#remember how limes quirk is that hes good at everything??????? yep

[musubiki]

oh you know just.....typical limochi activities.......

#the cat witchs guild #the misc adventures of mochi and lime #tcwg #tmaomal #mochi #lime #limochi #art #ocs #original #fluff #spice #years and years of magic comissions and m34th training gave him insane stamina #remember how limes quirk is that hes good at everything??????? yep #i dont know if this is mochi or limes room but it gives me comfort....the coziness of it... #hair so fluffy!!!! very grab-able #his haaaannddssss

[jaskiersvalley]

The Eternal Empire

My dearest @ohnomybreadsticks, this is my humble offering to you as part of @thewitchersecretsanta. I hope it is everything your little heart could hope for, a Modern AU of our OT4 being idiots.

Rating: Mature Pairings: Lambert/Eskel, Aiden/Cahir, Lambert/Eskel/Aiden/Cahir, Eskel/Cahir, Lambert/Aiden Summary:  What better way to figure out whether there was any jealousy between them than by going to a strip club? Lambert and Eskel had done all the talking about finding a third to invite into their relationship. In theory they were fine with it, but they needed to see whether theory held up in practice too.

The Eternal Empire

The Eternal Empire was a rather impressive building. It loomed over Lambert and Eskel, slick, dark with golden accents. There was no doubt about what kind of establishment it was, the silhouettes of dancers in the windows, just obscured enough to be nothing more than elegant, barely there shadows. Eskel looked over it in approval.

“Hasn’t really changed.”

Coughing nervously, Lambert glanced between his partner and the building. He really hadn’t expected to ever end up at such an establishment, let alone with Eskel. While he knew his partner had been to strip clubs before, that was before they got their heads out of their arses and actually started dating rather than casually fucking. On the surface, Lambert was the wild one, the unpredictable, hot-headed idiot while Eskel was the quiet, dependable, respectable one. It gave Lambert a bit of a kick to know how wrong those impressions were. After all, he wasn’t the one who had snorted a line of fisstech off the chest of a one night stand.

That was all beside the point, Lambert was now following his partner into the depths of The Eternal Empire, absolutely absorbed in the décor which was dark, highlighted with soft yellow lights that really looked like a never ending line of fire. From deep within the building music reverberated through the walls, making Lambert’s whole body pulse with the beat.

“Are you sure?”

“As long as you are,” Eskel replied, linking their hands. “This is a safe way to see if either of us gets jealous. We’ll find a couple of nice looking and willing performers, buy a couple of dances, have a nice time. It’s just dipping our toes in and seeing how we feel.”

A fine plan, one that had seemed so much better in the light of day. The two of them were so very happy together, Geralt liked to tease they were sickeningly in love. But, over the years, they’d grown to realise that maybe they had room in their lives for an extra person. A threesome hadn’t really been the way they wanted to test their theory, they wanted something more subtle. Hence a strip club and a wedge of cash in Eskel’s pocket.

The main area of the club was quite breath-taking. Lambert stared wide eyed, taking in the large room with a main stage and a couple of smaller ones. There were performers of every kind dotted around the place, doing seemingly impossible things on poles or shimmying against patrons.

“Just remember the rules, look but don’t touch. And look respectfully.”

Lambert was doing just that. Looking very very respectfully, jaw only slightly slack as his gaze caught on two beautiful people, leaning against a bar. Both were lean, strong, and looked like they’d walked off a photoshoot of some description. They were both wearing very little, only tight golden booty shorts that left not a whole lot to the imagination. Their skin glistened in a shimmer of gold - not enough to be overpowering but highlighting all the gorgeous muscles on display. The lady they were chatting to glanced over at them and smirked.

“Oh shit.” Lambert managed to mutter before the glamorous woman was standing in front of them.

“Good evening gentlemen,” she said. “I’m Fringilla, I’ll be your hostess for the evening. I see those two rather lovely idiots have caught your eyes.”

Eskel nodded, more comfortable with the situation than Lambert could ever hope to be. He put an arm around Lambert’s waist and offered a quirk of his lips. “If they have some spare time and don’t mind our visage, a dance would be most welcome.

Fringilla smiled like a shark that smelled blood. She nodded. “Of course. Why don’t I show you to a private booth and I’ll send them over with your preferred drinks. What will it be?”

“Two sodas, a wedge of lime in one if you’re feeling generous,” Eskel replied. There was no drinking to be had that night, this was something they needed to do sober.

With a nod, Fringilla led them to one of the side booths that could be curtained off. It even had a pole in it. “Aiden and Cahir will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you!” Lambert squeaked and Eskel had to hide his fond laugh. He loved his partner but he was so nervous.

“Relax,” he breathed and squeezed the muscles along Lambert’s neck and shoulders with one large hand. “It’s just us having a bit of fun.”

“Shouldn’t we have talked prices first? You said we won’t order off the menu.”

Before Eskel could reply, the curtains fluttered and the two dancers stepped in. He had to hand it to Lambert, he really did spot a beautiful pair. They were rather lucky to have them free for a dance and, looking at them, Eskel already knew it wasn’t going to be cheap but it was so very worth it. Anticipation thrummed impatiently under his skin.

“Hello, thank you,” Lambert said as he took a drink from the shorter of the two. “I’m Lambert, this is Eskel.”

Nerves were obviously getting the better of him but the dancer winked with a cheeky smile. “You can call me Thank You but I generally prefer Aiden. And this is my partner Cahir. I believe you two asked for a dance this evening?”

“Yes please. If it’s no trouble. And we’ll look respectfully but nothing more.”

Cahir turned from Eskel to look at Lambert with a wicked grin. “You are too precious, sweetheart. Why don’t we dance for you and, if the mood takes, we might even let you touch. Okay?”

Eskel settled on the padded bench along the wall and tugged Lambert next to him. They were just within touching distance of the pole and, as Aiden fiddled with the controls artfully disguised in the wall, the lights came down into something darker, more intimate just as music started playing.

With the fluidity of a dancer, Cahir stepped up to the pole and, with seeming ease, pulled himself up it, turning upside down, gripping with his legs while he reached for Aiden. Lambert had no clue where to look. His eyes were drawn to the expanse of stomach and chest revealed by the move but also the way Cahir’s legs wrapped around the pole, thighs flexing. It was just as well they were in a private booth because Lambert wasn’t certain he wouldn’t combust if he’d had to watch this with strangers.

Similarly entranced, Eskel settled in comfortably, sipping at his soda, a hand on Lambert’s thigh. He was impressed by the prowess both Cahir and Aiden showed, they were definitely showmen, used to performing. There was no doubt that Aiden was the cheeky, fun one who stuck his tongue out at Lambert from the top of the pole before seemingly rolling down it, only to catch himself in a sitting position a foot off the ground. It was impressive to say the least. Chancing a glance at Lambert, Eskel had to smile. His partner looked enthralled, leaning closer to watch as Cahir leisurely spun around the pole, more showcasing his muscles than actually dancing. Thankfully, there wasn’t even a flicker of jealousy in Eskel at the way Lambert devoured the show with his eyes.

As the song wound down, Cahir was up on the pole in a similar position to how Aiden had started. But, by virtue of being taller and Eskel also leaning forward, as he leaned back, his face came level with Eskel’s.

“Hello handsome,” Cahir purred and a hand stroked down Eskel’s scarred cheek without hesitation or disgust. Eskel had to hand it to him, the guy was a professional through and through. He turned to look between Lambert and Eskel before his eyes flicked to Eskel’s lips. Before Eskel could give into temptation and lean in, Cahir was pulling himself up and flipping off the pole with flourish, a teasing grin on his face just as the song ended.

“Wow.” Lambert was speechless and he looked ready to start clapping. It was only Aiden slithering to sit next to him that stopped him probably.

“Enjoy the show?” As if he even had to ask and he knew, if his cocky smoke was anything to go by.

“It was amazing,” Eskel cut in when Lambert just nodded and kept nodding without stopping. “How much do we owe you?”

“Nothing.” Cahir flopped down next to Eskel in a sprawl. He had to be aware of how delectable he looked, nobody could be so blind to their own appeal. “We did this because of a bet.”

“You lost a bet?” Lambert finally piped up, eyes big and disappointed. Next to him, Aiden scoffed.

“Lost? No! We won.” He looked altogether far too proud.

That made not a whole lot of sense and Eskel decided to take a drink rather that try and fathom out what kind of idiot bet on something and their prize was dancing in a club while wearing next to nothing. Well, he knew what kind of idiot, the two they were currently sharing a booth with.

“So, were we your great gay awakening?” Aiden asked and held up a hand for Cahir who obediently reached over to high five him.

“Nah. That was Eskel a long while ago.” A laugh actually bubbled up in Lambert’s throat as he shyly looked at his partner. “This was my polyamorous awakening I think.”

“Nice.” Cahir nodded. “I remember Aiden and I figuring that one out.”

“Wait-” Eskel looked between the two, “-when you said partner did you mean-?”

Aiden’s bright laughter answered that and he nodded merrily. “Yep. Eight years and counting. Had a few people stick around for a roll in the bed with us but nothing ever stuck.”

Lambert squeezed Eskel’s thigh. They were both thinking it. Obviously Cahir and Aiden were up for at least a fumble if not more too. Especially given how Aiden scooted closer to Lambert, almost sitting in his lap.

“So, what do you say?” Aiden murmured, leaning in.

Eskel watched as Lambert’s tongue darted out and wet his lip. He leaned in closed too, whispering “go for it” and watching as Lambert kissed Aiden. What Eskel didn’t expect was for Cahir to trail a hand across his chest and up his throat to snag two fingers under his chin and turn him back.

“I believe I rudely teased you earlier.” His words curled around a smile. “And, if we do this, I need to go pay Fringilla for your drinks. I would love this to be a bet I lost.”

