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slutforgarlogan · 1 year ago

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"Youre a pretty little thing" | Michael Langdon x F! reader.

Summary: based off this request. Michael Langdon showing off to the coven witches and using the seven wonders to impress you because he has a crush on you

A/N: guys i love him im a catholic and he's the antichrist we're like romeo and juliet. also the writing on this one is questionable n clunky but im on wine and cider so it needs to be forgiven

When the warlocks had told Cordelia they wanted to have Michael perform the seven wonders, Michael had felt determined to get it done quickly and better than Cordelia could do it, to prove he was the next supreme, and no one could argue it.

However, when the witches had arrived telling him they agreed to it, and he could attempt to perform the seven wonders, Michael had found himself a little distracted by one of the witches, you. His new goal was to impress you.

First wonder: Telekinesis. This one was easy and simple, he just had to move something without touching it. He did so, quickly and with ease, shooting a cocky smirk at the witches, eyes lingering on you a little.

Second wonder: Concilium. Michael knew he could be crafty with this one - control of the mind. He looked at you, and as you made eye contact, you knew you were going to be the victim of him showing off this power.

You could feel yourself moving towards him, very much against your will, and you took mental note of the fact that though you yourself were a very powerful witch, he was powerful enough that you couldn't even try and fight it.

To your surprise, despite the weird evil vibe you've all been getting from him, all he makes you do is dance with him. You uncontrollably slow dance with him, unsure whether it's his pretty face or the magic thats making you kind of nervous, but whatever it is, you scold yourself for thinking that way about a man that even one of the warlocks is scared of.

When he's done making you dance with him, you awkwardly do the walk of shame back over to stand next to Zoe, awkwardly smiling at her.

Third wonder: Transmutation. Another easy one, Michael thought. Madison had tapped him on the shoulder, and in turn, he had appeared behind you to tap you on the shoulder.

By the time you had turned round, he had dissappeared again, leaving everyone looking around for him. Your eyes dart around the room, a little puzzled. Whatever he was doing, it was successfully intriguing you more and more by the second, drawing yourself to the unsettling boy.

"Look up"

You can all hear the cockiness in his voice, the same annoying smirk as before present on his face, as you look up to the ceiling, to see Michael attatched to it, looking down on everyone, like one of those sticky animals you get from toy machines.

Fourth wonder: divination. Once again, Michael already knew he could do this, another easy one. He had to do this one as it was given to him, unfortunately, and couldn't do anything extra to inadvertently flirt with you more. And so, he makes a small bit of eye contact with you, before he takes the small pebbles and usea them to figure out where the pocket watch is, finding it almoat instantly, and walking over to where it was to pick it up and show the witches.

Fifth wonder: Pyrokenesis. Michael decided the best thing to do, would be to conjure a ring of fire around where you and madison were stood, making piercing eye contact with you through the fire, and getting rid of it as quickly as he had conjured it up.

To you, the danger and mystery of him was considerably attractive, though Cordelia didn't seem too impressed that he was practically targeting you.

Sixth wonder: Vitalum Vitalis. Michael was given a rat to bring back to life, which proved another easy task for him, doing so pretty much instantaneously, and moving on to the seventh wonder.

Seventh wonder: Descensum. Cordelia had ordered for Michael to not only successfully come back from this, but also to retrieve Misty Day, who had been lost to this particular task when she tried the seven wonders.

This, of course, had caused an arguement between her and the warlocks, who were claiming it wasnt fair, and that it's not a part of the rules.

You and Michael, had been making eye contact the whole time, and the tension between the two of you was so thick you could almost see it. He broke eye contact to look at the warlocks, holding up a dissmissive hand to them "Relax, I'll do it"

He did, and you watched intensely as he lay there, seemingly lifeless. You started to feel a little nervous, even though you didn't know him at all really, nor would you ever admit to having the slightest care in the world how this played out, you told yourself you were nervous because you wouldn't wish death upon anyone.

Sure enough, he did return, and Misty did - eventually - return with him. Much to everyones shock.

You stood there and gawked, eyes flicking between Michael and Misty, and he smirked at you.

A short bicker between the witches and warlocks ensued, before the witches had all turned there attention to Misty.

You however, had turned your attention to Michael, your gaze locking with his for what felt like the millionth time today.

"You seem impressed, little witch," he smirks a little at you, and you nod in response.

"I am impressed" you confirm, trying to be cautious, undeniably attracted to him, but still acknowledging that there's something off about him.

"That was the goal, i wanted to impress you" he sounds serious about it, and you tilt your head a little, cocking an eyebrow.

