-me-down from the last decade. He can’t decide how to style his hair (though he’s bathed, he’s at least managed that much, for her), whether to slick it back or keep it casual, all he has in the way of cologne is something cheap he got from the drug store on his way home from work the day Gary invited him, but he’s got the spirit. For Her. And it seems that today, it’s enough.

He gathers the necessaries from the closet before he leaves his mother to sleep, switching the tv in the living room onto the special while he prepares, dabbing the cologne to his wrists and neck, wiggling his spindly legs into his suit pants on the couch.

Just then, as he’s buttoning up his fly, the brief commercial break ends with a quick jazz sting from the band- moved all the way downtown just for this occasion. He watches as the comedian approaches a couple. Arm in arm in the snow and smiling like they’ve won the lottery. Murray quips of how happy they are, about his own relatively new wife and how it won’t last- all in good humor. But he can’t register any of it.

All he registers is the way the woman’s hands move around that man’s waist. He feels it himself. On him. Faint. A warm hand wrapping around him, just under his jacket, grazing over the deep blue sweater he’d dragged on this morning to go to therapy, fitting so neatly in the space between his hips and his ribs. It’s uncanny. It feels just like her.

And for just a moment the couple on the screen is gone. Replaced by another, far more handsome than the last.

Him and her. Together. Happier than the thousands of handmade smiles they paint on themselves with rich pigments in cheap grease. Hers is particularly divine. Her cheeks rosy as they lift fully to accommodate her joy. It makes his heart want to break his bones, leap right out of his chest, into the palm of her hand of its own accord.

And they remained that way. For hours. Gotham’s imposing buildings shrinking beneath the way they look at each other, hold each other close and not just for the inevitable warmth her body brings to his. And at the stroke of midnight, he pulls her impossibly close, cupping her face when he kisses her, the cold air melting away under their shared warmth as confetti falls around them with the snow. They even get on the kiss cam.

Gotham sweethearts. And everyone knows it.

He smiles, as the saxophone slowly pulls him out of reverie. The chilling blue light of the tv washes over him, and his hand pulls itself agonizingly from the spot it found across his abdomen, feeling his rib sticking out in his laid-back position. Murray, bundled up in scarf and woolen coat, speaks loud and clear into his microphone over a cheering crowd, ever the professional.

“Well folks, this is it! Not much more than an hour left until the New Year! Pour some Champagne, and get your sweethearts close, and we’ll be right back after these messages.”

Panic washes over him so fast he almost tumbles over the coffee table trying to get up off the couch.

He’s late.

Quicker and more lithe than a cat high on their nip, he tugs his sweater off, buttoning up his clean white dress shirt as fast as he can- praying he didn’t skip any buttons, or that he improperly tied his tie.

“Happy? Where are you going?” a sleepy lilt calls from behind him.

He almost yelps, but before he can he turns to see his mother, leaning against the hallway, looking like she could pass out again right then and there. Leaving his waistcoat not fully buttoned, pulling his suit jacket on, he strides over to her and supports her sleepy form, starting to try and lead her back to bed.

“I’m meeting some guys from work for a drink.” A half-lie, as they reach the bedroom door. Enough to not make her question why he’s dressed to the nines and the strong and heady scent coming off of him - discount eros from a bottle. She hums a little “oh”, mulling over what she should say in response. He doesn’t give her the chance.

“I’m sorry Mom, I forgot to tell you.” Another half-lie, but it completes a full truth for her, letting him keep the solitary thought of her all to himself, even for a little while longer.

A look of unnecessary worry strikes across Penny’s face.

“You shouldn’t drink, Happy. It could mess with your pills. And you know I don’t like you being out this late.”

He winces at that. Guilt hitting him like needles prodding his veins. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to hurt. That she doesn’t trust him to leave and make it back in one piece. That she doesn’t trust him to know himself.

That she doesn’t trust him.

But she can’t dissuade him now.

They reach the door to her room, and they both slink in. He lets go of her once he’s sure she can make it the rest of the way to her side of the bed by herself, and swipes up his old hoodie draped over the corner that isn’t hers.

“I’ll be home by next year, I promise.” He purses his lips with a playfully disarming smile for her. She gives him a breathy chuckle of acceptance, and sits back on her bed again, pulling up the covers as she does.

“All right, Happy. Be careful.”

He nods, tugging the hoodie over his suit- trying not to wrinkle the sleeves as best he can.

“I will, Ma.”

He blows a kiss, and before she even has the chance to give him one back, he’s picked up his wallet and keys, and he’s out the door, locking it behind him.

#arthur fleck x reader #joker x reader #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck imagine #lmao part 2 is juicy and will come out when I'm not chaining benadryl to get rid of the nasty hives I've got now #might even be a smutty part 3 but only if people want it.#I love my fluff but I certainly wouldn't be opposed #joker 2019 #joker imagine #also lmao pls my dms and inbox are always open please come talk I'm just really bad at initiating shit #'cause I'm just a shitty anxious baby #my writing #fanfiction

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justjessame · 4 years ago

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Put Me In Coach Chapter 13

My parents took the news that Negan and I would be co-habitating earlier than expected better than either of us thought possible. OK, Mom took it better, Dad may have been nodding off. I almost wondered when Dad would notice I was gone. Maybe when the dining room table became one person short? Maybe not.

A new deal was struck. Negan and I would pack up my things in my room, some would go with me to his apartment, the rest would wait until our final move to the townhouse near college. For her agreeable disposition over this new arrangement, we were expected to attend family dinner at least twice a week, including the night we packed.

Which was how Negan and I ended up in my bedroom, surrounded by boxes, tape, and bubble wrap making difficult decisions like ‘does my ass look too fat in this to keep’ over dresses, skirts, and even the occasional jeans and pants. Some things were easy to deal with, all the bathroom stuff could go to his house, most of my clothes and shoes, but the furniture was the biggest question mark.

“How big is the townhouse?” He asked, looking at my bed with far more interest than he had during his first visit to my bedroom.

“Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, why?” I asked, watching him in the mirror of my vanity. His eyes met mine and I felt my stomach flip and then tighten. Shit.

His hands and fingers were testing the four iron posts of my bed that had been twisted and fashioned to look like spindly tree limbs. His eyes left mine to study the canopy made of metal leaves. I watched his hands clutch against every twisted limb, as though he were checking to see how sturdy the metal really was. I felt my breath catch as he caught me watching him.

Negan’s smile had my heart thumping hard and fast, taking one of his hands away from its exploration of my bed, I felt the breath leave me when he crooked his finger at me. “Do you trust me, sweetheart?”

Swallowing hard, I turned away from where I’d been gathering my makeup from the vanity and fully faced him. “Of course I do.” Even if my pulse is pounding like a jackhammer at the mere look in your eyes, I thought.

“Come here, baby.” Low, dark, and very promising was the tone he was using. And, like I was helpless anytime he turned that dark gaze of his my way, I complied easily.

When I was within touching distance, when I could feel the very heat of him, he pulled out three long silky scarves my mom had bought me that I hadn’t ever used and was certain I’d put in the discard pile from his pocket. “Negan?” I felt the fluttering of nerves begin in my stomach.

“You trust me.” Not a question this time, but a statement. Another hard swallow and a nod from me, just to remind myself that I DID trust him. “I promise you’ll like this.”

The darkest silk scarf he tied around my eyes. Not tight enough to be uncomfortable, but enough so I couldn’t see him or the light that was still pouring through my windows. One sense gone, I bit my lip waiting. I could still feel the heat of him, but he’d pulled away once the makeshift blindfold was in place.

His fingertips on my bare arm startled me, making my skin pimple with gooseflesh and forcing a small gasp from my lips. I heard him chuckle softly. I stood still as his fingers traced along any skin that was already bared to his touch. I was trying to decide if wearing the sundress with a built in bra had been a stroke of genius or not when I felt his fingers slide to the short hem, grazing my bare thighs in the process. Another gasp, a slight lurch, one more chuckle.

“Raise your arms up, Amara.” Hot breath in a whisper against the shell of my ear and I did as he requested. “Good girl.” Fuck, why did I LOVE his praise so fucking much? My sundress was tugged up and off and it was his turn to let out a hiss of breath. “Maybe I spoke too soon, princess.” His hand met my bare ass, cupping the globe and making my entire body flare up with heat. “No panties?” He made a tsking sound, and gave my ass a small, yet stinging spank. “Did you want me to go back on my promise about not fucking your brains out in your parents’ house, Amara?”

“Yes,” I was biting my lip and waiting for the second smack and was rewarded for my slight.

“I think you forgot something, sweetheart.” His hand was rubbing the slight sting of my skin. “What’s the correct answer to that question, Amara?”

I felt my stomach clench at the way he sounded. The same tone as he’d had when he bent me over his desk at school, but without the heavy irritation from that time. He was playing with me this time. “Yes, SIR.” I answered after a moment’s hesitation that earned me another crack from his open palm.

“That’s my good girl.” Shit, fuck. “Trying to tempt me to go against a PROMISE I made, Amara.” Another tsk. Jesus, he was going to make it so dinner really would be torture. How the fuck was I going to explain to Mom and Dad that I had to eat standing up?

“Sir,” I was floundering inside my own mind for ways to talk him OUT of giving me what I kind of wanted, but without the horrible side effects. “I’m sorry, sir.” I wasn’t, clearly he had been thinking the same damn dirty thoughts, but fuck if I didn’t want to have to work myself through the burning aftermath.

“Maybe I should save your punishment for when we get home.” I forced myself to NOT agree. He was in charge, let him lead. “OK, sweetheart, let me help you onto the bed.” Negan guided me carefully onto the cloud that was my mattress, helping me find the propped up pillows with my head, and making certain that the blindfold didn’t come loose. “Comfortable, sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir.” I smiled, and was rewarded with a kiss that lingered. Not long enough, because he pulled away and I felt his fingertips running up my left arm.

“Remember that you trust me, Amara.” Hard swallow and a deep breath before I answered in the affirmative. “Good girl.” And then I felt the silk of another scarf slide along my bare skin. “I swear that this is gonna be amazing, for both of us.” A few loops around my wrist and then I could hear the material sliding against the metal of the post to my left. It wasn’t tight, just as he’d been careful with the blindfold, he was careful with my wrist. He repeated the same teasing of the skin of my right arm, and then tied my other wrist to the opposite post. The scarves were long enough so I was bound, but I wasn’t pulled too taunt. “Fuck, that’s a picture I wish I could keep forever.” He sighed, as I felt his body leave the bed.

“You can, sir,” I offered, smiling as I listened to the telltale rustle of him removing his clothes. He chuckled and I could practically see his dimples from the sound.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, princess.” A warning, but in a tone that told me how fucking happy he was at the prospect. “Let’s make sure you like what I have planned first.”

“Yes, sir.” I sighed, as I felt the bed dip again, signally that he was back.

After hours of Negan showing me just how much I enjoyed what he’d planned, the blindfold was gone, my wrists were free, and we were tangled up in MY bed for once. The blankets covering us, my head on his chest, we were resting before we had to get back to work. Mom was home by now, I was certain, but I was hoping that she’d stayed away because she wanted to give us time to get my things packed and NOT because she heard anything I may have moaned or screamed.

“I’m guessing you want to keep the bed?” I asked, and felt the vibration of his laughter through his chest.

“Mine doesn’t have the potential of your bed, Amara.” Potential? More like the ability to put me completely at his mercy, not that I was complaining, not really.

I smiled and kissed his chest, celebrating once again the fact that he was MINE. “This bed is pretty fucking amazing.” Propping my chin on his chest and meeting his gaze, I dropped another kiss on his chest. “Especially when it has you in it.” He pulled me to him and our lips met in another fevered kiss, but our luck had run out. A knock sounded, and we both stilled.

“Miss Kendall?” The newest maid, Anna called out and I nearly groaned in both irritation and relief. At least it wasn’t Mom.

“Yes?” I called out, nearly moaning when Negan chose that moment to flick his tongue against my neck.

“Your mother asked that I tell you that dinner will be ready in half an hour.” Fuck. She was home, we were ALMOST, but not completely finished packing, and now DINNER.

“Tell her we’ll be down in ten minutes.” Negan bit my shoulder and I closed my eyes at the horror of leaving the room without finishing what he was trying to start. “Fifteen minutes, Anna.” Another deep chuckle came from Coach, but I sighed when I felt his hands slide down my back to pull me back to him.

#coach negan x student #negan x ofc #The Walking Dead #alternate universe #Smut

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critical-ramblings · 5 years ago

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Mind’s Eye (9/9)

FINAL CHAPTER! (here on AO3!)

