#london underground press | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cordeliawhohung · 30 days

Text

ghoap x reader pet!au where simon keeps johnny as a pet, but can't keep up with his high sex drive and antics. in order to satiate him, simon decides to go looking for another pet to keep the silly pup entertained. sort of an introductory work bound to become a series of one shots like my mafia!au

cw: simon is a freak, non-con photography, a little dark content, nsfw, slight bdsm dynamics, owner/pet dynamics

Simon wasn’t a photographer, not a good one anyway, but he wasn’t to blame. His large hands were better fit for shredding meat than creating art, but he figured all art was good when the muses were beautiful.

He had been on the hunt for nearly three hours by that point, wandering throughout the city where the population was thickest. Armed with nothing but his phone, Simon captured photos of various specimens that meandered throughout the streets as they went about their lives. There were roughly twenty pictures he had saved in his gallery of unsuspecting women he figured would be Johnny’s type. Pretty blondes in flowery dresses, alluring doe eyes looking out at the streets; he stole photos of any soft and sweet thing that he figured Johnny would have fun sinking his teeth into.

A black mask and dark clothes wasn’t the most unsuspecting thing for him to wear on such an outing, yet it was to his advantage at the same time. Several women had caught the slight glint of the camera lens on his phone as he stole eternal glimpses of them. Many of them had even opened their mouths to protest his intrusion, until they looked at him, anyway. Not many people had the bravery or fortitude needed to stand up to a creature as wild and brutish as him. Their mouths shut with such promptness he nearly chuckled at how bashful they were.

Hunting got more difficult as the sky grew darker. Fresh meat hid behind locked doors that Simon could have easily torn down if he had so desired, but that wasn’t the time. As the lights started to illuminate the street, he dived down into the depths underneath London where tunnels spanned for miles, spider-webbing just below the skin of the city. The stench underground grew more acrid the further he pushed and Simon couldn’t help but huff at it. This was why he enjoyed living out of town, off in some secluded home nestled in the cold embrace of trees and lavish fields.

Made it harder for his pet to wander off, too.

The sharp clicking of heels caught his attention as he waited just beyond the yellow line on the platform. Dark eyes flickered to the newest prey that approached, and Simon found himself drinking in the sight of her. Proper clothes covered her body with a simple blouse and a pencil skirt. Dark tights covered the expanse of her legs with its sheer fabric where it was beautifully topped off by a classic pair of heels. The sway of her hips was dramatized by the steps she traversed, her pace slow and careful lest she roll an ankle walking in those heels.

She was dressed professionally, and if Simon had to guess it was for an interview. By the look on her face, it didn’t go very well. Distracted eyes stared down at the phone in her hand as her lips pressed into a frown. Anxious fingers tapped away as she typed out a message to someone — perhaps a lover? Someone would be crazy not to snatch up a specimen such as that — as she stepped down onto the platform.

Before she could get too close, Simon quickly dug his phone out before stealing a photo of her. He had gotten so used to the motions he didn’t even have to think about it; not that it was difficult anyway. With her attention still focused elsewhere, he found he was able to snap a few more before she finally put her phone into her bag and began to pay mind to where she walked. She continued further into the platform, well past Simon, and vanished into the crowd as if she had never been there at all.

Cute.

It didn’t take long for the tube to take Simon to his stop, and it was even shorter before he seated himself in his car to head back home. The drive itself was the longest part of everything. Annoying traffic, bad drivers; he didn’t feel like he could untense his body until he approached the familiar sight of home. The old and dilapidated building wasn’t much more than an heirloom passed down in the Riley family, but it had quickly become his sanctuary. Seclusion meant he was safe. Seclusion meant he could love in peace.

Warm lights poured through the sheer curtains that covered the windows and were only disturbed by a figure pacing around just beyond them. Simon’s car died off with a sputter as he pocketed his keys before approaching the door. A thick deadbolt kept the house latched tight and secure, though he was confident Johnny knew better than to attempt to dash out by that point. Especially not that day when he had the prospect of such a good treat.

Johnny was there to greet him at the door with a toothy grin, and the damn pup nearly knocked Simon over as he bounded up to him. His hands pawed at Simon’s chest as if he couldn’t get enough of him, and he didn’t calm down until the man grabbed hold of the collar around his throat. Blue eyes widened as he looked up at his owner, lips twitching with all the words he wanted to exclaim.

“Down,” Simon warned.

“Did ya get the pictures? Like you said you would?” Johnny questioned, his body still unable to retain his buzzing excitement.

Instead of answering him verbally, Simon gave a sharp tug on his collar before directing him further into the house. Ancient wood floorboards creaked underneath their weight as they entered the living room. It was devoid of all decor, unless cracks in the paint could be considered art. A rusted lamp was the sole source of light in the room, and the only thing even worth looking at was the glorious stone fireplace that sat against the far wall, but it was much too warm out to light.

Simon pulled Johnny down onto the old sofa next to him, and the man instantly burrowed into his side, eagerly waiting to see the pretty pups. The phone screen illuminated both of their faces in sync as it blossomed to life, and Johnny almost salivated at just the prospect of what he would see. It didn’t take Simon long to pull up his gallery, and he scrolled to the first photos he had taken that day before angling it so that his excited pup could see it too. Twitching fingers reached out to swipe along the screen, and Simon watched as Johnny’s eyes dilated at every piece of meat he looked at. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he shifted on the couch, and all it took was a simple glance to see how worked up the poor pup was. A hardened bulge strained against the zipper of his jeans, and a groan reverberated in his throat as he continued to swipe through the countless choices put in front of him.

“Si, they’re all so beautiful. Can’t I have them all?” Johnny whined.

“Only one,” Simon countered.

“I’ll be good,” Johnny said with a pout.

“Just one, Johnny,” Simon repeated, voice more firm.

Sighing, he continued to swipe through Simon’s phone as his eyes glossed over beautiful legs and delicious hips. It had been so long since he had last seen a woman it was nearly impossible to hold himself back. His body craved them in a way he couldn’t put into words, and he felt like the only thing that would offer him solace would be to burst out of his skin.

His restless buzzing suddenly ceased when he caught sight of the last group of photos in the gallery. A beautiful woman had him utterly transfixed as she appeared to have descended down a long set of concrete steps. There was something about the troubled look on her face that had his mouth watering. Like he knew he would be able to fix it. Like he could bully the worry out of her with his cock alone.

“This one,” Johnny said, his decision definite as he held the phone up for Simon to see. “I want this one.”

#ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #dark content #f!reader

741 notes · View notes

professorcalculusstanaccount · 2 years

Photo

“You see, Tintin, Londoners are a particularly miserable subspecies of Englishman. Subterranean, anti-social, you could kill one with eye contact alone-”

“Captain, now is really not the time.”

It’s 1940. London is getting firebombed by Nazis. For the past few years Tintin and Chang have been out of work, having been outed as a couple by the press. They have spent some time travelling around with an ageing Captain Haddock to foil various fascist plots. Upon hearing about the bombing runs on London they go up to check on Chang’s uncle, who has an antique shop in Limehouse.

More story details under the Read More. Let me know if there’s anything you wish for me to tag, cw for mentions of racism:

Chang’s London cousins have since been evacuated to Kent. While trying to get what remains of Mr Wong’s possessions together they run into one of them, the boisterous Wendy Wong. She ran away from her countryside guardians back to London, revealing to have suffered a lot of racial abuse. Being the bravest of her siblings, she and her siblings planned for her to go back to London to find their dad. She’s distraught at her home’s destruction and feels frustrated and powerless. Her father is less than thrilled, and demands Chang take her back up to Kent.

Tintin is really trying his best to help Mr Wong and get on his good side, knowing full well he doesn’t approve of him and Chang. While searching through rubble Haddock gets talking to some community organisers and learns about locals planning on using the local Underground stations as shelters and agrees to help. One evening he stumbles across a disused service tunnel and overhears some German spies discussing suspicious plans.

Tintin offers to escort Wendy to Kent. A worried Captain Haddock informs Tintin of what he witnessed last night. Wendy overhears and wants to help, wishing to be a hero like Tintin and Chang, and emboldened by a sense of responsibility for her home. Chang, having previously lost family members to war, is sympathetic to her and believes she should be allowed to help. Tintin is reluctant to let Mr Wong down. Haddock feels like he’s herding cats.

TL;DR: Trains! Anti fascism! A story about finding common ground to fight back against nazis.

4K notes · View notes

sgiandubh · 8 months

Note

I want to ship SC, trust me I do and I love them together, but I just can’t fathom how far they stretch a fake relationship (her and T). Like for example the recent picture of them holding hands- now it’s not an insane gesture but definitely one we haven’t seen before. So maybe they truly are just a private couple. But in my heart of hearts I just love her and S together so much, and don’t know what to think because on one hand they are simply everything together and on the other it seems like she really is with T. I’m confused 🥲 what’s your take?

Dear Confused Anon,

I will be brutally honest: no, I do not trust you and I do not care about your crocodile tears. Not a single bit. In fact, once I will be done with my answer to you, you are most probably going to press CTRL+C, then CTRL +V. And run to the nearest Mordor sweatshop, in the hope one of the Three Sopranos will insult me again.

You see, to trust you, I would have to speak with at least a handle, not a coward in disguise. And then, even DMs are neither always safe, nor always honest - I have recently learned it the rough way, despite my best efforts, tried (and up until now failed) to forgive and will never forget.

By now, I suppose everyone got a good look at this splendiferous picture:

Take a long, quiet, hard look at it, Shire.

So organic it could kill a moth colony on the spot.

So heartfelt - she doesn't even look at him.

So sentimental - that icy smile of hers. A happy couple, indeed.

A general round of applause, all across the Nation.

