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mrsdompler · 5 days ago

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you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”

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mrsdompler · 6 days ago

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work from home- will lenney x reader

when will has the most important meeting for rodd’s so far, but reader wants all his attention and what reader wants, reader gets

! NSFW !

───────── ── ౨ৎ ── ─────────

you woke up to the clinking of crockery. groaning and rolling over you were met with the cold and empty spot your boyfriend laid in about 20 minutes ago. slowly arising from your sleepy state, you enter the kitchen and your gaze immediately found your boyfriend topless, wet hair making his breakfast and your stomach did butterflies. no matter how many times you saw the sight of him shirtless with wet hair, it did something to you. “morning love” he called out as he noticed you. “got a really busy day with meetings” he said trying to make his coffee and food at the same time. “let me do this” you walk over and continue cooking his bacon whilst he stirs his coffee. “you’re a star” he says kissing the top of your head. “so busy, you forgot your tshirt it seems” you smirked. “as if you’re complaining” he teases back. will finishes stirring the coffee and gently nudges your arm to let go of the frying pan, “i got it, thank you” he says sweetly and you let go, but your eyes never leave his. “seen something you like?” will asks. “always” you smirk back. “you’re in a cheeky mood today” he laughs. “well you can’t be hanging around wet hair and topless and not expect me to have a look” you shrug, before grabbing an apple juice from the fridge. “how come you’re working from home today?” you ask. “office next door is having maintenance, it’ll be too loud to do any meetings there. we have a big meeting about getting rodd’s into the smaller sainsbury’s so i wanted to make sure connection was good” he explains. “aw babe that’s amazing” you cooed, rubbing his arm affectionately, he leaned down and placed a kiss on your lips and the desire in you was set on fire but he pulled away. “right i’m gonna go scran this in my office then jump on a call but i love you mrs, see you later” he ruffled your hair before walking into the home office. you don’t know what it was but something in you wanted him more than normal today. “remember a tshirt” you called out and heard him curse to himself before running out the door and back into your shared bedroom. you decided to also make some breakfast, trying to keep noise to a minimum. but, the whole time you were cooking you couldn’t stop thinking about will’s wet hair and shirtless body. you saw it often enough but something felt different today. after making your food, you creep past the office door hoping to maybe grab one last kiss before his calls started but you could hear him talking about stock levels meaning he was definitely in business mode. you sat down at the worktop to eat your breakfast and watched the next episode of the series you had just started. however, you were caught heavily off guard by the sex scene that was taking place and how much of an effect it was having on you. what was going on? you were now feeling cheeky and decided to send will a text…

💬y/n:

will…

about 5 minutes later, he replied…

💬will:

what’s wrong? you okay?

💬y/n:

i can’t stop thinking about you this morning

this reply took a bit longer…

💬will:

but you see it all the time?

💬y/n:

i know but you just looked EXTRA hot today…

after sending that text, you had a message from your period tracking app:

day 14: ovulation

you might have a higher sex drive than normal today

ahh, that makes sense. well, i guess it’s not my fault, it’s my body’s!

💬will:

well, thank you but correction- i look hot all the time

anyways i’ve got to pay attention to this call

💬y/n:

come pay attention to me instead😔

you were usually shy when it came to talking about sex and especially initiating it but something overtook you today.

💬will:

y/n please, i’ll do whatever you want later i promise x

💬y/n:

but what if i’m not in the mood for it later?

when does your next call end?

💬will:

y/n stop, i’d much rather be shagging you than on these calls but i have to, i’m sorry love x

💬y/n:

guess i’ll have to do it myself🙄

that was it, will couldn’t take it anymore. the teasing continued and you were even sending photos to wind him up, nothing too explicit but enough to make him adjust his collar. the call he was currently on just ended and he had 15 minutes before his next one which was the most important of the day, sainsbury’s. he jumped out of his seat and ran to your shared bedroom, bursting open the door. “i’ve got 15 minutes, make them count” he said, faster than anticipated and jumped on the bed in a frantic manner. you pushed your laptop to the side and will immediately connected your lips. you reciprocated, cupping his face and kissing deeper. you, resting on the headboard had will kneeling between your legs. he reached round to grab your ankles and pulled your so you were laying down, “lay down” he demanded and you did exactly as you were told. will moved back and leaned down, pulling your pyjama trousers off and looking up for permission to do your underwear too, you of course nodded. before you knew it, he had his face between your legs and was hitting all the sweet spots and playing you like an instrument that was making the best music. the sounds of you moaning spurring him on to keep going. “will i’m so close” you called out so will stopped. “un do me” he said moving forward to your face and getting you to undo his button before he slid off his trousers. he then pulled his own black calvin’s down his hips and his member sprung out, ready to go. “so i wasn’t the only one?” you teases. “well you got me all riled up” he sighs softly. he gives himself a few tugs before lining up with your entrance, rubbing your clit softly a few times before pushing himself into you. “fuck will” you yelled out. his eyes rolling too, happy with the feeling. “so tight” he moans out, pounding you slowly. he looks up to you, moving his head forward to kiss you. he keeps pumping, “i love you. i love you so much” will says as the tense builds. he reaches forward and pulls on your nipples, owning an even louder moan than before, will keeps going, knowing exactly what to do to get you to the edge. “i’m so close” will groans out. “me too” you say through moans. “ready?” will asks and you nod and on the imaginary count of 3, you both release at the same time. “good girl, that’s it” will says through his own orgasm. both of you reaching your highs. heavy breathing fills the room and will slowly pulls out, sighing and slightly out of breath. “happy now?” he teases, joking. “hmm somewhat” you joke back. will looks up to the clock. “shit the meeting started 7 minutes ago” will scrambles around for his clothes on the floor, before bolting out the door and immediately turns back around remembering he hadn’t he even kissed or cuddled you after what you’d just done. “i’m so sorry to leave you like but you started it and i really need to go” he pecks your lips. “i love you, you can have unlimited cuddles later i promise” he says in a rapid voice. you don’t even have time to respond before the door is slammed. i mean you technically did get what you wanted.

will runs back into the office and can hear james’ voice on the screen, “we have really seen demand for-“ he raises an eyebrow as will appears in frame. “i am so sorry, had an emergency with the plumbing in the kitchen. where are we?” he asked in reference to the call but the panic inside was extreme and it was definitely reflecting on his face and the fact his tshirt was definitely on backwards.

💬james:

for next time, get some sound proof padding

also, your shirt looks great backwards x

fuck, will thought to himself. he was so gonna curse y/n for this later.

i guess rodd’s might not be coming to small sainsbury’s as soon as we thought.

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mrsdompler · 8 days ago

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Ghost and Soap were both dead asleep in their barrack until the faintest gasp woke them up. Neither of them were deep sleepers but something about that noise was almost familiar and it jolted them awake. Another gasp followed by a drawn out “fuuuck” had the two sitting up straight in their beds, each turning towards the other, making sure it wasn’t just a dream. A higher pitched gasp could be heard through the wall. The wall separating their room from yours. Their cocks starting to stir to life at the realization that you were in there moaning. Unspoken and through eye contact they agreed to silently listen and maybe do what they needed to but not to make a big deal out of it. Until much louder than the other noises came a “fuck Lieutenant”. Now they are both on their feet and Ghost has a shit eating grin on his face bc you’re in that room touching yourself to the thought of him. No that can’t be right “lass probably meant to say Sargent.” Soap simply would not believe it.

And now they are both barreling through their door just to swing yours open. The two needed answers. Ghost needed to be proved right and Soap needed to prove him wrong. Had they fantasized about you? Yes. often? Yes. About you touching yourself to the thought of them? Yes. now dreams were about to become reality. They could hear the lewd wet sounds of you fingering yourself through the door. Until they swung your door open and they were not met with you naked and alone in the room but instead your body was covered by a man (a lieutenant from a dif area of the base). One arm keeping himself up while the other was down your panties and knuckle deep in your pussy. The two were frozen at the door as his head turned to look at them, removing his dripping wet fingers from your pussy and sliding them into his mouth with an exaggerated pop. (Ghost wanted to cut those fingers off of him and soap couldn’t decide if he wanted to help ghost or suck your juices off of the man’s fingers himself)

“Sargent MacTavish. Lieutenant Riley. Nice to see you” with a cocky smirk and silky voice, now the only man in the room who was actually invited was leaving. Finally revealing you only in your bra and visibly soaked panties. If looks could kill the two men left still standing in your doorway would’ve evaporated into dust as you redressed yourself.

“What the fuck do you two want?”

