#cod fanfiction

[daydreamsareallineed]

Casual intimacy 🥺😔

Casual intimacy with Simon "Ghost" Riley.

He loves to shower with you.

Hopping into a steamy shower together and washing each other's skin clean after you both get home from a tiring day at work. The feeling of you scrubbing shampoo through his freshly cut hair fingers softly grasping at the strands even after he tells you it's not necessary. Sometimes, he'll wrap his arms around your waist and squeeze as you wash your face. He'll kiss gently at your skin as droplets of water drip from your body to his lips and let his nose dig into the crook of your shoulder to inhale your clean scent.

He loves grocery shopping with you.

Getting to keep his large palm against the small of your back rubbing up and down every once in a while to show that he's with you. He likes to listen to your voice as you read down the list of things the two of you need and the way you point your finger and bossily tell him to fetch a certain item. He pushes the cart for you when it starts getting heavy with items even after you complain and tell him "You could do it yourself." He enjoys being strong for you, finds pride in being able to carry and hold all of the bags when the two of you get home from the shops.

Simon Riley really loves these seemingly little moments of intimacy with you.

[guppybibi]

part 2 to the johnny fic!

notes: this was pretty rushed,,,so it is fast paced..if u guys dont like this one i could always rewrite it! :3

taglist: @ennovi-9 @vvenus-child @msilwrites @tessakate @beatriceshadowmarvel2 @montenegroisr (for some reason i cant tag the others??) i'll try to do so in the comments

Grief was never an easy thing to heal from to begin with, so Simon has kept a close eye on you ever since. You refused to believe him at first, trying to pull out some sort of proof that you were with Johnny this past year but to your own shock, there was none. Not a singular one.

Luckily, Simon had a xerox copy of Johnny’s death certificate. The original copy was with you but it seems that it was burned to ashes based on the reaction you gave when Simon dangled it over your face.

But you really weren’t believing him, shielded in the denial you were holding tightly close to you. “Where’s the urn with half of his ashes then, eh?” Simon throws the question at you, his words unintentionally harsher than expected.

But he really doesn't get what you've been trying to convince him to believe, don't you remember spreading Soap’s ashes? He expected you to at least remember that part.

“The…what?” That was all you could manage to say right now, your voice failing you now of all times. “The urn with his ashes.” He repeats, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he intently watches your expression.

Simon starts to wonder how hard of a psychosis you went through, or if you ever took drugs after Johnny’s death. That would explain the hallucinations as well, there's no shame in it either. It's not unusual for someone to turn to substances during mourning, it's a common coping mechanism.

All Simon wants to focus on is you, for you to get better. Fuck Johnny for leaving you alone like this, the pitiful sight almost made Simon's face be a constant scowl.

Okay..maybe he was exaggerating but he’ll definitely throw a middle finger up to the sky later. Simon knows it'll probably make Johnny laugh his ass off…or worry. It really depends if he knew your current situation.

Either way, none of that stuff matters much. You have no choice but to be in Simon’s care.

He’s not quite sure what to do when you start crying into his chest the moment you two stepped into your house, no longer a home. He remains still, lightly patting you on the back as he guides you to the couch.