You are very wrong: it is not the first time they are holding hands, I mean, sort of. The much touted London marathon pic immediately comes to mind - although you'd have to admit, I looked and looked and he seemed to be checking her pulse, rather than being lovey-dovey.

A real private couple would never stoop as low as a cheap, laborious retcon, in retaliation for a couple of thousand people speculating on a niche blogging platform.

It took four years, a month and four days after that Remarkable Week-end to see McSideburns clumsily try and claw her hand. Remarkable, indeed.

And are you trying to tell me the MC didn't shake your beliefs and this does?

This perfunctory, formulaic, scripted AF, blip?

Wow. I have no words, Anon.

That unkempt, bland person - for God's sake, mister, tuck that damn shirt in your pants! - looking like the elephant in the china shop at a carefully curated event celebrating the supreme form of French refinement?

This is insulting, to say the least. To her (and her prized image), to Chanel, to this fandom, to S and believe it or not, to himself, too. Granted, the Berluti shoes are showing some improvement and are now clean. Hmph.

So here is what I think, Anon (and I know people are going to shriek and guess what, I do not care, for once):

It's been at least one year this fandom has been asking for this specific pic and for this specific whiplash. A childish tantrum, as she is regularly throwing. Mind you, that doesn't even come close to the painfully slow, monumentally boring Flukenzie Floozy Saga and looks as staged as the Ochoa & S London sighting (ah, patterns!).

This is the reaction to our scriptwriting ineptitude.

This is also the reaction to some underground shenanigans, directly related to a birth certificate apparently being peddled around. I will not discuss this, yet know just that: this is a legal claptrap, right there. I can, and if needed I will prove it. With the cold, surgical precision Mordor is so afraid of.

But she is a mother, for Christ's sake!

A mother!

As I said, I am not a mother and never will be. I do not wish this trial on anyone. But if I know something about life, I can guarantee you a mother would do whatever it takes to protect her child(ren).

Including taking precisely this kind of sad and forgettable pic.

So, there's that. We choose and we choose now: we fall for it once more and let the playbook fiddle with our insecurities once more and post endless trails of old pics once more to soothe the searing indignation.... Or GROW THE FUCK UP and show to whom it may concern we're not buying this shit anymore.

I know what I'll do. You're on your own, Anon: my tough love took you only this far, down the road. Sorry for the length. It was needed.

For the moment, I just booked an appointment with Miss Fotoula (roughly Claire, hehe), my genius hairdresser. I will ask her to refresh my dirty blonde mane.

#anon

187 notes · View notes

lottiecrabie · 1 year

Text

rockstar girlfriend – matty healy

tired of being treated like the girlfriend and not like the rockstar, you decide to pull a very rock move in the studio

warnings: 18+, oral (male receiving), fingering, soft dom!matty, praise, bit of degradation, drug use

2696 words

The New York Times calls you ‘everyone’s favorite rockstar’s girlfriend’. Twitter fan accounts gather a curated four picture reel of your best candids and caption it ‘rockstar bf it girl gf’. E!News’ periodic articles updating the world on all your recent outings read ‘Matty Healy and his girlfriend’. (Matty Healy and his girlfriend enjoy a steamy kiss outside a club in Manchester. Matty Healy and his girlfriend spotted in New York City with Coppola Cafe to-go cups. Matty Healy and his girlfriend hold hands as they wait for the London underground.) MusicoCritics title their deep dive on you ‘Matty Healy’s girlfriend’s album is a surprising masterpiece’.

Nevermind that it’s your fourth critically acclaimed album. Nevermind that your living room shelves ⁠— clustered with flower-pressed poetry books, esoteric trinkets found in thrift stores worldwide, potted plants on the edge of death ⁠— hold multiple well-earned awards. Nevermind that you’ve been singing for fifteen years, scribbling incoherent lyrics in the corner of books for longer than that.

Nevermind that you’re a fucking rockstar yourself.

You are Matty Healy’s girlfriend; you are the appendix of a musician. Your boyfriend’s name collects apostrophes while yours dust away, forgotten under aliases, rotting from underuse.

And, well, you’re fucking pissed. An entire career, fifty-seven songs, countless of voice-killing concerts, and it pales to practical inexistence for a nine months relationship.

Not that you don’t love Matty. It’s just⁠— You want to be more, you want to be whole.

You’re in your rented studio, sitting on the dirty couch, reading countless Reddit comments asking ‘who’s Matty’s gf’ and ‘i didn’t knwo she made music lol’, fuming. You should be working on your fifth album, the idea of a ballad lingering in a corner of your brain, but you are too busy driving yourself nearly insane. Injustice grips your guts, twists up around it. You want to scream.

Matty sits beside you, lighting up a joint. His hair is unmade, falling messily around his head. Smoke pours out of his lips. “Stop reading that bullshit,” he says, not unsmartly.

Your lips purse. “I know, I know.” You groan, head falling on the back of the couch. “Fuck, I just can’t help it. This is actually fucking shitty.”

In an effort to distract you, or perhaps loosen you up, Matty passes you the joint. He has two rings, silver and chunky, and chipped nail polish. There is something incomprehensibly attractive about his hands, callused and masculine; long, dexterous fingers around waxed paper. Desire pools in your stomach. You lick your lips, looking away, taking a hit.

“You should go crazy. Be a fucking cliche rockstar just in spite.” Matty grins. “Smoke a ton, do even more drugs. Destroy your voice. Show up late. Be too drunk to play.”

You snort. “Fuck groupies.”

“I might have something to say against that.”

“Die young.”

“You’re already past 27. You’ve lost your chance.”

A smoky laugh leaves your lips. Still, you consider his words, cocking your head. An idea half-blooming somewhere in you. “I think you’re onto something.”

“What?”

“I should make a rock album,” you say. “Be super fucking obnoxious about it, too. Make all these references, interpolate all the greats.” You smirk, giving him a teasing glance.

A curl of hair falls over his forehead. His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a drag of his joint, cheeks digging it, brown eyes closing in ecstasy. He’s so fucking hot. You’d tell him if it wouldn’t go straight to his head, blow it up until he couldn’t fit through the door at all.

Cheekily, you throw a leg over his legs, straddling his lap. He welcomes you easily, a lazy hand holding onto your hip. “I’ll be the rockstar. You can be my eye candy,” you continue, fingers hungrily climbing to his shoulders.

“Is that so?” His fingers tighten, dragging you closer to him. Your hips roll over him with precision, clever hand working you at just the right angle. Your mouth parts, a strike of pleasure climbing up your spine. You stare at him through your eyelashes. He’s entirely too casual, too pleased. Cocky as he watches you, makes you rock your hips again.

“Yeah,” you nod, breathless.

You grind slowly, teasingly. As soon as you try to speed up, a powerful hand halts you. A puppet to a cruel man who smiles as you fail to get any real action going. The pace is torturous, lighting up your body until all parts of you are aware of him, of his hardening cock. You feel him most of all in the ache between your thighs, in the absence of him.

Frustratingly, your hands dig in his shoulders, clawing at the cotton. It’s unfair how little he reacts, how put-together he seems in his white button-up shirt, watching you grow desperate. Brattily, you add, “Yeah, you’re almost pretty enough.”

Matty laughs, but you can tell he’s a little peeved; overblown ego shot down with your cheeky smirk. He adventures a hand under your band tee, pinches your side, digs his nails into your back, encouraging your hips to rock faster with a rough, ruthless hand. Victory feels like a wave of toe-curling pleasure. Heat spreads under your skin, tightening your muscles. A small, self-indulgent whine leaves your mouth.

A grin breaks his face, cocky and pleased. How quickly the upper hand slips from you. Huffing, desperate to wipe it off, you crash your lips against his, swiping it away with a greedy tongue.

The kiss leaves you hungrier. Matty has always known how to coax the wanton need from you. How to leave you rocking furiously against him, hot and desperate, thoughtless except for the overwhelming need to get off. Throbbing and uncomfortably wet, a high-pitched moan slips into his mouth.

You break away to pant in his parted lips. Your hands hide in the mess of his hair, tugging at the roots, vengeful, careless. Still, Matty groans, rolling his head backwards. You smile too, just as cheeky, just as proud. He puts out the dwindling joint on your sofa, throwing it thoughtlessly in the studio. Finally free, he slips under your shirt, grabbing a handful of your breast.

You bury yourself in the side of his neck, licking and biting under his jaw. With expert fingers, you undo the buttons of his shirt until pearls of breathy, pained moans spill out of him. It sounds like a song, like the rhythm of your favorite melody. You’d bottle it up if you could, burn it on a CD to listen for later.

You sit up, spine straightening, practically ripping your mouth from him. The movement is so sudden you feel it reverberating in your head. Your hips still as thoughts spin in your soupy brain. Matty whines unhappily, hand digging in your back.

It takes five seconds. Once the idea fully forms, you look back at him with a mischievous smile. You start your rolls again, tantalizingly slow. You whisper, half to him but more to yourself, “I’ll be the rockstar, alright.”

Matty frowns. Out of breath, he says, “What?”

You don’t bother explaining. Instead, you stand up, leaving another moan to fall from his lips. Hands tumble from your shirt. Turning around to your mixing board, you hit the record button.

He’s even more confused when you come back to him, standing between his open legs. You take your time, racking two hands through your sweaty hair. Towering over him, you feel power gather around you, a heady mixture leaving you wetter than before.

You’re drunk on him, on the taste of weed and toothpaste, on the look of his thoroughly destroyed hair, of his red, swollen lips hanging onto your every possible word. His chest rises up and down in quick succession. A tempting tent in his slacks draws your eyes lower.

You ignore the throb. You ignore the need. You ignore the coil of building tension. You say, “I’m gonna make you scream.” You fall to your knees.