With an embarrassingly high pitched “nothing” the two went running from your room.

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mrsdompler · 8 days ago

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Whaoh a part 4 to my reader and her dog riley post??? Anyways ghost is jealous over a dog lol what a loser

You've been with the 141 long enough for people to notice the...influence...you have over ghost. You dont notice it, but if you ask ghost to do anything he will drop whatever hes doing to get it done. you have this man walking on a leash for your attention.

Except, its never quite right. Ghost never thought he'd feel jealous of a dog, but the way you praise your little German shepherd riley compared to the polite thanks you give ghost? Its enough to get the man envious.

"Oh! Thanks ghost!" You smile at him as he hands over some papers you needed. Ghosts fingers twitch at the sweet smile, but its nothing compared to what he craves. Rileys sat by you, head in your lap as you absently give him scratches behind the ear. Ghost eyes him. Wishing he could take the dogs place. Wonders how your thighs would feel against his cheek.

As if to spite ghost personally, riley makes a small whine, and like any owner obsessed with their dog you look down to coo at him.

"Awe, whats wrong riley? Feeling left out big boy?" You ruffle his fur, fingers carding into the fluff "its okay, baby. You just sit tight okay riley? Then we can go play, I brought your favourite treats, remember?"

Ghost swears the dog gives him a smug look. He wants desperately for you to pet him, to run your fingers through his hair. Ghost aches with th want to be your favourite boy, but he just clenches his jaw and walks out.

"Oh, you're such a good boy, riley!" Your praise for riley follows out, and ghost will sooner die than admit he ducked into an empty bathroom to jerk off lol.

(Thinking ill have reader realize ghosts whole thing next post🤔 question is tho does someone tell you or do you figure it out? Hmmm....)

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mrsdompler · 9 days ago

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Cockwarming with Simon Riley (NSFW)

age gap ( legal), cocksleeve,

You’re settled on his lap, snug and full, your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his cock. He’s buried deep inside you, unmoving, thick and warm, and you’re just... there—grinding lightly, kissing lazily, melting into each other.

His hands roam your body like he owns it—because he does. They squeeze your ass, trail along your hips, knead your thighs, cup your tits like he’s memorizing every inch. Sometimes, his fingers curl around your jaw, caressing your cheek tenderly, other times they wrap around your neck just tight enough to make your breath hitch. He knows what you need.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, grounding yourself as you keep him close. Lips pressed together, swollen from hours of kissing, mouths parting only to gasp or groan between the heat.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice ragged, hands sliding up to your breasts, thumbing your nipples until you’re whimpering. “So fuckin’ perfect like this. Just sittin’ on my cock, made for me.”

And God, you are. You feel like you were built for this—for him. You’d stay like this forever if he let you.

“You’re my good girl,” he breathes against your skin, kissing along your jaw, down to your throat. “My sweet little fucktoy.”

He sucks bruises into your neck, deliberately out in the open—he wants people to see. Wants them to know you’re his. The idea of you marked and full of him makes his cock throb inside you.

“Always so ready, aren’t you?” he growls, lips brushing your ear now. “My eager little thing. My favorite fuckin’ girl.

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mrsdompler · 10 days ago

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18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Soap who loves getting bullied.

Who finds himself time and time again getting roasted and teased by your friends because his face gets so red, and his cock gets so hard.

The red face is obviously fun, but every time you notice the bulge he’s failing to hide behind a couch pillow, it becomes a whole new ballgame.

“Why are you here all the time, Johnny? Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“I think he’s hoping we’ll start making out in front of him.”

“What a little perv.”

No, he doesn’t have a girlfriend, sorry. And he’s here all the time because he’s in between deployments, and he’s not a perv.

“You’re not? Are you suuure?”

Resting in the other corner of the couch, your bare foot sneaks over to lift the side of the throw pillow when he’s not expecting it.

“Aww, look at that. Little Johnnny’s hard again.”

The chorus of delighted giggles has more blood blasting to his face, and both arms securing the stupid pillow down on his rock hard erection. He’s a soldier, damn it, not an embarrassed teenager.

“You’d be hiding in your room if you didn’t like this, wouldn’t you? It’s so funny that you’re still here.”

One of your friends plops down on the other side of him, stepping two fingers in a miniature walk up his neck. “Oh, he likes it.”

“I don’t fucking like it,” he finally gets the nerve to spit out, tingling all over with the sensation of fingers running through his hair.

“Prove it. Show us your cock.”

“That’s got nothing to do wi—“

The pillow gets yanked away and thrown across the room, so suddenly that Johnny reacts without thinking. His hand flies up to cover his throbbing erection, and with the unexpected weight of his own palm pressing against him, he accidentally moans.

“Aww, he can’t help himself. Move your hand out of the way, give us a peek.”

Once again, Johnny finds himself surrounded by a little group of your sidekicks, wandering hands sliding down his body, under his clothes. Jokes at his expense, whispers and gasps when you finally get him out of his underwear.

He feels like the most shameful little slut, cumming in the living room for everybody as usual, with your hand wrapped around his poor, aching dick, and his cum landing on your outstretched tongue.

Ahh, but he’s your little slut, isn’t he? He had to take off work to be home in time for your friends coming over. He likes it.

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mrsdompler · 10 days ago

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nsfw: simon x his pretty gf with an oral fixation. it started off innocent enough. at first he would slowly begin to notice the abundance of gum and sweets you went through. sweet tooth is all, he'd think, brushing it off. then came your habit of absentmindedly biting, sucking on and nibbling on your thumb; it was cute, how a small furrow formed between your brows as you did so. however, his confusion came when you switched to him. during movies, if his hand was anywhere near your face, halfway through he'd feel your mouth encasing his thumb, looking down to find you nothing but unfazed, eyes still glued to the television.

but what brought it to light was when, lord forbid, he let you get a taste of his cock. it was like a dog with a bone!

"bloody - shit - fuckin' hell, love, calm down-"" his grunts and words of pleasure would fall on death ears as you knelt in front of him within the comfort of his office, sealed away from any prying eyes as you shamelessly went down on him, sloppy and nasty with drool forming at the corners of your mouth.

you had originally been visiting for lunch, sweetly brining him a container of warm, homemade food to deal with the stress of rounding up recruits the whole morning. but it wasn't your fault he looked so good in uniform!

and you were getting off on it too, moaning around his thick, jaw-locking shaft as one of your hands rubbed desperately at your aching pussy, panties pushed aside as you zeroed in on your clit. you looked so fucking pretty to him, eyes wet and focused on his face as you pleasured both him and yourself simultaneously, one of his big hands digging into your luscious hair. and the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of your lips was enough to make a lesser man blow a load right there.

"you like this, don't ya? like how i fuckin' feed ya..." simon would groan, as drunk on bliss as you were as he began to meet you half way, forcing his cock even deeper into your awaiting throat. his head thrown back, balaclava pulled up to give him more breathing as you slurped around his cock, brain on autopilot as you chased his pleasure, craving the feeling of swallowing his cum.

and even when all was said and done, and you were both panting from the bliss the aftermath of your orgasms offered, simon knew just from staring into those hazy eyes of yours, that he would spend the rest of his life satisfying that pretty little, hungry mouth of yours.

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mrsdompler · 10 days ago

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Husbands

cw: established poly relationship, anal, vaginal sex. Authors note: for the first time in my life, I get to give one of those ridiculous notes to preface my fic. as I was writing this my house was swarmed with BEES so I'm sorry if it's bad lmfao. John Price X Simon Ghost Riley X Reader.

“John?” John glanced over at you, his focus mostly on the newspaper in his hand.

“Yes, princess?”

“Love, why is Simon in the guest bed?” You question him, you weren’t upset by any means, truth be told you love it when Simon comes over, even more when he stays for a while it’s just when John crawled into your bed last night he hadn’t mentioned Simon was with him.

“Probably because he’s tired.” John said not looking up from the paper, it was the kind of plain, dry statement you usually got from your otherwise adoring husband. You met his gaze with a rather unamused expression, a silent demand for an actual answer.

“Needed some love from baby girl, that's all, we had a rough go round this time.” He states, leaning back farther into his recliner. You watch him as he gives a slight wince at the pain in his side. You hate that. John was clearly feeling as though that statement was enough of an explanation, and for the most part, it was.

You understood little of your husband’s job beyond the simple and watered down explanations he gives when he comes back from missions, still, you understood enough to know they needed extra love and care for a while afterwards, Simon is no different except for the fact he’s easier to deal with.