More than happy to oblige, Eskel wasted no time in kissing Cahir. However, his hand still reached to link his fingers with Lambert’s. As far as first meetings went, it was definitely not a traditional one. Then again, nothing about Lambert and Eskel had ever been traditional and it all worked out just fine. This too would be the start of something unusual but perfect for all four of them.

#lambskel #lambden #eskhir #eskel/lambert #eskel/cahir #lambert/aiden #aiden/cahir #eskel/lambert/cahir/aiden #witcher secret santa #long post

[purplepersnicketywrites]

Purbbbbb what about a quirk accident fic. E.g. one of them is hit by a truth quirk, or a mindreading quirk, or theyre turned to a kid so babysitting ensues. Cliche-ish but you write the cutest things so itd be fun to read lzhxhxuf

MAPLE!!! Yes!!

hhhhhhh truth quirk hhhhh

Eijirou felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Or, uh, maybe he had? Everything was a little hazy. Kinda vague. Was his vision cloudy? He blinked a couple of times and it began to clear. Augh, his stomach was killing him.

Someone shook his shoulder, roughly. Who was it? Eijirou looked up and saw a blob of mostly black. Whoever it was had blond hair, though.

“Oi, Kirishima! Hey! Are you okay?”

Huh, the voice coming from the blob sounded familiar? Eijirou shook his head. “Feel sick. Stomach bad. Can’t see well.”

Some of his nausea lightened as he spoke - he guessed that having something to focus on was helping?

“Ah, shit. He got you, didn’t he?”

“I don’t remember,” Eijirou said, squeezing his eyes shut. “And I’m not totally sure who you are?”

“Fuuuck, okay,” said the person, kneeling down in front of him. “Do you know your name?”

“Kirishima Eijirou,” Eijirou said. He was pretty sure of that.

“Good. How old are you?”

“Um, sixteen?”

“Yep, right. What school do you go to?”

Eijirou thought about that. “Yuuei.”

“Okay, do you know the names of your classmates?”

Eijirou squinted at the blob-person again. His vision was getting better, and he made out a pair of bright red eyes, staring at him with a concern that didn’t normally occupy them.

“Oh,” Eijirou said. “Bakugou!”

Bakugou grinned at him. “There ya go. Dumbass.”

“Ugh, I feel awful,” Eijirou said. “I still don’t remember what happened. Feel like I got punched! But my quirk should’ve stopped that, right?”

“Idiot, we got briefed on this,” Bakugou said, standing up and hauling Eijirou to his feet. “The guy we were after has a contact-activated quirk. Doesn’t matter if you were hardened or not - you’re still gonna be affected by it.”

“Oh, so, was this a brain-mush quirk?” Eijirou asked.

Bakugou shook his head. “The fucker has a kind of speech quirk. If you don’t say enough true things, it fucks with you.”

“True things? Like, the sky is blue? Grass is green?” Eijirou felt the haze over his thoughts lifting even as he said the words. “Oh, it’s working.”

“Yeah. Better get you back to Fat Gum and Suneater,” Bakugou said. His hand was around Eijirou’s elbow, and he pulled Eijirou along with him as he started walking.

“But what about the guy we were supposed to, uh,” Eijirou blinked. “Oranges are orange. Lemons are yellow. Bananas are yellow. Aha! We were supposed to catch the guy, weren’t we?”

“Yeah, but who the fuck knows where he went after he got you, at this point,” Bakugou said, fingers tightening just a tad. “It’s whatever.“

Eijirou squinted at his friend. “Strawberries are red, raspberries are pink.”

“Why are you obsessed with fruit?” Bakugou asked.

“Hush, I’m just trying to find easy true things to say,” Eijirou said, and that was true, too. His memory of the morning was trickling back as he spoke. “Lettuce is green, cabbage is green, celery is green, uh, leaves are green, my hair is red, um, blueberries are blue!”

Aha!

“Hey!” Eijirou cried. “You were there! You were just behind the corner of the building! You could’ve gone after him!”

“What, and I shoulda left your sorry ass on the ground for anyone to find?” Bakugou scoffed. “The pros can handle the villain. Or what are they fucking for?”

“Wow,” Eijirou said. “That’s surprisingly mature and attractive of you.”

Wait.

Bakugou stopped.

Wait, no-

“What?”

“Uh,” Eijirou said, faced with a Bakugou with one of his eyebrows arched like that. “I said you were being mature?”

“And the other part?” Bakugou asked, voice as flat as a sheet of paper.

Eijirou said nothing, and then winced as he stomach started hurting again.

Bakugou must have noticed, because he scowled and used his grip on Eijirou to tug him closer. “Say it again.”

“It,” Eijirou said, matching Bakugou’s scowl at the word. “Don’t use this quirk against me, man.”

Bakugou let go of his arm and took a step backwards.

“That’s not-” he began. Eijirou watched his frown morph into frustration. “Let’s just go. Can you walk by yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Eijirou said, honestly. The pain in his stomach subsided. Alright, so this quirk was officially Annoying.

Bakugou growled and seized his elbow again.

Eijirou sat at the edge of the bed in the school hospital wing, kicking his legs back and forth and glaring at the floor. Fat Gum had sent him back to Yuuei, and Recovery Girl had inspected him thoroughly. “Apples can be different colours. Apples can be red, apples can be green, apples can be yellow.”

He heaved a great sigh. There wasn’t really anything that anyone could do about this quirk until it wore off. Eijirou had asked if there was a truth-compulsion aspect to it - something to explain why exactly he’d said what he’d said to Bakugou earlier - but it wasn’t on the villain’s records. That didn’t necessarily mean that there wasn’t, only that it hadn’t been noticed in other victims.

“Ah, Kirishima! You may return to your dorm room,” Recovery Girl said, walking into the room from her office. “Though come back at any time should you feel like the effects of this quirk are overwhelming you.”

“I will!” Eijirou said. “Thank you.”

“I believe that a friend of yours is waiting outside for you as well,” Recovery Girl said.

Oh?

Eijirou thanked the old woman again and walked out into the hallway. Ah. Bakugou. He was leaning on the wall across from the nurse’s office and scowling into the middle-distance, though he looked up at the sound of the door. Eijirou’s stomach flipped, though maybe not entirely because of the quirk.

“Hey,” Eijirou said. He wasn’t sure of Bakugou was going to bring up that thing he’d said earlier or not.

Bakugou nodded at him. and turned to start walking down the hall. “You got the all-clear?”

“Yeah, as long as I keep saying true stuff!” Eijirou said, jogging a couple of steps to catch up to him. “I’m thinking that I’ll load up Wikipedia and just, like, read it aloud as needed until the quirk wears off.”

“Huh,” Bakugou said. “Smart.”

Eijirou felt himself flushing. “Ah, not really.”

Bakugou eyed him, and then his expression turned furious. “You actually believe that you- Ugh. Coming up with that shit is fucking clever. Don’t sell yourself short like that.”

“Uh,” Eijirou said. “Um. Thanks.”

“Whatever,” Bakugou scoffed. They continued walking in silence after that, Eijirou’s heart pounding far too wildly in his chest.

They stopped outside Eijirou’s door, but before Eijirou could open it, Bakugou put a hand on his chest to stop him. Eijirou turned and he knew his eyes were probably too wide, but Bakugou’s hand was warm even through his t-shirt.

“Hey, leave your door unlocked,” Bakugou said. What? “Don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what?!” Eijirou’s voice squeaked out half an octave higher than usual, ah fuck.

“Just- Forget it. I don’t know what time limit is on this stupid quirk bullshit, but you’re gonna need to sleep,” Bakugou said. “And if it turns your brain to mush again while you’re sleeping then someone’s gonna have to go in and talk you into clarity.”

Eijirou hadn’t thought about that. “Oh. Makes sense.”

“Mm,” Bakugou said, his fingers splaying a little on Eijirou’s chest before he pulled his hand away. “So shout if you need me, Kirishima.”

Bakugou flashed him a grin - a grin - and twisted away to his own room. Eijirou was left standing there, unsure if the butterflies in his stomach were quirk induced or not.

“Bakugou is so cool,” Eijirou whispered. Not the quirk, then.

“Hey! Hey, can you speak?”

“Nn… Yes.”

“Good. Do you know your name?”

“Uh…”

“Fuck, okay, how are you feeling?”

“Bad. Real bad. Hurts.”

“When we catch this fuck I’m gonna kill him.”

“Bakugou?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

There was something heavy on each of his shoulders. Eijirou groaned and felt himself fall forward onto something warm. “I got hit by a quirk.”

“That’s right.”

“I gotta say things that are true,” Eijirou said, pressing his face into the warm thing.

“Or your brain shorts out worse than Dunce Face, yeah,” Bakugou said. Weird, the warm thing had rumbled along with his words.

…

Eijirou opened his eyes. Huh, yeah, his face was currently buried in the crook of Bakugou’s neck. It was Bakugou’s hands he could feel on his shoulders. Eijirou took a moment to assess the whole situation as best he could. The light in his bedroom was on, but he had no idea what the time was. He was sitting up, well, slouched forwards a little. Bakugou was kneeling over his legs on top of the duvet.

“Uhhh,” Eijirou said. “What are you doing?”

“There you are,” Bakugou said from somewhere just above Eijirou’s ear. Eijirou let Bakugou push him backwards. “You were screaming, so I come in to stop you.”

Eijirou couldn’t say anything for a moment, distracted by Bakugou’s eyes roving his warming face. “Augh, I don’t remember. What time is it?”

“Like, four or some shit.”

Eijirou groaned.

“Tell me some more fruit colours,” Bakugou said. “Until you’re completely here.”

“It’s four in the morning, I’m not gonna be completely here,” Eijirou grumbled. Bakugou just looked at him. “Fine, uh, Limes are green, pineapples are yellow on the inside and brown on the outside, dragonfruit are pink with white flesh.”

