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oliviajdjarin · 1 year

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Joel Miller: Lies in the Dark

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (afab; she/her)

Summary: Joel realizes two things 1). He's an absolute dick 2). You love him anyway.

Excerpt: "Y/N," he whispered, with enough southern drawl to make you realize how much you had missed that baritone. It warmed you, slithering up your spine so fast it made you dizzy. "How...how do I fix this?"

You looked up at him, at his dark eyes and tanned skin, and said, "return the favor."

It wasn't even five seconds before he had you over his shoulder, down to your living room, and tossed onto the couch. You bounced as you landed, smiling like a kid in a candy store.

Warnings: SMUTTT, oral fem!receiving, Joel eats, reader gets a bit insecure for a second, angst, fear of relationships, kissing, the l word, pretty much just fluffy smut.

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: This is technically a part two to Talking Body, but if you would like to read this on its own, you absolutely can do so. Thank you for all the love and requests for a part two. It means a lot to me.

A/N 2: I was also inspired by this song by tove lo for this part, and talking body also by tove lo for the first part of this duology as well :)

p.s. I know absolutely nothing about guns, so if you don't actually have to cock (?) a shot gun, just ignore that detail haha.

Pedro Masterlist

If you would like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be much appreciated <3

Joel knew he should not have grinned when the bodies hit the iced-over hill, nor should he have widened that grin when the all-too-familiar sound of the crunch of an infected's skull under his boot echoed across the canyon.

But he needed this. He needed to ruin something, mutilate it, end it.

And yet, even with a dozen bodies in his wake as he road back home, he still could not get the look on your face out of his head, out of his dreams.

Thinking causing more damage would gut you out of him, he brought his horse back to the Jackson stables, gave her an apple and a back rub, and immediately headed home to his axe. He set up his wood accurately, and with one swing, he brought the axe down, cleaving the stump in two.

I've got you, just relax.

Not enough. He brought down his axe over another.

I want to touch you, Joel. More of you.

And another.

All of you.

And another.

I don't want anything from you.

He stripped off his jacket, and chopped another.

I know what you are, Joel. I know who you are.

His shirt went next, leaving him bare, not caring about the single-digit temperature. He chopped another, grunting as he did.

That's why I'm on my knees.

He practically shouted as he chopped another, his knees wobbling, his swing slightly off.

Hi handsome.

He missed his target with another shout, and let the axe slip out of his hands, thoroughly chucking it across the yard. He breathed heavily, his breaths coming out in grunts. He shut his eyes, unable to look down at his hands without feeling the skin on your face, or the softness of your hair between his fingers.

"Keep the whiskey," he whispered to himself, his voice dripping in anger. "Keep the fuckin' whiskey."

That's what he had said to you. The woman who had wiped his tears and stared his mistakes straight on, never once faulting. That's what he had said to you after you let him come down your throat, giving him what had to have been one of the best nights in his life.

"Keep the whiskey," he whispered again, and let his knees finally give out, kneeling in the snow in only his jeans.

What had he done?

~*~

Every night for a week, you waited for him as you always had, and every night, you had gotten your heart punctured by his knife.

He wasn't coming back, you knew it as you watched him leave your house with the taste of him still on your tongue, but you still waited. Beer on your coffee table, blankets on your couch, hope in your heart.

Nothing.

You sighed and took a sip of your beer, internally beating yourself to a pulp. You didn't use to be like this, a proponent of second chances, a forgiving soul. You would clutch onto the ways people hurt you and seer them into your scull, never forgetting the exact ways they made you sting.

But with Joel, things had been different, because he was the exact same way. A distrustful, angry, haunted man, who just wanted someone to talk to without the risk of them holding anything over his head. Without needing anything from him. And that's exactly what you needed too. You thought you just needed each other, not anything from each other, and that's why you were still waiting for him.

You thought he needed you, even if he didn't want you, and some fucked up piece of an unaddressed wound inside of you thought that was enough.

You thought he needed you.

You stood from your seat as you checked your watch, realizing how late it had gotten, and finished off your drink. You stretched as you stood, promising yourself that this was the last night of this pathetic moping. It had been seven days since you had heard even a scuff of his boots, and even if he did need you, he obviously didn't need you as much as you thought.

You deserve better than this, you told yourself, even if you didn't believe it.

You wiped your now watering eyes as you walked to your kitchen to throw out the empty bottle, your mind roaring with insults and abuses towards your very core, and let the bottle fall on top of the dozen others.

You thought he needed you.

You headed back to your living room to fold up your blankets, unable to touch the beer you had left for him, when a crunch of snow came through your window.

You barely noticed it, until another matched it, and another, and another. They were rushed, frantic, like the body attached to them was sprinting.

Your own body froze. If an infected had made it this far into Jackson, you were fucked. Everyone was fucked.

Your body went on autopilot, ignoring the tears now dripping down the center of your throat. You grabbed the shotgun by your front door and cocked it, preparing yourself.

If there was one now, more would be on the way.

The steps slowed down as they reached your door, and pants loud enough to breech through the wood hit your ears. Your stance stayed strong.

Until the two-one-one knock echoed, your throat lodged, and your hands began to shake.

"It's open," you said, cursing your crackling voice, but still aiming your gun.

If this was who you thought it was, maybe opening fire would hurt less.

The hinges of the doorframe squeaked; the wood creaked as the door slowly opened, and those same brown eyes you had been falling asleep to met your own.

Another tear dripped down your cheek, and as his eyes widened at the weapon in your hand, his hands went above his head.

But your gazes remained locked.

After a few beats of him catching his breath, you lowered your gun, letting your arms fall slack in defeat. His hands remained above his head as you let it fall to the floor.

His knife had officially ripped you open.

"Y/N," he finally whispered, his hands still above his head, your eyes still leaking.

"What?" you responded harshly.

He swallowed, lowered his arms, and sucked in a shaky breath before saying, "I'm such a dick."

A few beats of silence passed before you fully processed what he had said; the tone in which he said it, the glowing emotions in his eyes, his hands previously up in surrender, his panting breaths from his sprint over to you, and the disheveled look of him.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed.

Joel Miller was fucking scared.

"Yeah, Joel," you said as you laughed, more tears leaking from your eyes, "you are a dick."

He smiled, almost in disbelief, but still managed to smile big enough to show his teeth.

Maybe you were weak, maybe you were stupid, maybe you deserved for him to leave you again, because he hurt you. He hurt you for seven days straight, practically gutted you from the inside out and left your organs on a clothesline to dry...

... but you forgave him anyway. Right in that moment. Because he knew he was wrong, and he ran to you in the middle of the night to show that to you.

And above all, you forgave him because you were scared too.

You could tell he was catching on to your train of thought as he stepped in the door and shut it, locking it behind him. You swallowed as he turned to you, smelling a mix of frost and smoke emulating off of him, and he took one step closer to you.

"Y/N," he whispered, with enough southern drawl to make you realize how much you had missed that baritone. It warmed you, slithering up your spine so fast it made you dizzy. "How...how do I fix this?"

You looked up at him, at his dark eyes and tanned skin, and said, "return the favor."

It wasn't even five seconds before he had you over his shoulder, down to your living room, and tossed onto the couch. You bounced as you landed, smiling like a kid in a candy store.

He quickly laid down on his back, filing up the remainder of the couch, and sighed contently. He made himself comfortable before laying his head down flat on the cushions and patting his shoulders.

"Take a seat," he said cockily, and your mouth fell open.

"You're -" you began, suddenly unable to speak, "you're serious?"

"So fuckin' serious," he replied, "you don't think I just had dreams of you pleasin' me, do ya darlin'?"

Maybe you were the one dreaming.

Before you had the chance to wake up, you quickly stood and started unzipping your jeans, dispensing them to the floor. Your socks and underwear quickly followed. Joel admired you as you did so, resting his hands behind his head.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"It ain't even funny."

You pulled off your left sock, leaving you completely bare from the waist down, and walked to him. You threw your right leg over his waist and sat on his crotch, making him grown.

"No shoes on the furniture," you said, pushing his feet of the grey cushions, "watch your boots, Miller."

"You're right," he said breathlessly, obviously trying to hide how affected he was by the feeling of your warmth on his buldge, "now come 'ere."

You took in a shaky breath as you crawled up his body, the realization of what was about to happen slowly beginning to hit you. You made it halfway up when he halted you, holding your face in his hands.

"We can stop," he said, "now, ten minutes from now, never. You're in control, just let me know."

You nodded, his irises revealing only honestly, and you swallowed. "I'm ready."

He grinned and sat back, ready for you too.

You finished your climb and held onto both the armrest and the back of the couch, hovering over his mouth. His hot breaths on your pulsing core nearly made you whine and your thighs shake, but you remained firm.

"Joel, are you sure you want to -"

He didn't hesitate to pull you down, put your entire body weight on his mouth, and kiss and lick you like it was his final night alive.

It may as well have been yours with how quickly you began to unravel.

He kept his hands on your thighs as he gorged, keeping you so close to him you had no choice but to feel every taste bud on his tongue, puff of breath, and follicle of his scruff scrape upon you in the perfect mix of pleasure and pain.

It was nirvana, Zion, Elysium, whatever fucking afterlife you wanted to believe in, all of it was between your thighs.

He started slow, kissing and licking, but soon found your hole, and kissed you there, then nudged your clit, and kissed you there, then around your thighs, squeezing your ass, and over and over and over again he would repeat the process.

You couldn't help the mewling noises coming from your mouth, and the sweat dripping down your back.

You were on fire.

Through the roaring in your head, you could make out that Joel eventually started saying words, maybe even sentences. You could only make out fragments.

"I'm - sorry - scared - you - fuck - taste - heaven - dreamed - scared - so scared -"

"I know Joel," you groaned, beginning to rock forward into his tongue, riding it. "I know you were, it's - shit - it's okay."

"No," he replied, and you tugged him back into your core by his hair, still rubbing down, caring his tongue into you. "Gonna - never gonna leave - leave again."

You smiled, sweat plastered across your upper lip, hair frizzing, eyes blown wide, "okay."

And he somehow ate you out harder.

It was becoming too much - his tongue around your hole, his nose against your clit, his fucking fingers squeezing down on your thighs, the noises of it all. You finally gathered enough strength to tilt your head down, only to be met with the sight that undid you.

Joel's face plastered with you - only you - and his eyes firmly locked on your face, while his tongue and mouth swirled around the most intimate part of you.

And it was with that last look that you couldn't help it - you came, hard, gripping onto his hair so tight it had to have hurt him.

But he took it anyway, and never slowed down.

You may have come again. You didn't know. All you knew was that he was relentless, a man starved, and through your whines and cries, you finally mustered up the words, "That's good. I'm done."

He could have gone longer, much longer, and maybe one night he would, but not tonight. He simply licked you clean and kissed your core goodbye, it was so sensitive you flinched and groaned one last time, and lifted you back down to sit on his waist.

You expected him to pull away, sit you on the couch, maybe offer to get you a drink, but he didn't.

His mouth wasn't done yet.

He set you down comfortably before attaching his still soaked mouth and facial hair to your pulse point, and your eyes shut immediately, tears of pleasure finally making their escape.

"Joel," you whined, "that - feels really good."

He hummed and sucked harder, likely leaving a hickey or two, but you only pulled him closer. He smelled of sweat and cinnamon, his warmth and his weight wrapped around you immersing you in nothing but comfort.

His mouth on your neck was bliss, but the feeling of him surrounding you was euphoria. He had comforted you with his words plenty of times, but having it from his body was almost impossible to bare. Something that had been uncontrollable and unpredictable in you finally settled, and you let it.

You wondered if it was your love for him.

After making his way to the other side of your neck, Joel began to move his fingers underneath your shirt. Not enough to meet anymore skin than just underneath your belly button, but enough to give you chills.

You knew what he wanted.

"Go ahead," you whispered, pulling his head away from your collarbone, "but only if I see you too."

With one look at him you could see that his mouth was red and swollen, his hair was frizzed, and his eyes were even darker than the last time you had seen him this way. You weren't even sure he understood what you said he looked so drunk off your body, but he nodded eventually. You ran your thumb across his cheek.

It's just me, the motion said, don't be afraid.

You didn't think it worked, but he removed his shirt anyway, and you removed your own.

You were met with a body of scars and moles, scabs and skin, and countless stories. You recalled them all from previous nights of talking- the scar across his chest from the first infected he killed, a scab forming on the right side of his torso from last week's new horse that bucked him off, and a bruise on his forearm. It was a dark shade of purple, meaning it was new.

You traced it, "what's this from?"

His eyes stayed glued to your torso. "I gotta - gotta bit carried away splittin' wood earlier."

You looked into his eyes and giggled, "Is that the yell I heard?"

He scoffed, still scanning your body with his eyes, "Probably."

You continued to laugh and brought your finger up his forearm to his bicep, rubbing your fingers over the pronounced muscle, and continued over his collarbone. You then brought your hand over the expanse of his chest, enjoying how your hand spread as wide as it could go was still no match for the expanse of it, before tracing down his stomach, finally able to feel the soft happy trail you had been drooling over in your sleep. His abdomen tightened as you felt all the way down, and all the way back up.

Your eyes were so soaked with him that you hadn't even noticed his hands beginning to run down your own body, suddenly making you sweat. His fingers went up your back and over your shoulders, his calloused palms against your soft skin sending shivers down your spine, before delicately running them over your breasts, treating them like they were prone to pop.

