“oh I’m too old for stuffed animals” skill issue. sorry you can’t appreciate little creatures made to hang out with you, I on the other hand am full of joyous whimsy and therefore vastly superior.
✧.* now what happens when you find a frustrated theodore nott on the quidditch pitch...?
theodore nott x prefect!lamb!reader (fem pov)
word count: approx. 2.4k
cw: MDNI!!, smut, dom!theo, innocent!reader, sexual language, praise, piv, fingering, unprotected sex, face painting lmao, slight exhibitionism(?)(on the quidditch stands lol)
a/n: first smut fic like ever i fear... don't bully please </3 + been working on this sleep-deprived, lmk about spelling mistakes :(
"Hey- hey!" you said loudly over the raging music, leaning over your friend's shoulder. "I'm gonna go; got prefect duty!"
Your friend, too engrossed in your house's quidditch victory party after they had beaten Slytherin earlier that evening, gave you a mere nod before realizing you actually said something. "Really? There are other prefects out anyways and you never find anyone. Don't be lame, just stay!"
"No, it's fine. I like walking outside anyways, it's fun," you explained, garnering a rather dismissive wave goodbye from your friend.
You trudged down the corridors searching for the way out of the castle. Curfew was approaching and you were given the task of finding a few stragglers outdoors; a task you most appreciated due to the fact you'd never find anybody and you were usually lucky with receiving ample amounts of good weather.
Too comfortable with the usual, you spent most of your patrol time frolicking on the grassy fields and never looked too carefully for any students. You were about to head back inside when you saw the broom shed's door open. Curiously, you peered inside and nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary...
A bit daunted, you closed the door and suddenly saw movement in the corner of your eye. You whipped around quickly, seeing someone flying on the quidditch pitch. You made your way into the pitch, assuming it was some overzealous lowerclassman riding on their broomstick.
As you made your way into the pitch, you realized how large it really was, somewhat awestruck. Hearing a distressed grunt, you turned around and saw the person who was flying, quite a distance away, chuck their broom onto the ground. You hastened over and the image came into view. Their brunette waves became clearer with each step you took and you managed to get their attention.
"H-hey!" You waved. You came to a stop in front of them, slightly huffing as they looked at you acutely. "Theodore, it's curfew in like... oh, two minutes ago."
Theodore raised an eyebrow at your words, seeming as if he had no idea who you were. "What?" he asked you, even though he heard what you said.
"It's past curfew, you can't be here," you said patiently. "What are you even doing here?"
"What's it look like?" he retorted. "Practicing," he added before you could answer his rhetoric question.
"Well... you should practice tomorrow. You already had that game today, you should take a break," you suggested.
He gave you what was probably the most condescending look ever, roaming over your figure. "Yeah, and we lost, princess. Need to practice."
"Don't overwork yourself," you said, your voice tinged with concern. "You were great today, I saw!"
"Mhm, probably cheering on your house, yeah?" he sneered. "Just get lost, I'm not harmin' anyone by practicing, but you're going to tell someone aren't you?" He looked a bit taut and you couldn't help but feel a bit of pity for him. After all, he wasn't the worst player on his team yet he was the only one here practicing, probably losing hairs in the process.
"No, I won't tell anyone," you said quickly. "You look exhausted though. At least sit down." You trailed all the way to one of the tall wooden towers going up to the quidditch spectator stands, feeling the wooden bench poke your thighs. Surprisingly, he sat beside you on your right with a grunt, running his hands through his hair.
Well, now what.
You peered at him in wonderment as his gaze was set straight, admiring his birthmark. Your eyes trailed around the side of his face, looking at his thick, dark brows and then at his slightly unkempt hair. He turned suddenly to face you and you darted your head away, embarrassed. He let out a small scoff, throwing his head down in a smirk.
"So," you started. "You like quidditch?" you asked dumbly. He obviously did... he plays.
"I do," he responded. "When we win."
"You guys almost did," you consoled him, tentatively reaching to rub his shoulder.
Theodore didn't protest, finding the way your palm's touch warmed his shoulder unexpectedly comforting. He looked at your seemingly apologetic face before his eyes wandered down your form, going from your neck and then down to your legs.
"Mm, almost."
Fidgeting with your fingers, you spoke up again. "Yeah, almost! Almost is good!" You reassured him. "Don't beat yourself up-- you're already so stressed." You recalled the instances in class where he'd focus on his work, the times you saw him in the library as you patrolled the halls, and the way he never seemed to hang out with his friends this past week.
"Oh princess," he said, calling you that nickname again, making you turn a light shade of pink. "When has almost winning ever helped anyone? What can I do about the stress? Nothing's going to change if I don't work." He gave a nonchalant shrug, breaking contact with your sorry eyes as he buried his head in his hands.
"Uhm... I mean, do you want help?" You peered at him, wide-eyed and full of pity.
