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macfrog · 11 months

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moneyball cowboy like me chapter four

part iv of dbf!joel is yours!!! check out my masterlist to find the first three chapters for all your dbf needs. as always, thank you all so much for all the love n support. you guys make writing this series so much fun!! 🤍 i lowkey don't know whether or not i hate this chapter but i had to write it once the idea was in my head 🤷‍♀️ enJOY

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: when joel double-books you and your dad, you decide to teach him a lesson

warnings: 18+ minors dni!!! oral (f receiving), praise kink, lotsa teasing, lil bit of bratty reader, lil bit of dom!joel, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), consumption of alcohol, cursing

word count: 4.2k

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You raise your eyebrows at Joel innocently as you push the popsicle deep into your mouth, sucking as far as the back of your throat will allow, before dragging it back out with a pop. A thread of sweet, fruit-flavored saliva strings between the tip of the popsicle and your bottom lip as you pull it away. You run your tongue slowly over your lips and smile at him. He looks pissed. He can’t take his eyes off of you, or your swollen lips, but he looks ready to snap. “I found snacks, by the way,” you lull.

How slutty is too slutty? When you’re going over to your dad’s best friend’s to…Well, you’re not quite sure what yet. You’ve picked out a short blue summer dress, strappy back, with black lace panties underneath. If you’re looking, and the light is right, you can see them through the blue fabric.

Joel would, you know that much. That’s all you really care about.

You’re putting earrings on in the mirror when your dad knocks and edges into your room.

“Where you headed, kiddo?”

“Just out for a drink with Sam. Said we’d have a catch-up at the barbecue, so.”

He narrows his eyes.

“It’s not a date.”

“Hey,” he lifts his hands, “I didn’t say anything. When will you be home?”

“Dunno. Why?”

“I’ll be at Joel’s, so remember your key. Just in case.”

Excuse me? Did he just say –

“Joel’s?”

He nods, sitting down on your bed behind you. You stare at him in the mirror.

“What’s happening at Joel’s?”

“Rangers game. He’s having Bill and Hank and me.”

Just then, your phone buzzes. You subtly lean over and catch a glimpse of the screen before it fades to black again.

Joel: Call me when you’re alone. ASAP

You roll your eyes and let out a low sigh.

“Can you give me a sec, Dad? I think I wanna change my outfit.”

“Sure. I’ll give you a holler when I’m leavin’.”

He shuts your door behind him and you wait until you hear his footsteps recede to call Joel.

“Hey, baby, listen, I’m gonna have to raincheck.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Something’s come up.”

“Right.” Your tone is muted and flat. On purpose. Joel notices.

“So…we’ll figure somethin’ out, right? You workin’ much this week?”

You scoff. “I dunno, depends on when the next Rangers game is, doesn’t it?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he takes a deep breath. “Kid, I’m so sorry–”

“Here I am,” you throw your arms up and march around your room, though you know he can’t see you, “getting ready, putting together the sluttiest-within-reason outfit I own, and all the while you’re gearing up to host my dad and your buddies.”

“…You’re wearing somethin’ slutty?”

“Not anymore,” you huff as you pull the dress off. “I’m changin’ into sweatpants.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’d still be into you in the sweatpants.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “I will have them out and gone as soon as the game’s done, and then you can come over, okay? Sound good?”

“And you’ll make it up to me?”

“I intend to.”

“’kay. Just know you’re gonna pay for this.”

He says through a chuckle, “See you later, baby.”

You hang up.

You rake through your drawers for something a little more comfortable to wear, settling for a floral skirt and off-shoulder top. Equal parts casual and suggestive. Perfect for payback.

Joel knows he’s gonna pay. He just doesn’t know when.

“Hey, hon, that’s me headin!” your dad calls up the stairs.

“Wait up!” you reply, grabbing your shoes and hopping out of your room. “I’m comin’.”

“You want a ride to Frank’s?”

“No, I’m coming to Joel’s.”

He watches you struggle down the stairs with one shoe on, brows furrowed. “You wanna…come watch the game? What about Sam?”

“He just cancelled.”

Your dad looks tickled. “Cheatin’ on ya, is he?”

You stand straight, finally having pulled your shoe on, and punch his arm. “I’ll be in the car.”

“Alright…” he mumbles, following you out.

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Joel’s face when he opens the door is a picture you never want to forget.

“Hey– I – did not know you were comin’.” He ushers you both in.

“Neither did I,” your dad replies, “she decided last minute. Blew off some date with that boy from Frank’s for this.”

“It was not a…” Your sentence ends with a sigh as you follow him inside, looking up at Joel as you pass. He knows damn well you didn’t even have plans with Sam, never mind a date.

“Big Rangers fan?” Joel calls from behind as the three of you head for the living room.

“Yes,” you reply, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible.

“Big enough to schedule a date during the game?”

“I’m sure I’m not the first to do that,” you hiss through your teeth, and he gives you an amused grin.

Bill and Hank haven’t arrived yet. Your dad sits in his usual recliner seat and sighs. You and Joel share the couch, where he turns on you to interrogate you more.

“So, what’s with the change of heart?”

“I, uh…I didn’t know it was this game.”

“And what game’s that?”

“The…Uh…You know. Rangers.” You shrug.

“Name three players.”

“That’s sexist,” you reply, pointing a finger at him.

Your dad cackles, rocking back and forth in the chair. “Beers, Joel?”

“In the fridge,” Joel answers, eyes still on you.

Your dad, who’d be oblivious to a hurricane outside if it weren’t for the warnings on the news, waltzes past the pair of you, locked in a death stare.

“You’re here to cause tr–”

“Trouble, yeah.” You flash him an innocent smile. “You caused it first.”

The doorbell rings and Joel doesn’t move, eyes still dancing all over your body; your shoulders, your hips, your thighs peeking through the slit in your skirt.

Your dad calls through from the kitchen, offering to get it, and you hear the rumble of Hank and Bill’s voices.

When Joel’s eyes meander back up to meet yours, a dangerous look in them, he leans in close. You tilt your jaw to allow him access, but his lips never touch you.

Breath hot on your skin, his Southern drawl whispers, “I started it, and I know how to finish it, pretty girl.”

Then he stands and heads to the hallway to meet his guests. You clamp your legs together.

Bill roars your name when he sees you. “I didn’t fuckin’ know you liked the Rangers!”

You stand and nervously accept his arms over your shoulders, squeezing you so tight it takes your breath away. Joel stifles a laugh in the doorway.

“I just wanted to be around for all the fun,” you almost gasp when he releases you.

Hank is older and smaller in frame, and he gives your hand a little squeeze as he passes by to the couch. “We’re up for it tonight, kiddo,” he smiles sweetly, “it’ll be a good’un.”

“Bill, beer? Hank?”

“Bourbon for me, Joel. Brought my own bottle.” He hands it over.

As your dad squeezes past to join his friends, Joel clicks his fingers at you and jerks his head toward the kitchen. Your jaw falls open with mock offense.

“Dick,” you whisper as you pass.

“Needed help from my waitress with the drinks,” Joel murmurs with a smirk, the two of you heading through.

He opens the fridge and reaches up to grab three beers – Buds, you notice – from the top shelf. His shirt lifts a sliver from the waistband of his jeans, exposing the tan skin beneath.

Your head cocks as you stare at him, gripping onto the worktop, probably more to stop yourself from approaching him than to look casual. But when Joel turns back around, he reads you like an open book.

“Quit starin’,” he mutters, nudging you to shift out of his way.

You don’t budge, so Joel shifts further up the counter. When you slide up to follow him, pinning yourself between him and the marble surface, he scoffs.

“Stop that,” he whispers.

“Stop what? Thought you knew how to finish this?”

“Alright,” he hums, arms reaching around yours to crack the beers open in front of you. Your back is flush against his chest.

“Then,” he mumbles, chin hooked over your shoulder, “we take this,” he reaches for a whiskey glass and Hank’s bottle of Yellow Rose, sliding them over in front of you with one hand. He takes your hands in his, using you like a puppet to pour Hank’s drink.

You can’t help but giggle as his stubble grazes your cheek.

When you turn your head to look at him over your shoulder, you feel an unmistakable swell behind your ass. Joel’s breath falters for a brief second.

You want more. To be frank, you’d take him here and now if it weren’t for his buddies in the next room. But this isn’t about what you want right now. Not yet.

You push off the counter gently, your ass touching Joel’s crotch, grinding into him. His jaw tightens, teeth lock together, and he emits a low growl. He doesn’t move; just stands with his arms around you, hands gripping the worktop, holding you in place as your hips rut on his hardening bulge.

The TV is switched on and you hear a familiar commentator’s voice.

“Joel!” your dad yells from the living room.

“Had your fun?” he grumbles in your ear.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He moves his arms then, letting you go, taking his and Bill’s beers and Hank’s bourbon, and backs away. His eyebrows are cocked, and you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face.

You watch him until he disappears into the living room, and snap out of your daze. I’m not here to be wooed by him.

I’m here to make him finish what he started.

When you enter the living room, beer in hand, all four men are literally on the edge of their seats, as far forward as they can get without actually sliding off of Joel’s couch.

You notice a space between Joel and Hank, and slip between the coffee table and Hank’s legs. He moves back to allow you the space to squeeze by and slot in on Joel’s left.

As you fall down into your seat, all eyes glued on the TV screen, your right hand comes up to balance yourself – Who are you kidding? – on Joel’s thigh. The inside of Joel’s thigh.

His head jerks down to stare at your fingers, locked around his leg. Checking nobody’s looking, you move it slightly upward. Closer to his –

“What are you doin’?” he whispers through gritted teeth, low enough that the other men don’t hear.

“Watchin’ the game,” you reply, innocent and sweeter than sugar.

His free hand takes hold of yours and slides it off of his thigh without looking, eyes always on the room around him.

You breathe a laugh as he readjusts in his seat, sitting up awkwardly straight and keeping his legs a safe distance away, parallel to yours.

You’re just getting started.

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Let’s be frank about it: baseball is fucking boring.

Well, let’s rephrase. It’s not that you don’t like watching it; you’re sure that, in more appropriate circumstances – relaxing on a lazy Sunday, or at an actual game, where the atmosphere buzzes with excitement – you could enjoy it.

But right now, you’re sat with your dad’s buddies, an ache between your legs that you can’t fix, and the only person who can fix it, is refusing to even look at you.

Given the situation at hand, you can’t really fault him for that. But you’re still a little mad.

When they roar at the screen for what feels like the thousandth time, you decide to take yourself for a quiet jaunt to the kitchen.

“You got snacks?” you ask Joel.

“Cupboard above the microwave,” he replies, gaze locked on the game.

You saunter out of the living room, finishing the dregs of your beer, and place the bottle in Joel’s sink.

Reaching up to search his cupboards, you find one bag of Cheetos and another bag of pretzels. You toss them both on the counter, and they land a little bit away from Hank’s bottle of bourbon.

You pick it up, reading the label. You’ve never really been much of a whiskey drinker, but you’re bored, and it’s here, so you may as well.

You pour a little into the bottom of a glass and lift it to your lips, giving it a good sniff before you take a sip. Your face screws up immediately, swallowing just to get the liquid off of your tongue, feeling it burn its way down your throat.

“You okay in there, kiddo?” your dad calls, hearing your coughing, and you splutter a “Yep!” in response.

Would it taste better with ice, you think? Maybe if you could get used to it, it wouldn’t be that bad. You amble over to Joel’s refrigerator and haul the freezer door open, in search of ice cubes, but finding something even better.

You lift the box, sliding one of them out and unwrapping it. When you knock the freezer door closed with your hip, you strut through to the living room and stand behind the couch in the doorway.

No one notices you sneak in; they’re all waving their fists and yelling curses at the TV.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Four heads turn to give you an update on the game, and three hastily turn back when the crowd suddenly begins cheering.

One head, though, whips straight back to you. Stood in his living room doorway. Sucking on a popsicle.

