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pitchsidestories · 3 months ago

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look at us now (2) II Renée Slegers x Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | part 1 | word count: 1695

summary: the team tries to figure out if Renée and reader are in a relationship or just friendly with each other. requested

author's note: hi everyone, we hope you enjoy the fanfic as much as part one. 🫶🏻🫶🏻

disclaimer: Everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

Rekindling your relationship with Renée had brought back the same feelings that you had when you dated her back in Sweden. Everything was easy with Renée. You felt safe and secure, loved and cared for. And you loved taking care of her too by making sure she didn’t work until late at night and took enough breaks. The only difference to back then was that this time you decided to keep it a secret.

It should have been easy. You two were professionals after all. But seeing Renée so deflated after Arsenal just lost to Chelsea, made it really hard not to walk over and put your arms around her.

As if she was looking for your closeness, she appeared next to you in the tunnel.

“We were so close.”, she sighed.

You gently put your hand on her upper arm, trying your best to stay positive: “Don’t be upset. It was a good game.”

“I’m not upset. Our team did well but what am I going to tell them? They will be sad and disappointed because of the loss…”

You studied her for a moment, unsure if she was actually talking about your team or herself.

“You’ll find the right words, Renée. You’re never at a loss for words.”, you smiled gently.

Renée didn’t answer. She turned towards the pitch, making sure that no one could see the two of you hidden in the dark hallway leading towards the dressing rooms. And then she kissed you.

It was quick and grateful. A small gesture to let you know that she was happy to have you in her corner.

When you pulled away, you quickly realised that you weren’t alone anymore.

The Chelsea coach passed by, her assistant by her side and to your surprise she winked at you.

“I think your players are looking for you two.“, she said with her strong French accent.

“Oh… uhm , thanks.”, you stammered, the shock of being caught still lingering.

She left with a knowing smile on her lips: “De rien.”

“I think what she wanted to say was you’re welcome. Come on, the girls need us.”, Renée grinned, seemingly unbothered by the interaction and dragged you with her back towards the pitch.

“Hope you have some ideas for your speech now.“, you laughed.

“I do.”

Before Renée could gather the team, Kim came up to you. She frowned, holding herself like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. You weren’t sure if you had ever seen your captain so devastated.

“I’m sorry, coach. I don’t know why I tried to stop Lauren James in the penalty area.”, she apologized, her voice steady but not free of frustration.

Your heart ached for your captain.

“It happens and it’s okay. You were trying to help the defence out. Yes, maybe we lost the match today but also showed that we can keep up with Chelsea. And this is what we should take away from this game.”, Renée said patiently as more and more players formed a circle around you.

Leah clapped her hands with a determined face: “That’s right. We get up and learn from it. Next time, we’ll beat them.”

“Exactly that.”, Renée nodded. The blonde defender's words of encouragement seemed to lighten the load on the players' shoulders a little. Only one footballer looked completely miserable.

As you whispered in Kim’s ear, you hugged her gently:” Don’t be too hard on yourself, Kimmy.”

“I’ll try to.”, she replied with an unhappy smile.

“Promise?”

‘Sure,’ the captain shrugged before making her way to the changing room. It was heartbreaking to see her in this state.

On another evening you attended your first dinner with the team. Between the starters and the main course, Alessia asked you something private, to which you laughed awkwardly.

Reprovingly you clicked your tongue: “Alessia.”

“What I was asking you a simple question.”, she answered, sounding quite innocent.

“That’s not a question that belongs here.”, you stated.

The blonde immediately protested not without a smile:” If you’re seeing anyone? But you know everything about us.”

“Just because you tell her a lot about yourself doesn't mean she has to.”, Renée came to your aid.

With a teasing smile on your lips, you added: “And I never asked you to share everything with me. And I mean literally everything.”

“Hey, why are you looking at me while you said that?!”, Kyra pouted.

“Because I really don’t need to know what you’ve for breakfast. Every day.”, you chuckled.

The Australian midfielder couldn't help but burst out laughing too:” A girl likes to yap, okay?”

“Everyone here knows.”, Steph assured her, patting her lightly on the shoulder.

Caitlin, who was sitting next to them, confirmed it.

You needed a moment for yourself, so you went to the dimly lit restaurant’s bathroom, your girlfriend followed a few minutes later.

There was an amused twinkle in her brown eyes:” Our players are very interested in your love life.”

“I don’t know why though.”, you sighed as she hugged you from behind.

In a sincere tone Renée retorted: “Me neither.”

“When can we go to your place?”, you asked your girlfriend longingly.

“Not yet. They might notice.”

“Maybe we should leave around different times? So, it’s not too obvious.”, you suggested. co

The brunette thought about it for a second, then announced: “Good idea. I’ll leave first.”

After Renée was gone, Beth noticed: “Coach left early.”,

“You know her, there’s always work.”, you waved it off.

“And she likes to be prepared.”, Leah continued.

With a glance at the clock, you realized:” But it’s also late, girls.”

“Don’t say you’re going too.”, Kyra looked at you with big eyes.

“Yes, I am. Bye everyone.”, you told the players.

As soon as you were out of sight, Beth turned excitedly to her teammates: “Girls, did you notice how long the farewell hug was between Renée and our new assistant coach?”

“You’re overinterpreting here, Beth.”, Stina countered.

Quickly, Alessia disagreed: “I think she has a point.”

“Oh, please.”, the Swede rolled her eyes.

“But she didn’t want to talk about it either.”, the English striker reminded the fellow blonde.

A smile lit up Leah's face when she admitted: “Yes, that was suspicious.”

Stina shook her head: “They’ve been over it for a long time.”

“If you say so…”, Beth shrugged, ending the conversation but the sparkle in her eyes was evidence enough that she wasn’t ready to drop the topic yet.

A week later, Arsenal faced Manchester City. The game was chaotic and all over the place. You could barely stay in your seat watching your players move around the pitch. Subconsciously, you cringed. Finally, you had enough. You got up and joined Renée on the sideline.

“Oh, I can’t look. This is turning into a basketball game, no midfield to be seen.”, you complained to her, desperately pointing towards your defensive and central midfielders trying to gain control of the game.

You could tell that Renée followed the game with growing concern but she turned towards you and joked: “If it was basketball, they would use their hands, y/n.”

You rolled your eyes and bit back in smile.

“Yes but still, where is our midfield? Get Lia on.”

Renée who had turned back to watch the game only glanced at you this time: “Calm down.”

“I am calm.”, you replied without taking your eyes off of your girlfriend.

“Good.”

Discussion over. You both focused back on the game.

The minutes passed and nothing changed. Finally, Renée gave in and called Lia over to be subbed in. You both shared a look before she entered the pitch. You raised your eyebrow to signal your girlfriend that you had told her so, to which Renée responded with a playful roll of her eyes.

With Lia on, the game started to stabilise. But still, it went back and forth between both teams. When the final whistle blew, Arsenal was one goal ahead, winning the game 3:4.

You snuck up to Renée and grinned at her: “See? Getting Lia in was a good idea.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t only that sub.”, she said cooly, still staring out on the pitch and reflecting on the game.

“Of course not.”

Renée finally looked at you and nodded once: “But important three points.”

“Yes, we got a lot to take away from it too for when we play them again in a few days.”

“Yes, a lot of work for us.”, Renée agreed.

“We can do that.”

“I’m sure.” Renées face softened and a smile tugged on her lips as she dragged you along with her towards the player’s tunnel. She kissed you in the safety of the darkness as she so often did after games.

All of a sudden you felt the eyes of your players on you and began to clear your throat nervously: “Uhm Renée the team is staring at us.”

“What?”, your girlfriend followed your gaze with an alarmed look on her face.

Barely audible you whispered:”I think they saw the kiss.”

“Oh no.”, Renée began to curse.

With a proud smile on her lips Beth turned to her teammates:” I told you so, I was right girls!”

“They’re so cute.”, Alessi chirmed much to your surprise.

An amused chuckle escaped your lips:” You know that we can hear you, right?”

“Yes, we do.”, Leah smirked.

Renée ran her fingers through her hair flustered, trying to take her players’ minds off the kiss: “We should give our thanks to our travelling fans.”

“Come on, coach. It’s fine. You don’t have to distract.”, Beth assured the Dutch woman.

The England captain quickly added: “Yeah, we’re glad to see you this happy.”

Without words, Renée picked up Beth, while both started to laugh out loud.

“I think you can tell that she’s happy.”, you remarked smiling.

A teasing grin played around your girlfriend’s lips: “Oh, can you? But yes, I am What about you, love?”

“Our team won, and I got a gorgeous woman on my side. I can’t complain.”, you replied cheerfully.

And this much was true, if you looked at the two of you now, you wouldn’t change a thing.

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goldsainz · 4 months ago

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# DREW STARKEY — BEHIND THE SCENES !

MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ a recollection of moments from when you and drew filmed your first movie together.

002. WARNINGS !

✯ probably inaccurate acting scenes, slight angst.

003. NOTE !

✯ guys i’ve spent more time conjuring up ideas about the fictional movie (knowing greek mythology paid off) than actually writing this. again, zendaya is just a face claim for the social media parts but the reader can be imagined as anything or anyone you want! this is also the longest piece of writing i’ve ever done so i really hope it was worth the wait 🫶

word count : 6,6k

There was something undeniably thrilling about starting a new movie project. It wasn’t just the act of filming that exhilarated you, no, it was the entire experience: stepping into a fresh role, meeting new colleagues, and immersing yourself in the intricacies of a new story. Each character brought a unique set of challenges and emotions, making acting as intoxicating as it was fulfilling.

When your agent first mentioned Damien Chazelle’s latest project, it felt like the stars had aligned. A psychological thriller, a role so complex and sought after—it was the kind of opportunity actors dream about. After various auditions and callbacks, you finally got the call: you’d landed the part. But nothing could have prepared you for the shock of learning that Drew Starkey would also be starring in the film.

You’d first met Drew during Variety’s Actors on Actors interview series. The chemistry between you two had been immediate, magnetic, and brimming with potential. The interview itself was lighthearted, but fans couldn’t stop buzzing about the dynamic between you afterward. Social media was flooded with calls for you both to star in a film together. Little did they know that dream would soon become reality.

Your first day on set felt surreal. Despite all your preparation, a flicker of nervous energy pulsed in your chest. It wasn’t just about embodying Isabella, a role that demanded every ounce of emotional depth you had; it was about reuniting with Drew after the whirlwind of speculation and excitement that followed your previous encounter.

Then, as if on cue, you spotted him. He stood across the bustling set, deep in conversation with Damien Chazelle. Already in costume—tailored slacks, an impeccably pressed shirt, and a hint of disheveled hair that somehow enhanced his charm—he looked every bit the enigmatic and manipulative art dealer, Theo. It was almost unsettling how effortlessly he slipped into character.

A pang of nervous energy tightened in your chest, but you masked it quickly. You were no stranger to working alongside talented actors, but something about Drew made you want to push yourself even harder—to impress him, match his intensity, or simply hold your own against the charisma that seemed to radiate from him.

As Drew turned and caught sight of you, his expression shifted. A flicker of recognition passed over his face, followed by a grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He excused himself from his conversation with Damien and strode toward you, his step casual yet deliberate.

“Well, look who’s here,” he said, his tone teasing but undeniably warm. “The artist herself.”

“Drew,” you replied, matching his energy with a smirk. “Or should I say, Theo?”

“Touché,” he shot back, his grin widening as he stopped in front of you. “Guess we’re both stepping into some big shoes this time.”

The air between you hummed with unspoken energy, the hum of the crew around you fading into the background.

“So,” he began, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity. “How are you feeling about all this? Ready to dive into the chaos?”

You chuckled softly, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling beneath the surface. “As ready as I’ll ever be. And you?”

His gaze softened, the playful edge giving way to something earnest. “Same. But if there’s anyone who can bring Isabella to life, it’s you. You’ve got this.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a warm blanket, bolstering your confidence. “Thanks, Drew,” you said, your voice touched with gratitude. “That means a lot.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Just don’t forget to save some of that intensity for the scenes. I hear Theo and Isabella have… interesting dynamics.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile curving your lips. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. Just try to keep up, Starkey.”

His laughter was genuine, the kind that made your chest feel lighter. “Challenge accepted.”

The set had an almost electric feel today. The tension in the air mirrored the intensity of the scene you were about to film, a confrontation that pushed Isabella to her limits. Drew had just finished his scenes as Theo, but instead of retreating to his trailer for a break, he chose to stay behind the cameras, watching you as you prepared for your big moment.

He leaned against a quiet corner of the set, his arms crossed, his gaze never leaving you. You were already in character, your body language shifting as you transformed into Isabella. Drew had seen it all; the way you could disappear into your role, the way you made every moment feel alive, even the smallest of gestures. It was magnetic, captivating, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

You were standing across from a male crew member, discussing the next scene. Drew noticed how naturally you interacted with him, the ease with which you joked around, the warm laughter that escaped you as you shared a quiet moment between takes. There was nothing flirtatious about it, nothing intentional. It was just your charm, your ability to connect with anyone, to make them feel like they were the only person in the room.

But as Drew watched, a pang of something unfamiliar twisted in his chest. The crew member—an assistant director, he knew—was praising you. “You’ve really outdone yourself today,” the man said with a grin, clapping you on the back. “Isabella’s depth? Incredible. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone pull that off quite like you.”

You smiled, your cheeks flushing with the kind of humility that made Drew’s heart ache. “Thank you, that’s all I wanted,” you said, clearly grateful for the acknowledgment but never one to boast.

Drew’s grip on the railing tightened, a strange feeling settling in his gut as he watched you laugh and engage so effortlessly. He had always admired your talent—hell, he had always been in awe of it—but today, for some reason, it felt different. The warmth in the crew member’s praise, the way he seemed to linger a little longer, a little too long, sent a sharp twinge of jealousy through Drew. He hated the way it felt, hated how quickly it consumed him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you to be appreciated—he did. You deserved all the recognition in the world. But the knowledge that someone else was seeing the very qualities he had admired in you from the start, that someone else could see what made you so unique... it made something inside him stir.

And it wasn’t just admiration he felt for you—it was something deeper, something he had tried to ignore ever since that first interview. He could remember the spark between you both, the effortless connection that had only grown stronger since then. Every moment with you, every conversation, had somehow led him here. To this feeling, this painful realization that he wasn’t just drawn to you as a friend or a co-star—he was falling for you.

But he wasn’t sure if you saw him the same way. Or if you ever would.

He swallowed hard, trying to shake off the feeling, but it lingered, gnawing at him as the scene began. Drew watched from the shadows as you took your position, your posture shifting with the weight of Isabella’s inner turmoil. The camera rolled, and the world seemed to disappear. He wasn’t thinking about the crew member anymore, or the way you had smiled at him.

No, Drew was too focused on the way you delivered your lines. Every word you spoke seemed to come from a place of real pain, real desperation. It was like watching a storm roll in, one that consumed everything in its path.

When Damien called cut, the set fell silent for a beat. Drew’s breath caught in his throat. You were brilliant. He’d known it for a long time, but watching you right here, right now, brought it all to the forefront—how far you had come, how much of yourself you put into every scene.

He watched you stand tall, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still distant from the intensity of the scene you’d just played. And as you looked around, Drew’s gaze softened. You were remarkable.

The crew member who had been praising you earlier walked up to you again, and Drew couldn’t help but feel that same uncomfortable stir in his chest. He had to admit, it wasn’t just the praise that bothered him—it was the way this guy kept looking at you. Drew quickly averted his eyes, his jaw tightening as he turned his attention back to the crew.

But as you turned toward Drew, your eyes meeting his for just a second, something passed between you, something unspoken. You offered him a small, genuine smile, the kind that only he seemed to get. And in that brief moment, everything else faded away.

He took a breath, forcing the jealousy back down. The weight of it, the sting, wasn’t going to cloud this moment. He knew what he felt. It was real, it was undeniable, and maybe, just maybe, there was still time to figure it all out. But for now, all he could do was admire you from afar, watch as you brought your character to life, and hope that one day, you’d see him the way he saw you.

And with that thought, Drew finally stepped forward, his resolve firming, ready to give you the space and respect you deserved while also knowing that there was so much more he wanted to say.

The scene you were filming was a culmination of everything Isabella had been building toward—raw, vulnerable, and utterly shattering. It wasn’t just a performance; it was a reckoning, the moment when all her carefully buried pain and longing erupted to the surface. Every word you spoke felt like tearing open a wound, every gesture a desperate plea for salvation. The air was thick with tension, and you could feel the weight of every eye on set, holding their breath, waiting to see if you could pull it off.

Drew, as Theo, stood before you, towering in every sense of the word. His presence wasn’t just physical; it consumed the space, dominating the scene like a storm about to break. His voice, low and cutting, delivered lines that felt like knives slicing through the air, leaving no room to hide. When his eyes locked onto yours, the intensity was unbearable, like he could see right into you—not just Isabella, but you.

The camera captured the moment your composure shattered, tears spilling as your voice cracked under the weight of the scene. You weren’t sure where Isabella ended and you began anymore. The pain felt too real, too sharp, and when Damien finally called “cut,” the word sliced through the tension like a knife. The silence that followed was deafening, a stark contrast to the storm you’d just weathered.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, the rawness of the moment clinging to you like a second skin. Your chest heaved as you struggled to come back to yourself, but the emotions wouldn’t let go. Your hands trembled at your sides, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you thought you might break apart completely.

“Hey,” Drew’s voice cut through the haze, soft but insistent. His hand was on your arm before you even realized he’d crossed the room. His touch was grounding, his presence a lifeline. “Look at me,” he said, his tone low, coaxing.

You turned your head slowly, meeting his eyes, and the concern there undid you. Your breath hitched, and a tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it. “I… I don’t know how long I can keep doing this,” you whispered, the words tumbling out, raw and unfiltered. “It’s too much. I feel like I’m drowning.”

Drew didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, his hand sliding from your arm to your shoulder, then to the small of your back, pulling you gently but firmly into his embrace. You froze for a moment, caught between the instinct to hold it together and the overwhelming need to let go. His arms wrapped around you, warm and steady, and the dam broke.

“I can’t,” you choked out, your voice muffled against his chest. “I feel like I left everything out there, and there’s nothing left of me. Nothing.”

His grip tightened, his hand cradling the back of your head as his fingers threaded gently through your hair. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re not empty. You’re just wide open right now, and that’s what makes this real. That’s what makes you extraordinary.”

You clung to him, your hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as sobs wracked your body. He didn’t rush you, didn’t try to fix it or make it better. He just held you, his own breathing steady and calm, like he was anchoring you to the world.

“I saw you out there,” he whispered after a moment, his lips brushing against your temple. “You weren’t just acting. You were her. Every ounce of pain, every flicker of hope—you brought it to life. You made them feel it. You made me feel it.”

You pulled back slightly, your tear-streaked face tilted up to meet his gaze. His eyes were glassy, his own emotions barely restrained, and the vulnerability between you was electric. “But what if it’s not enough?” you asked, your voice breaking.

“It is,” he said firmly, his hand cupping your face now, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “It’s more than enough. You’re enough.” His voice cracked on the last word, the raw sincerity in it making your chest tighten.

The world around you seemed to blur, the sounds of the crew preparing for the next take fading into the background. All you could see, all you could feel, was Drew. He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his hand steadying your shoulder.“You’ve got this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but laced with unwavering conviction. “And I’ve got you. Always.”

The day had been long—endless takes, precision, and the kind of emotional exhaustion that made every muscle in your body ache. Filming had wrapped for the day, but the atmosphere on set hadn’t fully shifted. The quiet hum of equipment and the occasional voices from the crew still echoed around you, but you felt the weight of the day lift as you retreated to the solitude of your trailer.

You were halfway through removing your costume when a soft knock at the door caught your attention. It was a gentle knock, familiar in its rhythm, and you immediately recognized it.

“Come in,” you called, already knowing who it was.

The door creaked open, and there stood Drew, leaning against the frame with a lazy smile that instantly made the tension in your shoulders ease.

“Long day?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, and there was a glint of playfulness in his eyes, but it was tempered with something warmer, something more tender.

“Understatement,” you replied, rolling your eyes, though your smile betrayed the exhaustion you were trying to hide.

He nodded and pushed the door open a little more, stepping inside. The space felt smaller with him in it, but somehow it didn’t feel crowded. It felt… comfortable. Safe.

Drew’s gaze drifted over to the small sofa beside the window, and without a word, he took a seat, kicking his shoes off and stretching his legs out. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he seemed to move, like he was made to fit into this small space as if he belonged here, with you.

You finished removing the last of the costume and dropped it into the nearby hamper, but instead of diving into your usual post-filming routine of unwinding, you found yourself walking over to him, drawn to the quiet energy between you. He looked up at you, his gaze softening as you neared.

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper, as if the very sound of it could pull you closer.

You didn’t hesitat to sit down beside him. There was a comfortable silence between you two, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words. You leaned back against the cushions, the heat from his body radiating beside you.

Drew turned his head slightly, catching your eye. His expression was different from how he’d been on set—this wasn’t the charismatic, calculated Theo. This was Drew, the man you had come to know off-camera. His gaze was tender, almost searching, as if he was asking permission for something more.

Without a word, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing over yours before lacing them together. The small contact sent a flutter through you, the simple act of his touch carrying an intimacy that felt far more profound than it had any right to be.

“Can I just…” he began, his voice trailing off for a moment before he squeezed your hand gently. “Can I just be here with you for a while? No cameras, no lines, just us?”

You nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I’d like that.”

His thumb began to trace soft circles over the back of your hand, and you leaned into him, the quiet between you two settling into something even deeper than physical proximity. His body was warm, and his scent—fresh and slightly woody—wrapped around you like a blanket, comforting in its familiarity.

“You were incredible today,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His words held no pretense, just raw sincerity. “Every time I see you step into a scene, it’s like you bring something new to the table. I don’t know how you do it.”

You could feel your heart flutter at his praise, but instead of letting it sink in fully, you shifted your focus back to him, tilting your head slightly to catch his eyes. “What about you? You’re kind of a force to be reckoned with, Starkey.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and genuine, and you felt him shift closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. “I’m just trying to keep up with you,” he teased, but there was no mistaking the fondness in his voice. He leaned in just enough for his breath to graze your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Before you could respond, he moved his hand from yours, slowly resting it on your cheek, his touch soft but possessive. The weight of his gaze locked onto yours, and you could feel the air shift between you—charged, magnetic, undeniable.

“I’ve wanted this moment for a while,” he admitted quietly, his thumb grazing your cheekbone.

Your pulse quickened, your breath hitching as his hand slid around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. You didn’t fight it; you closed the gap, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and filled with the kind of quiet longing that had built between you for weeks now.

The kiss deepened, and everything outside of the small trailer seemed to fade away. There was no set, no crew, no expectations—just the two of you, wrapped up in the space you had created together. It wasn’t hurried or urgent. It was soft, a tender promise without words, like something neither of you had realized you needed until it was happening.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, you found yourself leaning your forehead against his, sharing the same air between you. He smiled, his eyes glimmering with something that went beyond attraction.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured, his voice thick with affection.