"You can touch me," you said sweetly, and he felt you up faster, thoroughly, and completely. He had to have touched every inch of you, and you let him.

After a few moments of memorizing his skin and internally recalling the stories each speck of it told, you looked back up at him, only to find a different look on his face. One of longing, yet present.

Like he wanted more from you, right now.

He brought his right hand behind your neck and his left up to your cheek to frame your face. Your eyes shut and your vocal cords hummed at the feeling of his hands, having done so much damage, sliding over the skin of your neck and face like that of a priceless jewel.

Your eyes fluttered back open to find his mouth inching closer to yours, enough for his breath to fan over your lips. His eyebrows were raised in question, waiting for you to pull away or stop him, but you only smiled, and pulled him the rest of the way into the kiss.

You remembered how you felt when he begged you with his eyes for this seven days ago, and now, with his lips meeting your own, you wondered why you ever had a shred of doubt in the first place, because if you thought Joel could give head well, it was nothing compared to the way he kissed.

He moved you with his mouth, painting and sketching upon you with his tongue like an artist with their brush. He didn't start slow, he moved with a fever, tilting your head back slightly to gain as much access as he could, maintaining his grip on your face the entire time. It was indescribable how much you were saying to each other through glides over tongues and bites on lips. The darkness surrounding you held no more lies, no more fear. Only this, only you.

You nipped at his lip a little harder after one particularly good stroke of his tongue inside your mouth, causing him to pull away from you and smile before bringing you back in for more, and you knew that image of him so rawfully joyful would never leave you.

You kissed and felt each other for some time, so long the street lights of Jackson had long since gone out, and with one last firm kiss to your lips, Joel pulled away, a trail of split connecting the two of you. It was symbolic, you thought, of how little your bodies wanted to separate. It was like your lips were holding on, not wanting it to end either.

You both smiled at the feeling.

He set his forehead against yours with a satisfied sigh and ran his palms up and down your back, causing you to hum once more. He pressed kisses around your lips and cheeks, ending on your hairline.

You'd have to ask him about his symptoms of oral fixation later.

He pressed his forehead against your own once more and breathed deeply, basking in the silence. You basked in it as well, closing your eyes. You were tempted to let yourself fall into slumber in his arms when his gruff voice suddenly filled the air.

"Y/N?"

"Hm?"

"I think I love you."

Your eyes immediately opened, connecting with his, and you noticed the tears beginning to dribble down into his beard. Your eyes instantly filled at the sight of his own filled ones, and you wiped them away with your thumb, feeling no fear as you replied.

"I think I love you too."

Maybe you did need each other after all.

Tag list: (please let me know if you would like to be added!)

@leahkenobi @untitledarea @avengersfan25 @lexloon @aninnai @darling-murdock @daphne-turner @ellesvoid @morks-watermelon @notmyideia @farintonorth @axshadows @biggestsimponhere @thepascalofus @paleidiot @projectionistwrites

#joel tlou #joel x reader #joel the last of us #joel #joel and ellie #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #hbo tlou spoilers #the last of us #the last of us hbo #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #the mandalorian

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wolfjackle-creates · 1 year

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Ghost!Robin Part 8

Look at you lucky ducks! Two WIP Wednesday excerpts today! I'm afraid you won't be able to get used to it. Going forward I may update each fic on alternating weeks. I have a busy few months coming up if everything goes to plan and could use the buffer in case I can't get much writing done. We'll see, though.

I'm going to start leaving a fic summary at the beginning of every excerpt in case people find this in the wild and want to know what they're getting into.

Summary: Danny is finally going to meet Jazz's boyfriend Jason. At Jason's family's mansion. He spent weeks making sure he could have an evening off of any Ghost King business. But when he meets Jason on the steps of the mansion, he can barely pay attention to the guy because his focus is on the ghost of the dead Robin hanging off his shoulders. Who is very happy to find someone who can actually see him.

Word Count: 1.4k

First, Previous

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“Right. Um… Well, I do just kinda do whatever is necessary or find someone who can. Because, um, well, I’m… kinda the High King of the Infinite Realms? There’s a bunch more titles after that but I refuse to memorize them because ugh.”

Danny looked down at his plate, not wanting to see everyone’s reactions. Jazz must’ve made sure he got a piece of pie because it sat in front of him. It looked so good. Did they even know about the Infinite Realms? Justice League Dark members did, but did Batman? Jazz reached over and took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Tim and Barbara’s typing seemed to get faster. And then a pair of pixie boots and legs settled on the table next to his plate. He looked up and met Robin’s eyes.

Robin reached out an poked Danny on the nose. He gave a little trill of safe, friends drawing a smile out of Danny.

At the same time, Duke exclaimed, “That’s why you have a crown!”

And Steph said, “Okay, I may be out of the loop, but what the hell are the Infinite Realms?”

Damian snorted. “Aren’t you too young to be a king of anything?”

Danny half stood. “Look, do you want to go spar or something? Is that why you keep picking fights? Because we can do that. Fighting is good for young liminals. But I really don’t think this is the time or place.”

Jazz groaned and dragged him back into his seat. “Stop it, Danny. You’re on Earth right now.” Speaking over Danny’s protests, she explained to Damian, “We wish. Managed to get them to delay until he turned eighteen at least, but his grandfather wouldn’t let us wait any longer than that.”

Danny let the fight drop, but he did notice how Damian’s grip on his spoon tightened. Looked like they would be having that spar tonight if Damian had anything to say about it. Still, Jazz was right and he had to follow human customs on Earth so he bumped his sister’s shoulder and spoke to her instead. “You know as well as I do that he would’ve if it was possible. But thanks to Pariah, there are things that haven’t been done in a thousand years and it’s been causing so many problems.”

“Steph,” said Barbara. “The Infinite Realms are the spaces between universes according to Constantine. His documentation states that the Realm’s inhabitants are all incredibly overpowered and should not be approached under any circumstances. Just one being can evade all methods of capture with standard supplies.”

Jazz nodded. “And our parents dedicated their lives to building a portal to the Infinite Realms, or the Ghost Zone as they call it, and destroying all ghosts.”

“By ‘ghosts,’” asked Bruce, “Do you mean beings from these Infinite Realms?”

Jazz nodded. “Yes. Most beings from the Infinite Realms come into being when a living creature dies in a traumatic way, with a lot of emotion, or near a large source of ectoplasm. Usually some combination of all three.”

Both Tim and Bruce tried to ask further questions, but Jason’s voice cut in over theirs. “Jazz, when you say your parents wanted to ‘destroy all ghosts,’ did they stop after Danny’s accident?” Jason’s question did, at least, cause silence to fall as everyone stared at the two siblings.

Jazz looked down and gripped the tablecloth tightly, jaw clenched. Now it was Danny’s turn to lay a comforting hand over hers.

“No,” Danny said. “They didn’t. They didn’t know what happened for several years and when they found out… Well, there’s a reason I can’t use their last name and Jazz won’t call them ‘Mom’ or ‘Dad’ anymore. But”—Danny clapped his hands—“this is a great segway into what is actually important. Does the Justice League know about the Guys in White? More formally known as the Ghost Investigation Ward? Or even just GIW?”

“That name is unfamiliar to me,” said Bruce.

Tim agreed. “Babs and I aren’t seeing anything in the JL databases.”

Even Robin just shrugged.

Danny didn’t expect the jolt of pain that sent through his chest and Jazz turned their hands around until they were gripping each other’s hands with more force than any baseline human would’ve been able to.

“I told you, Danny. They didn’t know. They didn’t know.” Her eyes were wet, but she forced a shaky smile. “You could’ve had help.”

Danny just shook his head. “Even if I had believed they didn’t know… Without meeting them, without knowing how many of their own were in danger, I would’ve never trusted them. Too many people rely on me for me to risk it.”

“Care to enlighten the rest of us?” asked Dick. His posture was relaxed, but his voice had an edge that hadn’t been there earlier.

Robin nodded from where he sat staring at Danny. He sent out a questioning Danger? pulse at Danny.

“Yeah, danger,” agreed Danny. “Barbara, Tim, if I give you a law code number, can you pull up the law I’m referring to?”

“Of course,” agreed Barbara. “Just a moment… And shoot.”

Danny gave them the code for the Anti-Ecto Acts. “The Guys in White are the government agency responsible for enforcing the Anti-Ecto Acts which classify all ‘ectoplasmic entities’”—he made the air quotes—“as non-sentient and non-sapient and excludes us from the metahuman protection acts.”

“What the fuck!” shouted Duke.

Next to Danny, Dick suddenly was sitting up tense. “That’s impossible.”

“The league would’ve noticed such an act being passed,” said Damian, though he didn’t look as sure as his words would seem.

Cass merely tilted her head and looked at him while Steph choked on her drink.

Bruce looked to Tim and Barbara. “Is this true?” he asked them.

Robin pointed to himself and mouthed the word ‘Me?’ at Danny.

“I’m afraid so. And Bruce, Cass, Steph, and Damian as well.”

Dick’s spluttering got louder. “How are they all in danger?” he demanded to know.

Before Danny could reply, Tim was speaking. “It’s all true. And far worse than Danny implied. Not only are ecto-entities not protected by the metahuman protection laws, but they are to be actively hunted and turned over to the GIW for experimentation and extermination and anyone who assists them is declared guilty of treason.”

“When did they pass?” asked Bruce.

“Four years ago,” said Barbara. “While Luthor was president. They were hidden in some laws about green energy.”

“Ghost are made of ectoplasm,” explained Jazz. “Ectoplasm is a fantastic energy source.”

“It happened a few months after I defeated the previous king but before my coronation,” added Danny.

“Why do you think myself, Damian, Cass, Stephanie, and Jason will be targeted by this Ghost Investigation Ward?”

“It’ll be easier to show you.” Danny reached down and pulled up his bag. The thing was made in Pandora’s realm and was bigger on the inside. Once open, it took him a moment to find what he was looking for. He could see Robin signing to the group next to him. “Here we are,” Danny said as he pulled out three devices. “These are all different ectoplasm detection devices. One is my own design, one is the Guys in White’s design, and one is my parent’s design. I’ll show you mine first because it’s the best.”

“Might be a dumb question,” started Dick, “but what the hell is ectoplasm?”

“So you know how all the elements in this universe came about from nuclear fusion of hydrogen in the cores of stars?” asked Danny. When most everyone nodded, he continued, “In the Infinite Realms, that base element is ectoplasm. But there’s no need for a star to transform it into anything else. It will mold to the shape any consciousness that interacts with it wants. When sentient creatures slip through, either by a portal or through death or any other means, they shape the part of the Realm they’re in to their will. The stronger the ghost, the larger the area they control.” Holding out his hands, Danny called forth a ball of ectoplasm, shaping it into a glowing-green ice duck. “Something like this,” he commented grinning around the table.

Only to be met with horrified looks as most of the table were staring at his hands with distrust. Damian had his knife out again. Jason, his gun with the other arm held protectively in front of Jazz. Bruce was standing and Cass tense.

“What’s wrong?” asked Danny. “It’s just an ice duck sculpture. Completely harmless.”

Jason’s voice was low and threatening. “It’s an ice duck made of Lazarus water.”

More alarming than his voice was the way his eyes glowed ecto-green and the fear-anger that filled the room.

----------

Challenge: Stay on one topic for more than two sentences.

Outcome: Failed.

They keep getting side tracked with more questions. And Danny still hasn't had a bite of his pie. This evening will never be over.

Tag List Part 1

@addie-lover-of-stories, @justwannabecat, @gin2212, @amercurio, @regonold, @overtherose, @readerzj, @sjrose1216, @echoednonny, @deeterzz, @blu-lilac, @number-one-jew, @rowanaway-fromthisbs, @vythika96, @tired-yet-awaken, @themirrorghost, @emeraldcorpral, @all-mights-asscheeks, @darkhinauniverse, @blep-23, @phandomhyperfixationblog, @larkcoe1, @thegatorsgoose, @job-ross-the-second, @britcision, @lenacraft, @bubblemixer, @androgynouslordofescapism, @purefrickingspite, @leftmiraclechaos, @lizisipancardo, @starlight-sparks, @miraculousandmore, @gildedphoenix, @sometimesthingsfallapart, @letmesayfuxk, @phoenixcatch7, @skulld3mort-1fan, @abaowo, @dhampir-princess, @idkmrpianoman, @sarina-elais, @ballzfrog-blog, @undead-essence, @spookytragedyshark, @flyingpansaurus, @akintoabitch, @marivictal, @8-29pm, @justreadingthefanfics, @happybear135, @kisatamao, @spoopyspoony, @adorablechaos, @sara0055, @screamingtofillthevoid

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#dpxdc #danny fenton #jazz fenton #jason todd #Ghost!Robin #anger management #my writing #every sentence out of danny's or jazz's mouths leads to more questions #they will never be able to get through them all #but more importantly!#will danny ever get to eat his pie?#even he's forgotten about it #and its sitting right in front of him #but so is a ghost so...

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months

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An excerpt from The Bezzle

I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me next in SALT LAKE CITY (Feb 21, Weller Book Works) and SAN DIEGO (Feb 22, Mysterious Galaxy). After that, it's LA, Seattle, Portland, Phoenix and more!