The first thing Beau made sure of was that they were all together. The Mighty Nein clustered around her, taking up the entirety of an arching stone hallway about ten feet wide and at least twenty feet tall. There was a chill in the air, nothing serious but definitely noticeable, mitigated by the elaborate tapestries on all of the walls. Fjord put his back to hers, the falchion already in his hand...but nothing tried to kill them. The last of the smoke cleared away, and Beau could see thin, arched windows at the end of the hall, along with a couple of intersections closer by.

And three children huddled at the corner of one such intersection, all of them dressed in some kind of uniform and sporting the same terrible bowl cut. She elbowed Fjord, then pointed out the kids to the rest of the group.

“Should we--” Jester started to say, but she was interrupted by the unmistakable sounds of someone around the other corner falling on their ass with a loud OOF. A burst of muffled laughter echoed off the stone ceiling--one of the kids doubled over with their hand over their mouth, while another peeked around to see the results of their prank.

Beau couldn’t hear what they said to each other, but all of a sudden the three made a break for it--rushing, inevitably, straight for the Nein.

Somehow, it was easy to recognize Caleb at the front, though his hair was carrot-top red, rather than the deeper color (and dirt) adult-Caleb had. His face was a little rounder, a little softer. There was something about the wildness in his smile, maybe, or the familiar too-smart-for-his-own-good look in his eyes. He and his buddies were maybe twelve, here, younger than they had been at the house. Though she’d never seen them up close in the real world, Beau could put two and two together. Astrid was the short, slight girl with a snub nose, and Eodwulf was the tall one with a bit of pudge. Both of them followed half a step behind Caleb--Bren--and both of them skidded to a stop when he did right in front of the Nein.

“Hallo!” Caleb said, as bright and innocent as a lamb.

“Cay-leb,” Jester said with delight, leaning down to look him in the eye, “Did you just pull a prank?”

“I don’t know who that is,” Ca--Bren said, still smiling. “But we--my friends and I--would be so very grateful if you could...help us out?” he held up both hands, a little shrug that said he didn’t mind one way or another. Beau could see the smear of butter or grease on his right palm, but stayed quiet. For the moment.

From the hallway behind them, furious wizardly mutterings were punctuated by the squeak of leather on extremely slippery stone. Eodwulf nudged Bren’s shoulder, glancing anxiously behind them. Bren twitched but didn’t break, looking around each of the Mighty Nein with hopefully puppy-dog eyes that Beau instantly mistrusted. Nott was the first one to speak up, even as she reached up to pull her hood down lower.

“Of course we’ll help,” she said, digging her other hand into Fjord’s leg hard enough that he winced away. “And maybe you can help us afterwards.”

Bren made sure he exchanged looks with his two co-conspirators before holding out a hand for Nott to shake. “Deal.”

Nott’s hesitation was covered up by the clatter of a tapestry being pulled to the ground as the baby wizards’ victim finally made his way free of the trap. Caleb and Co. darted back behind the rest of the group, Eodwulf managing to duck into Yasha’s shadow with a sheepish grin.

Beau was expecting some paper-pusher or spindly professor-type--she was not expecting Trent fucking Ikithon to pull himself to his feet, his robes sticky with magical bacon grease and a scowl fit to spoil milk. The Archmage snapped his fingers, glaring around the hallway as his robes cleaned and straightened themselves.

“You!” he said sharply, turning to march in their direction. “Who are you? What business do you have in the Soltryce Academy?” He eyed them closely, his lip curled in a familiar sneer. Beau felt Bren huddle closer behind her, and she half-instinctively squared her shoulders to take up more space. To draw more notice towards herself.

“We’re, uh, we’re...”

“So sorry, my good sir,” Fjord said in his poshest accent, extending a hand that Ikithon, of course, refused to take. “Our group has only recently come under contract with one of your Archmages. Vess DeRogna?”

While Ikithon paused his sneering to think about that, Fjord looked around the group for support. Jester nodded vehemently, Nott took a swig of her flask, Caduceus frowned and nodded at the same time, and Beau looked at the wizened old bastard and thought really hard at him. After all, this was a dream? Wasn’t it?

“That seems reasonable,” Ikithon said, mostly to himself. He did give them another evil glare, and it was so similar to the look he'd given them before he ordered them dead like an hour ago that Beau leaned back with a grimace. But all the Archmage did was turn away with a dramatic sweep of his robes. Everyone, both Mighty Nein and wizardlings, sighed with relief as Ikithon rounded a corner. "The library?" Astrid asked, glancing between Eodwulf and Bren.

"The library," Bren agreed.

"It'll be safer to talk there," Eodwulf explained.

But as the other two set off down the hall, Astrid actually tugging on Caduceus' sleeve, Bren hesitated. Looked back in the direction Ikithon had gone.

"Hey," Beau said, quietly. "You okay?"

"Ja, it's just...Did I miss something? I--maybe I should have... This isn't--"

"How it happened?" Beau finished. Her mouth was a little dry--the last time he'd said that to her he'd just fireballed the party in a country garden.

Bren shook himself out of a daze and smiled back at her, a sad kind of smile so familiar that it hurt. Beau found herself smiling back without thinking, and slung an arm around his shoulders. Caleb had jumped a foot in the air when she first tried this, but Bren only bumped closer to her for a moment before slipping away. He jogged up to join his baby wizard friends, grinned back at Beau, and led the way.

***

The library of the Soltryce Academy was, at least in Caleb's dream, kind of awesome. It wasn't nearly as big as the Archive their dreaming bodies were hiding in, but there were countless dark wood shelves, polished to a shine, all overflowing with books kept clean of dust. Busts of old Archmages and other important historical figures stood at the end of each shelf, and little tables with padded leather chairs had been placed in the alcoves. Right now they were the only people here, deep in the hush every library created so that even their breathing seemed loud.

The wizardlings headed right for a study nook about halfway down the hall, settling themselves around the table with all the familiarity of long use. There weren't nearly enough chairs for everyone to sit, but they were mostly hidden from the view of anyone not crossing directly in front of their shelf.

"So," Bren said, looking utterly in control even as the Nein blockaded his only exit. "You're here working for Archmage DeRogna?"

"It was just the first name that popped into my head," Fjord admitted with a slight grimace. "We're here looking for...someone."

"Did you sneak into the Academy?" Astrid leaned forward, her eyes wide. She smiled up at them, so that Beau could see there was a gap in her front teeth that made her look even younger.

Beau exchanged looks with Jester, sharing but not showing her friend's heartbroken look. Yeah, it was sad what had happened to these kids. But it had already happened, and they had a job to do here. Not to mention that Caleb planned to kill himself at the end of this dream. Or he was going to make her do it.

"We're looking for Caleb," Nott said, even as she pulled her sleeves forward to hide her green hands. "Caleb Widogast. He's our friend."

Bren shuddered and stayed silent. Astrid and Eodwulf looked at each other before shrugging, unaffected. "Is he a student here?" Eodwulf asked.

"He was," Caduceus said with one of his gentle smiles. "He's very important, and not just to us. He's got things to do, back home."

Beau felt a cold breeze across her skin, heard crickets for a second. But when she looked around there was only the library, warm sunlight streaming through the window behind them. Bren was sitting with his head in his hands, even as Astrid and Eodwulf shook their heads.

"Can we talk about something else?" Bren asked, and when he looked up the circles under his eyes were all Caleb. "Please?"

"I'm so sorry, Bren." Jester took the last remaining chair, reaching out across the table to take his hand in both of hers. "I'm sorry that any of this happened to you. You pulled a pretty good prank, back there."

Bren's sideways smile was still lighter than Caleb's, less troubled. "We're not supposed to be casting spells that advanced, yet," he confided. "I copied it out of one of the old books in here."

Jester's grin was, as always, infectious.

The faint smell of smoke broke any peace they might have had, in that little nook. Fjord didn't, quite, summon his sword, but Beau could see seawater dripping from his fingers. "Sorry to break up the party, kids," he said, and Beau could hear the grind in his teeth. None of them wanted to be burned alive. Again. "But we don't have a lot of time."

"We can't help you," Astrid said. She put both her hands flat on the table and stood up, sudden anger in her cute blue eyes. She looked a lot more like the Astrid from the country house now, the Astrid with a crossbow bolt sticking out of her chest. "We don't know any Caleb Widogast. We don't."

"You do," Yasha crossed her arms, her pale eyes fixed on Bren. "I'm sorry, but you all know him. Terrible things have happened, and more of them are going to happen if we don't get him back."

"I just..." Bren shivered, even though he was sitting in the sun, and then the world flashed night-dark. The smell of old leather and paper vanished, replaced by smoke and dew and old hay.

Astrid and Eodwulf vanished as well, but Bren didn't. He stood on a dirt road, clutching at his arms and shivering. Beau turned around, taking in the little bit of moonlight on the wheat fields, the grass tall and green and silver. About a hundred feet away down the path, a one-story farmhouse was smoking. Thatch roof, gray slate walls. From here she could just make out some kind of design painted on the window shutters. She knew whose house it was, of course. They all did.

The explosion still took them by surprise. Half of the house was instantly engulfed in flame, outlining three figures standing at the edge of a walled garden. Beau looked back, but there was Bren, still twelve, tears shining like fire on his face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he kept saying, so quietly that Beau wasn't completely sure he was speaking out loud.

Up ahead, at the house, someone started screaming. All of them flinched. Nott bent her ears down to her head to cover them.

Jester started running forward, and then they were all moving in the direction of the fire. Beau outpaced them all, of course, just in time to see Caleb/Bren turn, grabbing on to Astrid like he was drowning. She could see his face, thin and hollow in the darkness, twisted into horror that would never go away, not completely. But he didn't fall--Astrid stumbled under his weight, but she held him. Beau glanced towards the house, saw the cart in front of the door, the roof burning, the paint flaking off the windows. The screaming that broke into moans, and then stopped.

Beau's fist took Astrid by surprise. The wizard girl actually flew backwards, several feet away from both Caleb and the fire. Beau grabbed the front of Caleb's red robes with both fists, pulled him up to her. "You fucking asshole," she said, as gently as she fucking could. Caleb/Bren stared at her, eyes wide, unrecognizing. "I figured it out," Beau continued furiously. Everything seemed to slow down--the fire, the other wizards, even the wind blowing smoke and the stink of charred meat into her face. "This isn't how it happened, right?" she shook him a little. Caleb/Bren put his hands up over hers, but didn't try to push her off. "This isn't how they wanted it to happen. You were going to change what happened here so that you could wake up. This is where you always go, why that room always looks like smoke."

"I didn't--I don't--" Caleb/Bren looked back towards the house, the roaring fire. Beau shook him again.

"You don't get to be that person," she told him. Behind her, she could hear the rest of the Mighty Nein finally catching up. Maybe Eodwulf or Astrid tried something--Beau felt a spell whisper in the back of her mind, but shook her head and shrugged it off. "You're not Bren. You're not a Scourger, or a Vollstrecker, or whatever. You're not like that woman in the cell under Rosohna."

"Rosohna," Caleb said, the vagueness beginning to leave. Under her hands, Beau could feel the soft robes changing to purple silk.

"Yeah, that's it." Beau let him down a little, to see if he could stand on his own two feet. "Remember? We're heroes of the fucking Dynasty."

Caleb wasn't short anymore, wasn't a kid. He looked at her outlined by fire, blood and dirt on his face but definitely their Caleb, now.

"Beauregard," he said, and looked over her shoulder. She couldn't quite track all of the emotions that went over his face, but she definitely saw shame, and grief, and some different kind of horror.

Jester, of course, nearly tackled him to the ground with her hug. "Caleb!" Beau had to keep hold of Caleb's jacket just to keep them both on their feet. Caleb stood frozen with his hands pinned to his sides, torn between more horror and breaking down in tears. Nott's arrival, while less likely to send them all tumbling, did more to break down Caleb's walls than anything else. Still pinned by Jester, he managed to bend down and scoop Nott up into his arms. The little goblin girl was probably the only person Beau had ever seen him hug, on his own.

"You made a promise," Nott said, into his shoulder.

"Is this what we're doing now?" Caduceus said, looming up behind them. He wrapped his long arms around all five of them, rested the side of his head on top of Caleb's with a sigh. "It's gonna be okay, Mister Caleb." He patted them gently. Beau was crushed together with the rest, but she didn't mind. It gave her an excuse to fold herself in closer, to drown out the crash of the roof behind them. Caleb was crying, she could feel his whole body shaking even if she couldn't hear him.

