summary: you’ve daydreamed about your gorgeous coworker for months now, you never thought anything would come of it though, but what happens when he corners you in the printer room and asks to make you his?
drabble: ➵ “wish he was you” - ex-bf!ksj x engaged!reader (f)
min yoongi:
drabble: ➵ “royally forbidden” - knight!myg x princess!reader (s, f)
jung hoseok:
➵ nothing yet!
kim namjoon:
➵ “red velvet” - (sugarbaby!reader au) (s, a) | 6.6k
summary: when a handsome stranger approaches you at a bar and offers you the world and more - will you take the arrangement as it is? or discover something more?
➵ "incomprehensible” - (succubus!reader au) (s, a) | part one, part two | 3.4k
summary: you’re supposed to be insatiable, capable of nothing but lust and satisfying your own desires, that is your nature after all. however, you can’t bring yourself to proceed with any of that with him, the man you weren’t supposed to fall in love with.
jeon jungkook:
➵ “just call me angel” - (mafia!au) (s, f) | 3.4k
summary: your mafia-leading, tattooed, bad-boy lover has gone too far this time, causing you to go into hiding and try to escape that criminal underworld of his. but what happens when he finds you before you can leave for good? what if he actually wants to show his angel that he can change?
drabble: ➵ “after all, it’s tradition” - bestman!jjk x bridesmaid!reader (f)
series:
➵ “of olympus” sub masterlist (greekgod!au series)
summary: due to your reputation as a renowned criminal psychiatrist, you're assigned to a difficult patient at riker's island. during a session, he makes an offer that tempts the boundaries of your professional curiosity.
a/n: I can't say enough how blown away I am that y'all loved the offer so much. it was just meant to be a slutty lil one off for kinktober, a way for me to play around with an idea that had been lingering in the back of my head for awhile, and a chance for me to try my hand at writing for dex. your excitement made me so excited, and i've been having so much fun with this. thank you thank you thank you again. 🖤
if you'd like to be notified for updates, feel free to join the taglist here!
»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.
»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.
petition to start writing more soulmate AUs ? I MISS THEM SO MUCH 😫😫😫💔💔 I know they're all cliche or angsty but PLEASEEEE 🙏🙏🙏 IVE ALREADY READ ALMOST ALL OF EM BUT THE MOST RECENT ONES ARE FOR A YR OR 2 AGO 😭
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; getting shot at apparently has its benefits, one of them being that you get to meet your future husband.
𝐜𝐰; hospital setting, descriptions of gunshot wounds, post surgery pain, swearing, military inaccuracies, reader and ghost are sarcastic asf, hurt/comfort, fluff, it’s 6k words long.
𝐚/𝐧: so many of you loved my lieutenant!reader drabble and it motivated me to write the couple’s first meet. A thank you for reaching 1.5k followers<3
Everything the doctor says reaches you through a thick, cottony haze. His voice drifts in and out like a radio station struggling through static, words slurring together into meaningless fragments of medical jargon you neither have the energy nor the patience to decipher. The anesthesia still clings to your veins, heavy and nauseating, making your thoughts sluggish and your temper dangerously short.
The room smells sharply of antiseptic, sterile enough to sting the inside of your nose. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeps in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Footsteps echo faintly beyond the door. Metal clinks against metal. Every sound feels amplified, scraping against the inside of your skull.
Then the pain starts settling in.
At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.
“We managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.”
You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.
“You’ll be off active duty for several months,” the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. “You’ll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.”
His voice sounds farther away now, as though he’s standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.
“Okay,” you rasp out, "thank you."
Even speaking hurts.
You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesn’t feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.
The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.
Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.
You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.
With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.
That’s when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.
At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediately—you could’ve sworn the men’s and women’s recovery rooms were separated.
As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.
The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. There’s faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes you’re awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression you’re giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.
Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.
“Why are you here?”
Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.
“Too many casualties,” he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. “Hospital’s full. Had to stick you in a spare room.”
You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.
“Okay.”
And just like that, silence returns.
─☆*:・
You can’t sleep, not even close.
The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.
But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You can’t walk—not yet, at least.
A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.
Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.
You glance toward the man again. “What happened to you?”
He doesn’t look at you this time.
“Got shot,” his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. “Upper abdomen,” he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.
“Oh, fuck,” you mutter weakly.
“Yeah,” despite his—still flat—tone, there’s dry humor buried underneath it. “Didn’t hit anything vital, though.”
“Lucky, I guess.”
“Still feels like shit.”
A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.
“What’s your rank?” you ask once the silence stretches too long again.
“Lieutenant.”
That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.
“SAS?” you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.
Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesn’t ring any bells at all.
It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re Simon Riley?”
That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.
How the hell did you figure that out?
“I’m pretty sure it’s you,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Only lieutenant whose face I’ve never seen.”
For a moment, he just stares at you. “Yes. It’s me.”
Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.
Well.
That’s one hell of a roommate assignment.
─☆*:・
The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.
The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.
“You’re staring,” he says flatly.
You blink, realizing you absolutely are. “Just making sure you’re real.”
His visible eye narrows slightly. “Disappointed?”
“A little,” you admit. “Thought you’d be uglier.” A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.
“You always this chatty?” he asks eventually.
His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but there’s still something dryly amused underneath them.
You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.
“Just heavily medicated, don't get used to it,” you mumble and he just grunts in response.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way that’s starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.
You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting way—he got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skin’s paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.
Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.
"You're staring. Again."
"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"
"I'd say it's rude."
“You're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.”
Simon’s brow furrows almost immediately.
“You're dramatic.”
"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, “you've got quite the reputation.”
His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."
"Definitely," you agree with him, “probably terrorize recruits with it.”
"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.
You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The pain’s still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.
Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.
Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.
“You look less murderous now.”
You crack one eye open toward him. “Don’t worry,” you mumble sleepily. “Still judging your face.”
"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.
"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.
"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"
"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."
Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laugh—not a full one, though. He probably hasn’t laughed properly since birth, but it’s there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.
─☆*:・
Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.
Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.
The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."
"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.
His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.
“Go back to sleep,” you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.
“Tempting,” he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Doesn't look like it."
"Shut up."
The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.
"I hate this."
"Everyone does."
The room falls into a quieter silence afterward—not awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.
“First time being benched?” he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrong—being this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?”
“A bit.”
You exhale slowly through your nose. “I don’t know how to sit still,” the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.
Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Gets ugly in your head when you stop moving.”
The words settle heavily between you.
You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.
"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.
"Try not to kill yourself."
"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"
"It's true."
"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"
"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.
"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.
Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.
—☆*:・
By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.
Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.
One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isn’t there before reality catches up.
The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.
You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.
Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.
You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.
Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.
You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.
One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.
You stare at him for a long moment.
“Riley.”
“I got it.”
You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."
"Said I got it."
“You look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.”
“'M fine.”
“I'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.”
His visible eye narrows immediately.
“Thought ya leg didn’t work.”
“Temporarily,” you shoot back. “Unlike your brain apparently.”
A dangerous silence follows.
Then, somehow, he takes another step.
Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn’t catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.
You sigh heavily.
“Congratulations,” you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."
“I was getting water.”
“There is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.”
“I can do it on my own.”
You blink at him.
"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.” you say flatly. “You’re allowed to ask for help, just—go sit down.”
His mouth twitches faintly at that. You’re strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didn’t make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.
But there’s another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, he’s a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.
Doesn’t feel fair.
─☆*:・
The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.
The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinical—sort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.
You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nurses’ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.
Then the pain hits—one brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.
Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.
Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling above you blurs immediately.
“Oh, fuck—”
The words barely make it out.
Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.
Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.
Your stomach twists sharply.
Another pulse hits.
White flashes behind your eyes.
For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.
Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.
Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. There’s the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
“What happened?” still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.
You try answering him—you really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.
You hate this—how helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.
You’ve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldn’t. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like you’re falling apart at the seams.
The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.
Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomen—he had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.
Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.
The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.
“Hey,” he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.
Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeeze—hard, maybe too hard.
The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.
His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.
Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.
“Don’t,” you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.
Simon’s brows knit slightly.
“Whot?”
“Don't look at me like this,” the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.
For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesn’t answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.
“How’m I looking at you?”
You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t know how to explain it. He is looking at you like you’re something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.
Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.
Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.
You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.
The movement is weak.
Exhausted.
Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.
Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.
“You need a nurse,” he says quietly.
“No.”
The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.
Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.
Simon studies your face for a long moment. There’s exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, there’s something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasn’t there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.
Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.
Simon’s grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.
Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like he’s trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.
Nobody’s ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.
His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.
The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just full—heavy with things neither of you knows how to say.
Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.
“Scared me for a moment,” the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.
He doesn’t look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.
You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.
Most people wouldn’t even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.
The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.
Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.
The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.
Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.
Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.
That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.
His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity that’s become strangely familiar over the last few days. You’re beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough to—tiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.
It should feel invasive.
Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.
“You should sleep,” he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.
The words settle into the dim room quietly.
You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.
Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.
He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.
And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact he’s still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.
"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simon’s eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.
