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ozzgin · 7 months

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Pyramid Head x Reader

Featuring Pyramid Head and a reader with amnesia lost in Silent Hill. This is Pyramid Head as originally intended for Silent Hill 2, so expect a lot of game-based immersion. Warning: NSFW, dubious/non-consent, violence, gore

[Horror Masterlist]

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

You grunt and slap the wheel, hoping your defiant act of violence will somehow convince the car engine to start again. It remains quiet. You run a hand through your hair and sigh. The palm is mildly sticky with moisture and you realize you've been sweating a fair amount. No wonder, you're stuck in this shithole. You couldn't see a damn thing ahead with all this fog. The only discernible object was a rusty, run-down sign showing "Silent Hill". You've never heard the name before, but reading the letters and allowing the words to escape your lips has brought you an unexpected wave of panic. You quickly began hyperventilating and your arms involuntarily twitched and twisted, pulling the wheel of the car along with them and causing the car to swerve into a street barrier. And now it refuses to turn back on. Fantastic.

You hesitantly grab the door handle. After a deep breath in, you open the door and step out. Given the car crashed sideways, you can no longer tell which way is back and which way is forward. You can only see the first few inches of the barrier in both directions, but everything else vanishes under the thick clouds of mist. You rub your temples, becoming increasingly upset with yourself. What were you even doing, driving all the way to-

Wait. Where were you going in the first place? You recall leaving from...home? But where is that supposed to be? No, don't do this. Not now. You walk back to the car and open the glove compartment, angrily pulling out a thick stack of documents and spreading them out onto the chair. You scan over them, growing more impatient. You don't recognize anything. The names and words and addresses don't hold any meaning. You glance up to the rear-view mirror in an attempt to detect some trail of blood seeping from your scalp, as a concussion might explain your sudden memory loss, but your appearance is fresh. Almost as if you didn't just crash your car in a strange place in utter confusion.

You check your phone. Even if you can't remember, there has to be someone in your contacts that will come to your aid. The screen glitches briefly when you unlock it and the menu is empty. No contacts, no messages, no apps. No matter, emergency will do. You type in the digits and lift the phone to your head, but quickly remove it when loud static assaults your eardrums. Why is nothing working properly? You're tempted to just slam the junk into the pavement, but find enough composure to stuff it back in the pocket for now.

All that's left to do now is to find another human. You begin walking. The road has to lead somewhere, that's for certain. And soon enough the barrier is replaced with a different kind of fencing that you use as guidance. It seems to be a small bridge. Just a few steps further and you discover the first signs of modern, populated world: a bus stop. Behind the waiting bench is a brief map of the area and you trace the plaque with your fingers, mumbling the path to yourself. "Now let's see...This is Nathan Avenue...Rosewater Park ahead...Ah, the Silent Hill Fire Station should be very close."

You can't wait to be done with this mess. They'll call for a tow truck and get you out of here. You almost sprint to the next block, expectantly. In fact, you can already spot someone right outside the building.

"Thank God! Listen, my car broke down before the bridge. My stupid phone is also...huh."

Just as you mention it, the same static as previously erupts from the speaker. You're startled and fumble for your phone. You're about to apologize to the person in front of you, but upon lifting your gaze you instantly stop in your tracks.

'Person' is a strong word for it. It resembles one, or maybe it was one long ago. What's crawling towards you, however, is not how you'd define it. The arms are melted into the torso, mimicking a straight jacket of skin. The bony, crooked legs are dragging themselves in an unnatural, unnerving way. The creature has no face, save for a gaping hole, a bizarre cavity deforming what should be a head. Your mouth grimaces with disgust, followed by fear. Terror. You have the choice of returning to your damaged car, or attempting to find actual help deeper into the town. You run ahead, praying that someone's out there. The dissonant sound of a siren can be heard, diffused into the persistent fog.

By the time you reach the next building, you're gasping for air. You didn't expect to run this far. You went all the way around Toluca lake, avoiding the side streets. The center was swarming with those abominations. Each turn and each corner would eventually reveal its revolting murmur, that pathetic shuffle of disfigured limbs. Thankfully they're not fast, nor smart. A little distance and they lose their interest to pursue you. You fall against the brick wall of this small house and read the poster. "Silent Hill Historical Society". Doesn't look too promising, but it's surprisingly devoid of any monstrous being. At this point you'd be more grateful for emptiness. It's safer.

You tiptoe your way in, wary of potential attackers. There's a faint buzz echoing from afar, but other than that no immediate danger. You examine the lobby and notice the paintings and old photos hanging from the decaying wallpaper. It smells slightly rotten. One of the art pieces catches your attention and you stop in front of it. "Misty Day, Remains of Judgement".

The abstract character depicted on canvas reminds you of an executioner. The more you stare, the clearer you can feel some kind of guilt knotting inside your stomach. Your shoulders are heavy and you're overwhelmed by the same anxiety of a child about to be punished. Awaiting the belt. The calloused hand of an unforgiving father. Your throat is dry.

Your musings are interrupted by the static that - as you've since learned - warns you of approaching creatures. The rooms are cramped and the walls are narrow and you dislike the idea of calculating your escape within this claustrophobic maze, but it's preferable to being dead. You jog along slithering paths, unsure of where they lead. The threatening turbulence of your phone goes up and down, like a sine wave, with each turn into uncharted territory. In your frantic efforts to flee you don't see the large hole blocking your way, or at least not fast enough. By the time you figure out the outlines of this pitch black well, you're flooded with the light sensation of gravitational force, stretching and compressing your innards as you fall. Is this how you end?

It's not so easy.

As soon as you open your eyes, a burning pain metastasizes through the head, digging deep into your brain. You grab onto your scalp and press your fingers over the skin, hoping for a small relief. In your debilitating migraine you don't hear the agitated flutter of limbs. They're minuscule, but so many. Thousands of sclerotized joints frothing around your limp form. You lift yourself off the rusted ground and yelp voiceless at the sight. Cockroaches. The pile of vermin lets out a deafening, high pitched screech with every movement. You drag your elbows in an attempt to get away, but the creepers almost ignore your existence. They seem to be running away from something, retreating in masses.

