lalalychee-x

[lalalychee-x]

"Birthday girl — party 4 u" Rodrick x reader angst!

“I only threw this party for you Only threw this party for you, for you, for you I was hopin' you would come through...” “One thousand pink balloons Dj with your favorite tunes...” “All I'm thinking, all I know is That I hope you knock on my door, Nervous energy My heart rate rises higher, higher up I wish you'd get here, kiss my face Instead you're somewhere far away...”

Anon request from here (it would be cool if you have some feedback, anon! ilysm mwa)! Reader is Heather's best friend; Rodrick and Heather are dating beause he's stupid and follows her around like a lost puppy. Even at your own birthday party, even as you sit lounging in your own pool, absolutely fuming.

It’s your birthday. But not just any birthday — it’s your birthday. The kind that usually gets booked months in advance at a rooftop lounge or beachside club, with glittery invites and ice sculptures and those awful, too-small cakes from boutique bakeries that look better on camera than they taste.

But this year? You kept it at home. Backyard pool, soft blue lights draped in canopies, your mom's old stereo blasting throwbacks. Your friends don’t get it, not really — not when you could’ve gone big like Heather did. But you didn’t want big. You wanted... him.

Rodrick.

Your mistake was telling Heather that. The two of you have always been a bit toxic — partners in crime, teeth bared under pink gloss smiles. But where you bit, Heather devoured. And she decided she wanted a taste of him too.

You learned quick it was never about liking Rodrick. Not for Heather. She just liked how easy he was to bait — a clumsy, wide-eyed stray who followed the bone she dangled in front of him, even when she was snapping it in half right after. And the worst part? He chased her like she was worth something.

You hated him for it. You hated yourself for watching it.

Now you're at your party, waist-deep in the water, drink sweating in your hand as you lean back against the cool tiles of your pool. The music’s pulsing, flashing in between choruses, your friends’ laughter echoing off the walls like it’s anyone’s night but yours. And then you hear it. That sharp, shrill cackle that cuts through everything.

Heather.

You tilt your head and there he is. Rodrick. Dripping wet. Sprawled half-dazed in a kiddie floatie he clearly didn’t try to get into willingly, with soda splashed down his shirt and some gross glitter lipgloss smeared on his cheek like a joke.

Heather and the other girls are laughing like it’s the goddamn Oscars.

Your grip tightens around your cup.

Because you saw it. You saw her fake trip into him, saw her whisper something to her friends before pushing the stupid float into his arms. Saw him just take it. Again.

And you hate the way he’s blinking through it all like maybe, maybe this time she’ll kiss him for real.

You lower your cup and shut your eyes for a second.

You threw this party for him. Your birthday. Your pool. Your playlist. Your drink recipes, damn near themed for his shitty band’s favorite albums. All because he liked pool nights. All because you were stupid enough to think maybe, if Heather wasn’t looking, he’d look at you.

But he’s never not looking at her.

You bite your tongue so hard it hurts.

And then, like clockwork, he’s wiping his face, dragging himself out of the shallow end like a sad, wet cat, and heading — right toward you.

“Yo,” Rodrick says, a little sheepish, hair plastered to his forehead, soda fizz still clinging to his sleeves. “These drinks? Kinda sick. What’s in the pink one—?”

You don’t let him finish. You just stare at him, that bitter knot in your throat tightening. He doesn’t get it. Of course he doesn’t. He never does.

“Is it vodka or, like, that pink lemonade crap from Trader Joe’s?” Rodrick keeps going, oblivious. He’s wringing out his shirt with one hand, licking soda off the corner of his mouth like that’s the most urgent thing in the world. “’Cause I swear I tasted both. Kinda fire. Wait—did you put something spicy in it? Like jalapeño or some shit? I saw that on some magazine—”

You don’t even look at him.

“Cool,” you say flatly, eyes still locked on the other end of the pool where Heather is doubled over in her bikini, laughing like she just won prom queen.

Rodrick laughs a little too. “Yeah, they thought it was funny, I guess. The floatie thing. I mean, whatever. Wasn’t that bad.”

“Mhm.”

“I got soda in my ear though. Like, in my ear. That ever happen to you? It’s like fizzy in my brain now—”

“Rodrick.”

He stops, eyes flicking to yours. You’re still not really looking at him — not properly. Just staring dead ahead, voice flat, body still half-draped in water, your fingers white-knuckling the rim of your glass.

“What?”

“Shut up.”

There’s a beat of silence. Just the bass line of the music thudding through the pool speakers and the distant shriek of someone doing a cannonball.

He laughs again, awkward this time. “Damn, okay. Someone’s moody tonight.”

You turn your head, slow.

He’s grinning like he didn’t just embarrass himself in front of half your graduating class. Like he didn’t make you want to scream every time he showed up looking hopeful, bruised and sticky and fucking blind.

And you don’t mean to snap.

But it bubbles up, spills over, drowns you.

“You’re so fucking annoying!”

It’s not loud at first. It’s sharp. Piercing. And for a second, it cuts straight through the static of the party. Rodrick reels back like you slapped him, blinking hard.

“What the hell?” he mutters, looking around, suddenly self-conscious.

People are watching now. A few heads turning from the drink table, some giggles quieting by the pool. A full-body flush crawls up your throat, but you don’t care. Not enough. Someone’s nudging Heather. The birthday party has screeched to a standstill, everyone watching the meltdown with wide eyes and shallow breaths, pool lights casting ripples over your soaked legs, your flushed cheeks.

You’re already moving, pushing off the edge of the pool, sloshing water as you storm toward the steps. You push out of the water, the drink in your hand forgotten as it splashes somewhere near the edge. Your hair’s clinging to your shoulders, the bottom of your sheer cover-up dripping down your thighs, but you don't care. You’re fuming and it hurts even more to know you don't even have to right to be.