You closed your eyes, savoring the quiet after the storm of emotions on set, the gentle sound of his heartbeat in your ear, and the warmth of his embrace. “Me too,” you whispered back, letting the moment stretch on, knowing it was one you’d carry with you long after the lights went down and the cameras stopped rolling.

The morning after your quiet, intimate moment in the trailer felt different. There was a strange kind of weight in the air between you and Drew that neither of you could ignore. The atmosphere on set was charged with an unspoken energy, the kind that hung between two people who had shared something personal but weren’t quite sure how to navigate it in the daylight.

As the crew began setting up for the first scene of the day, you found yourself standing off to the side, absentmindedly checking your script, but every now and then, your eyes would flicker toward Drew. He was standing with Damien, talking animatedly about something, but there was a tightness in his posture that wasn’t there before. He had always exuded confidence, but now, there was a subtle hesitance to his movements—like he was still figuring out where you stood with each other after the kiss.

You could feel it too. The usual camaraderie between you two was laced with something different now. The chemistry was still there, but it felt like a live wire; dangerous and unpredictable. The playful banter that had flowed so easily between you the day before seemed distant, replaced by awkward silences whenever you found yourselves in the same vicinity.

You tried to shake it off. This was your job. You were here to work, to give your best performance, and that had to come first. But no matter how much you told yourself to focus, the tension was inescapable.

The first scene you were filming together was a pivotal one—Isabella’s first real confrontation with Theo, a moment where everything changes between them. Your character was supposed to be cool and collected, but deep down, she was unraveling at the seams. You had to bring all that turmoil, all that internal chaos to the surface in a matter of moments.

When Damien called “Action,” the professional masks slipped on almost instinctively, and you both fell into character.

Drew’s performance was colder today, more distant, his usual charm replaced by a simmering, quiet intensity. His eyes, once warm and full of teasing, now held a cold calculation as they met yours. You could feel the weight of his gaze, and though it was just acting, the memory of the night before lingered, making the scene feel even more charged than it should have been.

“You think you have control of this, Isabella?” Theo’s voice was sharp, the words cutting through the air like a blade.

You shot back, the defiance in Isabella’s eyes glaring through your own. “Your entire scheme depends on me, Theo. Without me, it crumbles to dust. If that’s not control, I don’t know what is.”

The words came easily, but every time you locked eyes with Drew, there was a brief flicker of something behind his gaze—a flicker of the intimacy you’d shared, a memory that was suddenly alive in the space between you. It was hard to shake, and you could tell it was affecting his performance too. His lines weren’t as crisp as usual, his timing slightly off, as though he was distracted.

The tension was palpable, hanging over the scene like a cloud, and the moment you wrapped the scene, the silence that followed felt deafening.

Damien looked between the two of you, his brow furrowing slightly. “Let’s take a break,” he said after a moment, clearly sensing the shift in energy. “Maybe a few minutes to reset?”

You nodded quickly, eager for the space, for the chance to breathe outside of the tight bubble of tension. Drew, on the other hand, didn’t say anything. He simply nodded curtly, giving you a quick glance that made your stomach flip before turning away to walk toward the corner of the set.

You stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Should you approach him? Pretend nothing had changed? Or should you give him space, let the awkwardness settle, and let the scene breathe?

You didn’t get the chance to think too long. A hand gently touched your shoulder, and you turned to find Cailee Spaney, your co-star, standing beside you, a concerned look on her face.

“You two okay?” she asked, her tone light, but there was a genuine curiosity behind it. She knew you both well enough to sense the shift.

You hesitated. “I think so. Just… a weird energy today, you know?”

Cailee’s eyes flickered over to where Drew stood, chatting with the crew but still glancing in your direction. “It’s pretty obvious to everyone. You’ve got to clear the air, or it’s going to keep hanging over both of you.”

You knew she was right. The unspoken tension between you and Drew wasn’t just something that could be ignored—it would affect the work, the connection between your characters, and maybe even the rest of the team’s comfort. But you weren’t sure how to fix it. How do you go from that intimate moment behind closed doors to this, to being back in the public eye with cameras rolling, no room for vulnerability?

As you stood there, lost in your thoughts, Drew’s voice broke through, calling your name.

“Hey,” he said, walking toward you, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes uncertain but earnest. “Can we talk?”

You nodded, stepping a little closer to him. There was an intensity in his gaze now, but it wasn’t the cold, calculating Theo you’d seen on set. This was Drew, the one you knew—the one who had kissed you, the one who was just as affected by everything as you were.

“Look,” he started, his voice lower than usual. “I’m not… I don’t want this to be weird. I don’t want it to mess with the work, with the scenes. I just—”

“Yeah,” you interrupted softly, “me neither. It’s just… it’s hard to go back to pretending nothing happened.”

He smiled weakly, and you could see the tension in his face ease a little. “You’re right. But we’ve got this. We’ll figure it out. Just need to get through today, right?”

You took a deep breath, nodding. “Right.”

And for the first time since you’d kissed him, you both shared a moment of quiet understanding—no more words needed. You still didn’t know how this would all play out, but for now, you had a scene to finish, a role to play, and a bond that had quietly shifted in ways neither of you could ignore.

The last day on set arrived like a blur—one moment, you were just starting the project, and now, you were standing in the middle of the set for the final scene, everything winding down. It felt surreal, almost like you were moving through a dream. The camaraderie you’d built with the cast and crew, the long hours, the inside jokes, and the late-night rehearsals were all coming to a close. And yet, there was a weight in the air—one that had little to do with the wrap-up of the film.

You and Drew had navigated the tension between you both for weeks now, silently acknowledging it but never fully addressing it. Both of you had poured your energy into the project, the work taking center stage, but there had always been that quiet pull between you. Now, as you watched the final scene being set up, there was no denying it: this wasn’t just about wrapping the film. There was something unspoken that you knew needed to be said.

Drew was already on set, his costume as Theo impeccably sharp, his eyes distracted as he ran through lines under his breath. He looked different today—softer, like the walls he’d built around himself throughout the project were crumbling.

The last scene between Isabella and Theo was intense, charged with everything they’d been through together. It was a pivotal moment, where they both stood at a crossroads, neither sure of where the future would take them. The connection between you two felt more real than ever, and you knew this was the moment where it all had to come to a head—both on screen and off.

As the crew prepared for the final take, you caught Drew’s eye from across the set. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of hesitation, like he wanted to say something, but the moment wasn’t quite right. You couldn’t let it go.

You moved toward him, your footsteps echoing in the quiet before the chaos of the scene began. As you approached, Drew straightened up, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides.

"Hey," you said, offering him a small smile. “Ready to wrap this up?”

He returned the smile, but there was an unreadable look in his eyes. “Yeah, but... I’ve been thinking.”

You raised an eyebrow, a sense of curiosity stirring in your chest. “About?”

He shifted slightly, the weight of his words hanging between you two. “About us. About... everything.” He swallowed, his usual confident demeanor faltering. “You know, the way things have been between us. We’ve never really talked about it.”

Your heart skipped a beat. The air between you felt thick, charged. It was as if the words had been waiting to spill out for weeks, and now, in the stillness of the final day, they couldn’t be contained any longer.

“Drew…” you started, your voice barely a whisper, unsure of what to say.

He stepped closer, the space between you narrowing until it felt like no one else existed. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while now,” he continued, his voice a little rougher than usual, the weight of his feelings making every word feel like it carried more meaning than it ever had before. “I can’t pretend anymore. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not after how I feel about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to fade into the background. The noise of the set, the crew bustling about, even the upcoming scene—it all vanished as Drew’s words sank in.

“I care about you,” he said, his voice softer now, the intensity of his confession undeniable. “More than I’ve let on. More than I probably should. But I can’t ignore it anymore, and I don’t want to walk away from this without telling you.”

You stood there, the weight of his confession hanging in the air. It felt like a moment frozen in time—one that had been building for weeks, but now that it was finally here, you didn’t know how to respond.

For a beat, you didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, trying to process the rush of emotions his words had triggered. But then, a smile began to tug at the corners of your lips. You took a step closer to him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I’m glad you said that,” you whispered, your voice steady, but your emotions running wild beneath the surface. “I’ve been feeling the same way, Drew. I just didn’t know if you felt the same.”

He gave a small, relieved laugh, his eyes brightening with that familiar warmth. “I’ve been trying to convince myself to wait until the film wrapped, until everything calmed down. But every time I looked at you... it just felt like I was lying to myself.”

You laughed softly, the tension between you easing, replaced by something deeper, something real. “I think we’ve both been lying to ourselves,” you said, your hand unconsciously reaching out for his.

Drew’s fingers curled around yours, and for the first time in weeks, there was no awkwardness, no uncertainty—just the simple connection between you both, like a thread that had always been there, waiting to be pulled.

As the crew called for the final take, you both stood there for a moment longer, simply taking in the quiet of the moment before the storm of filming began again.

“Let’s finish this,” Drew said with a grin, his fingers still tightly holding yours.

You nodded, the anticipation in your chest matching the excitement in his eyes. "Yeah. Let’s do this."

The scene was about to begin, but for once, you weren’t worried about the cameras, the crew, or the pressure. For the first time in a long while, you were just here—with him. And that was enough.

As you both walked back onto set, side by side, you knew this moment, this day, was one that would stay with you long after the credits rolled. Drew had confessed his feelings, and the truth between you was no longer hidden. You had one more scene to film, but in that moment, it felt like the beginning of something entirely new.

The post-wrap party was everything you’d imagined it would be—laughter, music, and the celebratory sound ofclinking of glasses. The set was a distant memory now, the whirlwind of the past few months slowly fading into the background as you found yourself in the midst of the crew and cast, celebrating the end of a long, intense journey. The atmosphere was warm, filled with a sense of accomplishment and camaraderie.

Lights twinkled overhead, casting a soft glow over the gathering. The chatter was a mix of congratulatory remarks and funny anecdotes from behind the scenes. You could hear snippets of conversations as people relived the chaos of filming, the challenges, and the triumphs, but amidst it all, your eyes couldn’t help but drift back to Drew.

He was leaning against the bar, chatting with a few of the crew members. Even from across the room, you could feel the pull between you—the magnetic energy that had only intensified since that first kiss. The way he’d laughed with you on set, the way he’d confessed his feelings on that last day—it all felt like a beautiful dream, yet it was real. You couldn’t shake the quiet contentment that had settled in your chest, a feeling that only seemed to grow stronger with every passing minute.

Your heart warmed as you watched him, the soft light from the party highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, the playfulness in his eyes. Drew looked at home here, yet he had a way of making everything feel more meaningful just by being present. He was grounded and alive in a way that made you feel safe, as if you’d found a place in this world where you truly belonged.

Finally, your legs moved on their own, carrying you through the crowd. Each step brought you closer to him, closer to something that felt inevitable. And when he turned toward you, as if he’d sensed your approach, his eyes lit up with the warmth that had become familiar. There was no awkwardness now, no uncertainty—only the comfort of knowing that you and Drew were no longer tiptoeing around each other. What had started as something tentative had grown into something real, something undeniable.

“Hey,” Drew said with that soft smile of his, his voice like home. “I was wondering when you’d come over.”

You smiled back, moving closer to him, feeling the way his presence filled the space between you. “Couldn’t resist. The party’s fun, but... I’d rather be here with you,” you replied, your voice low and sincere.

Drew’s smile deepened, his gaze softening as he looked at you, his eyes full of something that went beyond simple affection. He raised his glass in a mock toast. “To the film, to the work, and to... us, I guess,” he said, a little shy but so genuine that it made your chest ache.

You lifted your own glass to meet his, the soft clink of the glasses an almost imperceptible note in the music that surrounded you. “To us,” you echoed, the words settling deep within you, filling the empty spaces you didn’t even realize existed. It was real now, the connection, the undeniable bond that had been growing between you since the moment you first locked eyes on set.

The music played softly in the background, but in that moment, it felt like everything was quieter—more intimate. You were standing there together, both of you caught in the soft embrace of a night that felt endless, where time stood still. Drew’s presence was a comfort you hadn’t known you needed, and as you stood beside him, a peace settled over you that you hadn’t expected.

“Are you happy with how everything turned out?” Drew asked, his voice sincere, his eyes searching yours for something only you could give him.

You thought for a moment, your heart beating steadily in your chest. The long hours, the late-night rehearsals, the emotional scenes—it had all been a whirlwind. But standing there with Drew, feeling the warmth of his hand resting just above your waist, everything felt clearer. “Yeah,” you said, your voice steady but filled with warmth. “I’m proud of everything we did. Proud of how far we’ve come.”

Drew nodded, his gaze softening, and his lips curved into a smile that made your heart flutter. “Same here. You were incredible. You brought Isabella to life in a way I never thought possible.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Well, you weren’t so bad yourself, Starkey. Theo was... captivating, to say the least.” The words were teasing, but your smile spoke of something deeper—a sense of admiration and respect for everything he’d brought to the character.

His laugh was soft, a sound that sent warmth through your veins, and he moved a little closer, the space between you disappearing. “Thanks. But I think you’re the one who made everything come together. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner.” His words were simple, yet they carried a weight that made your chest tighten in the most wonderful way.

The connection between you deepened in that moment, like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Drew’s gaze softened, and his voice dropped to a quiet whisper. “I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured, taking a step closer, his hand slipping into yours. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I know it’s crazy, but... I don’t want this to be just a set thing. What we have, I mean. I don’t want it to end when the film does.”

Your heart raced, and without a second thought, you took a small step toward him, the space between you now nonexistent. “Me neither,” you whispered, your hand gently cupping his face as you looked into his eyes. “I think this is just the beginning, Drew.”

A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and his hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer, the warmth of his body enveloping you. Without another word, Drew leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in the softest kiss—a kiss that held everything unspoken. It was slow, a gentle exploration, as though both of you were savoring the moment, the sweetness of everything that had led you here.

When you pulled away, the world around you seemed to fade. The music, the laughter, the chatter—it all felt distant, as if the only thing that mattered was Drew, and the feeling of his arms around you, his lips on yours. “Then let’s see where it goes,” he said softly, his breath warm against your cheek.

You smiled, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. The world felt right in a way it hadn’t before. The film was over, but the connection you shared with Drew was just beginning to blossom, and you were content, certain that whatever happened next, you’d face it together.

The night continued around you, but for the two of you, it was just the beginning.

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slitherinky · 5 months ago

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Masterlist | About me | Requests

A Shadow Between the Shelves

Setting: soft!Mattheo Riddle x fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, MDNI, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), semi-public sex, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names

Summary: Your library session takes an unexpected turn when the boy who’s been stealing your glances since day one catches your eye again. Curiosity leads you to him in a shadowy corner where he reveals a truth you never dared to imagine—he’s wanted you just as much. And how much he wanted you...

Length: 2,5k words or 10 minutes

Please be aware of the warnings before proceeding. If you are underage, sensitive to depictions of violence, or intense explicit content, it is do not to read further. This story is purely fictional and does not reflect or endorse such behavior in real life. Any attempt to replicate the actions described in this story in real life is strongly discouraged. Harry Potter and the Wizarding World is a trademark of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros.

It was a chilly Friday evening at Hogwarts, the autumn air had an earthy scent of falling leaves. The Great Hall buzzed with the usual chatter of students enjoying dinner, their laughter and conversation mingling with the occasional hoot of an owl delivering mail. You sat at your houses table, your hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, trying to summon the energy to face another evening learning for your O.W.L.s. Your friends chattered beside you, their voices a comforting hum in the background.

You looked around. Across the room sat Mattheo Riddle surrounded by his usual group of girls admiring him. He was the center of attention. As always. But you couldn't blame them, he looked perfect. His dark hair fell in unruly waves across his forehead, his sharp jawline accentuated by a smirk that seemed permanently etched onto his face. You had never spoken to him directly, but imagined him with you a million times. His perfect, soft lips against yours and-

“Y/N, are you even listening?” your friend nudged you playfully, breaking your trance.

“Huh? Sorry, what?” you asked, snapping your attention back to the present.

“I said we’re heading to the library. Are you coming?”

“Yeah, sure,” you replied absentmindedly, your eyes drifting once more to him. Mattheo caught your gaze this time, his smirk deepening as he raised an eyebrow. Your cheeks burned, and you quickly looked away, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

But he had.

The walk to the library was brisk, the castle corridors echoing with the soft murmur of passing students and the occasional distant clatter of Peeves causing trouble. The flickering torchlight danced along the cold stone walls, casting long shadows as you and your friends made your way toward the towering double doors of the library.

Pushing them open, you were met with the familiar scent of parchment and the faint musk of aged wood. The library was quieter than usual, most students still lingering in the Great Hall or in their common rooms for the evening.

Your friends quickly claimed a table near the back, setting down their books and chattering softly about the topics they planned to review. You followed, dropping your bag onto the worn wooden surface and sinking into one of the chairs. The weight of your textbooks almost crushed you today and you sighed, resigning yourself to another evening of diagrams, definitions, and endless notes.

Yet, as you pulled out your wand to light the tip for better reading, you couldn’t shake the lingering sensation of being watched. A subtle, prickling awareness danced along the back of your neck. You tried to ignore it, brushing it off as exhaustion or the aftereffects of your earlier encounter in the Great Hall.

But as your fingers absently flipped through the pages of your Potions textbook, your eyes flickered upward, scanning the quiet aisles of bookshelves. There, leaning casually against one of the towering shelves near the Restricted Section, was Mattheo Riddle. His dark eyes gleamed with a knowing glint, and the shadow of that infamous smirk curved his lips.

You froze for a heartbeat, wondering if he’d followed you here—or if it was just an weird coincidence. Before you could decide, Mattheo tilted his head slightly, as if inviting you to figure it out for yourself. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he turned and disappeared between the rows of books, leaving you to wonder whether you should stay in your seat or follow where curiosity might lead.

Well, what could go wrong?

You decided to take a chance, and followed.

With a careful glance to be sure your friends were preoccupied, you set down your wand and quietly slipped from the table, following the path where Mattheo had vanished.

The soft glow of the library's enchanted lamps barely lit the shadowy aisles as you ventured deeper into the maze of bookshelves. The faint sound of Mattheo's steps against the floor guided you, steady and deliberate, until it stopped altogether. Your heartbeat quickened, a mix of apprehension and curiosity flooding your senses.

"Looking for something?" Mattheo’s voice drawled, low and smooth, cutting through the stillness like a blade. You turned sharply, your breath hitching as you found him leaning against one of the shelves, arms crossed over his chest. The dim light softened the sharp angles of his face, but the intensity in his dark eyes was anything but gentle.

“I, uh…” you stammered, trying to piece together an excuse, but words failed you. His smirk widened, and he straightened, closing the distance between you with a few casual steps.

"You’ve been watching me," he said, his voice teasing but laced with something darker, something that made your stomach flutter and knot at the same time. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Your cheeks burned, and you dropped your gaze to the floor. "I wasn’t—"

“Oh, you were," he interrupted, his tone light but his presence overpowering. He tilted your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to look him in the eyes. "And it’s cute."

His words sent a spark through you, a strange mix of embarrassment and thrill. “What do you want, Mattheo?”

He chuckled softly, the sound rich and full of something you couldn’t quite place. “What do I want?” he repeated, as if tasting the words. "You.”

The confession hung heavy in the air, stealing the breath from your lungs. Before you could process it, he added, his voice softer now, “I’ve always thought you were cute, you know. The way you try so hard to keep to yourself, like you’re invisible. But you’re not. At least, not to me.”

His words were unexpectedly tender, his gaze softening for a moment as he studied your face. A warmth spread through you, melting away some of the tension in your chest.

“You know, I really don't care about the other girls. They're too easy to get. You, on the other hand," he paused, his eyes drifting down, studying the curve of your neck and the dip of your collarbone. “You look at me like you want to be devoured by me. And that makes you very intriguing, Y/n."

The sound of your name in his mouth was a revelation. It rolled off his lips, smooth and velvety, the vowels deepening into a growl at the end.

"Why are you telling me this now?” you whispered.

Mattheo stepped closer, his scent—woodsy and faintly spiced—enveloping you. “Because I wanted to,” he said simply, his voice steady. “Because I think you needed to hear it.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as his hand moved to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. The gesture was almost gentle, but his eyes darkened as they lingered on yours.

The softness in his expression hardened into something sharper, hungrier. His hand slid from your face to your back, pulling you against him in one swift motion. The sudden closeness left you breathless, and before you could protest or even think, his lips crashed onto yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was demanding, possessive, and sending shockwaves through your body. His hands gripped you firmly, one on your waist, the other threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, leaving no room for hesitation.

Your mind spun, torn between shock and the undeniable heat of his touch. This is what you've been dreaming of. His lips moved against yours with an intensity that left you breathless, his presence overwhelming every sense. It was as if he wanted to consume you, to claim you entirely in that moment.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his dark eyes blazing as they locked onto yours. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you baby?” he murmured, his voice rough and tinged with something dangerous. His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip, his gaze following the movement with an almost predatory focus.

"Look at you—your cheeks flushed, your lips swollen, and fuck, I just know that you want me, don't you?”

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, his hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as his mouth descended on your neck. A gasp tore from your throat, and before you knew it, you found yourself sitting on a small table pushed against one of the bookshelves. The wood dug into your thighs, but you barely registered the discomfort. You were too caught up in the sensations flooding your mind and body.

Mattheo’s teeth grazed your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips and tongue danced along your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You clutched at his shirt, your nails digging into the fabric as his lips traveled down to the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

“Oh god Mattheo,” you gasped, unable to hold back the moan that threatened to escape.

"Shhhhh quiet darling, or the others will hear you," Mattheo whispered against your skin. He smiled against your neck, and a shiver ran down your spine.

"And I know you’re just dying for my cock, aren't you, princess?”

“M-Mattheo, w-we shouldn’t,” you tried to protest, your voice breathless. But Mattheo didn’t let you finish. He pulled up your skirt, pushing it to your waist in one swift motion.

His free hand found the front of your underwear and, with a wicked smirk, he rubbed over your pussy. "Oh, my little angel, you're so wet for me," he purred, his eyes burning with lust as he looked into yours. "Fuck, I've wanted you since the day I saw you."

His hand pulled back, and he slipped his fingers into the top of your panties. You watched in disbelief as he licked his fingers clean, the sound making you even wetter for him. Then, before you knew it, his fingers were back against you, rubbing your clit in soft circles.

"Fuck, Mattheo," you moaned again, unable to help it this time.

He knelt down on one knee, his head now perfectly aligned with the height of the table. His other leg remained on the floor and his free arm held you tightly against him.

"Say it louder," he growled, his fingers moving faster, rubbing harder.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—oh god!"

With a dark smirk, he pulled his fingers away. You yelped in surprise. He grinned at the expression, and then his head dipped below your waist.

"Oh fuck," you gasped as his tongue found your clit.

