#telly kettles

[heavenbarnes]

(tw allusions to murder and violence)

your older bf!simon who’s more accurately described as a gun dog.

trained to the sound of a gunshot- where you tell him to go, he’ll follow.

loyal like a hound, too. whatever heinous little mess you find yourself in, he’s there to clean it up.

lick the blood right off your hands.

“i didn’t mean to, he was being so awful- i just pushed him- i didn’t know his head would hit the curb!”

the tears in your eyes were doing less to convince him and more to make him harder between his thighs.

big thumbs, rough pads and blunt nails, pressed to your cheeks to wipe away the tears that were trailing off them.

“don’ worry, sweet’art- i’ll ‘andle it”

tells you to go inside and make a tea, let the kettle whistle long as you want. turn the telly up full tilt and put your feet up.

if you hear anything, don’t come looking.

so you do as you’re told, you curl into his side of the couch and you tune out the sound of the garage door opening, the distant sounds of dragging.

you don’t even flinch when you hear the first swing of an axe.

you forget, you’re free of thought when he takes you to bed and turns your brain to mush. lets it leak out your ears like-

anyways.

gun dog, retriever- picking up kill and dropping it at his master’s feet.

just once. he doesn’t like seeing you get dirtied by what he feels more aptly fits him.

after that, attack dog. hound waiting to be released, will bare his teeth if you so much as whistle.

“you should’ve seen the way he looked at me, simon”

his teeth could’ve shattered with the force in his jaw behind his bite.

“looked at me like he wanted me, thought that he owned me”

a visible shudder ran through him, visions behind his eyes of you with anyone else.

“told him i had you but- well, he said you didn’t matter”

so you stay inside and you forget, don’t even flinch when you hear simon get his keys and lace up his boots.

“i’ll be ‘ome soon”

you forget, isn’t till he’s kissing your forehead and laying you back on the couch that you even remember he was out.

long fingers wrapping around your ankle to sling over his shoulder. you don’t pay attention the the dried blood under his finger nails.

disregard the scratches down the length of his chest. replace them with your own.

“anyone ever gives y’grief, jus’ tell me and i’ll ‘andle it”

there’s a symphony of “yes, yes, yes” slipping off your tongue and you could blame it on clever fingers of his but-

you like being the hand that holds the leash.

fighting dog, ring dog- lay money on him and he’ll make you rich.

lay a finger on what’s his and he’ll make you pay.

“sweaty hands, tried to grab me when i walked past”

ignore the blood in the tread of his boots.

“called you weak, said a real man would’ve been out with me”

ignore the bite marks on the shell of his ear.

“called me a filthy slut- kind of the same way you do”

ignore the new wood chipper behind the house.

simon’s a big dog with loyalty in spades, born to serve one master.

you never ask so he never tells. play ignorant, blissful and unaware about what grows from the seeds you plant.

seeds scattered to the wind that happen to catch within him, seeds that take and grow gnarled and angry and looking for an excuse.

any excuse to show what he’s made of.

you know he’s always been a mean dog, you know he’s always had bite.

but you, of course, never worried your pretty little head.

not even when an ugly one turns up on the doorstep.

bad dog.

plays with his food.

[leviathanleva]

Caffè Crema

[Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!FemReader]

After months of giving your all to a man you barely even knew, you're finally rewarded. He takes off his mask in front of you almost hesitantly and you're overjoyed. Still, you want to, need to know why and so despite your better judgement, you ask him only to receive a laugh in response.

“Wan’ed you to see what the father of yer kids looks like, Birdie.”

[5.1k words] [Slightly NSFW]

Chapter 3 "Powder"

Simon had expected tension when he’d relied to you the news that he was leaving on deployment soon. But no, you were as chipper as ever, rolling your sleeves instantly and beginning to prepare him for the journey while bombarding him with questions.

It was…different, in a good way. There was no guilt for having to abandon you to fulfill his duty. You were worried, that much was clear, but you didn’t let it bother you enough for him to have to figure out a way to comfort you before leaving.

He was grateful even if he didn’t show it, hoping that the crinkled skin in the corners of his eyes was enough of an indicator.

He stretched lazily on your small couch, feet tucked under your bum as per your usual arrangement, while you absentmindedly folded his freshly washed clothes back into his duffle bag. A random sports channel is playing on the telly, drowning out the silence while he watches you fuss with a shadow of a smile hidden under his mask.

A pile of dry laundry was splayed over the armrest you were leaning against and you plucked each piece with the utmost care, looking over it for any spots that the washing machine hadn’t been able to get rid of before laying into his bag.

“Is this a bullet hole?” You murmur to yourself while looking over a gray knitted blouse, particularly at the edge of one sleeve where the stitching was ruined. You run your thumb over the hole, brows furrowing as you inspect it, then turn to Ghost with a small frown. “There’s a bullet hole in this one. You wanna keep it?”

When he realizes your question is targeted at him, he blinks away the thoughts swirling in his head and shrugs.

“Keep i’, adds character.”

You snort, but fold it regardless and stuff it with the rest of his clothes.

A distant whistling erupts from the kitchen and you stand to dust off the lint from your sweats before scurrying to get the kettle. It doesn’t take long before you reemerge with two steaming mugs in each hand and set one before him on the coffee table. He grumbles out a thank you while sitting up and tugging his mouth free from his mask.

Back tea with milk, just how he likes it, piping hot in a mug big enough for him to comfortably wrap his hand around.

“Gonna make a real good missus.” Ghost murmurs out casually and picks up the mug before taking a prolonged sip and letting his eyelids close at the familiar flavor.

“Yeah? Well, you’d make an awful husband.” You joke, playing along with the innocent understanding that he’s joking and not trying to figure out how to get your ring size without making it obvious. You kick at his knee with your own, a playful smile tugging on your lips. “You never fight with me over anything. Even when I try new cooking recipes off the internet.”

He mulls over your words for a moment, eyes focused on his steaming beverage.

“Didn’ leave no marks on me las’ night. Can complain abou’ tha’.”

“Jesus Christ, Simon.” You gasp and sputter to place a palm over his mouth, thrusting yourself into him as he fights off your flailing hands with ease. “Don’t say such things!”

“Why no’? ‘m just ‘aving a fight with me wife is all.” His teasing doesn’t relent but he lets you press your weight on him and guide him down into the cushions of the sofa. There’s a rumble coming from his chest, a series of snorts as he watches you struggle to keep from becoming completely flustered.

“Oh my God, stop! Stop it!” you’re already a flushed mess, he can feel your face burning from his position beneath you as you fight your wrists free from his loose grip.

“Tryin’a mount me like you did las’ nigh’, Birdie?” His hands come to rest on your waist, the words slipping past him just before you press both your palms against his mouth with a doe-eyed look on your face. He holds you steady, a wolfish smirk making his canines peak beneath his upper lip.

For a moment he thinks your abashed state will hit its limit and you might faint right on the spot, what will the uneven breathing and shaky arms, flared nostrils and quivering bottom lip.

“Shut! Shhh. No more sinful talk. Awful man you are, I’ll never marry you.”

An empty threat that only makes his smirk grow as his chocolate browns twinkle up at you adoringly. It doesn’t cross his mind even for a second that you’re unaware of just how serious he is and how much planning has gone on inside his thick skull over the past few days.

It’s okay, you don’t need to fret over such things, all you need to do is say yes when he finds you a pretty enough ring.

“Gonna behave now, old dog?” You ask and hesitantly free his mouth before settling down on top of him and crossing your arms, a hint of a victorious aura to your puffed-out chest and twitchy smile.

He pats your bum ever so gently and sits up abruptly, causing you to slide into his lap. The power imbalance tips in his favor as soon as he’s looming over you, wide shoulders and muscly arms making you nearly disappear in his embrace. He bumps his nose into yours, head bent down to your level and tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

You swallow thickly, your heart leaping in your throat and staying there as he lingers just on the edge of kissing you. And he’s already pawing at the waistband of your bottoms, greedily trying to slip his thick fingers beyond and toward the comfortable warmth of your sex.

A shiver crawls up your spine and a pleasant tingle settles low in your tummy. Your head snaps towards the digital clock propped above the TV.

“Stop it.” You scold, push him away from sniffling at your neck like a curious wolf and again on his back before slipping out of his lap. “Greedy old dog. I have to go shopping or else you’ll be having fried air with a side of nothing.”

A displeased grumble reaches your ears as you make your way towards the bedroom, intent on changing. You scoff, roll your eyes at your roommate’s childish pouting. Flicking the lights on, you trudge towards your wardrobe, your shared wardrobe although shared was a very generous way of putting it. Aside from a pile of boxers and socks and the occasional black top, there wasn’t much of Simon’s attire.

You wondered if this was all he had while slipping into a pair of jeans, thought over the fact that he did look like a guy who’d be caught dead before going out clothing shopping. It was a sad realization, you made a mental note to buy him some more things when your next paycheck arrived or when he decided to leave another wad of cash on the kitchen counter and label it as rent money.

At least he had a toothbrush, even though with how used and abused it looked, you considered getting him a new one alongside other male toiletries like soap that didn’t smell like wildflowers and shampoo that was a bit less strawberry scented.

After donning a comfy hoodie and walking to the hallway to put on your shoes, you glance at him and see him molding into the couch while his stare is glued to the screen and his brow is visibly lowered in displeasure.

“You can either sulk or you can come with me and get your blood going.” You suggest and straighten up once you’d tied your laces. He didn’t budge, only gave you a side glance. So you try again, more softly this time. “I’d like the company.”

You bat your lashes at him prettily, toss him a girlish smile and coquettishly slip on your jacket and he’s just a man after all, he gets up and pats down his top before joining you.

Coaxing him to do anything was never difficult, all that was needed from you was to look weak and cute and like you’d yield the moment he lumbered over to you. You liked to think you were special and that he wouldn’t bend the knee to just anyone, but then again you hadn’t seen Simon interacting with other people.

Most of your time together, all of your time together, was spent within the confines of your home. Ghost wasn’t one for going out, he was selfish like that, liked you all to himself, and with your attention nowhere else to be set except for him and his needs. You didn’t mind, it was cute in a way. He was needy and touch-starved even if he refused to admit it aloud.

Poor old dog, you’d take good care of him.

Although while you were locking the front door and felt him hook a pinkie finger around yours and lead you down the stairs, you got to thinking. Maybe you were more of a dog than him. You were the one bowing your head to his every wish and did anything you could think of to please him. It was one of your greatest pleasures to slave over him because he’d been so tired and beaten down when you’d first kind of “adopted” him.

Then again, he’d sort of made you adopt him. He’d just brought his things over and hadn’t left. You were certain he would have if you’d just said something, but you never had, you hadn’t confronted him about any of the weird things he’d done so far. Maybe it was too late now or maybe he’d just bury himself between your legs and lap at you until you were near unconscious like the last time he had when you’d seemed displeased. Or maybe he’d actually disappear and never come back and even though you’d known him for a couple of months, something sinisterly painful jabbed at your heart at just the image.

No, this was fine. You were happy to have him. Right…?

The grocery store wasn’t too far away, you could get to it on foot easily. Although something felt off. As you walked down the street with Simon in tow, you noticed the quick, ridged glances you were receiving from people of all kinds of ages. Some of them even made the effort of walking out of your way or taking sharp turns to avoid the two of you.

It was an odd experience, one that also subtly tickled a particular pleasure gland in your brain.

Was this what having a scary dog privilege was like? If so, then you were having the time of your life.

If only people knew what an actual sweetheart your companion was, they’d double over laughing at their first assumptions. But they never would because Ghost was yours.

When you picked up a cart that required both your hands to steer, you felt a tug at your jeans and glanced down to see he had hooked one finger around the belt strap on your side. You offer him a soft snort and try to bite back the grin that was growing on your face.

The place was full as expected, newly stocked as well for the weekend shopping most customers did around your area.

As you made your way through the aisles you scolded yourself for not scribbling down a list of what you needed, then proceeded to pick up a good amount of garlic and onion because most dishes need one or both aplenty. Wouldn’t hurt to have more even if you already had some back home.