Today, I'm bringing you part one of an excerpt from Chapter 14 of The Bezzle, my next novel, which drops on Feb 20. It's an ice-cold revenge technothriller starring Martin Hench, a two-fisted forensic accountant specialized in high-tech fraud:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

Hench is the Zelig of high-tech fraud, a character who's spent 40 years in Silicon Valley unwinding every tortured scheme hatched by tech-bros who view the spreadsheet as a teleporter that whisks other peoples' money into their own bank-accounts. This setup is allowing me to write a whole string of these books, each of which unwinds a different scam from tech's past, present and future, starting with last year's Red Team Blues (now in paperback!), a novel that whose high-intensity thriller plotline is also a masterclass in why cryptocurrency is a scam:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865854/redteamblues

Turning financial scams into entertainment is important work. Finance's most devastating defense is the Shield Of Boringness (h/t Dana Clare) – tactically deployed complexity designed to induce the state that finance bros call "MEGO" ("my eyes glaze over"). By combining jargon and obfuscation, the most monstrous criminals of our age have been able to repeatedly bring our civilization to the brink of collapse (remember 2008?) and then spin their way out of it.

Turning these schemes into entertainment is hard, necessary work, because it incinerates the respectable suit and tie and leaves the naked dishonesty of the finance sector on display for all to see. In The Big Short, they recruited Margot Robbie to explain synthetic CDOs from a bubble-bath. And John Oliver does this every week on Last Week Tonight, coming up with endlessly imaginative stunts and gags to flense the bullshit, laying the scam economy open to the bone.

This was my inspiration for the Hench novels (I've written and sold three of these, of which The Bezzle is number two; I've got at least two more planned). Could I use the same narrative tactics I used to explain mass surveillance, cryptography and infosec in the Little Brother books to turn scams into entertainment, and entertainment into the necessary, informed outrage that might precipitate change?

The main storyline in The Bezzle concerns one of the most gruesome scams in today's America: prison-tech, which sees America's vast army of prisoners being stripped of letters, calls, in-person visits, parcels, libraries and continuing ed in favor of cheap tablets that bilk prisoners and their families of eye-watering sums for every click they make:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

But each Hench novel has a variety of side-quests that work to expose different kinds of financial chicanery. The Bezzle also contains explainers on the workings of MLMs/Ponzis (and how Gerry Ford and Betsy DeVos's father-in-law legalized one of the most destructive forces in America) and the way that oligarchs, foreign and domestic, use Real Estate Investment Trusts to hide their money and destroy our cities.

And there's a subplot about music-royalty theft, a form of pernicious wage theft that is present up and down the music industry supply-chain. This is a subject that came up a lot when Rebecca Giblin and I were researching and writing Chokepoint Capitalism, our 2022 book about creative labor markets:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

Two of the standout cases from that research formed the nucleus of the subplot in The Bezzle, the case of Leonard Cohen's batshit manager who stole millions from him and then went to prison for stalking him, leaving him virtually penniless and forced to keep touring to keep himself fed:

https://www.theguardian.com/music/2012/apr/19/leonard-cohen-former-manager-jailed

The other was George Clinton, whose manager forged his signature on a royalty assignment, then used the stolen money to defend himself against Clinton's attempts to wrestle his rights back and even to sue Clinton for defamation for writing about the caper in his memoir:

https://www.musicconnection.com/the-legal-beat-george-clinton-wins-defamation-case/

That's the tale that this excerpt – which I'll be serializing in six parts over the coming week – tells, in fictionalized form. It's not Margot Robbie in a bubble-bath, it's not a John Oliver monologue, but I think it's pretty goddamned good.

I'm leaving for a long, multi-city, multi-country, multi-continent tour with The Bezzle next Wednesday, starting with an event at Weller Bookworks in Salt Lake City on the 21st:

https://www.wellerbookworks.com/event/store-cory-doctorow-feb-21-630-pm

I'll in be in San Diego on the 22nd at Mysterious Galaxy:

https://www.mystgalaxy.com/22224Doctorow

And then it's on to LA (with Adam Conover), Seattle (with Neal Stephenson), Portland, Phoenix and beyond:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/16/narrative-capitalism/#bezzle-tour

I hope you'll come out for the tour (and bring your friends)!

Between 1972 and 1978, Steve Soul (a.k.a. Stefon Magner) had a string of sixteen Billboard Hot 100 singles, one of which cracked the Top 10 and won him an appearance on Soul Train. He is largely forgotten today, except by hip-hop producers who prize his tracks as a source of deep, funky grooves. They sampled the hell out of him, not least because his rights were controlled by Inglewood Jams, a clearinghouse for obscure funk tracks that charged less than half of what the Big Three labels extracted for each sample license.

Even at that lower rate, those license payments would have set Stefon up for a comfortable retirement, especially when added to his Social Security and the disability check from Dodgers Stadium, where he cleaned floors for more than a decade before he fell down a beer-slicked bleacher and cracked two of his lumbar discs. But Stefon didn’t get a dime. His former manager, Chuy Flores, forged his signature on a copyright assignment in 1976. Stefon didn’t discover this fact until 1979, because Chuy kept cutting him royalty checks, even as Stefon’s band broke up and those royalties trickled off. In Stefon’s telling, the band broke up because the rest of the act—especially the three-piece rhythm section of two percussionists and a beautiful bass player with a natural afro and a wild, infectious hip-wiggle while she played—were too coked up to make it to rehearsal, making their performances into shambling wreckages and their studio sessions into vicious bickerfests. To hear the band tell of it, Stefon had bad LSD (“Lead Singer Disease”) and decided he didn’t need the rest of them. One thing they all agreed on: there was no way Stefon would have signed over the band’s earnings to Chuy, who was little more than a glorified bookkeeper, with Stefon hustling all their bookings and even ordering taxis to his bandmates’ houses to make sure they showed up at the studio or the club on time. Stefon remembered October of ’79 well. He’d been waiting with dread for the envelope from Chuy. The previous royalty check, in July, had been under $250. The previous quarter’s had been over $1,000. This quarter’s might have zero. Stefon needed the money. His 1972 Ford Galaxie needed a new transmission. He couldn’t keep driving it in first.

The envelope arrived late, the day before Halloween, and for a brief moment, Stefon was overcome by an incredible, unbelieving elation: Chuy’s laboriously typewritten royalty statement ended with the miraculous figure of $7,421.16. Seven thousand dollars! It was more than two years’ royalties, all in one go! He could fix the Galaxie’s transmission and get the ragtop patched, and still have money left over for his back rent, his bar tab, his child support, and a fine steak dinner, and even then, he’d end the month with money in his savings account.

But there was no check in the envelope. Stefon shook the envelope, carefully unfolded the royalty statement to ensure that there was no check stapled to its back, went downstairs to the apartment building lobby and rechecked his mailbox.

Finally, he called Chuy.

“Chuy, man, you forgot to put a check in the envelope.”

“I didn’t forget, Steve. Read the paperwork again. You gotta send me a check.”

“What the fuck? That’s not funny, Chuy.”

“I ain’t joking, Steve. I been advancing you royalties for more than three years, but you haven’t earned nothing new since then—no new recordings. I can’t afford to carry you no more.”

“Say what?”

Chuy explained it to him like he was a toddler. “Remember when you signed over your royalties to me in ’76? Every dime I’ve sent you since then was an advance on your future recordings, only you haven’t had none of those, so I’m cutting you off and calling in your note. I’m sorry, Steve, but I ain’t a charity. You don’t work, you don’t earn. This is America, brother. No free lunches.”

“After I did what in ’76?”

“Steve, in 1976 you signed over all your royalties to me. We agreed, man! I can’t believe you don’t remember this! You came over to my spot and I told you how it was and you said you needed money to cover the extra horns for the studio session on Fight Fire with Water. I told you I’d cover them and you’d sign over all your royalties to me.”

Stefon was briefly speechless. Chuy had paid the sidemen on that session, but that was because Chuy owed him a thousand bucks for a string of private parties they’d played for some of Chuy’s cronies. Chuy had been stiffing him for months and Stefon had agreed to swap the session fees for the horn players in exchange for wiping out the debt, which had been getting in the way of their professional relationship.

“Chuy, you know it didn’t happen that way. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about when you signed over all your royalties to me. And you know what? I don’t like your tone. I’ve carried your ass for years now, sent you all that money out of my own pocket, and now you gotta pay up. My generosity’s run out. When you gonna send me a check?”

Of course, it was a gambit. It put Stefon on tilt, got him to say a lot of ill-advised things over the phone, which Chuy secretly recorded. It also prompted Stefon to take a swing at Chuy, which Chuy dived on, shamming that he’d had a soft-tissue injury in his neck, bringing suit for damages and pressing an aggravated-assault charge.

He dropped all that once Stefon agreed not to keep on with any claims about the forged signature; Stefon went on to become a good husband, a good father, and a hard worker. And if cleaning floors at Dodgers Stadium wasn’t what he’d dreamed of when he was headlining on Soul Train, at least he never missed a game, and his boy came most weekends and watched with him. Stefon’s supervisor didn’t care.

But the stolen royalties ate at him, especially when he started hearing his licks every time he turned on the radio. His voice, even. Chuy Flores had a fully paid-off three-bedroom in Eagle Rock and two cars and two ex-wives and three kids he was paying child support on, and Stefon sometimes drove past Chuy Flores’s house to look at his fancy palm trees all wrapped up in strings of Christmas lights and think about who paid for them.

ETA: Here's part two!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/17/the-steve-soul-caper/#lead-singer-disease

#pluralistic #the bezzle #martin hench #marty hench #red team blues #fiction #crime fiction #crime thrillers #thrillers #technothrillers #novels #books #royalties #wage theft #creative labor

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pinguwrites · 6 months

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Kinktober 2023 | Day Thirty-One — Jackson Rippner + ghostface!reader

Pairing -> jackson rippner x ghostface!reader

Summary -> In this college au, Halloween is nearing its corner, only for the festive mood to be cut short when your classmate is brutally killed. As the series of murders continues, Jackson Rippner finds himself the next target, oblivious to the fact that his hunter is you, his girlfriend, the ghostface.

KINKTOBER 2023 MLIST

Warnings: mention of death, jackson being a simp

Disclaimer: Red Eye characters, plots, quotes, etc. do not belong to me and belong to the rightful owner(s). This is only fanfiction and this is just for fun.

This is just an excerpt for the full-length fic that's coming out, bc I felt like this prompt deserved something much longer than just a drabble.

A/N: not me reading over this thing after it's published and seeing all the mistakes 😭

Jackson Rippner was trying to become more romantic for you, an endeavor that started about a week ago after he noticed you liked passionate men. It was a simple conversation about fictional crushes — you know, the ones you have as a kid when he realized all the men you had pointed out were terribly lovey-dovey and all sentimental-like. A few origami roses here and there, some thoughtful gifts, maybe some poetic letters, and he was sure that he could outcompete all of them. He was the only man you needed, the only man you could ever want.

He knew how it sounded—pathetic. Since when was he the type to change himself for a girl? He was no Romeo or Jack Dawson, and he certainly didn’t want to be. He wasn’t a simpering fool, chasing after a pretty girl like it was his life’s mission, but as it turned out, he was for you. And if you liked your men romantic, then Jackson would be romantic

Starting off with whatever this was: a package of your favorite stuff. For one, two books you mentioned wanting to get but couldn’t spare the money for, which Jackson painstakingly searched through the town for. He finally found them in some niche bookstore on the outskirts of Craven, overpriced for the value—or some other equally stupid bullshit—even though he knew damn well that he could get it for half the price if he drove further into the main city. He would have, but he knew his father would get pissed if he wasted that much gas money, and fearing to face his fist, he settled for the high cost. It’s for her, so it’s worth it.

For second, and last—at least for now, some bath bombs. He made them from scratch, swiping the ingredients from around the house. He used a cedar wood scent for the essential oil, as it was the closet smell he could get to his cologne, and made three bombs, wrapped them in plastic, and put them alongside the books in the bag.

It was perfect. You were going to love it. You had to love it. How could you not?

He closed the bag and placed it on his desk, ready to go to sleep, when the landline downstairs rang. It was probably telemarketers, but it could also be his parents, who were out on date night.

He headed downstairs and picked up the phone, but the voice on the other end caught him off guard. “Hey,” a woman said, but it didn’t sound natural. It sounded like there was a voice modulator, the ones that criminals used in those crime shows you forced him to watch.

“Hey?” Jackson responded, confused, and a little irritated.

“I know who you are.”

Jackson tried to focus on the sound of the voice. Maybe he could pick out who it was if he listened close enough, but it was a fruitless effort. It was female, but too common to tell.

“You’re the one calling me,” he said, tone laced with amusement, “I should assume so.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“A creep? A weirdo?” Jackson laughed. “A stalker? I dunno. Take your pick.”

It was quiet. For a moment, he thought the woman hung up, but then she spoke again, “A lover. I’m a lover, Jackson.”

“Good for you.” He glanced back at the package he left on his desk. He was tired, and didn’t want to deal with this right now. “Now, how about you either stop acting mysterious and tell me what you want, or I cut the call.”

“Someone’s going to die tonight, Jackson,” the woman said. Oddly enough, Jackson felt a twinge of excitement at her words. It was oddly thrilling, and adrenaline inducing to hear such a thing. It was at this point he realized with himself that this was a prank, because who would just admit to premeditated murder? but still—it was hot. He wished you would say those things.

