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ma1dita · 8 months

Text

kiss his face with an uppercut

smutty part 2 here-> heavy hitter

words: 4k

summary: james potter is so attractive you could beat him to death with a bludger. james potter x fem!beater!reader not from gryffindor (for the plot!!)

warnings: none! james gets physically hurt multiple times by reader, multiple innuendos, enemies to lovers kinda, less serious lovey dove more sexual tension!!! probably not accurate quidditch gameplay

a/n: sorry for the hold up guys this took almost a month of on and off editing lmfao— this whole oneshot makes me think of the filipino word ‘gigil’– simply translating to cuteness aggression; i barely know jack shit about sports much less quidditch but this concept had me looking up quidditch rules to be able to provide– eat up kids

Y/S- sibling name

Y/H- house

(posted & edited 10/10/23)

—

Oh BROTHER, this guy STINKS! I mean, how has he not gotten walloped at least once during this godforsaken game? You suck your teeth at the sight of James flying around the pitch blowing kisses to his fan club and Lily Evans, who turns her nose up at the sight of him.

Merlin, when will this game end?

The Hogwarts Quidditch Semi-Finals of 1977 was a game to watch… until both teams stopped scoring what seemed like hours ago. Both Gryffindor & (Y/H) were at a stalemate, down some players due to injury and now, even lower team morale. Gryffindor team captain and chaser James Potter, notorious Marauder, and resident flirt, is not someone who likes to lose. He’s spent all season drilling his teammates, memorizing plays, and thinking of every outcome possible to ensure another Gryffindor victory. James’ affinity to be right takes precedence over anything, after all. But after beating down almost all of (Y/H)’s reserves, James was almost vibrating with confidence. He really doesn’t lose, not if he can help it.

“AND ANOTHER (Y/H) IS DOWN WITH AN INJURY— Team captain Whithall calls for a timeout as they reconvene on what to do next! Hope you’re still comfy in the stands, folks….” the student announcer grumbles.

There’s absolute chaos on the field, and like birds scuffling over a piece of bread, (Y/S), the team’s last good beater is floating on a gurney, ready to be transported to the Hospital Wing.

“Oh, here comes trouble…” Sirius murmurs, smacking James on the back to grab his attention.

You jump down from the stands to check on (Y/S), and James is too busy reveling in the idea of winning the goddamn semi-finals that he doesn’t notice you putting Quidditch gear on.

“Easy win from here on out, Pads! The little lady’s just checking the damage. Not important,” he chortles before Sirius physically grabs his head to face the girl walking towards him, currently storming across the turf to meet him and his team.

“I’m subbing in,” you say, angry at how dirty Gryffindor’s been playing, and angry that you even have to play in (Y/S)’s stead.

“Sweetheart, this game is for serious, you know that right?” James says a bit dumbly with a furrowed brow. Both of you are head to head, and James sees the twitch in your eye as you cross your arms. Hot air is seeping out of your pores but James’s lip simply quirks up in intrigue. You’re someone he hasn’t noticed before, and the only thing running through his mind besides winning the game is that you’re really pretty. But then again, he’s always found angry women to be attractive, in retrospect.

“Yeah, for the actual cup, not…for Sirius… It’s the wrong time to joke, innit?” Sirius says to break the ice, noticing the palpable tension between your glares. Your faces are inches away from each other and he’s not sure if you two are going to fight or kiss, but it makes him grimace all the same.

“Who do you think (Y/S) practices with? Unlike you and your friends, I know when to take things seriously,” You say through gritted teeth.

“She’s legit, Potter. Got added to our reserves last week.” Whithall pipes up, ready to get back to the game. The crowd has been weathered down after hours of anticipation, and they want to see the end of it, no matter the outcome.

“Much to my surprise,” you grumble, elbowing the authority in the form of a teenage boy not much older than yourself. You should’ve known your sibling was looking a little too happy as they got floated off the pitch on a gurney.

“Then let’s play. Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.” James says condescendingly, floating away on his broomstick like it’s a walk in the park, but the way you’re slapping the bat against your palm is getting Sirius a tiny bit nervous for his precious countenance. The whistle blows and the game resumes.

“A SURPRISE ADDITION (Y/N) JOINS HER HOUSE AS BEATER! Gryffindor better watch out for her swi—” You slam the bludger in James’s direction and it hurtles toward him so fast that he almost folds in half, barrel-rolling on his broom to dodge it. The move makes Sirius and a few of their other teammates gasp to see James scrambling back onto his broom.

“Oops! Looks like I missed.” you deadpan, balancing midair as you whack another one where it rebounds off the Gryffindor seeker and back towards James, hitting both of them in the gut.

“THIS GIRL’S GOT AN ARM ON HER! Though might I say her hits look a bit targeted…” The commentator says worriedly, and everyone in the crowd is leaning in their seats trying to get a better view.

“Merlin, are you trying to kill me woman?” he yells in outrage.

“I’m trying to finish the game. Your big head is in the way,” you say with a straight face as Sirius bats towards you, and you spin on your broomstick without shifting your posture. The smile on your face as you taunt him should be considered criminal, but he’s looking at you in a new light.

Yeah, now he’s paying attention. The other Gryffindor players can’t seem to figure out your next move and you bat another bludger towards Potter’s extremely large target of a head, and all of a sudden he’s freefalling through the air as his teammates fly to catch him, one by one. His nose still makes impact with the ground before Sirius catches by the ankle like Achilles taking a dip in the River Styx.

“AND (Y/H) HAS CAPTURED THE SNITCH! Good job to their Seeker, Appleby! Congratulations on a job well done, so that we can all finally go home.” The commentator cringes as McGonagall swats at him to leave the podium.

Who even is she, taking over the game and stealing his win like that?

He’s walking up from the sidelines with a bloody nose, going to shake Whithall’s hand and you’re standing behind him, a malicious grin plastered between your rosy cheeks, windswept and almost ethereal while he looks like he got flattened by a hippogriff. Fuck, she’s pretty. You look like you floated down from the heavens, and by the looks his team gives him, he may have just crawled out of the earth.

“Congrats,” he grumbles, turning to you. Really pretty. It’s even worse that you’re devastatingly stunning up close— with sweat glistening on your brow and a pearly white smile, he takes a good moment to really look at you and memorize the flutter of your eyelashes. He’s unsure if he’s concussed or maybe it’s his astigmatism, but there are actual stars in his vision as he peers down at you. Your confidence is actually kind of sexy.

“You look…um…you ride well.” He stutters, shaking his head from his personal reverie.

“Excuse me?” you say, your little mouth agape in what he hopes is not disgust. He looks pathetic, blood sopping down to his jersey as he looks at you like he’s only seeing you for the first time, acknowledging you closely. Something about seeing him flail makes you crinkle your nose as you stifle a grin.

“I mean…Um…” Damn.

Sirius pulls his best friend away before you can bite back your laughter, all of your teammates leading you away to celebrate.

“Mate, what the shit was that? Are you alright in the head?” Sirius says, and if James’ nose wasn’t already bleeding he was going to slap him silly.

“Just…Didn’t see that coming…” he mumbles, and his mind, along with all of Gryffindor is in disarray as they walk back to their tower. He’s got a lot of thinking to do on what his next move will be.

—

James Potter goes through life in three methodical ways: 1.) creating a strategy, 2.) making a scene, 3.) and dragging his friends into it— in that particular order, every single time.

Now notice how considering consequences is not part of said process.

His ego wouldn’t let him rest after a girl, much less a very pretty one that he’d never noticed before—beat him at what he does best; quidditch! In fact, the next few nights were void of sleep and filled with thoughts of you. The way your hair looked so soft in the sunlight, how your lip turns almost Gryffindor red when you bite it in concentration, and maybe how your delicate hands would look as they tightly grasp onto his bat...ahem…your quidditch bat. Some dirty delusions aside, if looks could kill, he’d be dead seven times over, but honestly? He’d probably thank you for it.

James’ new mission was to figure you out, and if that was his mission, it meant it was the rest of the Marauders’ too. For the sake of winning the Cup, of course. That’s what he tries to tell himself until his mates catch him ogling you again at breakfast.

“So what is it with you and girls that inflict you nothing but pain and humiliation?” Remus muses, as the Marauders watch James laugh at a joke you told your friends at the (Y/H) table across the Great Hall. He looks at you like someone who stares at the sun, squinting and burning himself as he ponders on why he’s unable to look away.

James fumbles a response, shoving Remus as they all laugh. “Listen, I’ve got a bit of a masochistic streak, Moony. Just…There’s something about her…”

Your friends are pointing at him now, and as you turn to meet his eyes, you lift a brow inquisitively and flip him off. Sirius’s face pulls up in shock at James’s growing smile at the interaction as he mumbles, “Maybe you’ve met your match, Prongs…”

The boy pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, anything to try to see you clearer as he leans over to put his head in his hands, sighing dreamily. His friends are not as easily amused.

“A match made in heaven, you reckon?”

—

“Match made in hell, more like!” You spit, almost choking on your scrambled eggs at your friends’ insinuations. Your back is as stiff as a board, shoulders tight at the notion of you ever liking James Potter triggering your fight or flight response. When it comes to someone as pompous as him, only the word fight comes to mind.

“Oh come on, love… He’s popular, funny, and quite handsome…It’s James freaking Potter we’re talking about!” your roommate gushes, but you're not the least bit impressed.

“Is that supposed to do anything for me? I can think of a few F words that middle initial can stand for…” Eyes rolling, you peek back at the Gryffindor table to see said boy wiggling his fingers at you teasingly until he accidentally smacks Peter in the face with his toast. Idiot.

“Only hot people get away with stupid shit. I mean look at the four of them!” you continue, gulping down the rest of your coffee. “Potter’s the worst out of all of them though. Big ass head must compensate for a lot of things." You say, shaking your head at your friends.

"And yet, here you are, talking about him for the fourth time this morning," your roommate replies, smirking. " You’ve been Potter crazy since you helped us beat Gryffindor in the semi-finals! Are you sure you don't have a crush on him?"

"No!" you say too quickly, too loudly, that the shrill noise of your voice makes your ears hurt and the shit-eating grins on your friends’ faces reflect how desperate that came off. You slump onto the table, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“You wanna kiss him, don’t you?” they tease, and you push away their puckering faces as you scoff, “With an uppercut, maybe!” Almost makes you want to stomp over there and wipe the stupid look off his face…and maybe sit on his lap. You run your fingers through your hair in frustration. All this aggression really needs to go somewhere, but unfortunately, James Potter’s lap is the only destination you have in mind.

“He’s just really punchable. I get so annoyed by the sight of him I just want to… ugh!” you groan, your hands shaking as you try to convince them (or yourself). Your friends cackle at the sight of you pretending to squeeze his curly-topped, mothball-filled head, but your brain changes course and you imagine what it’s like to hold his hand. Your fingers flex cautiously at the idea, wondering what his touch would feel like. Grabbing a glass of water to cool your thoughts, your peripherals reveal he’s still staring at you like you make night turn into day. His gaze is searing, and as you put your lips around your straw, he licks his lips slowly. Shit.

—

Availability bias is one hell of a mindfuck. If only they taught psychology at this magic school, maybe the wizarding world would have way fewer problems and more people would be straightforward and not.. Dead. James decides he can categorize his life now as before you, and after you.

Before you, well… he honestly wasn’t even sure if you were a student at Hogwarts until he saw you marching down the pitch, but now… You’re everywhere. He can spot your voice in a crowded hallway, and who was going to tell him you’ve had three classes with him this whole term? Even down to when he shuts his eyes, he’s convinced his eyelids are branded with the imprint of your silhouette. Every conversation he strikes with you ends with you laughing at him, and he’s unsure if that’s a step up or down from the many boisterous rejections from Lily Evans over the years. He sort of wishes you’d laugh with him, and do a number of other things, (heck he’s got a list of ideas he’s wanked off to), and well… His soul is tightly wound with thoughts of you and Godric, listen to this guy…. maybe the boys were right…. Maybe he really does need to get laid.

It’s funny how fate works, two people who’ve barely interacted in the past six years at Hogwarts are now paired together for a History of Magic essay worth 20% of the term grade. You’re trying to get this done as fast as possible, he notices, mapping out ideas and trying to discuss how to piece it all together, yet James does everything but that to get you to pay attention to him. He fills your head with mundane little questions, asking you what your favorite fruit is to the childhood bedtime story your parents told you as a kid.

“What’s your middle name, Potter?” You muse, finally entertaining him after endless chatter. His eyes trail to the exposed skin of your collarbones as you stretch in your seat, and well… you don’t look as menacing as you always do but did it seriously have to be this question? He scratches the back of his head, silent for the first time in the two hours you’ve been trying to craft this essay for the sake of both your grades.

“What? I can’t just go around calling you James Fucking Potter. Spit it out, you know too much about me already.”

He clears his throat, a blush creeping up his neck. “It’s… that’s an intimate question, love… I…”

Your laughter at his response makes his senses shut down. “Oh, so it’s bad. What is it, Franklin? Fabio? Come on, I won’t bite.” A part of him wishes you would, your face equally flushed and so close to him right now, almost leering at him for an answer. It’d be easy to just lean over…

“Fleamont.”

Your lips quirk, until they pucker like you’ve guzzled a lemon. The blush on your cheeks intensifies, and the sound explodes out of you. You laugh so loudly Madam Pince kicks you both out of the library, James carrying both your knapsacks, a hand around your waist as you rush out of there. Your body is firm under his touch, pupils unfocused and dilated looking at him now that you know his dirty little secret. James thinks that if you keep looking at him like that, hell, you can call him anything you want.

—

Fleamont.

What a prick. A really attractive, clueless prick. The memory makes you giggle as you get ready for the Quidditch Cup and your team charges out onto the field to face Gryffindor again, as you’ve both advanced to the finals. He’s not as much of an asshole as you originally thought. It’s undeniable that something pulls you towards him, whether it be hormones, concern, or the fact that it’s actually adorable the way he writes his mother back weekly, or admirable how he moved Sirius out of Black Manor himself last year. Maybe it’s endearing the way he goes out of his way to make first-years smile or heartwarming how even Filch can’t find reasons to hate him. The golden boy. You get it now, why people get trapped in his web, and why many are unwilling to leave.

You pass him outside the locker rooms, bumping shoulders as he smiles almost bashfully. The golden boy, loudmouth, ball of energy is reduced to a nervous pile of teenage ineptness at the sight of you, every time. You could take him (not in a fight). In an actual fight, maybe you could land a few solid hits before his nice muscly arms hold you do—

“Ready to finish this, darling?”

Your eyes refocus when his hand nudges the small of your back, right above your hip. “Mhmm,” you clear your throat, “Ready to lose, Potter?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He moves closer, slowly backing you into the wall.

“Eyes on the prize Potter, I’m in this to win it.” You say, looking at the closing distance between both your chests. James nods, not taking his eyes off of you for a moment, even when the announcer calls out the imminent start of the game.

