Join me on a journey to become a better writer, and I hope you enjoy yourself along the way.
..In a language I rarely speak. So when I take a god-forsaken amount of time to update, it's because I’m drowning in synonyms and verbs, trying to figure out the magic (basics) of storytelling.
Masterlist under construction.
Simon Ghost Riley
Night Crawler
What's left of us
Bucky Barnes
Struggle with New Year’s Eve - The short blurb about how you helped him.
Doesn't do Valentine's Day - The short blurb where he does, in fact, do Valentine's Day.
Frank Castle
Shatter Point - The short story where he finds love again, and it breaks him like wars never could.
tw & content: Exes to lovers, female reader, Timeskip/flashbacks, fluff, angst, hurt, mentions -and descriptions of depression, alcohol consumption, heartbreak, insomnia, agression, hinting at domestic violence.
Night Crawler Masterlist
Previous: WLOU - Part 1
As if the bike is doing it on its own, Simon finds himself on the same country road he first took you to in your early days. With shoulders bowed and head lowered, he consciously slows down. As the speedometer ticked steadily downward, even the overworked engine sounded as if it were grieving.
Warm evening light spilling over dark compression sleeves and black tattoo-covered arms, yet he stays cold. Wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze and birds circling over him. It feels like mocking this time. It's the kind of beautiful day that feels cruel when you’re miserable.
As the bike kept moving forward, his heart pounded in his ears, and his dark, tired eyes were blinded by the sunset that felt wasted on someone like him.
The bike came to a sudden halt. Caught between choices, the engine hesitantly gets cut. Simon's head is lowered in defeat. The white-knuckle grip loosens, and with a final silent sigh, it is evident the fight has left him entirely.
If he cried, no one would know. The nearest neighbor is half a mile down the road, and the mournful creak is from an old farm gate in the distance, moving in the breeze. Simon is certain of that, as he knows exactly where he is.
He won't lift his gaze just yet. Can't stomach it.
If he does, he’ll see lavender and wildflowers outside an old wrap-around, wooden porch that needs fixing. He would see fruit trees, soon-to-be ripe pears, and golden apples with no one to harvest them.
Yes, if Simon were to open his grieving eyes, he would see honey-colored stone walls and white painted window frames weathered by rain and sunshine. And an empty, crooked mailbox sits at the end of the gravel road, with faded green paint. Waiting patiently to be named.
Simon feels his heart break all over again as he reaches into his pocket. A small piece of silver metal rests in his palm. It glints slightly in the sunlight when he turns it between his fingers. It feels heavier than it should for something so small.
He had hold on to its ragged teeth for some time now, as if a locked front door and an empty house somehow counted as hope. Fucking stupid.
Without ever taking in the horizon or the scenic route, he closes a chapter of everything that should've been.
“Enough...” he mumbles. “That's enough”. Maybe the wound would heal if he stopped coming back to it.
—-
You would think turning the page and taking the first step towards something new would give someone the blessing of finally breathing properly.
To Simon, it only gave him a grey, foggy slate, staring holes through the bedroom ceiling.
New roots refusing to take hold. Heartbreak, grief, and overall sadness suddenly gave way to a deafening numbness. The ache dulled into nothing as the pain had burned itself out.
Simon has felt like this a thousand times before. When he consciously finds the off-switch, the rage of Ghost gets to run riot on the fields, increasing his kill count without any second thought. Simon doesn’t feel a thing.
Therefore, he easily blames Ghost when he starts thinking back to the night he first saw your piece of shit fiancè. Ghost let anger in.
It was a night out (at what feels like a haunted bar, trying to kill him, at this point). Price had given orders that somehow appear to work outside of the task force.
“Get your coat. Now”.
That's how he found himself sitting in that god-forsaken pub the first (out of two) times the devil tried to get to him.
Lost in his beer, Price fortunately let silence exist more than he attempted to hold a conversation, letting Simon's wandering focus run free.
At the table beside them sat a group of men in designer suits that looked more expensive than practical, hair perfectly slicked back, and teeth too white. With the way they spoke so loudly enough for half the room to hear, and obnoxiously laughed at their own jokes, it turned out to be difficult to ignore them.
“She has this bloody habit of arguing with me,” he laughs, adjusting the golden watch, worth more than all of Simon's belongings combined.
“Think she's always right”.
Simon rolls his eyes, still watching his now lukewarm beer.
“Got her sorted eventually”, the prick cheers with his entire entourage at that—disrespectful shit.
“Anyway, the wedding is in October”.
“Keeps showing me those countryside houses. Want wildflowers at the wedding and everything.”
Simon's entire body went rigid.
“Every weekend is a new cottage viewing. She’s delusional if she thinks we’re moving to any other place than a penthouse in central London. Tired of listening to the same old story about drinking iced tea on the porch when we’re eighty. It's getting embarrassing”.
You. The fucking bastard is marrying you, isn’t he?
A pressure built behind his ribs until it hurt to breathe. Nausea rolled through him in waves as rage burned hot in his chest. Unworthy son of bitch, he thinks.
“She’ll learn soon enough.”
One fucking, arrogant wanker to another.
“She’ll come around. They always do”.
Simon almost broke the glass he's holding on to for dear life. Price had noticed the tension right away, but decided against poking the bear. He could see Simon's urge to punch a bastard face in, from miles away —always has.
“You know that guy?” Price casually took a sip from his beer and stroked the foam out of his profound mustache.
Simon didn't answer. It took everything in him not to look over at the pen full of prize-winning cattle with a bank account. If he did, he’s certain he’d lose all restraint and lurch forward and break the man's neck.
“I know her”. Simon growled out, as if it pained him, because it absolutely did.
____
Yeah, anger is a manageable feeling. Made peace with rage many years ago. What Simon can't let go of is you being with someone so fucking dismissive. Someone who is annoyed by the things he loves the most.
Simon knows the type. Scared a bloke like him, trying to get a drunk woman to get in his Mercedes one night. Good times.
Still, he’ll never question how you end up with men like that. Never has. Their confidence oozes safety somehow. And after years of uncertainty with Simon, that must be the most attractive thing in the world.
He’ll probably make plans immediately, know which restaurant to book, know the wine order, and never second-guess himself. He is everything Simon is not, and somehow they’re both fucked. None worthy of you.
And when his true self shows someday, you’ll be convinced you can love him enough to change. Giving him way too many second chances. You always see the best in everybody. Simon knows this, cause that’s what you gave him. A fuck-ton of chances he didn’t deserve. All because he couldn’t get out of his own head, scared he’ll ruin something beautiful —so it all fell apart anyway.
All he wanted was you. And save you from himself, at the same time. For every major step forward, he takes two steps back. Eventually, he had pushed you so far away that he practically carried you in the other man's arms.
Simon can almost hear you say it. “It's nice not to guess where I stand. I spent years guessing with you”.
He tries to sleep that night, he really does. Being awake feels like a constant punishment, and a break from imaginary visuals of him snuggling up to you on your wedding day would be fucking fantastic.
Hours went by, but sleep never came. Simon is so sleep-deprived that he sees through hooded, glassy eyes. The line between memory and reality blurred, and his focus drifts in and out.
He almost doesn't hear his phone ring. He chalks it up to his imagination.
When the ringing in his ears won't stop, he rolls over in bed and reaches over the nightstand, putting an end to the tinnitus from hell.
Ending the call somehow felt like setting the future on fire. As though some instinct deep inside him knew he’d just turned his back on something important. Again.
As he’s closing his eyes once again, eyelids feeling like sandpaper, the phone rings one more time. Feels like screaming.
He mindlessly searches for the phone he threw away and answers, irritated yet distracted, never checking the Home Screen.
«Riley».
On the other end, there is a shaky breath, followed by a thin, unsteady voice. «I would like to place a takeaway order, please? It’s for delivery».
Simon groans, exasperated. «Wrong number, sweetheart».
«It’s for apartment 1804, Bridgewater Heights.» The voice is on the verge of crying, begging, and trying so hard not to be overheard.
Simon refuses to acknowledge the feeling of something breaking in him. Yet he can’t for the life of him find the strength to hang up.
Ghost pushed through, though. «Look, you're barking up the wrong tree, miss». It comes out like thunder to someone who apparently is so fucking terrified already.
«A steak… steak sandwich…»
Simon sobers up instantly. Every trace of exhaustion vanishes. Chest heaving, every muscle locks as blood drains from his face. In its place comes something far worse.
«Well done».
Thank you for your order. Delivery confirmed. A deeply unfortunate evening coming right up.
eddie munson ptsd whump 🙂↕️ im talking mega breakdown with a side of comfort from reader 🙂↕️okay 1,2,3 go
Eddie Munson x Reader
1.6k - tw: PTSD - thank you anon for the request and the challenge. It really helps! Hope you like it. (I’m scared).
The sunset went down at Mirkwood Creek. A deep orange glow washed over the tall pine trees that framed their campsite that early summer weekend. The smell of sunscreen lingered in the air, and a modest campfire crackled nearby. Dustin's distant, exasperated groans as he tried to shake the sand from his sandals drew a giggle out of Eddie.
His eyes crinkled as if he had just gotten away with something. —Knowing damn well Dustin would pull on a pair of fuzzy socks that night, only to discover they felt like sandpaper. Weird how grit and gravel make their way into people's belongings just like that. Especially if those belongings were tucked safely inside a side pocket of Dustin's backpack.
You could notice Eddie's shenanigans from miles away. “What did you do?” you snickered and bumped his sun-warmed shoulder with yours.
He’d been a menace all day—more than usual. Everybody paid the price. He had driven recklessly on the way there, and when the air was cool enough to raise goosebumps that morning, he had picked you up bridal style and thrown you in the bone-chilling lake.
Eddie had been doing his worst helping Steve with his tent, starting with the manual's last page. Saying it's not his fault; good looks don't come with an average IQ.
So, as you toasted yourself a marshmallow and Eddie poked the embers with a stick, trying desperately to keep the fire alive, Steve still hadn't gotten the god-forsaken tent up.
At one point, he’d made it his personal mission to ruin every single scenery shot Jonathan tried to take. Bonus points if he could put them in an «explicit nature» category.
To everyone else, Eddie looked overly enthusiastic and highly caffeinated. To you, he looked on edge and extremely stressed out. Even as Dustin struggled with said sand, Eddie kept glancing towards the treeline.
Eddie's mouth curled into a grin, but it somehow didn't reach his eyes as it used to. His eyes flickered back to the pine trees ahead. “Oh, whatever do you mean? I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. I’m a beacon of virtue. Angelic. Heaven-sent”.
