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coco-loco-nut · 6 months ago

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The Hard Launch

pairing: george russelll x reader

summary: what’s the point of dating a model if you can’t show her off?

a/n: i am so so sorry it took this long to fulfill the request. i’ve been working around 60 hours a week between two jobs so it hasn’t left much time for anything else :(

masterlist

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You watched qualifying from the Paddock Club with your mom. Being the daughter of a supermodel, and a supermodel yourself, brought that perk, and a reason to visit your boyfriend at his job.

“Yes, Georgie! He did it!” You gasp, grasping your mom’s arm in excitement.

“Should we go visit Mercedes then?” She asks with happy smile. You have had a few failed high profile relationships before, and your mom can tell how seriously you are taking this one. It’s different, George is everything to you, and he knows the bad PR you get for being a nepo baby already, so he suggested you keep the relationship to yourself for a while.

“Y/n! Over here,” some photographer yells as you walk with your mom. You ignore the calls for you to look at cameras as you make your way into the paddock. You waited for the mandatory media to be over, talking with other celebrity guests.

As soon as you step into the Mercedes motorhome, you are enveloped in a pair of arms, holding you close. You are happy your mom chose to explore the paddock, leaving you a bit of privacy.

“Hi Georgie,” your grin is hidden in his shoulder as you hug him tightly. “I’m so proud of you, you drove so well.”

“Be ready for me to pick you up at 7, we are going to dinner,” George says and you pull back a bit in shock, the wide smile still on your face.

“Are you serious? Of course, anything for my pole sitter,” you are elated at the idea of going on a public date with him.

“It’s about time I show off my fabulous girl. I have to go into a team meeting, but be ready, okay?” George cups you face, leaning in for a quick kiss.

“I can’t wait. Have fun in your meeting,” you lean in for another kiss before leaving the motorhome. You eventually find your mom talking to Geri outside of Red Bull.

“Did you have fun?” She gives you an amused look as you approach.

“We are going for dinner tonight to celebrate,” you look a little lovestruck, utterly enamored by George.

“That’s a big step, congratulations,” Geri says, knowing what a simple dinner means for high profile relationships.

“Thank you,” your grin has barely left your face since George got pole.

The time feels like it is dragging as you pick out the perfect outfit, and touch up your hair and makeup. The waiting is the worst, you are so excited, like it’s a first date. In a way, it is a first date.

You rush down the stairs of your London home as the doorbell rings, opening the door to George holding flowers.

“You look gorgeous,” he smiles, leaning in to kiss your cheek as you take the flowers.

“You clean up quite well too,” George follows you inside as you search for a vase to put them in.

Soon enough, George is handing his keys to a valet and offering his hand to you as you step out of his car.

“This feels nice,” you squeeze his hand, looking up at him with a smile.

“It’s nice to be able to properly show you off. Let everyone know how much I love you,” he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips.

“You are making a strong case for more celebrations after dinner,” you hum, walking with him to your table. Against the window, softly lit by candles and the low restaurant lighting, it’s the perfect romantic setting.

“Don’t tempt me to rush this,” George blushes a little. Both of you ignore the people on the other side of the window, surely taking pictures to sell to tabloids and gossip news.

A few minutes later, George’s phone starts buzzing with text messages. He choses to ignore it, but his inbox is blowing up.

“Check it, it’s not going to ruin the date,” you reassure him as he turns over the phone.

“Someone leaked photos of us, the guys are asking if it’s true we are dating,” George says with a small smile, amused at the reactions.

“Go ahead, tell them how long you’ve been in love with me,” you laugh as he shows you some of the texts, most from Alex.

“One year with the prettiest girl,” he looks at you lovingly, still making your heart flutter.

“A smooth talker and pole sitter? How did I get so lucky,” you reach across the table to hold his hand.

“I don’t know. Right place, right time, I guess,” George teases before pulling out his phone and snapping a picture of you.

“What was that for?” you ask curiously, noting the smile tugging at his lips.

“Just making sure everyone knows how much I love you,” he says before putting his phone back into his pocket.