You wipe at your face with a wet hand, mascara already trailing down your cheekbones, and huff a broken breath.

You storm through the crowd soaked, barefoot, and trembling — half from the cold water clinging to your thighs, half from rage that burns so deep it tastes metallic in your throat.

Everywhere is people.

Shoulders brush you, bodies press close in the narrow hallway as some junior you don’t even know screams-laughs about how she “totally got with that one lacrosse guy”. Someone knocks into your arm and doesn’t apologize. Another spills half their beer down the front of your cover-up.

No one notices it’s you. The birthday girl.

The house is packed — kids climbing over furniture, slumped in clumps on the stairs, smoke trailing from the open den, laughter spilling from bathrooms where they’re doing lines off your mom’s makeup counter. The party doesn't stop for you. It never does. You could vanish and they’d still go on, drunk off your dad’s liquor, high off your name.

Because it was never about you, was it?

You shoulder past a couple making out in your doorway and slam the door behind you, the bass muffled immediately.

You don’t even bother with a towel.

Your wet feet slap against the tile, against the hardwood, your body soaked and shaking, your hair a dripping mess down your back as you push through the crowd. Someone’s shoulder clips yours. Someone else drunkenly cheers your name like it’s part of a game.

No one really notices. Or if they do, they don’t care.

The birthday girl vanishing through her own house like a ghost? Not a headline when Heather’s holding court at the poolside with tequila shots and that skin-tight bikini. Not when the music’s thudding hard enough to rattle the walls and someone’s just plugged in a disco light in your living room.

Because this party was never really about you.

It was about the invite list. The photos. The way Heather could say she hosted your birthday without having to clean up after it.

You shove past a group crowding the hallway, wet arm smearing your own makeup on the doorframe as you make a sharp turn toward the stairs.

They part for you barely — a few slow looks, one guy mumbling something about you being “kinda dramatic,” but you don’t stop. You can’t. You take the stairs two at a time, chest tight and throat hot, mascara bleeding in rivers down your cheeks.

Your bedroom’s dark when you slam the door behind you.

Muted laughter still filters through the floorboards. You ignore it. Stumble into your ensuite bathroom, flick the light on, brace both hands against the counter.

Your reflection stares back at you — smeared lipstick, tangled hair, eyes blown out with too much everything. You drag a hand down your face, furious at the tears that won’t stop falling. The sink runs. The water’s ice cold.

Inside, it’s quiet and you like it. Your room and bathroom are untouched by the chaos outside — makeup still lined up along your dresser, along the sink, pink birthday balloons bobbing gently from your headboard. You dim the lights of your en-suite, fingers already tugging at the straps of your swimsuit. You're halfway to unraveling the stupid decorative braids Heather made you sit still for when you finally look up — eyes ringed in black from the run of your mascara, mouth trembling because you're far away from Rodrick and that's what matters right now.

But Rodrick’s still in the pool when people go back to laughing. Initially, anyway.

Someone tosses a float. Someone cranks the music louder. Someone else asks if there’s more beer, and just like that — it’s like nothing ever happened. Like the birthday girl didn’t just scream at him in the middle of her own party.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still tasting soda and chlorine. His brow furrows.

“Wait,” he mutters under his breath, “what just happened?”

There’s a ripple of laughter a few feet away — not cruel, just amused — and it makes something prickle hot under his skin. He looks at the trail of wet footprints she left behind and suddenly he’s moving, scrambling out of the pool with a loud slap of bare feet on concrete.

He grabs his shirt, doesn’t bother wringing it out this time, just yanks it on half-soaked and starts wading through the mob of people like a lost puppy. Every hallway’s a blur of bodies and red solo cups and cigarette smoke, and for a second he’s not even sure where he’s going — until he remembers the layout from the one time he came over to pick up Heather for a party.

Upstairs. Left. Second door.

He takes the steps two at a time, breath caught somewhere in his throat. Her room’s closed. He hesitates, knocks once — soft, unsure — then pushes it open.

Empty.

His brows knit as he steps in, blinking. Then the soft click of a faucet behind the bathroom door draws him forward, and he inches closer, leaning just enough to peer through the open frame—

You scrub at your face again, smudging mascara in frustrated, angry swipes. Black streaks stain the towel you yank off the rack, and your breath hitches in short, shaky pulls as you press it to your eyes.

You hear the door creak open behind you.

Then his voice. Hesitant. Wet footprints on tile.

“...Yo?”

Your eyes flick up to the mirror and there he is. Rodrick. Damp hair a mess over his forehead, his soaked shirt clinging to his ribs, looking around like he’s half-expecting Heather to pop out and laugh in his face again.

You blink once. Breathe in deep.

Then flatly say, “Get out.”

He scoffs, genuinely offended, “Why?”

You don’t turn. Just grip the edge of the counter tighter, knuckles pale against porcelain. Your voice is low, almost calm — but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. Like the simmer before a boil.

“What are you doing here?”

Rodrick shrugs, throwing his hands out, water still dripping from his sleeves. “You just screeched like a freaking banshee at me in front of everyone, what do you mean what am I doing here?”

You lift your eyes to the mirror again. Your reflection looks so messed up it almost makes you laugh — runny mascara, eyes puffy, hair undone from the pretty braids you sat still for. You look like a drowned, humiliated brat.

So you snap.

“Well, Heather treats you like shit in front of everyone. Which would you rather?”

Rodrick blinks. Like that stunned blink of a dumb boy who’s never considered something until it’s hurled in his face. He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, jaw working like maybe he’s trying to come up with a quip, a joke, anything to deflect.

You keep going. Voice rising.

