#or my boot is going straight down your throat 💕

[its-vannah]

Surprise | Eddie Roundtree x Reader

A/N: This easily became one of my favorites I've ever written. Hope you all enjoy it 💕

Warnings: Please scroll down to the bottom of the fic as it contains heavy spoilers

Daisy Jones and The Six Masterlist

Eddie paced around your apartment, waving his hands in the air while he rattled on about Billy's treatment of him during one of their latest concerts.

The two of them weren't exactly cordial to each other, with one usually down the others throat, but you understood how Eddie felt. He had finally gotten the chance to have a minute in the spotlight while Daisy sang—and Billy ripped the opportunity out of his hands.

As soon as he got back from the tour, he went straight home to vent to you about it.

"I mean, who the fuck does he think he is?" Eddie exclaimed, his slapping his sides, "If he's not the center of attention, then he's not happy!"

He rambled on, "And his whole obsession with Daisy? Don't get me started. They don't even let us write for the albums—at all. You know, Graham wrote a song. A fucking great song. And you know what Billy said?"

"What did he say?" You hummed.

"He said no, we don't want your damn song on the album because it's not your job to write the songs."

You tilted your head to the side, "Verbatim?"

"Well, no, but that's what he meant," Eddie groaned, bracing himself against one of the barstools in the kitchen, "He's got a stick permanently shoved up his ass."

You got up from your spot on the couch and walked to stand behind him. Once your fingers found his shoulders, you began moving them in circles to loosen up the tension in his upper body.

He relaxed a bit, leaning into your touch.

"Eddie, I'm sorry that happened at the concert," You said, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade, "Next time, stand your ground. Tell him if it's been decided you'll go out there, then you're going to go. To hell with what he thinks. It's not just his band, it's all of yours."

A sigh escaped his lips as he nodded, "It feels like shit being on his bad side. He always wants to be in control."

"Then let him," You said as he turned to face you, "It'll catch up with him eventually."

Eddie pressed his lips to your temple, wrapping his arms around you, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I was a dick when I got home," He explained, "Didn't even ask how my girl's day was."

Your hand moved to cup his cheek, rubbing his cheekbone with your thumb, "It's okay, Ed, you had a shitty day with Billy. You know I'm here if you need someone to talk to. You should, anyway, I'm your wife."

Your teasing tone caused a slight smile to appear on his face as he leaned in to kiss you—properly, as he said, this time.

He pulled away not long after, "So, how were you while I was gone?"

"About that," You said, taking a step back towards the living room to grab something from beneath the side table, "I have a surprise for you."

"For me?" He questioned, confusion washing over his face before he raised his eyebrows, "I mean, if you're in the mood, I am. How long has it been? Since the day before the tour?"

Playfully glaring back at Eddie, you picked the small box up and carried it over to him, "Put your hands out

"I feel like a kid all over again," He admitted as he stuck his hands out, "Don't tell me I have to close my eyes."

"You don't."

"Is it a pony?" He teased, causing you to laugh in response.

You shrugged, "Let's just hope I got the right kind."

He held the box in his hands, confused as to what it could be.

"Open it."

He undid the ribbon, sliding it off the box before lifting the lid. The bassist was left with more tissue paper, something he was never fond of.

Once he lifted back the layers and saw the contents, his eyes widened.

Inside was a pair of little baby boots and a small guitar pick. Unlike some of his bandmates who would've stared at it wondering what it meant until they had to be told, it clicked in his head right away.

In a small, soft voice, his eyes met yours, "You're pregnant?"

You nodded as he set the box down on the coffee table, gently taking you in his arms and weaving his hands through your hair, pressing your head to his chest.

"God, I'm gonna be a dad."

Smiling into his chest, you inhaled the lingerinf scent of his cologne, "The best."

The two of you stood there for a while, living in the world you had created on your own. In that moment, there was no Billy, no band, and no way in hell anything could ever tear you away from eachother.

