Was doing my laundry when "The Alchemy" by TS came on and this stupid little scene played out in my head and I'm sorry its probably shite but oh well I had to write it down. It's only been proof read once and I probably wont be going back over it but idk...enjoy if you'd like to!
We need more Johnny content in this fandom please I'm starved for it <3
No warnings just fluff :))))
Masterlist
-
Being Laswell’s secretary had its perks. The pay was great, you got to travel all the damn time, you met the most interesting people on a day-to-day basis, your pension was stacking like crazy, and the blue-eyed, charismatic Scotsman you so often encountered was definitely a highlight.
Laswell had recruited you straight from college as her lead data analyst, who also assisted her with all the paperwork that came with the CIA and the other important task forces she was set to oversee. Task Force 141 was a… special unit. A lot of the time, when their mission reports fell on your desk, she would give you that look. The one that meant make this disappear.
You never questioned her. You knew deep down that Kate was a good person, and this task force only served to make the world a safer place. Just from the looks of them, which thankfully you got to see often, they were all clearly very specialized. It was enough to make anyone a little nervous around them.
The first time you met them was after what they called a “basic hostage grab.” Hearing the story on the helicopter ride back to base, you realized there was nothing “basic” about the mission. Shots were fired, the one called “Gaz” was injured, and apparently bombs were going off… the handiwork of none other than Johnny.
Johnny took an interest in you immediately after Kate introduced you to the task force. He wasn't shy about the way his eyes tracked over your figure, making you subtly self-conscious about the outfit you had decided to wear that day. It wasn't your fault Kate didn't tell you they were hopping on a helicopter at 0700 hours. Thank God you packed a longer jacket.
After the brief introduction, Kate had sidestepped over to board the helicopter with Price, and the rest of the men followed suit. Johnny took up the rear, waiting for you with an outstretched hand to help you onto the chopper.
“Easy there, bonnie.”
You took his hand, looking down at the little step before he helped hoist you up. You were capable of doing so yourself, but you couldn't hide the small blush that crept up your face and lingered over your cheeks. Johnny definitely didn't miss it either as he sat right in front of you.
That first flight with 141 lived rent-free in your memory. Those blue eyes tracking over your legs, the way his hand felt in yours. You were done for the minute you laid eyes on him.
Now, here he was leaning over your desk months later, shamelessly flirting with you.
“I’m just saying, lass, the pubs are way better than the shite they have here. Just let me take you out one time, aye?”
You hated that you couldn't hide your smile from him, the flush and heat that always bloomed across your cheeks whenever he talked to you.
“Johnny, I don’t know… we technically work together. I'm sure there’s rules against that.”
“Bonnie, we don't follow the rules. You should ken that by now.”
His advances and compliments toward you never ceased. Every time he was on base, he would bring you things. Coffee in the morning after he'd asked for your order the second he saw one sitting on your desk, small compliments in sticky-note form left behind for you, he was a sucker for making you blush.
And don't even get him started when he spotted another lad trying to play his cards with you. Oh, the poor thing never stood a chance.
Johnny would make himself known in those moments, sometimes what felt like appearing out of thin air, all broad shoulders and pretty blue eyes and that charming grin that made every sensible thought fall straight out of your head. He'd come up beside you like he had every right to be there, arm brushing yours, voice low and teasing as he cut into whatever conversation you were having. Then, conveniently, that same lad would find himself shipped off to some other part of the world twenty-four hours later.
You didn't want to admit it, but Johnny had definitely wrangled his way into your heart.
The realization came sudden and sharp when he told you it was his turn for a solo op. The dread that curled into your stomach was so unexpected because… well, because this was his job. He'd done this countless times before. Fuck, you would know. You were the one filing away his reports and turning a blind eye to the others. So why was it that this time you were so… worried?
“You'll miss me, right, bonnie?” he had asked, leaning against your desk like he wasn't about to walk out the door and leave you sick with nerves for the next two weeks. “I'll make it back in one piece, just for you, lass.”
He'd said it with a wink and a quick, strong arm thrown around your shoulders, earning many… many confused and cheeky stares from the other lads.
And those two weeks felt like two years.
The others tried to help. Kyle was the most reassuring, always catching the panic before it spilled completely across your face.
“Don't worry,” he told you one afternoon, his voice steady in a way yours couldn't seem to be. “Soap knows what he's doing.”
“But he's alone out there,” you said, unable to stop the worry from slipping through your words. Real professional. Why couldn't you get a grip? “What if something happens?”
“Johnny's good at taking care of himself,” Kyle said gently. “One of the best. That's why he's with us, remember?”
Yeah. You knew that. Of course you knew that. But it didn't help the sleepless nights you spent worrying over him.
It wasn't until you were standing next to Laswell, waiting for the helicopter to land in the open field, that you realized just how bad it had gotten. Her reassurance that everything went fine meant nothing to you. It carried no weight. Not until you saw him again.
Finally, you heard the chopper blades. Then you felt the wind pick up around you, whipping at your jacket and pulling loose strands of hair across your face, and finally… finally, the helicopter came into view and touched down in front of you.
Laswell and the rest of the 141 stood near you, waiting for Johnny to exit the chopper. You don't know what came over you. The second the door slid open and Johnny jumped out, your feet had a mind of their own. Walking turned into jogging, then jogging turned into running, and Johnny must have seen you because suddenly he was moving too, matching your pace with that stupid, beautiful grin already spreading across his face.
You couldn't help yourself.
You ran straight into him, jumping slightly as your arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing him tightly and not caring how dirty or sweaty or smoke-stained he was. He was here. He was in one piece again, and Goddamn it, fucking Johnny MacTavish had done this to you, and there was no going back now.
“I told you you'd miss me, bonnie,” he murmured, one arm locking around your waist as the other hand came up to cradle the back of your neck. His voice was rough, warm, and so stupidly pleased that you wanted to smack him and kiss him all at once. “I'm here, aye? I'm right here.”
Then he kissed you. His hands tangled in your hair, bringing you to him and not letting go.
Right there in the open field, with the chopper blades still spinning behind him and whipping your hair every which way, with Laswell watching from somewhere behind you and the rest of the 141 no doubt losing their collective minds. Johnny kissed you like he had been waiting for this moment in agony, like the second his boots hit the ground, there had only been one place he wanted to be.
And the worst part was, you kissed him back just as desperately.
P.S. - if my taglist friends wouldn't mind answering a question for me...when you ask to be on a taglist does it mean for every piece of writing I put out or just on that specific fic? Please help a girl out, I've never done this before lol I'll take no offense if you tell me "Christ Gonzills I don't want every fic you write in my notifications, give me a break" PROMISE..scouts honor...I just gotta know pls!
Who knew all it took was one look at Simon Riley covered in blood to make you fail miserably at your job.
Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost stand behind your pilot’s chair, chests heaving from the effort of throwing themselves through the plane doors, fresh off the op you’re supposed to be flying them out of.
But you just sit there, jaw stupidly slack as you take in Simon’s already dark clothes, absolutely drenched in the proof of what a powerful predator he is. Deep red dots splatter his mask, too, and streak down his forearm, his fingers curled lazily around the handle of a knife.
Then he turns sharply, like he’s just noticed that the plane isn’t moving.
“The fuck are we waiting for?” Simon snaps.
Soap looks from him to you, then lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Don’t look at me. Seems the pretty pilot’s got a thing for blood.”
Simon’s head whips towards you.
