#like i can SMELL the pearl clutching from here | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hitlikehammers · 27 days ago

Text

This Is Your Life (¿ǝɟı˥ ɹno⅄ sıɥ⊥ sI)

Steve Harrington never thought he’d end up like his parents. He never thought he’d allow his life end up like this.

…but did it really?

He wants to grab for his wallet: he knows there’s gotta be pictures there, he always knew if he did become a dad he’d be that dad and maybe he can’t fucking grasp how he’s here, how it all went wrong, but he, it’s… He can’t have gotten it this wrong; he might have fucked up the love of his life, somehow—and he knows that’s what it was, the one, came out of nowhere and made him feel more than anything he’d ever known his chest could hold: he might have failed the soft brown curls he can feel against his cheek with his eyes closed, but he’s shaky on the smell of them, the scent of this person he knows that he loved, fuck, no, he knows that he still loves—but he can believe that part. He doesn’t want to believe it, really thought this was different, feels it in his chest that this was so different, and this time was forever—but Steve’s history speaks for itself. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to think it fell apart—again. But. That said: he swore he’d never be his own parents. He can’t have gone and failed this bad, with his own kids—

rating: t ♥️ tags: post S4, established relationship (?), drama, introspection, angst (?) with a happy ending (!), steve harrington and the inescapable reality of becoming your parents no matter how hard you try, (it IS inseparable, right?), creeper hitting on a sad divorcé at the bar, SINCERE APOLOGIES TO PEOPLE NAMED A NAME MALIGNED HEREIN SOLELY FOR PLOT PURPOSES

for @steddielovemonth Day Twelve—“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.”―The Sandman —

“You look like you shouldn’t be alone.”

Steve, actually, feels like he should definitely be alone. Certainly isn’t looking for company from this random, hair-slicked-back, not-even-being-subtle-about-the-sleaze stranger.

Who sees fit to put his hand on the back of the empty chair across from where Steve sits.

Alone.

“I meant,” and his voice is…soft, but like he wants something. Soft like he means to pull you in. Steve doesn’t fucking need this, not tonight. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Steve wants to laugh. Steve wants to throw his glass and watch it shatter, watch the other patrons of this fairly high-end restaurant gasp and clutch their pearls for it.

He wants to know how he ended up here. How his story unfolded to this. He knows there was a time when they were happy. When he was happy. Lots of memories of being unhappy, especially when he was a kid, but Steve knows in his bones there was happiness, there was lov—

“Hmm,” the stranger hasn’t figured out he’s unwelcome yet, apparently; Steve tries sipping his drink as a hint.

It has the opposite effect.

“Ah,” the man watches Steve’s hand, then points: “it’s been a while, but you still remember the weight, no?”

Steve makes the mistake of taking his eye off this nuisance of a human to follow the pointing: he grabbed for his drink from the left.

Yeah, he does still keep his presently-empty ring finger the slightest bit off the glass. Like a habit.

Motherfucker.

“Children?” the stranger who absolutely cannot take the goddamn hint presses on, too curious, too poised at innocence to be wholly genuine.

Steve doesn’t know what could have possibly given him away—he knows he looks run through the wringer, but kids, there wouldn’t be a tell for the kids in his wrinkled suit, his mussed-up hair from running his fingers through it, greasier than he ever allowed before, tie rumpled and half-undone, what—

His right thumb catches his eye, just out the corner: nail polish. He didn’t have the heart to take it off, and, well. There’s a little corner of Barbie pink on the inside of the tip, hanging on months later. Taunting him.

Must be pretty quality stuff.

“How old?”

And Steve’s lips part, he intends to answer actually because the drive in him to tell this asshole it’s none of his business and that he needs to fuck off was strangled in a second at the thought of the girls, his three girls, the six little nuggets he always dreamed of, plus one more besides as a bonus, a fucking gift, and maybe it’ll hurt less in the long run to say anything about them to a faceless person he’ll never see again, so he intends to answer, but…

Suddenly he can barely form a coherent thought about his kids, it all hurts too much—like the burning, the wetness caught on his lashes; like that’s flooding full-on in his own mind’s eye as much as his lungs all at once.

He can’t have gotten it this wrong; he might have fucked up the love of his life, somehow—and he knows that’s what it was, the one, came out of nowhere and made him feel more than anything he’d ever known his chest could hold: he might have failed the soft brown curls he can feel against his cheek with his eyes closed, but he’s shaky on the smell of them, the scent of this person he knows that he loved, fuck, no, he knows that he still loves—but he can believe that part. He doesn’t want to believe it, really thought this was different, feels it in his chest that this was so different, and this time was forever—but Steve’s history speaks for itself. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to think it fell apart—again. But.

That said: he swore he’d never be his own parents. He can’t have gone and failed this bad, with his own kids—

“She took them?”

Steve turns—he hadn’t been looking at the pestering asshole, had kind of forgotten he was there. Steve stares at him a little open-mouthed; blinks. The fuck is he talking about—

But it makes sense. Steve got his picket fence and his gaggle of Harringtons, maybe only got a handful of their trips across the country under their belts before it went to shit, before Steve fucked it up like it was always in his blood to do: lost his marriage. Lost his kids.

“For Henry?”

Finally, the man turns away, automatic: so that’s his name. That’s the only reason anyone looks so quick.

Steve…doesn’t know any Henry, but he bristles to hear it anyway. Like a…a back-of-the-mind instinct that it’s a bad name for bad people.

Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s obviously had too much to drink, for now fuzzy him mind is proving; for how quick his eyes are to sting in public—for how much of a mess he is.

How much of a mess it all is—

“Let me grab that, but,” and the man, this Henry, he gestures to Steve’s glass of mostly-melted-ice; “what were you drinking?”

“Old Fashioned.”

Steve’s voice is metal on gravel. He licks his lips.

“I’ll bring you back another,” this Henry, he thinks he can touch Steve’s shoulder as he walks away.

Once he’s reached the bar and shoots Steve a…deeply discomforting smile as he waits on the second drink and—

Steve doesn’t remember what he had been drinking.

But he knows in his core, somehow, that it wasn’t an Old Fashioned.

“Shame they can’t just turn the music off,” Henry slides the drink Steve’s way before sliding back into the seat he was never invited to sit in in the first place; “not loud enough to really hear is it,” and where he’s started the out-of-fucking-left-field comment with more annoyance than Steve thinks it warranted, he hadn’t even noticed there was music playing until now; “but not strong enough to make an impression.”

Henry ends with more��satisfaction, and weirdly, kinda like self-satisfaction, and fuck but this guy’s weird as shit.

“Oh, unlike the drink,” Henry laughs, shifts the mood—or tries to—after a sip of whatever he’s got for himself and he laughs…too forced. Too much like a game, and unsettling for it when Steve doesn’t know the rules, let alone the playbook.

And honestly, Steve is more interested in the music, now, than his unsavory tablemate.

“You were talking about your children,” Henry leans close his arm extended like it wants to grab for Steve’s in something comforting, too presumptuous—Steve moves that closest arm to grab his glass, but not to lift it.

“I’d rather not,” he says as flippant as he can because he doesn’t want to go back to the hurting, to the lack of anything to hold to in remembering that’s still closer to the surface than the actual face of his kids, his kids—

“Don’t see them much,” Henry says, kinda…tuts, like he’s regretful on Steve’s account, and it’s less a question than an observation, but Steve’s face must do something without his permission at those words because to en Henry’s got this too-bright, too eager sympathy painted all over him before he starts damn-near cooing:

“Oh,” he says, breathy, sour at the back of Steve’s mouth somehow; “oh you poor thing, you’re not even in their lives? Barely remember them sometimes, no?” And the weird thing is…he sounds too invested, yeah, but not just like a creepy fucker looking to maybe take a sad sap to bed. It’s…

It’s different.

“Like they never existed.”

Steve doesn’t understand why of all the things this asshole says, it’s that that shakes him, that trips in his pulse in a way he can feel, and hard.

He stares, jaw clenched, at the unsampled drink still in his hand: whiskey.

Like your eyes, sweetheart, just like whiskey in the morning sun, magic and full of their own perpetual light—

“She took the house, I bet,” Henry sighs, shaking his head, while Steve shakes his own from the voice that had floated at the back of his mind through to the front, close, so close and so fucking clear; “your white picket fence. Your Winnebago.”

And he looks over Steve’s shoulder like he’s really aiming at sympathizing, but…

Something about those exact words seems too precise. Lights something up in Steve’s wobbly memories—but the light feels old. Like it’s a thing he did know, once; followed and looked to, but…changed course.

And how the fuck does this jackass know that Steve maybe wanted, ever, or thought he could have wanted but knew it was a past want, a no-longer-want—in the marrow of his bones he knows the way he’s remembers it, if he is remembering it, he knows the last time it left if lips he didn’t mean it anymore, he’d turned toward wanting something else, something somehow more—

His chest feels stretched for thinking all of it through and…something equally uncertain and shimmering, just out of reach: that part knows this.

And is very fucking suspicious of how this fucker sitting across from him knew about a fucking Winnebago he doesn’t even want anymore?

“Love,” Henry, fucking, yes, Steve is now 100% convinced that that’s a bad name, it’s a bad name that means a bad person, his brain might be fuzzy right now but he knows that part: “even if it werereal,” and he says is almost dreamily but more mocking, kinda, but he’s…he’s not sincere in it. At least not the hints at empathy.

Steve knows he’s being played, even without having the rule book. Even without knowing the game.

“It’s never quite enough, is it.”

It’s not a question. But still. Nonetheless.

Love isn’t enough?

Wrong.

That he knows deeper than any narrow. Closer to the soul of him than of the other things his brain has thought it’s known so far, he’s—

Wait.

Wait, why did Steve think that? Whose voice was that, in his head? A deep voice, smooth and sweet and beloved, Steve feels that undeniable in his chest—thinks it might have been the same voice as the one that talked about his eyes, and, he, it’s…

Is that what he lost, the ring not on his finger, the kids he’s apparently walked out on in every way that matters—if the voice is right, if love were enough then why is Steve, why is Steve here, now, and he’s—

It’s always enough..

It’s a man’s voice. Steve tried to think of any man in his life who would say such a thing in the first place—no family, and friends? He—

Maybe not enough to fix everything alone, but it’s the foundation, Stevie. If it really is love, then it’s more than enough to build anything out of, or back up from.

That’s a man’s voice. And it rolls through Steve’s veins like embers, like the light catching precious stones and sparkling prismatic.

Steve may not be able to place the where or the who just yet. But he knows that it’s there.

There was no ‘she’ to take anything from him, not anything that mattered, when it mattered.

It’s the weight of the memory between his lungs and his steady-pounding heart, gaining pace and punch with every breath—the first inklings of some knowing. It’s the face of kids he’d die for. It’s the knowledge in his bones they’re not the only people he’d die for, and that he’d feel his life more than well-served in doing it. More than.

Steve swirls his glass, watching the smoke from the bar haze through real crystal—thick where the cloud in his head is dissipating more every second. It’s a meta…metafort? It’s a thing that’s making a point about another thing. Illustrating it poetically, or whatever.

The smoke left in his head. The clearest thing shining through it is that voice. That voice telling him not just about love, but something crucial embedded inside: this man seated across from him.

That man is wrong.

“What did you say your name was?” Steve asks, because there’s power in redirecting someone’s attention. And Steve feels…electricity building in his body. Lightning in his limbs; familiar.

He’s on the brink of something, and if all of the losses this man is underscoring are the reflection of who Steve’s grown into, after all that he’d sworn not to become what he knew, what nearly ruined him growing up, fucked him up so bad it took another fucking dimension and its literal monsters to yank him back from the path to becoming like the monsters at his mother’s cocktail parties, his father’s business dinners—

If this man, sitting here, is still somehow who he’s become anyway?

If Steve feels on the brink of something, so fucking close—and maybe the thing he’s close to is total oblivion, to whole-on forgetting and decimating any chance of recovering the losses this fuckface across from him with his martini glass has lifted up to the light—if he’s this close?

Last time Steve can remember breaking through the disaster of his present self was swinging a bat, and swinging to crack fucking skulls.

He’s not sure what that means but he feels weirdly inclined to trust it. So…he figures: what’s the harm?

He’d very much like to break this sonofabitch’s skull in, so.

“Could have sworn you did,” Steve finally takes a sip of his refreshed drink—the single sip alone is sharp assault on his tongue, and he bites at his bottom as the taste shoot through the nerves in his limbs and the pathways in his ways and lights them all up at once, and he hears the music in the background make a bigger impact than the way his heartbeat starts picking up in his ears as he set the drink back down, and leans in on autopilot to meet the guys eyes and make sure the way every cell in his body’s waking up is real, is telling him the truth:

“Henry, right?”

The man barely blinks, just hides less a smirk now and more a grimace in the curve of his martini glass.

Fucking bingo.

The clouds are gone. The haze has fully lifted, or at least is on its way. Steve couldn’t have said how much his body felt like a wrong-sized suit before this very moment until this very moment, when it starts to feel like his own again, like this body and every scar it’s marked with belongs to him alone.

“I’m also in the mood for forgetting this evening,” Steve lowers his tone a bit, bats his lashes as subtly as he knows and then tips his chin down the look up through them, a move that’s never failed him once when he really tries:

“Could I persuade you to accompany me?”

Henry tries to play his wordless agreement cool, almost aloof, but now that Steve knows the truth of it all, now that his own mind is clear, it’s so obvious.

Motherfucker’s champing at the bit.

They make it just out the door into the half-packed parking lot before Steve pauses, looks up at the sky—notices the eerie starlessness, the shadowy-faltering veil over the ominous red of the clouds.

“It’s funny,” Steve tells the sky as his eye catches the impression of a bolt of lightning behind the shade; “what you said earlier.”

Henry hums, but it’s…it’s an impatient, or maybe unsettled, at the very least annoyed sort of sound. He wants to leave. He wants to take Steve farther from a neutral setting.

Or at least: neutral by comparison.

“About the music,” Steve tosses his head back toward the bar beyond the doorway. “Too low to really set the ambiance,” Steve agrees, because he knows the why; “but there enough to be,” Steve sucks his teeth, pretends to look for the right word: “distracting.”

Distraction.

Henry stills. Steve isn’t feel patient enough to drag this out any further, really, now that his gaze is clear.

“We knew it wouldn’t work this time, the music,” Steve taunts, feeling the adrenaline suddenly rise in his veins like an untamable force; “you’re not strong enough for it to matter, can’t even lift the tool you need for half your dirty work.”