"Caleb," Yasha said, and her quiet voice shouldn't have been as clear as it was. "After everything you forgave me for, do you think I--that we would hold this against you? We are not the terrible things we have done. You told me that."

"Ah, but I did not mean it for myself," he only whispered it, but they all heard.

The noise of the fire was fading. Beau pulled back, a little, to see a black room unclouded by smoke. Caleb was here, still with them, still touchable. He tried to smile, though the expression was hollow, and put Nott gently back on the ground. She wouldn't let go, at first, until he sat down next to her so she could cling to his sleeve. He looked up at everyone else, unselfconscious, and leaned against his first best friend. "The Mighty Nein," he said, and his smile became a little more solid. A little more true. "I have tried to be better, because of you. For you. I...perhaps we should not have come to Rexxentrum. Certainly you never deserved to have my past dragged into your lives. I was selfish."

"Don't be stupid," Beau said. She kicked his knee, just a little, and scowled down at him. "We all know the Cerberus Assembly sucks. This isn't about you and your tragic past, or at least it isn't only about that."

"It's about the war, and everyone suffering, and people we know being hurt," Jester crouched down. "People we know also means you, Caleb. We came to get you out because you came to save us, before. Me and Fjord and Yasha. That's what we do, we save each other."

"You're already better than any of these assholes," Fjord held out his hand, scarred palm up. "We're gonna make sure they don't hurt anyone else. And we’re gonna need your help to do it."

Caleb took a deep breath. And then another. And then he reached up to grab Fjord's hand, to haul himself (and Nott) back to his feet. The black room began to fracture around them, under their feet. It cracked into geometric pieces, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. Beau caught glimpses of arcane symbols in the light they left, circles and diamonds and words she almost knew--but they overwhelmed themselves with light, until there was only blankness.

And then they woke up.

#cr #critical role #the mighty nein #caleb widogast #beauregard lionett #mind's eye

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complicatedandstained · 6 years ago

Text

The Other Day at Hot Topic: Something Pretty

“Find something pretty for me, Roxas?”

Roxas recognizes the voice instantly, which would be less embarrassing if the sound of it didn’t resonate in his ear like a musician hitting a note just right, or if it didn’t turn his stomach into something like grape jelly.

Kneeling on the floor of Hot Topic, Roxas sits beside an open plastic display case of piercings, intimately acquainting himself with products he’s never given a second glance before, as he tries to remember Aqua’s instructions on what goes next to or in front of what, and on which display.

Which is to say that he does not remember.

She had promised to answer any questions he had, and then promptly left on her fifteen-minute break.

Despite the excitement with Vanitas, it’s still pretty early in the morning, and with his fatigue catching up, it takes Roxas a moment to cobble together his five-star response. “Axel, hey.”

Setting a short stack of neon colored plastic balls on metal rings back in the box, and internally telling his stomach to chill the fuck out already, Roxas glances up.

It is a huge mistake. His eyes have to climb a pair of metallic gold jeans, hugging calf and thigh muscles, before they can skim the hard lines beneath a black V-neck, pass over pale, sun freckled skin, and settle on the shock of loose, unstyled red spikes and amused green eyes.

So, he didn’t sleep off that crush thing, like, at all, then.

“Putting out some new ear thing-a-ma-jigs,” Roxas explains, lifting one to get the jade gaze off of him before something in his chest decides to implode.

“Well…” Axel leans forward, the metallic denim flashing in Roxas’ peripheral. “Actually.”

Roxas is pretty sure no one has a right to look that damn good in a pair of pants. You know, legally speaking.

Axel tilts the piercing in Roxas’ hand toward him with his fingertips. “That’s a tongue thing-a-ma-jig,” he smirks lightly, “but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

Roxas fights with a smirk of his own. “Shut up, I’ve had a rough morning.” He can’t resist sticking out his own tongue. Does Axel have to be good at everything? “Know-it-all.”

Axel’s smile brightens. He must bleach it. “It’s literally my only job.”

Roxas laughs and returns to rooting through the box, pulling out another slip of cardboard and plastic that had caught his eye earlier and setting it in Axel’s palm. “There.”

“Yes, good. Plugs,” Axel teases as he flutters the package in front of Roxas’ eyes. “These are for ears.”

“No, I mean,” Roxas’ brow furrows, and he turns his attention back to the box, “ah, fuck it.”

But Axel doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. “Mean what, Roxas?” his needling lilt would be grating, Roxas decides, if it didn’t seem to serve as a thin paper wrapping actual concern.

“I thought you’d…” Roxas looks up, you know, like an idiot, and gets stuck again on curious green eyes, until the next words come out more a mumble, “maybe like those.”

“Oh.” Axel leans back on his heels, twisting the packaging between his fingers and drawing it up to examine. “Shit. Yeah?”

Roxas rubs at the checkered cuff along his wrist, offers a half smile. The plugs were black, like Axel’s own, with a mandala cut out revealing a whirl of purple, green, and pale yellow. “They’re little stained-glass windows.”

Axel runs his thumb across the plastic. “How about that?” he muses softly, scarlet brows rising.

“It’s dumb.” Roxas’ face feels stretched, sunburnt, his thumb fumbles at the joint of his glasses. “I just liked them, and I thought—”

“I’ve always liked stained glass windows.”

Roxas shuts his eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

“Nah,” Axel waves off Roxas’ second-guessing. “I’ve never seen anything like these, and I’ve seen a million of ‘em.”

“Yeah?” Roxas shifts purposelessly through the befuddling contents of the box, unwilling to look up in case his flush has burnt through the golden tan the islands gift him when he’s home too long.

“Yeah.” A toe prods at Roxas’ side until Roxas swipes at Axel’s boot, grinning up at him in spite of himself. “Thank you, Roxas.”

Chastising himself as he realizes his temperature rises ten degrees every time Axel drops the hard R in his name, Roxas returns to his work, nods. One shoulder lifts. “Sure.”

In his peripheral, another mirage-like shimmer of gold as Axel leans forward like he’s got something clever to say, and then decides against it. “Hey, if you’re doing okay, I gotta,” Axel fingers the silver hoops lining his helix and winces, “go be responsible.”

“Oh,” Roxas blurts, before he can stop himself. “Right, yeah.” He shrugs. Fistfuls of piercings occupy both hands, and a couple drift to the floor. “Do that.”

“Don’t miss me too much.” Axel chuckles. “I’ll be right back.”

Roxas’ shoulder lifts again and he misses the frown he earns in response.

Axel takes a few steps forward, pauses, doubles back.

“You know.” Axel halts, just a step past the blonde on the floor now, facing the opposite direction. Nostalgia thickens his voice, as he raises the plugs to eye level again. “When I was younger my grandma used to drag me to church every once in a while, trying to save my little heathen soul.”

Confused but intrigued, Roxas stills, cringes a bit.

“And Grandma wasn’t fucking around…”

Roxas snorts and sees a grin pull at Axel’s lip as the redhead turns to bear witness to the sound.

“…Went to this big-ass Gothic cathedral in the heart of Radiant Garden.”

Roxas lifts his chin to see Axel’s sweeping gesture, up and toward the ceiling, as if his spindly fingers could paint pillars in the aisles of Hot Topic.

“And that was a brand-new word for me. Soul. That’s how hedonistic my parents were.” Axel’s fingers swish fondly, and Roxas has a sudden desire to know what kind of people had resulted in this.

“And I was a literal sort of kid, so sitting in that rock-hard pew, staring up, I kinda always figured souls must look something like those huge stained-glass windows, y’know? Mosaics of color and light, pictures of people and things that really mattered…Sometimes beautiful, sometimes all clouded up, sometimes blinding.”

Roxas’ throat dries. He can almost see them himself, a million kaleidoscopic crystals of light weaving together.

Words seem insufficient—unnecessary. He nods.

Axel looks a bit sheepish, unleashing words Roxas gets a sense he’s never said before. Rubbing at his shoulder, the underside of each forearm reveals a tattoo, black V’s blossoming into single, fully colored tongues of flame pausing a few inches before wrist and elbow. Roxas imagines Axel’s window might look like that. Sharp scarlet, electric orange, soft yellow: fiery, expressive, bright, and just a little dangerous.

“I used to try and draw them,” Axel admits, “way back when, but I could never quite…” he grasps at the air like he’s trying to catch fog, the black leather cords around his wrist slipping down. He matches his eyes to Roxas’ again, but once more the words don’t come. Axel shakes off the memory. It seems to evaporate from his expression like smoke from a shaken match and the wry smile returns, as he turns away. “Anyway,” Axel says. “Bet yours would be pretty, all that gold in the sunshine.”

With this final swordthrust through Roxas’ crushing heart, Axel picks his way around Roxas’ set up and saunters toward the back room where Vanitas is hiding out, blue eyes trailing after him.

“Yours too,” Roxas murmurs lamely, but if Axel hears him, he doesn’t react.

* *

Axel wonders dimly what it is about Roxas that makes him feel guilty every time he leaves his side. Thoughts of crumbling white pillars and an ocean blue window with sand golden ridges spiral in Axel’s head as he pockets the plugs he’ll buy later and shifts the door marked ‘Staff Only’ open, offering it his usual grin for the sake of irony.

Axel finds Vanitas sitting at the desk in the back, beside a computer and a set of security monitors. He has his chin resting on his arms, his headphones hugging his neck and his eyes straight on Roxas in a security frame. He’s watching Axel’s new friend layering packages of piercings on a display shelf, a step off from where Axel had just been standing himself. In other words, playing I Spy: Hot Topic Edition.

And yeah, sure, Roxas is pretty fucking adorable, but that’s not exactly an excuse.

“Slacking off again, V?” Axel teases. He can feel the teeth behind his words, sharper than the ones he jabs at Demyx’s lazy bones.

Only a flicker of Vanitas’ eyes acknowledge Axel’s presence.

“Overcompensating again, Ax?”

Axel wonders if Vanitas is referring to the silent conversation he’d been snooping on, or Axel’s metallic gold pants.

Probably the pants.

Axel can feel his mouth drop into a scowl before his lazy smirk reasserts its dominance. “No need,” he purrs, pocketing his hands and striding right up behind the prickly douchebag. “Break’s over. Out.”

Vanitas is not one to hide his scowls. “Technically, I have more right to be back here than you do.” He relinquishes the chair anyway.

Axel sinks into black pleather, spinning around to face the monitor, fatigued at the prospect of fast-forwarding through hour long segments of Hot Topic employees unloading boxes at paces that would put sloths to shame. “Technically, you should have been fired by now.”

Vanitas shrugs.

If Vanitas were smart, he’d leave it at that and get to work. Axel won’t be awarding him a scholarship any time soon. He can feel the shadow lingering just past his shoulder, watching him load the security footage.

“You probably don’t want to watch that,” Vanitas sings, too fucking close to his ear, and Axel snaps the chair back around sharply.

Axel’s assessing glare must chill even Vanitas’ soul, because the guy unconsciously runs knuckles over the glossy blazer buttons above his abdomen and backs off a couple steps.

“Why?”

Vanitas regroups, sneering at his informational upperhand, and gestures to the blonde bedhead still shifting around on-screen, trying to reattach a plastic door to the piercing display case that he likely has no idea was already broken to begin with.

“Yeah, okay, sure.”

Roxas is sweeter than a slice of strawberry shortcake with cream, Xigbar complains in Axel’s head.

Vanitas flutters a hand over his heart, facial features and voice softening eerily as he tries to feign innocence, “Wouldn’t want anything to come between you and your precious new bestie.” Vanitas chuckles, flipping up a palm in consideration. “I mean, aside from the obvious.”

Axel has too much pride to ask what the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

Scoffing, Axel continues booting up the program on the computer, waving Vanitas in the direction of the salesfloor. “If you’re not going to tell me what you did, get lost.”

If something had happened, Roxas would have said so. Right?

But as much as Axel wants to believe Vanitas is spouting absolute bullshit, the voice of experience is tying Eagle Scout level knots in his stomach.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Vanitas takes up a fully loaded rack of hanging clothes, (maybe he really had been working?) and rolls it out of the cluttered backroom and onto the floor.

Axel mentally runs through his conversation with Roxas again, chastising himself for oversharing, though Roxas hadn’t seemed to mind, had almost seemed to get it, even.

Nothing weird from Roxas, though, other than the new hipster vibes his thick rimmed glasses and khaki pants had given him. That, and his, frankly tragic, lack of knowledge about tongue piercings.

