Morning light trickled in through the window, filling the room in a soft golden glow. Simon's hair positively glowed against the sun's rays, haloing his silhouette from where he sat on her bed. He was slouched in a comfortable position; his hands hung loosely in his lap, fidgeting with a loose string from his sweatpants while he watched her move about the room.
She glanced over at him and had to bite back a smile at the sight of his short, blond strands standing up at odd ends. It seemed more obvious as the light kissed their tips. Even his shirt seemed just a bit translucent, the loose, white material hanging over his frame, the same one he had slept in last night. The shirt must have been old, worn with age, with its collar stretched out from too many careless tugs. Pale collarbones greeted her from the opening, along with the smooth flesh where his neck and left shoulder met. He was usually the first out of bed, first dressed, but he exchanged that today for a slower morning as if dragging the quiet peace in the room as long as he could before entering the chaos beyond either of their bedroom doors.
Somehow, it had become habitual in the late hours of the night to seek each other's comfort just to sleep. Nothing more. Last night was his turn to knock at her door and for her to welcome him into her bed—warm, plush, and everything he could want when his own room felt suffocating.
He was mid-yawn, eyes shut, mouth wide, that she was able to catch the slight points of his canines. She took the opportunity to look away before he caught her staring.
"How'd you sleep?" His voice was gruffer in the morning, something she still had yet to get used to, even when this started those few weeks ago. The sound was silky as it wrapped around her.
"Good." She shrugged, padding over to her closet to sift through her clothes.
"Just good?" His tone was tentative, but his words fell out of his mouth as if he couldn't stop them.
"What do you want me to say, Lieutenant?" She raised a brow, glancing over her shoulder before grabbing a black tee off its hanger.
She never used his title pointedly, though it wasn't so much as a bite as a nip of curiosity at what he wanted from her. She used it more than his name because she didn't feel like she had the right to memorize the taste of the vowels in her mouth, nor had he ever asked her to (although he never said anything the rare times she had used it). Ghost was strictly on the field, where he became almost a completely different person; but Simon was the man before her, the man who had been sleeping with her every night, playing with her hair, and holding her close. Lieutenant was a reminder of what they were to each other. What they were supposed to be towards one other. It felt almost like an oxymoron to establish that boundary again, to keep pretending like whatever was going on between them was completely normal.
When the silence stretched longer than usual, her neck itched to turn and glance at him.
"Nothing, Sol." He sighed, the sound almost tired. She could reason it was because he had just woken up, but she knew better. They were both guilty of playing this game—the one where one gets close to admitting something or wanting the other to admit something, yet they both knew it would never come to pass, too afraid to face the truth that blatantly stared at them.
She didn't say anything in the silence that settled because she never pushed, and neither did he. Even still, all the questions that spun in her head threatened to spill from her lips.
She turned, stepping in his direction to lay down her clothes beside him, avoiding eye contact. She had never realized how small her bed truly was until seeing how much space he took up in it.
His eyes tracked her movements as she ambled about the room. She, too, was still in her nightclothes—a loose, cropped tee and a pair of sweats that probably belonged to an old lover. They were oversized, sitting low on her hips, the cut similar to his own, but he didn't mention it even if curiosity needled him to ask who they had belonged to.
“Come here.” His voice broke the silence that had settled between the two. His words were spoken in a soft command that had her turning to face him to find his brows slightly pinched as if something bothered him.
Curious, her feet moved before her, bare toes stepping onto the plush rug by the foot of the bed as she stopped in front of him. His gaze was on her middle, and she had to consciously stop herself from glancing down to see what had caught his attention. He raised a hand tentatively, giving her enough time to pull away. When she didn't move or flinch away, he traced a finger over the scar on her stomach.
Her muscles flexed at the touch, surprised, but not unwanted. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she, a quiet acknowledgment of their shared past.
Large hands clamped gently onto her waist, eating the distance between her ribs and hips. Her breath was surprisingly even against his touch; even so, her heart raced just a little faster. His thumbs brushed against her ribs over her shirt while he studied the scar that ran across her abdomen.
She didn't expect his head to dip nor for his lips to press against her skin. His mouth was warm against her flesh, causing a pleasant chill over her body at the contrast. She didn't know how to react when his lips traced just between her navel and floating rib, where the long-since healed scar marred her skin. It wasn't as if she could move either; his grip was firm, keeping her in place, yet she found herself not wanting to pull away.
He seemed to use his lips as if that were the only way to communicate. It was a reminder that she was alive. A time capsule where she sat slumped, bleeding in some tucked-away corner, surrounded by crumbling walls, holding the knife that was buried in her gut by the prick that had caught her off guard. He lay bleeding too, the final bit from his still heart.
