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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"I'm hungry," you said in a flat tone. It was just a passing comment. Nothing serious.

​"Hungry? What do you want to eat, dove?" Soap took out his phone, waiting patiently for you to say what you wanted.

​"Oh. Em, I was joking..." you whispered. Maybe you weren't, but you were too shy to admit it.

​"Come on, bird, tell us what you want," Price looked at you with a little smile on his face.

​"Sushi..." You turned your head, trying to avoid their eyes.

​"Sushi it is." Soap started to search his phone for the nearest sushi restaurant.

​"Fuck, my room door is stuck and won't close. I need to fix it. Where's the toolbox?" you said, entering the common room and waiting for an answer.

​"Are you fixing it by yourself?" Gaz asked, raising an eyebrow.

​"Yeah?"

​"Hell no." He stood up from the couch, grabbed the toolbox from one of the cabinets, and walked out of the room.

​Thankfully, your door ended up looking like nothing had ever happened. Thanks, Gaz.

​This was your third lap running around the base.

​"Soldier, stop right there," you heard Ghost shout at you, and you obeyed instantly. "Your laces are untied."

​"Oh, yeah, I will—" You were cut off abruptly in the middle of your sentence, watching in shock as Ghost knelt down in front of you, tying your shoelaces.

​"There you go. Watch out next time," he said, looking at you flatly before standing back up.

​A meeting at 7:00 AM? Boring. But you had no choice. You were just about to put your hand on the doorknob when another hand stopped you. Price opened the door.

​"Ladies first." He stepped aside to let you go first.

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The first thing everyone notices about you is the color pink.

Pink scrubs. Pink pens. A pink clipboard covered in tiny pastel stickers—hearts, flowers, and a little cartoon bandage with a smiley face on it.

The second thing everyone notices is that you aren’t afraid of Ghost.

Which, according to the entire base, makes you either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

You hear the warnings your first week.

Soap leans against the med bay counter one morning while you organize gauze rolls, watching you with mild disbelief. “Ye know who that is, right?”

You glance up from the gauze rolls. “Who?”

“The big skull mask bloke who walks around like death himself.”

Gaz laughs from the doorway. “Lieutenant Ghost. Terrifies recruits for fun..? Breaks doors instead of knocking. That one?”

You blink once.

“Oh.”

Soap waits for you to react properly.

You simply shrug. “He seems nice.”

Soap nearly chokes.

The truth is, you’ve already met him.

It was two days ago. He walked past the med bay after training, boots heavy against the tile, gear slung over one shoulder. He’s massive—broad shoulders, tall enough that the overhead lights catch on the edges of the skull mask he never takes off.

You looked up from your desk.

And you smiled.

“Good afternoon..” a pause to look at the name Velcroed to his chest “Lieutenant Riley.”

He stopped walking.

People don’t greet him like that. You could tell by the way the hallway went quiet.

He stared at you for a moment through the black eye sockets of the mask, eyes dark and unreadable.

“…Afternoon.”

His voice was low. Almost.. hesitant?

You nodded politely and went back to writing on your clipboard.

Like it was completely normal.

After that, you greet him every time you see him.

“Hi, Lieutenant.”

“Morning, Lieutenant!”

“Hope you’re having a nice day Lieutenant.”

He never smiles—at least not that you can see—but he always gives a small grunt of acknowledgement. That’s enough for you.

What you do notice is that he never shows up to the med bay.

Which is a problem, because everyone is required to attend a monthly checkup.

Soap comes in complaining the whole time. Gaz jokes through the entire exam. Even Captain Price shows up on schedule.

Ghost?

Doesn’t come at all.

Three days after his appointment passes, you spot him turning the corner of a hallway and nearly run into his chest.

You stop just in time.

He looks down at you slowly.

Up close he’s even bigger.

You smile.

“Hi, Lieutenant Riley.”

“…What.”

You check your pink clipboard.

“You missed your checkup.”

He stares at you through the mask.

“…No I didn’t.”

You turn the clipboard around so he can see the neat list written in pink ink.

SIMON RILEY — MISSED APPOINTMENT

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“Not goin’.”

You tilt your head a little. “Why?”

“Don’t need it.”

The tone clearly says the conversation is over.

So you write something on your clipboard.

“Okay.”

He seems surprised by that. Like he expected an argument.

He steps past you.

Then you add sweetly, “I’ll just have to keep finding you until you do it.”

He stops walking.

