#Heathrow Express | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

repulsiveliquidation · 1 year ago

Text

The White Suit || Jill Roord

based on that suit. good lord. save me. lock me up. anyway, it's just smut lol

warnings : mommy kink, swearing, aftercare, strap-on's, vibrators, oral sex.

“Lieveling, you really can’t make it?”

“I’m stuck in the airport, my love. My flight got canceled and there aren’t any flights to Heathrow till tomorrow.”

“I really wanted you to be here,” Jill says to you sadly.

“Me too baby, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you when I get there tomorrow okay?”

Jill hangs up with tears in her eyes. It’s her first game back since her ACL injury and you had promised to be there to watch her take her place back on the pitch. She steps off the team bus in her suit and sulks the whole warmup, the rest of the girls feel bad for her when she tells them you couldn’t make it.

Little did she know that you managed to get a seat on the next flight out of Spain where you were. You still missed the game but hid out in her room after texting Leila to delay Jill and steal her spare key to get you into her room.

You changed quickly, Leila managing to drag Jill for some coffee before coming back to the hotel to give you some time to get ready. You pulled on a light blue lingerie set that was reminiscent of the Man City blue, thigh-highs pulled up nice and taut secured to your bottoms. Your harness lay waiting on the bed, an acceptable array of straps right beside it.

Your hair fell perfectly around your shoulders, skin soft and supple with every move you made. A light pink lipstick perfectly lathered on your lips. An aromatherapy machine gently spews lavender-scented mist, permeating the room. You smiled, towel laid out on the bed right in the middle ready for your night of celebrations.

Leila texted you that they were in the elevator up so you sat on the bed with your legs crossed waiting for Jill to walk in. You were a little nervous and there were butterflies in your stomach, hoping that Jill would be surprised and not upset.

“Leila, stop being so touchy I’m not going to leave this room till she comes tomorrow–baby?” Jill says in surprise, standing in the doorway in shock. Leila and Laia grin and cheer as they walk to their room, cackling away as Jill stutters.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see my baby,” you tell her and stand, sauntering over to her. She shuts the door behind her and drops her gear bag, her white suit a little crumpled on her shoulder. You tsk and stand in front of her a little too close to smooth out the wrinkles.

She stands with her jaw dropped and you close it for her, looking up at her beautiful eyes that slowly begin to gloss over. You fiddle with her lapels and smooth out the rest of the creases from her jacket, pressing your lips right on the collar of her jacket leaving a perfect lip stain.

Jill’s knees visibly buckle and she catches herself, muttering incoherently her apologies. You smile softly and cup her face, tilting your head in for a kiss. She meets you halfway and you smile into the kiss, her lips soft with a hint of coffee and caramel.

Jill moans when your tongue swipes her bottom lip and you slip your tongue into her mouth, exploring and dominating her tongue. You wrap your arms around her neck and pull her towards the bed, before fisting her lapels that were perfectly tailored for Jill.

You pull away and admire her outfit, her slightly damp hair draped perfectly on her shoulders and you gently adjust her necklaces and she whines, reaching to take her jacket off.

You tut and she looks down at you again, eyes full of expressive features. You take her hand and guide her in front of the bed where your harness sits. You nudge your head for her to take it and she does, helping you step into it. She secures the sides and you smile, cooing at her gently.

Jill eyes the array of dildos that sit perfectly straight on the bed. She sees her favorite, one that’s too big, one that’s too small, and one that she’s never seen before.

“May I pick one, Mommy?” Jill asks obediently, fidgeting with her vest.

You stand behind her and caress her arms, chin resting on the Dutch’s shoulder.

“Yes, you may angel. You get to pick because you won that game today and look so pretty in that suit hm?”

Jill nods and you frown a little. She catches a glimpse of your face in the window across from her and immediately corrects herself.

“Thank you, Mommy.”

“Good girl, Jill,” you praise, walking around the bed and onto it. Jill drags her fingers over the toys and predictably picks her favorite one. She picks it up and hands it to you.

“This one please, Mommy,” she says quietly, eyes meeting yours. She’s dazed and a little lust-hungry, shoulders sagging and knees about to buckle again. You pity her and decide that that’s enough teasing and take her toy of choice to put on.

It clips in securely and you have her sitting on the edge of the bed. You kiss her neck gently and shrug her jacket off, throwing it over to the chair in the corner. Jill shudders at the sudden cold air on her exposed skin, goosebumps littering her skin. You climb off the bed and stand over her, fiddling with the buttons on her vest.

You undid each one slowly, getting down to your knees with every pop of a button. Jill was breathing a little heavier now, leaning back on her elbows as she understood your intentions.

Once her vest was off, her pants were not far behind. She smiled a little drunkenly as you pulled them off, nails raking over her strong thighs. Jill shuddered again and smiled, throwing her head back.

You smiled and watch her relax into the premium bedding, her bare ass tense against the 400 thread count linen. You caress her tired muscles and kiss up her thighs, her knees parting way for you. You grin up at her and see a light blush on her cheeks, eyes hooded a little as her pussy throbs achingly between her legs.

“Where do you want me, babygirl?” you ask teasingly, perfectly manicured nails running through her wet pussy. Jill whines and hides behind her forearm, nodding softly.

“Words, you useless whore.”

“Anywhere, everywhere, just touch me Mommy please!” Jill cries, eyes filling with tears as your fingers along her pussy tug her folds just a little.

You lean in and lick her up her slit gently, tongue a little warmer than her folds that were exposed to the colder room. She jerks but keeps her ass planted on the bed obediently as your tongue fondles her peeking clit.

Jill bites her lip hard, eyes screwed shut tight. A slender finger pushes into her and her knees fold up onto the bed to ease your access. She moans and cants her hips down onto your finger slowly before your palm rests on her hip as a warning. You stand and slide another finger into her pussy and hover over her, eyes dark and voice deep.

“One more move that I don’t fucking ask for, I stop and you go to bed with nothing, do you understand me?”

“Yes Mommy,” she whines out, nodding her head profusely.

Her ass never leaves the bed and you grin proudly down at her when you feel a rush of arousal coat your fingers inside her.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

“Yes Mommy, feels so good when you touch me,” she answers, feeling a third finger push in beside the other two. Jill throws her head back and whines while her hips can’t resist one more cheeky grind.

You stop your fingers right on her sweet spot, having just decided to reward her for being a good girl when you feel her hips move when you told her not to. Your fingers pull out of her pussy and you get off the bed. You pull her to the middle of the bed and smile, kissing down her chest. She shifts nervously and smiles back, unsure if she’s messed up or not.

You reach up and under the pillow, pulling out a vibrator. It’s turned on immediately and your hands pull her legs wide open, lips right beside her ears.

“I told you not to move, princess.”

The wand head is pressed to her clit and she barely has time to process the transition into her punishment. The rush of pleasure goes straight to her head and down to her toes. She struggles to find something to hold on to, the sheets taut as she grasps them and pulls them tight.

“You getting close, darling?” you taunt, wand pressed harder on her clit. Jill grips your wrist and whimpers, nodding hard.

“Please Mommy,” Jill begs beautifully, “Please let me come.”

“No.”

Jill’s thighs which have been flexed to force blood toward her core dissipate the moment you pull the wand away. She cries out your name and her eyes begin to water, her pleasure dropping back to zero.

“What did you do wrong, sweetheart?” you ask softly, kissing down her bare chest. You suck bright red hickeys all over her chest, her lips struggling to form a sentence.

“Moved when you didn’t allow me to,” she manages, tears falling down the side of her face. You suck on her breast gently, hand bringing the toy back towards her core. It barely touches a bit of flesh, the light vibrations driving her crazy.

“What must you say so you can come, baby?”

She answers much more composed this time.

“I’m sorry Mommy, won’t happen again.”

“Good girl,” you whisper to her, the vibrator pressed hard against her clit. Jill cries out your name again and tries her best to stay still, eyes screwed shut again. She bites her lip and slowly smiles deliriously, a sign that she’s close.

You pull the vibrator away and give her no time to argue when your cock slips right into her dripping pussy. Jill gasps and looks up at you in shock, thighs shaking as your thrusts are powerful and precise.

You press the vibrator into her palm as your hips never falter, hands pressing her thighs wide open.

“Be a good girl and don’t move that off your clit unless I say so.”

She does as you say, shaky hands pressing the vibrator right on her clit, and her expression changes. You press her legs wider and pound into her pussy hard, feeling the vibrations fizz out into your strap-on and lightly onto your clit.

“Faster Mommy, I’m so close please!”

You fuck into her faster and suck on her breasts gently, helping her hold the toy right on her clit. Jill swears she sees white when she comes, eyes rolling as far as they go into her head. She shudders and jerks as she comes, toe curled up tight.

“Fuck!” she screams as you keep railing her into the mattress, the first orgasm fizzling out and the second fast approaching. Jill chants your name like a mantra and her hands shake too much to hold the vibrator on her clit. You lean back and pound up right into her sweet spot, holding the vibrator right on her sensitive clit.

“One more for me, darling,” you coo, throwing your head back as your pleasure slowly rises too. “Think you can give me one more pretty orgasm sweetheart?”

“Yes Mommy, it’s yours!”

Jill concentrates on your movements, her lust-driven focus solely on you. She feels the tug in the back of her belly button, the buildup of pressure just in her core. A hand wrapped around her neck and squeezes, that was all the triggers she needed. She barely had time to warn you she was coming, the sheer power of her orgasm pushes you out as she squirts all over your lower half. You watch in amazement, her legs shaking like a leaf as you fondle her clit fast. You pull away just as she reaches her tipping point, eyes zoned in on you.

She can barely remember most of what happened next. She was in a warm bath and lots of bubbles within ten minutes, wrapped in your arms under the soft lights of her hotel room bathroom. You’re kissing her ear when she properly comes to, smacking her lips and blinking her eyes.

“Hello gorgeous,” you whisper, hands caressing her arms. She snuggles back into you, eyes closing as the smell of her favorite lavender Epsom salt fills the air. She feels your arms around her and the warm water helps her aching muscles, tilting her head back to kiss you.

You pull a hand out of the water and cup her face, kissing her earnestly as she gently turns into your arms. Jill pulls away and smiles, rough hands doing their own exploration under the bubbly water.

“Did you come earlier, love?” she asks in her slight Dutch and English accent, she frowns when you shake your head.

“I was close but I didn’t come.”

“That’s not good,” Jill states matter-of-factly. Her hands drag down your soapy thighs, the water making the glide extremely easy. You lean back and let her have her fun, feeling the Dutch’s fingers dance over your clit.

“Just relax, I’ve got you,” Jill reassures, smiling when she feels your muscles relax into the fragrant water more. She rubs tight circles over your clit and you feel yourself getting close already. She tilts your head up and presses her lips to yours hard, fingers rubbing your clit faster and faster. You moan into her mouth and grip the edges of the bath. The water spills a little but you couldn’t care less. Jill sneaks two fingers into you and you cry out her name, coming hard on her fingers.

Jill smiles and cups your face for a kiss, feeling you melt into her arms. She pulls away, grinning from ear to ear.

“I should tell management to get us more suits huh?”

#jill roord #jill roord smut #jill roord imagine #jill roord x reader #man city women #woso x reader #woso imagines #woso one shot #woso smut

471 notes · View notes

ohsohoney · 9 months ago

Text

When it comes to love you're just as blinded.

Part One

Eminem x Musician

Summary: It starts with a drunk embarrassing video, it spirals into something a whole lot more.

Note: Hey! First time writing for Em so I figured I'd use a side account and see how it went? Honestly this is a whole series in my mind so might add onto this first part soon! An oc character but can be read as a reader insert if you prefer:)

Set in 2014, just after the release of LP 2

Warnings: Lots of swearing, dark humour

Masterlist

I was mortified.

More so than I’d probably ever been, in truth. All because of a stupid video that had been taken a couple of years back when I’d had one drink too many on a holiday I’d always dreamt of.

To be fair though, the majority of the blame lied heavily on my younger sister’s shoulders, who’d found the stupid thing whilst reminiscing through old memories and thought it would be hilarious to post online. Forgetting about the millions of fans who would soon see it– and not just mine, it would seem.

No, because that just wasn’t how the internet worked, was it? And when a newly nominated artist, who had only been in the game for a couple years, was filmed rapping an old noughties classic instead of singing like expected, it was basically bound to go viral. Didn’t help that I was a Londoner through and through and had the accent to prove it, making the whole video that much harder to watch. In truth, I continued to cringe each time I was reminded of it, which was practically anytime I opened up social media or witnessed the guilty expression that continued to mar my sister’s face.

“Stop doing that.” I huffed at her later on when the worst of it still continued to storm on, almost whining actually as I looked away from my phone screen and down at the food I wasn’t really eating, just picking at. I was supposed to be mad, infuriated even, but it was proving to be a fucking chore when she kept on looking at me like that.

“Doing what?” Lottie retorted, not even attempting to wipe the culpable look from off of her face. She was currently residing back at mum’s now, seeing as how she had school and I’d only just landed back home, but I’d give it a day before she was back here again. My flight over had been strenuous, it always was when flying to and from Cali, but still I made time for her– even after the most recent stunt she had gone and pulled.

“Don’t do that either.”

I’d meant to sound scolding but the soft laugh that escaped me truly was accidental. I couldn’t quite help it, I knew that being mad at her wouldn’t solve anything now and that she hadn’t really meant any harm by posting the video. That was just the type of person she was, she acted before she thought things through and didn’t ever think much for the consequences. Then again, she was still only fourteen and her putting the drunken moment on her Instagram story had just been one of those sibling type moments, the kind where you’d rip the piss out of one another simply because you could.

“I mean it, Lotts.” I sighed around the words, eyes flitting back to the screen and the way she was chewing on her lower lip. “It’s being sorted and, I don't know, I guess it’ll die down sooner or later. Mila reckons so anyway. We’ll give it a day or two, hey?”

A day or two did pass. And no such thing happened.

I’d been cooped up at home ever since I’d touched down at Heathrow, having jumped in the first cab available and fallen asleep the second I’d gotten in through the door. I’d been working out in LA for a couple weeks with a few other writers, just messing about with new sounds and ideas for the next album I eventually wanted to release. So I hadn’t been witness to the media catastrophe Lottie had created until later the next afternoon when Mila, my manager, had all but mowed down my front door, having called my phone three dozen times and gotten a guy she was currently seeing in the city to come buzz my intercom. It had been a wake up call and a half to say the least.

Still, she had assumed it would all die down fairly quickly, went as far to say that it could do wonders for my career– even with me being visibly tipsy– after having had the absolute gall to say that I hadn’t sounded half as bad as I thought I did. I’d cackled hysterically into the phone at that, then had somewhat of a meltdown, in utter disbelief over the apparent reaction she claimed the video had gone and garnered. Because I was absolutely not looking. Knew that if I did there would be too large a chance that I’d check myself into the nearest psychiatric unit.

But as I said, a couple of days had passed and typically something like this would have eventually blown over when the next big story hit the headlines. White girl can spit a verse, who cared? Only then the VMA’s had happened and shit hit the fucking fan.

I hadn’t attended, shit like that had always irked me. I could perform in front of a crowd of thousands and step off feeling as high as a kite, but stick me on a carpet and force me to interact with cameras, questions, and people? That was where I drew the line.

At the start, I had tried. I’d been new on the scene and people had reasoned that I would just end up being another one hit wonder, so the label had figured it best if I got myself out there, if only to interact with other artists and producers in similar circles.

It had gone down a treat– like a cake being knocked over at the wedding of the year. Maybe even worse. I didn’t like to linger too long on it.

But I’d tried again and again afterwards, although it had only proven to worsen my mood each time and forced me to retreat, avoiding my team and the responsibilities I had lined up for a short while after. It was only following a particularly uncomfortable night that Mila had called it quits and had a contract drawn up stating that I only had to attend a certain amount of events a year. It had been at that moment that I’d realised just how fucked I would have been in this industry without her.

