Simon "Ghost" Riley had a system. It was a good system, and it had kept him alive for longer than most people in his line of work managed. It was simple:
1. Trust no one.
2. Feel nothing.
3. Never, under any circumstances, get attached.
It was a system built on cold steel and high walls, and it had worked perfectly.
Until you.
You were the latest officer assigned to Task Force 141, a whirlwind of brightly coloured stationery, cheerful efficiency, and an alarming tendency to leave open containers of glitter on communal surfaces. You were everything Simon's system was designed to repel.
The first crack in his fortress appeared on a Tuesday. You had collated all the post-mission reports, colour-coded them, and left a summary on his desk with a bright pink sticky note that read, "LT, All done! :) — [yer name 🐰]". The smiley face felt like an act of psychological warfare. He scowled at it for a full five minutes.
The second crack came when Johnny MacTavish, the human equivalent of a golden retriever, decided you were his new best friend.
"Simon, c'mon, we're gettin' a pint wi' the new lass," Johnny declared, slinging an arm around Simon's shoulders.
"No," Simon grunted, not looking up from cleaning his rifle.
"Aye, you are. She said she wanted to pick our brains about operational procedure, said it was 'invaluable for her professional development'." Johnny waggled his eyebrows. "And she's got a laugh like a fuckin' melody, mate. You'll love her."
No. Simon didn't love her. He was deeply, profoundly annoyed by her.
Yet somehow, he still found himself at the pub later that night. Sitting in a dark corner, he watched you laugh at something Johnny said. You were gesturing with a pint glass, your eyes sparkling, when you suddenly looked over at him and smiled. It was a real, genuine, 'I see you sitting there like a brooding motherfucker and I'm still glad you're here' smile.
It was a critical hit to his defences. His system started throwing up error messages.
Things escalated from there. One morning you brought him a coffee, black with two sugars, exactly how he liked it. He didn't remember telling you how he liked it. He grunted a thanks, but the coffee sat warm on his desk an hour later because he couldn't bring himself to drink it. It felt too much like a peace offering.
The turning point came during a training exercise in the Welsh mountains. It was pouring, a miserable, bone-chilling rain that turned the ground into slippery mud. Trying to prove you weren't just a desk jockey, you had volunteered for the route-clearing team, but disaster struck when you twisted your ankle badly.
You tried to hide it, gritting your teeth and pushing on, but Simon saw. He noticed the wince, the subtle way you were favouring your left leg, and he was at your side in an instant.
"Sergeant," he barked, his voice cutting through the rain.
"LT, I'm fine," you insisted, your face pale from the sheer pain of it.
"You're not."
Before you could protest, he swept you up into his arms and started striding back to base. You sputtered in embarrassment, heat rushing to your face despite the freezing air.
"Put me down! I can walk!"
"No, you can't," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Stop wriggling."
You fell silent, but you didn't stop looking up at him. He could feel your gaze on the side of his face and the warmth of your body seeping through his gear. That was when he noticed it: when you frowned, a pair of the most adorable dimples he had ever seen appeared. It was a direct attack. He was a soldier, for Christ's sake, he couldn't be undone by dimples.
He looked down, and your eyes met his. They were wide, a little startled, and full of something that made his chest feel tight.
"Thank you, Simon," you whispered softly.
And just like that, his system crashed.
Error: Fatal Exception <????>
From that day on, he was a changed man. A man on a mission. His acts of service became less subtle and far more dedicated. He became the one to recalibrate your sidearm before a mission, ensuring the sight was perfect for you. He would "casually" end up carrying the heaviest part of your shared equipment. When the team got hit with a bout of food poisoning from some dodgy MREs, he was the one who made you a simple, bland meal from the fresh ingredients he had "found" (meaning he specifically went out and bought them for you).
Johnny watched it all unfold with an expression of absolute glee.
"He's courtin' you, hen," Johnny whispered to you one day while Simon was currently intimidating a supply clerk into giving you a new comms set. "It's his version of a bloody sonnet. He's probably gonna bring you a dead deer next."
"Johnny, be nice," you hissed, though you felt warmth bloom across your skin.