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

Warnings: Pregnancy, marriage, Billy Dunne SLANDER

#fanfiction #daisy jones and the six fanfic #daisy jones fanfic #daisy jones & the six #daisy jones and the six #dj&ts #djats #eddie loving #eddie #eddie roundtree x reader #edward roundtree #eddie roundtree #eddieroundtree #eddie x y/n #eddie x you #eddie roundtree x y/n #eddie Roundtree x you #taylor reid #taylor jenkins reid

[ncafterdark]

Kinktober 2023

Day 19: Hiro/Victory--Uniforms

*****

“V where the fuck did you get that?” 

“Why?” 

“Because I don’t want a naked Maxtac agent trying to knock down my door.” 

“Oh! She won’t be! That’s taken care of.”

Ah.

“You don’t like it?” 

“No, V—it’s good.” Really, really good.

So good, that he’d barely made it to the end of the day without asking if she would wear it, cheeks burning when he caught the look on her face, affection that’s quickly replaced by a frigid smile.

“We have a warrant on you, Oda.” **

Her grip on his hair is harsh, back stinging from where she’d raked her nails down it—just shy of tearing skin. They throb, but he scarcely notices, the entirety of his focus on her—exactly how she wants it. Brushing a hand up her side he freezes, gaze caught in hers, obscured by the visor. It’s her, he knows it but there’s something alien there too—her but not. 

Words clipped, she slips her palm over his own, grip threatening. 

“Not your hands. You have to earn that.” 

She yanks him forward, till his cheek is against her thigh, breath catching in his throat. 

“You so were eager to use your mouth before. Go on—I’m only giving you what you want.” 

As much as her voice holds a suggestion, it’s a false one, and he’s drowning in the taste of her, eagerness mingling with shame, achingly hard, desperate for anything he can rut against. She’s using him, heedless of his own need, and it makes it all the better, soft groan in her throat. If it’s anything he’s addicted to, it’s this.

“Give me a reason not to hand you over. Convince me it’s worth keeping you.” 

She doesn’t frighten him often but there’s a tone that gives him pause, the suspension of disbelief, even as he knows she wouldn’t. But she’s doing a good job of making him think otherwise. The floor digging into his knees, back aching with the efforts to keep it straight, that he can’t drag in an entire breath, it all fades to the background, letting himself slip into a place where everything’s easier—doesn’t have to think, except of her, where everything makes sense. She hooks a leg over his shoulder, boot digging into his back, a current of pleasure running up his spine. 

“Good boy—just like that.” 

Even after everything, she still wants me. 

—

(Ft. @shinycorvidae's Victory 💕💕)

#cyberpunk ocs #oc: hiro oda #partner's oc: victory #nsft #my writing #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #ship: kintsugi #tw: power dynamics #tw: cruelty #tw: trauma

[ajokeformur-ray]

A self-shipping comfort piece which @rosesloveletters encouraged me to write.😭💕 I need my Papa so bad it hurts so I’m giving myself what I want because my sister and my Papa would both want that for me.💔 I feel better than yesterday but not by much.

Word count: 2, 030 (I wrote this in 45 minutes, unedited SO WOW I reaaaally needed this, huh?🫂💔)

“Papa, are you in here?” You shuffle into the room, jaw tight, throat feeling heavy and sickly with tears you’re fighting so hard to not shed, hands shaking, body aching, your eyes fixed on the bed as you try to discern from the shadows which of your paternal figures lay there in the bed, hidden from view behind the royal blue curtain but for a knee, clad in black.

You miss your Father, every day, but your Papa is the one who can reach you when no other can, if only through sheer force of will. You had always admired his love for life.

His response is to poke his head around the corner. You can see his hands raised to his chest, nails picking at themselves as he thinks, a faraway gaze in his eyes. They’re not your eyes. Your eyes are your Father’s, but your hair is your Papa’s. You never let him forget it. A smirk plays at his mouth. Smug. He always knows when you need him. Perhaps that is why he is here tonight, rather than out there on the streets stomping on some poor unsuspecting soul.

