#fit bears over fifty

[gutsby]

Cabin Fever

Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader

Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?

Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵‍💫

You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.

He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.

Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.

He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.

He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.

Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.

Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.

Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.

A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.

Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.

You sort of looked charming in the firelight.

He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.

You didn’t die.

You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.

When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.

You sat up where you were and looked around.

“Da-a-d?”

You knew it was useless, calling for your father.

He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.

When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.

“Momma?”

Still no answer.

Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.

You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.

A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.

Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.

You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.

You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.

Thank fuck, you thought.

Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?

The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?

And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?

You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.

By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.

Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.

Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.

You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.

Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.

Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.

The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.

You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.

You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.

Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.

A voice, clear as day:

“CUJO!”

The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.

It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.

He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.

Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.

“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.

He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.

You winced when your ass hit the cushion.

You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.

“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.

If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.

It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.

Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.

“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.

“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.

The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.

At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.

Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.

Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.

He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.

Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.

Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.

“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.

He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.

“I can leave a bucket.”

“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.

And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.

Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.

He figured they would be.

Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.

“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.

Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.

“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.

By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.

“Figured,” you mumbled.

7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.

‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.

On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.

As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.

Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.

But this was all in good fun.

Great fun, even.

For him.

“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.

7:15.

He nudged your shoulder.

7:16.

Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.

7:17.

“Hey…honey?”

A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.

Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.

Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.

You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.

Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.

Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.

He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.

Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.

You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.

Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.

“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”

He never did catch your name.

That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.

Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.

Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.

“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”

Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.

“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”

You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.

Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.

“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.

Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.

He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.

“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.

He was one to talk.

Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.

You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.

“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”

“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.

Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?

Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.

“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

“Uh-huh.” Softly.

You little slut. He knew it all along.

Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.

With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.

You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?

“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”

Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.

“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”

That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.

By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.

Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.

He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.

He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.

He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.

He slept.

It was 7:57 when he woke.

The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.

You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.

“WH—” he started.

“Shut up.”

“ST—”

“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”

The man obeyed.

‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.

“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

The man’s eyes widened.

How dumb did he think you were?

Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.

You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.

You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.

Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.

You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.

“Why’d you stop?”

Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”

You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.

“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”

The man sputtered again.

“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”

He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.

“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”

If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.

You glanced down at it too.

“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”

“I ain’t—”

You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.

“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”

“Came?”

The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.

“Came?!”

That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.

“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”

You paused.

Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.

You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.

Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?

“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.

For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.

“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”

You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.

“Crazy bitch!”

“Creepy fuck.”

Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.

“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”

“Did I?”

Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.

“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.

“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”

Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.

“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”

“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.

You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.

One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.

You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.

The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.

“I feel…” Joel murmured.

“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”

A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.

“You fuckin’—”

Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.

“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”

Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.

“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.

Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.

As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.

“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.

“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

“How?”

Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.

“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”

Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.

“I don’t,” you answered.

Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.

As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.

Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.

“What is that?!”

Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’s it all…sticky?”

You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.

“It’s normal.”

“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.

“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.

In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.

You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.

He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.

“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”

Joel grinned. Big.

You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.

Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.

But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.

“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.

You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.

“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.

Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.

“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.

“Give me some what?”

“Head.”

Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as—

“JOEL!”

“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.

You tried to shy away, but he held you down.

“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”

As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.

Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.

“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.

You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.

“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”

At that, Joel stopped.

His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.

“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”

You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.

“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.

“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.

Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.

“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”

At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.

“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.

Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.

“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”

As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.

“Not here…”

He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.

“Not here.”

He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.

“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”

You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.

You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.

“Joel…”

When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.

“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.

Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.

For the first time, you let out a moan.

You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.

“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”

His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.

“No.”

You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.

No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.

“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.

“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.

Fuck it.

You squeezed the trigger again.

Empty chamber.

If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.

“You done?” he asked, almost bored.

Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.

“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.

Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.

“You want this,” he countered gently.

“I DON’T!”

Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.

Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.

“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”

His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.

You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.

He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.

You were raised better than that.

You could do better than anything this man had to offer.

You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.

Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.

Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.

At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.

“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Will do.”

Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.

In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.

“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.

“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.

In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.

“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”

Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.

Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”

You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.

Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.

“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.

He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.

Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.

You’d bitten him.

You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.

Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.

Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.

“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.

You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.

“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”

“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.

Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.

You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.

Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.

“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”

Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.

“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.

You nodded again.

That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.

It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’

Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.

“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.

You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.

“Joel—”

“Jus’ lemme use you.”

Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.

“But—”

“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”

You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.

That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.

Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.

“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.

Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.

“I know.”

He knew?

“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.

Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.

“Joel, s-stop!”

It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.

“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”

And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.

Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.

Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.

“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.

The hand at the back of your head held you firm.

“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.

Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.

“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”

For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.

You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.

Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.

Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.

You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.

“FUCK!”

You squeezed the trigger.

[luveline]

What about Steve with a cry baby reader? Like she cries at everything and May be Steve is telling her about something hard but also not that deep like a fight with his parents or they r discussing exes and she starts crying bc Steve didn’t deserve heartbreak

thank you for your request! —steve tells you about his relationship with his parents and gets the comfort he deserves a few years late. fem!reader. hurt/comfort ♡ 1.7k CW mentioned child neglect

Steve indulges you every now and then with old movies. You're obsessed with those musical movies from the fifties, soft colours, cool cat leading men and blunt heroines. Your very favourite are the ones with love triangles, though Steve hasn't ever thought you'd like to be entangled in one yourself. 

Entangled in him, absolutely. "That is ridiculous," you say softly, sitting entirely in his lap, an arm around his neck and another his waist. "She loves him." 

"She does." When the heroine of Young At Heart realised one of her love interests didn't have a present for the birthday party they were going to attend together, she bought one for him so he wouldn't feel embarrassed —yet she's planning on marrying the other man. "Poor Frank. He looks shocked." 

"I'd be shocked. Lucky me, you've never sprung a sudden engagement on me," you say, your fingers rubbing mindlessly into his side. Your affection is often thoughtless. You care for him like another must-do, in time and rhythm with your breathing. 

"To another girl, you mean?" he asks warmly. 

You fluster and rub your cheek against the collar of his shirt, rolled and worn from an endless day on the couch together. He should go up and shower soon before bed, only you feel right in his lap, in no way light but a weight he's happy to bear.

You're skewed sideways, your legs laying across the rest of the couch, his legs kicked up on the coffee table. He keeps trying to force himself up for a shower and you keep leaning into his front or scratching your nails from his ribs to his hip, convincing him otherwise.

"If we ever… got engaged," you begin unsurely, eyes on the television to avoid his gaze, he's sure, "would we have a nice party like that?"

"When we get engaged we'll do whatever you want. We can have a party, send out ivory invitations with eleven point four Times New Roman font. All the trimmings." 

"Eleven point four." Your eyes soften with your smile. "What do you know about invitations?" 

"My mom had tons of stupid parties. She didn't always send out invitations, but when she did, she'd have them done right. I got to lick the envelopes." 

"Lucky Stevie." 

You shift backwards so your weight is on the couch rather than Steve, your back to the armrest and your thighs over his legs rather than on top of him. He can see your face better in this new position, and it's fitting: the love interest on TV starts spouting about how beautiful the heroine is, how her face is a tribute to the heavens if there ever were one. Smiling as you are, Steve has to agree. 

"What were they like, the parties?" 

Steve bites the tip of his tongue. "Fine," he says eventually. "They were fine. They'd set up buffet tables covered in hors d'oeuvres and everyone would walk around in their cocktail dresses and tailored suits drinking champagne and whiskey." His tone lightens toward the end, a put upon theatric for you to make it sound less snotty. 

"Did you wear a suit?" you ask. 

"Button down, usually."

"Nice! I bet you looked adorable. Do you have any photos?" 

"Honestly, baby?" Steve squeezes your leg. "I was miserable, then. You don't wanna see any photographs. I was never smiling."

"What?" 

"I hated my life. All my mom cared about was making us look like a perfect family, and all my dad cared about was work. I was happier when they started taking months-long business trips to Missouri."

"What do you mean?" you ask, putting your hand against his face. It's smaller than his but still big, still encompassing as you stroke his cheek and scratchy stubble. "You… what?"

He tells you because he knows you love him. It makes a hard thing easier, being loved. "Nothing, just, things were bad. My parents didn't even really like me, you know? They bounced me between little league and swim team and basketball when I was old enough. Track, cross country running, everything. Killer sun tan every summer." 

Any trace of a smile is gone from your face. "They didn't like you? What are you talking about?" 

"I was an annoying kid," he says. "You know how I was when we first met? Imagine that and worse." 

"There was nothing wrong with you when we first met." Your lip trembles. 

"Baby," he says quickly, on an exhale, the word half love and half apology, "don't be upset. I'm sorry, it wasn't as bad as it sounds. I'm making it sound worse than it was." 

Your eyes turn glassy. It's awful, being so close he can see the tears well, collecting in the corners of your eyes. You stroke his cheek tentatively and ignore them. 

"It was fine, sweetheart, really, I had everything. They'd leave me a fucking credit card when they went away, I never had to ask for anything. They gave me a car for my fifteenth birthday… I think they thought it was my sweet sixteen." 

Your face crumples like a wet paper towel. You try to fight it but you're a heavy crier and you always have been. It shocked Steve when you first met, how quickly you can fall into tears, but it doesn't necessarily mean you're extremely upset. He can maybe fix it before you give yourself a headache if he tries. 

"I'm sorry," he says again, dotting a kiss on the meat of your thumb. "I didn't tell you so you'd feel sorry for me." 

"I do feel sorry. I feel so sorry," you say quietly. 

"Don't cry…" Steve shifts into a better sitting position as the first tear trips over your waterline. Your hand falls to his collar. Your fingertips rub his collarbone. "I was lucky, I had everything I needed." 

"You just told me your parents didn't like you, Stevie, I wouldn't call you lucky. That they went away for months– How old were you?" 

He winces. "Fifteen?" 

"You were still a kid." 

"I was old before my time." 

"No, you weren't." You sniffle. "I didn't know about that, Stevie. I didn't know about any of this, I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry? I never told you." 

You bring both hands up now, placed gently against his chest, talking to him with a tenderness that makes his body ache, "If you think that it didn't matter, I'm really sorry. Imagining you that young, sitting there thinking they didn't like you? That breaks my heart." You're not overly dramatic despite the tears, but you say it with conviction. "You're not supposed to feel that way." 

Steve laughs quietly. "I know that, dummy. Why're you this upset about this? It was years ago." 

"Because it happened to you," you say, pouting at him sympathetically. "I don't know. I guess I figure how heavy that must be carrying around this whole time, thinking they didn't like you and that it was your fault." 

Steve tries to say something, his mouth dry as sand, but he supposes he had said that, in a way. It is what he thought, what he thinks. If he were better, if he were more interesting, more attractive, more talented, they'd stick around. He pushed himself in every sport they'd let him play hoping he'd see his dad standing in the bleachers one day. 

"You're not annoying," you say, wiping your tears. You square your expression into a steadier set. "You're amazing. If they couldn't see it then and if they refuse to see it now, that isn't something you did, Stevie. Maybe they gave you a car and an Amex card, but what you deserved most was–" Your determination to calm down wanes as your voice turns airy and scratchy, like you're trying not to sob. "You deserved to feel cared about. 'N' I'm sorry you didn't, because I love you more than anything."

Steve pulls you in for a hug. Mostly because you need one, but it doesn't hurt to hide his face from you know. His eyes burn, his heart pounding in his throat and between his ears as his arms climb up the length of your back. He focuses on that, the feeling of his hands and his bare forearms against your soft shirt. His chin goes over your shoulder and he presses the side of his head to yours with more force than he intends. 

"Don't wind yourself up over it," he murmurs. "I know it sucks, I promise I get it, and I love that you're sorry, I love you, but it's not worth crying over. They're not worth it." 

You tuck your arms behind his shoulder. Steve indulges in your smell, the warmth of your closeness. Talking about his parents is like poking at a purple scar. It's healed for the most part, but it's far from invisible. He usually ignores it all. 

"Is it weird that I'm kind of vindicated by your, uh, reaction?" he asks under his breath, as though someone might hear him and call him out for it. "I don't want you to cry, but…" 

"I'm in your corner." You pull him impossibly closer. "I'll always be upset for you. Even if you don't think it matters anymore, that's the kind of stuff that stays with you, you know?" You kiss his hair. Twice. A third time. "Sorry, I know I always make stuff about me, crying 'n' all." 

"That's not true," he murmurs, rubbing your back. 

He hates that you're crying, but he's glad, too. Glad all that pain isn't made up. Your reaction is proof he didn't just imagine how much it hurt to always want something he couldn't quite grasp. 

"You didn't deserve that," you say. 

"I know." 

"I love you." 

He knows that too. "I love you. You gotta stop crying, okay? You need your tears for the end of the movie when he crashes his car. How are you gonna bawl your eyes out for Sinatra if you've wasted them all on me?" 

You laugh wetly. "I think I've made a wet patch in your hair." 

Steve relaxes, reassured at the sound of your laugh, precious as spun silver even doused in waterworks. "That's cool. I needed a shower anyway." 

—

thank you for reading!

[doublebellyman]

Big Boy, Short Story

A short story featuring a fat man getting fatter at the hands of a relentless feeder. Written so the reader can select their gender of choice for the feeder.

***

His bloated reflection completely filled the medicine cabinet mirror so he didn’t see them stealthily sneaking up from behind, that is until they delivered a thunderous slap to his left butt cheek, sending ripples and shockwaves through the two hundred pounds of soft jiggly fat he’d added to his already fat form since moving in just two short years ago. “Didn’t see me coming did you Big Boy? But I just couldn’t resist those juicy round cheeks of yours … when you moved in you carried all your tonnage in your belly but now you’re just massive all over … and I mean ALL OVER … here let me give my blubbery boyfriend a quick tour …”

At that, they reached their arms as far as they could around the vast circumference of his belly (“love this belly, we’ll need to measure this today to see if you’re over six feet around yet”). Then they shifted their hands to his swollen stretch marked moobs (“oh babe, your tits have just gotten so massive … I swear they’re bigger now than that old 400-pound girlfriend of yours and she what, a triple J cup?”).

By then moaning at their soft touch against his sensitive nipples, they moved on to his broad fat-encrusted shoulders and his meaty upper arms that hid any muscle tone he once may have possessed.

And then they moved their hands downward, asking him “do you realize that your front boobs now reach all the around so you now have back boobs too? They’re so delicious but I think I like your massive love handles even more, the way they reach around front and join with your giant saggy bottom roll … you know if you put on another fifty pounds that thing is gonna completely cover your knees!”

“That feels SO good,” he finally spoke. “I know it does Tubby and I just love playing with all your rolls and folds and bulges, and the way it gives you pleasure!”

“Please keep it up,” he pleaded.

They giggled— “you mean my massage or my endless feedings or the incredible sex, what do you want me to keep up Fatty? TELL ME!”

“ALL OF IT!”

“Very well, your wish is my command, Your Lardship … now turn around and let me work on that saggy baggy belly a bit more. But first, wait here a second …”

They stepped away and returned bearing a silver tray with a half dozen extra large chocolate eclairs stacked high.

The fat boyfriend’s eyes bulged at the sight and his cock instantly grew rigid under his panniculus, the one they mentioned was hanging precariously close to his knees.

“I love you baby — I was so hungry!”

“When aren’t you hungry?”

“Good point, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry Two Ton, these will all be in your belly soon enough, now open up wide!”

They proffer the first eclair and he takes a giant bite with chocolate icing and vanilla custard smearing his lips, cheeks, and chins.

“You can’t believe how much it turns me on to see you eat like this — you’re such fat mess! Now kiss me Fatty and let me taste all that chocolate and custard goodness … you’re so delicious and I can literally see you getting fatter in front of me!”

“I can feel it making me fatter, so keep shoving ‘em in —I want, no I NEED for you to make me the fat man I’ve always dreamed of being!”

“Here goes then Big Boy — now pretend you’re going down on me and suck the custard out of this bad boy … let me see you use your tongue then suck it all out Fatty …that’s so sexy I’m actually getting wet, Oh God … now grab the remains with both hands and cram it all in your mouth at once … and here’s another … now grab your rolls with your chocolate-covered hands and give them a big shake while I feed you eclair #4 … that’s it my messy Piggy … now let me lick that mess of your belly before I stuff the last two in you!”

“But Baby, I’m full and fit to burst …”

“Are you telling me that my gluttonous boyfriend can’t polish off a mere half dozen eclairs?”

#5 was down in two giant bites and #6 in three, as they caressed his tight swollen upper belly and played with his super soft lower belly and panniculus.

“You’re just such an obedient feeder, doing whatever your feeder orders … now lift that underbelly for me and let it drop … again (she squeeled with delight) … now shake your hips and let it sway back and forth for a few times …”

“Babe, I hate to interrupt but I really gotta sit down …”

“OK, you’re just so pathetically out of shape … just a total blimp … but let’s get you on the scale first and see if you’ve reached your two year goal … “

He gingerly balances his bulk on the bathroom scale hoping it won’t break in half after his latest gains at the hands of his relentless feeder.

Not able to see the result over the crest of his enormously curved upper belly, he impatiently asks “so?”

With a huge smile on their face they deliver a playful slap to his ridiculously protruding belly, again sending ripples and waves throughout … “my Rotund Romeo, we need to buy you a new scale ‘cause you maxed this 500-pound model out! … I’m thinking we need to get you an industrial thousand pound capacity model — what do you think Lardo?”

He just smiled and asked “can you fix me breakfast now?”

“I’m so happy your hunger has returned so quickly!”

Patting his belly for emphasis and giving his bottom roll another good shake, he responded “I’ll definitely need the thousand pound model if I spend two more years living with you!”

“Oh you’re definitely up for it my big blubbery Butter Ball!”

[lordofshitposting]

JJK as Brooklyn 99 quotes because it would be hilarious

─────────────────────

Miguel: Getō! Where is Mimiko's stuffed bear?

Getō: Umm... She must have forgotten it in the temple. Don't worry, I'll get it tomorrow and-

Miguel: Let me be clear. Mimiko can't sleep without that stuffed bear, and if Mimiko doesn't sleep, Nanako also doesn't sleep, and if both of them don't sleep-

Getō: I know, I know. Miguel doesn't sleep.

