Imagine only hearing about him from your neighbors down the hall, since he was still deployed when you moved into your apartment
Imagine *finally* seeing a new car pull into the parking lot, and thanking the gods that today was baking day so you had freshly baked cookies for your neighbor. They were still warm, too
Imagine waiting about thirty minutes after he gets home before you knock on his door, a small tray of freshly baked, still warm cookies in your hands
Imagine Ghost opening his door to see you, a strange woman he's never met before (even though you had been living there for months at that point), smiling and with a tray of cookies in your arms. You didn't even flinch at his mask
Imagine introducing yourself to him, your smile never faltering as you tell him your name, looking right into his eyes
Imagine him stammering out his own name, telling you that you can just call him Simon, and by the way, are those cookies for him?
It must’ve been early when the knocking woke you up. Rolling in the warmth of the bed, you struggled to get up and once you did, you walked towards the door on pure muscle memory, still too tired to proceed with any coherent thoughts.
You opened it automatically, rubbing your heavy eyes and letting out a yawn.
“Ghost, Price and I were thinking that maybe…” you heard a voice you faintly remembered blurt out words you vaguely put together. “Yn? What are you doing in Simon's room?”
Freezing at the spot, your eyes dart open, as wide as they could possibly be, and a burst of energy runs through your body, making your mind jolt alight, finally deciding to work.
“Fuck.” you whisper, as you could hear the sound of objects falling and stumbling steps rushing to your side. Simon, still shirtless, holding up his loose sweatpants and whose mask had been clumsy put on, only one of his eyes properly fitting through it’s proper hole, arrived beside you breathlessly, pulling Gaz into the room and closing the door immediately thereafter.
Pushing the Sergeant onto the unmade bed, it took him a moment to catch his breath, spinning around on the same spot on the floor. He had fixed his mask, and the moment his eyes caught yours you could clearly understand his message.
We’re fucked.
Your eyes were restless, moving from Simon and Gaz so quickly it was making you dizzy. Your hands tugged at Simon’s shirt, dressing you like a dress, but barely covering your legs, ones you were not used to exposing in front of your comrades.
It was awkward, this whole situation an awkward mess you had put you all in.
I’m sorry, you mouthed and pleaded with your eyes as Simon stopped in front of you, his hands reaching for your arm, rubbing it warm, consoling you as much as he could as you two sulked in unwanted company.
“Can you two explain what’s going on?” asked your “guest”. Exchanging glances once more, you two fought over who would break him the news. “Or am I supposed to make my own conclusions?”
“‘S pretty obvious, innit?” Simon replied, dryly.
“I wanted to hear it from you, it looks too surreal.” he said, leaning back and straightening his position, a smirk spreading on his face, amusement evident in his eyes. “The Lt and Yn shagging.”
You looked back at Simon once more, his arms crossed on his chest making his biceps look twice their size, and his clear crunched jawline, probably planning three hundred different ways to murder his teammate. Touching his shoulder, you asked for allowance, watching as he considered the options before nodding in return.
“Gaz.” you called, catching his attention. “We’re married.”
Gaz’s head bobbed forward as his eyes almost jumped out of its socket, questioning the shocking news and his own reality. To confirm your words, showed him your hands, more specifically your ring finger, where a pair of letters, ‘SR’, were tattooed secretly on its side. The Lieutenant followed suit, uncrossing his arms to expose your initials drawn on the same spot in his ring finger.
You two were married. Married, and no one in the base knew it. Hell, they didn’t even know you two had a thing for each other, was going through Gaz’s mind.
“Married?” he repeated, more an affirmation than a question, trying to process it in his head. “I can’t wait till Johnny knows it.”
“Johnny can’t know it.” you immediately cut him. “Please, Gaz. I-it’s…” private, you wanted to add, our lives. But a lump in your throat caught you, feeling everything you’d build crumbling down.
You’d been so careful. You and Simon had taken every possible precaution since the first night you hooked up, not wanting anyone to find out your silly “mistake”, to the day of your wedding two years ago, the most important day in your entire life. And now the secret was done for, days counted even if Gaz were kind enough to keep it to himself.
“Private.” Gaz completed your words after a brief minute of silence, and the hope in your chest grew. “I get it. You know I’m not a snitch.” Standing up, he continued. “Your secret is safe with me.” and extending his hand towards your husband he wished. “Congratulations, Simon.”
Your husband, after second thoughts, shook Gaz’s hand in his, evident force used to make sure a warning was heard: you say anything, you’re dead. However, knowing him like no one else, you notice signs no one would, and the slight drop in his shoulder lets you know he trusted his Sergeant.
“Congratulations you too, Yn.” he turned to you, giving you a tight hug instead, lifting you off your feet for a brief moment before returning you to the floor. “Does this make me the best man over Johnny?”
Fishing for a pillow, Simon threw it straight into Gaz’s head as he rushed out of your room, giggles heading out with him. You too stood laughing, enjoying knowing your secret paradise wasn’t done for yet, and trying to calm down your sulking and annoyed husband.