His legs widen, hips rising in excitement. “Fuck,” he groans just from the sight of you. Mesmerized, he watches in sacred silence as you work on his belt buckle. “Fuck, love, look at you.”

Matty’s own hand helps at his pants, ring twinkling in the low light. Finally, you manage to free his cock, hard and up, begging. You stare at it for a second, appreciating its glory. Your eyes snap back to his.

You follow every expression as it overwhelms his face when you first wrap your hand around it, allowing one slow stroke. His eyes close, his lips part, his head falls. He’s an atheist experiencing religion for the first time. He’s breathing your name, he’s worshiping it.

You smile. Your lips wrap around his tip, sucking on it. His hips jump in surprise. Matty’s eyes snap open, staring at you with a gasp. Exactly what you wanted.

“I want you to look at me,” you say, licking up his shaft. “Don’t stop looking at me.”

You could tease him. A part of you wants to, hand burning to slow down. A bigger part of you wants to ruin him.

You swallow him down. Matty’s breath comes out in heaving puffs amidst the scattered moans. You feel his thighs flex under your hands; his open shirt reveals a taut, tattooed stomach, muscles rippling with ecstasy.

You bob up and down, an electric pace that has you swallowing back a gag. Whatever you can’t fit, you stroke with deft fingers, twisting your wrist just like he likes. Feeling particularly devilish, you moan around his length just to hear him mutter a pained, “Shit.” His hips rise, but you push him back pointedly. Payback is salty and lingers on your tongue.

Feeling yourself choking, you release him, spitting on his dick to lube it up. Matty thrusts up in your hand, eyes rolling back until he remembers your order.

You lick at his tip, swirling your tongue around it, before taking him back in your slick and swollen lips. “You’re so pretty,” Matty says, voice hoarse. “Fuck, you were made for this, weren’t you?” You moan in agreement. “Yeah, that’s right. Made to be drooling on your knees for me.”

Perhaps embarrassingly, you feel a pool of arousal gather in your stomach from his words. Your thighs clench, hips rolling against nothing in hope of relieving that burning ache between them. Your clit feels criminally ignored.

Matty’s hands fly to your hair, racking through the mess he’s made of it. “Show me your tits,” he orders. Your eyebrows shoot up, but he’s only peering down at you with challenge.

Releasing him with a bop, saliva stringing from your lip to his dick, you take your shirt off. You can’t bother to unhook your bra, lowering the cups down and grabbing one of your nipples with your free hand. You pinch meanly, just like he would, and the pleasure spreading through you feels heavenly. A broken groan leaves your lips. “That’s it,” he breathes. “What a good girl, giving me a show.”

You whine. You can feel the control slipping from your hands with every ticking second, but your thighs are so sticky, your clit so swollen, your climax so far.

He gathers a handful of your hair, bringing you to his dick. Your head stings, but you welcome him back with an open mouth. This time, you do none of the work, letting him thrust himself in your throat. Your eyes water as he goes deeper.

“Shhh,” he sighs as tears stain your cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re doing so good, baby.” You nod, coaxing a desperate groan out of him. “What a good, little slut. Taking my dick so well.” Again, you nod, mouth full. Your hips shift, moving left and right uncomfortably. You can’t seem to get any real friction going, but you feel your insides throb against nothing.

“Poor baby,” Matty coos. “You want to come too?” Needy screams muffled by his cock. Matty sneaks his booted foot between your thighs, pressing so deliciously against your clit you cry out. “There you go, baby. Grind.”

And so you do, furiously rocking against his boot. Your hand not busy playing with your nipples wraps around his leg, gripping his calf. The pleasure is so pure your eyes roll back in your skull.

“Eyes on me,” Matty’s rough voice rings through the room. You open your eyes, locking with his darkened ones. “That’s right. I want you to look at me.” His face breaks with a victorious grin. Payback probably tastes like sweat and sweet moans to him.

You can feel both of you grow frantic. Matty bucks into you with a merciless, frenzied pace. His hold onto your head is ruthless; his fingers dig into your scalp, but you only scream more. Your hips follow his rhythm, each leather drag over your cunt making sweet euphoria grip your stomach.

“Gonna come for me?” He thrusts with abandon, practically choking you. Tension builds in your core, pussy clenching. “Gonna come all over my boot?” Bold words coming from a man just on the edge of an orgasm.

To prove your point, you hollow your cheeks, watching with glee as cries break out of his throat, eyes scrunching tight, cum spilling out of him. You suck on his tip indulgently as he comes in your mouth, cock still pulsing while strings of incoherent promises fall out of him. He strokes your hair tenderly as he slowly comes to himself.

Matty cracks an eye open. He falls out of your mouth and you swallow his seed, watching him as you promised as you lick your lips. Another rough moan leaves him, half stitled by a chuckle. Ringed finger swipes your chin, gathering a forgotten rope of cum he shoves back in your mouth. You suck on it.

He seems to realize then you still haven’t come. Face grimacing in shame, he grabs you by the armpits, putting you back in his lap. “Poor baby. You’re so close, aren’t you?”

“Please,” you whine.

Matty pouts, nodding indulgently. “It’s okay. I got you.”

He sneaks two fingers in your pants. You should be ashamed by the amount of wetness; sticking thighs greeting him home. You’re too gone for that, of course, just sighing happily as he rubs tight circles on your clit.

Your head falls on his shoulder. “I know,” he says, imitating your spineless whine, thrusting two fingers inside of you. You’re so wet there’s not even any resistance, cunt opening to let him in easily.

His thumb continues his drawings on your bundle of nerves. He fucks his fingers into you, rapid and wild. You’re close again before you have time finishing a coherent thought, moaning in his open mouth.

“Right there,” Matty encourages. “Come for me.”

Your body shudders as you scream. You finally lose the tyrannical strings holding your body together. Euphoria spreads to each limb, making your head fall back as the edges of the world blur around you. Tension leaves your body in wiping waves. You flutter around his fingers, clenching and unclenching as you cry out his name.

It takes you a few moments to come back to Earth. Matty takes his fingers out of you, wiping the wetness on the couch. You slap at his shoulders, but he simply laughs. “I love you,” he whispers in your hair, bending down to kiss you.

When you finally regain control of your legs, you stand up to reach your mixing board. Hitting pause, and then play, Matty’s needy groans fill the studio. You throw him a look over your shoulder, but not even a pornographic recording of him could make Matty Healy blush.

And, maybe your fifth album features a song named Blow You. Maybe deep, masculine sounds of pleasure accompany the chorus ⁠— just out of reach enough for people to be incapable of pinning it down. Maybe countless news outlets try to figure out, articles upon articles attempting to elucidate if it really is your boyfriend, Matty Healy, moaning on the track. Maybe they call you by your name. Maybe they even call you a genderbending, masterful, classic rockstar.

#matty healy #matty healy smut #matty healy imagine #the 1975 #the 1975 smut #matty healy x reader #smut #writing #filthy filth #i'm sorry lol #rockstar girlfriend

1K notes · View notes

224bbaker · 23 days

Text

Fawx & Stallion Crowdfund: What is this season, even?

Great question, detective! I also want to know what I'm investing in before I make the decision one way or the other--James Stallion would be impressed!

Season one followed Hampton, James, and Madge in 1889, as they solved The Case of the Crimeria Jewels over the course of 9 episodes and one long weekend (while Holmes and Watson were away working on some case about a dog in Dartmoor). Season two will be a brand new, ten episode, full-cast mystery and, in the great tradition of sequels everywhere, operates on a bit larger of a scale.

We'll pick up two years later in:

LONDON, 1891! At the press night of London’s first amusement park, and James’s newest investment venture, a ghastly murder is committed, and its intended target appears to be one of the illustrious residents of 221B. The only problem being, he’s since disappeared, leaving only the residents of 224B to solve the case… and this time, every eye in London has turned to them…

Does it seem like we may be leaving a few things out in that description? Misleading you a tiny bit? Drawing out tension for a better listening experience when the season arrives? How dare you, we would never! But also: trust us. And also: fuck it, more teases under the cut.

An increased scope! This season is far more ambitious than the first, in terms of the scale of the narrative and the extent to which we are widening out the world of the show. Which means…

New characters! They’re coming, whether you like it or not! We can’t wait for you to meet this illustrious lineup of new suspects, clients, and informants with very serious names like Lucius Peppermint, Dr. Iphegenia Brown, Desmond Highbottom, Farnsworth Truckle, Chauncy Grace, Joey Biscotti, and Fitzy. But that’s not all…

New settings! Did you catch that theme park mention in the season tease? Yeah, it’s a thing! One of this season’s settings is a full-scale, themed Victorian amusement park that we cannot tell you any more about other than the fact that it is the single silliest thing we’ve ever put (virtually) to paper and now hopefully into your ears. Speaking of other things we can’t wait to bring to you…

Holmes and Watson! That’s right, they’re in the public domain, which means they’re actually in this season! Listeners may remember them from our surprise minisode, The Case of the Well-Earned Holiday, but since they’re back in town (and right across the street) they’ll be pretty hard to ignore. Much like…

Puns! I cannot spoil any of these but rest assured they are plentiful and they are glorious. Also like…

More Set Pieces! The first season had an underground fight club that opened up into a lava pit. Just imagine what our incredible sound design team is going to bring to life this time! And speaking of “bringing to life…”

A murder this time! We’ve been reliably informed that a great way to raise the stakes from a season one jewel heist is to center this season around a murder case so… Yeah! We do, in fact, kill a (fictional) guy this time! It rocks*! (*narratively, not ethically, the Fawx & Stallion team in no way endorses murder as fun or cool unless it is very silly and fictional and did we mention deeply silly)

(Also there are some clues in that crowdfund picture but you didn't hear it from us)

#fawx & stallion #224bbaker #audio drama #fiction podcast #for ambrosius #crowdfund #s2

33 notes · View notes

ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 22 hours

Text

"Time & the Trickster"

a Loki/Doctor Who crossover

Epilogue: Goddess of Stories

Time goes by...