Literally. Because Steve’s still cognizant. Steve can feel the bleed of the real world—even if he’s floating he’s not down for the count yet. And by rights, he damn well should be—based on all previous encounters.

And yet here, on top of everything, all the memory and clarity rushing back in one heartbeat, one breath—the choice of the cocktail, the song in the background wasn’t a song anyone would know, it was written for Steve and it was in the voice of its composer, probably sang at his side without any instrument to smooth it out to anything less than raw and real—

The last nail in the coffin were the eyes.

“Can barely hear at all, the state you’re in,” Steve kicks at the ankles of the man unraveling before him as the parking lot around them starts to fade into dead trees and shot-red skies; “the bats could have, if they’d made it.”

And there it is, even diminished, even rotting: Vecna’s eyes were always the same; unmistakable. Dead giveaway.

Still full of the same fucking unhinged, megalomaniacal hate.

“She took everything, didn’t she?”

Because Steve knew it didn’t sound right for him, when it was thrown at him beyond all of it being twisted and wrong—that part had felt different, and now he knows why: no woman was taking his house, was dismantling the life he was building with someone his heart belonged to, full stop.

But this sorry excuse for crawling corpse had a young woman whose buzz cut was growing back to her curls again; and she sure as shit took everything, and was poised now to come back for the stragglers and make it final. Make it done.

All this pathetic scrap of not even a man, not even a monster—this pathetic scrap of nothing really was?

Was lingering in the dead space, half-a-ghost on borrowed time.

So Steve thinks, given his role in this was always to be the bait, and to keep him preoccupied until that ill-borrowed time needed returning to its rightful owner, and what was left of Vecna had run out of it entirely—Steve thinks he’s more than entitled to kick this fucker when he’s down.

He doesn’t even feel bad when he trips the bastard up again, too uneven on his disintegrating legs to even try to fight; honesty feels kinda giddy, like he wants to laugh when the fucker let’s loose a fittingly inhuman scream when Steve jumps with both feet on what’s left of his knees, one by one.

“Never tell me my kids don’t exist,” Steve growls, enraged, half-feral at what this creature tried to sell him; “do not even suggest I don’t remember my fucking kids.”

Because Steve could never. Steve would never. He had the nuggets he used to dream of. Almost missed the gift of those shitheads, for too long, in clinging to a different version of it he’d just absorbed from what he thought was the way the world worked; hadn’t yet readjusted to knowing the world worked wholly fucking differently, and the things he heart really wanted of course would shift accordingly.

Had shifted. Goddamn perfectly.

“And it’s wild,” Steve takes a second, considers the writhing vermin on what’s given way entirely from the mirage of anything else than soggy ground, littered with dead leaves, blackened bark.

“I’m really not a whisky drinker,” Steve muses, circling the pathetic heap of this self-style god: some fucking god.

“Not yet, anyway. I’ve been told it’s a drink you have to grow into,” Steve hums consideringly, even as he catches a hand try to reach, try to grab, try to bring Steve down again and sap his energy, the lifeblood in him to steal a few more minutes, a few more gasps before the end.

Steve crushes the hand that darts out from what’s left of the wrist, unforgiving under his heel.

“But you ordered me that cocktail with bourbon,” Steve says, almost blasé, as the figure on the ground writhes and howls.

“I drank a lot, after our first round with you,” he had. Figuring out you might very well be falling in love with someone when that someone’s not guaranteed to make it through the night for too many nights in a row takes a goddamn fucking toll. “Only time I’ve ever touched bourbon,” and it’d been top-shelf shit, his dad didn’t keep anything less on hand:

“Only time I ever will.”

Maybe Steve could grow into enjoying another kind of whiskey in the future but…that taste was always going to be tied to the heart-pounding nightmares, the bitter fear of unmitigated loss.

“Really throws me out of the moment here and now, though, y’know?” Steve makes a point of crushing every individual finger on the hand he’s still got under one shoe with the other. For insurance. “Takes me back somewhere else.”

When the cretin slowly quiets his yelping to heavy panting—and Steve is not above admiring to himself that he does weight crushing his windpipe next because Steve’s not a vicious person, he’s not violent like that but this animal nearly cost them everything, nearly cost him everything.

Might still, if Steve can’t get back out of this half-mindfuck, half-hellscape.

He really, really thinks about it.

“You fucker,” he desires to hiss, to lean down little and catch those wrathful eyes; “you really thought you had me, didn’t you.”

And the second hand tried to shout up to take Steve by the neck, but Steve’s faster, not least because he’s not coming apart at whatever stands in for the cells of a reconstituted corpse multiple times over. He knocks that arm away hard enough to snap something clean enough to echo, and then takes his time repeating the through crushing of wrist, finger, finger, finger, finger, thumb.

And then, because the screaming isn’t load enough for Steve’s liking just now, not for this monster, he decides to see if there’s anything in the crotch area left of this wrinkled ballsack of a man. It never really looked like it, the few times Steve had seen him in full, in better days for his…already-rotting body…thing.

But the pitch of the agony that rings out when Steve grinds his heel down in that general anatomical…area must mean there’s still something.

It’s something like the middle of that scream that Steve catches under his shoe at what’s left of the neck he wanted to crush before but now…now it’s just pressure. Painful. Inconvenience, dialed up to Eleven.

“What’s wrong, Henry?” Steve taunts, meets those eyes with what he knows, means to be a crazed fucking grin:

“Never heard of a Piggyback?”

And those hate-filled go wide, go fearful.

Fucking excellent.

“El, take him!” Steve cries out and feels a seismic wave knock him far from where he was standing, but he’s still grinning wide when he lands far in a heap, knocked hard but…this was the plan.

Everything goes dark very fast after he crumples in the ground, hears mostly yelling—rage and pain, triumph and total decimation—and it’s the last thing he does hear, might be the e last thing he hears ever, save for a desperate cry of one word before it all fucking fades:

“Steve!”

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

…..tbc??😬🫠

SERIOUSLY: I have nothing against people named Henry! I promise! 🫠

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @eternal-sunflowers @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and, oddly, also me!

87 notes · View notes

he-is-lightning-in-a-bottle · 2 years ago

Text

My God I Love This Show

I think I've rewatched that final breakroom scene from Jun & Jun episode 2 at least a dozen times since it first aired yesterday, and I need to rave about it in its own post rather than just tags.

That scene is... perfection.

First, for non-Korean speakers, it's important to note they've already dropped into banmal with each other in private (the most intimate and casual linguistic form of address). This establishes them as societal equals, despite their wildly different social positions as boss and employee. It was an intentional choice by Choi Jun at the end of episode 1, when he took off his glasses, leaned over the seated Lee Jun in his office and greeted him properly with "오랜만이야" (Long time no see.) The fact that he dropped into banmal here was likely a bigger clue to Lee Jun that they know each other intimately than the actual words Choi Jun chose.

So in the breakroom scene. (!!!) Choi Jun is radiating confident dom energy and Lee Jun is INTO IT. He begins by making sure Lee Jun wasn't hurt by scalding hot coffee and telling Lee Jun to take off his shirt. But then he does the most batshit dom thing ever and starts removing HIS OWN CLOTHES. He explains its because he has a spare shirt for himself and plans to dress Lee Jun in the shirt he's been wearing all day. Why? Because he has a scent kink! And he just says it out loud. He wants Lee Jun to smell like he's HIS.

He checks Lee Jun out like a starving man and asks, "would my size fit you?" WHICH IS THE WILDEST BLATANT SEXUAL INNUENDO and Lee Jun KNOWS its innuendo because he clutches his pearls with his hand over his heart and replies "don't people say you worry too much?" causing Choi Jun to call him cute. Lee Jun can't help but smile shyly at the compliment, and Choi Jun pounces, immediately switching gears and ordering him to hurry up and take off his shirt. Lee Jun asks "right here?" as if that's the only weird or concerning thing about being told to disrobe, so Choi Jun takes off his own vest. This man is doing everything in his power to both rattle and comfort his cute former idol childhood bestie, and I AM HOLDING MY BREATH FROM THE SEXUAL TENSION.

And then we get the first truly jaw-dropping scene. Choi Jun calls Lee Jun high maintenance (the Korean phrase is better translated as "You're a handful."). Lee Jun bristles and apologizes. Choi Jun steps closer and tells him he doesn't need to apologize; it's a compliment. He LIKES it when he needs to put his hands on someone to care for them and it makes them smell like him; it makes them feel like THEY ARE HIS. The collar caress!! The neck tie grab and pull!!! The audacity of starting to unbutton Lee Jun's shirt for him since he's taking too long!!!! MY HEAD EXPLODING.

Lee Jun freaks out a little and puts distance between them again, so they have another fun little conversation filled with innuendo about repaying favors American style, which Choi Jun says involves less clothing!

And then we get the second jaw-dropping scene right on the heels of the first. Choi Jun says Lee Jun has grown fiestier (he likes them feisty? just a guess), but that he's still "squishy" on the inside. Lee Jun is already looking 10 times more secure in this conversation, unhesitatingly flirting back through the entire next few dialog exchanges. The eye contact! THE MOST PERFECTLY EXECUTED WAIST GRAB!!

The "you can teach me!!!" The way Lee Jun takes that as permission to manhandle Choi Jun right back, grabbing his hands and moving him around like a marionette!!!!

THE NECK GRAB!!!!!

And that final last line from Choi Jun that sent me SCREAMING INTO MY PILLOWS:

Looking at the rolled up napkin in his hand, "Malleable is something soft..." and then looking at Lee Jun's lips like the very thirsty man he is, he finally makes eye-contact again and finishes with, "squishy is... something sexy?" Lee Jun gulps. Cut scene.

MY HEART CANNOT HANDLE HOW PERFECT THIS WAS. From the dialog to the body language to the eye-work to the kink exposure to the RIDICULOUSLY HOT EXPOSED FOREARMS ON CHOI JUN. I am in awe and Korea is FEEDING ME.

@absolutebl this seems like your jam

#jun & jun #jun & jun the series #jun and jun #korean bl #kdrama #asian gay dramas

905 notes · View notes

ohdorothea · 1 month ago

Text

more info about the tournament here!!!

lyrics under the cut <3

But Daddy I Love Him lyrics

I forget how the West was won

I forget if this was ever fun

I just learned these people only raise you to cage you

Sarahs and Hannahs in their Sunday best

Clutching their pearls, sighing, "What a mess"

I just learned these people try and save you

'Cause they hate you

Too high a horse

For a simple girl to rise above it

They slammed the door on my whole world

The one thing I wanted

Now I'm running with my dress unbuttoned

Screaming, "But Daddy, I love him!

I'm having his baby"

No, I'm not, but you should see your faces

I'm telling him to floor it through the fences

No, I'm not coming to my senses

I know he's crazy but he's the one I want

Dutiful daughter, all my plans were laid

Tendrils tucked into a woven braid

Growing up precocious sometimes means not growing up at all

He was chaos, he was revelry

Bedroom eyes like a remedy

Soon enough the elders had convened

Down at the city hall

"Stay away from her"

The saboteurs protested too much

Lord knows the words we never heard

Just screeching tires and true love

And I'm running with my dress unbuttoned

Screaming, "But Daddy, I love him!

I'm having his baby"

No, I'm not, but you should see your faces

I'm telling him to floor it through the fences

No, I'm not coming to my senses

I know he's crazy but he's the one I want

I'll tell you something right now

I'd rather burn my whole life down

Than listen to one more second of all this bitching and moaning

I'll tell you something about my good name

It's mine alone to disgrace

I don't cater to all these vipers dressed in empath's clothing

God save the most judgmental creeps

Who say they want what's best for me

Sanctimoniously performing soliloquies I'll never see

Thinking it can change the beat

Of my heart when he touches me

And counteract the chemistry

And undo the destiny

You ain't gotta pray for me

Me and my wild boy and all this wild joy

If all you want is gray for me

Then it's just white noise

And it's just my choice

There's a lot of people in town that I

Bestow upon my fakest smiles

Scandal does funny things to pride

But brings lovers closer

We came back when the heat died down

Went to my parents and they came around

All the wine moms are still holding out

But fuck 'em, it's over

Now I'm dancing in my dress in the sun, and

Even my daddy just loves him

I'm his lady

And oh my God, you should see your faces

Time, doesn't it give some perspective?

And no, you can't come to the wedding

I know he's crazy, but he's the one I want

I'll tell you something right now, you ain't gotta pray for me

Me and my wild boy and all of this wild joy

He was chaos, he was revelry

If all you want is gray for me

Then it's just white noise, and it's my choice

Screaming, "But Daddy, I love him!

I'm having his baby"

No, I'm not, but you

Should see your faces

But oh my God, you should see your faces

He was chaos, he was revelry

Florida!!! lyrics

You can beat the heat

If you beat the charges too

They said I was a cheat

I guess it must be true

And my friends all smell like weed or little babies

And this city reeks of driving myself crazy

Little did you know, your home's really only a town you're just a guest in

So you work your life away just to pay for a timeshare down in Destin

Florida!

Is one hell of a drug

Florida!

Can I use you up?

And the hurricane with my name, when it came

I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away

Barricaded in the bathroom with a bottle of wine

Well, me and my ghosts, we had a hell of a time

Yes, I'm haunted, but I'm feeling just fine

All my girls got their lace and their crimes

And your cheating husband disappeared, well

No one asks any questions here

So I did my best to lay to rest

All of the bodies that have ever been on my body

And in my mind, they sink into the swamp

Is that a bad thing to say in a song?

Little did you know, your home's really only the town you'll get arrested

So you pack your life away just to wait out the shitstorm back in Texas

Florida!

Is one hell of a drug

Florida!

Can I use you up?

I need to forget, so take me to Florida

I've got some regrets, I'll bury them in Florida

Tell me I'm despicable, say it's unforgivable

At least the dolls are beautiful, fuck me up, Florida!

I need to forget, so take me to Florida

I've got some regrets, I'll bury them in Florida

Tell me I'm despicable, say it's unforgivable

What a crash, what a rush, fuck me up, Florida!

It's one hell of a drug

Love left me like this

And I don't want to exist

So take me to Florida

Little did you know, your home's really only a town you're just a guest in

So you work your life away just to pay for a timeshare down in Destin (Take me to Florida)

Little did you know, your home's really only the town you'll get arrested (Take me to Florida)

So you pack your life away just to wait out the shitstorm back in Texas (Take me to)

Florida!

Is one hell of a drug

(Take me to) Florida!

Can I use you up?

Florida!

Is one hell of a drug

Florida!

