#the twirling of the cables around his finger

[bunny-carrothunter]

LOOK GARY THERE I AM

Junk on the Internet

<<< part 1 / part 2 / part 3

------------------ 🕴I'm not really used to working with lineart anymore, so this took me a while, As I said, I tried to do something more decent, But I think that after doing this and practicing, finally when I do the fourth part I will do something with the quality that these comics deserve.

[ijustwannabecool]

Media Day Mayhem

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

Summary... What should’ve been a simple twenty-minute press conference turns into full-blown chaos when Charles brings the kids along—and then the kids get their own turn behind the mic.

Warnings: Pure fluff, kid chaos, dad!Charles, teasing, swearing mentioned by children (in French), banter, major secondhand embarrassment

A/N: you guys... the way I had too much fun writing this! I hope you guys enjoy this little story. I would love to actually see a moment like this in the future maybe. That would be iconic. I hope you guys enjoy it. Please let me know what you guys wanna see next!!

If you loved this story and want to support more F1 fics and soft chaos like this, feel free to buy me a matcha 🍵 or reblog/comment to share the love!

As always—happy reading, and have a beautiful day today

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy :)

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

The press conference was supposed to last twenty minutes. Just a few pre-weekend questions before FP1, some sponsor shoutouts, and a bit of media fluff. Charles had done this a hundred times. Easy.

What he hadn’t done a hundred times was a press conference with all three of his children clinging to him like magnets to a fridge.

“Mila, baby, don’t twist that,” Charles says quietly into his mic, gently removing his daughter’s hand from the cord running down his chest. She’s seated sideways on his lap, twirling the cable like it’s spaghetti. His twin boys, Luca and Jules, are squished on either side of him on the small bench Ferrari provided — all three with messy chestnut curls identical to their father’s.

“Charles, you’ve had a strong start to the season. What would you attribute that to?” a reporter asks.

Charles smiles, glancing down quickly at Luca, who’s trying to sneakily remove one of his shoes.

“Uh—consistency, for sure. And a lot of work with the team during the off-season,” he answers, his voice smooth despite the circus unfolding around him.

“I want to talk!” Jules blurts out, grabbing at the microphone in front of his dad. “I’m fast too!”

“You are very fast,” Charles replies automatically, pressing a quick kiss to his son’s temple as reporters chuckle.

“I beat Mila in the hallway!” Jules announces proudly.

“You cheated!” Mila screeches.

Charles coughs to cover his laugh. “Okay, okay, let’s not yell, we are live on camera, darlings.”

Another journalist attempts to move things along. “Charles, what’s your mindset going into qualifying tomorrow?”

Before he can answer, Luca pipes up: “Papa said the car was ‘a pain in the—’”

Charles snaps his fingers in front of him. “Luca! What did we say about telling secrets?”

Jules leans toward the mic. “Mummy says we can’t say ‘merde’ either.”

Charles hides his face with his hand for a beat as the media room loses it with laughter.

From the wings, you — Y/N — shake your head, arms crossed but clearly amused. Charles glances over at you like please come rescue me, but you're already motioning for the boys to come to you.

“Alright, boys, go with Maman,” Charles says, ushering them off the bench.

“Can we get snacks now?” Mila asks, hopping down and walking backwards toward you.

“Only if you stop tattletelling,” Charles replies sternly.

Jules makes a face as you crouch and hold their hands on either side of you, whispering something that makes them all go quiet and pouty at the same time.

Charles watches for a second longer than he means to—how you always manage to calm them down like magic—before turning back to the mic.

“Apologies. Where were we?”

“Honestly?” one of the reporters grins. “This is better than Drive to Survive.”

Charles laughs. “Welcome to my real full-time job.”

As he tries to finish the final question, he feels a small tug at his pants. Mila has snuck back on stage with her stuffed bunny.

“I forgot Bun-Bun,” she whispers.

He grabs it quickly and hands it to her with a gentle ruffle to her hair. “Okay, allez, go sit with Maman now.”

She nods seriously, then skips off.

Charles clears his throat. “Anyway—thank you all. I think I’m going to go find a quiet corner to cry in now.”

The media room erupts into chuckles again as Charles walks off, applesauce pouch tucked in one hand, baby wipes in the other, and you waiting with a knowing smirk and two giggling little boys tugging at your sleeves.

Charles barely made it three meters off the stage before Mila tugged on his sleeve and declared, “It’s our turn now.” He blinked, confused, until he spotted the row of miniature chairs being set up at the front of the room—and the Ferrari PR team, looking far too pleased with themselves as they waved the kids forward like VIP guests. Jules had already climbed onto one of the seats, Luca was dragging a juice box across the floor like it was part of his media kit, and Mila marched toward the microphone like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. Charles stared for a beat, caught between horror and awe.

This was not on the schedule, he thought, eyes narrowing. Whose idea was this? Did Y/N sign off on this? Is this revenge for the broken espresso machine?

He looked toward you for backup, but you were already leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smirking like you’d known this was coming all along. When you caught his eye, you shrugged playfully and whispered, “You survived your press conference. Good luck surviving theirs.”

Charles let out a breath, resigned, and folded his arms across his chest. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered under his breath, watching his children take the stage with terrifying confidence.

Ferrari may build the fastest cars in the world, but nothing moves quicker than my own kids when there’s a microphone involved.

The Ferrari media tent is buzzing with cameras, press badges, and a surprising amount of juice boxes.

——

A journalist clears their throat. “Alright… first question for Mila. What’s it like having a Formula One driver as a papa?”

Mila: “Loud.” Jules: “Fast.” Luca: “Sweaty.”

Everyone bursts into laughter. Mila shrugs. “He yells a lot on the radio. I don’t think he knows we can hear it sometimes.”

Charles covers his face with both hands.

Another reporter tries to keep a straight face. “Jules, if you were in charge of Ferrari, what would you change first?”

Jules (serious): “Make the cars green.”

Luca: “And add rocket launchers!”

Charles chokes.

Mila (disapproving): “That’s not safe. I’d make the suits pink and add glitter so they sparkle on TV.”

Reporter: “What do you think Papa says the most on race day?”

Jules: “Merde.”

Mila: “No! He says ‘focus.’ And ‘where’s my drink?’” Luca: “And ‘WHY ARE THE TYRES GONE?!’”

The room is losing it. Charles is whispering something to Y/N, who is fully crying from laughter.

A hand goes up from a British reporter. “Luca, if you won a race, what would be the first thing you'd do?”

Luca (without hesitation): “Call my mumma.”

Everyone collectively awws—until he adds:

Luca: “And then eat a chocolate croissant the size of my head.”

Mila (muttering): “That already happened.”

Reporter: “Jules, do you like watching the races?”

Jules: “Only the start. Then I get bored and play Hot Wheels.”

Mila: “I watch the whole thing. I have a clipboard and give Papa scores.”

Luca: “She gave him a 6 last time and he almost won.”

Mila: “He messed up the overtake.”

Charles looks wounded.

Final question from a German journalist: “Mila, what advice would you give your Papa before his next race?”

Mila leans into the mic like a pro.

Mila: “Be brave. Go fast. And don’t cuss if the tires fall off.”

Everyone in the room breaks into applause as Charles walks forward, scooping Luca into his arms while Mila and Jules are immediately surrounded by press taking photos and asking for high fives.

Y/N slips a hand into Charles’, her smile wide. “They handled that better than you did.”

Charles grins, eyes still on his little trio. “They’re natural born media drivers.”

——

Back at the hotel that evening, Charles was flat on his back on the couch, eyes closed, two juice box wrappers on his chest. You were sitting cross-legged beside him, flicking through the photos already going viral online—Mila adjusting her mic like a pro, Jules midair off the chair, Luca holding up fingers like he was flashing a gang sign.

“Next time,” Charles murmured, eyes still shut, “we tell them I only have one child. Maybe two, max.”

You smiled, brushing curls from his forehead. “Sure, baby. But admit it… they kind of stole the show.”

He cracked an eye open, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m not even mad.”

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

[levanswrites]

Call me crazy, hold me down

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

summary: you met ransom in college, working as harlan's intern. when he sees you again 10 years later, this time with an engagement ring on your hand, he’s hell-bent on finding out more. he's always had a way of getting under your skin, but this time, it’s different. times have changed—and so have you.

warnings: 18+ SMUT, power play, implied cheating, jealousy, history of FWB, degradation, light breath play, fingering, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, slight age difference, canon divergence, porn w/ plot, plot twists

word count: 3.4k

“Ransom? Ransom Drysdale?”

With a velvety swoosh of his overcoat, he turns to face you, sharp blue eyes landing on yours.

Standing in the gilded glow of the country club, Ransom Drysdale wore tradition like a second skin—rich cashmere sweater, perfectly tailored chinos, and the kind of bone-deep confidence that only old money could bestow.

Yet he wore it all with a touch of recklessness, a lazy defiance that set him apart even as he fit right in.

The burgundy scarf draped around his neck—a vibrant, unruly splash against the muted palette of the room.

And, of course, the Gucci loafers. 

With the heels stamped down flat and soles scuffed to oblivion, they made it clear that, among the desperate sea of elites clinging to pedigree, Ransom was both one of them, and something entirely another.

Soft, pink lips part, exhaling your name. 

“Shit.” The incredulity in his eyes replaced just as quickly with an unmistakable hunger, raking over your frame with no remote attempt at decency or subtlety. But then again, neither had ever been his style.

“…is that really you, Sunshine?”

Sunshine. As soon as the nickname glides off his tongue, a memory flashes into your mind - the shock of cold metal against your bare skin, warm hands gripped around your hips as they hoist you up onto a library cart, rucking up the hem of your yellow sundress. 

You blink in quick succession, chasing the thought away. 

“In the flesh.” You nod, flashing him an innocent smile. 

Head cocked in disbelief, he steps in, arms outstretched for a hug. His palm skims your lower back, the other cradling a glass of whiskey.

A heavy whiff of cologne envelops you, that familiar scent of rich vanilla and cedarwood, and it’s all the confirmation you need to know that nothing has changed.

Harvard class of ’11 and '15, side-by-side members of Phi Beta Kappa honor society. 

You’d earned it through countless late nights and waitressing shifts, scrimping and saving just to make ends meet. And him? Well, a shiny new literature building bearing the Thrombey name may have tipped the scales.

For a moment, you let your nose brush against the soft fabric of his cable-knit sweater, whiter than the streaks of cocaine that marked his habits at Harvard’s exclusive club meetings.

As you start to pull back, you catch a flash of your reflection in his aviators, hanging from his collar—a spitting image of the Hamptons elite, you know you’ve never looked better. 

Knows he knows it too, evident in the way his fingers linger over your arm as he pulls back. 

“Whatcha been up to?”  

“Oh, you know, just making ends meet.”

 You sigh, twirling your fingers around the empty glass in your hand. 

“…how’s Harlan doing?”

Hand-picked by the infamous novelist for a summer internship your freshman year, it was Harlan who had introduced you to his other intern. Ransom was a senior then, neither grateful nor interested in the opportunity you had to fight tooth and nail for. 

“Well, old man hasn’t kicked it yet.” 

Ransom sighs, shoulders sagging with an undeniable air of annoyance as his hand leaves your side, stepping back to down sixty dollars worth of whiskey in one go. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, eyes wandering down to the empty martini glass by your hip. He glances back up, licking his lips and pointing a signet ring-clad finger in your direction. 

“Espresso?”

You shake your head, eyes darting down to your glass. 

“Vodka.”

He chuckles, nodding his head.

“Of course. Classic.”

You don’t dwell on his words, nor the suggestive wink he shoots your way as he heads in the direction of the bar, about to fetch you both another round.

You wince, reaching forward to stop him in his tracks.

“Oh no, Ran, you don’t have to.”

With a raised brow, his gaze drops to where your hand rests on his forearm. You pull your hand back abruptly, as if singed by his stare. 

A flicker of something possessive crosses his features, new interest lighting up his eyes. 

Jaw unclenching as he settles on that familiar smirk, though it’s a little stiffer this time. 

He raises his chin, cocking his head to the side, and the bridge of his nose catches the lighting of the overhead chandelier. 

A small twitch in his brow as he murmurs:

“Married, huh?”

You nod softly, pursing your lips as you glance down at the glistening stone on your ring finger. 

“Engaged.”

“Huh.” He murmurs, blinking.

His gaze falters for a moment before they find yours again. Eyes narrowed as he leans in, voice dropping two pegs:

“You know, between us, I always thought I’d be the one to get married first.”

You let out a soft laugh, amusement lighting up your eyes.

“Meaning you thought I’d never get married.”

He shrugs, mirroring the smile on your face.

“Can you blame me? I mean let’s face it…”

Lips inches away from yours, a devilish grin splitting his face wide open. 

“….neither of us were really the marriage type.”

And your heart skips a beat, a raw memory edging its way into your mind.

Coarse upholstery scraping against your cheek, the quiet creaks of wooden furniture ringing across the dorm common room—he’s got you bent over a worn-out couch, holding you down by the neck as he sneers in your ear. 

‘Does your little boyfriend fuck you like this?’

You blink slowly, raising your brows with a quiet breath. 

“That was over 10 years ago, Ransom. I’ve changed.”

He chuckles loudly, head cocking in a silent challenge.

“Is that right?” 

Leans in even closer to your ear, close enough to feel his warm, whiskey-soaked breath.

“Because by the way you’ve been staring at my lips, I’d disagree.” 

Pink lips curl around a set of bright, sharp teeth as he grins, the edges of his wool coat dancing around your frame.

You freeze, breath hitching in your throat as he leans down, his lips grazing your ear and leaving a searing mark—like the red-hot tip of a cigarette against your skin.

“…tell me, Sunshine, you think you can keep your hands off me all night?” 

“Who is it?”

“Hmm?” You mumble, mind half gone from the way his hands were gripping your hips, ass pressed against the cold marble of the bathroom sink as he rucks your tennis skirt around your waist.

The scent of expensive liquor and mint fill your senses as he grumbles against your pulse point, voice coarse and low. 

“That schmuck you’re marrying.”

He pulls back from the space below your jaw and in the split second your eyes meet his—a viridescent streak of emerald amidst all that smug blue. And you know.

An electric jolt rips through your stomach, equal parts thrill and disbelief, and you throw your head back, letting out an incredulous laugh.

“Drysdale, are you seriously jealous?”

He scoffs, but his hand tightens around the swell of your hips, his ring digging into the soft flesh. Suddenly yanks you to the edge of the marble counter as you gasp, grasping at his sweater-clad chest for balance. 

“You really think I’m the jealous type, Sunshine?” he murmurs, nose brushing against yours as he splays his hand over your exposed knee, warming up the skin. 

Then, with deliberate slowness, drags the blunt tips of his nails up the inside of your thigh, making you visibly shudder.

“Still a fan of that move, huh?” He grins, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

Ignoring your half-assed attempts to push him away, he continues to trail his fingers upward until they find their way to your core, thumbing the outline of your sex through the damp fabric of your panties.

“…so who is he?” He taunts, gripping you in closer, lips pressed against the corner of your mouth. 

“Ransom…” you murmur, scalding under his hungry gaze as it swallows your every reaction—a sarcastic eye roll turning into a genuine show of pleasure once he shoves the flimsy lace to the side, fingertips dipping in between your folds.  

And although you had no plans of humoring his question, Ransom’s other hand flies up to clasp over your mouth, trapping the pathetic whimpers slipping off your tongue.

He shakes his head feverishly, crooning into your ear:

“Shh, wait, wait, you know what? Lemme guess.”  

You only let out a muffled groan in response, eyes rolling back into your head at the way two of his thick fingers enter your sopping cunt, agonizingly slow. 

“Let’s see… does he have a J.D.? 5 years at daddy’s law firm, promoted to senior partner before you could say nepo baby?” 

His fingertips find that plush spot deep inside you and you gasp, his palm muffling broken syllables of his name. His hand clasps tighter against your mouth, wholly ignoring you as you claw at his wrist:

“.. or, or, Wallstreet, maybe? You living out your dreams of being a little trophy wife, sweetheart?”

Pulls out only to add a third finger, shoving his hand deeper between your legs, forcing your knees further apart. You groan at the added stretch and he only smirks, continuing to pump his fingers in and out while ignoring your desperate gaze. 

“Ok, and this might be my personal favorite….” 

A feral flash of teeth as he grins, curling his fingers upward. You can't help but arch your back, your gasp still muffled by his hand over your mouth. 

“…is he one of those self-made, go-getter types? Daddy ditched mommy without a dime so he had to scholarship his way through some shitty state college?”

Faster now, dragging his palm against your clit, hand soaked with your arousal.

“Turned his life around with dedication and work ethic. Is that what you’re telling yourself, Sunshine?”

Eyes squeezed shut, you cling onto the fabric of his coat for dear life as his fingers stroke your g-spot over and over. 

“So what’s it gonna be, sweetheart? Bachelor number 1, 2, or 3?” 

He whispers, releasing his grip from around your mouth as you gasp for air, his now-free hand dropping down to his belt buckle. 

“F-fuck you, Ransom, He’s…ah, shit—“ 

A clink of designer metal is all the warning you get before he’s burying himself in you, replacing his fingers with the head of his fat cock. The words dissolve on your tongue as he pushes inside at a glacial pace, prolonging the ache of the stretch. Drags it out just as slowly, delivering a sharp slap against your clit, before sinking back in. 

Your eyes flutter shut at the obscenity of it all, the shameless lick of his lips as he smirks at your obvious embarrassment. 

“Fuck, look at you.” He murmurs to himself as he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you in for a searing kiss, his tongue pushing past your teeth as he sets out on a relentless rhythm.

Pulls back with a wet smack to raise his free hand up to your mouth, coated thoroughly with your slick. Pushes three fingers past your lips, thrusting them down your throat, deep enough to make you gag. Your eyes roll back, clenching around his cock as you arch your back, sucking feverishly. 

“That’s it, show me how much you want it.”

And with his fingers still shoved down your throat, he smirks, tugging your head down to meet his gaze.

“Bet he doesn’t fuck you this good, huh?”

The glare you manage to give him as you gurgle around his fingers is just the edge he needs, letting out a loud groan as he snaps his hips into you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin ringing across the bathroom tiles. 

Your climax arrives with a strangled cry as your eyes squeeze shut, legs trembling as waves of ecstasy crash over you, your core spasming around his cock. 

