#Lights Camera Opera!

[arrowheadedbitch]

Thinking about how Shawn is such a good actor that his own father blurred the lines between him and his character despite him not even speaking that good Spanish half the time

[theglasscat]

Gilmore Girls S4 is the strongest writing but it's also where we see the very beginning of a shift in lighting and camera work that will later be attributed to its weakest season

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Shelter - 2

Summary: You save Soap's life. Yours continues to go off the rails. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader Warnings For This Chapter: Canon typical violence, panic attack, my continued attempt to write Soap and Ghost's accents, military inaccuracies, more canon divergence, Soft!Simon. MINORS DNI A/N: I truly cannot believe how sweet you guys were about the first chapter. Thank you so much for being so kind! I apologize for the wait. I was almost done with this chapter when I decided I hated it and scrapped all of it and started over. I also finished another draft of my novel! Busy times. This is definitely more of a slow burn romance and I'm thinking it'll be around 10 or so chapters.

Well, at least you were out of the hospital room. It wasn’t far from the hospital room, but the horrendously beige room down the hall had a television and a few chairs you could sink into and a small kitchen that always seemed to be stocked with snacks in neat boxes on the counter. Were they good snacks? Not really. But you weren’t about to complain when it was a break from the nutrient dense and flavorless food they’d been shoveling down your throat the last handful of days.

Coronation Street was playing on the television as you soaked a plain biscuit in your tea. This was probably a breakroom of some sort, cleared out of anything that you could have possibly used to communicate with the outside world and you were pretty sure the blinking light in the corner was a camera to make sure you weren’t going to do anything ridiculous. Like climb out a window.

No.

You just wanted out of that stupid room with its uncomfortable bed and terrible pillow and beeping machines.

The biscuit crumbled in half when you tried to remove it and you stared at your tea for a stretched moment as the soap opera continued to drone on. Dammit. You shoved the rest of the biscuit into your mouth and then sipped on the tea for a moment before digging out the remnants of the biscuit with your spoon. Not your proudest moment.

You were pulled from your sad cup of tea and entertainment by the door opening and Soap walking in, arm still in his matching sling.

“Why am I hearing about ye not taking yer pain killers?” He asked instead of a greeting. You found that Soap did that. He barged right into things. No slow starts for him. It would be endearing if this were any other situation.

And just like you not saying anything to Ghost about your sister and why she wouldn’t be found in any intel about you, you wouldn’t give Soap a straight answer either. You were not going to take any of those pain killers if you didn’t feel like you needed them. You knew… Well, that didn’t matter right now. “Are they telling you my medical history? I don’t think that’s legal on either side of the pond.”

He frowned. The big Scot frowned and you almost laughed with how it made him look like a puppy. “Don’t ye need it? Ye were shot.”

“I’m aware of that. Trust me.” You turned and grabbed at the sleeve of biscuits, knowing it was a blatant change of topic. “These are awful, by the way.”

Soap snatched them out of your hand and scowled at them. “These are shite. Why’d ye do that to yerself?” He then pivoted and rummaged through the cabinets you weren’t brave enough to open and then set down a pack of shortbreads in a fancy looking tin which he popped open with one hand (you tried not to be jealous about that particular skill). “That’ll be the only thing going near yer tea.”

The shortbread was delicious and you wordlessly made another cup of tea for yourself and a cup of coffee for Soap. You were prouder than you wanted to admit to hear you guessed correctly when you said he looked like he preferred coffee and prouder still when you dug some out of the cabinet and made it just the way he said he liked it as he settled on the lumpy couch beside you to watch the rest of the episode. He knew what was going on better than you and regaled you with the storylines long since finished and convoluted family ties of the characters. It was nice. Soap was…nice.

He had finished his coffee by the time the episode ended and scooped up your mug on his way toward the breakroom’s tiny kitchenette and set them both in the sink. He turned back toward you, bright blue eyes scanning your face for something. He had a casual set to his shoulders, even with the sling, but you knew the look of a smart man trying to pick his words carefully. Soap honestly reminded you, just a little bit, of a guy you went to highschool with, who looked the part of loveable idiot but eventually went to an ivy league school on a football scholarship. He was currently a doctor, knee deep in cancer research, if those annoying alumni emails had any truth to them.

“Just say what you need to say. I’m sure I can handle it.”

The corner of Soap’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I wanted to let ye know that yer intel was good.”

You just nodded. That would explain why you hadn’t seen the other three lately. They had been sent to Kastovia. “That mean I can go home?”

Soap sighed and your heart shriveled a bit more. “No, lass. I’m sorry.”

Someone had left a calendar in the breakroom. You had tried to keep track of the days that had slipped by, but you just wanted to be sure. You counted on your fingers how many days you thought had passed, but the pain killers the first few days after the tunnel had made everything hazy. You worried your bottom lip with the blunt edge of your teeth as you flipped through the next month and dragged your finger down to the day you knew Kirby was due.

Just a few short weeks. That’s all you had. You needed to be there. You needed to be back in time. You’d promised Kirby you would be. You’d never broken a promise to your younger sister and you didn’t want to start now. Those stupid, useless tears stung at your eyes again and blurred the calendar dates. “Fuck.” You wiped at your eyes, trying to keep them from falling before anyone saw, before you felt more useless and trapped than you already did.

Another episode of Coronation Street was playing, a hum at the back of your mind, but it started to mutate and grow until it was a screech. You needed to get to Kirby. They had what they needed from you. You would sign anything they wanted, change your name, dye your hair, live off the grid. But you needed to see Kirby.

You promised.

The door opened easily and you strode out into the hallway. Did you know where you were going? Not really but you just needed to leave. You could figure out the rest later. After all, Kirby always said you landed on your feet. It was time you proved her right. You turned down another hall and yelped when a meaty hand clapped on your uninjured shoulder. You turned, tamping down the urge to throw an elbow and snarled as you realized it was only Soap and his ridiculous blue eyes.

“What’re ye doing?”

“I’m leaving. I have to go.” Your heart thudded painfully as you turned, slipping out from his grip. The edges of your vision started to blur and you hated that you knew what this meant. It had been years since you felt like this—but this situation hadn’t exactly been great for your mental health.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Each beat of your heart hurt.

“Ye cannae do that, lass. Ye know that.”

“I’m leaving.” You turned again to leave and grunted when he pulled at the back of your shirt. “Let go of me.”

“Lass-”

You turned and tugged your shirt free, letting the snarl curl your mouth as your vision continued to tunnel.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

“I’m leaving!”

What happened next was not your finest moment but you’d also been through worse. Soap reached for you again and after you pulled out of his grip once more, he lowered his shoulder and ran at you, hauling you up and over. His arm anchored you down, a weight across your back as his shoulder dug into your stomach. You didn’t even freeze as he turned, presumably to bring you back to the breakroom. Your arm pushed out of its sling and you wrapped your hands around one of his thighs and let his next step help pull you from his grip. Heat lanced across your shoulder as you wiggled against the grip until you yanked your legs free and kicked them above his head and over your own until your heels hit the ground. And then you were throwing yourself forward and dashing down the hallway. Out. You needed to get out. You needed to leave. Every breath burned a little more and-

The tile was cool against your cheek but Soap’s arms were a heavy firebrand as they banded around your waist. “Calm down. Calm down fer me.”

You thrashed against his hold as he stood but he didn’t seem to care and it wasn’t like you were a match to those dumb, hulking muscles. But still, your memory was hazy as he dragged you back to the breakroom and shoved a shortbread into your hand.

“Now, I’ll talk to someone. But ye cannae do that. Ye understand?”

By the time Simon arrived back on home soil, they’d moved her and Soap to a different part of the base. A hall of barracks that had been recently constructed but not yet assigned to a different squadron had been a good place to hide away their injured sergeant and American informant. Laswell had informed Price of the move and then sent along a video in lieu of an explanation.

Simon wasn’t entirely sure how many times he watched her claw and wiggle her way out of Johnny’s grip but Price did eventually take the phone away from him. (But not before Simon sent himself a copy.) She was wily. Strong. Stubborn.

Even when she had tears smeared across her face.

It was easy for Simon to claim one of the rooms as his own—it had always been better for Simon to be on base anyway. His flat in Manchester never felt like home. Just an expensive place to rest his head when he was ordered to take his mandated leave. Knowing the others were down the hall was more comfortable than any sort of high priced pillow anyway.

The mission had been successful. And a shitshow. The second, and larger, cache of gas in Kastovia had been exactly where her intel had said it would be in a barren steel plant. But the handful of missiles had been an unexpected find. As had the small militia that awaited them. While they had been easily dealt with, one of them managed to set off what Simon could only describe as a failsafe to take out the entire plant and the surrounding area. The gas dissipated quickly but not before it had caused extensive damage. Makarov wanted them dead. And he wanted her dead, too, if the picture one of his men had pinned up beside a map of different caches and routes to take over borders was any indication. It was upside down and some artist had taken it upon themselves to scratch out her eyes and draw an obvious axe buried in her neck. Charming. There were a few smaller pictures beside it but he didn’t get a clear look at them.

The explosion meant they didn’t have more than the one picture Gaz took of the map and Simon’s lungs burned a bit every time he took a breath. Nik had been quick in the exfil but still cut it close. Too close. And it grated on his every nerve that Makarov hadn’t been there. Still in the wind.

Simon had been told to visit the medbay before going to bed—Laswell was supposed to be arriving tomorrow for a debrief—but he thought that was more of a suggestion than an order. He’d dropped his bag on the floor and rinsed off before lumbering into the small bed, letting the standard-issue sheets scratch at his skin. It felt like coming home. And he watched the video again, feeling a strange smile push at his mouth.

He could bother Johnny about her ability to get away from him in the morning.

The doctor whose name you couldn’t be bothered to remember told you to start physical therapy. And, just your luck, Soap had been told to do the same. If he was wary of you because of your outburst, he didn’t show it at all. He would smile at you, eyes crinkling, over his coffee whenever you opened your door at the crack of dawn. A tea would be in his other hands and ready for you. It was a nice routine as more days continued to slip by.

You’d stretch and grumble about the slowly fading pain in your shoulder and Soap would do the same. At least you didn’t need to use the sling anymore. But this was, pathetically, probably the closest you’d had to a friend. He’d talk and talk and talk. About his mom and sisters up in a small town outside Glasgow. About the dog he had as a kid—“Boots was the best dog a boy could have, lass, lemme tell ye.” About anything that seemed to pop into his head as the sun would intermittently peek out from behind the low hanging clouds to splash warmth across the dead grass beneath your sneakers. You counted it as a win that they let you outside. It was behind a fence with razor wire at the top, but a win is a win. Mostly. Maybe they were seeing if they could actually trust you outside those beige walls.

You’d swallow nails if it meant you could be at Kirby’s side when she needed you.

One of the more ridiculous exercises the doctor had you and Soap do was passing a yoga ball between one another—of course, you had to move your arms a certain way to get the right stretch or whatever, but it all felt a little silly, even with the twinge growing more pronounced with each pass. Hands on top and on bottom, twist so they’re on the side, hand to Soap. He’d repeat.

“This feels very stupid.”

“Aye. But they’re watchin’ so we’d best play nice.”

The yoga ball nearly slipped from your suddenly-slick fingers. “What do you mean?” You’d heard a bit of thudding from the empty room next to yours last night but thought it was a faulty air unit. Was there someone else here?

“They got back last night. Give ‘em a chance to settle before they say hello, aye?” Soap’s blue eyes sparked with mirth and you might have shoved the ball back at him a little harder than necessary. He just laughed at you.

You chanced a glance at the rectangular windows cut into the metal building, close to the sharp edge of the roof. He was probably just being funny, but now you couldn’t fight the feeling of someone watching you. And why did your mind conjure Ghost’s ridiculous mask?

He hadn’t said much after you had told him you weren’t going to pour your heart out to him. But he’d continued to stare until he and the others left for Kastovia without a word. One guy who’d found you “mysterious” while you were in undergrad thought that he could figure you out and stared, too. Thought that his attempt at a psychology degree would unravel all…well, all of you. He gave up after a couple of months. Ghost didn’t seem the type to give up. But that still didn’t mean that you were going to tell him anything.

You threw another glance toward the window and the yoga ball hit you in the face.

Simon stared down at the inhaler. This was stupid. The doc had hurriedly explained that being exposed to the gas during the explosion had done a number on Simon’s lungs. At least he wasn’t Price who’d hit his head on his way out and was told he’d had a concussion and also needed the inhaler. Gaz had been the only one who’d managed to get out mostly unscathed aside from needing a butterfly bandage for a cut over his eye.

His next breath burned and Simon finally shook the damn scrap of plastic and took a puff just as he heard the back door open. He stood and watched Johnny and the woman trudge out into the dead grass, carrying a few bits of equipment, including a yoga ball, craning his head just enough to see them through the high window. And well, if he stood on the small desk chair to watch, who would know?

He couldn’t hear them but he watched her throw a few glances toward the window. And then Johnny hit her in the face with the yoga ball. She promptly slingshotted one of the resistance bands at his head in retaliation.

“Heh.”

The debrief later that morning with Laswell had gone as expected: More intel was good. Makarov not being spotted was bad. They needed time to heal. Farah and Alex would investigate possible gas caches just within Urzikstan’s borders.

The picture Gaz managed to grab was helpful and did verify a majority of the intel they had already. But it did mean that Makarov’s network was larger than they had ever thought. One of Laswell’s contacts had enhanced the slightly blurry picture and Simon recognized each of the 141’s faces, pinned to the board, too. They were targets just as much as she was. Small bits of paper stemmed from Price, Soap, and Kyle’s pictures and Simon knew what they represented even without the fancy tech trying to make it clearer. They were hunting for weak spots. Family. Friends.

They needed to leave. Keep low. Hide. Simon hated it. He hated that the others had families on the line and he could do nothing but take a few puffs of his stupid inhaler and wait. These were men who’d become his brothers-in-arms and their families were at risk. He knew what it was like to lose.

Price’s hacking cough basically ended the debrief and Laswell said she needed to make some calls, disappearing to another part of the base and Price griped as Kyle urged him to go back to medical. Johnny said he was going to start packing.

Simon walked away as Price continued to grumble and walked down the small hallway toward the bunk rooms and–

BANG.

Simon paused just for a moment, straining his ears as he pushed further down the hallway. With how the mission had gone, he couldn’t rule out that someone had attempted to get onto base and finish the job the gas couldn’t. There were security gates and checkpoints, of course. The high fences. And this part of the base was underdeveloped for now. But having a traitor in the midst wasn’t something Simon could write off.

“Fuck,” came an annoyed voice.

The tension slipped from his shoulders as he pushed open the nearest door.

Sitting in a chair in front of the mirror atop the tiny dresser, she was picking at her stitches with a pair of needle nose pliers. A small pile of the twists sat atop the dresser—apparently she’d been at this for a while. Simon walked in, watching as she leaned closer to the mirror, trying to see the stitches across her shoulder better as she plucked at them. She’d jammed her tongue between her teeth and the strap of her thin top had been tugged down. A book, probably pilfered from the breakroom, was open beside her.

(Simon stared. Just for a little.)

The pliers fell from her hands and bounced off the dresser before hitting the floor. That had been the sound he’d heard.

“Need a ‘and?”

She let out what he could only describe as a squeak as she turned toward him, hurling the book at his head as the pliers slipped from her other hand. He caught it without letting loose the laugh he felt growing.

“Jesus Christ! How long have you been standing there? Don’t you knock?”

“Heard something. Thought something bad ‘appened.” Not a lie. He tossed the book onto the bed. He watched her mouth curl at the edges and Simon wasn’t sure if she was going to yell at him or laugh.

“Right.” She stared at him for a little longer before bending down to grab the pliers again. She settled in front of the mirror again and stared at the remaining stitches. At least the ones she could see. Simon had a clear view of the mess of stitches on her back. She’d never reach those.

She stared back at him in the mirror. The grip she had on the pliers was tight and grew tighter when he stepped closer. But he still easily pulled the tool from her hand and then reached down to turn her chair around to face him.

“What’re you doing?” She asked as he started to untwist the next stitch.

“Helping.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Doin’ it anyway.”

Well, fuck.

You could do very little except stare at Ghost as he undid each of the stitches. You weren’t stupid enough to tell him to fuck off. What he was doing was nice. You couldn’t deny that but why the hell was he doing it? He was even bigger from this angle as he loomed over you. But he was being gentle with you, so gentle. And silent. Maybe it would be better if he talked to you through it all or said anything at all, but he was…quiet.

And so were you.

Until the door opened again and Gaz came in, gun drawn. You had pivoted back toward the door, only for a moment before Ghost let out a short, sharp breath from behind his mask and nudged you back into position. You still managed to see Gaz holster his weapon with a smile on his face, perfect teeth glinting in the low light. “All good here, LT?”

He grunted but didn’t turn to look at his teammate. You chanced a look up at Ghost to see him still singularly focused on your stitches. His dark eyes didn’t stray from them even though you were sure he could feel you looking at him.

By the time he reached down to turn your chair again, letting him start on your back, you found yourself liking how quiet he was. Small talk had never been your forte and you surmised that it wasn’t high on Ghost’s list of skills either.

When his thumb pressed into your spine, covered by the harsh fabric of his gloves, you tried not to shiver as you let him move you so he could see the stitches better. And he removed those, too.

It was when his finger trailed against the new scar on your back, barely a whisper of a touch, that you couldn’t stop it. God, you really were pathetic. When he moved the strap of your shirt back up your shoulder, you managed to bite the next one back. “Thanks,” you said, the word uneven and warbled. “You going to help Soap take out his, too?” You weren’t sure if you were being sarcastic or not.

The way Ghost tilted his head made you think he wasn’t sure, either. “Cap did ‘is already. Looks like shit.”

And you laughed.

The nondescript SUV rocked slightly side to side as it tore down the road. Gaz seemed hellbent on getting wherever you were headed quickly. There had been some good-natured ribbing about not letting Ghost drive. They seemed to like each other, a good camaraderie between them that seemed as easy as breathing. But you guessed that would probably happen in their line of work. Defying death together usually did that. Price, however, did seem at least a little put out about not being the driver.

And you were stuck at the back of the SUV, listening to them talk amongst each other. To his credit, Soap and Gaz both tried to involve you in the conversation. They would ask what you had been doing in London, if you’d ever been outside the city, if your shoulder was giving you trouble. It was nice.