And that's how you found yourself sitting on the open quidditch stands, thighs squeezed together with your head downcast as Theodore rubbed lazy circles over your underwear.
"I-I don't really see how this is supposed to help you," you mumbled.
He used his other hand to hold your chin gently, guiding your head to face him. "You think seeing a pretty girl like you lookin' like this doesn't help me?" he simpered. You felt your face heat up from the compliment, shifting your thighs to press against each other some more.
He let go of your chin and you looked down to watch him spread your thighs apart gently. Despite never being his friend, his touch felt familiar, even soothing. In fact, you didn't protest against him, even when you felt him slip your underwear to the side and insert a thick finger into your cunt.
Your mouth agape, you turned to look at him, brows knitting together as he met your gaze with a lascivious smile. You pressed your lips together to try and catch your breath, but it only lasted a few seconds as your lips parted once he entered another digit into you. He moved slowly, not taking his eyes off of yours, drinking in your dazed look.
You felt his pace increase, his fingers going in and out of your now glossy cunt rapidly, and let out a shaky moan which made Theodore's mouth contort in a wicked smile. You threw your head back, looking up at the greying sky. He leaned closer to you, his warm breath hitting your ear as he whispered.
"Feels good, yeah? Feels good to help me decompress hm?" He asked you quietly, having you squirm from his touch. You nodded meekly and let out a small yeah in response.
You had never experienced anything like this before. You were sort of scared, but also excited... maybe a bit confused? ...happy to help?
His touch eventually slowed, his two now-soaked fingers leaving your cunt as he held them up in front of you. Your eyes followed his fingers, your face turning into that of surprise as he brought his fingers into his mouth momentarily.
"So sweet..." he breathed out. "Come on, open up," he slapped your cheek lightly with his clean hand.
You opened your mouth slightly, your eyes looking reluctant.
"Come on, don't be scared," he cooed. You opened a little wider and he gently placed the two fingers on your tongue. You swirled your tongue around slowly, tasting sweet, kind of salty as well, but you weren't sure if that was you or his fingers. Taking in your appearance with his fingers in your mouth, he gave a breathy chuckle. "Cute."
He stood up from the bench with a sigh, taking a step in front of you. "Just one more thing, that okay?" he asked, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile.
"Yeah- yeah sure," you agreed. Even though you were unfamiliar with what you guys were doing, you were just glad you could help him out in some way.
"Good girl. --Has anyone told you how sweet you are?" He leaned forward slightly and cupped your cheeks to tilt your head upwards as you stayed seated on the bench.
"Some people, mhm," you nodded.
"Well, they weren't lying." He complimented you casually, making your stomach lurch in an oddly pleasant way. You adverted your gaze so you could soak in his compliment, your head then snapping up at the sound of a zipper. He gave you a wink that you'd be thinking about for the next week and a dazzling smile that you couldn't protest against.
He guided your legs up off the ground so you'd be kneeling on the stands bench and turned you around, having you facing opposite of the center of the quidditch pitch, towards the castle. Your eyes widened from the circumstances, the risk of being so exposed. You heard him shuffle a little behind you, the sound of his pants going down, boxers following.
You felt one of his cold fingers brush against your skin as he pushed your skirt up, making you shudder. He pulled your sodden underwear down and you heard him take a sharp inhale. His fingers ran over your folds, eliciting a groan from him. "You're so wet... n' you've never done this?" he asked you.
You shook your head, making him sigh.
"And you really want to give this to me?"
"Yeah, I do," you muttered quietly. You didn't care that it was Theodore, you just saw him as someone who needed some help and you were going to give it to them... Oh, who were you kidding? Of course you cared that it was Theodore. The Slytherin that you'd always catch yourself ogling at during the quidditch games, the one you'd stare at in potions, the guy you'd hold the door open for before Charms class.
Seeing no reason to delay his pleasure, Theodore positioned himself between your legs, holding your waist from behind as he pushed the tip of his cock into your ready cunt. You couldn't help the large gasp you let out while he stretched you out. You tried to recuperate momentarily, but he continued to enter you slowly, feeling as if there was no end.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he murmured. He slid in and out of you slowly, picking up the pace over time before you started to let out involuntary moans.
"Theo- Theodore," you huffed out, almost whining. "The castle-- someone could see us," you worried.
His pace becoming incontinent, he brushed off your concern with ease. "No one will, okay?"
Even with his reassurance, you couldn't help but feel sheepish, your anxiety spiking as the thrill got to you.
"Oh my g-god," you moaned. Theodore leaned into your back, head resting on the nape of your shoulder. He snaked his arm on your other shoulder, putting you in a headlock. You brought your hands up to hold his arm, your mind going blank as he started up a relentless speed on you and had his other arm travel down to rub on your clit.
"Shh, shh," he whispered. "Now they will see us if you don't quiet down, yeah?" You nodded in agreement, understanding that you mustn't be loud.