While you struggle to catch your breath, Ransom’s thrusts become erratic, grunts growing deeper in an all-too-familiar way. He pulls out with a shudder, guiding your left hand between your thighs to wrap around his slick cock. The engagement ring glints under the dim lighting as you stroke him in quick, firm pulses. Ransom hisses, eyes zeroing in on the hand wrapped around him as he finishes with a throaty groan, streaking your inner thigh with his release.  

A soft jangle of his belt as he slides the buckle into place, while you carefully slide off the marble surface, steadying yourself. 

“You still haven’t answered my question, Sunshine. Don’t I deserve to know what kind of loser managed to tie you down?” 

You’re still breathing heavy, light-headed and buzzing, yet you manage to choke out:

“… fuck off, Drysdale, he’s a bigger man than you’ll ever be.”

He lets out a sharp laugh, hand flying up to grab your chin, smearing spit and remnants of your arousal over your lips. 

Gives you a bruising kiss, teeth and all, just because he can.

Pulls back with a wet smack, flashing you a smirk that chills you to the bone.

“Yeah? Is that why I just fucked his fiancée in a country club bathroom?”

Three days later...

“Ransom Drysdale, you’re under arrest for attempted murder of the first degree. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot—“

Ransom’s sharp chuckle interrupts the arresting officer mid-sentence. His gaze snaps over to you, standing in the corner of the living room, arms crossed and watching intently. 

He barks out your name, laced with disdain. 

“You’re a cop? You gotta be shitting me.”

You take slow, deliberate steps toward him as the officer finishes reciting his Miranda rights, yanking Ransom’s balled-up fists into a set of cuffs. Ransom’s not foolish enough to resist, but he squares his shoulders, holding his ground as you approach him. When you’re close enough, he leans in, his voice dropping to a low growl, face inches from yours.

“You slut.” He spits, all nine circles of Hell swirling in his eyes. “You think you can fuck me over like this and get away with it?” 

He huffs out a breath, nostrils flaring. Glances up past your shoulder at Benoit Blanc, standing in the archway of the foyer.

“… this isn’t over. I’ll see all your asses in court. You hear me?”

You tilt your head, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as you glance black at the arresting officer, silently signaling for one last moment. 

“You know, it’s so funny you mention that, Ransom.”

Crimson lips raised into sharp peaks as you smile, taking another step forward.

“Can I share a secret?” You lean in, voice barely a whisper.

“Guess who’s leading the prosecution on your trial?”

You watch as his scowl falters, a flicker of confusion that douses the fire in his gaze.

4 years of shitty undergrad, putting up with entitled assholes like Ransom Drysdale, all so you could graduate at the top of your class and land a full ride to Yale Law. Youngest prosecutor in the state of Massachusetts to hold the title of Attorney General, just freshly appointed last week, and with a perfect record to boot.

Just one look at your first case—a claim filed by Harlan’s home care nurse who suspected foul play, that someone had switched the labels on her med vials, nearly forcing her to administer a fatal dosage—and you knew who had dunnit. 

Pulled a few strings to get on the shortlist for the exclusive country club that Ransom frequented, and a flash of your left hand plus a couple drinks back at his place was all it took. 

Inebriated from the whiskey and drunk off his arrogance—anything for his sweet, innocent ray of sunshine, lapping up tales of his grandiose plans with wide-eyed admiration.

How he had swapped the labels, how he managed to cover his tracks. 

How a damn Brazilian nurse foiled it all with her selfless resolve, getting Harlan to the ER even after administering the correct medication. 

It was everything you needed to build a complete case against him.   

You living out your dreams of being a little trophy wife, sweetheart?

Eat shit, Drysdale.

“So what.” Ransom spits, rolling his eyes, but the mask slips just another inch further.

“You don’t think my lawyers can get me out of this? It’s attempted murder, for fucks sake.”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” You step in closer, cocking your head to the side.

“You know, Ran, first-degree attempted murder is punishable for life in prison in Massachusetts.”

Even closer now, his face just inches from yours, breath hot and jagged against your lips. 

“Hire all the fucking lawyers you want — I don’t lose, asshole.”

A silence that feels like forever as his eyes dart furiously between yours, nostrils flaring.

And when he fails to find the familiar submission in your eyes, his smug, devil-may-care bravado is broken with a quick twitch in his brow—a brief flicker of realization, concealed just as quickly under a mask of rage. He lunges forward, looking just about ready to break out of his cuffs and wring both his hands around your neck. The officer yanks back on his arms in warning.

You don’t so much as flinch.

“You vile. fucking. bitch.” He hisses, gritting through his teeth.

“Hmm, takes one to know one.”

You smile, promptly stepping back as the arresting officer hauls Ransom away. 

“You slut! I’m gonna ruin your life, you hear me?” The sound of jangling metal cuffs rings out in the foyer as he’s dragged out of his grandfather's estate, past Blanc who simply sidesteps Ransom’s loud tirade.

“… get the fuck off me!”

“See you in court, Mr. Drysdale!”

You call, waving from the front door of the Thrombey mansion, watching the outline of Ransom’s designer sweater get shoved unceremoniously into the back of a police vehicle. 

Through the tinted windows of the back seat, you catch the glimpse of a man stripped of his mask, a ghost from your past, face twisted in fury and defeat.

“Miss, didn’t nobody tell you that gloatin’s in poor taste?”

A low, southern drawl croons from beside you. 

You flash a smile at Benoit Blanc, who’s watching the police car pull out of the driveway behind a lit cigar, an equally satisfied expression on his face.

“Oh, I think a little gloating may be warranted.”

"Ya know... the way you’ve pieced this all together is mighty impressive. You sure I can't convince you of a career as a private investigator?”

You laugh, watching the police car disappear through the dense woods.

“That’s kind of you, detective, but the courtroom’s where I belong.”

You purse your lips, thumb absentmindedly rubbing against the band on your ring finger. 

“Plus, I… may have cheated my way in a little with this one.”

Blanc shrugs, smiling around his cigar.

“I figured as much, seeing as how you and Mr. Drysdale were on a first-name basis.”

You let out a small sigh, turning to face Blanc as you extend a hand. 

“It’s been a pleasure, detective. Couldn’t have done it without your insight.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine.”

Cigar hanging from his lips, Blanc shakes your hand with a firm grip, before the shiny stone on your finger catches his eye, glinting in the afternoon sun. 

“…that’s a nice ring you got there, ma’am. Must be a lucky fella.”

He flashes you a wink, and you have to fight the urge to smile, realizing why this strange character of a man was heralded as the world’s greatest P.I. 

After Blanc leaves you with a tip of his hat, you take a few steps out into the sprawling yard of the Thrombey mansion, turning around to take in the full view of the estate. 

‘Playing life like a game without consequence…’ 

Harlan’s words echo in your head—one of the many nights you’d stayed over late, helping him finalize manuscripts while Ransom was out partying. 

‘….untill you can't tell the difference between a stage prop and a real knife.’

Lucky you that Ransom couldn’t tell 10-dollar cubic zirconia from a real diamond, either. 

After taking one final glance at the estate, you start your descent down the hill of the Thrombey estate, twisting the ring off your finger and tossing it into the dense shrubbery where it vanishes from view.

“So long, Drysdale.”

A/N: so uhm... this might be the filthiest thing I've ever written? hope you enjoyed the little reveals in the story, had to stay true to the og genre. title credit to fiona apple

[mattsghoul]

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ SUB!CHRATT DRABBLE ... ( 𝒊 )

SUMMARY ˙ ♱◞ where matt interrupts your lazy evening with chris, ──── and alternatively, in which you fuck both of them at the same time.

𝖥𝖤𝖠𝖳𝖴𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖦 chris and matt sturniolo x fem reader ⋅ 𝖶𝖮𝖱𝖣 𝖢𝖮𝖴𝖭𝖳 2.596 words ⋅ 𝖢𝖮𝖭𝖳𝖤𝖭𝖳𝖲 power dynamics, double penetration, praise, explicit smut, threesome ⋅ TAGLIST REQUESTS

ㅤ⊂⊃ ( mak.says ) ﹐⇅ read warnings before proceeding! enjoy my first chratt fic that i couldn't proofread because i'm feeling extremely lazy.

the heat was oppressive, a sticky weight that seeped into chris’s bedroom, the air thick with the scent of sweat and fading body spray.

the room was a chaotic snapshot of his chaotic life—empty pepsi cans teetered on the dresser, a skateboard propped against a wall littered with fanmade stickers, and a tangled mess of charging cables spilled onto the floor. the blinds were slanted, letting in jagged slivers of late afternoon sun that painted the unmade bed in gold and shadow.

the tv blared fast & furious 7, vin diesel’s voice a distant rumble, drowned out by chris’s bright, hyperactive laughter. he was sprawled across the mattress, his lean frame sunk into the pillows, one arm slung around y/n’s shoulders, his fingers twirling a strand of her hair with restless energy. his tee was rucked up, exposing a sliver of his stomach, basketball shorts slung low, the waistband of his boxers peeking out. his grin was full of charm, blue eyes sparkling with playfulness as he leaned into her, his breath hot against her ear.

“i’m tellin’ ya, i’d smoke dom in a street race,” he teased, his voice sweet, his lips grazing her jaw, sending a shiver down her spine.

y/n, propped against a pile of mismatched pillows, smirked, her cropped tank top clinging to her sweat-slick skin, her denim shorts unbuttoned, revealing the soft skin of her lower belly. her thighs were bare, glistening faintly, her dominance a quiet, unshakable force that made the room hum with tension.

“you’d crash before the first turn,” she shot back, her voice low, sultry, her nails scraping up his thigh, catching on the rough fabric of his shorts. chris giggled, his body buzzing with eagerness, his hand squeezing her shoulder, his eyes begging for her next move.

the door slammed open, and matt stormed in, the distinctive black balenciaga hoodie zipped tight, dark hair a mess and expression twisted in a jealous scowl.

everyone assumed matt was chris’s polar opposite—whiny, grumpy, lazy, and radiating defiance. “what the fuck’s this shit?” he snapped, arms crossed, leaning against the dresser, his voice sharp with envy. “you two just gonna fuck around all day and act like i’m invisible? i’m right here, dumbasses.” his eyes flicked to y/n, needy beneath the bravado, a submissive side clawing through, desperate for her attention, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for her.

chris tossed a stray sock, missing by a foot. “dude, relax, it’s just movies,” he said, his voice bright, teasing, his fingers trailing down y/n’s arm, competitive and possessive. “stop throwing a tantrum and join us, you big baby.”

“fuck you, chris,” matt growled, but he didn’t leave, slumping onto the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. he kicked off his sneakers, his loose sweats shifting, his body tense as he leaned against the headboard, eyes locked on y/n, his jealousy raw and unfiltered.

y/n’s lips curled into a wicked smile, her eyes narrowing as she sat up, her tank top slipping to reveal the edge of her bra. “matt, you jealous?” she asked, her voice smooth, cutting, her assertiveness snapping the room into focus. “barging in here acting all tough, but you’re just dying for me to look at you, aren’t you?”

matt’s cheeks flushed, his fingers fidgeting with his hoodie’s drawstring, his scowl faltering. “i ain’t jealous,” he muttered, his voice low, petulant, but his body leaned toward her, cock already twitching in his sweats, a faint bulge forming. “just… fuckin’ sick of being ignored.”

chris snickered, scooting closer, his hand sliding up y/n’s back, teasing her bra strap. “he’s so jealous,” he whispered, his voice sweet, his lips grazing her neck, his playful energy dialed up. “c’mon, throw him a bone. he’s gonna cry.”

“shut up,” matt snapped, but his voice softened, his submissiveness peeking through as y/n crawled toward him, her hand gripping his thigh, her nails digging into the fabric. matt’s breath hitched, his defiance crumbling, cock hardening fully, pressing against his sweats.

“both of you, stop,” y/n said, her voice firm with absolute dominance, the air crackling. she straddled matt’s lap, her thighs bracketing his, hands yanking the hoodie up, exposing his soft chest, his skin warm and flushed. “you want me, matt? stop whining and earn it.” her nails raked down his torso, leaving faint red trails, and matt groaned, his head tipping back, pink lips parting in a whiny moan.

“fuck, y/n, don’t tease,” he whined, his voice high, argumentative, his hands grabbing her hips, his cock throbbing against her thighs while chris pressed against her side, his hands roaming her back, lips kissing her shoulder, his sweet, needy moans soft in her ear.

“what about me, babe?” chris purred, his voice playful, his fingers tugging her tank top, cock straining through his shorts. “i’m being so good, right?”

y/n turned, kissing him hard, her tongue claiming his mouth, swallowing his needy moan, her hand stroking his cheek. “you’re always good, chris,” she murmured, her voice a mix of praise and control, pulling back to focus on matt, her hand sliding into his sweats, gripping his cock, stroking slow and deliberate. matt’s moan was raw, his hips bucking, his grumpy facade shattering. “but matt needs to learn.”

“fuck that,” matt muttered, but his voice broke, his body arching into her touch, his eyes glassy with need. “y/n, please, just—fuck, touch me.”

“clothes off,” she said, her voice a command, sliding off matt to stand at the bed’s edge, her eyes raking over them. chris scrambled to obey, tugging off his shirt, shorts, and boxers, his cock thick and leaking, his body buzzing with eager submission. matt was slower, lazy, grumbling as he shoved off his hoodie and sweats, his cock heavy, the tip red and slick, his expression a mix of annoyance and desperation.

y/n stripped her tank top, shorts, and bra, leaving her in lace panties, her skin glistening with sweat, her curves a magnet for their eyes. chris moaned softly, his hand twitching toward his cock, but she slapped it away, her voice sharp. “no touching yourself,” she said, climbing onto the bed, kneeling between them. “you’re both mine to play with.”

she started with matt, her lips wrapping around his cock, sucking deep and slow, her tongue swirling over the vein, her hand pumping the base. matt groaned, loud and whiny, his hands fisting the sheets, his hips bucking. “fuck, y/n, yes, please, more,” he babbled, his voice breaking, his defiance gone, his body trembling. she hummed, the vibration making him sob, his cock throbbing in her mouth.

chris watched, his hand hovering near his own cock, his eyes wide, his lips parted. “fuck, that’s hot,” he whispered, his voice sweet, his fingers brushing y/n’s thigh, gentle, adoring.

she pulled off matt, her hand still stroking him, and turned to chris, sucking him deep, her pace wet and sloppy while her lips stretched around his girth. chris whined, hands in her hair, his hips twitching. “god, y/n, you’re fuckin’ perfect,” he panted, his playful energy melting into submission.

she alternated, her mouth and hands relentless, matt’s groans mixing with chris’s high-pitched, frantic moans, the room heavy with sweat, sex, and the creak of the mattress. “y/n, i’m gonna cum,” matt whined, his body tensing, but she pulled off, squeezing his base, denying him.

“not yet,” she said, her voice a low growl, her eyes locking on his, watching him squirm.

she turned to chris, straddling him, sinking onto his cock with a moan, her walls tight and slick, her hips rolling slow, deliberate. chris’s hands grabbed her waist, his moans high and sweet, his eyes rolling back. “fuck, babe, you feel so good,” he slurred, his flirtatious charm dissolving into incoherent praise.

matt watched, his hand jerking his own cock, his whines louder. “y/n, c’mon, don’t leave me out,” he groaned, his voice petulant, his cock leaking onto his stomach. she leaned over, kissing him hard, her tongue silencing his complaints, her teeth grazing his lip as she rode chris, the wet slap of their bodies filling the room.

“you’re not left out,” she said, pulling back, her hands pinning chris’s wrists, her hips slamming down, driving him wild.

chris came with a cry, his body convulsing, his cum hot inside her, his moans turning to whimpers as she rode him through it. “good boy,” she whispered, kissing his sweaty forehead, sliding off him, leaving him panting, sated, his grin sloppy.

she turned to matt, dominance peaking, her eyes dark with intent. “you want me, matt? you’re gonna get all of me,” she said, her voice a purr, her hands guiding him to sit up, his back against the headboard, his cock still hard, slick with her spit. she straddled him, facing him, sinking onto his cock with a slow, deliberate moan, her walls clenching tight, the stretch intense from chris’s cum still inside her.

matt groaned, his hands clawing at her hips, his whiny edge sharp. “fuck, y/n, you’re so tight,” he whined, his voice raw, his body trembling, the fullness overwhelming, her heat gripping him like a vise.

“chris, get the lube,” she said, her voice firm, glancing at chris, who was catching his breath, his eyes hungry despite his release. chris scrambled, his playful energy surging, grabbing the small bottle of lube from the nightstand, his fingers fumbling with the cap before tossing it to her.

y/n slicked her fingers, her eyes locked on matt’s, watching him squirm as she prepped herself, her fingers teasing her ass, slipping inside with a soft moan, the sensation sharp but thrilling, her body adjusting to the stretch. matt’s eyes widened, his cock twitching inside her, his whiny moans louder, his hands gripping her thighs. “fuck, y/n, you’re—shit, you’re gonna kill me,” he whined, his voice breaking, his body aching for more.

