Damsel in Distress - SugarDaddy!James Potter x Reader
Warnings: none
Summary: You meet a nice man accidentally when he saves you from a horrible evening. You think that is the end. You were wrong. As you slowly build a connection with him, something happens that threatens to bring it all crashing down around you. Again.
3.3k
AN: gang I swear this is still a James Potter blog too. This has been sat in my drafts for ages cause I got enthusiastic and wrote a couple chapters and then lost all motivation. Anyway I cut my hand twice at work the other day, fingers covered in blue plasters, I looked like a right nob.
You spent the better part of your night holding back tears. Mostly because your mascara was expensive but also because you were in public and you were ashamed to reveal how much your heart hurt.
You had been so excited when you were getting ready. You had been working so much recently that you hadn’t had time for yourself or anyone else. Showers had become necessities rather than the nice spa experience you usually gave yourself. Meals were only eaten to stop the discomfort of a growling stomach during a meeting, rather than enjoyed. Sleep was categorically just for show. For about a month you had let work consume you, but tonight was going to be different. You’d finally finished everything and you were so ready to put yourself first again.
You’d showered and shaved and moisturised and polished yourself to kingdom come. Your makeup was done and you were wearing your favourite outfit that was finally clean again since you’d actually done your laundry. You chose to walk to the restaurant from your flat, enjoying the evening, listening to your shoes clicking against the pavement as you mentally went over all the news you had to tell your friends.
You got there first, giving the name for the reservation and were taken to a big table, set for eight. It was a nice restaurant, not like the ones you were used to. The waiters all wore black bowties and white button-ups, moving between the candle-lit tables like ghosts, navigating the restaurant floor with ease whilst balancing a tray of three hundred pound wine. The tablecloths were swish and the cushions velvet. You took note of everything, wryly imagining what he would say if he saw you here, ‘what a waste of money,’ ‘it’s just food,’ ‘we should’ve gone somewhere cheaper,’ ‘you’re paying’. Sighing, you settled in, slightly put out that he could still affect you like this. It had been a whole year for god's sake. Shaking off these thoughts, you ordered a drink and waited.
And waited. Another drink. You waited some more. You ignored the looks you were getting from the workers for taking up such a large table. You texted the group chat. You were left on read. A quick location search told you that all your friends were at someone’s house, completely blowing off the dinner reservation you had all made. Together.
You quickly put your phone down, rapidly blinking back the easy tears that sprung to your eyes. What the fuck. Had you been stood up? You tried not to sniff and failed miserably, trying to hide it by taking a sip of your drink. Oh Jesus, what must everyone think? The staff were obviously suspicious by now. You tried not to catch their eyes, choosing instead to focus on playing with your cloth napkin in your lap, wondering. What now? Did you get a taxi, confront them? Did you text the group chat again? Give up and go home? Your options swam in front of you, clouding your vision to the waiter stood in front of you.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry miss, how long do you think your party will be?” You blinked the clouds away. The man looked apologetic, anxiously fiddling with his apron as he spoke quietly to you. You suddenly realised he had a group behind him who were all watching you with interest. You, the only person sat at a table for eight. You fought the tears again.
“It’s okay,” Your voice wobbled and you wondered if you were reassuring the waiter or yourself. “You can have the tables.” The waiter nodded sympathetically as you stood to rush to the bathroom. Something about the pitying look he had on his face gave you pause, and you spoke to him as you went past.
“I’ll have another glass and the chef’s special tonight with extra chips on the side,” You fiddled with your bag awkwardly, “Please.” He nodded at you and you scurried off, unable to bear his sympathy any longer.
In the bathroom you tried to console yourself. Gave yourself a long, stern look in the mirror, telling yourself that you were alright, really you were, you would not cry in the middle of a restaurant like a loser. Hadn’t you always wanted to start feeling comfortable at doing things by yourself? Now was the perfect time to start.
You sniffed one last time and put your shoulders back. Time to make the best of a bad situation. Time to take yourself on a dinner date. Your hair looked too nice to waste after all.
Coming back to your table for one you saw another drink left there. Silently grateful, you downed half of it in one gulp and pointedly ignored the sorry looks you were getting from the group who took your tables. Luckily, your food arrived pretty quickly and you eagerly picked up your cutlery, hungry. In your haste you fumbled your knife and dropped in.
The man to your left, with dark hair and glasses was quick to pick it up before you could even properly react. “Can’t have this sweetheart,” He mused, switching it with his own, “Here.” He offered you the handle of his own clean knife, a kind smile playing on his lips. You swallowed hard, unable to meet his eyes. It didn’t help that he was stupidly handsome either, practically carved out of marble. This act of kindness after the horrible night you’d had was almost enough to have you bawling.
“Thank you.” Your voice sounded husky and hollow and you watched his brows contract, ignoring his own friends in favour of opening his mouth to ask you some awkward question like what were you doing sat at such a large table alone, but the waiter arrived to save you. He came to check how your food was and if you needed anything and you were quick to ask for some bread. ‘The more carbs the better’ you decided grimly as you tucked into your meal.
All credit to the chef, it was good food. Unfortunately, it felt like ash in your mouth as you swallowed for show, barely finishing half your plate. Your sudden shock had dulled your enthusiasm. You put your cutlery down with a deep breath, ready to finish the sham of enjoying the meal and ask for a to-go box. You made to stand up and pay the bill but your lipstick fell out of your clutch onto your toes.
That was the final straw.
The tears were down your cheeks before you could stop them. All the emotions you’d been making yourself suppress came rising to the surface and exploded out of you like a volcano. The small pain in your toes was nothing compared to the cavity in your chest. The tears came thicker, faster. You tried not to make any noise, hoping to drop some cash and run, but the stranger next to you had other plans.
Once again, he had picked up your item for you and it was impossible to hide your state as you accepted it from him. Your eyes met once again and you saw his own dark ones melt at the sight of your tears. “Oh sweetheart,” He said again, frowning deeply, “I’m so sorry. Can I help?” You gulped. This sympathy, of course, captured his friends’ attention and soon his whole table was looking at you. You felt like a deer trapped in headlights. Wilting, you opened your mouth and let out some garbled noise that sounded like nothing in particular before giving up and fleeing. ‘At least’ you thought wildly, ‘He didn’t ask if you were alright.’ You couldn’t stand that. What a stupid thing to say, especially when you were so clearly not. You did not want to explain yourself to anybody, let alone a stranger. Let alone a stranger whose friends had actually bothered to come out with him.
Blinded by your tears you escaped the restaurant and got out onto the busy city street. It was dark and bustling, ‘good’ you thought wildly, at least you’d have no trouble finding a taxi to take you home where you could sob in peace. You started off down the street, looking like a fawn who hadn’t quite found their feet, when a voice pulled you up. “Wait!” It was the same stranger. “Please!” It was out of sheer politeness that you managed to stop, remembering how this man had helped you twice now. You set your shoulders and hoped your makeup wasn’t too ruined.
Turning, you came face to face with him and his glasses. “I-” He began, as if he hadn’t actually expected you to face him, “I, I’m sorry.” You only stared at him, your unhappiness showing on your face. He faltered. “I mean, - you’re upset.” Your expression did not change. What was it with men and not knowing when they weren’t needed. You just wanted to go home.
“I paid for your meal.” That woke you up. The colour drained from your face as you recalled that you hadn’t left any money. Fuck, you’d had the special too, that wasn’t cheap. The man just wanted his money back. You began to fumble in your bag, knowing you had some notes in there you could give to him. He stopped talking and watched, confused, as you fiddled. It was only when you took the money out and held it out to him with a blank stare that he was kicked into action.
“Oh God no I didn’t mean for-” He ran his hand through his already messy hair, frustrated. You wondered how you’d managed to upset a man you’d said no more than two words to. “I don’t want your money.” He said gently, pushing your hand away. “That is, you’re upset, and I want to help. Can I?” For a wild moment he looked so, stupidly, hopeful. You frowned. How many people got this upset over strangers. This invested in strangers. You didn’t know him. He didn’t know you. What did he want?
You appraised him before it slowly dawned on you. He didn’t know you. You could tell him anything, any wild lie, and he wouldn’t know any better. That sounded like a great idea. In practice however, you only told him the truth.
The floodgates opened. You gave up on your makeup in favour of burying your face in his chest, hugging this man you’d met mere hours ago like a lifeline as he rubbed your shaking shoulders and you told him, between sobs, how much you’d been looking forward to seeing your friends, how they’d all stood you up without a word, how they were all hanging out together, somewhere else, without you.
He held you through it all, making sympathetic noises when he had the chance, holding you like something precious. You let his warmth seep into you, let his rubbing hands comfort you and ignored the fact you two were standing in the middle of the pavement. Ignored the fact that men were usually more the source of the distress in your life, rather than the comfort. Eventually, your senses came back you. You pulled back in horror, finding makeup smeared on his dress shirt. You cursed at yourself.
“I am so sorry,” You said hoarsely, your throat sore from crying, “I don’t know what came over me.” You knew a good drycleaners for getting out mascara stains and you were about to tell him so, but he barely glanced down at the stain, choosing to focus on your face alone. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” His thumbs were still rubbing circles on your arms, “You just needed a friend huh.” You couldn’t do anything else except nod.
“Are you going home?” Another nod from you.
He seemed to ground himself, to steel himself to say something as he opened his mouth again, his eyes set and serious. “Do you want to crash at mine? I mean-” He continued quickly, “I know when I’m upset, the last thing I want is to be alone.” You let his words wash over you. Hurriedly, he got out, “That is, of course, unless there’s someone waiting at home already-” You cut him off with a solid shake of your head. There hadn’t been anyone waiting at home for a long time.
He couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes when you confirmed this, continuing to pitch his plan, “-Have my bed of course, I can have the sofa. And we can have tea in the morning, and maybe the farmers market if you want.” He finished.
You didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying, trying to decide if he was a crazed serial killer or not. As sad as you were, you still wanted your life thank you very much. Eventually you decided that serial killers probably did not have as many friends as him, so you nodded without too much thought. That’s all it took though. He beamed so brightly you almost needed sunglasses. “Oh, I’m James, by the way.” He said softly and promptly turned around to hail a cab, uncaring of his stained shirt. You wondered what you’d gotten yourself into.
The ride home was silent except for the quiet radio on channel 4. Automatically you had gone to share your location with your friends, before snorting quietly to yourself as you put your phone back down. They didn’t care. James too appeared to have been texting someone, but unlike your predicament they actually responded. You took to looking out of the window. It started raining and you played race the raindrops all the way back to his place.
He got out first, paying the fare and taking off his jacket to use as a makeshift umbrella for you between the taxi and his front door. You took a second to take in your surroundings. You were in a sleepy neighbourhood, posh too, if the cars parked outside were anything to go by. You accepted his offer of shelter and the two of you walked quickly towards his front door. It was red. You stood still as he unlocked it, breathing in his scent. You’d never known anyone to have a red front door.
The two of you went inside, shaking off droplets as you went. You peeled off your shoes and inspected the hallway you were in. He had a moderate, if large, flat, much nicer than yours. You hummed. He snapped on a light and took in your damp frame. His eyes widened. “I’ll just go and get us some spare clothes.” You nodded, but he was already gone, dashing down the hallway. Unperturbed you wandered off to the left into a huge open plan sitting room and kitchen space. Bathed in a soft orange glow from the streetlights outside, it was the kind of room you’d always dreamed of; a large rug covering the wooden flooring, matching decorative cushions, picture frames everywhere proudly displaying smiling, happy people. You were jealous.
James came back, quickly handing you a pair of sweats and a shirt at least two sizes too big. “The bathroom is the last door at the end if you’d like to change and wash.” He said, busying himself by lowering the blinds over the window. You moved.
The bathroom tiles were cold against your feet. You looked at yourself in the mirror and realised why James hadn’t looked at you. Your top had gone transparent, clinging to and showing off every stitch of the bright red lingerie you had on underneath. You despaired over it for all of three seconds before stripping. He’d seen it now, there was nothing you could do.
You changed robotically, as well as cleaning your face and sorting out your damp hair. The girl in the mirror looked, for lack of better words, grey. She was sad and withdrawn, not like the one you had come to know. Why on earth had James offered to take you home? Did he think you’d sleep with him out of gratitude? You steeled yourself in the mirror; he had another thing coming.
Head held high, you marched out of the bathroom as best you could without tripping over the hems of your trousers. You met James in the hallway. He took your clothes from you with the promise of a wash and dry. You let them go. Standing alone in this strange hallway, in a strange flat, you recognised how numb you felt. Cold yes, but also emotionally. You were practically in shock at your friends’ betrayal, not really processing it. James returned to find you standing exactly where he left you. He jumped into action.