Even so, life still continued on without me and the VMA’s were just another show I would be mostly avoiding, only making a statement at the end of the night online for the nominations I’d been gifted.

It was around midnight when I heard the scream.

Lottie was staying with me, typical for whenever I was back in London for a few weeks at a time, and so I’d felt my heart literally drop to my feet at the very sound of her screech and legged it across the entirety of the house. At first, I’d thought she’d slipped and fallen, maybe cracked her head open on a counter. And then the thought of an intruder had crossed my mind whilst I’d gone skidding over the landing. So anyone could understand why I was so worked up when I finally threw open her bedroom door only to find her simply sat there on her phone, hand covering her mouth.

“What the hell is your problem? It’s just gone twelve, Lottie! I thought something had happened!” I rebuked her, chest heaving as I dropped the heavy bookend I’d managed to pick up somewhere on my way over down onto her desk. “Shit.”

Her eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them though when I finally did get around to catching my breath and chanced another glance back at her.

“I was literally just about to fall asleep.” Which really meant that I’d been getting into bed to scroll through my phone or read a book when I’d heard her shout. “Then you screamed as though Freddy Krueger was stood at your window.”

“Elia.”

I blinked, Lottie rarely did that, used my entire name and not the usual shortened version or whatever other epithet that came to mind– and truly, there was a large variety, the shit I’d heard this kid come out with was insane. But I shook my head at the thought and quirked a brow at her. “What? Did someone die?”

“No,” She answered me, dropping her hand away from her face even though her jaw was still gaping, “But I just might.”

Rolling my eyes at the theatrics, I exhaled and walked over to slump on the end of her bed, figuring that something had happened between her and one of her friends, or maybe some lad she might’ve been speaking to. “And it deserved a scream like that? Honestly Lotts, just be thankful this place doesn’t have any neighbours listening in through the walls.” I told her, thinking back to my own adolescent years and the woman in the flat beside ours, “We’d have someone knocking at the door in under a half hour.”

It was her turn to roll her eyes then as she scoffed at me– like I was the one being dramatic here– before she then shook her head and shuffled hurriedly over the mattress to sit closer. “No Lia, just listen, look.”

Confused, I sighed and tilted my head when Lottie moved to shove her mobile in my face. I squinted at the sudden contrast, showing off my age and the horrific tragedy that was my eyesight, and tried to make sense of whatever it was that she was so hellbent on showing me.

From what I could first make out, it was just a Twitter thread, but then Lotts then clicked on the main video at the top. I waited as the clip buffered for a second, then a familiar face panned into focus and I felt my brow furrow. I peered over at Lottie for a split second before her eyes were widening in retort and she gestured her chin back towards the screen.

I narrowed my own eyes in turn, but watched on.

It had to be a coincidence, I reasoned. That of all people it was him that Lottie was currently showing me.

“Well, aren’t we in for a show tonight! Eminem is in the house, people!” An interviewer started, she was a tall, leggy blonde who held a too big microphone too close to her chin. “How are you feeling?”

I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was to see him on the VMA’s carpet, not after the comeback he’d made late last year with LP 2, but I was, eyes caught on the bleached buzz cut he’d since reverted back to for the album’s release. Fuck, I’d be so pissed if it came out that he was performing tonight and I’d gone ahead and missed it.

Lottie thumped my shoulder, hard, realising fairly quickly that I hadn’t really been listening, and so I scowled in retort but gritted my teeth to keep from thumping her right back. She might’ve been my sister, but I had well over a decade on the kid and was marginally her guardian, just not in writing.

The rapper had seemingly just finished commenting on a question the tall blonde had asked him and so I forced myself to pay closer attention, brain whirling as I wondered what could have possibly been so important that it had Lottie screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night.

“I feel that!” The woman practically beamed at the rapper, head nodding along to whatever he’d just said, “But it’s good to hear that you’re enjoying being back. In truth, I wasn’t sure I’d catch you here tonight, there’s been a lot of buzz surrounding you at the moment and not just because of the album!”

My heart stuttered in my chest. Actually, I was pretty sure it had gone and fallen out of my arse, especially when the interviewer continued to press on the topic and it appeared as though the man in question understood exactly what she was getting at. His stoic facade cracked just a tad and– there! A smirk. An ever so slight crook of his mouth. I shot a startled glance over at Lottie but her gaze was fixated on the screen.

“I mean, have you seen it?” The interviewer prompted whilst he simply stood there, fisted hands clasped before him. No sign of the split second curve he’d just had on his lips. “The whole world’s been wondering about your thoughts on the singer!”

And there it was.

“I can’t,” I started to say, turning away from the phone just as a rush of nausea flooded through me, but Lottie held strong, hand coming up to catch my shoulder so that she could position her phone back in my eyeline. “Lottie–” I tried. Please.

“Just listen.” She persisted, face so serious.

Immediately I wanted to rescind my earlier statement. This was now my most mortifying moment. In fact, I wanted to hide in the nearest cupboard and never come out again. How the fuck was I going to show my face in public, not to mention at the next event, after this?

I swallowed thickly, entirely unprepared to hear a word he had to say about me. I mean, who would be? This man was leagues above a majority of the industry, me included. Never had I ever even thought that he could hear my name in passing, let alone listen to one of my songs playing in some shop he was coincidentally in or a random radio station. But here he now was, rolling his lips as he pondered over a question which concerned that stupid fucking video.

“I hate you.” I whispered at Lottie, mostly in hopes to cover up whatever he was about to say, but also because I was embarrassed beyond belief. And this was all her fault.

In the time spent since the drunken video had first gone up and now, I had yet to even think about him ever seeing it. Because the idea was that far fetched. But this was me, so of course he had.

“I’ve heard it.” Marshall confirmed, his head dipped in a barely there nod. My throat cinched. I wondered briefly how quickly I’d be able to tie myself a noose.

“And?” The woman prodded and internally I cursed her future bloodline, hoping that she'd somehow spawn the next antichrist or that her grandchild would become a shit-headed politician.

The man in question merely hummed, hollowing out his cheeks. “I was surprised, I have to admit. But she’s good, even when wasted.”

“I wasn’t fucking wasted!”

I hadn't even realised I’d spoken out loud until Lottie snorted on a chuckle. I turned towards her, brows raised high, “What? I wasn’t. You were there!”

I rolled my eyes when she didn’t deign me with some sort of assent but my head snapped back over to where she still gripped the phone when I heard him speak again, his voice echoing throughout the quiet bedroom.

“Then again, her shit goes hard. So it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise.”

That heart of mine that I kept on talking about? Yeah, I had zero clue as to what the fuck was going on with it now, only that my chest was wound as tight as it possibly could be and my eyes stung as I withheld the urge to even blink.

“You’re a fan?” The woman asked him, appearing genuinely surprised by the notion, even though it sounded more like a declaration rather than the question it was.

Marshall hummed, sparing a brief glance over his shoulder when a group shuffled on past them, disrupting the interview. It didn’t deter the woman though and I couldn’t blame her, no matter how much it pained me.

“So, could this mean we’ll be seeing a new featured artist on whatever you put out next?”

I made some sort of inhuman sound at that, but barely moved a muscle. And then I all but shutdown when the rapper's wide eyes flickered over to peer straight into the camera’s lens, “I mean, if she’s down.”

The next scream that was emitted once again came from Lottie, but I couldn’t think to scold her for it, not when I was hardly even functioning and wanted to implode myself.

The girl toppled over onto me, shaking my shoulders whilst she squealed unabashedly. “If. She’s. Down!” She repeated, squealing with excitement, “El, this is insane! How are you not screaming too?”

The air I forced from my lungs came out in a breathless chuckle as I clung to the forearm that was still wrapped around my collar. In truth, I didn’t know how the hell I was supposed to react.

“Figure you’ve screamed enough for the both of us.” I replied faintly, not really thinking but somehow managing to carry on, mostly out of sheer shock. I glanced her way, “I feel a bit sick.”

Lottie just shook me harder and when we eventually went falling down onto the duvet in a mess of limbs I wondered what I was going to do with the knowledge that I’d just been given. God. He knew who I was. The shock of it was almost like reliving my first time on stage all over again.

That night I ended up listening to Lottie rant on and on for a good while after whilst she scrolled through her Twitter feed and the rest of the internet. Mila eventually intervened, calling after having seen it too, and was as smug as ever. “Told you.” She’d said the second I’d hit the answer button and I hadn’t had the heart to play it off or act as though I hadn’t seen it either.

After the interview eventually finished trending and stopped being posted here, there, and everywhere, I was left with a flow of new followers but also a nightmare of opinions spouting from every corner of the planet on any comment section I had to offer. I forced myself to come off most apps I had downloaded after that and resorted to gaining my daily entertainment, and any real news, from Lottie. Which seemed sad, in retrospect, but honestly? It was more than a little self-serving and I’d even managed to get a shit load of stuff done.

I worked on a couple new songs, sticking to what I did best, but my mind did end up drifting away every so often, back to a conversation I’d had with Mila and Travis at the label a couple days after the media storm had passed. It seemed they all wanted me to try implementing a few new concepts into the music I was currently working on before we started to draw up ideas for the next album. Travis reasoned that even attempting to add a couple freestyles into the motions whilst I went about writing would do me wonders later on.

I just felt uncomfortable with it all, really. I’d never been a rapper. I mean, I loved it. It was mainly what I’d been brought up on, having grown up in an area where every kid on the estate was either attempting to become the next big thing or just blaring the biggest hits out of their car stereos. But that was just it. I listened and sang along, had even built up an extensive collection which I was immensely proud of, but the label were now aiming for this next album to make it onto a Grammy nominations list. It was all they had been fretting over since I’d somehow managed to chart the last one– although a single number one and an almost throw away making it to number seven didn’t make me all that hopeful.

Even so, it forced me to wonder how it would all work if I started to switch things up now. I could appreciate all genres but I didn’t wanna become the next hopper just to appease the people yessing me and then fall off.

The entire concept had me confused and so I had taken to keeping my head down for a while longer.

Lottie had headed back to mum’s earlier that morning, seeing as I was due to make an appearance in Paris for Fashion Week, attending the Vogue show alongside Vivienne Westwood. An utter dream, yes, but also still an incredibly daunting reality. Even so, it was something I couldn’t quite worm my way out of even if I had wanted to– see, with that contract there still came clauses.

I’d been prepping for my upcoming early morning flight most of the day, showering later on than anticipated just so that I could pack my case and eat before I eventually climbed into bed. Hoping to somehow get a couple hours kip.

I’d thrown on a robe and kept the speakers blaring once I’d eventually jumped out from under the spray, wet hair curling at the ends as I worked on throwing something quick together in my kitchen.

It wasn't long before I went and took the bowl I’d just made out into the living room with me, simply so that I could curl up on the settee and wrap up the few emails I’d been working on earlier. I was just nodding along and humming to the next song that played through the overhead speakers when my phone started to buzz against my ankle, shooting a funny feeling up through the bone. I was quick to pick it up, wrinkling my nose at the feel and not paying much mind to the caller, figuring it had to be either Mila or Lottie.

“Hello?”

There was a short pause as I shifted the phone against my ear before a voice eventually sounded, “This Elia?”

Frowning, I casted a quick glance at the phone’s screen to find a number with an unfamiliar area code staring back at me. I let my gaze stray on over towards a clock I had hanging on the far wall only to find that it had just gone eight.

I fumbled for a moment, “Um. It is, can I ask who’s calling?”

A low cough rumbled through the line before the same voice spoke again, I shuffled to set my laptop off to the side on the sofa, brow furrowed. “It’s Em– Marshall.”

Suddenly my head felt so very empty and my mouth was working around words that couldn't seem to find their way out. Em. The Em?? Fucking, Em?

I’d obviously been quiet a beat too long, drowning in the sudden panic that had shrouded me, because he spoke up again, “That Nas playin’?”

I shot a startled glance over my shoulder to where the fancy sound system was installed, the biggest reason I’d gone and purchased the home, in truth, and was immediately reminded of the music I had piercing through the air. Clumsily, I rolled off of the corner of the settee so that I could stumble over to turn the thing off, doing exactly that before I was forced to blink at the sudden silence that greeted me.

I winced and was quick to turn the music back on, keeping it low. All the while I still held my phone close to my chest.

“Uh, yeah. Hi!” I blundered helplessly after a moment, carding a hand through my damp hair as I stared at the empty wall before me stupidly. I wasn’t sure what to say, let alone do. I could sort of wrap my head around the interview, his brief mention of me. But a fucking phone call? It was on another level.

He chuckled though, enough so that I felt myself flush bashfully at my obvious awkwardness and forced my body to move back towards the sofa, if only so that I didn’t have to stand on shaky legs anymore.

“Hi.” He mimicked, voice low albeit a tad amused.

I smiled. Unable to do anything but, in all honesty, as I lowered myself down onto the cushions, vaguely aware that I should probably be saying something else now that he’d gone and replied, but was simply more than a little caught off guard by everything.

“Sorry, I– Well, I didn’t expect your call. Or anyones really.” I murmured, trying my best to shake off the nerves that were apparently wreaking havoc on my brain to mouth filter. “I just jumped out of the shower, had yet to turn off the stereo. Sorry.” How many times had I just apologised? I wanted to scream.

“You’re good.” He assured me, voice unlike what I probably would have expected and so I blinked once more at the sound of it, reminded that it was actually him I was talking to. But all that was fluttering through my head was ‘what the fuck are you doing calling me?’ “Nice choice, I gotta say. This an alright time for you to talk? I don’t wanna disturb you much.”

My eyes widened at both the compliment in song choice and well, him. Then withheld another sudden urge to scream, the hand not holding my phone clenching into a tight fist against my chest. “No, no, of course not. I mean, you’re fine! Not disturbing me at all.”

His next reply sounded more than just a little mirthful, “Sure ‘bout that?”

I willed myself to relax and took an inconspicuous breath as I pulled my legs back up under me. “I’m sure.” I told him, laughing lightly at myself for being so socially inept– or maybe it was just this entire scenario I’d been shoved into. “How’d you even get my number anyway?”

I hadn’t meant for it to sound so forceful or abrupt, but it had been yet another question my sluggish brain hadn’t been able to find an answer to.

“Mila?” He answered me, and I blinked stupidly at the name. “We had a mutual contact, figured I’d chance askin’ her instead of gettin’ lost in your DM’s. That cool? She said she’d let you know.”

The conniving cow, I thought to myself, though I wouldn’t have put it past her to have reasoned with herself that I would’ve probably freaked out if she had told me beforehand, before then having proceeded to just let my phone ring out whilst I stared pitifully at it. She knew me all too well.

“She did not.” I replied through a baited breath, “But no, yeah. You’re alright, just caught me off guard is all. You’re probably the last person I expected to call, if I’m being honest here..”

When I heard him laugh once more I grinned, all too pleased with myself. It was a low gruff sound, not deep enough to be sarcastic or ingenuine, but rather warm. It surprised me.

“Oh yeah? Even after everything that’s gone down lately?”

My eyes slipped closed at the instantaneous reminder and I winced. The video. Honestly, in the whirlwind that wasn’t just my life at the moment, but this phone call too, I could have almost forgotten about it.

“I still can’t believe you saw that.”

Marshall let go of another amused huff that I figured to be a chuckle, breathing in deep enough that he forced me to wait on his next words. “I don’t lie. I meant what I said. But tell me, how many drinks d’you have in you?”

I curled my tongue against the back of my teeth in hopes to keep from grinning too hard, feeling a slight sting at the tip. “I was tipsy.” I argued pointlessly, knowing it would be a tireless venture, “I’d only had a couple.”

He hummed, seemingly not convinced.

“It was years ago, too!” I felt the need to tack on, the rosy hue the alcohol had given my cheeks sprung to mind and made me wonder. My face wrinkled as I dragged a helpless hand across it. “Who even sent it to you?”

“A couple people, actually.” Marshall ended up revealing and his words sounded playful enough that I could almost picture the curl of his mouth. “My daughter was one.”