Then there was Simon, like a reaping angel hunting for her. The same Simon, her lieutenant, who sat on the edge of her bed, hands on her waist, lips on her body.
“Never again.” Her murmured against her skin, lips tracing the line of her scar, causing her heart to ache at the action.
She was tempted to run her fingers through his hair in response, in silent gratitude for always being there, but she refrained, afraid that would be too much for their already blurry lines.
It didn't seem to affect him, though, as he kept going, carried away by the taste of her flesh. He kissed her navel, then just below it, too, letting his eyes close against that soft place where her womb sat, that no matter how hard she worked out, it was never as defined as her upper abdomen, even in this rigorous place. The soft, gentle slope that met her mons beneath her cotton sweatpants.
His lips were reverent against her skin. Each kiss sent a warmth pooling low in her center. She was afraid to speak, to say anything, because she didn’t want him to stop, and that thought alone made her heart drop into her stomach.
Are we going to pretend this is normal?
Was she going to pretend like she didn’t want him to help her out of her clothes and bury his head between her legs to see how far those lips were willing to go? Was she disillusioned in thinking he didn't want the same?
“Simon?” Simon, because this was no longer her lieutenant.
“Hm,” That hum vibrated against her skin, warmth spreading from her belly, toes curling into the material of the rug.
He didn’t stop. Instead, his hands trailed along her ribs, pushing her shirt up with the movement. Pale flesh against warm, tan skin; his thumbs brushed the sides of her breasts, causing her breath to hitch. He smiled traitorously against her skin as he did it again, a small swipe of his thumb, just to see if she would do it once more.
He stole a glance, finding her looking all sweet-faced and like a doe in headlights. He didn’t want to overwhelm her, so he pulled away. His hands fell back to her bare waist, giving her a small squeeze before letting them drop back into his lap.
“Sorry, darlin'.” He smiled softly, though mischief lingered in his gaze. "I must've been dreamin'."
He leaned back against one of his palms as he looked at her, his features stoic once again. "You hungry?"
She could only blink, hoping her cheeks weren't too red.
"Starving." She managed to breathe out, although she knew she wasn't hungry for food.
She grabbed her clothes and headed towards the bathroom to change. And, of course, they acted like nothing had happened for the rest of the day.
The cold shoulder every time he stepped into the house. And the worst of all punishments: sleeping on the couch. That goddamn couch, stiff and distant, miles away from your warmth.
He didn’t complain. Not when his back screamed in the morning, not when his neck cracked with every shift. Nothing.
Work was a blur. His focus, shot. Every time his phone buzzed, he snatched it up like it might be you.
It never was.
Nope.
Fucking Soap.
> “MY wife lets me sleep in bed with her. :]”
Asshole.
By the end of the week, Simon was in ruins—your absence chewing holes into what little remained of his sanity.
He needed to touch you.
Hold you.
Lay his head on your chest and breathe.
How were you fine with this?
How could you just shut him out?
And why, in God’s name, had he married such a stubborn woman?
…because he liked it.
That night, Simon did everything right.
Boots off at the door.
Duffle stowed neatly in the closet.
Gear stripped down and tossed into the laundry bin.
A real shower, not one of those rushed rinses—he scrubbed until the scent of Oakwood and Pines clung to every inch of scarred skin, drifting from the bathroom and bleeding into the bedroom.
You felt it before you heard him—the familiar pull of his presence mixed with the clean musk that always made your willpower falter.
Your fingers tightened around your book. You didn’t look up. If you looked, you’d fold.
You knew it.
But damn it, he smelled good.
Simon stepped out, towel drying his hair, shirt damp against the curve of his back. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, casual, familiar, like a memory you didn’t want to admit you missed.
You peeked. Just a little.
And he saw.
The flicker of your eyes in his direction set off something in him. Hope lit up his face like a dog hearing the treat bag crinkle.
He pounced.
No warning, just all six-foot-something of him crashing onto you like a damn tree falling.
“Oof—Jesus CHRIST, Si!” you gasped, struggling under the sudden weight. “You’re too big for that!”
“’m not,” he grumbled into your stomach, arms snaking around you, face pressed to your skin like he planned to melt into you. Honestly, if he could crawl inside and live under your ribcage, he would.
You sighed, tossing your book aside, hand finding its way into his damp hair. The tension bled from his body instantly under your touch.
“Big baby…” you muttered.
He tilted his head, just enough to look up at you.
Those brown eyes—eyes that had seen war, death, and worse—were impossibly soft now.
“You done ignoring me?”
His voice was small. Hopeful. Like he’d crumble if you said no.
You stared down at him for a moment, lips pressed tight, trying to hold on to that edge of power you’d clung to all week. You wanted to stay mad—hell, you should stay mad. But Simon curled around you like a man starving, clinging to scraps of affection like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
And maybe, just maybe, it was.