You don't have to wait long in order to witness their source of fear. Heavy footsteps, muffled by the grating friction of metal against metal. A corroded stench invades your lungs and you cough. Whatever is coming has instilled the utmost dread in your very bones. You want to get up and run, until your legs give up and your body collapses of exhaustion, but your limbs are petrified in panic. Your chest constricts and throbs, as if your heart is trashing to escape this prison condemned to unknown doom.

Finally, the fiend comes into view. A tall, large man wearing a leather apron layered with grime and encrusted blood. His skin is scarred and discolored, and a bulky, dense pyramid structure rests on his broad shoulders, concealing his face. He seems to be dragging along a great knife of sorts, although on closer inspection it looks like a halved pair of oversized scissors. The edge is dulled and has splattered visceral leftovers mattifying its surface. You remember the painting you've seen upstairs. Is this what it is? Your Retribution?

You lower yourself until your forehead touches the rusty floor. Like an animal awaiting to receive the final blow from its hunter, like a prisoner resigning to his fate under the guillotine. If only matters could be dealt with so simply! Your neck is clawed into a tight hold by the large gloved hand and you're crudely pulled back up so that you can properly face your Punisher. There's a vague grunt coming from underneath his bizarre helmet.

He carries you to the nearest wall and slams you against it. The great knife drops to the floor with a loud crash, and the other hand, now freed, begins to search your lower clothing. You can feel the seams of the garments tear and snap with no resistance. You want to vocalize a protest, but your throat is crushed under the forceful pressure of his clasp. At best, you can exhale in what sounds like a whispered wail. His apron is nonchalantly flipped to the side and your thigh lifted over his forearm, so that his hand can adjust itself securely under your bottom for support.

Abruptly, a prickling ache crosses your entire body as if you've just been split in two. Tears automatically begin forming in the corner of your eyes and spill down your cheeks and over the pyramid that's now pressing tightly against your quivering form. It's too big and you want to push away, but with each renewed plunge you grow weaker. The small tears and rips that blossom around your abused intimacy turn into bleeding wounds. You want to sleep.

A creature of pure instinct, serving as a reminder of human perversions and immoral desires. Travesty, corruption, sin. And what about it? Before you know it, a small moan escapes your dried lips. You throw your arms around your captor's shoulders. The sharp edges of the helmet scratch your skin, waking you back into consciousness. Your lower muscles start to relax around the massive member and allow for a smoother glide in and out. The numbness is gradually replaced by pleasant sensations. The throbbing reverberates inside your abdomen and your other leg wraps around the creature's hips, asking for more contact. Once your compliance is confirmed, the hand pinning you by the neck wanders to other parts of your body in starved desperation. Your voice returns and more lewd whines roll out one after another. If only you had a mirror so you could look at yourself in this moment. What shameless expressions are you wearing on your face? You're clinging to your violator in feverish depravity. And in return, the creature responds to your cravings with increased intensity. He seems to resonate with your wishes and stiffens his hold on you with newfound obsession. His thrusts become almost feral, with a certain possessiveness to it.

As you're about to reach your peaks, your mind once again travels to the painting. You wonder if you'd be hung and framed just like the prisoners behind their executioner. Pleasure mixed with guilt.

What sin is eroding your entrails?

#silent hill #silent hill 2 #sh2 #pyramid head #pyramid head x reader #pyramid head smut #horror #silent hill x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #dead by daylight #dbd x reader #dbd x you #dbd pyramid head #pyramid head dbd #slasher smut #yandere pyramid head #monster x reader

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luveline · 5 months

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Hi lovely!

Can you please do one where Hotch and Reader are in a fight and it gets heated and he maybe raises his hand just because he’s shouting and she flinches?

He would be prepared to FIGHT whoever made his honey feel that way 🗣️🗣️

💘

for you my sweetheart. fem, 1k

cw implied past domestic violence

“It was right,” you're saying, on the defensive, your voice molten, “it was the thing to do!”

“It wasn't.” Hotch closes the door. “It wasn't the right thing to do, it wasn't even close.”

You realise, under everything, that he's right, but you couldn't help yourself, you had to try and save the day, had to swerve the SUV. Plus, he's done it himself, and you both know that. “If Monikie got out of that exit we never would've seen her again.”

“There were roadblocks on the I–46, and I don't think I have to tell you that you could've gotten a lot of people seriously hurt–”

“You've done worse,” you deny.

His expression, broadly furious, narrows into something sharper, “And that is my decision to make, but you report to me.”

“You can't seriously want to act like a boss now,” you say.

The room isn't overly large, and so you stand close to one another with no need for shouting, but your voices begin to overlap. Hotch is so angry. It isn't like him to yell at you, his voice strained.

“You can't truly think that the decision you made today was the right one. You need to calm down, and you need to listen to me when I tell you that this was the wrong move. We'll talk about it more tomorrow.”

“You're shrugging me off?” You could laugh. “You can't be serious. Every member of this team has done the same, or worse–”

“But they're not you!” His voice peeks, his hand jolting out in front of his chest, flat-palmed in incredulity.

You're really quite close to each other.

It's not his fault.

You step back, desperate to be away from the movement, the hand, because it doesn't register as his hand, only there's a chair behind you and a table behind that and you bump into the plastic with a creak and screech. You're righting yourself as quickly as you're tripping but Hotch is already moving away. Three steps that feel like a gorge.

Your heartbeat soars.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“Of course.” You breathe out funny. It's not his fault, but there's something wired in your brain now, and it knows that the first strike isn't the last. Your hand shakes as you brush at an inch under your eyes.

“I'm not mad,” he says.

“You sounded pretty mad."

“I've changed my mind.” He gives you a long hard look, and then he moves to the office door to open it before returning to his initial position. He's given you an exit route. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he says.

You put your hands on your hips and bend at the waist, breathing out hard. “Fuck, I know that."

“You thought I might.”

“So profile me,” you say, panicking still, face hot and itchy all over. “Tell me why.”

“Someone's hit you before. Enough to anticipate the second blow.”

“But you knew that already, didn't you?”

Your ears get cloudy like there's water in them and you can't stand the feeling of Hotch's gaze on the back of your head. You force yourself into a standing position and try to ignore what happened.

“You're unfairly angry with me,” you say.

Hotch just shakes his head at you.

“It's… It's not a big deal,” you say, quieter. He already knew because of course he did, every member of the team gets checked. You have records, and he's in a position of power unlike most, he could've read them like the morning paper.

“Why would you say that?”

“I can still do my job.”

