weeping-treee

[weeping-treee]

Part 16.5 is now canon, forcing myself out of this laziness and block to keep writing for you lovies🫡

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1 @readingmyobsessions @echos-muses

[weeping-treee]

Ghost has an interesting sense of humor

[weeping-treee]

OBSESSED

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance | MASTERLIST

When you and Simon are forced undercover as a married couple, pretending to live a domestic life next door to your target, the only problem isn’t the mission—it’s each other. Bound by orders and monitored by hidden cameras, you have to act like you’re in love… even though you can barely stand to share the same room. Tension builds over burnt dinners, silent mornings, and whispered arguments behind closed doors. But when the walls close in and the pretense turns dangerous, everything changes. Between bitter snipes and stolen glances, the line between hate and something far more complicated begins to blur. Trapped in a house full of watching eyes, can you and Simon survive the lie before it consumes you both?

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

01. Welcome to Hell, Mrs. Riley

02. New Faces on the Block

03. Sparring Partners

04. Dinner at Seven

05. Smile for the Cameras

06. A Week of Silent Battles

07. Midnight Knows

08. What Now?

09. Hello, Neighbors

10. When Everything Falls Apart

11. Fading

12. Sign Here

[weeping-treee]

Make Up Sex

MDNI | cw: !smut!; sexual content; fluff; dominance; rough sex; throat fucking; finger fucking; S&M; creampie; slight dubcon; spanking; hair pulling; biting; marking; choking; light praise; heavy degrading; icky icky icky

(Take this since I'm stuck on A Desperate Man. lmk if you wanna be taglisted for Soldier Boy)

He's so pretty though, imma bust

You fucked up.

Big time.

Butcher and Hughie aren’t even trying to save you from this one—and truthfully, there’s nothing to save you from.

Ben’s silent. That cocky, smart-mouthed supe hasn’t said a word since the argument. But you feel the anger rolling off him in waves. Cold, calculated, brooding. He’s mad—everyone knows it—but he won’t acknowledge you. Not until the day’s over.

What did you do? You undermined him. Simple as that.

It was a minor disagreement—how to go after the TNT Twins. Your plan was better. Cleaner. He didn’t like that. You pushed, he postured, and you didn’t stop yourself when the venom came.

“You’re just a cocky fucking asshole compensating for the two-inch power tower between your legs. No wonder you only please old, wrinkly cunts.”

It hit hard. And now, here you are—frozen out.

He would've slapped Hughie silly for saying half of that. But you’re not Hughie. He won’t hit you. He won’t even yell.

He’s going to teach you.

Because you're the one person who's ever tried to understand him since Butcher brought him back—and he’s not about to lose that. Your outburst pissed him off, sure. But it also turned him on.

He had to walk away before he fucked you against the nearest tree.

Now, he’s enjoying your squirming. The way you sigh, bite your lip, stare at the ground like it’ll give you answers. You hate being ignored—and he knows it.

When they vote to leave you behind—no Temp V, no backup—you don’t argue. You sit like a kid in time out. Watching smoke rise from the ruins, heart in your throat.

Then you see Homelander fly off.

Your stomach drops.

You sprint toward the wreckage, leaping over bodies, debris, anything that dares to slow you down. You find them—Butcher, Hughie, Ben—sprawled across the rubble. Heart pounding, knees hitting the ground, you grab Ben’s face like you could somehow check for injuries that’d matter.

“Ben? Are you okay? What happened?”

He stares at you for a beat—then his hand fists in your hair and his mouth crashes against yours.

Your eyes widen for a moment, before you melt into it... just before he pulls away and leaves you breathless. He's on his feet before you can even process it.

"You're not off the hook."

You, Hughie, and Butcher all glance at one another as Ben walks off, unreadable.

“Good luck with that one, love,” Butcher mutters with a chuckle before walking away.

You hand Hughie the bag of clothes and trail after them—after him—like a lost puppy.

By nightfall, you finally find out what he meant.

The second you step into his room, he doesn’t even look at you.

“Kneel.” He points to the floor in front of him.

Your throat tightens. You shut the door behind you and step forward slowly.

“Ben—”

“I said kneel.”

You drop to your knees.

“You think you can disrespect me and get away with it?” he mutters, slowly unbuckling his belt.

“Ben, I’m sorry—”

“I didn’t say you could speak.”

He shoves his pants and boxers down, cock springing free—definitely not two inches.

“Open.”

Not a request. A command.

You obey. Mouth open, eyes wide, and he wastes no time. He thrusts into your throat with no warning, one hand tangled in your hair as you gag around him. A broken moan rips from your throat, tears brimming instantly. He holds your head there, shallowly fucking your throat with slow, bruising strokes that burn.

“Look at you. Taking it like a champ. What a filthy little slut.”

He only pulls back when the tears ruin your mascara, yanking you up by the throat.

“Gonna make sure you never talk to me like that again.”

You barely breathe before he tosses you onto the bed. Flips you. Yanks your jeans down with no finesse. You gasp, but it doesn’t matter—he shoves two fingers inside you, rough and deep, fucking you with them like you’re nothing but a toy.

You’re whining, desperate—and just as you’re about to come, he pulls away and slaps your ass, hard enough to sting.

Then he’s inside you in a single, brutal thrust.

No warning. No pause. Just pain and pleasure colliding as he grabs the back of your head and slams into you over and over.

“You disrespect me again, and I’ll fuck you harder. And I won’t let you cum. You got that, you little shit?”

“Y-Yes—fuck, Ben, please—”

“Tsk. No begging. You asked for this.”

He hauls you up by your hair, one hand still around your throat, holding you to him as he pounds into you. Relentless. Vicious.

Your mascara’s ruined. Your legs are shaking. Your face is soaked with tears.

“Who do you belong to?” he growls, breath hot against your ear. “Say it. Say it and maybe I’ll let you cum on my cock like the little cumslut you are.”

“You. I belong to you, Ben,” you sob, barely able to speak.

“Fuck. You’re lucky you beg pretty, you little bitch.”

His lips and teeth find the hollow of your throat. Leaving bite marks, hickeys, and filthy kisses on your skin. Marking you as his.

He thrusts harder. Deeper. Until you shatter around him, crying out his name. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going until he’s emptying inside you, filling you until it drips down your thighs.

He doesn’t let you fall.

He keeps you pressed against him, his grip loosening on your throat just enough to breathe. He turns your tear-streaked face toward him—and kisses you softly.

“Don’t disrespect me like that again. Got it?”

You nod weakly.

He kisses your temple.

“I love your annoying ass, you know that. Now come on… let’s get you cleaned up.”

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man Poll

Should reader get frfr preggo right away?

(Help me get out of this writers block pls😭)

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1 @readingmyobsessions @echos-muses

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 16.5

Just a bunch of my—filthier—thoughts about how to move things forward.

Writers block is killing me.

MDNI | cw: !smut!; sexual content; period pain; sex on the cycle; soft-dom!Ghost; fluff; breeding; pregnancy |

(The chances of pregnancy while on your period are low, but not impossible🫡)

All parts here

The softer side of Simon Riley, that makes sure his pretty little fiancé feels better. No matter what.

Simon Riley, who holds you all day until the pain dulls into something more manageable.

Simon Riley, who whispers sweet words into your ear until that needy little whine spills from your sleepy lips.

Simon Riley, that starts sweet and slow—drawing three, maybe four orgasms from you, just with his fingers before pushing you further.