“Good. Go back to sleep,” Bakugou said. He was still sitting on Eijirou’s legs.

Eijirou pressed his hands into his eyes. “This sucks.”

“I’m staying here,” announced Bakugou, finally rolling off Eijirou’s legs and coming to rest between Eijirou and the wall. Wait, what? “I’ll be closer to head this thing off before you get bad again.”

“You don’t have to,” Eijirou began, watching Bakugou slide himself under the covers with a feeling of dumbfoundment. “Do… That…”

Bakugou snorted. “This shit is stressing me out, so I’d rather be here than anywhere else.”

Eijirou had no idea how to take that, so he tried to joke about it instead. “Aw, Blasty, are you worried about me?”

“Yeah,” Bakugou said, without hesitation. Eijirou felt himself go red - redder. Well, there went Eijirou’s last chance at retaining his composure. “Stop thinkin’ so hard and go the fuck to sleep.”

Bakugou rolled over to face the wall, back to Eijirou. Okay. Okay. Without Bakugou’s eyes on him he could probably manage to sleep. Yeah. Only now he could hear Bakugou breathing, and the heat radiating off of him was stronger than Eijirou had imagined.

Maybe he’d imagined this a little too much.

“I can hear your brain whirring,” Bakugou grunted. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“You’re warm,” Eijirou said, without thinking. Whoops. Maybe it was the speech quirk.

Eijirou imagined that Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Hah? ‘Course I am, it’s part of my quirk.”

“I, uh,” Eijirou swallowed. “I never noticed before.”

“Is it too warm for you to sleep?” Bakugou asked.

Eijirou thought about that for a few moments. “No.”

“Then what’s your fuckin’ problem?”

Eijirou shook his head, even if Bakugou couldn’t see him. “No problem, man. I’m just overthinking.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou snorted, and reached behind to elbow Eijirou’s chest. “Like I said. Go to sleep.”

“Alright,” Eijirou said, though he wasn’t sure if his racing heartbeat would help with that or not. He suspected the latter. “Night, Bakugou.”

“Night, Kirishima.”

Eijirou had sort of been hoping to wake up and see Bakugou still sleeping next to him. The early morning sun would have been shining, enough so that a sunbeam shone through a chink in the curtains and turned Bakugou’s hair into a halo of gold. Eijirou would have drawn in a gasp at the sight of it, and Bakugou’s eyes would have fluttered open and met his. Bakugou would have been soft with sleep for a moment, and Eijirou would have given him a shy smile and a ‘good morning’. Eijirou had been picturing it for quite some time now.

Instead of all that, however, Eijirou woke up to a cold bed and a blinding headache.

It was sort of how he imagined waking up to a hangover must feel like. He groaned, one hand flying to his forehead. “Ow, fuck.”

There was a sound from across the room, and Eijirou squinted over to see Bakugou just turning to look at him from Eijirou’s desk chair. Oh! He was still sort of here! Maybe he’d woken up early and got bored? Had he been doing work while Eijirou was asleep? How long had Bakugou been up?

“The sky is blue, grass is green,” Eijirou said to try and clear the headache away. He glanced at the clock. “Wh- It’s eleven! I overslept! We’re late to class!”

“Nah,” Bakugou said, and Eijirou paused in his mad scramble to get out from under his duvet.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been pulled out of classes for a few days until this quir wears off. You need to say stuff out loud too often and it could be ‘disruptive’,” Bakugou said, with a derisive snort.

“Right,” Eijirou said. That made sense. However… “Why are you still here, then?”

“Someone needs to babysit you,” Bakugou said, turning back to what he was working on and moving some of the paper around. He stood. “Aizawa gave me the worksheets for today, if you’re up for it.”

“What, now?” Eijirou blinked.

Bakugou snorted and made for the door. “No, dumbass. You need to get dressed and eat something first.”

“Oh,” Eijirou said. He couldn’t tell if his brain was frazzled from the quirk, from just waking up, or the way Bakugou smirked at him when he left through the door.

He left through the door.

Eijirou lurched upwards and staggered towards his door. He wrenched it open, a ‘wait’ building on his lips, only to be met by one of Bakugou’s raised eyebrows and a pair of crossed arms.

“I said get dressed,” Bakugou said, sounding a little amused. “Once you are, come downstairs.”

“Uh huh,” Eijirou said. He stood there, staring at Bakugou for a few more moments.

Bakugou rolled his eyes, grabbed Eijirou’s shoulders, and twisted him around to face his room again. Bakugou shoved him - not hard - and Eijirou walked back into his room.

“Clothes, Kirishima,” Bakugou said. Eijirou looked down at his Crimson Riot pyjamas. “And say some true stuff!”

“I’m screwed,” Eijirou whispered to himself as he heard Bakugou’s stomping footsteps fade towards the lift.

Eijirou was pretty sure that he’d like, fallen into an alternate universe or something, because the universe itself was catering to his whims. Maybe this was some sort of karmic reward for having to go through this speech quirk. Maybe it was all a happy accident.

Eijirou wanted to spend time with Bakugou? Well, here, have a few days of his undivided attention where he cooks you meals and tutors you and your knees and arms keep brushing. Here, he’s now taken to sleeping in your bed so you don’t go through a brain mush attack. Here, he’s even sticking around when the rest of your friends bundle into your room after classes, where normally he’d wrinkle up his nose and leave them all to be loud.

Why Bakugou hadn’t thrown up any complaints about missing classes was a question that weighed a little on Eijirou’s mind, but, well. He hadn’t. Eijirou had tried to ask him about it, but Bakugou had deflected by saying that he didn’t care, and that they could catch up with after-school lessons, and that Eijirou’s brain function was a little more important than a grade. So. Eijirou just had to assume that this was the full-throttle version of Bakugou’s worry about him.

It was fantastic, and really sweet actually, but Eijirou’s poor gay heart was suffering. It was working overtime, all the time. And… Eijirou was beginning to suspect that a lot of this was intentional on Bakugou’s part.

Ever since Eijirou had slipped and called Bakugou attractive, it almost sort of seemed like Bakugou was being, well, flirty. It was a word that Eijirou hesitated to use, because it was Bakugou, and flirty was not a word Eijirou ever would have associated with him.

Like, right now, Eijirou was in his room and sat on his bed. Bakugou was next to him, leaning on the headboard with his legs stretched out next to Eijirou’s with a book in his hands. Kaminari was at the foot of the bed, sitting with his legs crossed and chattering away about what had happened in lessons today. The only problem Eijirou had with this was that he couldn’t concentrate on what Kaminari was saying.

Bakugou’s foot was moving. Against Eijirou’s ankle. It was the kind of movement that might be unconscious on his friend’s part, but it was also Bakugou’s foot on his ankle. Well, Bakugou was wearing socks - black ones with a gaudy flame pattern that Eijirou had bought for him - but that only added to the sensation. The soft fabric was lighting up part of Eijirou’s Good Feeling section in his brain.

Eijirou watched Kaminari explain something Iida said, mimicking the class president’s unique hand motions, but none of the words managed to slide into his ears. Or if they did, they didn’t linger much. Bakugou’s foot kept moving, rhythmic, in slow circles. Eijirou was pretty sure he was gonna die.

Nausea curled though his gut. At least he’d figured out that he could just say the same true thing over and over again to stave off the steadily-dwindling effects of the quirk. “The sky is blue, ah, sorry Kaminari! Keep going.”

“No prob, man,” Kaminari said, continuing his spiel. Eijirou tried his best to listen this time. “Uh, so. I said it probably wasn’t possible, y’know? But the Prez said it again and he sounded all sure of stuff so now I think I’m gonna sign up for classes at least? Maybe not now, but, at some point. Maybe I’ll turn out as good as you once I get some practice in!”

Eijirou blinked. “As good as me for what?”

Kaminari raised an eyebrow. “Man, you’re really out of it, huh? Art, man! I doodle stuff but I’ve never been serious about it. You’re like, hella good at that stuff.”

Eijirou tried not to notice Bakugou nodding to that.

“Ah, I mean, I don’t think I’m that good,” Eijirou said, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand.

Bakugou grumbled something under his breath that Eijirou didn’t catch. Kaminari’s eyes widened slightly. Had he heard what Bakugou had said? Eijirou opened his mouth to ask, but Kaminari began speaking too soon.

“Naw, your stuff’s great! You’ve obviously put work into it,” Kaminari said. He pulled a face. “You agree with me, right Bakugou?”

Bakugou looked up from his book and eyed the other blond. Eijirou almost laughed at the twist of emotions on his face - and they were there, if you really looked. Bakugou wanted to refute Kaminari’s claims - the idea of actively being called to agree with anyone else on anything rankled at him constantly. On the other hand, he knew Bakugou had a Thing about Eijirou putting himself down and approved of trying to fix that by offering compliments.

“Ugh, I guess,” Bakugou said, eventually. He glanced at Eijirou and Eijirou’s heart fluttered. “If you put that much fucking intent into revision, you’d be top of the class.”

Eijirou updated his mental Cause of Death form with ‘cute boy told me I was clever in a roundabout way’. It was one of the frequent offenders. “Aww, thanks dude! Ah, both of you!“

Kaminari snorted. “Oh, I’m used to the favouritism you two have for each other by now.”

Eijirou felt himself turn red. Bakugou’s foot didn’t stop.

“Ooh, and I have homework to catch up on!” Kaminari said, winking. Winking? Really? “So I’ll leave you two alone, yeah?”

Eijirou didn’t even have time to bluster weakly before Kaminari was out of the room. “Uh.”

“He thinks we’re dating,” Bakugou said, in the most conversational tone that Eijirou had ever heard from him.

WAIT WHAT?