Slowly, but steadily, your cart begins to fill the more you walk around and your vision falls on something that you were running low on. Funnily enough, since your new roommate, you’d found yourself having to shop more than once a week. He had a ravenous appetite and you liked that about him, liked having someone there to enjoy your cooking.

Living alone was a blessing, but it did get lonely sometimes.

And before you’d just make something hasty and easy for yourself, too busy with work, too tired after work, or just too lazy and not seeing the appeal of treating yourself. But now, you had someone who depended on you and it felt exhilarating to prepare meals and have another mouth to feed. It didn’t matter to you that Ghost wasn’t big on verbal praises in regards to the food you made him or the care you put into him.

You were happy just having him contently lounging on your couch and stroking your thigh while you lay beside him.

“Milk, eggs, cheese, butter, Simon, you’re tugging too much.” You call back while sifting through the egg cartons and trying to find one that has all ten eggs intact. When the tugging didn’t relent and you received no answer, you turned back with the intent of scolding the silent giant. “Simon, I said you’re – ”

But it wasn’t Simon. He was on your opposite side, staring downward. You follow his gaze to find a little sprout of a being hooked to your jeans and looking up at you with just as much confusion.

Apparently, the toddler had seen your tall, dark, and handsome partner linked to you and with their guardian nowhere to be found, she’d done the same. A child’s mind will forever stay a mystery to you.

The child doesn’t look older than five or four, with large eyes and a small mouth that was shaking with uncertainty while she gawked up at you in a silent plea. The jacket she had on made her look like a walking square, her hands barely poked out of the sleeves. She’d be adorable if not for the tear-stained cheeks that immediately tugged at your heartstrings.

You shake off the shock that has stiffened your joints and push your cart away.

“Hey, there.” You coo gently, shoo both of their hands off your jeans before they end up pulling them off your hips, and kneel down to greet the poor thing that was already hiccupping with sobs. “Hey, little Darling. Where’s your mommy? Did you get lost?”

When the waterworks start again, you gently pet her back.

“There, there. Let it out, it’s okay.”

You curse yourself for not packing any tissues in your bag and wipe the tears off her chubby cheeks with your thumbs.

“It’s okay, Sweetheart.” You soothe, glance up at Ghost to see him standing there silently and watching the encounter unravel with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Typical guy. “Can you tell me your name? Your mommy’s name?”

“Julie.” Was the choppy, nasally answer you receive as the toddle clumsily wipes the snot in the sleeve of her jacket.

“Is that your name or your mommy’s name?” You ask while unzipping her jacket enough to get it off her mouth and find it coated in a sheen of saliva.

Tissues, wet wipes, freaking toilet paper, you would have liked to have something to wipe the poor thing clean, but of course when you needed your supplies most, nothing but your wallet and chewing gum were in your bag.

“My name is Julie. Mommy’s name is Mommy.”

You would have giggled at that answer if Julie wasn’t pouring out her little heart’s sorrow in front of you. Instead, you nod with an okay and rise to face Ghost while resting your hands on your hips. From what you can see around you, nobody is looking around frantically for a lost toddler so you sigh and run a hand over your hair, thinking.

“Might have to take her to reception and make an announcement. Or the mom might already be there.” You say and give the hulking behemoth a once over before cocking your head to the side. “I’ve got the cart. You mind taking her?”

You take a step back, but by the uneasy looks both of them are giving you, it dawns on you that playing mediator was your next step before taking the child along.

“It’s okay.” You give Julie a warm smile, eyes moving between her and Ghost while he also squats down, a foot away from you as not the scare the little thing. “This is Simon. He’s really nice, I promise. He’s my best friend, in fact, he won’t hurt you. Promise.”

It takes some more convincing on your part before the toddler agrees to be picked up by your companion, but once he’d set her on his shoulders to scan the area for her parents, she seemed as cheerful as a cherub. Apparently, she’d never been held that high off the ground before, it was a whole new experience for her, and by the way Simon supported her back with a hand larger than her head and the gentle shine in his eyes, you could tell he wasn’t having too bad of a time either.

You make your way towards the reception desk, accompanied by a symphony of kiddish giggles, your grocery shopping left on the back burner until you relieve yourselves of your new bundle of joy.

Squeals would come from Julie every so often as she fidgeted around on Simon’s shoulders, her pudgy hands splayed in his dirty blond locks or tugging gently on his ears. It suited him being in charge of a little one, the fatherly appeal caused a pleasant knot to tighten in your chest and you tried to wipe the wide grin off your lips, but you just couldn’t.

“Hi, good evening.” You call out to the staff on the other end of the wide reception desk, thankfully catching their attention just before they turned their back on you. “Hi…We found this little girl in the dairy aisle, haven’t been able to find her parents. Would you be able to make an announcement maybe?” You lean in and lower your voice, glancing back briefly to see Julie preoccupied with giggling while toying with Simon’s free hand to hear. “We don’t know the names of the parents. I tried asking but…no dice. Her name is Julie.”

It takes less than ten minutes of you hanging about the reception after the announcement was made, while Ghost entertains the lively toddler, for you to see a flushed woman hurrying your way with her purse clutched under her arm.

You straighten up and adjust your jacket before taking a few small steps forward.

“Oh thank God. Julie!” The mother you presume, presses a hand to her chest when she sees her baby girl atop your roommate’s shoulders. “Thank goodness.”

She surges forward before plucking her child from Ghost’s hand and squishing her to her cheek with a relieved expression softening her earlier strained features. You guess Julie would have been just as vocally ecstatic if her face wasn’t immediately squished to her mom’s neck. You watch her flail for a bit before being maneuvered on her side so she can say a thank you.

“Thank you so much! I turned around for a second and – ”

“ – It’s not a problem.” You chirp back, waving your hands to hopefully dismiss the built-up anxiety that had the mother’s eyes still as wide as saucers. A polite smile adorns your lips, your gestures open and stance friendly to ease the poor woman before she suffers a heart attack at your feet.

“I hope she didn’t give you any trouble.” She says while smoothing out her daughter’s hair lovingly and pressing a feverish kiss to her forehead, earning a giggle in response. Then she extends a hand towards you, which you shake with pleasure. “She can be a bit of a handful. My name is Lily, by the way. I’m sorry to have to meet like this.”

“No trouble at all, ma'am.” You nod, let her shake Simon’s hand as well while you give her your name, and toss a fleeting glare at your loving roommate for not offering his. “We’re happy to help. Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you again, bless you. Say thank you, Julie.” Lily urges and gently grabs Julie’s arm before waving it at both of you. She turns then, readjusts the toddler in her arms, and offers you one last farewell before walking away. “Have a good evening and thank you.”

Despite both the distance and the chatty surge of people around you, you can hear Lily scolding her daughter under her breath before returning to the cart she’d abandoned. It all makes you laugh, especially hearing the muffled mumbles of protest as Julie stares at you and Ghost over her mother’s shoulder.

You wave at her one last time before fetching your discarded grocery cart and rolling it to Simon’s side.

“Didn’t know you were so good with kids.” There’s a teasing note to your tone as you glance at him from under your lashes, hiding a smirk behind the collar of your jacket.

You take the lead, slowly making your way back between the aisles while skimming around for any products you might have skipped past the first time.

“Didn’t eithe’.” He says softly as if the whole situation was the most foreign thing he’d ever witnessed. As if this had been the first time he’d held a toddler, it was heartwarming to feel the thought behind his absentminded voice.

“You’d make a great dad one day.” You hum and poke at his side with your elbow to make him look down at you only to beam up at him.

He’s silent for a while as you stop by the stacks of instant ramen, eyes never leaving yours as his head tilts to one side.

“Tha’ so?”

“Absolutely.” You respond with confidence before breaking your heartfelt eye contact to pick out a packet of noodles for rainy days when you don’t feel like cooking. “Maybe I’ll get to be the Godmother.”

You miss the way he arches an eyebrow at your statement as if you’d said the most blatantly inaccurate thing ever. You miss the way his chocolate brows fall down to your belly where they stay for a suspicious amount of time while he thinks over how nice it would be for you to go shopping with a wee one fussing about in your cart.

For the rest of your stay in the grocery store, Simon was noticeably more touchy. Instead of hooking himself to your jeans, he had a hand pressed to your lower back, thumb rubbing circles into your jacket, hard enough for you to feel. You didn’t question it, thinking his good mood was probably due to your encounter with Julie earlier, the toddler did boost his spirits up after all. He persisted while you were making your way home, holding the groceries in one hand while keeping his other on you.

Nothing seemed out of normal to you while you were outside besides him being a little needier than usual. You didn’t ask about it and didn’t tease him either, instead, you were trying to figure out what to cook up tomorrow because you had all the time you could wish for since it was Saturday. Then again, you had other chores to tend to. There was the washing up, hoovering, dusting.

But as soon as you twisted your key in the lock and stepped inside your now-shared apartment, he had you practically pinned against the wall. Grabby hands were fumbling to get your jacket off while you kicked off your shoes and spat mewling protests against the bulk of his shoulder.

Between getting you and himself undressed, you managed to slip out of his grip and pattered to the kitchen hurriedly, groceries in hand. You barely managed to set them on the table before Ghost twirled you around in his arms like you weighed nothing and bent you over the counter.

“Simon!” You hiss back and fuss to get yourself free. “What’s gotten you so riled up all of a sudden?” You feel a prominent bulge press against the soft curve of your ass and squeal. “Darling, please! At least take me to the bedroom first.”

A “tsk” comes from behind you and you’re about to yap at him that that’s no way to respond to the person who’ll be making him breakfast tomorrow, but the air is knocked out of your lungs as you’re picked up with ease and flopped over his shoulder like a potato sack.

“Simon!” You thump a weak fist against his back as he carries you down the hallway and it still makes you laugh that he needs to duck past your kitchen door, despite the situation. “Talk to me, Darling? Please? Not that I mind, but I need to put the groceries in the fridge and – ”

He tosses you on the bed and crawls on top of you, the mattress dipping under his weight. There’s a certain flare to his eyes as he stares you down and you feel a lump form in your throat before you force it down and coo up at him.

“Wanna tell me what’s been going on in that pretty head of yours?”

You try to squirm away but only end up with his erection lodged between your thighs and his body weight locking you down against the sheets. A moan slips past your lips before you cup his cheeks and run your thumbs over his eyebrows to ease the tension that’s built up there.

“Tell me, please?” You urge while getting comfortable beneath him and swatting away the hand he has toying with the button of your jeans. You lock your legs around his thick waist and pull him a little closer. “Please?”

He doesn’t respond right away, apparently smacking his hand off you thrust him into a spree of thoughts. You wait patiently, one hand scratching at his scalp tenderly while the other stays on his cheek. He looks away from you after a while, something you don’t quite comprehend darkening his moment of contemplation as he mulls over a decision you can only guess at.

His earlier desperation has all but vanished, leaving you absolutely confused.

“Si…Darling.”

You don’t expect him to turn back to you with pain glistening in those brown orbs you like so much before he props himself up on one elbow. Don’t expect the uneven movements of his hand as he slowly, timidly takes one of the black bands holding his mask in place and unfurls it from his ear before taking the little slip off entirely. He places it by your head and adjusts himself on both elbows, a thin-lipped frown tugging the corners of his mouth down as he watches avidly for your reaction.

A pang of guilt surges through you because of how long you’d been silently staring back at him in the darkness of your room. The street lamps illuminate the walls, illuminate his bare face as well.

His. Bare. Face.

The one he’d been hiding since you’d first met, the one you hadn’t seen even when you’d seen the rest of him stark naked whenever you made love. It doesn’t register at first, that you can see his whole face, that he’d finally let you see all of him.

Then your chest flourishes, it feels like exploding in a heap of budding flowers and a breathless laugh leaves your lips, one of joy, of an achievement long overdue, finally accomplished.

You hesitantly cup his cheeks again, this time feeling the light stubble grazing your soft skin.

“Hey…” You manage out, fighting to kick away the surprise and give him the love he deserves for taking such a step forward. “Hey, handsome old dog.”