“I wasn't going to suggest you couldn't.”

Then why… why is he looking at you like that? You're humiliated enough, and his gaze is so… so soft. So sorry. Tears gather warm behind your eyes and your chest aches like you've been holding your breath. You frown, eyebrows lifting at the starts, not knowing if you should beg him to forget the whole thing or finally give in.

“Come here,” he says gently. Completely optional, his fingertips twitching but stationery at his side.

You stare resolutely at your shoes.

“I'm sorry I scared you, it wasn't my intention. I can imagine how it feels. I'm not mad, honey,” he says. His voice drops to a murmur, “Come here,” he pleads.

You take a clumsy handful of steps and he meets you in the middle, arms going carefully over your head. You'd feel condescended by it if it weren't shockingly nice to be considered in such a way, or if the solid mass of his arms around you didn't soothe. You feel protected rather than boxed in, held, and not restrained.

His hand slides open down the length of your back.

“I'm sorry I scared you,” he repeats, for your ears alone.

“It's not like it was really you that scared me.”

The memory scared you. The flinch was instinctive, less to do with Hotch and more to do with the connection between a moving hand and stinging pain.

He hangs his head by your ear until his nose touches your shoulder, and for a few seconds, it's just you and him together, no fighting, and no fast-approaching hands.

“You didn't scare me,” you mumble, hiding your face in his shoulder instead, forcing him to stand tall.

Incoming footsteps cut your embrace short, but he doesn't pull away too swiftly. His hands grave the lengths of your arms, and he gives you a long, loaded look. Before you can calibrate the action to the man, he's chucking you under the chin, a stroke of his index knuckle, a promise of more to say.

He catches Morgan before he can enter the room and directs him back out. “Take a minute,” he advises you.

You sit in a chair and do as he's offered. Memory is a tricky thing.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

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emchant3d · 3 days

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part 2 of runaway bride stevie! modern au, exes to lovers, transfem stevie harrington pt 1

Eddie Munson is not having a good day.

His phone died last night so his alarm didn’t go off, his bassist is sick so their gig tonight has to be canceled, and his last three Uber rides have stiffed him on a tip.

He accepts a request from some dude named Scott with a terrible comb-over in his profile picture and gives himself two seconds to bang his forehead into his steering wheel in frustration with a closed-mouth scream. Then he dials it back so he doesn’t seem absolutely fucking insane. He can see the suit he’s about to escort to some fucking meeting even though he’d rather be doing any-fucking-thing else, and he pastes a fake smile on to greet him. He’s gearing up to fall into the usual routine of this godforsaken job, but then it all goes a little sideways.

There’s movement from the corner of his eye, and then a blur of a body is slamming into poor Scott from behind, shoulder checking him and almost sending him careening onto the sidewalk. The dude pinwheels his arms like a cartoon character, suit jacket puffing up around his shoulders awkwardly, expression so baffled it makes Eddie snort despite himself.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, and he’s reaching for his seatbelt to see if the guy needs any help - he looks like he might break a hip if he hits the ground - but then a whirlwind of white fabric swoops into his backseat and a loud, desperate voice yells "DRIVE!" in his ear, and he sort of just thinks 'sure, why the fuck not,' and slams his foot on the gas.

The car fishtails a bit and the tires squeal as he swerves into traffic, horns honking after him, and he picks a direction at random, going way too fast for this area of town.

His heart is pounding in his chest, worst case scenarios running through his head. He’s going to get car jacked. He’s going to go to jail for being an unwitting getaway driver. But there isn’t any more yelling from the back seat, just heavy, panicked breathing, and he settles into traffic and slows down to a more normal speed before he cuts his eyes up to the rearview mirror.

Time stops.

It’s Stevie.

He can’t believe he didn’t recognize her the second he saw her, but in his defense, it's not like he was expecting to see his ex-girlfriend in a goddamn wedding dress running like she stole something today.

Pure panic wraps tight around his throat as he takes her in - is she hurt? In danger? Nothing good could have had her sprinting away from her own wedding, but it seems like she’s just shaken up.

His heart calms a bit once her tears dry and they get properly on the road.

And shit, it’s so unfair, because she's just as breathtaking as she was the day they split. She looks just as sad, too, which is certainly not how a woman like Stevie Harrington should look on her wedding day. But seeing her in a gown like that - Jesus Christ. His heart squeezes painfully in his chest. It’s like something out of a fantasy, seeing her in the exact kind of dress she used to whisper to him about wanting, the kind of dress he’d once promised to marry her in. Of course, they fell apart before he could even get a ring on her finger, but it still sends his stomach swooping to see the future they’d spoken about come to life.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he can’t help but ask, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Yeah,” she says, voice high and a little squeaky. “Yeah, I’m totally fine. Just in my ex-boyfriend's car after I left my fiance at the altar, it’s all fine, it’s chill.”

“Okay,” he says haltingly, delicately, because Stevie Harrington is not the kind of person who says it’s chill, “it’s just that, you know, all of that sounds decidedly not chill.”

“This is so chill. It’s the chillest I’ve ever been, actually - hold on–” she says, and next thing he knows a swirl of silk is blocking his view and he sputters a bit as the train of her dress smacks him in the face, but she’s clambering gracelessly from the back seat and over the console to plop down on the passenger side with a loud huff and a cloud of perfume.

It’s different from what she used to wear. She used to smell spicy and warm, with notes of amber and cinnamon. He’d kiss the little spots in her wrists where she’d spritz it on, trace the veins beneath the tan skin with his nose to keep the scent of her with him.

Now she smells like vanilla and something floral, airy and light. Like he stepped into a bakery. It’s not bad, of course it’s not bad, but it’s…different. Not her.

Or not his version of her, anyway.

This is someone else’s Stevie now, and she smells like fucking cookies instead of home.

Instead of commenting on it, he just tells her to put on her seat belt, and she looks at him like he’s an idiot.

“And wrinkle this dress?” she says, her nose curling a little, and God she’s such a bitch and he’s missed it so much.

“I hate to break it to you,” he tells her, “but some wrinkles are not the worst damage that thing has seen today.” There are small grey splotches on the bodice where her makeup dripped as she cried earlier, and the hemline has some muddy staining from her mad dash on the sidewalk. It’s not ruined, but it’ll have to be cleaned, and a couple of wrinkles will be the easiest thing to get out of the formerly pristine fabric.

