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oddinary4bts · 5 months ago

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Chasing Cars | ch 12 (jjk)

☆summary: when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?

☆pairings: brother's best friend!Jungkook x younger sister!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, some chapters have mature content)

☆genre: forbidden love?au, college!au, slice of life!au, smut, angst (as usual a lot of it), fluff

☆warnings: jungkook is stubborn and it leads to some sort of miscommunication?, reader feels cheated on, alcohol, clubbing, cursing, promises to exes fuck everything up basically

☆word count: 7.3k

☆a/n: new week, new angst-filled chapter :') I hope you guys still love it :') thank you to @moonleeai for beta-ing, you're the best <3

☆series masterpost

☆add yourself to the taglist here!

☆☆☆☆☆

If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol

☆☆☆☆☆

Saturday, May 4th

You’ve barely slept. Whenever you close your eyes all you can picture is Jungkook and Gabrielle. Gabrielle and Jungkook.

Just a friend from high school…

You don’t know why, but that lie is the one that hurts the most. Maybe because you thought he was opening up to you, telling you about his past, but he’d shrugged it off, lied about it like it was just second nature. It’s sour, bitter, and you think you might hate him for it.

You feel cheated on. You’re fully aware that you weren’t dating, that you were just a maybe, but you hate that it was taken from you just like that, in a stupid video call from your drunk brother…

It really does taste vile, bitter, sour, and everything in between.

Ria left earlier today. She had to work, but she told you to invite Yoongi or Nabi, to not isolate yourself. You don’t feel like seeing anyone - yes, you could be miserable with Yoongi, but you don’t want to hear the told you so that your friends will say in the aftermath of what happened last night.

Taehyung didn’t even text you once. You wonder if he saw you crying, before Ria hung up the call for you. If he did, you think he’s unbelievably cruel for not even texting you anything, but then again maybe that had been his plan all along. To show you Jungkook’s true nature, the one he’d hidden from you in the last few months.

Were there any other girls? If he’d so easily kissed his ex after just a few days in Paris, does that mean he might have easily done the same thing here, with other people?

You feel nauseous. Thinking about everything makes you feel nauseous.

As does the text that sits on your phone, sent early this morning, while you were in and out of your troubled sleep.

[4:23 am] JK: can we facetime tonight

You haven’t replied. You don’t even want to talk to him, or see his face. You don’t want those treacherous doe eyes to ever meet your gaze again and yet…

Yet you want some closure. You want to tell him off, to break him like he broke you, but that would be assuming he felt for you the way that you did. Which, you highly doubt since he kissed his ex like you’d never been in the picture to begin with.

You sigh, rubbing your face, trying to keep the tears in. They keep sneaking up on you, like you’re not done grieving for what could have been, and frankly, you don’t know if you’ll ever be. You reckon the first step in the right direction might be to seek that closure, to talk to him and be done with it, permanently.

You didn’t think there was a time when you’d have to be done with Jungkook. Everything that you were building, everything, now just rubbles that will slowly turn to dust.

And so you finally open your phone, heart squeezing uncomfortably as the conversation with him pops up. You ignore the texts from before yesterday night, those where you believed he was falling in love, too, and you reply,

[2:09 pm] You: sure at what time

You put your phone away after you press send, sighing deeply as if that might shake the weight of the world off your shoulders. You figure you should stop rotting in bed - it’s not like it’s helped make you feel better - and so you get up, heading to the kitchen.

You’re not hungry. You’re not hungry, but when you see the spicy ramyeon he bought to help train your spice tolerance, you can’t help but crave some. Because you don’t want to let him go, don’t want to let go of all of him. So you put some water on the stove, preparing the noodles as if that might change what happened last night.

It doesn’t. The only thing it does is make you realize that you’ve indeed improved your spice tolerance, as you eat and you barely even have to sniffle. It makes you sad, far too sad, because what was the point?

What was the point of developing a spice tolerance if you won’t eat with him anyway?

Tears pool in your eyes, and this time you don’t bother keeping them in. You let them flow freely, memories of him swirling in your mind. You think about every time he cooked for you - that first time on Valentine’s Day. You think about New York, about every night you’ve spent cuddled up in his arms.

There won’t be any new nights, any new memories. Everything that you and Jeon Jungkook once were is in the past now, to forever haunt you.

You push the noodles away. You’ve only eaten half of the bowl, but the thought of eating more makes you feel sick to your stomach. Instead, you drop your head on your arms on the table, body rocking with sobs.

You don’t even know why you’re crying so much. Why your body holds so much pain for what Jungkook did, when part of you had been expecting it all along. Yet you break and break, like you’re glass thrown from the roof of a building, exploding upon impact with the ground.

It takes a while before you stop crying, the post-tears clarity filling your brain. You straighten, wipe your cheeks and the snot on your upper lip, and then you get up. You throw away the rest of the noodles, and then walk back to your room, trying to hold onto the clarity.

You slow down in front of Jungkook’s door, imagining him to be behind. To never have gone to Paris…

It only makes you want to cry again, but you’re done crying.

You don’t want to be crying for someone that cheated on you.

You finally make it to your room. Your phone awaits you on the night table, face up to the ceiling so that you can see that Jungkook texted you multiple times. You steel yourself, grabbing your phone, and then read his texts.

[2:28 pm] JK: we’re at the restaurant rn [2:28 pm] JK: so maybe in an hour and a half? [2:29 pm] JK: we finally went to the catacombs today [2:29 pm] JK: you were right it’s hella creepy

It’s like he’s unaware that he broke your heart, that he destroyed the trust you had in him. It makes you think, did you imagine everything that happened yesterday?

Was it all just a nightmare?

You wish it was, but the tear stains on your sheets are proof enough that it truly happened.

[2:35 pm] You: call me whenever

You spend the next hour lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling, trying to chase him out of your thoughts. Trying to figure out what you’ll tell him: there’s no way you’ll pursue a relationship with him now that that happened. But maybe he’ll have an explanation, reassurance that not everything was a lie…

You don’t know if that would make you feel better. Maybe relieved in some way, yes, but the throbbing in your chest would likely not be lessened by such reassurance. You fear it’d be worse. It would mean losing something that was real, and you don’t know if you’d survive it.

When your phone finally rings, you consider not picking up. You consider ghosting him, disappearing from his life before he has the power to hurt you more, but you’re weak for him.

Far too weak, and you pick up after a few seconds.

He’s obviously called on Facetime, and the moment he comes into view, a soft smile on his lips, you feel like you’re breaking all over again.

The last time you saw those lips they were pressed against another girl’s mouth.

“Hey,” he greets you.

You can’t find it in you to speak around the lump in your throat, so you just offer him a tight-lipped smile. He frowns, eyebrows almost touching over his eyes.

“Is something wrong?”

Of course he’d notice, but… is he that oblivious? Anger cuts through the sadness, and you raise your eyebrows.

“Don’t you have something to tell me?” you ask.

His frown deepens. “I…” he trails off, and then something changes in his demeanour. The frown disappears, his lips part and his eyes widen, filling with fear. “You… Is this about Gabrielle?”

You laugh, so bitterly you taste it on your tongue. “Are you being serious?”

“Yes?” he lets out.

He looks terrified. It’s a strange sight, and it makes unease settle deep in your stomach.

“Tae called me last night,” you reveal.

“Oh.” He pulls on his piercings, eyes dropping. “Oh.”

“What the fuck was that, Jungkook?”

Your question strikes him deep. You see it in the way his shoulders drop, like he’s burdened with the weight of the world.

“Nothing happened,” he tries.

But he doesn’t meet your gaze.

“I saw you kissing her,” you spit. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“Peach…”

You scoff, yet the nickname brings tears to your eyes. “What the fuck was that?” you ask again, and you hate that your vision is turning blurry, hate the way that you are so completely, irreversibly weak for him.

“It really isn’t what you think it is,” he says.

“You spent the evening locked up in a room with her.”

He closes his eyes, and his phone shifts just enough so that you see his surroundings better. He’s in a park from the looks of it, much like he’d been when you’d facetimed on Wednesday.

“I promise it really isn’t what you think it is,” he insists. He meets your gaze, his big doe eyes so pained you almost want to believe him.

You sigh deeply, and a single tear falls on your cheek. You dry it with the back of your hand. “What was it then?”

A muscle feathers on his jaw as he clenches it, yet he remains silent. His lips stretch in a thin line, horror filling his gaze.

“I really thought…”

You can’t finish the sentence. I really thought we’d work. You can’t finish it, as your heart breaks and breaks and breaks until you’re back to where you were last night, struggling to breathe as you’d watched him kissing her.

“I made a promise to her years ago,” he admits, his voice wobbly. “I can’t tell anyone, but I swear, peach, it’s not what you think it is. I’d never do that to you.”

“But you did!”

His mouth opens and closes a few times, like he wants to say something but can’t.

“I can’t…” you trail off because you don’t want to say it.

You don’t want to be the one to kill the relationship when it hasn’t even started yet. Though you reckon he killed it when he kissed her.

“I can’t be with you,” you whisper, as if the words can’t be uttered aloud.

“Peach…”

“Stop calling me that,” you burst. “Stop fucking calling me that when you basically cheated.”

He frowns, his jaw clenching again. “We weren’t even exclusive.”

“Excuse me?”

Undiluted rage consumes every inch of your body, taking away the pain. All there is is the blaze of anger, and it burns and burns until you think you might turn to embers.

“I don’t know why I said that,” he immediately replies, eyes so wide he looks like a deer in headlights. He takes a deep breath and swallows as the movement of his Adam’s apple shows. “Please just trust me on this.”

“No, Jungkook,” you say. “I can’t trust you when it took you all of a few days with your ex to end up kissing her.” You close your eyes, shaking your head. “You told me Gabrielle was just a friend.”

“And she is!” he says. “She really is, peach. She’s nothing like you.”

“Why the fuck did you kiss her then?” you ask, blinking away tears the second you open your eyes again.

“She kissed me,” he answers. “She kissed me when Tae opened the door. I didn’t even know he was on the phone with you.”

“You’re aware that it sounds like lame-ass excuses?” You scoff, shaking your head again. “I can’t fucking believe you. I should have listened to Colton.”

You see the blow that it is to him. His waterline turns silver, and he clenches his jaw hard. His shoulders drop even more, and you think you hear the sound of breaking.

You doubt he deserves to be breaking over his own mistakes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Peach, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you as soon as I’m home, and then we can…”

“There’s no we,” you interject. “There’s no we anymore.”

“Please.” He’s begging. You never thought you’d see a day when Jeon Jungkook would beg for you, and it hurts fiercely, replacing the anger.

You’re on a roller coaster, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get down.

“What did you promise her, Kook?” you ask, your voice infinitesimally small.

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I promised her I’d never tell anyone. So I can’t tell you.”

You’re crying again, though this time it sweeps in softly, gently. No rocking sobs, no shaking hands. Just tears, heavier than the sun, rolling down your cheeks.

“Then there is no we anymore,” you whisper.

Because you can’t be in the shadow of his ex. There can’t be secrets between the two of you - especially not when his parents want him to marry her.

“Peach, please.”

“Stop, Jungkook.” You shake your head as more tears spill from your eyes. “Stop.”

“But I can’t lose you,” he says, and you think you spy a tear on his cheek too.

It feels out of place, like it’s a waterfall in the desert, or maybe oxygen in space.

“I can’t be with someone who keeps secrets from me, Jungkook.” You pause, taking a deep breath in to give yourself courage.

“But it’s just…” he trails off, and you watch as defeat takes over him.

You wonder if he ever had to fight for anyone before. If he even has it in him to do it. Though you don’t think you’d want to be with him even if he fought for you.

Not after last night.

“It really is nothing,” he finishes, though he sounds just as unconvinced as you are and that, most of all, tells you that it is truly over.

You and Jeon Jungkook weren’t meant to be together in this universe after all. You should have known - you saw the signs and chose to ignore them. Maybe because your pink-tinted glasses coloured the red in such a way that it became the most beautiful colour you’d ever seen.

But now that the glasses are gone, you think, were you just blindsided all along?

“Have fun on the rest of your trip, Jungkook,” you whisper.

“Peach…”

“Do not ever call me that again,” you say softly, but you mean it.

You can’t afford him calling you that.

He tries your name, but you shake your head no. He curses underneath his breath, clearly unaware that he did it loud enough for you to hear, and then says, “So that’s it?”

You shrug, like you don’t care at all when in reality it’s taking everything in you not to break down right now. “That’s it,” you confirm. “We don’t even have to tell Tae.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Okay.

Everything, crashing down into a single flat word. Everything, ending on a note of heartbreak that rings and rings in your head until you think you might go insane.

You should have known you weren’t the muse behind the song, behind the poem and the art. You’d always been meant to break away, weren’t you?

You don’t remember hanging up. All you remember is staring at your reflection on the screen, and the sound of your breaking heart in the background.

*****

The thing with the end, it’s that it never really is just the end. The end of something is the beginning of something else, and sometimes the new beginning is better, sometimes it’s worse.

You think beginning your life post-Jungkook in a club might be good. The distraction of the flashing lights, loud music and alcohol is an effective one, yet you know it for what it truly is: escapism.

You don’t know how Ria and Nabi convinced you. You do like clubbing, but Nabi hates it. So maybe it was the fact that she suggested it, that she said it’d be fun that made you want to go. You even invited Yoongi, but Yoongi said he wanted to have a night in, so it’s just you girls tonight, and you reckon it has to be enough.

You follow Nabi past the coat check, waiting for Ria as she drops off her own jacket. A few seconds later Ria meets with you, and she hooks arms with you both to head towards the bar.

“Let’s get some shots before we go dancing,” she suggests, almost screaming so that you can hear her over the sound of the music.

“Dancing?” Nabi lets out.

“What do you think clubbing is for?” Ria teases, and you offer a half-hearted smile at that.

In other circumstances you likely would have laughed, but a smile is a good start, no?

“I don’t know,” Nabi grumbles.

You reach the bar, and you stand behind a group of four guys who are also waiting for shots, or so it seems. You glance at them, and your gaze meets that of the one who’s leaning against the bar, looking your way. You politely smile out of reflex, looking away a second later as you try to focus on Ria and Nabi’s now surprisingly heated discussion about the pros and cons of clubbing.

You think clubbing is good. Clubbing is empty mind, busy body, and right now it’s all you need.

It’s all you need not to run back to the Facetime call this afternoon, and the finality of Jungkook’s path in your life.

You close your eyes, take a deep breath and slowly let it out. Though your heart is aching - it hasn’t stopped since this afternoon - you’ve been good at ignoring it. At pretending that you’re fine, that you didn’t lose something that mattered to you far more than you should have let it to begin with.

You don’t think Jungkook deserved the devotion you had for him. Not when lying to you, when refusing to tell you the whole truth is more important to him. And you’ve gone down a spiral after the call. Stalking Gabrielle on social media, understanding why he kissed her in the first place.

If you were even a little bit gay, you too would probably want to kiss her. She’s attractive, elegantly so, in the same way that all people who are born into old money are. She’s from the same universe as Jungkook, has a beautiful smile and striking green eyes that you can only envy. Her hair - somewhere between blonde and red - is also amazing, probably because she has the money to maintain a good hair care and skincare routine.

You do have your own skincare routine too, but nothing that having a lot of money can pay for.

“Hey, you girls want shots?” one of the guys says, mostly in your direction.

Maybe because Ria and Nabi are still bickering next to you.

“Huh…” you let out, heart momentarily stumbling in your chest as you look at Ria next to you.

You nudge her, and she finally acknowledges the guy, staring him up and down once before smiling her ‘I’m on a mission’ smile. It works right away: the guy smirks, extending a hand for her to shake.

“I’m Jacob.”

She unhooks her arms from yours and Nabi’s, shaking his hand. “Ria. And this is Y/n and Nabi.”

You nod your head and wave weakly in greetings, and Jacob mirrors the motion before setting his gaze on Ria again.

“So, do you want them shots or not?” he asks.

She tilts her head to the side prettily. “Sure, we’ll take them.”

And that’s how you find yourself downing shots with guys that look straight out of a frat - Jacob, Chad, Elijah and Lucas. Lucas is the one who smiled at you earlier, and he easily finds his way to your side as you drink the shots.

After that first round, Lucas suggests a second one, and you all end up downing Jaggerbombs, the sweetness of the Red Bull contrasting the taste of the alcohol in just the right way. Ria suggests heading to the dancefloor next, and no amount of pleading gaze from you and Nabi makes her change her mind.

She truly is on a mission, and you think it might be partly because she needs to stop thinking about Seokjin. Not that you would ever tell it to her face though.

You end up dancing with Nabi, both of you slightly uncomfortable with the unknown males. In another world, you’d probably be dancing with Lucas, indulging in his company, but right now the last thing you want is to sidle close to a man.

Pretending isn’t making you forget how, just a little under a week ago, you were breathing Jungkook in like he could be the oxygen in your lungs.

You tense. You fucking tense, and Nabi immediately notices, leaning in to say in your ear, “Everything okay?”

You shrug. “I’d do without the guys, but I guess it was to be expected with Ria in a club.”

Nabi winces, offering you an apologetic look. “Do you want to go?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. You even snort at the way her features fall in disappointment. “Do you?”

“I don’t know,” she admits.

The song ends, blending into another one, and you pull her to the side as a girl walks behind her, parting your group.

“Do you want to go to the bathroom?” you suggest.

She pouts, looking up to the ceiling as if in deep thought, then nods her head enthusiastically. “Yup, let’s do that.”

You chuckle, and then you pull her towards Ria. Ria glares at you when you pull her away from Jacob, yet leans in when you make to speak to her.

“We’re going to the bathroom,” you tell her.

You don’t give her a choice. You grab her hand, pulling her behind you as Nabi leads the way to the bathroom.

The music isn’t as loud in the hallway, the red lights giving Nabi’s white top a tint that makes it just a little creepy. There’s already a line, and you stand at the end of it, turning to face Ria.

“Can we do no guys tonight?” you ask her.

Her mouth falls open. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think-”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure her.

She still looks apologetic, and it lingers for longer than just the bathroom trip - you have to pull her in a dance after you’ve taken more shots for her to stop looking forlorn. She’s reluctant at first, pouting, and you pull her closer.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“I’m really sorry,” she repeats. “I’m so dumb sometimes.”

You offer her a scolding look. “You’re not. Besides, it’s mostly for Nabi that I asked that.”

Ria glances towards Nabi, who’s dancing next to you but completely oblivious to the conversation. “Right.”

And that is that. Ria recovers her playful mood, and you dance and laugh and drink with your friends. You think Jungkook slips out of your thoughts on the fourth shot you down, and by the sixth, your mind is swimming in way too much drunk bliss to even feel the ache in your chest. It’s liberating - you feel like a bird who’s flying for the first time, and so you cling to the feeling as best as you can.

Nabi decides to leave before you and Ria, Namjoon picking her up on his way back from Yoongi’s place, where they apparently gamed together. You don’t care - you’re drunk enough to want to ride into the sunrise, to party until it’s light outside and the world has forgotten about your existence.

Luckily for you, Ria is one for such parties as well, and so you dance and dance and dance, taking another shot ten minutes after Nabi left.

This time, when Ria pulls you back towards the group of guys, you follow her grudgingly. You even let the dancing tide push you closer to Lucas, who leans in and says, “Hey you”, in a way that makes you think maybe true solace lies in another person’s lips.

It’s early. Far too early. But you’re also far too drunk to care, and so when he pulls you closer to dance with him, you let him do so. You let him sway your hips to the music, let him lean his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter shut, and you breathe in the same air, and the rhythm is everlasting.

You sigh in contentment. You’re back in New York, back at that DJ show you’d attended with Jungkook. It’s his hands you imagine on your hips, his breath that you breathe in, his sweaty forehead that rests against yours.

It’s him. Because it’ll always be him.

He kisses you, and you kiss him back, hands grabbing at his shirt. He kisses you all wrong - the lack of piercings a stark contrast to your usual.

It hurts. It hurts, and the hole in your chest gapes open wide.

You pull away from the kiss, eyes snapping open to see Lucas’s startled face. His eyes are brown, but they’re not Jungkook’s shade. And he doesn’t have that small scar on his left cheek, or the eyebrow piercing. He doesn’t have the mole under his mouth, or the doe eyes that you fell in love with.

“Shit,” you let out.

“Did I do something I shouldn’t?” Lucas asks, and he lets go of you immediately, as if you burn him.

“No,” you reassure him, yet panic is swelling in you, like the tide when the moon is high. “I just…” You shake your head, letting out a sound you know to be a broken sob. “Just got out of a relationship.”

“Babe,” Ria says from behind you, stepping in between you and Lucas. “Everything okay?”

“I want to go home,” you tell her.

She doesn’t know that you mean to him. She can’t know - you can’t even allow yourself to think so. Yet you can’t help it, the alcohol inhibiting the control you had on your emotions until you’re crying on the dancefloor, just a heartbroken twenty-something who might have flown too close to the sun.

“Please,” you add when she doesn’t react, just looks at your tears like they are foreign entities.

But then she snaps out of her drunken daze, and she pulls you away from the dancefloor, away from the reminders of Jungkook. She helps you get your coat while you sniffle to the side, your eyes red-rimmed. And then she helps you get into the Uber home, holding your hand all the way.

She walks you up to your apartment, but the second you’re inside Jungkook is everywhere, and you need the loneliness. You need to be alone, you need to be able to indulge one last time. So you reassure her, tell her that you’ll be fine, that you can hang out tomorrow, and then you push her out the door.

It takes you thirty minutes to shower and take your makeup off, and another five minutes trying to convince yourself that you should sleep in your bed.

You lose the fight, and you fall asleep in Jungkook’s bed, crying softly as his scent wraps around you like the embrace of a ghost gone too soon.

Tuesday, May 7th

You’ve slept in Jungkook’s bed every day since Saturday, chasing him like you used to chase cars around his head. This morning, when you woke up, you made the bed, took one last look into this part of your life and then closed the door behind you like you’ll ever forget the hours you spent tangled up with him, fast asleep or losing yourself in him.

He’s coming back today. Taehyung is coming back today, and though you’d once wished for Tae’s return, now you’re dreading it. You don’t want to see him, don’t want to see Jungkook, or Jimin, or Sera, or even Ariane.

You want to rewind time to the week before Jungkook left, but life doesn’t work that way, does it?

You finish work late, a while after they’ve returned from their trip. And maybe you sit in the car for a long time also, dreading the moment you’ll have to go in.

[2:39 pm] bröther👽: just landed [3:47 pm] bröther👽: it was a shitshow but we’re home [3:48 pm] bröther👽: ari is going to stay at ours for a few days [3:48 pm] bröther👽: we’re planning dinner? are tacos ok [4:31 pm] bröther👽: yeah so it’ll be tacos

You haven’t replied to any of the texts. You want to tell him that you’re good, that you’ll spend the evening locked up in your room anyway, but you can’t bring yourself to do so. In some twisted way, you want to see Jungkook, want to see if this is affecting him the same way that it’s affecting you.

You reckon that might make you a bad person.

You sigh, leaning your head back against the headrest. A car passes in the street, its headlights illuminating you for a few seconds before it’s gone, the dim neon light of the streetlights returning.

You’re aware you can’t stay here forever. You have to go home, have to walk up the stairs and see Jungkook again. And so you take a deep breath, close your eyes for a few seconds so that you can steel yourself, and then you throw the car door open.

You can’t stop, can’t slow down. So you practically jog up the stairs after you’ve slammed the car door shut, locking it over your shoulder. And then you burst into the apartment, hands trembling as you still there to notice Taehyung and Ariane in the living room, lounging on the couch.

Jungkook’s bedroom door is closed, and you’re not sure if it’s a relief.

“Y/n!” Taehyung bursts, and he gets up from the couch to jog to you, immediately engulfing you in a bear hug.

You hug him back, fists closing around handfuls of his shirt, and you hide your face in his shoulder so that he can’t see the tears pricking at your eyes.

“Tae,” you whisper back. “How have you been?”

“Good,” he answers. “Happy to be back though.”

He pulls away, grabbing your purse from your hand so that he can drop it on the table by the door. You busy yourself with taking off your shoes, feeling shy under Ariane’s watchful gaze. She smiles at you when you look her way, and you smile back, offering her a small, polite nod. She gets up from the couch, walking your way so that Taehyung can properly introduce you.

She’s nice. She’s a warm person, and you feel the kindness oozing from her after just a few sentences exchanged. You know you’ll like her, and you’re relieved Taehyung finally found someone to make him forget his ex from high school.

As Ariane insists on cooking tacos for you all, you think she’s far better than Taehyung’s ex anyway. You do feel bad that she’s cooking at your apartment, but she says she loves cooking, and that you should just enjoy your brother’s return for now.

As she cooks, you and Taehyung sit at the table, telling each other stories from the last few months. Evidently you avoid mentioning Jungkook, instead focusing on what was going on in your friend group. Taehyung pulls Ariane into the conversation once in a while, and she admits she chose to do a semester in Paris because her grandfather was French, and he’s the one who chose her name.

It’s a comfortable conversation, a moment that almost makes you forget that Jungkook is hiding in his room, doing whatever it is that he’s doing. Thinking about him makes your heart strain in your chest, and you mindlessly massage the spot, as if that might chase the ache away.

What does help is when you decide to get up to actually help Ariane, and you take care of setting the table and preparing the lettuce. It busies your mind a little, and though you’re still speaking with Ariane and Taehyung, you manage not to let your thoughts wander back to a certain doe-eyed man.

You’re sitting down to eat when Taehyung finally mentions the elephant in the room, saying, “Should we ask JK if he wants anything?”

Ariane chuckles. “Feel free if you want to deal with him.”

You hope they don’t hear you gulp, and you innocently say, “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s been weird for a few days,” Taehyung answers. “He’s been short with everyone, and he refuses to talk when we ask him what’s wrong.” Taehyung pauses, furrowing his brow. “Why?”

You shrug. “Just wondering.”

Can he hear your heart beating out of your chest? You definitely can, and it’s pumping in your ears, making you feel dizzy.

The knowledge that Jungkook hasn’t been doing well hurts far more than you expected it would. It’s like you just got stabbed right in the heart, and you’re bleeding out where you’re sitting at the table, on Taehyung’s left.

You avert your gaze, looking at the bowls on the table, eyes focusing on the steam rising from the cooked ground beef. You act like you don’t care - you grab a taco shell, and immediately start to prepare your meal, while a strange silence stretches.

It’s uncomfortable, awkward, and Taehyung flees by getting up and heading to Jungkook’s room. You hear him knocking on the door, and you can’t help but strain your ears as you try to hear what they’re saying.

“You hungry?” Taehyung says after you’ve heard the door opening.

