Roommate!Simon Riley who says, "I'll consider it.". he worries about getting your hopes up, away for long periods of time and rarely home. it's mostly said in passing to random comments you makes. "Simon— you should wear brown more often. It'd match your eyes.", "Hey Simon, I think you'd like this series. You should try watching it.", "Oh! Simon, we should try this new place that opened before you leave again.", and every time, without fail, he grunts, "I'll consider it."
Roommate!Simon Riley who comes home from shopping with more bags than usual. staple groceries and snacks put away before the rest of the bags are hauled off to his room without a word. you notice it on the third day, his usual black and white t-shirts worn around the house quietly replaced by brown sweaters and shirts. when you ask him about it he shrugs, "Thought I'd listen t'you for once.". he spent too long in the store trying to figure out which textures you'd like if you ever stole one
Roommate!Simon Riley who doesn't spend a lot of time watching media. he's got nothing against watching a match at the bar, but usually just busies himself by inspecting his weapons at home. you do a double take when he mentions a character from a series you love, the one you suggested to him. he barely glances your way before walking off, "Like that loud one, reminded me of you.". he spent three days catching up on it so you could talk to him about it
Roommate!Simon Riley who'd do next to anything to make up for lost time while he's away. he'd never make a promise given his occupation, but the little things are easier to accomplish. you seem to like the little things, rushing to put your shoes on as he fixes the sleeves on his sweater. "I can't believe you got a reservation!", your giddiness has him glancing away, listening to you gush about what to order. he locks the door behind him on the way out, watching as you walk ahead of him, "Maybe we could go out for breakfast tomorrow, what do you think?". he doesn't say anything for beat, but you already know what's coming
needy simon ! 18+ mdni! guys i need subby men now.
simon’s so whiny when he’s desperate, pawing at you with desperate hands as he rushes home from deployment, leaving desperate kisses on your neck that you know will bruise.
when he finally sinks into you, he moans, his hands shaking as they grip the mattress, his head buried in your bdcj, his curls tickling your face.
his thrusts get harder as you squeeze tight against him, and he rocks his hips against you, “please please pleaseplease” he moans, voice a mess.
“all yours,” you kiss his blonde curls, “simon, you know, i’m not going anywhere.”
“please,” he whines again, so desperate as he thrusts harder, “need you, need you, needyouneedyouneedyouuunh.” and doesn’t pull out when he cums, spurts coming inside you as his chest breaths heavily.
“yeah baby?” you ask him, pouting, before kissing his sweaty curls again, “all yours baby, for you, but calm down—“ you say as he tries to paw at your tits with his sad hands, “i wanna get some hot chocolate with you first.”
A persistent, insufferable one, at that. You were convinced, down to your very soul, that the man got a kick out of winding you up. 100% sure of it. The Scotsman, bless his heart, had been far too enthusiastic that his stoic lieutenant had taken any kind of interest in you. So, of course, he’d handed over your number like it was a shared coupon.
And the skull-masked bastard had been pestering you ever since. Who would have thought the brooding giant would turn out to be such a menace?
Unknown:
...
2:17
Go to sleep, birdie.
3:40
Then, a poorly-lit photo of a particularly hideous insect with the caption:
Reminds me of you. Screechy when I stepped on it.
18:29
You’d nearly thrown your phone across the room.
But his harassment went beyond the digital. He had a knack for materializing in the space between one breath and the next. You were in the beverage aisle, contemplating whether you wanted to buy one carton of chocolate milk or a dozen.
"Chocolate milk, kid?" A gravelly voice commented. "What are you, five?"
You choked on nothing, spinning around, heart hammering against your ribs. The aisle was empty. You were completely alone. A ghost, in every sense of the word.
Another day, you were wrestling with a stubborn, flat tire on your bicycle, grease smudged on your cheek. From over the fence, Simon’s voice called out, but the words were all wrong. "Your tire looking mighty flat down there, not gonna do anythin' 'bout it?"
Your head snapped up. He was nowhere to be seen. You glared at the empty space, your hands curling into fists. Had the man moved in just to torment you?
You finally broke and brought it up to Johnny, your voice—the one you’d decided was for him and him alone—was a frustrated whisper as you helped him weed his little patio garden. "Your… Simon… he… he messages me. All the time. About nothing. Or to… to mock me."
