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tryin2writehere · 7 months ago

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Gentlemen Fanfic (Eddie x Susie)

PEOPLE IN GLASS HOUSES

Susie Glass’s layers rivaled an onion, but with hardened surfaces like the earth’s own fucking mantle. A polished design of layered wools, tweed, velvets and silks, as though they could literally armor her against a consistent onslaught of fatuity-prone workmates. Eddie spent long moments dealing devilish ideas of unfurling her from these layers. He often soothed himself with the notion that a personal union could be possible without imploding their professional partnership.

He found himself seeking signs like a meteorologist to predict her temperature, (cooly aloof with a sixty percent chance of snark.) When she warmed, and her eyes revealed a playful gleam, it could set him on the edge of reason.

Like he called her forth with desire alone, the outline of her body emanated on the decorative glass frame of his study. Before she was even fully in the room, he smiled, “Hello Susan.”

“Evening Edward,” she returned and sashayed across the room in a perfectly tailored blue plaid suit he’d never seen. She planted herself in a chair across from Eddie.

The low light glinted off the amber bourbon Eddie poured into baccarat tumblers, “did you hear back from Brussels?”

“Our Belgian friends have a different timeline in mind and no sense of urgency. I reckon we’ll hear sometime next week.”

“Do you speak any Flemish?” The most successful way, he found, to get to know Susie Glass, was micro-information obtained in seemingly innocuous questions. That and surviving nazi twat machine-gun fire.

“Very little. Mostly vulgarities, really. I get by with French. You?”

“Not a word,” he rounded his desk, sat on the edge, and handed her the drink, eyeing her on-business demeanor.

She sipped, looking up at him through thick eyelashes and fringe, and his chest tightened slightly.

“Jack is doing well?”

Her countenance visibly lightened with her brother’s name, her azure eyes suddenly balmy, “he is indeed. Fortuitous you mentioning him.”

“How so?”

“I’ve a meeting tomorrow afternoon with an unpleasant but necessary gym owner. Thought you might like to join me.”

“I would like to join you, yes. A gym owner?”

“I’m looking to acquire a few more locations.”

“For Jack?”

“He isn’t ready to train, and I need to keep him busy, keep his mind occupied while he’s recovering. GlassKnuckle is a fine place, but his pride…he needs a bit of a fresh start. He’d be a good coach really,” she paused and smirked. “He’d be a shit awful manager, but I can outsource that to a degree. It’s the only environment I reckon will keep him contented until he can train again.”

Eddie nearly asked if fighting again was even a realistic possibility, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to squash the hopeful glimmer in her eyes or again draw attention to his own culpability in Jack’s condition.

Instead he asked, “who is this unpleasant Gym Owner?”

“Sugar Walsh. He owns three locations, and rumours abound he’s looking to unload them and retire.”

“What time tomorrow?”

“Two o’clock. You available then?”

“I’m not, unfortunately. I’m taking Chuckles and Junior to the doctor.”

“The doctor?” she leaned forward in concern.

“Just a scheduled check-up for the baby, but she asked me -“

“Of course,” she nodded, “you’re a good brother.”

“Mm. Yes, I try. Can we reschedule?”

“Had better not. As I said, he’s unpleasant as it is.”

She stared into her drink, her posture stiffening slightly, her body weighted again with some unknown problem-to-be-solved.

“Susie?”

She glanced up at him.

“Is there something -”

“- nothing I can’t handle,” she blinked softly.

“Of course,” he nodded again. “We should return around four pm tomorrow; would you like to have dinner with me, and we can discuss some overdue security upgrades?”

“Dinner with the Duke of Halstead. What shall I wear?”

“Something blue. Compliments your eyes.”

“Hm. Blue it is.” She swallowed the last of her drink and was gone before he could conjure a chaste enough reason for her to stay.

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tryin2writehere · 4 months ago

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TW: Descriptions of violence and non-con, so if that is difficult for you to read about, please skip this bit of fic and take care of you!

Chapter 1 is

People In Glass Houses

Chapter 2

Edward Horniman’s voice was a trip down a long gravel road at midnight, rumbling out his ridiculously confident effusions. Sometimes that voice just uttering Susie’s name flared an inconvenient arousal within. She often contemplated how lovely it would be to hear him reading aloud, vacillating between his clipped, precise enunciations and his rocky waterfall oratory. Ideally, Eddie reading to her would include wrapping his mouth around luscious descriptions and dipping his tongue upon an abundance of flowery syllables. Gabriel García Márquez? Alice Munro? Nabokov? Truthfully, he could read the fucking Magna Carta, and she’d thrill to hear his voice octave-dive, the wondrous way it did sometimes. The man missed his calling; he should be working for Audible.

