#oh its the simon edition | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mundanenonsense · 1 month ago

Text

part 2 of the biker!simon x learnerdriver!reader

3989 words (not really edited, sorry for any mistakes)

cw: slight NSFW, mdni, mentions of death, if there’s anything else I should mention, pls lemme know.

[previous] [next]

As soon as he stepped into the familiar house, Simon immediately kicked his boots off, bending over with a groan, his stiff muscles practically screaming at the sudden pull when he placed the boots on the shoe rack. His mask almost instantly got pulled off his face and thrown into the pocket of his hoodie, discarded and unnecessary.

He knew his mother hated it.

Slowly and silently he headed over to the kitchen, opening one of the windows to let some fresh, crisp spring air in as he proceeded to boil the water in the kettle, grabbing his mug, gifted to him by Joseph one Christmas. It was hand painted, chipped at the handle and a bit ugly. But to Simon it was one of his most prized possessions. That’s why when he was away, it lived right at the back of one of the higher cupboards, so that his mum wouldn’t accidentally knock it down and smash it.

Whenever he held something close to his heart, he would cherish it. Protect it. Do anything and everything not to break it. And for a man who’s job was to break stuff, he had to put quite a lot of effort into it.

He was made to break and he knew it. Everyone who looked at him knew it. Strong, heavy muscles rippled under the inked skin, with every single movement. Hands that should be permanently stained with blood, were clean, only because he spent over an hour under a hot stream of a shower, meticulously scrubbing them, and the rest of his body, after returning to the base. The scars on his skin just reminded him that although he bore many, he probably caused hundreds if not thousands more through the years of being in the army.

So now he was blankly staring at the teabag that currently sat in the hot water, as he oh so gently stroked his large finger over the little crack (that wasn’t his fault, Joseph dropped it himself whilst he was sat in Simon’s lap, explaining what each of the painted monstrosities was), eyes narrowed, cogs turning in is brain.

He needed to find you.

You.

His beautiful, sweet, stranger with eyes that he was willing to do anything for and driving skills of a grandad with myasthenia, unable to press the gas pedal hard enough.

There was no point crying over spilled milk. Simon knew that. He had his chance and he fucked it. But maybe that was for good? Maybe he would have spooked you if he suddenly decided to beg you to marry him with a bolt nut instead of a ring? Maybe you’d have hated that? A woman as beautiful as you deserved only the best.

He was a fucking twat, of course you wouldn’t want a fucking steel nut instead of an engagement ring.

In all fairness, you already looked like you were a split second from a breakdown, he was sure that even if he asked for your name, for your number, for anything at all, you’d have just deteriorated.

His poor, little driver.

If only you knew how much he wanted to soothe all the stress that so clearly held you in its tight grip.

To take it away. Calm you down.

Fuck knows well, he knew how.

He struggled himself. He was running on fumes. The past months being away took their toll on him, they always did, no matter how much he tried to keep all of that inside. Maybe that’s why, when he saw those vulnerable, teared up eyes in the reflection of your rear view mirror, Simon was instantly and utterly gone?

So genuine. So true.

Don’t worry sweetheart, from now on he would make sure that the only tears that would be guesting under your eyelids and sliding down your cheeks were those of happiness. Or overstimulation, from when he would fuck you breathless in the back seat of his car. Legs shaking, hands weakly holding onto his scratched up shoulders. Don’t worry, sweet thing, it wont scar, and even if it does, these will be some of his proudest scars that he acquired yet. Just trust him. Dig in deeper. Harder. Make it stick. He’ll kiss all those tears off as he drives his fat cock into your crying cunt again and again and-

But how?

Simon took a sip of the hot tea, his calloused hand sliding over the tightness by the zipper of his cargos, humming quietly, grinding his teeth together. He rolled his neck, closing his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep, deep fucking breath, knowing he needed to calm down. Desperately.

His mother could wake up and come downstairs at any minute and he didn’t really want her to see him sporting a raging hard on, or at worst explain to her that it was because he could not get his future wife out of his head. That wouldn’t be fair to you, sweetheart. But then again, it would probably never get mentioned.

Not if he could help it.

Fast forward a few hours, Simon was comfortably and rather peacefully asleep on the soft sofa in the lounge, covered up with one of the knitted blankets his mother started making after her retirement. He was warm, his stomach was full, his mind was (somewhat) at ease after being pampered and waited on as soon as Anne found him sitting at her dining table.

He knew she would do it, she always did. At first it annoyed him. The learned independence and self sufficiency from the years of growing up under his father’s iron fist and later the military made him struggle to adjust to her suddenly overbearing care. It took some time for both of them to adjust. A long time in fact. Before she stopped letting her paranoid thoughts take over every single time Simon would be sent away. And before he let her mother him whenever he was back without a grumble of complaint.

So now he just let her.

Of course he did.

He knew how hard she was trying to take care of him and Tommy whilst they lived with his father. How difficult it was whenever she’d try to help them after yet another beating, which would result in her getting one too. Anne was so fucking full of love and care that Simon began denying her that for years, afraid that it will end critically for her. He knew that one day he would have to stand up to his father and when it finally happened, he needed his mother by his side. Because fuck knows that Tommy wasn’t in the state to do anything.

Losing people made him both desensitized to death and yet so incredibly, overly aware of it.

He knew he’d lose Anne one day.

So if she fucking wanted to treat him like a kid whilst he visited her between the missions, he’d let her.

And although the sleep was truly a blessing, it was disrupted when he heard the quiet sound of the door opening, the metal squeaking against the hinges, wood brushing over the doormat and quiet rustling of something being passed between hands. Simon’s eyes staying closed but body instinctively tensed up, so that he was ready to throw himself off the sofa and straight at the potential danger.

“Oh, ta lovey, you sure spoil me wi’ all these! Do you wanna come in? I’ll make us a brew. Me lad’s come to see me, but he’s fast asleep in’t living room, it won’t bother ’im, pet.”

“No, no, Anne, thank you, I’ve got a tonne of work to do at home, got a new commission so I’ve got to work on it, but I’ll pop in for a brew at some point in the week, yeah?”

Simon’s shoulders relaxed and he breathed in deeply, hearing an unfamiliar feminine voice decline his mum’s invitation, grateful that he wouldn’t have to deal with one of her gossiping friends. In moments like this he was jealous of Tommy being all hitched with Beth and their lil shitling attached to his hip. He was officially off the table when it came to the matchmaking.

Simon wasn’t ever interested, of course. But that didn’t mean that his mum and her pain in the ass friends didn’t try.

But now you have so serendipitously appeared in his life.

He just had to secure you permanently somehow.

As the front door shut, he got up from the couch with a groan, his knees and shoulders cracking as he stretched. He met his mother half way to the kitchen, where she gently patted his upper arm (struggling to reach the shoulder with the arthritis slowly settling in her joints, bless her heart) and nodded at the kitchen.

“Just me neighbour’s made us some biccies, she’s a good hen like that. Come on, I’ll stick the kettle on, make you a coffee, an’ you can ‘ave some. You’ve proper lost weight fightin’ out there. They wanna feed you lads better in’t army if they expect you t’scrap proper.”

And to his satisfaction, the biscuits were truly great. Crunchy, but not overly dry. Not too sweet to cause heartburn either. They were a buttery goodness that melted on his tongue as he chewed one by one, unable to stop.

Anne and her feeding habits were a welcome change. The hunger that he suppressed for such a long time was demanding to be felt too.

But with every single bite he couldn’t help but think about biting into you.

Sinking his teeth into your soft looking skin, anywhere and everywhere you would let him leave a mark. He’d be gentle of course, he could not risk hurting you (too much). A sensitive thing like you, who clearly was struggling to drive faster than 30 miles per hour must have been delicate.

He wondered how the rest of your lesson went.

He really should have followed that stupid white car just to make sure no driver who was stuck behind you would stress you out more than you already were.

If anyone as much as tried to use their horn, he would deal with them. Don’t you worry your sweet, little head. He saw how you reacted almost crashing into the hedge when he revved the engine. The sound of a car horn would likely send you spiraling and he could not let that happen to his brave little driver. It’s okay sweetheart, you’d never have to encounter that dumb fuck again. Why? Well, silly goose, you can’t really use the horn or even drive for that matter, if you don’t have arms, no? Oh wait, you can? Well, he’d make sure to discourage them from getting behind the wheel ever again. He’s good at threatening people into submission. That’s kind of a part his job.

He’d happily cuddle you afterwards. Wrap his big arms around you tenderly, stroke your soft hair and tell you how well you did and that one day you’ll own the roads. Even if he had to somehow close off the whole city so that you could drive stress free. Bomb threat perhaps? Terrorist threat? Murder every single driver registered as living in Manchester and close off all the entry roads into the city? Slash the tires of every single car? Johnny would surely help with that. Especially if he was doing it for his lieutenant’s bird.

Before Simon knew it, he was standing in front of the neighbour’s door, helmet in one hand, empty and washed out tupperware box in the other, knocking against the hard wood with the tip of his shoe. “Seein’ as yer not stayin’ over tonight, pet, can yer take that tupperware box next door? If yer don’t, I’ll only forget, yer know what I’m like, Si.” He once again couldn’t say no. He ate majority of the biscuits anyway, the least he could do was return the bloody plastic box to the owner.