Heat rushes to your cheeks, and your hand flies to the throttle. But then his gaze catches yours and he chuckles darkly.
“ 'S that right?”
The rich brown of his eyes grow molten beneath the smudges of red across his mask as he takes in your expression, and for one incredibly embarrassing moment, you almost forget how to actually fly this fucking thing.
Without breaking eye contact, Simon steps forward and crouches down to your level.
Your breath catches as his gloved hand closes over yours, gently pulling back the acceleration lever. The plane lurches forward hard enough to send the boys tumbling into a pile of grunts and curses.
Your stomach dips and you snap back into gear instinctively, flipping the switch on the dash to pull the wheels up, hands flying to the control stick as you build in altitude.
“Don’t worry, Bird,” Simon says gruffly, raising that knife and dragging one finger down the bloody blade. “It’s not mine.”
Girl Next Door - (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader) - Part 12
Main character is a FMC reader insert, she is unnamed. This fic deals with the theme of stalking and possibly some violence. I recognize that some elements may touch on sensitive spots for some readers. Please take care of yourself while reading and thank you for trying it out.
Description: Ghost likes his quiet, controlled life exactly as it is, until you move into the flat next door and start slipping into his routine without even trying. At first, it’s just overheard music, the smell of your cooking, and a few awkward hallway run-ins, but everything changes when orange envelopes start appearing on your doorstep. When Ghost realizes someone has been watching you, keeping his distance stops being an option.
Hey there - highly recommend reading the other chapters to avoid major spoilers :) - Gonzills
-
Two months had passed since Simon left.
You kicked the door shut behind you and dropped your bag on the floor, too tired to care that it landed directly in the middle of the entryway. Your shoes followed, one kicked toward the wall and the other abandoned somewhere near the little table beside the door before you dragged yourself farther into the flat.
Work had been exhausting.
Not particularly difficult, just long. The kind of day where every person who walked through the doors seemed to need something from you and every small task somehow created three more. By the time you'd clocked out, your head hurt, your feet ached and you'd seriously considered ordering takeaway for the fourth time that week.
Your eyes caught on the kitchen table, on the dried flowers still there. They'd died weeks ago, but you couldn't bring yourself to throw them out.
You'd taken the water out of the vase once the stems had started turning soft, afraid leaving them sitting in it would make the flowers rot. Now they were dried and fragile, their color faded into something darker than they had been when Simon handed them to you the day he left.
The flowers would stay exactly where they were until he brought you new ones. Whenever that was.
You looked toward the couch and found the blanket still thrown over the back where you'd left it that morning. It should've been washed by now. It had been two months, and you were fairly certain whatever trace of Simon remained on it was mostly in your head at this point. But like the flowers, you couldn't bring yourself to wash it.
You rubbed both hands over your face and turned toward the kitchen.
“He'll be back,” you muttered to yourself. Maybe tomorrow, or next week. That was the thought you had most days now. Simon could come home any moment now. Maybe you'd be at work when he returned and come home to find him sitting on your couch or sleeping in your bed.
There had been no messages. No calls. Simon had warned you there might not be, practically drilled into your head that just because he was silent didn't mean he wasn't okay.
You knew it would be like this. You'd looked him in the face and told him you understood, and you had meant it. Knowing the silence was coming didn't make it any easier though. You missed him. You missed him so much it hurt.
You had kept the flat mostly clean, partly because you liked it that way and partly because you didn't want Simon walking back through your door to find you'd been living on your couch surrounded by takeaway containers and dirty mugs. His toothbrush was still beside yours in the bathroom. The shirt he'd left in your laundry had been folded and placed in the top drawer of your dresser ready for him to wear when he came home.
You signed, pulling yourself together and getting back into your routine. You pulled open the fridge and stared inside for several seconds before accepting that nothing new was going to magically appear. Pasta it was.
The record player filled the silence while you cooked, music drifting through the flat as you put a pot of water on the stove and dug through the cupboards for something you could use. By the time the noodles were finished, you'd found half a jar of seasoning, some parmesan and a new jar of pasta sauce shoved near the back.
Good enough.
You wrapped your hand around the lid and twisted. Damn, it was on there good. You adjusted your grip and tried again. Nothing.
“Oh, come on. Please open,” But no, the jar remained stubbornly sealed.
You grabbed a tea towel and wrapped it around the lid, bracing the jar against your stomach as you twisted hard enough that your wrist started to hurt.
No budge.
You carried the jar to the sink and ran the lid beneath hot water, rotating it slowly. After thirty seconds, you dried it and tried again. The lid didn't move.
“Fuck's sake.”
The butter knife in the drawer caught your eye. You pulled it out and carefully worked the tip beneath the edge of the lid. You could practically hear him in your head, sighing and coming up behind you to take the jar from your hands.
Put the bloody knife down before you cut yourself.
God, you could really use him right now.
A knock sounded at the door.
You froze. Your heart seemed to stop somewhere beneath your ribs before starting again so hard it almost hurt.
Another knock came, firmer this time.
You were moving before you properly thought it through, abandoning the jar on the counter and crossing the flat too quickly. Your hand went to the lock, fingers fumbling once before you managed to open it.
The man standing in the corridor wasn't Simon. You—you didn’t know who this was. You had never seen him before.
He was older, broad through the shoulders, with a beard and tired eyes that seemed to take you in carefully. Your hand tightened around the edge of the door as your body remembered your stalker faster than your mind did. Maybe you shouldn't have just thrown open your door.
Then you noticed what he was wearing. You didn't know enough to understand ranks or units from a glance, but you'd seen some of Simon's gear before. It was similar but different in the details, and the man in front of you wore a hat Simon never would have chosen for himself.
Then the man cleared his throat and confirmed your name.
You stared at him. “Yeah. That's me.”
For a moment, he didn't say anything. Then he reached up and removed his hat, eyes dropping to the floor.
The unease in your stomach twisted.
“My name is Price. John Price,” the man said, his hat held tightly between his hands. “I'm Simon's captain.
You recognized the name immediately. Simon had mentioned him enough that you knew Price, he was the man on the other end of the phone whenever work pulled Simon away.
“Oh.” You tried to smile, but Price still wasn't looking at you properly. “I'm sorry. Yeah, I know of you.”
Price cleared his throat and finally lifted his eyes. Neither of you spoke, and the silence between you slowly became unbearable. Something was wrong. You could feel it spreading through your stomach, but every part of you fought against letting the thought form.
“Can I help you?” you asked.
Price's jaw tightened. “I wish there was an easier way to tell you this, but there isn't.”
Your hand found the doorframe.
“What are you talking about?”
“Simon was badly wounded during the operation.” Price stopped, his jaw worked like he was forcing himself to continue. He swallowed hard, eyes dropping for a moment before he tried again. “We… we did everything we could.” His voice faltered, rough and uneven now. “He fought hard. Right until the end.” Another pause, longer this time, like the last part refused to come out. “But… we couldn't get him home.”
You stared at him, it didn't make sense. He couldn't mean—
“What are you talking about?”
Price looked at you, his brows drawn tight, blue eyes slightly glassed over as he dragged a hand through his short hair. “I'm so sorry.”
“No.” The word was barely audible, hardly able to escape with the fire crawling up your throat, and you shook your head. “No, he's coming back.”
Price's face tightened, his gaze dropping as his eyes squeezed shut for a brief moment, a strained breath pulling into his chest.
This wasn't real, Simon was coming back. Any second now the lift would open and he'd be there, walking down the hallway to you.
