Do y'all have any vampire movies or books you would recommend? Just asking.
I’ve been obsessed with vampires since I was like six or some shit like that, so when Sinners dropped and it had Black, Asian, AND Native people in vampire lore without turning them into stereotypes?? Dark-skinned leads?? I almost passed out. The fanfiction alone could power a small city.
So when Michael Shawver said he wanted the next movie to be about Remmick I was like… be so for real right now. That man got his pitch rejected six times and still said “yeah this is the one.” Sir. Who is Remmick representing in 2026??? Because what? The fact that people think Remmick is relatable just proves the first movie flew clean over some people’s heads at mach speed.
And that’s not even the worst part.
We could have had a Native American vampire hunter movie. Do you understand how hard that would go?? Turquoise jewelry. Traditional patterns. Vampire-slayer drip. The storytellers. Like, imagine Native culture + vampires?? The fits alone would have me screaming in the theater. Not to mention the native actors and actresses.
Or follow the Native group after they dipped and left Remmick with that couple who didn’t listen.
How would vampire existence change Native culture in that universe?? Tell me NOW.
And if not that, follow the Asian couple’s daughter?? Asian vampire hunter?? Hello?? The trauma? The revenge arc? Her going against her own turned parents and learning to cope with the loss and ultimately slaying them herself?? Dark and gory with a pinch of horror??? The potential??? Written in GOLD without trying.
Or a formerly enslaved person realizing they’re working for a vampire and flipping into a hunter?? Are you kidding me???
Or Aztec vampires?? Mesoamerican vampire hunters?? Brazilian? Mexican? South Asian??? MIDDLE EASTERN VAMPIRE HUNTERS??? Ryan Coogler would have my soul, my firstborn, and a percentage of the money I would spend for all 46 tickets I would buy to rewatch that shit.
Instead, they wanted to give us… Remmick. Hollywood will find the richest, most beautiful, most culturally insane universe and say: “Okay now follow the guy who ruined nearly every character's life in the movie. What? Follow the badass POC vampire hunters and explore what was already set in the first movie instead? How else are we supposed to redeem Remmick?”
Also Chris Chalk as a vampire hunter or a villain vampire??? I would have been soaked. I would have been seated. Reclined. Popcorn ready. Theater would hate to see me coming to get another ticket after watching it 3.8 seconds before my dumbass went up there for another ticket to make sure they get my money for that masterpiece. Ngl I usually movie hop after paying for one movie so that says a lot in my case.
The smell of garlic, butter, and something cheesy drifted through Simon Riley’s Manchester flat. The kitchen light glowed warmly against the soft clatter of pans and the low hum of music coming from the record player in the living room.
Y/N’s choice, something they said they listened to when they were younger. Simon stood at the stove in sweatpants and a dark long-sleeve, sleeves pushed up, wooden spoon in hand as he stirred a creamy sauce. Beside him, Y/N. Barefoot, wearing nothing but his oversized black tee and boxers. Perched on the counter, lazily kicking their feet and occasionally swiping shredded mozzarella when they thought he wasn’t looking.
“You do that again, and I’m eating this all on my own,” he warned, not even turning around.
Y/N grinned. “You could, but then I’d starve. And I’d haunt you. Every time you tried to sleep, I’d whisper into your ear about how you let me starve.”
He gave them a sideways look, the kind that was half-amused, half-exhausted by their antics.
Both of their faces were slathered in cooling clay masks. Y/N’s idea, again. The deep green kind that hardened just enough to crinkle if you smirked. Which Y/N did. A lot.
“I still can’t believe you let me put this on you,” they teased, tilting their head toward him, examining the way the mask emphasized the structure of his cheekbones under the kitchen light.
“You said it’d stop me from dying early,” he grumbled.
“I said it’d unclog your pores.”
“Same thing.”
Y/N snorted and leaned closer to stir the sauce. Just as they reached for the spoon, three sharp knocks rattled the front door.
Simon froze. Y/N blinked.
“…You expecting anyone?” Y/N asked.
“No.”
He wiped his hands on a towel, but Y/N was already sliding off the counter and padding over to the door with their face mask still on and Simon’s boxers dangling off their hips.
“Y/N! Wait,” Simon called, but it was too late.
They swung the door open.
Standing there were three members of Task Force 141.
Price. Gaz. Soap.
They stared. Y/N blinked.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Soap tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing at the sight of Simon’s boxers, the giant shirt, and the face mask smeared over Y/N’s face.
“…Evening,” Y/N said smoothly, crossing their arms like they weren’t radiating chaos in skincare form.
Price’s brows lifted. “Well, we were going to call.”
Simon appeared behind them, deadpan and half-annoyed, his own mask giving him the unintentional appearance of a tactical avocado. “You should have called.”
Gaz was grinning already. “Didn’t realize you were hosting a spa night.”
Soap lost it. “You let them put you in skincare?!”
“It’s exfoliating,” Simon deadpanned.
“You’re practically glowing, Ghost!” Y/N turned around with a smirk. “I told him he’d thank me later. Doesn’t he look radiant?”
Price shook his head, clearly fighting a smile. “We just came by to drop off the debrief files. Didn’t mean to interrupt your… skin therapy.”
Simon stepped forward, took the folder from Price with a sigh, and didn’t comment further. Y/N, still unfazed, leaned against the doorframe.
“Dinner’s almost ready if you want some,” Y/N offered with a wink. “Simon’s making pasta.”
Price raised a brow. “And he cooks.”
“I’m multifaceted,” Simon grumbled.
The team lingered for another beat before Price finally gave a nod. “We’ll leave you two to it.”
Soap held up his phone, clearly having snapped a picture before Simon could stop him. “This one’s going in the archive.”
“You’ll die,” Simon said flatly.
“We’ll risk it.”
If only he knew.
Anyway.
Y/N winked again. “Close the door behind you.”
The moment it shut, they turned to Simon, lips twitching.
“…You’re never living that down.”
He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose.
But even then, he didn’t tell them to take off the mask. Didn’t tell them to stop wearing his shirts.
Instead, he walked back into the kitchen, stirring the pasta again like nothing had happened.
“You still wanna watch that movie?” he asked, quietly.
Y/N padded after him, sliding their arms around his waist from behind, mask and all.
“Only if I get to pick,” Y/N whispered. As they strutted past him he got a glance at the back of his shirt. A green smear in the shape of Y/N’s face was all he could see.
So I just got fired because my boss(46) was dating one of my agents (27)… and I tried to do my actual job and have a 1:1 with her about her numbers because. Plot twist✨. He kept pulling her away from work. (I'm going to bite someone's head off)
So basically I got fired for interfering with my boss’s workplace romance. The more I say it the angrier I get because WHAT IN THE FUCK ASS Y/N UNIVERSE!?!
I’ve been there three years.
I was 21 when I was hired and 22 when I became a trainer and lead.
This man has been here six months.
SIX.
MONTHS.
All he did was fart and cough to get into the chair he got.
I'm clenching my fists.
I trained him. My own manager. MY STANK ASS BOSS!
Just imagine an angry black woman tweaking in the corner of a dark room and that's me right now…
He created my villain arc. Just to hit? On the clock!?
He had the audacity to ask me to sign paperwork that would stop me from suing. He got me so fucked up that I walked out with my company laptop I bedazzled on the clock and a random headphone set. I was leaving and I was not gonna leave without sum.