Simon noticed. He noticed everything. He noticed how you pulled your hair back when concentrating, or the way you bit your lip while reviewing a map. He noticed how you looked in tactical gear, which was a revelation in itself. He had always respected you as a professional, but now he was noticing the curve of your hips, the slenderness of your waist, and the strength in your stance. You were, in a word, stunning, and it was a deeply distracting, dangerous realization.
The final blow came late one night in the rec room. You had both been working late, and you had fallen asleep on the couch with a file open on your chest. He walked in to find you looking peaceful and vulnerable, standing there for a full ten minutes just watching you breathe.
Gently, he removed the file and covered you with a spare blanket. As he did, you stirred, your eyes blinking open. You looked up at him, sleepy and soft, and smiled.
"Hi," you mumbled.
"Hi," he replied, his voice quieter than he had ever heard it.
"You're always looking out for me," you said with a sleepy accusation.
"Someone has to," he grunted, though there was no heat behind it.
You reached out and touched his hand where it rested on the back of the sofa. "I like it when you do."
That was it. Game over. Total system failure. Simon Riley was in love.
He didn't say it, not for a long time, but he showed it. He showed it in the way he automatically took the seat next to you in briefings, the way he saved the last piece of cake for you, and the way he looked at you across the room with dark eyes full of an emotion he had kept locked away for years.
Eventually, Johnny, the self-appointed cheerleader for the whole operation, cornered him.
"Right, LT," Johnny said, leaning against the wall of the gym. "I've given you time. I've watched you do your weird, brooding, gift-giving thing. It's time. You tell her."
Simon finished his set of pull-ups, dropping down to wipe his face with a towel. "Don't know what you're on about, MacTavish."
"Aye, you do. You're in love with her. It's written all over your ugly mug. Now, you're gonna march in there and tell her, or I swear to God, I'll do it for you. And I'll make it embarrassin'. I'll use poetry."
The sheer horror of Johnny professing love on his behalf was enough to spur Simon into action. That evening, he found you in your office.
You looked up from your laptop, a smile already forming on your lips. "Simon. Everything okay?"
He just looked at you, staring at the dimples he was now completely defenceless against and the eyes that held more warmth than he had ever known. He took a breath.
"The coffee you make is shit," he said.
Your smile faltered. "Oh. Okay. I can try a different roast?"
"No," he said, stepping closer. "It's the worst coffee I've ever had. But I drink it every day because you make it."
You stared at him, bewildered.
He ran a hand over his masked face in a gesture of pure frustration. "I'm shit at this. What I'm trying to say is that I have feelings for you. Romantic feelings. It's a problem."
"A problem?" you asked, your voice quiet.
"A massive one. It's compromising my operational focus. I think about your dimples during firefights. It's unacceptable."
You tried very hard not to laugh, but your eyes were sparkling. "Simon... are you trying to tell me you like me?"
"Yes," he ground out. "I like you. I'm falling in love with you, and apparently, I'm an idiot about it."
That was when you got up from your chair and walked over to him. You reached up and gently tugged his mask, just enough to free his mouth.
"You big, beautiful idiot," you whispered, and then you kissed him.
It was soft and sweet, tasting like the future. When you pulled back, he looked utterly dazed.
"So," you said, warmth radiating from your smile. "Does this mean I can keep making you terrible coffee?"
He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan, pulling you back in for another kiss. "Yes," he murmured against your lips. "You can make me whatever you want."
From the hallway, Johnny watched with a triumphant grin, giving a quiet little fist pump. Task Force 141's latest mission was a resounding success.
a/n: sooo i didn’t post much this week so i thought i could make it up to you with some simon x fem!reader fluff. hope you like it!🪽🪽🩷 xoxo
This small death,
An exercitation of self-control;
Under water — the common denominator,
Where both the mind and the body
Find themselves soothed, thus speak
Clearest — arguments reverberate; the iron
Consciousness
Versus the flesh itself,
Voiceless, thoughtless.
Herein,
I seek the most
Primal language;
Sick of the words I have that tolerate
No
Contradiction.
