#riley mention

[purrgilpawkins]

Slime + Ink

Summary: Jack realized pretty early on that Mac always needed something. Whether it be something to distract him or something he needed to help finish his projects. (Or 5 times Jack is there to give Mac something he needs and 1 time he isn’t.) (Also available on AO3)

Pairings: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver

Part of the Comfortember 2020 series Prompt: Fidgeting / Jacket

Warnings: n/a

Notable tags: fluff, light angst, 5+1 things, caring Jack

Twenty-three hours into this surveillance mission, Mac had run out of paper clips and, unfortunately for Jack, found a pen and immediately started clicking it.

Jack was a very patient person (even if he liked others to think he wasn’t), you gotta be in order to be a truly professional sniper. That being said, he snapped after about three minutes.

“Mac, I am this close to smackin’ you upside the head.”

Mac stopped at Jack’s statement and glared at him before flipping the pen in his hand…and biting the tip. Jack sighed, glad he was no longer hearing the clicking (even if Mac’s pen chewing is still a little noisy).

They sat in (mostly) silence for the next few minutes, Jack trying to do his job and Mac still eating his pen. That didn’t last too long either, seeing as the pen Mac was chewing on burst and filled his mouth ink. Jack looked at him in amusement as Mac sputtered, reaching for one of the water bottles in the cup holders.

“Jesus, kid. I know you’re bored outta your mind but do you really need to poison yourself?”

Mac opened the door to the car and spat out his watery-ink mixture and closed the door. He glanced at Jack and wiped his mouth, which was still black. “Sorry. Guess I’m going a little stir crazy.”

“No shit.”

Jack sighed once more before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a packet of tissues that he handed to Mac. The ink-stained blond took it and wiped at the ink he just painted his hand with.

“Sorry. For blowin’ up at ya. We’ve been here for a day, I’m tired, and our intel must’ve been wrong cause the guy didn’t even show up!” Jack sighed yet again as Mac dabbed at his mouth, “How mad you think Patty’ll be if we left?”

“Probably pissed,” Mac said before attempting to remove the ink from his tongue.

“Yeah, well,” Jack sighed (yes, again) and dropped his head onto the steering wheel before quickly bringing it back up with a look of determination on his face, “She’ll just have to send somebody else out here to waste their time.”

Jack started the car and took off while Mac protested with a tissue in his mouth.

—

Jack saw that look in Mac’s eye. The one he got when he was about to run off and start making something out of random junk. And that was exactly what he did.

Mac ran out the back door of the restaurant and Jack followed him, not surprised to see the younger man digging around in one of the dumpsters.

“If you’re that hungry, they got fresh food inside the place, hoss.”

Mac ignored Jack and continued rummaging in the dumpster, throwing things back just as much as he was keeping them. He looked to his partner and Jack got the idea just before Mac started tossing him some of the things he’d dug out.

“You mind telling me what your plan here is?”

“Would you listen if I told you?”

Jack shook his head, “Probably not, no.”

Mac gave Jack a look and carried on with excavating. He stopped for a moment and jumped out to the next dumpster before he started his digging again.

“Jack.”

“Huh?”

“I need something to, uh, to inflate. Kinda like a balloon but it doesn’t have to be exactly like it. Just, something to blow air into and tie off at the end.”

“Right, yeah. I know how a balloon functions.”

Mac ignored Jack’s snark and the older agent turned to search for the requested item in the restaurant itself when an idea struck him.

“Would a condom work?”

Mac paused, “Yeah, that’d work.”

Jack moved the junk to his other hand and reached into his back pocket and pulled out the aforementioned condom, handing it to Mac. Mac looked at the condom and then at Jack. “Why…?”

Jack smirked and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Mac shook his head, “Never mind. Don’t need to know.”

—

Mac still had a few more weeks of recovery ahead of him. The PT was going well and the burns on his hands seemed like they wouldn't scar too bad, if at all.

Despite all the progress he’d made, it was still a struggle to move his hands. And for Mac, that was torture.

Bending his fingers too quickly was painful and some objects were rough against his still healing skin. It all made Mac upset and Jack saw just how upsetting it was.

They were sitting on Mac’s couch, Jack pretending to watch a movie while he sneakily eyed Mac as the man in question got lost in his own head. His fingers seemed to twitch even more now that they were hurting and Jack knew Mac would do anything for some kind of distraction.

So, the delta reached into his pocket and pulled out a mesh stress ball. He’d put it in there while at the store, completely forgetting about it, and ended up stealing it; he’d picked it up in the first place with the intent of giving it to Mac at some point anyway.

Jack reached over for Mac’s hand and gently turned it over to place the ball in his palm. Mac gave him a tired look but started squeezing the ball. He continued squeezing after several moments and once Jack realized he’d done good, he turned back to the movie, glancing at Mac occasionally, seeing him still slowly squishing the ball.

Not even thirty minutes go by before a faint pop! sounded from the general area of Mac and something warm and slimy smacked Jack in the face. Jack looked over to his partner and saw a trail of green slime inching down his face from his hair, his eyes squeezed shut, and a now deflated stress ball in his hands.

“Mac.”

“Sorry.”

—

Jack popped out of cover, getting three shots off before the guys on the other side of the warehouse got a few shots off themselves and he fell back behind the box he and Mac were using for protection.

“Anytime now, Mac!”

“Working on it!” Mac was very clearly working on it. Jack wasn’t sure the exact details of what “it” was but he was promised something explosive and that was all he needed.

The firefight continued as Mac took his time building his makeshift bomb. He looked up at hearing the click of Jack’s now empty gun. That was the last clip too.

“Mac!”

“Just another second!”

The goons were still firing their weapons from their places scattered about the “abandoned” building but they were likely to realize soon that the dudes who interrupted their illegal activities had stopped firing back.

“Okay, okay. Done!” Mac said as a bullet ricocheted past his head. He reached behind him to the matchbook he planned to use to light. “Oh, dammit.”

“What? What’s the problem?”

Mac picked up the matchbook, soaking wet after it had managed to land in a small puddle of water, now completely useless. The pair looked at each other and Jack was a little worried at the slight fear in Mac’s eyes. The bullet storm from the baddies had all but ended and then Jack remembered.

He frantically went for one of his inner jacket pockets and pulled out several loose matches, quickly handing them to Mac. A look of surprise replaced Mac’s scared one as he lit a match.

“The moment I throw this, run.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice, hoss.”

—

It was unfortunate how used to the scents and sounds of a hospital they were. It practically came with the job, being in a hospital waiting room, if not the hospital bed itself.

Riley had been shot. She was currently in surgery and the doctor who’d talked to the two other agents had assured them that if all went well, she would be fine.

Jack remained worried, of course. It was his job to worry, after all. Mac was worried too but it was obvious by his pacing he was feeling guilty as well.