Miguel, holding black rope: No. Getō doesn't live!

─────────────────────

Mai: Alright, give me your hair dryer.

Mechmaru: What?

Noritoshi: What are you talking about?

Mai: Don't you carry one in your bag?

Noritoshi: Have you met a normal person before?

Mai: Pulls out her phone to call Momo

Mai: Hey, do you carry a hair dryer with you?

Momo: Of course, I'm not an animal.

─────────────────────

Gojo, to principal Gakuganji probably: You think that disapproving glare is gonna work on me after all the times I've seen it? Step it up, find something new. You're boring.

─────────────────────

Maki: So what, now I'm supposed to do everything Yuta does? What if he jumps off a cliff?

Panda: If Yuta were to jump off a cliff, he would have done his diligence regarding the height of the cliff, the depth of the water, and the angle of entry. So yes, if Yuta jumps off a cliff, by all means, jump off a cliff.

Maki: You jump off a cliff!

Panda: Gladly, provided Yuta did first.

─────────────────────

Yuta: I gotta go.

Maki: Aren't you forgetting something?

Yuta: Uh...

Yuta: kisses Maki's forehead

Maki, blushing: No, pay your bill! Damn, who raised you?

─────────────────────

Manami: You want to hold him, Larue?

Larue: Oh, um... yeah sure, that would be great.

Larue: Hugs Getō

Manami: The baby, Larue.

Larue: Yeah. Right, right. The normal thing.

─────────────────────

Nanami: The most time I have spent with someone is four hours and it was hell.

Gojō: What about the ride to Bludhaven we took? That was four hours.

Gojō: Oh, I see what just happened.

─────────────────────

Yuji: Remember how upset you got when Megumi ended a text with "thx" instead of "thanks"?

Nobara, visibly upset: Why would you bring that up?

─────────────────────

Gojō: Hey Getō, do you know my blood type?

Getō: Yeah, it's B positive.

Gojō: Okay, I guessed wrong.

Gojō, to his nurse: Excuse me, ma'am-

─────────────────────

Gojō: Be myself? Shoko, I have one night to win over Suguru. How long did it take before you guys started liking me?

Mei Mei: A couple of weeks.

Kusabake: Six months.

Utahime: Jury's still out.

Gojō: See, Shoko? "Be myself" what kind of garbage advice is that? First impressions are everything and I'm not Nanami!

─────────────────────

Nobara: How much could I possibly owe you? Fifty, sixty bucks?

Megumi: Two thousand four hundred and thirty-seven dollars.

Nobara: Dollars?! Wait, of course dollars. Why was that the part I was surprised by?

─────────────────────

Hakari: Do you wanna know how I actually hurt my wrist?

Kashimo: Yes.

Hakari: I was hoola-hooping. Kirara and I attend a class for fitness and for fun.

Kashimo: Oh my God.

Hakari: I've mastered all the moves. The pizza toss, the tornado, the scorpion, the oopsie doodle.

Kashimo: Why are you telling me all this?

Hakari: Because no one will ever believe you.

Kashimo: You sick son of a bitch.

[bleucaesura]

STOLITZØ - FIFTY EIGHT

Blitzø sat in bed staring up at the ceiling when he heard a knock at the door. It opened a crack and Fizzarolli poked his head inside.

“Fizz!” Blitzø beamed at Fizzarolli.

“Hey,” Fizzarolli looked around the room. “Is this an ok time?”

“Of course,” Blitzø waved him over. “I sent Loony home to get a proper night’s rest. And Stolas… Actually. I don’t know where Stolas is.” He shrugged.

Fizzarolli closed the door behind him and pulled up a chair by the bed.

“Oz caught him in the hall.” Fizzarolli sat down and made himself comfortable. “Said he had something to discuss with him.”

Blitzø raised an eyebrow.

Fizz waved it off.

“Doesn’t matter. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Mmk.”

They sat in awkward silence for a time.

Blitzø cleared his throat.

“You look good, Fizz.” He smiled warmly at him.

“You’ve definitely looked better.”

“What? You’re not digging the pharaoh mummy look?” Blitzø pantomimed tossing back voluminous tresses over his shoulders. “Not into head bandages?”

Fizzarolli averted his gaze.

“Not a fan of hospitals.”

Blitzø cringed. “F*ck… I’m sorry… I didn’t me-“

Fizzarolli waved him off. “Really not a fan of seeing people I love, hurt.” He looked down at his hands in his lap.

Blitzø reached his hand out as far as his IV would allow, trying to reach out to Fizz.

Fizzarolli noticed and looked up to meet Blitzø’s gaze.

“Thank you for being here, Fizz.”

Fizzarolli smiled sadly and took Blitzø’s out-stretched hand. “I wasn’t gonna let anyone keep us apart this time.”

Blitzø grinned and fought back tears.

They sat in comfortable silence for a time, holding hands, enjoying this moment. One that had been long overdue.

Blitzø tried to fight it, but a yawn managed to escape.

“You’re tired. I’ll let you rest.”

No…

Fizzarolli went to stand but Blitzø gripped his hand tighter.

Please don’t go…

“Would you stay?” He looked at Fizz, pleading. “Like when we were kids?”

Fizzarolli thought for a moment, then he slid his hand out from Blitzø’s.

“Oh… Right..” Blitzø’s heart clenched, tears welled up in his eyes and he looked away. “You’ve got to get home…”

A moment later the lights in the room turned off, and Blitzø looked back to see Fizz standing by his bed.

“You’re going to have to move over if we’re both going to fit.”

I f*cking hope he can’t see me crying in the dark…

Blitzø scooted as far over as he could and Fizz climbed under the covers on the other side of the bed.

They both shifted until they lay on their sides facing each other.

They chuckled awkwardly.

“Well. Haven’t done this in a hot minute.”

Fizzarolli snickered. “Nope.”

Blitzø noticed Fizz was still wearing his jester hat.

“Aren’t you going to take that off?” He asked off-handedly.

Fizzarolli froze and buried his face in his hands.

Blitzø’s heart jumped into his throat.

“Fizz?”

Fizzarolli looked at Blitzø, silent tears streaming down his face.

“Fizz?! What is it?” Blitzø could feel something was very wrong.

“Blitzø…” Fizzarolli shuddered a sigh.

“Whatever it is…” Blitzø reached out to take his hand.

Fizzarolli covered his face with one hand, shook his head and held up a finger - telling Blitzø to hold on.

“You’re f*cking scaring me, Fizz…”

Fizzarolli sat up. Blitzø propped himself up on an elbow.

“I’ve only ever let Asmodeus see me without this,” Fizzarolli touched his hat.

Blitzø raised an eyebrow.

“But it’s a part of who I am,” he swallowed hard. “And I think I need to be ok letting others get close enough to see… EVERY broken part of me.”

“You’re not broken, Fizz,” Blitzø reached out to him, but Fizzarolli shook his head.

“I know I’m not,” he took a deep breath. “But I’ve still got broken pieces…”

Fizzarolli pulled his hat off and clutched it to his chest in anguish. He couldn’t bear to look at Blitzø.

Blitzø shot upright.

This is MY fault…

“F*ck.. Fizz… I’m so f*cking sorry…”

Fizzarolli started to cry all over again. He tried to hide his face and put his hat back on, but Blitzø grabbed him and pulled him into a tight hug.

“You’re f*cking amazing, Fizz.” Blitzø clutched him tightly. “And don’t worry… Your horns will ALWAYS be bigger than mine.”

The two cried themselves to sleep that night in the same position they’d always slept in as little kids: curled up, touching foreheads and holding hands.

***

Stolas and Asmodeus stood in the doorway to Blitzø’s room and watched Fizzarolli and Blitzø sleep.

“Is this something I need to be worried about?” Stolas whispered to Asmodeus.

Asmodeus smirked and shook his head. “I ain’t.” He looked at Fizzarolli with such love and adoration, Stolas couldn’t help feeling like he was invading their privacy somehow.

Asmodeus looked at Stolas and squeezed his shoulder in encouragement. “I get your reticence. It’ll take time for you two to figure each other out. But I know my Fizzy.” He looked over at the boys and smiled.

“And the fact that Fizzy let Blitzø see him like this” Asmodeus cocked his head so Stolas would look where he was looking - at Fizzarolli’s exposed horns. “Means he’s trusting people again. Trusting Blitzø again. Opening himself up to the idea of family again”

Family…

Stolas’s heart ached. He wanted that kind of closeness with Blitzø. He wanted Blitzø to let him in like that.

“And if my Fizzy trusts him with that kind of vulnerability? I know you can too.” Asmodeus smiled warmly at Stolas. “Hell. I trust the idiot with Fizzy’s life. That’s gotta say something, don’t it?”

Stolas smiled meekly back at Asmodeus. “It does.”

“Good.” Asmodeus clapped him on the back, catching him off guard. Stolas tried not to squawk in surprise.

Asmodeus chuckled.

Stolas shot him a glare.

Asmodeus snorted, tried to cover his laugh, and turned into the hallway. “Let’s go. Give those two some more time to rest. They need it.”

“Yes.” Stolas followed, looking longingly over his shoulder at Blitzø, and how peaceful and content he looked sleeping there, next to Fizzarolli.

If only I could make him feel that safe…

“I suppose you’re right.”

*****

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Honors From the King: A Short Story

The sword felt strange in Mia's hand. It fit perfectly in her grasp, but it still seemed impossible that it was hers. A few days ago it had made her into a hero, but in the confusion of the battle, she barely remembered making the lucky blow that felled the giant who had terrorized the Southern Forest for ten years.

Now she, an ordinary eleven-year-old from Iowa, was the hero of a fantastical realm, waiting to receive honors from the king himself.

Elbera bustled around Mia in the antechamber-turned-dressing room of the village hall. The elf woman—barely taller than Mia—had served almost as a mother to her since the strange wind had left her in the elfin village. "Now, my dear, as you're being honored for valor in battle, it's right for you to carry the sword, but you must never put the point toward the king. If you're nervous about it, you'd best sheathe it."

Mia sheathed the sword before Elbera finished the sentence.

Elbera continued, "Since you've slain a well-known terror, it's customary for the king to offer a boon. If he offers up to half his kingdom, don't take it—it's only a polite phrase. Best to ask for something useful—perhaps a sum of gold to rebuild the bridge outside the village."

From what Mia had heard of the king, he'd do that anyway. No, if Mia was to get a boon, she would ask for only one thing.

She wanted to go home.

For nine long months, she'd been stuck in Athelor. The cheerful, dainty elves had been kind to her—sheltering, feeding and teaching her without complaint—but they weren't her family. Her parents had to be frantic about her. And her six siblings—what had they done when that strange summer wind took her away from them? An entire school year would be gone by now. If she stayed away much longer, she'd be so far behind, and it would be harder and harder to fit back into ordinary life.

The elves had been unable to provide any suggestions about how to get back home; they only told Mia to wait for the wind. But the elves had sung praises of King Edonniel's library, spoke with awe of his scholarly works about Athelor's history. If anyone knew how to get her home, the king would.

The door to the chamber opened, and a palace guard escorted Mia into sunlit wooden expanse of the main hall.

At the room's far end, the king stood among his guard. Though over fifty, he was tall and fit, with a reddish-gold beard and a noble bearing, resplendent in royal armor. He was like the good king in every fairy tale Mia had ever read, like her father, and she forgot to be afraid of him. The king was a great man—warrior, poet, scholar, diplomat—but Mia knew in an instant that he was kind enough to help a lost girl.

The assembled crowd—all the elves and talking beasts from the village—cheered as Mia approached the king. Mia tried to ignore them, instead focusing on the king’s kind face.

The king stared at her. He stood frozen for several moments, then stepped toward her. “Mia?”

Mia stumbled to a stop. "Yes?" This seemed an informal greeting from a great king.

In a blink, Mia found herself in the king's arms, crushed in a warm embrace.

"I can't believe it." The king's deep voice sounded right next to her ear. "I thought I'd never see any of you again, not here."

Mia tried to push him away. King or not, this was too weird to put up with. "Any of who? What are you doing?"

The king pulled away and looked into her face, drinking her in. "I'm sorry. Of course you don't know me. Mia, I’m Danny. Your brother."

*

In the privacy of Elbera’s good parlor, Mia sat alone with the king. Her brother. Her ten-year-old brother. Who she never in a million years would have connected with the great scholar, warrior, and king the elves, in their musical accents, called Edonniel.

She couldn’t doubt that he was Danny. He remembered their parents, their farm, all their family, even the dinosaur village she and he had created two summers ago. With only a year and a day between their ages, they had often been mistaken for twins, but Mia had always reveled in her superior age. Until now.

Danny seemed so dignified; he made Elbera’s soft chair look like a throne. His eyes had wrinkles around them. His red-gold beard hung down to his chest. He sat so steady, so still, gazing at her like she was his long-lost child—instead of the sister whose hair he pulled when she beat him at Mario Kart.

As Mia sat across from him on Elbera's other chair, the only thing she could think to say was, “You’re older than me.”

The king guffawed. “I’m older than Dad. But you—you don’t look a day older than when I last saw you. How long have you been here?”

“Nine months.”

“It’s been forty-eight years for me.”

Mia’s head spun at the idea. “How?”

“The wind that carried us into a different world carried us into different times. I landed on the shores of the Beryl Sea forty-eight years ago. Ever since I became king, I’ve made a study of Athelorian history, trying to find the rest of us.”

“Us?” Mia had been with her siblings when the wind had taken her, but she’d assumed they were back home in Iowa. “How many of us are in Athelor?”

“All of us,” Danny said with surprise. “Didn’t you know?”

Mia shook her head. “I couldn’t see much.”

“And when you landed here alone, you had no reason to guess that we weren’t all safely at home,” he said, understanding.

“Is anyone else here?” Mia asked, half-hoping another brother or sister would pop out from behind the furniture.

“I crossed paths with Thomas not long after I arrived, but you’re the only one I’ve met in person since. Everyone else, I’ve had to track down in history and legend.”

“You met Thomas?”

“He landed among the trolls of the northern mountains,” Danny explained. “Became a master smith—the greatest in Athelorian history. He forged that sword you carry. I have no idea how it got into the elves’ hands; I’ll bet there’s a story there.”

Danny never could stick to the point of a story. “Where is he?” Mia asked in frustration.

“He was a very old man when I met him,” Danny said. “A hundred and twenty-seven, by some counts. Some say his life was extended by working with the stones from the heart of the world.”

Was? Her little brother had been only six years old when she’d last seen him. He couldn’t be—

Mia sank back into her chair, stricken.

Danny, caught up in his story, didn’t seem to notice. “Jane lived among the centaurs and elves of the Skyveil Plains seven-hundred years ago. Became a legendary warrior and explorer, defender of the weak. Beloved by all the beasts. First to step foot on the Daybreak Isles and meet the talking mice.”

Seven-hundred years?

“Now Ben,” Danny said with a laugh, “has popped up all through history. Rarely seen for more than a day or two, but he always has some dramatic effect. Some scholars speculate he’s extraordinarily long-lived, but my theory is that time is playing with him in a different way than the rest of us.”

He said it all so calmly!

“Nora?” Mia dared to ask about their oldest sister.

Danny’s gaze turned dreamy, his voice hushed and reverent. “The legendary Queen Eleanor, present at the waking of the world.”

Danny was talking about Nora—bossy Nora!—like he was in awe of her.

Her sister—all her siblings—had become legends. They weren’t waiting for her at home. They were long dead, had been dead ever since she’d arrived, which meant they were gone forever, and there was no way home—

Mia burst into tears.

Danny reacted about like how she’d have expected him to react. He sprang up from his seat and hovered awkwardly over her chair. “Mia? What’s wrong?”

Through tears, despair, and frustration, Mia blubbered something that included the words, “They’re all dead!”

“Dead?” Danny asked. “Who said they were dead?”

Mia wiped her tears on her sleeve and glared up at him. “You did! You said Thomas was ancient, and Jane lived seven-hundred years ago, and Nora’s as old as the entire world!”

“That doesn’t mean they’re dead.”

“I’m not stupid! No one can live that long, not even here!”

Danny crouched down next to her chair. He placed both hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. “Mia, look at me. I’m telling you: they’re not dead.”

Before his fatherly gaze—even with the beard, he looked a lot like Dad—Mia’s sobs became mere sniffles. “Then where are they?”

“They’re home. Safe. I promise. The same wind that brought us here brought them back home after their adventures were over.”

Just like the elves had said. But when Mia had thought she’d have to wait to go home, she’d thought it would be a few years at most, not—

“You said Thomas was more than a hundred years old.”

Danny said, “I’ve done a lot of reading about people like us. We’re not the only people who’ve come here from Earth—or gone home. The stories all say the same thing. No matter how long we spend here, the wind takes us back home to a time only minutes after we left, and we’ll be just the same age we were then. Reunited from across history, as young we ever were. A foretaste of heaven.”

His voice had gone dreamy again. The elves had said he was a poet.

Mia dried her face and sat up straight. “We’ll all be together? At our normal ages? Like we never left?”

“Exactly.”

“You and me and Thomas and Ben and Nora and—“ Mia realized something. “You never said where Claire was.”

“She’s the only one I haven’t found in history yet. That means her story’s probably still in the future. Maybe we’ll run into her someday.”

That did sound exciting, but Mia didn’t like the idea of waiting decades like Daniel had.

“How long do you think it will be? Before we go home?”

Danny stood and walked toward his chair. “I can’t say. Whenever the wind blow lately, I get the strangest feeling that I won’t be here long—maybe five years.”

Five years—half her life—not long?

“For you,” Danny continued as he sat down, “I can’t say. But I have a feeling that your adventures are just beginning.”

“I don’t want more adventures,” Mia said, as another tear dripped. “I want to go home.”

“I know,” Danny said, his voice husky with sympathy. “The first year is the hardest, and you’re so young.”

The idea of Danny—Danny!—treating her like a little kid! “I’m older than you!” Looking into his very-much-not-a-kid face, she amended, “Well, I should be.”

