Mrs. Riley

is it too crazy in my head or are other people just boring?

[ghostedink]

Anyone but you.

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Ghost doesn’t do Attraction.

Not in the way other people mean it—soft looks, soft touches, the quiet pull toward someone else like gravity’s shifted just for them. He doesn’t have time for that. Never has.

Want is simple. Biological. Easy to ignore.

Attachment is not.

And love—he almost scoffs at the word, even in his own head. The L word is a liability. A weakness dressed up as something noble. It gets people killed.

He learned that early.

So Simon Riley built his life around the absence of it. No room for softness. No space for anything that could take root and grow into something he couldn’t control. He carved himself down into something functional, something efficient. He didn’t have time for anything else.

Ghost doesn’t need love.

Ghost survives without it.

And for years, that’s been enough.

Until you.

It doesn’t start all at once, never something clean or simple he could cut out and categorize.

It starts with your laugh.

Not the sound itself, though that’s… loud. Bright. Completely out of place in briefing rooms and safehouses and the kind of silence men like him survive in. No, it’s what it does.

The way it lingers after you’ve stopped, like it’s soaked into the walls. Like it belongs there more than he ever will.

He ignores it.

He’s good at that. Ignoring things. Pain, mostly. People, always.

You are… harder.

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“You’re staring again, Ghostie.”

His eye flicks up before he can stop it.

You’re leaned back in your chair, boots hooked on the table like Price hasn’t told you a hundred times not to, grin crooked and knowing. You shouldn’t look comfortable here. You should look like everyone else did when they first got assigned to the 141; tight, wary, waiting for the myth of him to shift and breathe.

You don’t.

You look… entertained.

“I don’t stare.” he says flatly.

You snort. Actually snort. “You absolutely do. It’s like a horror movie thing. Real intimidating.”

There’s a beat where he could shut it down. A look, a word, something sharp enough to remind you who he is.

What he is.

Instead, you lean forward, squinting at him like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.

“Or maybe..” you add, tapping your chin, “you just like lookin’ at me.”

Something in his chest jolts—sharp, wrong, immediate.

Oh God no.

his brain supplies, cold and horrified.

Not you.

His jaw tightens. “Watch it.”

You grin wider.

“Touchy today, Si.”

Don’t call me that.

He doesn’t say it out loud. He should. He’s told you before—Ghost. Not Riley, not Si, not Ghostie, not anything that sounds soft coming from your mouth.

You never listen.

And that—more than anything—should be enough to keep him away.

It isn’t.

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It builds in ways he can’t track.

In the way you drift into his space like it’s yours, bumping your shoulder into his when you pass, not even glancing back. In the way you laugh with him the one time he mutters something dry under his breath—really laugh, head tipping back, hand smacking against his arm like he’s just another man.

No one treats him like that.

No one survives long enough to try.

You do.

And he hates it.

He hates that you don’t flinch when he looms. That you don’t lower your voice around him. That you’ll sit beside him in silence like it’s not heavy, like it doesn’t press in on your lungs.

He hates that you fill it.

“You ever smile under that thing?”

He doesn’t look up from cleaning his weapon. “No.”

“Liar.”

A pause.

“…occasionally.”

“Aw!” you coo, nudging his knee with your boot. “Knew you had it in you, Riley.”

There it is again.

Riley.

Not Ghost. Not Lieutenant. Not the mask.

Him.

His fingers still for just a second too long.

Oh God..

that same voice murmurs again, quieter this time.

Anyone but you.

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It hits him hardest in the quiet.

Late nights. After missions. When the adrenaline’s burned off and the world feels too still.

You fall asleep on the couch in the safehouse, sprawled out like you trust the place, like you trust them. One arm hanging off the side, fingers just barely brushing the floor. Your breathing slow, even.

Unprotected.

Careless.

Alive.

He stands in the doorway longer than he should.

Watching.

There’s a strange pull in his chest—something low and steady and deeply uncomfortable. Not lust. Not the quick, physical itch he understands and can ignore.

This is worse.

It lingers.

It… aches.

His gaze drags over the soft line of your face, the way your mouth twitches like you’re dreaming something good.

He’s never been part of anything good.

He shouldn’t want to be.

Oh, God.

he thinks again, sharper now, almost angry.

Not you. Not this. Anyone else would be easier.

Because anyone else would be distant.

Contained.

Temporary.

You are none of those things.