“I told him I'd be here when he came back,” you continued. “He's coming back—”
Price looked at you again, his jaw tightening as he dragged a hand down his face, but not before a single tear slipped free and traced a quiet line down his cheek.
“Simon died from his injuries.”
Your breath caught painfully in your chest. The hallway seemed to tilt, every sound dulling until all you could hear was Price's voice repeating over and over in your head.
“No—no that's not—that can't—”
“I'm so sorry.”
“He's coming back.” Your voice cracked on the last word, splintering in a way you couldn't control. You tried to swallow it down, but your throat felt raw, like something was lodged there, refusing to move. The air wouldn't come properly, catching and stuttering as your chest tightened.
Price lowered his head before speaking again, his shoulders sagging and his grip tightening around his hat as if it were the only thing keeping him steady. “I've known Simon for a long time. Longer than most people ever got the chance to.”
His voice reached you like it was coming from the other end of a tunnel, muffled and distant, each word slipping past your heartbeat thundering in your ears.
“He was different on this last mission,” Price continued. “Happier than I'd seen him in years. There was something in him again, and I want you to know that was because of you.”
Tears were spilling down your face, hot and relentless, blurring everything in front of you.
“You brought something back to him,” Price said. “He talked about coming home. Simon never used to talk about home.”
Your mouth opened, but no sound came out, your throat tightening painfully as if the words were trapped.
Price reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “He made it clear that he wanted you to have everything,” Price said. “His flat. His things. He said there wasn't much, but it was yours.”
Your hand shook when he placed them into it. The tears were falling faster now, and you stared down at the keys in your hand as Price gently closed your fingers around them, the cold metal pressing into your skin. He didn’t let go right away—his hand stayed over yours, steady and warm, both of you trembling slightly as if he was trying to anchor you in place, to keep you from falling apart even more.
Price hesitated, his hand hovering at his side as if he were weighing something, his gaze flicking briefly to the floor before he drew in a slow breath. Then he reached into his jacket. He shifted slightly, releasing your hand before gently taking your other one and pressing something small into your palm, closing your fingers around it before you could even register what it was—your mind still stuck on his last words.
“He made me promise this would get to you.” Your eyes stayed fixed on his hand, on the way his fingers were curled around yours. You knew there was something there, something small pressed into your palm, but you couldn’t feel it. You couldn’t feel anything.
“He said you'd know what it meant,” Price continued. “Said it could tell you the things he couldn't.”
Your legs suddenly felt weak, and you swayed slightly. Price’s hand tightened just enough over yours to steady you, his other hand coming up to brace your arm.
“Simon would be here if he could,” Price said quietly, his grip firm but careful. “You need to know that. He was trying to come back to you.”
Your breath hitched, but you couldn’t look at him. Price’s hands lingered for a moment longer before he slowly let go. “I'll come back tomorrow,” he added, setting an envelope down on the small table beside you while your gaze remained fixed on your hand. “My contact information’s in there. You can call me anytime, for anything.”
You couldn't answer him. The words were there, somewhere deep inside you, tangled and choking, pressing against your ribs like they might break free if you just tried hard enough—but they wouldn't come.
Price put his hat back on. He looked at you once more before his eyes moved toward Simon's door across the hall. He took a step back, and you noticed the two tears sliding down his own cheeks before they disappeared. He composed himself, giving a small nod as he turned away.
You stood in the doorway long after the stairwell door closed behind him.
Simon wasn't coming back. Your lungs ached with a pressure that pushed against your ribs, like if you moved even an inch, everything inside you would shatter completely.
Died. Simon died. He's—he's dead.
You didn't know how long you stood there, hands closed around Simon's keys that felt so heavy in your grip. The record player had gone silent what felt like hours ago, the absence of music pressing in around you just as heavily as everything else.
He wasn't coming back.
Your gaze drifted back to his door across the hall, clinging to it like it might disappear in front of you.
Trembling, your fingers barely held onto what had been placed in them, your grip now loose and unsteady as your vision blurred again. You dragged the back of your hand across your face, smearing tears across your flushed skin in a desperate attempt to see clearly.
Your fingers curled tighter around it for a moment as you brought it to your chest, like you could keep it closed forever if you just held on hard enough.
Then, slowly, carefully, you opened your palm.
A small folded paper rested there, small and delicate against your skin, its edges worn thin as if he brushed his fingers over it often. Your own fingers shaking as you unfolded it.
The best things in life are often right in front of us.
He had kept it. The stupid fortune he'd hidden from you. You saw him clearly in your mind, sitting across from you in that little restaurant, smiling and laughing as you tried to wrestle it out of his hands.
Your hand came up to cover your mouth, but it couldn't hold back the sob that tore from your chest. Your knees finally gave, and you slid down against the doorframe with the fortune clutched between your fingers.
You looked at his door again and waited for the lock to turn.
Girl Next Door - (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader) - Part 11
Main character is a FMC reader insert, she is unnamed. This fic deals with the theme of stalking and possibly some violence. I recognize that some elements may touch on sensitive spots for some readers. Please take care of yourself while reading and thank you for trying it out.
Description: Ghost likes his quiet, controlled life exactly as it is, until you move into the flat next door and start slipping into his routine without even trying. At first, it’s just overheard music, the smell of your cooking, and a few awkward hallway run-ins, but everything changes when orange envelopes start appearing on your doorstep. When Ghost realizes someone has been watching you, keeping his distance stops being an option.
Hey there - highly recommend reading the other chapters to avoid major spoilers :) - Gonzills
-
Two weeks had come and passed since Simon had found you pinned against the copy machine with the threat of a knife at you.
The color had finally returned to your face. You were sleeping through most of the night again and had stopped jumping every time someone walked a little too heavily down the corridor outside your flat. Even the plant beside your door had somehow come back to life, its leaves green and standing upright after weeks of looking like it was giving up entirely.
It was resilient, much like you.
“Keep stirring, please.”
Simon blinked and looked down at the wooden spoon in his hand. He was making a roux. A new word he'd learned about eleven minutes ago and apparently it was something that needed his constant attention or it would burn to the bottom of the pot and ruin dinner. You had told him to never stop stirring so seriously that Simon had taken it as an order.
“I am stirring, luv.”
“I saw you stop.”
“For two seconds.”
“But that's how it burns, pleeeease just don't stop stirring,” You whined at him.
Simon resumed moving the spoon around the pan, watching the butter and flour come together while you stood at the counter peeling potatoes. “Yes, ma'am.”
He managed to focus on the pan for approximately ten seconds before his eyes moved back to you.
You had your hair pulled away from your face, a few loose strands falling near your flushed cheeks. There was music playing quietly from the record player, something you'd put on without asking his opinion because apparently his taste was “too depressing”, and you were moving slightly with it without realizing. Your hips shifted every so often to the music while the vegetable peeler scraped against the potato in your hand.
“Simon.”
His eyes immediately returned to the pan the second he was caught. “Might be easier if someone wasn't distractin’ me.”
Your mouth dropped open slightly before you shook your head and turned back toward the counter. “Oh my God, you’re killing me here.”
He felt the warmth bloom through his chest involuntarily. You were smiling, that was the reason he kept getting distracted. Simon couldn't seem to stop looking at you. He'd spent two weeks watching the last of the fear slowly leave your face, each day putting a little more of you back together where the stalker had tried to take it. The first night, you'd slept curled against him so tightly he'd lost feeling in one arm but refused to move it. By the third, you'd stopped checking the lock before bed, trusting that he'd taken care of it. Yesterday, you'd left your curtains open until sunset without noticing.