.
a/n: short drabble to announce i'm now taking simon and other cod men requests ♡
A honey trap—such a sterile phrase his superiors used, as if it could sanitize the rot festering in his conscience. Unethical? Yes; but that single syllable barely scratched the surface of his transgression. They needed information, they said, and Simon—God help him—had orchestrated every tender moment, every breathless laugh, every trembling touch with surgical precision. His superiors, those faceless men in their stark offices, had pushed the proposal forward; they wanted him closer to her father, that suspected architect of labyrinthine offshore accounts.
He remembers that exact moment. Her eyes had sparkled with tears of joy when he dropped to one knee—tears that now haunted his dreams, crystalline drops of his betrayal. In quiet moments, when she lay sleeping beside him, her trust radiating like warmth against his skin, the question would claw at his throat: When she discovers the truth—not if, but when—will those same tears fall in rivers of rage? Will her love calcify into hatred, sharp enough to pierce the armor he'd built around his guilt?
"Three years of marriage." Her words floated like seafoam in the Mykonos twilight; wine-hazed eyes drinking in the pastel sky as if it were a gift he'd arranged specially for their anniversary.
Simon's jaw tightened—a muscle working beneath the skin—as waves lapped at their bare feet with metronome precision. The word 'marriage' sat like bile in his throat; every anniversary a fresh reminder of his calculated lies. He fixed his gaze on the bleeding horizon—anywhere but at her—letting the salt wind strip away the taste of guilt that had become his constant companion.
"Yeah... three bloody years." The words scraped past his lips, his British accent thick and coarse as Mediterranean sand. A bitter laugh threatened to escape—three years of this charade, three years of her soft touches that felt like brands against his skin. "Can't believe it's been that long."
She reached for his hand; he let her take it.
"I'm so happy you married me..." Her words hung in the salt air—fragile as soap bubbles, painful in their innocence. Those eyes, sparkling with a love he could never return, cut deeper than any interrogation he'd endured in the field.
Simon's muscles coiled beneath his skin; her declaration struck like a precisely aimed blade. His jaw worked silently—grinding truth to dust—as guilt wrapped its familiar fingers around his throat. The sensation lasted only moments before training kicked in; sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had a job to do—always the job.
"Yeah..." The word emerged like gravel. His expression hardened into the mask he'd worn for three years. "Me too."
A heartbeat of hesitation—then, striving for conviction: "It was the right thing to do..."
She wound herself around his arm like morning glory seeking sunlight. "Do you love me?" The question dripped with need for reassurance; every syllable another weight added to the anchor of his deception.
A muscle betrayed him—twitching in his jaw like Morse code airing out his lies.
"Course I do..." The words tasted of ashes as he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes—God, those trusting eyes—gleamed up at him like searchlights through his carefully constructed shadows, sending fresh waves of guilt crashing against his ribs.
Mission parameters flashed through his mind like a lifeline: just a mission, a means to an end—nothing more. Clinical words that did nothing to dull the edge of her next question.
"Have I made you happy?"
The question hung between them like a loaded gun; he wondered which of them it would wound more deeply.
Simon's jaw ticked—a mechanical tell he couldn't control—as her voice spilled sweetness and light into the darkening air. His fists clenched; knuckles white with the effort of containing truths that would shatter her world.
"Yeah... you have." The words scraped past gritted teeth; his tone harsh enough to wound—though whether himself or her, he wasn't certain.
He forced himself to look at her—God help him—and found trust swimming in those eyes; love so pure it sent guilt cascading through his veins like ice water. Training kicked in like muscle memory: compartmentalize, distance, remember the mission parameters. This was all theater—a carefully orchestrated performance where he played the doting husband.
"If I make you uncomfortable or unhappy—" her voice trembled with an eagerness that flayed him alive—"tell me what to do and I'll change whatever it is you don't like about me."
Simon's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of her devotion; each word of self-doubt another stone added to the cairn of his shame. Her willingness to reshape herself for a man who didn't exist—it was obscene in its innocence.
"You don't need to change anything." His voice emerged gruff, carefully modulated to hide the storm beneath. "You're perfect the way you are." Perfect—and that made it infinitely worse.
As they walked further along the shore, his boss's voice slithered through his memory like an oil slick: "Give her a baby, Riley. Solidify that you're a family man to her and her family... that'll make them trust you more..."
The waves crashed against the shore; Simon wondered if they could wash away the taste of bile rising in his throat. A baby—the ultimate collateral damage in this game of shadows and lies. His handler's words echoed like bullets in an empty chamber; each one designed to kill whatever conscience he had left.
Simon's gut twisted into knots as his handler's words burrowed deeper—parasitic thoughts breeding shame. Using her love, her body, their marriage had been one thing; but this—creating life as a prop in their charade—made bile rise bitter in his throat.
He swallowed against the acid guilt. "Baby..." The endearment scraped past his lips like broken glass; his voice rough with self-loathing. "I need to talk to you about something."
"Yeah, baby?" Her response came wrapped in a smile—always that damned smile on her gorgeous face; each curve of her lips another twist of the knife he'd planted in his own conscience.
Simon guided her toward a secluded stretch of beach—away from witnesses to his latest betrayal. His muscles coiled tight as she called him 'baby'; the war in his mind reached fever pitch—duty and disgust grappling in the shadows of his skull. Professional distance crumbled beneath the weight of what he was about to propose.