They were still nice.

You didn’t really understand why they were trying so hard but you weren’t about to ask. Especially not now when you had a black bag over your head. They didn’t really trust you but it had been a weird kindness when you’d felt Ghost buckle you in and place a light blanket over your lap before you’d departed. It was probably a silent order to go the fuck to sleep seeing as you hadn’t been sleeping well since you’d hastily weened yourself off the most intense pain killers. It didn’t help that you’d been shuffled outside right after midnight and told to get in the back of the vehicle without much fanfare. And you knew better than to argue.

You had a bag over your head and were heading to an unknown destination. The power dynamics didn’t exactly scream trustworthy. They kept you alive, that was true. But they didn’t trust you. Funny.

You leaned your head back against the seat and sighed, the fabric rustled against your mouth. It was a strange feeling. Weirdly comforting, like when you’d push your face into the pillow and scream when you were a child, desperate for an outlet.

“I can see why you like the mask,” you muttered.

“Whot?”

Hm. You said that out loud. Well, too late to take it back now. “I said I see why you like the mask.”

“She’s bloody insane,” Gaz whispered. But you liked to think he was smiling while he said it.

“Maybe Ghost’ll lend ye one of his? Ye two could match.”

There was an answering smack and “och, what was that for, LT?” before the blanket was adjusted over your lap.

“Go to sleep.”

You smiled beneath the bag. And, knowing you had nothing better to do…you went to sleep with Ghost’s low rumbling echoing in your ears.

Next Chapter

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!

[sixeyesonathiel]

in which you, the sharp-tongued president of the journalism club, declare war over a stolen layout, and satoru, the insufferably flirty photography club president with a camera full of your secret candids, decides he’s having the time of his life.

highschool au | wc — 1k | next. | masterlist.

the meeting room smells like ink, film, and freshly laminated passive aggression.

the overhead lights flicker with the kind of fluorescent buzz that makes everything feel more hostile. satoru props his legs up on the table like it’s his personal recliner, one ankle carelessly balanced over the other. his reading glasses—thin, silver-framed, and infuriatingly stylish—glint under the cheap lighting, slipping a little too perfectly down the bridge of his nose. he chews idly on the end of a red pen, the cap tucked behind his ear like some kind of pretentious artist. his white shirt’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing a constellation of old ink smudges near his wrist. the top two buttons are undone, just enough to make the faculty advisor twitch.

the click of your heels hits the linoleum like gunfire. you walk in like you own the air, a stack of mock-up spreads clenched in your hands. your brow is pinched, lips already curled in a frown, and there’s war in your eyes. one of your earrings swings with each step like a warning bell, catching the light with every calculated movement. behind you, two juniors from your club trail in silence, wisely scattering to opposite corners like soldiers avoiding crossfire.

“you stole my layout.”

he doesn’t even glance up. his gaze stays fixed on a spread of black-and-white prints, one finger tapping the margin absently as he exhales a sigh that’s more theater than actual exhaustion.

“i improved your layout,” he replies, voice drawling like warm honey, every syllable laced with calculated apathy. “you should be thanking me. i made it… tolerable.”

you bristle, one corner of your mouth twitching with the effort not to scream. your grip on the mock-ups tightens enough to crumple the edges. the laminated surface of the table reflects the clench of your jaw.

“i will be thanking you in court.”

finally, the president of the photography club looks over his glasses, pale blue eyes flicking toward you with all the weight of someone examining a particularly amusing page in a novel. his grin spreads slow, lazy, like a cat stretching in the sun. he shifts in his seat, boots thudding against the wood as he plants both feet firmly, clearly settling in for entertainment.

“you always this dramatic, sweetheart? or is it just me who gets the full opera?”

you drop the folder onto the table with a satisfying smack. papers fan out, sliding perilously close to one of his prints. his feet don’t move, but his fingers pause mid-flip.

the tension crackles. a freshman from the debate team peeks through the glass pane in the door before backing away like they saw two lions about to brawl. somewhere outside, the vending machine hiccups and spits out a half-stuck can.

“you know what, gojo?” you hiss, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “one of these days, your camera is going to mysteriously go missing. maybe it’ll be a tragic accident. maybe the journalism club just decided it’s not photogenic enough to live.”

he lets out a low whistle and leans back, folding his hands behind his head. his sleeves slide up farther, baring more skin, as if he’s flaunting his comfort just to get under your skin.

“such violence from such dainty hands. should i be scared, or turned on?”

your eyes narrow. “i’ll make you a headline.”

“make me your centerfold while you’re at it.”

his voice is light, but there’s a glint in his eyes now—sharp, fascinated. your lips purse. your fingers twitch against your arm, like you’re debating whether to throw something. he watches the motion closely, the corner of his mouth twitching.

the truth is, he’s annoying. impossibly annoying. but he watches you like it’s a compulsion—like if he blinks, he might miss something vital. like you’re the only person worth photographing in color.

he always gives the worst pictures to the press. the ones where your mouth is open mid-lecture or your hair’s caught in the wind wrong. those go to print. but the good ones—the ones where your smile breaks slowly, or your eyes are scanning a page like it holds the world, or you’re caught mid-laugh with your nose crinkled and one hand over your mouth—those stay with him. those are his. they’re tucked behind his portfolio, buried in folders named things like “b roll” and “miscellaneous,” like he’s fooling anyone. he edits them late at night, adjusting brightness, cropping out noise, zooming in until your expression is framed perfectly.

he tilts his head, voice dipping just low enough to make the space feel smaller.

“by the way, new lipstick? not that i was staring. but it’s smudged. right here.”

his finger lifts, hovering near the corner of your mouth, too close for comfort. his tone is playful, but his eyes trace your features with an unsettling softness—one you pretend not to notice.

your breath hitches. then—smack.

your palm connects with the back of his hand, hard enough to sting. the sound echoes, sharp and final. he laughs, not even flinching. the sound is warm and low, like you’d just told him a secret. he rubs his hand where you hit him, still grinning.

“worth it,” he murmurs under his breath.

you storm out, heels clicking faster than when you came in, the door creaking open and slamming shut behind you with a force that sends dust motes dancing in the light. one of your juniors rushes to collect the scattered pages, her face pale.

he’s still smiling when he watches your reflection disappear in the dark tint of the window, glasses now pushed up fully onto the bridge of his nose.

he’s still smiling when he slips another candid of you—half-turned, sunlight catching your cheekbone—into a folder buried beneath three layers of encryption on his hard drive. the photo’s file name is a random string of numbers. there are dozens of them.

journalism club’s president is going to be the death of him.

and god, he’s going to die so happy.

[yungistiny]

GAMEBOY ═ chapter eight

[ J. Yunho ]

chapter eight: take it

╚═════════

summary: yunho has no idea that his neighbor across the hall, the same one he’s had a crush on, was his arch nemesis behind a headset

warning: dom yunho, bratty/sub reader, slight orgothumophilia, masturbation, unprotected sex, spanking, choking, degradation, overstimulation, oral, sexting

pairing: gamer yunho x gamer afab reader

genre: smut, romance, drama

word count: 2.7k

chapter seven

chapter nine coming soon

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The countdown hits zero.

Jongho’s voice filters in first. “Okay, I swear, if anyone friendly fires me again I’m rage quitting.”

San laughs. “Relax, man. Just don’t run in front of my sniper shot again.”

Yunho leans back in his chair, a lazy grin playing on his lips. “Play nice, boys. We’ve got an audience.”

Gunho makes a dramatic gagging sound from the beanbag chair in the background, his arm slung over his face like he’s watching a soap opera.

“Gunho says hi,” Yunho mutters, not bothering to look back as he adjusts his headset.

Gunho leans into view, grinning at the camera with his usual golden retriever charm. “Sup losers. I’m here to witness history.”

Yunho raises a brow at his younger brother. “What history?”

Gunho grins wider. “Oh, nothing. Just watching my hyung spiral live on stream.”

San makes a strangled sound.

Then Juniper joins. Her camera flickers on. Familiar LED purple lighting in the background. The top half of her face still cut from view.

That voice. Smooth. Teasing. Dangerous.

“Sorry I’m late,” she purrs. “Had to touch up my lipstick. Can’t have you boys distracted by smudges.”

Yunho’s fingers twitch on the keyboard and his voice drops. “I’m already distracted.”

Gunho makes a dramatic gasping noise in the background. “Hyung, be serious, there are children watching!”

San visibly flinches. “Gunho, go do your homework or something, why are you still there?”

“I’m here for the lore, leave me alone.”

Jongho furrowed his brows. “Okay, can someone please explain what the hell is going on? What is this energy right now?”

Yunho switches weapons, ignoring Jongho. “So Juniper,” he says casually, “you ever think about doing a face reveal?”

The voice that responds is steady, but there’s a crack in it. “Every time you ask, I move it further down my to do list.”

Yunho smirks. “That’s fine. I like a good mystery.”

Gunho mutters loud enough to be picked up on mic, “Bro you literally know who she is.” Not that Gunho knows that Juniper is actually Y/N.

Yunho whips his head around, eyebrows raised, voice sharp with that edge only older brothers can sharpen.

“Gunho thinks he knows.” He turns back to his mic, voice smooth again, too calm. “But we all know confidence doesn’t equal accuracy, especially in this gene pool.”

Gunho gapes. “Hey! That’s slander!”

San chokes on air.

Jongho narrows his eyes. “Wait. WHAT do you think you know?”

Juniper’s stream audio glitches for a second, like she muted herself just long enough to scream into the void.

Gunho tries to backpedal with all the subtlety of a car crash. “I mean… I was just reading chat! You know how people are. Theories and conspiracies. I didn’t say I believe it. I’m just… crowdsourcing vibes.” He was a terrible liar, but he really didn’t know if Yunho truly did know who she really was.

Yunho presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, that familiar smugness sliding back into his voice. “Gunho’s had too much sugar and YouTube again.”

Juniper unmutes, her voice laced with sweet venom. “Don’t worry. Gunho’s still young. His brain hasn’t fully developed yet.”

Gunho gasps, scandalized. “Wow. Vicious. No wonder hyung’s obsessed.”

Yunho’s gaze flicks toward the camera, the barest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Juniper’s voice drops half an octave, sultry and unbothered. “So do you.”

Gunho curls into the beanbag like it’s a bunker. “Am I supposed to be hearing this? I feel like I just walked in on a very NSFW cutscene.”

San, off mic, can be heard swearing softly.

Jongho rolling his eyes. “I’m just trying to heal and revive people, man. I didn’t sign up for the tension Olympics.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The stream ended and Y/N ripped off her headset and collapsed back in her chair, skin hot, lips parted, eyes still flickering from adrenaline. From the game? No. From him.

Yunho.

From the way he’d said her fake name on stream like it was a secret he already owned. From the way he flirted with her in front of everyone, smooth and slow, like he had all night to ruin her.

Her phone buzzes.

Yunho: you were on fire tonight

i like when you get aggressive

makes me wonder how you’d handle being pinned down in real life

Her pulse spikes. But instead of spiraling, she smirks.

Fine.

If he wants to play, she’ll play.

Juniper: maybe you should let me show you what else i’m good at

Yunho: dangerous offer. you gonna sit on my lap and boss me around or let me bend you over and remind you who started all this?

Y/N bites her bottom lip, thighs pressing together.

Juniper: depends. you think you can handle me?

Yunho: i’ve been handling the thought of you for weeks. pretty sure i can manage the real thing though you do sound like the type who likes to be put in her place

She grins. Wicked.

Juniper: only if you’re man enough to take it first

It’s a power struggle now.

Sexual tension with teeth.

And it’s eating her alive.

Because while Juniper might be cocky, composed, collected, Y/N is unraveling. Inside, she’s a mess of ache and want and guilt. But she won’t stop. Not when he’s feeding her fantasies in real time. Not when he’s so close to connecting the dots.

And if he does?

She wants him to suffer first.

She types again.

Juniper: what would you do if i showed up right now? if i knocked on your door?

Yunho takes a beat.

Then responds.

Yunho: i’d answer it shirtless just to see your eyes go wide then i’d pull you inside, push you against the wall, and see how long you could keep that smirk on your face. i’d ruin your voice for the next stream

She shivers. Then leans forward, licking her lips as she types.

Juniper: maybe i’ll let you try

Yunho: tell me when

Her fingers hover, heart pounding. Her smirk fades only slightly, just for a second, as she reads back over the messages.

He still doesn’t know it’s her.

Still doesn’t realize the girl he wants to fuck is the same one who brings him coffee and blushes when he compliments her. The same girl he’s already had.

But Juniper doesn’t hesitate.

Juniper: soon. hope you can wait.

Yunho: i’m not sure i can.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Yunho’s phone is still glowing in his palm.

Juniper’s last message reads, soon. hope you can wait

And he knows her. He knows her so well that when the knock hits his door less than ten minutes later, he’s already standing.

He opens it.

She’s there.

Oversized shirt. No pants. No makeup. No words.

Just eyes that say, touch me or I’ll fall apart.

He doesn’t get a single syllable out, because the second the door clicks shut behind her, she’s on him.

Her hands fist in his shirt. Her mouth crashes into his. It’s clumsy and messy and too much, not enough, all at once.

She kisses him like it’s punishment.

Like she hates him for what he does to her.

And Yunho?

Yunho moans into it.

Because she’s kissing him the same way Juniper types, sharp, demanding, shameless.

Her hands roam, his chest, his neck, threading into his hair, yanking just hard enough to make him gasp.

“Y/N….” he starts, voice a wrecked hush as he glances towards Wooyoung’s room where his roommate is at work but his younger brother is staying in for now.

But she cuts him off with another kiss. Hotter this time. Wetter. She’s grinding against him and she doesn’t even realize it until he grips her hips, pressing her down onto the bulge already straining in his sweats.

“Fuck…” she gasps. Still not a full sentence. Still not a moment to breathe.

He lifts her like she weighs nothing. Carries her straight to the couch. She doesn’t stop kissing him for even a second. Her thighs wrap around his waist. Her fingers push under his shirt. Her shirt slides halfway off one shoulder.

And Yunho?

He’s losing it.

“You should really be careful,” he murmurs, voice low, dark. “Showing up like this. Looking like that.”

Her lips are on his throat now. He feels her tongue. “You gonna pretend you don’t want this too?” she whispers.

He smiles.

“Pretending? Never.”

What he is pretending? That he doesn’t know she’s the same girl who made him hard with nothing but her voice two hours ago.

That he isn’t already so deep into her, he’s drowning.

She rocks against him, head thrown back, shirt finally pulled off and tossed to the floor.

And Yunho watches her. Watches her moan into his mouth. Watches her chase pleasure like it’s her only religion.

And Yunho knows, he knows what she likes now. He’s not going in blind like the first time.

He’s not stopping.

Not teasing.

Not pulling away.

Not until she’s begging.

And maybe not even then.

Her lips crash into his again, hot, hungry, open mouthed kisses that taste like tension and something that’s been waiting too long to snap.

His hands move up her waist, under her sports bra she’s wearing, fingertips dragging across bare skin, nails grazing.

“That night,” he breathes, voice hoarse and rough, “that drunken night… it wasn’t enough.”

She groans softly at the memory, hips rolling over the hard line of his dick through his sweats, grinding down until he curses, his hands tightening on her waist.

“You want more?” she whispers against his mouth.

“I’ve needed more,” he growls.

She smirks. It’s not her normal smile. It’s something bolder. Sharper. Juniper’s smirk.

And maybe she doesn’t realize it, but Yunho does. Oh, he feels it. The shift in her.

And he lets it happen.

She reaches down, yanks his sweats and briefs down in one rough motion, his dick springing free, hard and flushed, leaking for her.

She slides her panties to the side and sinks onto him, inch by inch, until she’s seated fully, her walls clenching around him like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

“Fuck…. Y/N,” he groans, head tipping back, neck strained. She rolls her hips, slow and steady, grinding down until he’s twitching inside her. Then she leans in, lips brushing his ear. “You gonna let me take control?”

It’s a dare.

One he’s already lost the second she started talking like that.

She starts to move, slow at first, then faster. Riding him with rhythm and heat, her palms pressed against his chest, nails digging in. Then one hand slides higher, over his chest, his neck, settling around his throat.

Not tight. Just enough.

Yunho’s breath catches, eyes locked on hers.

He doesn’t stop her.

Doesn’t move.

Just watches.

Lets her ruin him.

“You think about me like this?” she whispers, voice heavy, low, taunting. “When you’re alone?”

He nods, wrecked. Too far gone to pretend he’s in control anymore. “Every night,” he moans.

Her hand tightens slightly. She rides him harder, hips snapping down with more force, sweat glistening between her breasts as she leans forward, whispering filth between gasps. “You love it when I take it,” she moans. “When I use you to get myself off.”

“Fuck, I do… Y/N, I…”

“Shut up,” she purrs, eyes glinting as she starts to bounce on him harder, faster. “Just let me feel you.”

His grip fists the couch cushions, every muscle in his body tensing beneath her as he gets closer, head tipping back again as his breath leaves him in ragged curses.

“You’re so fucking good,” he pants. “You feel so…. tight, fuck”

“You gonna come for me?” she gasps, rocking against him with wild, wet rhythm. “Come with me, Yunho.”

His eyes lock on hers again, barely hanging on. “You’ll be the death of me,” he growls.

And then he snaps.

He bucks up into her, wild and hard, chasing his orgasm as she comes apart on top of him, moaning his name, her body shaking as she clenches around him, dragging him down with her.

He spills inside her with a broken groan, his hands gripping her hips, holding her there through it, letting her ride out every wave until she collapses against his chest, breathless and glowing.

Silence.

Just the sound of their breathing, the soft patter of her heartbeat against his.

He runs a hand through her damp hair, brushing it away from her face, smirking just a little. “You always fuck like that when you’re worked up?”

She pants against his neck. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she mutters.

“Too late,” he chuckles. But inside? He’s grinning. Because she has no idea he knows. Not yet. And if she keeps riding him like that? He’s gonna let her keep the secret a little longer. Just to see how deep it goes.

Yunho’s still buried deep inside her, her breath catching as she melts over him, sweat slick on her skin and her thighs trembling where they straddle his hips.

But she doesn’t get long.