Certainly old enough to know her own foibles, Susie mentally cursed her wretched streak of impulsivity. If Eddie opened his mouth close enough (sans cigar,) she’d have him on the nearest flat surface.

Thank the stars for GPS. She hadn't even noticed the time pass, the landscape change, or the weather turn. Approaching Birmingham, a rainy gray wall shrouded fields and roads, and light fog swirled like ghosts on the ash tarmac. The polyrhythm of the windscreen wipers and the tiny raindrops swayed her back to meandering thoughts of Edward.

Susie decided it was inevitable. One day, one of them was going to hold eye contact a moment too long, and that would be it. It would sweep them away like a brush fire, feeding on their oxygen, and… what in the hell was she thinking? It was beyond reckless to even entertain fantasies, and she chided herself.

Far worse than carnal desires for Eddie was the equilibrium she noticed in his company. Accustomed to operating alone, Susie truly rarely felt lonely. But now? Now, she craved his steadying presence and the meter of their banter. She longed for the way he regarded her, listened earnestly, trusted her vault of knowledge and experience. She enjoyed the pull and push; it reset her in a way. He validated her authority even while he toyed with their power dynamic. She found his respect seemingly eclipsing his fear of her, and she wasn’t sure she’d EVER experienced this in a relationship that wasn’t blood-bound. She reveled in his quickened breathing pattern when she’d antagonized him, his parted mouth when astonished, his sweet tobacco and woody Blenheim smell, the intensity of his coal-black gaze in low light, the flexing of his enormous strong hands -

“Fucking hell,” she huffed a sigh in frustration, acutely aware that she’d circled back around to lust. Again.

As she pulled into the Walsh’s Gym car park, she drew her thoughts to the task ahead: how to coax a bargain from a notoriously licentious wanker. As luck would have it, Susie excelled in appealing to the pragmatism of the depraved, and this bolstered her confidence.

“You here to see Mr. Walsh?” A lanky man with ginger hair swung the glass door open, ushering her inside.

“I am. Susie Glass,” she introduced herself, stepping into the white glossy lobby, endless photos of boxers wainscoted the walls.

“I’m Sean,” he said, and nodded at a squat man dressed like a cartoon cat burglar in front of the reception desk, “that’s Don.”

“How’s it?” Don nodded, barely making eye contact as he rummaged through the thigh pockets of his black… leggings? Was he wearing leggings? She amended her cat burglar analogy to beat poet/jazz dancer.

“He’ll be down in two ticks,” Sean drew her attention in time for her to see his eyes sweeping over her body. “Mr. Walsh has great taste.”

She raised an eyebrow, “in what, Sean?”

He snorted, “in whatever you are.”

“Sugar and spice and everything nice,” Don stated without inflection, his expressionless brown eyes lifted to her as he mumbled, “found it.” He flicked his knife out of his leggings pocket, saluted her with the knife hand and dove over the reception desk with Balanchine-like elegance. Definitely a dancer.

“You’re gonna dull that gorgeous knife. Use a fuckin box cutter!” Sean shook his head in dismay.

“I didn’t see any other cars; are you closed today?”

Sean and Don exchanged a look and Sean snickered, “uh yeah, we’re closed.”

Don amended, “to the public.”

“I see you’ve met Sean and Don,” a booming voice called.

“Mr. Walsh,” she said by way of greeting when she spotted him strutting towards her.

“Ah no, love, you call me Sugar,” he smiled his oversized capped teeth, like a row of fresh white marble tombstones. He was a startlingly imposing man, at least 6’4” and obviously muscular in his fitted white designer tracksuit. His big square head was topped with a full head of blonde hair, curls product-tamed into place, grays brushing his temples. Through the cauliflower ear and the wide crooked nose of a former pugilist, she could see he was likely considered a handsome man.

“Let me give you the grand tour!” He placed his hand on her back and guided her to the right open doorway.

Sean interjected, before they were fully through the door, “Mr. Walsh, that shipment came in this morning.”

He stopped, hand still on Susie’s back and growled, “did you inventory it?”

“No.”

“Well inventory it then ya fucking eejit!” He laughed loudly, guiding Susie to the right with a squint of his gray eyes.

As they walked away, Susie heard the distinct metallic clicks and clacks of guns.

He led her into a red brick-ensconced training hall. Black heavy bags lined both sides of the room, hanging like abattoir hunks of meat on hooks. Enormous windows topped the brick walls, which would have typically given the room a vibrant quality. As it was, with an overcast sky, lights off, and dead quiet, it just felt like a slaughterhouse.

Susie stopped at the last heavy bag, “your gym is stunning, Sugar. Are these new?”

“Aye, they are. We don’t use this gym as we do the others. Well, not for the training anyway,” he winked and laughed, further confirming the talk that Sugar’s side hustle was indeed weapons trafficking.

