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undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

had to see you

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

summary: And then, he says, “It’s nice.” “You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.” “It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

an: eventual smut. angst with happy ending. will-they-won't-they, but they do. smut. he loves you 100%. word count: 5.7k || there’s a part two to this here

simon ghost riley masterlist

You love the rain.

Not so much when you’re away. When you’re strapped up, weighed down by all your gear. The additional weight of being wet makes for an uncomfortable experience, with hair clinging to foreheads and mud sticking to your skin. It also forces things to rub more, chaff. Your skin is often raw from where the buckles and belts sit.

But, at home, it’s refreshing.

It’s why you never hated your nickname, the one given to you in jest—to remind you that you are a female, soft, emotional. Only for it to grow more fitting. Because Rain comes from above, sharp, falling where needed—catching people by surprise, and leaving traces behind, but never enough to know where you’ll land next.

Rain is also one word. One syllable. Short, sharp and easy.

It can be spat, it can be sweetly said and affectionately called.

On good days, it reminds you of long car rides, staring out of windows at passing traffic as you watch beads of its travel down—racing. On bad days, it reminds you of more unpleasant memories, ones born in moments you’d sooner forget, an emptiness in your chest from betrayal, loss and bad choices.

At home, rain itself keeps you rooted. The scent, for one, not allowing your mind to whisk you off too old memories of war and enemy territories. The sound, for another, hits your windows and dulls the silence. All three senses are busied by it. It all blends perfectly together with the crackling of your candles and the low-light vibe you have going off in your flat.

Plus, there’s nothing more British than bad weather.

Each time you’re able to come home, you hope it’s raining. Landing back, greeted with cold and horrid rain. Preferably the kind which looks misty through windows and soaks you in seconds when you step into it. The kind which makes it hard to know which speed to put your car wipers on, and socks get drenched as puddles form quicker than people can account for.

You didn’t care that you looked like a drowned rat when you unlocked your flat door. Or that your wet clothes were difficult to remove as steam filled your bathroom because you were always going to have a shower. A routine—a tradition of sorts.

Hands desperate to wash the months away, let your expensive soaps and scents soak into neglected skin and smother old scars and newly gained ones. Plus, the water was hotter at home, almost scolding your skin as you stood under it, letting each droplet massage a part of your neck and upper back as your living room music drifted through the cracked door.

You dress before you really prune, sliding on silk PJs—the ones which you buy as a treat and wear once, maybe twice a year. Your skin sighs in relief, thankful to forget sand, bullets and bruises, the same as your mind. Busying your hands with preparing a lavish dinner, a large dish too ridiculous for one person—but again, you’d missed it. Home.

The scent of gravy, potatoes and meat.

When asked, you’d been quiet about your plans with the others. Them only having a slight idea of which city you call home. It’s not that you didn’t want to see them—not even sure you’d be able to fall asleep without Soap’s snores, Ghost’s huffs and Gaz’s odd bedtime stories. But, you’d gained new nightmares on the last job—ones which you needed to make peace with before they stole another fraction of your soul.

That’s what it did, eventually. Even to the best of them.

Bad choices, untested intel and wrong moves left little marks before they claimed a piece of innocence, kindness and happiness.

It’s a little different with the 141. Without realising it, you’re sure you all help smother each other's struggles away. But it’s only temporary. You know it, you can feel it in the muscles in your back and in the knots in your stomach. So, if you saw them now when you needed to heal—if you relied on them—you’d go back weaker than when you left. And they needed you; you needed them. A team where you could only trust one another—having been betrayed so often, you were all each other had.

It’s why you were taken back by a firm knock.

Short. Deliberate.

Pausing, allowing whoever they were to realise their mistake. Even if the sound didn’t appear as though they’d chosen the wrong flat or someone who was cherry-knocking. It was purposeful, direct, and your hands quickly dried on the kitchen towel as your feet crossed the tiles and laminate to your front door.

When you’d left, you’d asked a friend to check in on the flat—fix the peephole. Something having forced it to get stuck, leaving you blind to whoever was on the other side. Your friend is good, kind, and sweet but forgetful. Something which also reminds you of home as you snort, undoing the chain, and unlocking the door, half expecting them.

Only to see him.

“Ghost?”

He has a hood up, and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face.

His eyes fall over you, taking you in centimetre by centimetre, digging into you as if he’d not expected to see you.

You find it just as odd to see the skin around his eyes not tainted in grey or black and that his frame is still as ridiculously large, even in plain clothes, as he holds a duffel bag in his hand.

Suddenly aware of the thin layer covering your body from him. Especially as his eyes drop from your face to the silk shirt with its three buttons undone and then to your legs, where silk shorts did their best but were futile in hiding thighs, knees or legs from him.

“You lettin’ me in?”

Instinctively, you move, not even questioning it.

Even if he didn’t say it like an order, he was still your lieutenant. Even on home ground, you slipped into your sergeant role too quickly. Watching him pass you, turning to face the direction he moves in before pressing your back against the inside of your door. Fingers sliding to the side of you, turning the lock, the sound filling the small space as you watch him stop at your key hook, slowly sliding his feet from his boots—finding him wearing thick, bobbly socks.

He turns to face you, eyes washing over you again as his hood remains up as he undoes the scarf. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen his face a handful of times, each time, it still renders you silent, if only for a second.

Clearing your throat, you rub the back of your neck. “I don’t mean this to come out as rude, but why are you—“

“Someone broke into my place.”

You move, almost too quickly, from the door. Your hand brushing his shoulder, wanting—needing—to comfort him, soothe him like you would a friend. Before you remembered who this was.

Almost surprised he doesn’t flinch. Even if he does shoot you a surprised look before you wrench your hand back.

“S-sorry. Habit.” He frowns, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole. “Not with y—when I’m home, I’m… well, I—did they take anything?”

“Not sure.”

Right. “Do you need somewhere to stay?”

He looks at you briefly before his eyes flick away, the tell-tale signs of him processing and thinking. You’ve seen him do it often, especially when Price is talking and when he reads files. As if he’s choosing where to store it in the filing cabinet, he calls his brain.

“Please,” he says, the word almost coming out as a whisper.

As if it’s so rarely ever said.

You’re unsure what to say, even if there’s so much swirling around your brain. So many questions you want to pepper him with, but he’s not Soap, who’ll answer them all or Gaz, who’ll have already told you everything.

He’s Ghost.

Silent. Quiet, Ghost.

Your oven beeps, his head turning to the sound.

Sighing, you rub your arms, suddenly aware of how cold your hallway feels, as you cover your chest with your elbows. “You hungry?”

Silence.

A beat or two blossoming, your eyes unable to move from his face, even if you know you should, before he licks his lips, saying, “Starving.”

You smile, “Good. It's not a lot, just some chicken, potatoes… a bit of veg. Nothing huge. And, not quite a typical Sunday roast, but enough to ease me back in.”

He doesn’t laugh, not that you expect him to.

“Bathroom is there, to your right. If you need it,” you say quickly, almost stepping past him to answer your beeping oven. “I just need to dish up, and… yeah.”

You expect to feel calmer by the time he’s back. Especially with your dressing gown on, loosely knotted at your waist, covering more of you from him.

But you’re more nervous.

Doubting the food you’ve plated, the scent of the candles, whether the low lights make it romantic and whether you should turn up the acoustic songs playing or let the rain be the soundtrack of the evening. Suddenly aware of how fucking odd this is.

Him being here.

And yet, not that odd at all.

“Hope it’s okay…” you mumble nervously as you place the plate down.

He looks like he belongs at your table, even if your table is small and usually for one-person. He’d helped, in as much of a way as a stranger can in someone’s home, grabbing glasses from cupboards you direct him to, making squash for you and water for him.

His hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he waited for further instruction, catching sight of the hood still being up, having noticed he’d swapped jeans for dark joggers before you told him to sit.

“There’s more gravy… just wasn’t sure how you liked it,” you add.

Ghost doesn’t answer, not even as you slide into the chair opposite. Your hands have a slight tremble to them as you pick up your cutlery, trying not to watch him take a bite—suddenly feeling like a contestant on a judging show.

And then, he says, “It’s nice.”

“You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.”

“It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the occasional sound of a fork grazing the plate and the knife slicing through food. It’s almost normal—as though this happens regularly.

“Your place is nice, too,” he mumbles.

Lifting your head, you find he’s looking at you already. “You don’t have to lie, Simon. You can still stay even if you think my decor is odd.”

His eyes widen a fraction before it vanishes like it never existed. A brief moment of you wondering why, until you realise the slip—the way you used his name and not his alias. Making it feel personal. More so than the two of your knees occasionally butting under the table.

“It’s not what I expected.”

“You’ve thought about my place?”

Ghost says nothing, hovering his fork over his dinner as he keeps his eyes down.

You smile if only to yourself, pushing some meat and vegetables onto your fork, continuing—wondering if he’s hoping you would. That silence would settle over the two of you, the storm outside being enough background noise to keep it from being awkward.

“I have to ask,” you say suddenly, keeping your gaze down, trying to still your pulse as you manoeuvre food around the sauce. “Why me? I mean… I don’t mind you being here, but I thought, well, I assumed you’d pick Soap—if you needed a place to stay.”

You try not to look, even when you hear a faint snort, seeing his plate—empty, only traces of broccoli stalks remaining—slide closer as the chair creaks in his movement.

“You were closer.”

Oh.

Your stomach drops, suddenly feeling foolish for thinking there could be any other reason.

Almost wanting to kick yourself for allowing yourself to consider another option, one which you’ve been stuffing down for weeks, months…

It isn’t as though you were meant to fall for him. The man who originally kept his face a higher guarded secret than his own name. But, it stemmed naturally and out of nowhere. He made you laugh as you moved into an enemy building—nerves humming in your bones. He made it worse when he flung himself in front of you before a car exploded, gripping you tightly against him, not letting go for minutes later before his hand cupped your cheek, mouthing words you couldn’t hear as ears rang and rang.

Smiling, you nod, not sure what else to say as you take his plate and yours, turning your back to him as you hear him clear his throat.

“I had to see if you were okay.”

You don’t place the plates down, not immediately.

Eyes trying to peer at him through the corner of your vision, slowly lowering the porcelain to the counter—too afraid to break the moment with a single sound, even as your heart hammered in your ears, in your chest, and throat.