Shut up, I’ve had a rough morning. The Roxas in Axel’s head smirks and parts pouty pink lips to stick out a pretty pink tongue. Axel chides himself for zeroing in on that, but shit.

Shit.

Axel adjusts the settings on the security program and hesitates only a heartbeat before pressing play.

#kingdom hearts #roxas #axel #vanitas #organization xiii #akuroku #hot topic au #my writing

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whumperooni · 4 years ago

Note

Just thinking about being Keigo's sweet little sis always acting like a little house wife and everytime Touya comes over he always calls you a cute little cumdump

/sighs dreamily

Oh, to be Keigo’s sister-wife and have his best frenemy tease and bully you while you try your best not to whine and stay a Good Girl and a Good Hostess ♡

I, uh, took liberties as per usual- hopefully ya like it, nonny!

tw incest, tw faux incest, tw misogyny, tw breeding kink (mentions of breeding but not the action), tw slight mindbreak/trained behavior, human ashtray, ass eating, blowjobs, tw degradation

“Hey, Touya’s comin’ over later, sis. Can ya make some extra dinner?”

Oh...oh no. And here you thought you’d get a week free from Touya Todoroki.

You bite your lip, but you quickly fix a sweet smile on your face whenever your big brother looks your way and nod as you clasp your hands tight behind your back.

“Of course, nii-san.”

Keigo rewards you with a smile and a pat to your head and that makes it a little better.

You really shouldn’t be bothered by your big brother’s friend coming over, but Touya is...well. Touya is...he’s a lot to deal with.

He’s constantly teasing and taunting you- swatting your butt whenever you walk by and leering over your dresses and the way they show off your legs. He tugs you closer by your apron strings and constantly leaves cigarette butts all over the house, has you flinging open the windows as soon as he leaves so you can try to air it out. He likes to taunt you whenever he catches you folding Keigo’s clothes and he always always drawls out some snide tease about you being such a good housewife, makes you blush whenever he grabs your chin and “jokes” about taking you home so you can pick up after him instead.

Keigo tells you to be a good girl and a good host when his friends come over and you try your very best to, but Touya makes it very hard sometimes- he just loves to fluster and pester you.

Your big brother’s other friends can be crude and vexing, too, but Touya definitely takes the cake.

He’s handsome, at least. That does make it a bit more bearable whenever you kneel down to take care of his needs like your big brother taught you to.

A good hostess should always take care of guests- no matter their needs, no matter how rude and taunting they can be, no matter how much they poke and prod and take delight in teasing.

You’re always a good hostess. Keigo expects you to be a good girl and you do your best to meet his expectations- no matter how difficult it may be sometimes.

You begin making dinner at five and it’s ready at half past six. By the time you’re sliding it out of the oven, there’s a knock on the door.

Right on time.

You quickly wipe your hands on your apron and hurry to the front door, smooth your hair and plaster a smile on your face before opening it. Touya smirks whenever you greet him with a “Good afternoon, Todoroki-san. It’s nice to see you again.”

You’re pushed past before you can invite him inside and that rankles against your polite nature, has you biting your cheek to keep from frowning.

Touya doesn’t have much in the way of manners, but you still must stay sweet and cordial to him- your big brother expects it and you so dearly want to make him proud.

“Oi, where’s birdbrain?”

A huff nearly leaves you, but you keep it held in- smile on your face as you tilt your head and gesture toward the living room.

“Nii-san is playing Battlefield,” you inform him. “Please join him while I plate dinner.”

“Fuckin’ sweet.”

He leaves without another glance to you and you breathe a sigh of relief once he’s out of sight, place your hand to your heart and shake your head.

Hopefully he’ll be tame tonight.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

“-said he’s got the top shit, but we know all he can get is trash.”

“He’s so pathetic; he really is such a poser.”

“Can’t get nothin’ but stupid freshman with that crap- and he can barely get ‘em.”

Keigo laughs while Touya snorts and you carefully pick up their beer bottles, their plates. A squeak leaves your lips whenever Touya’s hand swats at your butt and you nearly drop the bottles when he gives it a squeeze.

“Hey, bring me another.”

“Of course, Todoroki-san.”

Touya sneers at your obedience and the way you smile sweetly at him, swats at your rump again as you walk away. That one stings and you press your lips together once you’re out of sight, furrow your brows.

Touya hasn’t been that bad tonight, but he’s still only three beers in- this next one will probably push him more into his teasing ways.

A sigh leaves you as you gather two beers from the fridge, but you dutifully head back to the living room. Keigo kisses your cheek when you give him his, but Touya grabs you by the back of your apron strings and pulls you down into his lap- a harsh bark of laughter leaving him whenever you squawk in surprise.

“T- Todoroki-san!”

“Aw, cut that shit out,” he tells you, one hand slipping onto your thigh and squeezing while the other keeps a firm hand on your waist. “You know what I like to be called.”

You do, but that doesn’t mean you really want to call him that.

You do want to be a good girl and a good hostess, though. And that means keeping guests happy- no matter what they demand from you.

You stifle a pout and bite your lip, glance over to your brother and then back at Touya before mumbling a reluctant, “I’m sorry, Touya-nii.”

“That’s a good girl.”

A blush flares on your cheeks and you try your best not to squirm whenever he rubs at your thigh, when you feel a certain hard bump against you.

You know what’s coming next.

Touya’s hand glides higher and you spread your legs like you’re expected to, bite your lip and curl your fingers into the skirt of your dress as you lift it up and out of the way. Your flush deepens a little whenever he lets out a rough laugh, but there’s a certain spark of pride that lights inside whenever he drawls out,

“You really do got her trained well, birdbrain. What a good little whore.”

Keigo grins lazily and a soft noise leaves you when he nods in agreement, when his hand smooths over his crotch.

“That’s my sis for ya,” Keigo hums out- proud and almost fond as he watches the way your breath hitches when spindly fingers stroke over your slit.

“Shoulda invited the others over,” Touya murmurs, poking at your hole and pressing his thumb to your clit. “Such a cute lil cumdump needs to be filled to the brim.”

A whine leaves you and fluster at the words, fluster when Touya smirks and works a finger inside of you.

“They’re busy screwin’ each other,” Keigo huffs out- one hand waving around and the other taking his cock out. “Those virgins don’t deserve good pussy anyways.”

Your cheeks darken further and something inside of you squirms- Keigo only talks like this when he’s around Touya and it’s something you can never get used to, something that you just have to bear despite the way it makes you want to shy away.

You can’t shy away from your big brother or his friend- you have to be a good girl, have to act like big brother has taught you, have to stay in the role of an obedient little housewife, a warm and obliging hostess.

It’s your duty. It’s your pride.

(It’s your pathetic lot in life)

Another finger slips inside your cunny and you gasp softly, let out a tiny moan as they curl up and grind into you. Touya snorts and you bite your lip when he slips them out of you, when he wraps his lips around them and gives a loud suck.

“I’m never gonna get tired of that taste.”

You blush and you clench your dress tighter, squirm with a little bit of pride. Keigo smiles at you whenever you look over at him and he lazily strokes over his cock, fists it as he props his elbow on the arm of his chair and leans his cheek into his palm.

“Manners, sis,” he coos.

Oh, how could you forget?

You look back to Touya and you murmur a meek, “Thank you, Touya-nii. I’m pleased you like it.”

That gets a snort from him and a squeeze to your hip- fingers digging deep into you and forcing you to hide a flinch.

Touya is much more rough with you than your big brother.

Though, he can get rough too- especially when the others are visiting.

You bite your lip, again, and peek your eyes up at Touya, sigh internally before asking,

“May I take care of you, Touya-nii?”

He laughs- the sound rough, the grin mocking- and he smacks your thigh, grins only wider when you tense up at the sting.

“Get on your knees, doll.”

You do.

You slide down to the floor and on your knees, look up at him from between his legs. To the side, you hear the shlick of your big brother stroking himself and it has you pressing your thighs together, nearly squirming in your spot.

You’d rather take care of Kiego, but guests come first- it’s only polite for the hostess to take care of guests before others.

You take Touya’s cock out and give it a small stroke, tuck your hair behind your ear before leaning forward and laving your tongue over his shaft. Above you, there’s the sound of a cap popping off a bottle and you close your eyes as you take in your big brother’s friend’s cock into your mouth, as you suckle at his head.

The two begin talking about something- you don’t know what, can’t quite care about it- and you do your best to please Touya, swallow him down and make him happy.

Or, at least, make him come.

At one point, it would have been embarrassing the way you grow wet as you dutifully suck your guest’s cock. At one point, you would have been frustrated and upset how your displeasure with a rude, teasing man gets forgotten with each bob of your head, each little whimper that coincides with the way your cunt gently throbs. At one point, you would be distraught with pleasing a man besides your older brother.

But you’ve long past that point and you’ve reached one where you only let out soft, muffled mewls as you throat Touya’s cock, where your lashes flutter as he ignores you only to press your head lower, where you grow wet as your big brother laughs in the background and watches as you give little kitten licks to his friend’s balls.

You’ve learned to get pleasure from giving pleasure and it’s not long before your flush is from need instead of embarrassment, your thighs are damp from the orgasm slowly building within you despite not being touched.

Fingers curl into your hair and mess it all up. You groan as Touya rocks his hips up and fist the skirt of your dress, pant softly whenever he pulls you off his cock and jerks your head back to make you look up at him.

“Hey- why aren’t there any ashtrays out?”

Panic snaps through you and your eyes widen, something upset ripples through you when you realize that you forgot something so basic.

You’re a terrible hostess.

“I- I’m sorry, Touya-nii! I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-”

A click of his tongue cuts you off and you wilt under his annoyance, feel little tears prick at you as shame washes through you. You don’t whine when he grips your jaw with his free hand and you don’t try to jerk away as he squeezes it hard. Your mouth pops open and you keep it open as he huffs, tremble as he looks you over with hooded eyes.

“I guess this’ll do.”

You nearly wince when he brings his cigarette close to your face, choke on your spit when he places it between your lips and taps the ashes onto your tongue. Keigo doesn’t say anything- he only lets out a low groan- and you gag on the taste, leak a tear down your cheek as you try not to heave. Touya smirks at you and he traces a finger along your jawline, taps your face with just enough force to keep from being called a smack.

Keigo doesn’t let his guests smack you- it’s one of his only rules and for that you are grateful.

It still doesn’t keep you from whimpering and it still doesn’t keep you from wincing when Touya leans his face down closer to yours.

“Next time put them out.”

You nod the best you can and mumble out a garbled “yesh, Touya-nii.” as you struggle to swallow the ash in your mouth.

Your mouth tastes awful. You want to cry.

A second hand to your hair startles you and you blink as your big brother leans into your line of sight, as you catch the sight of his smile through your blurry eyes. The way he strokes your hair is light, soothing and you relax a little with it, loosen the death grip you have on your dress.

“Aw, sis, that must taste bad. Here- let me help wash it away.”

You expect to given a sip of beer, but Keigo just tilts your head back more and squeezes at your jaw- more gentle than Touya but still a little rough. Your mouth pops open once more and you squeak whenever he grins, whine softly when a boot slides between your thighs and presses against your pussy.

Keigo graces you with a loving smile and then his lips purse, spit dribbles down into your mouth. A choked whimper leaves you and more tears form, wet your lashes. Touya laughs as he watches you struggle not to jerk away, when you almost choke again as the spit slides down your throat.

You swallow and you mumble out a teary little, “Thank you, Keigo-nii” once you’re able, find some small scraps of pleasure whenever he kisses your forehead and murmurs a “Good girl” in return.

That makes it easier- that makes this all worth it.

You shiver and close your eyes once he pulls away, allow yourself to be dragged back to Touya’s cock. He grunts whenever you swallow him down and you grimace over the taste of spit and ash and salty pre-cum, shudder whenever the toe of his boot grinds against you.

“Yeah, that’s a good cumdump,” Touya groans- fingers curling back into your hair and cigarette dangling between his lips. “Such a fuckin’ good lil slut suckin’ me off.”

The words shouldn’t bring a moan from you, but they do- you can’t help but flush at the praise and you can’t help the way you whimper either when the toe of his boot nudges at your clit. You do your best to swallow him down fully and you tremble when his hips cant against your face.

“Dude, you won’t believe what Tenko just said.”

And just like that, the attention is off of you. Touya still fucks into your throat and your big brother still strokes his dick, but they both get drawn into some conversation about their friend and practically ignore you while you kneel and bob your head along your guest’s length.