Legitimately, if I could I'd burn that hoe down… but that's not building positive relationships… or whatever the fuck.😒
I need a blunt. 🤧
Anyway, if anyone needs me I’ll be screaming into the void while capitalism and nepotism hold hands and probably skip away into the sunset with my life goals and chances of retirement. 🫠
It still had life. Music leaking under doors, the washing machine roaring like a jet, Sergeant’s claws ticking across the floor. But. There were gaps now. Long, glorious gaps. Ellie lived at the theatre and was in a phase that involved Simon learning viral dances and listening to her talk about her dream throwing knife set. Aiden hopscotched between robotics, the climbing gym, and whatever friend’s garage was currently hosting a watch party for whatever alien movie he's been obsessing over.
Y/N, hair up with one of Simon's old shirts knotted at her waist, slid the pan aside and looked up. “Curfew is ten,” she said, which was not a question.
Simon hung the car keys on their hook, read the sticky note Ellie had left (don’t wait up; love you; don’t be gross), and the text Aiden had sent (staying late; iteration went long; consent to consume leftovers?). He felt his mouth tip. “Ten-ish,” he allowed.
They didn’t pounce. They drifted. He stepped into her gravity and she into his, like two people who’d spent years of interrupted momentum relearning how to let a moment lengthen. His palm found her hip, warm and certain; her fingers curled in his hoodie drawstring and tugged him down.
“Finally?” he murmured, even now.
“Finally,” she said, smiling into his mouth.
The kiss wasn’t frantic. It was indulgent. The kind of kiss you only get when you know the house won’t explode if you close your eyes. He backed her gently into the counter; she angled a knee between his legs and let the weight of him slot into the spaces she’d kept open for him all afternoon. The dog tags tapped a quiet metronome against her sternum.
“Stove’s off,” he said against her jaw, practical even while his hands slid under her shirt to the warm line of her back.
“Good,” she said.
tugging the chain just to hear the sound he would make.
They got good at this. At choosing when to be twenty again and when to be the kind of tired, happy thirty-somethings who say we could just watch terrible television and put our cold feet on each other. Tonight wasn’t television. Tonight was the humming quiet of a house that respected a closed door and the thrill of their phones lighting up with we’re good, don’t wait.
He lifted her onto the counter because he could, because she liked the way it changed the angle of everything, and kissed her like every interruption in the last fifteen years owed them compound interest.
The front door didn’t open. No one asked for a charger. No one declared a sudden need for specific clothing items by the time they open their eyes.
They had time. So much time.
“Upstairs,” she breathed, when the counter wasn't meeting the needs required from a bed.
He carried the problem instead. The problem he'd gently and eagerly carried to their room.
They’d turned their bedroom into a sanctuary once the twins stopped treating it like a conference room. Soft lamplight. Thicker rug. A ridiculous throw she’d bullied him into buying because “it feels like sleeping inside a cloud,” which he’d mocked until he fell asleep on it once and woke up a better man. The door locked with a gentle click (new locks, a running joke after that one catastrophic walk-in; Johnny still refused to sit on the edge of their bed. let alone go near the room, or look at it).
Halfway to the mattress, he kissed her again, deep enough that they both forgot where they were going. So much so he stopped in the hall to hold her against the wall leaving a few loving bruises on her neck.
She answered by looking at him in a way his brain fried and reset without fail. Making him inch toward the bed just a bit faster.
Clothes became a breadcrumb trail with no need to be stealthy. He took his time with her bra, loosening it slowly, hands chasing the unravel across her back. She took her time with his shirt, teasing his skin to hear his breath quicken, the sound that meant they were waking up happy the next morning. When his hands slid under her shirt, she went boneless in that way he loved. No rush, just a soft, pleased surrender that trusted him to do the math required to get to the bed. Without face planting with her in his arms.
Making it to the bed gave a bump to Simon's restrained need for her. That wasn't a secret if Simon's pressure on her thigh wasn't an illusion.
“Door?” she asked breathless, habit.
“Locked,” he promised, smiling as he sank back into his objective.
His hands couldn't stop. “I’ve missed you” he murmured slowly sucking yet another spot on her shoulder. Moving down to her breasts. “I liked watching you laugh at the kitchen table this morning”, he was drunk with need. He's waited too long. She waited just as long but his cock. Rubbing against her leg as he took a solid nub into his mouth, was screaming for her.
Simon let her find her ground before he groped and needed her other breast.
Her gasp, her moan, her breath. It was overloading. He needed to be buried in her. He needed her to scream. He hadn't heard that in ages and today would end that streak if he had anything to do with it.
He sat up looking down at the mess she was. Like he wanted to remember what she looked like before he absolutely devoured her. For a moment she looked back up at him in the dark. His silhouette was enough to make her want to pull him down. Make him give her that lightheaded feeling again.
Before she knew it he was already standing at the edge of the bed. Gripping her by her hips and pulled her down to him.
He didn't give himself enough time or patience to take off her underwear. He pulled it aside. His mouth took her clit in. All she could do was gasp. He had years before the twins to learn her body, her needs, her wants. He wasn't going to let anything stop him from getting what they wanted that night.
As he sucked and smacked she could only hold a shaky hand to the crown of his head until she saw the fireworks in the darkest parts of the room.
He basked in the feeling. The feeling of her trust, her body, her satisfaction. He was mid-pulling their underwear down completely, simultaneously. When he heard the sound of the bell on Aidens' house keys. He pulled his boxers half-hazardly back up his thighs. His hands stopped roaming but his eyes, never lost the fog of lust once.
Simon simply (reluctantly) and quietly stood. He grabbed his phone off the bedside table and walked over to the bathroom. Playing a random song from Y/Ns shower playlist. Then he placed his phone on the bathroom counter. Before leaving the bathroom he turned on their shower to drown out the sounds he'd been borderline worshiping since the day he made her his wife.
He walked back. His eyes locked on his target he'd been attracted to like a moth. music blaring from the open bathroom door. Light spilling out as if it had been Y/N in the shower, like any other night when the twins are home.
Before he got past their bedroom door he glanced at the lock again. Triple-checking the lock before moving closer to the dazed and love-struck Y/N sprawled across their bed.
“That face can never fail to make me want you more,” Simon spoke. Deep and slothful. Finishing what he started. He wasted no time slipping her underwear off and down her legs. He looked up to make sure she wasn't too far gone. Looking for any indications of being done with the evening's activities.
She was far from done. She was ready for what Simon had for her next. If that wasn't clear she had already freed his boxers from his hips with the backs of her calves. All while she pulled him in by his dog tags. “Don't worry. I can be quiet.” If the sinful look in her eyes wasn't what did Simon in, it was the feeling of his cock brushing her slick folds the closer he got.
He nearly slammed into her right then and there. He needed to. He could barely restrain himself.
With one hand Y/N ran her finger tips up his chest savoring the feeling of his muscles tensing the further she went. At his collarbone, she stopped looking up at his half-lit face and she saw it. The desperation he was holding back. The need.
Before she said anything he was already stroking her clit with the tip of his cock. His eyes focused on her face.
“Fuck, you're making it so hard not to fuck you senseless, love,” he growled into her ear as he sank his girth into her warm cunt.
Her hands shot up. One to her mouth and the other square on his chest. She muffled what would have been a heavenly moan to Simon's ears.
He snapped his hips just hard enough to see her eyes roll to the back of her head. Her eyes fluttered as her nails dug into his chest. She let her back arch and the back of her head go deeper into the mattress. Simon slowly pulled back. The suction of his cock seduced him to go deeper, faster, relentlessly. His restraint was God-tier.
Gradually again he filled her. Before she could react he removed her hand from her mouth and replaced it with his. They needed this and he was going to get what they wanted.
He set a steady rhythm, unhurried and deliberate. His thumb on his free hand circled her clit, slick with her need, but not quite enough. He pulled his other hand from her mouth and brushed small circles with his thumb across her tongue, letting it linger until it was properly soaked. Only then did he withdraw it.