You looked at him more intently, trying to meet his eyes as your words came out all soft. “Yeah. You are.” You gave him a warm smile and blinked softly. “You're also misunderstood. Sensitive.”
Eddie cleared his throat and suddenly had a hard time stopping his leg from bouncing. Although clearly uncomfortable, you gently pressed on.
“…and quietly hurting?”
«You’re being ridiculous.» The smile was gone, and so was the glimmer in his eyes. He poked the fire even harder.
“You don't have to keep it to yourself”. You tried to lay a reassuring hand on Eddie's shoulder, but he abruptly snapped up in a tense position, giving you no time to recalibrate the situation.
“STOP!” He looked right at you then, like he’d taken a bullet to the chest. «You need to fucking stop!»
He could see you trying to scramble for the right words to smooth things over with something —anything. But Eddie couldn't have you saying another word. In desperate need of keeping the almost see-through wall intact, he got right up in your face.
“Just because you’ve got that fancy degree doesn’t mean you’ve got me all figured out! I’m not one of your case studies!” Eddie's breaths came in quick, shallow bursts.
Everybody stood speechless at the commotion in front of them. Steve made a nervous, half-hearted attempt to calm everything down, but to no avail.
“So stop looking at me like that!” Eddie had frozen in place and still hadn't fucking blinked.
“Like what?” Oh, you knew how you looked at him, with a downward smile and glistening eyes filled with sadness that wasn't your own.
He points at you with a trembling finger as he gets even closer. “Like you know shit!”
You stared each other down. Both are out of breath. Eddie forced down a swallow, finding his mouth dry. And as if the motion grounded him for just a second, he suddenly forced himself to take a brief look around.
The campfire had burned low. The darkness had crept closer than he’d realized. Back stood the group in its entirety, dumbfounded, the ones that had supported him since that cursed day. Suddenly, nowhere felt safe. Not even with them.
The air felt heavier, and alarm bells rang in his ears. The uneasy feeling in his gut only grew stronger. He couldn't bear to look at you again. Instead, he took a couple of cautious steps back before turning around completely and breaking into a run through the dark forest.
The camping trip was supposed to be fun. Now every snapped twig made Eddie twitch, dread getting stronger every passing minute. He had signed up for bad jokes and burnt hot dogs. Now the smoke reeked of fear. Now he had to deal with this shit. Again.
The forest only became more unsettling as he went on. It swallowed all sound, leaving only his own footsteps and hammering heart.
The sudden sound of a bird flapping was the final nail in the coffin. He had heard that sound before —bigger, louder, and closer. And he had been alone in this kind of darkness before — colder, mustier. More depressing.
There, he had fought for the lives of the very people that had to drag him out of the damp, rotten earth -dying. Now he had promised them a normal get-together that summer. And he couldn't even give them that.
Eddie's lungs started to burn to the point where he couldn't for the life of him catch his breath. The racing pulse made him dizzy and weak-kneed. His legs gave out beneath him as the forest blurred at the edges.
He felt disconnected from his body and yet still braced himself for danger as he lost control over what was reality and what was not.
As Eddie's vision blurred fully, tears slipped free unnoticed. He didn't realize he was crying until he tasted salt on his lips.
——
You found him sitting at the base of a pine tree, shoulders hunched and head bowed, and for a moment, you just stood there, taking him in. His knees hugged his chest, and his back shook with anxiety.
“Eddie?” His name left your lips softly, to let him know you’re there, careful not to startle him. You didn't expect an answer, and you didn't get one.
“Mind if I sit with you?”
When Eddie didn’t object, you slowly lowered yourself onto the forest floor a few feet away, making sure he could see every movement you made. Making sure he felt he could ask you to leave at any time.
For a moment, words felt unnecessary. So you waited.
“I’m… I’m struggling to…To breathe”. His eyes flickered to you, then everything came crashing down, and you didn't want to wait any longer.
You took it as permission to come close. And as you held Eddie in your arms, he cried. You took slow, even breaths, a little deeper than normal, hoping he would catch on.
Eddie cried until the woods settled around them, filled with only the rustles of summery leaves and the soft murmur of the lake. He was exhausted, and the fight had drained out of him in the end.
“I’m here”, you soothed him, slow and steady. “I’m here”.
His shoulders seemed to sag ever so slightly. Your thumb continued its slow path across his skin. Eddie could smell the comforting scent of your sunscreen, could see your golden necklace shimmer in the moonlight, and could hear your steady heartbeat. Fear left him slowly.
“You’re right, you know? I don't know what happened that day”. You tested the waters carefully and swallowed. “But I know you, Eddie.”
Eddie sniffled and used his t-shirt to rub the tears from his eyes. “They see you joking around. Acting as nothing happened.”
“But it did happen.” You looked at each other, and the sight almost broke you. With no walls left to hide behind, he showed signs of months of exhaustion.
“You jumped right back into life like you didn’t almost lose it. I must be hard feeling like you're stuck, watching everybody else move on.”
Eddie's eyes filled with tears once again, not from fear but from bone-deep weariness. The lump in your throat made the next words come out even quieter as you blinked away your own tears. “I don't want you to keep pretending you’re okay, Eddie”.
“I'm so fucking tired,” he groaned through his tear-soaked shirt.
“You want to go home?” you said it so easily, and without a second thought, Eddie almost didn't have to feel guilty for saying yes. Instead, he pondered for a second.
“I don't know.” He said, still so defeated. Too worn out to choose.
“I’ll stay with you, and we'll figure it out in the morning”. You held Eddie close and ruffled his curls.
He hugged his knees and leaned a damp cheek on his arms, looking back at you with red-rimmed eyes. “I'm sorry”.
“Don’t you ever be sorry”. A moment passed without a sound, before you let out a laugh through your nose. “…I’ve seen you do worse things than cry”.
He raised an eyebrow at that. “Jesus Christ, read the room”. He tried so hard to hide a smile. “What?”
You side-eyed Eddie with a smirk, taking your time. “…You trying to flirt.”
The gasp Eddie let out was heard all the way over to Steve's fortunately done tent. And as the group made their way to their warm sleeping bags and sandy, fluffy socks, they could hear the familiar, laughing banter as a calming lullaby.
If you have any prompts, drabble ideas, tropes, dialogue snippets, or emotional damage you’d like to inflict on Simon Riley (both in the Night Crawler universe or something completely different), Eddie Munson, Bucky Barnes, or Frank Castle, my ask box is open. 👀
I’d love some inspiration and an excuse to write something in between night crawler chapters, to improve my writing.
Can't promise i wont get performance anxiety. But right now… I got nothing.
New readers are welcome! Each volume follows a different stage of Simon and Reader’s relationship and can be read as a stand-alone. Bite-sized chapters (1.5-2k words). Easy to pick up and put down.
NIGHT CRAWLER
Strangers to lovers
The one where Simon rediscoveres his bike
The one where the saviour needs saving
The one where he gets a sweet taste of what ifs
The one where he fucks up and has to sit with it
The one where he steps outside his comfort zone -and gets rewarded for it
NIGHT CRAWLER: Whats left of us
Exes to lovers
Simon Riley has survived a lot of things. Losing you might not be one of them
tw & content: Exes to lovers, female reader, Timeskip/flashbacks, fluff, angst, hurt, mentions -and descriptions of depression, alcohol consumption, heartbreak, insomnia, agression, hinting at domestic violence.
Night Crawler Masterlist
Previous: WLOU - Part 1
As if the bike is doing it on its own, Simon finds himself on the same country road he first took you to in your early days. With shoulders bowed and head lowered, he consciously slows down. As the speedometer ticked steadily downward, even the overworked engine sounded as if it were grieving.
Warm evening light spilling over dark compression sleeves and black tattoo-covered arms, yet he stays cold. Wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze and birds circling over him. It feels like mocking this time. It's the kind of beautiful day that feels cruel when you’re miserable.
As the bike kept moving forward, his heart pounded in his ears, and his dark, tired eyes were blinded by the sunset that felt wasted on someone like him.
The bike came to a sudden halt. Caught between choices, the engine hesitantly gets cut. Simon's head is lowered in defeat. The white-knuckle grip loosens, and with a final silent sigh, it is evident the fight has left him entirely.
If he cried, no one would know. The nearest neighbor is half a mile down the road, and the mournful creak is from an old farm gate in the distance, moving in the breeze. Simon is certain of that, as he knows exactly where he is.
He won't lift his gaze just yet. Can't stomach it.
If he does, he’ll see lavender and wildflowers outside an old wrap-around, wooden porch that needs fixing. He would see fruit trees, soon-to-be ripe pears, and golden apples with no one to harvest them.
Yes, if Simon were to open his grieving eyes, he would see honey-colored stone walls and white painted window frames weathered by rain and sunshine. And an empty, crooked mailbox sits at the end of the gravel road, with faded green paint. Waiting patiently to be named.
Simon feels his heart break all over again as he reaches into his pocket. A small piece of silver metal rests in his palm. It glints slightly in the sunlight when he turns it between his fingers. It feels heavier than it should for something so small.
He had hold on to its ragged teeth for some time now, as if a locked front door and an empty house somehow counted as hope. Fucking stupid.
Without ever taking in the horizon or the scenic route, he closes a chapter of everything that should've been.
“Enough...” he mumbles. “That's enough”. Maybe the wound would heal if he stopped coming back to it.
—-
You would think turning the page and taking the first step towards something new would give someone the blessing of finally breathing properly.
To Simon, it only gave him a grey, foggy slate, staring holes through the bedroom ceiling.
New roots refusing to take hold. Heartbreak, grief, and overall sadness suddenly gave way to a deafening numbness. The ache dulled into nothing as the pain had burned itself out.
Simon has felt like this a thousand times before. When he consciously finds the off-switch, the rage of Ghost gets to run riot on the fields, increasing his kill count without any second thought. Simon doesn’t feel a thing.
Therefore, he easily blames Ghost when he starts thinking back to the night he first saw your piece of shit fiancè. Ghost let anger in.
It was a night out (at what feels like a haunted bar, trying to kill him, at this point). Price had given orders that somehow appear to work outside of the task force.
“Get your coat. Now”.
That's how he found himself sitting in that god-forsaken pub the first (out of two) times the devil tried to get to him.
Lost in his beer, Price fortunately let silence exist more than he attempted to hold a conversation, letting Simon's wandering focus run free.