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georgerussell63: p1 for one year with the most beautiful girl in the world ❤️ @y/username

#f1 imagines #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #george russell #george russell x reader #george russell imagines #george russell imagine

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greenorangevioletgrass · 10 months ago

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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!

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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

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bradleysass · 25 days ago

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ok so this is my original idea for the death prompt for @/black-brothers-microfic. But it expanded too far. Word Count: 2.1k - CW: Panic attack, death, blood

James remembers the three of them in Sirius’s car, speeding down the highway. The faint strains of Travis Scott’s “90210” played in the background, almost drowned out by their chatter. They were planning a trip down the coast the following week. Regulus had always dreamed of seeing the beach. Sirius, ever the free spirit, had been eager to feel the sand between his toes.

It never gets easier thinking about death. Especially if it’s about someone close to you. You imagine someone living a long life filled with adventure or simplicity. You never consider them dying before their dreams or wishes come true.

James learned this the hard way. The memory of that fateful day haunts him, like a ghost that follows him wherever he goes. The smells of burnt rubber and gasoline plague his senses, a vivid reminder of what he lost.

James, Regulus, and Sirius had been returning from a performance by the London Symphony Orchestra. Regulus loved violins; you could see him subtly mimicking the motions of the musicians during the performance. It was one of the many things James loved about him—the way he immersed himself so deeply in the things he cherished. Sirius, on the other hand, had fallen asleep halfway through the concert. Classical music wasn’t his thing, but his love for his younger brother was enough to get him there. His snores during intermission had drawn amused, and sometimes annoyed, glances from the crowd.

James’s thoughts jerk back to the present just in time to see a speeding car hurtling through a crosswalk. He sidesteps instinctively, muttering under his breath, “I may be depressed, but I don’t want to die. Damn people.”

The street is busy, but his mind wanders again.

The performance had ended, and the three of them stood outside the theater among a crowd of well-dressed patrons waiting for their valets. Luckily for them, Sirius had driven and parked a bit down the street, avoiding the chaos.

“Wasn’t that amazing? The way they weaved so much emotion into it,” Regulus had said, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. James had always adored that look, the spark of pure, untainted joy. It was a rarity in someone like Regulus, who’d lost so much of himself to the world’s cruelty.

Sirius had quipped, “Yeah, and one of those performers looked like they were bored to death.”

Regulus had smacked his brother on the shoulder, a soft laugh escaping his lips. James had smiled, watching the brothers bicker playfully.

But that evening…

It became a blur.

James can almost see it now: the brothers running along the shoreline, splashing water at each other like children. He imagines Regulus’s soft laugh as he drenched Sirius, who’d retaliate with mock indignation, hurling clumps of wet sand. But that image is nothing more than a false memory—a fantasy of something that will never be.

He steps into a coffee shop, the familiar chime of the doorbell grounding him momentarily. Remus is behind the counter, his barista apron slightly askew. James makes a beeline for him, knowing there’s a free cup of coffee waiting. Since the accident, Remus has insisted on it, though he often pairs the gesture with concerned remarks about James needing professional help. Today is no different.

“You can’t keep ignoring this,” Remus says, handing over the steaming cup.

James waves him off. The idea of therapy feels like a cruel joke. Instead, he retreats to a table in the back corner, seeking solitude.

As he sits, the memories rush back with cruel precision. One moment, they’re laughing, discussing beach plans. The next, a car slams into them. The impact is a jumbled mess in his mind, an incoherent nightmare. James remembers regaining consciousness slowly, his vision swimming as the smell of blood and gasoline filled the air.

Sirius’s face is the first thing he sees, streaked with blood, shards of glass embedded in his skin. Panic claws at James as he forces his battered body to move. He turns painfully, his broken arm screaming in protest, to see Regulus slumped in the back seat. His velvety black hair is soaked with blood.

James’s breaths come in shallow gasps as he tries to free himself from the seatbelt cutting into his chest. He fumbles with the latch, his hands shaking uncontrollably, and finally manages to release it. He turns his focus to Sirius, gently slapping his face in a desperate attempt to wake him. There’s no response.