One deep breath, and I tell myself
I must commit to not adding words
Nor presignify what my body tries to tell me;
I must listen and
Listen only.
With that, I sink beneath.
Immediately,
And most intimately,
I hear my heart beating. Only this:
Rhythmic thuds, slow, but already
Accelerating.
I hear
A burbling
As excess air bubbles
Escape my silent mouth, and again.
At that, my heart beats slower, yet
More powerful. Loud. A galley drum.
My only counter-argument is that I remain
Perfectly still. Thoughtless, yes. However,
Unmoving. Unwavering.
Against instinct.
My heart
Picks up the pace:
Harder, faster, louder; power-
Ful beats collapse to one deafening roar
Drumming in my ears.
I listen.
The first respiratory contraction
Shocks my throat in locked gulps;
The muted sound of
Pre-gasping.
I remain perfectly
Still, and
I listen.
I can't hear my heart anymore,
It's like white noise interrupted
By glottal thumps; arrhythmic, and
Accelerating into
//I'd carve my name//in your soul//but you took the tree i planted//for you//out the dense forest of my emotions//and now there's just a hole//where i should be pouring love//
Thinking about Soap finding out you have a thing for his accent....hmm....
His accent naturally gets thicker when he drinks, so when he grabbed you by the shoulder one night after the pub, leaning into your ear, voice low and telling you to stay and play poker with the lads, he didn't think anything of it. You thought he wouldn't notice, silly you. Of course he noticed the way your thighs slightly clenched, the way your eyes were suddenly looking at anything but him, and the way your voice slightly cracked when you fed him some bullshit excuse as to why you couldn't stay.
At first he thought he was being too touchy and made you uncomfortable, as there had been times in his life where he had accidentally overstepped physical boundaries with his friends. The mere thought of making his dear friend uncomfortable made him feel horrible. To fuel his worries, you had been ignoring him on base all week, never making small talk or smiling at him like you used to when you saw him in the halls, leaving the dining hall when he came in, and sitting away from during briefings.
Johnny was straight up sick to his stomach at this point.... that was until he heard you ranting to your friend when he walked past your office.
"I literally can't even be in the same room as him! I feel like I'm going crazy!"
"Just tell him! I've heard he's a freak, I'm sure he would be delighted to know how much you fancy his voice."
"Please, I do not fancy his voice like that."
"..."
"I don't! I mean, what am I even supposed to say to him? Hey Johnny, I know you're my good friend and all, but I have a thing for your voice, specifically, your accent! Y'know, like I fantasize of you talking me through it every time I hear you speak, and made myself cum on my fingers last night thinking of you whispering filth in my ear as you fucked me!"
"Exactly. Say that"
She turned around and opened the door, suddenly face to face with a very shocked Johnny who was doing an awful job of trying to cover the growing bulge in his pants. She grinned wildly and scurried off, making sure to keep the door open.
You think that maybe if you stared at your desk long enough, he would go away and forget everything you said. Unfortunately for you, the bulge in Johnny's pants wont stop growing. His loud footsteps fill the room as he makes his way towards your desk like a starving predator seeking his prey. His hands held his weight on the table as he leaned forward until his nose barely brushed against yours.
"Did ye say ye made herself cum on your fingers last night? Thinking of me?" His voice was low and mocking, and you could hear the shit eating grin he was sporting.
One of his big hands reaches up to grab your jaw, forcing you to meet his wild eyes. His fingers can feel your pounding heart, he grips tighter and hears your breath hitch.
"Ye like my voice, lass?"
You feel yourself nod before even fully registering what he said.
He leans into your ear now, fully pinning you to your seat. The smell of his cologne and natural musk fills your nose, and you feel like you might pass out from the amount of blood rushing to your core.
"Ye want me tae whisper filth into your ear? All ye had tae do was ask, Bonnie."
more, he tells me
one thing i already know
toothless famine worn
like his star mapped robes,
sky large atlantic deep
and turbulent as hands
marking the burials
of his scattered pieces
fingers as oracles
whispering behind his ears
in the lightning flicker of
his own treasured tongues
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