At the table beside them sat a group of men in designer suits that looked more expensive than practical, hair perfectly slicked back, and teeth too white. With the way they spoke so loudly enough for half the room to hear, and obnoxiously laughed at their own jokes, it turned out to be difficult to ignore them.
“She has this bloody habit of arguing with me,” he laughs, adjusting the golden watch, worth more than all of Simon's belongings combined.
“Think she's always right”.
Simon rolls his eyes, still watching his now lukewarm beer.
“Got her sorted eventually”, the prick cheers with his entire entourage at that—disrespectful shit.
“Anyway, the wedding is in October”.
“Keeps showing me those countryside houses. Want wildflowers at the wedding and everything.”
Simon's entire body went rigid.
“Every weekend is a new cottage viewing. She’s delusional if she thinks we’re moving to any other place than a penthouse in central London. Tired of listening to the same old story about drinking iced tea on the porch when we’re eighty. It's getting embarrassing”.
You. The fucking bastard is marrying you, isn’t he?
A pressure built behind his ribs until it hurt to breathe. Nausea rolled through him in waves as rage burned hot in his chest. Unworthy son of bitch, he thinks.
“She’ll learn soon enough.”
One fucking, arrogant wanker to another.
“She’ll come around. They always do”.
Simon almost broke the glass he's holding on to for dear life. Price had noticed the tension right away, but decided against poking the bear. He could see Simon's urge to punch a bastard face in, from miles away —always has.
“You know that guy?” Price casually took a sip from his beer and stroked the foam out of his profound mustache.
Simon didn't answer. It took everything in him not to look over at the pen full of prize-winning cattle with a bank account. If he did, he’s certain he’d lose all restraint and lurch forward and break the man's neck.
“I know her”. Simon growled out, as if it pained him, because it absolutely did.
____
Yeah, anger is a manageable feeling. Made peace with rage many years ago. What Simon can't let go of is you being with someone so fucking dismissive. Someone who is annoyed by the things he loves the most.
Simon knows the type. Scared a bloke like him, trying to get a drunk woman to get in his Mercedes one night. Good times.
Still, he’ll never question how you end up with men like that. Never has. Their confidence oozes safety somehow. And after years of uncertainty with Simon, that must be the most attractive thing in the world.
He’ll probably make plans immediately, know which restaurant to book, know the wine order, and never second-guess himself. He is everything Simon is not, and somehow they’re both fucked. None worthy of you.
And when his true self shows someday, you’ll be convinced you can love him enough to change. Giving him way too many second chances. You always see the best in everybody. Simon knows this, cause that’s what you gave him. A fuck-ton of chances he didn’t deserve. All because he couldn’t get out of his own head, scared he’ll ruin something beautiful —so it all fell apart anyway.
All he wanted was you. And save you from himself, at the same time. For every major step forward, he takes two steps back. Eventually, he had pushed you so far away that he practically carried you in the other man's arms.
Simon can almost hear you say it. “It's nice not to guess where I stand. I spent years guessing with you”.
He tries to sleep that night, he really does. Being awake feels like a constant punishment, and a break from imaginary visuals of him snuggling up to you on your wedding day would be fucking fantastic.
Hours went by, but sleep never came. Simon is so sleep-deprived that he sees through hooded, glassy eyes. The line between memory and reality blurred, and his focus drifts in and out.
He almost doesn't hear his phone ring. He chalks it up to his imagination.
When the ringing in his ears won't stop, he rolls over in bed and reaches over the nightstand, putting an end to the tinnitus from hell.
Ending the call somehow felt like setting the future on fire. As though some instinct deep inside him knew he’d just turned his back on something important. Again.
As he’s closing his eyes once again, eyelids feeling like sandpaper, the phone rings one more time. Feels like screaming.
He mindlessly searches for the phone he threw away and answers, irritated yet distracted, never checking the Home Screen.
«Riley».
On the other end, there is a shaky breath, followed by a thin, unsteady voice. «I would like to place a takeaway order, please? It’s for delivery».
Simon groans, exasperated. «Wrong number, sweetheart».
«It’s for apartment 1804, Bridgewater Heights.» The voice is on the verge of crying, begging, and trying so hard not to be overheard.
Simon refuses to acknowledge the feeling of something breaking in him. Yet he can’t for the life of him find the strength to hang up.
Ghost pushed through, though. «Look, you're barking up the wrong tree, miss». It comes out like thunder to someone who apparently is so fucking terrified already.
«A steak… steak sandwich…»
Simon sobers up instantly. Every trace of exhaustion vanishes. Chest heaving, every muscle locks as blood drains from his face. In its place comes something far worse.
«Well done».
Thank you for your order. Delivery confirmed. A deeply unfortunate evening coming right up.
Thinking about Night Crawler Simon, who bought an old farmhouse with a scenery for you two to grow old in, only for you to step on a rusty nail on the porch, on the way in.
Not the reason he thought he would carry you over the threshold for the first time, but here you are.
“We have to get you to the doctor. Move”. He says it with extreme urgency, yet entirely calm.
You notice the gravelly bite seeping through, and can't help but give him a mockingly side eye.
«What? Blaming yourself for a hundred-year-old nail? Your ego is massive if you think you control the oxidation of metal.”
Simon doesn't respond right away. He is too busy picking you back up, bridal style, murmuring something about you being too stubborn for your own good, and that you need a tetanus shot.
“Put me back on my own two feet, Riley. I’ve learned my lesson —metal is sharp, you’re old, and I’m grounded. Happy?”
As Simon reached the car, he put you in your place —literally, and as he walked to the driver's seat, he grumbled angrily,
“I’m burning the whole fucking thing to the ground, and building her a new one”.
Simon Riley survived a lot of things. Losing you might not be one of’em.
Biker Simon Riley x Cheeky, Stubborn Reader
tw & content: Exes to lovers, female reader, Timeskip/flashbacks (I hope it reads the way I want it to), fluff, comedic relief, angst, hurt, mentions -and descriptions of depression, alcohol consumption, heartbreak, brief mentions of getting sick and vomiting, imposter syndrome, reckless driving.
Previous: Night Crawler. But can be read as a stand-alone.
After discovering his long-lost love for motorcycles two years ago, Simon rarely reaches for his car keys. The day he saw you come out of your shared bedroom with a short, wine-red, backless dress, with flared chiffon sleeves, was one of those times.
No delicate gift-wrapped present of his will have her ribbon untied in windy turbulence, on the back of a bike.
«Not bad. Not bad at all», Simon murmurs as you slowly come closer, and he gets to wrap an arm around your waist, the other caressing your cheek.
You close the distance, letting him get a breath of you, while he sultry whispers, “I’m tempted to stay in. Keeping a low profile”.
Manicured nails smooth out his black Henley before giving him a once-over. Tight-fitting black jeans make you almost forget the intoxicating smell of leather, tobacco, and soft spices that always make you all mushy when he’s close.
«Honey, with those shoulders? Low profile was never an option. Come on, I want to show off my high-value target”.
Simon stands put when you playfully walk towards the door and throw him his car keys.
People will wonder how the fuck he tricked you into this. Into that restaurant, your hand in his. How he tricked you into his home -boxes full of your belongings, into his, no, your shared bed every evening. Wonder how he gets to hear his name being breathlessly called through the late hours of the night. He himself wonders every day.
Imposter syndrome is real, and it takes up way too much space. At some point, he will drown in it, he thinks.
“The sooner you put that tank with a heartbeat in gear, the sooner we can have dessert at home”.
Simon smirks and looks at you through his eyelashes as you once again bring his head over the deafening water, keeping him alive.
—
Finally seated at the restaurant, you are fifteen minutes deep into the menu, trying to order something that counts, something memorable. Not because you’re normally this fancy, but because you want Simon to feel like he didn't bring you here for nothing.
Being here costs Simon more than any paycheck he has ever bled for. Shed of any tactical gear since he came home last week, in a crowded, dimly lit space, making it difficult to have a sense of control. And to top it all off, he’s accompanied by a warm hug in human form. A woman who is wholeheartedly his, —he knows as much, cause you told him that on several dark and haunting occasions.
Still, he is convinced you will vanish the second you realize you’ve given your devoted time, warmth, body, and love to someone who is so incredibly unworthy. He’ll ruin it somehow, like he always does with pretty things.
Simon is lost in thought, staring at you, trying to navigate your way around the wine list and appetizers. You suddenly meeting his eyes is what snaps him out of it.
“You’re not even reading it”, you state the fact before getting back to the overwhelming menu.
You’re so cute, and on the brink of an unmanageable state of hangry, Simon can't hide an amused snort for the life of him.
«Dont need to».
You glance up at him again, eyebrow raised. «What? You memorized it?»
Simon matches your mocking face with a daring one. «Steak».
“That’s it?” With an adorable crinkle of your nose and an exasperated breath, you conclude that this cuisine selection will be the death of you.
«Does the job», he says with a small shrug.
You stare at him for a second longer, until you lower the menu slowly. There’s something almost offended in your expression.
“We’re in a nice restaurant. Trimmings exist, you know, side dishes? Have I taught you nothing?”
“Still steak”. Simon bites back a smile, keeping the smug look on his face. As if overthinking potato variants and side salads is a waste of time. It is. It was. —until you made it for him. Here, they don't matter.
You huff softly, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable”.
He doesn't react in the slightest. Just watches you quietly. Steady. Admiring.
“Fine”. You set the god-forsaken menu down and lean back. “I’ll have steak”.
Good. That settles it. Simon nods once, thankful his woman would get some well-needed nutrients before angry smoke starts seeping out of her. Wouldn't want to get turned on while stuck in here now, would he?
“..well done”.
The silence is loud. Simon stops what he’s doing, and his eyes lift slowly to yours.
“No, you won't”.
You bite back a smile. Barley. You take a minute to neutralize your expression before continuing with your usual rage-bait.
“Maybe I will”. You look around, trying to find a server ready to place your order.
“You won't”.
“And why not?” He'd better believe you've got time today.
There's a shift in him then. Something more certain. He knows you. Two years of herbs and spices in the kitchen, 24 months with the taste of fresh berries and sugar on your tongue. (Counting the months he’s been away, —cause lord knows he can still taste you).
“You don't do things halfway.”
It comes out softer than he intended. Sweeter than you expected. So for a second, you simply look at him, until a smile slips through.
“Relax,” you say, picking your menu back up. “I'm not ruining a perfectly good steak».
«..But if I ever do..» you glance at him over the menu, winking at him. «You‘ll know something’s gone very wrong».
Simon doesn't smile, but his eyes never leave you.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I would”.