He drew in a breath that tasted of salt and lies; tried to fortify himself against the magnitude of this new deception. Speaking had never been his strong suit—now words felt like weapons turned inward.
"...I've been thinking about something." His voice dropped low; serious—as if gravity itself could lend legitimacy to this fresh hell.
"I've been thinking..." Another breath—sharp enough to cut—"that maybe we should start trying for a baby..."
The words fell like stones into the space between them; he couldn't bear to meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze fixed on the sand—watching darkness creep across it like the stain he felt spreading through his soul. This was more than a mission parameter now; this was crossing a line he hadn't known existed until he stood at its edge—about to take a step that could never be untaken.
Her eyes widened—galaxies of hope expanding in those innocent depths.
The squeal that erupted from her lips pierced the evening air: "Yes! Yes!"
Simon's face contracted like a wound being stitched; her unbridled joy a fresh kind of torture. The guilt gnawed at his bones—a familiar parasite he'd learned to live with—but he buried it beneath layers of practiced indifference. Just the job, just the bloody job.
"Yeah... yeah..." The words tasted of ash in his mouth as he attempted enthusiasm—a poor actor playing at happiness. "I thought it was time." Time for what? Another layer of betrayal; another innocent drawn into his lies?
Her face glowed with such pure delight—Christ, if she only knew the truth behind his proposal, would that radiance transform into something that could burn him alive?
"I'm so happy... I'm so happy..." She bounced on her toes like an excited child; her eyes swimming with naked affection as she gazed up at him. "Can we try tonight?"
The question hit him like a body blow—air evacuating his lungs in a silent gasp. His jaw clenched; muscle memory of contained revulsion. "Tonight?" His voice emerged rough as sandpaper. "Uhh... tonight?"
The speed of her agreement caught him off-guard; reality crashed over him like a cold wave. The physical act loomed before him—another performance in his repertoire of deception. But sex is sex—a mantra he'd repeated through three years of marriage; a thin comfort that grew thinner with each repetition.
"Sure baby... sure." The agreement slipped past his defenses before he could stop it.
Sex is still sex—the lie tasted bitter this time.
"Yeah... alright... tonight." Each word dragged like shrapnel from a wound.
Simon forced the syllables past the knot of self-loathing in his gut. Conflict churned inside him—desire warring with disgust, duty grappling with decency. But there was no extraction plan for this mission; no way to abort without destroying everything.
He drew in a breath that felt sharp as glass. "We'll head back to the room then, yeah?"
His extended hand seemed to belong to someone else—a stranger playing at being a loving husband. His mind raced through a labyrinth of regrets; each thought a new dead end. The fraud of it all pressed against his chest—this performance of love, this pantomime of family planning.
"Come on." The words scraped past his lips, gruff with barely contained turmoil. "Let's go."
Each step toward their room felt like moving through quicksand—every movement drawing him deeper into a lie he might never escape.
That evening, as she lay beneath him—trusting, eager, loving—his guilt manifested in the most primal betrayal of all. The little blue pill dissolved on his tongue earlier was his shameful secret; another lie to add to his collection. His body rebelled against his deception—even chemistry couldn't fully overcome the weight of his conscience.
It should have been paradise, shouldn't it? Being buried in the warm sanctuary of her body—her beauty undeniable, her desire genuine. But paradise, he'd learned, couldn't be built on foundations of sand and shadows. Each tender touch felt like judgment; each passionate kiss a sentence passed. His pleasure came tainted with self-loathing—mechanical responses to artificial stimulation.
The truth burned in his throat like acid: he couldn't maintain arousal—not with guilt wrapped around his throat like a garrote; not with his handler's voice echoing in his mind. This secret he'd take to his grave—another shard of shame embedded too deep to ever extract. The warmth of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; heaven transformed into a special kind of hell, designed just for him.
She lay beneath him—all warmth and trust and love—while his heart turned to ice in his chest. The dim light caught the gold of her wedding ring; it flickered like an accusation with every movement. His own ring felt like a brand against his skin, burning with each tender touch she offered.
The chemistry coursed through his veins—artificial desire fighting against the tide of his guilt. Her fingers traced patterns of affection across his shoulders; each caress felt like judgment carved into his flesh. Paradise turned to purgatory; pleasure transformed into punishment.
"I love you," she whispered against his neck—words that should have been salvation became damnation instead.
His body responded while his mind recoiled; training and tablets working in tandem to maintain this cruelest deception. She arched beneath him—so trusting, so eager to create life with a man who was more shadow than substance. Her skin flushed with genuine desire; his grew cold with calculated performance.
The sounds she made—soft sighs of pleasure, whispered endearments—echoed in his skull like accusations. Each thrust felt mechanical; each kiss a fresh betrayal. His handler's voice mingled with her moans: "family man... make them trust you more..." Until he couldn't tell where the mission ended and the madness began.
Her hands cupped his face—so gentle, so loving—and he wanted to weep at the cruel irony. Here she was, trying to create life with a man who died a little more with each tender touch. The heat of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; intimacy perverted into intelligence gathering.