After a few minutes of biting back your moans as he drilled into you, he positioned you to lie on your back, on one of the benches. You complied and allowed him to reposition himself into you.
"F-fuck!" You mewled, unable to contain yourself in the new position.
"Shh, shh, shhh..." he shushed you once again, covering your mouth with a large hand as the other held both of your legs against his chest. "Be quiet for me, okay? You can do it," he murmured into your ear, leaning forward to kiss your cheek.
You nodded slowly as you looked up at him when he pulled his head away from you. "Good... so good."
So entranced by his eye contact, your brain drowned out the sounds of his cock going in and out of your sopping cunt, forgetting all about your precarious surroundings.
You felt the knot in your stomach begin to unravel and you knew that your orgasm was nearing. You clawed at Theodore's hand that was on your mouth and he let go, allowing your ragged gasps to float out into the air.
"You okay?" he asked you. "You close?" He couldn't help but smile endearingly at your state, horribly disheveled, biting your own lip to keep yourself from attracting attention.
"Mm," you nodded weakly, feeling your legs begin to shake. As you came undone, you felt him slow down, letting out groans of his own. You bit down on your lips harder and you could feel tears creeping into your eyes as you felt overloaded with sensations. He pulled out of you with a light pop and stepped towards your head.
He had his cock a few inches above your face and looked hesitant before asking, "May I?"
You honestly weren't very sure of what he was requesting, but you let out a soft yeah, being surprised once he spilled onto your face.
Your lips parted into an o-shape as you squinted slightly. After one last drop, you ran a finger on your cheek, observing the mark he left on you trailing down your finger. He dropped his hands to his side and crouched down to be face level with you. He cupped your face with his hands as he ushered you to sit up.
"You're a sweetheart, so nice of you to help," he praised. Even though he had just done things to you that you'd never even been brave enough to imagine an hour prior, you couldn't fight back the bashful look on your face.
"Of course," you whispered. "Do you feel better?" you asked, pulling your underwear back up.
"Yeah, yeah I do," he chortled. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss on your forehead.
You saw the sky darkening by the second and looked out the pitch. "Oh! Someone's coming!" you exclaimed.
He gave a mischievous smile that you could stare at for days, planted a quick kiss on your lips, and grabbed your hand to stand you up, brushing ur skirt down to cover your behind.
Simon will never admit this to you, but he loves asking you for a bandaid. You never have plain, skin tone colored ones.
Floral. Hello Kitty. Bluey. Watercolors. Hell, once you gave him bandaids that had little ghosts on them.
You're always so sweet about it too, putting it over the cut or scrap so gently before giving it a kiss.
His favorite is when it's on his fingers. He'll rub the little bump under his gloves, knowing he's got a little piece of you, right there, with him all day.
mmmm i have these thoughts about being sorta kinda drunk and hanging out with simon. you're so touchy when you're tipsy, and you're giggly, and you're sitting on the couch next to him, hugging his big arm and pressing little kisses into his shoulder. he doesn't react much, just keeps his eyes trained on the tv as he sips his whiskey; he's so indifferent to your affection, but he never pushes you away, lets you kiss him and touch him and whine and coo, and he never tells you to go away or leave him alone.
you nuzzle your face against his masked cheek, kissing along the cotton fabric there. you're so warm from the alcohol, a little dizzy, and now you're babbling, but he doesn't seem annoyed.
"love you so much, simon," you whine, and he just pats your thigh gently.
"can't ever live without you," you coo, and he squeezes your knee in acknowledgement.
"i'd do anything for you," you whisper into his ear, and he just grunts, pushing his mask up as he takes another long sip of his drink, and you tilt your head to the side, watching him, your pretty, pretty man.
"would you do anything for me?" you ask softly, leaning in close. he licks his scarred lips, but he doesn't look at you yet. "w-would...would you kill for me, simon?"
and then he finally looks at you, dark eyes meeting yours, and you squeak when he wraps that big hand around your waist and tugs you against him.
he smirks, tilting his head to the side. "'v already killed for ya, luv," he says lowly, and this is simon, and simon doesn't lie, and you know by the look in his eyes he doesn't mean this happened at work, either.
suddenly, you feel sober. but his hand tightens, and it lowers, and you swallow when he grabs a handful of your ass and forces your mouth against his.
Ghost taking his mask off during sex for the first time.
He doesn't even mean to- but with the way you’re riding him like that, the slap of your ass against his strong hips bucking up into you-
he can't stop his hand from pulling off his hot balaclava, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. you're so fucking tight around him- your shaking legs sending pulses up his body.
"Si-Simon," Your mouth falls agape at the sight of the man before you, his blue eyes rolled back, lips parted as he watches you bounce up and down on his dick.
His hands grab the fat of your hips, red hand prints forming underneath them.