You make your way down the hallway, feeling the soft new carpet that you begged John for beneath your feet, muffling your steps. You open the door to the guest bedroom to find Simon sprawled out on the small bed.

“Si?” You cautiously speak, you know for a fact he is not sleeping, the man rarely sleeps as is but definitely not in a bed two sizes too small and especially not after going through God knows what.

“Honey.” You probe again, walking now fully into the room and sitting down on the white crinkly duvet next to where he’s lying. His eyes are open but still, you get no response, you look him over noticing the new cut on his cheek, the facial hair he hasn’t bothered to shave yet, the bags under his eyes, the way his blonde hair sticks up in every direction from tossing and turning all night.

You never have loved the way he looks after a mission, always worse off than John, you know that John just hides it better but you worry for them both.

“Gotta tell me what you need, baby boy.” You mutter trying not to let the worry in your face show while brushing your fingers along the curve of his cheek, feeling the rough stubble that he will no doubt shave within a few days. He looks up at you, for a brief moment you can see the relaxed expression, like for a second he forgot about everything, everything but you.

“I’m hungry.” A soft smile finds its way to your face. You lean down to place a soft kiss to his chapped lips.

“I’ll make you something.”

As you cook you think of Simon, of John, you think of how lucky you are to not only have an amazing husband but to have the man in your guest bedroom. John doesn’t say it enough and Simon won’t ever admit it but the three of you have found a rhythm, this is Simon’s home as much as it was yours and John’s. It’s better when he’s home.

“Cookin’?” John asks after a few minutes, walking halfway into the kitchen and leaning onto the door frame.

“Yes.” You respond softly looking up with a smile, where John and Simon differ is mostly in the way that they treat you, neither one bad or wrong but different. John saw you, his little wife, as some sort of angel; he’s told you as much. He never asks or demands anything of you. You don’t work; you only cook or clean out of your own volition. To him, you’re more of a precious artifact that can’t be tampered with.

Simon is different, he’s a little more closed off, so you need a more aggressive approach, he’s learned over the years that your demands for him to tell exactly what he wants will be met with not hostility, but a soft hand and a loving voice, doing for him exactly what he needs. You’re sure that John wanted breakfast just as much as Simon did, but John would never ask for it.

As you cook, John remains in the kitchen, not speaking, but there’s a quiet understanding between the two of you, it’s comfortable, loving, and warm despite John’s current condition he wants to be in your presence.

After a long stretch of comfortable silence, you speak again. “Simon looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.” You mutter. You know that despite him not always behaving like he does, John cares as much for Simon as you do. Simon and John have a relationship that is difficult to explain, not only in how John allows him into both your home and marital bed. But also, how John relies on Simon to take care of you when he can’t, to meet you at the petrol station to fill your tank when he’s closer, to call and check on you when his phone dies. John expects Simon to have the same kind of care for you as he does.

“He hasn’t.” John’s simple statement makes you stand on edge a little, you love Simon, John knows that. You know when they are gone doing things that they won’t explain to you, Simon has John to look out for him, but they are men. A pat on the back from John does not have the same effect that a tender embrace or a home cooked meal does.

Once the simple meal of toast, eggs, and sausage was cooked, you made John a plate, sitting in front of him with a small clink of ceramic against the granite island. He smiled, a wordless “thank you.“ as you made Simon a plate carrying it with you to the guest bedroom.

You didn’t bother with a knock when you entered the bedroom. You set the plate on the nightstand, then sat in the same spot you had previously.

“Sit up, love.” It’s a demand, a loving demand, but a demand, nonetheless. He does as requested. You never wish for Simon to be wearing a shirt, but at this moment, seeing the bruise along his torso and the bandage on his arm, makes you almost wish he were wearing one. Your incessant need to mother your men at war with your desire to focus only on what you could control; you could control breakfast.

“Here.” You hum, placing the plate on his lap. His tired eyes find yours. As Simon eats, you don’t move, you just chatter, talking to him, as though he were responding you watch his silent nods as he shovels food into his mouth as if he would never get to eat again. As Simon finished his plate you began to pick it up, taking it to clean when you felt a big rough hand wrap around your wrist.

“Don’t go.” His deep voice echoed through the room, not loud, or demanding but a clear plea. You nodded, understanding what he needed in that moment was not breakfast in bed or space but rather just your presence.

You move over the bed, making a mental note to buy him a bigger bed for the guest bedroom since he’s the only one who stays in it. You cautiously curl up into his side, pushing your legs beneath the covers to intertwine them with his own. Simon wrapped his arms around you and sighed deeply.

It was a satisfied sigh. You let the large man manhandle you, allowing him to pull you where he sees fit with your head now resting against the inside of his shoulder and your fingers grazing along his tummy. He speaks finally for the first time without you prompting him to do so. “Missed you.” It’s quiet like a confession he doesn’t feel he’s allowed to make.

“I missed you too, baby.” You don’t hold the same reservation about voicing your adoration for the man curled up next to you. A soft kiss grazed your lips as he pulled you further into his chest.

“Love you.” he murmured against your lips, your want to say it back was stopped by his mouth, continuing to move against yours, holding your arm, as if he feared you trying to pull away. Things with Simon have always been silent, actions rather than words. While he is silent, you are fully aware he is asking for something in the way his hands wandered from your arm to the small of your back, to your ass.

A desperation to be close, close where your bodies can meld together. When his lips moved from yours to your neck you let out an involuntary little whine. His soft, loving kisses, turned into something more, an outlet.

“Si.” You whine out. He, despite being tired and drained from the past month, let out a laugh and an almost condescending chuckle, sure the sweet boy had been waiting for soft kisses and breakfast in bed, getting to cuddle with the captain’s missus but he was hungry and not for food.

You let out a little gasp when his hand slipped down the front of your leggings. “Si.” You repeated it again this time, breathless, longing. He let out a groan when his fingers swept between your folds.

“There’s my girl.” He said, his fingers gliding along your slick sex. You had no words left, no protests either. Already the world around you grew hazy, and before you knew what happened, your T-shirt and leggings were in a heap on the floor.

Simon took his time watching, touching, kissing. He drew orgasm after orgasm from your body with just the deep plunge of his fingers.

“Well, that’s a pretty sight.” A deep voice hummed from the doorway. Normally, you would acknowledge the presence of your husband but the way your lover was working his fingers into you could make even the smartest of women feel dumb.

Simon didn’t respond, just glanced over through his dilated pupils, merely continuing as John crossed the bedroom sitting down on the duvet. For a moment you thought he would just watch His lieutenant pull sweat noises from your lips, but you believed you may have seen God when his thumb made contact with your clit.

“Give us another, pretty girl.” You weren’t sure in that moment exactly who the words came from; you were unable to respond. All you knew was that the words were being spoken to you.

And you did, not that you could help it. It was almost instantaneous, the way your body tensed before releasing. You drenched Simon’s torso, you didn’t even realize what you’d done at first, you squirt so rarely. Once their hands came to a halt, you blinked you opened your eyes. Embarrassment worked its way onto your already pink cheeks.

“I’m s…” Your apologies were instantly cut off. “Shut up.” The words weren’t mean despite the quickness and aggression in them. It wasn’t mean, it was desperate. Shirts were ripped off, pants unzipped. While you lay there heaving and trying to come down from your high.

There was zero protest from you when you were lifted from your spot on the bed. You were pulled to lay on top of Simon‘s chest. Even in your limp and already fucked out state, you had half of mind to protest simply because of his bruise. The words died in your throat though, as your husband knelt in front of you.

“Be good okay, Pretty?” John said, positioning your legs, pushing your knees against your shoulders as Simon held the underneath of your thighs. You nodded, both men seemingly took that as their go ahead.

Simon pushed himself into you, a sensation you had gotten used to throughout the years. He was big, but he likes your ass, so it’s not an abnormal feeling either. You whine and wiggle a little at first, but as he settles, your body got used to the stretch, as you tipped your head back John too, began nudging your wet hole with the reddened, hard tip of his cock.

John, however, did not give you the same consideration as Simon, there was no time to get used to the stretch. He plunged himself to the hilt, touching your cervix. In an instant it was as if everyone let out a sigh of relief, like this, despite the responsibilities and lives of every person, was exactly where they were all meant to be.

Both of your men began moving, each at their own pace. Each grunting and groaning. You don’t believe in heaven, it has always seemed an abstract concept. But this? This has to be it.

As they both rutted into you, you whined. “Don’t start crying on me now, princess.” John’s deep voice commanded. You obey as best you can. Simon squeezes on your thigh as he continues his relentless pace. The huffing and gripping onto his arms is all you can do to keep from screaming in pleasure.