“chris, behind me,” she said, her voice a command, her hands guiding matt’s to her waist, keeping him steady. chris moved, his hands gentle but trembling with excitement, his cock hard again, slick with lube as he positioned himself behind her, his knees sinking into the mattress. he pressed against her ass, slow and careful, his tip nudging her tight entrance, and y/n moaned, low and raw, the stretch intense as he eased in, inch by inch, his cock filling her alongside matt’s.

the double penetration was overwhelming, a searing mix of fullness and pressure that made y/n’s breath catch, her body trembling, her walls clenching tight around matt, her ass gripping chris. “fuck,” she gasped, her voice shaking, her hands digging into matt’s shoulders, her nails leaving crescent marks. the sensation was electric, every nerve alight, her body stretched to its limit, the slick heat of their cocks sliding against each other through the thin wall inside her driving her wild.

matt’s moans were endless, whiny and broken, his head tipping back, his eyes screwed shut as he felt the impossible tightness, the pressure of chris’s cock amplifying every thrust, every pulse of y/n’s walls. “y/n, fuck, it’s too much,” he sobbed, his voice high, tears pricking his eyes, his hands shaking on her hips, his cock throbbing, the sensation so intense he could barely think. “feels so fuckin’ good, i can’t—please, move.”

chris’s moans were sweeter, higher, his hands gentle on her waist, his lips kissing her shoulder, his playful sub energy tempered by awe. “god, y/n, you’re so tight, so perfect,” he panted, his tone raw, his cock pulsing in her ass, the slick glide of lube making every thrust smooth but overwhelming, the pressure of matt’s cock against his sending shocks through his body. “fuck, i can feel him, babe, it’s insane,” he gasped, his hips rocking, his body trembling with the effort to stay gentle, to please her.

y/n set the pace, her hips rolling slow at first, adjusting to the fullness, the stretch, the way their cocks filled her, rubbing against each other, against her, every movement sending sparks through her core. “you’re both so good,” she moaned, her voice low, her dominance unwavering despite the intensity, her hands guiding matt’s to her breasts, his fingers clumsy but eager, pinching her nipples, making her gasp. she leaned back slightly, her head resting on chris’s shoulder, his lips finding her neck, kissing and nipping, his moans soft and sweet against her skin.

the position was intimate, raw—matt seated, his back against the headboard, y/n straddling him, her knees sunk into the mattress, her pussy clenching his cock; chris behind her, his knees braced on the bed, his hands steadying her hips, his cock buried in her ass. the bed creaked, the springs groaning under their weight, the room thick with the smell of sweat, lube, and sex, the tv a forgotten drone, the air heavy with their gasps and moans.

y/n sped up, her hips slamming down, the wet slap of their bodies loud, the sensation of being so full, so claimed, pushing her closer to the edge. matt’s whines turned desperate, his voice a raw plea, his cock throbbing, the pressure of chris’s thrusts making every stroke unbearable. “y/n, please, i’m gonna cum, i can’t—fuck, it’s too tight,” he sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands shaking, his body convulsing with need.

chris’s moans grew frantic, his playful energy unraveling, his cock pulsing in her ass, the slick heat and pressure driving him wild. “feels so fuckin’ good, i can’t hold it.”

“cum for me,” y/n said, her voice a command, her hips grinding hard, her walls clenching tight around matt, her ass gripping chris, her own release building, a white-hot coil in her core. the sensation was overwhelming, the stretch, the friction, the way their cocks moved together, filling her, claiming her, sending her spiraling.

matt came first, a shattered moan tearing from his throat, his cum spilling hot and thick, his body arching, his hands clawing at her hips, his whines turning to soft, broken gasps. chris followed, his cry high and sweet, his cum flooding her ass, his body convulsing, his hands shaking on her waist. y/n’s orgasm crashed through her, her body trembling, her walls pulsing, milking them dry, her moans raw, her nails digging into matt’s shoulders, her head tipping back against chris’s chest.

they collapsed, a sweaty, breathless tangle, y/n’s body still clenching around them, the aftershocks making her shudder. chris pulled out slowly, his cock soft, his hands gentle as he kissed her shoulder, his sweet, flirty energy spent, his grin sloppy. matt stayed inside her a moment longer, his whiny moans fading to shaky breaths, hands weak on her hips as she slid off, his cum mixing with chris’s, slick on her thighs.

“you’re both mine,” y/n whispered, her voice soft, her fingers brushing chris’s hair, then matt’s jaw, their eyes heavy with adoration. they curled into her, chris nuzzling her neck, matt slumping against the pillows, their bodies bound by her control, their hearts tethered by something deeper, the room a cocoon of heat, sweat, and surrender.

©pokesturns any and all forms of modifications, reposts, and translation of my work are prohibited.

[for-your-modesty-dude]

Valentine pt. 3

Part 1 … Part 2

A/N: Y'all I am so freaking sorry it's been so long. I literally showed up, started writing fics, and then disappeared forever. I'm not gonna lie, life has been absolutely insane recently. There's been so much going on, and my family is dealing with some stuff that is way far out of our control. Am I panicking? Maybe. Am I also fine? Yes. I don't know how it works. I'm sure my therapist plays a part in that LOL. Anyway, here it is. Part 3 of Valentine. I'm not going to lie to you, it really did not turn out nearly as good as I'd hoped. But I really really wanted to finish this so I could maybe get back into writing again. I need to fall in love with my hobbies again. I hope it's not too crappy. Please send in requests or fic suggestions. Maybe one of them will inspire me. I love you all forever! - Hy <3

Summary: Eddie finally makes his move!

Warnings: None that I can think of. Maybe some gross fluff, and like... subpar writing.

Word Count: 2k

Gareth and Jeff gave him the best advice they could. They tried, really. But they were hardly the romantic type, so Eddie took some of their advice- but the rest he let fly out the other ear. He eventually grabbed his backpack and ran out to his van, driving home as quickly as he could without getting himself another traffic ticket. 

He ran inside and threw his backpack onto the couch and kicked his boots off before sliding in his socks to his phone, picking it up and dialing your number. 

“Hello?” You picked up with a yawn, and Eddie wondered if he’d woken you up. 

“Heeey, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Did I wake you?”

“God no,” you tell him. “I was rereading the same page of this book for the fourth time. Can’t keep my focus, ‘m just bored. How was D&D? You’re home so early. Wait… Did you kill them?” You ask with a breathy laugh, imagining the night ending with Eddie decimating the party. 

“It was good! And- nah. The guys were restless, had places to be,” he lied, and there was a pause of comfortable silence. “But honestly, it was alright. Not the same without you there, don’t worry,” he smiled to himself. His kindness made your cheeks go pink. 

“Oh, please,” you scoffed with amusement evident in your voice. “Like you don’t love not having me around to bother your boys’ club,” you mostly joked. Eddie did not find it funny. 

“What? Don’t say that. We love having you around. You know that,” he said seriously. The seriousness of his tone made you smile. 

“Okay, okay, Ed. Thank you,” you tell him softly. “Gimme the rundown, then.”

He started to tell you all about how far they got in the campaign, having to make some stuff up to not give away how little they’d actually played. You seemed satisfied, and you believed him. “So… any fun plans tomorrow?” He asked. 

“Nah. Commiserating. Wanna join?” 

“I can come over?” He asked, hopeful. 

“Course you can. I’ll make room on the couch. I’ll even push aside the stale bag of chips for you to sit down next to me,” you joked. The two of you kept sharing jokes and silly comments until you got too sleepy to go on, so you hung up and headed to bed. 

The next morning, Eddie got up - way earlier than the Munson boy ever woke up on a Saturday - but he had so much to do. He first packed a duffel - necessary for his date, later - and then freshened up as much as he could. 

When he was finally ready, he dialed your number and chewed on his lip as he waited for you to pick up. 

“Mornin’,” you greeted, sleepy but awake. 

“Hey sweets, it’s me,” Eddie said, full of nervous energy. “We never decided on a time last night. Do you wanna hang now, or…?” He twirled the phone cable around his finger and back the other way. 

“Oh, that’s right. Honestly, now’s totally fine. I’m just finishing my coffee now. Wanna stop at the Family Video for us? I’ll pay you back when you get here.” You offered him. 

“I’ll stop by there, yeah. And no need, keep your cash, doll. I’ll see you soon, then!” He hung up before you could even respond, leaving you to laugh to yourself. He was so easily distracted. 

It gave you just enough time to prepare for his arrival - you changed into nicer sweats and actually styled your hair a little, fighting the urge to put on some makeup. This was just Eddie. You knew you wouldn’t make him fall in love with you with some mascara, not after he’d seen you at your worst so many times before. You just needed to accept that he was always going to remain a wonderful friend and nothing more. 

When Eddie showed up, he looked nicer than he usually did for movie dates at your place, but you didn’t think anything of it. You would just secretly admire him from across the room. Better him here with you than out with another girl, you supposed. 

The day started off normally enough. You had some snacks and watched a couple of movies, but Eddie seemed to keep checking his watch. Something about it was weird, because he didn’t seem in a rush to leave, but almost like he was expecting someone. It got to be too much when he checked his watch for the third time in less than 5 minutes, so you kicked him lightly with a socked foot from your side of the couch. 

“Why do you keep checking the clock, you weirdo? Did you invite someone to my house?” You ask with your nose slightly scrunched in displeasure. 

“What?” He blinked, “no- no. I wouldn’t- no. Uhh… you probably wanna go get ready, sweetheart,” he let his head fall back against the couch cushion lazily, making your brows furrow. 

“Get ready? For what?” You sat up, eyes searching his face which was- unfortunately unreadable. Damn DM instincts. 

“Do you trust me?” He turned his head to look at you, and something about his gaze in that moment made you blush, and you nodded. “Then go get ready. Wear somethin’ nice. I’m going to make use of the bathroom here. Let me know if you need any help,” he pushed himself up off of the couch and grabbed the duffel bag he’d packed himself, and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving you to stare at him with a bewildered look. It took you a moment to shake off the surprise, but you managed to, and dragged yourself up the stairs to shower and get ready. You styled your hair in your usual favorite going-out style, not knowing just how dolled up you were supposed to get but figuring more was always better. You’d rather be overdressed than underdressed. 

And of course, because Eddie would see you in this outfit, you couldn’t help but to choose a dress you’d been secretly saving for just this kind of occasion. It fit like a glove, but you’d never actually gotten the opportunity to wear it out before. Wearing it now felt foreign, but looking at yourself in the mirror helped your self-image considerably. This dress looked good on you, and you hoped he’d think the same. 

You exited your bedroom to find Eddie’s duffel bag on your couch, and his ratty sneakers by your door, but… no Eddie. The bathroom door was open, showing it was empty, so you searched the kitchen before peeking through the blinds to the parking lot. You didn’t see Eddie’s van, but he’d left his things, so… he was probably coming back, right? You paced a bit in your heels, chewing on your lip as you considered all of the possibilities. 

Before you could decide to change out of your nice outfit, you heard a knock at the door, and hurried to answer it, finding Eddie standing there with a bouquet of black peonies and deep red tulips. Your eyes widened in surprise, and you blinked up at him, realizing he looked incredibly put together and handsome. You wanted to ask what he was doing, but as the blush reached your cheeks, you simply floundered for the words to say, and you stood there in an awkward sort of silence. 

“I uh- these are for you,” he cleared his throat and told you, wiping a clammy hand on his black jeans. You took another moment to flounder before taking the flowers and staring down at them. You eventually found your voice. 

“Oh. Thank- thank you,” you managed quietly, “what are these for?”

He ran a nervous hand through his hair and took a deep breath before exhaling slowly. It was now or never.. “Uh- well- see- you mentioned how upset you were to never have anyone interested in you, but… it’s just not true, you know? Cause I have been interested in you probably since we met, and you never seemed interested back. But I figure, even if you’re not into me, I can show you a good time and prove to you that it’s not true, and someone really does like you, like a lot. If- if you’ll be my valentine, that is. I spent so long hoping you’d just magically realize that I liked you, because the idea of actually telling you- almost killed me. I was terrified. You’re my best friend, my partner in crime, the person who knows me the best, and the one girl in the whole world who ever saw past my weird and gave me a chance to be her friend. This might be totally insane, but I just want you to know how- loved you are. By me. Romantically.” He felt he was digging himself into a hole, so he added an awkward “okay… I’m done talking now.”

You stared at him for a long while in stunned silence, and he looked anywhere but your eyes, growing increasingly restless as your silence swallowed him whole. He almost backed out and said it wasn’t actually that insane, he didn’t love you, don’t worry, but before he could, you threw your arms around him in a tight hug, wordless. He returned it with enthusiasm, squeezing you tight and burying his nose in your hair. He held you until he heard your quiet “thank you.” Only then did he pull back to look at you, your eyes a bit misty. 

“Hey, no way, don’t thank me. I’m the one who’s been in love with you, remember?” He joked, “if anything, thank you for letting me take you out and live out my dream for one night.” 

You could tell he was being self-deprecating, and couldn’t bear it. You pulled him inside, placed the bouquet on the nearest surface, and grabbed the front of his shirt to pull him down for a sudden kiss. He fumbled a moment, hands up in shock, before gripping your hips and pulling you into him, eyes squeezing shut as he deepened the kiss. If this was a dream, he wasn’t going to waste it. He was going to enjoy every goddamn second. 

Eventually, you pulled back with a breathless giggle at the way he chased your lips. “Let me breathe, Edward,” your voice was light, airy, and full of laughter. His eyes opened to watch you with the dreamiest expression. 

“Pinch me. I must be dreaming,” he said simply, making you laugh more. You pushed him away, cheeks red, still giggling. 

“Shut up. I- yes. Of course I’ll be your valentine. But where are we even going?” You asked him, picking up the bouquet to go put it in a vase. He still hadn’t shaken out of his trance, so he stared after you in silence a moment before coming to his senses again.

“Oh- uh- that’s a surprise. But you- damn- dressed for the occasion. So not to worry, it’ll be great.” He promised, following you into the kitchen and reaching up to grab the vase you liked from the higher shelf. You thanked him and unwrapped the bouquet, filling the vase before placing it into the water and placing the arrangement on your kitchen table. 

“I’ve been totally obsessed with you since, like, the day we met,” you confessed, which had his eyes nearly bulging. 

“No way. You- no way. You’re like, way out of my league.” That made you laugh, and you pulled him down for a kiss again. 

“Shut up, Eddie. And take me on our first date,” you hummed against his lips. 

“Yes ma’am,” he agreed breathlessly, pulling you flush against him. 

“And by the way, Eddie…” You started at a whisper. 

“Yeah?” He matched your tone.

“I didn’t ‘see past’ your weird. I saw your weird. And I needed it in my life.”

He nearly melted at your feet just then, but pushed forward to kiss you again, to keep from saying something stupid or embarrassing himself with getting emotional.

“I love you,” he told you. “I really, seriously, love you.”

“I- Eddie, I love you too,” you told him in return, butterflies erupting in your stomach and heart racing out of your chest before kissing him again.

You would definitely be a minute or two late to that reservation, but damn, if it wasn’t worth it.

Taglist: @am0iur @ali-r3n @hellmastereddie @ziggeddie @nojamsonmytoast @seedlingghost @loveu2themoonandsaturn @aliceheart247 @littlemissholy @daydreampending @justalotoffanfiction @midnightdragonzero @iyskgd @girlwedontcare

[mahboimahboi]

reader getting absolutely destroyed by gojo, toji, getou, and nanami😇

A SEX FEST x M!Reader (featuring Getou, Gojo, Toji)

Smut

As the phone rang that was seated on top of the table, Gojo whistles to a tune he created on the spot as he picked up the phone and placed the it near his ear. "Hello~ This is Gojo speaking." He spoke in a singy-song voice as a light chuckle moves past his lips.

"Oh, Mr. Gojo, good morning. I would like to ask if Y/N is with you? He told me that he would be there at your house for a very important tutor lesson." A boy's voice spoke from the other end of the line as Gojo begins to play with the telephone's cable, twirling it around his finger.

One side of Gojo's lips move upward upon hearing your name, as he kept his composure and spoke as poised as he can, being known as one of the most prim and proper teacher in their school. "Yes, he is." He replied, eyeing the scene unfolding on his bed through the side of his eyes.

"Oh, can I have him over the phone please? I would just like to talk to him about something." The male spoke, Gojo's smirk just growing wider, if possible.

Gojo pops his tongue and replies with sinister laced in his voice. "Of course, give me a minute."

He passes the phone over to you, whilst you covered your mouth trying to restrict any sound of sex satisfied noise from ever coming out of your mouth as Toji holds you down in place like you are some kind of sex toy or fleshlight, drilling his cock in you roughly. "R-Ryuuji? What is it?" You tried to answer the phone with all the strength left in you, but you accidentally drop the phone as Toji pulls your body back towards him, Gojo getting the phone from where it fell and ends the call after telling your brother that you are busy. "F-Fuck, yes, sir. Fuck me, fuck me good!" You moaned out, rolling your eyes to the back of your head, your eyes hanging out of your mouth in pure bliss.

"Huu, yes, kiddo. I'll fucking give you what you want." Toji groans out, gritting his teeth as he fastened his pace, his strong arms holding you in place, your own strengh nothing compared to his, letting yourself just melt into lust and left your body to be used at his own advantage. "That's what I love about you, kid. You're a really good cum dumpster." He degrades you, the word enough to drive you crazy as you felt a very familiar coil in your stomach.

"S-Sir! AH, FUCK! NNGGH! I'M CUMMING!!" You let out, holding onto the adult male's biceps, but your pleasure is not long lived when you feel something wrap around the base of your cock, making you whimper as your climax got rejected. "N-No! NNYAH!" You moan in pleasure, but the noises was too much for Getou that he pulls your head by your hair and inserts his fat dick in your mouth to cover the irritating sounds coming out of your mouth.

"Didn't actually perceive you as a person who likes noisy bitches like this slut, Toji." Getou comments as the male starts to fuck your mouth without even giving you a proper warning, holding onto your throat with one hand. "Hm, fuck. Well, I say this one's a little different. Bitch knows how to use his mouth." He said, howling in pleasure when you start twirling your tongue around his thick rod. Getou pushes his head back, letting Toji's thrusts be a moderator to your head sucking his cock.

"Careful boys. I still haven't had my turn yet." Gojo stated, pushing down the glasses he had on a little as he smirks, finding your fucked up state a total turn on. It is as though you are purposely seducing him, which you are. You tap on Getou's thigh to signal him that you wanted to say something, the male groaning in annoyance as he pulled out.

"S-Sir Gojo, my ass still feels empty even w-with sir Toji's cock in me." You said, which made Toji stop his movements, his pride being stepped on at your words. He lets out a dark chuckle, dropping his head low. "Please, fill me up, sir Go—AAH!" You're cut through your words when Toji suddenly starts fucking you roughly, practically just vibrating in your place.

"You fucking slut! You could have just asked Gojo, not say shitty words and hurt my ego." Toji grunted in anger, using you to let his frustration out. I mean you are the reason he is angry right now, so you basically deserved getting your brain completely fucked out.

Gojo stifles a laugh before he joins you, Getou, and Toji in bed. "Don't worry, hon. We'll have our own little fun time once they're done with you." Gojo smirks, before he got out of the bed and moves towards his own room, leaving you to be a mess with his co-teachers.

