We Are The Wicked Ones! ❤️

Homestuck Browser

This project is absolutely BIG and the person behind it BIGGER, and you guys have no idea how glad I am to have a complete Homestuck archive right at hand that also has stuff like The Baby Is You and Humanimals among so much more. Like what?? It’s the real MSPA.

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A week turned into two before either of you bothered to count. You fell into a rhythm neither of you had agreed to but both were reluctant to break: shared silences, quiet mornings, the low hum of the kettle at dawn. His presence seeped into the corners of your life like it had always belonged there. His mug on your counter. His jacket on the back of your chair. Boots by the door. It was domestic in a way that neither of you had any experience with— too soft for soldiers, too intimate for coworkers, too easy for friends.

It wasn’t without its moments, though. The first came one morning when he was halfway to the kitchen and you stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and dripping hair.

Simon stopped dead. You froze too, steam curling around your bare shoulders like smoke. For a moment, neither of you said a word, then his jaw tightened, eyes darting anywhere but you.

“Christ, Sergeant,” he said finally, voice rougher than usual.

You managed a laugh, quick and nervous. “Didn’t realize I needed to clear the hallway.”

He turned, walking off with a muttered, “Next time, warn a bloke.”

You shut your door with your heart in your throat and skin still flushed, though not from the shower anymore.

A few days later, he came back from a run to find his clothes washed and folded on the guest bed. It stopped him cold. You hadn’t said anything about it — no note, no offhand comment — just the small, neat stack waiting there like it was the most natural thing in the world. He stood there longer than he should’ve, hand resting on the edge of one folded shirt.

No one had done that for him in years. Maybe ever. He didn’t know what to do with it.  The warmth pressed at his chest and there was a quiet ache that followed. When you asked that evening if he’d found everything alright, he only hummed something that could’ve meant anything. You didn’t push, and he was grateful for that.

By midweek, you decided to redeem yourself in the kitchen. He came home to the smell of peppers and sauce and your smug grin already waiting. “I cooked,” you said, chin high.

He eyed the pan. “Should I get the extinguisher ready?”

You rolled your eyes and served him anyway. He didn’t tell you that he hated peppers — not when you looked so damn proud. He ate every bite, and when you caught him going back for seconds, he only shrugged. “Best thing I’ve had in months,” he said, and it wasn’t about the food.

It became habit, the way the two of you seemed to orbit the same small corners of town without meaning to. You ran into him at the corner shop. Both of you headed over for the same brand of cereal, neither admitting you’ve gone out to restock for the flat.

“You’re here for milk too?” He grunts.

“Ran out.” You lift your basket.

“Funny, me too.” He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head, and that was it.  You paid separately, walked back together anyway, plastic bags bumping between you.

Another night, you fell asleep on the couch with a book half-open against your chest. When you woke hours later, a blanket from his bed was draped over you, the lights were off, and your bookmark was tucked neatly between the pages. You refused to acknowledge how much you liked that the soft fabric smelt like him.

When you came into the kitchen the next morning, he was already there — tea in hand, face unreadable. “Might want to finish that chapter before you pass out next time,” he said without turning around.

You frowned. “You were up?”

He shrugged, a simple roll of his broad shoulders. “Could hear you snorin’ from the hall.”

“Did not.”

He just smirked into his mug, and that was the end of it. No talk of blankets, or bookmarks, or the quiet way he’d stopped to watch you sleep, the same way he did his first night here.

It was the small things that continued to undo him: your laugh from the other room, the way you hummed while brushing your teeth, the sound of your bare feet on the hardwood. He’d catch himself watching you too long, lingering in doorways just to listen. It was dangerous for a man like him, closed off and alone, but he was enjoying this new kind of quiet comfort. It was the sort of thing that could make a man forget he was only meant to be a guest.

