do y'all think simon would unironically name his child something stupid bcs he's in a full panic mode. Like u delivered his baby and r out cold unconscious bcs it was a complicated pregnancy. And the nurse asks him, "Sir, what name should we put down for the baby?"
And this 6'4 wall of muscle jusr blinks at her, absolutely fried bcs his fucking wife is unconscious.
“...Name?"
"Yeah. The baby's name, you can ofcourse, change it later."
Simon's brain is empty and static, nothing but a loud buzzing and the echo of your voice in his head saying, "Francis? What about Eugene? No, that sounds like an old man. Simon, come on, help me choose!"
But he can't remember a single one. Not even one syllable.
So he just glances up at the whiteboard in the corner of the room that says August 18th, and goes,
"...August. His name's August."
AND PLEASE IMAGINE WHEN YOU WAKE UP.
Like you’re groggy as hell, throat dry, limbs heavy and all that. It takes you a minute to register where you are—bright lights, the machines, and Simon’s voice.
He’s right there, hovering close, hand clutching yours, “You alright? Yeah? Need water? You want—Jesus, they said there were some complications, I nearly lost my fuckin’ mind—”
You’re half-dazed, trying to nod and whisper something—water, maybe, or is the baby okay?
And then the nurse comes in, all calm and chipper, does a quick check and says, “You’ve got one very healthy baby boy, sweetheart. Born at 8:46 PM.”
You look over—and there he is. In the bassinet. Your son.
So Simon gently, so carefully, lifts him into your arms. "Careful now," he murmurs, helping you hold him. “He’s heavy as a brick, this one.”
And he is. He’s huge. Warm and heavy and so heartbreakingly perfect. You press your cheek to his little fuzzy head, overwhelmed.
Then Simon, still sitting on the edge of the bed, goes, “…Don’t be mad, yeah?”
You blink at him. “Why?”
He looks so awkward like he’s almost expecting to be smacked.
“I, uh… might’ve named him.”
“Yeah? What did you choose?”
“I—look, I forgot everything, alright?” he says, in full-on panic. “‘Cause you were out cold, not respondin’, bleedin’ everywhere—I was shittin’ it. The nurse asked me what we’d decided and I blanked. Didn’t even remember the lad’s bloody gender for a second.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “So I… I said ‘August.’ ‘Cause. Y’know. It is August.”
You just keep looking at him blank faced. What?
Simon shifts, looking nervous. “You can change it later, she told me. I’ll do all the paperwork, swear on me life.”
You narrow your eyes. “You named our child after the month.”
He shrugs helplessly. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been ‘Thursday.’”
And you do pretend to be mad. You give him a full mum-stare, lips pressed together, shaking your head like I cannot believe you.
“You mean to tell me we spent months arguing about names and you went with August ‘cause it was on the fuckin’ calendar?”
And Simon is just sitting there looking like a kicked puppy 🥺
You try to stay mad but it’s no use. He looks so sheepish, so genuinely worried you’d hate it.
So you sigh, lean your head back, and whisper “…Well. Good thing it suits him.”
idk much about baby naming... I googled it but apparently each hospitals have it different so pls pretend this is how it goes 🧎♂️
Oh my I am VERY interested in the Omegaverse/Prison/Vampires fic! Lots of plot potential❤️Been happily stalking your other fics too. They help me get through life, thank you!
Aaa thank you so, so much!!! I’m thrilled you like it, and my other writings, too! (*____*) (Especially the prison one, because it was a spur-of-the-moment write-up *sheepish*)Your sweet Ask is helping me get through the week, so thank *you*. ❤️❤️❤️
Rumor has it that war veteran professor Riley from War Studies and the Literature professor are definitely sleeping together.
Or : where you and Simon are definitely NOT dating— but somehow, the entire student body is convinced you are. There's even a fan club for it. On Telegram.
Pt2 🐙
[anonstudent4ever]: guys i just walked past riley's office and guess WHO was in there again.
[bookedandbusy]: let me guess. the lit prof in her lil trench coat and smug aura???