Simon thanked whatever God was still bothering to keep an eye on him that you were standing there—with him.
The weeks had passed quieter than he expected. The police already had your earlier reports, which meant the moment Elias was found inside your workplace with a stolen access badge and a knife, all those envelopes and photographs stopped looking like incidents nobody could do much about. Your manager hadn't known the full extent of it until you quickly explained everything with him unconscious on the floor, but Simon remembered the way the man's face had changed when you pointed out the knife beneath the cabinet.
He'd looked at you first. Then Elias. Then Simon. The decision seemed to make itself.
Your manager had told Simon to take you into the empty office at the end of the corridor and stay there until someone came for your statement. There had been no long conversation or demand for an explanation about who Simon was. Just a look between two men who both understood the situation.
The police arrived minutes later. Your previous reports gave them somewhere to start, Elias gave them plenty more to work with, and your manager's account of what happened in the copy room remained conveniently lacking in detail when it came to Simon.
Price had made several phone calls on Simon's behalf after that. The only part he'd bothered listening to was when Price assured him Elias had been booked and was facing enough serious charges that nobody expected him to be wandering back onto the street anytime soon. Simon had made him explain it twice anyway before deciding to come to terms with it. Elias wasn't getting near you again.
“Simon… Riley…”
His spoon immediately began moving faster. He looked down at the roux and decided it looked exactly the same as it had thirty seconds ago. “Think it's done.”
You set the peeler down and came over, slipping into the small space beside him to inspect the pot. He moved the spoon out of the way while you leaned closer, your arm brushing his. You dragged one finger carefully through the sauce left on the back of the spoon before tasting it. Your eyebrows lifted as you looked at him. “That's actually really good!”
“Actually?”
You smiled and looked up at him. “Look at you, a professional.”
“Hardly.” Simon set the spoon down. “Just good at following orders.”
You laughed, turning back toward the counter, but Simon caught you around the waist before you managed a full step. A startled squeal slipped out of you as he pulled you back against him, your shoulders meeting his chest while his arms settled around your middle.
“Si, the potatoes.”
“They're not going anywhere.”
“But the sauce could burn.”
“I turned the heat off.”
He lowered his head instead, pressing his mouth to the spot beneath your ear he'd become rather fond of over the last week. Your whole body reacted exactly the way he knew it would, shoulders drawing up while a small shiver moved through you.
Simon smiled against your skin.
“You're horrible,” you murmured, though the way you tilted your head to give him more room proved quite the opposite in his mind.
“Thought I was a professional?”
You turned fully in his arms then, your hands settling against his chest as you stared up at him. He barely had time to register the look on your face before you kissed him, and Christ, even after a week of being allowed to do this whenever he wanted, he still wasn't prepared for it.
His hands tightened at your waist, as you smiled against his mouth. He lifted you before you could complain, earning a startled laugh as he set you on the counter beside the abandoned potatoes. Your legs came around his waist automatically, so naturally that Simon had to stop and appreciate the fact that this was apparently his life now.
You sat on your kitchen counter with your arms looped around his neck, looking entirely too pleased with yourself while Simon stood between your thighs.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” You laughed, rolling your eyes, but your fingers had already moved into the hair at the back of his head. There was no mask for you to catch anymore. He hadn't worn it inside with you since that night on his couch, and the realization still hit him every time when your hands touched his bare face. The feel of your fingers—so delicate on him—seemed to short circuit his brain.
Simon leaned into you and kissed the corner of your mouth. You chased him when he pulled away, crashing your lips to his.
He wanted this. The realization wasn't new, but it had grown significantly over the last two weeks. Simon wanted years of this life. He wanted to know every irritating habit you hadn't shown him yet and every look you'd give him when he inevitably learned exactly how to use them against you. Bloody hell, he wanted the rest of his life with you.
Dinner somehow eventually made it onto the table, though much later than you'd originally planned. Simon blamed you and you blamed him. Neither of you seemed particularly concerned about determining who was right though.
Afterward, you disappeared into the living room to find a film while Simon cleaned the kitchen and made coffee. The French press had been another recent lesson, one he'd taken far more seriously after learning you didn't tolerate a bad cup of coffee.
Simon poured two mugs and carried them into the living room.
You had already claimed one side of the couch, legs tucked beneath a blanket while you scrolled through the films. Simon handed you your coffee and sat beside you, leaving enough room between you out of habit. You immediately closed it.
Your body settled against his side, head finding his shoulder while you pulled the blanket over his legs too. Simon looked down at you as you took a sip from the mug he'd made.
“Good?” he asked.
You hummed thoughtfully, clearly dragging the moment out just to irritate him before finally nodding. “Perfect.”
It had become a habit without either of you saying it out loud. Dinner, then coffee. Always coffee. Two night owls stretching the evening as far as it would go, neither of you in any hurry to let the day end.
Simon let his arm settle around your shoulders as a film finally started. He had no idea what you'd chosen. Something with people talking too much probably, but you seemed interested, and Simon found watching you watch things way more entertaining anyways.
His phone buzzed. The sound was quiet, but Simon felt the dread wash over him before he even looked at it. There were only so many people that texted him and the most important one was sitting right next to him. That could only mean—
Price.
He reached for the phone and opened the message.
New op came through. Briefing tomorrow. Wheels up in forty-eight.
Simon read it once, then clicked his phone off.
Forty-eight hours.
You shifted beside him, as Simon placed his phone facedown on the coffee table. He tried to settle his arm around you again, tried to turn his attention back toward the television, but his body had already changed with the information. Of course you noticed.
“What's wrong?”
Simon looked down at you, kissing the top of your forehead in hopes of getting you not to ask again. “Nothing.”
You stared at him for all of two seconds before reaching for the remote and pausing the film. “What did Price say?”
Simon’s brow pulled together. Christ, you were getting far too good at reading him already, catching the shift in him before he’d even had the chance to bury it. “How’d you know it was Price?”
“Lucky guess.” You bumped your shoulder lightly against his, a small smile pulling at your mouth before your hand found the back of his neck, fingers brushing through the short hair there.
Simon dragged in a slow breath and let it out through his nose, his shoulders sinking as the last bit of resistance left him. There was no fear on your face yet, but Simon knew he was about to put it there.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “New job came through. Got a briefing tomorrow, then we leave in forty-eight hours.”
He watched your small smile gently fade, but it didn’t disappear entirely. He knew you were being strong for his sake and somehow that made him feel worse. Your eyes dropped briefly toward his phone.
“When will you be back?” Your voice softened as you leaned forward to match him, one hand still resting against the back of his neck while you searched his face.
Simon looked down at his hands. Here they come, the questions he couldn't give you proper answers to no matter how much he wanted to. “Don't know, love.”
You took that in quietly, your gaze dropping for a moment before finding his again. “What about where you’re going?”
Fuck, even if he had the answer he couldn’t tell you. He wanted to tell you, to confide in you and reassure you—tell you everything was going to be okay so he could keep that smile on your face and not have you look at him like you were now, with worry in your pretty eyes and making notches in his soul. But he couldn’t, because he was bound to it. Bound to silence and orders. And more than that, he knew telling you could put you in the line of fire and that was something he would never risk.
He didn’t answer—just held your gaze, the slightest shake of his head saying everything he couldn’t.