Your tender expression forces him to halt his breathing altogether before he buries himself in the safety of your neck, breathing you in slowly, the familiar scent calming his strained nerves. You feel the muscles on his back ripple under your touch as you run your hand over his form tenderly, feel his chest expand with every strictly controlled breath he takes.

“Hey…” He murmurs back, greeting muffled into your skin as you rest a trembling hand against the back of his head and sink your fingers into his short hair.

You hadn’t even paid attention to the scars littering his battle-honed skin, they’d been the last thing on your mind as you’d taken him in. He was ruggedly charming, uniquely handsome, it boggled you why he so fiercely hid his face when there was nothing wrong with him. But that was a discussion for another day, you pushed down your bubbling questions and just let the moment consume you.

You feel his lips move against your neck as he swallows, and nuzzle your cheek against his crown lovingly before closing your eyes with a sigh. He relents when you nudge him with your nose to lift his head before pressing a kiss to his nose, then his cheeks, his chin and forehead before finally planting your lips on his. His desperation to remove your bottoms returns then and he’s back at toying with your button and zipper.

You let him take off your jeans while you tug at his jacket, leaving it to pool on the floor before he eases himself out of his blouse and nestles back above you. Your feet come to rest on his strong calves, hands in his hair and glazing over his back as he loses himself in your skin, nipping incessantly at your collarbone while silently asking for you to take off your top and let him feast on more than just your neck.

And as always, you’re pliant when he’s finally caught you under his bulk. You push him off enough to discard the article of clothing before letting yourself fall back into the sheets, mewling happily while he laps at your flesh like a man starved.

A heat pools in your loins, one you try to soothe by pushing your hips up into his and earning yourself a choked growl that makes you quiver with excitement.

But a question keeps nagging at you no matter how heated you become and how low his insatiable lips travel down your body. You hum when his nose nudges the hem of your panties and you stop him before he can pull them off and descend on your gathering slick.

“So…” You begin through a strained voice and glance down at him, finding his eyes already locked on you. Your mouth goes dry, throat tightening, but you force yourself to ask. You need to know, if nothing else, at least this. “What’s the occasion?”

He laughs at your hesitation, a deep, rumbling laugh choir that should come from the monsters in your childhood fairytales, not the man about to stuff his face between your thighs.

“Wan’ed you to see what the father of yer kids looks like, Birdie.”

<<< Chapter 2

Chapter 4 >>>

Masterlist

[cursed-yoyo]

Qué bonito este formato de terrorismo emocional

Recarga su espalda contra la pared y suspira antes de hacer un movimiento lento y cauteloso para rodear los hombros de Telly con el brazo. Con la misma precaución inclina la cabeza ligeramente hacia ella.

«Aquí estoy» @atimeodyssey feliz cumpleaños @cursed-yoyo , te juro que no quiero hacerte llorar pero tenía que hacerlo.

[mactavishsgfandwife]

Simon Riley When You’re on Your Period

pure fluffy rubbish - thanks for all the recent support guys i feel super welcomed :))

simon can’t bear to see his girl hurt. the man is a ruthless killer on the battlefield, so much that anyone would think he was heartless. but if the woman he loves has so much as stung herself on a nettle, he is right there with her. hot take, he’s not one for pda, but if you’re in public he’ll away from the crowd and sit you down, crouching in front of you as his thumbs gently rub your knuckles.

"y’alright, love? need a plaster..?" he says, as he looks right up into your eyes that are starting to tear up from your cut or bruise, much to your embarrassment.

the same goes for your period. simon definitely has a period tracker on his phone so he can predict when your periods are, and stock up in advance. he’s putting those military task management skills to good use.

and so when you come out of the bathroom with that look on your face, he is prepared. kettle on to fill your hot water bottle, hot chocolate at the ready, your favourite film already set up on the telly.

if you’re ever struggling, having one of those days where nothing can go right and you just end up tearing up over anything, simon notices.

from his seat at the kitchen table, ‘focused’ on his work, he notices the little tears start to trickle down your cheeks as you stand in front of the microwave that is now a little messy, your food having bubbled over the side of its container.

"oh, darling…" he gets up,  closing his laptop, and gently pulling you into his arms, "it’s okay, you don’t have to cry like that… hey, hey, baby…"

your shoulders relax, sinking as you breathe out, and you lean your weight into him. the tears come just as fast, but his strong arms around you like you’re the most precious thing in the world help you calm down.

with a kiss on the forehead, he’ll pick you up with ease, and gently tuck you into bed. when you’re all cosy (and he’s brought you some tea and chocolate, or whatever suits your fancy) he will let you lay on his chest. simon is a big guy, 6'4" and broad, and though he may act cold his chest is constantly warm - so when you’re cuddled up to him, arms dropping around him and your head resting just below his collarbone, he is just like your own personal heating blanket. just, a very heavy one.

"there, there, sweetheart… come on now…"

he gently strokes your hair back, behind your ears, to give him space to kiss that pretty little forehead. his strong, rough hands rub slowly up and down the skin of your back, soothing you softly.

"that’s right," he smiles (a little pleased with himself for helping you) when you start to calm down again,

"need ya t’keep calm for me, baby."

thank you for reading :)

[celestialprincesse]

Since ur taking requests… could I request this please? It’s okay if you don’t want to do it :)!!

Fluff!! 141tf trying to communicate with a new addition.. cause she doesn’t speak English as a first language.

Simon trying his hardest to be less sarcastic and damp his dry humor a bit so it doesn’t come off as scary or confusing to her, or soap doing that thing where he speaks slowly to get his point over. Gaz learning slangs and her language cause he’s a sweetheart fr and price already knows her language and she’s her bestie now.

<3

𐙚⋆°.

You'd only been called in to help TF141 as backup, a less conspicuous translator intended to help gather information on a covert mission - a quick in and out. Simple enough, right?

Simple enough, if any of them had a basic understanding of any language besides English. You know enough, but it can only get you so far.

Currently, you're sat in the common area, a pair of headphones smushed in your ears as you occupy yourself with an episode of 'Friday Night Dinners' - Laswell had suggested watching what she described as 'quintessential English telly' to get a better grip on the humour you were sorely lacking in an understanding of.

In fact, you're so immersed, and actually entertained, by the sitcom, that you don't notice a gruff "brew?" coming from Simon's general direction by the kettle.

"Oh, pardon?" You question, noting the way Soap's lips curl into an amused smile at your propriety, and Simon forgetting that most of his phrases and slang wouldn't be understood outside of a Manchester pub, let alone England.

"Cup of tea." Price cuts in, seeing the way your brows furrow with confusion, and slight disappointment at feeling left out, all of them bonded by their shared language - all but you.

"She'll have a builders, one sugar, splash of milk." The captain grunts in Simon's general direction, somehow having memorised the way you take your tea, and recited it before you can even get a word out. Honestly, you don't even like English tea that much, but you'd copied the way Gaz made his tea on the first day you'd arrived here, and made a habit of it since.

"Actually, I bought some herbal." He chirps up from the corner, taking off his cap to run a hand across the tight coils of his hair before replacing the union jack accessory. "Trying to cut back on caffeine." Gaz lies, not wanting you to feel like any more of a fish out of water. He's seen the way you'd scowled upon first arriving at the barracks to find the only drinks available being in the heavily caffeinated genre.

Despite their grasp on your language being far from fluent, they're trying in the ways they know how, and that's enough for you.

𐙚⋆°.

[p0orbaby]

can you do a little blurb for leah taking care of reader, they went to skii and reader broke her leg it happened to me but luckily i just sprained it😭

-

The house is too quiet, save for the hum of the kettle in the kitchen and the faint creak of Leah padding back and forth across the wooden floors. She’s muttering under her breath, something about how tea cures everything. You’re not convinced. You’re sprawled on the couch like a tragic heroine in a Victorian novel, one leg elevated and encased in an obscene amount of plaster.

You hadn’t even wanted to go skiing. Leah had insisted. “It’ll be fun,” she’d said. “You’ll love it.” And like an idiot, you believed her.

Now, you’re convinced the only thing skiing is good for is humiliation and orthopaedic bills.

“I brought you tea,” Leah announces, placing a mug on the table in front of you with all the delicacy of a bomb disposal expert. She doesn’t sit immediately. Instead, she hovers, hands on hips, like she’s waiting for a thank you that isn’t coming.

You glance at the tea. “I can’t reach it”

Leah sighs dramatically, though you notice the corner of her mouth twitch. “Do you want me to get you a straw?”

“Maybe”

She rolls her eyes but picks up the mug and holds it to your lips like you’re a baby bird. It’s both endearing and mildly infuriating. “You’re so helpless,” she says, but there’s no malice in it.

“I wouldn’t be if someone hadn’t convinced me to strap two planks to my feet and hurl myself down a mountain”

Leah snorts, setting the mug down again. “You were barely off the beginner slope”

“It was steep”

“It was a mild incline,” she counters, but there’s warmth in her voice now, a teasing lilt that makes you want to argue just for the sake of it.

You glare at her, though it’s half-hearted. “You’re enjoying this”

“Not the part where you got hurt,” she says quickly, sitting on the edge of the couch and brushing a strand of hair from your face. “But maybe the part where you have to rely on me for everything”

“Don’t get used to it”

“Oh, I’m treasuring every moment,” she says, her grin infuriatingly smug.

You groan and let your head fall back against the cushions. “I hate this. I can’t do anything. I can’t even wee without help”

“That’s not true,” Leah says brightly. “You managed just fine this morning”

“Only because you held the crutches steady”

“Which I did brilliantly, by the way,” she adds, leaning back and crossing her arms like she’s expecting applause.

You roll your eyes. “Saint Leah of the Crutches. Patron saint of poor, unfortunate souls”

“Exactly.” She reaches for the remote and switches on the TV, flipping aimlessly through channels before settling on a repeat of Bake Off. “You know,” she says, nudging your uninjured foot, “this isn’t so bad. It’s like a little staycation. Except instead of a spa, we’ve got NHS-issued painkillers and bad daytime telly”

You don’t dignify that with a response, choosing instead to stare mournfully at the leg that’s become both a burden and a punchline.

Leah glances at you, her teasing dimming slightly. “Hey,” she says softly. “You’ll be back to normal soon. And then you can tell everyone how brave you were”

“Brave,” you repeat flatly. “I cried when the paramedic cut my ski trousers”

“They were really nice trousers,” she agrees.

“Expensive, too”

“Don’t worry,” Leah says, and there’s that twinkle in her eye again. “I’ll buy you new ones. And maybe some knee pads. Or a bubble wrap suit”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. “You’re annoying”

“But alas, you still love me,” she says, leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

You can’t argue with that, so you don’t. Instead, you let her settle beside you, her arm slung around your shoulders, and together you watch Paul Hollywood critique someone’s soggy bottom.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Simon wakes with a hangover after a night out and decides he's gonna fuck Price about it. #GhostPriceWeek

Day Three: Blushing/Tea

cw: anal sex, kissing, blowjob, handjob, fingering. Britlish. ( @gomzdrawfr )

Simon slumped on the sofa and flicked the telly on. BBC One, Sunday Morning Live. He'd turn it over to something a bit less bright and breezy but he'd already dropped the clicker and it was a whole five inches from his hand.

The pint of water he'd sunk before collapsing into bed the night before deserved a VC for the futile battle it had fought against the sheer volume of alcohol in his bloodstream. A clean engagement, but in the end the enemy had been too strong. Not even a quick shower had lessened the thrum in his temples and the ache of bad sleep around his eyes.

There was nothing for it. He'd have to order Powerade from Ubereats. Unfortunately, his phone was currently M.I.A.

As Sean Fletcher introduced criminologist and fraud expert Dr Elisabeth Carter to discuss how gullible religious cranks were getting scammed out of their money, Simon heard life shuffle around in the ensuite attached to their bedroom. The bone-deep groan of pain, the sound of furious teeth brushing and running water, followed by the gargling and spit of Listerine against porcelain. Moments later, Price emerged into the living room with his head in his hand.

“Mornin’,” Simon rumbled, head lolling against the backseat of the sofa.

