pairing: Stalker! Simon Ghost Riley / Pervy! Simon Ghost Riley x fem!reader
summary: uhhhhh simon is a stalker lol. he means well. sorta kinda. he's morally grey (as is to be expected). also reader is not a people pleaser, she's chill.
warnings: stalking, objectification, fixed simon pov, references to addiction, ??uses of scent?? age gap, reader is in her 20's, no use of yn.
authors note: i've literally never written fic before, or anything creatively so this is my first go. it was initially meant to be a multi-parter with all the goodies of a dark story (and might still be) but i just wanted to post this mostly for feedback on the "prologue". if you want more i can def post more if not that's cool too. leave feedback if you like. be critical idc. also i apologize for the possible wordy/ass writing; hopefully my portrayal of simons inner working resonates tho bc that's what i was trying to achieve.
word count: 1.5k
Chapter One: Fishhook
There was something wrong with him. He didn't deny that.
He was a man who disturbed; the antithesis of placidity. Dark eyes, obnoxious tattoos, and violent lesions were irrefutable proof to everyone that he had patterns of immorality. Everything he pursued would wilt, even if it was unintended.
Prying eyes that held a thinly veiled look of unease were something he'd long adapted to. People would intentionally shy away from his path on the sidewalk, and baristas had darting eyes when he'd queue. Offense was no longer familiar as he grew to expect it; anticipating their unease.
So he had learned to keep a distance.
He tried to be a better man. He made a point to verbalize his thanks to the baristas and servers instead of grunting. Stressed eye contact–not that it mattered when everyone else avoided it. He even started therapy.
His shrink was a slender bird: heavy tits framed by dainty blouses, thighs that had overlapped when crossed on the chair, and a toothy smile–the kind that made her cheeks dimple. Despite his best efforts, he could never control how his blood rushed south when she’d giggle at his jokes.
She never failed to meet his eyes with a delicate, attentive expression. She’d nod when he spoke, and even called him Simon–like she was addressing a human. Not Sir. Not Mr. Riley.
Simon.
He knew it was her job–of course–but when she'd reassured him he was not truly unsound, he couldn't help but feel like maybe she was able to see beyond the cluttered landfill of his past. Maybe she'd be willing to dig through the waste until she found the person buried under it.
He began imagining what she'd look like in the wild. Imagining what she'd wear to the store. She'd be wearing rhinestone, strappy sandals, and a romper that dipped at the chest–or maybe a skirt. He'd have her do her hair half up–so it wouldn't overwhelm her front side. He could picture himself driving her home after the shopping trip. They'd put the eggs and milk in the fridge and he'd come up behind her–hiking up the skirt and having her on the counter.
He wanted to make sure she was safe when he had started following her. He felt disappointed that she was none the wiser and oblivious to his presence for weeks. If it was any other guy, she’d be in danger. Her ignorance unnerved him and forced him to push the boundaries each time he'd follow her–testing her. However, he hadn't anticipated the adrenaline induced high he’d get when she nearly caught him outside her house. It reminded him of the feeling he got right before a mission. A high he never expected to feel in retirement.
That was until she'd caught him picking the lock of her flat in the suburbs of Manchester. He stood frozen in guilt as he watched the pink in her cheeks pale in realization. Her once comforting eyes had been tainted with contempt as she abused him with her words. The gentle dove who had once sung his praises and lulled him with her presence had mutated into a violent cassowary. Although she had never formally filed against him, the confrontation told him it was his cue to stop attending their sessions. He didn’t apologize–because she'd never actually found him.
She hadn't even dug.
He accepted that he wasn't meant to become better. Accepted that the only way to become better without his duty was to channel the obsession elsewhere. Somewhere where he could be in control of himself and have an outlet for his primal drive.
He had spent his time building something stable; something he knew couldn't be tainted by his perversion. Price had made some calls on his behalf and got him a place in Durham, away from his mistakes in Manchester. Soon after, he opened a gym and offered training.
The relocation had baptized him and exonerated him from the sins of his past. He was no longer plagued with remorse. It grounded him. Gave him purpose. He could control his time and keep his urges at bay. Unrelenting gym management and clients dulled the lasting ache for something more. He no longer had to stave off the hunger that had been gnawing in his gut, and he finally had something that wasn't shaped with shame. A place that was a testament to his rehabilitation.
Until you.
He had backslid because of you.
You trekked through the doors of his sanctuary; a domestic pheromone clinging to your form. It wasnt like the odor he had formerly smelt on his shrink. It lingered in the air like an airborne disease, and he allowed himself to inhale–polluting his lungs as a result. He told himself auditing you wasn't full-on stalking. That he wouldn't allow himself to overdose like he had before.