"Why"

"You're a pretty little thing, thats why"

#rileys requests #cody fern smut #cody fern #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x you #ahs coven #ahs cody fern #american horror story #evan peters #evan peters smut #tate langdon #james patrick march #kai anderson #kyle spencer #peter maximoff #ahs smut #jimmy darling

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pookalicious-hq · 2 months ago

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motion sickness... abby anderson x reader

next | masterlist

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ - friends to frenemies to strangers to friends to lovers? how you and abby's lives unintentionally weave together through the game you grew up playing. tags: soccerplayer!reader, fluff, swearing, angst, collage au, soccer au, sfw <3,

˚₊‎‧ . 1. sorry that it went down like it did...

Good turf was always different from real grass.

Cleaner cuts. Predictable bounce. No soft patches or surprise divots to swallow your footing. You knew what to expect on turf—but after the last few years, the scent of freshly cut grass was something you found yourself missing. Something grounding. Messy. Real.

Still, there’s something comforting about the turf under your cleats. The way it grips, the way it gives. Your soles know this surface. Your feet move like they remember every inch of it. These shoes are broken in just enough to feel like part of your body—tight but not restrictive, hugging your arches like a promise.

The sun hangs low in the sky, stretched gold and lazy across the field. It glints off the goalposts, paints the turf in a warm shimmer, and casts your shadow long behind you. It’s still hot. Late-summer heat, the kind that clings to your skin even after the wind picks up. Your shirt’s damp at the collar, sweat cooling in patches along your back. Your thighs burn pleasantly from drills. There’s a rhythm in your chest, in your limbs. A hum you’ve only ever found in motion.

Your airpods pulse with music—something fast, bass-heavy. You’ve cycled through playlists, gone from aggressive pre-game to quieter tracks, but your body hasn’t slowed down. Doesn’t want to.

You never really want to stop moving.

Stillness makes you feel like you’re falling behind. Like if you sit down long enough, the rest of the world will keep spinning without you, and you’ll be left crawling to catch up. If you’re not training, someone else is. Someone hungrier. Faster. Better.

So you push through.

You’d moved into your dorm that morning, a mostly-empty space that smells faintly of industrial cleaner and new sheets. Your roommate hasn��t shown yet—just your duffel and luggage on the floor, your cleats by the door, and the echo of your own thoughts in that quiet room. No expectations. Just space. Just time.

So you came here.

The turf was familiar. Reliable.

People pass by the edge of the field, walking along the sidewalk that cuts between practice areas and the dorm quad—some dragging boxes from cars, some with water bottles tucked under arms, some laughing, already in groups. Already clicked in.

You haven’t met the team yet. Not really. A few nods during orientation, some passing mentions of names you’d rather not hear. That’ll all come later.

For now, it’s just you and your orbit.

You’d started slow—cardio laps, then tight cone work. Your breath syncing to your feet. Then more aggressive moves: speed cuts, switches, footwork. You love this. Love the way they demand your whole body. Love the precision. Love the burn in your calves and the stretch of your lungs and the way your heart kicks like a drum in your ribs.

It’s movement. Escape. Proof that you’re still here and still fighting to be seen.

Now, you’re wrapping up with shots. Piques. Quick setups off tight angles. You dart in from the top of the box, plant with your left, kick through with your right. Aiming for upper ninety.

Clang.

The ball smacks the crossbar and rockets back with a vengeance. You’re already jogging after it, cursing under your breath when—

“Fuck—”

It hits someone.

Dead-on. Back of the head.

They stagger a step and drop one bag, hand flying up to where it landed. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. Your cleats stop short on the turf, heartbeat louder than your music, drowning out the percussion thudding in your ears.

Then she turns.

And it’s like the world slices in two.

You knew you’d see her here.

Of course you did.

After all, right before your spoken commitment to USea, Abby Anderson did it first. The announcement made headlines—another power recruit for Seattle’s top women’s program, the girl from West Seattle High, the captain who tore through the championship bracket like a storm.

Still.

Knowing she’d be here—seeing her here—were two entirely different things.

The last time you saw her was in mid-May. Nationals.

Your team—Jackson Heights—had clawed its way to the final match. You’d played through bruised ribs, through overtime, through every bone-deep ache you’d carried since winter.

But it hadn’t been enough.

West Seattle High won it all. 3-2.

Abby assisted the final goal. A beautiful tackle and pass up the field that gave her offers to any school she wanted to go to.

You remember the way her arms stretched to the sky, the way she turned and ran toward Owen and Nora on the sideline. You remember the sweat-soaked back of her jersey. Her braid swinging behind her. The sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.

She never looked toward your bench.

And you? You couldn’t stop watching her. Not really. Not then. Not now.

Her hair’s darker now than it was in elementary school.

Still long, still thick, still tied back in that braid you taught her how to do in 4th grade—after a Saturday club match when her mom was late picking her up and she was too shy to ask for help. Back then, she was too shy to ask anyone else, so you sat there on the sidelines, showing her how to loop it and pull it tight. Now? You imagine she does it in seconds, her fingers moving like muscle memory.