Riley had shielded him from the bullet. It was supposed to hit him. Now she was the one in surgery, getting a bullet removed from her back when it should’ve been him. She didn’t deserve this.

Jack had been watching him like a hawk the whole time. Mac knew he was making him worry, which just made him feel worse. He shouldn’t be making Jack worry about both his kids, especially when one was more deserving of that worry than the other. Mac's unhealthy train of thought came to a stop when Jack spoke up.

“Hey, Mac.” Jack motioned to the seat next to him and Mac sat down, avoiding eye contact.

They sat in silence for a moment before Jack reached into his front pocket and pulled out a paperclip. He moved it in front of Mac’s face, making sure he saw it, before he started talking again.

“I’m willing to bet that there’s no way in hell you can bend this into…the Eiffel Tower.”

Mac scoffed, “Jack, you’ve seen me do it before.”

“The hell I have!”

“You have! We were in Paris trying to take down that arms dealer, remember?”

“Nope. Not ringing any bells.”

Jack smiled and Mac smiled back. The younger agent knew what his partner was up to and Jack knew he knew. Mac took the paperclip, happy to be distracted, and started bending it.

—

It was their first mission without Jack.

If anyone had noticed that the jacket Mac was wearing was Jack’s, no one acknowledged it.

It was a little too big on him, but that was okay. It was comforting, in a way. It felt like Jack was still there. Still protecting him.

During their mission, Mac had made a mistake. He hadn’t been able to focus properly since…well. A man had come at him with a knife and Mac froze. Luckily for him, Desi actually took her job seriously.

A good helping of blood had landed on Mac and therefore also on the jacket.

Mac didn’t want to wash the jacket. It still smelled like gunpowder and leather. Like Jack. But it was also starting to smell like blood and Mac was sure Jack wouldn’t be too happy about a bloodied jacket when he came back.

If he came back.

He’d eventually made up his mind and decided to wash the jacket.

Mac knew from experience that putting something in the wash before checking the pockets could lead to some kind of catastrophe, so he decided to empty out the pockets. He opened the zipper of one of the inner pockets and pulled out a folded piece of paper, simply labeled Mac. The man in question looked at it curiously, flipping it over and back before he folded it open.

Hey Mac,

I’m sorry I broke my promise. You should know that I didn’t want to leave if I didn’t have to. I know this seems like something I don’t have to leave for but, trust me, I do. Irregardless, my place will always be by your side. And don’t you worry, I promise I’ll be back as quick as I can. If you’ll have me, of course. Tell the others I love them.

Love you kid,

Jack

Mac wondered if Jack had anticipated Mac taking his clothes or if this was something he was supposed to read at all.

Either way, the short note brought some comfort to Mac, like his partner was still checking up on him despite his absence.

Mac slipped the note in his back pocket and put the jacket in the wash, a smile of his face.

[jammyjen26]

You wake up early and stretch, yawning and rubbing your eyes.

You notice the two muscular arms wrapped around you and see Simon still asleep beside you.

You try to get his arm off, but he moves closer and tightens his grip.

But this is your husband we’re talking about, you know how to get out of his grasp. You lean close and kiss his forehead.

He immediately relaxes and you take it as your chance to roll off the bed.

Once you’ve done your morning routine and showered, you go downstairs and start making breakfast.

Not even a full ten minutes after you’ve left the bedroom, you hear the shower running and twenty minutes after, heavy footsteps coming downstairs.

He walks into the kitchen and hugs you from behind.

“Mornin’ Love.” He says and turns your head with his hand softly. He leans down and kisses you to give you your morning kiss.

“Morning.” You say in between kisses, soon you pull away and turn back to the stove.

“What are you making?” He asks, hands on your hips. His hands squeeze your hip and then slide under your shirt, rubbing your stomach.

“Pancakes, omelette, and hashbrowns.” You say, tilting your head back to look at him.

He kissed your forehead and then pat your stomach.

He nods and offers some help to which you accept, you both then start making the batter together.

Feeling playful, you grab some flour and draw a heart on his cheek. To which he looks at you before he does the same to you.

You two continue making the pancakes together, occasionally fooling around and making out.

It’d be hard not to tell what he wants considering the bulge in his sweatpants.

A healthy and delicious breakfast with a side of cock is your perfect morning.

[lxvvie]

Lately I just can't seem to stop thinking about simon with a wife who chants his name like a prayer while he's pounding her into the mattress. Dick so bomb all she can say is "oh, SIMON!" 😍

It's fuckin' music to his ears, saying his name like that, chanting it like a bloody prayer, like he's the most sacred thing walking the goddamn planet in your eyes.

You moan his name—fuck, it makes him tremble—and fucks you faster, hits that one spot like his life depends on it. You say his name with everything you have, and Simon's never felt so loved, so adored before in his life; poor bastard didn't think it was possible to turn 'I love you' into one word, but you did: him.

He hits that spot again and you're seeing stars.

Say it again, sweetheart. Tell him you love him.

[nyxiswrites1200]

Thinking of John Price being married to the prettiest wife. He invites Soap, Ghost, and Gaz over to his house where his pretty girl is sitting in the pool in the smallest bikini.

Getting all flustered because of the other guys but Price kisses her and says it's fine.

Ghost especially can't help but stare. He's never seen something so pretty in his life. Price knows you like him, you like the masked brooding L.T.

You sweetly ask for permission and of course Price grants it. You get to flirt with Ghost and hold on to his muscular arm while you try to convince him to get in the pool. However you just end up beneath him on a pool chair as he touches you.

"You take good care of your husband, love?"

"Mhm, I do. Let daddy fill me up all the time"

"You got room for one more?"

Letting him fuck you as Soap and Gaz try not to stare but they sit on the edge of the pool with their cocks hard. Price watching as he shamelessly strokes his cock, asking you how you like Ghost's dick in your tummy because it's so big.

Ghost fucking you in the backyard of your husband's house as the rest of em watch, trying not to be pervs. But you're just a sweet pretty little thing :( they can't help it.

Ghost is pounding you, making you moan so loudly. Good thing there's a tall fence surrounding the yard. He's got you pinned under his large frame, not even undressed.

Soap and Gaz cum in their swim trunks and Price's shoots over his happy trail on his stomach as Ghost pumps you full, leaving you dripping with his cum. You already know Price is going to want to fuck it back into you tonight along with his own.

Ghost was sweet though. Sent you flowers when he was away because he didn't want you to feel used even if you did want his cock anyway...

An: I don't know what came over me guys <3

[the-raindeer-king]

Simon would love a little freak (affectionate) of a partner. Like you collect weird things, like taxidermy or bones? Say less, babes. He's getting you an animal skull for your birthday.

Is your thing clowns? Man is scouring the internet for some obscure clown clock because you saw it on Ebay once and complained about the price.