It’s disappointing but, honestly, it does make everything easier too.

And, besides- a hostess doesn’t need attention; she should be more focused on being helpful, pleasing her guests.

And that’s what you do- you throat Touya’s cock and you gently fondle his balls, you tongue at his piercings and hum quietly as you take him down all the way down to the root. You do everything that he likes and you do it well- ignoring your own throbbing need and the way you want to grind against his boot, ignoring the conversation and their laughter and the way Touya ashes his cigarette into your hair.

You know Touya is about to come whenever he places a hand to the back of your head. He forces you all the way down and you do your best to relax your throat, whimper and choke a little as he grinds his dick into you and grunts.

“Fuuuuck yeah, bitch. Take it- fuckin’ take it.”

Tears drip from your lashes as you gag and Touya groans as your throat spasms around his cock. You try so very hard to breathe through your nose, but it gets hard to do so whenever he rocks roughly into your throat. The little choked whimpers that leave you only serve to make him snap his hips against your face even more viciously and you tremble from it- face turning darker and lashes fluttering as your eyes threaten to roll back.

“Fuckin’ god,” Touya groans. “Love this throat- ain’t nothin’ like a cute lil cumdump.” More tears fall, but the praise helps keep you from outright sobbing, has you pathetically trying to run your tongue over his length even as you desperately fight against your gag reflex. “Gonna fuckin’ breed this throat. Better take it, whore. Better fuckin’ take it.”

A strangled sob forces its way from you and you nod the best you can- blackened tears streaming mascara down your cheeks, face flushed from being unable to breathe, eyes red and wet, cunt throbbing from lack of attention and the need that your big brother has taught you to gain from all this.

Touya snarls as you look up at him- teeth bared in a grin and cheeks flushed, eyes almost manic. He puts both hands to the back of your head and he tilts his hips back, snaps them forward so hard it rattles your brain. You gag, but he keeps on- forcing your head still as he pistons his cock into your drooling mouth, rolling his own back with a groan as he fucks your throat.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Keigo grunts from the side. “Doin’ such a good job, sis. Such a good girl. You fuckin’ love it, don’t you? You love suckin’ all my friends’ dicks and being a good lil cumdump. You love bein’ a good housewife and takin’ care of us all.”

You do. You do you do you do.

The tears that slip down your cheeks this time aren’t from the desperate need to breathe or Touya’s harsh rocks. This time they’re from your big brother’s words, the way your need shoots up so, so fast and has you shaking, on the verge of coming.

Touya’s boot shifts and you see stars, seize up and desperately scratch perfectly manicured nails over the hardwood floor. Touya moans and he starts to come as you do- hands forcing your head down all the way and his cock shooting white hot spurts down your abused throat as your wet, wet, wet pussy jerks along his boot and makes it shine.

You swallow him down the best of you can despite your fuzzy mind and swimming vision, cough and pant but obediently open your mouth whenever he pulls you back by the hair. Touya smirks and he pats your cheek condescendingly, snickers and looks satisfied over the way he’s made you go from looking like a perfectly put together housewife to a fucked out little whore.

You keep your mouth open as your big brother walks over and you look up at him with half-shut eyes- flushed and tired and letting out stunted little whimpers as your poor throat aches. Keigo just smiles down at you and strokes your hair- gentle as he places the tip of his cock into your mouth, soothing as he traces your cheek with a finger as he jerks himself off.

When he comes, you swallow it down too- eyes closing and a soft noise leaving you, your hands curling into loose fists as he slides his dick into your throat and sheathes himself as he spills his seed into you.

You go a little limp when he pulls back and away, but you look at them both with a tired, sweet, slightly unfocused smile, dutifully murmur out, “Thank you, Touya-nii. Thank you, Keigo-nii. Is there- is there anything more I can do for you?”

The words are a little slurred, a little hoarse. Touya still grins over them, though, and Keigo still pats your head in reward of you being a good girl and being attentive to their needs.

“Get us some more beers, babe,” Keigo orders casually while tucking his cock away.

You nod and get to your feet slowly, wince from the ache in your knees and the tremble in your thighs. Your heels click out of rhythm with the first few steps you take and you have to hide a whine whenever Touya stops you with a tug to your apron.

“I want that cute little face buried in my ass when you come back,” he drawls out- so casual and grinning so lazily. “Got it?”

If you were a lesser woman, you would flinch and cringe. But, you’re not- you’re a good girl, a good little sister, a good housewife, a good hostess.

So you smile at him instead- hair a wreck and makeup ruined, the taste of cum coating your mouth.

“Of course, Touya-nii. It would be my pleasure.”

Touya snorts at the chirped words and he smacks your ass, pushes you toward the kitchen.

“So fuckin’ get to it.”

You nod and you scurry toward the kitchen- heels clicking away and dress swishing along your thighs, apron still gleaming at starched to perfection despite what you’ve already been through tonight.

“I’d kill to have a little sister like that. Let me have her, will ya?”

You can’t help but smile at the words, smile at the way Keigo laughs and drawls back, “Sorry, but she’s all mine.”

That’s right- you belong to Keigo, you belong to your big brother.

No matter how many times his friends have come down your throat and creamed your pussy.

You gather the beers from the fridge and you smile as you head back to the living room- eager and ready to be a good hostess once more, proud as Keigo gives you an approving look whenever you kneel before Touya and run your tongue over his puckered hole.

You’re a good hostess. You’ll keep being a good hostess, too- anything to keep your brother happy, anything to earn the praise you crave.

You hum as you eat out Touya’s ass and you let your eyes shut- mind wandering to the dishes you need to do and the clothes you need to fold as you dutifully attend to your guest’s desires.

#Anonymous #keigo takami x reader #touya todoroki x reader #rooni's shit #tw incest #tw dubcon #tw breeding kink #tw faux incest

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anenddarysden · 5 years ago

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“Thirteen days of riding, the Moon above my only friend.

Time will only tell if a bullet or the rope will be my end.

Got a price upon my head, the same alive or dead!

There ain't no resting for the Wanted Man.

I've killed in anger. I've killed for money, killed for fun.

Don't need your mercy, don't need your prayers to set me free.

You count the things I've done, and heaven ain't no place for me.”

– Nick Nolan “Wanted Man”

Stephen crept closer, fingering the Jakobs he’d picked off a dead Bloodshot some months previous. It was a good gun – much better than the clanking pieces of junk his Pa had banged together before being eaten by a skag. It’d been the sound that’d distracted him from the Hodunk girl he’d been trying to sweet-talk into giving him some poon. A loud, heavy, hollow thud, like somebody had dropped a bag of hammers towards the back of the bar.

Whatever had made the sound wasn’t immediately apparent, but Stephen had discovered something much more interesting. A Siren! An ever-lovin’ Siren! Just sitting there on the back of the couch, toying with a little condensed ball of energy floating just above her palm. Stephen wiped his sweaty fingers on his vest. The Siren wasn’t alone. There was a tall, spindly figure leaning against the wall by the door, and another man sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette. Stephen did a double take, then grinned like a shark. Imagine the stupidity of some folks, sittin’ below your own wanted posters.

He stepped closer and drew the Jacobs. Just one of them idiots would set him up for life, let alone all three! He could afford a ticket off this craphole. Hell, he could buy this craphole and Elpis, too! Stephen racked the hammer back with his thumb.

“Hey!” he declared loudly. “Mighty dumb of y’all, coming in here tonight!”

The man on the couch (Handsome Jack, as per the poster advertising his mug) turned his head to look at him, switching his attention from the CL4P-TP unit twitching and sputtering on the floor to Stephen’s face, then to the Jakobs he was pointing at them. A grin sliced across his face, exposing teeth far too nice for Pandora.

“You’d better be reeal sure, pumpkin,” he said, lazily taking the cigarette from his mouth.

There was something in the movement that broadcasted a wordless threat, of hard, square knuckles and a ruthless grip that could, and would, strangle the life from a man – but Stephen had the gun. He scoffed and gestured to it with his free hand, because hello?! He had ‘em dead to rights here!

Out of the corner of his eye, Stephen noticed the tall man (Zer0, his brain supplied helpfully) slowly tilt his head, causing the overhead string lights to glitter in the reflective surface of his helmet. Now Stephen didn’t know much about most things, but he did know them huge sumbitchin’ snakes that lived up by Sawtooth Cauldron. As poisonous as they were mean, just looking at one screamed danger – and it was the same message that went skittering up his back as the stranger shifted to look at him, a slow, deliberate uncoiling of muscle that set off every alarm there was to set off.

Stephen swallowed, his tongue suddenly far too big for his mouth. His eyes darted towards the Siren and found her watching him with the corner of her frosted blue lips tilted up in a smirk. She rolled the energy singularity over the backs of her knuckles. They said Sirens could set fire to crap that could not, should not be able to be burn, that with a flick of a finger, they could cram a man’s head up his ass and leave him there to suffocate. And Maya looked as though she was itching for just that kind of entertainment. Pizza and a show. How nice of him to volunteer.

The Jakobs wobbled uncertainly, slowly at first, then more and more pronounced as their gazes bored into him, waiting for him to make the first move. Come to think of it, these mother-humpers looked exactly like the sort of folk that’d be packing shields. They’d be on him before the first bullet even popped ‘em open. Stephen lowered the gun so quickly he almost shot himself in the foot. Didn’t take a smart man to know when he was about to become a dead man.

“N-nevermind. Mistook y’all fer somebody else.”

I REALLY LOVE the atmosphere of this one!

#borderlands #handsomejack #maya #siren #zer0 the assassin #zer0 borderlands #pandora #hyperion #mad moxxi #gearbox #bar #beer #claptrap #cl4p-tp

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popatochisssp · 6 years ago

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Working Out the Kinks (Kinktober 2018) 8/31

Day 8: Blood/Gore | Prostitution/Sex Work | Fisting | Hate-fucking/Angry Sex

Pairing: HT!Papyrus/Reader

Additional Kinks: Communication during sex, slight size kink

AO3 Link

You’re controlling your breathing.

You’re inhaling in strong, deep breaths and exhaling the exact same way, trying to keep yourself relaxed and steady.

It was hard to do when Papyrus had four of his big, long fingers pressing in and out of your body, but you were managing it.

“You’re Absolutely Incredible,” he speaks from behind you. “I Really Wish You Could See This… Maybe Next Time I’ll Record It For You, What Do You Think?”

You huff out a little bit of a laugh. “Ask me again when you don’t have your whole hand inside me.”

“You Know Very Well This Isn’t My Whole Hand Yet!” He leans forward and nuzzles a toothy skeleton kiss right between your shoulder blades. His braces scrape at your skin a little bit, but you don’t mind. “Is This Your Sassy, Indirect Way Of Asking For More?”

Papyrus already has all of his fingers in you. You know his thumb is next and you already feel so, so full…

But you’d been working up to this for a long time.

You were ready.

“Mmn, go for it, big guy…”

“That’s My Human,” he coos at you, and you feel a flare of pride in your chest even as he tucks his thumb in alongside his fingers and…

Oh…

Oh, stars.

The stretch is something you almost don’t have the words to describe. You’re so hot and you feel sweat beading all along your back as Papyrus sinks his hand into you up to the wrist. You jolt when he gives those long, spindly fingers of his a playful little wriggle that sends a buzz of unexpected pleasure up to your brain.

“Don’t tease,” you snap at him and he laughs.

“Nyeh-Heh-Heh, I’m Sorry, Sunshine, I Couldn’t Resist.” He settles his hand on your ass-cheek and you feel the way you barely fill out his palm. He’s that stupidly huge and you have his other hand in you right now. “This Really Is Amazing… I Can’t Believe You’re Actually Taking This.”

You could hardly believe it yourself…but this was a long time in the making. It was wild what muscle training and a ridiculous amount of lubricant could accomplish.

“You’re So Pink Inside,” he murmurs wonderingly, “So Hot…”

Papyrus pulls out of you and you moan at the unexpected loss, the ache you feel where you’re suddenly empty…

…only to go still as you feel the bones of his clenched fist nudging against you.

“Are You Ready?”

Another deep breath, in and out.

“Yeah, m’ready.”

Your back arched as he pressed back into you, his knuckles dragging against every sweet spot you had inside you and making you shiver and moan a lot louder than you meant to.

“Do You Like That, Sunshine?” he asks you. “Is It Too Much? Am I Hurting You?”

Ohhh, Papyrus. Sweet, respectful, caring Papyrus.

Anybody who thought he was just a huge, creepy monster had no idea what they were talking about. He was your big, lanky sweetheart and nothing was going to change that, not even the fact that his hand was so deep inside you right now that he could probably use you like a puppet.