“You will be again, one day. But until then...“ Danny leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and suddenly sounded more like an American kid than he had all day. “This sounds so weird, but if you like, I can adopt you. You can live in the palace under my protection, and I can show you everything about Athelor. Maybe name you my heir if you like the whole royalty thing.”

He was planning a whole life for her. Plotting out a future. Here. Even without the weirdness of Danny acting like her dad, it was too much.

Danny noticed her hesitation. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I know we’re all called here for different purposes, and I don’t want to keep you from your intended mission.”

“I thought the giant was my mission.” Mia had constructed such a tidy tale—and now it was unraveling. “I came here, I slayed the giant. The story should be over. I should get to go home.”

“It will always be waiting for you. Until then, you have Athelor.”

“Athelor isn’t home!”

“It can be,” Danny said. “It’s been a good home to me. It can be a better one, now that you’re here.”

Mia suddenly realized how old her little brother was. How long he’d been waiting, searching for his family through books. And now she was here, after all this time.

Maybe that was her mission. To help this great king while he was here caring for the people of Athelor.

“I guess I can try,” Mia said. Even if she had to stay a long time—well, Danny had managed to do some amazing things, and she couldn’t let her little brother outshine her. “When we do get back home, I don’t want you to have a better story than me.”

Danny grinned—and for just a second, he looked a little like the kid she remembered. “Mia,” he said, “I think you’re going to be fit for legend.”

[heylookomegas]

Warlords And Courting Gifts

Dracule Mihawk

VERY high standards. What else did you expect?

He will accept flowers personally arranged by the alpha, books specific to his interests and fine wine at the beginning of the relationship. 

Nest supplies like blankets and pillows are something he’s far too specific about to accept as a gift.

Will only allow clothes and jewelry to be given once the relationship has become official. 

Don’t skimp and get him something cheap or simple, he wants gold, rubies and silk all over!

He deserves to be treated like a princess doesn’t he?

Do well enough and you might be able to get away with calling him that too.

Bartholomew Kuma

Blankets, pillows and bears oh my!

Is too much of a minimalist to want anything extravagant.

But some soft blankets and teddy bears will always result in a smile from him.

This is a man who doesn’t believe it’s possible to own too many squishmallows.

He also likes baked goods like muffins pies.

Sweet things for a sweet man.

Crocodile 

Why would you do this to yourself?

Crocodile makes a point of buying himself everything he wants as he wants it and is as extra about it as possible.

The only way for an alpha to court him with gifts is through home made crafts.

Which you gotta have some serious balls to go through with.

Really the fact that someone walked right up to him with crap they made at home is an impressive enough show of confidence to peak his curiosity in and of itself.

Gecko Moria

Too charmed over being genuinely courted like he’s some sweet little twenty year old instead of a single parent over fifty to care too much about what he’s actually being gifted.

As long as it’s evident that thought was put into the gift, he’s over the moon about it.

He’ll accept plushie bats, antique buttons, dark flowers and really anything that vaguely fits with his aesthetic.

He also has a weakness for salted caramel candy.

Just don’t get him an onion plant.

That shit was only funny the first time.

Doflamingo

Well at least what he wants is simple.

The corpses of his enemies make the perfect courting gift.

Even better if they’ve got just enough life in them for him to torture it out personally.

If the body has his initials carved into it you might even get a genuine thank you.

For the ultimate gift, make it a theatrical execution complete with special effects. 

Jinbe

Either the best or worse case scenario on the list depending on your point of view.

Jinbei doesn’t want gifts.

He’ll take small things like food or a bottle of something, but he’ll just pay it back later.

He doesn’t like the idea that he can be bought or dazzled, so expensive gifts make him uncomfortable.

The best gift you can give Jinbei is your presence.

(Or a bit of original poetry if you’d really like to speed things up.)

[moondirti]

a pearl

Still scarred; you don’t think he’s ever not been. Still scarred, yet vivid enough to accept a gentle caress he said helped muffle the phantom pain. He’d tell you the stories as you did (hardly ever pleasant), and you’d cherished them enough to remember.

But the John that pistons into you now does so with muted malaise, a concoction that clusters too heavy on his tongue to fully form words around.

pairing: Captain John Price x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 2.5k summary: what follows bloodshed warnings: angst, seriously - angst, canon typical violence, gore, allusions to childhood abuse, lots of unresolved feelings, hurt/comfort, a happy ending (the bare minimum), rough sex, marking, p-in-v notes: i have nothing to say for myself. there's no plot, just vibes. sorry (not). very much based off the mitski song of the same name.

It starts a little something like this– 

Moments caught in the rhythmic flicker of a bedside lamp; golden, dim, dark. Golden, dim, dark. Pink flesh, blushed in foreign warmth, mottled in crops of chestnut hair you can’t help but run your fingers through. It’s sticky when it presses to you, slicked in half-dried sweat and the brine of a sour mission. You lick the salt from his collarbone, trying your best to place a firm kiss to it against the bludgeoning thrust of his body. 

He fucks you like he hates you.

Not always. No. 

But tonight, and in that perennial week that trails behind him when he comes home, he does. He finds you, supple enough for the two of them, with a restrained agony swimming in florentine eyes. It bleeds into blunt fingertips (calloused, too. Barnacles that rub rough on your breasts), staining you across the chest. You feel it in your lungs, scraping bone to marrow, your ribs a collapsible cage of sponge. And with the way he bears his weight on top of you, you think you just might. 

It’s entirely too much, violent in a way you don’t find behind a plate carrier, the heavy security of a gun in your arms. Vulnerable – some crushed flower, one might say. Ripe with gallons of water at its centre and nothing to use it on. You’re plucked, right off your stem, your petals caught between teeth. 

His hands stay planted on your hips, pinning them down to a sleep-soaked mattress while he plunges into you. One, ten, fifty times – years together and you’ll still never grow used to how thick he is. His cock is splitting, cleaving your cunt into two halves, filling you until a mushroomed head meets the gummy wall of your cervix. It falters then, nestled in that sweltering heat, before pulling back out to bruise you again. 

And you take it. Your own limbs remain wrapped around his back, curved to fit rippling muscle, your nails digging into the sinew. You could push him away, should you please, you’re far too familiar with this routine to kid yourself into believing he wouldn’t listen to consent. Fight and watch as he reluctantly breaks away, turning to less delicate vices; a Maduro cigar, toasted. Scotch with a water back, neat. 

But you cling to a sweet nothing he’d whispered to you once, crowded in the back of his old Audi Q5, his beard abrasive on the soft stretch of your neck, trailing desperate kisses. 

Bloody christ. Can live off you alone, sweetheart. 

It had held some semblance of truth then, caught under bad weather with the sky open to the heavens, a great cataclysm of rain pelting down on the car. A revenant vow, no witnesses; something for just the two of you until the day’s promised wedding – a novel, diamond-encrusted band, thin on your ring finger. 

(You now wear both his and yours on a chain around your neck. His embellishments narrow down to those dog tags, the ones that hang over you when you fuck – silver slips the only indication of the man beneath the uniform, a body to be brought back home once it’s been bled through.)

Younger. You remember it distinctly; right out of SAS training, his skin a canvas for memorised marks. You’d been able to map each one to its source; rings of red concentrated at the wrist, cigar shaped but not self inflicted. Silver lines on his knees, founded atop the Brecon Beacons from his long drag assessment. Scabbed knuckles that never seemed to heal, not since he’d punched through a concrete wall the night he decided to leave home. 

Still scarred; you don’t think he’s ever not been. Still scarred, yet vivid enough to accept a gentle caress he said helped muffle the phantom pain. He’d tell you the stories as you did (hardly ever pleasant), and you’d cherished them enough to remember.

But the John that pistons into you now does so with muted malaise, a concoction that clusters too heavy on his tongue to fully form words around. You imagine it tastes bitter, bitter and much like the ichor that blooms to your cuticles. You don’t expect him to reel those horrors back with him – the sight of a dead mother after his executive order to shoot all potential hostiles. You know he’d much rather find sanctity here, with you. But he bends under the perceived punishment you inflict, groaning when you carve crescent shaped divots into him; and it comes clearer to you than anything else. 

His burden as Captain finds him far beyond the field. You’re just not made privy to it. 

You let him express it in the only way he can.

It goes a little something like this–

You don’t ask, despite the named tension that floods the chilled bathroom. 

He lets you shower first. Actually, almost commands you to, murmuring the words into sex clogged air while he cradles your quivering thigh. He waits until you find your strength again, nudging a tear away from your cheek with restrained tenderness. He guides you while you make your way, his touch smoothing from the small of your back to your shoulder, where it clamps down to steady you.

You can’t pinpoint the expression that twitches beneath his moustache as he does. It’s much too complex under the varicoloured delirium that clouds you. You see, you hear, you feel and smell and taste the oceanic headiness at the back of your mouth, yet none of it crackles back to your synapses where you can properly process his disquietude. 

So, you whimper a little asseveration in place, the sound of it lost amidst hissing pipes when he sets the shower for you. 

I missed you.

Maybe he doesn’t hear it. Maybe it’s drowned in the same chasm that eats him alive. But his eyes catch yours before he turns to leave, and they flicker with the light reflected off the faucet. Or, you’re tricking yourself, and it’s recognition of something he can’t reciprocate. 

By the time it takes you to clear your throat, he’s gone – off to his spot on the balcony, no doubt, stretched on an armchair you’d bought especially for him. You’d set a Maduro box on the coffee table between his seat and yours. 

And you can smell it on him when he returns. 

He must time it so you’re already out when he comes to wash up. You check it on the watch he’d discarded by the sink – forty five minutes to the second, a gratuitously long stretch to press on sore legs, but the water had been nice. He’d known the exact temperature to turn it to. 

(He used to avoid the spray during your times together, too. 

Any hotter, eh? It’s barely blistering.

You were the one who insisted on joining.

And kneaded your reddened flesh when you asked him to moisturise your back.)

His baths are militaristic in comparison to yours – he’s always in, soaped, and out before you get to your hair. You’d teased that he does it to avoid those grim thoughts that taint deluge silences – the ones no one is immune to. Perhaps you’d been on the mark.

So, you don’t ask. But you try and bear through ten more minutes upright, standing in front of the mirror, a towel around your bust, untangling the jewellery that’d been neglected in his absence. 

You hardly get through your wedding chain when he finishes, picking at the same stubborn knot. 

“You’ll get sick,” John gruffs, padding up behind you. You move over for him to reach the towel rack and pointedly avoid the large mass in your peripheral, hanging between thick thighs, nested in chestnut curls.

“If rearranging my guts wasn’t enough to ail me, then what harm can a bit of cold do.” You jibe. He gives you a grunt in response, tucks a corner into the wrap around his waist and sticks his hand out.

“Let me see that.” 

You blink, looking up at him for a split second, before handing over the chain. The bathroom provides a brighter luminescence than the glow of the hazy bedroom. 

It’s then you notice a hardly healed cut on his shoulder, sutured with black stitching. 

And one on his chest. 

And leg. 

A purpling bruise, stippling the expanse of his abdomen, furling over the side of it to darken into black. 

You’re caught like that – staring, hands at your chest – for far too long. If he realises, he doesn’t say, pulling at gold strands until something gives. 

But his elbow tucks closer to hide the discoloration, the gesture veering on childish insecurity. Though that conclusion rolls between your teeth; a pearl that won’t dissolve and is much too large to swallow. Things can never be so simple with John. He fits the world in ways you’ve spent your entire marriage attempting to figure out – like a sole jigsaw piece, made with no greater picture in mind.

(You cut yourself to suit it, sometimes. He changes shape before you can catch up.)

The action is an inclination you can never fully acknowledge, then; not until it’s you racing to see what can heal first – your body, or your mind. So you single in on the bulk of his arm instead, expanding thew with the movement, choking back the stone lodged in your chest. It becomes easy to lose track of time like this, returning to your perpetual dysthymia. 

You’re only snapped out of it by the smokey gravel of his voice, somehow simultaneously full-bodied and edging on a whisper. It pops like wet wood on a campfire, seething with an undercurrent of resignation, like it’s aware of its failure to fully fuel the kindling heat. 

(You still feel it though; like a deafening salvo in the chamber of your hollowed gut. Butterflies turned gunpowder. It holds the same effect.)

“Here.” 

And he hands you your necklace back, unravelled.

Brushing your teeth, you point to the hickeys decorating the column of your neck, then at his own wounds. 

“Look, we match.” 

His reflection tenses, the razor pulling away from his jaw. John opens his mouth – knuckles blooming white, clutching the edge of the sink – then snaps it shut upon scanning your foamy grin. 

He goes back to lining his mutton chops, his lips pursed in a grim line.

Maybe you should’ve stayed quiet.

It ends a little something like this–

Moonlight filters through sheer curtains, ballooning with the tranquil breeze. You left the window open to allow some air while he finds his rare sleep. 

You’re usually the first to knock out, but you stay awake on certain nights, these nights, stuck on vigilant duty against forces you can’t quite keep at bay. You know where he keeps his guns – taped to the sides of dressers or under a chair. They aren't anything you need. No. Now, you weaponize your hand, spread flat and smoothing over a coarse head of hair. You brush the strands that stick to his sweaty forehead and pull down the duvet when you notice his continuous battle with the heat. 

Then, the nightmares start. 

It’s subtle at first. No stranger would notice. 

You cradle his forearm and his pulse quickens under your thumb. Doldrums, a war cry. His body thrums with awakened adrenaline as his pupils thrash behind fluttering eyelids. It’s an unsettling tremor that vibrates through you, the mattress, the still midnight where things tend to find their peace. You bite your lips through it and hope the worn-film memories go easy on him. 

His breathing breaks into a stuttered pace. He’d forgone a shirt, clad in just plaid bottoms, and his chest gleams with a thin layer of cold perspiration. It shakes with him, rapid inhalations, his lip twitching while his body tries to regulate the instinctual fear. Your touch never leaves his head, your other, freer hand wrapping around twitching fingers. 

And so begins the paralysis. The purgatorial state where nothing exists outside of stifling sheets and the distancing sounds of fusillade. You can tell when he comes to uneasy wakefulness – wavering in and out of a fight long since filed away in manilla cabinets – when his digits go rigid underneath yours. He gasps in one final, drawn-out convulsion, assured in his survival, before his eyes snap open to the present. 

He grabs your wrist and flips you over in the split second afterwards. 

You can’t help the scream that pitches at the assault. It’s not the first time this happens, but never has he been so quick to act. 

“John–” 

“Fuckin’- Fucking hell.” 

His inflection warbles, still a victim to whatever profound helplessness overtook his dream. 

“Are you okay?” You lament into the scant space between you. His nose brushes yours. You can feel the red-hot distress radiate off him in waves. 

“Y-You… Affirm– Yes. Yes, I’m solid.” Though his eyes don’t meet yours. 

You nod. He doesn’t let go of you. 

“Water?” 

“Scotch.” 

“You’re not going back to sleep?” 

“No.” 

He flinches when you caress his cheek, brushing over wrinkled crows feet. 

“You need your rest, John.” 

“You haven’t slept, either.” The reaction holds more venom than he likely intends. You use the lowlight to memorise the way he appreciates his anger, the hissed admonishment echoing back with full force. Before his brow can crease again, you place a tentative peck to his chin. His jaw ticks at the movement. 

“I will if you do, yeah?” He doesn’t agree, but his shoulders drop with an exhale. “Let me go, I’ll fetch a bottle for you.” 

His face bows, a retired concession. It’s a side of him you hadn’t had the privilege of seeing, not until your first morning together, post-honeymoon. 

(I have to go, love. My flight’s in an hour. 

Stay. Just ‘till I fall back asleep. 

He had.)

You’d miss it if you had stayed basking in the thought. His lips, chapped and bitten and cracked, brush over your knuckles when he pulls away. 

You smile like a fool on your mission for refreshments. And, on your way back from the kitchen, you clasp over the rings on your necklace. An old habit, a happy tick. 

(You almost drop the water when you feel only one; your classic, round diamond ring. 

But you find his adorning his finger when his left hand reaches for the bottle.

You hadn’t noticed he’d taken it off the chain.)

The next morning, he tells you about Serbia and the calamity that brought upon new disfigurements. He grieves it in between thrusts, burrowing his head into the crook of your neck, his grip unabashedly bruising on your breasts. So we match, he echoes.

Still scarred. Always will be. But he dives deep into the personal upon remembering the comfort in your low hums. 

(Your nails circling the marks on his palms - he’d told you about his dad two years in.

It helps. 

What does? 

When you trace over them like that.) 

A week after every return to his house, John finally settles and rediscovers home.

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[boomboom-tanjiro2019]

Easy

PT. 1 EX! READER X EX! ACE

Description: Angst but also ridiculous-extra stupid-shit. Reader does some wrong but so will Ace. HAPPY ENDING (No one dies and everyone gets what they need in the end) MODERN AU!!

WORD COUNT: 3680

Prologue

“And you are sure you are getting the promotion today?” Nami raised an eyebrow over to you. 

You roll your eyes, “Psh… Nami, you realize who I am right? Cecil adores me, and we already know she’s going to retire. I think she’s calling me in the office because she’s retiring even earlier than accepted, I mean, she’s old as shit.”

“Ugh… she lectured me on how girls her age didn’t wear skirts as short as mine when they were my age… it was below my knee, Y/N. AND I’m not even in the marketing department, I’m in finance, why was she even concerned about me?!”

“Well… when I am Chief of Marketing to take her place, I will instead encourage you to wear sexy outfits, Nami.” You wink exaggeratedly.

Nami smiles and shakes her head, “Flattering, but HR might not find that as entertaining as we do.”

“Oh yeah that’s not good.” You pause and fake sigh, “Our love will have to be hidden.”

Nami sheds a fake tear, “We are like the platonic Romeo and Juliet… you know… without the death… and pedophilia…”

“A shame I think it would add drama and spice … the death part- not the pedophilia, obviously.” You sigh and place a hand on Nami’s shoulder, “We are unintentionally HR’s worst nightmare I think.”

She shrugs, “Jinbei will understand.”