“I hope it’s that girl from my English class. What’s her name? Ah, fuck, I forgot. She’s the bitchy one —all emotion. Screams every time the lights go out. You know her?”

“Yeah, I know her.”

So, she’s been on campus, Jackson thought. Following me, maybe. I can’t believe it!

“It’s not her, though. But who knows, maybe she’ll be next. Would you like that?”

“Doll, I really don’t care. Do me a favor, and don’t call me again.”

He put the phone down and went back upstairs. What a fucking psycho. He was too tired to deal with this shit. After freshening up, he pulled the covers over himself and turned off the lamp, drifting off into a peaceful slumber.

Taglist:

@rainyforest777

@thatwitchybitch420

@madeinuk

@gentyleman

@henrywintersdearestgirl

@shroombloom-rry

@meetmeatyourworst

@mrkdvidal1989

#jackson rippner #jackson rippner x you #jackson rippner x y/n #jackson rippner x reader #cillian murphy #fanfiction #red eye #pinguwrites #kinktober 2023 #kinktober

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wangxianficrecs · 3 months

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💙 Away from Trouble by Ilona22

💙 Away from Trouble

by Ilona22

M, 15k, Wangxian

Summary: An overheard conversation changes the way Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian part before he ascends Baoshan Sangren's mountain. From that point onwards, things go differently. Kay's comments: The story that made me fall in love with Ilona22 as a writer! I was immediately gone, the story was just too much to my liking. I'm just so weak for stories where Wei Wuxian thrives outside of the cultvation sects. Here, he leaves after the Golden Core transfer, because Jiang Cheng told him to get lost. Luckily, he soon finds his footing again without a trip to the Burial Mounds, since he didn't wait around for Jiang Cheng. Thanks to Wen Qing, he even has the hope to cultivate a new golden core, but for now, he finds a new profession, as a travelling painter. Meanwhile, Lan Wangji pines. I loved how the canon divergence played out in this story and just the found family vibes of it all. Excerpt: The during their conversation, they had all introduced themselves, too. The monk was Lu Lei, the other man was Lu Zhao. The later was an artist and calligrapher of some renown, Wei Ying had admired one of his paintings on Jiang-Zongzhu’s wall in his study. Lu Lei was the abbot of his monastery. The two of them new each other for a long time, and Lu Zhao had painted for the other on several occasions. Though he was more known for his paintings of plants and scenery. Lu Lei was highly skilled in the healing arts. And unwilling to let his patient escape, especially as he had saved both of them. As Wei Ying had guessed, neither was even slightly skilled at fighting. And so, Wei Ying agreed to travel with them. It turned out to be a good decision. Over the next two weeks, he rested and recovered, spending a lot of time talking with the two men. It were long conversations, often about heavy topics, as Wei Ying finally had the time to grieve the friends he had lost during the fall of Lotus Pier, and to adjust to the changes his life had gone through in such a short time. But they also had a lot of fun discussing art styles and philosophy. Lu Lei and him had several long talks about cultivation, and it was fascinating to learn more about the non-martial styles practiced by monks. Lu Lei was interested in his thoughts about talismans. The first time someone was so willing to talk about the branch of cultivation Wei Ying had always quietly hoped to be able to eventually gain his mastery in. In Lotus Pier, that would have been difficult. But now, he had realized during those conversations, there was no reason not to pursue that path. And so, slowly, he had come to look forward to this new chapter in his life.

pov alternating, canon divergence, wei wuxian leaves the yunmeng jiang sect, wen remants live, wen remants deserve better, families of choice, artist wei wuxian, rogue cultivator wei wuxian, golden core transfer fix-it, lan wangji/wei wuxian get a happy ending, mutual pining, developing relationship, not jiang cheng friendly, genius wei wuxian, inventor wei wuxian, sunshot campaign, love confessions

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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darsynia · 1 year

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Hand(s) Off | Ch 5: Chemistry

(Steve Rogers/f!Reader sex pollen-esque multichapter)

gif by @chrisevansedits

STORY MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | PREV | NEXT

Summary: You and Steve have to navigate the aftermath of the overexposure to Mistress, and something tells you that your mood swings and inability to self-satisfy is directly related to the drug...

Length | Warnings: 3,880 | sexual situations MINORS DNI

Fill: Adoptable ‘Pheremones’ from @allcapsbingo

Tags (please request!): @starryeyes2000 @munstysmind @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @tiny-anne @deepbatched @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @wolfstar-marvelsfan @icequeen1371 @chibijusstuff @nekoannie-chan @brooke0297 @caplanreads @mrsevans90 @hails270105 @venusfalling

Excerpt:

He’s wearing jeans that fit him like a second skin, a tight gray tee, and an unbuttoned long-sleeve blue flannel, which feels distinctly unfair. Somehow he looks every bit as handsome wearing this casual get-up as he had the night before in his suit pants and blue jacket.

“You, uh--” He sounds upset, and you glance up. “Bruce says we need to be looking more at each other than not,” Steve offers with a wince.

“Right. Twist my arm, right?” you joke.

His brows furrow. “If you’re--”

“Steve! You’re handsome as hell. Not a hardship, is my point,” you tell him.

“Ah,” he says in response, and oh. There’s a bit of joy there, not quite pride, but close. If you had to name it, you’d say Steve is deeply pleased, and yep, that’s a jump in arousal, there. “Right back at ya,” he says, almost too quiet to hear it.

“They’re going to have to burn those forms,” you muse aloud.

Chemistry

You wake up the morning after your 1940’s performance feeling more refreshed than you have for weeks. The constant, low-level irritation you’ve had to learn to live with is not entirely gone, but it’s lessened, and for that you’re very grateful.

The plan is to meet Bucky for… something, but he hasn’t made clear what. You opt for a skirt to swish around your legs, voluminous but not bulky. Restrictive or tight clothing has been a no-go lately, making you feel anxious and closed-in at worst and kind of turned on at best. It’s another data point in the line of ‘things that are different since Mistress,’ but you don’t really know what to make of them all. The worst out of everything is your mood, but is that worsened by your inability to come, or is it an actual after-effect?

When you get downstairs after getting Bucky’s text, you’re surprised when he opens the door of a taxi for you. The two of you usually walk everywhere.

“Where we going?” you ask.

“It’s a surprise.” He doesn’t elaborate, instead choosing to deflect in the most unfair way possible: “Steve liked the show last night.”

You keep your expression tightly controlled, but your anxious tone gives you away. “You could have warned me about that! I’m glad he enjoyed it, but--”

“I didn’t plan all that far ahead, okay? I did it because he said yes. To the thing you asked me about.”

Embarrassment blooms from your chest and across your body, and you dart your eyes over to the taxi driver. There’s no way he can know the context, but holding a conversation about impossible orgasms with Bucky had been embarrassing enough, so alluding to it around a stranger is pretty stressful.

“Uh, thank you, then.” Your mind skips past the awkwardness to the substance of the comment, and you slump back into your seat. “That means it’s definitely related.”

“Yeah.”

He looks out the window, and you smile down at your lap. Bucky isn’t the kind of person to smoothe over awkward things with platitudes (which often makes them worse). If he had, you’d never have had the courage to ask about Steve in the first place. You’d probably have rather withered away and died of sexual frustration instead. Not that dying isn’t still on the table.

“You uh, probably should go talk to Dr. Banner,” Bucky says, his voice overloud and uncomfortable. “He’s been running tests on Steve, thanks to his lousy mood and the--” He makes a gesture, but you deliberately look at his face, not his hands.

“He’s been having problems with that too?”

Bucky’s is the kind of expression that anyone who’s ever lived with a grumpy roommate would instantly recognize.

“Yeah, okay,” you sigh, pulling your phone from your pocket. “Give me some kind of contact number?”

The taxi stops, and he points out the window with his thumb. “How about instead, we just do it right now?”

The vehicle is stopped in front of the tower. The taxi driver is already grousing, so as the two of you get out, you hiss at your best friend, “I can't believe you set me up! I didn’t mean now! I need more mental fortitude! Banner’s an Avenger! He knows Steve personally!”

“So do I!” Bucky says, affronted.

The taxi drives off as you glare at each other, and then he sticks his left elbow out like a frustrated chaperone. It’s manipulative in a really brilliant way, because he trusts you with the knowledge that there’s a metal weapon of war under all that fabric. You swallow your pride and tuck your hand in the nook he’s created for you, and he walks you inside.

“I thought you usually went through the side door?” you ask quietly as the two of you wait in the short security line.

“I didn’t want you to have time to change your mind.” Buck grins at you, right as the two of you are guided past the checkpoint and toward the bank of elevators.

“You’re really unbelievable-- and the worst part is, you know it!”

He just settles against the back wall of the elevator and looks smug. It’s midday, so the others who file into the elevator car with the two of you are all in business wear, and you feel intensely out of place in your casual skirt and blouse. Bucky, who is out of place practically anywhere, never manages to look anything but cool.

You settle against the wall beside him, but you must look nervous, because he bumps your shoulder with his as some of the office workers from the lower floors file out. Eventually, you’re the only two left, and Bucky speaks aloud asking to be taken to the floor where Banner’s lab is.

Shall I inform Dr. Banner of your impending arrival? the AI asks drily.

“What’s the fun in that?”

The rest of the trip is short. A few seconds after the two of you step out, Bucky stops you with a hand, his lips twisting apologetically.

“I’m gonna head to the apartment. This is private, and I want to respect that-- but you didn’t volunteer for this whole mess, so if you need an advocate, some of that fortitude you mentioned, just text me.”

You’re touched by this unexpected speech, but you also feel kind of adrift; this wasn’t what you’d expected your day to be like. There’s no chance to respond though, because Bucky ducks back into the elevator after gesturing toward the correct lab.

A surprised-looking man with salt and pepper curls opens the door to your knock, so you blurt out your name, explaining that Bucky Barnes had suggested you drop by.

“Oh! Oh, that’s great, come in, come in,” the man says, offering his hand to shake. “Bruce Banner. I hope Barnes passed on my sincere regrets about what happened?”

He didn’t (you hadn’t wanted to talk about it at all until you’d realized you had to ask about The Issue), so you don’t know what to say. Luckily, Banner has already hurried off to bring over a second chair beside the lab table he’s clearly been using as a desk.

“Have a seat. I should warn you, I’ve already got--”

He breaks off as a woman in a lab coat walks over with purpose. “All blood tests are completed.” They continue talking, but the voice of Steve Rogers behind you derails your attention.

“Dee?”

You spin around in shock. “I’m sorry, I had no idea you’d be here! Not that I would, of course, but Bucky-- Oh, my God,” you realize aloud. “Did you… tell him you were coming to the lab today?”

“No, I haven’t seen him since last night.”

“Actually, this is good,” Banner says, walking over to stand between the two of you with a placating hand held toward each. “I have some theories I’d love to expand on with a few blood and proximity tests. If you’re willing, of course.”

Proximity. You’d noticed last night that being in the same large room as Steve Rogers had mitigated some of the lesser symptoms you haven’t been brave enough to mention to anybody. The same thing is happening now, with the added complication of a really bizarre desire to move closer to him. Somewhere there’s a magnetism joke just begging to be told, but not by you.

“Is this scientific curiosity, or will it help figure out how to regulate this stuff?” Steve asks.

“My own exposure took care of the curiosity part,” Banner says, rubbing a knuckle against the side of his cheek.

“Wow, Bruce, I guess I figured the Hulk’s biology would have cleared that out for you,” Steve says, his expression a mask of concern. “At least you had more data for a solo expos--” He breaks off, embarrassment flushing his face as he looks over with dawning horror at the other occupant of the room.

“No worries, I was whisked home to my husband. We were happy to be part of the ‘control’ group,” the woman in the lab coat says with a bright smile.

“In the interests of reassurance, I’ll tell you I’m in a relationship, and that person and I, ah, handled things,” Banner says, occupying himself by studiously cleaning his glasses. “So yes, there’s data, both from the mitigation of my healing factor as well as the reactions of a wholly un-exposed partner.”

“It’s not often that I get to be a hero, but I think I’ll step in and ask if you’d be willing to give some blood while these two awkward it out? Doctor Lynette Lyonne, nice to meet you.”

You smile gratefully at Dr. Lyonne and nod. She seems like exactly the sort of down-to-Earth person to keep Banner focused.

“That’s a mouthful! I feel like if my dad met you, he’d be asking you if your parents had a limited budget for letters when you were born,” you say as you sit in the chair Dr. Lyonne indicates.

“Ooh, I haven’t heard that one in six months!”

You’re pretty sure the tourniquet that Dr. Lyonne puts on after that is the regular tightness, but you hold very still and keep things polite, just in case.

Dr. Lyonne leaves you alone in that side room after the blood test for a half hour , explaining that they need to keep you and Steve separated as they come up with some proximity tests to perform. You get it: they want to gauge various reactions between the two of you, but the anxiety you feel about being shoved into yet another situation beyond your control is almost making you sick.

Finally, the door opens and Banner ushers you out and down the hall to a different room. There’s a second, smaller space inside it made up of transparent walls and a vinyl ‘roof’ thing above it, and Steve Rogers is standing in there.