He buried his face in her neck—not from passion, but to hide the war raging behind his eyes. She mistook his shuddering for pleasure; it was revulsion at himself. Even as his body chased its chemical conclusion, his mind splintered into fragments of guilt and duty and shame—pieces too sharp to ever fit back together.
Mediterranean sunlight crept through the curtains like liquid gold.
"Did you have fun?" Her question floated up from the tangled sheets; innocent as morning dew.
Guilt lanced through him—sharp and familiar now. Her eagerness to please him felt like needles under his skin; every effort she made to earn love he couldn't give was another weight added to his conscience.
He forced out a grunt—another performance in his endless repertoire. "Yeah... yeah I did. You've gotten better." The words tasted of copper and shame.
"Why do you ask?" He aimed for casual; missed by miles—tension threading through his voice like steel wire.
"I just want to make sure I'm making you happy," she murmured against his chest, fingers tracing abstract patterns on his skin. "I read some articles about... you know... trying for a baby. Making it more likely to happen." A soft laugh escaped her—pure, unguarded. "I want to do everything right."
Her head rested on his shoulder—soft hair brushing his skin like whispered accusations. Any other man would thank whatever god they believed in for a woman like her; Simon could only hate himself more with each gentle breath she took.
He wrapped an arm around her—another act in this elaborate charade—pulling her closer even as his soul recoiled. The weight of her trust pressed against him harder than her body ever could. She felt like silk against his skin; he felt like sandpaper against hers—rough with deception, coarse with lies.
The urge to push her away clawed at his chest—to end this facade, to confess every sin he'd committed in the name of duty. But the mission bound him like chains forged from his own choices. His mind waged its endless war: duty versus decency, mission versus morality. An innocent woman lay in the crossfire, and he'd loaded every bullet himself.
Her warmth seeped into his side; he wondered if it would ever wash away the cold calculation that had become his core.
Simon slouched in the corner, half-hidden by a wall of pastel balloons and garlands, the sound of laughter and soft coos grating against him like nails on glass. She was radiant, glowing in that way all the books and articles had promised, a woman basking in the warmth of her impending motherhood. Friends and family surrounded her, hands touching her belly as though it held some sacred truth he could never understand. She laughed—a sweet, unguarded sound that should have brought him joy. Instead, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He couldn’t bring himself to join the celebration; every time he looked at her, every time she glanced over and smiled at him, something twisted deep in his gut—a sharp, relentless reminder that he was a fraud. She deserved a man who’d be a father in more than name alone, someone who’d be wrapped up in this new life with her, but all he could feel was the weight of his shame and pathetic self pressing down on him.
That evening, Simon spun a quick excuse for her—something about a problem at the office, a sudden emergency requiring his immediate attention. She barely questioned him, simply nodded with that gentle trust he’d come to dread. But his destination wasn’t the office; it was a dimly lit bar, a familiar back corner where his superior waited, nursing a drink and an expression Simon could only describe as smug satisfaction.
“So… successfully knocked an heiress up, eh?” The words rolled off his boss’s tongue as if they were discussing the weather.
Simon ground his teeth, feeling a spike of anger flare in his chest. “Yeah.” The response was clipped, his jaw clenched so tight he could barely force the words out. “I did what you asked.”
“Head over heels for you, is she?” His boss laughed, a low, contemptuous sound. “God, the poor thing.”
Each word felt like a blade twisting deeper. Yes, she loved him; she loved him with a sincerity he’d never known he could inspire. But the way his boss spoke of it—as if her affection was some cheap victory, as if her trust was a trophy to be tossed aside—made his blood run cold.
He balled his fists beneath the table, his knuckles turning white. “I know,” he said through gritted teeth, barely able to keep his voice steady.
“We didn’t think you’d pull it off this well.” The amusement in his boss’s voice was unmistakable. “We knew you could manipulate—use people; that’s what you do best, after all. But to get her so… blindly devoted? Impressive, even for you.”
Simon bit down hard, jaw aching as he fought to keep the bile from rising. He didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want to hear about how flawlessly he’d betrayed her, how thoroughly he’d convinced her of a love that was nothing but smoke and mirrors.
“She trusts me,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, hoping to deflect, to shut down this sickening praise.
His boss let out a chuckle, cold and mocking. “Just trust, is it? Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. But come on—no credit for yourself? I think you deserve a bonus for this one, Riley. You’ve put in the work, pulled all the strings. Hell, even I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Simon felt himself go still, every muscle in his body wound tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. The monster his boss saw in him—was that all he’d ever be? He forced himself to nod, his voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… sure. Send some extra cash my way if it makes you feel better.”
“Good,” his boss replied, that smug satisfaction radiating from him like poison. “I’m proud of you, Riley. You’ve secured an influential family, locked down the daughter. And soon enough, there’ll be a little Riley running around, further cementing our foothold.”
A wave of nausea rolled through him at that. His boss spoke as though this were just another operation, another mission ticked off the list. Not a woman’s life, not a child’s future—just another step in their endless game of leverage and control.
Simon gave a curt nod, jaw so tight it felt like it might shatter. He kept his silence, swallowing the urge to spit some scathing retort, to lash out and tear down every vile word his boss had spoken.
“Good,” his boss said again, with a finality that felt like chains tightening around Simon’s throat. “Keep it up… and, of course, gather all the intel you can on her father.”