Because he shifts under her, grabs the back of her neck, and flips her effortlessly, pressing her into the couch cushions for all of two seconds before he’s standing with her in his arms, walking.

“Wha… Yunho!” she gasps.

“You think you get to climb on top of me, ride my dick like that, and be done?” he growls, voice rough, dominant, dark.

She doesn’t answer. She can’t.

He kicks open his bedroom door, tosses her down onto the mattress just as his brother peaks out of Wooyoung’s room to see his door slam shut.

Her back hits the sheets and she barely has time to gasp before he’s yanking her closer by her hips, pulling her legs apart, dragging her panties down her thighs with a look in his eyes like he’s about to devour her.

He grabs her by the waist and flips her effortlessly, pressing her face down into the mattress, her ass high, exposed, already slick and dripping for him.

“Since when,” he mutters, nudging her thighs wider with his knees, lining his dick up with her soaked entrance, “did you like getting fucked like this?”

Y/N moans, eyes fluttering shut as her fingers clutch the sheets. He pushes in. All of him. In one stroke.

And stays there, fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, one hand gripping her hip and the other tangled in her hair, holding her face to the mattress.

He pulls all the way out and slams back into her, hard enough to make the headboard crash into the wall, her moans muffled by the mattress.

“You know what you’ve done to me, Y/N?” he snarls, each thrust punishing, deep, devastating. “Can’t even fucking look at you without thinking about this. Without wondering how you’d sound if I did this…”

He grinds into her hard, thick and slow, hitting so deep she gasps. “If I fucked you face down, hand wrapped around your throat, legs spread, just like this.”

She cries out into the sheets, fingers curling tight into the fabric. He grips her hair harder, pulls her up so her back is arched and her mouth falls open. “You wanna be good for me now?” he growls against her ear, voice hot and heavy.

She nods, frantic.

“Then take it.”

He pins her wrists behind her back with one hand, the other gripping her hip as he pounds into her, his pace brutal and relentless, her body rocked forward with every thrust.

“You like being used like this, don’t you?” he snarls. “Getting fucked dumb. Look at you now. Just a mess. My fucking mess.”

Y/N is gone. Wrecked. Her body trembling, legs shaking, moans slipping out without thought or filter as she gets closer, closer, until her orgasm rips through her like a tidal wave, her entire body locking up around him, shaking, twitching, her walls clenching so tight it drags him over the edge with her.

Yunho groans, low and broken, driving deep one last time as he fills her, hips jerking, hand fisting tighter in her hair.

And the secret of her being Juniper still buried between them.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies @hannahstacos

tag list: @ateezswonderland @therealcuppicake @aerangi @delulu4yuyu @hyuninslutbbgirl @fireseo @insanityz @kyeos4ng @fvxyxnh0 @jintastic-yuyu @beccaskz @roxhanah @heartsforyeoo @prchiquita8 @keyiswatching @noonelikeu @napipope-ta

[blueberrybirdsworld]

The Cat Distribution System 4/5

Summary:

When a stray kitten adopts Lando Norris, the self-proclaimed cat hater accidentally starts a soft-launch spiral with his secret girlfriend the ballerina Ariana Riverria.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, SMAU

Warning : none, just yeah the kitten will be different in some pictures

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Please let me know if you like it, I try to make it longer with more writen parts.

CHAPTER FOUR :

Paris looked different from the back of the Opera house.

The grand hall behind them was still glowing with chandeliers and whispers of ovations, but out here, in the quiet alley lit by golden lamps and a drizzle of soft rain, it felt like another world. A world where no one knew who they were. No cameras, no flashing lights. Just them. Lando and Ariana.

She was still in her stage makeup, a scarf loosely wrapped around her head, and a long black coat tied neatly at the waist. Her cheeks were flushed—not just from the performance, but from the adrenaline that always lingered afterward.

"You were amazing," Lando said for maybe the seventh time that night.

She looked up at him, one brow raised. "You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time."

He reached above her and tilted the umbrella slightly, so the rain didn’t catch the side of her hair. She hadn’t asked him to carry it—he just grabbed it from her bag the second they stepped outside, muttering something about being a gentleman and ignoring the way Max had loudly snorted in response from the car.

Max and Pietra had left them at the stage door. “We’ll give the lovebirds some air,” Max had teased, earning side look by Lando and an eyeroll from Ariana that still carried a smile.

Now they were strolling through the quieter side of the city, the rhythmic sound of rain on cobblestone filling the space between them.

"Did you even understand the plot?" she asked playfully, nudging his shoulder with hers.

Lando scoffed. "Please. Girl falls in love with boy. Boy lies. Girl dies dramatically in act one. Ghost ballerinas. Forgiveness. Sad curtain drop."

Ariana blinked. "Wow. That’s… not the worst summary I’ve heard."

He grinned, proud of himself. "I paid attention."

"You were texting Max Verstappen during the overture."

"Because he sent me a picture of Charlie with your fuzzy slipper in his mouth. I had to make sure it wasn’t life-threatening."

She laughed, tilting her head back. "You’ve turned into that kind of cat dad."

"Excuse me for caring about my son," he said, feigning offense. "I was stressed the whole first act. What if he missed me?"

She gave him a look. "He’s a cat."

"He’s our cat."

"Okay," she said with a smirk. "You’re not wrong."

They walked a little further, the soft glow of the Eiffel Tower flickering in the misty distance. She stopped in front of a storefront mirror and took out her phone. Behind her, Lando raised the umbrella just a bit so the frame would catch the soft sparkle of the city—and him, just slightly out of view.

@arianariverria

"city days ✨"

@pietra: i know that hoodie. we all know that hoodie.

@pliésballet: we SEE the guy holding the umbrella in the glass Ariana don’t play dumb 😭

@catmomcentral: charlie really said “we soft launching again?”

@slowmo_softlaunch: she’s not even hiding she had a boyfriend anymore

@balletobsessionv the little orange heart is McLarren orange, it can't be a coincidence

Later in a flight from Paris back to Monaco, Lando was pacing.

Not in a dramatic way. Not quite. But his foot kept tapping, and every so often he’d check his phone like he expected Charlie to send a text.

"You know he’s fine, right? Max Verstappen was here to look out for him." Ariana said from her seat, pulling a blanket over her lap.

"He’s so small," Lando muttered. "And emotional. What if he thinks I abandoned him?"

"He probably thinks you went out to buy him more food."

Lando turned around. "What if he got stuck in something? What if he went exploring and couldn’t get out? What if—"

"Baby," she interrupted softly, standing to meet him halfway. "You left the heat on. You put out two bowls of food. You asked Max to go check on him everyday. He’s fine."

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "I know. I just… I never expected to miss him this much. Is that weird?"

"No," she said, stepping into his space. "That’s love. He’s a little demon gremlin with toe beans and emotional manipulation powers."

He rested his forehead against hers, finally breathing in. "You’re good at calming me down, you know that?"

"I know."

Monaco — 2:14AM

The lights in the apartment were low. Ariana unlocked the door while Lando hauled their bags in with one hand, already whispering, "Charlie? You here, mate?"

No meow.

Lando froze.

“Where is he—”

And then he saw it.

Right there in the corner of his sim room, nestled inside one of his old karting helmets, was a small, ginger ball of fur—snoring gently.

Ariana watched from the doorway as he sank to his knees like he’d just witnessed the birth of his child.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “He missed me so much he nested in my helmet.”

Ariana bit back a laugh. "Or he just thinks your sweat smells comforting."

Lando shot her a mock glare. "Let me have this moment."

She walked over and knelt beside him, chin on his shoulder as they stared at their very smug, sleeping kitten.

"You’re obsessed," she said.

"You knew this when you let me keep him."

"I regret it every day."

He smiled, eyes still on the little fluffball. "You love it."

"I love you, unfortunately."

"And Charlie?"

"…He’s alright."

Charlie sneezed in his sleep. Lando looked personally offended.

"You’re both the same," Ariana sighed. "Dramatic. Clingy. High-maintenance. And yet somehow—"

"Adorable?"

She rolled her eyes. "Sure. Let’s go with that."

@landonorris

"update: he fits in my helmet now."

@landozoned: this man is a walking contradiction now

@balletandboost: first cats now ballet??? WHO IS SHE (we know who she is)

@chaosgrid: lando adopting an orange cat when he races for McLaren orange is PEAK branding

@maxfewtrell: someone teach this man how to cat

@balletxf1theories: so he’s saying “I love you” to someone. AND they asked about his cat. oh we’re in deep now.

@f1gossiphub: so not only does he have a cat, but he has a GIRLFRIEND who apparently has to compete with said cat??? 😭

Texts messages :

Lando 🧡:

he did the double meow again. does that mean food or chaos

Ari 💃:

it means “i love you, now feed me and maybe i won’t knock your water over”

Lando 🧡:

he bit my toe. was that love ?

Ari 💃:

that was a warning 💀

Lando 🧡:

he stared at me for five minutes straight and then sneezed on my sock

Ari 💃:

yeah that’s normal.

Lando 🧡:

also how do you teach a cat to hi-five. i’m googling and i try to look out for a tuto on YouTube but can't find any

Ari 💃:

oh my god, you’re in too deep now

The next day Lando was joined by Max to stream on his Twitch channel.

Lando was off-camera, rummaging for snacks, while Max kept chat entertained.

"Alright, we’re doing the haunted cabin thing. Ghost dog included. We’re not surviving."

Chat flew:

how’s lando’s cat?

did he name him charlie for real?

show the kitten nooow

Too casually, Max glanced at the chat and said, "Which one? The white one or the orange one?"

A loud choking sound erupted from somewhere off-screen.

"BRO?! WHAT?!"

Max burst into laughter, turning toward the camera with a shit-eating grin.

"What? I just meant, like, in general. Cats. Furry things."

Lando reappeared, snack in hand, jaw dropped.

"You can’t just say things like that casually, you absolute muppet!"

"You’re the one who owns a clowder at this point."

"I’m going to uninstall this game and your internet."

"Worth it."

Chat erupted:

WHITE ONE???

not the second cat reveal mid pasta bite 💀

ariana’s cat is white. you’re not slick.

SOFT LAUNCH GAME: COMPLETED.

Then during a lull in the game, a soft mew piped up off-camera.

Lando paused immediately. "Hold on."

He turned away from the screen, shuffled out of frame, then returned holding Charlie... who was now sporting a very obvious, very soft pink bow tied neatly around his neck.

Max wheezed. "NO WAY. Is that new?!"

Lando looked directly at the camera, blank-faced. "Oh wait I forgot to take it off."

Chat lost it:

PINK BOW. PINK BOW. PINK BOW.

we have confirmation: lando is in love with this kitten and/or a ballerina

not very 'i hate cats' of you 😭

That's the same orange cat with pink bow that Ariana posted in her insta ! Ultimate proof that it IS the same kitten

CHARLIE IN A BOW >>>

Texts messages : 

Lando 🧡:

you owe me. twitch saw the bow.

Ari 💃:

he looked adorable. i regret nothing.

Lando 🧡:

chat thinks i'm the type of guy to tie pink bow around my cat for fashion reasons

Ari 💃:

i mean... it’s 2025. masculinity is fluid. embrace it.

Lando 🧡:

i’m going to buy one for me to match with charlie

Ari 💃:

honestly? kind of hot

Lando 🧡:

okay but seriously... maybe it’s time?

Ari 💃:

to stop hiding?

Lando 🧡:

yeah. i mean, Charlie already told everyone anyway.

Ari 💃:

true. he’s the worst-kept secret of this relationship.

Part 5

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist !

[octaneink]

Could you do some dating willne headcannons or some willne smut but like in an established relationship? I’m obsessed with your fics, I swear I’ve read them so much I could recite them from memory 😭😭

Ahhh thank you so much for the kind words! I'm really happy that you like what I've written. I've never done headcannons or write smut lol so bear with me. I don't really know how to write smut ngl so I hope you like the spice (I think thats spicy? I don't know) at the end, I've never really written anything lke that before so I hope its...realistic?

Warning for some steamy stuff at the end!

Dating Will Lenney Headcanons

Playful Banter

In your relationship with Will, playful banter is the base of your dynamic, and he uses it to keep things light, fun, and endlessly entertaining. Whether you’re curled up on the couch, out for a walk, or in the middle of a mundane task, Will’s teasing is a constant—a reminder of how much he adores you.

He’s the kind of person who can’t resist poking fun at your quirks, but it’s always done with so much affection that it never feels mean-spirited. For example, if you’re watching one of your favourite romantic series for the hundredth time, he’ll lean over with a smirk and say, “Oh, this again? Let me guess—they’ll hate each other, then fall in love, and you’ll cry even though you know exactly how it ends.” But then he’ll stay right there beside you, secretly enjoying how much you love it—and secretly enjoying the series himself. He’d never admit it out loud, but he’s grown fond of the predictable charm of your go-to media.

Will’s teasing isn’t just one-sided, though. I think he’d love it if you gave as good as you get. If you catch him singing off-key in the shower, you’ll absolutely call him out on it. “Wow, I didn’t know cats could sing opera,” or something, and he’ll laugh so hard he almost slips. Or if he’s trying to fix something around the house, and it goes wrong, you’ll be there with a camera and a sarcastic comment like, “Handyman of the year, everyone.” He’ll pretend to be offended, but the twinkle in his eyes gives him away.

The best part is how his teasing always comes with an undercurrent of love. He’ll joke about your “weirdly specific and unnecessarily complex” coffee order, but he’ll still remember it perfectly and surprise you with it on a rough day. And if anyone else dares to tease you, he’s quick to jump to your defence, proving that his playful jabs are reserved for him alone.

Your banter becomes a language of its own—a way to say “I love you” without actually saying it. It’s in the way he grins when you roll your eyes at his jokes, the way he nudges you gently when you’re being stubborn. The way he always knows exactly how to make you laugh, even on your worst days. With Will, every day feels like a game, and you’re both winning.

Supportive Partner

In your relationship with Will, his unwavering support is one of the things you cherish most. He’s not just your partner—he’s your biggest cheerleader, your hype man, and your safe haven all rolled into one. No matter what you’re going through, whether it’s chasing a dream, tackling a new challenge, or just having a rough day, Will is always there to lift you up and remind you of your worth.

When you decide to try something new—whether it’s skating, learning an instrument, or even something as simple as baking a complicated recipe—Will will be the first to encourage you. He’ll sit with you while you practice, offering gentle advice when you ask for it and cheering you on even when you feel like giving up. “You’re a natural,” he’ll say, even if your first attempt at playing the guitar sounds more like a cat in distress. “Seriously, I’ve never heard anyone make that chord sound so… unique.” His teasing is always light-hearted, but it’s paired with genuine admiration for your willingness to try. And when you finally nail it? He’s beaming with pride, as if you’ve just won a Grammy. “Told you! I knew you could do it. Now play it again—I need this on video for when you’re famous.”

On tough days, Will’s support is a quiet, steady force. He has an uncanny ability to sense when you’re feeling down, even if you try to hide it. Without a word, he’ll wrap you in a hug, press a kiss to your forehead, and say, “Talk to me.” And when you do, he listens—actually listens. He doesn’t try to fix everything (unless you ask him to), but he’ll remind you of your strength and resilience. “You’ve got this,” he’ll say, his voice firm but gentle. “And even if you don’t feel like you do, I’ve got you. Always.”

Will’s encouragement isn’t just reserved for big moments, either. He celebrates the small victories with just as much enthusiasm. Did you survive a particularly gruelling day at work? He’ll show up with your favourite takeout and a movie, ready to pamper you. “You’re a rock star, and rock stars deserve the VIP treatment.”

But what makes Will’s support so special is how deeply personal it is. He pays attention to the little things—your favourite comfort foods, the way you light up when you talk about your passions. He knows when you need a pep talk, when you need a distraction, and when you just need someone to sit with you in silence. And he’s always there, without fail.

His belief in you is unshakeable. Even when you doubt yourself, he’s there to remind you of all the reasons you shouldn’t. “You’re brilliant, you’re kind, and you’re capable of anything you set your mind to,” he’ll say, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And if anyone says otherwise, they’ll have to deal with me.”

With Will by your side, you feel invincible. His support isn’t just words—it’s in the way he shows up for you, day after day, in big ways and small. He’s your partner, your teammate, and your biggest fan. And no matter what life throws your way, you know you’ll always have him in your corner, cheering you on every step of the way.

Car Rides

Car rides with Will are an experience in themselves. He’s always the one behind the wheel, and you’re perfectly content being his passenger princess. With you who's in control of the music, and you take full advantage of it. Whether you’re in the mood for girly pop, rock and roll, Afrobeats, jungle, reggae, or even a random playlist of your favourite guilty pleasures, Will never complains. He embraces it, turning every drive into a mini concert filled with laughter and the occasional side-eye from strangers at traffic lights.

You love how he lets you take charge of the aux, trusting your musical instincts even when your choices are… questionable. One day, you might blast upbeat pop anthems, singing at the top of your lungs as he chuckles beside you. “Okay, but why do I lowkey know all the words to this?” he’ll say, pretending to be embarrassed before joining in on the chorus. Another day, you might switch it up with some smooth reggae or high-energy Afrobeats, and he’ll bob his head along, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm. “You’ve got good taste, I’ll give you that,” he’ll tease, even if he’s secretly adding some of your songs to his own playlist.

The best moments are when you both get so into the music that you forget the world around you. You’ll be belting out a duet to some cheesy love song, completely off-key but having the time of your lives, when you catch people in the next car staring at you. Will, never one to back down from a bit of fun, will roll down the window and shout, “What? Never seen a Grammy-winning performance before?” before bursting into laughter and speeding off when the light turns green.

Long drives are your favourite. Whether it’s a road trip to somewhere new or just a leisurely cruise around town, the car becomes your little bubble of happiness. You’ll pack snacks, throw a blanket in the backseat just in case, and let the music set the mood. Will’s driving is smooth and confident, and you love how he occasionally reaches over to hold your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he focuses on the road. “You good over there, princess?” he’ll ask, glancing at you with a smile. And you’ll nod, feeling completely at ease because, with him, even the simplest moments feel special.