“Sirius, please,” James whispers, his voice breaking. He turns to Regulus, trying to rouse him, but it’s no use. The song playing on the radio, “90210,” skips and glitches, repeating the line, “Baby is hooked on feeling low.”

That line stays with James. It’s like a cruel mantra, echoing in his mind when he’s alone.

James grips his coffee cup tightly, staring blankly at the table. The memory is a wound that refuses to heal. He’s alive, but the weight of that night makes him feel like he’s only half a person. The ghosts of Sirius and Regulus haunt him, their laughter and dreams now nothing more than echoes in his mind.

A loud squeak pierces his thoughts. James glances up sharply to see Remus dragging a chair from another table, settling across from him.

The soft strains of "Heartbeats" by Aron Wright play through the coffee shop speakers. The melody stirs something deep within James, and silent tears slip down his cheeks before he can stop them. He doesn’t bother wiping them away.

“Remus...” James’s voice cracks. “I miss them every day.”

“Hanging by a thread Waiting for a hand to pull me up Falling down instead Nowhere left to land,”

The song croons softly, each word piercing James’s already fragile heart.

Remus reaches across the table, his hand warm and steady as it covers James’s trembling one. “James, it’s okay to feel this way. You just need someone to talk to... You can’t deal with this grief alone.”

James scoffs, a bitter, hitching laugh escaping him. “I don’t need therapy, Moony. I just need coffee and to be left alone.” He pulls his hand away, the gesture sharp and dismissive.

Remus’s eyes cloud with disbelief, but he doesn’t press further. Instead, he leans back in his chair, his presence a silent reassurance. He doesn’t leave James alone, even though the latter clearly wants solitude. The two sit in silence, the only sounds the soft music and the hum of the coffee shop around them.

But in the silence, James’s mind betrays him again. He’s back in the car, the scene replaying in vivid, brutal detail. He remembers the adrenaline surging through him as he limped out of the wreckage, his leg dragging awkwardly behind him though he hadn’t yet realized it was broken. His limp, broken arm hung uselessly by his side as he staggered to Regulus’s door.

“Please,” James had whispered hoarsely, his fingers scrabbling at the handle. “Please, God, let him be okay. He’s my everything... he’s only seventeen...”

It took every ounce of strength he had to pry the door open. His eyes scanned Regulus for injuries, desperate to take stock. Shards of glass jutted from Regulus’s arm, and a thin trickle of blood escaped from his mouth. The sight made James’s stomach churn, but he swallowed his panic, forcing himself to remain calm. He reached out with trembling fingers, brushing against Regulus’s arm, then his cheek.

His heart dropped.

Regulus’s skin was cold.

“No,” James whispered, shaking his head as tears stung his eyes. “No, no, no...” He stifled a sob, biting down hard on his lip to keep his composure. He fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking as he dialed 911. The operator’s voice was distant, muffled by the sound of his own frantic breathing and the blood pounding in his ears.

James’s gaze darted back and forth between Regulus and Sirius, his mind racing with panic. He couldn’t lose them both. He clutched the phone to his ear, barking out their location to the operator while his free hand reached to check Regulus’s pulse. It was faint—so faint he wondered if he was imagining it. A flicker of hope sparked in his chest, but it was accompanied by overwhelming dread.

As the sound of distant sirens grew louder, James tried to stay focused. “Hang on,” he whispered to both of them, his voice cracking. “Help’s coming.” But deep down, he felt the crushing weight of helplessness.

The memory dissipates, leaving James staring at the now-empty coffee cup in front of him. His hands tremble slightly as he tries to steady his breathing. Remus is still there, his quiet presence a lifeline James isn’t ready to acknowledge.

As Remus’s break ends, he stands up and gives James a small wave, his gaze lingering with quiet concern. “I’ll be at the counter if you need anything,” he says softly, his tone gentle but firm.

James nods vaguely, his focus turning inward. For a fleeting moment, he feels as though he’s regaining control. He steadies his breathing, grounding himself with the warmth of the coffee cup between his hands.

But then, as if the universe conspired against him, the soft opening chords of “90210” filter through the coffee shop speakers. The sound triggers an immediate, visceral reaction in James. His chest tightens, his breath becomes shallow, and flashes of that harrowing night flood his mind.