Johnny didn't look surprised at all. "Aye, he's a right nuisance, isnae he?" He tossed a handful of dandelions into a bucket. "Consider it enrichment, luv. He doesnae get out much. Cannae have him forgettin’ how tae talk tae pretty birds he likes."
You huffed, unsatisfied. Liking. Is that what it was?
So you bore it. You bore the texts and the disembodied taunts and the way his presence seemed to suck all the air out of a room. You bore it for Johnny, just 'cause you were weak for the sergeant. But you drew a line in the sand. Only Johnny would hear your voice. It was a privilege, a gift few received. Simon Riley and his looming shadow could go to hell.
(You didn't say that out loud.)
Wrong tactic. The poking and prodding intensified. He sent you a photo of an unopened tea bag on Johnny's counter and an ugly doodle of your face next to it.
Yours. Missed you at breakfast.
Your heart almost skipped a beat. No. Nope. You were not falling for that brute. It didn't matter they came in a package, you only favored the Scottish half!
Stood up for yourself, good puppy, Ghost's dark eyes tracked your every flustered move from behind his mask. But I can't let y'off the hook if you ignore me, can I?
How else was he supposed to get you to break the lease on your apartment and finally, finally, come live with him and Johnny?
𐔌 cw: freak for freak relationship, mild age gap and somnophilia, underwear stealing, size difference .ᐟ
your apartment looked exactly as it had for years, the only change being the thick layered dust gathering in the corners and settling over every surface, a consequence of neglect left untouched because you’d been drafted into könig’s bedroom for months. you hadn't been given the chance to shove even a single toe past his threshold, the giant simply refused to release his grip, keeping his thick, toned arms locked like iron bands around your delicate waist.
but after weeks of doing nothing but breaking his creaking mattress from sunrise to midnight, könig finally entertained the idea of letting you go back for your belongings. he figured there had to be something you were aching for, pretty wardrobe pieces, old keepsakes, makeup, or whatever little secrets a girl keeps to herself.
he volunteered to come along and haul the cardboard boxes, though he made the offer while pinning you completely helpless onto his burly lap. sitting wide legged, manspreading on the couch and forcing your thighs wide open to hook around his own. the grilled ribs and cold beer you’d just served him were left to cool on the coffee table, entirely forgotten because he’d gone drunk on the domestic, sweet view of you playing his perfect little housewife.
two nicked fingers pumping in and out your sloppy hole, loose despite that you've been fucked awake just this early dawn, and he crooks them just right, thrust in to the last knuckle, walls clenching and pulling as his fingertips massaged at the spongy bump nestled within.
“was thinking about helping you get your things, häschen” his breath scorched your nape, pressed into your skin alongside crooked nose and chapped lips. he licked and nipped at your warmed flesh until a sharp shiver forced your spine to arch sinuously, hips rolling instinctively with perky ass grinding into his stirred cock, which thickened heavily beneath worn joggers.
broken whimpers and breathless sobs hitched behind your teeth, stuttering until you were panting under your breath, head dangling down and eyes bleary with pleasure, you watched the shallow, rhythmic movement of his digits drawing in and out, the bulging bands of his tendons flexing with every stroke.
arousal stretching thin in glimmering strings as your drenched cunt squelched lewdly around his fingers, his calloused thumb finding your clit, already pulsing and twitching restlessly, rubbing in firm, relentless circles until you sobbed out a choked, close to be agreement “a—ah! p—please!”
the flat was too small for his massive shadow, and könig felt as though he could barely fit in. a fluffy carpet lined the entrance and the living room, every wall and shelf meticulously decorated. on the kitchen island sat a bouquet of withered flowers, the sight of those blossoms making him wonder with an ugly, spiking jealousy if they had been gifted by some secret admirer.
his broad palm tightened possessively over your hip in response, though his jaw lost its tense, rigid edge the moment you leaned up on your tiptoes, plump lips catching his weathered, bristly cheek in a kiss that smoothed out his scowl. there were photos scattered about too, kept in delicate frames, some captured at formal events, some at rowdy parties, others during your concluded college years.
he lingered to study each one, turning the frames restlessly in his massive hands while you went around the flat, gathering what you needed. following your retreating scent into the bedroom, he stepped in just as you knelt by the bed, folding clothes across your lap with the same neat, meticulous care you always showed at his place, ensuring no wrinkles would form.