Without thinking my hand flew up towards my mouth and I shook my head as I let it rest against my palm. “You’re not being serious.”

“Dre too.”

I let go of a hissed curse and crumpled a little bit in my seat before laughing stupidly at myself. If I couldn’t talk myself out of this then I supposed I would just have to get over it. I hoped thinking sensibly would allow me to actually follow through on that sentiment, but I very much doubted it.

Marshall laughed again, slow and easy almost as though he’d shared it with me a hundred times before. “I wasn’t kiddin’ neither. ’s why I called.”

Pulling my head from out of my hands, I wet my lower lip, mind promptly flashing back to the clip Lottie had shown me. “What’s that meant to mean?” I asked him, treading cautiously.

“Listen.” He began, pausing only briefly to inhale before he then added, “I’m workin’ on another album–”

“No.” I interrupted, eyes suddenly wide and alert, “Already?”

A tittered snort followed the disruption but my mind was already reeling.

“You’re not fucking with me?”

In all honesty I had prepared myself to wait a couple more years for another drop, hoping for him to feature or for someone to send for him if only so that he’d make a track in reply. I’d been obsessed with his recent work, even going as far as to add it onto the tour bus playlist late last year. It had actually been played so much the roadies and the band had threatened to rip the system out. But a new album? Fuck. I hadn’t expected it.

“Who else knows?”

There was a slight click on the other side of the line. Or scuffle. “As of right now? Like six people.”

I swallowed down the understanding that then hit me, but my stomach lurched at the very thought of it. “And I’m one?” I chuckled, holding back the hysterical laughter I felt bubble as my hand fell over my heart, “Wow, I feel honoured, Mathers.” It was teasing, the rib I meant, though my eyes still widened when I realised what I’d gone and said, not wanting him to take it the wrong way.

I needn’t have worried.

“As you fuckin’ should be.”

I gave a real laugh at that, almost a full-belly type shit. But could you really blame me?

I was still smiling as I went to retort, humming with it, “God, you really just went and sprung that shit on me.”

“Hold you to keepin’ it on the low for now.” Marshall said, reminding me how paranoid the press and Hollywood had made him out to be in the past. I wondered how much truth there was in the sentiment. I mean, the man was almost a recluse– not that I could blame him, I was pulled from the same sort of cloth there– but to put a secret like that in my hands? It had to take some amount of faith.

I nodded seriously, even though he couldn’t see the gesture. Seemed he could hear the sincerity in my answer though, “‘Course.” I told him and then chewed on my lower lip for a second before a soft snicker escaped me. “That the only reason you called though? I mean, as honoured as I am to be one of the infamous six, I’m surprised you just phoned to let me in on the know. Have I just been roped into some sort of celeb elitist group? Weird initiation.”

His huffed laugh was breathy and made my mouth twitch that little bit more.

“Nah. You always this weird though?” Marshall wondered and I bared my teeth in a light grimace, figuring I’d gone too far with that one. Or maybe.. I'd just hit the mark? I snorted lightly at the thought.

“It was an honest question! I’ve heard horror stories.” And wasn’t that the truth, events and parties weren’t all about the awards and just getting trollied. Some of those fuckers were as strange as people could come.

The man clucked his tongue, although I could hear the slight smile in his sarky response. “Uhuh. Sorry to disappoint but nah, initiation starts in the belly of LA. Gotta dissect a virgin and drink Ciroc out of their intestines. Funnel that shit down.”

The snort I gave in turn was ugly and loud enough that it forced a hand to fly up and cover my mouth, but it didn’t appear to bother the rapper none, who chuckled before clearing his throat.

“Change this shit to Facetime.” He said not a second after, swiftly cutting short my absurd amusement. “Then we can talk about the album.”

I fumbled for a moment. “I look a mess.”

“Good thing this ain’t a fuckin’ fashion show then.” He only pressed, “You think I give a shit what you look like right now?”

That struck an odd chord in me for some reason, but I didn’t want to linger much on the feeling. “No. But I do, dickhead. It’s half eight at night, I have sudocrem on my face and I look like a dog off of Lady and the Tramp.”

I was so flustered by the very thought of acquiescing to the man’s demand that I didn’t even think much of the name I’d gone and called him.

“Again, do I give a shit? And what did you just call me?”

I paused, reeling back to whatever it was I’d just spouted at him. Upon rehashing my words I felt my tongue press between my lips to keep from laughing loudly, if Mila or Lottie had been there I’d already be strung up by a pair of metaphorical balls.

“You heard me fine.” I brushed it off, if he wanted to call me out of the blue and act all chummy then chummy was what he’d get.

Besides it wasn’t like I’d meant the term maliciously, I used that type of endearment with everybody. Something my manager had tried and failed to force out of me time and time again.

“But back to this whole ‘seeing my mug thing’. Not happening, mate. Why couldn’t you have called like, six hours ago? I looked like an actual person then.”

“Dickhead.” He muttered beneath his breath, barely even loud enough for me to have heard him and I could only guess that he was shaking his head with it, hopefully somewhat amused. “You ain’t an actual person then?” He said in reply, forgoing the name calling for now, “Figures, you give off lizard vibes.”

“Fuck you!” My laugh was sudden, jaw having dropped a tad at the quip. “Lizard vibes, the fuck are you then? And yes, an actual person! You can’t just call people, drop a bomb, and then demand things!”

“Shit typically works.” He quipped all too quickly that it had me shaking my head around another quiet smile of my own. “Just entertain me though, for a moment.”

My head fell back against the arm of the sofa, eyes casted towards the high ceiling which loomed above. I couldn’t quite believe I was actually considering it.

He didn’t even have to goad me before I relented. I huffed, blowing a strand of hair from out of my face as I sat back up, “Fine. Just gimme a sec.”

He hummed.

Elbowing my way off the settee I skidded over to the closest mirror, dragged a hand through my mostly dried hair and made sure that I didn’t have racoon eyes from any lingering mascara I’d had on before my shower. The patches of sudocrem would have to stay though, I deemed, seeing as he already knew about those.

I gave up on the preening and sighed as I fell back onto the sofa, thankful for the dim lights the living room offered in that moment. It was just as I was switching the call though that a thought hit me, making me question if the reason he’d asked me to start the Facetime was due to him wanting to give me the option to turn it down or simply because he had no idea how to do it himself. “Still there, old man?”

A scoff echoed into the room before my phone screen stuttered and I was left staring at the sharp lines of his face. It wasn’t like I hadn’t actually believed it was him I was talking to, but seeing the man was another thing altogether. He was a real person and that idea alone had me reeling.

I wrinkled my nose almost shyly around a smile when that sharp gaze of his slid away from something behind the camera to meet mine. He tilted his head to look me over, the hood of his jumper moving with the motion.

“I was right about the lizard thing.” Was the only greeting he offered me, jutting his chin out as he feigned all seriousness.

My mouth dropped open upon hearing him and my tongue quickly flicked out towards a canine to keep from biting back at him. There was humour written in the gesture though, even as I moved to narrow my eyes. “He’s got jokes! Reused ones, I might add, but jokes nonetheless.” I snarked, lifting my eyebrows at him in exaggeration, “Hilarious.”

His mouth curled very, very briefly, but I was quick to work out that it was all in the eyes with him. They held a certain amount of mirth as they flickered over my face. I wondered what he saw.

“Suits you though. Even with all the…” He waved a hand over his own face, probably referencing the white dots I had littered in a few places.

With a shake of my head I raised a hand to my chest, feigning a fond appreciation for the sardonic comment. “Is that the famous charm the world’s heard so much about then? Really know how to make a girl feel special, Mathers.”

His eyes slitted but still shone with a slight glaze, he hummed deeply in retort. “Best believe it. Why d’you think I’ve gotten divorced twice?”

A low whistle escaped me before I then laughed, eyes squinting with the strength of it. “Figured you might just have a kink for courtrooms.”

His tongue swept into his cheek at my boldness, fighting back a real smile as he glanced away and then back again. “I’m down bad for a good Judge. Spank me vibes, you know?”

I chuckled outwardly at that, amused by his quick witted replies. But that in itself didn’t surprise me, it was well known just how hilarious the man could be, his stoic demeanour only prodding that revelation further.

That sternness his face seemed to consistently hold softened though in that next moment and I watched on as he shuffled a little closer to the camera, sat somewhere indoors with enough natural light that he could have only been in his kitchen. It hit me then how wild this whole thing suddenly was. “What’s with the last name anyway?”

I blinked, caught off guard by his ask. “Um,” I fumbled, a slight wrinkle forming between my brow, “What do you mean, me calling you Mathers?”

He hummed and I had to think about it for a second. Ultimately I ended up gifting him a shrug, “Don’t know. Just feels strange to call you Eminem or whatever.” I laughed lightly at myself, hand falling to my knee to toy with a loose thread on the hem of my robe. “What do people usually call you?”

It was his turn to shrug then, his being a singular and fluid motion whereas mine had been more thoughtless. He was watching again though, the wide eyes I was so used to seeing in old interviews where he was always playing a part were now gentler, narrowed sure, but softer and slightly wrinkled at the very edges.

I tugged on the frayed thread, wrapping it around my finger enough to whiten the skin before I had to let it go again. “Is Em okay? Or just Marshall maybe?” I queried, watching him too.

“Whatever you want.” He murmured and it was then that I noticed he’d propped his phone up somewhere in front of him because a pair of hands came to rest at the bottom of the screen just as he pressed further into the counter he was sat at.

I wrung my lips to one side, teeth biting into the inside of my cheek enough to keep from smiling much more than I already was. “Most people call me El or Lia. Elia just started to feel unnatural away from, you know, everyone else.”

It was the worlds now, as well as one of few reasons I had for the stigma I felt around my own name.

The man jerked his head in a short nod in response whilst his fingers intertwined against a marble countertop. “So we should just slide that into the writin’ credits then? Or you finally gone take me up on that offer of a feature?”

You know that odd feeling you get when you’re on the tube or a plane and so suddenly your ears just pop and there's this ringing sound that floods the single sense? It just happens, out of nowhere, and you blink. So all you can immediately focus on is the sound. The odd feeling of it driving waves deeper and deeper into your skull. And the only way you can recover is by holding your own breath?

That was what that question felt like to me.

“What?”

His eyes were alight, akin to a low flame of flickering amusement and perhaps hope. “You deaf now too? Know you heard me.”

Of course I fucking heard him but that didn’t mean I understood. “This is for real?”

Finally, he let go of a dulcet chuckle, almost a ringing sound in and of itself. “You gone make me repeat it? You in, or not?”

“How is that even a question?” I breathed back to him, my hand shaking against the hem of my robe. “Yes! God, if I ever say to no to an ask like that you better fucking shoot me. What the fuck, Marshall?”

That chuckle again.

It was unlike anything else, the only sound I could hear around the blood rushing between my ears. Stupidly, I pinched my thigh and released a stuttered breath when the twist of skin radiated a short snap of pain up my leg.

“That the go ahead then?”

I must’ve looked so incredibly starstruck but I couldn’t even bring myself to care, this was unreal. I nodded, almost frantically at him. “Of course that’s the fucking go ahead! Are you sure about this? I mean, I don’t know how much help I’ll be. I mostly write radio shit.”

“Your earlier stuff ain’t.” Em shot back, the quip startling me enough to snap my jaw shut because not a lot of people ever dug that deep. But he continued on before I could think to hone in on the slip, “‘sides, your lyrics are what I fuck with. That shit makes you think, has you lingerin’. Playing with words is the aim, I want people thinkin’, leachin’ onto each syllable and every phrase. You do that.”

The air in my lungs lurched.

I could only offer him one reply, “When do we start?”

318 notes · View notes

lvnleah · 3 months ago

Note

NYE fix request for Lia wälti 💓- reader is flying to London from her home country after spending Xmas with her family and Lia spent hers in Switzerland as they have only been dating a few months. On NYE readers flight keeps getting delayed and Lia is convinced she isn’t going to make it but reader promises to not miss the first New Year’s Eve as a couple ……

racing against time | lia wälti.

The airport was chaos. You sat hunched over your phone at your gate, nervously watching the clock tick past 8:30 pm. Your flight, delayed twice already, had finally announced boarding, but it felt like time was taunting you.

Your flight was supposed to leave at 2:30pm from Barcelona meaning you land in England at around 4pm, giving you plenty of time. However, the world seemed to be against you today.

“You’re not going to make it, are you?” Lia asked as you stood in the line to board whilst on FaceTime to her. You could hear the disappointment in her tone, and it made your chest tighten.

“I will,” you insisted firmly, gripping the handle of your carry-on bag as you stood and joined the boarding queue. “I promised you, didn’t I? I’ll be there.”

Her sigh was faint but audible. “It’s already so late. Even if you land on time, the drive—”

“I’ll make it work,” you cut her off, determined. “I’ll see you before midnight, I swear. I love you, I’ll be there okay?”

“I hope so,” she sighed, “I love you too.”

You ended the call with one final reassurance before shoving your phone into your pocket and boarding the plane. The flight was uneventful, though you could barely sit still. Every glance at your watch made your stomach churn. By the time the wheels touched down at Heathrow, it was 11:05 pm sharp, and your heart was racing.

Grabbing your bag, you sprinted through the terminal, ignoring the curious looks from fellow passengers. You found the nearest bathroom and locked yourself in a stall. As fast as you could, you changed out of your wrinkled travel clothes into something Lia would appreciate—a sleek black dress you’d carefully packed at the top of your bag. You touched up your hair and applied a quick layer of makeup, the small mirror above the sink your only guide.

It was 11:20 by the time you stepped outside into the brisk London air. The taxi rank was mercifully empty, and you quickly flagged one down before giving them the address to Lia’s place where the party was being held.

The car ride was a blur. You sat in the backseat with your phone clutched in one hand, the other holding a compact as you swiped on mascara and lipstick with trembling hands. The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror. “Big date, huh?” he asked with a small smile.

“Something like that,” you muttered, your mind already at Lia’s house.

When the car pulled up to the familiar driveway at 11:55 pm, you handed the driver cash without waiting for change and practically flew out of the car. The house was warmly lit, and you could hear muffled laughter and music inside. You hesitated only a moment before knocking on the door.

Lia opened it, her expression morphing from confusion to shock in a matter of seconds. “You—what? How are you—?”

“I told you I’d make it,” you said, stepping inside and shivering slightly as the warmth of the house enveloped you.

Your teammates were equally surprised to see you, their cheers and laughter echoing from the living room. But Lia stayed rooted to the spot, her wide eyes fixed on you as question after question spilled from her lips.

“You landed at eleven? How did you—? Did you even eat? Are you—”

You placed a hand gently on her arm, cutting her off. “Lia, I promised you I’d be here. That’s all that matters.”

Her mouth opened to say something else, but just then, the clock on the wall began to chime. Midnight. You didn’t hesitate. Stepping closer, you cupped her face in your hands and pressed your lips to hers, silencing her questions in the best way you knew how.

When you finally pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. The house erupted into cheers as your teammates caught sight of the moment, but you didn’t care. All you could see was Lia, her expression softening as she leaned into you.

“Happy New Year,” you whispered.

“Happy New Year,” she replied, her voice barely above a breath. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

#lvnleah #awfc #lia wälti

101 notes · View notes

bradleysass · 2 months ago

Text

Together - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 595 - so I kind of wanted to continue off hate

The days passed in a blur of assignments, emails, and long nights staring at the screen, waiting for Barty to call. Their time zones never lined up the way he wanted, leaving their conversations fragmented, stolen moments instead of something whole.

One night, Evan sat by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. His phone vibrated, and he grabbed it instantly, heart leaping when he saw Barty’s name flashing on the screen.

“Took you long enough,” Evan teased as he answered, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

“Missed me?” Barty’s voice was warm, teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something softer. Something real.

Evan sighed, leaning his forehead against the glass. “Always.”

There was a pause, and then Barty said, “We need a plan.”

“For what?”

“For being together.”