“I’m so tired of it. Of watching her yank you around like a little fucking joke, like she’s bored and you’re just the new shiny thing she can throw in front of people and laugh at. I’m tired of seeing you go along with it. You fall on your face and she laughs and you still chase her like a dog—” your breath cracks, “and it’s pathetic, Rodrick. And it’s sad. Because you’re not that stupid. You see it.”

You finally turn then, hand flinging toward him like you’re gesturing at a ghost only you can see. Your voice splinters somewhere between fury and ache. “And you still fucking let her!”

Tears well up now, uninvited, hot and blurring your vision. “You let her make fun of you. Humiliate you. Hurt you. And you just... take it. And I have to watch it. Every goddamn time—”

You cut yourself off with a ragged breath, wiping at your eyes even though it’s useless.

Rodrick is still frozen in the doorway. His mouth’s parted, brow furrowed like it physically hurts him to hear any of this. His shoulders sag just slightly, expression finally cracking from dumbfounded to... remorseful.

But he doesn’t say anything and neither do you, for a moment.

It hurts more because you were the one who would sneak off everytime Heather fucked him over, to check up on him, toddling over in shoes too sparkly and big for you— coming over with an icepack when Heather made him bash his lip against the edge of the rollerskating rink.

It hurts more because you were the one that would nudge him and ask him about whatever shitty music tape he was holding when no one at the table was paying attention to him.

It hurts more because you know you have no right to like him in the way you do.

You’re trembling by the time you spit out the last sentence, chest rising and falling like you just ran the length of the street. You’re too exhausted to shout anymore, too choked up to keep the edge in your voice. The silence afterward stretches thick between you both — breathless, muggy, fluorescent. The soft buzz of the bathroom lights is suddenly the loudest thing in the world.

And Rodrick’s just staring.

All wide-eyed and stupid. Like your tears, your voice cracking, your fists clenched so tight your nail beds ache — none of it even registered until just now. You like-liked him?.

He blinks once. Then again.

“Oh... shit.”

And you laugh. One sharp, dry breath out of your nose. Bitter.

That’s all he has to say?

It’s so him you want to hit something. Want to scream in his face again. Instead, you just shove past him, shoulder catching his collarbone, movement so fluid it could almost look staged — like you’ve had practice pushing through the people who disappoint you.

“Forget it,” you mutter, voice low, throat still thick. “Forget I said anything.”

He doesn’t stop you.

Of course he doesn’t.

You stomp barefoot down the hallway, a mess of half-dried limbs and smeared lip gloss, towel clutched tight to your chest, your hair twisted into some uneven, makeshift updo like muscle memory — like you’re too used to holding yourself together after falling apart. You disappear down the stairs again. Back into the party. Back into the noise.

Rodrick watches the door frame long after you're gone. Still dripping. Still dumb. Still trying to figure out how the hell he got here.

And the worst part? Somewhere deep down, even he knows it’s not all on you.

You could’ve said something sooner — sure. But he could’ve seen it sooner too. Seen the way Heather weaponised him for fun, the way you looked at him when no one else did. All those times you snuck over, pretending it was just coincidence — the bandaids, the icepacks, the split-lip awkward jokes. The way your hand would shake a little when it brushed his. The way he pretended not to notice because it was easier to chase someone who never wanted him than to sit in the possibility of being wanted back.

You were both cowards.

And now you're both wrecked.

The music downstairs surges again — someone’s turned up the bass. Someone’s splashing in the pool. Laughter climbs and falls and no one notices the birthday girl’s vanished for good.

Rodrick stands alone in your bathroom, mascara smudges on the sink, towel fallen on the floor.

Somewhere, the music downstairs is picking up again. People laughing. Like nothing happened.

Like the party wasn’t ever about you. Like you didn’t just bleed the truth into a bathroom mirror and leave it there with the boy too stupid to see you, but you were too bitchy to ever let him in.

And all he can do is whisper a useless, too-late, “...shit.”

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

divider creds: @anitalenia

[lalalychee-x]

joel fic joel fic joel fic joel fic plz plz plz joel fic plz plz

My wonderful princess with a disorder mutual, your wishes have been GRANTED. 🙏🙏💥💥

HERE!!

[lalalychee-x]

"Just this once, Officer?" Joel Miller x reader — NSFW!

♡ After a long day of working at the diner, you're a little too desperate to get home. Who can blame you? The cops don't actually hunt down speeders like they have nothing better to do...usually. And you're working on just above minimum wage, so you REALLY can't afford a ticket right now...

cw: afab reader, accidental creampie, sleazy cop Joel (but can you reallyyyy blame him? You're a bloody sweet angel in a striped blouse, checkered apron and shiney brown flats), car sex, semi-public sex, sex on a highway, mostly-clothed sex...

word count: 2896...

It’s nearly midnight when you finally peel off your apron and clock out. The fluorescent lights of the diner hum like flies, your feet ache in those shiny brown flats, and the scent of fries and burnt coffee clings to your skin like regret. The place was dead tonight. A few old men nursing pie slices, a trucker with too many questions about your name. Tips weren’t worth shit. Not even enough to cover what’s left in your gas tank.

You just want to get home.

The road’s empty, dark, the kind of thick Southern night that sweats through the cotton of your striped blouse and sinks into your bones. The world hums low around you—crickets, heat, your engine working too hard as your car coasts well over the limit down a two-lane highway. Just for a moment. You tell yourself it’s just for a moment.

And then—

Flashing red and blue in your rearview mirror.

“Shit,” you hiss, slamming on the brakes just enough to make your heart climb into your throat. You weren’t even that far over. Ten, maybe fifteen? You could cry. You don’t have the money for a damn ticket, and the last thing you need tonight is some clipboard-happy cop on a power trip over a woman because that's what the patriarchy's settled in.

You flick your signal and pull over, biting the inside of your cheek. The lights slow behind you. Park. Engine still idling.