The fluorescent lights of a hospital room blind his mental vision. He sees doctors rushing around, shouting terms he doesn’t understand. The sterile, metallic scent of blood and antiseptic fills his nostrils. He can hear the beeping of machines—machines that couldn’t save Sirius, machines that couldn’t save Regulus. The scene plays in fragments, each one more unbearable than the last: the look of grim determination on the doctors’ faces, the lifeless pallor of Regulus’s skin, the moment the sound of the heart monitor flatlining echoes in the room.

James clutches at his chest, trying to suppress the panic clawing its way through him. His vision blurs, and the coffee shop around him seems to tilt and spin. He’s suffocating, drowning in memories he can’t escape.

Through the haze, a figure moves toward him. It’s like slow motion—the sound of footsteps muffled, the hum of the coffee shop fading into the background. Remus is there again, crouching down beside James, his face etched with worry.

“James,” Remus says firmly, his hands reaching out to gently steady James’s trembling ones. “James, look at me. Breathe.”

James tries to focus on him, but the flashes keep coming. “I—” he stammers, his voice breaking. “I can’t— Remus, they’re gone, and I couldn’t— I couldn’t save them.”

Remus shakes his head, his grip firm but comforting. “James, listen to me. You’re here. You’re safe. Just take a deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, with me.”

James squeezes his eyes shut, tears streaming freely down his face now. He mimics Remus’s breathing, shaky at first, but gradually the tightness in his chest begins to loosen. The vivid memories recede slightly, leaving a raw ache in their place.

The song continues to play softly in the background, its lyrics slicing through the air like a cruel reminder. James hiccups a sob, burying his face in his hands. “I can still hear it,” he whispers. “That stupid song. It was playing when—when it happened.”

Remus doesn’t respond immediately. He just stays there, grounded and unwavering, his presence a steady anchor in James’s turbulent sea of grief. After a moment, he moves to sit beside James in the booth, their shoulders just barely touching.

“You don’t have to face this alone,” Remus says quietly. His voice is steady, but there’s a hint of emotion breaking through. “I know it feels impossible right now, but we’ll get through this. Together.”

James doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t pull away either. For now, that’s enough.

The song fades into the next track, and the world slowly comes back into focus. The other patrons in the coffee shop seem oblivious to the storm that just passed. James exhales shakily, leaning back against the seat, his body still trembling slightly.

Remus places a gentle hand on James’s shoulder before standing up. “I’ll be right here if you need me,” he says, nodding toward the counter. “Take your time.”

As Remus walks away, James watches him go, his breathing now steadier. He’s still broken, still haunted by the ghosts of that night, but in this moment, he feels a glimmer of something he hasn’t felt in a long time: the faintest flicker of hope.

@leeny-leens

#marauders #jegulus #starchaser #sunseeker #sunwater #james potter #regulus black #remus lupin #sirius black #microfic #more like fanfic #whatevs #fanfic

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eleanor-bradstreet · 2 years ago

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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

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indigosunsetao3 · 28 days ago

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Happy New Year, John Price

New Years Story Single Dad John Price x Reader Reader is female New Years fluff

Happy New Year!💙 This story idea has now transpired into a potential holiday story in general. Every holiday has a chapter, but they come out around the holiday in question. The relationship progresses as any relationship would over the passage of time, so you'll get snippets of where they are at, say, Valentine's Day, Easter, Father's Day, etc. All the way back around to Christmas a year later.

When was the last time you went out for New Year's Eve? Let alone dress up?

Years. That's the answer. A typical New Year for you was spent either in your own flat on the couch or at a family member's house on their couch. Trying to fight the crowds to stand in the cold and usually rainy evening was not your idea of fun. Then, the mess of trying to get home was even worse, and it took another two days to try and recover.

Yet, here you are. Standing near the door, staring at yourself in the mirror to make sure everything looks okay. The restaurant John invited you to for the evening is the epitome of elegance. You had only seen it in passing when you ventured into that area of London but knew its reputation nevertheless. The online reviews you had scoured had done enough to make the nerves ten times worse when trying to find an outfit that would fit.