“Unfortunately…” Price replied, squinting in the light streaming through the balcony doors. “Sitrep.”

“‘Angin’ out my fockin’ arse.”

“Rog,” Price mumbled, shuffling over to the kitchenette. He hadn't bothered throwing a shirt on, his flannel pajamas sitting low on his hips, slippers trodden down at the back. “Where did MacTavish learn t’ drink like that…”

“S’national sport up there. Reckon they start ‘em young.” Simon watched Price fill the kettle and pull two mugs from the cupboard: one red, one blue. “I'll text ‘im later an’ tell him we went out for a 10k at 5am.” He slouched over the sofa to grab the remote and turned down the volume on the telly as the fake laughs of the presenters grated right through him.

Price wandered to the fridge after dishing out the tea bags and a generous amount of sugar, and lingered with the door open, milk in hand. “Was the filfy kebab really necessary? Yer fuckin’ insides must be rotten…”

“Don't recall you complainin’ when you were scoffin’ half of it in that bus shelter.”

Simon had offered to purchase two kebabs in the full knowledge that his would be raided the moment he unwrapped it, but Price had declined, because chips and doner meat tasted a hundred times better when it was pilfered from your boyfriend’s pita bread, while he struggled to perch on the tiny fuckin’ bus shelter bench and eat at the same time.

“Tha’ explains why I were breathin’ fire when I woke up.”

Simon heard the clang of the bin as his respectfully wrapped leftover kebab was relegated to landfill. “Brutal.”

“We’ll go out for a fry up down the road when my ‘ead stops spinnin’.” The kettle clicked and Simon heard the slosh of water as Price poured their brews.

“Could order in.”

“Don't be fuckin’ lazy. Fresh air’ll help.” Price carried the two mugs over to the sofa and Simon reached up to take the blue one as it was passed down.

“Yer bloody ‘eartless,” Simon said.

“Fink you'll find ‘m all ‘eart.” Price slumped onto the sofa and leaned into Simon's side, his eyes lidded. Simon took a few cursory sips of tea, his mouth like teflon after years of scoffing overcooked rat packs and over-boiled filter coffee, before placing the mug down on the coaster.

It was difficult to ignore the draw of Price's body when it was pressed so close, even through the haze of a hangover. Simon tilted his head into Price's ruffled hair and breathed him in. Despite spending a night on the lash, he still smelled fuckin’ delicious; faded cologne and deodorant, a sleep-warm musk beneath it all. Simon’s cock twitched with interest, enticed by the smell and heat of his partner, relaxed and half naked against him.

Simon slid his arm around Price's chest, fingers playing in the soft curls of his body hair before he cupped the swell of a tit and squeezed. The give of firm muscle beneath his palm made a lick of arousal curl through his gut, and Simon nuzzled Price’s head over a little to nibble at the shell of his ear.

“Gerroff,” Price huffed, putting up token resistance by nudging his elbow against Simon's ribs, but he didn't pull away. If anything, he reclined a little further over Simon's chest, sipping his tea once more before resting it on the sofa cushion, fingers hooked loosely in the handle.

They'd been too hammered to fuck last night. Sure, there had been some heavy grinding when they'd stumbled through the door, some sloppy, heated snogging, but the moment they had stripped off and fallen into bed, they had passed out in a heap of tangled limbs. A lazy Sunday 'morning after' was the perfect time to make up for it.

Simon stroked Price's happy trail and slipped his hand into the loose waistband of his pajamas without preamble, inviting himself to Price's prick as his eyes wandered back to the telly. His touch was gentle, lazy, caressing the soft length with his fingertips until it began to chub up. He stroked back and forth over the ridge of Price's crown through his foreskin as it slowly drew back, enjoying the muted sighs of enjoyment as much as the velvet softness and warmth against his palm.

“Yer plannin’ t’ do anythin' with that or yer jus’ gonna give me blue balls?”

“Depends, ya gonna drag me into public with a hangover or ya gonna let me order in?”

“You cruel little shit,” Price murmured without heat, lifting his hips to rub his cock against the heel of Simon's palm.

“What’ll it be? Deal or no deal?”

“Noel Edmonds is a fuckin’ turn off…”

“Stephen Mulhern now.”

“That cockney twat ain't much better–fuck, Simon, c’mon, la… do it proper, like.”

“Still waitin’ for the decision.”

“Fine, fine… MaccyD’s kitchen round the corner ain't bad–haa, ah, mmm.”

Simon stroked firmly from base to tip, squeezing on the upwards tug around the glans. Price bucked into his palm, precum wetting the fleece of his pajamas as Simon worked him over. Simon felt his body warm through the cotton of his shirt, and pressed a kiss into his hair as his own cock pushed his shorts into a tent.

“You make me so fuckin ‘ard,” Simon growled into Price's hair. “Jus’ the bloody smell of ya drives me mental.”

“Yeah? Show me, Simon. Show me what ya want…”

Simon trailed his hand down until Price's balls sat in the cradle of his palm and two fingers were teasing the rim of his hole. Price didn't push him away, but spread his legs with a low, wanton moan, his hips rolling up to grind the wet head of his cock against Simon's wrist.

A slow Sunday morning fuck now well and truly on the cards, Simon needed to prep. He pulled his hand away reluctantly and leaned over to grope through the clutter in the drawer of the lamp table. They had fucked on this sofa so often that Price had dumped a tube of durex water-based amongst the allen keys and miscellaneous house debris.

When Simon slumped back with his prize in hand, Price had rolled onto his front and was shoving at Simon's shorts with an impatient growl. Simon lifted his arse magnanimously, his hard cock flopping free against his thighs as Price pushed his waistband past his knees, pressing his nose against Simon's shaft. “Heard receivin’ a blowie after the giver’s drunk tea feels good,” Price said, licking a thick vein bulging from ruddy, hard flesh.

“Fancy testin’ that?”

Price smirked and leaned to the side just enough to knock back the rest of his brew before he returned to Simon's cock. He gripped the base, drawing the tip of his tongue through Simon's slit to savour the first beads of precum, before swallowing him down with a deep, longing moan.

“Oh, fuck…” Simon lifted his hips into the tingling heat of Price's mouth, his head falling back with the rush of pleasure through his hips and up his spine. Yeah, there was mileage in the tea thing. His hand pushed into that soft, ruffled hair only for an anchor as Price hollowed his cheeks and swirled his tongue, head bobbing slowly as he drooled and moaned around Simon's cock, his mouth stretched almost beyond capacity.

If someone had said a few years ago that Captain John Price was a champion cocksucker, Simon would have knocked them the fuck out for the slur. Now he knew it would have been an accurate evaluation of his skillset. The fuckin’ mouth on him. And with the added flush of the tea, Simon's bare toes curled against the floor in pure ecstasy.

When the initial shock eased into a more constant swell of pleasure and Simon's stomach unbunched, Simon could concentrate enough to slick his fingers and slip them between Price's arse cheeks. He circled his rim in firm, smooth passes, teasing him into relaxing. He felt the sweet vibration of Price's moan as he slid his first finger in, Price’s legs spreading until one knee dropped off the edge of the sofa, back curved to give Simon better access once he'd wriggled out of his flannel trousers.

Simon tilted his head back and closed his eyes, luxuriating in the filthy, wet sounds of saliva and lube, the suction of Price's clever mouth punctuated by the rumbles of guttural moans as he was fingered open, the weathered hand that cupped and tugged Simon's sac was warm and firm, enjoying the promising heft that would soon empty deep inside him.

There was another reason other than convenience that Simon enjoyed fucking Price here. It was the living room mirror on the opposite wall. Tall and narrow, intended for a last minute check of teeth and hair before they stepped out the door. Maybe Simon had purposefully hung it at the perfect angle to reflect their athletics on the sofa, but if he had, that was between him and god.

Either way, since it's arrival he'd got to watch Price's back flex, sheened with sweat, as he ground himself down on Simon's cock, and watched his face as he was fucked from behind over the coffee table, even admired himself working on top as he'd pushed Price’s head down and pounded into him until he'd come screaming and begging, muffled by the sofa cushions. There was something about the sight of them together, of Price taking his cock and loving every second, that set Simon on fire.

“C’mon, up ‘ere.” Simon tugged at Price’s chin until he pulled off his cock with a soft pop. “Reverse, lean back.”

“Givin’ orders now…”

Simon smirked, holding Price’s hips to help him balance as he straddled Simon's lap, dropping one hand to smear a little lube on his cock and grip it at the base to hold it steady. He got to watch as Price’s body swallowed him, slick hole stretching wide to take every fuckin’ inch until Price was seated almost to the hilt. Simon's hands slid over his hips and pulled him down into his first thrust, forcing a choked noise from Price’s throat. Simon pressed a kiss in the middle of Price's freckled back and murmured into his skin. “Oh, fuck yeah, you're so fuckin’ ready for me, you wan’ed this so bad, didn'tcha?”

“Yeah, Simon… oh, oh, mm, yeah, your fuckin cock…”

“C’mere.” Simon pulled Price’s back against his chest and tilted his chin for a deep, wet kiss, their tongues working over each other as Simon slid his hands beneath Price’s thighs to lift them up and apart, forcing Price to relax back and let himself be fucked. Simon dragged his cock in and out slowly, savouring the long, drawn out pleasure of each thrust, always leaving the tip inside and sinking in almost to the base.

Price moaned and gasped, trying to hold the kiss at first, but soon having to flop his head back as Simon began to thrust faster. At this angle, with the wicked curve in Simon's cock, he was dragging over Price's prostate with every roll of his hips.

“Haa, ah, Simon, yeah, yeah, fuck, yeah, so fuckin’ good.”

Simon could just about see over Price’s shoulder in this position, those few inches of height in the torso coming up trumps in providing the perfect view of the most beautiful fuckin’ sight in the world; John Price being split open on his fat dick. His muscular thighs spread wide, secured by Simon's hands into yielding, his hole sucking greedily at Simon's cock, his face, neck and chest blushing and his cock flopping and drooling against his belly.

“Look at ya, look--ahh, look at yaself in the mirror, John… mm, fuck, look ya takin me.”

Price did look and Simon got to watch those blue eyes widen as he saw his own pretty little hole swallowing Simon's thick cock, watch it bully him open with each thrust and leave him empty every time it drew back. Price moaned, low and broken, one arm curled behind Simon's head while the other sloped down his body so he could jerk his own prick in rough, messy tugs.

“Gonna come--fuck, nn--so deep in ya, John… want me leakin’ out of ya for days.”

”Simon!”

“Feelin’ me inside ya, ahh, as you bark orders.”

“Haa, ah, fuck, fuck!’

Even with the distant echo of his hangover, the pleasure of fucking into the snug heat of Price’s body and listening to him fall apart was overwhelming. Simon sunk a little lower to brace his elbows for a harder fuck, and felt the throb of Price’s climax in the clench and flutter of his arse. Price arched, his legs pushing out against Simon's hands, testing his strength, as he continued his relentless pace even as Price painted his own belly with milky white.

The wrecked sounds each thrust forced from Price's overstimulated body were enough for Simon to follow him over the edge. Two big hands slanted over his hips to pull him down and Simon thrust up, coming as deep as he could. Price moaned, leaning forward a little so his thighs could spread side over Simon's lap. “Oh, fuck, Simon, tha’s fuckin ‘ot… ya filthy git.”

Simon knew Price loved being fucked full; the spread of warmth as Simon's balls emptied inside him, the way he'd feel it leak out of his stretched hole when Simon pulled out, evidence he'd been thoroughly bred.

Simon ground up, biting his lower lip as his thumbs pushed into the muscle of Price’s arse. He didn't want to pull out. He wanted to stay in what was his forever, but as the euphoria abated and his cock softened, he decided he'd rather spoon his fucked out partner and order a fuckin' Big Mac. Gently, he eased Price off, snagging some Kleenex from the coffee table to clean up before he half draped himself over Price's back.

They cuddled in the afterglow, too big to spoon on the sofa really, Price's leg hanging off and Simon's knuckles dragging on the floor, but both were too interested in exchanging lazy kisses to care. At some point, Simon found his phone and punched in their order and Price began to doze.