“We’ve rigged the room with all kinds of monitors, and if you are okay with it, I’d like to put some heart monitors and such on you. Steve is already rigged up with a microphone in case I need to tell you two anything, but I won’t be able to hear anything the two of you say. Steve?” Banner calls out, turning around and making some gesture you can’t see. In response, Steve lifts his shirt, showing that he does indeed have a series of medical patches connected to wires placed in various places on his splendid chest.

“Dr. Banner, you’re contaminating our results!” Dr. Lyonne objects, shoving a file folder over to block your view. “I guarantee that her heart rate just went up.”

“Shit, I didn’t think of that. Uhh…”

Grabbing Banner’s lapel mic, Dr. Lyonne leans into it and says, “Banner and Rogers, cover your eyes!” She grabs the patches and comes over. With her help, you unbutton your blouse and the two of you place them in record time. Under her breath, the doctor mutters, “Blessed with two of the most ethical red-blooded men on the planet, thank fuck…”

Two minutes later you’re closing the door of the half-room-sized enclosure they’d constructed, standing closer to Steve Rogers than you’d been since you’d met, nearly three weeks ago.

“Hi,” he says, clearly the most awkward person in the building. It’s absurdly charming.

“Hi,” you whisper back.

You’re both holding a clipboard with a pencil, and Steve nods at the one in your hand. “We’re supposed to fill out our initial reactions.”

There are two chairs placed twelve feet away but facing each other. Instead of sitting down, you plant a foot on the closest one and brace the clipboard on your knee. The questions are… a bit much, asking what your arousal level is (which is not zero, but you try having a zero arousal level around a man who can fuck like that) , how calm you’ve been in the last week, last twenty-four hours, and last hour before coming in the lab, stuff like that. They only take a minute or two to fill out, and when you’re done, you realize that there’s a stack of questions underneath that seem to be directed toward some kind of escalation.

Just what are they about to ask the two of you to do??

“I think they should have fitted you with the earpiece,” Steve says. You straighten up to see that he’s walking to the middle of the room. “They want us to stand six feet apart. Bruce? I don’t want to tell her what to do, okay? That’s--” Steve breaks off and frowns. “Yeah, I understand that, but--” Another pause, and then he sighs. “Okay.” To you, in the most gentle voice you’ve ever heard, Steve says, “There’s no time to grab another one that will work. Please forgive me if anything I say sounds close to-- Inappropriate. I’m not ordering you around. You have every right to say no.”

“This is to help people who might get stuck in a similar situation, right?” you ask, dragging the chair over so you can stand the requested distance away without having to walk over to retrieve it for clipboard-steadying. He nods. “Then it’s worth a little discomfort.”

In truth, the questions on the clipboard are perceptive, because this is the most comfortable you’ve felt in weeks. There’s something calming, something wonderful about being close to Steve. It’s as if you’d been wound more and more tightly the past few weeks, and finally, finally, you can relax. You’re certain it’s related to the drug, and you’re a bit worried about how much of yourself you’re going to put on display when you’re forced to admit that.

The two of you stand looking anywhere but each other, and after a few minutes of darting your eyes over to Steve and back to the floor, he says, “Clipboard time.”

You’re glad to have something to focus on other than whether you should be stealing glances of Captain America-- but then you start writing down your answers to the questions.

How much has your arousal level risen since the previous series of questions? 5%

How much has your comfort level risen or fallen since the previous series of questions? Risen 10%

Privately, you feel like that one is going to have bad data, because what’s 10% of ‘almost as comfortable around another person as I could be, despite the entire circumstances of our acquaintance?’

Do you feel an urge or compulsion to engage in sexual activity? Not really?

“Bruce, these questions!” Steve chokes out. He listens for a few seconds, and then says to you, “He says, and I quote, ‘We’re flying by the seat of our pants, here.’ No kidding!” Nodding as though he’d just heard something else in his earpiece, he then says, “Banner’s asking us to stand a foot apart now. And Dr. Lyonne wants me to tell you they printed a bunch of cards, so there are way more than they need.”

You drag your chair again, nodding. Given that there are something like twenty pages in the stack, you’re mollified. A little. Shit. The arousal thing is… definitely happening. A thought occurs to you, and you’re pretty sure you have an obligation to mention it.

Double shit.

“All right, can Banner hear me at all?” you say cautiously, seeking the mental fortitude you’d mentioned to Bucky. At Steve’s negative response, you nod. “Ok, one more round and then maybe they’ll ask us to stand close enough for that.”

Steve swallows hard. Both of you will clearly have different answers to the next set of questions.

“A little closer,” he whispers to you.

You startle slightly before moving toward him. It feels much closer than a foot, because there’s almost nowhere to look but Steve. He’s wearing jeans that fit him like a second skin, a tight gray tee, and an unbuttoned long-sleeve blue flannel, which feels distinctly unfair. Somehow he looks every bit as handsome wearing this casual get-up as he had the night before in his suit pants and blue jacket.

“You, uh--” He sounds upset, and you glance up. “Bruce says we need to be looking more at each other than not,” Steve offers with a wince.

“Right. Twist my arm, right?” you joke.

His brows furrow. “If you’re--”

“Steve! You’re handsome as hell. Not a hardship, is my point,” you tell him.

“They’re going to have to burn those forms,” you muse aloud. “In fact, c’mere.”

With a bravery borne out of guilt at ruining the findings, you walk right up to Steve and tug at his collar. He doesn’t resist, but he rests a hand on your bare lower arm. It feels as much of a comfort as a warning, and in the strangest way, it reinforces your need to call a halt to this farce.

“Bruce?” you say, lifting up to speak as closely to Steve’s earpiece as you can. Using Banner’s first name is deliberate, a hint at urgency you hope he’ll heed.

“He can hear you,” Steve murmurs. His mouth is close to your ear, and fuck, you’ve made a serious tactical mistake.

“Steve showed up to the restaurant last night,” you say as clearly as you can, given how fully immersed you are in everything Steve Rogers right now. He smells good, of soap and a hint of cologne or shaving cream, and he’s right there, gorgeous and obviously as affected as you are. His grip on your arm is just this side of painful, but you doubt he even realizes. “There’s--” you stop and clear your throat, because that one word was dangerously breathy. Steve’s clenched jaw and tightened grip sends your heart racing.

“The data is corrupted, she’s saying,” Steve breaks in. “Just mark down a hundred percent increase on everything and give us some privacy, will you?”

This is as much permission to push off and away from him as you need. It takes him a second to let go-- the look you exchange as he realizes this is electric.

“Bruce, do it.” The undercurrent of angry urgency in Steve’s tone has you scrambling at the door of your enclosure, and to hell with the clipboard and everything else.

You catch a glimpse of Banner and Lyonne leaving as you rush over to the window and press your overwarm hands to the glass, pulling in huge breaths like you’ve just run a marathon. Nearby footsteps on the tiled floor signal that Steve’s also left the quarantined testing zone.

“I’m--” You stop yourself. “I was going to say ‘I’m sorry,’ but I’m not. The data was already hopelessly corrupted.”

“Yeah,” he says.

“God, this is so screwed up. Do you know, this is the best I’ve felt in weeks?”

“You should be angry with me.”

“Why? Because I got confused, got lost in your apartment and put us in this position? Don’t be absurd.”

“I broke protocol,” Steve says in a hoarse voice. You turn around to see him shaking his head, his jaw set in a miserable line. “I was supposed to head to a quarantine room to get checked out. We get cleared and then we leave. Those rules are set up to prevent--”

You're not having it. “Does it help at all? To feel bad about it?”

“Does it help you to blame yourself?” Steve asks, walking forward, forcing you to listen by sheer command authority.

“Stop being a fucking leader, Steve, and just be a man, would you?” you snap, furious to incandescence that he’s drawing on his Cap persona at a time like this.

“Fine!” he thunders, and reaches out, catching your waist in one large hand as his momentum crashes the two of you into the wall by the window. You’re pinned there, both by his hips and his desperate expression, but Steve gathers the last scraps of his will, holding his hand up and away from where he’d been about to touch you, and fisting it. He closes his eyes tightly and says, “This isn’t me, I’m not--”

“So let’s figure out how to be ourselves and still live through this, yeah?” you say, moving to tug his fist over so you can kiss his knuckles. The raw contact is a pale shade of your previous ferocity under Mistress, but it’s still powerfully erotic. Steve lets out a tiny noise, but you don’t know him well enough to guess whether it’s a sound of distress or lust.

Then his eyes pop open and you suck in a breath at the intensity in his gaze. He’s nodding, turning the hand you’re clutching so he can slide it along your cheek and around to cup the back of your head.

“May I?” he breathes. He’s trembling. So are you.

“Please,” you whisper-- and Steve surges forward, tilting his head to capture your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. Everything about this moment is overwhelming, and you can do nothing but feel. You cling to his flannel, caught up in the exquisite sweetness of his kiss, the way he’s dominating you with his body but drawing you out and teasing you with his tongue. The tension of the past weeks melt away with the heat of Steve’s hand holding you still for him, each sizzling brush of his lips against yours burning through every question of propriety.

His other hand falls to your hips, gathering the fabric of your skirt in a needy fist like he needs more of an anchor than the touch of his lips against yours. The rock of Steve’s hips against you is ruinous, incendiary, delightful, destructive. Inside you, a furnace-dam breaks, unleashing a firestorm of pleasure that rushes straight to your core.

“Oh!” you gasp, breaking the kiss as you recognize what’s about to happen. “Oh, God, oh, thank God,” you babble, even as Steve sucks a frantic kiss to your neck. “Are you --?” you manage to ask.

His incoherent noises of assent against your neck sound just as broken and relieved as yours. You clutch at any part of Steve you can reach as he hitches your leg up to angle himself just right to rut against you. Remembering that he’d needed a personal connection last time, you coax him back into a deep, desperate kiss with a gentle caress through his hair.

Steve pulls back after a few seconds and presses his forehead against yours. Something inside you drags your eyes open, and as soon as you make eye contact, your orgasm sweeps through you, arching your back and drawing a low, satisfied moan from your throat.

“Yes,” Steve crows, and his hips thrust against you multiple times in rapid succession as he is taken by a release of his own. His free hand comes up to cup your face as he pants for breath, but it’s the way Steve holds your gaze through it all that completely strips your soul bare.

Next chapter...

#allcapsbingo2023 #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #captain america x reader #captain america smut #captain america x f!reader #steve rogers x f!reader #captain america x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel smut #mcu smut #mcu fanfiction #sex pollen #humor #romance

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tiannasfanfic · 10 months

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GossipWeb

Eddie Munson x Reader (Angst)

| Eddie Munson & Steddie Masterlist |

Summary: If you want to stay up to date on celebrity gossip, GossipWeb is the site to subscribe to! Monday’s Weekend Roundup for July 17 has an update on Corroded Coffin, and you should totally check it out!

Author Note: Modern Rockstar!Eddie AU. Reader not mentioned in this first part, but will be in future installments so I went ahead and labeled it as an x Reader fic. Written in the style of a gossip column.

CW: Mentions of divorce; mentions of alcoholism and drug addiction; mention of a fistfight.

(The following is an excerpt from the July 17, 2023 edition of The Weekend Roundup, a gossip column posted every Monday afternoon on GossipWeb.com and the GossipWeb app.)

Wedding bells are in the air for model Chrissy Munson and nature photographer David Greggs. The pair have officially announced their engagement on Sunday via social media, confirming recent rumors.

The happy couple shared the news on their respective Instagram accounts, showing photos of the two happily embracing on a beach at sunset. In one, Munson is holding out her hand to show off the huge sapphire and diamond engagement ring now sitting on her finger.

“I said YES!” Munson captioned her photo while Greggs captioned his, “She said YES!”

The pair first made headlines back in 2021, when they were spotted having dinner together just a few weeks after Munson filed for divorce from Corroded Coffin’s frontman, Eddie Munson.

While “Irreconcilable differences” were listed in the official court filing, representatives for both Eddie and Chrissy have declined to comment further on the matter. In the social media post announcing the divorce, Chrissy took a diplomatic path, stating, “Sometimes our plans in life just don’t work out the way we want them to. Unfortunately, this is one of those times. I wish Eddie nothing but the best and wish nothing but happiness for him. While our marriage may be over, he will always hold a special place in my heart.”

But, while her words made it sound like the split was an amicable one, many have their doubts it was that simple.

Rumors had been circulating regarding her ex husband’s hard partying lifestyle for years. Insiders have come forward to provide accounts of escalating drug and alcohol abuse, and extremely irrational and erratic behavior from the rockstar. Shortly after the divorce filing, it was reported to multiple news outlets that an intervention was been staged for Munson just a few days prior to the court filing, but it had failed.

In related news, the former members of Corroded Coffin are continuing to stay busy and are enjoying far more laid back schedules.

Following a highly successful album with their band Fallen Shadows, Jeff Richards and Grant Lee have announced a small, twenty city tour that will occur early next year. While the dates and cities are still to be determined, the two are looking forward to getting back on the road.

“It’s been awhile, but we’re itching to get back out there,” Richards stated in a Facebook post. “There’s nothing like bringing our music out into the world and sharing it in person with the fans.”

But Gareth Emerson hasn’t been so eager to return to the spotlight.

Following a successful stay at the Betty Ford Center, which he entered in December 2019, Emerson says he has done a lot of thinking about his life and who he wants to be, both as a person and an artist.