They each continue with rapidly increasing speeds, speaking filthy things to you as they near their individual climaxes. “Milkin’ me fokin’ dry.” The first words from Simon’s mouth in a while, an indication of just how close he was.

John was not far off, his breathing was rapid, his grip on your knees nearing on painful. His strokes got harder, rougher. Then all at once you could feel him snap, you could feel the warmth of him spilling into you. His pace slowed as he rode out his orgasm.

Simon did not stop. Soon his pace too slowed as he filled you up with him.

You all lay there for a moment, no one speaking. Just breathing in the comfortable, love filled space. You always know exactly what to do to give them the little TLC they need.

CoD Masterlist

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mrsdompler · 10 days ago

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Need someone to write a proper one shot based off this imagine for me xx:

Simon and the reader had met through a mutual friend and had a hook up type relation for quite a while before they had a bad fall out. They haven't even seen eachother for months after said fall out, however when both of them are invited to a party for said mutual friend (could be another cod character or someome random). The tension is high, and they eventually sneak off and have immaculate make up sex 😌

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod #cod mw2 #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost cod #ghost x y/n #simon riley x you #simon riley cod #simon ghost x reader #call of duty x reader

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mrsdompler · 10 days ago

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18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Gaz who has a lights off policy with you.

You never intended it to be that way. It started when the power went out one night in the middle of your TV marathon. Pitch black, sitting there in your respective spots on the couch, you both waited for a few seconds, just in case it was a quick flicker.

And then you got up for a candle, stumbled against his stupid knee, and ended up in his lap.

And then... other things happened.

The power didn’t come back on for an hour, but it was plenty of time to learn a lot of new things about your longtime roommate. The way his lips feel against yours, the texture of his chest hair, the way it felt to have his tongue in your mouth while you straddled him, cumming in quiet little gasps of relief.

By the time the lights all sprang to life again, your clothes were back on, his clothes were back on, and it was strangely like it had never happened. He wouldn't say anything, would barely look at you, so you did the obvious thing and hid in your room for the rest of the night.

And in the morning, it was business as usual. He said hi, you both ate your breakfast, and that was it. Off to work, back home for takeaway, mumbled good nights and separate beds.

It was a one time thing, and that’s okay. That’s simple. You can accept it.

Except, it’s not a one time thing. It starts happening, over and over. He starts it, the bastard. A few weeks after the first time, he waits for you to turn off all the living area lights for bed, and then traps you against the doorframe for soft little smooches that turn into something else in the dark, in his bed.

Always in the dark.

Sometimes it’s you who seeks him out, because he always leaves his door unlocked, and it’s no big deal to walk ten steps over to his room and crawl into bed with him when you’re horny.

Sometimes it’s several times a week, other times nearly a month goes by without hooking up. He seems to be good with it absolutely whenever, but you have your own system to let him know when you want it. If your little Lilo and Stitch night light is on, you want to be left alone. If it’s off, your body is fair game for someone sneaking into your covers for toothpaste tasting kisses and exploring hands.

Always in the dark, though, even after months of it. Never a speck of light allowed.

You try not to think about that, but the doubt tugs at you anyway. What if he hates your body? What if he thinks you're ugly?

But he doesn’t act like you’re ugly. He acts like he can’t get enough of you, happily kissing across your face, palming and feeling you in every which way until you’re convinced he’s memorized the shape of your body in his hands.

Sometimes he nuts so fast, he has to spend the next little bit avoiding his own cum leaking out while he coaxes your orgasm out of you with practiced sucks and licks.

Sometimes he fucks you for what seems like hours, shuddering and panting with the effort it takes not to finish. Holds you tight like that, nuzzles into your neck and makes the most delicious, low sounds of pleasure. Like he's never been happier, like he's exactly where he wants to be.

In the dark. Making out with you. Helping you cum. Your bed, his bed, they both start smelling like both of you, and he doesn't seem to be seeing anyone else. You're surely not.

It's just him. In the dark.

Until one night, he makes a mistake.

He finds you in your bed that night. Strips your panties off, kisses across your thighs just as you're giving him a sleepy hello. Tells you to relax, because you're more tired than he is, and he's in the mood to eat.

Kyle gets you all the way to the edge, teasing and withholding until your legs are quivering and you're wide awake, focused entirely on the need to cum. But he wants you to cum while you're fucking, so he crawls up your body and sinks into you. Anchors himself with a hand on the bed--

On your hair.

"OW!" you squeal, instinctively shoving at this arm to try to stop the pain.

"Shit, sor--"

He must overcompensate in his hurry to fix it, must be so upset about hurting you that he gets sloppy. He somehow knocks your lamp off the bedside table, and suddenly you're blinking in shock at the light flooding your room.

Kyle's right there above you, also stunned. Right there, naked. Inside you. Staring down at your wide eyes so close to his face, not moving because neither of you seem to know what to do when you can see each other.

"Alright?" he whispers.

"Yeah, I... I don't mind seeing you."

"No, I meant your hair."

"Oh!" you reach up and feel the sore spot, verifying that there's no missing clump or something. "Yeah, it's fine."

Kyle's eyes trace over your features, sliding down to your breasts and blinking slowly at them.

"It's okay if you want to turn the light off," you offer, self conscious.

"Can't be bothered at the moment," he returns, settling down on his elbows, nudging his hips a little deeper into you.

You curse, screwing your eyes shut because you don't know what to do, everything is so confusing and you're still so turned on.

And then lips find yours. Lips that took their time with your clit just a few moments ago, lips you've memorized against yours. Your eyes spring open again, just to see his already closed, fluffy lashes nearly touching his cheek as he kisses you with the lights on.

He's beautiful, and you don't mind. You let him fuck you like that, let him watch you cum, watch his own hands molding your body, fingers pushing inside you and bringing you another orgasm, naked and exposed to the light. Exposed to him.

You lay there for a while after he's finished, uncaring about the lamp still lying on the floor, probably cracked in half or something. It's still on. You both keep glancing at each other, eyes coasting over familiar lines of faces and arms.

It's a one time thing, surely. An unfortunate accident that forced you into normal sex. He'll be off to his bed soon, and you'll be trying to stop thinking about this, trying to stop your brain from circling--

"You wanna be my girlfriend?"

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mrsdompler · 10 days ago

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Call of Duty Nsfw - MDNI - tf141 x reader

Was thinking about this and wanted to make it a public thought lolol. Maybe someone wants to write a real oneshot out of my drable- anyways.

Imagine y/n being a part of Task Force 141. Where she knows all four of the men like the back of her hand. But one man out of the four stick out like a sore thumb compared to the rest of them. Ghost..

Y/n has slept with all of the men of the task force. At least twice... however almost every other night she finds herself tangled with Ghost whether it's under his sheets or hers. She begs him to let her stay the night, or have him stay the night. Either way she doesnt want him to leave her. But alas, he makes some excuse and he's sneaking away to leave her alone.

Y/n finds herself sleeping with the other men of the team to try and berid her feelings for Simon because no matter how hard she tries she just can't get close enough to him. Johnny was the first to catch on, "Aye LT, you're gonna break 'her heart.." he says to Ghost one night. (Right before taking his turn wt the lass). At least Johnny stays the night. But y/n's heart goes out to Ghost, and while all the other men would treat her right in a heart beat... she wants Simon.

But little did she know Simon treated her so badly because crazily enough.. he wanted her too.

He was just scared.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #task force 141 #task force x reader #john soap mactavish #captain price #kyle gaz garrick

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mrsdompler · 16 days ago

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When you see me

James Marriott x Female!Reader

Summary: The reader has her eye set on Will. He's kind, perceptive, patient, encouraging, and was always affectionate. So why did it sound like she was describing James? Warnings: None. Notes: This wasn't requested, it was inspired by salsa night and just spiralled into this. I think I made Will the bad guy in this. The reader has rose-tinted glasses on to the max. Very much a supportive best friend that loves you trope, or a second lead gets the girl.

Amber string lights glow low, strung haphazardly between metal awnings that shifts in the evening breeze. London sprawls out beyond the railing in every direction, glittering windows, blinking cranes, a living city that hums under the soft smear of twilight. The scent of grilled meat, charcoal, and spilt Prosecco hangs in the air, mingling with the low hum of music from a speaker perched on a folding table.

Condensation beads cold against your palms as you cradle the gin and tonic. Leaning into the rough edge of the planter, your body angles toward the sprawling cityscape. But your eyes betray you.

