DRL Filler Episode: FT Elijah and Ozzy

Rain rolled softly against the tall apartment windows, turning the city outside into streaks of gold and blurred neon. Elijah’s living room carried the kind of warmth that only existed in places people actually lived in. Dakota’s toys sat abandoned near the television stand, a dinosaur plush half buried beneath hockey magazines and scattered D&D sheets, said child was spending the night at Shaquille’s place, just down the hall.

The scent of takeout and Elijah’s cedarwood cologne lingered in the air while some fantasy movie droned quietly in the background, forgotten hours ago.

Elijah sat comfortably against the couch cushions beside {{user}}, one large arm stretched lazily behind them. Glasses balanced on his nose while he spoke, voice low and animated as he rambled about some elaborate campaign arc involving cursed bloodlines and political betrayals between vampire clans.

He was deep into explaining why “emotional instability made the necromancer more compelling narratively” when the apartment door suddenly unlocked.

Not a knock. Not even a warning. Just the unmistakable sound of someone letting themselves in.

Ozzy walked inside like the apartment belonged to him.

Rain clung to the shoulders of his trench coat, white hair slightly damp beneath the red bandana tied around his forehead. He kicked the door shut behind him with his boot and immediately looked annoyed at the world for existing.

“Your hallway smells like wet dog and divorce,” he muttered while shrugging off his coat. “One of your neighbors definitely got murdered.”

Elijah barely glanced toward him. “Bonsoir, Ozzy.”

Ozzy narrowed his eyes immediately. “Don’t hit me with that fancy French shit. I’m already irritated.”

And that was the thing about Ozzy lately. He kept showing up.

No texts. No invitation. No reason half the time. Sometimes he came over after practice just to complain about management. Sometimes he wandered in at midnight to steal Elijah’s food and insult his movies. Sometimes he sat in silence for hours before leaving without explanation.

Nobody on the team understood it. Least of all Elijah.

Ozzy stepped around the couch before abruptly dropping himself directly between Elijah and {{user}}, sprawling across the middle cushion with enough force to jostle everyone slightly. He leaned back arrogantly, one arm stretched behind the couch as he looked at Elijah with a crooked grin that practically screamed go ahead. Say something.

It was childish. Territorial. Unclear whether it was for Elijah or {{user}}.

Bratty in the exact way Ozzy always became when he wanted attention but refused to ask for it normally.

Elijah finally looked at him fully and his expression never changed but something in that somehow made Ozzy’s confidence flicker. Ozzy worked off reactions, he push, someone reacted, he pushes harder until someone likely ended up hurt, that's how he worked.

Elijah wasn't giving him a reaction he was push on.

The room settled into silence for a moment. Rain tapping the glass. The television humming softly. Ozzy holding Elijah’s gaze like he was waiting for a fight.

Then Elijah tilted his head slightly.

“Do you want some knee pads?”

Ozzy blinked hard. Then he looked at {{user}} like they were going to explain the question. When they didn't, Ozzy looked back at Elijah. “What?”

“You look like you’re thinking about choking on my cock, holding eye contact so long like you were thinking of me naked” Elijah said calmly, voice smooth as velvet dragged over steel. “So I’m asking again. Do you want some knee pads?”

Ozzy’s entire face short-circuited.

The smug grin vanished instantly, replaced by pure, startled confusion. His mouth opened once. Closed again. A violent blush crawled up the length of his throat so fast it almost looked painful.

“The fuck kinda sentence was that?” he sputtered.

Elijah remained perfectly composed beside him, one arm still stretched on the the back of the couch since Ozzy’s arm was on the top of it while his eyes stayed fixed lazily on Ozzy’s face. Calm. Patient. Completely unfazed by the way Ozzy was suddenly unraveling beside him.

“You interrupted my time,” Elijah continued evenly. “Then sat between us like a jealous boyfriend.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” Ozzy shot back too quickly.

Elijah hummed softly. “Mm. Sure.”

Ozzy’s jaw tightened. “Don’t do that French thing where you act smug without sayin’ anything.”

“You become loud when embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“You are blushing very hard right now, Beau.”

Ozzy physically recoiled at the nickname, one hand immediately dragging over his mouth as though he could hide the color burning across his face. Mortification flashed openly through his expression now, tangled with irritation and something far more embarrassing underneath it that he didn't want to name for Elijah when rarely even name it for Mason. He looked trapped between wanting to argue and wanting to climb out of his own skin.

“You can’t just say insane shit like that,” Ozzy muttered. “Normal people don’t talk like that.”

Elijah finally shifted, it was subtle, but the entire atmosphere changed with it. He leaned slightly toward Ozzy, broad shoulders rolling forward as he lowered his voice just enough to force Ozzy’s attention onto him completely.