He’ll be here for a while, won't he?

~~~

It's been weeks since you've known about Johnny’s death, but the only thing Simon could notice was the lack of improvement.

You were rotting in bed, relying on Simon completely for you to do basic tasks. You spent most of the time crying and sleeping, an endless cycle that even made Simon feel like he was going crazy.

“C’mon, eat up, luv. I made you some soup. We're runnin’ out of groceries as well, wanna tag along later?” He offers, holding up the spoon full of soup to your mouth. Expectedly, with a disinterested look, you turn your back on him.

He sighs, putting the bowl aside. “Alright, I won't make you go but the offer is still up.” He says, pausing when he hears footsteps get closer and closer to the door.

It's…weirdly familiar. Simon could recognize people based off of their footsteps alone, but he simply couldn't place his finger on this one. As it got nearer, you seemed to notice it as well..

The two of you make questioning looks at each other. “Stay there, I’ll go check it out.” Simon stood up, making his way to the door until a certain someone pops out.

“Bonnie? Ye there? Git us some groceries.”

…Another shared look between you and Simon.

“Oh good, there yer are, lass. Simon? You're here too? Glad there's another set of hands then.”

Simon’s gaze moved to you, seeing your eyes water up with tears. But that wasn't what caught his attention, it was the hole through this…Johnny’s head.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; leah rests as you confront laswell over her clear interference. later, a heartfelt plea for the pack’s forgiveness stirs conflicted emotions, forcing you to grapple with resentment and the weight of leadership.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

Leah stayed the rest of the day and night. After finishing her tea and sandwiches, she’d curled up in your room, exhaustion pulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sybil stayed by her side by your instruction, her large form pressed protectively against Leah as though sensing the fragility of her state.

You watched her for a moment before stepping out, closing the door quietly behind you. When you found Fiona in the main hall, you stopped her with a firm look. “Leah is resting in my room. No one goes in—no one—unless I say so. That includes my Mother.”

Her eyes widened briefly, but she recovered quickly, her expression smoothing into the composed professionalism you’d come to expect from her. “Understood,” she said with a small nod.

As you walked back to your studio, the weight of everything pressed down on you—your thoughts swirled, torn between the boundaries of what you could do now and what you could risk for later. You needed clarity, or at least a good understanding of how things had turned out this way. 

The decision solidified as you reached the door to your studio. Pausing briefly, you raised a hand and muttered an incantation under your breath, weaving a ward around the door. The faint shimmer of magic settled over the frame, ensuring no one would disturb you inside.

Once satisfied, you stepped in, closing the door behind you and locking it for good measure. You crossed the room to your desk, the weight of the moment settling heavily in your chest as you reached for your phone.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, the weight of everything unspoken pressing heavily against your chest. The hesitation was brief. With a sharp breath, you tapped the call button.

The line rang twice before her voice came through, tinged with an edge of surprise she couldn’t fully conceal.

“This is unexpected,” Laswell said, her words crisp but laced with curiosity. There was a brief pause, and then she added, more composed now, “How can I help you?”

The neutrality in her tone grated against you, stirring the embers of frustration you’d been holding back for far too long.

“I don’t need your help,” you said firmly, each word clipped.

The silence on her end stretched just long enough to let you know she was regrouping, processing your tone.

“You helped her, didn’t you?” you continued, not giving her a chance to deflect. “You helped Leah get to the coven.”

She exhaled softly, though whether it was in resignation or something else, you couldn’t tell. “She needed closure—”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you interrupted sharply. “I was clear with the pack, and I was clear with you. You don’t get to meddle in my business, Laswell. Not anymore.”

There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice was steadier, more guarded. “She was desperate. I made a judgment call.”

You closed your eyes, willing the anger simmering beneath your skin to stay in check. “A judgment call,” you repeated bitterly. “Just like the last time? When you brushed off my concerns? When you refused to see what was happening until it was too late?”

The words hung heavy in the air, the silence on the line louder than anything else.

“I made mistakes,” Laswell said finally, her tone softer but still holding that iron edge. “And I’ve spent every day since trying to fix them.”

You shook your head, though she couldn’t see it. “This is the last time, Laswell. The last time you get involved. I’ll take care of Leah for now because it’s the right thing to do. After this, I’ll see to it personally that she gets back home—safely, where she belongs.”

Laswell didn’t respond immediately, and you imagined her pinching the bridge of her nose in that way she always did when she was trying to decide whether to push back or let it go.

“In a way,” you added after a beat, your tone cooling slightly, “you respected my wishes by not coming to the celebrations. For that, thank you.”

Another pause. Then, finally, her voice came through, subdued but steady. “You’re welcome. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say. With a sharp flick of your thumb, you ended the call, the screen going dark as the weight in your chest shifted—not lighter, not heavier. Just there.

For a moment, you stood in the silence of your studio, the faint hum of the warded door the only sound. You set the phone down on the desk with a quiet sigh, the conversation leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

. . .

Laswell stood outside your former apothecary, her phone still in hand as she let out a slow, steady breath. The conversation with you had left her more rattled than she cared to admit. Even though she’d managed to hold her composure, your words still lingered, sharp and cutting.

Around her, the scene was bustling. Farah and Alex were inside, sorting through what remained of your belongings. They had accepted her offer of the space—not happily, but only because they respected your wishes. Their sadness was palpable, laced with a quiet anger that neither of them had voiced directly.

Whatever you had left behind, Farah and Alex treated it with care. They tucked away your tools and keepsakes for safekeeping, their movements precise and deliberate. The pack lingered around, their gazes lingering a little too long on certain items, and it wasn’t long before Soap and Gaz tried to sneak something.

Soap, ever the opportunist, had spotted a small trinket—a small wolf charm you’d crafted long ago—and pocketed it with a practiced ease. Gaz, less subtle, had picked up one of your old notebooks, flipping through it with a wistful look before tucking it under his arm.

Farah, already on edge, caught them both in the act. She turned sharply, her glare cutting through the room like a blade.

“Put it back,” she snapped, her voice firm and unwavering.

Soap gave her his best puppy-dog eyes, the kind that usually got him out of trouble. “C’mon, lass,” he said, his voice soft and pleading. “It’s just a wee thing—something to remember her by.”

Farah’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, her glare deepened, her hand resting protectively over the small swell of her belly. “I said, put it back,” she repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Gaz hesitated, glancing between Soap and Farah, but the weight of her stare was too much. With a sheepish nod, he placed the notebook back where he’d found it.

Soap lingered for a moment longer, his fingers brushing the charm in his pocket. Farah stepped closer, her presence towering despite her smaller stature.

“Soap,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

With a resigned sigh, he pulled the charm from his pocket and set it down with exaggerated care. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, backing away with his hands raised. “No need to get cranky.”

Her glare didn’t waver, and Soap quickly retreated to the other side of the room, muttering something under his breath about “pregnancy hormones.” Alex, who had been silently watching from the corner, hid a smirk behind his hand. Farah shot him a look, and he quickly busied himself with organizing another box.

Satisfied, Farah returned to her work, tucking your belongings away with even greater care. 

Back outside, Laswell turned toward the door just as Ghost emerged, a large box balanced effortlessly in his arms. He moved with his usual precision, quiet and efficient, his gaze fixed ahead as though nothing else existed but the task at hand. He didn’t linger, carrying the box to Alex’s truck without a word before heading back inside.

Price followed a few moments later, stepping out with a smaller box tucked under one arm. He set it down near the doorway, dusting off his hands as his sharp gaze settled on Laswell.

“That was her on the phone, wasn’t it?” he asked, his voice low but laced with a pointed edge.

Laswell hesitated, her grip tightening slightly on the phone in her pocket. For a moment, she considered deflecting, brushing him off. But Price’s eyes told her that wouldn’t work.

“Yes,” she admitted finally, tucking the phone away as though trying to put the weight of the conversation out of reach.

Price exhaled heavily, his jaw tightening as he looked toward the apothecary. His fingers brushed over the edge of the box he’d just set down, the movement almost absentminded. “And?”

Laswell squared her shoulders. “And nothing,” she replied, her tone sharper than she intended. “She doesn’t want me—or any of us—involved any further.”

Price’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze hardening as he nodded slowly. “Yes, I figured as much,” he muttered, glancing toward the doorway where Soap had lingered earlier, his usual energy dampened into something far more subdued. “And yet here we are.”

Laswell folded her arms, her gaze flicking toward the truck where Ghost had disappeared moments ago. “She made her wishes clear,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “We’re doing this because it’s what she wanted—for Farah and Alex to have this place, for them to have help.”

Her eyes drifted back toward the apothecary’s open door. “Whether we like it or not.”

Price studied her in silence, his sharp blue eyes as unreadable as ever. After a moment, he gave a curt nod, his posture easing slightly. “Fair enough,” he said gruffly, turning toward the doorway as though considering whether to follow Ghost back inside.

Laswell stayed where she was, her hands slipping into her coat pockets as she stared at the apothecary, her thoughts churning. Ghost had returned to his task with his usual quiet intensity, and Soap had retreated to lean against the wall, his troubled expression a stark contrast to his usual demeanor.

The pack was subdued, their energy tempered by the weight of your absence and the silence of things left unsaid. But as Laswell observed them, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they wouldn’t back down anytime soon.

Something about the way they carried themselves, the way their gazes lingered on your shop, told her this wasn’t the end for them. They’d find a way to keep trying. 

Whatever. That was their business now.

Laswell exhaled softly, brushing off the thought. She had done the best she could, made the decisions she thought were right at the time. Hopefully, with time, the strain between you and her might heal. But for now, she wouldn’t hold her breath.

Her gaze drifted back to the apothecary’s weathered sign hanging above the door. The carved wooden depiction of Sybil stared back at her, elegant and protective.

Laswell hesitated, her hand hovering near the sign, before she finally reached up and carefully unhooked it from its place. The wood was smoother than she expected, its edges worn from time and weather. She brushed off the faint layer of dust that had settled on it, her fingers lingering on the carved lines of Sybil’s regal form.