Simon Riley, who, coos into your ear as he slowly rocks into you, voice like honey, "Gonna make you feel better, lovie. Can't have my girl hurtin'."

Simon Riley, who, gets way too drunk on the thought of taking away your pain—not just for tonight, but for the next nine months.

Simon Riley, that makes sure you're begging and crying for more before letting himself loose a little control. Fucking you with deeper, harder strokes that hit your cervix just right—making the cramps worse yet so much better.

Simon Riley, who gets off for the first time at the sight of the engagement ring on your pretty little finger. Too far gone to care that he just filled you.

Simon Riley, who turns absolutely feral when the slurred, whimpered words fall from your lips, "fillin' me s'fuckin good, Si..." and he makes sure to give his pretty lass what she wants.

Simon Riley, who can't stop the filthy words falling from his own lips as he ruts into you like a rabid animal. "Fixin' to fill this tight cunt with nothin' but me. Gonna breed you right, sweetheart."

Simon Riley, who suddenly doesn't care if his old man was a piece of shit—because he knows he'll be a better. He has you now.

Simon Riley, who tries his hardest (and fails) to hide his cocky smirk when your next period is suddenly late 5 weeks later.

Simon Riley, already bouncing off baby names with the boys. Swatting Johnny away when the Scot begs Simon to name it after him if it's a boy. (He's set on naming it after his brother or nephew, if it's a boy)

Simon Riley, already planning the nursery, wedding, baby names, and your whole fuckin' life the second you sit him down and give him the little white stick that reads positive.

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1 @readingmyobsessions @echos-muses

[weeping-treee]

Hi!!!! I’m an author on Wattpad (same username) and I was wondering if I could use your story as a prompt?? I love the idea and I’m currently writing a König one right now. I would love to use this as a prompt, but I don’t want to steal your idea.

Of course! Thank you for asking! If you credit me you’ll get bonus points;)🩵

[weeping-treee]

Yes, a second repost. Because I’m OBSESSED🫠

Turning Page | Masterlist

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! alpha Simon Riley x librarian! omega Reader

please heed tags before each chapter

──────────────

⤷ Fancy Nancy

⤷ Corduroy

⤷ Rainbow Fish

⤷ Angelina Ballerina

⤷ Rainbow Fish & 2

⤷ The Giving Tree

⤷ The Very Hungry Caterpillar

⤷ A Bad Case Of The Stripes

⤷ chapter 9

ao3 | main masterlist | Clementine

[weeping-treee]

can i just say that it’s 06:18 right now where i am and i’ve been up reading ghost fics since about 4 and i stumbled across your series and i fell IN LOVE, no joke, no exaggeration whatsoever. your writing is IMMACULATE and INCREDIBLE and you’re literally gifted. that’s all i needed to say and i hope you have an amazing day omg ♥️♥️♥️😭

Awwwhh omg. I love you, thank you so fucking much😭🩵🩵

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 16

Simon knows you. Knows you're the one.

MDNI | cw: period pain; masturbation during the cycle.

All parts here

2,117 words

"Talk to me. Tell me what I can do for you, love."

"Getting that heating pad plugged in would be nice."

He gets up to plug it in, then returns to the couch with a soft grunt, setting the heating pad against your lower stomach with expert care—like it’s an operation he refuses to botch.

You hiss as the warmth settles against your skin, curling in on instinct. Your limbs are heavy, your body pulsing with that dull ache you’ve known your whole life. But this time, there’s comfort. A presence.

He tucks himself behind you, pulling you gently against his chest. His bare arms wrap around you, one hand rubbing slow, careful circles over your belly.

“Should’ve told me last night,” he mumbles against your hair. “Could’ve kept you curled up on me instead of the damn mattress.”

You hum, voice muffled in the blanket. “Didn’t wanna ruin the vibe.”

“You never ruin anything,” he says simply. “Least of all my night.”

You let out a slow breath, letting yourself melt into him. “You’re soft today.”

“M’always soft with you.” He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder, voice low and quiet. “Let me be, yeah?”

There’s a long silence. Comfortable. The kind of quiet where you feel held—not just physically, but in every way that matters.

His hand still rubs slow and steady, soothing your tense muscles, grounding you. You can feel his heartbeat against your spine. Steady. Safe.

“You still hurtin’?” he asks, low.

You nod against his chest.

“Bad?”

“Manageable.”

He grunts. “Wish I could take it off you.”

“You’d die immediately.”

“I’d die honorably,” he jokes, and you snort. “But I’d do it. For you.”

You twist just enough to glance up at him. His face is close—eyes soft, hair tousled, stubble catching the light.

“I know,” you whisper.

Your fingers find the edge of his flannel, curling into it like it anchors you.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, brushing a knuckle over your jaw. “When you feel better… I’m not lettin’ you out of bed.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Both.”

His lips press to your temple again. And you swear, despite the cramps and fatigue, your heart finds a way to flutter.

“Get some rest, sweetheart. M’not goin’ anywhere.”

"M'not tired..." you say, turning to kiss him. Soft, deliberate, saying what you want without words.

He groans softly against your lips, kissing you back with a beat of hesitation.

You whine softly as a cramp hits you. "Hurts," you mumble, voice heavy with sleep and neediness.

Simon stills and moves the heating pad, replacing it with his palm. Rubbing slow circles over your lower abdomen. The pressure helps. The warmth helps.

But it's still not enough.

"Need more," you whisper softly.

His chest rises against your side. "Tell me what you need, baby."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. But because it’s embarrassing—to want like this. To feel so sensitive, so undone by your own body. And to ache for him to fix it. With his hands. With his warmth. With everything he is.

"Just wanna feel good," you murmur, burying your face into his neck. "Can't explain it. Just... touch me, please."

Simon presses a kiss to your temple. No hesitation. No teasing.

"I've got you."

His hands travel lower. Not rushed. Just gentle. He moves under your shirt, tracing soft, grounding circles over your stomach and then lets his hand roam lower, over your hips, between your thighs. Over your underwear, not pushing, not demanding—just comforting.

"Like this?"

You nod quickly, breath catching. Your thighs relax under his palm like they've been waiting for this contact from him all day.

"Feels good," you whisper.

He hums, lips brushing your temple. "That's what I wanted to hear."

He keeps going, patient and unhurried—rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your clothed clit. The pressure you need. The rhythm. The intimacy. You're not even sure it’s fully sexual—it just feels safe. Like he's giving your body permission to let go. To breathe.

"You're so warm," you murmur, holding his bicep tighter. "Just wanna melt into this. Into you."

"Then do it," he says softly, voice low and rough. "You don't have to do anything else. Relax. I've got you."

You relax slowly in his arms.

"More..." you whisper. "Please."

"Of course, sweetheart." His fingers press firmer, slow circles that draw another soft moan from your lips.

Your hips twitch at the steady pressure of his fingers, your thighs clenching around his hand, and still—it’s not fully about chasing relief.

It’s about feeling wanted in a body that’s a mess. That’s been aching all morning. It’s about being touched like you're something to be soothed, not solved. Not fixed.

Simon leans in closer, lips pressing against your jaw. Whispering soft reassurances in your ear.

"You're doin' so good for me," voice low and rough, like it’s taking everything in him to be soft for you.

Your eyes flutter closed as you breathe through another wave of warmth, low in your belly. It builds slower than usual, but it’s steady. Trusting. Like your body knows this is safe.

"Feels so good," you whisper, barely audible. "Please, don't stop."

