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acourtofwhatthefuck · 10 months

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Practice On Me — Part Thirteen — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Backstreet’s back, ALRIGHT! Or rather, the Bat Boys™️ sort their issues out. Tathaln’s ball is officially announced. Azriel gives Kaeda a piece of his mind. Fin has no business being the sexy dad he is. Roza’s worried about reader.

Word count: 6.3k.

Warnings: None for this part.

All is silent, save for the rhythmic tick-tick-ticking of the clock. Cassian has always hated that clock. Finds it fucking annoying.

But it fills the vacant hole that exists in the absence of conversation. That hole is open and gaping between Cassian and Azriel. It’s not a table that sits between them — it’s a dangerous, yawning chasm.

Az stares at Cass, and Cass feels uncomfortable. He’s seen that cold gaze be levelled on people hundreds of times, thousands. To be on the receiving end feels a little like staring death in the face. He actually kind of wishes that Kaeda hadn’t been sent off to the dorms to sleep off her drunken state, because at least then he wouldn’t be the only one here, being subjected to…this.

So, he stands up, so abruptly that his chair almost topples over, and asks, “Want me to make you some tea?” The question feels stupid the second it leaves his lips.

Azriel’s eyes track him, drink in every uneasy shift and twitch. It’s not that Cass is afraid of Az — though anybody with half a brain cell would be — just that he’s not good in these situations. Situations where he has to be serious and…and listen.

“Cassian.” The shadowsinger’s cold voice stops him before he can move. “When, in our years of friendship, have you ever once made me tea?”

Cass peers over a broad shoulder and shrugs half-heartedly. “First time for everything…”

“Sit.”

The word brooks no room for argument. Cassian does, indeed, sit.

It’s then that Azriel heaves a deep sigh, his entire body taut as a bowstring, and says, “I’m sorry.”

Cass blinks. “What?”

“I’m sorry—for what I did in the mead hall. I…had no right.”

“…But Y/N and I…”

“It’s not for me to dictate whether the two of you should or shouldn’t lie together. My…jealousy…is my problem, and mine alone.”

This is hard, Cassian realises — for Az to say this. For him to face it. And Cass can relate to that. Not everyone can be as silver-tongued as Rhysand. The Mother knows, Cass himself isn’t.

But he also isn’t an idiot. Some people may believe him to be, and that’s their mistake, because being proved wrong is usually the last thing they remember before waking up to a healer standing over them. He’s aware enough of his surroundings to know that something was brewing between Azriel and Y/N for years before Cass took her to bed…or kitchen counter, or…whatever.

“I need to be better,” Cassian offers, “at thinking before I act. Thinking about who I might hurt with my decisions. I’m working on it.”

Az studies his friend, and he feels no anger. If anything, it’s guilt that claws at the shadowsinger. He gave poor Cass a pretty good hiding over something that was, essentially, none of his business. And it could have all been different if Az simply wasn’t a coward, afraid of his feelings.

Something he needs to work on.

And perhaps he’s doing that as, rather than burying the topic, he asks, “What…what actually happened? How did you end up sleeping together? I mean…do you have feelings—”

“No.” Cassian cuts him off, blinking. “Gods, no. I love Y/N, you know that. But not romantically. I just…I felt so damn useless that night, Az. If you’d seen the way Y/N was…the self-loathing. I didn’t know how to help.”

Immediately, Azriel’s brow pinches. “Self-loathing?”

“Because of what her father did to her. When we were flying to Fenlaros, and she was the only one being carried in…”

Azriel slumps back in his chair, feeling like a godsdamned idiot.

He blinks forward and wonders what the fuck the point is in being born a shadowsinger when he obviously can’t read situations very well. Within seconds, it’s clicking into place.

“And then you started that fight with that Fenlarion male,” Cass continued. “and Kaeda just declared that it was her you were fighting over…and everyone has a limit, you know? I think that night was just all too much for Y/N. And she was so upset, so downtrodden…talking about how she hated herself. And I’m not good with words like Rhys is, and I’m not as observant as you are, but I am good at physical touch. Physical comfort. And it seemed like the only thing I could offer in that moment to take that bleakness away from her. But I should have thought about how you would feel—”

“I’m glad you were there for her.” Azriel blurts, realising, with every word, how much he means them. “I wasn’t. I failed her that night.”

“I really didn’t know that the two of you had been exploring things. If I did, I wouldn’t have done it. I mean…that fight you started wasn’t over Kaeda at all, was it?”

Az’s eyes shutter. And it goes against every natural instinct of his to strip himself bare and just…be honest. Every steel wall he’s ever built up is screeching in its effort to stand strong and not be caved in. And those walls were necessary in a life of darkness and hate…but that life is long gone.

What good do those walls do him in an environment where he has love, has people who genuinely care for him? As much as he wants to run and hide from his feelings as he always has…he thinks that the key to happiness may be on the other side of those walls. That a new bravery lays in letting some light filter through the cracks and warm a guarded heart.

His voice is quiet, laced with a self-preserving fear, as he admits, “No. It was not.”

Before Cassian can offer an encouraging response, the front door is swinging open, and Rhysand is kicking snow from his boots and trudging in. Azriel tenses like a threatened animal — but there is no threat here. Only safety, only love. He forces his shoulders to relax.

The violet-eyed male takes in the sight before him. Goes still as he looks between his two friends. “Please tell me this is a positive conversation.”

Cassian inclines his head. “Work in progress. Why don’t you make some tea?”

“Fuck you, make your own tea—”

“Make me some tea—”

“Kiss my ass, dickhole—”

“I’m in love with Y/N.” Azriel blurts.

It promptly shuts the other two males up.

They turn away from their bickering to look at the shadowsinger. He looks…shocked, by his own confession.

“I’m in love with her,” he breathes.

Cass and Rhys share a glance, and then Rhys is slowly approaching the table, carefully taking a seat like he doesn’t want to startle Azriel out of the moment.

“We know, Az.” Rhys tells him gently. “I mean…I think we always suspected…”

“I started that fight in Fenlaros because I was jealous of that damn male having his hands all over her. Saying the things he was saying. It was nothing to do with Kaeda.”

“You should really tell her — Y/N, I mean. Tell her how you feel.”

Azriel’s eyes trace a mark in the table as he admits, “Kind of already have. When she came to speak to me earlier today.”

Another glance is shared between Cassian and Rhys. And both are equally surprised — figure they would have heard something about it. Unless…unless it hadn’t gone down well.

And now that Rhys thinks about it, Y/N had been tense whilst he’d flown her back to Velaris. Taut in his arms and barely uttering a few words. Perhaps this was why.

“Did she…not take it well?” Rhys hedges. He wants to be delicate, not go blasting in at full-force. So rarely do they get to see such a vulnerable side to Az.

Azriel shakes his head once. “It’s not that, it’s…” He clears his throat. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“How?” Cass pushes, and Rhys shoots him a warning glance.

But Azriel doesn’t balk from it, doesn’t slink back in his seat. Instead, he lifts his head, and he levels his friends with a desperate look.

“There’s more that I haven’t told you.” He says.

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A short while later, Az thinks that maybe talking through his feelings is a good thing. Just saying the words has a little bit of weight easing from his chest, his shoulders.

But Cass and Rhys aren’t saying anything at all. Cass and Rhys are staring at him like he has two damn heads.

And then Cassian sits up, barking, “Tathaln Baralas wants what?”

“Exactly what I told you.” Azriel shakes his head. “He wants me to move to Fenlaros and work alongside him. Has some sort of backing from the High Lord, though I’m not sure how much. In a nutshell, Kaeda’s interest in me has always been driven by her father.”

“I knew that little wasp was up to something. You know she tried to kiss me tonight?”

Az shrugs. Really could not give a fuck. “I figured something had happened from the look on your face.”

“I never liked her. Nor her father—”

“Her father,” Rhys cuts in, “walks a very fine line in presuming to exceed in his role as a Camp Lord. His ego and title are going to his head a little, it would seem, if he believes he has the authority to scheme such ideas.”

“It’s a terrible idea.” Cass says. Neither of the other two noticed him get up, but he’s returning to his seat, speaking around a mouthful of food. “All Illyrians in one big camp? They’ll kill each other.”

Rhys is inclined to agree. But he turns a neutral — maybe gentle — expression on Az and asks him, “Do you want to go to Fenlaros?”

It would kill him if Az said yes. Would kill Cass, too. These recent days of being torn apart by tension has been bad enough. Being in different camps and not seeing each other is an almost unbearable thought.

But they would find a way to live with it, if Az decided he wanted to go. They’d find a way to be okay with it.

Such thick silence fills the room that the thudding of all three of their hearts is audible.

But then Azriel replies quietly, “No.”

Neither Rhys nor Cassian bother to hide their relief.

“I told Kaeda I would think about it.” Azriel goes on. “And I told Y/N that I’d promised Kaeda that. But I don’t think I’ve ever really intended to think about it — or needed to. I think…I think I was just using it to bide my time. To create space for myself and…avoid everything else.”

“By everything else,” Cassian chomps into a loaf of bread, “do you mean facing your feelings for Y/N?”

Azriel can’t deny it. He nods. “It’s not an easy thing to face…to be vulnerable. Hiding behind this Fenlaros situation has just been easier. Cowardly, yes, but…easier.”

“You can’t keep pushing her away, though, Az.” Rhys says. “You can’t let her think that you might be leaving if you have no intention of doing so.”

The shadowsinger’s eyes flutter shut, thick, dark lashes grazing his cheekbones. “Do you think I’ve fucked it beyond repair?”

“No.” Cassian offers. “But you will, if you don’t start handling this the right way. Tell Kaeda and Tathaln to fuck off. Tell Y/N you’re in love with her and want to see her naked—”

“Watch it.” Azriel warns quietly, but Cass continues, unperturbed.

“Just start letting more people in. And I’ll stop letting so many people in, because it gets me into trouble. I think…I think we all need to grow up a little. Do better.”

Rhysand’s brow pinches. “What do you mean, we all do? I’ve done nothing other than put my own pleasure aside to advise you idiots. What could I possibly need to do better?”

Cassian shrugs. “That haircut, for one. It’s annoying.”

“And when was the last time your hair saw a comb, Cassian?”

“When was the last time you were generous and made tea for your good, long-suffering friend?”

“So this is about the tea.”

“Of course it’s about the tea, jackass. Zakai clearly isn’t with you for your observational skills…”

Azriel sits back, allowing their bickering to become background noise. There’s a warmth to the sight, the sound, that makes him realise he never again wants a repeat of this situation — of being apart from his friends for days, tension thick between them.

He loves Rhys and Cassian. Loves them dearly.

Another reason why he could never, ever turn his back on this place.

And he finds himself actually being…grateful…that Cass was there for Y/N that night. That she didn’t have to suffer her self-loathing alone.

There’s still a lot to get through, of course. Daunting emotions and truths to face head-on. But as he watches the two loveable idiots in front of him take verbal swipes at each other, it’s the first time in a while that he wonders if things might actually be okay.

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The news is announced the next day, when Lord Devlon gathers a rather colourful bunch of his soldiers in the mead hall and stands at the front, silencing them all with a single shout. Rhys, Cassian and Azriel stand against the far back wall, their arms folded over their chests.

Gods, they hope it’s not another training exercise. Not so soon. Az has things he wants to resolve before he saunters off and possibly gets himself killed.

But Devlon reads the roll of parchment in his hands, a frown contorting his features. He looks up, his eyes very deliberately finding Rhysand as he announces to the room, “A message from the High Lord.”

And every other gaze is then swivelling to turn on Rhys, too. There’s something accusatory about it, like they’re assuming he’s privy to whatever it is their asses have been dragged out of bed to hear.

He isn’t. He wants to be in bed, too.

“Looks like you pricks better get your dancing shoes ready.” Devlon raises his eyebrows. “The High Lord is calling for a ball. Legions from all camps invited.”

This — this is exciting news for the brutish males who could fill the mead hall with their egos alone. Not because they have a particular affinity for dancing, but because amongst themselves, they’re already murmuring about which particular camps they dislike for some reason or other, and what they plan to do about it. So many bloodthirsty streaks are painted in those males’ eyes, stamping out the tiredness that lay there only moments before.

Nothing pricks an Illyrian male’s ears up quite like the prospect of a fight.

“The legions from each camp have been carefully selected, and you lucky fuckers will be representing Windhaven.” The Camp Lord continues, disdain dripping from his voice. He wants his men out there training in the cold, not prancing around a dance floor. “Plus-ones are allowed, also, so it might be time to splash out on a pretty gown for whoever is warming your bed these days. The ball is to be held on Starfall, at a neutral venue of the High Lord’s choosing, and I expect you all to make Windhaven — and me — look good. Any questions?”

“Do we actually have to dance?” One male asks, while another one pipes up with, “Will those pricks from Camp Steelshore be there?”

Rhys shuts out the litany of battling voices as he turns a concerned look on Az and Cass. Their expressions mirror his own. Something about this feels…off.

So while he looks like he’s merely lounging against the wall, hands in his pockets, he sends his inner claws spearing straight for Devlon’s mind. He doesn’t give away what he’s doing, not even slightly, as he roots around in the Camp Lord’s thoughts and grabs for his glimpse of the letter. Rhys scans it, drops the thought, and he’s out of Devlon’s mind and straightening himself up before the male can so much as flinch.

“Let’s go.” He tells his friends, and not Devlon nor the males around them seem to care as Azriel and Cassian follow him, the formidable trio traipsing out into the thawing snow, regardless of whether the meeting is over or not.

They’re halfway back to the house, safely out of earshot, when Cassian finally barks, “A ball? What the fuck?”

“At the request of Tathaln Baralas.” Rhys reveals. “That’s what the letter said. He took the idea to my father, and the asshole is humouring him. This has all got to be part of Tathaln’s plan.”

Cassian scowls and spits his disdain at the ground. “Someone needs to drive a poison arrow through that prick’s heart already. I don’t like this one bit.”

“It’s my father’s intentions I’m worried about.” Rhys shakes his head. “Tathaln only has the power that my father gives him. One word from him and this idea could be snuffed out and never mentioned again. And I expected that to be the case. Arrogant as fuck he may be, but my father isn’t stupid. He’ll know what a terrible idea this is, and I would have predicted that he’d laugh in Tathaln’s face for mentioning it. I didn’t think he’d actually entertain it…which means—”

“There’s something in it for him.” Azriel finishes.

Rhysand nods. “Every single move and choice my father makes is, ultimately, for his own gain. He would never agree to anything if he weren’t getting something out of it himself. Whatever Tathaln has proposed to him…my father will be using it for his own gain.”

Cassian opens the door to the cottage and strides in, forgetting — as always — to kick the snow from his boots. “What, though?” He asks. “What could Tathaln have that your father could want?”

Rhys shrugs and waves a hand, magic promptly mopping up the wet, melting trail left in Cassian’s wake. “That, I don’t know.”

“So what do we do?” Az watches him closely, trying to read the thoughts on the male’s face. His shadows reach out to him, too. “Are you going to talk to your father? Make him see how ridiculous this idea is?”

“No,” Rhys shakes his head. “There would be no point. I could lay a whole host of truths out to my father, and he’d go against them on ego alone. He must want something badly enough for him to be throwing money into it. This ball won’t be cheap.”

“And it won’t be a ball, either.” Cassian cocks an eyebrow. Roots through the kitchen cupboards for food. “Blood will be spilled. And you can’t dance on blood. I’ve tried. Too slippy.”

Rhys chooses to ignore that little scrap of information. Mostly because he doesn’t doubt it for a second. “I don’t want us to pre-empt anything.” He says. “If I go straight to my father with concerns about any of this, it could blow up in our faces, instead. For the time being, I think we should just…go along with it. Watch it play out, and see what happens. My father is unpredictable. Even I can’t tell you what goes on in his head.”

“I can speak with Kaeda.” Az clears his throat. “See if she’ll tell me anything.”

“You have fun with that.” Cassian mumbles, biting into something. “I’d sooner chop my balls off and nail them to the front door.”

“Such a way with words. It’s no wonder, really, that females fall at your feet.”

Cass shoots him a wicked grin. And this…this is nice. What they’ve both missed. This is normal.

“I’ll keep an eye and ear out for anything.” Rhys drags them back to the subject at hand. “But my father’s good at not letting anyone know things until he wants them to know them. And he’s clearly serious about this.”

Cassian swallows. Takes another bite. “And until then? Until we know what he’s even serious about?”

Violet eyes sparkle with mischief, and one side of Rhysand’s lips tips up. “Until then, boys,” he says, “you’d better practice your dancing.”

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Azriel really hopes she’s not there, but sure enough, when he enters his room at the dorms, Kaeda is sitting up in his bed.

It gives him a little bit of satisfaction to see her look…less than perfect, for once. Her hair is knotted, and even the vibrancy of the red shade seems a little dulled. Her skin is sallow, her eyes bleary. He wonders if she’s as miserable as she currently looks.

She beholds him with a strangely coy look, like she’s waiting for him to rip into her. But if she really knew the shadowsinger, she’d know that that is not his style. He does not shout. He rarely fights physically. His danger lies in his quiet voice and icy stare.

Kaeda’s tired eyes fall to the blanket pooled around her waist, and she murmurs, “You’re angry with me.” Her throat bobs with a swallow. “I understand. But I appreciate you putting me to sleep in here when I was in a vulnerable state.”

“I would have done it for anyone.” Az presses his back against the wall, folding his arms. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

The female merely bows her head. Doesn’t bother to argue.

“I have a question.” Azriel then says. “I’d like an answer.”

“I know that Cassian has probably told you about last night, and all I can say is I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed him. I was drunk and upset and I—”

“I don’t care about that.” He really doesn’t, and it shows on his face. “I want to know what your father is playing at by organising an Illyrian ball. I don’t believe for a second that the gesture is an innocent one.”

She glances down again, but Azriel doesn’t buy the coy act for one moment.

“Kaeda.” His voice is laced with warning. “Tell me.”

“It’s just…a ball. A ball to have all camps in one place, so he can get a good look at what each one has to offer. It’s nothing sinister.”

“So, a chance for him to scout more supporters for his cause.”

“He’s trying to make a change, Azriel. A good one—”

“He’s interfering with lives. Tearing families apart.”

“Good results require difficult choices.” Her voice hardens.

The shadowsinger bites out a cold, brusque laugh, turning away from her. “Mother above, he has you trained well.”