CHAPTER WARNING (18+): none, other than I cried again

Previous Chapter

MASTERLIST

The Doctor sniffed the air as he stepped out of the smoking TARDIS. He reached into his pocket and felt the Sonic Screwdriver inside. Taking it out, he pressed a button, grinning when it lit up and proved that it was fully-functional again.

The environment smelled deliciously familiar. London. His native timeline. Approximately…2007 AD?

Looking down at the rubbish-covered sidewalk in front of the alley where the TARDIS landed, The Doctor smiled and picked up a dirty, wet flier that simply read ‘Vote Saxon.’

“I’m back!” he said with a grin. He opened his mouth and breathed in to taste the air around him. “And…hmm…what’s that?”

Beyond the alley, a bit further on, a large skyscraper seemingly brand-new to the London horizon stood, a large sign in the front reading ‘Adipose Industries.”

“Adipose, eh? Now, that’s a bit curious, isn’t it? What are they doing here?” he said aloud to himself, the name triggering The Doctor’s immediate interest. He walked across the street for a closer look. Something strange was brewing here, he could feel it, perhaps something dangerous or even deadly.

And he wouldn’t miss it for anything.

“You heading out, Sis?” Joey called out from the sofa, his head leaning back against the cushions.

You were dressed in a lovely black cocktail dress, hair tossed expertly into a messy bun. The high heels you’d gotten proved to be a bit too much, but you knew you had to make the right impression at this dinner meeting.

“Yeah, don’t wait up,” you replied. “If it goes well, they’ll sign me, and we’ll get a round of congratulatory drinks.”

You sucked in your breath, observing yourself one last time in the long mirror mounted in the doorway of your small-but-cozy house in the northern suburb, purchased with the sale of your first book last year. The novel you’d written about a lonely woman saving the world by returning a god to the stars was an underground hit when you’d first independently published it, and after six months and two reprints to meet demand, Random House was on the verge of signing a three-book deal with you, estimated to be worth at least a million once you chose and signed with the agent you were meeting tonight.

It was your birthday, three years to the night that you’d rescued Loki from a holding cell downtown. The date for this life-changing moment seemed almost preordained.

“You got this,” called Joey half-heartedly. You knew he meant it, but he was already four beers into his night off, and he could only muster so much emotion without exhausting himself. His new bartending job was on a college campus, and he was still adjusting to the busy weekends of ungrateful 20-year-olds demanding to be served.

Neither of you seemed to want to rush into relationships. Joey had never been the type for long-term entanglements of any sort, and the fallout of your whirlwind romance with the God of Stories had left most other prospects lacking. You’d dated in the years since that adventurous summer, but no one stuck in your heart the way Loki had.

You hoped he hadn’t ruined you. Only time would tell.

Your taxi was late, but seeing as it was a beautiful, rain-free spring evening, it was a pleasure to wait under the setting sun for it. It didn’t hurt that you didn’t live in the city anymore. The air smelled better, the ambience was less-frantic, and best of all: you could see the sky at night, which was what you’d told Joey was the most important factor when you decided to continue cohabitation and look for a new place. You could still see the city from your front yard, especially at night when it was all aglow, but the light pollution didn’t extend far enough to obscure the stars.

Almost every night that wasn’t overcast, you spent hours sitting on the low roof over the front door, watching for any sign that what you’d been through, the things you’d seen, and the feelings you’d experienced had all been real. Joey had always been able to assure you that your journey across the sea to restore Loki to his terrible throne had been real.

To keep those feelings close to your memories, you wrote them down and gave them to your brother to read.

“Damn,” he had said after reading your first draft, “you should get these in print…maybe change the names a bit so Disney doesn’t bean you with a lawsuit…”

Taking his suggestion to mind, you adjusted a few factors: turning Loki and The Doctor specifically into original characters who just HAPPENED to share a lot in common with their counterparts. After two furious rewrites, you had a worthy tale that caught a lot of attention. Several books about “The Great Greening” (which scientists had explained away as a climate change phenomenon) had preceded yours, but none read as intimately as what you had to offer. Admittedly, you’d played up the romance and added a bit of wishful thinking (having included an alternate ending to the book where Loki came back for you and Sylvie was tied to the throne forever). It was the sincere passion behind your words that attracted fans.

The final signing was taking place over dinner at the Blue Palm downtown, the only place in Syracuse fancy enough to serve escargot.

You closed your eyes as you stood in your driveway, waiting for your cab (perhaps a car would be your next extravagant purchase). You gently whispered one word into the night:

Loki.

Opening your eyes, you were just in time to see a green streak line the sky before disappearing over the tree line. You went warm inside. Someone was thinking of you and loving you tonight.

“I love you too,” you sighed with a smile. “Forever.”

You knew you would never see him again, yet every time you felt the anxiety rise in your blood, you told yourself one thing: you were in Loki’s caring hands, even if from ‘somewhere out there.’ As long as you could see that green flash in the night, you knew he was real, and that he was watching.

Conscious of a large yellow cab pulling up around the corner, you took in one more brave breath, and rode off toward your future.

Always watching. For eternity. A Time Lord of his own ordination.

All Loki could do was remain tethered to the golden throne, all of time between his fingers, the most powerful creature to ever exist, and also the most powerless. His only consolation was the ability to see within them, like a spectator watching you move on without him.

He could see Mobius play with his sons. He could see The Doctor jetting around history with his ginger-haired best friend. He could see Joey finally become manager at his job. He could see you on your book tour, smiling for cameras and earning enough money to guarantee your security. It seemed you were becoming quite a goddess of stories.

All of you were getting on with your lives in various ways, as it should have been.

Now, he was watching with quiet pride as you accepted the proposal of the good-looking, warm-hearted man you’d met the night you’d signed your first book deal, who'd started off as your agent before you both found your feelings for one another morphing into something more. Loki sent out a green falling star to celebrate your engagement, and to give his blessing to your match.

A tear pricked the corner of his eye. You made all of it worthwhile. It was an honor keeping you alive.

“For you,” he repeated one final time, “For all of us."

Thank you for going on this journey with me. I hope it was worth the trip! ~. Lena

@crashingwavesofeuphoria @kkdvkyya @red-shirt-mania @misschris1412 @salvinaa @marygoddessofmischief @spiderstyles04 @fireflymoonwitch @mochie85 @loz-3 @lcolumbia1988 @lokilurker @eleniblue @gruftiela @starkzdaughter @mrsbarnes-avenger @thedistractedagglomeration @km-ffluv @lokisgoodgirl @holdmytesseract @itsthattimedarling @wolfsmom1 @scully2u @shinisenko @mischief2sarawr @ririsutty73 @lulubelle814 @meg81589 @gloriuspurposeposts @theonetruepotato87 @linllewellyn @wistfulclueless @etherealkistar @tinydancer40 @hardtravelerwizard-blog @fangirlofmanysstuff @krabog @soulpiercing @archivelaurarps @banjo-bastard

26 notes · View notes

writeyouin · 1 year

Note

Can we have some fluff and angst with V x reader cause the reader is on her period and V never being around women much has no idea how to handle all the anger, food cravings, sadness and horniness 😂😂😂

V X Reader – Prepared For Anything

A/N – I was gonna make this a fem reader, but then I remembered there are other peeps with uterus’ and that’s cool too, so this is completely gender-neutral. Happy Bonfire Night. Also, just in time before the night is over.

Warnings – Slight NSFW

Rating – T

Throughout his life, or at least what little he could remember of it, V had accomplished a great deal. He had survived Larkhill. He had caused the explosion that had allowed his escape, working meticulously for months to coerce Doctor Delia Sturridge to give him everything he needed to do so. He had singlehandedly dug out the collapsed tunnels of the London Underground to create a base of operations. He had robbed, pilfered, and burgled everything that he could from Sutler and his so-called government, always stealthy and vigilant against anyone who might try to stop him.

One thing he hadn’t done was spend time around someone on their menstrual cycle… Until now.

There was a time that V had thought himself prepared for anything, but this was something else. It had started just a few days prior when you as his protégé had gone alone on a mission to rob a supply train heading straight to parliament. Normally, V didn’t mind where you went or what you did, respecting you as a fellow anarchist, but you had acted recklessly, and that was something he couldn’t have.

V was chaotic, but he was an organised chaos, like a storm in a teacup, waiting for the perfect moment to be unleashed unto an unsuspecting attendee of his tea party. Everything was timed perfectly. Normally, you respected that. Yet, only a few days ago, you made an unplanned attack that you weren’t wholly prepared for and although you weren’t caught, you had failed to exit the train properly and had come back crying with a dislocated shoulder.

After V had set your shoulder back into place and you had settled down, he had asked you why you had gone through with the robbery without planning it carefully. It was with a sheepish expression that you admitted that you just needed some things; things that V didn’t have. He pressed you further, and you had snapped at him, yelling that he didn’t get to know everything about you, and then you had started crying, frustrated that you couldn’t properly articulate what you meant before stomping away like a moody teenager.

To say V was surprised was an understatement, but he didn’t think much of it past the fact that perhaps you weren’t like him. There weren’t many humans who could survive the isolation of the Shadow Gallery without going mad, missing out on a regular life offered in the world above.

Later, V decided to see if you were okay. He found you in the kitchen hurriedly scarfing down chocolate at an ungodly rate. Although he was curious by the unusual breach of etiquette, V knew that was a battle that he didn’t wish to engage in, and so he backed away slowly, unnoticed by you.