Prepping to get ready had started hours ago. A long 'everything shower,' as they called it, morphed into every other self-care thing you could think of. Then, the original outfit you picked wasn't good enough, so your whole closet ended up on the bed. And the bathroom counter was a disaster you opted to clean up the next day.

As you lean forward to assess your lipstick one last time, there's a small knock on the door. John is right on time. You take a shakey breath, hesitating for a few seconds to open the door so he doesn't know you are standing right there.

"Evening," John says with a smile standing there. You see him do his best to keep his eyes on your face, but you catch the quick sweep he does. "Ready to go?"

"Evening," you answer, doing your best to keep your eyes in check as well. He cleans up well. Almost too well. The suit is clearly tailored to fit him perfectly, and his wool knee length jacket looks like it was custom made to his body as well. "Ready. When did you get home?"

Since Christmas morning, you have not actually seen much of John. You had slipped back into your flat while he and his daughter enjoyed going out in the snow on Christmas. The following afternoon, they had left, presumably to go to her mother's house, and he had been gone until now. The only way you had spoken had been a few texts back and forth confirming the date, the time, and when he wasn't out of the country, some sweet good morning and asking about your day messages.

"Few hours ago," John replies as he opens the passenger side door for you and shuts it gently before going around to his side. He had already been out and warmed up the car, the interior toasty compared to the bitter cold you had just walked through. Hopefully, the walk to the restaurant wouldn't be long, or you knew you'd regret the dress. "Landed in Heathrow this morning, and believe it or not, it's warmer here than where I had been," he answers with a small grin. He hadn't told you where he had been deployed to, and you didn't push, but secretly, you wondered where it could be colder than it was now. Antarctica?

Downtown London was a nightmare to navigate in the holiday traffic. Where it would have stressed you out, John seems perfectly at ease. Slipping in and out between cars and turning down streets for shortcuts without needing a GPS. All the while keeping up the casual conversation and never once grinding the gears as he shifted.

At the valet you step out as John speaks with the man before coming to your side to offer his elbow. Even in your dress and heels, and John looking as good as he did for your date, you feel out of place as you step inside. The restaurant is quiet, calm, and refined compared to the whipping wind and revelers out on the street. It's also packed with people who looked as if they stepped right out of the movies with how sophisticated they all were.

"Price," John says to the maître d as he steps up to the podium. "Reservation for two."

The man glances at you before going to his list and you watch his eyes flare with shock for a second as he finds John's name.

"If you'd like to leave your coats and follow me," he states as someone helps you out of yours and gives John the return ticket.

John follows behind you on the way to the table, winding through the restaurant until you are right in the middle of the large picture window. It was a prime table for two, and as the man removes the reserved placard and John pulls your seat out for you, it sinks in just where you're sat. Right on the river with a beautiful view of the city.

"How did you manage this?" You ask quietly as the man steps away after handing you the prefix menu. "Surely this place books out weeks, if not months, in advance. Unless you had another date that bailed," you joke, though your stomach churns a bit with uncertainty at that thought.

"I have contacts," John answers with a teasing grin. "Sometimes my job pays off in more ways than one."

"Is one of them the Queen? Because I think that's the only way-" you start as the waitress appears to take your drink orders.

"Not knighted yet," John answers with a wink as the woman leaves. At the still incredulous look you give him, he continues, "I know the owner. The Picadilly incident," and when your face shifts in recognition, "I was there, managed to save him from a bomber."

"Oh," you shift a little uncomfortably. You, of course, knew what happened but luckily were not around, but you didn't know that John had been there. He seemed to think the less people knew about his job, the better; the most you knew was he was a Captain in the military and kept it at that. "Well, lucky for him and everyone else," you give him a small smile. "That was a disaster. I helped with some relief efforts."

John doesn't answer, and the conversation shifts to a lighter note as the waitress returns with drinks. Despite every table being full, the restaurant is still a hushed silence. It makes for easy conversation, and after a few glasses of wine for each of you and a fantastic meal, John subtly checks his watch.