There’s movement behind him. Kaeda is kicking the sheets away and pushing to her feet. And she’s…seething.

“You would laugh in the face of somebody trying to make a positive change?” She snaps. “What reason have you to be so arrogant? At least my father is trying to make a difference. All you’re doing is clinging to a miserable life in a miserable place where you don’t even have a family or home of your own—”

“Except that I do.” Azriel rounds on her so quickly that his wing knocks a fragrance bottle off a shelf. “I may not have your riches, and that’s fine, because I have a group of people — a family I made — who love me enough to care whether or not I come home at night. Who want nothing less for me than happiness and contentedness, and not just to use me as a pawn in some convoluted plan that will do more harm than good. I have reason to be in Windhaven, whether it’s miserable or not. I have love here. So much of it. And there’s nothing — not a damn thing — that would make me turn my back on it.”

Something in his impassioned speech clearly hits a nerve with Kaeda. She goes still.

And she looks…small, despite being fairly tall. She looks…insignificant.

Her eyes fill with tears. One spills over and rolls down her cheek as she whispers, “Please, Azriel.”

Azriel says nothing. Stares at her.

“Please.” She takes a step closer. “I’m not above begging. I…” Her voice cracks. “I need this. I need you to say yes—”

“Your father,” he interrupts quietly, “is playing a very dangerous game. And he’s using you to do it.”

“You don’t understand. I…if I can’t give him what he wants, I’m finished. I’ll have no home to go to, nobody on my side.”

“You already have nobody on your side. You’re his daughter and he’s dangling your livelihood over your head and ready to snatch it away if he doesn’t get what he wants. You’re already finished.”

“Please.” She says again. Tears are streaming, now, and she tries fruitlessly to wipe them away. “Please, just…if this is about Y/N—”

“Do not,” he grits out, “bring her into this.”

“She’s already in this. I know that you want her and not me…that you always have…and that’s fine. Bring her to Fenlaros with you, if you must. I’m sure my father could be persuaded on that. But just…please—”

“You’re not listening, Kaeda. This isn’t just about my family. It’s about all the other families that would be separated, ripped apart by your father’s scheming. He’s power hungry. This is just the beginning of a whole host of self-serving plans that will bring him glory — do not doubt that for a second. People like him are never satisfied, and he needs to be stopped. Not encouraged.”

“You’re wrong.” Her voice is so weak, Az isn’t convinced she believes her own words. “He just wants a better future for Illyria—”

“No.” Az levels her with a pointed look. “He wants a better future for himself. I will not play a part in that, and neither will my loved ones.”

“Azriel, please—”

“I will attend your father’s ball, just as Lord Devlon has ordered me to do.” He breezes to the door, not caring that this is his room he’s leaving her behind in. He stops, palm poised on the handle. “But as for delivering a male straight into your father’s den? You better start trying that seduction on somebody else. Because there is nothing that would make me follow you into that camp.”

He leaves without a glance back. And while it sits uncomfortably inside him that he made a female cry…he can’t help feeling like he’s finally doing the right thing.

About time, too.

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This — this is the last thing you ever would have expected of coming to Velaris.

The tonic you’d needed was an extended amount of girl time with Roza. And yet here you are…in the High Lord’s arms.

“This is useless.” You murmur, aware of every single place your body brushes against his. One of his hands is a firm weight on the small of your back, the other clasping yours. “I’m not a natural dancer. Fuck, I’ve never even been to a dance.”

Fin’s mouth tips up at the corners. “There’s that filthy mouth.” His hand lets go of yours, opting to move up to the cut of your jaw, where he allows his thumb to rest on your lower lip. “You,” the pad of it swipes slowly over your mouth, “are going to be exquisite.”

You square your shoulders. Cock a challenging eyebrow. “Is that genuine encouragement, High Lord? Or an order?”

A deep chuckle. Slowly — reluctantly —he lets his hand drop. “Both.”

Flirting with him like this, playing the part of the High Lord’s pet, is a necessary evil. You’re just so surprisingly good at it that you can’t discern whether it’s an affront to him, or to Roza. Or both.

But you can’t deny that you’ve been flattered by his undivided attention this past week. And perhaps he’s been flattered by yours, too.

Mother bless Roza for her undying support. The best you can do for her, right now, is to keep her in the loop. She merely tells you to be careful.

But a week — a week of cosying up to Fin, of breaking through his exterior and appealing yourself to him. You humour him with these dance lessons, with the preposterously expensive shopping trips and dinners, the late night fireside conversations. Anything, everything, to get him to tell you what truth lies behind the excited glint in his eyes whenever he speaks of the ball. To tell you what it is he’s planning.

Perhaps you’re not appealing enough. You are no more aware than anyone else. And that’s really fucking frustrating.

At least your hard work has kept you from thinking about Azriel every five minutes.

Your breath still heaving from your dance efforts, you make your way over to the table of refreshments by the huge, arcing windows that overlook the city. The High Lord’s palace, you have to admit, is a place you might miss once you’re back in Windhaven. You’ve never been one for luxury, never had more than a few things to your name — but the views are what makes you feel like the richest person in all of Prythian. These are not the cold, barren views of your camp, but a place of such vibrancy, it sometimes makes you want to cry. It’s like the setting of a storybook, laid out right before you.

From behind, slow, graceful footsteps sweep across the wooden floor. Fin comes to a stop so closely behind you that his body heat encases you.

Fingertips make contact with your skin, the back of your neck. The sleeveless tunic you wore for your practice now feels like nothing more than a paper towel.

“You have such beautiful skin.” Fin says roughly, and you tense. So far, this week, he’s kept a respectful distance away. Hasn’t put you in any awkward positions.

You pivot under his touch, pressing your back up against the table enough that his hand drops. It’s not entirely for show as you smile apologetically and tell him, “Sorry — scars.”

Such genuine, slicing rage fills his face. The intensity of it almost knocks you breathless.

“I will kill him.” He says the words like a lover’s promise. “With my bare hands, I will kill him for taking your wings.”

He had the power to stop the practice before you were even born. He is very old — over nine-hundred-years — and very powerful. What he says, goes.

And yet…he means it. You can see it. And perhaps you have seen so much unkindness, such brutality, that little scraps of ferocity, of passion, in your defence, make you a blinded fool.

But a part of him — however small — actually cares about you. Enough to mark your abuser for death.

But your father’s blood will soak your hands, and yours only.

You smile up at him, wickedly, cunningly, prettily. “No, you won’t.” You reply. “Because I will do it first.”

And the fury in his stare simmers immediately to a different sort of heat. Your words are a flirtation to him — a cut of raw meat dangled above a hungry, waiting animal. They make him feel something.

“Such a murderous little thing.” His soft laugh caresses your skin. He sounds pleased — impressed. “I like that. I like it a lot.”

“I would hope so. I am to be your special guest at the ball, after all.” A small voice in your head wants to coax him; tell me what you’re planning, tell me what to expect.

But, as always, he steers the conversation away, a vague, mysterious smile on his face. “Do you like it here in Velaris, my murderess?”

“I do, very much so.”

“I can’t help pondering how much you would thrive here. You were made for so much more than Windhaven. Illyria, even.”

A soft, coy smile — one that comes from deep within that part of you that wants the praise, the compliments — that needs them. “Many would disagree with you.”

“Show them to me, and I will twist their minds until they see in you what I do.”

“And what is it you see in me?” A disingenuous little liar. A good actress. A traitor.

Fin leans down, and for one startling, heart-stopping, stomach-lurching moment, you think his mouth might meet yours.

But his lips brush over your cheek in a tender, barely-there caress. He presses a kiss to the skin before retracting. Straightening himself out. The way he slides his hands into his pockets with casual arrogance reminds you so much of Rhys that you miss your friend instantaneously.

“I see beauty that is unappreciated, and intelligence that is underestimated.” Fin says. “And I see a female that I wouldn’t mind having at my side.” His eyes trace you from head to toe. “I wouldn’t mind it at all.”

No response sits on your tongue. You think you might be too surprised by the genuine praise. The fact that the High Lord actually feels some level of affection towards you.

Maybe you’re not so bad at these games.

He turns without waiting for your response, and only when he’s at the door does he make eye contact with you over his shoulder.

“Keep practicing the dancing, my murderess.” He says. “We’ll make a fine pair at that ball.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

If Roza weren’t so worried, she might laugh at the three expressions of outrage that meet her when she strolls into the cottage.

Rhysand jumps up immediately and demands, “Did you fly here? You’re supposed to be resting.”

Roza merely rolls her eyes and shuts the door behind her. “Don’t get your undergarments in a bunch, Rhysand. I’m pregnant — not on my death bed. The babe is fine.”

Her son does not look convinced. Neither do Azriel or Cassian. As if they’re, like, experts on pregnancy, or something.

“What are you doing here, mother?” Rhys stalks straight to the fire and stokes it. Then straight over to the kitchen to make a hot drink. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Mostly.” Roza pauses. “I hope.”

Azriel sits up at that. “Is Y/N alright?”

“She’s fine.” If playing games with the High Lord of the Night Court can be considered fine. Roza eases herself into a seat, and Cassian is promptly propping cushions behind her back. “I want to talk to you about the ball.”

Cass’s lips turn up into a half-smile. “We’ll be on our best behaviour, Roz. Promise.”

“You’d better be. Because I want all three of you looking out for Y/N at that ball, do you hear me?”

The command is a firm one, and yet the three males don’t straighten up at her matriarchal tone like they usually do. Instead, they share a puzzled glance, frowns pinching their features.

“It’s a ball for Illyrian soldiers and their guests of choice.” Rhys explains, carrying a steaming mug over to her. “None of us are bringing her along. Not to that.”

“You may not be.” Roza slides a protective hand over her bump. “But your father is.”

All three males go so preternaturally still, it’s almost frightening.

Rhys bites out, quietly, “What?”

“Your father is taking Y/N to the ball as his special guest. He’s bought her a gown, taught her to dance — he’s serious about this.”

“He can’t.” The shadowsinger’s face is like rolling thunder. “He cannot take her there. All those males—”

“That’s precisely why I’m not attending. He needs someone in my place, and he’s taking Y/N.”

“He can choose someone else.” Azriel’s clipped tone, his panic, is not at all personal to Roza. Usually, he would never speak to her in such a way, but—

But this is Y/N they’re talking about. Y/N in the High Lord’s hands, at a ball with so many Illyrian males, too many Illyrian males.

“Watch your tone, Azriel.” Rhys warns, but Roza is holding up a hand. Because she gets it — the panic.

“I’ve tried telling him to take somebody, anybody, else.” She says. “He’s insistent — absolutely adamant that he wants Y/N.”

“But why?” Cassian frowns.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if his kindness to her is genuine or not.” She shakes her head, absentmindedly stroking her bump. “All I know is that he’s taking Y/N to that ball, and I’m not going to be there. You know, Rhysand, that there is no changing your father’s mind once it’s set. I need the three of you to look out for her.”

Because Y/N is just as much a daughter to Roza as the little girl growing in her belly. They know that.

Rhys inclines his head, reaching out to place a hand over Roza’s. “We will, mother.” He promises. “Whatever game he’s playing…we’ll look after Y/N.”

Roza’s eyes dart to Azriel, to Cassian. “Do you promise?”

“We promise.” Cassian, unfazed as always, grins. “You just focus on the little one, Roz.”

Azriel’s face is grave, but he nods once. “We won’t let her out of our sight.”

Y/N is in good hands with them, Roza knows. She may even be in good hands with Fin, depending on what his true intentions are. Perhaps being at the High Lord’s side is the safest place she can be. It’s an unknown.

But one thing Azriel does know, as he wishes and wishes for this damn ball to just be over already, is that he’s wracked with guilt.

He can’t help feeling like it’s his fault — that his actions, his behaviour, chased Y/N right into a viper’s den.

That he’ll stop at nothing to get her out of it.

pom tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-agirlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd @coralseacourt @towhateverend87 @sspookz @bird-on-the-wire33 @morrie-rose @megwan @catscanteleport @sevikas-whore @thickthighs-sadeyes @hihelloitsbooktimeppl

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millerscoffee · 1 year

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reader lives in jackson and is friends with tommy, so she sees joel relatively frequently, and they just DONT get along. the reader is young and she’s got a sharp tongue and cheek that irritates the shit out of joel, who shoots back just as much condescending insults. they literally can’t be in a room without getting into it. however, the reader does it for his attention (she’s got daddy issues), and joel doesn’t catch onto this until she’s knocking on his door at midnight because she can’t sleep and she needs him and she doesn’t know how to admit it. he pulls her in the house and absolute filth ensues. he makes her blow him and then they fuck. joel is smug and condescending the whole time, and reader just becomes a ragdoll. Size kink, dirty talk, daddy kink, creampie/breeding, the works PLEASE

you got it, anon! ✨ this was requested on @atticrissfinch's page too, go check it out! i love how the same request can elicit two different stories. i did my best not to read it before i finished this (it was as difficult as it sounds cos HOO BOI 😅🥵♡)

only daddy that'll walk the line

6.2k | joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ MDNI

warning: big mean dom!joel™️ lmao, alcoholism (reader's dad, but also drunk!joel for a second - **this is not in the smutty scenes**), parental abuse (verbal, it is brief), smut, age difference (joel is 56, reader is 18-early 20s - your choice), size kink, dirty talk (joel's a talker more than his usual grunty self), name calling (bitch, brat, slut, etc.), light praise kink & like- two pet names, ✨ degrading language and acts ✨, edging, choking/gagging, hair pulling, creampie, breeding kink, daddy kink, spitting kink!!!, spanking, oral (m receiving), no prepping the reader, brat tamer!joel, bratty reader, if i missed anything lmk

summary: based in jackson, you have the unfortunate predicament of being friends with tommy miller and hating his brother, joel – and you have no problem in letting either of them know that! until one night you are brought to joel's doorstep.

A/N: this is my first request! thank you! huzzah!! hopefully it's to your liking, nonnie. he's big mean dom!joel™️ but with a conscience yknow?? enjoy ♡ i did proofread this, but i wrote it over the course of a couple weeks. i did my best! lol

"Dude, what's his fucking problem!?" You roll into the dining hall in a huff. Shuffling to your seat for dinner, you slam your tray down and Maria gives you a combined look of worry and irritation at peace being compromised.

"Who, honey?" Tommy asks, handing you a glass of water with an entertained grin because he's positive he knows just who you're talking about.

He'd seen the two of you go at each other's throats earlier in the day when you were trying to get by him on your way out the door. His back was to you, and he all but ignored your request to get out of the way. Causing you to shove past him, which ensued an argument between the two of you. Which led you to both of you gunning each other with your words until you both left in a bad mood.

Joel had his back to you, his frame fully in the doorway as he spoke with a woman in town. It started off slow: a few clearings of your throat, a slight nudge of his back. No avail.

"Excuse me," you shouted, pushing at him again before he finally turned around quickly with his jaw ticked.

"Do you have any manners, Christ." He said dry and muttered under his breath, but the lady made room for you and you nodded politely in her direction.

"Maybe if you weren't so fucking old, you could've heard me!"

"And watch your fuckin' mouth."

Joel turned his back to you, not giving you a moment to retort. Conversation over.

"This fucker," when you look up, you see Joel coming towards the table. The sight of him gives you a set of shivers you can't explain. Not complete disgust, but certainly not excitement.

"You really oughta keep better company," Joel tells his brother, sitting down beside him, he frames his entire body towards Tommy so he's sitting in a way to make you feel ignored.

"I'm right here, you know." Your head is moving so you're in the line of his vision.

"Don't remind me. Listen, this is a family dinner. Go find your own."

A slap in the face would've hurt less. Before Tommy or Maria had the chance to come to your defences – both of their mouths open ready to take up for you – you stood up, shoving your tray over to Joel. So loud, other people turn their gaze to the four of you.

"Fuckin– eat up, then."

As you storm off to your house, you hear Tommy scold his older brother but you don't look back.

---

The next morning, your father wakes you up to the sound of his own yelling for you to come downstairs. You'd been helping out Maria and Tommy to get your own place, or at least a shared one with people your age and to hear your dad's voice; whiskey-soaked and cruel, makes your stomach churn.

After slipping on your clothes for the day, you make it to the kitchen where he's sitting at the table and reeking from alcohol even from where you're standing.

"Didn't you hear me call you?" His words were slurred and angry.

"Yes, I'm sorry." It's such a difference from how you talk to other people, talk to Joel, for example. Maybe because he's the last person you spoke to, but he's the first one who pops into your head during this interaction. You sound meek, scared to say something wrong. A stark difference from how you speak to Joel – abandoning all worries of punishment. Almost like you wanted that from him.

"Fuckinbetterbe – hiccup – breakfast. Now." Your dad all but snaps his fingers and rage creeps up the back of your throat, biting your tongue so hard you break the surface layer. A slight streak of blood coats your mouth, but you do as you're told.

This morning is kinder than others. Your dad did not say thank you for the pancakes, you didn't get hit or debased too much. You consider it a win. Once you leave your house as soon as you can, Joel's chest hits your face as soon as you turn the corner. The milliseconds seem long when you're met with the warmth and solidity of his chest, the scent of cedar and... whiskey? It seemed too early, even for him, to be drinking and you shake off the unreasonable rationale that he should be treated differently than your father for the same behaviour.

You ignore the similarities of him and your father all together, actually.

"Watch where you're goin'," Joel's brows are knit together, which is normal for him, but you've never been this close to see his lips from this angle above you. You almost say something out of the ordinary for the two of you, but you reel it in quickly.

"You're one to fuckin' talk. Morning coffee smells a lot like alcohol. Maybe I should tell Tommy about your habits."

"Does it ever hurt your head bein' a bitch all the time?"

"Not as bad as that hangover will be around noon. Move."

You push past the large build in front of you with a clenched jaw, unable to be around him a second longer. "Fuck you, Joel," you mutter for good measure on your way to Tommy and Maria's.

They'd given you safety on days when it seemed scarce, and showing up felt appropriate. You were a little closer with Tommy than Maria. He was able to listen to you without being too judgy, and you needed that. The lack of safety piece was a lot like how your day started off. You walk around to the back where Tommy's working on a new hobby and you sit in front of him, letting out a big sigh.

"Y'daddy givin' you trouble again?"

