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beckettj · 7 months

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The Heart of a Villan - Chapter 3/5

Chapter Three - Dangerous Play

Summary: Three-thousand miles from home, Henry drags Emma into a land she never imagined venturing to; the realm of English football. She holds no interest in the sport but when she’s approached by Villa Captain Killian Jones, she determines that there could be something in the sport for her after all.

Words: 6907

Chapter One, Chapter Two

Read on AO3

Killian’s fingers drum absent-mindedly against the table as the gaffer’s pre-matchday briefing hits the thirty-minute mark. A morning of training followed by an afternoon of travelling on the team bus, getting stuck in traffic early in the journey on the M6, has Killian quite done with the droning sound of Gold’s voice. He knows, from over a year of experiencing Gold’s meticulous patterns, that he’ll only repeat himself during the morning’s pre-match briefing.

With that in mind, Killian allows himself to switch off, to block out the gaffer’s talk of positions in transitional moments, as he dreamily stares out the large windows of the hotel’s conference room. He’s in London. After five days, he and Emma are finally in the same city once again. It’s a city of almost nine million people and her hotel is right by the Thames whilst his is three miles away in Islington but it’s closer than bloody Birmingham, nonetheless.

His phone is on silent – dutiful, professional club captain mode initiated – but he feels it vibrate in his pocket and a message flashes up on his smartwatch – do not disturb mode not initiated due to a slight lull in his professionalism, caused by the expectation of receiving a message from a particular blonde he can’t shake from his thoughts.

He glances at the notification, a small smile creeping onto his face when he reads her name.

Henry sporting the colors at the palace. The guard doesn’t look too impressed. Think you can use your connections to get us in?

Killian frowns at the message; they’d already done the Palace a few days ago – Emma has been regularly keeping him updated on her London adventures – and she had even referenced his royalty connections then too. He can’t imagine them doing it twice, not when the only thing to do was to stand outside the gates and take in the enormous grandeur of the building.

There’s a picture with the message, one which can’t be displayed on his watch, and it’s driving him crazy. He can do nothing but imagine what the image may be; perhaps Emma and Henry in front of the big, tall gates, a royal guard in the background, watching them closely as if expecting the American mother and son to attempt to storm the place. Emma had made reference to Henry sporting the colours and Killian wonders whether the guard could be a bluenose, not appreciating their rival club’s success being rubbed in their face. His mind focuses on Emma, drawing up images of her also sporting the famous claret and blue; a tightly fitted professional shirt, highlighting her curves, combined with the white shorts ridden halfway up her thigh, the long blue socks rolled down to her ankles, exposing the flesh of her toned legs.

He can’t bare it any longer. He would rather risk the wrath of Gold than allow his brain free reign to draw up such mouth-watering images of Emma. He pulls his phone from his pocket, turning to old schoolboy tactics of hiding it under the table, and pulls up the image.

It is one of Henry and Emma, though Emma’s fully covered up wearing dark blue jeans, a red t-shirt and a blue leather jacket, and they’re not stood in front of the palace Killian envisioned. They’re pictured outside Selhurst Park, stadium home to Crystal Palace FC and the ‘guard’ in the text is in reference to the security guard scowling at the claret and blue scarf Henry is holding aloft.

The second message which pings through provides much more context;

Help me! It turns out we are going in after all. I’ve been unknowingly dragged to an Aston Villa women’s game. Because one match per weekend isn’t enough, apparently.

Killian marvels at how, once again, Emma has managed to sport the colours of the opposition team, her blue and red outfit complementing the blue and red of Crystal Palace perfectly. He shakes his head slightly as he types.

One of these days I will see you in claret and blue.

She replies almost instantly.

That was my plan for tomorrow, but my dad has just informed me that the fancy seats you got us tickets for is a smart casual dress code and strictly prohibits away team colors. What a bummer.

The flashing dots on his screen tell him she’s not finished there.

Henry’s just found out too. He’s mortified. I hope you realize what you’ve done.

He has no chance to reply before another massage pings through.

He’s on a mission to find claret and blue underwear before tomorrow’s game now.

The scheming villan.

Killian is silently impressed at her correct spelling of ‘villan’. Even players at the club had made the mistake of adding that tempting ‘i’ in their social media addresses, an open invite to a flood of comments making them well aware of their innocent mistake.

For a self-professed non-Villa fan, she wasn’t entirely acting like it.

He’s halfway through a response, instructing Emma to find her own claret and blue underwear and beginning a witty remark about proving her allegiance after the game when he’s elbowed in the ribs, hard, by Robin. His teammate snatches his phone from his grasp and glares at him pointedly.

Killian huffs and folds his arms as he’s forced to switch his attention back to Gold’s deep analysis into the areas of weakness across Arsenal’s back line.

“I don’t like this.”

Robin speaks apprehensively the very second Killian disconnects from his call with the London Eye’s management. Killian turns to find Robin making himself at home on his bed, as if the man doesn’t have his own hotel room just across the hall.

Robin places his hands behind his head, leaning back against the headboard.

“This is the Eloise Gardener infatuation all over again,” Robin says warningly.

Killian scoffs, “Please, I wasn’t infatuated with Eloise Gardener.”

