Six foot somethinâ, broad as a doorframe, tattooed arms, permanent frown carved into his face like stone. The kind of man who could walk into a room and make conversations die mid-sentence.
Which was exactly why the bright pink lunchbox sitting on the briefing table looked so absurd.
Soap stared at it.
Then at Simon.
Then back at the lunchbox covered in tiny white hearts.
ââŚThat yours, LT?â
Simon didnât even glance up from cleaning his sidearm. âObviously.â
Gaz coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Price suddenly found the paperwork in his hands very interesting. Soap, unfortunately, feared nothing.
âChrist alive.â he muttered, lifting the lunchbox by two fingers. âItâs got a bow on it.â
Simonâs eyes lifted slowly.
Dangerously.
Soap set it back down immediately. The room went quiet for all of three seconds before Gaz spotted the sticky note attached to the handle.
Pink ink. Curly handwriting.
Donât forget to actually eat today. I mean it!â âĄ
There was even a lipstick kiss pressed onto the corner. Soap made a strangled noise. âSHE LEFT YE A WEE KISS MARK.â
Simon took the note off carefully before Soap could touch it with his grubby hands. He folded it once and tucked it into the pocket of his vest with complete seriousness, like it was something precious.
Because it was.
âYou keep those?â Gaz asked before he could stop himself. Simon gave him a look that practically said watch your mouth.
âAye.â
The boys exchanged glances.
Not because Simon had a partner. They all knew that. And not because Simon was soft with you. They knew that too. It was the fact he never acted embarrassed about it.
Ever.
Didnât hide the matching pink phone charger you bought him because he âalways stole yours anyway.â Didnât complain when you painted tiny strawberries on his phone case. Didnât care that his keys now had fluffy pink pompoms hanging off them because youâd smiled so proudly while showing him. The man simply accepted every little piece of you with both hands.
Like loving you loudly was the easiest thing in the world.
Later that afternoon, Simon finally opened the lunchbox during break. Inside was organized chaos. Pink Tupperware containers stacked perfectly. Heart-shaped strawberries. A sandwich cut neatly in half. Little notes tucked everywhere.
One on the drinkâ
Hydrate or Iâll become evil.
One on the fruitâ
Youâre handsome. Thatâs unrelated, I just thought you should know.
And one folded beneath the sandwich.
Simon opened it quietly.
Miss you already. Come home safe so I can kiss you properly instead of leaving lipstick on paper.
His eyes softened instantly.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Just enough that Price noticed from across the room and looked away to give the man some privacy. Soap, however, leaned over his shoulder with zero survival instinct.
âAwwwwââ
Simon shoved him back without heat.
âPiss off.â
But there was no bite to it.
Soap grinned. âYe love that shite.â
Simon took another bite of his sandwich.
âAye.â he answered simply.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just certainty.
Because you loved pink things. Cute things. Soft things.
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Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.
You did your best to fill it.
Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.
Still, tonightâs recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.
A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.
Your whole body went rigid.
Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.
Someone was breaking in. Shit.
You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.
The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.
The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.
For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.
Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."
Your soul left your body.
âSimon?â you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.
He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.
âAre you okay?!â you gasped.
âI got smashed with a plate. What ya think?â he muttered, eyes shut tight.
âYou were supposed to be back in a week!â
âMission ended early,â he said with a pained groan.
âWhy didnât you tell me?â
âWanted tâ surprise ya.â
You stared at him.
Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.
"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."
He gave you a flat look. âNice. Blame the victim.â
"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."
He huffed "rude."
âJust go sit down,â you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. âIâll get the first aid kit.â
He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.
"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you andâ"
"It's alright, sweeâheart," his voice came soft, steady.
You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didnât even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.
âBeen through a dangerous mission,â he said, âanâ get home to get clocked by me wife.â
âIt wasnât on purpose,â you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.
âNever said it was.â
âYou are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.â
He huffed a laugh. âUsually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.â
âI was trying out a new greeting method.â
He raised one brow. âNext time, how about a pan to the face?â
You let out a helpless laugh. âShut up.â
âYou hit me.â
âI thought you were breaking in!â
âStill counts as domestic violence, luv.â
You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.
Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.