And yet, every time he thought about leaving, his chest went tight.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

The curse echoed down the hall before the smell reached him — sharp, acrid smoke cutting through the quiet of the flat. Simon’s head came up immediately from the half-folded laundry on the guest bed — his guest bed now, if he was honest. The mold in his flat was meant to be temporary, funny how quickly temporary had turned into a week under your roof. Instinct kicked in before thought did. He was out the door in two strides.

He found you in the kitchen, waving a dishtowel at a small flame licking the side of a pan. The smoke alarm chirped uselessly.

“Everything alright, Sergeant?” His voice was calm, but the edge of command bled through.

You shot him a helpless look over your shoulder. “It’s under control!” you said, coughing. The words lost credibility as the fire flared again.

Simon moved before you could protest, snatching the pan off the burner, cutting the gas, and smothering the flame with the lid in one clean motion. The fire hissed and died.

He turned to look at you, one brow raised. “Under control, was it?”

You exhaled hard, towel in hand, cheeks flushed from heat and embarrassment. “I was trying to cook us some dinner.”

Simon’s mouth twitched. “That what you call it?”

Something flickered behind his eyes, gone before you could name it. Then, dryly, “Considerin’ you nearly burned the place down, think I’ll take over.”

“I just wanted to do something nice—”

“Yeah, well, do it from the other side of the kitchen,” he said, moving past you. “Clear off, Sergeant.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He was already rummaging through your cupboards, muttering under his breath. “Christ, you’ve got nothin’ in here. Cereal, two tins of soup, and a half-empty bottle of maple syrup. When’s the last time you went shoppin’?”

“We jus’ got home from deployment, tosser,” you shot back, but there was no heat behind it.

He glanced over his shoulder, lips twitching. “Language.”

You hovered near the counter as he assessed his options. Finally, he grunted. “Right. Pancakes it is.”

“Pancakes?” you repeated, incredulous.

“Slim pickings.”

He set to work with a focus that was almost absurd. Watching him at your stove — sleeves pushed up, tattoos on display, broad shoulders relaxed — felt strange. Disarming. You were used to him in tactical gear, not flipping pancakes in your kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world.   It was your turn to see him in a new light. Not the Lieutenant in command, but domestic — bare-armed and steady, too big for your kitchen but somehow a perfect fit. You wondered if this was how he’d looked at you that first night, before he quietly closed your door, when the edges between soldier and something else blurred.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” you said softly.

“Didn’t know you couldn’t,” he returned without looking up.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t move. The smell of batter and butter slowly replaced the smoke. You leaned against the counter beside him, close enough to feel the heat from the stove and from him.

He plated the pancakes, slid one to you. “Careful. They’re hot.”

You bit back a grin as you took the first bite covered in sticky sweet syrup. “Not bad, Lieutenant.”

Simon hummed, leaning against the counter beside you with his own plate in hand, shoulder brushing yours. You both ate in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward, just… new. The hum of the fridge filled the quiet. He didn’t pull away, and you didn’t either.

The smoke cleared. The air didn’t.

Simon’s flat had mold. Or something like that.

To be honest, you’d stopped listening halfway through his explanation - something about damp walls, black spores and a useless landlord. You were too busy thinking about finally getting off base, out of uniform, and into your own shower.

Then you heard yourself say, “Yeah, that’s fine, you can stay at mine for a bit.”

And by the time you realized what you’d agreed to, it was too bloody late to take it back.

What were you going to say? Actually, Lieutenant, I was only half-listening and you staying with me might be weird. Not a chance. Not to Simon Riley.

You’d always had a soft spot for him - hidden somewhere between respect and whatever the hell sat in your chest every time he said your name and not your callsign. He was terrifying and magnetic in equal measure.

It was going to be fine, you told yourself.

And for the most part, it was.

Simon took the guest room next to yours. You’d shared safehouses before, dirtier ones with far less privacy. This was nothing new. He was quiet, neat, didn’t leave a trace. The only sign he was there was the deep rumble of his voice when he said “Mornin’” or the faint sound of the kettle at dawn.

You forgot he was there, sometimes.

But Simon—

Simon never forgot you.