“The woman was actively jeopardising your career and, even knowing that, you kept crawling back into her bed,” Robin recounts. “Tell me, how is that not infatuation?”

“Stupidity, maybe,” Killian concedes but remains adamant, “Infatuation, most definitely bloody not.”

“Whatever you want to call it, it’s happening again,” Robin maintains. “I mean, think about it Killian, first you’re hooked to your phone during an important meeting, then you sulk like a teenager who’d lost his phone privileges for a week when I took it from you, and now you’re talking about sneaking out to see her the night before a big game. This woman has you acting like a schoolboy.”

Killian ignores him, his plans in place, his mind set. He grabs his jacket from the chair he had thrown it over and shrugs it on.

“Don’t worry, dad,” Killian shoots at him sarcastically as he carries out one final mirror check. “I’ll be home by curfew.”

“Killian,” Robin groans tiredly.

Killian ignores him, walking straight out of his hotel room, letting the door shut behind him, and leaving Robin behind. He pulls his phone out and sends Emma the latest in a series of hilariously bad football themed lines he’d pulled from the internet.

You’ve got me feeling like a substitute, eagerly awaiting my chance to impress you.

As bad a line as it is, there’s truth to it; he is keen to impress her; the precise reason why he’s headed to her hotel, a whole twenty-four hours early, without even so much as a head’s up. He can’t wait any longer.

Killian hesitates as he stands outside her hotel door – room 205; the very room he’d sent a bouquet of red roses and blue delphiniums to earlier in the week – realising he has absolutely no idea whether she’s on the other side of the door.

He should have called her. He knows he would have; were it not for the fogginess of his head from training, travelling and a two-hour analysis meeting. He could still call but since he’s right outside the door, he opts instead to go ahead and knock.

“That’ll be the food!” Emma’s voice, slightly raised; she’s in there. “Can you get it?”

He waits for Henry to open the door, wondering whether he’ll be disappointed at the lack of food or excited at his unexpected arrival, or both.

The door opens. Killian’s eyes naturally drop to the expected height level of the ten-year-old; they do not fall on the lighting up brown eyes of Henry but onto the dull grey of a shirt. His gaze slowly adjusts, raising higher until he’s eye to eye with an adult man and trying his best to cover his surprise and the way his heart drops in his chest.

The man stood before him – the man in Emma’s hotel room – appears around a decade older than Emma, early-forties at a push, but Killian can’t imagine an age gap deterring Emma from pouncing on the man who could well have walked straight off the page of a bloody GQ magazine. He looks right at home in the doorway of Emma’s room, leaning his left elbow against the doorframe, bicep bulging around his tight grey sleeve, and his blue eyes hover over Killian warily.

“Killian Jones,” his tone matches the look in his eyes.

Killian hopes he’s not about to get punched.

“Err… hi there, mate,” despite being utterly thrown, Killian attempts a friendly tone. “I was- I was looking for Emma.”

He glances briefly over his shoulder, to the closed door just inside the room, then tells him, “She’s in the shower.”

“Right,” Killian says, his mind jumping to unwanted thoughts of the unidentified man and Emma fooling around in the unmade bed he eyes across the room. “And Henry?”

Speak of the devil.

Henry crashes through an adjoining door on the right-hand wall and throws himself onto the tousled sheets of the bed. He’s up in an instant, bouncing on the bed as if recreating the classic scene from Home Alone, minus the popcorn, and Killian raises an eyebrow at the sugar high the lad is most clearly on.

The man at the door rubs his forehead tiredly, “Henry, we spoke about the bed.”

A similarly exhausted woman with a pixie cut enters through the adjoining door, lamenting, “I warned you that this would happen, David, but did you listen to me? No! You went ahead and got him the extra large pick and mix!”

The man at the door – David – turns to her, “Come on now, Mary Margaret, I didn’t expect him to eat the lot in one go!”

“He’s a ten-year-old on vacation!” Mary Margaret stresses. “How could you expect anything less?”

Killian stares at the light chaos before him, utterly lost as to the connection between Henry and the two adults in the room but the lad looks more than comfortable in their presence, continuing to jump up and down on the bed. Henry’s eyes fall on him and a grin flashes across his face. In a ginormous leap, he’s off the bed and halfway across the room.

“Grandpa!” Henry exclaims, running to the man in the doorway. “Look! Killian’s here.”

David laughs and ruffles Henry’s hair as he returns, “Yeah, I know.”

Killian stares. Grandpa? The man in front of him doesn’t look old enough to be a grandparent.

“Mom! Mom!” Henrys yells, banging on the bathroom door. “Killian’s here!”

The bathroom door opens suddenly. Emma steps out, a towel wrapped around her head, another one around her body. Killian’s quick to notice that his daydreams of toned legs stands true and his eyes linger on her exposed collarbones before drifting downwards, to where the beginnings of the towel wrapped tightly around her chest is an invitation for his imagination to go wild.

David steps across him, blocking his view, and the pointed look in the man’s gaze makes it clear it was a purposeful move.

“Killian, hi,” Emma greets him quickly, sounding panicked, “I thought we agreed tomorrow.”

“We did, love,” Killian replies, scratching the back of his ear, all too aware of David’s eyes boring into him. “I just couldn’t wait another day. If you’re not busy, would you care to accompany me around London tonight?”