"Fuck luv, 'jus like that,"
He bucks his hips up into you before flipping you on your back.
"Simon-"
He snaps his hips into you hard, the tip of his dick pushing into your cervix, gummy walls pulsing around him like fucking heaven.
"Fucken 'ell,"
His eyes fall to the bulge in your tummy, his jaw going slack.
Your pussy stretched to its brim around his thick cock- you were so good for him, almost splittin yourself in two.
"Simon, wanna cum," You whine, blinking back the tears in your eyes.
"I know luv, me too,"
You scratch at his back with your nails, leaving pretty red lines for him to admire the next morning.
He snaps into you harder, placing a warm hand over the bulge in your tummy, pushing into it.
God, he was pretty.
You came around his cock shakily, shuddering into him. You love this feeling, love being stuffed full of his girthy dick.
You pull the hair at the nape of his neck and that's all it takes for him to cum inside of you.
Moments later you're sprawled over his bare chest with his arm thrown around you. You're playing with the hem of his discarded balaclava with your fingers. His hand strokes your arm lovingly.
"Handsome," You murmur, eyes flicking up to the curve of his jaw.
Telling Ghost/König you are too heavy for him to pick up or sit on his face, and he doesn’t say anything at first so you think he just accepted it even if your heart kinda twinged a little in pain because you know you are just not skinny enough-
Only for him to send you a video the next day: in the gym, looking mighty hot in a compression shirt and sweatpants just a touch low on his hips, and lifting a bar with ease. On a closer look? The weighs attached to the bar weigh far more than you do. And he so easily maneuvers and controls and manhandles it…
Between the heat curling in your stomach, face pink and thighs clenched shut, you almost miss the incoming text.
2.2k | fluff
Simon had a pepper problem and a pasta dilemma
Simon stilled when he heard it. In the middle of the deserted pasta aisle, his hand froze mid-air as he reached for a box.
That voice.
He threw the box into his basket and rounded the corner into the next aisle. The staff you thanked had walked away, leaving you to scan the wall of bottled spices.
He blinked. Could it really be, or was it another trick of his mind? What was the end game here anyway? He had no excuse to be staring for more than 5 seconds.
You turned to him. He noticed the little startle before you shoved your phone back in your pocket.
Was it scarier if he slipped away now? But curiosity got the best of him and he made his way to stand next to you. You took a step sideways, giving him space.
He needed to confirm he wasn’t imagining it.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry, which pepper would you recommend, white or black?”
You blinked up at him before answering. “It depends on what you’re cooking, but in general I’d rather white.”
It really was you, wasn’t it? That voice was unmistakeable, always soothing and sweet.
You pointed. “This is the brand I use. It smells better than the rest.”
He recognised your gentle hands, fingers nimble and nails neat as you completed tasks on camera. There was no denying it now.
Your quiet cooking videos were one of the only things left that offered him calmness, especially on those nights away on missions, giving him tingles in all the right places, and shamefully, the wrong ones too sometimes.
Simon wasn’t picky – he always appreciated any sort of warm food, but he especially loved women who cooked. But you and your voice? There was something so soft and domestic about you making these meals with care – a taste he craved.
Could you really blame a soldier with no one to come home to for having a little crush?
It was silly, he knew. But it didn’t stop him for commissioning you to cook his late mum’s recipes. Having you say his name always made his heart flutter.
“Thank you,” he grunted, dropping the item into his basket.
“You’re welcome.” You flashed him a smile before going back to the herbs in front of you. You took a bottle and turned away.
“Ah- I’m sorry,“ he managed, flustered by your sudden exit. “I didn’t want to be presumptuous, but you make those videos, don’t you? I recognised your voice.”
You grinned, turning to him.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he said. “Your videos comfort me a lot.”
“I’m happy to hear. Thank you for watching.”
Simon wanted to tug his beanie over his face because as you walked away, he was unmoving with a racing heart and a blush over his pale cheeks.
Life carried on. Deployments with the 141 occupied his mind most of the time, but if Simon was lucky, he’d hop online to a new video of yours. Despite the uncomfortable circumstances, your quiet yet crisp voice always sent him into a restful slumber.
The chance encounter only fuelled his attraction. Knowing the kind smile behind the sweetest voice felt like an intimate secret, one you shared with him and only him - not with the rest of your few thousand subscribers.
So months and a few more commissions later, when he saw you again at the same supermarket, he could only chew on his lip and turn away. He didn’t need to slip further into delusion. That, and he didn’t want to scare you with his staring problem. It was clear how ominous he was to strangers with his size and unsmiling face.
But when he was once again in the pasta aisle, torn between spaghetti and fettuccine, that voice blessed his ears.
“Hiya.”
He turned to you smiling up at him. “You remember me?” he asked incredulously.
“Hard to forget you.” Your face dropped. “Oh, no, I didn’t- I meant you’re easy to remember. You’re tall-“
He gave you a crooked smile. He could only blame the weather for the heat rising up his neck. “I get that a lot.”