The pleasure was unlike anything you've ever felt. You gasped again as his tongue flicked over you again, your hands threading through his hair. You couldn't help it as you tugged on his hair, pressing his tongue against your clit as hard as you could.

But Mattheo was one step ahead of you. He pulled away, leaving you panting. "My little princess wants more, huh?"

"Oh fuck—please, please, Mattheo." Your voice cracked as you begged him for more.

Mattheo grinned up at you, his tongue licking his lips. "Say please again."

"Please," you gasped. And before you could say another word, his mouth was back on your clit, sucking and licking. His fingers found your entrance, and he shoved two inside of you.

“Oh god, oh god—oh fuck!" Your voice rose in pitch, and you clutched his hair again, pressing his mouth against you as hard as you could.

But before you could come, he pulled away again. He stood up and grinned at the look on your face. You looked down at him and noticed a large bulge had formed in his pants.

"Fuck, you look hot like that," he murmured, looking you up and down. "but you need to wait until I let you come."

Mattheo undid his belt and pulled at the button of his pants, undoing them with one quick move. His cock was hard and bigger than you expected, the tip already dripping with precum.

"I want to hear you say it," he said while he pulled his cock out, stroking it slowly. "Beg me to fuck you, princess."

"I—oh god—Mattheo—please fuck me—" you gasped out in a string of words, desperate to have him inside of you.

He smiled as he came closer to you, pushing your legs apart and placing himself between them. You held onto his shoulders as he shoved your underwear aside with the other arm. He teased the entrance of your pussy with his cock, making you squirm in his arms. He pressed a kiss to your ear, his hot breath making goosebumps rise up on your arms.

"You want my cock, don't you baby?" he asked under his heavy breath, and you nodded. "Then say it."

"Yes-" you gasped.

"Not like that, princess," he murmured. "I want to hear you beg me."

"Please—" you said again, the word slipping out in frustration. "Fuck me Mattheo—please, fuck me."

"That's my good girl." He growled as he shoved his cock into you, filling you completely. You cried out in surprise at the sudden stretch, and Mattheo paused for a second, giving you time to adjust. Then, he pulled out of you, and pushed back in with more force than before. His movements started slow, but soon became harder and faster.

He kissed your lips, and then your neck again, his teeth nipping at you every so often. The sensation of him inside you, his mouth on you, his hands on your skin, was almost too much to bear.

"Mmmm, god you're tight," He moaned, pushing his cock even further inside you. "You feel so fucking good, you know that princess?"

"Fuck Mattheo—" you cried out again, the orgasm starting to build. You tugged on his hair again, and he moaned against you.

"You're mine now," He whispers in your ear, as he started to increase the pace. "You're mine, and no one else’s—"

You felt his body tense against you, and his thrusts became faster and harder. His mouth pulled away from your neck and pressed against your ear again.

"God, you take my cock so well, do you?" he groaned out. "Yes, you’re a good girl—fuck—"

He trailed off, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic.

"Come for me, princess—" Mattheo growled, one of his hands reaching down to rub your clit. "Show me what you always wanted."

Your orgasm crashed through your body, almost as if it was waiting for him to say something to make it happen. You screamed out in pleasure as your body tightened and shuddered around his cock, the sensation of it throbbing inside of you too much to bear.

"Fuckkk—" he hissed as he pushed his cock as far into you as possible. You felt him shoot inside you, his hot cum filling your insides.

He stayed like that for a minute, his cock pulsating inside of you, as if savoring the moment. Finally, he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty and exposed.

"You’re fucking amazing. You know that, right?" he said as he fixed his clothes. You watched in awe as he buttoned up his pants and pulled his belt around him. You had never seen anything so sexy in your life.

You said nothing, unsure how to answer. He smirked and then pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, helping you dress yourself back up.

“Do you think sombody heard us?" You asked, suddenly worried.

"Maybe." He paused and then cupped your face, his smile softening into something softer. "But maybe I surrounded us with a quietness spell."

You want more? My Masterlist

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mahalachives · 2 months ago

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Part 3: Plot? I Don’t Know Her. But Azriel Does.

Summary: You were just rereading A Court of Thorns and Roses in bed when the universe decided to yeet you straight into Prythian, landing face-first in Rhysand’s lap. Now, you're a pajama-clad disaster with Cheeto fingers, emotionally harassing Azriel, befriending Mor, verbally sparring with the High Lords, and naming feral chickens after the Shadowsinger. You may not know why you’re here, but one thing’s for sure: you’re going to make it everyone's problem.

Oops, I tripped Into Prythian - Masterlist

Elain blinked up at you from the velvet armchair, A Court of Mist and Fury open in her lap.

Her voice was calm. Too calm. “What’s… fanfic?”

Everyone turned.

You grinned.

Rhysand whispered, “Cauldron boil me.”

Cassian perked up, excited like a toddler about to learn a new swear word. “Yeah, what is fanfic?”

Mor leaned forward. “Wait, is it like… stories? About us?”

You clasped your hands together. “Oh, sweet summer children. Fanfiction is the sacred art of writing stories about fictional people doing things they should have done but didn’t. It is love. It is chaos. It is 300,000-word slow burns and 1,000-word smutty drabbles written at 2 a.m. with tears and snacks.”

Azriel, from his shadowy corner, muttered, “That sounds… excessive.”

You turned, eyes gleaming. “Azriel. My broody bat. My tragic Victorian husband. There are millions of words written about you.”

He blinked. “Why.”

Cassian leaned forward. “Yeah, why?”

You smirked. “Because, my dear Illyrian himbo, some of us are emotionally unstable and project our issues onto mysterious males with wings and trauma.”

Rhysand slowly slid to the floor. “We’re in hell.”

“Oh no,” you corrected, pulling out your phone (yes, Helion glamour-spelled it to work in Prythian, bless that man). “We’re in AO3.”

Feyre frowned. “AO3?”

“Archive of Our Own,” you said, reverently. “Where the smut flows freely and the plot is optional.”

Elain tilted her head. “What kind of stories do they write?”

You hesitated. “Well, Elain, how comfortable are you with the phrase ‘knife kink’?”

Feyre made a noise. Rhysand choked on air. Azriel just left the room.

Cassian gasped. “Wait. I have a kink?”

You grinned. “Oh, honey. You have several.”

Nesta covered her face. “I hate this. I hate everything.”

Mor was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “I love this.”

You scrolled through your phone, tapping furiously. “Okay. Okay. Listen to this summary: ‘Azriel x Reader. Hurt/comfort. Enemies to lovers. She breaks his nose with a pan. They kiss in the rain.’”

There was a pause.

Then Cassian said, “...Was that based on a true story?”

You looked up. “Not yet.”

You kept scrolling. “Here’s another: ‘Azriel has a pet cat named Murder. Reader is a librarian with anger issues. They fall in love after he gets banned from the library for brooding too loud.’”

Feyre burst out laughing.

Rhysand crawled behind the couch. “Stop. I’m begging.”

You kept going. “Ooh! Here’s a spicy one: ‘The Shadowsinger has needs… and she is willing.’”

Azriel re-entered the room, heard that, and immediately turned around and left again.

“AZRIEL, WAIT,” you called after him. “I HAVE A MODERN AU WHERE YOU’RE A BARISTA WITH TATTOOS WHO SECRETLY WRITES POETRY!”

He did not come back.

Cassian was now on the floor again, wheezing. “Please. Please read more. Do I have any?”

You nodded solemnly. “You are the people’s himbo.”

He looked proud. “I don’t know what that means, but I accept it.”

Nesta was reading over your shoulder now, silently mouthing the phrase ‘tail kink?’ before looking at Cassian like he had explaining to do.

Cassian winked. “It’s canon.”

You turned to Elain, who was quietly reading a fic on your phone titled “Sunlight and Shadows: An Elriel Fanfic.”

She looked up at you, expression oddly serious. “Do… do they all want us together?”

You hesitated. “Uh. Yes. But also… no. Some people ship you with Lucien. Some ship you with Azriel. Some ship you with that one flower you picked in Chapter Twelve.”

Rhysand peeked over the couch. “...Do I have fanfics?”

You gave him a long look. “Rhysand, people have written smut where you turn into a literal shadow tentacle monster.”

He stared.

Feyre slowly turned to look at him.

Rhysand vanished with a soft whoosh of darkness.

“Every time I think we’ve reached peak chaos,” Mor said, “you raise the bar.”

Nesta was now flipping through your phone, face unreadable. “...You said there’s a fanfic where I murder Beron with a hairpin and then make out with Cassian on the throne of flames?”

You nodded. “It has over 80,000 kudos.”

She smiled. “I’d read that.”

“I’d live that,” Cassian said.

You leaned back, grinning like the menace you were. “So. Weekly book club. We alternate between canon and fanfic. Bonus points for smut.”

“Seconded,” Mor said.

“Thirded,” Cassian added.

Elain nodded. “I’m in.”

Feyre shrugged. “Sure.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes at Cassian. “Fine. But only if you read them out loud.”

Cassian paled. “Wait- what?”

Azriel’s voice echoed from the hallway. “I will set this house on fire.”

And you?

You curled up in a pile of pillows, heart full of chaos and questionable taste in fiction, and whispered, “This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

To be continued...

(Next time: Azriel accidentally reads a smut fic about himself and questions the very fabric of reality.)

#acotar #azriel x oc #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #cassian #feyre acotar #nesta acotar

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animasola86 · 3 months ago

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LOST & FOUND 🫂 CH7

You spend the night in the woods and find solace in Daddy's arms. Meanwhile, Mommy isn't too happy he disrupted her plans for the day...

soft!Daddy!dom x Mommy!domme x little girl!reader

WARNINGS: F!Reader insert. NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Mommy/Daddy kink. Dd/Md/lg dynamics. Dom/sub undertones. Pet names. Age gap. Size difference. Frottage/dry humping. Fluff. Angst. Fear of doctors. Medical exams. Date night with Mommy. (More notes under the cut!)

WORDS: 6.3k 🔷️ READ ON AO3 🔷️ 1–2–3–4–5–6 7–8–9–10–11–12

A/N: So, spoiler but: in this chapter, Reader (more info on her listed in the last chapter's A/N) gets a birth control implant. Now, I am not an expert on birth control, not even that particular kind, I am just an author with a bit of research on her hands. And I will not explain in detail how it works or why I chose it, it fit my story telling needs, and that's why. Please educate yourself if you want to learn more and do not take a word I'm writing here at face value. This is fiction, and in fiction anything goes, exactly how I, the author, want it to go. ❗ (Please READ THIS if you're confused about the tags I listed this under!) ❗

Chapter 6 🔷️ Chapter 7 🔷️ Chapter 8

The two of you spent the rest of the night huddled together on the hard floor, the food Daddy brought spread out in front of you. You were sitting between his legs, warm and cozy with your back to his chest (and his groin to your ass) as he leaned over you to reach for the thermos.

You were snuggled into the hoodie he had put into your backpack, while both of you were wrapped in the blanket. It was a picnic in the dark, with only the flashlight pointed at the nearest wall to give some light. He said his chef (it was still a somewhat otherworldly thing in your mind to have a personal chef) had prepared all kinds of finger foods, and while you expected chicken wings or fries or maybe nachos, it looked more like these fancy little snacks you'd only ever seen in movies (canapés or something? You weren't sure).

There was also a container full of cut fruit: apples and strawberries, pear and mango, and another full of cherries and all kinds of berries. You tasted something of each, quickly feeling full. Daddy was sitting behind you, sipping the tea he brought. Occasionally he'd feed you something, and you'd do the same, giggling happily when you watched the cherry slip between his lips. He'd kiss you after, sharing the taste.

You felt good, safe and protected, warm and happy. A strange feeling. In the quiet moments you wondered if it was real. Maybe you were still on that park bench, dreaming these things up. But then you'd feel Daddy's hands around your waist, rocking you gently against him as he nibbled on your neck, and you didn't care if it was real or not. It felt too nice to nitpick.

When the first yawn broke on your face, he scooped you up and carried you to the bed, wrapped the blanket around you like a cocoon and sat on the edge beside you, rubbing his large hand over your hip. You looked up at him, smiling tiredly, wanting to ask him to join you, but the words wouldn't come. And the bed was really small also...

He leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth, lingering there a little as he watched you. “Sleep now, pumpkin,” he whispered, his breath ghosting your lips.

“What about you, Daddy?” you managed to croak out.

“I'll clean up our mess and will take the other bed, don't worry about me,” he replied, leaning back slowly.

“Let me help,” you mumbled, trying to get your arms out of the tightly wrapped blanket.

“No, it's fine,” he said, pushing you back down, his hand heavy on your shoulder. “It was a long day, you need your sleep, baby girl.”

You huffed a sigh, snuggling into the blanket, blinking up at him. “M'kay,” you pressed out under your breath, your lips pursing into a pout.

He gave a short chuckle and pressed his mouth to yours. “No pouting, pumpkin, go to sleep. Another long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

You inhaled deeply, stretching your neck to keep close to him, but he leaned back, causing you to slump down again. “What's tomorrow, Daddy?” you whispered, already fighting to keep your eyes open.

“Mommy has something planned for you, I don't want to spoil the surprise,” he said, his voice quieter as he stood up, his hand leaving your arm.

You gave an unintelligible noise before you sighed, your eyelids fluttering closed. “Okay...” you breathed.

“Good night, sweet girl,” you heard his voice from a little away.

“Good night, Daddy,” you mumbled back, inhaling deeply before sleep gripped you fully.

You woke up with a voiceless shriek, your eyes flying open, but there was nothing but darkness around you. Your heart was pounding in your chest, a cold breeze washing over your sweat-slick face. A whimper escaped you as you lay stock-still on the hard bed, the blanket wrapped around you in a suffocating manner. You couldn't remember what woke you, if it was a nightmare or dream or just the noises of the forest. Oh. Forest. Right.

The hoot of an owl brought you back to the little cabin in the woods, and as your heart slowed a little, you could hear the deep breaths, almost snores, from the other bed. Without thinking about it much, you scrambled out of yours and stumbled through the dark towards the comforting noises, ignoring the cold shudder crashing down your spine as you left the safety of your cot. The blanket was still around your shoulders, dragging after you, and when you extended a hand to feel where you were, your fingers brushed against something warm.

“Daddy?” you whispered barely audible, voice heavy with sleep, a hint of growing panic vibrating through you. The impenetrable dark around you was beginning to feel suffocating. He didn't stir, just kept breathing deeply. “Daddy...” Your hand was on his shoulder, moving up, blindly feeling around until your fingertips nudged against his beard, the scratching sound sending pleasant shivers over your skin, dispersing the cold that had settled there.

Biting your lip, your heart beating faster, you decided to climb into his bed. There was no space, he was already filling out the small frame, so you clambered on top of him, carefully putting your knees on either side of his hips (having to spread your legs quite far to fit him between your thighs) before you lay down slowly, resting your weight on his torso, one arm cradling his head, your cheek pressed to his shoulder.

A garbled snore escaped him, before his hand shot up, feeling around until it curled around your side. “Pumpkin?” he rasped, his voice so low it was a mere vibration through your body as you pressed your chest to his, trying to relax on top of him. “What's wrong?”

“Couldn't sleep,” you mumbled into him, your hand teasing his neck, producing more scratching noises as you rubbed your fingers into his beard.

He exhaled loudly, making your hair fly. His arms closed around your body as he shifted beneath you. “S'okay,” he muttered hoarsely, pulling you against him.

For a moment you just lay there, your eyes falling closed again, the steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his body lulling you to sleep once more. Then his hands moved, rubbing from your shoulders down to your rear, and when his long fingers curled around your ass, you gave a little squeak, suddenly wide awake.

You leaned back on your elbows, looking down at him, trying to, but the room was too dark to see anything but more shadows. Your hands cupped his cheeks, the feel of his beard a calming thing under your palms. He kept kneading your rear, somehow the blanket had slipped off, adding a cold breeze to the shivers that traveled down your spine.

He breathed loudly against you. “You have no idea how hard it is to resist you, baby,” he growled, his voice just a rumble in the air, a thrum against your chest. “If you do things like this... all I want to do is grab you, turn you around, spread you open and sink my cock into your tiny cunt.” His low words, so lewd and tempting, but frightening too, made you gasp softly.

His hands tightened around your ass cheeks, pulling them apart, kneading, fingers slipping along the hem of your shorts. You were breathing harder, feeling a tense heat growing inside you, low in your core, a little throb, a clench, and then you were grinding your pelvis into him, against the bulk of him, hard and warm.

He gave a low grunt, pushing you against him, hands heavy and scorching, even through your clothes. “I can't do this, pumpkin,” he muttered. “Not yet. As much as I want to, as much as I need to... ugh,” he groaned, bucking his hips up against yours. “Little temptress,” he breathed, one of his hands moving up to grab the back of your head, pulling you down until your lips collided with his, his tongue quickly forcing into your mouth, a desperate gliding and rubbing and tasting.

He kept talking between kisses, his fingers tight around your nape, the other still groping your ass. “Soon...” he growled, kissing you harder with each word slipping past his warm lips. “Soon I'll fill you up, fill you up so good, all mine, you're mine, baby, mine to fill up, mine to open and use, your cunt will be molded to my cock and mine alone...”

You felt hot all over, his kisses and touches and words melting into a strange sensation floating through your body. You squirmed on top of him, grinding into him, your thighs trembling with how far they were spread over the bulk of his legs. Your fingers dug into his hair, holding on, kissing him back just as hungrily, your motions guided by pure instinct, by need, by unbridled lust. Nothing you'd ever felt before.

Your panting breaths mingled with his groans, the rubbing and grinding getting faster, more intense, his hand bruising your soft flesh. You wished there weren't so many layers of clothes in the way, it all felt too much, too warm, your clit throbbing under the constant friction of your underwear and shorts pressing into it. The hand on your neck was heavy, pressing you down, keeping you glued to his mouth, his tongue licking into yours as if he wanted to eat you alive (a thought that made your head spin). You tried your best to mirror the motion.

The tension in your stomach grew and grew, coiling so tight you were afraid it would break you from within. That heat gathering in your core, in your cunt, felt like liquid fire, burning through your nerves, setting everything aflame. Whimpers left your throat, your hands gripping his hair tighter, your hips rutting into him with desperate need now. His hands moved, gripped your waist, started pushing and pulling you over the bulge in his pants, a consistent pressure, burning friction, a deep shudder.

And then the lights came as you gasped into his mouth, a stifled little “Daddy!”, a swarm of fireflies dancing at the edge of your vision, your breath hitching in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. You felt your orgasm crashing through you like a wave, the first rough impact made you stiffen, then turned into a gentle lapping as it glided through you, spreading from your core into your trembling limbs, until your toes curled and your fingertips tingled.

He held you as you shivered, erratic breaths fanning over his face, his own body hard beneath you. Still shaking, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, his hands rubbing over your back, gently smoothing down your jittery nerves. Your core was pulsing, throbbing, blood pumping just beneath your skin. A low thrum that slowly eased into a little buzzing, fizzling out like a sigh in the wind. A sticky warmth settling in your underwear.

“My good girl,” he cooed softly, his lips brushing against your ear, voice low and soothing. “You're alright, baby.”

You relaxed on top of him, practically melting into the hard shape of his body, a little boneless thing held by strong arms. Head empty, filled with cotton, no thoughts, except for a tiny nudge of something, of wanting to give back, of wondering how he felt, but you were too tired to voice it. He didn't seem to mind either way, only shifted slightly beneath you before you slipped into the warm embrace of unconsciousness.

This time you woke up to a rumble below you, a little bump that made you shift against a warm body. Grumbling under your breath, eyes too heavy to open, you snuggled into the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Your legs were angled, knees pressed into your chest, your head slightly lifted, resting on something warm and solid.

A hand rubbed along your arm, a soothing noise coming to your ears. “Go back to sleep, pumpkin,” you heard Daddy's quiet voice, but the low thrum of it surged through your body, giving you the energy you needed to open your eyes.

Squinting into the light, you found yourself curled up on the bench seat beside him, your cheek resting on his thigh, his hand on your arm. The truck rumbled beneath you, a constant drone that almost lulled you back to sleep, but you forced yourself to wake up fully. Slowly you turned onto your back, legs stretched out as far as possible (they remained angled at the knees, sock-clad feet pressing into the passenger door), before you looked up to the upside-down view of the tall man behind the steering wheel.

He gave you a gentle smile and a short gaze, then focused back on the road. “Good morning, Daddy,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

“Morning, pumpkin, did you sleep well?”

“Like a stone, apparently,” you whispered, looking around. “Did you... did you carry me all the way back to the truck? You could have woken me, I could have walked...”

“You looked so peaceful, I didn't want to disturb your beauty sleep, baby,” he said with a slight smirk, his fingers digging into the blanket, teasing at your armpit. You scrunched your nose, squirming against the touch, feeling your lips twitch.

“Did you get some sleep too?” you asked carefully when he pulled his hand back, brushing it over your forehead before gripping the steering wheel. Last night came into your head, hazy and fuzzy, a buzz in the back of your head and deep in your core. Heat crashed into your face. “I... I didn't mean to –”

“It's okay, sweetheart. I slept really good, you make for a great weighted blanket, so soft and cute how you snored right into my ear,” he teased, his hand back to caress your hair. You turned your head and pressed your hands to your face, hiding the blooming warmth on your cheeks. He laughed softly. “Don't be ashamed. And don't stress about sneaking into my bed. You are welcome to do so, it makes me so happy to know that you're comfortable enough with me to do that.”

You spread your fingers and peeked through them as he talked, his words burning the doubts away again. His fingers brushed over your hair (you noticed he'd loosened the braids and smoothed it out again). He seemed to have had a whole morning while you were unconscious. You wished you could remember how he carried you, probably on his arms, through the waking forest, tugged you into his car, positioned your head on his thigh...

You turned onto your side again, shuffling closer until your chin rested on his leg, your eyes directly in line with the bulk of his cock behind the thick denim of his jeans. His hand moved over your forehead, tucking a few stray strands back, before his fingers dug into your hair, grabbing a bunch of it as he tugged lightly.

Your eyes moved up as you watched him from under your lashes, your cheeks still warm, your hands resting on the side of his thigh to steady yourself. “Are you okay, Daddy?” you whispered, watching his face, the creases in the corners of his eyes deepening as he smiled down at you.

“I'm fine, baby. Why do you ask?”

You licked your lips, that little urge in your stomach crawling up until it sat heavy in your throat, making your mouth both dry and saliva to pool on your tongue. You looked back at the bulge in front of you, your fingertips itching to touch it, feel how hard it really was. Wanting to give back.

“I just... uh... did you... did you come... last night? When I...” you stammered, swallowing thickly.

“It's fine, pumpkin,” he said, easing your stuttering. “Don't worry about me.”

“But –”

“No,” he shot down your attempt to voice the growing need. To feel, to taste... You blinked up at him, frowning slightly. “Sorry, baby girl, we don't have time. Mommy is already very angry with Daddy.”