You likes bugs? Great, he's got a friend named Roach. Y'all be freaks (affectionate) together. But also he's building you a butterfly garden, or buying you a pet spider, or whatever.

It doesn't even have to be weird. You could just really like the ocean, or horses, or whatever. And I just realized what I'm getting at is that Simon would love a neurodivergent partner...

And he would!! He'd listen to you ramble and rant, and he'd be making a mental list of things to look for when he buys you presents. You could be hyperfixated on literally anything, and Simon would find a way to get you a present related to that interest. This man would move heaven and earth, if it meant making you happy.

[amazeingartist]

spider!gaz & venom!ghost when they get along

[differenteagletragedy]

What if you are married to Simon but you still have eyes and Price is right there, what then ↓

It's so hot. The sun is beating down outside, summer in full swing, but inside your house the heat is oppressive. It's suffocating.

"Simon, just call someone to fix it," you whine, walking around until you find your husband with his shirt off and sweat dripping down his back, reading something on his phone.

"Don't need anyone to fix it," he mutters, not looking up at you. "Can do it myself."

You groan, because it's painfully clear at this point that he in fact cannot fix it. It's been three days since the air conditioning went out, and three days of Simon trying everything he can think of to fix it. He's been flipping breakers, messing with the thermostat, taking tools to the unit outside, but nothing's worked, because Simon does not know what he's doing.

"I'm going to die," you tell him, sinking down onto the couch. "I'm going to perish and it's all going to be your fault."

You see him smirk, but he still doesn't look up. Instead, he tells you, "You're going to survive this, sweetheart. Going to have it up and running by tonight."

"Why won't you call an actual repairman? Why are you insisting on whatever this is?"

"Cute," he says, finally glancing up at you with a grin. "You're the one who married a stubborn bastard, what do you think?"

You think it's a mix of pride and sheer unwillingness to be outsmarted by a hunk of metal and parts, but you don't say that. Instead, you continue whining.

The next morning, Simon still hasn't figured it out. You tell him more directly, dramatics aside, that you're very uncomfortable and would just like to solve the problem in a normal, reasonable manner.

He makes a deal with you. He's not ready to completely give up and call in outside help just yet. But he will call Johnny.

"Does Johnny know how to repair a heating and cooling unit?" you ask, entirely unconvinced.

He answers, "Johnny knows a lot of things."

A couple of hours later, Johnny comes over, his own tools in tow, and he's brought along a surprise -- Kyle.

You keep your groan to yourself this time and just bring the men drinks while they work. Or, well, while Johnny and Kyle nod while Simon tells them everything he's done that hasn't worked. It doesn't take them long to switch from water to beer, and at this point you're pretty sure you're actually going to die.

"You know," Kyle says at one point, carrying the latest round of empty bottles to the trash, "I think the captain had something like this happen a few years back. I seem to remember overhearing him talking to the missus about it in a call."

"Is that why she divorced him?" you ask. "He wouldn't call a repairman and kept telling her he could fix it himself?"

Simon gives you a look, and you give it right back -- you know you're being cheeky, but the heat really is miserable.

But Kyle only laughs and shakes his head, saying "No, I don't think that's what did it. He got it fixed, I believe, he's pretty handy with things like that."

It's your turn to shoot Simon at look. Your husband shakes his head, twisting the top off another beer, and says, "Absolutely not."

"Simon."

"Sweetheart."

"Please."

An hour or so later, John arrives. And, ever so slightly, the atmosphere shifts. Simon, Johnny and Kyle stand just a little bit straighter, their voices get the tiniest bit more business-like. They're not standing at attention now that the captain is here, it's not that notable, but now it's clear that someone is in charge.

It's cute, you think as you watch them. You smile softly, watching Simon as he gives John a debriefing on everything he's tried so far, and you don't notice that John's eyes linger on you just a fraction of a second longer than what might be considered acceptable.

The captain is the one who finally gets the air conditioning running again, but it's no small effort. From the window, you watch as Price tinkers with something within the unit, and you smile when you hear it kick on, a nearby vent starting the work of circulating cool air through the too-hot house.

"What did you do?" you ask John, a bit of wonder in your voice, when they all come back inside to make sure everything is in order. "Simon's been going at it for days and you got it in half an hour."

The older man gives you a small, tight smile, reaching out to tap Simon's shoulder lightly.

"Just a blown capacitor, love," he tells you. "Easy enough fix."

You return his smile like you always do -- you like John. Always have. It's something, you think, about how similar he can be to Simon. Both men are strong and solid, deeply masculine in a way that's natural, not forced. They both have deep, rumbling voices that you feel in your chest when they speak. And sometimes, though you don't know John as well as you know Simon, of course, you think that the captain has something wild in him, too. Some kind of ache that runs deep through him, one that he's muzzled and tamed long ago.

Your Simon struggles with it still, though less since you married him. It's why he still wears a mask on the job, and why he wrestles, on a base level, with the idea of being seen.

John, you think, wears a different kind of mask. You can see it when he comes over for dinner some evenings, in the way that even after a full meal, dessert and a glass of scotch, the tension stays in his shoulders. You've never seen the man relaxed, and from what Simon's said of him, he hasn't either. It's his tight grip on control, of himself and those around him. He clings to it.

"Is that thing really working?" Johnny asks, grabbing another beer. "It's still hot as hell in here."

"It'll take a while to cool down, but it's working," John answers.

He's as sweaty as the others, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he lifts the hem of his t-shirt up to wipe his face. You look down -- your eyes just tracking the motion, you tell yourself -- to see his belly bared, covered in a thick coating of dark hair and just the slightest bit soft.

When you pull your eyes back to his, he's giving you a grin, but if he caught you staring, he doesn't say anything.

"You wanna get Price a drink?" Simon asks, smirking at you. "For saving your life and all."

You nod, turning back to the kitchen, pulling out the scotch you keep just for him and trying to clear your head.

Sure, John is an attractive man. So is Kyle, so is Johnny. And for that matter, so is Simon. Your husband.

But still, when you return to the group of men gathered in your living room, your fingers brush against John's as you hand him the drink. And you can't help but think about what that beard would feel like against your cheek, between your thighs. How it would feel if, even for just a little while, you were the thing he felt that desperate, innate need to control.

[quarterlifekitty]

DUDEEEE older step bro Simon is legit rotting so bad in my brain rn

Mmmmmm

cw: stepcest and fauxcest

Simon is sooooooooo good for this because I think the setup here is really clear lol

His father and your mother. He really pitied you when they got married. Sure, your mother was an unfortunate party, but she had her own issues as a parent and most of all? She was a free adult. She could leave. You didn’t have that luxury and at the time, neither did Simon.