Recklessness. Raging emotions. Intense cravings. If V didn’t know any better, he would have guessed that you were pregnant, but that wasn’t possible. Although he didn’t monitor your comings and goings from the Shadow Gallery, he knew that you hadn’t been fraternising with anyone; or at least he hoped you hadn’t. It wasn’t that he had any claim over you, but lately there had been stirrings of feelings in his chest; feelings that weren’t anger and hatred.

Shaking his head, V decided that whatever was going on with you would likely wear off or you would open-up to him about your feelings when you were ready.

Later that night, he opted to read Don Quixote, finding the titular character endearing on his quest to restore chivalry, though less relatable than he would have liked, seeing as V was anything but a hero. He was an anarchist full of hatred, wishing to free the people from their oppressors. V regularly thought himself to be a necessary monster masquerading as a man. However, one similarity between him and everyone else was that he too needed rest, and as he read further on, tiredness overcame him and he fell asleep on the small settee, the book resting on his chest.

Having been traversing the Shadow Gallery restlessly, the pain in your back and stomach easing for the first time in three days, you stumbled upon V, finding him in an unusually vulnerable position. You stalked over to him, drawn like a moth to a flame. He looked beautiful.

You knelt down on the floor next to him, taking your time to admire the scene. At any other time, you might have found it romantic, but now, you wanted more. How would it feel to be pinned under him? You could wear a mask so as not to risk seeing what he so carefully hid. It would be worth it to have him do as he pleased with you, using you for his needs until you were both exhausted and-

“(Y/N)?” V stated your name, apparently startled.

It was such a difference from his normally self-assured tone that you were certain that he saw exactly what you were thinking in your eyes; the windows to the soul always gave away secrets to those astute enough to decipher their messages.

Well, so be it. In for a penny, in for a pound, You thought haphazardly, before voicing a question you might never have asked under normal circumstances, though any circumstance concerning V was far from normal anyway.

“V, Do you want me the same way that I want you?”

V’s breath seemed to catch in his throat. He cleared it and sat up, staring at you through his grinning Guy Fawkes mask. “(Y/N), please tell me… What has changed between us of late?”

“Hormones.” You laughed drily, the only one to find the joke funny.

V nodded, taking your answer at face value.

“I see,” He said after a minute.

Then he stood up, finding that there was much to think about now that you had raised such a serious question, over something as simple and mundane as your monthly cycle. Ever reasonable, V opted to let you decipher your emotions once your hormones no longer had such a chokehold over you.

“Then please, if you feel the same in a week, ask me again then. I am certain that your feelings might have changed by then, and if they haven’t…” He paused ominously, walking to the door as he did so. “We may discuss the matter properly.” After that, he was gone, leaving the Shadow Gallery for the free space on the roof. While he was alone in the rain, worried about what an attachment to you could mean, you were alone in his library, feeling foolish and crying, before your more primal needs took over and you were merely hungry and frustrated once again.

Periods really were a bitch.

Like My Work? Buy Me A Ko-Fi @ https://ko-fi.com/writeyouin or Tip Me on Tumblr

#v #v for vendetta #v x reader #v for vendetta x reader #reader #reader insert #fanfiction #fanfic #prepared for anything

511 notes · View notes

lamarseillasie · 3 months

Text

Marat et Le Junius Français

I know it's been a while since I've done a post like this one, but that doesn't mean I've lost interest in writing about little-known anecdotes and adventures of Marat! One of them is the brief and chaotic existence of Le Junius Français, one of Marat's lesser-known newspapers, which he created and published during the month of June 1790.

The probable reason why hardly anyone knows that Junius Français existed (the only Marat historian I've ever seen mention it was Olivier Coquard in his Jean-Paul Marat, une lumière en Révolution : biographie d'un homme des Lumières devenu l'Ami du peuple) is that it only had 13 issues in total. Its publication was somewhat turbulent, lasting only three weeks, for obvious reasons. But it is still, in all its context, a very interesting and surprising periodical.

The creation of the short-lived newspaper comes at a complicated and somewhat hectic time for Marat, who had just returned from London in May and was keen to resume publication of L'Ami du Peuple and join the patriotic press. As usual, Marat had to remain underground, as he continued to be the target of legal proceedings and arrest warrants and the publication of L'Ami du Peuple was, unsurprisingly, banned by the authorities. In addition, there was also a constant fight against forgers - the fake Marat, plagiarists who published newspapers and pamphlets under his name, which may also confirm the influence and popularity he had gained at the time. These forgeries of L'Ami du Peuple began to appear in large numbers from 1790 onwards, and Marat made an effort to defend himself against them as soon as he returned to Paris. Not only him, but the Revolution in general was going through a turbulent situation. There had been conflicts involving bakers and grain, the question of war and federations, as well as other external crises that concerned France.

It was against this backdrop of accusations against conspirators, clandestinity and arrest warrants that Marat created Le Junius Français, a second newspaper, which was published for the first time on June 2, 1790. During its publication, Le Junius Français coexisted with L'Ami du Peuple, and both periodicals were published (almost) every day until the end of the first, in its 13th issue, on June 24.

On the structural aspects of the newspaper, Professor Coquard, already cited above as the main basis of this post, comments in Marat, L'Ami du Peuple [p.243]:

This second newspaper presents itself exactly like L'Ami du Peuple: an eight-page in-oitavo printed on poor quality paper that comes out of the workshops of "Guilhemat et Arnulphe, printers of Liberty, at 23 rue Serpent" and is distributed - door to door only - "every morning at number three rue Contrescarpe-Dauphine". Junius seems to focus more specifically on articles of denunciation, while L'Ami du Peuple is probably looking for more general political analysis. However, the two sheets are quite similar.

The name chosen by Marat for the newspaper, "Le Junius Français", also intrigued me. I found in this note apparently (?) written by G. Eljorf through Le gazetier révolutionnaire, a catalog of periodicals of the time, an explanation that seemed to me quite plausible and accurate about the title:

Lucius Junius Brutus and Marcus Junius Brutus are two figures from Roman history engaged in the struggle against tyranny, that of Tarquin and that of Caesar respectively. The pseudonym Junius had been used by an anonymous English pamphleteer around 1770 in a series of letters critical of the government of George III (Junius Letters).

We can speculate on various reasons why Marat might have created the newspaper in such a complex period. Perhaps it was one of his skillful political strategies to amplify his attacks on his enemies at a time of difficulty, but it could also have been the start of a newspaper that Marat actually planned to maintain, so that he could give L'Ami du Peuple another direction. The intentions and objectives of Junius Français, at least, are clearly explained on page 8 of the first issue:

This journal is particularly intended to follow the deaf maneuvers of the revolution's enemies, to reveal their relations with foreign cabinets, to vent the plots of traitors to the Fatherland, to serve as a cry of alarm, to disconcert their dark schemes.

The history of its sessions will be followed by reflections adapted to the subject, portraits of the authors of the most important motions, of the ministers and of the most remarkable figures in the history of the revolution. Finally, it will report on new events likely to pique public curiosity.

In fact, at least in the first issue - which I analyzed more meticulously than the others - he does what he says. He first scolds the Parisians, in the same fraternal and unmistakable style as L'Ami du Peuple, and then recounts the May 31 session of the National Assembly, where a case of conflict between the grenadiers of the Royal Navy regiment was discussed in which a group of patriots had been brutally mistreated. He speaks briefly about the decisions concerning the civil organization of the clergy and denounces the Dutch. He constantly maintains the spirit of denunciation, calling on the people to take revenge. Although his name only appears in 4th issue, it's not hard to spot Marat's pen in every word.

Marat unfortunately didn't manage to keep publishing Junius Français for long. Certainly, the newspaper ceased publication at the end of June for a number of reasons, and among them there is no doubt that Marat must have been overwhelmed with writing and managing the printing and correspondence for two revolutionary periodicals at once. Expenses, lack of time and problems involving the printers of both Junius and L'Ami du Peuple must have contributed to the sudden demise of this newspaper.

I found it interesting to bring up Junius Français because, as well as being one of Marat's most unknown and neglected works, it is also one of his writings that impresses me the most, since he managed to keep both newspapers going at the same time in a chaotic context in which he had to hide from the police, manage the publication of other of his works, solve plagiarism problems and at the same time pay attention to the political situation in France, which was becoming increasingly tense. His commitment, his incessant dedication to producing even in the most difficult and theoretically impossible times is always fascinating, to say the least, and Junius Français is an example of how Marat's revolutionary activity was frenetic and tireless even underground and under threat from the government. His attempt to maintain the two newspapers, despite failing, went beyond Marat's own limits and was, in a way, a good propaganda tool against his political enemies.

#marat #le junius français #marat anedoctes #jean paul marat #frev #french revolution #my posts #btw i swear i'm working on the next le docteur marat post!#i'm moving at the moment and i'm not as persevering as marat so it's been a bit difficult to write 😆#i'm also preparing a list of the addresses where he took refuge in his escapes from the police during the revolution!

30 notes · View notes

lostfunzones · 17 days

Text

London, the sale of the "underground" press, 1970 ph. Fausto Giaccone

22 notes · View notes

moondirti · 24 days

Text

sorry, this was born out of a need to indulge myself featuring: gaz, ballerina!reader, stalking, intrusive thoughts, delusion, mentioned SA and kidnapping

Kyle first spots you on the Piccadilly line in London's underground.

He's usually wary of public transport – would really rather walk the hour from Knightsbridge to Hammersmith than risk the inevitable unsavoury interaction bound to happen in an overcrowded tube – but it was late at night, he'd just spent his day sitting in a hotel lobby gathering intel for Price, and the idea of ducking down narrow streets in the blistering cold was the last thing he wanted coming to fruition. That's how he ended up in a (thankfully empty) train car anyway; hoodie up and hands stuffed deep into his pockets, thumb brushing over the handle of a switchblade.