Sometimes, the drives are quiet, the music playing softly in the background as you both enjoy the comfortable silence. Other times, they’re filled with lively conversations, random debates, or Will’s hilarious commentary on whatever’s happening outside. “Did that guy just try to parallel park in one go? Bold move,” he’ll say, shaking his head in mock disbelief. Or, “That billboard says ‘World’s Best Coffee.’ Challenge accepted.” And just like that, you’re pulling into a random café to test their claim, laughing the entire time.

But no matter where you’re going or what you’re listening to, the car rides always feel like yours. It’s your space to be silly, to be serious, to be yourselves. And Will wouldn’t have it any other way.

Protective Side

Beneath Will’s laid-back, easygoing exterior I see lies a fiercely protective streak, especially when it comes to you. While he’s usually the type to brush things off with a joke or a sarcastic remark, the moment someone disrespects you or crosses a line, his playful demeanour is gone.

Will’s protectiveness isn’t the loud, over-the-top kind. It’s subtle but firm. He’s the type to notice things others might miss—a snide comment, a dismissive tone, or even a lingering look that makes you uncomfortable. And while he might not always call it out immediately (he prefers to gauge how you feel about it first), he’s always ready to step in at the moment you need him.

Like if someone makes a backhanded comment about you in a social setting, Will’s response is sharp but calculated. He’ll tilt his head, feigning confusion, and say something like, “Oh, I’m sorry—did you mean to say that out loud? Because it sounded like utter bullshit.” His tone is light, almost playful, but there’s an edge to it that makes it clear he’s not joking. And if the person tries to laugh it off or double down, he’ll hit them with a perfectly timed quip that leaves them speechless.

But it’s not just about witty comebacks. If someone genuinely hurts you—whether it’s a friend, a coworker, or even a stranger—he’s quick to reassure you that their behaviour says more about them than it does about you. “Anyone who can’t see how amazing you are doesn’t deserve a second of your time,” he’ll say, his voice soft but firm.

What makes Will’s protectiveness so endearing is how he balances it with respect for your independence. He never tries to fight your battles for you unless you ask him to. Instead, he understands that you can stand up for yourself and is often there offering quiet support and encouragement. “You don’t need me to defend you,” he’ll say with a grin. “You’re perfectly capable of putting people in their place. But just in case, I’ll be right here, ready to back you up.” (definitely would hold your earrings and purse if you were to scrap with someone)

And when it comes to physical safety, Will’s protective instincts kick into overdrive. If you’re walking home late at night, he’ll insist on accompanying you, even if it’s out of his way. If you’re feeling uneasy in a crowded place, he’ll subtly position himself between you and whatever—or whoever—is making you uncomfortable. And if anyone dares to threaten you, his calm, sarcastic facade drops entirely. He becomes a force to be reckoned with, his voice low and steady as he says, “You have one more chance to apologise and walk away before this gets ugly.”

With him by your side, you feel safe, cherished, and fiercely defended. And while you might not always need his protection, it’s comforting to know that, no matter what, Will will always have your back.

Surprise Dates

Between his busy schedule and the demands of everyday life, you make it a point to plan dates that are thoughtful, fun, and meaningful. You’ve made it a tradition to try something new at least once a month, while the other dates revolve around activities you both love. Whether it’s a spontaneous road trip, a nostalgic arcade night, or a fancy dinner at a place he’s been wanting to try, you always find ways to make him feel special—and he absolutely adores it.

You know how much Will appreciates surprises, so you’ve become a master at planning ahead. You keep a mental (or physical) list of things he mentions in passing—like a new restaurant he wants to check out, a movie he’s excited to see, or a place he’s always wanted to visit. Then, when the time is right, you spring the surprise on him. His face lights up every time, and the way he grins when he realises what you’ve planned is worth every bit of effort.

Another month, you might plan a random road trip to a nearby town neither of you has explored. You’ll pack a picnic, create a playlist of his favourite songs, and let him take the wheel. The excitement in his eyes when he realises where you’re headed is priceless. “You’re seriously the best,” he’ll say, squeezing your hand as he starts the car. Along the way, he’ll take detours to roadside attractions, insisting on stopping for silly photo ops and spontaneous adventures. “Look at this place!” he’ll exclaim, pulling over at a giant dinosaur statue or a retro diner. “We have to take a picture. This is peak road trip material.” And of course, you’ll oblige, laughing as he strikes ridiculous poses and insists on making the memories as over-the-top as possible (though he takes cute couple pictures as well).

And then there are the fancy dates—the ones where you pull out all the stops. You’ll book a table at that upscale restaurant he’s been talking about for weeks, or you’ll surprise him with tickets to a show or event he’s been dying to see. On those nights, you love seeing him dressed up, his usual casual vibe swapped for something more polished. “Look at you, all fancy,” you’ll tease, and he’ll shoot back with a smirk, “What can I say? I clean up nice. But not as nice as you.”

What makes these dates so special is how much thought you put into them. You know how busy Will’s schedule can be, so you always plan ahead to make sure the timing works. You’ll coordinate with his friends or coworkers if needed, and you’re not above bribing them with coffee or baked goods to keep the surprise under wraps. And when the day finally arrives, you love seeing the look on his face. “You planned all this for me?” he’ll ask, his voice soft with disbelief. “Of course I did,” you’ll reply, smiling. “You deserve it.”

But it’s not just about the big surprises. You also make time for the little things—like cosy movie nights at home, complete with his favourite snacks and a blanket fort, or lazy Sunday mornings where you cook breakfast together and spend hours talking and laughing. Those moments are just as important, and they remind you both why you fell in love in the first place.

With every date, whether big or small, you show Will how much he means to you. And in return, he makes sure you know how much he appreciates it. “You’re incredible, you know that?” he’ll say, pulling you close after a particularly memorable outing. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m not letting you go.” And as you smile up at him, you know that these moments—these carefully planned, perfectly executed surprises—are what make your relationship so special.

Social Media PDA

I think Will is the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, and that extends to his social media presence. While he respects your desire to keep a low profile due to your job, he’s not shy about showing the world how much he adores you. His Instagram is a mix of his work, his hobbies, and, of course, glimpses of your relationship. He’s the type to post pictures of the two of you without a second thought, whether it’s a candid shot of you laughing at something he said or a cosy selfie from a date night. Or a goofy photo of you both making faces at the camera.

His captions are always playful and affectionate. “Caught this one mid-laugh. Guess I’m funnier than I thought” or “Date night with my favourite person. Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back in one piece.”. The comments are always flooded with fans gushing over how cute you two are together, and Will loves reading them, often showing you the funniest or sweetest ones with a proud grin. “Look, they’re saying we’re goals. Can’t argue with that.”

But it’s not just the photos. You occasionally pop up in the background of his videos, whether it’s a behind-the-scenes clip from one of his projects or a casual vlog. Sometimes it’s just your hand in the frame as you pass him a coffee, or your voice chiming in with a sarcastic comment that makes him burst out laughing. Fans have come to love these little moments, dubbing them “crumbs” and saying that they’re being “fed” whenever you make an appearance. “We see you back there!” they’ll comment, or “The way he looks at her when she talks… I can’t. 😭”

Will finds the whole thing hilarious and endearing. He loves how much his fans adore you, even though you’re not in the spotlight yourself. “They’re obsessed with you,” he’ll say, scrolling through the comments. “Can’t blame them, though. I’m obsessed with you too.” And while you prefer to stay out of the public eye, you can’t help but smile at the way he proudly includes you in his world, even if it’s just in small, subtle ways.

There are times when he’ll sneak in a little more PDA than usual, just to mess with you. Like the time he posted a video of the two of you cooking together, and he casually dropped a kiss on your forehead mid-sentence. The internet went wild, and you playfully scolded him for it later. “You’re such a show-off,” you said, and he just shrugged, grinning. “What can I say? I like showing the world how lucky I am.”

Despite his public displays of affection, Will is careful to respect your boundaries. He never shares anything too personal or invasive, and he always checks with you before posting something that features you prominently. “You good with this?” he’ll ask, showing you a photo or video before hitting post. And if you ever say no, he doesn’t hesitate to scrap it, no questions asked. “Your comfort comes first,” he’ll say, and it’s one of the many reasons you love him.

For Will, it’s simple: he’s proud of you, proud of your relationship, and he wants the world to know it. And even though you prefer to stay behind the scenes, you can’t help but feel a little flutter of happiness every time you see one of his posts and realise, all over again, just how much he loves you.

Spicy Headcanons

Rough or soft?

Will is the kind of partner who knows exactly what you need, even before you do. Whether it’s a night of tender affection or one where he pushes you to the edge, he always makes sure you feel safe, cherished, and utterly consumed by him.

Soft Moments

When the mood calls for softness, Will is all about making you feel adored. He’ll take his time, his touches gentle and deliberate, as if he’s memorising every inch of you. His kisses are slow and sweet, starting at your lips and trailing down your neck, your collarbone, and everywhere else he knows you love to be touched.

“You’re so beautiful,” he’ll murmur against your skin, his voice a low, soothing rumble that makes your heart swell. “I could spend forever like this, just you and me.” His hands will roam your body with reverence, tracing patterns that leave you shivering. He’ll whisper praise in your ear, telling you how perfect you are, how much he loves the way you respond to him, and how lucky he feels to have you in his arms.

These are the moments where he’s all about you—your pleasure, your comfort, your happiness. He’ll hold you close afterward, his fingers brushing through your hair as he presses soft kisses to your forehead. “You’re my everything,” he’ll say, and you’ll believe him, because in those moments, nothing else exists but the two of you.

Rough Moments

But then there are the nights when Will’s more dominant side takes over. It’s not about anger or frustration—it’s about trust, about pushing boundaries, and exploring the raw connection between you. On these nights, he’s in complete control, and he knows exactly how to make you unravel.

He’ll start slow, his touch firm but teasing, building you up until you’re trembling with need. But just when you’re about to tip over the edge, he’ll pull back, his grip tightening in your hair as he forces you to meet his gaze. “Not yet,” he’ll say, his commanding voice sending a thrill down your spine. “You don’t get to cum until I say so.”

He’ll edge you relentlessly, his hands and mouth working you to the brink over and over again until you’re a writhing, desperate mess. Tears might prick at the corners of your eyes, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you beg him for release. But he won’t give in—not until he’s sure you’ve reached your limit. “You can take it,” he’ll say, his tone equal parts challenge and reassurance. “I know you can.” Of course, you can; you haven’t said the safe word yet.

Foreplay

Will is the kind of man who takes his time, savouring every moment of intimacy with you. He’s not just interested in the end goal—he’s obsessed with the journey, with the way he can make you unravel under his touch. For Will, foreplay is an art form, and you are his masterpiece. He loves watching you moan, squirm, and barely hold onto yourself, knowing he’s the one driving you to the edge.

It starts with his hands, always so deliberate and sure. He’ll trace patterns along your skin, his fingertips leaving trails of fire in their wake. He loves the way you shiver under his touch, the way your breath hitches when he finds that one spot that makes you gasp. “You’re so sensitive,” he’ll murmur, the tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine. “I love how you react to me.”

His mouth. Damn his mouth. He’ll press kisses along your neck, your collarbone, your stomach—everywhere but where you want him most, just to tease you. “Will,” you’ll whine, your hands tangling in his hair, and he’ll chuckle against your skin, the vibration making you squirm. “Patience, love,” he’ll say, his lips curving into a smirk. “I’m not done with you yet.”

When he finally does give you what you want, it’s with a slow, deliberate intensity that leaves you breathless. He’ll watch you as he works, his eyes dark with desire, drinking in every moan, every whimper, every desperate plea for more. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he’ll say, his voice rough with need. “I could watch you fall apart all day.”

But Will isn’t just about physical touch—he’s a master of words, too. He’ll whisper filthily sweet nothings in your ear, his voice a mix of praise and promise. “You take me so well,” he’ll say, his breath hot against your skin. “I love how you sound, how you feel, how you’re all mine.” His words are like a drug, intoxicating and addictive, and they only make you want him more.

By the time he’s done with you, you’re a trembling, incoherent mess, barely able to form a sentence. But Will isn’t satisfied until he’s sure you’re completely undone. “Not yet,” he’ll say, his hands and mouth working in tandem to push you even further. “I want to hear you beg.”

I hope people don't mind that I only wrote two spicy scenes. Sorry, I kinda ran out of ideas lol. Anyways… how did people like the headcannons? These are headcannons right?

[eu-nicola]

Mr. and Mrs. Leclerc

summary: a remake of mr and mrs smith (from a request)

warnings: mentions of weapons and other things

word counter: 4115

author's note: english is not my first language

The murmur of the cameras and the dazzling lights felt like a constant buzzing in your ears. You wore a perfectly tailored black dress, its design elegantly embracing your curves, while your hair fell in soft waves over your shoulders. Charles, impeccable in his custom-made tuxedo, held your hand with the same grace. To everyone’s eyes, you were the perfect couple: he, Ferrari’s star driver; you, the woman who shone on every red carpet.  

That night’s charity gala was one of the most important of the year. You were in Monaco, at the Opera House, surrounded by high-society figures, billionaire entrepreneurs, and fellow drivers. Your lips curved into a flawless smile as you answered a journalist’s questions.  

“You two look more in love than ever,” commented the reporter from a prestigious lifestyle magazine.  

“We’ve always been a great team,” you replied sweetly, intertwining your fingers with Charles’s. He looked at you with that mix of adoration and confidence that he had perfected, his jaw relaxed but his eyes sharp.  

But behind all that spectacle, there was a subtext that only you and Charles understood. You knew his thoughts weren’t on the flashes or the trivial conversations with other guests. His mind was analyzing, observing. Just as yours was.  

As Charles stepped away for a moment to greet a sponsor, you excused yourself with an elegant nod and walked toward the bar. You ordered a glass of red wine and leaned lightly against the counter, discreetly surveying the room. Among the attendees, you recognized a familiar face someone who didn’t belong in this world.  

‘A client’, you thought.  

Your ears caught a coded phrase, spoken softly by a man walking past you. You pretended to adjust the bracelet on your wrist as you mentally connected to the information you had been given. Your mission was clear: gather intel on that man before the night was over.  

Charles reappeared beside you within minutes, placing a hand on your waist. His touch seemed casual, even affectionate, but you felt the subtle pressure of his thumb a signal. He had also identified someone.  

“Are you all right, mon amour?” he asked, with that charming smile that could melt anyone.  

“Of course,” you replied, meeting his gaze with knowing complicity.  

The gala continued as usual, with speeches, auctions, and live music. However, you and Charles operated on a completely different level than the other guests. While conversing with people, every word you spoke and every gesture you made was carefully calculated. Between you, words weren’t necessary to coordinate.  

At some point in the night, you found yourself walking toward an empty terrace to get some fresh air. As soon as you closed the doors behind you, a familiar voice spoke from the shadows.  

“The target is on the move,” Charles murmured, already there, waiting for you.  

You turned to him, surprised by his speed.  

“I saw him speaking with an unknown contact near the stairs,” he added, adjusting his watch.  

“Then it’s now or never” you said, your eyes locking onto his.  

Charles took a step toward you, closing the distance with that unwavering confidence he always carried.  

“Be careful” he whispered, running a hand along your cheek as if it were a romantic gesture.  

“You too” you murmured, leaning in to brush your lips against his in a brief but tension filled kiss.  

Without another word, you both parted and blended back into the crowd, each following your target.  

The night continued with wine glasses, studied smiles, and trivial conversations. Amid all the luxury and false compliments, you and Charles kept playing the game.  

The target of the night was a man named Alexander Moreau. His name wasn’t on any public list, but in his world, he was an information broker, a mediator between powerful clients and assassins like you. Tonight, your job wasn’t to eliminate him but to extract what he knew.  

You were the first to approach. You found him deep in conversation with an older businessman, a gleaming gold watch on his wrist and a whiskey glass in his hand. You smiled elegantly, tilting your head slightly.  

“Pardon the interruption,”

you said, with that sweetness that masked your true intentions. “Mr. Moreau, may I steal a moment of your time?.”

The man lifted his gaze, studying you with interest. Charles, from across the room, glanced at you, his posture relaxed but keenly attentive.  

Moreau followed you to a more secluded corner of the hall, where the music and chatter softened.  

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said with a sly smile. “Though I must admit, I’m intrigued.”

“I found your presence at this gala interesting. Not quite your type of event, am I wrong?.”

“One must adapt to the times. But I suspect you already know that.”

You smiled, feigning amusement. You knew Moreau was intelligent and wouldn’t give away information easily. So you didn’t waste time on pleasantries.  

“I know you recently sold information. Information my client wants back.”

Moreau raised an eyebrow.  

“My dear lady, information is power. I don’t give it away without getting something in return.”

“Of course,” you replied, leaning slightly toward him, letting your perfume work its magic. “But we both know that if you don’t give us what we want, it will be a problem.”

Moreau studied you for a moment before chuckling.  

“Always so persuasive. Fine, I’ll tell you this: the information you seek was sold to one person. Someone who, if not handled carefully, will be a problem for everyone.”

“A name?,” you asked, keeping your composure.  

Moreau smiled again, but this time, with amusement.  

“You’ll find the name yourself. But I’ll give you one piece of advice: pay attention to who’s watching too closely.”

Before you could press further, Charles appeared at your side, his presence steady.  

“Am I interrupting something?,” he asked, with his usual calm.  

“Not at all” you replied, not breaking eye contact with Moreau.  

The man took a sip of his whiskey and, with one last smile, disappeared into the crowd.  

Charles exhaled lightly.  

“Always so cryptic.”

“But he gave us something,” you said. “Someone here has the information. We just need to figure out who.”

Hours later, the gala had ended. You were in a hotel room on the outskirts of Monaco, a meeting point whenever your boss summoned you. The room was luxurious, with a vast window offering a panoramic view of the illuminated city.  

In front of you stood a tall man in a dark suit. His face was nearly expressionless, but his cold, calculating eyes spoke for him. His name was Victor Langley. You knew little about him, only that he operated in the shadows and that his word was law.  

“Good work tonight,” he said in a neutral tone. “Moreau is a difficult man to make talk.”

Charles lounged on the sofa, his jaw tight.  

“He only gave us half-truths.”

Langley nodded slowly.  

“That’s how Moreau plays. Now, I have a new assignment for you both.”

You frowned slightly. It wasn’t common for you and Charles to receive the same mission.  

“Who is it?,” you asked.  

Langley barely smiled, a gesture that didn’t reassure you at all.  