But he was an addict.
A man with a predisposition, debased by his own lecheries, that had developed a refined taste for birdies. Birds that he believed needed a keeper; one that could nurture, protect, and provide for them. A keeper who could allow them to navigate through this ugly world and harbor their softness from external duress. But you didn't smell like a bird at all.
You had been coming to his gym for a couple weeks. Every time you'd have your hair drawn up in a loose ponytail and various different workout sets. Though it didn't matter what you wore or how many times you'd return laundered. The smell remained. Claimed you. Claimed him.
There were no words in his vocabulary that he could conjure to describe the smell. It doesn't exist–didnt exist. It trespassed his senses and seeped into his pores. It mixed with his blood, and was pumped into all his organs, coating everything with its presence. He couldn't repress it even if he tried. He could try to take a cloth to his skin and scrub till it was raw, but it wouldn't change how you had already bored into him. And you hadn't even known it.
He'd already gone through the gym membership records to figure out who you were and let the internet do the rest. Yellow pages said you were a twenty-something international student at Durham University. You were practically a ghost though; no social media presence. No family, at least none he could find connected to your name.
He’d be a liar if he said it didn't lure him deeper.
It felt like a test of his will–the universe daring him to slip up again. Here you were: a ghost, intruding in his space and getting under his skin. He watched the way you'd carefully unwrap a wet wipe to remove the built-up grime from the equipment with care before using it. You had always made sure to discard the wipe instead of leaving it beside the machine–which he appreciated.
He began watching you from his office.
Studying the way your eyes would dart from the mirror to the man who waited behind you. The man wore a face of bitter irritation, and his eyes scrutinised you for taking your time. You didn't pretend you were done with your full reps–instead you finished the remaining two intervals with controlled breaths. Each rep was slow–intentional–allowing every muscle to expand and contract under iron resistance; it was as if you were savoring the man's annoyance.
The man had abandoned his efforts to use the machine and left the gym altogether. He should be irritated by your inability to heed gym etiquette, but the sensation of pride overrides the displeasure he’d traditionally feel when losing a patron. You remained steadfast in your task; he valued that more than etiquette.
He watched you carefully as your lips parted and you tipped your water bottle back; your larynx bobbed as you took long sips. He felt his stomach churn as you approached his office; stopping in front of the glass before you leaned forward, examining yourself in the mirror before your fingers tugged at your ponytail to tighten it. You lingered longer than necessary. His pulse rang in his ear as he stood face to face with you for the first time, watching through the one-way mirror. After a beat you slung your bag over your shoulder and weaved past equipment on your way out.
The tightness in his lungs loosened as he exhaled. His skin was crawling with adrenaline, and his body was moving before his mind could catch up.
It was too late anyway. He didn't want to stop himself.
He flipped through his notepad where he’d written down your address, courtesy of yellow pages, and locked his office. The front desk kid–Tony–was sitting with his feet propped up, headphones on and completely engrossed in his phone. He pushed Tony's feet from the surface gesturing for him to take off the headphones.
“Leaving. Close up tonight.” He ordered. Tony nodded, returning to his phone.
He let you get a head-start, your flat was only a twenty minute walk and he wasn't keen on getting caught again.
I literally began chap 2 of the stalker simon fic the day after the last chapter and got 3k words in and then I got like severely depressed for 2 months lmfao. I HAVE SO MANY PLANS FOR IT. now that finals r done ill finish ts soon💔
looking up akotsk fics is genuinely impossible..bc i just wanted to read abt being cracked by baelor WHY ARE THEY ALL ABT INCEST? WHY HAVE U WRITTEN READER AS HIS NIECE?
kinda an unorthodox simon riley headcanon but like Billy Butcher from the boys is my non-video game model simon riley hc. cus why did they live the exact same life to a t.
if simon existed in a human body irl hes billy butcher.
pairing: Stalker! Simon Ghost Riley / Pervy! Simon Ghost Riley x fem!reader
summary: simon needs to get it together
warnings: slowburn, unreliable narrator, angst, stalking, objectification, pill use, alcohol use, simon is a bum, fixed simon pov, simon is crashing out. ?simon has a cock and it gets hard? no use of y/n etc etc you get the point dead dove do not eat simon is weird yada yada.
authors note: this chapter rlly pisses me off cus it was super frustrating to write. there's a lot of things that might read as straight up word vomit; and for that i apologize. while this is still experimental, yappy details mentioned do play significant roles down the road (as this is intended to be a slow burn). once again, i'd like to reiterate i am not a fic writer or a writer in general so i'm truly sorry if this is bad. I should've spent more time on it, but the longer i sat on it the more i wanted to stop writing it cus it was just driving me insane. again, any and all feedback is encouraged. be critical or nice . enjoy. all luv-- me & 'nam my rabbit
word count: 4k
He didn't want to be seen.