Flickering sideways, drawn again and again.

To Will.

He’s leaning against the railing with one elbow, half-silhouetted against the soft glow of the city. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, hair a little messier than usual, sun catching in the lighter strands like a halo. There’s a group gathered around him—a girl and two guys—and the girl is hanging on every word he says. He laughs at something, the sound warm and easy, and the yearning in your chest sharpens.

He looks good. Too good. Relaxed in that infuriating way that makes your stomach turn with something between longing and regret.

You take a slow sip of your drink, trying not to stare, not to feel how badly you want to be where he is.

The glass rim meets your lips, slow and deliberate. Gin washes cool over your tongue, bitter juniper and bright citrus flooding your senses. You hold it there. Breathe. Don't look. Ice clinks as you swallow, the chill trailing down your throat like an anchor trying to steady you. Against the railing, Will's laugh curls through the air again. Your knuckles whiten on the glass.

Only then, as the glass rests heavy in your hand again—

Clink.

James's soda taps lightly against yours. He leans in, warmth bleeding through his jacket sleeve where it brushes your arm. "You can look away, you know." His voice cut through the low thrum of the city, low and surprisingly tender. "He won't vanish if you blink."

You jump. Your drink nearly sloshes over the rim. He grins, casual in a worn leather jacket and jeans, drink in hand, posture loose like he’s been standing there forever.

“Jesus,” you mutter, heart racing.

“Uh, it’s James, actually.” His eyebrow arched, a ghost of amusement playing on his lips. “Breathe.”

You exhale and shake your head, your voice quieter this time. “You know, I told you I liked him because I thought you wouldn’t make a big deal out of it.” You glance sideways at him. “Not because I wanted running commentary.”

James stills, the easy teasing in his grin dissolving like sugar in warm water. It softens, not just fading but transforming. The sharp curve of his mouth gentling into something sincere. The playful light in his eyes dims, replaced by a quiet warmth that crinkles the corners just slightly. He blinks, a slow, deliberate flutter of surprise, before his gaze settles back on you, earnest and open. “Hey,” he says, his voice lower now, stripped of its earlier edge. “I wasn’t trying to make fun of you.”

The city sprawled below, a tapestry of distant lights and muffled sounds, but it felt miles away. You tore your gaze from his intense focus, finding refuge in the familiar skyline. A cool night breeze lifted a strand of hair against your cheek. You shrugged, the movement feeling stiff. “I know.” The words were quiet, almost lost in the low hum of the city. You paused, shifting your grip on the cool glass in your hand. Condensation slicked your palm, mirroring the sudden vulnerability tightening your chest. “It just—” You swallowed, searching for the right words that wouldn’t expose too much yet couldn’t hide the raw edge. “It took a lot to admit it out loud. Even to you.”

Silence stretches, thick and expectant. You can feel the weight of his attention, a physical warmth pressing against your profile. The seconds tick by, measured only by the frantic beat of your own heart and the distant wail of a siren.

You risk a glance sideways.

He’s not looking at the skyline any more. His gaze is on you. Steady, thoughtful, like he’s studying the outline of your cheek, the place where your expression shifted. Like he’s seeing something you’re not sure that you’re meant to show.

There’s a softness there you can’t quite name, a flicker of something too intimate, too quiet. You shift, suddenly self-conscious under the intensity of it.

Why is he looking at you like that?

He blinks, as if shaking something off, and his voice is gentler when it comes, “Okay.” He let the word hang for a breath. “I wasn’t trying to make fun of you.” His voice was a low, understanding one, laced with a tenderness that made your breath catch.

You nodded, a jerky little movement, your throat tight. Relief warred with a strange disappointment. You focused on tracing a bead of moisture down the side of your glass.

“But,” he added, his voice still soft but gaining a gentle, knowing certainty. You felt the slight shift in his weight beside you before his shoulder bumped against yours. A deliberate, grounding nudge. It wasn't playful. It was comforting. He leaned in fractionally, his breath warm near your ear. “You’ve got to admit,” he continued, the ghost of his earlier amusement now tempered with unmistakable fondness, “it’s kind of obvious.”

Obvious. The word still echoed, a dull ache beneath your ribs. But the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the low rumble of his voice so close, the absurdity of it all. A small, breathless laugh escaped you, more a release of tension than genuine mirth. “Yeah.” You stared at the distorted city lights through your glass. “Apparently.”

Behind you, Will laughed again, louder this time, caught up in some joke with someone else. Your eyes flicked toward the sound instinctively, drawn like a magnet. James caught the movement instantly. The comforting pressure of his shoulder vanished as he subtly straightened.

He groaned, a low, heartfelt sound, dragging a hand down his face. The earnest softness from moments ago was replaced by a wry, almost pained expression. “Right. Okay. This?” He gestured vaguely between you and the distant sound of Will’s laughter. “This is physically painful to watch.”

You tried to muster a joke, to deflect, to slip back into the easy banter that usually defined you two. But the weight was back, settling heavy and cold in your chest where the brief spark of laughter had been. Your lips parted, but nothing came out except a shaky exhale.

James watched you for a beat, his gaze sharp, reading the struggle in your tightened jaw and the way your fingers whitened around the glass again. His own playful mask had slipped completely now, revealing something quieter, more intent. He sighed, a soft sound almost lost to the city hum. “Go talk to him.”

You shook your head, sharp and immediate. The very thought sent a fresh wave of nervous energy prickling under your skin. “I can’t.”

James tilted his head, studying you. A flicker of something unreadable, determination? Maybe exasperation? Passed through his eyes. “Want me to?”

“What?” You whipped your head around to stare at him fully, genuine shock cutting through the haze of your own anxiety. “James, no.”

“I’m serious,” he said, his face perfectly straight, only the faintest gleam in his eyes betraying him. He nudged your foot with his boot. “I’ll walk over there right now. Tell him you think his new haircut makes him look like a confused golden retriever.”

You snorted into your gin, the sudden, absurd image colliding with your nerves. The liquid burnt slightly as you half-choked, coughing. “James!” you gasped, swiping at your lips, torn between horror and the ridiculous urge to laugh.

He leaned back slightly, the picture of innocent helpfulness. “A very charming, indecisive retriever,” he clarified, his voice dropping conspiratorially, “who would absolutely jump into the Thames for a tennis ball without a second thought.”

You pressed your lips together, trying desperately to smother the laugh bubbling up. It was terrible. It was perfect. It was so James. A breathless, slightly watery sound escaped anyway, slipping through your reluctant smile. “You,” you managed, shaking your head, the heavy feeling in your chest momentarily lightened, “are the absolute worst.”

The ghost of a smirk touched his lips, but his eyes remained watchful, still holding that quiet, knowing intensity beneath the jest. The shared moment of absurdity hung between you, a fragile bridge over the chasm of everything unsaid about Will. And the lingering warmth of his shoulder against yours.

The gastropub buzzed with late-morning chatter and clinking cutlery. Sunlight streamed through wide, industrial windows, casting long stripes across the battered wooden table where the five of you were crammed in tight.

You were wedged between James and Will. James’s shoulder a solid, warm line pressed firmly against your right arm, his jumper sleeve brushing your bare skin with every shift of his body. On your left, Will’s presence was a careful inch away, his posture angled slightly forward as if engrossed in the table’s conversation, avoiding direct contact except below. Under the cluttered shield of the table, his knee found yours again. A deliberate pressure, lingering this time, hidden by plates and the overhanging cloth. He didn’t move it, didn’t look down, and didn’t acknowledge it.

Your heart caught, breath hitching just slightly. This was it. The hidden touch felt like a silent promise, a stolen moment only you two shared. You were going to ask him. About the art exhibit downtown—the one you’d mentioned last week in passing, the one he’d said sounded “cool”. Your fingers tightened slightly around your cold glass. You could do this.

Beside you, James took a lazy sip from his tall glass of Americano, ice cubes clinking softly. As he lowered the glass, his elbow bumped yours companionably on the tabletop. He watched you over the rim, his shoulder still firmly against yours. His eyes flicked toward Will, then back to you, noting the way you straightened slightly.

“Do it,” James murmured, so low only you could hear. His voice was a soft nudge against the background chatter, his gaze steady on yours. There was a flicker in his eyes, something encouraging, maybe a touch resigned. “Ask him. He’ll say yes.” He gave your elbow a tiny, almost imperceptible prod with his own.

Bolstered by his quiet confidence, you drew another breath, turning fractionally towards Will, ready to speak—

“I swear to God,” Chris announced loudly across the table, slamming his fork down, “if they start Maddison on right wing one more time.”