“'M fine.”
“Go lay down,” your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.
"Said I’m fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.
The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.
"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.
"Negative."
"You're insufferable."
“Hm.”
“You’re injured.” you debate a second later.
“So’re you.”
“Yes, but I’m clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.”
That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadn’t realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.
The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.
Your eyelids begin growing heavier.
Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because you’re afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesn’t want him to leave yet.
Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.
“You don’t have to stay over here,” you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.
Simon glances toward you.
“I know,” the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.
You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.
Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.
"You'll get used to it"
"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.
"Everything about the job is scary."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."
"I can't even walk."
"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."
"Still sucks."
After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.
“I know.”
Just two words, but they land heavily.
Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.
Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. He’s already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.
And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you both—all of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.
Simon’s gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.
Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.
Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.
You study him quietly.
The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.
A strange tenderness catches you off guard.
“Go sleep,” you murmur softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
─☆*:・
Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.
The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.
Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.
At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bed—advice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.
Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.
Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.
Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.
Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldn’t: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomen—fingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.
The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.
You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because he’s already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.
“You make it difficult not to,” you answer before thinking better of it.
The words settle into the quiet room between you.
His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.
A subtle movement.
Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.
“Should I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?” he asks eventually.
There’s dry amusement in the question.
You study him for a second before answering.
“No,” the honesty slips out easier than expected.
Simon’s expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.
Not surprise exactly.
Just awareness.
The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.
Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.
Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.
“How bad is it?”
“Better now.” You answer without looking at him.
Something flickers behind his eye at that—relief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.
No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.
You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.
“You stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.
Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.”
He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.
“You know,” you murmur softly, “you’re not nearly as cold as everyone says.”
Simon’s eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."
"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."
He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.
You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.
His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. “You should sleep,” you whisper.
Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. “Eventually.”
You roll your eyes softly. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
There’s a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, you’ve been staring at for the past three days while Simon’s stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.
The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.
“We should go out once we’re discharged.”
His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. “Are you asking me out?”
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Thought I was being obvious.”
A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.
“You know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?” you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, “not a problem.”
You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, “Date sounds fun."
soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words “oh my god, please, don’t.” plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, he’d been terrified of what that meant. he’d heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, he’d heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and he’d even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker he’d put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good he’d just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.
It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”
He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.
You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”
Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”
Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”
He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.
You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, “Make it up to me, then?”
Simon Riley x Doctor!Reader who specializes in scar treatment
Simon Riley x f!Reader
Notes: Okayyyyy so this may or may not turn into multiple installments, I have no idea :) but I just wrote this little thing on a whim, so if y'all want more, pls lemme know!!
Tags: Meet cute, banter, slight angst, discussion of past injury, hurt/comfort, platonic-not-yet-romantic relationship
-
"Doctor, another patient for you in room fifteen," the receptionist chirps from behind their desk, blindly handing you another clip board while they type away at their Microsoft spreadsheet.
"No rest for the wicked. Thanks, Julie," you huff, tugging your gloves off and throwing them into a bin before grabbing the clipboard. You thumb through the pages as you walk, relying on pure muscle memory to bring you to your destination. These days there was barely enough time between patients to grab a snack bar from the vending machine, let alone rest your legs. It paid to have patience in this line of work.
Patient: Simon Aaron Riley
Age: 45, DOB: 19 Dec 1980
Reason for visit: Consultation for traumatic injury scar minimization treatment on face, neck, and scalp. Patient reports that circumstances of injury occurred during military duty: caustic acid burns and non-penetrating blade wounds.
Caustic acid burns, you huff, flicking through the paperwork. You hadn't seen that since residency -- not to the extent reported, at least, and never on the face. Acid burns tended to be relatively rare, especially in comparison to other burn types. One of your friends who'd become an ER doctor had lamented about the uptick in acid attacks not too long ago.
Poor guy, your heart sympathizes. Lets see what we can do.
You breathe outwards before rapping on the door, barely hesitating before pushing inwards.
"Hi!" you greet enthusiastically, sparing the (hulking) man hardly more than a glance before you reach for the hand sanitizer dispenser, "Mr. Riley, is it?"
He clears his throat, "Yes."
His voice is much quieter than you'd expected, soft and muffled, like he hated the sound of it. You resist quirking a brow, turning around to study him while you rub the sanitizer in. He's...
God, he's big.
The stupid, rickety patient chair makes him look like a giant, bulging biceps heaped atop the arm rests like solid steel resting on bamboo scaffolding. If he stood, he'd probably hit his head on the doorway, but sitting there, his shoulders are hunched, his head hung low, the perfect picture of abject reticence. A black facial mask covers his jaw, matching the black baseball cap shielding his head.
Mysterious, your brain interjects.
Clinically self-concious, your (rather blunt) professional self deduces.
Inwardly, you think it's rather impressive, how such a large man manages to shrink himself down into something near invisible, but you keep that observation to yourself. You extend your hand in his direction when you introduce yourself.
"So what brings you in today?" you bounce onto your rolly-chair, scooting closer to the man, eager to hear his story.
He tsks.
"Read my chart, didn't you?" he scoffs, voice twinged with disdain...or is it amusement?
It takes a special type of person to walk the fine line between those two, your inner-world says, hardly offended.
"Yes, but I'd like to hear it in your own words. Better to let words speak rather than typing mistakes," you laugh.
"Hm," he acknowledges.
For a few seconds, you wait for a reply. However, after the awkwardness grows to a palpable level and nothing but the rusty hinges on your wheely-stool remain, it becomes apparent he isn't going to give one. Still, you don't make to interrupt the process.
His chest rises on an inhale, and slowly, his head lifts, just enough for you to see blue irises peek out from the shadow of the brim of his hat. When he finally meets your eye, vision settling across your face, the once stoic set of his brows loosens, pupils expanding to capture the light as best they can. He seems stuck there for a second, drinking you in from your forehead to the tip of your nose, until you cock your head in curiosity. The exhale is punched right out of him, and he hurriedly ducks his head, repositioning the brim of his hat.
Suddenly, he doesn't look so tough.
No, he just looks...shy, eyes darting around the room as if he'd rather stare anywhere else but at you.
He's quite cute, the chronically single part of you chimes in.
AMA Code 9.1.1, your white coat whispers.
Internally, you shake the thought off your back. Focus. This man is looking for your help.
Again, his voice is soft -- so contrastingly soft -- when he speaks.
"I've got scars," he blurts, obviously discomforted and too afraid to hold eye contact.
"Okay," you respond.
Another beat of silence. You hope that it conveys your assent to his control of the conversation.
"And..." he stutters, "And I want them gone."
"Okay," you nod, wheeling backwards to grab a pair of gloves, "And do you mind if I take a look at them? To see what treatments might be best?"
Again, he doesn't answer. You only look on patiently as you situate your gloves. He's not wearing a heart monitor on his fingertip, but if he were, you imagined it'd be racing right about now. He looks towards the closed door, Adam's apple bobbing with a harsh swallow.
"You gonna bring anyone else in? To look?" he mutters.
"It's just a quick exam, doesn't require any tools or assistance," you promise, "But if you'd be more comfortable with another person in the room with us -- or with another physician entirely -- we can certainly make that happen. It's your choice."
"No. It's not that."
He stares at the door for a few more seconds. His hands wring in his lap, and for the second time today, he manages to look you in the eye.
"Just...make it quick. Okay?" he says aloud, commanding.
Don't want anyone else to see, his fidgeting frame conveys.
"Of course," you say, standing from your chair. He reaches for the cap atop his head, shoulders taut, before he unhooks the mask from his ear. You can see it almost immediately despite the way he keeps his vision locked resolutely on the floor. Beneath buzzed blonde hair, you see the beginning of red raised lines, trailing down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. They're long, fluid, and reaching, starkly mottled with color against his pale white skin. When he finally raises his face, you can see that his right eye is drooping at the corner, obscured by a small waxy section of fused skin on his outer eyelid. The eye doesn't look damaged, though.
The scar extends down the entire right side of his face, and the skin is textured there, raised with bright red in every spot that the liquid touched. It recedes into the surface of his skin in some parts -- the flatter portions of his face -- where pools of the substance had time to eat away at his cells a bit longer. The skin is wrinkled and stretched in those parts, including the bit by his eye.
In medical school, you'd studied case photos before. It was quite a distinctive burn pattern due to the way liquid runoff caused scars in the shape of the running droplets themselves, diffused across the surface by gravity, spreading the agony by nature's hand.
You cannot begin to imagine how painful it must have been. Your heart aches imagining how it occurred.
Slowly, you raise your hand to touch the edges of the the marks, assessing their texture.
"How did the injury happen?" you ask between careful fingertip taps, taking mental measurements of the length and size of each mark.
"It's in my chart. They teach you how to read in medical school?" he huffs...almost pouting.
You giggle.
"It is in your chart -- which I can read, by the way. But I want to hear your perspective on it."
He tsks again, "Does that even matter?"
"It's the thing that matters most," you reply -- and rather seriously, too. You emphasize the sentence with a pointed glance at his face, before you return to your task.