The walk was twenty minutes, though he always made it fifteen.
He knew the shortcut through the alley behind an old church, the one that cut past the residential housing and dumped him onto your street just as you were rounding the corner.
He wasn't hurrying. He was efficient.
You were slower tonight than he expected. He watched as you paused outside a tesco; peering through the window like you were considering going in, then kept walking. He filed that.
Doesn't eat late? Or maybe money is scarce.
Your flat was in one of those converted victorian houses near the treeline. It had bay windows and peeling paint and a front door that stuck, because you had to shove it with your shoulder every time. He knew because he'd watched you do it three times now. Tonight was the same; fiddling with a zipper to retrieve your keys. A shoulder against wood; force that coaxed taunting grunts of effort.
He crept forward, watching through a sliver that the curtain had failed to reach.
He waited until your bedroom light came on. Waited longer until your shadow passed the window.
You toed off your sneakers; then your socks. Shuffled through a drawer before disappearing into the bathroom.
The faint sound of water hitting tile bled through the single pane glass. His eyes darted to where you'd discarded your gym bag beside a heap of clothes that'd been accumulating all week. You still didn't have a hamper.
Messy? Or saving money?
Must've been saving.
He would help.
How would you feel about that? Would you accept help? Or maybe you'd get offended by the assumption that you needed help. He could always just leave money– no strings attached. Or maybe he could slip it into your gym bag. When you unzipped your bag to find money beside your water what would you do?
He was tempted to test it. Test if you were the type to shove it to the bottom or bring it to the front desk with open palms and a curious smile, asking if anyone had misplaced it. If so, he imagines Tony would lie and pocket it. Would you notice?
You'd come out of the shower quicker than usual. Hair still dripping, greying splotches against the white oversized cotton was evidence of your haste. You shuffled through a drawer; pulled out a lotion bottle before giving two good pumps and lathering it between your palms.
His eyes had snagged on your hands, allowing them to guide his gaze.
A leg propped up on a chair as hands smeared the cream; kneading the flesh until it turned to silk. His tongue was velcro, jaw slack. Adjusted his stance; poor attempt to redirect the affliction growing against his groin.
Eyes glided back up tracking as bare feet padded into the hallway before returning with a mug.
Fingers curled at the base. Not steaming. Probably water. The light in your room went out. He stayed for another fifteen minutes watching as you scrolled your phone.
No one called. No one texted.
He waited until your room was no longer illuminated by blue light. Stepped further away, tapping his own phone to life. Couple missed texts asking about training reminders. Tony's message of irritation about how he wasn't going to close anymore.
Tony was a lazy kid getting paid more than he deserved; always coming into work reeking of skunk; replacing lunches with spliffs. He figured the only reason Tony sought a job in the first place was because he needed a way to fund his excessive cannabis consumption. Regardless, he never gave him too much shit for it. He preferred Tony’s intoxicated indifference to another's enthusiastic curiosity.
He pocketed his phone as he began walking back to the gym.
Something rotten had been lingering on his tongue. It’d been there for weeks. He tried to remove it like plague, but did little to help.
Because he needed to feed it. Needed to know why you didn't read like everyone else.
Most women had friends. Most women look at him sideways. Most women make themselves known–want to be known. But you didn't want to be known, and you didn't look at him at all. Didn't pretend to care. Didn't flash faux-politeness. Too engrossed in your own head. You didn't pay him any mind at all–or anyone for that matter. It irked him.
Made him want to know you.
He wanted to know what you were hiding. What was so important in your head that deemed everything else so unimportant. He wanted to know what it was that could catch your attention. What deserved your attention–who deserved it.
He didn't know why it bothered him so much. Maybe it's because he didn't understand how you could trust yourself. You were too young. Too oblivious. Too alone.
Who makes sure you're safe? Who makes sure you eat? Who makes sure the door actually locked?
No one.
He half expected the gym lights to still be on by the time he’d gotten back, so he was surprised to see it dark. He sidestepped equipment, checked the back door and the bathrooms before he slipped into his office; unlocking the stairwell to his flat.
Cotton met the laminate flooring as he stepped into the shower. The tile chilled the soles of his feet before being warmed by the water. He scrubbed his hands over his face, stubble pricking his palms. The sound of the water on tile brought him back to earlier, to the sound of your shower running.
A distasteful image of you materialized on the back of his lids–cock half hard.
Soapy. Dripping. Completely bare.
He considered giving in.
Considered letting you consume him whole. To allow himself to come undone; even if it was just for a moment.
Considered.