könig watched you pack your shirts, pants, and those cute skirts he already starved to make you parade for him once you were back under his roof. he certainly wasn't against the underwear you began placing into the cardboard boxes, not at all, there were lacy, plain, and flower embroidered pieces, some so sheer he could see right through them.
they were devastatingly sexy garments, the view making his blood run hot and prompting to let out a petulant, slightly angry grunt “who did you buy these for, kleines häschen?” thick eyebrows scrunching together in troubled line. you looked up at him with gullible eyes, lower lip rolling out into the most adorable pout, your chin raised to project all the mock hurt you could muster.
reaching up, your hands cupped his prominent cheekbones, fingertips mapping the rough tracks of the scars lining his jaw, batting your eyelashes and gazing directly into his striking, baby blue irises. his massive head tilted under your touch, the coarse bristles tingling against your palm as he nuzzled affectionately into your skin, a lopsided, uneven smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“there wasn’t anyone worth showing these to” to him, you looked like a darling, helpless little prey rabbit, tooth purring so, his restraint snapping and hands reaching out, broad palms kneading your curvy ass, blunt nails digging firmly into the fat there.
jaw dropping slack when his lips smashed over yours, tongue sliding past teeth to claim your mouth immediately, sloppy and unrestrained, your fingers curled tightly around his bulky shoulder blades, digging deep into his shirt as your broken, smothered whimpers made his length thicken with a violent pulse against your thigh.
packing should have gone much quicker, especially with his help, carrying on every single bottle he found in your bathroom. he stood there looking utterly bewildered by the sheer volume of them, lotions, bubble baths, creams, and scrubs, and that was before he even realized the entire second shelf was just for your face, at which point he didn't understand a damn word.
you giggled, promising him that you would pamper him with an evening face mask once you were back home, to which he nodded with a boyish excitement, though he knew his rough mug was never going to match yours, and he didn't care to try, just wanting to keep his hands busy groping your skin anyway.
when you moved to the kitchen to collect your pots and pans, könig watched you with a thoroughly puzzled expression, leaning against the counter. his muscular arms were folded tight across his stocky chest, one eyebrow cocked upward, curious as to why the hell you could possibly need those when his own kitchen was already stocked, and you had already been cooking with them anyway.
“yours are ruined, everything burns on them” you explained plainly, holding up your skillet to show him the intact non stick coating, reminding the big soldier that his own cookware was covered in scratches and looked a hell of a lot cheaper than your spotless, rubber handled sets, so convinced, he nodded in agreement.
you were already babbling happily about what you wanted to cook for dinner this evening, reaching up into the cupboards to grab a collection of mugs and drinking glasses adorned with silly drawings and shapes, when his massive bulk swamped you from behind, pinning you down. prickly chin rubbing over your exposed neck, mouth pressing in to suck wet marks into the tender skin at the crook of your shoulder before his hot breath drifted right to your ear.
unsurprisingly, you get bend over the kitchen cabinet, hoisting your weight into his chest until your toes were left barely brushing against the cold floorboards beneath. gorged cock hammering in your drooling cunt, countertop digging into your tensing tummy, mouth agape with blabbered squeals and keens “h—hnh, k—könig, too much!”
puffy clit pulsing relentlessly, but he reaches with his fingerpads only when about to burst, slipping easily with the tacky wetness that oozes out, teasing the sensitive nub back and forth. you slump bonelessly, his muscular hips slamming against your juddering ass, scorched by the harsh impact.
throbbing tip jerking at your gooey insides with grinding, dragging thrusts, growls growing deeper “schh, take it wie das brave häschen, das du bist” veiny fingers knuckled tightly into your cotton shirt, bunching the material in his fists over the swaying curve of your breasts as his hands scrambled hungrily at them.
when könig was done, he hoisted you up to sit on the counter, your weight suspended as creamy globs of his release dripped from between your thighs, chapped lips finding your forehead. pressing down with soothing, gentle kisses, and he smiled softly against warm skin as your fingers tracked their way into his hair, curling through the thick strands until you finally felt steady enough to stand on your own.
he carried every single cardboard box out to the vehicle, never letting out so much as a grunt at how heavy they were, while you huddled contentedly into his side, eager for the ride back to his place, leaning back and preening like a coddled thing when he hauled you onto his lap in the car, showering your flushed cheeks with tender, lingering kisses.
somehow, a few pairs of panties had gone missing from the box containing your underwear, perhaps you had simply forgotten to pack them. yet, when those very same garments began to reappear beneath the pillow he slept on, the deep, ragged groans he let out in the dead of night, right before he would turn over to cradle your tits in his sleep, suddenly made perfect sense.
