#Car valet London | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

greenorangevioletgrass · 9 months ago

Text

fever pitch (b.b.) - part three

previous part | series masterlist

soundtrack: don't blame me - taylor swift pairing: footballer!bradley x popstar!reader synopsis: you and bradley spend the night, but the road to heaven is full of obstacles; some are external, others are self-inflicted. warnings: language, public scrutiny (will be a recurring theme in this fic ha!), bradley is a stand-up guy all round, fluff, smut (d/s elements, praise kink, bit of a bratty side?, fingering, oral [f receiving], dirty talk, size kink, bradley is PACKING, protected sex) notes: i'm back! life has been crazy since i posted the previous chapter, but i just wanna say thank you so so much for your patience and your kind words about the fic so far! big shoutout to @gretagerwigsmuse and @teacupsandtopgun for being absolutely GEMS in brainstorming ideas-- this wouldn't have happened if it weren't for y'all <3 happy reading!

✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

The Langham, Sterling Suite. Ask for Holly Golightly ;)

Bradley smiles at your text, and the cheeky “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” reference. He shoots up a quick reply as he makes his way out to the lobby, fighting hard not to be grinning like an idiot to any unassuming passersby, until—

Click-click-click-click! FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

“Hey, it’s Bradley Bradshaw!”

“Oi, Bradley! Give us a smile, mate!”

“Bradley, did you get to meet Y/N inside?”

“Did the boss let you out on a school night, Bradley?”

”How are you feeling about the Sunderland game this weekend?”

It’s a meager distance from the steps of Annabel’s to the curb where the valet has brought out his car, but holy shit. It doesn’t usually get nearly as crazy as this. He’s partied here with Harry Styles, and nobody bat an eye when the guy stumbled out drunk with his left tit out. But maybe it’s because Harry lives in London sometimes, or maybe because he was on a break… unlike Miss Americana on her world tour right now. It makes him pause and rethink how careful he needs to be.

Bradley gets into his car and drives off, trying to tread between the fine line of quick and careful. He can’t help but look over the rearview mirror more often than normal. Fuck, is this how you feel like all the time? He’s no stranger to the spotlight, but rather than the occasional run-ins, nobody has ever been interested in where he went to dinner on a random Tuesday night.

The Langham is barely a mile away, but Bradley sees photographers parked across the hotel with their long-lens cameras and disgusting disposition, and he keeps on driving. Thinking. Restrategizing. Hoping that his vintage aubergine Ferrari isn’t causing suspicion for driving by the second and third time.

He finds a basement parking lot behind the building and pulls up, hoping it’s the right entrance to the hotel. The attendant looks starstruck as he nods and points the way, sending him off with an eager ‘Come on you Gunners!’. And just like that, he makes it into the lobby out of the pap’s sight.

Be cool, he reminds himself, you’re only as suspicious as you seem to be. He comes up to the reception desk, and the girl behind it greets him warmly.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Langham. How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Ms. Golightly at the Sterling Suite,” Bradley says smoothly. “Holly Golightly.”

“And who am I speaking with, sir?” The girl looks at him like he seems familiar, but can’t quite place him.

“...Paul Varjak,” he states, unable to bite back the smile. Oh, the thrill of giving out a fake name with the very real possibility of getting called out on his shit.

But she nods and grabs the telephone, dialing into your room. Blissfully ignorant of the pseudonym he just gave her.

Good.

Let this inside joke be the two of yours alone.

The elevator ride up is peaceful—too peaceful that he can hear his heart beating and his palms sweating. Even the carpet mutes his footsteps towards the double door. Before he even presses the bell, a bodyguard opens the door for him.

“Mr. Bradshaw,” he nods curtly. It’s one of the guys from the restaurant earlier. Middle-aged, stout and rather short, sporting a permanent scowl and a vibe that indicates he’s seen some shit.

“Hi. Sorry, I haven’t got your name…?”

“Guy,” he deadpans.

Bradley wonders if that’s his real name or he’s just saying it so Bradley would get off his case, but smiles anyway. “Nice to meet you, Guy.”

Guy hums gruffly and ushers him into the foyer, an identical hallway of the hotel, with a room on each side. “Through here,” he leads him towards another set of double doors at the end of the hallway.

Meanwhile, you are full-on freaking out in your living room. Should you get changed? You’ve taken off your heels, but getting everything off feels so premeditated… You don’t even know if he wants things to go that far. Maybe you can break your little rule and bring out the wine for liquid courage? Gosh, nothing feels right. And it’s been so long since you’ve last done this that you’ve actually gone rusty.

And before you get to decide—in the long, wasteful twenty minutes or so you’ve been pacing, you hear a knock on your door.

“Coming!”

You rush over to get the door and there he is, coming out victorious through the hurdles, smiling at you.

“Thanks, Guy. I’ll take it from here,” you dismiss your security a little too quickly, nodding over Bradley’s shoulder. You’re sure Guy is rolling his eyes all the way back to his room over your lovestruck teenager behavior.

But it hardly matters when this man before you is looking at you like the sun.

“Hey, you.” Bradley beams at you from his spot. As if afraid to invade your space somehow.

And so are you. This feels like that night in the garden all over again. You have to remind yourself that this isn’t some pocket of a park you stumbled into; this is your hotel room.

Quiet.

Private.

Safe.

“Come on in.” You let him cross the threshold, closing the door behind him the warm foyer light cast golden upon his face. You’re not sure if it’s the fact that you’ve ditched your six-inch heels, or that there’s no one else, but Bradley looks even taller than you remember him. Broader. More… imposing.

“I’m sorry for taking so long. There’s cameras everywhere and I had to—”

“It’s okay,” you try to reassure him. It feels rude to ask if he got caught on camera, but at this point, you had to ask. “Did you… Did they…?”

Bradley quickly shakes his head. “No, I took the basement entrance, out of sight. We’re good.”

”I’m, uh… sorry for the fuss.”

”Hey, it’s no trouble at all… Ms. Golightly,” he tilts his head, grinning at your chosen pseudonym.

”Yeah, it changes every time. My last stop in Tennessee, I was Clarice Starling,” you admit, making him laugh. “Although I’m glad you got the reference… Mr. Varjak.”

He simpers, very proud of himself. And with that, he takes a step closer to you. Towering over you. Crowding you with his smile, his scent, his body heat… and neither of you makes the first touch. You’re painfully aware of how his gaze keeps dropping to your lips. Bodies drawn towards each other but tied in place for some reason. It seems like despite all the flirting you did at the restaurant, everything goes out the window once you’re alone.

You’re just two strangers, caught in a thrilling game of push and pull. Too scared to tip over and just… fall.

“Can I kiss you…?” Bradley breathes out. He feels foolish for asking, but it’s the only way to make sure he’s not ruining the entire evening.

But you sigh in relief and nod your head yes, and it gives you the push you need to close the distance from him. You don’t know which one happened first; touching his lips with yours, grasping his arms for balance, or standing on your tiptoes on his shoes. He keeps you there, his strong hands securing your waist.

“You’re making me feel like a kid…” It makes you giggle into the kiss, and he can’t not possibly fall in love with the sound of that—with the feel of your lips pulled up right against his.

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing…” Bradley runs his hands down your sides gently. “Besides, I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

“All night? You mean you’ve been thinking about making out with me while I tell you my life story?” you gasp, feigning shock and offense.

He laughs again. “Maybe for a moment or two there, I’ll admit.”

“I thought you were a gentleman!” you give him a playful smack on his behind, and there’s a flash of… something in his eyes. A spark, or a darkening. You’re not sure what it is yet, but it sends butterflies into your stomach yet again.

Bradley tucks some loose strands of your hair behind your ear. “I’m still a gentleman.”

“Really? I don’t believe that…” you sway his hips lightly, “I think you’re very… very bad,” you purr out, your lips barely touching.

He meets you halfway, and it feels like less of a shock this time. You gladly lose yourself in him, knowing you’ve crossed the line now. You finally notice how his mustache scratches your skin in a nice way, how he holds you flush against him, how he just melts into you in the kiss… enshrouding you in his warmth and lighting you on fire at the same time.

Bradley pulls away, barely just. His forehead is still pressed against yours, your noses are bumping, and his breath melding with yours. He licks his lips and you swear you can almost taste it. “You’re making it really hard for me to be a gentleman, kid…”

You can’t help but chuckle at the nickname. It’s not one you expect, but it sounds right somehow. “I didn’t invite you all the way here to be a gentleman.”

The twinkle in his eyes darken. Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of him. “Is that right?” Bradley’s hands slide down your hips, finding the swell of your ass and giving it a firm squeeze.

The air catches in your throat, and you swallow lightly. “Mm-hm.”