“In order: yes, no, hell no, and don’t you dare stop!”

So saying, you squeeze your inner-muscles as best you can, making Papyrus jump to feel you fluttering so enticingly where you’re stretched around him.

“Oh, As You Wish, My Human,” he purrs.

You know it’s going to be a long night.

Prev Chapter | Next Chapter

#working out the kinks #lemon #undertale #fanfiction #papyrus #papyrus/reader #horrortale #ht!papyrus #myfic

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maevefiction · 6 years ago

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Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 46

A little over an hour later, pleased I’d remembered that Tom and I needed to remove our rings before opening the room door, I was being escorted to the Hokulea Suite by Simon the Loud and Annoying, my hair still dripping wet, dressed in cut off sweat-shorts and my X-files T-shirt. He was gifting me the details of all the fun he’d had last night with Anne, gushing over her wit and demanding that we all head to New Orleans for Mardi Gras 2017 because he needed her to show him her favorite haunts IN PERSON or he’d never forgive himself or me until my stomach rumbled and I felt a rush of saliva in my mouth, wrinkling my nose at the queasiness that followed.

“We need to detour, dude. Bridezilla requires nourishment prior to prettification.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Really? Really? It’s already after one, and…”

I crossed my arms. “And…what? And you want me to dry heave my way through the vows?”

“Ewwww…Maude. So gross.”

“Whatever. Stress plus hunger is not a good combo for me, apparently. Not going to make the same mistake as yesterday. We’ll still have three hours or something, and if that’s not enough, you can just find me a veil somewhere and I’ll wear it all evening long. Problem solved, am I right?”

“Well, since I am, frankly, rather fearful of what will become of me if I dissent, oh yes, right you are.”

“Mmm hmm. And about that whole Mardi Gras business…have you forgotten that you’ll have two screaming, squalling, pooping machines in your midst by then? Sounds like a less than Ideal experience to me, especially the trans-Atlantic flight part.”

His hands flew up to cover his mouth briefly, then extended open, palms out, to either side of his face. “OH MY GOD YOU’RE RIGHT BABIIIEEEESSSSSS…” He inhaled, then exhaled deeply. “So you really don’t think we can just, you know, bring them with us?”

Shrugging, I took him by the arm and began walking toward the lounge. “Truthfully, I have no fucking idea, and though you obviously have vastly more experience in this department than I do, I’m reasonably sure that’s listed under ‘Super Mega Dumbass Scenarios’ in the parenting handbook.”

He stopped short, and when I turned to him the expression on his face was a mixture of jubilation and pure terror. “When Roland was a baby, I was working so much that Lisa handled…well, everything, essentially. Now I’m going to, like, BE LISA, and the question is, CAN I be Lisa? And with double the poop machines?”

I wrapped my arms around him, kissing each cheek in turn. “You don’t need to be anyone but you, Simon. Because you’re amazing, and you know what? If anyone can pull off bringing two infants across the ocean to do Mardi Gras with Anne Rice, it’s you.”

He squeezed me tightly. “Thank you, Nice Maude.”

“You’re welcome. But if we do end up going, you should know that I am absolutely, positively taking a different flight.”

Snorting, he let go of me and took two steps backward, waving. “Au revoir, Nice Maude.”

I was still snickering as we entered the lounge, wherein I voraciously inhaled two waffles laden with raspberry syrup and whipped cream, two scrambled eggs, four pieces of bacon, a toasted everything bagel with butter, half a melon, a tall glass of orange juice and two cups of Kona coffee, which, after trying it the very first time, I knew I never wanted to live without. A giant blech escaped me as I rose from the table, which struck Simon as so hilariously funny that I wound up sitting back down to wait for him to get a grip, and just as he was able to quasi-communicate it happened again, and then we both completely lost our shit. Those moments are some of life’s best, when the most ordinary thing suddenly becomes a source of incapacitating amusement, and when it turns infectious…even better.

It was going on two-thirty when we finally arrived at the Hokulea Suite, and I could hear the faint thumping bass of what I immediately recognized as Lady Gaga’s ‘Born This Way’ through the door. Veronica was a huge fan, attending every show she could manage, occasionally discussing her dream to somehow find herself as the Lady’s stylist, even if only for a single day. And in this particular instance, ‘occasionally’ meant every time one of Gaga’s songs came on. I couldn’t see Veronica when we first entered, but I could hear her singing, so as Simon headed one way toward his dressing area I followed the sonic trail and discovered her behind one of the far screens working on Anne’s makeup. The sight of Anne high up in the director’s chair, hair hidden beneath a shower cap, body wrapped in a black plastic cape and her bare feet tapping on the tiny rest made me smile widely. She’d been through so much in her own life, yet here she was, still going, still enjoying, still loving, still…living. I felt a pang of regret that I’d shut her out for so long…despite all our differences and disagreements, she was the closest thing to an actual mother I’d ever had. If it weren’t for her encouragement and support, I might have never started my own business, and if that hadn’t happened, my path and Tom’s might never have crossed. I blinked, noticing that both Anne and Veronica were staring at me. Anne reached out to pat my upper arm.

“Love ya, kiddo. Thanks for letting me be a part of all this…I always prayed you’d find someone who’d lift you up and…”

I interrupted her sentence with an embrace so strong I was afraid I might crush her. “Thank you for that. I did. He does. I love you too.”

She chuckled, and as I pulled back the smirk on her face alerted me to what was coming next. “Maude Gallagher, has my sense of hearing failed me or did you just thank me for praying?’

I pointed my index finger first at her, then at Veronica. “Never speak of this again, either of you.” I paused for dramatic effect. “So, anyway…where would you have me go, fine friend and Chief Beautification Enforcer?”

Veronica snorted. “To your designated private but not really private at all temporary staging area. I’ll be done with this one’s makeup in a few minutes, then I’ll come get to work on you. Everyone else is done…well, not me, but that won’t take long.”

“Because you’re naturally gorgeous.”

She smiled. “Born This Way.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’d quote a meaningful Gaga lyric back at you but the only thing that comes to mind right now is p-p-p-p poker face and that always makes me think of poke HER face and…yeah. I’m gonna walk away now. Bye.”

The director’s chair taunted me, all tall and spindly, begging me to climb in so it could tip itself over and dump my ass out onto the ground. If I were a director, I’d demand something leather and cushy with wheels so my personal assistant could push me around the set. Sighing, I checked the mechanisms responsible for holding it open, making sure they were on the up-and-up before I slipped off my Birkis and clambered aboard. It wasn’t as bad as I expected, though I forced myself to remain as still as possible, just in case. A few minutes later Veronica arrived, Telephone now cranking at an unreasonable volume. I removed my T-shirt so she could cape-drape me, and while she worked on my eyelids I nodded off for a few seconds. The short spell was broken by her sternly warning me that if she had to start the process all over again because I’d been up late doing god knows what she’d make me look like one of the Kardashian sisters and that was the end of Maude’s Naptime Session. After makeup came hair, which was going to be all drawn up in a large bun that rested just above the nape of my neck, enclosed in a silver wire cage that was fastened in place with six large silver bobby pins. I couldn’t actually see anything other than the components as they came together, though, because Veronica insisted that I wait until I was fully dressed before looking at myself in the mirror. I managed to remove myself from the chair without incident after Veronica took off my cape, and then followed her instructions to strip down the rest of the way. We’d discussed underwear previously, deciding that a thong would be best, so I’d put a white silk one on this morning, not giving a single thought to the fact that my ass might bear bruises that were unmistakably the marks left by grabbing hands. I let my shorts fall to the floor, hoping there was nothing to see, but her snort as she looked my way after hanging the cape on its hook caused me to instantaneously abandon said hope.

“Well, well, well…you WERE up late doing god knows what, weren’t you?” She drew closer for a better look, emitted a low whistle, and I could feel my cheeks flush. “Honey, your man has some huge hands on him. Oy, I feel like I should cross myself or something for where my mind went next. Anyway. Let’s hope they don’t show through the fabric.”

“Oh my GOD do you really think…” I craned my neck in order to see her face, saw a wide smirk upon it, and realized that she was totally fucking with me. “Dude. Not cool. NOT. COOL.”

She grinned. “I know. I also know I should be sorry, but I’m not. Take that bra off while I get your gown out of its bag, please and thank you.”

My phone chirped, and I bent down to fish it out of the left front pocket of my shorts. It chirped three more times before I stood up and unlocked it, and for a moment my heart fluttered, wondering if another bout of ugliness awaited me. Thankfully, what I found were four messages from Melanie.

The Big Day is finally here! – Melanie

Everything is in place and just as it should be. Two videos to follow. See you soon! – Melanie

The first was of the ceremony site, white chairs on either side of the purple carpet facing the ocean and the arbor. We didn’t want an arch so we’d chosen a more minimalist, almost Oriental-style construct. It was rectangular, four thick, squared poles forming the bottom, connected at the top by two flush pieces at the sides, two extended beams across the front and the back. All had been painted white, the front and back beams wrapped with alternating purple and green fabric that draped down the sides. Large square glass containers had been fastened to the front poles using three strips of burnished silver sheet metal and filled with purple orchids, lady’s mantle, and flowering comfrey. More purple carpet lined the bottom of the structure, and she’d started filming at the far end and walked up the aisle and, of course, waterworks once again loomed. I closed my eyes, breathed in, then out, then again and again until I calmed down because, makeup. The second video was of the Paddle Room, and it was…perfect. Exactly as I’d specified, right down to the books specifically chosen for each table. Another message came through, and I exited the file to view it.

PS - don’t be concerned if you notice the cake isn’t included. That needs to be a surprise. – Melanie

I typed out a reply, my shaky hands making it extra challenging.

It’s all perfect. Totally perfect. Thank you so much for doing this. Amazing. Surreal. Everything. – Maude

Another chirp.

You are very, very welcome. So happy you’re happy! – Melanie

I put my phone away, bra still in place when Veronica returned. She rolled her eyes at me, and I undid the hooks and tossed it onto the chair. The mini-dress came first, followed by the silver gladiator sandals, then the maxi-skirt. Veronica sighed heavily, smiling.

“Maude, you are…breathtaking.”

My left eyebrow rose. “In a good way, or in a Seinfeld you’ve-got-to-see-the-baaaaaaaby way?”

“Come see for yourself, why don’t you?” She held out her left hand. “You have to close your eyes until we’re there so you get the full effect. I’ll lead you.”

“M’kay.” I reached for her, closing my eyes once I’d established a firm grip, silently hoping that this was indeed a simple walk to the mirror and not an instance of ‘surprise the bride’ because I was in no condition to handle that sort of fuckery.

After navigating what I assumed was the center area of the room Veronica stopped me, let go of my hand and turned me around, speaking only a single word.

“Open.”

I tilted my head downward and let my eyelids slowly lift until I was staring down into my own cleavage. Exhaling, I began to raise my head, higher and higher, and then…there I was. Maude Gallagher on her wedding day in her wedding dress ready for her wedding ceremony and wedding reception. She was me, but…not me. The woman in the mirror appeared to have just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine spread, and I found myself reaching out to touch her because that woman couldn’t be me, wearer of ancient T-shirts who sniffed items of clothing found on the floor to judge by scent if they were acceptable to wear just one more time before washing them. My fingers connected with the surface of the mirror and I gasped.

“It IS me. Holy. Fucking. Shit.” I heard laughter, but I was too busy studying my reflection to acknowledge it. Veronica had dressed me for my dinner at Daniel with Tom, and there had been some serious wow factor then for sure but this…she’d coordinated my eye shadow with the bridesmaid dresses, a gradient from purple to green starting at eyebrow level with a faint overlay of silver. The liner was black, and my lashes were darkened with black mascara, impossibly long and thick, yet somehow still appearing natural. On my lips was a shade of deep maroon-purple, again matching a component of the bridesmaid dresses, thinly lined with a dark green which should have looked awful but…didn’t. It worked, and worked well. Paired with the style dress I’d chosen and the silver-crowned bun, the overall effect made me feel like I could absolutely, positively land a role in the next Star Wars film as Leia’s progeny and that was right off the fucking charts, man. Right. Off. I turned to the woman with limitless talent next to me, shaking my head back and forth slowly.

“Veronica. VERONICA. VER. ON. ICA. You’re like…you’re a fucking SORCERESS. For real. Really. I can’t…I just…thank you. Thank you.”