Seeing you at work was one thing. Tactical vest, boots, voice sharp enough to cut through radio static. But here, in your own space, in soft clothes and bare feet—he didn’t know where to look. Couldn’t decide which version was real.

The first night, he padded down the hall with a glass of water, heading for bed. You’d said goodnight hours ago, voice muffled through the door. “Don’t stay up too late, Lieutenant.”

He’d just grunted something like “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Now, passing your door, he noticed it cracked open. He wasn’t nosy, never had been, but something made him pause. The faint hum of white noise drifted out.

Then he saw you.

Tucked under a massive down comforter, some stuffed thing clutched to your chest. An eye mask. A bloody nightlight. And—Christ—was that drool on your pillow?

Simon froze, glass in hand.

He’d seen you covered in blood and dust, screaming orders through chaos, patching someone’s wound without blinking. And now you were this…soft and quiet and safe.

It did something to him.

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, exhaling slow. The same hands that had held a rifle for hours now clutched a glass too tight, the muscles in his forearm jumping. You looked so far from the Sergeant he knew - unguarded, slack with sleep, your face half-hidden by the pillow.

The sound of your steady breathing filled the hall. It shouldn’t have mattered. But something in his chest pulled tight anyway. A reminder of everything he’d probably never have.

He stayed too long. Then he shut the door the rest of the way.

taking price and ghost fighting and running with it.

some stupid argument about john not following rules in their little tuesday off base bar games blossoming into two weeks worth of high level pettiness.

snide remarks, shoulder shoving, hell the only time they even looked at each other these days was when they were on the mats. knuckles red and angry as they tore at one another. pride too solid to shake.

which is how you landed beneath simon.

wobbling cries muffled by the thick of his glove. baby doll tee pulled over your swaying tits and showing off a glistening sweaty back to him.

"s-si'! hun—" you hiccup, words slurred beneath the fabric. back stinging with wicked pleasure as he bends you into a mean arch. he watches the fat of your ass ricket with every drive home of his hard pelvis.

"sh, lovie. can' let big man see us 'ere hm?" he grins, balaclava pulled over his nose. he licks a fat wet strip up your nape. groaning at the musky sent of sex that pours over the room. "fuckin, juusstt like tha',"

prices room.

atop prices desk.

without price.

he curves his hand around your right thigh, smacking harshly at the puffy skin of your ass. you squirm, nails digging into the wooden desk. moans only meeting his covering hand.

he dips his hand down to the slick cream mess between you two. stringy connections of cum pull taught each time he drags out all the way to his tip, just to shove all the way back in as he hauls you backwards and shoves his hips forwards. you scream, eyes white as you claw at the hand around your jaw.

he gathers the slick, white ring around his cock creating gummy noises he isnt bothered to muffle.

simon also knows important papers lay just beneath your rocking body. he rubs at your clit messily, juices soppy. you keen, stomach throbbing with the buldge he bullies into you. you smack at his hand, water brimming your tearline.

everything blurs hot for a second. the slamming of a door doesnt register past your clotted ears.

"wot the fuc—" price barges in. face hot with anger before his eyes slot to yours. he watches as shameful lust swirls in them before he flickers down to the wet connection between you and the lieutenant.

you whimper, would be more embarrassed if you hadnt fucked them both before.

simon plows into you feral, blunt covered nails digging into your cheek.

"gon' cum pretty girl? righ' on the old mans shite?" his fingers move from over your mouth to cupping your jaw firmly. moving your head to arch it back. eyes bearily finding him upside down.

he grins, eyes squinted in pure joy.

looking back up to price as he feels you tighten around him the most deliciously. browns burning with complete intention. youre lost, too worried about your impending explosion of a release to truly care as price watches you melt dumb.

he kisses your temple. feeling you muddle over.

babbles leave swollen lips and brows completely furrowed. "there! t-there, please si'! f-fuc—" with his mean pinch on your clit you choke on your moans, blanking as all crashes down on you.

nails dig into simons skin, blood prickling beneath. raspy screaming moan bouncing between both mens ears.

by the time you blink back to current reality, youre carefully laid over johns ruined desk. damp body smudging papers as they stick to your panting chest.