You froze. Instantly, the pressure against your left knee vanished as Will pulled back, turning toward Chris immediately, grinning, already diving into some counterpoint. The conversation surged around you like a wave. Your mouth closed. The secret warmth under the table was gone, leaving only the cool imprint of absence.

James exhaled quietly beside you, setting his frosted glass down with a soft thunk. He didn’t speak right away—just looked at you with a dry, knowing sort of patience. Then, eyebrows raised, he leaned slightly closer.

“Seriously?”

You glared down at your plate, stabbing a half-soggy bit of pancake.

“Abort mission,” he murmured. “Chris is on his third espresso.”

You let out a small, frustrated groan and slumped back in your seat. “I had it. I was gonna say it.”

“I saw. Very valiant.” He paused, pretending to toast your bravery with his now mostly water-diluted Americano. “Don’t worry. The exhibit’s open ‘til eight. Corner him after the pancakes. Before the post-brunch nap window closes.”

You sighed, half-laughing, half-miserable. “God. Yeah, that's true. Thank you.”

James leaned back with a faint smile, nudging your arm gently with his. “You’ll get him. You just need a better game plan next time. We can brainstorm.”

Before you could reply, Will’s phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen and stood, mumbling something about needing to take it. His chair scraped back. You watched him go, disappointment pooling low in your chest. Will’s milky iced coffee sat abandoned, still half-full.

James tilted his head toward you, voice low again. “Next time, kick him under the table. Works on Chris.”

You snorted despite yourself.

Then he hesitated just long enough that you turned slightly toward him with a raised brow.

“Hey,” James said, his gaze locking onto yours. The earlier dryness was gone, replaced by a light, almost careful ease. “If you still want to go,” he paused, just for a beat. “to the exhibit, I mean. I could take you. Y’know. If he flakes.” His thumb traced a bead of condensation on his glass. “Or if the hint just sails over his head.”

You blinked, the offer cutting through your lingering disappointment. It was unexpected, yet strangely grounding.

“Oh.” A genuine smile touched your lips, surprise softening into warmth. The thought of not missing the exhibit, of salvaging the plan with someone who noticed, felt like a lifeline. “Actually, yeah. I’d really like that. If you’re serious.”

James’s eyes held yours for a second longer, something unreadable flickering in their depths' relief? A spark of something warmer? It vanished as quickly as it came. “Cool,” he said, his voice held a hint of quiet satisfaction. “I’ve been meaning to go anyway.”

But as he tipped the bottle, a slow amber stream coating the remaining pancakes, his hand stilled almost imperceptibly. His gaze, meant to follow the syrup, drifted instead. It landed on you.

For a half-second too long, the dry amusement and practised ease vanished from his eyes. Something softer, almost wistful, flickered there. It was the way his focus lingered on the curve of your cheek where the sunlight caught it, or perhaps the uncertain press of your lips. It wasn't deliberate, not a look he chose to give. It felt—pulled, like a breath held just a fraction too deep.

Is there something wrong with my face? The thought flitted through your mind, sharp and defensive. But his expression held no mockery. If anything, it looked open. Almost vulnerable in its stillness. There was a quiet intensity there, a depth you hadn't noticed before beneath the teasing and easy grins. It felt like seeing a crack in polished armour, revealing something unexpectedly raw beneath.

Then, as if catching himself on the edge of an unspoken thought, he blinked. The shutters came down. The softness vanished, replaced by a quick, almost reflexive focus on his nearly empty glass of melting ice and dark coffee. He cleared his throat softly, a barely-there sound lost in the din, and poured the syrup. Pretending as if nothing had happened.

The moment snapped, leaving only confusion. You didn't know what to make of that.

The bass thrummed in your chest like a second heartbeat, vibrating up through your boots and into your ribs. Coloured lights swept over the crowd in soft pulses, strobing off a haze of dry ice and raised hands. Near the back, your friends danced—loose, messy, carefree. Cal had a beer in each hand. Chris was trying to out-spin a girl in platform boots.

You stood anchored against its edge, back half-turned from the chaos, your entire world narrowed to the cool rectangle in your hand. Your thumb moved on autopilot, lighting up the phone screen. Again. And again. And again.

Still nothing.

The harsh glow illuminated the same void: your last message to Will, sent an hour ago, stubbornly marked Delivered. Below it, the carefully crafted invitation you’d spent ten minutes typing two nights ago, nerves twisting your stomach even now as you reread it for the hundredth time. Save me a spot, yeah? His grinning text felt like a cruel joke echoing in the silence.

Distraction was a physical weight. You dragged your gaze from the screen, not seeing the swirling lights or the dancing crowd. Your eyes flickered instead to the digital clock burning in the corner of the display: 10:32 PM. Time stretched, elastic and agonising. Had it only been five minutes since the last check? It felt like an hour. Another sigh, heavy with disappointment, escaped before you could swallow it down. You jabbed the lock button, plunging the screen into darkness. A beat. Two. Your thumb found the button again, unlocking it. Just in case. The screen flared back to life, unchanged. Your head snapped up, scanning the crowded entrance, heart giving a traitorous lurch at every shifting silhouette that might be him.

None were.

Cal materialised beside you, squeezing past towards the bar. He caught your expression, the tight line of your mouth, the restless flicker of your eyes between phone and door, and the slump of your shoulders that screamed defeat louder than the music. “He probably flaked,” he stated, blunt but not unkind. He offered a half-shrug, the gesture laden with weary familiarity. “Again.”

You didn’t trust your voice. A noncommittal hum vibrated in your throat, eyes already dropping back to the treacherous, blank screen. The noise of the pub, the clinking glasses, the shouted conversations, it all receded into a muffled haze, white noise against the roaring silence of Will’s absence in your head. Cal’s hand landed briefly, heavily, on your shoulder in passing sympathy before he vanished back into the blur of sweat, synth, and sound that felt utterly disconnected from the hollow space where your anticipation had been.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there—leaning against the sticky bar edge, waiting, trying desperately not to look like you were waiting. Trying to smother the stupid, stubborn hope that kept flaring every time the door swung open. The band launched into a crashing crescendo, drums pounding like your own frantic heartbeat. A wave of cheers surged through the crowd. Still, no Will.

Then, a hand reached toward yours.

James.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer a greeting or a question. His fingers simply closed over yours, warm, grounding, startlingly firm against the cold clamminess of your own grip. He didn’t snatch the phone. Instead, he eased it from your grasp, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. He lingered a fraction longer than necessary, long enough for you to feel the warmth seep into your skin. Long enough for your pulse to kick hard against your ribs.

Then, with a soft, decisive click, he locked the screen. The harsh, accusing glow vanished. He slipped the phone deep into your coat pocket, his knuckles briefly grazing your hip through the fabric.

“Stop.” His voice was low, cutting cleanly through the wall of sound. Not harsh, but firm.

You blinked up at him, startled out of the numb cycle of checking and disappointment. “Hey.” The protest was automatic and defensive.

“I mean it.” He held your gaze for a second, his face serious in the bar’s shifting lights, leaving no room for argument. Then, as if flipping a switch, the intensity dissolved. He turned smoothly, leaning his elbows onto the bar beside you, surveying the crowd with an air of casual indifference, as if the charged moment between you had never happened. As if he hadn’t just anchored you back to the present with the warmth of his hand and the weight of a single word.

He flagged the bartender down, never breaking his lazy survey of the stage, and leaned slightly toward the approaching bartender, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise. "Two pints of water please. Lots of ice." The bartender nodded. Then he turned to you and declared, “This band sucks anyway,” raising his voice just enough to be heard over the driving bass line. The words landed flat, devoid of any real conviction. He didn’t even try to make them sound true.

You didn’t respond to his band comment. But a breath escaped you, it felt like the deflation of the last shred of hope you’d been clinging to. It was a good band. They were tearing through the song, raw energy radiating from the stage. James knew it. You knew he knew it. The lie was transparent, a flimsy bandage offered over the raw sting of Will’s absence.

Moments later, two tall glasses of water, beaded with icy sweat, slid across the bar. Condensation pooled instantly around their bases. James picked one up, his fingers momentarily obscuring the wet print it left on the wood. He held it out to you, not looking at you, his gaze still fixed somewhere beyond the crowd. No explanation. No ‘thought you might need this’. Just the cool glass pressing into your palm, the ice inside shifting with a hollow, crystalline clink as your fingers closed around it. The chill was a shock against your skin, pulling you fractionally out of the numb fog.