âOn the bright side,â he said, âI do know for certain youâre safe when Iâm gone.â
You giggled, cheeks flushed, eyes dizzy, and trying to stay up while grabbing a bottle of expensive wine, leaning against Simon's chest.
"y'know, uhm, you're cute as hell, let's get married"
You slurred, Simon chuckled, putting a gentle hand on your waist and keeping you close to him in the middle of the lively bar.
"We're married sweetheart"
The way your eyes widened when he showed you the stunning wedding ring that was on your wedding finger, plus the one he shared with you was seared into his brain.
And the high pitched, loud as hell overjoyed squeal you let out after that.
He swore his ears still buzzed.
The squeal you let out was the reason why you two were banned from that bar and it was a story 5 years later your little blonde daughter and with his eyes and your smile would always giggle about when Simon told her on the nights he called "Bed stories with dada".
With you leaning on the door, scoffing playfully, crossing your arms and saying you didn't remember that night clearly.
Maybe you didn't.
But Simon did, how would he forget the night he knew he wanted to stay the rest of his life next to you?
almost immediately into dating, simon riley would buy you a gun.
probably a 9mm. matte black, no frills, utilitarian. nothing bigger than needed. comfortable enough to hug your palm, heavy enough to remind you of the implications of what you carry.
and really, it wouldnât come as a surprise to you.
you knew he was a soldier, knew he kept closets full of gear and could disappear without a sound â appear the same way too. you knew how he moved, how his eyes never slowed until they met yours. knew there was something unsaid about his skill level, redacted parts he left out on purpose. but even above that â you knew the truth of him. under the mask, under the muscle, under the scars of his past. the boy who grew up with vigilance as his only defence. you know enough to know you donât survive what simon has survived and come out normal.
you come out disciplined. dangerous. prepared.
simon doesnât believe in luck. wonât leave his trust in the cavalry showin up in time when thatâs already failed him many times before. simon doesnât deal in safe.
he deals in preparation. for the worst. for even the most unlikely.
love comes in many forms. and maybe for simon itâs not candle lit dinners or couch cuddling movie nights (though of course you bribe him into those anyways. heâs never quite been able to say no to you) itâs making sure he does everything in his power to make you capable.
and he does it with all the patience heâs got to offer. thereâs no expectation no pressure no timeline â god knows simon isnât expecting you to become a super assassin overnight. he takes you out to some half-forgotten range an hour outta the city, tucked in nice between the pine and fog. sets up the targets and has you aim at them empty, watching the way you hold tension in your tendons. teaches you how to force it out through breath. how to work the weapon like an extension of yourself.
the rundown is quick and simple. caliber, kickback, magazine release. then he steps back and tells you to shoot.
you exhale the breath like he taught you and pull. when you miss, he nods once and says again. you go through three full mags and miss each one. it isnât long before your palms burn as bad as your cheeks do with the humiliation of it â but itâs all forgotten when you land just a tap off the bullseye and simon walks over with his hands up.
âthatâs how it starts, sweetâeart.â he murmurs, smirking against your mouth.
simon riley is a man of many talents, but his greatest achievement yet is loving you. and maybe itâs not always voiced by âi love you so much baby.â â but instead itâs running you through drills around the crooked ikea furniture in your living room until the sun has set and the moon is out. or blindfolding you and telling you to unload and reload the mag. or leaving sticky notes with unlikely scenarios scattered around the house and quizzing you on your answers while youre cockdrunk against the counter.
youâve learned his language by now. hes protective and realistic and a little bit cynical. but god does he make you feel alive for it.
you know by him teaching you how to use this gun itâs his way of saying i will do everything in my power to keep you alive because im in love with you and i wouldnât survive a fuckin day if i lost you.
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something something, Simon sees you at a bar all dressed in pink and acting shy around other people and gets intrigued. He buys you a drink, the gentleman he is, and you simply stare at him, the hulking man in the scary mask, before throwing back the drink in one gulp.
Oh. Oh. Now that peaked Simon's interest.
He walked over to you, your friends all but abandoning you the second he started walking over. You blink up at him with big, adoring eyes as Simon buys you another drink.