Though, you’ve noticed of late that he’s been murdering people who wanted to stop your Father’s funding, so you suppose you can turn your face away from the concealed blood on his steel toe-cap boots. You decided long ago that so long as the blood wasn’t his and he remained unharmed, you could overlook your Papa’s violent tendencies. He never displayed it in front of you, anyway, unless you specifically requested it and only if certain criteria were met. He was strict in strange ways, but they were ways you needed.

You smile, your hand coming up to hide your smile, your eyes stinging with tears once more trying to remind you that you are a person, and crying is okay.

“How did you know it was me?” He asks not out of curiosity. He doesn’t really care. He asks because Father is curious, and Papa is indebted to him. You hate the realities of their bond, you wish that you could have them both with you in the same way at the same time, but you cannot. They are already unholy, they tell you.

You quite disagree, but you know better than to push.

That argument isn’t yours to make.

“You bend your knees when you rest up against the headboard. Father sits with straight legs, ankles crossed.”

The smirk is wholly Papa’s and it’s so familiar to you that you’re suddenly reminded of why you sought him out, late at night.

“What is it?” The smirk sharpens, gaze focuses. You’re pinned in place, like a worm caught by the bird.

“I…” words falter. You toy with a part of the collar of your dressing gown, bought by your Father to complement the nightdress bought by your Papa. “I just needed to see you.”

Silence. He comes out from behind the curtain to recline across the bed, one leg bent, one leg straight. Toying with your previous assessment. It makes you want to laugh, it would have made you laugh, if you weren’t feeling quite so bad.

“It burns.”

“What does?“

You don’t hesitate. You know Papa will understand.

“Everything.”

Papa inhales deeply, moves again on the bed so now he’s lying down on his back, face turned towards the ceiling, one arm out, on the furthest side of the bed to you. “Come here.”

Just like you, when it truly matters, Papa doesn’t hesitate. His passion, his devotion to life, is extended towards the very few people in this world he truly loves. You, and your Mama.

Papa and Father want each other out of the picture, but it isn’t possible.

It tells a truth so tragic, so raw, that none of you ever speak it.

How could you, when the very truth pushes each of you to the point where words run dry but tears flow aplenty?

You go to him once more without hesitation and it tells your Papa everything he needs to know. You can be so shy sometimes, approaching him slowly, with caution, like he will spring up at you or say something to make you run. He could, you know he could, but he never would. Not with you, his daughter. You matter too much, you’ve come too far, and he won’t ever turn you away when you’re brave enough to come to him, rather than it being the other way around like it so usually is.

You’re feeling so bad that your usual insecurities haven’t touched you, so raw is your need for your Papa.

He can be mean, he can be nasty, but cruel? Not to you. Never to you.

You settle down gently next to your Papa, inviting yourself into his space as you rest your head on his upper arm, your dark hair spilling across his black smoking jacket. You braided it last night, the waves are intense. It’s so much like his own hair and he toys with a strand of it, tugging very lightly. You’re tender-scalped and he doesn’t want to hurt you. Not now, not ever, but especially when you’re in so much pain that it feels like fire within you.

“You’re my daughter whether you braid your hair or not, Erika.” A bite of impatience. No, not impatience. Doubt. Papa wonders if you still doubt your parentage. If you still doubt that he loves you as much as you love him.

“I know,” the smile is soaked into every word you speak and your Papa emits a pleased hum to hear it. Already, he is helping you, and he hasn’t had to do anything. Yet again, he is the cure to an ailment. It’s amusing, really, deeply touching, too. He wrinkles his nose against a stinging in his eyes. Yet again, a sacrifice of his own wants no one sees. Who thought Edward Hyde could be selfless? Not him. Not before Mama, and certainly not before you. You haven’t tamed him or softened him, not really, but you’ve shown him a new way to love. “I like having the reminder of you there about my shoulders, like you’re always with me no matter where I go.”