“Yes!” she replies immediately; a good sign, and then, with more control, “I mean, sure. Just… give me some time to get ready?”

“David, why don’t you take Killian into our room. I’ll help Emma in here,” Mary Margaret suggests.

David places a rather forceful hand on Killian’s shoulder, guiding him into the room and through the adjoining door into an identical room, Henry following fast on their heels.

Killian sits in an uncomfortable window chair, being studied intently by David and he wonders whether it was an intentional decision by the older man to lead him to what looks to be the most disagreeable chair in the hotel room. There’s a tense atmosphere in the room as an oblivious Henry throws question after question at Killian, attempting to gain the inside scoop into the team’s tactics ahead of the Arsenal game.

Killian provides short, worthless, distracted answers; he doesn’t want to think about work. Emma’s still at the forefront of his mind, wrapped in towels, a slight dampness to her exposed skin. David coughs and Killian’s attention is brought back to his presence; a cynical scepticism in the man’s heavy stare.

“So,” Killian clears his throat and glances in Henry’s direction. “Grandpa, huh? I take it that makes you Emma’s father?”

“It does indeed,” David replies with a short nod.

Killian takes in a sharp breath; he has some winning over to do then.

“I’m glad you got hit with food poisoning,” the words fly out of his mouth before he thinks them over.

Shit.

At the very least, David’s hard expression falters, struggling to hold back a chuckle, as Killian attempts to dig himself out of a hole.

“By that, I don’t mean I was glad that you were chucking your guts up, I just mean that from a bad situation allowed me the privilege of meeting your daughter. And to be frank, had you been there when that ball had impacted with the lad’s face, I fear I may have felt the impact of your fist to my face,” Killian has no idea why he can’t just shut the hell up. “And I realise that is a situation which may still yet arise.”

David only hums in response.

Through his years in professional football, Killian has learned a lot about mind games. He knows David’s silence is a tactic to make him uncomfortable, to pressure him into talking, to reveal his intentions and inner thoughts, and despite knowing all that, he finds himself relenting.

“I must say, you look far too young to be her father.”

Killian can’t help but smile, triumphant with himself for finally coming out with something to soften the man, charm him, get him onside.

David grimaces, “That’s not the complement you think it is.”

Killian’s smile falters; of course it’s bloody not.

Henry swoops in, “You know, Grandpa, Killian does lots of work with fostering charities and foster families. They said on the tour that he regularly opens his box up to foster families to watch the game, don’t you?”

Henry turns to Killian, nodding him on eagerly. Killian’s eyes shift momentarily towards David whose expression has softened slightly, watching him curiously.

He thinks about his response, considering carefully, not wanting to inadvertently put his foot in it again, not when Henry had swooped in and helped him make a minor step towards progress.

“From time to time,” he confirms modestly.

David folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head curiously, “Of all the causes, why that one?”

“Some children don’t get the best starts in life. Some go through more heartache and misery in their formative years than some adults experience in their entire lives,” Killian’s more confident in his words since the conversation has been moved onto a cause he has been fighting for his entire career. “If I can provide a small gesture which brightens one day in their lives and gives them hope that their future doesn’t have to be defined by their past, then it only seems right to do so.”

David stands suddenly and Killian tracks his movement across the room to the fridge where he crouches and opens the door. He reaches inside and glances to Killian.

“Want a beer?” David offers.

Killian relaxes into his seat at the friendly display.

“I’ll never say no, mate,” Killian accepts.

“And me!” Henry eagerly tries his luck.

“Not a chance, Henry,” David laughs.

Killian takes the bottle from David with an appreciative nod and they dive into an easy conversation. Emma’s father is officially onside; Killian’s hit the back of the net, with a brilliant assist from Henry.

One beer turns into two and David is deep into a hilarious tale about a nine-year-old Emma flat out refusing to have any part in the soccer practise he had taken her to, sneaking away when he had turned for a few seconds, finding a bus to get herself home and sending him into a wild panic in the process. Between joint bouts of laughter, David attests that as much as they laugh about it now, it had been the most horrific moment of his life at the time.

Mary Margaret enters the room and looks at the amicable pair suspiciously, as if determining whether her husband had been replaced by an imposter.

“Not to interrupt… whatever this is,” Mary Margaret, in fact, interrupts, “but Killian, Emma is ready for you.”

He stands immediately and considers downing the half a bottle of beer he has remaining before deciding against it, setting the bottle down on the side. He receives a parting handshake from David and a huge smile from Mary Margaret as he passes by Emma’s parents and steps through the adjoining door.

He has to catch his breath.

Emma stands beside her bed, in a delicate, soft pink dress which immediately draws his eyes to hover longingly over the v-cut neck which gives him just a teasing glimpse of what lies beneath the material. If it weren’t for her parents and her son in the adjoining room, he would have forgone all his plans for the night in favour of ripping the delicate clothing from her, falling into the territory of her already tousled sheets, and inviting Emma’s attacking pressure upon him.

Only her parents and son are right there and he’s only just succeeded in winning her father over. He catches himself, collecting his racing thoughts, and lifting his gaze so to make eye contact.

“You look stunning, Emma,” he tells her.

He offers Emma his arm and she takes it.

“Where are we going?” she asks as he leads the way to the door.