He heard snapping of the lock bolts as the key turned from inside and then the door opened, revealing you.

The air got knocked out of his fucking lungs, eyes opened wider, the grip of his hands tightened, afraid that he was going to drop everything he was holding as he stared into those beautiful eyes which haunted him every single time he closed his own, even to blink, since this morning.

Looks like he didn’t have to spend his evening planning on how to find you at all.

You were right here, under his fucking nose this whole time and he had no idea. Now staring up at him, chin darted up, head tilted back a little to accommodate for the height difference between the two of you.

Future Mrs Riley was so much prettier when there wasn’t a car window in the way.

You stood there, one hand on the doorframe, ready to shut it closed (good girl, look at you, staying so careful, he’s so proud of you), eyes narrowed a little as you studied his features, clearly not recognising him, but sizing him up. He was a stranger after all.

Strangely handsome, but still, a stranger who was for some reason stood at your door, staring at you silently, making it impossible to tear away from his intense, dark gaze (was it dark or were his pupils just abnormally blown? Was he on fucking drugs? Nah, Simon was in fucking love, and when someone is in love, their pupils dilate. But how could you know sweetheart? Just stay oblivious for now.). You weren’t entirely sure why. Maybe because it felt like a challenge? First person to look away loses. As if you were both taking part in some dumb staring contest, but from the way he was looking at you, you could tell it wasn’t a fight for dominance.

At least not anymore.

Because as much as you always read in your silly books, the author describing that someone’s gaze softened, you didn’t really understand what that meant. Until now. Because a couple moments after your eyes met his, you could see it happening.

The whole demeanor shifting. His furrowed eyebrows relaxed, deep set wrinkles disappearing from between them, although still leaving delicate lines in their place. The eyes seemed to have lost their sharp edge, that intensity remaining, but now having taken on a gentle way to it. They weren’t indifferent, cold, even scrutinising anymore. No.

Simon cleared his throat, looking away first, down at the tupperware box in his hand.

Something he rarely did. He was a manmade predator. He knew how to intimidate, scare, make someone feel like a little roach about to be squashed under his boot. But in this moment, standing at your door, he couldn’t help but want to drop to his knees and beg for you to walk all over him. Just to confirm this was not a fucking daydream and that for once, life has fucking smiled at him and said ‘hey, there you go, have it the easy way mate’. Walk over him like a fucking marching band, please, pet. Run him over with a car for all he cares. At the speed that you drive at, the worst he’d get was a couple broken ribs and a sprained wrist and that is nothing, lovey. He’s been through worse.

Fuck, you turning in the opposite direction on that junction this morning seemed to hurt worse.

You still stared at him, curiosity flashing through your eyes as he dropped his, but you let yourself study his face for that quick moment. The slightly crooked nose, messy blonde hair that he clearly put no effort into styling, sharp jaw with a freshly trimmed beard, a few scars, a particularly nasty looking one that ran down the length of his cheek, a split bottom lip that was almost healed and a yellow bruise painted on the temple.

Man’s been through shit.

“Hi?” You said quietly, a little hesitantly as you attempted to catch his eyes again, tilting your head to the side.

Simon’s eyes snapped back up to yours as if your sweet voice gave him the permission to indulge in the beauty that you oh so kindly provided and blessed him with.

He couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe he choked on one of the biscuits that turns out you made and now he was dead and somehow he made his way to heaven. Somehow. If he clawed his way into there, he didn’t remember that, but surely he wasn’t just invited. Not with all the fucked up things he’d done in his life. But if this was the promise of heaven, he’d happily do anything to experience even the snippet of it.

He needed to say something, anything that would make you stay, indulge you, keep you from shutting the door in his face, something that would portray all the fucking intensity of scrambled up emotions he was feeling right now. Fuck, would it be weird if he ran to his bike now and undid one of those nuts and came back asking for your hand? He couldn’t ask without a ring. He didn’t have anything on him that could imitate one. “Th’ biscuits were mint, pet.”

You raised your eyebrows as he extended the tupperware box to you, realizing that he must have been the son Anne mentioned earlier when you dropped the sweet treat off. You assumed she was talking about Tommy, Tommy was often over.

Not this absolute behemoth of a man who, for a brief moment after opening the door, you expected to pull out an axe and just kill you on the spot.

She spoke to you about him over a cuppa one day. Samuel was it? You’d never seen him, only heard about him, which made sense since he was a soldier who apparently spend majority of his life away on deployment or out at the base.

Well, now he was here and he complimented the biscuits you stress baked after yet another unsuccessful driving lesson. You were surprised he enjoyed them. Thought the tears that streamed out of your eyes as you mixed the batter would have made them a tad too salty.

“Oh, I’m glad. Thanks, Samuel.” Big, well deserved pat on the back for you, showing off that you listen, that you know who he is, without him having to introduce himself. You’d known his ma for a few months now after moving next door to her. She almost immediately decided to kind of adopt you, after learning that ‘y’ were just a teeny thing, livin’ all on ‘er own.’.

He appreciated the try. Really. No, honestly. If you wanted to call him Samuel, he’d let you. Hell, he’d change the name in all his documents if it made you happy. “‘Ts Simon, love.”

And he fucking immediately wished he never said that and actually went with the idea of a name change, because the way your eyes instantly saddened broke him. There was that worry in them again that he saw in the morning. The expectation of punishment almost. Guilt. Upset. You looked as if you just admitted to killing his childhood pet, not accidentally calling him the wrong name.

No, no, no, sweetheart don’t be upset with yourself. In his head he already promised himself to only make you cry for two specific reasons. This wasn’t one of them. Please don’t beat yourself up for it. He should have taken it back, the nervous stuttering of all the half words and sorries filled his ears and he wanted nothing more than to cup your flushed cheeks and kiss those words off your lips.

Don’t be sorry, sweetheart, don’t apologize, not to him, not to anyone, ever. You tried. That’s all that matters. He can be Samuel from now on, really. Promise.

Just like when you mouthed the ‘I’m sorry’ through the closed window of the car.

Poor thing.

Guilt didn’t suit you.

But your name that you introduced yourself with in the midst of all that babble did indeed suit you. He chewed on it for a moment as he repeated it in his head, memorizing it, tasting it, almost choking on it as he finally said it out loud.

He watched your eyes wonder to his motorbike helmet as you tapped your thumb quickly on the lid of the plastic box that you held in your little, slender hands.

Were you realizing who he was? Were you remembering the intimate (intimidating), heartfelt (angry) looks he was giving you as he stared at your reflection in the rearview mirror of your car?

Surely you must realize.

He would recognize you just by your eyes anywhere. How could you not do the same?

Did you just not care?

Were you truly this fucking oblivious?

Or were you just pretending?

“Let me get you some more of those biscuits. As a sorry for getting your name wrong. I think I’ve got some left…”

He stared at the open door as you rushed back into the depths of your house.

Stranger danger, did your parents not teach you about it?

But he wasn’t really a stranger was he? You shared someone in common. Anne told you about Simon. He was her fucking son. And she lived next door, it’s not like he would do anything to you, at least in your head. In his head he wanted to do everything to you. But you’d enjoy it, obviously.

So at least both of you were sure that no hurt was on the cards.

He would never do anything to hurt his missus.

Now standing in the doorway, was he supposed to follow you? Was that an invitation?

He fucking hoped it wasn’t, because if he walked in right now, his claws would settle deep into the floorboards and he’d refuse to leave. Would you even want him to leave? Would you ask him to stay? He never stayed. He never accepted any food offered to him just like he never opted for the post fuck cuddles. That wasn’t something he ever wanted really.

Nah, he had shit to do. Reports to write. Places to be. People to train. Guns to clean.

He was full, he didn’t need more biscuits. His mother fed him more calories today than his usual weekly allowance was during deployment.

But then again, if his future Mrs Riley insisted, he’d gladly stuff those biscuits down his throat, even if it meant his stomach was going to suffer. He’d do it with a damn big smile. Just to show you how much he fucking appreciated you feeding him. Hoping that you’d feed him forever. Was your pussy a meal you’d consider giving him too? Because fuck, he’d devour it as a pallet cleanser between all the biscuits he was willing to eat. Just let him have a taste. Please. He’d make it worth your while. His face stuffed between your legs, hands tightly wrapped around your thighs, keeping you nice and spread open for him as he munched on you like a man starved, singing praises into your pretty cunt about how nice she tastes. Drinking up all the juices. Staying hydrated was important after all.

That’s when you could cry, lovey. He’d lick those tears right off too. Can’t let your sweetness (or saltiness in this case) go to waste.

“Come in, Simon, shut the door behind you, the draft’s chilly!”

Without thinking twice, Simon stepped into the house, shutting the door quietly behind him. Hearing his name in that sweet voice of yours was like a call to prayer. Like a call from the goddess who he swore to worship until the day he died. You were cold? Oh you poor, pretty eyed thing… Don’t worry, angel, he’d happily set himself on fire if his body heat itself was not enough to keep you warm.

hope you liked it!

requests open, I guess?