Your fingers slid slowly through his hair again. “I shouldn’t be done.”
His arms only tightened around you, body sinking deeper into your side, like the very idea of you pulling away would kill him dead. “I know.”
“You forgot our anniversary.”
“I know.” He groaned the words into your stomach, shame thick in his throat. “I’m the worst husband alive.”
“You’re up there.”
But your voice was already softer, that edge fading with each breath he took against your skin.
Simon peeked up at you again, brows drawn in that pitiful, wounded-puppy expression that always made your heart twitch no matter how pissed off you were. “I had somethin’ planned. Got pulled for a mission, got back late, then… I didn’t know how to bring it up.”
You gave a small scoff, fingers absentmindedly combing through his undercut now. “So your solution was radio silence and hiding in your own house?”
“...Y’weren’t exactly giving me a warm welcome,” he muttered.
“I wasn’t the one who forgot, Simon.”
He shut his eyes, face buried against your stomach again like he was trying to disappear.
You let the silence stretch for a few seconds, your other hand moving to rest on his back. He was warm—always so damn warm—and solid, like you could press your entire body against him and still not get close enough.
And that’s what made it so hard to stay mad.
“I missed you,” he said quietly.
You closed your eyes.
"Then act like it next time."
He nodded against you, barely more than a brush of movement. “I will. I swear.”
Another silence, but this one wasn’t heavy—it settled between you like a blanket, familiar and worn.
“You’re still not getting laid tonight,” you added.
Simon let out a pained noise, somewhere between a groan and a dying animal. “C’mon, love…”
“Nope.”
“Can I at least stay in bed?”
You looked down at him—his whole body wrapped around you like a lifeline, those big brown eyes begging without a hint of shame.
“…Fine.”
He exhaled like he’d just been released from captivity. “God, I missed this mattress.”
“I missed my space,” you shot back, but there was no bite left in it.
Simon wiggled just enough to fit perfectly against your side, one leg tossed over yours, his head nestled under your chin now. “I’ll sleep on the edge.”
“Damn right you will.”
A pause. Then, muffled into your chest:
“You still mad at me?”
You sighed, long and theatrical. “Ask me in the morning.”
Summary — Moving into a new apartment should have been simple… But when a mysterious neighbour keeps showing up at just the right moments, things get a little more complicated.
Warnings — Fluff, SFW, slow-burn
Author’s Note: Yay! More Simon writings. Honestly, I didn't even know who to write for, so I put all the names on a wheel, and Simon won, so here is your dinner. I hope you guys still enjoy it. Love ya’ll lots. 𓏲 ࣪˖♡𓂃
Moving into a new apartment should have been simple: unpack, organise, settle in. Easy. But the first week proved otherwise. Boxes swayed in your hands, furniture refused to fit, and the faint smell of fresh paint lingered stubbornly in the hallways.
It was during one of those chaotic nights when you noticed him. A tall figure rounding the corner, hoodie pulled low, balaclava wrapped over the lower half of his face. He moved silently, like a shadow, yet there was a calm presence about him that made your heart thrum unexpectedly.
You stood there in the middle of the hallway, box in hand, as his eyes found yours, and for what felt like a minute, it was like his eyes were scanning your body. Like if he was trying to see if you were real or not.
“Hi…” You nervously smiled as you waved a hand while balancing a box on your waist. He didn’t say anything, though, just a small nod before he made his way into his own apartment. The sound of his lock snapping broke you out of your trance.
⑅ ⑅ ⑅ ⑅ ⑅
You found yourself glancing down the hallway more often than you cared to admit. Sometimes you would catch him just standing there, leaning casually against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets, hood drawn low.
Other times, he would appear seemingly out of nowhere, a shadow among the dim lights, yet unmistakably present. Every time your eyes met, your chest fluttered in a way you couldn’t explain.
One evening, carrying a bag of groceries after a long day at work, you nearly tripped on the uneven floor tile. Before you could catch yourself, a strong hand slid around your waist, steadying you and the bags in your hand. The scent of him hit you—earthy, faintly metallic, like gun oil and cedar.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and calm, carrying that same quiet confidence that seemed to radiate from him. His hand lingered just a fraction longer on your back, firm but gentle, the warmth seeping through your shirt.
“Y-Yeah, thanks,” you stammered, heart thumping. You noticed the hood had slipped back slightly, revealing just a hint of his sharp eyes. For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw a small curve of a smile through the mask, though you weren’t sure if it was real.
He gave a brief nod, wordless but reassuring, before he took the bag that was in your arms and carried it the rest of the way down the hall to your apartment door. You didn’t speak; you just followed behind him, opening the door as he moved aside for you to unlock it.