His hand flicked the water to cold. Jaw clenching, a hiss through grit teeth as his blood turned to ice.
He had to reel himself back in. Needed to stop giving you custody over his body and his mind. He was tired of fighting it because no matter how hard he fought the current, he was unable to divert from it.
You fit into him like a hook into an eye. Yet you hadn't cast a line.
He flicked the water off and fisted a towel; drying himself in the mirror. The scars that littered his body had always made him cringe. Reminded him of what he’d gone through and he’d done.
What bothered him most wasn't the fact that they were there; it was the fact that it’d happened and he came out the other side with nothing to show for it. Nothing to feel proud of.
He had never killed for fun–never considered it. He killed because it was what he was good at. Something that came naturally. He never felt bad–it was always kill or be killed, but he never felt good either. Just regretful. He knew that he'd never tried to be something else.
For that, he entertained regret.
As he fingered through the strands of blond that had re-sprouted from his head, he looked himself over; toothbrush tucked between his lips. Wondered what you'd think of a man like him. Mangled and marked.
Minty spit globbed to the porcelain before he tied a towel to his hips. He trekked into the kitchen; grabbing a bottle of Kentucky. Tossed back a couple of swings. Paused. Couple more.
He wasn't a fan of being drunk. Made him all angry and unpleasant.
He'd sworn it off even before opening the gym. However, in light of you, he could no longer sleep. So he drank. Just to sleep. Did the trick–most of the time. Other times, pairing it with leftover ambien prescribed by his former shrink was a foolproof way to get some rest.
He was already feeling warm. His stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since lunch which then reminded him he hadn't been to the store in days. Checked his phone. Too late for takeout. Didn't matter. He could already feel his body uncoiling as he sank against his flattened couch.
In between the buzz of the fridge and the sound of the building settling in place he felt his mind go blank again. Allowed himself to be lulled into half-consciousness.
Made a promise he'd made the night before.
To rip out the hook.
Even if it took his eye.
He hated his clients. They probably hated him too.
The faint threat of alcoholic nausea paired with mild disorientation had caused him to forget about the client he had scheduled that morning. Only reminded when he checked his phone; skimming a nasty message that demanded a refund. Following that: a text from Tony, complaining about handling client complaints–otherwise known as; having to do his job.
He really ought to fire Tony.
It was a good thing that his main stream of revenue was the memberships rather than the clients; if not for that, he'd be living off veteran benefits. He didn't take handouts.
He stepped into some joggers; shoes followed as he dragged himself down to the office. Saturday meant high traffic. He hauled ass. Called back the client, letting him know he had an “emergency” and rescheduled him.
He peered out the window; instinctively scanning for your presence. He glanced to your usual machines–then to the corner where you'd usually store your bag. You weren't there though.
You didn't come on Saturdays or Sundays.
He didn't know what you did on the weekend. His schedule being slammed hadn't granted him time to slip away and check on you. In retrospect, it was probably a good thing, but the idea of you possibly being out and about unsettled him. You could've been drunk, partying, high, or something worse.
God forbid it was more than one.
You’d given him no reason to believe getting intoxicated was something you were keyed into. No liquor bottles in your trash can. No ashtrays on your porch, not even a single cigarette butt in the dirt.
Still, he couldn't be sure. Especially not if you had friends who were bad influences.
He pushed the thought down. Lock clicking behind him as he pushed forward; pledging to grant his obligations what limited energy he had.
His battered knuckles made quick work of the rusted buckles that supported the weight of the punching bag. He guided a client through the swift movements, each blow coaxing a grunt from him. The man was too stubborn to heed directions. He was convinced if he’d told him to punch left the man would've gone right–just to spite him.
Far be it for him to understand why people like this requested personal trainers in the first place.
He used to find solace in instructing others; but lately, monotony lacked the comfort it had once endowed him with. Now he just found it inferior. Rinse and repeat as the peak hours egged on.
He made sure to check everything off the list. Waited until he deemed it slow enough to slip away. Pocketed a couple protein bars, and retreated into his office.
Canines tore away the wrapping of the protein bar before biting into the dough. Dry. Grainy. Still something.
Index scrolling through emails. Junk. Bills. Scams. He exhaled through his nose, dragging the pointer to the search bar. Typed in your name enough for it to pop up in recent searches.
Scrolled. Clicked off.
Nothing.
His eyes drifted absently as he bit into the bar again. The buzz of the machinery and whatever god awful 2010s rock from Tony’s playlist bled through the concrete walls. Tore open the second bar. Paused.
His gaze was pulled by rhythmic red flashes blinking from the security camera; brows knitting together.
His hand found the mouse again, clicking around his monitor until he found the security folder.