He had said it so softly, you have to wonder how long it’s been churning on his tongue.

Slowly turning, you face him, finding his eyes already on you with an awkwardness in his shoulders as he looks up at you.

“Well, I’m fine.”

“Had to be sure.”

You smile, pulling your dressing gown around you tighter. “Well, that’s because you’re a good lieutenant.”

His brows knit, lips spreading into a thin light before you notice the subtle shift in his nostrils as though he’s sighed before Ghost nods with his usual professionalism. That’s when your stomach drops, fluttering ridiculously near your feet as you feel you’ve made a mistake.

“Tea?” you ask.

Ghost’s face shifts and you’re almost sure there’s a faint smile on his lips.

“Don’t worry, I know how you like it,” you add, pulling open a cupboard as you retrieve two mugs and flick the kettle on. “I’ve heard you berate Soap for his piss-poor tea skills.”

You make him snort.

And it does nothing to stifle the fluttering.

If anything, it adds to it.

Shit.

Even though it’ll be his bed for the night, Ghost refuses to sit on the sofa and doesn’t allow you to sit in the armchair. Practically insisting you sit how you would if he wasn’t here. Even if you’re worried he won’t be comfortable, the ridiculous chair was bought as a filler—an accessory, rather than something people actually used.

“Fine,” you mumbled, grabbing your blanket and curling up across both seats as he clutched the mug in his hand.

You put something crap on the TV, the volume low—just in case he doesn’t feel like talking. Your eyes flick to it occasionally, half-listening as you softly wiggle your toes under the blanket—needing something to focus on. Because you couldn’t keep looking at him.

Not with how your mind was running away from you, imagining ifs and buts and everything else in between.

He fits here. Your home rarely feels warm and comforting, but with his presence, it does. As though your place has always wanted to be enjoyed by two people, not one person who rarely ever visited it.

It doesn’t feel weird, even if it should. It makes you feel unsteady, and dizzy. Suddenly unable to stop focusing on the fact there’s a six-foot-something amount of feelings in your chest, twisting and tightening, trying to unlock everything you stuffed down.

That same instinct and set of emotions which made you try to rip yourself from Soap’s grip when Ghost had entered a blazing building just for a stupid USB; how you’d been so angry, feral—as Soap called it—not able to think, how it had filled you, consuming you. How you’d even told Price you needed benching, unable to even look at your lieutenant, never mind be in the same room.

He eventually cornered you on the base, pushing you, mixing between berating and taunting you until you slammed your small fist into his shoulder as you called him an idiot, a fucking cunt, a liability, a heartless cunt. How your tiny fist hammered into him with each array of insults until he grasped it tenderly, staring at you until tears bubbled in your eyes.

You cannot die.

Why?

But, he had to know. His eyes followed a single tear down your cheek as he released your wrist, allowing you to walk away from him and begin the process of stuffing everything down again.

Then you’d been shot. Through and through. Fire, gasp and fucking pain, your mind rendered uselessly, but he was still the person you called for. Not Soap, who was closer, not Gaz, who could actually stitch you. But Ghost.

Ghost who came in a flash, telling you what you needed to hear—ordering you to do things like look at him, gripping his arm.

“What?”

Blinking, you didn’t even realise you’d been looking at him. Your mind blanking excuses tumbling from your grasp as you offer the quickest smile and a ‘nothing’.

You forget how good he is at reading people.

Especially you. Almost sure you make it easy for him, even if everyone else says they struggle.

Ghost always knows, as though he’s in your head, digging his way through each time he stares at you. You wonder how much you let him in, whether he finds it easy before you want him in there—in your mind, in your heart.

Now, he’s giving you a stern look, one which makes the truth rattle in your chest and snakes up your throat.

Sighing, you shake your head. “Fine, I was thinking about how weirdly normal it is that you’re here. That it doesn’t feel weird, alright? That was it.”

Anyone else, you’d think they’d smirk.

But with him, it’s the slightest movement of his lip which tells you he has heard you.

Ghost takes a sip, purposefully holding your gaze as he does so before filling the silence with, “You thought about it, then? Me being here.”

“Of course I have,” you answer too quickly, wanting to kick yourself as the words hit the air, his brows raising as he sips his tea. “Not… Not like that.”

“How then?”

Shit. Swallowing, you sigh, trying to buy yourself time. Shit, bollocks, shit.

“Should tell you, lying to your lieutenant isn’t smart.”

You give him a sharp look of your own, and he snorts—actually snorts. Your eyes are all set to roll until he says your name.

Your real name.

Not your nickname. Not sergeant or soldier.

“Fine. I’ve thought about it.”

“It?”

You groan, pulling the blanket up further—not that it’ll hide the obvious warming of your cheeks or embarrassment. You’re sure that’s painted across the room, likely even doing a jig at your expense.

“Us. You, me. In a bed,” you mumble. “Happy?”

Wanting to hide your face, almost about to when the sound of his mug meeting your coaster makes you freeze. Your armchair—the one his frame has somehow fit into comfortably—groans as he moves, and you let yourself see him from the corner of your eye. His forearms leaning on his knees, his hand sliding his hood down as he watches you.

He’s silent.

So silent it almost kills you. The adverts in the background do nothing to stop it; the rain, now hammering against the windows, was not stifling it.

Slowly breathing as you place your mug down, standing before you can even consider the options. “I didn’t realise how late it is,” you say, forcing a yawn. “I should… go to bed. Let you make your bed.”

You fold the blanket, throwing it over the arm as you try to shrug, and play it off, but he’s quicker at recognising you—he knows you better than that. His hand comes to touch your wrist, like he did months ago, eyes scanning yours.

For what you’re not sure.

Not wanting to get your hopes up. Not wanting to lose yourself in dreams and imagination.

So, you smile. As sweetly and as believable as you can as you point to the coffee table chest. “Blankets, pillows, the lot are in there,” you say, almost breathlessly, as he releases you. “Have a nice sleep, Gh—Simon.”

He swallows, his face remains unreadable as he chokes out, “You too.”

But you’re already moving, desperately seeking your room—throwing the door open and shutting it as you place your back against it. She’s closing, chest hammering so hard you’re sure it’s trying to escape.

Go back.

Go back to him.

Your eyes slowly open, catching sight of yourself in the mirror as the street lamps partially light your room.

He came to check on you. You.

Rolling your neck, your fingers flex at your side, twisting your wrists, wanting to shake it all from you. Trying, desperately to rid yourself of the tension and adrenaline. Almost doing so until you hear the floorboards outside your door creak.

It doubles your heart rate as a lump forms in your throat, suffocating you. You don’t want to give in, but wish to all at once. Your hand cupping your mouth, trying to hide the extra breaths the sound has forced you to make. Needing him. Wanting his calloused fingers to leave marks over your skin, his stubble to slice against your cheeks as his lips capture your breath, words and soul.

It’s that which makes you shift from the door. Not sure what you’re expecting, what you’re going to see, as your hand twists the doorknob, coming face to face with him all over again.

His hoodie is gone.

Expression torn—that same awkwardness in his shoulders.

Your hallway light touches his unreadable expression, highlighting all the lines and shading of his tattoo that stand out against his skin.

“Tell me to go back to your living room.”

Inhaling sharply, your hand drops from your mouth and falls limply to your side.

You are not thinking, thoughts all scattered, scrambled. Not even sure you can find words to tell him you want anything but. That you want him here, right in front of you; you want him to be rough and also kind, you want him to kiss you like he’ll never have the chance to again.

As though reading you, he moves closer, not even touching you, but your body yearns for him, muscles tensing and spasming at the endless thoughts of what could be—what he could do, what you already know he’d be good at. Suddenly wanting to rid yourself of your dressing gown, of your PJs, of the thin lace between your thighs you’ve already ruined.

“Words, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Your legs almost give way, a smile wanting to bloom and spread across your lips, up your cheeks until it's radiating from you.

“Tell me. Or I’ll kiss you.”

Speechless, your lips part.

Yes. Please, yes.

Not even sure you are even breathing as you imagine his hands on you, his mouth against yours, against your neck, descending down and down—

His hand cups your cheek, pulling your eyes to his as he examines you. He studies you like he’s capturing every fucking inch of you: the curve of your cheeks, the position of your brows, the way your lips are waiting for him. The clear crisis you’re going through is rendered and broken at the mere thought of this becoming a reality.

“Simon…” you manage to whisper.

Hoping it's enough. Needing it to be enough.

He blinks once more before he lowers his head, his lips planting against yours and you’re sure you explode. Your heart furiously beating, ears buzzing and burning all at once.

Barely focusing on the way his arm snakes around you as your mouth moves to meet each one of his movements. His lips are soft, even if his tongue is rough; his grip tight, purposeful—desperate, even if yours are gentle, nervous. The pads of your fingers slide past the healed scar on his cheek, moving into his hair, his groan vibrating against your lips.

Gh—Simon is almost lifting you, moving you back as his foot kicks your bedroom door shut behind him, blocking out the light from the hallway. Only the streetlights dance shadows across your room as kisses grow messier, fingers brushing over skin as he hooks a finger in the waistband of your shorts, then sliding, freeing you, until you’re stepping out of them. Your robe next, falling with a thud as your hands slide under his t-shirt, feeling taut, hard muscle and silver scars which paint stories as your legs find your bed.

He smells different than usual.

Less sweat and fireworks, and more some combination of Ghost meeting sandalwood and amber as the two of you bend down onto your bed, the frame hissing at the weight and movement—not even aware of what’ll be expected to support soon enough.

“Shit, woman. Y’know how beautiful you are?”

His teeth nipping, sucking, leaving an answer to your prayer before you feel him unbuttoning your top, all slow and gentle, as if undoing a present he’s waited desperately for.

“Rip it,” you moan, his teeth grazing over the space between your breasts before he lifts up.

His eyes burn into yours, the smallest evidence of a smirk on his mouth as he slowly shakes his head. “I’ve waited too fuckin’ long to get here, I’m takin’ my damn time.”

If you weren’t already soaked for him, that did it.

All slick, swollen and hungry for him. Not sure if it’ll even take much, not with how precise you can imagine him being—how fucking thick his fingers are, how he’s staring at you like he wants to break you in all the ways he can before sunrise.

And you want it. Desperate for it. So much so that just the fan of his warm breath against your exposed nipples makes you rub your thighs together, needing friction—something he can tell, he must do.