She grinned, pointing her index finger at me. “You’re very welcome, dear darling Maude. Now don’t fuck it up before we go out there, okay?”

I snorted. “Listen, I’ll do my best, but you know the face probably won’t last through the ceremony and the dress is doomed to be destroyed at cake time, if not before. Better get some pics for your portfolio while you can, my friend.”

“I will. But first I have to make myself presentable.” She turned to Emma, Sarah, Trudy and Anne, all of whom had gathered behind me. “Ladies, please keep the bride out of trouble while I’m gone.” They laughed, nodding, and Veronica disappeared behind one of the screens just as Simon emerged from behind his own. He screeched at the sight of me, hands raised to shoulder height, palms facing me, fingers spread widely.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! OH MY GOD LOOK AT YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU! MAAAUUUUUUUUUUUDEEEEEEE! SPACE PRINCESSSSSSSSSSS!”

I screeched in return. “I KNOOWWWWWWWWWW! AND LOOK AT YOUUUUUUUU!”

He smirked as he spun in a circle. “I. AM. FABULOUS.”

“YOU ARE! SHOULD WE STOP SHOUTING?”

“PROBABLY!”

He air-kissed my cheek. “Poor Tom. I don’t think he’s prepared for this level of gorgeousis spectacularity.”

The thought that I’d soon be walking down the aisle with Simon at my side, seeing for myself just how prepared Tom was, took its place front and center in my mind, and as I assessed whether or not I’d be able to cope with such a thing, the realization that my father was absent in all of this slammed into me, and hard. My gaze turned toward the floor, and I closed my eyes tightly to shut out everything around me. He’d been gone for so long, and while I thought of him often, it was always briefly, the moment tinged with fondness for a memory, a touch of sadness, and a wish that he’d found peace. This time, it was fury, and a longing so intense it was physically painful. He’d left me alone in this world with a mother who had no love for me whatsoever, and he’d never know me as I was now, the woman I’d become, the things I’d accomplished, and on this day when I was celebrating the love I’d found, he was a corpse in a crypt in New Orleans when he should have been here, giving me away, sharing a father-daughter dance. He’d never know Tom, never know our children…and they’d never know him. I understood the why of what he’d done, but the fact that it, to me, his child, his ONLY child, felt like such a wasteful, selfish act was inescapable. He’d chosen himself over all else, including me, and here I was on my wedding day, with his death on my mind and threatening to override my happiness. Which I was NOT going to permit…too many moments had been stolen from me already. This was MY time now. And my life. And my god, what an amazing, beautiful life it had become. I swallowed, inhaled, exhaled, and then swallowed again, beating the sorrow and rage into submission. I felt hands grasp my forearms and I opened my eyes to find Simon staring at me, his own eyes full of worry, and when I smiled his face changed and he breathed a sigh of relief, his voice soft and low as he spoke.

“Want to talk about it?”

My head shook back and forth slowly. “Ghosts. I’m over it. Thank you.” I twisted my wrists so my hands could clutch his forearms, linking us like a snake eating its own tail. “Thank you for being willing to walk me down the aisle, Simon. It means so much to me, more than words can say. I love you. Like, a whole lot.”

He nodded, acknowledging that he understood, knowing me so well that what I’d been thinking about was perfectly clear to him. “You’re very welcome. I love you too. And bitch, if I cry and get droplet marks all over this very fine suit and ruin your wedding photos, that’s all on YOU.”

We both giggled, and just as I opened my mouth to explain to the women standing around me Melanie walked through the door and announced that we were fifteen minutes from go time.

****************************************

A row of white screens had been set up to one side of the ceremony site in order to block any possible viewing of me prior to my grand entrance. No one had seen the bridesmaid dresses yet either, but apparently no one was concerned about ruining that surprise because they were all allowed to peek around the barrier and comment on how incredibly handsome Tom looked, and also how he was fidgeting more than a kindergartener who needed to use the bathroom but didn’t want to miss story time. As part of his sound system, Sammy had set up a microphone at the far end of the site and outdoor speakers throughout, and I could hear strains of native Hawaiian music, though it was muted by the pounding of my own heart in my ears. Instead of using the traditional walk-in song, I’d decided to go with a version of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ that I’d seen on YouTube…any version moved me to tears, but this one made me sob like a baby. Which, in hindsight, might not have been the wisest choice…but it was so beautiful, and the timing was perfect. It was an orchestral performance in a town square, starting with one lone bass player, with additional groupings being added as the piece progressed. The faces of the crowd were full of enchantment and wonder in the video, experiencing the sound of notes put together by someone long ago in the present and amongst other humans, all feeling…well, just FEELING. That was the point. In the moment, in harmony, so ALIVE. As Melanie signaled for everyone to line up, the Hawaiian music stopped, and in the silence that followed I tried to imprint the moment, the quiet, the before…and then the sound of the bass began to resonate, and it was really, truly go time. The wedding party would have the duration of the instrumental portion to reach their places, and Simon and I would start our walk when the soft chorus began, hopefully reaching Tom and Luke, whom we’d decided should remain at Tom’s side since Simon would be with me, just in time for the pause point before the escalating chorus and finale began. Ken and Anne were first, followed by Ben and Veronica, Chris and Trudy, Guillermo and Sarah, then Hugh and Emma. Simon proffered his right arm for me to hold, and I shifted the bouquet of purple orchids and lady’s mantle to my right hand in order to take his arm with my left. We rounded the corner just as the singing began, and all of our guests rose from their seats as I took my first step forward, then froze in place as I witnessed Tom’s knees buckle at the sight of me, Luke grabbing him by the elbow in an attempt to steady him. Simon tilted his head sideways in order to whisper in my ear.

“Don’t freak out, honey. You can do this. Keep. Moving.”

And I did. I don’t know HOW, but I did. Everything and everyone other than Tom was a blur, our guests, the wedding party lined up, Tom’s chosen people on the left, mine on the right, the judge, all of it…except for my husband, who was already my husband, but not yet my husband as far as anyone else was concerned. There he was, in his black suit and white dress shirt with a purple waistcoat I knew I’d see more of later when he ditched the jacket to dance, his silver pocket square jutting out in a perfect triangular point, black patent shoes practically glowing in the sun. I watched him shake his head and mouth the words ‘oh my god’ over and over before he smiled at me, the tears in his eyes threatening to spill over, followed by a hand across his mouth, then a silent ‘I love you’ and a grin that grew ever wider as I drew nearer. And then there I was, with Simon releasing my arm and Tom taking my hand in his, not even noticing that my bouquet had somehow gone missing when I raised my right hand to wave like a child at my beautiful man and managed to squeak out a single word.

“Hi.”

He waved back, voice cracking as he returned the greeting. “Hi.”

I heard a whooshing sound and briefly thought I was dying, then realized the noise had been everyone sitting back down in their chairs. The judge cleared his throat, and we turned to face him, backs to our guests. Today he was wearing a proper suit, which startled me because my addled brain had been expecting the tuxedo T-shirt. It was dark green linen, with a white shirt and bow-tie, and I wondered if it was a coincidence that he coordinated with our color scheme or if Melanie had requested that he do so. He smiled at us, then began speaking.

“We gather today in this place of sea and sky and sand and sun to join the couple who stand before me in matrimony. That word, it’s a significant word, an important word, but what it represents is most meaningful…two individuals who feel a profound connection between them, both physically and spiritually, a connection from which stems a deep and abiding love so powerful that the two seek to become one. To become… a family, not to which they’re born, but one which they choose to create.” He paused briefly, then continued. “Thomas William Hiddleston and Maude Gallagher, is it your wish to marry each other on this day, June 29th, 2016?”

We nodded, speaking in unison. “Yes.” The urge to say ‘absofuckingloutely’ had been overwhelming, and I was super proud of myself for exercising some self-control.

“Then let us proceed. It is my understanding that you’ve prepared your own vows?” Another nod from both of us. “Please turn and face each other. May I have the rings?”

After panicking for several very long seconds because I had no idea how we were handling that bit for this ceremony, I spotted Luke stepping forward and passing them to the judge, who in turn gave Tom’s to me. I sighed in relief, having hoped that’s how it would play out this time around as well. I reached for Tom’s left hand, which I’d released as we’d turned, and grasped it with my own, pretending to wipe sweat from my brow with my right hand.

“Well thank the universe for small favors…I SO didn’t want to have to try and come up with something after this one had a chance to speak. “ I hooked my right thumb in his direction, noting the soft chuckles that emanated from our friends and family as I met Tom’s gaze. “One year ago, I drove out to Talk Story because I, book nerd that I am, couldn’t resist the prospect of maybe, just maybe, finding that long-sought first edition of The Gunslinger. I didn’t…not that time, anyway…but I did find One Hundred Years of Solitude. Which, looking back, is so over the top ridiculous, because…that’s what the life I’d lived before that day feels like since you appeared in those stacks, trying to go all incognito and using a certain bullwhip-toting archeology professor’s name as your alias. Up until then, to me, you were that incredibly talented actor whose social media accounts I used as an example of what NOT to do in my lectures. But in your presence, seeing you, then and there…gotta be honest, I kinda lost the plot for a few seconds.” A round of laughter from our guests ensued. “Which was, you know, totally unacceptable. No thank you, hard pass, Maude is better off alone. But then you followed me outside, and then you KNELT on the sidewalk in front of me…deep down, I knew I was a goner when I let you have one of my Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup peanut butter cookies, but my jadedness persisted. For like, a few hours. And that night, in my hotel room…which is now OUR hotel room…when you tucked me into bed and spent the night…when you stayed…that was that. There you were, the other half of my soul, and finally, I’d been made whole.” I’d managed to not cry, but tears were running freely down his cheeks. “So, Dr. Jones…are you ready for the life-long adventure of being my husband? I don’t have an Ark or a Holy Grail, but I’m pretty good in bed, and I promise to love you with all that I am and all that I’ll ever be.”

He nodded, wiping away tears with his free hand. “I do love a grand adventure…and I’ve never been more ready for something in all my days.”

I turned his left hand over, opened my right one, then slipped the band onto his left ring finger. “Well then, with this ring, I thee wed. Off we go!”

Tom let go of my hand in order to hold his up high, grinning proudly as he moved it slowly back and forth to show off his new accessory to the crowd before turning his attention back to me, taking hold of my left hand, then bringing it to his lips and placing a gentle kiss on my knuckles. The judge placed my ring in Tom’s open right palm, his fingers closing tightly around it as he stared into my eyes, and I knew the vows he’d planned on using had gone right out the window, because he was re-writing them right then, crafting with his heart and soul words that would likely echo my sentiments. Following a slight nod that indicated he was satisfied, he began to speak.

“One year ago, I drove out to Talk Story to pick up a book I hoped would assist me in playing a role. I was in a rush, as Luke had scheduled a meeting I wasn’t expecting. In an attempt to avoid being recognized, which would have slowed me down and made me late for, as I’m sure Luke will confirm, the millionth time, I donned a baseball cap and Hawaiian print shirt as a rather crude disguise. When I walked through the door and saw the staff wearing Loki shirts, I panicked…and then, I saw you. And, like you, I lost the plot. It was as if the heavens had opened up and the sun shone on you and you alone, lighting my way. I followed the path, finding myself standing behind you, thoroughly unable to form words as I watched you choose your books so very carefully. When you spun around I thought you might slap me, but instead, you recognized me, understood my plight, and solved my problem. When you called me Indy…well, how could I NOT follow you outside and beg for your number?” I snorted. “I was completely bent out of shape that I had to leave in order to make that damn meeting, which I had no desire to attend in the first place, because all I wanted to do was be near you, to talk to you, to get to know you. The entire ride back to this side of the island all I thought about was you, and I was telling Luke that this was it, you were THAT woman, MY woman, as we walked into Kauai Pasta and…there you were. You were the person Luke had set up the meeting with. Of all the people in this world, it was you. Over the next few hours, I fell in love with you at least a hundred times, each instance pulling me deeper and deeper until we parted company and…I couldn’t bear it, so I turned up at your door practically in the middle of the night with tea and truffles. And later, when I stayed…I knew I never, ever wanted to leave. In seeking out something to help me play a make-believe role I’d already been cast in, through some miraculous alignment within the universe, here I am stepping into the real-world role of a lifetime, the one I was born for…that of being husband to you.” I’d managed to swallow back my sobs, but hot tears were dripping down and off my nose. “So, Ms. Gallagher…are you ready for the life-long adventure of being my wife? I’ve no Sankara stones or crystal skull, but I’ll always have truffles at the ready, and I promise to love you with all that I am and all that I’ll ever be.”