Typically when Tommy asks about your father he says it like this, but today it catches you off guard. Confusion twists your mind, but you nod distractedly. "Yea, he was drunk this morning. Your brother, too."

You slide that one in fast.

Tommy fists through his hair, letting out a heavy exhale. "Shit. We both got trouble this mornin', I guess."

"Seems like it."

You're unusually quiet, looking at the ground more than anything. It bugs you that Joel and your father have a similar quality to them. That they both are up reaching for the bottle, but for Joel it's not a common occurrence and that makes you worried – an emotion you don't have for him that often, if you're being honest. You don't think about his experiences that often. But this is the first time, really, you've even seen Joel drunk like that. You remember Tommy mentioning that he'd given up the stuff since Sarah's passing when everyone was around a fire one night sharing stories.

As if the dots connect in real time, you look over to Tommy who looks worried sick.

"He'll figure it out," you reassure, chewing the inside of your cheek before heading out. You call behind you, "I'll be around."

You've never really been good at the whole 'being there for someone' thing.

Later on, you find yourself in the mess hall again for the night's dinner and you catch Maria, Tommy, Joel, and Ellie all together and it feels weird to sit with them. They're all laughing, Joel looks sobered up. And it seems that Tommy didn't bring up the conversation the two of you shared. They look like a happy family and twists a knot in your throat and the proverbial knife at your side.

"Can I please spend the night at Tommy and Maria's? Please?" Ellie is looking over at Joel with the sweetest expression, you snicker to yourself at how menacing she actually was. It seemed to do the trick, though. Joel's eyes flicker over to you, and it feels like you're being caught for something. The look is inculpatory without you doing anything. As if to say you are witnessing something too personal, a side of him not meant for you. "Yeah, sure," his response to Ellie sounds distant.

This gives you no choice but to walk up to the scene, to sit down beside Maria. She gives you a welcoming grin and makes space for you. "What'd I miss?" You look over to Ellie who's excited to see you, but Joel? Not so much. His eyebrows narrow down his face, suddenly more quiet than usual, even for him. You set your sights back on Ellie who's telling you all of the cool things she's gonna do at her Uncle Tommy's and you flash a smile that lets her know you're listening. Or at least trying. It's hard when Joel isn't even initiating the usual conflict with each other. More arguing than speaking. And the fact it wasn't happening was off.

"That sounds like a blast...," you trail off, your chin in your hands.

"If you're not gonna listen to her, don't ask her questions." Joel barks, eyes now solemnly black in your direction. It makes you scared and delighted at once. Like he was back to normal. Your normal.

"I was listening to her?" You retort, and everyone's quiet now. Awkwardness filling the air as the two of you battle it out. "Maybe if you weren't so drunk all the time you'd know the differen–" "Hey, now." Tommy chimes in, giving you a stern look of disapproval and you feel bad. Reflective. Joel wasn't drunk all the time, and you knew exactly why he was this morning.

You exhale, "I'm sorry," you nod in the direction of everyone but Joel and stand up from your seat, "enjoy your family time."

On your way back to your house, you catch a glimpse of a group of people your age. People you'd grown up with, but they didn't acknowledge you and it digs the wound closer in. You truly felt alone. Like nothing fit, and maybe you didn't belong in Jackson but it wasn't like there were many choices to go to.

---

More times than not you sneak into your room. Not because you are past a type of curfew, you were an adult. It was more, you didn't want your dad to know you were around. Your door was locked when you climbed in through the window.

You got comfortable, spilling out of your clothes for the day and into your pajamas. Cotton shorts and a loose tee. Your breasts perky and nipples taut from the worn fabric. A lot of the day was spent dealing with heavy subjects that you just wanted to let your mind escape.

Staring at the ceiling in your bed, your eyes become blurry in need of sleep. Needing release. Anything.

Your mind wanders to why Joel was so quiet with you when you sat down. It wasn't like that was the first time the two of you had a shouting match in front of everyone, but this felt different. You deduce it to Joel having an off day and let your mind wander somewhere else.

Or, at least you try.

Because when your hands explore your body under the blankets, Joel comes back to life in your thoughts. You come back to the warmth of his chest when you ran into him this morning, the grunt that left him from impact. What that would sound like against your ear. Before you know it, you're shifting your thighs together, spreading the mess of your cunt. A craving ignites your bloodstream.

It's slick between your legs when you sit up, and you're full of determination unbeknownst of where it's coming from. The act itself is a little heady, but you have nothing to lose so why not?

Slipping on a pair of shoes and a jacket that covers your clothes, you turn your back to the window and scurry down until you're able to jump off onto the grass. One step close to where you want to be.

Joel's house is across the street which makes it easy to get to, but aggravating when you want a sense of peace. He's always around, shooting you a menacing stare when you're not down each other's throats but there's an ache you can't deny. A compulsion.

You knock on his door twice before he swings it open almost like he saw you approach, but he doesn't tug you inside like you thought he was. Doesn't make you get on your knees or fulfill any fantasy of being used. Of... making him proud.

"What?" His question is dry and a part of you is crushed. He isn't taking advantage of the way your legs look in your shorts right away.

"You're not the only one who had a bad fucking day," you start, but he doesn't give you a moment to push through the door because before you know it you're being pulled inside. The sound of a slamming door somewhere behind you. You're forced to look at him with his paw wrapped around your jaw, thumb tilting your chin up effortlessly. It locks you in place.

"You came here. Why? Y'want me to fuck your bad day away?"

You gape is panicked, eyes wide now in this compromising position. You can't think, you can't nod or say words. You just stare.

"She's real fuckin' quiet now," Joel shoves you against the closed door, not letting an inch of space be wasted and he takes your wrist with his free hand, palming you over his hardening cock in his jeans. "How about now. You payin' close attention?"

You whimper, nodding softly as your fingers massage and rub, tug at anything you can through the fabric.

"Did I tell you y'could do that?" His words make you pause, shivering at how truly empty your mind is in the moment. Even in your inexperience you don't know you've ever felt so instantly timid. Joel makes you fold at the first hint of misbehaviour. You can't think of a thing to say. Halfway don't know why you're here in the first place, and he's got you so wet from this it almost hurts. Stickiness coats your thighs as you squeeze your legs together and you're sure it will be obvious even through your cotton shorts.

You shake your head, and he's sick of you not speaking to him. Squeezes your face tighter, "Use your fucking words."

"No... no you didn't," you manage and you've never heard yourself sound so pathetic.

"I didn't, that's right. You answer to me." The snapping sound of his words causes your eyes to roll in annoyance. He doesn't own you, he never fucking could. The action makes his jaw tighten, his hand from your jaw in a grip that didn't hurt now is wrapped around your throat and although it's not tight, it certainly isn't loose. "What the fuck was that?"

You're back to being silent, unable to do anything but take.

"Not asking again."

"I rolled my ey–"

"You rolled your eyes. Roll your fuckin' eyes at me again, little girl. You'll regret it."

A cool threat, you think. Meaningless, even. What possible reproach would he have anyway?

It's then you take in the house. You'd been here once before to stay with Ellie. It's dark, a single lamp upstairs. All of this is background noise to the drone of your need prickling your youthful skin. It's apparent, your age difference, when you're this close. His rough fingers, wrinkles catching the moonlight peeking in through the windows.

"I–I'm sorry," you've been saying that a lot lately.

"Don't apologise to me. Don't say sorry when I know you're not." His thumb moves from your chin to your lips, thumbing over just how pliable and soft they are and it sends your nerves to the surface. Prying your lips apart, he presses inside and you willingly wrap your lips around it to lap the pad of his digit. "Look at that sweet thing," he says, more at you than to you, and your neck flushes being this willing to suck for him, "so easy for me to use. I put my thumb to y'er lips and you just took it right in, didn't ya?" The taste of his skin robs you of any other sense, his tone making you all but fold.

"Show me what this mouth is good for, 'cuz it sure ain't good at a sincere apology."

Before you know it, you're on your knees. Joel is kind enough that he ushers you down onto the hardwood floor and you can't believe you're face to face with his crotch in front of his door, no less.

"You couldn't wait to take me to your bedroom?"

Joel doesn't reply straight away. Instead you hear the clanking of metal, a zipper coming undone, and the slap of his cock hitting his abdomen on the way out of his pants. You take mental note that he hasn't been asleep by his attire, but it's all for nothing when your eyes make out the shapes in the dim light. You choke when you see just how big he is.

He tuts, leaning his head condescendingly as he takes a chunk of your hair in his palm to tilt your chin up to greet his cock. "Aw, you think you're goin' t'my room?" The words make you feel naïve, the one or two times you've done something like this didn't have nearly as much... compromise. And you certainly didn't hook up with someone twice your age. You don't have time to be self-conscious because the head of him, the leaky head of him, is tapping against your lips and your eyes roll back as you open your mouth for him. After jumping slightly in surprise, of course.

He sighs in relief with a deigned smile, pushing his hips further. "Fuck. You hear that? Nothing! Sounds so fuckin' good, shuttin' you up."

But it's not entirely nothing, is it? Not with your gagging, slurping up what you can but you don't know what you're doing all the way and fumbling through half of it. Doesn't seem to faze him much.

It's obscene as it feels, him using you like this – and you don't feel an ounce of guilt when it's exactly what you want. The switch flips on why you came to his door in the first place. His big thumb swipes over the corner of your full mouth, "You like that, dontcha, filthy thing?"

And you hated how right he was. You wanted to scream, kick him. Retaliate in a way so you could still be in this submission at the same time.

Your mouth was full by the earthy taste of him, obliterating whatever feelings you had about the day. A bad mood that he had contributions in, but it's melting from the constant thrust of his hips. And he's keeping your head locked in place, hand gripped in the strands so you can feel your spit mingling with the underside of his cock. Honestly, every part of his dick is covered in your spit. It spills down your chin, threatens up your nose when you gag, leaves your eyes to water when you look up at him in a dire need to breathe fully, but he's not done with you.

Not until the loudest, lewdest pop from your mouth you've ever heard does Joel break contact completely. Steps back until you're being observed in a patronising way. Your gone expression. All saliva and tears and his precum smeared over your mouth. You can barely bring yourself to look up, but his demands seem to do the trick.

Snapping his fingers at you to get your attention, you swallow hard. "Nuh uh. You're not gonna get all soft on me, girl. Wake the fuck up."

Which would be simple if he wasn't practically dragging you by your hair, making you crawl on your hands and knees until you're on your feet and you're shoved onto his couch.

All that and you're still dressed.

"Off," he's barking commands like you're a trainable being and if you were in any other state, you may reconsider this whole ordeal, but when he pushed you onto the couch your legs spread just enough for him to see the wetness smearing the cotton at the apex of your thighs and that amuses him. "not good at hidin' how much of a slut y'are."

"You think it's just you that does this to me?" You find your voice again, hoisting yourself up to sit on his couch as his cock – thick and proud – sways against the fabric caught between it. Your tongue presses to your cheek when you make eye contact, "You're kidding yourself."

The venom drips so fluidly from your tongue, Joel doesn't make a sound. Just peels off his clothes until he's standing there naked in his house, giving you living proof that you are kidding yourself.

The silence speaks for itself. He is pure smug under the sight of your drooling gaze.

"It's real cute that you think y'got control over the situation n'all," the weight shifting on this couch from the cushion shaping around his knee. Joel sits down, taking you by the scalp again to cloak you over his lap stomach-first, and you yelp in surprise when he does all of this and tugs your shorts down in one fell swoop.

With your hair in his fist, his other hand ghosts over your ass in effort to make sure you squirm for him before administering a devilishly loud spank to your ass. "But somebody better teach you better manners. Sure as shit itn’t your father."

You crack out a sob at that– from the contact and the truth. You couldn't retort, you were too busy getting slap after slap against your increasingly worn ass to think about anything else. "Lucky I ain't making y'count. You'd have this for eternity now."

Not that it mattered anyway. He's leaving mark after mark of his large handprint across your cheeks, probably ten more if you could even focus on anything else but finding the words to stop him.

"Please– y-you're right," tears stain your face as you bury your face in your arms. Flinching when Joel moves, you expect another searing punishment, but instead he pulls your ass apart and you gasp at the cool air striking your cunt that's hot and wet for him. "Joel!"

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, wet from gettin’ punished. I talked so bad about you, and you liked it? You’re as desperate as I thought. Only good for gettin’ my cock wet.” And it’s like a lever is pulled when your slutty little smile plasters over your face with him out of view. Not that you had much time to gloat, or to experience the pleasure of living in your own fantasy because Joel’s got you pulled again. His thick thighs spread apart when he maneuvers you so willingly to sit between his legs. Right where he wants you. Right where you can feel the throbbing pulse at your folds. He tells you to take off the rest of your clothes and you would be a fool to do otherwise.

“Bad girls don’t get the luxury of bein’ opened,” that Texan drawl slips over your ear when he holds the base of his cock, slicking himself through your folds, you gasp and wriggle against him – his grip tightening harder. Silently warning you if you make another move it’s over, you’re done. It’s over. All the while the searing stretch of him causes your cunt to flutter and clench around him. It’s too much, too overwhelming, and he won’t let you adjust long enough. “You’ll get over it,” but it’s not reassuring. He still sounds in control despite his laboured breathing and when he can, he moves his hands to grip your hips and guide you down on him. You scream, a knee jerk response wriggle away from him, but this position doesn’t quite allow for that.

“Be a good girl.”

That folds you, quite literally, as he moves his hips down to pound up into yours, using you like his own toy to get himself off with. And it’s just the incredible sounds of your squelching cunt and his balls tapping against your folds. The fucking isn’t frantic, but it certainly isn’t soft. He’s rough with you, a hand traveling up your back to grip your hair so your neck is back in place and he lifts you upright so your back is curved, neck craned so if you tried, you could make him out – upside down. “Poor thing couldn’t help it, had to get a daddy to take care of her. You want that, kitten? Wanna be used and as daddy’s little fucktoy – only good for makin’ me cum?” his hand sneaks around to the front of you with his free hand, he presses and digs into your pubic bone to make you feel exactly where he is. “Put a baby right here. Make everyone know what you fuckin’ did.”

You whine, eyes rolling back at the thought. It was so obscene, nothing like you’d ever even heard of before. Where did he fucking learn how to talk like this? Your brain is swimming while your sticky sweetness coats his lap, clawing at his thighs for any sort of stability, but it was dizzying how he had you. How his grunts filled the air in between slaps like he had your hips placed at the perfect angle for him to work you.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” His gritting teeth by the shell of your ear, he keeps you secure within your hair to snake his arm around the front of you tugging and rolling at the sensitive nubs of your nipples. When he feels you appear to drift off, those rough hands supply another smack, but to your tits this time, your fingernails clawing into his thighs involuntarily as you squeal in surprise. You tighten at that, fluttering around his cock and you feel it at the edge. So close you can almost taste it.

But he knows you’re close, too, and there’s no way in hell he’s giving that to you. Not when you’ve barged into his house like this, not when you’ve done nothing but be an insufferable brat to him since the moment he came to Jackson.

Joel hovers you over his lap, and your heels dig into the floorboard. His hips still, keeping the very tip of his cock inside of you – you feel panic flash over your body. “No,” it’s the first word you’ve uttered in god knows how long and it sounds desperate. Any hope of getting an orgasm swirls down the drain, and it’s set in stone when he pushes you on your back – the lumpy couch digging into your skin. “No, no, please. Why!”

His eyes could burn a hole through you. Like a hungry dog, his body hovers – shoulders stooped, head down when he pours his gaze into you. And he likes what he sees. Legs open and begging, willing to do anything to get him back into you. Your cunt glistening, even in the dull light and he can tell it’s pulsing. “Poor thing’s clampin’ around nothin’,” he teases, grunting when his knees meet the couch cushions – another tell of his age. But you, you’re too preoccupied in taming the ache between your legs to comment. It burns, coming back to a fixed state you realise how stretched out you were and it’s more than overwhelming. To know you haven’t been used to completion, all hope draining from your face.

“Joel,” your breath is shaky underneath him, pupils blown and wet when you make out his features, “Joel, please. Please, I want this.”

“Darlin’, I know you want it. Everybody in town knows you want it,” his words make you sob a whine as they approach closer to your neck, the delicate graze of his beard dances at your pulsepoint and you shudder. Hips raise and he’s quick to slam them back down into place. “If you want me, ‘Joel’ ain’t whatchu say to get me.”

And if you felt hopeless before, you really do now. Unable to do anything but debase yourself for your own pleasure. You’d heard it earlier, the way he referred to himself with a name that brought up mixed feelings at Tommy’s. You swallow down embarrassment, looking him in the eyes – which were faded obsidian, your fingernails dig into your own thighs as if to brace for what’s tempting to slip out of your throat.

You hated that he made you nervous.

And you hated the hold he had over you.

But he had it, there was no doubt about it. He had it. He had you.

Your jaw ticks forward, fully aware of your clit screaming for attention and exhale shakily. “Please, daddy. Please, I want this.”

“Eh,” Joel muses, shaking his head, “I don’t believe ya. Really gotta hear the desperation in your voice. Maybe if I,” his hand reaches for his cock, slapping the sloppy head of it against your folds and that– that sends you. Takes you to a different destination entirely because for the first time all night there’s attention to that bundle of nerves, and he knows it. He knows you need this in order to give everything over to him in full. “Daddy!” you screech, pelvis jutting up in full inclination and without a single word, Joel’s cock spears into you all the way to the hilt. All the way to your cervix.

His hands, emitting heat and wrapped largely around your hips, locks you where he wants you like some animal in heat. It forces you to bring your legs up into a position you aren’t sure you’ve ever been in – thighs against your stomach, by your sides. It’s so, “deep,” you whimper, head rocking as your mouth flies open and he’s delivering you thrust after thrust of pleasure so wrecking no noise comes from you.

“Is that what you needed? Fuckin' brat,” Joel is still able to tease, but even he isn’t immune to how tight you are around him. Your fluttering core begging for release as it moves in and out around him – as if it’s doing its own begging. “You wanna be filled up to the brim with my cum, babygirl? Needy fucking cunt like you only good for matin’ like this.” Your skin burns at his words, your body convulsing as you do your best to keep it together.

That’s when Joel’s hand wraps around your throat, a line of spit falling into your mouth and you willingly drink from him. “You hold off, you ain’t gettin’ it tonight,” you pout for a moment, not fully understanding what he means by that, but he clarifies when his hips get sharper, more precise. As if his cock is hooked inside of you, not letting a drip of precum spill out of you against your cervix. “Y’ain’t cummin’, but I am.”