I imagine he was in his teens and you were still a bit young when they got married. And he became your shelter. He was the one who would take you away in his shitbox of a car when your parents were fighting, and buy you some fast food. He let you crawl into his bed. He made you breakfast and took you to school when they didn’t, even when it made him horrifically late to school himself. He was why you ate overcooked scrambled eggs on toast when you otherwise might’ve had to get by on cereal.

It broke his damned heart to enlist, but in his view, it was the only way. He had no path or funds for higher education and almost no job prospects in the shitty little town, much less ones that would pay him enough to move out and support himself and you. So he went away.

You wrote letters religiously. He always responded, though sometimes he could barely push out a single sentence because of how hard he worked himself in the beginning. Occasionally when the times lined up, he’d call. The best nights of your life. He’d send money, sometimes with some simple instructions— advice your parents would never give. Left you his shitty car. Told you to try your hardest to get a flat somewhere far away the minute you were old enough. You didn’t have any credit, and barely any employment or records of your own (it had been its own battle to wrestle yours and Simon’s documents from your parents), so everything was in Simon’s name, and you were fine with that.

He tries to maximize his deployment time. He wants to get benefits and rise the ranks as soon as possible, all for your sake. Before he knows it— between the months overseas, the long nights and weeks in no-communication zones, being taken prisoner for the first time and tortured— it ends up being years before he sees you again. The only sign you have that he’s alive is the deposit of pay to the account and the clearing of the rent and utilities bills.

You were a teenager when he left, and now you’re in your 20s. A job of your own. Kept the flat tidy— a room made up for him, even after all this time.

And all that time sweating and bleeding across the globe, under the mercy and blade of others, he’s a little twisted. Not just in the physical scars, but inside. He’s spent so long neglecting himself, thinking of you— of you being the reason he gets up and the reason he pushes through. He almost reveres you.

And god knows he could never stomach inviting a hookup to the flat that you’ve made into a home for the both of you. So what else can he do but start to covet?

[meowf4ngs]

more of roommate!ghost bc it's good to know that he can be happy too & he deserves softer mornings.

mdni.

cw: biting mention

prev.

the smell of coffee permeated the flat, the place he used as a minor safe house---to settle down for an hour or two---has now turned into a place where he relaxes in, somewhere he looks forward coming back to, and not the empty place it once was.

and sure, the boys---the idiots he adores but won't admit---have helped tried to decorate the place. the telly that his captain told him to buy, the coffee table that gaz pointed out at a passing furniture store, something to hold documents and his pints; the leather couch that he doesn't regret buying but makes his eye twitch---soap's the one that told him he should blow money on before they all shimmied the damn thing in.

but now---there's her.

his roommate---the little thing that showed up at his door to answer his ad about it on craigslist---he should yell at her for being reckless but that's another days problem.

when he walks into his, their, shared kitchen; he's greeted by the sight of bedhead, too short shorts that makes him rethink of better things---like a cold shower or running straight into traffic.

either way, she's looking over her shoulder---the softest smile he's ever been graced with, his throat tight and his hands turn into white knuckle fists before releasing their grip---a heavy sigh already on his lips, he really needs that cold shower.

"Mornin' Simon," and there's her voice, light and melodic even in the early mornings, sleep lines on her cheeks, the way her eyes sparkle just slightly---he's very much fighting the urge to put her on the countertops of the island, and do something roommates don't do.

ghost's voice is gruff, deep brown eyes flicking towards her outstretched fingertips in the cupboard and back to the sliver of skin of her stomach, "Mornin' sweetheart," and he's already walking over, grabbing the mugs---because she's sweet like that, she bought one for him when she went into town.

a thoughtful bird.

a sweet little thing---he wonders if she's as sweet as she acts.

the coffee gets poured and they're leaning on opposite sides of the countertops, and he can't help but admire her in the light---not especially the way the sweater dips off her shoulder, collarbone showing off---his teeth ache.

her eyes are fluttered shut, lips pressed to the rim of the mug, and he's watching the way her throat swallows---he's a little jealous. especially when she smiles, a shiver down her spine and looking right at him---he nearly chokes.

"Are you doing anything today?" she's asking him, and he's stuck on the way her lips glisten, how she smiles like she's not afraid of him---like he can't just lift her with a single hand--he exhales, soft, slow; which is interesting.

he's never been soft until her.

"No, I'm not," his voice is heavier, deeper---licks at the flames of his thoughts of wanting to add something less than appropriate, but he's got more self-control than most---better than soap anyway that's for sure, he's also pretty sure the Scot would beg to differ, but to each their own.

he's snapped out of his stupor when she breathes a sigh of relief, something of contentment and he wonders how to bottle that noise up, how to take it with him when he's out on the field---wonders how to make her his.

"Really? that's great---we can be lazy today." she's grinning, sipping her coffee once again before moving to make breakfast, the sounds of things moving and her mug being put down.

and ghost just stares, lashes blinking at her--he swallows hard, his heart hammers and he moves his gaze to look at his coffee, the dark liquid rippling back at him.

god, his teeth ache.

god, he needs to sink his teeth into her.

[crsssie]

class cancelled. see you online - professor!simon riley x professor!reader

In the early years when he first started, Simon didn't cancel class. It was kind of well known at that point. He'd rather spend the class chattering about his wife than cancel class, so imagine everyone's surprise when he sent out the collective email detailing that he was canceling class because his wife was in labor.

What.

He sent them the slides for the day and a previous recording from a while back, letting them know that class on Thursday would be on zoom — a link that he will post onto the class canvas eventually.

He signs off the email with a photo of the baby locked by a password hidden in the slides, and he replies to everyone's congratulations once you're back in the home. He ends up staying back to teach the rest of the term from home because he was taking care of the baby

It was something briefly mentioned on his rate my professor, detailing how Professor Riley had "Moved the rest of our semester online because he wanted to stay home and take care of his wife. How did the school allow this?" and "I for one loved the online classes and congrats to him for finally being a father — 5/5 for my semester tbh" but truth was while the rate my professors ratted him out, his students didn't mention that class was moved online at the time.

So, when he lets his class know that he'll be out for a couple of weeks and moving class online, everyone sends in their congratulations early, earning a furrow of his brows and a laugh from your lips as he reads his emails to you.

"They really read their RMP reviews huh?"

"Sure did. I didn't even mention it this time. I barely talk about our daughter." He hums, hand on your bump as the second kicks at it.

"Well, I think I walked in once or twice." You hum. "Besides, they like it online."

"I do too." He mumbles, pinching at his daughter's cheeks as she giggles. "But most people don't pick up enough when you teach online."

"That's true." You take the berry from your daughter's hand as she hands one to you and presses another to Simon's lips.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

She nods, eyes glued back onto the screen as you glance at the recent check-up results.

"You bet Johnny's gonna cancel class too?"