Simon watched you carefully, waiting for frustration or disappointment to settle over your face. He knew how it sounded. He would disappear and you would simply have to wait until he was able to come back to you. He hated that this was what he had to offer.
“I know it's not fair,” he said.
Your hand came up to his cheek, thumb brushing softly over the skin before you leaned in and kissed him.
“Don’t do that,” you whispered against his lips. “It's okay—I get it.”
Simon stayed close, his forehead nearly touching yours as he forced himself to give you the rest. “Might not be able to contact you either,” he admitted quietly. “You'll have to wait until I come back.”
The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. He hated explaining that to you, giving you no reassurance, no stupid date to circle on a calendar.
You looked at him for a long moment before setting your mug aside. Then, without saying anything, you shifted beneath the blanket and climbed into his lap, settling across his thighs until you were straddling him. Simon's hands found your waist automatically, his scarred, calloused fingers steadying you as they brushed over the soft, exposed skin beneath your shirt
“Si,” you said softly, your hands moved to either side of his face, holding him there so he couldn't turn away from what you were trying to tell him. “I knew this wasn't going to be easy. Before I even properly knew you, I knew you disappeared for weeks. Sometimes months.” A small smile pulled at your mouth as your thumbs brushed over his cheeks. “I am your neighbor, after all.”
Simon breathed out through his nose, but you kept going before he could interrupt.
“I knew what I was choosing when I told you I wanted this. Maybe I don't know where you go or what you do when you're gone, but I know you.” You leaned closer, your forehead settling gently against his. “So if you're telling me I have to wait, then I'll be here, waiting for you.”
Simon didn't know what to say to that. He couldn’t find the answer with the weight of guilt settling in his chest, so he gave up trying to find one. His hand left your waist long enough to brush the loose strands of hair back from your face, fingers lingering over your neck before he leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your collarbone.
“I don't want you to go,” you continued, your thumb brushing slowly over his cheek. “I'm probably going to worry myself sick and send you about a hundred messages you won't be able to answer, but any time I get with you is worth waiting for.”
Simon knew he didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve the softness of your hands on his face or the way you looked at him now. You knew enough about him to know he wasn't a good man. You'd seen the scars, felt every rough edge he'd tried to hide. He had done things you would never know about, things he would take to the grave before he ever let them touch you.
The words he wanted so desperately to say began crawling up his throat before he knew what was happening. Three of them, so simple in theory but Simon couldn't remember ever saying them in his life.
And suddenly he was fucking terrified. You felt too much like something he'd been given by mistake. Something good that had somehow found its way into his hands despite everything he'd done. Simon had lived most his life having good things ripped away from him, and some far too broken, irrational part of him was convinced that saying those words aloud would make this—go away too.
His throat tightened around the words, barbed wire coiling tight and unforgiving, every breath dragging against it until it burned.
He couldn't say it—but he could show you.
Simon's hand slid around the back of your neck as he pulled you into him, catching your mouth with his before the words had another chance to rise. You made a soft sound against his lips, surprised by the sudden movement, and he forced himself to memorize the sound of it as his other arm wrapped around your waist. He shifted beneath you, turning until your back met the couch cushions and he followed you down, settling carefully between your legs.
He kissed you slowly, as slow as he could, focusing on the taste of you. His lips pressed, lingered, shifted, as if he were learning the shape of you all over again. He breathed you in between each touch, his nose brushing yours, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before settling at your throat, feeling the steady pulse there.
There was no rush to it, none of the hunger that had consumed him the first time. Simon took his time, his mouth moving against yours as he tried to put everything he couldn't say into every pass of his lips and every careful stroke of his thumb against your cheek. He listened to the quiet breaths you took between kisses, felt your fingers slide into the short hair at the back of his head before drifting down over his neck and the bare skin beneath his shirt.
He prayed he would remember this while he was away, every taste, every sound falling from your mouth, every tiny fleck of color hidden in your eyes. He wanted the feeling of your hands branded into his skin so deeply that he could call on it later, in the coming days when the cold settled into his bones and the dark started creeping into the corners of his mind.
And somewhere between the words trapped in his throat and the feeling of your hands moving over his skin, Simon knew there wasn't a single thing he wouldn't do for you. Not after this.
Truth was, you already had his heart. But if you needed it, he'd give it to you anyway.
if you leave this kind of comment on any fanfic writer’s work or if you think this shit is okay and isn’t the reason more and more writers are choosing not to share their works with your entitled ass for free anymore, you should be ashamed of yourself.
if you suspect a fic is ai and if that bothers you, quietly close the tap and leave the fic. no one forces you to stay.
Girl Next Door - (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader) - Part 10
Main character is a FMC reader insert, she is unnamed. This fic deals with the theme of stalking and possibly some violence. I recognize that some elements may touch on sensitive spots for some readers. Please take care of yourself while reading and thank you for trying it out.
Description: Ghost likes his quiet, controlled life exactly as it is, until you move into the flat next door and start slipping into his routine without even trying. At first, it’s just overheard music, the smell of your cooking, and a few awkward hallway run-ins, but everything changes when orange envelopes start appearing on your doorstep. When Ghost realizes someone has been watching you, keeping his distance stops being an option.
Letting you go to work was one of the hardest tactical decisions Simon ever had to make. The amount of unease in his gut knowing the risks, knowing just how much this situation escalated made him feel like he was dangling you on a fishing line just waiting for the stalker to bite.
He was always focused, known for his ability to lock in and lock on. This though, this was something that reached a new level. He had not taken his eyes off you from the moment he dropped you off at your work approximately three hours ago. Simon hated it, you were bait.
You looked over at him occasionally, sometimes giving him a small smile, or a face that conveyed you’d rather be anywhere else. One time your cheeky self decided to hold up a paper that read ‘Ready to go home now’ after only being clocked in for an hour and a half. He was too, all he wanted to do was hold you close against him again, whisper right below your ear where his breath ghosted over your skin that made you shudder against—
No, stop it. Focus, Simon. Bloody hell. The things you do to him.
Elias would escalate, he knew that it was only a matter of time. Simon knew men like this, it was programmed into their DNA, they can’t let it go and now that he’s entered into the equation the chances for this to escalate beyond notes and pictures were incredibly high.
His phone buzzed once and your number popped up on screen. He had memorized your number within seconds of getting it. It was too dangerous to save your name. He would never take the chance with you.
Gotta make a few copies in the backroom, I’ll be a few minutes
Even though your message was only words on a little screen, he could hear the way you would say it to him. You were so close, just across the street from him but too far for his liking. He gave you nod making eye contact with you as you stood up from your desk, gathered some papers and disappeared from his line of sight behind some double doors.
The second you were gone, Simon’s mind raced. He pulled on all his years in the service to settle, to keep his mind clear, and to keep assessing the environment. But Christ this felt like ages.
One minute passed.
Then two.
Simon watched the double doors you had disappeared behind like he could force them open with the weight of his stare alone. People moved in and out of the front lobby, none of them looking twice at the woman behind the desk who had taken your place while you were gone. A man in a grey coat came through with a takeaway coffee in one hand and his phone pressed to his ear. Two women stepped outside laughing about something, their heels clicking against the pavement as they walked past him without a glance. A courier came up to the automatic doors with a parcel tucked under his arm, and Simon’s hand flexed once against his thigh before the receptionist waved him toward the main desk.
Three minutes.