The way you wind an arm around your Papa’s middle means you notice the deep breath, the almost stunned silence. Even Mama isn’t as loud about her love for Papa like you are. She fought it for so long, fought him for so long, but you never had. You had always felt closer to Papa, always, for reasons you couldn’t fully explain even to yourself, but that made it all the more special.

Papa quite agreed.

“What brought you to me at this late hour of the night.” It should be a question, it's worded like it is. But the tone, oh. Papa isn't asking you. He's telling you but making it sound like you have a choice. You love the way he encourages you, the way he gives you permission to fall apart without framing it that way. It's always what you need, but only with Papa. No one else gets it like he does.

“Late?” You raise your head to look at your Papa incredulously and he bites back a grin. You’re feisty sometimes. Others berate you for it or make you feel bad about it, but Papa encourages it as much as possible. Why shouldn’t he nurture the parts of you which came from him? No one else will. “Papa, it’s barely nine.”

“Almost bedtime, wouldn’t you agree?”

A misstep, because your face darkens and you tuck your face back into his arm. “No, Papa, not bedtime. I don’t care about that.” The ‘tonight’ is unspoken but you both hear it as clearly as if it had been.

“Why?” Sharp, biting. Searching for answers.

“Because bedtime means today is over, and I only have a few hours until I have to get up and do it all again… you’ll be away for the whole day and I’m sick of it. I miss you when you’re not here and recently it’s felt like you’re never here. Father hasn’t spent proper time with me for weeks and at night I’m too busy to find time to relax, you’re out of the house, Mama is doing chores… I’m so sick of this burning inside, like I need you but you’re not there.”

You couldn’t have stopped the tears if you tried.

Papa smirks gently, but it’s not triumphant or even amused. It’s just… a smirk. Recognition. Pride. “There’s that break.” His voice is so quiet you almost miss it, but you’re too close to him, in more ways than one, so you do hear him. You’re free with your emotions, just like he is, and those expressions sometimes need a bit of coaxing to come out, but they explode when they do, and Papa always revels in it. It’s just another reminder that he is your Papa. The one you go to late at night when the world and your mind are too loud and you need someone to reach inside your mind and flick the switch so you can breathe again.

He shuffles closer to you and you know what that means. Not surrendering to your affections, more like Papa knows what you need. You’re beyond yourself, you need some help to find your way back to the higher ground, and Papa readily gives you what he knows you need. You squeeze your grip around him and he grunts quietly, playfully at first but then you squeeze harder and he really does have to make a concerted effort to breathe.

Mama loves him, it’s true, but no one is as open or as free with your love for Papa like you are. If everyone in the Jekyll household wants Edward Hyde dead, then you are the only one who wants him alive, thriving, happy and healthy. You told him that once, a blaze in your eyes, and he brushed you off with a scoff and an eye roll, but the realisation that his daughter loves him hasn’t left his mind since.

“You should have come to me sooner.” Chastisement. A dark edge to his voice.

You nod, helpless as you ride the tide of sadness you all know comes in out of nowhere before it leaves again, just as quickly, taking moments carved into the sands of time with it. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“Erika.”

You flinch at the slightly raised voice, at the anger brewing, and Papa tilts his head back to the ceiling with an eye roll, calming himself down. Another misstep. He just can’t get it right, can he?

But then you curl into him tighter, hold on harder, and mumble a quiet, “Love you, Papa,” and he realises that he did get it right, many years ago, and the product of that correct decision needs him now, so much that it caused her pain enough that she sought him out for something no one else could give her.

He says nothing, he only drops a kiss to your forehead before he settles back down, realising that he’s stuck here for the night. His daughter needs him. His daughter needs him.

‘You there, Jekyll?’

‘Where else am I to go, Hyde?’

Papa’s body shakes with a repressed chuckle. He does so enjoy the banter, even if it tips into genuine confrontation more often than not. Jekyll is more like Hyde than he will ever admit. A pity, really. They would be capable of so much more if they joined forces rather than fighting each other all the time.

‘Take care of her.’