“My room’s this way,” He explained, leading you there. “You can have my bed tonight. I turned on the heated blanket and I swear I washed my sheets recently.” That almost got a smile out of you.
Instead you padded over to his bed, red again, and got in. He hovered uncertainly in the doorway, deciding something before he came in after you. You had just managed to plug your phone in, vowing to text your mum in the morning, when he kneeled down next to the bed. You froze, staring at him.
You felt his eyes rake over your face, cataloging every inch, taking in the full depth of your sadness. You didn’t know what to say, having exhausted most of your words earlier. He did, though. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” It came out in almost a whisper, his hand coming to brush your cheek like one stroked a feral kitten, “You deserve better.” Tears welled in your eyes again and he frowned. “No, no sweetheart, I’m trying to make it better,” He murmured, “Please don’t cry.” Shaking off his caring tone, you asked what was on your mind.
“Why are you doing this?” You whispered into the space between you. “You don’t know me.”
James merely brushed his thumb across your cheek one last time, the light from the lamp illuminating his face angelically. “You just looked like you needed a friend.” He said eventually. You braced yourself for the wave of uncomfortableness that came with pity, but you found with him it was only a dull ache instead. Your eyes still felt sore as you blinked at him. His answer didn’t make sense to you. Why help a stranger off of the street? You probably wouldn’t have.
You searched his face for a proper answer, but found none. Instead, he rose to his feet, flannel trousers covering his legs with a white wife beater showing off his shoulder muscles, not that you were looking. He gave you one last sorrow-filled look before bending down and gently pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight.” He said softly, before turning and padding out of the room, closing the door behind him.
You were left stunned. This was not like you at all, trusting strangers, going home with one. What would your friends say- no don’t think about them. Deciding that you wouldn’t think about anything until you made it to the morning, you shuffled down into bed, flicking off the light. You bathed in the warmth from your heated blanket, enjoying it immensely. Ten minutes in and you decided that, when you got home, you’d be buying one for yourself.
A floorboard creaked outside, even though the light in the hallway was off. You froze. You didn’t even breathe, but no more sounds came. Half-heartedly you debated wedging the desk chair under the door handle for a little protection, but ultimately decided that it wouldn’t do much in the long run. If he wanted you dead, he’d bloody well kill you. Plus, this heated blanket really was snuggly warm. You wondered how many other girls had been caught in this trap, this fake warmth.
You fell asleep with your thoughts in a whirl of friends, ex friends, extra tables and raindrops. Your sleep was not sound, you flailed a lot and the bed frame creaked. James heard it from the sofa and his heart ached for you.
Tomorrow, he vowed, he’d show you what you could have, what you deserved really. But for tonight, he’d offer you a warm place to stay and a respite from your pain. It was the least he could do for a damsel in distress.
AN: I am melting in this UK heatwave everyone, its not fun. A short one because I keep starting new ideas without finishing the old ones :(
Simon gulped. Hard. This activity was going to kill him. Slowly and painfully. Forget all the battle fields and war zones he’s been shipped out to. No, in his own sitting room was where he would perish. And you were only on the second one.
His eyes stayed firmly locked on you as you jogged around the coffee table, testing the security of your new sports bra.
You watched Simon work out every day and promptly decided one evening that if he could, so could you. You express ordered five different sports bras for the occasion, each promising organic cotton and support without constriction. You reasoned you’d only keep one or two out of the haul, but which ones were a different question.
“Si?” You asked, on your fourth lap. “Does it look alright?”
Simon gulped again. “Fine,” He managed weakly, “I mean, yeh look great love.” You frowned slightly, wanting to know if your boobs looked like they were bouncing too much or about to spill out of the top of the bra, not how you looked. If anything, the less attractive it was the less likely you were to get cat-called. This particular one was a little small, it had been a pain to get into. Still, the tightness was something you liked, it made you feel more secure.
You stopped jogging. Simon looked monumentally disappointed. “That one was okay,” You decided, noting which brand it had been, “But it only came in black.” You bent over, rummaging through the parcels that had arrived that morning and Simon’s erection was harder than he had thought physically possible as he stared and stared and stared.
“But this one came in great colours!” You produced the third subject with a flourish and before he could stop you, had stripped out of the current one, leaving you briefly topless. Simon let out a strangled moan, practically combusting where he sat on the sofa but you ignored him. Now was not the time, this was a mission.
You pulled on the third one, thumbing the fabric and noting the tightness around your ribs before you were off on your laps again, considering the bounce support and if the straps dug into your shoulders.
Simon was sure he was in hell; he could look but he could not touch. He clenched and unclenched his fists in an effort to retain some semblance of control.
After only two laps you stopped, everything was moving in directions it shouldn’t and it hurt. “Hm,” You decided quickly, “No. No support at all.” And moved onto the next one. The cycle continued, Simon being held in limbo, painfully hard but knowing you weren’t going to do anything about it. You were too preoccupied to care. He was a big boy, he could handle a few minutes of inattention.
It was only at the end, right before you tried the last one that an idea occurred to you. Surely you should be testing these against something. You needed a baseline. So, once again you stripped off, baring yourself to the room, and to Simon, and took off on laps with nothing on at all to see how much everything bounced without support.
Simon groaned huskily from behind you and the next time you faced him there was a wet patch on the front of his trousers. You stopped, annoyed. “Si!” You whined. “You’re not concentrating!” You threw the nearest piece of packaging at him before you pulled on the last bra, his apologies mixing in with the filthy thoughts he really thought you ought to hear so you knew exactly who was coming once you were finished.
Extra Extra
Price: Takes this incredibly seriously. Has a clipboard and categories such as colour, fabric, fit, price, support. Makes sure to keep all the packaging so you can send them all back. Keeps his own score of which one he liked best and that one somehow doesn’t get returned.
Gaz: Glued to the spot, unable to move. Double-checks that he closed the curtains every thirty seconds. Will also compliment the ones that suit you best.
Soap: Records the whole thing, every lap you do for ‘research purposes’. You both know it’s going straight into his spank bank.
Hiiii, just wanted to say I love your fics and read them constantly. 'The Watcher' is incredible. No pressure at all, but if you're ever open to it, I would love to see a part 2. Thank you for sharing your talent!
Thank you so much! I really do forget that there are real people on the other side of the screen reading my stuff and I don’t just post it to the black hole of the internet.
The Wanker - James Potter x Reader
Part 1/Part 2
3.4K
Warnings: Male masturbation, James being a weird stalker, panty theft.
Summary: James finally gets himself where he wants to be: your bedroom.
AN: Guys I won’t tell you how patient this anon has been with me whilst I got this second part out, just know they’ve been waiting a long time and I do apologise.
Home he went, dragging his feet with every step, unwilling to leave. But he couldn’t sleep outside, much as he would have liked to. No, he would be missed at home.
It was a brisk fifteen-minute walk between your place and James’, or a slow twenty five with a whole minute dedicated to dodging puddles. The latter was how long James took to reach his own weatherbeaten front door. The day was quite mild, all things considered, so he took his time, feeling the wind ruffle his hair lightly, brooding. He got back, opened the door and immediately had to hop to avoid tripping on his housemates’ shoes scattered across the hallway, the shoe rack sitting innocently empty. The slam of the door alerted them to his homecoming.
Sirius instantly appeared in a doorway, a giant bowl of popcorn in his hands, “Heyah,” He said lightly between mouthfuls, “Where you been?” James was still slightly in a daze from the sight of your tits; he muttered out a quick lie of “Gym,” before hurrying off upstairs, Sirius’ shouts of “Film starts in five!” Echoing in his ears, chasing him up each carpeted stair. His head was still in too much of a whirl, he didn’t know if he’d be able to sit still all the way through a film, he was already chubbing up again.
Frustrated he rushed into his room, slammed the door firmly behind him and flung his things away, uncaring when they landed in a dusty corner. He tugged on his hair before collapsing onto his bed, shifting his hips to get his jeans off and his dick out. There was no time to waste. He was hard again. He began to roughly jerk himself off to you, imagining it had been your hand in his hair coaxing him onto the bed. He grunted quietly as the memory of you swarmed in his head, framed in that fucking window, his hand moving at a steady pace, thumb brushing over his mushroom head, unsure of how much time he had before Sirius came knocking. But he was already finding it difficult to work himself up properly, frustrated at having come so close, so close to you only to have to turn away again.
He closed his eyes, immersing himself in his little world of you built on memories of scent, flashes of skin, echoing giggles and the blurry outline of your body everywhere. That helped. His hand moved faster, squeezed harder, as he submerged himself in all his favourite things, letting them swirl and build around him until he could feel his release tingling away, building below the surface of his skin. He gritted his teeth, gripped even harder, ignoring the callouses on his own rough hands, imagining them away to be softer, smaller. He worked the head of his cock again, sensitive, dripping in pre-cum, rubbed harder, chasing his release. He was so close, his climax at his fingertips as he imagined you under him, tits bouncing, your own face, shiny with sweat screwed into the picture of ecstasy as he made you cum over and over until the only name on your lips was his. He felt his balls twitch in anticipation, hips thrusting up into his own hand, so close, so-
A loud bang. “Jamie! Get down here, NOW! Or Rem and I will eat all your food!”
Gone. His felt his climax slip teasingly away no matter how much he chased it. Scrunching his face up as he held in a yell of frustration he let his hips drop back down to meet the duvet, aware he was not going to find release tonight. He let go of his cock, still hard, and mentally cursed Sirius and everything about him.
“JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER, your excuses are useless! Watch the bloody film!” The creak of the first stair revealed how serious Sirius was, threatening his ascent. Muttering even more curses, James shouted back a slew of insults and heard Sirius’ steps padding back towards the sitting room, the sofa and his boyfriend. He tugged his trousers back up, ignoring his arousal, it wasn’t like he hadn’t done so before. He plodded downstairs, unhappy and unsatisfied. He promised himself, as he flopped onto the sofa in the dark living room, TV illuminating Sirius’ and Remus’ faces glued to the screen, that things wouldn’t go on like this. He would not have to shamefully fist his cock to an unsatisfying release before he was interrupted. With each handful of popcorn he ate he concocted a promise to himself and to you, that he would do something about this whole situation. So of course, he did.
A few days later James walked free of the shackles of his lecture hall to be met with brilliant sunlight filling his retinas, the first real bit of sun this term. He basked in it, feeling like a tropical lizard, while its warmth brought with it the promise of nicer days to come. He squinted as he descended the stone stairs, vision even more impaired than usual as he jogged spryly down, backpack jolting gently against him, thinking about what to have for dinner when- “Oof!” Something squishy and soft and warm collided with his front.
Still blinded by the sun he instinctively reached out to grab the thing, steadying them both. He heard apologies flowing from a warm mouth and his heart skipped a beat, stuttering in its steady rhythm as his brain caught up with the situation he found himself in. How often had he fantasized about that voice, heard it ringing in his ears as he painted his own hand with his release. How often had he wished it was real, right there beside him, ready and willing to help? How perfect was this?
He blinked away glaring light and into his field of vision came something even more breath-taking. You.
You stood there, in front of him, real at last and warm and blissfully within arms reach. Dressed in a decidedly unremarkable outfit, he would disagree entirely, a generic hairstyle, makeup-less, backpack straps digging into your shoulders with the weight of your laptop and your books; you had only come to campus on a short errand, expecting to be in and out in half an hour. You had been shocked to run, literally, head-first into James Potter, but you supposed the universe worked in mysterious ways. Or should you say university, this was a small campus after all.
Once you had gotten over your initial shock, you felt your cheeks flush and you crossed your arms protectively, embarrassed at making such a show of yourself in front of a person with no obvious flaws at all. “Oh James, I’m so sorry,” You said, apologising when it was not your fault. James said nothing, staring at you with his mouth open like he needed to be switched off and on again. You were minorly concerned. “Er, James?” You repeated, confused. He blinked, rebooted, closed his mouth and brought a hand up to sweep distractedly through his hair. “Oh hey,” He said, entirely too casually for someone who had just bodied another human being, “How are you?” You opened your mouth to reply but someone bumped into your shoulder before you could. James glared daggers at the passerby but it reminded you that the two of you had stopped in the middle of the pavement, being a blockage to the flow of foot traffic. “Here,” You said, tugging on his sleeve to go round to the side of the building, out of the way. You were lucky you had your back turned to James because he had a full-body shiver at the feeling of your hand on his wrist. He was fighting a losing battle to keep his cock restrained.