Go on, fuck me up

#tsqst

50 notes · View notes

j0kers-light · 4 months ago

Note

Random arse request that popped in my head ( feel free to ignore )

How would J be with reader that is not a girly girl, more boisterous, buts heads with him when it comes to being told what to do, loves getting down & dirty with things ( tinkering with her Harley ) something along those lines Like heck, she carries her own concealed knife when she just goes to the shops.

Love you ✨️🩶

My beloved @jaysmentalspace bless you! 🖤✨

We need some tomboy!reader around here!! Come on in and I hope you enjoy. I love this request, thank you for sharing!😘 AND I ADORE YOU MORE!

You rolled your eyes the first time Joker gifted you a pink purse gleaming with diamond and charms ew. He learned the hard way you're not a girly girl. You set it on fire.

You prefer to get down and dirty, to get grease in between your fingers and have sweat running down your brow.

Messy buns and large overalls are your go-to outfit and you love a good pair of steel toed boots. It’s not weird for you to pull out a wrench from your back pocket than a tube of lipstick.

The only pink thing you own is a scrunchie and its your baby niece's. It has a home around your gear shift in your modified Chevy.

Joker is pleased to note you can handle your own. Loud and boisterous, you made it clear day one that he will not boss you around.

Your feisty attitude is why he’s so attracted to you. You get right in his face and tell him what’s good. He forgets why you’re mad at him, he’s 👁️🫦👁️

The first time you cuss him out, J literally clutches his pearls. His Bunny isn't a bunny after all. 👀 more like a tiger..

You win 6/10 of the arguments because you pick up something metal and heavy and wave it around like it’s a pencil. Joker shuts up real quick when your accent makes a rare appearance.

Joker is curious as to why you're never at home at night. You are at home, just not at the apartment.

The shop is your real home. You route all your mail there so it might as well be home. you have a bed there so 🤷🏽‍♀️

With rare parts mounted as artwork, bare concrete floors, the smell of fuel in the air, music constantly blasting, and tools scattered everywhere, there’s really no place like home.

You lost hours tinkering on a car or six and most importantly, your bike. She’s your baby. Your pride and joy and you gave J quite the stare when you talk about her out of context.

"I gotta check on Harley. She probably misses me, I'm spending all my time with you."

He freezes like a computer screen. Is this a joke? Are you seriously friends with his psychotic ex? What other Harley are you referring to?

Granted at the time, Joker had no clue what you did during the nights he's gone. He knows you're well protected (he's seen your concealed knives when you polish them at home)

You're like a ninja with the accuracy you throw them. He's been a target once or twice... very pointy. 👀

No, he’s not afraid of you getting hurt, more like he's afraid for the other person who dares to mess with ya.

"I'm tellin ya Boss. This chop shop on Dorian St. keeps refusing to pay for protection. We need to send a message."

It was a mere suggestion. A low priority on Joker's list but he had nothing better to do so he gathered a few of his goons and headed over to this shop.

How dare this shop operate on his turf and not follow the rules? He gets 50% of profit or they have an unfortunate accident. What’s so hard to understand?

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to annoy him. You didn't answer any of Joker’s texts or calls today so he was already in a sour mood. Perhaps delivering this message would relieve some stress.

Joker and his goons stormed the shop thinking it would house several people, given that multiple cars were hoisted up on mechanic lifts. It would take a big crew to restore them all.

Joker eyed a bike parked away from the rest of the vehicles. It stood out and called to him.

He immediately took his knife to it. The destruction drew everyone's attention—even yours despite you welding on a car in the back.

Someeone had stopped your shop music. You were supposed to be alone for the night—you locked up tight after Jason left. You stopped welding and flipped up your mask to investigate.

You rounded the row of modded cars in various states of repair to witness your boyfriend sabotaging your baby.

Someone to your right noticed your presence and drew their gun. Soon a chain reaction occurred until the entire shop was waiting with bated breath for Joker's orders. To shoot or not to shoot?

He was still abusing your bike when one of his goons coughed. "Uh Boss?"

Joker did a double take seeing you standing in the middle of his men—glaring at him like he was the bad guy. Oh. He was, but still!

"B-Bunny? Whatcha doin' here?" J asked.

You threw your welder’s helmet at Joker in anger. He caught it and that seemed to set you off even more.

"What the f__k does it look like I'm doing, Joker?! I'm working! And you... you destroyed Harley!" You wailed as you ran over to access the damage.

Everyone else cringed at the name you dropped. Did you not know? Obviously not.

Your focus was solely on your vintage motorcycle.

Her handlebars were bent, her sick paint job ruined, and did he really have to carve a penis onto the leather seat? "Really Joker? What are you five?"

"I.. uh.."

"Uh uh uh what? Speak up J! Do you normally go around trashing people's prized possessions on a Thursday night? D__n it, you owe me new parts, J! And I want them new."

You glared at a guy who was staring too hard at your tube top and overalls combo. You were alone for the night so you didn’t think your outfit was an issue, but the multiple eyes on you ticked you off.

"And whaddya lookin' at you f__king perv? Aint neva seen a pair of tits before? Yeah that it? Why don't I give ya something to look at then?"

You balled your fist, preparing to swing when Joker dragged you back. "Woahhhh easy there doll.." He joked.

You whirled on him instead.

"I ain't a doll! You and your gang of dickheads can get the f__k outta my shop before I put them to work! Nothin’ but a bunch of sorry sons of b___hes. Move out my way! Breaking in an’ ruining my s__t.."

You pushed past Joker’s stunned goons towards your office so you can start ordering replacement parts.

Meanwhile Joker is standing there like... So that's my girlfriend everyone.

36 notes · View notes

ladybugmania · 18 days ago

Text

To the Republican clickbaiters, rage farmers, and basement-dwelling truth benders.

Let me spell it out slowly, since nuance seems to elude you:

I am not a Democrat. And definitely not Republican.

Not a puppet like y'all, not their pawn, not anyone's programmable echo.

I don't bow to governments. Not left-wing, not right-wing, not the hollow illusion of wings on a beast that never flies. At the moment I can smell a stink that smells as bad as 1933. if you dare research it. But I don't think you can. You're all sucked in the conspiracy theory. Taken in so deep it's like the vortex of a black hole with no return.

I serve no flag but my own mind, no master but my conscience, and clearly, that terrifies you.

What's beautiful, though, truly poetic, is how my so-called “garbage posts” are haunting your timelines like a ghost you can’t exorcise.

Watching how the truth somehow crawls under your skin. The way my words, chaotic, raw, and unfiltered, poke at your fragile egos and rattle your tiny echo chambers. It’s delicious. You hate me, but you can’t look away. That’s art, baby.

So keep twisting in your outrage. Keep clutching your pearl-stained keyboards. Because if what I write disturbs your sleep, good. That means it’s working.

It means I'm creeping under your skin and getting to you. Getting what I want.

My words? They burrow in deep, don’t they?

Crawling past your talking points, nesting in your insecurities, dancing in the cobwebs of your groupthink.

You call it nonsense, yet you can’t stop reading.

You hate it, but you feed on it.

I’m not debating you, I’m dissecting you.

And you feel it.

So go ahead, keep labeling me, keep gasping like fish in your ideological fishbowl.

Just know, I’m not here to fit in your box.

I’m here to rattle it.

And clearly, mission accomplished.

With all the love your hollow souls can’t process,

– The voice under your skin,

the glitch in your algorithm,

the mind you can’t control.

Sincerely, The shadow in your algorithm.

(Not a Democrat, definitely not a Republican.

Just your worst kind of free thinker)

PS. This isn't steered to all Republicans, just the stupid dumb ones. The ones who are blinded and gagged. Taken deep into the MAGA cult. Brainwashed . The ones who bow to their masters, because that's the only way they can survive their hollow existence. Slaves to an ideology from the ORANGE idiot.

21 notes · View notes

shares-a-vest · 1 year ago

Text

@steddiemas Day 6: Baking and Cookie Decorating (Winter Wednesday)

Sicky-sweet Steddie decorating cookies from Dustin's (very irritated) POV

“Steve! What the fuck?”

“Dusty!”

He stills at the sight of his mother, materialising from behind the island countertop with a fresh tray of Christmas cookies in hand. Yeah sure, they smell delicious but Dustin still manages to make the intended disapproving face at her chiding.

Honestly, the woman swears like a sailor. She’s only scolding him because they have company. That company being Steve, who is currently standing at the counter too, piping bag in one hand and a cookie in the other as he stares back at him like a guppy.

Dustin glares. If he was still going to hang around here so much, why didn’t he just move in with them and not the Munsons when his parents skipped town?

He purses his lips. Eddie.

This all has to have something to do with Eddie. Why else would Steve be standing in the kitchen, wearing a frilly apron and looking far too pleased with himself while he and Dustin’s mother bake what can only be described as an industrial amount of Christmas cookies?

He has that look too, all angelic and innocent and cozy like an absolute dingus. The same look Steve has had on his face ever since he and Eddie announced they were an item.

A sicky-sweet, ooey-gooey annoying item.

Dustin opens his mouth to say all of that but he catches Steve catches his eye and smirks at him. Shit.

He looks at the cookies, smelling a hint of cinnamon.

Steve quickly returns to his task: shakily piping icing onto the cookie in his hand just in the knick of time as Dustin’s mother turns around.

Goddamn it, their aprons match.

Dustin pinches his nose.

“Steve wanted to make some cookies for Eddie and Wayne,” his mother explains, arranging the newly baked tray on the counter in what appears to be her typical assembly line.

“Yeah…” Steve nods, channelling any shred of concentration he has into the wobbly icing he is applying to a tree-shaped cookie a mere inch from his face.

Dustin reaches for the platter plate filled with neatly decorated cookies but his mother waves his hand away.

“I don’t get any!” he asks, “They can’t all be for Eddie!”

“No,” his mother says and he smiles as she gestures to a Tupperware container already filled, “Those are for Wayne to take for his last shift at the Plant before Christmas break.”

“And mine are…”

“Oh, Dusty!” she grumbles, “I’ll make you some another time! I thought you’d be gone all afternoon.”

“I ran out of money.”

“Poured your pocket money into trying to beat the Star Wars Flyer high score again, didn’t you?” Steve mocks, snorting a laugh as he sets a cookie on the Christmas plate.

Steve’s icing efforts are so wobbly and uneven that they look as if he has left them out on his back decking on a hot summer afternoon.

“No,” Dustin lies, “I – ”

The sound of the door out to the backyard squeaks open and Eddie skips inside like he’s a perfectly-timed sidekick from a goddamn TV show.

Dustin glares again. Bingo!

“Ms H.,” Eddie says, giving a faint salute before producing a bag of something from behind his back.

“Thank you, thank you thank you!”

Dustin watches, mouth agape as his mother makes a beeline for Eddie, takes the bag of flour (as the label says) and kisses the idiot right on his cheek.

Eddie smiles, his deceptively cherubic dimples indenting his cheeks as he flutters his eyelashes like the world’s biggest kiss-ass.

He then rounds the counter and slips onto the kitchen stool, practically knocking Dustin off his axis as he goes.

“Dusty,” he quips, straight in his ear.

“Piss off!” Dustin curses, flinging his arm through the non-existent space between them to shrug him off.

“Dusty!”

Eddie raises a hand to his chest, clutching his proverbial pearls, “So rude of you to speak to a guest like that, Dustin. And in your mother’s home!”

Steve barks a laugh, squeezing his piping bag enough that a great blob of icing plops onto a bare cookie.

“Oh, no,” he mumbles, looking down at the spillage utterly shell-shocked.

Eddie plucks a cookie from the Christmas plate, and Dustin folds his arms with a huff as he watches him hold it up without any protests from his mother.

He holds the cookie up, examining it carefully.

“Did you make this all by yourself, Stevie?” Eddie feigns wondering aloud, using that tone he does with Steve that is all flirtatious.

“With Claudia’s help,” Steve replies, smiling all sickly sweet it makes Dustin want to barf.

Again – ooey-gooey and just so goddamn annoying.

Claudia elbows Steve in the side and chuckles, “I only provided the recipe, really.”

“You’re giving away family recipes now!” Dustin complains.

“I’d hardly call Gan-Gan’s recipes sacred,” his mother defends, making a face, “In fact, I’ve changed them so much over the years, they are more mine than hers, so I can give them to who I damn well please.”

Eddie leans forward, pointedly looking at Dustin and nods in condescending agreement, his scraggly hair flopping in his face

His mother doesn’t catch it – she never does – and simply turns back to the oven. Meanwhile, Steve reaches for another cookie and hands it across the counter.

Dustin perks up until he bypasses him and hands Eddie another treat.

“Here,” he says with a flick of the wrist, “Try this one.”

Eddie again scrutinizes the treat, pouting and all considerate with the typical level of dorky theatrics Steve seems to go ga-ga for.

In rolling his eyes, Dustin regrettably glances at Steve, who is biting his lip with anticipation.

Eddie takes a bite, humming loud and rather obscenely and yet, once again, Dustin witnesses no scandalised response from his mother.

“You like it?” Steve smiles.

“Takes as good as you, sugarplum,” Eddie hums, dropping – and spitting – crumbs everywhere.

“Guys!” Dustin begs, fearing his eyes are going to roll into the back of his skull and never return, “Stop it!”

“Dusty!” now his mother stands to attention, “You can stop being so rude!”

Eddie snickers and hops up from his seat to stand impossibly close to Steve at the counter. Steve hands him the piping bag, the pair grinning at each other as they set about decorating yet another tray of Christmas cookies.

Dustin stomps his foot and marches out of the kitchen, ignoring the chorus of giggles behind him.

#sooo late with this one in my timezone 😅#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #dustin henderson #claudia henderson #henderfam #steddie ficlet #steddiemas #claudia henderson 🐈

187 notes · View notes

gerec · 2 months ago

Note

to make up for the lack of asks for vampire/werewolf/other supernatural creature au recs, please share some of your favorite cherik aus along these lines o rec god?

You know we really went through a period in fandom where werewolf and vampire fics were all the rage lol. Trying to lump them all together would make the post too long so I'm breaking them up and just doing werewolf aus here and will do a separate one for other supernatural creatures.

Also, I did a vampire aus one a while ago but it needs an update. Still the ones listed are amazing and definitely worth checking out!

Here's my previous post with a list of Vampire AUs.

And here are some recs for awesome Werewolf AUs!

Dancing in the Rain by Pangea, velvetcadence

Werewolf alpha Erik found a human pup Charles alone in the forest and took him back to his lair. Erik protected and cared for the boy, though he was barely a mature wolf himself.

A few years passed, Charles grew up so pretty, and Erik was afraid he would miss his kind and go back to them, leaving Erik to be alone again - but Charles stayed and chose to be Erik’s mate.