He finally turned his head, nodding toward the writhing mass of the dance floor. Cal was now bent dramatically backwards in Josh’s arms, laughing, James’s nod seemed to frame as an invitation. “Come on,” James said, his voice dropping back to its normal timbre, yet holding an edge of something, coaxing? Resignation? He tilted his head, a faint, almost imperceptible challenge in the angle. “Mope-dancing is still dancing. Arguably more authentic.”

You shook your head, the movement small and final against the pulsing lights. “I’m good,” you murmured, the words barely audible over the music, tasting like ash.

He watched you for a beat longer, his expression unreadable in the shifting gloom. Then, he simply nodded. Once. He didn’t push. Didn’t offer another platitude. He just leaned back against the bar beside you, shoulders almost touching, and took a long, slow sip of his own water, his presence a silent, steady counterpoint to the chaos and your quiet devastation.

Instead, he studied you in the flickering light, his expression unreadable. The music seemed to dull for a second, like it was just you and him in the little orbit carved out between bar stools and neon reflection. His shoulder pressed solidly against yours where you both leaned against the bar, a point of warm, steady contact amidst the shifting chaos. That simple pressure felt grounding, yet somehow intensified the intimacy of his scrutiny.

Then, softly, “You know his pattern, right?” he asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“Will.” James’s voice was low, but not harsh. Just honest. “Hot and cold isn’t romantic. It’s unreliable.”

You looked down into your water, fingers tightening on the glass. Something embarrassed and sharp twisted in your chest. He’d seen too much. The contact of his shoulder against yours suddenly felt like a conduit for that unwanted clarity, amplifying the sting.

“He’s just.” You started but didn’t finish.

James didn’t press. He just nodded a little, like he’d heard it all before. Like he wasn’t surprised.

He watched you for a beat longer, his expression unreadable in the shifting gloom. Then, he simply nodded. Once. He didn’t push. Didn’t offer another platitude. He didn't need to move, the quiet pressure of his shoulder against yours remained, a constant anchor. He just leaned back a fraction, settling more fully against the bar, the line of contact firm and unwavering, and took a long, slow sip of his own water. His presence was solid, a silent declaration that he was there, occupying the space beside you without demanding anything in return.

The moment passed with the next beat drop. Someone spilt beer behind you. A girl shrieked with laughter.

And then your phone buzzed. You fished it out of your pocket with a quick, reflexive flick—a little too fast. A single message glowed on the screen.

Will (10:57 PM): Work emergency. Sorry.

James looked down at the screen from where he stood beside you, his shoulder still firmly against yours. His lip curled faintly. “Translation?” he said, sipping his water. “I got distracted.”

You didn’t answer.

You just stared at the screen. The solid, unchanging pressure of James beside you, a stark contrast to the flimsy excuse glowing on the glass, made the slow realisation crash in harder, sharper. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the night you thought it would be. But a quieter, more insistent question clawed its way up through the disappointment.

Why?

Why did that familiar pang of hurt still twist in your chest?

Why did a tiny, stupid part of you still want to believe him, still want to scramble for an excuse for him?

He had a pattern, just as James said. Hot promises, cold exits. Cancelled plans. Last-minute ‘emergencies’. The way his enthusiasm could evaporate between texts.

You knew this dance.

You knew the steps led nowhere good.

So why did you keep stepping onto the floor? Why did his name on the screen still trigger that gut-deep reflex of hope, even now, standing grounded by James's unwavering solidity? It felt irrational, embarrassing, like a stubborn weed you couldn't quite pull out.

You turn to James. He didn’t move. He didn’t press. He just stayed beside you, quiet and steady, his shoulder a silent testament to a different kind of presence.

Right here, it seemed to say.

The ride was quiet, save for the soft shush of tyres slicing through wet pavement and the low murmur of the radio. Raindrops crawled across the window beside you in meandering paths, catching the fractured glow of passing streetlights, smearing the world into watery streaks. You leaned your forehead against the cool glass, buzzing on cheap cider and the ghost of movie popcorn salt, your limbs heavy and loose, your emotions a raw nerve exposed by the dark and the hum of the engine.

James sat beside you in the backseat’s narrow space, silent. No teasing. No running commentary. Just the dense, steady presence of him the damp chill radiating from his hoodie’s shoulders, the solid warmth of his knee angled deliberately close to yours, a silent bridge in the confined gloom.

Your eyes tracked a fat droplet as it slid, gathered speed, and vanished into the weather stripping at the bottom of the window. Then another. Then another, each path a lonely journey.

A sigh escaped you, soft as the rain’s whisper against the glass, soaked in exhaustion and something perilously close to heartbreak. “Why is it so easy for him to be everyone’s golden boy? Everyone’s effortless friend, but this?” The word this hung heavy in the air.

You closed your eyes, pressing your temple harder against the cool glass, trying to hold the fractured pieces of yourself together against the tide rising in your chest. The question clawed its way up your throat, raw and unbidden, "Is there something wrong with me?" Your voice cracked, barely audible over the tire hiss and the rain, the words hanging fragile and exposed in the humid dark. "That he can't. That he won't." You couldn't finish, the rest dissolving into the rhythmic thump of the wipers.

The car slowed at a red light. Rain ticked softly on the roof.

James looked over at you sharply, the dim, gold-washed light bleeding through the window catching the sudden intensity in his eyes. His gaze searched your face, not in pity, but with a fierce, almost startling clarity that cut through the gloom. "No." The word was immediate, absolute, a stone dropped into still water. "God, no. It's not you."

He held your gaze, the silence stretching for a heartbeat, heavy with the weight of his conviction. You saw his hand flex slightly where it rested on his knee, knuckles pale. "It's the opposite," he continued, his voice lowering, roughening with an intensity that vibrated in the small space. "You're not the easy surface he swims in. You're." He paused, searching for the right word, his eyes locked on yours. "You're the depth."

Another beat of silence, thick with the implication. Rain blurred the world outside into an impressionist painting of light and shadow. "And depth", he finished, the word dropping like a weighted line, "is the risk he won't take."

Your breath caught in your throat. You were the risk? The solid ground beneath you seemed to shift. Depth. The word echoed, colliding with everything Will avoided, everything James seemed to see so clearly.

But before you could look too closely at that, the car rolled to a stop. Your building loomed outside, the pavement slick and glistening.

James was already moving, opening the door on your side. He offered you his hand, and without thinking, you took it, warm and sure around your cold fingers. He held it a beat longer than necessary.

You blinked up at him, disoriented by the sudden stillness of the world outside the Uber. He just looked at you, his voice low but firm.

“Text me when you’re inside.”

You nodded.

“And,” James said your name. He paused, a hesitation you felt in the space between you, like he wasn’t sure whether to voice the final, necessary blow. “Stop settling for crumbs.” You swallowed, the simple action thick and painful against the lump in your throat.

Before you could respond, he squeezed your hand once and then released you and slid back into the Uber. The door thudded shut. Then the car pulled away, his silhouette swallowed by the downpour.

You stood there for a second, heart aching with too many things, the weight of James’s words, the sting of Will’s absence, and the quiet, impossible thought that maybe someone had been paying attention this whole time.

You didn’t look back.

But as you let yourself inside, fingers fumbling with the key, your phone buzzed softly.

James (07:57 PM): Home safe?

And in that stillness, the decision crystallised, clear as the rain-washed street outside.

You’d ask Will. One last time. Not because you hoped for anything different, but because you needed to hear the silence, the deflection, the no from his own lips.

To finally sever the ghost of what you’d thought you wanted.

Because the truth hummed in your veins now, sharp and undeniable, the warmth still lingering on your palm from James’s grip? That wasn’t friendship. And the way your pulse stuttered at his name lighting up your screen? You weren’t aching for Will any more. You were aching for the man who’d stood in the rain to tell you to stop settling for crumbs.

You typed back to James, fingers steady for the first time all night.

Me (07:57 PM): Home. Thank you.

Alive with rhythm, the venue hums with warm lights, swaying bodies, and the deep thud of bass rattling the floorboards. Tables and booths overflow with laughter and half-finished drinks, while the dance floor pulses with movement—hips twisting, arms tangled, sweat gleaming under amber light. The air is thick with the scent of spiced rum, citrus peels, perfume, and something smoky that clings to skin and breath alike.

You’re out with Will, James, Harry, Chris, and a few others. Someone had the brilliant idea of checking out Latin Night—probably Chris, based on how quickly he gravitated toward the strongest cocktail on the menu and the prettiest girls near the bar.