“WELCOME TO THE HOGWARTS QUIDDITCH CUP OF 1977 GRYFFINDOR VS. (Y/H)! I hope you are all excited as our last match between these teams was quite thrilling at the end of it!” The announcer says, hyping up the roaring crowd as your teams parade onto the pitch.

His eyes are still on you when he shakes Whithall’s hand and the whistle blows. It’s intense, and makes you feel like you’re burning, even if the wind is blowing like crazy today. You bat the bludgers toward anything red on the field that even dares to move toward your teammates. James won’t stop staring at you, and you both lock eyes across the pitch.

“What? Flirt with me later, Potter, I’m trying to win!” you yell.

He’s got you transfixed, and it’s crazy how his timing is always wrong. You bat the bludger away from your captain but don’t notice James flying towards you to respond as you give it your hardest swing, making the impact against his huge target of a head all the more painful.

Holy shit, did you kill him?

He keels off his broom like a shot bird and then he’s falling, and you’re the one chasing the Gryffindor chaser as he flaps his arms like the idiot you know he is as you push forward to catch him before he splits his skull open.

“I’msofuckingsorryJamesareyouokay?” You blurt out as you land, soft hands moving over his broad chest and quickly swelling face. He’s wearing that stupid grin again, and you think you may have finally broken Gryffindor’s team captain.

“You know my name?” he sighs happily, comfortable in your lap and maybe it’s the brain damage you’ve caused him or the way his glasses are bent beyond repair but you will every magical predecessor you can think of to stop you from punching him in the face right now.

“Are you fucking dense?” You scream, shaking your head, and jostling him as his arms try to reach out to swipe the hair away from your face.

“Must’ve hit him so hard you knocked his filter loose..” Sirius muses after he lands next to you two on the grass.

“POTTER’S TAKEN A HIT FROM (Y/H) and it doesn’t look good ladies and gents! Gryffindor calls a timeout to check on their captain!” The announcer calls out, and there are so many eyes on the two of you as James is simply giggling like a prepubescent schoolboy. Fuck, you’ve maimed the golden boy.

“Y’know, sweetheart. You’re…really sexy when you’re on top of me like this,” he says breathily, and you really can’t hit him, so you jab Sirius in the gut instead when he tries to laugh at his best friend’s stupidity.

—

James wakes up in the hospital wing with a blinding headache until someone gently pulls the curtains closed, stroking the hair off his sweaty forehead.

“Poppy you always take such good care of me…” he mumbles. A punch lands on his chest and his eyes rip open, not expecting to see you at his bedside.

“Idiot,” you mutter. “You’re always in my way and now look, you almost got yourself killed and it would’ve been my fault! How dare you, James…” The red is crawling up your neck like a brushfire as you berate him, and he takes it with a grin as you jabber on, putting his arms behind his head.

“Were you worried about me, love?” James smiles cheesily, catching your arm at its half-hearted attempt to slap him across the face.

“I was not. Stubborn people like you are hard to kill. I’m more annoyed that I can’t morally punch your face in since you have a concussion. Madame Pomfrey’s already healed your cheekbone.”

“That you broke,” he says matter-of-factly, taking a chance to kiss the palm of your hand. This concussion is working like a bottle of Felix Felicis. It’s endearing to see you taking care of him, whether you like it or not (even with the punches he’s sure it’ll come with).

“You’re sick in the head.”

“For you. I was trying to come tell you that I never took my eyes off the prize, but then of course you bludgeoned my face in before I could get sweet on yo—”

Your lips crash down on his, and nothing about it is delicate. It’s a month’s worth of yearning, imaginations coming to fruition as he grabs the back of your head to deepen the embrace. Your lips on his are hot and heady, and he could be easily convinced that he’s stuck there, cauterized to the shape of you.

“I know. I could feel you watching.” You breathe into his mouth, leaning up on his chest. His lips chase up again to meet yours, biting down on your bottom lip as you groan. He might like that noise better than the sound of your laughter. It’ll be fun to find out.

“Who won the Cup?”

Laughter spills out of your red, kiss-swollen lips as you pat his cheek gently, fingers grazing over his healed cheekbone.

“Not Gryffindor. But listen closely James, if you be a good boy and get past this concussion, I’ll make up for it by showing you how well I ride…”

He likes the sound of that, Quidditch Cup be damned. You see, James Potter never loses, ladies and gentlemen, not really—and well... there’s always next year.

—

“I like the way

you look at me

like you are

going to talk to me

or devour me

and I am fine with either.”

-N.R. Hart

taglist: @jsjcue

#made by ma1dita ♥︎#marauders x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x reader #marauders era #james potter x you

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mrsparrasblog · 2 months

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MAKAROV X PRICE DAUGHTER Pt. 1

I know John Price would be the best Dad on earth but please let the Plot , ploting

Part 2

Your dad loved you; you were really sure he did, just not as much as he loved Tina, your younger sibling. You were the result of a one-night stand he had when he was 16, while Tina was a love child of your dad's new wife. You liked both of them; you really did. They treated you with respect; you stayed in their house while your dad was on deployment. So you couldn't really complain; they even let you stay while you did your apprenticeship, despite that you were over 20 now and full of age, but they made it clear: finish your apprenticeship and you're gone.

Your dad didn't say anything. Well, how could he, since he was always on some kind of mission, to save the planet or world? He was like a real-life Avenger. It just hurts sometimes when he misses certain events like your ballet performance, your appendix operation, your 18th birthday, and your graduation ceremony—the best of the whole year. But who cares about that when you have no one in the crowd to cheer for you?

The worst part? He did make time for Tina. He was at her elementary school graduation, at every birthday, and at her fencing competition, claiming it's not because he likes Tina more; it's just that fencing is more interesting than ballet. You would understand that, right? You were a good, smart girl. Of course, you would understand how important his job is, right? You're not a selfish little lady, he said.

For years, you thought he despised you, maybe because you were the spitting image of your dead mother or because you had the same interests as her but not like Tina. Tina was cool; she did fencing, wanted to join the military, and even got caught smoking weed. Your dad only laughed about this, telling her he did this too when he was young.

You and your dad didn't share the same interest; you liked everything that was hyper-feminine: ballet, pink, makeup, Taylor Swift. And you were becoming a midwife instead of a cool, badass soldier. His only expression was, "Are you sure, sweetie?" Of course, you were sure, and you thought your job was even more badass than his. You helped bring babies into the world; what could be better?

One day, you noticed he did love you. In fact, it was just harder to love someone at 17 than at 30, he said. He cried while saying this, begging you on his knees to forgive him for being such a crappy dad, and of course, you did. His affection and attention were almost like a drug to you; you didn't need weed when hearing "I'm proud of you, sweetie" did so much more to you.

It wasn't a surprise when you started to sleep with older men, craving the care and affection they could provide you with. The same affection you begged your whole life for. When your stepmother found out you got intimate with 40-year-old men every weekend, she told your dad, of course, that she did. And he was furious—more than furious. Giving you a lesson about safe sex—a bit too late for that, innit? And then he told you that he was disappointed in you, and it hurt even more than the neglect you needed to endure your whole life.

You were walking through the streets of Cardiff, enjoying the sight of your hometown; it was beautiful, especially at night. Suddenly, a man bumped into you—correct: the most handsome man you've ever seen in your life. He was tall with dark hair, mesmerizing eyes, tattoos and pale skin, and he was definitely old enough to be your type. Maybe that was the fairytale love story you ever dreamed of.

"I'm sorry, sir; my eyes aren't so strong in the dark."

He kissed your hand like you were some kind of royalty and smiled with the most charming smile. "A pretty girl like you shouldn't have to apologize," he said with a thick, beautiful Russian accent.

"Thank you, sir."

"Call me Vlad, princess," he said, and you told him your name, to which he replied that it was the most beautiful name he ever heard.

"Let me walk you home, princess. It's dangerous for a beautiful girl like you to walk on her own," he said with a cheeky grin.

"So you're from Russia? How is it there?"

"Beautiful; the nature is stunning. I live in Moscow, and you would love the architecture."

"I bet I would love it. If I have the opportunity to travel someday, I definitely will."

"Where would you go first, princess?"

"Hm, New York or maybe Sydney. No wait, the Alps. Ah, it's hard to decide, you?"

You mumbled while walking on the sidewalk; you didn't know why, but you felt safe like never before. Not even the dogs barked at him; he had this dark presence about him, but how he talked and behaved, letting you walk further away from the sidewalk, lending you his jacket, and caressing your finger with his thumb, made you feel safe and appreciated.

"I was almost everywhere in the world, but if I could decide, I'd say Moscow."

"Doesn't count; you live there." You pointed your tongue at him and threw a giggling fit.

"And who are you to decide this?"

"Like you said, a princess."

"And what does your Highness want?"

"Hm, ice cream."

You went to an ice cream place, both of you picking out an ice cream flavor; he insisted that he pay for your £2 ice like a gentleman, and you laughed.

"You're weird; chocolate-mint ice is a disgrace."

"It is good; taste it?"

"I won't."

You smeared the ice around your plump lips. "You sure don't want a taste now," you said, hinting at a kiss. He smirked and leaned in for a kiss. His lips were gentle, but there was so much passion behind the kiss and so much longing that you immediately moaned, making a fool of yourself. After what felt like hours, you split, trying to catch your breath.

"that was-"

"Intense"

You nodded before pulling into another kiss. The 10-minute walk home took 3 hours since you stopped every second, demanding his attention, and he gave it to you so willingly. You arrived at your door.

"So this is my door."

He kissed you one last time, "Sorry Princess," and then he pulled you into him, holding something against your nose, but before you could react, you were already far gone.

You brought him to your place, Price's house, with what he wanted; he wanted to kill every three of you, make a massacre, and then leave them for Price to see. But you were confusing him; he liked your presence; sure, he was just a man, and he knew you were the type of woman he watched when beating his meat, but normally attractiveness wouldn't affect him, especially not with Price's daughter. But you were nice to him even though you didn't know he was fucking Vladimir Makarov, so his plan changed; he needed to break you or have you and then rub it under Price's face that you were his now.

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 1 year

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Hi hun, would you be in the mood to write something about dadrry dealing with his kids terrible twos pls

The Terrible Two’s.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

blurb masterlist is here.

authors note - something about lhh being a dad does something to me i simply cannot describe so enjoy my loves…!

word count - 1.4k

in which, travelling with your husband around europe hasn’t been the most smooth sailing, especially when your daughters currently experiencing her terrible twos.

Faith Anne Styles.

After dating your boyfriend Harry for just over a year, you fell pregnant at the lovely age of nineteen and now both of you are at the age of twenty one and had a beautiful baby girl.

The perfect mix of both of you.

But life wasn’t all that swell.

As you stand backstage at the One Direction concert in Oslo, Denmark ,the pulsating excitement of the crowd seeping through the walls from the support act McBusted.

You watched as your boyfriend, the charismatic Harry Styles, attempts to navigate the treacherous waters of your two-year-old daughter Faith's terrible twos.

It seems that tonight, the tantrum monster has reared its head, threatening to disrupt the carefully choreographed chaos of the concert.

Great timing there, Faith Baby.

You glance around and notice Niall, Louis, and Liam, all observing the situation with wide eyes and amused expressions.

Harry, ever the doting father, crouches down to Faith's level, his brows furrowing in concern.

"Hey, baby love," Harry cooed gently, his voice a soothing melody in the midst of the chaos. "What's got you feeling so gloom and doom, eh?"

Faith's tiny face contorts, her little fists clenched tightly as she lets out a shrill cry. The sound reverberates through the backstage area, drawing amused glances from the rest of the band.

Louis, unable to resist a cheeky remark, leans over to Liam and whispers, "I think little Faith here is giving Harry a taste of his own teenage rebellion. Karma's a funny thing, innit?"

You never knew Harry in his pre teen years, however from the stories that you had been told by his family and fellow bandmates, he was a bit of a cheeky chappy.

And you couldn’t help but think that Faith, at just two years old, had developed some of his cheeky persona.

Before going down for naps, she would negotiate about how she wasn’t tired and then proceed to jump out of her crib, running through the house the same way that Harry would.

If you ever went to the shops or the park, then you would often catch her talking to random strangers as she held onto your hand or sat in her stroller, waving at them and being the kind girl she is and due to her father most likely doing the exact same thing.

You knew your two year old shouldn’t be interacting with strangers but she was just simply too adorable.

Liam chuckles and nods in agreement, but their attention is quickly pulled back to the unfolding drama.

Harry tries a different approach, his voice filled with patience and understanding. "Faith, darling, let's try to use our words, yeah? What's making you so upset?"

But Faith's wails persist, growing louder and more intense with each passing moment. She falls to the floor, kicking and flailing her arms, her cries echoing through the backstage area.

You watched as Harry ran a hand through his shoulder length hair, you could see slight stress lines appearing on his forehead.

He took it exceptionally hard when Faith would be upset, no parent liked to see their child sad but Harry absolutely hated it. He would always sit with her until she felt up for talking and although she was only a two year old and could hardly form a coherent sentence he would nod his head and listen to every word she said.

Faith idolised him.

Niall chuckles, watching the spectacle unfold. "Well, she's certainly giving us a show, isn't she? The drama of the terrible twos."

Tell you about it.

Harry shoots Niall a slight glare, finding absolutely nothing about the situation taking place funny in the slightest,before refocusing his attention on Faith.

He kneels down beside her, speaking softly amidst the cacophony. “Hey, my love, I know it's frustrating. Let's take some deep breaths together, okay? In and out."

But Faith's tantrum continues to escalate. She starts throwing toys and objects around, her frustration seemingly endless. The backstage area is filled with the commotion, drawing curious glances from the crew members and dancers nearby.

One thing you hated was gaining unnecessary attention.

Louis leans closer to Liam, a mixture of amusement and awe on his face. "I never thought I'd say this, but Faith might just give us a run for our money in the energy department."

Liam chuckles, nodding in agreement. "That she does. But Harry's got this. He's a patient one, that lad."

Harry tries different tactics, attempting to distract Faith with a toy or a silly face. But her cries persist, and the tantrum shows no signs of abating.

The band members exchange glances, a mixture of amusement, sympathy, and mild concern. This is uncharted territory for them, witnessing Harry deal with the full force of a toddler tantrum.

Harry's voice remains calm, though a hint of exhaustion seeps in. "Faith, sweetheart, I understand you're upset. Can you tell daddy what's wrong?"

But Faith's words are muffled amidst the tears and screams, her frustration rendering her temporarily speechless.

She continues to lash out, her tiny body wracked with sobs.

You step closer, offering your support. "Harry, maybe it's best if we take a break. Find a quiet spot for her to calm down."

Harry nods, his eyes filled with determination. "You're right, love. Let's find a quiet room where she can settle."

Together, a crew member leads you as well as Harry and Faith away from the backstage chaos, seeking Together, you lead Harry and Faith away from the backstage chaos, seeking refuge in a nearby dressing room.