[starleska]

tenna has me by the throat so; food for thot. his antenna are sensitive so just... very gently/loosely twirling one of them around a finger, or just pulling the tip of one close to you with a finger before letting it go and sproing back into place toon/door stopper-style. going to kiss his screen and getting a static shock instead and jumping away from him all startled and hes just apologizing up and down and so embarrassed and then you laugh and he just. absolutely melts. and pull him back in by his TIEEEEEEE AND JSUT. GOD. WHEN HE SEES YOU TILT YOUR HEAD WHEN YOU GO TO GIVE HIM A KISS HIS HEART GETS ALL FLUTTERY NSHIT ADN jsut. you know the post about someone "conditioning" their boyfriend every time they put on a tieback. that but with him and tilting your head to the side. he thinks hes getting kisses every time you do it now, no matter the initial reason.

do we think he has a cable tail that he just hides down a pant leg or wraps it around his waist. for funsies. bc if he had a tail he'd be so expressive with it i know this in my heart of hearts. idk if any of this makes sense btu just. god. god? god. god.

MAPLE YOU CANNOT JUST CRASH INTO MY INBOX LIKE THIS WITH SO MANY CARDIAC ARREST-INDUCING IDEAS OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

screaming and squealing at every single thing you've just said, oh my word!!!! aww my goodness, imagine playing with his antennae seeing his TV screen flicker with that rainbow bar error screen...i don't remember where i saw it, but some genius person drew Tenna with a rainbow blush to reflect that and it was so so cute 🙈💖

pleaseeeee flustered/embarrassed Tenna is my lifeblood, he really wears his heart on his sleeve!! him tugging at his shirt collar and asking, "Is it hot in here...?" as he tries to deflect just how much you're making him blush 😳👉👈 ASDFLDS AAAAAAA THE TIE THING YOU'RE GOING TO KILL ME...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! you could wrap his tie around your fist and yank him down to your height to kiss you, and though he'll never admit it, Tenna loves it every time 😉💖

omfgggg the CABLE TAIL i've seen so much amazing fanart of this idea already and you know what? yes. absolutely. why not!!! he has to be plugged in somewhere 🙈🙈

[thepinkpanther83]

And They Were Roommates (Pt.13)

Chapter Thirteen: “Walk of Triumph (And Slight Shame)”

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Masterlist

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Read this story on AO3.

Previous Chapter: Chapter Twelve: “Redemption, Bras, and Burnt Toast” Next Chapter: Chapter Fourteen: “All Tangled Up”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Thirteen: “Walk of Triumph (And Slight Shame)”

The moment the dressing room door creaked open, a blast of air hit you, cooler than inside, but nowhere near cold enough to chill the flush still blooming across your cheeks. Eddie stepped out first, chest puffed like a rockstar after a sold-out show, smug grin curling at the corners of his mouth like he’d just personally saved rock 'n roll with his dick.

The second the band spotted them, the teasing hit like a wave.

“Oh my God,” Gareth groaned, mock-clapping with slow, dramatic flair like he was presenting a lifetime achievement award. “Somebody get this man a medal.”

“GET A ROOM!” Jeff shouted, then cupped his hands to his mouth and added, “Oh wait- YOU DID!”

Grant just let out a long, theatrical whistle and muttered, “Y’all are nasty.”

You groaned and buried your face in Eddie’s chest, half-hiding, half-laughing, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I told you they’d hear us.”

“I wanted them to hear us,” Eddie purred, wrapping an arm around you like a damn prizefighter strutting back from a victory round. “Let the record show- I did not hold back.”

“You’re a menace,” you hissed, voice shaky from laughing, still clinging to him as if he could shield you from the embarrassment.

He looked absolutely pleased with himself. He kissed the top of her head, beaming, then held up a rumpled, very recognizable scrap of satin and lace like it was a war banner freshly taken from the battlefield.

The band lost it.

Gareth choked on his own spit. “Dude… is that her-?!”

Jeff let out a strangled cackle. “He’s got the panties. This man is waving the panties.”

You gasped, mortified. “EDDIE!” you shrieked, trying to snatch them back, but he twirled out of reach, swinging the delicate fabric around one finger like a lasso.

“Too late, sweetheart,” he grinned. “Trophy claimed.”

“Oh my god. Kill me. Kill me now.”

“Can’t,” Eddie said brightly, tucking the panties into his back pocket like a love letter. “You’re too cute when you’re embarrassed.”

You swatted him half-heartedly, still hiding your face, but he caught your hand and kissed your knuckles like some smarmy prince from a rock opera.

“I hate you,” you muttered against his chest, but he just chuckled low in his throat.

“Nah, you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He leaned down, whispering in your ear, voice laced with unholy glee. “Wait till they see the size of the hickey I left behind.”

You gasped again, but this time it was paired with a helpless laugh as he pulled you along, strutting toward the exit like the proud little menace he was.

Behind them, Gareth called, “Were those moans or screams we heard? Just wanna label the recording properly.”

“And in a shocking turn of events, Munson finishes before soundcheck! A new personal best!” Jeff narrated like it’s a sportscast.

“You owe us new amp cables. Some things can’t be unheard.” Grant threw in his two cents.

Eddie just flipped them off without looking back, fingers laced with yours, smug as ever. And despite the howling embarrassment, you let him lead you away- grinning, glowing, and head-over-heels with the ridiculous, wonderful chaos of being his.

The Morning After…

The first thing you felt was heat.

Not just the warmth of sunlight pushing its way through the blinds, but real, body heat- heavy, lazy, and entirely wrapped around you. One arm slung over your waist, a thigh wedged between yours, and a tangle of wild hair brushing against your bare shoulder. It took a second longer to process the unmistakable scent of cigarettes, sweat, and Eddie Munson’s shampoo.

Right. That happened.

You cracked one eye open.

Eddie was asleep, flat on his stomach, one cheek smushed into the pillow by your shoulder, his curls fanned out like some gothic cherub. His bare back rose and fell with each slow breath, long limbs splayed out like he’d been dropped from a great height and left there to melt. There were red lines down his back from your nails.

Your legs ached.

Your throat was achy.

And somehow, despite all the awkward positioning, despite the weird soreness in places you didn’t know you could be sore, you felt… weirdly giddy. Like you’d just survived something beautiful and borderline illegal.

His fingers twitched against your hip. He made a small sound- half-groan, half-sigh, and shifted just enough to nuzzle his nose into your shoulder with a pleased little hum, like you were a particularly satisfying dream he wasn’t ready to let go of yet.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t want to.

For once, the chaos had stilled. No teasing bandmates, no amps screeching in the distance, no dramatics. Just this: a man who’d grinned his way into your bed, rearranged your insides all night, and then had fallen asleep in your bed like he belonged there.

Which was dangerous.

Because part of you was starting to believe he did.

You weren’t sure what time it was- early, probably, judging by the silvery light peeking in through the curtains, but time didn’t matter. Not with Eddie’s leg still slung over yours like he was physically anchoring you in bed, arm heavy across your waist, and his face buried in the crook of your neck like you were the last comfortable pillow in the world.

The man radiated body heat like a human furnace, and he snored. Lightly, inconsistently. Adorably. You weren’t gonna tell him that, though.

You shifted a little, trying to wiggle the blanket back up over your shoulder, only to find it hopelessly trapped underneath him.

“Jesus, Munson,” you grumbled, voice still hoarse, “you hog the whole bed and the covers?”

Eddie let out a groggy, half-mumbled noise- somewhere between a growl and a laugh, and tugged you closer like you were part of the bedding. “’S not bed hogging if I’m cuddling,” he slurred. “It’s called being affectionate.”

“You’ve got all the blankets.”

“I’ve got my girl,” he murmured, without even thinking about it, his lips brushing your collarbone like a punctuation. “Pretty sure that trumps blanket ownership.”

Your breath caught.

You weren’t sure if he heard it or if the words even registered for him. He was still half-asleep, the kind of blissed-out satisfaction you only get when your band doesn’t have practice, you’re not hungover, and you’ve just spent the night very thoroughly ruining someone’s ability to walk in a straight line.

Still, the phrase my girl hung in the air like the scent of last night’s sex- lingering, heavy, and just a little intoxicating.

You shifted again, just enough to see him crack one eye open, lashes a mess, and smile lazy as sin. He looked at you like the bed was the whole world, and you were the best part of it.

“You can’t just say shit like that and expect me not to clock it,” you said, voice low, teasing.

His grin only grew. “I didn’t say anything.” He nuzzled your shoulder like a damn cat. “Must’ve been dreaming.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure. Dreaming about claiming me like some sleep-paralysis boyfriend.”

“I am your sleep-paralysis boyfriend. Sexy and slightly alarming.” He stretched, long and dramatic, then promptly curled right back around you. “And if you do need rescuing, babe, I’ve got the guitar and the dungeon master’s guide ready.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Only to exes and fitted sheets.”

You snorted. And then, despite yourself, relaxed into him.

Eventually, your stomach started growling loud enough to compete with Eddie’s previous snores.

You shifted beneath the tangle of limbs, trying to escape the full-body Eddie wrap without disturbing him too much. That lasted about four seconds.

He grunted when you moved, long arms tightening instinctively, voice still deep and scratchy from sleep. “Where you goin’, sweetheart?” he murmured, eyes half-lidded but locked on you like a lazy jungle cat clocking its prey.

“Food, Munson. Unless you wanna go another round on an empty stomach?”

He blinked, clearly torn. Then smirked. “Tempting. But you might actually pass out on me this time.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving at his chest. “Get up, bed hog. I need coffee.”

“I need you,” he replied dramatically, flopping across your back as you sat up and dragging the blanket with him. “But do I whine about it? Yes. Yes, I do.”

He eventually let you up with a groan, flopping bonelessly onto the sheets and flashing you that annoyingly smug grin as you stumbled toward the dresser, completely naked and trying to act like it didn’t matter.

“Y’know,” he said, arms folded behind his head, “if I’d known all I had to do was put my name on that ass, and take a bite to get a morning show like this, I’d’ve left bite marks on it a lot sooner.”

“Bite marks?” you echoed, glancing over your shoulder.

He just winked. “Go look in the mirror, baby.”

You didn’t, because you knew he wasn’t bluffing. And the gleam in his eye said he was damn proud of himself.

Still naked, he followed you out of bed a few minutes later, he put his boxers back on, and tugged one of your oversized shirts off the back of a chair and pulled it on without shame. It fit him way too well for your comfort. Like, offensively well. Like it should be illegal.

You raised an eyebrow as he passed by you, already nosing around your bedroom space like he lived there. “That my shirt?”

“Not anymore,” he said simply, peeking into your bookshelf like he was inspecting the competition. “What, no dirty secrets in here? Not even a diary?”

“Eddie-”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find it. Just need to know where to file my love letters.” He flashed you a crooked grin before he left and wandered toward the kitchen, leaving a trail of chaos in his wake.

You found him a minute later poking around the kitchen cabinets like a man on a mission. His boxers had ridden up just enough to give you a totally unfair view of his thighs. Which, rude. Very rude.

“Do you even know how to make coffee correctly yet?” you asked, watching him frown at your machine like it had insulted his mother.

“Sweetheart,” he said, turning slowly, “I was raised on diner sludge and gas station drip. I am coffee.”

You reached past him to take over, brushing against him deliberately. “Sit. Let the expert handle it.”

He didn’t argue- just wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder while you worked, humming happily like this was already routine. Like you hadn’t just had sex with each other for the first time last night. Like waking up in your bed and helping make coffee in his boxers and your shirt was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re dangerous like this,” he murmured, voice low and warm in your ear. “All soft and beautiful and mine.”

You hesitated, heart doing a little leap at that word again.

Mine.

You didn’t correct him.

You didn’t want to.

As usual, Eddie was an absolute menace in the kitchen.

You were pretty sure he used every single pan you owned in the span of ten minutes, somehow managing to get flour on his elbows, syrup on the counter, and eggshells exactly nowhere near the trash. He moved like a man possessed- shirt crumpled up oddly on one shoulder, boxers riding scandalously low, hair a disaster. He was whistling something vaguely metal as he tried to flip a pancake with entirely the wrong type of spatula.

“You’re gonna set something on fire,” you warned, hovering near the coffee pot like it was your emotional support animal. “Again.”

“Pfft,” he scoffed, flipping the pancake with zero confidence and burning the corner. “I thrive in chaos.”

“You live in chaos. Thriving is… questionable.”

Eddie shot you a crooked grin, nudging a spatula at you like a sword. “Admit it, I turn you on.”

You sipped your coffee with theatrical calm. “You turn me on in spite of the pancake homicide.”

“That’s fair.”

He bumped into you on his way to grab another bowl- just a little nudge with his hip, but it was enough to make you laugh, and the sound of it made him beam like a damn sunrise. He was annoyingly bright this morning, like good sex had permanently juiced his serotonin. Every time you caught his eye, he looked at you like you were a song he was still humming under his breath.

The scent of butter and something vaguely cinnamon-filled the kitchen.

“You’re not seriously putting peanut butter on those, are you?”

Eddie gasped. “You wound me.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s delicious, and I am a culinary genius.” He struck a proud pose with the jar of peanut butter in one hand, spatula in the other, shirt hanging like a toga. “Put that in your little diary.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbed your old Polaroid from the shelf by the fridge, and snapped a picture without warning.

“HEY!” he squawked, spinning on one heel like a scandalized Victorian lady. “You didn’t even give me a smolder option!”

“You don’t get options when you look like a gremlin covered in flour.”

“Babe. That’s my brand.”

The photo printed with a mechanical whirr, and you shook it in the air until the image started to bloom into focus- Eddie mid-spatula wave, peanut butter jar clutched to his chest like a holy relic, the kitchen an absolute war zone behind him.

He leaned over your shoulder to peek.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding approvingly. “That’s going on the fridge.”

“You’re not putting your own chaos pin-up on my fridge.”

“Our fridge,” he corrected with a smug little eyebrow waggle.

You gave him a look. “Pretty sure that requires an on-time rent payment.”

“I pay in sex and emotional instability. Money comes later. It’s a very fair trade.”

You snorted. “So that’s what you’re calling your pancake-flipping skills?”

He grinned, lips brushing your cheek. “Nah, sweetheart. I meant the other thing that made your legs shake last night.”

You let out a scandalized huff that you didn’t even mean, swatting him with the dish towel and turning back to your coffee before he could see the blush spreading down your neck.

Behind you, he put the photo on the fridge with a fruit-shaped magnet and stepped back, arms folded like he’d just painted the Sistine Chapel.

And when you looked over, his eyes softened, just for a second. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of moment. But you caught it. The way he looked at the photo, then at you- like this? This messy little domestic slice of morning? Was everything.

He didn’t say it.

Didn’t have to.

You knew.

And you weren’t ready to ask what it meant just yet.

But part of you already knew the answer.

“You know…” he said suddenly, turning back to the stove, “Wayne’s off tonight.”

You raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was thinkin’ maybe we could bring this breakfast- well, the salvageable parts, over to the trailer. Surprise him with lunch. Do a whole Breakfast-For-Lunch thing. He loves that corny crap.��

Your fingers tightened around your mug just slightly. “Like… the two of us? Bringing him lunch?”

Eddie shrugged, playing it casual but failing spectacularly. “Yeah, I mean. If you’re not busy. I’ve kinda been talkin’ you up to him for a while now, so… y’know. Might as well let the man put a face to the name.”

You blinked. “You’ve been… talking me up?”

He gave you a playful bump with his hip again. “What, like I wasn’t gonna brag about my hot, smart, badass kitchen queen who puts up with my nonsense? C’mon.”

You laughed, but it sounded a little breathless. “So this is, what, like… a meet-the-family thing?”

“Only if you want it to be,” he said quickly, eyes catching yours with just a flicker of nervousness behind the smirk. “No pressure. We just bring some pancakes over, shoot the shit, and if Wayne says anything embarrassing I promise to knock over his La-Z-Boy on the way out.”

You stared at him for a long moment, heart thudding too hard for something as simple as pancakes.

“Okay,” you said, and smiled, trying to match his tone. “Let’s bring the man some breakfast for lunch.”

“Hell yeah.” He grinned. “You’re gonna love him.”

If he was anything like Eddie, you were pretty sure he was right.

After Eddie declared the fridge officially adorned, he dusted flour off his hands like a job well done. You watched him with an amused shake of your head, sipping the last of your coffee like it might steel your nerves.

“Okay, kitchen gremlin,” you said, waving at the mess. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and try to forget what you did to my spatulas.”

“Can I come?”

“Do you have to ask?”

He followed you down the hall barefoot, yawning like a sleepy lion and scratching at his stomach. You flicked on the bathroom light, already reaching for your toothbrush, and he wordlessly grabbed his own from the cup on the sink like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was. And maybe that scared you a little.

You stood side-by-side in front of the mirror, shoulders brushing, tired-stupid grins ghosting your faces while you moved around each other in perfect sync, trading places at the sink, rinsing, spitting, nudging your hips like some clumsy, quiet dance choreographed by muscle memory.

He had toothpaste on the tip of his nose, he somehow hadn’t noticed. You didn’t tell him.

“Hey,” he said when you started toward the door, “do that thing?”

You paused. “What thing?”

“That thing where you brush my hair.” He said it like a question, but the way he handed you your own brush was anything but.

“You have a brush of your own,” you pointed out, stepping behind him.

“Yeah, but yours smells nice.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, gently tugging the brush through his tangled curls, starting from the ends like he’d learned to do after one too many snarls and yelps. He hummed- somewhere between a sigh and a purr, and watched you through the mirror, eyes soft and unfocused.

“You look like you’re being sedated.”

“I am sedated,” he murmured. “You’re like… a spell, sweetheart. Witchcraft. Domestic sorcery. I dunno how you do it, but I’m thirty seconds away from proposing over toothpaste and tangled hair.”

You tapped the side of his head with the brush.

“OW. Okay, fine. I’ll wait ‘til Wayne gives his blessing or whatever.”

He smirked, but there was something gentler behind it. A look you caught in the mirror and didn’t quite know how to name.

After you finished smoothing the last curls over his shoulders, he caught your wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it without a word.

Later, while gathering things to bring to Wayne's, Eddie wandered into your bedroom and came to a dead halt.

“Yo,” he said, voice full of something caught between reverence and glee. “Is this what I think it is?”

You turned to find him holding the Starfleet communicator badge replica that lived happily on your bookshelf. One of your childhood treasures, carefully dusted and displayed between a stack of dog-eared sci-fi paperbacks and a signed photo of Nichelle Nichols.