Skin Deep by manic_intent (series)

Erik happens upon a seemingly abandoned mansion in Westchester during a full moon and finds an insanely clueless werewolf living in isolation.

Tooth and Nail by TurtleTotem

Erik is no longer part of Charles's pack. It's none of his business who he takes as a mate.

Supernatural and the Scientist by Caradee

Charles Xavier is a upcoming geneticist and wildlife biologist who’s next big thesis reveals a little to much about the hidden werewolf community. Now Erik Lehnsehrr is suppose to figure out who it is feeding Xavier the information and put an end to it.

However, things are not what they appear.

Moon Song by ikeracity

When Charles is captured by hunters, Erik and his pack go after him. It turns out there might be some room for redemption left for both of them after all.

Open Season by Caradee

Charles is a adorable omega wolf who has no sense for pack dynamics and wanders on his own. Erik is the exhausted Alpha of the pack who is unfortunately smitten with him. Its hunting season, nothing can go wrong. Right?

More Than All The World (The Werewolf's Tale) by luninosity

An Erik/Charles story very loosely based on Marie de France’s 12th-century French werewolf tale, in which Erik is the man transformed into a wolf (he’ll get changed back by the end, it’s not that kind of story, though they very definitely do fall in love) and Charles is a king and eventually there’s a happy ending. Also, a villain’s nose gets bitten off.

Dear Neighbour Mine by issabella

Charles is a telepathic werewolf living next door to a vampire who favours severe black turtlenecks and metal coffins.

Of course they have to annoy each other first, before dangerous circumstances bring them together.

Du riechst so gut by ximeria (series)

Charles moves into a new neighbourhood and makes a couple of new friends - most of all Erik and Erik's doberman: Sherman - who's a terrible chatterbox, but Charles wouldn't miss it for the world. He's getting information about his hot neighbour from the closest possible source.

dog days by faerie_ground

My name is Erik Lehnsherr,” the boy says. “I am a werewolf. I killed your brother and father, and took your legs.”

Charles stares at Erik, and Erik looks back, full of wracked guilt, practically skin and bone. “You know,” Charles says after a while, “I really feel like it might be more fruitful to have this conversation when I can look at you without wanting to clutch at my pearls.”

lycanthropy by waitfornight

Come back, Charles.

It’s a beloved voice that whispers in the spaces between what’s left of his human consciousness and the wild and fraying, thornier parts of his mind. He tips his muzzle into the wind to scent the air, smelling the rain and old rot of trees and damp, rich earth. Farther out, much farther, in the village set deep in the valley hidden away by green hills he catches the scent of smoke and sooty ash of a fire that’s been burning on through the night in the hope of keeping him at bay.

On the Scent by dedkake

The full moon is nearing and Charles decides to visit his neighbor.

A Tale of Two Kingdoms by Pangea

Does not ebb by StarkMad

Prompt: "...I would love a fic with Charles and Erik in an Underworld AU basically with Charles as Selene's character and Erik as Michael Corvin's character

and/ooor nonnie could do an Underworld: Rise of the Lycans and Charles as Sonja's character and Erik as Lucian

A Boy Like That Will Give You Sorrow (The Lions and Lambs Remix) by A (mumblemutter), cm (mumblemutter) In which Charles is 200 years old and Erik is Bella, Jacob and a Shark all at the same time.

Counting Bodies like Sheep (To the Rhythm of War Drums) by cm (mumblemutter)

Erik was born broken, their father always told Charles.

#gerec rambles #cherik #werewolf aus #fic rec #gerec's fic rec

24 notes · View notes

lottiecrabie · 1 year ago

Note

you know how lorde brought jack out at one of her shows and he played the guitar while she sang and they were very touchy feely and just gazing at each other the entire time? imagine a blurb like that on gto readers tour when her and matty are just friends now but there is still definitely underlying tension the entire time

i Know where this blurb idea came from I see you🫵

the screams rain over you, a torrential wave of love that you can’t help grinning at. you sit there, legs hanging off the stage, gripping your mic in silent awe. the world ripples in front of you, bodies of people — real, tangible, knowledgeable of your lyrics better than you sometimes — face you. the room seems larger, like entire cities could fit between these walls, like everyone you’ve ever known could be smiling back at you.

you use the energy like fuel. pretend your heart isn’t racing up your throat as you tilt up the mic. ‘i have a surprise for you guys,’ you say, teasing, confessional. another wave of screams, delighted in just being special. you laugh. ‘there’s a really special person here tonight. the producer of this album, my dear friend—‘ you barely need to let the name out, high-pitched cries already drowning it out, but still; ‘matty healy!’

he comes from backstage and he cracks the world open. stagelight transforms in soft sun rays, shining over your head until sweat pearls your forehead. strawberry ice cream lingers on your tongue. the faint smell of cigarette comes through, burning in the heat. he’s summer, even in the thick of this december month. you have to blink away, blind.

there’s a part of you way that will always be in august, and it throbs when he’s around you.

matty sits down beside you, offered a guitar by some worker. he waves to the crowd, working his charm easily. you have no sun to blame this flush on. you hope the stage makeup hides it, stop yourself from pressing the cold microphone to your cheeks and draw attention to it.

‘hello,’ you say. ‘not too tired?’

‘never,’ he answers, though it’s lost to the ears of the crowd, micless that he is.

‘i warmed the crowd up for you.’

‘you’re—‘ you aim the mic his way, graciously allowing the public into this moment, ‘—too sweet.’ you want to laugh. your chest tightens, in the habitual ways it still hasn’t learned not to.

something in you is angry that he’d dare say it here, in front of anyone, in front of everyone. not because he’s sharing anything personal, anything momental; because he’s not. to him, too sweet is any other phrase, and you’re left reeling from the slap he doesn’t know he gave.

‘we made pygmalion two summers ago, in this very city,’ you say conversationally, addressing the crowd. ‘i lived here for four months and so, forever, london will be the intrinsic pygmalion city. i don’t think i can walk any street without being washed with it.’

‘i live here and there’s still places i can’t visit without being reminded of pygmalion,’ matty says in the cadence of a joke. you chuckle for him, ever gracious.

‘there’s still wines i can’t drink,’ you attempt to volley back, but it starts feeling a little too raw, a little too real. you get the uncomfortable impression of being under a microscope, and you clutch the microphone with the need to swallow it all back.

matty steals the mic from your hands, eyes wrinkling with mirth. ‘this one used to say she didn’t like red wine.’

you roll your eyes, taking it back. ‘yes, well, i just—‘

again, matty’s fingers brush yours, angling the mic back to him. ‘—never drank the correct sort, yes, i told you so.’

‘stop taking my mic!’ you laugh, giving a look to the public as you gesture to him. ‘it’s a wonder we finished any song with all of this.’ you sit up straighter, attempting to put the show back on track. ‘and yet we did. you might know this one, it’s called galatea.’

again, a new wave of excited screams wash you. galatea is always a highlight of the night. the broken lyrics that come back to you, sung and cried, tears filling the eyes of the first row until you have to look away. this time, you don’t even attempt to watch them, instead turning to face matty, crossed-legged.

his fingers strum the chords familiarly; you croon the first words. you get projected on a sofa, red lights drenching the two of you, the stars shining just for you. he’s so known you might choke up. you have moved on, you promise yourself you have, but what can you do with all the knowledge you gain of someone? where do the memories go when you’ve stopped needing to play them back every night just to fall asleep. they can’t cease to exist, yet they can’t fit in the palms of your hands either.

his eyebrows tilt as he concentrates, bobbing his head. a curl strikes his forehead and you stop yourself from reaching up and brushing it away. parts of you wake up, called to attention. the need to wish and hope and yearn; to exist in the possible, nearly-not but just enough that it’s exquisitely painful. you think of new lyrics, you hate yourself for it.

the chorus cries out of you. you scoot closer, sing it to him. you’re back in a booth, angry eyes pinning him down vengefully. matty glances up and there must be something in you that has quietened, that has folded over and surrendered. he doesn’t look away from your stare. he doesn’t get overwhelmed with the weight of it.

your hand flies to his knee, as if to make sure he’s real. he is; flesh and muscle and that stubborn heart of his, beating somewhere far away from you.

for all the sun he represents, he doesn’t burn anymore. it’s a soft sting, like another memory buzzing in you. your fingers retreat. mournfully, you sing the next lyric.

you whisper the last words out, smiling faintly. his fingers halt. he stops suddenly; he’s there and then he’s not, per usual. the cries roar back to you. for all the worlds that exist in this very room, they always seem to cease when he’s beside you. a summery cocoon you craft out of nothings, one that’s off somewhere in a london apartment.

you turn back to the crowd, remind yourself of everything that is real too. ‘thank you,’ you whisper to them, a hand to your chest, vaguely bowing. thank you for being there when the ground doesn’t seem to hold you up anymore. you look at him. and then, a grin, waving an arm to him. ‘matty healy, everyone!’

#this is Barely flirty and mostly just rly angsty Sorry😭#angst #blurb #galatea take one #ask #matty healy x reader

99 notes · View notes

raccoonfallsharder · 1 year ago

Text

go to frickin' bed ✩࿐࿔ (the captain says to)

hey kiddo. snuggle up in your favorite blanket. drink some sleepytime tea. stop doomscrolling. let rocket put on his dad-glasses and read you a bedtime story. captain's orders.

in honor of it being finals season for many of you, i'm resharing the go to frickin' bed already drabble/minific from ✩࿐࿔ take what you need here, in full. ao3 version here.

fluff | gn reader | no use of y/n | drabbles | word count: 737.

You almost don’t hear him at first.

“Hey.” Rock snaps his fingers at you. “You with me?”

“Mmm?” You pick your eyes up from your work, and you’re surprised by how much they weigh. “Sorry? What?”

Rocket’s standing next to the couch, staring at you. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just catching up on some stuff,” you tell him, grimacing down at the Terran laptop cradled on your thighs. You close your eyes in annoyance, and wonder if you can get away with just, like, not opening them again.

“You look like shit.”

“And you know how to turn on the sweet-talk,” you say mildly.

“How much sleep did you get last night?”

You frown and reach for your coffee mug - take a sip before you realize it’s room-temperature, and grimace. You set the caffeine back down. “I don’t know. Like…” You try to calculate when you went to bed, then adjust for the time you probably spent scrolling on your phone, and compare it to when your alarm went off this morning. “Like, maybe fourish hours? Could’ve been five, but I woke up in the middle and it was hard to turn my brain off.”

His carnelian eyes narrow, and his ears flick toward you. “Aren’t you Terran humies supposed to get, like, seventeen hours of sleep or something?”

You choke. “What? No. That’s, like, cats or something. What the hell?”

“Well, how many, then?”

“Like - eight. Ideally. But I think some people need more and some need less.”

He eyes you witheringly. “I can tell you right now, you ain’t one of the ones who needs less.”

An exhausted laugh stumbles up your ribs and over your lips. “You’re such an ass.”

His eyes are still narrowed, tracking you. He pulls a thin piece of tech out of his pocket, then looks at you. “When d’you gotta get up tomorrow?”

You pull up your calendar. “God. Uh. Probably in like – ten hours?”

He holds up a clawed finger. “I’ll be back in one. Then I’m taking you to bed.”

You clutch imaginary pearls. “Buy me dinner first, dude.”

“Ohhh,” he drawls. “I see. You got jokes.” He’s still brandishing that single, sharp-clawed finger, extending his arm till it’s an inch away from the tip of your nose. “One hour. Get your shit together and in a good place to stop by then.” He snags your coffee mug. “And no more of this frickin’ poison tonight.” He gives you that stupid wink of his and turns to swagger away before tossing over his shoulder, “Captain’s orders.”

“Geeezus,” you groan, but as soon as he’s rounded the corner, you start trying to figure out what you can do before it’s time to wrap up. When Rocket gets an idea in his head, it’s not like you can do anything to stop him.

Sure enough, he’s back – too soon. You’d lost track of time once again, which is probably why you never go to bed at a reasonable hour in the first place.

What’s surprising isn’t that he’s back, but that he has a mug in his hands. From here, you can smell something peppermint-sweet, and you know it’s the Usarkian bedtime tea that Mantis brings you whenever she passes by Knowhere.

“C’mon,” he says impatiently, and you sigh and close your laptop. He stops you before you can bundle everything up in your arms, soundlessly handing you the tea while he collects your belongings and gestures for you to follow him with a brisk nod of his head. You sip the tea carefully as you trail after him – but he waits while you drink it, while you brush your teeth and get changed. “In,” he orders.

You want to tell him, This is fuckin’ ridiculous – but it’s also kind of nice. Meekly, you slide into bed, and he fully tucks you in, pulling the blankets up to your chin. Your eyes must be huge, but you let him, and you might think you had already fallen asleep and that this is all a dream – except he’s scowling and grumbling I gotta take care of everything around here while he fusses with the blankets, and that’s how you know he hasn’t been bodysnatched or something.

“All right,” he says gruffly. “I’m turnin’ out the lights.”

That brandished claw is back.

“And put your frickin’ phone-thing away, or I’ll turn off the Terran internet. You know I will.”

remember: brains don't retain jackshit without sleep, nutrients, and moments of rest.

you got this. you're gonna win your finals.

check the ✩࿐࿔ take what you need masterlistfor more self-care reminders, including eat somethin, take a fuckin study break, and drink some goddamn water (yeah that still means you).

75 notes · View notes

thetomorrowshow · 2 years ago

Text

Joel thinks it’s stupid, really.

Once they figure it out.

Soulmates, Grian messages them all. I think it’s soulmates.

Which makes sense, with the random pains shooting through his legs that he feels on occasion. He’s sharing a life with someone—or, three lives—and they feel each others’ pain.

Which is dumb. Because Joel doesn’t need or want a soulmate, and he doesn’t care much for the idea of having to share his life with someone and make sure they’re safe. He’s not here to be babysitting another player.

That’s what he would be doing, he’s sure. Babysitting someone. Not that everyone would be, of course—there are some players that he knows instantly will be paired up, because if such a thing as real soulmates exist, they would be them. Grian and Scar. Scott and Jimmy. Bdubs and Etho.

No one for him.

No one for Joel because he’s always been a loner. For as long as he can remember he’s been on his own in these games—in the first one he had his cottage on the hill (so long ago that he can barely remember what it looked like, he can only remember it burning and the flames licking up at him and melting his skin and the smell of his hair and he has to put it out—), and in the games since, he’s been alone. Alliances that last little more than a week, here and there, and somehow he always ends up at Grian’s side at the end of things, but he’s never actually teamed up with anyone else.