He glances over at her in time to see her run her hands over the skirt of the dress, smoothing it out over her thighs. It shifts, the leg slit parting to show her skin, teasing at the hint of a crease where her thigh and stomach meet, and Eddie rips his gaze away to stare at the road instead.

“Probably for the best, anyway,” he says, and he feels her eyes latch onto his profile.

“And why’s that?” she asks, and he smirks.

“Well, pure white? C’mon, Stevie, we both know that’s a lie.” He flashes her a wicked grin and she makes an outraged sound, but a small smile is teasing at her mouth even as her cheeks flush.

She kicks off her heels - red bottoms, because of fucking course they are - and slouches in the seat. She pushes herself up, adjusting in the pile of silk and corsetry she’s been strapped into, and he sees the absolute mountain of a rock on her hand, and manages to bite his tongue about it being the gaudiest thing he’s ever seen.

"So who was the lucky guy?" Eddie asks before he can stop himself, and the glare Stevie gives him could cut glass. “Or lucky woman. Person? Far be it from me to deny you your bisexual rights.”

He probably sounds like a jealous asshole, but he can't help it. He's the getaway driver for his one that got away on her fucking wedding day, and he feels like he deserves to ask a few questions.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel as the silence lingers, but eventually, Stevie just groans, letting her head fall back against the headrest dramatically.

"Don't laugh," she demands, and Eddie shakes his head.

"Scout's honor," he promises, and he swears a wry little grin teases at her lips.

“You were never a scout. You would have been kicked out for inciting a riot.”

“Hey, I just ensured we all earned our arson badges, okay? I did every one of those kids a favor.” Stevie scoffs, and it almost sounds fond.

Then she says, “Tommy,” and he almost swerves into oncoming traffic.

"HAGAN?" he says, louder than he means to, and her hand flies up to grab the oh-shit bar.

“Eddie, Jesus!” she says, glaring at him, and he shakes his head, focusing back on the road.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, but fucking - really? “Really?” He can’t help himself. “Tommy Hagan?”

“Yes, really, Tommy Hagan,” she says hotly, like she’s defensive, like she didn’t just leave the schmuck at the fucking altar.

“Well that explains the ring, at least.” She reaches over, smacking at his arm, which, thanks to the aforementioned ring, is probably going to bruise. “Hey, ow!” He glares at her, taking a hand off the wheel to rub his bicep. “Watch it, that thing’s a weapon.”

“Then stop sassing me about it,” she snaps, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms and her face falls into that adorable bitchy little pout he’s always fucking loved, and he looks away again.

He can’t help but glance back over at her left hand. The ring is…certainly something. Giant, square, one big diamond surrounded by other, smaller diamonds, with even more diamonds on the band. It looks heavy and cumbersome and like she’s going to smack it into every wall and door and get it caught in her hair and seriously, he’s pretty sure he’s already got a knot forming on his arm where the thing hit him.

It looks like Tommy walked into the priciest jewelry store he could find and asked for the most expensive ring they had.

It looks like a status symbol.

It doesn’t look like her.

“Apologies, highness,” he says, shaking himself free of his thoughts. It’s not fair to hold her to those standards. He hasn’t spoken to her in years. He can’t know what kind of person she is now.

But there’s still a bone-deep knowing that overtakes him at the feeling of the woman next to him. A sense of deja vu so strong it threatens to knock him over.

A different car, a different time, a different circumstance, but the same person. The same love.

He’d picked a direction at random, but as the streets become more familiar, he realizes he’s heading towards his place. It’s as good as any, he figures, and he shifts lanes, reaching to tap on his phone and shutting down his Uber account.

“You know, I almost expected you’d still be driving that beat up old van,” Stevie says suddenly, and he crows a laugh.

“Ah, Van Halen, you served me well until you almost blew up on the highway,” he says fondly. “Lost her about a year ago. It was tragic. I held a funeral.” She laughs again, shaking her head.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she says, turning that pretty smile his way, and his heart does a somersault.

“That was a very impressive move back there, by the way,” he tells her, “that shoulder check of that old defenseless businessman?” He whistles. “Haven’t seen anybody move that quick to steal an old man’s ride before, really, it should have been documented.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” she says, but there’s a laugh in her voice, and she brings up her hands to press to her pink cheeks. He can’t help but keep digging.

“No, seriously! And sprinting like that in heels? And in that dress? What’s that thing weigh, like twenty pounds?”

“It’s a dress, not a suit of armor,” she tells him, but her smile is growing, making her eyes crinkle.

“Just saying, it was pretty metal,” he shrugs, and she snorts.

“Well, you would know,” she says, and he ignores the way his face flushes in response. She gives a little sigh, wiping below her eye and frowning at the smear of black on her fingers.

“Here,” he says, reaching across her. His arm brushes her leg as he opens the glove box and he’s so fucking normal about it. He pulls out a few fast food napkins, holding them out to her. “No makeup wipes in here, but that’ll help with the worst of it.”

“Thanks,” she says, and she flips the visor down, tapping a napkin to her tongue to wet it before wiping at the mascara tracks running down her face. “God,” she groans, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn smear, “I look like a raccoon.”

“A very cute raccoon,” he says before he can stop himself. Jesus, Munson, dial it back. “Like the raccoon that’s about to get the best trash in the bin, she doesn’t even have to ask for it.” Stop talking. “The other raccoons are just gonna give it to her, on account of how cute she is.” He’s gonna throw himself into traffic.

“Did you just call me a raccoon on my wedding day,” she asks. Fine, commit to the bit.

“You called yourself a raccoon on your wedding day. I was just agreeing with you,” he replies, keeping his eyes fixed to the road.

Her eyes are on him - he can feel her stare burning into the side of his face, and his cheeks are going pink and blotchy and God, he’s an idiot–

And then she laughs. Not her polite little contained laugh, either, no, this is that loud, wide mouthed laugh that she hates, that makes her shoulders shake and her head fall back. It’s squeaky and hearty and a little obnoxious and he’s always been so obsessed with getting her to let it out, and he can’t help the smug beaming little smile he gives at the sound.

“You’re such an ass,” she says through her laugh, and Eddie can’t help but laugh with her even if it’s at his own expense, because at least she doesn’t look so goddamn sad anymore.