For a moment, she simply stood there, the sign in her hands, her thoughts tangled between regret and resolution.

This, at least, she could keep safe.

Tucking the sign under her arm, Laswell turned away from the apothecary, her steps steady as she moved toward the truck. She didn’t look back.

. . .

The soft crackle of the fire filled the room as you sat on the sofa, a stack of letters balanced on your lap. Each envelope bore the mark of a coven leader or an influential figure, their words congratulating you on your confirmation and, in some cases, making subtle overtures for future alliances.

You worked methodically, reading through each one and making notes on who deserved a reply, a gift, or a polite dismissal. This was just the beginning, one of many responsibilities you’d have as your Mother’s heir, and though it felt overwhelming, you tackled it with quiet determination.

Sybil lay curled at your feet, her coat gleaming in the firelight, her slow, even breaths a comforting rhythm.

A stir from the bed caught your attention, and you glanced over to see Leah shifting, her eyes fluttering open. She sat up slowly, her movements more assured than they had been earlier. Her cheeks, once pale and hollow, held a hint of color now. It wasn’t surprising—the food, tea, and subtle spells you had cast were meant to revitalize her, to help her heal from the inside out.

Now, as she stretched and blinked at the firelight, she looked better—if a little hesitant. Her gaze shifted to you, her head tilting curiously as she noticed the stack of letters.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice soft but steadier now, carrying a confidence that hadn’t been there before.

“Replying to letters,” you said absently, flipping to the next one. 

Leah swung her legs over the edge of the bed, watching you carefully. The silence stretched, but you let it. You were too absorbed in the task at hand to press her further.

To your surprise, she broke the quiet with an abrupt question, one that made your pen still over the paper.

“Do you think you can forgive the pack?”

Your head snapped up, your eyes meeting hers in the flickering firelight. For a moment, you weren’t sure you had heard her correctly.

“Excuse me?”

Leah shifted uncomfortably but didn’t back down. Her light brown gaze held yours, steady despite the tension that suddenly filled the room. “I said… do you think you can forgive them? The pack. For what happened.”

Your expression hardened instinctively, the calm you had been cultivating unraveling in an instant. 

She bit her lip, glancing toward the fire before looking back at you. “It wasn’t their fault. Not entirely.”

You sighed softly, setting the letters aside as you straightened in your seat. “Not entirely,” you echoed, your tone sharper now. “That doesn’t change the damage they caused. To me. To themselves. To you.”

Leah hesitated, but there was a flicker of determination in her expression as she pressed on. “I’m not saying what happened was okay. It wasn’t. But they’re… broken. And I think—no, I know—they’d do anything to fix it if you’d let them.”

You stared at her, your thoughts churning. It wasn’t an easy thing to consider, not after everything.

Leah’s voice softened, her earlier confidence faltering just slightly. “I’m asking because… if you don’t forgive them, I’m not sure they’ll ever forgive themselves.”

The weight of her words hung heavily in the air, and for a moment, the only sound was the fire’s crackle and Sybil’s soft breathing.

You took a long, measured look at Leah. For the first time, you saw her clearly—not the broken, haunted version she had been when she arrived, but the person she truly was beneath it all. Her beauty wasn’t just in her features, though those were striking; it was in her kindness, the quiet determination in her voice as she spoke on behalf of others.

She wasn’t pleading for herself, not really. She was pleading for them—for the pack that had been as much victims as they were perpetrators. It was selfless, genuine, and painfully earnest.

It made the weight of your resentment feel… pitiful.

You glanced toward the fire, your thoughts swirling as you turned her words over in your mind. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps forgiveness could give them something they couldn’t find on their own.

But even as you considered it, a familiar truth settled heavily in your chest. Forgiveness was one thing. Forgetting was another entirely.

Your gaze returned to Leah, and you let out a quiet sigh, your voice softer now as you finally spoke. “I may forgive them one day, Leah. But I won’t forget. I can’t.”

Leah’s expression shifted, her lips parting slightly as though to protest, but she stopped herself. Instead, she nodded, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she seemed to accept your words.

“That’s fair,” she said quietly, her hands resting in her lap. “I just… I hope, for their sake, that forgiveness will be enough.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you leaned back against the sofa, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the room. Sybil shifted at your feet, her dark eyes watching you intently.

“I’ll think about it,” you said finally, your tone carrying more weight than you intended. “That’s all I can promise for now.”

Leah nodded again, her gaze dropping briefly to Sybil before returning to you. “That’s all anyone can ask for.”

The room fell quiet again, the crackle of the fire filling the space as Leah settled back onto the bed. You returned to your letters, but your thoughts lingered on her words—and the truth of what they might mean for you, the pack, and everything that lay ahead.

banner credit

[homeofthelonelywriter]

“That’s it. I’m done.” Simon, who had been laser-focused on his phone - he might or might’ve not been looking at engagement rings online - glanced up, frowning as he watched you walk to the kitchen. Your back was turned to him so that he couldn’t see your facial expression, but your tone suggested you weren’t happy. He quickly stood up and followed you to the kitchen, where he watched you turn on the kettle.

“What is it, love?” You didn’t turn to look at him, instead furiously searching the cabinets before trudging back to the bathroom, where you had just come from. “I’m sick of it, Si. I’m gonna go to the doctor and have them rip the whole thing out.” Realization dawned on the soldier. It was time again.

Confused, he pulled up the menstruation app on his phone and checked on your cycle. You were a few days early this month, which explained why he hadn’t received a notification yet. With a deep sigh, he followed you, finding you in the bathroom, once again searching through cabinets. Without a word, he opened one you hadn’t looked into yet and pulled out the fuzzy hot water bottle you were looking for. You turned to look at him, tears in the corner of your eyes, and your lips jutted out in a pout.

“I know, love. Come, let me help, yeah?” You nodded, holding up your arms, until he picked you up. Without even as much as a grunt, he lifted you into his arms, carrying your bridal style to your bedroom, where he laid you down and tucked you in. “I’ll be right back, darling.” After pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, he disappeared out the door and rushed down to the kitchen, where he prepared your hot water bottle just the way you liked. He also grabbed a mug and made you your favorite tea, knowing that the warmth would help with your cramps.

Before leaving, he grabbed your favorite snacks and a soft blanket from the living room. Then he made his way back to you. In the bedroom, you were curled up on one side, cradling your cramping stomach. After setting the tea down on your nightstand, Simon gently made you uncurl and pressed the hot water bottle against your abdomen, over a blanket, where he knew the cramps always were. “There you go, love.” The snacks were dropped beside the bed as he wrapped the extra blanket around you. “I’ll just grab some more stuff, and then we can spend the day here, cuddling, okay?” You nodded, still pouting and slightly wincing when another cramp hit.

Simon hated seeing you like this, so he rushed around the house, grabbing something cold to drink, pain meds, and anything else you liked to have nearby when you were hurting before returning to the bedroom and jumping into bed. The moment he had crawled underneath the blanket, you latched onto him, your very own heater, and he wrapped his arm around you, holding the TV remote with his free hand. Already knowing all your comfort movies and series, he put one of them on, before relaxing and pulling you closer.

A comfortable silence fell over you two as you watched whatever was playing on TV, Simon’s fingers absentmindedly massaging your stomach, trying to ease the cramps, when an idea came to you. Suddenly, heat started to pool between your legs as you glanced up at your boyfriend. “Si?” He grunted in response, surprisingly focused on the TV. “Si?” You repeated yourself, this time capturing his attention. He was already halfway out the bed, thinking that you’d ask him to get you something, but you pulled him back. “Give me a baby, Si.” He stared at you, all wide-eyed and confused for a second before he pounced on you. Let’s just say it didn’t take you long to get your wish.

Part 2

A/N: Definitely not projecting. Definitely not writhing in pain rn.

[khioneee]

simon is possessive and obsessive.

“you’re mine.”

the sound of his hips slapping against yours echoed through the room, each thrust harder and faster than the last. the force of him inside you was overwhelming, leaving you gasping for breath. a broken cry escaped your lips as your orgasm hit, tearing through you at the unforgiving pace he’d set. your body trembled beneath him, bouncing uncontrollably with each thrust as you clawed at the floor, desperate for anything to hold on to.

tears blurred your vision, but even through the haze, you could see him—ghost. his massive frame loomed behind you, the white skull mask glowing dimly in the low light. his blue eyes pierced through the shadows, flickering occasionally into a deep, predatory stare before shifting back, as if a monster lurked just beneath the surface.

a shaky, heated smile curled your lips as you caught sight of yourself in the mirror—wrecked, helpless, taken completely by the man behind you. every thrust sent shockwaves through your body, and the way he possessed you made it clear there was no escape.

simon leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, his voice low and rough. “i’m going to make you watch me take you over and over again until you’re nothing but a numb, broken thing.”

then he slammed into you harder, pulling a ragged cry from deep within you. your nails scraped the floor in desperation, but there was no reprieve, only his unrelenting rhythm.

“i’m still angry,” he growled, his words vibrating through you as he thrust deeper, faster. “and i’m going to make sure you understand, love—no other man will ever satisfy you again.”

his pace quickened, every thrust a punishment, every motion a claim. you could feel it—his rage, his desire, and the dark promise that dripped from his voice. and in the mirror, it was all laid bare: the power he had over you, the way he unraveled you completely.

simon was taking you, body and soul, and there was no turning back.

[cj-theyoungling]

Simon Riley x Reader

cw : Being drunk. This is pure fluff soooo.

synopsis : Simon goes to a pub after a mission and ends up getting a bit more drunk than he bargained for. After asking for you incoherently Gaz finally gets you on the phone.

author's note : This was inspired by this work I read while I was on the train and I had to put my two cents in. Simon might be OOC in this but it's my story so I get to decide how he acts drunk.

The sound of your ringtone fills your bedroom and wakes you up with a start. You fumble around the empty sheets looking for your phone, you squint at the brightness of the screen and answer once you see Simons contact photo.

"Hey! I think Ghost is asking for you. He's a little bit wasted right now." I man in a baseball cap says to you. You watch as he hands the phone over to Simon.

Simon's face fills the screen, once he catches sight of you the fabric of his balaclava folds in a way you know means he's smiling. "Hi baby." You coo at the screen. His eyes light up as he brings the screen closer to his face. You can tell he's drunk when he leans against Price as he replies.