The scars are winding, branching things, diffused across his cheek, forehead, nose, and neck, like interconnected constellations across the night sky.
Despite how much pain you know is embedded in them, you can't help but think that, in a way, they're beautiful. Like many of the scars you saw each day, they're part of the people you help. A part that, in many cases, is just as much a facet of them as their hair color or clothing choices. That, and like many other things, something that wasn't so easily removed or erased.
As always, you keep that opinion to yourself. You can't tell whether the idea stemmed from your own clinical interest in them as a specialist. Or maybe the smaller, softer side of you couldn't help but marvel at the way Mother Nature always stitched herself back together in the end, leaving her touch as a reminder that, once the blood had dried and the dust had settled, you would always be made whole again. Someday. Sometime.
Of course, maybe you'd just published too many papers on the topic not to find them interesting by now. Staring out at conference crowds ranting about it for hours tended to do that to a person.
But hey, at least you weren't, like, a podiatrist or something. Somehow, you doubt your friends would find you as cool as you are if you ranted about big toes with the same enthusiasm as you did talking about the mechanism of Lichtenberg figures.
"Acid. There. That good enough for you?"
"Yeah," you curve your head to track the scars through his hairline. He perks up at the feeling your hands brushing through his hair, "And how long ago were these marks made? They seem well-healed given the circumstances of the injury."
He takes a breath in, "I'd say it's been...almost two decades, minus a few years."
"Huh," you raise your brows when you step back, pulling your gloves off.
He latches onto that little sound for some reason.
"What?" his cracked, crooked lips curve into a smirk for the first time since he walked into your office, "You think m'old, doc?"
"What makes you say that, Mr. Riley?" you laugh, "I thought it was pretty nonchalant on my part...they teach us that in school, y'know."
Why are you making jokes with him?
Why are you making jokes with him?
Seriously, this is what happens when you don't have a boyfriend for five years straight. Yeah, maybe you needed to get through medical school, and yeah, maybe you're too busy for a relationship. But then, every time a man so much as looks in your direction your heart starts to lurch.
That, and this is what your last preceptor would call 'ethical bullshit that will bite you in the ass if you let it fester long enough.'
Offput by the combination of those thoughts, you busy yourself with typing your observations into his chart. But of course, that doesn't negate the form of him sitting in the edge of your vision.
(That, or his warm, rumbling laugh. Or his awkward half-smile. Or the way that, when you leant closer to him, his cologne wafted over you in waves.)
Yeah, you should revisit your ethics textbook.
Or maybe you should buy another vibrator.
(Maybe you should do both.)
"Never thought I'd live to see the day a lab-coat developed a sense o' humor," he huffs, still smiling, before he reaches out to grab ahold of your name tag. The reel of the tag snaps back into place with a teasing noise, "How long you been wearing that thing anyway, huh? A year? Maybe two? Or do they enroll into medical school straight out of daycare these days?"
"Hey!" you swat at his hand before it can pluck at your name tag again, and suddenly, he's anything but shy, "You sayin' I have a babyface?"
"Uh-huh," he chuckles, "Doesn't match the white coat, love. Hate to break it to you."
"Pot calling the kettle black."
At that, he balks. His confidence falters, and for a second, the syllables get caught in his mouth.
"What? You think I came outta the womb lookin' like this?"
He gestures to the myriad of scars across his face, disdain evident in his expression.
"What?" you plop back down on your rolly-stool, "No. Just sayin', if you're trying to get a discount on the botox, it's gonna take more convincing than that. You look pretty good for your age."
That last bring yanks a laugh out of his stiff frame.
"'For my age?' What am I, seventy-five?"
"Well, seeing as how my professors never taught me to read a chart, it's a possibility, I guess..."
"Fuck off," he huffs, laughing.
"Aww, c'mon, don't say that just yet," you rock back and forth on your stool, "We're just getting to the fun part."
"The fun part?" he mutters.
"Yeah," you swivel back towards the computer, clacking away once more, "The anti-smoking lecture I'm professionally obligated to give you. From your chart. Which I can read."
"Save it."
"You want lung cancer?"
"Save it."
"Then stop smoking."
"Done."
You giggle, shaking your head.
"What?" he snickers.
"Y'know, I can see the Marlboro package sticking out of your pocket, right?"
Behind you, he straightens up in his chair to glance down at his belt, below which is the red and white façade of that familiar package. He licks his lips.
"What, a man can't change his mind, love?"
Love. God, you nearly melt at the stupid little quip.
"Not sayin' that, it's just..." you cross your arms, giving him a long hard look, "You don't look like the type to go back on your own convictions."
"You callin' me stubborn?"
"Not at all," you roll your eyes, "You sure you're not projecting?"
At that, he's got no good response. He merely lets his smile widen, just enough to let his teeth show through, and for that alone, you figure you can forgive yourself for your own professional transgressions.
"Well, smoking aside..." you sigh, forcing yourself back to business. You hate the way Simon's smile falls at the sudden transition, "You're in good shape for treatment. We can discuss the intricacies in further appointments, but there are several options depending on your own preferences. For the contracture scars around the eyelid, that'd most likely require surgical correction, but if you're aiming for less invasive options, laser treatments and topical medications would work as well."
"Whichever works the fastest," he speaks, voice deepening into something serious. He looks back down at the floor. It strikes something within you, and you brace yourself to act as the bearer of bad news.
"Mr. Riley--"
"Simon," he interjects, "Call me Simon."
You nod.
"Simon," You scoot your stool closer, "Before we get any deeper into exploring your options, I just want to make sure that you have reasonable expectations for your treatment."
He balks, hands wringing again, "''Reasonable expectations?'"
"Yes," you inhale lowly, "Given the extent of your injuries, and given the nature of your other inujuries as well...It's unlikely that the appearance of your scars can be completely negated. They can be reduced, yes, but they can't be removed. Not in the sense that you may be thinking, at least."
"Why not?" he asks -- no, demands. It's wrought with emotion, verging on anger. You don't recoil, however, you only continue onwards.
"Well...when you sustain a burn, it doesn't just affect the surface or the appearance of your skin. Altogether, what you might call...'the architecture' of your skin has changed. Scar tissue isn't normal skin, and aside from that, the blood vessels and hair follicles may have been damaged, too. With chemical burns like yours, the thickness of the burns is difficult to counter. Chemical burns can be deep, speaking relatively, and even with treatment, it's often not possible--"
"Why not?" he demands again loudly, and this time, his voice strains around the exclamation. He leans forward in his seat, and you're pinned beneath his harsh glare.
Instead of launching into another explanation, you let him sit in the silence, in the anger and emotions. The longer you look onwards, empathy hardly wavering on your face, the faster his belligerent expression falls into something...deeply hurt.
His anger falls away, whether it be from remorse for shouting at you or grief for his own situation, he ducks down to bury his face in his hands. A far cry from the man you'd just been joking with.
For minutes, you sit in silence. Simon, repetitively running his hands over his face -- over those raised red scars he despised. And you, looking on, unable to promise anything more than you could give.
"Simon," you eventually speak, quieting your tone, "Why'd you come in today? I mean, after almost twenty years living with these scars...why now? What changed?"
You hear him sniffle beneath the cover of his hands.
God, is he crying?
If it were possible, your heart breaks even further. Slowly, you wheel backwards to grab a box of tissues out of the supply cabinet.
"Does it even matter?" his voice is muffled from the hands he hides behind, warbled with tears. He's determined not to let you see them. (Not to let himself have them).
"Yes, Simon," you pull a tissue from the box, holding it out in his direction, "It matters. I could give you a whole spiel about the health science behind resilience and purpose in recovery, but I'm not saying this because of the research. I'm saying this because I'm your doctor and I care about you."
For a few more seconds, he cries silently into his hands, sucking in every hitching breath, like maybe if he tried hard enough, you'd never notice the tearstains on his collar. It takes awhile, but eventually, he reaches out shakily to take the tissue.
You don't recoil, not even when he lifts his head, and exposes his swollen, reddened eyes. His words are shaky when he finally opens his mouth.
"My nephew..." he manages, nearly choking, "He's -- he turns three years old in a few weeks."
"Yeah?" You pull another tissue, "He's what makes you want to get rid of the scars?"
He nods his head, and for a split-second, that look of sadness on his face deepens into an aching look of sheer anguish.
"He's a sensitive lad, gets -- gets nightmares real easy," he looks down at his boots, "Last time I went over, he burst right into tears, and -- and my brother said he woke up cryin' for damn near the whole weekend."
A sob escapes his mouth before he can stop it. He swallows it and clears his throat.
"He's so scared of me he won't come near. Won't let me hold him. Won't let me talk to him," he shakes his head as more tears burst forth, "He's terrified of me. His own uncle. Because I look like this."
He gestures towards the smattering of scars across his face, tissue clutched in his balled up fist, "Because this is who I am."
"Simon, that's..." you reach forward to grab his fist, squeezing it between your warm hands.