“I didn’t know you were a Trekkie,” he grinned, cradling the badge like it was made of glass.

“I had a thing for Spock, okay? The calm, the brains, the ears- don’t judge me.”

Eddie just stared at you like you’d invented warp drive.

“I’m not judging. I’m reevaluating my entire vibe to better align with your childhood dreams.”

You laughed, but he was still holding it, thumb tracing the smooth gold and silver curves with something close to awe.

“You kept this all this time?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. Guess I like remembering the stuff that made me happy.”

He set the badge down gently, then turned to look at you like he’d just connected a hundred invisible dots.

“I get that,” he said, quieter this time. “I really, really get that.”

Something passed between you- something warm and weightless that didn’t need defining yet.

Instead of calling it what it was, he just stepped closer, bumped your shoulder with his, and said:

“C’mon, Lieutenant. Let’s go feed Uncle Wayne.”

The Ride Over

The van smelled like old leather, weed, and the faintest hint of the pine air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror- Eddie’s version of “keeping the van clean” for company. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to some thrash metal song only he could hear in his head, glancing at you every few seconds like he was checking to make sure you hadn’t evaporated.

"You nervous?" he asked, voice casual, but his knee bounced like a live wire.

You shrugged. "Should I be?"

Eddie snorted. "Nah. Wayne’s cool. He’s, like... the opposite of intimidating. Unless you count his beard. That thing could bench press me."

You laughed, watching the trees blur past the window.

Eddie’s fingers flexed around the wheel. "He’s gonna love you, though. Like, instantly. Guaranteed."

"You don’t know that."

"I do," he said, grinning. "Because I love you, and Wayne’s got great taste."

The words hung in the air like a firework mid-explosion- bright, sudden, impossible to ignore.

Eddie froze.

You froze.

The van kept moving.

For a second, neither of you breathed.

Then Eddie cleared his throat, white-knuckling the wheel like it might save him. "Uh. So. That… that just happened."

You stared at him.

He swallowed hard. "I mean. It’s true. But also, y’know. No pressure. Zero. Negative pressure, even. Like, black hole levels of no obligation-"

You reached over and flicked the radio on, loud enough to drown out his rambling.

Eddie blinked. "Are you… are you ignoring me?"

You kept your eyes on the road, fighting a smile. "Yep."

He gaped. "Rude."

"Uh-huh."

"You’re supposed to say it back or freak out or something-"

You turned the volume up higher.

Eddie groaned, slumping in his seat. "Fuck. I didn’t even do it on purpose. That’s worse."

You finally cracked, laughing as you reached over to squeeze his thigh. "Relax.”

His leg stopped bouncing. His fingers loosened on the wheel. And for a second, the only sound was the muffled thrash of Metallica bleeding through the van’s shitty speakers.

Then he exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been holding his breath since the words slipped out.

"...So," he said, voice carefully light, "we just gonna pretend I didn’t say that?"

You shrugged, thumb tracing idle circles on his jeans. "I mean, you did say it."

"Yeah." A moment of silence passed. "Fuck."

You grinned. "Eloquent."

Eddie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Christ, okay- look. I didn’t plan it. It just… happened. Like a sneeze. Or a crime."

"A crime?"

"You know what I mean," he whined, shooting you a glare that was more pout than menace. "It was an accident."

You arched a brow. "So you don’t love me?"

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "That’s not- ugh, fuck you-"

You laughed, loud and bright, and Eddie’s scowl melted into something softer, something fond, even as he grumbled under his breath.

"Asshole," he muttered, but his hand found yours, lacing your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You squeezed. He squeezed back.

And that was enough.

For now.

Wayne’s Trailer

Wayne Munson took one look at the two of you standing on his doorstep- Eddie holding a large tray of suspiciously shaped, lopsided pancakes, you clutching a grocery bag full of syrup, butter, and other foods and sighed.

"Boy," he said, voice dry as sandpaper, "you better not be proposin’."

Eddie choked. "Jesus, Wayne- no-"

Wayne just smirked, stepping aside to let you in. "Good. ‘Cause I ain’t cleanin’ up the mess when she says no. You can do better than that." He gestured to the sad pancakes.

Eddie spluttered. You laughed.

And just like that, the tension dissolved, replaced by the warm, easy chaos of a Munson family brunch.

The trailer was small but cozy, the kind of lived-in that spoke of years of familiarity and exactly zero pretense. A faded recliner sat in one corner like a throne of solitude, next to a battered side table piled with old Field & Stream magazines and a cracked coffee mug that read World’s Okayest Uncle. The kitchen was more kitchenette than anything else- tiny oven, wobbly table, mismatched chairs- but it was clean and smelled faintly of bacon grease and old coffee.

Wayne shuffled toward the counter, eyeing the tray Eddie had proudly set down with a level of suspicion usually reserved for roadkill or political promises.

"You used a mold for these?" Wayne asked, squinting.

Eddie looked genuinely offended. "Excuse you, I used a heart-shaped ring. It’s romantic. Show a little respect."

Wayne grunted. “Looks like the heart of someone with clogged arteries.”

You snorted into the syrup bottle, trying to play it cool as Eddie looked to you for backup.

"Tell him, sweetheart. They look like love."

You held up a pancake, tilted your head, and squinted. "...They look like a pair of lungs."

Eddie clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “Et tu, babe?”

Wayne just chuckled, already digging through the grocery bag you brought. "Least she brought the good butter. None of that margarine bullshit."

"You're welcome," you grinned, starting to unload the rest of the haul: a carton of eggs, bacon, orange juice, fresh strawberries, and a second bottle of syrup, just in case.

Eddie leaned back against the counter and watched you both with a look that was part amused, part quietly amazed. It wasn’t often he got to see his favorite people in the same room, not clashing, not pulling him in opposite directions, just… existing. Laughing. Teasing each other like they’d known each other forever.

Wayne cracked open the eggs into a pan like he was running a diner, throwing occasional looks over his shoulder at you. "So. How long you two been a thing?"

You and Eddie exchanged a glance.

Eddie shrugged. "It’s... complicated."

Wayne snorted. "Ain’t it always."

He didn’t push, just let the sizzle of the eggs fill the room as he fished a spatula out of a drawer that stuck every time it opened.

Eddie stepped beside you, bumped your hip with his. “You want coffee, or are you still pretending you prefer orange juice?”

"Both," you said, reaching for the mugs hanging by little hooks above the sink.

Eddie handed you his favorite one without a word- the black one with a skull on it that had a chip in the rim shaped suspiciously like Texas.

You poured coffee for all three of you, then reached for the strawberries. Eddie immediately popped one in his mouth, then fed another to you like you were in some badly scripted rom-com. You nearly choked laughing when he wiggled his eyebrows.

Wayne watched all of this like a man who'd seen some shit and was still somehow surprised. “You two are really somethin’.”

Eddie just grinned around a mouthful of berry. "It’s called romance, you wouldn’t know anything about that, old man."

Wayne flipped the eggs with surgical precision. “Keep flappin’ that mouth and you’re gonna be the one cleanin’ up.”

"You say that like it’s a threat," Eddie said, but he reached for a plate anyway.

The table came together in fits and starts- sloppy pancakes stacked with pride, Wayne’s eggs perfectly over-medium, strawberries in a chipped cereal bowl, syrup bottles sweating in the warmth of the little kitchen, and three steaming mugs of coffee that smelled like burnt toast and comfort.

Eddie pulled out a chair for you and sat so close your knees touched under the table.

Wayne served the eggs and bacon with a grunt, then took a seat himself, cracking his knuckles and settling in like it was the best part of his week.

And maybe it was.

No one said anything for a moment, just passed things around- butter, syrup, the strawberry bowl, more coffee. It wasn’t the kind of silence that begged to be filled. It was the kind that let you be.

Outside, the wind rustled leaves against the trailer. A car passed on the gravel road. Somewhere deep in the woods, a dog barked once and fell quiet again.

Inside, Eddie cut your pancakes for you when you weren’t looking, pretending he was doing it ironically. Wayne offered you hot sauce for your eggs like it was a test. You passed.

And just like that, you were part of something good.

The Brunch Aftermath

The syrup bottle was sticky in your hands, the kind of cheap, plastic squeeze-top that had seen better days. You wrestled with it for a second before Eddie reached over, plucked it from your fingers, and, without breaking eye contact, bit the cap off with his teeth.

Wayne didn’t even blink.

“You’re disgusting,” you informed him, watching as he spat the cap into his palm like a goddamn magician.

Eddie grinned, all teeth, and drizzled syrup over your pancakes in a slow, deliberate spiral. “And yet, you love me.”

Wayne snorted into his coffee.

You kicked Eddie under the table.

He yelped, then immediately retaliated by hooking his ankle around yours, trapping your leg against his like a goddamn predator. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“You know what.”

You took a bite of pancake, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. “These are better than they look.”

Eddie groaned, slumping back in his chair. “Cruel.”

Wayne watched the whole exchange with the weary amusement of a man who’d spent decades dealing with Eddie’s dramatics. He wiped his mouth with a paper towel, then pointed at Eddie with his fork. “Boy, you’re gonna scare her off.”

Eddie scoffed. “Nah. She’s stuck with me.”

You arched a brow. “Am I?”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper just for you. “Yeah. ‘Cause I’ve seen your Star Trek collection. You’ve got standards, sweetheart. And I exceed them.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed.

Wayne sighed, pushing his plate away. “Christ. I need a cigarette.”

Eddie didn’t follow him out, but Wayne paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.

“C’mon. Gimme a hand with somethin’.”

Eddie frowned, but stood anyway, brushing his hands on his jeans. “What, like… now?”

Wayne didn’t answer. Just jerked his head toward the porch and stepped outside.

Eddie gave you a what the hell shrug and followed.

On the Porch

The door creaked shut behind them, muffling the sounds of the kitchen- plates clinking, your soft humming, the distant buzz of a fly against the screen.

Wayne lit up with the weary efficiency of a man who’d smoked through wars- emotional and otherwise. He took one drag, let the smoke curl from his nose, then spoke without looking at Eddie.

“She’s a good one.”

Eddie blinked. “Yeah. I know.”

Wayne shot him a sidelong glance. “Do you?”

Eddie bristled. “Wayne, c’mon-”

“I’m serious.” Wayne took another slow drag. “You got that look.”

“What look?”

“The same one your dad used to get when he had a good thing and was about to fuck it up.”

Eddie flinched, visibly. “Jesus.”

Wayne shrugged, like the truth didn’t need to be dressed up. “I’m not sayin’ you’re him. You’re not. You’re better. But you get twitchy. Start thinking too hard. Over-explainin’. Over-correctin’. Tryin’ to make jokes outta things that matter.”

Eddie looked down at his boots. “I told her I loved her. In the van on the way over. By accident.”

Wayne grunted. “Figures.”

“She didn’t say it back.”

“She didn’t run away either.”

Eddie chewed on that in silence.

Wayne flicked ash over the railing. “You don’t need her to say it right now. You just need to act like it’s true. And not in some panic-ridden, look-at-me-doin’-my-best kinda way. Just… be good to her. Be real.”

Eddie dragged a hand through his hair. “I am being real.”

Wayne gave him a long, level look. “Then stop looking like you’re waitin’ for her to run.”

A breeze rustled through the trees. The porch boards creaked beneath their feet.

Wayne stubbed out the cigarette on the railing, tossed the butt into an old coffee can, and clapped Eddie on the shoulder.

“She’s the best thing to walk into this trailer since I got custody of your sorry ass. Don’t get clever about it. Just hold on.”

Eddie swallowed hard and nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. Okay.”

Wayne squinted at him. “You cryin’?”

“No.”

Wayne chuckled. “You fuckin’ better not be. Get back in there and do the dishes before she tries to help and sees how bad the sink leaks.”

Later, in the Van

Eddie was quiet for the first five minutes of the drive home, fingers drumming on the steering wheel to a rhythm only he could hear. The radio was off again. The windows were down. The air smelled like pine and gasoline and the faintest hint of the weed he’d smoked recently.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye- the way his jaw worked when he was thinking, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck, the way his rings caught the sunlight.

​​He caught you looking. Smirked. “What?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Nothing.”

He snorted. “Liar.”

You shrugged, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “You’re just being usually quiet.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I already embarrassed myself once today, so I figured I’d cool it with the spontaneous declarations of undying love.”

You blinked.

He peeked over, grinning like it didn’t matter- like it was just a joke, just another bit, nothing serious at all.

But his fingers were white-knuckling the steering wheel.

You hesitated. Then: “It wasn’t embarrassing.”

Eddie glanced at you again, slower this time. The grin dropped a notch.

“It kinda felt like it.”

You shook your head. “It wasn’t. It was just… surprising.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice low, “sometimes it surprises me too.”

You smiled softly. “You actually love me?”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years. “Jesus. Yes.”

And then: “Do you-?” He asked, looking at you again.

“I think you already know.”

“But I want to hear you say it.”

You bit your lip. “I do. I love you, too.”

The van slowed as he pulled up to a stop sign that led nowhere in particular. The world went still.

And then, just like that, his hand reached across the console and found yours.

“So…” he said, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “Are we, like… a thing now? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, sweetheart, I’m really bad at casual. And even worse at pretending I don’t want to scream it at every passing pedestrian that you’re mine.”

You laughed, heart tumbling over itself. “Yeah. We’re a thing.”

“A thing thing?”

You leaned over and kissed his lips. “The thingiest.”

Eddie beamed like someone had handed him the keys to the universe. “Cool. Awesome. No big deal. Just- uh- gonna have to, you know, update the ol’ social media status or whatever.”

You snorted. “Do you even have any kind of social media page?”

“I do not, but I will make one to tell the world you’re my girlfriend.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t stop smiling. Not even when he floored it down the empty back road, cackling into the wind.

The van swerved slightly as Eddie took a sharp turn onto Cherry Lane, his free hand still gripping yours like he was afraid you'd vanish if he let go. His grin was wild, untamed- the kind that made his dimples dig deep and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Girlfriend," he said, testing the word like it was some rare, precious thing. "My girlfriend."

You squeezed his hand. "You're gonna crash."

"Worth it."

The van rolled to a stop outside their apartment, but Eddie didn't move. He just sat there, staring at you like he was trying to memorize every detail- the way your hair fell over your shoulders, the curve of your smile, the way your fingers fit perfectly between his.

"You're smiling," he accused.

"So are you."

"Yeah, but mine's justified. I just got upgraded from 'that weird metalhead who won't stop failing at life to 'A Goddess’s boyfriend.' That's, like, a huge glow-up."

You laughed, shaking your head. "You're ridiculous."

Eddie leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "And yet, here you are. Voluntarily dating me."

"Regretting it already."

"Liar."

He kissed you then- quick, impulsive, and a little off-center because he was still grinning too hard to aim properly. When he pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, his lips still parted like he wanted to say more.

Instead, he just exhaled, shaky and bright.

"Fuck," he murmured, forehead resting against yours. "I really love you."

You kissed him again, slower this time, savoring the way his breath hitched when your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.

When you finally broke apart, Eddie looked dazed.

"...Okay," he said, voice rough. "New plan. We’re locking ourselves up in your room and never leaving again."

You snorted. "Your uncle’s gonna eventually wonder where you are."

Eddie groaned, tipping his head back against the seat. "Ugh, fine. But only because I owe him for not laughing in my face earlier."

He climbed out of the van, then immediately turned and offered you his hand like some cheesy gentleman from a period drama. You took it, laughing as he ushered you out with an affectionate grin.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be tagged! And to which fandom. (Bayverse TMNT, Vegeta, Eddie Munson).

@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55

Masterlist

[auroralwriting]

𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥

pairing: billy dunne x sirko!reader

summary:  billy never expected to fall so hard and fast for karen's sister, but it happened (part one, maybe?)

warnings: no warnings for this story

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

Karen Sirko was unlike any woman Billy had ever met. She was pretty, yes, but she was also bold, witty, independent. She was the kind of woman you could be around no matter what. You couldn’t get sick of her.

It made sense that ran in the family.

The first time Billy met you, it was during the recording sessions for their second Daisy Jones & The Six album; Silver Linings. They were deep in, already nearly halfway through the album. Things were progressing smoothly. Billy and the rest of the band were recording some instrumentals. It was one of those rare times the whole band was involved in the instrumental side— even Daisy was included.

Billy was standing at the soundboard, nodding along to the rhythm as Warren laid down a drum fill, messing with the volume controls, when the door to the studio swung open. He barely glanced up at first—people were always coming and going in a place like this. Producers, engineers, assistants. Then he heard Karen’s laugh, followed by a voice that wasn’t hers.

“What are you doing here?”

“Had to come see what all the fuss was about. You and your rock band,”

Billy’s fingers froze on the soundboard as he turned, his gaze landing on you. You stood next to Karen, arms crossed, surveying the studio with a look that said you were unimpressed, as if you were deciding if the place lived up to its reputation. You shared Karen’s sharp wit, her easy confidence, but there was something else about you that made Billy stop and look twice.

“Wanted to see if you were as good as the papers say.”

“Are we?” Karen asked, a knowing look on her face.

Your gaze scanned across the room, pretending to consider it as you let your gaze drift over the mess of cables, guitars, half-empty coffee cups, and beer bottles littering the space. Daisy was perched on the couch, cigarette dangling between her fingers, watching you with mild curiosity. Warren twirled a drumstick between his fingers, Graham offered a small, knowing smile, and Eddie—well, Eddie just scoffed.

"Jury's still out," you said finally. "I mean, you look the part. But I haven’t actually heard anything yet."

Karen snorted. "God, you’re worse than I am." She walked you around the room, slowly introducing you to each member of the band individually. You had the same accent as her. It was charming. It suited you.

Something Billy had always admired about Karen was that she never bent to the will of American fashion. She always wore the trendy styles from England. That was something you seemed to share, too. You wore dark clothes that fit you rather nicely. It made you look like you were a rockstar in your own sense. It was the same style as Karen, but somehow, you made it seem so individual, like Billy would never see another woman dressed that way again.

“I like your shirt,” Billy commented after Karen introduced the two of you. “It’s a nice color.”

You smiled, “Thanks. Nice denim.” He wasn’t sure if you meant his shirt or his jeans. Maybe you hadn’t even meant it as a compliment at all. He really just couldn’t tell with you. Either way, he smiled in reply. 

