The Torment On Soap's Face Continues With More Squish

Some little part of my brain just loves the thought of Simon “Ghost” Riley having a wife who’s extremely educated—possibly a master's or a PHD in some field—but who likes to be a stay-at-home wife. She knows she could go into a high-level job, but she’d rather be at home doing her hobbies like writing, gardening, or hell, even making stained glass murals. And you know Simon would not only praise you but brag and gloat about his intelligent woman. 

Maybe this is just my little fantasy of wanting to be a SAHW  but still wanting to be extremely educated.

Sorry, I'll see myself out 🫡

SERJ FROM TODAY

Gene gene gene gene i love you gene

Simon x Cat x Neighbour!reader

Part two > (previous part)

Simon Riley was a lot like his cat, dropping by your flat whenever he wanted. Thanking you for looking after Cat in small little ways.

Bringing you home little trinkets from his work travels. “Got it from some market, can’t tell you where though. Would have to kill ya and I really don’t want that.” Little things that line every inch of your windowsill, crystals he’s found because he knows you like them.

Thankfully it wasn’t a mouse, Simon hunting one down after Cat delivered one to you. And as you watched him pause, head angled to listen for the squeaks or little scurries. You couldn’t help but think he was a cat too. For a big guy, he was light on his feet and everything he did quiet.

“Dinner?” You asked, trying not to look at the mouse dangling between Simon’s finger and thumb by its tail. “Not a huge fan of rodent.”

He invites you into his flat for the first time, promising that it’s rodent free. “Woah your place is real big,” you say, opening your arms in the space as if you expected to touch wall to wall. Simon’s thinking of all the activities he could do with you, but decides dinners a good start.

Dinner turns into grabbing a morning coffee after a run and even going on evening runs, which angers him because before him you never would have done so alone. Sitting on the bench in the park to stretch or take a rest as you sip your water bottle, stickers decorating the outside.

When the pipe under your sink was dripping water for months, he fixed it and you didn’t find out till you went to check if the bucket was full of water again. No, no bucket under the sink. There was a small tool box in its place, stuff you had no idea what to do with.

Cat was drinking from the bucket under the sink, that’s how Simon discovered it. He’s even got a picture of it on his phone as well as a load of pictures you’d sent him with Cat. Sometimes he looks through them in his room back at the base. A few videos of your soft voice calling Cat.

So you sent him a picture of said toolbox and messaged him. “Did the fairies visit me?” He didn’t respond till the next day, “big bloody fairy.” promising to show you what they were for and sending you a video of basic plumbing if you wanted to learn yourself whilst you waited for his return.

Cue Simon teaching you how to fix the plumbing in your flat. The two of you squeezed into the little box of a bathroom as he listened to you explain about the low pressure of the shower and the tap on the sink you wanted to swap with something pretty.

The eroded shower hose snapping and spraying the both of you with water. Simon’s hoody drenched, sticking to every curve and dip of his muscles. Your back leant against the wall as his arm reached above you to turn the water off.

“I really wanna kiss ya,” he said, head inching closer to yours, gaze flitting to your lips. “Kiss me.”

You use his place for sex and make sure Cat is in your flat, “don’t want the kid to see,” is what Simon says.

Whenever Simon sees you’ve run out of anything, he’ll pick it up when he’s doing his weekly food shop. The coffee sachets refilled when you go to the kettle and when you ask, Simon shrugs “the fairies,” he says, sipping his cup of tea with the morning paper.

Even when you are officially dating you were still going between the two flats. Joking that cat had the studio and you could stay with Simon.

this is what i eat everyday goys 🙏🙏

The real barbie is Y/n.

Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.

something something being dragged to a bar by your friends for one of their birthday’s or something and being content enough to sit at the bar and read/write/whatever solitary thing while they go off to do their own thing

but you can feel someone sit next to you and when you turn to look he has the most piercing blue eyes and oddest hair cut you’ve ever seen but— if someone forced you to admit it, you’d say he’s cute at least.

anyway johnny of course tries to woo you and take you home with him that night but you cut him and his attempts off with a good natured laugh,

“heh, i’m sorry, but i only sleep with my husband. i don’t do romantic flings.”

“but ye don’ ‘ave a ring?”

“mhm, i’m not married yet.”

“yer single?”

“that’s right.”

and now he’s even more determined to get you home and covet you all to himself, for someone so sweet can’t possibly be adored by anyone else but him.

(it’s a problem when his task force’s eyes start to wander to you, though.)

I'm going feral. Someone put me down permanently, I can't go on with my life knowing that I will never have this man.

Eukaryotic cell gang!! We love women in STEM.

The organelles of the cells have been translated into human anatomy, so the nucleus is the brain, the vacuole function as the lungs, and the mitochondria is the heart since it’s the… you already know, I don’t have to say it ;)

Hi! You wanted requests? What about "innocent" Reader making Konig cum in his pants by "innocently" sitting on his lap and wiggling around to get "comfortable" on a car ride. Bumpy road***

you're squeezed into the backseat of a packed suv, the mission debrief droning on as the vehicle rumbles over a rough dirt road. könig's next to you, his massive frame taking up half the seat, thighs spread wide enough that you're practically forced to slide onto his lap to make room. "sorry," you mumble, all soft and shy, trying to sound polite as you wiggle, adjusting yourself to get comfy. you don’t even notice how your hips roll right over his groin, the tight space making every little movement press you closer.

he grunts, low and rough, gloved hands gripping the seat beneath him like he’s trying to anchor himself. "s’fine," he mutters, voice strained, but you feel the way his body tenses, the way his breathing hitches. the road’s uneven, each bump jostling you, making you bounce lightly against him. you’re oblivious, just trying to find a spot that doesn’t feel so cramped, shifting side to side, your soft weight rubbing against him in a slow, unintentional grind.

"this road’s awful," you say with a little laugh, turning your head to glance at him, all innocent eyes and flushed cheeks from the heat of the car. you don’t see how his jaw clenches under the mask, how his eyes squeeze shut for a second. another sharp bump, and you grip his knee for balance, your ass pressing harder into his lap. he lets out a choked sound, barely muffled, and you think he’s just annoyed at the tight space.

but then you feel it—something stiff, twitching under you, unmistakable even through the layers of tactical gear. könig’s hands fly to your hips, gripping hard to stop your movements. "stop… moving," he growls, voice thick, almost desperate. you freeze, confused, tilting your head like you don’t understand why he sounds so wrecked.

"sorry, am i squishing you?" you ask, all sweet concern, shifting just a tiny bit to look at him better, and he sucks in a sharp breath, hips jerking up before he can stop himself. his grip tightens, bruising, and you’re still clueless, thinking he’s just uncomfortable. but the road bumps again, hard, and your body jolts with it, dragging you right over the bulge in his pants.

he’s done for. a low, broken groan rumbles out, his whole body locking up as he cums right there, soaking through his pants under you. you blink, feeling the sudden warmth, the way he’s trembling beneath you, and finally put it together. "oh," you gasp, cheeks burning, but you don’t dare move, not with his hands still clamped on your hips, his chest heaving like he’s run a marathon.

"don’t… say a word," he mutters, voice hoarse, refusing to look at you. you bite your lip, still perched on his lap, the road still bouncing you both as the car rolls on, and you can’t help the tiny, nervous giggle that slips out. innocent, sure, but you’re not that clueless.