[anonstudent4ever]: BINGO. door wasn't fully closed either. risky little freaks 🏃♂️
[chaoticneutral]: they are so obviously boning it's killing me. my tuition is paying for them to make heart eyes over WWII artillery maps 😫
[hotgirlwithacitation]: update: they sat next to each other at the faculty mixer. she laughed at something he said 😧☕
[jeremyonice]: They shared a coffee in the faculty lounge. We have EYES 🕵️♂️ Stay sharp, team
[tenurethirst]: what could Simon Riley possibly say that's funny. like what's he gonna do. war joke?? "haha remember the Geneva Conventions?"
[hotgirlwithacitation]: ok but she did laugh. she did the head tilt and the arm graze. she TOUCHED HIS ARM.
[proseb4hoes]: You think they trauma-bonded during committee meetings?
[bookedandbusy]: Absolutely. Probably over faculty budget cuts and unresolved PTSD.
[proseb4hoes]: God, I wish that were me😩
New Message from @tenurethirst: BREAKING: Someone in Professor Riley's Tuesday 9AM asked him what he thinks of literature 🫢
[hotgirlwithacitation]: WHAT DID HE SAY
[anonstudent4ever]: "I don't have the patience for fiction. I prefer the truth. But... some people make poetry worth tolerating." 🫢🫢🫢
[chaoticneutral]: HANG ON HANG ON BACK UP!!! BACK UP!!!!! SOME 👏 PEOPLE 👏 MAKE 👏 POETRY 👏 WORTH 👏 TOLERATING 👏
[bookedandbusy]: he meant her. HE MEANT HER. professor y/n, literature dept, first of her name 🗣️🗣️🗣️
[tenurethirst]: Do y'all think he's annotating her poetry like "p. 47 - is this about me?" i'm going to combust💔💔
[hotgirlwithacitation]: i bet she writes vague lines like "a man who speaks in silence, who walks like guilt, who smells like ash" and riley's in his apartment like: fuck
[bookedandbusy]: they're literally literary soulmatesss 👏👏 she gives lectures about metaphors for grief and he is the metaphor for grief
[mutualdestruction]: that's why they work. she's the novel he never thought he'd read. he's the war she keeps writing poems about.
[spiteandprejudice]: Bro.. that was so poetic what the fuck 🥶
[whoiselena44]: do y'all think she calls him "Simon" when no one's around 🥺
[Jeremyonice]: Obviously dude 😵💫
[notyourvalentine]: no. she calls him "riley" like it's a challenge n he calls her "professor" like it's a sin 👀
[proseb4hoes]: imagine he says "say it again" and she's like "Simon" and he's like "no. 'sir.'" ok bye logging out now
[bookedandbusy]: y'all have FICS saved in your drafts don't you?!??
... actually based on my own fucking class 😭 anyway wtf
a darker medieval enemies-to-lovers arc?? anyone??
Simon Riley, the Blackhound, has no illusions about women.
"A pretty face wins a bed. A wet cunt wins an alliance. And if she's got wide hips and a noble name? She can die in childbirth with a tiara on."
That's the extent of it for him. Maybe if he lives long enough, one day he'll take a quiet little thing from the mountains—barefoot and grateful—and fill her belly until she gives him sons with grim mouths and his cold eyes.
And then there's you, neither are you quiet nor are you grateful.
You are the snide little noblewoman with silk under your nails and venom on your tongue. You wear pearls to breakfast. You call him "dog" to his face.
So when the hounds of war or the 141, as they call themselves, breaks your father’s gates and spills wine across marble floors, Ghost is ready to leave you in a locked room for the vultures. But Price—bloody Price—wants you alive. Wants you taken.
"Leverage," he says. "Duke's daughter. Maybe even the prince's favourite from the look of it. Can't waste that."
So now you're his responsibility.
The Blackhound's.
He throws you over his horse like spoils without words or apologies. You sink your teeth into his shoulder, hiss a curse, call him a filthy mutt and he doesn't even flinch.
But you don't beg and you sure as hell don't cry, you refuse to give him that satisfaction.
You sit in the corner of his tent with your back ramrod straight, despite the bruises and dirt and the fact that you haven't eaten in a day. You ask if he plans to ransom you or rape you—and when he says neither, you laugh.