Once they'd eaten, Simon would decide just how many times he was going to make Price come before they had to turn in for work on Monday. Double figures seemed a reasonable goal.

[luveline]

hi lovely! could you write something about reader taking care of james after he was injured while playing quidditch or rugby? (your choice!) thanks so much <3

ty for requesting<3

“Oh, fuck me,” James moans. 

You ease his leg gently onto the cushions you’ve stacked beneath his foot and ankle. “Sorry.” 

“Fuck.” He covers his face with his hand. “Fuck.” 

The expletives are expected, though perhaps not in such a quantity. You rub his calf gently, a warning, before putting the frozen bag of peas down onto his knee. He flinches, hisses, and brings his second hand up to join the first. Hidden from view, you might not know he was in pain if it weren’t for the tight set to his jaw —he holds his breath for a while.

He breathes out hard. You kneel at the foot of the sofa to hold the peas there, your hand instantly freezing and hurting. It can’t hurt half as much as what James is going through. You stick it out. 

“Sorry,” he breathes out a moment later, letting his hands fall to his chest. He’s still in his training uniform, a tight Spanx black shirt stretched over his chest and arms, his red and white shorts, even his socks, one pushed down and the other just below his uninjured knee. “Sorry, I’m not swearing at you.” 

“I know. I wouldn’t be so nice to you if you were speaking to me like that, Pots.” 

“Don’t start,” he says, but he’s smiling for the first time since he slid in the field. You raise your chin at him, smiling back, and he raises a heavy looking hand to your chin, chucking it lightly. 

“It’ll stop hurting once you keep still,” you say. You’re not sure if that’s true, but sometimes the only escape from pain is a lie. 

“My ibuprofen isn’t kicking in. You know, Sirius says it kicks in quicker if you lay on your right side.” 

“You probably shouldn’t move, handsome.” 

“You think I’m handsome?” 

You rise up on your knees to offer him a kiss, which he takes immediately. He whines against your lips in pain and pushes you away gently. “Don’t tempt me, angel, please. It hurts so bad,” he complains, eyes squeezing closed. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

“Yeah, you should be,” he says, giving your shoulder a friendly shove. “Away, angel in human form. Get lost before I hurt myself. You’re too much to resist.”

You decided to make him a cup of tea, but you’ve not even boiled the kettle when he’s shouting for you to come back. “I didn’t mean it!” 

You return with a tray of tea and biscuits and he perks up from his depression. “The ibuprofen must be working now,” he says. 

“I’ll get you some deep heat,” you say through a mouthful of biscuit. 

“Yeah?” he asks, dipping his own in his mug, the tray balanced precariously across his lap. “You’ll rub it in for me?” 

You’d genuinely love to. “Of course I will. Have some tea first and let the painkillers really sink in. I don’t want to make it worse by touching it.” 

James gives you his biscuit out of love. “Thank you. You’re like my beautiful doctor.” 

“Shush.” 

You finish his biscuit and put your tea aside to tuck yourself into his waist for moral support. “You played a great game,” you assure him, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. He lets his head fall down onto yours, silky hair brushing your ear. 

“Good, ‘cos it’ll be my last for a while.” 

“Don’t be silly,” you say, rubbing your palm down his stomach to hug him. 

“For a week. Maybe two.” 

“That’s fine. You can spend two weeks on the sofa with me kissing me and watching telly, and then you’ll have to work your socks off and train back up again,” you say easily. 

He relaxes with a sigh. “That doesn’t sound bad.” James turns his mouth into your hair. “…That sounds amazing.” 

[delwrites]

Tomorrow

roommate!james x reader

“Honey? What are you doing?”

James had walked in on you grabbing a glass of water just after two am, sweat lightly touching your forehead.

“I-” you take a pause before letting out a deep sigh, too exhausted to keep up the pretence of any half-hearted lie you couldn’t be bothered to come up with. 

“Bad dream.” You mumbled, scowl adorning your soft features. James was more than familiar with the bad dreams that inhabited your head many nights, it didn’t make him any more immune to that pout that would always land on your face every time you had the displeasure of informing him, though. The first few times he’d tried to coax the truth out of you, he had always made you feel so guilty about lying, that when you finally told him the real reason for your being up so late (your most embarrassing secret), it was a great relief off your chest. Somehow, saying the night terrors you experienced out loud made them feel less real, and knowing that your roommate would be just down the hall lest anything more drastic happen was a great burden off your shoulders. 

James switched the kettle on, the usual routine slowly falling into place as he opened his arms to you. He could see the fat globs of tears sitting oh so preciously on your waterline; threatening to fall down any time you blinked. It made his heart sink right through his stomach and forced a concerned frown to tense up his face. 

“What should we watch tonight?” He asked as he cradled your head to his chest, rocking you both side to side as his other hand squeezed your back, knowing the pressure of his touch would wordlessly reassure you that he was there, metaphorically and physically. If you weren’t living with the man, forced to see his every side tucked away under boisterous mounds of personality, the softness of his voice might startle you. You knew better than to let it get the best of you.

“Um, I’m not sure…” You were so timid, curled up against him and letting him take the brunt of your weight that his normal want to protect you was tripled tenfold. He knew that when you got so shaken up like this, you found it difficult to talk, and even worse making decisions. By now he knew all your comfort shows anyway, knew your favourite hot drink and ideal sweet treat. 

“Okay, sweetheart, it’s okay.” As the kettle boiled, he gently guided you over to the sofa whilst he fixed you your favoured drink. Picking the telly remote up on the way over, he put two mugs on the coffee table in front of your feet and put a light-hearted show on to help ease your mind of whatever horror had occurred before he could intervene. 

As you sat there, leaning into his side with his arm wrapped around you for good measure, your mind began to drift. Drift away from the bad and focus on James. Since moving in with James, things had gradually transformed into the epitome of a quiet, mundane life. A lot of unspoken moments, learning simultaneously the simplest and deepest parts of each other without even really knowing the most ordinary things. This leads to you asking (rather apprehensively) a question that pulled James out of his little daydream. It was always easy for him to get lost in the contentment he feels tangled up with you, thoughts of married life plaguing his thoughts and tarnishing your innocent friendship.

“What do you do for a job?” You’re embarrassed to ask, but feel even more embarrassed not knowing. It makes you feel so sheepish, how the words come out mumbled against his chest, but if James notices he doesn’t make an effort to bring any attention to it. Instead, he begrudgingly turns his head from the tv screen to look at you, only to find you’re already staring up at his face. The proximity makes a blush bloom over his chest, threatening to rise up his neck as he tries to keep his breathing as steady as it was moments ago. The hand that isn’t wrapped around you goes up to his chin, as he thinks over your question. He supposes that since you had both rushed into living together, desperation getting the better of you both, you had majorly overlooked exchanging pleasantries with one another. 

“I’m sorry, I know it’s super weird and if you’ve already told me I feel really bad about forgetting, but I can’t put my finger on it…” The more you talk, the more heat you can feel residing in your cheeks. You can only hope the dim lights can alter your awkward expression adorning your face, seeing as you can’t bring yourself to do it.

“No, it’s definitely my fault for your not knowing. I could’ve sworn I told you… Honestly, I think it’s kinda funny.” An annoyingly amused smile overtakes him, lips quirked up at the corners and his eyes crinkling with a kind of airy delight that always makes your stomach cramp with joy and head blur with a drunken fuzziness that only he could create.

As you continue to give him your most stern awaiting look, he begins to rub his hand that was wrapped around you up and down your middle, eyes scanning over your face again. 

“I’m a rugby player. Just working with agents at the academy I’m training with for the moment, though I’m hoping to get scouted soon.” That definitely explained the bulk of the man. With his normal comings and goings from the apartment, you had assumed his muscle just came from his being a gym buff. Before your mind could wonder, he interrupted your thoughts with a question of his own.

“Are you a cat or a dog person?” 

The night had gone like this for a while, both openly asking simple questions that came to mind. You weren’t sure if he was intentionally trying to distract you from the earlier shortcomings of the night but either way it was working. By the time your mug was empty and James had answered your rather out of pocket ‘would you rather’ question, your eyelids had grown too heavy to ignore. 

James had already begun noticing the slight slur to your words, head indicating it would drop at any given moment, but this was the calmest he had seen you all night and he didn’t want to break you (or himself, for that matter) out of the little bubble you’d both been brave enough to craft. He urged your head to his shoulder, placing a kiss on your forehead before breaking himself out of his trance, putting you upright before he can do anything else he might regret. 

“Come on, honey. You should definitely get to bed now, if you fall asleep on the sofa your back’s gonna kill in the morning.” 

He had helped you off of the sofa, guided you down the hall with his hand on the small of your back, and was now pulling your duvet over you when he felt your nimble fingers clasp around the palm of his hand as he was turning to leave.

“Jamie…” He wanted to scream. Wanted to run and never look back to see that sleepy look on your face. Wanted to grab your face in his hands and kiss you right there and then. 

You wanted to beg him to stay. Wanted to offer up the right side of your bed so he could sleep beside you. Wanted to tell him how you truly felt.

“Thanks, for um, y’know… Staying up with me. You didn’t have to so, um… thanks.” So much for a grand confession. 

“Yeah, I’m always here for you, sweet girl. Get some sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.” 

Maybe tomorrow.

“Good night, Jamie.” 

There’d always be tomorrow.

“Good night, love.”

[ralkana]

Hand in Hand is the Only Way to Land

For @dreamlingbingo square E5: Pets

Dream of the Endless / Hob Gadling

Rated G, Human AU, no warnings apply.

------

Hob lets himself into Dream's flat, quickly disarming the security system before the alarm can sound. He leaves the note he's written - in bright red pen, in very large letters - on the shelf where Dream leaves his keys when he comes home, so that Dream will see it immediately upon entering and won't worry, and then he quickly moves around the flat, gathering everything he needs and tucking it into his backpack.

Finally, he approaches the couch where Gregory is sleeping, flat on his back, all four paws in the air, snoring the day away.

"Sorry, love," Hob murmurs with a laugh as he strokes over the soft orange fur. Gregory wakes with a snort and a disoriented meow. Hob deftly slips the harness with the leash over Gregory's chest before the cat has even finished waking, picking him up to cuddle him close. "Let's go, my darling."

He is making his way across the flat to rearm the security system when "Hob Gadling!" cracks loudly in the air.

With a yip, Hob whirls, holding Gregory close, his other hand clutching at his chest. He glances wildly around the empty flat.

"What are you doing?"

The voice is coming from the security camera in the corner of the ceiling, and Hob takes a deep breath, rolling his eyes.

"Christ, mate, you scared the hell out of me." He glances down at Gregory. "Does he do that to you?"

"There is no need. Gregory is exceptionally well-behaved." The 'unlike you' remains unsaid. "I repeat, what are you doing?"

"I'm taking Gregory. Don't worry, I've got his food and some toys and some t-r-e-a-t-s. Even got him a little harness in case he tries to make a break for it." Hob wiggles the end of the leash at the camera.

"What do you mean, you are taking Gregory?"

"I left a note." Hob points at the shelf with the note. "Has the time I came, and why I'm taking him, and when I'll have him back."

"Why are you taking my cat?" Dream's tone wavers between confusion and accusation. Gregory is looking up at the camera now.

"It's about to storm. And you're not home. He doesn't like storms."

"So you are just taking my cat?"

"Yes. I am. And I'd like to get us home before the storm starts."

"Gregory." He waits until the cat is looking at the camera once more and then says, "Gregory, you do not want to go with this horrible man, do you?"

Hob laughs, hearing the teasing tone in his best friend's pouting voice. "Oh, stop," he says as he turns once more and begins arming the security system. "I'll bring him home tomorrow. Or the next day. Or sometime after that."

"Tomorrow!" Dream says, alarmed.

"No," Hob says as he opens the door, with one last glance at the camera. Just as he shuts the door, he says, "Maybe."

"Hob!"

-----------

Hob is not surprised by the knock on his door early the following evening. He glances at the clock as he goes to the door, realising that Dream must have come straight from the train station.