Instead, you lead him into the bedroom. Bradley is right behind you, barely a step behind. His hands have found a home on your hips and he seems adamant to stay there for a moment. Insisting to hold onto you because he worries he’ll get ahead of himself before you’re ready. But gosh, you’ve been ready all night and you’re practically twisting your arms around trying to reach the zipper on the back of your dress.

“Come here, I got you,” he rasps, his heart skipping as he drags the zipper down your back. He’s not sure which one he loves more; the dip of your spine that he wants to trace with your tongue, or the way the dress falls to the floor and reveals what’s underneath that prim and proper pink dress.

A tiny scrap of lace held by a black strap on either side of your hips, framing the swell of your ass perfectly.

And he swears, for a split second, he thought he had died and gone to heaven.

“Fuck…” he breathes out.

You can’t turn around fast enough. It might be a good ‘fuck’, but what if it’s a bad one? “What’s wrong?”

Bradley just blinks at you, for no other reason than how your nipples are poking out the side of the skimpy triangle of your bra. And that your lipstick is smeared on the edges from kissing him.

But of course, your mind is already racing from the lack of response and you’re already thinking, oh no this was a bad idea I shouldn’t have worn this—

“Hey, hey…” he sees your face fall and your arms come up to cover your chest and he immediately steps in. Holding you close, hoping to give you comfort. “Is this all for me?”

Oh, shit. Maybe if you close your eyes tight enough, you would melt to the floor. “I know, it’s a little much—”

“No, that’s not what I asked…” Bradley tilts your chin up, making you look him in the eye. “I said… Did you put these on for me?”

Your breath comes up short, and you nod ever so slightly. You don’t even trust your own voice not to betray how much you want him to like it. How much you want him.

“It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you.” He smiles into your lips, kissing you there. Spelling out how he feels with his hands on your ass, his mouth on yours. “Such a good girl…”

That flips a switch in your brain and he can see it. Your eyes go wide, your posture changes, and all of a sudden, you look so… small in his arms. So vulnerable, so beautiful. So perfect.

Suddenly, he’s holding the world in his arms. The sexy little thing you call panties is a pesky little nuisance now, and he can’t wait to get it off of you. His broad shoulders are keeping your legs open, his nose nuzzling your pubic bone as he looks up at you.

Bradley lowers you down on the side of the bed, settling on his knees before you. Committing every inch to memory by touch, from your ankle to your knee, up the inside of your thighs. When he reaches the scrap of fabric at your core, he feels it slick. He smirks. “What do we have here?”

Your face heats up. How the fuck are you supposed to answer that? No words are coming to your head—not when he’s drawing patterns over your pussy, making the lace glisten all over. And when your panties are positively ruined, he draws his hand back and licks the offending fingers in earnest.

And all it takes is a taste to send him into a frenzy.

“Fuck honey, need to taste you…” he murmurs between feverish kisses all over your legs. “Can I?”

You nod fervently, feeling like he’s got you under a spell.

“Use your words, kid.” He grins, playfully biting the inside of your thigh.

The sharp sensation makes you yelp, and you grip his hair in reflex. “Yes, want your mouth on me, please…”

“Good girl, asking so nicely…” he chuckles, satisfied with your response. Then, he pulls you to the edge of the bed. That dainty scrap of lace you call panties is a pesky nuisance now, and he couldn’t wait any longer to get it off of you. With your legs hiked up on his broad shoulders, he dives into you.

A taste, as it turns out, is an understatement because what Bradley does is devour.

“Oh, fuck…” you gasp sharply at the contact.

With one hand pinning your thigh open, he laps you up in earnest, figuring out the many ways he can make you squirm. Time ceases to exist because it feels like he makes you come in no time, but also he’s been down there forever. But he goes on and on and on until his name comes out in a desperate chant of lust and need.

“Bradley Bradley Bradley…” she grinds shamelessly into his mustache now, an unfamiliar but not unwelcome sensation on your part. “Please, I’m gonna…”

“I know, honey. I got you. It’s okay.” It’s an oddly wholesome thing to say in a moment like this, but maybe you’re a hopeless romantic at heart, because sweet nothings get you off.

Your orgasm strikes like a thunderbolt, and you find yourself arching into his mouth. The more you take, the more he gives—or is it the other way around?— It seems like he takes as much pleasure in it as you do. Maybe even more, as he holds onto you as you squirm away overstimulated.

“Bradley… wait.” You grab a handful of his hair, trembling breathlessly.

His mustache glistens when he comes up for air, and he finally (finally!) takes off his suit jacket as he stands up. He eases up on the throttle and lets you breathe for a second. He rolls up his sleeves to his elbows, watching you spread out like a feast for him. Legs open, bra askew, hair fanned out on the pillow… God, he’s so lucky.

When he returns on top of you, you’re eager to pull him by his belt buckle, but he brushes your hand away. You frown in protest. “But I wanna touch you—”

“It’s not your turn yet, honey,” he chides you teasingly.

“You just had your turn!”

He shrugs, nosing your cheek. “Well, it’s still my turn, so…” Bradley closes the gap again and kisses you openly.

The taste of your arousal on his tongue makes you dizzy, but it can’t distract you from the buzz of his fingers rubbing your devoured pussy, sending shivers down your spine. It’s entirely too much, and you keel over from the contact.

“Somebody’s a little sensitive, huh?” He grins, easing the throttle a little.

“Fuck you…”

“Well, if you say so.” He slides his middle finger in.

“Ohhh… Bradley…” you buck up your hips and moan. But in comes another finger, and you swear it feels like all of him.

He’s wound differently this time, like a man on a mission. With his fingers crooking and stroking your silky walls, beckoning you to come closer, while you grip his shoulders, willing yourself to hold on. But his teeth yanks the edge of your bra to set your nipple free, and his sly tongue finally gets a taste… all resolve goes out the window.

“Come on, honey. I know you got another one in you…” he breathes out, undoing the front clasp of your bra so he can suck your tits with all his might, willing you to come.

And frankly, who are you to say no?

The burst of pleasure hits you from your core to your fingertips. If he wasn’t pinning you down on top of you, you would have probably floated away. But you’re firmly laid on the mattress and feeling everything. Your eyes blink back into focus as you come down from your high.

You pant, staring at him in disbelief. Nobody has ever put that much attention on you in bed before even taking off his clothes. “You got a baseball bat in there or something?”

“Something like that.” He rolls his eyes playfully. Jokingly, you assume.

You take his arm, kissing his wrist, “Can I touch you now?” sticking your tongue out to lick his digits clean of you. Putting on a show as you suck his fingers. “Please?”

He throws his head back and groans. “Fuck.” He can’t resist that doe-eyed look you’re putting on, nor can he resist you undoing his shirt buttons. He can play dominant all he wants, but he knows that the truth of the matter is, he’s all wrapped up around your little finger. “Okay, okay. You win.”

It’s a mess of unbuckling pants, kicking off shoes, and tossing clothes to the floor. Your hand reaches out to trace his gleaming skin, every ridge of his abdomen. You’ve seen the Calvin Klein campaigns and the Men’s Health covers— and gosh, he looks like a dream. But when that thing just springs up to his stomach when he pushes his boxers down…

You didn’t expect him to manifest straight out of your wet dream.

“Holy fuck, you weren’t kidding about your baseball bat,” you breathe out, head tilted as you stare at his thick cock. The vein that runs along the side, the way it curves slightly to the right, the length that makes you clench at the mere thought of it… Fuck, it’s pretty.

Bradley chuckles sheepishly. He knows how big it is, he’s heard all the jokes in the locker room, but hearing it from you hits different. “You scared?”

You should be, a little. But without flinching, you bite your lip and look him in the eye. “Nah, I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

Gosh, he loves you. He’ll have to remember not to blurt that out too early. “Okay, big girl,” he chuckles, kissing you one last time before rolling off of the bed.

His sudden disappearance out of sight makes you frown. “Where are you—” you prop yourself up on your elbow, seeing him fish out a packet of condom from his trousers pocket, “Right. Safety first.”

Bradley nods, tearing the packet open with his teeth and rolling it on. There’s something so hot about how a man looks just before he fucks someone. “Mm-hm. Gotta make sure we’re both covered.”

“Do I need goggles and a helmet, too?”

He pauses as he straddles your hips. “Maybe next round,” he cheekily quips back. The idea of you wearing nothing but a helmet and safety goggles weirdly makes his cock stir, too. But you’re already lying naked under him, and he doubts that much will deter his hard-on.

Bradley pushes himself into you a little, and your eyes water as you whimper out in a blur of pain and pleasure. And here you thought two of his fingers felt full…

He stops in his tracks, trying to gauge your reaction. He nearly lost his mind over how tightly you’re clenched around him, but he doesn’t want to presume. “Too much?” He asks softly, stroking your cheek.