He doesn’t want a soulmate. He doesn’t want another player going through his things, walking through his space, just being near him when he’s angry and needs time alone to cool off.

But there’s a morbid curiosity, he supposes. Because he can’t help but wonder who on earth the universe would think to pair him with.

So every person he sees, he socks in the arm (and if he hits a little harder than is considered friendly, he can blame it on adrenaline).

He actually witnesses a soulmate pair find each other before he finds his own.

And, strangely, it’s Bdubs and Impulse.

For a moment, he thinks that can’t be right—he can envision Bdubs with Etho, or Cleo, but not Impulse. And while Impulse is easygoing enough, Bdubs is a wildcard. Impulse’s sense of order is going to be completely upturned by Bdubs and his harebrained ideals.

Maybe. It’s not like Joel actually knows either of them very well.

And then they’re all mining together, and Etho trips.

And Joel feels his knees sting.

Joel doesn’t want to settle down anywhere, at all ever, but after a bunch of fooling around with Grian and Scar (soulmates, just as he’d predicted, of course), he starts. . . .

Not laying down roots. He really ought to get something started, just like everyone else, but that’s just it: everyone else has something started. Everyone else has planted crops and fenced in some animals and set out to get building blocks.

Prime opportunity for raiding some new farms, and to his surprise, Etho absolutely agrees.

For a moment, Joel can forget that they’re linked—he’s just hanging out with a group of friends, laughing at Jimmy, stealing a bit of wheat when nobody’s looking, the norm. Then Etho takes an absurd amount of damage—Joel definitely doesn’t fall back against the crafting table they’ve set up for making armor, definitely doesn’t gasp and clutch at his chest, like he can stop his heart from leaping out of it—and he’s rather rudely reminded that his life isn’t solely his own.

Oh, he hates this already.

Etho calls an apology, but Joel can’t see him through the woods—if they die here and it’s Etho’s fault, he’s never going to forgive him, soulbond or no—so he heads forward, only to find Etho panting beside an enderman in a boat.

“Tricky getting him to walk into it,” Etho says offhandedly, and this could be ender pearls for them if they play their cards right.

Ender pearls are perfect for quick escapes, and if they decide to go with Scar’s absolutely insane plan of trying to take over that outpost, he and Etho are going to need an escape.

He swings with his axe at the angry creature. Easy. Easy pearls, the thing stuck in the boat like a sitting duck.

And then he swings again.

And he hits the boat.

Within seconds, he’s dead.

It’s dark at spawn, and Joel can barely keep from crying in frustration. The enderman had been in the blummin’ boat! All he had to do was hit it a couple of times and they were set!

“I’m so sorry, Etho,” he says, and he hates it. He hates that he has to say that.

He’d been worried about having to babysit another player, keep his lives safe in their hands, but here he is, having stolen a person’s life from them.

He lost Etho their first life, smart Etho who would never mess up killing an enderman in a boat, and now he has to own up to it and live with it.

“I know I messed up first,” Etho says, his eyes crinkling a bit in a way that, combined with the flat tone of his voice, tells Joel he’s definitely frowning. “But I think you messed up way worse there.”

Joel’s familiar with anger—very familiar—but it feels foreign coming from Etho. He ducks his head, runs back through the darkness to wherever it was that they’d died. Something akin to shame is curdling in his stomach, and it’s his fault that they died and Etho’s being weird about it and not yelling, meaning he’s the type to go all cold and calm with anger.

They gather their things from Impulse and Bdubs, then mess around a bit with boats—and maybe he’s just hiding it really well, but Etho doesn’t seem angry, it’s the strangest thing and Joel almost dreads the moment they’re alone together—before joining Grian and Scar on that horribly stupid plan to take over the outpost. It fails, of course, but no one gets seriously hurt and they get to lure a bunch of Pillagers into Bdubs’s stupid little house that he’s building for Impulse.

They hop around for probably a week, never alone, just watching everyone else start on their bases, before they finally set down a couple of chests and furnaces and get to work.

And Etho . . . isn’t mad.

In fact, as Joel starts laying out the foundation for his—their base, Etho comes up beside him, silently surveying, hands in his pockets.

“I don’t blame you for us being Yellow, by the way,” he says casually, and Joel almost chokes on his own spit.

“Sorry, what?”

Etho shrugs. “It was going to happen to one of us at some point,” he says. “And in my eyes? Better you than me, ‘cuz now I get to tease you for it.”

Is that. . . .

Was that a joke?

Etho leaves, and Joel’s left alone with his thoughts and a bunch of wood planks.

He’d thought Etho was boring. He’s always been the quiet, redstone-y kind of guy that Joel can’t stand—not that there’s anything wrong with that! Joel just needs somebody fast-moving, on his level, ready to burn down a building without questions or hesitation.

It’s just one joke. Anyone can make a joke, that doesn’t mean anything about their personality or character. For instance, Joel makes jokes all the time, and he’s a total jerk.

Etho can’t be likable. Sure, he was fine to wander around with for the past couple of days, causing general chaos, but he’s a bore and likes redstone. He won’t be able to keep up with Joel.

But Etho hovers there while he works, occasionally giving little suggestions to the build, and after he wanders off for the afternoon, he comes back with his eyes crinkled over his mask and bragging about some wool farm he’d built.

He doesn’t need help to build this ship. He doesn’t need to depend on anyone to get wool. He especially doesn’t need to depend on Etho, all dry looks and gloating and frowns.

Joel works alone. He always has.

But his indifference to Etho isn’t making him leave, so Joel decides to do what he does best.

Be annoying.

“I’m his biggest fan,” Joel boasts to anyone who’ll listen. “You guys know I looove redstone. Just like Etho. He’s perfect.”

Grian gives Scar a look. Scar doesn’t notice.

“We’re very happy—we have a lovely ‘Relation’ship, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re the best pair on the server, actually.”

Scott gives Cleo a look. Cleo does notice.

“Etho’s probably the best at everything in the world. He’s so good at . . . redstone. And . . . all the stuff you do with it. That’s why we’re practically made for each other.”

“I’m gonna be honest with you, you sound kind of. . . .” Jimmy trails off, glancing over at Tango for support.

“Like you’re compensating for something? Unhappy? Inadequate?” Tango suggests helpfully.

“A-absolutely untrue!” Joel sputters, then clears his throat and turns away, nose high. “I’m going to get back to working on me and Etho’s perfect ‘Relation’ship, thank you very much.”

“You’re short!” Jimmy calls as parting words. Joel ignores him.

In total opposition to what he’s been spending the past couple of days declaring, once he finishes the bedroom space of the ship, he places his bed and Etho’s bed on opposite sides of the room.

“You stay over there, and I stay over here, all right?” Joel says that night, pointing to their respective beds. “I’m not a cuddler. I don’t like people in my space.”

“But Joel, I thought you were my biggest fan!” Etho wheedles. There’s a glint in those crinkled eyes that tells Joel he’s heard the stuff Joel’s been saying.

Which is frustrating, and immediately takes all the fun out of it. He’d wanted Etho to be mad about his obnoxiousness, to refuse to speak to him, to mock him in return until their partnership inevitably dissolved.

But Etho—his eyes are crinkling, the way they did back when they first died and when he finished the wool farm and then later, when Joel showed him around the ship’s process and he silently nodded before walking off.

“It’s okay, Joel, I know you love me even if you need space,” Etho tells him now, mirth clear in his voice, and Joel realizes that maybe that look isn’t one of anger or disapproval, as he’d first thought. Maybe Etho is . . . smiling.

That’s not good.

It’s not good at all, because if Etho likes him, then Joel. . . .

Joel has to at least try to like him back, doesn’t he? It’s not like he’s the worst guy to be around, after all. He was actually a lot of fun in that first week, running around and stealing and bothering people together.

Maybe he was wrong.

As it turns out, when Joel decides he can like Etho, Etho becomes a whole lot more likable.

Etho’s brave—he goes out and enchants his stuff, and Impulse tells the story of them being chased by no less than three Wardens and Etho somehow surviving (Joel’s heart skips a beat in his chest at the most tense moments of the story, and Etho casually slugs his shoulder when he looks up to check his soulmate’s okay). He’s strong—not everyone can just run around the Deep Dark all day in full armor and live to tell the tale.

And he totally gets Joel’s sense of humor. He snorts at Joel’s contrived puns, mocks Martyn’s house relentlessly, finds Jimmy’s failures just as hilarious as they actually are.

Joel can’t remember, in recent memory, ever having someone like this. Someone he actually enjoys the company of, someone whom he appreciates and who appreciates him in turn. Someone to talk to, to listen to—and while Etho is a bit quiet, it’s not because he’s boring and isn’t thinking about anything. Joel thinks he just forgets to speak sometimes, and will gladly talk about anything if Joel asks him to.

Sure, he’s had friends. He’s always gotten along with Grian and Jimmy and, really, everyone on the server, when pressed. But none of them are Etho, exactly.

Which is bad. It’s bad because Joel is getting attached, he’s getting complacent, he’s getting happy—

That’s dangerous. This is a death game.

And maybe all that emotional-friend-love stuff works for the likes of Scott, but that’s just not Joel’s modus operandi. He can’t—he can’t be like that. He can’t get close.

“Redstoners and builders don’t work out together, you know,” he says to Etho early one morning. They’d both risen before the sun, for some reason (anxiety, perhaps, as more players become Yellow and fire proves to be a very useful tool) and had decided, without discussion, to sit in the crow’s nest, legs swinging in the air.

Etho hums quietly in that way that means he’s listening, the way he always does when Joel comes over to bother him. Patient, mellow, waiting to see where he’s going with it.

“Seriously, it never works,” Joel continues. “Their brains are too different. You’d think they’d work well, ‘cuz they cover different bases and all that, but it’s the opposite. They just butt heads all the time. It never works.”

“What about Bdubs and Impulse?”

Joel shrugs. “I mean, they both know a good amount of both, right? That’s different.”

There’s a smile to Etho’s voice when he speaks. “Tango and Jimmy?”

“Only if you’re calling Jimmy a builder,” Joel snorts. “In which case, you’re dead wrong.”

Etho makes a show of thinking—he props his chin up on his hand, taps his finger against his cheek. “Hm. You must be right. I can’t think of any other redstone-builder pairs.”

For some reason, something painful sinks through Joel’s stomach. He swallows it back, lets triumph color his tone. “Exactly. They’re too different.”

Etho drops his hand, lightly elbows Joel in the ribs. “Except for you and me, of course. We’re the exception.”

Joel’s mouth goes dry. He clears his throat. The pain vanishes, healed over with hope, surprise, a desperate need for attention filled—and he can’t even make himself disagree and argue, like he’d intended. Instead, all he can do is repeat it.

“We’re the exception.”

As he goes about his day, he barely even processes his actions—Etho thinks they work well together. Etho thinks they’re a match. Etho likes him, and his company, and his building skills, and his humor, and his bluntness, and everything about him.

And Joel’s really starting to think that he likes everything about Etho as well, as hard as he’d tried not to at the beginning.

They go down to the Deep Dark together the next day, and Joel’s trying very hard to ignore whatever his feelings may be on Etho. They can just—they can just be friends, right?

Friends who install proper stairs, of course. The way down takes forever.

“Creeper, behind you!”

Joel spins around, axe up, ready to defend—nothing. Etho huffs a little (again something now familiar that Joel had once taken to be a sign of disapproval), eyes crinkled almost all the way shut when Joel whips back around to him.

“Just kidding.”

“Oh, you cheeky devil—we need to trust each other,” Joel says, no real anger behind the way he shoves Etho lightly.

His palms seem to burn at the contact.

“I just need to make sure you’ll pay attention to me,” Etho says, and Joel has to wonder for a moment if he’ll ever have the problem of not paying attention to Etho again.

He doesn’t think he’s properly ignored his soulmate once all game, and in recent days, he can’t seem to pay attention to anything but Etho. He feels like he’s constantly thinking of him, wondering whether or not he’ll like the touches on the ship, wondering if he’s safe and who he’s with and if he’ll come home all right.

He hopes, a little enviously, perhaps, that Etho has similar worries.

“I am paying attention,” Joel says, and it’s perhaps the most honest thing he’s ever said, in all the games. “I always pay attention.”

When Etho responds, the mirth feels forced, and for a moment Joel feels almost as if he’s seeing Etho without his mask on. “You won’t ignore me in our ‘Relation’ship?”

“No, no, no. I never do.”

It’s true.

It’s so true, it hurts.

Joel—he doesn’t trust people. He can’t. And he’s sick of having to tell himself it again and again, but this just isn’t meant for him.

And then he forgets about it all, because they go into the Deep Dark and it’s bloody terrifying.

(Well, mostly forgets. Because he does walk behind Etho most of the way through the city and Etho—well. It’s a good angle for him, is all.)

That night, Joel lies in his bed on his side of the ship, and stares at the other side of the room. Etho’s sleeping—he hopes, at least—curled up on his side, a blanket pulled up over his head despite the summer heat.

Etho’s always cold, it’s practically his trademark. He’s always got that coat of his on, and gloves, and a mask.

He doesn’t wear the mask to sleep—Joel’s caught glimpses of his face while getting into bed, but he always looks away quickly—, but Joel has no clue if he wears the rest of his ensemble. Just the covers alone ought to be sweltering. Imagine a coat on top of all of that.

If they shared a bed, Etho would have to do away with that extra blanket. Joel could maybe tolerate a bedsheet, that’s it.

If they shared a—where did that thought come from?

But . . . well, Etho’s asleep. And thought isn’t a crime.

So Joel lies there, staring across the room at his soulmate, and wonders. Wonders about what it feels like to hold Etho in his arms, whether his elbows and knees are as bony as they look. Wonders if his hair is quite long enough to grasp between his fingers. Wonders if he’d still be all smooth words after Joel pulled down his mask, grabbed his jaw, and kissed him on the mouth.

Joel falls asleep a little red in the face, and the next morning when Etho does that silent crinkly-eyed laugh, he can’t help but stare and turn red all over again.

He pushes it out of his mind, and it’s through a feverish haze that he even gets through the week, even as they sneak around looking for sugarcane and messing with Scar and running from a Warden on the surface, of all places. He’s really quite occupied, but none of it quite computes when Etho’s right there, being devilishly handsome with that quirked eyebrow and white hair ruffled by the wind.

And the night after they’ve run from the Warden, Joel comes in a bit later than Etho—he’d been out gathering wheat a bit longer—to find that his soulmate has pushed their beds together.

His brain short-circuits as he blinks at the sight: Etho, one hand on the back of his neck sheepishly; the other still holding the blanket he’d been throwing across both beds.