"Heard he already told his students."

"Crazy."

[sirbonesly]

LowStandards!Reader/Simon Riley pt.1

You've had plenty of relationships that you'd classify as 'shitty', but none of them lasted longer than your last ex, Jason. When your friends called him manipulative, you always brushed them off, said he was better than the other guys, that he actually showed some care. He helped out around the house when you asked (begged him to with promise of a blowjob) and he always listened when you said you didn't feel like sex (it always took a few tries, and sometimes you'd just let him keep going because he got in that 'state'). But things came to a head a few months after the new neighbour, Simon, moved in.

Simon is nice, polite. He helps you with groceries when the lift is broken (more often than not, it's out of order) and he never asks for anything in return. You've never seen much of his face, always wearing a medical face mask, or a balaclava during the colder winter months. It had been good, though Jason was completely unaware of your kindness towards the stranger. You had tried to convince yourself that the guilt about talking and smiling with your neighbour was because you needed to stay loyal to Jason, and not because you knew, deep down, that Jason was not a good man.

A few months after Simon moved in is when everything happened. Jason had gotten mad because once again, you didn't want to have sex tonight, had wanted a quiet date night at home. Things escalated, he started shouting, and then a vase is shattering against the wall you share with the new neighbour. When the lamp follows nearly a minute later, you lock yourself in the washroom, frozen with a fear you hadn't felt since that time someone tried mugging you and your father years ago.

But then the shouting stops, Jason isn't banging on the door anymore, and there's an eerie silence. You don't dare open the door, having been dragged to one too many seminars by your friends (all attempting to convince you that Jason is a piece of garbage.) So you listen, hear muffled voices getting louder, and louder, until they suddenly stop and someone hits the floor.

Worry for your boyfriend has you opening the door, and a horrible part of your mind wonders what will happen if Jason is alright. It wouldn't be the first time he's gotten rough, has pushed you around or gripped too tightly. But he's angrier than you've ever seen him, and that fear is gripping tight.

The sight that greets you as you slowly peak around the corner is one that makes your stomach sink and a desperate part of your mind want to smile. Simon is on the ground, one hand holding Jason's arm behind his back, and the other around Jason's throat in a choke hold. You're frozen, split between wanting to stop Simon, and wanting to see what he'll do to Jason.

"Don't just stand there! Get your guard dog off of me, you psycho whore!"

Jason's cry for help, though the words confuse you a bit, has you moving. Small steps, socked feet padding along the floor as Simon finally looks up at you, coming to a stop next to him. You look at the broken shards of glass on the floor, the lamp and vase that you had picked out all on your own because Jason couldn't be bothered to help furnish your new flat. The flat you bought because you wanted to be closer to him.

"You alright, luvie?"

Your eyes are burning, tears wanting to fall but you stubbornly wipe them away. Not answering Simon's question, not actually sure how you're doing, you grab Jason's phone and his wallet. Simon hauls Jason to his feet, being extra rough about it as Jason grunts and curses at the massive man.

There's a numbness growing in your chest, blocking out Jason's curses and crude words, the ways he's struggling against Simon's iron grip. Your neighbour shows no sign of struggling to hold your boyfriend, and honestly, it's a little pathetic to watch Jason.

How many times did he tell you that struggling only made things hurt more? How much of his knowledge of bondage was real when the knots he tied hurt and would dig into your skin? Jason would boast that you were lucky he was around to help fix things, always a few days too late after Simon already fixed it. It always gave him ammunition to call you crazy, say you're wasting his time. This was just the last straw.

It doesn't take long, a single word while shoving Jason's phone and wallet at him, any protests shut down quick by Simon practically throwing him into the hall, and suddenly Jason is now your ex-boyfriend. When the door finally slams shut, with a few choice words thrown at you, a homophobic slur added to it, Simon is already pulling you into his arms.

"It's alright, luvie. I'm here, not going anywhere, come sit on the couch, come on."

[3amfanfiction]

What is your favorite trope woth each CoD guy?

I love favorite tropes. Okay so starting off strong we have:

John Price who I love to see in the exhusband role (the one where everything works out in the end ofc). Give me a John who fought but conceded when you insisted on a divorce. Irreconcilable differences.

But you wouldn't be able to tell from the outside looking in because he doesn't change his actions at all. Still does the yardwork for you every weekend, goes to the grocery store and stocks your fridge, you'd better not leave out a to-do list that you're meaning to get to bc that man will see it sitting on the counter and take it as orders.

And heaven help you if you come home stressed and anxious and he happens to be there (you've taken his key three times, how does he keep getting in?) bc he's pulling you to the bedroom and proceeding to work every bit of stress out of your system enthusiastically. You're going to be a wobbly-kneed foal by the time he's done with you.

And then we have Kyle Garrick who I love to read in the 'everything he's saying could be true but he could also be spinning it to keep you from acting out'. This is a little darker but I love when reader is kidnapped/forcefully relocated through extenuating circumstances and the reasoning he gives could technically be true. But it could also be a line, used to keep you manageable.

Bc he's so pretty and he's so well spoken that surely he wouldn't lie to you. And what he's saying makes so much sense, how could it not be true? All the while he's facilitating things that corroborate his story, pulling you in deeper and deeper until you don't even think of running away anymore.

Johnny MacTavish? Breeding kink breeding kink breeding kink. That man was raised catholic and he wants his own house filled with the pitter-patter of tiny feet. He wants chaos in his home and he's not above a little stealthing to make sure it happens. Give me a man who wants (fictional) babies with me so badly that he would do anything to see it through.

And finally Simon Riley who I'm unafraid to say is my favorite and who I love in any role he plays. But my favorite is when he's half of a ghoap pairing, being so good-naturedly dominant and letting Soap have his lead, running around and getting in trouble while he follows behind and glares at anyone who might upset his boy.

And then Johnny does something silly like kidnapping you and bringing you home as a present (after he spends a little one-on-one time with you first ofc). Then here comes this mountain of a man, looking at poor little kidnapped you, all teary-eyed and pleading and Johnny--grinning like a cat that caught the canary. Proudly showing off his new toy.

Simon who takes it all in with a slow blink before slotting you into their lives like you'd always been there, no you can't leave pet, this is your home now.

[rainyramblesscramble]

Hehehe DOODLE PAGE BE UPON YE 🫶

includes past and current suggestions/requests by @lialucis @thatoneautisticshark and @ghostmoon1 …as well as two requesters from discord whose tumblr tags I unfortunately do not know :(

Thanks everybody for getting me to 350! I have had so much fun thus far and I hope to see y’all through many more ups and downs 🫶

[p1n-p0int]

Vows That Bind Part 1

_____________________________________________

In sickness and in health, for good and for worse. That's how most wedding vows go: sweet and simple yet still carrying the subtle message of ‘I will be there for you no matter what.’ Two individuals connected by the golden bands and promises to stand behind each other like a solid wall made out of steel, unwavering in the innocence of love and devotion. Entwined souls cocooned together for the years to come, withstanding and facing whatever life throws at them. There wasn't anything to fear as long as they had each other.