After he set the bag down inside your apartment, he lingered just a moment, as if waiting for something, though you weren’t sure what. His eyes met yours, calm and steady, yet unreadable. The quiet between you stretched comfortably, heavy with unsaid words.
“I… uh… thanks,” you finally managed, heart still racing.
He only gave a small nod, then turned and disappeared down the hall, the faint click of his door locking behind him lingering longer than it should have.
You stood there for a moment, leaning against your doorframe, blinking as the sudden feeling of your apartment felt quiet, feeling both comforting and empty.
⑅ ⑅ ⑅ ⑅ ⑅
From that night on, your hallway encounters took on a subtle rhythm. You’d see him checking his mail, hauling groceries, or walking back from the gym, headphones on and gym bag slung across his shoulders.
Sometimes your paths would cross for just a few seconds, other times for minutes, passing by slowly, exchanging brief glances or tiny nods. Every interaction left your chest fluttering with an unfamiliar warmth spreading quietly beneath your skin.
You began noticing the little things: how he shifted his weight when he leaned on the wall, the faint hum of music from his apartment when the door cracked open, or the way his eyes flicked toward yours just long enough to make your stomach twist. Slowly, you realised you were waiting for these moments more than you wanted to admit.
As the days slipped by, that quiet anticipation began to feel like its own kind of secret. You weren’t just noticing him anymore; you were wondering about him.
Why he kept his face hidden. Why he always seemed to know when you were about to drop something, trip, or need help. Why, despite his distance, did his eyes soften every time they found yours?
One night, a storm rolled in, rain slanting against the windows, casting dripping shadows down the living room walls. You’d been sitting on your couch, surrounded by half-emptied boxes, when a sudden knock pulled you up. Not hurried. Three deliberate taps.
You cracked the door and found him there, hood damp, mask drawn up, one hand holding a small umbrella and the other holding a stack of envelopes. Without a word, he held it out to you.
“You left this downstairs,” he said quietly, the faint lilt of his accent curling the words just enough to make them sound deliberate. It was your mail, still bundled in rubber bands.
“Oh. Thanks.” You tried to smile, but your pulse was still too quick.
He shifted, eyes darting past you into the apartment. Not prying, but curious. “You’re still unpacking.”
"Yeah." You laughed softly. “Feels like I’ve been unpacking forever.”
A pause. “It gets easier,” he said at last. “Once it starts to feel like yours.”
Something in his voice, low and careful, made you think he wasn’t just talking about boxes. For a moment, you both stood there in the dim light, the space between you charged but not uncomfortable. You caught yourself leaning forward slightly, wanting to hear more.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he pulled a small scrap of paper from his hoodie and held it out. “If anything happens. Noise. Someone knocking late. You can… call me.”
You hesitated, then took it. His fingers brushed yours briefly, warm, steady, and firm, and it sent a little shiver up your arm.
“Okay, thank you,” you whispered, a small smile drifting across your face.
He nodded once, and for the first time you saw the mask slip just enough to reveal the curve of his mouth, a ghost of a smile rather than a full one. Then he turned and walked back to his door, shoulders hunched against the hallway light.
You closed your own door slowly, leaning your forehead against the wood, the slip of paper still clutched in your hand, your finger tracing the faint ink of the name scribbled onto it: ‘Simon.’
⑅ ⑅ ⑅ ⑅ ⑅
A week passed before you saw him again. Nights were quieter now, but you’d begun hearing small things through the walls, a low thud here, a faint murmur of a phone call there. Nothing alarming, but enough to make you glance at the scrap of paper on your fridge.
Then, one evening, a sharp knock startled you. Not the building’s usual three-tap knock; this one was quick and purposeful. When you opened the door, he stood there with his hood down, mask loose, and dark hair spilling from the sides of his hood.
“Everything okay?” you asked, stepping aside.
He hesitated, eyes flicking to the hallway behind him before back to you. “Power’s out in half the building,” he said quietly. “Thought you’d want to know before the alarms start beeping.”
“Oh,” you breathed. “Thanks for the warning.”
A pause stretched. The dim glow of your apartment spilled across the hall, pooling at his feet. On impulse, you said, “Do you… want to come in? Just until the lights come back?”
For the briefest second something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or a quick calculation—before he nodded once. “Yeah. Sure.”
He stepped inside without a sound, glancing around as though taking mental notes. You watched him pull his hood down, his hair messy, the faint scent of rain and cedar lingering around him.
“You’ve done a lot,” he said, gesturing at the now-mostly-unpacked living room. His voice was still quiet, but softer.
You smiled, a little shy. “It’s finally starting to feel like mine.”
He looked at you then, eyes holding yours longer than usual. “Good. That’s important.”
You perched on the edge of the couch, hands wrapped around a mug you hadn’t even realized you’d picked up. “So… You always look out for new neighbors like this?”