“Well, I wanted to ask how you liked the pepper.”
“It tasted like pepper.”
You laughed and he wanted to bite his lip. He felt like a schoolboy at a loss for words in front of a pretty girl.
His gaze dropped to your hefty basket. Minced meat, potatoes, carrots, a bag of peas… You nestled a box of pasta on one side.
“Making Shepherd’s pie tonight.”
He nodded. It was his favourite, especially his mum’s.
“Someone sent in a recipe for a video, and it’s absolutely delicious. I’ve been making it at least once a month ever since.”
“Simon?”
“Yes! You’ve seen it?”
More times that I’d like to admit. “It’s me. I sent you it.”
“Oh, I can’t believe it’s you! You’ve always been too generous with your tips.” You beamed. “The last recipe you sent, I promise I’ll get around to it next week. It’s just work has been ultra busy.”
“The brownies? Don’t worry about it. Take your time.”
“You know what, don’t tip me anymore. Send me a recipe whenever. You always have wonderful ones.”
He wasn’t going to stop, but he nodded anyway and the both of you lingered.
You averted your gaze. “Okay, I’ll leave you to it.”
“I’m done.” He popped both the spaghetti and fettuccine into his basket.
“Right. Well, I’m just heading to the check out now.”
“I can help you with that if you’d like.” He gestured at your shopping.
“Thank you so much.”
As he stood in the short queue (a respectful distance behind you of course), he tossed a few boxes of creme eggs into his basket.
“I haven’t had those in forever.”
“They’re decent.”
Who was he kidding. They were more than decent. He’d developed a terrible sweet tooth ever since he enlisted; always grateful of whatever he could get his hands on. But creme eggs? He had to grab them before they were gone.
You laughed. “I think it’s only fitting to top your brownies with something you like.” You popped a box into your basket.
Could he like you any more? He would die for a bite.
“Sounds lovely. I’m looking forward to it.”
Your smile lingered before turning to the cashier to settle your shopping. When it was his turn, you waited for him on the side. He hauled his bag over his shoulder, still insisting on carrying yours as you exited the supermarket.
“I’ll help you to your car.”
“I walked here. Unless you want to walk me back home?” you teased.
“I do, if you’d let me,” he deadpanned.
“You don’t even know if I live nearby.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
You smiled up at him a moment longer. “Would you like to stay for dinner? It should be done in about an hour, if you’ve got the time.”
Can’t say no to you. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”
You led the short walk to your flat as he tried to not gawk at the way breeze ran its fingers through your hair. While you put your belongings away, Simon took his grey hoodie and cap off, and draped them over the back of the dining chair. He combed his hair back with his fingers, hoping his hat hair wasn’t terrible. He caught the double take you did at his tattooed arm.
You put on instrumental music and pulled out a stack of recipes from the cabinet. Simon’s Shepherd’s pie, you’d scrawled onto the card.
“I can help with the mash.” He ripped open the bag of potatoes.
You simmered a pot of water as he peeled and cut the potatoes before you prepared the meat filling next to him.
It had been forever since he was in a kitchen with another soul. And although he wasn’t very sure of his own skills, watching your videos so much paid off.
In real life you were much quicker, but just as graceful and firm with your movements as you chopped and stirred. The rich scent of caramelised meat drifting in the room wrapped around him like a warm blanket.
“You’re definitely the better cook here.” You tipped the filling into a large baking dish.
He reloaded the steaming potato pieces into the ricer. “No, if I’m honest I’m pretty shit at it.”
You laughed. “But you’re really good with knives.”
Probably not the kitchen kind. “I was an apprentice butcher before I enlisted.” He pressed down on the ricer with ease.
“Huh.”
“Really, I’m lousy at best.” His lips curled into a fond smile. “My mum was fantastic though. The recipes were hers.”
There was a beat. “I’m sorry, Simon.”
“S’fine.” He glanced up at you before going back to his task. “She’s in a better place.”
While the pie baked, he helped clean up the kitchen and make tea. You set the table before putting away your shopping.
“I’m going to have one while we wait.” You turned to him, showing him a creme egg. “You want to share?”
Simon gave you a sheepish smile as he nodded.
Between sips of tea, you enjoyed your own halves of the chocolate wordlessly, the music melting into the background. He wished he had more to say, but the small smile you wore told him you didn’t mind the silence.
The savoury aroma glided past the thin gaps of the oven, swirling and dancing between you and him. His appetite was losing its patience. He let out a silent sigh, taking in your kitchen, your home, before it flattened once more into a mere video on his screen at the end of the night.
When the oven dinged, you promptly put on your mitts.
“It looks mint,” he said as you placed the dish in the middle of the table.
“Team effort. It took much less time with you helping.” You scooped a serving onto his plate. ”I know I’m supposed to wait for it cool down a bit, but I’m impatient.”