“Wait.”

It’s sharp, authoritative, and he’s going to be the death of you.

Your body is so tense, you’re sure it’ll snap if you keep any more still as he undoes the last button and exposes your skin to the cool air and his breath. So focused on his eyes, you’ve forgotten all about his hand until you feel lace dig into your waist, tightening and tightening—snap.

And he smirks.

The devious bastard smirks.

Your lips part to make a remark—one you’re not even wholeheartedly sure will come out right—but it dies when he touches you, one finger, one thick calloused finger sliding between your thighs, brushing where you need him.

“Fuck…”

“Part them, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You do it like he’s said open-fucking-sésame. Two fingers sliding against you, diving between your folds. It’s intense, teasing and everything all at once. It’s making you burn and shiver, sweat building on your brow as you pant and whimper. His name falls freely, almost chanting it, like a song you’re the only one who can sing it. He captures what he can, tasting each syllable you say of his name until you’re tightening and clenching, and he whispers in your ear how good you are, how perfect you are, and you meet your orgasm with blinding lights and arched back.

The sight of him licking your want from his fingers brings you back, his mouth crashing against yours as you pull him down, knee bent against his hip as his hand comes to rest on your hip—the one you hope he’s bruising. Wanting, wishing for him to leave literal fingerprints as your hand slides between the two of you.

You knew before tonight Simon Riley would be big.

Almost too big.

The weight of him against your palm is something else, the thickness of his cock in between your fingers as you make him hiss, thumb swiping over the head as he groans.

He mixes kissing and nipping at your neck depending on what your hand does, the groans of your name making you desperate—needing him inside you, suddenly empty and desperate all over again, but not for his fingers.

You want him so deep in you you’ll forever feel empty without him. You want to feel every inch of him, want to rock against his hips as you press half-moons into his skin as nails dig into him.

The ache growing, worsening as his tongue draws a line from your neck to your earlobe, his fist clenching around your bed sheets at your side.

“Fuck… stop. Stop,” he groans, a hand smothering yours, halting you as he stares at you before pressing his forehead against yours.

Letting him go, touching his cheek—his eyes full of lust, searing into you.

“I want you.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, his lips sliding up into a half-smirk—a Simon special. “I’ll go slow.”

“I hope you fucking don’t.”

His eyes harden. “I’m going slow. I’ll ruin you later,” he whispers darkly, before capturing your lips, a hand gripping the back of your thigh—shifting it just over his hip.

You're set to argue, and comment you can handle it until you feel him lineup, the head of his cock pushing against your folds.

You gasp as his hips move forward, slowly pushing himself in, your nails digging into his shoulder, into his waist as shivers run down your spine. The stretch being both too much and everything all at once, your toes curling, him slowly burying his cock all the way in as his fingers stroke your jaw.

“So fu—tight. Fuckin'-shit, sweetheart.”

“Simon…”

Your hips roll, moaning at the way it feels, having never felt so full. Never felt so stretched.

He’s slow, as he has been since he stepped over the threshold. His determination to take things slow, to take his time, not lessening now that he’s deep inside of you.

You’re sure you’ve left an array of welts and half-moon marks into his shoulders as he begins to roll his hips, his thrusts purposeful, desperately seeking that spot he already knows.

“Eyes on me,” he says, thumb against your jaw as your eyes lashes beg to flutter, but land on him all the same. “There’s my girl.”

It’s sinful the moan you let escape at his praise, your legs almost jelly as he steals it with a kiss—as though to taste it. Your mouth grasping for him when he pulls his head back, gripping your hip, helping you both to find a steady pace.

He does ruin you.

Not the first time, the second, but on the third.

Legs so sore, boneless and aching you can barely walk without his aid to the bathroom.

You’re not surprised he places you down on the side of the bath, taking a cloth you point him to as he cleans between your thighs as your hisses feel the space. You catch sight of yourself, an array of colours developing across your neck, collarbone and waist—just like you wanted.

A painting in colours of his own design.

You expect awkwardness once you shuffle back, giving him a moment. Finding underwear, sliding it over shaky legs before surrendering the idea of PJs as you slid between your duvet and sheets. When he returns, you brace for regret—for words you wish he’d swallow, face hidden in the scarf or behind a mask, but he’s in boxers and shuts your door with care.

Simon crosses the room, lifting the duvet as he slides in next to you, reaching out, tugging your back to his chest as he places a single kiss on the space below your earlobe.

You want to tell him everything. That you like him, could even love him by now. That you look for him too, that you worry, that you care. You'd tell him that he has pierced your heart, and you welcome the sting, that you'd be there, whenever he needed it. Even with knowing he likes space and distance and everything else in between.

"Stop thinkin' so loud," he grumbles against your skin.

Smiling, you fix your eyes across the darkness, finding the outline of your dresser as his hand finds your hip. Whether to soothe you or silence you, it makes your hands clammy.

Unsure if he knows that someone loves him. Someone wants him alive, wants him uninjured.

“I have feelings for you…” you whisper, fixing your eyes on your dresser as you swallow. “In case it wasn’t obvious.”

He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move.

Blinking, you try to trace the shapes of your handles, keeping your mind busy, the silence building and building.

"Say that again." You turn your head, meeting his stare, watching as he raises his knuckles before he traces your cheekbone. "Please."

His touch is so gentle, so soft that it makes your heart swell—your face relaxing as you repeat it again. "I have feelings for you.

"I care about you and...I like you alive, Simon."

You don't expect a reply, a declaration of his own. The fact he hasn't moved and hasn't pulled his knuckles from stroking your cheek, is enough of a declaration. Your lips turn, meeting them, pressing the softest kiss to them as if saying I know, I don't need to hear it. I know.

Letting your eyes ensure the message lands as you hold his gaze, ever-so-slightly nodding.

“I texted him. Johnny," he says. His fingers spread, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your cheek. “But, I had to see you. Had to be sure.”

Your eyes lower briefly, feeling your heart almost stammer at his words. “Because I’m your sergeant or because I’m your girl.”

You’re my girl. Mine. Fuck, you’re mine. Mine. All mine. You hear me, sweetheart?

His thumb pauses against your cheek, likely remembering the same words he chanted over and over as he fucked you senseless. His eyes narrow ever so slightly as his lips twitch, and yours try not to smile.

“The latter.”

You nod. Feeling your body flush with warmth, turning your head back away from him, grinning as he pulls you flush against him.

Your heart thumping mine, mine, mine. Hearing him get comfortable against the pillow, a soft sigh blowing past his lips and kissing your skin.

“You make shit tea, though.”

read part two

a huge thank you to @ghostaholics for this absolutely gorgeous graphic. I can’t believe how much it encapsulates the entire piece and is just so me, and so pretty. thank you so much, I appreciate it so much 💕!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost riley #cod ghost x reader smut #simon ghost riley x reader smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x reader smut #simon riley x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost angst #cod ghost smut #ghost smut

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bahrtofane · 2 months

Text

jude helping you in the kitchen because you’re hosting his family for dinner and youre running around at 100 miles an hour trying to find that damn stick of butter, it was just in your hand come onn

all while jude is having the time of his life taking his time gingerly cutting potatoes into neat little squares (roasted potatoes are a must)

"am i doing good?" he pipes up, already done with 3 Potatoes, youre so proud of him

you scramble over to him with a pound of meat in your hand, "yes love youre doing great."

he beams, wiggling his shoulders happily, "what do i do with them?"

you set down the meat on the counter while grabbing what you can from the spice cabinet, "the potatoes? just put them into a big bowl and ill worry about them."

he hums, going to get said big bowl while you run back to the fridge. you need asparagus how could you forget!

he manages to get the squares off the cutting board and into the bowl without much hassle, and you’ve started getting your pans out for the meat and asparagus. the squash is in the oven all ready, you need to make room for your lamb when its time though, desert also needs to get started, oh your mini quiches you completely forgot.

you slide back over to the fridge, the dough you made this morning, grabbing it and some flour. the lamb can wait while you get the crusts in the oven.

by the time jude looks back over at you, your covered in flour.

he snorts, "looks like you lost a fight to a baker."

"very funny jude, get the asparagus in the pan please and keep an eye on the squash for me while i finish getting the dough ready."

he puts the cutting board to the side, wiping his hands on a paper towel "yes ma'am."

you feel like gordan ramsey, barking our orders and running around with enough stress to last a life time. and you tell people you love cooking. pfft. sure. poor jude only follows you, doing what you ask. hes even worm a silly apron with big red words "kiss the chef" plastered on them. he thought it was the funniest thing ever. it was pretty funny you admit.

you spend too much time balling up little wads of aluminum foil for the crusts but jude keeps everything else in order, and before you know it in they go, out the squash comes, and you get started on the meat.

you love lamb, you hate the amount of pans and pots it takes though. first you sear, then you transfer to the oven while you sear off vegetables in the same pot, in they go with the lamb, pull them out, blend them with left of lamb juice at the bottom of the pan, boom you have a little gravy.

jude gasps and for a moment you think he'd burned himself, but he turns around with a stick of butter in his hand.

you light up, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "i love you," taking the butter and adding it to the asparagus.

somehow, someway, all your courses get done just on time, the deserts in the fridge, jude cleaning up the last of the kitchen while you get changed.

you come back down to greet the family, plating their food and basking in the praises they sing after every bite.

you love cooking !

#jude x you #jude fluff #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham #jude x reader #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham imagine #bellingham #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham fluff #football fanfic #footy fic #bahr footy #bahr blurbs #this totally isnt based on when i cooked thanksgiving pfftt whaaa #jb5 blurb

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icallhimjoey · 27 days

Text

Reinvent Love

♥ ♥ Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Joe are treading new waters. You’re no longer flatmates, but still close. More than friends, but nothing defined. Nothing labeled. Determined to not lose what you have, though. But, can you?

CW / disclaimer: rpf, fem!reader, language, adult themes, fluff, season 3 of my flatmate!joe

Author’s note: uh-oh here we GO! the girls voted and the girls won, so here we are! the no-longer-flatmates-flatmate fic - you don’t need to have read define close or explain us, but it’ll obviously give you backstory, which might help!

Wordcount: 3.2K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five There was something living inside Joe’s chest.

It was only small, but definitely there. Ugly. Green. Growing. With potential to do real harm. It crawled around and scoped him out, exploring his heart from all different angles, carefully tasting it.