—-
The couch doesn’t even have a single little dent in it yet.
Simon sits on the far left side, head in his hands. The right side was yours. Supposed to be, anyway.
You had taken off and jumped on it the second you saw it at Barker and Stonehouse Furniture. You had made yourself so casually comfortable, not giving a flying fuck about other customers or what employees would say, per usual.
Simon was too blinded by the fact that he would give everything to make you look like that at home, you resting your head in his lap, stretched out like a kitten who had found her forever home, to feel any embarrassment at the scene in front of him.
«We’ll take it», he said silently to the cashier before you could register any of it.
It was delivered on a rainy Saturday that spring. April showers were pouring down outside, and you had been firmly determined on making a slow-cooked beef stew that afternoon.
There's no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable comfort foods.
—
This time, though, the raindrops on the window were hidden behind dark curtains. Every drop is taunting Simon with what he once had, gnawing on his mind.
He pulls at the blond mane, presses shaky hands to tired eyes, and his knee bounces with unease.
Unlike his vivid memories, Simon hasn't eaten in days.
It's been a rough couple of months. At some point, he didn't think he would even survive it. Heartbreak is funny like that. Sometimes it feels like dying. Sometimes it feels like it's better to do just that. Dying.
He almost pulled through. At least that's what he’s telling himself. Soap even managed to get him out of the apartment before he wasted away at the last second.
—
Soap guilt-tripped Simon into buying cheap whisky at the pub. —Being in town for only a couple of days and all. Soap knew it wasn't the smartest choice for the time being. But he felt like he had run out of options, and he had to start somewhere. Simon's darkness felt terrifying.
Simon was at least one bottle of hard liquor in when the universe came crashing down at the worst possible time.
From his dark corner at the pub, he hears commotion but is only met with Soap's desperate expression.
“Simon, look at me. Hey! Eyes here. Let’s head out and find somewhere a bit quieter. It’s gettin’ too rowdy in here, mate. My shout for the next round, let’s go."
Years together on the battlefield make Soap's poor attempt at a distraction less than fruitful. Simon is drunk and depressed. Not fucking stupid.
Simon scoffs, lifts his head, and scans the room.
It takes him two seconds to find familiar eyes. Last time he saw them, they were filled to the brim with unshed tears. From his doing.
What he saw next made him feel like he was about to chunder. His legs almost gave out, and as you called out for him, Soap steered him out immediately.
Bachelorette party.
In a dark alley, on what felt like safer ground, Simon wretched his gut out. He fell on his knees first, as the reality settled. He felt like he had lost you all over again. And he doesn't know if he has it in him to sit in it.
—-
Soap hasn't heard from Simon since that night. He ignored every phone call, every knock on the door.
The noise dies down as Soap's departure time approaches. Left is Simon, alone on a couch made for two, staring a hole in a black velvet box in his hands.
He sniffles. Fucking pathetic.
Big hands made for rifles and combat, opening the delicate box as if the insides would hurt him. —Cause it does.
A thin golden band with a dark, fractured diamond. Black, grey, never quite clear.
It was meant to be personal, different, a loud statement. Something that would catch people's eye. Show that you were unmistakably his.
It feels stupid now. Of course, you would want the one he saw you with—a blinding, rounded, clear diamond on a silver band. Classic.
Simon never cries. Hasn't since he was a little boy. Unlike others' beliefs, it's not because he feels like it's a sign of weakness. It's just that he simply can't anymore.
So when he can feel his eyes stinging, and an involuntary mewling escapes him, he panics.
Almost on autopilot, he reaches for the keys to his bike and considers leaving the matte black helmet you got him that Christmas.
He usually drives responsibly. But without his most valuable cargo, what's even the point?
—-
The line finally clicks open.
Soap’s voice cackles through the comms.
“Christ, Simon..”
The engine only roars louder, drowning out the rest.
“I know it stings, Riley. But whatever you do — please dont take it out on the road.”
The engine screams as the rough gear shifts. It's aggressive and too fast.
“Simon.”
Soap can hear the uneven, heavy breathing and the howling wind cutting in.
“Oy - Ease up, mate.”
Another burst of throttle, but no answer.
Soap's voice drops. “Don’t outrun your guardian angel, mate”.
The engine doesn't slow.
Simon's voice is low and muffled when he finally answers.
Simon Riley survived a lot of things. Losing you might not be one of’em.
Biker Simon Riley x Cheeky, Stubborn Reader
tw & content: Exes to lovers, female reader, Timeskip/flashbacks (I hope it reads the way I want it to), fluff, comedic relief, angst, hurt, mentions -and descriptions of depression, alcohol consumption, heartbreak, brief mentions of getting sick and vomiting, imposter syndrome, reckless driving.
Previous: Night Crawler. But can be read as a stand-alone.
Night Crawler Masterlist
Part 2
After discovering his long-lost love for motorcycles two years ago, Simon rarely reaches for his car keys. The day he saw you come out of your shared bedroom with a short, wine-red, backless dress, with flared chiffon sleeves, was one of those times.
No delicate gift-wrapped present of his will have her ribbon untied in windy turbulence, on the back of a bike.
«Not bad. Not bad at all», Simon murmurs as you slowly come closer, and he gets to wrap an arm around your waist, the other caressing your cheek.
You close the distance, letting him get a breath of you, while he sultry whispers, “I’m tempted to stay in. Keeping a low profile”.
Manicured nails smooth out his black Henley before giving him a once-over. Tight-fitting black jeans make you almost forget the intoxicating smell of leather, tobacco, and soft spices that always make you all mushy when he’s close.
«Honey, with those shoulders? Low profile was never an option. Come on, I want to show off my high-value target”.
Simon stands put when you playfully walk towards the door and throw him his car keys.
People will wonder how the fuck he tricked you into this. Into that restaurant, your hand in his. How he tricked you into his home -boxes full of your belongings, into his, no, your shared bed every evening. Wonder how he gets to hear his name being breathlessly called through the late hours of the night. He himself wonders every day.
Imposter syndrome is real, and it takes up way too much space. At some point, he will drown in it, he thinks.
“The sooner you put that tank with a heartbeat in gear, the sooner we can have dessert at home”.
Simon smirks and looks at you through his eyelashes as you once again bring his head over the deafening water, keeping him alive.
—
Finally seated at the restaurant, you are fifteen minutes deep into the menu, trying to order something that counts, something memorable. Not because you’re normally this fancy, but because you want Simon to feel like he didn't bring you here for nothing.
Being here costs Simon more than any paycheck he has ever bled for. Shed of any tactical gear since he came home last week, in a crowded, dimly lit space, making it difficult to have a sense of control. And to top it all off, he’s accompanied by a warm hug in human form. A woman who is wholeheartedly his, —he knows as much, cause you told him that on several dark and haunting occasions.
Still, he is convinced you will vanish the second you realize you’ve given your devoted time, warmth, body, and love to someone who is so incredibly unworthy. He’ll ruin it somehow, like he always does with pretty things.
Simon is lost in thought, staring at you, trying to navigate your way around the wine list and appetizers. You suddenly meeting his eyes is what snaps him out of it.
“You’re not even reading it”, you state the fact before getting back to the overwhelming menu.
You’re so cute, and on the brink of an unmanageable state of hangry, Simon can't hide an amused snort for the life of him.
«Dont need to».
You glance up at him again, eyebrow raised. «What? You memorized it?»
Simon matches your mocking face with a daring one. «Steak».
“That’s it?” With an adorable crinkle of your nose and an exasperated breath, you conclude that this cuisine selection will be the death of you.
«Does the job», he says with a small shrug.
You stare at him for a second longer, until you lower the menu slowly. There’s something almost offended in your expression.
“We’re in a nice restaurant. Trimmings exist, you know, side dishes? Have I taught you nothing?”
“Still steak”. Simon bites back a smile, keeping the smug look on his face. As if overthinking potato variants and side salads is a waste of time. It is. It was. —until you made it for him. Here, they don't matter.
You huff softly, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable”.
He doesn't react in the slightest. Just watches you quietly. Steady. Admiring.
“Fine”. You set the god-forsaken menu down and lean back. “I’ll have steak”.
Good. That settles it. Simon nods once, thankful his woman would get some well-needed nutrients before angry smoke starts seeping out of her. Wouldn't want to get turned on while stuck in here now, would he?
“..well done”.
The silence is loud. Simon stops what he’s doing, and his eyes lift slowly to yours.
“No, you won't”.
You bite back a smile. Barley. You take a minute to neutralize your expression before continuing with your usual rage-bait.
“Maybe I will”. You look around, trying to find a server ready to place your order.
“You won't”.
“And why not?” He'd better believe you've got time today.
There's a shift in him then. Something more certain. He knows you. Two years of herbs and spices in the kitchen, 24 months with the taste of fresh berries and sugar on your tongue. (Counting the months he’s been away, —cause lord knows he can still taste you).
“You don't do things halfway.”
It comes out softer than he intended. Sweeter than you expected. So for a second, you simply look at him, until a smile slips through.
“Relax,” you say, picking your menu back up. “I'm not ruining a perfectly good steak».
«..But if I ever do..» you glance at him over the menu, winking at him. «You‘ll know something’s gone very wrong».
Simon doesn't smile, but his eyes never leave you.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I would”.
—-
The couch doesn’t even have a single little dent in it yet.
Simon sits on the far left side, head in his hands. The right side was yours. Supposed to be, anyway.
You had taken off and jumped on it the second you saw it at Barker and Stonehouse Furniture. You had made yourself so casually comfortable, not giving a flying fuck about other customers or what employees would say, per usual.
Simon was too blinded by the fact that he would give everything to make you look like that at home, you resting your head in his lap, stretched out like a kitten who had found her forever home, to feel any embarrassment at the scene in front of him.
«We’ll take it», he said silently to the cashier before you could register any of it.
It was delivered on a rainy Saturday that spring. April showers were pouring down outside, and you had been firmly determined on making a slow-cooked beef stew that afternoon.
There's no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable comfort foods.
—
This time, though, the raindrops on the window were hidden behind dark curtains. Every drop is taunting Simon with what he once had, gnawing on his mind.
He pulls at the blond mane, presses shaky hands to tired eyes, and his knee bounces with unease.
Unlike his vivid memories, Simon hasn't eaten in days.
It's been a rough couple of months. At some point, he didn't think he would even survive it. Heartbreak is funny like that. Sometimes it feels like dying. Sometimes it feels like it's better to do just that. Dying.