He looks pissed. He can’t take his eyes off of you, or your swollen lips, but he looks ready to snap.

“I found snacks, by the way,” you lull.

“Yeah? Good.” He twists back around to face the television, a hand running across his jaw. He shuffles in his seat again, just as awkward as he is uncomfortable.

You let out a quiet giggle and meander gleefully back through to the kitchen.

Not long after, you’re at Joel’s counter eating some of his pretzels when he and your dad stalk through, followed by Bill and Hank.

“Game over?”

“No, kid,” Bill chuckles, “seventh-inning stretch.” He yanks open Joel’s refrigerator and takes three more beers, passing them around.

He perches on a bar stool next to you, bringing a hand down on your back – loving, of course, but in typical Bill nature, kinda painful.

“We ain’t doin’ too bad,” Hank muses as he pours another whiskey, and your dad nods silently.

Your eyes flit between the men, now deep in conversation about the game, then land on Joel, leaning against the doorframe sipping on a beer, his eyes on you.

You lean over the counter, popping your ass out, and make him watch as you open your mouth, extend your tongue, and place a salty pretzel on it, closing your lips around your finger and licking it clean.

His expression never changes. Just watches like you want him to, beer bottle clutched in his fist.

“I’ll take these.” Bill’s hand swings across and scoops up the Cheetos, and before you know it, they’re making their way back out of the kitchen.

Joel’s eyes bore into yours as your dad, Bill, and Hank filter out past him. He’s mad, you can tell that much. He paces over to you.

“Knock. It. Off.” His voice is a low growl.

You shake your head. “No can do.”

He sighs, gripping your wrist. Before you can take a breath, he’s dragging you out of the kitchen and upstairs, where he makes a right and almost shoves you down the dim hallway.

“The hell is your game?” he hisses when you’re out of earshot of the others.

“Having fun, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to keep everybody from seeing the fun you’re having. Touchin’ and rubbin’, lookin’ at me like that in front of everyone. The damn popsicle.”

“You liked that, huh?”

“You gettin’ off on this?”

“Mhm.” You nod a little too desperately.

“Well, quit it. When we’re alone, fine, do whatever you want. Not when your dad’s watchin’.”

“My dad ain’t seeing none of it and you know it.”

He runs a hand through his hair and brings it down over his eyes. Seeing him this stressed and undone over you, over what you’re doing to him, sends pulses of electricity through your body.

“What the hell am I gonna do with you, girl?”

You shrug. “Maybe you should punish me.”

“Maybe I fuckin’ should,” he spits, turning away from you.

As if just hearing what you said, he turns on his heel, staring you down with an expression you read to mean one thing: he’s fucking considering it.

“Maybe I fuckin’ should…” he whispers again.

You try to keep your cool façade up, but the way he’s looking at you, eyes dark, jaw clenched, towering over you and cornering you against the wall, has you so wet and needy that you can’t pretend anymore.

“Joel…”

Whatever you were about to say is cut short by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Joel reacts before you do, reaching behind you to pull a door open and backing you into his linen closet, quietly following you in and closing the door again.

There are just inches between you both, pressed chest to chest in the tiny confines of the closet. Joel’s head tilts and listens for Hank’s figure, stumbling back and forth across the landing in pursuit of the bathroom.

“Where’d you say it was, Bill?” he calls downstairs.

“First door on the right, dumbass!” Bill’s voice shouts back up.

Joel’s fist suddenly wraps around the handle, his eyes glued to the wall above your head, listening intently. He’s making sure Hank doesn’t try the wrong door.

Which, of course, he inevitably does.

It rattles some, but Joel’s grip stops the handle from turning. He glares up, shaking his head, mouthing profanities. First door, you fuckin’ moron. You stifle a laugh behind both hands.

“Hank!” your dad’s voice shouts from downstairs. “Not that one, idiot, the one next to it!”

Finally, the door stops trembling.

“I see it now, sure enough,” Hank mumbles, and you both listen to him spill into the bathroom next door.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding in your chest. Joel lifts his hand off of the door handle and places it around your jaw.

“You’re gonna be real quiet, alright?”

He’s speaking so low and so quiet that your eyes track his lips to read the words he’s saying.

“Gonna do what I say and keep that pretty little mouth shut.”

You squirm under his touch, hands gripping his shoulders, desperate for him to kiss you.

Instead, he holds your jaw tight and forces you to look at him.

“Say it.”

“I’ll be quiet,” you breathe, “I’ll be good. Just fucking touch me.”

He runs his tongue along your bottom lip then, asking it to part, and when it does, pulls you roughly against him, free hand dropping to your ass. His tongue battles strong against yours, bittersweet with the taste of beer.

You feel yourself intoxicated with the taste of him, the smell of him, the feeling as his hips purposefully rut into yours. You want him to mark you again, give you something to hide, something to make half-assed excuses over when people spot it. You want him to make you his.

You moan into his mouth, hands finding his hair, and he grips you tighter.

“Shut – the fuck – up,” he snaps between kisses.

He pauses only to listen to Hank tumble out of the bathroom and back downstairs, then gives you a peck on the lips with a cocky smile.

Suddenly he’s at your neck, lips kissing, tongue licking, teeth grazing, and then he’s making his way down, over your breasts, breath hot and unsteady on your heaving chest.

You can hear the booming laughter of the men downstairs. Their shouts and calls at the television. It all echoes up the stairs, floating in under the slit of light from the hallway outside.

Joel’s on his knees now, placing delicate kisses up your thighs. His hands pull your weight onto his shoulders, fingers taking hold of the hem of your skirt and hiking it up. When he reaches your underwear, he looks up, a dark look in his eyes. A question.

“Quiet,” you mutter, nodding, and buck your hips toward him in attempt to hurry him the fuck up.

He smirks at your neediness and kisses you over the lacey fabric of your panties. You bite your lip to keep a moan from escaping your lips. Joel’s eyebrows raise, waiting for you to make a sound. When you don’t, he pulls the fabric back.

He positions himself perfectly at your sex, pulling your thighs a little wider apart over his shoulders. Your head falls against the wall behind you, but your eyes stay locked on him, watching every little move he makes.

He starts by placing his lips against your clit gently, and your eyes roll to the back of your head. He’s soft, warm, but with a hunger for more.

He sucks there for a minute, your hips rolling against his mouth, vision becoming clouded with stars in the darkness of the closet. Your hands tease his hair, gripping and pulling harder the more pressure he applies to your core, the closer he drags you to your high.

When he pulls away, a tiny gasp passes your lips. You expect him to get mad, punish you for making noise, but he just grins to himself and dives back in.

His tongue licks along your folds and you have to bite down on your sleeve this time. It’s no use, your moan breaks free and fills the tiny space, but Joel’s groaning too as he tastes you for the second time in three days.

“So – fucking – good for me, darlin’,” he whispers when he comes up for air, then gets right back to it.

His fingers grip your thighs so tight it almost hurts, keeping you steady. His head drops a little lower, and you feel his breath across your lips.

“Joel,” you moan, and he looks up. “Need your tongue.”

When he drags it between your folds and dips ever so slightly inside you, your back arches, shoulders digging into the wall. You’re doing everything not to scream, his tongue lapping you up, nose rubbing against your clit, but you’re nearing closer and closer to your orgasm.

“Keep – going – fuck, Joel,” you breathe, eyes screwed shut, hands tangling in his hair, pulling his head closer against you.

“Shh,” he’s cooing now against your cunt, pulling a hand under your thigh to insert two fingers as his tongue massages your clit. “I know, I know,” he says, lifting his chin. “Poor baby just wanted some attention, huh?”

You smile, eyes closing in bliss as his tongue reattaches to your core. You whimper his name as your walls start to close around him.

Just then, a roar lets out from the living room, and the coil snaps. You cry out, moaning Joel’s name as you cum on his tongue, your sweet noises drowned out by the thunderous cheers from downstairs.

You swear you feel Joel smirk against your wetness as you unravel for him.

You’re panting, hands still clinging onto his hair for stability, as he pulls away from your cunt and leans back. He gently rolls your thighs off of his shoulders and helps you to stand, before his tall figure straightens up in front of you.

You instinctively grab his shirt and pull his lips against yours, wanting to taste yourself on his tongue. Joel’s breath hitches when your teeth graze his bottom lip and you pull away, releasing it.

“I fucking love this,” you mutter, and he laughs.

“Yeah? I just missed a whole inning ‘cause of you.”

“Worth it.” You smile as he opens the door, checking the coast is clear before letting you out first.

“Where the hell you two been?” your dad asks as you both rejoin the group.

“Missed one hell of a play, you pair.” Hank raises his glass toward the television.

You sit a little distance from each other on the couch, your needs fully satisfied, and Joel clears his throat.

“Was showin’ her my new six-string.”

You notice him out of the corner of your eye licking his lips. Fucker.

Your dad shakes his head with a laugh, spinning the recliner back to face the screen. “First baseball, now guitars. What has gotten into you, lately, hon?”

“Hey, Joel?” Bill sits forward, leaning over the coffee table to Joel, who lifts his head in reply. “You mind showin’ me that six-string after the game?”

You choke on your beer and Hank’s hand comes up to clap you on the back. “You alright, girl?”

“Maybe, maybe,” Joel replies, trying to ignore you, coughing and spluttering at his side.

With a few more good whacks from Hank and a clean sip of your drink, you recover just enough to join the conversation.

“It’s a really neat guitar, Bill.”

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#joel miller #joel miller fic #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #dom!joel miller #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #pedro pascal #joel miller pedro pascal #cowboy like me

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ctinalk · 2 months

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Is Crowley already the new Supreme Archangel?

A few oversights made millennia ago, and suddenly we have a demon archangel on our hands.

Caution: I came up with and wrote this in the last few hours so potentially crackpot theory ahead. Apologies if this has been proposed before, it’s not one I’ve seen. And I’ve seen A LOT.

So supposedly the miracle Aziraphale and Crowley performed together was something only the mightiest of archangels could have done. Everyone assumes it was Crowley because they think he was a high ranking Angel formerly. Or that it was the two of them together. Or that Jimbriel amplified it. But what if…

“There is always a supreme archangel”

Michael says this in S2E1 when talking with Uriel about who is in charge now that Gabriel was missing. Gabriel was removed from office in the trial we hear, he’s no longer Supreme Archangel. If so, Michael’s statement would imply that as soon as Gabriel’s removal happened, a new archangel already existed. Now obviously the Metatron is making a show of choosing Aziraphale as the new Supreme Archangel. But is that within his power to do so? Or is he suggesting working with Crowley for a different reason, possibly unknown even to him?

“I am the only first-order archangel in the room, or you know, the universe”

During the “2nd Armageddon-that-wasn’t” discussion, Gabriel says these words. As he says them, it cuts (ominously isn’t the right word here, pointedly maybe?) to Crowley leaning against the desk, and lingers there just a bit too long.

“How do you know it wasn’t me?”

Another clue to the powerful angel Crowley was. It was clearly said in a teasing manner throw Shax off. But much like the barrel of red herring in the intro, is it a red herring to something else?

“Can you send lightning bolts and get them to report back to you?”

The only other time we see someone calling lightning or using it is, you guessed it: Gabriel in S1 on the airbase to port in and out. I’ve read the theory that Angel!Crowley was the lord of lightning, which I’m not opposed to, but to me this is another link.

“Never change their passwords”

We have one HUGE instance of Heaven being sloppy in their record keeping (passwords), and lax in their security protocol (Crowley bopping about with Muriel). Whereas Hell is meticulous in their record keeping, as shown by the bills, admissions process, and S1 contract.

So what if: when Gabriel was stripped of the title, a new Supreme Archangel was automatically appointed. Except instead of someone else, because heaven neglected to double-check their logs after The Fall, Crowley was still on the books as next in line? This would absolutely play into “God playing games with the universe” and “just think what would have happened if we’d been at all competent” themes running through both seasons. It would also follow the theory that people noticed Aziraphale and Crowley were on the “wrong” side for much of the season. It would also explain a few continuity errors along the way (how did Crowley know Muriel’s rank? He knows it through the knowledge automatically given to the Supreme Archangel).