His grip around your throat gets harder, and you swear you can see every vein in his face rise to the surface when he uses you. You’re limp, all thoughts washed away – his cock thick and long, you aren’t even sure how he fits it all inside of you but he does. The edge of your stomach bulges as he works you, his neck cranes back to expose his neck and it’s too much to take. For both of you. His hot cum ropes cords inside of you, sticking to your walls. Filling you up is an understatement with how much he has to give you. It’s as if you can discern the moment his seed grazes your cervix in its sticky texture. Your head is swimming at the sound of your animalistic grunts, he looks so… fucking hot like this. His name is replaced with ‘daddy’ more easily than you care to admit. You do try not to chase your orgasm… a part of you does, anyway.

But you’re defiant.

You can take yourself there without him telling you to, and in fact the opportunity to disobey him is just what you need to send yourself creaming all over his cock. You gasp, eyes wide before they roll back and you’re fucking yourself on his spent cock that somehow still has life to it. Even for his age, he can still keep it hard for you after his seed coats your insides. “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” becomes part of your breath, and you’re shocked he doesn’t pull out of you even though his hips are still. You don’t notice it until you come down considering you’re using him. Did he say you could do that? As if you’re woken up by an alarm, you jerk at the sensation of the orgasm you snuck. Without his permission. You look up, and his knuckles are bleached around your hips. He looks so menacing like this, scary. You shake your head, swallowing hard in your attempt to fix things.

But it’s too late for you. You’re a brat at the end of the day, and he has to train you. Make you realise the error of your ways.

His cock is still buried deep when his middle finger plays where the two of you connect. A whine escapes you, shivering now, not quite sure what he’s going to do. He’s lethally quiet, you aren’t sure how to react. He’s contemplating what to do to you, he’s not met someone who’s as menacing as he is. As unwilling to give away freedom. Not since… his nostrils flare as he inhales.

“I told you not to do that,” Joel stating the obvious makes you clear your throat, his cock twitching inside you in the aftershocks sends your teeth to bite down on your lip and you shake your head, “I c- I couldn’t help it!” You lie, and he knows it. Compels him to prod that middle finger just above his cock inside you and the stretch is too much. When you reach out for his forearm, his other hand darkens over your wrist, pinning it back in a way that hurts. You wince in tandem with it and his monstrous hook of the digit inside you. You’re so full, “It’s too-it’s too much!” you tap at anything you can, but he’s not listening.

Instead, the pad of his finger has no problem in touching that spongy bit inside of you – especially since your cunt is stretched from his cock and he can see it. His cum tempts to pool out of you, but he shoves it back in, working his finger inside you repeatedly but he’s just rubbing. He’s just rolling his finger against your g-spot until you feel so overstimulated it brings more pain than pleasure. “Came like you knew what you were doin’,” he finally remarks, thumb rolling over your clit and you can’t take it. “Please, pl– it’s too much! Daddy!” That rhythm is sly, though, in making you come undone. Again and again. As you’re on the peak of what would be an explosive orgasm, Joel pulls out of you entirely. His cock, his finger. His warmth is a distant memory when he stands up, palming over his cock. How did he get hard again?! He would deal with that on his own time.

Your moan is choked out, thighs pressing together for any sort of… something. A release, a grind. You’re left panting and begging, your tits perky and heaving for him.

“What did I say, little girl?” He climbs into his clothes, one button up at a time with his flannel. “You won’t be cumming for a week with that fuckin’ attitude.”

You’re so lost in chasing a feeling, soon to disappear as it could arrive that all you can do is whimper and nod. “I’m so–” his hand grips your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. Spit covers your face, and you hum like a kitten at the feeling of his hot saliva down your cheek, “What did I fucking say about apologisin’ when you’re not sorry?”

You wipe your face, sucking the spit off your thumb with a satisfied smirk. “Fuckin’ loved it, daddy.”

He swallows then, his head shaking in disbelief over how much of a filthy bitch you are. “Yeah, yeah you fuckin’ did. Belong to me now, you understand? Gonna let everybody know what a slut you are for this cock.”

And you would be lying if you didn’t experience a swell of pride in those words. You’d be down each other’s throats again in no time, but the look of ownership that adorns his face over you is too much not to bask in.

“A week?” You study him, eyes wet and round, look up at him and you see his cheek twitch in response.

“Gonna be two if you keep it up.”

You let out a faint sigh, resting your head back on the armrest. “Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl,” he coos, leaning down to press his lips at the shell of your ear. Fingers tucking his cum back in your hole. He relishes in how hot you feel under his fingers.

“Now get the fuck out of my house.”

taglist: @cool-iguana - dm to be added!

#bee's requests #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x afab!reader #tlou smut #joel miller requests #dom!joel #brat tamer!joel #brattamer!joel #bratty reader #bratty f!reader

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lexirosewrites · 1 month

Note

Hey happy Slick Sunday™️!! I fear this is cringe but I have had the thought of omega Steve but he’s a popstar stuck in my head and needed to get it out somewhere. And I know so many people say he would be like Sabrina Carpenter, but I wanna see high fem omega Steve but like Chappell Roan. He’s just doing the absolute most and living his best life, singing about being an omega, and love and lust between omegas. He’s drag and camp, and the most authentic to himself that he’s been in his whole life.

Obviously he blows up after his full length album comes out, which just leads to the most insane press tour that you can imagine. One of his live interviews he walks out in assless chaps, a thong and a crop top so short every time he moves his tits pop out (there are cute nipple pasties in a fun shape underneath, but it’s still scandalous). The whole interview he spends not only spreading his legs and arching his back, but nonstop talking about the new Corroded Coffin song and how hot their lead singer/guitarist is. At this point in time Eddie is incredibly well established and respected in the music industry, the song spoken of is only the second single for their upcoming 6th studio album. Steve however doesn’t really pay much mind to how established they are though, he is way more concerned with the fact that Eddie is a much older and incredibly attractive and masculine omega whomst he would like to have the babies of.

Apparently this stunt is the trick to getting Eddie’s attention. Eddie replies to a tweet saying “where can I get one” on a photo shoot set of Steve in a Barbie box. He becomes obsessed with Steve, enamored and captivated not only by him, but his music as well. Not long after this they meet at an industry party. The chemistry is there immediately; each others presence feeling like a cooling balm after a surge of electricity. By the end of the night Steve is found sitting on Eddies lap and purring in contentment.

Soon they are spotted almost everywhere with each other, holding hands, kissing, etc. There’s even a photo of Eddie playfully scruffing Stevie and his blissed out face to go with it. Within a few months Steve is spotted wearing a brand new red claiming collar with the letters EM sitting right over his bonding gland. A surprise for some considering they didn’t expect the couple to go along with anything considered traditional.

Despite these comments, until their bonding Steve is never seen without a collar, getting it made in multiple colors to match all of his outfits. And if he’s spotted wearing a new collar after their bonding, one that may suspiciously look like a day collar, well then thats their business and theirs alone. (Expect for the very explicit and kinky songs Eddie writes for CCs next album that everyone knows Steve was the muse for lol)

woo-hoo famous and flirty omega/omega steddie!!! i didn’t know i was missing this vision in my life, but i’d love to be a fly on the wall in that bedroom🤭😩🥵

#slick sunday #steddie #steddie omegaverse #omega steve harrington #omega eddie munson #steve x eddie #omegaverse #a/b/o #my asks #anon asks

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rosewaterandivy · 10 months

Text

1.01 - Notes on a Scene

summary: a meet-fuck cute courtesy of The Hideout.

pairing: teacher!eddie x fem!reader

w.c.: 3.6k

warnings: modern! AU / 18 + no minors! / eddie is in his early 30s, in the tkaa timeline, this is set about two years after the epilogue, hook ups, fwb, Eddie being a menace, my usual filth™️

a/n: an Eddie-centric companion series to the kids aren’t alright. it’s not necessary to read the previous series, but there are certain plot points and characters that will be making an appearance here as well.

nota bene: feedback is always appreciated— reblogs, comments, likes, etc.— but reposting is not. Enjoy! 💜

series m.list | playlist | currently spinning:

🎵gonna melt the fever sugar, rolling back your eyes🎵

“Hey.” A man says as he scoots into the stool next to you. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You look up and around. The space is dimly lit, brick walls, wooden shelves, a very subtle we don’t give a fuck vibe. There are plenty of women around who are dressed to impress, but he is strangely alert and focused on you. You are sitting perfectly still in denim cutoffs and a t-shirt that has seen better days—grubby house clothes. Even your hair, piled on top of your head screams: go away.

“You look lonely.” He’s dressed in an open green flannel with a crinkled tee underneath, ripped jeans, and dark sunglasses perched on top of his head.

Blinking owlishly, you stare at him some more. This guy has got to be messing with you. You stick the tip of your thumb to your chest. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’ll you have?”

Um. Alone time, maybe? You’re still searching over his shoulder as he says this, stubbornly ignorant of your aloof vibe. You look again toward the door, plotting your escape. Is this guy the type of person to chase you down and stuff you in the trunk of his car? You try to smile.

“I’m uh—I’m ab–”

“Babe!”

A third voice cuts in and then suddenly an arm wraps around your shoulder, “Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”

Your head turns to regard the rest of its owner and your heart leaps into your mouth. Sumptuous brown eyes encased in dark lashes. Corners lifted by a wide smile. They are looking lovingly down at you, and they are magnificent.

“Uh.” Nice job.

“Uh- you—you were waiting on someone?” The stutter is incredibly pathetic when your first suitor clocks the man with his arm around you. He’s deceptively built, much to your surprise. He’s sturdy too, from what you can tell with his side pressed up against yours.

“Yep. Boyfriend. Good to meet you.” His eyes crinkle at the edges, but there’s no kindness in that look. “Care to fuck off now?”

And fuck off he does. When the man slinks back to his group of buddies who are all snickering at him, you turn to your timely savior, “Thanks…”

“It looked like you might need some help.” He takes his arm back and sinks into the stool next to you. “Just playing the part—I’ll fuck off too in a second.”

You’re still too shocked to mouth off yet as you continue to take in the sight of him at your side. He leans over on his palm, takes a quick look behind your head, and then gives you a wink. “Your man’s turned around. I think you’re safe.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” You mumble, facing him, “That flannel was straight from the nineties.” And then you pause, feeling your mouth-motor whir to life. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. Black shirt. Ripped jeans. Long hair tied back half-way, a slight scruff gracing his jaw. Probably sharp as a knife under that. “You look pretty straight from the nineties too, grunge-boy.”

Beer sprays from where his lips touch the rim of the bottle. He hisses, wiping the dribble from his neck. It takes him another minute of fumbling before all the moisture is off, and you can see the tiniest hint of a blush on his cheeks from where he’s embarrassed himself.

“Where are you coming from?” You ask mischievously, “A Spinal Tap convention?”

“No. I’m a townie, thanks very much.” He crosses his arms. “Just having a drink at my local.”

“Good to know.”

“My roommates…” He pauses to take a drink, “Well, I have a lot of them and they’re all coupled up.” He says plainly, “A man can only take so much.”

“So….” You sing, “You went out to… save helpless chicks from creeps?”

“Mmm,” he makes a show of sizing you up, eyes working slowly down your body. “I think you’re pretty capable of handling yourself, maybe a bit of a priss,” he decides, taking a long pull from his beer as the heat rises in your cheeks.

You want to laugh, but the shit-eating grin on his face doesn’t deserve to be encouraged right now. You can tell already he’s a real wild one, so you push the edges of your mouth down and pretend to find a lot of interest in grabbing your purse instead. “Well, mister, thanks for the saving. See you around.” You’re not above picking up a guy in a bar but why not tease him a little more while you’re at it?

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear and grabs your jacket off the back of the stool. “It’s Eddie.” He says, “My name.”

“Hmm, Edward, nice to meet you.”

“Not a chance,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

“I know what you are,” you continue voice flat, eyes glinting with mischief.

C’mon, someone named Edward who looks like that, there’s no way he’ll take the bait.

His eyes fix on you, playful. “Say it,” he leans closer to you, drowning out the sounds of Joan Jett asking who wants to touch her where. “Out loud. Say it.”

Giving it your best Kristen Stewart, you go for it: “Vampire.”

“Fuck you very much.” He laughs, voice soft against the din of the bar,

You smile and slip the sleeves of your jacket over your arms. “Well, Eddie, thanks for the saving. Bein’ a helpless chick and all, I sure hate it when a fella doesn’t know his place.”

Eddie’s pink tongue darts out to lick his equally pink lips and he hops off the stool, placing a five under his half-full beer. “Can I walk you to your car?” He asks. “You know—dark night, creeps in alleyways and parking lots… Unless it’s not my place… princess.”

Well, that’s just not playing fair.

You laugh, because it’s barely sunset. But the way he’s looking at you makes your blood rise and leak hot magma right into your tummy. What’s the harm, you think, because you’re new in town and you’ll likely never see him again. It’s Friday night.

“No, I suppose it’s not your place.” You pause, watching the disappointed expression on his face. “Eddie–” You pretend to wipe a smudge off the corner of his leather collar, leaning in until it really does look like he’s your boyfriend.

“You’re welcome to come to mine. But no more of this priss business.” You push your lips into an exaggerated pout.

He laughs a joyful noise, tugs his jacket on close to his chest, and follows you out the door.

Your purse is already in your hands, keys swinging around your finger. “If you’ll just—”

“God. Yes. I’ll follow you.”

Eddie tugs you from the driver’s seat of your car, hand entwined with yours as he follows you up the walkway and over the step. Once the front door shuts behind him and you’ve made sure it’s locked, you’re pressed up against the wall, purse, shoes, keys, clattering onto the hardwood.

“Oh, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his face into your collar, scooping you up into his arms. “Oh, Jesus, princess. You’re makin’ me crazy.”

Fuck. How can one person have so much stamina? This guy must be related to the Energizer Bunny. It’s been nearly two hours and he’s propped up against the headboard of your bed, legs spread, pointer finger beckoning you to crawl between them. This is your third (third!) time going at it.

You paw at your face because you are so sweaty. Eddie’s hair is down, strands framing his cheeks, just as wild as he is. Two hours of some of the filthiest talk you’ve ever head, ass-slapping, spit-swapping, hair-pulling, straight-up debauchery.

“This your usual M.O., Eddie, or are you doin’ me a favor?” You ask as your knees nudge him wider apart. Blowing a damp strand from your forehead, you lie down on your stomach and press your mouth to his thigh. “Death by exhaustion.”

“Sexhaustion,” He laughs, then grunts as your lips finds the blunt head of his cock. “You’re still goin’ too.” He comments. “Jesus, girl. Can I call you sometime?”

You hum a vibrating warble and he shudders in delight, “The helpless chicks of Hawkins won’t mind?”

“Pfft.” Then, as easily as he dismisses the idea, Eddie rests his arm on your shoulder before pulling you flush against him. “C’mere.”

There’s something about him that turns you inside out. Easy-going demeanor. Charm and wit. Just fucking gorgeous. It’s a silly little notion from a romanticized one-nighter, but you’re very interested in prolonging the fantasy. You’ll get the best of this, you think, a no-strings attached kind of attachment with someone who makes your body sing. You don’t even want to know his last name—and you don’t tell him yours no matter how many times he asks. You want to know nothing about him other than what you can touch and taste and feel.

And there’s quite a lot of him for all of that. Your hands roam his shoulders and arms, your tongue laps at the sweat on his neck, your tummy tightens when his cock flexes against your hip.

Even if there might be an attachment, the physical distance of him— you have no idea where he lives, would nip that foolishness right in the bud.

Against the backdrop soundtrack of the neighborhood traffic and chatter, you wiggle your way on top and seal your arrangement with a glide of your hips onto his.

Monday morning finds you unpacking in your new classroom at Hawkins High School (home of the Tigers!) and blaring music from your speakers. The tech guy said he’d be around to check the audio levels and load some editing software onto the Macs at some point today, and you’d been killing time ever since.

After meeting with your department head, along with a few other teachers, and getting the lay of the land, you decided to hang a few prints on your walls— you were standing on a table hammering a nail into the wall when you hear voices from the hallway.

“Ooh, this is a vibe!”

Turning to the door, you see two heads precariously poking in and recognize one from the department meeting. Sliding the hammer through a belt loop on your shorts, you step down from the table.

“It’s Robin, right— graphic design?”

The blonde perks up with a smile, “Yeah! How’s it going, need any help?” She steps into your classroom with another woman. “Oh this is Trouble,” she says by way of introduction, “She teaches sophomore English.”

She waves to you with a smile. “I’m digging the aesthetic,” she says, taking in the few things you’ve managed to unpack. “Sick tats, by the way.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” You grab the frame next to you and step back on the table, “I figured I wouldn’t need to cover them up until school starts so.”

“Pfft, don’t even bother.” Trouble scoffs with a wave of her hand, “We have enough teachers with ‘em so it’s a non-issue.” She steps closer to get a better look at the Drive print near your door.

Robin grabs another frame from the pile, “Where do you want this one?”

Settling the Paprika print against the wall you step back down to see which one she grabbed. “Oh,” you say, eyeing the Midsommar piece in her hands, “That’ll be by my desk, you can set it over there.”

You meet her over there with two nails prized between your teeth. Grabbing a chair you step onto it and briefly check the fastening of the frame before lining up where the nails will be hung. While Robin helps you the other woman, Trouble, continues her perusal.

“Okay,” she says with a clap of her hands, “You have great taste based on your playlist, film choices, and is that—” She tugs at your free arm, “A horror sleeve? Oh my god, you have to meet the gang. They will love you.”

Her enthusiasm is heartening— she turns your arm this way and that, surveying the different films represented in black lines and shading. Robin’s eyes find yours with a mouthed ‘sorry about this’ and you shrug.

“Robs has your number?”

“Uh, yeah.” Your arm becomes your own once more as her fingers stop their tracing of your tattoos.

“Great! We’ll text you the details,” she continues to say, “We’re checking out a new bar in town tonight.” A waggle of her brows, “Rumor has it there’s a mechanical bull.”

A smile breaks across your face, “Well, yee-fuckin’-haw I guess.”