He smiles knowingly, “Wait and see.”

Killian always forgets how much he utterly despises the Westminster Bridge.

The place is always rammed with tourists taking pictures and lingering around the cup and ball scams; walking across the bridge at a reasonable speed to get to a destination is bloody impossible. With Emma tightly pressed against his side as they manoeuvre through the crowds, he tolerates it; it gets her close to him and he appreciates the way they move naturally, steps in sync with one another.

They emerge on the other side of the bridge, he keeps his arm wrapped around her and she doesn’t pull away. He leads the way down the stairs onto the Queen’s Walk, past Shrek’s Adventure, the London Dungeon and the Build-a-Bear Workshop until they reach a stop, right in front of the London Eye.

The wheel towers above them, lit up in a bright pink, standing out against the dark night’s sky.

“I pushed for claret and blue but they wouldn’t go for it, bloody West Ham, so pink it is,” Killian tells her.

She stares at him, “You did this?”

“Aye, love,” he confirms with a nod. “I know tonight may be all we get together but that doesn’t mean I can’t make it memorable.”

She clutches his arm just a tad bit more.

“This is just… amazing,” Emma remarks, staring up at the London Eye, radiating pink, wonder pouring out her green eyes.

He smiles as he watches her every movement, captivated by it all; the way her head tilts back to truly take in and appreciate the whole sight, barely blinking as she stares, the way her mouth lingers open from her initial surprise, the way she slowly releases each breath-

“Mr Jones?”

Killian’s forced to break his gaze from Emma, turning to the young man working on the attraction who had recognised, approached, and spoken to, him.

“We’re all set for you,” the young man informs him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The man makes a move away to give them time but Killian calls after him, “We’re ready now, mate.”

The man leads the way, winding around the ramp leading up to the base of the London Eye and Killian follows him, guiding Emma along.

She leans into his shoulder and whispers curiously, “Ready for what, exactly?”

Killian’s reaches the top of the ramp and gestures grandly to the awaiting pod, illuminated in pink lighting. The oval seating area in the middle has a picnic blanket draped over it, champagne bottle taking centre stage, surrounded by fancy, silver cloches.

“Dinner with a view,” he states proudly. “And by view, I am, of course, referring to you.”

She laughs, “I don’t know what’s worse. That line or the football ones you’ve been send me over text.”

He doesn’t respond, he just stares at her, feeling a huge Cheshire-cat grin pulling at his lips and he lets it.

“What?” she questions him obliviously.

“It appears Operation Cobra was a success,” Killian remarks.

She stares at him, lost.

“You called it football,” he points out.

She considers her words and then quickly brushes it off, “Henry’s been rubbing off on me.”

He doesn’t believe it for a second, but he lets her have it, silently revelling in his victory. He steps into the pod awaiting them and offers out his hand which she takes as she step on.

“Welcome aboard, milady.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

The doors are closed on them, isolating them from the outside world. In their pod, slowly lifting into the night sky, it’s just the two of them; no prying eyes, no lingering journalists – he can be himself, without worrying about consequences or reputations. All the talk of preparation and positions and tactics for the coming game is forgotten, his focus entirely and utterly captivated by her.

Emma approaches the far window, her fingers reaching out for decorative lettering on the window; Emma Nolan in blue, Killian Jones in claret – they had at least agreed to do that much in the claret and blue he’d requested – and to the right of their names was a football, following the colour scheme, with a yellow lion in the centre. Killian had turned down the offer to encircle their names in a heart, thinking it too presumptuous, and had requested, instead, the football – a nod to where they had first met.

“Now, I have-” he hesitates, catching himself before the word ‘lovingly’ can escape his lips way too soon, “worked tirelessly to create your perfect three-course meal.”

“That’s what all those texts with questions about food was about!” Emma puts the pieces together immediately.

“Aye, and I’ve commissioned the top chefs in London to cater specifically to your palate and so you can be sure that the food tonight will ignite your tastebuds but first, drinks.”

He steps to the oval seating, picking up the champagne bottle and offers, “We can crack this open right away or…”

He trails off as he reaches for one of the cloches, lifting the lid to reveal two steaming hot mugs.

“Can I interest you to some chocolate chaud avec cannelle?” he entices.

She raises an eyebrow, “Was that French?”

“Oui, le langage de l’amour,” he returns.

He winces, hoping she doesn’t speak French. If there’s anything worse than dropping the L word as he nearly did earlier, it was dropping the L word in French.

“You can speak French?”

She sounds impressed and, from the way she isn’t responding in French, he thinks he may just have gotten away with it, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding.

“I’ve had many a French teammate,” he explains to her. “One particular player, Gaston, was insistent on brushing up the few words I remembered from seven years of French in school. Now it helps whenever I come up against the French squad on international duty – a little bit of earwigging of their tactics.”

“Well it’s certainly impressive,” Emma remarks.

Killian hands her a mug of hot chocolate and she takes a sip as she stares out at the view of London, the lights of the city before them lighting up the shrinking buildings below.

“You’re so impressive. The top-flight football, the French, this,” she gestures to the pod and sighs mournfully, “How is any man back home meant to top this?”

He steps up behind her, wraps his arms around her and rest his chin on her shoulder.