“Oh,” you mouthed, biting your bottom lip as you sank back into the seat, away from his crotch. Exhaling loudly, you curled up against his side, pulling the blanket back over your body. “I'm sorry...”

“Don't be, it's my fault,” he said quietly, his hand back on your shoulder, warm and heavy, a comforting touch. “I should have planned this better. But it'll be fine. We'll be back in town in a bit, and then Mommy can have her day with you. Try to relax now, I don't know what she's up to after your appointment, but expect a lot more walking and shopping and whatever else girls do, hm?”

You frowned, feeling something cold and heavy in your stomach. Slowly you turned your head to look up at him. “What appointment, Daddy?”

“She's taking you to the doctor, baby girl,” he replied nonchalantly, while you stiffened. “Don't worry about that, just a check-up, some precautions and all that jazz. You were not on birth control, right, pumpkin?”

You looked away, swallowing. “No,” you mouthed, curling more into the blanket, not really wanting to face the reality of things. You hated going to the doctor's office, but in the back of your mind you knew it was important, a necessary step to assure your new life with these generous people. You still felt weird about it, and the implications of it all made you a little nervous.

His hand rubbed over your arm. “You'll get an implant, darling, Mommy's got one too, it's the best way, won't hurt much either. No need to be afraid. And once that's settled,” he added quietly, his hand slipping down your front, giving your chest a gentle squeeze, “well, I can't wait to get real close to you...”

The innuendo wasn't lost on you (your cunt giving a little clench), but you focused more on his other words. It felt as if you didn't have much of a choice in the matter, they had already planned out your life, and while it was comforting on one side, it made you feel a little useless and trapped on the other.

Then again, you did sort of trust them, Mommy and Daddy, somehow you knew they only wanted the best for you, and if that one little inconvenience (that felt like a big stone in your guts though) would ensure that you could stay with them, hug them, kiss them, feel Mommy's fingers and Daddy's cock, then it had to be done.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you exhaled loudly, grabbing Daddy's hand and cradling it to your chest. “Okay,” you muttered, snuggling into his side.

“It'll be fine, baby,” he said, squeezing your hands. “Mommy will be with you, she'll take care of you today.”

“What will you do?” you asked after a moment of rumbling silence, the tires droning over the road beneath you.

“I have to go to work, pumpkin,” he replied with a sigh. “But I'll be back tonight. We'll have dinner together and watch another movie, okay?”

“Okay,” you said again, closing your eyes as you let the noises of the car and his warmth lull you back to sleep.

“You're late.”

“You already said that...”

“Seriously, you gotta work on your time management. And maybe next time you could have the decency of telling me if you plan to spend the night somewhere else? I was worried sick!”

“I didn't think you'd care.”

“Of course I care! What is that supposed to mean? She is mine too, you know? Our little girl, Noah! Our! We take care of her, we, both of us! Get that into your thick skull!”

The voices were muffled, slipping in and out as you slowly regained consciousness. Inhaling deeply, you rolled onto your back, blinking your eyes open. You were in your bed, in your room, alone, a sudden cold crashing over you.

Listening to Mommy and Daddy's heated voices reminded you of your childhood, spent under the covers with your hands on your ears, trying to drown it all out. The constant fights, the screams and shouts, everything ultimately leading to your father leaving and your mother bringing in new men every now and then, before it all happened again, and again...

Your door opened, making you flinch and gasp. Mommy came in, confident steps before she slumped down on the edge of the bed, her hands grabbing yours. “Hello sweet pea, are you alright?” she whispered, cradling your hand, giving you a soft smile. Her cheeks were slightly flushed.

“I'm fine,” you replied, sitting up slowly, watching her. “Please don't be mad at Daddy,” you then said, furrowing your brows as you looked into her pretty face.

“I... Did you hear us? Oh baby girl, I am so sorry,” she cooed, scooting closer before she pulled you against her chest, her arms tight around your shoulders. “I was just worried. This is all new to us, too, you know? Daddy has to understand that he can't just whisk you away without telling me.”

You leaned against her, breathing deep, her soft scent, warm and somewhat flowery, filling your nostrils, calming you. “It's my fault,” you mouthed into the soft slopes of her breasts, the low neckline of her dress allowing for your cheek to press directly to her skin. “I... I distracted Daddy...”

Mommy laughed softly. “I bet you did, but that's not your fault. It's his for not being able to control himself.”

“I don't want you to fight...”

“Oh honey, don't worry your pretty little head. We do that sometimes, but it's nothing bad. It's natural and necessary to talk about things, even if we don't always see eye to eye. I still love and respect your Daddy, but he does need a little kick from time to time, you know? And I'd do it more, but he's kind of into it...” she added with a chuckle.

You still felt a little bad for disrupting their plans and making them argue, but the longer you snuggled against Mommy's warm body, the quieter those doubts got. At least until she suddenly grabbed your arms and leaned you back, looking at you.

“Alright, so, I did plan for our day to be a little less stressful, but it is what it is now. We gotta get you ready and then we have to go.” She stood then, grabbing your hand to pull you up.

It was a blur how she nudged you into the bathroom and made you brush your teeth. While you did, she untangled your hair and braided it into a thick side braid that she fastened with a little pink bow. You blinked, and suddenly you stood in front of your closet, your reflection showing you that you had stripped (or were stripped?), before Mommy pulled a pink sundress over your head. She crouched beside you and helped you into a pair of white lace panties, then pulled frilly ankle socks onto your feet and made you step into a pair of pink ballerina flats.

She was gentle, though anything but calm, time (or lack thereof) probably making her a little hectic. You didn't protest, just let her do her thing, feeling more and more like a little lifeless doll. Somehow that was a comfort, not having to think what to wear, what to do, but it also unnerved you a little. When you were dressed, she turned you around and smiled, then grabbed your flushed face and brought her mouth to yours.

Her kiss was sweet, tasted like the glossy stuff on her lips (peach maybe?), her tongue giving yours a gentle massage you tried to meet in equal. It was only a short delight, before she grabbed your hand and pulled you after her. Down the stairs, a fleeting look through the house, realizing Daddy was already gone, then through the front door and onto the yard, a car waited there and she motioned you onto the backseat before slipping in beside you.

A few more hectic heartbeats later, the car stopped again and she helped you out. You were shaking then, noticing the sign on the building. She held your hand and you just followed, trying to breathe easy, telling yourself it'd be alright. At first you felt invisible next to her, a mere child pulled along by a parent, when she talked to the lady at the reception, when she did small talk with other people waiting there as well, but then it was your name echoing through the room, your name being called, and you slipped back into the focus with a clenching feeling in your guts.

But Mommy stayed with you, led you into another room, told you to sit down on one of those reclined chairs. The air was tight, it smelled so sterile and clean, and you hated it. She must have noticed your erratic breathing, how clammy your hand was, and she stepped to your chair and cupped your face, rubbing your cheeks, smiling down at you softly.

“It'll be alright, cariño,” she cooed. “Be a good girl, okay? No need to be afraid. It's just a check-up, some questions, a few tests, and then a tiny poke into your arm. But you're a big girl, you can handle this, can't you?”

You wanted to sink into the floor, vanish from her warm gaze. You didn't feel like a big girl, you felt helpless and small and pathetic, and you were ashamed that at your age you were still afraid of doctors and needles and examinations. You felt horrible, your stomach so tense it hurt, your throat tight, mouth dry, lips wobbling uncontrollably, tears burning in your eyes. And one thought came back over and over again.

I want my Daddy.

It was silly, he couldn't help you through this any better than Mommy did, but maybe he could have talked you out of your fear, held you tighter, his low voice thrumming through you, calming you. Mommy did her best, but she was not Daddy, wasn't as tall and broad, as strong, there was no soothing scratch of a beard or the steady heartbeat in a warm chest, coarse hair tickling against your cheek.

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, thinking back to your time with him, thinking ahead to later, after, when you'd see him again. You realized then that it wasn't fair. Mommy was here now, holding your face, trying to calm you. And you remembered her words (“our girl... we take care of her, both of us...”), knowing she was right. You agreed to live with both of them, Mommy and Daddy, and you shouldn't choose one over the other. They both let you into their lives, made you a part of their routines, they both took time out of their busy schedules to be with you, help you, make it better.

And being here, getting a check-up, was a step into that better future, you knew it, you didn't like it, but you accepted it.

Exhaling loudly, you nodded into Mommy's hands. Opening your eyes, you attempted a weak smile, and hers widened before she leaned in to give you a quick kiss. She stepped away when the doctor entered the room, but kept a hold of your hand. You barely remembered his questions or your answers or what Mommy said to fill in the blanks. You couldn't concentrate on the explanations of whatever procedure you were supposed to be getting either. Your mind was reeling, in a bad way, but you forced yourself to stay strong, to not cry, and it took all of you not to flinch or wince when you felt cold gloved fingers between your legs.

You tried to shut it all out, go back in your mind to the better moments, Mommy's kisses, Daddy's touches, her soft laugh, his low voice praising you, pumpkin, baby girl, words like caresses, Mommy's fingers in your cunt (a different set of fingers parting your labia), the rise and roll of your orgasm as you dry humped Daddy this morning, how your clit had throbbed against your panties (how it was prodded at now, the hood lifted, a clinical gesture), your insides feeling as if frozen in place, forced to remain neutral (this isn't sexual, not sexual, a normal thing, an examination, nothing more).

Your head was spinning, your hand tensing around Mommy's, your eyes glued to the ceiling, not acknowledging what was happening below. Didn't matter, it'd be over soon, very soon (soon... he'd said... soon he'll fill you up... your cunt that belongs to him... for Daddy's cock to mold into his shape... soon).

And then it was over. You blinked in confusion when a nurse wiped something over your upper arm, then put a band-aid on a spot on your skin that felt tense and as if on fire, a warm feeling soothing through you.

Mommy was on your other side, rubbing her thumb over the back of your hand, smiling softly. Her other hand reached out and wiped under your eye. “My good girl,” she whispered. “You've been so brave. Barely cried. I'm proud of you.”

At first her words stoked your embarrassment, flared up the unease that had settled low in your guts (you already felt like a stupid child, she didn't have to talk to you like you were one too), but the longer she looked at you with her warm eyes, the calmer you felt. You blinked, licking your dry lips, taking a shuddering breath, focusing back on her. Maybe you were a child (no matter your age), but you were also hers, her little girl, she was taking care of you, and that was all that mattered.

Later you sat opposite her in a cute little restaurant tucked into a charming side street, soft piano music was playing in the background, the lights were dim and cozy, paintings of old architecture lined the walls, chatter was hushed. The waiter brought bread sticks and a menu you couldn't read, so you had Mommy choose something for you.

It felt nice, almost like a date. The wine arrived, and you were allowed one glass too, and when she raised hers, you grabbed yours and gently clinked it, smiling at her. “To new beginnings,” she said quietly before bringing the glass to her full lips and taking a sip, watching you over the rim.

You gave her a shy nod, taking a sip yourself, feeling the rich flavor glide over your tongue and down your throat, a fruity taste ending with a buzz. You liked it.

“Don't tell Daddy,” she mused with a chuckle. “He was quite impressed that you said you didn't drink, a kid your age no less. Now, I don't want to be the one to seduce you after all, but this is a special occasion, wouldn't you say?” She took another sip. “By the way, is there a reason you don't drink? Usually?”

You put the glass down, looking at it for a moment. “Well, I... I saw what too much alcohol could do to a person...” you replied quietly, unable to look into her eyes.

Her hand reached out to you, her fingers curling gently around yours. “Oh honey, I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, looking around the room. “No, it's fine. It doesn't matter anymore.”

“Hmm,” Mommy hummed, squeezing your hand. “If you change your mind, I'm here for you, always, okay?”

You looked up at her, meeting her warm gaze. “Thank you,” you whispered.

The food came then, pasta you couldn't pronounce, but liked all the same, nothing you'd ever eaten before. Mommy tried holding the conversation with simple topics like food or travel or exotic countries you might like to see one day. The more she talked, the smaller and poorer you felt. You had your dreams of seeing the world one day, but deep down you knew you would never be able to afford it. She, however, seemed to have seen it all already.

Though you felt a little jealous at first, you soon realized that this kind of lifestyle was open to you now. And while you imagined traveling the world with Mommy and Daddy, you opened up more and more, the fears and doubts of earlier falling off you bit by bit. By the time you'd finished your dessert (the most delicious tiramisu you'd ever seen and eaten), you were fantasizing about sitting in a gondola with Mommy, her arm around your shoulders, listening to some Italian dude singing as he steered you over the Canal Grande.

Mommy either kept holding your hand or bumping her knee into yours under the table, her other hand rubbing up your leg occasionally. It felt nice, she was so attentive when you did manage to say a few more sentences, smiling softly, her dark eyes wandering over your face. In a way it really felt like a date.

After a while, she was sipping on her third glass of wine, you gathered the courage to speak up again. “Can I ask you something?”

She tilted her head. “Of course.”

“I... uh, I told Da– uh, well, I'm... I'm not too comfortable... yet... to call you and him... uh, the names I'm supposed to call you... you know? In public? So I asked him for his name, and he said I could call him that when we were around people, and I was wondering... if –”

“Isabella,” she said with a smirk and her beautiful accent. “And yes, you can call me that in public. But when we're alone, I'd prefer... the other name,” she added, winking at you.

“Of course, Mo– Isabella,” you replied with a timid smile. She squeezed your knee under the table. “That's a really pretty name...”

“Thank you,” she laughed. “I think your Daddy, Noah, may see that differently. He only uses it when I screwed up somehow.”

“Oh,” you mouthed, blinking at her.

“But don't mind that, we do have a special relationship as you may have gathered by now. I do like it when he calls me by my name, with that deep voice of his. It really turns me on...”

Her confession made you blush, and you looked away, inhaling deeply. “M-me too, his... his voice, I mean,” you then mumbled, earning you another laugh and squeeze of the leg.

“Yeah? Well, I'm glad we share the same taste in men then,” Mommy said with a smirk in her voice. “Honestly, cariño, no need to be embarrassed about it. This is an open relationship, a love triangle if you will. We are sharing him, as well as he is sharing me, and I am sharing you, and however else you want to see it. And there's nothing weird about it. You are our little girl, you chose to be with us and we welcomed you into our midst. Say, after these few days, how do you feel about it? Do you still want to be our girl?” she asked, nudging your knee to make you look at her.

You nodded as soon as you met her gaze, almost a little too desperate for your taste, but it was true. You couldn't imagine being anywhere else at the moment. “I do,” you said quietly. “I really like it, being with you and Da– Noah, you've been both so kind to me, so patient and welcoming. I... I've never felt this safe before...”

Her features softened as she watched you, her dark eyes so warm and caring. Your own started watering the longer you watched her, recounting your experiences.

“I am really grateful,” you choked out, your eyelashes fluttering as you fought the tears trying to spill from them. “Really, thank you... so much, I... I have no idea how I will ever repay you for your generosity...”

She gave a soft chuckle, leaning over the table to grab your hand and cradle it between hers. “Oh sweetie, do not worry your pretty head about that. You will, very soon. You already made me so happy, and Daddy too, and I'm sure you will be just as perfect in the future. I honestly can't wait...”

She didn't say it, barely grazed the topic, but you felt it in your core, the implication. Daddy hadn't been as subtle about it, and you knew what was expected of you once you settled in more. Somehow the idea both scared and aroused you, and you wondered whether you could live up to those expectations in the first place. The last thing you wanted was to disappoint them, Mommy especially.

Apparently your worries were plastered all over your face, because suddenly she was there, had rounded the table, and crouched down beside you, cupping your face, resting her forehead against yours.

“It'll be fine, mi amor, do not stress,” she whispered. “All you have to do is submit to us, we will guide you through it all. You just let it happen. Do you want to let it happen? Do you trust us?”

You swallowed, biting your lip. “Yes,” you breathed. “I do, both, I trust you, I want this...”

“Good girl,” she cooed.

Her eyes bored into yours and the restaurant around you faded. All you saw was her, and when she tilted her head and brushed her lips against yours, she was all you felt. Warm, soft, the subtle taste of peach flavored lip gloss and red wine, and you soaked it up like a sponge, meeting the delicate swipes of her tongue, tasting her, feeling her...

She was gone before you could really register it, sitting back on her chair, licking her lips as she smiled at you. Your cheeks were aflame, but you didn't care who saw them. You were focused on Mommy, the beautiful woman who could honestly convince you to do anything with just a kiss.

What a dangerous gift.

Chapter 6 🔷️ Chapter 7 🔷️ Chapter 8

End notes: You may argue that some of the things that Mommy and Daddy do to pumpkin are dubcon, as they just “force” them onto her without asking first. Yes, maybe that's the case, but remember this is fiction and Pumpkin is too mentally unstable to decide on her own at the moment. It's for her own good, they really only want the best for her! There is no bad intent, even if it feels like dubcon.

Thank you for reading! New chapter every Saturday!

Up next: Mommy takes you to a special shop...

MASTERLIST 🔷️ AO3 🔷️ ORIGINAL WORKS

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krems-chair · 6 months ago

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I've been thinking a lot today about how easily people condemn Solas for making the choices he did or for so regularly refusing the help and love his friends or a romanced Lavellan extended to him and how that's a very easy thing to do from behind a screen in a fictional game where you are able to (with very few exceptions) curate a world in which your allies are loyal and your decisions will go the way you'd like them to.

And yeah, it's a game and that's kind of the point, but if I were to look at it a little more deeply (and who am I kidding, I got back on this website exclusively to process the aftermath of Veilguard) I'd say that there's so much to be found in wondering if the protagonists in any of the other games would have fared better in similar conditions.

Apparently I can't stop making long posts, so buckle in.

What would Morrigan have become in a world where the Warden never stumbled upon her cottage with Flemeth, if she never got the chance to see more of the world and decide what she wanted out of it? With just her mother (who, coincidentally in this Solas-y discussion is also kind of Mythal) and no support, who is to say what she would have unleashed upon the Korcari Wilds one day when the confines of her cage became too much?

What about Leliana? She, too, suffered at the hands of a very controlling abuser who tried to convince her that one lifestyle was all that her future held. What do we think she would have become if not for a chance meeting in Lothering with someone who could help her face down the woman that molded her?

Fenris, a character MANY people are just fine with was incredibly ready to kill a mage on sight if need be, no questions asked. Where do we think his story goes if he doesn't have someone in his corner early on enough in the game? If he doesn't get caught by Danarius, he's almost certainly going to end up on a murder spree, and he doesn't even have Justice whispering in his head to do it.

Cullen. Just all of him. It's an absolute miracle he hasn't snapped by the time you encounter him in Inquistion, and even then you get the benefit of intervening at a critical point in his story several times over.

Almost every other character could face this analysis and I think we'd reach a result that suggests perhaps the only thing keeping them lovable is your playable character's investment in their well-being.

Enter Solas. We don't meet him when he's twenty to thirty something and on the precipice of falling down a dark path. He's been there for literal millennia already, and with the exception of one close friend he's been alone. And not even Felassan is enough because of the years Mythal had prior to that friendship to make Solas exactly who she needed him to be.

I've had shit friends before that aren't just good at isolating people, they're naturals. I barely made it through high school with my mental health in place (in fact, looking back, it almost certainly wasn't). When you think you've got a true friend and they need something of you, it's so easy to blindly follow them because you think your love is enough to mark someone's soul as trustworthy. Solas doesn't learn that lesson until it's too late, and even when he does he can't turn back: the spirit that was once Wisdom has been exposed to several of the worst ancient elves to ever exist and now he has to stand his ground rather than let it all fall, because that is what Pride would dictate. Admitting that the person you gave your love and labor and time to is a monster is hard. And he was alone.

Give me Morrigan after centuries with her mother. Show me Leliana after the years have become a blur and the only voice whispering in her ear is Marjolaine's. Show me the innocent mages that don't make it through if all Fenris has for years and years and years are the scars Danaris left him and the means to make more. Show me Cullen if he stays in a chain of command under a Knight Commander who knows exactly what he fears and holds it over his head for so long he forgets what it was like to be an excited kid begging the templars for training because he just wants to keep people safe.

We get companions in these games who are broken by the time they're twenty. Solas has spent thousands of years in servitude to a cause of a woman he believed to be his only friend. He doesn't know who he is without her influence, anymore, only exists physically in the first place because she asked it of him and then asked again and again and again. He doesn't have a witty band of merry fools to pull him out of that cycle. He has Felassan, but he has him during war after war after war in the hopes of freeing others from the very situation that torments him.

Trauma from war affects everyone touched by it, nevermind the fact that Solas is actively responsible for saving the lives of thousands and feels each life like a weight around his neck because maybe he can save them like he cannot save himself. We should always be worried about the people trying to do the most good. Who is looking out for them? Why are they so determined to help others? Could it be that it's something they wish others had done for them?

Solas certainly feels comradery with Felassan from working together to free slaves from the very people he helped put in power because Mythal told him it would be okay only to leave him with the pieces, but even the Solas that Felassan knows has been turned into an attack dog shying away from the touch of the very person it desires to be near above all others by the time their relationship forms.

The fact that Solas is able to try and show the Inquisitor who he is at all is a miracle as far as I'm concerned, a sign of a peaceful spirit of Wisdom who loves knowledge for the sake of it finally sensing that there might be a chance to embrace its nature again.

Yeah, if you give him what he has come to expect from people with power, if you let near-absolute power over the masses corrupt you, he's going to bristle and try to shut your inquisitor down.

But if you show him even the smallest bit of kindness? If you treat him like the starving wolf he talks about and feed him instead of fighting him? God, it shatters his entire existence.

It's called a cycle of abuse for a reason. Finding friendship, finding the love of your long-ass life can be the first step in realizing there's better out there. But the time it takes to learn that? When you're too weary to even reach out for help in the first place and afraid of every kind word or gesture because you've never known such tenderness (on a platonic OR romantic level, both matter so so much) before?

Part of the compelling tragedy of Solas is that it's almost Orpheus-like how he knows what he has been made into and still cannot stop himself from yearning for more, from turning around to see if just this once something has changed. You can't convince me that he hasn't spent years hoping that someone will hear the legend of the Dread Wolf and see it for what it is, a leash the Evanuris created for Mythal's whipping boy to ensure that even if he ever escapes them, the people he fought to save will hate him. And I cannot blame him for the shock and terror that consumes him when he realizes someone finally has.

You give me any of dragon age companions after the amount of time Solas spent under Mythal's thumb without your character's intervention and you tell me how that looks.

You tell me if they're able to change at the first sign of something that feels too good to be true.

And then, I want you to tell me they're any less worthy of trying to save, especially when you know how good their best can be.

Solas might be hard for some fans to love, but it's only because he serves as the perfect representation of the beast we are all capable of becoming when the love that sustains us, assuming we receive any at all, is laced with poison.

The journey out of that place, out of a literal prison of regret, is brutal, and I'm thrilled that even with the many things about Veilguard I'm still struggling with, we have the chance to let Solas try again with the help of those who love him not because he never fell down, but because they believe in the beauty of a future where he gets back up again.