Turning to her, walking backward, Sugar prattled off his history of purchases for the gyms punctuated by fighter accomplishments. She enviously eyed the red tatami springboard floors they walked upon, wondering what method could keep them so immaculate. Susie attempted to shutter the redesigns that populated her mind as they talked.

Sugar led her through another area with huge vaulted ceilings and five boxing rings, boasting of his success, “no other gym in England has turned out as many wins.

That was an outright lie, of course, but Susie didn’t balk. She was no stranger to the arrogant blustering of giant egos. She had wrangled worse.

As they entered the next doorway, she clocked the building's orientation as a horseshoe shape. It briefly conjured memories of the horseshoe above the door of her childhood home. “Pointing up, to catch all of the luck,” her mother had whispered to her, as though it was a secret. Well, it didn’t fucking work. But this would. Perhaps she would name it: “The Horseshoe.” She could hear her brother’s voice in her head, “what the fucks that got to do with fightin’?”

“Drink?” Sugar offered as they entered his office.

“Sure,” she sat at a mahogany table plonked at an odd angle within the large room.

He handed her a glass of whiskey and took his to what could only be described as a leather throne of a chair tucked behind the largest desk she had ever seen.

“This is Middleton Distillery. You know it?”

“I do.”

“So Susie Glass, what’s a pretty puff dealer like you want with a boxing outfit?”

She sipped her whiskey, and it reminded her that if she was going to drink posh Irish whiskey, she preferred Redbreast 32.

“Your succinct description is a bit off the mark.”

He laughed at her, “is that a fact?”

“I own and operate GlassKnuckle,” she offered. “My brother is a boxer, and my grandfather was a boxer. I’m interested in expanding, and this area would be ideal.”

“Yer fucking kidding! This area??” He slammed his hand on the desk. “ridiculous shite.”

“Which part?” She asked coolly.

“This has been my home for twenty years, and I’ll tell ya, it’s gone to gentrification, hasn’t it? Fucking hipster craft beer arseholes! I hate them all. It’s all I can not do to gut the little fuckers with their wee coffees and their precious art shows,” he swallowed the last quarter of his whiskey in one large gulp. “Used to be a standup neighborhood with decent folk.”

“So, not fond of Digbeth. I can understand that; the location does suits my needs, if we can come to a mutually agreaable deal.”

He was as well groomed as his unused gym, his nails manicured, he smelled strongly of some pine-forward cologne. She decided his attention to the superficial likely didn’t stem from breeding; instead, much like her own meticulous appearance, a stab at the control and exuding power.

“Another?” He offered as he poured himself a generous glass.

“I’m still working on this one,” she smiled politely.

“You nurse a drink better than Florence Nightengale,”

“Moderation has its merits,” she replied flatly.

He raised his eyebrows, “Are you judging me, Susie Glass?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“That’s good,” his face relaxed as much as she figured the Botox would allow, and he loudly drank the entire glass.

She sat patiently, sipped at her drink and waited for a natural opening to wrap this shit up, “Sugar, are you entertaining offers on this location?”

“I am,” he smiled and pointed to the picture on the wall with his gold ring-adorned fingers. “You know who that bloke is?”

“I do. Hero of yours?”

“Hero to everyone, should be. We have a statue back home, but here, right underappreciated, Rinty is.”

“I’m sure. Where’s home?”

“Belfast. But you know Rinty, he said, ‘It ain’t about how hard you can hit. It’s about how hard you can hit and keep moving forward.’ I feel sometimes I can hear him saying this to me. I just keep moving forward.”

Susie was well aware that quote was from the film Rocky, and wondered if he was fucking with her, until she noticed a framed quotation also misattributed to Rinty on the shelves behind his desk.

Her vision blurred momentarily, and she felt weighted with sleepiness. She made a mental note to grab one of those wee espressos from a hipster arsehole when this was done.

“And I’ll tell you what else, he could fucking sing!” He boisterously announced and pitched his glass into the wall, physically delighting in the thunderous crash with a loud laugh, his head kicked back. She hoped she hadn’t flinched.

“Sean and Don are fantastic with a Hoover and a mop,” he explained, as though it made sense to casually smash glasses into walls if one’s henchmen are good at cleaning. Cunt.

“I’ll sing it for you, one of Rinty’s favorites.” He wasn’t asking.

He loudly launched into a verse of “The Fields of Athenry.” Susie desperately attempted to somewhat hold the uncomfortable eye contact while he crooned to her.

She hoped he wasn’t set on singing another verse and clapped, quickly complimenting him, “you’ve a lovely singing voice Sugar.”

What she would have initially described as loquacious was now resembling mania. No matter. He wouldn’t be the first unhinged business acquaintance she’d worked with, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The dizziness returned and she felt more at . She’d only had three-quarters of her glass, and when the force of realization hit her, she nearly shook. She steeled herself and looked into his eyes, which matched the dreary sky, “if you’re game, I’d love to discuss details with you, but I need to use the loo first.”