“Not really,” Jungkook replies, and hearing his voice is shattering, wrecking, like the car you were riding just smashed into a wall at full speed.

Your eyes fill with tears, which you furiously blink away hoping that Ariane doesn’t notice. She’s luckily looking towards the hallway though, and you successfully clear your gaze before she turns again.

“I think he’s upset because of Gaby,” she comments as she starts making her own taco. “He started being like this when she stopped hanging out with us.”

Right. Ariane is Gabrielle’s friend. Her best friend even, if what Taehyung said is true.

You’re not so sure anymore if you’ll be able to get along with Ariane after all.

“Ah,” you flatly let out. “That sucks.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “He’ll get over it. Gaby said he’s the one that broke up with her anyway.”

You gulp around the lump in your throat, and though your hunger has entirely vanished, you bite into the taco so that you don’t have to talk.

It works, and you eat in silence as Taehyung walks back into the room, exchanging a knowing glance with Ariane. He sits back down between the two of you, and then he’s making his taco too, and though the atmosphere is awkward, you don’t have to partake in any more conversation.

You force yourself to eat a second taco, knowing Taehyung would tell you off if you don’t considering you usually eat at least three, if not more. It’s sickening, and you’re on your last bite when Jungkook appears in the door frame.

Your gazes immediately meet, and everything seems to stop around you, to disappear from existence. There’s just you and him, and you take in his dishevelled appearance, the dark circles under his eyes and the hollowness of his gaze.

All light has gone out from his eyes, replaced by shadows and darkness you recognize far too well.

They’re haunting your own eyes, too.

“I’m heading home for the summer,” he tells no one in particular, though his gaze doesn’t leave yours.

Like he’s trying to take everything in one last time, trying to commit you to memory like you’re doing with him right now.

Though you don’t want this to be a memory. You want to remember his lips on your skin and the light in his eyes and the way he’d always hold you close. You want to remember what it felt like to be his – or to believe you were. You don’t want any of the heartbreak, but it takes over everything, and your gaze drops to the table.

“What?” Taehyung lets out. “Right now?”

Jungkook nods. “My father needs help with his company.”

“We literally got home like six hours ago,” Taehyung points out. “Shouldn’t you get some sleep first?”

“I’m good,” Jungkook says. “It’s not that long of a drive.”

It actually is. It’s nearly four hours, and you highly doubt Jungkook’s father asked for help. Or maybe he did. Maybe Jungkook lied about his strained relationship with his family to get you to…

You stop the train of thoughts. He didn’t lie. You were there, and you saw it with your own two eyes.

You force yourself to meet his gaze again - his eyes haven’t left you. He offers you the saddest smile you’ve ever seen on his lips, and his gaze fills with words unsaid. You can almost taste them on the sharp inhale of breath you take, and you want to tell him to stay.

You want to tell him that you’re in love with him. But it’s too little too late, and so you swallow the confession, shove it down until you can forget its existence.

He nods, like he knows then that you truly are over, and then he says, “I’ll see you guys soon.”

You watch him go - your heart goes with him, and you feel like you’ll cave in on the emptiness in your chest.

Taehyung follows him to the door, leaving you alone with Ariane. This time, she doesn’t miss the agony on your features, and she asks, “Are you okay?”

You sit back in your chair, nodding once, yet you answer, “I don’t know, I feel sick.”

She offers you a kind smile. “You don’t need to eat anymore,” she reassures you. “You’ve worked all day, maybe you just need some rest.”

“Maybe,” you repeat flatly. “Let me just clean up the table.”

She stops you with a hand on your wrist. “Tae’s not done, I’ll get him to take care of it. Just go to bed.”

You nod curtly, and you hope she doesn’t see the silver lining your gaze, threatening to spill over. You do put your plate away in the sink, to be washed later, and then you head to your bedroom, seeking the cool reprieve of your own safe haven.

You can’t help yourself, glancing towards the door as you leave the kitchen. Jungkook is already outside, and Taehyung is speaking with him leaning against the door frame. You think it’s a relief you can’t see Jungkook from here - you’d probably have broken down right then and there, and you doubt you would have survived the embarrassment.

You lean against the door of your bedroom once you’re finally in, and you take a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut. When Jungkook’s pained features appear behind your eyelids, you immediately open your eyes again.

There’s a box on your bed, next to a folded piece of paper. Curiosity replaces the agony in your chest momentarily…

Until you see your name on the folded piece of paper, and realize what this is.

Tears fill your eyes so quickly this time around that you can’t stop them, and they fall freely on your cheeks as you take a wobbly step forward.

He’s left you a letter. And the box is clearly a jewelry box - there’s something so strange about the sight that it breaks your heart all over again, until the throbbing in your chest is so stark you barely can feel the paper as your hands reach for it, unfolding it carefully.

Your vision is blurry behind your tears, and as you see he’s written lines and lines of words for you, you let out a broken sob as you sit on your bed.

It takes you five minutes before you’re actually able to read, and you read it so many times you think you know the letter by heart.

Hey peach, I know you asked me not to call you that. I promise this is the last time, and I’ll never bother you with that name again. I just didn’t know how to start this letter… I hope you’ve been doing okay. The last few days have been shit for me, and I feel really fucking guilty for everything. I wish it’d never happened, I wish I’d come home to you so that we could tell Taehyung about us… but as you said, there is no us anymore. Thank you for the few months we spent together. You taught me a lot about myself, and I really enjoyed spending time with you. I’ll look back fondly on the memories I have of us. I really want to apologize. For everything that I did. I wish I’d never gone to Paris. I’m sorry that I left, and that I let old promises to Gabrielle ruin what was between us. I’m sorry I wasn’t more upfront about how I felt for you too. It was all just so new to me, and I thought we had a long while ahead of us to figure everything out… I’m sorry that I was wrong. I don’t expect this letter to change anything. I just wanted to let you know how I feel, and I don’t think I would be able to speak to you face to face. Maybe that makes me a coward, but it is what it is. I got you a gift in Paris, before things went to hell. I couldn’t bring myself to return it or keep it, so I hope you enjoy it. You don’t have to keep it either, I just wanted you to still have it. Finally, I hope you have a nice summer. I hope you have fun, and I hope you find someone that treats you the way that you deserve. Someone Taehyung would approve of hopefully! You deserve it more than you can imagine. Take care, Jungkook

Your gaze is blurry behind the tears again, yet you manage to blink them away. You think, maybe you’ve run out of tears. Maybe you’ll go dry and desiccated like you died in the desert, and you think, maybe you deserve it.

You’ve never received a love letter. And though Jungkook didn’t confess, you feel like perhaps you’re holding his heart in your hands like he’s holding yours in his. Perhaps he did care for you, perhaps Gabrielle really was just a momentary mistake.

You take a deep breath in, and though it’s shaky, it does ease some ache in your heart. Not everything - the hole is still gaping wide open, and you reckon only time can fix it.

You put the letter down, picking up the jewelry box instead. Your hands are still trembling, yet you manage to open it to reveal a thin, shiny gold chain. The pendant that sits on the velvety cushion breaks you all over again, yet you don’t hesitate before putting it on.

Your fingers, suddenly steady, secure the necklace around your neck, and then your hand falls to the pendant.

The peach sits light in your palm, a reminder of what your relationship with Jungkook should have been.

Prev | Chapter 12.5 | Next

☆☆☆☆☆

:'''''') the letter right? Did I cry writing it? Yes I did. Did I cry the fifteen times I've reread it? Yes, I also did. What did you guys think of this chapter?:')

#chasing cars ch 12 #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook #jjk smut #jjk angst #jjk fluff #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk fic #jjk #jeon jungkook #btswritersclub #chasing cars #chasing cars series

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andy-15-07 · 10 months ago

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hi! I love your feyd rautha fics 🥰 can you write one where the reader is pregnant with his child, a female, and he’s upset and cold with the reader because she’s not a male heir? but then, when she’s born, he’s so transfixed by her beauty and just the fact that she’s his, and that he just melts and swears to kill anyone for her?

My precious one

masterlist ! pairing: Feyd Rautha x reader

Dune Masterlist

The halls of the fortress echoed with an air of tension as Y/n, heavily pregnant with Feyd Rautha's child, moved cautiously through the dimly lit corridors. Feyd, the formidable heir to House Harkonnen, had been distant and cold ever since learning the gender of their unborn child. Tradition demanded a male heir, and Y/n's heart ached with the weight of disappointment as she faced the impending birth of a daughter.

"Y/n," Feyd's voice, usually smooth and commanding, was laced with discontent as he entered their chambers. "What use is a daughter to the House of Harkonnen? You were to bear me a son, a worthy successor."

Y/n's eyes welled with tears, but she fought to maintain her composure. "Feyd, she is still our child, a part of both of us. She will carry the blood of House Harkonnen."

He scowled, turning away. "A daughter will bring us nothing but weakness. I need an heir who can command respect, instill fear in our enemies. This changes everything."

As the days passed, Feyd distanced himself further, leaving Y/n feeling isolated and burdened. The weight of disappointment settled upon her like a heavy cloak, but she clung to the hope that when their daughter arrived, Feyd's heart would soften.

The day of reckoning came, the air thick with anticipation as Y/n went into labor. Feyd, though present, maintained a stoic silence, his eyes betraying the turmoil within. The labor was arduous, but when the cries of their newborn daughter filled the room, Y/n felt an overwhelming sense of joy and relief.

"She's here, Feyd," Y/n whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "Our daughter."

Feyd's eyes met the tiny, squirming bundle in Y/n's arms, and for a moment, the hardness in his gaze softened. The baby girl had a delicate beauty that seemed to captivate him, a sight that defied his earlier expectations.

"What shall we name her?" Y/n asked, her heart swelling with love for their precious child.

"Feydra," he said, the name rolling off his tongue with a tenderness that surprised them both.

Feydra's arrival sparked a transformation in Feyd. The once cold and distant heir was now consumed by an overwhelming protectiveness and love for his daughter. As he held her for the first time, his fingers traced the contours of her tiny face, and he couldn't help but marvel at her innocence.

"She's ours, Y/n," he whispered, his voice filled with awe. "I will do anything to protect her. No harm shall come to our Feydra."

From that moment on, Feyd became an attentive and devoted father. He would spend hours cradling Feydra in his arms, his stern countenance replaced by a softness that only she could evoke. The fortress, once a place of cold authority, became a haven for the blossoming love between father and daughter.

As Feydra grew, Feyd's determination to shield her from the harsh realities of their world intensified. He vowed to eliminate any threat that dared to cast a shadow over her, swearing to protect her with a fierceness that only a father's love could inspire.

One day, as father and daughter strolled through the fortress gardens, Feyd's eyes gleamed with an unspoken promise. "Feydra, my precious one, you are the future of House Harkonnen. No harm will befall you as long as I draw breath. I would destroy worlds to keep you safe."

Feydra, oblivious to the dangers that lurked beyond the fortress walls, gazed up at her father with adoration. In those moments, Feyd's heart swelled with a love that transcended bloodlines and tradition. The bond between father and daughter had forged a legacy that defied the expectations of House Harkonnen, proving that love could be a force more powerful than any political alliance or familial obligation.

#feyd rautha harkonnen x you #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha imagines #feyd rautha #feyd x you #feyd x reader #feyd oneshot #austin butler x you #austin butler x reader #austin butler imagine #austin butler imagines #austin butler #austin butler x y/n #dune x reader #dune imagines #dune imagine #dune fanfiction #dune part 2

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f1boistrash · 6 months ago

Text

nowhere else i'd rather be | l.s

a/n: here is more of logan x verstappen!reader. i've also got another part in the works which i'm excited to start

summary: you comfort logan after the news broke that he wouldn't be racing in the australian grand prix

<- previous part

You were in the Red Bull garage when the news was announced. You had heard the rumors after Alex's crash in free practice one but you didn't think they would actually do it or at least you hoped they wouldn't. Williams had given Alex Logan's car for the rest of the weekend and you were angry.

You quietly left before anyone noticed, making your way to Logan's room for the weekend. No one batted an eye, too focused on getting the car ready for free practice two so you were able to sneak in. You found his room easily, the layout similar to Red Bulls garage, and knocked on the door. You heard some movement inside but no one came to open the door.

"Logan? It's me, Y/N." You tried again. You didn't want to just barge in but you also wanted to see him, to make sure he was okay. Well as okay as anyone can be in this situation.

"The doors open." You heard him mumble and you quickly slipped inside.

The sight before you broke your heart. Logan was sat on his couch, his head in his hands. He looked defeated. You sat down next to him, immediately wrapping your arms around him. It was like a dam broke inside as tears started falling. You held him tightly, your way of letting him know you weren't going anywhere. It took everything for you to not go in James' office and give him a piece of your mind for treating Logan like this.

It was a few minutes before Logan sat up, moving out of your arms. He brushed his hand over his face as if he was trying to hide the fact he was crying. "I'm sorry." He mumbled, too embarrassed to look at you.

"You don't need to apologize, Logan. What they did was shit. You have every right to be upset." You told him, placing your hand over his. "I don't ever wanna hear you apologize for your feelings, okay?"

"Thanks, Y/N." Logan thanked you, sending you what was probably the first genuine smile of the day. "You being here means a lot."

"There's no where else I'd rather be." You admitted, heat rising to your cheeks at your admission. Before you could hide, afraid you made the situation weird, Logan cupped your cheek and leaned forward. Neither of you had a chance to make a move before your phone went off, interrupting the moment. You cursed silently at your brother for choosing now to text you. "I should probably get going or Max will send out a search party."

"Yeah, I should probably show my face in the garage." Logan groaned. He didn't want to but knew he had to keep up appearances for the team.

"I'll text you later." You promised him as he walked you to the door. You hugged Logan goodbye and left but not before you bumped into Alex. "Hey Alex."

"Hey Y/N." He called after you. Alex then turned to Logan giving him a knowing smirk.

"We're just friends." Logan said, trying to convince himself more than anything because there was no way he could have a crush on a fellow drivers sister. Alex grinned at his teammate, not believing him one bit.

-x-

Logan was nervous. More nervous than he was before he got into his car on race days. He had no reason to though because you were just friends. That's what he kept telling himself, afraid of embarrassing himself in front of you. You had texted earlier that you were coming over to his hotel room, bringing food with you, and since then Logan was on edge. It felt like a date but you hadn't said anything to suggest it was.

A knock on the door broke him out of his thoughts. He opened the door and there you were, takeout bags in each hand and a grin on your face. It was enough for the nervousness Logan had to melt away. "I heard about this place from Oscar and he reckons its the best food in Melbourne. So if its bad we can just blame him." You said as you walked into his room. "And I know it may be breaking our diet but we can just do an extra lap of the track tomorrow." You rambled on, taking the boxes out of the bag. When Logan didn't say anything you looked up, seeing him softly smiling at you making you self conscious. "I'm overstepping, aren't I? I am so sorry. You probably want to be by yourself now after today. I'll leave you alone now."

"Please don't." Logan pleaded, interrupting your spiraling thoughts. He gently grabbed your hand to stop you from leaving his room. "I enjoy your company. In fact you're making this whole weekend bearable." Logan pulled you close, his nose brushing yours. "So please don't leave." He mumbled against your lips before kissing you. You melted into his kiss, forgetting any worries you had.

#logan sargeant imagine #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant #f1 imagine #f1

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doumadono · 7 months ago

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hiiii Douma, I love your writing! I'll take a chance and submit a Sinful Sunday request (maybe my request will get some votes if I'm lucky ha!) - Boothill being seduced by Reader

Warnings: smut w/o plot, smut, cunnilingus, missionary, creampie, fem!reader, fingering, metal fingers & cock

A/N: this request got the highest number of votes during the third Sinful Sunday poll. Thank you to everyone who voted!

SINFUL SUNDAY OTHER FANDOMS

The dimly lit bar was the kind of place where secrets thrived, and tonight, you were ready to add one more to its repertoire. You sauntered in, your eyes scanning the room until they landed on him — Boothill.

His rugged features were softened by the dim lighting and the swirling smoke that lazily danced around him.

You felt a pull, an irresistible urge to get closer. As you approached, your heart pounded, but you steadied yourself, exuding confidence. You slid onto the barstool next to him, your thigh brushing his ever so slightly.

He glanced your way, a curious glint in his eye.

"Evening," you said, your voice smooth and inviting.

Boothill tipped his hat. "Evening, ma'am," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly timbre. There was a polite distance in his tone, but something in his eyes told you he was intrigued.

"You look like you could use some company," you continued, leaning in just a bit closer, letting your shoulder brush lightly against his.

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Well, I reckon I ain't opposed to some pleasant conversation."

You smiled, your gaze locking with his. "What brings a man like you to a place like this?"

He chuckled softly. "Just passin' through, same as always. Got business here and there, people to see. And you, ma’am?"

"I'm here for the same reason," you replied, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Though I think I've found something far more interesting than what I was looking for."

Boothill's eyes narrowed slightly, a playful glint in them. "Is that right? And what might that be?"

You let your fingers trail lightly over the rim of your glass, your touch tantalizing. "Someone who stands out in a crowd. Someone unique."

His smile widened. "Well, ain't you a charmer? Not often someone calls me unique in a good way."

"I mean it," you said earnestly. "There's something about you, Boothill. Something... irresistible."

Boothill's eyes narrowed further, a spark of curiosity igniting in them. "How do you know my name, ma’am?" he asked, his voice tinted with suspicion.

You leaned in a bit closer, your lips curling into a mysterious smile. "Word travels fast around here," you replied, your voice smooth and confident. "A man like you tends to leave an impression wherever he goes."

Boothill raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "I suppose I can't argue with that. But it makes me wonder what else you might know about me."

You let your fingers graze his arm. "Just enough to be intrigued," you said, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "And eager to learn more." You moved your hand down back on his muscular thigh.

Boothill's breath hitched, his eyes darkening. "Well, well," he murmured, his hand covering yours, pressing it against his thigh. The cyborg chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that sent shivers down your spine. "You're quite somethin', you know that?" He said, his eyes sparkling. "Ain't often I meet someone who can keep me on my toes like this."

You smiled. "I can also be quite... diverting," you whispered, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on his leg.

Boothill's breath hitched, his eyes darkening with desire. "Is that so?"

"Why don't we find somewhere more... private, and I'll show you?" you suggested, your voice dripping with promise.

He stood, pulling you up with him, his grip firm and possessive. "Lead the way," he growled, his eyes never leaving yours.

The night was just beginning, and you couldn't wait to see where it led.

The tension between you crackled, each step heightening the anticipation.

You led him to your quarters, your heart racing with anticipation. As the door slided shut behind you, you wasted no time in pressing your body against his, your lips seeking his in a passionate kiss.

He responded eagerly, his tongue dancing with yours as your hands roamed over his chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt. After the kiss, his keen eyes scanned the room before settling back on you. "Mighty cozy, darlin'."

You smiled, a slow, seductive curve of your lips. "Just the right kind of place for what I have in mind."

Boothill's eyes darkened with desire as he stepped closer, his hands coming to rest on your waist. "And what would that be, cutie?"

You reached up, sliding your hands around his neck, pulling him down until your lips were just a breath away from his. "Why don't you find out, cowboy?" you whispered seductively.

Boothill needed no further encouragement. He captured your lips with his, the kiss searing and demanding.

You responded eagerly, your hands tangling in his long hair as you pressed yourself against him.

His hands roamed your body, exploring the curves and planes with a desperate hunger.

You shivered under his touch, your own hands tracing the hard lines of his cybernetic enhancements. The contrast between metal and flesh was intoxicating, a reminder of the unique being that was Boothill.

A mischievous thought crossed your mind, and you decided to act on it.

Slowly, you turned around in his arms, your movements deliberate and seductive. As you shifted, your back pressed against his chest, your curves fitting perfectly against the hard planes of his body. You felt his arm tighten around your waist, a subtle acknowledgment of your actions.

Boothill’s breath hitched as you started to grind your ass against his crotch, your movements slow and teasing. The friction was tantalizing, a promise of the pleasure to come. You could feel the hardening length of him against you.

He groaned softly, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, guiding your movements. His lips found your nape, pressing a series of hot, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. Each kiss sent shivers down your spine, the sensation electrifying.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with desire.

You smiled, your hips rolling against him in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “I like living dangerously,” you replied, your voice breathy with anticipation.

Boothill’s hand slid from your hip to your belly, pulling you even closer. His kisses became more urgent, more insistent, as he peppered your nape with affection. His lips traveled up to your ear, his tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive skin.

You moaned softly, your movements becoming more urgent as you ground your ass against his crotch.The feel of his lips on your neck, combined with the pressure of his hardening cock against your ass, drove you wild. You reached behind you, your hand tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “I want you,” you whispered, your voice a plea.

His response was immediate, his grip on you tightening. “You’ve got me,” he growled, his voice low and filled with promise. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer against him.

You resumed your grinding, the sensation even more intense.

Boothill’s hand slid down between your legs, right under your dress, his fingers finding your pussy, unclothed and eager. “Look at you, sweetheart, such a naughty girl you are.” He teased you with slow, deliberate pets, his other hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck. His lips returned to your nape, and he trailed your pulse point with the tip of his tongue.

The combination of his touch and his kisses drove you wild. You ground against him with renewed urgency, your body begging for release.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Boothill asked, and you found yourself nodding again in thoughtless compliance. His cold, metal fingers slid into the slick channel between your labia and began to push their way inside your tight, soaking cunt. Boothill’s cold, metal fingers moved with expert precision, driving you higher, pushing you closer to the edge. He took his time to finger your pussy. “You’re so fudgin’ wet,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with desire. “I can feel how much you want this.” Boothill’s thumb found your clit, circling it with deliberate strokes that had you gasping.

You were bucking your hips up against his cold, thrusting hand and squeezing your own nipples until the tingling was almost painful.

With a final, precise flick of his thumb and a deep thrust of his fingers, he sent you over the edge. You shattered in his arms, a cry of pleasure escaping your lips. Your body convulsed, waves of ecstasy crashing over you as Boothill continued to guide you through your orgasm. Even as you came, you knew you would need to cum again soon.

His lips trailed soft, soothing kisses along your neck and shoulder, grounding you as you came back to yourself.

“There,” you pointed your head to another door on the side of the chamber.

Boothill's grin was wicked as he swept you into his arms, carrying you with ease to the adjoining room. He put you down next to the bed, and groaned into your mouth as you nibbled on his bottom lip, your fingers tracing a path down his stomach to the waistband of his pants.

You deftly unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, letting them fall to the floor. His cock was already hard and sprung up after being freed, and you couldn’t resist giving it a teasing squeeze.

He unzipped your dress and let it fall to the floor, leaving you in your lacy bra. Boothill groaned appreciatively as he took in the sight of you, his hands cupping your breasts and teasing your nipples through the fabric.

You moaned and arched your back, your hands reaching behind you to unclasp your bra.

He took over, freeing your breasts and taking one in his mouth, sucking and licking your nipple until you're writhing with pleasure. He then laid you gently on the bed, his eyes devouring the sight of you sprawled out before him. "You're a sight to behold, sugar," he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

You reached up, tugging him down to you.

With a growl, Boothill claimed your lips again, his hands working to divest you of your dress.

You reciprocated, eager to feel the chill of his metal body against yours.

The cool metal of his enhancements contrasted sharply with the warmth of your flesh, heightening every touch, every caress.

Boothill's lips trailed down your neck, nipping and kissing.

You arched into him, your hands clutching at his shoulders, urging him on.

His mouth found your collarbone, then your breasts, lavishing attention on each peak until you were writhing beneath him.

"Boothill," you moaned, the sound of his name on your lips spurring him on.

He moved lower, his lips and hands mapping every inch of your body, worshiping you with a reverence that left you breathless.

When he finally settled between your parted thighs, you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. "You're such a tease, Boothill," you managed to say, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He kissed and licked his way down your stomach until he reached your wet folds. He teased you with his tongue, licking and sucking your clit until you were crying out with pleasure. He looked up, his eyes blazing. "Only for you, darlin'." He quickly snaked out his tongue, swiping it at your pussy lips, making contact with your swollen clit, causing you to involuntarily jerk and shriek. Then he put his flexed tongue inside your tiny vagina, swirling around your opening, inhaling the scent of your drenched cunt and tasting your sweet nectar. His cold hands roamed over the soft skin of your thighs, your stomach and your breasts.

Due to being overstimulated already, you cried out his name, your body arching off the bed as you found your second release, shuddering with the intensity of it.

Boothill crawled back up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. "You taste like heaven, sugar," he murmured against your lips.

You smiled, tasting yourself on his lips and tongue, your hands sliding down to grasp his metal cock, guiding him to where you wanted him most. "Then come join me in paradise."

The slit of your vulva was glistening with moisture from your arousal as he rubbed the head of his metal cock against it.

He easily slid into you, a groan escaping his lips as he did.

You squeezed his cock in your tiny cunt, your muscles working on the shaft of his dick, making him groan with every thrust he made.

Boothill kissed you and you wrapped your arms and legs around him. He marveled at seeing every feature of your beautiful body. Your pussy lips were swollen and glistening with your juices. Your clit was standing tall and brushing against his cock as he fucked you hard. He pounded into you, increasing his pace, growling like an animal.

You responded to his forcefulness, rolling your hips to meet all of his thrusts. You clung to him, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Each thrust sent you spiraling higher, the pleasure almost too much to bear. "Boothill," you gasped, your nails raking down his metal back.

Boothill’s cock shone with your slick juices as it moved in and out of your needy hole. "Darlin'," he growled, his pace quickening. "You're gonna be the death of me."

You smiled, your lips finding his ear. "Then die happy, cowboy."

With a final, powerful thrust, you both shattered, the pleasure crashing over you in waves.

He exploded inside you, flooding your insides with his surprisingly warm, oleaginous seed. “Holy… Oh, yeah, take it, take it,” the cowboy growled lowly, spilling all of his cum deep within you.

You rested your weight on your elbows, looking directly between your parted legs. Your cheeks flushed harder as you saw a bit of his semen dripping out around his cock that still stuffed into your cunny that was convulsively clumping down on his iron shaft. “Fuck, oh God…. Oh God!” you whined, biting your lower lip and rolling your head back.

Boothill pulled out of you slowly, rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were nestled against his cold, metallic chest. "That was fudgin’ amazing, cutie," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

You smiled, tracing lazy circles on his chest. "It certainly was, Boothill. And there's plenty more where that came from."

"Hey, sweetheart," Boothill murmured, his breath still heavy from your passionate encounter. "I realize I never caught your name. Mind sharing it with me?"

With a smirk, you cockily responded, "Maybe, if you're a good boy and earn the prize, I'll consider telling you."