Slowly turns his head.

You’re still smiling.

“…You serious?”

“Mhm.”

You tap the clipboard. “You’re overdue.”

He studies you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking.

You aren’t.

So over the next few days, you keep finding him.

In the hallway. Near the training room. Once outside the armory.

Every time, you smile.

Every time, you remind him.

“Your checkup is still overdue, Lieutenant.”

By the fourth time, he finally walks into the med bay himself.

You look up from your desk and brighten immediately.

“Oh! Hi, Lieutenant Riley.”

He sits in the chair like a man being sentenced.

“Do it quick.”

You nod happily. “Of course.”

You move through the exam like you would with anyone else. Pulse first. Your fingers rest lightly against his wrist while you count.

His skin is warm.

“Heart rate’s good,” you murmur, jotting the numbers down on your pink clipboard.

You reach for your stethoscope next. “Deep breath for me.”

He obeys, shoulders rising slowly.

The med bay is quiet except for your pen scratching across paper.

You don’t rush. You don’t treat him differently.

He’s just another patient.

“Alright,” you say gently after a moment. “Next I need to check your throat.”

He goes still.

You pause.

“Oh—right. Mask.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a small moment of silence before you ask softly, “Would it be alright if you lifted it just enough for me to see?”

You wait.

Most people would probably push him. Demand it. Try to force the issue.

You simply stand there patiently.

Eventually his hand lifts to the mask, pulling it up just enough for his mouth to be visible.

You don’t react. Don’t stare.

You lean a little closer with the small penlight. “Open please.”

He does.

You check his throat quickly, professional and calm.

“All good.” you say a moment later.

He lowers the mask again.

The rest of the checkup is quick—blood pressure, reflex test, a few more notes on your clipboard.

When you’re finished, you smile.

“All done.”

He stands from the chair.

There’s a brief pause before he gestures toward your scrubs.

“…Pink’s not regulation.”

You glance down at yourself.

“I know.”

“Why wear it then?”

You shrug. “Because I like it.”

He stares at you for a quiet second longer, eyes unreadable behind the skull mask.

Then he turns toward the door.

Halfway out, he stops.

“…Thanks.”

The word comes out rough. Quiet.

But genuine.

You watch him leave before looking down at your clipboard and writing the final note beneath his name in pink ink.

SIMON RILEY — MONTHLY CHECKUP

You tap your pen thoughtfully before adding—

Very grumpy. But cooperative.

Then doodle a tiny pink heart next to it.

and those were the last words john uttered before slamming the palm of his hand down against his desk and leaving. spoken the way most things he says are - gruff and final, with no room for argument - stunning the room into silence until the door shut hard behind him.

everyone just looked at each other, dumbstruck.

“should we wait for him to come back?”

“what the hell does that mean—”

“is that code for something?”

“wait, he’s married?”

price didn’t hear a word of it - by that point he was already halfway down the hall, boots pounding concrete with purpose, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything else dissolving into white-hot static behind his eyes.

he can take a lot of bullshit. does it daily. but fuckin’ hell - they wouldn’t stop. wouldn’t stop talking, hovering, circling him like crows. clipping questions at him in endless fucking rotations.

what now, captain? what’s next? what do we do about makarov? do we move now or wait for shepherd’s greenlight? have you seen the updated file? should we pull soap and gaz back? do we burn the safe house? double-tap the asset? what’s the protocol—

jesus fuckin’ christ.

it’d been too long. john’s mentally checked out and he knows it. doesn’t care. he didn’t want to be in that room. didn’t want to sit at that table. didn’t want to give another goddamn order with five pairs of bloodshot eyes looking at him like he’s meant to have all the answers and none of the doubt.

he needs a break. not a debrief. not another satellite feed. not another fucking decision.

he needs to go home and fuck his wife.

needs to put his hands on something solid, something that he doesn’t have to second guess. something that’d let him burn off all the static and pressure and noise building between his temples without asking anything much in return. his sanctuary where he can fall apart and come back clearer. reset his head before it spun off his shoulders.

so he peeled out of the parking lot before he’d even properly put the car in drive, and sent you one text:

High Sex Drive

How do the members of 141 handle reader with a high sex drive? Reader is insatiable. Can they keep up or do they tap out early? Do they beg for more or beg for rest?

requested by @/unknownbooklady

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader

Content & Warnings (mdni): sexual content, oral sex, rough sex, swearing, established relationship, gn!reader

Word Count: 800

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

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The first time Simon sees you, you’re halfway up a mechanic’s chest and tearing him to pieces.