The familiar scent of hairspray and the faint echoes of music provide a contrast to the storm of emotions still raging within Faith.

Gently closing the door behind you, you find a comfortable corner where Harry can sit with Faith in his arms. The room is dimly lit, allowing a sense of tranquillity to settle in.

Harry cradles Faith, his touch gentle and reassuring. "Shh, my love. We're here in our little haven. Take your time, sweetheart. We'll wait until you're ready to talk."

And if it was up to both you and Harry, you would both wait an eternity.

Faith's cries gradually subside into sniffles, her breath hitching as she tries to regain control, gripping a strand of her fathers long curls whilst the other grips onto the hem of his shirt.

Harry's soothing presence provides an anchor in the midst of her emotional tempest.

You sit beside them, offering a comforting smile. "It's okay, Faith. Mommy and Daddy are here for you. We love you, no matter what."

Faith looks up at you, her tear-stained cheeks glistening in the soft light. Her eyes search yours, seeking solace and understanding. You gently stroke her hair, allowing the silence to envelop the room, giving Faith the space she needs to collect herself.

Minutes pass, and the tension begins to dissipate. Faith's breathing steadies, her tiny frame relaxing against Harry's chest.

The storm of her tantrum has run its course, leaving behind a weary calm.

Harry speaks softly, his voice a comforting lullaby. "Sometimes, my love, we get overwhelmed. It's okay to feel angry or frustrated. But remember, we're always here to help you through it."

Faith nuzzles closer to Harry, finding comfort in his words. She wraps her tiny arms around his neck, seeking solace in his embrace.

The best father daughter duo.

The door creaks open, and Niall peeks inside, his eyes filled with concern. "Is everything alright?"

You nod, a sense of relief washing over you. "Yes, No, Faith just needed some quiet time. She's calming down now."

There was no doubt that Niall was Faith’s favourite uncle when it came to the four boys.

Niall steps into the room, his face softening as he gazes at the scene before him. "You're doing a great job, you guys. Parenting isn't easy, especially in the midst of all this craziness."

Harry smiles, gratitude and weariness mingling in his eyes. "Thanks, Niall. It's a learning process for all of us. But moments like these remind us why it's all worth it."

The sound of music drifts through the door, a reminder of the support act performing still in full swing. The energy of the crowd and the rhythm of the songs pulse through the walls, but in this small sanctuary, you find a moment of calm amidst the storm.

As Faith's breathing evens out and her grip on Harry loosens, you lean in and plant a tender kiss on her forehead. "We love you, Faith. And we're here for you, always."

Always and forever.

For eternity.

591 notes · View notes

ecemf · 4 months

Text

The Interview — Matty Healy

18+! MDNI!!!!!! Explicit!!!

Okay so I've never written fanfic or smut before so this could be ass but I just love jealousy sex & the idea of being on a red carpet so...

CW: smut, choking, dom/sub dynamics, dom!matty, sub!reader, use of y/n, alcohol usage, jealous!matty, possessive!matty, established relationship, thigh riding, i think that's it?? lmk if i missed anything

WC: ~3k

Ok I hope y'all like it ENJOY!!

The Interview.

The cameras are almost blinding as you stare out into the crowd of photographers shouting your name, trying to get the best angle for whatever publication they’re working for. Being a top executive at Sony Music meant you mostly worked behind the scenes; out of the spotlight. However, seeing as 18 artists on your label (five of which you yourself handpicked) were up for awards tonight, you couldn’t not show up to The Grammys. Besides, it felt good to dress up once in a while, especially if that meant wearing custom Chanel.

Continuing down the red carpet, you’re stopped by a reporter for Rolling Stone, Bryan Wilson. From the few brief interactions you’ve had with him at industry parties and the stories that have circulated about him, you know the guy’s a sleaze. But, given that there’s a Canon XF605 pointed directly in your face when he asks if you have time for a short interview, you smile sweetly and comply.

“You look stunning tonight, as always, Y/N”, he begins, in typical sleazy reporter fashion, “Can you tell us a little bit about what you’re wearing?” His eyes travel down the expanse of your body, grazing (quite slowly, to be frank) over the daring V-cut of your gown.

You couldn’t really blame him for checking you out, you did look incredible in this dress. Layers of black satin expertly draped over your body created an elegant but sexy silhouette complete with a plunging neckline and a timeless backless design. You knew you looked good, you didn’t need Wilson eye-fucking you to tell.

“Isn’t this The Rolling Stone?” You giggle in response, half-joking, “Shouldn’t you be asking me about Sony Records and leave the fashion questions to Vogue?” To the untrained ear, your tone is light-hearted and sincere, however, there’s an intended edge you’re hoping is coming through.

If he was picking up on the edge, he wasn’t showing it. Wilson continues on checking you out, responding “We hear about Sony Records enough, but it’s a treat to see the woman behind the magic,” he looks directly into the camera and gestures to your body, “especially when the woman looks like this!” He looks at you now, “Why don’t you give us a spin, Y/N?”

You clench your jaw into a tight smile, “You know, I’d really rather talk about the artists up for awards tonight. It’s a record-breaking night for my company, and I’m extremely proud to be here…” You’re trying your best to refocus the conversation on the real reason you’re on the red carpet tonight, but Wilson’s wandering eyes are making it difficult for you to focus on anything.

Finally feeling fed up, you clear your throat, “Sorry, Bryan, am I boring you?”

He breaks out of his stare from your chest and goes red. “Oh! No, I’m sorry I was just… looking at your necklace!” He gestures to the Tiffany & Co. pendant that hangs (conveniently for him) right between your boobs.

“Stunning, innit?” You hear your boyfriend say from behind you as he comes up and possessively wraps his arm around your waist on camera in a way that will definitely be circulating Twitter tomorrow. “Just bought it for her yesterday when I first got to see the dress.” Matty grips your right hip so tight that the satin puckers under his fingertips. You get a feeling he’s been watching this “interview” from afar.

“A beautiful necklace for a beautiful woman, indeed,” Wilson so boldly responds, either not noticing or not caring that Matty was already quite irritated.

With that final comment, Matty grips your hip even tighter, “Right, then,” he says shortly, “Cheers, mate!” He yells over his shoulder while quickly ushering you away from the train wreck of a media appearance.

“I’m gonna kill that guy,” he leans down to quietly whisper in your ear as the two of you make your way into the venue, “Staring at you like a piece of meat live on camera, isn’t he embarrassed?”

“It’s really not a big deal, baby,” you try to reassure him. And to you, it wasn’t, really, compared to some of the other harassment and objectification you’ve experienced in such a male-dominated industry, “He’s just some stupid reporter,”

“Yeah some stupid reporter who doesn’t know how to keep his stupid fucking eyes away from what’s mine,” he growls under his breath.

You grow a bit warm at your boyfriend’s possessive words and decide to push him a little further. “So what, people aren’t allowed to look at me now? We’re kind of on a red carpet if you haven’t realized,”

Matty rolls his eyes as the two of you take your seats at your assigned table. “You know what I mean,” he scoots a bit closer to you, wrapping his arm around your waist, “People can look at you all they want, but these,” he trails his hand up your torso, palming your left tit and slightly grazing its nipple through your dress with his thumb. You gasp. “These are mine, and you know that.” he says lowly into your ear.

This was going to be a long night.

—

Seven wins, two acceptance speeches, and a few too many bottles of champagne later, the ceremony was coming to an end. You were so proud of your artists, even those who hadn’t won tonight.

To your (and your aching feet’s) misfortune, your boyfriend was insistent on “making an appearance” at the afterparty, to “touch base with some important blokes”. You weren’t thrilled about the ordeal, but you had a nice buzz going from the free champagne earlier and figured a gin and tonic to top off the night wouldn’t hurt anyone. Boy were you wrong.

You were standing by the bar by yourself, watching Matty “touch base” with the aforementioned “blokes”. Nursing your second gin and tonic, you wonder how much longer their conversation will take, and when you can finally go home (and take your boyfriend to bed). As your mind indulges your fantasies of being fucked to sleep later, you hear an annoying and familiar voice from behind you.

“It breaks my heart to see such a gorgeous woman drinking alone,” no one other than Bryan Wilson saunters up beside you at the bar, “Where’s your man? You think he’d be smarter than to leave such precious goods unattended…” he slurs to you, obviously a few more deep than you were at this point in the night.

As Wilson drunkenly gets too close to you, you turn back to where Matty was talking to see him staring holes into the man’s skull, clenching and unclenching his fists. Your nearing-on-past-tipsy mind flashes back to your boyfriend’s words earlier, and his reaction to the reporter’s initial efforts towards you. You consider your options: 1) tell Wilson to fuck off and continue being bored by yourself at the bar, or 2) play this up a bit, make Matty jealous, have some fun, and probably go home early. Your sixth drink of the night tells you option two is far more enticing, and you agree.

You lean into Wilson a bit, closing some of the distance you were intentionally making. “Ever the flatterer, Bryan,” you lean back and give him a once-over, “I’m shocked that you’re still single, a handsome guy like you with such a smooth mouth on him.”

“It’s intentional baby,” he puts a hand on your arm - uh oh. “Why would I tie down this smooth mouth to one lucky lady? There’s plenty enough to go around…” and just as you think he’s about to make a move you feel a bruising grip on your upper arm tearing you away. Away from Bryan Wilson, away from the bar, away from the party.

You get your bearings and find yourself in a secluded hallway outside the party with your very angry, very sexy boyfriend staring you in the face. “What the fuck was that?” He spits at you, fuming.

“What was what?” You respond, looking up at Matty with your best doe eyes.

He cages your body in between his own and the wall of the hallway, “Don’t play stupid with me now, things can only get worse for you from here, pet.” As you look up at your very jealous partner, and feel the energy radiating off of him, you think to yourself that things can probably only get better.

You maintain your look of faux-innocence as you reply in your sweetest voice “Baby I was just talking to-“

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” Matty growls as he grabs your throat and pushes you harder into the wall behind you. “You were letting that perv practically fuck you in front of everybody here. Making everyone think you’re anything but mine.” He pushes his hips into yours to punctuate the word, and you can feel how hard he is. Oh dear. Maybe it’s time to drop the act.

“I’m sorry, you were just taking so long talking to those guys, and I was getting so impatient and needy for you,” You bat your eyelashes in an attempt to seduce your way out of undoubtedly being fucked silly in some corner of this hotel right now. “I just want you to take me home, baby,” You run your hands down his chest, the way you know he likes.

Matty scoffs at this. “Aw, my poor little slut can’t wait longer than an hour for me to take her home and fuck her?” You feel a heat pool at your center from his words and absolute condescension. His hand around your neck comes up to grip your jaw, holding your head so that you can’t look anywhere but his eyes. “So fucking pathetic. Having to whore yourself around in public so that I can give you some attention? Trying to embarrass me in front of all our colleagues meanwhile, the only thing embarrassing is how stupid you look letting that scumbag put his hands on you,”

He holds your face an inch away from his own, his eyes searching for a response in yours. “I think you may need to be reminded just who you belong to.” He says darkly. And with that, he’s dragging you again, this time into the bathroom at the other end of the hallway.

As soon as the door closes he has you pressed up against it face-first. He wastes no time undoing the back of your dress, practically ripping it off of your body. You hope he doesn’t do any damage to the new gown, but to be honest, you’re not sure you care in this moment either way. Upon removing the dress, your boyfriend can see that you’ve forgone any undergarments (half because of the dress itself, half because you knew it would drive him crazy - which it does).

“Oh my fucking god,” he practically moans when he sees your now naked form pressed up against the door for him. “You’ve been ready for me all night, haven’t you princess?” He whispers in your ear, pressing himself to your back, slightly grinding into your bare ass. You squirm with his words and the minimal stimulation he provides.

“Well let’s just take a look,” He reaches his hand around from where he’s standing and drags a finger through your soaking folds agonizingly slowly. Your breath hitches. “Oh my poor girl,” he tuts, “how long have you been soaking through your dress baby?” He resumes his teasing, touching everywhere that isn’t your clit or your entrance. You whine and push your hips back in protest.

Matty grabs you by your waist and holds you in place against the door. “I think I asked you a question, slut.” He barks. You only grow wetter at his words and his toying.

“Since-“ you start, but you’re cut off by a moan when he takes his free hand to pull on your left nipple. His teasing is almost overwhelming, and you’re not sure you even remember the question the way your head is clouded with lust and need.

You’re pulled out of your hazy state by a hard slap to your pussy, “Since what? Huh? I haven’t even taken my cock out and you’re already fucked dumb. Answer me. How long have you been this wet?” He asks again, rolling your nipple between his fingers while inching closer and closer to your entrance with his calloused hand.

“Since you were grabbing my hips on the red carpet,” you manage to stutter out “during the interview.”

With that answer, he removes both of his hands from you. You put your hands up to brace yourself from slamming into the door from your newfound loss of support. Matty laughs darkly.

“So that’s what this is about, huh angel?” He grabs you by your hips, spinning to face him and pushing you even harder into the door behind you, “you like it when I get riled up, so I’ll treat you like the whore that you are?”

You look up at him with your glazed-over eyes and nod dumbly.

“Well here’s the problem with that,” Matty begins sucking on your neck harshly, no doubt leaving bruises, “You… are… my… whore… no… one… else’s…” he punctuates every word by leaving a new mark on your chest with his mouth. He takes a step back, admiring his handiwork. “Gorgeous,” he mutters as he admires your now hickey-covered tits, “you should really see this baby.”

Matty leads you over to the sink of the bathroom, turning you around to see your naked and marked-up form in the mirror. Looking at the new marks on your chest, you realize that he’s left them in the distinct pattern of your dress’s neckline, meaning there’s no hiding them. No hiding the fact that you’re his. You squeeze your thighs together at the thought.

Leaning over your shoulder in the mirror, you watch as your boyfriend trails his hand down your body to the place you need him most. Unsurprisingly, though, he doesn’t touch you, he simply ghosts his hand over the outside of your now sopping heat. You press yourself into him.

“Please, baby,” you whine, making your best puppy eyes in the mirror at him. “Please, I need you to touch me.” You’re so desperate he doesn’t even need to ask you to beg.

“Do you think you deserve to be touched?” He responds, continuing his teasing, “You’ve been quite a bad girl tonight, baby. And bad girls don’t get what they want.”

“I’ll be good, I promise,” you beg even more, tears forming at your eyes with the desperation he’s built in you.

“Prove it,” Matty responds, trailing his hand up to your mouth. You gladly take his digits in, watching as he toys with you and stretches you out, wishing he would do that in other places. You hear the clinking of his belt, and you perk up, thinking that maybe he’s just going to put you out of your horny misery and fuck you already, but of course he’s not.