"Then you've no use for me," you spit. "Let me rot, beast."
He should, and to be fair, he wants to.
During dinner, the fire crackles between you and them—four brutish men passing wine between their calloused hands. The leader amongst them, Price, sits like a general god, heavy fur slung over his shoulders, pipe between his teeth. The two other men, Kyle and Johnny, as you've learnt, trade quiet jokes in the background.
And him. The Blackhound, sitting tgere with his godsdamned skull.
You don't sit and you don’t want to eat their filthy food, you take the crust of bread in your hands and toss it straight into the flames.
Kyle mutters, "Stupid girl."
Johnny grins. "She's got fire, this one."
You lift your chin, voice sharp as glass. "Fire's what'll burn you all in the end."
Price exhales smoke through his nose. "We didn't take you for your manners, girl."
You round on him.
"No, you took me like cowards. Four trained hounds looting one house, slaughtering men with quills and books in their hands, not swords. You think yourselves powerful? You're nothing but beasts who whimper for coin. And you—you point at Ghost—You don’t even speak, do you? Did the Gods forget to gift you wit when they handed out strength?"
Johnny lets out a low oooh under his breath.
Price sighs, like he’s tired of babysitting. "Ghost. Take her back to the tent before she gets cleverer."
He rises and walks towards you, grabs your wrist firmly and drags you away from the fire's light. He throws you inside, stands there with arms crossed, "You think you're clever. Think you've lived."
His voice is so cruel it makes you not want to look at him at all. "You grew up behind bloody silk curtains, didn't ya? Callin' men 'servants' and thought that was power, eh? You don't know a damn thing about blood. Or starvin'. Or what it's like to survive without someone holdin' your fuckin' hand."
You smirk, chin up. "And what would you know of hands? Yours are too soaked in filth to ever be held."
He steps closer and you don’t back away. "I've slit open men for less than that tongue," he growls.
"Then slit me," you whisper. "Go on. You've already taken everything else."
you can see every move of self control he's fighting for in those eyes, but he saying nothing, only turns back and grabs the spare cloak from his cot—and tosses it at your feet.
"Sleep. Tomorrow, we ride."
been sitting in drafts for bit too long... aight🧍♂️
You said you'd never date a soldier-meant to deflect, not to lie. But Ghost heard it. And Ghost doesn't let things slide. Not when you're fucking him behind closed doors.
first scene based on that one tiktok from @/rxvengxrl been on my mind since foreverrrrr. rewrote this 3 times, I should be studying for finals 😣🙏. Enjoy this 1.7k mess.
It had started small—just another rare moment of downtime in the common room. Price nursed his tea in the corner, Ghost and Gaz were half-watching the footie, Gaz more focused on his phone. You and Soap were sprawled on the couch, swinging from one easy conversation to another.
He told you about his sisters, growing up in Glasgow, some nonsense about uniform regulations—and then later sometime he asked, “What d’you think about dating military men?”
You laughed. Easy. Dismissive. “Oh, no. I’d never.”
Not because it was true. But because it was safer that way. Safer than saying yes. Safer than inviting Soap’s curiosity. Ghost had been clear—keep it quiet, don’t give anyone a reason to start looking too closely.
But then you heard the shift. A faint rustle from the other side of the room.
You glanced—just for a moment—and caught his eyes. Ghost. Watching.
Only briefly. Then he turned away, smooth as ever, like it didn’t mean anything.
But your stomach dropped.
Were you… not supposed to say that?
°.•°`..°•`~.
Later that night, after dinner, there’s a knock at your door.
You already know who it is.Your stomach tightens—heavy, uncertain—and your fingers are still damp from the shower when you open it.
There he is. No gear, no mask. Just the black standard-issue tee stretched across broad shoulders, dark pants hanging loose at the hips. Short hair a little tousled. Face unreadable.
“Can I come in?” he asks, voice low.
You step aside without a word, letting him in.
He walks in like he always does—calm, quiet. You close the door behind him.
“Eat well?” he asks, tone almost casual.