Eyes that Simon finds himself getting lost in as he drives the two of you home, hand on your thigh, the truck silent as he autopilots to his flat. What a risky move, trusting a man like him to take you somewhere other than a dingy bathroom in the bar.
When Simon pushes open the door of his flat, he's on you instantly, lips locking against yours as he presses you against the wall. His hands roam your body, gripping your hips as he slots his knee between your thighs, listening to you moan and whimper as you rut against him.
He thinks he knows what this is, just a quick fuck with the pretty girl in pink that he met at the bar, that is, until his hands brush your chest and you mewl rather loudly. Now what did he have here.
He scoops you into his arms, carrying you to his bed as he gently tosses you onto your back. Kicking off his boots, Simon walks over to the bed before he gets on the bed, caging you between his arms.
It takes Simon taking off your dress, letting your tits free, before he realizes. In the pale moonlight shining through the curtains, Simon sees them.
Silver bars, pink jewels at the end. Nipple piercings.
His shy little girl, the one with a metal-less face and no tattoos, had nipple piercings.
Oh he was so whipped.
A/N: this is nipple piercing propaganda, i may have tattoos but i was just really intrigued by the idea of simon not expecting this shy, covered in pink type reader to be pierced
It started with a fucking software update. You were the tech-wiz, the specialist who could navigate any system with a few clicks of a mouse. He was the grizzled veteran, a legend in the field who could disassemble and reassemble a rifle blindfolded but couldn't figure out how to connect his laptop to the projector. Captain Price had assigned you to 'show him the ropes,' a phrase that now made you want to laugh hysterically.
Youâd leaned over Ghostâs shoulder, your breast pressing softly against his bicep as you pointed at the screen. "So, you just right-click here, and select 'duplicate display.' See? Simple."
Heâd grunted in response, a low, non-committal sound. But he hadn't been looking at the screen. He'd been staring at the curve of your neck, the way your hair fell from your loose ponytail, the sweet scent of your vanilla shampoo. You were wearing a soft, pink top that day, with a heart-shaped neckline that dipped just low enough to show the swell of your breasts. When you leaned forward to grab the mouse, the fabric gaped, offering him a brief, maddening glimpse of your lacy bra.
And that's when it happened. A hot, sharp pang of arousal, his cock stirring in his cargos, thickening and hardening with a speed that was both shocking and humiliating. He was a man who controlled every aspect of his life, his body a finely-tuned weapon. And yet, here he was, getting a raging hard-on from a glimpse of lace and the scent of vanilla, all from a girl young enough to be his daughter. Heâd shifted in his seat, gritting his teeth behind the mask. "Got it," heâd rasped, his voice rougher and heavier than usual. "You can go."
Youâd given him a curious look but hadn't pushed it. You just gathered your things and left, oblivious to the absolute storm you'd unleashed inside him.
That night, Simon Riley jacked off with a ferocity that scared him. He came to the thought of your plump, soft ass in those tight tactical pants, the memory of your tits, so fucking perfect, spilling from that ridiculous top. He came so hard his vision went white, and the shame that followed was a cold, bitter pill. He was twice your age, your lieutenant. He was a pervert, a dirty old man lusting after the sweet young thing on his squad. He told himself it was a one-time thing, a moment of weakness brought on by a dry spell.
He was wrong.
It became a constant, low-grade torture. Every mission, every briefing, every training exercise was a minefield. He'd watch you on the firing range, your stance perfect, your brow furrowed in concentration, and he'd imagine that young look on your face as he fucked you slow, deep, and brutal. He'd see you laughing with Johnny, your head thrown back, your throat exposed, and he'd fantasize about wrapping his hand around it, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm while he stretched you open. He tried to keep it professional, throwing up walls of gruff indifference. But he was obsessed. He started finding excuses to be near you, to catch another whiff of your perfume, to see that heart-shaped neckline. He told himself it was just to ensure your safety, that he was just being a good LT. It was a blatant lie.