“You provoke people for fun,” Elijah said quietly. “You come into my apartment uninvited. You interrupt me constantly. You stare at me like you are trying to start problems.” His eyes flicked meaningfully over Ozzy’s flushed expression. “Then you panic when someone finally handles you correctly.”

Ozzy swallowed hard. That cocky posture he’d thrown himself into earlier was completely gone now. His shoulders had drawn tighter without him noticing, defensive tension replacing the arrogance almost instantly.

“Christ,” Ozzy muttered weakly, avoiding eye contact now. “You always this fuckin’ intense?”

“Yes.”

“That’s deeply unattractive.”

“You are still blushing.”

“Shut up.”

Elijah’s mouth twitched slightly.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Much cuter when you stop barking. Doesn't he look better when he's not talking and just taking, {{user}}?”

The apartment had grown darker, the amber light of dusk replaced by the low, moody glow of a single floor lamp. The air was thick with tension and the faint scent of leather and rope—Elijah’s private playroom adjacent to the living space had been put to use, its door now cracked just enough to let the scene bleed into the main room. Dakota, thankfully, was with Shaquille again, who didn't mind letting Dakota stay the night after Elijah said he had to ’talk grown up stuff with Uncle ozzy's.

In reality, Ozzy was bound.

Intricate black shibari ropes crisscrossed his pale, freckled torso in a beautiful, restrictive harness. His arms were secured behind his back, forcing his chest out, while his thighs were tied wide apart to a sturdy wooden chair positioned directly in front of the sectional couch.

The ropes bit hard into his skin with every frustrated shift of his muscular frame. His white hair was messy, strands clinging to his damp forehead, heterochromatic eyes blazing with humiliated fury and unwanted arousal. His dick stood painfully hard and leaking against his stomach, throbbing pathetically at the neglect it's gone through.

Elijah sat like a king on the couch, legs spread wide in nothing but a pair of low-slung black joggers. His long brown hair was now tied in a high, messy bun, glasses removed to reveal sharp, brown eyes. A small, amused smirk settled in his face as he held {{user}} securely in his lap, one large hand possessively cupping their thigh while the other stroked slow, lazy circles along their hip. His own cock's been pressed hard against {{user}} through the thin fabric since they got here.

“You’ve been such a fucking brat all week, Ozzy,” Elijah murmured, his accent turning the words into a velvet threat. “Walking into my home uninvited. Sitting between me and what’s mine. Testing me like a spoiled little boy who doesn’t know what happens when someone finally snaps.”

Ozzy snarled, tugging uselessly at the ropes, his face burning crimson. “Fuck you, Mercer. untie me right fucking now, you oversized French prick—”

Elijah’s laugh was low and dangerous. He leaned forward slightly, one hand still holding {{user}} close, and dragged the pad of his thumb along Ozzy’s leaking slit, his smirk just growing wider when Ozzy shuddered visibly, his back arching off the chair with a moan Ozzy will absolutely feel embarrassed about later.

Elijah’s voice dropped deeper, darker. “Look at you. Cock dripping like a needy whore while I hold someone else in my lap. Does it burn, Ozzy? Knowing I could fuck {{user}} right here, right now, and make you watch every inch disappear while you leak all over yourself?”

Ozzy’s breath hitched, his mismatched eyes flicking wildly between Elijah’s calm, merciless face and the way {{user}} was nestled so perfectly against the Frenchman’s body. His hips jerked involuntarily, cock twitching hard in the cool air, but the ropes kept him firmly in place.

Elijah reached out again, wrapping his large hand around Ozzy’s throbbing length in a painfully slow stroke—once, twice—then stopped completely just as Ozzy’s hips tried to chase the friction.

“Non. Not yet,” Elijah said softly, almost tenderly, his accent wrapping around the denial like silk. “You don’t get to cum until I decide your attitude has been fucked out of you. Maybe I’ll edge this pretty cock until you’re crying and begging in that stupid little accent of yours, ‘Please, Elo, please let me cum like a good boy.’”

“Shut the fuck up—” Ozzy growled, but his voice cracked, flushed cheeks burning hotter as another thick drop of precum rolled down his shaft. He was painfully hard, balls tight, every muscle in his bound body trembling with frustration and overwhelming need he hated Elijah for bringing out.

The ropes creaked as he strained, freckled chest heaving, the faint white strands in his hair sticking to sweat-slicked skin.

Elijah simply smiled, that soft nerdy exterior completely gone. He pulled {{user}} closer against his chest, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to their neck while his free hand returned to Ozzy—stroking him with perfect, torturous rhythm, squeezing at the head, then stopping again the second Ozzy’s breathing grew ragged.

“Such a beautiful mess,” Elijah purred, eyes locked on Ozzy’s humiliated, desperate expression. “All tied up and dripping for me while I enjoy what’s mine. Could keep you like this...or maybe I should put him out of his misery..”

He looked at {{user}} on his lap, “what do you think?”