“You had one job,” you snap, voice cutting through the hangar like a blade. “One. And you still managed to screw it up so badly I’m wondering if you did it on purpose.”

The man—built, older, clearly outranking you in everything but nerve—doesn’t even try to argue.

Because you don’t let him.

You step closer, boots loud against the concrete, chin tipped up like you’re staring down a giant instead of barely reaching his shoulder.

“I don’t care what rank you think protects you,” you continue, quieter now—worse, somehow. “If that bird fails out of the air because of your laziness, I will personally make sure your career ends in a broom closet.”

Silence.

Thick.

Heavy.

A few heads turn. No one interferes.

From across the hangar, Ghost watches.

Still.

Silent.

Hooked.

There’s something wrong with him, he knows that. Always has been. What he endured growing up and years of war don’t leave a man right. But this—this sharp-tongued, five-foot menace dressing down grown men like they’re nothing—

Christ.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

You don’t even raise your voice again. You just look at the mechanic, unimpressed, like he’s already beneath you.

“Fix it,” you say flatly. “Or get replaced.”

Then you turn on your heel and walk off like the entire world should part for you.

Ghost exhales slowly behind his mask.

“Who’s that?” Soap mutters beside him, equal parts impressed and terrified.

Ghost doesn’t answer right away.

Because he’s still watching you.

Every step. Every sharp movement. The way you don’t hesitate, don’t soften, don’t care.

“…mine.” he says finally, voice low enough that Soap almost misses it.

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You don’t notice him at first.

Why would you?

He’s just another soldier in a mask, another shadow in a place full of them.

And you don’t waste your time on shadows.

The first time he speaks to you, it’s because you’re arguing again.

“—if you send me that report one more time with missing data, I will assume you’re illiterate and act accordingly.”

“I am your superior—”

“And I do not care,” you cut in instantly. “Fix it.”

There’s a pause.

Then, from behind you—

“Bit harsh, aren’t you?”

You turn.

Slow.

Measured.

Your eyes land on him—tall, broad, skull mask staring back at you like something out of a horror flick.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t even blink.

“…and you are?” you ask, flat and unimpressed.

Ghost—Simon—feels something snap pleasantly in his chest.

God.

You don’t know him.

You don’t even care.

You’re looking at him like he’s just another problem waiting to be dismissed.

“Ghost.” he says.

You hum, like that means absolutely nothing to you.

“Great,” you reply. “Then you can mind your business, Ghost.”

And you turn your back on him.

Just like that.

He’s done for.

Completely.

Utterly.

Gone.

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It starts small.

He notices things.

The way you take your coffee—black, no sugar, always too hot.

The way you pinch the bridge of your nose when you’re irritated (which is often).

The fact that no one touches you—no casual brushes, no friendly pats on the back—because you’d probably bite their hand off.

Good.

That suits him just fine.

He doesn’t touch you either.

Not yet.

But he stands closer than necessary.

Speaks to you more than he needs to.

Finds excuses.

“You missed a detail in your report.” he tells you once.

You snatch it from his hand, scanning it.

“…no I didn’t.”

“You did.” he replies calmly.

A beat.

You squint at it.

“…oh.”

Silence.

Then you look back at him, narrowing your eyes.

“…don’t get used to being right.”

Ghost feels something dangerously close to a smile pull at his mouth under the mask.

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The others notice.

Of course they do.

“L.T.’s gone soft.” Soap whispers one day.

“Not soft..” Gaz mutters back, watching as Ghost silently sets a fresh cup of coffee down beside you before you even ask. “Worse.”

“Obsessed.”

You still don’t give him much.

A glance here. A clipped response there.

Sometimes you let him stand near you without telling him to piss off.

Sometimes.

And for Ghost?

It’s everything.

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The shift happens on a bad day.

Everything’s gone wrong.

Reports missing. Equipment delayed. Someone incompetent breathing too close to your oxygen supply.

By the time Ghost finds you, you’re alone—finally—but you’re pacing, jaw tight, hands clenched.

“Problem?” he asks quietly.

“Several,” you snap, not even looking at him. “All fixable if people weren’t useless.”

He hums.

Steps closer.

You don’t tell him to stop.

That’s new.

“They bothering you?” he asks.

You scoff. “They bother me by existing.”

A pause.