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muletia · 5 months ago

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𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 ₊˚⊹♡

obsessed!smokescreen x human!reader

summary: you and smokescreen are trying to watch a movie, but his irresistible and constant need for closeness stubbornly gets in the way. will you make it to the end? (spoiler: you won’t)

cw: fluff, suggestive, obsessive thoughts, unhealthy clinginess, possessiveness, very mild not nsfw dub-con, biting/marking, very light manipulation from smokey

word count: 1570

Your eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Consciousness drifts into another dimension, and your head slowly tilts forward further as you lose contact with reality and embrace sleep with open arms. But alas, sleep is not meant for you—not yet. Your boyfriend is keeping watch, ensuring you continue your fight to stay awake. And when he's near you, he seems unusually attuned to moments like these.

"Hey, hey, don't drift off on me now," he pleads, voice desperate, because this isn’t your first slip-up. "We just started the movie!"

"Ah, sorry," you mumble, rubbing your face to try and wake yourself up, which works. For now.

Your attention returns to the flickering TV screen in the garage, and for a moment, you really do feel alert. You're not proud of how easily you drift off, especially with company, but the day's events are catching up to you, pulling your eyelids downward. You’d promised him you’d finally finish this movie together— you’ve both tried to get through it multiple times, only to be interrupted every single time by something—or rather, someone.

That someone is none other than your personal heater sitting next to you, the primary disruptor of your small private movie nights.

And, as you catch him from the corner of your eye, it's clear he’s got a new idea for spicing up your passive movie-watching routine. His broad smile is utterly contagious, and you fight hard not to let your lips curl. It’s endearing, but you’re not falling for it—not yet. You know exactly where this evening will go if you give him your attention. After all, you’ve lived this scenario many times before.

"Optics on the screen," you chide softly. "We just started the movie, hypocrite."

"Oh, I am watching," he replies, with mock indignation.

"Not me!" you sigh. "We’re not restarting this movie for the tenth time. Look at the screen." You motion toward the brightest source of light in the room.

He knows he should listen. He’s the one who suggested the movie night in the first place. He also chose the film—one of your favorites—because he wanted to experience it with you, to watch your reactions, hear your thoughts, and discuss it afterward. All of it was just a way to interact with you, to be showered in your attention. To absorb it like the finest energon, savoring its addictive sweetness.

It’s not his fault that everything you do is infinitely more interesting than any fiction on the small screen. Sure, he likes human culture and finds it genuinely fascinating—but only because you’re at its center. You’re the one who reveals its secrets, who offers him glimpses of the daily life he so desperately wants to be a part of. Watching movies together lets him simulate that life. He knows he should use every chance to learn more about your world. The problem is, he can’t focus.

It’s not as if there are moments when he thinks of you more or less. No—he’s always thinking about you. Seven days a week, every hour of Earth’s solar cycle. During missions, patrols, recharge—even when he’s with you. It’s suffocating, overwhelming his processor, a constant need to express his untamed emotions, but with no outlet to relieve the ever-growing weight.

Having you by his side is wonderful—feeling your scent, your warmth; brushing shoulders and sharing a blanket. But, ever ambitious, he needs more. Thoughts of you provide only fleeting satisfaction, failing to meet even a fraction of his desire. They leave him helpless once again.

Smokescreen doesn’t want to be just an observer anymore, a witness to the action around him. Those days died with Cybertron.

He wants to feel, touch, and explore, even though he already knows every inch of your body—every mole, scar, and birthmark. Alien, but captivatingly beautiful. Unparalleled softness. Addictive. Meant to be worshipped and adored. It’s no surprise his servos fit your curves perfectly, as if you were made for each other—not just in spark, but in body too. No stimulant could compare to the euphoria of adoring you. No human cinematic masterpiece, no mission, no praise from Optimus Prime himself.

"You’re incorrigible," you sigh. "You just missed the most important part."

Suddenly, he realizes he’s spent the last several kliks staring only at you, fantasizing about physically expressing all the emotions roiling within him. His servos are trembling now, and he has to touch you—to prove how much you mean to him, how vital you are in his life.

Electricity courses through his frame—a signal of surpassing limits. He’s nearing a breaking point, teetering on the edge of abandoning the careful balance of your relationship. Can’t let that happen. He accepts destroying himself, allowing his yearning for you to dictate his sanity, but no scars could ever mar your soul. No matter how many he bears himself.

His trembling servos find the fabric of your shirt and gently tug at it. Enough to send a signal, not to frighten. If you pull away—he’ll shatter.

"Hey," he begins. You glance at him briefly, but your eyes quickly return to the screen. He tugs harder, practically pawing at your stomach now, desperate for attention. "Please, I don’t want to watch the movie anymore. We can finish it another time, can’t we?"

He knows he’s repeating himself, using the same lines he always does. It’s cheap and undignified, unworthy of someone whom even Optimus Prime considered passing the Matrix to. But his need has consumed him, taken over his frame and spark, which craves you so intensely that static buzzes in his audials. Every molecule of his being chants your name, begging for you.

He moves closer, exerting pressure. It’s a dangerous game, one that could easily irritate you. But he’s so desperate he has to play his cards on this gambit.

"I promise we’ll finish it next time, okay? [Name], please, I need you."

"We could also finish it tonight, hmm?" you offer.

"But I already missed the most important part."

"You’re smart—you’ll catch up on the plot." He sees your playful smile, teasing him with your intentions. But this time, he’s too overwhelmed to join in the game.

One servo continues tugging at the edge of your shirt while the other slides beneath it, cautious and precise—while he still has the control to be so.

You finally give in, unable to focus on the film any longer.

"Alright, I’ll hold you to that," you warn, finally turning your head toward him.

What greets you are wide, pleading optics, shimmering with need. Begging for you. Beautiful, but deceptive. Luring you into a trap. Or maybe you’ve already been ensnared? Enchanted into letting him do more—letting his servo wander further up, finding its way to your chest.

"Incorrigible," you murmur, tilting your head slightly to one side, exposing your neck—his canvas for the evening. "But at least I’m not sleepy anymore."

"Good," he purrs near your neck. Warm, processed air brushes against your sensitive skin. "I’m going to show you how much you mean to me. I’m afraid it’ll take a very long time."

Servos press tightly to your body, while dentas leave their mark, creating art from love bites—one of his favorite human inventions. Such a pity he couldn’t bear them himself—would flaunt them proudly if he could.

"I wish they lasted forever," he whispers, kissing the bruised skin, already intoxicated by your closeness, even though it’s only a fraction of what he craves.

"And I don’t," you admit. His response is a hurt whine, but Smokescreen quickly resumes his work, moving slightly higher. His marks always came out messy, more like bites than love bites, but he was so proud of them that you couldn’t bring yourself to criticize him. At least, not directly.

"One of my friends noticed them once. She thought I’d been mauled by a wild animal."

You feel him smile against your skin because it’s an accurate description of his love. Wild, untamed.

"Sorry," but it's also unimaginably tender. "But you like them, right? I’m good at this, aren’t I?"

"You’re unmatched, love."

Not sensing the sarcasm, he holds you tighter, as if he wants to merge you both into one being. Feels his trembling spark yearning for a bond, a union with yours. And while you can’t grant him that, the mere act of sharing the most intimate, vulnerable parts of himself is satisfactory. Not enough, because nothing ever will be. Just like the love bites, the most blissful interfacing, or kisses and cuddles. They work for a brief moment, a fraction of existence. They fill the void, which begins emptying the moment you part.

"I need more," he groans. "Please. I need you."

"I wish you were this eager about watching movies."

You reach for the remote because yet another movie attempt has ended in failure. Your boyfriend doesn’t appreciate your effort to put some distance between you, even for a few millimeters. His servos hold you firmly in place, and his dentas possessively catch your neck. Luckily, you don’t have to reach far.

"We’ll manage next time," he promises, though the absent tone of his voice makes it clear he’s lying. You know he won’t last. He’ll falter at the start, trying to make up for lost time by showering you with affection, though it’ll only be a fraction of what he wants to give.

"Hard to believe that."

"Mhm, love you too," he mutters, utterly enraptured by your closeness.

#transformers x reader #smokescreen x reader #obsessed!smokescreen

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sylvesterelle · 5 months ago

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Meditations in an Emergency Part 1

Fem!Reader/Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish

“Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”

“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.” Or: How to live well and get railed through the power of compliments.

Part 1 of 3, 5.8k words, mature, cw: alcohol, cannabis, bisexual lusting in every direction

Read on AO3 I Read part two | Read part three

"I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. "

Frank O'Hara, "Meditations in an Emergency"

“I just think people should compliment each other more, that’s all,” you declare, biting the cherry off the plastic sword that Kat, the bartender, had stuck in your Dirty Shirley. “Like we think these things all the time. Her scarf is pretty, or that guy’s got a cool haircut or whatever. We notice them, we think about them, but so rarely do we sayit, you know? Even though being complimented is the best,” you say emphatically, using the tiny sword to punctuate your words.

Kat nods and gives you a second cherry because Kat is good people. Kat serves you doubles while charging for singles and listens to you ramble and lets you spread your notebooks and laptop on the bar when it’s slow, like tonight.

It’s early on a Friday evening which means you’re supposed to be writing. You pay the bills as a ghostwriter during the week, and you like it, you do. The flexibility to work strange hours late into the night, remote so you can write in coffee shops and cocktail bars and anywhere loud enough to drown out the more distracting of your thoughts.

The problem is you devote so much time to other people’s work that you’d promised to use weekends for your own ideas. Easier said than done, without an irate publisher on the other end setting deadlines and demanding pages. The other problem with your ideas is that you just have so many of them; find it hard to complete one without getting distracted by another, your hard-drive a graveyard of drafts in various states of decomposition. But routine helped, so there at the bar you’ve sat every Friday night for almost two months, even if you’ve spent proportionally less time writing than people-watching and sweet-talking Kat into making you interesting drinks off-menu. (“This is a dive bar,” she’s told you more than once. “We don’t have a menu to be off of.”)

It’s not not part of your writing process, you reason. You’re a firm believer that life is stranger than fiction and many of your most delightful ideas have come from chance observations and surprising interactions—the very reason you’d been thinking about the importance of compliments in the first place.

“I just think we should be more intentional about finding joy in each other. For example, what would you say, darling Kat,” you begin, batting your eyes at her sweetly, “if I told you that you look fucking incredible now and always, you’re so hot it gives me hives if I look at you straight on, and more specifically that little curl that’s coming out of your ponytail is particularly fetching and I like it a lot?”

She rolls her eyes, which is as good as a smile from Kat. “I would say you should slow down on the Shirleys.”

You wouldn’t say the two of you were friends, not really, but there was a familiarity and ease in the relationship now that warmed you. You’d met her your very first night while on your usual ramble to learn a new place, strolling until you make sense of its curves and corners and spirit.

The neighborhood you’d found an apartment in wasn’t the best, but it was furnished and month-to-month and good enough for you. Best of all, you’d only needed to wander in the late fall snow a couple blocks before you’d struck gold: drawn like a moth to a blinking neon sign and a door just opening, spilling warm light and the sounds of overlapping laughter into the night.

Inside it really was a dive, all sticky floors and dollar bills pinned to the ceiling, a jukebox that took dimes and a blonde bombshell behind the counter who served with a decided lack of smile. But a week of you showing up and chattering at her had cracked that icy shell enough to get a name and a few raised eyebrows, instead of complete silence. By the time you’d earned your discount as a regular around the third week, she’d occasionally deign to comment on your more interesting trains of thought; offer some piercing observations of her own if she was in a good mood.

Fast-forward a month and change, and now you know her well enough to bring a second iced coffee when you breeze in for the evening, Kat pulling a bottle of Irish cream from the well as you pop off the lids in a dance thrilling in its routine.

Your coffee’s slowly melting beside you, abandoned in lieu of the syrupy-sweet mess Kat had waiting for you. She sips at the dregs of her own as she considers her verdict on your compliment, hip propped against the side of the bar.

“I don’t know if I’d particularly appreciate a stranger saying that to me. Don’t want strangers saying anything to me, really,” she frowns, “but particularly the bit about the hives.”

“I might have gone too hard out the gate with that one,” you admit. “But more importantly, I think you might be in the wrong profession for strangers not talking to you.”

She flips you the bird causally as she goes to greet the two regulars slipping into place at the end of the bar. It’s early in the night and still mostly empty; only a few singles and two-tops stopping for an after-shift drink, giving you and Kat plenty of time to talk. It’d get rowdy enough later on—the voices louder, the jukebox queue a little more violent—but you’d found among the chaos was when you were at your best.

“Hives aside, you know what I mean though, right?” you pick back up when Kat returns. “Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”

“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.”

You wave this aside, already mentally on a sailboat somewhere sunny, tropical, salt-air in your face. “I always thought it’d be fun to be a sailor,” you say dreamily, propping your chin on your hand. “Kerouac was a Merchant Marine, did you know?"

Kat makes a face. It’s upsetting how prettily she pouts.

“What, you didn’t like the book?” You’d loaned her a copy of The Dharma Bums the week before, slim and beloved enough that you carried it with you instead of borrowing a copy from the local library, like you usually did. You kept a collection of those library cards rattling around in an old Altoids tin—the only souvenirs you kept from all the various cities you’d visited in your travels.

“It was fine. Good, even, if you’re into that sort of thing,” Kat offered, swirling her coffee around. “He’s just so fucking mopey. I wanted to shake him, like c’mon man, you need to stop thinking about your life and actually fucking live it,” she finishes, as animated she ever gets. Which, admittedly, is only slightly more expressive than usual: eyes narrowed a touch further, three degrees more derision in her tone.

Kat prefers nonfiction. History. Facts. Still reads everything you recommend, but rarely finishes one without getting frustrated with protagonists making dumb decisions and whining about their life choices. And while some of the books she recommends to you are a little dry at times, they’re certainly illuminating—and the last one about organ harvesting was surprisingly catalytic for story ideas.

You shrug, acknowledging the point. She’s not wrong, but you live most of your life in your own words and your own worlds, so it doesn’t quite bother you in the same way. Although, now that she mentions it…

“You know, all of that is kind of to my earlier point. Giving someone a compliment is like the ultimate shortcut to living outside your head. You’re not all wrapped up in your own thoughts and issues, but appreciating the world and the people around you. Even if you don’t say it—which you should—it means you’re paying attention. Noticing.”

You drain the last of your Shirley, swapping it out for the coffee and swirling around the diluted ice. “Proposal: we make a game of it, tonight. We notice.” It wouldn’t be that different from what you and Kat normally did: share little observations about other patrons, trade theories on this person’s job or that person’s backstory. They’d just be a little more…intentional about it tonight.

"Keep your eye out for any interesting hats or weird pins or extremely sexy noses and come and tell me. That way we can both enjoy it,” you entreat her, clasping your hands together in anticipatory delight.

You know better than to suggest Kat actually compliment anyone. You’re optimistic, not delusional.

“What constitutes an extremely sexy nose?” she asks, frowning at you beautifully.

“Oh Kat, some things can’t be taught,” you tell her with a pitying shake of the head.

She rolls her eyes and heads to the other end of the bar, greeting a nicely-dressed couple as they sink onto the cracked vinyl stools. Looking around like they might be feeling just a wee bit out of place. You catch the gaze of one of the women and smile. “I love your dress,” you tell her, and feel the joy of her answering blush bubble sweet and bright in your veins.

…

You pride yourself on having excellent ideas, but this is easily one of your best. You get a tremendous amount of writing done, unusually productive riding the high of giving out compliments left and right. Not so many that it feels insincere and never any you don’t mean, but Baader–Meinhof is a real sonofabitch because it’s true that the more you look the more you see to appreciate.

Like Bobby, the union electrician who wears his name in blue, embroidered on the pocket of his work shirt. Not machine-stitched but hand-made, the careful stitches illuminated when he leans over to call out his order. His wife’s handiwork, he shares when you ask. “Paid special for her embroidery but still makes time to do all of my shirts. So I can carry her love around all day,” he tells you proudly, unabashed even when his friends rib him good-naturedly.

After Bobby comes the lady whose leopard print nails match her furry coat, the one who winks at you when she catches you looking admiringly from across the bar. Then there’s the burly biker who sits down to share a themed photoshoot of their toy poodle when you compliment the photo on their lockscreen. Others in between, some you speak to, some you don’t—but all you appreciate in a way you vow to do more in the future.

Inevitably, little pieces of what you observe trickle onto the page, fleshing out bits of characters and sparking ideas you jot down in bursts of inspiration. You won’t know until later if you’ll end up keeping any of it, but you like the thought that that you’ll always have some part of this moment—the people, the place, the time—woven into your writing. A little souvenir in-and-of-itself.

Though the night gets progressively busier, Kat swings by from time to time to share her observations: money fished from strange locations, custom bank cards, funny pins she spies when customers lean close to shout their orders over the music—partially your fault, after you compliment an old geezer’s song choice and spend twenty minutes combing through the catalogue with him, cackling as you feed dime after dime and queue enough yacht rock to last a fair few hours.

All told, you’re feeling fucking incredible as synth solo from Toto’s “Rosanna” sends you wriggling in your seat. You’ve a few thousand words under your belt and the high off all those little moments of kinship is making you feel sparkling and happy and well, which, historically speaking, can sometimes be a challenge for you.

Not tonight, and you grin at Kat when she slumps next to you, enjoying a brief reprieve from new customers.

“Whatcha got for me, killer?” you ask her, fishing in your bag for a granola bar. She takes it with a grateful look, shoving half of it in her mouth and words mumbled as she chews.

“You’re gonna fucking love this. A mohawk, dude. In 2024.”

You perk up. It’s pretty packed now, but you can’t believe you missed a cut that attention-getting. “Liberty spikes?” you ask hopefully. You adored the punks of your acquaintance—always had interesting thoughts and insider tips on the local music scene.

Kat shakes her head. “Nah, it was short. Gym rat type, I think. Good tip, nice accent. Scottish,” she clarifies around the last of the granola bar. “Talked some shit about the ‘self-evident superiority of whisky over bourbon’ as he ordered a Maker’s for his friend.”

You hum, craning your head. “See where they sat?”

She shakes her head. “Asked about smoking though, so probably on the patio.”

Calling it a patio was generous—a small bit of grass with a couple white lawn chairs and an ashtray, mostly. But there was a heat-lamp that worked roughly sixty percent of the time, which made the bar very popular with those in the know on cold nights like this.

“Speaking of, ‘bout time to take your break?”

If it wasn’t too busy Frank, the bouncer, would watch the bar while you and Kat split a joint in the back, sitting in companionable silence and pointing out shooting stars and passing satellites—clear skies a benefit of the city’s frigid nights. Kat knew a startling amount about astronomy but absolutely zilch about astrology; could tell you the history of the universe up to the surface of last scattering but only blinked when you’d asked if she was a Capricorn or a Scorpio.

Kat pushes her bangs off her sweaty forehead and checks the clock, then whistles to get Frank’s attention. You shove your laptop into your bag but don’t bother with a coat—your cheeks are flushed from the warmth of the crowd and you don’t mind the cold, not really.

The patio initially looks abandoned, silent but for the wet sound of car tires moving through the snow-choked alley. Not totally surprising; most balk at below-zero temps even with the lamp. Snow clumps heavy and wet on the plastic chairs and the overturned garbage pail that serves as a footrest, but the sky is clear—a thousand tiny pinpricks visible in the heavens.

You breathe in until the night air fills your lungs and you feel fresh and clean and cracked open wide, just pouring out love into the world.

Movement in your periphery catches your eye and oh, Kat was right, not a punk at all.

You’re not quite sure what to make of the two men standing half-shadowed near the lamp. Big is the first word that comes to mind and perhaps that’s sufficient for now, since you can’t seem to stop ogling the breadth of their shoulders and the curve of those mouthwatering thighs long enough to bother with anything else.

Kat had thought gym-rat but you’d put money on those muscles not being just for show—there’s too much strength, too much potential for carnage disguised in that plush softness that comes from power in repose.

“Why hullo there, barkeep,” the one with the shaggy, soft-looking mohawk greets Kat, his accent just as charming as promised. “And barkeep’s friend,” he nods warmly to you as you come close enough to get a good look at his face. To latch on to details like the too-blue shade of his eyes and the too-sharp canines in his smile, the silvery-white starburst of a scar across his stubbled chin.

“Christ you’re pretty,” you hear yourself say. This happens sometimes, your mouth just venturing off on its own to get you into trouble.

Kat groans overlap with the man’s chuckle. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” he purrs, propping the lit cigarette between his lips and sticking out a hand. His palm is broad and callused against your own as you properly introduce Kat and yourself.

“I’m Soap, this here’s Ghost,” he offers in turn, nodding towards his friend who steps forward, murmurs a quiet greeting. He’s enough in the light now to reveal dark eyes shadowed under a hood, skeleton gloves and a matching skull-print balaclava pushed up far enough to accommodate a lit cigarette.

“Fuck me, that’s cool as shit,” you grin goofily at him, immediately charmed by the weirdness of it all.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” the man says affably, his voice a rumble deep in his chest. He doesn’t smile but there’s a little twist of his mouth that could be amused, if you squint.

“Jesus Christ,” Kat’s eyes shut briefly in second-hand embarrassment. “She’s on a mission about compliments tonight. Noticing people,” she tells them with bemused emphasis as she clears off the chairs, kicks snow off the garbage can.

“I just think it’s important to be more open with our affection, even with strangers. Especially with strangers,” you argue, dropping into one of the seats.

You pull out the battered Altoids tin that holds your stash and a few pre-rolled joints.

“Will this bother you?” you ask the men, holding one up.

They shake their heads, amused.

“Good, because it’s my fucking bar,” Kat snorts, plucking it from your fingers and dropping into the chair next to you.

“What, you own this place?” you say, flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kat holds the joint in her mouth and cups a hand around her lighter flame, coaxing it to life despite the wind. She takes a deep drag, tilting her head up before releasing a thick cloud of smoke into the air.

It looks wicked cool right up until she folds in half, coughing desperately on the tail end of the exhale. You can’t fucking blame her; you’d bought it off your teenage neighbor, a science prodigy who claimed to have developed the perfect strain. Ivy League, he called it, since it had paid for his entire college fund.

Kat straightens up, red face feigning composure as she passes you the joint. “You never asked,” she finally says, voice a little strained.

And that was just…well, fair, actually.

“Huh,” you say brilliantly, struggling not to cough on your own exhale and bidding adieu to any dreams of looking cool in front of all the fucking fashion models around you. “You know, I did wonder when you’d get in trouble with your boss about the free drinks thing. And the drinking on the job thing. And the this on the job thing,” you say, frowning as you contemplate the joint.

You offer it up to the men and Soap takes it, your hands brushing long enough to send a little frisson through your blood.

“You’ve known each other long, then?” he asks, taking a puff. Turning a vibrant shade of red as he heroically—and futilely—tries to hold in a cough.