"Hello, my friend," he says with a grin as he opens the door. Sure enough, Dream has come directly from his conference, laptop bag over one shoulder, the handle of a small wheeled suitcase in the other hand.

"Hob."

At the sound of Dream's voice, Gregory meows and jumps off the couch, trotting across Hob's flat to wind around Dream's legs.

"Hello, Gregory," Dream says, picking him up and stepping into the flat as Hob moves back to let him pass. He rubs his cheek in Gregory's fur but cuts his eyes toward Hob as he asks, "I trust you are well?"

Hob rolls his eyes as it's clear Dream is asking the cat. "He's fine," he says as he moves toward the kitchen to put the kettle on. "We had a bit of a rough night -- he really does not like thunder, does he, poor darling? But we made it through with lots of cuddles, and we've had a very relaxing day, full of little treats and some excellently trashy telly."

At the T word, there is a small thud as Gregory jumps from Dream's arms and pads into the kitchen, meowing hopefully at Hob.

"Oh, that was my mistake, wasn't it, my love?" He turns to the cabinet where he's stashed the little bag of Gregory's treats, crouching to offer one to him. "Here you go, then. Don't want to be a tease."

When he stands, Dream is leaning against the kitchen doorjamb. He has taken off his coat and boots, and he is just there, in Hob's space in his soft sweater and socked feet, and he looks so right there, and Hob aches with it.

He swallows the ache down, an old habit, and turns, busying himself with making tea. "How was your conference?"

"Interminable, as expected," Dream says, with a nod of thanks as Hob hands him a mug.

Hob laughs. "It was two days, Dream."

"It felt like twenty." He sets his mug down on the kitchen table, crossing his arms over his chest.

Gregory has finished his treat and is meowing and rubbing against Hob's ankles in hopes of another. Hob sets his mug down as well, bending to lift Gregory into his arms.

When he looks back at Dream, Dream is watching him with Gregory, head tilted, an open, enigmatic look on his face. Hob buries his face in the soft fur between Gregory's ears, feeling his cheeks heat at the scrutiny.

"It did not occur to you to simply stay with him in my flat?" Dream asks, and Hob's head shoots up in shock.

"What? No! I would never stay at your place without your permission, Dream, I -- "

"And yet, you felt no unease at waltzing in to abduct my cat," Dream interrupts, one eyebrow raised.

"What - but - that's different!" Hob splutters. "I just -- I heard there was a storm coming and I knew you weren't home, and I remembered you telling me how upset he was during the last big storm. I'm sorry, I should've told you, but, well, I did it on impulse."

He grins, sheepishly. "You know me and my poor impulse control."

Gregory, realising no more treats are on offer and tiring of being squeezed, meows and squirms to be released. Hob crouches to let him down, crossing his own arms to mirror Dream when he stands again.

"Now, of course, I know you can just Big Brother him from wherever you are, whenever you want."

He trails off, uneasily, and Hob steps closer, one hand resting on Dream's elbow in concern.

Dream frowns. "It would have been. Difficult. To watch him in distress. And to know I could not help. I would not have thought to call you. I would not have thought..."

"I would not have thought there was anyone other than I who cared enough about him to worry about his comfort. Anyone who cared enough about..."

"About both of you," Hob says softly, his heart racing.

Dream searches his face, his clear blue eyes heartbreakingly uncertain. Hob does his best to show everything he feels but can't ever say, for fear that it will be too much to ask.

Hob realises Dream is blushing, the barest hint of pink across his pale cheeks.

"I confess, I did not learn much in any of the panels I attended after we spoke yesterday," he says quietly. "I found myself unable to stop thinking of you in my flat. Of how much your smile changes the space. And how I would not mind coming home to find you there. Any time. Perhaps always."

"Oh," Hob says, with a laugh that's more than a little watery. "I... I was thinking earlier how right you look here. Comfortable, in my home."

Dream steps closer, unfolding his arms, his hands at Hob's waist - not touching, but so close that Hob can feel the heat of his skin.

"Hob?" he asks, the velvet skin of his cheek against Hob's, and Hob closes his eyes.

"Yes," he whispers. "Anything, Dream."

Hob's last thought as their lips meet is that he's going to buy Gregory the biggest bag of treats he can find.

Tomorrow.

END

-----

Inspired by this video. I saw it and instantly thought of Hob Gadling.

Title from The Lovecats, by The Cure.

[goofygecko]

Every man gets his wish♡

William Afton x Reader oneshot

Inspiration

Warning

Groping, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, praise, L- bombing, grinding, squirting

Word count: 759

Masterlist

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William loves the way you sit in his lap and watch television with him after he tells you he had a bad day at work. He'll stroke your hair lovingly as his eyes fixate on whatever VHS movie he's chosen to watch with you to get his mind off of how much of a prude Henry was or how some sticky toddler decided to throw a tantrum in the middle of the show.

 

But, today was different then most days.

 

When William entered the house he was fuming. His heavy feet pounding against the hardwood floor and the slamming of the front door that had startled you made that fact quite apparent. You rush to the door, not wanting to piss him off anymore. As you try to help take off his jacket he grabs your wrist tightly.

 

"Not in the mood." He snarls, so low it could be mistaken as a growl.

 

"Bad day at work today I take it?" You say sweetly, doe eyes looking up at him.

 

"Very." He says through clenched teeth.

 

You nod slowly in understanding.

 

"Do you want to watch something on the tellie to get your mind off it or do you want to tell me what happened? I can make us some tea if you want." Your voice is soft and soothing as you speak, trying to hold onto the hand that is currently gripping your wrist.

 

He stays quiet for a moment, eyebrows still furrowed angrily, before a slight smirk forms on his face.

 

"I think you know the answer to that already." He says as he grabs onto your chin roughly to give you a kiss before making his way up the stairs.

 

You take that as your sign to head to the kitchen and start the kettle. Water quickly reaching a boiling point before you pour it in small cups with Will's favorite tea. Heading out to the living room you place both of the cups on the side table before sitting on your partner's lap, leaning back on him so the back of your head rests on his shoulder.

 

"What did you pick today?" You move your head to look up at him slightly as you speak.

 

"Lolita." He replies flatly.

 

"Really?" You say eagerly, "But I thought you hated this movie?" 

 

"Oh, I despise it." He chuckles darkly.

 

"Then why'd you choose it?" You ask skeptically.

 

"Because you like it." 

 

You smile at him, his face still scrunched slightly in anger as he watches the television. 

 

Around 20 minutes into the movie you feel William's hands wondering your body. He's groping and rubbing you before settling on your breast, squeezing and pinching at your soft nipples through your shirt.

 

"Will–? What are you d—"

 

"What a good girl, so willing to do anything just to please me. Fuck, I love you so much, doll.." He growls lowly in your ear before sliding one of his hands to between your clothed legs and cupping his hand over your mound, "You're so good for me."

 

You look down at the hand between your legs before your eyes are forcefully brought back to the television.

 

"Nuh-uh, baby, Keep those eyes on the movie." He teases, hot breath hitting against your neck as he grinds his palm harshly on your covered clit.

 

"Will.." You gasp.

 

"Shh, doll, watch the movie." He purrs as his hand moves under your pants, moving your panties out of the way to rub at your bare cunt. 

 

You try your best to hold back your moans, you really do, but when he starts to grind up against you are his fingers plunge into you it's downright impossible.

 

"Will— fuck — 'm gonna cum! Please let me.!" You moan and beg as he picks up the pace.

 

"Mngh. Yeah? Go ahead, cum all over my fingers, you deserve it." As soon as he approves your request you're being hurdled over the edge, pussy squirting and gushing juices all over his hand and your pants (:( ). 

 

"I love you so much! Ah-!" You whimper out as he slowly brings his fingers to a stop as you work your way down from your high. Bulge in his pants now more than prominent on your bottom. 

 

You almost leave the poor man with blue balls! You try to get up so you can change out of your newly-soiled pants and panties before you're quickly pulled back onto him.

 

"We're not done yet. I still have to show you how much I fucking love you."

 

 

 

 

Let's just say; he definitely showed you.

-

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A/N: this is shorter than I wanted it to be! :(

[ghostaholics]

Re: Price letting her rent the spare room you just know he mentions that he travels a lot for work and often for stretches at a time so really she’d be doing HIM a favor by having someone around while he’s gone u.u

𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒚!𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 || 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

Tells you to make the common spaces yours as well because you live here now too, and one of your first measures is to set out a vase on the kitchen counter, regularly fill it up with fresh flowers until you start getting so swamped with your studies that you accidentally let them wilt for days at a time; Price eyes them for a while, wonders if you're going to replace the bouquet yourself until taking matters into his own hands and then deciding to go out of his way to pick up something nice-looking (he doesn’t really care much for flowers, but you seem to take an interest so he tries his best) from Petals at Bibendum on Fulham Road. The ladies swoon when he drops by every two to three weeks only for them to find out that he's literally doing this for his roommate to which they start rooting for him, unbeknownst to you, and he sets up a delivery service for when he's off on deployment or he'll literally show up home after a mission still in his military garb with a bouquet of flowers in the doorway like it’s not something a boyfriend or husband would do.

When you fall asleep on the couch watching the telly and he wants to carry you to your room but out of respect, he instead opts for layers, slips your quilt from the arm of the sofa – another lovely addition of yours that makes this a home and not just a place that he occasionally stays in when he's on leave – and tucks you in so you at least don't get too cold in the middle of the night.

Lets you know when he's coming back from deployment (out of courtesy) but discovers that you've thrown together a small, home-cooked meal for him if he gets in early enough for dinner or have his favorite take-out from one of the restaurants that still happen to be open late at night (it's the least you can do, isn't it?). In your other flat, you'd use candles a lot because your lights always had issues that the landlord would never fix, and that's a habit that you've carried on over to Price's place. So all of the food, the entire spread, is laid out on the dining table and it's dim aside from the fact that this is basically a candlelit dinner. And you don't even realize the romantic atmosphere, because for all intents and purposes, this is merely a friendly homecoming surprise and the candles are day-to-day. But he notices. It's strangely domestic. He never had that before you started living there, but he knows that he doesn't ever want to go back.

He occasionally has nightmares and since your room is right next door, you can hear when he’s in the middle of it; you just pad out to the kitchen, get the kettle ready for camomile (over his usual earl grey or lapsang souchong) to put him at ease since there’s no caffeine in it; you grab some first-edition book he has from his personal collection, have it open to the beginning and his mug steaming on the coffee table in the living room – he finds you waiting, snuggled under blankets and not needing an explanation, just ready to comfort him as you make room for him on the couch and begin to read aloud. He never pays attention to what you’re saying, only spends the entire time staring at you and debating whether or not he'd lose you if he professed his love for you this early.

[calaisreno]

Under the Weather

There are days when everything goes wrong. I don't mind, as long as you're with me.

1731 words / Prompt: Weather

When John pushes the door open, he’s hit with a Baltic blast of air from within. This is surprising; it’s a cold day, but generally 221B is a bit warmer than outdoors. 

“What’s going on?” he asks the bundle of blankets on the sofa. 

“Not much,” Sherlock replies. “Lestrade called with a case. I solved it over the phone.”

John lets out a sigh; it becomes a small, vaporous cloud. “I mean, why is it so cold in here?”

“The temperature outdoors is minus seven degrees. In here, it is four degrees above zero. Eleven degrees warmer. You ought to be asking me, why is it so warm in here?”

“I mean,” John says, keeping his jacket buttoned and sinking into his chair, “Why is it bloody four degrees inside our flat?”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say that? The boiler’s broken.”

“Have you rung someone?”

The blanket bundle sighs. “Mrs Hudson is away, visiting her sister.” He’s using his patient voice, which means that John is going to have to shout if he wants an explanation. “I don’t know how to fix a boiler, and there’s no service tag on it, so I don’t know who to call.”

“You might have looked in the phone book. They do list people who fix boilers, you know.”

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. The hand is wearing a purple mitten, which probably came from Mrs Hudson’s knitting basket. “This is 2010. Who uses phone books these days?”

“Maybe the internet knows who fixes boilers?”