Once you had squirreled the pair of you out of the way, retreating to the side of a building, you resumed your conversation. It was all small talk, how’ve you been, how are your lectures, any essays coming up, the usual boring basic stuff but James made it out to be the headline news of his week. He knew how important your essays and your grades were to you, he watched you put in the effort. The smile never left his face, hair as unruly as ever and his eyes shining brightly even without the sunlight, as he angled his body towards you, making sure you knew you had his full, undivided attention. Not even a meteor strike could pull him away from this. From you.
“And that’s all, really.” You finished up, trying to surreptitiously check your watch, aware that you had been chatting for sometime. James hummed, noticing. When you realised he wasn’t going to say anything else, that this conversation was fizzling out you made your excuses to leave. “I should get going,” You said, a polite smile stretching your lips, “It’s spaghetti night and we’re making the pasta from scratch.” James grinned back, less enthusiastically than you had, his smile slowly disappearing from sight as he realised your time together was not eternal. “It was nice seeing you, James.” You said honestly, quietly slipping away. James’ brain froze, traumatised by the sight of you leaving again. He couldn’t let it happen, not when you had fallen so perfectly into him.
You had barely taken two steps, about to replay your entire conversation in your head to see when you could’ve made some wittier remarks, when a small, meek voice sounded from behind you, “I love spaghetti.” You paused. Had he just? Turning again, your eyes met his own, decidedly sadder ones. Despite you only travelling a meter or so away from him, James had deteriorated rapidly from the separation. He stood hunched where you had left him next to the grey building, alone, and he seemed to be wilting. He looked abandoned, unwanted, like the last dog left in the shelter. You felt bad.
Where had this come from? You knew he had plenty of friends, it was a wonder you had bumped into him alone, he was practically always with one of them. You certainly wouldn’t describe him as lonely. But then again, one could never assume about someone else’s life. Here he was after all, standing all by himself, brown eyes staring hopefully into your own, looking like a child who had been promised ice cream, only for the adult to take it away.
“Oh,” You said softly, uncomfortable. You struggled for something to say for a second, your mind working fast. Sympathy was coursing through your entire body, sadly familiar with the feeling of being left out, having nothing to do while watching others enjoy themselves. Surely your housemates wouldn’t mind if you invited James, they wouldn’t mind another set of hands. Plus, it was James Potter, campus celebrity. They’d never say no and he would be your responsibility anyhow. You just hated the thought of leaving him like this.
And James knew it.
”Would you like to come? To dinner, I mean.” You clarified quickly, mortified. James however, appeared to have been injected with some sort of drug. The speed at which he perked up should be studied. “Yeah, please, if it’s not too much trouble.” He said, the happiness audible in his voice. He started towards you without waiting for a reply. A panicked smile crossed your face before it was gone, placed with as genuine a grin as you could manage as he fell into step beside you. You were trying to calculate if you had enough ingredients to last this dinner but James had already started chatting about something else, so you were a little distracted as the two of you began to head for your place, James in the lead.
As soon as you had returned home and dumped your things you were rushing into the kitchen to double check the ingredients again. Assessing them you worked out you would have just enough for James to join in, thank goodness. Turning around, you saw that James had followed you in and was appraising the crappy kitchen of your even crappier student housing. Embarrassment crept up on you as you took in the overflowing bin, the stained floor and the crumbs scattered everywhere.
“Sorry,” You said sheepishly, “I thought my housemates would’ve been back by now.” ‘And cleared up this mess so we don’t look like slobs’ you finished the sentence in your head. James didn’t seem bothered. He just shrugged, moving deeper into the room towards you.
Come to think of it, where were your housemates? You took out your phone and began to ring them. The ensuing phone call was very informative. They had gone to get some essentials, “We’re out of wine!”, and had gotten stuck in traffic on the way back, “I think there was an accident, there are blue lights everywhere and nobody’s moving.” Sending your condolences, you promised to have food on the table by the time they got back and hung up.
You assumed James had heard everything, he hadn’t given you any privacy by leaving the kitchen, so when you turned and told him the two of you had better get started he didn’t seem too fussed. Not that he wanted to let onto you of course, but he was the furthest from fussed he’d ever been in his life. This couldn’t have gone better had he planned and executed the whole thing; he was glad he didn’t have to anymore. If he thought about this situation hard enough it was definitely, by all definitions, a date. Your first one together. You were alone, in a private space, in the evening and food was involved. He was much more than fussed. He was focused.
You cleared the place up a little whilst directing James to get all the ingredients out and ready. He was attentive, executing your instructions to the letter and you were pleased and impressed. Once you’d deemed the surfaces usable you and James got started weighing out the flour and cracking the eggs to make the pasta. You’d never actually done this before but the recipe seemed simple enough and, though you wouldn’t admit it to yourself, you wanted to look cool in front of James. He was such an interesting person himself that anything you could do that was edgy and different was sure to gain you brownie points with him.
You and James chatted merrily over the pasta dough, swapping jokes and funny tales as you kneaded, rolled and cut the stuff, the radio on some vintage music channel in the background. The ambience that gave, plus the dim lighting and the decidedly domestic situation you found yourself in meant that whenever your bare arm brushed James’, sleeves rolled up for protection, butterflies went swirling through your tummy. The innocent, girlish kind that signalled a schoolgirl crush rather than whatever chaos was swimming in James’ body. Opposingly, every time he felt how soft your skin was he had to swallow back a groan, imagining how soft your nipples would be under his thumbs.
With the pasta finished and cooking you sent James off to wash his hands and brush his jumper free of flour whilst you started on the sauce. You directed James to the bathroom you shared with one other girl so he wouldn’t disturb anyone else’s things. Unfortunately for you, that bathroom was right next to your room, which James took full advantage of disturbing.
The thrill of knowing that, only meters away, you were so carefully cutting tomatoes and dicing onions for him to enjoy while he was tiptoeing around your room, finally in the space he had only seen through the window for so long. It was smaller than he had imagined. Careful to keep an ear out for the repeated sound of the knife hitting the chopping board he sat gently on your bed, reverently wafting his hand over your pillows. This was where you slept. Where you touched yourself, hopefully to thoughts of him. He lent forwards and quietly sniffed your pillow, drowning himself in the intoxicating scent of sleep, shampoo and you. Shivering, he pulled back before he got too invested, unwilling to lose sight of his main goal. Standing again, he had it in his sights. Your laundry basket. An old blue thing he’d seen you balance on your hip a hundred times before, only this time its contents were ripe for the picking.
He moved over, mindful in case any of the floorboards creaked and reached it. For a short second he stood over it just basking in the fact that he was standing over a treasure trove and he could do whatever he wanted, take whatever he wanted. It was euphoric. He bent down, studying the way that the clothes on top were arranged before he carefully stuck his hand in, rooting around, trying to find what he knew was buried in there somewhere. Then his fingers brushed again something incongruously soft and lacy and his hand clenched into an unyielding fist. He’d found it. Your underwear. Your used underwear. Something he had fisted his cock raw over. If he’d wanted something clean he could’ve gone to the nearest shop, no, he wanted them dirty. He wanted them to be yours.
Pulling his hand back out, he discovered he had caught a pretty pink pair, all frills and bows. He shuddered again and couldn’t stop himself. He found he didn’t want to stop himself. He brought them up to his nose with one hand, the other brushed over his hardening erection. His eyes rolled, his mouth opened in a silent groan, ecstasy rushing through his veins, making his heart thud against his ribs. He was sure he was in heaven, he had met his maker. He stayed still for a while, content to breathe in your scent and tease himself, but he was brought back to reality with the crashing thud of your spoon against the pot. Shit. He was running out of time. Still in some sort of half-daze, he reached in again and this time pulled out a much more simple pair, white with small black flowers, that he took without a second thought. It was nice to have the variety.
But now he had a much bigger problem. His cock was straining against his jeans, unapologetic and absolutely noticeable. James decided there was only one thing for it. Still holding the pink pair to his face, he tugged at his zip and freed his cock before half walking, half waddling over to your drawers, where he opened one after the other until he found your underwear. Bras and panties, matching and odd ones, obviously new ones and older ones that had stretched and faded. He saw them all, admired each in turn as he imagined you modelling them for him, smiling happily as your tits bounced out of the lace and your hips swayed from side to side-
He had to shove the pink fabric into his mouth to muffle his moans as he came into his hand after a mere few strokes. He had to work on that, he realised, if he wanted to impress you. He couldn’t be a two-minute man. But the thought of you in your underwear just did it for him. Still, he thought, cleaning his hands with some tissues he’d found, he could practice. He threw the tissues into the bin with a wild air, thrilled at the thought of you finding them. He rearranged your laundry basket to how he had found it. He shoved both pairs into his pocket, needing something to practice with.
He stood in your doorway, mourning the short time he had had in there, vowing that he would return next time with you in his arms. He pulled the door to, and walked back to the kitchen, looking nonchalant and calm as if he hadn’t just jerked it to your old sports bras. “Oh James, you’re back!” You exclaimed. Fuck, he’d do anything to have you say his name again. “Here,” You said, holding a small spoon out to him with a little sauce on it. “Try.” You held a hand under his chin to make sure nothing spilt onto his clothes as you brought the spoon to his mouth. James ducked slightly to make it easier for you to reach. He licked it clean, keeping eye contact with your own concerned pair, letting the rich taste blossom on his tongue, covering up something else. “More salt?” You asked, worried. He smacked his lips and grinned.
Simon Riley was fucking fine, everyone else just needed to get off his back. Leave him alone. He was a fully grown man who was absolutely capable of taking care of himself; he regularly bought lettuce at the supermarket for crying out loud.
And yet ever since he’d been discharged Price had been on his arse about seeing a shrink. ‘Lonely,’ He had said, ‘Gotta talk to someone who isn’t a cashier Simon.’ Simon merely grunted and blinked at his superior, indicating he was done talking about this. ‘Waste of time,’ Simon called it. Price could only sigh and look disappointed, something Simon abhorred.
Simon considered Price’s words on the way home. ‘Lonely.’ He snorted. He wasn’t lonely, or at least, not by his own, considerably low, standards. He could never be considered a social man but at least he texted his team semi-regularly on his brick of a phone. Johnny could be considered a regular correspondent, always sending his Lt. shit memes despite being well into his 20s. So what if there were days that passed without Simon saying a single word? If the only person he saw was his own reflection? Wasn’t his fault he still kept military hours; going for his runs at a time most people would only dream of and his hobbies kept him inside, reading or fixing up an old motorbike or weight-lifting.
No he was fine, his life was fine and he didn’t need anyone poking their nose into his business. What he often failed to consider was that his life could be more than fine, if he wanted. And Price wanted it for him.
He wanted it enough that one evening on his way back from the shops Simon got a cryptic text from his Captain. ‘Left a present for you’ it read, ‘Try not to be too angry and just give it a chance, Simon.’ Simon knew he was in trouble when Price used his name in a text. Sure enough, he pulled into his driveway and immediately spotted the two cardboard boxes on his front-door step. Cursing his captain, Simon approached it cautiously like he was used to doing, fully aware that whatever was inside was scrabbling and most certainly alive.
He opened the box, swearing when he came face to face with a dog.
He stared. The dog stared back, just as unimpressed.
Simon snatched up the note inside in Price’s uniform writing that informed him that this was Wade, a retired military attack dog, Simon snorted at the irony, whom Price had adopted and gifted to Simon. Sighing, Simon let his arm fall back down, his eyes appraising the creature now in his care. It wasn’t cute, grisly was a better word. The silver hair on its muzzle told Simon that he’d certainly seen enough action, if the doleful eyes didn’t tell him first. It had scars crossing its face and its slow movements meant he wouldn’t be winning any races.
Simon toyed briefly with the idea of taking it to the nearest dog shelter and ridding himself of this burden, but the thought of what Price would say when he found out stopped that train of thought. Tearing open the other box in frustration Simon found it full of supplies; dog bowls, food, beds, coats, leads, everything he needed. Simon’s eyes wandered over the dog, still sitting dopily in its box, unconcerned with this new environment.
Resigned to his fate Simon brought the thing inside and dumped a bed onto his kitchen floor. The dog sat there, unbothered by this change, but Simon was seething. He tried to compose a text to Price, but all of his attempts would have gotten him written up had he sent them. He glared at the animal. It only stared back; just two grumpy old men figuring things out.
Simon went to bed.