"My brother says he'll grow out of it, that -- that it's not a big deal, but..." you hand him another tissue, "I know it's not easy for them. And -- and sometimes I wonder...if maybe they'd be better off if I stopped going to see them altogether."
Immediately, you shake your head, scooting your stool closer emphatically, "That's -- that's not the answer, Simon. I promise."
"Yeah?" he looks up at you, watery eyes unsteady, "Then what is? Because -- if you can't get rid of them, then what's even the point of trying?"
That strikes a chord within you. Seeing him there, looking to you for help, for comfort, for answers...Your preceptor told you not to get close to your patients, but after this...How could she expect you to put up walls?
You reach for the box of tissues, and lift one towards his face. He can't help but flinch backwards when you raise it words his injured cheek, but when you hold steady in the face of his reproach, he squeezes your hand in silent consent.
You dab around the corner of his injured eye, studying the contracture marks beneath your tissue. His fingers twine with yours, nervous and worked up, but you don't rush.
Already, it's hard to imagine his face different than what is already is, but if it's as important as he believes...
"Simon, I can't promise you more than what science has to give," you whisper, "But if there's anything I've learned in the past few years, it's that nature is more surprising than we give it credit for."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." you swipe across his jaw, where several tears hang, "Research might say one thing, but the results of treatment might surprise you. What you think is a small difference might be what changes everything. How your family thinks about your appearance...how your nephew thinks about your appearance..."
You squeeze his hand.
"How you think about yourself."
His brows draw tight when you say that.
"That's why it's worth trying. Because if that's what you think is best for yourself, then all of us should listen."
You let your eyes wash over his face, wash over his harsh cheekbones, sharp jaw, blonde hair, and white-red skin. The color looks like supernovas against his complexion, like something tended to, healed, and stitched back together with love in every thread.
"You think so?"
"I think so," you nod, "And I promise I'll do anything to help you get there."
He spends a few more seconds studying the conviction in your eyes, studying the way your hand fits against his own, but eventually, he manages a deep breath, and he gives a small but sure nod.
"Okay," you nod back, tapping your figures against his hand, before you turn your stool and grab a piece of paper from the supply cabinet. You don't waste a minute before starting to write.
"Here," you rip a section of the paper off, "It's my personal number."
"What for?" he suddenly straightens up, something...unreadable and confused overcoming his face.
"I'm booked out for months -- gotta love the efficiency of the healthcare system," you complain sardonically, "If I left you with Julie, she'd do her best to find you a place, but this is important, and I don't want you falling between the cracks."
You stand from your stool, "Whenever you get a chance, call me. I'll fit you in after hours, come up with a plan that's better than just 'wait and see.'"
At that, something akin to hope flickers in his eyes. He looks down at the small scrap of paper and the loopy handwriting thereon, before he gathers himself and finally stands.
For a split second, you're blinded by how tall he is. God, you nearly have to crane your neck just to maintain eye contact.
"Okay," he nods, tucking the baseball cap back over his head, "I will."
"Then..." you smile, sticking out your hand, "I look forward to it, Simon."
He looks down at the offered hand, at your starched white coat, and the irresistible glimmer in your eye.
He didn't know it then, but in the future, he'd come to realize that moment was just the beginning of it all. What followed was deeper than he could've thought. Deeper than seven layers of scar tissue. Deeper than a scalpel could cut. Deeper than he'd dared to let himself imagine.
Now, he knows its significance. But back then, it was only ten little numbers, written in sparkly pen ink, with the letters 'M.D.' left in signature.
The red string of fate connecting you and your soulmate should have been sacred, the tether binding your souls forever.
So how the hell did you end up here?
Drenched in blood and mud, rain pouring down the battlefield around you. This was supposed to be a simple operation, that's what graves told you. He failed to mention the 141, leading you and your men like pigs to a slaughter.
"Move and I snap your neck." Ghost huffs against your ear.
You wouldn't be here if you didn't flinch. If you didn't hesitate. Ghost was just another objective, but seeing that red string around his gloved hand...you froze.
Ghost didn't. He knocked you on your ass, held a knife to your throat, and used the red string to fucking tie you up.
"You'll behave, right love?" He sounds so amused when he says it, the red string pulled so tight you swear it cuts your skin "no one to untie you, hm?"
The worst part is he's right.
Only you and ghost can see or touch the string. He's thorough in his work. You couldn't escape even with a knife to cut the chord.
"Change of plans, sir," ghost speaks into his comm. A heavy paw rests on the back of your neck, keeping you pinned to the dirt. "We're taking a live one."
Ghost knows price will approve, he doesn't make changes to the mission lightly, but it's still nice to hear his captain say "affirm. Do what you need to, lieutenant."
the nickname had started with simon first. passing you in the hallway, hand falling on your lower back as he squeezed past you, greeting you with a good morning and “s’cuse me sweetheart, just gettin’ past”
he’d say it when catching you working out in the gym, complimenting you on your form with a hidden “nice form, sweet girl, keep those legs apart”. somehow he’d find his way behind you, pressing his body against you. you never knew how he ended up there.
then it spread to soap, with a little more enthusiasm. greeting you in the hallways, calling the name out loud enough to get the attention of everyone. “what’s our sweet girl been up ta’?”, “anything new goin’ on, sweet girl?”
you couldn’t lie, it turned you the fuck on. especially when simon said it with his low voice, creeping up behind you and rasping it in your ear. soap almost made a humiliation ritual out of it, causing you to run to a private area to play with yourself— thinking of the two having their way with you, all while calling you “sweet girl”.
it was even worse when gaz got to it. he spoke it with such love, smiling with that natural charm he had. “hey there, sweet girl,” smirking as usual. during gun training one day he had your panties soaked from all the praising and pet-names. and you think he knew it.
price catching on is the cherry on the fucking cake. he just knows how to use it in a way that his boy’s don’t. “what’re ya’ doin’ there sweet girl?” “sure you can handle all that?” “need some help there, sweet thing?”
it got so bad you knew it had to be a running joke! something they were all in on. but it wasn’t, you really just were their sweet girl <3
i wrote this at like 3am bc i wanted to do some sfw stuff but ended up being SLIGHTLY smutty bc… phew. anyways !! asks are open !!
This is heavily inspired by @twolegsandbleeds and their Simon can’t flirt series<3 (go read it. It’s amazing.)
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Simon Riley didn’t do soft.
He didn’t do gentle smiles across a room or teasing glances that lingered too long. He didn’t know how to lean against a wall and charm someone with a few well placed words. Those were things other men did—men who grew up in homes where love looked like laughter and warm dinners.
Simon grew up where love looked like broken dishes and bruised knuckles.
So when he realized he liked you, it confused the hell out of him.
It started small. You worked nearby—same building, different department. He’d seen you around enough to recognize the soft way you moved through rooms, like you were trying not to disturb the air. Always polite. Always quiet. Eyes that never quite held his for long.
At first, he thought you avoided him because of the mask.
Wouldn’t be the first.
But then he started noticing other things.
The way you’d freeze when he walked past, shoulders going stiff. The way your fingers would tighten around whatever you were holding. The way you’d duck your head so quickly he barely caught a glimpse of your face.
Right.
You were scared of him.
Simon leaned back in his chair in the rec room one night, arms crossed as he stared at the ceiling.
Brilliant, Riley.
Still… it didn’t stop the feeling.
It was strange, liking someone. He didn’t know what to do with it. Soap had once said something about flirting—buying drinks, cracking jokes, smiling.
Simon wasn’t about to start cracking jokes.
After two weeks of overthinking it, he came to a conclusion.
Best to just ask.
Direct.
Clear.
Efficient.
All the things he was good at.
So the next morning, when he saw you standing alone near the coffee machine, he decided that was as good a moment as any.
You didn’t notice him at first.
You were focused on the coffee cup in your hands, carefully stirring sugar into it. Humming under your breath as the small spoon clinked softly against the ceramic.
Simon approached like he would a hostile building.
Measured steps. Quiet. Controlled.
When he stopped behind you, his shadow fell across the counter.
You noticed immediately.
Your shoulders stiffened.
Slowly—very slowly—you turned.
And then you saw him.
Six foot something of silent military presence, broad shoulders filling the small breakroom doorway. His skull mask stared down at you, dark eyes watching from behind it.
Your brain immediately chose panic.
Your hands tightened around the coffee cup like it might protect you.
Simon studied you for a moment.
You looked… small.
Not weak. Just… delicate. Like if someone spoke too loudly you might flinch.
He frowned slightly behind the mask.
Right.
Words.
He cleared his throat.
It came out rough.
“You.”
That did not help.
Your eyes widened immediately.
Simon mentally swore.
He tried again.
“You’re… uh.”
Christ.
Why was this harder than interrogation?
“You’re the one who works down the hall.”
Your voice came out soft and nervous.
“Y-yes, sir.”
Sir.
He hated that.
He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Oh—sorry—”
You looked like you were about two seconds from apologizing yourself into the floor.
Right. Focus.
Simon straightened slightly, forcing himself to just say it.
His tone was blunt. Matter-of-fact.
“I want to take you out.”