Keys clacked under the rapid movement of his fingers. Username–password–error.
Slower.
Username. Password. Loading.
Success.
He scrolled to two days ago–skimmed through footage until he landed on the time you'd arrived yesterday. Clicked around more.
Different angle.
Better.
He waited. Body slowed. Muscles constricted. Watching you come into frame.
You fiddled with some headphones. Then your phone. Fingers meticulously brushing stubborn strands from your ears before beginning a stretching routine.
Expanded resolution. 100%, 125%. 150%.
150%. Maxxed.
Wanted to see what song was playing. No use. His fault.
Shouldnt’ve cheaped out on the cameras.
You pulled your arm across your chest; other arm. Left above, right above. Positioned feet. Folded down. Left hamstring. Right.
He tugged his boxers for relief.
You paused. Straightened out. Craned your neck.
Inhale.
Your eyes landed directly on the lens. Blink. Cock of the head–only for a moment, then you were out of frame.
He reached for the mouse.
Rewind; again.
Crane. Eyes. Gone.
Not his imagination.
Had you felt his eyes?
Two loud fists against metal. His neck snapped up. Index clicking out of the tab as the door groaned open. Tony's face poked through.
Exhale
“Taking my fifteen.” Tony's gaze was hesitant; almost accusatory. He couldn't decipher if he was high or if he could sense his culpability. He offered a stiffled grunt—then a nod.
“Fifteen–not thirty,” he reiterated as Tony shut the door behind him.
The chair protested as he pushed himself up. He did a lap around the gym to check the equipment; his body was wound so tightly he thought it’d implode. Still, he willed himself to the floor; punishing his body with iron. He made every set more intense than the one before. More weight. More resistance. Welcomed the pain. Let it distract him.
It helped. It released the trapped tension between his ribs.
Somewhere between noon and nightfall he'd gotten lost in the rigour; his body sent no signals for him to stop. It wasn't until he walked out of the training room that he noticed how late it was. The sun had already burned out; Tony fiddling with the rubbish bin.
He sent him off. Closed up early.
He hadn't noticed how exhausted he was until the door to his flat clicked shut behind him. He made his way to the couch and collapsed. An arm draped over his eyes.
He shut off the light. Just needed to rest for a moment.
Relief; for sleep found him naturally for the first time in weeks.
Absence hadn't made his interest grow stronger.
It'd been over four weeks since he'd last seen you, and he was grateful for that because falling back into step felt like a relief. He read online that it takes twenty-one days to break a cycle–thirty-two to recreate enough neuro-plasty to alter his brain chemistry and kick specific habits for good. For his own sake; he'd hoped that was true. Meant he was nearly out of the woods.
However, he'd be a liar if he said that he didn't still feel the urge to check on you.
The first week, he checked your file and saw you had removed your subscription to the gym. Went to your house; saw you were fine. A part of him considered that you did have a sixth sense. That you'd felt unease the second you looked into the lens. He wondered if you anticipated his eyes on you; if that was the case, you were more perceptive than he’d given you credit for.
He thought he'd sleep easier knowing you weren't there to tempt him. But nights were still rough.
He was down to only a handful of ambien–zero refills. He figured he'd pay the doctor an overdue visit for the first time since the move. He didn't care for doctors; most of the time they'd just go on and on about therapy, or how bad his lifestyle was. Made him feel like he was a proper junkie for not heeding the side effects of controlled substances.
“I just don't feel comfortable prescribing these to you-I mean God forbid you up and drive into a lake or something.”
He'd been sent home with nothing–or rather an SSRI that “helped” insomnia; didn't matter though, was no more useful than a benadryl.
What were pills for then if not for men like him? Men who actually needed it. Things like that were what made him regret ever having served his country; he couldn't even get the services he fought for. Spilled blood for.
He figured if it was a sign to stop; a blessing in disguise. Didn't concern himself with religion, but it was true what they said in the field.
Nobody was an atheist at war.
Although war was a thing of his past, it still had a way of presenting itself in ways that were non-lethal. War is never-ending, and sometimes that war is mental. Lucky for him, nobody knew war better than him. He’d beaten both types, and now he had retired again.
Retired you.
He starved the impulse; nothing more than stubborn fat.
Even so, his flesh hadn't forgotten the fat had been there. Loose and flabby in its absence. Remembering. It'd take time.
But he had time.
When he wasn't working he'd occupy himself with his extracurriculars.
Started going to the range. Began dialing back on the gym management and branching out. There weren't any established firearms trainers in Durham, nor an appetite for any, but he had contacts in Northumberland where there was high demand for marksmen. It was a bit over an hour's commute; figured if he brought someone else on board for the gym management he'd be willing to make the drive.
They called him back that evening.