Then, eventually, the little bubble of the wife and husband is expanded by the addition of offspring—an exact copy and paste of the father, a perfect clone of the mother, but ideally a mix of both parents.

A tiny duplication of sky blue eyes, dirty blond strands of hair, and that oh-so-stubborn look on their petite facades, the same one John would be making whenever he half-heartedly insisted on getting his way in the silliest mock arguments they so often had that brought a peal of full belly laughter out of their beloved sons.

The sharp brow line, upturned delicate nose, and proud mannerism of their mother, in addition to the unbeatable sad puppy stare she mastered and often used against John when he questioned her purchase of yet another set of overpriced, scented candles she just had to obsess about every time they pulled over at the local market. And John always gave in to her way because the happiness that instantly bloomed over the features of his lady-wife was enough of a reward for the man to last him as a sweet, lingering memory for the days of absence spent thousands of miles away during his deployment.

The moment when he, at last, hit the home soil, though, and was discharged on leave for the time being—nothing would stop John from catching the first better cab and running it down in the direction of the home, the car parked at the base be damned, he can pick it up some other time. His house, a little two-level cottage on the city's outskirts with a sizable garden bordering on the forest, was often visited by the wildlife his sons adored to observe.

His usual arrival time was late at night, but on rare occasions, he would get home just for dinner and then spend the entire time chatting with his sons.

John would ask his older son about his grades and friends at school and, with the younger son, about whatever he had been doing to keep his mommy busy while daddy was away. Then, he would help them get ready for bed, and after a quick goodnight kiss on his cheek, he would send them running to their rooms.

And at last, he'd turn towards his better half, standing just a few steps away, who smiled at him with an open expression, full of love and adoration for the man she chose to marry. For he was her first and last thought on her mind when she woke up and went back to sleep each day, worrying about his safety whenever he was away, and when he was close and next to her, she cherished and enjoyed every waking moment by his side.

John doubted there was ever a word that could describe the content love that flew between them, the wordless understanding. They rarely needed words while they had each other.

“I'm back,” John would say, each and every time more tenderly than before. She would answer, “Welcome back,” in a voice softer than the softest of silks.

John adored his little family. He'd do anything to keep them safe and sound, even if it meant sacrificing his happiness. He missed them terribly while away but knew it was for the greater good; his work was necessary. He made sure that the danger of the world would never reach home again, not after the Piccadilly Circus incident.

×××

Like many times before, John was at his home base, passively partaking in a briefing of the upcoming training exchange the upper management wanted Task Force 141 to oversee. 

Sighting, John scratched the base of his neck and finally announced the end of the meeting. The scraping of chairs against the floor panels and agreeable murmurs from the gathered soldiers followed.

He stood up from the not-so-comfortable meeting room chair and was about to head towards the rest of the Task Force lads when his work phone vibrated with a singular notification. He immediately took it out and unlocked the screen to look at the message from Laswell:

»THERE WAS A SECURITY BREACH. CLASSIFIED INFORMATION WAS COMPROMISED.«

He was about to ask her for further explanation when his personal phone began to ring. Frowning, as not many people had the privilege of being in possession of his private phone number, he pulled it out of his pocket. ‘My Love’ was plastered on the screen, an even odder scene unfolding, as his wife rarely called during his work hours, and only occasional texts were sent his way. He put his work phone aside, and without further fanfare, John picked up the call right where he stood:

“Love, is everything okay–?”

“Daddy, are you coming to get us? Mommy told us to stay hidden; bad people are coming,” his eldest son sniffled quietly. She said not to come out and to call you when one hour passes.”

John's blood turned ice cold, freezing him momentarily, almost letting the phone fall out of his hand.

His family was in danger.

It was an electrifying spasm that went down his spine and shook him out of his stupor and into action. “I'm coming, son. Papa is coming,” he said firmly, signing to Ghost standing nearby ‘Home, emergency, invasion, ready the unit.’.

»RECEIVED. HEADING OUT TO ANSWER A DISTRESS CALL FROM HOME. FIND OUT WHO MESSED UP. OR I WILL.«

×××

The ride to his home with his men armed from their feet to the tips of their heads felt like a fever dream and a nightmare combined. None of the men dared say a word to him, not while he kept the line his children were on alive.

Even Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, the never-ending stream of chatting during the way to the mission, kept quiet, observing Price with barely hidden worry. Price hated worry; he hated pity, primarily directed at him, but these men he was with were the only ones who could look at him in such a way. And this was precisely one of such occasions.

There was a security breach into the classified systems, and one of the items stolen was intel about their Captain's private life—a life not even they had access to. To think that somebody who didn't mean well got a hold of it and targeted Price's bundle of happiness is an unredeemable crime people will die for committing.

At last, they arrived in front of the little cottage Price deemed a scorched ground. A scorched ground his men did not let him step on, insisting that they will sweep through just in case, while Price gets a hold of his children's hidden place and gets them into the safety of the bulletproof, heavy army vehicle.

He had no other choice but to stomp towards the little bunker-like area he told his wife about as a just-in-case emergency situation he had hoped to God that never would come to pass. Oh, how wrong he was.

As soon as he opened the lid to the hideout, two pairs of hands tackled his legs, clinging to his pants for dear life. His stoic facade quivered, and dropping to his knees, John gathered the sobbing kids to his chest. He picked them up, stood up, turned around, and carried them toward the vehicle under the watchful gaze of his fellow men. 

A subtle movement from the corner of his eye had Price turning his head towards the veranda, where Kyle “Gaz” Garrick waved at him to catch his attention. He raised a brew at the young man. ‘Traces of struggle, blood, no body.’ They took her. They took his wife.

John glanced down at his sons and snuggled them closer to his chest, his face unreadable. Price nodded at the sergeant and continued his solemn march, already beginning to formulate a plan of action in his head.

Whomever it was, wherever they were, Price would find them.

_____________________________________________

a/n: still getting used to writing a "you" POV, especially from third person perspective, so bear with me, k? Great, good night 💀💀

Tag list: @catinpinklace @gothghostiie

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hello, Congratulations on the 5k follows!!

I discovered this fandom a few months ago and have been living for your writing ever since.

I was thinking as a drabble of the taskforce gentlemen coming home at the crack of dawn from a long mission and seeing their spouse's hand, limp on the ground peeking out from the side of the couch. All the panic and worry going thru their heads, so much bubbling up, horrible scenarios. They rush over and find you sleeping on the floor. The power had gone out last night and the hardwood floor was the coolest place to be (you didn't want to open the window because you know how they worry), so you were watching stuff on your phone and drifted off. Crisis averted!