“Can’t have you getting yourself all over my nice trousers now can we love?” He says as he pulls his pants down to his ankles. You watch still with all four of his fingers in your mouth as he takes his newly naked thigh and roughly slots it in between your legs from behind. Your eyes roll back at the much-needed friction it provides. Matty leans in, “Right then. Be a good girl and ride my thigh, hm? You’re gonna have to get yourself off before I believe you after tonight’s theatrics.”

Embarrassing as it may be, you are in no condition to care in this moment. You immediately start feverishly fucking your boyfriend’s thigh, moaning around his fingers at the friction you’ve been needing all night, a ball already forming in the pit of your stomach. Not more than a second after your head falls forward in relief, your boyfriend grabs you by your hair to force you to look in the mirror, “Nuh-uh” he growls, “You’re gonna watch while you fuck yourself on my thigh. You’re gonna see just how pathetic you are, crying with relief and coming undone when I’ve not even touched you.”

Matty’s words and the sight of him and you in the mirror add to the very quickly growing warmth in your body. Your skin is on fire as you grip the sink in front of you, trying to use whatever leverage you can to get yourself off faster. You take one hand to start kneading your tits, playing with your nipples, hoping some added stimulation will help; you whine at the new sensation.

“There you go princess, that’s it,” he coos in your ear, “so good f’me, taking directions so well baby.”

The praise goes straight to your core and you can feel yourself clench around nothing. Matty can tell by your breathing that you’re close, so he grabs you by your hips to help you, moving you back and forth on his thigh, assisting in your rhythm. “Come on my thigh,” he demands in your ear; and you do. That white-hot pleasure you’ve been chasing since you saw your boyfriend on the red carpet this afternoon finally washes over you. But it’s not enough.

Matty takes his fingers out of your mouth but keeps you firm against him. As you come down from your high, you look at him in the mirror desperately. Your orgasm was, well, an orgasm, but you know it could be so much better if he would just fuck you.

“Matty please,” You whine, still making sweet eye contact, “Baby, I need more.”

Matty nods his head in the direction of the door. “Put your dress on, love,” You think you might cry, until he whispers in your ear, “I’m not done with you yet, princess.”

---------

Ahh!! Should I write a pt. two when the couple gets home?? Thank y'all for reading my first smut omfg I can't believe I did this...

#matty healy #matty healy x y/n #matty healy x you #matty healy x oc #matty healy blurb #matty healy oneshot #matty healy fluff #matty x reader #matty healy x reader #matty healy smut #matty healy fic #matty healy x fem reader #matty healy x fem!reader #the 1975 smut #dom!matty #sub!reader #jealous!matty #possessive!matty

174 notes · View notes

ave09 · 8 months

Text

moon boys head-cannons: amusement parks

note: this is MY personal opinion, MY headcannons, do not judge, por favor

steven

“bit dodgy, innit? i mean—it could run right off the track-“

“steven, it’s perfectly safe. there’s a track, it can’t fly off.”

“anything could happen, luv.”

steven would honestly have the time of his life, although he’d refuse to go on the big rollar coasters.

he’d adore the carousel.

“lookit! the little ponies—aw and a giraffe-come here darling, let’s ride matching ponies-“

finds bits of history in every attraction.

“this here—see the design—? it reminds me of these egyptian ruins-“

constantly distracted.

“we should get some food—or candy—or candy floss—is it called cotton candy here? ooo, luv look-“

he would last a couple hours before wanting to go home.

“the crowds-the loud noises-nope-no more-“

“you want to go home?”

“yes-“

marc

“i dare you to go on this ride with me.”

“no.”

“come on-“

this man, as grumpy as he seems, wants to do everything.

“big roller coaster? loop de loops? upside down shit? hell yeah-“

but then he tends to also be very motion sick.

“ya know what—never again-“

at first he was skeptical of this sort of vacation.

“amusement park? sweetheart, when you said, ‘vacation,’ i thought you meant me, you, and the bedroom-“

but in the end, he enjoys it more then you do.

“that ride was wild! let’s do it again-“

“you just said it made you want to puke-“

“all part of the thrill baby-“

food. food. food.

“okay-here’s the plan-two lunches, two dinners, and one post dinner meal-“

“marc-“

“have you seen how much food there is”

“you’re gonna puke it up later.”

“okay and-?”

refuses to do any water rides… for some obvious reasons and some internal.

“i’m not getting wet. nope. nada.”

his social battery outlasts yours surprisingly.

“marc, it’s dark now-“

“all the rides are lit up now—let’s ride ‘em all again-“

“you’ve thrown up three times-“

“it’s the experience-“

only when he realizes how exhausted you are does he give in to leaving.

“we should do this again.”

“and i thought this wasn’t your type of vacation?”

“shush-“

jake

this man does everything.

and i mean everything.

you thought marc was crazy—jake lockley is crazier.

“cariño. come—bumper cars—“

bumper cars are his favorite, and he gets so aggressive with it.

“beep beep hijo de putas” (motherfuckers 💀)

he then proceeds to ram into a group of kids.

“jAke-“

“what? it’s the point of the ride-“

he enjoys the water rides, unlike someone, but hates getting wet.

“Maldita sea, mi sombrero está mojado.” (dammit my hat is wet)

“i told you to take it off-“

“i like this hat-“

a bit picky when it comes to the food.

“why is everything deep fried?”

“what did you expect?”

“not deep fried mierda.”

he hates the long lines.

“amor, i could stab everyone here and we could go on the bumper cars right now-“

“you’re not stabbing anyone-“

“but-“

“no.”

his social butterfly wings die quickly.

“Estoy harto de esto.”

“you ready to go home?”

“sì… but.. un paseo más en los carros chocones. (one more ride on the bumper cars)

#moon knight fanfiction #moon knight x reader #moon knight headcanons #moon boys #moon knight fanfic #moon knight imagine #steven grant #steven grant x reader #steven grant imagine #marc spector #marc spector x reader #marc spector imagine #jake lockley #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley imagine

278 notes · View notes

justarandombrit · 19 days

Text

Okay well as you may know from looking at my blog for five seconds, I saw the matinee for Starkid Innit. During the interval and after the show I wrote down some notes. I tried to get them in chronological order but my memory is dogshit and I definitely missed some stuff, I hope you appreciate it though.

Outside:

. EVERYONE SUNG GRANGER DANGER

. IT WAS SO GOOD (except for the high note lmao)

. EVERYONE SUNG DAYS OF SUMMER

. EVERYONE A SMALL GROUP OF PEOPLE SUNG GOIN' BACK TO HOGWARTS

Act 1:

. The Nightmare Time sting punched me in the face

. The shout-out to the confused parents

. BRIAN + MEREDITH IN TGWDLM IS EVERYTHING TO ME

. High School Is Killing Me, Literal Monster and Nerdy Prudes Must Die all got mashed together!

. Corey!Richie is my Roman Empire

. Jaime in NPMD….

. Jaime had a different line to PJ’s original in Literal Monster. I couldn't hear half of it but it was different

. JEFF!MAX

. THE AUDIENCE SINGING RICHIE'S PART!!!!!! I'M NOT A LOSERRRRRRR

. TOGETHER!!!!!

. OUR DOORS ARE OPEN

. Jaime singing Sami/Harry ABOUT HER DOG (Nori)

. The audience whipping out the phone cameras

. CLARK SINGING I WAS GAVE ME SUCH INTENSE CHILLS

. Joey finally giving the white, male side characters attention

. Joey changing “I know I'm not a star” to “I know I'm not Clark”

. He pointed the mic at the audience for the “DEFINITELY NOT!”

. Joey mistimed his jump 😔😔

. Genuinely his best performance of Sidekick yet

. Joey making fun of Brian for not getting a big solo

. Brian kept pretending to beat him up, it was brilliant

. Not Over Yet is definitely Brian's song, shut up

. Brian accidentally singing the same verse twice (How does he always mess this song up?!?!?)

. My mum took a photo during the “EVIL PLAAAAANSSSS” bit and it was right when Brian was choking Joey

. “So look alive and don't forget”

“FORGET WHAT?”

. FEAST OR FAMINE

. Rogues Are We still goes so hard

. Rogues Medley without Kick It Up A Notch is weird, but Kick It Up A Notch without Dylan would definitely be weirder

Intermission:

. Ice cream :D

Act 2:

. Starting with We Got Work To Do is so iconic

. THERE'S BEEN A CHANGE IN THE CLIMATE, SOMETHING'S IN THE AIR, WE FEEL THE HEAT, NO NEED TO DEFINE IT, WE DON'T REALLY CARE

. MEREDITH REQUESTED BACK ON TOP!!!!!!!! AND IT WAS SO GOOOOD!!!!!!!

. Joey shouted “Draco, get on the floor!” at Lauren

. ALL THE UNDERRATED SONGS

. I love how it was hyped up like it was going to be Boy Toy, and then just straight up wasn't lmaooo

. Brian finally got the slow, sexy Hideous Creatures (Take that, Nick Lang!)

. Okay I'm trying to remember the order of the underrated songs they did

. Hideous Creatures (Lauren)

. Pays To Be an Animal (Corey) (He didn't sit in the spotlight and someone yelled “TO THE LEFT, COREY”)

. Get In My Mouth (Jeff) (He fully sprawled out on the stage it was hilarious)

. Land of the Dicks (Jaime)

. Hermione Can't Draw (Meredith) (She sung it so well I briefly didn't recognise the song)

. THEY MANAGED TO WORK IN LUPIN / BRIAN CAN'T SING YESSSS

. I genuinely cannot remember what Brian sung

. Gotta Find His Dick (Joey, and eventually everyone)

. The entire “Oh you wanna know where I got my shirt?” bit

. Brian, Jaime and Joey got it from Primark, Meredith got it from “Primed-mrak”, Lauren’s was a family heirloom, Corey got it from Gucci and Jeff got it from America, from Pri-mart (He made the guy on the drums do a baddum tsh)

. COREY SINGING SHOW STOPPIN' NUMBER. OH MY GOD. (The entire crowd joined in, also, Jeff and Jaime as Steve and Stu)

. Everyone cheering so loud when Joey and Lauren came on stage, and them claiming we had no idea what they were going to sing, and it was actually a completely new song (it was Granger Danger obviously)

. And them continuing to claim it was new throughout the song

. As I expected, I almost cried during Not Alone. Also apparently Darren thought it was going to be a big hit??? And just begrudgingly let them use it for A Very Potter Musical

. Super Friends!

. So sad Jeff’s mic was so quiet for “I WANNA BE A MODERN DANCER”

. THEY SUNG WANNABE BY THE SPICE GIRLS

. The fakeout of everyone leaving stage, then the band coming back on and playing the start of Goin' Back To Hogwarts

. “Darren's not here”

“I'LL DO IT”

. THE AUDIENCE DID THE FIRST PART OF GOIN' BACK TO HOGWARTS ALL BY OURSELVES

. JEFF DID DYLAN'S PART (but he didn't do “All of you to [city name] :( )

. Jeff pointed at various parts of the audience for “Welcome hotties, nerds and tools!” and then whispered “I'm so sorry” immediately after

. Singing (/ shouting) Goin' Back To Hogwarts along with hundreds of other Starkid fans was so exhilarating, I loved it and I almost cried (also I'm gonna be so hoarse tomorrow)

#starkid #starkid innit #it's starkid innit?#team starkid #starkid productions #joey richter #lauren lopez #jaime lyn beatty #brian holden #clark baxtresser #corey dorris #meredith stepien #jeff blim

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gotta-get-back-to-hatchetfield · 20 days

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So thoughts from the intermission of starkid innit - if you're seeing the evening show and want to avoid spoilers might be best not to read!

I am absolutely in love!!!

It is so great seeing so many songs that I've never seen them do live performances of before (especially the nerdy prudes stuff)

Jeff did Max Jaegermans parts in the NPMD melody and it was sooo good. He got the whole 'who will pray for me' bit with Ritchie going with the crowd and it was spectacular.

Jamie did Harry/Sami but about her dog Nori which was super fun

Clark doing 'I was' was everything and makes up for my fomo for having missed seeing it the last time they came to London (in 2013! I was a teenager living not in London back then so wasn't able to go)

They did the rogues medley but swapped out kick it up a notch for feast or famine, which was really cool (altho rip to kick it up a notch) but they melded the beats together so cool that it was such a great fake out when those opening notes didn't become kick it up

Also the most cataclysmic Brian holden forgetting the lyrics to 'not over yet' event I have ever seen. I think he sung verse 4 instead of verse 2 and it was actually really funny when he got towards the end and realised he'd already sung that bit.

I'm sure I'm forgetting stuff but it is sooo good!

#starkid innit

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buckychristwrites · 1 year

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About You | Day 5 | j.t.

Summary: Your job? Pop culture journalist for The Independent. Your assignment? To write a profile on the cocky footballer that you're publicly feuding with.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Cussing. Enemies to lovers

A/N: Let me know what you think! :)

Masterlist | About You Masterlist | Main Blog

“Oh, sorry!”

Your face was contorted in guilt as you watched the lady who was just smacked with the front door of your apartment building scurry away, giving you one last glare before disappearing down a side street. Was it because you were rushing out the door? Was it just because she was an old bat? It was hard to say. But you knew that you’d continue to feel bad about it for the rest of the day.

Shaking off the negative feeling that incident left behind, you turned down the sidewalk and made your way down the sidewalk.

It was a beautiful day, the sun shining down for the first time in 3 days. It was welcome. As the rays kissed your skin, you closed your eyes as if soaking them in. Popping your headphones in, you shuffled your music and continued to walk. The sidewalk wasn’t as crowded today as it normally was, and it made the journey all the more pleasant.

“Oi!”

You continued to walk with a slight sway in your step. The crosswalk sign changed to stop just as you approached. A dog on a leash walked by, stopping to smell your shoes. You watched with a smile as he and his owner walked off.

Over the sound of your music, you thought you could hear your name being called. You began to glance around. Was your name actually being called? Or was it something in the song? The answer was confirmed when you heard it again, this time much louder than before.

Turning, you spotted Jamie. He was quite a distance away, jogging with one drink in each hand. When you noticed you looking, he raised his hands up in the air. The smile he donned was so wide that you couldn’t help but return it. A man tried to sidestep him, but Jamie accidentally ran into him anyway.

“Sorry, mate,” He said, looking more annoyed than apologetic as he caught up to you. He deeply inhaled and exhaled sharply before meeting your eye once more.

“‘Mornin’.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“Did you get tired of being a menace to other drivers and decide to torture the pedestrians?” He let out a faux laugh.

“Hilarious, you are.” You glanced around, still in disbelief.

“How do you remember where I live?” You asked in astonishment. He shrugged, as if this was a completely normal thing to occur.

“Just followed the way I drive to the pitch,” He said. “I always see ya walkin’.” He lifted up one of the cups. “I got you a… coffee?” It was more of a question, as if he took a wild guess at what you would want.

“I’m more of a tea drinker…” Quickly, he handed you the cup in the opposite hand. You were awestruck as you stared at the cup before taking it from him. He really bought one of each because he would rather buy two drinks than buy you nothing. You accepted the cup and brought it to your mouth.