Simon shifted in his seat, eyes scanning every visible window, every reflection in the glass, every person who passed through the lobby. He checked the time on his phone, then the street, then the double doors again. You said a few minutes. A few was three. Maybe five, if the machine jammed or someone else was using it. Maybe seven if you got dragged into some pointless office conversation by someone.
Five minutes.
The second hand on his watch crawled. His focus narrowed, not fading, but sharpening until the rest of the city seemed to dim around the edges. He could hear the dull rush of traffic, the wet hiss of tires over the street, the low murmur of people moving along the pavement. He could smell burnt coffee from the cup he had bought and barely touched, diesel from the bus that pulled up half a block away, rain still clinging to the air even though the sky had cleared.
Six minutes.
Simon picked up his phone and opened your last message. He stared at the words again as if there was something hidden in them he had missed the first time.
He typed before he could stop himself.
You done?
The message delivered.
No reply.
His pulse did not change. He had spent too many years training his body not to betray him, but something under his ribs tightened hard enough to hurt.
Seven minutes.
He called you.
It rang once. Twice. Three times. No answer.
Simon was already standing before the call ended. The cheap metal chair scraped against the pavement behind him, loud enough that the old man at the next table looked up from his newspaper.
His phone started buzzing in his hand.
Price.
Simon answered while he was already moving toward the curb. “Talk to me.”
“Ghost,” Price said, and there was something in his voice that Simon knew too well. “I’ve been tracking activity at her company, security logs flagged something this morning but wrote it off.”
Simon looked both ways once, barely enough to keep from getting clipped by a black cab, then crossed the street. “What did they find?”
“A badge scanned through the service entrance,” Price said. “About an hour ago.”
Simon’s stride didn’t slow, but everything in him went still. “Whose badge?”
“That’s the problem. The badge belongs to a retired employee. Facilities supervisor. Retired thirteen years ago.”
Simon stepped up onto the opposite pavement, his eyes cutting to the side of the building where deliveries came in. “Retired men don’t usually clock in.”
“No,” Price said, voice grim. “Dead ones don’t either. He passed six months ago.”
Simon stopped for half a second outside the glass doors.
Simon didn’t need more. He didn’t need confirmation, or circumstantial evidence, or one more polite warning from Price about not doing anything stupid. He shoved his phone into his pocket while Price was still saying his name and crossed the last few feet to the entrance.
The automatic doors opened too slowly.
Simon hit them with his shoulder before they had fully parted, forcing them wider as he stepped into the lobby. The receptionist looked up, a smile already forming out of habit, but it died the second she saw him. He knew what he looked like.
The man behind the front desk, the same manager who had handed you the envelope at work days before, stepped out from behind the counter with one hand half-raised. “Sir, you can’t just come back here. This is a private office, and I’ll need you to sign in.”
Simon didn’t slow down. “Where’s the copy room?”
The man blinked, taken aback by the tone alone. “Excuse me?”
Simon stepped closer, not touching him, not needing to. “The copy room. Back room. Wherever she went with the papers. Tell me where it is.”
The man’s face shifted then, irritation draining out and fear taking its place. His eyes flicked toward the double doors behind him, then back to Simon.
“It’s through there,” he said, voice smaller than before. “Past the staff kitchen, left at the end, then second door on the right. There’s a glass panel then the door.”
Simon didn’t bother waiting around for him to finish, he got the jist of it.
“Sir,” the manager called after him, but whatever else he meant to say died before it reached the air.
Simon pushed through the doors hard enough that one of them hit the wall. Heads turned in the open-plan office beyond, conversations stuttering and falling away as he cut through the space without looking at any of them.
Behind him, nearly lost beneath the sound of others' commotion, he heard the manager’s voice crack through the lobby.
“Call the police. Now.”
Simon turned left at the end of the corridor and saw the glass panel almost immediately.
It was frosted, enough that the room behind it blurred at the edges, but not enough to hide the two figures standing inside. Simon slowed before he reached the door, his entire body going unnaturally still as he took in everything the distorted glass gave him. You stood near the copier with your back against the machine, papers scattered over the floor around your feet. Your hands were held slightly away from your sides, palms visible, and even through the glass Simon could see the fear written across your face.
A man stood between you and the door.
His back was to Simon, shoulders hunched beneath an oversized jacket that looked like it hadn't been washed in months. His hair had grown past his ears, greasy and uneven where it curled against his neck, and even from several feet away Simon could tell the man hadn't properly taken care of himself in some time. He shifted from one foot to the other with nervous, jerking movements, his head dipping every few seconds as if he was struggling to keep his thoughts in one place.
Then Simon saw the knife.
The blade hung low at the man's side, gripped too tightly in his right hand. His knuckles had gone white around the handle.
Every instinct in his body demanded that he open the door and tear the bastard apart, a knife less than six feet from you. He studied the room instead, calculating the distance between the door and the man, the angle of his shoulders, which leg carried most of his weight. The copier blocked your escape to the left. A row of cabinets boxed you in on the other side. If the man turned quickly enough, he could reach you before Simon crossed the room.
It nearly killed him. Every second stretched into something unbearable, his chest tightening with the sickening thought of you getting hurt—or worse, dying—right in front of him.
The low hum of the copier covered most of the conversation, but as Simon moved closer to the glass, the man's voice carried through.
“You were supposed to understand,” the man said. “Out of everyone here, you were the only one who was nice to me.”
You slowly raised your hands up higher, “Eli, I was nice because you were nice too. Please, just put the knife down and we can talk about this.”
“I left you things,” Elias continued, his voice trembling now. “I showed you I cared. Didn't you appreciate any of it?”
“I didn't know they were from you,” you said carefully. “How could I have known, Eli? You never talked to me.”
Something in the man's shoulders changed. Elias straightened, the knife lifting slightly from his side as he took a step closer. “Then I saw you with him.” His voice cracked around the last word, all the quiet anger finally splitting open.
“You let him touch you,” Elias said, anger flooding his voice. “After everything I did, you let some fucking stranger put his hands on you like you belonged to him.”
The second Elias stepped closer to you, Simon was through the glass panel. He opened the door without warning and crossed the space before Elias had time to fully turn his head. Simon's fist connected hard with the back of the man's skull, just below the ear, and Elias dropped forward with a strangled sound. The knife slipped from his hand and clattered across the floor, spinning beneath one of the cabinets as Simon caught the back of his jacket and drove him the rest of the way down.
Elias tried to twist beneath him.
It lasted about three seconds.
Simon forced one arm behind his back and planted a knee between his shoulder blades, using enough weight to keep him flat against the floor. Elias bucked once, wild and uncoordinated, his free hand clawing against the carpet until Simon caught that wrist too and wrenched it behind him.
“Don't,” Simon growled near his ear. “Give me another fucking reason.”
For one terrible second, Simon wanted him to move again. Wanted the bastard to reach for the knife. Wanted him to turn his head and say your name one more time. Wanted any excuse that would allow Simon to stop thinking about the order Price gave him.
Don’t do anything stupid.
Simon tightened his grip on Elias's wrists. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it. But he looked up at you, pressed against the copier, staring at him with wide eyes. Your chest rose and fell too quickly, and one of your hands had come up to cover your mouth. Simon's anger disappeared beneath something colder.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
You blinked. “Are you okay?”
Simon stared at you. Of all the bloody questions.
“Am I okay?” His voice came out rougher than he intended. “He had a knife on you. Are you hurt?”
You shook your head quickly. “I'm fine. I'm fine. He didn't touch me.”