Papa brushes some of your hair out of your face. You haven’t braided it yet. Maybe he could do it tonight. He’s observed Mama doing it enough times to know the process. Finger combing, then combing, then the boar bristle brush, then two braids so your hair will be like his in the morning. It’s amusing that your hair is the part of you which you decided to pour all your energy into, but at least you picked something.

‘You know we will.’

Both men sit with the ‘we’ until Papa falls into a light doze beside you.

Come what may in the morning, for now… you’re safe with your Papa and he with you.

It’s a tale as old as you are.

#parental f/os

[firethatgrewsolow]

could u maybe write some angst/comfort of robert having a bad day causing him to snap at the reader

I love this idea. 💕 Thanks for the request! Grumpy lion who needs playcating (yes that was on purpose). I’ll definitely delve into this when I get my writing head straight. But - here’s a couple of snippets from two chapters long ago that might tide you over:

Michelle bit the inside of her lip as Robert flung the door shut behind them. The evening had dissolved into an unmitigated disaster, and she was grateful that Bella was in Melody’s suite for the night.  Tugging off his shirt, he refused to look at her, just as he’d done the whole ride back.  He tossed it on the ground as he kicked off his boots, making his way to the bar.  Snatching up the bottle of vodka, he poured a healthy shot.  It was gone in an instant, his gaze finally resting on hers as if to dare her to admonish him.  She stayed silent, not taking the bait.

Robert clenched his jaw at the fiery blaze swirling in his stomach, the warm buzz he’d anticipated morphing into nausea instead.  Steeling himself, he poured another, eyeing the jewel at her throat. If she didn’t want to talk, he’d make her.  “So, what were you and, ah, Jimmy discussing? Wait, let me guess … just the necklace, right?”

Here we go.  Michelle hesitated, quite sure that anything she offered would be the spark the singer needed for an argument.  Which he seemed hell bent on having.  She did her best to keep her tone even.  “Life on the farm.  A lot of nothing, really.  I don’t know … he was sort of teasing me about it I suppose.”

Robert swallowed mightily.  “It looked like a little more than that.”

“For the love of God, Jimmy’s one of your best friends.  You’re kind of being paranoid.”

“Maybe I am.  But maybe I’ve a right to be, yeah?” he added, raising a brow.  “And what about Paul?”

“Paul?” Sighing, she rolled her eyes.  “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he rasped, mocking her.

The little bastard.  “Well, we decided that we’d wait until you were asleep, and then we’d catch a plane to Paris.  Or maybe Saint-Tropez.  We’re keeping it open.”

“Not funny, Michelle.”

“You’re right, it’s not funny.  It’s absurd.  And you’re being ridiculous … and rude.”  She balled up her hands as he reached for the bottle again, stifling the urge to rip it away.  

“I was a bloody laughing stock.  Do you know how fucking humiliating it is for me to tell people that we’re married, um, kind of, oh, wait, no, not exactly … what the fuck, Michelle?”  

“Why do you tell them anything at all?  What does it matter?”

“Christ, you don’t hear the things they say … the way they talk,” he trailed off as the bottle clinked against his glass, spilling some of the spirits onto the floor.  He shoved it on the counter.  “It matters because it matters.”

“That’s illuminating,” she shot back, nudging it away from the edge.  He’s a wreck.

“Then I have to go chase you down because somebody I thought was my mate has his hands all over you … which you don’t even seem to mind.  And then you bloody argue with me about it in front of everyone!  Goddamnit, I can’t fend off every man you come across.”

“Nobody’s asking you to.  Jesus, you’re such a hypocrite.  You run after women all night long and expect me to welcome you with open arms … which I always do… and when someone comes along who just wants to chat, you go completely …”

“Chat,” Robert scoffed with a bitter laugh.  He was starting to slur.  “D’you really think … Paul wanted to bloody chat?  Are you that fucking naive?”