"I won't. Not ever." His fingers shift in a way that makes your toes curl. "Just let go, love. S'alright. I've got you."

You do.

You come with a soft, aching moan—quiet, warm, your whole body curling into his. Not sharp. Not loud. It's gentle, rolling through you like the first breath after pain. Like unclenching a fist you didn’t know you were holding.

The second it passes, you’re crying.

Just a little.

Tears sting the corners of your eyes and slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. Not from sadness. Not from pain. But from relief. From tenderness. From the unbearable ache of being held and cared for this well.

Simon notices immediately.

"Hey," he whispers, voice soft and steady. "You okay?"

You nod, breath shaking. "Yeah. I'm okay. I just—fuck, I needed that."

His hand doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, keeping you grounded, covered. His other hand comes up to brush tears from your cheeks, feather-light.

"You don’t need to say anything. Thank me." He kisses your temple. "You needed care. That’s not a crime, love."

You let out a soft sob-laugh and bury your face in his neck. His hand finally slips away and around you. Tightening around you as he shifts to lift you up.

He carries you to the bedroom and sets you down softly, climbing in behind you and holding you close to his chest. His hand falls back to your lower abdomen, pressing softly against it.

"Sleep now," he murmurs, thumb brushing softly against your stomach. "M'not going anywhere."

"I know," you whisper, eyes already falling shut. "That's the best part."

You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep.

An hour. Maybe two.

The cramps have dulled to a soft throb, your limbs heavy, your cheek pressed against warm cotton. Simon hasn’t moved. He’s still behind you, solid as stone, his arm curled around your waist. His hand is still resting over your lower belly, protective and warm.

But his eyes are open.

He’s not sleeping.

He watches the way you curl in closer when the pain shifts. The way your fingers twitch. The soft sound you make when your body tenses, then relaxes again.

He wishes he could take it all from you.

Hell, he’d trade places in a heartbeat. He’s been shot, burned, beaten—but watching you hurt like this, quiet and trying not to be a burden? It guts him.

And still, you didn’t tell him. Not last night. Not this morning. You just smiled through it. Gritted your teeth.

Because you’re strong.

Because you’ve always handled things on your own.

Because you don’t expect anyone to stay.

That last one gets him the most.

His eyes drop to your hand, resting over his.

He lifts it carefully, gently—as if he might wake you—then holds it in his palm. Stares at your fingers. At the shape of them. At the invisible thread tying his life to yours now.

Then he digs into his pocket and pulls the small box out. He slips the ring on.

Slow. Quiet. Like a vow whispered to himself.

The ring fits perfectly.

Of course it does.

Your dad gave it to him the day he arrived. Just a short exchange on the couch, a nod, a “she’s yours now” without saying the words.

Simon didn’t plan to do this today. Didn’t even really plan at all. But as soon as he saw it—your mother’s ring, sitting in that little box in his hand—something in him settled.

It was time.

You stir slightly in your sleep, brow furrowing as another wave of pain rolls through you.

He moves his hand to your belly again. Applies the right amount of pressure. Rubs gentle circles until your body melts back against his. Until you breathe easier.

And then he just stays like that.

Holding you. Grounded in you.

Heart louder than his thoughts.

Breath slow. Sure.

This is it.

There’s no going back.

And he doesn’t want to.

You’re his.

You’ve been his.

This just makes it known.

Forever starts quietly.

You shift slightly, stretching, and blink sleepily at the fading light bleeding through the curtains.

And then you see it.

Your hand—resting on his arm.

Your mother’s ring.

Glinting in the dusk light.

On your finger.

You blink again.

Not dreaming.

You sit up just a little, confused, eyes still heavy from sleep.

“Simon?” Your voice is soft. Raspy. “What is this?"

He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t even flinch.

He just opens his eyes, meets yours, and runs a thumb across the back of your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“It’s yours,” he says quietly.

“You—when—?”

“Your dad gave it to me. Said I had his approval,” he murmurs. “Saw the way your eyes sparkled after I told you I thought about it last night.”

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

He sits up a little, leaning on his elbow. His other hand gently turns your wrist, admiring the ring now sitting snug against your skin. The ring your mom wore for decades. The one your father kept safe, always—tucked away for someday.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Simon adds, voice quiet. “I’m not askin’.”

“You’re not?”

“No,” he says, brushing a finger down your cheek. “I’m tellin’ you.”

You let out a soft, choked laugh. “That so?”

“Mm.” He hums. “You’re it for me. I’m not goin’ anywhere. So… be mine.”

Simple. Sure. Like he’s stating gravity.

Like there was never any other outcome.

Your heart twists painfully in your chest. Your hands shake.

“You want to marry me,” you whisper.

“After one date—two… maybe three weeks…”

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

“I know. It’s quick. Too quick, maybe.”

His thumb grazes the edge of your jaw, slow and reverent. He looks down at your hand again—at the ring glinting in the soft light—and his voice turns quieter. More thoughtful.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admits. “Not really. Didn’t think I’d ever get to. Thought people like me... don’t get things like this.”

He pauses.

Like the words are heavy. Like he’s never said them out loud before.

“But then you walked in, and it just—stopped makin’ sense to wait. You looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Like I was someone worth keepin’. And after everything... I didn’t want to waste time pretending I didn’t already know.”

You blink, eyes stinging again, throat tightening.

“Know what?”

He meets your eyes.

“That you’re it for me. You’re home. You make me feel like a man again—not a weapon. And I don’t wanna go another day without you knowin’ that.”

You’re silent. Stunned.

He laughs softly again. A little shaky this time.

“Christ, listen to me. Rambling like a fuckin’ idiot.”

“No—no, it’s not that,” you whisper, voice cracking. “It’s not. It’s just…”

You can’t even finish the thought. Because it’s everything.

Because he’s Simon Riley. And he’s here. Whole and real and entirely yours. Choosing you in the quiet, without ceremony or doubt.

Tears sting your eyes, all over again—but it’s different now. No pain. Just the unbearable joy of being wanted like this.

Claimed.

Chosen.

“Okay,” you say, voice cracking. “Yes.”

He exhales, just once—like he’s been holding that breath for a lifetime. Then he pulls you in, slow and deep, forehead to forehead.

No fireworks.

No crowd.

No fancy speech.

Just the two of you.

In bed.

After pain.

After love.

In the quiet where forever begins.

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1 @readingmyobsessions

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 15

Simon's winning your father over. One day at a time.

(Part 16 coming sometime within 24 hours. Reblog, be ready lovies)

All parts here

2,681 words

Color Key: Mac- red | Price- orange | Text- purple

The weekend.

He's staying the weekend.

Simon runs a hand over his face in the bathroom after his shower.

You've settled your dad in the guest bedroom down the hall.

The questions never stop.

"You see a future with him?"

"Does he live here?"

"He treatin' you well?"

"Are you sure you want the life that comes with someone like him?"

You answer all without a beat.

Yes, yes, extremely well, and I can handle it.

"Can't say I hate him. At least he's not like your boyfriend in college. Stiff wind could blow that fucker over."

"Jesus, Dad," you say with a chuckle.

You bring him extra blankets and make sure he's settled in the room before heading to the door.

"If he hurts you, I'll kill him."

"I know, Dad. Goodnight."

"Night."

You head to your bedroom and are met with Simon, half-dressed.

You lean against the doorframe, your arms crossed—thinking nothing innocent. Not one bit. It's not your fault those sweats look so good on him.