"Ready?" He asks as he signs off on the bill, careful to keep it from your view, though you don't try to look too hard. You instead busy yourself with watching as the street lights start to dim and see the shift in the atmosphere. It wouldn't be long before Big Ben rang in the new year and fireworks started.

"Oh, yes, probably best to get out of here before everyone else tries to leave," you agree, though a bit disappointed about missing the show, as John tucks a few large bills under his receipt and offers his arm. He doesn't reply, but you can see the small upturn of his lips as he leads you toward the back of the restaurant.

"Isn't the exit," you start as you turn your head toward the front, "that way?"

"Is it?" John inquiries as the coat checker appears at a set of stairs in the back and hands you your coats.

"I...Yes?" You reply, a bit confused, as John helps you into yours before gesturing for you to lead the way up. "Where are we going?"

"You didn't think I was going to take you out for New Year's in downtown London just to go home before the celebration starts, did you?" John finally asks after an endless loop of stairs.

"Dinner was plenty. I'm usually in bed before it all," you stop as the cold air hits your face when the door to the rooftop opens.

There are a few other couples up on the roof, but it's limited and even more exclusive than downstairs. You twist to look at John as he leads you with a hand on your lower back to the iron railing. The spot has the perfect view of downtown London above all the buildings. The winding river, the dimmed lights, and the center of the show, the London Eye and Big Ben.

"This was really the main event," John confesses as a waiter dressed in a thick coat and gloves hands him two flutes of champagne. "Dinner was just...the preshow," he states as he hands you yours.

"John this is," you pause as he slips next to you, tucking you into his side for warmth as his hand grabs the railing. "I mean, if wrapping gifts was all it took for something like this, I wish you would have come to me a year or two ago."

"It's more than that. I'd been looking for an in for a while, and it seems fate finally stepped in," he answers before gesturing with his hand toward the focus of the evening.

You can faintly hear voices starting their countdown, but as they get closer to zero, the voices grow louder. Other couples join you at the rail, and John pulls you a bit closer. You grin, readying your glass to clink with John's as he raises his own.

"I never thought I'd be this grateful for snow," you respond as everyone counting hits zero.

"Me either," John replies with a soft smile, letting you finish your sip of drink before leaning down for a gentle kiss.

As you return it, among the loud cheering and fireworks, you feel the buzz of his cell phone in his breast pocket. A phone call. As he lingers, letting you catch his lips a few more times with yours, he pulls his phone out and smiles a bit.

"Emily?" You inquire as he gazes at the photo on the screen. "Go on," you say with a smile, "I'll still be here."

And leaning against him, you watch the show, vaguely listening to his conversation with his daughter. To everyone's surprise, it seems, she managed to stay up, and the first thing she wanted to do was call her father to wish him a happy new year. The conversation is relatively short, and after John promises to send her pictures in the morning, he hangs up.

"If this was our first date you have set some high expectations," you add, tilting your head up to look back at him after almost ten minutes of fireworks.

"Are you saying you're willing to go on a second?" He asks with a small eyebrow raise as people begin to disperse around you to get in from the cold.

"If you're willing to ask," you answer. "I don't think I'd say no."

"Happy New Year," John whispers against your lips before giving you a less chaste kiss.

"Happy New Year, John," you reply back with a soft sigh.

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Christmas can be found here.

#call of duty #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cod #john price #captain john price #john price cod #single dad john price #single dad price #john price x reader #x reader #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #new years #new years fic #call of duty new years #new years fluff #holiday fic #my fic

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priincebutt · 11 months ago

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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

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splashanddrip · 2 years ago

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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.

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ecoverdevaletingco · 1 month ago

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How Car Paint Correction in London Enhances Your Vehicle’s Value

Navigating London’s streets often leaves cars with scratches, grime, and faded paint. Thankfully, car paint correction in London services are here to help. These specialized treatments eliminate imperfections, giving your car a showroom-quality finish that lasts.

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splashanddrip002 · 1 year ago

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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

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beyondjustservice · 11 months ago

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Mobile Car Wash & Valeting Services

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whiskey-tango-matcha · 2 years ago

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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

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