It was still there in the morning though, hadn’t run off in the night. He sighed, of course that would’ve been a miracle. Instead, it stood next to him while he was fixing his breakfast, placed exactly where Simon was sure to trip over him. “Wadda ya’ want?” He asked harshly before he considered the idea that it couldn’t even respond. So he was shocked when it went and picked up the dog bowl in its mouth before returning to Simon’s side. “Bloody hell,” Simon grumbled, dragging a hand over his face, “Ya want breakfast don’tcha.” Its dark tail gave one small wag against the floor. Simon fed the dog.
Over the next few weeks Simon and the dog struck up a symbiotic relationship; Simon fed it and walked it in the evenings and it stayed out of his way the rest of the time. It seemed to be able to sense Simon’s hostility and instead of wasting energy trying to win him over, it couldn’t be bothered. But it let Simon know in his own way. Simon could no longer sit on the sofa without getting covered in dog hair. He couldn’t walk around in his socks in case he accidentally stood in a puddle of water from his drinking bowl. His meager garden was littered with particularly stinky dog shits. Simon grunted and grumbled about every aspect of this dog to himself as he cleaned up after it. As he had to readjust to this new life. Simon had never wanted dependents, the reason he hadn’t wanted children, because he knew he couldn’t be reliable. Now thought, that he had nothing to do but sit at home all day, reliable became his middle name and, for better or for worse, the dog knew it.
It wasn’t until a few months in until they really found something to bond over. Simon had the footy on TV, feet up, lights off, beer in hand. Man U vs. Liverpool. The dog was somewhere on the other chair Simon had, but it wasn’t until Liverpool came onto the screen that it did something it had never done before. It barked. Simon grunted unthinkingly, “Yeah, fuck ‘em.” He said in corroboration of the dog’s obvious rejection of the Liverpool players. It was then he realised what he’d done and almost called Price to schedule that shrink appointment. He’d graduated from just talking to the mutt to having full on conversations with a bloody dog. A new low. Still, he turned his head to watch as it glared at the TV, appearing to curse the players in it’s head. Maybe there was something there after all.
Then a few days later on one of their evening walks the dog took a massive shit right in next door’s garden. The neighbours who always complained that his own front garden was a mess. Simon never thought he’d see the day. He just managed a soft “Good boy Wade,” before he had to run. He could blame it on their own nutter of a dog, one that barked at all hours of the day.
From then on Simon begrudgingly began to see the benefits of having a dog. He had someone to talk to now, someone to air his grievances, someone to accompany him to the rare pub trips, someone who cared whether or not he got out of bed in the morning. He got a new hobby, teaching Wade all sorts of tricks like pissing on command, he was saving that one for a visit to Johnny’s. He began to never leave the house without his companion, gaining intimate knowledge of which shops allowed dogs and which ones had rings to tie them up outside and where all the dog waste bins were. Somehow, Simon ‘’M just fine’ Riley became Simon ‘whadda ya mean a ‘no dogs’ policy’ Riley. As he took care of Wade he found himself taking care of himself too, if nothing else so that Wade would get the care he deserved. He left the house on a regular basis to visit the local butchers for all the prime cuts that ended up in a metal bowl on the floor. He was constantly researching new parks and areas to walk Wade, seeing more sunlight than he ever had. He actually kept on top of his laundry now too, lest Wade got embarrassed at being seen with an owner covered in dog hair.
So when he appeared at the next team meet up, alive and apparently healthy, lead in hand, an unbothered Wade on the other end, his teammates all appeared mildly surprised. Except Price, who only raised his beer quietly for Simon, proud that he’d tried.
Simon only grunted and reached down to stroke Wade’s head absentmindedly. One thing was for sure though; he wasn’t lonely any more.
And if he used Wade as an excuse to talk to the pretty bird he often saw reading at the local park then that was his business, and one more thing to add to the ‘thank Wade’ list.
Have you seen those pelvic floor exercise reels on Instagram?
Anyway the 141 and your pelvic floor exercises
Ghost will absolutely give a dead-eyed stare, holding a stop watch almost menacingly to time how long you squeeze for. “Only eight seconds love, yeh were meant to do ten.” And his favourite phrase “Again.”
Gaz would be the kindest, reminding you to breathe while holding the long squeezes, squeezing your hand in time with the pulses and counting aloud so all you had to do was focus on your exercises. “Keep breathing love, keep going, doing so well.”
Soap would be the most enthusiastic, offering to watch your muscles squeeze and relax “tah make sure yeh’re dooin’ it right.” Always reminds you to do them at the most inconvenient times, like right before bed.
Price is no-nonsense about them, he never lets you skip a single night. His resolute gaze meets your pouty one. He is unmoved by your whining. “Thank me later doll, do them now. And squeeze for two, three, four,” He does the hand gestures to make you feel less alone.
All of them will ask you to squeeze mid fuck to test your progress.
Summary: You're pregnant, hurray! But your father, Price, is furious with your baby's father. The only question is who is that, exactly?
1.2K
AN: I had a dream the other night that I was pregnant but I don't think that will come true anytime soon because I was also a fairy. Also while I do subscribe to the ‘Price is a shit dad mentality’ I cannot bring myself to write it.
The only reason you knew people couldn’t die of embarrassment was your own current experience.
Sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair in a stuffy office, head down, fingers clenched in your lap, cheeks burning red, throat tight, you were hoping the floor would just open up and swallow you whole. The protection your father believed he was offering you was doing little to help you relax. He stood like a barrier in front of you, hands actually on his hips, shielding you from the other men in the room who were undoubtedly feeling as uncomfortable as you, probably worse. His anger was visible from outer space, if the heavy breathing hadn’t given it away already. Your father had his back to you, choosing instead to face his team with whom he was furious.
“Which one of you?” He asked, his gruff voice unusually smooth, “Which one of you fuckin’ bastards,” You winced as his voice rose, “Got my daughter knocked up?” He was scolding these fully grown men as if they were five years old.
A meteor strike. Dinosaurs reanimating. Anything but this.
The rest of the team didn’t move an inch. They’d been through torture training, hell, the man in front of them had put them through it; but they were beginning to think that had only been a warmup compared to his rage. Each stood to attention before their superior officer, hands clasped behind their backs, with the unmistakable air of people who had been caught red-handed. Soap was uncharacteristically silent, his mouth, that was so used to moving, now bolted shut. Gaz was sweating up a storm, the heat of the small room, no doubt carefully curated by Price, not helping. Ghost was refusing to meet his captain’s eye. The captain he respected so much, whose orders he executed unquestioningly.
Clearly he didn’t respect him enough to refrain from sleeping with his daughter.
Price snorted rather like a bull. He paced slowly, menacingly, up and down in front of his men, assessing each one closely for weaknesses in turn before he returned to his original position in front of you. Whilst this could be viewed as protection, your father’s military past meant that it was also probably to keep you from making eye contact with any of them, preventing you from silently communicating to the guilty party.
Earlier that day you had confessed; gone tearfully to your father’s office and told him, through sniffles, that you were pregnant and he had gone so still you thought he was having a heart attack. He only moved after a whole minute having fully assessed the situation. He took off his hat, rubbing his jaw ruefully, you were sure you had just put a few more grey hairs into his beard, before rising and encasing you in a hug, asking you gently if this was what you really wanted, were you truly happy?
“‘Cuz if you ain’t, darlin’, you have options, yeah?”
You yourself had found out the day before which had given you time to ponder that exact question and come up with an answer, which was yes, you were. Having graduated from university a year ago you had found yourself a little lost; no job seemed to be calling out to you. Of course dad offered to get you a job through nepotism but the army had never been your calling and besides, you didn’t want to work for the sake of working. But now there was a real little life growing inside you, protected and cared for and loved by you that you realised, sat on the toilet seat in that dingy bathroom stall, that you no longer felt lost.
You had found a purpose. You wanted to be a mother.
You told dad all this and you felt him slowly process and accept your words, the future you saw for yourself. You were happy. That was all that mattered. He stroked your hair tenderly, quietly reassuring you that the two of you would figure this out, you were in it together, that he wanted to be there for you, - and that was when he drew back again.
“Will the, uh, father be there for you too darlin’?”
That gave you pause to consider the question grating on the back of your mind. The one that made your insides burn whenever you dared think of it. John mistook your silence to mean something else entirely, which was why he had lined up his team and was drilling them ferociously. You were not happy with what you viewed as this macho show of overprotection. You thought you might die if he pulled rank on them.
“Dad?” You said tentatively, not wanting to make things worse.
“No, no darlin’, ‘s alright, I’ll make a man out of ‘em soon enough.” He growled taughtly, agitated. “I’ll get some responsibility going.”
You visibly winced. The three of them saw and you watched as their faces twisted in concern, which made John whirl around to face you too. Your hand instinctively moved to cover your abdomen. His eyebrows contracted. “You alright?” He asked, worried. You swallowed hard, knowing what you had to do but hating every second of it. All this panic could not be good for the baby but you had to save them from this.
“Dad,” You began gently, “It’s not that they don’t want to be part of this, it’s not,” You added at his disbelief. You explained quietly, “They don’t know.” You let that hang in the air, watching everyone in the room digest it. Dad looked confused. “Whadda you mean they don’t know?” He repeated, “You haven’t told him yet?” You shook your head.
John’s shoulders dropped a little in relief. “‘S alright darlin’, it’s alright,” He soothed, “You can tell us now, yeah?” He didn’t have to add ‘tell us know so I can beat the shit out of him’, but everyone knew it was there.
You took a deep breath, ready to seal your doom. “I can’t tell them Dad,” You said, barely louder than a whisper, unable to meet his eyes, “Because I don’t know whose it is.”
John’s eyes widened, his head whipped around, tracing the three of them like a sonar as your bomb exploded. Soap’s eyebrows shot up so high on his forehead they got lost in his shaggy mohawk before his head fell forwards as though in prayer. Gaz’s breath caught in his throat as he went dangerously pale, his eyes raking over your scared face, hands shaking slightly. Ghost let out a small choking noise that could be passed off as a cough, shifting his weight uneasily. One thing was for certain; all eyes were on you. A tear or two escaped as you quivered in your chair, shrinking into yourself, still cupping your abdomen protectively as if one of them was going to strike you. If someone had told you three months ago that you’d be in this position you might have exercised a little more restraint when it came to your father’s men.
Soap bravely opened his mouth to speak, or perhaps only to laugh, but was quickly distracted by Price’s small moan of shock before the clattering sound of his body meeting the floor echoed around the boxy room as he fainted.
“Dad!” You wailed in horror, springing up. Gaz flinched at you moving so quickly but it was Ghost who caught your eye, his own expression unreadable under his mask, “Now yeh’ve gone an’ done it.”
Afternoon light was streaming in from the window onto James’ four-poster, over which he was currently sprawled with you sat comfortably on his face. Sirius, also straddling James’ torso, was pressed up against you, propping you up and providing general structure to the mess of the afternoon.
Panting slightly, you moved your hand from where it had been resting on James’ chest to run it through his hair; “You’re so pretty” you murmured, hips rocking gently against his tongue. It was true, sunlight was falling on his face, streaking through his hair and revealing the honey tones in his eyes.
He groaned into you, those eyes staying fixed on your face and your praise, even as your head fell back against Sirius’s shoulder, moaning lightly, eyes closing under the growing pleasure. Your other arm was flung back around his neck, fingers holding onto the hair at the nape of his neck.
James’ arms tightened around your thighs as Sirius sniggered, his own eyes seeking James’ as he nuzzled into your neck and his hands smoothed up your body from your hips to tweak your nipples.
Forgot to do this on the proper anniversary :( but Happy First Birthday to my first ever post! 🎉🥳I have officially been writing for a year and I’ve loved every bit of it. A huge thank you to everyone that has interacted with my blog, it really makes all of this 10x better. Hugs and kisses xxxx
Warnings: Heavily 18+, fmmm, light bondage, light name-calling, praise, fingering, oral sex female male receiving, overstimulation, squirting, vibrators, piv, voyerism, camera and recordings, anal adjacent, creampie, fishhook, male masturbation. Porn-what-plot.
Summary: Simon has one request for his team whilst he is deployed and of course they deliver.
AN: I am ovulating so this is filthy filthy. I expect to see you all in church.
Simon had asked his team to do one thing while he was deployed. One thing.
So of course they had to go and make a big deal out of it.
When he’d first asked them, with all the sterility of a pre-mission briefing, to take care of his girlfriend sexually while he was away there had been more than a few raised eyebrows and doubtful glances between his team. Simon sighed, refraining from pinching his nose.
“Is not rocket science ‘m askin’,” He said one afternoon, “All ‘m sayin’ is just give ‘er a good time every few days or so, keep her sated,” He grunted, clutching his mug of tea, “happy.”