“He- He what?” Eijirou sputtered. “Where- What?”

“I said,” Bakugou was speaking slowly now and fixing Eijirou with a strange, challenging glare. “Pikachu thinks that we’re dating.”

“Dating?” Eijirou breathed. “B- Uh.”

Bakugou looked back down at his book. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

Eijirou’s brain came to a screeching halt, and he just gaped at his friend. His friend whose foot was still drawing circles on his ankle. This- This was definitely flirting, right? Bakugou was flirting with him? What was he supposed to do? Flirt back? Ask him out? Did Bakugou want to date him or was this, uh, something else?

“We’re not dating, but,” Eijirou said, pausing for a moment to swallow. Bakugou’s eyes flicked back up to his. “Would you wanna fix that?”

Bakugou closed his book and threw it off the side of the bed. “You askin’ me out?”

Eijirou nodded, not trusting himself to speak out loud.

“Then yeah,” Bakugou said, glancing away for a moment and looking back at Eijirou. “That’d be good.”

Eijirou felt kind of like a hot-air balloon. He felt warm all over, and something in his chest was expanding and growing lighter than air. He felt like he could soar, and float above the world, and he would want for nothing but to rise higher and higher with the roar of Bakugou’s fire being all that he needed.

He twisted from where he sat, grabbing at Bakugou’s shirt and bringing their foreheads together. He couldn’t fight the smile off his face - not that he wanted to - and it seemed like Bakugou was in the same boat.

“Can I kiss you?” Eijirou asked, and he knew his voice was a little too breathy but he really didn’t care.

“On one condition,” Bakugou said, reaching up to hold either side of Eijirou’s face. “I get to kiss you first.”

Eijirou was about to remark that, yeah, that’s kind of how kissing worked, but then all thoughts fled from his mind as Bakugou’s lips brushed the corner of his mouth. Oh. Eijirou’s eyes fluttered closed as Bakugou laid his kiss there. It was so soft, so sweet, so tender, and the balloon of joy in his chest swelled and swelled. He was pretty sure he’d hit the upper atmosphere by now, because his breath had been well and truly stolen.

Eijirou opened his eyes when Bakugou pulled back, and they stared at each other for a few long moments. Then Eijirou tugged on Bakugou’s shirt and pulled him into the kiss he’d been dreaming of for months.

A few days after that, and the speech quirk had worn off completely. It was a relief. The relief was doubled when Fat Gum texted Eijirou to let him know that the villain had been apprehended. Eijirou would have to attend court as a witness during the judiciary process, but that was all part and parcel of hero work anyway. It’d be interesting to get that sort of experience.

Eijirou was, however, already worried about how he was going to wear his hair for such formal proceedings.

Telling their friends and the rest of their classmates that Eijirou and Katsuki were now dating had gone smoothly. Well, it hadn’t so much been telling anyone as it had been that Katsuki was as unconcerned with onlookers as ever. He had no qualms about PDA, and had kissed Eijirou at the end of a class hero exercise where they had been teamed up together and won.

So, that was one way to get the message across.

Eijirou curled his fingers into Katsuki’s as they sat down for lunch outside under one of the trees. Katsuki squeezed Eijirou’s fingers back and left their hands linked as he tucked into his food.

Eijirou smiled.

#kiribaku #bakushima #fanfiction #my fanfiction #drabble #reply #maplefudge #THIS WAS REALLY FUN TO WRITE

[fantroll-purgatory]

Yo its me again >:)

@hibloodmemelord

This time its not a karkat ripoff :O

You’re right, it’s NOT! But it is a very interesting cherub you’ve given me to work with here. No, you told me his twin Artemis isn’t very important… But see, with cherubs, twins are inherently and automatically very important, they’re The most important part of a cherub’s development. So I got to thinking, in what circumstances would a cherub’s twin not be very important? And then I got an idea… so for this character, I’m going to make it such that this guy here “ate his twin in the womb” for lack of a better term. He dominated very, very early. 

Because, as TR so kindly pointed out when I brought up the idea, that’s Super fitting for a Lord of Light. To quote them, “what IS a muse of void if not nothing.” 

So that’s our cherub theme established, let’s get to the profile. 

Name: Apollo

Cherub names need to be 8 letters long! For that reason, I think I want to change his name to Skollsol- which would roughly mean Treacherous Sun. It’s a combination of Skoll and Sol, Skoll being the wolf who chases the sun (Sol) through the sky. His sister could then be renamed to Hatimani (Hateful Moon), named for Hati and Mani, the wolf (Hati) who chases the moon (Mani) through the sky. 

Strife Specibus: StaffKind (LightKind Post GT)

You could bridge the middleman and have him use laternkind, fighting with those lanterns-hanging-from-sticks. 

Fetch Modus: i dont really know

Since his character isn’t just about light but is also about knowledge, you could use a memory modus. One of those match-2 card games where he has to remember where the cards are.

Blood color: Lime i guess, i dont really know how the blood colors from cherubs work

Yep there’s just lime and cherry red for cherubs, limes are the more mellow of the two and reds are the ones who tend towards callousness. So I think he might be red? 

Symbol and meaning: 

This symbol’s pretty simple, but I might just recommend The Sun

Trolltag: solarEclipse 

How about heliacalTotality? Okay the Total Domination Of The Sun.

Quirk: Used to tālk with strānge ā’s, But dropped the quirk after realizing that quirks are useless to him.

With my new recommendation, it’s fair to assume he also never Really needed a quirk to distinguish himself, making quirks extra useless.

Special Abilities:He has a third eye, and is INCREDIBLY LUCKY. Almost uncannily so.

Light Players Be Like That. 

Lusus: None

Personality: Apollo grew up extremely secluded, covered in head to toe with books. Unlike his sister, who spent her time writing and making music, he spent it on RAW KNOWLEDGE. He was incredibly focused on learning everything and anything he could using the internet and his books. He didnt really make many “friends” online, but people were still aware of his existence. After he went to his land, he became an asshole and a prick. He uses his luck and power to be a Know it all, in a literal sense. 

God a Lord of Light really would be insufferable huh.

Interests: Not much, but he studies mythology, books, more books, computer shit, and “conspiracies” (which is just him going on websites and debunking random theories people have.)

I love that. Obnoxious. He could possibly also like gossip just because having lots of information on other people while they have None on him is very satisfying.

Title: Lord Of Light (Yes, i know this canonically cant happen, but whatever lol)

Hey, I love canon breaking and people trying to find ways to save doomed sessions.

Land: Land of Sunshine and Pyramids. (An almost egypt like planet, with extreme heat and sandstorms constantly, along with 24/7 Daytime. The Consorts are General lizards (dont have specifics yet) and probably starving due to famine. [i dont have a lot of ideas.]

Lords have longer quests than the traditional planets. Usually you’re going to have multiple plants (maybe you could use 8 to reference the # of planets revolving around the sun. He’s gotta bring lights to every planet in some way and recruit the bastard Minions there.

Dream Planet: Derse

Final note: He does have a sister who is named ARTEMIS but shes not that important you can know one and not the other. also thanks :D

Design time:

Eye/cheek color: I changed it red for that Douchebag association! Eye colors on cherubs reflect their blood color, so we couldn’t utilize the yellow. 

Outfit colors: We can’t use godtier colors right from the get-go, since that’s what he’d change into later and it would represent his movement to ascension. So we need some base cherub colors. I chose to use the traditional cherub green and the bright cherry reds. I DID keep the pop of yellow, though. These accent colors would usually be taken up by lime, but with Hatimani in the void zone, there’s no reason for him to use her color as an accent. 

Symbol: Just a good circle with a red circle in the middle. 

Thanks for sharing, I hope I helped! 

-CD

#hibloodmemelord #apollo #skollsol #fancherub #review #redesign #cd review #submission

[bates--boy]

          The bouncer obviously didn’t recognize the partier who came sniffing for more action for the second time that week. At least from afar; going from off-shoulder blouses and high shorts to a dress shirt and trousers made quite a difference. It was only when the bouncer saw the blue and bruised eyes, through the holes in the black leather bunny mask, that a glimmer of recognition shone in his own.

          “...Bad week?” The bouncer chuckled.

         “Decade,” Peter grumbled through busted lips as he pulled out a wad of cash to shove in the bouncer’s hands. 

          The bouncer counted out the notes and pressed the stamp onto Peter’s hand, going about it a little slower and more cautious, remembering the last time Peter freaked out when he did it so suddenly (so slow, in fact -- and with a smile to boot -- that Peter wondered if he was just being an unfunny ass). With the holographic ink to guide him, Peter flounced to The Mad Hatta’s quarters to retrieve his treat. He carried it back out with perhaps a little too much reverence, a faithless worshipper carrying his Communion cracker.

          He returned to the dance floor, gazing at the altar with the suspended chains flickering in the flashing lights of purple and green and blue. The hymn filling the club wove into Peter’s veins, his blood stirring with the heavy bass of trap music.

          Down the rabbit hole I go, Peter thought. He laid Wonderland on his tongue.

          The span between the first familiar hit of mint cotton candy and when he broke from the crashing wave of the dancing crowd could not have been more than thirty seconds, but as he tugged on his rabbit ears to yank the mask off, he found his forehead drenched with enough sweat to cascade down his face and into the front of his shirt. He flipped his bangs, seeing drops fly away from his locks as he stumbled to the bar. In his haze, Peter slumped against the structure, slouching on the counter and crossing his arms on the black glass. The drinkers in the snowy filter of his vision jumped from the force of his body. 

        “Hey! Be careful, motherfucker!” A voice from behind the bar cried. Peter blinked, the dream-like grin on his face stretching wider as the bartender wandered into his view. He wondered if this is a place that muscular women frequented, because this is the second one that he’d crossed, dressed in a sharp white suit with a red tie, sleeves rolled up to expose toned forearms, a beautiful physique just on this side of total bodybuilder.