Evan’s breath hitched. It was the first time they had spoken about the distance as something temporary, something they could fix. “Together,” he echoed, testing the word on his tongue, letting it settle in his chest.

“Yeah,” Barty murmured. “Together.”

Evan closed his eyes, holding onto that word like a promise. But when he opened them again, reality pressed against his ribs like a weight. “How?”

“I could come visit,” Barty suggested, his voice quick, determined. “Even if it’s just for a weekend.”

Evan wanted to say yes immediately, but the practical side of him hesitated. “That’s expensive.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should care.”

Barty huffed. “Evan. I’m going insane without you.”

Evan pressed his fingers against the glass, pretending it was Barty’s skin. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”

They sat in silence for a moment, just breathing together, separated by miles but clinging to the fragile thread of connection between them.

“We’ll figure it out,” Barty promised. “One way or another. We’ll be together.”

Evan let out a breath, a real one this time. “Yeah,” he said, voice steadier now. “Together.”

—

A week later, Barty sent him a photo. A screenshot of a booked flight. Heathrow to JFK. A short, direct message underneath: "See you soon."

Evan’s heart pounded against his ribs. He wanted to say something, to scream through the phone, to tell Barty he was an idiot for spending so much money on a plane ticket. But all that came out was a choked laugh, a relief so raw it nearly hurt.

Barty was really coming.

His hands shook as he typed back. "You're insane."

"For you? Always."

Evan let his head fall back against the pillow, staring at the screen like if he blinked, the message would disappear. But it didn’t. Barty was coming. And for the first time in weeks, Evan felt like he could breathe again.

—

The night before Barty’s flight, they stayed on FaceTime for hours. Neither wanted to hang up, both of them stretching the conversation out, finding excuses to keep talking. Evan watched Barty pack—watched him throw clothes into a suitcase haphazardly, watched him debate which jacket to bring.

“This is ridiculous,” Barty muttered. “It’s just a weekend.”

Evan smirked, but there was warmth behind it. “You’re packing like you’re staying forever.”

Barty met his gaze through the screen, something unreadable in his expression. “Maybe I should.”

Evan’s breath caught. The thought had crossed his mind more times than he cared to admit. But it was too big, too much. Instead of responding, he just smiled, softer this time. “Get here first, Crouch. Then we’ll see.”

Barty rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “Fine. But when I see you, I’m never letting go.”

Evan swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Good.”

#rosekillermicrofic #rosekiller microfic #marauders #rosekiller #barty crouch jr #evan rosier #microfic

81 notes · View notes

vitalverstappen · 4 months ago

Text

Snowed In - L. Sargeant

summary: being stranded in the airport is never ideal... and you're stuck on Christmas Eve... with Logan.

pairing: Logan Sargeant x ex!reader

warnings: being alone on Christmas Eve? Unexpectedly seeing your ex?

word count: 3.3k

a/n: Merry Christmas Eve/Merry Christmas depending on where in the world you are! Hope you guys all have a great day!

masterlist

“You’ve got to be kidding me” you muttered as you stared at the screen. Every single flight going out of Heathrow had been either yellowed with “delayed” or completely red with “cancelled.”

You let out a long, frustrated sigh as you ran a hand through your hair, shoulders slumped in the middle of the airport. The clock on the wall seemed to mock you, ticking steadily as if time wasn’t moving at a snail’s pace. Christmas Eve, and you were stuck in the middle of Heathrow Airport, thousands of miles away from your family.

You’d been looking forward to this moment for months - coming home to your parents, reconnecting with old friends, and of course, celebrating the holidays with the traditions you had done since you were a child. But now, it seemed like the snowstorm outside had other plans for you.

A blank expression was on your face as you stared at the board again, willing one of the flights to magically be changed to the green “on time”, but the board remained unchanged. Every flight, one by one, flashed red or yellow, like some twisted game of “guess who’s not going anywhere.” The snowstorm outside had wrapped Heathrow in a thick blanket of ice and chaos, and your hopes of making it home for Christmas were quickly melting away.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.” you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes. You checked your phone again, but there was no update on your flight. No apology. No comforting message to reassure you that the airline was doing its best to get you home. Just silence.

You glanced around the terminal, taking in the sea of people who looked as defeated as you felt. Some were huddled in family groups, others pacing with their phones pressed to their ears, desperately trying to figure out their next move. There was no warmth to the place, just cold metal chairs and a sense of resignation hanging in the air. Everyone was stuck in this mess together.

You sank into one of the nearby seats, trying to take a deep breath. The reality of being away from your family on Christmas was starting to hit harder than the cold air from the open doors leading to the runway.

As you stared blankly at the flight board in the distance, the familiar, rhythmic sound of a suitcase being wheeled across the floor caught your attention. Without even thinking, you glanced up, your eyes locking onto a figure pushing his suitcase through the terminal.

Of all the people you could have looked at, of course it had to be him.

Logan Sargeant.

You froze. The last person you ever expected to see at Heathrow, much less on Christmas Eve. Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, it felt like the world was spinning around you. He hadn’t changed much - still that easy smile, the same messy hair, and those soft blue-green eyes that had once made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

He paused, his suitcase coming to a halt as he noticed you sitting there, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. His brows furrowed for a second, but then his lips quirked into that signature grin, the one that made you weak in the knees years ago.

“Y/n?” he asked, his voice laced with a mix of surprise and amusement.

Your pulse quickened. What were the odds? You hadn’t seen him in years, since he broke up with you to move from Fort Lauderdale to race in F1. You had kept up with his career occasionally since he moved, but hadn’t come across anything pertaining to him in the past few months. But there he was, standing a few feet away, in the same airport, on the same night, with the same flight delays.

You swallowed hard, trying to muster up some composure. “What are you doing here?” You hated how defensive your voice sounded, but you couldn’t help it. You were just as surprised to see him as you were frustrated about everything else.

“I could ask you the same thing.” he replied with a playful tilt of his head. “Seems like the snowstorm is messing with everyone’s plans.”

You nodded stiffly. “Yeah, guess so.”

A long, uncomfortable silence stretched between you two, both of you awkwardly avoiding eye contact. The tension was thick - he had always known how to make you feel things, even after everything that had happened. After all these years, you still hadn’t figured out what to say to him, or if you ever would.

“So, uh, how’s everything been?” Logan asked, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifted his weight, clearly as unsure of what to say as you were. His voice was quieter now, a little more guarded than it had been in the past.

You tried to keep your cool, glancing back at the flight board as if it might hold the answers to your growing confusion. “It’s… been good.” you replied, trying to keep your tone neutral, though it felt forced. You cleared your throat. “I mean, life, you know? Busy. Same as everyone else, I guess. I got relocated here for work a few months ago.”

Logan gave a small, knowing smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He seemed to be measuring his next words carefully. “So you moved out of Fort Lauderdale? I guess that explains why you’re flying out of here tonight. Though knowing you, I’m surprised you didn’t get an earlier flight home.”

The mention of “home” hit you harder than expected. You suddenly realized just how much you’d been hoping for a connection this Christmas - any connection at all. You hadn’t expected it to come in the form of Logan, of all people.

“Yeah, well…” you began, but the words came out flat, stuck somewhere between old memories and present circumstances. You shrugged. “Things don’t always go as planned.”

Logan nodded, a soft chuckle escaping him. “I think that’s the understatement of the year. What do they say - ‘plan for the best, expect the worst?’”

“Something like that,” you muttered. A deep breath followed, and you realized you hadn’t taken in much air since you’d first spotted him. Your eyes glanced down to his suitcase, where the letters “FLL” were displayed in bold lettering on a tag. He was on his way to Fort Lauderdale too. You could feel your heart in your throat as you realized that you would have crossed paths with him regardless.

“So… you’re still with Williams?” The question came out in an almost accusatory tone, even if you hadn’t meant it to. You were just trying to fill the silence, trying to make some sense of why he was standing in front of you, of all places, on Christmas Eve of all days.

His face softened at the mention of his racing career, but there was a shift in his posture, like he was bracing himself for something. “Not anymore.” he said, the words flat, almost matter-of-fact.

You blinked, surprised. “I-I didn’t know you were done.” You swallowed thickly. You weren’t sure why it felt like such a punch to the gut. Maybe it was the fact that so much had changed - your lives, your relationship - and yet, standing there, it was as if time never moved forward at all.

He leaned against the pillar near you, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Yeah, I got dropped from Williams a few months ago - right after the Dutch Grand Prix.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, the words coming out a little more quietly than you intended. It was hard to imagine how much of a blow that must have been for him. His entire career had been built around getting into Formula 1, and now… it was like everything had crumbled.

Logan shrugged, trying to play it off, but you could see the frustration still lingering beneath the surface. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not what I imagined when I first got into it. But yeah, you get used to the ups and downs in this business.”

A quiet pause followed, neither of you quite knowing how to continue. The sound of the airport buzzed around you, a stark contrast to the quiet tension between you. After all these years, there were so many things you still didn’t understand about him. So many things left unsaid.

“So,” Logan spoke up again, clearing his throat, “what about you? Settling in okay over here? It’s been what-” he glanced up at the clock briefly, as if checking the time. “-a few months now, you said?”

You nodded, not sure if you were ready to talk about everything that had led you to this moment. “Yeah, work’s been busy. Getting used to the change, the pace. It’s been a lot, honestly.” You hesitated, then added. “It’s not Fort Lauderdale, though.”

Logan chuckled softly. “I don’t think anything can replace home.” His voice was light, but there was something in the way he said it - something nostalgic, something lost.

The ache of that place tugged at you too. Fort Lauderdale had been home, the place where so much of your life had been mapped out. The place where you and Logan had planned a future - your future together. But that was before everything had changed. Before he had changed.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I miss it too.”

Another silence fell between you two, as if you both were processing what you had just said. You silently hoped he didn’t pick up on what you had accidentally implied. You missed Florida, sure, but Fort Lauderdale wouldn’t have any meaning to you if it weren’t for the people who made the town so special.

“So what now?” you asked finally, the question more out of instinct than curiosity. “What’s next for you?”

“I’ll be in France next season, I signed a contract with IDEC to race for them in ELMS.” he said, a hint of a smile coming to his face as he brought up the news.

“ELMS?” you asked, your head tilting slightly as you did so.

“European Le Mans Series” he explained, quickly remembering you had limited knowledge of motorsports. “It’s endurance racing.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing the shift in his career path the best you could. “That’s… that’s awesome. Really.” you said, trying to sound encouraging. The truth was, you weren’t sure how to feel. Even as a kid, F1 was such a part of Logan’s life, and to hear that he was now moving to a different league caused a mix of admiration and sadness to bubble within.

“You think so?” Logan asked, his eyes lighting up for the first time since the conversation began. “It’s not F1, but I’m excited. It’s a different kind of challenge.”

You could hear the passion in his voice, the same fire you’d known when he first started talking about racing all those years ago. It was almost like hearing him talk about his dreams as if no time had passed at all.

“I’m genuinely happy for you, Logan. You deserve it.” you smiled, the words feeling authentic, even if the ache in your chest didn’t fully go away.

Logan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing back at the departure board that was still covered in red and yellow before turning his attention back to you. “Thanks. That means a lot hearing that from you.” He hesitated, then added. “Would you wanna maybe go get a bite to eat? I think we still have some time to kill.”

You blinked, the question catching you off guard. The idea of sharing a meal with Logan seemed strange, but at the same time, almost comforting. The thought of sitting down, away from the chaos of the people shouting at the airline workers, and just… talking, felt like a small refuge from the stress of everything else.

You glanced at your phone again, checking the time and seeing no updates on your flight. “Sure,” you finally said, nodding “Why not?”

Logan smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as his relief was evident. “Great. There’s a cafe around the corner. Not much, but at least it’s warm.”

You stood up, your legs a little stiff from sitting for too long. Logan shifted his suitcase slightly, guiding you through the crowded terminal toward the small cafe he mentioned. The snowstorm was still visible through the large windows, swirling around the airplanes parked in their aprons, and it only made the warmth inside seem more inviting.

As you approached the cafe, you felt the tension from earlier starting to melt away, replaced by a quiet kind of ease. The cafe was tucked away near the back of the terminal, and as you entered, the cozy, dimly lit space felt like a world apart from the frenzied hustle of the airport. A low hum of quiet conversation filled the air, and you could already smell the rich scent of coffee, baked goods, and overall comfort - something you’d been craving since you got the flight news.

Logan led the way to a small table near the window, where a couple people were already huddled in quiet conversation, nursing steaming cups of coffee. You slid into the chair across from him, feeling a little self-conscious but surprisingly at ease in his presence. It had been so long, yet it felt like a small part of you had never really left him.

As Logan settled into his seat, a soft chuckle escaped him, breaking the quiet that had settled between you. “I can’t believe this is how we’re reconnecting.” he mused, shaking his head in disbelief. His eyes softened as he looked at you, a subtle warmth radiating from him despite the coolness of the airport surrounding you both.

You smiled faintly, leaning back into your chair, the soft clink of cups and the low hum of airport conversation in the background. “Yeah, of all the places. If you’d told me a year ago I’d be stuck here with you on Christmas Eve, I’d have laughed in your place.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into that familiar smile that used to make your heart race. “You were always the cynic, weren’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, but still felt a tug at your heart at the sound of his teasing. “Someone had to keep you grounded. You were always so caught up in your own head. I used to think you’d get lost in your own race car if you could.”

Logan’s chuckle echoed in the small cafe, and he leaned back in his chair, looking at you with a mix of amusement and something deeper. “Yeah, well, I did spend most of my time racing around tracks. I was so focused on getting to the top that I… missed out on a lot of things.”

The shift in his voice was subtle but undeniable. It was as if the facade he’d worn when you first saw him was melting away, replaced by a more reflective version of the Logan you used to know. The same Logan, but somehow changed.

“You always were single minded when it came to racing.” you remarked, trying to keep the tone light, though the words carried more weight than you intended. The memories of you together, back in Fort Lauderdale, flooded your mind - the long days spent at the beach, laughing in the sun, the plans you made, the future you had imagined.

His gaze softened at your words, and for a moment, he seemed far away, lost in the same memories. “Yeah” he muttered. “I was always thinking about what came next, but never really took the time to look around and realize what I was leaving behind.” He paused, his voice dropping a little. “I think I always thought I’d have time for everything… until I didn’t.”

The nostalgia in his voice was tangible. You could hear the regret in his words, but also kind of resignation, like he was finally coming to terms with how much had slipped through his fingers. How much had changed.

You leaned forward slightly, meeting his eyes. “I get it. You wanted the career. You were so driven. I don’t blame you for that.” You hesitated, biting your lip as you tried to articulate what you’d been feeling all this time. “I think I just… wanted to be a part of that. I wanted to be a part of your life, but you were always so focused on the next race, the next move. And I just ended up… waiting.”

There was a long pause as the weight of your words hung in the air, thicker than the coffee around you. Logan looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he said, “I never meant to make you feel like that. I never meant to make you wait.”

His words, though simple, were sincere, and they hit you in a way you hadn’t expected. Maybe you hadn’t realized just how much you’d been holding onto that unspoken feeling - the feeling of being forgotten, of being the second choice.

A small, wistful smile crossed your lips. “I know you didn’t. But… we were both so young. We had those big dreams, and I think we thought we could have it all.” You paused, staring down at the table for a moment before looking back up at him. “And I guess sometimes you can’t have it all.”

Logan’s gaze softened even further, and for the first time in years, there was a warmth between you, something that had been missing for so long. “I guess not. But if I could go back, I’d do things differently. I’d make sure you knew how much you mattered to me.” He let out a breath, a little shaky, as if the admission was harder than he anticipated. “I was so focused on my career, on proving myself, that I forgot to prove to you that you were important too.”

You swallowed, the ache in your chest making it difficult to speak. But you managed, your voice quiet. “I think we both got lost in everything. In life. In who we were supposed to be.”

Logan nodded, his hand running through his hair, the familiar motion pulling at the memories of late-night drives and quiet conversations between you two. “Yeah. I guess we did.”