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betweenstorms · 2 months ago

Text

Part Six of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Exactly five days had passed since Simon Riley’s last visit, and true to his word, there he was again, standing at your doorstep in the quiet lull of an overcast afternoon.

The clouds hung low that day, full with the promise of rain, but the city outside remained still, suspended in waiting, where time seemed to stretch, holding out it's hand for the storm to break. You had felt it coming somehow, the inevitability of his return, as if the universe had carved out this moment for the two of you.

Simon was dressed in simple, plain clothes as before, plus that damn mask that shrouded half his face in mystery. His hazel eyes, though, were unmistakable, cutting through the soft grey light that filled your small apartment. There was something different this time. The first visit had been sudden, unplanned—an unspoken reckoning between the two of you. But now, there was a gentle certainty to his presence, like he had come here with purpose.

And you were ready for him.

The past week had been a strange blur of careful planning and tempting hope. Each day, you’d found yourself cooking more than necessary, always for two, even though you were the only one in the apartment. Each time you did, you felt a little foolish, like you were preparing for a guest who may never arrive, but you kept at it. It had become a sort of evening ritual, a way to keep your hands busy, your mind distracted. You’d convinced yourself that you were just being practical, that having extra food ready was a good habit to get into, but in the back of your mind, you knew the truth. You were waiting for him, hoping that he would come back.

As you opened the door for him, you could feel the flutter of nerves in your stomach, but it wasn’t the same overwhelming rush of emotion that had floored you the last time. The tension between you wasn’t as suffocating, though it still hummed in the air. You met his gaze with a shy smile, and even though he didn’t return it, there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Or maybe just relief that he hadn’t startled you again.

As you moved about the kitchen, setting the table, you could feel Simon’s sharp eyes on you, watching silently as you went through the timid motions of domesticity.

There was something almost surreal about it, how easily he had slipped into your life, into the rhythm of your days, despite the years of distance and the weight of everything unspoken between you.

“Hope you’re starvin’, cause I cooked,” you joked, your voice soft but carrying a note of pride.

He paused, his gaze shifting to you, and for the briefest moment, you saw it. Surprise, so subtle that most people wouldn’t have noticed it. But you did. Because you always did. For a man like Simon, who had probably seen and endured things beyond your understanding, it was hard to catch him off guard. But somehow, this had done it. You weren’t sure if it was the food or the fact that you had prepared for his visit, but either way, something had surprised him.

Simon sat down without a word, and you followed suit, sitting across from him at the small, worn table. The plates were mismatched, and the silverware was old, but it felt right, like the two of you had found a quiet corner of the world where the past could be left behind.

You ate in silence for a while, the sound of cutlery scraping against ceramic the only noise in the room. You tried not to observe him too closely, but you couldn’t help sneaking glances in his direction, noting the way he ate in a methodical way, as if food were just another task to be completed. Like it was sustenance.

But still, he ate everything you had made.

Feeling a bit braver, you tried to engage him in conversation, asking questions about where he had been, what he had been up to.

But, as expected, Simon deflected your questions. His answers were all vague, if he gave any at all, and more often than not, he responded with a noncommittal grunt or a quiet huff that left you with little to work with. It was like trying to pry open a door that had been stuck for years, but you knew better than to push him too hard. It frustrated you, yes, but you had come to accept it, in a way.

You knew that Simon’s life was full of things you would never be able to understand, things he carried alone. He didn’t talk about himself, didn’t share his burdens. It wasn’t in his nature.

But he did ask about you.

It was subtle at first, his questions slipping into the conversation like afterthoughts. He asked how work was going, what you had been doing lately, how your parents were. Safe topics. Ordinary things. You answered to all of them dutifully, at first feeling incredibly awkward, unsure if your life could possibly hold any interest for someone like him. However, there was something in the way he looked at you that made you feel like he genuinely wanted to know, like he was trying, however clumsily, to bridge the gap between you.

At first, you had been nervous, scared that your life was far too dull to hold his interest. What did you have to offer to someone like Simon, really? Your job was nothing special, your days were uneventful, and your life felt small in comparison to the things you imagined he had seen and done. But when you noticed that he was actually paying attention, that he wasn’t just asking out of politeness, something shifted inside you. His gaze never wavered from you, and though he didn’t say much, you could feel his undivided attention, his magnetic presence, in the way he sat there, letting you fill the space between you, only with your words.

So you told him about the small things.

The way the shop down the street had started selling your favourite lemon biscuits again, how your neighbour had adopted an absurdly large dog that barked at everything that moved, how you’d been thinking about taking up creative writing again, though you hadn’t found the time. Then, you told him about the music you’d been listening to, the films and series you were hoping to watch, even the latest book you’d picked up.

You watched his stoic face as you rambled on about your day, the corner shop, your plans for the weekend. Simon wasn’t the kind of man who offered much in return, his responses were still clipped, mostly just a nod or a grunt, but there was a subtle warmth in his attention. You saw the slight twitch of his lips, the occasional raise of an eyebrow, signs that he was more engaged than he let on. It was as if, for the first time since you were a child, someone was truly listening to you, hearing you, without judgement or expectation.

And that made all the difference.

As an adult, you tend to fade into the background, even in the eyes of your own parents, who no longer find your life as fascinating as it once was. It becomes rare to meet someone who is truly interested in you. As a child, everything was easier. Friendship came effortlessly, falling in love felt light and unburdened, and emotions flowed like crystal water. Adults would smile down at you, ask about your weekend plans, your schoolwork, even your little crushes, as if your life held some fond magic. But next to Simon, for a fleeting minute, you felt like a kid again, as though you were still filled with that magic. And you felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude—for Simon and for the way he made you feel like you mattered again, even for just a second, like you were something worth adoring.

After dinner, he helped you with the dirty dishes.

You almost laughed out loud at the sight of him, this hulking figure built like a bloody fortress, standing at the sink, washing plates and cups like it was the most normal thing in the world. The kitchen felt even smaller compared to him, his broad shoulders brushing against you as he reached for the plates, and that made your heart press against your ribs, threatening to burst. There was something so tender, so wonderfully domestic about the scene, something you never imagined you’d have with him.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, handing him a dripping plate.

He took it without a word, his large hands handling it with such care that seemed out of place for a man of his size. But that was Simon, wasn’t it? Always full of contradictions.

After the dishes were done, you made a suggestion—an invitation to show him the little shop down the street you’d mentioned earlier, the one with the delicious lemon biscuits.

You didn’t expect him to agree, but to your surprise, Simon gave a small nod. It was strange, seeing him agree to something so ordinary, something as simple as a walk to the nearby shop, but you didn’t question it. You didn’t want to ruin the moment.

So, you slipped on your jacket, and together, you ventured out into the cool evening air.

Simon wore his mask, even for such a short walk, and though it puzzled you, you didn’t press him about it. He had his reasons, and oddly, that was enough for you.

As you walked down the streets, you noticed how the grey world seemed to shrink around the two of you. The city faded into the background, the sound of distant traffic becoming a hum that didn’t quite touch the space you two occupied. You told him how the owner had a strange habit of stacking the shelves in a particular way and how the colourful sign of the shop had faded to nearly nothing since you moved here. Simon listened, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his gaze drifting over the neighbourhood but always coming back to you.

When you reached the tiny shop, you bought three packets of biscuits, a small indulgence you couldn’t resist.

As you walked back, you shared them with him, handing over a piece without thinking twice. His surgical mask made it a bit of a challenge for him to eat them, but the way he handled it, with such simple grace, surprised you. As if eating with a mask was something he’d mastered a long time ago. Nevertheless, you only smiled at him.

The months that followed were some of the happiest of your life.

Simon’s visits became more frequent, though never scheduled. Sometimes he would appear at your door unannounced, and sometimes he’d let you know he was coming, with a punctuated, short message that always felt like it carried more weight than it should. However, each time he showed up, your heart would lift, if only for a little while. There was a quiet understanding between you, a habitual rhythm that developed naturally, as if fifteen years apart had simply folded into the space between you without effort.

You began to treasure the time you spent with him, the quiet moments that made up the fabric of your strange relationship.

Late-night talks on the balcony of his apartment, where the two of you would smoke cigarettes and watch the city lights flicker in the distance, your voices hushed in the golden glow of streetlights. Cooking meals together in your tiny kitchen, where he would stand at the stove, helping you chop vegetables with the same precision you imagined he used in the field. Watching films and series you wanted to share with him, the two of you sitting side by side on your worn-out sofa, the space between you shrinking as the months passed.

It was the simple things, the mundane moments that you found yourself clinging to.

You were always struck by how he fit into your boring life, seamlessly slipping into your routine as if he had always been there, right next to you. Grocery shopping together, wandering through the aisles of the supermarket or the farmer’s market, picking out fresh produce while Simon trailed behind you, always quiet, always present.

Walking through your neighbourhood, pointing out places that held some meaning for you, while he listened with the same attentive intensity, nodding occasionally as you spoke. There were moments when the conversation was light, filled with teasing and sarcasm, and other times when silence stretched between you two, comfortable and unpressured. It was in those moments of stillness that you felt the most connected to him, as if words weren’t necessary to understand the weight of what lingered unsaid.

But the thing you appreciated most was the talking.

Even though Simon was a man of few words, over time, you began to unravel him, bit by bit. It was a painfully slow process, peeling back the layers, but you cherished every fragment of him he allowed you to see. You learned that beneath his gruff exterior and his hardened past, Simon had a dry, morbid sense of humour that made you laugh in a way you hadn’t in years. His wit was sharp, his sarcasm biting, and yet it was never mean-spirited. You found yourself looking forward to his jokes, when he would throw a quip your way, the corner of his mouth quirking in the closest thing to a smile you’d seen from him. And you loved it.

Oh, how you loved it.

You loved the way he made you laugh, the way he looked at you when you were together, the way he seemed to feel at ease in your presence. You loved every moment you spent with him, no matter how small or insignificant. You loved him in the quiet, in the way he listened to you rambling, in the way he paid attention to the smallest details of your life. You loved him in the way he let you into his rugged world, without ever making it feel forced or unnatural. And, slowly but surely, you began to realise that you were falling in love with him.

It wasn’t a grand, sweeping realisation.

Falling in love with Simon Riley was like the gentle embrace of the rising sun, a warmth that crept into your icy soul without fanfare or grand gestures. There was no single moment when everything fell into place—no sudden clarity or lightning strike of realisation.

Rather, it unfolded gradually, like the soft glow of dawn spreading across the horizon, casting its light quietly, almost imperceptibly, until the cold ground was warmed beneath your feet. It wasn’t until you stood there, basking in the radiant comfort of his presence, that you realised just how deeply he had become part of you, the warmth of him seeping into your very bones, making everything feel softer, brighter, without you ever noticing the shift.

At first, you tried to fight it, wrestled with the feelings that threatened to overtake you every time he crossed your mind.

You forced yourself not to think about him when he was away on deployment, not to let your heart leap at the thought of his return. You made every effort not to seem too eager when you were with him, not to act like a schoolgirl caught up in her first crush.

Bloody hell, but it was impossible.

When he made you blush, you looked away, pretending the burning heat on your cheeks was from something else. When his eyes met yours, catching you in the act of staring, you quickly turned, as if you hadn’t been completely mesmerised by him. And when your hands brushed, just the briefest of touches, you shifted, heart racing, trying to ignore the intoxicating pull that came with the smallest contact.

No matter how many years had slipped by since the days of your childhood, no matter how long you’d been an adult, standing next to him made time blur in a way that was both haunting and comforting. It was as if the weight of the years dissolved whenever you were near him, pulling you back to that distant time, so far away it almost felt like it had belonged to another. In his presence, you were that child again, caught in the same quiet awe, the same unspoken connection, even after all the miles you had walked apart.

And yet, you fought it with everything you had.

And he must have noticed.

Simon saw the signs, read the signals you didn’t mean to give away, and in his silent way, he respected them. He didn’t try to get closer. He was there, returning to you, keeping his promises, but there was a careful distance, an invisible line neither of you dared to cross.

Since the day he told you he had read your letter, he kept his space. He stood just far enough to be present, but never touched, never pressed, as if he understood your hesitance in the way you withdrew as well as his own.

You didn’t know why you looked away, why you pulled back from him, why his touch made you retreat when all you wanted was to feel him closer. It terrified you, this primal instinct to shield your heart from the very thing it craved the most. Because deep down, you knew—

—you loved him.

But love, for you, had always been tangled in something darker, something messy and painful. Everything you ever loved had faded, slipping through your fingers like sand, no matter how tightly you tried to hold on. The long, golden days of summer spent with your grandparents, the laughter-filled, drunken nights with high school friends, the passionate, young love with your ex-fiancé, your mother’s blooming rose bush, once so full of life—everything you cherished had withered, just like you had.

So how could you tell him?

How could you ever admit that you fell in love with him, when you were so certain that love was tied to loss?

To let him know, to say the words aloud, felt like signing your heart away to another disappearance. You couldn’t bear to watch him slip away too, to see him fade into the same oblivion where all the things you once held dear now lived. The fear of loving and losing had rooted itself deep inside you, so you kept Simon at arm’s length, not because you didn’t love him—but because you did, you desperetely did, and that scared you to death.

You tried to convince yourself that this was enough.

That loving him in secret was enough to keep him close, enough to soothe the longing that bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart. It had to be enough. You couldn’t bear the thought of risking more, of laying your heart bare, watching it bleed to death. You didn’t want to hold his memory longer than you had held him. The idea of losing him, of watching him slip from your life like everything else you had ever dared to love, was far more unbearable than never speaking the truth aloud.

So you settled for silence.

It was the beginning of November when you two met again, a month heavier with the bite of cold winds, the days darkening earlier, and the air growing sharp with the crisp scent of fallen leaves. You could feel the promise of winter in the cold air, the way it clung to your skin and seeped into your bones, even after you’d bundled yourself in layers before stepping outside. The city had taken on a grey, muted tone, the kind that made everything feel distant and quiet, like the world was holding its breath.

It had been weeks since you and Simon had shared any significant time together. His work had consumed him more than usual, drawing him further into whatever grim business he was tied up in.

You understood, of course.

Simon’s professional life was a complicated web of responsibilities, ones you couldn’t begin to unravel, but you couldn’t stop feeling his absence like a weight in your chest, a quiet ache that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts. That’s why, when you finally managed to pin him down for an evening, you decided to do something different. Instead of the usual quiet nights at yours, you had dragged him to the cinema for a change. Maybe a night out would shake up the routine. He had agreed, somewhat reluctantly of course, but you knew by now that Simon rarely said no, well, not to you and not outright, even when he wasn’t particularly enthused about something. Your idea seemed pretty sound at the time—a bit of mindless fun, a chance to forget about life for a couple of hours.

But halfway through, you began to regret it.

Despite his compliance, it had hardly seemed to hold his interest.

The film, Thanksgiving, had been a bloody mess of cheap jump scares and gruesome deaths, the kind of silly horror that mainly thrived on shock value. It wasn’t your typical choice, but you thought it might be fun. You could laugh at the absurdity of it all, maybe even hide your face in Simon’s shoulder during the worst bits. However, you caught him with his eyes closed at one point, and though you couldn’t be sure with Simon, it looked like he was trying to sleep through the entire thing. You felt a twinge of guilt for dragging him out of his comfort zone, but it was hard not to smile at the ridiculous way he handled it.

Now, as you sat in his car, the evening pressing against the windows, you rubbed your hands together, trying to chase away the embrace of autumn. The scent of leather and something distinctly him filled the small space, grounding you in the moment. It was strange how his presence, as imposing as it could be, brought a sense of calm.

Simon shortly joined you, his usual surgical mask firmly in place, obscuring half of his face, but leaving those sharp, assessing eyes visible. You could see the faint lines of a frown etched into his brow. God, he truly wasn’t impressed. But you couldn’t help yourself.

“Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

He shot you a look so lifeless it was almost comical, as if your inquiry was the most ludicrous thing he'd ever heard. It wasn't meant to be, but it was really funny. The way Simon could reduce any situation to its barest, bleakest elements always amused you, especially when you knew he had probably seen far worse in real life.

“Watchin’ people get butchered over a roast dinner’s not my idea of fun, love,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, as he buckled his seatbelt.

You snorted, your breath misting up the window a little.

“Not a fan of festive slasher films, then?” You hummed. “Could’ve fooled me. Wouldn’t have thought you of all people would be such a film snob.”

“Just not a fan of shit films,” he deadpanned, turning the key in the ignition.

You giggled, the sound bright and unexpected, cutting through the solemnity of the moment, and for a second, you forgot about the cold seeping into your bones, forgot about the distance that had grown between you both these last few weeks. It was so Simon, his dry attitude never seemed not to amuse you.

“Alright alright, I’ll pick somethin’ better next time, promise” you offered, leaning back into your seat, watching the rain start to dot the windscreen in light, lazy taps.

He didn’t respond, not verbally at least, but the slight dip of his chin told you he’d accepted the truce. His eyes were focused on the road ahead as he eased the car into gear and pulled away from the parking lot, the city lights blurring into a mosaic of greys and muted yellows.

You were just about to continue your lighthearted roasting of the film when something caught your attention.

Nestled in the door pocket, half-hidden by your handbag, was a small, familiar box. Pushing aside your bag, you reached for it and recognised the brand instantly. It was the same one as your favourite snack, those lemon biscuits you loved so much, but this one was peach-flavoured. Your heart leapt a little at the discovery. A bright smile spread across your face as you held the box up to Simon, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips.

“Where the hell did you get these? Only ever had strawberry ones, but they taste like that god-awful medicine my mum used to force on me as a kid. But peach? My goodness, this is a fuckin’ revelation.”

Simon only shrugged, his eyes still on the road, as if it were nothing, as if his attention to this small detail in your life hadn’t just made your entire night.

“Saw them in Berlin,” he said simply, his voice almost casual.

You held the box of sweets like it was something precious, turning it in your hands as if doing so would reveal more about his thought process. It felt heavy, not because of the contents, but because of the meaning behind them. A small gesture, perhaps to him, something you would do for a friend, but to you, it was monumental.

He had thought of you.

While away, while on deployment, in the middle of whatever chaos he entailed, his thoughts had drifted to you. Enough for him to notice something as simple as biscuits, to pick them up and bring them back, just for you. Your heart swelled painfully in your chest, beating faster than it had any right to. You turned away from him, pressing your sweaty palm to your cheek as if that would somehow hide the flush rising to your cheeks. Your hair, thankfully, provided some cover.

The weight of your affection for him felt almost too much in that moment, as if your heart might burst under the pressure of it all. You loved him already, but every time you thought you couldn’t fall any further, Simon would do something incredibly thoughtful, and it would send you tumbling all over again.

You murmured a soft “thanks,” under your breath, your voice almost swallowed by the steady hum of the vehicle. Your fingers played nervously over the edges, then, clearing your throat, you asked, “Mind if I open it?”

Simon huffed, glancing at you for a brief second before refocusing on the road. “Brought ’em for you, didn’t I?” The tone in his voice was that signature Simon blend of exasperation, as though the mere notion that you’d need his permission was absurd.

You grinned, eager and unashamed now, looking down at the box one last time before diving in, tearing open the packaging with the same enthusiasm you’d had as a child on Christmas morning. The fruity smell hit your nose immediately, sweet and delicate. You took a biscuit, biting into it with a hum of appreciation.

“Shit, they’re delicious,” you offered him one without even thinking.

He shook his head, eyes still fixed ahead. “Not for me.”

You weren't surprised.

Simon didn’t seem the type to indulge in overly sweet things, not unless you counted tea and the occasional glass of whisky. His refusal didn’t dampen your spirits, of course.

The warmth of the treat spread through you, a sharp contrast to the damp evening that loomed just outside the car windows. The rain had started in earnest now, the soft pattern turning into a steady beat against the windscreen. You watched as the droplets raced down the glass, your mind drifting as the city lights blurred into streaks of amber, ruby and gold.

Finally, the quiet between you both wasn’t awkward.

It didn’t demand anything from you anymore. It had taken months of tentative conversations, stolen glances, and hesitant touches, but now, the silence had transformed. It felt like a shared language, a kind of intimacy beyond words. You could sit there for hours, side by side, saying nothing at all, and it would feel as though you’d spoken a thousand truths.

“Berlin, huh?”

Your smile was shy, hesitant even. You were testing the waters, trying your luck to pry into a part of Simon's life that still felt really distant and elusive. There was so much about Simon you didn’t know—so many parts of him shrouded in shadows you couldn’t reach.

You knew that he was a high-ranking military officer, that his life was filled with danger and violence, but beyond that, his world was a locked door you didn’t have the key to.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his tone nonchalant, a familiar wall sliding back into place.

“And what did you do in Germany, sir?”

You tried to ease him into conversation, something you knew was like drawing blood from a stone. You slipped a teasing lilt into your words, but the moment “sir” left your lips, you saw the shift in him.

His broad shoulders tensed visibly, his entire body going rigid, and the air in the car thickened with discomfort.

“Don’t call me that,” Simon muttered sharply.

The change in his demeanour took you aback, your frown forming before you could stop it. His reaction had been almost immediate, something instinctive, a reflex more than anything else, but it cut through the humour you were trying to build. You had thought he’d shrug off the title with a bit of banter, as he always did when you tried to joke with him, but clearly, this time you’d touched a nerve.

“Oh. Why not?”

The question hung in the air between you both.

You watched as his fingers flexed against the steering wheel, his body shifting uncomfortably in the seat. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to answer at all. You waited, the rain still tapping steadily against the glass, each second stretching into an eternity. His silence made you regret asking, but you couldn’t take it back now. So you waited, giving him space to either explain or ignore the question altogether.

Finally, after what felt like endless hours but was likely just a few heartbeats, Simon exhaled, his breath heavy and laden with a weight you couldn’t see but could almost feel. His voice, when he spoke, was low and gruff, laced with a bitterness that made your chest tighten.

“It ain’t who I am with you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his statement.

His words were as heavy as the rain pattering against the rooftop.

It was an admission, simple and raw, and it sliced through you. You weren’t sure how to respond, how to grasp what he was offering with that small sentence. You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of that realisation settle deep in your chest. For Simon, the titles, the rank, the soldier he was in the field—those weren’t meant for you.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I wasn’t tryin’ to—I was just teasin’,” you mumbled, your words faltering as you searched for the right thing to say. “But it was a shitty joke. I’m sorry.”

“S’alright,” he grunted.

“I just wanted to, dunno, tease you into talkin’ more, I guess,” you added, eyes darting briefly to him. “Find out more about you. About what you do when you’re not with me.”

Simon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly, the tendons in his hand pulling taut like the silence between you.

Your heartbeat thrummed steadily in your ears, matching the rhythm of the rain, but you waited. He didn’t answer immediately, however, the fact that he didn’t brush you off instantly, didn’t give you his usual noncommittal grunt, was answer enough.

He was thinking, considering. You could almost see the cogs turning behind those familiar hazel eyes, weighing whether or not he wanted to open that specific door.

Finally, after what felt like an age, Simon spoke. “S’not that I don’t want you to know,” he said quietly, voice rough as gravel. “Some of it, you wouldn’t want to, trust me.”

You nodded, his words sinking deep into your chest.

“Well, yeah but... if it’s important to you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the rain, “then it’s important to me. You don’t have to tell me everythin’, y’know, but I’d like to know more about you. What you do, where you’ve been—if you’re okay with that, of course.”

His jaw clenched under the mask, ever so slightly, and you could see the battle waging inside him. It was as if the weight of what he did, what he was, hung like a boulder around his neck, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to share even a piece of it with you.

You waited, breath held, afraid that if you pressed him too hard, he’d close himself off again.

“I’m in the SAS,” the admission rolled out like a stone dropping into still water. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, observing your reaction before he continued. “Been with ‘em for a while now. Means I’m involved in the kinds of things most bastards never even hear about. We’re the ones who get sent in when the situation’s gone south, when the regular lot can’t handle it. Clandestine tradecraft. Sabotage. Ambushes. Infiltration.”

For a second, you let his words settle, absorbing this sliver of his reality. You hadn’t expected him to open up, even to this degree, but you could see the cost of that openness, the weight of it etched in the hard lines of his face.

“Uhm, I don’t really know much about that kind of stuff,” you admitted, your voice quiet but honest. “Sabotage, infiltration... sounds like somethin’ out of a bloody movie.”

He gave a low grunt, almost a laugh but not quite. “Clandestine tradecraft’s just a fancy way of sayin’ we go undercover. Sabotage means we disrupt the enemy. Ambushes, we lie in wait. Infiltration’s when we sneak in, undetected. We go into hostile environments, behind enemy lines, and we do what needs doin’.”

You absorbed his words, a silent acknowledgment of the reality that formed the backbone of Simon’s existence.

You nodded slowly, taking in each word.

You found your gaze lingering on his hands, strong and steady as they gripped the wheel, fingers worn and calloused from years of conflicts that were far removed from the world you inhabited. You wanted to reach over, to touch him, but you held back.

“And you’re… good at it,” you said, not a question, but a statement. It wasn’t hard to believe that Simon excelled in a world of calculated danger and precision.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m good at it.”

There was no arrogance in his tone, no pride.

It was just a fact, as undeniable as the rain that continued to beat against the windows. Simon wasn’t bragging about his skills, nor was he seeking validation. No, not even from you. He was simply stating the truth, a truth that had probably saved his life countless times. And the way he said it made it sound like it was something mundane, like he’d just clocked in and out of an ordinary office job, but you knew better. Work, for Simon, wasn’t something you could ever fully understand. It was the kind of job that left scars—

—on the body, sure, but more importantly, on the soul.

You wondered, as the weight of his words hung heavy in the car, how much of Simon’s soul had been lost in the shadows he so skillfully navigated. His hands bore no visible scars tonight, yet you knew they held memories of things you would never see, things he would likely never tell you. He had painted himself in muted greys and blacks, fading into the backdrop of a life that was dangerous, clandestine, and impossible to reconcile with the gentle, steady warmth you’d felt whenever he was with you. You realised he was both, this man of quiet domesticity and of ruthless precision—

—and the contradiction left your heart aching.

“So, when you’re here… with me… you don’t want to be that person?”

Simon’s hazel eyes flickered towards you, briefly, before he looked away. It was the faintest movement, but you caught it, that quick glance loaded with something unreadable. He released a low sigh, his shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly.

“No,” he said at last, the word as soft as the rain outside. “Not here. Not with you.”

And then, as if he had reached into the depths of your mind, Simon’s hand found its way to your thigh, his palm resting there. The warmth of his hand cut through the chill of November, spreading like wildfire across your skin. Your breath immediately hitched, a reflexive flinch, and you looked at him, wide-eyed. He didn’t return your gaze, not this time. His beautiful eyes were focused on the road, his expression a mask of calm, as though this touch was as natural as breathing to him, as though he hadn’t felt the tremor it sent through you.