Then, softer—sharper in a different way—

“…I don’t need help.”

“I know.” he says.

You finally look at him.

There’s something in your expression—not soft, never that—but tired. Frayed at the edges.

He tilts his head slightly.

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have it.”

You stare at him like you’re trying to figure him out.

Like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for.

“…you’re weird.” you decide.

“Been called worse.”

Another pause.

Then you sigh—short, annoyed—and scrub a hand over your face.

“…fine,” you mutter. “You can stay. Just don’t talk.”

Ghost nods his head.

Steps into your space.

Stays.

From then on It’s over for everyone else.

Because Simon Riley—silent, deadly, untouchable Ghost—

is yours.

He brings you coffee without asking.

Stands behind you like a wall when you’re tearing someone apart.

Fixes problems before they reach you.

And if anyone dares to speak to you out of line?

They don’t make that mistake twice.

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One day, you finally ask him.

“Why are you always around?”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

And for a second, something raw slips through the cracks.

“Because I want to be.”

You narrow your eyes.

Suspicious.

“…that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

A long pause.

Then—

“…weird..” you repeat.

But you don’t tell him to leave.

And Ghost?

He’s never been so completely, irrevocably owned in his life.

And he’s never been happier about it.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Single Mom!reader

a/n: Genuinely i need this man irl, if you know where to find him, lmk. ENJOY!!💕

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley wakes up extra early to get your daughter dressed and fed, before taking and dropping her off at daycare, just so you can sleep in

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley will play barbie’s with your daughter to keep her occupied so she won’t bother you while you work. “Come er’ pretty girl, mamas busy right now. Let’s go play”

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley scanned every toy store and online store for the exact jumbo pink fluffy unicorn stuffed animal for your daughter, after she left it at a restaurant

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley shed a tear when your daughter brought him a piece a paper with colors scribbled on it, that said “Happy Father’s day!”. He hugged her and whispered, “Thank you baby”. To this day shes still the only one to see this man cry.

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley who agreed to accompanying you and your daughter to the park so quickly. He nearly ran out of his chair to get his shoes on. You couldn’t stop laughing when Simon fell of the swings.

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley who rocked your baby girl to sleep and sat with her for an hour before placing her in her own bed. He peppered her little face with kisses.

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley who stands in the kitchen making you tea, while you sit on the counter in his tshirt.

“Thank you, Si”

“For?” He grumbles

“For helping me, and loving her like shes your own”

He walks over to you and hands you the tea, then he places his hands on your waist. He kisses your forehead and says,

“Whatever keeps my girls happy”

“tits look good in yer top love.” uttered with a straight face over his coffee mug in the morning. “makes me want to fuck ‘em.”

bend over in front of him to pick something up? he's groaning and tipping his head back, palming himself through his jeans with a, “fuckin’ christ love, look at you. perfect fuckin’ arse. c'mere, don't walk away when I'm picturin’ you face first on the carpet.”

it's worse if he's had a few drinks. he can't help but tell the lads how his “missus ‘as the prettiest cunt I've ever fuckin’ seen.” before abruptly leaving so he can go home and see it for himself.

The next few days settled into a strange, silent rhythm. Everything looked the same. Simon still made dinner, you still washed his shirts when they turned up in the hamper, he still handed you a mug of tea without asking how you took it. But it still all felt different. You couldn’t meet his eyes without heat flooding your chest, and he couldn’t look at you without something tightening in his jaw. He was punishing himself, you knew that much, stacking invisible bricks between you like he could wall off the memory of your mouth on his.

But to your silent relief, he never mentioned staying at Johnny’s place again.

You didn’t notice when you drifted off. One minute you were reading on the couch again, trying to lose yourself in anything that wasn’t him, and the next the flat was dark and quiet around you, the only sound the soft hum of the heat and the occasional creak as the building settled.

You weren’t sure what woke you. A thud, maybe. But then you heard it again. A strangled sound. Half-choked, half-panicked.

Nothing like the even, controlled breaths of Lieutenant Simon Riley.

You sat up immediately. For a moment you just froze, heart hammering, listening. There. Another sound. A hitched inhale, like someone coming up from underwater.

You didn’t think, you just moved. Your feet carried you down the hall before your brain caught up. You hesitated only once, outside his closed door, hand raised but not touching the wood.

You whispered, “Simon?”

No response. Just another quiet noise. It was not loud, not dramatic, but wrong. With a breath, you pushed the door open.