If you wanna be added to the tag list, let me know!

@anonymouse1807

@shesneverreallythere

#simon ghost riley x reader #biker!ghost #biker!simon #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley cod #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #ghost x you #simon riley smut

256 notes · View notes

yua0ra · 3 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐲

WARNINGS: theatrelover!theo x cinemalover!fem!reader, sex, porn with plot, semi-public sex, p in v, raw, cursing, hot, fingering, NSFW, english is not my first language. not proofread | minors please dni. smut 🂡

SUMMARY: In the cool of the evening, when everything is getting kind of groovy, you call me up and ask me: would I like to go with you and see a movie? First I say "No, Ive got some plans for tonight." But then I stop and say "All right".

WC: 6.3K AN: HAHAHAH finally, after what it seemed like a fucking eternity, I bring you... Theodore SMUT. Everyone say thank you! JK, enjoy it, you whore. <3

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

Theodore Nott had an insufferable, borderline pretentious love for contemporary theatre. He would wax poetic about the brilliance of Jez Butterworth, the raw grit of Simon Stephens, and the immersive absurdity of Caryl Churchill. You, on the other hand, were a cinephile at heart—Tarantino’s razor-sharp dialogue, Scorsese’s masterful character studies, Nolan’s intricate narratives. You could analyze Pulp Fiction’s non-linear structure just as easily as you could tear apart The Wolf of Wall Street’s moral ambiguity.

Despite your differences, you both had an undeniable appreciation for storytelling—whether on stage or on screen. And naturally, that appreciation often turned into petty arguments.

"You can’t tell me The Ferryman isn’t one of the best pieces of theatre in the last decade," Theo scoffed one day, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, please. Jez is just doing modern-day Greek tragedy with a sprinkle of Irish drama. It’s compelling, sure, but it’s not reinventing the wheel."

Theo narrowed his eyes. "And what, you think Tarantino’s constant foot fetish and non-linear storytelling is revolutionary?"

"At least Tarantino has mastered the art of tension," you shot back. "The Sicilian scene in True Romance? The diner scene in Reservoir Dogs? You don’t need an elaborate set change or monologues drenched in metaphor—you just need two people in a room and a damn good script."

"That’s rich coming from someone who praises Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller—two of the most dialogue-heavy playwrights in existence."

Your friends groaned. They were used to this. You and Theo could argue for hours over narrative devices, symbolism, and whether theatre or cinema was the superior storytelling medium.

But one afternoon, during an extracurricular drama lesson, the argument escalated to a level that left everyone in the room speechless.

The class was discussing adaptations—how literature, theatre, and film intertwined.

Theo, ever the theatrical purist, argued, “Plays allow for the rawest human emotion. There are no camera tricks, no fancy editing—just an actor on stage, exposed. That’s why theatre will always have a deeper emotional impact than cinema.”

You weren’t about to let that slide. “That’s a wildly limited way of thinking. Film is just as much a visual art as it is a narrative one. Sure, theatre relies on the performer’s ability to hold an audience, but film can show a character’s internal struggle without a single word of dialogue. A glance, a shift in lighting—those subtle details can hit just as hard as a monologue.”

Theo tilted his head, amused. “Alright, then. A Streetcar Named Desire—would you rather see it on stage or in Elia Kazan’s adaptation?”

You smirked. “Kazan’s adaptation is brilliant, but you’re proving my point. The film version utilizes Marlon Brando’s raw, visceral performance while also using close-ups, sound design, and visual metaphors to enhance it. Theatre is powerful, but it’s limited by its medium. Film has more tools.”

The tension in the room thickened as you both volleyed back and forth—citing everything from Angels in America to Taxi Driver, from Arthur Miller’s The Crucible to Nolan’s Memento.

By the time you both stopped to take a breath, the rest of the class was staring at you like they had just witnessed an academic duel to the death.

Blaise, looking mildly concerned, muttered, “I think you two just argued in a language no one else speaks.” Pansy blinked and slowly nodded her head, “did you just name-drop fifteen different playwrights and directors in the span of five minutes?”

Draco, unimpressed, simply said, “I came here to watch people pretend to be trees, not to witness whatever that was.”

You and Theo exchanged a look. And, despite everything, a slow grin spread across both your faces. Because for all the arguing, all the differences, and all the passionate debates—you loved every second of it.

- ★、

The weekend had finally arrived, and with it, your much-anticipated cinema trip. It wasn’t every day you got to slip away from the castle, apparate to London, and immerse yourself in the warm glow of a dimly lit theatre, the smell of buttered popcorn thick in the air. Tonight’s screening? A Tarantino classic—Inglourious Basterds. You were practically buzzing with excitement as you stepped into the theatre, savoring the moment before the film began.

And then you saw him.

Theodore. Bloody. Nott.

Leaning against the concession stand, hands in his pockets, looking as if he belonged in some noir film with his perfectly tailored coat and unimpressed expression. His sharp gaze flicked over to you, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well, well,” he drawled, stepping closer. “Didn’t peg you for the type to sneak off to London alone for a late-night film screening. How rebellious.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t strike me as the type to appreciate Tarantino. What are you doing here, Theo?”

He raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “What, am I not allowed to expand my horizons? Maybe I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Oh, please. You’ve spent weeks slandering film in favor of theatre, and now you suddenly show up to a Tarantino movie of all things?”

Theo hummed thoughtfully, stepping closer, so close that the scent of his cologne—expensive and frustratingly good—filled your senses. “Maybe,” he mused, “I just enjoy riling you up.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was betraying you with its traitorous thump against your ribs. “Right. So you apparated to London, found this exact cinema, and happened to pick the same showing as me? Coincidence?”

His smirk deepened. “Perhaps.”

Before you could interrogate him further, the theatre doors opened, and people started filing inside. You exhaled, shaking your head. “You know what? I don’t care why you’re here. Just—don’t ruin the film for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, trailing after you.

You found your seat, sinking into the plush velvet, determined to ignore the fact that Theodore Nott had somehow ended up in the seat directly beside you. He stretched out, looking infuriatingly at ease, as if this hadn’t been some grand invasion of your sacred cinema time.

And then, as the lights dimmed and the first scene flickered onto the screen, Theo leaned in—just enough for his breath to ghost against your ear.

“If this film doesn’t impress me,” he whispered, “you owe me a ticket to the next play I pick.”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze, and smirked. “Fine. But when you inevitably love it, you’re admitting I was right.”

Theodore just chuckled, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest. “We’ll see.”

As the film unfolded on the screen, you found yourself hyperaware of Theodore’s presence beside you. It was ridiculous, really—how could one person occupy so much space without actually moving?

His elbow rested dangerously close to yours on the armrest, his long legs stretched out in that careless way he always sat, as if the entire world was his to lounge in.

You tried to focus on the movie, on the tense exchange between Landa and Perrier LaPadite, but Theo shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours, and suddenly, every bit of dialogue seemed to drown beneath the sound of your own heartbeat.

You weren’t sure when it happened—when the push and pull of your debates, the sharp edge of your banter, had morphed into something more charged, something that left a static hum in the air between you.

Maybe it had always been there, simmering beneath every eye roll, every challenge, every smirk that lasted a second too long. And now, sitting here in the dim glow of the theatre, with flickering light casting shadows across his annoyingly perfect features, it was impossible to ignore.

Halfway through the film, Theo leaned in again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Alright, I’ll admit it. The dialogue is brilliant.”

You smirked, keeping your eyes trained on the screen. “Told you.”

His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, a steady, maddening rhythm. “Still doesn’t mean it’s better than theatre.”

You turned your head slightly, lips curving in amusement. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Theo tilted his face toward you, his voice dropping lower, smoother. “Because film lets you hide. Close-ups, cuts, music—it manipulates how you feel. Theatre? It’s raw. No second takes. No distractions.” His eyes flickered over your face, lingering just a moment too long on your lips. “You can’t escape it.”

A shiver ran down your spine, though whether it was from his words or the way his voice curled around them, you weren’t entirely sure. You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus. “You call it hiding. I call it perspective. The camera lets you see things no audience member ever could—something intimate, something only you get to witness.”

Theo hummed, considering that. The tension between you had shifted into something heavier, something that pressed into the space between breaths. He was still close, close enough that you could catch the faintest scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from where his arm rested near yours. It would be so easy to lean in just a little more, to close that final inch between you.

And then, just as you were about to force yourself to sit back, to pretend none of this was affecting you, he moved.

Slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed against the back of your hand, the touch featherlight, testing. Your breath hitched, your pulse hammering against your ribs, but you didn’t pull away. Theo, ever perceptive, took that as permission, his fingers shifting, tracing the delicate curve of your wrist.

“You’re… mad, Theo. You’re out of your mind,” you murmured, barely aware you had spoken the words aloud.

His lips quirked, but there was something darker in his gaze now, something that sent heat curling low in your stomach. “That’s right…,” he murmured, his fingers sliding between yours, “but you’re too, you haven’t moved.”