Your brain completely short-circuited.
“…what?”
Simon nodded once, like he was confirming a mission objective.
“Dinner. Or coffee.” He gestured vaguely at the machine. “Whatever people do.”
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Your face slowly turned pink.
Simon misread your silence immediately.
His stomach dropped.
Right. Of course.
Why would someone like you want anything to do with someone like him.
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly, voice flattening into its usual military tone. “Was just askin’. Forget it.”
He started to turn away.
And that’s when you panicked.
“N-no!”
Simon froze.
Slowly, he turned back.
You were gripping your coffee cup with both hands, face red, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
“I mean—” you swallowed hard. “I—I’d like that.”
Simon stared at you.
“You would.”
It wasn’t a question.
You nodded quickly.
“Y-yes.”
Simon studied you again.
You were clearly terrified.
Fidgeting. Avoiding his gaze. Nervous energy practically vibrating off you.
And yet… you said yes.
Something unfamiliar settled quietly in his chest.
Not pride.
Not victory.
Just… warmth.
He nodded once.
“Alright.”
You waited.
Simon waited.
Neither of you moved.
Finally you asked softly, “S-so… when?”
Simon considered it like he was planning a tactical operation.
“Friday.”
“O-okay.”
“Six.”
“Okay.”
Another pause.
You looked like you might faint.
Simon shifted awkwardly.
Then, after a moment, he added gruffly,
“I won’t wear the mask.”
Your head snapped up in surprise.
Simon rubbed the back of his neck again, clearly uncomfortable.
“Figured it might help.”
Your expression softened just a little.
And for the first time since the conversation started…
You smiled.
It was small.
Shy.
But real.
Simon felt something in his chest do a strange, unfamiliar flip.
Yeah.
Maybe this whole flirting thing wasn’t as hard as he thought.
simon riley when he has a crush on you is almost hilarious from a bystanders point of view.
the man from manchester first began crushing on you just by a mere interaction. you didnt even do anything extraordinary, the two of you met in a meeting room, John Price introducing you to the rest of the team, and amid your introductions with the all five men, you made brief eye contact with them all, including ghost.
during that brief moment of eye contact, lasting no more than three seconds— when your own shiny and curious eyes met his dead ones— simon quite literally an arrow shoot through his heart.
from then on, the rest of the men have noticed a theme between the two of you.
whenever you walk into a room, ghost's hard-to-get-attention is suddenly fixated onto you. he goes quiet, quieter than usual, and stiffens up entirely. the man sometimes even shushes others when you are talking with a harsh glare or a sharp "shh" that is too quiet for you to notice but loud enough for others to hear.
in social events, the man follows you like a puppy. youre always wondering why men dont approach you anymore and youve yet to figure that maybe its because theres this 6'4" 250 lbs man looming behind you like a menance, but his eyes are quite literally shiny and alive just by being around you.
the best of all is the bold caring side of him that hes eager to share with you. whether itd be him insisting that he be the one to carry you when youre injured amid a mission. its him who takes all the heavy lifting and just looks at you with a deadpan stare when you complain.
its him who drives you late at night home when you suddenly want to leave the bar, its him who always answers your call at the wildest hours when you need someone to pick you up from whatever trouble you got yourself in. its him who listens intently to you yap off about your niche interests and concerns, and its even him when youre upset and crying and want a hug even though he hates physical contact.
and if someone dares to slander your name? well, if they are a man, simon just gets to add the guy to his list of people he scares out the country.
so if its clear simon adores you with every might of his being, then why hasnt he asked you out? even soap is scratching his head.
the answer? nerves. youre just too good for him. simon rather watch you from the sidelines, from the view of being three steps behind you, he'd eagerly wag his tail in secret at the sight of you, just to be able to appreciate your presence a minute longer without loosing you like the rest of them.
simon ghost riley x reader | fluff, some swearing. just a nice, sweet confession <3 | 3.7k
Hair freshly cut, make up done, red dress adorned and high heels slipped on.
You felt and certainly looked like a new woman. It was however a necessary effort tonight as this was no casual event. You, the 141, everyone in the unit was invited to a rather fancy gala. A reward of sorts for your efforts in taking down Makarov, a thank you. Your appearance tonight was certainly something you weren't used to anymore. Not when it came down to 5 minutes to get ready in the morning when the Sergeant calls at 4 AM. But this time was different, and no one could deny that you didn’t look elegant, enticing and beautiful. Maybe it was the outfit and your appearance this evening giving you the confidence, or maybe it was your desire for a certain Lieutenant.
Perhaps both. Both in the sense that you wanted to see what he would think of you.
Nothing big has really ever happened between the two of you, besides the longing stares, lingering touches and laughs in private occasionally. You two were friends, you stitched him back together when he needed it, you were a confidant. You trusted Simon, and he trusted you. Enough to even tell you his name overtime, it was a memory you treasured deeply…
One year prior…
Simon had a blow to his back, grazing by his shoulder, it was truly a miracle the bullet didn’t rupture deeper with lasting damage. He was fortunate, and trusted you to take care of him. You plopped him on a bed and got to work, carefully extracting what you could without hurting him. It was in these moments of exposure, his back bare to you, trusting in you, that Simon would talk. He would thank you, compliment your skills, ask you about your day. It softened you right up, and you would smile, enjoying his voice. Seeing him so relaxed, it was refreshing and certainly endeared you to him. Yes, he presented a tough exterior, but underneath the mask, he really was just a man.
“Ghost, can you move a little to the left here, I need the angle to-”
“Simon.”
You paused at the sound of his deep voice.
“Sorry?”
“Simon, can you move a little left…” He muttered out, you could see his confidence rapidly dissolving before you. But you quickly realized and smiled. As he glanced back your way, shuffling to where you needed him to be, your eyes met briefly and you nodded encouragingly.
“Simon…” Trying the name out for the first time. You liked it. He liked you saying it too.
You wondered if it would suit his bareface... “Thank you for telling me.”
“I wanted you to know.” He admitted, feeling a rising blush settle upon his cheeks, and one on yours. It was moments like these where he was thankful for the mask.
...
Slowly but surely, you fell in love with the tall, broody Brit, you just didn’t know how he felt on his side of things. Apart from quite literally being unable to see his face, he was hard to read. But Simon did have his moments, it brewed hope deep within you. He could be soft, even in his most vulnerable moments where anxiety might overpower all- he was nothing but kind to you. He was an enigma, a blend of both steadfastness and sweetness but you loved it. It took some time to warm up to him, but now that you’ve seen the glimpses of Simon, you couldn’t help but want more.
So tonight felt huge for you. You felt good, your best, finally clean and put together. It certainly was a nice break from the dusty old uniform. You wanted to see his reaction to you, to see if maybe, just maybe, he would be interested too.
With one last nod in the mirror, you were out the door downstairs to the hotel ballroom. Perhaps a little late, you would at least make an entrance. Approaching the doors to the hall, they were opened up upon your arrival, revealing a marble, descending staircase to the floor.
One foot in front of the other, you started to make your way down, treading a little carefully in those heels…
Meanwhile the rest of the 141 were standing around their table, finally enjoying a night out and relaxing with one another.
“Do you think she’ll even show at this point?” Johnny asked, looking around the group for opinions, rolling up his sleeve to check his watch. John was barely engaging, more like surveying the room, Kyle was knocking back a drink, while Simon kept to himself, standing by his lonesome. Hands resting against the back of his chair, face and emotions hidden behind the mask. Events like this were a lot for him, but he was doing his best by just being here. He couldn’t quite get all dressed up without it tonight, just a little too vulnerable.
“I don’t know. But she’s usually quite punctual, ain't she?” Kyle returned, grabbing another glass of champagne from the waiter walking by.
“You know how gals are, hair and makeup, fashionably late.” Johnny teased, but Kyle just shook his head.
“Not our girl, mate. Have you met’er?” He laughed, hitting Johnny gently with his elbow. He could only roll his eyes, ready to knock one back himself. His eyes surveyed for a waiter, turning towards the stairs he spotted red.
A beautiful woman in red. One he actually recognized, one that-
Oh.
“Uh- Are you sure about that, boys?” Johnny chuckled into his glass, staring at a certain someone in particular to see his reaction.
They all turned at once, glancing over in the direction where Johnny was currently nudging his head. Kyle was the first to produce a low whistle at the sight of you, while John was squinting his eyes, not quite clear yet.
But it was Simon that couldn’t stop gawping. It took him a second as well, thinking Johnny was just eyeing up another girl he could possibly take home tonight. But it really was you, looking like a goddess. Your hair was shorter than it used to be, your figure outlined beautifully in your dress. A waist he wanted to get his hands on immediately, claiming you as his. A smile of confidence on your face. You looked truly beautiful. Simon would argue that you’ve always been beautiful to him, but there’s a certain glow about you tonight. You made an effort, he hoped in part that it was all for him.
You approached the table smiling, all the boys still looking at you.