“I picked one that I like,” He admitted, sounding sheepish. “Hope it’s alright.”

“It’s great.” And it really was. You smiled at him. “You really didn’t have to do this.” He shrugged.

“‘S what mates are for, innit?”

You bit your lip, but the smile still broke through.

“So we’re mates then?”

This question seemed to catch him off guard, and he slowly began to walk in the direction of the pitch.

“Well, yeah,” He answered. “Ya know too much about me now. Have to keep an eye on ya to make sure you don’t go blabbin’ to everyone.” You caught up so you were walking next to him, the two of you hogging the whole sidewalk.

“Well, there goes my whole plan.”

It was a nice invasion of your morning. The tea was excellent, and it made you want to ask Jamie what shop he bought it from. He had his hood up in hopes to not be recognized as he drank his coffee. You wondered what that was like, to always be in hiding. Being a journalist gave you the privilege of being forever unrecognised. While your picture was published along with the article, people rarely paid any attention to it. In return, you didn’t have to worry about people bothering you in the streets or having to walk around in disguise.

Your train of thought was interrupted when a hand was pressed into your side, pulling you over.

“Watch it.”

Suddenly, you were standing in front of Jamie, and when you looked over, a bicyclist sped passed, a glare sent your way in his wake. Jamie’s hand was still holding you as you gathered yourself, his fingers brushing a patch of bare skin that was exposed from your riding up shirt.

“Where’d your head go?” He asked. “Almost killed ya.” You shook your head quickly before taking a step away from him.

“Sorry, I just… lost myself in thought, I guess.” You started walking again, and though his hand was back at his own side, the ghost of his touch long lingered.

Silence fell over the two of you again as the journey to Nelson Road continued. You were taking care to put some extra distance between yourself and Jamie. You couldn’t explain it. Just because you and him were friends now, that wasn’t an open invitation to get all handsy. If fate calls for a bike to kill you, who is he to stop it? No, he should keep his hands to himself.

Rounding the corner in front of you came a small child who was hand in hand with his father. The hoodie was not enough to fool him, for the small boy began jumping up and down and pointing to Jamie. His father froze as his cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson. He pulled his son over to the side and kneeled down to calm him, at least that’s what you assumed was happening. It clearly didn't work, because the boy broke free of his father’s grip and ran up to Jamie.

“You’re Jamie Tartt!” He exclaimed, still bouncing up and down. “Legend! You’re my favourite footballer!”

The father ran over at top speed and had an obvious apology being loaded up. But with a raised hand and a gentle smile, Jamie stopped him before lowering down to one knee so he was eye level with the boy.

“You wanna be a footballer?” He asked in the friendliest tone you’d ever heard from him. The kid frantically shook his head, more star struck than he had been before. It was at this moment, as Jamie pulled a marker from his pocket, that you noticed the boys Richmond jersey. “What position do you play?”

“A striker! Just like you!” The child didn’t miss a beat. Jamie laughed as he signed his shirt without even being asked. You glanced over at the father, who also looked just as in awe as his son.

“You keep practicin’ and you’ll be better than me,” Jamie told him, giving his hair a shake before standing up and holding his hand out for the father. “Take care, mate.” The man stared at the hand for just a second too long, but still managed to reach up and grab it, profusely thanking Jamie for his kindness.

“Bye, Jamie Tartt!” The boy shouted as they walked off. In the distance, you could hear him singing Jamie’s chant. Plastered to the back of his little jersey was the number 9 with the name Tartt across the top.

It wasn’t until another thirty seconds had passed and Jamie looked over at you that you realized you had been staring at him.

“What?”

You whipped your head forward, giving him a terse smile before continuing the walk to work.

“Nothing.”

Keeley Jones stood in the car park of the stadium, scrolling on her phone when the both of you arrived. When she caught sight of you and Jamie approaching, her expression lit up.

“Hiya!” She exclaimed, skipping over. “How’s the profile going?”

“It’s been going rather well, actually,” You said as you looked at Jamie for validation. He met your eye and nodded.

“Very good.”

This made her look incredibly pleased, and you wondered how such a small person could contain so much positivity. Every time you saw her, she looked like she was ready to burst with love and happiness.

She turned to you briskly. “You’re coming to the Gala next week, yeah?”

You nodded.

“I have a press pass,” You told her. Jamie turned towards you, eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t know you were comin’,” He said. You scrunched up your face slightly in disbelief at his remark.

“They can’t have me doing a profile on one of Richmond’s players and not have me go to Richmond’s Gala.”

Richmond’s first ever Charity Gala was a new event that was Keeley’s idea, but was pushed by Rebecca. The point was for all of the club’s shareholders and sponsors to show up for an evening of dancing, food, entertainment, and most importantly, donating to the charity of choice. This year, the money would benefit homeless youth, although you couldn’t for the life of you remember the name of the organization. From your understanding, the event was being held at the Nelson Road stadium, but what you couldn’t figure out was where exactly they could possibly hold it. It was tempting to ask Keeley, since she brought it up, but the surprise of it all was also quite exciting.

“Don’t you think it’s a weird idea to have a Gala with lots of drinking the night before a match?” You asked the two of them. Keeley waved you off.

“They’ll play better after a relaxing night, in my opinion,” She informed you. Did you think that was a good strategy? By absolutely no means. But her and Rebecca worked very hard, so you didn’t say anything more.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” She said. “Rebecca and I have a lot of details to iron out before then. See you guys later!” She flashed one more smile before scurrying off inside. You and Jamie followed in the same direction at a considerably lower speed.

“You bringin’ anyone to the Gala?” He asked. The question caught you off guard. Why are you feeling so bashful all of a sudden?

“Oh, erm, no,” You told him. “Press passes don’t allow for a plus one.” Pause. “Not that I’d have anyone to bring if it did.” He nodded in understanding. He reached the door first, holding it open for you before following you in. You glanced at him before quickly looking forward again. “You?”

“Me what?”

“Are you bringing anyone?”

He scoffed. “No. Definitely not.”

His answer, both the answer itself and the way he said it, surprised you.

“Why not?”

“Don’t have anyone to ask,” He said. “Not anyone I’d want to spend a whole evenin’ with.” Now it was your turn to scoff.

“I’m sure there’s plenty of great ladies that you could ask and have an amazing time with.”

When you looked over, the goofy smile on your face was instantly wiped away. He was staring at the floor, his expression unreadable. Before you could ask him about the change, he crossed into the changing room, which was as loud as ever with voices and laughter. Like the flip of a switch, Jamie plastered a smile on his face and enthusiastically greeted his teammates, who greeted him with the same vigour. Sinking onto the bench in front of his locker, you pulled out your notepad.

The Richmond team brings out a sort of happiness in Tartt that you don’t see anywhere else.

“How can ya already have notes to write? We just got here!” Jamie said as he flopped down next to you, pulling his hoodie over his head.

“I’m clearly taking notes about all the naked men in here.” He looked aghast, pressing a hand to his chest..

“The only naked man you should be takin’ notes on is me. Look at all this.” He pulled the undershirt off to reveal his bare torso.

“Oh yes,” You said mockingly as you pretended to study him and take more notes. “‘Jamie Tartt’s biceps are bigger than a teenager’s head and could easily crack a watermelon.’” You came off as coy, but all of this was to distract from the fire that was roasting in your cheeks.

“There ya go,” He said with a playful smile. “Give the people what they want.” You continued with the game.

“‘Tartt’s abs are sculpted with the same look of bread buns, fresh out of the oven, and every woman in a 150 metre radius wishes they had kneaded them.’”

“Change it to 300 metres and you got it.” You rolled your eyes.

“Shall we make it an even 500 metres, just to be sure?”

He snapped his fingers and pointed at you.

“Now you’re thinkin’ like a real writer.”

The whiplash you got when you thought of how quickly things turned around with Jamie was indescribable. If someone had told the you from a week ago, hell even 4 days ago, that you would be sitting around with Jamie Tartt, laughing and making jokes, you would’ve probably spit in their face. But here you were, laughing with him as if you had known him for years.

When the coaches entered, you flipped to a blank sheet of paper. Jamie pulled a hoodie over his head. When you looked around, you noticed that the whole team seemed to be wearing the same one.

“Match against Chelsea is in two days' time,” Roy reminded everyone. “We’ll have one more practise today, and then tomorrow will be to rest and prepare.” You leaned towards Jamie.

“You guys don’t practise right before a match?” He shook his head, speaking in a low voice.

“It's a new strategy. Game day eves are for relaxin’ and restin’.”

It didn’t really clarify anything, but you didn’t want to get yelled at again, so you straightened back up and let it go.

Practice was pretty straightforward. They ran drills. They ran plays. Roy Kent yelled. Coach Beard shrieked. Nate Shelley stayed (mostly) silent. When late afternoon hit, they decided it was time to throw in the towel. The team filed into the changing room.

“Remember,” Roy Kent said in a warning tone. “You all better fuckin’ rest tomorrow or I’ll rip your testicles out through your mouth.” Even when the coaches had disappeared into their office, you continued to stare in the direction of the door.

“I would love to spend a day with Roy and a therapist, just to hear what goes on in that brain of his,” You said to Jamie, shaking your head. Jamie patted your shoulder.

“You and me both, darlin’.”

You didn’t even dignify that with a response.

The team all walked out together, making jokes and laughing as they always did. As they parted in the car park, there was a chorus of See you laters and Have a good day offs.

“Make sure to relax, lads,” Isaac’s voice echoed over the crowd. Everyone agreed before breaking to head to their cars.

“Can I walk ya home?”

You turned to Jamie, whose body was already turned towards the direction that you’d go to head home. A smile crept onto your face, filling your cheeks.

“You don’t have to do that,” You said as you approached him. He raised his hands up, giving you a look.

“I don’t have to do anythin’.” His hands dropped back to his sides. “I offered ‘cos I want to.” You nodded.

“I know.”

The sun was low in the sky, surrounded by orange and purple hues. You stared at the colours that painted the world above you, your heart at ease. Jamie looked over at you, his eyes following your gaze towards the sky.

“You never told me your favourite time of day,” He pointed out. You glanced at him before looking upwards once more.

“This,” You said, gesturing around you. “The sunset.”

“What makes it any different than a sunrise?”

“The colours are different, obviously.” Which was true. In your opinion, the colours of a sunset were deeper, while sunrises were more pastel. You took a beat to give it more thought. “It’s a beautiful ending, no matter how wonderful or horrific a day is. You always get a beautiful ending. Even when the clouds cover them, you know the colours are there above them.” Pause. “It’s like seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.”

The feeling of him staring at you made you nervous, but you didn’t look at him at all.

“So what’s a sunrise then?” He asked you.

“Seeing the positive in every single day. Knowing it has the potential to be good, even if you have no way of knowing.”

He smiled, eyebrows furrowed together.

“Now you’re just makin’ things up.”

“You’re just not using your imagination,” You told him, laughing despite it. He was laughing too.

“I’d love to see the good in every single day,” He admitted as the two of you stopped at a crosswalk. “But on a day when we lost a game, or I feel a wee bit off, it’s hard to come back from that.”

The light changed, and the two of you began to cross.

“What happens in your head when bad things happen?” You asked him. A blush filled his cheeks as he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before answering.

“I… erm.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I guess I hear me dad’s voice, tellin’ me I’m a failure. Or that I don’t deserve to have a good day anyway. Stuff like that.” The pain in his expression was apparent. It was heartbreaking that his father’s abuse haunted him so much.

“Where is he?” You asked him. “Your dad.”

“He’s sober now, still livin’ in Manchester. I see ‘im sometimes.” He sighed. “I’m happy he’s not a drunk anymore. But it’s still hard to forget everythin’ he did to me.”

A car driving in the opposite direction of the pair of you blared its horn, the passengers hanging out of the windows to give Jamie a wave and to yell encouraging words about the upcoming match. Jamie gave them a wave before tiredly dropping his arm back down, the smile instantly disappearing from his face.

“You being happy for and loving your dad while also being angry with him for what he’s done to you are two things that can both be true,” You reminded him. He shook his head.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” You argued. “Him being sober now doesn’t erase the pain he caused in the past and the trauma you still have ingrained in you. But you obviously still have love for him, despite all that.” He was pulling at his fingers in anxiety. You watched him.

“Have you ever gone to therapy about this?” He laughed, though it didn’t have much humour in it.

“I saw Dr. Sharon for a few sessions before she left,” He admitted. “But I haven’t talked to anyone since.”

“You should consider finding a new one.”

He eyed you.

“And what will ya do when I can’t talk to you about this stuff anymore ‘cos I talked it all out with a professional?”

You were about to respond with something along the lines that then he’d be a normal person to talk to, but you stopped, your chest filled with melancholy.

“It won’t matter in a few days, will it?”

He froze, the smile slowly slipping away from his face until it was replaced with a frown. Fingers running through his hair, his eyes dropped to the ground as if he couldn’t look at you anymore. As if it was painful to do so.

“I guess it won’t.”

The building was suddenly in front of you, and you turned to him with your hands behind your back.

“This is me.”

He nodded.

“How ya gonna spend your day off?” He asked. You shrugged.

“I’ll probably get started on writing this article,” You said with a sigh. “The best and worst part of my job is the part where I have to write.” He gave you a half grin.

“Isn’t that the majority of your job?”

“Yes,” You said with a fake sad tone. “Yes, indeed it is.” He shook his head as he smiled, looking around at the buildings surrounding. You did the same.

“I guess I’ll see you at the match, then,” You said. He nodded, almost looking sad. He gave you a quick salute, which you returned, before turning and heading off down the sidewalk. Suddenly, you took a step forward.

“Jamie!”

He spun around so quickly, you were surprised he didn’t fall. You didn’t really have anything to say, honestly. You just really weren’t ready for him to leave. When you were quiet after a few seconds, he took a step towards you.

“Yeah?”

“What is your go-to karaoke song?” His expression fell into deep thought as his fingers gripped his chin. After a few seconds, the lightbulb seemed to go off in his brain.

“Probably somethin’ by Robbie Williams.” He lifted a finger, pointing at you. “But nothin’ by Take That. Solo Robbie Williams only.” You laughed, shaking your head as you began to turn towards your building.

“Noted.” You smiled at him once more. “Goodnight, Jamie.” He smiled back, one of the widest you’d ever seen from him.

“G’night.”

Letting yourself into the building, you pressed your back against the wall, taking a deep breath before pulling out your phone. The goofy smile was still plastered to your face as you typed out a text and hit send, feeling deeply satisfied and elated when the message said Delivered.

When you got back upstairs, you dropped your phone and purse onto the couch before heading to the bathroom.

Your phone was still open, displaying the text you had just sent to your boss.

I’ll be taking another week at Richmond. x

#jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #ted lasso fanfiction

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vesperione · 19 days

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SO ABOUT LAST NIGHT.