He catches you looking and shakes his head.

"Don't look at me like that. Not tonight when your father is right down the hall."

"I didn't say anything." You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his hips, looking up with him those eyes you know he can't ignore.

"Fuckin hell, you'll be the death of me."

You walk him backwards to the bed and climb into his lap. Kissing him sinfully. His hands fly to your hips, kissing you back like his life depends on it.

You pull back and cup his face. "I love you."

"I know. I love you too, baby girl." He responds with a lazy smirk.

"Alright... so no sex... how about a good, ol' fashioned make out?"

He chuckles and leans in. Not even needing to say yes to that before he's pinned you to the bed.

You yelp into his mouth when your back hits the mattress, but you're grinning, breathless, already tugging him closer by the waistband of his sweats.

He settles between your legs, heavy and warm and everywhere. The kiss turns deeper. Slower. Tongue and teeth and lazy heat.

His hand roams up under your shirt, fingers tracing the dip of your waist like he’s learning you all over again.

"This what you meant by good ol' fashioned?" he murmurs against your lips, voice rough and amused.

"Mmhm," you hum, tilting your head for him to kiss your neck. "Thought it might burn some of that frustration off."

He huffs a laugh against your skin. "Not helping, sweetheart. You’re killin’ me."

But he doesn’t stop.

He kisses down your throat, open-mouthed and reverent, the kind that leaves your skin tingling. His hips roll forward—just once, just enough to feel him.

You gasp, clutching at his shoulders. “Simon…”

"Just makin’ out, right?" he teases, lips brushing your collarbone.

He moves like he could do this for hours—taste every inch of you, drink in every soft sound, every tug of your hands in his hair. Like kissing you is the only damn thing that matters in the world.

And the way he's looking at you—blown pupils, flushed cheeks, hair mussed from your touch—it’s a wonder you’re not combusting on the spot.

"Christ," he mutters. "You're dangerous."

You grin. “So are you.”

You push him off with a soft groan.

"The second my dads gone. It's game."

He chuckles and pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Definitely."

...

By morning, when the light filters through the curtains, the bed is cold. Empty.

You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

No sign of Simon.

Turns out, Simon Riley is trying his damndest to be the best man he can be for you. He got up at the crack of dawn. Googled how to barbecue and got it down. In a surge of helpful boyfriend energy, he's deciding to fix your front door. No more forcing the damn thing open.

So by the time your father strolls into the living room, coffee cup in hand, the door is off the hinges and leaned sideways against the wall.

The hinges scattered like war casualties.

And Simon crouched on the floor, shirtless, covered in sweat and sawdust, muttering under his breath about rusted screws and “this bloody thing falling apart.”

MacMillan pauses, sipping his coffee.

“You know,” he says casually, “I was just gonna ask if you were handy.”

Simon glances up, squints against the morning sun, and gives a lopsided, sheepish smile.

“Thought I’d earn some extra points.”

“Points?” your dad echoes. “What is this, a bloody job interview?”

“Feels like it,” Simon mutters, standing and wiping his hands on a rag.

And despite himself, your dad laughs.

You follow the laugh and stand in the doorway of the living room, half-asleep and squinting through the bright morning light.

Your dad chuckles and takes a sip of his coffee, eyes scanning the scattered tools.

"You're using the wrong bit for that hinge."

Simon raises a brow. "Am I?"

"Mhm. Let me grab mine. Got a set in the truck."

He walks off like it's nothing, like it's normal, and you just stand in the doorway blinking.

Simon shrugs at you, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp from sweat.

"Did that just happen, or am I dreaming?" You rub your head and walk over to Simon, sleepily resting your head on his chest.

He chuckles and rubs your back.

"Wasn't expecting him to offer help."

"That's actually a good sign..." you murmur into his chest.

Minutes later, they’re both on their knees in front of the door frame, cussing and screwing and arguing over torque like two dads fixing a fence.

You hover awkwardly nearby, a little stunned, a little amused.

“You serve under Price then?” MacMillan asks casually, eyes focused on the hinge.

“Yeah. For a while now.”

“Good man. Tough. Fair. Got a brain on him.”

“More than one, I think,” Simon says, and they both snort.

A beat passes. MacMillan glances over.

“What were you before the Task Force?”

Simon wipes his hand on a rag. Doesn’t look up.

“British Special Air Service. Some personal operations."

Your dad pauses. Gives a subtle nod. That military kind of nod—sharp and silent, carrying everything that doesn’t need to be said out loud.

“I trained boys from the SAS. Good lads.”

“Most of ‘em don't make it.” Simon’s voice is quiet.

“Yeah,” your dad says, “that tracks.”

The air stills.

But it’s not heavy.

It’s... understanding.

The kind of mutual ache that lives in silence between men who’ve seen the same shit and walked out of it limping.

MacMillan pats the doorframe. “Well. Hinge is on. Still crooked, but better than it was. Won't need to force the damn thing open anymore.”

Simon stands, stretches his back. “Appreciate the assist.”

Your dad raises an eyebrow. “You wanna impress me, Riley?”

Simon straightens. “Always.”

“Don’t screw things up with her.”

He glances over at you—watching from the hall, arms crossed, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile.

And Simon just nods.

“I won’t.”

You're not a morning person on your days off, so you sit on the couch, pulling a blanket over you as you text Price.

"SOS. Come for lunch and dinner before Dad recruits Simon."

You take a shower before lunch. Price is there by the time you walk out, hair wet and pulled back in a bun.

You can get used to this. Three of the most important men in your life, sat at your kitchen table chatting over beer.

MacMillan leans back in his chair, mid-story, gesturing with the neck of his bottle.

“—So I told the lad, ‘You can’t just slack on the minefield and hope it clears itself,’ and you know the bastard did it anyways.”

Price laughs loud, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I remember that op! Was that in Ukraine or—?”

“—Bosnia,” MacMillan says, nodding.

Simon, sitting between them, looks a little overwhelmed—but he's smiling. Comfortable. Content. Like he belongs there.

You lean against the doorframe, watching them for a moment.

You could get used to this.

The laughter, the calm, the ridiculous war stories over lunch.

The way Simon looks at home.

The way your dad glances at him now—not with suspicion, but with something closer to acceptance.

“There she is,” Price greets you with a grin. “Sleeping Beauty joins the council.”

You roll your eyes and head toward the fridge. “Council of Cryptids, more like.”

Simon chuckles. “Oi.”

You cross the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out stuff for lunch.

Simon doesn't hesitate to help, taking the chicken from you and setting it on the counter. You two work together without missing a beat—something you’ve both gotten used to over the last week. Roasted chicken and salad are done before the hour’s finished.

Price leans back in his chair, fork in hand, gesturing toward Simon with a grin.

“Can’t believe it. Ghost, of all people—cooking chicken, fixing doors, playing house.”

Simon gives him a look. “You want lunch or a punch in the throat, mate?”

MacMillan chuckles. "Don't listen to him. He can cook and handle being the man of the house. Rare breed, that one."

You smile. Already knowing your dad approves of him.

“Dedication,” Price says, mock-sincere. “That’s love. Or desperation. It's a toss-up.”

Simon deadpans, “Both.”

They laugh, and you can’t help but grin. The vibe is… weirdly perfect. Like all the jagged edges of your life have slotted into place around this kitchen table.

Your dad nudges his beer bottle toward Simon. “So. What’s the endgame here?”

Simon raises an eyebrow.