The guys in Northumberland asked him to come out Monday. Said they were honored to have him train a group of guys.
He ordered in. Pizza. Large. Figured he'd treat himself. He was nursing his sixth beer. Some stupid reality show buzzed on the television as he completed his second crossword page.
Serendipitous
He sucked his teeth. The corner of his mouth twitched up boastfully. Lopping the magazine to the cushion. He glanced at the television. Empty pizza box. Threw back the last sip of his beer. Burped.
He really ought to toss out the trash, but the cushions were swallowing him whole. And it was a Saturday night; trash pickup wasn't until Monday.
He had time.
The gym was running well. No clients today. Still busy.
He'd gone to the shop on his break; part of his conscious effort to put some proper food in him. Considered a smoothie. He deserved it. Queued. Eyes darting over the menu before landing on the bird who was being nudged forward.
Rude thing she was. Must've drawn the short stick in the silent duel between who'd be the unfortunate one to take his order. A flat-lipped smile as she took his order. Hardly a nod when he thanked her.
Standard.
He sipped the fruity drink. Let the mixture sit on his tongue for a moment. He couldn't recall the last time he had one, yet it tasted like familiarity.
He headed back to the gym. No rush. Pushed through the doors; Tony sitting glued to his phone. He sidestepped him; hoping whatever slop was flashing behind the screen was particularly engaging so as to distract him from his return. He wanted to enjoy his lunch today, so Tony’s blunt would have to wait.
Shitty rock music. Treadmills revolving. Weights thudding against mats. Guys flexing in the mirror–constipated and straining; photos they’d no doubt be using as the front-pager for their dating profile(s).
He sipped his smoothie again, weaving through the gym. Took the long way–wanted to make sure trash was actually emptied.
He paused, the air felt different.
Inhaled
Feminine deodorant.
Stilled. The chilled drink now lukewarm beneath his tongue.
He stilled near the corner; eyes sticky on a bag he hadn't yet forgotten. Stomach sinking. Muscles taut.
Swallowed.
He felt you before he saw you. Brushing past him. Dipping down into your bag. The air grew thicker as your gaze found his own.
“Sorry. Lockers are annoying.”
His eyes had moved from you. Then the bag. Back to you.
A bottle to your lips–gone as quickly as it'd been there. Your chest rising and falling, light reflecting off a thin glaze on your skin.
“What?” Head tipped. You glanced down at the bag; then back to him. “Should I move it?”
Words caught in his throat. Jaw ticked. He forced out the first thing that came to mind.
“No.” Not an answer.
“Okay.” His eyes tracked you as you set the bottle back into place.
His next movements were a blur. He couldn't tell if he was awake or not. Couldn't tell if he'd actually seen you, or if it was a hallucination. The bird at the shop must’ve slipped something into his drink– didn't know which would be worse.
He swung the office door open. Found the chair. Double vision.
He leaned forward. Elbows cutting into the edge of the desk as he clicked through the monitor, cursor going to the cams.
Surely if you’d been a drug-induced hallucination the cameras would have come to a verdict.
There you were. Leg presses, hair drawn up; it was unmistakably you. The bird now absolved of any wrong doing.
He zoomed in to be sure.
You shouldn't be there–weren't supposed to be. It didn't make sense. You’d disappeared, revoked your membership– why now. Had God found humor in taunting him?
He saw Tony walk past the camera. Clicked out of the tab. Moments later he popped his head in.
“Taking my-” a pause, “what's wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You're sweating.” Accusation.
“It's a gym.”
“Whatever man.”
He really ought to fire Tony.
His head was pounding. A lump at the back of his throat. He looked at the smoothie that'd been condensating atop a stack of papers. He tossed it to the bin–realizing they were the papers he was meant to bring to Northumberland tomorrow.
It was the cherry on top.
The air in his office become too heavy. He needed to step away. Needed to put some distance between himself and you. He went up to his flat. Double checking the lock. Set a timer on his phone.
Forty minutes.
Rummaged through the pantry; then the medicine cabinet. Bedside drawer. Blue and red. Dumped a hefty dose of acetaminophen into his palm. Choked it down dry. Another bottle–an orange prescription. Ambien.
He allowed the mattress to catch him as the world tilted sideways.
The ringing had already grown distant as he felt his heart grow sluggish. Relaxed forehead, then eyebrows. The knot between his nape and his shoulders. Tension rolled off him; absorbed by the firmness that cradled him.
Quiet.
He saw you behind the screen looking up at him.
Again when he stood in front of you; eyes waiting for him to say something–to explain the expression that he’d worn.
Your expression was neither fawned nor angry–threatened nor interested. Like he wasn't worth a reaction. Wasn't worth judgement.