They leave with promises to see you tonight just as the tech guy, Bob, makes his appearance. He greets you politely, asking to check your PC and Mac before moving onto the students Macs. The two of you install and update the computers in your classroom before heading to the sound booth to check the audio ports and software. The rest of your day is spent discussing the finer points of your preferred editing programs and Bob peppering you with questions about the best cameras and equipment for sports broadcasting.

Eddie arrives at six-forty at the bar Trouble had selected for this evening, fittingly called ‘Outlawed.’ He sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets, quickly crossing the parking lot to enter the bar, his mind elsewhere.

It was too good to be true, really. Meeting some girl and fooling around with her and, of course, he can’t help thinking about her. He doesn’t even know her name, he just calls her princess. Sometimes sweetheart, sometimes baby, babygirl, because their little meet-cute at the bar spawned a million different alternatives to choose from.

He’s only seen her once for fuck’s sake, but the way she giggles when he takes off her clothes and how her breath stutters against his mouth is something he thinks about frequently when he’s in bed with his hand down his boxers.

And now, Trouble wants to set him up with some new teacher at school. She’d told him all about it at lunch. “Seriously Eds,” she said, splitting a burger with Steve as a tomato slid from the bun and landed with a splat on her plate. “She’s just your type, cool as hell and takes no shit,” she hands the burger off to Steve, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Had like, fuckin’ nails in her teeth and was just hammering away on there walls while listening to an amazing mix— Portishead, Death Grips,” her eyes turn to him, bright and excited. “Between the Buried and Me, so she’s automatically better than those chicks you’ve been dealing with on the apps.”

Outside, under the final rays of sunshine people are streaming down the sidewalk, couples with arms hooked around each other, pretty girls in heels and guys looking after them. Monday night in the Hawkins, surprisingly buzzing with life and music.

He spots Steve as he walks in and they walk next to each other, dodging people left and right as Steve leads them into the dark space of a bar, cramped more than sardines in a can. Eddie shuffles sideways to squeeze past a couple already a little too frisky for a public setting. It’s hot and sticky inside, and the smell of fried foods and beer permeates through his clothes.

He doesn’t really get the look of it, either. An entirely metal and southern kind of aesthetic, the kind that reminds him of old bleach-blonde, wrinkly and tanned housewives with rhinestones on the back pockets of their jeans, toting puckered alligator purses. There are string lights over the walls, bumper stickers, and license plates, and all manners of slogans about Texas and being a country girl.

Modelo neon lights. Budlight paraphernalia. The bartender is wearing cowboy boots.

Steve orders a six-dollar pitcher of the house draft and Eddie whistles. Okay, he thinks, for six dollars a pitcher—he gets this place.

He waves to Robin and Vickie before pointing over to Trouble’s table but Steve and Eddie take some time to themselves to shoot the shit.

“So, are ya gonna tell me about that girl or what?”

“What else is there to tell, man?” Eddie asks as he licks the froth from his upper lip, hoppy bursts of carbonation stinging his tongue. He’s kept her a secret even from Trouble, but it’s not like there was much he could say other than, “She screwed my brains out and then I left. Nothin’ more to tell.”

Steve nods along.

“I don’t even know her name. Just called her princess or baby all the time. She’s a goddamn wildcat, knew how to ride like it was her job. Great ass, too.” A shudder passes over him as he thinks of the way she would crush him into the bed and grind until lights burst behind his eyelids.

The last few words of their conversation get drowned out by loud cheers and whooping, drawing their attention to a crowd forming behind them. People press up against each other, holding their beer bottles and glasses in the air, cheering and screaming.

“What the hell is that?” Eddie calls to Steve who sits up straight chair to get a peek over the tops of everyone’s heads. “I think it’s a mechanical bull?” He replies, shrugging. “Wanna go look?”

“Might as well.”

Robin catches Steve’s eye and sends him a nearly lethal toothy grin, cocking her head over to the crowd. “Go get her, tiger!” She yells, one hand cupped over the edge of her mouth. Eddie’s grabbed by his arm and dragged along as Steve’s interest peaks.

It’s like a concert mosh pit. Someone splashes their drink next to Eddie’s shoe, and he steps out of the way. When they reach the center of the ring around the perimeter of the stage, Eddie’s heart drops because the face he sees—beaming with joy is attached to a body he knows extremely well. Intimately. Every single inch. Her hips, gyrating in circles as she holds onto the handles of the mechanical bull—he’s seen it. Her hair, flurrying around her face in circles, moving along to the whipping of her body, adjusting with every jerk of the machine—he’s seen that, too.

“I think that’s the one Trouble was goin’ on about.” Steve announces. “Jesus, how is she doin’ that?”

Eddie is wide-eyed, turning back and forth. It’s too much. The laughter from her throat he’s previously shoved himself down. The cheer from the crowd that is deafening in his already ringing ears. Steve’s clapping– like a trained circus seal.

When the bull bucks for the last time, she leans forward and runs both hands through her hair, flicking it over her shoulders. Then, his girl, ever a gymnast, hops off and gives the crowd a bow, picking up her jacket on the way. Eddie watches her grab the same one she had on the first time they met- faded denim, worn shoulders, decorated in pins and patches.

It’s gotta be fate. Or destiny. Or maybe some fucked-up circumstance.

Her face is bright with joy, cheeks glistening with the lightest sheen of sweat, lips shiny with the way her tongue flicks out and licks it. To his right, Steve discreetly adjusts his pants, but Eddie is already rock hard. He slides back until he’s disappeared behind his friend, a smirk suddenly growing.

Trouble claps you on the back when you step out of the cushions of the ring. Robin and the rest of the gang stand by with so many questions, but you only wave them off. The secret is that in your college days you worked at a restaurant with a mechanical bull, and on your breaks you rode the fuck out of it.

Sometimes, growing up in the dirty South had its perks.

At first, upon entering the bar, you were wary and afraid you might throw out your back now that you’re not a spry young thing, but two pitchers in with Trouble and Robin and you were spitting into your hands and swinging over its seat.

Yep. You think victoriously, still got it.

“Hey!” A coif of hair sticks out of the crowd an inch or so above most other people. Steve, Trouble’s boyfriend and history teacher at Hawkins High, is grinning ear-to-ear, and you duck because you were not expecting him to witness that. Trouble smacks you on the ass and pushes you forward. “So, you hid this from us?” She asks, motioning to the bull and then up and down to you.

“Aw, fuck,” you mutter but can’t help the grin that breaks across your face. “C’mon, y’all… I didn’t think it’d come up.” Steve hands you a glass of amber, and you hide behind it with your hand, pretending to cool off by pressing it to your forehead.

“I almost forgot–” He turns, looking over his shoulder. “I wanna introduce you to Eddie, my other roommate, he teaches at Hawkins too!”

Eddie swivels into view, and any previous thoughts fly right out your head. If you had something in your mouth, you’d probably choke on it. He’s there, in all his glory, just like you remember: black leather jacket, dark stubble and eyes moving like smooth bourbon poured into a glass as he looks you up and down.

His teeth are sharp when he smiles.

“Oh, princess,” Eddie sighs, “I can’t believe you thought you’d get away that easy.”

And you think, as you stare wide-eyed at him, with Steve now coming to the same conclusion—mouth forming a silent “Oh”, you think that you are so fucked.

Maybe your life isn’t a romantic comedy at all, maybe it’s a terrible porno opening scene or some psycho sexual thriller because your former one-night stand is shooting you a mischievous grin, flexing his biceps, pulling on his lower lip with his teeth until it stretches white and snaps back plump and red.

Sensing the tension, Steve quickly turns around to the table.

Eddie cocks his head back, motioning you to follow.

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things fanfiction #reader insert #notes on a scene - rosewaterandivy #Spotify

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eatmyass-x · 1 month

Text

Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying do not speak.

It’s been years since either of them has even tried to reach out to the other and Jiang Cheng has absolutely no intention of changing that. Or at least he had no intention until tonight, in this seedy club, where he’s just seen Wei Ying’s—

Where he’s just seen Lan Zhan, second heir of Lan Enterprise and the man Wei Ying walked away from the Jiangs for, cosying up with someone that is decidedly not Wei Ying.

Jiang Cheng sees red.

He hadn’t even wanted to come here, to this less than reputable part of the city in this less than reputable club. But his mother has been insistent that a good businessman needs to do more than just spend time in the office. ‘Networking’ she’d called it, but he can think of several far less flattering words for it right now as he sits at this suspiciously sticky table with the Jin cousins and their Wen… business partners.

His only solace is that Jin Zixuan looks just as reluctant to be here as Jiang Cheng himself feels, but he shows it much more openly. Jiang Cheng’s perpetual Resting Bitch Face™️, as Wei Ying liked to call it when they were younger, is a good cover for when he actually is feeling pissed off or uncomfortable or any other emotion really. Jin Zixuan however looks positively queasy. He wonders if it’s the thick plumes of cigar smoke, the writhing bodies on the floor below them, or the scantily clad boys in Wen Chao’s lap that have his brother-in-law looking so nauseous.

Jiang Cheng quickly looks away when one of the boys starts giving Wen Chao a lap dance, sees Jin Zixun grinning at the scene like it’s him getting the lap dance and looks away even quicker. That leaves him with no choice but to look at Zhao Zhuliu, who is already looking at him.

Zhao Zhuliu is a stoic looking man, probably handsome in his younger days but Jiang Cheng refuses to think about that. Because the first, and only, thing the man has said so far is to look Jiang Cheng up and down when he first arrived and tell him just how much he looks like his mother. By this point in his life Jiang Cheng’s had this said to him enough times that he doesn’t let it get to him anymore. But Zhao Zhuliu has not looked away from him since. Jiang Cheng isn’t sure he’s seen him blink once. He feels like he’s being undressed by the man’s eyes, and the setting certainly doesn’t help.

And his mother, a woman notorious for her scathing tongue and inability to praise anyone, had spoken suspiciously highly of Zhao Zhuliu. That, combined with Zhao Zhuliu’s penetrative glance… Well, Jiang Cheng refuses to even think about what any of it might mean.

Which leaves him with his gaze wandering around the smoky club. They are on the upper floor in the VIP section, with a view down at the dance floor where all manners of debauchery are occurring. But the lights are dim so he can pretend it’s all just shapes and colours rather than people grinding on one another.

That is until he spots a familiar face.

At first he thinks he must be mistaken. What business does a Lan heir have in a club like this? They don’t need to make seedy connections with seedy people like Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan do. The Lans are as strait laced and law abiding as they come.

But then the strobe light travels across the dance floor again, lighting his whole face up and yes, that is definitely Lan Zhan. He’s a whole head taller than literally anyone else in the entire club so it’s impossible to miss him now that Jiang Cheng’s caught sight of him. It’s disconcerting enough to see him here but when Jiang Cheng looks closer his heart starts racing in his chest.

Lan Zhan is not alone. He is over by the bar with someone clinging to him like a limpet. A woman. Jiang Cheng rubs his eyes just to be sure he’s not seeing things but no, when the darkness recedes from his eyes, the pair are still at the bar, bodies so close they look like they’ve been surgically attached to one another.

The woman is wearing a scandalously short skirt and an even tinier crop top and Lan Zhan has one hand underneath either item of clothing. Jiang Cheng feels sick. Lan Zhan is supposed to be Wei Ying’s— whatever he is. Sure, they haven’t spoken to each other in years and didn’t always see eye to eye even when they were on speaking terms, but he cannot just sit by and watch as Wei Ying gets cheated on. He has to do something. He knows without a doubt that Wei Ying would do the same for him.

He makes something up about needing some fresh air to excuse himself. Wen Chao’s grin is lecherous, as if Jiang Cheng is leaving the table for some nefarious purpose. For a split second Jiang Cheng imagines himself with a lapful of dancers and his blood pressure rockets so high he has to grab the railings on the stairs with both hands to stop himself from keeling over.

He loses a precious few minutes righting himself, and by the time he gets to the dance floor he’s lost sight of Lan Zhan. There are far too many strange characters in this club tonight. He gets swept up in a crowd of leather, glitter, and way too much makeup. He tries to push his way through to the bar but ends up sandwiched between a shirtless guy with more tattoos than skin, and an extremely pretty, extremely pierced young woman. They seem to be in cahoots of some kind, surrounding Jiang Cheng and dancing on him together.

Jiang Cheng is frozen from the shock of it all. Or he thinks he’s frozen, but when he looks down his body is swaying to the beat of the music, gently guided by the tattooed arms around his waist. He is shocked, appalled even, but there’s a pesky little voice in his head — one that sound suspiciously like Wei Ying — telling him to ‘Just let it happen, Jiang Cheng. Loosen up!’

That last bit is also whispered into his ear by the girl with the piercings. Or maybe it’s the guy whispering in his ear from behind, he can’t tell anymore. He feels almost drunk, even though he’d only taken two small sips of whiskey the whole night. Maybe he’ll listen to the pesky not-Wei Ying voice in his head and let himself get lost amongst these sweaty bodies tonight. What’s the worst that could happen?

It’s at that exact moment that he sees Lan Zhan again, now with his back to the wall beside the bar. His tongue is down that same woman’s throat, their hands in all kinds of untoward places. Jiang Cheng can’t believe he’d almost let himself forget his reason for being down here in the first place.

He extricates himself from between the still dancing couple and tries not to think too hard about the joint looks of disappointment they give him. They make a very attractive pair, even if they do look like they’ve walked straight out of one of his mother’s worst nightmares. He shrugs off the last of their touches and pushes his way through the crowd towards the direction he’d spotted Lan Zhan.

When he reaches the bar the woman is nowhere to be found, probably already off to get her hands on the next handsome stranger she can find. But Lan Zhan is still there, leant against the wall with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. He looks like his whole world has just been thoroughly rocked and Jiang Cheng feels sick for many, many reasons.

“You piece of shit!” Jiang Cheng shouts.

Lan Zhan’s eyes open. “Jiang Cheng.” He looks at Jiang Cheng like he’s just seen something distasteful.

Jiang Cheng crosses the remaining distance between them. “How dare you cheat on Wei Ying!”

Lan Zhan blinks. “What?”

Jiang Cheng feels absolutely furious. “So you’re gonna lie to my face?” He grabs the man by his collar and shakes him hard. “I saw you with my own eyes!”

Lan Zhan grips Jiang Cheng’s arms and pushes him away from himself. “Have you perhaps… taken some kind of substance?”

“You bastard!” He shoves Lan Zhan hard into the wall. “Wei Ying left us all, he left everything for you! And this is how you repay him? You cheat on him with some, some fucking whore in broad daylight?” He realises just a second too late that there is no daylight, but he can’t back down now. “You don’t deserve him, you piece of—!”

“You think,” Lan Zhan frowns like he cannot believe what he’s hearing, “that I am cheating on Wei Ying? The love of my life?”

As he speaks his face is still covered in that fucking floozy’s bright red lipstick. Jiang Cheng feels murderous. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

“Yes.”

Jiang Cheng punches him square in the face.

Someone nearby screams. He hardly gets a moment to bask in satisfaction before Lan Zhan straightens up and punches him right back. His fist hits Jiang Cheng directly in the nose and the pain that shoots through him is positively eye-watering. Jiang Cheng can barely see through it but he jumps at Lan Zhan with a growl, even as he feels the blood from his nose begin to spill into his mouth.

He gets both his hands around Lan Zhan’s throat. The screams and yells around them are getting louder, but he has no intention of letting go until he sees the light dim from behind those creepy, golden eyes. But a straight punch in his stomach from Lan Zhan has him doubling over in pain, leaving him with no choice but to loosen his grip and clutch painfully at his own abdomen.

He stumbles for a moment and then tries to go straight back for Lan Zhan’s throat, only to be stopped by someone getting in between them. Jiang Cheng realises that it’s the woman who Lan Zhan had been swapping spit with not long ago.

He grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her away. “Move, you fucking—!”

“Jiang Cheng!”

Jiang Cheng stops. Stops and really looks.

It’s Wei Ying.

“What the fuck?!”

It’s at that very moment that the club security decides to intervene. Jiang Cheng gets grabbed by two bouncers about twice his height and dragged out of the club like he’s a child throwing a tantrum. They toss him onto the cold pavement outside, no care for his clearly very expensive clothing. He skids along the rough concrete, ass cheeks burning at the impact until he comes to a stop. His trousers are bound to be ruined beyond repair.

Lan Zhan on the other hand still looks as dignified as ever as he’s escorted out of the club. Jiang Cheng wants to kick him in the shins and trip him up, but he only just manages to hold himself back. Wei Ying is cackling at the top of his lungs, kicking his legs in the air as one of the bouncers carries him out of the club over the shoulder and deposits him outside with the rest of them. The door is slammed shut on their faces.

Wei Ying is still laughing as he straightens up, teetering on his ridiculous platform heels and adjusting his appallingly short skirt. He walks over to Lan Zhan and kisses him on the cheek. “Are you alright, love?” He gently strokes the corner of Lan Zhan’s mouth where Jiang Cheng notices with some pride that a bruise is already blooming.

A long moment passes where it seems like the two of them have an entire prolonged conversation without any words, just looking into one another's eyes. Then Lan Zhan nods and says, “I will bring the car. Wait for me here?”

Wei Ying kisses him right on the bruise and says a soft, “Thank you.”

Lan Zhan walks away, but not without squeezing Wei Ying’s hand and shooting Jiang Cheng a look that can only be described as threatening. Jiang Cheng sneers back at him.

Wei Ying comes over and sits beside Jiang Cheng on the curb. It takes him a ridiculous amount of time to get settled with his constricting skirt and dangerously tall boots. Jiang Cheng doesn’t offer to help him once. Wei Ying has to sit with his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He looks like one of Jiang Yanli’s barbie dolls.

They sit there in silence for a while. Muffled music from the club leaks out onto the street. The neon sign above the entrance of the club paints them both in a strange purple light. Jiang Cheng pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket but doesn’t take one out. He spins it in his hand several times before finally opening the pack and offering it out to Wei Ying.

Wei Ying looks down at it surprised. “Oh! Thanks, but I—” He reaches out for one but his hand falters. “—I’ve actually quit. Lan Zhan doesn’t—”

Jiang Cheng scoffs. “Of course.” He pulls one out for himself and then snaps the box shut.

“He cares about me, Jiang Cheng. Doesn’t want me dying an early death.” He laughs lightly at that for some reason. “You should try to quit too. You know it’s not good for you.”