Simon didn’t respond. He simply sat there, silent and still, the weight of his choices pressing down like iron shackles. The mission bound him—bound him tighter than any oath he’d ever sworn—and he couldn’t escape the feeling that, somewhere along the line, he’d traded his soul for it.
The way the sweat darkens the fabric of his tee shirt, a deep ring around his collar that trails down the broad planes of his chest.
Muscular arms flexing with every swing of his hammer, the veins pronounced as his brows knit tightly in concentration. The sharp clank, clank of metal rings out, sparking as he works to flatten it against the anvil.
Orange firelight illuminates his hardened features, as he plunges the glowing steel into the quench with a hiss.
Simon nods at his work, with a flicker of satisfaction. He casts the hardened blade aside, already preparing for the next piece, not a hint of exhaustion in sight.
Hello love! I adore your works of Ghost and reader! Could I request another sweet make-out sesh only this time Ghost can't help himself and starts to pleasure reader? Whispering how much he adores her in her ear while he does the naughtiest things to her?
hi my love!! tysm for the support 😣💕 i love this idea 😈 i hope you enjoy!
make out sesh w ghost turned steamy 😗18+ content, making out, fingering, teasing,
“Quit movin’ around.” Simon grumbles, burying his fave in your stomach. You rest your book on his head, turning the page slowly.
“Well, no one told you to lay right on top of me while I read my book” You snapped back jokingly, getting distracted by his touch. He lifts his head, peeking over your book to see your eyes quickly scanning across the page.
“Nerd…” He mumbles, rolling over and slumping into the bed next to you. His bare back faces you, and you then to him, feeling slightly guilty. Whenever Simon comes home, he can’t seem to get enough of you. Of course, you can’t help but give in to his every touch, not knowing when he’d return from his next mission. You click your tongue, shutting your book closed, laying it on your bedside table.
“Aww, is someone angry?” You coo, wrapping an arm around his waist, planting a soft kiss on his toned shoulder. He grunts, staying the way he is. “C‘mom baby, I was just trying to finish that chapter!” You argue, pulling his arm to make him face you. He gives in, sliding his body to mold against yours. His hands find your waist, rubbing his thumb under the hem of your nightshirt.
“I just want you.” He whispers, planting a warm kiss on your jaw. You sigh, fingers getting lost in his hair, resting on his neck. He trails his kisses upwards, reaching your lips. He pauses for a moment, staring at you with desire, before you pull him in, locking your lips with his. You can practically taste the desperation on his lips. It’s messy, it’s wild, it’s intoxicating, your body feels like it’s on fire when he drives his hips into you. Your legs mindlessly wrap around his waist, nails scratching along his upper back. His groans softly land against mouth making the desire in your lower stomach grow painfully stronger.
“Simon—“ You breathe out when he pulls away to direct his focus on marking up your neck. He looks up at you, lips soaked and swollen—fuck, he’s so cute like this. It’s a rare sight to see him so unaware of his surroundings, not caring who sees him like this. His focus is you and only you. Only you have this effect on him. His breathing gets deeper—stronger—as well as his movements. You roll your hips into him, rutting against his thigh, craving friction.
“You need somethin’ love?” He asks, you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. He chuckles softly, lowering his hand between your thighs, his knuckles brushing against your cunt.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. Your hips knowingly lift up as he drags them down your legs, tossing them somewhere in the room. You close your eyes, tilting your head back as his lips find your neck again, while his fingers slowly spread your lips, gathering your wetness around his fingertips. He traces your hole, earning a low groan out of you.
“F-fuck…” You softly moan, eyebrows furrowing.
“Eyes on me, baby” He whispers, nudging your jaw with his nose. His middle finger rubs up and down your slit, softly rubbing circles against your clit. You finally meet his eyes, clenching your jaw at his painstakingly slow movements. You whine, twisting and angling your hips to urge him to move faster.
“You’re so pretty like this— all mine, all for me.” He babbles, looking you up and down, pressing his hard length against your thigh. “Look at what you do to me, love” He removes his fingers from you, pressing his clothed cock against your soaked entrance. You gasp, feeling how big he was.
“Si-please—“ You whine out, digging your nails in his shoulders.
“Alright, sweetheart, I’ve played with you enough” He climbs off the bed, standing at the edge as he lowers his underwear on his hips.
“Now c’mere, bend over this bed and lemme fuck you properly.”
Do you have any headcannons or thoughts of Simon being the ultimate Girl Dad™️
Well, well, well. I sure am glad that you asked. Come, take a seat. I want to talk about some headcanons I have for the early years.
Girl Dad!Simon…
Watches YouTube tutorials so he can build an elaborate crib by himself. You get to decide on the colour scheme and bedding, but he insists on a mosquito net that masquerades as a cute veil.
Combs through endless websites and books to find the perfect name for his daughter. Something unique and fitting for a princess, since she will be the main character of her own story.
Blurts out a lovely, and thankfully basic name when the nurse asks for it - all his prep work had been for nothing, because as soon as he laid eyes on her, he knew that ‘Agatha-Hilda’ or ‘Gillian-Eunice’ were not the right fit. You’re secretly relieved, since those were quite the mouthful.