He's focused on the shady character stretched across three seats adjacent to him when you happen to prance in. Perhaps prance isn't that accurate an account either, but it's hard to attribute much else to you when you're dressed like a character from one of his sister's childhood storybooks. Angelina ballerina, or something of the sorts – mismatched leg warmers, knitted bolero sleeving a black camisole, basketball shorts over nude-coloured tights, and dance booties that look like little puffer coats for your feet.

The duffel bag slung over your shoulder concerns him briefly – it's hard to look at carryalls the same after serving the military, he finds – but the tired look on your face pacifies any suspicions he might have of your intentions. Wouldn't be wise to execute an offensive when one of your operatives is weary, especially given they're the only agent in sight. Regardless, he's hit with a distinct trepidation that takes a while to name.

You slide past the figure he'd been observing early, hop over Kyle's boots as well, fingers clasped over your behind as if to protect yourself from any wandering hands. The feeling rippling in his chest worsens, yet it's only as you slot yourself onto a far-away seat is he able to recognise it.

You shouldn't be here this late. This isn't the place for you.

With your hair neatly pulled away from your face, he's given full reign to ogle at your darling features. Round cheeks. Hydrated lips. Pretty thing. His molars grind against each other. There are no doubt men on this train that'd want to take advantage of that. Press your mouth open with a thumb on your tongue, rub themselves raw just to see cum decorate your lashes and drip over your brow. Barrack talk, the type of shit he hears floating between his comrades-in-arms when missions drag a little too long. Perversion brought on by desperation.

The intercom dings, and the lady with the soothing voice announces their arrival to Hammersmith. His stop, yet the thought of getting off and abandoning you is enough to keep him stuck to his seat. His stomach upturns as possibilities occur to him like frames in a technicolor film; none pleasant, all ending with you tied up in the trunk of some random van. Some part of him recognises his paranoia, the ridiculousness in his attachment to a perfect stranger (which chides him in a voice eerily similar to Price's, all gruff vowels and whispered consonants), but it does not change the fact that when the doors open to his station, he does not move.

Yeah. He stays on so long as you do – which fortunately is not an extensive length of time. You collect your stuff one stop later, standing to wait at the door once the lady announces Acton Town. He doesn't get up until you're a few seconds out though, slipping through the closing panels of the entryway to follow a few paces behind your heel. Up the escalator and down the block.

The night air nips at his nose, chilling his knuckles so they creak if he curls them. Are your nipples knotted under your layers? Or would they need the help of his fingers to perk up? His throat stiffens. He shakes the thought from his head.

You make a turn. Kyle stops for a second, breathes in, before veering left behind you. Heading towards the west part of town, now. It's a good place to live, all things considered. Still, he wonders if you deadbolt your doors, if you keep yourself safe online. You seem smart, but there are people who won't rest until they get their way. People like the one's he deals with at work – amoral men with biceps that could crush your head. Rotten, horrible men who are only rotten and horrible to cope with the tasks assigned to them. Depraved enemies, depraved friends. Only difference between the two being which flag they fight for.

You throw a look over your shoulder, shoulders shrinking as you wrap your arms tighter across your chest. He looks around, seeking the threat you seem to be so put off by. Nothing but brick-and-mortar storefronts and flattened cigarette butts.

He's compelled by the urge to shush you, to scratch your back as he tells you that there's no need to worry. He'll walk you all the way home. Make sure you get nice and situated, listen for the tell-tale lock of your deadbolt, watch for the dimming of your light. He'll stay until you fall asleep, then walk back to where he came from, take the returning line to Hammersmith – so when he flops back down into his own bed, he'll be reassured by the knowledge that you're safe a mere 4 miles away.

Might take a shower before then, though. Your arse looks great when you're speed-walking like this, pronounced even behind the loose material of your basketball shorts. He hopes the image remains as vivid when he's attending to the heavy mass between his legs later.

Kyle halts right in his tracks.

What is he doing?

You're nearly running now, shrinking away from him at an exponential rate, and duck another corner when you look back to see that he's no longer in pursuit. Completely out of sight.

His Captain’s voice comes to life once more, echoing in the part of his brain he has yet to compartmentalise.

You draw the line wherever you need it, Sergeant.

#unedited and probably bad #tbh this is a character study poorly disguised as a fic #lmk if yall want a part 2 tho #kyle 'gaz' garrick x reader #gaz x reader #kyle 'gaz' garrick #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #gaz #x reader #x afab reader #call of duty #cod

661 notes · View notes

smilingformoney · 4 months

Text

Sharing Part III | Lionel/Reader/Eli

These two have taken over my brain send help

Now with surprise appearance from Sinclair and Betty!

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

Apparently luck was on Lionel’s side, because a month or so later - during which time your flirting hadn’t ceased one bit - you were on your way to London.

It wasn’t for the best of reasons - you discovered on Thursday night that your uncle back in England had died and the funeral was on Monday, so you were very suddenly trying to book flights and accommodation at the last minute.

You: Urgent. Cheapest way to get last-minute tickets to London?

Lionel: Are you that desperate for me?

You: Family stuff. Any tips?

Lionel: When do you need to leave?

You: ASAP. Family thing is on Monday.

Lionel: I’ll sort it. Hold tight.

You: My hero ❤️

Less than twelve hours later, you were at the airport with a boarding pass Lionel had emailed to you. He had apologised profusely that you were flying commercial - apparently he had a private jet, because of course he did - but at the very least he’d managed to secure you a business class ticket.

Business class was fancy. You were generously paid by your university - far more than a literature professor should, even if you had a doctorate - but things like flight class upgrades were luxuries you’d never seen the value in.

But you might just change your mind on that. There was no way you could go back to being packed into economy like sardines now that you’d experienced the luxury of business class.

You were almost disappointed when the plane landed in London and you had to get off, but at least your dual nationality meant you could get through immigration quickly with your British passport. Lionel had told you to expect a driver to be waiting, so when you saw a man holding a sign bearing your name, you introduced yourself to him and let him take your bags to the car.

Even the car was a luxury. Lionel had really gone all out for you - but, then again, the man was filthy stinking rich. This was probably the minimum standard for him.

The driver pulled into the underground car park for a fancy-looking building, which you presumed to be your hotel, which was no doubt also very fancy and far too expensive.

He took you and your bags to a lift within the car park and handed you a key, telling you to use it to take you straight to number 69.

You wondered if Lionel had picked that room number intentionally. Probably.

The lift ascended, and you felt extremely out of place. Even the damn lift was fancy! And here you were in your baggy, worn out flying clothes. If anyone saw you, they’d probably think you’d snuck in and try to kick you out.

The lift finally reached its destination and you stepped out directly into the room, which could only be described as an entire apartment. What sort of fancy hotel had direct lift access to the rooms?

Your question was answered when you turned your head and saw the artwork on the wall.

It wasn’t a hotel room at all. It was Lionel’s penthouse.

“Fucking bastard, Lionel,” you muttered under your breath.

“Is that any way to address your host?”

Sure enough, Lionel was descending the stairs, an animal-print robe wrapped loosely around his torso, leaving just enough of a gap that you could see his chest hair poking out.

You’d sworn you’d wait at least to say hello before you jumped him, but… fuck it. You met him at the bottom of the stairs and your lips were on his instantly.

You felt him smiling into the kiss as his arms snaked around your back, one hand cupping your arse. He pushed against you lightly, and you were like putty in his hands, immediately falling back against the wall, allowing him to trap your body against his.

“I hope you don’t mind if I don’t wine and dine you first,” he growled in your ear as your kisses moved up his jawline. “I’ve been waiting far too long to have you.”

“God, no, fuck that. Take me out later. Right now I just need you to take me.”

You could feel his erection pressing up against you, his robe threatening to come apart, and of fucking course he wasn’t wearing any underpants. You grabbed clumsily against his chest as you tried to open his robe, and Lionel chuckled.

“Not here, love. I have quite a comfortable bed I think you’d much prefer over the wall.”

“We could be behind the fucking bins at Taco Bell, I wouldn’t care. I just - just fucking need you, Lionel - fuck, please —“ You muttered your pleas between kisses on his neck, and Lionel moaned when your teeth grazed his skin.

“Ohh, yes, I’ll take you, [Y/n]. You won’t ever want to leave London again - you won’t want to leave my bed again. You’ve entered the lion’s den now, love. Prepare to be… devoured.”

He pulled away from you slightly, causing you to gasp in surprise at the sudden absence of his skin against your lips, and he gestured for you to lead up the stairs.

“Looking for a view of my ass?” you teased.

He smacked your left cheek for that.

“If I want to see your arse, I know you’ll show me. I don’t need to trick you. Here - this room on the left.”

“How many bedrooms do you have?”

“Only five.”

Only?

You always thought your apartment was a bit big for one person. Lionel was one person too, and yet the master bedroom he was leading you into was bigger than your entire apartment.

You’d be disgusted at the obscene wealth if you weren’t so horny.

You were still gaping at the size of the bedroom when Lionel wrapped his arms around you from behind, and you felt his erection pressing into your ass. He slipped one hand into your pants and you gasped at the sudden intrusion as he cupped your pussy with his large hand.

“I’m going to fuck you until you forget how to walk,” he growled in your ear seductively.

“Please,” you begged, throwing your head back onto his shoulder as his fingers began teasing at your folds. His other hand slipped under your t-shirt and grabbed at your breast, causing you to gasp when he squeezed your nipple.

“Gah - fuck - please, Lionel - please fuck me, please, please, please —“

He smirked as he placed a kiss to your jaw.

“Do you not need foreplay? Or is my lioness hungry already?”

“We’ve had months of foreplay, Lionel. I’m done waiting.”