And you decided to challenge him and he doesn't back down from a challenge. So guess what? Now you're in his quarters, with your face pressed into his mattress as he's railing you with all he's got and telling you that "this is what happens when you don't wipe that stupid fuckin' look off your face".

After that, you started going out of your way to push his buttons if it meant that you'd be getting fucked viciously every time.

Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller. 

He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—

Laughter stops him in his tracks. 

Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it. 

And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears. 

“Cute pups,” you say. 

Cute...what? 

You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile. 

“You military?” 

He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip. 

“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”

You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.

Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs. 

And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet. 

You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl. 

Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.

“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”

As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.

And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all. 

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Simon Riley was a terrifying man to most people.

Six foot somethin’, broad as a doorframe, tattooed arms, permanent frown carved into his face like stone. The kind of man who could walk into a room and make conversations die mid-sentence.

Which was exactly why the bright pink lunchbox sitting on the briefing table looked so absurd.

Soap stared at it.

Then at Simon.

Then back at the lunchbox covered in tiny white hearts.

“…That yours, LT?”

Simon didn’t even glance up from cleaning his sidearm. “Obviously.”

Gaz coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Price suddenly found the paperwork in his hands very interesting. Soap, unfortunately, feared nothing.

“Christ alive.” he muttered, lifting the lunchbox by two fingers. “It’s got a bow on it.”

Simon’s eyes lifted slowly.

Dangerously.

Soap set it back down immediately. The room went quiet for all of three seconds before Gaz spotted the sticky note attached to the handle.

Pink ink. Curly handwriting.

Don’t forget to actually eat today. I mean it!— ♡

There was even a lipstick kiss pressed onto the corner. Soap made a strangled noise. “SHE LEFT YE A WEE KISS MARK.”

Simon took the note off carefully before Soap could touch it with his grubby hands. He folded it once and tucked it into the pocket of his vest with complete seriousness, like it was something precious.

Because it was.

“You keep those?” Gaz asked before he could stop himself. Simon gave him a look that practically said watch your mouth.

“Aye.”

The boys exchanged glances.

Not because Simon had a partner. They all knew that. And not because Simon was soft with you. They knew that too. It was the fact he never acted embarrassed about it.

Ever.

Didn’t hide the matching pink phone charger you bought him because he “always stole yours anyway.” Didn’t complain when you painted tiny strawberries on his phone case. Didn’t care that his keys now had fluffy pink pompoms hanging off them because you’d smiled so proudly while showing him. The man simply accepted every little piece of you with both hands.

Like loving you loudly was the easiest thing in the world.

Later that afternoon, Simon finally opened the lunchbox during break. Inside was organized chaos. Pink Tupperware containers stacked perfectly. Heart-shaped strawberries. A sandwich cut neatly in half. Little notes tucked everywhere.

One on the drink—

Hydrate or I’ll become evil.

One on the fruit—

You’re handsome. That’s unrelated, I just thought you should know.

And one folded beneath the sandwich.

Simon opened it quietly.

Miss you already. Come home safe so I can kiss you properly instead of leaving lipstick on paper.

His eyes softened instantly.

Not dramatic.

Not obvious.

Just enough that Price noticed from across the room and looked away to give the man some privacy. Soap, however, leaned over his shoulder with zero survival instinct.

“Awwww—”

Simon shoved him back without heat.

“Piss off.”

But there was no bite to it.

Soap grinned. “Ye love that shite.”

Simon took another bite of his sandwich.

“Aye.” he answered simply.

No hesitation.

No shame.

Just certainty.

Because you loved pink things. Cute things. Soft things.

And Simon loved you.

Which meant he loved those things too.

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Phantom and Rain Ghoul commission of them cuddling in bed! 💜🩵🖤