“Well well well, Charmer. Don’t you clean up nice.” Johnny said, eyes still wandering along your frame. Kyle could only pat his Scottish friend on the back in defeat. “Alright, alright. Maybe I owe you one”. Price was smiling too, almost like a proud father, happy to have all his kids together again.
That left you with Simon. You could feel his gaze on you, but you felt too embarrassed to look. It was suddenly like the weight of the world was on you, and you were almost scared.
What if he was staring in disappointment? You grandstanding like this to get a reaction. It was unlike you, maybe he wouldn’t like this. Fuck.
You pushed the thoughts to the side as you finally looked up, trying to be brave and smile. The boys were looking on as well, sipping and chatting quietly. They all knew what was going on here, all except the two of you, of course.
You met his eyes for a second before they left you and studied the ground. Your smile dropped when he excused himself, walking away abruptly, not bothering to look back for a second glance. You watched him as he walked away, his suit fitting him just right. He looked handsome, proper like this. Even when he walks away from you, you’re still thinking about how he affects you… Gosh.
His feet carry him up the stairs and out onto the balcony outside.
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to choke back your own disappointment.
Did you look bad? Was he unimpressed? Was he not attracted to you? Was he embarrassed by you? Were you too much?
“Lass, listen. You look great,” Johnny started, taking you out of your thoughts. “He probably just needs a moment. You know how he is.”
You nodded with a defeated look, accepting the flute full of alcohol from John as he made his way to stand next you. He let you take a sip to calm your nerves a bit before he drew you into a small hug, whispering in your ear.
“I’ve been around him too long and seen you two enough times to know when he needs you. I think maybe you know it too. Go.” He encouraged, pulling back with a reassuring stare. John searched your eyes, hoping the message would sink in. You could only nod as the thoughts overwhelmed you, patting his shoulder as a thank you.
You raised your cup to the boys around you before taking a hefty swig.
“Gonna need this I reckon.” You quipped before you lifted up your dress to walk across the room, heading after Simon.
Your emotions are swirling. You’re still a little self-conscious, yet determined as you climb the stairs in your heels. Numb, but feeling absolutely alive at the prospect of Simon needing you too. You’ve always felt something there for him, of course. But with the way Price talked, it was like you too had an effect on the Lieutenant. Your heart swells at the thought and you pick up your pace to the door, hands resting against the cool, metal bar.
You move to open it slowly, catching a glimpse of Simon’s back turned to you, hands gripping the balcony railing tightly, clearly lost in his own head. You slowly make your way over to him, ready to turn if he decided he wanted to be alone instead.
“Simon?” You softly prod as you approach him. “Are you okay?”
He scrunches his shoulders up at the touch of your hand, your body threatening to lean against his at any moment. You’re trying to meet his eyes beneath the mask but he keeps staring straight on ahead at the gardens. You two stay like this for a couple moments, Simon still unable to answer, lost in his own mind on how to deal with this.
“Si, I just wanted to check on you, make sure you were alright.”
Your thumb brushes his jacket, moving soothingly back and forth. You’re trying to comfort him, show him you care, that you’re always going to be there for him. That you know him now, that you can read him even beyond Ghost’s persona. You’re trying to help. All he has to do is talk. Open up, his mind is racing. Say something, you fool. Say something.
You pull your touch away from him, flattening out your dress anxiously. Your gaze defeated and falls to the floor.
He doesn’t want you here, he just doesn’t know how to say it. Take a hint. John was wrong.
“I’m sorry, Simon, if I’ve done anything to upset you. I didn't mean it, whatever it was.” You mutter, your chest growing heavy. “I’ll see you around, okay?” Biting your lips back, you remove yourself from his presence, his smell, him.
The tears start to prick at the sides of your eyes, you feel ridiculous and crushed and gutted and-
Simon turns to grab your arm, halting you from moving away from him any further.
You turn your head at the feeling. His large, warm hand completing wrapping around your arm. He was so big, comforting. It made your heart leap into your throat.
You meet his eyes once more, and this time he holds it. Looking between yours, you can tell he’s thinking, he’s searching, he’s calculating.
You understand, and move to stand in front of him. Your hand coming to rest on top of Simon’s, you smile. Nodding, reassuring him that you’re here, you’re patient, you’re willing. You squeeze his hand. All for him.
All for him and his stomach is flipping, his brain is haywire. He wants to pour his heart out to you, he wants to tell you how much you mean to him. He does, he adores you to pieces and wants you all to himself. The Charmer and the Ghost, he wants you, all of you and he needs to know you want all of him too. It just takes a bit to draw it out. But you’re worth it. You’re wonderfully you, you want him and you’re worth it.
“You look beautiful tonight.” He whispers, and his voice is music to your ears. Just at the sound, you’re smiling like a kid all over again. It causes a tear to escape down your cheek, and he notices immediately, moving his hand to wipe it away.
“Don’t cry ‘cause of me, love.” You shake your head.
“I’m okay now. I’m here with you.” Leaning your head into his touch, he caresses your cheek. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling. He’s warm, he’s comforting, he’s all you want, he thinks you’re beautiful and he’s finally touching you like you’ve longed for.
If this moment could last forever, you’d surely find a way to become immortal.
“Forgive me.” Simon whispers, his body moving closer to yours. “M’not any good at this.”
You brush his insecurity off without a second thought.
“I think you look beautiful tonight too, Simon.” You bite your bottom lip, shy under his gaze. But neither of you let up. His eyes flickering down to your mouth at your movement. Simon clears his throat at the sight, bringing up his other hand to cup your face. He opens his mouth to respond, but you beat him to it.
“I mean it. Very handsome to me.” You breathe out slowly, trying to focus on your thoughts as the proximity to him makes your head woozy.
“Ghost is handsome to me, and he looks very good this evening.” Your hands move to copy his around his face, touch gently colliding with the mask. “But I think Simon does too… Even if he’s hidden away.” Your thumbs are palming at the material, you move closer to him until your chests meet. A small intake of air can be heard from the soldier, and as you move your head closer to his. He then wraps his arms around your waist to keep you there, acting on impulse. At first he surprises himself, unsure if he made the right call, but your gorgeous smile is there to reassure him.
Simon lets his forehead rest against yours, the cool material against your skin, calming your aching fever for him, centering your world.
“I adore Simon. I want you to know that.” You look to his chest, his lips, then settling on the eyes you fell in love with.
“Even if I never get to see him, I choose him.” You remove your hand from his face, but only to make room for your lips. You gently touch them to the mask, lingering as you cherish this moment being so close to the man you love.
You pull back and his eyes are glued to yours, taking in your action, your kiss, your confession. It’s all he’s wanted and more for years, and now he finally has it right in front of him. But you all too quickly move. You release your hold on him, going to move away. You want to give him his space as you know this is a lot for one night. The last thing you want to do is overwhelm him. The fact that he knows how you feel for him, is enough for you. In time, he will let you know how he feels. And yes, maybe that can be enough for now.
You give him a polite, small smile before going to move away from his grasp again. But he holds you still to him, refusing to let you go. You two remain in each other's embrace for a moment, trying to read one another’s eyes.
“Simon?” You whisper. Asking him, urging him, encouraging him. He’s trusted you for a long time, he adores you, fuck- he loves you. This is honestly a long time coming at this point.
His hands move to his head, pulling off the mask hiding his face. You can only watch him as he drops his guard before you, the trust in this act evident. The gesture is a shock to your system, but only love and adoration for his bravery flows after.
It slips off into his hands and it takes Simon a minute before he can look you in the eyes. He’s both afraid and he’s over the moon. He’s happier than ever but also feels like his heart could stop, he’s everywhere and in between. His soft eyes finally land on your face, your own scanning him for the first time, drinking him in. His heart races a mile a minute, ever waiting for your reaction.
“Simon…” You whisper. Your hands coming up to finally unite with his bare skin. You hesitate at first, hovering above briefly, silently asking for permission. He nods slowly, eyes still scanning yours for any sign of rejection.
But you don’t have any. In fact, you think he’s rather gorgeous under the mask. Your thumbs caress his cheeks, whisk delicately over his scars, adorning his soft lips. You’re in his hair, tracing his jaw…
“You really are beautiful.” Another tear slips down your face as the smile erupts. The gesture, his trust in you, his gorgeous face. Your Simon.
He lets the breath he was holding slip from his lungs, relieved.
“Thank you for trusting me with this, Si.” You whisper once more, eyes moving between his and his lips. At just the sight, you feel a fire starting to burn in your stomach. And he feels the same. The girl he loves isn’t repulsed by his scars, by the man behind the Ghost. Of course he’s overwhelmed at the rush of emotion and support and love he feels from you. He doesn’t waste a second more and brings his hand to the back of your head, bringing your lips to his.
He’s soft, he’s hot, he’s everywhere. On your mouth, your waist, your head, his chest against yours. It makes your head spin and your body ache for him, more and more. Simon attempts to pull you closer to him, tight, reassuring you he won’t let go. Fuck, and he feels good against you, your nails slightly digging into his shoulders. He’s palming at your waist, fingers slipping down to just above your ass. He can barely resist.