John and Kyle had exchanged incredulous looks, obviously not believing him. Johnny however, could always be counted on to get his dick wet at any opportunity. His leg was bouncing under the table, a grin blossoming on his face.
“Ye want us te fuck ya lassie Simon?” He asked raspily, not believing his luck, “Though’ the day would never come, eh.” He said, with a glance over at the other team members.
John stepped up, clearing his throat. “If you’re sure,” He said, staring directly into Simon’s eyes, trying to read any sense of discomfort or untruthfulness. His lieutenant only nodded firmly. Of course he was bloody sure, he’d spent weeks thinking about this, not even daring to bring the idea up to you until a few days ago. When you had seemed excited, he knew what he had to do. “Alright then,” John confirmed with one sweeping glance over at the other men in the room, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops, “Alright Simon, we’ll take care of your bird when she wants.”
Simon nodded silently in thanks, already making to leave the kitchen and hunt you down again, to spend as much time with you as he could before he had to go. The others watched him leave with his usual alert stiffness, wondering what on earth had come over their stone-cold lieutenant. Once the door had slammed behind him Johnny turned to the others, glee written on every inch of his face. Kyle sighed. John began roughly “Now don’t you start-”
“Ah cannoot believe this!” He exclaimed, almost jumping for joy, “What a treat lads!” He was looking happily at each of them in turn, deciding they were criminally underreacting. John and Kyle were not going to start celebrating prematurely, though, choosing instead to try and wrap their heads around having the express permission to fuck the girl they’d all been watching.
The team had been shocked and rather jealous when Simon finally introduced you to them. They’d been hearing for months about the lovely bird he’d got himself but when Simon refused to show them any pictures, citing your privacy, they had all started believing that he was making you up, imagining a pretty girl, or he was being catfished. So when you finally came to the pub one evening their eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Out of all of them they had thought that Simon would be the last to take a partner, if ever. So to have been beaten by him at this, watching the two of you interacting over the sticky pub table, was quite a punch to the gut.
Come to think of it, he’d introduced you exactly a month before he’d asked them to sleep with you while he was away. John had a feeling that they might never have met you, had Ghost not been summoned by Laswell. Now he knew he had to go he wanted you protected, safe and happy; that they could do.
So when Ghost, half way through his time away, received a long video, sex tape was a better term for it, for him to watch on his grainy emergency phone it felt like a gift sent from the heavens.
He lay spread out on his shitty camp bed, grasping his aching cock tightly with one fist, the other holding the screen inches away from his own face. He had finally managed to find a quiet place to indulge again; he’d already watched it about four times before. He tugged at his dick as the video began to play and the sounds of your gravely moans and the teams’ praise filled his ears, egging him on.
Someone had tied your hands behind your back, Ghost was pleased to see they had at least used the silk ropes, and you were on your knees. Your shoulders and face were smushed into the mattress, knees up, exposing yourself and keeping you completely at Johnny’s mercy as he held a vibrator to your clit and made sure to keep his fingers moving at a steady pace, stroking your sweet spot perfectly, praising you the whole while. It was one of the good vibrators too, as he had instructed, a proper weapon; one that plugged into the wall and had you keening within three minutes. In the rest of the shot Kyle could be seen near your head, brushing your hair away and wiping the tears leaking from your eyes at your sensitivity. John was sat in an armchair behind the three of you, cock out in all its glory, wanking, just like Ghost, at the pure sight of it all.
Johnny was enthusiastically working you up to your third orgasm. John had already given you one with his own meaty fingers, stroking your walls until you begged, and only then did he thumb your clit and let you cum with strict instructions not to look away from the camera as you did so; Ghost was very grateful to his captain for that. Watching your cheeks flush and how much you struggled to keep your eyes open as you lost yourself in pleasure had his cock twitching dangerously and he had to squeeze his base to stop him from cumming prematurely. He wanted to savour this.
Kyle had been much kinder, keeping you on your back and using his mouth on you to send you gently over the edge. He switched between eating your pussy with wide, flat licks of his talented tongue, moaning occasionally, sucking gently on your clit until you squealed and sucking hickies into your inner thighs until you calmed down again. Ghost watched your toes flex and curl each time you were denied release. His strong arms had remained wrapped around your thighs all the while and every so often you peered down to see his deep brown eyes staring back up at you as his mouth worked intently, set on his goal. You let your head fall back and came with a loud moan, triggering Kyle’s own noises as your cum filled his mouth. Ghost grunted with satisfaction, teasing himself to your moans. The sloppy noises from Kyle cleaning you up almost sent you over again, but it would be Johnny who next had that pleasure.
He had eagerly bounced over on his turn, hoisting you up and twisting you into position, talking non-stop all the while. How excited he was, how beautiful you were, how hard he was, how good he would make you feel, how kind Simon was to let them do this, the list went on. Ghost chose to tune Johnny out in favour of watching your eyes flutter as the vibrator made contact. Your fingers twitched, wrists straining uselessly against the ties, moaning loudly and shifting your hips back when Johnny pushed two spit-soaked fingers in, still cooing down at you.
Johnny was a little mean for a while, making you fuck yourself on his fingers so he could watch your ass bounce, but a stern word from John and the reminder that Ghost was watching and he would be pissed made him change his tune. He began moving quickly, finding and hitting your sweet spot like John had, watching your asshole clenching each time he hit it, wondering if Simon would ever let him- he had to stop that thought before he came untouched. Still, a little something couldn’t hurt. He dropped his head down and let his tongue explore your neglected hole, making you squeal. His words were muffled against your skin but Ghost heard them alright, “Such a perfect ass eh, so fuckin’ pretty lassie. Fuck, ah wish ah could do this every night.”
He ceased his praise and listened intently as your moans built quickly, sensitive. Kyle was still whispering down at you when you came, screaming out your pleasure as liquid gushed from your pussy. Delighted, Johnny threw the vibrator aside in favour of his tongue, sucking at your clit intently, not letting up on his thrusting fingers either, his free hand coming to grope at your ass as he ate you from behind until you were crying out, begging him to stop. Behind the three of you John had cum unceremoniously with a small grunt, his orgasm painting his hand. Giving you some mercy, and so he could glance cockily around at the others and flaunt his success, Johnny removed his mouth from you but continued to finger you gently, letting you slowly come down. He twisted his wrist so his thumb could brush over your twitching asshole, praises never ceasing, “So good bonnie, such a good hen, gonna give ‘im a good show, ay.”
You felt boneless when Johnny finally finished, letting your hips drop down almost immediately after Johnny removed his stabilising force. They, however, weren’t quite done with you yet.
Ghost watched intently as Kyle left your head in favour of replacing Johnny at your pussy. He shuffled you forwards into the middle of the bed before he gently pushed into you, holding you up by your hips until you were flush against each other, groaning all the while. Johnny took Kyle’s place at your head, gently coaxing it up so he could get your tongue on his sensitive cock head, already leaking pre-cum. John too moved to your head, offering you his cum-soaked fingers to suck on as Kyle began to move behind you.
Your moans filled the room again, static in Ghost’s ears as he watched Kyle set a steady pace on his knees, watched him watch your ass ripple with each impact, watched Johnny and his captain fight for a place in your mouth. His breathing grew heavier and he could feel his orgasm bubbling slowly, but he didn’t want to cum yet. He wasn’t at his favourite part.
Johnny eventually won. He managed to stuff half his dick in your mouth leaving no room for John’s fingers. He let his head tip back, sighing in relief as you tried to work him over with your tongue, letting the thrusts from Kyle move your head along his cock. Kyle’s cock was just the right size, not too long, short, wide or thin and his firm thrusts were sending you into orbit. Of course, you’d always love Simon’s cock the most, but at least this time you knew you could wake up tomorrow without the sting from the stretch he gave you as he bullied his cock into you.
Kyle meanwhile was growing tired. He wanted you to cum more than once on his cock and he knew how to make it happen. He dropped your hips and leant over you, covering your body completely with his own and braced an arm on either side of your head, gaining easy access to your ear. He managed to whisper out a few unrepeatable phrases, calling you a “filthy little girl,” right before he told you how proud they all were of you, feeling you clench around him with every dirty word. Soon he moved his forearms so that one ran horizontally under your neck, taking most of his weight, whilst the other came up to gently hold your jaw in place for Johnny.
He ducked his head down next to yours and gazed up at Johnny too, panting all the while as he never let his rhythm falter. Johnny swore loudly, seeing two eager faces staring back at him and he let one hand run affectionately over Kyle’s hair. You were loving this. Completely encased, smothered by another body that was set on giving you nothing but blinding pleasure, this new angle letting Kyle deeper, occasionally hitting your cervix. The sharp jolts of pain only heightened the rest of your pleasure and you were sure you were going to come again. Kyle seemed to sense your impending orgasm, your waning attention to Johnny as you moaned on his cock and he knew what he had to do.
He pressed one gentle kiss on your cheek before hooking his index finger in your mouth, pulling back your cheek and holding it open for Johnny. You instinctively let your jaw fall open, tongue hanging out for him. He heard John groan and mutter a dark “Fuckin’ hell sergant,” at the visual of this fishhook and the sound of skin on skin grew as he fished his cock out again. Johnny seemed to have short-circuited, brain finally quiet at the sight of you so ready for him. Your face was flushed and sweaty as Kyle leaned in to lick filthily at your gums, your teeth, Johnny’s cock, your tongue, anything he could reach. Johnny saw Kyle’s tongue darting out. He felt it on his cock. He watched Kyle slobbering all over you. He saw Kyle’s smug face. He moaned out. Loudly. Overwhelmed at this double attack.
You wriggled forwards a little way, but it was enough. Johnny took the opportunity to shove his cock deep into your mouth, brushing your throat and came loudly as you did your best to swallow around him. Kyle released your mouth so you could encase Johnny completely, taking everything he gave you, groaning out each time he felt your mouth contracting around him as you swallowed. Once Johnny had finished he flopped onto his stomach so he could kiss you gratefully, thanking you “so much, lassie, you’re so good to us, perfect, perfect girl,” and cradle your head as it flopped forwards, giving in to Kyle’s bruising thrusts, clenching and cumming loudly. Kyle tensed his abs in an effort not to tumble over the edge with you, but he knew you had one more to give.
Before your orgasm was even properly finished he reared up and pulled you with him by your upper arm, your hands still immobilised behind your back. He put you on your knees before him and pulled your back against his chest, dropping his head to rest on your shoulder, looking down at Johnny still lying in front of you two. He wasn’t going to last much longer he knew, but he also knew that you weren’t either. You were gasping wordlessly and your fingers were scrabbling weakly at Kyle’s stomach, brainless as he whistled sharply, getting Johnny’s attention. He nodded down at where the two of you were connected. “Go on, boy,” He goaded lightly, “Go on, have a treat.” Johnny grinned, understanding. He crawled forwards until you could feel his breath on your flesh and cried out when his tongue found your clit again.
Between the two of them you were a goner. You moaned loudly, your bleary eyes searching for the camera, staring straight into the lens as Kyle’s thrusts picked up; you could hear his laboured breaths behind you. You must have been a right state; body covered in a sheen of sweat, hair akin to a rat’s nest, tits bouncing every which way. You didn’t care. You let out a string of nonsense, your last orgasm crashing over you. “Oh! Oh my god, Simon! Yes! fuckfuckfuck, yes, fucking- shit, fuck oh my god.” Ghost himself moaned, staring right back, finally letting himself cum as he watched his favourite part. Release coated his abdomen as he overworked his cock, breathing unsteady, your moans of his name filling his head up until there was no room for anything else. That was how he knew he’d made the right decision, hearing you moan for him with another man’s cock in you. He just had to hope Gaz wouldn’t be too huffy about it when he got home. Kyle too finally gave in, letting your clenching cunt draw out his own orgasm. He buried his cock deep into you as he came, filling you up. Johnny only let up on your clit when you begged.
Panting filled the muggy room. Kyle placed a kiss on your cheek in thanks and gently laid you down on the bed again; he straddled your thighs, untying your wrists and giving them a gentle massage, cock still twitching every now and then inside you. Johnny backed off too, disappearing to find everyone some water. John rose and sauntered over, giving you his own cock to clean up. You did so tiredly, blinking up at him. He grunted in satisfaction, taking his dick out with a quiet pop and also leaned down to give you a kiss. You hummed into his lips. Sated. He broke away and straightened up again, ruffling your hair affectionately, leaving to go start a bath. Johnny reappeared as John left, water in hand. Kyle finally pulled out, hissing as a stream of his own cum followed. He pushed your rubbery body gently over onto your back and, easing one of your legs up, couldn’t resist. “Johnny,” He snapped his fingers, “Here boy, eat up.”