“No, I’m not that fucking naive.”  Michelle snapped, all the self control she’d fought to maintain deserting her in one fell swoop.  Their eyes met as she sidled closer.  “He wanted to fuck me, Robert. So bad,” she drawled, watching his features harden.  “Just like the rest of them.  And you know what?  I should do it.  I should fuck every single one of them, starting with Paul … or, I don’t know, maybe Jimmy.  He was all over me, too, right?”  Her lips turned up as the singer’s nostrils flared.  “I could feel his hard on, you know, it was right against me …”

“You need to stop,” Robert whispered, a warning in his voice.

“No, I don’t think I want to stop.” Her smile twisting, she pulled the glass from his grasp, draining the contents.  “I’m going to tell you exactly what you want to hear.  How I can see him on top of me … oh, wait, the Dark Lord would probably want to get it from behind.  Or maybe use that little thing we found in the …”

“Michelle.”  

The word was a second warning, one that she happily ignored.  “Yeah, I bet it would be so good … the band leader … I wonder what he could do with those fingers.  A lot, I imagine.”

Inhaling deeply, Robert felt his shoulders tense.  “Last chance, love.”

“Last chance for what?” she spat, pushing him back.  “Christ, you’re really something.  This should have been a beautiful night, and here you are … totally fucking it up!  I’m kind of a sure thing, you know.”  She cocked her head.  “Although, you don’t deserve a fuck. You deserve a slap in the face.”

The rise and fall of her chest gave her away, and Robert could make out her taut nipples through the fabric of her dress.  His mouth coiled smugly.  “Would you like to give me one, then?”    

“Maybe so.”  The crack echoed through the room, the air growing electric as his lips extended their wicked curve.  Michelle swallowed as she sensed his arousal, slowly recognizing her own.  All he has to do is look at me.  The thought infuriated her as she studied him, following the line of his jaw and neck, his curls falling over his wide shoulders, his chest so broad.  He was the definition of a man.  And a conceited prick.  “Fuck you.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

* * *

Michelle quietly closed the bathroom door and padded toward the bed.  Robert was still sleeping, heavily by the look of it.  She took in the silhouette of his broad back, pausing on the dark little patch of fuzz dusting the lower part.  She caressed the spot, swiftly withdrawing her hand as the singer shifted.  He stilled, and she carefully slid into the sheets, continuing her tentative exploration.  His hair was fanned across the pillow, and she swept it away from his neck, revealing the tiny golden ringlets at the base of it.  She skimmed the tip of her finger across them, gracing each one with a light kiss.  She wondered how much of the night he would remember.  

The dream dissolved as Robert sensed a feather touch on the nape of his neck.  He recognized the feel of her lips and began to smile.  The smile morphed into a grimace at the riot in his head, and he turned to her, stretching mightily, relieved to find forgiveness in her eyes.  “Good morning.”

“Feeling some pain?” Michelle asked, brushing her hand across the pillow crease along the side of his face.

“I’ve been better,” he replied sheepishly, images of the evening flooding back to him.  Just desserts, probably merits worse than a hangover.  He pressed his palm to her cheek.  “I’m so sorry about last night.  I made a mess of everything.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”  He expelled a breath, rolling onto his side.  “I was a … Christ, it was complete shambles.”

“It wasn’t complete shambles, just maybe, um, partial shambles,” she teased, her mouth curving.

He traced her lower lip with his thumb.  “Oh, honey, I don’t know what’s in my mind. When I see you with other … well, I get a bit territorial, I guess.”

“Just a bit?  I’d say so.”  Michelle combed her fingers through the long tendrils that were tickling her face, marveling at the two sides of him.  A jealous git?  Yes.  But also so gentle and sweet.  And she had to admit there was a piece of her that relished the way he wanted her, the way he needed her.  “It makes you frisky.  I like that part.”

Robert chuckled, nuzzling her ear.  “Frisky?  Is that what you call it?”  He kissed her jaw, trailing his mouth down her neck.  “Then I can be frisky anytime you want.”

#mich and rob from a hundred years ago lol #he ends up getting comforted anon #don't you worry about that #😊😊