Simon breathlessly releases you, bringing his forehead back down to touch yours. You hum contently, staring up at the gorgeous man you’ve come to know and love. He refuses to let you go, enraptured by this moment.
“Si,” You start, still catching your breath. “I want you. All of you. I have for quite some time now.” You laugh a little at your school girl confession, finally admitting your feelings for him.
“You have me. You’ve always had me, m’just shit at showing it.” You bring him in for another kiss, unable to resist as you watch that gorgeous face produce that deep, deep voice for the first time. It could bring you to your knees, you’re so wrapped up in your love for him and he is too.
“What do you think the boys will say?” You jokingly inquire. Simon just huffs and smirks.
“They’ve known for a long time. If anything, I reckon they’ll be relieved, love.” Your eyebrows shoot up and he chuckles, kissing your shocked expression.
“Wait- this whole time?” He nods in confirmation.
“Since you showed up on base and charmed your way into the 141. Sarcastic but a persuasive one, you are.” Simon’s staring down at you, lovingly.
“Charmer… was it you who gave me that? I never figured it out.”
“Yes, mam. That’s what you are.”
“My, Simon Riley. Are you flirting with me?” You teased, propping up an eyebrow. Your confidence, your beauty, your love for him- it makes a man do wild things.
He didn’t even know he could dip a girl until he tried.
“Si!” You grasp your hands around his neck, clinging to him for support. But he’s not wavering in the slightest, just gazing at you with nothing but adoration in his eyes.
“I love you.” He confesses, touching his nose to yours. He’s waiting, patiently. He hopes you’ll say it too.
Your eyes begin to well up with tears again because finally. The man you’ve longed for after all these years…
“Simon, I love you too.” His gorgeous smile cracks onto his face once again, and you bring your lips to his. He may not be much of an expressive man, but he certainly is here with you, with his hands all over you and kissing you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. It’s the happiest he thinks he’s ever been, and it’s all thanks to you.
His Charmer in that gorgeous, gorgeous red dress.
/
“Where did they get off to?” Kyle asks the boys, utterly perplexed. You two missed the whole gala and for what? Price just chuckles.
“Don’t you think you two already know?” Johnny just rolls his eyes at Price’s comment, motioning for Kyle to follow as he gets up from the table.
They make their way up to the balcony, spotting your red figure through the glass, stopping as they see you pulled horizontal. The boys take a second and look to see that a man has indeed dipped you, and is indeed kissing you.
“Who the fuck is that?” Johnny asks menacingly, squinting through the glass. But Kyle just smiles, nudging his friend to glance at the floor.
The mask.
“Well, fuck me- He did tell us he was a handsome fella, huh? Sneaky bastard…”
childhood best friend!kyle gaz garrick who is jealous of simon ghost riley x reader
“Simon!” You shouted, “eyes up here.”
Your lieutenant’s gaze shifts from your exposed chest in that tight sports bra to your smirking face. Your fists were up in front of your face, ready to evade him on the training mat once more. He was distracted by you and you liked that. You liked that he was interested, even if you two hadn’t formally acknowledged it yet.
You two have been dancing around each other for months and it’s been slowly edging closer to the point of snapping. You could practically taste it now.
“Don’t flatter y’erself.” Simon attempts to play off, shaking his arms out, cracking his neck. “And it’s Lieutenant Riley to you, dove.”
“Wanna come take that up over here?” You ask with a smirk. Never would you say this without the adrenaline pumping through your veins, but right now, you’d love nothing more than to rile him up.
You could see Simon’s smile under the mask, his eyes creasing ever so slightly. He began to step towards you, completely intending to pin you beneath him on the mat, his hands gripping your wrists, his knee sliding up between your thighs and against your-
“Take it easy on her, would ya? Don’t you have paperwork to finish?” Kyle interrupts.
The two of you turn to look at him watching on. His arms crossed out in front of him, eyes piercing into Simon.
You glare at Kyle with a look that surely says “dude, I’m trying to get some, piss off.”
So much for being a good wing-man.
Kyle was your childhood best friend and the two of you had joined the military together once you both turned of age. He was always so protective of you and there when you needed him, the best of friends.
And it’s not like Kyle wasn’t interested - he most certainly was, though he feared you didn’t feel the same.
He knew you to your core and he could tell that you felt something for his Lieutenant, not him. Something in which Kyle has never been on the receiving end of. It hurts, of course, but he wants you to be happy… Just with him. So, it’s not gonna stop him from making it hard for Simon.
“I think Captain Price was asking for you earlier, should head up to his office, yeah? Sounded urgent.”
Kyle pursed his lips at his superior, giving you a side glance before walking off.
You sigh, rolling your eyes. Simon clears his throat and adjusts his pants when you briefly look away.
“Y’a know, this is the third time he’s done that this week.” Simon chuckles softly, walking over to you slowly.
Your eyes fix on his big figure, his workout shirt tight to his toned body. You feel the heat flush your face as you look up to him.
“He’s doing it on purpose, I’m sorry.” Simon’s hand comes up to brush your cheek.
“Don’t be, I’ll keep tryin’.” You smile and place your hand on top of his. Simon knows how Kyle feels for you, but he couldn’t keep holding off for his sake when nothing has come of it in all these many months. You weren’t interested in Kyle, simple as that, but you were interested in Simon.
“Oh, will you now?” You tease and Simon bends down, bringing his face closer to yours.
“Yea, I will. Y’er worth it.”
Simon brings his lips against yours through the mask and you wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. His arms snake around your waist, pulling you in closer. Simon pulls back briefly to push his mask up to his nose. You open your eyes just to catch a glimpse of his scarred mouth, but you don’t care, he’s gorgeous. He’s so gorgeous, he’s warm and he’s all yours. You reconnect your lips again with a moan, finally being able to taste him.
Meanwhile, Kyle just watches you two from a distance, his stomach and jaw tighten. His girl with his lieutenant, like a punch to the gut.
His heartbreak becoming a reality right in front of his eyes.
you’re engaged to Johnny, but when he dies unexpectedly, Kyle is there to pick up the pieces and look after you.
a/n: I’m baaaaack with a little blurb 🙇♀️❤️
It was a young love, you and Johnny. Started when you were teenagers flirting and messing around at a high school party- blossoming into what you could eventually call love only a couple years later. You remember clear as day, sitting in the field that night, watching the stars above with him at your side. Just as you were pointing at the moon and its jewels of constellations, he took your hand in his, propping himself up onto his elbow and looked into your eyes so sincerely - “marry me”.
Johnny had never been more sure in this life of a decision. Well, that and his career of choice with the military. He wanted both, he thought he needed both to live. So you bended, for him, but you made it work. You said yes, you got the ring, you were in love of course, so you agreed to follow him on this journey wherever it may take you. But you made him promise one thing under those stars, just one thing-
“Name it” he said with a smile, kissing your lips.
“Don’t leave me”.
He just smiled as if it was the most ridiculous, easiest thing he could ever fulfill.
“I promise.” Johnny vowed, and kissed you again.
But he wasn’t good at keeping promises.
It was your first thought after his Captain told you of his death.
How horrible you felt to resign to such doubts about Johnny immediately. How easily he could break your heart. You knew it was too good to last, too fast, too steady. Of course the relationship had its draw backs, Johnny was stubborn man, driven by ambition and duty- but he was yours first. A good, kind and caring man, your to-be husband. The man you were supposed to spend all your forever years with, not just five. You suppose you were his forever after all, but what about you?
What now?
You didn’t know what to do with yourself at the funeral, your hands, your eyes, what to say. It was all too unreal, it hadn’t quite sunk in that the man who kissed you goodbye only a few weeks ago was being put in the ground for good.
They all told you it was the nature of the job and how brave he was to go against Makarov. You knew that that's what they might say; John, Simon and Kyle, and sure, maybe it was true- but it was of little comfort. Selfishly, you didn’t want him a hero, you just wanted your husband back.
He couldn’t even be called a husband really, you never made it that far. Fiancée? But he’s not here anymore, so an ex-fiancée? Are you a widow?
What do they call those who lose their lover before they could make it to the altar?
You didn’t even notice the tears starting to leak down your face as you sat in the pew, empty after the church funeral service. You couldn’t even make it outside to place him into the ground, you were too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice.
Too wrapped up to notice the man come sit next to you.
“Hey, are you doing a’right?” He started.
“I mean, I know one can’t be at a time like this, but I wanted to see how you are.” He smiled softly as you looked up at him.
You nodded in recognition of the man with a small smile back.
“Kyle, right? Thank you for coming.”
You try and sound as kind as you can muster, but really, you just wanted to be alone with your thoughts. Although you can honestly say he looked very handsome in his dress uniform- but you try and quickly push that out of your mind the second it pops in. You’re at the funeral of your would-be husband, in a church at that, get a grip.
Your smile quickly disappears and you move to get up.
“Thank you for coming, yes, but listen, I should go and thank the others too before they depart. So, if you’ll excuse me-“
“Love, it’s almost nightfall.” Kyle says gently, stopping you in your place, placing his hand gently over yours. “They’re all gone. It’s just us left.”