“Goddamn it,” you mutter, already reaching for your glove box like muscle memory. License. Insurance. Bullshit smile.

You see him in the rearview. The car door creaks open behind the wash of lights, and a figure steps out—big. Broad shoulders, dark uniform, thick hands resting near the belt. Slowly, deliberately, he makes his way to your side window.

You sigh, roll it down just enough to be polite, and glance up with your best tired-innocent face.

“Good evening, officer,” you say sweetly, voice soft and worn-out with a twinge of your Southern drawl still hanging on, like old honey.

He leans forward a little, tired eyes raking over your face, blouse, then flats—then back up again. His hand rests lazy on the roof of your car.

“Ma’am,” he says, slow as molasses. “You know what you were doin’ back there?”

You lick your lips, nodding, already resigned to the inevitable. “Yeah. I was speeding.”

His eyes drag over you—slow, like he’s taking inventory. Striped blouse, buttons a little crooked from your rushed change after closing. Apron still tied around your waist like you forgot it was even there. Shiny brown flats, scuffed just enough to betray the hours you’ve spent on your feet.

Joel sighs like this night’s just been handed to him in a bad dream. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, brows drawn.

“It’s late,” he mutters, voice low and scratchy like he hasn’t slept properly in a few days. “And I don’t wanna have to give you a ticket, ma’am…” A beat. “Can I see your license?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, already rummaging through your bag. Receipts. Lip gloss. A pen that doesn’t work. No license. Your heart stutters.

You pretend to still be digging while he stands there, patient, leaning just a little on your window frame. The air between you smells like diner grease, asphalt heat, and him—coffee and cigarettes with the faintest bite of cedarwood cologne. The kind of scent that sticks to flannel and flirts with your thoughts.

“Shit,” you murmur, still flipping through your wallet. “I don’t… have it. I think I left it in my other purse.”

Joel exhales, long and put-upon, and glances out into the road like maybe he could pretend this didn’t just happen. But then he turns back, eyes narrowing just a hair.

“Speedin’,” he ticks off, holding up one finger, “and no license.” He lets the silence hang before he adds, tired as sin, “I gotta give you a ticket, ma’am.”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Seriously?”

“‘Fraid so.” His tone’s a drawl now, a little too casual for someone ruining your week. “Rules are rules.”

He reaches to unclip the little pad from his belt, like this is just routine. “I’m just as tired as you are, sugar. Make this easy for the both of us and just take the ticket.”

“C’mon,” you whine a little, tossing him a playful pout. “Let it slide, officer. I had a long day. Two drunk truckers and a kid who tried to steal a slice of pie outta the warmer. I’ve been on my feet since lunch.”

He gives you a look over the edge of his clipboard. Dry. Curious.

“You flirtin’ to get outta this, sugar?” he asks, already amused.

You grin. “Only if it’s working.”

He huffs a half-laugh, shaking his head. “Ain’t nothin’ workin’ tonight. My feet hurt, my partner called in sick, and some asshole spilled chili in the back of the cruiser. Smells like a dead possum.”

“Jesus.”

“I know.”

“...That bad, huh?”

He nods solemnly. “Chili and onions.”

You gasp. “That’s criminal.”

He cracks a smile at that, lazy and reluctant. “See? Now that’s the offense you should be writin’ up.”

“Then you better let me go,” you tease, elbow resting against the open window. “I’m a victim here.”

He looks at you again, really looks this time—eyes flicking across your cheek, your mouth, your tired smile. Like he’s measuring something. The tension in his shoulders hasn’t softened, but it’s shifted. Less official. Less cop.

“Yeah?” he says quietly. “Victim, huh?”

“Yup,” You say, popping the 'p', loudly.

You can feel the way his eyes linger now, still holding that small amused expresseion like he’s trying not to let it get comfortable on his face. There's a beat of silence. It stretches.

“So,” you say slowly, shifting in your seat and letting your fingers graze the edge of the recliner switch just beside your thigh, all casual. “You got a wife or somethin’ waitin’ for you back home, officer?”

Joel arches a brow, clearly entertained. It was probably the most interesting thing he's seen all day. “Now that’s a real left turn, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“No wife,” he says, tipping his chin, still leaning lazily against your window like this is his front porch. “No woman, either.”

You hum like you’re surprised. “Really?” Your voice laces syrup-thick sarcasm. “A charming civil servant like you? Guess they just don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

Joel snorts. “Civil servant,” he echoes like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

“I’m just sayin’…” You flash a small grin, lips parted just enough to toe the line. “You give off a little… pent-up energy.”

He tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing with a new kind of curiosity now. Less bored. More alert. That eyebrow of his arches just slightly higher, and his mouth tugs into something that isn’t exactly a smile.

“Pent up, huh?” he repeats, slow.

You shrug, still playing the innocent card with a twang of devil. “Yeah. You know. Tense. Like you haven’t had a good fuck in… a while.”

The silence that follows is razor-edged and electric, the kind that makes your skin tighten and the back of your neck prickle. Joel’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t move.

You recline the seat back just a touch—barely noticeable, but deliberate enough that his eyes flicker to the motion. Your fingers still rest near the button.

His tongue wets his bottom lip. He exhales through his nose like he’s finally made a decision. The ticket pad in his hand—your ticket—he slides it slowly back into the pocket of his jeans.

“You in a rush to get anywhere, darlin’?” he asks, voice dipped into something low and gruff now, rough like gravel under tires.

You blink, lips twitching. “No, sir.”

He straightens up, clears his throat like that’ll somehow make this cleaner, less sleazy, less immoral.

It doesn’t.

“You got anythin’ else that ain't your license in there, sugar? ” he hums.

You don’t.

And you already know damn well, repeating with a shit-eating grin, “No, sir.”

You repeat, slowly turning the little button on the side of the seat with a click-click-click.