“Mmm… I suppose you’re right. Get naked and get on the bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

You almost stumbled over your own feet to get to the bed and undress at the same time, and Lionel just laughed.

“I knew you’d be eager. That’s why I didn’t bother getting dressed.”

He dropped his robe, and just as you’d suspected, he was stark naked underneath.

“Where are your condoms?” you asked.

“In the drawer.”

You reached over into his bedside cabinet, and stifled a giggle when you saw his box of condoms was right next to a copy of the Karma Sutra.

“There are a lot of fun positions in there we can try,” Lionel said when he saw you looking. He took the condom from you and began to roll it down his shaft. You watched his movements, practically drooling at his cock. “But we’ll experiment later. For now, I want to see your face as I fuck you for the first time.”

Lionel climbed on top of you and kissed you, hard and passionate, as if the only air he could breathe was that from your lungs. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, clinging onto him desperately, your hips bucking up towards him in a desperate plea.

He unstuck his face from yours, both of you panting for air, and Lionel looked at you with a surprising amount of tenderness.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and with a swift thrust he slipped inside you.

You both groaned in relief, months of sexual tension finally paying off. He fit perfectly - just the right amount of stretch, and when he bottomed out, you could feel his tip pressing snugly against your G-spot.

He paused once he was sheathed inside you, his eyes closed as he savoured the feeling of being buried inside you.

“Lionel…”

He grunted in response, his eyes flickering open to look at you with a wild lust in his eyes.

“Devour me.”

Lionel grinned and his eyes flashed dangerously.

“With pleasure, love.”

He set a brutal pace, and you had to hold onto him to stop yourself from being thrown around on the bed - not that that was an unpleasurable idea, but for now you liked being sandwiched between his body and the mattress as his hips rammed into you as if he was trying to hammer you into the bed.

“You’re right, we don’t need foreplay,” Lionel said smugly as he lifted himself into a kneeling position, keeping his brutal pace going the whole time. “You’re soaked.”

“I’ve been wet for you f - for months, Lionel - ah!” You squeaked when his hand reached between your bodies and he began rubbing your clit with his thumb, just adding to the anguishing pleasure you felt burning through you, and you wondered if he’d consulted his Karma Sutra on how to pleasure the clit just right - either that or he was just a natural at pleasuring women.

“You know, I fucked Polly from accounts last week and - ugh - the whole time I thought of you. You’ve - mhm - you’ve ruined other women for me, love. Even before I’d had you. And now I have - hahhhh - now I have, I’m afraid they’ll all pale in comparison.”

You grinned cheekily. “That’s what they all say.”

Lionel’s grip on your thigh tightened, and he shook his head.

“I mean it. Fuck. Even your tits are perfect.” He eyed them hungrily, watching the way they bounced with each of his thrusts, the way your chest shuddered slightly with each moan. He increased the pace of his thumb on your clit, and you cried out.

“Lionel!”

Your hands gripped the sheets, desperate for some sort of purchase as your whole body shook with each of Lionel’s thrusts. You were close, you knew it, and when you felt the familiar flame burning inside you, you knew there was no stopping it.

“Lionel, I - I’m gonna cum, I —-“

“Yes, love, that’s it, cum on my cock - let me hear you —“

“Oh god, Lionel… Lionel!”

You screamed his name as you came, your muscles spasming and your walls clenching tight around his length. Lionel gritted his teeth, a low rumble building in his chest, and your name tumbled out of his mouth as he came, cock pulsing, and you were hit with a desire to feel him fill you with his seed.

He held your hips flush against his, his cock twitching inside you as he panted, his brain empty and dizzy with nothing but the bliss of you.

After a few moments, Lionel pulled out of you and you reluctantly climbed out of the bed to go to the bathroom. When you came back, Lionel had discarded his condom but had made no effort to put his clothes back on. He beckoned you towards him, a satisfied smirk on his face, and you clamboured under the blankets with him.

Lionel wrapped an arm around you and held you close, as if without your body heat he would freeze.

“Hello,” he mumbled with a chuckle.

“Hi.”

You both laughed.

“How was your flight?” Lionel asked, adjusting himself slightly on the bed so he could look at you and hold you at the same time.

“Amazing. I didn’t want to get off. I’ve never flown business before.”

“Really? Much better than first, isn’t it?”

You scoffed. “Lionel, I’ve never flown anything other than economy.”

“What?” he said incredulously. “Packed in like sardines with god knows who?”

“Well, sometimes I use my flying points to upgrade to economy plus.”

“Outrageous. That university should be paying you far more if you feel you have to slum it in economy.”

“I teach literature, Lionel. Nobody cares about literature. The money’s in science.”

“Nonsense, the arts are extremely important!”

“You’re only saying that because you run a media company. You need us artists, or you wouldn’t have anything to sell.”

“First of all, I run multiple media companies —“

“Oh, sorry, of course.”

“— and second, I run them because I believe art is important. So brilliant people like you can continue creating. You’re welcome.”

You laughed, and you were about to respond when your phone began ringing from where you’d tossed it on the floor when getting undressed.

Lionel, who had a better view of the phone, peered over at it.

“Pfft, you’ve barely landed and Michaelson misses you already.”

“I’ve barely landed and you’re fucking me already.”

Lionel grinned. “That’s true.” He leant out of the bed to grab the ringing phone and tossed it to you. “Go on, better not keep Daddy waiting.”

You rolled your eyes at him and answered the phone.

“Hi, Eli.”

“[Y/n], where are you? I’ve come to your office and you’re not here.”

“No, I’m off today.”

“Off? Why didn’t you tell me? Are you sick?”

“Yes, off. I didn’t tell you because it was last-minute and you’re not my keeper. And no, I’m not sick.”

“Well, when are you coming back?”

“Erm - I’m not sure, actually. Lionel, when’s my flight back?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t booked it yet.”

“Lionel?” Eli repeated down the phone, flabbergasted. “You took off at the last minute to see Lionel?”

“No, of course not! I had to get to London quickly and —“

“Yes, I’m sure you did. I thought you were a professional, [Y/n]. I can’t believe you booked the day off work to fly to London for a shag, as you lot like to call it —“

“Eli! Will you shut up? My uncle died, dickhead, his funeral’s on Monday. Lionel was kind enough to get me a last-minute flight and put me up for the weekend.”

“Oh, yeah? Fucked him yet?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I knew it! Barely off the plane and you’re already spreading your legs.”

“Put him on loudspeaker,” Lionel muttered to you. You sighed and did so, hoping if they hashed it out quickly it’d be over sooner.

“Michaelson! You need to learn to share, mate. You both made it clear you’re not a couple, so what’s your problem? Or are you only interested in fidelity when it’s one-way? Speaking of which, found any more bastards lately?”

“Ah, fuck off, Shabandar. [Y/n], you better get back soon as you can. You’re in for a hell of a punishment.”

He hung up.

“Prat,” Lionel spat. “Does he always speak to you like that?”

“He’s an asshole, sure, but he’s not usually that bad. He’s just - well, not jealous, I don’t think. I think he’s just annoyed because he likes the idea that he’s fucking multiple women but I’m only fucking him.” You paused. “Aw, man, I’m just a replacement for his ex-wife, ain’t I?”

“You are a lot of things, [Y/n], but you’re certainly no one’s wife.”

“Damn straight.” You tossed the phone aside and leant back into Lionel’s arms. He smiled and held you happily, both of you glad you could finally feel one another’s warmth.

“Have you ever been married, Lionel?” you asked absentmindedly.

“No. Never found a woman I’d want to commit to.”

“So you’re too much of a man whore?”

Lionel chuckled, and you could feel his deep laugh reverberating through his chest.

“Precisely. Just like you’re too much of a slut. Would you marry either one of us if it meant you could never have the other?”

“You’re rich, so yes, I’d marry you.”

“So shallow, [Y/n]!” Lionel said in mock surprise. “Have you been flirting with me all this time just to get to my wallet?”

“No, the other thing in your pants. But the hefty wallet’s pretty nice too.”

Lionel smiled and kissed the top of your head surprisingly gently. “Did you want to get dinner tonight? It’s on me and my hefty wallet. Anything you need while you’re here is on me.”

“Hmm… I’ll be honest with you, I’m not too keen on putting any more clothes on today.”

“Good point, nor am I. We’ll order in, then, and tomorrow we’ll go out for lunch. I have a charity event tomorrow night if you’re interested. Very fancy party, lots of rich people mingling and writing generous cheques to show how rich and altruistic they are. I’m sure you’ll find yourself a rich husband there.”

“I doubt anything I’ve packed will be suitable —“

“Then I’ll buy you a dress in the afternoon, after we go out for lunch. Please say you’ll come, [Y/n], these things are horrifically boring. I’m richer than everyone else there, so their displays of wealth are so tedious.”

You turned your head to look up at him with a smirk. “Why would I go looking for a rich husband at this party if I’m already fucking the richest man there?”

“So you can fob him off to fuck me instead.”

You laughed, then turned around to throw a leg over his lap, straddling him, his half-erect cock pressing against your thigh.

“I seem to recall you saying you always get what you want, so do I really have a choice here?”

Lionel grinned. “You’re a quick learner.”

“You think? Let me see how quickly I can learn the best way to ride you…”

***

It was very, very dangerous how much you were enjoying spending time with Lionel. From waking up to his face between your legs, to lunch at a fancy restaurant and shopping in the afternoon, you could definitely get used to being spoilt.

And on top of treating you well, he was good company too. He was witty and he had a way of making you feel comfortable with him, even in unfamiliar surroundings. You bonded over a mutual love of all things artistic - not just paintings, as were his passion, and literature, as was yours, but you had similar tastes in theatre, music and cinema.