Gets a tattoo with his daughter(s) name(s) literally the next day. You barely talk him out of a portrait.
Would get up in the night to soothe his crying baby girl. He’s a light sleeper, and if he can help you by catching some much needed hours of rest, he’ll do it in a heartbeat.
Is shocked that spinach results in violently green poop. He calls you in a panic, thinking that something is wrong.
Cries when her first word is ‘dada’.
Proudly shares some of the videos and pictures you sent him with the lads. Your daughter has become a tiny beacon of light, even in the darkest, most fucked-up situations they find themselves in.
Trains the family dog to be alert whenever his daughter is out in the garden. You had been nervous at first, but the German Shepherd never leaves her side now, and barks whenever anybody, even friends and family, come around. No one will ever get too close before either you or Simon know what’s going on.
Has Disney+ as his favourite subscription. He loves to sit on the sofa with his daughter and sing along to all their favourite Disney songs. They both cry when Simba’s father dies, and he makes it very clear that none of the princesses NEED a prince. His daughter disagrees.
Fully embraces the holidays again, and finds joy in the small things. Baking cookies and decorating them with shiny sprinkles? Amazing. Scooting around on hands and knees looking for Easter Eggs? So much fun.
When he comes back from deployment with a new scar on his arm, he lets his daughter tape a unicorn themed plaster over it for the entire duration of his stay - he doesn’t have the heart to tell her that it won’t heal any further than that.
Facetimes you every other day for at least a few minutes, and always tries to wish his daughter good morning or good night.
Wants to teach her how to tie her shoelaces, but his fingers are too big and her shoes too small. They just end up giggling for half an hour.
Asks the Kindergartener not to tell her that he is coming to pick her up, just so he can watch her eyes go big as saucers. When she comes running over to him on her short, (and sometimes clumsy) legs, he barely catches her before she faceplants from all the excitement.
Keeps all the drawings she makes for him in a thick binder, and never allows you to throw any of them out. Is it the thirteenth stickman with a sun in the corner? Yes. Is it a masterpiece to him? Yes.
Believes in teaching his children to not be afraid of spiders or bugs, since England has nothing native to be afraid of. Which backfires, because now his daughter keeps bringing home creepy crawlies and wants to raise them as pets.
Buys an extra large sled, so he can fit on the back and be close to her when you guys go away for your first winter holiday. Your daughter loves it, since his weight means they are flying down the slopes. His butt and back hurt afterwards, and you take great delight in calling him an old man.
Learns how to braid hair since ‘all the girls wear it like that, Daddy’. Simon buys large sparkly clips to cover up the less pretty parts.
Allows his daughter to have chocolate before bed time, even though he knows he’ll regret it later - you abandon him to deal with the sugary monster by himself.
Takes great pleasure in kissing down your stomach, always reminded of how big you were just before giving birth, how you powered through the pregnancy. How you were the one that gave him the greatest gift of his life. How much he wants to have another one.
I hope everybody had a great weekend, I spent mine with some of my dearest friends and felt in the mood to write cute things! Thank you anon for sending this in, Simon is such a Girl Dad™️ and I am here for it.
Simon Riley, the Lieutenant... is a lonely man, his existence shrouded in a cloak of solitude as harsh as a brutal winter. The closest definition he has to a friend, has succumbed to death after a mission gone horribly wrong.
There are no living family members to confide in or visit during his deployment breaks—no home to return to. It is pathetic, truly; a lieutenant of the special forces, his wallet brimming with wealth, his bank accounts similarly bloated. Yet, he finds no comfort in material possessions. He has never been a large spender. He prefers the minimalistic; purchasing only what he needs.
“You should try it. You won’t regret it, sir,” says a cheeky, younger sergeant, smiling as he passes by Simon; his hands nonchalantly tucked in his pockets. Simon is already familiar with the suggestion.
Perhaps it would help; perhaps it wouldn’t. But it feels—pathetic—to hire a woman solely for emotional company.
He's done it now. For weeks. With the same woman.
She’s kind enough. Kind enough to take care of a pathetic, desperate, lonely man like him.
He pays her well, of course. It’s not as if he’s a man without resources. The lieutenant’s wallet bulges with a hefty stack of pounds, after all. He wouldn’t have hired her otherwise. He’s not a man of charity. There are no women like her waiting in his apartment on the other side of the base. Instead, there is a cold, empty dwelling; the furniture a few pieces of bare essentials, sparsely scattered about. He’s not a man who enjoys frivolous decorations. He pays her to act like a girlfriend, to pretend she cares for him.
“Have a decent day today!” she texts him every day, without fail.
And he knows the kindness is fake. They are words; nothing more. There is no feeling behind them, no meaning. He is not so naïve to think otherwise. She only cares because he is paying her; because he is the customer. That is all. There is nothing else to it.
“I’m off to class today. Hope you have had your breakfast already! 🤍🤍🤍!" She signs off with that. Always with a heart that follows her every message. A silly little emoji to convey affection. It is a gesture that only serves to further grate his nerves.
The lieutenant lets the phone buzz for a few more seconds, the constant ringing loud in the solitude that is his office. He pays no mind.