A man–who was just that;
a man.
If you had known you'd consumed him would that have changed anything? Would it provoke reaction? Emotion? Thought? Feeling?
He drew a blank. Tired.
If he hadn't become consumed by you, would it have changed anything? Provoked reactions,
emotions
thoughts
feelings.
Another blank.
Was it worse to be seen for what he was; or to have never been seen at all?
The alarm blared. Setting sun bleeding through the curtain and onto his retinas.
Ceiling fuzzy. Skin sticky.
He wanted to be seen.
shout out if u caught the margaret atwood poem reference. also shout out if u made it to the end of the chapter. thanks for reading.
Your writing style is amazing, cant wait for more!
this means so much! 🤍 thank u for sm for reading im so glad u enjoyed it! ive been working on the first chapter sort of kind of.
when it develops its probably gonna lean more horror/uncomfy than the usual stalker romance. not like anything horrific in the context of smut but just the overall vibes. this simon will more creepy (in a good way??) and itll likely remain fixed simon pov unless i change my mind.
anyways, sorry for using ur message to mull over ideas. i appreciate ur interest lots !💋
i like the way you wrote your stalker simon piece but jeez write an oc atp. everything abt her is so specific
first, thanks for reading im glad u liked it! second, whats specific abt her /gen
was it the uni part or the hair part? I tried to keep her as vague as possible (even opting to not mention where she was from/if she had family or not) but if its reads like an oc which parts gave that impression?
tysm for the feedback it helps a lot especially if I develop the story further. 🤍🤍
pairing: Stalker! Simon Ghost Riley / Pervy! Simon Ghost Riley x fem!reader
summary: uhhhhh simon is a stalker lol. he means well. sorta kinda. he's morally grey (as is to be expected). also reader is not a people pleaser, she's chill.
warnings: stalking, objectification, fixed simon pov, references to addiction, ??uses of scent?? age gap, reader is in her 20's, no use of yn.
authors note: i've literally never written fic before, or anything creatively so this is my first go. it was initially meant to be a multi-parter with all the goodies of a dark story (and might still be) but i just wanted to post this mostly for feedback on the "prologue". if you want more i can def post more if not that's cool too. leave feedback if you like. be critical idc. also i apologize for the possible wordy/ass writing; hopefully my portrayal of simons inner working resonates tho bc that's what i was trying to achieve.
word count: 1.5k
There was something wrong with him. He didn't deny that.
He was a man who disturbed; the antithesis of placidity. Dark eyes, obnoxious tattoos, and violent lesions were irrefutable proof to everyone that he had patterns of immorality. Everything he pursued would wilt, even if it was unintended.
Prying eyes that held a thinly veiled look of unease were something he'd long adapted to. People would intentionally shy away from his path on the sidewalk, and baristas had darting eyes when he'd queue. Offense was no longer familiar as he grew to expect it; anticipating their unease.
So he had learned to keep a distance.
He tried to be a better man. He made a point to verbalize his thanks to the baristas and servers instead of grunting. Stressed eye contact–not that it mattered when everyone else avoided it. He even started therapy.
His shrink was a slender bird: heavy tits framed by dainty blouses, thighs that had overlapped when crossed on the chair, and a toothy smile–the kind that made her cheeks dimple. Despite his best efforts, he could never control how his blood rushed south when she’d giggle at his jokes.
She never failed to meet his eyes with a delicate, attentive expression. She’d nod when he spoke, and even called him Simon–like she was addressing a human. Not Sir. Not Mr. Riley.
Simon.
He knew it was her job–of course–but when she'd reassured him he was not truly unsound, he couldn't help but feel like maybe she was able to see beyond the cluttered landfill of his past. Maybe she'd be willing to dig through the waste until she found the person buried under it.
He began imagining what she'd look like in the wild. Imagining what she'd wear to the store. She'd be wearing rhinestone, strappy sandals, and a romper that dipped at the chest–or maybe a skirt. He'd have her do her hair half up–so it wouldn't overwhelm her front side. He could picture himself driving her home after the shopping trip. They'd put the eggs and milk in the fridge and he'd come up behind her–hiking up the skirt and having her on the counter.
He wanted to make sure she was safe when he had started following her. He felt disappointed that she was none the wiser and oblivious to his presence for weeks. If it was any other guy, she’d be in danger. Her ignorance unnerved him and forced him to push the boundaries each time he'd follow her–testing her. However, he hadn't anticipated the adrenaline induced high he’d get when she nearly caught him outside her house. It reminded him of the feeling he got right before a mission. A high he never expected to feel in retirement.