But for you, it was something else entirely.

It wasn’t a touch you’d grown used to, despite the countless times you’d dreamed of it, wondered what it would feel like to have that quiet strength grounded against you. Your heart raced, an urgent beat that felt almost painfully loud in the silence. You wondered if he felt it, the way your pulse quickened beneath the weight of his hand, the heat pooling where his fingers pressed ever so lightly against you.

You let your gaze linger on his hand, his fingers resting so close to the inside of your thigh that it felt as though he was holding your truest and barest soul right in his palm.

For a moment, you hesitated, feeling your own hand tremble slightly as you lifted it, reaching to touch him back. You laid your hand gently atop his, your fingers just barely grazing his knuckles, feeling the strength hidden beneath his stillness.

You felt your resistance dissolve like frost in the morning sun.

The car moved through the city streets, the streetlights casting harsh shadows across his face, softening the lines, making him feel almost otherworldly, yet solid—solid in a way you couldn’t ignore, in a way that made you feel safe. His hand never faltered, never pulled away, and you kept your hold on him, afraid that if you let go, you might never find the courage again. All the worries, the endless questions, they faded into nothing, replaced by a calm you hadn’t felt in ages.

You melted into him, allowing your hand to rest over his, tracing gentle circles over the rough skin of his knuckles. His hand remained still, firm yet yielding under your touch, as though he were afraid to disrupt the fragile peace between you.

For the rest of the drive, neither of you spoke.

It’s painfully funny how I only planned to write a one-shot for this story, yet here I am, unable to stop writing about these two...

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p0orbaby · 8 months ago

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For a Good Time, Call… (4)

summary: as you grapple with your burgeoning feelings for Leah, a door opens to new possibilities and the potential for something more

warnings: SMUT 18+ strap on use (leah receiving), some dirty talk

a/n: last main part my guys. might treat you all to an epilogue

word count: 2.5k

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | epilogue

It was early.

The sun had yet to fully rise over the rooftops, and the morning dew still hung heavily to leaves and blades of grass.

Dawn. A time of day you’ve seen more and more of as of late. You have a five foot seven blonde centre back to reluctantly thank for that.

As you blink blearily at the dim light filtering through the curtains, you couldn’t help but marvel at the ungodly hour Leah’s penchant for early mornings has dragged you into. The day was breaking, and there you were, already contemplating the meaning of life and the distinct absence of a warm body beside you.

With a resigned sigh, you acknowledge that Leah’s status as an early riser was, indeed, a force to be reckoned with. Who knew the early bird could be so… early? Catching worms doesn’t even sound that appealing anyway.

But hey, every sunrise brought with it the promise of new beginnings, right? Right! And if those beginnings involve a quest to locate your elusive bed companion, then so be it. Off you go, brave warrior, into the wild (downstairs), yonder!

As you trudge into the kitchen, you’re greeted by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and a freshly showered Williamson. “Well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” she teases, a playful smirk dancing on her lips.

You don’t even have the energy to respond with words, so you grant her a grunt as you shuffle towards the cupboard where the mugs are kept.

Leah chuckles softly, her playful demeanor a stark contrast to your early morning grogginess. “Rough night, huh?” she quips, sidling up behind you and wrapping her arms around your waist.

“Hmm, and I wonder whose fault that is” you respond through a yawn, reaching lazily out to grab your favorite mug from the it’s usual hiding spot. But it’s not there. Confusion flickers across your face as you glance around the kitchen, then over your shoulder at Leah.

“It’s in the dishwasher” she informs between the soft kisses she's placing along the length of your neck.

You groan petulantly at her words. Of course it is. Lucifer is alive and well, it seems.

Leah releases you from her embrace, but her smirk remains as she grabs her own mug and takes a sip of coffee. “So, any plans for today?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in questioning.

You take a moment to ponder, mentally running through the checklist of tasks that await you. “Well, my dear Watson, I probably need to head back home at some point,” you reply, stirring your incorrectly decanted coffee absentmindedly. “I believe I have a pressing appointment with the laundry basket and a certain fern in dire need of hydration”

“Want me to drop you?” She offers. “We can get lunch on the way back”

You grin, feeling her warmth and energy seeping into you, banishing the last remnants of sleepiness. “Hmm, tempting offer,” you muse, turning to face her and gently tracing your fingers along her jawline. “But we’ve got training tomorrow and I could do with some shut eye. Sans distractions”

Leah pouts playfully, her bottom lip jutting out in disappointment. “Oh, come on,” she whines, wrapping her arms around your waist again and pulling you closer. “Who needs sleep when you can have fun with me?”

“As much as I’d love to indulge in your company, baby,” you say, brushing a stray strand of damp hair from her face, “I really do need to catch up on some sleep. Plus, I’m already on thin ice with Jonas”

One late fee away from a game suspension thin. Hence the need to stay at your own house, away from the wandering hands and mouth of one Leah Catherine Williamson

The culprit sighs dramatically, but concedes nonetheless. “Fine,” she offers before leaning in to press a soft kiss against your lips. “But promise you’ll make it up to me?”

You smile, unable to resist her. “Of course,” you reply, returning her kiss with equal fervor. “I’ll make it worth your while, I promise”

Love is a funny little thing.

It hides purposely in the shadows when you go looking, and punches you square in the face when you least expect it.

Or confesses its feelings for you in the street and fucks you silly not an hour later.

It’s all semantics really.

“When did you know you loved grandma?”

“Hmm, let’s see. When she railed me with a strap and gave me a three day limp?”

Yeah, no. Not everything needs to be passed down through the generations. That’s what jewellery and hereditary illnesses are for.

“What's that face all about?” You’re dragged abruptly from your thoughts by a voice beside you. “You look like you’re in pain”

“I’m just thinking”

“Oh god, don’t strain yourself”

You roll your eyes, abandoning your act of loosening your boots. “What do you want, Beth?”

She leans back against the wall of her cubby, smirking as she tries and fails to play off like she isn’t about to start bothering you.

“Answers”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t bribe Win. She just likes me more because my personality is far superior”

“You’re a liar” she doubles down.

“Jesus Christ, I have better things to do than lie about a dog, Bethany. Get a life”

“Like what? Like the fact you’re hiding that you’re seeing someone?”

Your blood runs cold.

“Why on earth would you think that?”

“I don’t know” she leans forward in her seat. “Maybe because one doesn’t normally stroll in covered in love bites if they haven’t at least been sucking face”

“Oh”

Do you look panicked? You feel panicked. And embarrassed. Love bites? Jesus Christ Leah, you’ve been walking around all day with those on display.

“Yeah, oh. I thought we were friends, I feel betrayed!”

“I-, I didn’t…,” you stutter, unable to get your words out as she looks at you with wide eyes.

What are you supposed to say? That you were knuckle deep in her vice captain just over 24 hours ago? Absolutely fucking not!

“I told you to keep me posted about Bar Girl!” She exclaims as she leans back against the wall once more, obviously disappointed in your inability to keep up with her requirements for gossip.

All you can do is blink at her, mouth agape at the whiplash she’s just given you. What on earth is happening right now?

“Yeah, right. Urm sorry. Me and Bar Girl are back on” you mutter when you have a second to think.

It’s her lie, not yours, alright! Don’t you dare judge.

“I knew it!” she says, smirking like a cat who's got the cream. “You’ve been acting so weird”

Your head swivels. “Weird? What do you mean, weird?” You didn’t realise you were under surveillance.

“You know, like all smiley and energetic and nice. It’s almost like you’re in love with her or something”

Love.

There’s that word again. The word that’s has been dancing on the periphery of your thoughts for weeks now. You understand it can be hard to find someone who can make you orgasm as much as Leah can, but love? Already?

Subconsciously, you look across the room. Even through the bodies of your teammates filtering in from off the training ground it doesn’t take you long to spot who you’re searching for.

She looks good. Too good for someone who’s been sweating all afternoon. Your eyes drift down to where her top has ridden up from how she’s pulling her hair back. Further still to where she’s rolled her shorts up her thighs. Thighs you frequently find your head trapped between. Then back up, past the swaths of skin on show to find her eyes boring into you.

She holds your gaze and smirks when you start to blush. Heat spreads across your face, down your neck and up to the tips of your ears. You’re not embarrassed she’s caught you, not really. Sure she’ll tease you about it later, but deep down you know she likes you staring as much as you like looking at her.

Beth clears her throat.

“You good?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m good,” you stammer, hoping she doesn’t see through your flustered demeanor. But her knowing look tells you otherwise.

You trail wet kisses across her chest as her hips roll against yours. Once, twice, throwing her head back on the third.

Showered, fed, unsatisfied from a night spent at your own house, you’re sat up against the headboard of Leah’s bed pulling sounds from her only you have the privilege of hearing.

Your mouth closes around a pebbled nipple. Sucking then biting then licking to soothe the sting. Her hands fly to the back of your head when you pull away, a string of saliva keeping the two of you connected. So as per a silent request you give her second breast the same treatment. Tugging at it with your teeth. You’ll leave marks, but yours won’t be visible like the ones she so graciously gifted you.

With one final suck you pull your head back to look up at the woman you’re buried inside of, and you almost die at how pretty she is. Her chest is flushed pink and her eyes are blown as they look down on you with a hunger that almost makes you fall apart then and there. You don’t have a chance to though, because she leans in to rub her nose against your own, cupping your face and licking into your mouth.

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur against her when she pulls back to breathe. Your hands running up and down her naked back. “My gorgeous girl”

You lean up to kiss her again. Using your thumb to maneuver her face, nipping at her kiss bitten lips. Red and swollen and as sweet as can be.

When you shift below her, the new angle has her sighing into your mouth, so you place your hands on her hips and encourage her to work through it all herself. And she does, bringing her knees up, crouching as she slides up and down to find the perfect drag against her walls.

Her chest bounces with each movement and you feel your eyes glaze over at the sight of it. She leans back then, keeping herself balanced with her hands on your shins, opening up for you and giving you a show.

“Fuuuck”, she moans as your fingers find her clit. Expertly rubbing tight circles over it, bringing her closer and closer to an edge she is desperate to fall off of.

She’s almost there, you can see it in the way her abs tense and how her hips begin to stutter. So close to tumbling when you pull your hand away from her, wrapping her up in your arms and flipping her over.

She lets out an uncharacteristic squeal at the sudden change in position, and you can’t help but laugh a little.

This is absurd, you think. This is your life. Secretly fucking the England captain silly almost every chance you get. If only the others knew what she was really like when she wasn’t on the grass. No one would believe you. You don’t really want them to, this version of her is solely yours to enjoy.

You sit back on your haunches. Something you like to do when you have her in this position, you have come to learn. You’re very inquisitive. Curious even. You want to know what’s happening. What’s going on when you push in and out of her. What it looks like.

She’s exposed in the best way. Pretty and pink. Ready for whatever you give her. Whatever you're willing to let her take.

You watch eagerly as you push forwards. Mesmerised by how the silicone disappears and reappears with each thrust.

“You’re taking me so well” you tell her. “Are you going to cum for me?”

“Mhm” she hums as she bites down on her bottom lip.

“Yeah? You gonna cum all over my cock?”

Your question is paired with a particularly hard thrust that has her reaching for you with desperate hands. You go, obviously, because you’re finding it increasingly difficult to deny her anything these days.

“I’m close” she manages to say through her laboured intakes of breath. Looking up at you with hooded eyes and a need that makes you feral.

You lean fully forward, bracketing her head between your arms as you claim her mouth and rut into her like it’s the last time you ever would. The bed creaks unforgivingly. She cries out before she bites into the hard muscle of your trap. You hold her when she stills then shakes and leaves crescent shaped nail marks in your skin.

Everything is perfect.

“I love you”

The words fall out of your mouth before you can even stop them. Lust induced word vomit that has you wincing.

“What?” Leah asks from underneath you, but you’re too embarrassed to even speak. “Y/N?”

You freeze, the weight of your confession hanging heavy in the air. You hadn’t meant to say it, not like this. You weren’t even sure if you were ready to.

Panic floods your veins as you scramble for something else to say, but the words stick in your throat. Leah’s confusion is obvious beneath you as she uses a warm hand to push at your chest to get you to look at her, searching your face for answers.

Finally, you manage to croak out, “I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ but the damage is done. The silence stretches between you, filled only by the sound of your racing heartbeat.

At your words she untangles herself from your embrace, sliding out from beneath you and sitting on the edge of the bed. You watch her, your heart sinking as she puts distance between you. The air feels thick with uncertainty, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve ruined everything. Your mind races with self-doubt, the fear of rejection consuming you. You use what dignity you have left to unclip the harness around your waist.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words barely audible even in the heavy silence. Leah turns to look at you over her shoulder, her expression hard to read in the soft light of the evening's purple haze.

There’s a pause, a pregnant moment where the world seems to hold its breath. Waiting on your judgment. Preparing for heartbreak and pain the wish to turn back time.

But before you can say anything else, Leah turns fully to face you, her gaze steady. “I think… I think I might feel the same way,” she admits, her voice quiet. Quieter than you’ve ever heard her. But it doesn’t matter, your heart skips a beat, a rush of relief flooding through you in waves.

Without hesitation, you reach across the bed to take her hand. “Really?” you breathe, unable to hide the hope in your voice.

Leah nods, a shy smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Yeah,” she says softly. “I think I do”

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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multifandomimagin3s · 2 years ago

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They have a crush on you (HC's) - Team 141 + König

Requested by Anon

Simon "Ghost" Riley

*Honestly I could write an essay on this complicated man, he's such an interesting character - but I've summed up some HC's below*

This guy is so hard to read, but at the same time he's not.

At first glance, he's a hardened man who keeps his cards close to his chest and never lets his guard down around anyone. And that's true.

Given everything he's been through in life, that amount of trauma is bound to have a long-term effect on every aspect of his life - not to mention the fact that he's probably learned to repress all of that shit for most of his life.

So I reckon that even if he did have romantic feelings towards you, it would take him a long, long time for him to even process what he's feeling - he's not stupid by any manner of means, more so he doesn't know what to do with this newfound information.

He would probably try and be mean to you - not that he was ever truly sweet on you in the first place, he couldn't let people know he had a soft spot; a weakness.

If you were part of 141, he would probably try to completely ignore you - unless he physically had to speak to you, like if you were on a mission together ((ngl I think Price probably would put the pieces together and would try to push you both together by sending you off on the same mission - fulfilling his Dad Captainly duties)).

You'd probably have known Ghost for a while before he starts to open up to you - it's superficial stuff, like maybe when his birthday is or his favourite food, little details that didn't really give any crucial information away, but you knew better than to pry as it would probably just make him shut himself away more.

He'd probably be protective of you - like if the team were out at a pub after a mission gone well, and there was a creepy guy bothering you, he would loom over you to scare the guy shitless with piercing, cold eyes.

We all know that as soon as Soap figures out that Ghost has a crush, he's going to absolutely want to take the piss out of him for it...he just needs to pick his words carefully, since he chooses life :))

It's hard to tell when or if he would actually confess his feelings to you - I can see it happening in one of two ways:

1 - You almost died on a mission, and he deeply regretted not telling you before when he thought you weren't going to make it back to base in time; he visited you every day while you were in hospital, and ended up bluntly just coming right out with how he felt because he needed you to know.

2 - Soap tells you before he can. With this scenario, I don't see Ghost blowing up in a fit of rage - it would be the silent death stare with the promise of an arse-kicking in the training room, maybe even making the Sergeant clean the bathrooms with a toothbrush for a few months for good measure. Ghost probably wouldn't even deny it, and would wait for you to come to him... and whatever happens next is a mystery ;))

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

*Ahh my fellow Scot - just to preface, Scottish slang and dialects vary across the country and I'm not 100% sure where Soap is originally from, so I'm just going to improvise and use local slang from where I'm from ~*

My guy wears his heart on his sleeve - he's naturally very flirty with you from the get-go, so it wasn't hard to figure out that he fancied you.

"Hello, Darlin', if yer wantin' a tour of the base, don't be feert* to gie me a shout ;D" [feert = afraid] [gie me a shout = ask me; gie = give].

With his flirty nature, it was difficult to discern if he was actually being serious about liking you, or if he was just flirty with everyone.

He'd probably realise that he was going about things completely wrong, and would make normal, friendly conversation to get to know you - he just wants to prove that he's a good guy and not a raging hornball :(

The longer time goes on, he starts to tell you more about his life outside of the SAS - he comes from a big family, he's the youngest sibling, his favourite colour, etc.

I can absolutely see his chest puff up a bit with pride when you compliment his skills - he disposes bombs and risks his life all the time, its his job and he doesn't expect praise other than a curt "good work" from his superiors; but from you, the tips of his ears are turning red, and a smile is practically splitting his face ~

Definitely doesn't use the excuse of training to get some time alone with you - not in a creepy way, he just likes spending one-on-one time with you.

If he really trusts you, he asks you to help trim his hair - he did do his mohawk mostly by himself but trying to do the back of his head on his own was an actual nightmare.

Likes watching the look of concentration on your face as you make sure that his hair is even - winks at you when you catch him staring~

(Y/N): There we go - a job well-done, if I do say so myself.

Johnny: *just admiring your smiling face, smitten*

Would probably ask you out then and there, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

Certified Best Boy™.

Captain John Price

This guy doesn't fuck around - he's older, mature, and knows what he feels, and straight up tells you.

He'd call you into his office for a "chat" - queue you absolutely shitting yourself, being called for a chat with your superior in any circumstance automatically has you going through everything you've ever done prior to this moment to see what he could be mad about...

If you were a Private or any rank beneath him, he probably might hesitate to tell you a bit; HR really wouldn't like it but then again they wouldn't need to know... ;))

If you were a medic, nurse, doctor or civilian, he wouldn't hesitate to tell you.

The Team wouldn't know he even had a crush on you - even if you were on base, as a soldier or medic, they wouldn't have a clue.

The only time they grew suspicious was after they had all been to the pub and after a few too many drinks, one of the new recruits started talking about you and how he thought you were fit; Price's eye twitched slightly, eyeing the recruit with a poker face but with a slightly flash of anger in his eyes, cigar between his teeth.

"Bit inappropriate to speak of a comrade like that, Private, don't you think?" The Private sheepishly let out an apology.

Gaz and Soap gave each other a knowing side-eye; Soap looked to Ghost, who stared back blankly - he'd figured out that the Captain liked you ages ago, he was just waiting on everyone else catching up.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

I see him as another guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, so to speak.

I think he's the silent type though - while Johnny will flirt with you openly, regardless of where he is or who he's around, I think Kyle would be more discrete about it.

At first, it would be the little things like making you your favourite tea when he's making his own cup - sometimes he'll just make you your own, delivering it to you with a little smile.

He even offers to spar with you during training - he wouldn't go easy on you but he would be missing the usual fire that he has when training with other members of the team, he doesn't want to hurt you :((

As he gets more comfortable with you, and you with him, he absolutely loves to wind you up.

I think he'd be a genuinely funny guy, so be prepared to laugh until your sides hurt.

He'd probably express his feelings for you in a cheesy but still down-right cute way; probably shows up at your door with flowers and asks you out on a date.

((Proud Dad™ Price is just around the corner))

König

Another certified Best Boy™.

Honestly, he probably didn't speak to you at all for the longest time - not because he was intentionally trying to be rude but because if he feels like he has nothing good to say, then he just won't speak at all.

His social anxiety probably fluctuates day-to-day; one day he feels alright, can make small talk with others on base and do whatever he needs to do. But then the next day, he won't leave his room unless he has to, and when he does he's just this hulking mass of poorly concealed anxiety.

I think his anxiety would probably accidentally be projected outwards and would make him appear more intimidating, especially when all people can see are his eyes underneath his hood. Poor baby :(

He definitely knew that he had a crush on you - he's anxious in social settings, crowds, and he knows what that feels like - but with you? He gets full-on butterflies and he's scared to speak in case he says something embarrassing.

You'd most likely have to make conversation first, keeping it casual as to not scare him off - ironic, since the man is over 6ft and is built like a brick shithouse.

It would take time but he'd slowly open up bit by bit.

The first time you saw him out in the field - completely different ballgame entirely.

Who is this guy and what has he done with Konig??

He probably confesses his feelings on the way back from a mission, still high on adrenaline and confidence.

Oh he absolutely full-on panics when the adrenaline wears off and the penny finally drops...but he meant what he said. He really likes you, Maus.

#simon riley #soap mactavish #konig #kyle gaz garrick #captain price #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #soap mactavish x reader #konig x reader #gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #johnny mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #call of duty #cod mw2 #multifandomimagin3s

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coff33andb00ks · 6 months ago

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Until You - Part Three

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four charles leclerc x female pop singer!reader x oscar piastri f1 smau with intermittent scenes

Summary: they drive vroom vrooms, she sings soulful tunes. there's no way in hell this is gonna work, right?

Warnings: language, smut (18+ only)

ynyln has added to their story

[caption: local guide gets lost / best guide ever / fun fact: Oscar sings when he's taking pictures of someone]

"This is so beautiful," y/n said once she'd made her way back to Oscar. She couldn't stop looking out at the view. "If I lived here I'd want to come up here every day."

Oscar chuckled, nodding as he handed her phone back to her. "I moved here recently and the other day was my first time coming up here. I think it's gonna become a regular thing, though."

"I bet it's gorgeous at sunset."

He nodded, sipping his water. "Have you seen the sunset over the water yet?"

"Not yet. Is it nice?" Spreading her jacket on the rock, she sat down, wanting to enjoy the peace and quiet for as long as possible.

Oscar hummed, sitting near her. "It's quite lovely."

"I'll make sure to see it before I go." She wondered if he would want to see it with her. If she was stupid for thinking there was some sort of connection between them.

"Maybe we can see it together." He looked surprised that the words had come from him, and she was further charmed by the faint blush staining his cheeks.

"It's a date," she said softly.

He sighed, and she felt the weight of it roll away from him. Propping his arms on his knees, he cleared his throat. "I'd like that."

"You like being away from it all, don't you?" she asked suddenly, unintentionally mirroring his posture. Resting her cheek on her arm, she watched his face as he considered the question.

"I like peace and quiet occasionally. To remind me of who I am." He shrugged.

"Me, too." She looked out at the sea.

"Do you get to get away from it all? Ever?"

"Not as much as I'd like," she admitted. "I love my life, Oscar, I do. I love that I'm blessed and privileged enough to be able to do something I love and see the world while doing it. And I get a high that can't be matched when I'm able to stop singing and hear words I wrote sung back to me by thousands of people. But I sometimes feel like I always have to be 'on' you know? Like—"

"Like you can't be yourself, or worse, losing who you truly are," he finished.

"Exactly," she whispered. "And for two years I was under even more scrutiny."

"Were you miserable the whole time?"

"Not at first. I think it was a year ago that I realized we were just pretending. In my heart and head I broke up with him then, and that's where a lot of my angsty songs came from for this tour." She sighed. "But you don't want to hear—"

"I do," he promised gently. "Rolling in the Deep?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Wrote it after we had a fight where he threatened to leak my nudes."

"Christ," Oscar groaned. "Anti-Hero?"

"All things he said were wrong with me."

He shook his head, looking out to the sea. "What a fucking cunt."

"It doesn't hurt as much as it did," she admitted.

"It made for some great music, but I'm truly sorry you had to go through that," he said. "No one deserves that."

"Thank you." She watched him watch the city beneath them. "Why do you have to be reminded of who you are?"

"Same as you I reckon. I'm able to do something I love and see the world and I'm so grateful for that, but… Sometimes I feel like it's a dream and it's all gonna be snatched away." He looked at her. "Youngest driver on the grid and all, you know? And I started later than everyone else, so sometimes I worry that I don't have enough experience."

"Like you're faking it," she guessed.

"Exactly. And I'm under scrutiny because of my age, because I did so much before getting here, and…" He sighed, shrugging slightly. "What if I don't meet expectations?"

"So you still think you have to prove yourself?"

"I don't think, I know I do. I haven't had a win yet. The sprint, but that doesn't count. I'm only ever right behind."

"You'll get there."

"You think?" he asked.

"No, I know you will."

They sat in silence for several moments, and she was aware of the time quickly slipping away. Far below she could see Monaco coming to life for the day and clung to the peace on this little mountaintop.

"Who did you write Enchanted for?" he asked.

Her heart thrummed violently in her chest and she followed a boat with her eyes as it pulled into the harbor. "Someone special."

"Ah."

"Has there ever been anyone you admired? That you didn't know but you knew of and you built them up in your mind?"

"…Yeah."

She could feel his eyes on her but she kept her gaze on the harbor. "He's that for me. And I was worried that it would be like it sometimes is, where I'd meet him and it would be a letdown. But… It wasn't. I was… Enchanted. And I'm only more so every time I see him."

"Does he know?"

"I hope he does," she whispered.

"He sounds like a lucky guy."

"I don't think he thinks he's lucky. Pretty sure he thinks he's worried he won't meet expectations," she murmured.

He was silent for eleven seconds. Y/n knew because she counted them, each one feeling like an hour. And then… "What about Charles?"

"He's enchanting too, but in a different way."

"Y/n?"

She swallowed hard and slowly turned her head to look at him.

"I built you up in my mind, too."

"Was it a letdown?" she asked, too scared of his answer to exhale.

"I wouldn't be here if it was," he said in a rush.

She awoke as soon as his alarm started. Behind her he sighed, pressing his face tighter against her neck. When she reached for his phone he groaned, catching her hand and holding it to her chest. "Charles… Time to get up."

"No," he sighed.

"It's quali day," she enticed, slipping her hand free and stretching to silence the alarm. He didn't budge and she laughed softly.

"I like it right here."

She was still a little surprised that he hadn't even attempted to have sex the night before. After their talk he'd kissed her sweetly then given her one of his shirts to change into. Then, he'd held her. He was still holding her, as he had all night.

"Ten more minutes?" he whispered.

Y/n nodded, because she did love the comfort of being in his arms. She contemplated setting a timer just in case they went back to sleep, but felt his lips against her skin and understood he didn't want ten minutes more of sleep. His hand slid down and he huffed softly when he felt Leo curled up in front of him.

"Five seconds," he murmured against her shoulder, and she could only giggle softly as he sat up, smoothly pulling Leo from her and sliding out of bed.

She rolled onto her back to stretch, squealing when he was almost immediately returning, lying over her and catching her in a gentle kiss. Stretching her arms above her head, she arched then reached to help him shove the covers away. "Charles," she gasped, legs falling open for him.