For a moment, you both sat in silence, the weight of everything said and unsaid hanging between you. The past was never easy to confront, and yet, somehow, it felt good to talk about it, to acknowledge the things that had always been left unspoken.

Logan broke the silence with a soft chuckle. “Remember when we used to drive around, listening to music, pretending we had it all figured out?”

A smile tugged at your lips as you nodded. “How could I forget? We were both going to go to UMiami and graduate before moving in together. We thought we had all the time in the world to figure everything else out.”

“And then life happened.” Logan added, his voice laced with a mix of ruefulness and nostalgia. “And suddenly, it felt like we were running out of time.”

You smiled softly, the old ache still there but now softened by the familiarity of the moment. “Yeah. But I don’t think I ever really stopped caring about you, Logan. Not completely.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable, but there was no mistaking the tenderness in his gaze. “I didn’t either. Even when I tried to push it away, I couldn’t. I never really got over it.”

You both sat there for a while longer, lost in the quiet hum of the airport cafe, the past lingering around you like a shadow. Maybe the story wasn’t over. Maybe you’d never fully understand why things had ended the way they did in your teens. But as you shared that moment, that space between words, you couldn’t help but feel like you were both starting to find your way back - slowly, cautiously, but undeniably home.

#formula 1 #f1 #formula one #logan sargeant #logan hunter sargeant #ls2 #logie bear #f1 x reader #writing #creative writing #formula one imagine #f1 imagine #imagine #one shot #f1 one shot #le mans #f1 imagines #formula 1 fic #formula one fanfiction

71 notes · View notes

gullemec · 3 months ago

Text

Red Underlined

Golden Cage - Chapter Six

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You confront the aftermath of your night with Butcher and your father hosts a rather interesting dinner party.

Warnings: angst, language, butcher being emotionally constipated and a dick about it, discussion of sex, discussion of grief, daddy issues galore, discussion of death/murder, reader has an emotional breakdown, discussion of suicide (not reader), sexual tension, Homelander is a creep, unwanted touching (from Homelander)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.8k

A/N: Lots of emotional constipation and angst and daddy issues here, proceed with caution! Also Homelander makes an appearance and is such a nasty creep so beware of that too.

This time when you wake, it's with a start. No warm embrace, no welcome weight tethering you, just the cold shock of reality rousing you from a fleeting dream. Your heart thuds as your half-awake brain searches the room.

Butcher sits across from you, perched in the room’s stiff wingback chair, his silhouette outlined by the pale dawn light. He’s fully dressed, boots planted firmly on the floor, arms crossed like he’s preparing for a battle.

“Butch?” Your voice comes out groggy, uncertain. He doesn’t look at you. “What are you doing?”

“Get dressed,” he says, flat and clipped.

You blink at him, confusion prickling under your skin. Yesterday’s clothes are scattered around the room, discarded in the heat of passion. Gathering them, you can’t help but notice how he averts his eyes, a rare show of decorum. But his body is stiff, his expression locked in that impenetrable mask.

Does he regret it?

The thought coils in your gut like a snake, equal parts hurt and fury. You’ve had enough of his hot-and-cold act, especially after the mind-blowing sex you'd shared just hours earlier.

By the time you’ve dressed, the tension in the room feels suffocating. Without another word, he leads you out to the waiting van.

He may be older than most of the guys you usually sleep with, but his maturity level might actually rank below theirs.

The silence on the highway is unbearable, the minutes dragging like hours. You stare at him, his profile rigid as he grips the wheel, his jaw tight. Finally, you snap.

“Look, I’m not doing this,” you begin. “I'm not subjecting myself to another awkward car ride, so you'd better come right out and tell me now if you regret last night.”

He exhales hard through his nose, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel.

“I don't,” he says, after what feels like an eternity.

“You don't what?” you push, unwilling to let him off the hook.

His lips press into a thin line, the struggle playing out across his face as he tries and fails to find the right words.

“I don't regret it. At all. Last night was one of the best nights of my fucking life, all right?”

Your heart skips, but the relief is short-lived.

“But it was a mistake,” he continues, voice low. “We shouldn’t have done it.”

The sting of rejection hits you like a slap. “Why not? Because you suddenly grew a conscience?”

“Listen, love, you're young. You got a future ahead of you. I'm too damn old for you. I’ve got more baggage than Heathrow, and none of it’s carry-on.”

“You think I care about that?” you fire back, your voice rising. “You think I don’t know who you are by now?”

“It’s not just that,” he says, cutting you off. “This job? This life? It’s dangerous. You don’t have room for emotional ties if you want to survive it.”

“Who said anything about emotional ties?” you retort, even as your chest tightens. You could play it cool. Maybe the two of you could be purely physical, using the kinetic energy you share for sexual release alone. Sure, you'd be betraying the growing sentiment you'd developed toward the abrasive man, settling for his physical affection alone if he truly couldn't find it in him to serve you emotionally, but at least you'd have some shred of him to keep for yourself.

But the way he shakes his head tells you it’s not an option.

“You deserve more than that,” he says firmly, eyes fixed on the road.

You scoff, anger bubbling up. “That’s rich, coming from you. You certainly weren't saying that last night when your dick was—”

“You think I don't want to be able to give you that?” His voice is raw, startling in its honesty.

The fight leaves you for a moment, the truth of his words sinking in. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t let you see the cracks in his armor.

“You’re gonna meet someone,” he says, quieter now. “Someone who can give you the life you deserve. Someone who doesn’t drag you into this mess. Someone better.”

You scoff, hurt quickly turning to anger. “That’s bullshit,” you snap, your voice trembling. “Don’t pretend you know what I want, Butcher. You think I’ve got some perfect life waiting for me? Have I ever given you any reason to think I want anything more than being a part of the Boys? You think I don’t know exactly what I’m signing up for?”

He says your name, gently, like a prayer, finally turning to look at you.

“Listen to me,” you tell him. “This is the most alive I've felt since my mom died. For the first time in my life I feel like I'm really making her proud. And I'll be damned if you get to decide what my future looks like.”

He finally turns to look at you, his hazel eyes softening. “Of course you get to decide what you want, if that means working with us. But you deserve to be happy, love. And I can’t give you that. I’m sorry.”

The apology hangs heavy between you, cutting deeper than you’d expected. You turn away, staring out the window as your eyes sting. You won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.. He cannot know the deadliness of the blow he has so casually dealt you.

“Thanks for being honest, I guess,” you say quietly, your voice brittle.

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words. Finally, Butcher clears his throat. “I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me after this. MM and Frenchie can take over—”

For an angry, petulant moment you want to agree, to let your hurt be known. But it's not what you want, not even close. As much as the sting of rejection smarts right now, complete separation from him would hurt even more.

“No,” you interrupt, the word sharper than you intended. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

A part of you does feel relief, knowing that you would have fallen into bed with him regardless of his true feelings for you. Your bones and atoms had screamed at you incessantly to crash your very being against his, and you had fulfilled that request. Maybe you could let go of this preoccupation now.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The road hums beneath the tires, the tension easing just enough for you to breathe.

“It was just a one time thing,” you offer, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

He nods, too quickly. “Purely physical,” he agrees.

“Right. No one has to know,” you assert.

Probably for the best. It was bad enough that everyone at your internship thought you only got the position because of your father, you didn't need the others in the Boys thinking you were only there because you were fucking their boss.

Still, he holds your gaze, shoulders tense, only tossing a glance toward the road when absolutely necessary. He's assessing you for truthfulness, picking up on the smallest tells in your voice that you're not as casual about this as you'd like him to think.

You hesitate for a moment.

“It was really good, though,” you admit.

And, like a dam, his cool facade releases, posture softening. “It was really fucking good,” be agrees enthusiastically.

“Like, so good,” you repeat.

You both laugh.

Fuck.

~~~

For your entire life, family dinner has been a fortnightly tradition.

There is a salient moment in your childhood memory; your parents, tucked away in some corner of the house they thought you wouldn't detect, voices raised in frustration. Your father, increasingly away from home, was missing out on your childhood. Your mother, desperate to keep your life as stable as possible, begging him to change. Despite his philandering ways, there was a love there between your parents, at least once upon a time. And thus a compromise was reached and the family dinner tradition was born.

Of course, CytoGenix duty called from time to time and family dinner was deemed of lower priority, leaving you and your mother to dine alone, huddled at the end of the ten-seater dining table. Then there were the four years you spent studying abroad, missed dinners you had no idea would be your mother’s last. Still, family dinner had been an honored tradition for the most part.

And when you were bedridden, steeped in grief and disbelief, it was your father's suggestion that you restart the tradition. It was the only thing that roused you from that dark numbness. For a couple of months there it was good. Just you and dad, navigating the fog together, united in your heartbreak.

That was, until he announced there would be a guest joining you at dinner one night. You had assumed an aunt or distant cousin, some estranged family member who’d made their way through the woodwork upon hearing the news of your mother’s untimely passing. That pretense fell away the moment Monica strolled into the dining room, dressed for Paris fashion week. You’d held a polite smile, asked polite questions, and offered polite answers to the rare, offhand question she threw your way. It was at one of these fortnightly dinners that Monica and your father, hands grasped together tightly, announced they were getting married. It was harder this time to offer a polite congratulations, forcing a pained smile until you could excuse yourself to sob in the privacy of the bathroom.

And no, you didn’t go to the wedding.

It’s in that enormous dining room that you sit now, pushing a charred brussel sprout around on your plate.

“You know, sweetie, you have such a glow about you lately,” Monica coos from across the table. Her tone is all honey, but her eyes hold the sharpness of a blade. You resist the urge to roll your eyes anytime Monica uses terms of endearment toward you, as if her saccharine words could disguise the fact that she’s closer to your age than to her sexagenarian husband.

Still, you flush at implication. Is there a blinking sign floating over your head that reads I just got fucked so hard I saw stars, ask me about it?

“I’ve been getting out more lately,” you offer instead of the expletive laced response you really want to say.

“I’ve noticed,” your father says, his tone carrying more irritation than interest. “I’ve also noticed you’ve been taking a lot of personal days at the office.”

He's not wrong. Ever since the day you’d woken up in the basement of the laundromat and had your entire world turned on its axis, something profound had shifted. Discovering that Vought—and by extension CytoGenix, too—likely bear responsibility for your mother’s death has a way of making intern projects feel laughably small. You figure that Adam and Emily have the menial lab experiments covered in your absence.

Your father sets his knife down deliberately, licking his teeth before speaking. “I want you to take this seriously,” he says, his voice cool but weighty. “This isn’t just an internship—it’s the family name we’re talking about.”

Something about the scrape of Monica’s knife on the china grates on you, or maybe it’s the way you fucking hate brussel sprouts. Maybe it's your father's condescending tone and the fact that the family name has only ever brought you pain and misery. Perhaps it's the fact that all of you sitting here together now is a bastardization of a tradition your mother created in hopes that you'd have some semblance of a normal childhood.

“What about me, though?” The words spill out before you can stop them. “What about what I want?”

The room falls still. Monica freezes mid-cut, her fork hovering. Even you’re surprised at the sharpness in your own voice.

“Maybe you forgot, since you didn’t bother showing up to my graduation, but I majored in biology, not pharmacology or business. I never wanted to come back here, let alone do this internship. So excuse me if I miss a few days here and there, okay?”

The heat of your anger makes your face flush, sweat prickling at your spine. Across the table, Monica blinks, her expression unreadable. If you didn’t know better, you’d think she almost looked impressed.

But your father doesn’t yell, doesn’t slam his fists on the table like he did when you were younger. Instead, he does something that is perhaps even worse. He dismisses you, a loose hand wave and unaffected expression rendering your impassioned cry moot. The calm, detached response somehow cuts even deeper.

“Nonsense,” he says coolly. “Someone needs to take over the family business when I go, and if you ask my cardiologist he'll tell you that day isn't too far off.”

“Baby, don’t talk like that!” Monica gasps, her performative worry grating on your nerves. She turns to you. “Your dad’s been overseeing testing on a new heart medication in the labs—which you’d know if you bothered to show up.”

You zone out completely as the two of them bicker back and forth, about your father's health, about your insolence, and then eventually about frothy gossip they'd overheard during their recent outing to Le Bernardin.

Your mind drifts.

What do you want? You’d chosen biology at Cambridge as a compromise, a way to avoid outright rebellion against your father’s wishes. Your mother used to tell you to go after what set your heart on fire, to never settle for anything that didn’t light you up inside. She always spoke as if your success was inevitable, like there was no version of reality where you wouldn’t do something extraordinary.

Only, maybe she'd never considered a reality in which her advice and listening ear no longer existed, where her very absence snuffed out that spark entirely.

What would she say about the Boys, about Butcher? She was a sensible lady, and classy, so it probably would have taken her some time to warm up to the idea of you cavorting around with a crew of vigilantes. Still, you want to believe that she would see the spirit with which you speak about them, the way you feel a million times more purpose scheming and spying in a dingy, dimly lit basement than you ever did sitting in a cubicle reading lab reports. You imagine her reaction to Butcher, her mother's instinct warning you to guard your feelings, and her inability to deny that you were glowing.

You're pulled from your daydream when your ears perk up at something Monica says. “Sorry, what was that?” You ask.

She examines you for a moment. “I said that production has been set back for a special product we've been making for Vought. There was an… unfortunate accident.” She spears her steak, her gaze dropping. “Ashley’s furious. They’re demanding a meeting.”

This time Monica is on the receiving end of your father's casual dismissal as he waves her off like a gnat. “I already spoke to her. Told her they can come to dinner at the Lakehouse. We’ll pour them some wine, ease the blow.”

Monica sets her jaw on edge. “It's going to take a lot of wine for this to go down smoothly, darling,” she says curtly. Her tone lowers. “The losses were huge, it's going to take years and billions to recoup—”

Your effort not to smile is Herculean.

Then your father’s voice cuts through. “I want you there,” he says.

You blink. “Me? Why?”

“You need to start familiarizing yourself with Vought if you’re going to take over. Think of it as a lesson in conflict resolution.” He chuckles, ignoring Monica’s pointed glare.

And, to everyone's surprise, you don't argue this. “Okay, I'll be there.” Your mind swirls with all the ways you can take advantage of this opportunity.

You choke down the last brussel sprout before bouncing up, giving your dad a kiss on the cheek before you leave.

“See? I told you she'd come around,” you hear him say before the door shuts behind you.

~~~

You don’t bother going home after dinner. Instead, you head straight for the laundromat, the adrenaline from your dinner revelation buzzing in your veins.

The basement is alive with chatter as you burst through the door. MM, Hughie, Kimiko, and Frenchie greet you with a chorus of smiles and hellos, their faces lighting up at your excitement.

Butcher, on the other hand, freezes. He bolts upright from the couch as if you’d hit him with a stun gun, his wide eyes darting over your face. For a moment, it looks like he might say something, but his mouth clamps shut before finally settling on an awkward wave before returning to his usual seat on the couch. The others glance at him, puzzled by his bizarre reaction, but say nothing.

You don’t entirely blame him. It's the first time you've seen each other in the week since you slept together. The memory lingers sharper than you’d like to admit. The rest of the car ride home had passed in companionable conversation, punctuated by argument every time you wanted to pull over to take a picture of a cool looking tree or pretty sunset. By the time you pulled up in front of your apartment you were dead tired, asleep on your feet. But just as you turned to leave, Butcher squeezed your hand. “Be safe, alright?” he'd said, and you told him you would be.

You thought about him that night when you touched yourself, something you've been making a bad habit of lately. You wondered if he might have been doing the same.

None of that matters now. You’re here for a mission.

“I’ve got a lead,” you announce, diving into an explanation of the upcoming dinner and its potential as a goldmine for intel. Everyone is receptive, earning you a back pat from MM and a good job, ma poupette from Frenchie. You can't deny the way their praise feels like sunlight on your face.

Hughie chimes in. “You should wear a wire. We’ll be outside in the van, listening in. If anything goes sideways, we’ll be ready.”