You didn’t have time to protest. Johnny had jumped at the opportunity. He settled easily, moving so his broad shoulders prevented your legs from closing, cleaning you up. He worked his tongue over you, not aiming for an orgasm, just some comfort, as he gathered up his teammate’s cum, swallowing it without a second thought. He tactfully avoided your swollen clit, taking wide licks instead, slotting his tongue inside to scoop out the last dregs of it. You moaned, fingers carding through his mohawk, gripping and pulling his head away, too much. He relented.
He sat up, wiping his shiny mouth on the back of his hand, you shivered, and reached for the camera. Ghost was then treated to a tour of your body, close-ups of your pert nipples, your thighs Kyle had so thoughtfully decorated, your poor used pussy, your slightly red wrists, your flushed neck and finally your bright eyes and smiling, tired face. You waved to the camera.
“Hi Simon, baby, they’re all being real good to me. Come home soon, I love you.”
Johnny flipped the camera back to him and Kyle, naked and sweaty, and winked. “Aye, Lt, but there’s no rush. We’re havin’ a grand ol’ time.”
Kyle punched him wearily on the shoulder, turning his attention back to your and your sore body. Johnny flipped him off before replacing the camera on its stand, letting Ghost see them carrying you off to a warm bath, John re-entering with snacks and drinks, changing the sheets. They let him see that they were taking good care of you in every respect, so please don’t shout at them when he got back. Eventually you were carried back in, squeaky clean, by Kyle. They wrestled some pajamas onto your limp body and tucked you in. You were asleep before your head hit the pillow.
They tidied up in hushed voices, Johnny stubbing his toe on the bedframe and almost waking you up again. They crept out of the room, taking the still-recording camera with them and gently closed the door. Ghost heard it click. It was Price’s face that appeared, the last scene of this little film.
hello!! i like your james fics :) are your reqs open? also do you write for other marauders/golden trio era characters like reg or barty or harry??
Hey there! First of all thank you for your support <3
Secondly my requests are indeed open! I know I don't advertise them but you can assume they are always open, unless I post otherwise.
I am happy to write for other Marauder characters, I have dabbled in a Sirius fic, but ideas for the others don't come to me as innately as my James ones do, but that shouldn't stop me.
Regarding Golden Trio I'd be up to try to write for the more 'mainstream' characters if that makes sense, ie Harry etc. I wouldn't mind trying a Regulus fic but I'd probably include James somehow because I'm much more comfortable writing with him, so he's a bit of a safety net in this way I suppose as I'm not up to date with Regulus.
Barty has been mentioned but I confess I know nothing about him as a character or as a fandom character. I have gathered that there is a community for him and a couple other characters who are usually written about together as friends, their names escape me but I think they're all Slytherins?, but because of my lack of knowledge and I'll be honest my minor disinterest for them I'd be reluctant to write about them until I've investigated further.
Summary: Simon’s worried he’s lost himself after a particularly long deployment. You reassure him he hasn’t.
1.9k
AN: Completely based on the song ‘Would you fall in love with me again?’ from Epic the Musical. Highly recommend a listen before reading.
It was dark outside. Late. Cold. But you were still awake, the walls of your shared Manchester flat keeping all of that outside where it couldn’t hurt you. Inside you had made it warm, cosy, quiet and clean. All ready for the long-awaited return of your husband. Everything chosen and groomed to provide maximum security and comfort to him, things he didn’t normally get every day.
This reunion was by far the most long-awaited between you two; Simon had been away for over a year, blowing God knows what up in God knows what forsaken place, you weren’t allowed to know. All you got was sporadic phone calls, whispered professions of love and promises that he would come back, he would. The only way you knew he had kept this was that no one came to your door with their hat respectfully in their hand, following the script of ‘I regret to inform you that…’
No, he was alive. He was alive and he was coming home was what the last phone call had revealed and your knees had nearly given up on you. Clutching the back of a chair as you made him repeat it over and over until it finally sank in. Simon was coming home, he would be yours again.
Naturally, this had sent you into overdrive, planning and prepping everything. Food, heating, clothes, bedding and the works. You wanted everything to be absolutely perfect for when he got home, Simon should have nothing bothering him for the next few weeks.
You’d been waiting and waiting for his return, heart rate increasing every time you thought, remembered that he’d be here, you’d get to hold him in your arms. See his hair, his smile, his eyes, his lips. His strong arms that protected you, his hands that got so terribly dirty so the rest of the world stayed clean.
You were curled on the sofa under a favorite blanket, TV blaring some slop you weren’t paying attention to, anxiously listening for the click of the lock that would confirm everything. Each second was agony but it was worth it when your ears finally picked up the sounds of his homecoming. The click of the door seemed to swim through the quiet of the apartment, rippling out to reach your anxious figure.
You leapt up and rushed into the dimness of the kitchen and lost your breath. There he was. Your soldier, your Simon, standing there like he’d never left. He looked about the same as before, gear on, mask secure, but now he just seemed a bit off. Slightly lesser somehow. Heavier, tired, more worn out. The moment you locked eyes with him you had to choke back a sob, for all that you had dreamed of this moment his eyes were so much dimmer than you remembered. “Oh, Simon,” You murmured, moving forwards to embrace him. To breathe in the scent of smoke, wind, lingering cologne and a sprinkling of dirt. You were ready to wrap your arms around him and never, never let go. But when you were about a foot away, he just held up a tired hand, not allowing you any closer.
Your brows furrowed at this denial. “Simon?” You whispered, “It’s me, my love.” You wondered if he really had forgotten you after all this time or if he was struggling with something he’d picked up on deployment. It was neither.
“‘M not your love.” He replied simply, weary eyes finding yours, pain ebbing behind them. “ I- ‘M not that, him, anymore.” He hadn’t taken his mask off. You wondered for the thousandth time just where he’d been and what he’d been doing.
You didn’t have time to question him on this before he put his bags down. The clattering must’ve rattled throughout the place, whatever was in them making a small racket that shattered your illusion of a happy homecoming.
“What? Simon, I don’t understand,” You said, struggling to keep your enjoyment at bay, “You’re here, you’re home.” You uttered, watching his eyes soften at the mention of ‘home’. “You don’t know.” He answered, as if that explained everything, “You didn’t see what I’ve done,” He swallowed hard, “You wouldn’t love me the same if-“ Your fingers itched to ignore his warning of staying back, to reach for his hand, interlock it with yours and never let him leave your side. “I can’t be- ‘M not,” He sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t want to disappoint you,” came his whispered confession, “I know that you’ve been waiting.”
You were at a loss. Here was your Simon in the flesh yet he was talking as if he had come back someone else, a different person entirely. As a man who was no longer your husband, who could no longer offer you the same love and affection as he had done. He was watching you watch him like he expected you to scream or drop to the floor in a faint. Instead you wanted to understand why. “Simon,” You asked quietly, “What did you do?”
He flinched as though you’d hit him. His breath hitching, fists clenching, you got the impression that information was something he wanted to take to his grave. You weren’t going to let that happen. Eventually he got the message that you weren’t moving until he said something and gave you an answer. “Would you love me all the same if I told you?” He asked halfheartedly. You didn’t give your answer, though you already knew it.
“Things I can’t undo,” He offered as an explanation. “I left blood everywhere I went. Threatened, tortured, killed anyone they told me to.” His confession came in an empty, detached voice, attributing these actions to Ghost rather than the Simon that stood in front of you in order to stay sane. He wanted so desperately to be good for you, to come home the kind and gentle man you saw, the one you sent away with your heart and a kiss, but that wasn’t the way the world worked. “Hurt more people than I can remember. Ruined so many lives.” He had to stop to take a breath and you patiently waited, the one thing you’d had experience in. “And I did it all, not just because they told me to, but because I knew that it’d bring me back, “ His eyes finally sought out your own, swimming with tears, “To you.”
You let the words hang in the air, digesting this information. What he’d done, what had been justified by the government as ‘necessary’, how much of a toll it was taking on him. Your heart hurt for him, seeing him like this and you wondered just how much weight he carried with him.
You knew what to do.
“What do we keep in the safety box in the hallway?”
You saw Simon frown but he answered dutifully. “A gun, ammo, a thousan’ hard cash, burner phone, knife, fake passports.” With each item he rattled off the warmth within you grew and you had to stop a small smile from creeping onto your face. There he was, he’d never left. Your husband was just the same protective, prepared lover he’d always been. You believed that nothing he could do would ever properly change the way he treasured you; you didn’t believe he’d ever become a truly bad man. You needed to remind him of that. You needed to coax him back to you.
You sniffed, bringing a hand up to brush your nose as you fought the feelings churning inside you. “Only my husband knew that, so I guess that makes him you.”
Something inside Simon broke. He still stood as tall and solid as ever, but you saw it. His eyes found your face and did not stray. His hands twitched to reach for you, gloves and all. He knew, he understood, that you didn’t care what he did, that nothing would ever take away your love. He whispered your name disbelievingly into the darkness.
“Simon,“ You said firmly, approaching him like you would a wounded animal, “I love you. And I will continue to love you each time you return, over and over again. I don’t care what you’ve done, I don’t care how, when or where you’ve been. No matter how long it’s been,” Tears were escaping his eyes, smudging his eye black and you could feel your own eyes prickling with tears as you laid yourself bare for him, “You’re mine.”
He gave in. The hands that had ached so desperately to feel your own got what they wanted. He grabbed you, snatched you up and enclosed you with his body, holding you safely right next to his heart. Your own hands gripped the front of his vest tightly, clinging on just as desperately, trying with all your might to offer the comfort he needed. But you weren’t done, not quite yet. You spoke into his chest, “So don’t come back telling me you’re not the same person,” You pulled back, needing to see him, to know that he heard you properly, “You’re always my husband. And I’ll always be waiting for you.”
Tears were flowing freely down your own cheeks as you reached slowly for his mask. When he made no move to stop you, you grasped it firmly and pulled it off, throwing it aside for its crimes of keeping him from you. Your eyes took in the tired, dirty, scarred, war-torn face of your husband and you loved every inch. You smiled despite it all, bringing a hand up to cradle his cheek, “And I’ll always love you.”
It was the final nail in the coffin. Simon, who had been silent all throughout your confession, finally let out a sob and buried his face in your hair as he allowed himself to cry. You found yourself tucked firmly back into his chest as he held onto you, as you kept him sane through all the atrocities he’d experienced, all the atrocities he’d caused. How you could love him after all he’d done, he didn’t understand, but he was eternally grateful.
The two of you made an odd pair that night, embracing with such fervour in a dim kitchen. You were both thinking about your own thoughts. You were wondering if you should ask Simon to see a therapist. He was wondering how he would love you the same. He felt that his love had become worthless, tainted by his crimes, but he also heard the painfully selfish voice inside him, screaming at him that it didn’t matter, you’d offered yourself freely and willingly, all he had to do was take it.
Neither of you let go for a long time, until there were no more tears to cry and Simon remembered he probably needed a shower. Reluctantly, he pulled away sniffing and scooped up his bags to put away. You pulled away too, muttering something about making some food, eyes still splotchy and red. Simon couldn’t resist pulling you back to him and planting a grateful kiss on your lips. He had never been a man of many words, so he tried to pour everything into that kiss. Mainly all the love he was physically capable of giving and his eternal gratitude at having a partner prepared to stand by him through everything; who saw the darkest parts of him and loved him anyway. Who would always love him. He never thought he’d get so lucky; he had been a bad man after all.
He held you close again, now he could. Pressing your foreheads together, he said the only thing he could think of, “Thank you.”
You weren’t an idiot. You knew long ago what you had been getting yourself into. And you loved every second of it.
Masterlist<3
ANN: it’s my birthday this week! So everyone gets cake x
James has finally put his foot down and taken drastic measures to turn the bed into something that resembles a baby’s cot, all because he was seriously worried you would end up accidentally smothering yourself one day.
Too many times he’d woken up in the morning and rolled over to find you with only your hair visible. Your face was always buried in your duvet, your pillow, your arm, his arms, or some combination of all of them. You always ended up covering your face in some capacity, citing it necessary in order for you to sleep well.
Whenever James brought up his concerns you always brushed him off, saying that this was normal. That you always slept like this, with no part of your face exposed. You liked the darkness and the warmth it brought, finding it comforting.
He found it anxiety-inducing.
He went the whole nine yards and reduced the bedding to the bare bones minimum. You both had sleepsacks instead of a duvet and absolutely no blankets or anything you could get over your nose and mouth. If you were cold, you wore more pajamas. He eventually gave you an eye-mask to combat the light problem only after you’d been good and not argued for a month but you had to beg him to give you your pillow back; at least in the sleepsack you were easier to roll over if you did end up face first in the pillow.