“Can you do something for me?” he murmurs into her ear. “Just for tonight?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you pretend like we have a chance? Like this could go somewhere? Like it isn’t already doomed to fail?” he questions. “Like there isn’t three-thousand miles between us? Like there’s a future beyond you stepping on that plane in two days?”

She leans her head against his, their cheeks touching, and she sighs wistfully, “That sounds nice.”

He smiles and closes his eyes, soaking in the moment, the sensation of her soft, smooth cheek against his, the familiar combined scent of woody perfume and cinnamon sending him back to the moment they’d spent on the grass at Villa Park, lips inches from touching. He craves them, desperate to know if her lips taste as sweet as the smell of cinnamon wafting into his nose.

“The food smells lovely,” Emma comments.

Clearly, her nostrils aren’t lingering on the aroma of Creed Aventus that he was wearing, not that he needed her to notice it; it wasn’t as if he had spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to determine which aftershave she would most appreciate.

“Then without further ado!” he moves on promptly.

He places his hands on her shoulders and guides her to the pink pillows on the floor before the makeshift table. They sit beside each other, and she leans slightly into his chest as he lifts the lids off the cloches.

“Tonight’s menu, devised especially for Emma Swan, a starter of pancakes, a main course of grilled cheese complete with onion rings not fries, and to finish off, what else, other than bear claws?”

The food goes down well, both devouring everything, accompanied by laughter and easy conversation. Killian eases a few more football pick-up lines into their chat and manages to play off a high-spirited ‘are you the Champion’s League trophy? Because I’ve been searching for you my entire life’ as if there wasn’t a deep, sincere truth to the words.

Both stuffed, they lean back against the glass window behind them, taking in the view of the city from the window pane on the opposite side of the pod. Having booked the entire Eye out, the wheel doesn’t stop to let people on or off, instead continuing with smooth rotations and Killian’s long lost count of how many times they have been round. He’d booked the place for four hours – until midnight – thinking they’d only use it until they’d finished with the dinner but sat there, Emma in his arms, conversation flowing naturally, he never wants to leave. He wants the moment to last forever, to keep Emma close by him, to never let her fly back home, thousands of miles away from him.

“I googled you, you know?” her voice is low, a peaceful, calm aura in their isolated pod.

“Oh yeah?” he responds and smirks, “Did you see the modelling pictures?”

The silence that follows tells him all he needs to know.

He continues knowingly, “You did see the modelling pictures! The Calvin Klein ones?”

“They may have been a temporary distraction,” she confesses.

“What did you think?” he pushes.

“You should take that shirt off more often,” she remarks and he does not need tempting. “Very nice on the eyes. And then my eyes nearly fell out of my head when I stumbled upon a website which tells me how much you earn.”

Killian grimaces. It’s a topic he prefers to avoid, not because he wishes to hide his earnings but because the obscene and ridiculousness of it has a tendency to make things difficult and awkward.

“Ah. You’ve seen that?” is the only response he can come up with.

“I mean, it makes sense how you can afford all this,” she comments, gesturing loosely to the pod around them. “A hundred-and-thirty-thousand pounds a week? I converted into dollars and that’s more than I make in three years.”

“Like I said, love, the money in men’s top-flight football is bloody ridiculous,” Killian maintains and feels compelled to delve deeper, “Sure, it allows me to do extravagant things like this, and have a nice car and a nice house and have substantial savings but I don’t keep it all for myself. I give some to my parents – the bloody fools don’t let me give them much but no matter how much I were to throw at them, it would never repay them for everything they’ve done for me. Then a lot of it goes towards the fostering charities; there’s no point it languishing in my bank account when it can help children who have much less through no fault of their own.”

She stares at him with so much admiration that it hurts. He wants her, all of her; always and forever. She looks at him like he can do no wrong and whilst that’s far from the truth – he has many regrets from younger, dumb, more money than sense days – it makes him desperate to be that person for her; to wake up each morning and prove her right only to return home, recount his day to her and maintain the faith she holds in him. His heart aches for it and yet there’s a bloody large pond standing in their way.

But not tonight.

For Emma’s kissing him and he’s momentarily stunned until his yearning melts away and he’s pulled into the moment; she’s there, she wants him, she has him, he has her. Her lips do taste sweet, remnants of hot chocolate and cinnamon lingering on them, and he was adamant that he despises cinnamon and yet there he is, his lips locked on hers, wanting more of her, needing more of her, cinnamon and all included.

When she pulls away, the cinnamon loiters on his own lips and he’ll savour it for as long as it’s there; a little trace of her. A tiny trace, a memory that will always return whenever cinnamon happens to creep into his life.

She settles back down beside him, shoulders pressed against one another, hands clasped together, fingers entangled.

“I was once that child,” she murmurs.

His brain’s not working, lagging behind, reminiscing the kiss and he dumbly returns, “Huh?”

“A child with nothing, through no fault of my own,” she expands. “I was in the system, abandoned by my parents at the side of the road. I know what it’s like to be painfully aware of how much more other children in your class have. I know what a difference your work and your generosity will have on those children’s lives.”

He’s still rushing to catch up, frowning at the words escaping from her mouth, wondering if he’s hearing things correctly, whether he’s fallen into some daydream state; it sounds all too familiar, too close, too understanding.