“The stress I was constantly putting myself under was ultimately my downfall,” he explained in a Facebook post full of self reflection. “And one of the biggest stressors for me was the constant need to promote myself, to sell myself basically. I stopped feeling like a person and started feeling like a piece of meat. In this business, it doesn’t take long before you start getting treated like a machine and you start looking for ways to cope. And, usually, you find yourself coping by turning to drugs. Now I don’t have to just cope because I refuse to put myself back in that stressful position.”

Emerson continues to write and record new music, which he releases on iTunes under his own name. While he’s leaning heavily into experimental sounds, his new style seems to be gravitating towards a blend of classic rock n’ roll, folk and heavy metal. It’s not a combination you would expect to hear from a speed metal drummer, but Emerson clearly has hidden talents he’s only just starting to show the world.

As for the frontman and lead guitarist, Eddie Munson, unfortunately, there’s not much can be said.

The statement from Corroded Coffin announcing their hiatus came in late 2019 just a few days after Munson and Emerson’s very publicized fistfight at the UK Music Video Awards. While he virtually dropped out of the spotlight as a musician in the following months, Munson was frequently in the news due to his excess partying and rowdy behavior.

Then, in 2022, he unexpectedly disappeared from the LA party scene, only to resurface a few months later in his old hometown of Hawkins, Indiana.

Representatives for Munson have declined to comment, so the true reasons for his returning to Hawkins are still unclear. The rocker has yet to make any return trips home to California within the last eighteen months since his departure. This adds credibility to a more recent rumor we reported on last week that Munson is in negotiations to sell his Malibu home to a private seller.

Perhaps the rockstar has finally turned over a new leaf?

Some signs point to yes.

Earlier this year, Gareth Emerson’s wife, actress Kim Simmons-Emerson, sent well wishes to Eddie in a heartfelt Instagram post. She posted an old photo of Munson and Emerson from high school with the caption, “Today marks a new beginning for old friends. We’re so proud of you. We knew you could do it.”

Subscribe to our free newsletter to stay up to date on any new developments!

#eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson series #eddie munson au #eddie munson x chrissy cunningham #eddie munson imagines #rockstar!eddie munson

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disenchantedif · 4 months

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Disenchanting New Year 3/12; Luci

The third installment of the January Patreon special for Disenchanted! Lucien/Lucia is up next! Though the excerpt below is gender-neutral, there are two separate versions posted for each set of pronouns.

Happy New Year once again, everyone!

READ IT HERE

Luci carefully navigates through the mess to your hotel, tossing their keys to the valet with a smile before getting your bags out of the back seat. You’re staying for a week, a vacation of sorts before classes start up again, so more than an overnight bag was necessary. While they check in at the front desk, you admire the fancy rugs and the vintage lamps. It all has a very Roaring ‘20s theme, from the chandeliers to the red velvet covered stools you see at the bar.

“This way,” Luci comes up behind you, a hand resting on your hip as they lean in close to pass you the key cards, “We’re on the tenth floor.”

They lead you to the elevator, their hand hovering over the small of your back the whole time. When you unlock the door, they set the luggage by the bed before giving you a quick kiss.

#disenchantedif #luci rivera #patreon content

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psiroller · 19 days

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a kiss with a fist and such

i'm working on a lil somethin something where chilchuck and laios get into a fistfight at a bar and then make out. here's a really cringe aperitif to set up the conflict. it's pre-canon, i guess?? falin, namari and shuro are there. unfortunately for them.

nothing much happens in this excerpt but the final will involve romantic interests being violent to each other. i'd recommend not reading it if you're sensitive to that, but it's nothing too far outside the realm of what is portrayed in the manga lol

Laios had read volumes upon volumes of advice for the aspiring dungeon crawler and the content of this research could be summed up as thus: the party leader’s main objective is to keep everyone from killing each other before a monster can. The old king’s dungeon contained labyrinths that slithered like restless serpents, spike traps, false walls, beasts and enchanted baubles, but no trick more treacherous than pitting adventurers against one another. Why bother with conjuring monsters if you could simply torment your intruders until someone snapped? Sometimes a squabble over good loot was all it took for a party to dissolve.

Falin did most of the work in smoothing over the occasional interpersonal conflict, her calm smile and soft voice able to soothe even banshees, but there was only so much goodwill Laios’ kind little sister could afford him. Not everyone cared to learn the ins and outs of minotaur husbandry, or the complicated respiratory system of a seven-headed hydra, halfway down the magic murder hole. Laios didn’t really know what else there would be to talk about in a dungeon, though, so he often ran his mouth to fill the silence.

“Laios, if I hear one more fact about manticore scat I’ll make sure you’ll be living the dream.”

Chilchuck glowered up at Laios, hands on his hips, brows furrowed into a cute little crease.

“C’mon, it was relevant,” Laios said, cleaning his hands off with an already filthy handkerchief. “It’s fresh, so the monster’s nearby.”

“Fantastic news! I didn’t need a report on the texture. Let’s go.”

Chilchuck, the new hire, was an ornery sort. Good at his job—one would hope, with the astonishing upfront fee—but not with people. Laios could relate. A glance at the scrunched-up faces of Namari, Marcille and Shuro confirmed that Chilchuck wasn’t just bitching for the sake of it this time. He searched Falin’s strained grin for some backup, but she was at a loss.

Luckily, there were workarounds for the warrior in want of charisma.

“Cheer up, little guy.” A vein bulged out on Chilchuck’s forehead; Falin grimaced and mouthed an apology behind Laios’ back. “I’ll buy everyone a round at the tavern once the job’s done.”

Chilchuck debated holding the grudge, then sighed with a slumping of the shoulders.

“All the more reason to get a move on, then,” Namari said cheerily, glad to forget the scene they’d just witnessed. She clapped Chilchuck on the shoulder as she passed, staggering him out of his confrontational stance. He grunted and let it go, folding his hands behind his head and continuing down the tunnel.

“Nailed it,” Laios whispered to Falin, who met him with a congratulatory pat on the back. Wasting his cut of the profits on beer wasn’t wise with rent coming up, but the party’s cohesion was important, too. They’d managed to kill a green dragon last week, and it would be nice to keep that ball rolling.

“Good job, big brother! Um, next time, maybe don’t… call Chilchuck that.” “Why? I’m just trying to be friendly.” “Um… well, with half-foots, it’s sort of a-“

“C’mon, you two. Unless you want to get the bill after happy hour ends,” Chilchuck called, his small voice booming off the stone tiled walls. Laios jogged after the rest of the party, armor clanking as he went, with Falin not far behind.

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #ficroller #chilaios #preview

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ladyveravincent · 14 days

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Dancing? Dancing.

Even if one's partner is barely tolerable. Meet me at Rita's if you dare...

Excerpt from Chapter 23

“Running away again are we?”

“Oh!”

The smug reflection of Cerridwen glanced at Elain as she brushed the curls of her hair into an intricate updo, suitable for an evening of reels and jigs across the dance floor at Rita’s.

“She’s not running away, she’s running straight into his arms,” teased Nuala as she appeared next to her sister.

“I used to think it was my family who were busybodies. Seems it's a Fae trait,” scowled Elain, slamming the top of her jewelry box while the twins giggled.

“Oh, we’re just having some fun,” snorted Nuala.

“If you really must know,” she began, head tilted to consider earring options, “he is my good friend. And unlike my family, or you two, he does not pry.”

“Oh, I’ve heard he can pry alright,” Cerridwen murmured with a thrust of her hips before the twins burst into laughter.

“Well, when you decide to come clean, Cerridwen and I will be waiting for the details,” Nuala laughed before the twins bid their goodbyes and winnowed away.

“Busybodies… good for nothing…” she mumbled under her breath as she grabbed her shawl and smoothed her skirts.

In her mortal years, the village’s Samhain celebrations were often a mild, uneventful affair, usually more of a gathering to give thanks for the harvest instead of a festival to honor the more tenebrous and occult energies of the Earth. The courage, whether inherent or liquid, of villagers who snuck off into the woods to conjure spirits for amusement delighted and fascinated a placid, polite Elain. But cowardice always seemed to win when she watched young girls clad in nightdresses run barefoot into the forest to dance naked beneath the yellow moon.

Oh, how close the moon was to bear witness to her bare breasts tonight.

Samhain was Azriel’s birthday, and its carnality hung in the air as a promise to those who partook would be rewarded with such pleasures, mainly the joys of imbibing in the flesh. Of course, the Prince of Hewn City would be born on such a night. Perhaps, if she were lucky, she’d get to see him at work.

Each night, the Seer and Spymaster found themselves in dance halls across Velaris, more often in each other arms than other willing and amiable Fae partners. A few weeks ago, Az took her into the skies of Velaris, and since then, the two could barely dance without liquid courage and a dip into dangerous territory.

She had two birthday gifts for Azriel: a salve for his wings, and what lay underneath her cobalt skirts.

The suspense of poorly concealed affections tortured her mercilessly, and she decided to offer herself to him because the want had bloomed into something too strong to ignore. There was always some sort of pull to Azriel, but now, she needed to know if he wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

As her cobalt-slippered feet rehearsed jigs and reels on the cobblestone streets of Velaris, a voice from the shadows caused her heart to leap in terror and titillation.

“Found you,” Azriel whispered as he wrapped his arms around her waist and neck.

The marriage of a heady cedar and honey scent caused a small moan to escape from her lips, her arousal slightly intensifying when to her delight, she discovered he was already drunk.

Very drunk.

“One of these days, you won’t be able to find me,” she teased as he lifted and spun her around. When he sat her down, she finally turned to face him.

She doubted she could ever forget his face. Tonight, he was just as handsome as ever, and perhaps a bit more devilish given Cassian and Rhys celebrated all last night, and apparently, this morning, too.

“You underestimate how easy you are to find,” he taunted as he tucked a curl over her ear.

“For you,” she whispered and reached into her pocket to present his gift in her open palm. His eyes fluttered from her lips to the salve and gifted her a smile while he examined the tin.

“Happy birthday, Azriel.”

A blush crept over his cheeks while her lips faithfully formed his name, as they did so often alone under her bedsheets, and had only once before in his presence. Perhaps, if she were lucky, her throat would scream it tonight.

“For that wingspan I hear everyone talk about,” she teased.

“Careful Lain. That’s not something to joke about with an Illyrian,” his eyes darkened as a low laugh colored his warning.

“So you confess?”

“What?” he teased as he played with the ribbon that fluttered over her shoulder.

“That it's only a joke, not fact? Tsk, tsk.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Her heart raced, and suddenly she didn’t care for dancing.

“Show me then.”

In one movement she was slung over his shoulder while the two shot up into the sky.

“Big enough for you, Lady Lain?” he cried over the wind and her screams of delight.

“I guess it’ll do- AHHHH!” He shrugged as she fell from the skies, dropped for her cheekiness.

“Sorry, my wingspan wasn’t big enough for you to ride,” he sighed as he flew next to her while she fell.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! You have the biggest wingspan!”

“Who has the biggest wingspan?” he questioned.

“You! You!” she screamed reaching for him, but he only gave her an evil grin.

“Azriel has the biggest wingspan!” As her hand skimmed the water of the Sidra, strong arms broke her fall, and they glided upward into the skies.

“You look very pretty by the way.” Her scowl softened for only a moment before she turned her head away.

“You’re not getting my first dance.”

“Many apologies, Lady Archeron. May I have the second?”

“Hmph.”

“What if I promise you all my dances, and I buy a bottle of whiskey?”

“Maybe.”

“What if I told you this is my favorite color on you?” he whispered into her ear.

“Two bottles of whiskey.”

“Deal.”

The crispness of the late autumn air was replaced by the smell of liquor and sweat as Elain trailed behind a towering Azriel, guided by their interlocked fingers through the crowd.

“First dance, Miss Archeron?” he asked over his shoulder as the fiddle started to play, and in response, her touch lingered on the silken skin of his wing, innocently tracing its veins as she passed.

“Only if you promise not to drop me,” she murmured. After a blissful shudder, scarred hands grabbed her waist, and her eyes were greeted by lush lips before her lashes raised to meet the Shadowsinger’s ravenous face.

“When? Dancing? Or something else?” he asked as the two started to spin fast around the room to the lively music.

“How much have you had to drink, Shadowsinger?” she teased as he lifted her into the air.

“Not nearly enough to get what I really want for my birthday.” Lids heavy and scent heady, the whiskey and cedar merged to cause the pulsing need in her belly.

“Is my present not enough?”

“Oh, Lain, I didn’t say that.” Not a drop of alcohol on her tongue but one taste, and she could be drunk.

“Maybe you just need someone to put it on you,” she drawled as she spun into him, and let her ass lewdly roll against his hips.

“Switch partners!” cried the fiddle player.

She extended a polite hand to a handsome Fae male, and shot a coy look over her shoulder, only to find she had won. Brown eyes faithfully watched the wide pupils and parted lips of her previous partner while he slowly stalked the skirts of the room to follow each spin and step she took with a new male.

“What’s your name?” cried the Fae as he spun her out.

“I’m E-”

A scarred hand grabbed her outstretched arm to pull her into his embrace, the two now still in a vast sea of dancers, and the tip of their noses touched as he leaned forward to let his lips brush the shell of her ear.