As he made eye contact with her. he rubbed her clit while making sure to cover her mouth again. Gently applying pressure as he felt her cum a second time.
“Christ,” he groaned quietly. He was so close he needed to stop. With his eyes screwed shut. He was fighting the urge to bottom out completely. Until she started moving her hips. She was dazed a moment ago, but if he knew his wife she was ready to ride him till dawn at the sight of him in this state.
His grip firmed once he felt her buck her hips a second time. He looked back down at her with slight agitation but was stopped by the sight of her lust-filled eyes.
At that, he let his cock think for him and let himself slam into her. Muffled gasps and moans were hard to hear over the sound of the shower water and the echo of the music. Simon pulled her up with both hands, still inside her. He threw himself onto the bed with Y/N on top.
He had a fist of her hair and a strong grip on her waist, keeping her head near his. Single-handedly he pulled her up and down his cock. Letting her moan into his ear and when it got too loud for his liking he pulled her head down to shove his tongue into her throat.
He moved his hips faster giving her no time to moan into his mouth. In a blink, he was on top of her again. Lunging into her cunt. It was pure bliss.
He finally let himself cum into his wife. Filling her again and again. The more he pumped into her the smaller he made her. Once he was done he realized he had her bunched under him. Her hips were nearly in the air in his one-handed grip. His other arm caged her in from above her head. She was fucked out and gone and all he could do was pull back and let her melt into the bed happily.
After, he lay on his side with her tucked into the curve of him, one big hand at her waist where it belonged. Outside, a car went by. At the door Ellie walked in, finally making it home. Simon and Y/N were way too out of it to question why she was home so late. So they let her be and mentally noted it for later.
Simon sat up walking over to shut the water off and grab his now dead phone off the counter.
“Definitely have to see what you do next time to hide what we're doing,” she said into his throat, giddy.
Back in bed, He pinched her hip until she yelped, laughing. “You’re not funny.”
“Lie.”
He pulled her closer and kissed her hairline. “Gremlin.”
“But still yours.”
He sobered the way he always did when that word got said. “Aye.”
They dozed. Woke. Dozed again. Somewhere near 11p.m, the parental homing instinct sparked again. He checked his phone for texts he was expecting.
Ellie: still alive. Just got home. Do not text i’m on headset.
Aiden: Discoveries successfully documented. We agreed not to rename Micki's cat “Murder Spoon.” headed home after we clean his room as his mom required before departure.
“Forty minutes ago,” Simon said after reading it out.
The next week brought more of the same in better variations. They learned the map of every room again. The laundry room, where he boxed her in between the washer and dryer and kissed her with an indecency that made her consider a third. The entryway, where she used the large floor-length mirror to catch his eye, and then bent her over in front of it. The shower. Still his least favorite solo activity for her ego, but still his favorite shared.
They got good at date nights that started at their own kitchen table. He cooked. Something with garlic and butter and scandalous amounts of salt. She would put her bare foot on his thigh as if that were the most natural perch in the world. They’d read horrible reviews aloud dramatically and then abandon the argument entirely for the kind of kissing that had nothing to do with winning.
The twins noticed, of course. Not the details. The glow.
“Why are you smiling creepy?” Ellie demanded one Saturday, squinting at her mother.
Eris slid a plate of pancakes onto the table. “It’s called joy.”
Aiden peered at Simon over his tea. “You look… rested.”
“I am,” Simon said blandly.
Aiden nodded, scientist-serious. “I support that.”
A month into their teens’ chaos, Gaz swung by on a Friday with a wink and two cinema tickets. “Dropped Ellie off at a theater with her friends,” he reported, “and Aiden is babysitting a robot while it ‘calms down’ or whatever that means. You’ve got four hours. Go be citizens.”
They lasted thirty minutes in the film before the dark, the anonymity, and Simon’s palm warm on Eris’s knee turned the whole thing into foreplay with a soundtrack. They left, laughing, and made out like teenagers against an innocent brick wall in an alley, stopping only when Simon remembered the CCTV and she remembered she liked their bed better than masonry.
They got good at choosing home. Not because they were dull but because their home fit them like skin. Because the best part of the date was how fast he could lock the door behind them and lift her onto the console table. Because they’d earned this: the kind of sex that felt like conversation and the kind of kissing that could be prayer, blasphemy, or both.
~
Thank you for reading.💚
I haven't proofread this one just yet. So let me know if it doesn't make sense.🫡
The corner store was quiet. The kind of quiet that came with late hours and half-empty aisles.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off the clean tile floor. You were clearly trying to grab a few things before heading home after work: coffee, bread, that one bar of chocolate Simon noticed you kept glancing at after getting in line to check out.
He stood in line behind you, silent as ever. Hood up, mask on. The kind of man you’d never notice twice if he didn’t move like someone who’d spent a lifetime watching everything. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders squared but relaxed. Face covered by a simple black earloop face mask.
You paid, exchanged polite words with the tired cashier, gathered your bag, and left.
That’s when he saw it.
One small item, still sitting on the counter. A pack of gum. Nothing special. You’d bought it, but somehow left it behind.
“Hay! Miss. You forgot your item,” the cashier called out half-heartedly but at that point you were already lost to the cold winter evening.
Simon stared at the forgotten pack for a second. He could’ve ignored it. It wasn’t his problem. But something about it, about you, made him move.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing it off the counter.
“Oi,” a low voice called out. “You forgot this.”
You turned, startled. The man from the line. Tall, broad-shouldered, a hood pulled low over his face, dark eyes just visible under the streetlight. He held out the pack of gum in one gloved hand.
“Oh,” You blinked, then laughed softly, a little breathless. “I didn’t even notice. Thank you.”
He gave a short nod. “Paid for it. Figured you might want it.”
You stepped closer to take it, your fingers brushing his glove for half a second. Just a touch, barely there, but enough to make his heart trip once, hard.
“Thanks again,” you said, smiling. It wasn’t the overly polite kind people gave strangers. It was real. Warm.
For a moment, Simon forgot to breathe.
He’d been stared at plenty of times. By recruits, by teammates, by enemies, but no one had looked at him like that. No suspicion. No fear. Just kindness, simple and unguarded.
He cleared his throat, forcing his usual composure back into place. “No problem.”
You nodded, tucking the gum into your pocket. “You’ve got good timing.”
“Right,” he said before he could stop himself.
That earned him another smile. Small, amused, knowing. “Well, I owe you one, then.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you step back, watched the way you glanced once more over your shoulder before heading toward your car.
And as the distance grew, Simon realized his pulse hadn’t slowed.
Back in his truck, he sat for a minute, engine off, watching the rain slide down the windshield. The lights from the store flickered in the rearview mirror.
It was ridiculous. He’d handed a stranger a pack of gum. Nothing more.
But he could still see your face. That brief spark of gratitude, the way your eyes caught the light, the ease in your voice. The kind of thing he didn’t see much anymore.
He leaned back, shaking his head at himself.
“Bloody hell,” he murmured. “Pull yourself together.”
Still, when he drove off, he caught a faint waft of mint.
~
Thank you for reading 💚
Sorry y'all for the hiatus. Life is starting to fight back a little harder than usual. I'll be back on my regularly scheduled program in a moment.
!!!WARNING!!! IF YOU DON'T LIKE RELIGIOUS HORROR ELEMENTS THEN PLEASE DISREGARD THIS FIC.
The fields didn’t mind the silence. Wheat has a way of keeping its own counsel. Shoulders to the wind, heads bowed, never asking a man what he’s seen.