“Oh, we go way back,” you say very sincerely. “I helped her bury the body of her ex-husband years ago, a mafioso named Jimmy the Janitor because he cleaned up, if you know what I mean.”

“I met you two months ago. And I’m a lesbian,” Kat contradicts blandly.

“I didn’t know that, either!” you exclaim, smacking her in the shoulder. “What the fuck, dude, I would have started flirting with you ages ago.”

“You’re not my type,” she says devastating, and Ghost snorts when you mime a dagger to the heart. The joint glows red between his full lips, crossed with scars that shine silvery in the moonlight and trail up beyond his mask. Exhales in one long, smooth breath and looks suitably smug about it, the fucker.

“I do seem to remember you saying something earlier about me being ‘so hot I give you hives.’” Kat reminds you. “You telling me that wasn’t flirting?”

“Nah, that’s just being neighborly,” you beam at her.

“I shudder to think what your flirting does look like.”

“That’s the appropriate response, honestly.”

Ghost barks out a laugh and you shoot him a cheeky wink before turning back to Kat. “Alright then killer, gimmie the goods. What is your type?” you prod, hooking your ankle around her own. “Is it a black cat, golden retriever thing? I can bark, babe, just say the word.”

Soap damn near chokes on his drink but Kat only sighs, more fond than exasperated. She takes the joint and leans in, bringing your faces only a few inches apart. You watch, riveted, as she brings it to her cherry-red lips and inhales deeply. Holds your gaze and leans ever so slightly closer, the moment stretching into eternity as she releases a slow, deliberate cloud of smoke directly into your face. You bring a hand to your mouth, think you might actually be drooling.

“MILFs,” she answers finally, devastatingly. She tucks the joint between your fingers before patting your hand and heading back inside—as good as a kiss on the mouth from anyone else.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” Soap's voice is rough as the door closes behind her.

“You’re telling me, pal,” you sink comically in your chair. “I think she broke me.” You’d already been drunk off the night’s joy but now you feel lightheaded with desire, literally dizzy with it.

This is not an uncommon response to Kat, you suppose. Nor, you expect, to the pretty lads that remain.

You summon your forces and sit back upright, kicking over the newly empty chair in offering. Ghost takes it, the plastic frame creaking under his bulk while Soap drops down on the garbage pail, resting his elbows on jean-clad knees. You pass around the rest of the joint in companionable silence, and it’s just…nice, all of it. The cold at your back and the heat of the lamp on your face, the fading alcohol buzz replaced by the sweeter, steadier high of the weed, always better at gentling your nerves and clearing your head. The easy camaraderie of smokers cast out into the cold, the same thing in almost every city and country you’d ever seen. You smile, thinking back on all those shared lighters and bummed cigarettes over the years. All those ships passing in the night.

“Gettin’ us a refill,” Soap finally says, standing up and snagging Ghost’s empty glass, hooking their pinkies together briefly in the action. You note it and immediately drop the thought, scalded. Know you will literally, actually combust if let your brain run-rabbit imagining the two of them together. All that muscle, all that strength, curved around each other, curved around you…

“What’ll it be, bonnie?” Soap’s warm voice snaps you out of your reverie and you flush, sure from his smirk that he can read the direction of your thoughts. You were legendarily bad at poker—couldn’t keep a neutral expression if they paid you to.

“Dealer’s choice, please and thank you,” you grin at him despite your embarrassment—turning down a free drink was against your moral code.

He gives you that shark-like smile and Ghost tsks as he heads inside. “You’ll probably regret that, birdie. Johnny’s got atrocious taste.”

“Ah can fucking hear you, you Manc twat,” Soap calls from the door, a little extra Scottish in his snark. Ghost chuckles low, stretching his feet out into your space.

“It’s Manchester then, our kid?” you ask, kicking your foot playfully against his boot. Leaving it there when he lets you. “Whose your fighter then, Liam or Noel?”

He considers for a moment. “Liam. I like his spunk.”

“‘A man with a fork in a world of soup,’” you quote, nodding approvingly. “I get that.”

You toy with the Altoids tin, debate lighting up another one. Ghost fishes a pouch of rolling tobacco out of the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and holds it up questioningly.

“Clever boy,” you praise, and he leans forward to pass it to you, big hands dwarfing your own.

When he settles back in his chair, he tangles his feet with yours properly and you feel a little flutter low in your belly.

You prep the blunt in a practiced motion, balancing the tin on your knees as you sprinkle the peaty tobacco overtop the flower evenly. “I’ve always been more of a Blur than Oasis fella, myself,” you finally offer to distract from the weight of his gaze. “Damon Alburn, the man you are,” you murmur, putting a fervent hand to your heart.

“Oi, we talking about the Gorillaz then?” Soap calls out, juggling glasses as he kicks the door shut behind him, muffling the chatter from inside. “Fucking choon after choon, them,” he declares, dropping back onto the pail.

He passes Ghost a rocks glass filled with an inch of amber that matches his own, his eyes tracking where your tongue runs across the filter paper, wetting it. He trades you the finished smoke for a glass with something alarmingly orange in it, a pink plastic sword stuck with three cherries on top.

You sniff skeptically, all sweet and citrusy and strong. “This must be off-menu.”

“Dive bar innit, no menu to be off of,” Soap points out, and you smile at the familiar response.

You take a curious sip, looking up in surprise when you taste a bright splash of orange and vanilla across your tongue. “That’s fucking incredible,” you say, eyes wide. “What is it and why haven’t I been having it all night?”

Soap grins at you, looking suspiciously pleased with himself. “Had a feeling you were a lass that’d enjoy a slow, comfortable screw against the wall.”

Ghost groans, and you squint skeptically at Soap. “Who doesn’t, what’s that got to do with my drink?”

Soap laughs, delighted. “That’s the name of the drink, bonnie. A Slow Comfortable Screw Against The Wall,” he says with emphasis.

Ah. Well. That’s—oh, motherfucker. “Does Kat know that?” She’s probably laughing her ass off in there, the sadist.

“Oh, aye. She seemed amused. Though she made a fucking unnerving amount of eye contact while stabbing the wee cherries,” he says, eying the garnish. “Scariest fucking thing I’ve seen in a minute. Reminded me of a friend of ours, actually,” he says, giving Ghost a wry look as he takes a sip and sets the glass down.

He pulls out his own lighter to coax the blunt to life, a battered Bic with SOAP scrawled in thick, Sharpied letters. He lets out a pleased sigh as the opaque smoke curls through the cold air, then leans forward to rest his elbows back on his knees.

“Now, as for why you weren’t getting it slow, comfortable, or otherwise before now, I couldn’t say,” he tells you, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “But I think I speak for both of us when I say we’re more than happy to provide for the rest of the night. Isn’t that right L.T.?”

“Right enough there, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice is closer to a growl, setting off a delightful curl of heat in your belly.

You nibble on your straw and pretend their attention isn’t going straight to your head, twice as good as the drink or the drugs. “You know what they say about variety and spice of life. Might get bored with just a screw against the wall. Got any thoughts on horizontal surfaces?” you tease, enjoying the way Ghost smirks around the blunt.

But oh, is that a dimple you suddenly see carving out of one scarred cheek? Before you’re even conscious of it you’re leaning in for a closer look, balancing with one hand on his thigh. “I adore your dimple,” you tell him sincerely, undoing any hope you had of appearing cool and hard-to-get. “It is very cute.” You give him a businesslike pat on the knee and start to pull away, but he catches you gently before you get too far.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he purrs, petting over the soft skin of your wrist with an adoring thumb. “We’ll keep you entertained, don’t you worry. Bored is the last thing you’ll be, right Johnny?” Ghost say. He squeezes gently once before letting go, settling back with a satisfied smile. You try to play your delighted shiver off as one of chill, but you suspect your violent blush isn’t selling it.

“Oh, I fuckin’ swear to it, L.T.,” Soap answers, winking at Ghost before unfolding his big bulk from the garbage can. “We’ll give you what need, bonnie, promise. Starting with this.” Then his arm is around your waist and you’re in the fucking air and—

Oh, that’s not so bad, actually.

Soap sinks into the lawn chair and settles you across his lap, surrounding you with delicious warmth and a scent like whisky and salt air. Your brain goes a bit soft and cottony for a moment and you latch on to the gentle pressure of his arms. Manhandling has always been a shortcut to your most devastated self, the kind of stupid and sweet and sated that you’ve only found once or twice through chemistry or luck or sheer fucking determination, and it bodes very well for the night to come.

Besides, for all he wears only a bomber jacket, the Scotsman is radiating heat like a furnace and it’s the perfect sensory foil to the plummeting temperatures, a few clouds coming to fleck the sky.

“Saw you shiver. Couldn’t let our girl be cold now can I?” Soap says, chucking you under the chin like a kid. Should be stupid but you fucking like it, can’t help but smile up at him. Can’t remember the last time someone treated you so sweet, like you were something to protect. To indulge.

Ghost’s eyes are fond on the pair of you, reaching out to trap Soap’s feet the same way he had yours a few moments before. One of his hands reaches to splay possessively over your thigh, resting it there and turning your insides liquid.

There’s no reason it should be as easy as it is, getting all wrapped up in each other as the night stretches on and the clouds continue to gather, chatting quietly and smoking through the rest of the blunt and finishing your drinks just as the first fat, fluffy flakes of snow begin to fall.

You watch, delighted, as the storm kicks up in a sudden flurry; a magical, glimmering coat that turns the world into one whole thing. Untouched and perfect and silent except for the tides of your breath and the slight hum of the heat lamp, small sounds within a vast, quiet night.

You sigh in Soap’s arms, totally and unexpectedly content, luxuriating in the way your blood hums in anticipation of the night’s inevitable conclusion.

People asked if you got lonely, sometimes, traveling the way you did. Never staying anywhere for more than a few months, only occasionally breezing through past towns for a few loved-up reunions before the wind starts pressing at your back.

And though it’s true you’ve been seeking a place of your own, a place where you could belong, this, too, means something. To have these beautiful, fleeting moments of connection with once-strangers, to lose yourself completely in the headiness of such quick intimacies, no less passionate or kind or devastating for their brief duration. All those countless moments of connection—romantic, sexual, platonic—coalescing into a kind of soft sweetness to hold on to long after you’ve forgotten a name or had a face grow fuzzy with memory.

All of that sweetness is swirling inside you as you nudge Soap’s chin with your head, drawing his attention from where he’d been conversing softly with Ghost, one hand petting absently at your waist.

“Take me home?” you ask softly, and his eyes melt at the question, his hand coming up to thumb a little desperately at your mouth.

“Oh, the Cap’n would love that,” Ghost drawls. “Fall arse-over-tits over a sweet thing like you walking through the door.”

“My home,” you clarify, though you’re not opposed—especially if their friend (captain?) is anything like them. “I live like four blocks that way,” you chuck a thumb vaguely over your shoulder.

“Well why didn’t you say so, bonnie’,” Soap says, standing up and dumping you on your feet. Before you can be too offended, he grabs your chin and presses his mouth against yours, searing hot and leaving you breathless when he pulls away too soon. You look up at him a little dazed and he pets his thumb across your chin, grinning. “Ghost is right. Too sweet for your own good, darlin’. T’wouldn’t be right for us to let you walk home alone, sweet thing like you. Not in a neighborhood like this.”

“Au contraire mon frère, I’m fast as shit,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes. This occasionally happened when you got crossfaded in particularly the right way, became possessed with the urge to tear off down a darkened street; drunk on the feeling of wind against your face and your heart hammering in your chest. Feeling like you could fucking fly. “No bad guy’s gonna catch me, no way.”

“That right, little rabbit?” Ghost moves as silent as his name, a sudden warmth at your back without you even noticing he’d left his chair. He curves that big body around you, nipping at the soft skin at your neck and caging you in against the firmness of Soap’s chest. “Gonna let us chase you?” he near growls.

The thought sends goosebumps rising along your arms. To be wanted, to be chased. To be caught.

Ghost groans when you lean back against him, tipping your head back to nip at his jaw in return. “Home. Now,” he commands lowly, pulling down his mask.

You can’t help your shit-eating grin as you tug them through the door and the thinning crowd to collect your long-abandoned things from the bar.

Kat eyes the three of you suspiciously. “If I find cum anywhere on that fucking patio I will have your balls in a bear trap,” she threatens.

“No promises,” you wink at her, laughing when she flips you the bird. You shrug on your coat and pick up your bag, which Ghost immediately appropriates, slinging it over one shoulder. He ignores your amused tug on the strap, looking over your head to plot the swiftest exit.

“Don’t wait up, babe!” you say, blowing a kiss to Kat as Ghost tows you and Soap toward the door.

“Call me if you need help burying the bodies,” Kat offers in response, and you cackle at the uncertain looks the late-night crowd shoots you both.

And then it’s just the three of you and the cold and the night, pressed together like you’re one body in the snow-crowned streets.

Read part two

#ghost x soap x reader #ghoap x reader #ghost x reader #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty fanfic #cod mwii #cod fanfic #emma writes

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mj0702 · 1 year ago

Text

The other Bronze – Pt. 3

For all the patient waiting people (like @valewosomtb) and my Bubs (I'm proud of you and always will be ❤️)

And please remember - this is pure fiction... so it doesn't need to make sense 🤣

You wandered the streets of Barcelona gotten lost a long time ago but not caring to open google maps.

“Seriously Luce.... kicking me out so you can... probably get some” you mumble to yourself rounding the next corner.

The next thing you knew was that you were sitting on your Ass with a beautiful girl across from you, looking just as baffled before starting to talk to you in spanish. You made the international known sign for “I don't understand” by shrugging your shoulders as you try to push yourself up again.

“Ehrm... damn... what was the spanish Word for English...” you mumbled to yourself before looking at the woman “Inglés?” you ask embarrassed

“Of course” the woman said laughing as she stood up herself offering you a hand “I said I'm so sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going”

“Oh god no, I wasn't looking... I... kinda got lost and am too lazy to open maps” you say before you wince as you push yourself up from the pavement

“Are you okay? You look like you hurt something” the woman asked concerned

“Yeah I'm good” you wave off, knowing fully well you weren't good. You definitely sprained your wrist – if not worse. Ugh – your sister will kill you. Such an inconvenience.

“Are you sure?” the woman asked you again this time with a little insistence

“Yeah, I'm sure – you speak very clear english for a spanish person” you said and tried to change the topic

“Oh I'm not Spanish – I'm in fact German... we learn english in school” she winked

“Oh German... now that's interesting” you muse, a smile tugging on your lips

“And why's that?” the woman asked

“I... don't know... I thought it would be nice to say that” you rubbed the back of your neck smiling embarrassed.

The woman laughed loudly “At least you didn't make any bad jokes about us not being funny... that's a plus” she winked before looking at you “Where are you from?”

“Born in Aberdeen, raised in Berwick-upon-Tweed... generally speaking – I'm from England” you grin

“What brought you to the most beautiful city in Europe then?” the Woman asked smiling softly

“Visiting family... Y/N by the way... I thought I should introduce myself before you declare me as unpolite” you continue to grin as you offer your left hand for her to shake

“Left Hand? You english People really are something else” she smiled before taking you're offered Hand “Caroline... friends call me Caro”

“I may or may not have sprained my wrist – that's the reason for the left hand... but yes, we're also something else... so tell me... Caro... what brought you to Barcelona” you tested the waters by using the Womans short name

She smiled “Feeling bold, are you? Assuming we're friends and using my Nickname without even asking”

Again you were thrown off guard by her forwardness “Ehrm... I thought if you tell me something like this, I... could just... you know – use the information”

This time the Blonde laughed freely “Don't sweat it... it's okay... Can I... maybe interest you in drinking a coffee with me?”

“Like a date?” you said confused

“More like a “I'm sorry I ran into you and put you on your ass” coffee” the blonde smirked

“In that case... I'll pay for yours, you pay for mine... I also put you on your ass” this time you smirked

“Deal” the blue eyed girl said smiling “I know a small coffee place not far from here if you're interested”

“Sure... lead the way” you said, your sprained wrist momentarily forgotten. That's until you wanted to put your hand into your pocket. Suddenly you got painfully reminded of your small incidence as you winced for a second.

“You are very gullible, you know... I could be a serial killer” the blonde said smirking

“It's statistically highly unlikely that two serial killer run into each other and then go out for a coffee” you shrug nonchalantly while the blonde laughed out loudly.

You arrived at the small coffee shop, which was a cute one. A little hidden away from the bigger streets, it immediately got calmer and quieter – for the first time since you touched spanish ground, you allowed yourself to breath. Caro took you through an Archway into a beautiful courtyard where she pointed to a little – tiny even – shop with three or four tables. You stopped in the middle of the courtyard and slowly spun around taking in the beauty of this place. The sandstone Walls looked like they could tell endless stories about colourful festive evenings, calm mornings and lovers.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” the blonde German asked quietly

“I couldn't find the right words to describe this beauty even if I tried” you whispered back still looking around in awe.

“Let's get this coffee and you can stare some more” Caro teased but her voice still soft before she walked towards the little shop, greeting the Owners like they were family.

You sat down at one of the tables while still staring around, waiting for your new found friend to return. There was wild Ivy growing up the walls at some places making it even more mysterious and beautiful. Your companion joined you at your table smiling brightly.

“I gather you're a regular?” you grinned at her nodding towards the Shop

“What gave it away?” Caro laughed “The greeting or that I know there's a Coffee Shop so well hidden that not even many Barcaloneans know of its existences?”

“The Greeting and the fact that I didn't order anything...” you mused smiling “... and yet there are two cups of coffee being prepared”

“Good observation skills, I'm impressed” the German smiled “The owners are former Neighbours of mine... they helped me a great deal when I first came to Barca a few years ago and I still come around every time I'm in the area to say hi”

“That's nice... that you still come here to say hi” you say softly “... friendships like this are important... now... what am I getting?”

“I assumed you're a “Cortado” girl...” the blonde winked

“Huh... come again?” you asked confused

“Cortado... the best you could compare it to is a Latte Macchiato... It's an Espresso with milk... “ the German explained “Just... never call it Latte Macchiato... it's a Cortado”

“Got it... Cortado” you say serious, trying to pronunciation right as you repeat the spanish word

“Sounds good” Caro grinned as your coffee gets served by an elderly Woman “Gracias Nana” the blonde grinned graciously

The two of you drank your coffee in silence before starting to talk about nothing and everything at the same time. You really enjoyed the time with the blonde, who was very easy to get along with. She was funny, witty and light-hearted. You shared a few good laughs while she also taught you some real spanish (unlike Mapí did) so you would at least be able to order your coffee the next time on your own. In her company you absolutely forgot the time – which resulted in also forgetting your “engagement” with Keira.. and Alexia... and Lucy... and Mapí. As the sun started to set you realised that you might talked longer with the German as you planned – and that your Phone was dead.

“”Ehrm... I really have a good time... I REALLY do... but... what time is it?” you asked embarrassed after you checked your – very VERY – dead phone.

“Just before 6pm” your new friend answered with a glance at her watch

“Uh oh” was the only thought on your mind which also made it out of you verbally “How far is that football place from here?”

“Camp Nou? About 30 Minutes, why?” Caro looked at you confused as you try frantically to restart your Phone.

“I'm dead... I'm so SO dead.. my Sister is going to kill me” you said panicking “I was meant to meet her at Camp... Nope at 3”

“Yeah.. you might be a little late for that” the blonde said awkward “Come on... I can either get you an Uber or I deliver you – and take the blame... or should you rather go home?”

“Ehrm... I don't really remember where “home” is” you confessed embarrassed, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Camp Nuo it is then... come on” your new found friend said smiling already standing up.

You follow suite standing up rummaging in your pocket pulling out the 20 Euros that Lucy gave you putting it down on the table

“Leave it... it's covered already” Caro said grinning pushing the 20 back into your hands.

“But..” you said dumbfolded looking at the bill in your hand

“Mauro and Valeria are family... it's on the house” the blonde winked and started to walking away after yelling a goodbye towards the elderly couple.

You stumbled after her trying to keep up “But we had a deal”

“Next time” the german waved off already a few steps in front of you her mobile in her hand ordering an Uber.

You just needed to wait around five minutes for a car to pull up and Caro opened the back door

“Your chariot awaits, my lady” the german grinned waiting for you to climb into the backseat

She gave the driver the destination and you were on the way towards Camp Nuo. As the Uber pulled up you immediately spotted a small group of people.

“I'm so dead” you mumbled as you saw one of them roaming in front of the group a mobile phone in her hand before it makes the way to her ear to just be brought back down seconds later

“Let me guess.. the one trying to call you is your sister?” the blonde german smirked at your frozen like state pushing you out off the car following closely behind

“Can we just drive off a...” you started but got interrupted by loud angry yelling

“Y/N BRONZE!!!! ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS???!!!”

“Bronze??” Caro asked confused “As in Lucy Bronze?”

“My sister” you mumbled quietly as you took cover behind the blonde

“Oh my god” the blonde whispered shocked

“Is she coming over??” you asked from behind her not daring to look

“She tries... other people holding her back... is that Alexia Putellas?” your new friend mumbles back standing frozen in place

“Probably” you whispered “You seem to know players... is Keira Walsh in that huddle somewhere?”

“I think so... I mean I'm not sure” the german answered lowly

“I call out for her and you have to tell me if someone reacts, okay?? KEIRA????” you yelled from behind Caro hoping that Keira was still around

“Yep... someone just looked over” your german friend said as Keira looked over

“Good.... can you bring me over to her without Lucy noticing?” you questioned

“Ehrm... this is Lucy Bronze we're talking about.... I don't think there's anything that goes unnoticed by her” Caro mumbled back

“You give her too much credit” you rolled your eyes behind the taller woman “Okay... maybe you could distract her and I run over to saftey – namely Keira”

“How should I distract a world class defender? Have you seen the stuff she pulled off at the Worldcup??”

“Ask her for a Autograph or something... go fangirling” you said pushing your friend forward.

“Absolutely not” Caro said shaking her head “Ooooooh... they're coming over”

“Okay...” you said panicking “You go left, I go right”

“You do realize that they have zero intrest in me, right?” she asked you raising an eyebrow

“Damnit” you swore quietly

“Cariño” you suddenly hear behind your human shield “would you mind stepping around this nice woman”

“No” you mumbled now grabbing Caros shirt

“Cariño” Alexia said but you heard her warning tone “I promise Lucia won't hurt you”

You peeked around your human shield to see Lucy a few feet away flanked by Ingrid and Ona and her face showed pure fury. Alexia stood right in front of Caro and you acting like a mediator.

“It wasn't my fault, I swear” you rushed out but stayed behind the german

“I didn't say it was but we were very worried” the spaniard said calm “now please step around that poor woman who you roped into this”

“Her name is Caro and she's german” you said still not moving from behind her

“Hola” Alexia said to your friend not sparing her a second glance “Do not make me get you out from behind her”

You reluctantly step around Caro standing now next to her your head hung low

“Thank you” the blonde spaniard said before she grabbed your wrist pulling you away a bit

“Alexia please” you digged your feet into the ground trying to stop the unievitable “She'll kill me and it was really an accident”

“She won't kill you stop being so.. dramático” Alexia said calmly as she pulled you over to where the others were standing.