“Oh.” Your eyes turn to the chapels windows, and sure enough, the sun is about to be swallowed by the dark night sky. Just like the one he proposed to you under, just like every single one thereafter. The nights were the hardest, but it seems like Kyle knew this already.
“I’m so sorr-“
“He told me, you know. Before he did it. About his whole plan for you, the question, the ring, the sky. He said the stars were your favourite.” Kyle starts, his hand still on yours and he’s searching for your gaze. You turn back from the windows and meet his. It’s comforting like this all of a sudden, warm, receptive. An appreciative smile comes back to your face.
“Thank you for checking up on me, you really didn’t need to stay this long.” You turn away a little embarrassed, but Kyle just shakes his head.
“Nah, happy to.”
Comfortable silence followed, your mind focuses on the smell of incense, very comforting indeed.
“I know you’ve ‘eard it about a thousand times today, but I am truly sorry.” Kyle start again. You nod gently.
“I know. Thank you. And I’m sorry for you too, he was your friend.” You sympathize.
“I don’t know if I should say this, but I was there before it happened. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to save him, love. Truly, I am.” Maybe it was the guilt, maybe it was being in the pew in this church, but he felt like he needed to confess. Like it was a sin weighing on his chest and you were the priest before him.
Kyle was tearing up and squeezing your hand, he was hurting too. You squeezed back.
“We both loved him. We can share in this together and know, none of it was our fault.” You reassure, as the tears left slid off your cheeks. Kyle smiles for the first time in weeks, feeling the relief flood his chest - you don’t blame him.
“I’m here for you, Y/N.”
“And I, you.”
Kyle feels the heat bloom in his chest as your eyes smile. Even in your grief, you are beautiful and he feels the excitement of new love.
He knows he shouldn’t feel this way about his friend’s fiancé, especially not so soon after his death, but surely no one deserves to be alone forever,
i saw somewhere where they have to have meetings with agents about if a beautiful woman talks to them, chances are, they’re a spy. so here’s simon ignoring you bc he’s trained to believe you might be a spy when you just think he’s attractive. fem! reader
Simon rarely got approached by women. And when he does, he ignores them. Did you really expect a man who chooses work over his mental state to fall in love? Let’s be honest.
Just a few days ago, Simon had officially signed a lease to an apartment a few minutes away from the base. No one knows why; given how that man was such a workaholic, they assumed he’d be living in the quarters till he died.
Truth was, Simon was just sick of it. There wasn’t any privacy and even in his higher rank, the room was a clusterfuck. Too small for a man standing at 6’3 and had way too many personal belongings.
There Simon was, unloading the boxes from his vehicle in the parking lot, stacking two ontop of one another. He had done extensive research on apartments nearby and found that this one was the best of all. Underground parking, a lift that actually worked, a safe community, and a decent price for a one bedroom apartment.
The sound of water going through the pipes echoed within the underground parking, Simon’s footsteps sounding ten times louder with how quiet the lot was. He walked over to the lift, holding up two large boxes filled with clothes.
He wasn’t even sure where he was going— but fuck it. He’ll figure it out. Let’s just hope he doesn’t ram into someone’s vehicle, a wall, or a pole.
As he made his way over to the lift, his right hand fumbled from underneath the box, trying to reach for the button. His right knee was proped up to help his left arm carry the weight. Now, he was a strong man. But he never claimed to have great stability. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grumbles, his finger just barely missing the button.
Simon couldn’t even peak over the boxes; one wrong move and his whole closet would fall from his hands. Just as he was about to give up and set the boxes down (which he should’ve done in the first place), he heard someone speak up besides him. “Oh, I got it!”
Simon immediately snapped his head over to the owner of the voice, seeing you stand besides him and press the button in front of him.
Fuck.
You’re fucking pretty.
Too pretty that he was glaring.
“Are you a new resident?” you asked, waiting for the lift to come down.
He didn’t hear you. He didn’t hear the sound of a vehicle beeping, the sound of a door closing, or even the garage opening. He didn’t even hear your footsteps and the entirety of this parking lot was too echo-y for Simon’s liking.
When he realizes that he had been staring at you for too long, he looks ahead (at the boxes in front of his face) and glares at it like it wronged him. “Hm,” was all Simon hummed out, followed by a short nod.
The lift dinged open and Simon waited for you to enter. “Nice to meet you,” you tell the man with a polite smile, awkward as hell of a smile but still enough to pass off as polite. Right after, you had given your name out to him, expecting him to reply. But all he did was let out a grunt. You stared at him, brows twitching before watching the doors shut, “Okay…” you mumbled out, a bit put-off by his silence, “…What number?”
“I’ll wait,” Simon snapped immediately.
Now you’re starting to think this fucker doesn’t like you. What did you do! You just pressed the button because you saw him struggling! This is the last time you’re helping out a man!
“…Right,” you replied flatly, pressing your level and took two steps away from Simon, staring at the doors in front of you.
A month had gone by since that incident and Simon would often see you around the apartment. He found out that the two of you lived on the same level that same day he met you.
What a “coincidence.”
Now, if the average person thought that some spy was out to get them, they’d be labeled as crazy and have to be put into a psych ward. But Simon? No, he was trained for this. No drop dead, beautiful woman would choose to talk to him.
He had scars on his face, dark eyes that made him look like he’s seen way too many horrible things, a rugged look that screams “I haven’t showered in six weeks and put on cologne to mask the B.O!”
So yeah, no. He didn’t trust the pretty lass down the hall. Not one bit.
And you? You were put off by how strange Simon was. He greeted the property owner with a nod and often spoke to Mary Rae, the grannie that lived besides him.
Being put-off by him didn’t make you want to stop all interactions though. He was rugged, sure. But so is Tom Hardy in most of his films where he had to look like a mess and you’d devour that man, given the chance. Plus, you’re sure he’s just got some major anxiety.
It was an accident; you had subconsciously made note of when Simon arrived from work. It just so happened to be around the same time you got home from work as well; you can’t blame yourself. The lift had been broken for about a week now and the property owner said that he’d get it fixed by next week.
So the two of you, for the past week, have been awkwardly walking up the stairs to your flats. You’ve tried to engage in small talk with him but all he does is shoot you a glare and… Well, that was it.
What an asshole.
Meanwhile, Simon was regretting everything. John was right. He’d have to be more wary of his surroundings. And what was his luck? The first apartment he signed a lease to, some weird spy (who, in his mind, is NOT good at their job) was all up in his personal bubble.
He’s catching on and he is not going to let this slide!
“What… Uh… You’re in the military?” you ask, walking two steps ahead of Simon. Because he would never let you walk behind him. He’s got his guard up.
You looked over your shoulder, noticing the man glare daggers behind your head. Your question was dumb, but you were honestly just trying to make small talk. He was wearing his uniform for christ alive.
Simon though? He thinks you’re trying to dig information. Gosh, did you think you were going to get away with this?!
When he didn’t answer, you pursed your lips and licked your front teeth, “got it,” you muttered under your breath. Turning away, you finally reached the level and opened the door— this time, not even bothering to hold the door for him.
This is the last time you ever try to be nice to some old ass man who pretends to be deaf! Sure, he may be handsome. Sure, he may be tall. Sure, he may be built. Sure, he may have some nice tattoos you’ve tried complimenting on. SURE! He may or may not be your type. But you sure as hell know how he feels about you now!
Another month had gone by and by now, Simon had been living in the unit for almost three months. You had finally stopped bombarding him with questions. He thinks that you’re being told to back off because you’re coming off as too strong.
It wasn’t until he requested John to look into you that he realized he was severely wrong.
“She works at a goddamn hair salon!” John explained, slamming down the file containing information about you. The file hit his desk, blowing a small gush of air towards Simon as if it was laughing at him.
They had send a few people to surveillance you… In better terms: stalk. All because Simon had gotten too suspicious of you.
“She works from eight to five, Mondays through Thursdays, Riley. We’ve been watching her for a whole month and nothing has changed in her routine besides that one Thursday night after work, she went out for ice cream and cried in the parking lot!” John expressed, pulling his bucket hat down in frustration.
As Simon looked through the file, he felt deeply uncomfortable. And embarrassed. And worst of all, he felt like the rudest bastard alive. For three months, he’s been ignoring your small talks and polite smile just because he thought you were a spy.
“T’ be fair, she’s a beautiful lass. Thought she was a spy,” Simon replies bluntly. One thing he can’t do, was admit he was wrong.
John rubbed his eyes, grumbling out something that sounded like: “wasted time and money for this, Riley,” and “you lost your only chance at love with a pretty lass.”
Simon’s brows twitched behind his balaclava, straightening up in his seat. He couldn’t even defend himself. What John said was true.
“Go— Just go apologize to her for being an asshole or— I don’t know, something!” John waved Simon off, too tired and now, afraid to explain to Kate about how he had spent one month stalking a pretty woman all because Simon thought he had a hit out on him.
But yeah, Simon planned on apologizing. He wasn’t sure if you were going to accept it though.