Simon learned to appreciate that.
He bought the farm after discharge: nine acres of tired soil and one hard, square house that kept its back to the road. Birds nested in the crooked gutter and a black dog from nowhere took up with him and slept against the Aga. The village sat two miles east, its lights paling late, its bells more suggestion than sound.
He woke before sun, did the work he knew and the work he didn’t, and when night pulled the sky shut he sat by the window and listened for engines that would never come. He liked that the fields didn’t care who he’d been.
The first night she appeared, the weather had been wrong all day. Warm air that should’ve gone cold, a fog lying low as if the ground exhaled and forgot to breathe in.
He saw her at the hedgerow threw his window: a figure in a torn black dress, standing the way a scarecrow stands when you’re too far to know if it just moved. Her hair was… wrong. Perfect, like it belonged to a photograph, not a person. It didn’t frizz in the damp or snag in the bramble; it floated. The rest of her was a ruin. Her mouth shone wet with something thicker than blood, the color of old oil. It dripped lazy ropes onto her collarbone and soaked the fabric until it clung.
The dog rose and growled from somewhere under the table. Simon put a hand down and the growl lowered.
He opened his front door. The hinge shrieked.
She turned her head like an animal hearing glass break. When their eyes met, his scalp prickled. Her pupils were too wide; the color around them, if it was color, seemed to be something she’d remembered rather than possessed.
“Hello,” she said. Then, as if she’d rehearsed it: “Hi. How are you?”
Her voice was every wrong syllable English learns by imitating. Behind the words, the wet scrape of hunger.
“Evening,” he said. He didn’t step back. Old training had taught him the lie of retreat.
She came closer, bear feet finding the exact places you’d avoid. Puddles, a nail in a plank, sharp rocks Simon hadn't got around to clearing, and yet her mouth made no sound. The black on her mouth glistened. It smelled of pennies and mushrooms and the salton unclean skin.
“You live,” she said, apparent delight blooming like mold on bread. “You are a living thing.”
“That's… right.”
“I am learning,” she told him. “People like to be… greeted.” She said it like a word from a manual. “I am practicing.”
Her gaze drifted over his shoulder to the warm rectangle of the kitchen. Then down to the dog’s eyes, coals in the dark.
“You can come in if you’re not here to hurt me,” he said, and was surprised to hear the words come out. Maybe the fields had made him stupid. Maybe he’d always been.
She thought about it as if searching for the file. “I will not hurt you,” she said. “Not yet.” Her odd attempt at a smile made Simon regret his offer. Her smile showed too many teeth, all the right shape, all the wrong number.
Inside he handed her a towel. She wiped at her mouth and black streaked the fabric like axle grease. She stared at the stain, then licked the towel clean in two quick laps, eyes closing as if savoring a spoonful of something sweet.
“You’re not human,” he said.
She cocked her head. “I am not,” she said brightly. “I am learning.”
“From where?”
“From you,” she said. “From the dark. From the big ones. From the little ones with the soft hands.” Her mouth widened. “They have very soft hands.”
He made tea because that’s what you do when something terrible is polite.
She didn’t drink it. She sniffed it the way an animal sniffs a trap, then smiled like a child at a trick. “This is made from leaves,” she said. “Leaves do not have souls.”
“You eat souls.”
“I eat only things with souls,” she corrected. “Some animals. Most people. You have…” She reached out, stopped short of touching his chest, fingers trembling with restraint he could feel in the air. “You have a good many. Some are loud.”
“That so.”
She leaned in until she smelled the cool just-shower smell. Her perfect hair brushed his jaw. “You carry them like lanterns. They hang on you. I like you for that.”
He didn’t flinch. “You shouldn’t.”
Her smile slid a little out of place. “I shouldn’t,” she agreed brightly. “But I do.”
That first night she sat at his table and watched him wash dishes. She watched the dog breathe. She watched the steam rise from a cracked cup as if it were language. When she finally stood to leave, the towel was clean again and the torn dress worse.
On her way out she said, “I will kill you later.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I figured.”
~
She came back often after that.
Sometimes she arrived before dawn with black wet on her and voices clinging to her like burrs. She’d stand in the scullery and let him hose her off, laughing when the water hit the hollow of her throat. The black ran in ribbons down the drain and made the smell stronger, like when rain unseals something buried.
Sometimes she came late, slipping in with the fog, sitting on the floorboards cross-legged, trying out phrases she’d found. “How’s your day,” she’d chirp. “How do you do. Lovely weather we are having,” as wind bit the windows.
She ate nothing he offered. Bread bored her. Meat went gray in the pan and withered as if it regretted itself. Milk curdled on the step when she looked at it too long. When she vanished for days at a time, the village noticed its absences. The bells tolled for the first one. After that they tolled less.
A notice went up in the post office by the stale mints: MISSING. Then two. Then they stopped putting up paper. The shopkeeper lowered his voice and told Simon the police were busy on the motorways. The vicar came by with leaflets about vigilance and asked if Simon had seen any strangers. Simon said no and the vicar’s eyes slid away like minnows.
On the worst night, she came in soaked to the elbows, face a halo of black gloss that never dried. The dog got up and went to the next room and lay down with his nose to the corner. She dropped something on the kitchen table with a soft wet thud. It was a pocket Bible with a thumbprint pressed deep into a page where the paper had gone thin from worry.
“I did not like the songs,” she said cheerfully, and opened the book to show him the holes her teeth had made.
“You’re the reason they’re missing,” he said, though it wasn’t a question.
She looked hurt for a heartbeat, practiced hurt, a mask. “They were very loud,” she said. “They were bright. Bright things make me hungrier.”
He thought of chalk scrawled around doorways, of chairs pulled against handles, of mothers telling children to be quiet in a way that teaches them something you can’t unteach. He washed the table where the book had been, long after the water ran clear.
~
In bed that night he faced the window and watched the dark make the hedges taller. He remembered a corridor that smelled like hot wires and piss, a man screaming through a gag, his own hands steady because that was the job. He understood then why the witch’s perfect hair made his teeth ache: it was a lie meant to soothe you, the way uniforms are lies. She had painted on the easiest part of being human and left the hard parts missing.
He fell in love like a man stepping off a step he misjudged.
Not all at once. Not like a song. More like realizing you’ve been humming under your breath this whole time and the tune isn’t going to stop.
It wasn’t about pity. He didn’t mistake the teeth for anything but teeth. It wasn’t about saving her. He wasn’t a savior. He didn’t have that in him anymore, if he ever did.
He loved the way her head tilted when swallows turned all at once above the barn. He loved how she tried to drink tea because that’s what the people in crisply lit living rooms did, and then spat it daintily into the sink and clapped for herself, delighted. He loved that she told him what she was going to do to him and didn’t bother pretending otherwise.
“You should run,” she’d say, lying on the floor with her hair arranged like she’d planned it,
“I should,” he’d say.
“Your soul will be delicious,” she’d whisper, eyes closing.
“Romantic.”
She practiced smiling in his hallway mirror. She practiced frowns, too, and frightened looks. Once she tried a laugh and it came out all wrong, so wrong it made his eyes sting. He showed her how to deadpan. “You don’t have to show all your teeth,” he said, and she nodded, immediately less terrible and somehow worse.
When the village finally came, it was the wrong kind of night for torches. Wet, wind pressing the rain sideways, making flame a stubborn, needy thing that gulped air. They came anyway, six men and two boys with shirts over their mouths and a borrowed shotgun passing from hand to hand. Someone had chalked crosses on their brows that rain was eating away.