“Is this all right?” Etho asks. Joel turns his blinking gaze toward him. “I just. I wouldn’t mind a bit of cuddling.”

There’s something in the way his eyebrows raise that tells Joel Etho knows exactly what he’s saying, exactly how Joel feels. The part of him that realizes that, that knows that Etho knows, wants to clap and holler and kiss that sexy man.

The rest of Joel, the main part of him, is trained to survive.

“Sure, whatever,” Joel shrugs, trying to affect an air of nonchalance. Etho can’t know. Etho can never know—and not that Etho can’t know just because he has a crush and it’s awkward, but because liking Etho is a weakness and Joel doesn’t have weaknesses, thank you very much.

And if Etho’s shoulders slump a bit at the response, Joel pretends he doesn’t notice.

And then the problem is, Etho doesn’t stop.

Joel makes it clear that he wants his space in bed, and Etho doesn’t encroach on that. But he does steal bites of Joel’s food, and sling an arm around his shoulder when they’re visiting the others, and boop his nose playfully when Joel starts to get angry at Grian for hoarding the sugarcane, and slowly look him up and down with a wink whenever he gets up for breakfast—

It’s maddening. It’s maddening, and every single night Joel lies there stiff as a board, inches away from Etho, trying to not let his thoughts wander to where they have so many times before.

He’s right there.

Every time Joel gets away on his own, he lets out a short, frustrated scream. And then he jumps off a hill that’s maybe a bit too high, if only to try and get Etho back for his teasing.

The fishing rods are possibly the stupidest thing they’ve ever done.

Not surprising, seeing as Grian’s at the head of this whole thing.

But Joel’s never been one for playing things safe, so he stabs the hook through the back of his shirt (he tugs on the line a few times, just to make sure it’s secure), then waits for Grian’s signal.

The first time is thrilling. The first time he flies up into the air, lands hard and laughs from the sheer adrenaline. Then he hooks Pearl, and Pearl hooks Etho, and they go up—

And Joel knows he’s in trouble for a split second before he’s dead on the ground.

He wakes up gasping, and there’s fire in his veins, there’s fire spreading all across his body and he wants—he needs to kill Pearl, needs her blood—

He rolls out of bed, scrambling for his chest and spare stuff, and then he hears someone else roll out of bed with a groan.

Joel turns, and Etho’s there, hungry fire in his eyes, and Joel needs him.

He practically tackles Etho, yanking down his mask—his lips are pink and soft and hot against Joel’s mouth, molten and perfect and everything he needs to stoke the burning inside—

Etho pushes him off (gently, somehow), and holds up a hand. Joel, somehow, manages to hold himself back. Etho’s—Etho’s right there—

Etho takes in a deep breath, and when he looks up, his eyes are crinkled in that perfect way and he’s smiling.

“Took you long enough,” he teases, and Joel lunges for him again.

Their next kiss is slower than that.

After they kill Pearl, and the pounding bloodlust in his head has quelled a bit, Joel leads the way back to the ship. He leans against the railing—and Etho leans next to him—and they kiss.

It’s lazy, Joel thinks he would say. But not lazy in the way he might be with a build—skipping details and panning over mistakes—, lazy in a comfortable, staying-in-bed-late kind of way.

He kisses Etho, lazy and lovely, warm in the evening sun. And he really, really doesn’t care if anyone’s watching.

Let them watch, he thinks, with an almost vicious pleasure. Etho’s mine.

That makes something deep in his chest silently purr, almost, and when he pulls away to breathe, he clears his throat in a contented kind of way (not a growl, not a purr, but the closest he can get without outright embarrassing himself). Etho perks up at the sound.

“I forgot to tell you, I figured out what that sound you make reminds me of,” he says, and even the excited way he speaks sounds lazy and perfect.

Joel clears his throat again—and yeah, he does do it a lot, come to think of it. “Yeah? What’s that?”

Etho sighs a little bit, tips his head onto Joel’s shoulder. “A tiger. Have you ever heard a tiger chuff?”

Joel laughs at that—his soulmate thinks he sounds like a tiger chuffing, and it’s the most stupidly adorable thing ever.

“Why are you laughing?” Etho asks playfully, nudging Joel. Joel doesn’t answer, just chuckles and clears his throat—or, chuffs like a tiger—and plants a kiss on Etho’s head.

“We could go threaten Scar,” Joel offers after a moment. His blood is starting to boil again, and he knows from lonely experience that only violence can scratch the itch.

Well. Probably only violence. He does notice that it’s a decent bit quieter when he’s aggressively kissing Etho.

Etho stands up straight—taller than Joel when he does that, which is blummin’ obnoxious of him—and slowly, gently, lazily kisses Joel. It’s warm and measured, his tongue teasing at Joel’s slightly parted lips, and it seems to Joel that he only pulls away when he’s memorized the feel of Joel’s lips.

“That sounds like a good date,” he murmurs.

Joel grins, and Etho grins back, his eyes all crinkled, and Joel takes off at a run to swing himself over the opposite railing and climb down the ladder.

Etho catches up moments later, mask fixed back on his face, and Joel pulls out his spyglass to check out where the residents of that giant cake-thing are.

They’re right beside it, as it turns out.

“Scar’s holding a flint n’ steel,” Joel warns, shoving his spyglass in his pocket. “He already took down the Ranch, we might want to be careful of that.”

Etho only scoffs. “If the ship burns, everything burns.”

Unsurprisingly, Joel finds he agrees with that—not that he can ever imagine disagreeing with Etho. He nods.

“If the ship burns, everything burns.”

And after everything burns, they burn too.

They’re dying, Joel had come through the portal to find lava and pain, and he screams for Etho to turn back but even if he had they’d still be dead—

He doesn’t even have the chance to glance back at his lover before he burns.

He drifts for a little while, the bitter disappointment of his loss somehow distant when compared to the loss of Etho. The next game will start eventually, and when it does, there’s no way of knowing that Etho will even be there. After all, it’s picked up new players and dropped others as time passed. Joel can’t even remember the original line-up, it’s shifted so much and so many times.

When he lands in the next game, he doesn’t even check his comm before punching apart a tree.

The gimmick isn’t soulmates again, he knows instantly. He’d grown so accustomed to the pull in his chest of Etho that it aches now to not feel him.

(Or maybe that’s just his heart. Same difference, really.)

So Joel tries to put Etho out of his mind and move on with his life. They were never meant to last, anyway. That’s the thing about redstoners and builders—they never work out.

He knew that. He knew they never work out, and he tried to do something with Etho, anyway.

It had been fun while it lasted, of course. It had been . . . perfect, even.

But Joel’s always been a loner, and now that he’s got that Green-life clarity, he can go back to it.

He takes down another tree and has a crafting table and some basic tools put together when someone clears their throat behind him.

Joel jumps, spins around—

Etho’s there, leaning lazily against a tree, and—his eyes are crinkled in that way—

“Miss me?” he teases, and Joel barely has time to drop his wooden pick before he’s storming over, pushing Etho against the tree, tearing his mask down—

The kiss is hard and messy, teeth clicking together and lips sliding apart, and when Joel pulls away to gasp in some air, Etho’s cheeks are flushed and lips bruised and he’s still got that blummin’ smile.

“Right,” Joel breathes.

“Wanna build us a house while I go mining?” Etho offers, and forget whatever loser thoughts Joel had been moping about with! He’s got Etho, there’s no need to be on his own anymore.

Maybe they can even win it, this time. After all, they’re together from the start here. No more acting like an idiot about wanting to be alone or whatever.

Joel watches Etho head off into a cave, stone pick hefted over his shoulder, and can’t help the way his heart skips a beat.

Etho’s his, and when everything burns, they burn together.

#double life smp #traffic smp #trafficblr #smalletho #THE SMALLETHO IS ROMANTIC!!#BEFORE YOU CONTINUE READING THEY MAKE OUT A LOT!#double life fanfic #mas writes #061323 #this will be uploaded to ao3 under the title 'when everything burns'#idk why but after a dlsmp rewatch i had a bad smalletho itch #dlsmp #again this was queued in december #so while i very much appreciate comments and will love you forever #i won't see em immediately #and also i'm not back yet from my break #but lmk what you think!#love you guys

318 notes · View notes

emmg · 3 months ago

Text

Aftertaste

Chapter 6: Inter-fucking-lewd

Breakfast with benefits: Emmrich swipes his card, Rook shows gratitude by giving him a thorough tonsil inspection via tongue deployment. The Sugar Daddy AU no one asked for.

I keep forgetting to throw this on here. Lol, skipped a chapter again but we ball.

On ao3 or below the cut

She isn't self-conscious. Not in the usual, pathetic way, at least. People, Rook has decided, come in exactly three flavors: the certain, the hesitant, and the shy. Sure, there are endless subcategories, but at its core, this is the only division that matters. Emmrich, for example, is hesitant. Painfully, excruciatingly hesitant. The kind of person who apologizes when someone steps on his foot. She, on the other hand, is certain.

She used to be sweet. She used to be good. She used to smile at the right moments and say the right things in the right tone, like a perfectly programmed social robot. And what did that get her? Jack shit. So now, she asks for what she wants. Not that it works miracles, but at least when the barista massacres her order and she makes them redo it—once, twice, three times—she eventually walks away with the drink she actually paid for. A small, hard-earned victory. Even if, as she leaves, she can feel the heat of a middle finger aimed at her back.

Life, she has learned, is not a heartwarming fable where kindness wins in the end. It’s a glorified scam, a poorly-run customer service line where the only way to get what you’re owed is to be just annoying enough that someone begrudgingly hands it over.

Which is why she feels absolutely no shame as she rolls out of Emmrich’s bed, tiptoes into his bathroom, and starts rifling through his cabinets like a particularly nosy raccoon. There’s an indent next to where she slept—evidence that he existed at some point—but no Emmrich. She feels a little sad about that. Then she feels stupid for feeling sad. And then, because self-awareness is exhausting, she gets back to the important task of snooping.

The usual offerings greet her: mouthwash, floss, a fresh toothbrush standing at polite attention by the sink, and a towel so pristine it might have been confiscated from an angel. But, as always, the real treasure lies behind the mirror.

"Hm," she murmurs, staring at the neat little lineup.

Three orange prescription bottles, arranged as precisely as toy soldiers, standing at ease beside an inoffensive roll of extra floss. For a fleeting moment, she assumes they’re the famous blue pill, and starts giggling like an idiot. But then she actually reads the labels.

Alprazolam—Take 1 tablet by mouth as needed for anxiety. May cause drowsiness. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery.

Sertraline—Take 1 tablet by mouth once daily. Do not stop abruptly.

Hydroxyzine—Take 1-2 capsules by mouth as needed for anxiety. May cause drowsiness. Avoid alcohol.

"Hm," she says again, this time closing the cabinet with a little more care.

She walks away with two invaluable pieces of knowledge.

First, despite floating around in a sea of gold jewelry, clinking and shining like some minor deity of excess (it’s a Nevarran thing, Bellara told her, jewelry is cultural), Emmrich is not, in fact, above the humble embrace of generic pharmaceuticals.

Second, and perhaps more pressing: she is a fucking monster.

She takes a shower; quick in practice, but utterly decadent in spirit. The kind of shower that would make an environmentalist clutch their pearls. Then, still glistening, feeling like some sleek, well-oiled animal, she anoints herself with his undoubtedly overpriced, unreasonably divine-smelling body lotion.

Then she finds the face cream. And oh, bless this man. Bless his fragile little vanities, his meticulous devotion to self-maintenance, his quiet, desperate battle against the inevitable collapse of youth. Because not only does he have a proper moisturizer, no, he has eye cream. A tiny, expensive jar dedicated exclusively to the bags under his precious eyes.

It doesn’t even matter that the label says For Men, as though it’s been engineered with testosterone and car engine grease. She does not give a single shit. She digs in, smearing it on like she’s a prize racehorse in need of maintenance.

There’s a robe, too, a robe that is very much Emmrich-sized. She is tall herself, but Emmrich, in all his spindly glory, has the proportions of a lamppost, so when she wraps it around herself, the hem kisses her heels. Thus swaddled, she shuffles downstairs, following the distant hum of sound.

Humming? No, talking. Muffled, quiet, and decidedly unimpressed. She follows it to the kitchen and, ah, well—would you look at that—it’s an Emmrich, one hand gesturing through the air, the other clutching a phone.

"How about I do precisely the contrary?" he murmurs, taking exquisite care to keep his voice polite. "I have attended an egregious number of administrative functions at the expense of my own sanity. I have published beyond the requisite metrics, despite the institution’s draconian funding model. I have, against my better judgment, served on not one but two outreach committees, despite my well-documented lack of interest in performative bureaucracy. Forgive me, but this time, I will not be participating in the Sisyphean farce of ‘going above and beyond.’" A pause. An exhausted sigh. "Pease do pardon my tone, dear Myrna, none of this frustration is meant for you, of course. You have been, as always, a beacon of patience. I will bring croissants on Monday. Good day."

In academic speak, this translates roughly to: kiss my tenured ass.

She does exactly what she did the night before: shuffles up behind him like some kind of affectionate specter and winds her arms around his waist. Partly because he seemed to like it, partly, more selfishly, because there is something deeply satisfying about watching a distinguished, well-respected professor momentarily short-circuit like a schoolboy handed a love note.

And also because she is still marinating in the deep, briny guilt of being, in every conceivable way, an absolute asshole.

Emmrich tenses for a fraction of a second before his hand settles gently over both of hers, where they are crossed around his middle, as though securing a particularly insistent backpack.

"Good morning, dear," he says at last.

"Mhm," she replies, tilting her head toward the little table. A pot of coffee, a small, unnecessarily delicate vase, and inside it, lavender. Real, fresh lavender.

"Lavender," she observes, brilliantly. "You actually have it."

"I choose my words carefully and I mean what I promise."

"Good to know," she says, finally letting go after inhaling deeply, because his soap smells good, and she is nothing if not indulgent.

She sits, watching as he pours her a cup. In the morning light, with his sleeves rolled up and his reading glasses perched precariously at the end of his nose, he looks strangely soft. As if sensing her scrutiny, Emmrich removes and sets them down, like some small act of self-defense.

"That was hot," she says over the rising steam of her coffee, the heat dampening her cupid’s bow.

"Oh?" He frowns slightly.

"The whole firm but exasperated yet very polite routine. Very sexy."

There is a small shift. A recalibration. "Ah." He glances toward the window, smiling. The color in his cheeks deepens just slightly. "I'm glad you think so."