“That’s the interesting part. I won’t give you a name.”

Charles leaned forward, eyeing him intently.  

“You’re saying we have to figure out who to eliminate?.”

“Exactly.”

A tense silence followed. You crossed your arms, demanding answers.  

“That makes no sense. If you want us to take someone out, it would be logical to give us their identity.”

Langley shrugged, as if it wasn’t his problem.  

“The orders come from higher up. I was only told that you two are the only ones fit for this job.”

Charles let out a humorless laugh.  

“How convenient.”

Langley observed you both calmly before adding:  

“You’ll find out soon. Consider this a test. You have one week.”

With that, he turned and left the room, leaving more questions than answers.

The silence left in the wake of his departure was heavy. Charles ran a hand through his hair, exhaling in frustration.  

"I don't like this."  

"Me neither," you admitted. "It's too risky."  

He looked at you, his green eyes intense under the room’s dim light.  

"We'll figure it out."  

You held his gaze and replied,  

"We always do."  

Charles gave a faint smile before leaning in, brushing his lips against yours in a slow kiss.  

The morning after the meeting with Langley, life returned to its usual course. At least, on the surface.  

You and Charles woke up in the massive bed, the sheets tangled between your bodies. The sea breeze drifted in through the open windows, and the sound of the city gradually waking up filled the air.  

But as Charles stretched and pressed a distracted kiss to your shoulder before heading to the shower, your mind was already elsewhere.  

The target.  

You didn’t know who it was. You had no leads. All you knew was that you had one week to find and eliminate them.  

You and Charles operated in the same world, but when it came to work, each had their own methods. There was an unspoken agreement: you would handle this separately. And although you trusted each other, at the end of the day, you were both trained assassins. You didn’t share information unless it was necessary.  

So that morning, after having breakfast together and laughing as if nothing was wrong, you each went your separate ways.  

Your first instinct was to go back to Moreau. You knew that bastard had more information than he had let on at the gala.  

You found him in a private club in Nice, surrounded by bodyguards and beautiful women. Moreau lived like a king, but you knew that beneath all his luxury, he was a man always one step away from death.  

You waited for the right moment. When he stepped away from his group to a more secluded area of the club, you followed him.  

"You're persistent," he said without turning around, as if he already knew you were there.  

"You know I don’t like being given half-truths."  

Moreau slowly turned, a smug smile on his lips.  

"That’s what makes this more fun."  

You didn’t waste time. In a swift motion, you pulled a small knife from your dress and pressed it against his side. Moreau didn’t even flinch.  

"How much do you want to live, Moreau?" you whispered.  

He sighed, as if he were tired of the game.  

"Alright, alright. Listen… There’s someone in Monte Carlo who's been asking too many questions. Someone new in the scene. Might be your target."  

"Name."  

"I don’t have one. But I know they frequent the casino at the Hôtel de Paris. If I were you, I’d start there."  

You studied him for a moment. Moreau wasn’t easy to read, but you knew when he was lying. This time, he seemed sincere.  

"If you’re deceiving me, I’ll kill you."  

"I know, darling," he replied with a smirk. "But I’m not."  

You put the knife away and walked out without looking back.  

Meanwhile, Charles had taken a different approach. His instincts led him back to Langley.  

He didn’t like taking orders without clear information, and he wasn’t going to play a game without knowing the rules.  

The problem with Langley was that he wasn’t easy to find. So Charles had to turn to an old contact at the Monte Carlo port, a man who worked in private security for certain illicit businesses.  

"Langley isn’t in town," the man said, a burly guy with a few days��� worth of beard. "But he can see you over a video call."  

"Do it."  

The man led him to an office in the back of a warehouse. As soon as the screen lit up, Langley’s image appeared, his expression as neutral as ever.  

"I knew you’d come, Charles."  

"Give me something more. I’m not hunting a ghost."  

Langley sighed, as if tired of repeating the same answers.  

"Always so impatient."  

"Always so annoying," Charles retorted.  

Langley gave a faint smile.  

"Fine. Here’s your clue: the target was at the Monaco Grand Prix this year."  

Charles frowned.  

"That’s not enough."  

"It’s all you need. Start there."  

The screen went black before Charles could respond.  

He stood in silence for a moment, processing the information. If the target had been at the Monaco Grand Prix, it meant they had access to the elite of the sport. A sponsor, a businessman, a politician… or someone far more dangerous.  

Charles clenched his jaw.  

He didn’t like riddles.  

But one thing was certain: he would find this person.  

That night, you returned to the penthouse just as Charles was walking through the door.  

You both looked at each other, analyzing each other’s faces, searching for traces of what the other had discovered. But as always, neither said anything.  

"How was your day?" you asked with a flawless smile.  

"Productive. And yours?"  

"The same."  

Charles set his keys on the table and walked toward you, wrapping an arm around your waist.  

"Dinner out?"  

"I’d love to."

That night, they chose a discreet restaurant on a quiet corner of Monte Carlo. It was a small, elegant place, with barely half a dozen tables and an intimate atmosphere created by candlelight and the soft murmur of distant conversations.  

You chose a simple black dress that highlighted your features, while Charles opted for a perfectly tailored suit, as always.  

The dishes arrived one after another, a parade of delicate flavors they barely registered. Each bite was an excuse to avoid speaking, to not risk saying something that would give them away. As he filled your wine glass, you looked at him, wondering if he also felt that invisible weight.  

Charles seemed relaxed, but you knew him too well. His movements were a little slower, his eyes less bright. He was thinking, analyzing. Just like you.  

When they finally paid the bill and walked back to the penthouse, silence remained their greatest refuge. Neither of them mentioned the investigation or the clues guiding them down parallel paths toward the same truth.  

The following days were marked by the routine of their double life. In the mornings, they behaved like the perfect married couple: having breakfast together on the terrace, attending social events, and maintaining their impeccable public image. But as soon as the sun began to set, they separated, each with their own secret agenda.  

Your investigation led you back to the casino at the Hôtel de Paris, following Moreau’s trail. You spent hours observing, mentally noting the familiar and unfamiliar faces that frequented the place. You tried to identify someone who didn’t belong, someone who might be the target. But every time you thought you were getting close, the trail vanished.  

Finally, one night, you intercepted an intermediary working for Langley. It was difficult to get anything out of him, but you managed:  

“The target is closer than you think,” the man said before disappearing into the shadows.  

The phrase left you cold. What exactly did it mean?  

Charles, meanwhile, followed the lead through the Monaco Grand Prix. He reviewed guest lists, sponsors, and businessmen who had attended the event. He made discreet calls and pressed old contacts. But just like you, he encountered an unsettling void.  

One afternoon, while reviewing documents in his private office, he received an envelope. Inside was a note written with mechanical precision:  

“The closest enemy is the hardest to identify.”  

He read the words over and over, as if the truth was hidden between the lines. Something didn’t add up.  

Both of you reached the same conclusion at the same time, though you were in different places.  

You, mentally reviewing the pieces of your investigation, began to notice a pattern: every path seemed to lead back to Charles. The vague phrases, the contradictory clues everything pointed to one possibility.  

He, staring at the note in his office, had a similar revelation. If the target was “close,” if the enemy was “hard to identify,” then it couldn’t be an outsider. It had to be you.  

When you both returned to the penthouse that night, you didn’t talk about it. But you both knew.  

The following days were a mix of tension and denial. You both moved as if nothing had changed, but the truth chased you like a shadow.  

In the mornings, you still shared breakfast on the terrace. Charles poured your coffee, you asked about his day. Smiles, glances, small touches of affection. But it was all an act, a way to avoid the inevitable confrontation.  

At night, you both pretended to be busy. You said you had meetings, he mentioned important calls. But in reality, you were making plans, evaluating options, looking for a way to complete the mission without the other knowing.  

Neither of you wanted to do it. But you knew that failing to complete the assignment would be an act of betrayal. And in your world, betrayal was paid with life.  

On the last night of the week, you both returned to the penthouse at the same time, as if fate had planned the encounter.  

The atmosphere was different. The tension was palpable, like a knot in the air. You looked at yourself in the mirror as you removed your earrings, noticing how your hands trembled slightly.  

Charles, in his room, sat on the edge of the bed, holding a glass of whiskey. He watched the amber liquid, lost in thought.  

That night, neither of you slept. You knew the deadline was about to expire. And you knew the moment to act was drawing closer.  

The question you both avoided asking was the same: Will I be able to do it? 

A couple of hours later, the clock struck two in the morning when the phone rang.  

It was a call you had been expecting, though neither of you wanted to answer.  

You were on the balcony, watching the lights of Monte Carlo reflect on the sea. Charles was inside, pouring himself another whiskey. But when you both saw the screen illuminated with your respective bosses’ numbers, you knew time had run out.  

There were no more excuses. No more delays.  

With almost synchronized movements, you answered the call.  

“It’s time,” said the voices on the other end of the line.  

There were no further explanations. None were needed.  

You both hung up at the same time. The silence that followed was deafening.  

You kept looking at the horizon, feeling the cold breeze against your skin. Charles placed his glass on the glass table with a faint *click*.  

No words were necessary.  

Slowly, you turned around.  

He was waiting for you in the center of the room, his posture relaxed but alert. His jacket rested on the sofa, his fingers playing with the ring on his hand.  

You walked toward him calmly, your heart pounding in your chest.  

You both knew what had to be done.  

You both knew this would only end one way.  

And yet… neither of you was the first to attack.  

For an eternal moment, you stared at each other, as if waiting for the other to find a way out of the inevitable.  

And then, almost at the same time, you both moved.  

Your first strike was quick, aimed at his face, but Charles dodged it easily, catching your wrist in the process. With an agile twist, you tried to free yourself, using your other hand to throw a punch at his side.

He blocked it with his forearm and pushed you back, making you crash against the coffee table. The glass trembled but didn’t break.  

“You're going to have to do better than that, amour,” he murmured with a lopsided smile.  

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding. Instead, you took advantage of the distance to pull out the knife hidden on your thigh. With a precise movement, you tried to cut him, but Charles was faster.  

He dodged by mere millimeters, twisting his body and catching your wrist again. This time, he used his strength to turn you around and push you against the wall, pinning you in place.  

But you had already anticipated the move.  

You used the momentum to lift your leg and strike him in the ribs, forcing him to release you.  

Charles staggered back with a low grunt, bringing a hand to his side.  

“That hurt.”  

“That was the idea.”  

He smiled. Not like a man who was losing, but like someone who was enjoying the challenge.  

And then, he pulled out his gun.  

He aimed it straight at your chest.  

But you were already prepared.  

Before he could pull the trigger, you threw the knife at his hand. You didn’t manage to cut him, but the impact was strong enough to make him drop the weapon.  

The gun hit the floor with a loud clang.  

Both of you lunged for it at the same time.  

You rolled across the marble floor, feeling the cold against your skin. Charles tried to reach it, but you were faster.  

Just as your fingers brushed the metal, he grabbed you by the waist and flipped you over with force, making you land on the carpet.  

The impact knocked the air out of you, but you didn’t give up.  

You used your weight to turn him over, ending up on top of him. You tried to reach for the gun again, but Charles caught you, rolling with you until he was the one on top.  

Your wrists were trapped in his hands, pinned against the carpet.  

Both of you were breathing heavily, your bodies tense with adrenaline.  

Charles’ hair fell slightly over his forehead, his shirt was half unbuttoned, and his parted lips revealed his ragged breathing.  

Your legs were still tangled with his, and you could feel the heat of his body against yours.  

For a moment, neither of you moved.  

Desire and fury were indistinguishable in that instant.  

Charles smiled with that arrogant air that drove you crazy.  

“You know you can’t beat me, chérie.”  

His voice was low, almost a whisper.  

Your lips parted, your heart hammered in your chest.  

And then, instead of answering, you disarmed him in the only way you knew would make him fall.  

You kissed him.  

With the same intensity with which you had fought.  

Your lips crashed against his in a fierce, desperate kiss, pouring all the anger, frustration, and desire into every movement.  

Charles growled against your mouth, surprised at first, but then, his grip on your wrists loosened. His hands, which had been trying to dominate you, now trailed down your arms, touching your skin with a need that had nothing to do with the fight.  

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, making him let out a breathless gasp against your lips.  

Nothing else existed in that moment.  

Just the two of you.  

Just the need to forget, for an instant, that you were supposed to kill each other.  

But then…  

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Both of you froze.  

Charles let his forehead fall against yours, closing his eyes in frustration.  

“Tell me it’s not what I think it is…”  

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips.  

“If we don’t answer, they’ll come in.”  

Charles cursed under his breath in French before getting off you and walking toward the door, still disheveled.  

He opened it just enough to see the hotel manager. An older man with an impassive face that had seen too much in his lifetime.  

“The neighbors have complained about the noise,” the man said calmly. “Is everything all right here?”  

Charles ran a hand through his hair, forcing a tired smile.  

“We’re working.”  

The man nodded immediately, asking no further questions.  

“I understand. Try to keep it down.”  

Charles closed the door without another word.  

When he turned around, you were still on the floor, breathing deeply, an amused smile on your lips.  

“Working, huh?”  

He shrugged, leaning over you again.  

“It wasn’t a lie.”  

He looked at you with those intense green eyes, with an expression you knew all too well.  

The battle wasn’t over yet.  

But for that night, the war would be on pause.

[creatingblackcharacters]

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR RECOMMENDING SINNERS

I cannot fathom just how much genius went into this film

From the intentional incorporation of a diverse array of spirituality (a SPECIFIC INDIGENOUS TRIBE!!!) to gorgeous cinematography (those shots of introducing the owners of the grocery store in town) and genuinely soul-uplifting music

And oh my god. That scene with Sammie and the past, present, and future... When I tell you how excited I was -

Also to see it subtly done, just background actors at first, then in full camera view, breakdancing and hip hop and west African dancing and a BLACK BALLERINA (HYPE!!!) and just the melding of culture and life and light and soul and EVERYTHING GOOD

THEY EVEN INCORPORATED SUN WUKONG AND CHINESE OPERA DANCER/SINGERS WHEN THE CHINESE FAMILY JOINED IN AAAAAA

To see Coogler have not one but TWO consultants on subjects that other directors would've just made a best guess at -

Also the incredible allegory of white cultural vampirism, commodification, and theft of Black culture overall --

Holy hell. If this doesn't win at least five Oscars I will riot.

Without your lessons and info on Black culture in general as well as the plug of something along the lines of "the movie portrayed why our music connects and means so much to us" I would not have gotten to see this, but also I am so, so grateful for your teachings.

Thank you so much, keep doing what you're doing, and god was Sinners a masterpiece. <3

Well look at that! And I didn't even know that that dancer was meant to represent Sun Wukong, so now I have a chance to see it again! I can't wait til it comes out on DVD, it'll be the first time I've actually bought a movie in a minute.

[illubean]

JJK Men with a S/o in Musical Theatre

Characters: Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Ino Takuma, Aoi Todo

Type: Headcanons, Gn!Reader

self indulgent af (im not even in theater anymore)

Warnings: it’s mentioned that reader plays female characters but other than that relatively gn

Satoru Gojo

he INSISTS that you practice in front of him (he just wants to hear you sing any chance he gets)

his favorite musical after you introduce him to it is Legally Blonde no I will not be taking criticism

sometimes walking past you in the hall he’ll sing the little musical theater song lyrics he knows very bad and very loudly

“Hi Toru-“ “A TOAST TO THE GROOM”

he comes to every single one of your shows and every show date

your production is being put on for a week? he’s got tickets to go all 7 days

and since he’s already watched it so many times he likes to snicker and gossip with you about your cast mates and how he noticed them mess up one night

without fail Satoru is always front row with his camera pointed directly at you (terrible theater etiquette I know)

if theres ever a point where you get to interact with the audience he eats it up every time

hes you’re #1 supporter and he gets you the biggest bouquet he can find every time

your cast mates are always gossiping about him, telling you how lucky you are and how they wished they got flowers every show night

very supportive but if you get in the car to go home with your stage makeup on he WILL laugh at you..

“Help me, why are your eyebrows so dark!?” “The stage lighting washes me out!”

Suguru Geto

HE’S SO JD HEATHERS CODED IM MFFHGHGNGGJGNJG

he appreciates performing arts but has never spent much time thinking about it or seeking it out if that makes sense?

he’s reluctant but he will sing parts of songs when you need to practice and can’t meet with whoever the part originally belongs to

MAKE HIM DUET SUDDENLY SEYMOUR WITH YOU. HE CAN SING EITHER PART.

if you beg and cry hard enough he might just audition for a show with you

but if he get’s casted as anyone else but your character’s love interest or worse, the love interest of SOMEONE ELSE he’s rejecting the role

he doesn’t think he’d actually ever get casted, he just auditioned because you kept bugging him about it

but if he does? god damn it now he’s stuck

you’re directors love him, and since you guys have good stage chemistry they are almost always going to cast you together if he auditions again

Kento Nanami

out of all of them I think he’s the only one who was interested in the arts before meeting you

he probably likes Les Miserables and The Phantom of the Opera

he never asks you to sing for him but if you offer or ask him to watch you practice he will gladly do so

he’s impressed by how well you perform

it amazes him how you’re able to move around, dance, and sing all while in character

he attracts the attention of your cast mates, always being so respectful

especially when he waits for you to finish getting out of costume with a bouquet and his jacket to offer you if it’s cold

he’s always invited to your open rehearsals even if its not by you 😭 your directors love him too

Toji Fushiguro

doesn’t care much for the arts but he’d be damned if he missed seeing his baby perform

no matter if you’re a lead or ensemble he WILL be there

he tends to keep to the back as to not block people’s view with his broad shoulders..

he likes watching you play characters that are so far from your usual personality

especially if you’re usually quiet, like wow he didn’t know you could project like that

he teases you after the show if you have a love interest in the show, especially if you complain about the person casted as them (no because why did I get casted as love interests with my mortal enemies 3 times)

if the show is suitable enough, he’ll bring little Megumi along to see you perform

I don’t think he’d be one to buy bouquets for you but he’d buy a single rose and let Megumi give it to you

he’d watch fondly as you pick up his son and bring him to meet the other cast members

GAH I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

Ino Takuma

he does the “raise your ya ya ya” thing around you 😭

he gets jealous if you have a love interest especially if theres a scene where you get freakay

this makes him consider auditioning for the next show you’re going to be in….

he’d watch you take photos with them and pout until you walk up to him

his favorite roles to see you in are the ones like Heather Chandler or Regina George

he may or may not be joking when he says you should be mean to him after seeing you perform…

if the show is sad he will cry then try to deny it when you point out the tear stains on his face

and if YOU’RE crying on stage? he cries even harder

he makes you karaoke with him, even though he’s getting absolutely mogged but he doesn’t mind

he just likes hearing your voice

he brags about you to anyone willing to listen

Aoi Todo

the audience hates him.

he always insists on sitting as close to the stage as possible and his large body blocks the view of the people behind him (luckily the stage is raised…)

and he’s so loud… you can always hear his shouts and applause over everyone else’s

your cast mates don’t like him either…

“Wow, your boyfriend is so…supportive”

even after the show is over and it’s time to meet you people give the two of you side eyes

“YOU DID SO GOOD MY LOVE!” “Shhh! But thank you…”

he’s so bad at being quiet 😭

another one who likes watching you play mean characters…

he has so many photos of you on his phone of you in costume and on stage

and they’re ALL in his wallpaper rotation

[jamesmcalover]

worst plus one 2

Hálfdán Helgi Matthíasson (Væb) x Reader

Warnings: enemies to lovers, arguments, them being meanies

Summary: Reader is Matti's best friend and is brought along to this whole Eurovision mess. His annoying brother is making this trip even messier.