It hadn’t bitten him yet, but Joe knew if he lost sight of it – if he stopped trying to control it – that eventually, it would. And it would hurt. It didn’t exactly feel great now, but once it’d sink its teeth in, Joe knew he’d be done for.

He remembered when it still good. Still nice. Warm. And soft. And joyous, all full of love.

It used to be kind and sweet and would make him smile until his cheeks were quite literally cramping.

But it’d changed. It’d turned bad.

He wished he could’ve seen it coming.

It was a good thing that he found he was able to easily control it with rational thought. Problem was that rational thought had the habit of abandoning him once it got dark outside and he was alone in his flat.

His new flat.

Where everything was his.

Where everything got put in places that he chose. All his things were where he wanted them, all catering towards his routine. Which was why a basket of underwear made it into a bathroom cupboard, and why a shelf got put up near the balcony door, so he had a place to keep his cigarettes and a lighter. Gone were the days of rummaging through coat pockets ‘til he found what he was looking for.

It was sort of great, Joe wasn’t going to lie, living on his own.

It didn’t look quite as nice, not quite as homey, but Joe was sure he’d soon learn what the place was missing. He didn’t worry about it. There were more important things to worry about. Like, how quick dust built up into bunnies underneath the sofa and how every time he’d open his front door, it’d waft out from underneath, only to settle in the middle of the room for everyone to see. Or how somehow he panicked so much about keeping his plants alive that he was systematically overwatering all of them.

Idiot.

It was fine.

Rational thinking.

It was all fine.

Things were different now.

Good different.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Joe joked as he let you in, pointing out the large bouquet of flowers in your hands.

His place already smellt amazing. Joe made a good roast, and had one going now, things in the oven, bubbling and simmering away.

“If I never did things I shouldn’t do, life would be very boring,” you said, laying the colourful bunch down on his island.

“Did... wait, did you actually get those for me?”

“Have you got a vase?” you were already opening cabinet doors. “You don’t, do you?”

When you didn’t get a reply, you turned to see Joe stare at the flowers. He looked a little dumbfounded.

“Joe?”

“Hmm?” he looked up at you and blinked a few times. “Oh, um...” he squeezed his eyes shut a second, trying to gather his thoughts.

Took too long, you thought.

“A vase?” you repeated, trying very hard to keep a straight face, to not let the smallest inkling of a smile slip through.

“Sorry, I don’t... I don’t think I’ve got a vase.”

Why the fuck would he own a vase, Joe thought.

“I’ll get you one as a housewarming gift,” you found a pitcher. “This’ll do for now.”

There was evidence on the counter of what Joe had been in the middle of, cutting veggies, preparing the gravy. But as you filled the pitcher with water, Joe still kind of hovered in the same spot in silence. Looked at the flowers that you’d brought in and felt silly for how those made him feel.

When you placed the pitcher in the middle of the island and reached for the bouquet, you broke his trance, and Joe softly laughed at himself.

“This is... my God, this is so sweet? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten flowers before.”

“Well,” you smiled back, about to throw stones into your own windows. “I didn’t get them for you.”

“Oh?” Joe immediately felt embarrassed. Mortified. Felt the skin of his neck flush with heat.

“I got them for your flat.”

Got him.

Joe let out the breath he was holding in defeat, dropping his head and smiling. Scoffed softly at himself because you were joking, and he was an idiot.

“You know, give it some colour. Give me something nice to look at when I’m here.” you plopped the flowers into the pitcher and didn’t get the chance to make it look nice, to arrange it a little, because before you could, you got picked up by the waist and shaken about. You shriek-laughed a loud, “No!”

“Something nice to look at?” Joe pressed his face into your cheek as you squealed through your giggles.

“Am I not nice to look at, huh?” Joe squeezed extra tight before he put you down, turning you in his arms and keeping you real close.

“You’re nice to look at,” you said sweetly, still grinning widely, nose nudging up at his. “If I could put you in a vase and arrange you all nice, I would.”

Joe snorted, and you felt it on your face.

“Hmm. You’re funny.”

You got kissed by soft lips that almost felt shy to kiss you.

“Don’t get me a vase.”

And then you got kissed a little harder. Bit more firm.

“I’ll get my own.”

“No,” you objected, speaking right into his mouth. “You’ll get a stupid one with like, frosted writing on, or something. Live, love, laugh.”

You felt Joe’s smile as he kissed you harder, both arms squeezing as they wrapped around your waist tighter. You sighed into Joe’s affection and took great comfort in the fact that you were alone. You were outside of your flat, which was still wild in your opinion, but at least you were alone.

Alone was good.

Joe’d gotten into the habit of showing affection when you were around others, around strangers, and you didn’t think you were ever going to get used to it.

The first time Joe reached to hold your hand, you’d nearly had a panic attack.

It wasn’t very cold, but the wind was cutting. Hurt your forehead as you walked and made you hunch as you pulled up your shoulders to shield yourself as best you could. Joe’s hand finding yours was a welcome warmth for your cold fingers, but it still made you fall silent as you tensed up.

Joe just held on for a few steps, and looked at you. You could see him stare from your peripheral, could feel the burn of it high up in your cheeks, and tried your best to ignore it.

“You can relax.” Joe humorously said, speaking softly and leaning in a little to make sure you could hear him.

“I am relaxed.” You immediately argued, because holding hands with Joe shouldn’t be weird. It should actually be normal. You tangled up with your full bodies more days than you didn’t when you shared a flat. If anything, Joe’s touches were exactly what turned you lax, all floppy and boneless.

“S’just cold.”

“Hmm,” Joe sounded unsure, very obviously not believing you, and squeezed your fingers a couple of times. When you didn’t smile, Joe let his own drop too, and asked if you were okay.

“Fine.” You reassured, growing a little defensive. If Joe could just stop talking about it, that’d be great.

“Should I– do you want me to let go?”

“No, it’s okay.” You said, sounding a little squeaky, but you doubled down with a squeeze of your own.

Joe took it, accepted it, albeit a little unsure if maybe he’d made the wrong move here. But you’d walked along, and you held hands, and when you fell into random conversation again, holding your hand became something Joe stopped thinking about. He absentmindedly rubbed his thumb along yours, and at one point used his grasp to pull you in front of him when you had to share a narrow bit of pavement with oncomers.

You weren’t like Joe.

Not for a single second had you been able to be as casual about it as Joe had been.

You focussed on your hand the whole while you walked, and couldn’t help but check to see if others were looking at it. If strangers that passed you looked down at your hands. To check if they could see. If they somehow knew that you’d never done this before.

You had.

But not like this. Not outside. Not in public.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to hold Joe’s hand, but there was something about this new phase you were in, where Joe walked over to yours to pick you up to go out for dinner together. Where he had to ring the doorbell and ask if he could quickly come up to use the toilet before you left. Where he pretended he didn’t know where the bathroom was and made you show him the way. Where he faked being anxious when you left your flat, saying that he hoped you liked the restaurant he booked a table at. Where he nervously asked if you liked Italian food, as if you hadn’t shared a million pizzas together.

Things were different now, and although you were close, would often do everything you could to dissolve into his skin, walking hand in hand through the streets of London felt insane. Like you were moving too fast, even though you understood how silly that sounded.

You’d spent that entire walk thinking of a natural reason to let go of his hand, and Joe had felt your fingers twitch. Felt how you seemed to change you mind about it every three seconds. But, you’d said he could hold onto you, so, he simply did.

It wasn’t until you reached the restaurant and used the heavy door as an excuse to wiggle your fingers from Joe’s hand, using both of yours to pull it open.

Baby steps, Joe thought as he smirked to himself, astonished that he’d gotten to hold your hand out in public for over ten minutes.

He was sure you’d slap him away the second he even attempted to intertwine your fingers together.

Which, coincidentally, was exactly what you did the first time Joe tried to lean in for a quick peck on the lips as you said goodbye to each other outside of his flat.

You’d been out, and were both in a bit of a rush to get home. You thought that the way you’d hugged his arm for a second was plenty goodbye. You’d pressed the side of your face to his bicep and said you’d see him later.

You’d reached the point where you wanted to go cross the street as Joe would walk the other way to get to his front door, and when you tried to step away, he yanked you right back by the elbow.

The way you recoiled away from him was so extreme, it startled Joe. You almost made it look like he was about to hit you.

“Jesus,” he mumbled under his breath, and you immediately apologised. You stepped back closer to him, were about to accept a quick kiss as an apology, but let your eyes nervously dart around to see if there were other people. If there were witnesses.

Joe just looked at you, blinked a few times and then, instead of leaning in for a quick kiss, squeezed you in your side.

“Calm down. Call me when you get home.”

And you’d blushed at how Joe’d smiled at you before he turned to head inside. Your face had remained hot until you got home where you then had to take a moment to shake all the nervous jitters from your body.

It was such a weird spot to be in, Joe thought.

How he couldn’t get too close if there was the slightest chance of someone seeing, but to have you literally whine at him inbetween his sheets if he didn’t touch you in the right spot with the right pressure at the right speed.

But steps were being made in the right direction.

You each had you own place now, and Joe made a point to sometimes not see you for a few days. He kind of enjoyed getting to miss you. He liked how his stomach did flips when you’d ring his doorbell after not having been over for a few days. He liked how absence made his heart grow fonder, and how that felt healthy.

Joe assumed you felt the same way; maybe you didn’t like it as much as he did, but surely you also understood how this was at least more normal.

He never thought that what the two of you were before was toxic.

It was just... weird.

Good weird.

But this was better.

Still a little weird, he wasn’t going to lie. But better.

He got to tell you to call him when you got home now. He got to invite you over to his flat for Sunday roast now. And you would then come and bring him flowers now.

Joe had never received flowers before. Well, maybe he had. But not like this. Not from a girl who brought them just for him. Just because. He kind of loved it. Kind of loved you.

“God, you were right.” Joe said, eyes unblinking, comfortably staring.

Both satisfied and full after an early dinner, the two of you laid out on Joe’s sofa - the one that took six weeks and then two more to arrive - and both looked at the bouquet up on the kitchen island. You were tucked into his side, with one of his arms slung around your frame. You held one of his hands with both of yours and absentmindedly played with his fingers.

“I don’t know how this works but they kind of make the whole room look better.”

“They do.” You agreed, smiling, because you did that. You turned your head, tilting up to look at Joe’s face. “Please let me pick out a vase for you, though.”