You stop at a large entrance with two tall engraved wooden doors with shiny golden knobs, a small white and black houndstooth placemat in front of the door, looking out of place compared to the modern marble floor, white walls, and bold furniture and paintings along the rest of the hallway. You had felt the peculiar feeling of walking through those doors a million times before, it was like time traveling back 50 years. How Cecil, a woman who had seen the dinosaurs and who did not bear the resolve to advance her views further than the 1700s became Chief of MARKETING for a RESORT company? Well nobody was exactly sure, by all means it made no sense. Cecil liked you because you sucked up to her, but made sure the company still advanced by undermining just about every request she had. In fact you were sure if Cecil were left to her own devices, Sabo and the folks in the law department would be drowning in lawsuits. 

You turn back to Nami one last time, “My outfit look modest enough?”

Nami nodded, “I can’t wait for you to be able to wear clothes that fit. I’ve seen your actual closet…” She raked your body up and down, making sure to focus on the bland gray and horrid shoes. “...This is a crime in comparison. 

“Great. Wish me luck.” You raise up your hand for a high five, to which Nami immediately reciprocates, before stomping off in her purple skirt and blouse with beautiful jewelry that might have given Cecil a heart attack had she seen it. 

You knock on the door, “Chief Brookes?”

“Come in!” Her scraggly voice calls out.

You open the door and step through, careful to shut the door and resist walking down the horrifically long, green brown rug Cecil used to guide a pathway to her desk. 

“Ah. Y/N.” She gives a smile. Though she was around 68, she looked more to be in her mid-fifties. Absolutely gorgeous woman with a smile that makes you feel safe. That is, until she cuts into you with jabs about your work and overall appearance. Not only that, but so terrible at her job that higher management has been waiting for her to retire. They have come to the conclusion that waiting for her to either kick it or retire in an eccentric manner is better than having to fire her. “My favorite protege.”

Only protege. No part of Cecil Brooke’s favor towards you was accidental. Though part of you had to admire Cecil’s spite and lack of tact. Your admiration might be deeper had she actually been good at her job. “Hello Mrs. Brookes.” You carefully walk up to her desk with a polite smile. 

She smiles wider, “You know I’d rather you call me Cecil.” She lies. She enjoys the hierarchy culture. “Sit sit!”

You carefully pull out the chair and sit down. Making a show of laying your hands down in your lap gently, a stark contrast from the person your team has seen these last few years, “Can I ask what you called me in for?"

Cecil nods and her expression hardens. She grabs a tissue box from across her desk and places it in between you two. “Just in case…”

Good sign.

“I called you in here because… very tragically and very suddenly… I have decided to cut my career short.”

‘If she considers that short, I can only grieve for her husband’s self esteem.’

“What?” You make a point of furrowing your eyebrows, “With all due respect-“ which is none. “-You can’t just quit when the company needs you so desperately.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in. You must be shocked.”

“I’m flabbergasted.”

“It’s tragic, truly.”

“Truly” you nod, slowly shifting your expression from false outrage, to false disbelief, to false sadness. 

“Don’t worry.” She reaches her hand over yours, “I will still be here for 4 weeks. I will teach you everything you need to know…”

‘Even better sign.’

“I am… heavily considering recommending you to take on my position.”

You gasp, “Mrs. Brookes! I couldn’t-“

“You can.” She smiles, “With my guidance over the next few weeks, I believe I can teach you my ways. I will be testing you along the way though. It won’t be easy.”

‘Anything is easier than trying to make our marketing department mediocre at best with you rejecting all of our ideas.‘

“I understand. I am honored to be in your thoughts…”

She puts her hand over her heart, “You just remind me of myself so much.” She sighs, “Well then… I guess that’s it. I will follow up with you later.” She shakes your hand.

You say your goodbyes and walk down the vomit inducing carpet. It would be the first thing to go.

“Y/N? One more thing for tomorrow.”

——————————————————————

You stand near the entrance of one of the interview rooms on the first floor. The one HR usually uses for interviews. Today, it was your interview room, along with Cecil’s if she ever decided to show up. The possible employee would be there in 20 minutes, 10 if they decide to be smart and come off as a try hard. Cecil’s favorite breed of person.

“Y/N?” You hear a familiar voice call out. Sabo. Team 5 leader in the law department, brother of two significant people in your life. Luffy and your ex boyfriend. Though it’s apparent your ex refrained from giving details of the relationship’s end by Sabo’s continued comfortability and friendship with you, though this day it didn’t seem so. “What are… you doing here?” He gives a strained toothy smile.

“Waiting for Cecil so we can start this interview.”

“Right… but… wouldn’t the… team manager the position is under be doing the interview?” He stays smiling, though it gets more and more unsettling as he whips his head around, “Isn’t it supposed to be Yamato doing the interview? Where is heeee?” He laughs in a rather scared manner.

“Change of plans. New employee is under my team until further notice.” You raise an eyebrow at him, “Why?”

“…No reason.” Sabo squeaks out, “Bye now!” Just like that, he is turning the corner on his heel as fast as he can. You hear a thud at one point followed by a curse but you try to ignore it.

Cecil appears from around the corner, dressed like a neon Cruella De’Vil. Her makeup masking her natural olden beauty with a clown color palette. She gives you a curt nod and unlocks the door, expecting you to follow along with her actions wordlessly and fluently. Thank goodness after years of staring her down to copy her mannerisms, this comes easy. You both sit next to each other in the room as Cecil decides to speak her first word of the day, “I will finish my section, then you will speak your peace. I will give you a 50% say in this. Since the new graphic artist will be under your team. Your first test is managing a new employee on top of the new marketi-“ something something something.

You just nod and smile until she is interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by a muffled sound sounding like Sabo’s voice saying ‘you can just open it’ whoever it is decided that this is a great idea and finally turns the knob. You glance down at the paper you realize you have yet to read any of or review at all. Drinking with your girls out of excitement took up valuable time. You hear the sudden stop of steps as you stay glued to the page, determined to at least scan over the resume-

Portgas D. Ace: Grand Line Resort, Graphic Artist job application.

No. No. No. You look up to meet the face you’ve avoided for a good 5 years. Chocolate brown eyes, splatters of freckles, muscled physique, bronze skin…

You can’t read his mind but if you could you are sure it would be the same thought as yours.

Fuck.

———-

“Fuck” A man you assume is Luffy’s brother says as he stares at you. Frozen like a deer in headlights.

He was coming out of the bathroom. Quickly going to grab a towel from the hallway closet in the flat he shared with his brothers. How was he supposed to know one of Luffy’s… hot friends would be here? The one he would eye across the one class he had with you during a professor’s boring lecture?

Your eyes unintentionally drift down as you try to comprehend what you are seeing. You quickly regret it. Your eyes dart up and you try to forget what you’ve already seen.

You two make eye contact for a few seconds before he, still wide eyed, closes the door while you dart down the hallway. You aren’t going to forget that first impression anytime soon.

———— 

You remember your first legitimate sight of Ace, a memory that is not helping you in this situation at all. A different memory seems to be playing in Ace’s head by the look on his face as he takes in your appearance. Looking for changes maybe. 

Ace shakes Cecil’s hand casually, but falters when he reaches you. What is he going to do? Pretend like he doesn’t know you?

“Good afternoon. I’m Ace, last name is Portgas.” He smiles at you but you can read in between the lines. He is as unprepared as you are. 

Though Ace is smiling and behaving semi-normal despite the situation, you are sure your body language and facial expressions convey your true thoughts. You sit there still as a brick as Cecil gestures for him to take a seat. 

He doesn’t look at you. Cecil introduces you at one point but his eyes look almost past you. Cecil doesn’t seem to notice anything off about his demeanor, but you do. He runs his fingers through his hair one to many times, his blinking is way too fast, he leans forward too much, and the arm closest to you isn’t on the table like the other one is. Details you aren’t sure how you remember.

Questions go by, when answering Cecil’s questions he turns to your direction but his eyes stare right past you as he answers. As soon as he turns to you his breathing quickens, his hand clenches and his shoulders tense. All things you notice before he turns back to Cecil to make eye contact with her.

Cecil coughs and turns her head in your direction. You know what for, though you’d rather be anywhere but here. You cross your fingers and hope you and Cecil don’t have the same questions since you were not at all paying attention.

“So, Mr. Portgas, how did you hear about this job?” You tilt your head curiously.

He takes a breath as soon as you speak your first word. He looks like he’s holding onto every word as you speak. “My brother works here… he recommended this position because I have an art major.”

You nod. Sabo must’ve been shaken because of you interviewing and having Ace in your team, “Impressive. And what can you bring to the position?” You squint your eyes skeptically

Ace freezes, “I believe…” he loosens his tie nervously.

You glance at Cecil, who is taking note of his behavior. Cutthroat bitch. Part of you is internally celebrating at the prospect of Ace not being a potential employee, but the other half is begging him to get it together.

“I can bring a new and innovative point of view to the team. Though this is my first legitimate office job and that can be a challenge to adjust to… but I’m not worn down from the job or stuck to the old way of doing things because of it.” It’s a decent answer, though Cecil doesn’t seem to appreciate his response.

You can see Ace is overthinking his answer in his mind, though his proud smirk says otherwise. He wants this done as soon as possible. Quite frankly, so do you. “That’s it for me. Thank you.” You say as quickly as possible.

Ace mumbles, “Thank you.”

Cecil didn’t seem too impressed with that either.

…That’s a good thing, yeah?

Cecil’s lips purse as she stares back at him, “Here at Hiraeth Resort, though our other departments may embrace new innovation, I have been sure to play our cards safely by using the same technique all these years. I’m afraid this might not be what you are looking for out of a job.”

Ace’s eyebrows furrow at her response, quickly scanning over your face, searching for something, a reaction to her words. The disbelief that you had confined yourself to a job like this etched across his features. His eyes linger on the bland gray and the jewelry metal that differed from your usual. You told him to never buy jewelry in that color, “I assure you I will do a great job no matter what your focus is.”

“...” Cecil analyzes his response before waving her hand, “That is it for me, we will get back to you at some point. I’m sure somebody appreciates the time you spent in this interview.”

That one stung.

You see Ace’s jaw clench and his features narrow before he sighs, “Thank you for your time Mrs. Brookes and… Ms. L/N.” He sends you a look of deep rooted betrayal masked by a layer of professionalism and longing. You aren’t sure which part of it is worse. 

He reaches for a handshake from Cecil, which she does not reciprocate. He hesitantly reaches out for yours, hand shaky. He starts to pull back after a second, but you reach out to meet his hand. The handshake is brief, but the shiver the contact brings you is downright embarrassing. 

As soon as that door shuts, Cecil turns to you, “Absolutely not.”

“...Why?” You should probably just nod and agree like you would with anyone else, no matter how qualified you believed they were. Something stops you.

She almost laughs, “He’s a disaster, sure some of his responses were decent… but a new point of view? Creativity? His job is to draw designs for the company mascot and posters! Look at this portfolio. ¼ of it is tattoo designs.”

“Everyone starts somewhere. He has a ton of job experience, it’s not all tattoo designs. He’s done posters and logos for restaurants and other businesses.”

“Ah yes, because a former firefighter will be very helpful in this job field.” She reads off the job list on Ace’s resume.

Hot. “It shows determination and sacrifice.” And it’s hot.

“I just don’t think he’s a good fit for the company.”

You fiddle with your rings, a color you despise, but it is Cecil’s preferred metal. “He has potential, I believe.”

She turns towards you, disbelief in her eyes, “You’re really for this guy?”

If she finds out about you two having dated, a clear conflict of interest, your chances at that promotion fly away.

You slowly nod, “I think he could be helped.”

Cecil scowls before sighing, “4 week paid internship, at the end of my time here, I will decide if he gets the job or not. You are in charge of shaping him to my standards.”

Your breath hitches. 4 weeks of constant… Ace? Nightmare, horrible idea.

“...Yes ma’am. I will not disappoint you.”

She grabs her pen and writes something down, “You best not, your job future is riding on the line as well. Dismissed.”

—------------------------------------

Nami waves you down frantically as you are headed to the local coffee shop after work, a distressed Sabo and Koala next to her. 

Nami gestures for you to sit down, which you reluctantly comply with, death staring at all three of them while they give you nervous smiles. 

“You all knew?” You ask.

They nod.

“So did everyone else…” Sabo cringes, “But we didn’t think he was going to be under your team… so…”

“Right…”

“Listen… We know the situation is.. Rocky… but Ace needs the job… and there has been a lot going on for him. He got fired from the fire station after breaking Teach’s arm because he insulted pops.” Koala adds

Thank god he didn’t put the fire station as a reference.

“So far one person is for his hiring and the other wants him as far away from her and her department as possible.” You comment.

You immediately are met with a mix of pleading, disappointment and very subtle… threats? The last from Sabo, mainly.

“Guys.” 

They continue. “GUYS!” Their attention finally is on you, “I am for hiring Ace, it’s Cecil who is against it”

Nami pauses and looks up at you, “...That checks out… actually.”

“I may not want Ace to be in proximity to me, but I won’t deny him a job. He has 4 weeks of a paid internship before Cecil decides if he gets a permanent job or not. Believe it or not, I defended Ace, no matter how-” You sigh, “... He is.”

—-------------------------

Sabo opens the door to Ace’s apartment, watching for a moment as pots and pans are roughly dropped on the counter as Ace stomps from fridge to cabinet to counter. “What.” Ace roughly lets out, not making eye contact with Sabo.

“...How’d the interview go…?” He awkwardly smiles. Ace whips his head up and scowls, the expression on his face giving all answers, “Right…”

Ace exhales deeply, “As soon as I saw her there I just knew… Why would you even let me go if you knew before that it was happening? Life just adores me, clearly. We break up, then I finally find some peace with my firefighting job, now that’s over and I come face to face with her. Waiting for her judgment, jobless, unworthy like some pathetic…! Ugh…” He rubs his temples, “I didn’t even read the email, I don’t want to deal with it. I should’ve just stayed at the tattoo shop, but I need to make enough to travel and… Jesus.”

Sabo stays silent before quietly glancing at Ace’s computer, pictures of your instagram open. He gives a wide-eyed stare back at Ace, who closes it and tosses it on his couch. Sabo ignores it and continues his thought, “Y/N defended you. Cecil despised you, but she says that you are being given a 4 week paid internship. Cecil- Mrs. Brookes- will decide at the end of it whether you actually get the job…” He gives a smile and a shrug, “Do with that information what you will.”

—--------------------------

Reason One to hate Portgas D. Ace:

He’s uncooperative

You point the camera back at the tall tan man across from you, trying to forget you have seen this aggravating man naked on your first meeting, “You realize we are doing this interview for you guys’ sakes right? All freshman basketball players this year. You’re on the starting lineup, so people are actually looking at you. And all the answers you have given me are inadequate.”

Ace leans back in his chair with a sigh, “I don’t see the point, really. I’m not trying to go to the NBA or anything.”

“Why?” You say, intrigued.

“...I don’t know?”

You throw your hands up, “Oh. My. God!”

“Why are you doing this anyway? Shouldn’t some sports journalism majors be doing this?”

“They all got caught using Chegg on their assignments and sharing answers in a group chat, so now me and some other Marketing students with a journalism minor have to do it.”

“...Oh.”

You groan, “Let’s try this again, why don’t you want to do basketball after college?”

Ace inhales, “...I don’t know… I guess… I mean… I like it, but I mostly do it because of the people on the team. Also it’s too much publicity… worrying about stepping on people’s toes and shit. Doing it professionally just seems… wrong… I don’t really know what I want to do with my life that I’d be good enough at…”

You turn off the camera, it didn’t seem like the type of response that should be recorded. For a split second, there was no camera, there was no mini microphone you had attached to his shirt. There was no 5 foot distance between the couch he was sitting on, his posture now up straight. It was just… you and this guy. Granted it was a guy you had first “met” when he was naked coming out of his bathroom, but still. Just you. Just you and ‘Ace’  “...It’s freshman year, you still have some time.” You shrug.

“...Yeah…”

You shake your head and turn on the camera again, “Uhh… now for the other questions.”

[lunarw0rks]

Through The Ashes | Chapter Two

Summary: You've been given an offer to join the 141 Task Force. Upon taking it, you find yourself ensnared with the mysterious masked man who won't take his eyes off you.

Warning(s): mentions of drowning, minor injuries.

A/N: I have mixed feeling about this chapter. I don't know if I like it or not lmao... | Word Count: 3.1k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter // requests | ao3 | playlist

No Way Out

“You can do better than that.” His voice taunts you as you attempt to knock him over with your punches. A smug smirk forms on Soap’s face as he keeps dodging your best attempts to one-up him.

Sweat poured down your face. This back-and-forth tussle had gone on for over ten minutes, and Soap wasn’t going to let you off easily. Over your first few weeks, you could tell he was beginning to enjoy you being there, and it felt as if you were finally fitting in with them. At least most of them.

You kept swinging, only managing to get a few solid hits on the gloves he was holding up.

“Time out,” you say breathlessly, holding onto your thighs as you try to get your bearings.

“Giving up already?” Soap taunted sarcastically, taking the boxing gloves off and going off to the side to take a drink. You simply shake your head, giving him an eye roll as your reply. He could bounce off the walls for days and still not be tired.

Just as you began to calm your breathing, the sound of a throat clearing made you whip your head around.

It’s exactly who you thought it was. The man who has uttered about fifty words to you over the course of two weeks.

“You’re blocking the weights.” Ghost states in his typical dry inflection. You swiftly step off to the side, moving out of his way.

He grabs a few weights and moves to his own section, acting as if he’s not still watching you, but he hasn’t stopped since the day you got there.

You were about to exit the gym when, to your surprise, he spoke again. “Those were some pathetic punches earlier. Not going to knock anyone out with those,” somehow he managed to sound even more judgemental than he usually did.

You let out a scoff and turned around to face him, watching as he lifted the weights in his hands effortlessly. “Isn’t that the point of training? To… train?” It comes out more quick-tempered than you wanted, but if he can get away with it so can you.

He rolls his eyes without even rolling them. “Not if you don’t improve your form.”

“Alright,” you place a hand on your hip, letting him get whatever amusement out of this conversation he thought he was. “Are you offering a training session?”