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

1.7k words - not proofread

The sun was out. The flags were waving. You were ten minutes into filming Eurovision TikToks with the Icelandic chaos troupe and already regretting every life decision that had brought you to this cobbled square with Hálfdán.

“Can you please just say the line?” you snapped, for the third time, holding your phone up with increasing despair.

“I am saying the line,” Hálfdán replied, far too calmly for someone actively making your blood boil.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying not to fling your phone into the river. “The line is ‘Vote for Iceland, or Matti will cry.’ That’s it. Straight. One take. No improvising.”

Hálfdán turned to Matti, who was valiantly trying to balance a mic and two cans of Coke Zero in his hands. “Do you want to cry for the camera?”

“I want to leave this planet,” Matti mumbled, shifting the cans before one slipped.

Hálfdán turned back to you, eyes bright with mischief. “See? He’s in character. Why can’t you match the vibe?”

You lowered the phone with a dramatic sigh. “Because I’m trying to make this usable, and you’re doing your usual thing where you think everything is a joke.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping closer, grin still in place. “You love when I’m like this.”

“No,” you said flatly. “I tolerate it. For your brother. Barely.”

For just a split second, something flickered across his face. The grin dipped, just a touch, like you’d hit something sharper than you meant to. But then it was back, more forced around the edges.

“You’ve got a real way with people, you know that?”

“And you’ve got the self-awareness of a rock.”

Matti blinked. “Guys–”

But Hálfdán stepped forward again, his voice lower now, more controlled, but with an unmistakable edge. “You act like being here is some huge chore. Like we should be grateful you’re gracing us with your presence.”

You stared at him, the heat rising to your face. “And you act like everything revolves around you. Like if you’re not the loudest one in the room, the sun stops shining.”

A weird silence settled. Úlla shifted awkwardly. A tourist paused like they’d stumbled into a scene from a Scandinavian soap opera.

Matti moved quickly, stepping between you both, holding one hand up like he was breaking up a bar fight. “Okay. That’s enough. You two need to–”

“I’m done,” you muttered, shoving the phone into Matti’s chest, almost knocking one of the Coke Zeros loose. “Here. Let someone else film his clown show.”

And you turned, storming off down the street. Past a booth selling Eurovision pins. Past a man in a Erika Vikman shirt filming a vlog. Past the weight of everyone’s eyes.

You didn’t look back.

Not even when you knew, with that annoying certainty, that he was still watching.

You didn’t go far. Just far enough.

Basel was still beautiful, even when you were stomping through it with your jaw clenched and your brain buzzing. The cobbled streets gleamed faintly in the afternoon light, the flags flapped cheerfully above doorways, and somewhere by the river, a busker was playing something wistful on an accordion. You barely noticed.

You didn’t have a destination in mind. Just away. Past shop windows and flower stalls and tourists taking pictures you didn’t want to be in. You tugged your hoodie sleeves over your hands and kept walking, your own frustration rattling louder than the city around you.

Eventually, your feet led you back to the hotel. You meant to go to your room. Maybe take a scalding shower. Maybe scream into a pillow or punch one. But instead, without thinking, you found yourself slipping into the delegation lounge.

It was quiet. Almost empty. The air was a little too still, like even the walls knew something had gone wrong.

One corner of the room was dimly lit by a lamp shaped like a treble clef, casting golden shadows across the carpet. A half-eaten croissant sat forgotten on a paper plate near the window. Someone had abandoned a water bottle on the piano. The Wi-Fi was still terrible.

But the couch was soft. And more importantly, unoccupied.

You sank into it, shoulders slumping as the adrenaline wore off. You pulled your sleeves over your hands and shoved your hood up over your head, blocking out the world as best you could. Then, with a shaky breath, you leaned back against the wall and closed your eyes.

Just for a minute.

Soft footsteps approached a few moments later. You didn’t move. Didn’t open your eyes. You didn’t have it in you.

“Don’t punch me,” Matti said gently. “I brought peace offerings.”

You blinked up at him.

He had two cups of tea cradled in one arm, a chocolate bar tucked under his chin, and that familiar sheepish smile he only ever wore when he was walking into someone else’s mess with the full intention of cleaning it up.

You didn’t say anything. Just reached for the tea.

The paper cup was warm against your fingers. Comforting, in a way nothing else had been all day.

Matti didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, watching you like he was still deciding whether or not you might vanish through the floor.

After a long moment, he said, “He didn’t mean it like that. He was just being… him.”

You stared down into the tea, watching the steam curl. “I know.”

He shifted the chocolate bar from under his chin to the table. Sat down slowly, leaving just enough space between you to be respectful. But still there.

“He’s been weird all day,” Matti added. “Kept asking where you were. Kept pretending he wasn’t asking.”

You didn’t respond. You took a sip. It burned your tongue.

“He’s not trying to be the worst person alive,” Matti said after a pause.

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “He just manages it anyway?”

He smiled faintly. “He does that with people he likes.”

Your eyes snapped to him.

He held up both hands, not pushing, not teasing. “Not saying anything. Just saying.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The quiet said enough.

And because Matti was, above all else, a good brother and a better friend, he didn’t say anything else about it. He just started talking about something else, tomorrow’s rehearsals, a weird email, a cue someone kept missing. You let him talk. Let his voice fill the room like music in a too-silent house.

You let yourself breathe.

And you didn’t see Hálfdán for the rest of the night.

After that, things shifted.

Not dramatically. No public blowups. No dramatic declarations. Just quieter. Colder. The kind of silence that settled between two people who’d said too much and not enough at the same time.

You didn’t speak to him.

You were still around him, of course. Eurovision was a circus, and your trailers were pitched in the same tent. Rehearsals, interviews, backstage chaos, you were orbiting each other constantly. But the chaotic, crackling back-and-forth that had defined you both disappeared like smoke.

He didn’t tease. You didn’t snap. You kept your distance. From him, from whatever complicated pull still existed under the surface. And he, for once, respected the space. Or maybe he was just as tired of the fight as you were.

You found yourself drifting closer to other people. Matti, naturally, a constant presence, easy company, someone who didn’t demand anything from you except maybe a sip of your coffee. And Úlla.

Úlla, one of the Væb’s dancers, wore silver glitter like armor and moved like she was powered by music alone. She was funny and bold and barely gave you a choice in becoming her friend. The second day after the argument, she plopped down next to you in the artist lounge and said, “You look like you need rescuing,” before pulling you into a meme ranking tournament on her phone.

And that was that.

You ended up spending more and more time together, wandering through the sunlit streets between obligations, judging street food with dramatic flair, rating delegation outfits in whispered tones at cafés. She took selfies with everything: signs, fountains, cardboard cutouts of Käärijä (one of which she made you pose beside, despite your protests). She called it “cultural immersion.”

One afternoon, she started an impromptu dance-off in the lounge. Dragged you in by the wrist. You lost, spectacularly. And she threw her arms around you after like it was a victory for both of you anyway.

With her, and with Matti trailing after you both like a loyal retriever, it was easier to breathe. Easier to forget, at least for a while, how often your eyes drifted. Up two floors in the hotel. Across the halls. To the corner of every room where Hálfdán inevitably appeared, filling the air with his too-big presence and trying, trying not to look at you.

Sometimes you caught him looking anyway.

Sometimes you looked away first.

Other times, he did.

It didn’t help that Úlla noticed everything. You had a sneaking suspicion she always had.

“You’re weird when he’s around,” she said one afternoon, sipping iced coffee and swinging her legs over the side of a planter box as you waited for transport. “Not in a bad way. Just… quieter. Less fighty.”

“I am not fighty,” you said, too quickly.

She arched a perfectly glittered brow.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

There wasn’t a good response. Because she was right.

So you stared at the pavement instead. Watched the shadows of flagpoles shift in the breeze. Tried not to think about how your whole chest felt tight when Hálfdán entered a room. Or how you used to meet his grins with eye-rolls and sharp comebacks. And now… now you looked down. Or away. Or anywhere but at him.

And somehow that was worse.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

Part 3!!

[popcornforone]

Gloriously Dramatic

A Dieter Bravo Fan Fic

Well we were spoilt about 48 hours ago weren’t we? Madness. Pure chaos. Life admin did not happen on Tuesday for me, instead a bombardment happened& since then well… I’ve wanted to give something back, cos if you saw this look & you didn’t think Dieter, then I feel for you.

Synopsis:- Dieter has had a hard day doing a photo shoot, but you’re gonna make the next part of his dah even harder.

Word Count:- 2900

Warnings:- DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18! Oral sex, established relationship, Rough PIV sex,praise kink, swearing, Teasing & banter, Mild overstimulation, Unfiltered monologuing which leads into dirty talk, fingering, remember dieter is a sex pedr, mentions of addictions & infidelity in the past.

Thank you all for reading this, hope this keeps you all nice & feral. I hope you enjoyed this.

You find him like this, draped over the pink armchair like a Renaissance painting having a “nervous breakdown” or that’s what he wants you to believe as he huffs & puffs. The green robe is still on, though barely. His legs are sprawled wide, silk boxers slightly rumpled, his hair tousled just right for a man who didn’t lift a finger to style it himself.

He groans, long, dramatic & theatrical.

“I’m spent,” he declares to the ceiling, then turns his head slowly, like he’s in a tragic opera to look at you. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Artistically. I gave them everything, babe.”

You don’t blink.

“You sat in a chair & winked at a camera, I’d hardly call that work.”

“With depth,” he counters, placing a hand dramatically on his chest. “With mystery. &… possibly a hernia. I haven’t ruled it out.”

You roll your eyes walk over & lean against the back of the chair, brushing a hand through his hair. It’s warm. He smells like espresso & ego, your favourite.

“You’re glorious,” you say.

He lifts his head, eyes narrowing. “Say it again.”

You smirk, his smell intoxicating . “You’re glorious.”

His hand snaps out to your wrist with unexpected grace. “You’re goddamn right I am.”

In one Swift yank, he pulls you into his lap in the chair, like he’s dragging you into his gravity field, equal parts needy & smug, before he buries his face in your neck. “Marry me. Or at least order sushi while I emotionally recover.”

“So this is foreplay now?” you ask. It’s the 5th time Dieter has asked something including marriage as an option in the last week, like it’s something so easy to do. Maybe to him it is, but he huffs at your response.

“This is method acting,” he mutters into your collarbone, with grand hand gestures . “They made me smolder, babe. For art.” Dieter groans again, flopping an arm across his forehead. “Do you know how many expressions I had to give? Four. Four! & the chair was aggressively velvet. I’ve been exfoliated & touched up against my will.”

“Tragic,” you murmur, kissing his temple. “First time you’ve ever complained about being touched up” he pulls a face at you before returning back to being a drama Queen.

“It is,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut like a Victorian poet. “No one understands the toll of being this photogenic. It’s a burden. I carry it for the people.” You hum, your lips trailing to his cheek, down the angle of his jaw. He doesn’t react at first, too absorbed in the monologue.”…& the lighting! They asked me to tilt my head thirty degrees. Thirty! That’s chiropractor territory. I think I dislocated charm itself. My face will ache for days, it wasn’t even my good side” another huff. Your mouth finds his “overworked” neck now, warm & soft. You kiss just beneath his ear. His voice falters.

“Babe?” he says, one eye cracking open.

“Mhm?” You kiss lower, the edge of his collarbone peeking from the open robe. Your fingers glide over his chest, down to his stomach, warm, toned, ridiculously smooth. You press a slow kiss there, & his breath stutters.

“What are you… oh. Oh.” His voice is smooth. His tone changes. Less tragedy. More curiosity. You kiss him again, just above his navel this time, & ruffle his hair gently with your other hand. Ready to descend down his happy trail.

“You said you were recovering,” you whisper.

“I am,” he says, but his voice cracks. “Or I was. Now I’m…oh my god.” He props himself up on his elbows, hair a mess, eyes suddenly very alert. “Is this…are you seducing me while I’m vulnerable?”

You smile innocently. “Would I do that? & wouldn’t you do the exact same” you say as you pull off your pink dress so you are left just in your underwear. You both know that once you start you can’t stop. You’re each other’s addiction.

“Yes & yes, I respect it.” His eyes are wide now. Less theatre, more raw hunger. You smile, watching the realization bloom across his face like slow-motion fireworks. “Wait,” he says, his voice husky, “I thought you were comforting me”

“I am,” you murmur, fingers sliding under the waistband of his absurd white boxers. “This is a very specific form of therapy.”

“Is it covered by insurance? Do I need to tell tmz about this?” he jokes weakly, but his voice is already wrecked, breath catching as you start to tug the fabric down.

“Just say you need it,” you purr, eyes flicking up to meet his.

Dieter swallows. “I… Jesus. I need it. Fucking want it” The white boxers come off. He’s already half-hard, twitching under your gaze, the air cool against his skin. He shifts slightly in the chair, trying to look composed. He fails spectacularly.

“This is dangerously intimate,” he whispers. “I feel like a Greek god being worshipped by his mortal queen. Am I glowing? I feel like I’m glowing & glorious.”

You don’t respond. You kiss your way lower. One kiss just above the base, so responsive making his hips jump. Another, slower kiss down the length of him. A flick of your tongue along the underside & he lets out a choked, whimpering sound. Surrendering to your mouth.

“Okay,” he breathes, clutching at the armrests like he’s bracing for liftoff. “Yup. Definitely glowing.”

You can’t help but smirk & look into those big brown eyes alive with fire. You wrap your lips around him, slow & deliberate, taking your time. His head tips back with a soft moan.

“I think I just saw god,” he mutters. “She had your mouth.”

You hollow your cheeks slightly, bobbing your head, one hand stroking what your lips can’t reach. His thighs tense under your palms.

“Fuck I love you,” he gasps suddenly, voice high-pitched with desperation. “I…i know I said that during a massage once & didn’t mean it but this time, I’m… I’m ooooh fuck”

“Shhhh” You pull back just enough to glance up at him. “Less talking. More praising.” You then get back to work, sloppy is Dieters favourite.

“Oh my god,” he groans. “You’re so hot when you dominate me. I’m gonna write you into my memoirs. Chapter seven: ‘Tongue of Glory.’”You hum around him in response. Still making him feel like a king. His whole body arches slightly, one hand threading through your hair, his thighs trembling under your touch.

“I’m gonna…. yes, yes, yes… babe, fuck…”

Always tasting tangy, he spills for you with a shuddering cry, voice echoing off the walls, he’s in heaven now. You pull back slowly, wiping your mouth as he collapses into the chair like someone just delivered a monologue into his soul.

“You,” he pants, chest heaving, “oooh fuck… you’re my religion now. I’m gonna build a shrine. Maybe two.”

He’s still breathless, slouched dramatically in the chair like a man who’s just survived a hurricane of intimacy and has seen things. You lean back on your knees, wiping your mouth with a slow smirk. Dieter slowly lifts his head, eyes dark, lips parted. “That was…babe…that was… That was …. Fuck… that was fucking biblical.” You giggle a little at how over the top he is, as you notice a few drops of cum on your breasts, you decide now is a good moment to take your bra off, your

“You’re welcome.” He reaches out and grabs your wrist like he’s making a pact with a god.

“You just sucked the will to act out of me,” he growls. “I think you broke my career.”

You laugh. “Please. You’re already imagining how to monologue this in an interview. Wondering how this can improve your profile” everything is over the top & an act with Dieter & you secretly love it, you just wind him up to get a raise.

“Correct,” he says, eyes gleaming now. “‘It was transcendental. I was vulnerable. She devoured me like a five-star dessert. I saw the face of Eros. I wept.’”

He pulls you up into his lap, hands suddenly firm on your thighs. That glint in his eye has changed, still playful, but now heavy with intent. Dangerous. Filthy. His eyes gawping at your breasts.”But now,” he murmurs, voice like honey and sin, “now it is your turn to suffer.”You snigger. “Suffer?”

“Yes. In the most exquisite way,” he purrs, nuzzling your neck. “I’m going to make you writhe, sweetheart. Gasping. Shaking. Haunted.”

He pulls back to look into your eyes, completely serious now. “I’m going to give you an orgasm so intense it’ll rewrite your personality. Your tax bracket might change. You might lose your taste for chocolate. You will definitely forget your own name mid-scream.” His hand slides into your panties, palm hot on your sex, your body responds. “Your thighs are going to shake like they’re trying to escape the room.”

“Bold promise,” you breathe, trying to remain composed.

“Oooh No, no,” he whispers, voice deadly calm, “it’s a prophecy.”

He grins wickedly. “So you better sit back, my glorious goddess of throat techniques, because Daddy Dieter is about to…”

“Don’t say ‘Daddy Dieter,’” you groan. The press new nickname for him. He went along with it for a few months but now you’re both collectively bored of it.

“Fine,” he whispers, leaning in to bite your ear gently, his thumb now inside you. “Then just scream it later.”

You rise slowly, teasingly, from his lap, dragging your fingers down his chest as you go. Dieter watches you like he’s hypnotized, still sprawled in his chair, gloriously naked, flushed, & completely wrecked.