With a resigned sigh, he finally picks up the phone, his eyes quickly skimming through the text on the screen. He does reply this time. A simple “okay” is all he types. He doesn’t want to get attached.
That’s always his fucking fault. He’s too… paranoid. Distrustful.
He has never been close to anyone in his life. He cannot remember the last time he called anyone a true friend, save for Johnny, or the last time he allowed himself to be open to a relationship. No girlfriend. Not now, or ever before. A man like him can never afford to have something holding him down, not when what he does is too dangerous.
It is why he has been in this miserable arrangement. He cannot afford the emotions that come with a real relationship. What he has now is fine. What he does now is a simple transaction—nothing more and nothing less. But.
He needs something more. He hopes she could be… well… understanding enough.
He knows she doesn’t do sex for pay. But he hopes a few thousand pounds could sway her.
It's been a long time.
It is a desperate attempt. His body has its needs; his hormones raging from all the pent-up sexual aggression. He has been on back-to-back missions since the beginning of the year, with no downtime to relieve himself.
A few thousand pounds is nothing to him. He can afford it. He has the money to spend.
“I have an offer," he pauses, "I'll give you double your usual rate if you let me fuck you," he types, his fingers gliding across the keyboard with a cold precision.
A momentary pause lingers, and a flicker of hesitation crosses his mind. He feels a twinge of foolishness, but it quickly dissipates. Guilt is a foreign concept to him.
She hesitates, unsure of how to respond. The coldness of the situation sends a chill down her spine.
"Uh... what exact number?" she manages to type, her uncertainty palpable.
"5000 pounds," he confidently replies, his fingers dancing across the keys without a hint of hesitation. It means nothing. 5000 pounds. He can’t remember the last he spent on anything that expensive. It is pathetic; to be reduced to such a lowly beast by needs of the flesh; when he can simply relieve himself in the showers like he usually does.
The lieutenant bites his bottom lip. It is an insane gesture. He is crazy to even be willing to spend that much on such a thing..
"I'm not experienced. I'm not a skilled... professional in that regard," she confesses, her texts laced with vulnerability.
“What do you know, then?”
How many men has she been with in the past? His jaw tenses as he waits for her reply. The lieutenant does not know why he feels this sudden bout of jealousy; this sudden sense of possessiveness.
“The basics…”
“What’s the most you’ve done?” The lieutenant is tempted to add that he’s not a gentle man in the bedroom; that he wouldn’t be able to hold back on her if they were to get intimate. But. She would probably think he's insane.
“The usual. Vaginal. Hand and mouth stuff. But… I did it last 2 years ago.”
He is relieved to hear she has not had sex in a long while. His fists are clenched on the table. He hopes it wasn’t with anyone she was in a relationship with. And he’d prefer it if her past partners were nobodies; random men she’d met during a quick night out.
But that’s not the lieutenant’s business, anyway. They are not dating.
“I am… not a gentle man, darling.” He presses send; his fingers hesitating as he waits for her reply. He can feel the muscles on his shoulders tensing.
“It’s fine with me…” She was shitting bricks at the moment.
“Come to the hotel after your class.” He adds.
Now, she finds herself in the dimly lit confines of the hotel bedroom, the air heavy. Tension hangs in the atmosphere, as if the very room itself holds its breath. Her naked form lies before him, vulnerable and exposed.
It's a cheap hotel room, the one they frequent. The kind soldiers use on their leave-out days when they get too frisky with their hired company. The bed is old and creaks with every slight movement, its springs and mattress squeaky and worn. The carpet, once plush, is now threadbare and stained, bearing the marks of countless forgotten nights.
It is an insane gesture. The lieutenant can’t remember the last time he had someone like this in his bed. The last time he got out of a long dry spell. What he has with her is a contract; a business transaction. This is not love. There is no love between them. The lieutenant does not know why he even feels a little guilty. But. He quickly pushes the thoughts away. No need for them.
She nervously toys with her lower lip, her gaze locked on him as he slowly undresses.
He is large. His shoulders are broad and thick. His hands, capable of ripping a man’s head off bare handed. He’s not the gentle type. Or the tender type. He’s far from that.
He is all muscle. And it is obvious he works out. His body is all solid muscle; his body littered with old scars and new bruises from past missions.
“Can… can you be careful at first?”
He nods. “I’ll be careful,” he says. He doesn’t know why he’s going so gentle with her. He doesn’t know why he’s even indulging her now, considering how much he’s paid her to have her tonight. But he cannot stop.
It’s awkward. He is a stranger to her. They are not close like a boyfriend and girlfriend. He doesn't know her—or how much she has let other men do to her.
But it feels like she’s known him for a long time. Maybe it’s the way this connection between them is mutual; how they are both desperate for each other in this twisted little way.
Maybe it’s the thrill of it. The cheapness of it… the fact that they’re strangers doing this to each other. The way the bed creaks under their weight.
She feels his length between her legs, a moment of anticipation that hangs heavy in the air. With closed eyes, she surrenders herself to the sensations, her breath hitching in response. He isn't known for his gentle touch, not even with women. The coldness of his demeanor is unwavering, yet there's a nagging feeling deep within him that defies reason.