Simon saw the glow on the lane and stood in the doorway with his coat unbuttoned. The dog hid under the dresser. The witch sat at the table with her hands folded just so, her back too straight, a schoolgirl in a parody of attention.
“Evening, gents,” Simon said. “Help you?”
“Where is she?” The man with the shotgun had a face from the butcher’s window in the village. Red meat and white fat and something stringy between was all she saw when looking at him. His boy stood behind him with terrified eyes that had already learned hatred.
“In the kitchen,” Simon said.
“Stand aside.”
“No.”
They looked at him differently then. Not a farmer. Not a neighbor. A man who could get in the way.
The butcher lifted the gun and its mouth looked absurdly small. The witch stood. It was a graceful motion, a dancer’s lift, and he could see her thinking. Is this how a person would stand? Even as the black on her lips thickened and her stare flattened like a shark’s turning.
“Leave,” she said, in the tone you use with a toddler and a hot stove.
The men moved first. She met him halfway. It was very fast. The sound they all made afterward wasn’t human or animal.
After that it was work for her. That’s what it looked like: Work. She moved through the torches and the men’s prayers and the rain, and where she moved everything ended. The black on her mouth steamed. When she turned, her hair did not. It hung perfect and shining while the rest of her was a slaughterhouse drain.
Simon didn’t help. He didn’t stop her. He stood in his own doorway and thought, This is what I am now. The dog pressed into the dresser and didn’t make a sound.
By dawn, the lane was empty but for bloodied torches guttered into sticks and a streak down the ditch where dark red water ran thicker than it should. The witch came back inside, humming a tune he recognized from the vicarage. Her face was all wrong and then, by degrees, even more wrong. She blinked too often. She smiled black, red, and wide. She set the kettle on the hob and watched it with fixed delight until steam cried and rattled the lid.
Then stopped.
“You could have stopped me,” she said without looking. Standing by the kettle.
“I know,” he said.
“You did not.”
“I know.”
She glanced at him with a puzzle-piece expression, like she’d expected one shape and found another. “I am saving you,” she said, with a child’s pride.
“For last,” he said.
“For best,” she corrected cheerfully.
~
He bathed her in the scullery again. He scrubbed the black off her chin and wrung out the ruined dress and hung it beside the coats. He put a hand to the flawless weight of her hair and felt nothing but the idea of silk.
When the village was nothing but a habit of looking toward where it used to be, the fields grew tall and mean. Wheat went feral without the pressure of eyes. Simon worked in the heat and listened to the insects, and the witch practiced her faces and got very good at surprise. Sometimes he saw a woman in her, briefly, like a portrait underneath a painting. He suspected that wasn’t for him.
Could we maybe get a Ghost or König with a lifeguard or professional competitive swimmer reader, please?? (If you're not too busy and dont mind, ofc!)
No
JK! 😁💚
~
Deep Water
Simon Riley X Lifeguard Reader
The pool didn’t look like much from the outside. Just a squat concrete block behind chain-link and razor wire, but inside, the water gleamed like glass under the fluorescent lights. The smell of chlorine mixed with the faint metallic tang of military-grade discipline.
Captain Price stood on the deck, arms crossed. “We’ve got lads who can drop from ten thousand feet,” he said, his voice echoing off the tiles, “but half of you sink like bloody anchors. That ends today.”
Soap groaned beside Ghost. “You’re tellin’ me this is what R&R looks like now? Wet socks and humiliation?”
Ghost didn’t answer. His focus was already drawn elsewhere. To the figure gliding through the water with lethal grace. You surfaced at the far end of the pool, pulling your goggles off, droplets cascading down toned arms and shoulders built for endurance. The strength in your movements wasn’t showy. It was efficient, controlled. When you stepped out of the water, every eye followed, but you didn’t seem to notice. You moved like someone who belonged to the water more than land.
“Task Force 141,” you said evenly, clipboard in hand. “I’m your instructor for the next two weeks. You can call me Y/N or ‘Coach.’ Either works.”
Soap leaned toward Ghost with a grin. “This is like boot camp all over again.”
But Ghost wasn’t responding. He couldn’t stop watching the way your expression shifted between calm and commanding. There was something magnetic about you. Not just the way you moved, but the certainty in your voice, the kind that came from surviving what others couldn’t.
You started them with basic survival drills, watching each man with a precise, analytical eye. When it came to Ghost’s turn, you stopped beside him at the edge of the pool.
“Riley,” you said, glancing at his mask. “That’s not staying on.”
He froze for a second, fingers tightening near the strap. Nobody ever asked him to remove it. But there was no judgment in your tone. Just expectation. Slowly, he pulled it off, and the air hit his face cold and strange. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t stare.
“You breathe shallow,” you observed quietly. “Not fear. Habit. Soldiers forget how to trust their own lungs after too long in the field. We’ll fix that.”
You stepped closer, taking his mask out of his hand and placing it on a table nearby. “In the water, control means survival. You don’t fight it, you move with it.”
Soap, attempting a backstroke in the next lane, immediately choked and sank. “Move with it, she says! Bloody thing’s tryna drown me!”
You laughed. An unguarded sound that cracked through the discipline of the room like sunlight. Ghost found himself wanting to hear it again. It had been too long since something that simple felt… human.
Days passed in chlorine and quiet conversation. You corrected Ghost’s technique patiently, watching him adapt faster than most. Every time you leaned close to demonstrate a movement, his pulse betrayed him. He’d fought in deserts, jungles, and cities, but nothing had ever disarmed him like the curve of your smile or the calm rhythm of your voice.
Soap noticed first, of course. “You’re starin’, mate,” he teased one morning, hanging off the edge of the pool. “She’s a professional swimmer, you know. Used to train for the Olympics before all this.”
That night, Ghost looked you up. Your file was short but impressive. Former pro athlete turned survival instructor for special operations, specializing in underwater combat and recovery. The kind of person who turned skill into something lethal. No wonder you moved like that.
The next day, you caught him staring again. “If you’re trying to read me, Riley,” you said, tilting your head, “the water’s easier to understand.”
“Maybe I just like how you move through it,” he said, voice low, half-surprised he’d said it aloud.
You paused, something flickering in your eyes. Then a small smile ghosted across your lips. “Careful. Flattery makes people sink faster.”
“Good thing I can hold my breath.”
From then on, the lessons became quieter, slower, charged with something neither of you named. He swam beside you, mimicking your movements, his usual tension dissolving beneath the surface. For the first time in years, Ghost wasn’t surviving. He was learning how to move, to breathe, to exist without a fight.
One evening, after the others had cleared out, you stayed behind to do laps. The lights dimmed, water turning into liquid gold under the halogens. Ghost lingered by the deck, mask in hand, watching your silhouette cut through the glow.
“You’re still here,” you said, surfacing without surprise.
“Didn’t want to leave yet.”
You floated to the edge, resting your arms on the tiles. “You’re different in the water,” he said quietly. “Peaceful.”
“That’s the point,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “Out there, it’s noise. In here, it’s control.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys control,” he murmured.
“Depends who’s got it.”
The air hung thick between you. Your breathing, the hum of the filters, the steady drip of water. All of it seemed louder in the silence that followed.
“You’re dangerous, Riley,” you said finally, a faint smile tugging at your mouth.
“Only if you stop teaching me.”
He left that night with your voice echoing in his head. Move with it, not against it.
Weeks later, the course ended. The team was stronger, faster, more confident in the water. You were standing by the hangar doors when he found you again, dressed down, duffel on your shoulder.
“Heading to another assignment?” he asked.
“Maybe,” you said. “Maybe not. Depends if my favorite student remembers what I taught him.”
He almost smiled. “You think I’ll forget you?”
“I think you’ll try to.”