Joe’s grin slowly grew as he said, “Absolutely not. Might just keep the pitcher for flowers only, I kind of like it.”

“Ugh,” you grimaced. “This is such a boy’s flat.”

“Well,” Joe started, raising his eyebrows, finally breaking eye-contact with the fresh bloom, tucking in his chin to look down at you. “I am a boy, so, that checks out.”

For a moment you just looked at each other, smiling, cuddled up into the corner like you always were cuddled up into the corner together. When you saw Joe flick his eyes down to your lips, you pulled the hand you were still holding closer to bite right into the skin between his index finger and thumb.

Joe pretended to flinch, but you were barely leaving marks as you smiled through the bite, big eyes looking up at him. Joe took a moment to just take you in. The way you looked at him had him biting his own lip before he tried to grab hold of one of your hands to pull into his mouth.

You were already scream-laughing and trying your best to pull your hand away before he even got close. It left you in a wrestling pile of limbs, Joe with his mouth open, growling and ready to bite at whatever got close enough. He ended up getting at bit of your sleeve in between his teeth, pinning you down into the soft seat-cushions and he felt drunk with joy.

He was so fucking happy.

Pretty girl in his flat, giggling away on his sofa, and she’d brought him flowers. It was kind of disgusting how he’d turned to goop on the inside.

Joe didn’t wait for your giggles to die out to get his lips on yours and kiss you silly.

There was something living inside Joe’s chest.

It was sticky and sugary sweet and Joe loved the taste it.

Loved how it bubbled over and leaked into his stomach.

Loved how it swirled into his limbs and made him reach for your hand to hold when you were walking outside.

Loved how it made him put his arm around your shoulders to pull you tightly into his side as you waited to get your coffees whilst the barista prepared them.

Loved how it grew as he took the lead on this new way of being together the way you had done before when you still lived together.

It made Joe want to introduce you to someone as his girlfriend, knowing full well that you hadn’t had that conversation yet, and that you’d likely have a melt down, but God.

It was just what he wanted to do, he couldn’t help it.

He wouldn’t.

There was a high probability that you’d actually murder him if he pulled a stunt like that.

The fact that you were kissing like this outside of your flat right now was already sort of stretching it, Joe knew.

You let Joe kiss you on his sofa for a minute. Let him slide his nose around yours with an open mouth that hovered over yours inbetween kisses. He made you work for it, having to lift up your head for more when he teased you for too long.

When you felt how Joe started readjusting his position on top of you, you knew you had to break it off.

“Hmm– Joe, no, I gotta–”

“Hm?”

“I gotta go, there’s– stop, there’s a potential flatmate coming over in a bit, I gotta– Joe!”

Joe finally broke away with an annoyed grumble leaving his throat as he did.

“Fine.”

“I can... I could always come back after?”

Joe shifted enough to let you escape the sofa.

“Hmm, you could, but I do have an early morning, so it’s probably not worth the trouble.” Joe sighed, lying back with an arm curled behind his head, watching you twist your clothes so it all sat right again.

“No?”

“I’ll probably be asleep by the time you make it back here.”

“Well,” you started, slinging your arms into your coat. “All depends on how long this is going to take. If it’s another 19-year-old trying to negotiate for a 30-70 rent split first thing, I’ll only be a second.”

“God, for your sake, I hope it’s not another student. But for my sake...” Joe made big eyes, giving you a suggestive look that broke into a smile when you laughed.

You gave Joe a last quick kiss as you bent over the sofa and told him you’d see him later, all casual.

Joe’s smile lingered as he watched you walk out.

“Call me when you get home!”

Yea... there was something living inside Joe’s chest.

And it was cuddly and fuzzy and comfortable and good...

For now.

---

The Taglisted

@ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @bylermaxmayfield, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @choke-me-eddie, @demonsanddemogorgons, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @djoseph-quinn, @dolcevit4, @eddies-puppet, @emma-munson, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee, @figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @hanahkatexo, @harringtonfan4, @hazelenys, @jewellethief, @joesquinns, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @lovelyblueness, @manda-panda-monium, @mandyjo8719, @mexicanfolklore, @munson-mjstan, @nadixq, @nglharry, @notverywise, @pepperstories, @phyllosilicate-s, @royale1803, @sherrylyn628, @sidthedollface2, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @winterwakesthewolf, @witchwolflea, @yelyahcardella, @yunirgo

taglist currently full, sorry

#Joseph Quinn #Joe Quinn #Joseph Quinn x You #Joe Quinn x You #Joseph Quinn x Reader #Joe Quinn x Reader #Joe Quinn Fanfic #Joe Quinn fanfiction #Joseph Quinn Fanfic #Joseph Quinn Fanfiction #joe quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x y/n #icallhimjoey #define close #explain us #reinvent love

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cosmal · 1 year

Note

✪ — ❛ wow i really can’t speak, huh? must be because of how pretty you look. ❜ with james pls I am begging (nicely)

simple man

summary you're so pretty james can't speak.

content james potter x fem!reader

James craves two things when he gets home. You and your kisses. Nothing else.

He's a simple man.

He locks your flat behind him and shucks off his shoes to kick them under the rack he'd built for you after you'd called him upset one night after, I've broken my drill, Jamie. I'm so stupid. He'd come over and fixed it for you and you'd made him dinner. That was the first night he'd ever kissed you.

He doesn't bother with calling your name. He can hear you humming in the kitchen. The hum of your oven and the record player in the sitting room crackling as it changes songs. He won't get into how good it smells or how much he loves your cooking or he'll be here all night.

You spin around, your socked feet twisting into the tiles, and fucking beam. "Jamie!" you cheer, holding your wooden spoon like you could use it as a microphone. "You're home!'

"Hey, lovely," he says as fond as he feels. You seem so thrilled to see him that all the fatigue he'd built up at work gets pushed down his arms and out his fingertips.

You open your arms, expecting a hug, and oil drips from the spoon and onto the floor. He doesn't have it in him to be upset because he's dying to be touched by you.

He closes the distance between you and takes you into his arms. Hugging you tightly, pushing his fingertips into the slip of skin that pokes out the bottom of your vest, hands selfish when he starts to inch them forward until he reaches the bottom of your ribs.

Your hug is even worse, you tuck your face into his neck and rub your cheek against his. He worries for your skin because he hasn't shaved lately, but you seem not to care.

Then, you're kissing him. You kiss over the length of his chin and cheek, all the while you're undoing his tie. Your fingers are sluggish as you do so, like you really want to keep kissing him. You hum into his mouth and tug the final loop free.

"So," you say once you're finished. "I'm making shepherd's pie."

James isn't listening, really, to what you're saying. He feels really guilty, but he can't stop thinking about you undoing his tie. How you're fingers felt against his hot neck. How he'd pinched your flesh and you gasped into his mouth. You seem completely unphased which he's sure only makes it worse.

"I made it all from scratch," you smile, stirring browning gravy around your pot. "Not as good as your mam, obviously. I couldn't get the mash as smooth, but I put extra carrots in how you like it."

Plus, you look adorable. You've got no pants on because it's hot, worse than last night. He thinks you're wearing a pair of boxers he was sure he'd lost, and a tiny vest that's more bare skin than it is cotton. There's a speck of oil near the neckline that he's sure you fussed over for too long, and your hair's a mess. Sticking to your neck because you're sweating. He thinks later on he might fix it for you and put a wet towel over your shoulders. He's sure you'd love it.

"Jamie?"

"Hey- what? Huh?" Jame stumbles over his words and realises he's been staring for too long at your thighs and not computing what you're saying.

"Dessert," you lilt. "Do you want ice lollies? Or I froze some watermelon earlier."

"Um," he's stuttering like a fool and can't help it. You look too pretty to ignore. "Right. Watermelon sounds nice, sweetheart."

You place your spoon on its rest and turn back to face him again. You cage him back in with your hands resting at his sides, linked behind him. Your hip presses into his. "Are you okay? You're like all zoned out."

James chuckles. Really, entirely fond. He's been caught. "Sorry, shit - sorry, lovely," he smiles. Then, he ducks his head. "God, I really can’t speak, huh? Must be because of how pretty you look."

He knows if he felt your cheeks, they'd be hot under his fingers. You duck your head down to hide how he makes you feel and his heart swells ten times worse than it already had. "James."

He lets your hip go in favour of your face, using his knuckle to encourage you to look up at him. You look a little too lovesick in James's own opinion.

"What?"

"I look gross," you say, wrinkling your nose. "I've been in the kitchen all afternoon."

"I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that."

He kisses you stupid to prove his point. He's a simple man.

fixing read more glitch

#james potter #james potter fluff #james potter x shy!reader #james potter imagine #james potter x y/n #james potter x reader #james potter x reader fluff #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x you #james potter fic #james potter blurb #james potter blurbs #james potter drabble

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rebelfell · 5 months

Text

last little dregs of turkey day semi-filth to combat being back at work. 🦃🍂 cw: food play 18+ MDNI

The loud hiss of the whipped cream can next to your ear made you jump, as did the wet heat of a tongue sliding across the nape of your neck.

“Eddie!”

You yelped in surprise and almost pulled away on instinct, but his arm wrapped around your waist to hold you fast. His whole body shook against your back as he chuckled at your reaction, the bulge in his slacks grinding against your ass through your short black skirt.

He’d been, ahem, a little riled up all day.

There was something about the house full of people—him having to be good, to behave when all he could think about while you were mashing potatoes was bending you over the counter and railing you—that made him fucking feral.

Thanksgiving was kind of a filthy holiday, anyhow. All that talk about legs and breasts? Gravy? Dark meat? Pie filling? Stuffing? Combine that with the way you’d teased him non-stop—catching his eye as you took little tastes of dishes and sucked your fingers fully in your mouth as you stared straight at him while your dad’s back was turned.

He was only a man, for chrissake.

And now you were finally all alone, maybe halfway through cleaning up, the two of you giggly and tipsy from your long day sipping on Crown, most (but certainly not all) of the alcohol soaked up by the absurd amount of food you’d made. So when you asked how much whipped topping was left in the can—trying to decide if it was worth keeping or tossing—he couldn’t resist.