And yet, there’s a coldness to it. To her. To the way she holds herself, like a wall between the person you used to know and the one standing in front of you now.

She’s taller. Stronger. And she looks at you like—like she’s unsure of you.

She looks exactly how you remember.

And nothing like it at all.

She’s giving you the look right now, hand still at the back of her head, but there’s something unreadable in her eyes. Something carefully closed off. Almost too controlled.

You yank your airpods out, throat dry. You never expected it to feel like this. Her. Standing there. So close. You swallow hard.

“Abby.”

She blinks. A pause. Her lips tighten, like she’s calculating how to answer without revealing too much.

“…Hey,” she says. Her voice is flat. Almost casual.

Like nothing has changed. Like you two didn’t spend years—decades, really—by each other’s sides. Like you didn’t share everything, even your secrets.

But you did. You remember.

Your chest tightens. You hate how much that hurts.

The crowd is roaring now, so loud it makes your ears ring. The sound of feet pounding the bleachers, the hum of the announcer’s voice cutting through the air. It’s electric, and yet you’re hyper-aware of how it all seems so far away now. It’s just you and her, standing across from each other, two strangers caught in the pull of a past you can’t shake.

You look at her, really look at her now.

You’d seen pictures. Scouted her, watched her highlights. But it’s different when she’s right in front of you. Her muscles are more defined than you remembered, her frame taller than you expected. You always used to be the one who grew first. The one who was a little bit taller. But not anymore. Abby’s grown into her body in a way that feels solid, like she’s built to stand her ground, to carry weight that you didn’t see when you were kids.

And there’s something about the way she stands now. Confident. Poised. She looks put together in a way that makes you catch your breath. Beautiful, yes, but there’s something sharper in it now. Something more fierce.

Her hair is darker, pulled back into a tight braid that you remember teaching her how to do after practice all those years ago. The braid, the one that used to hang so loosely over her shoulder, now looks sharp against her back.

You glance at the armband on her arm, and then to yours. Both of you captains. Both of you leading your teams onto this field, where everything is different now. You’re not her teammate anymore. You’re not her best friend. You’re rivals.

Her gaze doesn’t leave yours, not even for a moment. It's steady. Controlled. But there’s something behind her eyes you can’t place. Something you used to know, but now feels distant.

She looks too composed, like everything is just... a game to her. But you know better. You know that Abby, the one you used to know, didn’t just play for the win. She played with everything she had. For her team. For herself. And in a way, maybe she still does.

But right now, there’s this quiet shift between you both. The tension feels thick in the air. You can hear the crowd but it’s all distant, muted, as if the roar of the stadium has drowned out everything except the space between the two of you. Your breaths are too loud. The turf beneath your feet feels hard, almost unforgiving, like it’s reminding you where you are. Where you both are.

Her voice cuts through the air again, like it’s barely there, and you want to believe it's just a hello. But it’s not. It’s too neutral. Too detached.

"See you out there," you mumble, and it comes out more like a challenge than a greeting, something unspoken behind the words. You don't know why, but the air feels thick, like you’re waiting for something to happen. Like you’re both holding back.

You see her glance at you for just a second, quick—almost like she’s scanning for something. But it’s gone as fast as it came, and then she’s already turning away. She walks back to her team, shoulders squared, as if she’s left everything that’s happened between you two behind her, leaving it all on the other side of the field.

Your heart pounds in your chest. You try to steady your breathing, but it’s hard. Too much is different now, and yet… it’s like nothing’s changed. You watch her, and for a split second, the world feels smaller. Like it’s just you and Abby again, back when everything was simpler, when it was just the two of you and soccer.

But it’s not like that anymore.

The whistle blows, snapping you out of your thoughts. You step forward, and your cleats dig into the turf. It feels sharp beneath your feet. The heat from the day still lingers in the air, the scent of sweat and fresh-cut grass mixing with the sweat on your brow. You focus on the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, blocking out the noise as you walk toward your team.

Abby does the same, her eyes straight ahead, her posture still perfect. You’re not sure what to do with the lump in your throat, the knot in your stomach.

But when the game kicks off, everything’s different. It’s not just about the ball anymore.

It’s about you and her.

And everything that’s left unsaid.

But now the two of you are forced with the reality of having to reconnect whether you like it or not.

“I’m so sorry—shit. I didn’t mean to do that—”

“Yeah,” she lets out a breath. Not out of anger or annoyance, more as though she needed to remind herself that this had to happen eventually, “s’all good, I know where you meant for it to go.”

You almost smiled at that, it would’ve been right to, but it would’ve felt wrong.

You both stand there, the space between you charged with everything unspoken. Abby shifts slightly, the weight of her bags a distant thought compared to the weight of your gaze. The bags are heavy, the kind she’s carried a thousand times over, but right now, it’s not about the weight of the world she’s hauling—it’s about the weight in the air between you two. You feel it, thick and suffocating, and you know she does too.