“You… you were in the foster system?” he checks.

“For eight years,” she nods.

He tries his best not to gape at her and nods slowly, urging her to continue, if she wants to, keen to learn more of her story.

“I was found on the side of the road, taken to a hospital and placed with a family until I was three but then they had their own kid and they sent me back,” Emma recounts, a hint of anger creeping through. “I missed the golden years, the greatest opportunity for adoption and I struggled through the foster system, barely staying afloat. When I was eight, I got pulled from a nasty set-up, foster parents who were only interested in the pay check, and placed with a young couple under an emergency situation; it was only meant to be a night but a night turned into a foster placement and that turned into adoption.”

“David and Mary Margaret. They were the young couple,” Killian realises.

“They were twenty-three when I was placed with them,” Emma confirms.

It makes sense, explaining why Killian hadn’t immediately pegged David for her father and why he’d been so downbeat at the comment of looking young for her father, a reminder that he hadn’t been able to be there for her in the early years of her life.

“I was lucky,” Emma notes. “I found people who cared for me. There’s not many who can say the same.”

“Aye,” Killian hummed in agreement, “but I can.”

It’s her turn to stare at him, slightly lost, as if she can’t quite dare to believe what he’s insinuating.

“There’s a reason it’s a cause so close to my heart,” he expands. “My mother died when I was young and my father moved us around a lot after that. He got into some financial trouble and then some criminal trouble until he got himself into trouble which got him killed.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s genuine, a full sincerity to it like nothing he’s heard before and he takes his chance, wrapping his arm around her, holding her tight.

“My brother and I wound up in foster care, bounced about a bit and then our social worker started talking about splitting us up, saying finding family’s willing to take in siblings was equivalent to preforming miracles,” Killian recalls. “Then we got lucky. We found Ella and Thomas Rogers. They had a fourteen-year-old daughter of their own but they welcomed an eight-year-old and an eleven-year-old with open arms and never let go.”

“So, Alex Rogers-”

“Is my sister’s name,” Killian reveals, “And an alias I have used on many occasions.”

“There was an Alex Rogers in goal for the Villa women’s team earlier today,” Emma comments.

“I wondered whether you’d pick up on that,” Killian smiles at her. “That’s my sister.”

“Does your entire family just eat, breathe and live football?” Emma enquires.

She’s joking, but she’s not too far off.

“Pretty much,” he confesses with a laugh. “Alex is in the top-level of women’s football and Liam’s currently in the National League but did stints in League One and Two in his younger days. Thomas, my dad, has always been really into the game; I guess it rubbed off on the three of us. He’s the reason I found Aston Villa, as a fan, long before I even dreamed of playing for them, and he dedicated so much of his free time getting us to various training sessions across the county. The day I signed for Villa, twenty-two years old, stepping up from League One to the Championship, it felt like I was repaying him for everything he’d done over the years.”

“I know what you mean,” Emma agrees. “The day Henry was born, the day my parents became grandparents, I watched the way their eyes lit up as they held the tiny baby he once was; I gave them what they’d missed out on with me and, it sounds stupid to most people, and I’d never tell them this, but that day, it felt like I’d proven my worth to them.”

“Earned your keep,” Killian nodded knowingly.

Emma stares up at him, a rare vulnerability in her eyes as she admits, “I’ve never been able to share that with anyone.”

Killian pulls her in even closer and she rests her head on his shoulder. He leans his head gently on top of hers, breathing in the strawberry scent of the hotel shampoo. He understands her, she understands him; it’s perfect, or it would be perfect if it weren’t for the distance issue.

He reminds himself of his earlier remarks, to forget all of the barriers in their way. He stares out at the city of London, lit up like a Christmas tree, with Emma by his side and inside that pod, in their own little world, everything is perfect.

It’s gone one in the morning by the time they stumble into Emma’s hotel room, clutching hands tightly and resisting smothering each other in kisses due to the uncertainty surrounding Henry and her parent’s positions. As hoped, they were all fast asleep, Henry crashing on the spare bed in her parents room and Emma gently presses the adjoining door shut, hastily reaching for the lock, all the while Killian’s planting kisses into her neck, delving in the second they asserted the coast as clear.

She waits until he reaches the tip of her sternum before gently pushing him back, his step backwards hitting against the bedframe, causing him to topple onto the bed. He props himself onto his elbows as she takes small, seductive steps towards him.

“I have a surprise for you,” she tells him, the smile on her face causing her eyes to gleam, “but first, you need to help me out of this dress.”

She turns, revealing the clasps up the back.

“Light work,” he mutters assuredly.

He sits up straighter, his fingers dancing quickly over the fastens, releasing them all in an impressive time. She steps away from him before he has the chance to rip the dress from her. She’s teasing him, dragging it out, and he’s both impatient and utterly mesmerised by what she’s playing at.

She turns back to face him, her fingers clasping over the short sleeves of her dress so she can shrug them off, allowing the upper part of her dress to drop. His eyes drop from her captivating eyes to her impressive figure, subtle muscle tone highlighting her curves; not in-your-face muscle but signs of a silent strength. Her hands cup underneath her breasts, drawing his attention to them; to the lacy blue bra doing half a job at covering them; a sky blue, a familiar blue which has him questioning his own thoughts.

Surely not.