Now you're half out the driver’s seat of your busted-up sedan, your back pressed awkwardly to the worn upholstery, legs dangling out into the warm night.

Your checkered apron’s still tied messily at your waist, bunched up around your hips like it was trying to cover anything—like it ever could. Stockings stretched and torn just below the hem, ringed tight around your knees. The glossy brown of your flats catch the flicker of highway lights every time a distant car passes by, none of them slowing down.

And Joel—Joel’s standing between your legs, one hand braced on the car roof, the other dragging slow and rough up the inside of your thigh. He looks wrecked already, like the idea of you like this has short-circuited something in that cop brain of his.

“Christ,” he mutters, staring down at you. His gaze drags over the undone buttons of your striped blouse, the way your bra’s come unclasped at the front like it gave up the ghost. “What the hell are you doin’ dressed like a dessert menu, sugar?”

You huff a laugh, breath shaky as his fingers ghost over the crease of your thigh. “Makin’ ends meet. Y’wanna comment on my fashion choices or—?”

He cuts you off by pressing two fingers right to your cunt, dragging slick through your folds, spreading it slow.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice gone thick.

You shrug, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Worked a double. Real tired. Told you I needed some relief.”

Joel’s not teasing anymore. Not with his words. Not with his hands, either. One big palm grabs the back of your thigh, lifting and adjusting until your hips are tipped just right. He steps in closer, belt already undone, jeans tugged down just enough.

He strokes himself once, twice—his cock thick and already leaking, before he lines up and pushes in, one slow, deliberate thrust that eases the air right out of you.

You gasp, fingers digging into the seat as he watches so damn carefully, watching his cock get wet and slick. Watching the way your cunt stretches just to fit him.

Joel groans, deep and low in his chest. “Fuckkkk, m’, gonna have to forgive that ticket now” he breathes. “You feel that?”

You nod, blinking up at him, eyes wide and half-lidded, mouth parted in disbelief.

“I said—” His hips roll forward, sharply like he's angry—cock bullying into your cunt as he does, “—you feel that?”

“Y-Yeah,” you choke out, stars flashing behind your eyes.

And he laughs, rough and satisfied, hand fisting in the side of your apron. “Good. ‘Cause you’re takin’ every goddamn inch.”

The car rocks with every thrust, tires creaking gently against gravel as Joel pounds into you—slow at first, then faster, rougher, until your thighs are trembling and the edge of the seat digs hard into your spine.

You can hear everything—the wet slap of skin on skin, the low grunt of his breath, the obscene, messy squelch every time he drags his cock back out of your dripping cunt. It’s filthy. Loud. So fucking loud.

You try to bite it back, a moan caught in your throat like you’re still in that diner, still being polite. But Joel’s not having it.

“C’mon,” he pants, one hand braced beside your head on the seat, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. “Don’t hold back now, sugar. Ain’t no one out here gonna hear you. It’s just you ‘n me—nothin’ but highway ghosts.”

You moan as he slams in deep, the kind of sound that tears out your chest without permission—raw and high and needy.

“There she is,” he growls, breath hitching as your walls flutter around him. “That’s it. That’s my good little whore.”

Something about the word makes your whole body seize, back arching off the seat, cunt clenching so tight around him he hisses between his teeth. It’s primal. Instinct. Your hips buck up toward him on their own, chasing it—chasing him—like your body was just waiting for someone to fuck the sweetness right out of it.

“Joel—Officer—” you gasp, nails clawing for purchase on the armrest.

He bends lower, the sweat off his neck dampening your collar, his voice right in your ear, slick with sin. “Ain’t it filthy, sugar’? Gettin’ fucked like this with your ass hangin’ out the car door?”

Your mouth opens but no words come—only a high, warbled moan as he thrusts harder.

“Any poor trucker could roll by and see you,” he murmurs against your throat, lips brushing your skin. “See how wrecked you are for me. You like that? Bein’ used like a dirty little thing where anyone could watch?”

You whimper, nodding fast—embarrassed, but not enough to stop. Not even close.

He laughs again, low and dark, fucking into you harder now, his hips slapping against yours in quick, brutal rhythm. “Goddamn, look at you,” he groans. “Takin’ me so good. Bet you needed this bad, huh? All dolled up like a pretty treat at work, but this is what you wanted. Nothin’ sweet about you now.”

Your whole body’s trembling, cunt stretched open around him, the car seat soaked, your breath sobbing out between pleads and curses. Every thrust threatens to knock you out of your goddamn mind.

“Gonna cum,” you choke, hand flying down to rub your clit in messy little circles. “Fuck, Joel—”

“Yeah? Then be loud, sugar,” he pants, thrusting deeper. “Let the highway hear what a good, law-bidin’ girl sounds like.”

You're shaking underneath him, blouse clinging to your skin with sweat, bra hanging useless around your ribs. Your apron’s bunched at your waist, sticky and damp, and your panties are tangled somewhere near your ankles—if not lost completely in the footwell.

Joel’s got you half hanging out of the car, the door wide open like the world should see, like he wants it to. One of your legs is hooked over his shoulder, the other bent up against the dashboard, your pussy stuffed full and wet around him.

You can hear how soaked you are, every thrust filthy and wet, slapping echoes swallowed by the endless, empty stretch of highway.

And you’re loud—so loud it would be humiliating if he weren’t moaning just as hard, panting over you with that sweat-slick jaw and furrowed brow.

"Goddamn, sugar," he grits, fucking into you hard enough to make the shocks creak. "You’re squeezin’ me so tight. You tryin’ to make me knock y’ up?"

"Maybe," you gasp, teasing, breath hitching. "Is it working?"

He groans, like you just knocked the wind out of him. “Shit, yeah it is. But I wanna hear it—go on, sugar.”