You weren't any better. You'd gone back to your room that first day and pressed your thighs together, your panties damp with arousal. You'd thought about the sheer power in his body, the gravel in his voice when he said 'got it.' The guys your own age were disappointing. They were fumbling, cocky boys who thought a quick rutt was the pinnacle of pleasure. They didn't have the knowing, dominant look in Simon's eyes. They didn't have hands that could probably snap you in half but would hold you with a surprising, possessive tenderness. You started trying to get his attention, wearing your hair down, choosing softer tops, 'accidentally' dropping your pen in front of him. You craved his gaze on you, the forbidden heat of it. You wanted to know if you affected a grown, hardened killer the way he affected you.
The breaking point came during a late-night gear check. The armory was empty, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights. You were checking your vest, your back to him, when he approached.
"Your strap's loose," he said, his voice close to your ear, the deep rumble vibrating through your spine.
You turned, and he was right there, a towering wall of muscle and barely restrained, older need. His eyes were dark, fixed on your mouth. "I can fix it," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
He didn't move. "Let me."
His hands, so large and calloused, moved to your hips, his thumbs brushing the bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. The touch was electric. He pulled the strap tight with agonizing slowness, his knuckles intentionally dragging against the underside of your breast. Your breath hitched.
"Simon," you breathed, a question and a plea all at once.
"This is a bad idea," he growled against your lips, even as his hand slid up to palm your breast, squeezing it hard.
"The worst," you agreed, arching into his touch, your hands fumbling with his belt buckle.
The conversation that followed, between frantic kisses and discarded clothes, was the most honest you'd ever had. You told him about the immature boys, the unsatisfying encounters. He told you about the loneliness, the years of rigid discipline that had left him starved for a connection that wasn't just physical.
"I wanna be dirty with you," you confessed, your hand finally wrapping around the thick, heavy length of his cock. It was perfectâthick, so thick you could barely get your fingers wrapped around it, with a heavy, prominent vein that ran up the underside. The head was a flushed, angry red, leaking pre-cum constantly, a slick bead that you couldn't help but lean forward and lick away, savoring the salty, musky taste of him.
Simon hissed, his eyes rolling back.
"I wanna do all the things they were too scared to do."
"Fuck," he groaned, his hips thrusting into your fist. "You have no idea what you're askin' for, sweetheart."
"Show me," you demanded, dropping to your knees before him. "Show me how a real man fucks."
Si was a man of control, of discipline, but with you, that control shattered completely. He kissed you like he was starving, like he was trying to crawl down your throat. His tongue was everywhere, licking into your mouth, tasting you, demanding you taste him back. The kisses were wet, filthy, obscene. He sucked on your tongue, a groan rumbling in his chest that made your pussy clench around nothing.
When he had you naked, spread out for him on the armory table, the real depravity began. He loved your ass. He spanked it first, the sharp crack of his hand against your young flesh echoing in the room, leaving a red handprint that he'd later kiss better. You were writhing on the table, begging for more, for him, for anything.
Then he spread your cheeks, his breath hot against your most private place. "Simon, please," you whimpered, a mix of shame and desperate need in your voice.
He didn't answer with words. He just leaned down and licked a long, slow stripe over your tight hole. The sensation was so wrong, so intense, that you saw stars. He didn't just do it; he devoured you. His tongue was pointed and firm, pressing against the furled muscle, circling it, probing it. The sounds he made were utterly nastyâwet, lewd slurps and groans of pleasure as he ate your ass like it was his last meal.
And while he was doing that, his fingers were at your pussy, playing with your slick folds, spreading your wetness. He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot, all while his tongue was still working your ass. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a mind-breaking pleasure that had you sobbing his name.
He didn't care about the mess. He didn't care about anything except making you fall apart. He talked to you while he did it, his voice a low, dirty murmur against your skin. "You like that, don't you, you dirty girl? Like an old man tongue-fuckin' your tight little arse? Gonna make you come so hard, babygirl."
And he did. Every single time. You came with a scream, your body shaking. And Simon, your perverted, perfect Simon, was right there to catch you, to hold you, and to whisper in your ear how much he loved his filthy little girl.
When he first pushed his dick inside you, it was a stretch that bordered on pain, a delicious, burning fullness that stole your breath. You had to claw at his back, your nails digging into the hard muscle as he worked himself in, inch by agonizing inch.
"Breathe, love," he groaned, his voice strained. "Just breathe. You can take it. You're gonna take all of this cock."