She shifts again, subtly, like she's trying to steady herself, like she’s already bracing for something she can’t quite name. Her muscles are tight under the fabric of her shirt, her posture squared like she’s about to take on a whole team. It’s defensive—like she’s still holding on to something. Holding onto her silence. Her walls. And you can feel that, can almost see them, see how they loom over her, a physical barrier she’s not ready to break. Not yet.

Abby clears her throat, the sound slicing through the quiet with an awkwardness that stings more than it should. It’s too loud. Too deliberate. Like she’s trying to erase the tension with something simple. Something normal.

“So, uh, USea…” Her voice is light, but Abby can hear it—the crack in the casualness, the strain behind the words. She wants to make it sound normal, make this moment feel like just another thing in the past. But she knows you’re reading it differently. You always did.

“I knew you’d be back,” she adds with a shrug, though the action feels like it’s for show. She can’t shake the weight of the words, even if she’s trying to mask it. You can hear it, too. You’ve always been able to read between the lines. It hangs in the air between you, thick with everything she’s been carrying. Her past, her choices, the silence. She wishes she could shrug that off like she used to do, but it's too heavy now. Too real.

The question from you cuts through the quiet, simple but loaded. “That why you didn’t answer my calls?”

Abby feels a cold ripple of panic shoot through her chest. She stands there, frozen for a second, the question echoing in her mind. You’re not angry, not accusing. It’s just... a question. Your voice is steady, curious, and it hits her in the worst way. She can see you standing there, eyes on her, waiting. She knows that look. It’s the same one you wore back when things were easier, when you didn’t have to piece everything together. And it makes everything feel ten times harder now.

She glances down at her hands, gripping the straps of her bags, knuckles pale from the tightness. It would be so easy to drop them—just let go and let everything spill out. But the bags feel like a lifeline, something to hold onto when everything inside her is shifting. They don’t compare to the weight of your gaze, though. It’s the one thing she can’t ignore.

Her breath catches, and for a moment, she wonders if she’ll even be able to breathe through this. She’s been holding onto so much for so long, and now it feels like it’s all about to break loose. She hadn’t thought she’d be standing here, in front of you, again, so soon. She thought she’d get to keep it at a distance. Keep you at a distance. But here you are, and you’re not angry. You’re just... curious. And it makes it worse.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy between you two. She wants to fill it. To say something—anything—to close the gap. But every time she opens her mouth, the words feel wrong, too small. Nothing can cover the distance between you.

She clears her throat, but it sounds too loud in the empty space. She doesn't know how to break this tension. What can she say? How does she fix something that’s been broken for so long? Her heart thuds in her chest, and she feels the panic creeping in, the familiar knot forming deep in her stomach. She doesn’t want to feel this way, not with you. Not now.

Finally, she forces herself to speak, her voice flat. “No. Definitely not.”

It’s all she can give. No explanation. No reason. Just the bare minimum. And it stings. Because it’s not the whole truth. But she doesn’t know how to give you the rest of it. Not here. Not like this.

Her gaze flicks briefly to your face, but she doesn’t want to look too long. She’s afraid of seeing too much—of seeing that you’ve changed, or worse, that you haven’t. But she can’t stop herself. She takes you in—your eyes, your posture, the way you stand now with that quiet confidence. You’re different. She can feel it. You’re still you, but you’ve grown, you’ve become something else, and she doesn’t know how to fit into that anymore.

Her gaze moves down, lingering on your cleats. Same brand. Same colorway. She remembers those cleats from back then, remembers kicking around in the park, laughing, not caring about anything other than the game. Back then, everything was so simple. But now, even that feels like a reminder of everything lost, of everything that’s slipped through her fingers. She can’t decide if it’s a comfort or a curse, if it’s something to hold onto or something that just drags her back into the past.

But it’s not just the cleats. It’s you. It’s the way you’re still you, but you’re not. And the harder she looks at you, the more she’s afraid of what she might see—or what she might not see. She doesn’t know if you want answers anymore, or if you just want to move on. She doesn’t know what you’re looking for, and it terrifies her.

The silence stretches on, suffocating in its weight. She’s not sure how long she can stand it. The space between you is too close, but it feels impossible to bridge. Abby tries to hold herself together, tries to keep her walls up, but it’s getting harder. The more she stands here, the more she feels like she’s breaking down piece by piece.

Her heart beats a little faster, each second that passes making it harder to keep the distance. She doesn’t know what comes next. But she knows it can’t stay like this. Not forever.

a/n: love my wife <333 mini series!!! lmk if you wanna be tagged

#abby tlou #tlou x reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #wlw fic #wlw #tlou 2 #abby x reader

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