It throws you off. Makes you hesitate. Because he never asks things like that. Not like that.
But he’s here. He’s calm. He looks fine. Maybe what you thought earlier was just you spiraling. Maybe the look in the common room wasn’t anything at all.
You nod. Try to maqtch his ease. “Yeah. I did.”
He just hums, like that’s all he needed to know. Settles into your bed.
You’re still standing by the door, hair a little damp against your skin. Ghost is on your bed, legs spread slightly, hands braced behind him, shoulders relaxed like he owns the space.
Then, without looking at you—like it’s just habit—he says, “Lock the door.”
Your hand moves before your brain catches up. The click of the lock sounds louder than it should.
A pause.
Then “Come here.”
You hesitate. Just for a second. Then step forward.
“Faster, love.”
It’s not sharp—more amused. But it punches right through your chest anyway. You move a little quicker, though the few feet between you feel like a stretch of no-man’s land.
You stand in front of him, heart thudding. He looks up at you with that unreadable expression, one brow arched just slightly.
Then, a low and deliberate “Sit down.”
You move to sit beside him on the bed, unsure, already lowering yourself when—
“Tsk.” A sharp littlpe sound of disapproval. He shifts, tilting his head just a bit. “On the ground, darling.”
Your breath catches. Just a beat. Then—p
You obey.
Knees brushing the floor. Looking up at him now.
And he looks down at you. Doesn’t say anything at first.
Just lifts a hand, rough fingers brushing along your cheek. The calluses catch on your skin, slow and deliberate. His touch is gentle in a way that makes it worse—like you don’t deserve the softness.
His thumb grazes one of the faint, healed scars near your jaw—leftovers from past missions. He sees them as something earned. Little victories.
You’re still looking up at him when his thumb shifts, presses against your bottom lip—just enough to part it. You stay still, breathing uneven.
Then he slips it in.
Slow. Purposwful. Thumb brushing against your tongue, tracing your gumline.
“Open,”
Your mouth parts a little more, and he presses down, pad of his thumb resting heavy on your tongue. A breath. A hum from him, low and knowing.
“Baby’s getting brave, yeah?”
You blink. Make a muffled little noise—questioning. Confused.
“Hm?” he says, thumb still in your mouth. “The common room, love. What was all that about?”
Your eyes go wide.
So it was about the common room.
Fuck.
His thumb rubs slow against your tongue, teasing more than anything. You don’t mean to react—but you do. Reflexive. Natural.
You suck, just a little.
His eyes darken. Not with surprise—he knew you’d do that. A flicker of a smirk. Barely there. “You’d never date a soldier, huh? That what you said, love?”
Your heart stutters. You shake your head, just slightly—like maybe that’ll undo it somehow.
But he doesn’t pull away.
He just watches you.
Waiting.
“You were gonna say more,” he says, voice soft but edged with steel. “They’re so what?”
His thumb slips out, slow and wet, dragging across your lip, wiping against your cheek, as he pulls back.
He tilts his head. Still calm. Still watching.
“Fucked up?” he murmurs. “Disposable? Not your type, eh?”
Then he moves. Subtle but sure. One booted foot lifts—presses between your thighs. Not hard. Just there. Crowding into your space.
“Say it again.”
“Simon—” you start, breath catching.
“No.”
“Say it again. Tell me you wouldn’t. Look me in the eyes this time.”
You try.
Your mouth opens, but the words don’t come. They’ve dissolved—ash on your tongue. Because you can’t say it.
His hand comes up, fingers curling around your throat—not squeezing, not hurting. Just enough pressure to ground you. To make sure you feel it.
His thumb settles over your pulse, dragging a slow circle. You know he can feel how fast your heart is beating
“Thought so,” he mutters.
Then he moves.
Bends low—not fast, not rushed—and his grip on your throat tightens just a touch, enough to pull you upward as he meets you halfway.
The kiss is firm. Heavy. A little messy. The angle’s off and it hurts—just slightly—pulling at your neck, your spine.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to look at you.
He grabs your arm, pulls you up off your knees with ease, and turns you—pressing your back against the bed. The mattress dips beneath you, your breath catching as he leans over, eyes dark, mouth still slick from your kiss.