         She tossed her towel on one of her broad shoulders, and Peter could taste a bitter, honeyed mix of muscle envy and craving.

         She raised an immaculate, filled-in brow at the soaked and flushed individual. “Are you blitzed out? You gonna just sit there and drool, or do you want something?”

          “Right...” Peter gulped and filled his chest with the heavy air heated with sweat, booze, a hint of coitus happening in some far-off closets and stairwells, and no small amount of sudden inner pride. “Yeah, that’s what you usually do at a bar, right? Order drinks, eat peanuts, maybe bribe the barmaid with your tongue and fingers for a night of unlimited cocktails...”

         And Peter’s own brows slowly rose high on his forehead as he felt the buzz of the words left over on his lips. The silence between them as they locked a steady, tense gaze was thick enough to even drown out the musical switch from in-your-face trap to glitzy dance pop. The tiny remainder of common sense that wasn’t eroded by the chilly dreamscape of Wonderland dictated that Peter apologize immediately, chock his brazenness up to coy stupidity and being literally high (what was it she called it? “Blitzed”?) 

          Peter laid his chin on his crossed arms, widened his eyes and gazed up at her from under his long, coated lashes. His tongue slowly pass across his upper lip.

         Nothing about the smooth slate of the woman’s face changed as she stared at this slumped, baby-faced man, or when she turned to grab a bottle of water to set in front of him. She then bent to reach under the counter, pulling out a plastic bucket and setting it to Peter’s side. “Yeah, you’re blitzed.”

          Over the stench that suffocated Peter, he could smell a faint waft of vomit from the bucket. He recoiled, almost tripping backward on his unsteady feet, and clapped a hand over his nose and mouth. “Eugh!” He groaned, but the odd thing was that it came out as a giggle. “Is that bucket full of puke?!”

          “Nope, clean as a whistle.” The bartender tipped the mouth to show Peter its deceptively squeaky clean appearance. “See? Now, d’ya need help inducing vomit? If so, I’ll have to call someone over.”

        “Nm-mh!” Peter shook his head. ‘I only had one.”

        “Ah, so you always sound like a virgin’s idea of a lady’s man and a hooker?”

          Peter blinked, slightly lifting his head from his arms as if the sting of the bartender’s words jolted him. He felt his face start to twist, but because the high of the Wonderland softened the edges of everything, even the indignation, the grimace morphed into a lazy, self-deprecating grin. “It would seem so.”

          The bartender returned the bucket to its hidden space. “Whatever you were trying to do wouldn’t have worked, anyway. I’m a lesbian.”

          “Oh...” Peter sat up fully and picked up the bottle, twisting the cap off and lifting it halfway to his mouth. “Well, I was only trying to get some free drinks. So, whatever...”

           The bartender still kept a blank face as she watched her patron down half the bottle of water. Then she snorted, covering her mouth with her fist as she gently shook with laughter. She turned to the shelf and freezer behind her and, with some clinking, gathered a glass and a few bottles of brightly colored liquor, syrup, and jars of cherries and pineapple dices. “Hey, don’t pout at me just because you took your shot and ended up going full Shaq.”

          She laughed louder, almost spilling the thick peach starter as Peter started coughing on his water. She stopped when other clubbers made their way towards the bar, composing herself to the closest sense of professionalism she could manage while Peter glowered through his coughing fit. She hurried through her mixing, swirling a reddish brown syrup along the inside of the glass and filling the rest with a yellow, cold foamy layer that she dotted with the cherries and pineapples. She stuck a straw in it and placed the glass in front of Peter.

          “House special,” she said. She went to take the orders of the other patrons, filling up a mug of beer for one and mixing a gin and lime seltzer for the other. Coming back to Peter, she jolted at how Peter had the glass up, straw tossed aside, throat working as he sucked down the beverage and somehow managing to keep the fruit bits in. 

          “...Okay,” she said as Peter sat the glass down with a gasp for air. “You good?”

          “Heugh!” Peter patted his chest and blinked at the chill ballooning within the cavity. “Yeah, yep! I’m -- koff--  good. Hey, can I get another of that?”

           “Nah, not a good idea.” The bartender shook her head. To Peter’s returned and confused glower, she added, “You’re still in Wonderland. By now, your body temperature’s almost swinging low, so you definitely don’t need another ice popper. And you’re already so high that you don’t need another strong drink.”

          Peter pinched his brows together and picked up his straw. He stabbed the straw into a pineapple piece to fish out of the glass and put into his mouth. “What are you, my doctor? Why give me a drink at all, then?”

          The bartender shrugged. “You looked like you could use one. But like I said, one’s enough for you.”

          “Huh.” Peter fished a cherry out and popped that into his mouth as well, wincing for just a second at the tangy and bitter juice. “I can’t be that obvious.”

          “Oh, trust me, you are.” The bartender nodded. “Even if I hadn’t seen types like you stumbling in for as long as I ran this place, I would still tell.” She tapped at her bottom lip, in the same place that Peter could feel his wound stinging from the alcohol.

          He touched his fingers to the split in his lip. “Ha, I guess that -- Wait.” He tilted his head slightly. “You run this club?”

            Relief softened her face when the music changed into a playlist with a lower bass, one that offered them a break from practically yelling over the noise. “Yep. Seven years next month.”

          Peter’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. “But you’re behind the bar...”

          “I’m just filling in for my usual girl.” She looked off to the side. “My little worker bee. She’s going into labor -- twins, I still can’t believe it! -- and after she recovers, she’s going to take her exam for her LLM.”

          “Oh, shit!” Peter stabbed into the glass multiple times and raised the kebab of cherries and pineapple pieces in the air. “Fuck! Good for her!”

          “Yeah. I’m so proud of her.” The bartender went to pick up the drained beer bottles left behind by the departing couple and dumped them into a recycling bin. She turned to find Peter with a quirked brow and a dry half-grin, and mirrored that look on her heart-shaped face with sharp cheekbones. “You don’t believe me?”

          “I mean...” Peter shrugged and ripped the fruit off the straw with his teeth. “Not really...” 

          The bartender crossed her arms. “Why would I make up the fact that I own this place?”

          “I’m trying to figure that out right now.” Peter ran his tongue over his lips once more, savoring the leftover taste of the ice popper. “Even if I was just a bartender, it would still be a cool gig in a club like this. Then again...”

          He dropped the straw into his empty glass and folded his arms on the bar once more. “Maybe you want more, want to be more, like the rest of us. So what would it hurt you to spin this wild tale of filling in for a woman who suspiciously sounds like that American who took her own bar exam while in labor? Especially to a total stranger who you probably won’t see ever again?”

          The bartender started to slowly shake her head. “American woman? Who...” She raised her palms. “Anyway... I like that you came here only a couple times and you think you already have everything figured out.”

          “Oh, like how you have me figured out just from a busted lip? One that I could have easily gotten from a falling book or a skateboard accident?”

          The bartender's face twitched. She opened her mouth, her lips working to protest, to retort, to joke, to explain, but remaining silent through her indecision. Finally, after a long deliberation and her tongue pressed into her cheek, she uncrossed her arms. She unlatched the bracelet from her wrist and gestured for Peter to hold his arm out. Confused, Peter did so, and the woman clipped the accessory, with it's jute cord and red and white glass beads, on his wrist.

          "Head back to the Mad Hatta in an hour. Show him this and tell him you want to be let into the Looking Glass."

          Peter held his wrist up and studied the dangling beads, surprised by their heavy weight. "You guys sure do like your Alice in Wonderland, huh?"

          "I loved that masterpiece since I was little. Always will be one of my faves." She shrugged, nudging the plastic bottle with what was left of the water closer to Peter. "One hour. In the meantime..."

          She turned back to the refrigerator behind her and scooped and scraped. She came back to Peter with a couple baggies full of ice. "Try to avoid falling books and skateboards."

          “Roger that!” With a wink, Peter spun and skipped his merry little way back to the dance floor, melding back into the throng with ease and instantly floating in its cloud of sweaty arousal and electropop buzz. At first, Peter wanted to chuck the ice bags into the nearest bin; besides how much harder their chill added to Peter’s sinking body temperature and made him shiver, he knew he looked silly holding them to his face while he swayed and swirled and dropped and popped. 

          Then went the gaiety of Wonderland, fading away and abandoning him on the real dance floor. Without the softer, snowier edge of the cotton candy tab, Peter felt the full force of his still swollen eye and busted lip and pressed the ice packs harder onto his face. He tried to remember how many songs he’d danced to, trying to keep track of time that had passed, and decided to go on through a couple more songs. He might be a little early if his sense of time was off, but he hoped for late. In a place like this, and for a party that the bartender invited him to, one must be fashionably late -- a metaphorical cock tease to a literal lesbian.

         The final song neared its end, a cue for Peter to swim through the crowd and search for the back door. Once there and taking the hall behind it, Peter sucked the warmed water from the baggies and dropped the baggies on the floor. He reached the Mad Hatta’s lair, stopped to wipe his face on his arm and pull the mask back into place, and stepped through.

          And froze, eyes bulging out at the bodies on the twisted layers of silk. He felt snaps going off in his skull, pops and pulls, an urge to run, a burning shame, a renewed desire at the sight born from envy and anger. With the end of Wonderland came the withdrawal, a sense of everything being worse, and how easily any little thing can paralyze him.

          The Mad Hatta lifted his face from the moaning woman’s thighs, wiping his lips and propping his elbows on either side of his twitching lover’s legs to hold himself up. “Hey! The fuck d’ya want?” he called out, his stretching grin betraying the impatience in his voice. 