James still got a mini-heartattack every time he saw how you slept. He could never wake up peacefully anymore as his first thought was always how to twist you over so at last your airways were free.
You adored his concern. He thought he would go grey prematurely.
Warnings: stalking, suggestive themes, you need to close your curtains
Summary: Ghost catches sight of you whilst on a mission. He never wants to lose sight of you again.
AN: god I love stalker Simon
1.7k
Ghost couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this entertained on a simple observation op.
Too many times had he found himself knee-deep in mud, hardly sleeping and more bug bites than human being. But all that gruelling work had finally paid off, because this time, when he got bored, he could watch the neighbouring house instead of his target’s and observe the pretty little thing that lived there.
Ghost had lived a hard life, one without comfort or coddling, so when nice things came his way he clung to them like a lifeline for some semblance of a normal life. Instead of watching some criminal come home to his family and pretend he worked a normal nine to five and definitely was not laundering stolen weaponry, he could watch the young bird next door flit about the space, practically leaving sunshine in your wake.
He became aware of your presence in the first few hours after he began his observation period. He had come and set up under the cover of night and it was late on a summer evening, or early morning, when you padded into your back garden, clad in only your pajamas. The air was still warm from the earlier sun so they were the coolest and smallest you owned. Simon was immediately intrigued.
You forwent turning on any lights, finding your way by memory, Simon had never been so thankful for his night vision equipment, until you reached the end of your garden where you had set up a little nook for yourself. Yours and next door’s gardens both backed onto the same field, giving you a few trees right by the boundary line to make your own. Once you had reached the place, you switched on a battery pack and a few strings of fairy lights, strung up between the overhanging branches, began to glow in the darkness. By their light he watched you settle down a padded garden chair, blanket over your knees, book in hand.
This told him a few things. Firstly, you liked to read. Secondly, he could assume you lived alone as there was only one chair set up. Thirdly, you might have trouble sleeping. Fourthly you clearly felt safe despite living next door to an international criminal. Lastly, he was utterly fascinated.
After a lifetime of discomfort, of hard edges, of raised voices, of painful nights, here at last was his own little taste of heaven. As close to a civilian life as he was going to get. Watching you get comfy before cracking open your read was all he needed to see to become appreciative.
Infatuated.
You only read for half an hour or so, obviously he timed it, before you turned the lights off and pottered off back inside and, presumably, to bed. He would have to wait to see if this was a common pattern of yours, if insomnia was something he needed to know about. He watched your house to see a light come on and sure enough, one did. Only briefly, he imagined you simply shedding your slippers before climbing into bed, one with satin sheets and a new mattress with a mattress topper too for added comfort, perhaps a stuffed animal or two, before the light went out.
But that was enough.
He was due to be here for two weeks. A relatively short op, all things considered, but he’d never enjoyed fourteen days more. Two whole weeks. Three hundred and thirty six hours he was allowed to, he got paid to be in your company. Of course, you were asleep for some of them and out of the house for others. But, all in all, he had more than enough time to learn all about you. A keen observationist like him, he noticed everything.
He noticed how your curtains were drawn back at roughly the same time each morning, did you have an alarm or was it natural rising? A small pause while you washed up in the bathroom next door to your bedroom, then down the stairs into the kitchen. He actually got to watch you make your breakfast in the morning as your kitchen window gave him the perfect view. Tea was a non-negotiable, he almost hummed in delight at that realisation, and you seemed to pick one of three popular breakfasts each morning. You’d either sit at the table on your phone or listen to some radio program, wander into the garden if it was a particularly nice morning or, his least favourite, you’d disappear into what he deduced must be your sitting room at the front of your house to plop down on your sofa.
Your morning routine was what he liked best because it never changed. What you did after breakfast he could never predict, which annoyed him. You’d either go out, lounge around the house or sometimes go back to bed if the night had been a sleepless one. He couldn’t work out a pattern, probably because there wasn’t one, which both made him proud and angry. Angry because he couldn’t watch you. Proud because he knew if he couldn’t, then no one else stood a chance either.
You were a clever little bird after all.
Halfway through his time, Price had called in to see how he was getting on. Normally he would gruffly state that he resented being put on these long dull missions before telling Price what he wanted to hear and then hang up without a second thought. It was always him sent on these observation periods and he’d always resented it until now. Johnny was too liable to wriggle around and make his presence known, Gaz had a track record of falling asleep on the job and Price was just too old nowadays. So the burden fell on him. This time round, though, he didn’t think it was a burden at all.
He’d told Price the truth, that there had been nothing suspicious coming from the target’s house. Normally, he would’ve hung up straight after but this time, he hesitated. Then he asked if Prince wanted him to stay on an extra week to see if he could catch anything. Price was stunned into silence for the best part of a minute before stating that he, Ghost, did not have provisions for an extra week. The concern and interest in his voice made Ghost concede, not wanting to arouse too much suspicion. His captain spoke again before he could hang up, gruffly reminding him, “Ghost, make sure you’re staying on target.” He quickly put the phone down. He knew he’d shocked his captain but this was also a testament to how well Price knew him. He knew if he played his cards right he wouldn’t get questions later.
He cursed as each new day dawned, time moving on, taking him closer and closer to the moment he would have to leave you. He was not looking forward to it, he wasn’t ready. What would he do without the little song you sang as you hung your laundry out to dry, hair in disarray. How would he hear the one-sided conversations you had with your cat, informing her of all the things you were thinking. How he would miss the little dances you did when cooking dinner. Ghost recons you were a ballerina at some point in your life as you took graceful little steps and twirls in the fading light.
He never once thought that what he was doing was wrong, or weird, or that you might not like it. He knew exactly what he’d say if a superior got to hear of it; he got paid to watch people, why were you any different, especially as a nextdoor neighbour, what if you knew something? He, of course, knew you didn’t. You were too good to get involved in something so dirty.
The training told him to stop watching you so much, stop getting distracted when the target was right there, in front of him, but it was also next to you, so what if his eyes slid over a couple times. A minute. Besides, he was only meant to be watching to see when the target came and went, easy to spot. Plenty of time left to dedicate to his new favourite hobby.
But alas, time was cruel to him, just like everything else in his life, and soon enough it was the last night. He was to be evacuated at 0600 the next morning. He mourned his loss, but also not too much, for he knew what he had to do next.
It was like you knew how he was feeling.
Just like the first night, you came out in your pajamas, book in hand and settled down under fairy lights again. Ghost was smiling under his mask. It was like you were saying goodbye, giving him a proper send-off. He was pleased, and touched that you knew him so well already. ‘So thoughtful’ he mused, ‘Such a good girl.’ He was so glad he’d found you.
The next morning he left as quietly as he had arrived. Plan ready made in his head.
They caught the guy a few weeks later when he’d finally tried to bolt. He was somewhere no one wanted to be, and, most importantly, no longer a threat to you. His house was also empty now too, family in custody. How convenient.
Ghost moved in the same week the target was captured. He made sure to crash about so you’d know, as if the moving van outside hadn’t alerted you to your new neighbour already. That same evening, he had tried his hand a little baking. Your favourite muffins. They were a bit underdone, but you’d be around to teach him soon enough. He wanted to prove from the beginning that he could provide, that he’d be a good one to pick, not that you really had a choice anyway. Your fate had been sealed the second you switched on those damn fairy lights. He wanted to marry you under the very same ones.
He knocked on your door confidently. He had nothing to be nervous about, he already knew you after all. He heard you before you opened the door. It was a moment he had dreamed about, had spent hours lying in that field imagining, replaying over and over again. Your eyes locked. His cock twitched. He tried to look as appealing as possible, watching as a small polite smile bloomed on your face. Just for him. He lifted the plate of home cooking towards you and attempted a smile of his own, his facial scars making it difficult.
That’s not your name, love - James Potter x Reader
Warnings: 18+, fingering, praise
Summary: You and James get into a silly fight from which James has to come out victorious.
2k
AN: rediscovered Minecraft and having a great time
The fight was pointless, you knew that, but you were also not going to relent. It was over the TV remote and, if you were going off technicalities, technically you were right.
It was a running joke between you and James that neither of you could ever find the remote when you wanted it, only for it to turn up the next morning in the fruit bowl or some other miscellaneous place. Neither of you would own up to remembering putting it there. It was funny, but not hilarious which is why you came up with the idea of putting the remote on a lead. You would physically tie it to the sofa so as not to lose it. Problem solved.
Problem not solved.
You’d asked James to do one thing, which was actually the last step. ‘Tie the remote onto the string’ you remembered saying before you left for work that morning, James having the day off. You also categorically remember him nodding his ascent, that he would. Foolishly, you thought your husband would do as you asked, seeing as you had produced the lead, and attached it to the sofa.
So excuse you if you had flopped down that evening, tired as hell, ready to start a new episode of your new show whilst James found the take out menu for you to peruse. Rather smugly, you picked up the lead, ready to congratulate yourself on how well your invention worked, only to follow it to the end and find -nothing.
James had not attached the remote like you asked.
Annoyance bloomed in your chest. You wasted no time. “James!” You shouted. You heard him coming towards you so you simply held out the end of the lead in all its remote-less glory. James stopped short once he saw. Sheepishly, he tried in vain to pat his hair down, a nervous habit, but you only raised an eyebrow at him. “Sorry, love, I swear I really meant to do it.” He apologised. “Sorry is not going to magic up the remote James,” You snapped. He nodded, a little put out and you instantly felt bad. It was only a remote after all.
“Just, find it.” You ordered gently, “I will order the food.” You really did not feel like getting on your hands and knees to check under the sofa right about now. You passed him in the doorway on your way to the kitchen and made sure to brush his hand with your own so he knew you weren’t really mad.
You took your time looking over the menu of the new takeaway place you were trying, attempting to pick the best combination possible. James had already written down what he wanted, ready to order. Then just as you had decided, the dreaded shout came. “Babe, I can’t find the remote!” All the minor frustrations of the day suddenly came together under your skin; you could practically feel your blood beginning to boil. Whose fault was it that the remote was nowhere to be found? Certainly not yours.
Eerily calm, you ignored James’ shouts for now in favour of picking up the phone and placing your order; the last thing this situation needed was hanger too. “And a name for the order please?” came the polite voice on the other end of the line. Your reply was automatic, yet you paused after your first name. You debated it for all of a second before giving a last name too, which you could hear them writing down. You put the phone down, satisfied. James would be picking up the order.
You told him so and sent him out on his walk. You felt you needed some space to search for the remote without him breathing down your neck about it. Ten minutes later saw you dusty and irritated, remote in your hand. You had discovered it on top of the fridge, somewhere you needed a chair to access. It was obvious who the culprit was this time around. If you had had any qualms about what you’d done, they vanished the second you came into contact with the plastic in a place you couldn’t easily reach.
Satisfied, you brushed yourself down, gathered some drinks and went into the sitting room, setting up the coffee table in preparation for your incoming food. Another ten minutes later and you heard the front door slam, a little harder than usual, James kicking off his shoes and stomping down the hallway. Obviously, he had worked it out.
Into the room he came doing his best impression of a storm cloud. He plopped the bag down in front of you with all the grace of a hippo. “What’s this then?” He asked, throat tight. You let your eyes lazily look over the brown bag, seeing the logo and the receipt stapled to the top. You saw the name of the card that had paid, MR. J. POTTER, and you also saw the name you had given for the order written on the top. Your name and your maiden name. No Mrs, and certainly no Potter.
You shrugged, playing dumb. “The logo’s nice.” You said vaguely, choosing instead to open the bag and dig out your food. “Don’t you see anything wrong, nothing at all?” He prompted, eyeing the diamond sitting on your ring finger. You squinted at the receipt. “Nope.” You said lightly, dishing everything out, “Looks about right to me.” You heard James mutter a string of something under his breath before he promptly took the food out of your hands; a dangerous move.
You swung round to face him, annoyed. “That’s not your name, love. You’re a Potter now,” His voice was low and quiet as he insisted, “I married you and everything.” The disappointed look on his face was melting your heart, but you had enough sense not to give in immediately. “I don’t think I want to be a Potter if they can’t even do what their wives ask of them.” You said delicately. You took the food back from him and finished dishing out your portion. Reflexively, you also began to fix him a plate.
A small, quiet whine followed by a disappointed voice came from behind you. “Don’t you love me?” You had to restrain yourself from rolling your eyes at how silly he was being. You finished his plate and placed it in front of him. You met his eyes, smiling somewhat, “Of course I love you, you idiot,” You said, and took great pleasure in watching his face reanimate at your words, “I’d just love you more if you stopped losing the remote.”