Jiang Cheng lights up the cigarette and takes a long, deep drag. He doesn’t tell Wei Ying that he has actually been trying to quit recently and this is his first smoke in a while. It’d feel a little bit like admitting defeat in the face of Wei Ying and Lan Zhan’s whole… deal.

He gestures at Wei Ying’s body with his lit cigarette. “You a fucking girl now?” It comes out much harsher than he intends it to, taking on a completely different meaning. He winces internally but can’t take it back now.

“Hmm?” Wei Ying looks down at himself, like he’s forgotten the very glaring details of how he’s dressed. “Oh. No, it’s not—” He laughs, thankfully taking it lightly. “It’s not like that. It’s just… me, you know?”

Jiang Cheng decidedly does not know, but for once he decides not to argue. The less he knows the better. There is silence again while Jiang Cheng breathes in smoke. The cigarette is slightly stale but he’s committed to the bit now, he has to see it through till the end.

He feels Wei Ying nudge his side. “So you do care about me, huh?”

“What?”

“Swooping in to defend my honour like that,” Wei Ying grins. “You must care about me, just a little bit.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t get what the joke is in all of that. “Are you stupid?”

“Well, yeah.” Wei Ying’s grin flickers as he looks down at the pavement. “Just a little bit…”

For fuck sake, Jiang Cheng is definitely not going about this the right way. He flicks ash off the end of his cigarette and watches it get blown away by the wind. “Wouldn’t have had to ‘defend your honour’ if you weren’t being shameless in seedy club corners.”

“It’s not seedy, Jiang Cheng. It’s just gay, that’s all. Nothing seedy about it,” Wei Ying tells him. “What were you doing in there?”

Jiang Cheng frowns, first at Wei Ying and then up at the entrance of the club. He hadn't even realised it was a gay club. “Had to meet with Wen Chao for business. Mom’s orders.”

“Ah, that explains it,” Wei Ying grimaces like he knows a little something of Wen Chao’s preferences. Jiang Cheng tries not to think about Wei Ying being cornered by the Wen and Zhao pair in a dark club like this. “Be careful, he likes pretty boys.”

“I can look after myself,” Jiang Cheng bristles, but he doesn’t bother fighting the pretty boy allegations. He sees more and more of his mother in the mirror every day. It’s disconcerting to say the least.

“Well clearly.” Wei Ying points at Jiang Cheng’s still bloody nose with a laugh. It hasn’t been kissed better like Lan Zhan’s cheek, Jiang Cheng thinks bitterly. Wei Ying’s laughter gets louder. “I can’t believe you thought Lan Zhan was cheating on me! With a woman!”

Jiang Cheng scowls. “Fucking hell, don’t get too cocky.”

“No, no, I just mean Lan Zhan is gay. Like, very, extremely gay.” He throws his head back with a cackle. “A woman!”

Mistaking Wei Ying for a woman wasn’t as embarrassing as this mistake feels for some reason. He’s grateful for the purple lights hiding the redness of his face. “Sexuality is fluid, isn’t it?”

Wei Ying stops laughing abruptly and whips around to face him. “Who the fuck have you been hanging around with?”

Jiang Cheng chews at his lip, staring hard at the cars parked on the opposite side of the road. “…Nie Huaisang.”

“I see.” And Jiang Cheng does not like the tone of his voice. Wei Ying is looking at him like he’s seeing Jiang Cheng in a whole new light. It makes him feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. After a long moment, Wei Ying says, “It’s not just that though.”

“What?” Jiang Cheng hears the alarm in his own voice.

“Lan Zhan. He…” Wei Ying picks at the edge of his skirt. Jiang Cheng breathes a sigh of relief at the change of topic, and then immediately takes it back when he sees the movement of Wei Ying’s hands. He really hopes Wei Ying doesn’t accidentally move his skirt any further up. It already sits horrifyingly far up on his thigh as it is. “He wouldn’t do that. He really loves me, A-Cheng. Heaven knows why, I certainly don’t deserve it but—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Wei Ying looks at him in alarm. Jiang Cheng is quick to continue, “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Oh.” Wei Ying blinks in the same owlish way Lan Zhan had blinked at Jiang Cheng’s accusation in the club. It just pisses Jiang Cheng off even more. “I know you’ve never liked him much, but—” Jiang Cheng scoffs at that but Wei Ying pays it no heed. “He’s so good, A-Cheng. There aren’t enough words in any language to tell you just how good he is.” He smiles down at his hands, fiddling with his empty ring finger. “He’s the best thing to ever happen to me since being taken in by Uncle Jiang.”

That makes Jiang Cheng stop short. He hadn’t expected Wei Ying to say anything of the sort. Still he can’t help but intone bitterly, “And look how that turned out.”

Wei Ying drags in a deep shuddering breath and maybe Jiang Cheng feels bad, maybe he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter either way.

“Argh!” He feels a sudden, blistering pain in his hand, where his cigarette has burnt down right to the stub and is burning into his fingers. He quickly flings it onto the ground and shakes his still burning hand, trying to ease the pain. “Fuck!”

“You know I didn’t leave the family for him,” Wei Ying says, sparing only a cursory glance at Jiang Cheng’s fingers. “If anything, I tried to leave Lan Zhan for you all. Several times.” He chews on his bottom lip, eyes downcast. “But it still wasn’t enough for Madam Yu.”

Jiang Cheng stops fussing over his fingers and tucks his hand away. He recalls that terrible night when Wei Ying walked out of their house for good after everyone found out about his relationship with Lan Zhan. He’d disgraced the Jiangs and chosen the stupid Lan boy over them. That’s what Jiang Cheng’s mother always said.

He didn’t know Wei Ying had tried to leave Lan Zhan for them. He gets the feeling there are a lot of things he doesn’t know. He’d gone to therapy for the first time at his sister’s suggestion a few months back. The therapist had looked at him with far too knowing eyes and asked, “And what impact do you think your relationship with your mother has had on other important relationships in your life?”

His mind had immediately supplied the image of Wei Ying, head tossed back in laughter, ponytail swaying with the movement. Like the Ghost of Christmas Past, come back to haunt him. Jiang Cheng doesn’t even celebrate Christmas.

He’d given some blatant non-answer in reply to the therapist’s question, tried not to pay too much attention to the responding scribble of her pen on her stupid little notepad, and then never gone back to see her, or any other therapist, ever again.

Jiang Cheng gets the feeling that there are a lot of things he doesn’t know, that he is yet to find out. He sees the therapist in his mind’s eye now, looking at him with those stupid, knowing eyes. He never quite got around to deleting the number to her office off his phone. Jiang Yanli would certainly be happy if Jiang Cheng just so happened to hit the call button.

“What does A-jie think of him?” he asks. He’s not meant to know that Wei Ying and her keep in touch, but he’s known for a while now. Jiang Yanli is a terrible liar.

Wei Ying looks like a deer caught in the headlights. “Who, Lan Zhan?” Jiang Cheng nods but Wei Ying still hesitates. And then very quietly he admits, “Jiejie loves him.”

Jiang Cheng sits with that for a moment, letting it sink in. He’s not sure if he’s surprised or not and the flickering streetlights certainly don’t provide an answer. Eventually he gives Wei Ying a noncommittal hum.

Wei Ying continues, “They get on really well too. It’s strange but they’re actually quite similar.” He gets a disbelieving look from Jiang Cheng at that. “I’m serious,” Wei Ying says. “Quiet, selfless, full of love.” He sighs. “Great at cooking, and—”

“Terrible taste in men,” Jiang Cheng adds to the list.

Wei Ying stops and grins at him widely. “Oh, the absolute worst taste in men.”

“Horrific taste in men, if you ask me.” Jiang Cheng grins back just as wide.

And maybe.

Maybe things will be alright after all.

#wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #mxtx #mdzs fic #mdzs fanfic #mdzs fanfiction #scribbles #3.75k

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kimbapisnotsushi · 1 month

Text

miscellaneous high school shenanigans part two!!

tsukki's only ever been struck speechless twice in his life

the first was when hinata snuck into the mock training camp. the second was when he found out that kageyama didn't have any music taste whatsoever

after tsukki gets over the shock he's like "what do you MEAN you don't listen to music?? how do you just not listen to music??" and kageyama just shrugs and takes a slurp from his yogurt drink or whatever and goes "just don't"

i'm telling y'all kageyama doesn't listen to music the closest he gets is the rhythm of sneakers squeaking against the gym floor and hinata's bathroom song

also i think it'd be funny if yachi was just always taking cues from high school romance manga for living her life. right after becoming manager she picks up the first sports manga that catches her eye and uses that to guide her through the epic highs and lows of high school volleyball

hinata and kageyama: [yelling about something something passionate confession of emotional vulnerability something something partners and teammates something something reaching your dreams something something] yachi: oh my god . . . this is just like in slam dunk . . .

(i will be honest with you guys i have never seen slam dunk so i don't know if it matches anything in slam dunk but i respect slam dunk so i went with it)

honestly every day yachi is grateful she's living in a sports series because she does NOT think she could handle the backstabbing female love rival whose only purpose is to be mean to the female lead for getting involved with the male lead

i mean she COULD. but maybe after like thirty chapters of development and a major event.

(yachi thinks about this a lot. she rambles about her hypotheticals to tsukki and yamaguchi and although tsukki will never admit it, he finds it very entertaining)

i think konoha is really good at modern romance. i think he excels at the small everyday romantic things and makes people swoon without even realizing it. he's the fukurodani academy heartthrob but is completely oblivious to it

leans in to tuck an earbud into your ear when he wants to share music. walks you to where you need to go even if it's out of his way and never says anything about it. will take the stack of textbooks you've been asked to carry without a word. buys you a drink from the vending machine without being asked. really good at leaning against the wall/doorframes/over the window in a way that makes him look windswept and pretty.

just UGH konoha akinori i love him

the other third years would be soooooooo jealous but they get it. they too have fallen prey to his charms

on today's edition of making hq characters collect a random Thing™️ (following fukunaga + bucket hats): sakusa likes coasters

they're easy souvenirs from different places AND you can swap them out to match whatever you're feeling at the time!! plus they save his desk from water rings!!! they're functional, pretty, and he has less to clean up because of them!!!!

sakusa's favorite is this square white ceramic one with ginkgo leaves drifting off a tree painted onto it

(no it's not because iizuna-san got it for him as a bday gift or anything shut up motoya!!)

sakunami totally had a tiny tiny secret crush on asahi at some point

he just thinks asahi is really cool!!!! and handsome!!!! and maybe sakunami just wants to be cool and handsome too!!!!

sakunami has a really good poker face i guarantee you. nobody knows how wild his inner monologue is until they get him to open up around them

i mention this because one of the times dateko is discussing karasuno after a match with them (practice or otherwise), the others get around to talking about asahi and sakunami gives a dreamy lil sigh and is like "yeah . . . he's so strong . . . isn't it cool . . ." and everyone is just like. what the fuck

they were NOT expecting that from sakunami of all people and especially not about karasuno's ace

kogane is devastated because he doesn't think there's any way he could compete with asahi

cue the miscommunication in which kogane tries to be a little bit more like asahi to get sakunami to like him while sakunami wonders if kogane has a fever or something because he's been acting weird

ALSO keep in mind that kogane probably gets all his info about asahi from the rumors and whatnot so he's like "i have to be MEAN???? i have to BEAT PEOPLE UP???? i don't know how to beat people up!!!!! i can barely beat futakuchi-san in arm wrestling!!!!!"

sakunami please put the poor boy out of his misery the rest of dateko are SUFFERING

usuri is definitely the first to clock kiryuu's massive crush on bokuto. he's the first to realize that kiryuu is speeding down the highway in that direction even before kiryuu himself

kiryuu is like "wtf how did you know| and usuri is like "haha you know how perceptive i am!" when in reality he caught kiryuu sleep-talking about bokuto's muscles and how fluffy his hair looks

see also: akaashi on the fukurodani side realizing that bokuto has a major thing for kiryuu that bokuto is oblivious to

akaashi: hold on what—what did you just say??? bokuto: i SAID i wanted kiryuu to try holding me against the wall!! doesn't he look strong enough?? and he's so solid, i bet it'd feel really nice!! what do you think akaashi? akaashi, on the inside: god why can't i be of legal drinking age

conclusion: usuri and akaashi wingmanning bokiryuu while tripping headfirst into feelings for each other themselves

can you guys see my vision PLEASE tell me you guys see the vision usuaka would be so fucking funny

usuri is trying to woo akaashi via elaborately planned schemes that produce the perfect romantic atmosphere and situations but akaashi is too busy overthinking and analyzing every second they spend together that he simply does not notice. it's absolutely terrible and they need all the help they can get

it's okay, bokuto and kiryuu totally plan on returning the favor (mostly because bokuto really likes the idea of double dates)

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eoieopda · 2 years

Note

If you’re comfortable, could you write a a drabble about Jungkook and reader being in a relationship, where reader is self-conscious about her body in comparison to his? And even though she doesn’t think she’s pretty enough for him, he thinks she’s perfect as she is?

tw: body talk / body dysmorphia / negative self-image / reader doesn’t understand that she is capable of Hot Girl Shit™️ at any & every weight. Image below is Jungkook bewitched by reader’s mere existence. (will proofread later, am so sleppy)

UPDATE (12/27/22) Anon requested this drabble from Jungkook’s POV. Read it here.

It was irrational and you knew it.

Jungkook had seen you naked more times than you could count, but virtually none of those moments happened outside the context of sex. He’d seen you bare, sweating, splayed - and yet you felt so much more exposed by simply changing out of your work attire in his presence. Somehow, this kind of nudity felt different. More intimate. Vulnerable.

He wasn’t with you that morning when you had to jump to pull your trousers on, and you were thankful - because that’s something you hadn’t needed to do until recently. He didn’t witness your attempts to make yourself smaller just to close the two buttons at the apex of your high-waisted pants. He didn’t know how many times you twisted and turned in front of your full-length mirror; or see how your body looked different - unrecognizably so - with every new angle.

But he was with you now, and his upsettingly lean frame was stretched across your bed while he waited for you to finish. Steel-cut abdominals pressed flush against the comforter, sharp jaw propped up on the heel of his hand. Even through the fabric of his t-shirt, you could chart the topographic map of his shoulder muscles, and the decidedly unfair curves of his biceps. You couldn’t fathom it - how he had the audacity to look that good without even meaning to. He was gorgeous and it was offensive.

You, on the other hand, were not chiseled from marble. You’d felt bloated all day; and the only reason you hadn’t already ripped yourself free from your trousers was that you didn’t want Jungkook to notice the imprint your waistband likely made on the softness of your stomach. You knew he’d never point it out. He wouldn’t otherwise react in any way that might hurt your feelings. He was, above all, unfailingly kind.

That understanding didn’t quiet the tiny voice in your head, though. It kept whispering that the spell would break eventually, and he’d soon realize that the princess had always been a frog. And once he did, he’d find someone better matched - who wanted to be in the photo rather than take it. Someone that made sense standing next to him.

Quickly, you wriggled out of your trousers. Instead of bending down to grab them off the floor, you stayed upright - unfolded, comparatively smooth - and kicked them in the general direction of the nearby hamper. When you glanced back over at Jungkook, he was looking idly at you - but you didn’t get the impression that he was seeing you. Judging by the odd expression on his face, his mind had wandered far away and left his body behind with you.

After determining that he wasn’t paying much attention to you, your blouse came off in record time only to be flung somewhere in the vicinity of your trousers. One of his old hoodies - not as loose on you as it was on him - was tugged on before the conditioned air could find its way to your bare torso. Still, you shivered.

Then, at long last: sweatpants. Second only to Jungkook, the most successful, long-term relationship you’d ever had was with the shapeless, paint-stained, and faded sweatpants you’d stolen from him several years ago. A security blanket that accompanied you through four years of university, and the subsequent pursuit of your advanced degree. If it turned out that you couldn’t keep him, you were hellbent on keeping them.

Swallowed whole by your clothes, you sighed with relief. And then you saw the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. So he had been paying attention.

Ugh.

Without a word, he rolled over and flopped onto his back with his arms outstretched at his sides. Upside down now, his eyes trained on you and crinkled as he silently communicated his wishes. His smile widened when you obliged, shuffling to the side of the bed and slumping into his waiting arms.

In a fraction of a second, he rolled back over until he straddled you with knees bent on either side of your thighs. The sudden change in position caused you to gasp, which only prompted his grin to spread further. Leaning down, he cupped your face is his hands and peppered silly, speedy kisses over every plane of your face.

Your giggles flew out of you in droves as you tried and failed to withstand the tickle of his lips on your skin. They buzzed with his laughter, and the barrage continued until both of you were breathless and giddy. You stared at one another without speaking for several moments until:

“I have a question and I need you to answer honestly, okay?” He asked, suddenly serious. His brows furrowed as he chewed pensively on his bottom lip.

You swallowed, nodded, anticipated.

“How are you so perfect?”

His eyes narrowed as they assessed you; and you couldn’t find the punchline in them anywhere. There wasn’t a trace of jest in his expression. Instead, he looked as if he was seeking a dissertation on a topic of great importance. Like he was waiting on some scientific justification for a blue sky, or the Northern Lights. Puzzled - and puzzlingly genuine.

Your mouth opened without hesitation, but you had no response to offer. It closed in defeat just as quickly.

He reached down to grab your hand, and then placed a soft kiss over each knuckle as he spoke, “I just don’t get it. How does someone this beautiful just exist - walking around, day by day - like it’s no big deal?”

Reduced to a puddle, your bashful whine bubbled over and dragged out the syllables of his name with it. “Jungkook, what has gotten into you, baby?”

Before he answered with words, he leaned down and captured your lips with his. The awkward tension you’d stored in your muscles evaporated on impact, and it stayed gone, even when he pulled away to run his thumb over your cheek.

“Sudden, acute love sickness, I think,” He feigned a frown, then he kissed you again. “I hear it’s incurable.”

You leaned melodramatically into the palm resting against your cheek and gasped, “Oh, no! What can possibly be done to help you?”

He tapped his chin with his free hand and hummed; his forehead creased under heavy thought. “You’ll have to stay by my side for the rest of my life -“ He held up his hand to silence an objection you’d never make, “Doctor’s orders! And I think the occasional sponge bath would -“

“Jungkook!”

(A/N: Read Jungkook’s POV here.)