“Only if you listen to what I say.” He finishes his rep and sets the weight down, standing square in front of you, raising his palms. Unlike Soap, he didn’t even bother with the boxing gloves.

“Now raise your fists. When you punch, twist your body with the momentum.” He says, waiting patiently for your first jab.

You wind yourself up with a deep breath and slug his palms. He has little to no reaction, and he looks disappointed. “Use your weight, otherwise you’re just slapping the enemy.” His tone has a hint of impatience now.

You give one more, this time using his advice. Of course, he isn’t phased by them yet. “Better...”

That’s all you needed to hear. That’s the closest to praise you’re going to get from someone like him. “I passed the test?” You tilt your head, letting a grin spread across your face.

Ghost furrows his brows, distorting the balaclava fabric above his eyes. “Alright, keep your knickers on.” He says in annoyance, before returning to his weight-lifting.

—

Everyone is deep into reading the work material in front of them, when the door slams open, and Price steps in front of everyone. It was the first time you’d seen such a stern expression on his face.

“I want everyone to be focused. This might be one of the most dangerous missions we’ve attempted yet.” You felt like your stomach dropped to your feet at his words, matching the look on everyone else’s faces as their attention snapped to Price.

“We’ve received word from one of our sources. The reason we aren’t picking up anything useful with the bugs is because we’ve been looking above ground.” He begins passing out intel folders, one for everyone.

You peel the cover back, seeing a map of some sort of maze. Confusion reads on your face and the others around you.

Then it occurs to you why this was so dangerous. It wasn’t a maze. It was a tunnel system. Gallons and gallons of unpredictable water, rushing down tunnels that may have no exit for miles. How were you supposed to find anything useful in a place like that?

“I want you all to study this layout as best as you can. It is to be believed, they’re using the water tunnels to keep off our radar.”

—

The wetsuit wasn’t very comfortable. But the awful part was that your comfort was the least of your concerns right now.

“Follow your instincts. Look for anything suspicious. There’s no guarantee this will lead to anything.” You hear Price’s voice in your ear as he prepares the team. 

“If you hear the water coming, hold onto something. If you can’t do that… Hold your breath.”

Price’s words chill you to your core. Every bone in your body was screaming for you to turn around and run back home, but that wasn’t the job. You had no choice.

Complete the mission, or die trying. No take-backs. No running away.

The 141 stood outside the tunnel. Even the moonlight couldn’t illuminate the inside of it. With hesitation, you followed behind them in formation, rifles drawn and ready. You turned around and took one more good look at the glimmer before each advancement further consumed the light more and more.

After a few feet, everyone flipped their night-vision headset down, switching it on. It took a few seconds for your eyes to adjust to the saturation of the green as you stumbled a bit, relying only on the sounds of their feet to guide you.

Water trickled down the walls. The smell of rust and mildew made your nose crinkle in disgust. The tunnel seemed to be endless. How could this tunnel system be connected to El Sin Nombre?

“Anything up ahead?” You asked Ghost, who was leading the formation. He answers with a soft negative. As you proceed further down the tunnels, they widened and had more disorienting turns. This was the part on paper that looked like a maze.

It was obvious there wasn’t a living soul down there aside from you and your squadmates. You examine the patterns of the turns around you, or lack thereof. You noticed the turns that had vents instead of dead-end walls, others looked like crawl spaces that led somewhere. 

You spoke up, “It’s like a puzzle. The grates open, water floods here, stopping it from flowing somewhere else. What does that have to do with a cartel?”

Some of them mutter in agreement, and the others just keep following. Even if your theory was correct, everyone here was out of their depth, and there was nothing out of the ordinary. 

“The walls are getting taller.” Soap comments, and you noticed it too.

You reach a bigger space, which is like an intersection the tunnels all connect to. A meeting point in the middle. The walls had to be at least ten feet tall by now. Deep down you wondered if this was just a piece of intel that leads nowhere.

“There’s nothing here, Cap,” Soap says into his earpiece, his voice echoing along the tunnels as he speaks.

“Make sure of it.” Price’s voice chirps back through the static. “Then, get the hell out of there.”

All of you turned to retrace your steps, finding this underground exploration completely useless.

The sound of the tunnels groaning halted any movements. All eyes darted around, but you could hear a needle drop. It got more ferocious, and within seconds, you were scrambling to get out of there.

“Everyone out now!” Ghost’s voice boomed, reverberating even harsher after.

—

Burning. That’s the sensation you remember in your lungs as the water went over your head. Thrashing around, smacking into one another as the gallons of it rushed through the tunnels, forcing you to follow the way of them.

You felt the arms of one of your teammates, but couldn’t remember who. You must’ve grabbed them out of instinct before you had time to process it.

Each time your head poked above the water, you choked on it more and more. The woosh of the rushing water drowned out any sounds around you. It was mere seconds before the pressure of the water drove you underneath repeatedly, each time you lost a little more stamina to resist it.

The speed of the water smacked you into someone's gear, knocking you out cold.

— 

A deep wheeze let out of you when you opened your eyes. Looking around you, you were separated from your team. If there was a team left. You were on the bank of a small river, gripping onto the ground below you. You must’ve washed up where one of the tunnels runs off to. 

As you continued to gasp for air, you coughed a few times, spilling out some of the water that was trapped in your lungs.

With a grunt, you forced yourself to your feet. Every muscle in your body was exhausted from fighting against the currents. As you wiped the mud from your hands onto your suit, you scanned the area around you. No sign of your squadmates anywhere, dead silence.

You pressed the button on your mic, but none of your words were making it through. Shit, no signal.

You groaned in frustration and began schlepping downstream, hoping you would see a helicopter or military vehicle you could use to contact Price. So far, you were out of luck.

You continued walking along the water, keeping your eyes peeled for any sign of life around you.

It felt like an endless walk, your wetsuit squishing the mud with each step. Every sound of the surrounding wilderness was muffled by the water still trapped in your ears, making it even more difficult to get your bearings.

Suddenly, you feel a set of hands grabbing your shoulders. The muffled voice is finally audible when the person is close enough to you. “Did you find the others?” You jerked around, seeing Gaz’s wide eyes meet yours. He looks about as beat up as you did.

It took you a few seconds but you eventually shook your head at his question. You rattle your head in an attempt to unclog your ears, which gives a bit of relief.

“I washed up by that river. Haven’t seen anyone else since.”

“Let’s keep walking,” Gaz responds, keeping his head as you both continue to comb the area.

—

Gaz hands you the binoculars he had around his neck, one of the only pieces of equipment he still had. 

“I think I see something.” You say, seeing some movement in the distance.

Gaz almost leaves you in his dust as he eagerly runs towards the movement.

“God Damn thing!” It was a voice you recognized. It was Soap. He throws the walkie-talkie he had in his hands with all his force. The thing practically shatters when it hits the ground. You’re just glad that you managed to find another person. But deep down, you had a sick feeling about where Ghost could be. What if he drowned? Or he’s stuck in the tunnels somewhere?

“We lost everything in there too, Soap,” Gaz says, attempting to calm the other man. “We’ll find something. There’s gotta be a radio around here somewhere, or a vehicle… We need to contact Price.”

—

The three of you began to find your way back to the tunnels. There was no way any of you were leaving Ghost behind. If he had gotten out of them unscathed, he would’ve followed the water and regrouped by now. You had a sick feeling in your stomach about this. He could already be a goner, and you all would be too late.

You approached an entrance into the tunnels, a different one than where you entered them before. It was a shot in the dark searching them, but Ghost would do the same for any one of his colleagues.

You silently patrolled the tunnels, keeping a tight formation, listening for any signs of life.

“Hold on,” you held up your hand, leaning your head in the direction of the sound you heard. “There’s something…” You didn’t bother to wait for the two behind you as you sprinted around corners, shouting out Ghost’s name - hoping that it really was him.

The groans grew louder as your footsteps slowed so you could listen better. When you peered around a corner, you saw him. Your heart skipped a beat, and you got this feeling of accomplishment. Like if you hadn’t found him, you’d be failing someone who wouldn’t hesitate to search the ends of the Earth for you.

“Ghost…” You muttered, rushing over to him. “I need help over here!” You exclaimed, calling the other two to your location. The two of them rush over in an instant, examining him before they hoisted him up, supporting his weight between the two of them.

You took their gear so they could focus on Ghost and get him outside. They set him down in the grass. He was worse off than all of you combined. His arm was busted up, though he was attempting to brush off the attention.

“I’m alright.” His cold tone is back, even after a near-death experience.

Soap gives him a glare and finds some bandage in the backpack, using it as a makeshift sling for Ghost’s arm.

“Price will have helicopters sweeping this area soon, I know he will. We won’t be out here long,” Soap speaks into the humid air, attempting to calm everyone’s shot nerves.

You kneel next to one another in the damp grass, looking around and listening for any signs of the helicopters. You glanced over at Ghost, who you could tell was struggling to keep himself upright. You noticed a slice by his rib, which cut through the fabric of his wetsuit.

“You’re bleeding.” You say quietly, motioning at the blood coming from his abdomen. He merely murmurs inaudible disapproval, managing to brush off the attention even in his most vulnerable moments.

You ignored his stubbornness and peeled back the torn fabric of his suit, seeing a large slice along his upper stomach. You rifled through the small first aid kit and poured some disinfectant on the gash. He stifled a moan, but you could tell this wasn’t his first time with an injury like this - and probably won’t be the last. With the remaining bandage, you wrapped it around his tender abdomen, hoping that would keep the area clean until the helicopters arrived.

Several minutes of waiting passed. The chopper blades woke you all out of your positions in the grass. Soap and Gaz rose to their feet immediately, waving down the chopper. Ghost stood up on his own, using his remaining strength to get up with one arm.

You felt a relief like you never have. Waiting for the chopper began to feel like an eternity, and you were just glad to get out of this hellhole.

—

“I’m glad you’re all standing.” Price greeted the group when they arrived back, giving each of them a scan as they walked past him. “Go get checked out in medical and get some rest.” He followed each of your movements with his eyes. You could tell he was concerned, wondering what happened back there. He must’ve lost contact with all of you pretty quickly.

Aside from a mild concussion and some scrapes and bruises, you felt lucky to still be standing on your own two feet. The other two had similar injuries from the mission, and they were resting away in their own quarters, probably savoring the few hours of relaxation they would get out of this cooldown.

—

It was the middle of the night. You strolled into the kitchenette, not expecting anyone to be awake after such a hellacious day it was. The figure sitting at the table made you jump slightly, though he didn’t look phased. He’s sitting there, no lights on in the kitchen. A bottle of Scotch is sitting on the table in front of him, and by the looks of it, he’s made quite a dent.

“You’re not supposed to drink when you’re on those painkillers.” Your tone wasn’t even judgmental. It was more of an acceptance that he was going to do these things regardless. He didn’t care about himself. That’s just the way he was.

He scoffed and took another sip, looking straight ahead of him.

“How’s the arm?” You question as you stand next to the table, looking into his eyes for a few seconds, before you both break away from the stare, almost in unison.

He nods, “It’s alright. Nothing I can’t handle.” His tone is almost cocky for a second. You wonder if he does that on purpose. But why?

You give a soft chuckle, knowing he’s probably been through worse. You grab a glass from the cabinet and pour yourself some of the whiskey as well, eating your words. You both sit in silence for a while, sipping on your drinks, but obviously, he’s ahead of you by a few. The burn in your stomach soothes the aches your body was still experiencing.

After a bit of sitting there, he slides the bottle your way and leans back in his chair, stretching his back. 

You would be lying if you said you weren’t ogling him. The skin peaked through when his shirt rode up. The way you could see his toned core and the waistband of his sweatpants showed off his v-line. Hopefully, he was too drunk to notice. That was your only crutch to lean on if you were caught.

Without a word, he went to bed, leaving you to feel prudish all by yourself.

—

After a few minutes of sitting alone in the kitchen you stumble to bed. Memories of the distressing mission flooded your head. You remember the feeling of your hands gripping onto someone, and then blackness. Something about it felt like you already knew the answers, your brain just didn’t put all the pieces together yet.

“I got you.” The tender phrase echoed through your ears over and over, making you sit up in your bed.

It was his voice. Ghost. It had to be Ghost. 

He’s typically a great swimmer, one of the best trained on the team. He would’ve had time to move to cover, but he didn’t.

You didn’t grab him as you fought the waves, he grabbed you. You thought maybe you were thinking about it all too deeply. 

It was a bold theory, but you began to wonder if that’s how he hurt his arm - blocking your body from the violent water.

TAGLIST - @neoarchipelago

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Fifty-Six

After two days, the man known as Blood was captured, the head of little Jaehaerys in his satchel, yet there was no joy in this victory, for the air in the Red Keep and throughout King’s Landing remained heavy with grief and fear. The city itself seemed to shudder under the weight of the tragedy, and the news had spread like wildfire among the common people.

In the Red Keep, the once bustling halls echoed with a somber silence, the shadow of the heinous act looming over every corner. Maera, too, found herself entangled in a web of conflicting emotions. The reality of the horror that had unfolded left her grappling with a fear for the future, a fear that clung to her like a persistent specter. The atmosphere in the city mirrored the gloom within the castle walls. The streets whispered with the shared sorrow of the people, creating an eerie symphony of mourning.

Lord Otto Hightower's suggestion of placing Jaehaerys's body in the Sept for seven days, allowing both nobles and commoners to pay their respects, carried an undertone of political maneuvering. Maera couldn't shake the ambiguity surrounding the decision – was it a genuine desire to let the people mourn with House Targaryen, or a calculated move to publicly shame and condemn Rhaenyra's actions, further pushing the agenda that Aegon was indeed the rightful King?

The thought of witnessing Jaehaerys's body again, this time in the open for all to see, proved too much for Maera. The haunting image of that night lingered vividly in her mind, and the prospect of public mourning became a spectacle she could not bear to partake in. Choosing not to attend the Sept, she grappled with the internal conflict between personal grief and the political ramifications surrounding the tragedy.

The Greens had not yet retaliated over the death of the young Prince. When Maera had approached her father and asked if there was any update on this matter, Lord Jasper had stated no formal decision could be made without the King’s order or consent. It did not surprise Maera to hear that Aegon had sunk further into his cups since the death of his son, as opposed to being there for his wife and other children. She likened it to the distant dynamic she shared with her own father, Lord Jasper, where familial bonds remained strained, even if the desire for the best outcomes for their children lingered distantly in the background, unbeknownst to the offspring of the unapproachable fathers.

Aemond's emotional distance since Jaehaerys's passing weighed heavily on Maera. While she expected it, coping with both her own grief and his detachment proved challenging. Each night, Maera noticed Aemond's late arrival to bed, long after she had fallen asleep. Waking up frequently, she would feel his warm presence, his arm draped around her, and cling desperately to the fleeting connection. However, come morning, Aemond would vanish once again, leaving Maera grappling with the void of his absence.

Despite Aemond's physical presence in the Capital, symbolized by Vhagar on the beach, Maera felt he might as well have been miles away. Adding to her isolation, Maera found herself barred from seeing her dear friend Queen Helaena, who, in her struggles, had banned all visitors. Disturbing accounts from Maera’s spy, the laundry maid, revealed Helaena's distress, spending her days at the window, slipping into screaming fits. The Maester's visits were frequent, administering limited doses of milk of the poppy to soothe her anguish without harming the life growing within her.

Now that Jaehaerys was gone, the Realm expected Helaena to produce another male heir, and the members of the Small Council engaged in many conversations about the Queen’s health in order to produce another Targaryen Prince. A disgusting pressure for a mother in mourning, who could not even look at her remaining children due to the guilt she felt from that traumatic night.

Maera, a Wylde accustomed to the warmth of family and numerous siblings, felt a profound isolation in the unfamiliarity the chambers she shared with her husband. Frustrated by the monotonous confinement, Maera summoned her maid, Thena, yearning for a respite. She requested preparations for a walk in the Godswood, a small attempt to break free from the suffocating routine.

Draped in mourning attire, Maera was laced into a somber black dress, its high neckline adorned with embroidered golden dragons, a symbol of both her mourning and her place within the royal court. Sitting at her dressing table, Thena then began to braid Maera’s hair, intertwining the strands of brown and silver with intricate skill. Maera could see concern etched across her loyal maid’s face in the reflection of the mirror, knowing a string of questions would follow.

"I heard from the kitchen maids that you didn't eat breakfast, nor your dinner from last night, Princess," Thena voiced gently.

Maera sighed, "You know my appetite tends to wane during times of stress, Thena."

Thena, undeterred and beginning to pin the long braids back, replied, "I'm merely concerned for you. The castle has certainly been shaken by the death of the little Prince."

Maera clenched her jaw, discomfort evident in her solemn green eyes. "It is truly an awful tragedy," she acknowledged. What did not help Maera is that there seemed to be no escape. When exhaustion took over every night and she was forced to go to sleep, Maera was met with the same nightmare she always had. Not to only did she have to watch her mother perish, a devastating image all on its own. Now, in the background, a small headless body lay alone, cold and bloody on the stone floor.

After a pause, Maera opened up, "I see Jaehaerys every night. In my dreams. It is haunting to relive that experience constantly." She shook her head, as if attempting to remove them from her mind. Instead, memories of little Jaehaerys replaced the gory image, transporting her to a time that felt not so distant. It was as if the echoes of his laughter lingered among the leaves, a haunting melody of a joyous past.

The recollection of assisting Helaena in the birth of Jaehaerys and Jaehaera felt like a vivid tableau frozen in time. It was a day marked by anticipation and hope, a stark contrast to the current sorrow that enveloped Maera’s heart. During times when she wasn’t in Kings Landing, Helaena’s letters acted as windows into the twins’ world. The updates were like lifelines, each word painting a picture of Jaehaerys’ boldness and confidence that outshone his twin. The letters spoke of a little boy who walked sooner, his adventurous spirit giving Jaehaera the courage to explore the world alongside him. And now, within a blink, it was gone. Jaehaerys was gone.

Thena, finishing pinning the thick braids, placed a comforting hand on Maera's shoulder. “The world is a cruel place. War does not spare anyone, not even children,” the maid sighed, before reaching for a thick golden headpiece and delicately placing it on Maera’s head. The black mourning veil attached to it cascaded over Maera’s hair and neck like a shroud of mourning, creating a visual testament to the heavy heart she carried within.