You knew you should say something—should tease him, should act unaffected—but all logic had abandoned you the moment his hand fully curled around yours. The room around you had disappeared, the film reduced to a distant hum in the background.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Theo lifted your intertwined hands, brushing his lips against the inside of your wrist. It was barely a kiss—more of a ghost of one—but it sent a shiver straight down your spine, igniting something electric in your veins.

Your breath hitched. “Theo—”

“I know,” he murmured, voice impossibly low, as if he was reading every thought racing through your mind. His thumb traced slow, teasing circles over your palm, his lips still hovering dangerously close to your skin. “Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your head slightly toward him, meeting his gaze through the dim flicker of the screen. “What if I don’t want to?”

His smirk deepened, but there was something softer there, something almost unreadable. For a moment, he just looked at you, as if memorizing every detail, before he finally whispered, “Then we might have a problem.”

And the worst part?

You wanted to find out just how much of a problem it could be.

The world outside of your little bubble had disappeared completely—the film playing on the screen, the murmur of the other audience members, the distant rustling of popcorn bags—it all faded into nothing. All that remained was Theodore, his touch burning into your skin, the weight of his gaze heavy as it flickered down to your lips.

His hand tightened ever so slightly around yours, his thumb tracing the delicate skin of your wrist, and you swore you felt your heartbeat stutter. There was something unbearably patient about the way he was looking at you, like he was waiting—waiting for you to pull away, to scoff and shove him off, to turn this into just another one of your never-ending debates. But you didn’t move.

Instead, you found yourself leaning in, the warmth between you growing thick, heavy. Your noses brushed—barely, just a whisper of contact—but it sent something electric crackling through your veins.

Theo exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath. His voice was nothing more than a murmur, just for you. “You’re really not stopping me.”

You smirked, fingers tightening slightly around his. “I thought you liked risks.”

His lips caught yours in the next breath, slow at first—just a soft, testing press, as if he wasn’t entirely sure this was real. But then you sighed against his mouth, tilting your head slightly, and finally leaned in.

Theo let go of whatever restraint he had left. His free hand came up to cradle your jaw, fingers pressing gently beneath your ear as he deepened the kiss, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to savor every second.

He tasted faintly of Italian summer and something richer, something entirely him. His touch was both careful and possessive, like he was memorizing the shape of you beneath his fingertips. You felt yourself melt into it, the heat between you intensifying, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You barely noticed the way his thumb brushed over your cheek, the way he tilted your chin just slightly to kiss you deeper. Everything about it was intoxicating—the way he moved, the way he swallowed the quiet little sigh that escaped you, the way his fingers flexed against your skin like he didn’t want to let go.

Somewhere in the background, the movie continued playing—gunfire, sharp dialogue, the rise of a dramatic score—but it all blurred into nothing. All you could focus on was Theo, on the way he was kissing you like he’d been waiting for this, like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.

When he finally, reluctantly, pulled away, his lips barely ghosting over yours, you were both breathless. His forehead rested against yours for a moment, his fingers still cupping your jaw, his thumb tracing absent patterns over your skin.

You opened your eyes slowly, meeting his gaze. His pupils were blown, his lips slightly parted, and for the first time, Theodore Nott looked entirely, devastatingly undone.

A slow, lazy smirk curled at the corner of his lips. “Well,” he murmured, voice slightly rough. “I suppose I owe Tarantino some credit after all.”

You let out a breathy laugh, rolling your eyes. “Unbelievable.”

He chuckled, fingers trailing down the side of your throat, as if he wasn’t quite ready to stop touching you yet. “Admit it,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “You liked that more than the film.”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Jury’s still out.”

Theo smirked, his lips brushing yours again in a featherlight kiss, like a silent promise. “Then I guess I’ll just have to convince you.”

And as he pulls you back into another kiss, slow and deep and utterly devastating, you realise with absolute certainty—you were in trouble.

Theodore's hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, his lips moving with an urgency that steals your breath. He pulls you closer, eliminating any remaining distance between your bodies, his heart hammering against his ribs.

His other hand splays across your lower back, pressing you flush against him as the kiss grows more heated, more demanding. He nips at your lower lip, his tongue soothing the sting before delving back into your mouth, stroking along yours in a dance that leaves you breathless. The cinema, the other people, the movie - it all disappears. There is only the two of you, lost in the passion of this stolen moment.

When Theodore finally breaks the kiss, you're both left panting, your chests heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering open to gaze into yours with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. “Fuck..." he breathes, his voice ragged with desire.

And then, an act on impulse, a surge of primal instinct driving him. In one swift, fluid motion, he reaches under your thighs and lifts you effortlessly, settling you straddled on his lap. The sudden change in position startles you both, but the shock quickly melts into a shiver of pleasure as you feel the hard, muscular length of his thighs beneath you.

The cinema has long since faded from your awareness; now there is only the two of you, the heat building between your bodies, the electricity crackling in the air.

Theodore's hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh almost hard enough to bruise as he holds you in place. Your chest is pressed against his, and you can feel the pounding of his heart, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing.

His eyes are dark, almost black in the dim light, blazing into yours with an intensity that makes your own pulse race. "Darling," he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble. His hands move again up your back, one tangling in your hair while the other cups the back of your neck, pulling you into a searing, desperate kiss.

The kiss is a clash of lips and tongues, a dance of passion and pent-up longing. It's a kiss that speaks of a hunger, a need, a desperation that can no longer be contained. Theodore kisses you like a man starved, like he is trying to devour you, to consume you, to make you a part of him.

Red faced, messy hair, you look up at him. “Sh-shit Theo, we shouldn’t be doing this here.” You quietly giggled.

Theodore chuckles softly at your giggle, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn't stop his ministrations, his hands still roaming your curves with a familiar confidence.

But he does lean back slightly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Shh, shh, bella, what's the matter? Don't tell me you're getting shy on me now..." he teases, his voice a low murmur meant only for your ears.

"We're just two lovers, lost in the moment. Surely there's no harm in that?" His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, his fingers tracing maddeningly slow circles on your skin. Your breath hitches at the touch, a fresh wave of goosebumps erupting across your flesh.

Theodore's eyes darken with lust as he feels your hips squirming against him, your plush rear rubbing against his hardening cock through the fabric of his trousers.

A low, guttural groan escapes his lips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. His other hand slides up your side, his fingertips skimming the side of your breast, teasing you with the promise of his touch.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your flesh. "Gorgeous, you feel what you do to me, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice a low, husky growl.

His words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your stomach as your grip tightened on his coat. The way he spoke, all dark velvet and wicked amusement, made your head spin. You did feel it—the tension thrumming between you, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way his fingers ghosted over your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you. And Merlin, it was driving you insane.

Your breath hitched as you shifted against him, creating more friction, desperate for anything to relieve the ache building inside you. His sharp inhale, the barely restrained groan against your throat, sent a rush of satisfaction through you.

"Fuck," Theo muttered, his lips grazing the delicate skin beneath your jaw. "You're dangerous."

A breathy laugh escaped you, but it was cut short as he tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. His nose skimmed along the column of your throat before he pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the way you trembled against him.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" he murmured, lips brushing against your pulse point. "Arguing with you, watching you get all worked up—Merlin—and now this?" His teeth grazed your skin, not quite biting, just enough to make your breath stutter. "Gorgeous, you have no idea how long I've wanted this."

His confession sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you couldn't help the way your hips rolled against his, seeking more of the delicious friction he so easily provided. His hands gripped you tighter, his restraint fraying with each passing second.

Theo let out a strained chuckle, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and filled with something dangerous. "If you keep doing that, sweetheart," he murmured, voice thick with desire, "I'm going to forget we're in a bloody cinema."

The thought sent a thrill through you, but you knew he was right. The dim glow of the screen cast flickering shadows across his sharp features, but the reality of your surroundings was quickly slipping away, drowned out by the intoxicating heat between you.

You licked your lips, breathless. "Then maybe you should."

Theo stilled for a fraction of a second, his fingers flexing against your waist. And then—Merlin, then—his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

"Brilliant idea, darling," he purred.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before the haze of lust could fade, Theo was back at it again, with more force and more desire.

Theodore's hand cups your breast fully now, his thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling your hardened nipple through the thin material of your shirt. His lips trail up your neck, pausing to nip and suck at your pulse point before moving to your ear.

"I want to bend you over the back of this seat and fuck you until you scream, until the entire cinema knows who you belong to," he whispers, his voice rough with need.

"I want to make you come on my cock again and again until you're begging me to stop, until you're completely and utterly satisfied..." His hand slides down your stomach, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your skirt, teasing the sensitive skin just above where you crave his touch most.

Theodore's eyes blaze into yours, filled with a hunger and a desperation that makes your core clench with anticipation. "But I suppose I can be patient, for now," he murmurs, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"After all, the anticipation, the build-up, the waiting... it's all part of the thrill, isn't it? Knowing that I could take you right here, right now, but choosing not to... for now."

He pulls you into another searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you, consuming you, until you're left breathless and wanting.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours, a wicked glint in his eye. "Tell me," he murmurs, his voice a low, sinful purr. "What do you want, my clever little witch?”

“N-no, Theo.” You blush, feeling hot. “I’m too turned on, I’ll be quiet I promise.”