"So," you said, leaning against one of the amplifiers, "is this your best work or just the warm-up?"

Billy raised an eyebrow, feeling that old, familiar edge of competition creep in. He grabbed his guitar again and gave it a strum, letting the sharp sound echo around the room. The band paused, looking at him, waiting for his next move.

"You want to see what we’ve got?" he asked, almost challengingly, his gaze fixed on you.

You tilted your head, that same unreadable smirk tugging at your lips. "Why not? Show me what all the fuss is about."

Billy exchanged a quick look with Graham, who nodded, his fingers already finding their place on the guitar. Warren adjusted his kit, Eddie tapped his bass, and Daisy picked up her own guitar, her fingers hovering over the strings.

The band fell into rhythm effortlessly, and the sound of their music filled the room, growing in intensity, raw and undeniable. It wasn’t just a song; it was a performance. Billy felt the music rush through him, the familiar sensation of being lost in the moment. But even with his attention fixed on his guitar, there was a part of him that kept sneaking glances at you. You weren’t just listening—you were feeling it.

Your eyes were closed, and for a second, Billy wasn’t sure if you were lost in the music or something else entirely. When the song ended, you slowly opened your eyes, fixing him with a gaze that held something more—something just beneath the surface, like you were both playing a game and neither of you had revealed your cards.

"Not bad," you said, the corners of your mouth lifting. "You’ve got something after all. No Rolling Stones, but you could get there."

Billy couldn’t tell if you were genuinely impressed or just messing with him, but it didn’t matter. There was something about the way you carried yourself, something that made him want to keep proving himself to you. It wasn’t about impressing the fans or the industry—it was about you.

Karen, standing off to the side with her arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "You’re both insufferable."

Insufferable was the right word to use. You had meant to come visit to be with Karen, but you ended up spending most of your time with Billy Dunne. At first, it was small things. Little moments that didn’t seem like much until they started adding up.

Billy caught you watching from the control room more often than not, arms crossed over your chest, leaning against the glass as the band played. He wasn’t sure if you were analyzing or admiring. Maybe both. Then came the teasing. You’d throw little comments his way—nothing outright mean, just enough to get under his skin. Billy could give as good as he got, but with you, he never wanted to win.

"Still trying to impress me?" you asked one afternoon, perched on the edge of the studio couch.

Billy, tuning his guitar, barely looked up. "I don’t try. It just happens." He expected you to scoff, maybe roll your eyes, but instead, you smirked. That same unreadable, knowing smirk that made him feel like you already knew how this would end.

Later that evening, long after most of the band had drifted out into the humid California night, you lingered. The studio was quieter now, the frenetic energy of recording replaced by something slower, something weightier. The soft hum of amplifiers, the occasional shuffle of a chair, the rhythmic flick of Daisy’s lighter as she sat across the room, half-listening, half-lost in her own world.

Billy was still there too. He always was.

He sat on the edge of a worn-out stool, cigarette balanced between two fingers, the other hand idly strumming over the steel strings of his guitar. He wasn’t playing anything in particular—just letting notes roll into each other, unfinished thoughts in the form of sound.

You leaned against the old upright piano in the corner, arms crossed, watching. He could feel it—your gaze. Steady, assessing, like you were trying to peel back the layers of a song he hadn’t even written yet.

Karen had already left, but you wanted to stick around. You didn't give a great explanation for it. Mainly because you wanted to get to know Billy a little better, but you wouldn't outright say that. Luckily, Daisy seemed to understand and let you stick around, saying she needed a female to hear some of her new stuff, anyways.

“You always stay this late?” you asked, your voice smooth, threading through the dimly lit room like a melody of its own. You assessed Billy like some ancient artifact; something that held secrets and stories galore.

Billy exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Only when the music’s good.”

Your lips quirked. “Was it good today?”

He smirked, strumming a slow, lazy chord progression. “You tell me. You seem to have an opinion on everything else.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from you, but there was something else behind it—something sharper. “If you can’t handle an opinion, Dunne, you’re in the wrong business.”

Billy set his guitar aside, resting his forearms on his thighs as he looked at you. Really looked. You were standing there like you owned the place—not in an arrogant way, but in a way that suggested you knew how to hold your ground. A quiet confidence. That same damn smirk playing at your lips, like you already had him figured out. And maybe you did.

You nodded toward his guitar. “Play me something.”

Billy raised an eyebrow. “I just did, like, an hour ago.”

You tilted your head, considering him. “Something real. Something of yours. Just for you.”

Something flickered in Billy’s expression. Surprise, maybe. Or suspicion. Because people didn’t ask him that. Not anymore. They wanted the polished version, the radio-ready hit, the sound of Daisy Jones & The Six. Not the unfinished parts, the raw edges.

But you were different. So he picked up his guitar and played.

Not the song they’d been working on that day. Not something anyone else would recognize. Just a melody—low, winding, intimate. A piece of something he hadn’t found the words for yet. The kind of thing that only exists in stolen moments like this, in the spaces between what’s said and what’s left unsaid.

And you listened. Not just politely, not the way people do when they’re waiting for their turn to speak. You listened like you were hearing something no one else had. Like the silence between the notes mattered just as much as the music itself.

When the last chord faded into the air between you, the room stayed quiet. The kind of quiet that felt heavy, like neither of you wanted to be the first to break it. Finally, you exhaled, a small smile playing at the corner of your lips. “Not bad.”

Billy let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “High praise.”

You shrugged. “Maybe.” But the way you looked at him, like you knew something he didn’t—that meant something. Then, just as easily as you’d wandered in earlier that day, you turned for the door, pausing only briefly to glance back over your shoulder. “Goodnight, Billy.”

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving him sitting there, his fingers still resting against the strings, the ghost of the song lingering in the air.

Not bad.

And maybe—just maybe—he wanted to hear you say it again.

Karen found you later that night, out on the balcony of the small apartment she was renting. She needed away from the boys, especially after her and Graham… The air was thick with the scent of the city—hot pavement, cigarette smoke, the faintest trace of salt from the ocean in the distance. You were nursing a half-finished drink, the condensation from the glass slick against your fingers.

She leaned against the railing beside you, arms crossed, watching the skyline for a moment before she spoke. “You like him.”

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. “That’s ridiculous.”

Karen snorted. “Oh, please.” She turned to face you fully, one eyebrow arched. “You spend the entire sessions staring at him like he was an unsolved mystery. Plus, I know you better than you know yourself. We share, like, half of our DNA or something.”

You took a slow sip of your drink, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. “I was listening. You know, since you and your band seem to think you’re the second coming of rock and roll.”

Karen laughed, shaking her head. “Deflect all you want. You like him.”

You rolled your eyes, setting your glass down on the ledge. “I don’t even know him.”

Karen tilted her head slightly, considering you. “You don’t have to. Billy Dunne is an easy read.”

That made you smirk. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She nudged your shoulder lightly. “He’s all work, no play. Can’t let himself have too much fun, or he’ll think he’s losing control. He’s got rules for himself, and he sticks to them. Except when he doesn’t.”

There was something in her voice then. Not quite pity, not quite admiration—something in between.

You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

Karen sighed, tapping her fingers against the metal railing. “Billy… he’s got this way about him. Like he’s always balancing on a tightrope, afraid if he leans too far one way, he’ll fall.”

You let that settle between you for a moment, thinking back to the way Billy had played for you earlier, the way he’d watched you like he wasn’t sure if you were challenging him or saving him.

“He’s not a bad guy,” Karen said after a moment. “Just complicated.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I can handle complicated.”

Karen eyed you, something knowing in her gaze. “I don’t doubt that.”

A pause. Then, softer—almost cautious—she added, “Just… be careful. Billy Dunne isn’t the kind of man you can just walk away from.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you picked up your drink again, taking a slow sip, letting the ice clink against the glass.

Finally, you looked at Karen and gave her a smirk. “Who said I was planning to?”

She groaned, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned. “You love me.”

Karen rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Because she did. That’s why she was warning you. But if there was one thing she should have known by now—it was that you never walked away from a challenge.

You were alone when Billy walked into the studio, the sharp scent of stale smoke curling through the air. A cigarette burned low in the ashtray beside you, its embers dying, its presence long forgotten. Your guitar rested on your lap, fingers moving in absentminded patterns across the strings—not rehearsing, not composing, just filling the silence with something that felt like company.

Billy took his time crossing the room. He had always been like that, never rushing unless he was running from something. He leaned against the control board, arms crossed, watching you with that gaze of his—half curiosity, half caution, like he wasn’t sure if getting closer was a mistake.

"You always like being alone?" he asked.

You didn’t look up. "Sometimes."

"Depends?"

You smirked, but your fingers kept moving, plucking out a melody you probably didn’t even realize you were playing. "On whether I feel like being alone or not."

Billy exhaled, slow and measured. "You don’t seem like someone who does well alone."

You chuckled, but there was something weighty beneath the sound. "Neither do you."

His jaw tightened slightly, a flicker of something unspoken passing through his expression before he schooled it away. Maybe that was why he was still standing here, still watching you, still not walking away. "You talk to Karen?" he asked. You glanced up then, eyes sharp, as if you were trying to measure the intent behind the question.

Billy shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "She thinks you should go back. Home, I mean. To England."

Your lips twitched. "She thinks a lot of things."

"And most of the time," Billy said, tilting his head slightly, "she’s right."

You looked away then, just for a second, but it was enough. Enough for him to know you were thinking about it, that the idea of leaving wasn’t as impossible as you wanted it to seem. Silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken. Billy didn’t move. Neither did you.

Then—quiet, measured—you asked, "Do you think she’s right about us?"

Billy inhaled, steady, deliberate. "About what?"

Your gaze was unwavering. "I think you know." He did. And yet, he stayed still, didn’t take the bait, just let the moment hover between you, waiting to see who would move first.

"You’re playing a dangerous game," he murmured, voice lower now.

Your fingers finally stilled against the strings. "And if I said you were playing it too?"

Billy swallowed. "Then I’d say we should stop."

Your head tilted, that smirk returning—wry, knowing. "Would you mean it?" His silence was answer enough. Your fingers resumed their movement, plucking out something slower now, softer. The tension between you didn’t ease, didn’t shift—it just settled, like smoke in the air, something both of you were breathing in but refusing to acknowledge.

Then, finally—so quiet you almost didn’t catch it—he asked, "Would you be willing to give up Britain for me?"

You exhaled, shoulders rising and falling in one slow, deliberate motion. "For you?"

He nodded once. "For a rockstar."

A beat passed. And another.

Billy’s jaw tensed, his expression unreadable, but there was something there—something he wasn’t saying, something neither of you had been saying for weeks now.

Then—low, certain, irrevocable— "I would for you. Not just a rockstar."

"I think they go hand-in-hand," Billy replied.

"Then maybe it's time you learn how to have both," you suggested.

The air between you and Billy seemed to crackle with a tension that had been building for weeks. It was almost too much, the way you felt when you were around him—like something was constantly about to happen but you didn’t know if it would be something beautiful or destructive.

He was standing just a few feet from you now, his usual confidence replaced with something more vulnerable—something raw, the kind of vulnerability he rarely showed to anyone.

“So, what exactly are you doing here?” Billy’s voice was quieter than usual, a note of something almost like uncertainty in his tone. You’d come by the studio a few hours ago, planning to leave once the session was over, but here you were, still lingering. It wasn’t like you had anywhere else to be.

You shrugged casually, glancing over at the band members who were lost in their own world. “Maybe I’m just interested in what the studio looks like when you all aren’t here.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed, though there was an edge of amusement in his expression. “Are you really? Or is it something else?”

You couldn’t help the slight smirk that tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Why don’t you tell me?”

His gaze lingered on you, intense and unrelenting, and you felt the weight of it in your chest, a familiar pull. He knew exactly why you were still here and not with your sister. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmured, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours.

You met him halfway. “You’re one to talk,” you replied, voice steady despite the way his presence made your heart beat faster.

Billy chuckled under his breath, his lips curling into that half-smile that always seemed to throw you off balance. “I.. thought it was all in my head. I heard that accent you have can be like a sirens song.”

“Is it working?” You asked curiously.

“Yeah,” Billy nodded, breathing out as he spoke. “It’s working really damn well.”

You made up your mind then and there– “This is my first official visit to America. Tonight, you’re gonna take me somewhere that’ll impress the shit out of me. And it’s going to be a date. How’s that sound?”

Billy smirked at your request– no, demand, with amusement. “I think I can make that work.”

“Good. I’ll see you tonight, then.” The moment you walked out of the studio, you felt like you were high from excitement. 

You had just asked out Billy Dunne. And he said yes.

[alvfr]

hey I saw you're open to requests and I'm so obsessed with your "Accidents" series with Hotch x Reader! I totally get you're taking a break from it atm so feel free to ignore but I'd love a drabble or whatever you're comfortable writing/sharing from the series? Maybe like a snapshot of when they were still figuring things out before they crossed that line or became established.

Thanks so much!

A/N: Aah, it's been so long since I've written for Hotch so I hope I managed something at least. I really tried to keep this short-ish and more of a drabble, but yeah, this would be set after the shower-scene in "Elevators" but before the bonus-part, I guess. Not super exciting maybe, but good practice for me. cw: none? sfw. awkward phone call. fem bau!reader, no use of y/n, part of "accidents" wc: 1.3k

Call me maybe

The first time Hotch called you was around eight in the evening, the day after your team got back from the conference in Florida. While you could not say you had been expecting it — a pessimistic part of you always expected the worst case scenario — your body told a different tale. Every inch of you had buzzed with anticipation since you stepped foot in your own apartment. Making sure to keep your phone charged and unmuted for a change, going as far as keeping it within sight when taking a shower and still checking it religiously every few minutes in case you had missed something. 

You argued with yourself, scolding yourself for waiting around like a lovesick schoolgirl and then berating yourself for doubting his word in the first place. He had said he would call and Hotch did not lie so why were you getting so worked up? 

When the day dragged on, without even paperwork to distract yourself with, you spiraled into increasingly worse scenarios as to why he had not called. He had been called into work, he had lost his phone, he had forgot his charger, he was discovered he was under surveillance by some shady government officials. Or something had happened to him, or to someone he cared about, or something had happened to both him and someone he cared about. Or, and this was simultaneously the best and worst one, he had changed his mind.

So when the call came that night, you had worked yourself into a bit of a frenzy and jumped at the sound of your own ring tone. The display glowed with the name 'A. Hotchner' and you forgot all about basic human behavior, like blinking or even breathing. 

It rang three times before your body bypassed your meddlesome mind and you picked up with the standard greeting of your last name, just in case he was under surveillance somehow. A theory that gained traction with every loaded second where you could not hear anything from the other side.

“Hotch?” you asked and held the phone out to check if the call was still active. In your state, you would not have been all that surprised to find if you had hallucinated the whole thing. “You there?”

“Yes.” The smooth sound of his voice sent rivers of idyll into your veins while your heart threatened to pound out of your skull. “Sorry. Hi.”

A stupid grin overtook your face and you twirled the still-connected charger cable with your fingers before catching yourself. Dropping the cable, you cleared both your throat and face. “Hi.” 

“Hi. Sorry, is this a bad time?”

“No, it’s good.” 

You tried to avoid looking at the mess of your apartment, all chores neglected for the day in case you wound up missing his call. In truth, you’d drop everything in a heartbeat and come over if he asked, although you had no idea where he lived. 

“I mean, I can talk?” You winced at how you had managed to phrase it as a question and cleared your throat again. “What’s up?”

And the award for worst conversationalist goes to this girl right here, you thought with a hefty roll of your eyes. What’s up? What were you, fourteen years old and trying to impress your friend’s older brother?

“Not much,” Hotch admitted from his side of the line and you thought you could detect a hint of gratitude in there. “Just finished up some overdue paperwork.”

“San Joaquin county?” you guessed, knowing without a doubt how much paperwork that case still generated. 

“Parts of it, yes. There’s also the budgets, protocols and various administration memos I’m forced to have an opinion on.” A slight pause and you caught a slight intake of breath on his side. “I didn’t call to talk about work.”

You forced yourself to keep your breaths slow and controlled instead of shivering as you knew they’d be. “Okay.”

“How are you?” The tenderness in his voice wreaked havoc with your inner organs and you could imagine his expression. The tilt to his eyebrows that matched the tilt of his jaw where he looked up, resting his eyes on whatever was near the ceiling to the left of him. “You get home okay?”

“Safe and sound. You?”

“All in one piece.” 

A silence stretched on for an uncomfortable few heartbeats and you wracked your brain for something worthwhile to say. It was uncharted territory to talk to him casually like this. No time crunch forcing you to keep the small talk to a minimum and no risk of getting caught forcing you to speak in code. Neither did your forte lay in phone calls and, as the profiler you were, you wished you could have had his facial expressions and mannerisms to reveal more of his thoughts during the conversation. The same probably went for him, you realized and it made you breathe a little easier.

“What did you think of the conference?” he asked just as you were about to say something completely different.

“Uh…” Your brain did a full reboot to no avail. “Are you asking about the actual conference or—”

“The actual conference,” he clarified and you thought you could hear the smile in his voice. “Did you catch the mass-shooting response training?”

“I did and it was okay, I guess, even if it felt a little dated.” You wandered around in your apartment, needing to get rid of the built-up excess energy. “Doesn’t this count as work talk though?”

“You’re right. Sorry, I’m,” you heard something brushing against the microphone, maybe him dragging a hand over his forehead, “not very good at this. I, uh, wanted to call to reiterate that I fully understand if you’ve changed your mind about this.”

“I haven’t.”

The words came out faster than you had anticipated, some part of you determined to deny him any possibility of doubt. 

“I’m really glad you called, Hotch.” You did a few test-runs at yourself in the mirror and corrected yourself to: “Aaron.”

“Good. I’ve been working up the nerve to do so for the past hour.”

Again, you could imagine his expression. The slight secretive smile, his head now tilted downward, exposing more of his neck to the room.

“Well, I’ve been waiting for it since I got home last night.” You tried to match his unabashed honesty, the need to convince him that you wanted this still present. “If that makes you feel any better.”

“A little,” he murmured and you could almost feel how he settled in wherever he was, maybe lounging back against the couch or chair, getting comfortable and the phone scratched again as he shifted it around. “What kind of movies do you like?”