He nuzzled her neck with a soft groan, pulling back and leaning away to yank open the nightstand drawer. He was back in seconds, drawing her into a series of kisses that had her growing warm. His fingers trailed down her sides then back up, sliding his shirt up, pulling away long enough to slip it over her head. "Si belle, mon amour."

His hands were everywhere, making it impossible for her to focus on them as they stirred and spread heat, lips meeting hers again when a hand slipped between them. She tried to mirror his touches, felt his cock pressing against her thigh while his fingers traced her slit.

Deepening the kiss, he shifted, slipping the condom into her hand then bracing his hand beside them. His fingers teased briefly and he chuckled breathlessly, lips moving to her ear as he rubbed along her slit, working up to her clit. "So sensible," he whispered after she cried out softly.

"Sensible… Sensitive?" she whispered, her meager French falling apart as his fingers worked her clit so expertly.

"Oui… Une si bonne fille." He nipped at her earlobe and she felt him smile while her hips lifted, pushing tighter against his fingers. Her body flooded with heat and he moved his fingers harder, moaning the words over and over as the wet sounds grew louder.

"Don't stop," she panicked when she felt him leaning back. He gently shushed her, fingers hard and fast on her clit, licking his lips as he looked down. "Fuck, Charles—"

"Yes, ma bonne fille," he encouraged. "Cum for me, hm? Let me hear you."

She was almost ashamed of how quickly she came once he said the words, her hips lifting off the bed as she screamed for him. His fingers eased while she trembled, then slid away, his hand gently gripping her hip. One breathless kiss later his hand slid over hers and she hummed, reaching to help him put on the condom.

There was a brief fumbling as he settled between her legs, his hands running up and down her legs. He breathed in to speak, but she only heard Leo's soft whine from outside the bedroom door. Charles exhaled harshly, head dropping to her shoulder when she giggled. "Fuck, Leo."

"Sorry," she kept giggling, tangling her fingers in his hair.

"Will your Oscar be jealous too?" he murmured, and her laughter stopped at once.

"He's not my—" She gasped, head falling back, as he entered her.

"I don't mind sharing." He spoke directly against her ear, hands gentle on her thighs, fucking her slow.

"Really?" She was surprised but wasn't, and she wished he'd told her this when he wasn't buried inside her, because that made it a little hard to think properly.

"Yes, mon couer," he moaned, lips pressed to her ear. His hands gripped her thighs tightly as she arched and whined, his lips dragging down her neck when she threw her head back.

"Charles," she gasped, tightening her hold on his hair. He lifted his head, chuckling softly as he leaned to meet her lips with his.

"Again, amour." One hand shot up, gently cupping her throat as he thrust harder.

"Oh my god," she squealed, digging her nails in his back.

"Is good?' he whispered and when she gasped out a yes he kissed her deeply, swallowing her cries. The world seemed to stand still while his lips and tongue worked hers with perfection, thick moans rising up his throat. Her hands moved up and she mirrored the tenderness he was showing her, lightly running her fingers up the back of his head, other hand gently cradling his cheek. Squeezing her eyes shut, she let out a sharp cry as she came. And could only gasp into his mouth, hands trembling, as he came a few moments later.

Finally she recognized the ringing in her ears as her phone going off with texts. Groaning, she tried to focus Charles and his sweet kisses, pouting a little when he pulled out.

"You are too popular to have your ringer on," he teased, grabbing her phone off the nightstand and setting it next to her. "Tell her we're getting ready."

She nodded, stretching and humming before picking up her phone. Like him, she assumed the texts were from her assistant. Unlocking the phone, she sighed as Charles stayed over her after throwing away his condom. He must have felt her tense when she read the texts, because he made a questioning hum, sitting upright.

"Not y/bff/n?" he asked.

She sighed, turning the phone so he could read the texts. He scoffed, muttering rapidly under his breath in French and Italian and though she wasn't sure what the Italian was she knew the French and agreed with him calling her ex a crybaby bitch.

"Send him a photo."

About to block the asshole, she stopped, staring up at him. "What?"

"Send him a photo, mon couer."

Without thinking, she snapped a picture of Charles, enjoying his warm laugh while she cropped it and sent it to Justin. She showed it to him and he only laughed harder.

ynyln

Liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others

ynyln: I'm at the age I can date you or your dad 💋 📷: charles_leclerc

↳landonorris: is this some secret lyric I don't know? ↳ ynyln: not everything is a lyric, lando ↳landonorris: it usually is with you ↳ ynyln: I'm not that bad ↳landonorris: great photo by the way ↳ynyln: thank you sweetie ↳oscarpiastri: amazing shot. Glad you got to see the sunset. Did dad scare you on the yacht? ↳ynyln: no he was very careful. You were right, it was quite lovely. You'll have to come with us next time ↳charles_leclerc: you're always welcome ↳oscarpiastri: it's a date ↳user3: wtf is going on am I the only one who's confused ↳charles_leclerc: can you? ↳ynyln: depends on the dad ↳landonorris: now I'm confused ↳ynyln: go back to your own comment thread

ynyln

Liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, scuderiaferrari, and others ynyln: Winning one's home race is special. It's more symbolic and emotional than all the other podiums throughout the season. Over the years I have watched grown men cry over the "hometown boy" – and shed more than a few tears myself. But this time, it was extraordinary. Congratulations, Charles. The so-called curse is broken. It was a privilege to meet you, but an honor to get to know the man behind the visor. C'est incroyable, mon amie. ❤️🤍 ↳charles_leclerc: Merci, mon beau porte-bonheur. Tu es incroyable. (liked by author) ↳ ynyln: I'm not a lucky charm ↳ charles_leclerc: for me you are ↳ user3: our girl's fallen again 🥺 ↳ oscarpiastri: so incredibly proud of dad ↳ ynyln: he's proud of you too ↳ user6: wait what if her post about "you and your dad" was about oscar and charles? ↳ user7: ok grandma let's get you back in bed

ynyln

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, mclaren, charles_leclerc, and others ynyln: My favorite driver has become one of my favorite people. Your drive and passion are inspiring. You are amazing and I hope you know how proud Team Piastri is of you today. My tears were just as much for you as that other guy. Thank you for letting me tag along and annoy you with my singing and bad jokes. Pain au chocolates on me tomorrow. (Maybe no hike though?) 🧡🧡

↳ oscarpiastri: You're one of my favorite people, too. And I'll always say yes to pain au chocolate with you. 🧡 ↳ynyln: Ergo I'm blushing ↳landonorris: Team Piastri?? 😒 ↳ynyln: Don't be jealous ↳mclaren: Your paddock passes for Canada are being delivered tomorrow ↳ ynyln: 🙏🏻 ↳charles_leclerc: that other guy is proud of him too ↳ ynyln: ur boy did good 🥹

ynyln

liked by georgerussel63, oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and others ynyln: Some favorite photos from Monaco week. Amazing doesn't cover it. Thank you, scuderiaferrari, for welcoming me into your fold this week. This week healed me in ways I will never be able to describe. Tagged: charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, landonorris, georgerussel63, lewishamilton

↳scuderiaferrari: You are always welcome to our garage, YN. Truly an honor making your wish come true! ↳landonorris: I'm tagged but there's no photo of me? ↳ynyln: um you're in the pic with Oscar? ↳landonorris: you mean my hand?? ↳ynyln: Fine, I'll post the pics I got of you sleeping. ↳landonorris: No! ↳mclaren: YES ↳oscarpiastri: It was enchanting to meet you ↳ynyln: I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home ↳user3: WHAT ↳oscarpiastri: This was the very first page, not where our storyline ends ↳ynyln: My thoughts will echo your name until I see you again ↳user4: WHAT IS GOING ON ↳georgerussel63: Blimey slide 3 is a good photo ↳ynyln: I spent the week playing my favorite game: Formula One driver or European model? ↳lewishamilton: Lunch this week? ↳ynyln: Only if you bring Roscoe ↳user5: the drivers really said "YN belongs to us now"|↳charles_leclerc: Monaco is lonely without you. Revient bientôt, chérie. ↳ynyln: compter les jours ↳user4: oh he's down BAD

oscarpiastri has added to their story

[caption: miss you already] replies: ↳landonorris: um mate? ↳ynyln: i'm literally right beside you ↳mclaren: delete immediately [story no longer available]

charles_leclerc has added to their story

[caption: ❤️❤️❤️] replies: ↳ynyln: stop i'm gonna cry - when did you take this?? ↳scuderiaferrari: you have to delete this ↳charles_leclerc: No ↳maxverstappen1: why does everyone have sexual pictures of her? ↳charles_leclerc: because we are lucky

Taglist:

#charles leclerc #f1 #formula 1 #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc social media au #charles leclerc smau #f1 x reader #f1 social media au #f1 smau #f1 fanfic #oscar piastri #oscar piastri smau #my writings > cl > smau #my writings > op > smau

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thegnomelord · 9 months ago

Text

Locker-room jokes

CW:NSFW MDNI, FTM reader and Gaz, frotting, oral, first times, masc terms (cock, cocklet, bottom growth) this is based off a post I saw somewhere and a talk I had with @embry-garrick . Author isn't trans so tell me if this sucks lol

Guys comparing dick sizes in the locker room is a joke as old as time. You'd never considered entertaining it as it always came off stupid to you. . . yet here you are.

The locker room is thankfully empty except for you and Gaz, the silence buzzing beneath your skin and leaving you awkwardly shifting your weight from one leg to the other. It's not like you two haven't seen each other naked before, God knows some of the communal showers on different bases were little bigger than shoe boxes, but the expectation to do more than just catch a glimpse — that makes you feel naked.

Agreeing to this had been easy, but now that it came time to put your words were your mouth was you realize you were too arrogant; You can't quite make yourself meet Gaz's gaze, eyes flickering from his face to the darkened lines beneath his pecks, to the sparce trail of body hair that disappears down beneath the towel wrapped around his hips before returning to his face, your cheeks burning.

"Oh, is someone nervous?" Gaz shows you mercy by sauntering closer, gun calloused hands finding their place on your hips and thumbs slipping beneath the towel's hem. "Scared you're not going to be able to rise to the occasion?" His voice has a teasing lilt to it as he snickers at his own words.

You open your mouth to speak but you're forced to bite your tongue when Kyle presses against you, chest to chest and skin to skin. He tilts his head back, your noses brushing together. "You know," His lips brush against yours, just a ghost and a promise something more should you listen to him. "You could just quit while you're ahead and save yourself the embarrassment."

Even the miniscule sensation of his lips on yours leaves your body wanting more, your ribs aching to be wrenched open so he can hold your heart in his hands. Damn tempter.

You ignore your body's wants, the knowledge of him testing you making something burn in your chest. "In your dreams." You repeat the same words that got you into this mess, the words that awakened his competitive streak.

You mimic him by gripping his hips and clutching the towel barely hanging around him. But there's a small tremor in your hands, anxiety nibbling on your nerves — You're treading new ground, the furthest you two ever got was drunken make out sessions and heavy groping in bathrooms or broom closets or Price's office that one time.

Kyle doesn't mention the tremble, your actions earning yourself a pleased grin from him. "Ooh, aren't you arrogant." Which is good; it wouldn't be fun if you were a wet rag about it. Kyle's fingers shift to skirt across your sides before gripping your towel tighter. "Tell you what, we take them off together, yeah?"

"Aren't you thoughtful." Your words make him grin, but you nod your head. "Fine—" You grip his towel, the muscles in your arm tensing. "One, two, three-"

You barely manage to say the last number before Kyle yanks the towel off your hips and tosses it carelessly on the nearby bench. You scramble to do the same, your hands suddenly your mortal enemies as you stumble around a bit while you feel his eyes on you before you manage to take his towel off.

Gaz knows he looks good, he's proud of his body, but the way your eyes travel across his frame — from his face to his chest, following the happy trail of sparce hair down his abdomen to his groin where the neatly trimmed pubic hair accentuates the length of his bottom growth— has blood rushing to his cock, has him feeling high as a kite.

He looks you over up and down, both to see your embarrassment grown and because he's pleased by what he sees. His eyes settles to your groin where a bush of hair partly obscures your own bottom growth, glancing between you and himself. "I reckon I'm bigger."

Something about the way he says it, like he's a jaguar that just caught a cayman, sparks something inside you. "Only because you're smooth as a baby's ass." You growl and push a hand between your bodies, trapping your cock between two fingers and spreading them slightly so it's fully on display. "I'm bigger." You can't help but press a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose, some of your arrogance coming back.

Kyle tries not to, but a pleased noise escapes his throat — you're definitely bigger, at least half an inch if not more. He's not willing to admit defeat that quickly, but fuck, the change in your attitude is a major turn on.

"Cheater." The accusation would be far more hurtful if he didn't press himself closer, one hand holding your shoulder, the other sliding down to hold his cocklet. "Just gotta-" But he doesn't stop there, slowly stroking the length of it between his fingers, thumb swirling across the tip. "-I'll show you big."

"Now who's cheating?" You snark, using your free hand to hold Kyle tightly so he doesn't lose his balance. You don't stop him, mesmerized by the way each languid stroke has his cock chubbing up a bit more, slick easing the glide as it glistens across his flushed flesh.

"You started it-hah!—" You pick the moment to grind your groin into his, the tip of your cocklet roughly grinding against his and forcing a small punched out noise from his lungs.

"Whoops." You grunt, pleasure starting to simmer in your veins as you grind your cock against his again. "Sorry, just needed to get the right angle." Your tone makes the lie obvious but you can't be bothered to make it sound believable, the combination of shifting of your hips and the slow movement of your hand as you stroke yourself at the same tempo as him has lightning rushing up your spine. "I'm still bigger than you."

"Bastard!" The curse morphs into a short laugh and finally into a moan that bounces off the tiled walls, his head tilting forward to place a sloppy and disorganized kiss on your cheek. Kyle pants against your skin, leaving crescent shaped bruises on your shoulder from how tightly he grips you. "Hold on, I just have to-" He moans again, rocking his hips to meet yours that has the sensitive heads of your cocklets bumping together. "-fuck- fuck- just, give me a minute it gets bigger."

"What's wrong Kyle, failing to rise to the occasion?" You have no idea how wet that smug tone of yours makes him, but with how obscenely loudly his slick squelches against his fingers, Kyle's sure you'll figure it out soon. "Here, let me help you."

It's Kyles turn to be surprised when you push him into one of the stalls, his back meeting the cold tiles of the shower. "What are you planning?" He grunts, a yelp escaping him when you suddenly grab his thighs, picking up and bending him nearly in half until your head's cradled between his thighs and his cock's inches away from your mouth. The years of gymnastics makes the position possible, the numb pain of muscles deep in his back stretching making the pleasure so much sharper.

You blow cold air across his sensitive cocklet, watching it twitch with need. "Relax, just getting a better look." The way his thighs shake when you lick a slow stripe up his cock has your mind buzzing, the needy sound that breaks past his lips sweet as honey to your ears. "I'm gonna help you get as big as you can." It's hard to look away from his cock but you force yourself to look up at Gaz, resting his cocklet against your lips. "It's only fair."

"You-" Whatever he wanted to say next is cut off when you take his entire cock in your mouth, resting it on your tongue for a few moments before you suck. "-oh fuck!" His hands scramble to find purchase on your shoulders, gripping your hair as he hunches over, his mouth right next to your ear so you can head a moan leave him — deep and low and so desperate.

It makes you want to pull more of those sounds out of him. And you do — sloppily slurping on his cocklet for a few seconds only to pull off to lick it, alternating between slow strong swipes of your tongue across his entire shaft to small kitten licks on his tip. Occasionally you pull off entirely to blow cold air across it, keeping him teetering on that edge of pleasure, silencing the sounds of discontent with a few swipes near his hole before taking all of him into your mouth to repeat the cycle.

You don't know what's more intoxicating; You feel yourself grow drunk off the slightly sweet and musky taste of his slick that runs down your chin, the image of his abdominal muscles fluttering and thighs shaking from the building pleasure in his belly burned into your mind, Kyles babbles of "Yeah, like th- fuck, fuck, fuck- that- pleas-hah—" and calls of your name broken by moans and whimpers like the song of angels.

You feel him get closer to the edge, or at least you assume so by the way the grinding of his hips into your face grows erratic, your name being the only word that still clings to his brain as he chants it like a mantra, his fingers shaking from how tightly he grips your shoulders.

Kyle makes a sound like a wounded animal when you suddenly pull off, "-no-no-nono!" He cries, hips still bucking into the air with the need to tumble over the edge of pleasure, tears staining his cheeks as he manages to force out a weak glare. "Wh- why w-gh!- why?"

"We still have to compare." Your voice is rough like you'd been gurgling shards of glass, holding him steady as you lower him enough to wrap his legs around your waist, pressing your bodies together until you're smushing him into the wall.

He doesn't complain as the sudden move has your bottom growths rubbing against one another, and only now do you realize your body is as desperate as his. "Y- ah fuck- yeah right." There's still that fire in him, but now he uses it to grip the back of your skull and mush your lips together, ignoring the taste of himself on your lips. "Just-shit mh!- move."

Kyle's heels digging into your flank makes you rock forward, grinding your cocks together. Your slick mixes together, your pubic hair sticking to his skin and tickling the sensitive flesh of his cock with every thrust. He openly moans into your mouth, licking in and around your open mouth, trying to clean off the slick staining your skin but only making a bigger mess as spit now mixes with his juices.

Kyle feels like he's burning up, like he's just a puddle of please — the pace you set is rough and your kisses are sloppy and desperate and it feels like Heaven. Gaz wraps all four limbs around you tightly yet he still gyrates his pelvis to meet yours, every nerve in your bodies feeling like a live wire as pleasure builds and builds until it's ready to spill over.

"Fuck- Kyle-" You grunt, your fingers leaving bruises on his flesh, his back sliding up and down against the tiles as you increase your pace, every brush of his flesh against yours banging on your skull. "I'm -mhm- close."

"Mh- me too-" He slurs against your lips, kissing you until both of you are gasping for air. "please-please-please-love- make us cum, plea- ah fuck!—" Kyle shouts as his orgasm finally crashes into him, toes curling and head tilting to bite your shoulder in an attempt to silence himself as he cums, hole fluttering around nothing and cock throbbing as slick runs down his thighs.

The pain and pleasure comes for you a second later, you grip him so harshly you can feel his bones groan as you cum too, your hips grinding together to prolong the mind numbing pleasure, your teeth finding his shoulder as you bite down as well.

You don't know how the Hell you're still standing by the time you come down from your high, every muscle in your body straining like you'd just went through a suicide mission. Kyle's no better, shaking like a leaf and completely boneless in your arms, panting into your neck.

You kiss the bite mark you've left on his shoulder, gently bumping your head into his to gain his attention, "Kyle?" You ask, "Are you alright?"

"Fuuuuck lovie," Kyle groans, barely able to lift his head enough to give you a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "That was good." His fingers idly scratch your scalp, the low rasp of his fucked out voice makes your cock twitch half-heartedly but you're too worn out to get aroused again. "Remind me to blow you when I can feel my legs again."

Yeah, he's alright.

A small laugh breaks past your lips and you give him a similarly sloppy kiss. "I will." Somehow you manage to sit down on the floor, Kyle laying on top of you, as content as a spoiled cat.

"Just so you know." He whispers into your ear, his fingers slowly sliding across your sides, thumbs rubbing lazy absentminded circles into your skin. "I want a do-over of this contest." He grins, and fuck, you can't get past how handsome he looks like that. "Maybe in my room, yeah?"

You can't refuse. "Yeah."

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seafarersdream · 3 months ago

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Campaign Trail | Modern AU! (Gwayne Hightower x Y/N)

Strap in for the wild ride of Gwayne Hightower’s political rise, as seen through the eyes of his campaign manager, Y/N. From clueless debates to dodging scandalous tabloids and pretending he knows the price of a pint, Gwayne is your classic posh boy gone rogue running as a Lib Dem candidate. And it’s Y/N’s job to keep his ego in check, his speeches on point, and, occasionally, his pants on. Welcome to the Gwayne Hightower campaign. Expect chaos. Word count: 12k

TW // Strong language and profanities, characters frequently consume alcohol (including scenes of heavy drinking), boss/employee romantic trope, power dynamics, sexual and crass humor, depictions of extreme wealth and privilege (rich assholes basically).

“Bloody hell, Gwayne, are you even listening to me?” Y/N slammed her pen down on the table, the clatter echoing through the dimly lit campaign office. It was well past midnight, and the stale smell of cold pizza mixed with the faint scent of Gwayne’s overpriced cologne was starting to make her head spin.

Gwayne Hightower, the posh prat in question, barely looked up from his phone. He was lounging back in his chair, long legs stretched out like he owned the place — which, to be fair, he probably did in some indirect, old-money, nepotistic kind of way. “I am listening,” he drawled, though his thumb kept scrolling. “Something about, uh, housing and healthcare. Right?”

Y/N rolled her eyes so hard she could’ve seen the back of her skull. “Yeah, mate, just the minor detail of your whole bloody platform,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, the stuff that actually makes people vote for you?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into that infuriatingly perfect smirk, the kind that belonged more to a model, not on some would-be politician. “You mean the bit where I pretend to care?”

She let out a frustrated sigh and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, the pretending bit. But let’s make it convincing this time, yeah?”

The office was a mess of coffee cups, crumpled notes, and campaign leaflets. A lone desk lamp threw a harsh yellow light across the room, casting long shadows on the wall. Outside, the rain battered against the windows, the only sound in the quiet street below. The clock ticked loudly, reminding them of every minute they were wasting.

Y/N picked up a sheet of paper, waving it in his face. “Look, you need to hit them where it matters. People care about the NHS. They care about whether they can afford to put a roof over their heads. Not about… whatever posh nonsense you were going on about last week.”

Gwayne finally put down his phone, leaning forward with a feigned look of interest. “What was wrong with what I said?”

She snorted. “Mate, you can’t promise a home for every hardworking Brit when your idea of a starter home is a bloody Georgian townhouse in Chelsea.”

Gwayne chuckled, and for a second, she hated how charming he could be when he wasn’t being an absolute prat. “Fair point. Alright, Ms. Campaign Manager, what do we say?”

Y/N leaned in, their faces just inches apart, and she could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. “You say,” she whispered, “that you’re going to make housing affordable, that you’ll protect the NHS like it’s the crown jewels, and that you actually give a damn about people who don’t have trust funds or daddy’s money to fall back on.”

He stared at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You think they’ll buy it?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Not if you keep looking like you’re about to laugh every time you say it. You need to mean it, Gwayne. Or at least act like you do. Think of it like… theatre.”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that surprised her. “Theatre, is it? So what, am I Olivier or just a bloke in a bad panto?”

Y/N grinned. “Depends. You reckon you can handle a bit of method acting? Maybe imagine you’re someone who doesn’t have everything handed to them on a silver platter?”

Gwayne leaned back, still watching her, and she felt a strange tension crackle between them, something electric, something unspoken. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Y/N. That why I hired you?”

She shrugged, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. “Nah. You hired me because I’m the only one who’ll call you out on your bullshit.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You like calling me out, don’t you?”

Her breath hitched for just a second, and she cursed herself for letting him get to her. “Someone has to,” she said, her voice steady. “And you clearly love it.”

His smirk grew. “Maybe I do.”

She felt her face flush and decided to change the subject before she ended up doing something stupid. Like kissing that smug grin right off his face. “Right, back to work. We need a slogan that sticks. Something the punters will remember. Something that makes them think you’re the real deal.”

Gwayne leaned back, eyes still locked on hers, a challenge glinting in them. “You mean something like, Vote for me or I’ll bloody well buy your house myself?”

Y/N snorted, and for a moment, the tension eased. “Yeah, that’ll go down a treat in Hackney.”

“Alright,” he said, leaning closer again, his voice softer now, more serious. “Help me, then. What do I say?”

She felt that pull again, that magnetic draw that made her want to slap him and snog him in equal measure. She shook her head, trying to focus. “You say,” she murmured, leaning in so close their noses almost touched, “that you’re going to fight for them like you’d fight for your own bloody life. That every day you’re in office, you’re not just some posh tosser playing politics. You’re there because you bloody care.”

Gwayne’s breath brushed against her lips, and she swore she saw his eyes flicker to her mouth. “And you think they’ll believe me?”

She felt her heart race, her pulse quickening. “They’ll believe it,” she whispered, “if you say it like you bloody well mean it.”

For a second, everything hung in the air between them, the rain pounding against the window like a drumbeat, their breaths mingling in the space between. And then he moved back, breaking the spell, his grin back in place.

“Alright,” he said, voice light again. “Let’s do this, then. Make me sound like a bloody hero.”

Y/N smiled, picking up her pen. “Oh, I will. And you better not cock it up.”

He winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. She will either kill this campaign, or it kills her first. Which she is not sure yet.

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“Remember, Gwayne,” Y/N muttered as she straightened his tie, fingers brushing against his collar for a moment too long, “Stick to the message. Focus on the solutions, not the problems. You’re not just some arse in a suit; you’re the bloke who’s going to fix this mess.”

Gwayne’s grin was too confident for her liking. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he replied, eyes twinkling with that familiar arrogance. “It’s not my first rodeo.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Right, because you’ve handled so many housing crises in your plush penthouse.”

He chuckled. “Come on, love. Give me a bit of credit. I’ve been prepping for this all week.”

“Yeah, and it shows,” Y/N shot back, sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass. “Now, get in there, charm their pants off, but for God’s sake, don’t let him corner you on the numbers.”

The studio lights were blinding, hot enough to feel like the sun itself had decided to join them inside. Across from Gwayne sat Martin Caldwell, a journalist infamous for his pitbull tactics and never letting a politician off the hook. Caldwell looked like a vulture in a cheap suit, his eyes narrowed and mouth twitching as if he could already smell the blood.

Gwayne settled into his chair, flashing that perfect smile. “Thanks for having me, Martin,” he said smoothly.

Martin didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Gwayne?” he said, leaning forward, voice like a scalpel. “Housing crisis. The capital’s got over 60,000 homeless households, more than 80,000 children living in temporary accommodation. And that number’s only climbing. Now, you’re here, all clean and polished, talking about affordable housing, but let’s be real — what’s your plan, really? Because people out there, they’re struggling. They’re angry.”

Gwayne didn’t flinch, kept his smile steady. “Look, Martin, the housing crisis is a massive issue, no question. It’s about more than just numbers; it’s about people, families—”

“But let’s talk about numbers, Gwayne,” Martin cut him off, eyes gleaming. “Since 2010, there’s been a 70% increase in households in temporary accommodation. 70%! That’s a bloody lot, isn’t it? How do you plan to fix that with just more of the same?”