Your breaths run ragged as you look up at him, almost in awe. “You’re just… so big…”

He laughs breathlessly. He hates to brag, but it’s true. And as much as he’s enjoying the way you flutter under him, he has to ask, “Want me to pull out?” Please say no, please say no, I don’t think I can handle it…

“N-no…” you wrap your arms and legs around him, clinging to him for dear life. “But I don’t know if it’ll fit.”

Bradley smiles at what has to be the most adorable look he’s ever seen from you. He kisses your forehead in reassurance. “I’ll go nice and slow, okay? I promise.”

Feeling this small and vulnerable so soon after meeting someone would usually set all kinds of alarms in your head. You never know how a guy would take it. But in this moment, nestled in the crook of his neck, among the mix of his perfume and aftershave and his natural musk… all you want to do is stay. “Okay,” you nod softly.

“Let’s try again then, hm?” He kisses your temple and whispers in your ear, “Open up, love.”

With a deep breath, you bite back a whimper as you take him deeper, still not quite all the way in. “Hurts…”

Bradley stops again, his concern fully taking over now. “You sure you want me to keep going…?”

“Yes!” You surprise yourself with how quick and desperate you answered him. Your eyes shut, trying to offset the warmth setting over your cheeks, as you make the dirty admission, “I… I like it when it hurts.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Bradley has to remind himself not to come on the spot, because holy shit. He wouldn’t go this hard on a woman so early in the game, but… his head is dizzy from how innocently you said it. He takes a breath to pull himself together. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

The air is heavy. The room is silent. You can hear the shift in the tension as you smirk, “Yessir.”

There you are, you little devil. Bradley simply grabs you by the hips and bottoms out inside you. Your face goes slack while your cunt tightens around his cock, and it blows his mind.

He starts out slow, torturously so. Stuffing himself inside your crevice and dragging himself out, willing you to feel every inch. Every ridge. Until your body loosens up and twists around in the throes of passion. Your mouth falls open, your little gasps and moans coming and going as he pleases.

The unhurried pace is nice for a few minutes, when you’re still adjusting to his size. But now that he’s snug inside you, you’re simply aching for more. Your hips arch up into him halfway, a little more urgent, disrupting the rhythm with a pleasant stutter.

He notices this and smiles. “So eager… what’s the rush, hm?”

You answer with a groan. He has a penchant for asking you questions you can’t answer, this man. “You feel so good, baby…” you murmur headily, hands desperately grasping on him—his arms, his shoulders, his back…

”You feel even better.” He nips at your pert nipple, relishing in your angelic little filthy cry. Fuck, he can feel the exact motion of your pussy tightening for him. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep doing that…”

”Then don’t.”

His eyes flicker onto yours immediately. You’re gonna be the death of him, he swears…

You grab his hair by the fistful, keeping his gaze. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

”Oh fuck—” he doesn’t stand a chance. His body reacts faster than his brain could compute, and he holds your hips flush against his as he buries himself as deep as he can. Every twitch of his cock sends you reeling, and your pussy clenches and unwinds in your climax, following him down from his high to yours.

Free falling, hand in hand.

Bradley rolls off of you and you would complain, if it weren’t for the way he immediately pulls you into his chest. Thank fuck. You’re not quite ready to untangle from him yet. Not when your breaths still run a bit ragged, as if accidentally catching each other’s. He presses a kiss to your forehead, and it feels unlike your regular out-of-town hookup. No, this one’s different. But not a word is said between you on that for different reasons— each of you holding your cards close to your chest, as close as you’re holding each other.

#nowhere to go but up from here on out folks!!#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x reader #footballer!bradley #footballer!bradley x popstar!reader #top gun imagine #top gun au #ava writes #fever pitch

168 notes · View notes

eleanor-bradstreet · 2 years ago

Text

Gala (Anthony Bridgerton x Reader)

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!Reader Modern AU Rated: 18+, just lots of thirst and suggestiveness Word count: 1.9k

Summary: You attend a charity gala with your boss who really is too much trouble in a tux.

Author's Note: Requested by and dedicated to @queenofmean14 Bit cracky and intended to be humorous 😜 Also credit to @broooookiecrisp from whom I pilfered the job details of her modern Anthony.

“He’s here.” Security announced in your earpiece. Not that you needed them to. You knew the Jaguar as it pulled up. So did the line of paparazzi who started to jostle for the clearest shot. But when he stepped out, you didn’t even know your own name. Anthony Bridgerton, CEO of Bridgerton House Enterprises and your boss, was going to make tonight even more difficult for you.

He had talked to you about his planned outfit beforehand, but you hadn’t gotten a preview and hadn’t envisioned it like this. A perfectly tailored velvet tux jacket accented with a diamond bee brooch. Smart shoes, an effortlessly coiffed wave of hair and most arresting of all, a pair of sleek shades that he slid on as he exited the car even though it was long past sundown. An errant corner of your brain replayed some 80’s song lyrics, but you couldn’t deny that the entire look worked. It worked entirely too well for you as your body flushed with heat and breathing suddenly became a task. The man could wear the hell out of a tux.

Granted, he always looked mouthwatering no matter how he was dressed, and as his executive assistant for the span of eight months you had seen the spectrum of his wardrobe. Everything hung so perfectly on his muscled frame, exuding old money power with a currently fashionable touch. Clothes made the man, but you suspected Anthony Bridgerton could elevate a bin bag. It was a visual challenge you had adapted to in your job, over time finding it easier and easier to speak to him without choking on your tongue first. His arrogant playfulness had helped with that and the two of you had built a deep mutual trust, a friendship even. You had bonded in the trenches of corporate crises enough to sling endearing insults at each other and always be blatantly honest. Except about one thing. You could obviously never reveal to him how desperately you wanted to jump his bones. How your blood simmered when his voice dropped to a certain pitch. How you broke into gooseflesh whenever he shook your hand and met you with something caring in his deep umber eyes. The light flirtation you both fell into from time to time certainly didn’t help either. And now with him in black tie, you began to wonder if this job was hazardous to your health.

Tonight was the company’s annual charity gala. A star-studded event at one of London’s best hotels where celebrities and socialites donated funds for the hospitals partnered with BHE. Anthony would give the closing speech and as planned, was the last to arrive on the red carpet so that he would get unencumbered press focus. You had spent the entire day on site making sure everything was prepped to perfection and now you stood at the top of the entry stairs with the other staff, ready to welcome the MVP of the evening. Given the high profile of the event, you had dressed for the occasion too. You would be seated at his table and weren’t going to be photographed looking like an intern. You had found a dress you loved, a shimmering number that showed off your best assets, and splurged on a hair and makeup artist. Maybe your position made you more akin to the prince’s valet but if this was how you got into the ball, you were going to make the most of it.

You watched Anthony pausing for photos, realizing this was one of the rare times you could observe him from afar. He moved with such confidence, back straight and head held high. He would run his fingers through his greying temples or brush a thumb over his stubbled chin while flashing that killer smile and your legs wanted to give out. He knew how to work a camera. It was one of the many awful, wonderful things about him. But if the attention helped raise money for charitable causes it was all worth it. You supposed your undergarments could suffer for the greater good.

As he moved along, you noticed he was licking his lips. A peek of his tongue in the corner of his mouth as he faced your direction. He was probably hot under all the camera flashes. But that small gesture was infecting you with heat too. He really needed to stop or you were liable to tumble down the steps and really make a headline. It took all your strength not to fan yourself with the tablet you were holding until at last he ascended and gave you a dazzling smile, falling into step beside you as you moved indoors.

You hovered in his orbit as he was greeted by the first throng of attendees at the bar and you called for a flute of champagne. When he was alone at last for a moment, you pulled him into a quiet corner and offered him the drink.

“Thirsty?”

“Sorry?” He moved closer, inclining his head. He was curiously still wearing his sunglasses indoors. You could smell his cologne. Amber and smoke and spice and it made you want to sink your teeth into his neck.

“Are you thirsty?” You said louder, shoving the glass into his hand as he chuckled.

“Why do you ask?” He took a sip.

What a stupid question. Couldn’t you just offer him some refreshment? Didn’t humans need to hydrate? Now you had to answer him.

“I um…” You wavered. “I saw you. You were…licking your lips out there so I just figured…”

His brows show up over his frames and he grinned. “You’re very attentive.”

Something shot down your spine. His voice was getting close to that register. “It’s my job to take care of your needs.” You reminded him, though you laid on a heavy layer of sarcasm.