The question blindsided you and you blinked at your own reflection in the mirror. “Uh, I’m omnivorous really. Why?”

“I’m looking through the show times for Friday night. I was hoping you would like to go see a movie with me, if we don’t get a case.”

“Oh.” Your stupid grin returned tenfold and you absentmindedly twirled the charging cable again. “Well, then I really like the movie that is playing this Friday night.”

In the end, you settled for a title and time, both of which would be rescheduled over and over again because of a case getting in the way. It took you a month to go see a movie together, but it did not really matter. By then, you had talked on the phone every night you were off a case (and sometimes he called you from a hotel room that were just a few doors down the hall from yours to say good night when you were on a case.) A torturous slow pace, maybe, but well worth it in your opinion.

-----

Thank you for the request!

If you want to read the rest of the series, it is on AO3 here (E-rated)

Let me know if you liked it, thank you for reading ❤️

[nathanfxkingsummers]

Remy grinned from ear to ear. He watched Cable recant his touch so Gambit instead grabbed his human hand and placed it on his hairless chest.

Gambit laughed as he held on to Cable's wrist. "I ain't gonna lie, I am nervous. I've seen men die like this before. Well, I mean, on the TV." Gambit lightly traced up Cable's arm. His fingers twirling around.

"I reckon this was your plan all along." Remy floated forward allowing his lightly charged lips brush against the outer part of Cable's ear.

@theragincajun

Cable's breath caught in his throat as Remy grabbed his wrist and moved his hand to his chest. His left eye glowed a faint gold, his own powers at work as he shifted positions on the couch, climbing onto Remy's lap. "Die by explosive kinetic energy?" Cable traced his flesh and bone hand down Remy's lean chest, not putting his full weight on the man's lap. With his metal, he was a lot heavier than he looked. The hand tracing down his arm send chills down his spine, feeling the sparks against his skin. "I'm able to withstand a nuclear blast, so I think I can handle you, handsome." Cable chuckled, his left hand reaching up to cradle the Cajun's jawline as he leaned into his ear, the sparks tickling his skin as his lips brushed against him. "My plan was to come home and make myself some dinner. Think this is more fun though," Cable chuckled, turning his head slightly, just so he could press his lips to Remy's. He inhaled sharply the second their lips met, his lips parting just so he could taste the other man. His lips tasted like beer, weed and felt like poprocks against his tongue. It just made him press closer, his heart racing behind the metal.

[simpingforcys]

OH, I ASKED THIS ONCE BEFORE, BUT I WILL ASK AGAIN, what's your favorite thing about turbo/king candy

I'm answering this in the late ass time of night but it's the perfect time let's gooo

I. Love. Everything. About. This. Man. I love him so so much. His style, his laugh, his voice, UGH HIS VOICE, movements, goofyness silly, racing, the JOY he takes in everything he does, his SILLY GOOFYNESS AAAAA, the way his crown always stays on his head no matter what, the BOUNCYness of his body at the smallest movement like a jelly, his adorable self, his UNHINGED SELF, the hint of growl in his voice talking about his possession of the game, his effortless and overall LOVE for racing, his eyes constricting/become smaller when he's absolutely pissed tf off, the authority persona he can pull off even in his short ass 3"0 self still so imposing (pant pant), the little patting he does to sour bill like pls my king do to me pls, the manipulative lil SHIT, but he's an entertaining manipulative lil shit, the way he so effortlessly lies through his teeth and makes it believable, the way he can make others do what he wants on just words alone without the need of force cuz he KNOWS physically he can't do SHIT and I fucking LOVE silver tongue characters HHHHHHHHH, speaking of- that tongue THO?? boy what that DO, that lisp I find so so hot just hhhh sir how dare you, I love the sparkles that always just follow him, on his clothes, his kart, his throne, just ALL of him, the way he just HAS FUN with everything he does (not even MENTIONING THE CYBUG EVERYTHING), the added helmet and gloves when he's racing that even Turbo didn't use??? the bow tie twirl it does when he's surprised, he MUST have coded that in, and oh- KNOWING HOW TO FKING CODE, whether someone told him or he learned on his own, being able to manipulative an entire world for YOU, creating a new model/body for himself, like it's TERRIFYING to know your entire existence and even YOUR OWN MIND can be manipulated from a couple of cables just below you and he fully took advantage of that, I love everything of his design, the purple sparkling coat, the candy wrapper bow tie, the heart designed hand cuffs, candy cane neck collar, the POOFY pants<3333, the crown with the balls that look like Ferrero Rocher chocolates, the chocolate dipped design, his jellybean nose<333 my second favorite candy, the purple eye shadow he looks so hot with and add to his for some reason constant bedroom eyes look, the rosy blushy cheeks that perk up when he smiles and giggles, the bushy eyes rows that make him SO expressive with every emotion EVEN WHEN THEYRE OFF COLOR SO OFTEN IN HIS MERCH DEPENDING ON WHAT THEY FEEL LIKE THAT DAY, his smile lines that curve with every smile, how soft his face, skin and lips look and bet they would feel just LOOK, the way his lips sometimes go expressive on the 'ooh's sounds so cartoony but also make me wanna kiss him so much, how soft his hands look even with finger nails cuz of course gotta look chibi and cartoony in the new game, the way he MOVES around with the microphone, TOTAL show off man built for the spotlight, beautiful perfect host like imagine a GAME SHOW WITH HIM AS HOST?? the little hip sway when he closes the door of his kart, the way he dives into his collar when he dodges down so CUTELY, his silly name puns and candy phrases that even pass on to the magic kingdoms game, so on point,

the two tail coats behind him that HONESTLY WORK SO WELL with the later dual cerci tails in his cybug form like a foreshadow, the little button behind his jacket that looks like a Mario coin (and I haven't looked at a picture of him since I opened this ask, this is just by memory he's just Aaaaaaa), the whole white chocolate design aesthetic with his royal racer kart and honestly himself too with the inner shirt, the fact that his "fans" are POPCORN, LIKE THAT'S NOT A CANDY but they're still there even tho like yeah animal crackers aren't candy either BUT ITS SO FUNNY to think Turbo went "I need my own little 'crowd' to fit in with the other racers, uh uh, POPCORN, yeah that was popular in the 80s", the fact he let his jealousy, vain and possessiveness for control get to him to destroy an entire game, like I fully believe he would PHYSICALLY PERSONALLY unplug a game if he could, I just love him so so much, Alan Tudyk, you did amazing with him, I genuinely can not see anyone else that would of taken him and made him AS GOOD AND ICONIC as he did, I just love him so so much, I adore him, I need him, I adore him, and I know it's gone so far when I found myself saying "I would let the world burn for this man," if he told me he hated another game and wanted it gone, disappeared, killing his competition, I would do it for him, anything to have him with me still. I adore everything about him.

And I haven't even gotten to TURBO since he got 24 SECONDS OF 3D SCREEN TIME (YES I COUNTED AND TIMED).

what was the question? oh favorite thing?

I'm very big on voices. so. voice. voice

[chiphersconsort]

Showmanship

They had an impressive run, this faction. No points for creativity. The Anti-Cipher Coalition. Ford supposed all the fun names had been taken already. That said the way they had managed to rally together rebels from all over was commendable. Their warding magic was tight, though not impenetrable. That much was obvious considering Ford had already found his work around and infiltrated their base. Their defenses were down and they didn't even know it yet. One sloppy mistake would be the last these people ever made. It was time to stamp out yet another rebellion before they could pose a threat. Ford couldn't blame these people of course. Bill was a shit emperor. That didn't matter. This dimension was on the brink of collapse and Bill was load-bearing. Ford had to protect his husband at all costs, even if it made him the villain. Oh well, enough stalling. Ford took a long swig of jellybean vodka to chase down his nose candy and prepared his performance.

Click.

"Hello everyone." He greeted warmly. His voice echoing over the intercom to every inch of the facility. "This is your Royal Consort Supreme speaking, The Right Hand of God." He blustered. Pacing the announcement room and twirling the microphone cable around his finger as he swayed to the soothing sound of his own voice. Panicked fists and boots banged on the door he'd reinforced to no avail. His image was projected currently over every digital screen in the building. Ford made sure to give the people his good side. "I'm here on behalf of his Imperial Pain in the Ass to deliver a message." He announced. "All personnel are to report to the auditorium in the next 60 seconds." He explained. "Those who fail to do so will be vaporized." With a snap of his fingers, a deadly wave of stellar heat formed a bubble around the compound that began to shrink. Ford pretended to check a non-existent watch on his wrist. "One, two, three… oh wait." He snarked. "I forgot, the clocks don't work. My bad."

He looked back out at the crowd he'd soon be face to face with. The banging on the door had stopped. "I hope for your sake I'm good at counting."

Ford heard the early screams of the first couple unwitting stragglers to be caught by his spell and vaporized. They didn't scream for long. The way the sound cut off was something akin to a bug zapper.

Showtime.

Ford chucked the mic and lazily drew lines in the air. Slicing through the room's front wall with its large observing window that overlooked the auditorium below. The dense material curled down for him like the top of a sardine can. The sound of screeching metal nearly drowning out the frantic din of folks rushing into the auditorium.

A couple rebels had come prepared. Armed with all manner of monster hunting gear. Some of it was pretty advanced stuff, Ford would definitely give them that. The first hit was a fireball of all things.

"Aw, baby's first spell." He coed as he tanked it without a scratch. Walking through the flames as he trotted down the platform he'd created for himself to the center stage.

More shouting. Bullshit heroic speeches. Ford had heard them all.

A magic disabling pulse from a two-manned cannon was a bit more impressive. AOE, hard to dodge. Enough to make Ford's power flicker. He felt it in his chest. His connection severed temporarily, though not completely. Not so much that he couldn't dodge the following plasma attack. Tuck and roll. Take that one down with a punch to the throat. Another with a leg sweep.

The siblings with their pulse cannon made a frantic effort to recharge for another shot as Ford's rings sparked back to life.

They were fast. Not faster than him. Two snapped necks and the power was back on. He disintegrated the cannon with a snap of his fingers, and with it, every other weapon in the room.

A few people shrieked. The braver ones fell back into phalanx formation around the weak and tried to melt him with their moralizing glares.

Ford pulled his vodka back out of his coat pocket and took another swig. He juggled his bottle in one hand. Preforming cute little party tricks and swaying on his heels. Savoring the heat that flushed in his chest and the splash of sickly sweet. Whistling a little tune to himself.

He looked to be the only person amused.

"Tough crowd." He chuckled. More people were filing in as his spell corralled them. Ford could see through the walls. A few stranglers trying to teleport people out. Attempting different methods to get around Ford's bubble. Zodiacs he assumed. Every rebel group had a set.

Ford clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "I swear people never listen." He sauntered up onto the auditorium stage. He snapped his fingers and summoned all the zodiacs and their assisting comrades directly into the auditorium. Lining the Zodiacs up on stage behind him, their feet now swallowed up by the floor. Arms bound. Pinning them all in place. "You give people simple instructions and they just can't resist letting you down." He lamented to his prisoners as he paced down the line. Taking in each of their faces. He knew each and every zodiac. Knew their types. They all looked the fucking same. "I'm not an unreasonable man people. I don't ask for much."

One Zodiac at the end of the line reeled back as Ford approached. A former acolyte…

This one had Ford's touch on their face. An inky black handprint stained into thier skin.

Two guesses which one of them was the Six Fingered Hand.

Ford reached out to cup the boy's face in hand where he had apparently done so once before. He tried to remember who this one was. When and why they had come to him.

"You know all about that, don't you boy?" Ford cooed softly. Leaning in to read the fire in the boy's eyes. He was young when he accepted his God's mark. A lonely child who had lost everything. Ford rubbed his thumb affectionately over the boy's cheekbone.

It wasn't the first time Ford had been spit in the face. Made him grateful for his glasses. "I'm not your boy!" The now young man hissed.

"Adrian, right?" Ford recalled as he stepped back and put the vodka away to clean his glasses on his shirt.

Adrian didn't reply. That was fine. Ford probably wouldn't have either. He put his glasses back on and turned to face the crowd. "All right which one of you is in charge around here?" He asked the crowd.

No answers.

Ford combed over the sea of faces and skimmed their minds. It was clear they had all been trained to guard their thoughts. The high-ranking members wore devices to protect themselves from psychics. Ford looked over the warded members, whose minds he couldn't read, and pointed with a finger.

"Eeny, meeny, miney- You." He announced as he singled out the leader. He knew her by the main character scar across her face. She was a grizzled older woman in a trench coat. It wasn't hard to figure out.

One of Ford's hands burst up from the ground below her and snatched her up. Yanking her up to the center stage to hold her face-to-face with the god these people sought to defy.

"Clarrise I'm geussing? Don't tell me-" Ford laughed and waved a hand at her. Closing his eye and holding two fingers to his temple as he guessed. "They call you Cleaver or Glaive, some kind of bullshit hipster weapon. The last person to use your birth name was your mother right before she sacrificed herself to save you. You were…" He looked up again and squinted at her. "Seven, maybe ten… am I in the right ballpark?" He asked.

The contorted rage on this woman's face confirmed he did indeed have her pegged.

She spat in his face. "Go fuck yourself, demon whore!"

"Ok, so we're doing this again." Ford sighed as he stepped back to clean his glasses again. Like he said, no points for originality with these people.

Ford paced the stage as he addressed the crowd. "Alright, now that I've got you all here, let's talk."

Ford tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. "You all know why I'm here. I know what you're planning. I know it won't work. I think deep down you all know it too." Ford watched the crowd for the tell tale signs of the easily swayed. "Now, I could have just wiped this place off the map with everyone inside, but I didn't, why?" Ford cupped a hand to his ear and waited for an answer from the crowd.

His eye flashed with blue fire when he didn't get one. "I didn't because…?"

Confused murmurs came back from the crowd before their leader barked at him.

"Because the Chipers are a pair of show-boating sadists!" Clarissa, or Cleaver or Glave or whatever she called herself, snapped at him. Struggling against the hand that held her.

Ford's hand tightened it's grip till everyone in attendance could hear the crack of her ribs. She cried out and choked on the breath that fled her lungs. Winded from the pain.

"Wrong answer, try again."

Ford looked back out at the crowd when he heard a meek voice attempt to speak up. She was barely more than a child. Sixteen, maybe seventeen.

Ford turned to her and offered a hand in her direction. "Excuse me miss, can you say that again?"

The girl was tucked behind some of the front liners who had tried to fight back. Her comrades looked at her mortified as she mumbled. Still too soft to be heard by most. Ford could hear her though.

He snapped his fingers and summoned up his stone thone to sit in. Teleporting the shy girl to his lap. Perching her on his knee like a demented mall Santa.

"Say it one more time." Ford instructed. Bringing his bottle back out for another swig. "Louder, for the folks in the cheap seats."

Ford's magic amplified her voice when she spoke.

"T-To… to g-give us, a ch-chance-" She stammered out at a snail's pace.

Ford swallowed and groaned. "Uhg, come on I have a meeting to get to, I don't have all day."

"To Surrender Sir!" The girl barked obediently.

Ford offered her a warm smile and patted her back. The girl flinched under his touch but made no attempt to flee. "Good girl." He praised gently.

"Can I get your name sweetheart?"

"M-Molly." Molly was shaking. On the verge of tears.

"Would you like to leave?" Ford rubbed reassuring little circles into her lower back. Leaning down to her and speaking softly like one would address a child.

Tears spilled over. Ford could smell the fear rolling off her. Hear the whirring sparking gears in her mind as she struggled to process if he was being sincere. She looked him in the eye. Scanning for answers.

"I… I d-don't…" Her words were so quiet and meek.

"Speak up." Ford directed sternly.

"I-"

"Louder. I want everyone to hear you." Ford replaced his vodka with a microphone he held to the girls lips as she sobbed.

"I don't want to die!" Molly wailed. Screaming hysterically into the mic for everyone to hear. She crumpled into a soggy mess of snot and tears. Collapsing against Ford's chest.

"Good girl." Ford praised again. Combing his fingers through her tight curls. "You did so good." He whispered.

Ford snapped his fingers and an opening appeared in the deadly force field that confined them all to this room.

All eyes locked on that opening. An out. A chance at freedom. At survival.

Ford nudged Molly and led her gaze to the exit. "Go on then." He told her. "You can go."

Molly stared at it wide eyed. Chest heaving. Frozen in place.

"Unless you'd rather stay here with me." Ford teased. "You've been lovely company but I don't think you want to stick around for the rest of the show."

Molly looked up at Ford for a few seconds before hesitantly slipping from his lap. She took a few steps back. Not taking her eyes off him.

Ford smiled and twiddled his fingers farewell to her.

Another step back, then another, when Ford made no attempt to stop her, she finally made a run for it. Bolting for the exit like her life depended on it.

Once she made it through the field Ford sealed the exit once more. Molly's comrades watched through the semi-transparent wall of magic as the girl booked it down the hall without once looking back. Some looked disgusted, some betrayed. Ford watched the light in other's eyes die as they watched their opening dissapear.

"There, you see what happens when you behave?" Ford offered the crowd. Returning to his drink and reclining lazily on his throne. Speaking like a father in his comfy chair. "I don't want to have to be the bad guy here. All I need is for you all to give up on these silly little dreams of yours. Quit while you're ahead kids."

"Go to hell!" The old woman growled. Blood dripping from her lips.

Ford glanced back at her with a raised eyebrow. "Very orginal sugar plum. Got any more zingers where that one came from."

"I.. don't care… what you do… to me…" What's her face gasped between straining for air. "We'll never stop fighting."

Ford sighed and pulled himself up from his seat. "If I had a dime for every time I heard that-" he walked over. His heels clicked against the stage. Ford stopped shy of the woman's face. "Well, I'd be a much richer man." He laughed.

"You disgust me."

Ford honestly wished she'd gone out on better last words. What a waste. He liked this woman's fashion sense. Ford placed a hand on her head and lit her on fire. Her screams filling the auditorium.

"See this is the problem with these hero types." He explained. "Everyone wants to believe they're the hero. That when it came down to the wire you'd do the right thing, rise to the occasion, beat the big bad, and save the world." He mused. Serenaded by a dying woman's screams as he went down the zodiac lineup. He ran his hand over the shooting star, an alien girl with crystal eyes. Her skin peeled away like wallpaper. Exposing her musculature to the open air as she wailed in agony and bled out for the crowd.