           Peter felt his mouth opening and closing, felt his brain hurt trying to find words through the storm in his head. He tried to draw on the bravado he was full of barely a few minutes ago on the dance floor; getting desperate, he tried to cling to that last, nonexistent bit of Wonderland still in his system, to mollify his inner, crippling disaster. Desperate still, he tried to put himself back into the body of Peter that was there the first night, the one who had his fingers through a stranger’s waistband and wanted to be fouled up in a far-off and dark corner. He tried to go back to the Peter at that hotel, to when he shoved his underwear into John’s mouth and made off with his money. He needed the brazenness of the first, the audacity of the second, to even look the girl in the eye.

          Yet he had neither, and when their eyes did meet, he was embarrassed to find the gently panting woman watching him, her glassy hazel eyes asking When the fuck are you leaving? The slow curve of her lips wondering Are you going to join or not?

         “Aaaah,” the Mad Hatta said with a slow nod. “You’re waking up, aren’tcha?”

          Peter hesitantly reached behind his head to scratch. “I-I... I guess...” Is that what they call this impending sense of a world-ending doom?

          The Mad Hatta shook his head and clicked his tongue. The woman beneath him gave a whimper as he ran his thumb along her slick cunt; she melted into the silk as that thumb slowly circled the swollen clit. “Ooooh, oh oh, that is no fun, no fun, indeed!”

          Run, some voice commanded through the violent storm of shock in Peter’s head. But he stared, swallowing against the dry lump in his throat. Take notes, another broke through the crashing noise. What a fucking perv, yet another groaned, and Peter couldn’t tell if it meant the Mad Hatta or himself.

          The Mad Hatta paused his hand job to sit fully upright, his hand reaching into a pocket of his robe. His open robe. “Did you buy another stamp upfront? Let me see it.”

            “I thought--” Peter’s voice died as a quick glance downward completely wrecked the last dying shred of his coherency. He tore his eyes away, but it was too late. Like the woman, Peter’s mind was penetrated by that bit of flesh, stiff and unashamed.

          The Mad Hatta snickered, and Peter could see movement from the corner of his eye, a side-to-side sway of the hips, and a slow swing of red, throbbing flesh. “What? You have the same equipment as I do, don’tcha? Never been to a boys’ locker room before?”

         “I...” Peter put his hand up to block his vision. Then, swallowing, he tried for indignation. “How would you even know? Maybe I’m trans!”

           Peter could hear the shrug in The Mad Hatta’s voice, over the choking moans of his pet. “Born with it or not, looks like it’s starting to tick up--”

          “I’m here to see the bartender!” Peter screeched.

          There was a pause, in which Peter silently willed his body into submission, tried to curb the arousal that made his pants squeeze too tight. Even the woman stopped whimpering and shifting in the pile of silks, probably staring quizzically and comically at the poor bastard with the blushing and bruised face. Peter didn’t want to check. He didn’t want to look at all. In fact, spinning on his heels and fleeing this crime scene grew ever more appealing. 

          “Oooh!” The Mad Hatta’s voice cooed out of Peter’s field of vision. “I knew that trinket looks familiar!” There was a lot of fabric shuffling, and The Mad Hatta grunting. “Why didn’t you say so? Could’ve saved us all a whole lotta embarrassment! Put your hand down, I’m decent!”

          Peter yelped as The Mad Hatta grabbed his wrist and tugged at it, pulling him past the bed of silks and to a set of golden curtains on a far wall. The Mad Hatta pulled one of them aside and opened a flight of stairs. “Well, hop to it, little Alice! The Queen awaits!”

          Peter took a breath to still the shakes and swept into the stairwell, the upward tunnel going dark as The Mad Hatta let the curtain drop back into place. Halfway up, the voices of the fuck bunnies carried up to him. 

          “Awww, why didn’t you let him join us?” The woman pouted. “I would’ve loved to have some fun with him.”

          “Don’t tease the poor lad, he looks like he already had a bad enough week!” The Mad Hatta chuckled.

          The tip of Peter’s ears burned, no matter how much he huffed and grumbled.

          He stomped his way up to the landing. Immediately, he was hit. Though his eyes usually adjusted quickly from near total darkness to light, his sight took a hard slam with chopping, flashing series of colors. Red, blue, green, pink, yellow, going from neon to LED and back. It was the same lights display as the ones on the dance floor, but this felt different. This filled the room like lasers in a pool of water, or having a flare right in front of his eyes. Peter hissed and blocked his face once more.

           “Well, well, well, it’s about time you showed up!”

          Blinking, Peter partly uncovered his eyes to squint into the space in front of him. A figure, warped by the intense illumination all around them, sauntered up to him, arms held open and head cocked sideways. 

          “I thought you were going to take off with my bracelet.” 

          "And miss out on the invitation from The Queen, herself?" Peter said over the music bouncing against the walls, trying to put some ease and charm back into his voice. As he stepped forward to meet the bartender halfway, Peter rolled his shoulders, beginning the long and arduous work of shedding whatever the hell that was downstairs. He looked around. "What is this, anyway? A secret lair? Your throne room?"

          “Something like that!” The Queen took Peter’s wrist and undid the latch of the bracelet. Removing it from his arm, she shoved her white tuxedo sleeve up and fastened the accessory back on its rightful place. “More like a watch tower. Or theater. Basically, where I get to watch my subjects and domain.”

          “Your ‘subjects’, huh?” Peter snorted, though less in derision and more in genuine amusement. “You’re having a lot of fun with this theme, aren’t you?”

          “Most fun of my entire life.” The Queen sauntered to the wall where a table of miniature bottles and chrome tumblers sat on a tray. 

          Peter jumped as a figure bent from the wall in front of her, then, narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized the figure’s movement and shapes. Oh. His eyes trailed to the spot in the wall next to him, to the person across the way that raised his hand and waved in perfect synchronization with Peter. Mirror walls. Peter then realized that he may need to slow down on the vices for tonight before his brain completely fries.

          But then The Queen came back with a pair of bubbly, soft green drinks in twinkling crystal glasses, lime rinds curling out of the tip and half cucumbers floating in the concoction. She held one of the glasses out to Peter, who took it with caution screwed. The first sip was strong yet mellow, a French 75 with a refreshing twist and a hint of mint.

          “Like I want to jump off a bridge,” Peter replied, opting for the more appropriate answer. He fished the cucumber out of the glass and popped it into his mouth, to fill his stomach and stave off the worse of the alcohol.

          The Queen took a sip as she went over to stand in front of the theater window, in the space between the glass and the crescent leather couch set on a dais. With a hand shoved in her trouser pocket and her shoulders straight back and proud, she looked every bit as regal as her play title commanded, with her bush of curly red hair parted at the side and combed back. Looking like she took notes from The Great Gatsby, too.

          Despite the episode he had in The Mad Hatta’s quarters and the sting of rejection from earlier, Peter was still very not opposed to dropping to his knees and shoving his face into her thighs until she ripped his hair out in a climatic hysteria.

          “It looks like you’re waking up. How are you feeling?”

          “Yeah, I figured. It’ll wear off soon, sweetheart, don’t worry.” 

          The Queen jerked her head, nodding Peter over. He obeyed and placed himself next to her, taking an awkward stance of crossing one leg over the other, knee slightly bent and thigh slightly raised, wishing he’d had opted for his special concealment underwear tonight. At least The Queen’s focus was on her subjects, the mass of drunkards and addicts.

          “They’re so beautiful,” The Queen said. There was a change in the music and the light show. Most of the dancers turned to the stage, where lights beamed down on the line of straps hanging from the grids. In the glass’s reflection, Peter could see the half-smile on The Queen’s full lips. “It’s almost the Grand Hour.”

          Peter stepped closer to the window, pressing his hand to it to keep balance as he watched the club workers stepping onto the stage and next to their chains. He couldn’t see their faces from this high up and with the lights nearly blinding him, but their arms were crossed, their stance wide and strong, so he could imagine their expressions, all cool and blank except for maybe a cocked brow as they eyed this crowd reaching up to be selected for the first round of dancing. Then, they stepped forward, helping ones brave enough to just climb onto the damn thing. And hoisting up ones that were being lifted bodily. His breath hitched watching them, watching the people’s hands grab a dancer and offer them up to The Queen’s chosen like lambs.

        He started to feel warm all over, especially in the small of his back and his thighs and calves, the places where hands grabbed him and lifted him to the stage all those days ago. And the cool of the chain links around his wrists, nipping his skin as he swung his body and jerked the chains. His breaths came shallow and dry, his head going dizzy. 

          “What’s up?” The Queen’s voice said, closer to his ear. “You want to head back down and join the Grand Hour again?”

          Again. He imagined The Queen in this very spot once more, standing in the exact same way in front of the window. He imagined what he may have looked like from up here, a sweaty and drunk thing in barely-anything shorts and a half-blouse chained up and dancing for her amusement. The way his skin prickled was not from shame.

          His tongue passed over his sugary, minty lips a couple times before Peter realized that she was serious and shook his head. “Nah, I want to enjoy the show from up here.”

          The Queen freed her hand from her pocket to slip her arm around Peter’s shoulder. Turning him around, she suggested, “Let’s get comfortable. We might get a hell of a show!"

          They stepped up to the platform and settled onto the crescent sofa, side by side, like crowns of different kingdoms coming together for a night of camaraderie and a jolly good show. The cool French 75 cocktail laid in Peter’s stomach better than the ice popper, though he did miss the fruitier taste. Taking slow sips and swirling the glass, Peter watched as the last of the chosen was fitted into the chain links, a cute little chick with a skin-tight skirt so mini that half her ass bared as she jutted it out and rubbed it against the woman putting her wrists in place. 