“Careful, lovely fawn. There are fanged beasts who would love nothing more than to devour you," he whispered. The gentle pull of his fingers coiled around her curls and pulled to expose her neck. Absolutely wild and ready to devour.

Her eyes fluttered shut. Offer and permission.

“Az!” The two snapped their heads to see a flash of red and blonde hair push through the crowd.

“Mor!” The warmth of his body vanished as he strode to greet the blonde.

Suddenly, the heat of the dance hall merged with a jealous fury she pushed down before joining a vibrant Azriel and bubbly Mor.

“Oh, Elain! How sweet you look tonight!” Her cheeks turned as red as Mor’s revealing dress, and suddenly the decision to wear a long-sleeved silk gown and weave bluebells into her hair seemed like the silliest idea in the world.

“Happy birthday, Az,” Mor beamed.

“Thanks, Morrigan,” he replied with an arrogant grin. She was two things: a fool and an idiot. From one glance at the cockiness that radiated off his wide wings, Elain and her stomach sunk into the floor.

“I’ll go get us some drinks,” Elain offered, desperate to shake the shame from her earlier actions, and turned from the pair.

“Wait! Here.” Mor grabbed her shoulder to place several gold coins in her palm.

“Thanks, Mor, just wine?”

“You know me so well! Thanks, El.”

“Just wine, Mor? If I seem to remember correctly, there was a time you liked something a little harder,” he smirked.

Azriel was a vicious, licentious, rakish flirt who was going to feel wrath like no other if he dared to-

“Whoops!”

The push of another dancing couple sent a flustered Elain tumbling onto the floor.

“Careful, Lady Lain,” Az laughed and dove to help her, but another hand reached for the fawn.

“Come here often?” Oh great, giant fiddlesticks.

“Hello, Lucien,” she gulped. The candlelight glittered off of her mate’s golden eye, his handsome smile wide as she apprehensively raised her hand to accept his help, but, the fox’s grin faded as a strong arm tightened around her too-tightly corsetted waist to lift her off the floor.

“Lucien!” Mor’s tense smile did nothing while Lucien growled at the Shadowsinger. The three stood between waltzing couples, Azriel’s arm tight around a nervous Elain and stare lethal at an infuriated Lucien.

“May I join you?” Lucien blurted out.

“It’s Azriel’s birthday,” she replied dumbly.

“It’s my birthday,” Azriel echoed with a murderous expression.

“Happy birthday,” Lucien spat at the Spymaster.

Foxes hunted fawns, but fanged beasts devoured any threats, perceived or confirmed.

On lapping lake waves in warmer months, feelings about the bond were finally unearthed when an outstretched wing drew a wince after a brush against sore ribs.

“Oh Gods, I’m sorry,” Az said quickly.

“No, no. It isn’t your fault,” she murmured between a few deep breaths.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly. Her only response was a sad nod.

“Do you know who your mate is?” Dusk lulled over the lake’s horizon as ribbons of pink hues fluttered into deep purple hazes.

“I don’t have one,” he replied after a long while.

“You’re lucky. It’s a curse,” she admitted.

She waited for him to tout Lucien’s good character, but rather, that brave confession saved her from countless unfortunate circumstances. Whispered messages would announce unprompted visits moments before a knock rapped on the door, or the tendril of a shadow would save her from tea services set with an extra saucer beside her seat. As the summer faded into fall, the Autumn Court male spent more time with the Band of Exiles than in Velaris, and her ribs softened into a welcomed silence.

But now they screamed.

This is beyond fiddlesticks, she thought.

“Elain was just getting us some drinks. She could use a hand?” Mor wondered aloud with a wink at Elain.

“Oh yes, do you like ale?” asked the fox.

“I like whiskey-”

“She likes whiskey,” Azriel interrupted. Somehow his chest was broader, height taller, and bravado even more spine-chilling in its understated delivery compared to a fiery Lucien’s blazing eyes.

“You two go ahead, we’ll wait here,” gritted Mor and pushed him away from the mates.

“Shall we go?”

Ribs weren’t supposed to ache, were they?

“What in the hells was that?” Mor chastised a brooding Azriel in the corner of the dance hall.

“Elain doesn’t like him.”

“Elain is his mate.”

Two years ago, the thought of those rich brown eyes and blonde tresses within arm’s reach at a dance hall would have been his only birthday wish. Now to welcome another year of immortality, he yearned for a pair of gentle brown eyes and honey-kissed hair. Mor was his friend, and the flame he kept alive for almost five centuries was easy to kindle when conversations skirted around awkward silences with Cassian tempering the two. He idolized her, but he never knew her, truly. Now, he realized how little his infatuation was rooted in what sort of love he ached to hold.

“I said, she doesn’t like him.”

“Well, Elain’s got some growing to do and-”

“She’s not a child, Mor. We all need to ask Elain what she wants.”

Mor’s red lips parted in surprise and annoyance at the rude quip, but a ferocious hazel stare led her to find Lucien and Elain at the bar. After a tense laugh, Elain’s gaze drifted over to Azriel, who did not hesitate to step forward.

The truth was revealed.

“Azriel. You cannot be serious.” Her red skirts swished to stop the leather-clad Spymaster.

He gave no reply.

“Cauldron, Az. She’s a mated female.”

“And?” he sneered.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Perhaps I am,” he admitted as he pushed past her.

“Azriel-” After 541 years, Mor’s hand held his, and nothing more than the heat of her warm skin sat on his scars. It did not soothe, it did not sear, it was not the touch of something very precious. It was not Elain.

“He’s a good male, Az. You and I both know that. She’s so, so young. It’s been only two years into her immortality. She might not want him in this century, or even the next, but with a bond as strong as that, it's only a matter of time.”

“And what about what she wants?”

“What about you, Az? Huh? What are you going to do if your mate shows up ten, twenty, or even two hundred years from now? Would that be fair to her?” Az looked at her hand wrapped around his wrist, the red nail polish so bright against his golden skin.

“Don’t you want to be with someone who is your equal? You deserve that-” Azriel stilled.

“You think Elain is beneath me?” came his terrifying reply.

“You need someone who will challenge you. Hells, she barely could handle being on the battlefield, she’s… she’s too soft Az.” He leaned into Mor so close her eyes widened in fear.

“I used to think there was no one else for me, but you. The battles we fought side by side, the trials we endured throughout the centuries, I was in love with you. And then, I met Elain. And in two years, I’ve felt more than I’ve ever felt in five hundred.” He dropped her hand.

“But, you aren’t Elain’s mate. Lucien is.”

Upon a look at the fox and the fawn, it dawned on him.

Azriel always loved the light, whether it was the sun’s prideful rays or the soft wicks of candles. Light cast on flesh conjured shadows, or banished blindness. It was a gift. Lucien’s aura blazed with that flame Autumn Court males warmed rooms with, their natural ease and quick wit entertaining and charming all those who basked in its glory. The two stood at the bar, the glow of their bodies bright against the crowds of Fae. Despite all the restless nights and curses at the stars, he understood. The Cauldron gave Elain to Lucien because she was the light, and Lucien could ignite. Like called to like.

They were mates, and who was he to steal her from that happiness?

Elain held his gaze, desperation in her eyes as she begged him to save her from Lucien, but he decided to save her from himself. Mor was right, they were not equals. She deserved better.

“Good night, Mor.”

“Happy birthday, Az.”

When the music of the dance hall faded into the eerie air of Samhain, Azriel took to the skies.

Another year into immortality, another year losing to fate.

A03

~ A Court of Bones in Bloom

#actoar #elain #elriel #fanfic #a03 fanfic #elain x azriel #azriel #azriel and elain

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simpxxstan · 7 months

Text

perfect complements (ch. 2)

pairing: professor!seungcheol x professor!f.reader

genre: fluff, enemies to lovers, angst, smut

series summary: four and a half years of working together breeds familiarity, resentment, and everything in between. it's almost like living together.

chapter word count: 2.4k

warnings: bickering.

a/n: i have never been to a therapist/counsellor, so i apologise if there are factual inaccuracies in how the process of counselling goes. the italicized portion is an excerpt from the past, and that's how it'll be indicated in the rest of the story!

thank you so much for reading! your reblogs, likes and comments make my day!

series masterlist

GIF by coupsnim

The walls of the counsellor’s office are painted blue and green- quite contrary to what you had thought would be clinically white and even more depressing. There’s no sign of Seungcheol though, as you sit in the small waiting space outside the office, reading a magazine off the coffee table, your legs shaking nervously.

The man you’re waiting for storms in through the door, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, and his slightly longer hair all fluffy and messy. “Sorry I’m late,” he says to no one, especially not you since he’s averted his glance from you as soon as he entered, and there’s no one else in the space. “Dr. Lee is waiting for us.” You speak softly, trying to level your tone. He takes a minute to brace himself before looking at you, fixing his hair, fixing his crumpled shirt, and breathing in.

In the past sixteen hours, you’ve thought about this moment a million times at least. It’s been a long time coming, and you know Seungcheol knows it as well as you. Wonwoo has spoken to the two of you multiple times, and yet- things never seem to improve.

It’s not like you purposely piss him off, well, most of the time. He is a dickhead, but it’s not like you have a lot of free time just to educate him on being a better human in the world. It’s mostly a slip here and there, and the spark blasts.

It started on a rainy day, in the middle of August. You really didn’t like the rain, to make it worse you’d got your period that morning. You wanted to go home as soon as possible, but all public transport had suddenly disappeared, leaving you stranded in the monsoon on a busy street where no one cared about you, no matter how desperately you called for a taxi. It was just not your day-

But all that had a hope of reversing when you noticed a familiar smile and a wave through a car window, which was right next to you now. “Seungcheol-ssi?” you asked. “Can I give you a ride, Prof Y/L/N?” You started refusing him, hands moving animatedly, but then he gave you a look- oh- and you couldn’t refuse him anymore. “Please. You’ve been standing here for the past twenty minutes,” he said, as you shuffled into his car, trying to not wet the seats but in vain. “You’ve been watching me?” “Uh-” he was nervous now, “no I was just…” “Hey, I really appreciate your offer. I was really having a difficult time. Thank you so much, Seungcheol-ssi.” Three months into his new job, and you both had developed a good relationship, being of nearly the same age. The three other professors in your department were all above fifty, two even due to retire that year, leaving you two as the youngest of the department, and it was a good partnership. You enjoyed talking about the subjects that you had chosen as the first loves of your lives over a cup of coffee, sometimes you would smile at him for a second too long when he would speak of his pet dog Kkuma, sometimes he would return the smile when you spoke fondly about your favourite students.

The car ride was also just as smooth as the rest of Choi Seungcheol. As much as he was an eye candy, you had decided you were certainly not interested in him, having noticed how well he got along with every female (and most male) faculty members of the university, and his smiles were just not reserved for you. Within weeks, he had students fawning over him, and soon he was becoming the most popular professor in the university, not just among students but also among your colleagues. While you had no fancies for these titles, it felt a little weird losing the good rapport you had worked hard in building, being the only female professor in the department. Or maybe it was just you being too competitive.

Anyhow, when Seungcheol played the music of your favourite idol group, you couldn’t complain. The depressive mood from the rains had already mellowed out. You raised your eyebrows at him in query, he replied, “What? I’ve seen their photocard behind your phone.” He smiled again, and you smiled back. So attentive.

Just then, there was a crazy sound from his car. Alarmed, he instantly got out of the car to check- soon there was smoke coming up from the front of the car. You felt guilty sitting in the dry shade of the rain while he lifted the front hood of the car, drenched in the rain, trying to figure out the issue, so you stepped out. “I’m sorry- I really-” “No, hey, why are you apologising to me?” “I don’t know what’s wrong. I think I’ll have to call a mechanic.” You looked around, it was a shockingly deserted area, maybe the rain had washed away all people into their homes. As evening began to descend, your cramps got worse, not improving as the wetness of the rain began settling into your bones.

“Should we wait inside the car? I’ve called for the mechanic, but they’ll definitely take some time.”

“Sure. I mean, we don’t have an option, do we?” You chuckled, trying to reduce the tension. “I’m sorry I got you stuck in this.” “Nah, it’s okay.” “You can try looking for a cab-” “Do you see a cab out there, Choi Seungcheol?” you snapped out a bit too harshly, recoiling instantly. He was taken aback too, wincing. “Sorry, I just…” Then he grew quiet, and so did you.

Seconds became minutes.

Minutes to hours.

Precisely, two and a quarter hours, before the mechanic arrived.

Your water bottle was empty, your lunch long finished, the cramps growing worse in the confined space and the anxiety, and Seungcheol wasn’t a close friend who you could become casual around. So you kept your legs down, your heels on, even if your ankles hurt. You kept your hair tied, even if the hair tie began to hurt your scalp, because your hair was too unruly to let down. You couldn’t even take off your jacket, because your body was too cold to let go of even one piece of clothing.

This was really not your day.

There was no conversation, mainly because you were afraid of snapping again. He stepped out to help the mechanic, and you closed your eyes tight in the car, trying to hold back the pain. Wordlessly, the mechanic left after the issue was fixed, the rain still pouring relentlessly, and Seungcheol came back into the car.