That got a pillow launched at your head. You managed to dodge it just in time, only to be pulled into James’ lap and smothered in apologetic kisses; you were both laughing, the food forgotten, the remote lost once again in the chaos. Eventually you managed to extricate yourself from James’ hold, which felt like saying goodbye to an octopus, not wanting your long-awaited meal to go cold. James, however, clearly believed in the power of microwaves and did not let you get very far.
“Now now love, I think you need to show me you know your name.” He said, wrestling you into place. You shrieked, trying to fight but James could move you like a marionette when he wanted. You found yourself sat with your back to his chest, your legs encased with his, your arms wrapped around his own.
“But-” You began but he shushed you quickly, choosing instead to run his fingers teasingly up your leg until he paused right below where you wanted him most. “James,” You gasped out and you could hear him grinning behind you. “Yes, that’s mine, my name,” He said condescendingly, “What’s yours?” You were not given the chance to answer as he simultaneously, finally, slid his hand under your waistband, past your panties, letting it rest against your warm flesh, right above your clit. He didn’t move.
You wriggled. You squirmed. You shimmied. You shuffled. None of which convinced him to move an inch. You gave up pretty quickly, “Please,” You moaned out, flexing your hips in his tight grip in an effort to get pressure where you wanted it. “Say it,” Came the quiet voice from somewhere above you, “What’s your name, love?” You could not refute this growl of a request, this order from him. “Potter,” You answered breathily and were instantly rewarded with glorious, delicious friction between James’ finger and your clit. You sighed, melting into his hold.
He hummed pleasantly above you, feeling you relax, and increased his movements, making you moan aloud. “Good girl,” He praised, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You keened, letting your husband make you feel good. He continued his pace and you continued moaning and wriggling as he occasionally dipped his finger down to tease your entrance, before collecting your slick and using it to rub your clit. You were encouraging more and more pressure which he only granted under his conditions. “Now, string it all together. “ He ordered, “What’s your name?” You were trying very hard to answer with words instead of moans but he just made it so damn hard. At your silence, he clicked his tongue, speeding up. “C’mon love, you were doing so well.”
“Ah - oh, shit, James!,” Was all you managed. In reply, he simply slowed his movements until you were whining out your dissatisfaction. “Tell me what your name is.” He really wasn’t giving this up. You managed to get out your full legal name, complete with Potter and everything. He hummed, pleased. “That name, that ring,” He jerked his chin towards your hand, “They both mean you’re mine, love, don’t they?” Nails digging into the solid mass of muscle on his forearms, you couldn’t nod quick enough, anything to keep his fingers moving right there-
“Say it.” One last whispered command in a dark husky voice was all it took to seal your fate.
“I’m yours!I’m yoursI’m yoursI’m yours,” You kept up that mumbled stream in time with your pleasure, feeling your orgasm bubbling away, building up beneath your skin, in your veins. “I’m yours James, ah! Oh I’m yours pleaseplease-” He knew what you wanted. Huffing into your hair he made sure his grip on you was secure before speeding up his fingers, listening to your moans get louder and louder, feeling you tense up in his arms before you wailed as your orgasm finally broke. You were gasping out his name, praise, thanks and a million and one other things he couldn’t discern between your pants.
When your orgasm was finally finished and you were slumping in his grasp you let go of his forearm to push his hand away, too sensitive to let him keep going. He cooperated, pulling you even further into his chest as he pressed comforting kisses against your hair, soothing you. You bundled yourself up in his lap, letting yourself relax in his warmth. “Love you.” You said, your face smushed into his chest. You felt the vibration from his chuckle. “Love you too.” He replied. For a short while you enjoyed each other’s company, not moving, not talking, just existing. Eventually, James moved you gently to the side, complaining of discomfort in his lower back.
“Wow, I know you’re old Jamie, but I didn’t know you were that old.” He shot you a weak glare before feeling around behind him. “I just felt something digging into me the whole time,” He said through gritted teeth, fishing about, “Poking my back and everything.” You had busied yourself with grabbing a handful of food and snacking on it, watching him search.
From behind him he pulled out something that definitely would’ve dug into his back and you were, quite frankly, surprised he hadn’t said something sooner. He placed it on the sofa and the two of you stared at it for all of two seconds before bursting into uncontrollable laughter.
The TV remote sat innocently on the cushions between you.
Summary: You and Simon struggle to know how the other is doing when he’s away
AN: I have such a store of fics built up it’s great. Also anyone else seen that episode of Amandaland? It inspired this :)
1.1k
Growing up you’d always been told you had a tendency to be a bit dependent. And that was putting it nicely. It had been your effort to rebuke these claims and prove them wrong that ended up with the police on your doorstep. In your defence, you were just trying to be independent, for once.
Throughout your life there was always someone you could depend on; your mum, your best friend and, eventually, your husband. Simon Riley was probably not what everyone expected when you had introduced him as your fiance, but you didn’t care. You loved him and he loved you; you should’ve remembered that.
In the beginning of your relationship you had been mindful to not ask too much of Simon, not wanting to scare him off. It wasn’t until you had chosen to walk back at night after getting a flat tyre, rather than ask him for help because somehow that was worse, that he sat you down and told you, firmly, that you were to call him with any inconvenience. Anything at all.
From then on, your texts resembled something like: ‘Where’s the TV remote?’, ‘How long can you microwave chicken for?’, ‘Help! The sink is blocked’, and Simon’s personal favourite, ‘Is bleach supposed to smell like that?’ Someone else would probably have gotten irritated and told you to google it or something, stop bothering them with such simple questions, but Simon never did. In fact, he liked it. Very much.
He liked being relied on, feeling necessary. At work he always had a clear purpose, so it was only natural that he had a clear purpose at home too, which was to answer any queerie or fix any problem you had. He also liked being reminded of the life he got to go home to; answering such normal questions gave him a welcome reprieve from the life-altering decisions he usually had to make. The bonus was that you didn’t want his body either, the one he had trained to military precision, the one that could withstand torture, the one that had maimed and killed so many. No, you wanted his mind, his thoughts; you were in his head. He never put up a fight in the first place.
So, you’d have to excuse him for once, when he was on deployment, when he called the police to do a wellness check on you. He had not heard from you in twenty six hours. He was practically clawing his hair out coming up with possibilities, all worse than before, as to why you were not texting him.
You, on the other hand, were thriving.
One of your friends, though you now reconsidered that term, had made the offhand comment when you went to text Simon that your reliance on him made you seem ‘childish’. Initially, you had bristled at such a comment, but then you wondered. Most adults did in fact seem to just know things that you did not, because you had never learnt because you were always asking Simon. Frowning, you reassessed your entire relationship in the span of an hour and left with your mind made up. From this day forward, there would be no more reliance on your husband to do things you should be able to do. Unfortunately, you were immediately tested when the electricity went out.
You had only switched the kettle on to make some tea but it must’ve tripped the circuit because all the lights went out. You groaned aloud, automatically reaching for your phone. The sight of Simon’s contact information made you pause however. Your poor husband was doing god knows what in god knows where, did he really want to be bothered with this?
Slowly, you put your phone down and set about fixing this problem yourself. You dug out an old information manual, made sense of the instructions and flipped the switch on your circuit box that put all the lights back on. Elated, you actually laughed aloud. You had done it! How thrilling it felt to fix things yourself. You went about the rest of your evening plans extremely smugly, already planning on how you would tell Simon how you fixed everything, how responsible you had become.
Your good mood carried you all through the next day and it wasn't until the evening that your bubble burst. The police had come knocking, demanded to see your ID and then informed you that your husband had ordered a wellness check due to inactivity. You were stunned. You answered all their questions and left them satisfied enough to leave pretty quickly.
You, on the other hand, plopped down on your sofa and immediately rang your husband. He answered on the first ring.
“Love, are yeh alright?” It was whispered in his Manchester accent down the crackling line and for a moment you reveled in the sound of his voice, your own wellness check.
“Of course I am Si,” You answered, “Alive and well, because I can take care of myself.”
You could hear him frowning down the phoneline, which only made you bristle with indignation. “I can! I fixed the electricity yesterday and everything.”
You heard him guffaw, “And the house is still standing?”
You almost hung up. He apologised immediately. “‘M sorry love, of course you did my clever girl.” Eased by his words, you continued.
“Why did you call the police Si?”
“‘Cuz I hadn’t heard from yeh, thought yeh might be dead somewhere.”
You winced. “Just because I didn’t text?”
“Tha’s right.”
You let that sit between you. “Simon,” You pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration, “Firstly, did you not think to call me first, instead of going straight to the police? Secondly,” You raised your voice slightly to cut off his muffled apology, “How do you think I feel when I don’t hear from you for days? It’s not like I can go and order a proof of life check.”
The silence sat heavy on the line after your little confession. Heavy breathing down the crackling line filled your ear and you almost cried at having confronted him like that. Then, “M so sorry love. I’ll text, yeah?” He said quietly.
You let that reassurance settle in your chest, easing the ache that always appeared when he was gone. “Yes, do.” You said, swallowing hard. There was nothing else to say and Simon was not a man of many words in the best situation. Gunfire picked up. He swore. “Gotta go sweetheart. I love you.” Your fists clenched. “I love you too.” Was all you managed to whisper before the line disconnected.
But it seemed that your talk had done him some good because everyday since you always got a text confirming his status.
There were three of us in this marriage - Simon Riley x Reader
Drabble. Pure fluff. Background/implied Ghoap. 657 words.
AN: Someone else has done this first, except Simon was the third so I swapped them. Dipping my toes into the COD fandom, I have more in the works :)
You weren’t sure when ‘we’ became ‘three’, not just you and your husband.
You’d married Simon knowing full well how close he was to his best friend and teammate Johnny; it was one of the reasons you loved him so, seeing the big beefy scary man sulk because Johnny was playing cards with someone else instead of him was surprisingly funny, but you might have to put your foot down soon.
You had found the two of them asleep. Together. In the bed you were supposed to share with your husband. Which was fine, they sometimes did this when they were drunk, which you thought was cute, but there was just one problem. This evening, they were stone cold sober.
You’d made dinner for the three of you, Johnny spent most evenings at your place, and left the two of them watching TV while you washed the dishes for Simon to put away in the morning. Then you’d joined them, settling in between the two warm bodies, Simon’s arm around you and watched the documentary they had on. The three of you were rather full which made you sleepy and you were sure that, at one point, you were all dozing in the TV light.
Eventually the program ended and the sudden quiet snapped you awake. Blearily, you ordered the two of them to bed as you went to take a shower. Simon began his usual nightly routine of checking the locks and you heard Johnny going up the stairs to what you assumed was his own room, because the guest bedroom might as well have ‘Johnny’s! KEEP OUT!’ written on the door.
Except when you came out, clean and warm and ready to sleep, you found the two of them cuddled in your and Simons’ bed. The light was off and light snoring told you they really had committed to this. You huffed in the doorway, your shadow thrown into the room as you crossed your arms in distress. When they didn’t wake, you switched on the light.
Simon was up instantly, quickly propping himself up on one elbow and peering over at you questioningly. Johnny merely snorted and rolled over, pulling up the duvet to block the light. You had to refrain from actually stamping your foot.
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” You questioned. You thought you sounded angry. Simon thought you looked like a grumpy little lamb.
“Right here love,” He gruffed out, patting the sliver of mattress space between him and his best friend. You raised an eyebrow. He looked at you expectantly.
You were in a standoff for all of three seconds before your husband caved. “Move it, you sod.” He groaned at Johnny, shoving him away. Johnny mumbled angrily before settling down again, tugging at the duvet, making himself comfortable in such a way that made you want to scream. You looked at Simon to make sure he was seeing what you were, but all he could do was look at you a little sheepishly.
“Come to bed love,” He coaxed, “Please.”
You didn’t need to be asked twice. Huffing so he knew you weren’t happy, you walked over and took great pleasure in clambering over Johnny, standing everywhere you could, before you reached your little space.
Simon, who had been holding the duvet open for you, tugged it down, engulfing you in the warmth of the two of them. He waited until you’d stopped wiggling, finally comfortable, before he rested his head next to yours on the pillow, blinking at you expectantly.
You gave him his goodnight kiss before he snapped off the light, moving forward to engulf your body with his own, becoming your own personal weighted blanket. He tucked your head under his chin and you felt utterly safe. “Night Si.” You breathed into his chest. He rumbled, “G’night love.”
“Night Simon.” Came Johnny’s quiet reply.
You and your husband spoke at the same time. “Shut up!”
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