Hand anchored at your belly button with your apron in his strong grasp, he whirled you around to face him. Brown eyes darker than the thick, rich gravy still sitting on the stove threatened to swallow you whole. They roved the bare expanse of your chest revealed by the low neckline of the cranberry red sweater he begged you to wear, even though you thought it was too revealing.

The black lace of the camisole beneath it peeked out from under the soft cashmere and Eddie’s eyes narrowed as he shook the can at his side. It hissed again as he traced the top curve of your breast with a line of cream and then buried his face in the valley between them to lick it up.

You moaned at the slippery feel of his tongue and giggled as he brought his face close to yours, little smears of white clinging to the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks. He tugged you closer for a kiss and you could taste the film of sweetness that now coated his mouth and chin.

“You’re a mess,” you told him, smiling between his sticky kisses.

“Maybe so,” he smirked back. “But you love cleaning me up.”

He placed the can down and pushed his hips forward, pinning you against the cabinetry. His fingers curled around the waistbands of your skirt and panties and he yanked them down so the only thing shielding your bare pussy was your apron, still splattered with stains of the day.

His hands ran up, up, up the backs of your legs, gripping you firmly beneath your ass to haul you up and plop you down on the counter. The cold granite on your hot skin made you squirm with anticipation, panting as you waited.

He flipped your apron up and pushed it aside like a curtain, draping it over your hip and wondering if you even realized he’d been half-hard since you tied it around your waist earlier that day. Your skin vibrated under his touch, his hands running over your thighs, fingers gripping at your flesh like the dough he’d watched you knead for dinner rolls.

“Ed…” you whined, scooting closer to the edge of the counter. “I need you. Please?”

Eddie’s eyes glinted with mischief, his gaze flickering over your glistening core. It seemed all your teasing might have backfired—riling yourself up just as much as you did him, if not more. He chuckled, fingers reaching again for that blasted can. He shook it, gaze never leaving yours as he drew two matching lines from the insides of your knees to the creases of your thighs.

“In a minute, baby,” he teased, low and mean, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick at the start of one of his lines. “Gotta use up the rest first.”

yeah this is what happened to the last of my can...definitely didn't shotgun it in front of my open fridge like a monster…

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson smut #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson imagine #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic

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writesleah · 5 months

Text

christmas headcannons ✰ m. riddle

➻ pairing: mattheo riddle x reader

➻ genre: pure fluff (are you surprised i managed to write something with no angst whatsoever)

➻ warnings: mentions of childhood neglect if you squint, nothing else just super adorable, fluffy mattheo

➻ a/n: I ADORE THIS MAN these might just be projections of my feelings towards christmas but i swear he loves it too

this man adores christmas

he always denies it, but he always looks forward to it

every. single. year.

when you two are just starting to speak, he might mention how he enjoys the 25th, but nothing more than that

the second he gets comfortable with you, it’s non stop rambling

“two months until christmas”

“it’s almost december”

it would be annoying if you didn’t adore him so much

it’s not just christmas day, it’s the entire month of december, the entire season of winter

he’ll always be begging you to do some sort of christmassy activity with him, thinking you’ll say no because it’s stupid

he feels like it makes him seem childish, so you have to reassure him that you love his enthusiasm and adorable date ideas

from december 1st, the two of you will be ice skating on a lake, or drinking candy cane flavoured hot chocolate whilst watching the snow fall

every single day is a new opportunity to do something vaguely related to christmas or the winter months with him

if you ask him what he wants for christmas, he’d either give you the biggest list you’d ever heard, or he wouldn’t ask you for anything and just say he didn’t know what he wanted - one extreme to the other

i think his obsession comes from the constant craving of a good christmas during his childhood

i don’t think his parents would’ve been interested in christmas at all, so it left him always wishing he could enjoy it

when he found you, he realised that there are people who do actually care about his interests or his favourite time of year

he was utterly grateful for your understanding, even if it seems incredibly simple to you

the second you ask him if he wants to watch a movie with you, he decides it has to be a christmas movie

no matter what time of year it is, always a christmas movie

his favourite movie is the grinch, you watch it every year

he also likes the polar express, but just because he can laugh at the animation and tease you for not liking its uncanny valley effect

he can’t watch home alone, it’s just a little too relatable, considering his childhood, but he never admits to that, he always says he thinks it’s boring

he would stay at hogwarts over christmas as long as you stayed with him

staying at school meant that you could have the slytherin boy’s dormitory all to yourselves, without any of the boys he shared with blabbing on and ruining your peace

on christmas eve, he likes to get all cozy in bed with matching pyjamas and a mug of hot chocolate each

christmas morning is his absolute favourite

he goes above and beyond with your presents

you always feel like he shows you up, considering that he always tells you to either pick one thing from his extensive list, or not to get him anything at all, leaving you scrambling to figure out what he wants

he reassures you that he loves whatever you get him, and makes sure that you like your presents too

the entire morning, he’s rambling on about how excited he is for the food

he loves brussel sprouts, even though you can’t stand them

he hates pigs in blankets, thinks they’re the absolute scum of christmas dinner, much to your dismay since you love them so much

so when you have brussel sprouts on your plate and he has pigs in blankets, you’ll both give them to each other, so you have double the amount of the food you like

roast potatoes are common ground. you both like them

he’ll always pour the gravy for you if you want it, and he’ll always help you to fix your food onto a plate

he can’t ever stop helping you, even if he knows you don’t need it

when you finish eating, he immediately either wants to watch a movie or play some sort of game, depending on who else stayed at hogwarts

and yes, as much as he hates it, he will watch the eastenders christmas special with you

#fanfic #harry potter #benjamin wadsworth #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfiction #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x y/n #mattheo riddle x reader #taylor swift #mattheo riddle #christmas #headcanon #christmas headcannons #mattheo riddle headcanon

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teeny-tiny-revenge · 6 months

Text

No, but they'll be complimenting each other so well going on. One of Ed's big problems is that he just gives up so easily. Plan with the fog failed? We're going to die; I'm gonna get drunk while waiting for death. The fishing isn't going so well? Obviously he's not meant to fish. It's like Ed's spent his entire adult life being really really good at stuff (sailing, piracy, etc) that he's completely unused to failure and doesn't know how to go on from it. But that's an important thing to learn, and in a way it's a joyful thing to learn, too. You can try something and it can go wrong and you suck at it and then you can try again and learn from your mistakes and get better (either at the thing or at failure).

Meanwhile Stede is absolutely amazing at this. He says it himself, he's been a failure all his life, he got used to it. Stede doesn't give up. That's probably his biggest strength IMO. Stede is tenacious as fuck. Something went wrong? The cards are stacked against him? Whatever! He wants to do the thing, he's committed and determined, he's going to do the fucking thing if it fucking kills him. Stede is not going to let Ed give up whenever he gets discouraged. He'll be there to pull him back to his feet and they will try again.

And one of Stede's big problems is that he doesn't think anyone admires him and likes him. Meanwhile Ed has thought Stede is the coolest guy on Earth since meeting him! He's probably the only person to ever think that. Other characters grow to like Stede for some of his qualities, he has a huge impact on everyone around him, but he doesn't see that, and nobody genuinely admires all the quirky Stedeisms about him. Nobody except Ed. Ed thinks the library is awesome. Ed thinks the secret closet full of fancy clothes is the coolest shit he's ever seen. Ed loves Stede prioritising marmalade over gunpowder. Ed loves Stede being extra and bitchy and a complete lunatic.

And they're both seeing it now. They are already complimenting each other like this by the end of season two. Ed gives up on fishing, but it was never actually about fishing anyway. He doesn't give up about Stede and their relationship. He digs out his leathers and goes back into the very fray he's been dying to leave, because he's not giving up about Stede, he's going to fight for him. That's kinda the first time we actually see Ed choose to fight for something? All his ofher fights and violence are reacting to threats to his own person. One way or another, pretty much everything we see Ed do as Blackbeard is him either trying to protect himself, or to actively make someone else kill him. He chooses to live in the gravy basket mermaid scene, but he keeps running from problems after. He keeps running from Stede. And then he turns around and doesn't give up and goes to save his boyfriend and his relationship. It looks hopeless! The odds look terrible! But Ed's going to fight for it anyway, and look, he succeeds! And Stede is waiting for him, Stede knows Ed loves him, Stede doesn't doubt Ed.

And Stede is so desperate for people to think he's cool it makes him stupid and makes him make an ass of himself, but his crazy plan works, and this time when he's recounting his cool adventure Ed is sitting right next to him, all starry eyed and admiring and saying "yeah, it was cool, babe, I saw that". Saying "I see you". Ed's beginning to understand Stede needs to be told how cool Ed thinks he is, and Stede's starting to hear it.

They're going to be okay, guys. They're going to be happy. :)

#ofmd #ofmd meta #ed teach #stede bonnet #teeny rambles #s2 ep8 #ofmd season 2

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devilat-thedoor · 5 months

Text

i know it’s late, but enjoy this fun lil nsfw thanksgiving Jake blurb based on a conversation between @stardustvanfleet and i🤍🦃

Danny made one comment about Jake being “the best cook” and it went straight to his head….

He had an opinion on everything. Stuffing? “Add more sage, love.” The mashed potatoes? “They’re gonna turn out lumpy if you don’t add more milk…”

The comments and critiques started off mild and you let them roll off your back….until Jake decided that he was in charge and it was his way or no way. The arguments came one after the other; “No, babe. The marshmallows don’t go in the sweet potatoes yet!”

You were sick of it. You’d tried your hardest not to fight in front the family but he was becoming insufferable. “Jake, you’re not fucking Gordon Ramsey and this isn’t a Michelin Star establishment! It’s thanksgiving, for fuck’s sakes!” You threw the bag of mini marshmallows on the counter with a growl of frustration.

He stopped stirring the gravy to turn around and face you. “You’re getting mad for no reason. I’m just trying to help with dinner.” His voice was hushed, clearly trying to keep the conversation between the two of you, but you were well past the boiling point.

“Mad for no reason? Are you kidding me?” You were almost yelling, your tone growing louder with each word. “You’re not trying to help, Jake, you’ve completely taken over! Why does everything have to be exactly how you want it?”

Jake turned back to his pot, picking up the spoon to stir again. “Lower your voice. Our guests don’t need to hear us arguing.” His words were meant to be final. He expected you to fall into submission and just let him be the boss.