He almost pulled through. At least that's what he’s telling himself. Soap even managed to get him out of the apartment before he wasted away at the last second.
—
Soap guilt-tripped Simon into buying cheap whisky at the pub. —Being in town for only a couple of days and all. Soap knew it wasn't the smartest choice for the time being. But he felt like he had run out of options, and he had to start somewhere. Simon's darkness felt terrifying.
Simon was at least one bottle of hard liquor in when the universe came crashing down at the worst possible time.
From his dark corner at the pub, he hears commotion but is only met with Soap's desperate expression.
“Simon, look at me. Hey! Eyes here. Let’s head out and find somewhere a bit quieter. It’s gettin’ too rowdy in here, mate. My shout for the next round, let’s go."
Years together on the battlefield make Soap's poor attempt at a distraction less than fruitful. Simon is drunk and depressed. Not fucking stupid.
Simon scoffs, lifts his head, and scans the room.
It takes him two seconds to find familiar eyes. Last time he saw them, they were filled to the brim with unshed tears. From his doing.
What he saw next made him feel like he was about to chunder. His legs almost gave out, and as you called out for him, Soap steered him out immediately.
Bachelorette party.
In a dark alley, on what felt like safer ground, Simon wretched his gut out. He fell on his knees first, as the reality settled. He felt like he had lost you all over again. And he doesn't know if he has it in him to sit in it.
—-
Soap hasn't heard from Simon since that night. He ignored every phone call, every knock on the door.
The noise dies down as Soap's departure time approaches. Left is Simon, alone on a couch made for two, staring a hole in a black velvet box in his hands.
He sniffles. Fucking pathetic.
Big hands made for rifles and combat, opening the delicate box as if the insides would hurt him. —Cause it does.
A thin golden band with a dark, fractured diamond. Black, grey, never quite clear.
It was meant to be personal, different, a loud statement. Something that would catch people's eye. Show that you were unmistakably his.
It feels stupid now. Of course, you would want the one he saw you with—a blinding, rounded, clear diamond on a silver band. Classic.
Simon never cries. Hasn't since he was a little boy. Unlike others' beliefs, it's not because he feels like it's a sign of weakness. It's just that he simply can't anymore.
So when he can feel his eyes stinging, and an involuntary mewling escapes him, he panics.
Almost on autopilot, he reaches for the keys to his bike and considers leaving the matte black helmet you got him that Christmas.
He usually drives responsibly. But without his most valuable cargo, what's even the point?
—-
The line finally clicks open.
Soap’s voice cackles through the comms.
“Christ, Simon..”
The engine only roars louder, drowning out the rest.
“I know it stings, Riley. But whatever you do — please dont take it out on the road.”
The engine screams as the rough gear shifts. It's aggressive and too fast.
“Simon.”
Soap can hear the uneven, heavy breathing and the howling wind cutting in.
“Oy - Ease up, mate.”
There’s another burst of throttle, but still no answer.
Soap's voice drops. “Don’t outrun your guardian angel, mate”.
The engine doesn't slow.
Simon's voice is low and muffled when he finally answers.
You don't think much of it when you post the photo.
It's just Instagram, just you in that burgundy dress your friend insisted you wear, champagne glass tilted in your hand, mid-laugh at something the bride said. The caption is simple: "To love and borrowed heels." Someone's arm is slung around your shoulders. The sunset does that golden-hour thing that makes everyone look like they're in a movie.
You're three drinks in and riding the high of a night where no one's shooting at you, where the loudest sound is bad wedding DJ music, where you're not Sergeant anything - just a friend who showed up and remembered to bring a card.
It feels good. Normal good.
You don't think about the fact that Simon follows your account. You definitely don't think he'd care.
The likes trickle in while you're dancing barefoot on the venue lawn. College friends, distant cousins, a few people from base who you're pretty sure just follow everyone. Then some comments:
"STUNNING"
"Who is she!!"
"Save me a dance next time?"
That last one's from Matt - college boyfriend-adjacent, never quite official, still friendly. You liked the comment without thinking, because that's what you do. It's polite, and it’s nothing.
You don't see Simon's username in the list. No like, no comment. Which makes sense, because Simon Riley doesn't exactly engage with social media. You're half-convinced he only has an account to lurk, maybe keep tabs on operational security, make sure no one's posting anything stupid.
You slip your phone back in your clutch and let your friend pull you back toward the dance floor.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂♡ ₊ ⊹
Monday morning, you're back.
The base feels smaller after a weekend in the real world, like putting on boots that don't quite fit anymore. You drop your bag in your quarters, tie your hair back, and head to the gym before the briefing.
Simon is already there.
He's at the bench press, headphones in, face obscured by the black surgical mask and that eternal thousand-yard stare. You've worked with him long enough to know he's clocked you the second you walked in but he doesn't acknowledge it.
"Morning," you say anyway, heading for the locker.
He grunts. Standard.
You start your warm-up, letting the rhythm clear your head. Five minutes in, you catch him in the mirror. He's sitting up between sets, and his eyes are on you - just for a second, flicking away the moment you glance back.
Weird.
"Good leave?" you ask, because the silence feels heavier than usual.
"Just fine."
"Do anything fun?"
"No."
Classic Simon. You grin despite yourself, upping the incline. "Yeah, me neither. I just attended a wedding. Ate cake, cried during the vows like a cliché. You know, the usual."
You're not sure why you're telling him this. Maybe because he never asks, so it feels like you have to fill the space for both of you.
"It looked like you enjoyed it," he says.
You almost trip.
Your head snaps toward him, but he's already lying back down, gripping the bar like he didn't just admit he saw your post. Looked. Past tense. Which means he went to your profile. Which means–
"You saw that?" You don't know why your voice pitches up. "Didn't think you were the Instagram type."
"I’m not."
"Then–"
"Soap sent it to the group chat."
Oh.
Of course he did. You make a mental note to strangle Johnny later.
"Right." You clear your throat, face heating. "Well. Yeah. It was nice. Being a person for a weekend."
Simon doesn't say anything.
You finish your workout in silence.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂♡ ₊ ⊹
It's small things after that.
He's always been quiet, always been distant - it's part of the package with Ghost. But now there's something else, something you can't name. He watches you longer across the briefing room. Stays an extra minute when you're cleaning your rifle in the armory, pretending to check his own gear. Asks Soap where you are when you're ten minutes late to drills, voice flat, casual, like he's just wondering.
You don't know what to do with it.
You've had a thing for Simon for months now.. maybe longer, if you're honest. It's the kind of crush that feels silly and impossible at the same time, because he's Ghost. He barely speaks to you outside of ops, and even then it's clipped orders and callsigns.
But sometimes, late at night when the base is quiet, he'll sit with you in the common room. Won't say much. Just nurse a tea while you read or scroll your phone, like he's keeping you company without acknowledging that's what he's doing.
You like him there.
You hate how much you like him there.
It's Soap who finally says it.
"Simon's been weird, yeah?" he asks one afternoon, leaning against the doorway of your quarters like he belongs there.
You throw a towel at him. "Get out."
"Answer the question first."
"He's always weird, Johnny."
"Nae." Soap grins, that troublemaker glint in his eye. "This is different. The lad's been brooding more than usual. By the way, he checked your Instagram account during the briefing last week."
Your stomach flips. "He did not."
"Did too. I was sitting right behind him." Soap taps his temple. "Saw the username clear as day. He even scrolled a bit."
"Why would he–"
"Oh, come on." Soap's grin widens. "You're not that oblivious."
You are, apparently, exactly that oblivious.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂♡ ₊ ⊹
You don't confront Simon.
You don't know how. Don't even know if there's anything to confront. Maybe he just thought the dress was nice. Maybe you're reading into nothing because you want it to be something.
But then it's Friday night, and you're alone in the rec room, halfway through a mission report that's putting you to sleep, when he walks in.
No gear. Just a black hoodie, jeans, the mask. He pauses when he sees you, like he's deciding whether to stay.
"Don't let me chase you off," you say lightly, not looking up.
He doesn't leave.
Instead, he crosses to the kitchenette, puts the kettle on. You listen to the familiar sounds - the click of the burner, the quiet settle of him leaning against the counter.
"Tea?" he asks eventually.
You blink. Simon doesn't offer. Not usually.
"Yeah, sure. Thanks."
He makes two cups in silence, sets one beside you. Earl Grey, splash of milk, no sugar. Exactly how you take it, which means he's been paying attention, which means–
"That friend of yours," he says.
You freeze. "What?"
"The one in the photo. The comment."
Oh, God. You're going to kill Soap.
"Matt?" Your voice is careful, confused. "He's just.. we went to school together. It wasn't–"
"It's alright."
You set down your pen, turning to face him. Simon's still standing. There's tension in his shoulders, the same tension he gets before a drop, except you're not going anywhere. You're just here. Both of you.
"Simon," you say quietly. "What's going on–"
"You looked happy."
You didn't see this coming. Your chest tightens.
"I was," you admit. "It was a good night."
"Different," he says. "Out there. You're different."
"Is that bad?"
"No." The word comes fast, rough. "Just… sometimes I forget you've got that. A life outside this."
Outside us, you almost hear.
"I've got both," you say. "The night-outs, the friends, the silly Instagram photos." You pause. "And this. The base. The team."
You.
You don't say it. But it hangs there anyway, in the two feet of air between you, in the way he's looking at you like he's trying to figure out if you mean it.
"Someone's gonna see you one day," he says finally, voice low. "In a dress like that. And they're not gonna let you go easy."
The words hit you sideways. There's something raw in them, something that sounds almost like resignation. Like he's already decided how this ends.
Your throat feels tight. "Maybe that's not really up to them."
His eyes meet yours, and for a second - just a second - you see it. The way he's holding himself back from something he won't let himself have.
Then he picks up his mug, takes a long drink, puts it down, and steps back.
"Finish your report," he says, voice returning to that familiar gruffness. "Price wants it Monday."
"Sim–"
"And get some sleep." He's already moving toward the door. "Got drills at 0600."
And then he's gone.
You sit there in the quiet rec room, your tea cooling in your hands, his mug abandoned on the counter beside the kettle.
Something opened between you tonight. Just a crack, just enough to let you see inside.
But Simon's not ready to walk through that door yet.
And you're not sure if you should wait for him, or if waiting is just another way of letting yourself hope for something that might never come.
You head back to your quarters, lie awake for a long time, replaying his words.
The one where he steps outside his comfort zone, —and gets rewarded for it.