Sherlock wags mittened hands at him. “Fingers frozen. Can’t type.”

“And all day you’ve been waiting here for me to come home and save you from freezing to death?”

The pile of blankets mumbles. 

“What?”

“I said, you’re better at dealing with boilers.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to call someone to fix a boiler, Sherlock.”

“Exactly.” A pair of grey eyes and a pink nose peep out of the blankets. “The electricity still works. Can you make tea? That might thaw my fingers.”

Cursing softly to himself, John fills the kettle. At least the pipes haven’t frozen, though that might be next. He sets it on the base, and flicks it on. The light remains unlit. “What did you do to the kettle?”

“Oh, erm. Why do you ask?”

“It’s not working.”

“It is a very old kettle. They don’t last forever, you know.”

“Oi!” He holds up the base. “Why is the cord no longer connected to the base?”

More mumbling. He catches the word experiment and something about microwave not working either…

Cursing a bit louder, John opens his laptop and searches for someone who will repair a boiler. He casts an evil look at the sofa as he dials the first one he finds. 

A minute later he ends the call. “It’s after hours,” he announces. “And the weekend is just starting. I left a message.”

He tries three more numbers, then five more, leaving increasingly desperate messages. 

For a moment he sits, eyes closed, and contemplates the long, cold weekend that lies ahead. Maybe the telly works, at least. He takes the remote and presses the power button. 

“Cable’s out too,” Sherlock’s voice says. He still in his blanket pod, but knows John well enough to anticipate his thought process. “Ice on the lines.”

“Well,” John says. It’s all fine for Sherlock, who is in a cocoon, unaffected by the weather inside the flat. “I’ll be upstairs putting on my arctic gear.”

“I’ll call for takeaway,” Sherlock says.

John’s room is even colder than downstairs. This is mainly because water has been leaking through a hole in his ceiling. The hole is a surprise, an unhappy one. Not big enough to see sky, but enough to let water in. This morning, before it started to rain and the temperature began to drop, followed by ice and snow, the ceiling was intact. His room was nice and warm—and dry. 

There’s no way he can blame Sherlock for the age of the roof, the weather’s bad timing, or the bad luck that hovers over John like a small, dark cloud.

He curses loudly as he opens drawers, hunting for his long johns and wool socks. Finding them, he sits on the bed and curses again as water soaks into his pants.

“Bloody buggering hell! What did I do to deserve this!” 

The fates have no answer for this.

Finally, having discarded his wet pants, donned his long johns, wool socks, a pair of corduroy trousers that fit over the long johns, a polo neck pullover, and the warmest jumper in his drawer, he heads down the stairs, cursing at a volume loud enough for the other resident of the flat to hear.

The sitting room is silent, the lump on the sofa unmoving. 

“There’s a hole in the roof!” he announces. “My bed is soaked through.”

“We could make a fire in the hearth,” Sherlock suggests. He’s poking his head out now, looking like a curly-headed turtle. 

“By we, I assume you mean me.” John grabs the blanket off the back of his chair and wraps it around his shoulders before sinking into the chair. “Do we have any firewood?”

“A relevant question.”

“Look, I won’t mind burning some of your books if it’ll keep me warm.”

“My books are valuable. You might try burning some of those idiotic spy novels you read. But there’s some firewood downstairs, by the back door. I’m sure Mrs Hudson won’t mind us using it. Better than coming home and finding our stiff, dead corpses—”

“Let’s not talk about corpses right now.” Not while I’m thinking about killing you. “Did you order some food, I hope?”

“Angelo’s is closed, due to weather. I ordered Chinese.”

 “Thank god.” John leans back in his chair. Every muscle in his back is tight from a very long day, and he’s shivering hard, wishing for a cup of tea. 

He hears movement from the sofa and opens his eyes. Sherlock stands, shedding his blankets. He’s dressed in a pair of John’s tracksuit bottoms, John’s Christmas jumper, and wool socks that look suspiciously like they came out of John’s sock drawer. 

He’s glaring down at John with concern (if such a thing is possible). “Stop shivering.”

“Involuntary response,” he replies, teeth chattering. “That’s my jumper you’re wearing.”

“I didn’t have anything warm enough.”

“You made fun of that jumper at our Christmas drinks thing.”

“Well, it’s more appropriate now, isn’t it?” He arranges one of his blankets around John, tucking him into his chair. Then he strides out the door. 

When he returns with a bundle of firewood, John is reflecting that there won’t even be hot water. No bath to warm him up. Just Chinese food and blankets.

The fire is looking somewhat robust by the time the doorbell rings. 

The Chinese food helps, though it’s been in transit long enough that it’s not very hot. Sherlock apologises for the tea kettle. And the microwave. When they’ve eaten, he collects the empty cartons and takes the leftovers into the kitchen. 

“Fridge still works,” he calls out. “Just warning you, though. It will probably stop when the indoor temperature drops below freezing.”

“Look on the bright side,” John replies. “We’ll be stiff, dead, corpses by then. Beyond caring about milk for the tea we can’t make.”

Sherlock comes back with a bottle and two glasses. “Here’s something to warm us up.”

He hands John a glass and pours. “Happy anniversary, John.”

John laughs. “Right. One year living at 221B. I didn’t expect you’d care about things like that.”

“Why not? One year is the longest I’ve managed to cohabit with anyone. It’s been… good.” He sits down, his face pink in the firelight.

“It has been good,” John admits. He remembers the first time he came through the door, saw Sherlock’s clutter, and wondered what he was getting himself into. He remembers carefully probing, trying to determine whether Sherlock might be interested…

Well, nothing ever goes to plan. That’s the story of John’s life.

He leans back, all the weariness of the day dragging his eyelids down. 

“John, wake up.”

“Mm?” He sighs and opens his eyes. 

Sherlock is standing over him. “You can’t sleep in your chair. In the morning your neck will hurt.”

“True, but my bed has become an ice floe.”

“Sleep in my bed.”

“What? Oh, you’ll take the sofa.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Self-preservation, John. Body heat.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We must sleep together.”

“Together?”

“It’s the only way.”

“You want to sleep with me?”

“Science, John. If your core temperature drops too low, you die. And all the firewood is gone, so we have to improvise.”

Improvise, indeed. The bedroom is colder than the sitting room, but the bed is large and, more importantly, not a frozen slab of ice. Keeping their clothes on, they crawl under the covers and move towards one another. Sherlock’s arms go around him, and John lays his head against Sherlock’s chest. 

It feels like something they do all the time. Or something they should have done months ago. 

John shivers a bit, not from the cold. Sherlock smells like kung pao chicken and expensive scotch. 

“Skin-to-skin might be warmer,” Sherlock says. “We shouldn’t take chances.”

John giggles. “Is the boiler really broken?”

“Of course. Did you think I was only trying to get you into my bed?”

“Sherlock.” He feels Sherlock’s nose with his own. It’s like an icicle. “You could have had me in your bed a long time ago, if that’s what you wanted.”

Sherlock is silent. He buries his face in John’s shoulder. “Really?”

“I didn’t think you wanted that.”

“Neither did I.”

“Do you?”

“Everything went wrong today,” he whispers. “And then you came home.”

“This was an especially bad day.” John snuggles into him. “The surgery was full of snotty kids and over-protective parents. Nothing interesting, just mucus and vomit. I didn’t get any lunch. The bus was late. And when I came home, it was freezing. But you were here.”

“John.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t mind all the things that are wrong, as long as you’re with me.”

“Not that I want more misery, but…” John kisses his nose. “You’re the one I want to share it with.”

Sherlock kisses John’s nose, then his lips, lingering. “Let’s get these clothes off before we freeze to death.”

[assortedseaglass]

Curl Into Me

Billy Washington x AFAB Reader

Summary: Billy looks after you during your period.

Content Tags: Fluff, Drabble, Language, Talk of Feminine/Reproductive Health, Suggestive Language, Talk of Period Sex

Notes: Guess what came early? 🩸🩸🩸

“Babe?” Billy kicked the door closed behind him with a trainered foot. “Babe? Took a while ‘cause they didn’t have any of those ones you wanted in Boots. Had to pop to Superdrug to get ‘em, then off to Sainsbury’s for supplies.”

Nothing.

“Babe?”

Shrugging of his jacket and kicking off his shoes, Billy padded through the small flat and into the lounge.

He’d left you there an hour ago, curled amongst the cushions watching some trash on the telly. A few scrunched up tissues remained, an empty packet of paracetamol and an unwrapped chocolate bar.

The open plan room was empty. He filled the kettle in the small kitchenette, placed a peppermint teabag in one mug and a Yorkshire tea in another, and made his way to the bedroom.

“Babe?”

He pushed the door open a little. Light was streaming into the room, the white sheets invitingly crumpled and glowing under the bright sun’s rays. Billy would never get over this room.

In the old flat, his bedroom was like a cardboard box. Dark, brown, damp, uninviting. Made simply for sleeping, clothes littered the floor along with empty glasses and dirty plates. Whether it was an old habit or the result of his trouble state of mind, Billy wasn’t sure, but he’d never drawn the curtains nor made the bed. Here it was different.

You bounded into his life like a whirligig, full of curiosity, patience and open-hearted joy. Spent endless nights in the pub listening to him pour his heart out. Tentatively invited him to back to your new flat, the one you’d since decorated together. Helped piece himself back together, along with the small home you’d made your own, with picture frames and matching mugs. Your record collection alongside his games.

The little flat was just as bright as that day you’d unpacked the final box. Sure, the bookshelf needed dusting and there were a few dirty mugs in the sink, but you’d get to those later. Together.

Billy looked around the room. At the pillows rearranged on the bed. The abandoned romance book on the duvet. The blanket hanging of the frame.

-I will but you a bottle of wine

And we’ll laugh and toast to nothing

And smash our empty glasses down

Let’s have a round for these freaks and these soldiers

A round for these friends of mine-

Shit. Joni could only mean one thing. Her voice crooned from the record player and, at the sniffle from the corner of the room, Billy found you.

You’d dragged a pillow from the bed, folding yourself around its lumpy shape on the floor. Your comfy jogging bottoms and been discarded, and the two hot water bottles you owned were pressed against your back and tummy.

Through the mess of uncombed hair, you looked up at Billy from your position on the floor.

“Did you get chocolate?” You croaked.

He laughed a little and held up the plastic bag of essentials. He couldn’t help it. Some sick part of him loved seeing you so weak and needy. At last, a chance for Billy to step up and look after you, just as you had always done for him.

“Get on the bed?”

“I don’t want to move,” your voice was a pathetic whinge of pain and tiredness.

“Alright,” Billy got down on the floor beside you. “Here,” he handed you a sharing bar of Dairy Milk and, with his back braced against the bedframe, pulled you back onto his chest.

You groaned as your muscles stretched. “Kettle’s on, I’ll refill your bottle in a minute.” Billy’s hands wound their way to your front and removed the hot water bottle there. The skin beneath your tatty tshirt was red raw and hot to touch. “You’ll burn yourself,”

“It’s the only thing that helps,”

“Let me,” In slow, tender semi-circles, Billy massaged your lower stomach.

God, he was good to you. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“Bath later, yeah?”

You could do nothing but nod. His hands rubbing your tender body, the chocolate, the heat from the hot water bottles. This was all you needed. If you could stay like that for the next, you would. Fuck, Billy would let you if you asked.

When you’d brought Billy home to meet your parents, they were nervous. You’d told them about his past; better to be transparent. Billy was best taken at face value. What you saw was what you got, and why complicate it by skirting over what had happened to him? Their worry had eased at once, however, when they saw how dedicated he was to you. How he made the effort to talk to each of them, interested in what they had to say. How he pressed his hand to your back and gazed at you, even when you weren’t talking to him. They couldn’t have chosen gentler soul for you.

“Billy?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you,”

He looked down at you, kissing your temple as he did so. “What for?”

“Going out and getting my stuff. Looking after me-”

“Jesus Christ, I’d be a prick if I didn’t-”

“I know,” you laughed at him. “But thank you.”