“Funny ol’ world, isn’t it?”

Caveats and potential weaknesses:

I have no idea how this fits into the fact that S3 will be the actual continuation the Neil and Terry planned, as to my knowledge S2 was essentially a “Neil’s chaotic angsty ineffable husbands fanfic”. But clearly S2 has to play well into the plan for S3. I also kind of hate my theory because Crowley specifically declined to be an angel again, and his hand has been forced too often already.

Now I am a staunch advocate of the body-swap theory, and I’m not sure how this would play into that. Does Metatron know? Does he think he has the power to appoint? Does he think the title went to Aziraphale because of the miracle? Does he try to get Crowley to come back with Aziraphale to exploit his power? Does he know about the body swap in S1 and if so, was he trying to trigger another one to get the right “soul” to heaven?

There are a few other things I haven’t figured out how to incorporate into this post yet. I’ll try to put them into coherent thoughts in the next few days, but thought I’d throw this to the wolves universe for the time being.

Thought 1: “How have your lot managed to stay in charge all this time?” “I’m not so sure we have.”

Thought 2: I need to do (another) rewatch before I nail this one down (such a sacrifice I tell you), but does Crowley have a visceral reaction like he does in S1 to being called “good” in the current, post Gabriel-removal timeset? Obv in Edinburgh/Job, but that’s in the past. He denies it, sure (with Jim), but he straight up flashes a smile and thanks Mrs. Sandwich when she says “You’re a good lad” (after the denial).

2.1: No one calls him “good” in present day except these two instances. Vast difference in the visceral reactions of season 1 and flashbacks.

Thought 3: Crowley is the only one who can trigger Jimbriel’s recall memory.

#good omens #good omens theories #good omens season 2 #good omens s3 #good omens meta #crowley #angel!crowley #supreme archangel Crowley

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icallhimjoey · 10 months

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Love love love your writing! I’d be so interested to see your take on a friends to lover situation where the reader and Joe are good friends and the reader constantly gets the ick so Joe sets a challenge at a party (thinking Italian summer party) for her to find someone who doesn’t give them the ick.

And she realises that Joe is the only one that has no icks 👀

okay so ive had an INTERESTING (read: 18+, v spicy) suggestion from werepartnersnow who, by the way, claims she doesn't read rpf but then found herself in my inbox asking for very specific filth 👀👀👀 but, anyway, it was good filth, and i was trying to find a way to tackle her request, and then this request really brought it all together for me, so, THANK YOU! here we GO sluts! Wordcount: 3.9K

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Double Or Nothing

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

“Did Joe say he was coming?”

“Yea, I’m surprised he’s not been spotted yet,”

Heads craned back, and you grumbled into your beer. Conversation had been flowing so nicely, and now, suddenly, everyone had to look at the pub entrance to check if there was any sign of Joe yet.

Like he was the guest of honour missing still.

Like the night hadn’t started properly yet, because Joe wasn’t there.

Ugh.

Now… listen...

By no means did you dislike Joe. He was your friend just as well as he was all of theirs. It was just that, Joe had seemingly become a lot more interesting to a lot more people in a very short amount of time. Even some of your friends sort of… fell for the sudden hype that surrounded him. Wanted it proven to the outside world that they were friends with Joe. That they knew him. Were part of his group.

And you kind of got it, or... at least a little.

Joe got to do very cool and exciting things, met very cool and exciting people, and he'd bring anyone who had the time to join. Any time he'd drop a message with the question 'who's got time off for these dates' it was really a first come, first served sort of deal.

So it kind of made sense that people wanted in with Joe. However, he couldn't pay you enough to sit next to him for a full day, or several, as he passed out autographs like boring assembly line work. To see people fawn over him. Tell him how amazing they all think he is...

Because Joe was… he was just Joe.

There was a lull in conversation, and you felt the need to remind everyone of the time Joe spent a full night ordering drinks for everyone before dipping out and leaving the last people with the bill.

He paid for his own share later, but, still. That was a shitty move.

Or when Imogen and Lawrence had gotten married, and he thought it was okay to help himself to a piece of cake before they'd done the ceremonious cutting of it.

Or when he'd invited everyone over to a party at someone's house without informing the host he was bringing seven other people. That night you'd just stood around awkwardly, all of you, knowing you weren't welcome and afraid to have any of the drinks for fear of them running out.

It felt healthy to remind everyone that Joe was just your shit friend. This guy who they’d known forever and who they also sometimes didn’t like. Because he could be a bit of a boring loser, who’d cancel on events last minute. One that you liked - he was still your friend, supported you when you needed support, made you laugh when you needed cheering up and was just... overall was a fun guy to hang out with. Despite all the shitty things.

Joe knew this is how you felt, and, not that you'd asked, but if you would have, he'd easily agree with you. Would just smile as you glared at him for forgetting someone's birthday and then pretending a gift someone else had bought was from him too.

And he got away with shit like that every single time because of that stupid smile. All charming, all endearing.

All handsome, and shit.

You felt a nudge to your knee under the table after you'd rolled your eyes at everyone looking around to find Joe. You were given a brief smirk by one of your friends before eyes turned away from you and you frowned. Idiot.

You knew what was insinuated there, and didn’t appreciate it.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been very adamant and obvious about not being impressed with Joe, and people took it to mean something else. Like you were overdoing it to hide your real feelings.

You weren’t overdoing anything, though, and you wanted to say something, wanted to argue and bite back at that stupid smug look you got, but you noticed the eyes of the people on the other side of the table focus on something over your head.

You jumped, tensed up with shock, when someone suddenly grabbed you by the shoulders. It nearly knocked over every drink on the table as your knees shot up and banged the underside of it.

“Jesus,”

“No, just me,” Joe joked, and he got heys and hellos and big smiles and even a drink handed over that someone had gotten him before he’d even arrived, and oh my fucking God, you needed more celebrities in your group because this was getting a little ridiculous.

You composed yourself fast, recollected yourself and tried your hardest to push down the blush that had crept onto your face.

Like you’d predicted, the second Joe joined the group, you suddenly all became his entourage.

Now you were all Joe's friends.

You weren’t, but, that’s what it felt like.

To Joe’s credit, he didn’t really act any different – he was still his quiet, normal self. Kind of dull, nothing crazy, just there for a laugh, comfortable with the spotlight being off of him for a little bit. That was nice, and you appreciated that.

It was just that your other friends were big dumb idiots. Not all of them, but, enough of them for it to bother you a little.

Although, Joe had changed his hair... so, he'd changed a little since Hollywood had come a-knocking.

It was all fine, though. The conversation automatically sort of continued from where it left of before Joe joined and the small bit of annoyance you felt before quickly disappeared.

You paid close attention to not paying close attention to Joe.

It wasn’t until Joe cheersed his glass with your half empty one to catch your attention that the irritation you'd felt before crept back in a little.

Not because of the focus landing on you, but because of the question he asked.

Not how are you. Not how’ve you been. But, “No David?”

You gave a little sarcastic smile, tilted your head down to look at him through your eyelashes and confirmed, “No David.”

Apparently that was enough for other people to comment on the matter as well.

“Yea, how’s that going?”

“Are you still seeing each other?”

You took too long to answer either question, and when you look a slow sip of your drink to give yourself more time to think of how you were going to frame this, you could see one of your friends groan. The lack of information said plenty.

“Oh no, here we go again,”

“Should’ve known it,”

“Did you dump him already?”

The whole table seemed to feel the same way about you and David not hanging out together anymore. Made sense though, David was the first guy in a good while you'd taken along to meet some of them. Before David, there'd just been a lot of first dates that only sometimes graduated into a second, and then, usually, contact would sort of... fizzle out.

“I didn’t dump him– there was no dumping to be done, we weren’t dating,”

You got a few scoffs.

“What was it this time?”

And, okay, so, your track record wasn't great by any means. It's just that... you were very easy to turn off, you guessed. And once you found something about someone that got under your skin, you couldn't not see it. You couldn't not hyper-focus on it, and you knew that from that moment on, whatever you and whichever guy had together was doomed to fail.

“Just... we didn't really match each other,”

That was the polite, vague way of putting it. You looked at your drink as you said it but felt Joe's eyes stare you down. It burned your cheeks a bit.

“No, be honest,” Izzy said, speaking to you as if you were a toddler before she went for a sip of her drink.

“What? That's essentially exactly why he's not here right now,”

Izzy scoffed, and you silently cursed your best friend. She was going to make you say it. The thing you told her in private. You took a mental note to never be honest with her again.

“Can I tell them the story, or are you going to do it yourself? I'd love to be the one to share it,” she sat up and leant in. Ready.

The eyes of your friends moved between her and you, like they were watching a tennis match, absolutely not sure where this was going, but very exciting to see where it was going to go.

“Well, it wasn't one specific thing,” you started, and foolishly, left too long a silence after. Izzy filled it immediately, because it very much was one specific thing and she couldn't keep the knowledge inside any longer.

“Bad sex.”

It got some hearty laughs from the group, and when you looked at Joe, you caught his narrowed eyes. He looked a bit hesitant, small smile playing his lips as he hovered his glass in front of his mouth, like was about to take a sip, but couldn't because he had to see how you were going to react to Izzy.

“Okay, no,” you fought. “It wasn't bad sex... not, like, not overall, anyway, it wasn't... it wasn't the worst by any means,” you stumbled through your words and it made Izzy shoot up her eyebrows.

“Oh, are we doing specifics?”

You groaned and saw Joe perk up a little from the corner of your eye.

Fuck.

“Absolutely not, that's not... that's not fair on David,”

What you meant was, let's not talk about my sex life in detail in the middle of this pub, thanks very much. But Izzy didn't care though. She hadn't listened to you faking your orgasms through her bedroom wall for a few weeks for fucking nothing.

“What did he claim to be good at?”

“Isabella...” using her full name did nothing, unfortunately.

“He'd boast about it so much, even I started getting a little jealous,”

“I'm going to get another drink,”

Escaping seemed a good idea. Izzy could just talk about the things she'd heard David say to you in the other room without you there. But you were kind of closed in. Couldn't just get up and make your way over to the bar without people having to move out of your way for it.

“What was it?” Joe asked carefully, voice not too loud, the question definitely only aimed for you to hear. Curious. Not that he was being any kinder towards you than any of your other friends were – you could see that cheeky smile, could see how he was ready to let laughter escape him. Plus, everyone heard him anyway.

You saw your friend open her mouth, ready to answer for you.

“Izzy, don't,” you raised a finger, and you silently cursed at yourself for not being able to keep a straight face anymore.

She was going to say it.

“Head.”

Someone snorted into their beer which splashed into their face and that made people laugh more than what Izzy'd said, but now, that information was out there. It made you slump down into your seat so far, you were practically under the table.

“You told him to fuck off for eating you out wrong? Am I hearing this right?” one of your friends asked, not even judgmentally, but more to coax you out of your hiding spot.

It worked.

“Okay, so, listen,” you sat up, ready to justify your actions. You weren't a horrible person, and you needed people to agree. “If you claim to be amazing at something like that, I would kind of expect you to then also... you know, actually know... where things, are?”

You looked around, read your friend's faces and most of them knew exactly what you meant. Didn't need to use the actual words to describe in detail what David couldn't locate.

Izzy read your friend's faces different, though. Thought they did need clarification, and she was an accommodating friend. Wanted to help out. Also enjoyed embarrassing you a little too much, the bitch.

“Kept licking her leg, sucked on everything but her clit,”

“Oh my G–” you hid your face with both your hands, elbows perched on the table.

“David, David, David,” Joe shook his head, tutted at you, seemed to feel genuinely sorry for the guy.