Her hands drop to the dress hanging around her waist and she shimmies out of it, stepping forward, closer, and leaving the material abandoned on a heap on the floor. She reaches for his hands, placing them onto her waist, the lacy material of her revealing thong soft and fresh against his hands. His jaw drops as he eyes the thong – and all it reveals – but his fingers trace over the thin material; the rich claret colour.

“I couldn’t find claret and blue underwear so I bought two matching sets and mixed and matched,” she explains.

He doesn’t process a word of it.

“I need you,” he says breathlessly.

He pulls her onto his lap, engulfing her in a kiss fuelled by her repping his team’s colours, fuelled by his passion for Villa, by his passion for her. She barely knew him – not before the evening they’d spent in the pod – and yet she had donned his colours for him.

She lifts his shirt up his body, the movement forcing him out of the kiss so she can continue lifting it over his head. She chucks his shirt dismissively to the side of the bed and her hands quickly move to wander down his torso, pushing him down onto the bed.

He lies there, staring up at her, taking her in in her entirety, the claret and blue really working on her, even more so than he’d dreamt the kit doing so. She lowers herself onto him, her mouth lingering near his ear, her breath warm against his skin.

“We never got to finish our match at the stadium,” she reminds him. “Let resume now; one vs one, I’ll let you go on the inside of me every time.”

His eyes light up instantly; the claret and blue, the dirty football talk – she’s a quick learner. She burrows into his neck, her lips pressing against his skin.

“I’ll remind you, love, we footballers go for ninety minutes across eleven different positions,” he matches her.

Her lips retreat from his neck and they’re back against his ear, murmuring, “Promises, promises.”

He flips her onto his back, rotating positions, a little squeal of delight escaping her lips at his unexpected display of strength.

“I’m like Arsenal,” he tells her. “I’ll stay on top but finish second.”

She chuckles as he tears the blue bra from her. The claret and blue was fun whilst it lasted but there was much more fun to be had.

“I don’t understand that reference,” she admits.

“I ain’t explaining it now, love.”

The claret thong reunites with its blue counterpart, discarded on the hotel room floor.

#cs ff #captain swan #the heart of a villan

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brighter-by-the-daly · 1 year

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Rachel Daly x Millie Bright x Reader

Part Three - The Girl Next Door

Posted: 18/04/23 Edited: 24/09/23

“So Carla has agreed we can leave if we’re 3-0 up at half time” Rachel reminded us as we walked into Brighton’s stadium with Jordan. Chelsea v Arsenal Conti Cup Final is tonight and we promised Millie we would be there but that was before they rescheduled a Villa game to today, due to start at 2pm when the final starts at 3pm. There was no way we would make it for the start but we were determined to get there somehow. “As soon as the whistle blows, you start the car and we’ll get changed on the way” Rachel stated, “we gotta be at least 3 goals up though Rach” Jordan said, worried that the plan wasn’t going to work. She was coming with us to support her girlfriend Leah and her former team “Jords, we’re gonna do it. We have to believe we’re gonna do it!” Rachel shook her shoulders trying to make her teammate believe her words. “I believe in you!” shouting to both players as you left them at the player entrance to go find your seat.

As the whistle blew for half time and the score board said 5-0 you sprinted out to the car and drove it round to the entrance, pulling your Daly shirt off and your Bright one on as the girls jumped in then sped up the M23 to get to Selhurst Park - if all goes well you will get there 30 mins in. Millie had assumed you weren’t coming now the Villa game had been moved, you wanted to surprise her and had your parking space prebooked so knew you’d be close by. The girls removed their match shirts to pull on Millie and Leah’s last names then tugged their trackies on over their shorts as you sped up towards the stadium, pulling into your space and sprinting in through the VIP entrance. Glancing at the screen to see Arsenal were winning 2-1, you and Rach looked at each other with concern whereas Jordan punched the air. Finding your seats and immediately starting to cheer for your teams, when Millie came close you all shouted her name, she noticed you and her smile grew knowing her besties were here watching. The score came in from the Villa game which ended 6-1, the girls were pleased with this and were able to enjoy the rest of the game with ease.

Chelsea seemed sloppy but Arsenal looked ready and fired up. You always thought that Chelsea’s demeanour presented as cocky so found it funny they were getting knocked down a peg. Of course, Millie’s cockiness was one of the main reasons you love her - the cockiness suited her and so did Chelsea. Just before half time Niamh scored an own goal making you both wince knowing you wouldn’t want to be in that changing room with Emma. She definitely intimidates you! Before heading off the pitch Millie ran over to hug you both as Rachel gave her a pep talk before she shuffled off with the rest of her team.