“With her,” MacMillan clarifies. “You sticking around? Playing house long-term?”

You freeze mid-chew.

Simon, without missing a beat, shrugs a little and says:

“If she’ll have me, yeah.”

You look up, surprised. He’s not even looking at you—he says it like it’s just truth. Plain and simple.

And it makes your chest ache in the best way.

Price whistles. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard from you, mate.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

...

You peek out the back window and nearly choke on your drink.

Simon is standing over your new grill—shirt half-untucked, brows furrowed, tongs in hand like they’re a weapon.

There’s a beer bottle balanced on the railing and a printed recipe sheet taped to the side of the grill.

“Is he…” you start.

“Following a step-by-step?” Price finishes, craning his neck to see.

“Bloody hell,” MacMillan mutters, amused. “He’s really going for it.”

You step outside just as Simon carefully flips one of the steaks, expression focused like it’s a bomb he’s defusing.

“I don’t wanna jinx it,” he says when he notices you, “but I think this might actually be edible.”

You walk over, arms crossed, watching him with a smirk. “Is that... homemade rosemary butter for basting?”

“You bet your sweet arse it is.”

“Look at you. Grill-master Ghost.”

He flicks his eyes to you—smirking, cocky in that quiet Simon Riley way. “Told you I was a fast learner.”

The smell is insane. Perfect char. Sizzle. He even grilled the damn asparagus.

Price and your dad follow you out. Sitting on the porch chairs as if they're watching a show.

“I’m scared,” Price admits, sipping his beer. “This might be the most domestic I’ve ever seen him.”

MacMillan eyes the grill, then Simon. “If you plate that well, I might just let you marry her.”

Simon doesn’t even flinch.

“Already planning on it.”

You choke and nearly drop your beer.

Hours later. Bellies full. Plates cleaned. The kitchen is full of beer bottles and leftover steak. Laughter still echoes from the back room where your dad and Price are locked in some story-swapping contest.

You and Simon slip out onto the porch, barefoot and quiet, each holding a mug of tea.

He settles beside you on the bench, tucking you into his side like it’s second nature.

The cicadas hum, stars peek through the indigo sky.

“Did I do alright?” he asks, voice low. Honest.

You blink up at him, heart stupid-full. “Simon. You grilled a perfect steak. You fixed the door. You made my dad laugh. You passed the final boss.”

He huffs a laugh, presses a kiss to your temple. “S’nice. Having a normal day.”

“We could do more of them.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, resting your head on his shoulder.

“You really looked like you belonged here today.”

He goes quiet for a second. Then:

“Felt like I did.”

"You do."

A beat of silence passes before you look up at him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier? You're plannin' on it? Marrying me?"

Simon chuckles, kissing your forehead. "I've thought about it."

Neither of you say anything more. You can't, not when the silence is saying everything for you.

Price—too tipsy to drive home—crashes on your couch. Already passed out and snoring by the time you guys are back inside.

Snoring comes from the guest room too.

Settling into bed, you feel that monthly sharp pain in your stomach. Groaning and melting into your bed. Already asleep by the time Simon exits the shower.

...

You wake to that same dull ache low in your stomach.

It rolls through you in slow, pulsing waves—deep and mean. You curl in a little tighter, hoping it’ll pass.

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Your body’s already dragging, limbs heavy with fatigue and pain, but you push yourself up anyway. Today’s the day your dad and Price head out, and you will not be the girl who lets her uterus ruin a perfectly good farewell.

You pad into the bathroom, splash water on your face, and wince when another cramp twists through your gut.

Breathe. Smile. Act normal.

By the time you make it into the kitchen, Simon’s already up—mug in hand, leaning against the counter. He’s in one of his old flannel shirts. Barefoot. Soft around the eyes.

He takes one look at you and immediately straightens.

“You alright, love?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Simon narrows his eyes—he knows you. Knows your tells. The way your hand rests a little too long on the counter. The subtle way you press your thigh against the edge for pressure.

He doesn’t say anything, but you know he knows.

MacMillan and Price are already half-packed, duffel bags by the door. Your dad gives you a one-armed hug, mug of coffee still in his other hand.

“You take care of yourself, alright?”

“I always do, Dad.”

He gives you that dad-look like he sees through everything—but doesn’t call you out. Just pats your shoulder, eyes shifting to Simon.

“And you—”

“I know,” Simon says, cutting him off with a tired smile. “I’ll take care of her.”

“Damn right you will.”

Price slings his bag over his shoulder and leans in to kiss your cheek. “Thanks for the bed. And the entertainment.”

You chuckle, weakly. “Next time you’re both sleeping in the barn.”

He grins and heads for the door. Your dad follows.

You wave them off with a smile and close the door as their trucks pull away.

The second it clicks shut behind you, your shoulders slump.

Simon’s already there, wrapping an arm around your waist. “C’mon.”

“M’fine,” you mumble.

“You're not. Let me take care of you.”

He leads you gently to the couch and tucks the blanket over you before disappearing down the hall. Comes back with a heating pad, a glass of water, and pain meds.

He kneels beside the couch, brushing your hair back with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten.

“Should’ve said something earlier,” he murmurs. “Could’ve let me hold you all night.”

You shrug, eyes already burning.

“Didn’t wanna ruin the moment.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You’re never a burden. Never.”

You exhale, finally letting yourself sink into the cushions, into him.

And for once, it feels okay to not be okay.

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1

[weeping-treee]

Part 15 AND 16 is coming soon. I haven’t forgotten, just been busy and in Spain without the S💔😭😂

[weeping-treee]

talked to a girl ALL night long. Literally- 11 hours

(It’s 11:30am and it just ended)

Successful flirting on my end🤭

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 14

Simon loves you. So goddamn much

All parts here

2,403 words

(Pictures aren't mine. Gotta love Pinterest.)

(And this is basically an AU that I made up. Still set in, and a little before MW 2019, so eat up bitches<3)

“We still gotta go shoppin’, love,” he murmurs against your hair.

You chuckle, rubbing his back softly. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

He huffs. “I’ll deal with that attitude later. C’mon, go get dressed.” He pulls away and turns you toward the bedroom.

You roll your eyes and start walking, but before you disappear around the corner, you throw one last thing over your shoulder—just to make his breath catch.

“You should move in. Just sayin’.”

He stops dead in his tracks, staring at the spot where he last saw you—like you’d just said the most beautifully absurd thing in the world. His legs move before his brain does, following after you without hesitation.

And when he reaches your bedroom, you’re half-dressed, slipping on one of his shirts like you own it.

Like you own him.

Which—let’s face it—you do.

He stands there, stunned. Speechless. Like maybe he didn’t hear you right. Until the words tumble out in a single, breathless rush:

“What did you just say?”

“I said, you should move in,” you repeat, more casual now. “You’re basically living here anyway. Maybe I don’t want it to end when you go back to work.”

You finish buttoning your jeans and glance up at him. The dumbfounded look on his face makes you chuckle.

“Is it too fast? Do you not want to? I just thought it’d be better than those old beds on base—”

“No.” His voice is soft. Immediate. “It’s just unexpected, is all.”

He steps closer, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Do you want that? Me to move in?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around him. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want it, Si.”

"Guess I'm movin' in then." He kisses your head, but you squeeze him so hard it steals his breath.

"Jesus, small but fuckin' mighty." He chuckles.

"C'mon then. Shopping time." You release and head out of the room with a new light about you.

He shakes his head and follows after you, rubbing his ribs from your tiny arms.