"Hi doll. I miss you." He slurs his words together, between that and the usual muffling of his mask you can barely make out what he's saying.

"I miss you too Simon." This elicits what you can only assume is a frown from him.

"You don't call me that." He grumbles, you giggle in response and the sound of Price chuckling comes through the phone.

"Damn! You're whipped LT!" A Scottish accent shouts, also clearly drunk.

"Where are you love? I'm gonna come get you." You start putting on your sweatshirt and shoes, you laugh as you hear Simon ask Price the name of the they're at. You hang up, much to Simon's dismay, and drive to go get him.

You enter the mostly empty pub and quickly catch sight of the table full of burly men who all seem to be arguing over something.

"Well is she your wife Ghost? You have their last name saved as Riley." The one who answered the call says, now having shed his cap from earlier.

"Why didn't you tell us about her." Another man says, his hair is sticking up in a mohawk.

Price chuckles at their antics, having caught sight of you walking towards them. "Nice to see you again." He greets, giving you a quick side hug.

"Again?!" The mohawked one says incredulously. You chuckle and introduce yourself to the two men. Simon, suddenly alert once you start speaking stands and wraps his arms around you tightly.

"I missed you doll." He mumbles into your neck, ignoring the laughs from Gaz and Soap.

"I missed you more baby. Now let's get you home, you're wasted." You chuckle as you lead him away from the table. You wave at the men and get Simon into the car.

Once you get into the drivers seat Simon grabs your hand and holds it tightly. You smile as you begin to drive home. Making sure to take a few pictures when Simon falls asleep in the passenger seat.

[gloomwitchwrites]

You get drunk and don't remember giving them a hickey. So you get mad at them.

Oh, anon! I love love love this prompt. Even though the prompt itself is fairly straightforward, there is some wiggle room about how this could play out. I stuck to the prompt but did my best to keep them on the shorter side.

Some of these get spicy but don't fall into graphic detail.

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, arguing, sexual tension, kissing, alcohol

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“These reports are shit, Price. What am I supposed to do with them?”

You’re trying your best not to sound irritated, but your head is pounding. You agreed to go out for drinks but told yourself you wouldn’t have more than one or two. That went completely out the door when multiple people began paying for rounds. After the fourth, the night started to come blurry. Not all the pieces are there.

Of what you can recall from last night, you remember that you sat in a man’s lap. Well—sat isn’t the correct word. More like straddled. You remember strong arms, an accent, and an excitement in what you were doing. But the face is still foggy.

“What you always do,” replies Price. There’s a tease in his tone you don’t particularly like. It’s too friendly, and it stirs something fierce inside your belly.

Price shifts in his chair behind his desk, the collar of his jacket flops open slightly. You catch a hint of something dark on the side of Price’s neck. You frown, your rebuttal gone.

“What is that?” You nod toward his throat.

Price leans back. “What?” he asks. “This?” He reaches up, pulling back on the collar.

It’s a…oh fuck.

“You were happy to give it to me.” Price shrugs.

Fuck.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, tossing the manila file folder on Price’s desk.

The man you straddled last night was Price? The man who is always fucking up reports and ignoring all your suggestions for corrections? That one?

“You looked good doing it, too,” he continues, that teasing smile falling into a comfortability of a lover.

No. No no no.

You place your hands on your hips. “And you let me do that?”

Price shrugs. “We’re consenting adults.”

“I was drunk.”

Price crosses his arms over his chest. “We were both drunk. And you’re the one who pounced on me.”

Embarrassment rises hot and wild in your cheeks. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You did,” he confirms, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly as he smirks. “Ambushed me actually.”

“Then why didn’t you stop me?” Your voice cracks, going a bit high.

“I tried.”

That’s almost worse. You jumped him and then sucked on his neck until it left a mark. What an absolute fucking mess.

You roll your eyes. “You tried? A big strong man like you couldn’t stop me?”

This time Price is the one rolling his eyes. He makes an irritated groan. Price pushes up from his chair, one hand waving out in front of him as he speaks. “You said you’d been thinking about me.”

It’s not entirely untrue. While you attend the clerical side of things, you do make excuses to come see Price. He’s older. Handsome. Assertive. His reports aren’t always shit but it’s the only reason you have to bother him.

“I didn’t mean it,” you reply but even you don’t believe it.

Price comes around the desk and steps into your space. “Really?”

You square your shoulders, staring into Price’s face. “Really.”

He shakes his head, clearly not believing you at all. “As I recall, you were in my lap. Practically begging.”

“And you allowed that? In front of everyone?” Even Price couldn’t be that careless.

This time, Price smiles like he knows something you don’t. “You don’t remember.”

“What?” you ask, flustered.

Price starts laughing, but it’s not mocking, more like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“John,” you snap.

Price sinks down into his chair, legs spread wide. “I think I liked it better when you said my name while seated in my lap.”

Your fingers dig into the top of Price’s desk. Pieces begin to return. Fragments of you squirming in his lap. Lips pressed against his.

“How did you say it?” he ponders, almost aloud rather than to you. Then, he smiles, not even answering his own question.

Price rests his palm on his thigh and your gaze drops to its subtle movement before returning to his face.

“Think I’d like a matching one,” he says. He runs his hand down his thigh and then back up. “Or I could give you one just like it.”

“John,” you murmur, not knowing what it is you want to say.

“Doesn’t have to be on your neck,” and his voice is nearly a growl. Price lightly squeezes his thigh and you know exactly where he’s referring to. “Be easier if you sit on the desk.”

You snatch up the folder on Price’s desk, clutching it like a shield against your chest. Price doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t appear fazed at all. Stomping over you shove it against his chest, intending to walk right out the door.

But Price is quick.

With one hand he’s clutching the file and with the other he grabs your wrist before you manage to move away.

“Remove your hand,” you say but there is no venom in it.

Price’s gaze lingers on your lips before shifting up to meet your eyes. “Come back when you know what you want.”

Price releases you, and you nearly stumble forward into his lap. Catching yourself on the edge of his desk, you spin on your heel, exiting Price’s office as the final fragments of memory fall into place.

You don’t want to admit it.

Not out loud. Not yet.

But you will be back.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It’s unbelievable. Unfathomable.

You’re not angry with Kyle. You’re upset with yourself. You’re upset that you were so careless about how many drinks you had, and how you couldn’t control yourself in the moment. Kyle is not a liar, and he doesn’t take advantage, so whatever you did, is on you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, swallowing down some of the rising irritation. “It’s my fault.”

Kyle shrugs, a sheepish smile on his face. “Not like I pushed you away.”

“That doesn’t matter,” you insist, flinging your arms out in exasperation, nearly knocking over bottles of cleaner.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, catching one of them before it hits the floor.

This little storage room isn’t big enough for this. You need space. You need to run far away from here and pretend like last night didn’t happen. Not that you can remember all of it. You don’t recall giving Kyle that mark on his neck.

“It does matter. We both had too much but I still had more of my head than you did.” Kyle places the bottle of cleaner back on the shelf. “I should’ve done better.”

“We’re coworkers, Kyle. And I had no right. We aren’t together.”

Kyle smirks and you want to smack it right off his face. “We could be,” he murmurs, taking a step forward.

“Absolutely not,” you retort but you don’t retreat.

Kyle’s smirk faulters a bit but he doesn’t shrink away. If anything, he looks more determined, like the rejection is a farce.

“You remember anything you said to me last night?”

You lick your lips and cross your arms defensively over your chest. “Even if I did, does it change anything?”

Kyle sighs and runs his hand over the top of his head. “It does for me.”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you consider your options. Kyle is a sweet man, at least to you. Everyone always comments on it to you when he isn’t around, and you’ve always dismissed their observations.

Maybe he does care, and you doing this tipped him over the edge into a place neither of you might be able to come back from.

“I need some fucking air,” you mutter, wanting to escape this situation, even for a bit.

Kyle shoves forward, blocking the door. Your lips move, forming the shapes of words, but Kyle shakes his head, all seriousness.

“We need to talk about this.”

“We don’t need to talk about anything,” you snap.

Kyle’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline and his head tips slightly to the side, revealing more of the mark. “Everyone knows what happened.”

“What?” you breathe.

“We weren’t alone when you straddled me.” You’re too stunned to speak. All the words you want to say are gone. Lost to the void that is your mind.

Kyle sighs and leans against the door. “Soap got a great view.”

“Stop talking. Just—stop.” Your throw up your hands and Kyle does as you ask. “You are going to move out of my way. I am going to leave. And we won’t talk about this again.”

Kyle only stares, the silence stretching.

When you think he won’t give in, Kyle shifts to his left, leaving the door completely clear. Without taking a second to reconsider, you push open the the door, nearly running over Soap in the process.

He stumbles backward, cheeks bright red. Ghost is next to him, arms crossed, staring at the wall like he isn’t there at all.

Soap’s brief fluster turns into a wide, knowing grin. “Gaz give you a matching one?” he teases.

Ghost makes a noise that sounds like a snort.

“Both of you can fuck off.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Ghost.”

“What?” he grunts, side-eyeing you before returning his attention back to the tablet in his hand. He absently rubs at his neck for the third time in the last few minutes.

You frown. “Are you injured?”

“Why would you think that?” he asks, tapping at something on the screen.

“You keep rubbing your neck.”

Ghost pauses, his finger hovering just above the screen as he turns slightly in your direction.

You’re not trying to be pushy or nosy. Ghosts hates that. But there’s something wrong, and you care enough to ask him about it.

“You know what’s on my neck,” he replies cooly.

“No. I don’t.” A swirling fracture of unease blooms in your belly. It curls outward to claw up your throat. “What are you talking about?”

Ghost’s hand holding the tablet drops to his side. With one gloved hand, he reaches up, tugging the neckline of his jacket down enough to reveal a portion of his throat. The mask he always wears is in the way, but you reach out with a tentative hand, brushing the fabric upward to reveal a mouth-shaped bruise.

You drop your hand and take a step back. “Why would I know anything about that?”

“You gave it to me,” he says, matter of fact.

Sure, you had a few drinks last night, but did you really have that many? Enough that you can’t recall giving Ghost a goddamn hickey.

“You’re mistaken.”

“Never wrong, love.” Ghost locks the tablet and places it on the table next to him. “Especially about a woman sitting in my lap.”

“Don’t,” you say sharply. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, hips adjusting slightly as he pivots to glare down at you. “Try again.”

A deep rush of embarrassment floods your system, curling up your neck to heat your cheeks. “I wouldn’t.”