A small huff of breath, not quite a laugh. “Not really.” He shifted, leaning against the wall, one hand absently tugging at the edge of his mask.
“Then why me?” you asked before you could stop yourself, the words slipping out softer than you intended.
He didn’t answer right away. His thumb brushed the seam of the mask, eyes flicking to yours and then away again. “Maybe you just… look like you could use a hand,” he said finally, voice even but carrying a faint accent.
Your fingers tightened on the mug. “I’m not usually this helpless,” you murmured, a weak smile tugging at your mouth.
“I didn’t say you were.” His tone was gentle, almost teasing. “Everybody trips on the floor tile their first week here.”
That coaxed a laugh out of you, and you saw his eyes soften at the sound. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy; it was warm, almost tentative, like the first brush of fingertips.
He pulled the mask a little lower, letting it rest at his neck, and for the first time you got an unguarded look at his mouth—quiet, serious, but not unfriendly. “It’s nice,” he said, nodding at your apartment again.
Something fluttered in your chest at the way he said it. “Thank you,” you whispered.
His gaze lingered a heartbeat longer. “You should… call if you need anything,” he said finally, voice low. “Even if it’s small.”
“I will,” you said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, trying not to smile too obviously. “I promise.”
He nodded once, as if that settled something. Then he pushed off the wall, straightening. “I’ll get out of your way.”
You didn’t want him to, not yet, but you just said, “Okay,” softly, watching as he headed for the door. Before stepping out, he glanced back over his shoulder, eyes catching yours again, and gave you a look that felt like more than just goodbye.
When the door clicked shut behind him, your apartment felt different, still yours, but charged, like a space where something was beginning.
⑅ ⑅ ⑅ ⑅ ⑅
It was late on a Thursday when you finally decided to tackle the last stubborn box, the one full of tools, picture frames, and the little odds and ends you’d been putting off. You balanced a hammer and a handful of nails, trying to get a frame straight on the wall, when the hook gave way and the whole thing clattered to the floor.
You winced. “Perfect,” you muttered.
A knock came almost immediately. Not loud, just two gentle taps.
You opened the door and found him there, hoodie on, mask loose around his neck. “I heard something,” he said simply, eyes scanning the room behind you.
“I’m fine,” you assured quickly, embarrassed. “Just… lost a battle with a picture frame.”
His gaze flicked to the crooked frame and the hammer in your hand. “Want a hand?”
You hesitated only a second before stepping aside. “Sure.”
He slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him. Up close, you noticed the faint scar at his jaw catching the light, and the warmth of him seemed to fill the small apartment.
“Stud’s not here,” he murmured, tapping lightly on the drywall. “Needs an anchor.” His accent lightly curled the words. “Sorry. Habit.”
You smiled despite yourself. “You sound like you do this a lot.”
“Old apartments,” he said, crouching to retrieve the frame. “They all have their quirks.”
He worked quietly, efficient but unhurried. You handed him screws, anchors, a level. Once, when your fingers brushed his, you felt the calloused weight of his hand.
“There,” he said finally, stepping back. The frame hung perfectly straight.
You tilted your head to look at it. “Wow. Thank you.”
He wiped a bit of plaster dust from his palm onto his jeans. “No problem.” His eyes flicked to you again, lingering this time. “It suits the place.”
You laughed softly. “I’m starting to think you’re part handyman, part guardian angel.”
A small huff of breath escaped him, almost a laugh. “Hardly.”
But the way he looked at you then, steady and unblinking, made your chest tighten. It wasn’t just a neighbor’s glance. It was something quieter, deeper, like he was letting you see just a fraction more of whatever he carried.
“Stay for tea?” You asked before you could second-guess it.
He hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. Tea sounds good.”
You moved into the kitchen, pulling mugs from a cabinet. Behind you, you could feel his presence, quiet and solid, as though he belonged there already.
The kettle whistled, sharp against the hush of the apartment. You poured the water slowly, the scent of chamomile rising with the steam. When you turned, he’d already set out the mugs, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he handed you one.
“Thanks,” you said.
He wrapped his hands around it, long and steady. “You’re welcome.”
You both moved to the small table by the window. Rain had left faint trails on the glass, glimmering under the streetlights outside.
He sat across from you, but not far; his knees brushed the edge of yours under the table. It wasn’t an accident, but it wasn’t a move either—just a small, steady contact.
“What do you do?” You asked softly, more to fill the silence than anything.
He hesitated for a beat, eyes lowering to his mug. “Work nights. Odd hours. Nothing interesting,” he said, his accent just noticeable enough to curl the words.
You smiled a little at that. “That’s not nothing. It explains why you’re always around when nobody else is.”
A faint smile flickered over his face. “Maybe.”