He was sitting upright on the bed, back to you, shoulders heaving once, twice. The glow from the hallway reflected off the sweat clinging to the line of his neck, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress so tightly his knuckles were white.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping inside. “Simon.” His head snapped up. You closed the space quickly, reaching a small hand out for his shoulder.  But before you could blink, his hand shot out, fingers closing hard around your wrist. The instinct was pure reflex, you recognized that immediately, but it stole your breath.

His grip was crushing, body still wound tight with whatever hell he’d been dragged out of. His eyes were wild for a second, darting, unfocused, caught somewhere that wasn’t here.

You didn’t pull away. “It's me,” you said quietly. “Just me.”

His breathing stuttered. The fight drained from his grip all at once. He let go like he’d touched a hot kettle. His hand hovered in the space between you for a second before clenching into a fist that he pulled it back to his thigh.

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Didn’t— didn’t mean…” “You alright?” you asked, voice low and steady, like you weren’t sure if you should be here at all.

He dragged a hand over his face. “Didn’t want you hearin’ that.”

“You weren’t exactly quiet.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so tight. He wouldn’t look at you. Not with his guard down like this. Not with his mask off in ways that had nothing to do with fabric. You stepped closer anyway and he didn’t flinch this time.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the bed beside him, leaving a few inches of air between your thighs. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him but far enough that he could’ve moved away if he wanted. But he didn’t.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The room held you both in its quiet darkness. Just two soldiers in a domestic space that had become far too dangerous.

You finally broke it, voice low. “Happens, y’know. We all get ‘em.”

He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head once. He almost laughed at the thought of you getting rattled in your sleep. You, with your nightlight and that daft stuffed animal you refused to hide. But the truth lodged deep in him, he felt a different kind of duty with you a wall away. “Not like that.”

You raised a brow. “Nightmares are nightmares, Simon.”

His gaze flicked to your hand on the bed between you, then to your face. “Haven’t had one in a long time,” he muttered. He didn’t say the rest, that it felt different after the kiss, with you sleeping just on the other side of the wall.

Not mission-driven, not the cold vigilance of a safe house. Something warmer. Worse. Something he was having trouble shutting off. He slept lighter, listening for you without meaning to. That protecting you here felt nothing like the job. That it was starting to scare him. And Simon doesn’t get scared.

You shifted just slightly, your knee brushing his. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second.

You couldn’t help but notice the change in him, the soft edges he’d never shown you on the field, nearly unrecognizable to the Simon you met years ago.

 Your voice was quiet. “Simon…”

His eyes flicked to yours, his breath left him in a low, rough sound. “Tell me to stop stayin’ here.” His voice was so even it almost sounded like a command. Maybe a plea.

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, not mocking, just… fond. A smile tugged at your mouth despite everything twisting in your chest.

“Can’t do that, Simon,” you murmured.

Before he could look away, before he could brace himself, you leaned in and brushed your lips against the side of his head, right where his sandy blonde hair was cropped short. You felt him go still beneath it, like the touch had short-circuited him.

Then you stood, leaving him sitting there, breathing like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

The rain had stopped sometime before dawn. The streets outside were slick but quiet, and Simon had been gone before the sun even thought about rising. Running helped, or that’s what he told himself. The burn in his lungs was easier to manage than the pit in his stomach. By the time he came back, your flat was still quiet and dark, the smell of damp pavement and sweat clinging to him. He showered, dressed, made his tea. No noise, no hesitation. Routine. He did everything he could to ignore the fact that you were behind your door, asleep like something he’d only just realized he’d protect long after the mission ended.

You didn’t wake until the light had crept too far across your floor and onto your pillow. The dull pulse behind your eyes made you regret every shot of cheap tequila, but not nearly as much as the memory of his mouth on yours. You moved slow. The silence was deafening. His door was shut when you passed it, and for a moment you thought maybe he’d already gone. Maybe you’d been spared.

But you found him at the kitchen instead. Fresh shirt, hair still damp, mug in hand. Of course he was. He glanced up when you entered, just once, and that felt worse than if he hadn’t.

“Mornin’,” he said. The word was neutral, clipped clean of anything else.

“Hey.” Your voice came out hoarse. You cleared your throat. “You’re up early.”

“Went for a run.” He took another sip of tea, eyes on the window instead of you.

You nodded, pretending the kettle needed your attention. “Head’s killin’ me.”