“Grief is a heavy burden, and sharing it can lighten the load. I'm always here if you need to talk, Princess," Thena offered, the sincerity in her words reflecting the deep bond between maid and mistress, an alliance that Maera was thankful for in a place like Kings Landing.

The Godswood, once a sanctuary of serenity, now bore the weight of mourning since Jaehaerys' murder. The atmosphere, once alive with the whispers of wind through leaves and the chirping of birds, now held a heavy stillness. The ancient weirwood tree stood as a silent witness to the grief that echoed within its sacred space, it’s usually crimson leaves seeming duller than usual. The plants, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed to droop in empathy.

As Maera wandered through the winding paths, she found herself the sole inhabitant of this once-shared sanctuary, the silence was only broken by the soft crunch of her footsteps on the gravel path. Ser Arryk, her loyal protector, had offered his presence, but she insisted he stay stationed outside Aegon's rooms, where the King was guarded around the clock, given the recent incident.

Abruptly, the atmosphere shifted as a rainstorm swept through the Godswood. The rain descended with a gentle insistence, each droplet a soft lament against the hallowed silence. Normally finding comfort in the rain, its rhythmic patter echoing the familiar weather of her home in Rainwood, today it seemed to mirror the collective grief that enveloped her world.

With the rain intensifying by the minute, Maera hastened her steps, seeking refuge from the downpour. In her hurried search, she stumbled upon a small stone structure adorned with winding pillars. Its sturdy roof promised shelter, and she gratefully entered.

Inside, the Seven-Pointed star on the floor, meticulously patterned into the stone, caught her eye. It was a sacred symbol that seemed to offer a momentary respite from the storm both outside and within. A stone bench leant against the wall between two pillars and above it, a clear view of the Godswood, now cloaked in the gentle veil of rain.The rhythmic tapping of raindrops on the roof created a comforting melody, and through the arches, Maera could witness the dance of raindrops on the leaves of the ancient trees.

Kneeling before the bench, the rough surface beneath her knees grounding her, Maera clasped her hands fervently. The Seven-Pointed star on the floor seemed to connect her to the divine as she whispered her prayers, each plea a delicate breath escaping her lips. Her supplications sought comprehension for the violence that had befallen Jaehaerys, a plea for the ethereal care of his innocent soul. A heavy sigh carried the weight of her grief, anger, and fear, emotions entangled like the vines that adorned the Godswood.

Amidst her silent communion, the gravel outside crunched under familiar footsteps. The sound, like a delicate herald, indicated an approaching presence. The footsteps transitioned to the stone floor behind her, and Maera, caught in the vulnerability of her prayers, felt the weight of another's gaze upon her, a silent witness to her plea for answers in the face of inexplicable cruelty.

“Gaomagon ao pendagon pōnta rȳbagon īlva? Se Jaehossas, nyke nūmāzma?” Do you think they hear us? The Gods, I mean? The familiar purr of High Valyrian was a comforting sound amongst the rainfall.

Maera lifted her eyes and a mix of relief and uncertainty washed over her at the sight of Aemond standing over her in the sheltered space. Clad in a black cloak, he lowered the hood, revealing his straight silver hair cascading like a waterfall. His usual attire of black leathers adorned him, and the expressionless look on his sharply contoured face hinted at a stoic resolve. The atmosphere between them, however, felt strained and uneasy. The weight of grief hung heavily in the air, exacerbating the tension that had settled between them during the past week.

“Nyke daor unna. Issa pasābagon emagon issare pasābagon hen hēzīr.” I am not sure. My faith has been tested as of late, she replied, her voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. Rising to her feet, the skirts of Maera's black mourning dress rustled softly as she stood before her husband. She couldn't help but notice Aemond's tall form, his figure towering over her. The once-familiar presence now seemed distant, adding to the strained atmosphere that enveloped them.

Aemond's voice, when he finally spoke, cut through the silence like a chill wind. “Pār skoro syt gaomagon ao johegzi naejot jorepagon?”Then why do you continue to pray? His question seemed to lack empathy, the emptiness in his tone mirroring his own inner turmoil, and perhaps his own current struggles with his faith in the Gods. Despite Maera being aware of her husband’s coping mechanism to shut down during difficult times, facing the emotional void he presented proved challenging.

Taking is question personally, Maera replied with a tense jaw, “Kesrio syt lo konīr iksos gīda nykeā kelinītsos naejot maghagon lyks naejot Jaehaeys’ gīs, nyke jāhor gaomagon ziry.” Because if there is even a slight chance to bring peace to Jaehaerys’ soul, I will do it.

The One-Eyed Prince simply hummed in response, causing Maera to tear her gaze away from him to instead look ahead at the rain-kissed Godswood, the sacred surroundings offering a sanctuary from the tension that thickened the air. A heavy silence lingered, like a fog that refused to dissipate. The space between them, once filled with shared sorrows and understanding, now seemed fraught with an unfamiliar unease, leaving Maera and Aemond stood side by side, grappling with loss, faith, and the haunting specter of tragedy.

And yet through it all, an unanswered question remained. A question that Maera had avoided asking her husband due to fearing what the answer would be. But in the wake of Jaehaerys’ unthinkable fate, the dread of an answer seemed eclipsed by the horrors already endured.

With a stern countenance, Maera turned to Aemond, her green eyes widened with a mix of trepidation and determination. “Why did you do it?”

Aemond turned his face towards her, his eyebrow raised in a silent challenge. Frustration mounting, Maera pressed further, her words cutting through the air, “Lucerys. Why?”

A gruff response came, “You know why.”

Scoffing, Maera retorted, “I thought you said it was a fair exchange. Evidently not, considering you killed him.”

Aemond turned his body towards her, anger flickering in his eyes. “You do not know what it is till have a crime against you go unpunished. To be made a cripple, with one slice of a blade.”

Maera, her own anger rising, shot back, “Lucerys took something from me too: you! He took the boy I cared for away from me. And if he were anyone else, I would have killed him myself the minute you arrived back from Driftmark!” Pacing restlessly, her steps echoed the unease within. Quickened breaths betrayed the internal struggle, and her fists clenched and unclenched, mirroring the conflict that raged within her. Maera pressed on, her voice revealing her anguish. “But Lucerys was a Prince, and killing the son of an heir to the throne has dire consequences. Consequences that poor Jaehaerys paid for.”

Aemond, adept at masking his emotions, remained stood with a stoic facade at the words getting hurled at him. His face was a mask, revealing little of the turmoil within, his body language controlled. His unyielding composure clashed with Maera's expressive turmoil, each movement and expression contributing to the mounting tension.

A heavy silence settled in the Godswood, the rain creating a soft symphony as Aemond, after a pause, began to speak. His voice held an intensity that drew Maera's attention.“The bond between dragon and rider is not a simple one. It is one built on trust and a profound understanding of one another, a relationship that does not even need words to communicate.”

Maera, frustration etched on her face, couldn’t hold back her anger. “What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?”

Frowning at her interruption, Aemond implored, “Let me finish, Maera,” causing her to bite her impatient tongue and attempt to listen to his explanation, watching him skeptically.

“Yes,” he started, with a smug tilt of his head, “repaying the Strong bastard back for what he did would have been immensely satisfying. But I am no fool, I knew what the ramifications would be.”

Maera’s gaze narrowed but she listened on, torn between understanding the complexities of Aemond's motivations and grappling with the consequences that lingered in the shadows of their words. The rain, indifferent to the turmoil beneath the canopy of trees, continued its rhythmic dance, as if echoing the ebb and flow of their emotions.

Aemond paused, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “Dragons do not care for the intricacies of politics, nor the consequences of their actions.”

As realization slowly dawned on Maera, she watched him, the truth sinking in. Aemond continued, “Vhagar knows me better than most. Despite the control I maintain, deep down, I wanted Lucerys dead. And Vhagar delivered.”

Maera nodded, though her gaze turned away, grappling with the unsettling truth. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stated, “What’s done is done now.”

She remained beside her husband in silence, the relentless storm continued on, but the comfort of the rain could not soothe Maera’s growing concerns for her future. The murder of Jaehaerys, an unspeakable tragedy, cast a long shadow over her psyche, each raindrop a reminder of the tears she had shed for the innocent life lost. The ongoing war between the Blacks and the Greens added another layer of dread, the conflict threatening to engulf everything she held dear.

Worries for Helaena's fragile mental state intensified Maera's anxiety, the haunting image of her friend sitting by the window etched in her mind. The unpredictability of war left her in a constant state of unease, wondering about the safety of her family and herself. Fear gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, raising questions of what if she became a target, or worse, if her family faced the wrath of the turbulent times.

“What if it does not stop?” Maera asked aloud, the vulnerability in her voice causing Aemond to face her, a frown on his face as she continued. “What if the Blacks feel one death is not enough? What if I am in danger? My family?”Her green eyes, usually vibrant, now reflected the storm of emotions within, and her shoulders bore the tension of the fears she dared to voice.

Aemond’s response was not just words. With a determined resolve, he seized her face with both hands, tipping her head back to meet his fierce gaze. “You are my wife, Maera. I will not let any harm come to you.”

His thumb brush over her cheek as tears began streaming down Maera's face. "If they managed to get Jaehaerys, what is stopping them from trying again? And this time, killing the wife of the person who murdered Lucerys?"

A growl rumbled in Aemond's throat. "They are trying to break us, but they will not succeed. They will not break me, and they certainly will not break my wife. Do you understand?" he demanded.

In a silent acknowledgment, Maera nodded, her eyes momentarily cast downward. Aemond, refusing to let the fear linger, lifted her face once more. In a moment that transcended words, he pressed a hard, rough kiss to her lips. The intensity of the kiss served as a promise, a shared defiance against the fears that threatened to unravel them. As Aemond's nibbled on her bottom lip and began tasting the inside of her mouth, the passion between them intensified, a flame rekindled amidst the rain-soaked Godswood.

Maera, caught in the intensity of the moment, felt herself being gradually pushed back. The world around them blurred, the raindrops forming a hazy curtain as the kiss became a fervent exchange. The stone pillars of the garden structure loomed around them, and her back eventually met the unyielding surface. Against the cold stone, the heat of their shared passion persisted. He span Maera around so her face and chest were pressed against the pillar.

Aemond yanked the black mourning veil from her head, discarding it across the Seven-Pointed star floor buried his fingers in the roots of her hair, causing her head to tilt to the side. With better access, Aemond began to lick and suck at her neck, leaving blooms of red and purple markings in his wake, his strong hands settling on her rounded hips. He then pressed against her, and through the thick black skirts, Maera could still feel his long hard cock digging into her backside, becoming aware of his intentions.

“Aemond,” she breathed, stifling a moan as he bit her neck. “We can’t.”

“Be quiet,” the Prince spat at her, his voice low and commanding as he desperately bunched up the back of her skirts in order to gain access to her. Maera felt the fabric of her smallclothes being ripped and heard the remnants of them hitting the ground, the cold air hitting her now bare core, which was now slick with her arousal. The sound of the unbuckling of a belt hit her ears and before she could turn to look at him, Maera felt her husbands thick cock enter her fully, causing her to gasp. Filling her to the hilt, Maera welcomed the stretching feeling of being reunited with her husband in this way.

“Fuck, so wet for me. And I barely even touched you,” Aemond groaned as he began to rut into her deeply. Hanging onto the pillar for some form of support, Maera pushed her hips backwards, desperate to take in more of him as he fucked her against the stone. The Prince pressed his face to hers as he licked the shell of her ear, breathing heavily and quickly next to it, causing Maera to shudder with excitement. He then turned his attention to one of her hands which grasped at the stone wall, bringing it towards his face and sucking on two of her fingers, coating them with his saliva.

He then withdrew them from his mouth before whispering into her ear. “Touch yourself, Princess.”

Maera gasped at his demand, a blush tinting her face. “I cannot,” she whined in response whilst he continued to thrust into her harshly, embarrassed that he would ask to see her do such a thing. She yelped as he smacked her behind sharply, the stinging sensation acting almost as punishment for denying him.

“Do as your Prince commands,” he hissed, kissing along her jawline, making her lean her head back against his shoulder in pleasure, a silent plea for more.

Wanting to be a dutiful and obeying wife, Maera reached under her skirts and began to rub vigorous circles against her clit with her now wet fingers, her jaw falling open and her eyes squeezing shut at the ecstasy that began to build within her. Spurred on at the sight of her, Aemond began to pound harder into her, each time hitting that spongey spot deep within her core, causing her to moan loudly with pleasure. Thankfully, the rainstorm had continued in the background, muffling any noise that the pair made within the stone structure.

The nerves on her lower body were on high alert as she began to approach her peak, her walls clenching around the Prince, causing a deep “fuck” to leave his lips. The stone of the pillar scraped against Maera’s face, but she did not care as she teetered on the very edge of pleasure. And Aemond knew it.

“Yes, that’s it. Let go, let me feel you,” he purred, and that’s all it seemed to take. Maera’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as a warm wave of pleasure hit her, sending her mind reeling. As her cunt fluttered and squeezed around him, Aemond too felt his release, spilling his seed inside of her with a deep and guttural groan.

Small whimpers left her mouth as Maera’s breathing began to slow, coming down from her high. She felt Aemond lean against her, his forehead pressing against her shoulder. With a hiss, he withdrew his cock from her and she could feel his hot seed spilling down her leg, a feeling that was not unpleasant and made her smile with pride. As Maera let go of her skirts and smoothed them out, erasing any evidence of the encounter, she looked up at her husband, seeing that he had removed his cloak and was holding it up, so they could both find shelter beneath it.

“Let us go back inside,” he implored, a smug smile on lips. “It is getting too cold.”

“Thank the Gods then that I have you to keep me warm, husband,” Maera replied cheekily as she dove under the cloak beside him before the pair ran down the gravel path to return to their shared chambers.

Notes: Here, have some smut; it’s nearly Christmas after all 🤣

Tags: @blue-serendipity @watercolorskyy @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[redlittlefoxari]

To The Ends Of Faêrun: Chapter Nineteen: Distracted

This series is book two of a fanfic I have already written called Astarion Epilogue: An Adventure in Making Life

Master List Here for Books One, and Two

*List includes a prequel that is essentially one-shots of their adventures over the fifty years after the battle at the end of the game*

Warnings for this series: Blood, Sex, Violence, NSFW 18+, Smut

Summary: The Gang sets off to Evereska in search of Mielikki. Everything is going well until a fallen tree is in the road, and the nearest tree is far from being able to do so.

Author's note: Comments are always welcomed! I love hearing your feedback!

Tav spent a fair part of her morning trying to figure out what they would do about the two that were hungover, plus Apple. By the time the others had came to the stables, it was nearly eight in the morning. Astarion had ended up dragging Shadowheart and Gale out of the inn, the former putting up more of a fight than the latter. However, she quickly changed her tune once Shadowheart saw the new plan Tav had put into place. 

The cart had been switched out for a wagon, allowing two horses to be fitted with harnesses that connected them together so that they could pull the new weight required of them. The wagon much bigger than the cart, sitting at around seven by five feet, but there would be plenty of room for Gale, Shadowheart, Apple, and their food. Hells, even Halsin would be able to fit, and they wouldn’t need to worry about his added weight slowing down the horses. 

Tav was only concerned that it would make them more of a target to others on the road. The added roof, along with the size, made them look like they were transporting goods. She recalled the times she and her father would hide when bandits attacked them while they were making their way home. They abandoned their wares until the bandits found what they were looking for or just left when they realized there was no gold. They often had to abandon the wagon as her father often cut the ox free so that the bandits wouldn’t make off with all their wares. She shook the thought from her mind, not wanting to remember him at a time like this, or ever, really.

“Alright, get in the back!” Tav pointed to Gale and Shadowheart. “Apple, you too.” 

Apple gladly climbed into the back of the wagon. 

“Umm, who is going to be driving this thing?” Shadowheart knocked on the wood. 

“I am.” Tav crossed her arms. “I believe I am the only one who has driven one of these before, so I’ll be driving, and Astarion will be riding the third horse.” 

“I would much rather ride in the back with everyone else, darling.” Astarion grimaced at the horse that was saddled and bridled. 

“I know, but I need you to ride today, and when one of those two sobers up…” Tav pointed at Gale and Shadowheart, who were climbing in the back of the covered wagon. “Then you can ride in the back with Apple.” 

Astarion moaned in dissatisfaction. “Fine, but you owe me.” He smiled and kissed Tav lightly on the lips before moving to get on the horse.

“Halsin, you can get in the back or go in bear form. Up to you.” Tav moved her attention toward the druid. 

“I think I’ll start in bear form and see how I feel in a few hours.” Halsin’s body glowed as he got on all fours, his body starting to transform into a bear before their very eyes. 

“Sounds good to me.” Tav shrugged and took her seat in the driver's box. As she took the reins in her hands, anxiety filled her. It had been far too long since she had driven a wagon, and it filled her with memories of her father. Her hands started to shake as she closed her eyes to try and calm her nerves. 

“Are you alright, Mommy?” 

Apple appeared next to her, causing Tav to jump. “I’m fine, honey. I'm just trying to wake up.”

“Oh, okay!” Apple looked at the seat next to Tav. “Can I sit with you? Uncle Gale and Auntie Shadowheart smell weird.” 

Tav laughed. “Of course.” She patted the seat next to her. “They do smell rather bad, don’t they?” 

“We can hear you!” Gale shouted from his seat. 

“I know!” Tav shouted back. “Ready?” 

Apple gave her a nod, and with that confirmation, Tav lifted the reins and brought them down against her lap. The wagon jostled forward for a second before righting itself. Astarion and Halsin followed after the wagon as they made their way out of the Last Light settlement. They headed northeast towards Evereska, and hopefully towards some answers to where Mielikki was to get Apple out of the deal with Angharradh and back home safe. 

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

Several hours had passed since they had left the settlement. Gale and Shadowheart were sleeping in the back of the wagon, while Apple and Tav sat in the driver's seat playing “I Spy.” Astarion followed behind the wagon, while Halsin trotted along the side, still in his bear form. Everything was going smoothly, and Tav was pleased with how everything was working out. The road they had taken went along a river to the right, and to the left was a large expanse of grass that led into a forest. Perfect for when they stopped, as water and wood would be available. 