You watched him blow on his tea, the steam curling up between you. For the first time, he seemed less like a silhouette in the hallway and more like a person sitting in your kitchen, flesh and warmth and small tells, the way his thumb traced the rim of the mug, the faint scar at his jaw catching the light.
“Thank you,” you said suddenly.
He looked up. “For what?”
“For helping. For, you know, being there whenever I need help.” You laughed softly, self-conscious. “It’s been a weird couple of weeks.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, but his eyes held yours, steady and unreadable. Then he nodded once, almost solemn. “You’re welcome.”
The quiet between you settled again, but it wasn’t empty anymore. It felt like a small, flickering flame in the center of the room.
When he finally stood to leave, he set his empty mug carefully on the counter. “Call if you need anything,” he said, voice low. “Anytime.”
“I will,” you whispered.
He gave you one last look, longer than usual and softer, and then slipped out into the hallway, the faint click of his door echoing down the corridor.
You leaned back against the closed door, still holding your mug, and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The apartment felt different now, not just yours, but warmer somehow, as if his presence had left a quiet imprint.
You caught yourself smiling. You could get used to this. To him. To the strange comfort of his quiet watchfulness and the slow, careful way he let you in.
Simon wasn’t a violent man. Sure, he did violent things for work, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed them
He’d stayed up more nights than he or anyone else could count, head in his trembling scarred hands, wishing it would stop, the memories, the guilt he carried, the lump in his throat that still hurt even after he tried to swallow it.
Everyone he couldn’t save, the people he didn’t know and the people he did, the ones whose footsteps he recognized.
He wasn’t a violent person. Never wanted to be.
That’s why it hurt when that’s what people expected from him. when they saw his outside, his scarred and intimidating form, and just assumed the inside was the same. When partners wanted him to be rough and dominant in bed.
He tried, but couldn’t. The slaps they requested always landing too light, the hair pulling always hesitant, his grip loosening before it could ever sting.
He just wanted to be gentle with someone. Wanted someone to be gentle with him.
Someone he could kiss softly, cupping their jaw while they loosely ran their fingers through his hair.
Someone who’d trace his scars as they lay bare beside him, asking where each one was from, kissing away the pain and bad memories as he told them.
Then he met you.
“I… I’m just not, I like it gentle” you murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, the moonlight casting a faint glow through the room.
He smiled faintly.
“Yeah… I can do that”
I have too many different versions of Simon I’ve written for holy shit
Simon’s favorite place to kiss you is the corner of your eye.
He never says it, nor does he point it out, but you know it’s true. You know it from the way he does it so naturally, as if it’s the only thing he wants to do when he’s close enough to reach you.
When you’re telling him a story, talking a little too fast because you’re excited about whatever it is you’re sharing, Simon just sits there. He watches you with that look, the one that makes you nervous if you think about it too much, because there’s too much love in it, too much softness for a man like him, and then, without saying anything, he leans in and kisses the corner of your eye, right there, like it’s the only thing he can do to keep himself from spilling every word he doesn’t know how to say.
And it’s not just once in a while. It’s every morning when he wakes up. You don’t even get a proper “morning” out of him before you feel him pull you closer and kiss you there, the corner of your eye, like a promise that he’s still here, that you’re still his.
Even when he’s tired, he always leans down and presses his lips there. Sometimes, at night, when you’re almost asleep, you’ll feel the bed dip as he rolls closer to you, and before you can even say anything, there it is... a soft kiss at the corner of your eye.
You think it’ll be like this forever.
Until one day, they knock on your door.
It’s just past noon as you open the door expecting a package or a neighbor. But two men are standing there, uniforms neat, and their expressions very serious. And before they even say a word, your stomach drops.
They tell you he’s MIA.
The words barely make sense... Missing. In. Action. It’s so detached that it doesn’t even sound real, but your knees still almost give out. You just stand there, gripping the edge of the doorframe because if you don’t, you’ll fall.
You nod like you understand, like you’re hearing them, but all you can think is that you’ll never feel his lips at the corner of your eye again. You don’t cry in front of them. You wait until the door is closed before you sink to the floor and break apart completely.
Everything after that is slow, too slow. Days drag by, and you keep catching yourself reaching up to touch your face, like maybe you can still feel him there if you try hard enough.
You stop talking so much, because there’s no one sitting there watching you with that soft look, no one to interrupt you with a kiss when you get too excited. You dream about him, dream those vivid, exhausting dreams where he’s there, whole and warm, where he cups your face and kisses the corner of your eye and calls you his love. And every time you wake up, it’s like losing him all over again.
Until one night, you wake up for real.
At first, it’s just the weight on the edge of the bed that does it. You’re groggy, confused, reaching for the bat you keep near the nightstand because no one should be here, no one should be—
And then you feel it.