The drive to the markets is comfortable and quiet. Simon fills the silence with questions about your dad and small squeezes to your thigh as he drives.

"What should we make him for dinner?" He glances at you for a second before focusing back on the road.

"He likes steak. Typical man. Happy with whatever is hot and edible. Like you."

He laughs. "You sayin' I'm easy to please?"

"In certain aspects of life. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. So you're doing good thinking about how to please my dad with dinner."

He hums, squeezing your thigh once more.

"I don't have a grill though." You murmur, pulling out your phone to look for one.

"I've got it. Don't you worry sweetheart." He pats your thigh before parking.

You reach into the glove compartment and pull out a black surgical mask, handing it to him. "Here."

He smiles softly at how much you know him before securing it on his face.

You both walk to and through markets, buying small things and necessities for dinner tomorrow, and groceries for the week. You pout every time Simon insists on paying. Your final straw is the £285 wood pellet grill you had picked out.

"Simon, you've spent enough. Let me at least pay for something."

He doesn't even respond. Just chuckles and takes the bags you're holding from you AND wheels the buggy holding the grill box out of the market.

You hate it. You hate how he's being such a goddamn man. How his forearms flex beneath the weight of the grocery bags. Jesus Christ, you're done for. No more independent woman here. Just an utterly ruined girlfriend.

While he packs the car up you point out a store you wanna go to, alone. He says no at first—not wanting you to go by yourself, but you lie and say it’s some girly store and tell him to wait in the car. Which isn’t a complete lie—it’s a jewelry store, for fuck’s sake.

You stride in with one thing on your mind. Ownership. Whether its of you or of him. Something.

You browse before your eyes land on the necklaces. There are the name ones, but your eyes land on the initials. Knowing Simon would like to keep your name out of things if a situation would arise that needed anonymity.

You pick out two silver chains,—one with an "S" on it for you, and another with your initial on it for him. It's subtle, yet that's the best part. He's all about practicality with low visibility. He could put your initial right on the chain with his dog tags, and you'd always be right next to his heart. You obviously buy them both immediately.

You get the little bag to carry them in and walk to the car as if nothing happened.

"What's in the bag, love?"

"A surprise for when we're home."

He raises a brow but doesn't question it, just puts the car in drive and drives home. His home. Your home.

He brings all the groceries in, and insists on building the grill alone. Which gives you the perfect chance to take the little initial charm and slide it onto his dog tag chain. It rests perfectly right over the tags. Small. Subtle. But meaningful nonetheless. You put yours on and wait for him to notice.

Which does take hours, since he's out on the back patio, cussing out the instructions for being so damn stupid. You call him in for dinner, telling him to take a break.

He enters the kitchen and hugs you from behind. He sighs and you feel the stress drain from him as he holds you.

"Hungry?" You ask, rubbing his hand on your abdomen.

"Fuckin' starving, love." He kisses your head before plopping down in his spot at the table.

You bring him a plate and set it down, taking his hand and putting his chain in it. His brows furrow as he looks at his dog tags. "What's this about?" He starts before you see the realization when he turns them over. "You didn't..."

A pause.

Then he huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh—one of those rare ones, the kind that barely escapes his chest but hits you like a sledgehammer.

“You’re serious?”

Your smile falters for a second. “You don’t like it?”

Simon blinks. “Don’t like it?” he repeats, like the words offend him.

Then he’s up—just like that—pushing his chair back with a scrape, grabbing your hand, and tugging you gently but firmly into his space.

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. One hand slides to the back of your neck. The other curls protectively around your side, like he’s shielding something fragile.

His forehead drops to yours.

“I fuckin’ love it, sweetheart.”

You barely have time to breathe before he kisses you.

It’s not hungry. Not rushed. Just firm and slow and steady—like he’s pouring everything he doesn’t know how to say into that single moment.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his hand over the chain at your chest.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Everyone’ll know.”

“You’ve always been mine,” you whisper back. “This just makes it obvious.”

He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your head before releasing you. “We better eat before we get all fuckin’ sentimental.”

You shake your head as you grab your plate and sit beside him. Dinner is filled with quiet conversation and casual touches—his knee brushing yours under the table, fingers grazing your wrist in passing—until the food is gone.

You stand, collecting the plates.

“I’ll wash up and come help you outside in a minute, okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t move.

Both of you freeze at the sudden knock at the door.

You glance at him. He glances at you.

You’re the first to move, padding toward the entry with Simon following behind, shoulders tense.

You open the door—and his heart drops while yours leaps out of your chest.

Your Dad.

MacMillan.

“Dad!” you exclaim, throwing your arms around him.

He hugs you back with a chuckle.

You huff softly. “You’re early! You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

“Thought I’d surprise you,” he replies, ruffling your hair. “Figured I’d catch him off guard. Make sure he’s treatin’ my little girl right.”

He locks eyes with Simon.

“Dad, of course he is. But I had things planned! We were gonna make dinner, I haven’t even baked anything yet—”

“Enough of that. It’s just me. Don’t need dinner or dessert. A cold one and a sit-down with this one’ll do just fine.”

You let him in, feeling Simon practically vibrating beside you with restrained nerves.

“Simon Riley,” your dad says, appraising him with a veteran’s stare. “The Ghost. I’ve heard great things.”

“Thank you, sir. Pleasure to meet you.” Simon offers his hand, firm and steady despite the storm inside.

Your father takes it without hesitation—a quick, tight handshake with weight behind it.

Then you break the tension, practically herding them like a sheepdog.

“Alright—c’mon. Beers. Couch. Let’s go.”

You set the beers down on the coffee table—one for you, one for your dad, and one for Simon, who still hasn’t sat down.

MacMillan takes his with a nod, easing into the chair near the couch like it’s a briefing room chair. The man has presence, even when relaxed—calm, controlled, observant.

Simon finally lowers himself onto the far end of the couch next to you, careful, composed. His posture straight, back rigid. Like he’s about to be debriefed after a mission gone sideways.

You perch between them, leaning forward to pop the cap off your own bottle. But Simon, grabs it first and does it for you, handing it to you before opening his own.

Silence stretches.

MacMillan studies Simon over the rim of his beer. “So,” he says finally, voice low and dry, “you’re the one.”

Simon doesn’t flinch. “I suppose I am.”

“And what exactly are your intentions with my daughter?”

You turn, shooting your dad a look. “Really? That’s the opening?”

He ignores you. Never looks away from Simon.

Simon doesn’t blink. “To be worthy of her. To be worthy of a future with her. Every day I’m lucky enough to be around.”

That makes MacMillan’s brow rise—just a fraction. But the corner of his mouth twitches, too. Approval? Maybe.

“You know what she does when you’re not around?” he asks, cracking his neck as he leans back. “She talks about you. Tells me stories. Some funny. Some painful.”

Simon swallows but nods. “I know.”

“And you? You talk about her to anyone?” MacMillan asks pointedly.

Simon hesitates. “No, sir.”

Your dad gives a short nod. “Smart man.”

You look between them like you’re watching a fencing match. Neither giving ground. And somehow, it’s thrilling.

MacMillan sips his beer again, eyes still fixed on Simon. “I’ve trained a lot of men. Lost a lot of them, too. But you—I’ve heard your name for years. Hell, Laswell called you a stubborn bastard. Price called you a bloody miracle.”

Simon doesn’t respond. He’s listening. Processing.

“But none of that means shit,” your dad continues, “if you hurt her.”