Thank you for your time 💜

—Wide-Eyed Panic

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Why were you behind the couch?] ❞

I’ll start by saying all of them would be concerned and immediately go into panic mode—why were you behind the couch? Why was your hand sticking out? Why, in God's name, were you not moving? Cue the horrible thoughts and flashes of what went on in their work lives.

John Price ➺

John entered the house with a sigh, slipping off his boots as the door was closed and deftly locked behind him. Grunting under his breath, the man rubs over his face, the lights off as he calls out with a tired grumble to his voice. 

“I’m back,” his voice echoes, the tone moving through the darkness far louder than it should have. There’s no answer. “Love…?” Pausing, John blinks slowly at the wall, ear twitching to the utter silence of the home. No water in the pipes. No buzzing of electricity. No you. Eyes rising, they dart around quickly as his finger moves out to the light switch. A small push elicits nothing, just as he thought. The power was out. 

Dread slowly creeps into John’s chest.

Hand reaching behind his back, the man’s fingers inch over the smooth metal of a pistol, grasping the weapon before he begins walking forward. He keeps silent, feet moving to where he knows the wood won't creak. 

His mind runs. 

Why was the power off? Where were you? Why didn’t you respond—were you hurt? John’s mind goes to blood and bullets, his jaw clenching tightly as the pistol comes out to rest in front of him; hands shifting the grip as he takes a soothing breath. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone, but it would be pointless to lie about how his heart hammers. 

“Fuck,” he growls, eyes going tight. 

That’s when he sees it. Blue eyes widen sharply. 

“Love!” John shouts, all other concerns about intruders meaningless to him. Your hand was sticking out from behind the couch, a dark shadow in the low light. He rushes over as you jerk, yelling in alarm as he rushes to grab you, pulling you up into his arms and pulling you away into the closet across the room.

“John!” You blink rapidly as you’re set back against the wall. 

“Shush now,” he grunts, eyes panicked. “Keep awake, let me look.” A hand moves all over your body, searching and pulling at clothes to touch the skin for any wounds. “Tell me where it hurts, then. Quickly. We have to move—”

“John, what the hell,” you push at him, moving him back. Your eyes try to adjust to being so rudely awakened at such an hour. “What are you doing?!”

You weren’t hurt. 

The Captain’s face pulls in with confusion, back against the closet door and now in more darkness than ever before. He can barely make out your face before you sigh and put your hands against his arms. 

Things begin to calm down as his hand rests at your hip, nearly tight enough to bruise. In his other is the gun just before you put your hand to it and softly peel the item away from him—putting it on the shelf that you know is to your left. 

Hands find John’s cheeks as he pants.

“John,” you say his name again. “...what happened.”

“Why were you on the ground?” He forces out firmly, voice a low grunt. “Why were the lights not—”

“The power went out for everyone, okay?” You speak slowly, rubbing your thumbs over his beard. “It was on the news. I didn’t open a window because I knew you would worry about that—the floor was cool and it was getting too hot in here.” 

Your mind tells you to explain quickly and fluently. You move forward and press your forehead into John’s as he sags with a great exhalation of breath—his arms circling you tightly until your spine might crack. 

He doesn’t speak for a long while, just holding you.

“Scared me,” he mutters, missing you deeply on the forehead, speaking into your skin. “Fuck, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

He keeps you to his chest, eyes fluttering shut and his spine hunching over you, fingers splayed over your back. You run your hands through his hair and calm the swelling of your heart.

You can feel his pulse mirroring your own.

Simon Riley ➺

When he sees your hand, he freezes. 

Simon wasn’t a stranger to the lights being off in the home—you opted for lamps and low light more often than not; this wasn’t new. He had only quirked a brow when he came home to the pitch-blackness, off from his recent deployment and eager for a warm bed to fall into. He admits he’d let himself calm down on the car ride home—your home was where he could relax and release tension until it became as unimportant as an ant on the pavement. 

But when he’d closed the door silently behind him and walked the few steps it would take to enter the living room, where he was sure you were still up either reading or watching something on your phone under a blanket, his body had stiffened immediately. 

Your hand sticking out from behind the couch. Limp. 

Lifeless.  

He’d been staring at it for only a few seconds before the memories came back—the ones of gore splattered to the walls and ceiling of an old flat back in Manchester. 

Simon’s thoughts had hit him like a bullet.

Not again.

Rushing forward like a bear, the man slips along the hardwood as his knees go down, shaking the home at the force at which he grabs at your body and flips you from your side to your back. 

You gasp awake and instinctually throw out a fist, connecting with a stone chest as you hiss and blink in panic. 

Fingers ruthlessly dig into your shoulders, wide brown eyes open, and…and afraid. 

“Simon?” You mutter softly, all fear in your heart is squished in an instant. 

The man breathes through wheezes, balaclava fabric moving from the force of his breaths. His fingers are shaking, blinking as his head jerks to look your lying form up and down swiftly. 

You hesitantly put a hand on his cheek and he flinches before nuzzling into it. 

“Don’t…” he takes a quivering breath into his lungs, and after, loosens his grip on your skin. Simon’s hands go to your waist, dragging you up and stapling you to his chest. “Don’t do that again.”

His voice is low. Vulnerable. 

You blink, hands holding him back on the floor. 

“...The power went out,” you try to explain only half of it softly, muffled by his neck. 

He only holds you harder, eyes open and blankly staring at the floor a foot away.

Johnny MacTavish ➺

Johnny hums a song under his breath, hanging his keys on the hook near the door.

“Dearie!” He calls to you loudly, itching at the side of his head and chuckling. “Don’t run too fast to me now, I’m all yours for two w—”

The light switch is moved by his finger, but no light illuminates his path to the living room. Pausing in the entrance, the man’s brows furrow tightly, speech cutting off like scissors to paper. 

“...eeks?” Johnny ends his sentence, turning back around to look at the switch in confusion. “The hell’s going on with that?” He mutters to himself, a frown growing on his face before he refocuses on his mission to find you—now with the added task of figuring out why the power was out in the house. 

“Swear,” the man grumbles, huffing while he runs a hand over his face, “if those kids down the street did something I’ll be livid. Little devils, I swear.” 

Johnny steps farther into the living room, glancing around. 

“Dearie?” He pauses, listening before calling out your name. “Where’s she off to?”

He sighs softly, wanting to hold you now that he’s home to do so—squeeze you in his arms and take in your scent again; he’d missed you immensely while he was away.

Johnny came across your hand sticking out from behind the couch by accident, moving to make his way into your bedroom thinking that you were sleeping. He sees an odd shape in the blackness and pauses, feet slowing to a stop. 