“You did,” insists Ghost. You glance down at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. Perhaps you had one too many. Sometimes you can hold your alcohol but clearly not. At least not last night.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry.” An apology is best. You have no idea how Ghost feels about you, but you are irritated that he didn’t try to stop the whole thing in the first place.

Ghost is silent a long moment. “I’m not.” Your head snaps up, but Ghost isn’t done. “I liked it. And you enjoyed giving it to me.”

You need the pieces to fall back into place. You need to remember. Because right now, you’re just confused, and Ghost’s behavior is entirely different from his usual demeanor.

“You don’t know that.”

Ghost shrugs. “I do.”

His certainty is confusing. Ghost is not a liar. He is always truthful, always to the point, even if his bluntness comes across as rude. And that’s what so frustrating about it all because you know that Ghost is right. You probably did like it, probably begged and writhed in his lap. Ghost wouldn’t lie about something like that, but he would tease you. Might even hold it over your head.

“This conversation is over.” You step around him to grab the tablet, but Ghost is quick like a viper, his large hand encasing your wrist.

“Do you remember?”

No. I don’t.

“It doesn’t matter.” You try to tug your wrist out of his grasp, but Ghost holds firm.

“When you’re ready. Find me.” He leans forward, masked face nearly touching the side of your cheek. “We’ll recreate it.”

Then his hand is gone, and Ghost is pulling away, presenting the tablet to you like he didn’t say anything at all.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“What the fuck is that?”

Soap’s brilliant smile turns in your direction. He sits on the seat of a bench press, elbows resting on knees, sweat dripping from his brow. Soap is shirtless and a white towel is draped over the back of his neck.

Reaching up with the edge of the towel, Soap wipes away some of the sweat on his face. “What are you on about?” He adjusts his stance, his large palm pressing into his knee as he leans on an elbow.

The small gym isn’t crowded but there are people here. Some of them turn and glance in your direction but otherwise keep to their business. Ghost and Gaz are over by the boxing ring observing a few new recruits who slug it out for bragging rights.

Is Soap so aloof? Does he not see the massive mark on the side of his neck? And who gave it to him? A group of you went out for drinks but you don’t recall who might have given it to him or when.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “Your neck, Johnny.”

That gorgeous smile of his widens and he chuckles. “Did you forget?”

Did you forget? Forget what? Are you part of this?

You swallow, the salvia nearly sticking in your throat as you try to calm your thudding heart. “What do you mean?”

Soap leans back a bit, observing you. “You gave this to me.” His voice is too loud, and you glance over your shoulder to make sure no one’s heard. Everyone appears to be preoccupied with the recruits in the ring.

“I didn’t,” you insist, turning back to him. “I’d remember.”

Soap guffaws and removes the towel from around his neck. “Took a seat right here.” He indicates the spot by tapping his left thigh.

“Did we…” you begin, and then trail off.

“Did we what?” he prompts, clearly enjoying this.

You bend forward, lowering your voice until it’s a hiss. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Soap smirks, and then rises to his full height. “Promise I was a perfect gentleman.” He matches your movement, leaning in so that your faces are close. “But you? You were no lady.”

You inhale sharply, and Soap pushes right past you, heading for the showers.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving

@childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666

@unhinged-reader-36 @pearljamislife @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath

@enfppuff @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu

@thewulf @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos

@enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project

@burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @contractedcriteria

@lovely-ateez @gingergirl06 @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic @suhmie

@tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior @dakotakazansky

@hantheconqueror

[wordstome]

how c.ai works and why it's unethical

Okay, since the AI discourse is happening again, I want to make this very clear, because a few weeks ago I had to explain to a (well meaning) person in the community how AI works. I'm going to be addressing people who are maybe younger or aren't familiar with the latest type of "AI", not people who purposely devalue the work of creatives and/or are shills.

The name "Artificial Intelligence" is a bit misleading when it comes to things like AI chatbots. When you think of AI, you think of a robot, and you might think that by making a chatbot you're simply programming a robot to talk about something you want them to talk about, and it's similar to an rp partner. But with current technology, that's not how AI works. For a breakdown on how AI is programmed, CGP grey made a great video about this several years ago (he updated the title and thumbnail recently)

I HIGHLY HIGHLY recommend you watch this because CGP Grey is good at explaining, but the tl;dr for this post is this: bots are made with a metric shit-ton of data. In C.AI's case, the data is writing. Stolen writing, usually scraped fanfiction.

How do we know chatbots are stealing from fanfiction writers? It knows what omegaverse is [SOURCE] (it's a Wired article, put it in incognito mode if it won't let you read it), and when a Reddit user asked a chatbot to write a story about "Steve", it automatically wrote about characters named "Bucky" and "Tony" [SOURCE].

I also said this in the tags of a previous reblog, but when you're talking to C.AI bots, it's also taking your writing and using it in its algorithm: which seems fine until you realize 1. They're using your work uncredited 2. It's not staying private, they're using your work to make their service better, a service they're trying to make money off of.

"But Bucca," you might say. "Human writers work like that too. We read books and other fanfictions and that's how we come up with material for roleplay or fanfiction."

Well, what's the difference between plagiarism and original writing? The answer is that plagiarism is taking what someone else has made and simply editing it or mixing it up to look original. You didn't do any thinking yourself. C.AI doesn't "think" because it's not a brain, it takes all the fanfiction it was taught on, mixes it up with whatever topic you've given it, and generates a response like in old-timey mysteries where somebody cuts a bunch of letters out of magazines and pastes them together to write a letter.

(And might I remind you, people can't monetize their fanfiction the way C.AI is trying to monetize itself. Authors are very lax about fanfiction nowadays: we've come a long way since the Anne Rice days of terror. But this issue is cropping back up again with BookTok complaining that they can't pay someone else for bound copies of fanfiction. Don't do that either.)

Bottom line, here are the problems with using things like C.AI:

It is using material it doesn't have permission to use and doesn't credit anybody. Not only is it ethically wrong, but AI is already beginning to contend with copyright issues.

C.AI sucks at its job anyway. It's not good at basic story structure like building tension, and can't even remember things you've told it. I've also seen many instances of bots saying triggering or disgusting things that deeply upset the user. You don't get that with properly trigger tagged fanworks.

Your work and your time put into the app can be taken away from you at any moment and used to make money for someone else. I can't tell you how many times I've seen people who use AI panic about accidentally deleting a bot that they spent hours conversing with. Your time and effort is so much more stable and well-preserved if you wrote a fanfiction or roleplayed with someone and saved the chatlogs. The company that owns and runs C.AI can not only use whatever you've written as they see fit, they can take your shit away on a whim, either on purpose or by accident due to the nature of the Internet.

DON'T USE C.AI, OR AT THE VERY BARE MINIMUM DO NOT DO THE AI'S WORK FOR IT BY STEALING OTHER PEOPLES' WORK TO PUT INTO IT. Writing fanfiction is a communal labor of love. We share it with each other for free for the love of the original work and ideas we share. Not only can AI not replicate this, but it shouldn't.

(also, this goes without saying, but this entire post also applies to ai art)

[writersdrug]

Training for Two

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Summary: Simon's desperate to find Riley a pet sitter after she suffers an injury in the field and can no longer work alongside him. Despite being desperate, he's also picky. He wants someone professional, organized, and perfect for the position. You show up for an interview - and while you may not be his idea of the perfect candidate, you're the perfect fit for what Riley needs. Unfortunately for Simon, you flip his world upside-down and melt his icy walls of stubbornness and anger, making him crave you like the heat of the sun. The worst part? You don't even know it.

Warnings: cursing, anxiety, brief mentions of animal injury (not detailed), pining, angst, possessiveness, jealousy, slow burn (?), cheating, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex

Chapter 1. Interview

Chapter 2. Rules

Chapter 3. New Trails

Chapter 4. New Tricks

Chapter 5. Back to Square One

Chapter 6. Pup Cup

Chapter 7. Motivated, Sir!

Taglist is CLOSED - thank you to everyone who requested to be tagged in this story!

[bzurk]

“Reader who decided to go to like a free use club pretty much, the only thing showing was her ass/legs/pussy the rest of her was hidden behind a wall Met 4 people anonymously online and they agreed to play out that fantasy so she wasn't fucked by a whole bunch of random people, had the explicit request that they write those cheese things on her in sharpie yk like "cum slut" "cock whore" just all that, so even when she washes it off for a few days those will be lingering Back at work she bends down to grab something, her shirt hikes up and Johnny very clearly sees their captain's hand writing on her Ohoho they found their little anonymous minx”

um sorry not sorry

cw: f!reader, free use, degradation, spanking

Your calves burned from the strain of your high heels, legs straight and stretched and precariously balanced. They made your legs look miles long, smooth and soft, every curve begging to be touched - just like you'd planned. But now, you cursed them. The arch of your feet screamed in protest with every subtle shift in your stance, the balls of your feet aching under your weight, throbbing with the relentless pressure.

Your ankles wobbled every now and then, fighting to keep your balance, your toes cramping in their confines. This wasn’t part of the fantasy you’d imagined, this strain, this dull, incessant pain that throbbed in sync with your racing heartbeat. Tears burned your eyes.

You’d surely made a mistake. Nobody was coming, you’d been lied to. Made to stand, exposed, like a gullible fool. The cold air against your bare skin felt cruel, mocking, the chill biting at your flesh as if the room itself knew you'd been abandoned.

How could you have fallen for it? They’d seemed so genuine online, so convincing, playing into every fantasy. Too good to be true, and now you were paying for it.

The hole in the wall felt like a pillory, an embarrassing punishment you’d walked yourself into. The first tear slid down your cheek, bitter and hot, when the door creaked open behind you.

A presence filled the air, thick and heavy, making your heart lurch. Your breath hitched in your throat, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. Footsteps echoed faintly on the floor, each one slow, deliberate, purposeful. Someone was there. You could feel their eyes on you, their gaze grazing your exposed body like a physical touch, and your skin prickled with the awareness of it.

Closer. The footsteps drew nearer, the weight of their approach filling the room, pressing against you from all sides. You were trapped, your heart pounding in your ears, your body trembling - not from the cold anymore, but from the anticipation, the fear of what came next.