Thankfully, this time when he tried to start the car, it roared to life. After travelling slowly for fifteen minutes, Seungcheol spoke up, “It’s almost seven- do you want to get some ramyeon before heading home?” You weren’t even looking at him, but you could sense the expectation in his voice. “My treat, to make up for the-”

“I want to go home, Seungcheol.” Your voice was bitterer than you had thought. Seungcheol extended his hand to your arm, and you flinched. “Can you please drive me to my neighbourhood? I don’t want to stay here a minute more.” He took back his hand in a second, and amped up the speed of the car. In less than twenty minutes you were in the front of your home, the address you had input into the Google Maps of the car dashboard earlier.

Without a word, you stepped out of the car, into the rain that had fizzled down to a drizzle now. Seungcheol was looking at you, and you had no way to avoid his eyes now. “I’m sorry for making your day so bad. Really, if I could make it-” “Bye, Choi Seungcheol-ssi. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And you had turned your back on the man who had drove you home that evening, the hopeful glint in his eyes burning in your head but other feelings like exhaustion, pain and desperation overwhelming you.

“Has anger always been an issue for you?”

Ouch, that was harsh. You had thought counsellors were soft with their words- but then, you’d never been to one’s office before. Seungcheol seemed calmer than before now, honestly that irked you more. Was he actually okay with sitting here? Being reprimanded for how you couldn’t help but behave around each other, at the age of thirty-three?

“I don’t know… I guess I’ve always had a slightly sharp tongue. Quick to lose my temper.”

Seungcheol sighed next to you. You can feel his eyes poring into your face, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

“And you, Prof. Choi?”

“I don’t think so. I think Prof. Y/L/N brings out the worst in me.”

Now you’re looking straight at him, and you know he’s facing you while saying the words. “Excuse me?”

“Prof. Y/L/N-”

“I’ve never faced issues with my temper before, you know. Yes, some may call me an alpha but-”

A laugh escaped from your lips before you could help it.

“Prof. Y/L/N, please refrain from scoffing here. Remember the common goal.” Dr. Lee reminded you.

“I can’t help it, Dr. Lee. It’s blatantly obnoxious for Prof. Choi to think of himself as an alpha. Why, the man’s scared of ghosts! As if ghosts even exist.”

“Prof. Y/L/N-”

“Might I inform you, Dr. Lee, than Prof. Y/L/N has a phobia of thunderstorms. She can’t stand seeing lightning, absoltely shivers like-”

“Professors!”

Again the dreadful feeling of being reprimanded.

“Laughing at each other’s phobias are petty and not acceptable. This is a safe space. We are all respectful of each other’s fears, irrespective of how they appear to us. We have a common goal of resolution, please be mindful.” Your eyes were cast downward, fingers fiddling with the hem of your dress. “I’m sorry, Dr. Lee.”

There was a sharp intake of air from Choi Seungcheol.

“But I don’t think this can ever reach resolution,” you complete, nearly standing up from your chair. Seungcheol openly scoffs at you now, laughing at your surrender. Exactly what he was pushing you for.

“There, there! No need to rush, Professor. How about, we move on to the first activity I’ve planned for you both?”

You pause, sitting back in your chair.

“Activity?” Seungcheol asks, running fingers through his hair.

“Yes! It’s part of my toolkit for couples’ therapy-”

“This isn’t couple’s therapy,” you both chime together. It’s getting annoying how often people think of you as a couple.

Dr. Lee only chuckles, as if they had laid the bait out for you to hold on to, and you both had caught on to it like fishes. You gasp, realising this session may be more complicated than you thought.

“Of course! Now, have either of you done colouring before? Ever heard of art therapy?”

Seungcheol shakes his head, while you nod. “I colour on my phone sometimes- numbered colouring. Stress relieving, it is for me.” Dr. Lee smiles. “Yes! Except, we’ll not be doing numbered colouring.” They pull out a sheet of paper from underneath their desk, and lay it right in front of you both.

It’s a beautiful picture of a scene from nature- trees, foliage, flowers, even a river through the grass. But in black and white outline, and more spaces marked in between indicating where to fill in colours.

Then Dr. Lee brings out a pack of colour pencils, and keeps it beside the sheet of paper.

“Can I trust you both to fill this in?”

Seungcheol’s jaw actually drops. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him more surprised.

“You want us to fill this with colours? Colour pencils?”

“Yes! It’s really quite simple, and really would be great for healing you through all the stress of work during the day.” Dr. Lee’s smile is genial, but you don’t feel it catching on to you. The thought of colouring this- with Seungcheol- does nothing but add up to your stress.

“Alright.” Seungcheol is doing it again- pushing you to surrender. He even picks up the sheet and colour pencils and stands up, looking at you expectantly.

But you’re not going to give up so easily.

It’s a matter of your pride after all.

“We’ll bring this to you, all complete and pretty, at our next session!” You’re staring into Seungcheol’s soul, seeing the panic flash momentarily before he dons his standard pretty smile, gums threatening to show.

“Yes, Dr. Lee!” And for a second, you wonder if this was how he used to suck up to his teachers in school, all cute and excited- but, you forget the thought quickly, as Dr. Lee stands up, a very knowing smile in their eyes, waiting to bid you goodbye. As you both shuffle out of the room, you face Seungcheol outside the office. “Our next session is day after tomorrow. What were you thinking when you promised to complete this, like a little good girl, so eager to please?” he snaps, standing inches away from you.

“Seungcheol, spare me your nonsense. I’ll take it home today and complete the top half, and you can take it home tomorrow and complete the bottom half.”

“Impossible. I have at least two dozens of projects to go through. I’ll not be coming to work tomorrow. No time for this” he points at the sheet in his hand.

“Then I’ll just come over tomorrow evening, after your project corrections are done. We can complete it together. Makes the process quicker.” You know you’re stepping into extremely risky territory, but hell, even you didn’t want to go home and colour on a lovely day like this. Wine and jazz sounded much better.

He seems to ponder over the offer for a second. Then he takes out his right hand from his pocket, and holds it out to you. “Deal,” he says, and you almost scoff at his childish behaviour. Then you shake your right hand with his, and take a step back.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah, my place, at 8?”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll text you the address-”

“I have it already, Prof. Choi.” you say quietly, before turning your back on him and walking away slowly, ignoring his eyes on your back.

#choi seungcheol #s.coups #s.coups x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen fluff #seventeen series #s.coups series #s.coups fluff #s.coups fanfiction #seungcheol fanfiction #seungcheol x y/n #seungcheol series #seungcheol fanfic #seungcheol x reader #seventeen fanfic #perfect complements series #simpxxstan

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infini-tree · 2 months

Text

and many happy returns

Summary: Maybe there was a reason Harold's birthday never came up, he realized. (PPU-verse)

A/N: woe, personal take on the ppu-verse upon ye! this was originally supposed to be a comic, but quickly hashing out a short excerpt in two days is easier for me at the moment.

i realize there's a lot of one-off lines that imply something in the ppu-verse, but i think how things changed in comparison to the mainverse is pretty self-explanatory? though it might just be self-explanatory because its been in my head for long enough that i'm used to it.

honestly, the challenge with writing these guys is that they have a shades of being an Unreliable Narrator to them. and there's two layers of unreliability, if you squint!

-----------------------------------

George looked up to the Treehouse with nervousness in his gut. From the sounds, it was clear that Harold was already in there. Or a raccoon.

It was three years since he had moved to Jerome Horwitz and was moved up a grade. Three years since he was subsequently brought back to kindergarten. But most importantly, it had been three years since him and Harold met.

It was only a week ago that he overheard Harold's birthday was coming up.

He clasped the box in his hands a little tighter. He remembered seeing Harold linger at the display for it and trying to play it off, so he was sure he'd like it. Maybe.

He owed him a lot, maybe too much. Which was why he scrounged up his allowance for this. His birthdate was a more difficult thing to pick up, since it never came up in all their years of hanging out.

Before he lost his nerve, he threw the box into his backpack and climbed up the ladder.

"Harold! H--"

The next words get lodged up in his throat at the sight of the other boy throwing something at the walls of their treehouse lair. Repeatedly. Before slumping to the floor.

"Harold!" he scrambled up the final leg of the ladder, awkwardly bellyflopping onto the wood floor.

The boy flinched, conveniently obscuring... whatever it was. "Don't."

It seemed that he wasn't satisfied by the results, so he had started to bash the thing against the floor one last time so hard it shook the Treehouse.

After a moment of silence (and making sure the Treehouse didn't topple over), he slowly made his way over to him.

Step, he could see something bounce the light from outside onto the floor. Step, there was a whiff of plastic and the sound of crinkling. Step, he could see bright paper peek out from the spaces between the other boy's fingers.

"’S a gift from dad," Harold spat out in lieu of an explanation or apology or anything else.

George made a face. Yeah, that tracked. Very few things made him that mad.

As mad as he can get, he didn't like blowing up. He liked being sneaky, and being in control as he watched everyone else run around like chickens with no heads. In fact, he was super careful to never destroy any of George's stuff for some reason.

Harold's own stuff was free game, though. The boy stared at a dollar store plastic bat with a dent in it.

"The gift must've really stunk if you're this mad."

That, thankfully made the other boy let out an amused huff. "Yeah. It did."

"Then--" he gave a pointed glance at the box at his feet. "What's in that thing?"

A pause. "Workbooks."

He made a big show of leaning on the other boy's shoulder. On what little of the cover he could see, dead-eyed look of stock photo animals in a classroom looked back at him. "I don't think a bat would've made a dent in them."

Harold quickly slapped him away, more playful than anything.

"I used that before I knew what was in them, dummy." The light atmosphere didn't last for long, though. He gave an angry glare at the gift. “I was hoping I could break it.”

“Why, though?”

Harold’s hands clenched at the bright paper. Glitter smeared into his palms before he finally let go of them. “He does this… thing on my birthday. Mom too. 'S not even for me-- not really. More for what they want me to be.”

It wasn’t much of an explanation. But George thinks he gets it.

Harold's dad was a weird guy. He didn’t live with him and his mom and his baby sister. From what little he’s heard and seen at the Hutchins driveway, he sounded… nice. But he knew that didn’t mean much of anything when his actions didn’t match. His mom had the opposite problem.

And most importantly, neither of his parents were here on his birthday. Sure, it was a weekday, but it was Spring break, for crying out loud!

Silence.

"I didn't even want a dumb gift!" He kicked the wrapped books-- tried to, but it barely grazed it. "Birthdays are dumb, anyway!"

George was not a words guy. That's what Harold was for. But right now, he had to find the right ones. His mouth tried to form the right shape silently. The words were there, all he had to do was--

"You think you still have those sparklers from the New Year's?"

Harold blinked.

"We can try and make those-- those, uh-- bonfires!--" He gave a pointed glance at the offending gift. "It's early for it, but it's pretty warm out. It can work."

It took a moment for him to put two and two together, but when it finally clicked– Harold broke out into a sly grin. He stood up like he ate half a pound of sugar before clapping a hand to his shoulder.

"Man, see that's why you're here-- ideas."

He tried to match his smirk. "I thought I was here for drawing?"

"That, too."

The both of them made their way out of the Treehouse with a skip in their sneaking. The both of them decided to split up and come back to Harold's backyard. Said Harold had taken to getting not only the sparklers, but anything remotely flammable, and George pilfered his kitchen for anything they could roast.

There wasn't any marshmallows, but there was leftover pizza and sliced pineapples in a tubberware which arguably was better. He cut the pizzas up to be kebab stick stabbing size and placed it over the grill.

"We should do this every year." Harold leaned forward from his lawn chair and fed a page into the flames.

"What if the gift next year isn't flammable?"

"I'm sure we could think of something." He let out a sharp laugh. "You know, I think this is the first time I'm actually looking forward to it."

George leaned back into his chair. He couldn't help but feel relieved-- not only because that he felt that he had partially repaid him (though, that was a bonus). Nah, seeing Harold's face light up every time he lit up a page was... fun.

(Not the right word, he thought. But again-- he wasn't here for words.)

The comfortable kinda-silence crackled on. Harold kept feeding the grill more pages as hey fed on their pizza and pineapples until both were gone. Eventually, even the fire died out and the both of them were forced to close the grill and made it seem like nothing happened.

Now, there was nothing except the lingering smell of smoke.

Harold gave a curious glance back at him. "What were you going to say?"

"Huh?"

"When you were climbing up the Treehouse, before you saw..." He vaguely gestured to the workbook-- or the cover that remained. "All that."

He was suddenly extremely aware of the weight in his bag. He looked to the grill. Then to him. And then gave a dismissive wave, trying to play off his shock. "I thought you finally found the raccoon that kept getting into the snack stash."

Harold let out an incredulous laugh. It had none of his usual sharpness, but all the volume he expected.

"You thought I was fighting a raccoon?!"

"I mean it was raccoon sized--" He gave a glance to the covers. "Or, was."

"Besides, we all know you're the one who keeps taking all the Sweet Patches." The words held no accusatory heat, but it did have a whiff of a challenge.

"Says the guy who keeps hogging all the Jelly Burgers!" George threw his bag off to the side and began run at the other boy.

Before he could react, he was quickly tackled to the ground as they began to play-wrestle in the grass. That was quickly called off as Harold had suddenly gotten an idea for a comic while faceplanted on the ground.

He could give the dolphin-shaped mini-soaker another time, play it off as something else.

#mellsian fanfics #captain underpants #alternate joke title to this was 'adhd be damned these boys can work a grill'#fudged the time for spring break for this sssh

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