“seriously don’t come over im sick—i don’t wanna pass it to you” you texted him when he insisted on coming over to see you.
or how the 141 care for you when you’ve got the sniffles 🤧🦠🌡️ SFW
johnny ignored the warning to come over and get shit done. you’ve been sick the last 4 days? oh bonnie, let him clean up around the house yeah? you’ll feel loads better with a clear and cozy home. after he’s done with the kitchen and your bedroom he’ll reset your bathroom while you’re soaking in the hot tub. don’t. even. think. about lifting a finger. if you need to be scrubbed call him over immediately 🫧💗
price doesn’t give a single shit about catching your cooties, love, he’s been hit with far worse. and yes he’s cuddling with ya to keep u warm— now make room before he moves you himself swee’eart. by the way, the best way to beat a flu is sweating it out right? just lay back. he’ll make you a cuppa with lozenges for your throat after you’re done whimpering for him 💕
simon makes sure you’re fed. doesn’t matter if your flu made your appetite disappear, you need to stay full and hydrated, dove. it’s what makes your immune system stronger. he texts you check ups everyday to pressure you into make sure you’re eating the leftover stew and spuds he cooked up last night. after his briefing he’s coming over to make sure you’ve finished your food xx (better eat up, doll)
kyle is as dastardly as his captain 💀 so you’re in bed for the next few days and you need him? say less. “kyle, seriously im too sick to hang out, you’ll catch it too” and he’s over within 20 minutes of receiving the text. a full basket filled with cold & flu medicine, cough drops, vitamin C and D supplements, tea, honey, and… is that lube ?? ( its the kind that warms up the more you rub it in)
cod m.list !
a/n: let the brain worms fester as i blow my nose for the 1000th time 🥹 as always here’s a kiss for the read 😘💕
His girlfriend isn’t gifted in matters of height bless her please. She struggles to even reach the lower shelves of the top cupboards, and when spring cleaning arrived it turned out to be the bane of her small existence.
Top cupboards, literally high as the ceiling. Not even cloning herself and mounting the said clone on her shoulders would help them reach. But she doesn’t need a clone, she has a big boyfriend for help…right? Well Simon just came back from deployment, and she felt guilty for rousing his exhausted form awake just for him to be her glorified cupboard opener. Come on reader, you’re a 20th century independent woman, you will not be defeated from a flimsy cupboard.
You drag a chair across the room, and stand on it, only to discover even that added height left you a few inches short. Whoever designed this cupboard, was being called every slur by you. And there are no higher chairs in this house! Unknown to your dilemma, your boyfriend woke up early to grab a cup of water, stopping dead at the display of you, arms on the wall, head leaning against it defeated while standing on a chair, clearly trying to reach the handle above you. Can he reach the cupboards though? Easily. Does he help? No. It’s like someone switched on live Charlie Chaplin in front of him as he watched your brain get creative in ways to pry the door open. He pulled out the fox nuts from the cupboards (your stash) because making popcorn would indicate his presence and ruin the show, (also fox nuts are tastier) as he leans against the wall and chews quietly (fox nuts are quiet to chew anyways).
After your mental break down on the chair, you stepped off, and came back in…high heels. The highest pair you own, and risking your bones you step onto the chair once again. But then you realise it was a dumb move, because wearing heels and standing on your tippy toes before makes zero difference except the increased risk now. So you sigh and step off, putting the heels away in increasingly annoyed clicks against the floor. Simon meanwhile, hiding from your field of vision, knew it’s going to get much better than this as he saw you reach for the broom next.
Yes the one with the tallest handle, thinking you can pry it behind the handle and pry the cupboard open. Simon mentally agrees that sounds like a solid plan, which flopped before it even started because the broom handle was too thick to go in. He really had to choke back his snickers. He also got the brilliant idea record this entire show in his cracked phone, but never once he thought to help you. You were showing off your independence after all.
atlast, you grew desperate, and reached for the belt. This was a more intricate plan, of everything combined + belt involved. The plan was as follows, hook the belt around the broom tip, climb the chair again, carefully insert the belt behind the handle, then use it to pull the cupboards open. It took a few tries, like inserting thread into needle but on a taller scale, but it worked! You pulled on your belt, stars in your eyes, expecting the doors to heaven open but- the handle comes off. You stand there, on a chair, among the mess of a discarded broom, a broken handle, and a belt in your hands, ready to scream until a familiar gruff chuckle enters your ears.