When they finally reach his apartment complex she’s a little more subdued, but the look on her face isn’t totally heartbreaking, and he’ll take what he can get. He comes around to the passenger side to open her door for her and helps her gather the dramatic skirt of her dress to keep it off the pavement as they head towards the stairs, and he knows he looks like an insane person as he carts a bride down the hall, but he just smiles at his nosy neighbors and lets this cement his reputation as the weird as fuck off-putting metalhead he knows they all think of him as.

He feels a little self conscious as he opens the apartment door for her, sweeping an arm dramatically to allow her to enter first. For the first time since she swept into his car, he wonders if this is a good idea. But it’s too late now – Stevie’s giving him a little smile and stepping into his home, and part of him knows this was inevitable. She may not have called him, but he was always going to come if she needed him.

He follows her inside and tries to calm the pounding of his heart, watching her take in his space, struck all over again by her beauty and the impossibility of her standing here, and silently prays he isn’t going to fuck it up all over again.

this was almost even longer, but I figure 2.5k is enough for a part 2! no tag lists, sorry, but part 3 will be here at some point. thank you to everyone who's had a kind word to say about this au these two are very near and dear to me 💕

#steddie #trans steve harrington #transfeminine steve harrington #stevie harrington #runaway bride stevie #my fic #steddie fic

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midnights-dragon · 6 months

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thinking about Crowley and Aziraphale driving around, doing whatever, before everything went to shit in the end. Crowley's driving the Bentley, obviously, and the two of them have fallen into a comfortable silence that they're both used to after 6000 years together, especially the past few, since the stopped Apocalypse.

Crowley is driving like a maniac as per usual, blasting Queen and whatever else happens to have been in his car for less than two weeks. He glances sideways from beneath his glasses, a stolen glance that he allows himself towards his the angel, and he sees -

Aziraphale has fallen asleep.

Crowley is surprised. He hadn't even known that the angel did sleep. and then he remembers that night in his flat after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, when, before they had made their plan to stop their own respective sides from getting to them (thanks, Agnes Nutter) they had passed out, spectacularly drunk, on Crowley's couch that had become soft just for the occasion, and the demon had awoken to the angel snoring, leaning over his leg. So, yes. Aziraphale slept.

Crowley contemplates this for about three seconds before letting out an extremely exaggerated, dramatic sigh and slowing down the car, stopping his inane swerving and speeding and dropping to just below the speed limit. And then some. And then some more.

He miracles any and all possible bumps in the road to be smoothed over, and muffles the outside noise through suddenly-tinted windows. He flicks the radio down, Freddie Mercury barely audible over Crowley's bated breaths and Aziraphale's small, huffing snores.

The Bentley recognizes the significance of its owner's actions, and it too works to quiet its own engine, smoothing out its drive and warming its insides to be the perfect temperature for a fussy angel.

Crowley glances at Aziraphale once more, and settles back into his driver's seat, fully prepared and ready to loop around, driving slowly with barely any music, if it means that his the overworked angel can have a well-deserved rest.

When Aziraphale wakes up later, he cracks open an eye to see Crowley, driving slowly and purposefully, mouthing the words to some barely-audible song of his (probably be-bop, Aziraphale thinks disapprovingly), his sunglasses having been placed in some compartment. His gorgeous yellow eyes are barely visible in the dim light of the car through the windows, even though it's still day out. Almost as if someone has miracled the windows to be purposefully dark, as to not disturb someone. A sleeping someone, perhaps. Perhaps that is the same reason why the Bentley is driving slow enough for it to be of a concern, and why the usually-deafening music is at an all-time low volume.

Aziraphale watches for a long moment - an extended stolen glance, of sorts - and then lets out an exaggerated yawn and stretches, blinking slowly, smiling at Crowley, who, at the sight of him, reddens, and immediately clocks up from going 30 miles per hour to 95, the music abruptly becoming blaring again, Queen's Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy.

"Sleep well, angel?" He asks, slamming his sunglasses back over his nose, and Aziraphale smiles, rolling his eyes. Silly demon.

"It was quite undisturbed, yes." And then, more cheekily: "Thank you, my dear."

"Dunno what you're thankin' me for," says Crowley gruffly, and Aziraphale merely smiles wider before leaning back in his leather seat, watching the demon's gaze flicker over to him ever so often from behind his sunglasses - as if to check that his counterpart is still awake, and to check that he has no need to be as kind as he just was.

(might write an actual fic of this lmk if that’s something y’all would want to read!)

#tristen has thoughts #good omens #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable idiots #ineffable husbands fanfic #ineffable husbands #fanfic #fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale

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moonstruckme · 7 months

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could you do a poly!marauders with fem reader where reader doesn’t swear at all (or like REALLY rarely) and the boys are with her and something happens and she just starts cussing like a sailor and the boys are like O: ??where??did??that??come??from??

Thanks for requesting my love! This is not based at all on anything that's ever happened to me ofc (I've never cursed even once in my life and am a very attentive driver) but it was fun to write!!

cw: near-miss car accident

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 820 words

“I can’t believe you keep the seat so far back,” you say, squinting into the rear view mirror.

“Right?” James backs you up from where he’s gently massaging Remus’ knee in the backseat. “Moony, your height is an injustice to us all.”

Sirius smirks out the passenger window. “I don’t mind it.”

You laugh, glancing into the mirror to assess Remus’ countenance. He’s usually the one to drive the four of you around, but he’d woken up this morning with his knee aching and none of you had wanted to chance him getting a cramp or tweaking a muscle while he had his foot on the gas. He claims the pain isn’t bad and the rest of you are playing along, but his promises do little to reassure you. Remus’ tolerance is crazy high from years of aches, pains, and injuries, so him saying it doesn’t hurt very much is like when Sirius says he’ll be over in five minutes; he probably believes it to be true, but everyone else knows better.

Remus’ lips are twisted slightly upward at your bantering, though, and when you scan his face for signs of tension or discomfort you don’t find any. He starts to lean onto James’ shoulder, then shoots back up, eyes widening.

Sirius’ sharp inhale has you whipping your attention back out the windshield, where another car is trying to butt into the small space between your car and the one in front.

“Fucking fuck!” You hit the brakes and slam the butt of your hand into the horn, letting it blare until the intruding car swerves back into their lane. If you’d hit them, it would have been Sirius’ side colliding with the driver’s door. Your blood pounds in your ears. “What the hell, jackass? Stay in your own fucking lane!” You start to pass them, and the driver hastily puts down his phone, avoiding your gaze. “Yeah, how about we stay off our goddamn phones while we’re on the road? Fucking dumbass.”