“To be fair, it's a good reason to stop seeing someone,” someone else said, and you quipped a quick thank you. The comment prompted people to go over all of the other reasons you'd turned men down before, and the list was... extensive, to say the least.

Chewed on his food with his mouth open. Dressed like he was colourblind. Was into weird experimental music that really got under your skin. Bit down on his fork when he ate. Held his phone only an inch away from his face when he used it. Kissed with his eyes wide open like a psychopath. Ran after a beerpong ball in a half-crouch and failed in his attempts to grab it as it bounced. Puns.

Every ick came with it's own backstory and you were shocked by how much your friends remembered - you'd forgotten half the things they were bringing up, reminiscing about the batch of men that you'd turned down for reasons they all deemed ridiculous. It was a lot of laughing at your expense. It was a good thing you were a good sport and that you genuinely liked your friends, so you just laughed along. Knew they all would've probably gotten annoyed by the same things you had. You know, eventually.

It wasn't until someone looked around and said, “There's got to be at least one person in here who doesn't scare her off immediately,” and no, no, no, no. You didn't need your friends actually getting involved in you meeting men.

Not tonight, anyway.

But heads started turning and eyes started scoping out the place, gliding across and lingering on men that maybe stood a chance.

You checked and saw that Joe didn't join in. He was looking down below the table, seemingly to check what his feet were touching, or something along those lines, anyway.

It could be a way to opt out of the game that your friends engaged in mostly to just make fun of you. It could also be that his attention span was too short and he was bored. Both options were awful. The fact that you even looked at him to check was awful in and of itself.

You were no better than your friends.

“Okay, enough,” you held up a hand, elbow in the middle of the table whilst you squeezed your eyes shut. “If you're going to make me look at people and come up with an ick, we'll be here all night. I could even go over all of you and think of several icks for each of you, so let's not,” you laughed, hoping it'd put an end to it.

It did the exact opposite.

“Not for me!” one friend argued, and the whole table laughed. Everyone could easily name multiple things, and so it kicked off.

You all went around the table, named things about each other that would drive you mad if you were to date them. It ranged from obvious things like snoring and working too much, to more niche things, like how someone would continuously pronounce a word wrong whilst insisting that they were right (they weren't) and someone else not wearing socks in certain pairs of shoes (gross).

You were the deciding factor each time. If you agreed with what someone said, there was no more arguing and you'd move on to the next person.

Until you reached Joe.

“Let's go, give me all you've got,” Joe beckoned with both hands, welcoming the criticism like a trooper. It was all innocent fun, after all.

And your friends would name things. All sorts. How he sometimes wouldn't reply to texts for days, leaving people on read for ages. How he'd cancel on people by saying wild shit like, “Oops, sorry, can't make it tonight, I'm in Tokyo rn”. The fact that he'd always hold up the last cigarette from a packet and say, “This is the last one, I'm quitting after this,” and then he'd just as easily buy another packet straight after.

But an unsettling realisation dawned on you.

You silently, almost automatically, dismissed everything that your friends mentioned, that got them laughing and got Joe to jokingly gasp and pretend offense to because... none of it turned you off per se.

Your eyes narrowed as you stared at him.

Oh no.

You had to be able to come up with something...

“She fucking hates smokers anyway,” Izzy commented.

“Yea... usually, I do,”

Joe looked at you and raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“I don't know...”

Wide eyes looked at each other across the table, and Izzy couldn't fucking believe what she was hearing.

“That doesn't bother you?”

You laughed and gave your friend a panicked look, “It should! But... somehow it doesn't?”

You got a nudge of a knee under the table again and knew exactly what it meant. You pretended you hadn't felt it. That felt safer.

People started repeating things, waiting for you to go, “Ugh yes,” but you didn't, for none of it, and you thought of lying. Of just pretending that something did, but learning that none of Joe's personality traits actually rubbed you wrong was just as shocking to you as it was to everyone else.

Joe even joined in himself, said, “I'm always fidgetting!” but it did the fucking opposite. Made you look at his hands and notice how nice they were.

Shit.

“Is Joe ick-less?” a pair of astonished eyes asked you, and you couldn't fucking believe yourself when you slowly nodded, lips pressed together impossibly tight.

Joe was ick-less... what the actual fuck?!

“Uh oh,”

“We've found the one, guys! Game over!”

“So, when's the wedding?”

You scoffed. Loudly. Your friends were confirming they were big dumb idiots, you didn't even have to do any convincing of it yourself.

“Nah,” Joe said, and when you looked at him, you grew immediately shy. The little smirk and the mischievous eyes threatened trouble. “I can break her...”

Oh, fuck. The air between the two of you sparkled as your friends oohed, all eyes moving back and forth between the two of you. Even Izzy seemed intrigued.

“One week to give her the ick,” someone suggested.

“Easy,” Joe boasted, not breaking eye-contact.

“Why would you care abou–” you started, but were cut off by Joe who's smile got wider by the second as he challenged you, “And if I win?”

Despite the fact that his eyes were on you, the question was directed at your other friends. When they didn't answer, Joe turned to them, “What are we playing for?”

This... this wasn't happening.

“If you lose, she deserves some good head,” Izzy quipped, and you could've murdered her right then and there. Could've broken a glass on the edge of a table to slit her throat with, because what the fuck was that?

“Three days of head,”

“I said good head,”

“Guys, stop!” you tried, but you might as well not have been there.

“And if you win, she'll return the favour,”

“What?! Oh my God, fuck off, we're not doing this,” you waved both hands in a line, signaling that this was enough now. The joke was over. You weren't laughing.

“Three favours then,” someone else proposed.

“Like that's going to make a difference, he'll just ask for three days of head,”

“No, he'll make her his PA, for a con, or whatever,”

“Ooh, good one!”

“Yea, I'm not falling for that again,”

Joe snorted as your friends debated about a bet that definitely wasn't going to happen. You weren't going to shake on this, no matter how badly they wanted this free bit of entertainment for themselves.

“Okay,” Izzy said, smacking the table with a flat palm, shutting everyone up.

“Joe is going give you the ick within a week. If he does, you'll owe him three favours and if he doesn't, you'll be getting from Joe what you haven't gotten from David,”

“What if she lies?”

“She's a terrible liar, I see right through her,”

And Izzy did. Had always been able to.

“Jesus Christ, you're a bunch of delusional losers,” you laughed.

There was going to have to be a moment where Joe would side with you and you'd swipe the whole ordeal off the table together. At least, that's what you expected.

You expected wrong.

Instead of Joe telling your friends to leave you alone, to be sensible and kind, because you hadn't even gotten good sex in a little while, poor puppy... instead of all of that, you noticed how he waited for the commotion at the table to quiet down a little before he said, “Double or nothing.”

“What?”

“Double or nothing. One week of head,”

“Izzy said good hea-,”

“One week of good head, or one week of favours,”

You frowned slightly at him, dumbfounded that Joe seemed to be going with all of this.

He was actually going along with it.

Were you going to want to let Joe go down on you?

Wait.

You wrecked your brain and tried to think of everything that someone had ever done to you that had turned you off immediately. Would those same things be awful of Joe did them?

Probably not. But... maybe.

Shit, you kind of wouldn't mind a full week of Joe going down on you. Making you come on his mouth. It'd be weird, sure, but also, when was the last time someone made you orgasm with just their mouth?

Jesus, what a wild conclusion - you had no idea that Joe confused you this much. If anything, you'd learnt something about yourself today that you honestly never thought was something you were ever going to have to think about.

So the question maybe wasn't, would you let Joe go down on you... The question was, would you let Joe drag you along to be his personal assistant for a week? Because that was most definitely what he was going to ask of you. You had no interest in tagging along to watch someone do their job, and everyone knew this about you.

Fuck, were you... were you considering doing this?

Joe felt the second of hesitation and held his pinky out, hoping he'd get you to link yours with his before that window closed.

Your eyes glanced at Izzy, who somehow looked bored and giddy at the same time.

Should you do it? Joe's pinky flexed and he questioningly raised his eyebrows at you, a small smile playing underneath.

Just for shits and giggles?

What came out of your mouth next was so quiet, it was barely audible in the loud ambiance of the pub.

“Fine.”

But it was okay, people didn't need to be able to hear you. Because it was embarrassing, but also, because what happened next was one of your arms, moving from where it cupped your own face to half way across the table. Your pinky finger met Joe's and they linked.

“Deal.”

Joe's stupid face broke into a huge grin that made you instantly regret agreeing, but his pinky was stronger than yours and held you in its grip as he repeated your words back to you.

“Fine. Deal.”

---

The Taglisted:

@ghostinthebackofyourhead @dirtyeddietini @jasminearondottir @cancankiki @sidthedollface2 @dylanmunson @thefemininemystiquee @alana4610 @emmamooney @thatonefan-girl @paola-carter @figmentofquinn @haylaansmi @thewondernanazombie @munsonmunster @kellyxo1 @chaoticgood-munson @sherrylyn628 @ohmeg @05secondsofsexgods @lovelyblueness @adoreyouusugar @nadixq @roosterisdaddy36 @alwayslindie @eddie-joe-munson @ali-in-w0nderland @pepperstories @phyllosilicate-s @thebellenouvelle @luvrsbian @joesquinns @choke-me-eddie @alizztor @frootvelvet @did-it-work @capricornrisingsstuff @quinnsmunson @frogers @kennedy-brooke @daleyeahson @harringtonfan4 @emma77645 @tlclick73 @eddies-puppet @electricmunson @everythinghasafacee @a-time-for-wolvess @lucifers-side @barfightzanddiscolightz

(taglist currently full, sorry!)

#Joe Quinn #Joseph Quinn #18+#Joe Quinn x You #Joseph Quinn x You #Joe Quinn x Reader #Joseph Quinn x Reader #Joe Quinn Fanfic #Joe Quinn fanfiction #Joseph Quinn Fanfic #Joseph Quinn Fanfiction #rpf #joe quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x y/n #requested #double or nothing

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xxzlushiez · 11 months

Text

Domestic Bliss

2023! B. Kaulitz x GN! reader

Synopsis: just wanted to write some comforting headcanons about 2023 Bill bc he’s just soooo💙💙

Notes: nothing really, fluff, comfort, showers together, ft: Tom, Georg, Gustav & Heidi

A/N: wanted to whip smth up while trying to come up w ideas💀 requests open😭

- So I’ve been dying to do this so let’s just start off with nightly routines

- After dinner or whatever you both do before bed he makes you both do skincare together

- We all know his skin is as clear asf so he always shows you what he uses and loves to use it on you too

- After you headbutt each other on who gets to brush their teeth first if you only have one sink😭

- I feel generally he likes to be pampered in bed so that means your usually holding him

- But sometimes if he’s feeling especially clingy he’ll be the big spoon

- He’s a early bird

- The exact opposite of when he was a kid it kinda just switched

- His mind is always buzzing and so when he wakes up he is just always moving around

- But when he’s feeling particularly slow like a day after a concert he’ll just watch you sleep or play with your hair

- Admiring you

- When he’s really tired he’s a HEAVY sleeper and so he’ll kick and spread out completely

- One time he shoved you off the bed and felt so bad

- Cradled you like a baby

- It hurt him more than it hurt you honestly💀

- Tried to wrap you in bandages but you had to hold him down to get him to stop😭

- installed the fluffiest carpet after so the impact wouldn’t hurt as much💀💀

- In the morning he loves to cook the most

- Has a shelf dedicated to cook books

- chooses a new dish for you both to try each day

- From different flavored waffles to the most extravagant, tropical meals you could never even think of

- Finds it endearing when you cook with him

- You both just move around each other so effortlessly in the kitchen it’s kinda amazing

- If you somehow wake up before him which is almost impossible and make him breakfast he’s just all over it

- Hugging you while you cook and taking pictures of you

- Always posting you two on Instagram

- Tom and Heidi comment the cutest things on his posts

- @heidiklum Vous êtes beaux tous les deux!! (You both look beautiful)

- @tomkaulitz ❤️

- Naturally you got close to the band because he’s around them the most

- Heidi and you became BEST friends and always surprised the twins with silly things like double dates and mini vacations

- He’s a ‘photos for memories’ guy as we all know and you catch him snapping a pic of you doing minuscule things everyday

- Very affectionate and likes to bring you places you usually wouldn’t go to without him

- Your opinion matters so much to him so he likes taking you with him to go shopping and tries on outfits for you

- asking for your suggestions 24/7

- “Are you sure you like this one Liebchen?”