“And you are so very good at it.” He rumbled, reaching the danger pitch. Oh god, he was going to assault you both visually and aurally at the same time, wasn’t he? He was going to flirt with you while daring to look like that. He was cruel, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

He confirmed it by stepping even closer, turning so the front of his velvet jacket brushed your bare arm and he leaned down to murmur directly in your ear. “You look incredible by the way.”

You swallowed hard, instructing yourself to inhale and exhale. But that wasn’t really helping because his intoxicating scent was making things worse. You had to keep your head. You had to spar with him or else you were going to melt into the carpet. “So do you.” You pursed your lips and gave him an exaggerated once over as if you were only mildly impressed. “The glasses were a good choice.”

He smiled and you detected something genuine, like he was actually eager for your praise. He tapped the frames lightly. “Useful too. I don’t have to give anyone my undivided attention if I don’t want to. I could be talking to them while scanning the crowd and they would be none the wiser.”

This sounded like the setup for a joke. Something about not listening to you as you conducted him through his schedule for the evening. You were beginning to resent those glasses and you would let him know if he tried to get sassy with you.

“So what are you looking at?” You smirked, waiting for the punchline.

He took another sip of champagne, facing you but now you couldn’t be sure if he wasn’t staring directly over your head. “A beautiful woman who is driving me to distraction.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course. The man lived at the office and didn’t really have time for a social or romantic life. He would have to double up and treat a work event as an opportunity for a hookup. Especially at an event as glamorous as this, with so many swanlike women floating around and everyone dressed in their finest, you understood, despite the envy it flared in you.

“Ah, I see. Is there someone I should invite over to your table?”

He shook his head, downed the last of the champagne and set it aside with a decisive clink. “Unnecessary. You’re already at my table.”

He said it so matter-of-factly it took your brain several seconds to even comprehend its meaning. You must have been going mad. Your heart started to pound, fueled equally by embarrassed confusion and ridiculous hope. There was no way. Absolutely no way on earth he could have said what you thought he said. And even if he had, he was just toying with you, right?

“I’m not…” You stuttered, hoping he couldn’t see the blush you felt creeping up your neck. “You weren’t…you weren't looking at me.”

Then your breath caught in your throat as he rounded on you, standing directly before you so your back was pressed against the wall and all you could see was him. He loomed, black velvet and chestnut hair and perfect stubble. That scent was making you feral and now you could feel his hot breath across your skin. You could see yourself in the reflection of his dark lenses, peering up at him like trapped prey. This was how you died. Or lost your job. You were sure of it.

“How would you know?” He smiled wolfishly and tapped the glasses again. “All the better to see you with, my dear.”

You were hit by lightning. The gooseflesh rippled across your skin. Your underwear soaked. All you could do was stand there and tremble as he ran a finger idly up and down your arm. You were surprised sparks weren’t erupting out of your skin where he touched you.

“Why do you think I was licking my lips?” He asked in a low voice, finally removing the shades to pierce through you with his dilated, chocolate eyes. “I’m afraid even with the champagne, I’m still thirsty.” Then he did it again, flicking that weapon of mass destruction across his luscious bottom lip and staring at you pointedly.

Your brain functioned enough to realize that he was breathing just as heavy as you were. And that he was opening a door, giving you an option. The option you had been fantasizing about since the day you met him. It seemed too good to be true. You were half convinced you were dreaming in a coma after faceplanting down the steps outside thanks to his appearance. But the prickle of your electrified nerves and the river between your thighs felt real enough to persuade you that you were indeed still in your own body. You were not going to pass this up, whatever it might lead to. Really, you wanted to scream aloud like you had won the lottery.

But instead you whispered, “There’s water in the green room.”

He grinned broadly, creasing that dimple in his left cheek that you wanted to lick right off his face. “Excellent idea. I think we’ll need an emergency private conference to…go over my notes.”

His hand found the small of your back and you prayed that your legs would carry you that far. This was really going to throw off the itinerary but you were good at your job, you could adjust. You smiled back at him. “Whatever you say, sir. I’m here to take care of your needs.”

Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @colettebronte @faye-tale

#bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton imagine #female reader #modern au #thirst #met gala #jonathan bailey

533 notes · View notes

priincebutt · 10 months ago

Text

Hey ho, let's go! Happy Wednesday, chickadees!! Can't believe we've made it to the end of February, if I'm being perfectly honest. Thank you as always to the lovelies @itsmaybitheway , @piratefalls , @wordsofhoneydew , @firenati0n , @getmehighonmagic , @onthewaytosomewhere and @magicandarchery for the tags!! This week, I'm bringing you the beginning of my next chapter of The Story of Us, because I finally feel like writing for it again!! I was in a lil slump, tbh, but I'm bound and determined to finish this piece and I'm very excited for the next few chapters!!

Despite their time spent apart weighing more than their time spent together, being with Henry is like a dream. It’s like Alex has just floated along, directionless despite thinking he’d had it all figured out, until he’d met Henry. He’d always sworn he wouldn’t be one of the ones who allowed his whole personality to be overcome by a relationship, but he gets it now – when someone has the other half of your heart, and that empty space in your chest has been filled with them, it’s impossible not to spend a multitude of moments thinking about Henry. Thinking, dreaming, ruminating on when they can be together again.

London had been unparalleled, and despite the tears they’d shed when he’d had to leave, Alex is glad to have those memories to get him through his ‘Henry dry spell’ as he’s taken to calling it. (Henry doesn’t find it very funny. Nora and June just roll their eyes at him.) And as much as he wants to fly across oceans to stand next to Henry and hold his hand, to catch him when he leaps off the stage every night in a new city, Alex has to focus on the play-offs that are fast approaching.

It just so happens that Henry is in New York for a few days one week for a photoshoot. He’s just been named Spotify’s Global Top Artist of 2023, and Alex, high on the successes of someone who is so important to him, decides to use his day off to drive up to the city to celebrate with Henry.

It’s an easy, quiet kind of rhythm between them now – commenting on each other’s posts, texting back and forth and keeping up a constant stream of communication. When Henry drops ‘You’re Losing Me’ to thank his fans, Alex listens to it on a non-stop loop in the weight room, as he’s driving to meetings, and while he cooks himself dinner that night. When Percy drops an insta story, Henry posing with a handful of raisins and a bottle of wine, a telltale snapshot from the past that claims this secret track was recorded months before Henry’s relationship with James ended, Alex’s heart breaks for him, and he immediately calls Henry, comforts him through the fresh wave of pain the release of this very personal track brings him. They talk on the phone well past midnight that night, and on his drive up the east coast the next morning, Alex is so thankful he’ll be able to wrap his arms around Henry in just a few short hours.

They meet at Henry’s hotel, and paparazzi are already waiting as Alex pulls up to the valet and hands over his car keys, then slings an overnight bag over his shoulder and tugs down his sunglasses, pointedly ignoring the hoard of camera-happy paps who call out to him, asking invasive questions and trying to capture his attention through shocking details they’ve been fed from a friend of a friend who knows Henry Fox personally.

It’s all bullshit, so he ignores it. It’s not their fucking business, and he refuses to give them even an inch, because he knows they’ll trample all over that and steal a mile.

Tags beneath the cut and thanks for reading friends!!

@forever-fixating , @sparklepocalypse , @firstsprinces , @sunnysideprince , @hgejfmw-hgejhsf , @anincompletelist , @zwiazdziarka

#rwrb fanfic #my writing #wip #the story of us au

23 notes · View notes

whiskey-tango-matcha · 2 years ago

Text

A Cup of Tea and Paracetamol pt 4/4

The final installment is done! Phew, thanks for sticking with me, I know this was a long story and idk how people feel about that. This last part is pretty much just sneeze p0rn lmao, so I hope you guys like it. Let me know if there are any scenarios/story ideas you’d like to see with these two next, because I don’t have any WIPs currently!

A prewarning, this is of course not beta’d or reread because I am a full dunce and I shit out snz and then run away.

Love you all, enjoy

“Listen,” Elijah rasped the next morning, as he and Greyson waited for their cab to approach the hotel, “I’m gonna need you to pull it together.”

“Lij, I – HGDSTHH-oo! Hnn-NGSTSH-uhh! Huh…”

“See, this is what I’m talking -”

“HUHHHESTCHH-ue!”

“-about.” Elijah coughed into his elbow, while Greyson fished a paper-thin hotel tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose. They made quite the pair, really. Greyson grimaced and tossed the tissue into a waiting trashcan before turning to his boss and clearing his throat.

“Lij,” Greyson said, his voice sticky and congested. “I dond’t thindk I’mb gonna mbake it.” He swallowed back a cough as the cab rolled up to the valet. “Whend I’mb gone, tell mby staff I loved – HRFFSHH! GTSHH-ue! HRSSHHH-oo! God-fucking-dammit.”