You released a laugh of disbelief and watched his jaw clench at the sound. “There wouldn’t be anything to argue about if you didn’t fucking criticize every little thing I did!” Now you were shouting out of spite, trying to get under his skin as you began to mock his words, “Ohhh… hey, babe, that’s too much onion. No, wait, you’re gonna dry out the turkey… blah blah fucking blah! I’m so sick of it, Jake! You’re being an ass!”

He cut the burner off and whipped around to glare at you, “We’re not doing this in front of everyone.” He came at you, grabbing your arm and pulling you out of the kitchen, “Let’s go fucking settle this now.” Before you knew it, he was yanking you into the bathroom and locking the door behind you. “What’s your problem? Why are you throwing a temper tantrum?”

“I’m throwing a tantrum? Why does everything have to be your way? You don’t need to have complete fucking control of everything!” You spat the words with venom, looking him straight in the eye. Your composure faltered when you watched his expression darken and you knew he saw the slight shift in your body language.

Jake took a step towards you, his mouth threatening to lift with a smirk. “Keep running that pretty little mouth and we’ll see who’s in control.” He was close enough that you could feel the heat pouring from him and you just couldn’t help yourself…

Dropping your voice low, you leaned forward until your faces were just millimeters apart. “Fuck you, Jake.” You flashed an evil grin and spun around to open the door, but his hand was wrapping around you and pulling you flush against his body.

“That’s what you want, huh? Want me to fuck you? Show you who has control?” His free hand weaved into your hair and pulled, tilting your head back onto his shoulder so he had access to drag his tongue up your neck. “I’ll do it, baby. I’ll fuck you so good…but after I make you cum, I don’t wanna hear another argument for the rest of the day. Understand?”

“And if I make you cum first…” You reached back, palming his cock through the denim of his jeans. “You don’t step foot in the kitchen again until after dinner.” You gave him a firm squeeze, smiling to yourself as he let out a hungry growl.

Seemingly at the speed of light, Jake had you bent over the sink with your chest pressed into the cold marble and your pants around your ankles. “Already, love? This is gonna be easy.” He chuckled condescendingly as he slid his fingers through your soaked folds.

You looked over your shoulder at him and swatted at his hand. “No fucking cheating, Jacob.”

The sound of his zipper echoed through the room before you felt him at your entrance. “If you want my cock that bad, just say the word, baby.” He was pushing into you before you could respond, drawing a moan out of you instead. “That’s all it takes to shut you up, huh? Needy fucking thing.” His fingers dug into your hips as he gave deep, calculated thrusts. Jake kept talking, whispering the dirtiest things to you, because he knew that would drive you to the edge.

“Shut up and just fuck me….please…..” The same way his words worked on you, your begging would work on him, and you used that to your advantage. “God, baby…. deeper….please don’t stop….”

His hand came down hard on your ass, leaving a stinging pain in its wake. “You think I don’t know when you’re faking?” He replaced his grip on your hips and began pulling you back to meet his hips with every thrust. You could hear the smile in his voice when your true moans came back louder, “There she is. That’s my pretty baby… It feels good, doesn’t it? I can fucking feel you getting tighter, love.”

You were never one to concede, but he was meticulously hitting the perfect spot and successfully shoving you closer to your climax and you welcomed it. “F-fuck, Jake… Right there, baby, you’re s-so fucking deep.”

“I wanna be deeper.” He growled the words before pulling out and spinning you around to lift you onto the sink top. Jake hooked your legs around his waist to bury himself back into you with a sigh. “You’re close, love. I know you are. Just let me have it…” He pulled you to the very edge of the counter, fucking you as deep as he could.

Leaning back on your hands, you watched his face while his gaze stayed trained on where your bodies joined. “I am close, baby, so…..fucking close.” It was true…but he was right behind you and you took the opportunity to squeeze around him, making his movements stutter.

His eyes shot up to see your wicked smile and he returned it with a knowing look; almost like he had a secret that you weren’t keen to. “Can you really feel how deep I am, baby?” A patronizing laugh escaped him when you met him with a questioning stare. “Can you feel me…..here?” He pressed a palm against your lower belly, the pressure immediately sending you into a plummet.

Your head dropped back as a cry started to rise in your throat. Jake clamped his palm over your mouth to stifle the sound and you could feel his hand shake as he met his own release, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck as he spilled into you. The both of you took a few moments to regain composure before he finally pulled out and grabbed the hand towel from the rack. He ran half of the towel under warm water and took his time to wipe you down, the smirk never leaving his face. “Yeah, you fucking won, Jake. I won’t argue anymore.” You held your hands up in surrender as you hopped down from the sink to pull your panties and leggings back on. “We’ll do everything your way, baby.”

He pulled you against him, kissing you softly. “Just the words I wanted to hear. Let’s go finish dinner.” He led you to the bathroom door and pulled it open, revealing Sam on the other side with his fist raised as he was getting ready to knock.

Sammy dropped his hand to his side and bit back his laughter, “We were wondering when you two would be done. Food’s getting cold and we’re all hungry.” He turned away and began walking towards the dining room.

Jake followed him, tugging you along. “What do you mean, I haven’t finished cook-.” His mouth hung open as he took in the buffet of food set across the large table.

Josh came out of the kitchen, then, carrying a handful of serving spoons. “We finished up while you settled whatever tension was going on between you two.” He shrugged as he placed a spoon in each dish.

You looked at Jake’s scowling face, unable to contain your giggles as you slid into the seat that his twin had pulled out for you. “Looks great, guys. I’m starving…”

#jake kiszka #greta van fleet #gvf #jake kiskza x reader #jake kiszka smut #jake kiszka blurb #jake thoughts #sammy kiszka #josh kiszka #danny wagner #jakedown #jake kiska fic

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bookshelfdreams · 23 days

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Hiii I hope this isn't too forward, but your tags re: Ed's evolving reactions to abuse and Izzy as abuse-survivor-wish-fulfillment are incredible and it would lovely as its own post, if you felt comfortable doing so!

Aww thank you! The post in question

Also, tbf, I'm just obsessed with the rule of 3, whenever there's the slightest chance of seeing a pattern like this I'll pound on it with a sledgehammer until it fits.

Anyway. Ed has 3 abusive white men in his life; his father, Hornigold, and Izzy. And all 3 he deals with, to escalating effect.

His father is the one who exerts the most power over him. Ed clearly comes from a violent household, and as a child, he is obviously completely at his fathers non-existent mercy. He beats Ed's mother, throws dishware against the wall, and there was a deleted scene where he yelled at Ed's mother for "turning my son soft" (oh how I wish they'd kept that in. I can understand why they thought this was expendable, but it would have made the connection between Ed's father and Izzy so much more obvious).

Ed cannot protect himself, or his mother, against this violence - up until the moment that he can. The moment he realizes he is no longer weak and helpless, he retaliates in the only way that he has ever seen conflicts be resolved. He knows that he can't intimidate his father into better behaviour, if he wants to end the abuse it has to be permanent. So he just fucking kills the bastard.

This is, of course, Not Ideal. Even 30odd years later, he feels monstrous and unlovable because of this moment. The violence scars him. Not because he was wrong in killing his father, necessarily; the show doesn't judge him for it. But Ed destroyed the life he could have had when he did it, and he wounded himself.

Violent solution? Possible, but he deserved better.

Next up, Hornigold, who is also a mean, abusive bastard. He represents the avoidance solution: Leave and never look back. We do not know what became of Hornigold after Ed left his ship, but 02x03 implies that Ed expects him to still be alive somewhere. Ed clearly suffered horrific abuse at his hands, both physical and emotional, and even though that is years in the past, he clearly never dealt with any of it. Gravybasket!Hornigold tells him "Sorry doesn't rebuild an abdominal wall. You gotta move on.": Don't expect an apology, don't try to make amends, just ignore what happened. Apologies are pointless, you can never expect your abuser to change his behaviour. So just try to get away from him and ignore him.

This also doesn't really work. In the gravy basket, Ed is clearly still desperate for Hornigold's approval - and is refused, as he probably was often when he sailed with him. "You're never good enough" is one of the core mantras of abusers. Hornigold is still living in Ed's head, and heart, and soul; the poison he fed him is still alive and well within him. Ed even tries a violent solution this time, but obviously that can't work.

Still, avoidance is better than violence. Hornigold is left behind, standing on that cliff, while Ed goes back into the light. Ed doesn't have to take him with him. He cannot make Hornigold regret what he did, but he can remove himself from his clutches.

And then there's Izzy. With Izzy, Ed obviously has the most ambivalent relationship. He seems to truly like Izzy, to some extend (why is that would be another post, but as briefly as possible: I think Izzy provides an interpersonal dynamic that is familiar, and therefore, a twisted kind of safe for Ed. Chronic mistreatment will embed in you the idea that there's something wrong with you, and that's something Izzy is all too willing to point out to Ed. Crucially though, Izzy is someone who's approval is actually attainable. Ed keeps around someone who will tear him down, yes, but who it is also possible to impress, and over who he has authority. He's going back to the previous relationships, only now he is in a position of power, and that may feel like he can fix them. Obviously this isn't exactly a healthy dynamic. Izzy, for his part, clearly gets a kick out of the power and status being Blackbeard's first mate gives him, and manipulating Ed into doing what he wants. Just watch how pissed he gets when his control over Ed starts to slip.).

And there's another, crucial difference: Izzy wants to come around. Izzy is the fantasy of the toxic person who realizes how shitty his behaviour is, and who deep down, cares enough to want to fix it. Who recognizes the pain he caused, and who tells Ed the things he most needs to hear: I hurt you, and I'm sorry. You didn't deserve this. I was wrong; you're fine.

And then - and this is also an important part of the wish fullfilment fantasy! - he dies. Ed doesn't have to deal with him anymore. We remove the possibility that he goes back on his apology, or tries to use that as a wedge to carve out a space for himself in Ed's life, or goes back to manipulating Ed. No. The apology has to be the final note this relationship ends on.

And this fixes it. Ed can look back on Izzy fondly.

He was a fucking nightmare. What a guy.

#of course this isnt too forward anon i love it when ppl notice my tag ramblings <3 #anonymaus #message #our flag means death #edward teach

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thetriumphantpanda · 1 year

Note

Drabble/One shot request!

I read it and instantly saw this as Frankie smut scenario…

“you don’t have to be gentle. i won’t break”.