"Joel—"

"Ain’t no one gonna hear you out here. It’s just us and the fuckin’ stars. So be as loud as you want, sugar—be a fuckin’ slut for me."

Your fingers are working your clit fast now, frantic, desperate.

"Joel, I—oh, god, I’m gonna—"

“That’s it,” he groans, hips grinding deep and perfect, dragging against that spot inside you like he knows what he’s doing. “Cum on it, sweetheart.”

And fuck—you do.

You cum hard, twitching and moaning, head thrown back, thighs quaking. Something about it makes your whole body seize, back arching off the seat, cunt clenching so tight around him he hisses between his teeth. Your hips buck up toward him on their own, chasing it—chasing him—like your body was just waiting for someone to fuck the sweetness right out of it..

“Shit— fuck, I can’t—” Joel gasps, hips jerking.

You know he’s supposed to pull out.

You both know.

But your arms are locked around his neck, dragging him closer, keeping him deep, and he just lets go—

Spilling hot and thick in your cunt with a broken, wrecked groan.

“Fuck,” he rasps, still pulsing inside you. “Shouldn’t’ve done that. Christ.”

You're breathless, boneless, spread wide in the driver’s seat, both of you panting into each other’s mouths. You blink up at him, dazed.

“Do I get off that ticket, Officer?” You gasp, lips twitching into whatever weak, sassy expression you could.

You’re breathless, boneless, spread wide in the driver’s seat, both of you panting into each other’s mouths. You blink up at him, dazed.

“Do I get off that ticket, Officer?” you gasp, lips twitching into whatever weak, sassy expression you could manage, hips still trembling with aftershocks.

Joel leans back slightly, eyes raking over the mess he’s made of you — your ruined stockings, your open blouse, the shine slicking his cock as he slowly pulls out with a low hiss. He tucks himself back in with one hand and rests the other on the edge of your door.

“Y’ got off plenty,” he drawls, voice rough. Then, after a beat, “But yeah, sugar... consider the ticket forgiven.”

“Good, because you owe me a pill in the morning,” You groan, feeling his cum almost rush out of your abused cunt, “And those things are expensive.”

“Suppose I do,” He huffs, amused and fiddling with his belt, clinking it back in place, “Smart lass, ain't y’? Why don't you hand me y’ digits so I can get y’ that pill in the mornin’?”

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

divider creds: @enchanthings-a

[lalalychee-x]

🐞💤— I loved ittttt omg I rlly did, thank u for feeding me🙏🏼🙏🏼 hope Rodrick feeds Cassie too someday

MY JAW DROPPED 😧. Idk if that was meant to be dark humour, or just a genuine hope. But man, I had so much fun writing it teehee, I'm so glad you enjoyed it !!! KISS KIS, LOVE U SLEEPY LADYBUG 🐞💤!! 😭💗

[lalalychee-x]

Hii! are ur requests open? if so, i would like to do one!

So Maybe Rodrick x fem reader and reader is pregnant, like teenage pregnancy. All fluffy obv. and Maybe make it a serie? pretty please? 😞 if not its okk

for context, im a teenager and im pregnant but the father of my kid abandoned me so Ughh I need something to read so I don't feel like shit 🧍🏽‍♀️

Anyway bye! have a good day xoxo

OOOHHH MY SHAYLAAAAA 😭💗💗💗 OF COURSE! Omg, of course I'll do this, sweetie, I'll make it so deep and fluffy you gon feel like you're in cotton candy. In tears that my writing is even considered to make people feel happy on this level.

I hope the father gets a pineapple up his ass, nd I wanna give you so many little kisses, I hope everything goes smoothly. I'm gonna have a field trip with this request!! 😭🙏

[lalalychee-x]

🌾🍞 - THATS BECAUSE WERE SO GREAT?!?! I gave u the idea and U DELIVERED SO WELL, GIRLLL I LOVE THE FACT PEOPLE WANT MORE FROM MY REQUEST I APPROVE‼️‼️ MORE MOVIE MORE MOVIEEEE, also dear Anon who said reader gives bj after drive thru date, great minds think alike 🧠

I AM CRYING ACTUAL TEARS 😭🙏💗, I HAVE REACHED THE HIGHEST POINT IN LIFE (my anons communicating with each other) RAHHH TYSM ILYSM I'M GOING TO-

*explodes* 💥

I will totally write more! I'm actually having so much fine writing male!reader, like it's different to what I usually do, and will forever be thankful for this request omggg...

[lalalychee-x]

"You say Tomato, I say Tomato." — Cassie x Rodrick

FIRE REQUEST it's like 22 days late, I'm so sorry... from 💤🐞 sleepy ladybug anon! I had so much fun doing this (had to include some American slander). Feel free to drop more requests, guys! I have a break in my exam schedule at the moment so I'm finishing up previous requests!! PLEASE ALSO DROP FEEDBACK IF U WANT (also so ik you've seen it because I feel so bad that this is so late..), I ADORE TALKING TO ALL YOU ANONS MWA! cw: anorexia, self harm mentioned, cigarettes/smoking, fluff and angst-y sorta, american-slander, eating disorders, sweet cheek kisses, romantic undertones

Rodrick thinks he’s hallucinating when he sees her at his band’s gig—a girl who floats instead of walks, eyes all glittery and strange, wearing a sheer slip dress and boots that don’t match. She tells him his band is “sweet, like cupcakes” in that airy British accent, and he’s confused whether he’s being mocked or adored.

Cassie’s on a weird gap year. She ran away from Bristol on a Tuesday with a suitcase full of lace and pills she didn’t take. America’s ridiculous, she decides, especially the boys. Rodrick says “pants” when he means trousers and “restroom” when he means toilet. She tells him he talks like a Disney Channel character and he calls her “Mary Poppins with a drug problem.”