I’ve known of starkid since they started up back in 2009. I watched parts of AVPM when I was literally three. Over the years, I came back to team starkid whether it be through The Firebringer Meme (for which they get paid $300 every time it’s used, thank us for making them rich/ref) or through the Potter series again. It wasn’t until 2019 when I actually jumped straight into the fandom and shocker, i stayed.

I’ve only been to one other concert before this one, and Innit was by far the best experience I’ve ever had. The energy was immense. The crowd was electric. It was THE best environment to be in. There hasn’t been a time I’ve felt safer in a crowd of people, especially in London.

And no. I still haven’t fully comprehended it. But what I have been able to comprehend is the fact I met some absolutely amazing people yesterday, including people I’ve been mutuals with for YEARS. So from me and my butterfly platform shoes, mwah ily starkid innit

(And click below the cut to see an exclusive Vesperione face reveal WOAHHH)

I think I might’ve accidentally slayed a little bit too hard last night because when I say I cannot feel my throat I MEAAANN IT and to anyone who saw me and didn’t realise it was me el oh el HELLO

#I got noticed THRICE from TikTok #THRICE #UGH MAGICAL #thank u to my friends for giving me a round of applause the first time that happened actually #that boosted my ego in ways I didn’t know could happen LMAO #starkid #it’s starkid innit #starkid innit #those shoes were £100 of my Tory dads money btw and I’m glad I Fckn wore them

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the-californicationist · 7 months

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Guile & Guilt (Ch. 02)

Soap x Reader AU

Link to AO3

THE NEXT DAY

The Ettrick was the best pub in town, and you could smell the spicy blend of their famous curry halfway down the block. It was close enough to Pidge’s house to walk but far enough to be a bit of a trek, and so you were trailing behind her and Hamish as you made your way out to dinner. Hamish had called up some friends, and Pidge had done the same, for a little impromptu celebration party. You were not a fan of crowds, really, but you had promised yourself (in some small secret way) that you would be the best maid of honor there ever was for your best friend. If that meant partying down at the local bar, so be it.

After bringing you and Pidge your morning coffees, Johnny had taken his Jeep and sped off somewhere, saying he “needed to clear his head.” But, even though he promised to show up to dinner tonight, you doubted he would show. Pidge had rolled her eyes and shrugged at you, expressing her doubt as well.

You weren’t supposed to be worried about him though. You needed to focus on the goal: Pidge having fun. Be fun. She needed you to be fun. Smile, or something, c’mon. Your internal pep talks exhausted you, and you grew frustrated with yourself. Surely you could stand to be in a crowd for just an evening?

Lachlan Black, Hamish’s man of honor and college roommate, was already at the restaurant. You could tell because his lime green Aventador was parked out front, covering both the street and the sidewalk and shining like a penny. Stepping around it as carefully as you would a coiled snake, you squeezed past the car, making sure not to even breathe too roughly on it.

When Hamish opened the door for you, you stepped inside to find Anjali, Bekah, and Cherise already waiting for Pidge, half-circled around Lachlan and Johnny like hungry birds - waiting to be fed more sweet nothings, you assumed. The three girls were Pidge’s friends from grammar school. They had grown up with Johnny and Pidge, and they knew them well, but they were not the most reliable bunch. If there was a party, they would turn up, but if you needed a ride to the airport, better call someone else. There was a reason none of them made the cut for maid of honor.

“Pigeon!” Johnny shouted from his end of the bar.

He had changed clothes, and he was in a half-open, rolled-sleeve button down with a pair of black canvas pants. Casual, but he looked like he was built to party. Lachlan, on the other hand, looked like he owned the party. You didn’t know what kind of fabric his clothes were made out of - probably something to do with baby alpacas - and he was shining all over. His high (surgery-induced?) cheekbones and bright blond hair made him look like a movie star, and the girls doted on him as if he was one. He had thrown an arm around Cherise, and she seemed perfectly content to be nestled there in his expensive armpit.

Johnny hugged Pidge and shook Hamish’s hand. He didn’t know what to do to you, so he just leaned back against the bar and shoved his hands in his pockets, smiling at you and mouthing the ghost of a “hey.” You did the same, matching that awkward energy and immediately regretting it.

“Hey, babes,” Lachlan smiled at you in a sort of sneer, “Aren’t you that bird from…New York?”

“Florida,” you corrected, tearing your eyes away from Johnny’s and looking hard at Hamish’s friend.

“Right, well,” he took a swig of his whisky, “All the same, innit?”

Hamish shook his hand, and then, he sort of pulled him off balance a bit to speak to him closer,

“No, mate, it isn’t.”

They laughed, but you could tell that Lachlan had been temporarily cowed.

“Good to see you again,” Cherise kissed you in the French sort of way, the imaginary cheek smooches that you were supposed to have memorized when you crossed the pond. Did you lean left first or right?

“You, too, Cherise. Glad you could come,” you tried to be as friendly as you could, but Cherise was into her own ventures and there wasn’t much that could shake her from that. She was tucked back into Lachlan’s side, trying to return herself into his missing rib. If she just squeezed in close enough, maybe…

“Can I get you a drink, from one Of Honor to the next?” Lachlan showed you his teeth again. White. Straight. Sharp.

Before you could say a word, Johnny moved in front of him and held out an outstretched hand. He gave you a full whisky cocktail, complete with an orange rind on top - something Pidge already had a copy of - and shrugged,

“Sorry, mate. You can get the next one, yeah? Here ya go, bonnie.”

The way he looked at you was meant to be dismissive, or perhaps he hadn’t meant to look at you at all. Johnny barely glanced your way, pale irises hiding under thick, dark eyelashes that then quickly fixed themselves back down at the counter. But, the look in your eyes must have called him by his name, because he found himself caught in the snare of you. His gaze met yours in a second glance and studied your skin, your cheeks, your nose, and finally your mouth, covered in sticky gloss and glitter, shining under the warm glow of the bar.

You watched him study you, his enormous Adam’s apple bobbing along his scruffy throat as he swallowed, and his face wore a mask of heightened uncertainty and… rejection? You couldn’t tell what emotion he was trying hard not to outwardly express. It was not a swoon, that was for sure. It looked as if he was concerned. You felt the blood rush to your cheeks and you broke away from him, muttering a thanks for the drink. Staring down at your hands, suddenly feeling insecure, you became hyper-aware of everything he could have seen and had apparently found wanting.

A soft hand grabbed you around the arm and pulled you in,

“C’mon,” Pidge said, “Let’s get a booth.”

You took a sip of your cocktail as you were dragged away by your friend, and the whisky stung you like a hornet. One of these would be enough to put you down, and Christ did you want to be put down.

Seeing Johnny dressed like that had been enough to shake your determination, but his look of dismissal or distaste (or whatever it was) had shattered your self-esteem. To make matters worse, you couldn’t get away from him for a single second. He had given you a drink at the bar. He walked behind you as you moved deeper into the pub, and he slid around the slick pleather crescent of the booth seat, finally sandwiching you between him and his sister - the last nail in your coffin. You could smell his cologne, a musky, woodsy scent that mixed with his earthy citrus that you knew so well. You remembered the arch of his muscular shoulders as he squeezed himself into the seat, and you could almost taste his sweet breath on your tongue as he talked over you to his sister. If you were still in grade school, you thought about having to write: “I will not fuck my best friend’s brother” five hundred times on the chalkboard - or however many it took for it to sink in. How many sticks of chalk would turn to dust just to slake your forbidden thirst?

You felt his huge thigh, warm and tight, press against your bare leg through his slacks. The thin cotton was a poor barrier, and all you could think about was the skin underneath it. Was it covered in dark coarse hair? Shaved smooth like a swimmer? Did it have black, inky tattoos or jagged scars? Sharing his heat was unimaginably difficult to deal with. Your body stirred, wondering why you were hiding your interest from him. Your traitorous heart was joyful like a bird with a juicy worm, expecting revelry and finding only cold, white-knuckled repression.

“A wee toast!” Johnny lifted his cup, smiling in that half-cocked way that he wore in all of his photos, “To Hammie and Pigeon; and whilst we thus should make our sorrows one, this happy harmony would make them none. Congratulations, sister. Slàinte mhath.”

“Slàinte mhath!” The tables’ voices rang out with proud approval.

Pidge rolled her eyes, but she wore a sweet smile,

“Thank you, Johnny boy. That was not the toast I was expectin’ from you, you weapon.”

Johnny, who had been wearing an innocent grin, turned it into a cunning one that a wolf might wear,

“Ya mean, this one?”

“No, Johnny, don’t -” Pidge tried to pull him down, reaching over you to get at his arm.

He broke through her grip as if she was a petulant child, and stood, raising his glass and his voice so that the entire pub could enjoy his toast,

“Let’s drink our drop o’ barley bree,” boisterous cheering came from the older menfolk who recognized the rhyme, “Though moon and stars should blink tae’gether, to each leal lad wi’ kilted knee…” a pause for effect prompted raucous whistles and table-pounding, “and a bonnie lass among the heather!”

Loud, jeering applause filled the cozy room, and Hammie was being shoved by his mates, blushing like a nun. Pidge cut a sharp glare at her brother, red not for shame but for fraternal rage.

You wanted to stick up for her, being stuck between them as you were. So, you put on a wry smile and raised your eyebrows to deliver your sarcasm,

“Wow, Sergeant, didn’t realize you were such a poet.”

While he was laughing and basking in the crude attention, he now paused and swiveled his head over to you, looking at you intentionally this time, and there was no second take. He laughed a little lower, and looked ruffled that you would challenge his poetic authority. He needed to save face, so he made quite a show of clearing his throat and settled himself nice and close to you before he said,

“Perhaps the bonnie lass would like to hear another?”

You noted his tone on the callback line, and you shrugged, feigning disinterest.

“Of that quality? No, thank you,” you tried to erase all traces of interest from your voice.

He was not to be deterred. Johnny’s face turned serious, and he delivered the next lines as earnestly and without satire, taking your request to heart,

“We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go, always a little further. It may be beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow, across that angry or that glimmering sea…”

When he stopped his performance, the applause and the cheering erupted again, praising him for his fancy delivery. Thinking he’d won your little challenge, he took a big sip of his own straight whisky and grinned like a cat who caught the mouse. You snuffed it out with the frigid precision only a graduate student would possess,

“White, on a throne, or guarded in a cave,” you enunciated as clearly as you could, matching his volume, and you watched as his pompous attitude was extinguished. He froze, just like a fox caught in a trap, staring at you with wonder. You continued,

“There lives a prophet who can understand why men were born. But, surely we are brave…”

He said the last line with you, his face blank in disbelief and his voice almost a whisper,

“Who take the golden road to Samarkand.”

More cheering than before. You’d won. You borrowed his smug attitude and looked at him, sipping your drink as he did, pleased as punch. He looked wounded but blissfully happy about it. Everyone around you went back into their conversations, chittering and drinking and eating the appetizers that were waiting for you. But, Johnny kept you locked in his sights, staring back like he was seeing you again for the first time, just like when he thought you were a thief. You wondered what it was that you had stolen this time. His pride? The other bridesmaids’ admiration?

“You know Flecker?”

You nodded,

“I’m at Glasgow. Doing a bit of graduate work in poetry, actually. Shakespeare, to be specific.”

You tried to be casual about it. In truth, the “bit” of work was a mountain, and if you were being “specific”, you could talk for days and still not cover the details in full. But, normal people didn’t want to hear about that sort of thing.

Johnny was about to say something with a wide grin on his lips, but it fell as soon as Lachlan interrupted from across the booth’s table,

“My father is an Emeritus at Glasgow. He’s hardly in residence, but he could help you get into the ARG, if I put in a good word.”

There it was again, that sharpness. You smiled genuinely, refusing to be unsettled by his intrusion and his mention of the invitation-only advanced research group,

“I’m running my own research in the ARG now, actually. But, thank you. That’s very generous.”

Johnny was speechless for a moment, but there was something dark roiling around in him as he cut his eyes at Lachlan,

“Aye, mate. Very generous. Did you attend uni as well, or just your da?”

A cruel dig. Everyone knew that Lachlan hadn’t been accepted to his father’s own department. Johnny was dragging out the skeletons of his vast, walk-in closet, a dog with a bone.

Lachlan Black was not one to be bullied, though,

“I went on invitation to Oxford, actually. A full merit scholarship…”

Johnny wasn’t done playing with his food,

“Och! Of course. I've been forgetful lately. And what, uh…degree was it, then?”

Silent tension struck the table like a too-tight guitar string, ready to pop someone across the cheek. Lachlan was clearly rattled, but he recovered with ease. He took a sip of his nearly empty glass and rose as if to get a refill, reigning hellfire as he did so,

“I had already made my first million by the end of my starting year. So, I thought I’d leave the monastery to the monks, right boyo?”

Lachlan stayed standing over the table for a beat, making sure the dog he’d kicked stayed down. Johnny didn’t produce a comeback, but he was close enough to you that you could feel his body prepare itself to deliver one in a more physical format.

When Lachlan left the table, Cherise in tow, Pidge spoke across you again,

“Johnny! What’s gotten into you?”

Her brother rolled his eyes and didn’t answer. He turned his attention back to you, emboldened somehow even in defeat,

“Another round, hen?”

He pointed to your glass, and you nodded,

“Sure, but let me get it. Pidge? Do you want another?”

“Yes! And tell them to bring two tequilas. My wee brother is driving me to drink.”

“I’ll help you carry ‘em back. C’mon, then,” Johnny held his hand out to help you out of the booth, and as you slid your fingers across his palm, he grabbed it with confidence.

He led you to the other side of the bar, as far from Lachlan as he could get, and let you place the order. You sat on the stool to wait and he stood beside you, one arm on the bar and one on the back of your chair, caging you in,

“So, Shakespeare, huh?”

“Yep,” you nodded, hesitating to elaborate.

“You’re after his poems, I take it?” Johnny’s face looked like he was trying to piece together an impossible puzzle.

You sighed, steeling yourself for the ordeal of telling someone all about your project only for them to respond in the most milquetoast way. You told him,

“I’m trying to determine why Sonnet 145 has such an abnormal structure. Some scholars have even claimed that Shakespeare didn’t compose it. It’s the black sheep of the collection, and I am performing an analysis on its rhyme scheme and meter.”

“Do you know it by heart?” He asked, practically begging for a performance.

“Here are your drinks, love. Tha’s twenty pound,” the barkeep stopped you from delivering your encore.

You paid him and balanced the cups in your hand. Johnny took the majority of the burden and made his way back through the crowd with you trailing behind him.

“Ahh!” Pidge squealed with pleasure, “Shots! C’mon, babe. Show these nuggets how it’s done in America. This girl’s a real cowgirl, she is. Watch this.”