You don’t say a word as you pluck his ridiculous green robe off the back of the chair & slip it over your shoulders. It dwarfs you, swallowing your frame, but you wear it like it was designed by gods.

“Wait,” he croaks, brows drawing together. “What are you, where are you going with my robe? That’s designer you know?”

You smirk. “You want to worship me?” He nods, reverently. “Then chase me.”You then roll your panties down & fling them at him, hitting his stomach & landing on his erection landing like a tent. You turn and walk off, hips swaying just enough to tease, leaving him naked, breathless, & stunned… but only for exactly two seconds.

“Oh hell yes,” he mutters, vaulting out of the chair like a man possessed. He’s on your trail in seconds, footsteps pounding down the hallway behind you, growling under his breath. “You minx. You robe thieving siren. You temptress with a throat like a goddamn spell. Get back here…” You squeal, half-laughing, as you burst into the bedroom. You don’t get far.

Dieter catches you at the edge of the dresser, spinning you around & pinning you hard against the wood with a strength that makes your knees buckle. His body is flush with yours, hot, hard, already back in full Bravo mode.

“Thought you could tease me & walk away?” he growls in your ear. “After that mouth? That look in my robe? You bear beneath? Oh no, baby. No escape now.” He yanks the robe open, exposing your naked body underneath. One hand grabs your hip; the other presses into the small of your back, bending you over the dresser’s edge.

“Now,” he says, lining himself up, breath ragged, “you’re gonna take it. Every inch. No soft lighting. No romance. Just me, fucking you like you stole my soul.& you’ll take it good like the little brat you are” You gasp as he thrusts into you in one deep, claiming motion. All the way, balls deep making your knuckles go white as you clutch the dresser.

“Oooh fuck… That’s it,” he growls, pace already rough & relentless. “You wanted drama? This is your climax arc. Screaming. Biting. Standing ovation.” His hips snap against yours, his grip bruising, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing around the bedroom. Your sacred ritual. “Gonna make your legs tremble,” he pants. “Gonna have you drooling on this dresser. So ruined you forget what gravity feels like.” One hand slides around to your front, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles. Your moans pitch higher.

“That’s it, baby. Louder. I want the neighbors to know your name. No… my name. Say it. Say it while I fuck you stupid.”

“Dieter…fuck… yes Diets… fuck” You can barely speak as he drives into you, relentless, focused, feral. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting deep, every thrust slamming your hips against the dresser hard enough to rattle the drawer handles. His fingers never stop moving on your clit, fast, precise, determined like he’s chasing a standing ovation.

“Come on, baby,” he growls into your shoulder. He’s gonna leave marks “Give it to me. I want you shaking. I want you ruined.” You’re close, so close you can’t breathe. The pressure builds impossibly high, & then it breaks like a wave, crashing over you with violent ecstasy. You scream his name as your orgasm rips through you, legs trembling, vision blurring, body convulsing around him. You feel it everywhere, in your toes, your scalp, your soul.

“That’s my girl,” Dieter groans, his voice tight. “God, you feel so good like this…” He keeps going just long enough to push you through the edge again, overstimulating, dizzying before he then snaps.

“Fuck fuckerty fuck…you’re gonna milk my soul out of me… Jesus” With a deep, broken moan, he spills inside you, thick, hot & pulsing. His hips stutter, breath ragged against your neck. For a second, neither of you move. Just panting. Gasping. Processing. Frozen in lust.

Then he collapses ,dramatically of course, dragging you down to the bedroom floor with him in a heap of tangled limbs &wrecked satisfaction.

“I think I broke a rib,” he mutters into your ear his hand still on your heat.

“I think I saw stars” you reply, dazed & fragile. He laughs weakly, one hand flopping dramatically over his forehead. “Next time,” you whisper, breathless, “you should try fucking one of the models from the photo shoot. They might be petter pussy.”His head turns slowly. His eyes narrow. He has a previous of fucking anything with a pulse. Before you tamed him, slightly.

“Don’t,” he says, “you dare.”

You smirk. “Just saying. Models are kind of… dramatic.”

“But you’re the one I love” you blush as he says that. He really does mean it. His jaw drops. “Watch your mouth,” he says, voice low & dangerous. “Or I swear to god I’ll shove my cock right back in it.”

“Promises, promises Daddy Dieter ,” you tease, already grinning. He’s already shifting on top of you again.

“Ooh your in such big trouble now girl”

Moon light pours in through the curtains, turning the living room into a dusky mood.

You wake slowly, a bit sore, deliciously sore, muscles humming in that very specific way that says: I got ruined by Dieter Bravo & I survived to tell the tale. You shift slightly & feel it. His arm, heavy around your waist. His breath, warm against the back of your neck. & that ridiculous green robe, draped over both of you like a cape of conquest.

You’re don’t remember heading back to the lounge but here you are on the couch. Naked. Entwined. Glowing in a sex haze. Dieter stirs behind you, his voice gravelly & sleep-wrecked.

“Mmmph. You’re still here. I didn’t dream you, right?”

“Nope,” you murmur, wiggling back into his warmth. “You asked me to move in remember & to marry me about 20 times” you giggle.

“Thank god,” he sighs, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your shoulder. “If that was a dream I would’ve sued someone for not delivering the tightest cunt… it would Probably be God.” You chuckle. His fingers trail lazily over your stomach, then slide lower, possessive but not urgent. Just wanting to feel. To touch.

“You good?” he mumbles its caring. All roughness & dramatics he can still be a gentle soul.

“I can’t feel my thighs. So yeah. Pretty great.

“You’re welcome,” he says smugly, nuzzling into your hair. “I think We broke a dresser. I feel like that should be in our wedding vows.” You roll over to face him. His hair’s a mess. Eyes still heavy with sleep. That faint stubble burn still marks your neck. He looks ruined. He looks in love.

“You look like you’ve been through war,” you whisper.

He smiles. “I was. You’re the war. & the peace. & the afterparty.”

You kiss him, soft & deep. There’s no rush now. No audience. Just him & you, & the lingering heat that even time can’t cool.

He sighs into your mouth. “I don’t need awards. Don’t need interviews. I just want this. You. Robe-thief. Soul-stealer. Bedroom deviant.”

“You’re full of shit,” you laugh gently, brushing your nose against his.

He kisses you again, lazily, as his hand strokes your hip. “Let’s not get dressed. Let’s just lie here & bathe in the moonlight”

“You’re ridiculous.” You tut before running your hands over him again.

“Thought I was glorious” he raises an eyebrow.

“True Gloriously Dramatic”

“Oooh more than that I’m in love,” he corrects. “It’s worse best thing to ever be involved in”

[firstelevens]

Sambucky Prompt Game 🐈 or 🌹

🐈 - Figaro and Alpine

Sam is reasonably certain that he's going to get away with this.

As long as he makes it back home before Bucky and gets everything set up in time, he's golden. They've been having this conversation for almost a year now, and life keeps getting in the way, and of the two of them, Sam's the one who kind of made a career out of taking death defying leaps for the greater good. Sometimes the universe drops something wonderful in your lap and you just have to take it.

"And you'll be extra cute when Bucky sees you, right?" he asks the cat that's currently curled up across his thighs. "We're a team here; he can't say no to both of us."

"And if he tries to, you can just tell him he'll have to return all the cat stuff you bought to Target," says Joaquín, from the pilot's seat. "You know how much he hates Target; he'll adopt him on principle just to avoid going."

Sam has a whole speech lined up about why he won't need to resort to that, because Figaro--so named because they found him in a crate outside the opera house when they were on a stakeout--is too adorable to resist, but he's cut off by his phone buzzing. He picks it up and almost drops it again when he sees that it's a video call from Bucky.

He taps to answer the call without turning on his own camera and greets Bucky distractedly, too busy trying to figure out where he can angle his arm so the half-asleep cat in his lap won't immediately be obvious.

Onscreen, a vaguely disheveled Bucky frowns at his phone. "I can just see myself, Sam. Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Buck," says Sam. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, there's just kind of a humming noise? Like a buzzing but lower, it's sort of going in and out."

Sam looks down at Figaro, who is doing his best impression of a chainsaw. "Just, uh- just a bad connection up on the jet. You know how it is."

"You're heading home, then?" asks Bucky. "Soon?"

"We should get in in a couple hours," Sam says. "You have that freshmen mixer tonight, don't you? Mr. Congressman-elect?"

From the way Bucky's eyes widen slightly in alarm, Sam is going to assume that Bucky both forgot the mixer and ignored the texts from his team reminding him about it. "Of course," he says, slightly choked. "The mixer."

"The invitation is on the fridge," says Sam, laughing a little as Bucky whirls around, clearly trying to hunt for it among takeout menus and AJ's latest piece of artwork. "They said the dress code was smart-casual, but it's happening at the Watergate so that's a lie. You'll need a jacket and a tie."

Bucky groans. "How important is it for me to show up to this thing?"

"What, you got through an entire congressional campaign, but sipping champagne and eating canapés is a rough evening for you?"

"It is when I'd rather be at home," says Bucky, all but pouting into the camera.

Then, offscreen, there's a loud crashing noise, and Sam sits up a little straighter, leaning in towards his phone. As he does, he realizes that Bucky oddly doesn't look surprised, just kind of exasperated.

"Buck, what was that?"

"Nothing," he says. "I just, uh- I stacked up some stuff that I shouldn't have. I should go make sure nothing broke."

Sam furrows his eyebrows. "Okay," he says slowly. "See you soon?"

"See you soon, sweetheart," says Bucky, and hurriedly ends the call.

Ordinarily, Sam would dwell on it, but then they hit a patch of turbulence, and he's far too distracted calming Figaro down to think about the weird end of the call. They touch down at an airfield just outside DC two hours later, and between the extra duffel of cat supplies and Figaro's carrier, Sam needs Joaquín's help to get everything into the car.

By the time he's pulling into his and Bucky's driveway, it's already dark outside, and though the lights are on in the house, Bucky's car is still gone.

Sam breathes a sigh of relief and leaves his own bag in the car for now, grabbing the cat carrier and Fig's luggage before he hurries up the front steps.

"Welcome home, Fig," he says, as he grabs his keys and unlocks the door. "You're gonna have so much space to run around and so many cozy spots to nap in and so many boxes of shredded paper to play with. Bucky takes destroying confidential documents very seriously."

Figaro only responds to this with a curious little mewl, which Sam takes as his sign to open the door of the carrier so he can explore a little. His first few steps are hesitant, but then he scurries around the corner into the family room, peeking his head back around the doorway just to make sure that Sam is where he left him.

There's some soft scampering noises as Fig undoubtedly cases the joint, and then a loud meow, followed almost immediately by a softer, strangely higher pitched one. It happens a few more times, almost like Fig is having a conversation with himself, and before Sam can head down the hallway, the front door opens again to reveal Bucky in a very crisp suit.

"Sam!" he says. "You're home! I thought you were going to be longer."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "You don't have to sound so disappointed."

"What? I'm not disappointed," Bucky says, slightly too quickly for Sam's taste. "I just thought I might beat you home, is all."

He narrows his eyes. "Any particular reason you wanted to do that?"

Bucky presses the door closed behind him and strides forward into Sam's space, crowding him up against a wall. "Maybe I wanted to give my man a proper welcome home, huh?"

It's a cheap strategy. Amateur hour, really. Given even thirty seconds, Sam's sure that he could come up with a dozen better ways to distract someone from their questions.

Unfortunately, he and Bucky have been apart for the past three weeks, and the press of Bucky's body against his is a welcome return to the familiar. Sam leans in for a kiss, fully intending to allow Bucky this one successful distraction, when there's another meow, loud and irritated and undeniably closer than it was a moment ago.

He winces, already moving on to Torres's Target plan when suddenly, there's another meow, equally loud but distinctly higher pitched, and coming from a different direction, too.

When Sam pulls back to look at Bucky, he's got his eyes shut, face scrunched up in regret. When he cranes his neck to look over Bucky's shoulder, he sees Figaro, tail curled around him, looking up at the two of them. He chirps a little meow when Sam appears. It's adorable.

About a foot away from Figaro, looking up at Bucky with starry eyes, is a second cat: fluffy, snow-white, and surprisingly elegant for such a tiny little thing.

"Sam," Bucky says, eyes still closed, "meet Alpine."

"Hi, Alpine," says Sam, laughing a little. He reaches up and takes Bucky's face in his hands. "You should open your eyes, baby."

"So you can give me your disappointed face for bringing a cat home without running it by you first?" asks Bucky, eyes still stubbornly shut.

"No," laughs Sam. "It's so you can meet the cat that I brought home without running it by you first."

Bucky's eyes fly open. "Wait, what?"

(For the record, Sam totally gets away with it.)

[delfiore]

—DO YOU THINK I HAVE FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU?

pairing: leah williamson x reader

synopsis: in the end, what is meant to be will always be. or; leah struggles after the break up.

word count: 4.5k

a/n: this is a continuation of LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO. i just have to make things angsty i’m sry, if i don’t i start gnawing at the bars of my enclosure but worry not, this will turn fluffy in the end :)

EIGHT. Paris.

It took about 45 mins for Leah to decide that she longer wanted to be in this damned opera house.

The red carpet was exhausting enough, but she powered through it, familiar faces like Amelia DiMoldenberg’s making it barely enough to get through.

The dinner had gone into an intermission, and she had a moment to relax from the cameras, being sat at a table not far from the stage. Ever since she first attended the GQ Men of the Year Dinner a few years ago, it had created a lot of buzz around her every year, fans speculating whether she would come again, donning outfits so foreign on her body. Back then, she still had a support system that she looked forward to coming home to. Now, maybe the only positive to this night was that, whatever happened, she would eventually get to go home and sleep by the end of it.

She had to tilt her head all the way up to get a full glimpse of the ceiling. The Royal Opera House wasn’t the oldest building erected in London by far, but it was one of most interesting to look at, if she wasn’t so in love with her club and the look of the Emirates that was. It was grandiose, regal and typical of Baroque architecture, the concave ceiling arching over her, stretching all the way back to the five balconies—generously lit and horse-shoe-shaped seating areas—stacked on top of each other. It looked a little bit like the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris that she got to see when she attended the Ballon d’Or for the first time a couple of years ago. A lot of things can change in two years, and Leah wasn’t sure whether it was for the better or not.

Her agent caught her in the middle of her admiring when he gave her shoulder a light tap, telling her that she was expected at the after-party too. Great, another two hours she’d have to endure as people praise her name for achievements unworthy of praise, just because she was Leah Williamson, captain of the Lionesses. But whatever else he said after that, Leah didn’t register, because her eyes had found a familiar frame standing a few tables away.

You looked dashing in your black nighttime attire, which sparkled every time the limelight happened to sweep past you. A gentle smile adorned your face as you conversed your heart away with a couple of actors whose names were lost on her. When you put your hand on one of them and laughed, your eyed darted over to her for a split second.

Only when those actors had left, did she even think of approaching you, but her feet were planted on the ground.

One, two, three, she counted in her head. One, two, three; come on, Leah . . .

“Hi, you!” There was a residual cheerfulness from your previous conversation in your voice. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” she tried to chuckle away her nerves, wiping the sweat in her hands on her pant legs. “You been okay?”

“Yeah,” you said it so softly that she almost missed it, if she wasn’t watching your lips. “Are you? Beth says you don’t come around her place anymore.”

“You still talk to Beth?”

“Yeah, she’s my friend, Lee. I . . . hope you don’t mind.”

“No! No, that’s . . . it’s great.” Leah said quickly.

You had smiled at her gratefully, and grasped her hand. “It’s good seeing you again.”

“You too.” She had said, robotically, before deciding against it. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright?”

You smiled again. This time, you brought her into your chest and wrapped your arms around her neck. “You first,” you said with a glint in your eyes, then you disappeared into the crowd.

And for a few brief moments, Leah Williamson didn’t think about how exhausted she was, only about how much she has missed being held by you. After all, it had been almost two years since she and you broke up, and maybe Leah was never able to move on like she had promised you.

How could she?

NINE. Be My Mistake.

She hated the feeling afterwards. She hated herself for having initiated it, for chasing after the girl like a hungry wolf in that nightclub. Now, Leah couldn’t bear the feeling of her lanky arms and sweaty skin touching her, like the intimacy was warranted, like she had somehow earned it.

Leah knew it was begrudging of her to shove the girl’s arm away so heartlessly and move upright to the edge of the bed, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t bring herself to be intimate with someone else, not yet. Not when every time she felt her skin she imagined yours, soft and scented with your familiar smell; every time she closed her eyes she saw your face like a ghost, refusing to leave her psyche; every time she opened her mouth to let out a noise of pleasure, it took everything in her to hold herself back from uttering Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.

The girl was confused but she was still, no doubt trying to decipher the sudden shift in Leah’s demeanor. She hated her stillness, the way her eyes watched her frame like she was a wounded animal in its enclosure.

“Please leave,” Leah said quietly, begging.

Silence.

“I don’t know what you’re going through, but if . . . you need someone—”

“Thank you, Delaney.” She gritted her teeth. “Please get out.”

Tonight, it was Delaney with the fiery red hair and dimples peppered over her cheekbones. A few nights ago, it was Lisa-Mae with the sultry brown eyes and unforgettable plump lips. Then there might have been an Erin and Hailey and Polly and maybe even a Daniela from when she visited Keira in Barcelona. She hated that she somehow remembered all of their names and kept count. Body upon body, yet she could not forget the one body she was using them all to forget about.

She couldn’t turn to alcohol, couldn’t smoke or do hard drugs because they would affect her performance on the pitch, but God knows she was thinking about it constantly. Anything to take this pain away for a moment, lest she turns into the starving wolf and goes out to hunt at night again. If only the press caught on to what she was doing.

Righteous Lioness turned starving wolf the moment the loneliness becomes a little too much to bare.

But she knew you wouldn’t have judged her. No, you would wrap her in your arms and let her scream, cry, do whatever she wanted to rid herself of the torment. She remembered all the nights you spent on the bathroom floor with her as she battled through her endometriosis, and how you would hold her like the world was about to collapse outside the window.

Leah was on the bathroom floor again, but she was alone this time, and the floor tiles felt colder and harsher than she had remembered.