You nod, reassured by the thought of their backup. Soon, they’re deep into planning—locations, entry and exit points, contingencies. You hang back, content to watch them work.

That’s when Butcher sidles up beside you.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks, voice low. “Privately.”

Your pulse quickens as you nod and follow him into a side room. He shuts the door behind you, and the air between you feels suddenly charged. You're embarrassed by how flustered you feel just by being so close to him again, like your body knows his and reacts involuntarily at the proximity. Your cheeks flush as you draw your eyes up to meet his, putting effort into controlling your breath. Did he want to discuss what happened again? Did he change his mind about this physical element of your relationship? Did he pull you into this room because he absolutely could not wait a second longer to tear your clothes off and have you again, right here, right now?

He interrupts your spiraling thoughts by pulling a manila envelope from his trench coat and shoving it into your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask, confused.

“Your mum’s autopsy report. The unredacted version,” he says, his voice unusually soft. “Had it smuggled out of Vought Tower.”

Your breath catches. You grip the envelope, your excitement from earlier replaced by a rising wave of guilt. How had you let yourself become so wrapped up in your feelings for him that you’d lost sight of why you were working together in the first place?

You start to pull the papers out, but his hand covers yours, stopping you.

“I’m warning you,” he says. “It’s not good.”

You nod, swallowing hard.

The words on the pages blur together at first, dense medical jargon making your head spin. Some of it is familiar, pulled from the sanitized version Vought had given you. But there are new phrases here, ones that jump out like knives.

Internal injuries consistent with a traumatic car accident or fall from a great height.

No external injuries noted.

Partial exsanguination.

You shake your head. None of this makes sense. You were told that your mother was found in her apartment, like having fallen and slipped in the shower. You didn't have to be a medical examiner to know that a person wouldn't have such catastrophic injuries from a slip, couldn't bleed to death from a wound with no external injury.

Your hands tremble as you flip to the final page, one you'd examined at length in the past. Your eyes fall to the Cause of Death header. As before, you see ‘accidental’ written beneath it. Except next to it, previously obscured by a thick, black redacting line, you find two letters. SR.

“SR?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Butcher grimaces. “Supe-related. It means a Supe killed your mum.”

You suspected it, readied yourself for it, stayed up late at night agonizing about it. Yet, with the evidence in your hands now, finally real, you begin to tremble. There was no running from the fact that your mother had suffered, that she had been afraid in her last moments. What did she think when the Supe showed up at her apartment? Had she begged for her life? Had your father and Monica contracted with Vought to get your mother out of the picture?

Your legs give out beneath you, vision swimming. Before you meet the ground, strong arms catch you, wrapping around you. You're enveloped in Butcher's arms as he gently guides you both to the floor, pulling you in tighter as you rest against the wall. Your lungs heave in great, powerful bursts, awful croaking sobs escaping from deep inside you. You sob in the same way you did on the night you received the life-altering news, unabashed and involuntarily. Butcher says nothing as he rocks you back and forth, a large hand running up and down your back. He lets you get it all out, like he's been here, like he knows this pain all too well. When the sobs subside and your breathing steadies, he helps you to your feet, his hands lingering just long enough to ensure you’re steady. You wipe your eyes and manage a grateful glance, knowing that speaking would only unleash another torrent of tears.

Butcher steps back slightly, his hand lingering on your shoulder as if anchoring you to the moment. His face softens, guarded but undeniably tender. He clears his throat, glancing away before meeting your eyes again.

“I know what it’s like, you know,” he says, voice quieter than you’re used to. “To lose someone and not have the answers. To lie awake at night, over and over, trying to piece together the truth that everyone else seems happy to bury.”

You blink, surprised by his tone. “You’re talking about Becca?”

He shakes his head. “Not just Becca. My brother, Lenny.”

The name hangs in the air like a heavy weight. He exhales sharply, as though it physically pains him to say it.

“Lenny was... different from me,” he continues, the rough edge in his voice softening further. “He wasn’t like this.” He gestures vaguely at himself, the trench coat, the scowl, the hardened demeanor. “He was the better one. Gentle, kind. Always trying to keep me in line. He was... the only good thing left in my life, for a long time.”

You stay quiet, the gravity in his voice pulling you in.

“But I couldn’t protect him.” His jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists. “He was dealing with his own demons, and I was too blind, too wrapped up in my own shit, to see what he needed. He...” Butcher’s voice falters, his words cracking. “He didn’t make it. Took his own life. And I’ve spent every day since wonderin’ if I could’ve stopped it, if I could’ve done somethin’ different.”

You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing against his arm, offering the same silent comfort he’d given you earlier.

“That’s why I’m telling you,” he says, looking at you with a rare vulnerability, his eyes sharp and glassy. “Whatever it takes, we’re going to get the bastard who did this to your mum. You’ve got my word. I’m not gonna let you go through this alone. Not like I did.”

His words ignite something deep inside you, a mixture of gratitude, determination, and pain. You nod, your voice unsteady but resolute. “We’ll get them. Together.”

Butcher’s lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, he nods, the unspoken understanding between you solidifying like steel.

“Just promise me,” he adds, his voice rough again, “you don’t lose yourself in this. Revenge is a funny thing. It takes more than it gives. Trust me, I know.”

You swallow hard, hearing the weight of his warning but knowing, in your heart, that this path is the only one you can take.

“I’ll try,” you say, though you’re not sure if it’s a promise you can keep.

Butcher seems to hear it in your voice but doesn’t push. Instead, he straightens, his usual stoicism returning. “Get some rest,” he says, pulling his trench coat tighter around himself. “Big day tomorrow.”

As he walks toward the door, you glance at the manila envelope still clutched in your hands. The truth you’ve been searching for is finally laid bare, but it feels heavier than you ever anticipated.

Before he steps out, Butcher pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. For a moment, there’s something in his gaze, something soft and almost protective.

“You’re tougher than you think,” he says gruffly. “Don’t forget that.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the truth and the ache of everything it means.

~~~

You're darting around your apartment in a short cotton bathrobe when three raps fall against your door in quick succession, alerting you to the arrival of Hughie and Butcher.

Thrusting the front door open, you barely greet the men before scurrying back upstairs. Dinner at the Lakehouse starts in an hour and a half. You're running late and you know it.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” you shout over your shoulder, already halfway up the stairs to your loft.

Butcher steps inside first, glancing around the expansive living room with its vaulted ceilings and tastefully expensive decor. Though he’s been here once before, briefly, you can feel the weight of his presence in the space. Hughie follows, lingering awkwardly by the door as if afraid to touch anything.

“You sure this is just yours?” Hughie asks, his voice filled with awe as he surveys the plush furniture and abstract art pieces that probably cost more than his yearly salary.

“Doesn’t look like the digs of someone in our line of work, does it?” Butcher mutters, one eyebrow cocked as he gestures toward the oversized painting above your couch.

You cringe upstairs, pausing mid-search for your shoes. Do they know the painting cost a cool twenty grand? Do they know your father didn’t even blink when you charged it to his credit card?

The size and opulence of your apartment feel like an accusation, another reminder of the gulf between your world and theirs.

Pushing the thought aside, you turn to your reflection in the mirror. The maroon dress you’ve chosen clings to you like a second skin, fabric cascading over your hips and down your thighs to lightly skim the floor. The neckline rises to your collarbones, giving the illusion of modesty. It's what happens when you turn around that's worthy of a commotion; your back is bare save for delicate straps that criss-cross your back, dipping dangerously low beneath your waist, leaving little to the imagination. You’d be lying if you said you weren't looking a little forward to seeing Butcher's reaction.

Taking a steadying breath, you smooth the silk down your sides and make your way downstairs. The clack of your heels on the wooden steps draws their attention immediately. Hughie’s head snaps up, his mouth slightly agape before he quickly averts his gaze, his cheeks flushing.

Butcher, on the other hand, doesn’t bother to look away. His eyes rake over you, unapologetic, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something darker, something you’re afraid to name. He doesn’t speak, but his jaw tightens, and for a moment, he seems rooted in place. His eyes burn a hole through you, jaw firmly remaining on the ground. It's as though he's never seen you naked, reduced to tears by his relentless—

Get a hold of yourself.

“Wow,” Hughie stammers, standing abruptly. “Uh, you—wow, yeah, you look—”

“Thanks, Hughie,” you interrupt, sparing him further embarrassment.

He awkwardly holds up the wire and listening device, his hands trembling as he explains how it works, assuring you that you'll be safe and that they'll step in if anything goes sideways. You distantly wonder would cause this mission to go awry, and what exactly the Boys would do to help you. You nod along, your mind only half-focused on his words as he hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of threading the wire through your dress. You've grown quite comfortable around the guy, but it's hard to imagine how this couldn't be an awkward interaction. He frets, deeply uncomfortable manipulating your dress or touching your skin.

“Uh, maybe you should—” Hughie stutters, gesturing vaguely toward you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Butcher growls, snatching the wire from Hughie’s hands. “I’ll do it.”

Before you can protest, Butcher steps closer, the heat of his presence washing over you. He hands you the mic, his voice low and rough. “Stick this under your sternum.”

You do as he says, tucking it into place with trembling fingers. He takes the wire and, with surprising gentleness, pulls the side of your dress open where the straps criss-cross. His fingers brush your skin as he threads the wire through, and suddenly the air feels too thick to breathe.

His hands pause at your waist, his eyes lifting to meet yours. The smoldering intensity in his gaze steals the air from your lungs, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“This,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible as he reaches up to place the earpiece in your ear, “is so you can hear us in the van.”

His eyes read wistfulness. Yours return the favour.

The proximity, the warmth of his breath fanning across your cheek, sends shivers racing down your spine. You force yourself to stay still, fighting the instinct to lean into him, to close the infinitesimal distance between you. Your flesh reacts to his touch, his breath fanning on your face sending flutters down your spine. You inhale deeply, committing his warm scent to memory. It takes all your self-control not to reach out and touch his neck.

Butcher lingers a moment too long, his eyes flicking to your lips before he catches himself. He pulls back abruptly, shoving his hands into his pockets as if to hide their tremble.

Hughie clears his throat loudly, snapping you both back to reality. “Uh, so... ready to go?”

Your cheeks burn as you step back, smoothing your dress and avoiding Hughie’s curious gaze. “Yeah,” you mumble, grabbing your coat and clutch. “Let’s get this over with.”

Shit. You have no idea how to explain to Hughie what the fuck just happened between you and Butcher. You have no idea how to explain to yourself what the fuck just happened between you and Butcher. He said it was a one time thing, and you had agreed. So why did it feel like neither of you really meant that now?

You don't wait around to find out. Cheeks hot, you pull on a heavy wool coat and throw your keys in a clutch, mumbling to Hughie and Butcher that your car is waiting downstairs for you, the three of you hurrying out of the apartment.

Your heart is racing, your cool utterly lost, and you haven't even started the mission yet.

~~~

The Lakehouse is hardly a house at all. Perched on eight sprawling acres of pristine waterfront property, the six-bedroom estate is more like a luxury resort. It boasts a private beach, a boathouse, a fully staffed kitchen, and amenities that wouldn’t be out of place in a five-star hotel. This was supposed to be your childhood home, a place where your family would gather to escape the chaos of the city. But, of course, your father’s relentless ambition had other plans. Weekdays in the city turned into every week in the city, and the Lakehouse became little more than a backdrop for corporate schmoozing and high-stakes dealmaking.

You’ve only been here once since moving back, and that visit had been for a similarly uncomfortable dinner with grumpy shareholders. That’s how it works with your father. When he invites someone to the Lakehouse, it means he’s either wooing them or trying to quell a crisis. Tonight, it’s the latter.

The heated marble floors feel too smooth under your heels as you drift through the dark wood-paneled corridors, a ghost in your father’s world. The hum of conversation grows louder as you approach the atrium, a cavernous space filled with old money charm and new money ambition. When you step inside, the low murmur of voices barely shifts.

Your father, however, notices immediately. His face lights up as he strides over, announcing your presence to the room with an enthusiasm that feels both practiced and performative. You’re greeted with nods and distracted glances from the scattered groups of investors, politicians, and Vought executives who occupy the space.

You paste on a polite smile and glide into the crowd, the maroon silk of your dress flowing like water around your frame. The fabric clings in all the right places, and you’re acutely aware of how much the dress is working in your favor tonight. You flit from one conversation to the next, exchanging hollow pleasantries with anyone willing to give you the time of day.

“Yes, I’m his daughter.”“No, I don’t work for CytoGenix yet, just shadowing.”“Of course, I’m honored to follow in his footsteps.”

You parrot the answers you know they want to hear, offering carefully crafted tidbits about your life in exchange for half-hearted words of encouragement or patronizing nods.

“So,” one executive asks, swirling his glass of whiskey, “you’ll be running CytoGenix one day, huh?”

You want to tell him you’d rather set the place on fire and dance on the ashes. Instead, you laugh, a soft, practiced sound, and offer some noncommittal response that earns an approving chuckle.

After thirty agonizing minutes, you can’t take it anymore. Your smile feels brittle, your cheeks sore from holding it in place. Excusing yourself with a vague promise to freshen up, you slip out of the atrium and into the cool night air.

The back terrace is wide and expansive, the kind of place meant for grand parties or quiet reflection. Tonight, it acts as your refuge. You pull your heavy coat tighter around your shoulders as you step to the edge, your heels clicking softly against the stone.

The view is breathtaking. The lake stretches out before you, the surface calm and glassy, reflecting the fiery reds and burnt oranges of the setting sun. The horizon blurs in the distance, where the vibrant sky meets the still water. The crisp fall air fills your lungs, sharp and invigorating, cutting through the lingering tension from the evening.

For a moment, you let yourself exhale fully, allowing the facade to fall away. Out here, there are no prying eyes, no hollow pleasantries, no suffocating expectations. Just the quiet lap of water against the shore and the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze.

You grip the stone railing and gaze out at the horizon, wondering if this is what your father feels when he’s here, if he ever lets himself feel anything at all. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you’re only here for one reason: to play your part. But the thought lingers like a shadow, just out of reach, as the sun dips below the horizon and the lake fades into twilight.

Your serenity is interrupted when the terrace door opens with a creak. You swear under your breath at the unwelcome intrusion.

“Hey there sweetheart,” a voice beckons out behind you. Instead of the warmth you’d normally feel at this kind of greeting, you find the hair at the back of your neck standing on end, unsettled to your core. Your stomach tightens, and you hear Butcher’s muttered curse in your earpiece.

You turn, finding Homelander closing the door behind him, joining you on the balcony.

“Homelander.” You turn, keeping your tone neutral, but your heart beats louder in your chest. "Enjoying the evening?"

He steps onto the balcony, closing the door behind him, his gaze tracing you with that predatory intensity that sends a ripple of discomfort through your veins. “Indeed I am.” He eyes you up and down, slow and deliberate, his words syrupy and laced with an unsettling warmth. “Enjoying the view even more.”

“Fuckin' prick,” Butcher growls under his breath through the earpiece.

You offer a strained smile, your pulse quickening despite yourself. “The lake’s amazing this time of year,” you say, grasping at the first thing that pops into your mind, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

Homelander takes a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Not as incredible as you,” he says with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His hand rests on your waist, and you recoil instinctively, every nerve in your body screaming to move, to get away. “You’re something special, you know that?” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping, “I’ve had my eye on you all night.”

A burst of anger flashes in Butcher’s voice. “I’m gonna kill him,” he hisses, but you can hear the strain in his words—he knows he can’t act just yet.

You swallow. Despite your knowledge of who he is, what he is capable of, you're not immune to his charisma. The quasi-genuine emotion in his voice is almost believable, bombarding your defenses. You stiffen against him, clutching onto the balcony railing like it might save you.

Your stomach churns as Homelander's fingers curl possessively around your waist. Your muscles stiffen, but you stand your ground, ignoring the dread welling inside you. “I was just heading back inside,” you mutter, the tension radiating from your body palpable. You try to sidestep, but his hand snaps out, gripping your wrist in an iron hold, pulling you back toward him.