- “Does this make my butt look small?”

- At home he likes to just lounge around with you

- When showering or taking a bath he’s likes letting you lean against him

- Washes your hair for you even if you don’t ask him too

- Brings you on stage because he likes to show you off

- Fans makes the cutest posters of you guys

- Praising you is his fav activity “Aren’t they so cute guys?! ich liebe dich so sehr”

- Fans love you so much

- They go crazy when you’re randomly pulled on stage during a show

- Leans against you when he’s singing

- Unconsciously gives everyone fan service with how he acts with you onstage

#tumblr #x reader #bill #georg #gustav #tom #tokio hotel #tokio hotel x reader #bill kaulitz #kaulitz twins #writing #bill kaulitz x reader #bill x reader #tom kaulitz #drabble #fluff #bill kaulitz smut #fanfic

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goldenseresinretriever · 5 months

Text

You Catch More Bees With Honey: Chapter 1

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader

Part of the San Diego Dogfighters universe

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw, blindsided by a team he trusted like family has been traded to the San Diego Dogfighters. Across the country from the place he calls home, Bradley feels lost and betrayed. Not to mention the familiar faces and ghosts from his past that he now has to face every day at work. Bradley’s caught between wanting to show his former team the mistake they made in double-crossing him and wondering if it’s time to hang up his skates after one final season. You’re living your dream as the PR representative for the Dogfighters. When Coach Maverick made a bid to bring his godson to the team, you hadn’t batted an eye. Bradley was a good teammate, and a good player. Unfortunately, the Bradley that shows up in San Diego is nothing like your research suggested. He’s moody, irritable, aggressive, and angry, throwing a wrench in all your careful planning. What’s caused such a drastic change in him? And can you figure out how to help him before he makes a mistake you can’t fix?

Chapter CW: 18+ ONLY, swearing, dead parents, mentions of major character death, mentions of drunkenness, mentions of alcohol consumption, nongraphic descriptions of sports violence, blood probably, angst, age gap (28 and 38), enemies to lovers, suggestive language, hockey inaccuracies etc. No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: Aaaaand we’re off!!! If you want to get a better idea of Zam’s personal style (because I’m obsessed with it) you can check that out here!

Previous Chapter // Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

~~~~~

“BRADLEY! BRADSHAW!” The flush that started on Cyclone’s neck has crept up to encompass his whole face much like a glass filling with fruit punch. You fight the urge to check your phone for the time. He might actually break his record for the longest screaming session yet and there’s a pool in the staff room riding on it that would definitely cover those new heels you’d been eyeing. Next to you, Dare Mitchell, the head coach of the San Diego Dogfighters as of last month, blatantly checks her watch and if you weren’t already enamored with everything this woman did, you definitely were now.

Cyclone’s still yelling, but the two of you stopped listening a long time ago it seems as Dare stands before looking down at you. “Come on Zam, let’s go.” If you weren’t so good at maintaining a poker face you think your jaw might have dropped. You get to your feet and follow Dare as she marches towards the door of Cyclone’s office and he finally pauses his tirade and you glance at your phone. New record indeed. “I am NOT finished!” He snaps and Dare turns in the doorway to face him coolly.

“Beau you were finished the minute this stopped being a conversation. When you’re ready to resume said conversation, you know where to find us.” She doesn’t wait for him to respond before turning on her heel and walking off down the hallway and you’re right behind her. When the elevator doors finally close behind the two of you, you feel the obligation to say something. In your few months in San Diego, you haven’t met a lot of people with the balls to stand up to Beau Simpson. Until recently, the list began and ended with the Dogfighters’s Captain, Jake Seresin. Admittedly it only extended to when Cyclone was threatening his now-girlfriend Bugs, the assistant team physician but it was nice to see that at least someone was willing to do something about the man’s unchecked temper.

Now it included Dragon, the new goalie development coach who also happened to be Cyclone’s daughter. When she’d joined the staff, everyone had been apprehensive at best. One Simpson was already tough enough to handle but she’d surprised everyone by being congenial and even fun. She truly became one of the team, however, the day that she placed a crisp hundred dollar bill into the betting pool against her father’s temper. While Cyclone was a storm with no eye, Dragon was an eye that only seemed to blow into a storm when she stood toe to toe with her father. At least that was the word through the grapevine. Bugs had been going to drop off some paperwork in his office last week and said she’d been able to hear their shouting match from the other end of the hallway. Good for her.

The third entry was the woman standing next to you. Dare Mitchell was NHL royalty. She had been the league’s first female assistant coach and then head coach, going on to coach the Pittsburgh Penguins to no short of five Stanley Cup victories. Her nickname, Dare, stands for Definitive Authority on Rink Education, or Referee Ejection depending on who you ask. The fact that you were working alongside her still had you pinching yourself when you walked into work every morning. There’s definitely been a shift in the energy of the team since she took over the Head Coach title from Maverick after Game 3. This is just one of the many side effects and you can’t say you’re not grateful for the change.

There are unpopular whispers that Maverick asked Cyclone for the demotion himself but you know they're probably true. While Pete Mitchell is a talented hockey player, and he’s spent the years since his retirement coaching rec leagues, he’s not exactly on the level of the NHL. Why would he willingly pass the title to someone else, people ask. Well, it probably begins with the fact that she’s his wife. Dare and Pete Mitchell’s marriage is anything but common knowledge. In fact, the only people on the team that know are you, Bugs, Jake, and Maverick’s girlfriend, Penny. Sure they share a last name but Maverick’s been publically dating Penny Benjamin for the last few decades, so no one would even consider that he’s married to someone else entirely. According to Bugs and Jake, Maverick claims they separated amicably, not feeling the need to finalize a divorce but sometimes you see the way Dare stares at him when he’s not looking and wonder if that’s just his version of events.

“Thanks,” you say, awkwardly breaking the silence as the elevator travels back down to the ground floor. You never know how to talk to Dare, the temptation to make a fool of yourself by accidentally letting slip that you’re her biggest fan is a hazard you have to avoid every time you open your mouth. “Not many people are willing to stand up to Cyclone like that.”

She snorts, “It’s hard to take him seriously when every time I look at him, I just see the snot-nosed kid whose lunch money I used to steal.” You feel like you’ve been hit by a truck as you try to imagine Beau Simpson as a snot-nosed kid while also trying to process that Dare has known him for that long and used to steal his lunch money.

“You’ve known him that long?” You stammer as the elevator jolts to a halt and the two of you step out, walking side by side towards your respective offices.

“Beau and I grew up in the same town. We were never really friends but we were acquainted in the way that you know everyone in a town that small.” She shrugs. “He wasn’t always so full of hot air but maybe that’s why he is now. Needless to say, I have zero tolerance for childish tantrums in the workplace, regardless of who’s throwing them, my players or my colleagues.” You nod in agreement as you reach your office door. “And Zam? I think it might be in your best interest to have a word with Bradley Bradshaw.” The corner of her lips is teasing into the faintest hint of a smirk as you roll your eyes.

“You think?” She chuckles at that, before turning to continue to her own office.

Entering your office, you drop into your desk chair, letting out the frustrated groan you’ve been holding back all morning. You pull up Bradley Bradshaw’s profile on your computer and absently think that you should update the photo you have to his official Dogfighters’s headshot because he’s smiling in this photo and you’re pretty sure in the three months that you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him smile let alone show any expression of joy or even happiness. You jot down a note on your pink sticky note pad to update player photos. Heaving a huge sigh, you open the team portal and put in a request for a meeting with Bradley. One of the coaches will send him your way when he has a moment so in the meantime you read over his profile yet again. When Maverick first entertained the idea of trading for Bradley you hadn’t really batted an eye, even considering him a decent pick, all things considered, but now you wish you’d pushed back that day in the conference room because this man has been the beginning and end of all your problems ever since the season started. Sure you have other problems that you’re juggling. Despite your best efforts, Javy Machado continues to sleep with anything with tits, but right now it’s the least of your worries. You’re more concerned with the fact that Bradley Bradshaw’s almost spent more time in the penalty box this season than the rest of the team combined. He’s been irritable, to say the least, and while he used to play the role of enforcer more often, preferring to retaliate than provoke, ever since coming to San Diego he’s done nothing but pick fights on the ice. To the point that Cyclone’s yelling at you and Dare about it instead of Bradshaw himself. Dare because she’s his coach. You because this is doing disastrous things for the team’s reputation. Just because “fighter” is in the team name doesn’t mean it needs to be taken literally, apparently.

You don’t get it. Maverick asked for Bradley specifically, and he’s his godfather, you’d think Bradley would be ecstatic to be here. After all, his father died when he was just a kid. You’d assume that he and Maverick are close. You wonder if Dare knows anything about it. If things get dire enough you may have to ask her, even if she doesn’t know that you know about her and Maverick. Sighing, you click away from Bradley’s profile as you move on to other work while you wait for him to show, sparing a glance at the clock on the wall before picking up your phone to text the group chat labeled Cyclone Relief Fund. “19 minutes,” followed by a partying emoji. Mama’s getting a new pair of heels.

~~~~~

It’s a little after noon when there’s finally a knock on your door. You call for the knocker to enter and Bradley Bradshaw opens the door, taking a seat across from your desk. You fight an amused chuckle at the way his giant body dwarfs the petite pink armchair across from you. You have a feeling he won’t find it as funny as you do. He’s wearing a black Dogfighters’s tee that’s gripping his muscular arms for dear life over sweats, his curly hair still damp from the showers.

His whisky eyes are studying the space around you with curiosity mixed with thinly veiled disgust. You try to see it through his eyes. The boring white walls have been meticulously covered with adhesive wallpaper in a soft baby pink. Hanging on them is a carefully curated collection of art prints in matching white frames. Floating shelves on the wall are decorated with various tchotchkes in various shades of pink and white. A bright pink shag rug sits under your white wood desk, housing the pink faux leather desk chair you’re seated in and the plush pink armchair that Bradley’s spilling out of.

“Something wrong?” You ask when it’s been too long with him just blatantly ogling your decor.

“This looks like Barbie’s dream house.” He states, unamused, as his eyes come back to you.

“Actually I was going for more of an office or career Barbie than Malibu but it was probably on the vision board too.” You say, turning to your computer as you pull up the folder of articles that Cyclone sent you this morning. “Glad you like it.”

“I don’t.” His voice is flat and you peer up at him over the top of your screen. Your eyebrow twitches with annoyance at his blunt rudeness.

“Well if I ever get a suggestion box, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know, Bradshaw.” You snip as you turn the screen you’re looking at so that Bradley can see it. “So I think you can guess what you’re here to talk about. In the last fifteen games you’ve played, you’ve spent more time in the penalty box than any other player.”

He arches a dark brown eyebrow, “Hockey is a contact sport, honey.” Your eyebrow twitches again at the nickname.

“I’m sure the occasional bump is considered contact but throwing down your gloves to punch your opponent in the nose has very little to do with puck handling don’t you think?” Your voice is civil, and reasonable, as you pull up the video of Bradley’s fist making contact with the face of the Jets’s defenseman. That had handed him a five-minute major penalty for fighting.

“You’re not on the ice. Sometimes they’re asking for it.” You say a silent prayer for patience.

“You realize that you can get suspended for this right? You’re lucky you only have one instigator penalty so far out of all those fighting penalties.”