You grabbed the salt from the center of the table, shy and miffed at Pidge’s callout, and licked the meat of your thumb to wet it. You sprinkled the salt on it and reached for the lime. Then, you licked the salt, downed the shot, and sucked on the flesh of the fruit, keeping your face as straight as an arrow. Pidge clapped with joy.

“Okay, me next.”

“That’s quite the process, cowgirl,” Hamish commented, admiring your shot-taking ritual.

You didn’t have the heart to tell her that downtown Miami didn’t have any cows, but you just smiled, folding yourself back up into hiding in the booth. The conversations left you behind and your head began to swim from the alcohol. By the time everyone was ready for their next beverage, you were done. Pidge didn’t notice. She’d moved on to champagne and spritzers. You were alone in a crowded room again, as usual.

“Hey, you feelin’ alright, bonnie?”

Johnny’s voice seemed too quiet for a loud bar. You smiled weakly,

“Mmm. Just drank too much, I think.”

“C’mon. I’ll get you home.”

Before you could protest, he was helping you out of the booth and onto your feet. You heard Pidge shriek,

“Johnny! What did I say?!”

“Pigeon! Is that really what you think o’ me? Gonna tuck her in, and tha’s it. I’ll be right back.”

“I swear on Christ and -”

“Yeah, yeah, and all the actual saints. I heard you, you wee dafty. I promise. Not a hair on her head, yeah?”

“You can touch all the hairs on my head, Soap,” Bekah cackled, and the table laughed with her.

Johnny laughed too, which felt like a knife twisting in your chest for some reason. You’d forgotten all about his nickname. Everyone except Pidge used it for him. You thought it was a callsign for the military, but you’d never had to call him anything, so you didn’t remember. But, Bekah did. She called him the right name. You had failed, obviously. Put it on my tab , you thought. You screamed it in your mind, punishing yourself for your mistake: Soap, Soap, Soap…

“C’mon,” he held you by the arm, “I’m out back.”

He loaded you into his Jeep and climbed into the driver’s side, adjusting the knobs for air and music. Some early aughts alt rock was blaring too loudly, and he cut it down, apologizing under his breath. His car smelled like cigarettes and beach sand. It was cleaner than it should’ve been. You felt too hot and too cold, and you wanted to sleep, so you did.

You woke with a jolt after the short ride had ended, and he had you in his arms, nestled close to his chest. He felt you come to and he whispered,

“Shh, lass. We’re almost in. Gonna get you some water and a paracetamol, and you’ll be right as rain in the mornin’.”

“God,” you groaned, “Soap, I’m so sorry. I didn’t really eat anything, and I -”

“Tha’s fine, hen. You’re alright. We’ve all been there, trust.”

He deposited you on his bed, pulling off your shoes and tucking you in. Then, he was gone and back in a flash of your semi-unconscious state. He handed you the pills and the water. It was cool in your hot mouth.

“Here, lass. Take that for me. Tha’s it. Good girl.”

You groaned, feeling sick with drunken stupor and sick with drunken desire all at the same time.

“And, hey,” he bent his face so he was eye-level with you as you lay back down, “Call me Johnny.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chapter 03

#soap mctavish #soap x reader #soap x you #soap cod #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #soap mw2 #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #call of duty fanfic #guile and guilt

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litgwritersroom · 3 months

Note

PLEASE! PLEASE! Hear me out!

Please write a scenario about how Lewie met MC in one of his games but didn't get a chance to ask her name after his game because he lost her in the crowd or something. Then he finally met her again at the villa. Cause that sweet golden retriever boy fell in love with Mc the moment he saw her in the villa, and he is like all in on her already??? Like how is that possible??!

Thank youuu🤍✨🥺

SHOOT YOUR SHOT

Lewie / OC - 4100+ words - @mrsbsmooth

She was screaming his name, but he lost her in the crowd. He's not letting her disappear again.

Lewie jumped up and down on the spot with the other guys in the tunnel, waiting to run onto the pitch. He was first. He was always first. He was the bloody captain, he had to be first. Project confidence. Project leadership. Cool, calm, collected.

But he was nervous today.

If they won today, they’d go up to League One. He’d triple his salary, minimum, probably quadruple it if Terry kept him on as captain. He’d be able to pay off his parents’ house in three months. His life would change if they won today.

Mac clapped him on the back. “Good?”

“Mostly,” Lewie responded, swallowing hard.

“Ahh, none of that,” Mac grinned. “S’just a game, innit?”

Lewie wished he could laugh at it. He stretched his neck as the doors opened. He took the hand of the player escort kid next to him who looked almost as nervous as he did.

Game time.

Cup finals were always packed, but Lewie had never heard a roar like the one he heard as he stepped onto the pitch that day. It was a wall of sound, almost making him flinch as he dropped the kid’s hand, gave him a high five, and took his position.

Lewie was breathing as steadily as he could, but he couldn’t shake the nerves from his shoulders. It felt like a noose had tied itself around him. What if they lost? What if they didn’t get promoted? How many more years did he have in this league? He was already 24. If he didn’t go up this year, his chances of ever going higher were starting to get slim. He’d never pay off his parents’ house. He’d never provide for his nieces and nephew.

The stands were a sea of red. He tried to focus on the green beneath his feet. But his eye was caught by a flash of white amongst the red.

“Lewie! Lewie! Hey! Over here!”

A big group of girls, head to toe in white, chanting and screaming and clearly drinking. They were right behind the goal. But as soon as they realised they had his attention, they began squealing.

And then, he saw the sign.

A huge piece of cardboard. Two words.

An arrow pointing to its holder.

MRS PRITCHARD

Lewie laughed, almost throwing his head back as he beamed at the girls. They started jumping up and down, screaming with excitement that he’d seen them. He was too far away to see them up close. He just turned his attention back to the pitch, still laughing. The whistle blew. The crowd screamed. The match began. And honestly?

He was feeling a bit better.

The match started the way all matches do. Slowly. Sussing each other out, no-one wiling to give away their game plan too quickly. He focused on the game with every shred of brainpower he had, and he was having a bit of a blinder, if he did say so himself. He barely missed a thing, ending up right where he needed to be as his team edged closer and closer to the box.

Levi passed him the ball, and Lewie beat three defenders to get it to Mac, but as Mac took the shot, the ball bounced off the crossbar. The crowd groaned, and the team in blue took possession. Gary forced them over the sideline, and Lewie sprinted back to position. But play had stopped. One of the opposing players was stalling, pretending Gary had kicked him.

“Lewwwwwie! Lewwwwwie!”

He chuckled, rolling his eyes. He was a little closer to where the girls had been. He placed his hands on his hips, to catch his breath, glancing over at them again, and once more, they screamed. Mrs Pritchard held up her sign again.

But this time, he could see the girl holding it.

And he did a fucking double take.

He was still a ways away, but even from this distance, he felt his eyebrows shooting up.

Soft, dark waves, a bit of a tan but a lot of a smile, the enormous, excited grin drawing a smile from him, too. White trousers so tight they looked like leggings, and their team’s white away jersey tied into a crop at the front. She must have been freezing, but she looked like she was keeping herself plenty warm by jumping up and down as she beamed at him.

Damn.

“I love you, Lewie!” she screamed, sending a chuckle through the dozens of fans around her. He took a deep breath, and laughed it off, shooting her an amused smile.

Play resumed. Unfortunately, most of it was down the other end of the field. But now, he had even more reason to get the ball up to his team’s end.

Every time he even came close to the group of girls, they erupted into a wall of noise, and not just for him. They were almost louder than the rest of the crowd combined, and when Lewie bent the ball right into Mac’s boot, they screamed so loud he was sure their voices would give out. But Mac missed again.

Fuck. Nil-all at half time.

The team made their way into the locker rooms. Lewie laughed off all the comments from his teammates about what the hell was going on. He honestly had no idea who these girls were or why they’d suddenly decided to show up to scream for the team, but he wasn’t complaining, and neither was anyone else.

“D’you see the sign?” Gary laughed.

“Yeah,” Lewie shook his head, sighing.

“Did you see the stunner holding it?” Levi flicked an eyebrow.

The locked room fell silent. Lewie sighed even harder. “Yes, I did.”

Wa-heyyys echoed off the walls, and Lewie, one more time, shook his head. He glanced over at Mac, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was taking deep breaths, focusing.

“Hey,” Lewie said, sitting next to him. “You good?”

Mac grunted with annoyance, relacing his boots for the second time.

Lewie sighed. “It’s only half time.”

“And I’ve already missed twice.”

“Yeah, and you can miss five more times, as long as we hold them to zero as well. This game doesn’t rest on your shoulders, mate. If it did, Terry would’ve taken you out already.”

Mac furrowed his brow.

“I mean you have missed twice already,” Lewie teased. “It’s a big goal. Just kick it in?”

Mac huffed a laugh, elbowing him hard in the arm. “Fuck off.”

Lewie lowered his voice, smiling reassuringly at his best mate. “Get out of your head. It’s just a game, remember?”

Mac nodded, taking a deep breath and giving him a brief smile of thanks. “So you really don’t know those girls?” Mac asked, shifting the focus off himself.

“No,” Lewie said, shaking his head. “Never seen a single one of them before.”

Mac’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Bet you might be seeing one of ‘em after, though?”

Lewie rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide his smile. “I mean, she’s really shooting her shot.”

“With a fuckin’ Gatlin Gun. She’s comin’ on strong.”

Lewie laughed loudly. “Since when is that a bad thing?”

It wasn’t a question that needed an answer. The hint of a smirk on Mac’s face was now in full swing. Lewie didn’t mind a girl who went after what she wanted. He didn’t mind that at all.

“So you’re gonna go for it?”

Lewie shrugged. “I mean, she likes footie, she’s pretty, and she’s got a big sign saying ‘I’m interested’. It can’t hurt to get her number?”

The second half started, and Lewie frowned as he looked towards what was now the opposing team’s goal. The girls would be all the way up the other–

“Lewie! Over here babe!”

They’d moved.

He didn’t know how they’d managed, but they’d moved. The entire group of them were now at the other end of the pitch, behind the swapped goal ends. He smiled, shooting the pretty brunette a small wave, and she pretended to swoon and faint into her friend’s arms.

He belly laughed at that one.

The match resumed, and if he’d thought they were playing well before, the second half had the team electrified. Lewie and Mac passed the ball back and forth without even looking, falling into muscle-memory and pure instincts as they did what they’d done since they were seven. Back, forward, time it right, bit of feigning, more than a bit of fancy footwork, and with every possession, they edged closer down to their end.

Sixtieth minute, then seventieth, then eightieth. Nil-all. Lewie passed the ball to Kobi, who headed it to Mac– Intercepted. A bad pass, but not the end of the world. The ball went out, leaving the Reds with a corner. The others set up. Lewie moved backwards.

But first, another time-wasting injury meant to kill their momentum.

It was a tactic from the opposing team. It was meant to lower their adrenaline levels and catch them slow. The waterboy ran onto the field, tossing him a bottle. Lewie took a big gulp of gatorade, swishing it around his mouth. He needed to keep his adrenaline levels up. He–

“Hey Lewie!” a familiar voice called.

He looked up. His brunette beauty’s arms were in front of her.

Her shirt wasn’t.

She was lifting it. She’d tucked her fingers under her bra, and flipped the whole thing up.

She was flashing him. And she was not being shy about it.

He spat gatorade all over the pitch.

Her rather fucking magnificent breasts were fully on display, and the crowd erupted with cheers, but no sooner had she done it, her friends were squealing with laughter and tugging her shirt down to cover her, but they weren’t quick enough. His eyes fell across her body, to the stunningly intricate tattoo painted across her ribcage.

A red Welsh dragon.

Lewie could hardly breathe, coughing and spluttering gatorade as he tried very hard to remain cool, calm, and collected. But it was a bit hard to look any of the three when he could already feel himself furiously blushing.

The other guys on the pitch were laughing their arses off at him, and he couldn’t help but join in. He’d never had attention like this before. He’d never been so ferociously and aggressively hit on, especially not while he was on the bloody pitch.

He did not mind one fucking bit.

She pulled her shirt down, and as she adjusted herself, her eyes didn’t leave his. She raised her eyebrows. And even though they were still a dozen metres apart, he could almost hear it in his ear.

Your move.

He held her gaze for a second, smiling in disbelief and shaking his head with a laugh. That was definitely the adrenaline rush he needed. He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck, still blushing furiously, and she beamed at how flustered he was.

But before he could do anything, his attention was drawn by the referee’s whistle calling the game back into action. Lewie shot her a wink as he reluctantly jogged back to position. He was definitely getting her number after the game.

But he never got a chance.

Things suddenly picked up pace, and he didn’t have an opportunity to look back in her direction. He could hear screaming and yelling, but he was down the other end of the pitch, defending his heart out as the other team got close to scoring twice in seven minutes. But they held them off.

It was the eighty-fourth minute.

The lads bent over, their hands on their knees, puffing and panting as if they’d just run a marathon.

It was a sign. It was time.

They got possession, and Lewie called the code they’d practiced for months. They’d pretend to be exhausted. To be slow, and late, and unfit. Let the other team think that this was everything they had to give. Lull them into a false sense of security.

With seemingly no warning, a red jersey and a sharp undercut went sprinting at breakneck speed down the pitch. The defenders fell for it and gave chase, sprinting after Levi as he took the ball as fast as he could down the field.

They barely paid attention to Lewie moving out wide to the left flank.

Levi to Kobi. Kobi to Levi. Levi to Kobi. Kobi to Mac. Mac to Levi. Levi to Mac to Kobi to Mac. The defenders were focused. Completely focused. Lewie came sprinting up the left of the box, holding level to stay onside–

Mac to Lewie.

The ball was in the goal before the defenders even looked in his direction.

The crowd exploded, no one more than Mac, who took a running leap into the air to tackle Lewie to the ground. The guys screamed and yelled in his ear, celebrating along with the shaking grandstands. 12,000 people chanting his name. It was like something out of a daydream. Something he’d pretended and practiced as he ran drills in his backyard.

‘Pritchard! Pritchard may have just taken them to promotion!’

He should’ve looked for Mum. Or Dad. Nana or Izzie or Josie or Teagan. His mates were here. His bloody under-10’s coach was probably here. But his gaze drifted back over to the area right behind the goal where the group of girls in white had been. Call it curiosity about what she’d do. If she’d flashed him over a decent pass–

She was gone.

He furrowed his brow as he looked at the part of the stands that had previously held the pretty brunette and all her friends, but they were gone. Completely vanished, all of them, the only evidence they’d ever been there was a white feather boa flung over the back of one of the chairs. Lewie shook it off. Maybe they’d gone to get drinks?

But there were only ten minutes left in the match.

Mac scored again, and Lewie looked around to see if he could see any of the girls in white, but all he saw was that same sea of red.

The final whistle blew: 2-0.

They were going up. Their team had been promoted.

The grandstands erupted even louder than they had for the goals. The air itself was shaking with noise. Lewie was so caught up in hugging his teammates that he barely realised fans had started streaming onto the pitch.