“No need for that, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your ear, his voice low, with a dangerous edge. “Don’t tell me those perky tits and round ass are gonna go to waste.”

“Enough, I'm going in,” Butcher's voice cracks through your earpiece, barely holding back the fury in his words. “No!” Hughie chirps, eliciting jumbled groans from Butcher. If he thinks he's disgusted listening to it, he should try hearing it spoken directly into his ear.

You press your palm to the cool railing, feeling the weight of his gaze on you, the air thick with tension. You take stock of the situation, calculating your next move. The terrace is isolated, the fall air too cool for the partygoers inside. No one would hear you if you screamed right now. Still, your proximity to the party would prevent Homelander from doing anything too egregious. He may be sociopathic and narcissistic, but he's not stupid. He can't hurt you, at least not right now.

Your mind races as you swallow the vile words bubbling up. It’s your turn now. You meet his gaze head-on, your voice barely shaking. “Back off, asshole,” you say, each word dragging itself from your throat with the kind of anger you’ve been keeping locked inside for months. “Step the fuck off.”

The world feels suspended for a heartbeat, and then another. You brace yourself for whatever comes next—the snap of your wrist, the rush of air as he lifts you into the sky—but all you hear is his shallow, ragged breath. He doesn’t move.

To your utter shock, he lets go of you. Only his hand remains, grasped around your wrist. You turn to face him.

You feel the anger roll off of him in waves, concentrated and palpable. You fight to keep your breathing even as you contend with the electricity falling off of him, a live wire spinning out behind you.

“You know who my father is,” you state, voice calm and even once again. “You don't want to do this.”

“That fuckin’ bastard is getting a bullet—”

His face falls, menacing energy leaking out of him. You feel the malicious energy exuding from his very being, every nerve in his body wanting to hurt you in this very moment, the barest thread tying him to reality.

Please, you think. Give Butcher a reason to run in here. Let him save me.

He holds onto you, fist tightening around your wrist painfully. He gazes up at you, unnaturally blue eyes pleading.

“I'm going in. I don't fucking care I’m going,” Butcher crackles into your ear.

“Stop,” you say, simultaneously to Butcher and Homelander. “Just walk away.”

For a moment, the tension is unbearable. But then, to your shock, both men stand back. Butcher's voice fades from within your ear. Homelander takes a step backward, though it’s not out of mercy, but rather a calculation. A predator retreating from its cunning prey. His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach for you again.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice almost too smooth. He turns away from you with a languid motion, desperately trying to coax his boner away.

You swallow the bile rising in your throat and steel yourself. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

You stare up at him, daring him to act up even a little bit. His eyes are lifeless, shark-like. He doesn't move.

His smile is a razor. “Sure.”

You take a breath, then turn, letting the distance grow between you. “I really need to get back to my dad,” you mutter, your voice almost too casual as you slip past him and back inside.