The footsteps stopped just behind you, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of their presence against your bare skin. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding as the silence thickened, tension coiling tighter around you with each second that dragged by. You couldn't see them, couldn't move, your body frozen in place as you waited, nerves crackling like electricity beneath your skin.

The bench under your chest was slick with sweat as you wriggled in place, brimming with a nervous, anticipatory energy with no way to expel it, the wall chafing around your waist.

It started when a single finger brushed the small of your back, the touch light as a feather, yet sending shockwaves through your entire body. It lingered, tracing slow, delicate patterns against your skin, feather-light, teasing. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, your breath coming in ragged pants as the anticipation built to an unbearable peak.

They had to hurry, hurry up, or you’d combust. They’d already left you waiting so long. But you had no say in this, did you? You’d signed it away, the ball no longer in your court, and you loved it. If just a fingertip felt electric, what would their hands feel like, their mouths, their cocks?

Then, without warning, a hand cupped your ass cheek, a firm grip that left no doubt who was in control. The touch was exhilarating, jolting through you, and you gasped, body arching reflexively, hips pressing backward into the touch, heels arching and shoes scrambling against the floor. A deep, gravelly chuckle rumbled in the room, a sound that sent chills down your spine.

“What a convenient little hole,” the stranger purred, their voice a low, husky growl, dripping with hunger. “Just what we need, hm?” Their words washed over you, heat blooming in your belly as they squeezed your ass, each touch igniting you further. “Waited so patiently, didn’t you?” A pause, deliberate, as the grip tightened. “Already so needy.”

A second set of hands, just as large and firm as the first, ghosted over your other cheek, squeezing, kneading, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. You moaned, unable to control the sound that spilled from your lips.

"That's what I thought," came a second voice, low and pleased, dripping with satisfaction. “Now, relax,” it commanded, the edge of authority sharp and undeniable.

Without warning, they spread you apart, exposing every inch of you in the most humiliating way, a wet squelch echoing as your body responded, slick and desperate. And then you felt it - hot, hard, the head of a cock pressing insistently against your entrance, seeking its way in.

Please, please, pleasepleaseplease-

The words swirled in your mind, a mantra of pure desperation, but the only sound that left your lips was a pathetic, needy whine. Your knees shook, weak under the weight of your need as those hands pulled away, leaving you trembling, exposed, wanting.

“No, no, please-” you hiccuped into your arms, folded beneath your head, the words breaking as a sob slipped through. Your hips twitched, pressing helplessly against the bench beneath you, desperate for more, the burn of their touch still scorching your skin.

"You look just like I imagined," one of them murmured, deep and smooth, tinged with dark amusement. New hands trailed up your thighs, teasing, maddeningly close to where you needed them most, only to pull away, leaving you gasping. “You’ll take what we give you," they chuckled, revelling in your frustration. “No more, no less.”

"You’re already soaked," the first voice purred, thick with approval, the smug satisfaction dripping from every word. It made your cheeks burn, the heat crawling down your neck, flushing your skin as much as the desperate ache between your legs. You were on fire, burning with the humiliation of your own need, the way your body betrayed you with every twitch, every quiver.

A shameless moan wrenched its way from your throat as a finger slid inside you, cool and deliberate, parting your slick folds and delving deep. It scraped against your insides, slow and unhurried, dragging out the sensation until your toes curled and your back arched. You couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop yourself, the sheer intensity of the intrusion sending shockwaves of pleasure rocketing through you, making you gasp, shudder, pressing back into the touch.

You could feel their eyes on you, could hear the amusement in their chuckles as they watched you squirm, watched you fall apart with just a finger.

“Look at you,” the second voice murmured, closer now, a whisper against your skin that sent shivers racing down your spine. “Already falling apart, and we’ve barely touched you.”

A whimper slipped past your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily as that finger curled inside you, hitting just the right spot, sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your already overwhelmed senses. Your mind was a haze, lost in the sensation, every nerve on fire, every touch igniting something raw and primal within you.

"More," you whispered, though the word came out broken, ragged. It was barely more than a breath, a plea that hung in the air between you.

But the fingers stilled, pulling back just enough to leave you aching, empty, desperate.

A strong hand came down hard against your ass cheek, the sharp sting radiating through your body like lightning. You gasped, more from shock than pain, though the heat spread quickly, leaving your skin tingling.

"Good holes don’t talk," one of them growled, firm and commanding, the words biting into you like a warning.

The authority in his tone left no room for argument, no space for anything but submission. You bit your lip, swallowing down any protest, your heart racing as the stinging warmth from the slap settled into a dull, aching throb. Your whole body tensed, bracing for more, every muscle coiled tight as you fought to suppress the need rising inside you, the urge to beg.

Another hand slid across your other cheek, soothing where the other had struck, a dark contrast between punishment and comfort. They knew what they were doing, playing with you, keeping you on the edge. The air around you felt charged, thick with the scent of your arousal and the oppressive weight of their presence.

Another hand, rough and confident, settled firmly on your hip, pulling you back just slightly, aligning your body with their demands. The head of a cock pressed against your entrance again, the heat radiating from it a stark reminder of what was to come.

“You asked for more,” the voice purred, satisfied. “So be a good hole and take what you’re given.”

The command was clear, the tone brooking no argument. Your body, trembling and desperate, responded instinctively, hips arching back, seeking that elusive pleasure that seemed just out of reach. Each touch, each command, was a reminder of the power dynamics at play, of the role you’d willingly accepted and now had no choice but to fulfil.

And just like that, one of them was inside you, one thrust, hard and deep, claiming you with a dominance that left you breathless, gasping. They didn’t stop, didn’t slow, another thrust and another, each one driving you deeper into the bench, the world around you falling away as you clung to the burning sensation that seared through your every nerve.

“Tight, so damn tight,” he panted, a mixture of awe and lust in his voice as he continued to pound into you, relentless and merciless. The rhythm was all-consuming, the sound of skin slapping against skin the only thing that broke the silence, punctuated by your strangled moans and their low groans of pleasure.

The bench creaked below you, cheap wood protesting under the onslaught of their hips, of your desperate grinding as they fucked you, each thrust driving you further and further from reality, from the world you thought you knew.

“You like that, don’t you, you dirty little whore?” another voice hissed, words punctuated by the wet slick of skin on skin. “Bet you’re clenching so tight on him.”

And it was true, your muscles were clenching, contracting around the invading cock, gripping and twisting as if to hold onto the pleasure, to extend the moment indefinitely. You were a hot, wet cavern around their length, taking them in, welcoming the intrusion with a slickness that spoke volumes.

"Fuck, you're so tight," the man inside you groans, his words a low, deep growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your world narrowed to this, to the cock inside you, to the feeling of raw, primal lust, the faceless man ravishing your body, reducing you to nothing more than a hole for their pleasure. The humiliation only fueled the fire in you, stoking the flames of your arousal as they brought you closer to the brink.

"Cum for us, whore," one growled, their voices melding together, hands gripping you, pinching you, touching you until you saw stars.

Their words sent you over the edge, the humiliation and the need and the overwhelming sensation of being so thoroughly used combining into a white-hot ball of ecstasy that exploded through your veins, your entire body convulsing around the invading cock.

“Look at you,” the first voice chuckled, triumphant, as your pussy spasmed around him, milking every last drop of his climax from him, his hot seed filling you, “Dirty slut.”

Their words echoed in your mind, even as the world around you blurred into a sea of colour and sensation, even as you lay there, panting, spent, and utterly broken in the best way.

You almost missed the feeling of a dull point against your skin, dragging and looping against the surface, lifting and then pressing. Writing.

More, you wanted them to touch you again, needed something to replace the emptiness. More, more, more. You wiggled in place against the drag of the marker. It only earned you another swat to the smarting skin of your cheeks.

—

‘Dirty slut,’

‘Dick here →’

‘Cumdump,’

Every time they came, they’d write on you - a brand, a claim, proud and stark against your slick skin. It only ended when the marker stopped running, clogged by all manner of fluids - cum, sweat, spit.

The four men watched, satisfied and sated, as your holes twitched and leaked, your legs slumped and weak and quivering, toes barely scraping the floor.

Kyle had gone first, as agreed. Johnny too eager, Simon too big, the captain too rough.

They took their turns, in order of largest to smallest, longest to shortest, in all the ways possible until it devolved to whoever was ready to go again, until your body was nothing but a mess of aching muscles and abused orifices and marker streaks and bruised cheeks.

“Fuck,” Johnny groaned from where he had slumped in the corner, hands twitching against the ground and his pants half-heartedly tugged back over his thighs. “Do we hafta leave?”

One of your legs twitched out and kicked, and the captain huffed a laugh, “Poor thing has nothin’ left in them.”

Price’s hand skated along the mess of cum and sweat and ink, collecting it on his fingers, and you flinched against the touch, still so sensitive, overstimulated.

“Might have broken them,” Simon snipped, flat, but not even he could act unaffected, his chest visibly rising and falling, sweat coating his visible skin.

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed, strained, sliding a hand down your back, “But it was bloody worth it.”

“Not going again, are ya?” Johnny guffawed from the floor.

“Much as I would love to see that,” Price drawled, but his tone was fond, “we gotta go. Time’s up.”

“Fuck, man,” Kyle groaned, parting with one last pat on your cheeks.

“I know.” Johnny helpfully added, voice wistful. “I’ll miss this ass.”

“Then next time, don’t come so fast,” Simon muttered, and it was the exact wrong thing to say, because they all laughed.

“Next time?” Johnny repeated, incredulous. “Fuck LT., I’m not sure there’s going to be a next time, I have nothin’ left in me.”

—

"Hoooo-lyyyy shit," Kyle blurted, gripping Johnny’s arm as if to steady himself, though his gaze remained glued to the phone in his hand. His voice trembled with disbelief, excitement, and a tinge of something more. He was practically buzzing with the revelation, his eyes wide in awe as he absorbed the image.

"Jee Sus, Mary, and Joseph..." Johnny muttered under his breath, his Scottish accent thickening with astonishment. The look of disbelief on his face mirrored Kyle’s as he leaned in closer, trying to process what he was seeing.

“What are the two of you lookin’ at-” Simon started, only to cut himself off as he swiped the phone out of Kyle’s hand with a swift, almost aggressive motion. Kyle staggered slightly but didn’t bother protesting. His mind was too occupied with the image burned into his retinas.