Y/N watched from the sidelines, her heart thudding against her ribs. This wasn’t going to be easy. She’d told him to stick to the message, keep it simple, but she could already see Caldwell trying to lure him into a trap. Gwayne’s jaw tightened — just a fraction, but she saw it. And so did Caldwell.

“Look, the current policies clearly haven’t worked,” Gwayne replied, leaning in, voice steady. “What we need is a radical overhaul. A commitment to building a new generation of affordable homes, partnerships between government and private sectors, and a serious plan to cut down the bureaucratic red tape that—”

Caldwell pounced. “Right, but where’s the money coming from, Gwayne? You’re talking about a ‘radical overhaul,’ but that means a radical budget. Are you going to raise taxes? Cut other services? Let’s hear it, Gwayne. What’s the actual plan?”

Gwayne hesitated, just for a second, and Y/N felt her stomach drop. That was all Caldwell needed. The interviewer leaned in further, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Or is this just another politician’s promise? More hot air while kids sleep in shelters?”

Gwayne’s smile faltered, just a flicker, but it was enough. He could feel the pressure mounting, the audience’s eyes on him, waiting for a stumble. “Look,” he started, but his voice wasn’t quite as strong now, “it’s a complex issue, and we’re working—”

Caldwell cut him off again, like a shark sensing blood in the water. “Working on what, Gwayne? A plan that doesn't exist?”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her ears. Damn it, this was spiraling, and fast. She moved closer to the stage manager, whispering frantically. “I need to get on his earpiece. Now.”

Seconds later, Gwayne heard her voice, calm and clear through his earpiece. “Stop defending. Go on the attack. Talk about the real culprits — landlords, greedy developers, government failures. Take control, Gwayne, before he buries you.”

Gwayne’s eyes flicked to the camera, and his posture straightened. He smiled, but this time there was steel behind it. “Alright, Martin, let’s talk about the real issue here,” he said, his voice steadying. “The housing crisis didn’t happen overnight, and it didn’t happen because of the people living in temporary accommodation. It happened because of decades of government inaction, because landlords were given free reign to hike rents, because developers were allowed to build luxury flats while people can’t afford a basic home.”

Caldwell raised an eyebrow, surprised by the shift. “So, you’re blaming the private sector now?”

“I’m blaming a system that’s rigged, Martin,” Gwayne shot back, finding his stride. “A system where a handful of people get rich while everyone else suffers. And that’s what I’m here to change. To fight for a fair deal, not just for the few, but for everyone.”

Y/N could see Caldwell’s eyes narrow. He wasn’t expecting this. Good. Keep him off balance.

Caldwell pressed again, but now there was a hint of frustration. “But specifics, Gwayne. People want to know how—”

“I’ll give you specifics,” Gwayne cut in sharply, leaning forward. “First, we cap rents to stop people being priced out of their own communities. We fund social housing properly, no more of these half-hearted measures. We build homes people can actually afford, and we crack down on empty properties left to rot while families go homeless. And yeah, Martin, if that means stepping on a few toes in the private sector, so be it. Because this isn’t about comfort. It’s about doing what’s right.”

There was a pause. Caldwell seemed momentarily lost for words, and that was all Y/N needed. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Gwayne finished strong. “I’m not here to make friends with the developers or the landlords, Martin. I’m here to make sure that every child in this country has a safe place to call home.”

Caldwell recovered, trying to regain control. “Strong words, Gwayne. But can you deliver?”

Gwayne smiled, this time without hesitation. “Watch me.”

The interview wrapped up, and Y/N could feel the tension slowly ease out of her shoulders. As Gwayne walked off set, she met him in the wings, her expression a mix of frustration and begrudging admiration.

“Nice save,” she said, crossing her arms.

Gwayne grinned, a bit of the cockiness back. “Thanks to you. You always know just what to say, don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a smile. “You were one misstep away from a bloody train wreck, you know that?”

He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing. “Maybe I like a bit of danger. Keeps things interesting.”

She felt that familiar heat rise between them, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Well, next time, try not to give me a heart attack on live TV, yeah?”

Gwayne chuckled. “No promises. But… thanks, Y/N. Really.”

She gave him a nod. “Just doing my job. Now let’s go. We’ve got a lot of damage control to do.”

He watched her walk away, a smile tugging at his lips. “And here I thought we just saved the day.”

Y/N looked back over her shoulder, grinning. “Maybe. But the day’s not over yet, Hightower.”

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“This place is bloody ridiculous, Gwayne.” Y/N muttered as she wandered through the lavish rooms of his Belgravia townhouse, glass of absinthe in hand. The place screamed money — old money, the kind that people like her never saw outside of films or the pages of Tatler. She ran her fingers along the gilded edge of a massive mirror, its frame probably worth more than her yearly salary.

Gwayne, sprawled comfortably on a deep leather sofa, shot her a lopsided grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She rolled her eyes and took a swig of her drink, the bitter taste burning down her throat. “I mean, look at this,” she said, gesturing around with her glass. “A townhouse in Belgravia? You’ve got Raphaels hanging on your walls, for fuck’s sake. You collect rare artwork like most people collect fridge magnets.”

He glanced at the painting she was pointing to — a delicate Madonna in blues and golds, her serene face glowing softly in the low light of the room. “Not just any Raphaels. The best ones. Acquired at private auctions, if you must know,” he replied with a lazy smirk. “It’s not a crime to have taste.”

Y/N snorted. “Yeah, because that’s what everyone does with their disposable income. Attend auctions with the world’s elite and outbid some oligarch for a Bernini bust.”

He grinned wider. “It was a spirited bidding war, I’ll give you that. Oligarchs can be quite tenacious.”

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “You’re something else, Hightower.”

The townhouse was ridiculously opulent. The kind of place that would feature in a glossy spread titled London’s Most Exclusive Homes. Velvet drapes framed enormous windows that looked out onto pristine, manicured gardens. The walls were adorned with priceless works of art, paintings that most people would only see behind thick glass in a museum. A faint scent of rich leather and wood polish filled the air, mingling with the sharper notes of absinthe.

Gwayne had insisted on pouring her a drink the moment they got in, promising her it would “take the edge off.” And she had to admit, it was doing the trick.

“Alright, you’ve buttered me up with the fancy booze,” Y/N said, plopping herself into a chair that felt like sinking into a cloud. “Now spill. Why the bloody hell are you running as a Liberal Democrat?”

Gwayne blinked, surprised by the bluntness of her question. Then he chuckled. “You’ve been dying to ask me that, haven’t you?”

“Are you kidding? It’s been killing me,” she shot back, leaning forward. “I mean, look at you. Everything about you screams Tory. The suits, the townhouse, the art collection that could fund a small country. And yet here you are, waving the Lib Dem flag. It doesn’t add up.”

He took a slow sip of his own absinthe, letting her words hang in the air. “Maybe I like a challenge,” he finally said, a hint of mischief in his tone.

She snorted again. “Oh, come off it. You’re not in this for a challenge. You’re in it for… hell, I don’t know, but it’s not because you’re a bleeding heart liberal. So why?”

Gwayne’s smile faded slightly, his blue eyes studying her carefully. “Maybe I actually believe in something, Y/N. Did you ever think of that?”

She held his gaze, not backing down. “Sure. I just thought that something would involve tax cuts for the rich and a couple of fox hunts on the weekends.”

He laughed, a real laugh this time, not the polished, practiced chuckle he usually gave to the cameras. “Alright, fair play. I can see why you’d think that.”

“So…?” she pressed.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, swirling the emerald liquid in his glass. “Alright, you want the truth?”

“That’s why I asked,” she replied, her tone softer now.

He hesitated, just for a moment, before speaking again. “I was supposed to be Tory. God, was I ever. Family’s a line of them. Granddad, Dad, every bloody Hightower since time began, probably. I was raised for it, groomed for it. Eton, Oxford, the whole bloody conveyor belt to Westminster.”

She nodded. “I’m with you so far. Still not seeing where the Lib Dem part comes in.”

Gwayne leaned forward, his voice lower, more serious. “It was all set up. Tory membership card practically in my cradle. Then one day, I actually took a look at what was happening around me. Went to a few dinners, talked to the ‘right’ people. Listened to them… talk. And, Christ, Y/N, it made me sick.”

She blinked, surprised. “You? Sick? You love a posh dinner as much as the next trust fund baby.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t the dinners, love. It was the people at them. The entitlement. The utter lack of care for anyone outside their bubble. I realized I didn’t want to be part of that. Not if it meant towing the line on policies that only protect the people who’ve already got everything. The way they talked about people… like they were numbers, not lives. I couldn’t do it.”

She leaned back, considering his words. “So, you’re telling me you had some grand epiphany?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. I figured, if I was going to get into politics, I’d do it to actually make a difference. The Lib Dems… they’re not perfect, but they’re about giving a damn about everyone, not just the privileged few.”

Y/N arched an eyebrow. “And you’re not one of the privileged few?”

He laughed. “Oh, I am. Born and bloody bred. But that doesn’t mean I have to play by their rules. Maybe I want to rewrite them.”

She stared at him, her heart unexpectedly softening. Maybe this privileged prat actually believed what he was saying. “So, what’s the endgame then? 10 Downing Street?”

He chuckled. “Maybe. But that’s for another day. Right now, I just want to make some noise and see if anyone’s listening.”

She took another sip of her absinthe, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. “Well, you’ve got my attention, at least.”

He leaned closer, a playful glint in his eye. “Oh, I noticed.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head, Hightower. I’m still here to make sure you don’t bollocks this up.”

He grinned. “I’d be lost without you, Y/N.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Yeah, you would.”

For a moment, the room seemed smaller, the space between them charged, and Y/N felt that familiar pull again — the magnetic tension that always seemed to hang in the air whenever they were close. She tore her gaze away, looking around at the paintings instead.

“This absinthe’s going straight to my head,” she muttered.

He chuckled, watching her closely. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Gwayne. I’m still your campaign manager. You need me sober enough to make sure you don’t say something stupid again.”

He leaned back, his smile still in place. “Fair enough. But maybe just for tonight, we can forget about campaigns and crises. Just… be two people having a drink.”

Y/N met his eyes, and for once, she couldn’t find a quick comeback. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Maybe just for tonight.”

And for a brief, quiet moment, neither of them spoke. The townhouse, with all its ridiculous wealth and art, seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them, caught in the electric tension of what might be.

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The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the streets of Hackney into a grey, slick mess. Puddles formed in the cracks of the pavements, and the smell of wet concrete hung in the air. Y/N was soaked to the bone, her coat heavy with rain, but she didn’t care. She was too busy making sure Gwayne didn’t make an utter arse of himself.

They were in the heart of Hackney, one of the neighborhoods hardest hit by the housing crisis. Rundown council flats lined the streets, their brick facades crumbling, windows boarded up or patched with mismatched panes of glass. Gwayne’s designer shoes were caked in mud, and she couldn’t help but smirk as he tried to navigate the uneven pavement, clearly out of his comfort zone.

“Careful, mate,” she teased, nudging him with her elbow. “Wouldn’t want to scuff those fancy loafers of yours.”

Gwayne shot her a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. “I’ll have you know these are perfectly sensible shoes.”

“Sensible?” she scoffed. “For what? A yacht party in Monaco?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Just focus on the job, yeah?”

The rain showed no sign of letting up, but the community center up ahead was buzzing with activity. Inside, a group of local residents, activists, and a few journalists had gathered. The room was crowded, the air thick with the smell of damp coats and instant coffee. There was a mix of skepticism and curiosity on the faces of the people, and Y/N knew this was their chance to make an impression.

She turned to Gwayne, lowering her voice. “Alright, here’s the plan. Listen more than you speak. They don’t need another politician giving them empty promises. They need to feel like you’re actually listening to their problems.”

Gwayne nodded, adjusting his jacket. “Got it. No posh nonsense.”

She gave him a small, approving smile. “And for the love of God, don’t mention your townhouse.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

As they stepped inside, all eyes turned to them. The chatter quieted down, replaced by the soft hum of whispered conversations. Y/N could feel the tension in the air, the weight of expectation. Gwayne moved forward, shaking hands, offering polite nods and warm smiles, and to his credit, he seemed genuinely interested.

But she could sense the underlying wariness from the crowd. These were people who had been promised a lot by politicians, only to be disappointed time and again. They weren’t going to be won over by a posh accent and a well-tailored suit.

She nudged him toward a group of women huddled in the corner, each with tired eyes and worn faces. “Start here,” she murmured. “Single mothers. Most of them on the housing waiting list for years.”

Gwayne approached them with a disarming smile. “Hello ladies, I’m Gwayne Hightower,” he began, reaching out to shake their hands. “I’m here to listen to your concerns and see how we can work together to make things better.”

One of the women, a middle-aged lady with a mane of curly hair and an accent as thick as the rain outside, crossed her arms, eyeing him suspiciously. “You a politician, then?” she asked, her tone laced with skepticism.

Gwayne nodded. “Yes, I’m running for Parliament—”

She cut him off, snorting. “Figures. Another posh boy with promises, eh? What makes you different from the rest?”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. Make or break. She watched as Gwayne took a breath, steadying himself. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m here because I want to change things. I know I come from a different background, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what’s happening here.”

The woman eyed him for a moment, then turned to Y/N. “And you? You believe him?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” the woman pressed. “You look like you’ve got a brain in your head. Why you working for him?”

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Gwayne. For a second, she wasn’t sure how to answer. But then she decided to be honest. “Because I think he actually gives a damn. As much as it pains me to admit it.”

The woman’s eyes softened a fraction. “A posh boy who cares, eh? That’s a new one.”

Gwayne chuckled, relaxing a bit. “I promise you, I’m full of surprises.”

Before the woman could respond, a young man in his twenties stepped forward, anger flashing in his eyes. “What are you going to do about the housing crisis?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “I’ve been stuck in a hostel for two years with my daughter. No council house, no help. You lot don’t care about us. You don’t have to live like we do.”

Gwayne met his gaze, a serious expression crossing his face. “You’re right. I don’t live like you do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fight to change it.”

The man scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You’ll go back to your fancy house tonight, yeah? What do you know about struggling?”

Y/N felt a surge of defensiveness on Gwayne’s behalf, but before she could speak, Gwayne raised a hand, his voice calm. “I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes. But I’m here because I want to learn, and I want to do something about it. I want to make sure that people like you don’t have to go through this.”

The young man seemed taken aback by the directness of his answer. “Yeah? And how are you going to do that?”

Gwayne looked him straight in the eye. “By building more affordable homes, by fighting for rent controls, by holding landlords accountable, and by putting pressure on the government to prioritize housing over profits.”

Y/N watched the young man, his expression slowly shifting from anger to something closer to consideration. Maybe even hope. She felt a flicker of something in her chest — pride? Maybe.

But then, the conversation was interrupted by an older woman, her face lined with years of hardship. “Talk is cheap, love,” she said quietly. “We’ve heard it all before.”

Gwayne nodded, not shying away from the hard truth. “You’re right. It is. But I’m here because I want to prove I’m different. And if I’m not, then hold me accountable. Make sure I deliver.”

The older woman studied him for a moment, then gave a small, reluctant nod. “Alright, then. We’ll see.”

Y/N turned away from Gwayne for a moment and spotted an elderly man sitting in the corner, his hands trembling as he held onto a cane. She approached him, crouching down. “Hello,” she said softly. “What’s your name?”

“Frank,” he replied, his voice raspy. “I’m here every week… watchin’… listening.”

Y/N smiled gently. “What do you think of all this, Frank?”

He chuckled, a dry, weary sound. “Think he’s different, your lad. Might even mean it. But they all mean it at first, don’t they?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah, I suppose they do.”

Frank’s eyes twinkled. “But he’s got fire. And fire’s what we need. Someone to burn the whole bloody system down and start fresh.”

Y/N glanced back at Gwayne, who was deep in conversation, genuinely listening, and she felt something stir inside her. Maybe Frank was right. Maybe Gwayne wasn’t just a posh boy with a fancy townhouse and a taste for absinthe. Maybe he was something more.

She turned back to Frank and smiled. “Yeah, maybe he is.”

Frank nodded, then winked. “You make sure he don’t lose that fire, eh?”

Y/N grinned. “Oh, I will, Frank. I will.”

Y/N could feel the crowd’s eyes on her, a mix of doubt, curiosity, and frustration etched into their faces. This was her moment. If they were going to stand a chance of winning over Hackney, she had to make them believe. Not just in Gwayne, but in what they could actually do together.

She stepped forward, hands raised in a gesture of openness. “Alright, listen up,” she called, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the room. “I know what you’re all thinking. Who’s this posh boy, swanning in here with his fancy shoes, telling us he’s going to solve our problems?”

A few people in the crowd nodded, some even chuckling in agreement. Gwayne shot her a wary look, but she ignored it, pressing on.

“You’re right,” she continued. “He’s got a swanky townhouse, he collects art worth more than most of us will see in our lifetimes, and he probably can’t tell a Greggs pasty from a bloody foie gras. But wouldn’t you rather have one of these posh boys on your side for once?”

The crowd was listening now, intrigued. She could see the skepticism starting to crack just a little.

“Think about it,” she went on, her voice gaining strength. “He’s got money. He’s got connections. He knows the people who pull the strings, the ones who make decisions about your lives while sipping champagne in Mayfair. He’s got the kind of influence that actually moves things along. Don’t you want someone like that fighting in your corner instead of against you?”

A few heads nodded slowly. She caught the eye of the young man from earlier, still frowning but clearly considering her words.

“And before you write me off as just another one of his people,” she added, raising her chin, “I’m not like him. Not by a long shot. I’m from Manchester — Manny born and bred. My dad owns a power tool shop, and my mum’s been working as a caterer for as long as I can remember. I worked my arse off to get into university, full ride scholarship because that was the only way I was getting in.”

She saw a few faces in the crowd soften, nodding in recognition. They knew what it meant to work for everything you had.

“And now here I am,” she continued, with a hint of defiance in her voice, “standing next to this posh, pretty boy. Not because I believe in his money or his connections, but because I believe he actually wants to do some good. Because for once, we’ve got one of these guys willing to take a stand, to fight for something other than his own bloody bank account.”

There was a murmur of approval now, a few people nodding, even clapping. She saw Frank in the corner, grinning like he’d just won a bet.

“So yeah,” Y/N said, letting her voice ring out strong, “I’m all in with him. And if you give him a chance, he’ll show you that he’s all in with you too. What have you got to lose? Another empty promise? Another politician who forgets about you the second they get to Westminster?”

Gwayne looked at her, a new appreciation in his eyes. He hadn’t expected her to go all in like that, to put herself on the line for him in front of these people. She had just thrown her whole story out there, her whole self, and it was resonating.

Y/N turned back to the crowd. “We know how this works, don’t we? We know the system’s rigged, and we know it’s not built for people like us. But here’s the thing — we can’t fight it alone. We need someone who can get into the room, sit at the table, and make some noise. Someone who’s willing to push the boundaries and shake things up.”

She took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline pumping through her veins. “I’m putting my money where my mouth is. I’m working with him, and I’m going to make damn sure he doesn’t just talk a good game. And if he tries to slack off, I’ll be the first to give him a kick up the arse.”

The crowd chuckled, a few cheers going up, and Y/N felt a surge of relief. They were starting to come around.

“So what do you say?” she finished, raising her voice. “Give us a chance. Hold us accountable. Make us prove it to you. Because I promise you, he’s not perfect — far from it — but he’s got fire, and he’s got the guts to use it.”

A small cheer went up, and Y/N felt a smile break across her face. The woman from before nodded approvingly, the young man seemed to relax a little, and even Frank was clapping slowly, his grin widening.

Gwayne stepped forward, taking his cue from her. “I know I’ve got a lot to prove,” he said, voice steady. “But with Y/N by my side — and with your support — I’m going to fight like hell for this community. For every single one of you.”

A louder cheer erupted this time, and Y/N felt her chest swell with a mix of pride and something else she wasn’t quite ready to name. She caught Gwayne’s eye, and he mouthed a silent “thank you,” a look of awe on his face.

She nodded, just a small dip of her head, but she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her lips. “Don’t thank me yet,” she whispered as he turned back to the crowd, her voice low enough only for him to hear. “We’ve still got a long way to go, posh boy.”

He chuckled, that infectious grin back on his face.

And as they continued to work the room, shaking hands and listening to stories, Y/N felt something shift.

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“This place doesn’t even have a bloody sign,” Y/N muttered, peering up at the unmarked black door set into a pristine brick facade. She shot Gwayne a sidelong glance as they stood on the dimly lit Mayfair street. “Is this one of those places where they judge you if you ask for ketchup?”

Gwayne smirked, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored suit. “Only if you pronounce it wrong.”

She rolled her eyes, but her nerves were starting to kick in. “And you’re sure I’m dressed alright for this? I’m feeling a bit like Bridget Jones at a state dinner.”

Gwayne gave her a quick once-over, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. “You look perfect,” he said, a bit softer than usual. “Better than perfect. Trust me, they’ll be too busy being themselves to notice.”

She snorted, trying to shake off the unease creeping up her spine. “Well, that’s reassuring. So, remind me again why I’m here?”

Gwayne’s grin widened. “Because I want you to meet my father. And my sister. And because I’m tired of them assuming I’m completely useless.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “So, I’m your human shield, then?”

“More like my secret weapon,” he replied, flashing that grin again, and she felt a flicker of warmth despite herself.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” she muttered, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The restaurant was beyond posh. It was the sort of place you didn’t even know existed unless you were born into a world where five-course meals were standard Tuesday fare. Dim lighting, soft jazz playing in the background, and tables spaced so far apart that you’d need a map and a compass to navigate. A sommelier in a suit that probably cost more than Y/N’s rent stood by the door, giving them a nod as they entered.

“Mr. Hightower,” he murmured with a deferential nod. “Your party is already seated.”

“Cheers, mate,” Gwayne replied, slipping the guy a tip that was probably equivalent to a week’s worth of groceries for her.

They were led to a private alcove, tucked away behind a velvet curtain. At the table sat Sir Otto Hightower, the very picture of an aristocratic patriarch, his white hair immaculately styled, a pin on his lapel glinting in the low light — the insignia of a Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Because, of course, he bloody was.

Next to him sat Alicent Hightower, Gwayne’s sister, her auburn hair twisted into a perfect chignon, a string of pearls draped around her neck. Alicent was the epitome of a British socialite — impeccably dressed, with that strange air of religious guilt that seemed to cling to her like perfume. Y/N knew the type: all sweetness and light on the surface, but beneath… God only knew.

“Father, Alicent,” Gwayne said, his tone a bit too cheerful. “This is Y/N, my campaign manager.”

Sir Otto’s eyes flicked to Y/N, appraising her with a cold, calculating stare. “Ah, the one steering my son’s misguided adventure,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk but with a sharp edge.

Y/N offered her hand, forcing a smile. “Nice to meet you, Sir Otto. Though I prefer to think of it as a ‘guided’ adventure.”

Otto’s lips twitched slightly, a half-smile. “Quite. And what brings a… Manchester girl to this peculiar position?” He spoke ‘Manchester’ like it was a foreign concept.

Y/N bristled slightly but kept her composure. “Good old-fashioned hard work, Sir Otto. That, and a full scholarship to UCL.”

Alicent, who had been sipping her wine in silence, finally looked up. Her green eyes were bright, inquisitive. “UCL, how… admirable,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Tell me, Y/N, do you believe in God?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Er, not the best topic for a first dinner, is it?” she replied with a grin. “But sure, I’d say I’m more spiritual than religious.”

Alicent smiled, but there was something unsettling in it. “Oh, how lovely,” she cooed. “Spiritual… but not tethered to the truth of the Lord’s word.”

Y/N couldn’t help herself. “Well, I suppose the Lord’s word didn’t help much with the housing crisis, did it?”

Gwayne’s eyes widened slightly, and he hid a smirk behind his hand. Sir Otto, however, leaned back, an amused glint in his eyes. “I see you’ve brought a firecracker, Gwayne.”

Gwayne grinned.

Sir Otto’s expression shifted, serious now. “Gwayne, I’m concerned about this… campaign of yours. It’s one thing to indulge in some youthful rebellion, quite another to throw away your future in politics for a party that, frankly, doesn’t hold much weight.”

Y/N decided to jump in. “With all due respect, Sir Otto, that’s precisely why he’s running with the Lib Dems. Because they don’t have the same old baggage, because he wants to make a difference, not just go along with the same tired rhetoric.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and assessing. “And you believe he can do that, Miss…?”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “L/N. Y/N L/N,” she replied with a slight tilt of her head, James Bond style. Her tone was cool, collected, and a bit cheeky. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, not tonight.

Sir Otto chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, as he scooped a bite of beluga caviar onto his spoon. “What’s in it for you, Miss L/N?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity as he placed the expensive delicacy into his mouth.

Y/N smiled, her expression nonchalant, and met his gaze without flinching. “Well, money, sir,” she said bluntly. “Can’t say no to a decent paycheck, can I?”

Otto laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that seemed to surprise even him. “Ah, honesty. A rare trait in politics. Refreshing.”

Alicent, who had been quiet for a moment, leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and a hint of amusement. “She is quite pretty, isn’t she?” she said with a small, mischievous smile. “Tell me, Y/N, any boyfriend? Fiancé? Surely someone must have snatched you up by now.”

Y/N kept her smile, though she felt the sting of the question, the way Alicent’s words seemed to pry at her personal life like a needle. She decided to answer truthfully, but with a touch of humor. “Well,” she began with a dry smile, “the last one ended because he cheated on me with his co-worker.”

Alicent’s eyebrows shot up, and even Otto paused mid-sip of his wine, surprised. Gwayne’s head whipped around so fast he nearly knocked over his water glass.

“Seriously?” Gwayne blurted out, before catching himself. “I mean… sorry, that’s… that’s bloody awful.”

Y/N shrugged, as if it were nothing more than an amusing anecdote. “Yeah, well, it makes for a good story at dinner parties, doesn’t it?”

Otto chuckled, clearly impressed. “You’ve got a tough skin, Miss L/N. You might just be what my son needs after all.”

Y/N grinned, raising her glass slightly. “Cheers to that, Sir Otto. Here’s to tough skins and thicker wallets.”

Alicent smiled, though her eyes were still studying Y/N carefully. “You certainly are… interesting, Y/N. Different from the usual lot Gwayne brings around.”

Y/N met her gaze without flinching. “Good. Because I’m not here to impress anyone, just to get the job done.”

Gwayne couldn’t hide his grin. “And that’s why she’s the best, Father. She’s real. And she’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “Well, she’s got her work cut out for her then, doesn’t she?”

Alicent laughed softly. “Indeed. I rather like you, Y/N. And believe me, that’s not something I say often.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.”

As the dinner continued, the conversation flowed a bit more easily, a bit more openly. Y/N felt the tension easing just a little, but she knew better than to let her guard down completely. This was still the Hightowers, after all. They were never off-duty, never fully relaxed.