You slip back inside, the warmth of the party pressing against you. Your footfalls echo against the wood panelled walls, softening the jagged edges of your inhaled breaths. You pause for a second, ensuring he isn't following you, before ducking back into the dinner party.

~~~

Dinner is served: Filet mignon, perfectly seared, accompanied by a side of Catalonian salad.

It takes all of your energy not to tear into the meal, desperately trying to recall your brief time spent at finishing school in your teens. An array of assorted cutlery borders your meal; you select what you hope to god is the correct fork.

The minutes stretch on in blessed silence, the clink of cutlery and soft murmurs as everyone devours the fresh seafood. Cloth napkins flutter delicately to dab at dribbles of butter staining chins.

“A toast,” Ashley says, cutting through the meal’s quiet indulgence. “I'd like to extend Vought's gratitude toward the Morgans tonight for this lovely get together,” she raises her wine glass, all of the partygoers offering theirs up in the toast. She raises her glass in a practiced gesture, and everyone follows suit, toasting dutifully before draining their drinks.

When she speaks again her expression is serious. “But,” she continues, her tone now sharp, “I'd like to discuss the status of V2. After the recent attack, our shareholders are understandably concerned.”

Monica stands from the table, patronizing smile plastered on her face. “Ashley,” she begins, flashing a disingenuous smile, “We so appreciate your condolences on CytoGenix’s recent loss of two beloved security guards. May they rest in peace.” Her hand presses to her chest in exaggerated grief, screwing her eyes shut in mock sincerity.

You scoff quietly, wondering how someone so transparent in their deceit made it this far in the industry. How did your father fall for her when your mother was right there?

She continues. “What happened was a freak accident. V2 remains a well-guarded secret. We can assure you that CytoGenix is fast at work replacing all of the destroyed product.”

The room erupts into hushed murmurs, sidelong glances communicating dissatisfaction with Monica's response. She's trying desperately to downplay what happened, what you did, and she's failing miserably.

“Monica, as an executive at both Vought and CytoGenix, I'm a little concerned about your nonchalance. Are you not concerned about the loss of 13 billion dollars in profits here?” Ashley’s voice is measured but biting, her sharp gaze trained on Monica without faltering.

Monica's face falls ever so slightly. It's barely perceptible, but you notice the infinitesimal twitch in her smile, the twinkle dying in her eyes. The energy in the room shifts as the din of cutlery and small talk silence. The two women stare each other down. Electric tension crackles around the room.

Then, the squeak of a chair as it’s pushed back snaps you from your thoughts. You’re caught off guard when your father rises from his seat, one hand raised in an almost theatrically calm gesture.

“Ladies, please,” he says, a placating smile on his face. “I am willing to put my name and reputation on the line here to tell all of you,” he makes a sweeping gesture to the room, “CytoGenix is committed to ensuring favorable outcomes for everyone sitting at this table. I have taken on the responsibility of guarding the remaining vials myself. The future of V2 rests under my watchful eye.” His chest erupts in a hearty chuckle, as though it was silly that anyone doubted his company's ability to make money. A laugh that threatened danger if it was not met with a positive response.

As if on cue, everyone devolves into soft laughter, like the room itself has exhaled collectively. Stanley Morgan, ever the consummate politician. Ability to command a room unmatched, he basks in the light chatter of the relieved guests.

Sometimes your father's power scares you. Times like right now.

You find an excuse to leave once dinner is finished, feigning sleepiness to avoid being dragged into the inevitable dessert round with the insufferable business crowd. As you pull on your coat, your father crosses the room and gives you a quick, almost absent hug. He presses a kiss to your hairline, the gesture so fleeting, so routine, but for a moment, you feel a flicker of something you can’t quite place.

“Stay safe, kiddo. I love you,” he says, and for a moment you forget. So you pretend.

You pretend that you just had a normal weekly dinner with him and your mom, just like old times. You pretend that she's just in the other room, finishing up the whipped toppings for her favorite dessert, key lime pie. You pretend that your father always tells you that he loves you, that he doesn't save it for occasions when he's drunk and you've finally done something that makes him proud.

You hug him back. You tell him you love him too.

#billy butcher #fanfic #fanfiction #theboys #the boys tv #the boys amazon #the boys fanfic #william butcher #the boys #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher fanfic #billy butcher x you #the boys series #angst #butcher x reader

43 notes · View notes

clarkeyhill · 6 months ago

Text

Poison ivy ~ George Clarkey Angst/smut

Being Chris' hometown best friend was hard enough, but being George Clarke's pet peeve was worse. He couldn't stand you, so he says. No matter how much you try and like eachother for the benefit of Chris it never worked. But you're not sure why you kept butting heads.

You were making your way to London from Jersey to see Chris for the summer, something you did annually since he moved away. You got more close with him after his breakup so started visiting more frequently, which only seemed to piss his flatmate George off. You arrived at Heathrow after a long flight, wheeling your luggage you pan around the arrival area for Chris, as short as he is you managed to spot him. "Hi Chrissy" you exclaimed excited to see him again, "how have you been" he asked giving you a hug. "I've been good, how's things with you" you furrow your eyebrows looking worried. He sighed and said "I've been better, but I'm glad you've come to visit" you let out a small smile and embrace him in a hug again, tighter this time. "Let's get you to the flat" he says taking your suitcase leading you to the Uber.

You arrive at the flat and make your way to the lift when your stomach just burns, you knew who was going to be on the other side of the door and you'd have to hold your tongue for the next week as hard as it was. Chris saw your jaw clench "I wish you two would just see eye to eye and stop being prats" he sighed. "Me too Chris but I'm not sure that will ever happen" you shrug, making your way out the lift. You look at eachother with small smiles before he opens the door. "George? Arthur? Where are you? Y/n's here" your expression changes like the British weather and turns cold. "Does she not like jersey" George scoffs looking at Chris "she's always here" you glare at him with red in your eyes "I'm not being funny George but I don't come here for you, no matter your opinion you'll never get rid of me" you roll your eyes and make you way to Chris' room. Arthur catches you in the hall way and smiles "ignore him, I'm glad you're here. I finally have someone to do baby Guinness shots with!" He claps. You laugh and shake your head "missed you too Artie"

You plop yourself in Chris' gaming chair and just stare at the picture of the two of you on his desk and a small tear forms. You loved London and visiting Chris but it was always difficult when his immature flatmate had to dig his claws in. Chris knocks on his door walking in "I just need to nip to the studio with Arthur to collect some filming gear. George is heading out soon shortly so you won't have to worry, have a nap I know you're tired, see you soon" he blew you a playful kiss as you pretended to catch it. You sigh and rummage through your suitcase to find an oversized tee to put on before you take Chris' advice on the nap. You tie your hair up in a messy bun and slip on your t-shirt. You hear a thud coming from the living room, you get up and poke your head out of the doorway. "George?" You bellow out, no answer. You hesitate but scuffle out of the bedroom to find George had dropped his camera on the floor in a rush to get out. "And what do you want?" He spit as he looks at you. "Nothing I just wanted to see what the noise was, forget I fucking asked" you retort and spin on your heels back into Chris' room slamming the door behind you. Your blood boils as you clench your fists. Nobody's is here you say to your self, go confront him. You slip your jeans back and and go back out to the living room.

"What the fuck is your problem George" you hiss as you look him up and down "I'm fed up of coming here to see your miserable face and deal with your foul attitude" you continue. He pauses for a second to catch his air to reply "YOU" he shouts "you turn up here and parade around like you're something special and you're not" he spits. The words sting but you don't let it bother you. "I do? You act all high and mighty when in reality you're just a sour faced boy who has no respect" you clap back. He moves closer to you "say that again" his lip curls, "I fucking dare you" you're now face to face with him and your face burns. "You're just a little insecure boy George, deal with it" he locks eyes with yours and halts for a minute.

"You're so hot when you're angry" he smirks. Your eyes widen "I beg your fucking pardon?" You retort. "You heard me, loud and clear" he walks off into his bedroom to swap his camera over. You spin on your heels in confusion "tell me what you mean by that comment George" you holler. "I'm more of a physical demonstration kinda guy" he smirks, he strides back over to you and places his finger under your chin lifting it upwards. He locks a rough and intimate kiss onto your lips, biting at your lips, for some reason you don't reject it. The anger you both pent up collides and you tangle your fingers in his hair.

"We shouldn't do this, you hate me" you break away from him and look up. "I don't hate you y/n, I crave you in ways i shouldn't" you look back up to him and all your anger fades, you decide to test the chemistry and slip your fingers into the seam of his briefs "I'm a visual learner myself so it happens" you smirk

With this he cups your lower back and lifts you up pressing you against his cold bedroom walls your lips intertwine with his again as you feel yourself becoming vulnerable to his touch. He unbuttons the top part of your jeans and lowers them down from beneath you, letting them fall to your ankles. He keeps a firm hold of you as he lifts you off the wall and plants you on his bed

He tussles with the belt on his jeans as he keeps his eyes locked into yours "take off that t-shirt for me y/n" he asks whilst scanning your body. You sit up and place yourself on your knees and slip the t-shirt off your body, revealing the pink lace bra you're wearing, you never broke the eye contact with him "fuck" his mutters "you're fucking gorgeous" he runs his fingers through the strap of your bra as he lowers it down the the top of your breast, you quiver at his touch "take your jeans off George, I wanna show you something" you climb off the bed and kneel on his floor his eyes widen, you feel the dominance course through your blood as you help him unzip his jeans. His hard shaft prominent through the material. You lower his boxers and wrap your hand around it, you form a ball of saliva in your mouth and release some on this tip of his shaft, locking eyes as you do so, you tease the tip of him with your tongue as he lets our small groans, not letting him get his own way just yet. He quivers at your motions "you look so beautiful down there" he manages to slip out. You don't reply, instead you waste no time in showing him out how "special" you really are as he quotes earlier on, you take him fully in your mouth, catching him by surprise, his head jolts back has he forms your hair into a ponytail "fuck!" He exclaims "you're so fucking pretty" his body signals you to go deeper and you follow his lead, he motions your head with your hair as you feel him at the back of your throat. Showing off the fact you have no gag reflex. His eyes widen as he realises this.

You decide to take back control as you slow your pace down, leaving him gagging for more. You take your mouth of his shaft and wipe your mouth. He looks at you confused as you stand up "show me how could at physical demonstrations you are Clarkey" you tease his eyes rush with adrenaline as he grips your neck and pushes you into the bed positioning himself on top of you, he rips your thong in a rush to regain control, your eyes shot open as you feel testosterone coursing through him. He returns the favour and leaves a trail of spit on the top of your clit using his thumb to spread it around. You bite your lip as he pays back the teasing, rubbing the tip of his shaft up and down the outside "how bad you want it y/n" he mutters. Your heart races "I want you to fuck all the hatred out of me" you whine. His eyes roll and he abruptly enters you with no hesitation, your jaw drops and your head spins "fuck!" You exclaim unable to form anything other than that. He grips your legs as he fucks you with no remorse, leaving nail marks in your thighs from the force. "You're taking me so well, good girl" he sniggers releasing the grip on your legs and fastening his hand round your neck once again

The grip was tight, you almost couldn't bear it but it send shockwaves through your body. You could feel yourself becoming close to your max, George watched you struggle under his grip "all fours now" he bellowed grabbing your waist and flipping you over sending your body into a tornado of emotions, your body waiting to erupt like a volcano "fuck George I'm close" you exclaim holding on to his headboard, he grips your waist as he enters you again for a second time without hesitation forming your hair into a Ponytail again. The grip becomes more abrupt as your legs start to quiver from Beneath him "cum for me darling" he says as your body breaks from underneath you. "FUCK" you let out as your legs shake in pleasure "good girl" he sniggers

You collapse underneath him and roll over "lay down George" you say "I want you to cum underneath me too" you say asserting your dominance once again. He pants and he lies down. You straddle his waist as you hover over his face and lock lips with him, biting his bottom lip. Whilst doing this you slowly slip him back inside you as you feel a gasp form on his mouth whilst your kissing. "Fuck y/n you're insane" he lets out he holds onto you waist one more time as you ride him, he admires your body whilst fighting the urge to climax "cum for me George" you smirk as his head jolts back into his pillows his nails once again digging into your hips he lets out a moan as you feel him release inside you. You pant and bite your lip at the fact you made George act that way. Him quivering in your touch, releasing all the anger onto eachother. You climb off him and lay next to him, you both try to catch your breath as you look at eachother in a different light.

"You're fucking unreal" he says tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, you smile "you're not bad yourself, Clarkey"

🫶🏻

#george clarke #george clarkey

82 notes · View notes

moody-alcoholic · 8 months ago

Text

Special Delivery Service

Chapter 9 - The Old Friend

Summary: Simon x Reader. 3.7k words. 141 are in France to investigate the terrorist cell causing havoc, but maybe they should have been looking closer to home.

CW: mentions of fictional terrorist attacks, angst.

Previous - masterlist - Next

Enjoy <3

It was the first time you felt out of place, like you weren’t supposed to be there. When you walked into the storeroom with Simon it felt like daggers when everyone's eyes turned to you. John’s was the worst. You hung your head feeling embarrassed, you almost wanted to just leave say you’ll see Simon when he get’s back. But he insisted it was okay, and that you should come along.

“A word,” John said to Simon through gritted teeth. You sheepishly walk over to the table where Kyle and Johnny are. There is gear and paperwork everywhere somethings stacked in neat piles other stuff just spread out with markings.

“Ever been to Paris lass?” Johnny asks. Even though you definitely don’t belong here he still has a massive grin on his face. You nod taking another step up to the table. You can see maps of what looks like Paris and other cities you don’t recognise.

“What are you going to do? Kill some terrorists?” You joke trying to lighten the heavy feeling in the air. Kyle raises an eyebrow at you Johnny’s smile fades a little. You swallow hard watching their expressions change.

“I’m joking.” You say feeling embarrassed.

“How much has Si told you ‘bout our old jobs?” Johnny asks. You open your mouth to answer but the door opening behind distracts you and has your head turning to see Simon and John walk in.

“Laswell is meeting with us at Heathrow.” John says, there’s an edge to his voice, he sounds annoyed. You want to turn and look at Simon who you can feel behind you, you wonder what they talked about they weren’t gone for long. Everyone's listening to what John is saying but it feels like he’s being intentionally vague.

“-it’s a shame none of you learned French.” You hear John say.

“I speak French.” You say. They all turn to look at you.

“Fluently?” John asks you nod.

“I had a knack for languages in school.” John looks around the table and down at the plans. He thinks for a second then nods. It’s almost like you can hear what he’s thinking. Guess you’re not totally useless after all.

——————————

You’re nervous, tapping your leg under the table, so much so Kate has to put her hand on your knee to get you to stop. You wrap your hands round the coffee you’ve almost finished. What if you couldn’t understand them? What if you can’t help and John has wasted his chance. You push the thoughts away as you wait for the other man to show up. It was supposed to be simple, that’s what John said when you all arrived at the rental you were staying at. Two guys having a meeting, your job was to listen, translate, and do as you’re told. John showed you pictures of the men in question and you had them burned into your memory, looked like your average looking middle eastern guys. They looked young maybe early 20’s it made you sad to think people so young had so much hate.

“How long have you and Riley been together?” Kate asks suddenly. You try not to look shocked at the question.

“It’s not like that. We’re not..together.” You say taking a sip of coffee, or maybe it is, you just haven’t put a label on it yet.

“I see the way he looks at you.” Kate says pushing her sun glasses back up on her face. You look back down at the coffee, trying to hide your blushing.

“How long have you worked with them?” You ask. Changing the subject.

“Years, when they were still active duty we used to work very closely together.” Kate says. You still don’t know what you think of her but from the reunion at the airport it seemed at least her and John were close. All smiles and hugging. Kate Laswell CIA, John introduced her as. You shook her hand as she looked back at John confused. You wanted to pick their brains ask them all about her but it felt rude.

“You and John seem close.” You say trying to pry information from her. It didn’t mean to come across as a dig at her but it felt like one. Especially after she asked about Simon.

“Yeah, he’s saved my ass a couple of times, I saved his too.” She smiles sipping her coffee. She looks older then John, or maybe they’re the same age. John doesn’t even seem that old, you keep forgetting to ask Simon how old he really is. You suspect the bags under his eyes and wisps of silver hair you seen now and then make him seem older then he is.

“Did you to ever..” You trail off not really knowing how to ask. She smiles and lets out a little chuckle.

“Strictly professional, besides he’s not my type.” You smile at her. She’s nice at least and doesn’t seem to be bothered by your presence. You look past her seeing the man you’ve been waiting for walk into the cafe. He greets his friend and sits down. You turn your body so you can hear them better. The conversation starts off normal up until their coffee is bought over. The it turns to something more serious.

“They’re talking about the attack.” You relay to Kate, keeping your voice low. You’re trying to listen for specifics. Your fingers tap the table as you try to keep up with what they’re saying. You haven’t really practised French that much and they are talking quite fast. Kate told you to pay attention to dates, numbers, locations, specifics like that even if they didn’t make sense.

“They’re not happy the second bomb was found.” You say, you’re surprised they’re talking about this so open in such a public place. It makes you nervous, they’re not afraid if innocent people get hurt. You try to relax focusing all your effort on trying not to look so obvious listening in to their conversation.

“They know a guy on the inside, who works for the metro. He’s the one they’re using to plant the bombs, apparently he’s under too much suspicion, he can’t do it.” You look at Kate she’s writing down what you’re saying in a notebook.

“They’re talking about an airport, not Charles de Gaulle, another one. They have tickets, they’re leaving tonight.” You say hearing one of the men hand over a ticket to the other.

“They’re talking about another target. Somewhere big, that’s why they have to leave. It’s in Paris.” You try to will them to say a name anything. Instead the conversation abruptly ends with the buzzing of a phone. The man who showed up later says his goodbyes and takes his leave. You watch as he passes you and Kate out the cafe.

“We need someone to tail the mark, he’s leaving now, with a plane ticket. Get the ticket.” Kate says on the phone, then turns to you.

“Order us another coffee.” You nod waving the waiter over asking for a refill. You watch as the man leaves the cafe, a few seconds later you see a glimpse of Johnny. Your heart starts beating rapidly as you watch him weave through the crowds after the man. You sip the coffee letting it burn your mouth suddenly worried about him. He knows what he’s doing. You remind yourself they’re SAS soldiers.

Kate keeps a conversation with you about something generic, you’re only half listening your ears still burning like you’re waiting to start listening to another conversation. It’s almost midday now the sun is belting down, the coffee not helping. Before you know it you’re uncomfortably sweating, you know you have to stay until the other man leaves. You hear a phone ringing it’s the man behind you, you look at Kate who smiles moving her hand to the pen.

You listen carefully, it’s harder when you’re only getting one side of the conversation apparently. Your breath catches in your throat as you hear the words out his mouth translating them in your head. You almost want to turn around and ask him to repeat it, then you remember the situation.

“The other man knows he’s being followed.” You say to Kate. Before she can respond the man gets up from the table rushing out the cafe in the direction you saw Johnny go. Kate is already on her feet on the phone before you have chance to process what’s happening. You follow her blindly back to the house you came from. You hope Johnny is okay and they managed to get the word to him. You rush through the doors to see John and Simon gathered round the table. Kyle and Johnny are not here, they turn to you as you walk over to the table.

“Good work.” John says to you and you smile looking down at the map on the table. Kate and John talk when something grabs your eye, it’s a piece of paper with part of a poem written on it. You pull it out from the stack. There is a rough translation scribbled next to it. It’s a bad translation though.

“What’s this?” You ask holding it up. John almost looks annoyed your interrupted their conversation.

“Part of a poem we think, they’ve been using them to send messages, thought it was important but the translation says otherwise.” Price says crossing his arms.

“Chanson de la Seine.” You say looking at it. “The translation is bad though. Notre dame jalouse. It’s not; our lady is jealous, that’s a direct translation. It’s talking about the location on the river seine, the Notre-Dame cathedral.” You look at them waiting to see if they understand. Then it hits you what it means. Shit.

——————————

You’re laying on the sofa watching the TV when everyone leaves. The news is showing the recent ‘terrorist scare’ which as lead to the Notre-Dame being evacuated. You smile, you helped cause that. It was a good thing, the safest thing to do. Johnny and Kyle came back from chasing the guy not long after John and Kate had made calls to the French authorities. They didn't get him instead coming back when John called them. You weren't really listening much after that, they all kind of went around doing their own things for about an hour before they were picked up by some gendarmes.

Even Kate went with them, you wished you could have gone too but instead you were told to stay here and expect them to be back in a few hours. John had given you all the rest of the poem and song verses they had collected and asked you to look over them. You haven’t bothered yet looking over at the pile lying on the coffee table. You should make a start though its the least you can do to help them out, and they probably need them done sooner rather then later.

You sit up picking the pile up while watching the TV. It kind of feels like your in school again doing your French homework for the week. The first two have been translated well so you put them too the side. There are some old classic poems you recognise from your french classes, the rest are songs old and new. The verses are nitpicked though not in any kind of order. Maybe there was an order but you didn’t have all the information. Some were dated and had locations on them others were blank.

You look back up at the TV as the news caster says a British counter-terrorism unit has been sent over to aid with the ongoing attacks. You see John in the background as the caster moves to the side, then Simon and Kyle. Simon has that scary mask on the one that looks like a skull, even from the brief shot before they move away it sends shivers up your spine. You don’t see Kate anywhere, you assume since she was the only one who left the house without all the military gear on, she’s probably behind the scenes.

You don’t have time to think about it much longer before there is a sharp knock at the door. Your body freezes in fear as your hand grips the paper you were reading. You wait a second looking towards the front door. There’s another harsh knock that goes on for longer. You turn the TV off waiting, not knowing what to do. If it was them they all have keys, plus you just saw them all on live TV. You wait for the next sound expecting another knock but instead you hear a power tool.

You panic, they’re going to break in. You stand up clutching the papers in your chest with your phone thinking of a place to hide. There’s a chubby in the kitchen where the cleaning supplies are, you could go in there. You head over to it but the decide different. There is an en-suite in the master bedroom, that has to have a lock.

The drilling has stopped and you hear metal clanking you have to pick. You rush into the master bedroom leaving the door open and lock the en-suite as you hear voices. You slap your hand to your mouth so you don’t make a sound the papers falling from your arms. Someone says search the place. You can’t hear them very well but you hear footsteps in the bedroom. You hold your breath hoping he’ll think the door is a wardrobe and give up when he can’t get in. The door handle jiggles but thankfully the person gives up.

You hear more people talking, there must be at least 4. You scoot over to the door and press your ear up against it. You try to concentrate on them talking your ears ringing as your heart pounds in your chest, you press your hands against the door your body shaking.

“How did they know?” Someone says.

“The woman she’s American CIA.” Another replies, you’re struggling to hear your mind racing at 100 miles an hour at least you don’t have to translate for anyone. Then you remember your phone, you pull it up in your shaking hands. Who do you call? You go to your contacts pulling them up and thinking. Maybe you shouldn’t call you can’t really talk right now. You hear power tools again.

“Are you almost done with the door?” Someone says. “Have you finished setting the bugs up?”

“Yeah, should I put some in the bedrooms?” A new voice asks.

“Only if you want to sort through hours of snoring audio.”

“Come on let’s get out of here, before they come back.” The same deep authoritative voice says. You’re shaking as you type on the phone, you don’t even know what to say. You think you hear them leave but you’re too scared to look instead sitting up against the door. No one replies to your message, you feel tears streaming down your cheeks as the adrenaline wears off. You stay in the spot on the bathroom door for what feels like hours when you hear the front door again.

This time using a key, it has to be them, a second later you hear their voices. You stand up your body stiff legs aching as you leave the safety of the en-suite. You’re shaking as you go out into the living room seeing them all turn to look at you. Concern washes over their faces. You put your finger to your mouth your eyes wide looking round them all. They look confused you reach out grabbing John’s arm and pulling him towards the bedroom gesturing for the others to follow. They do if not very slowly, when they’re all in the room you close the door behind them.

“People broke in while you were out, they were looking for something. They knew about Kate being CIA. I think they were planting microphones, something around the place. But not in the bedrooms, they said they didn’t want to listen to all the audio of snoring. I don’t know how many there were but they broke the door with power tools.” You pause for a second realising that you’ve just been blurting words out. Your eyes flick up to Simon, you wish he could hold you right now, you wish you could see his face. His scary mask is gone but he’s still sporting the ski mask you’ve seen him in before.

“Okay, sit down.” John says pressing your shoulders so you sit down on the bed.

“Take a breath and start again.” He says. You follow his instructions talking in a big gulp of air and starting again. You go over everything how you were watching TV when you heard them knocking on the door. You hid in the en-suite and listened to them talking. They said they were planting bugs and then you were too scared to leave. You show them the word vomit text you sent then the next thing you remember is hearing them come back.

“Soap, Gaz search the place, Ghost stay with her, Laswell with me.” Everyone but Simon leaves the room. You’re still gripping your phone when Simon rests one of his hands on your shoulder, it makes you tense up for some reason but he gives you a gentle squeeze anyway. You try to relax as you wait for everyone to finish doing their jobs.

“You did good.” Simon says, you look up at him, he’s looking down at you his expression soft. You smile at him, your cheeks still puffy from crying.

“How did it go, did you find anything?” You ask. He shakes his head and you nod. You don’t know if that mean’s they didn’t find anything or he can’t talk about it until they know the place is clear.

“Got one.” Johnny says, you look through the bedroom door to see him throw something on the table. A few minutes later Kyle throws one on the table. Then Johnny with another. You feel sick it reminds you of when Kyle found the cameras in your place. This is different though way more dangerous, these people are planting bombs to kill people. You watch as John picks one up in his hand before looking over into the bedroom. His eyes meet yours for a second then he looks up at Simon.

“We’re leaving tonight.” John says suddenly. Simon walks out the room over to the table while you sit there watching them rush around to pack everything up. You had barely been in Paris 12 hours and now you’re already leaving. You head into the en-suite picking up the papers you dropped when you rushed in there. You bring them out to hand them to John who’s stacking papers back into folders.

“Did you manage to go through them all?” He asks. You shake your head. He goes to open his mouth again but then a phone starts ringing, then another. John take his phone out his pocket. You hear Kate talking too. You watch as they both lock eyes with each other. John goes over to turn the TV on. You sneak past him watching the news caster, your stomach drops when you see the footage. It's London. You’re not even listening to Kate and John on their calls just watching the plumb of smoke rise up out the underground station entrance.

“Holy shit.” You gasp your hand flying to your mouth. Simon, Johnny and Kyle come over to see too.

“What are they saying?” Kate asks now she’s off the phone. John leaves going into the bedroom closing the door behind him.

“It happened about an hour ago, evening rush hour. They’re not sure who did it.” You say looking round as you translate. It’s making a lump form in your stomach.

“12 people dead, more injured thats the preliminary numbers.” You feel your phone start vibrating in your pocket. You pull it out it’s your mum.

“I have to get this, my mum will be worried.” You say going off to the side. When your mum answers the phone you hear sniffling. Everything stops your body freezes you feel a lump form in your throat.

“Mum?” You say hoping she’s just worried about you.

“It’s Dylan” She sobs. You can’t breathe, your brother Dylan. You feel sick and dizzy all at once.

“Mum?” you say again your voice breaking. “Is he dead mum?” She doesn’t answer her sobbing just getting louder.

“Oh my God.” You breathe down the phone gripping it as hard as you can. Your stomach’s doing flips. Your little brother, this can’t be happening. He’s the good kid the one who was supposed to do something with his life.

“Hello?” There is a new voice on the line now. It’s familiar though you recognise it.

“Yes, hello?” You say fully sobbing now, you hear the door to the bedroom open behind you.

“It’s Christine from next door. Dylan is alive, at least that was the last update we got.” She says.

“W-when was that?” You as trying to wipe the tears away. You feels someone come up behind you. You hope it’s Simon, all you want now is to get back to the UK.

“About 10 minutes We don’t know what is happening I assume you heard about the bomb?” She says.

“Yeah.”

“He was on the train, he was injured. A paramedic called us, but we have not had an update since.” She says. You can hear the sadness in her voice too, and your mother sobbing in the background.

“I’m so sorry.” She says. You don’t know what to say.

“Please keep me updated.” You say your voice breaking again. You don’t want to hang up you can’t not while your mother is breaking in the background. You wish you were in London, you wish you were home. You put the phone down turning to see everyone's eyes on you. It was Johnny who had come up behind you, you swallow hard holding the phone up.

“My brother was on the train.” You manage before you just turn into a sobbing mess, the reality finally hitting you. Johnny doesn’t hesitate wrapping his arms round you and squeezing you tight. You wish it was Simon holding you instead, you wish your brother was okay. You wish you were home.

Banners by Firefly Graphics

This chapter failed the bechdel test so hard. I will make it up next chapter...

#call of duty #cod #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #simon ghost riley #fanfic #john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #simon x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader

64 notes · View notes