Simon’s eyes flicked over the screen, his expression shifting from irritation to something far more intrigued. His gaze lingered on the photo: Price’s assistant, the shy little thing that hardly said more than a few words at a time, stretching to grab something from a high shelf. Her shirt had lifted just enough to reveal faded, smeared ink scrawled across the smooth skin of her back, just above the waistband of her slacks.

The words, though blurry, were unmistakable.

The realization hit Simon hard, his grip tightening around the phone. He shifted his gaze to Kyle and Johnny, who both stood there, jaws slack, equally stunned.

"Fuck me," Johnny breathed out, breaking the silence, still staring at the screen like it was some sort of hallucination. "The assistant? Who would've thought she had it in her?"

Simon finally exhaled, passing the phone back to Kyle with a grunt. "Price has a way of... managing things, doesn’t he?" His voice was low, filled with a dark suggestion that hung heavy in the air.

Kyle glanced down at the phone again, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "Never would’ve pegged her for that type. Quiet little thing, but..." He gestured vaguely at the phone, at the faded writing that told an entirely different story.

Johnny laughed, the sound sharp with disbelief. "Looks like there’s more to that lass than we thought." He shook his head, still trying to reconcile the image of the shy assistant with the evidence on her skin.

"Wonder if she knows who got her marked up like that," Johnny mused, puffing out his chest with a wide smirk.

Kyle’s phone pinged with another photo from their captain, and Simon raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh, she knows."

[secretlovezz]

Simon Riley who just needs to stare at his girl for a while after coming home from a four and a half month deployment.

His gaze is stuck on you, darting around looking to see if anything changed. He needs to memorize everything. He's watching the way your eyes meet his every once in a while to make sure he is still listening to what you got up to while he was gone -you smile every time you look at him-, he's watching the way your lips move as you speak, lips opening and closing while you talk, tongue touching the tip of your teeth when you say certain words. You have him absolutely mesmerized with every one of your movements.

God, he missed this.

He missed watching and listening to his girl.

His girl.

His one and only.

[guppybibi]

John Price who absolutely loves it when you nag him. Would kill someone just to hear you scold him about smoking another cigar today. Who wouldn't appreciate all the nagging you do for him? He doesn't understand all of the other husbands who despise their wive's nagging, you wouldn't have nagged in the first place if you didn't care for their wellbeing in the first place!

Like he accidentally left the faucet slightly open? He could already hear your sweet voice lecturing him on and on about water conservation and such. You not only care for him, but the environment too? He scored a goal he never even knew he was missing the whole time!

Or maybe he casually skipped a meal to clear off his workload? Oh boy, he could practically see the outline of your shadow, approaching his office with a hearty meal and a frustrated pout. His imagination was doing wonders while he thought about what you plan on saying upon entering the room, perhaps you'll just step in and shove a spoonful of whatever food you have into his mouth?

He could die happy if he hears you telling him off about putting the toilet paper under instead of over (which is apparently the right way, from what I've heard) or for not taking out the trash earlier in time. John Price is a simple man, who appreciates the simple things in life, by your words alone he can already tell how much you care and value him as a person and as your husband.

[j0hnpr1c3sm1ssus]

Simon Riley x Reader

Title: One or two?

Synopsis: Simon wants to know how many kids you want.

Warnings: yes... This is pregnancy themed. Again. I love pregnancy fics.

AN: I think... I think I have baby fever. Also happy 1000 notes!!! :) <3333

Maybe it's how soft and supple your skin is, maybe it's that smooth voice you mumble to him at night, or maybe it's how you wear nice fabrics, the kind that brush against his skin and he can feel his muscles relax--but Simon is hooked on you.

It all started when you saw him at a coffee shop and his jaw practically dropped at how soft you seemed. You were so polite, spoke so quiet to the barista, that he had to make sure he got your number!

So when Simon saw a man that clearly didn't deserve you hitting on you after you politely declined him, of course he came up, hot black coffee in hand, and asked if there was a problem.

And when you first fell asleep beside him? He laid his head on your chest like a small child and just closed his eyes and he felt so... Held in that moment, even though your arms weren't around him that the next day when he drove you back to your place he stopped by the jeweller and got you a perfect ring.

Now you're on the couch, feet propped up, pretty little rock on your finger and he's laying on your lap, head beside your tummy, kneading at your thigh when he finally speaks.

"'Ow many kids?" Simon asks in his gruff voice, "One or two?"

You pause, looking down with a cocked eyebrow. Your hand reaches to start running through Simon's hair and he groans, relaxing entirely, "What do you mean, Si?" You ask in the soft voice that makes his knees buckle.

Simon picks his head up to look at you, "One or two kids?" He repeats, "'Ow many do ya want? 'Onestly, if it's more than two, we'll need a bigger 'ome."

Your eyes widen and your cheeks flush, and it makes Simon grin that devilish grin. He kisses your stomach, then your thighs. You let out that cute little giggle, your thighs squishing together because it tickles.

"C'mon, dovie. Ya gonna be my missus. Ya gotta know how many kids ya want," Simon says, rubbing up and down your thigh. He starts to get up, pulling you close, curled up beside him.

You breathe out a giggle, nestling up to Simon's side, "'M not sure.. maybe two?" You offer up, before Simon throws you down onto the couch playfully and gets on top of you.

He starts to plant kisses all up your stomach, then skipping your chest to kiss up your collarbone and shoulders. He kisses up your neck to your jaw, and you're giggling the entire time, squirming.

Then, he props himself up overtop of you to look into your eyes, "One or two?" He asks again, and all you do is giggle.

[homeofthelonelywriter]

“Dada! She said ‘Dada’!” Simon grinned from ear to ear as he picked up your daughter and gently twirled her around, pride practically seeping from his pores. You just stayed sitting on the couch, chuckling as you watched the two loves of your life. The little girl giggled as the world spun around her, her arms stretched into the air, while her eyes stayed glued to her daddy.

“You said ‘Dada’. Your first word was ‘Dada’.” Simon stopped spinning and cuddled his daughter against his chest, tears in his eyes as he gazed down at her. “I love you so much, my little angel. I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise you.” He gently kissed her forehead, making her giggle. Then he looked at you. “And I love you. Thank you. For everything. For her.”

With a soft smile, you got to your feet and walked over to your little family. “I love you too, Si.” You got onto the tip of your toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips before sending him off to your daughter’s nursery. It was already past her bedtime and thanks to Simon’s excitement, she’d be a horror to put down now.

Your heart fluttered as you watched him walk upstairs, still quietly cooing at her with the proudest expression on his face. Once he was gone, you released a relieved sigh, your mind taking you back to all the times Simon wasn’t home. All the times you whispered ‘Dada’ to your daughter, making sure that that would be her first word. You knew Simon needed it. From the very start of your pregnancy, he had been anxious if he’d be a good dad. To you, it had been clear that he would be, but he needed the reassurance. He needed to know for sure that his little girl loved him. And you would never tell him that she had said ‘shit’ last week while he was grabbing groceries.

A/N: Some fluff for everyone having a though time. You're not alone!

[khioneee]

‘honey, i’m home.’

simon, presumed dead for the past five years, appears at your doorstep, very much alive.

the knock at the door cut through the quiet night like a knife, startling you from restless sleep. rain hammered against the windows, and the wind howled through the cracks. your heart pounded in your chest as you shuffled toward the door, dread curling deep in your stomach. no one visited at this hour. not anymore.

you hesitated at the door, hand trembling slightly on the knob. for a moment, you thought about ignoring it—letting whoever it was go unanswered. but something pulled you forward, a strange sense of familiarity, even though you couldn’t place it.

when you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat.

there, standing on your doorstep, was simon.

simon stood before you, drenched from the rain, looking like a ghost dragged back from the edge of the world. his hair clung to his forehead, water dripping down his pale face, and exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. it had been five years since you’d gazed into those stormy eyes—five years of grief, heartache, and learning how to live without him. his familiar eyes, shadowed by exhaustion and pain, locked onto yours. his clothes were soaked, his body thinner than you remembered, like he had fought every step of the way just to stand on your doorstep.

your breath hitched painfully. ‘wake up,’ you said to yourself, heart racing. ‘please… wake up.’

but you didn’t.

‘lovie…’ simon whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it for a long time. ‘i’m home.’

your mind swirled and shock paralyzing you. it felt like a cruel trick your mind had conjured. the world around you blurred, and your heart ached in your chest. it couldn’t be real. he couldn’t be here.

simon’s expression softened, and without a word, before you could react, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet thud. he reached for you, pulling you into his arms without hesitation, and the breath left your lungs. his grip was tight, desperate, as if holding you was the only thing keeping him grounded. his cold, rain-soaked body pressed against yours, but you didn’t care.

he was here.

you froze for a moment, and then, slowly, your hands gripped the wet fabric of his jacket, your chest pressed against his. tears welled in your eyes, the disbelief crashing into a flood of emotions—relief, anger, and love. his familiar scent, rain-soaked, earthy, and undeniably him, flooded your senses, overwhelming you.

‘they told me you were dead,’ you sobbed against him, your fists clinging to his jacket as if that could keep him here. ‘they said your plane crashed. that you were gone.’

you clung to him, your heart shattering in your chest. he held you as if afraid you might slip through his fingers, as if his entire world depended on you being real.

simon buried his face into your hair, holding you tighter, his breath shaky. ‘every bloody day, i fought my way back for you,’ he said, his voice heavy with the weight of everything he’d endured. ‘you were the only reason i stayed alive.’

you sobbed harder, burying your face into his chest, your knees nearly giving out beneath you. all the years of mourning him, the endless nights spent crying yourself to sleep, the desperate ache of thinking you’d lost him forever—all of it shattered in his arms.

but then, simon’s grip on you faltered. something had shifted in the way he held you. slowly, he pulled back just enough to look down at your hand. his thumb brushing over the bare space where your wedding ring used to sit.

his body tensed. he pulled back slightly, just enough to glance down at your hand, and his breath hitched. the wedding ring you once wore was gone.

‘where’s your ring?’ he asked, voice quiet but edged with something fragile, as if the answer might break him.

your throat tightened, guilt and sorrow clawing at your chest. ‘simon…’ you started, voice cracking under the weight of it all.

his jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked past you. that’s when he saw them—new photos hanging on the walls. the ones of you and him were gone, replaced by pictures of you and someone else.

it was like the air had been knocked from his lungs. his jaw clenched, shoulders sagging under the realization. his face a mask of exhaustion and heartbreak as the weight of what he was seeing sank in.

you looked away, guilt pressing down on your chest like a heavy weight. ‘i waited…’ you whispered. ‘even when they told me there wasn’t a chance you were alive, i tried.’

his face didn’t change, but the subtle pain and betrayal in his eyes was unmistakable. ‘i came back for you,’ he uttered softly, almost to himself. ‘i told you i’d come to you.’

‘i thought you were gone,’ you cried, tears spilling down your cheeks. ‘i didn’t know how to keep waiting when they told me you’d never come back.’

simon’s hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away your tears. despite everything, his touch was tender, grounding. ‘i didn’t survive just to be a memory, sweetheart,’ he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. ‘i fought every day to come back to you. and if i have to fight again… i will.’

you leaned into him, your heart breaking and mending all at once. the years apart, the lost moments—they still weighed heavy, but he was here. he had kept his promise, and that was all that mattered now.

‘i told you i’d come back,’ he said, voice low but steady. ‘and i’m not going anywhere. not ever again.’

[nemo-writes]

𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖿 141 𝗁𝗎𝖻𝖻y 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝖽(𝗌) 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖼 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗌 ; 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 ── .✦

masterlist

── .✦ 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍 ; "𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋."

you’re in the kitchen, halfway through wiping down the counter, when the unmistakable ding-dong of the doorbell chimes through the house. not even a second later, there’s a series of sharp, almost aggressive knocks—thud thud thud—the kind that screams authority.

you don’t flinch. you know who it is.

from the living room, your son—a chubby little thing with a wobble to his steps and a belly that strains his tiny shirt. “dada! paw-paw!” he squeals with glee as he toddles to the front door like it’s the gateway to the best surprise ever.

you glance out into the hallway and, sure enough, there’s your husband looming behind the glass pane. he’s in his trademark mask, black and imposing, arms crossed as if he’s inspecting a breach. for someone knocking on a suburban door, he’s got the presence of a man leading an op.

your son, thrilled to pieces, presses his hands and face against the door, smudging the glass. “dada!”

on the other side, simon tilts his head slightly and points at the handle with a slow jab of his gloved finger.

“oi,” his mancunian drawl rumbles through the door. “open the door proper. c’mon, you know how.” he points again, voice firm but somehow patient. “handle. go on, then.”

your son grabs the door handle with all the determination of a kid on a mission. his little tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he pulls it down, and the door finally creaks open just a smidge.

and then your husband moves.

before your son can blink, simon reaches through the crack, grabs the front of the boy’s shirt—not roughly, just enough to yank—and hauls him up like he’s a piece of luggage.

“gotcha,” simon announces, his voice low but laced with just a hint of smug satisfaction. your son’s giggle erupts like a firework as he dangles in mid-air, limbs flailing with giddy excitement.

“you’re laughin’, mate?” simon asks, deadpan under the mask, holding your son just in front of his chest. “that’s not funny, you daft little thing. stranger knocks on your door, and you’re lettin’ ‘em in? what’re you thinkin’?” he gives him a little shake—not enough to scare him, just to punctuate his point—and your son’s delighted squeal fills the air.

you’re doubled over in laughter at this point, tears pricking your eyes as you lean against the wall for support. “simon, he’s two. you grabbed him like a rogue operative!”

your husband turns slightly, his masked face angled toward you. “yeah? he’ll remember next time, won’t he?” he looks back at the boy, who’s now practically vibrating with joy. “you lettin’ strangers in your house, lad? that how it works?”

“dada!” your son cries again, trying to clap his hands together despite still being held mid-air.

simon grumbles as he sets the boy down on the welcome mat with a soft thud, kneeling so they’re eye-level. “right. lesson one: don’t open the bloody door unless your mum says so. you got that?” he points a gloved finger at the boy’s chubby belly for emphasis.

your son responds by grabbing simon’s finger with both hands, his whole face lit up in pure joy. “paw-paw!”

simon freezes for half a second, caught off guard by the name before muttering under his breath, “...i’m not your paw-paw, you little menace. i'm a stranger, a bad man."

you snort so hard you nearly choke. “oh, come on, love. he’s trying his best!”

“trying? he’s a menace,” simon shoots back, though there’s no mistaking the affection under the gruff tone. he stands up, brushing his hands off like he’s just completed an important mission. “fine. lesson’s over. next time, i’m bringin’ a lock and some bricks for this door.”

“dada!” your son calls out yet again, his little voice bright and sweet, as he waves a tiny hand at him.

with a sigh so deep it seems to come from his soul, he stops just in front of you, head tilted down at the boy, eyes crinkling slightly under the mask as he studies the wiggling child. without a word, he raises a hand and hooks his fingers under the edge of his mask.

slowly, he tugs it off and shoves it into the pocket of his jacket, revealing that sharp jawline, the stubble along his chin, and—most of all—those softer eyes that never quite match the ghost everyone else knows.

“come here, then,” simon says, his accent soft, as he steps closer and reaches for his son. his large, gloved hands are careful as he takes the boy from your arms and settles him against his chest.

your son immediately tangled his pudgy fingers into simon’s hair and patted his face like he’s inspecting it.

he huffs a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into something resembling a smile. simon lets the boy tug on him a little more, his patience seemingly endless as he cradles him securely in his arms.

you can’t help but grin as you watch the two of them—simon, all six-foot-something of intimidating soldier, holding this chubby little bundle like he’s something precious. “so much for teaching him a lesson, huh?”

your son then leans forward to smush his face against simon’s stubbly cheek, a sloppy kiss of sorts that makes him snort softly.

“oi,” simon mutters, his tone gentler than you’ve ever heard it. “you’re lucky you’re cute, lad.” he pauses, pressing his forehead softly to the boy’s. “don’t you forget—doors stay closed ‘til your me or mum says otherwise, yeah?”

your son beams at him, blissfully unaware of any “life lesson,” already prepared for the next round of ghost-approved fun.

── .✦ 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉 ; "𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾."

you were just inside for a few minutes—just long enough to grab some snacks and a drink, trusting your husband to keep an eye on the boys. the backyard had been peaceful when you left, the twins chasing each other around while johnny sprawled out on a nearby chair, keeping a lazy but watchful eye on them.

then it happened.

the unmistakable boom of a small explosion rattled the windows, sending your heart straight into your throat. snacks forgotten, you practically flew toward the back door, skidding to a stop as you threw it open.

the sight that greeted you? absolute chaos.

johnny stood in the middle of the yard, holding both boys—one squirming under each arm—while a tiny, controlled fire smoldered on the grass nearby. bits of scorched dirt and debris dotted the area, evidence of a hasty but clearly deliberate detonation.

“right, lads!” johnny declared, his voice carrying that unmistakable scottish lilt as he adjusted the wriggling toddlers in his grip. “see that? that’s what happens when ye mess wi’ fire!” he pointed with exaggerated emphasis toward the remains of the explosion, his tone somewhere between a warning and a showman’s enthusiasm.

your sons, however, didn’t seem to be taking the lesson in stride.

instead of being appropriately terrified—or even mildly concerned—they were cackling.

the twin on johnny’s left wiggled furiously, laughing like this was the best game in the world. “boom!” he shouted gleefully, pointing toward the fire with chubby fingers.

the other one wasn’t any better. “fire!” he yelled, his high-pitched giggle ringing out as he made a valiant attempt to lunge from his father's grip toward the smoldering patch of earth.

“whoa now, none o’ that!” johnny barked, hauling the second twin back before he could escape. “what did I just say, eh? fire’s no’ for wee bairns like you!”

but his lecture fell on deaf ears. the twins, emboldened by their father’s antics and utterly thrilled by the explosion, began squirming even harder, each of them trying to wriggle free. johnny was quick, though, catching them every time they came close to slipping his grasp.

you finally found your voice, leaning against the doorframe for support as you tried to process what the hell was going on. “john mactavish! what in the world are you doing?!”

he turned to you with a sheepish grin, still clutching your wild, laughing children. “teachin’ ‘em a lesson, love!” he called, gesturing toward the charred ground with his chin. “see? controlled detonation—perfectly safe.”

“safe?” you threw your hands up, incredulous. “you just set off an explosion with toddlers watching!”

“aye, and now they know!” he argued, as if that was a perfectly logical explanation. he hoisted one of the twins higher on his hip as the boy reached for the fire again. “oi! no. look but don’t touch. lesson one o’ demolition—respect the flames, or they’ll bite ye!”

the twin let out a shriek of laughter, kicking his legs. “boom, boom!”

the other one giggled in agreement, trying again to squirm free. “again, daddy!”

“again?” you gaped at him. “johnny, they’re trying to run toward it! this isn’t a lesson—it’s a game to them!”

johnny groaned dramatically, letting his head fall back for a second before leveling a serious (well, semi-serious) look at the boys. “right, that’s it. we’re tryin’ again.” he crouched down, planting the squirming twins on the grass but keeping a firm grip on the back of their shirts.

“now listen here, you two,” he began, his voice low and serious as if speaking to a couple of recruits. “fire’s no’ somethin’ to mess about with, aye? you get too close, and poof! you’re singed. nobody wants to be singed, do they?”

both boys, completely ignoring the gravity of the situation, burst into another fit of giggles.

“no, daddy!” one of them squealed, pulling at his shirt to try and escape.

johnny growled playfully, dragging him back by his collar. “oh no ye don’t, lad. not toward the flames. away. away, i said!”

the other twin took advantage of the distraction to make his own break for it, toddling determinedly toward the still-smoldering patch of grass. johnny however was faster, swiftly catching him with one arm and hauling him up like a sack of potatoes. “caught ye, ya wee rascal! you think I wouldn’t notice?”

you couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the scene. “johnny, they’re laughing at you!”

he looked up at you with an exaggeratedly exasperated expression, one arm full of giggling toddler while the other twin dangled in his grip. “aye, well, they’ll stop laughin’ when they learn i’m bloody right!”

you crossed your arms, still grinning. “oh sure. by the time they’re teenagers, they’ll be building their own bombs.”

johnny flashed you a cheeky grin, one that was entirely too proud of itself. “and they’ll be damn good at it, too!”

you rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but you couldn’t stop the warmth spreading in your chest as you watched him wrestle with your boys. it wasn’t the lesson you would’ve chosen, but there was no denying the way their laughter lit up the yard—and how johnny seemed to soak up every second of it, chaos and all.

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