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It becomes undeniable the first time you get hurt.

It’s not even bad. A graze, really—your arm clipped, more blood than damage.

You laugh it off.

“Barely felt it.” you say, wincing anyway as you press a hand over it.

He sees red.

Not the blood—the anger.

Hot, immediate, irrational.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps, grabbing your wrist harder than necessary to pull your hand away and inspect the wound.

You blink at him, startled—not scared, just… surprised.

“I was thinking about not getting shot worse?” you shoot back, a little breathless. “Relax, Riley.”

He doesn’t.

His grip tightens. His voice drops.

“You call that careful?”

“Hey—ow—Simon, you’re—”

Simon.

You never call him that.

Not really.

Not like that.

It cuts through him.

He freezes.

You both do.

For a second, everything hangs—your arm in his hand, your eyes locked on his, something raw and unguarded flickering between you that shouldn’t exist.

Then you laugh. Soft this time.

“There he is..” you murmur. “Knew you were in there somewhere.”

And just like that, you ruin it.

You always ruin it.

Because you make it real.

He drops your arm like it burned him.

“Get it cleaned up.” he mutters, stepping back, walls snapping into place. “Don’t need you bleeding out on me because you think it’s a laughing matter.”

Your smile falters.

Just a little.

“Right..” you say. “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

The words are light.

Your voice isn’t.

And something twists in his chest—sharp, unwelcome.

He turns away before it can settle.

He tries to pull back after that.

Keeps his distance. Short answers. No lingering.

He tells himself it’s control.

It’s discipline.

It’s survival.

But you notice.

Of course you do.

You always do.

“Did I do something?” you ask one night, quieter than usual, leaning against the kitchen counter while he stands across the room like there’s a line he can’t cross.

“No.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

You huff a small laugh, but it doesn’t stick. “Not like this.”

Silence stretches.

He should end it there. Walk away. Shut it down like he does everything else.

Instead, you step closer.

Careful, this time.

Not careless.

That’s worse.

“You can tell me…” you say softly.

“I’m not gonna—”

“Stop.”

The word comes out sharper than he means.

You flinch.

It’s small. Barely there.

But he sees it.

And he hates that he does.

Hates that it matters.

“There’s nothing to tell.” he says, voice flat, final. “You’re reading into things.”

You stare at him for a long moment.

Searching.

He doesn’t let you find anything.

Finally, you nod.

“Okay..” you say, quieter now. “If that’s how you wanna play it… Ghost.”

There it is.

Not Riley.

Not Si.

Not even Ghostie.

Ghost.

He should be happy.

God he should be.

But he isn’t.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

That night, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling.

The feeling is still there.

Heavy. Persistent. Unwelcome.

He tries to dissect it, like he would anything else. Break it down into something manageable. Something he can control.

He can’t.

Because it’s not logical.

It’s not tactical.

It’s you.

Your laugh. Your hands. The way you say his name like it belongs to him and not the past he buried. The way you look at him like he’s not something to fear.

Like he’s… something else.

Something human.

Oh God..

he thinks, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes.

Not you.

Because you matter.

And that—more than anything—is dangerous.

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The next day, you don’t sit next to him.

You don’t nudge his arm. Don’t call him Ghostie. Don’t say Si like it’s yours to say.

You treat him like everyone else does.

Professional.

Distant.

Safe.

It should be a relief.

It isn’t.

It feels like something’s been cut out of the space beside him—something loud and bright and infuriating.

Something he didn’t realize he’d started to… rely on.

He watches you laugh with someone else.

Watches you lean into them the way you used to lean into him.

Watches your hand land on their arm instead.

His jaw tightens.

That same thought rises again—automatic, instinctive.

Anyone but you.

But it’s weaker now.

Fractured.

Because the truth has already settled in, quiet and irreversible.

He doesn’t want anyone else.

And that’s exactly the problem.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

[ghostedink]

Voice in the dark.

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The first time he calls you bird, it isn’t planned.

It slips out low and rough over comms, threaded between gunfire and static.

“Got eyes on the east stairwell—two hostiles,” you murmur, voice steady despite the chaos crackling through your headset. Your fingers move fast across the keyboard, pulling feeds from three separate cameras, stitching angles together in your mind like a map only you can see. “Third one lagging behind, limping. Might be wounded.”

A beat.

Then, in your ear—gravel and smoke and something almost amused.

“Christ… you see everything, don’t you, bird?”