“I know that, honey. Three instigators earn you a two-game suspension, and it increases after that. I’ve read the rules.” You clench your jaw at how nonchalant he’s being about this. He’s got a smorgasbord of minor penalties, a couple of majors for general fighting, and one blatant instigator penalty. He’s on thin ice, pun intended.

“Regardless of the official NHL rules, what are you going to do if your coaches decide to bench you?” You raise an eyebrow at him and watch as he stiffens. It seems you’re finally a move ahead of him. You like it. “And given that Cyclone just yelled at me and Dare over the state of your performance? I’d say it’s bound to happen sooner rather than later.” His fists clench in his lap, but he doesn’t say anything. You decide to plow ahead while he’s not fighting every word coming out of your mouth.

“While your performance on the ice isn’t my department, how it reflects on the team is. Currently media outlets are describing you as a loose cannon and bordering on a danger to other players. If this keeps up, the team could be forced to bench you indefinitely or even let you go completely.” You purse your lips in a thin line. “I’m doing what I can in terms of damage control but we have to work together here. I can’t promise that you’re working on it if we don’t see any actual change.”

He snorts at that, sitting back as best he can. “You want some advice, honey? Stay out of it. It’s none of your business.” You clench a fist in your lap. Why does he insist on fighting with you?!

“Actually, it is. This is my job, Bradshaw. Just because you don’t feel like doing yours doesn’t mean I’m going to follow suit just because you want me to.” His honey eyes flash with warning but you don’t back down, meeting them with yours, steel in your gaze. “I didn’t get this job by letting people like you walk all over me, Bradshaw and I don’t intend on starting now.” Your fingers fly over the keyboard and you pull up some paparazzi photos from the last few weeks. “You’re getting drunk and causing trouble in public,” you click through photos of an intoxicated Bradley leaving a bar and getting into a shoving match with some guy. You sigh, fighting the urge to pinch your nose as a dull throbbing takes up residence in your temples.

Bradley just gives you a cold look. “What? So a man can’t go to a bar and have a drink anymore?” The throbbing intensifies and you fantasize about launching yourself over your desk and wrapping your perfectly manicured hands around his enormous neck.

“Look,” your voice is pure ice to hide the vitriol threatening to take over, “if you’re not going to change your behavior, at least do me a favor and be a train wreck in private from now on.” You could hear a pin drop as you barely hold back from spitting the words at Bradley. The two of you glare at each other, the white expanse of your desk a no-man’s-land between the wars in your eyes. “You’re free to go.” Your voice is the exact opposite of your face. It’s prim, proper, congenial. It matches the rest of your persona. Your bright butter-yellow suit makes you look like sunshine incarnate even as you burn underneath with the fury of a thousand suns. Bradley’s still glaring at you as he extricates himself from the armchair and stalks out the door without another word, letting the door slam behind him. You want to scream but the walls in the place are far too thin, so you do the next best thing, launching yourself out of your chair not bothering to push it back as you storm out of your office.

***

You barge into Bugs’s office and she looks up from whatever chart she’s currently perusing as you grab a handful of gummy bears from her candy dish and throw yourself into the chair across from her. She raises a single eyebrow at you but doesn’t say anything as you aggressively chew the green confections.

“I’d think you’d be happier since you just won the betting pool but what’s up?” She says finally when it’s obvious that you won’t be volunteering any information.

“Bradley. Bradshaw.” You spit as you pop another gummy bear into your mouth and her eyes soften in

understanding even as her mouth tightens into a tense line. You know she knows what you’re talking about, especially since she’s been the one patching him up. “Cyclone asked me to do something about him because he’s dragging the team through the mud, and you know what he said? He told me to stay out of it! As if this isn’t MY JOB! He doesn’t care about his reputation, he doesn’t care if he doesn’t get to play, I don’t get it! What’s got his panties in such a twist!” You’re fuming as you continue to shred through gummy bears. “This is an amazing opportunity! Why is he so eager to throw it away?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be here?” Bugs asks, brows furrowed in thought. “He did exclusively play for the Flyers for the last sixteen years.” You shake your head.

“That doesn’t make any sense. The Flyers have been trying to pawn him off to the highest bidder for the better part of the last two seasons.” Bugs’s eyes raise in surprise and you shrug. “He’s getting old and they would much rather have a good draft pick for rookie talent. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks and all that. At least that’s what their manager told me. When Maverick asked them for a trade they practically threw him at us, they couldn’t believe their luck.”

“Maverick asked to trade for Bradley?” She asks, confused. “Isn’t it usually the manager’s job to do that?”

You nod. “Normally, yeah, but Maverick asked for Bradley himself. Apparently, he’s his godson.” Bugs’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Bradley is Mav’s GODSON?!” You nod.

“It makes sense actually, given that he’s Nick Bradshaw’s son and all.” You watch the realization hit Bugs’s face.

“Oh my god, I never put it together.” She whispers. You can’t blame her. Bradshaw is a common enough last name and no one’s first instinct is to tie someone to a tragedy as well known as that of Nick “Goose” Bradshaw.

Nick “Goose” Bradshaw played for the Philadelphia Flyers back in the 80s, at the same time as Maverick. The two were best friends, inseparable on and off the ice. Nick Bradshaw got his nickname, Goose, because he was always sticking his neck out for Maverick and it ended in one of the most infamous hockey tragedies in NHL history.

While hockey is one of the most violent of the contact sports, it’s highly regulated to ensure that fatal injuries don’t occur due to fighting, but every now and then something slips through the cracks and that’s what happened in the case of Goose Bradshaw. Maverick got into an altercation on the ice and when another player tried to get involved, Goose tried to interfere to keep the numbers even, which resulted in him losing his helmet in the fray and being thrown into the boards, hitting his head. While the physician on duty deemed that Goose was fine, he sat out the rest of the game. Two days later he died of a brain hemorrhage, widowing his wife Carole and leaving his two-year-old son, Bradley Bradshaw, fatherless. The Bradshaw family disappeared from the public eye until Bradley caught the media’s attention when he joined the Penn State Nittany Lions in college as a left defenseman, following in his late father’s footsteps.

“So you’d think he’d be happy to be here, with Maverick.” You muse and Bugs nods, still frowning.

“Family doesn’t always get along, though,” she says with a shrug. You know she’s close with hers and you’re as close as you can be with yours. “But still why would he throw his whole career away like this? It doesn’t make sense.” She’s right, it doesn’t and so you’re left to ponder the enigma that is Bradley Bradshaw.

***

You’re still thinking about it as you get ready to leave for the night. Unsurprisingly, you’re the only one left. The sky has long since darkened outside, but you’re married to your job. You need to do the best you can to keep Cyclone off your back for long enough for Bradley to figure his shit out. You step into the arena proper, the lights are on as the Zamboni drives around, cleaning up the ice after practice so it’ll be perfect tomorrow morning. You gaze at the rink as the machine drives back and forth across the surface and your heart aches. A part of you longs to step back out onto the smooth surface and feel the cool air radiating off the rink kiss your cheeks just one more time. You aren’t sure when the tears filled your eyes but you blink them out as you whisper. “I miss you, Mom. I wish you were here. I wish you could see this. I’m in California now, and it’s so different from home, but you were right. As long as there’s ice, it’s not that different after all.”

A/N: Aaaaaa a lot has happened there’s lots of intrigue (as always) If you haven’t checked out the series teaser, it’s technically a sneak peek at Chapter 2 👀

#you catch more bees with honey // sdd #ycmbwh // sdd #san diego dogfighters #san diego dogfighters au #san diego dogfighters hockey au #tgm hockey au #top gun maverick hockey au #top gun maverick #TGM #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #rooster x you #rooster x reader #no use of y/n

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shina913 · 4 months

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Cold Snap | CSC

Cold Snap

Pairing: Seungcheol x Fem!Reader

Rating: M 🔞

Genre: Established relationship; domestic au; fluff

Warnings: some teasing; allusions to sex

Word count: 1K words

Summary: You wake up and realize that your apartment's heater broke again.

A/N: Just a little something to break my writing drought. Dedicated to my friends, @/roaminginthenights and @/yoongukie-ff who have contributed to my most recent Cheol brainrot. Enjoy!

You wake up slowly, feeling a sudden chill in the air. It was still dark out and you wonder if it's just your imagination or a lingering dream. But when your teeth start to chatter, you realize that the room feels colder than it did when you went to bed.

Despite some upgrades over the years, certain aspects of your old apartment building remained on the 'vintage' side – including the heating system. Recently, your building manager repaired the radiator valves in your unit. They had been malfunctioning when you tried to turn them on during random cool days in the fall.

And because all weather reports in your area warned the public about a record-setting drop in temperatures this season, you needed the heaters to work, most especially on a day like today—the official first day of winter.

You roll over onto your side and interrupt Seungcheol's rhythmic snoring with a nudge.

His drowsiness is replaced by concern when he sees your bottom lip quivering. "What's wrong?"

"Did you turn the heater off?"

He immediately snorts at your accusatory tone. "Me? No, that’s all you, babe."

Seungcheol typically felt cold easily while your internal body temperature ran warmer. You suggested that he get thicker blankets or try sleeping in additional layers of clothing. Instead, he preferred to turn up the thermostat so he could sleep comfortably in his boxers. You, being the more cost-effective-minded half of this relationship, would switch it off in the middle of the night to save money on your energy bill.

However, last night was no joke! You didn’t mind the heater running all night.

"I didn't. It was freezing so I kept it on!"

"Welcome to my world." Before he rolls over to go back to sleep, you grab onto his shirt.

"Can you please check the valve? I think it broke again."

He shakes his head. “That’s impossible. We just got it fixed!”

“Just double-check, please?” You give him your best puppy-eye look, not wanting to leave the warm confines of your blankets.

He sighs and gives a quick nod before getting out of bed.

As soon as he is out of the warm sheets and feels the cold air on his bare chest, he curses under his breath. Before taking another step, he retrieves his hoodie from the nearby chair where he had tossed it the night before.

After putting it on, he makes his way toward the radiator on the other side of the room. He crouches down to inspect the valve.

"Huh. That's weird," he murmurs.

Before you can ask about what he noticed, he stands up and walks into the living room to check the controls there.

A minute later, he returns, visibly frustrated. He picks up his cellphone from the nightstand and makes a call.

“You’re right. It’s broken again,” he huffs, preparing to leave a voicemail for your building manager about the broken heating system in your unit.

There’s something about him taking control like this that turns you on. He stands by his side of the bed, in his boxers and hoodie, with a calm but stern voice.

It was the same voice he used when you permitted him to boss you around in bed. Another chill travels down your spine but not from the cold.

When he hangs up, he reaches for his joggers, which were laid on the same chair he reclaimed his hoodie from, and slips back into bed with you.

“Fucking nightmare,” he grunted. “Too bad it’s the weekend and we can’t get this fixed right away. Guess we’ll have stop by the store to grab a couple of space heaters right when it opens.”

Unfortunately, that wasn’t for another few hours.

As he buries himself deeper into the cozy comfort of your sheets, a shiver runs down his spine due to the draft that envelops your apartment. ”We can’t live like this,” he pouts.

With a mischievous smile playing on your lips, you respond, "You know, there’s another way we can warm up and make the most out of this situation while we wait for the stores to open."

“And what’s that?” He mumbles curiously from under the collar of his hoodie.

You scoot closer to him, wedging one arm between his body and the mattress, and encircle his waist with the other. Then, you gently slide your hand up underneath his hoodie.

“Ahh, your hands feel like ice!” he squeaks in surprise, his body stiffening at the contact.

“Or maybe they’ll warm up quicker if I go this way?” You slide both hands lower, past his waistband to palm his ass cheeks.

"Okay, okay! I get your point!" he half-yelps and chuckles at your mischief.

When his laughter subsides, he asks, "Wouldn't this be more effective with direct skin-on-skin contact? Like...without clothes on?"

The way he catches his lower lip with his teeth and cocks his eyebrow makes your pulse quicken.

You pretend to be ignorant, saying, "Well, I'm no scientist, so I wouldn't really know." You give his cheeks another firm squeeze.