Biker Simon Riley x Cheeky, stubborn reader
tw & content: Insecurity, suggestive undertones, female reader, fluff, angst, comedic relief, strangers-to-backpack-to-lovers, semi-slow burn, no smut, not proofread.
Word count: 1.9k | Part 1 | Part 4
Night Crawler Masterlist
Dividers by @uzmacchiato, header by me.
Simon didn't think time could go any slower than it did when he first arrived at base. However, the last week after he heard from you was torture. His intrusive thoughts once told him to get WIA again to get home sooner than later—another secret he will take with him to the grave.
With only a few days left before he returns from deployment, Simon has stopped fidgeting altogether, to Soap's greatest pleasure.
When the lads stay for small talk after debriefs, Simon doesn't leave. —He doesn't necessarily participate in any conversations, but he lingers with loose shoulders and easy breaths. And when someone mentions loved ones back home, his eyes crinkle. Just a little. He hides an almost-smile behind his mask, but years at Ghost's side have made even the most haunting balaclavas transparent.
Soap, notice the small, unconscious smile. His gaze is not as sharp; it’s relaxed rather than scanning. The overall lack of tension makes Soap question Ghost's sanity.
“Who’s got you like that, then?”
Johnny grins when Simon doesn’t answer.
“What? Some bird? A lass back home waiting for ya?” Soap keeps winding him up now; he almost vibrates at the thought of Simon having his own plaything back home. Fucking finally.
«That’s three times in five minutes you’ve checked that phone. Waiting on her to send you something worth the trouble, then?”
Simon turns and gives him a lethal look. Trying to reduce you to something casual like that. Fucking Scotsman.
“No bird”. Simon's jaw tightens as he exhales through his nose and adjusts in his seat, as he once again avoids eye contact. He pauses for a moment. “Woman”.
Johnny lets out a low whistle. “Oh, we’re in trouble then”. Silently, he thanks whatever holy spirit that the deployment is coming to an end. He’s not so sure Ghost could see enemy lines through shimmering, clouded heart eyes.
When Simon doesn't move to end the one-sided conversation, Johnny presses his luck—just a little.
“You can't ask a real woman to make peace with this life if you haven't, mate”.
Johnny’s smug smile is long gone. He has never seen Simon this pensive and lost in thought. There's no malice in it. He doesn't want to see Simon get hurt, that's all.
But it lands wrong anyway, and sends Simon spiraling in a whole different direction entirely.
I’m not there half the time.
Someone else would be.
I don't know how to keep her.
This is all I am. -The job.
I don't know how to be anything else.
Simon's teeth press together, and his throat tightens as he swallows hard. Johnny senses his distress and is about to make it right when Simon abruptly stands up and speaks as if the words have to get through barbed wire.
“Makes my head quieter. Makes me want to stay”.
He leaves and puts an end to the conversation before Johnny gets the chance to answer.
———
The last flight before home arrival is too long for a too-large, tired form. As the quiet and low chatter possibly could lull him to an uncomfortable sleep, his head is elsewhere.
Would you want anything to do with him?
What would he even say?
You might look at him differently. Like whatever this was, it doesn't hold up outside of it —outside of casual backpack rides and friendly meals with a soundtrack.
Simon's jaw tightens, and he shifts slightly in his seat.
Doesn't change anything.
He's going anyway.
———
Coming home to his own flat doesn't give any relief at all. Everything feels wrong. The PT shirt is still where you left it. Everything else is where it should be, but it doesn't feel the same. There's nothing really missing—but to him, it is.
Simon leans on the kitchen counter, head hanging low. If he takes a deep enough breath, he can almost smell the mixture of your perfume, damp skin, and buttery toast on kissable lips.
The counter is cold beneath his palms, and nothing will ever feel warm enough after he experienced the soft heat of your cheek in his hands.
Simon is in deep shit, and he has no idea what it's going to cost him.
But after weeks with the feeling of constant restlessness, and a dull pull in his stomach that won't fucking go away or be ignored, even in dessert, he finally acts on it.
——
He's been outside your apartment longer than he’ll ever admit. The sun isn't even up yet, but after some errands the evening before, he couldn't sleep, so here he is. Standing outside like a Ghost who refuses to stay gone.
As the sun begins to rise, your window reflects the first light of morning. Simon leans on his bike, rigid, set like stone. Helmet still on, hiding the way he bites his cheek and lower lip, trying to keep his dark thoughts at bay.
His arms are crossed, fingers digging into his biceps, frozen in place, waiting as he has already decided that he won't move. No matter the outcome.
His thoughts are cut off mid-track when he suddenly sees the window being opened. His breath catches, and his nerves spike.
Weeks of anticipation turn to tension, and as everything else fades out, his focus sharpens on the mission ahead. He needs to see you.
He revs the engine once. Twice.
Nothing.
He revs it again.
——
You jolt from your irritated state on the bed, and back to your now-opened window. You take a deep breath before parting the so-called blackout curtains that currently don't do anything but let you overheat.
And there he is.
A restrained hellhound, only held back by an iron beast. Solid and unmoving. Almost looks out of place in the sunlight. Gaze fixated on you, only you.
Arms and legs crossed like he’s been there a while, nonchalantly leaning on the black monster on wheels. If you look closely, you could see his chest rise and fall in a way that makes you think he’s growling under that helmet, keeping himself back.
You slowly lean away from the window frame, as if the wolf could close the distance in a second, if you gave him a reason.
As soon as you’re out of sight, you run to the bathroom to freshen up; lord knows the midnight sweat hasn’t done you any favors. Nor has the sudden appearance of a brute of a man. Christ..
You ruffle your hair to a respectable volume, wipe away any mascara residue with your fingertips, and adjust your oversized Prodigy bandshirt so it doesn't show more arse than necessary. The short cotton bottoms are like wearing nothing at all.
The front door clicks open, and with careful steps, you make your way down to him.
With no building keeping you apart, you unexpectedly feel stripped bare of any confidence. You lift your gaze slowly, and your stomach flips. That menace of a man has taken off his helmet in the meantime. Leaving only a balaclava and dark, piercing eyes.
He follows your every step intently without moving a muscle. And for every one you take, you remind yourself who you are, how he pushed you away, and that it won't fucking work.
You double down and meet his eyes just as intensely. Queue swaying of the hips for a tempting, disarming effect.
You’re so close you can smell him. Clean, something cedarwood-like. Eyes never leaving each other, apart from the occasional slow, lazy blink. After giving him a once-over and sizing him up, you mirror him, crossing your arms. You’d be damned if you show any sign of nervousness or anticipation. You have cards to play and a poker face to maintain, woman!
“You always lurk outside of people's windows, or am I just special?”
There’s a pause. Bastard still hasn't moved, and you can feel yourself starting to squirm at the way he… looks at you.
“Just you”.
Yeah, right ok, that makes your chin dip and eyes flick away for a moment.
“You’re bold, showing up like this”, you try.
“Didn't think you’d scare easily.”
That gets a huff out of you. “I don't”.
You truly don’t. You’ve seen your fair share of shit, and when you said you had room for someone like him, you meant it. Your life wasn’t handed to you. He’s not too much.
He just hasn’t stayed long enough to realize it.
“Good”. A trained eye could see how his stare instantly softens, despite how rough it comes out.
The silence stretches for so long, you’re getting exasperated. “What are you doing here, Simon?”
The tired look on your face makes him tense up a bit, and he answers before you even reach the end of that question. He can't have you fleeing.
“I’m not done with you”. He says it steadily. Too steady. Like a demand.
He’s not desperate. But he won't know what to do if you are done with him.
“What does that even mean?” You roll your eyes, but only to distract him from the goosebumps forming on your skin.
Simon's eyes drop to your lips for a second, without really thinking.
For the first time since meeting Simon Riley, you see him take a small inhale, like he needs to prepare for something. He leans forward slightly but holds himself back. His lips part, then closes.
His eyes drop to your lips again. Not quick this time. Something in him drifts, just for a moment. And as he slowly shifts closer and looks up through his lashes, he smirks.
“We never finished that toast.”
Simon's stare looks like a question if you ever saw one. You bite down a smile, with a glimmer in your eyes. A newfound boldness seems to find you right then and there. You straighten your back, tilt your head, and squint at him.
An obvious flicker to where his mouth hides behind his mask. “Do you plan on finishing it… “
—then back up to his dark, blown irises. “..Riley?”
Simon looks at you for a long moment. like he’s wanting to say something. Do something.
The helmet goes back on instead. “Get on”. It rumbles, and it makes your ears ring. Who does he think he is, making commands like that after asking you to leave the way he did?
“Make me,” — cause you got more backbone than that. Right? Right?! He went dead silent on you for weeks. Making you dream of motor oil and exhaust fumes for Christ's sake.
Before you get the chance to react any further, he turns, reaching behind him. When he looks at you again, there’s another helmet in his hand—black, untouched. Yours.
He steps closer, visor up, eyes locked on you like a predator sizing up his prey. The helmet is held out, waiting. He’ll find a way to say he’s sorry somehow, he thinks. A way to be deserving of you. He’ll figure it out. He has to.
“Get on.”
There’s no hiding your smile at this point. Still, you do your best not to go all soft, settling for a bratty grunt as you take the helmet and stomp past him toward the bike.
“Oy—go easy on the kung fu. I like this bike.”
The smug git closes the distance in a few long strides, and before you can protest, he lifts you and settles you onto the back seat in one smooth motion.
You’re never living that night down, apparently.
Safely behind Simon, you reach around him, soft to the touch, and with pouty lips, you mumble, “You’re enjoying this way too much”.
Simon bites back a smile, and as if double-checking that you’re doing it right, he places his hand on yours, keeping it there, making sure it's secure. The engine growls to life, and his hand tightens around yours just slightly.
He might be an asshole, but if he’s anything at all —it’s safe. Someday he’ll tell you everything and brace himself for impact. And if you’ll leave, he’ll stand there and take it. But not right now. Not now.
“Hard not to”
…lovie”.
The bike pulls away before you can answer.
That's it for this one 🤍 —But I have a devastating Volume 2 if anyone is up for it?
As always; all kind of interactions makes my eyes shimmery, cloudy and heart-shaped.
Ghost with demons!
TF 141 with dogs🐶
It's been a while painting full rendered pieces, enjoyed a lot!
Inspired from awesome @yourfaithfulauthor's request.
tw & content: female reader, fluff, angst, comedic relief, strangers to backpack to lovers, semi slow burn, not proof read.