“Remember when I said pull it together?” Elijah asked, his voice once again cutting out completely. He yanked the cab door open, pulled a mask out of his back pocket, and mouthed “Pull. It. Together.”

Greyson sucked in through his nose futilely, then cleared his throat again as he pulled up his own mask and lowered himself into the car next to his boss. “Hi there,” he said, actively avoiding any m’s or n’s. “Airport, please.”

The driver grunted in understanding and set off through the early-morning traffic. Greyson gave Elijah a thumbs up as if to say Pulled it together pretty well, huh? Elijah rolled his eyes in response and collapsed over his own lap to cough as quietly as he could.

“Need some water?” the driver asked, producing a small bottle from a chest on the passenger’s seat. Elijah shook his head in Greyson’s direction.

“He’s good.” Greyson said, rubbing his nose behind the mask. He wondered silently how much longer the ride was going to be; it had felt like a short drive on the way in, but that may have had something to do with the fact that he didn’t have the constant feeling of needing to sneeze on the way in.

Sometime between the end of the event yesterday afternoon and when he’d gone to bed around midnight, Greyson’s body had suddenly decided that it was going to cut the bullshit and start sneezing like it was his job. Greyson assumed it had been sometime after his fourth drink; that’s when things started getting hazy, anyway. He’d woken up this morning with sinuses packed, a throbbing head, and a note on his arm that read, Call me when that cold’s cleared up -Alex with what he assumed was a London phone number scrawled beneath it. Alex’s face, location, and gender were, at this point, a toss-up.

“Huhh…” Greyson’s breath hitched audibly then, and Elijah sat up suddenly and shook his head. Greyson understood his meaning; between their matching pallor and Elijah’s coughing, he was sure they were already on thin ice with this driver. No need to cause a scene and get them kicked out of the cab. Greyson pawed at his nose again and held his breath – to no avail.

“HXTSH-uhh!” Greyson attempted to hold the sneeze back, but his body clearly had other plans. He gave Elijah a watery, apologetic look before collapsing into a fit of sneezes, directed into his elbow. “HFSHH-uh! Huh...hehh...HGSTHH-ue! HRSSHH! NGTSHH! HUHESSTCHOO! Fuck mbe,” Greyson grumbled into his elbow.

“Is everything alright back there?” the driver asked, tentatively. Elijah cleared his throat as best he could to take over the speaking role.

“We’re okay,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just a cold.”

“Hell of a cold,” the driver grumbled, pulling up to the airport gate. “Need help with your things?”

“We’re okay,” Greyson said, throwing the door open the moment the car came to a stop. “Thangks.” He handed the driver a wad of cash – far more than they owed, to make up for the disinfecting this guy was going to have to do – and dragged Elijah out of the car. They quickly collected their bags from the trunk and made their way into the airport.

“Did I or did I not tell you to pull it together?” Elijah asked, voice cracking. Greyson gave his boss the dirtiest look he could muster while they got in line for their boarding passes.

“That was mbe pulling it together,” he said, sniffling behind the mask. “Trust mbe, you dond’t wandt to see mbe letting loose.”

They made it through ticketing and security with little incident, and once they found their gate, Greyson declared, “Great, it exists. Let’s go get drungk.”

The two ill men plopped themselves down at a corner table in the darkest airport bar they could find. Once drinks were ordered, they ripped off their masks and stared at one another, dead-eyed. Elijah was the first to break the silence.

“Huh-GTSHH-ue!” he sneezed into his elbow, which propelled him into a fit of coughing. Greyson sucked in through his nose, and let out an irritated cough in sympathy.

“Is that what I have to look forward to ndext?” he asked, nodding at the server when a beer was placed in front of him. Elijah rolled his eyes and shot his whiskey before giving Greyson the middle finger.

“Yeah, enjoy,” he rasped, pulling a hand down his face in misery. Greyson chuckled darkly and sucked down the beer in a few gulps, then raised a hand toward the bar to get the server’s attention.

“Keep ’emb combing,” he called out.

“Alcohol’s only going to make it worse,” Elijah rasped. Greyson laughed in earnest this time.

“You think it could get worse?” he asked, and Elijah returned the laugh.

“Fair enough,” he said. He quietly thanked the server who brought their second round, and lifted his rocks glass. “You know what would really hit the spot right now?”

“A lobotomy?” Greyson guessed.

“Some nyquil.”

Greyson nearly moaned at the thought of it. “Dond’t even say its precious name,” he said, sucking down the second beer. He placed the half-empty glass back down on the table when his breath began to hitch once again. “HGSTHH-uhhh. NGXTSHH-nn! HXTSHH! HTSH!”

“Will you just sneeze like a normal person and get it over with?” Elijah asked, downing the remainder of his drink. “Holding them in just makes it worse.”

“You’re such an expert ind how I’mb mbaking it worse, and yet you dond’t seem to be doing mbuch better thand mbe,” Greyson said, blowing his nose quietly. “So I don’t think I’ll be taking my advice from you, thangks.”

Elijah shrugged. “Fair enough,” he whispered, turning to signal for the check.

“Hey, I wandted another,” Greyson said, coughing into his sleeve. Elijah raised an eyebrow.

“I think you’re good,” he said pointedly. Greyson grumbled while Elijah produced a credit card and signed the check. “I’ll make it up to you,” he told the chef, pushing his chair backand gathering their things.

“Mmmb, how’re you gonna do that?” Greyson asked, pressing his palm into an aching eyeball. Elijah shrugged.

“I was thinking maybe a cup of tea?” he said, attempting a British accent with his mangled voice. “Perhaps a paracetamol?”

Greyson couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, fuck off, Lij.” Elijah laughed, too.

“Let’s get this flight over with,” Elijah whispered. “And, Grey?”

“Y – HFSHHH-uhh! Fuggck. Snf. Yeah?” Greyson asked, his eyes watering. Elijah attempted a smile.

“Let’s go ahead and keep the restaurant closed this weekend.”

Greyson coughed out a laugh. “Ndow,” he said, “you’re speaking my language.”

#do i love this ending? nope!#but it's as good as i'm gonna be able to do lmao #original character #male snz #cold #snz fic #sickfic #coldfic #whiskeyswriting #oc sickfic #snz #snzfic

70 notes · View notes

splashanddrip · 1 year ago

Text

Advanced Car Detailing Techniques: Elevating Mobile Valeting in London

Mobile valeting in London has witnessed a remarkable evolution, with advanced car detailing techniques taking center stage. In this blog, we'll explore how these techniques have elevated the mobile valeting industry in London.

Mobile Valeting London: Embracing Advanced Car Detailing Techniques

Mobile valeting services in London have embraced advanced car detailing techniques to provide exceptional cleaning and restoration services to vehicle owners. These techniques go beyond the basic cleaning processes, ensuring a showroom-like finish. Let's delve into some of these advanced techniques.

Ceramic Coatings: Revolutionizing Vehicle Protection

Ceramic coatings have gained immense popularity in mobile valeting in London. These coatings offer superior protection against UV rays, oxidation, and environmental contaminants. They create a hydrophobic barrier, repelling water, dirt, and grime, thereby keeping the vehicle cleaner for longer periods.

Paint Correction: Restoring the Vehicle's Aesthetics

Paint correction techniques address imperfections like swirl marks, scratches, and oxidation. Skilled mobile valeting professionals in London use machine polishing and specialized compounds to restore the vehicle's paintwork to its original brilliance. This technique enhances the aesthetics and resale value of the vehicle.

Steam Cleaning: A Thorough and Eco-Friendly Approach

Mobile valeting in London is increasingly adopting steam cleaning as an eco-friendly alternative. Steam effectively removes dirt, grease, and stains without the need for harsh chemicals. It reaches tight spaces and kills bacteria, providing a deep and hygienic clean.

Interior Detailing: Transforming the In-Car Experience

Mobile valeting services in London prioritize interior detailing to enhance the in-car experience. Advanced techniques involve deep cleaning, stain removal, leather conditioning, and odor elimination. The result is a fresh and revitalized interior that enhances comfort and enjoyment during every drive.

Headlight Restoration: Improving Safety and Visibility

Mobile valeting professionals in London understand the importance of clear headlights for safety and visibility. Advanced headlight restoration techniques involve removing oxidation, haze, and scratches, restoring the headlights' clarity and brightness. This enhances the driver's visibility and ensures safer journeys.

Splash And Drip have evolved to incorporate advanced car detailing techniques that offer remarkable results. From ceramic coatings and paint correction to steam cleaning, interior detailing, and headlight restoration, these techniques elevate the mobile valeting experience. Embrace these advancements to give your vehicle the care it deserves. Visit our website to know more.