"Well then, we should find out." He moves away slightly from your touch, just enough to remove his hoodie. "You know, for science!"

You suppress a laugh, fully aware of his playful intentions. “And if it doesn't work?”

He kicks off his boxers and pulls you flush against him. “Then I know a foolproof way for us to work up a sweat.”

When he nestles into your neck and begins kissing you, you let out a sigh, melting into him. You barely notice him removing your bottoms.

He hums and pulls your top up and over your head. The moment your bare skin touches his, a wave of sensation rushes through your body, causing you to gasp.

"I mean, if it's for science," you moan in acquiescence.

As his kisses trail down to your breasts, he asks, "Are you warm enough now?"

"Why don't you move a little lower and we'll reassess then?"

He laughs softly against your skin but doesn't object. Instead, he does what he’s told, and you spend the next few hours tangled up in bed until sunrise.

Main SVT Fic Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading!

If you loved it, please comment, reblog, or send me feedback! 📩. I love hearing from readers! If you didn’t like it so much, I would still like to hear about it. Help me become a better writer! 💜

Tagging: @roaminginthenights; @yoongukie-ff

#seungcheol fluff #seungcheol fanfic #seungcheol x reader #choi seungcheol #seventeen fanfiction #svt imagines #svt x reader #svt fanfic

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months

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Leader of the Landslide 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, alcoholism, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Life with your alcoholic mother is tough and you problems only mount when the local sheriff takes an interest in you.

Character: Lee Bodecker

Note: I'm so tireddddddddd.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

The mobile home creaks with your movement. The tight walls of your room watch you dig around under your bed frame, retrieving the empty tea tin from under the slats. You pop off the lid as you sit back on your heels and slip out the small roll of bills. You keep cotton balls in the bottom to keep the coins from jingling, not wanting any listening ears to suss out your stash.

You take what you need and put the rest back. You snake your arm up to replace the canister in your hiding spot. You stand and dusty off your knees, the worn denim fading and thinning. You tuck the bills in your back pocket and grab your flannel jacket from the bed post.

You look around the cramped space, a modest and meagre dwelling place. You don't think too much about it, you’ve never known any better. Just like the big spenders in their shiny cadillacs don't give you much thought. You find that money can only bring trouble.

You go out into the living room. Your ma's sprawled on the couch, one leg over the edge, yesterday's newspaper over her head, and an arm dangling like there's no drop of life left in her. You go to the slender counter set under the narrow cupboards and put the kettle on the single burner. You pop open the cupboard door and grab the instant coffee, adding a healthy dose to an empty mug.

"Ma," you say in a crusty tone, throat dry from sleep, "coffee."

"Eh," she mutters but doesn't unveil herself from beneath the newsprint.

"I'm gonna grab some groceries on the way home tonight," you explain as you cross your arms and lean against the wall across from the short couch where she languishes, "why didn't you take out the bed?"

She grumbles and the newspaper slips off of her as she props her head up. She wobbles as she squints across at the dinette that converts to a cozy double. She shakes her head and lays flat again. You don't fail to notice the empty bottle beside her.

"Alright, then, I gotta head down to Ernie's. I'll make dinner tonight," you suggest.

She waves you off and pulls the newspaper closer to her face, hiding behind it.

"Think ya can grab more whiskey?" She croaks from beneath.

"You got whiskey money?" You challenge with a sigh, "ma, it ain't good for ya."

"Don't tell me what's good for me. I raised ya," she barks as she rips the newspaper away and sits up, nearly keeling over as she winces with her whole body, "urgh, what're you rilin' me up for?"

"Water's boiling," you say as you check your watch, the one with the silver chain your granny gave you before she passed. "If you gotta puke, do it outside."

"Aw, baby, please," she shakes and touches her temples, "don't leave me. I can't do it alone--"

"Ma, you just gotta pour the water and stir. It's that instant stuff."

She harrumphs but doesn't argue as you're already at the door. You pull open the door and let it close heavily at your back as you tramp down the front steps. You button up your wool-lined flannel as you come down to ground level, your boots kicking up dust.

You head up between the rows of mobile homes. Most of them are nicer than your own. The paint on the siding isn't all chipped and the doors don't creak so loud. Plus, there isn't a mess of dead plants rotting away in the garden plot.

As you head past Theo's picnic table with the bright red umbrella, the nose of a car pokes around from the next row. You stop and watch the cruiser roll by, a sheriff's star emblazoned on the brown paint. It's not that unusual to see a cop hanging around, they like to rove the area for vagrants.

The man in the front seat turns his head as he passes, meeting your eye with a nod. You don't know him, you've never seen him before, but his hat makes him seem rather fancy. He must be high up. You don't know why he's hanging around there if he is.

You wait until he's past you and cross the row and head up towards the entrance of the community. The place is an assortment of wealthy city slickers vacationing, comfy middle classers with their tots, and the dregs like yourself and your mother, living on pennies and nickels.

Work isn't far. You sit at the desk in Ernie's shop and tell the folks where to park their beaters and lemons. The men talk loudly over engines as you throw Rufus' bone and watch him bring it back to you. The place is quaint and a bit shady, but the only job that would have you.

You walk in and greet the old bloodhound as he raises his wrinkly face. He gets up, he rarely does that for anyone else, and follows you to the wooden desk where you perch and drink the burnt coffee they have on the burner. He lays at the foot of your stool as you say hello to the first mechanic through the door. Glenn doesn't seem to hear or see you as he pulls down his cap and ducks into the garage.

The smell of autumn creeps in from the open door of the garage, blowing into your little nook. A lady with tattered tights shows up with a rattling pipe and you call in Jethro to have a look. She gives him a look, the type that may get her a lower price on the second-hand part.

You pull out the book you keep lodged underneath the desk with the cup of pencils and receipt pad. You open it, the broken spine laying flat as you read and pet the lazy dog's snout as he leans his large head on your leg.

The day wiles by as usual. Not abnormal, nothing out of order. The mechanics hang up their overalls and leave oil stained rags in the crate. You take those down to the laundromat on Wednesdays.

Ernie locks up as you leave, offering you a drive to the grocer that you gratefully accept. There, you walk the aisles with your list, choosing between one staple and another to fit your budget. A bag of rice will go further than potatoes.

You leave with a paper bag full of goods. A good amount to stretch until your next pay. You take your usual path back, cutting through the path behind Alfred Horsk's stables.

You enter the park. A man rakes his front lawn despite the leaf fall being sparse. Nellie, the old woman who complains about your torn jeans, sends a glare as you pass, and you shoulder her out of your mind as you turn down the far row.

Your mother's dented mobile home beckons you forth. You have no illusions, you know what people think, you know what they've seen. Your mother is hardly the paragon of virtue. And your father, while you don't know who he is, you're certain he's a deadbeat.

You slow as you approach. A white and brown cruiser is parked at an angle, just in the space between your mother's trailer and the next. The siren on top is dulled but shiny. The car is well-kept. Shoot, you're not prepared to talk your mother out of another fine.

The scene is even stranger as there are no officers to go with the vehicle. There's usually at least one keeping watch or listening to the scanner. Just as peculiar, the trailer is shut up and there's not hollering coming from inside. Typically, the door's wide open for you to stumble in upon your mother's latest turmoil.

You balance the paper bag in one arm as you climb the low steps to the door and twist back the handle. The door opens easy and you step into a low dim, curtains drawn and lights all out. There's still light in the sky but it doesn't touch the place.

Your mother's cackle jars you and the deep rumble in response puts you on edge. You let the grim dim of the autumn in behind you as you feel around for the light knob. You turn it and light up the glass shade over the dinette.

You nearly drop your armful as you find your mother on the bench, giggling as a uniformed man pours whiskey past her lips, the dark brown neck of the bottle glugging loudly. You recoil and stammer. It's not the first time you've stumbled on your mother with a man, usually she leaves a scarf on the door to prevent that. You're only thankful they are fully clothed.

"Sorry," you back up and spin out the door, snapping it shut behind you.

You hop down to the gravel and sit on the bottom step. You put the groceries beside you and roll your shoulders, trying to escape that grimy feeling. Really, a cop? Well, that might keep her out of trouble. Or at least, make the law look in the other direction.

You try not to think about it but your eyes are drawn over to the round headlight of the cruiser. You frown. It can't be the same officer as earlier. You rub your cheek and think. You can't tell, he was missing that wide-brimmed hat.

You tear your attention from the nose of the car and watch some kids run by in a game of tag. You begrudge your empty stomach and heavy head. All day you only wanted to be home so you could get the groceries away and turn in. Nothing ever goes to plan with your ma.

You place your chin in your hand and blow a raspberry. What kind of lawman feeds liquor to a woman like that? It's plain to see that your ma has a problem. It's slimy, really. Barely preferable to him booking her. There's something nasty about him holding that bottle, laughing at her desperation to sate her bottomless thirst.

Their voices come clearer through the thin wall of the trailer. You get up and take the groceries, hiding them around the back. Hopefully no one stumbles on them. You go back around and set off down the gravel. He should be gone by the time you get back.

The kids run by you, puffing and panting in their game. You watch them, mourning the days when life was as simple as that. For you, the carefree era of your childhood didn’t last long. If it ever was.

You hear a parent holler and one of the children disperses. The others disappear around the next row as they continue on in their back and forth. You cross your arms as the evening chill nips at your flannel. You loop around, making a full lap of the outer path of the park.

You come back in sight of your mother’s trailer. The door is open as the officer sits on your former perch, sucking on a cigarette. You think of turning back. You’re tired and the sky is getting dim. You just want to eat and go to bed.

As you approach, he looks up and blows out a cloud of smoke. You cross your arms as he bows and gives a half-salute with two fingers. He looks up at you as he flicks ash from the cigarette.

“Must be junior,” he stands with a grunt, “sorry to chase ya out like that.”

You shrug, “officer.”

He smirks, “I’m off-duty.”

You nod and look away. There’s something about him, something slimy. Maybe it’s the way his stomach hangs over his pants or how he lets the bolo tie hang loose down his chest, his top buttons still undone.

“Gotta grab the, er, groceries,” you excuse yourself.

You sweep around the trailer and retrieve your haul, thankfully undiscovered. As you come back to the front, the officer remains, crushing the cigarette beneath his boot. You go to the steps and he stops you, stretching his arm in front of you.

“What’s yer name, girl?”

You shake your head, “does it matter?”

“Ma’s a nice lady, ain’t she? I’m only curious…” he says, “if I’m gonna be comin’ around.”

You hug the paper bag and bite down. You don’t want to tell him. If he’s anything like the other men, he won’t be back.

Your mother calls your name as he she clatters against the door from the inside. She manages to tear it open as you cringe. She’s in her underwear and a tank top barely clinging to her shoulders. You unthinkingly bull past the cop and rush up the stairs.

“Ma, it’s too cold out,” you usher her inside, “Christ.”

“Hey, you watch your mouth,” she sneers.

“I just don’t want you to get sick,” you say as you put the bag down. You turn to close the door but it swings inward from the other side. It’s him, officer slime.

“So, Molly,” he leers at your mother, “this your girl, then?”

“Yeah, that’s her,” your mother grumbles and falls against the couch, nearly missing as the man catches her and sets her right.

You exhale through your nose. She wouldn’t be like that if he didn’t bring her liquor. You grab the mostly empty bottle from the table and go to the sink. You hover it over the drain as you mouth shrieks like a hurt cat.

“Don’t you be wastin’ that!” She howls.

“Ma, look at you–”

“Now, now,” the man comes close and reaches to put his hand around yours, “I paid for that.”

“Great,” you turn to him, “you can take it with you.”

“With me?”

“Have a good night, officer,” you let him have the bottle, “I gotta make dinner.”

“Don’t be rude,” your mother slurs, “he stayin’.”

“Staying?” you sneer as you eye the man warily.