As they walked out of the restaurant into the crisp night air, Gwayne turned to her, an amused smile on his lips. “You were bloody brilliant back there. I think you might have actually impressed them.”

Y/N shrugged, her face breaking into a grin. “Well, it’s about time someone shook things up around here, don’t you think?”

He laughed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “God, I really do need you, Y/N.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “Yeah, well, don’t go getting too soppy on me now, Hightower.”

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The campaign office was buzzing with a nervous, almost frantic energy. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, sweat, and anticipation. Papers were scattered across desks, phones were ringing off the hook, and the TV in the corner was blaring the election coverage at full volume.

The room was packed with volunteers, team members, and every random person who had decided they wanted a front-row seat to Gwayne Hightower’s political gamble.

Y/N stood by the window, staring out at the rain-slicked streets of Hackney. Her arms were crossed, her foot tapping against the floor in a steady rhythm that betrayed her nerves. She could feel the tension building in the room like a pressure cooker about to blow. This was it. Months of work, endless nights, arguments, laughter, and more cups of coffee than she could count — all leading up to this moment.

She glanced over at Gwayne, who was sitting in the center of the room, gripping a bright orange stress ball in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other. His hair was slightly disheveled, his tie loosened, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. For the first time in weeks, he looked genuinely worried.

“Jesus, Gwayne, if you squeeze that thing any harder, it’s going to explode,” Y/N teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He gave a tight smile, his fingers tightening around the stress ball even more. “What, this?” he muttered. “This is keeping me from climbing out of the window and legging it down the street.”

She chuckled, walking over and plucking the glass of scotch out of his other hand. “And this?” she asked, taking a sip. “Liquid courage?”

“Something like that,” he muttered. “How’re we doing?”

Y/N glanced at the TV, where the talking heads were dissecting the election results, constituency by constituency. “Early counts look good,” she said, though her voice was steadier than she felt. “But it’s still too close to call.”

Gwayne nodded, his eyes flicking nervously to the screen. “Bloody hell. I haven’t felt this nervous since that time I accidentally set fire to the old headmaster’s garden at Eton.”

Y/N snorted. “You did what?”

“Long story,” he muttered, squeezing the stress ball again. “Involved fireworks and far too much brandy.”

She shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Remind me never to leave you alone with flammable objects.”

Across the room, one of the volunteers called out, “Turn it up! They’re about to announce something!”

Everyone fell silent, their eyes glued to the screen as the anchor shuffled his papers, looking far too pleased with himself. Y/N felt her stomach twist into knots. She glanced at Gwayne, who was sitting on the edge of his seat, knuckles white around the stress ball.

The anchor spoke, his voice calm and measured, “And now, the latest results coming in from Hackney South and Shoreditch…”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. The moment of truth.

Gwayne muttered something under his breath, his eyes wide, and she could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. “Come on, come on,” he whispered.

The anchor continued, “It appears we’re seeing a significant swing tonight. Early numbers suggest that the Liberal Democrat candidate, Gwayne Hightower, is making a strong showing in what was expected to be a closely contested race…”

A cheer went up from the room, and Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. But she knew better than to celebrate too early. “Still just early numbers,” she called out over the noise. “We’re not done yet!”

Gwayne turned to her, his face a mix of disbelief and hope. “We might actually pull this off,” he breathed.

She smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Might? Don’t you dare start doubting now. We’ve come too bloody far for that.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, and squeezed the stress ball once more. “Alright, alright. Deep breaths.”

Y/N chuckled. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack. Maybe lay off the scotch for a bit, yeah?”

He laughed, but it was a nervous sound. “Can’t promise that.”

Another volunteer rushed over, holding a phone up to Y/N. “Call for you,” they said breathlessly. “Someone from the party headquarters.”

Y/N took the phone, pressing it to her ear. “Yeah? What’s the news?”

She listened for a moment, her expression hard to read, and Gwayne felt his heart leap into his throat. “Y/N?” he asked, voice tinged with panic. “What is it?”

She hung up, turning back to him with a grin. “They’re saying it’s looking even better. We’ve got a real chance here, Gwayne.”

He exhaled sharply, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “God, I hope so.”

Y/N nudged him gently. “You’ve done the work, Gwayne. You’ve talked to people, you’ve listened. Now it’s in their hands.”

He nodded, looking around the room at all the people who had put their faith in him, who had worked tirelessly by his side. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

They both turned back to the TV, watching as the coverage continued, the tension building with every passing second.

GWAYNE HIGHTOWER HAS WON HACKNEY SOUTH AND SHOREDITCH.

The words flashed across the screen, and for a heartbeat, the entire room fell silent. The anchor’s voice echoed in the stillness, confirming the impossible — Gwayne Hightower had won. He was going to Westminster.

And then, the room exploded. Cheers erupted, people jumped from their chairs, and the air filled with the sound of shouting, laughing, and the popping of champagne corks. Y/N felt a wave of exhilaration rush through her as she was engulfed by a sea of hugs and high-fives from the volunteers, their faces lit up with joy and disbelief.

“WE BLOODY DID IT!” someone shouted, and another cheer went up, even louder this time.

Y/N turned to Gwayne, who was standing in the middle of the chaos, his mouth hanging open in shock. He still had the stress ball in one hand, but his grip had slackened, and the glass of scotch dangled precariously in the other. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, growing wider and wider until it seemed to take over his whole expression.

“We won!” he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. “We actually fucking won!”

Before Y/N could react, Gwayne grabbed her and pulled her into a bear hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around. She laughed, breathless, feeling the pure, unfiltered joy radiating from him. “Put me down, you idiot!” she shouted, but she couldn’t stop laughing.

He finally set her down, his eyes bright, his face flushed with excitement. “We did it, Y/N! We actually did it!”

She grinned back at him, her heart pounding with pride. “You bloody well did, Hightower. I told you you could.”

He took a deep breath, looking around at the crowd of volunteers, staffers, and supporters, all of them hugging, toasting, and celebrating like there was no tomorrow. “Right,” he announced, raising his voice above the noise. “This calls for a proper celebration.”

He made his way to the corner of the room, where a large cabinet stood. Y/N watched as he pulled open the doors to reveal a stash of bottles that looked like they’d been imported from some long-forgotten royal cellar. “Alright, who wants a drink?” he called out, holding up a bottle of whisky so rare it probably had its own pedigree.

A cheer went up, and Y/N laughed as Gwayne began pouring glasses of the finest whisky she’d ever seen. “I thought you were saving that for… I don’t know, the King’s visit or something,” she teased, accepting a glass.

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Forget the King. This is better.”

The glasses were passed around, and Gwayne raised his own high, a look of pure triumph on his face. “To everyone in this room,” he began, his voice strong, clear, “to every single person who believed in this campaign when no one else did, who knocked on doors, who made phone calls, who put up with my bollocks day in and day out… thank you. This isn’t my victory. It’s our victory. Ours. And I promise you, I’m going to make every single one of you proud.”

Another roar of approval filled the room, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a lump rise in her throat. She watched Gwayne, standing there with his messy hair, his loosened tie, and that damned expensive whisky in his hand.

“To Gwayne!” she shouted, raising her glass high.

“To Gwayne!” the room echoed back, and they all drank, the whisky burning a warm path down her throat. She felt Gwayne’s arm slide around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, feeling a sense of relief and joy wash over her.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he murmured in her ear, his voice soft, almost lost in the noise of the celebration. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She turned to look at him, her heart thudding in her chest. “Oh, please,” she replied with a grin. “You did all the hard work. I just yelled at you a lot.”

He laughed, a deep, happy sound, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of them, standing in the middle of that chaotic, jubilant room. “Well, keep yelling at me,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “Because I’ve got a feeling we’re just getting started.”

She smiled, a warm, genuine smile, and clinked her glass against his. “To Westminster,” she said.

“To Westminster,” he echoed.

But then, “Gwayne, it’s your father.”

Gwayne looked down at his phone, the name “Otto Hightower” flashing on the screen like a warning sign. He shot a glance at Y/N, who was still grinning from ear to ear, surrounded by the celebrating team. With a sigh, he swiped to answer the call.

“Father,” he said, raising his voice above the noise of the room, “calling to congratulate me, are you?”

Otto’s voice crackled through the phone, formal and clipped. “Of course, son. It’s a remarkable achievement. The family is very… proud. Your mother insisted we call. We’d like you to drop by the estate at Kew so we can celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s face flickered with something Y/N couldn’t quite read. He glanced at her, then back at the phone. “Tonight?” he asked, a slight hesitation in his voice.

“Yes, tonight,” Otto replied. “Your sister is already on her way. It’s only right that we toast your success together, as a family. You’ve done well, Gwayne. It’s time to show the world that we stand united.”

Y/N caught his eye, sensing his indecision. She smiled, trying to keep it light. “Go on, Gwayne. They’re your family. Go celebrate with them.”

But Gwayne’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his phone. “Yeah, but…” he started, then turned away slightly, lowering his voice. “Look, Father, I appreciate it, really. But I think I might stay here, with my team. With the people who made this happen.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, then a slight huff of breath. “Gwayne,” Otto said, a touch of impatience creeping into his tone, “these are the optics you have to consider now. Come to Kew. Show your face. You’ve won a political seat, but don’t forget your roots. You’re a Hightower. It’s time to act like one.”

Gwayne closed his eyes, his jaw tensing. “I know,” he muttered. “I just… I need to think about it, alright?”

Otto’s voice softened just a fraction. “Just think about what this means for all of us, Gwayne. We’re waiting.”

The call ended with a click, and Gwayne stared at the screen for a moment before slipping the phone into his pocket. He turned to find Y/N watching him, an eyebrow raised.

“So?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual. “You off to the family estate then? Sounds like a big deal.”

Gwayne frowned, his expression conflicted. “I don’t know, Y/N,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, they want me to, but…”

Y/N gave him a playful nudge. “Go on, posh boy. It’s your moment. Go drink champagne in a fancy mansion, eat some ridiculous hors d’oeuvres, bask in the glory of finally being the golden child.”

But Gwayne shook his head, his eyes still fixed on hers. “It’s just… that’s not where I want to be tonight.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean? They’re your family. This is huge for them too.”

He sighed, leaning against the table, his gaze never wavering. “Yeah, but they weren’t the ones who stood by me through this whole bloody mess. They weren’t the ones knocking on doors, calming me down when I thought I was going to blow it, or making sure I didn’t look like a total prat on TV.”

Her grin softened, a bit of warmth creeping into her voice. “Gwayne…”

He took a step closer, his voice dropping low, just for her. “You’re the one I want to celebrate with, Y/N. You’re the one who I owe all of this to.”

She felt her breath hitch, her heart racing in her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, trying to laugh it off, but her voice came out a little too shaky. “You did this, Gwayne. You won.”

Gwayne shook his head, determination in his eyes. “No, we won. Together. And I don’t want to go to some stuffy dinner with my family when I could be here, celebrating with you. With the people who actually matter.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a grin, a teasing light dancing in her eyes. “Alright then, MP,” she replied, leaning back with her arms crossed. “But if we’re going to celebrate, we’re going to do this right.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what does right look like to you?”

“No posh nonsense,” she declared with a smirk. “I’m in the mood for a proper drink. None of this ‘hand-picked by the King’s personal sommelier’ rubbish. We’re going to my favorite pub in Camden.”

Gwayne chuckled, clearly amused. “Camden? Really?”

“Yeah, really,” she shot back, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m talking Guinness, maybe some Negronis if we’re feeling fancy. Real drinks, in real glasses, in a place where they don’t care what your last name is or whether you’ve got a seat in Parliament.”

He laughed, already feeling a sense of relief wash over him. “Alright, alright, Camden it is. I’m game.”

She grinned, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the door. “Come on, MP. Time to show you how the other half celebrates.”

Thirty minutes later, they walked into a well-worn pub in the heart of Camden, the sort of place where the tables were sticky, the music was too loud, and everyone shouted over it anyway. It was packed, warm, and smelled faintly of spilled beer and fried food. Perfect.

Y/N pushed through the crowd, leading the way with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going. “Oi, Derek!” she called to the barman, a burly man with a thick beard and a friendly grin. “Two pints of Guinness, and keep them coming!”

Derek gave her a knowing nod. “Y/N, love! Been a while. You brought a friend?”

Y/N grinned back. “Something like that. This is Gwayne. Gwayne, Derek. Derek, meet Gwayne, our newest MP.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “MP, eh? Well, blimey, look at that! In my pub? Must be a special occasion.” He winked at Y/N. “What’s he doing slumming it here with the likes of us?”

Gwayne laughed, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Trying to remember what real people are like,” he said, and Derek let out a hearty laugh, clapping him on the back.

“Good on you, mate. First round’s on me,” Derek declared, pouring their pints with a flourish.

Y/N grabbed the pints and handed one to Gwayne. “Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

“Cheers,” he echoed, taking a long, satisfying sip. The Guinness was cold and smooth, and he let out a contented sigh. “God, that’s good. I see why you like this place.”

She smirked, leaning against the bar. “Told you. No frills, just fun. And now, we celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Alright, then. Let’s have it. What’s next?”

She grinned. “Next, we toast. To winning. To not being a total prat. And to more nights like this.”

He laughed, raising his pint high. “To more nights like this,” he agreed, his voice filled with a happiness he hadn’t felt in ages.

They drank, they laughed, and they joked, and for once, Gwayne felt like he could actually breathe, like the weight of the election had finally lifted. He didn’t have to be the polished, perfect politician tonight. He could just be… himself.

Y/N leaned in, her voice low over the din of the pub. “See? Isn’t this better than some stuffy dinner with your dad?”

He smiled, his eyes locked on hers. “Much better,” he admitted, “though I think it has more to do with the company than the location.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. “Flattery will get you everywhere, MP.”

“Good,” he replied with a wink, “because I’m just getting started.”

They spent the rest of the night laughing and drinking, sharing stories and toasting to every little victory. By the time they were onto their third round of Negronis — and perhaps more than a little tipsy — Gwayne realized he hadn’t felt this free in years.

As the night wore on, the pub became louder, rowdier, and Gwayne found himself leaning closer to Y/N, his shoulder brushing against hers, her laughter in his ear. He looked at her, really looked at her, and wondered how he’d managed to get so lucky.

“So, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “if I’ve got any shot at making it in this crazy world of politics… it’s because of you. You know that, right?”

She smiled, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol, her eyes bright. “I think you’re doing just fine, Gwayne. But I’m glad to have helped knock a bit of sense into you.”

He laughed, reaching out to clink his glass against hers again. “To knocking some sense into me,” he agreed, his voice soft.

She grinned, and as their glasses met with a gentle clink, he felt that same familiar spark — the one that had been simmering between them for weeks. And tonight, with the pub alive around them and her laughter in his ear, he felt like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

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A few hours later.

Y/N stumbled out of the pub, her head spinning from the pints of Guinness and the Negronis they’d downed. Gwayne was beside her, his arm draped lazily around her shoulder, his laughter echoing in the cool Camden air.

“Alright, MP,” she slurred slightly, flagging down a cab that seemed to materialize from nowhere. “Time to get you back to Belgravia before you pass out on the pavement.”

Gwayne pouted, a tipsy grin spreading across his face. “But I’m not done celebrating,” he protested, swaying slightly.

She chuckled, tugging him towards the cab. “Mate, you’re done. Trust me. Come on, get in.”

She pushed him gently into the backseat and climbed in after him, giving the driver Gwayne’s address. The cabbie nodded, pulling away from the curb.

Gwayne leaned his head back, staring at her with a goofy smile. “You’re a bossy one, aren’t you?” he slurred, his eyes half-lidded.

“Someone’s got to keep your posh arse in line,” she shot back, smirking.

He laughed, the sound warm and careless, like he’d never had a worry in his life. “S’true,” he murmured, leaning his head against the window, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “You’re my rock, Y/N.”

She chuckled, feeling the warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Alright, Shakespeare, save it for when you’re sober.”

The cab wound its way through the quiet London streets, the lights blurring past them. Y/N’s head buzzed pleasantly, and she kept sneaking glances at Gwayne, who was still grinning like a fool.

Finally, they pulled up outside his townhouse, and the cabbie turned to look back at them. “Here we are, mate,” he said. “You alright getting out?”

Gwayne blinked, looking around like he’d just woken up. “Yeah, yeah, this is me,” he mumbled, fumbling with the door handle. He managed to push it open, but instead of getting out, he reached for Y/N’s hand, pulling her along with him.

“Oi, what are you doing?” she laughed, stumbling out after him. “You’re home. Get inside and sleep it off.”

He turned to her, his eyes wide and a bit desperate. “Wait, wait,” he said, his words slurring together. “I need you to… to punch in the code for me.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’ve forgotten the bloody code to your own house?”

He nodded with all the seriousness of a drunk man trying to seem responsible. “I need your help,” he insisted, tugging at her arm. “Can’t… can’t do it without you.”

Y/N sighed, but she couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face. “Fine, fine. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

He beamed, still holding onto her arm like she was the only thing keeping him upright. “Knew I could count on you,” he said, leading her up the steps to the front door.

She punched in the code he mumbled under his breath, shaking her head in amusement. “Honestly, Gwayne, you’re hopeless.”

The door clicked open, and she nudged him inside, making sure he didn’t trip over the threshold. “Alright, you’re in,” she said, hands on her hips. “Now go upstairs and sleep, before you do something stupid.”

But he didn’t let go of her arm. Instead, he turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious, almost vulnerable. “Stay,” he murmured, his voice low and soft. “Just… for a bit. I don’t wanna be alone.”

Y/N’s heart did a weird little flip, and she swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Gwayne, you’re pissed. You need to sleep it off.”

He shook his head, his grip on her arm tightening just a little. “Please,” he whispered, his eyes searching hers. “Just… just for a minute. I don’t want this night to end.”

She hesitated. “Gwayne, I…”

But his eyes were so earnest, so genuinely pleading, that she found herself nodding, unable to resist. “Alright,” she sighed, trying to sound annoyed but failing. “Just for a minute.”

He smiled, that boyish grin that made her insides twist, and he led her inside, closing the door behind them. The grand entrance hall was dimly lit, the soft glow of antique lamps casting shadows on the walls.

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and she could feel her heart racing in her chest. “Okay, you’re in,” she repeated, a bit breathless now. “Now what?”

He stepped closer, his hand still on her arm, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “For everything. For… believing in me.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, and she looked away, suddenly feeling very sober. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, “someone had to.”

He laughed softly, his thumb brushing against her arm. “I think… I think it had to be you.”

She met his gaze again, and for a second, she forgot where they were, forgot everything but the way he was looking at her, like she was the only thing that mattered.

“Gwayne,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Stay,” he repeated, his eyes dark, serious.

Y/N sighed then she left Gwayne sprawled out on the leather couch, one arm dangling off the side, his head leaning back with that drunken, lopsided grin still on his face.

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered to herself, looking around his ridiculously posh townhouse. “Just for a bit, and somehow I’m now in charge of making sure you don’t choke on your own tongue tonight.”

She glanced at him one more time. “Stay put, alright? I’m getting you some water.”

Gwayne gave a lazy thumbs-up, eyes half-closed. “Water… perfect idea. You’re brilliant, Y/N. Absolutely… magnificent,” he mumbled, slurring his words, his grin widening as if he’d just had the most profound thought.

She shook her head, smirking. “You’ll thank me in the morning, trust me.”

Y/N made her way toward the kitchen, weaving slightly as the room swayed around her. She was definitely feeling the effects of those Negronis. “Right,” she muttered under her breath, “just need to get some water. How hard can it be?”

She turned the corner and entered what could only be described as a space-age kitchen — all sleek chrome and glossy surfaces, like it had been designed by some avant-garde architect who’d clearly never boiled an egg in his life. She blinked at the sight of a state-of-the-art water system built into the counter, with more buttons and screens than the bloody cockpit of a plane.

“What the hell is this?” she muttered, frowning at the contraption. “It’s a water tap, not the bloody TARDIS.”

She poked at one of the buttons, and the display lit up with a series of choices: Still. Sparkling. Ice Cold. Room Temperature. Mineral Infused. pH Balanced. Alkaline. There was even an option for Artisanal Mountain Spring, which she was pretty sure was taking the piss.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groaned, rubbing her temples. “Why does he need this much choice for a glass of water?”

She jabbed at the Still button, but nothing happened. She tried Room Temperature. Still nothing. The machine made a faint, mocking beeping sound that she swore was laughing at her. “Come on, you fancy piece of crap,” she growled, slapping the side of it. “Give me some bloody water!”

She pressed another button, and a small panel opened up, revealing even more buttons. “Are you kidding me?” she muttered, leaning closer, trying to make sense of the digital display that was now flashing at her like she’d accidentally triggered the launch codes for a nuclear missile.

“Alright, let’s try this…” she muttered, tapping another button labeled Dispense.

The machine hummed for a moment, then spat out a single drop of water. A single, mocking drop.

“You have got to be joking,” Y/N muttered, staring at the droplet like it had personally insulted her. “Come on, work, damn you!”

She tried again, this time holding the button down longer, and finally, a stream of water began to flow — freezing cold and spraying out far too fast, splashing over the side of the glass and onto her shirt.

“Bloody hell!” she yelped, jumping back and nearly slipping on the pristine marble floor. “Why is it so complicated to get a drink in this bloody house?”

Gwayne’s voice floated in from the living room, a lazy, amused drawl. “Y’alright in there, Y/N?”

She shot a glare in his direction, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah, fine!” she called back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just wrestling with your bloody spaceship tap!”

She finally managed to fill the glass without any more incidents and turned off the tap, which thankfully didn’t require any further button-pressing. Taking a deep breath, she made her way back to the living room, where Gwayne was now lying sideways on the couch, humming some Beatles tune to himself.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the glass into his hand. “Drink. You need water, or you’re going to wake up tomorrow feeling like a truck hit you. And I’m not in the mood to deal with your whining.”

He blinked up at her, his eyes glassy but grateful. “Thanks, Y/N,” he murmured, taking a sip. “You’re… amazing. Like, really. You know that?”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, yeah. Drink up.”

He chuckled softly, downing the water like he hadn’t had a drink in days. “Seriously, though,” he continued, setting the glass on the coffee table, “don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She felt a flutter in her chest, but she kept her tone light. “Probably end up dehydrated on your fancy couch, for starters.”

He grinned, his eyelids drooping as the alcohol started to catch up with him. “Maybe. Or maybe I’d just… still be lost.”

Y/N’s breath hitched for a second, but she brushed it off with a chuckle. “Alright, enough with the confessions. Time for you to sleep.”

He nodded, his head lolling to the side. “Yeah… sleep sounds good,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

Y/N watched him for a moment, making sure he was actually dozing off and not about to get up and start another drunken adventure. “Goodnight, Gwayne,” she whispered, almost too softly to hear.

He mumbled something in his sleep, a smile still on his lips, and Y/N turned to leave, shaking her head. She’d gotten him home, hydrated, and onto his couch. Mission accomplished for now.

#gwayne hightower #ser gwayne hightower #ser gwayne #gwayne fanfic #hotd gwayne #gwayne x reader #gwayne x you #gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne hightower modern au #hotd modern au #freddie fox #freddie fox x reader

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crispyanonart · 4 months ago

Note

With your previous SamSeb post of them being the coolest uncles ever i was wondering

Did Maru and Sebastian have a redemption arc? As I mean they have a better sibling ship as they got older? How would you see that progression? 👀

Thank you sm for these questions, you gave me an excuse to talk about this 🖤 it's a topic near and dear to my heart because I too grew up in a funky family situation so sibling relationships are my roman empire.

yap session below

My idea is that Sebastian's initial sentiments towards Maru were mainly born out of teenage angst which was truthfully more directed at their parents — in his eyes, she was merely a result of the relationship he resented so much. As people grow up, they often lose some of that pent-up anger, creating relationships that allow them to feel less insecure and misunderstood, and in turn, more open to understanding others too. I think this would be the case for Seb. He would start seeing Maru more clearly, finally recognizing who she is, rather than what she represented to him up until that point (she, like him, had no role in the family dynamic except being born into it). He would discover that he actually likes her a lot. Maru, on the other hand, probably always looked up to him but could never approach him first because Seb can be very intimidating. I picture her telling herself, "Maru, be cool!! How would Sebastian act??" because he would engage in all sorts of behaviors that she, being a "good girl," could never imagine partaking in (talking back to people??? Oh lord). I reckon she would also be often concerned for him and his habits — to be honest, she would probably be a better sibling to Seb than he ever was to her. Upon maturing and realizing this, Sebastian would definitely promise himself to make up for it and start acting like an actual older brother, the instinct to protect the younger person taking over.

A while back I posted what could be one of their first sincere attempts at an hangout x !!

While Maru already had great support from Demetrius, I imagine she would really flourish from this new dynamic, and she would grow into her feisty personality, finally realizing she does not need to be the good girl at all times but also that she can set her own example. As they get older their relationship would become more and more sincere, Maru would stop holding back and Seb would gladly accept the love that she's been trying to give him, and they both would heal and learn a lot from it. They would finally become a great support system for one another, I can't imagine a story where they don't end up getting along and doing good as a family 🥹 I need Sebastian to be obsessed with Maru's kid and spoil her rotten with all sorts of gaming equipment !!

Side tangent: I feel the need to say that I don't think either Robin or Demetrius are bad people, they are flawed individuals that could for sure do better at parenting but are far from the worst family in game. Let's not forget we can see the book "Practical Tips For First-Time Step-Dads" in Demetrius bookcase, the man is trying (which doesn't mean he's necessarily succeeding or that Seb's sentiments are less valid, but you get what I'm saying)

chat can you tell I've been in relational-systemic therapy before LMAOOO

#sdv headcanons #sdv fanart #sdv sebastian #sdv maru #sdv #stardew valley #ask #theasnewgroove #stardew sebastian #stardew maru #sebastian stardew valley #maru stardew valley #older!Sambastian #sdv demetrius #sdv robin #anyone who ships them for any reason stay so fucking away from this post #art #stardew valley fanart

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sweetsaladpainterranch · 2 months ago

Note

Idk if you do asks but can you do a 6 month old demon story where Al stays too late at a overlord meeting and you have to go get him??

Hope you're doing well!

Sure, I can give it a try. I hope it's what you were looking for lol 🙂

...

Challenges of Raising a 6 Month Old Demon

If Mama Ain't Happy...

...

It was 11:26 pm at the entrance to the Carmine Compound and you were knocking at the large metal door aggressively. Your husband had promised to be back home to in time to give you an evening off from your motherly and hotel responsibilities (a luxury you hadn’t had for quite some time), yet he still hadn’t shown up for hours past when he was due to reappear. You were more pissed off than worried, so, without any other choice, you strapped your dozing fawn to your chest and set off.