She is a stranger, an enigma to him. To treat her as if she were the love of his life would be absurd, and yet, a strange sense of protectiveness tugs at his heart. It compels him to take care of her, to protect her in this moment of vulnerability. Her hands grip the bedsheets tightly, her head tilting back, exposing her delicate neck.
"Relax," he whispers quietly, his voice barely audible. His eyes remain fixed on her, absorbing every detail, every reaction. She appears so small beneath him, a precious creature in his eyes. Her beauty captivates him, fueling his desire to possess her.
"Yeah… I will," she responds, her voice laced with a mix of anticipation and a hint of discomfort. Her body tenses as he slowly enters her, stretching her to accommodate his eager cock. A whispered praise escapes his lips, his grip on her wrists firm as he locks them together, pinning them above her head. His fingers coil around her slender wrists, exerting his dominance. His free hand reaches up, gently brushing strands of hair behind her ear, a tender gesture in contrast to the intensity of their exchange.
Soft cries escape her lips, a symphony of pleasure and surrender. He revels in the tightness that surrounds him, relishing in the sensation of her warmth engulfing him. His lips graze the sensitive skin of her ear, his voice a low rasp against her flesh. "You're so tight around me, darling," he murmurs, his breath tickling her. He buries his face in the curve of her neck, his teeth applying a gentle pressure, marking her as his own.
She sinks her teeth into her lip, the force causing it to split, mingling the taste of metallic blood with the thick, heady air. Every twitch, every subtle movement of her body, sparks a surge of tension coursing through his veins.
"Fuck... you feel so damn incredible, darling," he grunts, his voice dripping with a frigid intensity.
He tucks her legs up to her chest, exposing her throbbing cunt to his hungry gaze. With a primal instinct, he plunges his thick cock deeper inside her, feeling a hitch in his breath as the sensation overwhelms him. It's been far too long since he's felt this level of pleasure, and it ignites a fire within him.
"Sweet lord..." he whispers, his voice laced with a mixture of awe and dark desire. He releases her wrists, wrapping his arms around her petite form, pulling her closer against him.
She curls her fists, her knuckles turning white as she punches the mattress in response to the powerful intrusion. Her body trembles under the force of his relentless thrusts, each one pushing her closer to the edge of ecstasy. The vulgar bulge on her small tummy, sends a shiver of arousal down his spine.
And he should feel shame. He should feel disgusted at the obscene, vulgar display they both have going on right now, the way they’ve lost total control over their senses and instincts, their bodies lost in pleasure and passion.
But he does not feel shame. After making them both come undone, they lay spent on the creaky mattress. The lieutenant stares up at the ceiling, a strange sense of clarity washing over him. He glances at her. She is curled up to his side, her breath still rapid and erratic. She turns her back to him.
She feels dirty. Disgusting. He doesn't know why he feels a sting as he watches her turn away. The lieutenant watches her silently, feeling a protective instinct resurface. The overwhelming desire to reach out and wrap his arms around her, to pull her closer.
She lays there in shock.
She told herself this would never, ever happen. He doesn’t know why he feels such a strong desire to tell her it’s okay, that it’s going to be alright. He tells himself he does not know her, does not feel anything for her. But deep down, he knows it is a lie. He does know her, and he does feel something for her. And for the first time, his instinct and emotions overpower logic and common sense. The lieutenant takes her into his arms.
He hears her deep breathing. "I’m here, darling. I’m here," he whispers as he holds her close, feeling her heart racing against his chest. "I’m here, darling. I’m here," he whispers again, sensing her struggle to hold back tears. "Shh… it’s okay." He runs his fingers through her hair soothingly, holding her tighter. "You’re safe with me, darling. I’ve got you."
Waking up on a rainy day, you can hear the droplets land on the roof and windows, tapping away on the hard surface. The heavy blanket pressing against your body. You feel Simon’s heavy hand roam around your waist. The two of you were already up, just laying next to each other in the quietness. You turn to face him, laying on your stomach with your arms resting on his bare chest.
He rubs his hand on your back, moving up to your hair, stroking it lightly. You look up at him and see his dark eyes in the dim room. You lean up, pressing your lips against his. Your breasts pressing up against his chest, and he hums at the warm feeling. He wraps his arms around you tightly, as if he was afraid you’d fall apart right there.
He holds your face in one hand, kissing you deeply and hungrily. His warm, soft, fair skin against your own felt like velvet. You never knew how much Simon loved to kiss you until you were alone with him. He never stopped. His tongue lightly grazing over yours, but he wasn’t being messy.
He kissed you as if you haven’t felt each other in years. His soft humming against your lips made your heart flutter. You suck lightly on his bottom lip, feeling his full lips wrap around yours. The rain outside started to pick up. Any noises the two of you made were drowned out from the pattering on the windows.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him over your body. His hands catch himself on both sides of you, dipping into the bed. He presses his chest against your bare breasts, placing his knee between your thighs. Your fingers tangled in his messy hair, while his swollen, pink lips find your neck in the dark.
He lightly kisses and sucks on the skin, while you caress the back of his neck and shoulders. He pauses, coming up to look down at you. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his tired ones. You place a light kiss on each of his eyes, rubbings his cheekbone with your thumb. In this moment, you realized there was nothing else you needed. You had Simon. And he had you.