Rodrick pushed through the side door of the venue, boots skidding on slick concrete, ears still ringing with the crash of symbols and a feedback scream that definitely wasn’t part of the setlist. The night air hit his face like a cold slap, but it was welcome. Another crap gig, even if he swore it was getting better. Muffled boos, but not as much. Someone threw a half-eaten sandwich. Classic.

He muttered something under his breath—maybe "fuck this town"—and kicked a discarded Monster can into the grass.

Then he saw her.

Sitting just past the edge of the parking lot in a patch of wet grass, one knee drawn up, the other leg stretched like she’d forgotten how sitting worked. Blonde hair tousled and haloed in streetlamp glow, Cassie looked like a painting someone spilled wine on. Her fingers trembled faintly as she pinched a small baggie between them, staring at it like it might float.

Rodrick paused, concerned for her wellbeing as anyone else would. Took her in visually with raised eyebrows.

“You good?” he called out.

She blinked slowly, then turned her head like an owl might—deliberate, dreamy. “You were the one screaming into the microphone.”

He huffed a humorless laugh, dragging his hand through his hair. “Yeah. Not my best.”

Cassie patted the grass beside her. “It’s alright. I like it when boys scream. Means they’re still alive.”

Rodrick stepped over a patch of damp dirt and collapsed beside her with almost a cackle for a laugh. “Well shit. You’re a character.”

She giggled—soft and light, like windchimes swaying. “So are you. You're all…" she gestured vaguely at his eyeliner and band tee, "American...Teenage dirtbag. Loud music. Soft eyes."

Rodrick side-eyed her. “You high right now?”

“Little bit.” She shrugged. “Would you like to be?”

He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it, the flame briefly illuminating the smudge of eyeliner under one eye. He took a long drag and exhaled into the night. “Nah. I’m already depressed. Don’t need help.”

Cassie laughed again, quiet and sweet, like they were sharing a secret instead of oxygen. “You’re funny.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Just grass. Night air. The wet hum of faraway traffic.

“I wanted to be a rockstar,” Rodrick said suddenly, like it had been building in his throat all night. “Still kinda do. But... like. That was our fifth gig this month and we keep getting kicked out halfway through. So I dunno. Maybe I’m just the guy with a van and certified joke of a GPA.”

Cassie looked at him, the kind of look that felt like a telescope rather than a mirror. “You could still be. People like you always could be. You’ve got the... the loud sadness.”

Rodrick blinked. “Loud sadness?”

She nodded solemnly. “It’s like glitter, but in your voice.”

He choked on a laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

Cassie leaned her head on his shoulder, totally unbothered, like they'd known each other more than five minutes. “I like boys like you. Sad, scrappy. Dreaming so loud they shake apart.”

Rodrick stared down at the top of her head, her curls catching little flecks of night dew.

“…You’re fucking weird.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He tapped ash into the grass. “I kinda like it.”

Rodrick passed her the cigarette. Cassie took it without looking, fingers brushing his in that fleeting way that made it feel like she might float off if he breathed too hard.

She exhaled slow. “Well, the feds didn't.”

Rodrick blinked. “What?”

She turned her head, resting her cheek against her drawn-up knee. “You asked if I was good. I said I was. I lied. But the feds didn’t, so... I'm still here.”

His face scrunched. “...What the hell does that mean?”

“I dunno.” She grinned, teeth white in the streetlamp. “Sounds dramatic, doesn’t it?”

She let the silence linger, before plucking at the damp grass beside her.

“I ended up in the psych ward once,” she said, voice light as ever. “Sixth form. Had to wear socks so I wouldn’t slip in the showers. Isn’t that funny?”

Rodrick coughed a little, caught between confusion and concern. “Wait—what, like... like the hospital? That kind of psych ward?”

“Mhmm.” She nodded. “Anorexia nervosa. Amongst other things.” A beat. “I didn’t eat for three days once. So I could be lovely.”

“Three days?”Rodrick’s brain stalled. “Okay. Damn. That’s... a lot of words. I—what the hell is sixth form?”

She giggled again, like it was all one big cosmic joke. “Oh. Right. You’re American. Well this is America. Sixth form’s like... the last two years of high school for you.”

“Yeah, well,” Rodrick muttered, scratching behind his ear. “Sounds like your version’s got way more trauma. And worse cafeteria food.”

Cassie didn’t laugh this time. She just looked at him, glassy-eyed, like she was there and somewhere else all at once. “I didn't really eat the food, I couldn't tell you.”

Rodrick cleared his throat. “I mean... it doesn’t sound too good. Like, actually.”

Cassie hummed. “I survived it, though. Got out. Came here. Did a little coke. Met a rockstar.”

“‘Rockstar’ is generous.”

“Hmm. You’ve got the eyeliner for it. You look like you've been bloody bashed in the face, though.”

Rodrick glanced at her, unsure whether to laugh or shut up. He chose both.

Cassie smiled again, softer this time. “People think I’m always on something. Sometimes I am. Mostly I’m just tired.”

He looked at her. Really looked. And said nothing, just nudged the cigarette between them again.

Rodrick shifted, flicking ash off the end of his cig, eyes on the orange glow.

“I burn myself too,” he said suddenly, like the words were ripped from the back of his throat. “Like... not for any deep reason. Just—when shit gets loud, and I don’t wanna punch a wall or scream in someone’s face.”

Cassie blinked slowly, turning her head like she wasn’t sure if she’d misheard.

He glanced over at her, half-smirking like he was waiting to be called a freak. “I mean, it’s dumb. It’s not like your story or whatever. Just some little marks on my arm. Doesn’t even blister half the time.”

Cassie looked at him for a second too long. Then—

She laughed.

Not loud, not mocking. Just this fluttery, off-kilter laugh like wind chimes in the wrong key. Like she was high and weightless and full of glittering dust instead of blood.