He chuckled. “Me too.”
He waited until you took a bite before taking his own, and his breath caught. His brows furrowed as lump formed in his throat.
Had the ground cracked and plunged him into a glitched universe? He was once more in Manchester, 10 years younger, finally home after a long day at the butcher, his mum and brother waiting at the table with the piping hot dish in the middle of it.
He placed his fork down, chills down his spine.
“Simon?” you asked quietly. “You alright?”
He pressed a palm over his eyes, but he couldn’t help the choke that followed as a tear slipped.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “It’s- it’s just like the one she made.”
You dragged your seat next to his and rubbed his shoulder.
The last thing he wanted to do in front of you was shed a tear, but there he was, some hulking stranger sobbing on your shoulder as nostalgia held him in a death grip.
It was humiliating to be seen like this – he didn’t remember the last time he cried from feelings, yet the tears wouldn’t cease despite his efforts. But you held him close, and his thick arms wrapped around you. He told himself if he pulled you close enough, it would hurt less.
You stroked his wide back until his breathing eventually evened out. His arms loosened around you.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again, wiping his drying tears away. “I’ll just finish this and go.”
“Please, have as much as you’d like. In fact, it would be an honour if you want to take the rest home.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You dragged your seat back across him and dinner resumed. Simon savoured each bite with a small smile, chest glowing with the tender memories of Manchester – when it was still more than just a city on the map.
You scooped him another serving. “I mean it. You’re very much welcome to send me more recipes.”
He finally met your gaze, and he held it. “She would have loved you.”
His heart stopped as soon as the words unwittingly rolled off his tongue. Who was he to say that out loud? How dare he have the audacity to even entertain the idea.
A bright smile bloomed on your beautiful face. “Yeah? I think I’d have loved her too.”
Simon’s heart fluttered. Why did you keep doing this to him?
“If you’ve got another hour to spare, would you like to bake brownies with me?”
It was his turn to smile. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Neighbour Simon if he still had his family
Ghost gave you a piggy back ride
Masterlist
2.1k | fluff, drink spiking
Did you just call Simon weak? The rest of the 141 didn’t like that
“Can I carry you?”
At the pub table, you almost spat the last gulp of your drink at the question. You turned to the source of the gruff voice, meeting the man’s chest before craning your neck up to his eyes. He had to be over 6 ft tall.
You set your glass down. “I’m sorry?”
“My mates are betting I can’t get anyone to piggyback.”
“And you picked me?”
He nodded at your top. “Skulls are sort of my lucky charm.”
You scoffed, looking past him at the other ladies in the room. “Are you serious? There are plenty who weigh far less.”
His brow rose. “Are you calling me weak?”
You took in the width of his shoulders, how his loose black shirt couldn’t hide the thickness of his biceps – the left one inked. He was handsome, rugged with the scar across his cheek, his short blond hair and light scruff, but his stare and bluntness made him beyond intimidating.
How could you get out of this situation with the least fuss?
“N- no.”
His eyes softened a touch. “May I? Please?”
Playing along and getting it over with should be the safest bet. “Okay... But-”
He turned his back and squatted slightly. “Hop on.”
“Wait- are you sure you can?”
“Hop on,” he repeated.
At that point, it was not your fault anymore if he ended up embarrassing himself. So you gripped his hard shoulders and did as told before he swiftly hooked his large hands under your jean-clad thighs. He didn’t grunt or strain when he bounced you to position and straightened up. As if you weighed nothing, which was a feeling you never thought you’d experience.
You had to give it to him - his strength was impressive. You chuckled to yourself, seeing the top of everyone’s head amused you. Across the pub, the table of three men grinned at the massive stranger. The one with the mohawk was very much entertained as he gave him thumbs up.
It was then that Simon groaned, because his team was embarrassing the hell out of him. That, and he finally got to feel how soft and warm you were pressed up against him. A little creepy, but a man was allowed to fantasise about a birdie he’d been eyeing, right?
“That’s all, yeah? You just have to carry-”
He stepped towards the bar, making you latch onto him.
“Oh! Where are you going?
“I’m getting you a drink.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Please, I insist.” When he flagged the barman down, you held on tighter. “It’s the least I can offer for getting you involved.”
You laughed, your breath warm against his ear. “Are you going to set me down or am I having my drink on your back?”
“Don’t give me ideas.” He chuckled as he lowered you to your feet.
He leaned against the bar, arm folded as he stared at you on the stool, downing your shot before looking at yourself on your selfie cam.
“Would you… like something as well?” you asked after you tucked your phone back in your pocket.
He shook his head.
“Okay. Well, thanks for he drink. You could get back to your mates if you want.”
“I’m Simon,” he mustered instead.
“Hi.” You shifted in your seat. “Is something the matter?”
“No.” He frowned. “Why are you asking?”