“C’mon then,” he murmurs, fingers sliding under your shirt, slow and deliberate, “show me how you really feel about soldiers.”
You moan—quiet and breathy—without meaning to. And his eyes flash at that.
Shirt’s up and over before you can even think. He tosses it somewhere behind him.
His follows, and the moment it hits the floor, his dog tags swing down—glinting in the low light, dangling above your face.
You don’t even hesitate.
You lean up and bite it. Teeth against the cool metal, tugging gently.
He huffs a laugh—half smirk, half growl. “Ah, yeah?” he mutters, voice rough with want.
And then his hands are at your waistband, tugging down your pants like it’s his right. Like you’re his. Which, maybe, is half true.
His fingers find your cunt easily, slick and wanting, and he hums like he already knew what he’d find.
“Don’t date soldiers, huh?” he murmurs, fingers slipping between your folds, slow and deliberate. “But you let me do this to you?”
You gasp—sharp, desperate—as he slides two fingers in without warning. The stretch burns in the best way, and your hips buck before you can stop yourself.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Mouth says no. Body’s fuckin’ beggin’, love.”
Your reply’s a choked moan, head falling back against the bed, hands fisting in the sheets
But then he’s over you, lined up and steady, and when he finally pushes in—thick and deep—your back arches with a sob.
“Let me hear it again,” he growls, hips pressing flush to yours. “Go on. Say it.”
You try—but it’s all noise, no words, your mouth open and panting, brain slipping somewhere hazy and hot.
“Say it when I’m inside you.”
He shifts just slightly, angling his hips—and it hits dead-on.
“Fuck—!” you scream, the sound torn raw from your throat as he pounds into that spot over and over, unrelenting.
It’s too much. It’s everything.
Your body’s trembling, your vision blurring, and all you can do is hold on as he fucks you.
He's got one hand braced on the bed beside your head, holding himself steady as he drives into you, each thrust making the frame creak under the weight of him. His other hand moves up-gentle, almost reverent-pushing sweaty strands of hair out of your face so he can see you.
Really see you.
"That's it, love," he murmurs, voice thick with heat. "Scream for me."
Another thrust. Harder. Deeper.
"Let everyone fuckin' hear ya."
You sob, high-pitched and wrecked.
"Let them know whose cock you're takin'.
You'd like that, wouldn't ya?”
You nod-whimper-and he gives you another sharp thrust for it, making your whole body jerk.
Your climax crashes over you like a wave, sharp and devastating, your cry echoing off the walls. You clench around him, tight and shaking, and he groans—loud, deep in his chest—before burying himself to the hilt.
His hips stutter. One. Two. And then he’s gone with a growl, spilling inside you, pressing so deep it’s like he’s trying to leave part of himself behind.
For a long second, it’s just panting. Heat. Sweat. The smell of sex thick in the air.
Then he collapses forward with a grunt, his full weight settling on you like a goddamn boulder.
You squirm under him, breathless, still trembling. “Agh—fuck,” you groan, voice hoarse. “You’re heavy, y’know that?”
He huffs a laugh against your shoulder, not moving an inch. “You’re warm.”
“Simon.”
“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing your skin lazily, like he didn’t just ruin you completely. “Just a minute."
And even though you're still trying to catch your breath, you let him.
Because it’s Simon.
A minute he asks, you'll give him 5. (yes a 5, not a forever because you'll suffocate and die after 5 minutes)
Could u guys tell I get my bad humour from my Wattpad days (i can't seem to evolve)
a little faculty inquiry— asking prof mactavish 🕵️♂️
The group clusters nervously outside Professor Mactavish’s office like a bunch of freshmen trying to bluff their way into a senior seminar.
Anthropology and Conflict Studies, he was weirdly cool, the kind of man who genuinely enjoyed a good academic gossip.
He’s chill… mostly. But who knows what mode he’s in today? Could be laid-back seminar dad, could be field commander with a whiteboard. Total wildcard.
A brunette student, clearly the one they’d sacrificed for diplomacy, finally steps forward.