A kiss that is so soft and familiar, and right there at the corner of your eye.
Your breath catches so hard it hurts, and for a second you think you’ve finally snapped, that you’re dreaming so vividly you can feel it. But then you feel another one. And another.
Your eyes fly open, heart hammering, and he’s there.
Your Simon.
Alive.
His mask is gone, and his face is pale and drawn but so painfully, achingly familiar that you can’t even move. You don’t dare. You’re terrified that if you blink, he’ll vanish.
“Love,” he says, his voice shaking, and it’s the first time you’ve heard it outside of a dream.
You reach out, your hands shaking, and when your fingers touch him, that’s when the sob hits you. You throw yourself into him, clutching him so tight you’re afraid you’ll hurt him, but he just holds you right back, like he’s been waiting for this just as long.
“I found my way back to you,” he murmurs into your hair, and before you can even answer, he’s kissing the corner of your eye again and again, like he’s making up for every day he was gone.
And you let him, because this time you know he’s real.
bowl of rice time and thinking about Simon being a bath guy right? But there's no like tubs on base bc duh
Anyway he meets you and you have a bath at ur place and after a couple of nights with him over he's eyeing the tub like a sad dog so you're like ? 🧐 Do you?? Want a bath, Si ???
And he's a little bashful but also "if it's no trouble... Don't have 'em on base..."
So you make him go undress while you draw the water, just hot enough. You add your bubble bath soap to it bc of course.
And you grab the candles from the kitchen. Set them out on safe surfaces around the bathroom.
And then you turn on rain sounds on your speaker.
Simon comes back by the time you flick the overhead lights off, staring at it all in utter disbelief.
And the sigh that escapes him when he sinks into the hot water is nothing short of pure contentment.
His legs bend, knees up out of the water, so that he sinks in until his shoulders are under. He blinks up at you, slow, like a satisfied cat.
Then he grabs your hand. Gives it a tug that makes you giggle.
You insist there's no room for you both.
But his insistence is greater than yours
bc before you know it your clothes are gone and your back is pressed against his chest with his thighs bracketing yours.
And when you ask if this is... nice, you get no reply.
So you turn your head enough to find the 6 foot whatever, hulking blue eyed blonde, who had railed you three ways to Sunday not a week ago...
dozing...
his head tilted just so. Breath slow and steady. Arms loose around your waist. Candle light catching warm and golden on his scars and features. Eyes closed softly.
Creepy Landlord Simon "Ghost" Riley turning into Tender Landlord Simon
It had taken a while to come to terms with it, but you were lonely.
School and work took up your days, leaving you tired and achy at night, just wanting to curl up on the couch and watch one of your favourite shows with some snacks. You had some friends, but your apartment was empty, a suffocating silence around you. But there was your landlord, Simon, in the apartment below, he’d come see you if you asked nicely… right?
You barely got to explain your predicament before Simon hung up the phone and the heavy sounds of boots hitting the stairs grows closer until he’s outside your door, fumbling with his keys before pushing inside. His broad shoulders fill up the doorframe, staring at you curled up on the couch, and creepy landlord Simon turns into tender landlord Simon, ready to fulfill every need you have, just for his very lovely tenant <3
He shuts the door behind him and makes himself comfy on the couch beside you, his larger arms wrapping you up so you can snuggle into his warm chest and sit in his broad lap. He lets you rant about your day, occasionally humming and nodding along as you explain how someone complained and took their pizza back because apparently the bacon is raw, even though it comes precooked and then goes through a 450° oven, which he can’t help but snort in amusement at.
Tender landlord Simon who orders takeout for the two of you to munch on while watching a movie together, who likes to press his ugly, scarred mug into your neck and tells you how good you smell, his pretty girl smelling so divine his cock starts chubbing up beneath you. His greedy, heavy hands massaging your plush hips and thighs while he rocks up back on his aching cock, feeling the heat from your pussy on him.
Seeing that it’s getting late, he scoops you up into his arms and brings you to bed, tucking you in before he tugs off the extra layer of clothing. Poor Simon’s cock is just throbbin’, needing his somewhere tight and wet to sink into, but, ah… you’re already asleep, snoring away after a long, tiring day. Simon is a patient man though, a good landlord too, and climbs into bed with you, tucking you into his broad, hairy chest and placing a loving kiss on the top of your head, his large hands stroking over your back gently to soothe you when you squirm.
Tender landlord Simon who, when he wakes up in the morning, rain pounding down against the panes of your bedroom window, and overall gloomy day outside and meant for staying inside cozied up, rolls over on top of you, heavy body blanketing your own. His lips are warm when they press against the skin of your shoulder, his crooked nose nuzzling into your neck, slowly coaxing you awake. He’s got you pinned beneath him, legs tangled together so you can’t escape his loving caresses.