The table wasn’t built for this many people, but no one cared. You’d claimed the corner stool first, legs dangling just above the floor, while Will slid onto the seat beside you with his usual laid-back ease. James perched directly across the table, Coke in hand, that trademark half-smirk on his face like he’d just thought of a joke he wouldn’t share. Harry wedged himself in last, still ranting about “authentic” mojitos, phone already out to prove his point as the Arthurs jostled for space, arguing over lime wedges and whether sugar syrup “disrespects the entire drink”.

The air is warm, buzzing with energy and low conversation. Will’s shoulder brushes yours every time he leans to speak to someone, and you feel each touch like a tiny jolt. You sip your drink, trying not to focus too hard on how close he is, how comfortable he seems.

Around you, the crowd pulses with life—laughter spills from nearby tables, the clink of glasses punctuates the music, and the soft rustle of dresses and shirts as people move in time with the beat. You mouth the words when a familiar lyric floats past, and Will catches you doing it, his gaze lingering. Something flickers in his eyes—but it vanishes as quickly as it came.

Then the DJ shifts into a bachata. Smooth. Sultry. Perfect. Your heart lifts instinctively with the opening notes, then sinks as you glance toward the dance floor and feel that same ache rise in your chest again.

“Hey,” you say. “Wanna dance?”

He turns his head toward you slowly, eyes meeting yours for a moment. His lips part slightly as if he’s about to say yes but then he hesitates and shakes his head. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, a vulnerability you don’t often see.

“I don’t really dance,” he admits, his voice low and a little sheepish. A half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, trying to soften the refusal. He runs a hand through his hair, as if trying to gather his thoughts. “Especially not,” he pauses, brow furrowing as he tries to place the unfamiliar rhythm, “whatever that is.”

“Bachata”, you say softly. You watch his expression, hoping he might surprise you.

“Right. That.” He chuckles, a bit awkwardly, and shrugs. “I’d look like an idiot out there.”

You lean in a little, your eyes bright with determination. “Come on, it doesn’t have to be perfect. I can teach you the steps. It’s not like anyone’s watching that closely.” You give him a playful nudge. “Even if you’re just stepping on my feet, it’ll be fun.”

Will hesitates, glancing around as if measuring the crowd’s gaze. Then he looks back at you, that same half-smile lingering. “You really think I won’t embarrass myself?”

“Absolutely,” you say with a grin. “That’s half the fun.”

He still looks unsure. “I don’t know… I’d probably just look ridiculous.”

Trying one last time, you nudge him gently again with a face-splitting grin. “So what? That’s what makes it fun. Besides, no one's a pro. Just one song. That’s it.”

Will hesitates, lips pressed into a thin line, then shakes his head gently. “Really, I’m good. I’ll pass.”

You shrug, right then, somewhere beneath your ribs, something final sets in. “Oh, okay.” That was it. The last time. No more nudging, no more hoping. You won’t beg to be chosen.

Before the awkward pause can settle in too thick, James stands and downs the rest of his soda. “I don’t drink,” he announces to no one in particular. Then, turning his eyes to you with an easy smirk, “But I do dance.”

He glances at you, a smirk playing on his lips. “Better than sitting here watching you pout all night.”

You let out a breath of a laugh, not bothering to deny it. “You know bachata?”

James shrugs. “Enough.” He extends his hand. “C’mon.”

You hesitate for just a second, but only to steady yourself, not your nerves about Will, but the sudden, decisive shift within you. This wasn't about him any more. Not even a little.

You slide your hand into James’s.

As he leads you towards the pulsing heart of the dance floor, weaving between tables buzzing with chatter and the sharp scent of spilt cocktails, he leans in close. His breath ghosts warm against your temple, his voice pitched low over the thumping bass, “Trying to make him jealous?”

You meet his sidelong glance, your expression serious, unwavering. “Not any more.”

James chuckles, the sound rich and easy, but his eyes hold yours for a beat too long. That familiar, knowing smirk plays on his lips, tinged now with something else, gentle disbelief. He gives your hand a small, reassuring squeeze, the gesture comforting yet patronising in its assumption. “Right, right,” he says, his tone light, almost indulgent, as if humouring a stubborn child clinging to a fib. “Of course you’re not.” He shakes his head slightly, a flicker of affectionate exasperation in his gaze, before he focuses on navigating the crowd. “Just stick close. We’ll make it convincing anyway.”

He doesn't believe you. Not for a second. He thinks you’re putting on a brave face, doubling down on the tactic he suggested. The irony is thick, almost palpable, as he guides you onto the floor, utterly unaware that the game he thinks he’s masterminding has fundamentally, irrevocably changed.

The lights cast soft gold across your faces as you step into the music, the low thrum of the bass curling through your chest. James’s hand settles gently on your back. The moment your bodies fall into the rhythm, you feel your pulse match the beat.

“Relax,” he murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s just dancing.”

But it isn’t. Not any more.

You catch Will’s eyes across the room. He’s watching, of course he is. But for the first time, it doesn’t twist the way it usually does. You’re done waiting for him to move.

James guides you through the steps—side, together, side. He spins you, catches you again. You sway closer, the warmth of his hands grounding you, the heat of his gaze making it impossible not to smile.

“You do realise this song is dangerously romantic, right?” he teases.

You lift an eyebrow. “And yet you agreed to it.”

He shrugged. “You know”, James continues, dipping you slightly, “if this doesn’t make him jealous, he might actually be blind.”

You glance toward Will again, but the ache’s already softening into something else. Resolution.

Then James pulls you close, eyes glinting with mischief and something warmer underneath. He leans in, voice low, “And if he doesn’t do something about it soon, I just might steal you for real.”

You feel the flush rise to your cheeks—whether from the dance or the playful threat in James’s tone, you’re not sure. “Go ahead," you say, your voice surprisingly steady, meeting James's gaze directly. The music pulses around you, but your focus is entirely on the man holding you. "Steal me."

James falters. Just for a fraction of a second, the smooth rhythm of his steps stutters. His smirk freezes, then melts into genuine confusion. His eyes search yours, the playful glint replaced by startled disbelief. "What?" he breathes, the word nearly lost under the guitar's melody. He hadn't expected agreement. He’d expected deflection, a blush, maybe a nervous laugh.

You don't look away. The dance continues, your bodies still moving in time, but the energy between you has shifted seismically. The pretence is gone. "I remember what you said," you say, your voice low but clear, cutting through the sultry beat. "In the Uber. That night. 'You're the depth. The risk he won't take.'" You see the recognition flash in his eyes, followed by a dawning vulnerability he quickly tries to mask. "I was so tangled up in wanting Will, wanting something that was never really there, that I was blind."

James remains silent, his hand warm and firm on your waist, his expression utterly bewildered. He’s stopped leading, letting the momentum of the dance carry you both as he stares at you.

"I asked him tonight," you continue, the confession flowing easily now, a weight lifting "One last time. Not because I hoped for anything different. I needed to hear the 'no' from his lips one last time. " You give a small, decisive shake of your head. "He refused. Again. And it didn't break me. It just confirmed what I finally understood."

You lean fractionally closer, your voice dropping to an intimate murmur meant only for him. "You were right, James. I was settling for crumbs. Starving myself for scraps of attention from someone who couldn't see past the surface." You hold his gaze, letting him see the certainty, the gratitude, and the shift. "But you saw the depth. You chose to see it. You chose me. First. Even when I was too stupid to see you standing there."

James’s breath hitches. The confusion in his eyes is rapidly dissolving, replaced by a stunned, almost hesitant wonder. The cocky facade is completely gone now, stripped bare by your words. He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time, truly seeing you, not just the girl pining for Will.

"You. You realised?" he finally manages, his voice rough with emotion he doesn't try to hide anymore. The hand on your waist tightens almost imperceptibly, a grounding anchor. "When?"

"It was a slow process," you admit, a soft smile touching your lips. "Every time you wanted to do something with me. Every time you nudged my elbow or touched me like it was normal. The time you stood beside me in the rain and told me to stop settling. It took Will vanishing one last time for the pieces to finally click." You squeeze the hand resting on his shoulder. "Thank you. For seeing me. For choosing me first. Even when I didn't deserve it."

James doesn't speak for a long moment. He just looks at you, the intensity in his gaze stealing your breath. The music swells around you, the romantic bachata notes weaving through the charged silence between you. The frustration on Will’s face across the room is irrelevant now. The only thing that matters is the dawning hope, the raw honesty, the rightness reflecting at you in James's eyes. He pulls you just a fraction closer, his thumb brushing softly against the fabric at your waist.

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