Theodore's eyes flash with triumph and desire at your breathless, needy words. A smug, satisfied smirk spreads across his handsome face as he realizes the effect he's having on you.

His hand slides further down, his fingers brushing against your clothed sex, feeling the damp heat radiating through the fabric. "Mmm, is that so, pretty?" he murmurs, his voice a low, husky purr.

"You want me to fuck you, right here, right now, don't you? Want me to slip my hard, aching cock inside your tight, wet little cunt until you're screaming my name?" His fingers rub slow, teasing circles over your clothed clit, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm and whimper with need.

Theodore leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, his voice dripping with sinful promise. "I promise, I'll make it worth it. I'll fuck you so hard and so good that you'll forget where we are, and every single time, that you watch this movie, you will only see me.”

His other hand slides up your shirt, pushing the fabric out of the way to expose your heaving breasts. He cups the soft mounds, kneading and squeezing them, his thumbs and forefingers pinching and tugging at your hardened nipples.

"You just need to be a good girl and stay quiet for me, understand? No matter how much you want to scream, no matter how much you want to cry out in ecstasy, you need to stay silent. Think you can do that, tesoro?" Theodore's eyes blaze into yours, filled with a hunger and a desperation that makes your core clench with anticipation.

His hand slips beneath your skirt, his fingers brushing against your slick folds, feeling the evidence of your arousal.

"Tell me, baby," he murmurs, his voice a low, commanding growl. "Are you ready for me to fuck you like you've never been fucked before, right here, right now, in front of all these unsuspecting people?”

Theodore takes your silent nod as the consent it is, his eyes darkening with a new wave of lust and desire.

His hand slips further beneath your skirt, his fingers brushing against your slick, bare folds, feeling the evidence of your arousal coating his skin. With a low, guttural groan, he pushes two fingers deep inside you, his thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit.

He pumps his fingers in and out of your tight heat, his palm pressing against your clit with each thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through your body. Theodore leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, husky whisper. “Shit, you're so fucking wet. So ready for my cock, aren't you? I can feel your greedy little cunt sucking me in, begging to be filled..."

His other hand still up your shirt, pushes the fabric of your bra out of the way completely. He leans down, taking the stiff peak into his mouth, suckling and nibbling until you're writhing against him, barely able to stay silent.

Thank Merlin, you guys are in the last row, and the cinema’s loud speakers consume the room, the attention of the silent watchers move away from you both, the world narrowing down to the feeling of Theodore's hands on your body, his fingers pumping in and out of your dripping sex, his mouth on your breast.

You can feel the hard, thick length of his cock pressing against your ass, the evidence of his own desperate arousal. Theodore's hand slides from your breast to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he grinds his hips against yours, the rough fabric of his trousers rubbing against your sensitive flesh.

He captures your lips in a searing, desperate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you, consuming you.

"Mmh... please Teddy." You can't hold it in. It's been too long, he's teasing too much. "Hurry up so we can get the hell out."

Noticing your discomfort, and your inability to stay fucking quiet, Theodore’s eyes widen briefly at your plea, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He chuckles softly, a low, sinful sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

His fingers continue their relentless assault on your dripping pussy, pumping in and out, curling against that sensitive spot deep inside you that makes your toes curl and your back arch. "Mmm, so eager, aren't you beautiful?" he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing purr.

"So desperate for my cock, so hungry for me to fill you up, to make you mine..."

He nips at your lower lip, his teeth tugging on the tender flesh, before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hand slides from your neck to your hip, gripping the curve possessively. "Very well, my love. I suppose we can finish the movie another time… too bad we couldn’t do it in here.”

Theodore's voice is low and rough with desire as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your dripping sex. You whimper at the loss, your body aching to be filled, to be stretched and used. He stands abruptly, pulling you up with him.

With deft, practiced movements, he straightens your skirt and shirt, making you presentable once more. Taking your hand in his, he leads you quickly and quietly out of the cinema, weaving through the darkened aisles until you reach the emergency exit at the back.

Pushing open the door, Theodore pulls you into the cool night air, the stars twinkling above you in the inky black sky. He doesn't stop until he finds a secluded spot behind a tall hedgerow, hidden from view of the cinema and the buzzing streets of London.

Turning to face you, Theodore pulls you flush against him, his hands gripping your hips with hands that you knew would leave a mark.

He connects both your mouths, hurriedly, impatient to fuck you good.

He groans into your mouth, his tongue delving deep, stroking along yours, tasting you, consuming you. His hands slide down to cup your ass, squeezing the firm globes before lifting you up, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist.

He carries you a few steps further, until your back is pressed against the rough bark of a sturdy brick wall.

Breaking the kiss, Theodore leans back just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with a hunger and a desperation that makes your heart race.

He reaches down with one hand, fumbling briefly with the fastenings of his trousers before freeing his aching cock. It springs forth, shiny and veiny and heavy, the swollen head already glistening with precum.

He strokes himself once, twice, hissing at the sensation, before gripping your thigh and positioning himself at your entrance. "Tell me, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough growl. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you need my cock inside you, filling you, claiming you, making you mine. Say it, cara mia..." He rubs the head of his cock teasingly against your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal.

His other hand slides up your jaw, cupping your face, his thumb playing with your swollen pouty lips. His eyes bore into yours, filled with a desperate, aching need. The cool night air kisses your skin, but the heat building between your bodies is scorching, all consuming.

Theodore's chest heaves with each ragged breath, his heart pounding against his ribs. He's waiting for your consent, your permission, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

With a sudden, sharp thrust, he sheaths himself inside you, burying his thick, hard length deep into your tight, wet heat. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that sends shockwaves through your body.

He starts to move, his hips rolling against yours, his cock sliding in and out of your dripping sex with long, deep strokes. “Cazzo..." Theodore grits out, his voice strained with exertion and ecstasy. "You feel exquisite, like you were made just for me. So fucking tight, so fucking perfect..." He captures your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure.

His hands grip your hips, pulling you down to meet his thrusts, the force of them making you shake against the hard wall.

Theodore groans at your sudden cry, the sound turning him on. He pistons his hips faster, driving into you with a newfound urgency, the force of his thrusts making the old oak tree shudder and sway around you.

"That's it, bella," he pants, his voice a low, rough growl. "Let me hear you. I want to hear every little sound you make, every desperate plea falling from your pretty lips. Were not in there any more, don’t hold back princess…”

One hand slides from your hip to your thigh, pushing your leg higher up his waist, opening you up to him, allowing him to delve even deeper into your tight, clenching heat.

The other hand slides up your shirt, exposing once again your heaving breasts to the cool night air. Theodore leans down, taking one hardened nipple into his mouth, suckling and nibbling at the sensitive bud until you're writhing against him, your fingers tangling in his dark hair.

He laves his tongue over the reddened flesh, soothing the sting of his bites before moving to its twin, giving it the same attention.

All the while, he never stops his relentless assault on your pussy, his cock pounding into you with a force that steals your breath and makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

You can feel the tension building low in your belly, the coil tightening with each thrust, each stroke, each press of his hips against yours. Theodore's hand slides between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the swollen nub.

His touch is electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through your body, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "That's it, baby," he murmurs against your breast, his voice a low, sinful purr.

"Come for me, my love. Come on my cock like the perfect little angel you are. I want to feel you…”

Theodore feels your sex clamp down around his cock like a vice as your orgasm overtakes you. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that echoes through the quiet night air, as your walls flutter and spasm around his throbbing length.

He doesn't slow his thrusts, instead pounding into your quivering heat with a newfound fervor, prolonging your climax, drawing out your ecstasy.

“Yes, yes, yes… just like that” he growls, his voice ragged and strained with his own impending release. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so tightly, like you never want to let me go. I can feel your greedy little cunt trying to swallow this big dick.”

He captures your lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure, his tongue delving deep to stroke along yours, to dance and twine with yours in a lewd, filthy imitation of the act taking place below.

His hands grip your ass, squeezing the firm globes, pulling you harder against him, burying himself impossibly deeper inside you with each powerful thrust. Theo's fingers continue their relentless assault on your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles over the sensitive nub, pushing you through your climax and straight into another.

Your body is trembling, shaking, the pleasure almost too intense to bear as he fucks you through the aftershocks, the waves of bliss crashing over you again and again. He can feel his own release building, the tension coiling at the base of his spine, his balls drawing up tight.

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside your still fluttering sex, his cock pulsing, throbbing, as he finds his own completion.

"Fuck, pretty, fuck!" Theodore roars, his voice echoing through the night as he starts to come, his thick, hot seed spurting deep inside you, painting your walls white.

His hips continue to roll, grinding against yours, drawing out his orgasm, filling you up just like he promised.

He holds you close as the waves of pleasure slowly ebb, your combined releases trickling down your thighs, marking you, claiming you, making you his.

Theodore's heart hammers against his chest as he tries to catch his breath, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes locked with yours.

You felt colder now, the sharp night air finally biting at your flushed skin, but Theo barely let you move away from him. His arms were still wrapped around you, firm and possessive, as if he had no intention of letting you go just yet. And honestly? You weren’t about to complain.