“Sir? Uh. Random question. Totally hypothetical. Hope this doesn’t sound weird?”
Professor MacTavish blinks at her over the rim of his coffee mug. “Aye?”
Another student jumps in, a guy this time. “Well, since you know Professor Riley best, uh… how likely is he to, you know… read Sylvia Plath?”
He squints. “...Huh? What?”
The group tries to look innocent. One girl’s eyes are darting around and someone coughs suspiciously.
He frowns. “I dinnae think that man reads much more than the back of cereal boxes, honestly.”
Another student jumps in, overly casual. “Just curious. Y’know. Like… academically.”
“Academically,” MacTavish repeats, raising one brow.
A third student jumps in, too eager. “Yeah! Like… his relationship with, um. Literature. You think he’d resonate with Plath’s existential themes? Maybe… romantic symbolism?”
This time he narrows his eyes, probably knowing what this was all about. “Are ye writing a thesis on the man or something?”
Terrible silence.
“No,” says one.
“...Not officially,” adds another.
“It’s more of a… character study?”
“Fieldwork,” someone whispers.
“Fieldwork,” He repeats, lips twitching. “Uh-huh. And are any of ye even in his class?”
“Well… not this term.”
“I was going to be. But the schedules changed.”
“I passed him in the hallway once?”
“I sat in on a lecture. Spiritually.”
“My cousin's in his class,” someone offers weakly. “She said he made a joke about Morrison once.”
He leans back, arms crossed, clearly entertained now.
"So what is this then, eh? You lot conductin a full psychological profile o' Riley or what?”
Dead silence. Again.
“...No comment,” one mutters.
The brunette student, desperate to steer things back on track, blurts out, “But seriously, like, would he read Plath?”
McTavish squints. “Only if she wrote about motorbikes, gun? knives? dunno regret..? Wait... did she write about regret?”
They all stare at him.
"...Aye, actually, yeah. So maybe.”
Then a different student, “Well, what if it’s, like… metaphorical? Like, he’s the type who says he doesn’t like poetry but secretly has a favorite line memorized from something tragic?”
Soap is watching now, clearly amused.
He snorts. “What, is this a love hypothesis?”
Half the group chokes and the redhead drops her notebook.
Another student from the back blurts, “OKAY WELL. Hypothetically. If Professor Riley and Professor y/n were, like… together… would that surprise you?”
Johnny lets out a full-body laugh like he’s been waiting for this.
“You’re only askin’ now? Thought it was obvious.”
The whole group explodes like someone dropped a gossip grenade.
“WHAT?”
“WAIT—WHAT DO YOU MEAN OBVIOUS???”
“Are you saying it’s TRUE?!”
Johnny raises both hands, mock-innocent. “I didn’t say that. But he calls her ‘darlin’’ sometimes.”
There’s a collective screech. Someone drops their pen.
“EXCUSE ME?” the redhead gasps.
He’s grinning now, leaning casually against the wall. “She called him a ‘bastard’ in the break room last week. And he said — I quote — ‘Only yours.’”
Pandemonium.
A girl clutches her chest like she’s been shot. One guy has his hands on his head. Someone in the back is whisper-screaming “SHUT UP SHUT UP”
“OH. MY. GOD.”
Professor MacTavish watches the implosion with the faintest smirk. He sips his coffee, shrugs. “...Or maybe I made all that up,” he says casually.
Then he winks.
And without missing a beat, claps his hands once loudly.
“Right then! Shoo, all of ye. Off you go. Go do some real work or bother Garrick or somethin’, I’ve got emails to ignore.”
He starts ushering them out with dramatic arm movements like he’s sweeping out barn animals.
“Go on now—out.”
And with that, he shuts the door behind them.
Group Chat : Please Do Not Spam.
johnny 🧼: told your fan club you called her darling when no one was looking.
also I might've thrown in a cheeky “only yours” for the drama.