#mobile valeting london #car valet london

0 notes

ecoverdevaletingco · 14 days ago

Text

Local Car Valet Services in London: Convenience at Your Doorstep

Managing a clean and well-maintained car in bustling London can be daunting. Thankfully, local car valet in London provides an easy, stress-free alternative. With mobile car valeting services in London, you can enjoy professional cleaning right at your doorstep, allowing you to focus on what matters most.

Ultimate Convenience for Busy Londoners

One of the biggest advantages of local car valet in London is the sheer convenience it offers. Rather than spending your precious time driving to a car wash or detailing shop, the service comes directly to you. Whether at home, at work, or even at your favourite café, you can have your car cleaned and detailed without leaving the comfort of your location. This is especially beneficial for Londoners with packed schedules who struggle to find the time for car maintenance. The service fits seamlessly into your routine, allowing you to carry on with your day while professionals handle the car care.

Premium Quality Services, Anywhere You Need

Door-to-door car valeting isn’t just about convenience—it’s also about quality. Many of the best valeting services in London offer high-end cleaning and detailing treatments that rival traditional car washes. From exterior washes and waxing to interior deep cleaning and upholstery care, these services are designed to restore your car’s shine and freshness. Professional valeters use premium products and equipment, ensuring your vehicle is treated with the utmost care. Whether your car needs a quick clean or a full restoration, door-to-door valeting brings top-notch services to your doorstep.

Tailored to Your Needs

Another advantage of mobile car valeting in London is its personalization. You can choose from a variety of packages and services tailored to your car’s specific needs. Whether you’re looking for a simple exterior wash, full interior detailing, or a specialized service like paint correction or leather conditioning, there’s something for every car. Many companies offer bespoke services, meaning you can request specific treatments to address areas of your car that need extra attention. This flexibility ensures your vehicle receives the care it deserves, without paying for unnecessary extras.

Eco-Friendly and Efficient

With London’s increasing focus on sustainability, many door-to-door car valeting services are going the eco-friendly route. These services often use water-saving techniques and biodegradable cleaning products that minimize environmental impact. Additionally, some companies operate mobile units powered by sustainable energy sources, ensuring that the service is as green as it is convenient.

Say goodbye to the hassle of traditional car washes with mobile car valeting in London. Ecoverde Valeting offers a convenient and professional local car valet service in London tailored to your needs. Contact us today at 07495 400 369 to enjoy a clean, polished vehicle without leaving your driveway.

#Door-to-Door Car Valeting London #Local Car Valet London #Mobile Car Valeting London #Eco-Friendly Car Valeting Services #Professional Car Valeting London #Convenient Car Cleaning London #Mobile Car Wash Services #London Car Detailing #Premium Car Valeting London #Time-Saving Car Valeting Solutions #Car Maintenance London #Bespoke Car Valet Services #Car Care in London #Home Car Valeting Services #Mobile Auto Detailing London

0 notes

splashanddrip002 · 1 year ago

Text

Pristine ride with Splash and Drip's mobile car valeting!

Unlock the secret to a pristine ride with Splash and Drip's mobile car valeting. Unbeatable shine and convenience await you.

#london #uk #car valet #mobile car valet

1 note · View note

beyondjustservice · 10 months ago

Text

Mobile Car Wash & Valeting Services

With our modern mobile car wash and valeting services, embrace the future of car care. No more scheduling your entire week around a car wash appointment or giving up valuable weekend time in exchange for a clean automobile. You may arrange a professional cleaning at a time and location that works best for you with our mobile services.

We'll come to you, whether you're at home, at work, or out for a day, with modern tools and environmentally friendly products to give your car the attention it needs. Our commitment lies in providing excellent results, carefully attending to every little detail to make sure your automobile looks perfect from the inside out.

It's more about the experience than it is about hygiene. Wave goodbye to the strain and inconvenience of a traditional car

#car wash #car valeting #car valeting west london #car mobile valeting #car detailing #mobile auto wash

1 note · View note

allseasonsvaleters1 · 2 years ago

Text

https://www.quora.com/Whos-best-car-service-provider/answer/All-Seasons-Valeters-1?prompt_topic_bio=1

#car detailing business #best car wash #car wash #canon #comics #car detailing near me #what is professional car detailing?#car detailing croydon #mobile car detailing near me #mobile car valet near me #london car valet

0 notes

ricardian-werewolf · 5 months ago

Text

Ruleth England Under a Hogge

Chapter 3: Thus Saith the Lord

Summary:

Richard is forced at knife-point to come to terms with what his reign has meant for his only surviving child. Ensconced in the safety of engagement, Cecily finally gets associated with Ravka, its people, and the king's mysterious ailment that has come to her through unofficial channels only.

Notes:

TWS: Discussion of Eugenics, Fascism, murder, domestic violence, serious mental illness.

Tagging: @lordbettany @dreadbirate @rovinglemon

Waterloo Station.

Richard could only watch in wide-eyed horror as his daughter’s train pulled from the station without him.

Blood - from such a small cut! - spilled from his chest in rivulets. The armor had shattered the blade’s tip, yes, but the wound had still been made. His facade of indomitable strength had collapsed. Yet, only slightly. He had to make this a rallying cry, a declaration of war against Cecily and her household-to-be. Rubbing his forehead, Richard stepped into the shade of an alcove as his blackshirts swarmed to protect their king. Ripping open his shirt, he grimaced. The armor that his daughter had so assumed was merely an undershirt. The blade she wielded had been rusted by years of Flanders soil and so cracked when plunged into his flesh. Richard examined the wound a moment more then buttoned his shirt and tightened his tie. At once, breaking through the crowd, James Tyrell - a rat faced man with wicked eyes, came to his side. “Should we stop the train, your Grace? Have Cecily hauled back to London and tried as a pariah ought?”

If Tyrell had been expecting a yes , he was shortly and sorely mistaken. Richard gave him a dark look and then, backhanded Tyrell across the cheek. The silver of the signet ring on his pinky slashing a cut into the soft flesh. Before the man could think to cry out, Richard leaned yet closer and grabbed Tyrell’s collar.

“She will be allowed the decency to escape. Let her survive in a court where she knows not the language or customs. Soon, the errors of her sins will have her kneeling at my feet. With luck, I’ll have the foresight to cleave her head from her shoulders.” Chewing on a hangnail, Richard adjusted the lapels of his cape and strode across the station to his waiting car. He’d stood here just a few years ago, welcoming the young princes from their safe-havens. Then, he’d murdered them himself and the throne was his.

Settled in his seat, only then did Richard realize that Jeeves had fled. Seemingly operating on other orders, the long-suffering valet had rid himself of Richard’s pins, protection, and all honor. Sniffing, Richard lit himself a cigarette and watched the city-scape of London roll by. He had an upcoming dinner with the German ambassador to worry about. France’s attempts at Fascism had been so poorly accepted with the February 6th coup d’etat that Richard’s hopes of seeing a 4th Republic France bearing the Fasces was dashed. He had put money and hopes into L’Émeute des vétérans succeeding. But with this counter-revolt fought back by the anti-fascist parasites popping up all over France, fear began to coil in his gut. Maybe he would have the East End torched again. Another round-up of the new immigrants. Go about breaking down doors and hauling out dissenters. The camps in the midlands needed more…

Labor . Opening his briefcase handed to him that morning by his private secretary, Richard skimmed through telegrams, missives and more pieces of statecraft. However, his hand paused when he settled on a simple cream folder of manila titled simply:

Gnadentod.

England had a long history of Eugenics worming its way into the lexicon of the society, bolstered by Social Darwinisim, empirical superiority and blatant racism. Yet, this was more insidious, beneath the surface. And Richard had been the one to ignite it. Not to save his own wretched, twisted soul, but for Cecily’s. If the government and the state came for others, maybe they would overlook her. Maybe the deaths of thousands of other feeble-minded children and adults who weren’t adding much to the gene pool - more so polluting it - would save Cecily from the surgeon’s scalpel and reaper’s scythe.

He could live with it. Perhaps he would even go and witness some of the roundups. Make speeches. Every word spoke to rile a hungry crowd of animals who wanted these people dead. Dissenters would be crushed. He could do that. All of it was just actions. Death took and took, distinguishing not the sinner or the saint. But as long as Cecily breathed, he was content. He would look the other way when mothers screamed at him to return their children. Let them take that grief unto their shoulders, a burden that would no doubt crush them like fine glass.

“Where to, your Grace?” His driver asked.