You sigh, "Jesus, Dad—"

Simon straightens his shoulders, jaw tight. “Would rather die than do that.”

Your father stares at him. Long. Hard.

Then he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and holds out his hand again.

“Well then. Glad we understand each other.”

Simon grips it without hesitation. Firm. Respectful.

When they finally release, the room breathes again.

You lean back on the couch, heart pounding.

“Well,” you say, “that went better than I thought.”

MacMillan grunts. “It’s not over yet. I’m staying the weekend.”

Simon exhales—slow and sharp. You see the panic hit him like a wave.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath, and you can’t help but laugh.

"You must be hungry. Let me go heat dinner back up for you," you say, giving Simon’s hand a quick squeeze before heading into the kitchen.

The moment you’re out of sight, the room quiets again—just the soft hum of the fridge and the distant clatter of you pulling dishes from the cabinets.

Simon doesn’t shift in his seat.

MacMillan doesn’t speak right away.

Just sips his beer. Slow. Deliberate.

Then: “You love her?”

Simon’s answer is immediate. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” MacMillan says, setting his bottle down on a coaster. “She’s not easy to love. She’s stubborn. Got her mother’s spine.”

Simon smirks faintly. “I’ve noticed.”

“Means you’ll have to be twice as steady,” he adds, eyes cutting toward Simon. “Because if you make her doubt herself—she’ll run before you even know you’ve lost her.”

Simon’s throat bobs with the swallow. “She’s already got me anchored, sir. Has from the start.”

MacMillan hums at that. Leans back, folding his arms.

“I’ve had soldiers under me break under less. But you—” he eyes Simon up and down, as if trying to read his soul, “—you don’t seem the type to run.”

“I’ve got nowhere else I’d rather be,” Simon says quietly.

The older man gives a slow nod. “Then we really understand each other.”

Another quiet stretch. Then MacMillan leans in just slightly, like he’s offering a rare gift.

“She laughs more around you. Talks faster. Sleeps better, I think.”

Simon blinks, caught off guard.

MacMillan doesn’t let it show, but his voice softens, just a touch. “So whatever it is you’re doing... keep doing it.”

Before Simon can respond, your voice floats in from the kitchen.

“Hope you two aren’t trying to out-intimidate each other in there.”

MacMillan chuckles under his breath, just once. “Not yet.”

Simon exhales a quiet breath of relief.

Not full approval, yet—but respect.

And from a man like MacMillan? That might be even better.

Simon’s still lost in that thought when MacMillan speaks again—calm, direct.

“You thinkin’ about proposing?”

Simon blinks. Stares. “I haven’t... not thought about it.”

MacMillan shifts in his seat. Reaches into his coat pocket. Pulls out a small velvet box and holds it out.

“That was her mother’s,” he says simply. “She’s always wanted it. Was waiting for her to find a man good enough to give it to her. So when you’re ready—you have my approval.”

Simon forgets how to breathe.

His eyes drop to the box. His hands move slow, careful as he takes it. The weight of it sinks into his palm like a stone.

“Thank you… sir.”

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 13

Simon loves you. And ends up regretting it—momentarily.

All parts here

2,203 words

(Pictures aren't mine. Gotta love Pinterest.)

(And this is basically an AU that I made up. Still set in, and a little before MW 2019, so eat up bitches<3)

Color Key: Price- red | Gaz- green | Soap- Orange | Text- purple

Your hours keep getting shorter.

Hell, you have more days off scheduled than you’ve ever had before.

When you finally confront Price about it, he waves you off saying, ‘you deserve it’.

But you know the truth. It’s obvious the way Soap and Gaz get giddy like children asking about Ghost and your plans for the days off coming.

Simon loves being in your home with you, but he hates feeling so restless. Only 5 days into his 10 day break. He's literally into your British baking show with you. Delving into the drama with you to keep his mind and attention on something other than what he may be missing at base.

So, hearing the boys have a night off, and you get off work early, you invite them over for dinner. Asking each of them personally, not over text. But you send them the address, tell them to wear something comfortable and be there at 7. To which they all agree.

So when you get home at 5, you wash up, get comfy and start looking through what you have that would feed everyone. Feeding someone as big as Simon has been a doozy, but three more of him? Definitely a challenge.

You don't even tell Simon they're coming, just make up an excuse that you want him to have leftovers for when you're working. He didn't question it, knowing how you like to cook.

He gives you a look when there's a knock on the door. His hand instinctively flies to his waist despite nothing being on his belt. He almost groans as he strides over to the door and opens it, surprised to see his Captain and two Sergeants, each carrying their own gift to this so called "dinner party".

He turns around as he lets them in, giving you that look that just says 'really?' without speaking as he sees the smile on your face. Each man hands over what they brought.

What gentleman—they each greet you shamelessly. Kyle sets a store-bought cake on the counter, Price brought a bottle of wine, and Johnny—ever the charmer—brought flowers, already set pretty and perfect in a nice vase with a bow.

You thank them and shoo them from your kitchen, basically forcing them to focus on Simon and not you. That's what they're here for anyways. You continue cooking, humming to yourself. Bringing them a cold beer only to smack Johnny upside the head when he tells Simon to 'lock it down with this one before I do,' earning an eye roll from Simon.

They all chat for a bit before Price spots the photo on one of the many bookshelves. The one Simon had noticed snooping around the other day. The only difference? Price has the balls to question you on it.

"Is that fuckin' MacMillan? Y/N, why do you have so many pictures with him?"

You hum in acknowledgement and chuckle. "That's my dad."

Simon immediately goes silent. Internally scolding himself for feeling jealous and possessive over her own goddamn father.

All of the men, in fact, go silent. The first to speak up is Johnny. "But yer last name isn't MacMillan, lass."

"He insisted I have my mom's last name. So he could keep me safe and out of his life. Though I didn't listen much considering where I am now." You chuckle softly and go to pull dinner from the oven when the timer goes off.

They all collectively look at Simon. Kyle finally speaks, "Have fun winning her dad over now. You think Price is a hardass? Mac is where he got it from."

Simon huffs, acting as if it doesn't phase him. In reality? He's in over his bloody head. He had pictured meeting your father before, but in his mind it was a simple civilian, not the man who made his Captain who he is today.

The man from so many fucking stories he basically fucking fangirled over. The man he never met, but looked up to.

It makes him spiral. Even if he doesn't show it. Thinking he's not good enough. Not soft enough. Not human enough. Not enough at all for the daughter of an absolute legend like that.

Price makes him snap out of it, "well then, it's a good thing I tell him good things about my Lieutenant when we call to check in."

You set the table, listening to them chat up a storm about this new revelation. Yet never hear a word from Simon's mouth. Once you've finished, you lean against the doorframe shaking your head.

"My dad already likes him. I've talked to him about Simon. But enough about my dad. Dinner's ready, come fill your faces." You wait for each of them to pass you, Simon's the last, looking at you like you've killed his puppy.

"It's okay. We'll talk later." You assure him softly, following him into the dining room.

Luckily, dinner is lighter conversation. All men inhaling the food—literally, Johnny almost chokes at one point. By the time it's over, there's barely any leftovers, and yet they all have room for the cake Kyle had brought. Where they put it—and keep their figures? You have absolutely no clue.

About an hour later, they all agree on heading out for the night, thanking you for dinner and telling Simon they'll see him back at work soon. You both wave off the boys. The door clicks shut.

Simon doesn’t even wait.