After about 10 minutes of banging, you were greeted by the unenthusiastic, but familiar, demeanor of Carmillia Carmine. “I believe you have something of mine.”, you firmly voiced out. In response the tall demoness merely nodded and lead you up in the elevator. Your ire was palpable. You very clearly felt the raised tension in the air as static buzzed over your skin and your sensitive ears picked up the voice of an angry Alastor and another, equally aggressive voice coming from the room you were approaching. Evangeline also felt and heard the familiar aura of her father as she kicked her little hooves out excitedly. “We we’re hoping you would come to get him.”, Carmillia sighed tiredly when she pushed open the door and gestured to the two arguing men, “They’ve been in this pissing contest for hours!”

You looked around the room and spotted your mate leaning over his cane and arguing into the flat face of Vox. Rosie smiled at your tired face with sympathetic expression and shrugged her thin shoulders. “And another thi-“, Alastor was cut off when he heard the high pitched shriek of his daughter who was wriggling in her carrier. His ears flattened onto his head as he immediately jerked his head around to meet the fury of your gaze. “Ah…d-darling, I was just on my way home when this blowhard dared to comment on my-“, he cut himself off once again when you silently, but intently, walked towards him. The room’s tension rose with every step you took.

It wasn’t often that you found yourself upset, but your anger was always a force to be reckoned with, and Alastor was far too intelligent to pit himself against it. So he merely stood still in silent terror.

You stopped directly in front of him, face to chest, before quickly throwing him over your shoulder. Vox laughed at Alastor’s embarrassed bleat but the glare you shot in his direction wiped away any of his amusement. You held your scrawny Alastor tightly and turned on your heel to leave.

“I believe this playdate is over.”, you uttered softly to everyone in the boardroom and took your family home.

...

Sorry it's kinda short, Anon. I actually wrote this really quick while my own fawn was distracted by The Wiggles 😂

(p.s.- I friggin hate The Wiggles now)

-SSPR

#hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x you #babies be cray

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ohsohoney · 2 months ago

Text

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

Part Fourteen

Eminem x Musician

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

Note: Been a little while but the next updates here! Lots to unpack, hope you enjoy it:)

| Set in 2014, just after the release of LP 2

taglist: @thelastemzy @helloitsme1223 @geekchic48

Masterlist

Things after that seemingly did a 360.

Not that I was given much of a chance to catch up with it all though, having been left standing in the studio hours earlier, back to the wall whilst the door hinges had slowly creaked to a close.

No, because that would have been far too much to ask for.

Marshall had relaxed in a way that was more like a steel trap being reset; ready and waiting to be crossed again. It had me on edge. I couldn’t deny that, seeing as I knew what could be lying in wait for me if I did dare to trample any closer, but there was also an ominous instinct that had my back up. Something that kept me from lingering too long.

“What’s goin’ on in there?” The man himself asked, tapping my forehead as he slid back into the driver's seat.

We’d gone out, as promised, not long after ‘The Change’ had occurred (something I’d taken to dubbing the whole situation as inside my head). Rosie hadn’t forgotten about her idea of dinner and a movie– and really… Of all the things we could have possibly done after a kiss like that, it just had to be this.

Honestly, I had to keep biting the inside of my cheek to stop that particular train of thought each time I found my mind wandering back to it.

“Yoo-hoo…” Marshall dragged out, his brow arching as he glanced over at me again.

Z was in the back typing away, having become completely unaware of our shared awkward existence ever since her sister had first called whilst we’d been eating dinner. The girl had taken to texting throughout, telling Ayla all about the heroics Marshall had performed that same morning in the principal's office, as well as the movie we were now headed to see. I had to smile at their closeness, thinking back to my own siblings and wondering how Em struggled to see just how much the two girls loved one another.

I glanced over at him, head rolling against the headrest. He was watching me with those familiar baby blues, but each time I caught sight of them, I was instantly reminded of the way they’d clouded over in the studio earlier.

“Thinking ‘bout getting a cat.”

His brow furrowed.

“A cat?” He deadpanned, obviously perplexed by my answer.

I wasn’t actually thinking about it, but now that I’d gone and said it… it wasn’t half a bad idea.

So I ultimately shrugged, if only in an attempt to tear my eyes away from his. “Cats are cool.”

At his scoff of disagreement, I nudged his arm off of the adjoining console with my elbow, “They are.” I defended, “They don’t need me to walk them or play fetch. They’re cute and fluffy, can definitely keep me warm at night.” I hummed, that eyebrow of his quirked up higher. “And besides, I reckon it could keep me company when I’m back in London, you know. Figure I’ll have a hard time with that after having you two around for so long– even with Lotts there to keep me from going insane.”

Marshall kept quiet at the acknowledgement, but did start up the car, its engine rumbling to life beneath us not a second later.

It was just when I heard his faint intake of breath and caught the way he opened his mouth to speak, that Rosie shoved her phone in my face, her beaming grin peeking out over my shoulder. “Ayla, meet El!”

I blinked at the sudden invasion I’d been confronted with but couldn’t help my warm laughter, even as Em gently scolded his daughter for the intrusion. “Z, what I keep tellin’ you?”

“But Dad, it’s important!”

My gaze flickered between the two of them and it was only when I drew my eyes back down to where the screen sat between us that I saw the fondness which had since swarmed my expression. I tried to dampen it slightly without being too obvious, but the girl waiting seemed to be watching the whole scene rather intently. She smiled though when she saw she’d finally captured my attention. All soft like.

My breath caught a little in truth, never really having thought about getting to meet Marshall’s eldest this early on, or through a screen either. Rosie didn’t seem to care much though, elbowing her way between the two front seats to get as much as she could of us into the frame.

“Layly, baby!” Marshall’s greeting cut in before I could spit out a hello, his little nickname for his girls sparking that same fondness I’d felt earlier. “How you doin’, Trailer? Behavin’, I hope.”

I blew out a small snort at the next nickname he used, turning an amused smile Marshall’s way, but his focus was wholly on the girl currency rolling her eyes at him through a digital frame. “You know I am.” Ayla huffed around a faint chuckle, leaning in closer to the lens, “School keeps me way too busy to get up to anything stupid.”

“What I love to hear.” Marshall replied with a sarky sort of smile, a new one that I could add to my growing collection, I quietly deemed. “You been good though?” He prompted further, “Don’t have to stop by and talk to any hanger-ons, do I? ‘Cause you know I will.”

“Yes, I know.” Ayla shook her head, exasperated, but her sweet smile was still so prominent. “Besides, I think you guys have had enough drama going on lately.”

Marshall’s eyes traitorously jumped over to meet mine in that split second, something I thought only I caught until I witnessed the assessing look Ayla took on. So I was quick to clear my throat, internally cursing his name, “I don’t know what Z’s told you, but the two of us? We’re innocent! This is all on your Dad.”

That seemed to earn me a lighthearted laugh, one that trickled out of the speaker and appeared to loosen Marshall’s tense set of shoulders. The man in turn levelled Rosie and I with an aggrieved look before he turned to speak to Ayla once more, “It’s like I’m a one man army here, AB. Didn’t think I’d ever lose Z, but she’s gone darkside.”

“Dad!” Rosie admonished around another giggle, whilst Ayla gasped theatrically, “Oh how the tables have turned. What will the papers say?”

“Hilarious.” Marshall said in a manner that was deliberately impassive. But he still cracked a smile though when Ayla’s chuckles trickled through.

“Good to see you guys,” She commented soon after and I got the chance to look at her a little closer, taking in the college dorm she had sitting behind her, as well as the blue of her eyes. They were more almond shaped, sure, but somehow the colour still managed to match Marshall’s toe for toe. “And to finally meet you, El. I’ve heard a lot about you these last few weeks.”

A sharp breath hitched my chest. “Only good things, I hope.” I found myself retorting around a rosy smile, knocking my head lightly against Z’s when the girl crowded in further to my side, her chin settling on my shoulder, “But it’s also really nice to put a face to all the stories I’ve been told, too.”

Ayla gifted me a bright grin at that, her gaze drifting between Rosie and I, “No hope in praying that it’s nothing too embarrassing then?”

I couldn’t stop the way I instinctively turned to share a secretive grin with the girl beside me, pleased when Rosie mimicked me to do the same. “I don’t know about that, I’ve heard all about the grocery store you see.”

The gasp that the comment drew from the older girl was all too real that time, “I was seven!”

“Seven don’t mean nothin’,” Em swiftly cut in, narrowing his eyes ever so as he directed a finger at the phone and his eldest, “You’d been potty trained since you were two.”

Rosie and I snickered between ourselves, but Marshall caught onto it all too quickly, moving to shift that finger towards the pair of us, “Aye, you two ain’t no better. Ms Bedwetter and Pillow-drewler.”

“Hey!” Rosie immediately spat, thumping the man’s shoulder hard enough to have the corners of his mouth twitching even as his brows rose, “That was years ago! And you said you wouldn’t tell nobody!”

Marshall’s hands flew up in a gesture of surrender when his daughter narrowed her eyes in further scrutiny, but I could tell that Z wasn’t as embarrassed as she was letting on to be, knew it to be true when she added, “You also said it was natural! That you didn’t stop doin’ it ‘til you were fourteen!”

Em’s chin jerked up before he softened his reaction, though his eyes were a tad bit too wide to have not been entirely caught off guard by the secret his daughter had just spilled, “Jus’ said that to make you feel better.”

His shrug wasn’t all that uncaring as he hoped for it to be.

“Liar!” Rosie laughed, poking her dad’s side before she turned to peer back over at her sister and me, “He really did, promised he wouldn’t tell on me if I didn’t tell on him either. But he’s a big fat liar.”

“Name of your next single.” I quipped thoughtlessly, the comment going straight over Rosie’s head. Em shot me a steely glare and faked a silent laugh though, his lips softening into a small smile.

It was after that in which Marshall’s palm pressed against Rosie’s forehead, jokingly coaxing her into the backseat once again, waving off her protests as she slumped into the middle. “Yeah, yeah, keep complainin’ and we’ll miss this damn movie, won’t we.”

“Dollar!” Two voices called out and I peered into the back to see Z snicker into the phone, the screen Ayla was still on illuminating her face.

Marshall scoffed at the two girls but I could see how he was grinning happily to himself as we pulled out of the lot and onto the main road.

It continued to surprise me how easily he could move throughout the city without looking at a map or using the GPS he had installed in the flashy monster-truck he was so fond of. I kept finding myself getting lost in the way he drove, in truth, stare caught on how the streetlights flashed over his stubbled cheek and the fluid way he switched gears as though the stick was an extension of his arm.

It was only when Rosie popped up with another question that I found myself startling, looking back to immediately avoid the knowing smile Marshall had plastered over his face. Shit.

“What’s the movie called again? Ayla wants to know if it’s the same one she’s watching this weekend.”

I had to think for a second before I could answer her, my mind still honed in on the image of Em’s profile, “Love, Rosie.”

Z’s face split into a wide grin, her eyes squinting with the strength of it as she repeated the answer back to her sister, talking a mile a minute about how we were only going to see that film over The Book of Life because it had her name in the title.

I settled back into my seat easily enough and fiddled with the radio to keep myself from acknowledging my previous leering, hoping that the drive would be over all too quickly. Only, things never typically tended to go my way.

Jerking ever so, my straying gaze snapped back over to where Em was still watching the road, as though all of his attention was stuck there, and that wasn’t his hand on my upper thigh.

It was less than a second later that I let my eyes shift up into the rearview mirror, a breath of relief escaping me when I realised Rosie hadn’t caught the exchange, or see the lines her Dad was crossing.

I licked the back of the teeth and willed myself to relax at the touch, taking a small breath before I looked back over at the man in question. When I did, I found myself narrowing my stare at the slight smirk Marshall wore, apparently rather pleased with the reaction he’d garnered.

Still, my mind was warring with my want. I couldn’t wrap my head around the hot and cold, the way he’d push me away and then pull me in, how I’d thought about leaving to escape the icy shift and then been backed into a wall– literally.

I didn’t push his hand away though, and that in itself spoke volumes.

I couldn’t tell how he meant the touch, was he trying to be teasing? Or was it just a show of reassurance for the unexpected conversation started with Ayla? Had it been something he’d been wanting to do for a while now, or was this all just a game?

He squeezed, ever so slightly.

My eyes slipped closed.

His thumb brushed over the bump of my knee and I let myself melt into the firm hold.

It felt unnatural not to.

The hand didn’t travel, only moved away and then back each time it jumped up to the gearstick. I found myself, once again, wanting the journey to be over, whilst simultaneously hoping that it would never end.

The touch grounded me.

But it pulled away when the theatre came into view.

…

“Can't believe The Marshall Mathers is planning on watching a chick-flick.” I taunted playfully as we made our way up onto the pavement outside the red and gold doors, the joke only made to keep me from wanting to reach out and slide his hand into mine. Because I didn’t do that, I didn’t like all that sappy shit. I didn’t want to be holding his fucking hand, or have him drape his arm around me. It was just the moment, just that kiss fucking with my head.

Marshall feigned a put upon sigh, that hand of his coming up by his brow in an attempt to swoon. “Lord strike me down.”

I laughed outwardly, Rosie glancing back over her shoulder at us as she tugged at the heavy handle. “You’re not looking forward to it, Daddy?”

Shooting me a semi-sour look, Marshall let a lazy smirk crawl over his face just as he reached out to steady the door above Z’s head, “Nah I am, baby. Lia’s jus’ makin’ fun of the big manly guy.”

“Who?” Rosie asked in utter sincerity, enough that it had me cackling outright on the pavement outside. Em shook his head at the two of us, attempting to remain unamused but failing as reaching out to take my hand, tugging me through the open doors.

Z was still looking confused by it all when I managed to calm slightly, but her smile was soft as ever as her eyes lingered over the pair of us. It was then I realised Marshall’s hand was still in mine. He must have realised it too, because he let it go and coughed quietly into his arm before gesturing his chin out towards the concession stands. “So we gettin’ some popcorn or what?”

And with that, Rosie’s sole focus was on getting exactly that.

I ended up trailing after her whilst Marshall went and grabbed us some tickets, keeping an eye on her shorter frame as she weaved around a tall shelf to get a look at the array of sweets. There weren’t too many people about, but I still found myself glancing back over towards Em to see if anyone had sussed him out yet.

“What’re you gonna get?”

My head snapped back at Rosie’s ask, eyes dancing over the grin she bore before flickering between her own. I glanced over the collection the theatre had to offer, surprised by the obvious differences I could see.

“Me and my sister had this thing,” I started to answer, reaching out to pluck a familiar bag from off the hook, “Where each time we would go to the cinema we’d just end up getting a big bucket of popcorn to share and dump a whole load of M&M’s or Magicstars inside. If the popcorn’s still warm the chocolate tends to melt a little.”

Rosie scrunched her nose, either in distaste or just thought. “Sweet or salted?” Was the next question she posed and it hastily reminded me of the same one Marshall had asked that very first night I’d spent with them.

“Salted.” Smirking slightly at the way her eyes lit up.

“You made the right choice.” Z claimed with a nod and wiggled her brows before she spun around the heel of her foot to make her way over to the short line.

We ended up getting a large popcorn to share. At first, I figured it wouldn’t be enough for the three of us until I saw the container we were handed, then I was just beyond baffled at how different the portion sizes were in The States compared to back in London.

Once we’d paid, Rosie and I wandered over to a corner to dump the contents of the chocolate I’d picked up into it, Z having so much fun with it that a good couple dozen of M&M’s rolled over the ugly patterned floor. When Marshall strolled back over, he was wearing a questionable expression but holding onto three tickets.

“Should I even ask?” He quizzed, peering into the overloaded bucket. The look he wore turned somewhat appraising once Z explained and he was quick to steal a taste of our concoction, earning a tap to the arm in rebuke.

“Hey, hands off, bright eyes. Popcorn’s for the trailers, not here.”

“Bright eyes?” Marshall questioned, the left corner of his mouth lifting, but his ask was drowned out by Z’s, “The trailers? Dad always makes us wait ‘til the movie starts!”

I snorted and held out the bucket so that Rosie could take a great big handful, “We’ve long since discovered your Dad’s a little neurotic, lovely. We just gotta love him for it.”

Rosie’s laugh was warm as she peered up at Marshall. But his eyes were caught on me and he almost appeared frozen before Z leaned into his side, “Can we head in now?” She wondered, chewing away.

“Uh, yeah.” Em seemed to stumble, before he blinked and leaned down to press his lips to the top of her head, “Think we made it just in time.”

Love, Rosie was a film I could have lived without watching, I wouldn’t lie. It was like every other Romcom I’d seen a thousand times before. And yet, I loved every single second of it.

We were stationed in the far back, on the side closest to the stairs, Rosie perched between Marshall and I, her legs swinging back and forth. Throughout the whole film her attention remained captured, never wavering as her big doe eyes stayed locked on the screen with such reverence that it warmed my entire being.

Marshall wasn’t much better either, in truth. Something which humoured me to no end. Whenever he wasn’t glancing at me from over the top of Z’s head or stealing the popcorn from out of my hand each time I reached into the bucket, his eyes didn’t stray from the heartfelt scenes as they played out.

It was a strange conclusion to come to, that Marshall loved a good old fashioned Romcom as much as his daughter did, but it was a fact that went and nestled itself in between my ribs, where all the other little quirks the man had went to stay.

It was only as we were leaving, Rosie talking a mile a minute about the ending and how she thought it sucked, that he reached out again in the dimly lit corridor that led us back to the main lobby, only this time he didn’t have the excuse of stealing any popcorn from me when his fingers slipped into mine.

I tried not to show how surprised I was by the action as I looked over at him, grateful that we were the last ones to filter out of the screening room so that no one else noticed when I let my feet slide closer to his so that our shoulders could brush.

They were such simple actions, ones that would be second nature to most people, but that meant a great deal to me. Because see, I’d never really been the type to be overly affectionate, having hated hugs or anything of the sort once Danny had grown too old for them. Well, up until Lottie had come along. And most of the people I’d been with over the years had seemed to struggle with that, even when I’d pushed myself into reciprocating, when I’d forced myself out of my comfort zone to make them happy. But here and now, it felt natural.

Most things with Marshall did, I deemed. Even us arguing.

Our hands parted just before we could step through the end doors, his thumb brushing over my wrist as our eyes adjusted to the vast change in light.

Rosie was rubbing at hers when I glanced over, her too large drink squashed in the crook of her arm. Marshall seemed to follow my gaze because he reached out to loop her into his side not a second later, peering down at her. “I want you takin’ notes, you hear?” He mentioned in reference to the film, his smile now sly, “None of that’s gone be happenin’ in your future, girlie. You wanna get married? I better be dead. And don’t even think ‘bout havin’ no babies ‘til you start gettin’ grey hairs, okay?”

Z rolled her eyes in response to her father's shakedown, shaking her head up at me in silent camaraderie. “You just don't want people to see you cry.” She poked fun, her grin turning evil, “But we all saw the tears when she started her speech, Dad!”

“Lies.” Em scoffed back at her, pushing her away and out of his hold. Rosie didn’t much care though as she laughed her way into mine, head coming to rest on my upper arm.

“Me? I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.” Was the retort she gave him, one that had me snorting on a laugh when Marshall raised a brow and turned towards me.

“Think we left Z inside,” He said, “seems Tony Montana here figures he’s comin’ home with us.”

I couldn’t help the giggles that escaped me at all the references, especially when Rosie pursed her lips and drooped her eyes slightly, holding her arms out wide like Al Picino did in the famous movie, “Last time you gonna see a bad guy like me.”

Even Em couldn’t hold back the large snort he made at the little act she’d put on for us, shaking his head at her antics before he pointed a finger at her, “Last time you watch a movie with me, I swear.”

Rosie’s jaw dropped just a tad, “But it’s Scarface!”

“Exactly.” Was the only reply Marshall gave.

I lifted a hand to give Z’s shoulder a squeeze, smiling stupidly when she wrapped an arm around my waist to pull me into a lazy hug. The pair of them continued with their little face-off though until I was promptly reminded of the thing that had been bugging me throughout the end of the film, “Go and head out to the car, Tony. Those petrol cans you lot call drinks had me needing to pee like yesterday.”

Amused, Marshall shook his head at the comment, though his eyes were fond when he reached out to steer Rosie back over to him, “You need us to hang about, or?”

Rolling my eyes at his protective streak, I smiled and simply waved him off. “I’m sure I’ll survive a trip to the loo’s. I’ll try to make it quick.”

His lips thinned slightly but he acquiesced easily enough, navigating Z over towards the exit whilst I slipped into the nearest corridor dotted with bathroom signs. I was beyond grateful when I found the line not to be too long, just an older woman waiting for the end stall to free as well as a mother and her baby stood by the sink.

It was only once I’d dried my hands and fixed my hat in the mirror that I felt a slight prickle on the back of my neck. I looked up as the bathroom door swung shut behind the young mother to find a new face stood off to the right just behind me. I caught their eye in the reflection and felt my own snap back down rather quickly, pretending to not notice their sudden fixation as I casually wiped down the front of my hoodie and turned to leave.

It was a cough and then a light ‘Excuse me’ that had me glancing back on instinct, only to find the same girl suddenly right there. I blinked in shock at her sudden proximity and rocked back on my foot to put a bit of space between us, but the smile I gave her wasn’t unkind.

“Sorry,” She apologised, seeming to realise, though she didn’t look all that sheepish, even with having accosted me in the theatre’s tiny bathroom, “Just, can I get a picture and like, an autograph maybe? I spotted you by the register earlier, but lost you in the crowd.”

I never minded the odd signature and a picture was done easily enough too, but Detroit was currently supposed to be my best kept secret and knowing that this girl had already spotted me, likely with Em, didn’t do much to ease the sudden anxiety I started to feel.

Still, I grinned, unable to turn her down, “Sure thing, maybe we can grab it outside though? I doubt you’d want a selfie in the loo’s.” I tried for a light chuckle and was pleased when she laughed around an excited nod, exhaling slowly.

So we headed out of the bathroom and I posed for a picture against the white wall there, smile drooping a little the longer she kept snapping away, having gathered a little under thirty or so different photo variations. I ended up signing her phone case for her afterwards though and was thankful when nobody else seemed to crop up and spot me.

It was just as I’d done dotting the i in my name that she shifted ever so.

“I never thought I’d get to meet you, but really, you’re like one of my favourite artists. I think I know your whole album off by heart.”

My anxiety eased at her sweet words and my smile was sincere when I handed her phone back to her. “That’s really lovely to hear. I know getting to see some of you guys here in The States is always a little up and down because of touring, so I’m just glad we got to meet.” I assured her kindly before lightly teasing, “Never had someone say hello to me in the toilets of a cinema though. Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

She laughed loudly and gave me a light shrug, “I’d say I was sorry again but I really didn’t wanna miss you, especially when I saw you out there with your boyfriend.”

My mouth went dry at her words, but the girl didn’t seem to notice, continuing to ramble on.

“Was that his sister with you guys, or yours? I know you have one, right? People say she’s a lot younger than you, but then they also claim she’s your kid too. The internet is so crazy sometimes. Still, he’s real cute from what I saw! Are you telling people about you guys soon or keeping it lowkey?”

I was grasping at straws trying to find words. To simply recall my media training and the lengthy speeches Mila had given me. But nothing sprung to mind. It was like a cesspit full of disease that ate each and every thought that attempted to grow.

“I don’t mind not saying anything to anyone if you don’t want me to.” The girl tacked on shortly after and I would have figured that she had quickly gathered that she’d caught me by total surprise there, but she was looking at me so closely that I could easily tell it wasn’t anything of the sort. It was like an eagle scoping out their prey.

“Um,” I swallowed, before finally plastering on something like a smile, “No, it’s– He’s not my boyfriend, just a– a family friend. But yeah, I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention it. At all. Please.”

Her eyes were wide when she nodded back at me, but her lips were curled into an insincere sort of grin that plucked my anxiety straight back up out of the cage I’d wrangled it into.

“Of course, you can count on me.” It was with that in which she tugged me into a hug that had her hand settling on my waist, before I forced myself to step back.

I knew my smile had to have been less than flattering by that point, but I nodded anyway and waved at her as I backed down the hallway and crossed the lobby in a light jog, pulling my hat down lower over my face. It was only once I’d made it through the exit doors that I hurried to swallow the cold air that immediately hit me, throwing a startled glance back over my shoulder when the doors opened again, grateful to note that it wasn’t the same girl.

My eyes scanned the parking lot and it was a second later that I saw Marshall step out of the car parked across the street, his face furrowed under the shadow of his cap as he waved me over. I went, but something must have shown on my own face because he moved to meet me halfway, extending a hand out towards my arm the second he could.

He dipped his chin to catch my eye when we came to a stop and I wondered why he suddenly looked so uneasy. “What happened?”

My eyes snapped up to meet his and I blinked, still somewhat startled, “Nothing, it’s fine.”

“It’s ain’t.” He insisted, “You look like you’re gone be sick.”

I blew out another heavy breath and forced myself to calm the fuck down, “Honest, it was nothing. Just me overreacting.”

Marshall levelled me with a look before he sighed, “I know you. You don’t over-fucking-react like this. What went on?”

“Marsh, please. It was just a weird, I don’t know, encounter.” I tried, attempting to look past him to the car, “A fan that said was a bit too friendly, you know?”

I watched his jaw twitch. “What, in the bathroom?”

I sighed and lifted a hand up to rub at my cheek, “Just, can we leave it? Please. I just wanna go home. I’ll tell you then.”

Marshall watched me for a long second and for a moment I really thought he was going to argue, that he’d push, but instead he just gave a minute nod and wrapped an arm around me to lead us back to the car.

Surprisingly, Em didn’t head straight for the passenger side door and so I was greeted by the bright grin of a lovely little face when he ushered me into the backseat, seemingly knowing I needed a friendly face right then.

“What took you so long!” Rosie exclaimed the second she saw me, already shuffling over to make room whilst Marshall helped me inside, lingering a second longer to make sure that I really was fine before shutting the door and moving towards the drivers side.

“There was a long line,” I dragged out with a teasing smile whilst Em started the engine, “Think someone had a bad batch of nachos or something.”

Rosie’s face wrinkled into a grimace at my words and so when I met Marshall’s heavy stare in the rearview mirror the anxiety I felt was already starting to ebb. He gifted me a soft smile and it was then that I knew how well and truly fucked I was, because my heart stuttered.

…

The peace didn’t seem to last long though.

Not when I woke up the next morning to a thousand different notifications and my face plastered all over TMZ.

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