Word count: 2.2k | Part 1 | Part 3
Dividers by @uzmacchiato, header by me, biker - lxupnxir
The man who hangs up the phone and puts it in his back pocket is a chaotic mixture of vulnerability and hostility. Neither Simon nor Ghost. There’s an ongoing internal battle between the two. Simon, who wants nothing more than for you to stay. And Ghost, who needs you to leave.
Simon stills. Then something shifts. His posture straightens, expression flattening. And whatever was there moments ago disappears behind something colder and easier to control. As his blood runs cold yet again, and his dark eyes turn hollow, he is coming to terms with that -yes, this is for the better. Protect himself, protect you. Affection was never meant for him.
Love.
Funny how life plays out. Only in a state of emotional combat, where the assassin is winning, does the brain feel safe enough to acknowledge what you were turning into, finally. — a good old-fashioned infatuation. Not a distraction. Not a passing thing. He knows exactly what this is.
Fuck.
Years of discipline help him suppress the conflict almost instantly. But you were raised on pins and needles and can sense a storm coming from miles away. The tension has changed, but it is still very heavy. And you push back the best way you know how, with pockets full of sunshine.
Simon, -Ghost, has his back to you, trying to collect himself, but he can feel you approaching. He can feel the silence that engulfs him, the warmth that follows. Ghost recoils and takes a step forward, away from you.
You shield yourself with a tight-lipped smile and a light-hearted joke, which you’re almost certain will be disregarded, before you even try.
«And here I thought I was winning you over with grilled cheese. You’re telling me the dancing didn't work either?” You snicker a little, hesitantly.
When Simon doesn't answer, you fold your arms close to your chest. “Wow. Tough crowd,” it comes out with a humorless, quiet laugh. Your eyes no longer meet his broad form. It's too uncomfortable.
You have no idea what's happening, other than the man in front of you seems to be struggling. And for once, for the brief time you’ve known this dark shadow, you don't feel like it's your place to try to fix it.
———-
You know it's coming long before you hear him say it.
“You should leave.”
He still hasn't looked at you. It's not the sound of anger. Not really. It's controlled. Strained. Unfamiliar.
“Yeah. Yes. Of course”. In seconds, you’re off to the bathroom. Embarrassment makes your skin itch, and you need to take off the borrowed, comforting, heavy cotton with his name on it so you can breathe.
Back stands two lonely half-eaten sandwiches made with love, and one lonely man at war with himself, still tasting the trace of home on his tongue.
Simon stands in the middle of the kitchen long after you closed the bathroom door, shoulders tight, eyes closed, with deep breaths.
If you won't leave right this second, neither would he. He won't go back to base. He won't leave the city, and he won't keep the safe life he built. Everything will change. He can’t have that.
Simon shouldn't have let this happen. This was a mistake. Letting this feel normal. That’s how men get careless. Attachment distracts, and distraction gets people killed, he reminds himself.
His jaw works slowly as he stares at the kitchen counter. The quiet hum of the bathroom fan suddenly feels too loud as he tries to listen for signs of you, without really meaning to.
The only thing he can make out is a thud; he believes it's the dryer being opened. Two minutes later, the door opens slowly, and by mistake, Simon looks at you. Why the fuck did he have to look at you?
You look uncomfortable. Like you want to be anywhere else. You went from dancing carefree in his kitchen, singing your heart out, to being a shadow of your earlier self. Guarded, uneasy. He did that. Fucking prick.
You hang his shirt over one of the kitchen chairs, and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear without looking at him. “Thanks for... this,” you say it like a whisper, almost contemplating if it's worth speaking out loud at all.
“Listen… I don't know who was on the other end of that phone call. And I’m not asking you to explain it. But 10 minutes ago, I felt the safest I have in a while.»
You’re at the door now, backing away with your famous last words.
Stay.
Simon still hasn't looked away from the piece of clothing you delicately and hesitantly folded over the barstool, like it personally offended him. It doesn't belong there.
He looks at you once again, below his lashes. Your eyes might not be as fierce, but they’re still bright and kind. Lips are still oh-so-very kissable. Maybe he could just…
“…But then something shifted, and I feel like I completely misread everything.”
Stay.
He can't make himself say it. The word is stuck in his throat. All his bodily functions are working overtime to breathe. There's no room for anything else.
Stay!
“…And I’m sorry.”
STAY.
You summon every little bit of enthusiasm you have left into a caring smile, a wrinkle of your nose, and a wink, hating to leave on an unnecessary bad note.
“I hope you find your peace someday. You deserve it. I can feel it in my bones.”
You’re too busy trying to force a smile and overcompensate with lightness without looking like a fool to notice Simon's clenched, white-knuckled fists. How he effectively bites his tongue, and the way his body does a magnetic lean towards your direction as if he’s about to catch something long lost.
Please, stay.
When he doesn't answer in the slightest, you decide silence is your best play at keeping the little pride you have left. You give him a tight-lipped smile and nod your head in a somewhat acknowledgment that you take the hint.
Simon's hand keeps twitching, and he takes a step forward.
You take a final step outside and close the door behind you.
Simon let his head fall.
“Stay.”
—————
Some grueling days later, Simon is back at base. His boots hit the ground harder than usual; there’s a meaner edge to him, and he moves as if he has somewhere else to be. Restless.
Homesick.
Soap clocks it immediately.
Simon is known for squared shoulders, control, and no wasted movements. Now he’s slightly hunched, dragging his steps, and he adjusts his gear unnecessarily —all the fucking time, making Soap lose his mind.
“You’ve been off since you got back.”
Soap gets only an absentminded grunt in return.
Days and weeks blur together, starting earlier than the sun does. From shit morning coffee, that he keeps drinking anyway, to short patrols in sandstorms, dust working its way into everything, weapons, gear —giving him a hard time no matter how many times he cleans it.
He’s on standby through most of midday. Everything slows down, boredom creeps in, and thoughts get louder. He moves enough to keep out of the heat, and that's about the only sign he's alive and well. Barely.
If they only knew where his mind drifts off to.
When evening comes, everyone listens to briefings with more focus. Even Simon seems less distracted. Back straightened and sharpened movements.
It starts like it’s supposed to—slow, deliberate breathing, scanning the darkness for threats, then holding a breath and closing eyes to listen carefully.
But it's still the same routine, where nothing rarely changes: same shit, different day.
Simon avoids looking at others. Can’t risk people seeing what’s left of him has turned softer, heavy-hearted by the way he pushed warmth away when he left.
Instead, he stares at the horizon too long and tracks nothing in particular. He counts things to pass the time. Steps, breaths, seconds. And when he barely notices his own movements anymore, his hand absentmindedly slips from his secure hold on his weapon. Fingertips hovering over his pocket, checking if his only way of connecting to you is still safe. It is.
He ignores it for the most part. Only in the darkest part of the night, when everything else is quiet, does he dare to check for a signal before locking the device quickly.
He lost sleep over how many times he replayed the last conversation and questioned his decision—opening messages, but never typing. Reread the few old messages between you, wishing it could be another.
But it can't, can it? Cause he turned you away like a coward. Weak. Cold.
He doesn’t know why he expects the universe to cut him any slack, as you’d somehow see through his cowardice, the way he pushed you away, and still give him the gift of contact.
Still, he checks his phone whenever he can.
Like, there might be something waiting for him.
———
It's been five weeks of constant, pressing heat. Grit is finding its way into nostrils, making everyone breathe sandpaper, scratches on the way in. Sleep is coming in pieces, and when it's there, Simon is haunted by dreams of you.
They come whenever he’s awake now, also.
Someone else at your table. In your space. In your bed. Someone else in his place.
God knows life could happen in five weeks. It makes his hands prickle. A hundred hand clenches won't fix it, but he tries anyway.
When he reaches for his phone for the first time that day, night is creeping in, he’s certain he must be dehydrated to the point of hospitalization.
Three unread texts.
| You alive? Or have you finally been defeated by your own grumpy attitude?
| I made grilled cheese today, and it was… suspiciously not as good as I remember. Thought you should know.
| No pressure to answer, just wanted to say I hope you’re okay.
Simon stares at his phone, time slows, and everything around him seems to move through water. The world fades except the images of home. His mind runs faster than his body.
He's taking up your space. At your table. In your bed.
What does a sorry excuse of a man even respond to a second chance he doesn't deserve?
He overthinks it all night and can't get out of his head enough to text you back until the crack of dawn.
The sun feels different that morning. Soothing almost. The air seems cooler, easier to breathe. Briefing, patrolling isn't as daunting as it used to be. Something to focus on is nice, he thinks.
His head is unusually quiet, serene.
So when his hands find their way back to his phone and your messages, he finally, truthfully answers;
| Not dead yet.
He feels very much alive.
——-
It’s been six weeks since you left, seven days since you finally heard from him. You don’t really know what possessed you to reach out to the person who clearly didn’t want you around.
Maybe it’s the way he looked at you when you were about to close his apartment door. Or the way he welded his way into your dreams at night, and your thoughts midday.
It might have been the sounds of roaring engines that you conjured up in your mind, every so often. Making you pull your attention to your bedroom window —cause maybe, just maybe.
Just for you to shake it right off again, telling yourself it's nothing. It always is.
So when he eventually gave some proof of life, both in a literal sense and that he’s not completely out of emotional reach, your shoulders became less tense, and your mind relaxed enough to get the most decent sleep in over a month.
Six weeks and two days had passed since you unknowingly fucked up something. This particular morning was exceptionally hot.
“Jesus Christ, we’re doing desert conditions now?” you grumble to yourself before rage-throwing your duvet out of sight and stomping exasperated across your bedroom floor to open a window.
You proceed to jump back to bed with a plomp, in a starfish position. “I refuse to believe this is a normal temperature for survival”.
You close your eyes, making an effort not to fucking die on the spot, when you hear it.
The godamn motorcycle.
The last few weeks, the whole neighborhood suddenly rides one, cause that's all you can hear. That's the only sound you’re attuned to. You stopped checking for a false alarm what feels like ages ago.
Grumpy bastard ruined traffic for you, for years to come.
But then it revs again. And again.
“I get it. You have an engine. Congratulations. Love that for me”.
Again.
You’re getting properly annoyed now. “I will personally go out there and unplug that man!” your voice rising for every word.
Again.
But, why does that sound... Familiar? You know that bike.
Oh shit, you know that man.
You’re already moving.
If you liked this, I’d love to hear your thoughts 🖤
Comments, likes, screaming into the void — all appreciated.
tw & content: female reader, fluff, angst, comedic relief, strangers to backpack to lovers, semi slow burn, not proof read.