Hope that’s alright 😘
simon 💀: you’re dead to me.
you 📚: did you at least deliver it with good pacing and dramatic tension?
johnny 🧼: babe I’m a trained orator.
they were eating out of my hand.
one of them gasped. like actual audible gasp.
simon 💀: was it the curly-haired one who always stares at you like you’re haunted?
i owe her a failing grade for last term. might finally give it.
you 📚: that’s misha. she’s writing her thesis on eco-criticism in indigenous literature
if you ruin her GPA over this i will sabotage your morning coffee again.
simon 💀: you added cough syrup last time. you are a demon.
johnny 🧼: “only yours” — simon riley, 2025
source: trust me bro
you 📚: make sure they spell my name right in the fanfiction.
and make me taller.
simon 💀: no. keep her short. keep it accurate.
johnny 🧼: GOD the two of you are insufferable.
just kiss in the middle of the quad already and end the war
you 📚: we’re academics. we don’t kiss. we repress.
simon 💀: speak for yourself.
johnny 🧼: OH. OH??? 👀👀👀
WAIT
WAIT
STOP
EXPLAIN THAT ONE
simon 💀 has left the chat.
y/n 📚 has left the chat.
johnny 🧼: cowards
well that took forever to come up with 😔 also I didn't know which of you all to tag so I'm so sorry if that comes of as an inconvenience 🙏💕
Price calls Simon at night, discovers a naked seargent (and vice-versa). Slightly inspired by that one fanart but idk how to tag yet haha...😔
It’s 2:17 am in the morning when Simon’s phone lights up.
He groans, buried beneath a fortress of thick blankets, only his eyes and the bridge of his nose exposed. The soft glow of his bedside lamp is the only illumination in the room. He blinks at the screen. Incoming Video Call: John Price.
For a moment, he considers letting it ring out. But Price wouldn’t call at this hour unless it was important—or unless he wanted to ruin Simon’s life for fun. Both were equally likely.
He swipes to answer, grumbling. The camera shakes a little as he props the phone against a half-empty water glass on his nightstand.
"This better be important," Simon mutters, voice gravelly with sleep.
"It is," Price says, and of course he’s wide awake. "Logistics foul-up. The KSK’s shipment got rerouted and HQ’s asking for an overnight fix and—
Simon groans again, pushing himself up slightly, blanket still wrapped tightly around him like a burrito. He squints at his screen. Price is sat at his desk, files spread everywhere, his lights on too bright for Simon's eyes.
Simon isn’t even halfway through processing the intel when,—
"Si, what's going on?"
The voice is muffled, somewhere off-screen.
Simon doesn’t react.
Because a second later, John "Soap" MacTavish shuffles into frame behind him—bare chested, hair wild, one arms propped up to look at what the noise and light was about.
A beat.
"...Was that MacTavish?" Price asks, entirely too calm.
Simon doesn’t blink, "No."
"Simon," Johnny whispers, off-screen now but very audible. "I think you’re on a call. Are you—? Oh. Oh shite."
He tries to dive out of view but it's far too late. Price has seen everything. But he’s not the only one.
Because just as the moment descends into awkward silence, another voice pipes up—
"John? What’s going on—?"
Gaz.
Gaz, who is very clearly in Price’s room. Also shirtless. Also blinking into the camera like a confused puppy.
He stops mid-step when he sees the screen.
And sees Johnny.
And sees Simon.
"JOHNNY?" he yells. "What the fuck are you doing in Lt.'s bed?! NAKED?!"
Johnny, already halfway into Simon’s oversized hoodie, stares at Gaz. And then—bursts into laughter.
"Me?! You’re in the Captain’s bed! Naked! Look at your face—you’ve got a bloody pillow line!"
Gaz’s hand shoots up to his cheek, betrayed by the faintest crease. "This isn’t—! That’s not—!"
Price sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I regret every decision that led us here," he mutters.
Simon’s eyes are closed now. He is meditating. Disassociating. Possibly considering disappearing into the walls.
"I'm hanging up," he says.
"Yeah," Price agrees. "Same."
When the call drops, Johnny rolls onto the bed closer to him, wheezing with laughter, hoodie half on. "You think they're shaggin' too?"
Simon doesn’t answer. Just pulls the blanket back over his head.
Somewhere, in another room, Gaz is shouting about "context" while Price lights a cigarette with the expression of a man who’s seen too much.