He looked at you for a long moment. Memorizing the curve of your jaw, the way the sunlight caught in your hair. “Not possible,” he said finally.
You just gave him that quiet, knowing smile before turning away, disappearing into the crowd of soldiers and mechanics and distant orders.
That night, when Ghost finally fell asleep in his bunk, his dreams were filled with water. Calm, endless, safe. For the first time in years, there were no nightmares. Only the sound of your voice, soft and certain, echoing through the dark.
Had a little idea for Simon x animal lover!reader, she absolutely LOVES animals to bits. It seems like anywhere she sees a stray cat or dog, or even meets one of her friends' pets, she's already befriended it within an instant. Then there's Simon, who doesn't quite understand why she likes them so much, but he's not complaining in the slightest.
Hope this is fun to write if you decide to do so!!! :)
Love this. Sorry it took so long for me to get this out. I work in corporate Amazon and peak season is starting, meaning mandatory overtime. 😅
~
Soft Spot
Simon Riley X Pet Lover Reader
The first time Simon realized you had a thing for animals, you’d made him stop in the middle of a drive through Manchester traffic because you swore you saw a cat dart across the road.
“Simon, stop the car,” you’d said.
He’d thought it was an ambush. Hand was already on the handbrake, scanning rooftops, eyes sharp. But then he saw it. This tiny, matted puff of orange fur shaking under a parked van.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “You’re stoppin’ traffic for that?”
You ignored the dry tone and opened the door before he could protest. Two minutes later, you were back, cat wrapped in your jacket like a treasure, eyes bright as if you’d just saved the world.
“She was freezing,” you said, holding the bundle out like proof of your moral victory.
Simon looked at the cat. Then at you. Then back at the cat.
“She’s covered in fleas.”
“I’ll give her a bath.”
“Won’t like that.”
“I’ll wear gloves.”
He couldn’t argue with that logic. Mostly because you were smiling and he wasn’t used to seeing something that pure and effortless.
~
The cat incident was only the beginning.
You had this radar, this sixth sense for lost things. A stray dog on the corner, a pigeon missing half a leg, even the feral rabbit that lived under the barracks steps. You’d find them, feed them, and talk to them like they were people.
“Yer gonna catch somethin’,” Soap teased one day, watching you crouch near the fence to hand-feed a scruffy-looking terrier.
“She’s just saying hello,” you said softly, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”
Simon leaned against the jeep, mask on, pretending not to look. But his eyes softened, just a fraction. You were laughing. Head tilted, sunlight catching your hair, voice all warmth and sincerity. It wasn’t something he saw often in their world. Maybe ever.
Later, when Soap was off bragging about “training” the new recruits, Simon asked quietly, “You ever wonder why you like ‘em so much?”
You looked up from brushing fur off your pants. “Because they don’t lie,” you said simply. “They don’t hurt for fun. They just… exist. All they want is to feel safe.”
Simon didn’t say anything to that. But something about it stuck in his chest.
~
You started feeding the base strays regularly after that. There was a black cat who slept in the hangar rafters, a mutt who followed you everywhere, and even a few pigeons you’d trained to land near your window for sunflower seeds.
Simon pretended to be indifferent, but the truth was. He’d started carrying treats in his pockets, just in case one of them wandered by when you weren’t around.
You caught him once, crouched behind a supply crate, hand outstretched toward the cat.
“I don’t need an audience,” he muttered through the mask.
“I’m not judging,” you said, biting back a grin. “She likes you.”
“She likes the food.”
“She likes you,” you insisted, voice soft but firm.
The cat rubbed against his boot like she was proving you right.
“…Bloody manipulative creatures,” he said, but he didn’t move his foot.
~
At first, Ghost didn’t understand your attachment. He was used to a world where love was a liability, kindness a weapon turned against you. But watching you, with your open heart, your gentle hands, your absolute refusal to give up on anything that breathed. It did something to him.
Once, after a long mission, he found you sitting in the courtyard with a wounded stray curled in your lap. You were murmuring softly, coaxing the trembling creature to eat from your hand.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching. You looked up, eyes tired but still alight with that same quiet warmth.
“He’s scared,” you said. “Been on his own a long time.”
Simon crouched beside you, reaching out just enough for the dog to sniff his glove.
Your eyes met his. Slow, understanding, and the silence that followed wasn’t heavy.
It was… peaceful.
From then on, the strays came to trust him, too. The black cat sometimes slept on his gear bag. The terrier would sit at his feet during lunch breaks. It got to the point where Soap started calling him Doctor Dolittle.
“Oi, Ghost!” Soap laughed one morning. “Heard yer new partner’s got four legs and a tail!”
Simon grunted, but there was no denying the faint curl at the corner of his mouth.
~
Weeks later, he came back from a night op exhausted and silent. You were asleep on the couch in the common room, surrounded by three stray dogs and that damn black cat on your chest like a paperweight.
He froze in the doorway, just… looking. There was something almost sacred about the sight. The way the animals trusted you completely, the way you looked at peace among them. Like the world hadn’t burned everything good out of you the way it had out of him.
He crouched down quietly, brushing a stray hair from your face. The cat opened one eye, gave him a warning stare, then went back to sleep.
“Yeah,” he whispered, barely audible under his breath. “I get it now.”
He didn’t wake you. Just sat on the floor beside you until dawn, surrounded by fur, quiet breathing, and warmth he hadn’t known he missed.
YES, Dad Bod Ghost is essential. I don’t know how we’ve functioned without him.
~
Cupboard
Dad Bod Simon Riley X Fem Flustered Reader
The kettle had just started to sing when Simon padded into the kitchen shirtless, hair damp, dog tags tapping against his chest. He reached past Y/N for the mugs like it was nothing, all broad shoulders and scarred forearms and the kind of solid, lived-in strength that made her brain bootloop.
“Morning,” he rumbled.
Y/N stared at the cupboard.
“Morning,” she replied, to the cupboard.
He paused, glanced down at her. “You alright there, love?”
“Cupboard,” she said again, then wanted to throw herself outside.
Simon tried not to smile, he really tried, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Tea or coffee?”
“Yes,” she said, and immediately fled to the fruit bowl like that had any answers.
He poured both.
They sat. He talked about needing to fix the leaky tap. She stared at the notch above his collarbone like it had personally wronged her. He reached for the honey; his bicep flexed. The spoon clinked against porcelain. Y/N missed her mouth and dabbed tea on her own chin.
Simon slid a napkin across the table, eyes bright with trouble. “You’re spillin’.”
“You’re…” she blurted, and then her words sprinted away from her. “…fine.”
He took a slow sip, letting it hang. “Am I.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, cheeks on fire.
He didn’t. “Hot in here.”
“It’s February.”
“Must be somethin’ else, then.”
She got up, intent on dignity, and walked directly into the doorframe.
“Bloody hell,” Simon said, already behind her with a palm at the small of her back, steady. “You’re actually not okay.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted to the doorframe. “You’re the problem.”
“Am I,” he repeated, and she heard the smile this time.
~
The first time he really caught on was the gym.
He’d pulled his shirt off halfway through training because the place was a furnace. Y/N was on the rower, rhythm perfect until Simon dropped into a set of push-ups, back tapering into a softer plane at his waist, the kind of strength that looked like it could carry furniture and people with equal ease. She missed a stroke. Then another.
“Careful,” he said, not looking up, voice annoyingly calm. “Water bottle’s rollin’.”
“Not looking,” she lied, eyes absolutely looking.
He pushed to his feet, slow and sinfully unhurried, and wiped his brow with the hem of his hoodie. “No?”