He hummed, a sound that could’ve meant anything. “Hydrate.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” It came out sharper than you meant, but he didn’t flinch. Just rinsed his mug, set it on the counter.

“I’ll be out for a bit,” he said finally, jacket slung over one shoulder, voice low. “Need to check on the flat.”

You wanted to ask if the mold was gone. If he was going. But the words tangled in your throat.

“Right,” you said instead. “Good luck with that.”

He gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

He slipped past you, the air thinning as he barely brushed the small of your back. When the door closed behind him, you realized you hadn’t taken a full breath since you walked in.

The flat had stayed too still, every sound too loud. Once the headache dulled to a throb, you went to the gym. Trained until your legs burned, until there was nothing left but the ache. You pushed harder than you should have, muscle and memory both. Kept your body busy. Kept your mind busier. Tried to forget the way his thighs felt under yours on the couch.

By the time you got home, the sky had gone grey again. You showered, made something simple for supper and ate at the counter with the hum of the fridge for company again. You’d almost convinced yourself he wasn’t even coming back today when you heard the door unlock.

Simon stepped in, boots heavy on the floor, eyes flicking to you just once. You froze cleaning up after yourself. “Didn’t know if you’d be back for dinner,” you said, aiming for casual. The words sounded thinner out loud.

He gave a short nod, hung up his jacket. “Right. S’alright.” His voice was steady, too steady.

“Figured you'd sort yourself,” you said quickly, too quickly, hands already wet in the sink to give yourself something to do.

He hummed, low in his throat, something unreadable flickering across his face. He couldn’t tell if it was guilt or the comfortable routine you'd fallen into, but he hated that you’d eaten alone. He leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed, watching you rinse a plate. The silence stretched too long, the air too heavy.

Then, finally, “Think I’ll stay at Soap’s for a bit."

Your hand slipped, the plate clattering hard against the sink. “What?”

He straightened slightly. “Wore out my welcome, I think." The words were too light, too easy. They hit like a punch anyway.

You blinked down at the soap gathering in the drain, forcing your voice steady. “I don’t think that’s true,” you said, tone clipped, not looking at him. “But whatever you wanna do, Simon.”

He didn’t answer right away. You could feel him watching you, the weight of it heavy between your shoulder blades. You kept washing the same dish twice, jaw tight, pretending you didn’t care. Pretending his decision didn’t cause something sharp in your chest. It is fine, you told yourself. I’ll be happy to have my flat back to normal, your brain lied.

When he finally spoke, it was quiet. “Didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

He lingered, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere past you. You could hear the breath leave him before he spoke. “We were pissed, yeah?” he said finally, voice low, like if he said it quiet enough it might sound true. “It happens.”

Your hand stilled in the sink. Water kept running, hot and steady. You gave a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Happens.”

He nodded once, still not looking at you. “Good. Then we don’t need to—”

You turned suddenly, leaning your hip against the counter now, arms crossed, hands quickly dried on your sweatshirt. ““That what you’re doin’ then? Pretending it never happened?”

That made him look at you. Really look. The muscle in his jaw jumped, eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for a fight or forgiveness.

“Could make things easier,” he said after a beat.

You exhaled, soft but sharp. “What—you leave an’ forget it?”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “Already gave that a go this mornin’.”

You stared at him, searching for the joke that wasn’t there. “Didn’t work?"

He met your eyes. “Not even close."

You nodded once, something small and almost sad tugging at your mouth, “Right, well... yeah, me neither.”

The silence lingered, heavy, but softer this time. Your chest eased as the truth of what you’d both just admitted sank in. You turned back to the sink, rinsing the last plate like it was the most important task in the world.

“Anyway,” you said, too lightly, “Soap’s flat’s a bloody health hazard. You wouldn’t last a night.”

That earned a low hum from him, barely a laugh. You didn’t look up, didn’t need to. He stayed where he was, leaning against the counter, watching the water run.

Neither of you said another word.

But he never got around to packing that night. Part 6. Here

Rain hit the windows in sheets, steady and relentless.

You’d been half-listening to it, watching the candle on the coffee table flicker each time the wind shoved against the windows. The lights had gone out with a large clap of thunder, taking the hum of the fridge with them. The flat felt strange without it - or without Simon, really. He’d overstayed his welcome weeks ago, but somehow the place felt too big when he wasn’t in it.

You were still sitting there when the door opened.