A strange kind of silence settles as she drinks her coffee and he absently adjusts the edge of the tablecloth. Every now and then, she tries to catch his eye, only for him to suddenly become engrossed in something else entirely. The ceiling. The floor. A rogue tuft of dog hair drifting by with the tragic slowness of a lost soul.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asks bluntly, because there is no graceful way to phrase it.

His eyes widen, and she realizes too late that she has startled him.

"No, no," Emmrich says, immediately, with such startling sincerity that it nearly undoes the whole moment. "That is very much not…" He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I had intended to apologize for last night, but regrettably," he gestures vaguely, laughing under his breath, "it appears I have misplaced my usual verbosity, and I am not entirely sure how to proceed."

So that’s what this is about. She hums. Not a tune, not even anything in particular, just an aimless vibration of thought. Then, casually, she says, “Do you want to know what happened the first”—a brief pause for reflection, because, really, what a moment—“time I tried to have sex?”

Emmrich does not flinch, but there is a subtle change in the atmosphere, a flicker of something in his expression that suggests he is considering an immediate escape. “Oh, Rook, you do not have to share—”

“So he started crying, right—”

“—hardly a crime,” Emmrich interrupts, looking to the window, fingers now tapping against the table. “Some people are more sentimental than others.”

“I didn’t say it was. But imagine this: you’re naked, a bright-eyed young woman, about to embark on what should be a delightful new chapter of your life, and suddenly—your partner, the man in this scenario, is sobbing into your tits. And not just a few cute, tortured tears. No. We’re talking full-body convulsions, wet, choking, gasping-for-air ugly crying. Snot on my skin, weird little hiccup noises, the whole fucking show. So obviously, my first thought is what the actual fuck. My second is did I do something? And my third is am I really so fucking ugly that this man took one look at me naked and had a complete emotional breakdown?"

“You are not—”

“Then he starts talking about his sister—”

“His sister?”

“Apparently, I looked like her.”

A long pause. “Oh Maker.”

“So this second coming of Oedipus, this absolute fucking specimen, this... Well, I don’t even know what to call him, and I am usually pretty good at coming up with creative insults—”

"Yes," Emmrich agrees. "You have a rare gift."

“Exactly. So there he is, weeping over his sibling while also, simultaneously, making a very determined attempt at fucking me. He gets about a third of the way in—just enough to make it legally concerning—before something, maybe divine intervention, maybe the ghost of his grandmother, whispers in his ear and suddenly, he stops. Pulls out like I’m cursed, stares down at himself as if he’s seeing a dick for the first time in his life, and then, as the grand finale, has a fight with the condom, rips it off while telling me his sister is so very nice and pretty, and blows his fucking load on my knee.”

Silence.

Emmrich, someone who has likely endured entire week-long academic conferences on molecular chemistry, complete with keynote speakers droning on about enzyme kinetics in excruciating detail, now stares at her as if she has just proposed that gravity is optional. His expression shifts through several stages of intellectual agony—denial, disbelief, reluctant acceptance—before he very, very slowly lifts his eyes to the ceiling, as though hoping that if there is a higher power, now would be an excellent time for a well-placed lightning strike.

Then he starts laughing. Not some polite, measured chuckle, not even the kind of laughter that suggests mild amusement, but the real, undignified kind. The kind that briefly robs a man of whatever intellectual superiority he thinks he has. He buries his face in his hands for a moment, then rubs at his eyes as if trying to wipe the mental image away.

"But do you want to know what the worst part was?" she asks, tilting her cup back to get the last few drops of coffee.

"I would have assumed it was the matter of the sister. But I see now that was wishful thinking. Please, continue to traumatize me."

"Noooo," she drawls. "The worst part was that the fucker ate nothing but red meat. And I don’t mean he had a steak every now and then like a normal person. I mean every fucking meal. Just shoving beef into himself like he was personally keeping the cattle industry afloat. Which, fun fact, turns jizz into the worst-smelling substance known to man: a thick, hot, gamey blast of pure death." She makes a face, shaking her head at the memory. "Like, imagine if a butcher shop and a used sock had a baby. I was practically gagging. The dude nut on my knee, and I swear to the fucking gods, I could smell it before I even registered what happened."

Emmrich props his chin on his fist. His smile is small, a little detached, a little shy. "Well," he says at last, "thankfully, I do not eat meat, darling."

She blinks. Her brain lags a little, just enough for the full meaning of that sentence to settle in and punch her straight in the gut.

"Oh," she says. And then, again, "Oh," as something horrible—something hot and shameful and deeply inappropriate—crawls up her spine and detonates in her cheeks. She is not supposed to be the one blushing.

"Anyway," she blurts, desperate to redirect. "All that to say, you have nothing to apologize for. I'm sure you have your own tricks that will surprise me."

“No tricks, no,” Emmrich muses. “Well, perhaps just the one.”

She narrows her eyes. “One?”

“Indeed. Would you like to see? It tends to be something of a crowd-pleaser.”

"Sure," she allows.

He doesn’t go far. Just turns, retrieves a laptop perched on the kitchen counter, and deposits it in front of himself. His glasses slide back onto his nose as he unlocks it and nudges it across the table toward her.

She eyes it, then him. “What’s this about?”

He tests the warmth of the coffee pot with the back of his hand, seemingly indifferent to her skepticism. Satisfied, he pours himself a cup, takes a careful sip, and only then answers, as if the thought had only just reemerged from some distant place.

“You reminded me last night of something I did not particularly enjoy in graduate school.”

She raises an eyebrow, waiting.

He breathes a soft laugh, shaking his head. "The grind,” he clarifies, wincing a bit as if the word itself is distasteful. “The endless, mind-numbing process of running oneself into the ground for the privilege of standing in the exact same place. It is a special kind of stupidity, I think, to build a system where intelligence is measured by how much exhaustion one can endure. A mouse in a wheel at least gets the benefit of ignorance. People, apparently, have to be aware that they are getting nowhere and keep running anyway.” He tilts his head toward the laptop, urging her on. “Let us pay your tuition.”

She stares.

Emmrich, however, simply takes another sip, and shifts slightly to escape a particularly offensive ray of sunlight. “You mentioned you are working three jobs,” he continues, with a polite sort of incredulity. “Perhaps this will allow you to scale it down to two. Or, dare I say it, one.”

Her fingers move before she has the time to think. “You do realize I’m not going to say no, right?”

A slight, knowing smile. “That is rather the point.”

“I have late fees at the library too.”

He frowns, his mouth pressing into a thin line, followed by a pointed tsk, tsk, tsk. “Universities have a remarkable talent for extortion. They charge a king’s ransom for books, guilt alumni into philanthropy, and still have the audacity to fine students for daring to hold onto a volume for a day too long. You would think an institution allegedly devoted to learning might have more interest in providing knowledge than hoarding it like a miser.”

She is already in the portal, already typing in her password. “You know,” she says, watching the page load, “this is how you get taken advantage of.”

A quiet chuckle. He swirls his coffee. “That is not how I see it.”

Her name, her address, tuition staring her down. Just one step left. “Then how do you?”

A pause. The faintest crease of his brow. He makes a contemplative sound, like someone tasting a dish they can’t quite identify. “Less about being taken advantage of,” he finally decides, “and more about taking care of someone. Right now, for instance, I would very much like to take care of you.”

Now she feels a little sheepish, mumbling, “I need your credit card,” like a grifter who suddenly has to confront the mechanics of grifting.

Because she, much like Emmrich, has a tragic inability to shut the fuck up, she keeps going, determined to personally escort this moment straight into the gutter. “You shouldn’t do that for someone you just met,” she adds, helpfully, like an absolute idiot who has no idea how to accept generosity without immediately trying to light it on fire.

“Allow me the dignity,” he says mildly, “of deciding what I should and should not do.”

He slides the card across the table. No hesitation. No need to fetch his wallet. No moment of deliberation.

Interesting.

This means he had already decided. Before this conversation, before she even woke up. Sometime this morning—perhaps while buttoning his exquisitely pressed shirt, perhaps while staring pensively into his overpriced mirror—he had apparently thought, Ah, yes, let me deepen my commitment to reckless philanthropy. Let me turn my casual acquaintance into a full-fledged tax deduction.

She wonders who in this sordid pas de deux is the greater object of pity: him, solemnly presenting his credit card like some banner of surrender, an apology for what he appears to consider a disastrous campaign in the coital theater (something, something, let me financially compensate you for last night’s tragic case of whiskey dick) or her, contemplating the thing with the twitchy, covetous gaze of a sewer rat glimpsing a discarded éclair.

Well.

Far be it from her to stand in the way of such noble self-destruction. She has, after all, just enough self-awareness to recognize when the universe drops a solid gold horse into her lap and suggests she take it for a leisurely gallop. So, suppressing whatever misguided instinct she has to earn things, she grabs the credit card with the dignity of a pickpocket swiping a wallet in broad daylight—slightly clammy-fingered, vaguely ashamed, but absolutely taking it.

He watches her take it, something unbearably kind in his expression. “Remind me,” he requests, “how did Bellara describe me?”

She doesn’t even look up as she enters the numbers. “Smells good.” Expiration date. “Rich.” Security code. “Lonely.”

“Touché,” he murmurs, setting down his cup with a small, satisfied clink. “But let us be thorough. Add ‘lacking good sense’ to the list.”

The portal flashes an acknowledgment in a smug little strip of green. Payment processed. Accepted. She has, in the eyes of the institution, paid her dues.

She keeps looking at the screen for a moment, then past it, through the window, before her eyes land on his laptop wallpaper: his dog, sitting obediently in front of a flower bed, looking irritatingly photogenic.

She wants to kiss him. To say thank you. To do something appropriately grateful for a moment like this. But, unfortunately, she is not sentimental. Or rather, she isn’t sentimental anymore.

Sentimentality turns you into a dreamer, and she is no longer in the business of dreaming. Because when you’re a dreamer, you dream, and when those dreams don’t materialize—when they give you a wink, steal your wallet, and skip town—you’re left standing there like a dumbass, wondering how you got scammed by your own imagination.

Also, there’s the unfortunate fact that kissing him right now would look alarmingly like she is handing out physical affection in exchange for goods and services. Which—well. Technically. But also, no. She might have questionable motives, a flexible sense of morality, and a general disregard for order, but she likes to think she is at least one step above that. At the very least, if she’s going to kiss him, it should be for the right reasons. Like, for example, the fact that she wants to.

"Thank you," she says, deliberately avoiding his eyes and focusing, instead, on his shoulder, which has suddenly become an object of great fascination. A truly remarkable shoulder. The pinnacle of fine fabric and bone structure. A shoulder so riveting, so compelling, that it is absolutely necessary she study it in detail rather than acknowledge whatever this moment is trying to turn into.

She doesn’t want him to think too much of it. She also wants to do it anyway.

So, with great finality, she shuts the laptop, sealing away the dangerous possibility of sincerity, and tiptoes toward him, suddenly acutely aware of the cold tiles beneath her feet, the way every step lands just a little too carefully, as if she’s trying to sneak past her own mawkishness.

"Thank you," she repeats, and, before her brain can interfere, she takes his face in her hands, tilts it up, and kisses the corner of his mouth, light and quick.

His hands close around her wrists and, of course, he begins to speak.

“As I have already said,” he starts, and oh, here it comes, the intellectual dissection of his own inadequacies, “I am quite aware of my limitations, and I do not imagine myself to be the kind of man you would naturally consider. However…” A pause. A dramatic little inhale. “Perhaps I can offer you stability.”

She needs him to shut up. Immediately.

She does not want to blush, does not want to feel warm and tender and whatever horrible, unacceptable, mushy thing is currently trying to jelly-up her spine. She refuses to be some meek, trembling thing, undone by his ridiculously well-articulated generosity.

So she kisses his cheek, then his lips, and if he insists on continuing, he can do so inside her mouth.

The good thing about kissing someone you just shared coffee with is that you don’t taste it; two equally caffeinated forces canceling each other out. What she does taste, however, is his tongue, which is, inexplicably, soft. Softer than she remembers. Suspiciously soft. The kind of soft that suggests he not only brushes his teeth but also, without a doubt, scrubs his tongue. Just like that, mid-kiss, she is struck with the realization that she should probably be doing the same.

Eventually, Emmrich stands, and just like that, the dynamic shifts; no longer is she leaning over him, keeping him captive in his chair; now he’s the one towering over her. The kiss drives her back, step by step, until her thighs bump against the table. He gives her a small, wordless tap, a silent suggestion, and she obeys without thinking, hopping onto the surface blindly. The cups protest with a delicate clink-clink-clink as the impact shudders through them.

He pulls away, and she takes in the details: the flush of his lips, the slow blink of his eyes, the way, almost absentmindedly, he lifts a strand of her hair to his nose, breathing her in before tracing a path of kisses up her cheek, to her ear, to the very tip of it.

"Do you want to pick up where we left off yesterday?" she asks, and for once, for the first time in her sorry life, she wishes she could inject some actual emotion into her voice.

Normally, sounding like a soulless cunt is a feature, not a bug. Keeps expectations low, deters unnecessary social interaction, and, much like a well-deployed resting bitch face, acts as an industrial-strength shield against men who think a smirk and a you’d be prettier if you smiled counts as flirting.

But right now, she is, tragically, attempting to be sexy. Or something in that general category. And yet, against all odds, she still sounds less like a woman seducing a man and more like a weary call center employee offering him one last chance to extend his car’s warranty.

Emmrich kisses her cheek again, humming against her skin. Murmurs, ever the gentleman, "If you would be amenable."

She snorts. "I would be amenable, yes." Who could resist such an old-world proposition?

Her hands find his belt, tugging him closer. He steps between her legs, and she tips her head back, offering up her neck like some sacrificial lamb—one that is, admittedly, rather enthusiastic about the whole ordeal. He takes the invitation immediately, kissing a slow path up and down, his hands wandering from her back to her waist, to the front of the robe, pausing briefly before sneaking inside. Skin meets skin, his palm cups her breast, and when she sighs, he does too; his melting into hers, hers swallowing his.

He lets out a high, lovely little sound when she grinds against him, half yelp, half moan, entirely pleased, before pulling her toward the edge of the table. Not roughly, not even urgently, just effectively, like adjusting the position of a beaker in a lab.

"May I?" he asks, absurdly polite, as if requesting permission to adjust the tilt of a painting. His fingers hover near the tie at her waist, patient, careful, prepared to wait an eternity if she so much as hesitates.

She nods, quick and jerky, because language has officially abandoned her. Heat crawls up her neck, floods her ears, spreads down her chest, pooling low, deep, hot enough that she swears even her knees feel it.