When he notices that it’s a hand—your hand, he doesn’t even realize that he’s completely gripped the side of the couch and wrenched it back until the scratch of the wood floors screams in his ears. 

You wake up to hands on your cheeks, sharp yelling, and your head being shaken up and down until you’re conscious. 

“Dearie, hey! What the fuck,” the last sentence is growled on fast lips. “What the fuck.”

Your hands slap to Johnny’s wrists, nails digging in. 

He breathes out quickly, looking into your eyes to look for dilation as the darkness forces him closer. “There we are, tell me where you’re hurting, now, yeah? Did you hit your head? Let me take a look. It’s okay, I’ll get you all fixed up, there’s no need to worry.”

“Hey!” Your hands push at his, trying to shove the brick wall away from you. “Quit it! Johnny! I’m fine! ”

The man pauses at your animated movements, blinking rapidly before his grip loosens. 

When it’s obvious that you’re perfectly fine, he moves back and groans, thumb and forefinger digging into his nose bridge. 

“Hell’s bells, Hen.” You glare, panting on the floor before you push yourself up. 

“‘Hell’s bells’, me?” Johnny’s head plops to your shoulder. “You just shook me like a fucking rabbit!” 

“Scared the shite out of me, you terror.” The man huffs. “Need to put a heart monitor on you.”

“Piss off,” you sigh, putting a hand to your chest to feel the pace of your pulse and the blood that runs furiously.

Johnny, moments later as he’s still resting on your shoulder, starts…laughing. Low at first, then gaining noise the more it goes unchecked—a deep rumble into chest-jerking amusement. You look down at him, the couch tilted and long scratches over the floor. Pausing, you blink at his shaking shadow before your lungs start quivering. The two of you bend over one another with shared, house-shaking laughter. 

“What the fuck were you doin’ behind the damn couch?” Johnny grabs you close, kissing along your neck as he picks you up, dragging you to your feet. 

“The power went out!” You giggle, chest hurting from the fast gasps of breath as more kisses are spread over your skin. “It was colder down there and I didn’t want to open one of the windows because I knew you’d throw a pouting match about it.”

“Christ, Dearie.” Lips meet your own. “I had half the mind to think you had a heart attack. Nearly gave me one.”

Kyle Garrick ➺

Kyle sighs as he rubs at his jaw, itching the skin and slipping out of his jacket. 

“I’m home, Love!” He says, his voice echoing over the flat. “Want me to start on supper or have you eaten yet?” The man smiles, taking off his cap and putting it on the coat rack, sighing softly. 

It was good to be back. 

Bending down to unlace his boots, he pulls at them until they’re loose enough to slip out of, thumping to their sides on the rug until he reaches out and fixes them. 

“What’s that, then?” He calls into the darkness, not hearing your answer as he quickly checks the time on his phone. “Fuck, it’s late,” Kyle utters to himself. 

Walking into the kitchen, he touches the light switch only to be met with nothing. Pausing, the man’s face pulls in—fingers twitching at his sides as he glances at the window and the moonlight that seeps in to glare along the floor. 

A deep frown takes hold of him, and he looks around once more before backing up.

“...Love?” Kyle wasn’t too concerned—the building wasn’t always the best, and power outages weren’t unheard of. But, damn, if the high of getting off of a deployment didn’t put him in a negative head-space when it came to a change in routine involving you. 

Why weren’t you answering him?

Walking slightly faster into the living room, his hand nearly reaches into his pocket to call your phone if you didn’t end up in any of the rooms—pulse beginning to be infected with a steady injection of adrenaline. 

Brown eyes find your hand behind the couch when they’re about to shift to the open door of your bedroom. A sharp gasp is inhaled instantaneously. 

Kyle races over, grappling to it and pressing his fingers to your neck for a pulse. You softly breathe, none the wiser as you lightly shift and sigh in your sleep; a delicate hum moving out as familiar fingers dig into you. 

It’s through his panic that a thought quickly cuts through the man’s mind. You’d mentioned this before. 

Kyle pauses, just about to loudly wake you. 

‘It gets hot when the power goes out, Kyle, I swear one of these days I’m going to just fall asleep on the floor. At least it’s cool down there.���

Well, the power was out, and, it seemed, you really had fallen asleep on the floor. Now that he thought about it, the flat was running hot—and he also knew that you knew he had gotten nervous of late when you left the windows open at night. 

“Bloody hell,” the man releases a long breath, free hand moving to grip the back of his head. A few seconds later, Kyle chuckles to himself, shaking his head with a small smile. “You are losing it, Mate. Losing it.” 

Without another word, he grips you, and with a grunt, picks you up and takes you to bed, setting you down on the pillows and making sure to leave the sheets off of you so you don’t grow uncomfortable.

A kiss is pressed to your forehead, and you hum in slumber, smiling unconsciously.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Love.” 

He leaves to go make a quick supper of cereal and milk.

[ghost-with-a-teacup]

smutty brainrot part 3...?

you lay spread out on a desk, simon's desk no less, with papers scattered all around you in an attempt to clear the space.

between your spread legs knelt johnny, eagerly lapping up the evidence of your arousal like a man starved.

but your eyes weren't on him, instead they were simon who simply loomed in the corner, eyes roaming your body unashamedly. his mask was rucked up from when johnny pulled him into a kiss not 5 minutes earlier.

when he catches you watching him, the bastard only smirks smugly.

"oh gods," you moan, your eyes shutting in bliss as johnny presses his fingers in.

simon clicks his tongue, making his way over before grasping your chin. "eyes on me, pretty girl," he says, but your body refuses to obey his words.

he clicks his tongue again disapprovingly, gripping slightly harder.

"are you gonna make me repeat myself, love?"

this time you force your eyes open despite the flush of embarassment.

"there we go, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

somehow even more arousal pools in the pit of your stomach, your mind growing hazy.

"keep talking, l.t, our girl seems to like it," johnny says before delving back in. this time he swirls his tongue around your clit, and your back arches of the table involuntarily.

simon hums, pressing his hand down on your lower belly to keep you in place. that only serves to heighten the pleasure, and you feel yourself rushing towards that peak.

"you're doing so good, love. taking it so well," he murmurs into your ear, and you practically sob in pleasure.

"im close, oh fuck please, im so close," you say with a shudder.

"come on, cum for us pretty girl," simon says, and like a switch flipped you cum immediately, johnny's fingers and tongue helping you ride through your orgasm.

but soon after, it transitions from being 'too good' to 'too much', but johnny was always known for his voracious appetite after all.

you can't even gasp out the words, but simon can read you like the back of his hand.

"that's enough," simon mutters gruffly, a quiet 'tsk' escaping his lips as he grabs johnny by the hair, yanking him away from between your legs.

his eyes are dazed, drunk on the taste of you and your pleasure as he grins goofily.

"so...round two?"