Your breath came in slow, uneven pants as you tried to recover, your forehead still pressed against his. His lips curled into the ghost of a smirk, his usual arrogance softened by the post-bliss haze settling over both of you.

“Merlin,” Theo finally muttered, voice still thick and gravelly, “that was—” He exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t even find the words.

You let out a breathy, satisfied laugh, tilting your head to look at him. “Better than theatre?”

His lips twitched, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re really asking me that?”

You hummed, feigning nonchalance even as your body still buzzed from everything you’d just done. “Well, I mean, I know you think theatre is the peak of human artistic expression, but surely even you have to admit that was… cinematic.”

Theo let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Cinematic?”

You grinned, biting your lip. “Perfectly timed tension, intense buildup, and an unforgettable climax—I’d say we just gave Scorsese a run for his money.”

Theo groaned, tipping his head back, but you caught the way his lips twitched, like he was trying so hard not to smile. “You would turn this into a bloody film analysis.”

You shrugged, smug. “And you would turn it into a tragic, forbidden romance.”

“Obviously,” he shot back, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Star-crossed lovers, clashing ideals, unbearable tension—”

“—and a dramatic resolution that makes the audience swoon,” you added, nudging his ribs.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled you in closer. “Fine, I’ll admit it. That was—” He lowered his voice, leaning in to whisper against your ear, “—Oscar-worthy.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp, pushing playfully at his chest. “You’re giving credit to film? You? Theodore Nott?”

He smirked, completely unbothered. “Even I have to admit, some performances just can’t be staged.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you finally let yourself melt into his arms, letting the cool London air wrap around you both. “Well, I suppose there’s only one thing left to do now.”

He raised a brow. “And that is?”

You looked up at him, feigning seriousness. “Debrief. Proper analysis, compare our perspectives—”

“Absolutely not,” Theo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned. “And yet, you’re still holding me.”

Theo sighed, shaking his head with an affectionate smirk. “Yeah, well… Guess I do have a weakness for a well-written story.”

His lips met yours again, soft and unhurried this time, and you couldn’t help but think—whether it was theatre or cinema, tragedy or romance—this? This was your favorite story yet.

#⋆. 𐙚 ˚ yua0ra’s works #slytherin #slytherin boys #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #wizarding world #hp fanfic #theo nott #theodore nott x you #theo nott x reader #theodore nott #theodore nott scenarios #theodore nott smut #smut #theodore nott fluff #theo nott smut #harry potter

384 notes · View notes

salemlinnet · 7 months ago

Text

hey everyone!

a few news items right before we start up chapter 5. firstly i just wanna say thanks to everyone who follows my comics, it's been a pleasure as always. i've been keeping a longer buffer on patreon than usual, mostly for my mental health. publishing takes a lot of energy and i've really felt it necessary to just focus on production for a few weeks. at this point, patrons have seen most of chapter 5, there's only one more scene and about a page to be drawn. the quiet has been nice, i've caught up on a lot of house keeping, though i'm obviously very excited to present it! and on house keeping,

DOMESTICATED IS NOW LIVE AT IT'S NEW HOME!

to not go into the boring details (the old domain got trapped between to hosting sites in the middle of a buyout), it's not hosted at cod-domesticated.com (rip custom url you will be missed) it will instead be hosted at salemlinnet.com/domesticated (now you live at my house like you're my son why didn't i think of this sooner). if you find any errors in the pages i am so sorry i just formatted so many buttons TTuTT it would be super helpful to me if folks could report any specific buttons that don't work if it's convenient, it's been beta tested by the discord (thank you guys so much) but i'm just a dunce and i can't be trusted so there might be errors.

the simons are all wearing a little beret this chapter is my third point of business, i am losing it over the ghost beret. oh and the devil may care is up to chapter 18, will be chapter 19 within a few days. page 21 is out for patrons.

finally, to the people lurking for thistle and spade. i've wanted to say for some time, i'm really grateful that you've stuck around while i've been too sick to work on a bigger project. if you were here to see me start production for and then pull ghost #1, the story behind it is that i sort of suddenly learned i wouldn't always be as sick as i was, that i didn't have to rush anything, and that i could produce thistle and spade in chronological order with a bit of patience. that left me with no smaller project to draw and release in the mean time, except, see, i really like this game, call of duty. i was still on bed rest when i started domesticated, and with a ton of physical therapy i've been able to draw longer and longer hours. it's trained me up to be a better comic artist than i ever was before. it's grown into a sturdier project at the same pace. it's so unlike thistle and spade, whose chapters were written and edited over years and planned to every gesture and expression. i'm just winging it with domesticated, i'm usually rewriting massive swaths of dialogue as i sketch the scenes out, i just keep throwing out ideas until it's something i'm excited to draw and present as my imaginary "what happened outside of the games" day dream land. it's reminded me what i love so much about story telling and comics. it's made me excited to see thistle and spade go live again down the road. but first i have to rebuild its website too TTuTT

all right i'll see everyone pretty soon! thanks for hanging around as usual!

#simon ghost riley #soapghost #ghostsoap #john soap mactavish #call of duty #thistle and spade #kyle gaz garrick #captain price

179 notes · View notes

velvetures · 2 years ago

Note

Simon is def the type of boyfriend/ husband to adopt a big dog for your anniversary present (even though it's so self serving, he just wants you to have extra protection). He even puts a little bow on the pups collar when he's presenting you with the new edition to the family. (I can see him with a Belgian/ German shepherd, doberman or even a pit mix breed)

Good Boy

Oh my god, there is no way Simon isn't insisting his S/O doesn't have a dog once you've become an established couple.

I think the only difference I have from your HC is that he'd already have the pup trained and nearly at full size when he brings it home for the first time.

Naturally, he's got plenty of experience after having Riley for years. And spent a lot of time sneaking some of your dirty clothes out of the house to put in the dog's kennel while it's being trained. Accustomating it with your scent and connecting your smell with something that isn't used in training unless it's a drill relating your scent to an object needing protection.

Simon isn't particularly attached to the dog emotionally in the way you're going to be. But he's adamant that other than himself, you're the only other person who will know how to command the dog. It's a safety measure that you're going to be a little resistant to at first, but once he explains that it's so you're always safe -even when he's away- you understand that it's for the best. Simon wants a loyal protector for you, and he's not risking you for anything.

In addition to that, Simon really understands and employs "scary dog privilege" tactics often. Even using himself as the warden who follows you around in public and keeps too many eyes from lingering. The dog he brings home is most certainly intimidating, yet impossibly patient and gentle with you. It's designed that way though. Simon trained the pup to think of you as mom essentially, and his only role is to always protect mom.

When he brought your cane corso home, Simon had nothing but pride for the stoic and well-trained guard dog.

The only problem with this is, you're too damn loving for your own good.

Where Simon won't let the dog on the couch, you put your foot down and demand it gets to sleep at the foot of the bed where you can tuck your feet under it to keep warm. He refuses to feed it anything other than its regimental diet, where you love making lick-mats and trialing a bunch of different dog-safe foods almost like your own little cooking show. Simon refuses to pet the dog all the time, but it's almost given he's going to come home and find you curled up with the massive beast on the couch. You -dead asleep- and the guard dog looming over your curled-up form and giving a low, malicious, growl.

Until it realizes Daddy has come home.

Then the big bastard won't leave Simon alone long enough to take his boots off without getting covered in drool and enough hair to make a fur coat.

These are the kinds of pictures you send Simon, utterly destroying his own mental image of the terrifying dog charged with keeping you safe. You're quite amused when he demands you stop making the dog look so pathetic.

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #velvetures writes #velvetures #simon bringing home a dog #domestic couple #squishy face cane corso #ghost is very dissapointed #anon <3

1K notes · View notes

simp-ly-writes · 1 year ago

Text

Safehouse

Pairing: Platonic!Task Force 141 x Reader

Summary: When a mission goes south, the team is looking for a safehouse to keep their heads down but little do they know of the small family you keep hidden away from the world.

Warnings: some light swearing and depictions of blood.

A/N: Inspired by the Avengers: Age of Ultron - Safehouse Scene.

Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

The night mission had gone terribly. You had been deployed for over six months now and for all that stress to amount for nothing had a new rage encompassing your mind- distracting you from the bullet wound you sustained while trying to escape from a collapsing building. The intelligence your team was meant to collect falling down with it.

Shaking your head at the back of the SUV, you grasped your thigh tight- doing your best to hold the bleeding. Gaz was doing is best to help aid your wound as Johnny fished around in the trunk- throwing medical supplies over the seats as he let out a string of curse words and unknown English.

"Fucking-hell Johnny- you curse more than I do- and I am the one bleeding!" You croak out, sweat dripping down your forehead as Kyle fishes out the bullet. John is doing his best to keep the car ride smooth as Simon tries to radio Laswell to only receive silence in return.

Communications were down, Simon is now telling Price off for driving shit as you were about to lose your shit if Kyle did not get this bullet out of you sooner and Soap stopped sounding like a chicken with its head chopped off while flinging himself around in the trunk.