You sat there on the floor together, Billy rubbing circles into your stomach and back until Joni finished her singing and the record crackled on the deck.

“How you feeling?”

“Better, a little crampy, but better.” You sat up and turned to face him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“You know,” Billy smirked as he chased your lips and settled his hands on the skin of your hips. “I did a little reading about what else helps periods, you know.”

“Billy Washington, you angel.” You teased, kissing his neck tenderly.

“Mmm,” he rubbed your sides lazily. What was the rush? A day of cuddles and cups of tea was all either of you needed. “Rosemary tea is meant to help the cramps, stretching your legs too, for some reason. And erm,” he faltered as you kissed his collarbone. “Sex, apparently.”

You stopped your kisses and looked at him with a smirk. “Getting ideas?”

Billy blushed. “It doesn’t heart to try. Said orgasms can help relax the muscles, and make periods shorter.” He was rubbing his neck, trying not to let his ulterior motives show. He’d do anything for your comfort, but if it was nice for him too? Even better.

You were still staring at him. What if you thought he was disgusting?

“We don’t have to, you know, fuck or anything.” Jesus Christ, he felt like a teenager. “But, I can give you an orgasm, if it would help-”

You shushed him with a finger to his lips. “Don’t be so embarrassed.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Maybe later?”

Billy nodded. “No pressure, though.”

“I know,” you laughed and settled against his chest. “Rub my back again?”

He did so diligently, and you hummed. “I love you, Bill.”

His hands squeezed you gently against him, and you inhaled his scent of laundry detergent and cheap cologne.

“I love you too,”

Notes: Fluffy fluffy fluff fluff.

General Taglist: @arcielee @theoneeyedprince @targaryenrealnessdarling @babyblue711 @ewanmitchellcrumbs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @humanpurposes @whoknows333

[celestialprincesse]

Currently imagining Simon who helps calm reader down before a big event, maybe a presentation or an interview or something like that. While you’re freaking out and on the verge of a panic attack, he methodically goes through a little list of things that makes it sound so easy. And he’s holding you and touching you to keep you connected 🥹

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

"I feel sick." You mumble below your breath, eyes darting between your open laptop on the kitchen counter, Simon brewing you a rooibos to try and soothe your roiling tummy, and the intricately patterned kitchen tiles you'd been dead set on having, even when they took Simon almost three weeks to lay.

The slides pulled up on your screen seem to glare tauntingly at you, worsening the anxiety you've been feeling for weeks now as you've tried to perfect the pitch that might just get you promoted.

Simon, of course, has supported you every step of the way. That said, he can't find it in himself to support you going for a position when even the thought of it eats you up inside. "Listen. Hey." He chides as you're scooped up to be plopped on the kitchen counter, your favourite mug set filled and steaming beside you.

"You've done all you can." Simon soothes, linking his fingers with yours, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "You've worked your ass off. Showed them all how fuckin' clever you are. You've done everything you can, and trying to fix shit now - the night before - is only going to make you stress more, yeah?"

Swirling a sip of tea around your mouth, grounding yourself with the heat of it, the herbal taste, you nod slowly, thinking over his words.

"Best thing you can do now is think about something else. Watch that stupid program you like or somethin'?"

"It's not stupid." You grumble, although he can already see the smile threatening to bloom at your cheeks, crinkle your eyes the way he loves to see.

"The main character is called Curtain. It's stupid." He teases back, resting his forehead against yours, keeping you close and grounded, in the room with him as opposed to you running away with your anxiety.

"Kurtan." You correct, defensive of your comfort show, no matter how silly it is.

"Right. Kurtan, Curtain. Semantics. Stop looking at my shitty grout and let's go watch telly, yeah? Need to stop stressing about stuff that hasn't even happened yet."

"Pot, meet Kettle." You chide back, earning yourself a light smack on the ass as you're hoisted over Simon's shoulder and involuntarily carried to the living room, slides completely forgotten.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

[dsudis]

Adaptive Tea Making

For @domaystic Day 5: Learning Something New.

Dream is human now, and determined to learn how to make his beloved a cup of tea. He just has a small difficulty with time to get over.

___

Hob looked over at Dream, who was perched on a stool at the kitchen bench with his ever-present notebook open to a fresh page, his phone unlocked beside it, and an actual stopwatch beside that. He had a pencil in his hand, freshly sharpened, and a second pencil also perfectly sharpened set beside the notebook.

Hob had secondhand text anxiety just looking at those pencils. 

"Ready?" Hob asked, though surely it was not possible to be more ready than Dream currently was. 

Dream didn't even meet his gaze, his eyes fixed firmly on Hob's hands. "Ready. Please show me, one more time, how to make a cup of tea the way you like it." 

As Dream spoke he wrote on the pristine notebook page: Hob's tea instructions. His handwriting was crooked and crabbed but legible. 

"So--there's water in the kettle already," Hob said, feeling like possibly he was the one being tested. However he made this cup of tea, Dream would continue making this exact cup of tea for him forever. 

Hob was fine with that. Hob would frankly have been fine with continuing to get wildly undrinkable cups of tea from Dream forever, but Dream was determined to learn this particular human skill correctly, and seemed somehow convinced that this time he was going to crack it. 

Hob flipped the switch. Dream turned on a timer on his phone and then wrote down the first two steps: water in kettle and turn on kettle. He also wrote to one side, Phone timer: total length of process and drew a little line beside it to be filled in with a number later. 

They had learned, after Dream had committed a series of frankly baffling tea mishaps including "hot water with no detectable trace of tea" and "oversteeped to the point of activating an immortal's gag reflex through sheer bitterness" and "boiled the kettle dry" that Dream had no real sense of how time passed. It passed how he wished it to pass, in the Dreaming, and even in the Waking he had always been able to nudge reality a bit to make the flow of time conform to his narrative sense or personal convenience.  

Now that he was divested of those powers and operating a human body, the linear flow of time had so far made absolutely no impression on Dream. Hob had had to point out to him things like "if you wake up and it is still dark, it is still night, and you will probably want to go back to sleep until it's light out" and how often meals should happen.  

It was the tea that had made it clear that even telling Dream times when things should happen was not very helpful to him. He couldn't seem to hold the numbers in his head or make sense of them when he consulted a clock. Hob had simply started giving him other ways of gauging the passage of time, teaching him about the sun's position in the sky at mealtimes and when Hob returned from work, and about the activity of people visible from the windows, and which programs on the telly corresponded reliably to morning, afternoon, and evening. 

Hob had spent long stretches of time--most of his life, really--without access to clocks. People nowadays were obsessed with them, and with precise timing for everything, but Dream wouldn't need to worry about being punctual to a work shift or keeping all sorts of appointments. Hob could help him with where precision was needed, and could teach him to get along where it wasn't. 

Tea, unfortunately, was a matter of some precision. When the kettle let out the first gurgles, Hob grabbed the tea canister. "Plenty of times I just use bag tea, but my insufferably posh lover seems set on spoiling me, so," Hob scooped tea into the strawberry-shaped infuser. "This is what we've got in place of a tea bag. Time-wise, either should work the same." 

Dream faithfully wrote down prepare infuser (or tea bag).

"The timing for the kettle will change a bit. A smaller amount of water boils faster. There's a bit over two cups in right now," Hob pointed to the line on the side, "so it takes a little over two minutes." 

Dream wrote down kettle boils and then waited watchfully until the kettle hit its automatic shutoff and consulted the time. Kettle shuts off, he wrote down, and then 2:38 with a tidy little asterisk beside it.

"Infuser goes in mug," Hob narrated. "Pour the water over it, leave about an inch at the top for milk. And start your stopwatch, because this is the bit I couldn't tell you, because I do it by feel." 

Dream started the stopwatch and scribbled down more notes, drawing a little box for the all-important steeping time to be entered. Hob watched the mug, wondering once again how he did know when it was done steeping. He'd tried more than once to describe it to Dream, but none of his descriptions had been at all helpful--as proven by the various disastrous cups of tea--and had only frustrated both of them. 

He wanted to fill the silence, but Hob didn't dare mess this up for Dream, when he was so determined to get this right. Most of human life had come easily enough to him, once he set himself to adapt to it, but tea had thwarted him. Hob was a little worried that Dream was building this up into some kind of epic battle of wills he had to win to Succeed At Being Human. 

Dream looked up at him expectantly and Hob looked back down at his mug, a little worried that he'd gotten distracted--he'd certainly oversteeped his tea enough times for one reason or another--but no, a sniff and a glance told him it wasn't quite there yet. "Almost," Hob said. "Not really a bad cup of tea if you stop now, but not quite." He drummed his fingers, waiting for-- 

"Ah," Hob said, "Now." He reached for the infuser and lifted it out, and the stopwatch clicked at the exact instant it cleared the top of the mug. Hob set the infuser in the sink and then swirled the cup of tea, giving it another sniff to be sure, but yes, that was a just-right cup of tea. He grabbed the jug of milk and looked to see that Dream was intently watching before he poured in a dollop. 

Dream's eyes narrowed slightly and then he nodded and wrote down a specific liquid volume that Hob was sure was in fact precisely correct--Dream's spatial skills were laser-accurate and slightly unnerving.  

"And a spoonful of sugar, because I'm feeling like it today," Hob said. "I do honey sometimes. Sometimes two spoonfuls of sugar." He stirred in the sugar and sipped. "And that's--" 

Dream clicked the timer on his phone and recorded the time, then picked up the phone and tapped rapidly at it. "Tell me that the water should boil about now," Dream said, and held out the phone like a reporter's microphone. 

"Water should be boiling about now," Hob parroted obediently.  

Dream nodded, tapped at the phone again, and said, "Now tell me the tea is ready."  

When Dream held out the phone, Hob said, "Tea's ready, love." 

Dream was startled into a smile at that addition, and asked, "How is it?" 

"Just right," Hob said. "But if you--" 

Dream shook his head, still smiling, and went back to tapping at things on his phone. "These things are amazing, you know?" Dream said. "I thought I would have to learn magic, but these are like little prosthetic memories. If you work out all the steps, you can make it do all these things for you. Well, not for you, you don't need it. For me." 

"I mean, I'd be lost without my calendar and things," Hob said. He'd never thought of technology to solve Dream's difficulty with time. He'd thought it was just more clocks all the way down, there. 

"Watch," Dream said, and then, to his phone, "Computer, making a cup of tea." 

"Acknowledged," his phone replied, because Dream had watched possibly too many sci-fi movies with Hob at what had turned out to be a formative time in his life. "When there is water in the kettle, turn the kettle on." 

Dream mimed flipping the switch on the kettle. 

Nothing happened, since Dream was still a good yard away from the kettle. Reminded, Hob ran some more water into it and put it back. He was sipping his tea again and nearly choked on it when his own voice came from Dream's phone. "Water should be boiling about now." 

"Computer, wait," Dream said, and the phone was back to its Computer voice when it said, "Acknowledged." 

"In case there is more water in the kettle," Dream said. "If there is less, I will be able to tell it to skip ahead when the water boils." 

"Computer, resume," Dream added to the phone. 

"Prepare the infuser, then pour boiling water over it." 

Dream mimed dropping the infuser into the mug, then pouring the water. "Computer, steeping." 

"Steeping," the computer said, sounding slightly stilted like it had had to assemble that word from individual sounds instead of having it pre-recorded.  

"I'll be able to use this for anything to do with timing," Dream said, scratching down more notes in his notebook. "I just have to set the intervals and key phrases, and optionally recordings for specific announcements, and then I will be able to do things that need timing. As long as I have my phone. Possibly I should get one of those watches." 

"That's no trouble, then," Hob said, pulling out his own phone to order a watch to sync with Dream's phone. "And you know I'm always happy to be your speaking clock, love."  

Dream came around the bench and kissed him, curling a hand around Hob's on his mug. "I shall feed you your lines when I need them," Dream said, and somehow it was desperately romantic and made Hob so proud he could cry, knowing Dream knew that Hob would always be glad to help him do things in his own way. 

He opened his mouth to try to say it, his heart almost too full for words, and was cut off by his own voice from Dream's phone. "Tea's ready, love." 

[Now on Ao3!]