Word count: 2.2k | Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 5
Night Crawler Masterlist
Dividers by @uzmacchiato, header by me, biker - lxupnxir
The man who hangs up the phone and puts it in his back pocket is a chaotic mixture of vulnerability and hostility. Neither Simon nor Ghost. There’s an ongoing internal battle between the two. Simon, who wants nothing more than for you to stay. And Ghost, who needs you to leave.
Simon stills. Then something shifts. His posture straightens, expression flattening. And whatever was there moments ago disappears behind something colder and easier to control. As his blood runs cold yet again, and his dark eyes turn hollow, he is coming to terms with that -yes, this is for the better. Protect himself, protect you. Affection was never meant for him.
Love.
Funny how life plays out. Only in a state of emotional combat, where the assassin is winning, does the brain feel safe enough to acknowledge what you were turning into, finally. — a good old-fashioned infatuation. Not a distraction. Not a passing thing. He knows exactly what this is.
Fuck.
Years of discipline help him suppress the conflict almost instantly. But you were raised on pins and needles and can sense a storm coming from miles away. The tension has changed, but it is still very heavy. And you push back the best way you know how, with pockets full of sunshine.
Simon, -Ghost, has his back to you, trying to collect himself, but he can feel you approaching. He can feel the silence that engulfs him, the warmth that follows. Ghost recoils and takes a step forward, away from you.
You shield yourself with a tight-lipped smile and a light-hearted joke, which you’re almost certain will be disregarded, before you even try.
«And here I thought I was winning you over with grilled cheese. You’re telling me the dancing didn't work either?” You snicker a little, hesitantly.
When Simon doesn't answer, you fold your arms close to your chest. “Wow. Tough crowd,” it comes out with a humorless, quiet laugh. Your eyes no longer meet his broad form. It's too uncomfortable.
You have no idea what's happening, other than the man in front of you seems to be struggling. And for once, for the brief time you’ve known this dark shadow, you don't feel like it's your place to try to fix it.
———-
You know it's coming long before you hear him say it.
“You should leave.”
He still hasn't looked at you. It's not the sound of anger. Not really. It's controlled. Strained. Unfamiliar.
“Yeah. Yes. Of course”. In seconds, you’re off to the bathroom. Embarrassment makes your skin itch, and you need to take off the borrowed, comforting, heavy cotton with his name on it so you can breathe.
Back stands two lonely half-eaten sandwiches made with love, and one lonely man at war with himself, still tasting the trace of home on his tongue.
Simon stands in the middle of the kitchen long after you closed the bathroom door, shoulders tight, eyes closed, with deep breaths.
If you won't leave right this second, neither would he. He won't go back to base. He won't leave the city, and he won't keep the safe life he built. Everything will change. He can’t have that.
Simon shouldn't have let this happen. This was a mistake. Letting this feel normal. That’s how men get careless. Attachment distracts, and distraction gets people killed, he reminds himself.
His jaw works slowly as he stares at the kitchen counter. The quiet hum of the bathroom fan suddenly feels too loud as he tries to listen for signs of you, without really meaning to.
The only thing he can make out is a thud; he believes it's the dryer being opened. Two minutes later, the door opens slowly, and by mistake, Simon looks at you. Why the fuck did he have to look at you?
You look uncomfortable. Like you want to be anywhere else. You went from dancing carefree in his kitchen, singing your heart out, to being a shadow of your earlier self. Guarded, uneasy. He did that. Fucking prick.
You hang his shirt over one of the kitchen chairs, and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear without looking at him. “Thanks for... this,” you say it like a whisper, almost contemplating if it's worth speaking out loud at all.
“Listen… I don't know who was on the other end of that phone call. And I’m not asking you to explain it. But 10 minutes ago, I felt the safest I have in a while.»
You’re at the door now, backing away with your famous last words.
Stay.
Simon still hasn't looked away from the piece of clothing you delicately and hesitantly folded over the barstool, like it personally offended him. It doesn't belong there.
He looks at you once again, below his lashes. Your eyes might not be as fierce, but they’re still bright and kind. Lips are still oh-so-very kissable. Maybe he could just…
“…But then something shifted, and I feel like I completely misread everything.”
Stay.
He can't make himself say it. The word is stuck in his throat. All his bodily functions are working overtime to breathe. There's no room for anything else.
Stay!
“…And I’m sorry.”
STAY.
You summon every little bit of enthusiasm you have left into a caring smile, a wrinkle of your nose, and a wink, hating to leave on an unnecessary bad note.
“I hope you find your peace someday. You deserve it. I can feel it in my bones.”
You’re too busy trying to force a smile and overcompensate with lightness without looking like a fool to notice Simon's clenched, white-knuckled fists. How he effectively bites his tongue, and the way his body does a magnetic lean towards your direction as if he’s about to catch something long lost.
Please, stay.
When he doesn't answer in the slightest, you decide silence is your best play at keeping the little pride you have left. You give him a tight-lipped smile and nod your head in a somewhat acknowledgment that you take the hint.
Simon's hand keeps twitching, and he takes a step forward.
You take a final step outside and close the door behind you.
Simon let his head fall.
“Stay.”
—————
Some grueling days later, Simon is back at base. His boots hit the ground harder than usual; there’s a meaner edge to him, and he moves as if he has somewhere else to be. Restless.
Homesick.
Soap clocks it immediately.
Simon is known for squared shoulders, control, and no wasted movements. Now he’s slightly hunched, dragging his steps, and he adjusts his gear unnecessarily —all the fucking time, making Soap lose his mind.
“You’ve been off since you got back.”
Soap gets only an absentminded grunt in return.
Days and weeks blur together, starting earlier than the sun does. From shit morning coffee, that he keeps drinking anyway, to short patrols in sandstorms, dust working its way into everything, weapons, gear —giving him a hard time no matter how many times he cleans it.
He’s on standby through most of midday. Everything slows down, boredom creeps in, and thoughts get louder. He moves enough to keep out of the heat, and that's about the only sign he's alive and well. Barely.
If they only knew where his mind drifts off to.
When evening comes, everyone listens to briefings with more focus. Even Simon seems less distracted. Back straightened and sharpened movements.
It starts like it’s supposed to—slow, deliberate breathing, scanning the darkness for threats, then holding a breath and closing eyes to listen carefully.
But it's still the same routine, where nothing rarely changes: same shit, different day.
Simon avoids looking at others. Can’t risk people seeing what’s left of him has turned softer, heavy-hearted by the way he pushed warmth away when he left.
Instead, he stares at the horizon too long and tracks nothing in particular. He counts things to pass the time. Steps, breaths, seconds. And when he barely notices his own movements anymore, his hand absentmindedly slips from his secure hold on his weapon. Fingertips hovering over his pocket, checking if his only way of connecting to you is still safe. It is.
He ignores it for the most part. Only in the darkest part of the night, when everything else is quiet, does he dare to check for a signal before locking the device quickly.
He lost sleep over how many times he replayed the last conversation and questioned his decision—opening messages, but never typing. Reread the few old messages between you, wishing it could be another.
But it can't, can it? Cause he turned you away like a coward. Weak. Cold.
He doesn’t know why he expects the universe to cut him any slack, as you’d somehow see through his cowardice, the way he pushed you away, and still give him the gift of contact.
Still, he checks his phone whenever he can.
Like, there might be something waiting for him.
———
It's been five weeks of constant, pressing heat. Grit is finding its way into nostrils, making everyone breathe sandpaper, scratches on the way in. Sleep is coming in pieces, and when it's there, Simon is haunted by dreams of you.
They come whenever he’s awake now, also.
Someone else at your table. In your space. In your bed. Someone else in his place.
God knows life could happen in five weeks. It makes his hands prickle. A hundred hand clenches won't fix it, but he tries anyway.
When he reaches for his phone for the first time that day, night is creeping in, he’s certain he must be dehydrated to the point of hospitalization.
Three unread texts.
| You alive? Or have you finally been defeated by your own grumpy attitude?
| I made grilled cheese today, and it was… suspiciously not as good as I remember. Thought you should know.
| No pressure to answer, just wanted to say I hope you’re okay.
Simon stares at his phone, time slows, and everything around him seems to move through water. The world fades except the images of home. His mind runs faster than his body.
He's taking up your space. At your table. In your bed.
What does a sorry excuse of a man even respond to a second chance he doesn't deserve?
He overthinks it all night and can't get out of his head enough to text you back until the crack of dawn.
The sun feels different that morning. Soothing almost. The air seems cooler, easier to breathe. Briefing, patrolling isn't as daunting as it used to be. Something to focus on is nice, he thinks.
His head is unusually quiet, serene.
So when his hands find their way back to his phone and your messages, he finally, truthfully answers;
| Not dead yet.
He feels very much alive.
——-
It’s been six weeks since you left, seven days since you finally heard from him. You don’t really know what possessed you to reach out to the person who clearly didn’t want you around.
Maybe it’s the way he looked at you when you were about to close his apartment door. Or the way he welded his way into your dreams at night, and your thoughts midday.
It might have been the sounds of roaring engines that you conjured up in your mind, every so often. Making you pull your attention to your bedroom window —cause maybe, just maybe.
Just for you to shake it right off again, telling yourself it's nothing. It always is.
So when he eventually gave some proof of life, both in a literal sense and that he’s not completely out of emotional reach, your shoulders became less tense, and your mind relaxed enough to get the most decent sleep in over a month.
Six weeks and two days had passed since you unknowingly fucked up something. This particular morning was exceptionally hot.
“Jesus Christ, we’re doing desert conditions now?” you grumble to yourself before rage-throwing your duvet out of sight and stomping exasperated across your bedroom floor to open a window.
You proceed to jump back to bed with a plomp, in a starfish position. “I refuse to believe this is a normal temperature for survival”.
You close your eyes, making an effort not to fucking die on the spot, when you hear it.
The godamn motorcycle.
The last few weeks, the whole neighborhood suddenly rides one, cause that's all you can hear. That's the only sound you’re attuned to. You stopped checking for a false alarm what feels like ages ago.
Grumpy bastard ruined traffic for you, for years to come.
But then it revs again. And again.
“I get it. You have an engine. Congratulations. Love that for me”.
Again.
You’re getting properly annoyed now. “I will personally go out there and unplug that man!” your voice rising for every word.
Again.
But, why does that sound... Familiar? You know that bike.
Oh shit, you know that man.
You’re already moving.
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Comments, likes, screaming into the void — all appreciated.