"Hows it going back there Gaz?" Price asks while gripping the steering wheel- your sharp breath intakes of pain are sending guilt flooding down his spine. He should have accounted for the possibility of more hostiles being at the location.

"Oh you know Captain, its going swell- blood and all sorts," Kyle retorts, his hands shaking as he finally gets ahold of the bullet and starts to carefully remove it from your body. The car runs over a hole in the road causing his hand to waver significantly as he apologizes to your groan of pain. The metal tools digging into your skin again.

"Any pain receivers back there Soap- booze... anything?" You ask as your vision turns slightly blurry, your head swimming side to side as the car turns from the ever-growing pressure in your thigh.

"Negative. Can't find anything back here- Simon, you have a torch up there in the glovebox?" Johnny calls out before swearing once more as a piece of gear slams on to his hand. Shaking out the pain a flashlight hits him square in the head- "thanks-mate, much appreciated."

"No problem," Simon replies calmly before testing the radio once more, looking in the rear view mirror in pity as he witnesses your pain without being able to do anything about it.

Kyle fishes the bullet out of your thigh, dropping it into a clear plastic bag before temporarily dressing your wound as you whisper out your thanks, your voice gone horse as the need for sleep overtakes your body.

"Hey, hey, hey. Gotta stay awake for now. Your wound will soon become infected if I can't dress it properly. We haven't got enough supplies in here-" Kyle starts to say before Price cuts him off- taking another sharp turn as you make your way out of the city.

"Anyone know of any places we can stand down for awhile, get their leg done-up?"

The car is met by silence as you groan out, closing your eyes harshly before cursing. Simon turns to look back at you- he knows what you are planning to say before he tilts his head to your opening eyes. Asking if this is really what you were going to do.

You only nod once before looking through the rear-view mirror at Price, "I know a place..."

"Tell me which turn to take next." And before you know it, the last of your secrets withheld from the group are about to fall like a house made of cards.

The sun had began to rise as Price pulls into the dirt driveway. A dull-yellow farmhouse sits atop a hill with a wrap-around porch to add to its charm. Gaz looks out the window and back at you, confused as to why you know of this place- seemingly off-the-grid. You only offer a small bittersweet smile in return before asking him to help you out of the car and to the front door.

Johnny stumbles out of the trunk as Simon pulls him aside, warning his best-mate to keep his outbursts and comments to a lesser state before walking up the front stairs. Soap looks around with squinted eyes, the garden is well-kept as is the exterrior of the home. The lawn freshly mowed as a swing drifts lightly in the wind from under an oak tree just down the hill. A few sets of bikes sit by the garage- painted a farmhouse red as he hears you fumble through your keys kept within your tactical vest.

Swearing out, Simon shoves him once in warning before the door is opneing and the boys soon follow you inside. Dusting off their boots while staring into the space in awe.

"This is not the usual safehouse- what is this place?" Gaz asks you while stepping into the living room and picking up a picture frame from a side-table. He looks at the image intently before turning it to the Captain who clutches the frame in his hands, a softness coating his eyes as he stares at your back.

You are unknowing of their stares as you walk into the kitchen. The sink is flowing as dishes are being stacked on the countertop. A radio plays a distant tune from the sunroom as you wrap your arms around your partner who looks up quickly. Viewing your reflection with theirs as they scream out in suprize. Dropping the plate while drying off their hands- they give you a large hug and kiss on the cheek, you feel as their hands shake against your form.

Price, Johnny, and Kyle all race over to the commotion as Simon leans against the archway to the living-room, his eyes crinkled as he hears feet stirring from up the stairs.

Wrapping your arm around your partners waist, they lean their head on your shoulder before narrowing their eyes playfully at all the new bodies in the home, "And who might these people be, luv?"

"Hmmm, just a couple of strangers from work" you say in a teasing tone before kissing their forehead and casting a smile at Johnny who stands with his mouth-agape.

Price steps forward, your wedding-day picture found back on the table as he extends his hand towards your partner- giving it a light shake while introducing himself. His brain still firing on how you managed to hide this all from him for years. His eyes shift over to your own, his head with a slight tilt as you mouth, not now at the sounds of little feet running down the stairs- calling out your name.

"Mom/dad! you're back-you're back!" they call out, clashing into your legs as you wince out slightly- your wound still open as your partners eyes fall to it in shock before removing the children from you.

Kissing the tops of their heads and giving their hair a slight ruffle. You look over at Simon who stands with his arms crossed by the stairs- someone is a bit disappointed. "I think you forgot to hug Uncle Simon back as well," you tease out as the children jump up and down before tackling the man to the ground.

Shaking your head at the scene as your partner laughs beside you, Kyles cough breaks your focus as he points to your leg, "ah-yes, sweetheart? do you know where the medical kit is?"

"by the sink dear... I will... leave you both to that one," they say with a slight wince escaping their mouth at their ends yet their eyes hold determination- you will be getting an earful of it tonight in bed.

Giving them a wide smile, you crack Gaz one on the back before hobbling over to the kitchen sink once more.

As you exit the room, Kyle following in tow. John speaks to your partner, "Had I have known- I would have never came here. I apologize for barging in on your family."

Your partner looks as the men, throwing a waving hand in their face, "My love did their best to keep this place off the files and databases- that could only last for so long- I suppose. Laswell did her fair-share to help us as well- she knows of our situation all too well..." they trail off- staring at Johnny's freshly inked tattoo with a smile.

"You know- I was very confused when they wanted to get new ink done. Good to see the reason why now- I was always happy to know they had more partners out there. Thank you for making sure they come home to me every time... I-I would never know what to do without them- the kids would say the same."

"It's an honour truly, ma'am/sir, serving by your partners side. Seeing what you both have made here... it only pushes me to work harder in order to obtain the same," Johnny says, a blush coating his cheeks as he feels Simon staring him down from building legos with the kids on the rug. The masked-man gives Soap a nod in gratitude before introducing the kids as your partner moves to clean the upstairs guest rooms.

John exits the house, seemingly overwhelmed by the images and nature of the estate. Looking at the various rolling hills, the flowers drifting in the morning breeze as birds sing in the air. He closes his eyes, standing on the porch- letting off a sigh.

"Everything al'right, John?" Gaz says from the doorway, drying off his hands with a hand-made hand towel. The Captain closes his eyes before turning around to answer, "I think that an old man like me is discovering everything that this job hasn't allowed me to do."

"Cap-" Gaz begins to reply, his eyes falling in worry as he walks over to Price.

"No, no. Its what must be done so others can have lives like this," Price says while shaking his heads and looking off to the side. You yell lunchtime from the kitchen as every flocks to the sunroom overlooking the farm-grounds.

╰┈➤ A/N: hope you enjoyed this!

702 notes · View notes

yeetushaitus · 3 months ago

Text

DAY 1: Fantasy AU

HI im so late iomg.... ANYWAYS i was like "omg i have to do manosouta week but it didnt occur to me to prepare drawings. beforehand???? so im here its been so fun to see everybodys submissions..... theyre all AMAZING (also cant wait to catch up witht he new fics on their tag lol)

anywaysss i saw this prompt and was like what if i made them fire emblem so. i did knightley is loosley based on the paladin class and simon the trickster class!! the effects are based on heroes cards and i literally stole the background from the wiki page bc im lazy im only realizing now that i forgot to add the hand badge knightley has but whatever

i might be. super late w all of my entries but oh well

edit: also here r the designs!! tbh theyre really lazily done, i just slapped together a bunch of design elements until i felt like it was good enough(and i change some stuff in the final ver) but a lot people seemed to like them so here!!! maybe ill make full designs someday bc im lwk kinda invested in the idea of an aai2 x fe au.....(if u cant tell ive only played like 2 fe games lmao)

#manosoutaweek2025 #ace attorney #ace attorney investigations #ace attorney investigations 2 #aai2 spoilers #manosouta #simon keyes #horace knightley #simeon saint #bronco knight #my art

121 notes · View notes

blingblong55 · 1 year ago

Text

Now that we don't talk- Simon 'Ghost' Riley

A/N: funny enough...these two drivers are no longer with the girls in these pictures. also, this is not me telling you how reader looks like

--- F!Reader, angst, established!relationship, F1 au, F1 driver!Simon, cheating ---

A/N: watched the Las Vagas shit show of a race and then got inspired....so here's this shit mess of a fic

He was the guy every girl wanted, from the teens to the older women, yet he held your hand on the red carpet at that award show. He kissed you in yachts and danced with you in galas and ballrooms. Paraded your name when he won races. You were everywhere, from tea pages, to fan-made edits and now you're here, stuck in a hotel room, waiting for him. For the past seven months, he's kept you hidden, like you were some kind of repunzel. Never to be let out of the tower unless it was by him. He had what every driver and fan wanted in their lives, fame, wealth, social status, a gorgeous and supportive girlfriend and the way he was the best at his job.

They always say to look for the smallest of clues, that's why, all the tabloids talked about how he 'had it all'. Now, he took out the girlfriend part and added Playboy to the list.