Simon couldn’t hold it in anymore, the handle coming out was the cherry on top as he desperately tried to stop laughing as your head snaps towards him watching and recording this entire show (and eating on your fox nuts stash). He decided it was time to run as he sees you fly after him with your belt.
needy soap / breeding kink
inspo from @soapysoapysoapysoapy
“Think I’m gonna die,” Soap muttered from the floor, arms flung out
“I think my balls are about to explode,” Soap groaned, collapsing onto the floor like a fallen warrior, one massive hand dragging over his face in frustration. “This is a medical emergency. I need relief.”
At first, everyone ignored him. Typical Soap — huge, intimidating, and apparently constantly horny. He’d been whining about it for weeks. After every mission, every briefing, somehow his thoughts circled back to his aching body like it was some kind of personal crisis.
You’d rolled your eyes so many times it felt like a reflex. But when he started describing the color, the shape, and even the emotional texture of his cum — “like very sad yogurt” — someth
like he was waiting for a chalk outline. “This is medical. I’m not even being dramatic this time.”
You didn’t even look up from your report. “You say that every time we come back from an op.”
“Aye, but this time it’s real. I’ve got… pressure. A build-up. It’s like a ticking bomb in my bollocks.” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m a hazard, lass. A walking threat.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You want me to add ‘blue balls’ to your file under injuries sustained?”
“Serious question—if a man hasn’t come in three weeks, does he legally qualify for disability?” His voice dropped into a pained, breathy whine. “I need to put it somewhere. It’s not even horny anymore. It’s primal. Instinctual. If I don’t get it out soon, I might start humping the wall like a bloody terrier.”
You snorted, shaking your head. “You’re disgusting.”
“And yet,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you with that dangerous smirk, “you’re still here. Still listening.”
That part was true. Against your better judgment, you were still here. Still listening. Still thinking, God, if he keeps talking like that, I might actually let him.
Something in your face must’ve slipped, because Soap’s smirk deepened.
“Oh?” he drawled, voice low now — a little too low. “You thinking about it? Bet I could split you in half, bonnie. You want that, yeah?”
Your breath caught.
He stood, slow and deliberate, towering a little too close. “Want me to fill you up so good you can’t walk straight? Pin you down and make you forget your own name?”
He waited just long enough for you to stammer something — maybe a protest, maybe a challenge — before he had you backed against the wall, large hands gripping your thighs and hoisting you like you weighed nothing.
“You’re lucky,” he growled against your neck, breath hot. “I’m a generous man. And I’m done being patient.”
You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on yours — biting, consuming, owning. Everything about him was heat and pressure and pure, restrained power.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to.
He took his time getting you open for him, whispering filth the whole way through — how tight you were, how much he’d thought about this, how he was going to make you take it.
By the time he finally rolled his hips in and filled you to the brim, your head was already spinning.
“You feel that?” he rasped, one hand at your throat now, firm but careful — just enough pressure to make your eyes flutter. “That’s mine now. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”
And he did.
Every thrust was sharp, unrelenting, punctuated by dark promises. “Gonna breed you so full they’ll see it in your walk. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Filthy little thing.”
Your nails left marks. Your moans turned to cries. He didn’t stop.
Didn’t even slow down when you clenched around him, begging for a break.
“Nah, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough. “You started this. And I’m not stopping until I’ve filled you proper.”
thinking about johnny who just like–loses a part of himself after he got shot in the head, yes because he totally survived that. i don't know how to describe it, and neither does he.
he just spends a lot of his time disassociating, it creeps you out honestly. oftentimes you find him staring at the wall, the ceiling, and you. he doesn't speak as much as he used to as well, so you're still growing used to the silence.
then one day, johnny just goes missing. he's nowhere to be found, so you go out to try and find him hopefully. along the way, passing by the flower shop you coincidentally meet simon who was just getting out of the shop, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
with your voice still shaky, you ask him if he has seen johnny at all today. and to your surprise he replies with "what do you mean, luv? it's johnny's death anniversary today?"
...who the fuck was in your house..for practically a whole year?