Simon looked you over anyway, his eyes tracing every visible inch of you for blood, torn clothing, anything that suggested you were lying to make him feel better. He found nothing. That didn't stop his pulse from pounding against his throat.
“Go get the manager,” he said. “Stay in the corridor. Don't go anywhere else.”
You stared at him for another second, clearly debating whether leaving was a responsible decision. But, you stepped around the scattered papers and hurried toward the door.
Good girl.
Elias had gone quiet. Not unconscious, Simon knew better than that, but dazed enough that his body had finally stopped fighting. Simon could hear his uneven breathing against the carpet.
“You watched her,” Simon said quietly.
Elias didn't answer.
Simon leaned slightly closer. “Took pictures of her.”
Nothing.
“Went through her things. Followed her. Scared her half to death because she smiled at you a few times while you delivered the fucking post.”
Elias shifted beneath him, and Simon's grip tightened.
“She wanted it,” Elias muttered.
Simon went completely still. The words were so pathetic that for one moment he couldn't understand how this man had managed to take up so much space in your life. How many nights have you spent awake because of him? How many times had Simon watched you check your locks or look over your shoulder because this man had mistaken basic human decency?
“She was nice to you,” Simon repeated. “That gives you no right over her.”
Elias moved suddenly beneath him, trying to roll his shoulder and pull one arm free. Simon reacted before the man got an inch. His fist connected with the side of Elias's face, knocking his head back against the carpet hard enough that he immediately went slack.
Sorry Price.
Footsteps thundered in the corridor seconds later. The manager appeared first, stopping dead in the doorway when he saw Simon kneeling over Elias. You came up behind him, breathless, and somewhere farther away Simon heard the first distant wail of sirens growing louder.
The manager looked at the knife beneath the cabinet, then Elias on the floor, then Simon.
Girl Next Door - (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader) - Part 9
Main character is a FMC reader insert, she is unnamed. This fic deals with the theme of stalking and possibly some violence. I recognize that some elements may touch on sensitive spots for some readers. Please take care of yourself while reading and thank you for trying it out.
Description: Ghost likes his quiet, controlled life exactly as it is, until you move into the flat next door and start slipping into his routine without even trying. At first, it’s just overheard music, the smell of your cooking, and a few awkward hallway run-ins, but everything changes when orange envelopes start appearing on your doorstep. When Ghost realizes someone has been watching you, keeping his distance stops being an option.
Simon’s eyes opened fully, his attention fully on his front door. Every soft, half-sleeping part of him vanished at once. His arm tightened around you, not enough to wake you properly, but enough to feel the slow rise and fall of your breathing against him.
Across the hall, and outside your door, something shifted. A light scrape came next. Then a small thump, barely anything at all, but Simon heard it as clearly as if it had landed beside his head.
His body moved before thought caught up. He eased you off him as carefully as he could, but you stirred anyway, blinking in confusion when the warmth of him disappeared.
“Simon?” you murmured, voice rough with sleep.
He was already reaching for the floor, finding his trousers and pulling them on quickly. “Stay here,” he said.
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, hair messy, eyes still lidded with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s outside your door.” Simon crossed the room in three strides, grabbing his mask from the floor and pulling it on. His shirt was still somewhere near the couch, but he didn’t grab for it. “Don’t open this door.”
Now you were fully awake, he saw it happen, the fear cutting through your confusion as you sat up, suddenly aware of everything that was happening. You reached for the closest covering you could find and pulled his shirt over your head, the hem swallowing you as you climbed off the couch.
“Be careful,” you said again, sharper this time.
He didn’t answer. He opened the side table drawer, the one he’d told you not to touch, and took out the handgun inside. Your eyes dropped to it, then back to him, but you didn’t say anything.
Simon moved to the door and listened.
The footsteps were retreating, light and quick. Too light, maybe. He opened the door fast and stepped into the corridor with the weapon low at his side, his shoulders squared and his eyes already cutting toward your flat.
An orange envelope sat on your welcome mat, and at the far end of the hall, near the stairwell, a small figure froze.
It was not the bastard Simon had been waiting for. It was a boy, maybe eleven or twelve, with a hood pulled up and trainers damp from the street. He had one hand on the stairwell door, eyes wide as he looked back and saw Simon standing there shirtless, masked, and armed.
The boy made a terrified sound and bolted. Simon cursed and went after him, putting the gun down before he left.
He didn't want to scare him worse than he already had, but the boy didn’t make it three steps down the stairs before Simon had him by the back of his hoodie, firm enough to stop him, careful enough not to hurt him.
“Easy,” Simon said, keeping his voice low despite the anger burning hot through his chest. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The boy twisted anyway, panic all over his face. “I didn’t do nothing! I swear, I didn’t do nothing.”
“You left a package at that door.”
“I was told to!” the boy blurted. His voice cracked, and the sound cut through enough of Simon’s rage to remind him what he was holding onto. Simon let go immediately. “Some bloke paid me, yeah? That’s all. He gave me twenty quid and said leave it at that door. I didn’t know it was bad.”
Simon crossed his arms looking down at the boy. “What bloke?”
“I don’t know.” The boy shook his head hard, eyes darting toward the lower flights like he was still calculating whether he could make another run for it. “He had his hood up. Had a hat too. He was by the alley near the corner shop.”
“What did he look like?” Simon asked.
“I don’t know,” the boy said again, more desperate now. “White, I think. Maybe old. Not old old, just older than me. He had gloves on. He said I could keep the money if I didn’t look in the bag.”
Simon’s jaw worked behind the mask. What a piece of shit, paying a child to do his dirty work. “You remember anything else?” Simon asked.
The boy shook his head, then hesitated. “He smelled weird.”
Simon looked him over, committing everything to memory. The panic seemed real enough, and the kid had no reason to protect the man beyond the twenty quid already in his pocket.
“Go straight home,” Simon said. “If he comes near you again, you tell someone.”
The boy nodded fast. “Yeah. Okay. I will.”
“And don’t take money from strange men,” he added from the stairs, voice softer than usual for him but no less serious.
Simon watched until the stairwell door below slammed shut. Only then did he turn and come back up to you, your face pale and your eyes fixed somewhere beyond him when he came back and opened his flat.
“What happened,” you said.
“It was just a kid, he was a messenger,” Simon replied.
Your gaze lifted to his. “What kind of sick person does such a thing?”
He didn’t argue, because you were right.
The package still sat outside your door. It was small, with your name written across the front in the same uneven hand from the note at work. Simon hated the sight of it so much that his fingers flexed before he forced himself to grab it.
You were trying to be brave again. He could see the effort in the way you held your shoulders, the way your fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt.
When he came back, he didn’t let you touch the package. You made a small sound from the couch, and Simon’s eyes flicked to you before he opened it. “You don’t have to look.”
“Yes, I do,” you said. Your voice was quiet but steady.
Simon looked at you for a second longer than he meant to before reaching into the envelope.
There was a photo inside. It was you outside your workplace, from earlier. You were beside the bike, helmet in hand, his jacket draped over your shoulders, your face turned up toward him with tears still bright in your eyes. Simon was in the frame too, standing close, one hand near your face.
The angle was from across the street.
Simon went cold. He had been there. The bastard had been there, close enough to take the photo, and Simon had missed him because you had come out crying and his whole world had narrowed to you.
He set the photo down carefully.
“Simon,” you said, but he didn’t look at you right away.
There was a note beneath the photo. He unfolded it slowly, already knowing he wasn’t going to like what he found.