You blow out a harsh breath, refocusing on the traffic around you now that the danger has passed. The car has gone completely silent. “Oh no, Remus, did it hurt your knee when I braked, honey? I’m so sorry.”

A beat, and then Remus clears his throat. “Uh, no.”

The tension doesn’t break. You wouldn’t blame the boys if they were still in shock from your near-miss, but the quiet is a bit unnerving. You’re fighting the urge to look over at Sirius or glance at Remus and James in the rear view mirror, not wanting to take your eyes off the road again.

You jump when James asks, “What just happened?” at the same time as Sirius shouts “Fucking yeah, baby!” and holds up his hand for you to high-five.

You barely brush it with your fingertips, hesitant and a bit wary. “What?”

“Dove,” Remus says hoarsely, “I’ve never heard that kind of language from you.”

“Oh.” Your ears burn. “Yeah, sorry.”

Sirius makes a sound that’s half startlement, half something else. You chance a look his way, and he’s grinning at you, mouth hanging slightly open. You think those might be stars in his eyes. “Don’t fucking apologize,” he laughs, sounding downright giddy. “That was great! Fantastic! I didn’t know you had this side to you, gorgeous.”

You shrink a bit in your seat, but there’s nowhere to go. You know if you check your mirror, you’ll find two more pairs of eyes staring at you from the backseat. “I don’t usually…well, you guys haven’t been around me while I’m driving before.”

James guffaws. Sirius has begun to shake with silent laughter beside you. “Do you mean to tell me this happens every time you drive?” James asks.

“Not every time,” you say defensively. “They spooked me.”

“They spooked you?” Sirius hoots from beside you, and now you can hear even Remus’ quiet chuckling. “Baby, I didn’t know you knew half those words! If that’s what happens when you drive, I want you behind the wheel every time.”

“Oi,” Remus objects, but there’s no offense to be found in his tone. “It’s not like I don’t cuss.”

“No,” James replies, reaching up to squeeze at your shoulders playfully, “but with you it’s not usually such a performance. That was a spectacle!”

“I don’t know why you’re all so surprised,” you say, but you’re giggling now too, worse when Sirius joins in on James’ teasing, pinching at your side. “You all curse like sailors, you were bound to rub off on me eventually.”

“It’s not like you’re not allowed to curse, dovey,” Remus says. “It’s just that we weren’t expecting it from you.”

“And what, you’re gonna act like it’s our fault?” Sirius scoffs, poking you in the ribs and grinning when you squirm away. “As if any of us would ever say ‘fucking fuck.’ That’s an amateur's work, gorgeous. Can’t blame us for that one.”

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kingthunder · 20 days

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I saw a few of those "bg3 characters driving a car" headcanons and decided to do one myself for fun.

Lae'zel: She learned how to drive on the opposite side of the road from everyone else and her instincts are all wrong for her current location, but back home she's an excellent driver with a spotless driving record. She actually follows the service schedule in the car manual. She gets incensed at people who don't maintain their vehicle properly or who disobey road rules. Her car is immaculately clean. She would love to speed a motorcycle down one of those desert highways with no speed limit, but she's never gotten the opportunity and knows it's too reckless besides. But she wants to.

Karlach: She's had a motorcycle for ages and is a skilled if aggressive driver. However, she only recently learned how to drive a car. She is very enthusiastic about it and always volunteers to drive even though she's not very good yet. She's one of those people that do driving "pranks" like swerving back and forth to make people shriek/laugh, or doing "3, 2, 1 BLASTOFF" and gunning it. Could easily be provoked into an impromptu street race. Drives way too far on empty or with the check engine light on.

Shadowheart: Drives stick so that no one else can drive her car. It's a beat up old station wagon with a busted tail light and looks like shit on the outside, but inside she turned it into a goth mobile with like black velvet seat covers and stuff. She named the car but she won't tell you what. She has an air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror that smells like night orchids. She's a perfectly good boring driver with nothing to note about it UNTIL one day a cop tries to pull her over for her busted tail light and she hits the gas and pulls out all these street racing moves that you had no idea she was capable of and shakes the cop. She'll let you pick the music but if she doesn't like it her silent disapproval is so withering that you voluntarily change it to something she does like.

Astarion: Never got a driver's license and isn't about to get one now. Passenger princess who likes to control the radio but his taste in music sucks. He makes funny mean comments about other drivers and pedestrians. He'll complain if you ask him to fill the gas tank but he'll do it; you're paying for it, though. Actually pretty fun to go on a road trip with because he doesn't care about stuff like "making good time" and he's up for stopping anywhere that looks like it might be entertaining.

Gale: Never got a driver's license because he was always too busy with his studies to care and his mom drove him around and/or did all his errands for him anyway. He's real good at maps though and likes to be helpful by being the navigator. He's the smartest man in the world but he's completely stymied by a gas pump; you're better off pumping the gas yourself and sending him into the gas station for snacks. He always manages to conjure a full meal out of convenience food, somehow, and he's really good at feeding you while you drive.

Wyll: He saved up and bought his own fixer-upper car after getting kicked out of the house as a teenager. Good driver in general. People always think he would make a good designated driver, but actually he likes drinking socially and will politely decline requests to be the DD unless there's no one else available. Sometimes when he's having a bad day he blasts music really loud and finds a deserted area to just fuckin tear ass down as fast as he can go (he'll only do this alone and doesn't tell anyone about it). Never lets you pay for gas even if you offer. Will pick up hitchhikers.

Halsin: Has been driving the same car since 1973. Drives that specific car really well. If you gave him a modern car he would have no idea what anything on the dashboard does. Honestly, he prefers to walk or bike anyway.

Jaheira: Has a fuck-off huge SUV full of empty cans and wrappers from her kids. Absolute maniac of a driver who tailgates and speeds with no regard for road signs or lane markings. She is going to GET where she is GOING and gods help you if you get in the way.

Minsc: Failed the driving test three times and just gets rides from Jaheira. This does not bother him in the slightest. He tells you that Boo can drive vehicles you've never even heard of.

Minthara: Has run someone over on purpose.