Three months before you and him announced your split, he sat down with you. Told you all the truths he kept from you. Your tears well up in that pretty face of yours. "I started to see other women, that was nine months ago, in Spain, that's why I told you to stay at the hotel," his eyes too teared up. It took a lot to not slap him, scream and yell at him for being such a man slut, but you needed to hear it, needed to know the truth before the internet did. He took a deep breath, "I...there's been at least ten different women, I've slept with more but...only those ten did I take to race weekends instead of you." His eyes, full of regret look at you. "When did you stop loving me?" Your question caught him off guard. "I...I think it was a year ago but I thought it was me being anxious over that whole contract thing and having to move and...I'm sorry, I shouldn't make excuses for my actions," he looks down.

You nod, not daring to look at him anymore. "I'm sorry, R/N," his voice small. "No, I'm sorry," you respond and he looks at you confused. "What do you mean by that?" He questions you. "I'm sorry for falling in love, for being a fool and seeing myself with you for the rest of my life. I'm sorry for trusting you were sleeping alone when I wasn't there...I'm sorry I wasn't enough to make you stay...or to be patient enough and end it like a real man would," you play with your phone's edge. You look at him, finally. "Why did you keep me hidden?" He shakes his head at that question. "The times you were there, the other women were there too," he confesses and your heart stops. "...oh," your voice is small, so soft and filled with so much woe.

"I...I guess I should go," You stand up. "I'm sorry I wasn't what you deserved, I hope you find a man who treats you like you are the universe to him, I hope he kisses you in public and I wish you happiness, I'm sorry." He stands up too and walks you to the door.

A month later, you and him confirmed the rumour. "Formula 1 driver Simon Riley and long-time girlfriend [R/N], have announced their split on a joint social media statement." The article read. Your phone is on silent as you reread the message you put out to the world. "To the fans, it is time we confirm that we are no longer together. We have grown apart and it's time we grow up and move on to new parts of our lives. We will always love each other, together or not but our relationship has run its course. All our gratitude for the six years of acceptance, Simon and [R/N]." Your eyes glistened with sorrow as you shook your head.

For days, you stayed indoors. Cried, looked through memories, private ones the world never saw. What did he do? He was photographed in clubs, hand on a woman's waist, drunk kisses, alcohol, tight dresses and that new title, "F1's playboy." He kept winning, getting more fame and having his name all over the world. Meanwhile, you walk the streets alone. You were there for when he was accepted in F3 and when he moved to F2, even were the shoulder he leaned on all the years he waited to become an F1 driver.

His bed was never the same, neither was his flat. It was no longer cosy, no longer comforting after a bad or long day. His bed missed the warmth of it. His lips missed the consistent pecks after he gave you a pouty lip when you denied staying up late on race day. What did he miss the most? You, all of you and that was soon to be shown. That Playboy facade was for show, inside, all he wanted was to stop being seen with so many women. He wanted one and quickly, his team noticed. He stopped showing up at parties, and clubs and stopped talking to all the women who weren't there for official business or if they weren't a fan who asked for an autograph or picture.

That mask only stayed on for eight months, thirteen days and four hours. He stopped showing off his wealth, dressed in only team attire, comfy clothes, or in suits and ties. His bed was empty most nights, his right cheek was no longer stained with the red lipstick you left at every little accomplishment he made. He fixed his image and unfollowed any woman who wasn't important in his career, except one, you.

And as he did this, all you saw were the old tabloids. Him all over women. You dated off the light the media gave you, you kept your nights away from sight, fixed and resolved all your problems and then, by some cruel mistake, you saw him. Jogging by your place. For some twisted way, your heartbeat fastened. It brought you back to when you'd time him before the season started. That's where the kiss on the right cheek came from. A towel-dried that side of his face, just so you could kiss it. This happened all through your relationship. And, on some Wednesday, a friend invited you to attend the last race of the season.

You attended, not just because of the invite but because it was a promise. "When I win most if not all races I want you to go, be waiting for me, look up to the podium because my love, that entire season will be yours," he, one night whispered to you. And there you were, in that garage, wearing a hat, his number on it as you watched the qualification. The cameras awaited to capture you and him kissing, but none of that happened, not even a glance from you to him.

"Riley takes pole, all eyes on him to see if he breaks yet another record," the commentator said. And as he sat there, he thought of you. The good luck kiss, the pat on his helmet before any race. And holding hands when walking to the paddock. It was a ritual, something he held holy to him. If only he could prove he is the man you now deserve if he could get out of his car, run to you and confess a speech he memorised. The one that said all the truth, the one in which he tells you that just in your first year being together, he had a ring picked out, the same one he kept in every coat for when the time was right. And there was that mistake, one fatal one that cost him his Mrs. Riley. Every single second was the right time, every stare, every kiss, every laugh, the whispers, the running from the cameras, it was always you, it was always the right time when with you.

Simon Riley, world champion, world record breaker, the man every driver wants to be this year, now claiming every single race of that season as he walked to that podium. And, in a crowd of friends, teammates, fans and cameras, he looked for you. National anthems played and as he was about to lose hope, he saw you there, the spot he told you to stand in for when the day came. You look up, and the cameras pan to you and him. That stare, oh that stare that spoke the romance no other book or poet could explain. His smile widened, gaze softened when he noticed you cried. Proud of the man who made his dreams come true.

Maybe you weren't there for all the days he drove but that engagement ring, that symbolised you, was there for all of them. You give him a nod and his smile widens.

"I'll do it, I swear one day, I'll be added to the list of legends who came before me and when I do, I need you there, my love," he kissed you. "And when I do, you nod at me, that's how I'll know you are proud of me," he whispered.

As the night came to an end, the photos, flashes, and signatures, all rushed to come and find you. He needed his right cheek kissed and maybe this time it wouldn't be his lips but to just feel you next to him, that fed him enough. He spotted you and as he ran to you, he stopped in his tracks.

One month, two days and three hours. That is how late he was to you. His gaze was now filled with tears as he saw you hold another hand. A woman, looking for nothing but sex approached him and he declined. "Why not?" She questioned him. "I have a fiancé," he said coldly and moved away from her. He looked down, at a paper, written by his poetic hand, a small box, made by him with the help of some carpenter, all gripped as he swore he would not give up. Not ever, especially when he knows that in this life, he was meant for one woman. Maybe he did fuck up, maybe he will be forever alone but to know that for one second he held you in his arms, that was enough.

He nodded and sighed, "Is it over now?" he thought. "No," your heart would've responded for you. As he turns and walks away, you look back and you notice that box. Your heart...oh that tingle that makes you feel alive. Maybe it was all in his head, maybe he wasn't late...maybe. "Simon!" you called out, the crowd too loud for him to hear you. Your friend lets go of your hand. "Simon!" you move through the crowds. "Simon, stop!" You push and run. Adrenaline, maybe not like the one he has after every race but it's still something. He walks away, getting into a car and looking at that piece of paper.

No one heard of him for months. No one heard of you for months.

My love, my R/N, I made a mistake. Not cheating but one that is worse, pretending I didn't call you my wife to everyone else. A vow I made in my head, a wedding night I planned one night as we made love. Truth is, no, I didn't cheat. No, I didn't sleep with anyone when I was with you. What happened was, I noticed it. I noticed how you paused your life for mine, how you took care of me, how you made sure I ate healthy, slept enough, and got used to different time zones, all whilst giving your life no attention. I was 17 when we first met, you and I, an accidental 'Hi' one that gave me the privilege of falling in love with the woman who knows me better than anyone else. I've known you for a decade now, loved you for nine of those years, and made you my girlfriend for five of them. I wore that title with pride. By the way, didn't you ever question why everyone called you my wife or Mrs. Riley? Funny how you didn't even ask me about it. I admit, I was only at those clubs looking for you, I didn't drink but pretended to, I kissed their cheeks, made it look like I kissed their lips. In my head, I was married. I am married. Called you my little wife when you patted my helmet to the mechanics, they laughed. I did sleep with other women, I confess to that but I didn't kiss them, didn't care for their pleasure, not when I promised it was your pleasure...just yours that mattered to me. Did you keep my locket? I hope you did, if not...it's fine, we'll find a new one and start fresh. I know you are wondering, why I can't let you talk as I give this speech and I know you are crying, your lips quiver as I confess. It's a reason why I haven't looked up from this piece of paper. I can't see you cry, you know that. I am begging, begging as an imbecile, to have you again. To prove that I never cheated, I lied about doing it but never did. You'd think I'd be crazy to cheat on a crazy girl like you? Baby, that was a joke, although...you are a little crazy but I still love you. I love you...yeah...yeah, I do. I know you are asking, when will this stupid man stop talking and it's now. Well, wait...just let me say this. Marry me, marry me so I don't have to pretend anymore. So...please, be kind to my bastard heart and marry me.

A/N: you know well a Kasper fic isn't a Kasper angst fic if it doesn't end in a 'but are they together? did he die? did she die?' way

Join my tag list

Tags:

@liyanahelena @actuallyhiswife @sexuallyfrustatedbitch @rosecastiello @ghostslillady @urmom-747 @aethelwyneleigh27 @girl-of-multi-fandoms @tomiesdiet @graesage @chasreads @asteria1103 @tgirljeep388 @call-me-a-fool

519 notes · View notes