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urhoneycombwitch · 5 months

Text

shelter thee to me

foreword: apparently I just love putting Steve in Situations™️ since this is the second back-to-back sick fic I’ve written for him. Hmm. Cheers to all u other hurt/comfort lovers this one’s 4 u <3 this piece was finished thanks to the inspo I got from Syl @thecreelhouse - she has a GREAT fic called Accident Prone that you totally should check out if you’re interested in this type of subject matter! ❤️‍🩹

cw: descriptions of a migraine, Steve is a bit of a depressed mess, there is comfort tho I promise, alcohol consumption, Steve actively does things to worsen his pain (but it does get addressed), gender neutral reader

wc: 4k

___

It’s the first warm spring day of 1987, and the Munson Bar-B-Q Bash is in full-swing.

Wayne flips burgers and rotates hot dogs dutifully on the grill, cigarette perched at his lips wiggling as he talks to El. Her doey eyes are wide with rapturous attention, like she’s never seen someone cooking outdoors before (highly likely; the world holds so much newness and wonders yet-unseen for a kid who’s been recently liberated from her windowless underground existence).

A few of the other Party kids are playing a raucous and complicated game of multi-player checkers, Dustin and Lucas kneeling in the grass while Mike and Will oppose, pressed in close around the small board. Max (inexplicably and suddenly) declares her piece as “knighted”, the chorus of boyish complaints quickly silenced the moment her hand flexes around the handle of the black cane at her side (in every possible alternate universe, you hope Max Mayfield always has a cool weapon to defend herself with).

The adults of the group are in various forms of relax around Forest Hills park- Joyce stacks paper plates at a nearby picnic table while Hopper is close behind, muttering things that make her laugh, earning playful little swats from her free hand; Jon, Argyle, and Eddie gave the classic “taking a walk” excuse to Mrs. Byers about twenty minutes back, the heady smell of weed drifting from the sparse forest nearly imperceptible over the smell of cooking meat.

Robin’s at your feet, the length of your legs supporting her torso as your fingers work to tie off the neat braid you’ve just finished on the left side of her hair. She’s been letting it grow, since the shitshow of last year- tawny brown locks swing just past her upper shoulders now.

“And I really mean it, this time- Keith’s out to get me,” Robin is saying, wiggling despite your instruction to “Sit still, or your right braid’s gonna be all fucked up,” gripping the strands of her hair a bit tighter in warning. She complies, then huffs out- “Steve, are you even listening back there?”

Steve hums. He’s by your side on the bench, a spot that you’d snagged early on for the both of you- under the comforting shade of a big willow tree, slightly on the outskirts of all the activity. Heat and direct sunlight can sometimes mess with Steve’s vision, loud noise has the potential to fuck with his hearing- facts of life he hasn’t so much told you rather than the result of many quiet observations about your partner over the course of a year.

Steve doesn’t like to talk about it. He’s not interested in rehashing the past, tunes out Eddie’s dramatics whenever the curly-haired boy’s story-telling nature arises; the only thing Steve hates more than remembering is being remembered- by Joyce, tearfully thanking him for being brave and saving her boys; by Hopper, with a firm pat to the shoulder and a stilted speech of unsung heroics; even by Robin, who gets in on the recollections in defiance of Steve’s glare, her hands arcing through the air to recreate the whoosh of his wooden oar.

Alcohol also tends to affect Steve differently, in this post-fight world that you all now live- but he’s taking sips from a cooler-chilled can of beer, thick-framed glasses resolutely off and buried in that nest of hair. You’d given him a look, earlier, when he’d walked back to give Robin a soda, hands still wet from digging around in the ice- but if Steve noticed your worry he didn’t respond to it, instead pressing a freezing can of Coke to the bare skin of Robin’s leg, backing down with a laugh when she squealed and got one good smack in against his arm.

“I’m listening, Robs,” Steve says, leaning forward to rest elbows on knees, condensation dripping off the can of Coors Light between his hands. “Keith’s been on one lately. I’ll fight him for you, if y’want.”

Robin snorts. You fit another elastic around her second braid, just as she brings her fist up to bump against Steve’s. “We’ll tag team him. Out back by the dumpsters. Great place to hide a body.”

“Jesus, Robin,” Steve chides, over the sound of your giggle.

She pushes herself up from off the ground, smoothing hands over her fresh braids as she thanks you, then turns to walk towards the huddled group of teens, winking over her shoulder- “Gotta show the kiddies what a real Checker Champ looks like.”

There’s a din of excitement as Robin joins, cheering and clapping echoing across the lawn- beside you, Steve stiffens, just slightly.

You pretend not to notice, instead scooching over until your shorts-covered thigh is pressing against his leg. Steve makes a happy noise in the back of his throat, wraps the arm not impeded by a beer can around your shoulders, tucking his nose to the top of your head.

“Feeling okay?” You try to keep your tone light, neutral, plucking a stray thread from Steve’s jeans absentmindedly.

He nods into your hair, squeezing your opposite shoulder- “Yeah. How ‘bout you?”

Ignoring his immediate deflection in the form of a question, you spread your hand flat over his thigh, thumb running up the side seam of denim, a bit more earnest in your questioning- “It’s just- are you okay? You’d tell me if you wanted to go home, right? You know I’m always happy to make some excu-”

“I don’t want to go home. I’m fine.”

Steve rarely ever interrupts you, even more rare that he speaks to you with any sort of anger, which is why the sharpness of those short sentences is enough to have you pulling back to look at him, incredulous and a little wounded (though you do your best not to show it).

He seems to realize his mistake as soon the words are out of his mouth; Steve winces, palm still warm over your shoulder blade, comforting squeeze as he cuts in, quickly- “Honey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just- I’m good, okay? You don’t have to worry about me.”

Your eyes roam over his face: the deep-set apology in those amber eyes, the soft lock of hair flopping over his forehead, the twist at the corner of his mouth. You fit your thumb to it, and the shape changes, your heart lurching as he smiles against your touch. “Steve-”

“Steve!”

The moment you say his name softly there’s a louder, more piercing version being yelled from a few yards away, Dustin waving frantically amidst Robin’s triumphant cackles- “Steve! Stop making out and come help, Robin’s whipping our asses!”

Steve blinks, and you can pinpoint the exact second he gives in, shuttering those walls back up with a straightened spine. One tender kiss to your palm, then he rises, leaving the beer in his empty seat- “Duty calls.”

After a robust round of Crazy Checkers surrounded by shrieking children, Steve’s energy is waning, you can tell- there’s this certain way he holds himself, little indicators of pain and discomfort that you’ve learned to pick up on; his finger taps mindlessly on the rim of his plastic water cup, the space between his neck and shoulders is one tight line, and his silence has been absorbed by the miasma of noise all around.

No one else seems to have noticed, too absorbed in eating and joking with mouthfuls of food, everyone crammed around two shoved-together picnic tables.

Robin jostles into your side reaching for the ketchup, which in turn makes you bump into Steve on your right; when you hear the sharp intake of his breath, you lean in, careful to keep up appearances, making it seem like you’re whispering a sweet nothing, hand cupped around his ear to dampen all the other sounds.

“Will you let me take you home?”

Should’ve known that wasn’t gonna work. Steve squeezes your leg under the table, his hand wracked with tiny tremors, smile tight and not reaching his eyes as he turns to whisper back, “Quit asking. Stop worrying. I’m fine.”

So goddamn stubborn. Well, so be it, Harrington. You scoff, as if he’s just told a joke timed to the beat of overlapping conversations, and peel yourself off of his side.

Cool air seeps up your bare arm where it had been kept warm in the crook of Steve’s own arm. It feels strange, to not have some sort of constant contact- but if Steve is playing the obstinate game, count you in.

Twenty minutes later, lunch and its accompanying mess has been cleared away, many hands making light work, and Eddie has brought out his stereo system to try and goad the anti-dancers of the group to join a makeshift dance floor.

Jonathan’s playing at being too post-meal sleepy to move off the bench, while Will and Eddie tussle and pull at him, and everyone’s laughing but you can’t focus on anything other than Steve- silent and stiff at your side, doing the bare minimum of human interaction to fly under the radar of suspicion.

Your radar, however, is finely tuned, and you know he’s minutes away from needing to be horizontal; it’s physically painful to keep your hands to yourself as they long to soothe, hugging arms-crossed around your own middle to keep from reaching for him.

Jonathan joins the dance circle with shambling reluctance, and when everyone cheers, Steve’s voice is at your ear, faint and sounding like a shadow of himself- “Gonna use the bathroom. Save me a piece of pie.” And with a final squeeze to your shoulder, he starts back down the path to the Munson’s new trailer.

Two minutes is a rather generous amount of time, in your opinion, to stay seated- until Robin splits from the jumping, dancing fray, light sheen of sweat on her forehead as she bends towards your seated form- “If you wanna go check on Dingus, I’ll make up a good excuse for you both.”

Overwhelmed with gratefulness and anxiety, you pull Robin into a quick hug, then make a smooth break for the winding gravel path.

The noises of the party fade as you walk through the door of the trailer, wiping your feet on the Welcome mat but keeping them on in case you need to make a quick exit with a sick partner in tow.

“Steve?” You keep your calling quiet, rounding the corner of the sun-warmed trailer walls towards the sliding bathroom door, then pull up short- Steve’s sitting against the closed door, on the outside of it, shoes planted on the rug, hands in fists at his side.

His head is tipped forward, resting on bent knees; his glasses are tucked by one arm into the neck of his collared tee, bellows of his breath coming shallow and quick.

Sinking to your knees beside him, you press a hand to the back of his neck, firm pressure against the taut muscle, attempting to bring some relief; Steve makes a choked, whimpery noise, and it almost breaks you.

A wave of helplessness washes through your veins; in defiance of the feeling, you suck in a steadying breath, grasping at adrenaline-fueled resolve as you run through the mental checklist of warning signs.

Thanks to Doc Owens (and the one-and-only appointment you forced Steve into last year, when you found him passed out on your kitchen floor from overheating in the summer sun), you know what to look for, and it gives purpose to your movements.

Steve’s breathing is rapid but not emergency-levels; he’s sweating, but not entirely through his shirt, yet; you get him to lift his head with murmured encouragement- thick lashes rimmed with tears, flushed cheeks reflecting heat back into your palms, and you find what you’re looking for- the black of his pupils equally dilated, twin moons almost eclipsing the almond-brown of his irises.

Last time Steve got a migraine, it lasted for hours, a whole sweltering afternoon of him pale and in pain on your couch, arm draped over his eyes while you kept a rotating supply of fresh ice packs to his temples and top of his spine.

The worst part of all, besides seeing Steve in pain, is the fact that he so resolutely denies himself the help that he would give others, in a heartbeat. Years of putting himself on a back burner, of making sure his nearest and dearest are taken care of before he even thinks about his own needs, have stuck firm.

Steve doesn’t have any heels left to dig in, now, as you feel the slide-grind of his teeth beneath your hands; you let your thumbs brush down his cheeks, a small movement to say I’m here, I’m not leaving you, and his eyes flutter shut.

“Gonna take you home,” you say, soft as your hands that drop to the broad width of his shoulders, “And this time I’m not asking.”

“Okay,” Steve manages, voice thin and strained, and you hate how much that single word is soaked in defeat.

Moving slow, you manage to get Steve on his feet- he leans heavy against you, waving off your offer to get Robin or Eddie to help with a simple and devastatingly earnest “Please, don’t, just want you-”; at a snail’s pace down the hall, in tandem down the front steps, Steve’s eyes slamming shut to block out the waning light of the sunset as you guide him to the Beemer, thankfully out of sight from the party.

You get him settled in the passenger seat, pocketing his glasses and sliding the seatbelt into place across his chest with a click; while you don’t want to make Steve feel any more childlike than he already probably feels, you can’t stop from pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling away, adding in a voice that you hope is quiet enough-

“If you’re gonna throw up, do it in the glovebox, okay? This is my boyfriend’s car, and I can’t have him knowing I’m taking strays home. Especially since you’re so handsome.”

Steve smiles weakly at your joke- his eyes are still closed but he catches your hand wrapped around the seatbelt, brings your knuckles up to his lips- “Sure thing, honey.”

There are footsteps crunching up the gravel, and you straighten in the tight space of the partially open car door to find Robin approaching.

She stops a few feet away, hands planted on her hips with a shake of her head. “Jesus, Harrington, you look like shit.”

Steve, eyes still closed and leaning back on the headrest, says to you in an obvious, scratchy stage-whisper- “Maybe if we stay reaaaal still, she won’t know we’re here.”

“If you didn’t look ready to keel over at any moment, I’d punch you for that,” Robin snipes, rocking heel to toe in her converse, locking eyes with you- “Need a good excuse?”

Relief washes out any remaining traces of helplessness. You breathe a sigh. “Yes. Please and thank you, Robs.”

“I got you covered. Emergency at the office, sink sprung a leak, a goldfish death in the family- got ‘em locked and loaded.” She shoots you two exuberant thumbs up, then sobers a bit, expression dropping. “Just. Take care of him, okay?”

You shut the car door with the least amount of noise you can manage, bumping your hip into the handle so the inner latch catches, then squeeze Robin’s hand on your way to the driver’s seat. “I will, Robin. I’ll call your landline later, let you know if he’s up for visitors.”

With a final salute, the ends of Robin’s hair fan out as she jogs back to the party, outdoor sounds disappearing as you duck into the car.

The ride home is mostly silent as you listen for Steve’s breathing, taking each stop sign and turn in the road with measured slowness. Brake, check for signs of life, and creep onwards.

You’re less than three blocks from Loch Nora when Steve leans into the sling of his belt, one hand flat against the dash, the other to his stomach, and you’re quick to swallow down panic, asking in what you hope is a calm voice, “Are you gonna throw up?”

“No,” Steve says, chin dropping to his chest, huffing- then, quietly, “Maybe.”

You’ve already pulled off the main road, throwing the gear shift into park before unbuckling and scrambling around in the seat pocket behind you, plastic grocery bag you’d stashed months ago for occasions such as this crinkling in your fist.

Steve’s fingers on the dash curl into a fist. There’s a spike of alarm you claw at, capture, and shove back, unable to quell the rush of murmured comfort as you lean across the middle console- “Here, baby. ‘S okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you, you’re safe…”

Steve doesn’t take the bag that you press into his left hand, still in a fist at his abdomen; his eyes are squeezed shut under slanted dark brows, and tears begin leaking out, coursing in rivulets down cheeks gone pallid. His voice is barely more than a croak when he speaks.

“I just want to be normal.”

And then, Steve’s crying in earnest: short breathy sobs and strung-out whimpers, like the only thing that hurts more than the act of crying itself would be to hold it all in.

The plastic bag gets shoved to the side as you pull Steve in, hands soothing down the shuddering planes of his back, your voice soothing and breaking in equal measure- “I know, baby, I know, I’m so sorry…”

Hot tears drip down your neck as his forehead rolls against your shoulder. Steve’s hands ball into fists, fabric of your shirt caught in his desperate grounding attempt, fighting through the wreck to speak broken secrets against your bare skin-

“Jus’ wanna be normal. Just want to drink a fucking beer without getting a goddamn headache afterwards. I wanted to stay at the party, wanted to…”

Breath catching, a fresh jolt of pain, and Steve’s whimpering like a child against your chest, unspooling a release that’s been building for over a year- Steve never affords himself time for a breakdown, and it’s all coming to a head now.

“It’s not fair,” Steve grits out. He’s doing his best to ride the wave but it’s threatening to pull him under; you can tell by the sinking weight of his head at your collarbone, the way his hands loosen and go lax at your sides, sobs giving way to gritting teeth and steel-tight jaw as Steve battles back the slicing pain in his head.

You know this is a purging, of sorts, and you’re grateful that your boy feels safe enough around you to let go and feel, but you also know that him getting worked up is just going to prolong an already-bad migraine.

So you let your hands drift up again, take his face between your palms, let his forehead rest against yours, speaking low, stripped raw with honesty.

“You’re right, honey. It’s not fair.” Your thumbs smooth gentle against his cheeks, under the dark lashes that flutter into your touch. “I’m so sorry that you have to go through this, and you’re allowed to be upset- but right now, I need you to just breathe, okay, Stevie? Can you do that for me?”

It gives Steve something to focus on, instead of spiraling out- he’s obedient, clutching at your shirt again, eyes shut in concentration, trying to match his too-fast breathing to your steadied tempo. Your fingers wind into the longer pieces of hair at the base of his skull, notching against the pressure points Doc Owens instructed you on ages ago.

Steve shivers. Lets out a dry, choking laugh that sounds nothing like him. “Couldn’t even last one full afternoon.”

He sounds so disappointed in himself. It makes your heart ache, tears stinging at your own eyes as you respond, still gentle despite your first instinct to bite back against his self-loathing. “Steve, give yourself some credit. You’re doing remarkably well, considering the circumstances.”

Steve scoffs, makes to lean back and away but your hands stop him in his tracks, nose to nose with you now as you insist, “When you had to drive Max home because her leg was hurting during Will’s birthday party, you didn’t judge her, right? Didn’t question why she needed a ride home?”

With this proximity, you can see the light dusting of freckles spanning the width of his cheeks, color returning slow but sure. He doesn’t try to pull away again so you keep speaking. “And all those times you’ve taken care of me during a nightmare, or had to come home early ‘cuz I just couldn’t stand an empty room. Remember?

“You were there for me. Always have been, just like I’m gonna be here for you. Better or worse, Harrington. You’re stuck with me.��

There’s a puff of warm air against your lips, a half-laugh but you’ll take it, pulling him in by the elbows, nuzzling against the side of Steve’s tear-lined face for a close hug as you whisper, “I’m really glad you’re alive.”

Your nose follows the slope of his neck down, brushes at the rippled line of scarring, tissue healed but still lightly raised in a ring at the base of his throat.

“Really glad,” you whisper, fiercely.

___

Steve lets you take him home. Even lets you baby him, a bit; though you make a solid effort to not infantilize him, there lives in you a deep desire to swaddle Steve in a blanket and keep him there. Safe from all the swirling noise and light and too-bright colors of the harsh world.

You compromise. Get Steve stretched out on the couch, take his shoes off with a calculated swoop-tug, lay his favorite green knitted blanket over the length of his body.

There’s a pill bottle on the kitchen counter that you pocket, leaving his glasses folded in its place. Blue ice pack burning-cold until you wrap a thin dishcloth around it to take out the sting, you bring it to Steve’s side along with a glass of water.