The line goes quiet again, but the name sticks.

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Your world is small, contained.

A dim operations room buried somewhere deep in the base, humming with electricity and recycled air. The overhead lights are always too soft or too harsh—never just right—so you’ve taken to leaving only your desk lamp on. It casts a warm, golden pool over your workspace, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of permanent twilight.

Screens line the wall in front of you—six in total, each flickering with different feeds: satellite imaging, drone footage, helmet cams. One is always reserved for him.

Ghost.

Though you never call him that out loud. Not really.

To you, he’s just a voice. A presence. A constant thread in your ear during long nights and longer missions.

You know the cadence of his breathing when he’s crouched and waiting. The way his voice drops half a register when something’s wrong. The quiet, almost imperceptible hitch when he’s injured but refusing to say it.

You know him in pieces.

“Talk to me, bird,” he says one night, softer than usual.

You glance at his feed. He’s tucked behind a crumbling wall, dust coating the camera lens. There’s blood—dark and drying—on his glove.

“Two tangos left,” you reply. “One on your six, slow approach. Other’s posted near the exit.”

A pause.

Then, quieter.

“You always watchin’ me that close?”

Your fingers still for half a second before you recover.

“It’s my job.”

A faint huff of something that might be a laugh.

“Right.”

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It becomes routine.

Late hours. Your voice guiding him through shadows. His voice grounding you when the silence between updates stretches too long.

Sometimes, when the mission lulls, he talks.

Not much. Never too much.

But enough.

“You ever leave that room, bird?” he asks once.

You glance around at your little corner of the world—half-empty coffee mug, a blanket thrown over the back of your chair, a sticky note peeling off your monitor with scribbled doodles and coordinates.

“Sometimes,” you say. “I think.”

“Think?”

“It’s… easy to lose track of time in here.”

A quiet hum through the comms. Thoughtful.

“Sounds like a cage.”

You swallow, eyes flicking back to his feed.

“Not really.”

A beat.

Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

“Still.”

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

You imagine him, sometimes.

Not the mask—that’s all anyone ever sees.

You imagine the man underneath. The lines of his face, the thoughts in his mind, the way he probably looks at a room before stepping into it.

You build him from fragments.

From silence.

From the way he says your name—rare, but it happens.

From the way he says bird—like it means something.

The first time something goes wrong, really wrong, your hands shake.

“Ghost, you need to move. Now.” Your voice is tighter than you’d like, eyes darting across the feeds. “They’ve rerouted—there’s a squad heading straight for you.”

No response.

“Ghost.”

Static.

Your chest tightens.

“Simon.”

The name slips out before you can stop it.

And suddenly—

“I’m here.”

Relief hits so hard it almost hurts.

“I lost visual,” you say quickly, forcing yourself back into focus. “Camera’s down. You’re blind to me.”

“Not blind,” he mutters. “Still got you, don’t I?”

Your throat goes dry.

You guide him anyway. Off memory, off instinct, off the rhythm you’ve built together over countless missions.

Step by step.

Breath by breath.

Until he’s out.

Safe.

They tell you later it was close.

Too close.

You stay in your chair long after the room empties, screens dimming one by one until only your desk lamp remains.

The silence is louder than gunfire.

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You don’t expect to meet him.

Handlers don’t meet operators. That’s not how this works. You’re voices, not faces. Ghosts in different ways.

So when your door opens one evening—quiet, deliberate—you don’t look up right away.

“Room’s off-limits,” you say absently, eyes still scanning reports. “You’ll need—”

You stop.

Because the room feels… different.

Heavier.

You look up slowly.

And there he is.

Filling the doorway like something pulled straight out of shadow. Broad shoulders, tactical gear, the skull mask stark in the low light. Real in a way that steals the air from your lungs.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“…Bird.”

It’s quieter in person. Rougher. Real.

Your heart stutters.

“You’re not supposed to be here..” you manage.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping inside anyway, boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Got that impression.”

He looks around your space—your screens, your notes, your carefully controlled chaos.

“This where you’ve been watchin’ me from?”

You nod, suddenly very aware of how small the room is. How close he is.

“All of it,” you say. “Every mission.”

His gaze shifts back to you.

You can’t see his eyes. Not really. But you feel them.

Heavy. Intent.

“Then I figured,” he says slowly, “it’s about time I saw you back.”

Something tightens in your chest.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Wanted to.”