"But that's just it. You aren't the hero. This isn't your journey."

The next zodiac had a glass bubble filled with water materialize around his head. Forced to drown on his feet.

"There are no chosen ones. You aren't special. The universe doesn't care about you."

Frozen to death, eaten alive by moths, each death was agonizing and slow for the crowd. Some Zodiacs tried to spout trite rebuttals at him about doing what's right, good triumphing over evil. Ford didn't even respond. Just spoke cleanly past them with his displays of power.

Ford looked back at the crowd as he approached the last boy in the lineup. Adrian. His boy. He placed his hand on his stray acolyte's shoulders. Adrian was doing an admirable job of fighting back the tears as he shook in Ford's hands.

"That's just it though, I'm not the universe." Ford reminded his audience. "I do care. You're my people after all. I don't want to do this."

The crowd stared in a tense silence.

Ford leaned down to whisper in Adrian's ear. "You could still walk away." He reassured him. His little lost lamb. The little boy he saved so many years ago. "It's not too late. You could put all these ambitions behind you. There's good money to be made out there as a monster hunter. I'm sure you'd be good at it." Ford watched the boy closely as he tried to hide his face behind a curtain of hair. "You could make a life for yourself. Find someone. Settle down. Start a family." Ford offered. The same had been suggested to Ford when he was young and ambitious.

Bitter spiteful tears spilled over as Adrian finally mustered the courage to look his former god in the eye. "I would rather die than live in Cipher's world." So much conviction in his voice.

Ford hadn't taken the deal either.

A man after his own heart.

Ford pressed a hand to the boy's head and granted his wish. Splattering his brain matter across the stage. Unlike the others, this one was quick. Painless. It was the least Adrian was owed.

Ford looked back out at the crowd one last time. "Alright then, last call. Raise of hands, who here wants to leave?"

[whiskey-bumblebee]

Hey, hope you're doing good today 🤠 dbf!Hotch who notices reader "having trouble with her car" and he helps her? She's more than capable of doing it herself, but she just wanted a reason for Hotch to come over while her parents were away. She may or may not have self sabotaged it to get him over there shirtless in the blazing sun, offering a dip in the pool as repayment, but hinting at more 👁️🫦👁️ i hope that makes sense lol

I LOVE THIS IDEA! thank you bestie <3 get ready to meet the smartest bimbo ever

Uptown Girl

Pairing: dbf!Aaron Hotchner/Reader (gender neutral!)

Word Count: 1695

Warnings: Innuendo, dbf!hotch (reader is an adult), brief mention of reader's parents (vague but they are Rich).

Tagging: @ssamorganhotchner @hotchsdoormat i think you two will like this <3

You can't hold back a smile as you dial Aaron's number from your parent's house phone. You twirl the cable around your finger as you glance around the freshly cleaned kitchen. There's a chilled bottle of San Pellegrino on the counter, the glass sweating from the heat. It's so quiet that you can hear birds outside, no doubt eating some fallen fruit from the trees outside the kitchen.

"Hello, Aaron Hotchner speaking."

"Hey Aaron Hotchner speaking," you tease. "My car won't start. I know it's your first weekend off for a while, but is there any chance you could come over and help me fix it?"

"Hmm," He says playfully. "And how do I know this isn't some elaborate ploy to spend time with me?"

"Come see for yourself," You reply, smiling. "It just won't start."

"Mhm," He agrees, and you can hear the humour in his tone. "And I suppose you can't just use daddy's Bentley?"

"Daddy doesn't drive a Bentley," You reply seamlessly.

Aaron's stumped for a second, and the line goes silent. "I thought he just bought a new one? A silver Continental?"

"Daddy drives a black Chevy Suburban," You say. (A/N: non-car besties: this is hotch's car <3)

Hotch clears his throat. "Baby, you can't just call me that."

"Aaron, please?" The playfulness has dropped out of your voice. "My car really won't start, and I'm supposed to meet my friend for tennis this afternoon."

"Of course," He replies. "Sorry, I thought you were just trying to convince me to come over."

"Would it be so terrible if I was?"

You feel a pat of guilt seep into your stomach, wondering if Aaron really did have more important things to do than attend to your car trouble.

"No," He adds, quickly. "I'd love to see you. Are you home alone?"

"My parents are in the Seychelles."

"Ah. So not home for dinner, I take it?"

You shake your head out of habit, then say no.

_______

When Aaron's black Chevy pulls up into your driveway, you come out onto the balcony and wave, then rush down the stairs to meet him. Sure enough, he sees your Corvette parked next to your dad's silver Continental.

"So you do have the Bentley," He teases, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist.

You kiss both his cheeks. "It's so good to see you."

"Well, you know why it's been so long," He sighs, caressing your cheek.

You look him over, his casual outfit throwing you off a little: dark blue Lacoste polo, straight-leg jeans, New Balance 574s. It was so different from his typical suit and tie, more dangerous somehow. Where you normally saw yourself as a paramour, sneaking in moments after work with your suit-clad lover, this felt more... ordinary. Like he was picking you up for a day of shopping, or to travel down to the yacht club. Like he might join you for tennis later. You tried to push the thought out of your mind, and to quell the fondness blooming in your chest.

"New York called, and I had to answer," You reply airily. "And you've been busy on cases, so it's not all my fault." You poke him squarely in the chest, and he smiles at the gesture.

"Alright, where's this car trouble you were telling me about?"

You lead him over to the spacious garage.

You slip into the driver's seat and turn the key. The car gives a few revs, then falls back into silence. You do it again for good measure.

"Let me try," Aaron says, leaning through the window.

He reaches into the car, turning the key himself. Sure enough, it doesn't start.

"Does your dad keep a set of car tools around in here somewhere?" He looks around.

You roll your eyes. "I have a set. I might be young and beautiful and wealthy, and young, and wealthy, and beautiful," You emphasize the repeated words, giving him a pointed look. "-but I'm not completely incompetent."

"Of course not, honey," He coos soothingly. "Are they in the back?"

You nod.

He walks around your car, and you watch him go in the side mirror, enjoying your view of his cute little ass in those jeans.

You hear his typical high laughter as he finds the tool set. When he walks around to the driver's side again, you smile innocently.

"What?"

He nods for you to get out, and holds up your tool set.

"The Swarovski crystals are a nice touch," He laughs. "And the pink."

"What? I can't have a cute little tool set to go with my cute little car?"

He rolls his eyes at you, but his grin tells you it's not with any real menace.

You hop out of the car and open the hood, leaning in just enough that you know your shorts will be showing off your assets.

"It's hot," You mention innocuously, and pull off your tank top, tossing it aside without looking back at him.

You hear Hotch take a deep inhale from directly behind you. "It is," he replies.

When you turn around, he's taken his own shirt off. There's just a small patch of chest hair, but the droplets of sweat are just glowing. He's as fit as ever, and you can't help yourself, you reach out and touch his chest.

"What are you doing?" He murmurs. "What about the neighbours?"

You pull away then, and look from side to side. "Aaron, do you seriously think we're close enough to any other houses that anyone will be able to see anything? It's like your place," You say, starting to run your hands down his abdomen. "And I'm sure you remember all of the mischief we..."

"4th of July weekend," He finishes. "I remember."

"You normally don't need much convincing," You say softly. "Is everything okay?"

He nods. "I'm just focused on trying to fix your car so you can go to tennis later. I promise, if we had a bit more time, I'd be all over you."

You smile at that. "Do you have time?"

Aaron leans in and nips at your earlobe. "I would've invited you over today to catch up. I was trying to come up with an excuse," He kisses your neck, "-when you called."

You catch his jaw in your hand and glance at his lips until you're sure he's caught you looking. His lips part, and his breathing turns slow and deep. That's all the encouragement you need, and you kiss him.

Your lips are soft and slow against his own. Immediately, his hands settle on your hips, ever the gentleman, not wanting to go straight for your ass. He does, however, nudge your legs apart so he can slot his thigh between them.

Whining softly, you rub yourself against his thigh.

"Can I be honest?" You gasp as he angles his knee just right, sending hot pleasure through your veins.

"Go ahead," He says coolly.

"I broke the car just so I could watch you come and fix it," You whisper.

Aaron smiles at the fact that you were also trying to come up with some excuse to see him, then his expression lapses into one of sympathy. "Oh, baby. You could've just called. You know I'll come running."

You press your face into his neck, embarrassed by how desperate you were to see him. It wasn't the fact that you wanted him that worried you. Any reasonable person would want him. He was tall, handsome, and had a dick the size of Saturn. No, it was your need that worried you. The deep-seated longing that settled onto you like dust whenever you didn't see him. Sure, you'd been having a great time in New York, meeting people, buying art, hanging out with your best friends, but it was hollow without him. More than once you'd thought of calling him on the hotel phone, letting his deep, calm voice lull you to sleep. You always felt your best when you were around him, like he drew out your best attributes in the same way that a perfect wine would match the meal, note for note.

"You smell so good," You breathe. "I want you all over me."

"We should fix your car first, or call a tow truck. I don't want you to be stranded," He said, stroking your hair.

You shake your head, a small laugh passing your lips.

"It's not that serious. Watch."

You turn your attention to the hood, and after a few minutes, you're in the driver's seat, starting your car as normal.

Aaron quirked his brow at you. "How did you do that?"

"I disconnected the starter relay earlier," You call, then walk back over to Aaron so you can show him. You open the hood again, then show him the plastic box where you can remove the relay from.

"It even has a little diagram showing you how to take it out," You point out, laughing to yourself.

"Right," Aaron replies. "And where exactly would someone like you learn how to do that?"

"Someone like me goes to a lot of parties. Nothing convinces a bunch of wasted rich kids not to drive quite like not being able to start their Lambos."

You can tell the way that Aaron's looking at you, so you don't look over at him.

"Don't do that," You mumble.

"Do what?"

"Look at me like that. Don't give me brownie points just for not being a total asshole."

Aaron sighs lightly. "Okay. But for the record, I think saving lives like that is commendable. Even if they're just 'wasted rich kids'."

"Alright," You say, closing the hood, trying to lighten the mood. "Do you want anything? Lemonade, coke?"

"I'm never sure if you're offering soda or something I could get in trouble for," He teases, catching your hand in his own as he follows you up the stairs to the house.

"Well, I'm sure my dad does have coke in the study, but if you're only looking for trouble," You pause in front of the door, turning around with a wide smile and your arms raised. "I'm right here."

"What about the tennis?" Aaron's already running his hands over your chest, nudging you through the doorway, towards the pool.

You grin. "She'll just have to play singles."

[radioisntdead]

Mine

Vox x reader

Song used

Warnings: TOXIC TOXIC TOXIC T-O-X-I-C

have you strung

His swirling eye hypnotized you, you felt everything turn faded, you could barely hear the words he was saying, you just saw the swirling eye of the television, what were you so mad about again? You couldn't remember...

Strung in my web

You felt his sharp fingers wrap around your chin, pulling you closer to him.

Everything was just so hazy, it was like everything that wasn't him faded away into the background.

A candle burning slowly by the bed

How did you get here?

Shadows tangle like a vine

You felt something slithering up your arms, twirling around them until they were firmly wrapped around them.

Crawling up the posts within our shrine

You felt his grip on your chin tighten and harshly pull you forward to face him

"Right now, you're mine," he said sending shivers down your spine, not of pleasure but of fear.

You needed to leave, you wanted to leave but you couldn't, he kept you there, wrapped in his grasp.

"All mine," you struggled against the wires and cables wrapped around you, the more you tried to get away the tighter they would become.

"Give in, you're mine," you felt more wires slithering up your legs taking away your ability to stand, relying on only him to keep you up right.

"All mine," he moved his grip from your chin down to your neck, he pressed down on your neck, taking away your ability to breathe for a few moments before loosing his grip.

He had full control over you.

I love that you shake

Your eyes drooped, almost closing, you felt him completely let you go, leaving you hanging from the wires like a puppet.

When I ravage your skin

It's so easy to bite with your hands pinned

You heard him step away, the sound of his footsteps disappearing.

Slowly but surely you felt yourself regain control of your body, your eyes snapped open before you ripped the wires off of you, trying to undo the tangled mess and get out of there.

Shadows dancing on the sheets

If you obey, I might give you a treat

Ice cold panic filled you as you heard his footsteps once more, you hurried to rip the rest of the wires off of you and run before he could catch you.

Right now, you're mine,

The moment you got the wires off you book it, running as fast as your legs could take you, to rip open the door that held you back from freedom.

"All mine," only for more wires to wrap around you and drag you back over to Vox.

"Give in, you're mine," you screamed, kicked and tried to hang onto the floor, you left behind claw marks as you were pulled away.

All mine

You tried fighting back but in the end you were sat in front of him, restrained on your knees.

"You look so good, there on your knees," you felt his hands move around your head, lifting it up to look him in the eyes.

"Such a good girl knows how to please," you shut your eyes as tightly as you could trying to free your head from his grasp.

Only for him to grab your head with both hands and pulled it towards him, you couldn't keep your eyes closed forever, eventually you'd have the urge to open them.

"Look at me, look me in the eyes," He brushed one of his fingers gently over your eyelid causing it to just barely open.

And barely was enough to get you back under his control.

"Forget yourself, surrender your mind," your eyes opened up properly as he hypnotized you, his eye swirling around and round keeping you back in his control.

"Right now, you're mine," you felt his grip loosen as you slouched back, losing control over yourself once more.

"All mine," you felt the wires loosen and fall off of you.

"Give in, you're mine," you felt yourself being picked up and carried away.

You weren't ever escaping his grasp, were you?

All mine.

[scaredyspooks]

I’ve finished the first chapter of the Felix x reader fic! It picks up more after this chapter.

05:30. The robotic beep of an alarm across the room, eyes already half open before it goes off and a tired form stretches to life. Feet on laminate flooring, a shiver at the cold wood, and trudging footsteps carrying you to your dresser. The clock is silenced, the sound of a live radio feed taking its place, spilling out the early morning news as you move to the window, tugging the blinds open and squinting at the pouring light. Still wriggling the life into your fingers and toes on the way to your bathroom, you stifle a yawn feeling unusually groggy this morning.

By 05:45 you’re kitted out for your morning jog, a smug smile lifting your lips as you relish in the quiet streets, loving being awake before most of the other people in your neighbourhood, a certain pride at being active and ready for the day. The chill of the fresh air filling your lungs helps push any residual sleepiness from your mind, and kick start your appetite for breakfast.

Having eaten, showered and dressed for work you’re settled at your desk by 09:00, sifting through files of data and trying to force your eyes to adjust to the scrolling code on your screen. Page after page of information and as you scan through them, you jot down notes in shorthand of all the connections between them, your notebook quickly filling up, the margins taken up by reminders of other things to check, people to reach out to and eventually you have a full web of data to present to your boss. As per usual, you work through lunch, too distracted by your work to notice time passing. When 18:00 came, your phone trilled to life just as you were tidying everything away, with slight apprehension, you lift the receiver to your ear.

“Hey, it’s Troy Marshall, remember from that Expo a few years back?” His voice is warm and friendly, but there’s a tension below the surface that tells you something’s wrong.

“Yeah, of course I remember, you okay? How’s your mum and Terry?” You could already tell this wasn’t a social call, but you didn’t want to jump straight into whatever was bothering him.

“They’re good, they’re good…” Oh god, he’s getting ready to spill something. Your finger twirls the cable anxiously, foot tapping away at the linoleum floor of your office, “So, you remember the expo… You know how you owe me that favour? You need to get to the airstrip for o-three-hundred tomorrow morning. Pack light, I’ve wired you some files to read up on while you fly over. You got all that?” His instructions are rushed, like time isn’t on his side.

“Uhh… Airstrip, three AM, pack light. Right?” You’d noted it down as he spoke, panic rising in your throat as you say your goodbyes and place the receiver back down once you hear the beep at the other end, rushing to catch up with your boss before he leaves for the evening.

The moment he sees you, he beams with pride, gushing about how his trusty intel officer was going to help Frank Woods, a personal friend and the man he thanked for not having everyone around him speaking Russian. You give an awkward laugh and he explains how it’s all been covered on his end - your absence would be recorded as an injury and he’ll make sure your job is secure for whenever you come back. The whirlwind speed at which your comfortable life had been thrown into disarray within a mere ten minutes has your head spinning, but either way you have work to do.

By the time you get home, the sun has gone down and rain is hammering at your windows like a clock ticking down until you needed to be at the strip. You stuff the basics into your duffle bag, a couple of outfits, a towel, pyjamas, toiletries, notebook, pens, and you place the files you’d printed at the very top for easy access.

The cab dropped you off at about 02:15, giving you time to sprint up the runway and be herded onto a helicopter, the guard in the passenger seat with you pulling you up as the propellers start to oscillate. You buckle in, pulling on a headset for communication with the pilot and that’s when you find out where you’re headed. Bulgaria. Just after the lifting of the iron curtain, specifically an abandoned KGB safe house, according to the files Troy sent you.

Said files seem to be dossiers on the location, along with each member of your team. Troy Marshall, who you already knew from an expo event that saw each of your promising career programs, among others, coming together to blow air up each other’s arses. He’d gotten you out of some bother with higher ups after you got tipsy and told them all about your opinion of them parading their overworked protégés around, using them and you to stroke their own egos. Since then, you owed him a favour, and this was how he was caching it in. William Calderon, Troy’s teammate who’d joined him in going rogue. Frank Woods, whose reputation precedes him, and a smile lifts your features when you see he’s taken Troy under his wing. That leaves Sevati Dumas, a freelance assassin who struck out from the Guild in Avalon, previously helping Adler investigate Pantheon, and finally Felix Neumann. Ex Stasi, completed compulsory military service in Germany and then went into training with East Germany’s secret police. You knew of them, Germany’s answer to the KGB, seeding distrust among their people and collecting informants among the general populace through fear and coercion. He’d been one of their enforcers, you dread to think the things he’d done at their orders. But apparently he’d seen the light, fleeing to West Germany in a bid to escape their brutality and wash his hands of violence. Direct violence, at least, as he’d moved onto providing his technical expertise to criminal organisations instead.

I guess we all have to get our hands dirty sometimes, you think, and this time it’s your turn. Once you’d scanned through every document, you let yourself drift off into sleep, hoping the remainder of the nine hour journey would pass you by in your slumber.