And now she understands why he wanted her half-hanging off.

Emmrich sinks down, positioning himself between them until his mouth is at her thigh. His lips press there, just lightly, just once. Chaste, if it weren’t there. His breath is warm, the tip of his nose barely brushing, a ridiculous, insignificant little thing, except that it isn’t.

Inevitably, with no grand announcement, no hesitation, his mouth settles against her cunt. She gasps, a short, humiliating thing, because there is no preparing for it, for the way his lips catch, for the heat of him, for the way he seems entirely undisturbed by the fact that he is currently kneeling on the kitchen floor between her legs while she clutches the wood grain of the table like it’s about to launch her into the fucking stratosphere.

She sucks in a breath through her teeth, and, with a frankly heroic level of restraint, manages to say, "Oh gods," instead of screaming it, instead of yanking at his hair, instead of shouting, holy shit, this is actually happening, what the fuck, what the fuck.

Then she feels his fingers. A touch up the inside of her thigh. Higher, higher, a little higher still, pressing lightly against her, sliding through her slick and swollen folds, gathering everything, coating themselves completely before pushing inside.

She claws at his shoulders, wordlessly telling him to come back up, and he does, rises, leans in, smiling, kissing her chin. She tilts her head for him, unable to say anything, just panting into his mouth as he kisses her again, as his fingers stroke, curl, move.

She fucks herself on them the way she did last night, except this time she doesn’t have to be quiet. This time there’s no one to hear them. But she doesn’t know how to be loud, how to moan and sigh and keen in a way that’s attractive, so she just moves, just shivers, just thrusts against his hand, presses her face into his neck when he shifts his wrist, and—

Oh gods—

"Let's move," she rushes out, too fast, too sharp, because, unfortunately, an absolutely tragic cramp is forming in her ankle, and she refuses to let a minor muscular rebellion ruin this.

Another kiss. Hurried, fleeting, just a punctuation mark between her hopping off the table and their mindless trek back to his room. Just long enough for her to taste herself on his lips.It makes her giggle, high and a little unhinged; it’s hardly the most depraved thing in the grand scheme of debauchery, and yet, somehow, it still is.

This time, when he lies over her—kissing her, being kissed in return—it's all lips. Wet, then dry, then chapped, then wet again, teeth occasionally knocking. And this time, she feels him. Feels the outline of his cock through his trousers, the warmth, the shape of it. She reaches down, presses her palm against him, and smiles when he shivers. Does it again. Each time, he rocks into her hand, helplessly eager.

"Rook, Rook," he gasps, catching her wrist to stop it. Sheepish, he adds, "A little slower, darling, or it will be over much too quick."

"Ah," she says, mercifully relenting. "I don’t care, I don’t care." Why is she saying it twice? Who knows. "It'll still be miles better than the clusterfuck I told you about."

At this, his eyes immediately lurch to the left.

"There has been," he swallows, "no one since?"

"No one," she confirms.

And now his eyes dart hard to the right. At this rate, they might just pop out of his skull entirely, and then she’ll have to deal with the awkward logistics of catching them mid-air and pressing them back into their sockets.

"We can, we can," he stammers, "take things slowly."

The way he says can has a distinct whiff of should, and frankly, she is not in the mood for whatever moral crisis he’s about to spiral into. Emmrich is perfectly free to disassociate or have a deep, introspective moment about the sanctity of human connection—on his own time. But not here. Not now. Not when she is finally, finally about to get laid like a normal, functional adult.

So, no. Absolutely not. And she tells him as much—"No."—before shoving her tongue down his throat like she’s trying to personally realign his moral compass through his tonsils. Just to really drive the point home, she gives his cock another thoroughly encouraging squeeze. For posterity.

He clearly takes care of himself; lean, tall, the kind of body that suggests an active lifestyle but also a healthy respect for good food and a decent mattress. Still, he’s older—not old, but older—and she sees it in the slight narrowness of his chest, the soft give of his stomach as she undresses him. It’s endearing. It’s real.

He sits back to finish peeling off the last of his clothes, and she shrugs off her, well, his, robe, watching as whatever remained between them falls away. When he moves to settle back over her, she shakes her head, presses a hand to his chest, and pushes him back down.

She climbs over him, kisses here and there. The dip of his sternum, the stretch of his throat, the slight protrusion of his Adam’s apple. Traces the faint trail of hair down his stomach, following it lower, lower, between his thighs, all the way down to his knees. Biscuit knees, her mind helpfully, uselessly supplies. The kind that would absolutely shatter on impact if he ever fell. Then again, given his height, it would take him a solid three to five business days to actually hit the ground, so maybe it’s a non-issue.

She strokes his cock, careful not to squeeze too hard, which is already more strategic planning than she usually applies to anything. She even attempts some fancy little wrist maneuver; something she thinks she saw once, something that looks very professional in theory, but immediately cramps up like a fucking amateur.

But that’s fine. She has two hands. And she highly doubts Emmrich, currently sprawled out in front of her, will object to her switching tactics. Now, now she actually feels it. The weight of him, the heat, the way the veins on the underside swell under her palm as he thickens, blood rushing in, skin growing taut and flushed.

She leans down, takes the head into her mouth, licks the salt and musk from his skin; clean, warm, threaded faintly with soap. Gathers spit and lets it drip down his length, then strokes him again, watching the slickness ease the motion, watching the way his hips jerk, his cock pushing eagerly into the tight, wet tunnel of her hand.

She does it again. Once more. Loosens her grip, then constricts it, watching the way the blood surges through him, the way the head reddens, leaks more freely, twitches under her touch. And when she leans once more, swallowing him until the blunt head of him brushes the back of her throat, she barely has time to register the fingers threading into her hair before he’s pulling her off. Not forcefully—Emmrich is nothing if not maddeningly careful—but enough that she knows to stop.

She relents, dragging her mouth off him with a slow suction, admiring the slick sheen of her spit stretch between them before finally breaking.

He settles back over her, and for a while, he just strokes her. He doesn’t even need to wet his fingers; she’s already slick enough that they slide inside easily. But patience is not her virtue, and soon enough, she’s shifting, pressing, urging him on.

He exhales, soft yet jittery, then withdraws just long enough to search the nightstand. His fingers shake—barely, but enough for her to notice—as he pulls out a condom, struggles briefly with the wrapper, lips pressing together in the slightest show of frustration before he finally rolls it down his cock.

She doesn’t wait. Yanks him back in, suddenly way too eager, her blood running way too hot. His cheeks are painted pink, and for some reason, she really, really wants to lick them. Or rather, the cheekbones specifically. High, protruding, and—what’s the word? Aristocratic.

So she does. Just drags her tongue along the bone and, immediately, laughs, breathless, right into his cheek.

"You smell so, so good," she murmurs, voice hazy, pleased.

It would probably read as corny in a novel, she thinks. The way his thumbs brush over her cheeks, the softness of the kiss that follows, how everything is patient, unhurried, careful. His hand moves between them, wrapping around himself, guiding his cock to her entrance.

She feels it before anything else—the smooth, warm press of him against her clit, the slow, teasing glide downward, the subtle shift in his grip as he angles himself just right. And then—pressure. A steady push, inch by inch, stretching her open. It isn’t pain, not exactly, just a deep, foreign ache, something unfamiliar, something to adjust to.

Above her, Emmrich shudders, exhales hard against her skin, his face buried in the curve of her neck.

"Rook," he breathes, then again, and again, voice unraveling, a lovely, little litany against her throat, Rook, Rook, Rook, like her name is something essential.

He finds a rhythm, and now—now—it really starts to feel good. The steady drag of his cock inside her, pushing deeper with every roll of his hips. He’s whispering something, words she barely catches, low and breathless, something sweet, something kind, though it barely registers past the heat pooling in her stomach. One of his hands moves over her, palms her breast, fingers pinching lightly at her nipple, sliding down, lower, pressing over her stomach like he’s feeling himself inside her before slipping between her legs.

A slow stroke over her clit, then another, massaging, circling, his pubic bone grinding into her with every thrust, a perfect friction, a sharp little pulse of pleasure each time his hips press flush against hers. Her toes curl, a smile forms. The sound that slips from her mouth is more desperate than she wants it to be; a mewl, something high, something needy, and he hears it, because it has an effect on him.

His hips snap harder against hers, the rhythm shifts, deepens, the sounds between them getting louder, and it’s good, fuck, it’s good, until suddenly it isn’t. A sharp pressure, too much, too deep, something inside her clenching in a way that isn’t pleasure at all.

“Hold on, hold on,” she gasps, legs tightening around his hips to stop him from pushing any further. "Just... Can you not move for a second?"

He stills instantly, breath hot against her skin, his cock buried deep, his body held in place by the tight grip of her thighs. "Did I—?"

"You're sort of..." she begins before cutting herself of. How do people say this sexily? Seductively? In a way that doesn’t make it sound like she’s filing a noise complaint? She gives up. Goes for bluntness. "Long."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, a tad hoarse, moving to pull out. "I'm sorry."

She doesn’t let him. Her arms tighten around him before he can go anywhere, legs wrapping firmer around his hips, holding him inside. She arches, moves against him, slow, rolling little circles with her hips so his cock isn’t thrusting so much as gliding, caressing her from the inside.

She gasps as she finds the spot he’s already rubbed raw, the one that made her thighs tremble when he had her spread open on his kitchen table. Heat surges through her, another rush of slick rolling around him, and he groans before settling into a slower, more controlled pace.

"Is this all right?" he asks, bracing himself on his forearms, shifting his weight to one side long enough to ease a palm beneath her head, fingers weaving into her hair.

"All right," she echoes, a smile tugging at her lips, too wide, too much, barely able to contain the sheer rightness of it. "So, so all right."

It doesn’t take long before she feels it. His breath catching, his hips starting to stutter, the rhythm breaking into something messier, inconsistant. A shudder travels through him, down his spine, his body pressing flush to hers, a quiet, choked noise escaping his lips as one hand finds purchase beneath her knee, pulling her closer.

"I'm afraid it has been a while," he admits, breath hitching between ragged little half-moans. "I will not be able to—"

"Come," she interrupts, fingers threading through his hair.

She moves with him, against him, tilting her hips to chase every last bit of friction she can get, feeling herself clench, flutter around him, sighing in time with the erratic jingle-jingle of his bracelets, the sound intertwining with the pulse between her legs.

She feels the heat of his release, the way his breath stutters into a quiet, helpless whine as he rides it out, still moving, though his thrusts grow slower, lazier, his body gradually yielding to exhaustion. She feels the steady, insistent thud of his heartbeat—against her chest, inside her, everywhere—before he finally stills, the weight of him pressing down for just a moment before he lifts himself slightly.

He kisses her, languid and deep, the kind of kiss that lingers in the space between wakefulness and sleep, his eyes drifting shut as if he could rest right here, against her. Without opening them, asks, "How would you like to finish?"

"What?" she says, dazed, the word barely formed as he kisses his way down her neck, over her breasts, his tongue dragging, teeth catching, lips closing over every sensitive inch he can reach. It’s a stupid question, made even stupider by the fact that she has no idea what she’s even asking.

His hand curls around her knee, pushing it outward, widening the angle until the muscles in her inner thighs stretch, taut and trembling. Then his mouth is on her, lips raw from all the kissing but quickly slicked as his tongue glides through the heat of her, lapping up the mess between her legs.

A sharp jerk in her thighs, the involuntary arch of her back, the sudden, helpless stutter of her breath breaking apart into something that is almost a keen but not quite. Just a strangled sound she doesn’t have the presence of mind to control.

Two fingers spread her folds, slick and flushed, pulsing with every aching throb of blood beneath her skin. His thumb presses down on her clit, firm but careful, at the same moment his tongue pushes inside, slipping past the entrance, licking up everything his cock dragged out, pleasure wet and tacky and slippery.

The heat of his mouth moves with purpose; his tongue curling, stroking, fucking her open between warm breaths and the quiet vibrations of his humming, the sound sending little sparks of sensation straight through her. Praise spills from his lips, soft and slurred and half-formed, slipping between flicks of his tongue, as though every slow, wet drag is a conversation, a promise, a confession whispered straight into the slick, trembling heat of her cunt. Good, lovely, darling—words lost between the obscene suck of his mouth and the way he eats her, like he means every syllable, like he wants her to feel them inside her just as much as his tongue.

Her breath wheezes, her legs tense, her slick drips down over his chin as she grinds helplessly against his mouth, overstimulated, wrung out, gone.

It's the praise that finally pushes her over. It’s not earth-shattering. It's not the kind of orgasm that tears through her in some great, cinematic crescendo. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t see stars, doesn’t arch like some desperate, pornographic thing. No, this one is different. It creeps in slowly, melts her from the inside out, something deep and final, something that leaves her limp and spent and done.

Maybe, just maybe, this is what a proper one is supposed to feel like. Not leaving her restless and ready to go again, but making her tender, sweating, like even the brush of a hand against her ankle would be too much.

He keeps working her through it, lets her ride it out as long as she needs, until she’s limp and tired, nothing but heat and pulse beneath him. Only then does he finally ease away, planting one last kiss against the inside of her thigh before moving back up, his mouth slick and shining, cheeks flushed.

He says something, but she doesn’t catch it before he slips away. The sound of running water drifts from the bathroom, and when he returns, it’s with a damp hand towel, which he presses between her legs, cleaning her up before setting it aside.

"Thank you," she breathes.

He makes a sound, not quite a word, more of a hum, something deeply pleased. If a smile could be heard, that’s what it would sound like. Then he leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead, and climbs back into bed beside her.

It’s morning. They should probably get on with their respective days, but she has no interest in leaving the warmth of the bed just yet. So, instead, she pulls the covers up over them, settling deeper into the cocoon of lingering heat.

"How early did you get up?" she asks suddenly. "You weren’t here when I woke up."

"A quarter past five," Emmrich says, and there it is again—that small, almost bashful glance as he takes her hand. She rolls into him, content to leech off his warmth.

"Criminal," she declares. "But at least that explains why you weren’t there."

"Oh, I wasn’t beside you at all, I’m afraid. That would have been Manfred. He refused to be displaced."

"Ah. Hence the mouthful of hair."

#Thedas has breathing exercises #but the modern world has anxiety medication #and emmrich needs all of it #rook's a rat and she knows it #but even rats deserve to have their tuition paid #this one is ahem smutty so yeah #emmrook #emmrich volkarin #emmrich romance #emmrich smut #as a side note I can't believe we made emmrich smut a widely used tag lmfao love that for us #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age emmrich

28 notes · View notes