          The cheer of the crowd thrummed through the window, weaving through Peter’s skin and fueling the electricity already crackling within him. The pop music is filthier and more sultry, an anthem to strippers who aren’t afraid to wring sad and lonely old men dry of their money. Everyone on the stage is shaking their asses like they have something to prove, with legs spread wide and clothes disheveled like they snuck out of the back bathrooms after a good fucking. Peter wondered which of them are in Wonderland. Which of them is feeling the exaggerated heat of the crowd’s hands touching at their feet and legs? Which of them is dancing in a gentle flurry of snow, in a world softened around the edge in a hazy ring of white and pink?

          The contemplation drew Peter back to that stage, to being chained up like a dog for a Dominatrix’s amusement. Someone had slipped him a second snowflake on his tongue before he was tossed up there on the stage, and the world was disappearing into pure white. Or, at least it tried to, for he still remembered the taste of salty latex fingers shoved down his throat to induce vomiting and save his life. But damn, the way the music took him away that night, the way his skin braised under someone’s touch, the wild abandon as he flew and twisted himself on the chains, bringing his profession into this playground. 

          The way he shimmied and bounced on the couch now -- was that Peter dancing to the music, or was it needy squirming from built up arousal? He downed the rest of his cocktail and blinked against his twirling vision and hte flashing lights. Fanning himself, Peter crossed his leg over the other and bounced and rolled his shoulders to the beat. He looked over to The Queen, raising a brow as she peeled off a snowflake from a car and stuck it to her tongue. 

          Her eyes met his, and her head shook. You had enough.

          He tilted his head and smiled his pearly whites grin. Aw, come on!

          She frowned, eyeing the empty crystal in his hand and the brightness on his cheeks. I don't know...

          Peter laid his head on her lap, jutting his bottom lip out as he looked up at her. Pretty Pleeeease!

          She gently pressed her fingers to her breast pocket, where a corner of pink cardstock poked out. She worried a corner of her lip with her teeth. Perfect, straight white teeth, and plump, umber lip that Peter allowed himself the fantasy of brushing his tongue along in a fevered kiss.

          Let it go, dude, it ain’t gonna happen, yet one more voice in his head helpfully pointed out.

          Then The Queen sighed and shrugged. “I guess it’s safe for you to get a second hit.”

          Peter sat up from The Queen’s lap, bouncing in his seat and clapping his hands -- careful to not break the glass -- as The Queen pulled the snowflake out of her pocket. She held it out to him, but when Peter reached for it, The Queen snatched it back. 

           “But first, you’ll need to do some things for me.”

          The color of Peter’s face changed under his bunny mask as his imagination swung into crime-movie extremes, from a chilling pale as he wondered if she’d request him to kill someone, to a fiery red as he wondered if maybe, just maybe, she wanted to switched teams for tonight, just tonight, for a fun night of kinks (Not. Gonna. Happen, again the voice helpfully reminded him). “And that would be...?” he prompted in a soft, awed voice.

          The Queen smirked. “First off: I want you to dance for me.”

          “...Really?”

          “Yup.” The Queen nodded her head forward, to the space in front of the sofa. She and Peter locked eyes, hers glinting with mischief and mirth and yet total, complete seriousness. 

         Peter smiled.

         Rising from the sofa and setting the glass on the floor, Peter stepped off the dais and tugged on his mask to secure it to his face. The Queen leaned back in the sofa cushion, stretched out an arm along the curved back of the sofa, tapping the snowflake on the leather to remind him what he’s working for.

         The club was still in the middle of the current song. He wanted to explode into movement right then, to lose himself in the music and the gin and champagne, but it’s common knowledge that the best performances start slow. Everything, from dance to secrets to orgasm to the end of the world, needs a build-up.

          So he hooked an arm behind his head, running his opposite hand up and down his thigh as he swirled up and down. A little stir of his hips, a little pout of his lips, a swing of his arm -- he did this so many times in front of his computer camera it came naturally, like muscle memory. Then the song hit its second chorus and he amped it up. The room moved around him as he bounced and spun and thrust, throwing his head back and his ass out. He kept the momentum going, slowing down in the transition to the next song for the second explosion, finding The Queen doing her own little dance in her seat and spilling drops of her cocktail on the leather cushion. 

          The third song came on, a smoother pop mix. Blue-balled as he was at that point, Peter still did a hop spin back onto the dais. He tossed his hair, bent in front of The Queen, and jiggled his ass, sticking his tongue out over his shoulder. 

          “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout!” The Queen sang, waving the Wonderland snowflake in the air with a laugh. 

           By the fourth song, every part of Peter’s body was on fire. Sweat dripped from underneath his mask, making the leather accessory slippery on his face; dark circles formed in his shirt’s armpits; his collar was drenched and strands of his hair clung to his cheeks and lips. Turning to The Queen during interludes, Peter could see the heat affecting her, too, with tiny beads of moisture cropping up on her laughing and flushed face. And maybe she was enjoying being on fire, when she pulled at Peter until he was straddling her thighs. And maybe he was addicted to the heat, too, when he started grinding and bobbing against her.

          The Queen cupped his chin and gently coaxed his mouth open. She pressed her fingers on his tongue. The burst of cotton candy mint had Peter’s eyes rolling back. He closed his lips and sucked, giving a soft moan around her fingers. She eased her fingers out of his mouth and giggled at the low pop. Peter felt his own saliva smear on his face when she patted his cheek. 

          “You’re such a hot mess,” she cooed.

          She shifted Peter around on his lap until he faced the window and kept her arms wrapped around his waist. He leaned back into her, feeling her rest her chin on his shoulder, and feeling her cool breath on his neck. The stage workers were busy switching out dancers. On the outer rings of the crowd, Peter could see couples or groups branching off from the main tides, scurrying into dark places to have their own parties. He wondered if this is what The Queen felt every night, to be a deity of good times, the source of the best comfort and escape from a harsh world.

         He patted The Queen’s hand laying on his stomach. “Thanks.”

          “My pleasure, love,” The Queen murmured with Wonderland dreaminess. 

          A moment of silence passed as they watched the next round of dancers move with their restraints. Peter rubbed The Queen’s hand. “You know, you didn’t have to bring me up here. You didn’t have to prove anything to me”

          “Yeah, that’s true,” The Queen replied. Then, to answer the question that was coming up, she added, “But I like bragging, I guess. Or maybe I like taking in broken and kicked puppies and nursing them back to health.”

         “Oooooh! Oh, so now I’m a kicked puppy?!” Peter leaned to the side to see The Queen’s face, a beautifully masculine face glowing in a ring of soft white, and give her a sour, playful scowl. 

          “Don’t get your panties twisted,” The Queen snorted. “That could be a compliment. Puppies are cute and everyone loves them.”

          “You find me cute?” Peter settled back into place, looking off into the distance. “Huh. Okay, I will take that as a compliment, especially coming from a lesbian.”

          The Queen huffed. “What does my clit eating have to do with it? You know gays can appreciate a different gender’s looks aesthetically, right? But yes, I find you cute. You’re probably attractive to the right people. You know...” She touched a finger to the fading bruise on Peter’s eye. “Once you start talking less.”

          Again, Peter leaned back, gaping at this woman who knew him for a grand total of less than two hours. She gazed back at him, her eyes glinting with did I stutter?

          “Wow, thank you for your valuable input.” Peter rolled his eyes and moved about on The Queen’s lap to curl up on her, keeping his feet off the couch and resting his head on her shoulder. He slid his arm behind her neck and started combing her hair with his fingers. “Oh! What about that other thing you wanted me to do?”

          “Right.” The Queen reached into her pocket and dug out another piece of cardstock. But instead of the snowflake adhered to its face, there was a red heart stamped in its center, surrounded by formal, regal script.

          Would You Like To Come To Wonderland With Me?

          In the center of the heart was even tinier, swooping script

           Van J, Queen of Hearts

          “Van...” Peter murmured. He scratched the stamp ink with the edge of his thumbnail and peeked at The Queen from beneath his lashes.

          “The one and only!” Van replied with a crooked grin and a pat on her chest.

           Peter chuckled softly. “My name’s Pete.” He looked back down to the card in his hand. “What’s this for?”

          “That, my wandering friend, is a ticket down the rabbit hole.”

          Oh, enough with the Alice in Wonderland, a long-suffering voice said in his head, one that Peter was relieved to find was his own.

          Van continued, “I think you’ve proven yourself worthy enough to join my kingdom. You certainly have the energy and charm for it. But I’ll have to start you off small, maybe my little White Rabbit.” She tugged at the leather ears on Peter’s head. 

          “White Rabbit...?”

           “A guide for newcomers to come to this new, magical place. More people are getting curious about Wonderland, so I need help spreading the keys.”

          Peter frowned. “So... less rabbit, more mule?” 

          Van started to shake her head, but paused, then shrugged. She rubbed Peter’s knee. “Eventually, if I ever need you to make runs outside the city. But you’ll mostly stick to people coming into this club, and maybe a few of my contacts in this neighborhood and the next one if you’re good enough.”

          “Wow. This is... Wow...” Peter stared at the card in his hand and bit into his bottom lip. Anxiety started to consume him from within, sinking its teeth into the mellow high of Wonderland. All those years of being bombarded with scared-straight messages to dissuade kids from drugs, thus far having been dormant and absolutely useless, reared its head and came roaring. Yet something sparked in that same place the anxiety occupied, snapping at the childhood fears of drugs that pearl clutchers tried to plant in him. It tingled, almost in the same way that sitting in Van’s lap and nestled against her chest did. He exhaled and shivered all over.

          Exhilaration.

          “Don’t give me an answer just yet,” Van said, possibly misreading Peter. “Think it over for a while, so you’d absolutely know what you’d be getting into.”

          “Right, right...” Peter pursed his lips to hide the excitement and turned the card over in his hand. He furrowed his brow. “So, how do I contact you if I make up my mind?”

          “With the card. Show Quinn, the bouncer up front, this, and he and The Mad Hatta will take you out back and get you set up.”