“So that’s it? You weren’t gonna tell me your dad is Baseplate bloody MacMillan?”

You blink at him, lips twitching. “What, didn’t want the surprise dinner to come with legacy trauma?”

He doesn’t laugh.

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” he mutters. “You know what I mean.”

You sigh, stepping closer. “Yes. That’s my dad. Captain MacMillan. You scared now?”

“Scared?” He scoffs, jaw tight. “No. Just… fuckin’ hell, love.”

His shoulders are stiff, defensive—like you’ve backed him into a corner without even meaning to. And yet, beneath all of it, there’s a flicker of something else in his expression.

Insecurity. Doubt.

You soften, voice gentle. “Simon... I’ve already talked to him about you. Every Friday night, we catch up. He asks about my week. I tell him about you.”

“You told MacMillan about me?” he asks, voice rough with disbelief.

You nod. “I didn’t tell him everything. Just the important bits. Told him there was someone good. Someone steady.”

Simon looks away, swallowing hard.

“He thinks I’m a good man?” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Your dad?”

You smile faintly. “He’s heard of you. Said you’re solid. Smart. Capable. Said you reminded him of Price once upon a time.”

His arms slowly uncross. Still tense—but there’s a crack in his armor now. You press your advantage, gently.

“You know how many guys I’ve told him about before?”

“Let me guess. None?”

“Worse. A few. And he hated all of them. Didn’t even try to hide it.”

Simon’s brow furrows. “So why not me?”

You step in close, placing a hand against his chest—right over his heart.

“Maybe because you’re the only one who never tried to pretend to be someone he’d approve of. You’re just... you. And he respects that. So do I.”

His hand comes up, slowly, resting over yours.

“Still feels like I’ve got to prove myself.”

You tilt your head, eyes meeting his.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Simon. Not to him. Not to me. You just have to stay—and keep being the man I already love.”

That breaks something in him. Not visibly. But you feel the shift.

His chest rises. Falls. And for the first time all night, he really breathes.

“That’s a bloody tall order, y’know,” he mutters, voice softer now.

You grin. “Good thing you’re bloody fuckin' tall, then.”

He rolls his eyes, "Alright. Fine," he says, almost pouting.

You chuckle and walk away to clean the kitchen and dining room, making sure to add, "You're cute when you're like this."

Simon huffs and runs a hand over his face, yet turns to follow and help you clean up.

...

The kitchen’s clean. The house is quiet. The boys are gone.

You dig out the fluffiest throw blanket and cue up something mindless and cozy—your favorite comfort movie.

Simon appears from the hallway, freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing sweatpants and his hoodie. With 'RILEY' printed on the back.

You pout, brows furrowed. "That's my hoodie."

He chuckles as he leans against the doorframe, "Actually, love, it's my hoodie. You just stole it from me."

You huff, "What's yours is mine, and what's mine is mine—or whatever they say." Earning a low chuckle from him.

“You comin’ or am I watchin’ this domestic fluff alone?” you tease, patting the spot beside you.

He sinks onto the couch beside you with a groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “Could use a bit of your fluffy shit after tonight.”

You lean against him. He lets you.

Eventually, his arm stretches around your shoulders and pulls you closer. The kind of quiet where you both feel safe. Settled. Finally.

“Still thinking about him?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“Hard not to,” he admits. “It’s MacMillan, love.”

You shift so you can look at him properly. “Yeah? Well... he’s just my dad. Gruff, snarky, and awful at texting.”

That earns you a small laugh. Victory.

“Thanks for not letting me spiral,” he mutters.

You nudge his side. “Thanks for trusting me enough not to.”

He leans down, kisses your temple, and breathes in like he’s grounding himself in your scent.

“Could stay like this forever.”

“You’d get bored of me.”

“Not fuckin’ likely. Your taste in movies, maybe.”

You spend hours cuddled up, watching random movies. You eventually fall asleep against him, and just as Simon was gonna carry you to bed, your phone buzzes.

Simon shifts carefully, trying not to wake you as he picks your phone up to check the screen. One new message—which of course he can read since you made him put his face in your Face ID list.

Dad- "Touching down tomorrow morning, thought I'd surprise you. can't wait to see you."

Simon stares at it, heart in his throat.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters under his breath. Looking down at you sound asleep in his lap.

"Yer gonna be the death of me."

He carries you to bed despite the anxiety flowing through every bone in his body. Setting you in it as if you're the most precious thing in existence. Which to him? You are.

Come first light, you're still asleep.

Sunlight’s just starting to filter in through the blinds. And Simon? He’s been awake for hours.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, unshaven, bare-faced, hunched over your phone with a look of pure dread on his face. A cup of tea sits untouched beside him, going cold.

The text from your dad stares up at him.

“Touching down tomorrow, thought I’d surprise you. can’t wait to see you.”

Simon rereads it like it’s a bomb he’s trying to defuse.

He gets up—pacing.

He’s not even wearing his mask, but you’d think he was going on a mission. He’s muttering to himself. Pulling open your fridge. Shutting it. Opening it again. What the fuck is he even looking for? Confidence?

He mentally runs through everything he needs to do to make a good impression.

Shake his hand. Firm. Not aggressive.

Eye contact—but not staring into your soul eye contact.

Don't curse. Try, at least.

Don't say anything about her in bed—fucking obviously.

Offer to cook? No—grill. Men grill. Fuck, does she even have a grill?

Clean the goddamn house.

Clean yourself up. For fuck's sake.

When you wake up, you stop mid-step and mid-yawn. He's mopping...

"Did you kill someone?" you ask slowly.

He looks up like a deer caught in high beams.

"He's coming tomorrow."

You blink, brows furrowing in confusion. "Who?"

"MacMillan."

"My dad?"

"Yeah. That one."

He stands up, gestures wildly at the spotless kitchen like he’s trying to pass a barracks inspection.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, alright? I’ve gone face-to-face with men who are trying to kill me without blinking, and somehow this is worse.”

You lean against the wall, hiding your smile. “Simon…”

“You don’t get it. This man trained Price. Price. Your dad probably taught him how to glare.”

You cross the room, wrap your arms around him. He exhales shakily against your shoulder.

“Babe,” you murmur. “He already likes you. Just… be you. You know... the ‘you’ who mopped at six in the morning because he’s nervous.”

"Easy for you to say. He's proud of you if you breathe."

You chuckle. "That is true.. But if you tell him what you've told me, he'll be proud of you too."

His shoulders fall. Finally relaxing, just a little. "You think so?"

"I know so," you rub his back softly, looking at your now spotless kitchen. "Plus I'll tell him about this little stress clean you had."

He abruptly cups your face in his hands. Firm—but gentle. "Don't you dare."

You chuckle. "I love you."

He rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to your head before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you closer to him. "Yeah, I know."

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt @junitries @lelouchwests-blog @annwe23 @wheezytomato @skylyn-vais @simonexxx1

[weeping-treee]

literally obsessed with this.

Turning Page | Masterlist

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! alpha Simon Riley x librarian! omega Reader

please heed tags before each chapter

⤷ Fancy Nancy

⤷ Corduroy

⤷ Rainbow Fish

⤷ Angelina Ballerina

⤷ Rainbow Fish & 2

⤷ Chapter 6

ao3 | main masterlist

[weeping-treee]

I wrote like three paragraphs of Ghost stuff MONTHS ago, and I can’t wait until I’m able to incorporate it into A Desperate Man:3