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sixosix · 8 months

Text

roommate!lyney annoying you, fluff, kissing, profanity lol!!! feminine french pet name used once (1), implied secret relationship. written in like 30 mins not proofread

“lyney, who the fuck ate my takeout?!”

that’s a stupid question; there’s only the two of you in this dorm room. exasperated, you throw yourself back on the couch, grieving your lost takeout that is most likely sitting in your boyfriend's stomach. lyney pops out of his bedroom with a cute smile and guilt hidden in closed eyes. he walks to you in slow steps, hands hidden behind his back.

you watch him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“ma chérie,” lyney purrs, and you hope there’s enough venom in your glare to take him down, “do you want a magic trick?”

you stare blankly. you do not want a magic trick.

lyney makes an undignified noise, flopping himself on top of you and the one-seat couch; you barely manage to get your laptop out of the way before he crushes it. “come on, entertain me. you have been giving your laptop more attention. do you want a magic trick or not?”

“if it’s about my food, i’m about to make you disappear.”

lyney fans his face as he turns, whistling. “you’ve done it again. you’re so charming when you glare so heatedly at me like that,” he coos, pressing his nose on your cheek and smiling against your skin.

you groan, pushing his face with your palm. “are you a freak?”

“if calling me that is what it takes for you to realize i just want you to look at me,” he agrees solemnly, muffled by you smothering his lips.

“i know i’m your roommate and everything, but you have a twin. do you have to bother me? aren’t you all for ‘family is everything’ and all that? how will they react if they see their lyney clinging onto his roommate like a lovesick parasite?”

“lynette doesn’t even like talking. and i like looking at you,” lyney says, nearing a whine. he persists in slotting himself between the couch armrest and your body, arms wrapped around your waist. it doesn’t budge when you tug on it.

“you can look at me without bothering me.”

lyney blinks owlishly. “oh?”

“entertain yourself,” you snarl, shifting so your back faces him. he buries his nose on the back of your neck, humming thoughtfully.

he then he kisses where your skin is bare, sighing softly. “i’m sorry. i wanted to take you out tonight.”

“dumbass,” you say, adding more to your essay with hostility in your fingers. “how are we going to enjoy dinner if you’re already full?”

“i can enjoy dinner if i see you enjoy dinner.” he sounds so serious about it, too. “hey, look at me for a sec. there’s something on your face.”

instinctively, you turn your head, startled when lyney takes it as an opportunity to kiss the side of your lips. “hey—” he interrupts you with a kiss on the other side. “lyney, you—” and then he seals the deal by kissing you properly.

it’s a little uncomfortable with the angle, but that’s far in the back of your mind with the press of his lips and the warmth he’s emanating. lyney’s a personified heater; it does help that he loves touching you in any way he can whenever you get too cold.

you have to pull away yourself, gasping deep breaths. lyney looks extremely pleased with himself. “you eat my takeout and try to distract me from my essay—do you want me to request a new roommate?”

but as you return to your laptop, you realize it’s gone. the pillow you’ve used to place it on top of is notably empty. you check the corners and peer at what you can with lyney’s arms caging you, but it’s not anywhere either.

“what? where the hell did you put it?”

“let me treat you dinner, and maybe i’ll tell you after our date,” lyney sing-songs, expertly swerving from your attack with a bright laugh. “come on, up you go.”

lyney doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants; it’s the wisest decision to give in as soon as possible anyway.

a/n hello guys this is like a practice round bc i have a longfic for lyney in the works !!!!!!!! but this is kinda lame so idk HELPP

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #lyney x reader #lyney x you #lyney x y/n

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starkeyisthelastname · 3 months

Text

@rvfecamerons has asked me to write this amazing idea she came up with. I hope this didn’t disappoint. Thank you again babe! 💕💕💕

🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺

You had never really been much of a troublemaker, always listening to your elders and being respectful to everyone, even those less fortunate than you. After you turned 19, you started to become more independent. Going out to parties, taking trips to the mainland to shop by yourself, and even to her dismay, talking to boys.

Rafe had been the one to suggest getting the AirTag to put in your car. He wanted you to always be safe and to ease her worries, at least that's what he told his wife. The real reason being much darker than that. He had been sickly obsessed with you since the moment he laid eyes on your pretty self. No boy was going to touch you as long as he had control of it, and getting the AirTag installed was just the kind of control he needed.

For the last month, he had been stalking everywhere you went through the handy app on his phone. Even got in his own car and drove by a few places to check and see if the damn thing was working. Your innocent little self didn’t suspect a thing either, which is what made you so naive to the situation.

It had been like any other night. Your mother and you had gone out to dinner while Rafe worked late. She being oblivious to the fact you were texting your guy friend, who had invited you over. She never thought you would actually sneak out, you were too much of a sweetheart to do that. It was much to her surprise though, when your room was empty and car was gone at 1:00 in the morning. She immediately thought of the AirTag, Rafe had installed a moth prior, running back to their shared room.

This was the moment he had been waiting for. To catch you being the little slut he knew you were. The GPS on, he zoomed towards your location until the icy white Mercedes with a bedazzled North Carolina tag came into view. The only car there. He shut the truck off, letting his muscular 6’2 frame stalk towards the door. His usual light blue eyes, turned pitch black as soon as he barged through the door. “Bozo’s” tongue down your throat as you laid on the couch.

Gripping the shirt, the boy wore, Rafe teared him off of you. His fist immediately connecting with the boy’s jaw. You sat still, in complete shock by multiple things. Your head was spinning, how did your step-dad find you? How did someone punch one time to have teeth falling out? You knew that your step-father had a violent past but to quite literally see the boy you liked getting beaten to death, had not only scared but something else. Something that made your princess parts tingle.

“Rafe.” You whispered, the boy you had been making out with now bruised and battered as your step-father towered above him.

One look up and Rafe’s hand was gripping your arm, yanking you off the couch. He took your keys and purse in the other, dragging you towards the still open door. You winced, trying to get out of his grip but ultimately failed as he literally threw you in the passenger seat of his truck.

The tires screeched as he sped off, zooming down the empty roads of Kildare. His jaw was tight, the vein in his forehead protruding as he boiled in anger. “I knew that innocent act you pull all the time was a load of shit.” His voice so low it made goosebumps rise on your skin.

“You think I’m stupid, huh? That I don’t know you are a fucking slut. You can hide it from your mom, but not from me. I could tell you were a slut from the moment I met you. Batting those ridiculous lashes at me.”