Richard grimaced. He could go after Cecily, break her into pieces no bigger than his thumbnail and feed her bones to his pigs, or he could stay. Staying behind meant continuing to drag England kicking and screaming into the era that it deserved. Losing Cecily meant that she could be easily corrupted by the Eastern influences of Communism. Yet, she was already far too mired in that mindset. He hadn’t been blind to her childhood training sessions in the East end, nor had he raised a brow at her reading The Daily Worker and The Communist Manifesto . What had come to a head was the General Strike of 1926, which Richard had brought out the police to crush. The army had given support, and veterans once more tore one another to pieces with bullet and bayonet. Cecily had been 26 at that point, and he’d spotted her amongst the strikers. A misplaced bullet to the spine would have cut her down. The shot misfired. The shooter was killed publicly outside of Saint Paul’s, and Cecily had been packed off to Middleham for the rest of the year. The public had howled hopelessly for their beloved Princess’s return, what with Edward’s death still so fresh-

Richard flinched . He’d not meant to kill his son. But the urge to, the sight of him so drunk and so stupid , had guided his hand. He regretted it, but not in the way a normal father might. He regretted killing such a fine piece on the chessboard of power. Edward had been set up to wed with one of Heinrich Himmler’s daughters, and that alcoholism had developed as a result. Something simply had to be done. Richard had taken the blade and the action. It would have been perfect only had Cecily not been there to see it. The shock of it, thank god, blotted out the incident to mere hazy fragments. Combined with the affects of her constant morphine usage to wipe out the memories of the trenches, she was in no place to remember much of anything . She’d been packed off to bed and in the morning taken up to Oxford as a surprise. There, she’d been stuck in Saint Hilda’s College and given the option to Read History.

She’d sprung at the chance. Richard had doubted that Cecily would survive her first term. She’d come out with first class honors in modern history. He’d hoped she would have failed her first year examinations. Yet, somehow… she’d not. Perhaps it was just stubbornness or anger or… His gaze turned to the window, which beyond lay the empty platform that’d borne the train to Os Alta via Berlin. Some part of him, that old fear, rose its ugly head. There was another reason for her survival. Something that had carried her through the years of pain, of misery. Nursed her wounds when everyone else had turned their back. Lehzen hadn’t been brought in until her breakage in 1929. This wasn’t some sort of childish affection, nursed between two young people. Love. True, affectionate feeling between two people who’d never met, yet written letters of a sort for years . The letter Nikolai had written to Cecily as an official opening couldn’t have been her first. Somehow, they must’ve figured out how to write while ignoring the censors. Richard gritted his teeth so hard that he heard the golden crowns of his back molars crack . Shaking his head, he pressed a hand to his brow and sighed. His driver waited with wide, expectant eyes. He still hadn’t given an order on where they were to go yet. Grumbling, he spoke:

“The Senate House.”

“Right away, your Grace.”

The car leaped at once into motion. The procession of armored cars, Rolls Royces and a motorcade all followed swiftly after their king. It was, he noted, uncannily close to how a hunting procession closed in on the prey. His fingers fiddled wordlessly with the wedding band. As the car moved silently through the streets of the City, he thought hopelessly of a woman with striking ginger hair and blazing green eyes that could arrest even the fairest of souls. However, within that love and longing, burned a hatred and a hunger to see her again. She’d once held a knife to his throat when the darkness had begun to whisper sweet words in his ears, and he’d laughed her off.

Now, he wanted her like some sort of starving animal. He’d exiled her to the furthest reaches of the empire, a place not even where his best spies could reach. She’d gone too, with his own lady mother. Good riddance to both of them, he’d cried to the air at the time. But now? 11 years had passed since he’d killed the princes. Cecily probably didn’t remember her mother nor her Grandmother. He hoped she didn’t. Desperately. How he hoped with all his heart that Anne Neville had met a painful ending on some foreign shore. How he hungered for their confirmations of death.

His fingers rubbed over the wedding band again, and he tugged it off. Holding it in his palm, he regarded the inscription. Loyaulte Me Lie. Richard rolled down the window as they were roaring over the Tower bridge, and tossed the tiny ring with its emerald jewels into the roaring swell of the Thames. Let some mudlarker find it. He would not let the past bind him to his sins.

He settled back in his seat and uncorked a hip flask of malmsey wine which he sipped. The honeyed sweetness settled easily on his tongue and he sighed. Such was the life of a king.

Death followed him, sinking its claws into his shoulders and twisting his spine. Leaning back, Richard closed his eyes.

Not even sleep would bring him the peace of the virtuous.

Arriving in Ravka by train was an experience Cecily wasn’t used to.

Her father’s diesel monstrosity pulled in at the central station inside Os Alta’s modern expansion sometime after the 10th morning bell. Cecily found herself being swept through crowds of passengers and tourists by two well-dressed army soldiers. Her trunks and bags weren’t torn apart for illicit items, instead gently inspected by two purple clad fellows that she knew were Grisha who were able to meld materials and chemicals. Refugees from the expanses of Ravka dealing with some sort of blight crowded the cow-pens, snarling at the customs officials about what the king was doing to address these issues. Cecily struggled to not clap her hands over her ears as the noise reached a deafening pitch.

“Your papers were pre-cleared, Moya Tsarevna, ” One of the soldiers murmured as he lifted a velvet cord and passed her off to his partner, who brought Cecily through a wooden side door. Quiet murmurs followed in her footsteps as the general Ravkans cast words over their new queen’s attire and hesitancy. Cecily turned to look back at them, noting the gold-work and architecture of a station built on the blind hopes of the Sun Summoner tearing down the Fold. The waiting refugees noted her in more detail, seeing the stag emblems on her coat and the armband at her arm. Some crossed themselves and murmured the royal prayer of Ravka, while others made signs of warding.

She was a pariah and a Queen in one moment. How the tables turned.

“W-what’s he like?” Cecily asked as she was nudged into a motor-car. The taller of the two soldiers, wearing a uniform more ornate than the other, asked;

“Who?”

“His Majesty, The Tsar.”

“Ah.” The man’s eyes glittered. “Eccentric. But, I sense you’ll be a good match.”

Cecily’s stomach twisted into knots as the car lurched forward in a cloud of blue smoke and roared through the streets. Cars hadn’t come fully to Ravka yet, and as such many peasants and nobles alike preferred horse and carriages as transport and conveyance.

“The capital is set to get trams by the new year. See, Moya Tsarevna .”

“Really?” Cecily breathed, craning her head. Her hat, affixed with a simple peacock feather and tilted brim, was clamped tight in her hand. She didn’t want it to blow off, and muss up her hair. She leaned out of the car and noted the cobbled streets that were being laid with tram-track. Her eyes widened in joy and delight at the blatant communist hammer and sickle draped from an apartment building and she looked out again for any signs of fascism.

She finally remembered the officer’s name at last - Dominik Vertov, and turned to him, asking innocently: “Has fascism made its way to Ravka?”

“Not before you, your highness.”

Cecily’s lips thinned and her hand slipped to the silver boar pin on her lapel. Of course. She wasn’t here just for marriage or to escape. Fascism had to spread to the people in order for this to work. But Nikolai must’ve had to know of her dissidence…

Unless he too harbored ideas of fascism? That thought made her shudder with barely contained fear. Returning her gaze to the window, Cecily watched walls of white stone rise up around them. They clattered through a former portcullis, over a stone bridge of the same dazzling white, and entered a whole different world. Where the outer ring of the city was similar to many of the villages her train had passed through, this was a city of well-paved streets, gardens and parks. Fountains gushing clean water marked central squares and she could see the signs and advertisements of department stores in the corner of her eye. No telephone poles reached skywards, nor telegraph lines, and she saw many homes with quiet mews behind their houses to store cars and buggies.

“The palace gates are just ahead.”

“Is this a Vauban construction?” Cecily craned her head up to regard the walls of this older city, noting the structure and almost star-like shape of the outer wall. Dominik’s gaze slid to the driver, who blinked in welcome surprise.

“Yes, Moya Tsarevna. It was constructed sometime in the late 17th century, before Vauban died.”

“He came this far east? Remarkable.” Cecily adjusted her cape’s collar. At her side, Lehzen squeezed her hand forcefully. Cecily smoothed over a yelp of pain and shot her governess a dark glare. She had been behind Cecily since they’d stepped off the train. She had no idea where her two friends from Berlin had gone. “I thought you were supposed to stay in London.” She murmured softly. Lehzen’s eyes glittered as she leaned forward and tapped Cecily’s chin with a clawed finger. Forget the dragon of a nursery story - Lehzen was a Goliath creature that would drag Cecily-Anne kicking and screaming into this Fascist idealization of a wedding. What was worst of all, however, awaited her in her trunks.

Staring down at the black uniform, Cecily bit back nausea. At her side, the two people she’d made the stop in Berlin to collect regarded the uniform with varying levels of disgust and horror. The man at her left lit a cigarette and tugged it from his lips. The woman to her right knelt before the trunk and fidgeted with the birch-wood edging.

“Did… you pack this?”