He was passed around between lifelong supporters he’d already come to know, and many he hadn’t. His shirt was grabbed, his back patted, his hair ruffled and his arms locked to his sides as he was picked up ad squeezed with surprising force. A beer was pushed into his hand, and he threw it back without a slight hesitation. He was so wrapped up in their victory that he almost forgot to keep an eye out for a group of girls in white.

Almost.

He wasn’t the tallest on the pitch, but he was taller than most, but he still couldn’t see them.

He answered questions for the local paper, he posed for photos, he accepted the cup on behalf of the team and made the heartfelt, grateful speech he never thought he’d get to give, but he didn’t stop looking.

She wasn’t there. Neither were her friends.

It made no sense.

He couldn’t wrap his head around why she’d do all that and just leave.

But, as the confetti settled, the music started to wane, and the celebrations spilled into the locker room, Lewie realised.

She had.

She’d just left.

It took him a while to get over it. Like, way longer than it should’ve.

The guys made fun of him for it, obviously. “Way to Lewie’s heart is to ask him to marry you, then flash him your tits’. They were wrong– of course they were, that would’ve been insane.

There had just been something about her.

It wasn’t that he wanted to date a girl who regularly flash an entire stadium, but there was something about the confidence something like that would need. A risk taker. A joker. Up for a laugh and down for a dare. Someone who made a point of having fun with her friends. Someone who liked footie. Someone who wasn’t afraid to scream his name, to show up to his games and let everyone know she was there for him.

He’d never realised how attractive that was to him.

In fact, he kind of couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He tried asking the ticketing office about them, but one of the girls had shown up in person three weeks before and paid for the seats in cash. There was no name attached. None of the guys recognised them either, so they must’ve been from out of town. How they ended up in Northern Wales for a football match at a bachelorette party was both beyond him, and devastating that he might never get to even find out her name.

He’d been lying in bed one night when he suddenly figured it out.

The next morning, he’d dropped by the security office before training. It’d been weeks, but he was sure they’d remember her. He was sure that was why. It had to be why.

The Security team had, in fact, kicked Mrs. Pritchard and her entire friend group out of the stadium, but they’d just handed the girls over to the police. They hadn’t taken names. Lewie had nodded, and wrote down the number of the officer that took them in.

But he’d never gotten the chance.

Mac had walked past and seen him waiting in the freezing cold for the Security team to arrive, and he immediately staged an intervention. And that intervention involved the entire team making it their business to set him up on dates.

Normally, he didn’t mind dating. Even if he didn’t have a connection with the girl, he’d enjoy taking them out for dinner, getting to know them, asking them about themselves– it was nice.

But now, there was a question mark over it.

Would this be the type of girl who’d come to his games and scream his name? The kind of girl who’d shoot her shot in front of all her friends and 12,000 strangers? Did the girl across the table from him have that kind of confidence?

And for every girl his mates set him up with, the answer was no.

It was a year later his mates told him what they’d done.

He didn’t think about her as often any more. He’d been on a few nice dates since.

But he still thought about her.

He’d kept his searching low-key. He didn’t have much of a social media presence, and for once, he almost regretted not having one. One Instagram DM from one of her friends girls could’ve solved the mystery for him. But even after he set up a profile, that DM never came. He wasn’t one for dating apps, but he’d kicked himself a few months later when he’d realised he might’ve been able to swipe right on her if he’d set one up that day.

But he didn’t think about her as much any more.

The day his phone rang, he’d thought it was a prank. ITV calling him to bring him in for an interview for Love Island. He hadn’t even applied– which surprised them, because they apparently had a long and very detailed application form, with many, many pictures of him shirtless in the locker rooms at training. Fucking Mac.

Terry thought it’d be a good idea. Good promo for his personal brand. Good publicity for the club. Levi threw a fit. He’d wanted to go on Love Island for years, and Terry had always said no.

“Yeah, but Lewie’s not gonna put our entire Public Relations team on stress leave,” Terry had said. The guys had all laughed.

Mac grinned with his hands behind his head. “Nah, he’s just gonna get on TV so that he can subtly communicate his beloved flasher he’s willing to put a ring on it.”

Lewie huffed.

The guys laughed a lot harder at that.

So, two months after that, he stood just inside the Majorca villa with three other guys, waiting to go and pick a girl out of a lineup as if they were picking footy teams at lunch in primary. He was glad to be the one picking. Because this time, he wasn’t the only 8-year-old who could do a scorpion kick. If there was a scorpion-kick equivalent in dating, he didn’t know what it was, and he definitely didn’t know how to do it.

He just knew footie.

It wasn’t in his nature to go after a girl unless he knew for sure she was interested. He knew footie, but he didn’t know dating. Maybe that was why he’d been so drawn to Mrs Pritchard. He’d never even met her and he’d known where he stood.

His phone chimed, and his eyes widened. He was going first.

He took a step forward, placing his hand on the door handle, trying to breathe. The likelihood of one of them holding up a sign for him saying ‘I’m interested’ seemed a lot less likely here than–

Than…

The villa door opened, and suddenly, he was in the league final all over again. He knew that in the memory, there was 12,000 people screaming his name. Screaming for his team.

But all he could see was her. Caramel waves. Tan skin. A smile wide enough to take down a grandstand.

A red Welsh dragon painted across her ribcage.

He stopped at the top of the stairs, his mouth falling open in sync with hers. But instead of screaming and jumping up and down, she furiously blushed and dropped her eyes. Lewie made his way over to stand beside the host, smiling politely at the other girls, but there was no need to make small talk.

“So, ladies, this is Lewie. 24, Football captain from Wales. Lewie, let me introd–”

“No need,” he smiled. “I already know who I’m picking.”

There was an interested smattering of whispers, but he walked forward.

The stunning brunette was blushing something awful, and she didn’t look up at him until he was standing right in front of her.

“Hi,” he said.

She looked up, meeting his eyes, and smiled sheepishly.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“Bit hard to forget someone I’ve barely stopped thinking about, Mrs. Pritchard.”

Her breath caught, but he didn’t take his eyes off her. That pink dusted across her cheeks was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. The most beautiful orchid-pink, painting her like watercolours across her cheeks and the tip of her nose, and it was him that put it there. He suddenly kind of understood how she’d had the confidence to shoot her shot like she had.

Lewie reached for her hand and she gave it to him. He linked their fingers together.

“Can I pick you?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” she grinned.

“Well, then, you’re gonna have to tell me your name.”

She smiled. “Bree. My name is Bree.”

“I’m Lewie.”

“I know.”

Lewie turned back to the host, smiling widely. “I’m picking Bree.”

Bree smiled so widely that he wondered if she might break. The urge to just pick her up and kiss her was one he had to push down. It would’ve been way too forward, and he probably would’ve come on way too strong. Going all in for a girl fifteen minutes into filming beginning was the stupidest strategic move he could possibly make.

The other girls cooed as he stood beside her, waiting for the next guy to come out, and one by one, they paired off with the other girls, until finally, the host said goodbye.

Bree immediately turned to him.

“I saw you, by the way,” she whispered.

He furrowed his brow.

“Your goal. I saw you score it. And I saw you look for me. I was being dragged out by security at the time, but I always wished I could've told you that I saw it.”

He studied her face for a moment, watching the sparkle in her eyes; the light catch in her hair, the way it had that chilly May afternoon. The urge to kiss her was back. The urge to pull her into his arms and wrap her up in them and not let her out of his fucking sight ever again. He wished he was bold enough. He wished he had the confidence she’d had. He just… He…

Fuck it.

Lewie captured her chin in his hand, and in one swift movement, he’d pressed his lips to hers. There were excited laughs, and knew the eyes of the entire villa were on him, but he didn’t care.

Because Bree was kissing him back.

She threw her hand around the back of his neck, splaying her fingers on the back of his head, deepening the kiss as she pulled herself into his chest. Leaning over the top of her, she fit him perfectly, like he’d kind of always known she would.

He’d found her. He’d finally found her.

He wasn’t letting her go again.

#litg #litg fanfic #litg lewie #litg season 6 #mrsbsmooth #litg writers room #writers room #love island the game #ask

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dailytomlinson · 7 months

Text

Birmingham recap

Louis showed up wearing a Burberry T-shirt

Louis revealed TWO new tattoos

Setlist had 23 songs

Louis sang Paradise

Kill My Mind Light Project

“This is my favorite part of the job and this is the last fucking show of the year. I had the most incredible night last night, I know we’re gonna have a party in here tonight, Birmingham. Last show, let’s celebrate, I fucking love youse, this is Holding On To Heartache!”

Lights and hearts for Holding On To Heartache

“And with this being the last show of the year, I just wanna say right... If you've been to just this show or maybe multiple shows [crowd screams] yes, I appreciate all of you here. This show don't happen without a lot of people that work really, really hard to put all of this together, I don't just do it on my own. Give it up for every single— WAIT. Give it up for every...[notices fan needing help] security over there a sec. We'll just hold a sec. [after security helped fan] cheers, lads, thanks a lot. Okay, right... as I said right, there are people that work their fucking asses off to make this tour fucking happen right and I am incredibly grateful to work with an incredible team so please go fucking big for my incredible crew! This has been a whirlwind year, a whirlwind tour, couldn't have done it without all of you so special thank you to all of youse, you know who you are! Ok, soppy shit over. Wait, there's one last thank you. [to fan] Replay? Replay? That’s an old game, that, love! She’s been a fan for a while, haven’t you? Listen, arguably the most important thank you and I do this every night but let me do it in a special kind of way. Anyone who has been to any of these shows on this year, anyone who has supported any of the shows online, or maybe couldn't make it to a show, I feel your fucking support every single day and I know I'm grateful. I know how lucky I am and I'm incredibly grateful to have you all so thank you, thank you, thank you. This year has been incredibly special. Hope it's been alright for you too.”

“[to fan] Replay? Replay? That’s an old game, that, love! She’s been a fan for a while, haven’t you?”

Louis tripping on stage

“I feel a bit like you love, yeah, it’s sad innit, it’s sad. It’s gotta come to an end. Alright listen, we've got about four songs left. Four songs left for the rest of the fucking year. Everybody knows, there’s nothing I can do about that love, you have to book stuff ahead of time, you see. [..] Ok. Give me every last bit of energy you've got. It's the last four songs of the year. Let's go fucking big. She knows, here we go.”

“The most fucking incredible year of my life. I could not have done it without you all, thank you, thank you, thank you. We’ve got about 90 seconds left, let’s bring this fucking roof down here we go. [points to fan] She knows! Sing this next bit with me.”

Closing: Silver Tongues

#181123 #louis tomlinson #fitfwt #fitfwt:eu #fitfwt:birmingham #fitfwt:recap #another long one bc of the speeches

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hopefulromances · 11 months

Note

#19 with Jamie x f!reader!!

Thank you!!

19. “I could pick you out from a room full of thousands of people.”

Jamie Tartt. What could you say about Jamie Tartt? Everything the papers said about him was true, to an extent. He was cheeky, and cocky in all the right ways, but he was also incredibly caring and needy as well.

Needy for you it seemed. Especially right in this exact moment. Right now, Jamie had his arms wrapped around you tightly as he swayed his hips to the music and kissed up and down your neck and jaw. You had your hands wrapped around his neck and up into his hair.

You wished for, like, two seconds, you could turn your brain off. Stop thinking about the infinite possibilities of what it could mean. In this moment, Jamie was choosing you and that's all that mattered. But instead, you couldn't focus on anything except the other faces in the crowd, watching you. Judging you. Comparing you to them.

What did you have that they didn't And, more importantly, what did they have that you didn't that could win Jamie over. You weren't exclusive or anything. You'd barely been on two date, he could easily leave you behind for someone more beautiful, more confident, more sexy. Suddenly, it was hard to breath.

You pushed Jamie off of you, muttering something about needing to use the bathroom before turning and starting to push through the crowd of people. You turned over your shoulder in time to see Jamie, watching you leave with a confused smile on his face, and another woman appraoching him in your absence.

You made it to the bathroom line which was long, and didn't feel like waiting, so instead you made your way outside. When you broke through the door, it felt like you were coming up for air after a deep dive.

Maybe you should just leave. Would he even notice? You'd basically disappeared into a crowd of hundreds. But, to your surprise, you were quickly proven wrong when Jamie emerged from the door behind you.

"There you are," he spouted, walking over to you. "I've been looking all over for you."

"Oh! Sorry!" You waved him off. "Just getting some air."

Jamie nodded, leaning against the wall. "Yeah, it was getting stuffy in there." If he noticed anything off about you he didn't say anything, he just hooked his hand around your waist and pulled you towards him. "It's pretty cold out here, innit, though?"

You blushed under his gaze, your hands resting on his chest. "Yeah... I guess it is."

He smirked at you, his hands roaming up your back, pushing to into him. "Don't worrry, I'll keep you warm.

He started to tilt his head to kiss to again when a surge of panic ran through you. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why couldn't your brain just shut up. Unfortunately, you couldn't find the mute button and found yourself pushing him away, much against your will.

Jamie's eyes were wide with shock, and a hint of guilt as he stood up straight. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

You shook your head furiously. "No, no, I'm sorry I'm just..." You shoved your face in your hands. "I'm just stuck in my head."

Jamie placed his hands over yours and dragged them off of your face. He looked at you expectantly. "What's your head saying."

You bit your lip, chewing on your thoughts. Should you tell him? Would it be too much too soon? Would you come off as clingy? Instead of turning your brain off you decided to just ignore it.

"It's telling me that... that you deserve better than me," you admitted, feeling your hands get clammy in his. "That I'm nothing special, nothing to look at."

Jamie's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Is that what you think? that your 'nothing special.'" You nodded, unable to tear your gaze from his. "Honey, I could pick you out from a room full of thousands of people." You were shocked by his statement. You weren't sure if he knew the effect it had on you, but the smirk on his face told you he did.

"But I-I'm just... me and you're... Jamie Tartt!" You emphasized, gesturing to him. "As in Jamie Tartt doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo."

"I'm familiar with the chant, love."

"Well, then..." You let out an exhasperated gasp. "Why me?"

"Cause you cute, babe," he said, simply, shrugging. "And sweet. And funny. And that's all I want." He cocked his head at you. "Do I need to have another reason?"

You supposed not. He was just like you, wanting someone who wanted you for you. You let yourself move you hands up his chest.

"So... you don't want one of those girls in the club?"

"Nope?"

"And you really do just want me?"

"There's no just about it," he beamed, his arms making their way around my waist again. "It's everything. You're everything." You blushed again, feeling very warm in his embrace. "Now, can I kiss you again??"

You nodded, this time tilting your head to meet his lips. This time, you ignored your brain. Instead, you focused on the glorius feeling of kissing Jamie Tartt doo, doo ,doo, doo, doo ,doo.

#jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #ted lasso #ted lasso show #jamie tartt fanfiction #drabble night #drabble

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