He takes the pills you offer with a wince- sitting up causes the blood to pound at his temples so you help him back down, sliding the ice pack into place at the top of his spine where the pain is blooming.

From your place on the floor, you monitor Steve, one hand stroking soft at his chest to lull his breaths to normal. After a few minutes, his brows smooth out; a few more, and he’s taking careful blinks in the low-lit room.

“C’mere,” he says, voice still scratchy, doe-brown eyes pleading, catching your hand on the upstroke and giving a small tug. When you start to protest, he whines, sounding more and more like himself by the minute- “Come here, baby. Please.”

Another compromise. Keeping the jostling to a minimum, you settle into Steve’s side, ear pressed over the thumping beat of his heart, arms fit around his waist.

Steve holds you. Breathes. Says, “Thanks. ‘M sorry we had to leave so early.”

Nose tilting up, you kiss against his scar again. “It’s okay. I really didn’t want to dance, and Eddie was about to drag my ass out there against my will so really, you did us all a favor.”

Under your head, Steve’s chest dips and rises with a laugh. His lips press into the crown of your head, and you can feel his smile as he says, “You’re dancin’ with me next time. I wanna see some ass shaking at our next family barbecue.”

You exhale a laugh, too, kiss his jaw, his cheek. “Okay, Swayze. Next time.”

Eventually, you both fall asleep, winding down sleepy and safe in each other’s arms, Steve’s pain eased to near-extinction with the care you’ve given him.

Later you’ll call Robin, give her an update for her peace of mind, cuddle up to Steve some more and listen to a record.

But for now, you’ve got a boy in your arms and the warmth of his body as your anchor into the dreaming.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #stranger things fic #sickfic #hurt/comfort #cw migraine #steve harrington x gn!reader

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cosmicstarlatte · 1 year

Text

Manhandling Them (Obey Me!)

━━━━━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━━━━━

Look at you manhandling your favorite demon. Nice.

»Characters: Demon Bros

»Tags: Shitpost, Mildly Suggestive, Jealousy, Dom vibes I guess lol , GN Reader/MC

»Notes: I had my OC in mind for this since he's a big guy but this could work for anyone, bc hc in a hc, you're super strong in this world OKAY!?!?♡

Lucifer:

This old man never takes a fucking break. You find him working late into the night, fighting the sleep he very much needs. You tell him to go rest and continue the work tomorrow. He refuses of course because why would he ever take an order from you? "Oh? Nope! You're done for tonight. Up we go!" You say as you pull him out from his office chair and toss him over your shoulder.

What...what is happening?

[Fighting Status: Engaged]

Shifts into demon form and starts flailing around, yet it does nothing to you

"Put me down this instant!"

You just pat his wings down soothingly trying to calm him down

"Dont ruffle your feathers Luci, this is for your own good. Also if you continue like that, your brothers will come investigate."

He stopped flailing and looked torn: continue to fight or be seen in such a position? There's also the third option, your death

While he was thinking you continued to pat his wings and heard a small purr

winner winner chicken dinnerrrr what have we here!?

"Aw see I knew you'd like it! Alright off to bed!" You say carrying him to his room

"...Maybe I am a little tired...and this might not be the worst thing in the world." He said, absolutely defeated

Since then, it doesn't happen often, but he will let you carry him to bed if he's absolutely drained and no one else is around to see

[Taming the beast: Achieved]

Mammon:

"Mammon we need to go now or we will be late for dinner!" You yelled at him as he continued to bargain with the shopkeeper. He yelled back saying it would only be another minute...taking another 5 minutes. Enough is enough. You grab him and carry him out, bridal style.

One second he's talking to the shopkeeper, the next he's being lifted into the air

"AH! HEY!"

Shifts into demon form and notices it's you and not some stranger

Shifts back into his human form

🍅.jpg

"W-what is this!? P-put me down!" He said as he wrapped his arms tighter around your neck

"Mm, maybe if you kiss me on the cheek?"

"ARE YOU CRAZY!? THE GREAT MAMMON OBEYS NO ONE!"

He continued to complain but did absolutely nothing to try to get out of your arms

He let out an annoyed huff when you guys got home...you were sure it was because he didn't want to come down

Now, he occasionally takes long at places so you could carry him...it's obvious when he keeps looking back to check if you'll get him

You caught on of course, but hey, he's your little tsundere demon

Levi:

"I'm not going to RAD today!" He yelled from his room. The hell he is, you kicked his door down and he screamed. You roughly pulled him from his tub and tossed him over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes, heading towards his closet.

"WWWWHAAAAAATISGOINGONNNN!?"

[Levi demon thrasher mode activated]

He was so confused and turned on by the sudden morning events

"Hey, hey! LEVI, stop it!"

He complied immediately and stopped struggling, you pat him gently while he still tried to understand what made you come in there so rough today

"That's a good demon!"

His tail swished around excitedly at your praise...this morning was something he never expected in his wildest dreams

Subby boy is subby™️

"Oh you like this a lot don't you? I guess I'll come get you more often."

"W-will this be an everyday thing!?" say yes say yes say yes say-

After that day, he still hesitated to ask for piggyback rides or anything else but you know the look and happily scoop him up every time

Please toss him around more, he loves it

Especially when you're rough

Satan:

Lucifer and Satan fighting was nothing new, but you just didn't have the energy to hear them today. So what better way than to just take one of them from the other? "Come here kitty!" You say, wrapping your arms around Satan and pulling him up against your body, carrying him to the manor library.

He shifted into demon form in an instant

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!? LET ME DOWN!"

He wasn't sure how your grip was so strong as he continued to try to pull away from you

And he also didn't understand why it felt so good to be carried by you

You patted him and told him to let the anger go and just enjoy the rest of the night with you

He stopped struggling but felt conflicted by what he was feeling especially since Lucifer looked so pleased when you two left

But this does feel good...and you chose him to hang out with

"Tch."

"Fine I'll put you down and-"

"No. You brought this upon yourself. Now continue to the library." He held on tighter

You smirked and he opened his mouth to argue but huffed instead

He was...actually impressed by your boldness and wouldn't mind being manhandled like that again

Just not when he's fighting with Lucifer please

Asmo:

Everyday his fans crowded him and 80% of the time, it was okay with you. Today though you just really wanted to go home quickly with him but his fans intercepted. Yeah no, you just weren't having it today. "Sorry guys we have to go home now." You say and tug on Asmo's hand. "Mm I don't know, it shouldn't take too long-" he starts. You raise an eyebrow at Asmo and end up tossing the Avatar of Lust over your shoulder, jogging away from the gawking crowd.

What just happened?

He squeals excitedly

"Oh I like this!♡"

He was surprised by your sudden action as you've never carried him before

Especially something so...possessive? In front of other RAD students!?

He was gushing

"Should I expect this more often!?"

"Yeah, probably. I should've done this a while ago." You admitted

Devildom Pictures Presents: Asmo, the Avatar of Blushing

He made himself comfortable and chatted with you while on the way home

The two of you ignored the looks of others but photos were definitely taken and posted to gossip sites

After that day he loved asking for piggyback rides and being carried around, he let you know how much he loved it every time

Beel:

Lucifer entrusted you to guard the fridge from Beel and so you did. "Sorry, Beel!" You tell the gluttonous beast. "Eh? I'm hungry now...I just want a little food..." He tried to walk around you to reach the fridge and that's when you scoop him up flawlessly, bridal style. You carried him away from the kitchen.

???

He did not foresee this ever happening

He could only blankly stare at you as you carried him further and further away from the kitchen

He actually really liked it but was worried about his weight

"You should put me down. You might get hurt."

"Did you not see how easily I scooped you up? This is nothing."

Beel smiled and went with it, completely forgetting about the fridge

"Can we do this more often?"

"Was already planning on it big guy!"

His heart flipped! After all, no one, even in the celestial realm, ever held him like this

And the fact that it was you, made it a million times better

The two of you settled on the couch while he stayed in your lap and cuddled with you until dinner time

(1) New Text from Lucifer : You did well. I'm counting on you for next time.

Belphie:

"You can't make me move!" Belphie muttered half asleep. He had a habit of falling asleep in weird places around the house and for some reason he chose the front of your bedroom door. You nudged him with your foot and he went back to snoozing on his cow print pillow. Okay, bet. You leaned over him and swiftly picked him up, wrapping his legs around your waist and holding him securely. You finally entered your room.

???

"You're not Beel!?" He said bewildered (and slightly embarrassed) by the sudden realization

"No I'm not and you were blocking my door."

"This feels nice from you. I could get use to this." He murmured happily at the sudden closeness

You roughly toss him onto your bed and he complained about demon abuse and rights

"Ugh! More gently next time!?"

He was still impressed by your use of force, you always surprised him which is why you're his favorite human

Was happy you decided to take a quick nap with him but upset you kicked him out after

"Hmph. You haven't seen the last of me!"

And it was true, he made it more of a habit to sleep in front of your door so you'd carry him inside, sometimes he got you to cuddle with him

He freely asks for piggyback rides if he's particularly drained

⬦You might also like: Flirting With Others︱You ARE The Father

#om! mc enzo content #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #obey me shitpost #obey me humor #obey me reader #shitpostcifer #◇˖・ﾟ— › cosmic obey me . ⊹

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metatronhateblog · 1 year

Text

As you all know by now

Metatron is sus af. And if you haven't noticed, or you live under a rock (no judgement here) I'm here to add some interesting things I have noticed as someone so obsessed with this show I can only see in the colors and outlines of Good Omens at any given moment.

Fair warning, the only theories or analysies I see are sent to me by my sister, or appear on my dash (and I don't follow many Good Omens blogs that theorize.) So if any of this has been stated or pointed out before, apologies. I'm trapped in tunnel vision mixed with an aching brain.

This one's a doozy and a conglomeration of stuff that I have noticed that I'm not sure actually hold any significance so hang in there, it's worth it.

SO. Let's dive in.

First things first, lots of different theories going around, not sure I believe a lot of them but am fully willing to indulge, and admire the effort people put it. I'm not a huge fan of the 'Metatron poisoned Aziraphale theory' but I have a feeling this post might possibly give those girlies a little 'W.' We'll see, I have various points to touch on.

Something fucked is going on with Metatron. For starters it's very uncomfortable to me, and hits very strangely that no one recognizes him (except Crowley.) Which is so strange because we previously see Michael, Uriel, Gabriel, and Saraqael all in a meeting with the Metratron about....oh maybe ten minutes prior, not to mention Muriel and Crowley were there witnessing it also??? Hello? Why does only Crowley recognize this person that this group of people have seen (Saraqael and Muriel only moments before at the same time as Crowley.)

So how come Crowley is the only one who recognized him??? Sus to me. Any thoughts as to why cause I have none....

But then things to me seem to get a little weirder. I enjoy playing with audio, cutting out background audio and emphasizing little things that might sounds strange to me. And I went through checking all of episode 6 for any weirdly placed miracle noises or waving of hands, and I came up with three things (one of them was actually from episode 5 though).

1.) There's a miracle noise after Aziraphale asks Metatron what they'll be doing in heaven and Metatron responds with 'It's something we call the Second Coming.' This one, with a lot of back tracking and examining other scenes, I've come to the conclusion is simply the elevator being summoned, though I do find it strange to hear the noise yet not see that miracle happen.

2.) In episode 5, during The Ball ™️, Maggie walks up to Nina who is sitting in a chair and offers a hand to dance. Aziraphale, my beloved, is watching so happily and excitedly from the side while holding a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Right when Nina grabs Maggie's hand there's a miracle noise. I'm not sure if it's part of the overall thing Aziraphale has cast over the bookshop, or if it's him from the side and we once again don't see it...(which feels weird) but it's there. And if it is because of the overall miracle cast over the shop then why don't we hear that sound every time something happens that is effected by said miracle. Something is weird about that one to me, but that's not Metatron related sorry. (Here's a screenshot from the exact moment if anyone is wanting to go looking for it.)

And 3.) My big one. This noise is...so unsettling to me. The first time I heard it I flinched. I still cannot figure out if it's part of the soundtrack or if it is a separate noise that segues into the soundtrack or not. But this one. So when Metatron originally enters the bookshop there is obviously a commotion and then once he gets everyone to leave, he looks at Aziraphale and tells him he wants to speak with him or have 'a chinwag' (weirdly Earth term if you ask me) and then offers Aziraphale a coffee who then takes it and sips it blah blah blah we all know that part. But then Metatron says something...weirder. He mentions that he's also consumed things before...which...makes something about him feel all the weirder. He then again asks Aziraphale to chat with him. Aziraphale hesitates and looks to Crowley who is lounging behind him who tells him to go ahead because the 'day can't get any weirder.'

Immediately following that is where I am horribly sus. Aziraphale looks at Metatron who gives him this kind smile and ushers him forward, and once Aziraphale can't see them anymore, Metatron turns a glare onto Crowley, who I'm not sure if we see him acknowledge this sudden cold change.

But that's not the sus part. In my opinion the sus part is the audio. THE MOMENT his demeanor changes to glare at Crowley. We get this little....noise that sounds like a deep kinda dark little twinkle of some sort (and holy shit I'm screaming over this noise because upon checking the official soundtrack the noise is not there) that sounds like magic is happening. And it just. I have listened to the dark way the soundtrack picks up and listened to it through over and over searching for any more signs of that out of place noise and I CAN'T FIND IT. So because I care deeply and am not going to make you people go hunting for this one, I have a screen recording of the audio clip. I kinda took the audio of an actual miracle noise first (I was using it as my reference) and then all the audio surrounding that noise and reduced it, but kept that noise kinda emphasized by not touching it at all. (My apologies now because my editing audio isn't the greatest, I'm no professional, and I did get the first notes of the soundtrack starting in there too.)

HOLY SHIT????? HELLO???? What was that dark little sound there??? I don't know if anyone else has pointed it out but if you have you're amazing and I love you.

BUT WHAT THE FUCK???? I'm sitting here trying to figure out what that strange little audio blip is right there because if I'm correct and when Metatron tells Aziraphale 'the Second Coming' followed by the miracle noise I believe to be summoning the elevator???? Then what is that sinister little???? Almost miracle sounding noise there???? My goodness.

That being said, I did check through the audio in other places, trying to listen real close (and if anyone else is good with audio and can actually find it, then please share I wanna know) and I heard no miracle noises during their kiss scene or when Crowley gets in the Bentley and the Nightingale starts playing. (Disclaimer that could just be because of my hearing loss, so if it is there and you can isolate it, I'd love to hear.) I tried, I searched endlessly to try and help you guys with your theories but I found nothing. I will say though, a bell tolls very frequently in the show when something significant happens and there's a bell toll right as our beloved angelic beings pull away from their kiss.

Now that I've pointed out the strange little audio things I personally have noticed, I want to move on to more colloquial audio and less background noises.

I wanna talk more along the lines of this post by @meatballlady (sorry for tagging you I wanted to give you credit where it's due.)

After seeing this post and doing a rewatch of the show, I have been working more at trying not to make assumptions and trying to think of the ways different things can be taken.

Well the Metatron says something that I think maybe we should focus more on the different things if could mean???

This thing is said (i believe during Aziraphale's retelling of what the Metatron said to him) but also right after another one of those moments of misinterpreting the meaning of what someone's being said. This happens after Muriel interprets Crowley's 'Us time' to include them.

The line I'm thinking of here is

"I've been idling back on a number of your...previous exploits, and I've seen that in quite a few of them you've formed a de facto partnership with the Demon Crowley. Now if you wanted to work with him again, that might be considered irregular, but it would certainly be within your jurisdiction to restore your friend...Crowley...to full angelic status."

Holy shit there's a lot to unpack in that, both for Aziraphale and us. this whole thing could be interpreted multiple ways, I think, and that's why I've included this whole quote rather than just the specific line. It's a lot said in one go with multiple things that are....worded interesting. For a start.

Exploits -

Several different meanings both in the words form as a verb and a noun, and Metatron puts an emphasis on 'previous exploits.' So how is he using the word? Noun meaning bold and daring? Probably not a software tool. What about a verb? 'derive benefit from' is an interesting way to put it. 'Use a situation or person in an unfair or selfish way.' There's plenty of options here. And to say that he is using one specific meaning of the word would be assuming that you know for sure what he's saying. And when it comes down to it, we don't. After all doesn't this season play a lot with the misinterpreting of what someone is saying?

Let's continue.

de facto partnership - is technically an informal arrangement generally for business, formed by two or more parties.

Which is cool, but that's not the emphasized word here. The word Metatron seems to hang on is 'partnership.'

Partnership -

At this point it feels like an almost sterile way to talk about their very clear relationship together. But strange that he hesitates on the word.

The thing I really wanna talk about is

"...restore your friend...Crowley...to full angelic status."

Restore -

Now everyone, Aziraphale included seemed to interpret this as 'reinstate' your friend Crowley. And again it would be very presumptuous to think that it could ONLY mean giving Crowley a position in Heaven next to Aziraphale.

One of those meanings in there says something along the lines of 'to return it to its original condition.' And we all immediately go 'well that would be an angel of course.' But we forget to take the time to realize that...as an angel, Crowley wasn't a demon. He didn't have all the memories and experiences as such. In fact, it feels hinted at throughout this season that Crowley doesn't have all his memory from his time as an angel. And who's to say that if he was restored to angelic status that wouldn't mean wiping him of his memory of his time on Earth? Who's to say that the Metatron isn't implying here that this is another way to make Aziraphale compliant while also keeping him separated from Crowley.

We all know as a team those two will 'raise Earth' for lack of a better term against Heaven and Hell to prevent Armageddon. They are their own side. And I think Metatron knows he has no chance of the Second Coming if those two are still working together.

Who's to say that Metatron wouldn't put limitations or a status quo on the allowances of Crowley returning to Heaven. He can't ensure that Crowley wouldn't cause problems, he can't ensure his trust.

Sorry if all of this has already been said and pointed out, but I personally haven't seen any of it and needed to get it off my chest before I exploded.

#good omens #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #metatron #metatron meta post #meta #i really hate metatron #good omens 2 spoilers #good omens spoilers #good omens season 2 #sorry for the long post with a lot of words #i have a history in theory making and it's been a long time since I've done anything like this #I have to find a way to prevent myself from getting more and more obsessed with this show.

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