Simon stepped in, rain dripping off his jacket, hair damp and curling. He shook rain from his hair, leaving a puddle where you’d scolded him last week for the same thing. His eyes found the single candle and the tequila bottle on the table.

You smiled, small and lopsided. “Power’s out. For about twenty minutes now.”

“Yeah, saw half the street dark when I came in,” he said, tugging off his jacket. “Would’ve been back quicker, didn’t think you’d be sittin’ in the bloody dark.”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t much else to do.”

He glanced at the dim candle. “You’ve not even got a torch?”

“Got fire,” you said, with a hand gesture to the small flame.

He smirked. “Yeah, you’re great with that.”

“Piss off,” you said, but your grin gave you away.

He took the chair opposite you, stretching his legs out, eyes catching on the half-empty bottle between you. “Not drinkin’ alone anymore, then,” he muttered, reaching for it.

He took a long pull straight from the neck. The tequila burned sharp but underneath it, God help him, he swore he could taste you on the rim. His calloused fingers grazed yours when he passed it back. For a second, he thought about that night he’d found you asleep again on the same couch you’re sitting cross-legged on now. Cheek pressed against your book, lashes fluttering, the soft rise of your chest as you dreamed. Now, here you were, awake, watching him right back.

The night unspooled from there—slow, easy, almost gentle. The candlelight made everything softer: his shoulders, your laugh, the distance between you. You told him about the last time you’d been home, how your plants hadn’t survived. He told you his landlord had sworn the mold wasn’t dangerous. You said it probably missed him. He said like mold, he grows on people.

Another pull of tequila. Another. The edges between you blurred just a little more each time. He laughed—really laughed—at something you said about him being shockingly domesticated. The sound startled you, low and warm, and you found yourself grinning too wide just from hearing it in the cover of darkness.

“You’re starin’,” he said, voice low, roughened by the drink, his strong arms leaning on his knees.

“Just thinkin’,” you said with a cock of your head as if you were studying him. Your Lieutenant. No mask covering his handsome face. No weapons slung over his shoulder. No orders waiting on his tongue.

“'Bout?”

“How strange it's been, seein’ you like this.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Could say the same.”

He looked at you then, properly looked. The candle was almost gone, flame sputtering low, and the tequila was working fast. At some point you’d moved closer - knees knocking, laughter tumbling over itself until you couldn’t remember what was funny anymore. Every time his shoulder brushed yours, neither of you shifted away. He’d been too comfortable here, he realized. Too at home.

He said something about your aim being shit and you told him he’d gone soft since last deployment. He laughed loud and unguarded again, his head tipping back. You shoved his arm. He nudged you back, harder. It spiraled from there—shoulders bumping, fingers catching, a hand in your hair, fingertips curling at the base of your skull as he tugged. It was meant as a joke but lingered a second too long.

Then the space was just… gone.

You turned at the same time he did, catching his eyes while you were still laughing, breath catching somewhere between amusement and surprise. The air changed then: quieter, thicker, alive. You both paused for only a second.

And then he kissed you.

No hesitation, no thought. Just heat and motion and the faint taste of tequila between you. The second your lips met, it was like the world tilted. Gravity had suddenly gone wrong. You didn’t think, didn’t breathe. You just moved, pressing closer, chasing the warmth and the weight of him. You deepened the kiss before he could, weeks of sidelong glances, quiet nights and kind actions overtaking years of surviving together in the field.

His hand found your jaw then, steadying, anchoring you to him. You climbed higher before he could stop you, knees pressing to either side of him, the shift of your weight drawing a low sound in his throat. The kiss was too rough to be careful but too real to be a mistake.

And then—light.

The lamps blinked on, white and harsh, scattering the dark and the tequila-fueled madness with it.

You both froze. Staring. His hand was still on your face. Your knees bracketed his thighs. You could feel his warm breath against your mouth. He pulled back first, jaw tight, golden eyes unreadable. “Fuck,” he muttered. Then quieter, “Shouldn’t’ve.”

You blinked, dazed, the taste of him still on your lips. “Yeah,” you said, though it didn’t sound like agreement.

He shifted you off him with ease and stood abruptly, raking a hand through his hair, suddenly too big for the room. “Power’s back,” he said, as if you couldn’t see it blazing around you.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moved.

Then he turned, walking down the hall, footsteps heavy against the wood. The bedroom door clicked shut behind him.

You stayed where you were, staring at nothing, breath still short. Christ. What the fuck just happened?

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.