You looked back over your shoulder towards your new friend who had a sorrowful look on her face waving slightly before turning around ready to leave

“Wait” you called out to her “I still owe you this coffee... Alexia please... One minute, okay”

Alexia stopped and let go of your wrist turning around to you

“You can't out run me... even if you try...” she warned you

“I just want to make sure there's a chance I can pay back my depth” you rolled your eyes

You quickly walked back to the german pulling out that 20 Euro bill scribbling your number down pushing it into Caros hand

“Call me... when I charged my phone again” you smiled then turning around walking back to the waiting Barcelona captain

“Wise choice not trying to run” Alexia said smiling slightly

“It's not like I would come very far” you shrugged nodding towards the bunch of football players standing a few feet behind Alexia

“True... now come one – you have to explain quite a bit” the blonde smiled encouraging at you pulling you along towards the small crowd

“Do you actually know what I just went through???” Lucy yelled the second you were close enough “I thought you.... I don't know... got killed or laying dead in a ditch or something!!”

You stepped behind Alexia hiding behind her. You knew your sister loved you to death so her yelling at you was bad

“Lucia” Alexia warned noticing how it effected you “We said no yelling... explain what happened Cariño”

You shook your head taking a step back just to feel someone cutting off your escape route. When you looked around it was Keira who had a blank look on her face

“It was really an accident Kei... I swear... Lucy gave me money and said I should go to the next Starbucks... I didn't want google the route, so I got lost and just wandered around... I met Caro because I ran into her and put her to her ass so I wanted to apologise by buying her a coffee and she said she knew a nice place and so I went with her... it was a really cute place and I forgot about time and when the sun set I checked my phone to see it died” you said talking one mile an hour trying to convince her that you didn't want to cause trouble on purpose.

Keira took a deep breath listening closely to your rant before holding up a hand

“Bitsy do you realize how much you had us worried... I mean I'm used to you wandering off but you don't know this city – as beautiful as Barcelona is, it can be dangerous... you don't know where to go and where to stay away from... hell Bitsy you don't even speak the language” she said and you saw that Keira held herself back

“I really didn't mean too” you answered sadly looking down

“I know... but that doesn't make it any less scary for us” the englishwoman said quietly before engulfing you in a bear hug.

“Will she kill me?” you mumbled into Keiras shoulder as you hugged her back

“No” the englishwoman chuckled “she probably handcuff you to herself... or bring back the dino-harness”

“Ugh... please don't let her” you groaned being remembered of one of the most embarrassing things Lucy ever done to you

You were about 10 when Keira took you to Lucy who was playing in Lyon at the time. They decided it would be a good idea to go with you to the park so you can power yourself out. Needless to say that you indeed used the whole park – much to the dismay of Lucy who had her first ever panic attack because she lost you. After that incident she immediately bought one of these kiddi-leashes to keep you in check. And not only did she make you wear it when you three were out in privat – oh no... she'd made you wear it when she went to training. So the first time you met worldclass players like Wendie Renard, Amandine Henry or Dzsenifer Marozsán you were strapped in a kids harness which had a dinosaur design – to be exact a dino whose biting his own tail - with a leash attached to its back. Looking back now it was probably the saftest – but also the most embarressing - option for you since you would have definitely wandered off exploring Stade Gérard Houllier and probably have gotten into trouble somehow. So you spent a whole training being tied to post next to the pitch solmley to the fact that Keira had something else to do and couldn't take you with her.

Now as Keira hugged you tightly and brought back those memories which resulted in you pressing your face into her shoulder. Just as you got comfortable against Keira you got ripped away from her embrance and found yourself at the receiving end of another tight hug.

“Never EVER do that again, Bubs” your sister mumbled into your hair “You can't just disappear like that... I was so SO scared”

“I'm sorry, Luce” you mumbled back thankful that she got over her initial angryness

“Are you okay? Nobody hurt you, right? Who was that woman?” Lucy fired question after question as she pushed you backwards to take a look at you

“I'm good Luce... really” you said hiding your slightly swollen wrist “That woman was Caro... I ran into her and she helped me getting here”

“You can't just go with strangers, Bubs... I thought I drilled that into your head back in Lyon” your sister said and looked at you somehow helplessly

“It wasn't like I knew where I was or something” you rolled your eyes “She seemed nice and she really helped me”

“Cariño” you suddenly heared behind you again and it made you jump a little

“Hm?” you hummed carefully turning around facing Alexia

“Are you really okay?” she stared down at you and you knew that she knew.

“Yes... yes I am” you tried to sound convincing but your voice betrayed you at the end

“Oh my god, you aren't” your sister exclaimed “Tell me.. you did get hurt, didn't you?! Is it bad? Do you need an ambulance? No wait... I drive you... Ona... get the car – we need to go to the hospital and you need to translate”

“Lucy!” you yelled “I'm fine... no ambulance, no hospital... calm your tits”

“You know you were never good at lying, Bitsy” Keira grinned “And if even Lucy picks up on it, then it's a really bad attempt”

“I'm not lying” you pressed still hiding your injured wrist

“Are we stretching the truth again then?” Keira asked knowingly

“Maybe” you said, looking down starting to kick the pavement embarrassed

“Show me immediately” Lucy demanded and already started to inspect your face moving her hands down to check your shoulders

“Keira” you whined trying to get away from your sisters prying hands

“Lucy stop it... it's her left wrist” the englishwoman rolled her eyes

“How did you... outch Luce” you started as your sister grabbed your wrist making you hiss out in pain

“You're not as sneaky as you think Bitsy” Keira grinned

“But I... Ow Lucy... that hurts man” you said bewildered before your sister put a little pressure on your wrist which hurts a LOT

“You tried to hide it very well – yes you did” Keira chooed and pinched your cheek “But not well enough for me or Alexia”

“Why would you hide something like this, Cariño?” the barca captain wanted to know

“You saw how she reacted and she didn't even know I was injured... OW!” you said nodding towards your sister while Lucy was prodding your wrist

Alexia delicatly took your hand out of Lucys hands and inspected it closely turned and stretched it carefully. You hissed at some of the movements even trying to pull away at one turn but one stern look from the blonde spainard made clear that you wouldn't get away

“It hurts” you mumbled as you tried to pull away again

“I bet” Alexia said quietly still inspecting your wrist “Looks like a sprain but to be sure you need some... radiografía”

“I need WHAT?” you squeaked shocked and scared at the same time

“Ona... what is radiografá” the spainard asked her teammate

“X-Ray.. you need some x-rays” the young catalonian said

“HA” Lucy exclaimed in a “I told you so”-tone

“Nooooo” you whined and JUST stopped yourself from stomping your foot

“Come on Bubs...” your sister said lovingly as she laid her arm around your shoulder and pulled you towards her Cupra “... I heard the spanish hospitals are quite an experience”

“Keira” you whined begging looking at her with big puppy eyes

“I'll meet you there okay?” the englishwoman said reassuring

“Excuse me... I'm there with you, you don't need to whine for Kei” Lucy said accusing

“But Keira knows everything about me... you're like a piece of swiss cheese sometimes” you said embarrassed

“I know EVERYTHING about you” your sister exclaimed outraged

“What's my blood type?” you raised an eyebrow

“Red” your sister shrugged as she opened the back door of her car for you

“Nope... uh-hu... I won't let you take any responsebility or make any medical decision when your answer is “Red” as a blood type” you shook your head fast

“Bet Keira doesn't know either” Lucy rolled her eyes looking over towards her fellow england teammate

“AB positive” the blonde said before entering her own car

“Seriously??” Lucy exclaimed throwing her arms up in annoyance

“I'm driving with Keira” you said quickly trying to get into her car

“You're not” your sister grabbed your shirt pulling you back “Stop being a child and get in the car”

“Then I want to ride shotgun” you said stubborn

“Ona is riding shotgun” Lucy said calm

“Ona is what?” the short woman asked confused pointing at herself

“You front” Lucy pointed at her girlfriend “You back” she pointed at you

“Why?” you whined again

“My Cupra has a lot of buttons – you will push all of them and probably break it” your sister explained

You huffed offended but climbed into the back of the sleek black car.

“Fucking finally” Lucy sighed and rolled her eyes after she closed the car door

“Be nice... she's upset” Ona said over the roof opening the passenger side door climbing in

“I'm upset too” your sister mumbled getting into the driver seat and started the car to drive you to the hospital.

The drive only took 15 minutes but for you it became nearly unbearable. You hated hospitals – with a passion. You had to spend some time in hospital when you were about six years old due to a burst appendix and since that time it was a mission to get you to put a foot in said buildings. It took Keira a lot of bribing to get you to visit Lucy when she had her knee surgery. That's how bad it was – you wouldn't even enter a hospital for visiting others.

“Come on, Bubs... let's get this wrist checked out” Lucy said softly as she leaned in the open car door. You didn't even noticed the car came to a halt before being deep in thoughts what could go wrong with a simple check-up. They could discover something worse and will keep you in there and probably maybe surgery and something goes wrong and you're going to die on that table. You decided right there and then you won't enter the hospital – there was a high risk of dying and your life just begun.

“Bubs?” your sister tried again seeing you spiraling, your forehead showing wrinkles you keep biting your lip your eyes staring into nothing

“Let me... you know how she gets about hospitals” Keira said softly arriving just in time to see you in distress “Get her checked in, I'll get her in there okay?”

“Kay... thanks Kei...” Lucy sighed then looking at Ona sheepishly “you need to help me... these forms are probably in spanish”

The short catalonian grinned “Aren't you around long enough to know basic spanish by now?”

“Speaking it... not reading it” Lucy mocked her girlfriend

As the two Barca players entered the hospital to get you checked in for your wrist Keira slipped into the backseat of Lucys car right next to you.

“Hey Bitsy” she said quietly trying to get your attention laying her hand carefully on your knee

“I don't want to go in there, Kei... I'm going to die” you said in a monotone but slightly panicked voice

“You're not going to die” the blonde chuckled “They'll do the same as Alexia did, test your ability to move in different directions then decide to take some.... how did you always refer to x-rays when you were younger?”

“Bone pictures” you mumbled

“They will take some bone pictures see that nothing is broken, then either put a simple bandage or a splint on it and we're out again – if you're good, I tell Ona to tell them to give you the good painkillers” Keira tried to walk you through whats most likely to happen.

“But if they discover something wrong with my wrist and they want to do surgery and something goes horribly wrong and I die on the table?” you looked at your comfort person horrified

“Not going to happen, Bitsy... It's just a simple check... and you have too much movability for it to be broken... it's just a sprain, okay?” the blonde englishwoman smiled reassuring

“You promise?” you mumble leaning into Keira

“I promise... now come on... your sister already came out the entrance looking for us three times now” Keira smiled at you

“She should calm her tits...” you rolled your eyes annoyed

“She was so worried, Bitsy... her session today was shit because she felt one guilty for kicking you out and two she was scared that something happened to you... I know you're a big girl now and you definitely can look after yourself but this is still a unknown city to you and honestly Bitsy – if you take a wrong turn you could end up in a very bad area and get killed”

“I really didn't mean to worry you...” you mumbled ashamed

“I know... but cut her some slack... she loves you to bits... she would do everything for you – always have and always will do” the englishwoman smiled while opening her side of the car taking your right hand into hers pulling slightly for you to follow her

“Took you long enough” Lucy whispered so only Keira could hear her

“We're here, aren't we?” the fellow english fired back a little annoyed

“Ona is talking to the nurses if there's anything they could do to get us through faster... I know every minute spend in here she's more likely to bolt” Lucy talked quietly always having an eye on you as you clutched Keiras hand hard.

“She's scared... she's convinced they'll take her in for surgery and she's going to die” the blonde explained as she let you squeeze her hand to the point where it became numb.

“Is there anything I can do?” your sister asks her ex-girlfriend getting a little concerned herself

“Hold her? Tell her you won't leave” Keira said simply and the second she finished Lucy was out of her seat, crouching in front of you

“Come here Bubs... just like old times” she smiled at you before prying your hand off Keiras and pulled you forward so you had to stand up. She then sat down in your place and now pulled you down into her lap holding you tightly

“I've got you Bubs... you know I won't leave and everything will be over quickly” your sister mumbled into your hairline as you laid your head on her shoulder getting tired after your long, eventful day. You were just about to close your eye for a long needed nap as a nice looking young woman with light blue scrubs and a white lab coat called out your name

“y/n?” the doctor called out and Lucy nudged you slightly as Ona made the doctor aware that you were infact there

You slipped of Lucys lap but didn't move until your sister pushed you forward always having her hand on your back.

“I think Ona should come too... I don't speak spanish and yours is probably shit...” you mumble tiredly

“I'll let you know that I speak excellent spanish, devils spawn” your sister growled back but you heared that it held no bite

“You're probably not even able to order a coffee” you spoke quietly as you followed the doctor

“I can even order an apple pie on the side” Lucy smirked at you – knowing it would ease your nerves a bit since this is the only thing you always find the most important to learn first.. how to order food - as she pushed you through the door of the trauma room closing the door behind you so your exit was blocked and you couldn't run off.

It went just as Keira promised you and nothing bad happened. The woman palpated your wrist in several different places moved it around a bit and decided to take some x-rays to be sure. After three failed attempts to take some pictures of your wrist without Lucy in the room the nurses begrudgingly allowed your sister back in the room. The moment Lucy stepped in your line of sight you relaxed and held still for the few minutes it took the nurses to take the x-rays. It wasn't really your fault that you panicked when they told you – in spanish of course – what they wanted you to do and you got “slightly” irretated when they just grabbed your arm. At least you didn't bite anyone this time. Now you were seated in the trauma room again waiting for the doctor to come back to review your pictures and tell Lucy what her treatment plan was who then would tell you. The woman looked at the pictures closely before speaking to your sister.

“You have a really bad strain.. nothing broken, just really really badly sprained wrist... you'll get a splint for now and as soon as we're home we'll ice it” your sister told you softly holding your good hand.

“Okay” you said carefully not trusting the process

“You're going to be okay Bubs” Lucy soothed you “just a splint and we're on our way home, okay”

“Do they have cool colors?” you asked quietly

Lucy turned towards the doctor repeating in spanish what you just asked

“Which color do you want?” your sister asked you

“What are the colors of Real Madrid? White and Gold if I'm right, right?” you grinned wide at Lucy who looked betrayed

“Hell to the no” Lucy exclaimed outraged “In no way you enter my home in these colors... what a disgrace”

“White and gold?” you asked the doctor directly but she just looked at you bluntly so you decided to take a different approach

You stood up – slowly so your sister wouldn't think you're trying to bolt – going to the door, opening it and yell from the top of the lungs for Ona. The small Player came sprinting down the hallway coming to a skittering halt in front of you

“Yes?” she said a little panicked

“What's white in spanish?”

“Blanco, why?” the blonde spainard looked at you confused

“And gold?” you smiled at her

“Oro” she looked even more confused than before and it didn't help that Lucy groaned behind you

“Blanco and Oro, sí?” you turned around looking at the doctor grinning from ear to ear

“Sí” the doctor grinned leaving the room

“I can't believe you” Lucy exclaimed throwing her arms up in defeat “using my girlfriend for your pettiness”

“What just happened?” Ona asked getting more confused by the second

“She wants a splint in the colors white and gold...” Lucy groaned

“That are Reals colors” Ona exclaimed shocked

You just sat on the bed grinning widely as the two women in front of you started a discussion in spanish. Soon the doctor came back with a white splint with gold around the edges showing it to you

“Tanto?” she looked at you

“Ehrm... sí?” you answered unsure looking at Ona for help

“Sí muchas gracias” the spainard smiled politely

You got your split fitted to your wrist and with a description for some – apparently very good pain meds courtesy of Ona – you leave the hospital with your entourage of three world class football players.

“See Bitsy... nothing bad happened... I’m proud of you for not bolting” Keira smiled warmly as you crossed the car park.

“Yeah Bubs... I’m actually REALLY proud of you... I know it’s somehow a big deal for you but you took it like a champ” Lucy also smiled widely as she kept her arms around your shoulders keeping you close to her side

“Real colors, I can’t believe it” Ona mumbled next to Lucy “and I helped... what’s next? Sitting in the Real section at the El classíco?”

You laughed at Onas antics “Get used to it, Batlle... you’ll get used and abused from me until there’s nothing left to squeeze out of you” you laugh

“Welcome to the Family”

Now it was Lucy who burst out laughing with Keira following suite also laughing heartwarming. Onas face showed pure horror as you four reached the cars.

#lucy bronze x reader #keira walsh x reader #ona batlle x reader #mapi leon x reader #ingrid engen x reader #alexia putellas x reader #woso image #barca femeni

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undiagnosedcruelty · 2 months ago

Text

A Week of Psychological Warfare and Pranks

Pairing: Jeongin x GenderNeutral!reader x skz Genre: Crackfic

Summary: What starts as harmless poke towards Jeongin spirals into a week-long prank war.

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Content Warnings: mild language, pranks, mischief , jump Scares, fake spiders, psychological warfare, jeongin and reader being menaces Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: I had too much fun writing this.

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EVERYTHING WRITTEN IS PURELY FICTION──NOTHING IS DIRECTLY RELATED TO ANY REAL LIFE EVENTS.

Day One: The Declaration of War

The prank war doesn’t start with some grand plan or premeditated scheme. No, it begins with something far simpler.

It starts because you were bored.

And when you’re bored, you do stupid things.

Jeongin is your chosen victim simply because he’s there—because he’s unsuspecting, and because, in your experience, annoying him is one of life’s greatest joys. He’s curled up in his bed, his soft breathing steady, his face peaceful in sleep. It’s almost a shame to disrupt such tranquility. Almost.

You move with the stealth of a seasoned prankster, carefully pulling open his dresser drawer. A neat row of socks stares back at you, all in their usual, boring shades of black, gray, and white.

That won’t do. Silently, you extract them, stuffing them under your arm before replacing them with the true stars of the show—the vibrant, horrific rainbow-colored toe socks Felix bought as a joke. They sit there in the drawer like a crime scene, each bright stripe practically screaming chaos.

You stifle a grin and close the drawer. Now, you wait.

Morning comes. You’re already awake, lounging on the couch, one knee tucked under you, scrolling idly through your phone. The dorm is quiet except for the distant hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the building settling. Then, from the bedroom—

The rustling of blankets. The shuffle of feet against the floor. A quiet yawn, followed by—

Silence.

Your ears perk up. You glance up from your phone just in time to see Jeongin standing in the doorway, frozen mid-step. His gaze is locked onto his own feet, his expression unreadable. One socked foot is slightly raised, toes flexing experimentally against the soft fabric.

Then, slowly, he wiggles his toes.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. His fingers tighten at his sides. He doesn’t look up.

“…What,” he says at last, voice disturbingly calm, “is on my feet?”

The corners of your lips curl up as you lean back against the couch, tapping your fingers against your knee in mock thoughtfulness. “Oh, what’s wrong?” you drawl. “You don’t like them?”

Jeongin finally lifts his head, and the sheer betrayal in his eyes is exquisite. Gone is the sleepy maknae, all soft edges and quiet innocence. What stands before you now is something far more menacing.

“You did this,” he states, voice flat, devoid of any real emotion.

“Obviously.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, his expression shifts, sharpening into something cold and calculating. His shoulders square. His posture straightens. His eyes, still half-lidded with lingering drowsiness, narrow slightly. It’s subtle, but it’s enough.

A chill runs down your spine.

“I see,” he murmurs, flexing his foot again, as if testing the abomination currently enveloping it. “So that’s how it is.”

Your grin falters—just for a second, but it’s enough for him to notice.

Jeongin hums, expression eerily neutral, and takes a step back into the room. “Alright,” he says smoothly, too composed, too calm. “If it’s war you want…”

He turns on his heel, walking away without another word.

A feeling of unease settles in your gut.

That should’ve been your first warning.

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Day Two: The Escalation

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Jeongin, it’s that he does not take things lightly.

He doesn’t prank you back immediately, and you should’ve been suspicious of that, too.

But no. You just laugh it off, thinking he’s already lost, that he doesn’t have it in him to keep up.

You’re wrong.

The next morning, you go to grab one of your hoodies, still groggy from sleep, expecting the familiar weight of soft fabric between your fingers. But as your hand meets empty air, your brain stutters.

You blink.

Your closet is empty.

The hanger creaks slightly as it swings in the open space, mocking you.

Confused, you check your chair, where you always toss your favorite hoodie. Then the laundry basket. Then the couch. Nothing. Your hoodies are gone. Every single one.

Slowly, dread creeps in, cold and certain.

And then you see him.

Jeongin is standing in the living room, leaning casually against the counter, a mug of tea cradled in one hand. His posture is relaxed, like he has all the time in the world. Like he hasn’t just committed a heinous crime.

But it’s not his stance that makes your stomach drop. It’s what he’s wearing.

Your hoodie. Your favorite hoodie.

The one that’s just oversized enough to be comfortable but not too baggy, the one that smells faintly of your detergent, the one that’s been worn so many times it’s softened into perfection. And now it’s draped over his shoulders, the sleeves slightly too long on him, the hem just brushing his hips.

He meets your gaze, his lips curving into a slow, smug smile.

“Oh,” he says, voice smooth, innocent, infuriating. “Were you looking for something?”

You inhale sharply, eyes narrowing. “You little gremlin—”

Jeongin takes a leisurely sip of his tea, tilting his head. “You started this,” he reminds you, utterly unbothered, utterly pleased with himself.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Fine. Fine. If this is how he wants to play it, then so be it.

You replace his toothpaste with mayonnaise.

The anticipation is almost unbearable. You wait, lingering just outside the bathroom, ears straining for the inevitable moment of horror.

It comes swiftly.

Jeongin lifts the toothbrush to his mouth, and the second the bristles touch his tongue, he freezes. His entire body goes still, muscles locking up like he’s just short-circuited.

Slowly, like a machine rebooting, he lowers the toothbrush, eyes narrowing. He sniffs once. Then again. His gaze flickers to the mirror, and for a moment, he just stares—at himself, at the toothbrush, at the cruel, cruel world.

A deep breath.

A long pause.

Then, very quietly, voice filled with quiet devastation:

“You monster.”

────────────────────────────────────────

Day Three: War.

What follows can only be described as a psychological battlefield.

It starts small. Subtle. A quiet but devastating act of war.

One night, you go to charge your phone, yawning as you grab the cable. You don’t even think twice—just plug it in, expecting the familiar vibration, the screen lighting up.

Nothing.

You frown, unplugging and flipping the cable around like that’ll magically fix it. Still nothing.

Maybe the outlet? You shuffle to another one, trying again. And again. And again.

Still. Nothing.

A prickling sensation creeps up your spine. Your grogginess fades, replaced by the sharp clarity of suspicion.

Your mind starts racing. The charger? No, I used it earlier. The port? Maybe—

And then you see it.