“It’s just you’ve been staring, and there’s nothing on my face. I checked.”
Bloody hell, could he be any more awkward? He just wanted to ask why you were alone without being weird about it.
He looked away. “I didn’t mean to.” You make me stupid. It didn’t help that your previous drink had tinted your lips, looking even more kissable up close.
“I think your mates want you back though.” You chuckled, nodding at his table.
When he turned to them, they immediately busied themselves with their drinks, averting their gazes.
“They’re a nosy bunch, they are.” He inched closer to you. “The one in the beanie, that’s our captain. The other two are my sergeants.”
“You’re the lieutenant?”
He hummed. “The one with the mohawk is the prankster. He’s a bad influence. He’ll talk you into doing anything.”
“He put you up to this then?”
He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips.
As if on cue, Soap looked up with an uncontained grin, only to look back down when he realised eyes were on him.
”Seems like he can’t wait to say hi.” He swiftly picked you up off your seat, bridal-style. “Is this enough to show you weigh nothin’?” he asked, fighting the urge to grab a handful of your soft thigh and waist.
“Oh- oh dear!” You laughed, arm wrapping around his neck, pretty fingers grasping his bicep. “Wait, wait, put me down!”
When you were back on your feet, you pulled your phone out of your pocket. “Sorry, I’m actually meeting someone. He’s almost here.”
So that was why you were alone. You were waiting for someone. Disappointment anchored at the bottom of his chest.
“Right. Okay.”
You smiled. “Thanks for the drink, Simon. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
He grunted and you headed to the end of the bar. He stood umoving for another second before retreating to his table like a kicked puppy.
“L.T., wha’ happened? She was havin’ so much fun!” Soap shot as soon as Simon took his seat next to him.
“She’s meetin’ someone,” he said quietly.
“Aww… Sorry, Ghost,” Gaz said. “But hey, she let you carry her!”
With your back to him, you looked at your phone whenever a man walked in.
Huh, first date?
You flagged down some other blond man who walked over to you with a smile. The barman took your order before you chatted with him with a polite smile, keeping a respectable distance between the two of you.
Simon was in no place to watch and invade your privacy – he really should look away. But what was it that simmered in him when the bloke scooted closer, his arm along the back of your chair?
He laughed, pointing at something on the TV. You looked up, and your hand deftly covered your drink, like an instinct.
He smirked. Smart girl.
“I know she’s with someone, but I can tell she likes you more,” Price said, and Simon finally tore his gaze away from you.
“Ye should fight ‘im, L.T. He dinnae stand a fuckin’ chance.”
“You can knock him out with a slap,” Gaz quipped.
He chuckled, blatantly looking over Price to you again. “Rather just look.” While it wasn’t for him, at least he could watch your pretty smile from here and quench his thirst a bit.
With the bloke’s drink in hand, he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, his other hand inching to your covered drink now. He tipped his glass over you, causing you to jump and grab serviettes to dab yourself with. Just as fast, his fisted hand opened over your drink before helping you.
“No fucking way,” Simon said out loud.
“What?” Gaz followed his line of sight.
He marched over, yanking the man around by the shoulder. “What the bloody hell did you just do?”
He stumbled off his seat from the force, making the lieutenant tower over him even more. “What? Who- Do you know him?” He turned to you.
His finger jabbed the man’s chest. “What. The. Fuck. Did you put in her drink?”
“Nothing! What are you accusing me of?”
Simon didn’t miss the crack in the man’s voice. He raised your drink to the man’s face, a tiny white tablet swaying at the bottom of the glass. “Empty your pockets.”
“Simon, what’s…”
“I’m not repeating myself.”
The man fished out his phone, wallet and keys with trembling hands.
“That’s not all.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing else, mate!” he said exasperatedly.
Simon’s patience ran dry. He patted his front pocket, hand bumping over something. “You need to see this,” he said quietly to you.
You hesitantly stuck your hand in the man’s left pocket, coming up with a bag of white tablets.
The man smacked the bag out of your hand. “You planted that, you slag!”
“If you didn’t do anything, drink it.” He spat, holding out your drink to him, now cloudy and fizzing.
He stared at the glass. “Fuck you,” he said, pushing it onto Simon’s chest before dashing out of the pub.
“Did he…”
“The fuck was that, Simon?” Price questioned from behind him.
“Fucking piece of shit spiked her drink.”
Price turned to you, a hand on your shoulder. “You got his name and number, love?”
“Yes.” You blinked. ”Yes, his number and dating profile.”
“I’m sending the coppas his way.” He picked up the evidence on the ground with a serviette. “Simon, get the details and make sure she gets home safe,” he said before approaching the barman.
You dried his ruined shirt with a wad of serviette. “I can’t even begin to thank you for your help, Simon. Really, thank you so much. I wouldn’t have-”
“You did good.” He squeezed your hand over his chest. “You covered your glass when you weren’t looking, but spilling his drink on you was something else.”