You're mine.
Simon stared at the words until they blurred at the edges of his anger. Anger, clean and focused and so deep it took ahold of his lungs
“He was there,” he said.
You stood from the couch, his shirt slipping slightly from your shoulder. “You couldn’t have known.”
“I should’ve.”
“You were watching the building all day.”
“And he still got close enough.” Simon looked at the photo again, at the angle, at the distance, at the street he had scanned so many times. “He watched you come out. Watched me with you, and took this while I was right there.”
You stepped closer, careful like he was something dangerous enough to spook. “Simon, I came out crying. It was my fault, I distracted you. You were looking at me because I was falling apart.”
“No. Don’t blame yourself. I won’t allow that.”
“It’s the reason,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours then, but before either of you could say more, his phone rang from the side table.
Simon didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. He answered on the second ring. “Talk.”
There was a pause. “Good evening to you too.”
“Price.” The edge in Simon’s voice must have said enough, because Price didn’t bother with another comment. “We found something.”
Simon looked at you again. You were still standing close, arms now crossed at your chest, looking down at the photograph.
“Give me a name,” Simon said.
“Elias Lawrence,” Price replied. “Former internal mailroom and facilities staff at her company. Fired four months ago after multiple complaints. There;s all kinds of notes from harassment, inappropriate behavior toward staff, repeated boundary issues. Nothing stuck properly because nobody wanted the paperwork, but there’s more.”
Simon’s eyes moved to the evidence on the table. “Go on.”
“Prior caution for stalking an ex-girlfriend. Public indecency charge from a few years back. A couple of drug possession arrests, nothing major, but enough to suggest he’s not stable. His last known address is outdated, but I’m sending you the file now.”
“He sent a kid to her door,” Simon said.
Price went quiet. “What?”
“Paid a child twenty quid to leave a package with a new photo and a threatening note. Not enough to charge him but conveying enough .”
“Christ.” Price exhaled hard. “Send me a photo of everything, and I’ll move this faster. But I mean it, Simon. Don’t do something stupid.”
Simon ended the call without promising anything.
A second later, his phone buzzed with the file. He opened it, and Elias’s face filled the screen.
Your nosy little mind came into his peripheral vision looking at his phone, then you made a sound like the air had been knocked out of you.
Simon looked up. “You know him.”
You nodded, staring at the photo on his phone. “That’s Eli. He used to deliver mail to our floor.”
Simon handed you the phone carefully, but your fingers still shook as you took it. You didn’t look away from the screen, your eyes fixed on the face there like you were trying to match the man in the file to the person you barely remembered from work.
“He was always around,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “He came by the front desk, the offices, the little break room near the lifts. Everyone knew him, sort of. Not well. He kind of kept to himself a lot.”
Simon said nothing. He let you put the pieces together because he could see them forming behind your eyes, one after another, each one making your face go a little paler.
“I don’t think I ever had a proper conversation with him,” you continued. “Maybe a thank you if he handed me something, but that’s it. He was always so... reserved. Quiet, I guess.”
You looked at the package on the table, then at the photo, then back down at the file in your hands. The color had gone from your face.
“You think it was him?” you asked.
Simon took the phone back before your hands dropped the phone. “Looks that way.”
The answer didn’t comfort you, and it sure as hell didn’t comfort him either. His eyes cut back to the note on the table, to the ugly little sentence written there like the bastard had any right to put a claim on you.
You’re mine.
No. You weren’t Eli’s. You weren’t anyone’s to own, and the thought of that man sitting somewhere staring at your photos, writing those words, made Simon’s blood turn hot. Now more than ever, there was a part of him, dark and impossible to bury, that wanted to put himself between you and the rest of the world and dare anyone to try taking you.
He couldn’t get enough of you. He wanted to be near you every second of every day. The way you had so easily broken into his life, the walls he’d spent years building crashing down from the feel of your hands on him alone, left him lost in you in a way he didn’t know how to fight.
But if you changed your mind, if you gave him even one thought that said you didn’t want him, he would leave. He would tear himself away before he ever made you feel trapped. You were nobody’s, but for now, he was yours.
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, his shirt loose around your frame as you stared at the coffee table. Simon couldn’t fight the urge this time. He reached for your waist and pulled you into him, careful but firm, until you were close enough to tuck yourself against his chest.
“What happens now?” you asked, looking up at him.
Simon looked down at you, tears threatening to spill from those pretty eyes, His hand moved to the side of your face, brushing your hair behind your ear with more gentleness than he felt capable of.
“He won’t get his hands on you,” Simon said, voice low. “Once he shows his face, it’s over.”
Your arms wrapped around his frame then, tight enough that he felt the tremble in them. You buried your face against his chest, and Simon held you there, one hand at the back of your head while the other stayed firm at your waist.
“What if he doesn’t?” you asked quietly.
“He will,” Simon said. “Men like him always do. They get desperate when they realize they’re losing control.”
You pulled back enough to look at him, eyes still wet but steadier than before. “How do you know all this?”
A breath of amusement left him before he could stop it. “I’m in the mafia, remember?”
That earned him a small, disbelieving laugh. It wasn’t much, barely more than a crack in your fear, but Simon took it as a win. You tapped him lightly on the chest, and he caught your hand before you could pull it away.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said.
“Been called worse.”
Simon’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I promised I’d keep you safe,” he said. He leaned down and kissed your lips, trying to comfort you in your fear. You leaned into him, and Simon let himself have that one small second before lifting his head.
cw: mentions of sex, canonical character death, angst, sort of ghost x reader (can be read as platonic) not proofread, a teensy bit of ghoap if you really squint,
John "Soap" MacTavish who always wanted to be a father.
John "Soap" MacTavish who is the first one to bring up kids in your relationship, eyes twinkling with that loving curiosity and hope as he talked about wanting two, maybe even three wee bairns running around your modest family home near the edges of Glasgow.
John "Soap" MacTavish who knows he'd be a great father, he'd make sure of it— helping out in any way he can, making sure that his children grow up knowing what a father's love looks like. He whispers those promises so sweetly in your ear that night, promising to put a ring on that pretty finger, and put more than just one of his children inside your womb to see you all swollen and pretty with his offspring.
John "Soap" MacTavish who fucks you like there is no tomorrow, planting his seed deep inside you to make sure it takes, to make sure that when he comes back he sees your belly swollen and rounder than it was before.
John "Soap" MacTavish who leaves with a loving kiss to your soft lips, promising to be back as he whispers your name like it is the very thing that reminds him why he has to return home safe and sound— which to him, it very much is.
John "Soap" MacTavish who breaks his promise after being shot clean in the head by Makarov, taking his last breath underground while you were at home crying at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test you'd just taken, unable to wait any longer to tell your sweet Johnny that he would be a father soon.
Simon "Ghost" Riley who has to break the news of your beloved's death, who holds you in his arms while you bawl your eyes out, wondering if your life would be worth living ever again without the man you had spent the past few years loving more than yourself, or anything else for that matter.
Simon "Ghost" Riley who promises to stay by your side, because he still hasn't forgotten that conversation with Johnny where he asked Simon to take care of his sweet girl if anything happened to him.
Simon "Ghost" Riley who helps you raise the little MacTavish growing in your belly, who holds you through sleepless nights and the little bairn after his birth when he won't stop crying, because as much as Johnny would have loved to be the one to do so, he's not here anymore, and Simon is the kind of man who never goes back on his promises.
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