TEN. Tonight (I Wish I Was Your Boy).

The feeling she got when the three whistles finally blew came to Leah quite rarely. It was one of elation and immense joy that the result of the game was finalized, because she had known half an hour ago that Arsenal would bring home the crucial three points from the match.

She brought her fists in the air as she made her rounds, patting her teammates on the back and shaking hands with opponents. She found Kyra and hoisted her in the air with a tight hug, as her younger teammate managed to score and assist today.

“Thank you, Leah.” Kyra giggled, as she was put down. “Is Y/N here?”

Leah’s smile remained, but she scrunched her eyebrows. “How did you hear about that?”

“How could I not? Y/N Y/L/N, coming to watch us play. I won’t be surprised if social media was buzzing about that rather than the actual match.”

If Kyra knew, that meant the entire team knew. She would endure the endless teasing if it meant getting to see you again, though.

Leah had found where you were sitting right from the start, in the VIP box where her friends and family sat, the usual spot you occupied when you were still together. Back then, she would watch you jog down the stairs with a blinding grin on your face, hop over the barricade and pull her into a bone-crushing hug. It could be a sold-out Emirates Stadium, but the only thing she wanted to watch was you. She still wanted to.

“Hi! Great game today.” You didn’t hug her, but did something far worse. You swung your arm and gave her bicep a quick pat, like a friend would.

“Thanks,” she said. “Should have scored that header though.”

“Hey, don’t put yourself down like that. You were great.” Somehow, your words made her feel worse about herself, and she just wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again. They felt patronizing.

Not far away, Beth’s joyful laughter cut through her sulking. Turning to look at the woman, she saw Beth wrapping her arms tightly around Viv’s neck and the Dutch spinning her around gleefully. Viv had managed to score a hat-trick today—her first since returning from her ACL injury—and even if she didn’t celebrate such an important feat, she would be dragged into one because her girlfriend definitely wouldn’t leave it alone.

It reminded her of when she would come home and celebrate her wins with you. She didn’t need any fancy parties or lavish gifts, just being in your company was more than enough. You would always end up buying her gifts though. “Just because”, you would say, the I love you going unspoken, but she knew it was there. She could always feel it hanging in the silence, in the spaces in your home, even when you were half a world away filming. She could always feel it, like a hearth, a palpable warmth flickering in her chest.

It made her envious watching Beth and Viv that they had what she once did.

“Y/N! You made it!” Beth’s voice tore Leah from her thoughts.

Despite her sentimental predicament, a chuckle made its way onto her lips as she watched you embrace Beth like two schoolgirls finally united again after the summer holidays.

“How long are you staying in London?” Beth asked.

“I don’t know, really,” you replied. “I’m doing a thing with Stella McCartney, so it might take a while.”

Leah couldn’t help but perk up at that. She could feel Viv glancing at her from the corner of her eyes.

“No way! Look at ya. Moving on to the fashion world already!” Beth exclaimed and gave your shoulder a light shove.

Only when you and Beth had walked away happily chatting did Vivianne elbow her gently.

“They seem happy,” the Dutch said.

“Yeah,” Leah pursed her lips. “That’s good.”

“And you? Are you happy?”

Leah knew that the both of them knew she wasn’t, but that wasn’t the right answer. She would not admit to something that she has been working for two years to get over, because it would mean that her woes were all for nothing.

“I am,” she nodded. “I’m glad they’re happy.”

If anything, Leah still loved you enough to admit that.

ELEVEN. Me.

Leah didn’t sleep much these days. She never really did—adrenaline being her biggest enemy—but she would find herself crying in frustration at four in the morning, unable to fall asleep.

It would be during those torturous hours that she would reminisce on the conversation in which she pulled the plug on your relationship.

It was a slippery slope of miscommunication, both of you were to blame, but she was the one who decided to run away instead of trying to work it out. She still kept the ring in a drawer somewhere, but the memory of your rejection made it to painful to look at.

In hindsight, she could have said it a bit differently, but she was close to exploding the previous days that all of it came flooding out of her.

She replayed the conversation often, like a broken record in her head, swapping out things that she could have said or you could have said that would have lead to a different outcome, maybe one in which she wasn’t so miserable two years on.

It was 1:43am, and she was wide awake yet again. You’d always had an irregular sleep pattern, and she wondered whether you were awake too.

She knew it was a mistake, and that she would regret it in the morning, but she texted you anyway.

hey are u awake?

Slamming her phone on the other side of the bed, Leah curled in on herself, burying her face in the pillows trying not to cry. If she hadn’t looked up in time, she would almost miss the incoming call on her screen. It was you.

“Hey,” she picked up after sniffling her tears away.

“Hey, you,” your voice was soft and lulling. “What an odd time for a footballer to be awake. Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep?”

This made her chuckle. “If I did get all of my beauty sleep, you lot would have no chance.”

“Watch out, everyone. Leah Williamson’s ego is inflating, try not get crushed by it.”

As Leah’s laughter died down, she felt an awkwardness settled over the line. A silence once so comfortable now felt forced, straining under the pull between what once was and the ruins of it. The heavy weight of unspoken words curled on the tip of her tongue, the broken record of her mistake playing ever louder in her head.

“I didn’t expect to hear from you,” you finally broke the silence, your voice teetering between caution and curiosity.

“Yeah, well, insomnia makes one do questionable things.”

Leah wondered if she had accidentally revealed too much, and whether it was appropriate to do so. You two weren’t intimate anymore, you were barely friends nowadays, the finest thread of your acquaintance lied solely on your hangouts with Beth. How strange it was, you were half of her soul. Now you were almost like passersby on the street.

“Is everything okay?” You asked, a sense of concern in your tone.

“Um,” she hummed, trying to pull herself together. “Not really. I-I haven’t been doing too well.”

“Leah,” you said. “I-I know we’re not as close as we were before, but I wasn’t lying when I said I still want us to be friendly at least. I’m here for you. You know that, right?”

“I know.” She said, her voice wavering. She wouldn’t be able to hide her feelings from you, never you. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner.”

“It’s okay, Lee. It hurt me a lot, not gonna lie, but I understand where you were coming from.”

Leah couldn’t hold it in anymore, and squeezed her eyes shut, her tears wetting the pillow she lay on. “I can’t be your friend, Y/N. I can’t just pretend like the last five years didn’t happen.”

There was a brief silence once more before you spoke. “I know. Might be selfish of me to wish things were different.”

“Then I’m selfish too,” she said, almost a whisper.

There was a pause, in which Leah bit the inside of her cheeks so hard they might start bleeding.

“Are you coming to Beth’s thing on Friday?” You asked.

“I think I’m expected to be there. Why?”

“Good, I’ll be there too. We’ll talk then.”

“Okay,” Leah said dumbly.

“Now, go to sleep.”

She giggled. “You first.”

TWELVE. Sincerity Is Scary.

Leah’s teammates have teased her many times throughout the evening, stating her unnecessary brooding was actually unnecessary this time and that she should liven up. She really couldn’t. Just thinking about seeing you again tonight made her want to have a heart attack and end her misery right there.

But the moment she heard your voice as you stepped into Beth and Viv’s house, a bottle of wine in hand and a bright smile on your lips, Leah felt her anxiety dissipate into oblivion, scolding herself for ever feeling nervous.

After all, it was you.

She waited patiently with a soft smile, her arms folded behind her back as she waited for all the girls to swoon over you. She had all night to keep you company, she was in no rush.

“Hey,” you found her after all the canoodling. Extending an arm, you awaited a hug which she gladly accepted.

“Hi,” she offered to take your jacket and hung it on the rack by the door. “You got here alright?”

“Man, the traffic at rush hour,” you sighed exasperatedly. “That’s the one thing I’ll never get used to. Almost makes me miss you being my personal chauffeur.”

She laughed. “That’s the only thing I was good for, was it?”

You narrowed your eyes at her teasingly. “Not just that.”

Leah wasn’t sure what you meant entirely with We’ll talk then, but seeing as she was the one who stupidly broke up with you, the balls were entirely in your court. She was just happy you were still willing to talk to her after she called you at 2am to blabber her insomniac nonsense.

She wasn’t courageous enough to sit directly next to you at the dinner table, but rather took the seat next to Katie who sat in front of you. Courage wasn’t something Leah felt much lately, and it took seeing you again for her to admit that. Perhaps she was never brave, but you always made her feel like it anyway.

Everyone loved you, the movie star that graced her team’s humble dinner. She couldn’t help but watch in awe as you managed to charm the pants off of everyone at the table with your witty remarks and crazy anecdotes. You had a presence that made everyone want to be your friend; it made her uncharacteristically shy at trying to get you to notice her, that she resorted to watching you from afar. And the few times you would make eye-contact with her, she could only look away, bashful that she had been caught staring, as her courage dwindling with each gaze.

Later in the night, when everyone was scattered around the house chatting, she found you sitting alone on the patio. Upon closer look, she could make out a smaller, fluffy unit in the form of Myle, Beth and Viv’s little pup, prancing around in front of you, waiting for you to throw the tennis ball in your hand.

The constant sound of the girls’ conversations died down the moment she stepped out in the backyard, now lit with rows of incandescent lights overhead. Myle barked once with excitement as she spotted Leah approaching.

“I think she wants you to throw it,” you handed her the ball.

She grinned and took it. “No one beats Auntie Leah.”

Little Myle was quick to launch herself across the yard on a mission to retrieve her precious artifact.

“I wanted a dog really bad, the first year we started dating.” You said, pulling your knees to your chest as a gust of wind pulled at your hair. “I wanted a little corgi or an Italian greyhound. I spent hours looking for one to adopt and researched food, bills, insurance and stuff.”

“Why didn’t you get one?” Leah asked.

“We haven’t even moved in together at that point. Plus, I was still bouncing around, you knew that.”

She did. You were shooting a movie in Canada the few first months you and her started talking. Then, you were hopping around Spain, Portugal and various parts of the UK for another project. It wasn’t ideal, but still much closer than Canada. You would fly out every other weekend to watch her play, and she would do the same and visit you on-set, moving most things aside for a couple days with you.

“I would have loved a dog, I don’t know about you.”

“I’m sure you would have. You’d probably love it more than me,” you laughed.

“No,” Leah shook her head softly. “Never.”

Summer was approaching. She could feel it in the mildness despite the breeze. For a while, the soft murmur of the wind caressing the trees was all she could hear, and Myle’s occasional huff as she impatiently waited for the ball to be tossed again.

You both sat there watching her, fantasizing of a different life, a dream that never materialized, another fragment of memories again tainted by what-ifs. Leah bit her lip, trying to calm her spiraling thoughts. She felt her courage slipping away again.

“I’m sorry I called you the other day,” she pursed her lips. “That wasn’t very appropriate. I should have asked to talk to you properly.”

“Don’t worry. Wasn’t the worst thing you could’ve done.” She heard you chuckle next to her. “I’ve had some time to think about us. Admittedly, I didn’t want to think about it at all the first few months, but my therapist told me I had to face it one way or another.”

Leah held her breath. This was the part where you tell her that you’d moved on and that she should stop pestering you. One of her knees started bouncing up and down as she waited for you to talk.

“I had to face the fact that you’re the love of my life, and that night I met you and we danced to Hozier together—on the first night we met no less—was the second best night of my life. The best was when you told me you loved me. And the worst night of my life was when you broke up with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Leah whispered, feeling her throat tighten at your confession.

“No,” you said, moving closer. “I don’t regret it. I wasn’t ready when you proposed, and that was my truth. But Leah, I’d be lying if I said that I’d be okay with letting you go again.”

“I should’ve talked to you about marriage before I asked you to marry me. It wasn’t fair on you.” Leah offered you a tearful smile.

“I want to try again. I would do it again for you.” You reached out and wiped away the tears that had silently rolled down her cheeks as she listened to you.

“I thought I’d lost my chance,” she said. “I thought you’d moved on.”

“Oh, baby,” your thumb brushed over her cheek softly. “How could you think I’d ever be able to forget about you?”

She let out a soft cry of relief. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and there was only one thing she thought of doing.

So she leaned in, never minding her wet cheeks. The last thing she saw was you closing your eyes too.

“Oh—sorry!”

The two of you jumped apart at the voice behind you. Leah turned around with a visible scowl on her face, seeing Beth grimace sheepishly as she called for Myle.

“It’s her dinner time. Come, little one, you hungry?” Beth attempted to explain herself, as Myle sprinted inside. “Alright then. As you were.”

The moment the door closed, you burst into laughter, making her break out of her frown and smile with you. “I can’t believe that just happened,” you said, laughing into her shoulder.

“I’m going to kill her,” she shook her head and placed a chaste kiss on your cheek.

She didn’t mind it too much, because she got to take you home later and make up for the last two years until the early hours of the morning. You and her would laugh about it years later.

THIRTEEN. About You.

Your lover never backed down from a challenge.

That was her way, and that was what made her one of the best in her sport, her unrelenting spirit.

Yet, her legs felt like they would turn to jelly the moment she laid her eyes on you at the end of the aisle, umber dirt covered in white rose petals. She felt like drowning in her emotions which had all risen to the surface, and the waves would only plunge her further into itself until she was completely immobilized by it. But she knew once she was able to pull herself together and walk to you on the other end of that path, heaven would be waiting for her.

The officiate went on and on about love, life, and promises of forever, but she had made that promise to you long before this day. She kissed you fervently the moment she was able to.

It only seemed fitting that the first chapter of your story began with a dance, and the most important one to also end with a dance. She offered you a hand, and you gladly took it, a childish giggle bubbling in your throat. The song you danced to the first night you met rang out in the venue, a soft and folksy tune the backdrop of your falling in love.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” She said with a teasing grin.

You gazed into her eyes like they held the world. You had no idea that her heart beat for you, how her soul yearned for yours, how her life will not forever be intertwined with yours.

You closed your eyes and hummed, swaying with her slowly, just like you’d practiced at home a couple of weeks ago, only that instead of the four walls of your shared home baring witness to this dance, it was all your friends and families.

Memories of the first night you met, and the one in which she promised you her heart bubbled as she saw the serene look in your face. You both have come so far.

You placed your head on her chest for all to see, the way you do when you are tired after long hours of work in front of the camera, when all you wanted was the magic and warmth of her company.

Leah smiled; she couldn’t stop smiling. She smiled and smiled until her cheeks ached, even beyond then, until forever.

“No,” you mumbled. “Not bad at all.”

a/n: happy holidays to everyone :)

[abstractvanity32]

Season 3

Wish Granted - 80s Soap Star

Monica, a young 20-something actress with a petite frame and long, dark brown hair, stood in front of the genie, her bright green eyes shining with excitement and a hint of trepidation. She was dressed in a simple white tank top and distressed denim jeans, her feet clad in a pair of worn-out sneakers. The genie's words, "Your wish is granted," still lingered in the air as Monica felt a strange, tingling sensation wash over her body.

The next thing she knew, she was standing on the set of a popular soap opera, surrounded by cameras, lights, and frozen crew members. The set was a mock-up of a luxurious living room, complete with plush couches and a roaring fireplace. Monica looked around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, and that's when she felt it - the transformation.

Her body began to shift and contort, her petite frame lengthening and expanding into a taller, leaner physique. Her skin took on a slightly more rugged, masculine tone, with a subtle scattering of light hair across her arms and chest. The bones in her face rearranged themselves, sharpening and chiseling her features into the angular, aristocratic lines of Ashland Jacobs' visage.

Her eyes deepened into piercing blue orbs, fringed with thick lashes that curled upwards at the outer corners. The bridge of her nose grew longer and more aquiline, giving her face a strong, masculine profile. The contours of her jawline firmed, the edges of her cheekbones becoming more defined.

A wave of blonde hair washed over her scalp, thickening and luxuriating into the signature quaffed style that Ashland Jacobs was famous for. The locks curled and uncurled in soft, golden waves that framed her new, masculine face. The texture of her hair changed, becoming coarser and more resilient.

As her body transformed, Monica's clothes dissolved and reassembled themselves into an outfit of Ashland Jacobs would wear on set and in chThe bright, bold slacks and opened dress shirt molded themselves to her new, masculine physique, accentuating the lean, toned lines of her body. Her feet, now bare, curled upwards as if savoring the freedom of being unencumbered.

The timbre of her voice changed, deepening into the resonant tones of Ashland Jacobs' British accent. Her words took on a new, masculine authority, as if the essence of Ashland's personality had been distilled into her being.

As Monica's transformation became more complete, the set around her began to unfreeze. The crew members stirred, the cameras and lights humming back to life. Ashland Jacobs, the newest iteration of Monica, stood tall, his piercing blue eyes scanning the set with a confident, charismatic smile.

The director, a middle-aged man with a bushy mustache, called out, "Alright, Ashland, let's get this promo shot done!"

Ashland nodded, striking a pose as the cameras snapped and the lights flashed. With a rakish grin, he raised an eyebrow, drawling, "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?" The cameras captured the essence of the 80s heartthrob, as Ashland Jacobs launched himself into the spotlight, ready to take the world by storm.

[yogurtbluesideas]

mecha derby, people take a bunch of post conflict mech parts and hammer them together, throw them all in a pit and let them do a bunch of gladiator style combat with weird rules:

Twin terrors: the weld two mechs back to back, have a few of these fight eachother while the two pilots inside work together.

juggernaut: they get one big mech and a bunch of smaller ones to fight it out, small mechs are armed with bolas and nets, big mech has a massive paint can launcher and if the small mechs get hit they are out, usually big mech has car wheels instead of actual legs.

crane game: small mechs run around while a mech crane tries to pick them up and put them into a container, last one standing wins.

exo-suit half time: exo suits with guns, but the guns fire t-shirts and stuffed animals at the crowd, or they spray the crowd with water.

exo-suit rumble: free for all mech paintball, each mech is custom made and have to be below 60k in value.

drone strikers: old combat drones now carry confetti cannons and lights, people are allowed to hide and run around in the arena with a sticky clothes on, last one to get confetti on the wins

mech opera: mech hobbyists get into four teams, usually with microphones and their own cameras, they improve being soldiers in a hammy space opera with all the fixing’s, usually using very lightly powered laser weapons and glow blades, which couldn’t kill a human if they were naked. but with how the people treat it you’d think they’d die, this one is usually when food is passed out

mech jousting: jousting, but with dirt bikes and specially made suits to prevent injury