“Mommy?” Apple looked up at Tav. 

“Yes, honey?” Tav took her eyes off the road to look down at Apple. “What is it?”

“When did you learn how to drive a wagon?” Apple tilted her head. 

Tav felt her heart skip a beat. “Umm, I guess when I was about your age.” She turned her attention back to what was ahead of her. 

“Who taught you?” 

It felt like her heart was going to explode. “My father.” 

“Why have I never met him before?” Apple asked as she fell into one of her questioning marathons. 

“He’s dead, and that’s all you need to know about him.” Tav felt a headache starting to form behind her eyes. 

“Was he a bad man?” Apple’s voice got softer as she asked. 

Tav exhaled slowly. “Yes.” She turned towards Apple. “He hurt Mommy a long time ago, and Mommy doesn’t like to talk about it.” 

“Oh…” Apple looked away. “Like how Daddy was hurt?” 

Apple's sudden question caused Tav to pull on the reins, stopping the cart dead in its tracks. Tav turned fully towards Apple in her seat and touched her gently. “How do you know about that?” 

The way Apple averted her eyes from Tav, she knew that Apple had seen his scars and that someone had told her where they had come from, or, at the very least, that someone bad had given them to him. 

Astarion came up beside them, the look on his face one of utter confusion. “Is there a reason why we are stopping?” 

Before Tav could answer, she turned to face him and saw movement in the tree line. “I’ll tell you when we stop next.” Tav turned back to Apple. “Get in the back now.” 

“But…” Apple looked up at Tav with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not in trouble.” Tav turned back to look behind her, seeing more movement. “Mommy is about to do something dangerous, and I need you to get in the wagon.” Apple did what she was told, and Tav looked at Astarion. “In the tree line, there are people. I don’t know how many, but we need to move before we find out what they want.” 

“On it.” Astarion drew his dagger in preparation. 

“Just keep going until I stop.” Tav lifted the reins and came down hard. “Yea!” 

With a lurch, the whole wagon burst forward, picking up speed as they moved along the path. Halsin and Astarion followed, falling slightly behind as the power of the two horses combined pulled the four in the wagon. The two sleeping figures of Gale and Shadowheart stirred as they woke to see what was going on, moaning as the sudden movement made them fight to keep down their breakfast. 

Before they had time to address their concerns over the speed at which they were going, they flew over a hill to find that someone had placed a large tree over the path. Tav pulled up on the reins, causing the two beasts to skid to a stop. A curse left Tav’s lips as she stood from her seat and entered the main part of the wagon, grabbing her bow and a quiver of arrows before exiting the back of the wagon. 

“What’s going on?” Gale pulled himself up from the floor. 

“Yes, please tell us why you needed to throw us to the wagon's floor.” Shadowheart glared at Tav. 

“Bandits blocked the road.” Tav looked towards the tree line. 

“How do you know?” Gale asked, a bit annoyed. 

“The closest tree is about fifty yards away.” Tav shot him a glare. “And I don’t think it just fell on the road from that distance.”

Astarion jumped down from his horse and tied it to the wagon. “Are we moving the tree or fighting?” He shot Tav a smile. 

“Fighting if we have to, but let's hope that I’m wrong.” Tav looked at Apple, who was wide-eyed, standing behind Gale and Shadowheart. “Apple, you stay down. I don’t want them seeing you.” She looked back to the tree line to find several figures emerging with weapons drawn. “Gale, I need you out here with Halsin and Astarion. I’ll watch Apple .” 

“Of course.” Gale gave her a curt nod as he left the back of the wagon to stand just before it, hands ready to cast. 

“Where do you want me?” Shadowheart moved to stand beside Tav. 

“I need you at the front, just in case they slip past.” Tav pointed, and Shadowheart moved.

Tav drew back her bowstring until it was as far as it would go. A war cry came from the trees, and twenty- five men and women charged with all manner of weapons raised. Astarion drew both his daggers, waiting for the group to get closer before he could strike. When they cleared half the distance, Tav let one of her arrows fly, signaling it was time to strike. 

Astarion ran, slicing into the barely bandits and causing a spray of blood to rain down upon him. Tav watched as he sank his teeth into the barley-breathing man and drank from him until the light left his eyes. The man dropped like a sack of potatoes the second Astarion stopped supporting him. In a matter of seconds, Astarion was moving again, meeting several more bandits as they tried and failed to hit him. 

Tav released another arrow and got ready to let another one loose when she saw that the first hit its mark. It sank into one of the bandits Astarion was fighting, giving him the opportunity to finish them off before moving to another. As Tav looked to her left, Halsin had joined the fray, attacking savagely with his claws and teeth as more came from the wood. Looking to her right, Tav saw Gale and Shadowheart casting spells, both moving inwards toward the fight to give better aid to the two that were already fighting. 

“Daddy…” 

Tav turned to see Apple staring at Astarion as he ripped through bandit after bandit using blades and fang to kill as many as he could, a wicked grin plastered on his face. The look on Apple’s face was a mix of fear and confusion. She had never seen a fight, and certainly never one in which her father was bathed in blood. Tav lowered her bow, slightly distracted by her child's emotions. 

“Apple, I told you to get down.” Tav tried to sound calm. 

“Why is Daddy killing them?” Apple continued to stare, horrified at what she was seeing.

“He’s protecting you. Now get down before a stray arrow hits you.” 

“When did he learn how to do that?” Apple grabbed her throat. “He’s killing them with his teeth…”

She looked at him like he was a monster, and Tav’s heart broke. “Yes, he is, but he’s only doing it to ensure you are safe, so please get down now!” 

Apple looked back at Tav with tears in her eyes. “I wanna go home.” 

It felt as if she was going to be sick hearing the pleading in Apple’s voice. The utter fear at seeing her father ripping people apart bathed in their blood. A vastly different person from who she had known her whole life. More than anything, Tav wished that she could give her child what she wanted. To just go home and pretend that everything had just been a nightmare. That the deal with Angharradh had been all a cruel trick that Tav’s mind had cooked up. But it wasn’t a dream, and not finishing the quest had consequences that were just too great. 

“I know, and I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.” Tav took a small step forward. “Please, just get down, and we will talk about this later.” 

Apple rubbed the tears out of her eyes before sparing one last look at Astarion. Her eyes widened as she raised her arm and pointed before screaming, “Mommy, behind you!” 

Tav dropped her bow as she pulled her dagger from her belt and turned to meet the blade of a large man who had broken through and gotten to them. He was almost the size of Halsin, a big barrel-chested man with greasy hair and a missing front tooth. The daggers didn’t make a sound as they collided. With the blade so close, Tav noticed an oily sheen and a smell of something foul on the blade, likely poison. 

“What do we have here?” His words came out hot and slimy. “A mother and her pup?” He looked between Tav and Apple. “Pretty pair. I bet the two of you would fetch a fair price at auction.” 

“How about if you even lay so much as a finger on my child, I’ll cut your balls off and use them as bait to catch our dinner tonight.” Tav hissed as she put more pressure against their blades.

“Fiesty.” He smiled. “I like it when my women fight back.” 

“Sorry, I’m spoken for,” Tav spat as she used her left hand to cast Ray of Frost. 

He screamed in pain before quickly regaining his composure and using his own fist to connect with Tav’s face. The world went black as his knuckles hit hard against her nose, and an audible crunch came from within. The dagger fell from her grasp as pain radiated through her skull. Tav had no choice but to push away from him as she left him rearing back for another blow.

“Apple, I need you to cast something!” Tav yelled, a desperate plea in her voice. 

“I can’t!” Apple was sobbing. “Mommy, he’s coming. I’m scared!” 

Tav felt the wagon's wood at her back as she backed up. “Cast a spell, Apple! I can’t see!” She could hear footsteps as he approached, a deep laugh accompanying them. 

Raising her hand, Tav cast Ray of Frost in the direction where she heard him firing randomly, hoping she would hit him by chance. Tav felt fingers grip her hair and pull back, jerking her head up toward the sun. After a few more blinks, her vision returned to find that his face was only inches from hers. This time, he wasn’t smiling as he looked at her with venom in his eyes. 

“You know, I don’t think I want someone who can freeze me to death.” 

Tav screamed, “Astar-”

Her words were cut short; she felt cold steel penetrate her body. Apple screamed as the blade sank into Tav’s body to the hilt right below the left side of the ribs. He twisted the blade in a sudden wrenching movement, and Tav felt her whole body lurch with the act. Choking sobs were coming from Apple as Tav slumped against the back of the wagon. 

The blade was buried in her guts as the large bandit stood back to admire his work. “Shouldn’t take long for you to die.” A smile touched his lips. “That oil of Taggit is some nasty stuff mixed with a little bit of drow poison. People usually can only stay awake for maybe a minute or two before it’s nighttime.” He paused. “Though you are an elf, so I’m not sure if that applies to you.” A cruel laugh came from his lips. “With that wound, however, it won’t matter one way or the other. You’ll be dead from blood loss in a couple of minutes.” 

She could feel the poison seeping into her and the blood leaking out. If he had just stuck the dagger in, Tav would have just needed to worry about the poison, but he had twisted the blade, making it so the dagger didn’t stop the blood. Tav touched where the dagger was embedded in her body and felt a wet, sticky mess on top of her leather. Her head felt light as the loss of blood was becoming significant, the blow to the head not helping matters. 

“Mommy! Wake up! “ Apple screamed as the bandit approached her. 

“We’ll sell you to a new mommy, little girl.” The wagon dipped as he stepped up to grab Apple. “This one is broken anyway.”

Tav groaned, pain rippling through her insides as she pushed herself off the back of the wagon, stumbling to stand up straight behind him. She took hold of the dagger, sticky with her blood, and pulled it free. Pain rippled through her, and she fought to keep standing. Once she knew she could keep herself upright, Tav slashed at the back of his legs as hard as she could, tearing through muscle and tendons. 

This time, he screamed as he hit the ground, blood seeping from his legs as he writhed in pain. Above him, Tav stood, blade in hand, limp at her side. She had very little strength left, and was using most of what she had left to keep herself upright. Holding out her palm, Tav cast one more Ray of Rrost, freezing him to death. 

Turning, she looked at Apple, who was crying hysterically. Tav placed her hand over the wound in her stomach and tried casting Cure Wounds, finding that she did not have the strength to close it. Looking toward where the others downed the last foe, Tav saw the bloody field and Astarion standing in the middle of it, all covered head to toe in crimson. A laugh escaped her lips as she took in the sight. He turned towards her and smiled. She returned the gesture before dropping the dagger and falling to the ground to land face-first in the dirt.

Tag list:

@ofmyth-andmagicart @lunaredgrave @littlekidsteve @omnia--mea-mecum-porto porto @ayselluna @myreadingmanga123 @kismet-of-the-divine @nicalysm @justlilpeaches21 @five-salty-bitters @lenarosic88 @caydevakarian @supervrgnsokay-blog @ravenswritingroom @kalypsoox @foxiecelery @wisteriaofthegraves

[march-hare01]

Article by: GTHO bible

“It was love at first sight,” is how Gary Thompson remembers the night he saw his 1970 Falcon GTHO Phase Two for the first time.

“It was up on stands on the lot at John Gigante Motors on Parramatta Road in Croydon,” reminisces Gary today from his home in Mount Annan, New South Wales.

“My friend Paul Bianco and I were headed to the ‘brickies’ for some street racing action.

We had just driven by when the bright orange of the car caught my eye, and we immediately turned around to go drool over it,” remembers Gary. “They wanted around $4,200 for it. The salesman didn’t mind letting a 21 year old behind the wheel of such a powerful beast either!” After the road test, Gary talked turkey with the salesman clinching a deal that afternoon which included a then nine month old Electric Blue 351 XY Falcon 500. “They gave me $3,000 as a trade-in,” smiles Gary. This was fifty one years ago back in 1972, and the barely one-year old Falcon GTHO was just out of warranty and had just been traded-in by its first owner.

*** I’LL NEVER FORGET THE NIGHT THE FLYWHEEL EXPLODED THROUGH THE BONNET! ***

“I’d had the Phase Two for just ten days when my good mate Paul who was the test driver for Jack Brabham Ford where we both worked, lined me up to race his peppermint green Lotus twin-cam Mk1 Escort.” “We’d taken off in a symphony of noise, dust and wheel spin.I was revving the HO to 7,200rpm in 1st gear when I clutched to change to 2nd gear. We were flat out side by side on Newbridge Road at Moorebank, it was just before midnight.”“There was a loud bang! Then everything went pitch black.”“I had no headlights, and no dash lights. The electricals had been cut completely.” “Thunder struck, here I was doing 70 mile per hour trying to steer the big Falcon in complete darkness as I slammed on the brakes.My foot went straight to the floorboards and it took me a second to register that I was steering a runaway freight train!” tells Gary as he relives those harrowing frightening moments gripping the thin steering wheel with white knuckles whilst attempting to pull up a ton and a half of an out of control hunk of metal. If anybody had been watching this event unfold, they would have heard a loud explosion, and witnessed pieces of flywheel shrapnel explode through a bulging bonnet, and sparks coming from under the car where the rear of the engine block was tearing up the road. The gearbox bellhousing had also taken leave with the exploding flywheel, leaving Gary with a gearbox full of neutrals. “I was about a kilometre down the road before I came to a stop.”“Paul’s Escort had also suffered shrapnel wounds lodged from projectile bits of the flywheel embedded in his door panels.”“My ten day old car looked like it had been struck by lightning.”“It’s bonnet bulged upwards with a huge gaping hole where 20 ounces of flywheel had exited like an Apollo 11 rocket. The engine was now pointing skywards pressing against the underside of the bonnet.” A tow truck was quickly called from a nearby phone box, and the damaged Falcon GTHO taken to a local panel beater. “The next morning I was told it would be a write-off,” tells Gary, who then decided to have the car taken to another panel shop instead. “I’ll never forget the night the flywheel exploded,” says Gary. Two weeks later the Falcon was all repaired like new again. “The panel shop had offered me an XY GT style bonnet which came complete with air-scoop shaker assembly left over from a Falcon GT. The original XW grille was left on, but we added later model XY taillights.” Gary opted to remove the original black GT side stripes, “We did this for no other reason than to make it look different.” Mechanics at Jack Brabham Ford rebuilt the original motor with new bearings, and fitted a steel flywheel instead of the cast iron factory unit which had exploded into a million pieces. “They even had to repair the dowels at the back of the engine block which had broken off when the motor scraped along the road! The gearbox input shaft also needed to be replaced because it was bent like a banana. We ended up fitting after-market extractors as the original exhaust manifolds had been severely damaged. Before having the engine repaired, Gary who worked in spare parts at Jack Brabham Ford knew John Goss from McLeod Ford. “I had actually bought his ex-race car motor from his Phase Three GTHO for $300. I was going to rebuild it, but it was cheaper to repair my original engine. I sold this bare motor, less the Phase Three race camshaft which a mate fitted to his car, and broke even getting my money back on the whole deal. Originally registered with GT-187 number plates, the HO was re-registered with GT-388 after the repair. Gary kept his Falcon GTHO for a few years after this, and vividly remembers the first time he took it off the clock winding it past 140 miles per hour. “My wife and I were returning from my in-law’s house in Queanbeyan, and as we went through the township of Collector along the Federal Highway, a small Datsun 1600 was right on my backside along the windey bits.

“On the first open straight of road, I took the HO off the clock!”

“My nervous wife looked at the speedo and said ‘it’s on the H where it reads MPH (miles per hour)’.”“I took her word for it.”

“I wasn’t game to take my eyes off the road at that speed!” laughs Gary now.

Five decades would pass before Gary laid teary eyes on his old bright orange Falcon, which is now in the hands of Melbourne collector Joe Barca.

“I never thought I’d ever see my GTHO again,” says Gary in disbelief.

“I was thunder struck again, this time though by the condition it’s in now which is better than it was new!”

Chris Dent from Falcon GT Restorations in Sydney had completely restored this super-rare Ford for a previous owner to a Gold standard Concours condition, resulting in winning the Grand Champion

‘The Best Car of Show’ at the 2015 Falcon GT Nationals.

The current owner Joe tells,

“It had won every category in the show it was entered in.

It cleaned up every trophy! I had to have it.”

It was this moment that Joe knew he had to buy this outstanding GTHO should it ever come up for sale.

As chance would have it, not long after the Falcon came onto the market for sale by tender, and Joe was the successful bidder paying $500,000 for this very special one-of-a-kind car.

“It’s also my wife Debbie’s favourite colour,” states Joe with a wink, as he justifies this expensive purchase.

This said, the Phase Two isn’t Joe’s first rodeo as he’s owned many Falcon GTs and probably more GTHOs than anyone else on the planet.

Unbeknownst to Joe at the time, Gary Thompson the former owner was also the under-bidder who wanted to get his old car back.

Gary’s son Trent then arranged for his dad to see his old Falcon.

“As you can see Dad was very teary seeing it again,” says Trent.

“At least he got to sit behind the wheel again.”

It was at this time that Joe learnt more about this car’s history from Gary who shared his story and photos about the night the flywheel exploded.

This helped Joe to make sense of some minor existing battle scars in the transmission tunnel on the car.

[oonajaeadira]

For the Love of Fic: September 30

I've been back at my reading, y'all, doing some major catch up. And what a ride. There's a METRIC TON™ of amazing writers under the cut.

Brace thyself.

🪐 = Year of Themed Creation piece

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EZRA

Kisses of Fire by @simpingcowboy 🪐 It starts with an unconventional if not favorable bargain and then evolves. If I could make Ezra fall in love with me a little over a long time, I'd be patient too...

Lucky Stars by @brandyllyn I am SO IN LOVE WITH THIS FIC. Not only does Brandy nail Ezra's voice, cadence, swagger, and world, she even gives him someone who's onto his scoundrel-with-a-heart-of-gold behavior and just barely allows herself to be charmed by it. This feels so very canon and so very Ezra and I just need to roll myself up in it and cuddle it real hard.