And you did. Because you wanted to. You needed to. Once he was fully seated, he paused, his massive body trembling with the effort of holding still. You felt it pulsing inside you, a hot, living thing, and you were already overwhelmed.
Then he started to move. He didn't fuck you fast at first. He fucked you deep. Long, slow, grinding strokes that hit so deep you swore you could feel him in your belly. He watched your face the entire time, his dark eyes cataloguing every twitch of your expression, every gasp and moan that escaped your lips.
"That's it," he praised, his voice a low, dark rumble. "Look at you, takin' my fat cock like you were made for it. Such a tight little pussy, squeezin' me so good."
He loved to make you beg. He pulled out almost completely, leaving you empty and aching, until you were a whimpering mess, your hips lifting off the surface, trying to get him back inside.
"Simon, please," you begged, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. "Please, I need it. I need your cock."
"Where do you need it, sweetheart?" he taunted, the head of his cock just nudging your entrance. "Tell me how much you want it."
"In my pussy," you sobbed, shameless. "Please, fuck my pussy with your big cock. I need you to fill me up."
That's when he slammed back into you, setting a brutal pace that had the structure around you rattling. The sounds were obsceneâthe wet slap of his skin against yours, your own high-pitched, youthful moans mixing with his deep, guttural grunts.
"That's my girl," he growled, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just a possessive, grounding weight. "Ride my cock, baby. Take it all."
You did. You took everything he gave you, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, your whole body trembling with the force of his thrusts. He'd turned you into a trembling, begging mess, just like he wanted. He fucked you against the shelves, your legs wrapped around his waist, whispering the most depraved things in your ear.
"You like this, don't you? Like being fucked by an old pervert? God, you're so tight, so fuckin' perfect."
You were obsessed. You were addicted to the taste of him, the feel of him, the delicious wrongness of it all. You sucked his cock like it was your new religion, loving the way his hands would fist in your hair, the way he'd lose his composure, his quiet grunts turning into deep, guttural groans.
He was just as gone on you. The way you looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes as you swallowed him down, the way you screamed his name when he made you come, the way you begged for moreâit was a fucking revelation. He'd never felt this desperate, this utterly consumed by someone whom he was actively corrupting.
And when he came, it was with a roar of your name. His cock jerked inside you, and you felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum painting your insides, so much of it that it started to leak out around his shaft, trickling down your thighs.
"Attagirl," he panted, his hips still moving, still fucking his cum deeper into you. "Fuck, I'm fillin' you up, baby. Gonna keep you full of me all night."
But the best part, the part that made you utterly his, was that he didn't stop. Even after he was finished, even after he had emptied himself inside you, his cock stayed hard. He kept moving, using his own cum as lube, the filthy, wet sounds getting louder, more lewd.
"Simon," you whimpered, overstimulated, your body already exhausted.
"One more," he grunted, his mouth crashing down on yours. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. I know you can. Cum on my cock again, fuck me empty, baby.â
And you did. You always did. You shattered around him again, your body a limp, sweaty, satisfied wreck. He was your LT, your pervert, your own personal drug, and you wouldn't have it any other way. You loved being his dirty little secret, the one he fucked into oblivion and then held so tenderly afterward.
It became your secret, a filthy, thrilling addiction. You'd find hidden corners of the base, steal moments between missions. He'd bend you over his desk, or you'd ride him in the front seat of his car in the darkened motor pool. The conversation flowed as freely as the sex, a mix of dark humor, shared trauma, and explicit fantasies. You'd talk about everything and nothing, your connection deepening with every dirty word and whispered confession.
One night, after a particularly grueling mission, you were both too exhausted to even make it to the bed. You lay on the floor of his quarters, a tangle of limbs and sweat-slick skin.
"I'm ruined for other men, you know," you murmured, tracing a scar on his chest. "No one's ever gonna fuck me like you do."
He let out a low, dark chuckle, pulling you closer. "Good," he rumbled, his lips brushing your temple. "Because I'm a selfish, perverted old man, and I'm never letting you go."
And in the quiet darkness, with the scent of sex and gun oil hanging in the air, you knew he was right. You were his, completely and utterly, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