“That’s so silly,” she said, voice lilting and sleep-drunk. “You, burning yourself on purpose. Like some moody cowboy with a secret. Ooh, edgy.”

Rodrick flushed, but not out of embarrassment. More like warmth of knowing someone else was beside him, going through something similar yet so different. “Jesus, thanks.”

“No—no, I like it,” she said, brushing her hand against his wrist for a moment, featherlight. “It’s very... rock and roll of you.”

“Is that British for mentally ill?”

Cassie giggled again. “Might be.”

And then, without warning, she leaned in.

Rodrick stiffened as her lips pressed against his cheek—barely even a kiss, more like a warm breath of contact, and then gone. Her hair smelled like someone else’s perfume, borrowed and fading.

“What the hell was that for?” he asked, blinking like the kiss had been a slap.

Cassie just looked back at him, blank-faced for a beat, then shrugged.

“You said you’re not a rockstar,” she said, eyes fluttering half-shut. “But I think you’re close.”

Rodrick opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He just watched her lean back onto the grass again, arms stretched out like she was catching starlight with her fingers.

He’d never met anyone like her before. And that scared the hell out of him.

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

divider creds: @cursed-carmine

[lalalychee-x]

ur intro post says minors dni with nsfw! am i good to follow as long as i avoid any nsfw posts?

Yes, of course, sweetie! 😭💗💗

It's just to push that I really don't support minors watching nsfw content, even if it happens a lot! Although I can't physically stop it, I highly reccomend that you don't interact with nsfw (as in sexual content) if you're underage! TYSM FOR CONSIDERING THE FOLLOW! ILYSM MWA 😭💗🙏

[lalalychee-x]

party 4 u

[lalalychee-x]

[lalalychee-x]

I just read the Rodrick Heffley fic and I gotta say it was AMAZING!! Yk if you're up for writing the next part, it could be about the reader giving Rodrick a bj or something. It would be fun to see him on the receiving end

AWEEE, I'M SO GLAD YOU ENJOYED IT!! 💗💗😭 I am planning to write a next part! Multiple perhaps because I had nooo idea people would like it so much, it started off as a single request from 🌾🍞 anon, then there were moreee requests omg I love yall!!! AND YES! I promise there WILL be a part of switching roles teehee :3 💗

And it might take some time to release the parts, since exams started and I'm getting cooked right now. Like really badly, I might come out as a premium barbeque steak. BUT I WILL WRITE I PROMISE MWAAA!

[lalalychee-x]

STOP OMG HI AGAIN!! You just made my entire week with that reply, no joke.

A car date drive-thru moment?? That actually sounds so them—and Rodrick inviting the reader to his house later because his parents aren’t home right 👀 HAHHAHA pls. Not boring at all, I swear. Add a lil emotional whiplash and boom—masterpiece.

TYSM for adding me to the list!! I’ll be seated, stalking your updates like it’s a Netflix drop. MWA love your work fr!!

- 📷

I LOVE ALL MY SILLIES ANONS SM, A NETFLIX DROP?? THAT'S SO SWEET. THIS IS SUCH A GOATED IDEA TOO! AND no problem, I am getting around to answering all these requests! Exams started though, so I'm kind of getting cooked on a stake rn, prolly over a fire or something, but I WILL, I PROMISE, I HAVE DRAFTS/WIPs ! TYSM AGAIN! 💗💗💗😭

[lalalychee-x]

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

[lalalychee-x]

honestly you all are so annoying because motherhood IS interesting but fandom people are simultaneously obsessed with deciding that every woman has motherly qualities and completely disinterested in actually exploring motherhood as a role that informs a character. I do think exploring a character being a mother can be wildly interesting if they are canonically one, but because of misogyny, people just view motherhood as a totally unremarkable naturalized state that all women must inhabit!

[lalalychee-x]

YO. I just read Parts 1 & 2 of your Rodrick x male reader fic and—HELLO??? It ATE. Like actually devoured my soul. I was giggling, blushing, kicking my feet, screaming into my pillow—the whole experience. The chemistry?? The banter?? The Part 2?? ICONIC. That lives in my head rent-free now.

Please tell me you’re planning a Part 3 or maybe even a full series?? I would literally sell my soul for more of their chaotic, unhinged dynamic. I need MORE (but only if you’re down, of course).

- 📷

OMG HI CAMERA ANON 📷!! TYSM OMGGGG, I HAD SM FUN WRITING IT! I did leave the ending to part 2 open incase I wanted to continue it! I feel like a part 3 would be them actually going to the drive-thru and maybe eating in the car?! Idk if that's too boring for a whole part of a fanfic though?? SOOO feel free to drop ideas, I'll add ur request + anon name to the list! MWA, this made my day, no my entire week and probably my whole month too! 💗💗💗

[lalalychee-x]

🍞🌾 AAAAA I SAW THE PART TWO!!! I LOVE IT, you so good and it was so freaky hehehe I LOVE IT ‼️ 🫵 also I hope you do well on your exams!!

ILYSM WHEAT-BREAD 🍞🌾. MWAAAA I'M GLAD U ENJOYED THE 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴, TYSM FOR THE EXAM WELL-WISHES AND THE GOATED IDEA/REQUEST!!!

[lalalychee-x]

can you do like a rodrick x f!reader inspired the song party 4 u like the scenario is where rodrick was with heather even tho heather was manipulating him making reader hurt and stuff idk if that make sense but jus the story about those like edits of the part “party 4 you /part of you knew)

HAIII! Do I have the right song (the one below)? This is so interesting!! I fw this, HEAVY! I love writing twisted angst and I love adding progression and developing realtionships through angst aaaaaaa tysm for the ask, nonnie, I'll write this as soon as I can (exams started aaaa)!! 😭💗💗