It was a tough second half and the score didn’t change. Jordan was so happy for Arsenal, jumping and cheering at the final whistle but she couldn’t help feeling a little sad that she wasn’t part of the team anymore. The girls ran over to see her and bought her on to the pitch with them which you thought was adorable. While the celebrations were happening you watching as Millie slowly made her way over you, slumping against the barrier when she arrived. Rachel draped her arms around her shoulders as you watched Arsenal lift the trophy together. You were happy for Arsenal, you don’t mind much about who wins what and will celebrate everyone. Beth and Leah came over for a chat with their Lioness team mates, since Beth’s injury you hadn’t seen her a lot, congratulating them as they skipped off to enjoy the moment. “Can I come home with you please?” Millie words tinged with sadness, “you not going on the bus?” Rach responded. “No, I’m sad” her head dropped into your girlfriend’s arms, “well, Chelsea were getting a bit cocky” you giggled which cost you a death stare from Millie but watching you giggling she couldn’t keep a straight face. “Don’t worry bestie, we know what’ll make you feel better” Rach winked at her, you caught her vibe and unknowingly bit your lip “yeah we do!” you smirked. “Stop guys, not here!” Millie squirmed as she started to distance herself from you both. “Best get your arse back home then aih!” Rachel said pushing her further away jokingly. You called over to Jordan to ask who she was going home with, she gestured to Leah so you three made your way back to the car without her and started the journey home.

Millie’s perspective:

Glancing at the empty seats where Rach and (y/n/n) should be I couldn’t help feeling a little sad. Although my family are here, it isn’t the same without those two wearing my shirt. The league had restarted and we barely had time to see each other again, (y/n) always goes to Rachel’s games if ours clashed and rightly so but I couldn’t help feeling like I was the third wheel now we don’t all get to spend time together. We were soon 1-0 down and obviously we’re not playing our best - something just wasn’t clicking within this team today and as co-captain I couldn’t figure out what. I shouted directions at all of them but nothing paid off.

Suddenly I heard my name being called by the voices of the people I know best. I turned to see Rachel, (y/n) and Jordan waving frantically in my direction which gave me the energy I needed to keep this team going. When the final whistle blew all I wanted to do was crawl into bed with them and mope. Slumping myself on the barrier I instantly felt a bit better with Rachel’s arms wrapped around me. (Y/n/n) was cheering for Arsenal which I wanted to hate her for but she’s wearing my shirt so can’t get angry. She’s always happy for everyone, that’s why we love her.

With the glances and suggestive words being whispered in my ear I was already feeling a bit better. Nothing a little tenderness couldn’t fix! Carrying my emotions for me they bundled me into the car and off we went. Me and Rach sat in the back as (y/n) drove home, I noticed she angled her rear view mirror to be able to see us. Rach leant on my shoulder and drew circles on the palm of my hand before moving to my thigh, dragging her finger tips from under my knee to the bottom of my shorts. Noticing (y/n)’s smirk in the mirror I laid my head back and enjoyed the intimacy of human touch that had been missing in my life recently. Although I hate Levi for what he did to me, I do miss having someone to come home to every night. I can’t believe he moved out without saying anything to me. The girls either did a really good number on him or the last 6 years meant nothing. Either way it hurts being in my house alone now.

Watching the scenery pass by the window and listening to (y/n)’s god awful singing in the background I was suddenly snapped back into reality as I felt Rachel’s hand move further up my thigh. Realising her face was a lot closer to mine than it was a minute ago I grabbed her hand to hold it still. “Thank you for coming ladies” “anything for you Mills, I don’t know who you expect me to support when you play each other though!” (Y/n) paused her singing to remark “Errr, obviously me!” Rachel sniped “obviously you” I smiled at her. “I’m gonna have to sew two shirts together I think” she said making us laugh at the thought “can you imagine the stick you’d get from fans though?” I questioned, desperately wanting to protect her from the wrath of the hardcore followers. Most are lovely but some can be downright horrible and she doesn’t quite understand why some people simply won’t like her for the fact she’s dating Daly. Some fans think that we’re gonna fall in love with them one day and we shouldn’t be in relationships. I guess it worked for Rach and (y/n/n) but they’re one in a million and in reality never should never have worked on paper. (Y/n) has given all fans around the globe a sense of ‘if she can do it, I can too’ mentality. We aren’t trophies to be won, we’re human beings and some fans are savages! We can’t say that though, we have to pretend to like everyone even when they try to touch us inappropriately or say suggestive things. It makes me feel sick. I have no idea how these two worked out so well, must have been written in the stars, I know Rach thinks it’s fate and maybe she’s right. I’ve never believed in such things until these two but it’s hard to deny that they’re made for each other. I loved living with them but now I’ve moved back to mine, I am certainly not as happy as I was when I lived with them. My house constantly reminds me of what I thought was my future isn’t anymore, I’m nearly 30 with no one I can see spending my life with. I thought I was going to marry and have kids with Levi and suddenly it’s all gone.

Pulling up at their house I couldn’t help but notice the ‘for sale’ sign in next doors garden, my eyes firmly latched onto the house and immediately thought of how good it would be to live next door to my best friends. I’m not in denial, I know I couldn’t have lived with them forever but I could live next door. As soon as we reached inside I went to the bathroom and locked the door to google the house and book a viewing. It had to be a sign! I was miserable and thinking about how I was happier living with them and now suddenly the house next door is for sale? What was I just saying about fate not existing?

They asked if I could view the house later today and I hastily said yes. I wanted to keep it a secret from the girls but I just had to tell them. Skipping down the stairs I blurted out the news, they squealed and offered to come with me to view it and by the end of the day I’d put an offer on which was accepted. It’s every best friend’s dream to live next to each other and we’re doing it!

Part Four - Departure

#rachel daly #millie bright #rachel daly x reader #woso masterlist #woso x reader

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