“Not a slut..” You mumbled, looking down. He was berating you with every sentence he spoke, his words nasty and degrading.

The laugh that came from him was sarcastic almost menacing, he glanced over at you for a moment, truck swerving in the process. “You know I told your mom that girls like you need some discipline. Been too fucking spoiled all your life.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, tearing your gaze away as you tried to stay relaxed in the car ride from hell. You noticed Rafe turning a few streets too early, making your frown. The street leading towards Figure 8 was nothing but trees, making it dark and desolate. You were about to ask what he was doing when the car came to a hault. It came too fast, one second you were being yanked out of your seat and the next you were being pushed against the bed of the truck.

“Rafe.. what are you doing?” You whispered, feeling the cool air hit your exposed bottom from the short skirt you wore.

“Shut up and listen.” His voice boomed, a hard smack to your ass from his hand, making you squeak out. “I’m a proactive type of person. So that means when I say I’m gonna discipline you, you are going to get disciplined.”

You weren’t expecting him to spank you, your ass cheek now stinging from just one hit. You hated yourself and more importantly your cunt for clenching around nothing at the pure wrongness of this. You felt just how damp your panties were getting, wishing you hadn’t worn a skirt or better yet had not even snuck out that night.

The sound of a zipper being pulled down and the clank of a belt, had you turning your head. It was a quick look as your head was roughly pushed down onto the hard plastic of the bed of his truck.

“Rafe..” You whimpered, head burning. “No..”

The taller man behind you, yanked your skirt up, tearing your soaked panties in one go. The dark sounding chuckle behind you was all you needed to hear to know that something bad was about to happen.

“You wanna act like a slut. You get treated like a slut.” His voice rough as he shoved his length inside you with no warning. “Show you what real dick is, since you wanna find out so bad.”

He was huge. Bigger than anything you ever could have imagined. You had only lost your virginity a few months prior and hadn’t had sex since. The burn and stretch to your hole was brutal, tears pooling in your eyes from the pain. The control he had over you though was powerful and you couldn’t bring yourself to fight back.

“What was that earlier? Not a slut.” He growled, yanking your head up by the hair. His hand came to grip your jaw tightly, dark blue eyes boring into your soul. “Why you dripping down your thighs, huh?”

Truth be told, you didn’t know why. Your step father was gorgeous to look at, and a part of you didn’t want to ever disappoint him. That was no reason to be soaking his cock though as he held you down against your will.

“Cat got your tongue?” He laughed, ramming inside you at a cruel pace, making you take his monster of a dick.

“Too.. too much.. please.” You begged, your lower stomach on fire as your first orgasm was already approaching. His hand moved down to your throat, clasping it in a tight grip. You felt your oxygen being cut, the lightheadedness coming to your brain as he squeezed hard.

“Awe don’t please me, pretty girl. You shouldn’t have been such a disrespectful little bitch, if you didn’t want to learn this kind of lesson.” Rafe’s words making you clench around his cock.

You tried to cry out, the pleasure of him taking over your body whether you wanted it to come or not. You quite literally thought that this was it. Being strangled to death, while your step-dad’s dick was buried inside you. But as you came down from your orgasm, the grip from your neck released, making you gasp for breath.

“I sure do hope that you don’t think this is over.” He breathed heavily. “Your daddy’s girl now little bitch. Got that? I catch you fucking around with another clown, I will kill you.”

You knew he had never been more serious.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron blurb #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey smut #obx smut #obx #dark rafe cameron

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tojisun · 1 month

Note

Biker! Simon riding in the rain. The arms on display 😩

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPRThsgyQ/

i hiccupped out loud oh my goooooooorddasd

the arms.. glistening.,. the way his muscles flexed when he began drivin ghn.,,.

this is the type of shit biker!simon sends you when you ask him where is he at, your worry bubbling over because the rain is getting stronger as time crawls by.

he took shelter at a nearby petrol station, the rain having obscured too much of his vision to ride home safely, when he receives the message. unabashedly, simon sends you the video as proof that he's doing alright.

then, he writes:

just got caught up, love. give me ten and i'll be home soon <

your response comes in right away, and simon sputters in laughter, eyes devouring the incredulity buried in your reply.

> where the hell did ur jacket go??

simon types up an answer but pauses when another message comes in from you.

> find a way to stick an umbrella on ur bike otherwise take the damn car next time 😭

he can't help the barked out laugh that scratches at his throat, his mind conjuring up images of himself—big, bulky, and towering—riding along kingsway with a brolly wedged between the strings of his rucksack.

not only is it a road bike hazard but it's so utterly ridiculous that simon is willing to actually give it a try.

he looks towards spar, his lips pursed.

roger that <

—

your phone lights up with another message and you feel your shoulders loosen up, worry subsiding a little bit.

it had been twenty minutes after your last message was sent to simon, but he had not responded after. he said he would be home in ten, but time trickled and ran, and simon was yet to be back, so this reply makes your lungs unclench.

you swipe your phone from the coffee table to check it, only to feel faint surprise filling you up at seeing that the message was not from simon but from johnny, sent to the group chat.

you didn't even know simon was with the gang. or was he meeting up with them?

without much thought, you clicked on the message, bypassing the confusion at seeing that it was a short video so that you can watch it. maybe he has a visual on simon–

what the fuck.

it was simon, alright.

the video was taken from an empty parking lot, johnny's camera shaky as he zooms in on the familiar wrapping of simon's bike swerving into the lot and moving towards johnny. in it, you hear your friend say, "what in fresh hell–"

and you can't even fault him because, again, what the fuck.

simon's got a rainbow-coloured umbrella strapped behind him, the stick of it wobbling even with his smooth cruising. he stops his bike just in front of johnny's vantage, feet falling to the asphalt for balance, before he reaches over to flick his visor up.

"hey," simon greets normally like there's nothing incredulous in having a whole umbrella poking from his back.

"ghost, what the hell," johnny repeats, his voice teetering between horror and glee.

you watch as simon shrugs, before, "my sweetheart advised me to have one f'r the rain. can't really find faults in it, yeah?"

what–

you remembered your previous message.

fucking christ.

—

hhrewoejfr bantering my beloved

#anon #biker!simon #this is so ridiculous im actually giggling #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ask #suns

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