“No.” Cecily shook her head. “I didn’t ask for this. It’s…” She sighed and pinched her nose-bridge, causing her glasses to fall to the floor with a clatter . The man bent down to pick them up and Cecily smiled.

“Thank you, Gereon.” She murmured, wishing for the ability to speak German with no one able to understand them. Yet, Lehzen did, and her maids that she’d brought for Cecily did too. Gereon gave her a half smile, and returned to smoking his cigarette. At Cecily’s side, the woman - Charlotte - lifted the uniform from the trunk between her thumb and forefinger.

“Well.” She examined the jacket and the skirt, noting the collar points on the jacket. Disgust marred her face. If any of them had their way, this would be kindling in the fireplace. Cecily longed to throw it there, but she knew exactly what would happen if Lehzen found out. Her back hurt enough already. More wounds would only worsen the mess that this was.

She examined herself in the mirror as Charlotte held up the offensive uniform. She’d worn the armband before, and hated it. Yet, this… this was different. The symbol wasn’t the flash. It wasn’t blue on white.

It was black on a white circle.

There was no lightning bolt, no reassurance of the monstrous that she wore was familiar. Fear curdled her tongue. Looking at Gereon, she whipped off her glasses and pressed her palms to her stinging eyes. She wavered on her feet for a moment, then almost pitched sideways.

Charlotte’s hand to her arm caught her. Cecily fell against the taller woman, sobbing. “I-I-” She breathed. “I can’t do this.” She wept. “I can’t meet him wearing that ! He’ll think I'm a monster, already corrupted.” Hysteria crept into her voice and she pressed her streaming eyes against Charlotte’s shoulder blade.

“Or not.” Gereon reminded. “He has been writing to you since you were children.” He lifted her face and wiped her streaming eyes with a tissue. “I’m certain that he knows deep down, instinctively, that you wear a monster’s pelt because not out of following orders or some other benign, innate excuse to uphold the status quo.” He paused to give the armband a dirty, rage-filled look.

“But because you, until now, have been offered no other choice .”

“No other choice?” She breathed.

“You were twenty-one when your father took the throne, yes?”

“Yes.” Cecily hiccuped as Charlotte fed her sips of tea from a crystal glass. “It was a few months after you and I met.” She turned her head to let Charlotte wipe her eyes more clearly, and stared at herself in the mirror.

“Why does the flash not invoke the same response?”

“I believe you know why.” Charlotte murmured. Cecily nodded mutely. Of course she knew why . The fact it had been the symbol of English Fascism after the white rose was derided by her father wasn’t lost on her. She’d grown used to the symbol slowly. Like being boiled alive in a cooking pot as if she was some sort of amphibious creature. Too hot, and the panic would set in. A slow boil, and she would be dead before she could even scream.

It had taken her mother, her grandmother, and her siblings. She was the last surviving woman in her family, the last child of her father’s lineage.

And by that record, if she died, the female Plantagenet line died with her. So, she once more tempered the rage that roared within her to become banked coals, and steered herself to be dressed. The uniform was laid at the foot of her bed and she watched out of the corner of her eye as Gereon and Charlotte beat a hasty retreat. Lehzen and her ladies came in from the dressing room mere moments later.

“Now then.” Lehzen clapped her hands together. “Let’s get this over with.”

Loyalty binds me . Cecily thought numbly as she cast her gaze to the massive gold double-headed Eagle of Ravka that stood over the fireplace. She examined its claws, which held three arrows in one claw and the Tsar’s mace in the other. She wondered if the arrows being tied with the three ribbons of the Grisha orders meant anything.

I am the monster. The monster is me .

I have brought Ravka’s darkness upon us.

Cecily did not open her eyes as Lehzen and her maids dressed her. She felt her hair being lifted from the nape of her neck to be crimped and waved. The sharp stink of aerosol spray hit her nose and she winced. A smack to her face stilled her. Her eyes popped open. Between the gaggle of liveried servants and Lehzen’s sharp face, Cecily caught sight of a ginger-haired woman pacing the expanse of her sitting room.

“W-who’s that?” She coughed.

Lehzen froze dead. Her face turned the color of spoiled milk, and she looked at the head maid in wide-eyed fear. Speaking rapidly in German, she hastened to the other maids. “Who let her in?”

“I did.” A voice rang out, distinctly masculine.

Cecily’s eyes, which she’d squeezed shut again, popped open. Standing in the doorway to her sitting room was none other than Nikolai Lantsov. He wore a simple black linen shirt and a richly embroidered waistcoat that hugged his waist nicely. His legs were clad in black velvet breeches embroidered with fire-lilies that flowed up the sides. He didn’t wear any stockings, allowing his calves to show off nicely in the summer warmth, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his elbows. Standing where he was with his hands pushing the doors of her room open, anyone would have swooned dead away.

Cecily merely grimaced.

She allowed Lehzen to button up the blasted coat and to stick her feet into a pair of jackboots. She couldn’t look him in the eye as the maid tightened the armband around her arm. Yet, she saw the way Nikolai’s jaw locked and his eyes smoldered with rage.

“Please, leave.” Cecily ordered the maids and Lehzen, who gave her a dark glare. However, amazingly, she assented . Cecily watched Lehzen reach for her sewing kit and sweep the maids out. As soon as the pocket doors had snapped shut, Cecily tugged the armband off, and kicked off the jackboots.

Gereon’s words swam in her mind.

Until now, You have been offered no other choice.

Looking him finally in the eye, Cecily calculated the mental load that seeing his betrothed wearing the uniform of the national socialists would cause. Nikolai’s eyes narrowed as he watched her throw the armband across the room, and his face cracked just enough for a smile.

“I had a suspicion that the portrait of you with your father wasn’t all you.” He murmured. Cecily’s eyes widened in welcome, if somewhat shocked surprise. He suspected beyond mere imagery? She was going to faint if he continued down this line of flattery that would have her no doubt throwing the engagement ring at his feet.

“Who is that with you?” She asked as she cleared her throat to distract him from the rising blush on her cheeks. She leaned slightly to catch sight of the ginger-haired woman, wondering briefly if it was the Tailor Genya Safin or someone of the palace servants. Her gaze however, did not deceive her with created lies. As Nikolai stepped aside, Cecily found herself face to face with an almost mirror image of herself, yet with ginger hair instead of inky black, and emerald eyes instead of blue. Her face was set the same as Cecily’s, with the same small lips and fragile features, though the woman’s eyes burned with the same fire of small-sized righteousness.

“Cecily?” The woman whispered. “Cecily-Anne?” She came forward with the hesitant steps of one unsure of herself, and fell still at Cecily’s wide-eyed glance. Some part of her burned with angry tears, for it recognized the woman ‘ere her. That recognition was wrong , of someone she had not seen since her 5th nameday, a woman and name cursed never to be spoken or seen of again. She briefly remembered the sight of images of the woman before her being put to the torch, and her father’s tears over such a crime. But, then came the rewritings of love ballads containing her name, and even whole histories. “Anne Neville.” Cecily breathed wordlessly. “Mama.” The word slid from her lips without any attempts to check herself, and she startled at the sound. She’d not once cried for her mother since she had been five. Now… she was faced with the sight of her, clad in this monstrosity of cloth.

“My sweet, darling girl.” Anne reached up to touch Cecily’s face and Cecily jerked back, frightened. What was this all meaning? Had Nikolai captured her mother as a bargaining chip to ensure her marriage, had she hurt her? Had he gotten her grandmother as well? Had he tortured them? Hurt them in any way?

“Y-you monster!” She screamed, light crackling across her flesh like a whip-crack. She lurched forward, intent on doing anything, something to the Tsar. Maybe ripping his eyes out? Yes . Tear those pretty eyes from his skull and run him through with your knife . The monstrous voice within her chorused, baying for blood. The light within her surged and she rushed Nikolai, her hands locking around his throat, when the light within her exploded out in a blinding flash , and suddenly all went black. Looking down into his face, her fingers so close to the pupils she could see them dilate, her eyes widened as his eyes bloomed black , and his teeth sharpened to become jagged shadows.

What in the hell am I getting myself into? She thought hopelessly as the light exploded out of her a second time, and sent her flying through the air. She hit the ceiling with a sickening crunch , and fell back to the floor. Inky darkness swooped in on her, cradling her form with tender fingers, and she gave in easily. The pain of it all was simply too much to handle.

Distantly, she was conscious of two things - the first being that her mother was alive, and the second being that Nikolai was not all he seemed.

End of Chapter 3.

#wyn rambles #nikolai lantsov #shadow and bone #richard iii #aneurin barnard #fic: Ruleth england under a hogge #tw fascism #tw eugenics #cw eugenics #cw abelism #tw assault

3 notes · View notes