          Nodding, Peter still frowned at the card. “Why is everything done through backdoors around here?”

          Van giggled, sliding a hand down Peter’s back. “Don’t you know, Pete? The backdoor is much more fun?”

           Peter narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Wha --Omygod!” He clapped a hand over his mouth, the other flying out to steady himself from falling over. His eyes popped open as his mind processed that that was indeed Van’s finger jabbing him through his pants. 

          They stared at each other. 

          Peter felt a twitch in his chest, something bubbling from within his ribcage. “...Pfffft!”

           And their laughing selves fell into each other.

#life thus far ( story ) #droid noodles ( writing ) #ain't safe for lookin' #down the rabbit hole

[cathygeha]

MAYBE I DO by Nicole McLaughlin

Published by St. Martin’s Paperbacks

Publication Date: August 29, 2017

ISBNs: Print – 9781250139986; EBook – 9781250139993

Price: $7.99

Book Description

“Nicole McLaughlin is a wonderfully fresh voice in contemporary romance—sweet, sexy, and immensely satisfying.”—Lauren Layne, New York Times bestselling author

 She doesn’t believe in fairy tales. He’s married to his job. Maybe whiskey is the secret ingredient that will bring them together—and give true love a shot? Wedding photographer Charlotte Linley loves her work—even though she hates weddings. Sure, she still holds a grudge after being left at the altar by her high-school sweetheart. But today Charlotte is just happy to have complete control over her career, which is flourishing. Especially since she joined forces with one of the three gorgeous owners of The Stag, a boutique distillery that has become Kansas City’s hottest wedding venue.

 Dean Troyer, bitter after the end of his own marriage, knows that Charlotte is the real deal—beautiful, talented, and successful. He may flirt with her every time she comes to The Stag but Dean is determined to keep his professional distance. . .particularly now that she’s helping him with his own sister’s wedding. The only problem? The more time Dean spends with Charlotte, the deeper their connection grows. Is this a rom-com cliché or could it be that these two jaded souls in the wedding business have finally found their real-life happily ever after?

Buy Links

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Maybe-Do-Whiskey-Weddings-Novel/dp/1250139988

B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/maybe-i-do-nicole-mclaughlin/1125377341

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/isbn9781250139993

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/maybe-i-do-1

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=H3UQDgAAQBAJ

MY REVIEW

Maybe I Do by Nicole McLaughlin

Whiskey and Weddings #1

 Great introduction to a new series!

 Charlotte is a professional photographer…

Dean Troyer is a distiller of fine whiskey…

Charlotte and Dean like one another, flirt with one another whenever they can but never act on their interest in one another due to past events in both of their lives…

…until…

…things begin to change one day…

 Charlotte and Dean have been friends for a few years when Dean’s sister contacts him needing to have her wedding planned and ready to attend when she and her fiancé get home from their current military tour overseas SO Dean asks Charlotte to help and as they work together on the wedding their relationship begin to change. Everything is going fairly well until some truths appear, an accident occurs and communication and soul searching becomes paramount. Thankfully things work out for most in the story. At this point I know there are at least two and perhaps more books to come in this series as Dean has two partners, took on another person to work as his apprentice and there are a number of friends of Charlotte’s that could also have stories of their own…and…you know what…I am looking forward to reading whatever book comes next!

 I love the distillery, the story, the concept and the characters. Not being a guy I am not sure if I would relate to Dean’s situation as he does BUT wished at times he had been a bit more forthcoming and done so a bit earlier. Charlotte was very together and a strong female force that I would love to have as a friend. I liked the two together and see them happy in the future.

 Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for the ARC – This is my honest review.

 4 Stars

Excerpt: MAYBE I DO by Nicole McLaughlin

 “One, two, three, go!” Charlotte called. The bouquet shot into the air as the front bridesmaid soared into a jump that would make a basketball star envious. All the while Charlotte’s shutter rapidly took frame after frame. As the bridesmaid landed, stems in hand, someone else’s arm flung into her face, effectively startling her and sending the flowers to the floor. A third woman—somewhat older—surprised all the bystanders by quickly swiping it off the floor.

Charlotte laughed as she took a shot with the bride and the gloating bouquet winner, and then immediately got back into position as the DJ started up “Another One Bites the Dust” for the garter removal. She inwardly groaned. This guy needed some new material.

When the groom was done sticking his head under the bride’s skirt and making a spectacle of himself, he lined up, ready to send the little scrap of lace and elastic into the—somewhat small—mass of young men.

“You ever notice how the guys always look as if they’re participating under duress?” a deep familiar voice said close to Charlotte’s ear. Goose bumps rose on her neck and arms.

She grinned but didn’t lower the camera from her eye. The music and conversation in the room were loud enough that she knew they wouldn’t be heard. “Can’t say that I blame them.”

The words had come out without any thought and Charlotte really wished she could see Dean’s reaction to them, but the groom released the garter right at that moment. The male recipients were nowhere as enthusiastic as the ladies had been, but one guy did reach out and snag it, almost as a reflexive action.

Yep, the shocked look on his face said that’s exactly what it had been, and he glanced around like he wanted someone to throw it at.

Charlotte laughed and looked at Dean. “He looks like he’s wishing he’d sat this one out right about now.”

“Yes he does.” Dean crossed his arms and smirked as Charlotte stepped forward to set up the customary shot of the groom and the reluctant garter catcher.

She was happy to find that Dean was still waiting for her on the edge of the dance floor when she was finished.

“I’ve missed talking to you tonight,” she said.

One corner of his lips quirked up. “You have?” His tone was all teasing, but she could have sworn there was a hint of uncertainty. Surely he knew she was into him.

“Of course. I would assume it was because you were busy, but you had time to talk with black dress lady for a long time.”

“Charlotte,” he whispered, shaking his head. One of his go-to body movements when they spoke. He huffed out an embarrassed laugh. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Well, you can start by not making me so jealous.”

His eyes flicked to hers, his lips parting. She could tell he wanted to respond, that her words had taken him by surprise. She continued to watch him as the music filled in the silence between them. It was hard to believe she’d let the teasing between them just go where it had, but she didn’t really regret it. She liked this man, and she’d done everything she could to tell him that except physically coming on to him. Was that what she needed to do? Finally, he appeared to mentally shake off her comment, his lips pursing as he inhaled a deep breath. Damn.

“How much longer are you here?” he asked.

She pulled out her phone and grimaced at the time. “Over an hour.”

He nodded. “Can you spare me a minute? I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Oh God. He was going to finally make a move. She could feel it. Her brazen comment about jealousy had worked.

Or maybe he was going to finally let her down easy. Shit.

She swallowed. “Of course. I’d love that.”

Following him toward the bar, Charlotte caught Lauren’s attention and sent her an I’ll-be-right-back look. Lauren nodded but Charlotte could see the curiosity written all over her friend’s face.

Dean stepped behind the bar, grabbed a pint glass, and proceeded to fill it with ice, lemon-lime soda, and then the tiniest splash of grenadine. Her favorite, and she couldn’t help melting inside that he always remembered. She couldn’t decide if it was a good sign or not. He slid it across the bar to her and then angled his head toward the little break room. Suddenly panicked, Charlotte dug in the bottom of her bag for a piece of gum and stuffed it into her mouth.

Dean stepped into the room and held the door open for Charlotte. She followed and then turned to face him, her heart pounding in her chest.

But instead of walking toward her, he headed for the sofa. “Have a seat.”

“Oh, okay.” She did just that, and when she sat down, he took the sofa across from her.

Ouch. Definitely not a good sign. Was he … mad at her? First she’d embarrassed him with the sexy photos, and then she’d just now crossed the line with the jealousy comment. Oh shit. He was totally going to confront her about it.

“So, first I should apologize for what I said out there. That was so completely inappropriate and I should have known better,” she blurted.

Dean froze, his eyes meeting hers. “What are you talking about?”

“When I said you should stop making me jealous. I was out of line and I—”

Dean began to chuckle. “Did you think that’s what I brought you in here to say?”

Charlotte exhaled, relief washing over her. “Yes. I did.”

He grinned. “Charlotte, I’m going to be the one to cross the line here when I say … my … inappropriate conversations with you are my favorite thing about working weddings here.”

“They are?” she asked with a smile.

“They are. In fact, I probably like them a little too much.”

Okay. That wasn’t great. So, while it was a relief he hadn’t brought her to this room to confront her, it also sucked he hadn’t brought her here to make out. “Then what did you need to talk to me about?”

He reached up and scratched at the back of his neck before leaning his elbows on his knees. “It’s actually something I need to ask you.”

A wedding party of butterflies came to life in her stomach. “Oh? Okay, shoot.”

“You might recall last weekend I mentioned my sister was engaged.”

Charlotte’s happiness deflated a bit. If all he needed was to hire her for photos, such a production hadn’t really been necessary. It was what she did for a living, for goodness’ sake. “Of course. So do you need a photographer?”

“Well, yes. But I need more than that.”

 Author Bio

Nicole McLaughlin wrote her first full length book (6 pages) about the birth of her baby sister, when she was eight years old. She only finished it because her mother bribed her with a Rick Astley cassette tape. Sad, but true. Now her characters are what keep her writing and her subject matter has gotten a little bit deeper and a lot more romantic. She resides in a small town outside of Kansas City with her husband and three sons. When she isn’t writing, she’s a wedding and portrait photographer, loves to cook, and watch historical dramas or documentaries. Nicole is the author of two series with St. Martin's Press, the Man Enough series (All I Ask) and Whiskey and Weddings (Maybe I Do).

 Author Links

Website: http://nicolemclaughlinbooks.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nicolembooks

Twitter: https://twitter.com/nicolemauthor

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/nicolemauthor/

#Nicole McLaughlin #St. Martin's Press #Whiskey & Weddings 1 #Contemporary Romance