When it was time to leave for the charity event, you met Lionel at the bottom of the stairs where he was standing looking out the window as he waited for you in a perfectly fitted tux, which was no doubt tailor-made.

“Well, don’t you look handsome!” you said, eyes raking up and down his body, containing the urge to rip the tuxedo off him.

Lionel turned around, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw you.

“Wow, [Y/n]…”

“Do I look alright? I wasn’t sure what to do with my hair, so I figured I’d just curl it —“

“You’re beautiful.”

He said it so suddenly, so sincerely, that it made you blush.

“Oh - erm - thank you. I won’t look out of place?”

Lionel shook his head incredulously and approached you to wrap his arm around your waist.

“Darling, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb only because you’ll outshine them all. All eyes will be on the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“Lionel, stop it, you’re making me blush!” you giggled, but you loved to hear such sweet words coming from him.

“And you still look beautiful with your cheeks glowing red. Shall we, then?” He offered you his arm.

“Yes, let’s,” you said, taking his arm gratefully and allowing him to guide you to the elevator.

The party might have been tedious to Lionel, but you were having a great time. He introduced you to so many people that you lost track, but you did meet a few famous faces you were a little starstruck by.

“Ah, and here’s my cousin, late as usual!” Lionel announced as a man around his age, bearing some resemblance to him, arrived with a smile on his face and a slightly younger woman on his arm, who looked just as nervous to be there as you were.

“Lionel!” the cousin announced cheerily. “Good to see you, cuz!”

He wrapped his arms around Lionel in a big bear hug, which Lionel tolerated with a pat on the back before stepping back.

“[Y/n], this is Sinclair Bryant, my cousin. As you can already tell, he has no respect for decorum or timekeeping.”

If Sinclair heard the insult, he showed no sign of it, as he was still beaming as if seeing Lionel was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“[Y/n]? How lovely to meet you! You know, our great-great-grandmother was called [Y/n], wasn’t she, Lionel?”

Lionel shrugged. “Was she? I wouldn’t know. Sinclair has the family history memorised,” he explained to you, “along with every other fact known to man.”

He turned his attention to Sinclair’s companion and smiled, a familiar twinkle in his eye, and a twist in your stomach suddenly reminded you of Eli. You hadn’t heard from him since last night’s phone call.

“And Elizabeth, looking lovely as always, dear.” Lionel took Elizabeth’s hand and kissed it with a flirtatious smile, and she blushed.

“I’ve told you before, Lionel, you can call me Betty.”

“Betty, of course. Now, if you ladies don’t mind, I have some business to discuss with Sinclair.”

“Now?” you said. “Aren’t we at a party?”

“Yes, and if we don’t catch each other now, it won’t be until Christmas. Now, Sinclair, about those reports you sent me…”

The two men wandered off, and you excused yourself for some air, finding your way out to the balcony, which you were relieved to find was empty.

As if he psychically knew you were thinking about him, your phone rang and sure enough Eli was calling.

“How’d you know I was thinking about you?”

“Because you’re always thinking about me. How’s the party?”

“Good, but I feel so out of place. Met some interesting people though. Hey, wait, how did you know about the party?”

“It’s on Twitter.”

“Since when do you use Twitter?”

“Since this morning. You know Lionel’s super famous, right? Being filthy rich does that. Everything he does gets tweeted. There are photos of you two all over the internet.”

“What?!” you gasped.

“Yep. Lionel Shabandar and mystery woman at lunch… Lionel Shabandar and mystery woman go shopping… Mystery woman accompanies Lionel Shabandar to charity gala… Oh, now here’s an interesting comment. ‘Isn’t this the same woman who went to Shabandar’s Christmas party with Eli Michaelson?’ You’re really making a name for yourself. Or you would be if anyone knew your name…”

“Fucking hell. Nah, I can’t have this, Eli. I can’t have my personal life plastered all over the internet!”

“Should have thought of that before you fucked a Nobel Laureate and one of the richest men in the world.”

“Oh piss off, you are not using this to excuse your jealousy. Look, I have some fame of my own, okay? Maybe not like you two do but I am known in lit circles, and the last thing I want is for my name to be associated with who I’m dating rather than my work.”

“Dating? Is that what you and Lionel were doing today?”

“No - shut up, you know what I mean. Do you think Lionel can take them down? He pretty much controls most of the media, right, so maybe he can talk to the head of Twitter or whatever —“

“Too late. Once it’s on the internet, it’s everywhere.”

You sighed and leaned back against the wall.

“So… you were thinking about me?” Eli said after a few moments.

“…Maybe.”

“But you’ve got such exalted company, [Y/n]. Why would you be thinking of a humble little Nobel Laureate?”

You scoffed. “You are the very antithesis of humble, Eli. And you’re certainly not little.”

“But I am a Nobel Laureate.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned.”

“So… what were you thinking about? Missing my cock yet?”

“Actually, I thought of you because I saw Lionel flirt with someone. Realised I was jealous… made me think I kind of understand why you’re mad about me being here.”

There was a long pause.

“I was gonna ask you out,” Eli said.

“…What?”

“Last night. That’s why I was mad. I was gonna ask you for a real date. Spent an hour working up the courage to knock on your door, meanwhile you were in London fucking Lionel.”

You froze. Your world was spinning. Then, without even thinking, you said, “I woulda said yes.”

“You wouldn’t rather Lionel instead?” Eli scoffed.

“No. I dunno. I… I like both of you. You fuck around, and I know Lionel does too. Can’t I have it both ways? You for when I’m in the States, Lionel when I’m in the UK. Both of you when you’re both around. I keep thinking of taking both of you again.”

Eli let out a frustrated groan.

“Fuck, you’re such a greedy slut. I wish I was there to take you right now in front of all those stuck-up snobs. Lionel can join in only once I’m done with your tight cunt and it’s all loosened for him. Or maybe he could take your ass at the same time. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“God, Eli - I can’t be getting wet in the middle of this party —“

“You knew you’d be getting wet the moment you started thinking about me.”

“I’m always thinking about you at the worst of times… last week one of my students asked if I was friends with you and I had to resist saying I’d sucked your cock half an hour earlier. Not least because I’m pretty sure she’s one of yours. Leah Driver?”

“Oh, Leah… yeah, she’s one of mine. Gives terrible head, but her ass is divine.”

That awful twisting feeling rose up in your gut again, and you pushed it back down.

“In fact, since you’re off playing fancy with Lionel, maybe I’ll arrange a one-to-one with her…”

“Are you trying to make me jealous of a student when I have Lionel here ready to take me as soon as I open my legs? Try harder, sweetie.”

“Not there with you now, is he?”

“No, he’s catching up with his cousin.”

“Oh, Sinclair? Yeah, I’ve met him. Extremely annoying.”

“He seems alright to me.”

“His wife’s hot, though. The new one, not the old one.”

“Okay, Eli, you go fuck your students like the professional you are. I’ve got a party to enjoy.”

Meanwhile, back inside, Lionel and Sinclair had finished their business chat and conversation had turned to more interesting things.

“That woman you’re with seemed really lovely! Are you dating her?” Sinclair asked with excitement, as if his cousin’s love life was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Why, are you looking?”

Sinclair looked offended. “Of course not! I’m very happy with Betty, you know that. I wouldn’t dream of even looking at another woman.”

“Sinclair, relax, I was joking,” Lionel reassured him, knowing his cousin’s feelings about cheating. “No, we’re not dating. Simply fucking.”

“Well, Betty was looking on Twitter earlier - I don’t have it myself, I’m completely inept with technology - but somebody spotted you and [Y/n] at lunch earlier, so I thought maybe there was something more there. Especially as you brought her tonight.”

“She’s certainly… piqued my interest,” Lionel admitted. Sinclair’s eyes lit up, but Lionel quickly added, “But she’s clearly not interested in anything of the sort. I’m not the only man she’s seeing, for starters.”

“Then you need to win her over! Why don’t you bring her to Betty’s birthday party on Tuesday? I can be your wingman! I’ll tell her all the embarrassing stories from when we were kids and you used to show up to family events in your lion onesie, and if she’s still interested after that, you know she’s the one!”

“Don’t you dare, Sinclair,” Lionel said warningly. “If you ruin my chances with [Y/n], I will steal your wife.”

“So you do like her! Oh, this is great, Li! I’ll ask Betty to talk to her and see if she can find out if she likes you too. Ooh, this is so fun! I’ll go talk to Betty right now! She can be super sneaky when she wants to - lied to my face for months about not being in love with me —“

Sinclair was out the door before he’d even finished talking, and his sentence seemed to run straight into the next when he bounded up to Betty and started talking animatedly to her.

Lionel hesitated before returning to the party. He was one of the richest men in the world. He could have pretty much anything he wanted with a snap of his fingers - or a flash of his debit card. Why was he letting a woman get to him like this?

No, he wasn’t having it. Sharing you with Eli was one thing, but he would not doubt himself.

After your call with Eli, you made your way back inside, and glanced around, hoping for a familiar face. You saw Sinclair chatting animatedly to Betty, but Lionel was nowhere to be seen.

You began to make your way through the crowd towards the bar, carefully avoiding bumping into a drunk Bill Gates, when you felt a large hand close around your wrist and pull you back around.

You hardly had a moment to register that it was Lionel who had a grip on you when his lips were on yours, and his hand released your wrist from his grip only to hold your face firmly between his hands, as if worried you might break the kiss.

Somewhere in the distance, some rich people were wolf-whistling and cheering, but you paid them no mind. All that existed in that moment was you and Lionel, and the most breathtaking kiss you’d ever received.

It was all over Twitter within minutes.

#alan rickman #lionel shabandar #eli michaelson #sinclair bryant #lionel x reader #eli x reader #sinclair x betty

34 notes · View notes