When you looked up at him with wide eyes, he dropped your hand.
“Would you like me to send you home?”
“I don’t want to trouble you. I don’t even live nearby.”
“Would you let me, if I want to?”
There was a pause before you smiled. “I think I’d like that, actually.”
When he grabbed his jacket from the table, Soap patted him on the back.
“Good catch, L.T. What a fuckin’ disgrace, the lad.”
“Have fun, Ghost,” Gaz teased.
Outside the pub where the streets were quieter, you forwarded the profile and chat screenshots of the man from your group chat to Simon.
“Can’t be too cautious. I’m not surprised if that’s not even his name honestly.” You shrugged, stuffing your phone back in your pocket. “I knew it was dodgy he insisted on meeting here when I said I’d rather somewhere in the middle, in broad daylight. That, and he was half an hour late too!”
It was disheartening to know this was the reality of dating, that all sorts of people lurked online, sometimes not with the best intentions. He’d show you his ID just to prove he wasn’t a creep, just someone smitten with a staring problem if any.
“If it was me, I’d have taken you anywhere you wanted.”
You chuckled.
“On my back too, if you prefer. I think you quite enjoyed that.”
“I did, actually,” you teased. “Is it a bad time to tell you I’m starving?”
“Yeah? That’s good news, because I’m always hungry. A kebab sounds about right at this hour.”
“Extra chips?”
“Extra chips,” he affirmed.
“You know what, I think this is my sign.” You pulled out your phone again, deleting an app. “Don’t think online dating was ever my thing.”
Is a stranger at a pub who shamelessly stares at you more your thing?
“Going out with someone who offers to carry me around is more like it.”
He bit back a smile. “So? Another ride on my back?”
You chuckled. “Next time,” you said, taking his arm instead.
As much as he enjoyed your touch, he couldn’t do with your fingers over his jacket. He needed to feel you. When he held your hand in his, you smiled up at him.
Simon had to thank his team for painstakingly convincing the stubborn lieutenant to approach the lady he’d been staring at. You didn’t have to know there was no bet, that asking to carry you was his own idea, an outrageous excuse to talk to you. But he wouldn’t complain if he ended up helping you, taking you for a little supper and even got to send you home.
“When’s next time?” he asked at your door, squeezing your hand.
You really shouldn’t have said it, because he was going to make sure there would be one. It had become a goal to show you how you deserved to be treated on a date.
“Is tomorrow too soon?”
“Right now isn’t even too soon.”
You laughed, pulling him down by the shoulder to meet your lips.
For @glitterypirateduck ‘s Ghost Challenge :D check out her page for fic recs!
“you are on the couch tonight, riley!” you shout, pointing a finger toward the living room. simon stands there, his jaw clenched, hands clenched at his sides, clearly unhappy but resigned.
there’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes, masked quickly with his usual steely glare. he just nods, not saying a word, as he grabs a blanket from the closet and settles down on the couch without another look your way.
the apartment feels colder without him by your side, and the silence that follows is louder than any argument. you lie in bed, your head turned to the wall, arms crossed tightly as if that could keep out the ache creeping in.
you feel miserable, thinking over the fight, wondering if you were too harsh, if maybe he wasn’t entirely in the wrong. but you bury it, refusing to let yourself soften too quickly. this isn’t the first time you two have fought; being with simon means loving him as he is, stubbornness and all.
but tonight, it feels different. minutes stretch into hours, and you find yourself glancing at the empty side of the bed, missing his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. you turn over again, clutching the pillow tighter, but it doesn’t help.
meanwhile, simon’s on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, a sigh slipping out into the darkened room. his mind replays the fight in quiet fragments, the words that had been said, your voice still ringing in his ears.
he knows he messed up, though he’d never admit it to anyone but himself. he misses you too, even if pride keeps him rooted to the couch, where the cushions dig into his back, and sleep refuses to come.
after another endless stretch, you finally can’t take it anymore. you get up, padding softly into the living room. simon’s form is a dark silhouette against the dim light from the window, his breathing shallow, not quite asleep. he hears you but doesn’t move, as if afraid to let hope show too early.
“simon…” your voice is quiet. you see his shoulders tense before he slowly drops his arm from his eyes, looking up at you. his gaze is guarded, but there’s an unmistakable softness there, a glint of something like regret.
“can’t sleep either, huh?” he mutters, breaking the silence, his voice rough from the hours of silence.
you shake your head, and without another word, he shifts to make space. you sit beside him and lean against him, letting your head rest on his shoulder, and after a beat, his arm wraps around you, pulling you closer.
“i’m sorry baby,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.
“me too,” you murmur, feeling the tension melt away as he holds you tighter.
neither of you says anything more. words don’t matter as much now, not when the warmth of his arm around you feels like coming home.
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