Frankie’s first time with a new lady friend. He really likes her, so he’s being softer than usual, gentle. She really likes him too but can tell there’s a darker side to him under the surface and she wants to test the waters…

ANON YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG I'VE BEEN SITTING ON THIS... I love this request so thank you so much for sending it in! I hope you like it and that I did your idea justice.

Pairing | Frankie Morales x Female Reader

Word Count | 2.3K

Warnings | Unprotected PiV sex, fingering, spanking and biting but nothing else I can think of apart from puppy dog Frankie.

ENJOY ALL.

Frankie was nervous, there was no beating around the bush with that one. He’d changed his shirt twice and had needed to comb his hair more times than he’d care to admit because he couldn’t stop fussing with it. Never had this problem wearing a hat, but Benny had told him that if he’d turned up to your house wearing a baseball cap it would be lights out for his chances with you.

He was early, so he’d been sat in his truck a few doors down so you hadn’t noticed he was early, glancing at his watch, willing the time to move faster so he could knock on your door and see you again.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d liked someone as much as you. He’d seen you at the bar and if it hadn’t been for Benny and his insistence that he walk up and ask for your number he wouldn’t be here. You’d been casually dating for a few months; he would take you out on walks and he knew he’d fallen for you when he’d taken you to the diner in town after a heavy night of drinking with his friends and watched you demolish a bacon cheeseburger and a peanut butter milkshake without worrying about what he would think of the sauce on your face.

You’d invited him to your place for the first time, coaxing him with the promise of dinner and cold beer, he’d seen in your eyes that there was promise of something else too which was the reason he was so nervous. He couldn’t remember that last time he’d touched a woman, at least not one he liked as much as you.

He rang the bell at 6:58, thinking that was as close to 7pm that he could be before he talked himself out of it. You opened the door with an apron wrapped around your body, covered in all sorts of ingredients, he could make out flour, tomato and what looked like gravy spattered amongst other things he couldn’t place.

“Hello.” You were breathless and your hair was falling out of the low bun at the back of your head to frame your face.

“Hello,” Frankie replied, dipping to press a kiss to your lips as casually as he could muster, “You’ve got a little something right here.” He reached out and dragged his thumb across your cheek, pulling his fingers to your eyeline to show you the flour he’d wiped off.

“If that’s all that’s on my face I’ve done a good job, you should see the state of the kitchen,” You laughed, moving to let him into your home, “It looks like a literal bombsite so I apologise.”

“No need to apologise when it smells so good,” He countered, mouth already watering at the smells that were emanating from the kitchen, “What did you make?”

“Lasagna,” You grinned, “And apple pie for dessert.”

He let out a groan, letting his stomach do the talking for him, “You have no idea how good this sounds.” “Sit down then, it’s almost ready.”

***

Dinner was long forgotten, leftovers packaged up and put away with the dishes and pans soaking in the sink. You had a glass of wine in hand and were lounging on the couch, legs draped across Frankie’s lap as he sipped on a beer, absentmindedly running his fingers along the skin of your legs, causing goosebumps to raise on your skin.

“Are you cold?” He asked, turning to you.

“No,” You smirked, “Just excited.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirks back, raising an eyebrow right back at you, “What do you have to be excited about?”

You giggled, “I’ve just been sat here thinking about how badly I want you to kiss me.”

“Well then…” He trailed off, setting his beer on the coffee table as you did the same, settling back into your lounging position.

He moved swiftly, settling himself between your legs before he crashed his lips to yours. You’d kissed this man many times before, the first time after he’d bought you a few drinks at the bar and then later that night when he’d driven you home and pressed you up against your front door. Then there was the time on the beach after your second date where you’d ended up rolling in the sand together for what felt like hours. This time though there was something different, the heat of knowing what was coming was settling in your bones just as much as it was in Frankie’s, and it was thrilling.

The man was kissing you like he was starved, flicking his tongue into your mouth to entwine with your own and you could taste the beer on his mouth, mixed with the gum he’d popped after dinner along with someone else that was only him. It was intoxicating and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down flush with your body whilst grinding your hips up into him.

He dragged his lips from yours and worked them down over your jaw, peppering your skin with barely-there brushes of his mouth. His tongue would lick at the spot on your neck where he would suck gently, you found yourself silently begging he would do it harder so to mark you. You wanted everyone to know you belonged to this man, but his kisses remained feather light as he dragged them further down to your collarbones as his hands ran up the bare skin of your side under your shirt.

“Frankie,” You mumbled, “Take me to bed.”

He pulled back, sitting back on his knees to look at you. His skin was flushed in much the same way you thought yours was, heat prickling over his face and his hair was sticking up in curls where you’d run your hands through it.

“Up the stairs, first door on the left.”

He stood, scooping you up, one arm under your knees and the other wrapped around the small of your back as your wrapped securely around his neck to keep you upright. He followed your directions and within moments you were led on your back on your bed with him settled right back between your thighs with his lips on yours.

Frankie’s hands worked up your shirt and you sat up lightly to let him drag it off your body, reveling in the way he stared at you when you led back down like someone viewing the most beautiful piece of art they’d ever seen.

“God, you’re beautiful.” He mumbled from his lips as they dragged a path down your neck, peppering kisses along the swell of your breast where your bra was sat.

He slowly dragged the straps down before expertly moving his hands behind your back to undo it and throw it to the floor. His lips were around your nipple before you knew what was happening, eliciting a groan from your mouth and his hand gave attention to the other. He swapped over a few times, which his mouths attention with his hands before he was trailing his mouth down your stomach to the waistband of your skirt. He dragged it off with his hands, stopping to shed himself of his own upper layers before settling his body on the bed next to you.

His arm slipped under your head to prop himself up over you, the other hand heading straight for the lace covering your pussy, which by this time was screaming for its own attention. He placed a kiss to your lips as his fingers ghosted across your panties, pulling away for you to see the dark heat in his eyes as he realized they were wet. So, there was something else underneath the gentle kisses, you thought to yourself as you winked at him.

“See how worked up you get me?” You breathed, letting your hand fall to his jeans where it was clear this was working him up just as much as you.

“Hermosa,” He groaned as you rubbed him through his jeans, “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”

You pulled him back to your mouth to kiss him, opening your mouth up to him as he licked into your mouth, all whilst dipping his hand under your panties. The touch of his fingers on your clit, even if was momentary, was electric. Your hips bucked up into his hand as your mouth left his in favour of a moan. His fingers travelled down to your slick entrance, gathering the wetness that was pooling and then dragging it back up to your clit where he began rubbing gentle circles around it.

You thought you were going to fall apart immediately, especially when his lips began pressing behind your ear, his groans of approval at your arousal sending shockwaves down your spine and making goosebumps appear on your skin.

“Frankie please,” You moaned, “I need you inside of me.”

You could feel his smirk against your skin as he moved back between your thighs, making a show of unzipping his jeans and taking them off and then he was there in front of you in all his glory. Scars from his time in the forces scattered his body and the softness of his older age was apparent around his middle, but you didn’t care. You just wanted him to make you his. He gently moved your panties down your legs, throwing them into the pile on the floor before spreading your legs, using one of his hands to jerk his own cock as his other went back to rubbing circles on your clit with his thumb.

“You ready for me, querida?” He asked, moving slightly to line his cock to your weeping pussy.

“Please,” You begged, “I have never wanted something so much in all my time.”

He smiled, settling one hand on the bed next to your head as the other helped his cock to slip inside of you. The stretch of your pussy was delightful, you’d never had someone this big before, but the wetness seeping from you made it easy for him to slip all the way inside. The look of ecstasy on his face was enough to make your tummy flutter. You were doing that to him.

He started thrusting into you, his movements slow and gentle but you wanted more, and you knew he could give you more. You let him continue like this for a moment, your hands squeezing the muscles of his biceps as he moved into you slowly.

“Frankie,” You moaned, his eyes snapping up from looking at his cock slipping inside you to look you in the eye, “You don’t have to be gentle; I won’t break.”

It was like something snapped inside of him at your words. His chest was heaving and that darkness that had flashed in his eyes earlier was back, along with a grin across his lips. Like you weight nothing at all, you were flipped onto your front, his hands pulling you back towards him by your hips. He was back inside you in seconds and the change of position was perfection.

He was fucking into you now, the slow and gentle thrusts from earlier were gone, instead replaced by a bruising pace of his hips snapping against your ass. You let out a surprised squeal when one of his hands came down and spanked you.

“You liked that didn’t you?” He asked, his words coming out breathlessly, “Felt your pussy clench around me, hermosa.”

“Do it again.” You ordered, slipping one of your hands between your legs to finger at your own clit.

He did it again, bringing his hand down to your other cheek before using his fingers to massage the spot, god you hoped you bruised in the morning.

“I’m not… I can’t… fuck, querida I’m close.” He admitted.

“Lean over me,” You asked, “Put your skin on me and bite my neck, Frankie.”

Like the diligent lover he had proved himself to be he did what you asked, laying his front over your back whilst still managing to keep his cock buried inside you, slipping in and out with that delicious friction you knew you would be addicted to from this day forward. He latched his mouth on your neck, sucking hard and the pain, the feeling of his breath on your skin, his cock pumping in and out of you and your fingers rubbing at your clit all came together at once to release the white heat of your climax. You were crying out his name and clenching your pussy around him and he was licking at the mark he’d left on your neck.

“Fucking hell,” He breathed into your ear, “Querida I’m going to cum, where do you want me?” He asked with a sense of urgency.

“Fuck Frankie,” You cried out, “Inside me please, god I need to feel you cum inside me.”

Within seconds he was doing just that, stilling himself as his spilled his seed deep into your pussy with a groan of your name into your ear. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he pulled out of you, the last bit of support keeping you upright was gone, allowing you to collapse face first into the mattress. He collapsed next to you, pulling you into his body, the two of you slick with sweat but without a care in the world.

“I have to get up and clean myself.” You mumbled into his chest.

“In a minute, let me have this moment for now.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his neck, “If I get a UTI it’s entirely your fault, Morales.”

He chuckled back but made no effort to let you go, “Was that… okay?” He asked quietly, his fingers running light circles over the skin of your shoulder.

You looked up at him, using one of your hands to pull his face to your lips to kiss him, “Frankie, it was the best I’ve ever had.” You replied honestly.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“You didn’t hurt me, besides, if you did, I asked for it,” You planted another soft kiss to his lips, “You could never hurt me.”

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