She stood and the room spun.

“You good there?” he stood as well.

She steadied herself and turned from him, “the loo this way?” She pointed and began walking away from Sugar as fast as she considered nonchalant.

“Yeah just up the stairs to your left.”

Stairs? Fucking great. She saw the stairs in the distance, her vision blurring in and out like faulty binoculars.

As casually as possible while attempting to walk with authority, she unbuttoned the top button on her blue blouse, and using her pinky to hold the sheath in place under her center bra wire, she slid the bone knife she had tucked between her breasts into her hand.

With no small amount of force, she slammed into the wall and was suddenly sandwiched between the bricks and Sugar’s body. Sugar’s mouth hovered at her ear, “look a bit wobbly Susie, you need a hand.”

He wasn’t asking.

“Get off of me,” she ordered with a calm ferocity.

“You drank too much,” he roughly spun her by the shoulders to face him and pressed her back further against the bricks.

“You clearly don’t know what you’ve done.”

“Just relax Susie,” he said pressing himself against her more firmly, his hands on her.

“You’re going to get off of me, or I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Just relax,” he ripped her shirt open with a flick of his fingers, and panic surged forward. Don’t fucking panic.

Her right arm was pinned against the wall, and she was using her left to try and push Sugar away from her.

Reworking her strategy as quick as her foggy brain would allow she spat, “that quote isn’t Rinty you fuckwit. it’s Rocky Balboa.”

That got his attention and he pulled back a bit to look at her face, “what are you on about?”

“And Barry McGuigan was an infinitely better boxer than fucking Rinty,” she sneered.

“McGuigan?! He was a fuckin eejit! Fuckin tout pussy!” He screamed, towering over her.

Susie felt her arm finally free of his weight and jammed her knife into his left eye socket with as much force as she could muster. He hurtled backwards as she yanked her knife back out of his eye. She dropped to the ground with a muted thud, her legs unexpectedly going out. He clutched his eye with a hand screaming, and she sunk her knife into his crotch, then frantically scuttled backward away from him.

Her legs felt like foreign objects on the cool textured floor.

“Purse, purse, purse, purse,” this was the mantra as she crawled, her hands slapping the floor, her knees and shins burning as she frantically dragged them along. Why was she so fucking loud?

Her vision telescoped into a purse vignette, and everything else was blurry and terribly far away. After crawling endlessly, she reached her purse and clumsily poured everything out on the floor with an immense clatter. What did she need? What the fuck was she looking for? Who was hollering? And there it was, gleaming amongst the clutter, her beautiful Beretta. She clutched at the textured grip and upright upon her knees turned in time to see what appeared to be an armed Sean and Don hustling toward her. Which was which?

She used one of her hands to push herself to standing, and hobbled towards them, towards the slaughterhouse.

“What the fuck is going on?” Sean (or maybe Don) squeaked, eyes wide, swinging his gun around.

“Holy shit!” Don (or possibly Sean) yelled when he spotted Susie.

Count them Susie.

“Count what?” Don asked.

She fired at them. OneTwoThreeFourFive,” she watched them collapse to the ground, unmoving.

“Five shots; three left,” she thought, or possibly said aloud.

Quite suddenly, she couldn’t breathe; was she in a straitjacket; no, she was being crushed in a bin lorry. Dizziness and confusion consumed her, and she desperately willed herself to make sense of what was happening.

Sugar Walsh’s arms were crushing her (clearly not a bin lorry,) and he was behind her and bellowing something, but she couldn’t understand words. They slammed into the floor; he rolled her onto her back, straddling her, his hands on her throat squeezing, blood dripping onto her face from his, huffing and puffing his whisky-tinged breath on her.

Do something!

She remembered the gun in her hand, deliberately pulled her noodle arm up, squeezed the trigger and Sugar’s head exploded. His enormous body collapsed fully on top of her like an avalanche of giant Irish cunt.

Her breath wooshed out like a bellows, and she couldn’t get it back. But she was alive. She couldn’t move, but she was alive. She used her free arm to wench his shoulder pit up up up far enough for her nose and mouth and chin to wedge from underneath him, and then blackness closed in.

When she regained consciousness, she frantically tried to move her pinned body, wiggling and screaming, “get the fuck off me!”

“Fuck!” She cried, and an epiphany struck her addled brain.

Phone, phone, phone, phone, phone, phone. Where is it??

She yelled, “Hey Siri!”

She thought she heard her phone respond. Dizziness weighted her body. Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake!

“Text The Duke my location!”

“Send your location to The Duke?”

“YES! Yes!”

“It’s sent,” she thought she heard Siri say, and the last thought she had before the darkness swooped in again was “I hope I don’t chuck up.”

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