Saying I love you with a letter by @songsformonkeys 🪐 Hanna is one of my favorite writers of deep emotions. Her Javi G is one of my all-time faves and I will never not laugh at her Javier. But I will knock you over to get at her Ezra and this is no exception even though you're gonna need tissues. Listen. Would like to get a letter of love and missing from Ez? Because this is it. Savor it.

Lost in the Weeds by @haylzcyon Have you seen this artwork? Insert Ezra and you and you have this fic. It's a beautiful little snippet that quietly documents falling in love with Ezra, and that's my favorite kind of Ezra story.

Wild Mountain Thyme 2 by @writeforfandoms Dragon Universe Ezra is back and he is not impressed with his tagalong. She's chipper and eager and seems to be up for his brand of grumpy today. I'm excited to find out how Jen turns his cart around.

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DIETER BRAVO

Fifty Shades of Orange by @all-the-things-2020 🪐 If you love Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, you're going to love love love how Dieter fits into this crossover. I am super impressed with this fic because it is, first and foremost, a HHGTTG fanfic. And it succeeds wildly at capturing the tone and attitude of all the characters. And I love that Dieter's just what Dieter is here, not the main character, but an odd problem to be solved. As a character, he fits so seamlessly into this world, I was kind of in awe for this whole ride. Aw man. Enjoy.

Position: 69, Position: Snuggled Spoon, Position: Sit on the Throne, Position: Kneeling Reach-Around, Position: Honey Bear, and Position: Froggy Style as part of @prolix-yuy's Bangathon 2023 Listen. LJ obviously loves her some Dieter. I appreciate the sweetness and softness of some of these, that Dieter is in need of some care and connection...and someone to just come undone around. I loved all of them, but props to Snuggled Spoon for it's slowness and softness, and to Froggy Style for the moment of the reveal. The whole Bangathon is wonderful, and the Dieter fics are certainly some of my faves there.

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JOEL MILLER

It Pours from Your Eyes by @the-blind-assassin-12 I mean, yes, it's a Joel fic, but really, it's Tess. It's Tess and it's beautiful. Alyssa has woven a 1200 word spell here, expertly painting a picture of Tess's heart and how it works to keep Joel's beating. It's so gorgeous and I'm just bewitched and bereaved... I'm almost begging you to read this.

Surrender [chapter twelve] by @ezrasbirdie This chapter just wrapped me in the yearn blanket. Written in three sections from the POVs of Daisy, Ellie, and Joel, each section just pulls at a different heartstring and all of them together are such pretty music. Yes please this found family that loves each other so much...

Year of Small Joys - Candles by @keldabe-kriff 🪐 Inviting Joel over to dinner in Jackson is inviting a damaged soul to sit down and heal. He's still got a little PTSD here, but a nice meal by the light of scented candles he looted? That's a nice step in the right direction.

Let's Twist the Knife Again by @missredherring I am obsessed with this little "time travel" story. I don't know exactly the mechanics of what's going on here--is it a dream? is he being given a second chance? is he stuck in a time loop?--but watching Joel retrace some familiar steps knowing what he already knows is fascinating and I would love to see what comes next.

Hypothermia by @morallyinept Jett's cleverly come up with the "giflet," a drabble based on a gif. This one is Joel in his sleeping bag. And you're in yours. And it's cold. But it ends soft, and that's my favorite.

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PERO TOVAR

The Herbalist: Part 7: Drinking Won’t Change the Audacity But Maybe It Will Help by @blueeyesatnight I'm so caught up in this story of beasts and strange people in Victorian England. Now we learn about Pero's past and a little more, but there's also something chewing at the edges about our heroine lady sleuth and I can't wait to find out what it is!

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JACK DANIELS

F is for Forced Orgasms / Fucking Machines by @butchmandalorian 🪐 Istg Max is out to pull me out of my soft places and make a sub out of me. I am not usually into the hard stuff, but everything they write is like beautiful crack and I cannot stop. I think it's because everything is so real, there's so much checking in and trust involved, I probably sound like a broken record, but hells bells that's my kink and Max writes it so well. I will say that daddy-talk is usually a turnoff for me, but I really REALLY appreciate that Max sets the scene thoroughly and explains that it's just a title, that any word can be substituted (read the warnings). I for one used that suggestion and appreciated that heads up. Looks like someone not only knows how to write a man that takes care of his partner, but is also a writer that takes care of their readers. Love it.

Black and White by @never--doubt 🪐 I've never seen this soulmate mechanic before and it's an interesting take on the traditional mark--one that changes color when your soulmate touches you there for the first time. Oh to be on mission with Agent Whiskey when the change happens....

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FRANKIE MORALES

Not Leaving You Again by @flightlessangelwings 🪐 (With Santi Garcia) It's a two-for-one not just in protectiveness and smut but in boys! It's hard not to fall for both of them--one of them sultry, one of them sweet--and it doesn't hurt that they're up to the task of sharing.

Buck Moon by @grogusmum 🪐 Listen. If you've ever wanted Frankie for the first time, naked (well, except maybe his hat) under the full moon out in nature under the full moon, have I got a fic for you! AAAAAAAA

We Came Along This Road by @insomniamamma 🪐 When J goes angst, J goes hard, and Frankie is many times her main target. Set within the world of the movie, the reader is his girl with his baby, and he's got some substance problems. Frankie has some trouble keeping promises.

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OBERYN MARTELL

First Dance by @hopeamarsu 🪐 Asking Oberyn for a dance when you know right well what you're both after is genius. Because he's probably a beautiful dancer so you get to experience that, but also, it only ramps up what's coming. What I wouldn't give to sit on this man's lap and ask him to dance just to see the look on his face....

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TIM ROCKFORD

Black Days 7: Times Are Gone For Honest Men, Black Days 8: Eyes Were Waking Up Just To Fall Asleep, AND 2023 Summer Kiss Prompt #5: Tim Rockford - Jealous Kiss by @something-tofightfor I will knock you down to get at Rachael's Tim Rockford. This man is complicated, their relationship is starting off complicated, and their circumstances have the potential to continue to complicate matters...and yet. These two seem to fit together just fine, easy as pie and coffee. The way he cares... I so can't wait to see what (and who) comes next.

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SPECIAL GUEST CORNER

JANE FOSTER

Undefeated by @captainsophiestark 🪐 Listen. I've never played pong in my life, but if Jane Foster walked into my party and wanted in on a game, I'd pong so fast....

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BOFUR THE DWARF

Love at First Fight by @ironmandeficiency 🪐 When you swear to keep your friend safe from the man who most recently broke her heart, your drunken ass threatens the wrong man. Or, rather, the right one. Or, rather, the right dwarf.

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[itsdeathofabachelor]

I really like the dynamic I’ve created for Jotaro and Kakyoin in a modern day setting.

Like, Jotaro got an after school gig and instead of going to college he’s took a gap year off the funds of said job, which is like some sort of warehouse or labourer thing because he can dead-lift three hundred pounds.

(The fact that he can deadlift three hundred pounds is also why his manager lets him smoke and drink outside on his breaks as long as nobody else sees him and it doesn’t affect his work, which is doesn’t because a can of beer isn’t going to knock him on his ass being 6’5 and like two hundred pounds himself*)

And Kakyoin is in college for some sort of business something because he also doesn’t know what to do but his very traditional Japanese parents overseas refuse to raise a NEET so he picked whatever had the highest graduate rate and games alone in his apartment after classes.

They’re roommates now but had been friends since they were kids and had reconnected literally by chance, as Jotaro had been working at said labourering gig at that time to pay for his Mom’s medical bills.

Side note: in this au Holly’s sick but more chronic illness sick, and after Sadao realized she wasn’t getting better and, in fact, it was a lifelong illness, he told her to leave. As the Japanese High End music industry is extremely judgmental and he was advised by several of his coworkers (and mistresses) that it would ruin his image if he was branded as a nurse and homebody taking care of Holly while Jotaro was at school.

With that in mind, Jotaro and Holly moved to America to live with Holly’s father, Joseph. Who is considerably more racist and far less charming for people to over look said racism. Suzy Q, his late ex wife and Holly’s bio-mom, noticed that after he gained a few pounds and suddenly didn’t have pretty privilege anymore.

She still barges into Joseph’s house to visit Holly and Jotaro, much to Joseph’s dismay. Jotaro likes her but finds her pushy and touchy without asking for permission first.

Jotaro worked at the same job he does now immediately after school to avoid the jokes and pokes at his father and about his race from Joseph, and seeing his mother try to walk again and cry when she can’t— Lining up perfectly one day when Kakyoin was walking (having just recently moved from overseas into the area of Jotaro’s job site) back from a later class.

Looking up from his phone he saw Jotaro, who was looking right at him from across the road, past the wire fencing set up to stop anyone from getting into the site and messing with the machines.

Kakyoin didn’t recognize Jotaro nearly as quickly as Jotaro recognized him. So as Jotaro long-jumped over the fencing and came barrelling into the street to the sidewalk where he stood, there was a split second where he thought he was going to die by the hands of a two hundred and fifty pound silverback gorilla. Like in the bootleg movie he had just watched the night before. And he wondered if this was the digital pirating god finally taking his dues.

Quickly, I should note, I remember seeing a post somewhere about how Jotaro’s love language is soft but he’d never let you get that close to him (the post included a picture of a teddy bear in a steel cage to represent this) and I think that fits very well with my own fanon interpretation of Jotaro’s character.

However, I do also think after so much time spent trying to help his mother, dealing with the weight of having to be the only reliable shoulder for her to cry on (because we all know THIS Joseph doesn’t have a emotionally intelligent bone in his body) and also the crushing feeling of grinding your body into a pulp for both school and some labouring job you hate— after about the year or so he had been there— would have had him clinging to those hinges by his fingernails.

So, bam! The last comfort of his childhood that hadn’t been ripped away, standing awkwardly at the crosswalk because he wasn’t sure if he should jaywalk because there were no cars coming, or if he should wait because the statistics of automobile casualties due to the average pedestrian’s immortality complex when it comes to giant metal machines are flicking behind his eyelids— obviously, Jotaro loses his mind.

Imagine a black bear. Giant. Huge, okay? Got that?

That’s what Kakyoin was suffocating into as Jotaro hugged him so hard his pre-mature stand popped out a little from his back.

This Kakyoin, having no fighting instincts what-so-ever, kind of just goes limp. And Jotaro, so happy he’s really really upset, shakily puts him back down.

And then there’s a moment like, wait wait wait wait. . . I know that mean mug— and then Kakyoin sort of connects the dots because Jotaro had always been a lot taller than him and also he literally was the only person Kakyoin had ever known that had let him blow out his birthday candles at his seventh birthday party when he found out Kakyoin’s parents didn’t ’believe in birthdays’ other than ‘milestone birthdays’.

And Jotaro had also treated him with basic human decency, considering he could have very easily bullied him.

So his face was burned into his memory for years now, whenever he tried to socialize and said the wrong thing, or if he saw a friend group doing friend group activities and suddenly he felt very very lonely. He actually really missed his and Jotaro’s friendship.

So they became best friends again like immediately.

It turns out in their time apart, Kakyoin had gotten an Autism diagnosis, which explained his unusual speech pacing and all the other things leading to ruthless bullying in middle school.

When he told him this on the floor of Kakyoin’s apartment— both of them doing a Pokémon themed puzzle together even though Jotaro had trouble picking the pieces off the floor— Jotaro could not have given less of a shit, but instead asked if that’s why, when the were kids, Kakyoin had always asked him for ‘pressure’ (AKA, Jotaro being taller than Kakyoin made it so he could give him a hug or lay on top of him in order to provide a good sensory feeling, or what Kakyoin had called ‘Pressure’).

And Kakyoin’s like, ‘Yeah.’

And Jotaro’s like, ‘Do you need some now?’ And mutters something about not wanting him to freak because he’s over whelmed or anything but really he wants a hug and doesn’t want to be the one to ask.

And Kakyoin’s like, ‘Sure. That’d be nice because I couldn’t enjoy the other hug properly when thinking you were a stranger trying to kill me’.

And now they’re roommates and Kakyoin streams his gaming seshes after he realized his parent’s monthly payments towards his rent were giving them ammo for guilt-trips and that he could make money off of games.

Weirdly enough, the same speech abnormalities he got bullied for actually helped him get his streaming platform, as it became his ‘brand’ in a way. Same thing with his flat humour and ‘fun facts’. Also, because he talks so much, his streams are very long, and there’s a running joke in his audience to— when he’s saying he’s going to log off for the night— ask him questions and see how long they can keep him on stream.

He doesn’t have a face cam, and plans to remain faceless to his audience, so whenever he really needs to focus and Jotaro comes lumbering in from a hard day at work and kicks his shoes off, Kakyoin—laying on the couch—raises his arms with his controller clicking over his head, not looking away from the screen, and is like ‘Jotaro, pressure. Streaming.’

And Jotaro hears Ode To Joy playing in his head as he tosses his ballcap with the company’s logo somewhere behind the tv and falls facefirst onto Kakyoin, who, after getting the air pressed out of his lungs, wins his match and talks to the chat.

The chat, obviously, asks about Jotaro, and Kakyoin just says, ‘A good friend of mine gifts me plus five stamina.’ Or some nerd shit.

* I headcannon Jotaro as fucking huge btw but that’s because I love very large angry men who, when relaxed, melts into a puddle of goo because their muscles aren’t straining. Jotaro has that kind of physique. Suzie Q (being Italian) loves this as Jotaro burns more calories flexing all day because he’s so stressed and tensed about everything, than a two mile sprint. So he eats. A lot. He’s one of the only people who actually eats enough not to have left overs. It impresses Joseph more than he’d ever admit.

[takosan]

Spoilers for Jujutsu Kaisen, Bleach.

The other day I saw someone post that Jujutsu Kaisen was a better manga before it became mainstream and Gege felt pressured by fans to write in a certain way and the story went awry after becoming mainstream. (Can’t find the post now so paraphrasing here but it was basically about the ending which has left many people disappointed.) I’ve been thinking over the post and I don’t know if I agree. For one, most artists want their work to reach more people. Not only does that mean commercial success, more income, future opportunities, etc but also it means you created something which resonates with so many people. If you become mainstream and then feel pressured by your fan base, that is something you have to resolve as an artist internally, by holding true to your vision. This is not to say that fans are always right or kind or generous (I mean here we are reading leaks…) but to blame fans for the writing in the manga doesn’t seem right. So where did it go wrong?

This is my take on it and of course feel free to disagree.

Personally I think Gege kind of set up his own problems and they were foundational and early in the manga. This right here:

In Gogo, we had a character who was canonically the strongest in the world. Undefeated. Yes, his students have potential but Gojo’s techniques were unrivaled. This by itself was not the issue. There are lots of manga with overpowered teachers/leaders. I just watched Bleach, and the head captain Genryusai Yamamoto is the OP character. In Hunter x Hunter, it is the chairman, Netero. Both of them are defeated and killed by a foe who is introduced as the gravest threat, etc etc. The issue is the suspension of disbelief that fans are expected to perform. How is this little tot of a protagonist going to defeat an antagonist who could defeat the strongest good guy in that world? This is also why I will always get on my soapbox for Hunter x Hunter and Togashi’s writing. Gon never fights Meruem (because he would be swatted aside like a fly) and his fight with catperson (whose name I have forgotten) has horrific consequences. Togashi’s solution was not to give his protagonist a training regimen at Planet Fitness for three weeks. The ant king’s death is so much more realistic. Netero’s means of killing the ant king are underhanded because he acknowledges that they were NOT on the same power level and even his technique was no match at the end of the day. Also other powerful characters who could have taken on the ant king are not introduced until later. The writing and plot development was brilliant, believable, and had us weeping for EVERYONE. Togashi wrote an ethical dilemma about whether the ant king’s murder was justified into that fight.

Bleach is probably a better comparison to JJK because it is also setting up Ichigo to fight Yhwach who has defeated all the canonically strong characters (the head caption, royal guards). No doubt he is going to get new forms, new swords, and fifty chapters where he nearly dies three times. (At the end of it, we will want the fight to end and Ichigo to win because we can’t bear to read another chapter 😂) The difference between the two though, and this is where Gege compounds his mistake, is writing Gojo as a fully fledged character in his own right with plenty of screentime. You end up with people rooting for the supposedly secondary character rather than your protagonist. We might overlook Kubo killing the head captain - he barely appeared in the story, didn’t have much of a personality when he did appear, and was not written as an attractive, interesting, compelling character. He was just a placeholder for what Soul Society represented. It might not be the best writing but we can forgive it. Because the manga focuses us on Ichigo and other characters who we are invested in. Kenpachi v Unohana was rich. Kyoraku inviting Haschwalth to tea was comedy. Mayuri as some mad scientist perversion of a sunflower was dazzling …and puzzling. The same is not true for JJK. Gege wrote BOTH Gojo and Yuji into the spotlight, AND routinely disappeared characters (Nobara?) until they randomly showed up again. As the reader you end up asking where characters are offscreen because there isn’t a satisfactory answer. I don’t think I understood the culling games. The pacing in the ending chapters has been very off. I don’t know if fans can be blamed for this. Personally speaking, the last stroke of brilliance in the plot for me was Gege boxing Gojo (because it makes Gojo so heartrendingly human, to pause at the sight of the one he cares, whom he killed). After that it felt like the plot didn’t know what to do with Gojo.

Also just want to say that I do feel for Gege. I can’t imagine carrying the burden of such high expectations. I am sure the pressure was high, and I think we already know that mangaka are so overworked. It’s something Togashi has talked about when he explains why HxH has been so slow. It can’t be easy to keep churning out issues. And I do wonder about editorial oversight because Gege couldn’t be solely responsible for some of these problems. I don’t support writers being hated on. We can feel disappointed and not like how a story played out, but at the end of the day the writers are human too and also have feelings. At the end of the day we have to give credit to Gege for creating this interesting story world and for giving us characters who entertained us and drew us in.

Anyway this post has become long. I haven’t watched Naruto (which I’ve heard praised for its writing too) so curious how that show handles OP characters who are not the protagonist.

PS - Mayuri. What even is this 😂😂😂😂