“Now I raised you right, we don’t send a good man off with an empty belly,” she snickers and reaches for his hand, tugging him towards her, “we make sure he’s nice and full.”

“Ma–” you begin.

“You ain’t even introduced us, Moll,” the man kisses her knuckles before wiggling free of her grasp. He hands her the whiskey. “Sheriff Bodecker,” he grins at you, “Lee when I’m off the beat.”

You look at him, then your mother. She gulps down the whiskey sloppily. You turn back to the counter and hide your chagrin.

“Hope you like beans,” you utter in defeat.

“I ain’t picky,” he drawls as he leans on the table, watching you.

You peek over your shoulder. Your mother is barely conscious as she leans back, letting the bottle rest on the empty space beside her on the couch. The quicker she passes out, the sooner this man can leave.

#lee bodecker #dark lee bodecker #dark!lee bodecker #lee bodecker x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #leader of the landslide #series #the devil all the time

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doublebilled · 10 months

Text

The Handmaiden (2016) dir. Park Chan-wook

The Adolescence of Utena (1999) dir. Kunihiko Ikuhara

#the handmaiden #park chan wook #the adolescence of utena #kunihiko ikuhara #south korea #japan #animated #lgbtq #1990s #2010s #thriller #coming of age #double bill suggestions

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yellowbunnydreams · 4 months

Text

Bunny Ears (Part 16) ~William Afton X F! Reader~

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Want more or something different? *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tag List: @ruh--roh-raggy @h4nluv @sleepy---head @do-double-g @confiscated-peaches-main @dij-ology @viviennemuerte @robin-the-enby @shari-berri @randymeeksisafinalgirl @hallow1090 @aponia-yue @likoplays @dilflover-3 @oak-leafs @phd-in-fuckery @weirdoartist21 @nicolezghostz @fauine

Sorry if I missed you on the tag-list!

CW: Minors DNI, (18+ ONLY), Female Reader, legal age gap (Reader- 20's, William - 30's), divorce/processing divorce, Afton being a sarcastic hot ass, Henry being such a dad, grumpy x sunshine . Faz-Fuck TM. Cringe scenes ft. Henry.

As the colder months drew closer, there were a few more faces kicking around the restaurant, Henry apparently on a recruiting spree for seasonal workers so that Christmas wasn't too harsh on the longer term employees. Not that you minded working Christmas if you had to, but the thought your boss put into such things was always appreciated.

Several of you were standing behind the prize counter, running through the ticket procedures and prize counts for the newbies, watching them nod and smile with it being abundantly clear that they had not taken in a single word of your explanation. However forgiving a boss you had, you knew that William would not tolerate laziness and even Henry and his big heart had it's limits. You did feel slightly sorry for them if they met the more abrasive side of your boyfriend however, not that it would be anything but their fault.

Through the noise, you heard your name being called, snapping your head up and giving a polite smile in that direction, the smile widening as you spotted a familiar looking little blonde girl clutching a Spring-Bonnie plushie. Excusing yourself quickly from behind the counter and leaving the new staff in the capable hands of your co-workers to go and say hello.

"Hey Vanessa! How are you doing today?" You asked, crouching on her level and watching her face light up as you remembered her. A gap-toothed smile making your heart melt as she giggled.

"I'm good! Daddy's working so he told me to go play." She said, twisting her body slightly back and forth like she was trying to expel the excess energy. "I know you're working too, I just wanted to say hello!"

"Well aren't you cute? Listen, Vanessa, can I ask you to do a really big girl favour for me?" You asked, watching the little girl's chest puff up in pride at being asked to do such an important task by an adult. You reached into your pockets and pulled out a few dollars that you'd been planning on using for a few cups of soda, but decided giving William's little girl some entertainment was far more worth it. "I want you to take these, and have as much fun as you can with them. Maybe you can win your daddy a prize?" You suggested, watching Vanessa's eyes go wide as she gingerly took the dollar bills, reaching into the pockets of her little purple overalls and pulling out a matching coloured purse, placing them inside with a super big smile. Throwing her arms around your neck in a hug as she practically vibrated with excitement.

"I will! Me and Charlie are going to have so much fun! We'll come show you our prizes afterwards!" Bounding off before you could really process the tiny child around your neck, smiling broadly and standing back up. Feeling eyes on you and spotting Stacey standing a little way back, eyebrow raised.

"You know that's Afton's kid right?" She asked, making you think for a second before nodding slowly. Stacey grinned and came up to you, poking you in the side teasingly, making you swat her hand away as she dug into your ribs slightly. "What, do you have a crush on him or something? Sucking up to his kid like that." Your cheeks turned red at the suggestion, though not quite for the reasons that Stacey seemed to have in mind as she made a shocked gasp.

"I know. But she's our boss' kid and I would rather spend a few dollars to get in his good books. I think she's playing with Henry's kid by the sounds of it."

"You totally have a crush on Afton." Stacey teased, totally missing the response you'd given her, making you roll your eyes as you attempted to walk away from the relentless teasing.

"And? If I did, what exactly are you going to do with that info Stace?" You asked, shaking your head slightly as you headed towards the main area as the next showtime started, watching out for screaming kids as they ran towards the stage to see Freddy, Bonnie and Chica perform.

"Still going to be fun to tease you about it! Even if it's our dirty little secret."

Swatting her away annoyedly, you began to pace the pizzeria, running dishes if they were ready to go from the kitchen and soon getting caught back up in the flow of work. Almost forgetting about Vanessa and Charlie until the lunch rush died down and only a few families remained, also finishing up to go back home or whatever they did when they left Freddy's for the day. You were sure your confetti blouse had pizza sauce and/or some soda spilt down it from kids running about, but your hair stuck to your forehead slightly as you finished running some of the last dishes back to the kitchen. Glad to have a moment's reprive.

Until a little body tackled your legs and almost forced them out from under you with a grunt. Looking down to see what was happening and spotting the top of Vanessa's head, looking up at you with that gap-toothed grin as she hugged your legs before stepping back and gesturing to a dark, curled girl hiding a little ways behind her.

"We're back! Me and Charlie got so many prizes!!" Her sweet enthusiasm making you melt slightly as you looked over the collection they both seemed so proud of. With how bubbly Vanessa was, and how Charlie quietly stood to one side and avoided your eyes, you would have assumed that their fathers were swapped. Not quite understanding how William produced such an extroverted child, but adoring the small girl all the same. "Can you help us pick out which ones our daddy's would like?" Tugging at your sleeve until you nodded in agreement.

Sifting through all the trinkets and toys, you made a selection for Henry and William. Charlie seemed quite pleased with your choice, giving a softly spoken 'thank you' as you picked out the matching Freddy's bracelets for her and him. Vanessa also seemed to vibrate with excitement when you picked out a small bag of candy for William, hoping he had a sweet tooth as the two girls held hands and ran off with all their prizes. Giggling wildly and making you shake your head at how cute they were.

'I wonder if William ever wants more kids one day.'

Cleaning up didn't seem so bad after the interaction with the two little girls, humming quietly to yourself as you worked on making the dining area spotless for the next load of guests. Taking pride in the place in a different light now you knew how much passion was laid behind it, you hoped that you could stay at Freddy's for a long time. Part of the Fazbear Family in more ways than one.

Henry and William emerged from the back after a while, which of course drew the attention of all the staff since they were always curious about the bosses walking the floors. Henry was in another colourful abomination of a suit, whilst William was covered up in mechanics overalls, clearly having been in the parts and services room and tinkering away on some project for a majority of the morning. Each one with a small child on their arm, making you smile as you realised that they were going to have lunch in the dining room with their kids rather than hide away in the back office. Although you felt a small pang that your homemade lunch was going to go to waste that day.

Charlie and Vanessa waved to you as they went past, and you waved back brightly to them, making them both giggle excitedly and both of the men smile at seeing their daughters happy. Henry bending down to pick up Charlie and carrying her over to a booth whilst William simply held Vanessa's hand, keeping her close as he slid in opposite his business partner. Chatting away idly to him about something quietly whilst the girls grabbed Freddy's colouring sheets and some crayons, doodling away quite happily whilst their dads talked.

It was a super cute sight to see, and you noticed a lot of the older staff looking happy at the sight as well, whilst the newer staff just looked mildly confused at the development.

Heading on over after nobody moved for a second, you smiled at the men who both smiled back. Charlie giving you a shy smile and Vanessa practically bouncing in her seat as she recognised you. "Hi miss! Hi miss!" You laughed as she greeted you, hearing a chuckle from Henry and seeing William's cheeks colouring slightly beneath his stubble. Planting his hand on his daughter's shoulder in an attempt to get her to sit down properly in her seat. You could tell she was a menace of a child if they ever went out to eat somewhere. Deciding to see about making Charlie giggle perhaps, since she seemed to be the shyer of the two.

"Welcome to Freddy's folks! Have you been here before?" You chirped in your customer service voice, making the two children giggle wildly as Henry looked like he'd blue-screened for a moment and William raised a thick eyebrow, looking at you over his glasses with humour in his eyes.

"Yep! We're friends of Freddy and Bonnie and Chica and Foxy and Fredbear, and Spring-Bonnie!" Vanessa piped up, making you dramatically place a hand over your heart and widening your eyes and expression into dramatic shock. The little girls giggling at the sight and making you fight not to smile with them.

"You're friends with them?! Well now, I'm friends with them too! I'm surprised we've never met." Exagerating your expressions slightly to send the girls into giggles as Henry recovered from his mild crisis and William leaned back in the booth, the corner of his mouth twitching and fighting a smile just like you were.

"We're far more private friends with them." William joined in, his gravelly voice laced with amusement as he met your eyes briefly, winking at you and making your cheeks flush slightly.

"Private friends hey? Well here at Freddy's, we believe everybody can be friends!" Vanessa and Charlie giggling as they looked over the menus sat infront of their dads before looking up at you with a sense of awe.

"Can I have a mini pepperoni with mushrooms?" Vanessa asked politety, looking at her dad before continuing "And a cola?"

"No cola, Vanessa. She can have juice." William interjected, making his daughter pout cutely at him as the already hyperactive child was denied her sugar rush.

"Please may I have just a cheese pizza?" Charlie asked in her soft voice. You nodded and wrote down the order on your mini-pad from your pocket, watching Henry smile and ruffle Charlie's hair affectionately before he finally turned to you properly.

"She can have a juice too, and what do you say Will, you want to split a pepperoni?" Smiling brightly as William finally allowed his lips to curl up at the edge and smile slightly, glancing back at Henry and then at you once more.

"Sure thing. And two sodas, might as well have the full Freddy's experience." He joked, making you laugh as you wrote it down and put the pad away, clearing the menus from the table temporarily and quickly looking over the kids doodles.

"Alright! I'll get that into the kitchen for you." Smiling brightly as you headed away, hearing the girls excitedly chatting about how you asked if it was their first time at Freddy's. The low murmur of voices soothing any nerves you had about doing something like that as you ripped off the order and pushed it through to the kitchen, the chefs nodding and getting to making it whilst you handed the drinks off to another one of the front of house.

Grabbing yourself a fountain drink and reminding yourself to pay it into the till later, you sipped at it as you glanced across the restaurant before heading back to the employee breakroom to go eat your own lunch. Spotting Garrett in there and animatedly talking to some of the new hires.

"So anyway, Wiffle Bat Willy can be a bit of a hardass." He said, clearly in the middle of a debrief or telling a story as you padded over to the fridge, grabbing the bag with your name on it as you could almost hear the confusion in one of the young men's voices.

"Wait, why's he called 'Wiffle Bat Willy'?"

"Because he clocked a kid in the head with a wiffle ball." Garrett explained and rolled his eyes like it was obvious. Shit-eating grin on his face as he spread your boss' nickname to the newbies, and you somehow knew that this would be a running joke for generations of staff to come.

#william afton #steve raglan #springtrap #william afton x reader #fnaf movie #steve raglan x reader #springtrap x reader #william afton smut #william afton x you #fnaf x reader

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