I nodded. “You had me at truffles. Plus, you’re really good in bed. Sign me up and let’s roll, baby.”

He turned my left hand over, opened his right one, then slipped the band onto my left ring finger, absent of my engagement ring, which was currently residing on my right hand. “Well then, with this ring, I thee wed. Off we go!”

We looked to the judge, who had placed both hands in front of his chest, palms together. “By the power vested in me by the state of Hawaii, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

There was no waiting for permission…our lips were locked before he even finished his sentence, and if it weren’t for Simon poking me in the ribs we would have missed our exit cue. Ode to Joy’s divinely loud chorale had begun, and Tom and I started upon our first official walk as husband and wife, our guests all on their feet, applauding, cheering, and whistling as we worked our way to the white screen, where we waited for the rest of the wedding party to join us. When the tempo sped up, they ran towards us, and Tom picked me up by my waist and spun me around…it was such an incredible moment, a happy moment, the kind you want to freeze frame and go back to again and again, one you wouldn’t mind having as your very final thought on this earth. And then, it was over in a flash as I desperately signaled for him to put me down, making my way behind the screen just in time to barf on the impeccably groomed green grass.

Just as it had the day before, my stomach purged itself until it was empty, and afterward I felt perfectly fine. Tom surrendered his pocket square so I could wipe my mouth, and while I dabbed at my lips I noticed no one else was around. He placed a hand on my bare back, smiling softly.

“I shooed them back around the screen. Figured you wouldn’t want an audience.”

“Thank you. That was…bizarre. Have I reached that age where spinning makes you puke? But I wasn’t spinning yesterday, that was stress…so, is EVERYTHING going to make me puke now? Or is it a stomach virus? Because I was really queasy earlier before I ate.” I looked down at my dress, and the mess I’d left on the ground. “Well that’s disgusting. Sheese. But, the dress appears to be unscathed so, commence picture time. Though I’d kinda like to bush my teeth or at least rinse, and I guess I could use some more lipstick…”

“Why don’t we go back to your dressing area so you can freshen up?” His smile was still the same, which struck me as odd, and I felt my mind wander into ‘oh my god is there something really wrong with me and I’m the only one who doesn’t know it’ territory. I nodded, and he kissed my cheek. “I’ll go let everyone know we’ll be back in a bit – they can head in to the Paddle Room with the guests, then come back out when we’re ready to do group shots before our session with the media.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

When he returned from around the screen I could discern from his expression that something was absolutely up, which made me freak out even more. He took my hand and we walked the short distance to the Hokulea suite in silence. After we were inside, he went into the kitchen, grabbed a Coke from the fridge, then sat on the sofa to our left and motioned for me to sit down next to him. I did so, as carefully as possible, suddenly dying of thirst and wanting what was in that can more than anything else I could think of. He popped the top and passed it to me, and I drank three-quarters of it a few long, loud gulps then wiped my lips with the back of my hand.

“This is so COLD and so GOOD. Mmmmm.”

Tom’s hand came to rest on my knee, his eyes first staring downward, then lifting to meet mine. “Maude, I’ve…over the past month or so…I...I’ve observed some…changes…in your behavior, and now, over the past two days, there’s been a physical manifestation…” The world started to dim around me, and I could feel my internal temperature rising as panic washed over me. “I just…I didn’t know how to broach the subject, so I haven’t and I still don’t know but…I think need to ask you a question and…well…have you been…are you…you know…late?”

My brow crinkled as my head tilted to the left. “Late? I don’t…what does that…late with, like, what? Or do you mean slow on the uptake or something, to which I’d respond with a resounding yes but I thought it was all the pressure but do you think I have dementia or a brain tumor or something? It’s okay, just say it…”

“Oh no. No, no, no.” He slid closer to me so our legs were touching. “Your period. Have you been late with your period. I know you’ve been expecting it, and it hasn’t arrived, and when I thought back, I don’t recall you having it for quite some time, so…”

Shaking my head, I put my Coke down on the floor. “By a few days, maybe. But my cycle’s been wacky since I went off the pill. Christ, you scared the SHIT out of me.”

He swallowed, wondering, I imagined, how to proceed because he obviously thought differently. I counted to ten silently, because for some reason I was fast on my way to becoming pissed off, then put my hand over his.

“Tom, I know, I can’t stand waiting for it to happen either, but it’s on my calendar and everything. I’ll go get my phone.” I stood, then walked back to where my shorts were bunched up on the floor and dug the device out of my left front pocket. As I sat back down on the couch, I pulled up my calendar and swiped back to May. “Yep, there it is. May 27th. So yeah, I’m technically late but I went 21 days in March and then 32 in April or something, so…” And then I swiped back to April. And then I swiped back to March, then back to April. Then to May, then back to April. And then, my jaw dropped open and I REALLY started to freak the fuck out. He just sat there, expressionless, while I tried to wrap my head around what I was seeing.

“I…I…I can’t believe this. April. There’s nothing there. No data. Not. There. I think…I think I…now that I’m like, really THINKING about it, it does seem like it’s been a while since I bought pads and I think maybe I put April’s dates on the May grid and that means May was period-less and that means…I’m late. Like late…enough. Wow. WOW. This is CRAZY. Tom. TOM. I thought you were hallucinating or whatever and here I am trying to prove you wrong but you’re like, not wrong, I don’t think. Okay. We can’t be sure until I take a test, right? And I don’t think I can wait until after the reception to know. I need to know. Oh my god. CRAZY. Can I sneak out of here in this outfit and go to the drug store around the corner without anyone recognizing me, do you think?”

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning up just slightly. “No, I don’t think that’s possible. Honestly, I don’t know how we’re even going to send Luke or Simon or someone else we’re comfortable discussing this with to purchase a pregnancy test what with the media lurking all over. Even if they’re dressed in casual clothing.”

We were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Melanie Hale’s voice, inquiring softly.

“Maude? Tom? Is everything all right?”

Tom and I looked at each other, and I gave him a double thumbs up. She was a local, not as overly-adorned as the rest of us, and the press had no clue who she was yet since we hadn’t mentioned her on social media as part of our effort to keep the wedding details under wraps. And, since she’d not mentioned a blessed thing either, I had complete faith in her ability to keep a secret. I shouted for her to come in, and when she saw us sitting down she placed one hand over her heart and said some seriously magic words.

“If there’s something I can do to help, anything…please, feel free to ask.”

My face scrunched up as I spoke. “Weeellll…now that you’ve mentioned it, there is this one thing…”

****************************************

After hunting down the lipstick shade Veronica had applied earlier and giving myself a fresh coat, I texted Simon and told him we were ready to have the bridesmaids and groomsmen join us back at the ceremony site for photos. Focusing on the task at hand was nearly impossible, my mind preoccupied with images of Melanie walking into a store, choosing a pregnancy test, paying for it, driving back to the hotel, then sneaking up to our room, using the key we’d given her to enter, and leaving it behind along with what she’d purchased as we’d planned. I attempted to estimate how many more shots the photographer would likely require before this session was declared complete and we were permitted to move on to the next one, all the while attempting to portray myself as a woman who’d just wed the love of her life, which I was…but now I was ALSO a woman who might be carrying his child, and trying to disguise the fact that the anticipation of confirming such a thing was driving me insane turned out to be a wickedly difficult challenge. Finally, it was over, and Tom and I headed to the same room the press conference had been held in yesterday to pose for the media outlets, all of whom had complied with our requests. A large backdrop had been positioned at the front of the room, a medium-grey gradient that was typically the first choice whenever someone specified ‘not the blue one’. They’d structured their positioning and rotation on their own, so all Tom and I had to do was smile and shift around to add some variety. One photog yelled ‘dip her!’ and I held my breath during the act, hoping I wouldn’t throw up at such an inopportune time. I didn’t, and even managed to spin around a little in order to make my skirt flare out without any repercussions. Tom had set his phone alarm, and when it went off, we thanked the group for respecting our wishes, then exited via the side door, closed it behind us, and held hands as we walked to the stairwell and up to our room. He released me to slide the keycard, and I followed him inside, then pushed past him to get to the gift bag on the bed. There was a card attached, written in Melanie’s overly-rounded cursive.

“Got you a few different kinds – that’s what I’ve always done. Fingers crossed for you!”

Melanie’s definition of ‘a few’ was six, apparently, because that’s how many there were, along with three plastic shot-glass sized cups. That she’d thought to use a gift bag to bring it all into the hotel was a testament to her thoroughness, and I stopped to seriously consider offering to pay the entirety of their college tuition for her kids, then decided that if Tom and I got and kept her name out there she wouldn’t need any help with that. At all. Tom’s arms slipped around my waist from behind, and I leaned back into him.

“Maude, I hope you won’t be upset with me if…”

“I won’t be. I’ll be disappointed…BEYOND disappointed…but I’m glad you brought it up. I had no clue. None. It might have been another month or two before I noticed, and this way, if I’m not pregnant and something else is going on, we can address it sooner as opposed to later. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. Let’s do this. I hope I can use those cups to pee in, because the odds of me landing any on the actual sticks are slim to none.”

Four of the tests were supposed to show results in three minutes, the other two in five minutes. And yes, cup dipping was an acceptable substitute for stream-to-stick. Even still, I took off the maxi-skirt and hiked up my dress as far as possible before I went into the bathroom in order to avoid any unpleasantries…as any woman who’s ever endured a urine specimen collection will attest to, at best, you’ll wind up with a little on your hands. At worst, there will be none in the cup when you’re done and you’re back at square one. I was really grateful for that Coke and the length of time that had gone by since I chugged it, because I filled those cups like a fucking champ, handing them one by one to Tom, who placed them ever-so-gently on the counter. I finished my business, washed my hands, and we each dipped three tests, one in each cup, placed them on the other side of the counter in a tidy little row, then went out into the main area to wait. Neither of us spoke as we stood watching the countdown timer on Tom’s phone he’d set for five minutes click off the seconds, and when it reached the two minute marker I reached for his hand, my own shaking so badly I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold on to him. He grabbed, then squeezed as he exhaled heavily.

“Are you ready?”

“HA – no, dude. No I am not. But I think they can give false results if you wait too long so…”

He nodded, and since we couldn’t fit through the door side by side, we closed our eyes until we were both inside the bathroom. His voice echoed off the walls as he spoke.

“All right, open on the count of three, then…one, two…THREE.”

I counted two sets of pink vertical lines, two sets of blue vertical lines, one grey plus sign, and one ‘pregnant’ that I’d later insist blazed in neon purple showing through the little plastic window. Six tests, six positives. I counted once more to be sure, blurting out the very first thing that came to mind.

“Oh my fucking god, Hiddleston. You did it. You knocked me UP.” I turned to take stock of his reaction, but his face wasn’t where it was supposed to be so I tipped my head downward and discovered that he’d sunk to his knees and was white as a sheet. My jaw dropped, and I put my hands on his shoulders. “Babe, are you okay? You don’t look okay. Talk to me.” His head lifted slowly, eyes blinking rapidly as he started at me, his mouth hanging halfway open, still silent. “Tom?”

He reached out and wrapped his arms around my hips, then pulled me close, resting his head on my lower belly. In which I was growing a tiny human. I felt my body go cold, and as I began to shudder Tom rose, shifted the tests to the side, then picked me up and plopped me on the counter top. He placed his hands on the sides of my face, leaning in so his forehead touched mine.

“You’re pregnant.”

I nodded, his head moving with the motion as well. “I’m…pregnant. Pregnant. Is this real? How can this be real? Who finds out they’re pregnant in the middle of their wedding? Seriously. I mean…I’m pregnant. I…I can’t believe it. I really didn’t think it would happen, you know? And it happened and it’s like one miracle on top of another and I just…” I began to sob, full-body, noisy, grateful sobs. Tom leaned back and gently pressed my head to his chest, smoothing my hair, and I could feel his body heaving as he sobbed right along with me. As much as I needed to be as close as possible to him right then, the desire to see him was greater, so I leaned back and grabbed his lapels, still weeping as I spoke. “We’re having a BABY.”

“Yes. Yes we are.” He smiled through his tears and began to sing. “You’re havin’ my baby…what a lovely way…”

I screeched and covered my ears. “NO OH MY GOD NO TOM NO I HATE THAT SONG…”

He laughed, which made me laugh as well…at least until I remembered we had a reception to attend, and pondered if we should keep this news to ourselves, and, if we went that route, precisely how we were going to do such a thing while surrounded by all the people we’d be dying to tell.

#your light in the mist #chapter 46

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