“Nope,” she squeaked, and launched herself into a sprint that lasted four dramatic seconds before she nearly rowed off the machine.
He caged the back of the rower with one hand to steady it, the other finding her shoulder. “Easy.” His palm was big and warm and smelled like cedar soap and the gym. “You’re a menace when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered,” she said, wildly flustered.
“Mm.” He leaned down, putting his mouth near her ear. “Say the word and I’ll put the shirt back on.”
She swallowed. “Coward.”
His laugh was a low, pleased sound that did not help. “Right.”
He didn’t put it back on.
~
Domestic life did not improve matters.
On grocery day, he tugged his tee off because he’d spilled milk carrying bags in. “No sense smellin’ like a dairy,” he said, like that explained anything about the way Y/N froze with a loaf of bread half-out of the bag.
“St-stay right there,” she ordered, pointing the bread at him like a holy relic. “Don’t move.”
“You want me to pose?”
“Absolutely not,” she lied. “I’m telling you to… just… hold this.” She shoved the bread at him and fled to the laundry like a woman pursued by wolves.
He followed, bare-chested, carrying bread. “Bossy.”
“Put that on the counter.”
He set the bread on the washing machine instead, leaned a hip against it, scarred knuckles tapping idly on metal. “What’s this about?”
She stuffed his milk-spattered shirt into the washer, refused to look up. “I told you. You’re the problem.”
“How’s that then?”
“You’re… distracting.”
“Distractin’.” He tasted the word like it was brand new. “And you like that.”
Silence. The washer hummed to life. She stared at the buttons like they would save her.
Simon stepped in, close enough that his shadow covered hers on the tile. “Look at me.”
She did, finally, and it was a mistake. Up this close he was a landscape, collarbone ridge, warm skin, old scars like topography, a soft line at his belly that made her fingers twitch. His eyes were kind and entirely too amused.
“Thought so,” he murmured.
“Stop being very literally… that,” she said, waving at all of him.
“All of what?”
“Big. Warm. Unfair.”
He huffed a laugh, dog tags clinking when he dipped his head. “Unfair?”
“You know what you’re doing. You stretch on purpose.”
“Sometimes,” he admitted, shameless. “Helps with stiffness.”
“Simon.”
“Y/N.”
They stood there, anything but dignified. Then he grinned… slow, wicked… and reached past her to the shelf, deliberately making everything worse. “Need the detergent.” He plucked it down, his chest brushing her shoulder for the briefest, fatal second.
She made a noise that could only be described as a tiny scream into the void and slapped a hand over her own face. “I cannot function when you’re like this.”
“When I’m like what?”
“Half-naked and smug.”
He leaned his forehead to hers, smiling. “I’ll put a shirt on, if you ask.”
She dropped her hand, eyes narrowed. “And give you the satisfaction?”
“Already very satisfied, love.” His thumb tugged gently at her chin, bringing her gaze back when it tried to escape. “You think I don’t notice when you go quiet?”
“You notice everything.”
He sobered, just a little. “I notice you.”
That, more than the teasing, shut her up.
“C’mon,” he said, softer. “Couch.”
~
They didn’t make it to a film. There was an epic, world-ending debate about blankets, which Simon settled by simply becoming one, sprawled and heavy and warm. He tucked her into his side, arm around her shoulders, his other hand absentmindedly tracing circles on her forearm. The TV murmured to itself, ignored.
“Better?” he asked.
She exhaled into him. “Worse.”
“Injured by proximity?”
“Completely. It’s serious. Only cure is you never taking your shirt off in my line of sight ever again.”
“Hm.” He tilted his head, considering. “Counter-proposal: you tell me you like it and I keep doin’ it.”
She angled up, helpless. “I like it.”
“Didn’t quite hear.”
“I like it,” she repeated, mortified and laughing now. “You are… ridiculously…” She gestured helplessly at all of him. “…you.”
He kissed her temple, grin pressed to skin. “Good. Because I work hard on bein’ me.”
“Do you? Is there a regimen?”
“Tea, poor decisions, and training you to look me in the eye when I’m distractin’.”
“That’ll never happen.”
“Mm.” He slid two fingers under her chin, coaxed her up until their eyes met and stayed. The teasing softened into something warm and intent. “It already is.”
She melted, as expected. He looked insufferably pleased about it, as expected.
“Simon?” she said after a minute, cheek on his chest, voice drowsy and happy.
“Aye?”
“If you ever purposefully stretch in front of Soap like that, I’m filing for war crimes.”
He barked a laugh, full and easy. “Noted.”
“And maybe keep the shirt-off thing for me.”
He squeezed her closer, the weight of him anchoring, the warmth of him everywhere. “Was always for you, love.”
And because he was both a menace and a gentleman, he did not move again. Just breathed with her, soft and steady, letting her malfunction in peace.
The bell above the bookstore door always chimed too loudly for Simon’s liking. He preferred silence, shadow, slipping in and out unnoticed. But Y/N’s shop didn’t give him that luxury. Every time he stepped inside, the chime announced him like a herald, and every time she was there, her smile warm, her presence brighter than the paper lanterns strung across the ceiling.
And her chair.
It was never the same twice. Some weeks she wove ivy-green ribbon around the spokes, a small charm of a fox or an owl dangling near the armrest, forest themes for the children’s tales of knights and woodcutters. Around Christmas, she draped garland and tiny silver bells that jingled softly when she moved, laughing when the little ones tried to follow the sound during a game of hide and seek. In spring, pastel flowers wound across the handles. Once, when she read them Cinderella, the wheels glittered with stick-on stars, a tiny plastic crown perched cheekily on the footplate with a blue dress to match.
Simon never commented. He didn’t need to. He noticed everything. The care she took in making her chair a story all its own. The way the children flocked to her not just for the book in her hands, but because her world was something magical they wanted to be part of.
He’d stand at the shelves, feigning interest in random paperbacks, and watch her read. Her voice shifted with the story. Light and lyrical for fairy tales, rich and warm for adventures, quiet and hushed when she wanted the children to lean in closer. She made the room come alive.
He told himself that was why he came back so often when he wasn’t deployed. Not for her. For the stories. For the calm.
But then deployment took him away for months.
~
When he finally returned, the city gray and cold, he passed the bookstore three times before daring to step inside. The bell chimed, louder than he remembered.
She was there again, reading to a circle of children, her chair decked in wintry blue ribbon and paper snowflakes she must’ve cut out by hand. A small wooden reindeer was tied to the side, painted clumsily, probably by one of the kids.
When she finished and the children scattered with parents, her eyes found him immediately.
“Where have you been?” she asked, wheeling closer.
Simon froze.
“You used to come in every week,” she continued, her tone curious, not accusing. “Then nothing. For months. I thought maybe you’d moved.”
He slid the book back onto the shelf and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Been busy.”
“Busy,” she echoed, studying him with a quiet sharpness. But then her face softened, and she smiled. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. The shop’s been quieter without you.”
He blinked at that. “I don’t say much.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said easily. “Some people fill a room just by being in it.”
Simon’s chest tightened, dangerously, unfamiliar, like a stitch pulled loose inside him. He gave a stiff nod. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”
“You didn’t,” she replied gently. “I just noticed.”
And that was when it hit him: she hadn’t been afraid of him at all.
She’d been waiting.
~
It was late evening when Simon stopped by again. The shop was closed, lights dimmed except for the back corner where Y/N sat with a stack of craft supplies. Paper stars, fabric scraps, a spool of golden thread, little jars of glitter, spread out like treasure across the low table.
She glanced up, surprised. “You’re here after hours.”
He shrugged, pulling the hood of his jacket back. “Light was on.”