Simon takes it slow, rolling his strong hips against yours in a filthy grind, his morning wood rubbing up against your tummy, his forehead resting against your own, staring into your gorgeous, tired eyes. His calloused hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding the drooling tip through your slick folds before sinking himself inside, earning a soft sigh from you. His hips create a steady pace, rolling and pumping deep into you before your lips meet, slowly moving against each other and only making your desire to be closer that much stronger. Simon’s hands move towards the small of your back, pulling you as close as he can get.
Strings of your combined slick and Simon’s precum form between your connected bodies with every wet plap of his full balls against your sticky folds, a high pitched and breathy gasp leaving your lips when he nudges just right at that spongy spot deep inside. His face nuzzles into your shoulder, the skin flushed and covered in lovebites, while you roll your hips lazily against his own, accepting his swollen cock as it drags deliciously against your sensitive walls, in and out in deep, claiming thrusts.
Your nails dig into his scarred back, fingers pressing into the ridges and tensed muscles there that flex with every movement, cradling you close in his arms, his hands kneading your soft breasts like dough, hard calluses scraping over your sensitive nipples. Simon’s tip swells up, growing overly sensitive from your fluttering, squeezing cunt, making his thrusts grow sloppy and uncoordinated while he chokes out a loud groan and spills inside you. His hot cream comes out in thick spurts, letting you feel every throb of his cock, and every pump of the thick vein on the underside filling him with blood. He’s loud and unashamed, twitching and grinding against you, working himself through his orgasm until his breathing is ragged and he’s utterly spent, murmuring out soft praises to you.
Rough, chapped lips pepper kisses against your face, his warm breath and blond stubble tickling your skin, and the pads of his fingers find your pebbled clit, rubbing it in circles while Simon’s kisses get trailed lower and lower. Over your sternum and soft tummy before nudging your thighs apart and placing them over his shoulders, his honey brown eyes drifting up to meet yours as he presses one final kiss against your clit, before licking a broad stroke up your soaked slit.
As the rain pours down heavier and lightning flashes overhead, you're kept safe and warm in the arms of your landlord ♡
Simon didn't care about the fact that he shared a flat with someone. At all.
He was so non-disturbed about it in fact that he put no effort into acting even half-decent.
It wasn't rare to see Simon jerking off in his room with an open door, or watch the tv with his cock out, that a towel should be covering.
He just... didn't give a fuck.
It was annoying. Sure.
But you weren't gonna leave it that way. If he was gonna be an ass. You were gonna be an even bigger ass.
You made sure to put lipstick on every time you made yourself coffee, taking his mugs, pressing the stain in there real good and letting it marinate for a couple hours. Maybe even days.
Borrowed his towels, since you shared a bathroom, and made sure to use them for makeup removal.
When you put perfume on you also made sure to drown the room in it.
Everytime you were bringing out the trash, you took his boots, which made you waddle... but that's not important, what is important is that you made sure to get them dirty as fuck, mud, sand, rocks in them?
You did your very best to be the absolute ass you could be able to be.
Only for the whole thing to be answered with a dirty pair of your panties on your bed, with a heart on them, made of seemingly semen.
"Got you pretty good, huh?" A very proud voice said from your doorway.
That night you learnt that being an asshole was his way of flirting... and he thought you too... were flirting.
Which is also how you ended up bent over that very bed. Those same panties stuck in your mouth while he rearranged your insides and sucked on your neck like a vampire.
By the time he was done with you, you did feel like all the blood had been sucked out of you.
simon loves everything you do during sex. when you clench your cunt around his cock and make him see stars, the pretty noises you make as he stretches you open on two thick fingers, the way you taste when you gush all over his tongue- everything.
but his favourite thing? when you scratch down his back while he's pounding you into the mattress. the way you desperately claw at his shoulders as he shoves his cock deep inside you. he's reaching places you didn't know could be reached and you need to grab onto something- anything to cope with the overwhelming pleasure he's bringing you.
the first time you did it he was caught off guard, his hips stuttering in their rhythm as your nails raked along his back, leaving a streak of red irritated flesh in their wake. you noticed the way he hesitated, noticed the groan that left him, and the way he adjusted his pace of his hips against yours.
you force your hands off him, opting to tangle them into the sheets instead. simon scowled- actually looked visibly upset, and a moment later he was grabbing you by the wrist, placing your hand onto his back again. you were confused now- you thought he didn't like it.
you couldn't have been more wrong.
he leans down so his mouth is pressed right next to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "keep doin' that," he groans, tilting your hips so the tip of his cock grinds against the squishy spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back in your head. "keep doin' it and don't you ever fuckin' stop- y'hear me? want you to mark me up, yeah? want everyone to know i fuck you so good you start clawin' at me."
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