That was until she'd caught him picking the lock of her flat in the suburbs of Manchester. He stood frozen in guilt as he watched the pink in her cheeks pale in realization. Her once comforting eyes had been tainted with contempt as she abused him with her words. The gentle dove who had once sung his praises and lulled him with her presence had mutated into a violent cassowary. Although she had never formally filed against him, the confrontation told him it was his cue to stop attending their sessions. He didn’t apologize–because she'd never actually found him.
She hadn't even dug.
He accepted that he wasn't meant to become better. Accepted that the only way to become better without his duty was to channel the obsession elsewhere. Somewhere where he could be in control of himself and have an outlet for his primal drive.
He had spent his time building something stable; something he knew couldn't be tainted by his perversion. Price had made some calls on his behalf and got him a place in Durham, away from his mistakes in Manchester. Soon after, he opened a gym and offered training.
The relocation had baptized him and exonerated him from the sins of his past. He was no longer plagued with remorse. It grounded him. Gave him purpose. He could control his time and keep his urges at bay. Unrelenting gym management and clients dulled the lasting ache for something more. He no longer had to stave off the hunger that had been gnawing in his gut, and he finally had something that wasn't shaped with shame. A place that was a testament to his rehabilitation.
Until you.
He had backslid because of you.
You trekked through the doors of his sanctuary; a domestic pheromone clinging to your form. It wasnt like the odor he had formerly smelt on his shrink. It lingered in the air like an airborne disease, and he allowed himself to inhale–polluting his lungs as a result. He told himself auditing you wasn't full-on stalking. That he wouldn't allow himself to overdose like he had before.
But he was an addict.
A man with a predisposition, debased by his own lecheries, that had developed a refined taste for birdies. Birds that he believed needed a keeper; one that could nurture, protect, and provide for them. A keeper who could allow them to navigate through this ugly world and harbor their softness from external duress. But you didn't smell like a bird at all.
You had been coming to his gym for a couple weeks. Every time you'd have your hair drawn up in a loose ponytail and various different workout sets. Though it didn't matter what you wore or how many times you'd return laundered. The smell remained. Claimed you. Claimed him.
There were no words in his vocabulary that he could conjure to describe the smell. It doesn't exist–didnt exist. It trespassed his senses and seeped into his pores. It mixed with his blood, and was pumped into all his organs, coating everything with its presence. He couldn't repress it even if he tried. He could try to take a cloth to his skin and scrub till it was raw, but it wouldn't change how you had already bored into him. And you hadn't even known it.
He'd already gone through the gym membership records to figure out who you were and let the internet do the rest. Yellow pages said you were a twenty-something international student at Durham University. You were practically a ghost though; no social media presence. No family, at least none he could find connected to your name.
He’d be a liar if he said it didn't lure him deeper.
It felt like a test of his will–the universe daring him to slip up again. Here you were: a ghost, intruding in his space and getting under his skin. He watched the way you'd carefully unwrap a wet wipe to remove the built-up grime from the equipment with care before using it. You had always made sure to discard the wipe instead of leaving it beside the machine–which he appreciated.
He began watching you from his office.
Studying the way your eyes would dart from the mirror to the man who waited behind you. The man wore a face of bitter irritation, and his eyes scrutinised you for taking your time. You didn't pretend you were done with your full reps–instead you finished the remaining two intervals with controlled breaths. Each rep was slow–intentional–allowing every muscle to expand and contract under iron resistance; it was as if you were savoring the man's annoyance.
The man had abandoned his efforts to use the machine and left the gym altogether. He should be irritated by your inability to heed gym etiquette, but the sensation of pride overrides the displeasure he’d traditionally feel when losing a patron. You remained steadfast in your task; he valued that more than etiquette.
He watched you carefully as your lips parted and you tipped your water bottle back; your larynx bobbed as you took long sips. He felt his stomach churn as you approached his office; stopping in front of the glass before you leaned forward, examining yourself in the mirror before your fingers tugged at your ponytail to tighten it. You lingered longer than necessary. His pulse rang in his ear as he stood face to face with you for the first time, watching through the one-way mirror. After a beat you slung your bag over your shoulder and weaved past equipment on your way out.
The tightness in his lungs loosened as he exhaled. His skin was crawling with adrenaline, and his body was moving before his mind could catch up.
It was too late anyway. He didn't want to stop himself.
He flipped through his notepad where he’d written down your address, courtesy of yellow pages, and locked his office. The front desk kid–Tony–was sitting with his feet propped up, headphones on and completely engrossed in his phone. He pushed Tony's feet from the surface gesturing for him to take off the headphones.
“Leaving. Close up tonight.” He ordered. Tony nodded, returning to his phone.
He let you get a head-start, your flat was only a twenty minute walk and he wasn't keen on getting caught again.