Y/N smiled faintly. “Caught me in the middle of redecorating. Tomorrow’s story time is Peter Pan, so I’m going for ‘Neverland chic.’” She wiggled a spool of green ribbon at him.
He nodded toward the chair. “Can I… help?”
Her brows lifted slightly, but she only pushed the supplies toward him. “If you’re brave enough to wield glitter.”
Simon sat opposite her, the table between them barely holding the chaos of crafts. He took the ribbon, turning it in his large hands, and carefully began to weave it through the spokes of her wheel. His movements were deliberate, almost surgical, as if this small task deserved the same precision as cleaning a rifle.
Y/N watched him work, chin propped on her hand. “You’re meticulous.”
“Can’t do a job halfway,” he murmured.
She tilted her head. “Does this count as a job?”
His eyes flicked up, meeting hers for a second too long. “…Suppose it does now.”
Silence fell, not heavy but warm. He threaded another ribbon through the wheel, knotting it neatly. When he sat back, the forest-green weave shimmered in the lamplight, like leaves catching sun.
“Not bad,” Y/N said, running her fingers over it. “You’ve got a knack.”
Simon’s mouth twitched beneath the mask.
She laughed, soft and genuine. Then, picking up a tiny jar of glitter stars, she held it out. “Final touch. Sprinkle it on the ribbon, makes it sparkle when I move.”
He hesitated. Glitter was chaos incarnate. But her eyes were bright, teasing, waiting. So he took the jar, tipped it gently, and let the tiny specks fall like stardust across the green.
Y/N rolled the wheel forward and back, watching the stars catch the light. “Perfect,” she said quietly.
Simon leaned back, hands dusted faintly with glitter. “You’ll steal the show.”
She looked at him then, really looked. At the broad man bent over her chair, his scarred hands gentled by ribbon and thread, his eyes softer than she’d ever seen them.
“Not me,” she murmured. “Us.”
Something in him tightened. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But when she reached across the table and brushed her hand over his, leaving a trail of golden dust on his knuckles, he didn’t pull away.
For the first time, Simon felt like he belonged in her quiet world of paper stars and fairy tales.
And that was more dangerous than any battlefield.
~
The next day, Simon told himself he’d just drop by for a book. Nothing more.
But when he reached the little shop, the bell chiming above his head, the hum of voices carried from the back corner. Children’s laughter, light and chaotic, tangled with Y/N’s voice as she read aloud.
He should’ve left. Crowds weren’t his thing. But something pinned him in place.
Y/N was in her chair at the circle’s center, her wheels shimmering with the green ribbons and glitter they’d tied the night before. The light from the paper lanterns made them sparkle every time she shifted, catching the wide-eyed wonder of the kids sitting cross-legged at her feet. She held the book high, her voice rising and falling like music.
“‘And off they flew to Neverland, where you never have to grow up,’” she read, smiling as a little boy gasped, eyes huge.
The kids leaned in, rapt. Every so often, Y/N reached out to ruffle a head of hair or steady a child leaning too far. Her face glowed. Not with the lamp light, but with something steadier, something Simon had only seen in rare moments on the field: joy without fear.
He stood in the doorway to the corner, unseen, and watched.
Not her chair. Not the glitter, or the ribbons, or even the book. Her.
The way her eyes softened when a girl climbed into her lap without hesitation. The way her laugh wrapped the whole circle in warmth. The way she belonged here, in this tiny bookshop, spinning magic out of stories while the world outside ran itself ragged.
Simon’s chest tightened, sharp and strange. He’d felt adrenaline before, fear, rage, relief. But this was different. Quieter. More dangerous.
I’m falling, he thought, as sure as if he’d stepped off a ledge.
And when Y/N finished the story, closing the book with a soft thump, the kids cheered and scrambled to their parents. She caught sight of him then, half-hidden in the corner. Her smile widened, her hand lifting in a small wave.
He stepped forward before he could think.
“Stayin’ for the end?” she teased, her voice low enough that only he heard.
Simon glanced at the glitter still clinging to her wheels, at the children who left reluctantly, still chattering about fairies and pirates. Then back to her.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, the words rough but true.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like Ghost or a soldier in someone else’s war. He just felt like Simon.
Simon, standing in a bookstore, realizing he didn’t just want to watch her world.
Overcast sky. No sirens, no wind. Just the rhythmic tap-tap of a white cane brushing over uneven sidewalk cracks and the occasional scuff of boots on concrete.
That’s when she ran into him.
Literally.
Her shoulder bumped hard against something solid, very solid, and the force made her stumble back slightly. Her fingers fumbled the cane as it slipped from her grasp and hit the ground with a loud clatter.
“Shit…” she muttered, reaching down with one hand, the other instinctively outstretched.
“I… here… let me…”
The voice that met her was deep. Soft. German-accented. Careful.
Before she could say a word, she felt the weight of her cane being gently pressed into her hand, his gloved fingers brushing over hers for just a second.
It was warm. Steady.
Big.
“Thanks,” she said quickly, squinting upward. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to… well… obviously.”
He didn’t laugh. Not in a condescending way.
But she felt it. That quiet exhale. A smile in his voice.
“No need to say sorry,” he said. “I think I was standing in the worst place.”
“Yeah? You some kind of sidewalk trap?”
“…Maybe.”
That made her laugh, short, bright, genuine. König’s heart stuttered.
She adjusted her grip on the cane and tilted her head toward him. “You still there?”
“Ja. Right here.”
“Good. I don’t like talking to ghosts. Or pigeons.”
König blinked. “Pigeons?”
“They’re rude. Zero boundaries.”
Another laugh burst from his throat, low and surprised. She grinned wider at the sound.
“You’re funny,” he said, a little breathless.
“I’m hilarious. And if you liked that one, you should hear what I say when I knock over glass display stands.”
He was already falling.
Hard.
Not because she was blind. Not because she was small and sharp and clearly didn’t care who she startled. But because she was herself. Confident. Warm. Fearless.
“Where are you headed?” he asked.
“Just a few blocks up. Coffee shop. They know me there. I’ve memorized the table layout, so I only knock over one chair now.”
König hesitated, shifting his weight.
“…May I walk with you?”
She paused.
Then offered a slow, crooked smile. “You offering because you want to? Or because you feel bad?”
“Because I want to.”
She seemed to weigh his answer, then gave the tiniest nod.
“Alright then. Tall guy. Let’s go.”
~
They walked together slowly.
She used her cane expertly, tapping ahead, navigating the world with graceful clumsiness and dry humor. König didn’t guide her, just stayed half a step beside her, quietly nudging her away from trash cans and sidewalk obstructions before she got to them.
She didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, but didn’t say anything.
At one point, her hand brushed his forearm.
“Holy shit,” she muttered. “How big are you?”
He blinked. “Sorry?”
“Your arm. You’re like… built like a vending machine.”
König flushed under his hood. “It’s just muscle.”
“Just muscle, he says,” she muttered with a grin. “I bet your hand is like, three of mine.”
She reached out.
And he gave it to her, awkwardly, like he was surrendering something sacred.
Her fingers were small. Warm. Callused. She touched his knuckles with quiet curiosity, thumb brushing over a scar there like she was reading it.
Then she let go just as easily.
“Yeah,” she said. “Vending machine confirmed.”
~
By the time they reached the café, König didn’t want to say goodbye.
But she turned to him with a smile that felt like sunlight, and said, “Thanks for the company, big guy.”
Another grin.
She tapped her cane toward the door and added, “See you around, vending machine.”
And disappeared inside.
Leaving König standing on the sidewalk. Heart hammering, hand tingling, already hoping she’d bump into him again.