A tiny piece of clear tape covering the inside of the charging port. Practically invisible. The perfect crime.

Your blood boils. Heat rushes to your face as you stare at the offending piece of sabotage, your grip tightening around your phone like it personally betrayed you.

Your nostrils flare. Your pulse thrums. Your eye twitches.

You whip around, fury burning hot in your chest. “JEONGIN.”

Somewhere in the dorm, a cackle erupts—loud, victorious, merciless.

Your fingers curl into fists. Your vision tinges red.

Oh, he wants war?

Fine. War it is.

Your revenge is swift and merciless.

That night, when Jeongin is deep in sleep, mouth slightly parted, completely vulnerable, you make your move. Silent as a shadow, you creep into his room, barely breathing as you reach for his phone.

With expert precision, you unlock it, go straight to his photos, and select the picture—an image so undignified, so horrendous, it should have never seen the light of day.

Mouth half-open. Mid-blink. Caught in the weird in-between moment where he looks like he’s about to sneeze but forgot how.

You set it as his wallpaper. Both the lock screen and home screen.

Then, you slink back to your room and wait.

Morning comes. You sip your coffee, pretending to scroll through your phone, ears tuned to the slightest sound.

And then—

A sigh.

Not just any sigh.

A deep, defeated sigh that carries the weight of a man who has stared directly into his own abyss and seen something he can never unsee.

Peeking over the couch, you watch as Jeongin stares at his phone, utterly disappointed in himself. His lips press into a thin line. His grip tightens. His shoulders slump ever so slightly.

Like he’s questioning every life choice that led him here.

Triumph surges through your veins.

You grin, savoring the moment. Checkmate.

Or at least, that’s what you think.

Because of course, Jeongin takes it too far.

That night, you slip into bed, muscles relaxing as exhaustion washes over you. The blankets are warm, the mattress familiar, the day’s battles a distant memory.

You exhale slowly, the tension leaving your body.

And then.

Something moves.

Something small.

Something foreign brushes against your leg.

Your breath catches.

A frigid jolt of terror surges through your veins as every instinct in your body screams at you to GET OUT.

Heart pounding, you go rigid, muscles locking in place. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the blanket, your throat tight with a suffocating sense of dread.

Slowly—very, very slowly—you lift the covers.

And see them.

Fake spiders. Everywhere.

Scattered across the sheets, dark shapes against the pale fabric, waiting.

A beat of absolute stillness.

Then—You scream.

Loud. Piercing. Bloodcurdling.

Panic explodes inside you like a wildfire as you launch yourself out of bed, blankets flying, your mind short-circuiting with sheer, unfiltered horror. Your heart feels like it might burst out of your chest, your skin crawling with phantom sensations.

From the next room, Jeongin howls with laughter—the unhinged, victorious kind that makes you want to commit actual violence.

You stand there, shaking, pulse hammering, fists clenched so tight your nails dig into your palms. Your breathing is ragged, your dignity shattered.

You are going to kill him.

The next morning, you drag yourself into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, traumatized, and dangerously close to committing a crime.

Jeongin is waiting for you.

He slides a cup of coffee toward you with a shit-eating grin.

“Sleep well?” he asks, voice dripping with amusement.

You don’t think.

You grab a pillow off the couch and hurl it at his face with everything you have. It smacks him with a satisfying thud. He just laughs.

────────────────────────────────────────

Day Four: Camaraderie (Joint leagues)

One day, after yet another brutal round of psychological warfare (Jeongin replaces all the sugar with salt; you glue his slippers to the floor), you both collapse onto the living room couch, utterly spent.

It’s been days.

Four long, merciless days of constant back-and-forth. No moment of peace. No second of safety. Just an endless, escalating game of deception, sabotage, and war.

You lean back, head resting against the couch, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of fabric as Jeongin shifts beside you.

For the first time in days, there’s no immediate threat. No paranoia. No fear of hidden tape, rigged alarms, or mysteriously missing belongings.

You inhale deeply. Then exhale.

Jeongin does the same.

And then—

“…What if,” you whisper, barely tilting your head to look at him, “we called a truce?”

A pause.

Jeongin doesn’t move at first, still staring at the ceiling like he’s weighing the cost of peace. Then, slowly, he turns to face you, an eyebrow arching in pure skepticism.

“Why,” he says warily, “would I trust you?”

You smirk, tilting your chin up slightly, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

“Because instead of fighting each other,” you say, eyes glinting with something dangerous, “we could team up… and take them down.”

Silence. A long, slow beat where the idea settles in, where you can see the wheels turning in Jeongin’s mind.

And then—A grin. A dangerous one.

“I like the way you think,” he murmurs.

There’s no hesitation now. He extends his hand. You grasp it firmly, sealing the deal with a single shake.

And just like that—

Operation: Mutually Assured Destruction is born.

────────────────────────────────────────

Day Five: Assured Destruction

Target One: Hyunjin

The plan: Flip his entire room upside down.

It takes an hour of meticulous effort, but the results? A masterpiece of confusion.

Every single item has been inverted—his chair balanced precariously on its head like an acrobat, his books reversed so their spines face the wall, his posters rotated exactly 180 degrees, making his favorite idols appear as though they’re defying gravity. Even the little things—the framed photo on his desk, his alarm clock, his bedside lamp—are all upside down, creating an uncanny sense of wrongness.

The best part? His slippers. Flipped, soles up, placed perfectly on the floor, like they’re waiting for him to step into another dimension.

By the time you and Jeongin finish, you step back, hands on your hips, and admire the scene.

“Genius,” Jeongin whispers.

“Perfection,” you agree.

Then, you wait. The moment Hyunjin walks in, towel slung over his shoulder, damp hair sticking to his forehead, he stops dead in the doorway.

His entire body freezes.

His expression is too blank. Too neutral. Dangerously unreadable. His lips part slightly, and his eyes scan the room, flicking from one absurd sight to the next, like his brain is actively trying to reject reality.

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then, wordlessly, he pivots on his heel and walks right back out.

You and Jeongin barely have a second to exchange a triumphant glance before you hear his voice—flat, exhausted, utterly done.

“I don’t have the mental energy for this,” he mutters, disappearing down the hall.

Jeongin snorts so hard he nearly chokes. You double over, wheezing.

Target Two: Seungmin

The plan: Weaponizing his own routine against him.

Seungmin has an infamous morning ritual—practically a science at this point. Alarm goes off at 7:00 AM. Snooze until 7:10. Another snooze until 7:20. Finally drags himself up at 7:30 with all the enthusiasm of a man being forced to walk the plank.

Naturally, you and Jeongin decide to ruin it.

The night before, you set up six different alarms across the dorm, each placed strategically to go off in perfect succession.

The first alarm blares at 7:00 AM sharp.

As expected, Seungmin groggily smacks it off, rolls over, and burrows deeper into his blankets.

Then—Another alarm goes off.

And another.

By the time the fourth alarm is screeching from an unknown location, Seungmin is stumbling half-awake through the dorm like a sleep-deprived zombie, hair sticking up in at least three different directions. He slams the fifth alarm off with a low, guttural growl, muttering something about "murder" under his breath as he drags himself toward the kitchen, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

For a moment, it seems like sweet, sweet relief has finally arrived.

Then.

The final alarm goes off.

From inside the freezer.

Seungmin freezes.

His entire body locks up.

His sleep-fogged brain processes the impossible noise, his eye twitching slightly. Slowly—painfully slowly—his head tilts toward the fridge.

The realization dawns.

His hands tighten around the counter, his knuckles going white, his whole posture radiating dangerous restraint.

Then, in a voice hoarse with pure, unfiltered morning rage—

“WHO. DID. THIS?!”

His yell rattles the walls. A few rooms away, someone groans in protest.

Across the room, Jeongin, lazily sipping his tea at the table, doesn’t even glance up.

"Should’ve called in sick today."

Target Three: Chan

The Plan: Turn his studio into an existential crisis.

This is it. The final act. The grand finale.

You and Jeongin spend hours meticulously renaming every single one of Chan’s files. Beats. Demos. Vocals. Project drafts. Sound effects. All of them become Eternal Bang Chan.mp3.

By the time you finish, the entire computer is a minefield of identical, indistinguishable files. A place where logic ceases to exist. Where only suffering remains.

Then, you wait.

Morning comes.

Chan walks into the studio, rubbing his temples, a massive iced coffee in one hand. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion—he was up late mixing, and today was supposed to be a productive day.

Poor guy.

He sinks into his chair, cracks his neck, and stretches before clicking the first file.

Click.

A drum loop plays.

He frowns. Not what he was looking for, but okay. He clicks another.

Click.

A metronome.

He freezes.

His brows slowly knit together. The exhaustion in his eyes is replaced by suspicion. His mouse drifts to another file.

Click.

It’s just white noise.

Chan sits back in his chair, blinking slowly at the screen, scrolling through the endless abyss of Eternal Bang Chan.mp3 files. His breathing slows. His jaw tightens.

His entire studio is compromised.

He exhales through his nose.

And then, finally, in a voice laced with defeat and impending vengeance—

"…I hate you guys."

From the doorway, you and Jeongin silently high-five, basking in your undeniable victory.

────────────────────────────────────────

Day 6: The Intervention

By the next morning, the others have had enough.

Felix stands in front of you both, arms firmly crossed, his usually bright aura dimmed by pure exasperation. “You two need to be stopped.”

Hyunjin, looking absolutely exhausted, gestures vaguely toward his door, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. “I live in fear.”

Seungmin rubs his temples like he’s aged a decade in the past 24 hours. “I have never been more awake in my life, and I hate it.”

Bang Chan exhales so deeply it’s like his very soul is trying to escape his body. His voice is hollow—lifeless. “I had to rename all my files back by hand.”

Even Lee Know—Lee Know, the resident menace of the dorm—just shakes his head in disapproval. His gaze, usually sharp with amusement, is cold. Calculating. Dangerous. “You’re both demons.”

Meanwhile, Jeongin? Entirely unbothered. He merely shrugs, arms folded, face calm as ever.

"Was it worth it?" he asks.

You pause, glancing around as your eyes take in the destruction.

Hyunjin’s upside-down room.

Seungmin’s hollow, sleep-deprived eyes.

Chan’s dead, soulless stare.

You smile, pride washing over you as if it were the greatest thing you've achieved. “Absolutely.”

Felix sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. If you swear to stop, we won’t retaliate.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, at the exact same time, you and Jeongin extend your pinkies.

"Truce," you both say in unison and the room falls into a sigh of relief.

The war is over.

…Or so they thought.

────────────────────────────────────────

Day Seven: The Ultimate Finale

Phase One: The Ceasefire That Wasn’t

The prank war was supposed to be over.

That’s what you and Jeongin promised when Felix, Chan, and the others staged their so-called “intervention.” You even pinky-swore. A sacred vow.

But the problem is…

Neither of you have any self-control.

And so, it begins.

Jeongin flops onto the couch next to you, looking way too casual. His posture is relaxed, one arm draped over the backrest, but there’s a glint in his eyes—a telltale sign of danger.

“So,” he drawls, stretching like a villain preparing a monologue, “what if, just for fun, we did one last prank?”

You glance at him, interest piqued. “One last prank?”

He nods solemnly, like this is a deeply serious matter. “A grand finale. The prank to end all pranks.”

Your fingers tap against your knee. Your mind whirs to life.

Slowly, you lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs, fingers steepling like an evil mastermind.

"I’m listening."

Jeongin smirks.

Phase Two: The Perfect Crime

This prank has to be flawless.

No simple sock-switching. No petty toothpaste tricks. No tiny, insignificant disruptions.

This has to be a masterpiece.

The target?

Everyone.

Even yourselves.

Because the only way to ensure no one sees it coming… is to make sure you suffer too.

And so, after hours of careful planning, deep-dive research, and entirely too much maniacal laughter, you and Jeongin prepare for the greatest prank in history.

It starts with notes. Scribbled ideas. Diagrams. Timelines. Synchronized watches, just for the drama of it.

Jeongin sits cross-legged on the floor, sketching out a blueprint on a whiteboard you stole from Chan’s studio (he won’t notice… probably). There are arrows, lists, color-coded sections, and—for reasons neither of you can explain—a stick figure of Changbin with question marks around his head.

You stand behind him, arms crossed, nodding like a criminal mastermind overlooking a heist plan.

"This has to be methodical," you say, tapping the board. "If we go too easy, they’ll suspect something. Too hard, and they’ll actually kill us."

Jeongin hums in agreement. "We need balance. Chaos, but controlled chaos. Like… an art form."

A pause.

And then? A simultaneous, evil smirk.

Because this is what you were born to do.

Phase Three: The Execution──Fake Evacuation Notice

The first step is psychological warfare.

You and Jeongin spend the night printing out official-looking notices from the “Apartment Management Office.” The letters are filled with absurd yet barely believable warnings:

"Immediate evacuation required due to building-wide ant infestation. It is advised you leave NO food behind unless you wish to become one with the colony."

"Pest control will be fumigating with an experimental gas—side effects may include dizziness, nausea, or uncontrollable tap dancing. Management takes no responsibility for involuntary Michael Jackson impressions."

"All personal belongings must be packed by 8 AM sharp. Any items left behind will be confiscated and sold to fund Chan’s coffee addiction."

At 3 AM, you and Jeongin sneak through the dorm, taping these notices to every bedroom door. Then you go to sleep like nothing happened.

The next morning, the dorm erupts into chaos.

Phase 4: Controlled Panic

The moment Chan sees the notice taped to the door, he groans in defeat, rubbing his temples like he already knows this is going to be a long day. "I knew this building was cursed."

The paper is deceptively official-looking—printed on crisp white paper, formatted in stern legal jargon, with just enough bureaucratic nonsense to seem legitimate. The logo at the top is a painstakingly photoshopped version of their apartment complex’s management company, slightly off but convincing enough in their half-awake state.

But the real kicker?

At the very bottom, bolded and underlined:

“DUE TO EXCESSIVE NOISE COMPLAINTS AND UNCONTROLLABLE TAP DANCING, ALL TENANTS MUST VACATE IMMEDIATELY.”

Felix, still half-asleep and bundled in his blanket like a human burrito, blinks blearily at the notice, rereads it twice, then mutters, “…Uncontrollable tap dancing?”

Seungmin, rubbing his face and still in his pajamas, squints suspiciously at the letter. "Why does this look fake?" His voice is hoarse with exhaustion, but the suspicion is there.

But then—

"WAIT, WE'RE BEING KICKED OUT?!" Han shrieks, already spiraling. His eyes dart wildly around the dorm like he's mapping out the fastest exit. "DO WE HAVE TIME TO SAY GOODBYE TO THE NEIGHBORS?!"

Changbin, halfway through stuffing his protein powder into a duffel bag, yells in horror, “I CAN’T HAVE ANTS IN MY PROTEIN, MAN.” He grips the tub like it’s a lifeline.

From inside his room, Hyunjin, still face-down in his pillow, muffles out a single, exhausted groan. "WHY ARE YOU ALL SCREAMING?"

And then there’s Lee Know.

Unlike the rest, he does not panic. He does not rush to pack. Instead, he stands in the hallway, arms crossed, staring.

At you.

At Jeongin.

Two people who are currently frantically pretending to pack their bags—shoving random objects into backpacks with the frantic energy of guilty men.

Lee Know’s eyes narrow.

"You two," he says slowly, his voice eerily calm, pointing a single accusatory finger. "You're behind this, aren't you?"

Silence.

Then—

"WHAT?" you gasp, clutching your chest like a scandalized grandmother, eyes wide with faux innocence.

"How dare you," Jeongin adds, dramatically shoving more socks into his bag, despite already having packed way too many. "We are victims."

Lee Know does not blink.

He does not move. His expression says he knows.

But before he can expose you, Bang Chan—who has already accepted his fate and started packing his entire life into his duffel bag—throws it over his shoulder and sighs, "We don’t have time for this. Let’s go."

And just like that—

Panic wins.

Phase 5: Smurfed.

Now that Phase four has been set into motion and absolute chaos is unfolding, you and Jeongin move on to the pièce de résistance.

This one? A full-scale sensory assault.

While the others are still frantically stuffing their bags, you and Jeongin slink off to the bathroom like a pair of trained saboteurs, silent and efficient. With the precision of seasoned mischief-makers, you unscrew the showerhead, carefully prying it open to reveal the hollow space inside. Then, with the reverence of an artist perfecting their masterpiece, you slide in your secret weapon—several concentrated blue food coloring tablets, packed deep into the nozzle.

But you don’t stop there.

Oh no, this is war.

You move to the sink, working in perfect sync, rigging each faucet with the same vibrant blue dye. Every water source in this bathroom is now a ticking time bomb, primed and ready to unleash chaos at the first turn of a handle. No one is escaping this transformation.

And the results? Spectacular.

The first victim is Han.

Still half-asleep and utterly unaware, he stumbles into the bathroom, eyes squinted, hair a mess. He turns on the sink with a groggy mumble, reaching out instinctively to splash water onto his face. The second the bright, electric-blue liquid gushes out, there is a beat of silence. A moment of pure, unfiltered confusion.

He blinks.

He stares at his now smurf-colored hands.

Slowly—hesitantly—he raises his gaze to the mirror.

What stares back is a monster. Or at least, that’s what his sleep-deprived brain decides in the moment.

“…OH MY GOD.”

His shriek is bloodcurdling, echoing through the walls with such force that the whole dorm practically shakes.

"I'M TURNING INTO A SMURF. HELP. HELP."

Seungmin, already in the middle of his morning routine, suffers next. The moment his own sink betrays him, a strangled, borderline inhuman noise escapes his throat. His reflection glares back at him, now painted in Smurf Juice™ horror.

“I’M GOING TO KILL SOMEONE.”

Felix, who hears the commotion and rushes in to investigate, stops dead in his tracks at the sight before him. For a split second, there’s silence. Then—

“Oh my god.” His voice trembles with suppressed laughter. “You’re BLUE.”

At this point, Changbin peeks into the bathroom, curious as to what’s causing the screaming. The second he lays eyes on Han and Seungmin—both looking like they just lost a fight with a bucket of paint—he collapses. He doesn’t just laugh—he wheezes. He’s doubled over, clutching his stomach, practically crying.

"BRO," he gasps between fits of laughter. "YOU LOOK LIKE A FAILED AVATAR CHARACTER."

Hyunjin, blissfully unaware of his own predicament, is already recording the entire thing, panning the camera dramatically between each victim. Despite the undeniable evidence of his own blue-stained hands, he grins into the lens, completely unbothered.

“This,” he announces with the conviction of an artist unveiling a masterpiece, “is art.”

But karma is swift.

Changbin, still chuckling, decides he’s had enough entertainment for one morning and heads to his room, ready to grab his duffel bag—only to freeze.

His bed is gone.

Like… completely vanished.

No blankets. No pillows. No mattress. Just empty space where it once stood.

Slowly, his gaze drops to the floor, where a single note rests, written in dramatic, official-looking handwriting:

"You worked out too hard and punched your bed into another dimension. - Management."

For a full ten seconds, there is only silence. Then—

A guttural, horror-movie-worthy scream rips through the dorm.

“WHERE. IS. MY. BED.”

The Inevitable Reckoning

Lee Know watches the chaos unfold.

He stops. He blinks. He sighs.

Then, slowly, methodically, he cracks his knuckles. The sound echoes like the opening of a battle sequence. His gaze sharpens, dark and unforgiving.

His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

"Run."

And that’s exactly what you and Jeongin do.

You sprint like your lives depend on it—because they do. Behind you, chaos erupts like an apocalyptic event.

Felix? Still doubled over laughing, absolutely no help. In fact, he actually cheers as the chase begins, clapping his hands like this is some thrilling action movie.

Hyunjin, resembling a vengeful blue ghost—now having finally realized his own blue predicament after what he thought was a relaxing shower—lets out a banshee-like wail before taking off after you at full speed, blue hair whipping behind him like a dramatic anime villain. His phone is still recording. This is content.

Han, meanwhile, remains rooted to the bathroom floor, staring at his blue-stained reflection in existential horror. “I have become the Smurf. The Smurf has become me.”

Seungmin, on the other hand, does not waste time with existential crises. He grabs the nearest water bottle and, with the accuracy of a seasoned sniper, hurls it directly at Jeongin’s back. It slams into him with a resounding THWACK, sending him stumbling.

“DIRECT HIT!” Seungmin cackles, eyes gleaming with vengeance.

And then there’s Bang Chan.

Poor, long-suffering Bang Chan, who has lived through so much at the hands of his chaotic members. He stands in the doorway of his studio, looking at his laptop screen in dead silence. His meticulously organized files—hours of work, blood, sweat, and tears—are now all renamed:

“Smurf Life.mp3”

“Why Are We Like This.wav”

“HELP.MIDI”

He closes his eyes. He exhales slowly. He mutters to himself, “I deserve this,” before walking away as if accepting his fate.

Meanwhile, you and Jeongin are still running for your lives.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you dodge through the hallway, Hyunjin’s unholy screeching right on your heels. He reaches out—fingertips nearly grazing your shoulder—

And then Jeongin trips over his own sock.

Time slows.

His body tilts forward in a tragic arc. His foot catches on the traitorous piece of fabric. He goes down like a felled tree, arms flailing. And because fate is cruel, he grabs onto you for balance.

You don’t even have time to react before you’re yanked down with him.

Both of you hit the floor with a thunderous CRASH, limbs tangled, groaning in pain.

A heavy silence falls.

Then—

Felix appears above you, silhouetted by the hallway light, arms crossed, grinning like a victorious gladiator.

“Well, well, well,” he hums, cocking his head. “Look who finally lost.”

From the doorway, Seungmin—still blue—glares down at you both like an avenging deity. His arms are crossed. His expression is merciless.

“Permanent truce,” he demands.

You and Jeongin exchange a look. This is it. The end of an era. With great effort, Jeongin lifts his hand in surrender. “Truce?” he wheezes.

You follow suit, lifting your own. “Deal.”

A beat.

“…Permanent deal,” Seungmin growls.

“…Fine.”

The Aftermath

Days pass. The battle is over. But the scars remain.

Changbin’s bed is still missing. He spends his nights on a makeshift pile of blankets and despair. The note remains taped to his wall as a grim reminder of his loss.

Lee Know? He never trusts you again. Every time you so much as breathe near him, his eyes narrow in suspicion. He flinches if you even look at the bathroom door for too long.

Bang Chan sighs every time he opens his laptop. He doesn’t even bother fixing the file names anymore. His soul has left his body.

And you and Jeongin?

You never officially break the truce.

But that doesn’t mean you don’t find… creative loopholes.

A little missing sock here. A mysteriously locked door there. A single rubber duck appearing in someone’s bag at the perfect moment to cause confusion.

After all—

What’s life without a little chaos?

#skz #skz x reader #stray kids #imagine #straykids x reader #crack fic #han jisung #lee know #changbin #hyunjin #felix #seungmin #bang chan #jeongin x reader #pranks

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