The words land heavier than they should.

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not like before. Not like the empty kind.

This is… full.

“You’re quieter in person..” you say softly.

A faint tilt of his head.

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” You hesitate. “But less… hidden.”

A low exhale. Not quite a laugh.

“Funny..,” he murmurs. “Was gonna say the same about you.”

Your lips twitch.

“Guess we’re both a little different off comms.”

“Maybe.” He steps closer—slow, deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you want to.

You don’t.

Up close, he’s overwhelming. Not just in size, but in presence. Like standing too close to a storm.

But there’s something else, too.

Something familiar.

“You called me Simon.” he says quietly.

Heat rushes to your face.

“I—thought I lost you.”

A pause.

Then, softer..

“Didn’t.”

Your breath catches.

For a moment, it feels like you’re still on comms—like this is just another fragile thread of connection stretched across distance.

Except there’s no distance now.

Just him.

Just you.

Just the quiet hum of the room that’s held your voice for so long.

“Guess I’m not just a voice anymore.” you say.

“No,” he agrees.

A beat.

Then, low and certain.

“Still my bird, though.”

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

[ghostedink]

Simon Riley has a crush (part 3)

Part 1, Part 2

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The first time after the records room incident that Simon Riley went looking for you, he told himself it wasn’t intentional.

He was simply… passing through.

That was all.

The records office just happened to be on the way to the armory.

Which meant he absolutely did not need to stop in the doorway.

But he did.

You were sitting at the small desk near the back wall, a pencil tucked behind your ear while you flipped through a stack of documents. There was a small lamp on your desk that cast a softer light than the harsh overhead fluorescents, and a pink sticky note was stuck to the edge of a folder.

You looked up when you noticed someone in the doorway.

Your face lit up instantly.

“Simon!”

It still did something weird to his chest when you said his name like that.

Not Lieutenant.

Not Ghost.

Just Simon.

He shifted his weight slightly in the doorway.

“…Hello.”

You smiled at him like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Looking for something?”

He had not thought that far ahead.

“…No.”

You tilted your head.

“…Oh.”

Silence stretched between you for about two seconds.

Then your smile turned amused.

“…Did you just come to say hi?”

Simon stared at the floor.

“…Maybe.”

Your smile softened.

“Well… hi.”

That was how it started.

Small things at first.

Simon would stop by the records room for a few minutes before briefings.

Sometimes he’d lean against the doorframe while you worked.

Sometimes you’d talk.

Sometimes you’d just sit in comfortable silence while you sorted files.

And slowly—very slowly—the awkwardness faded.

You learned things about him.

He preferred tea over coffee, but still drank the coffee you left for him.

He hated paperwork.

He liked quiet.

He didn’t like being the center of attention.

And Simon learned things about you.

You hummed when you concentrated.

You talked to yourself while organizing documents.

You collected little colored pens and sticky notes even though the base issued plain ones.

And you had a habit of pushing your hair behind your ear when you were nervous.

Weeks passed.

And it didn’t go unnoticed.

One afternoon in the briefing room—

Soap leaned over toward Gaz while Price reviewed mission details.

“Five bucks says they’re dating in a month.”

Gaz shook his head.

“Ten says Riley combusts before he makes a move.”

Price sighed into his tea.

“Both of you shut up.”

Across the room—

Ghost stared very intensely at a map.

But his mind wasn’t on the mission.

It was on you.

Because earlier that morning you’d laughed at something he said.

Not a polite laugh.

A real one.

A bending over holding your stomach laugh.

And he’d been thinking about it for hours.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

That evening Simon found himself back at the records room again.

The door was open.

You were sitting on the floor this time with folders spread around you like a paper nest.

You looked up when he walked in.

“Hi.”

“…Hello.”

He stepped inside.

“…What’re you doin’?”

You held up a folder.

“Fixing someone’s filing disaster.”

He glanced around.

“…Looks like a hurricane hit.”

You laughed.

“It was worse earlier.”

Simon crouched down across from you and picked up one of the folders.

“…This goes in the 2019 section.”

You blinked at him.

“You know the filing system?”

“…Been here a while.”

You smiled.

“Well then… you’re helping.”

Simon hesitated.

Then he sat down across from you on the floor.

For the next twenty minutes the two of you sorted files together.

Your knees occasionally bumped.

Your hands brushed once when you both reached for the same folder.

Neither of you moved away immediately.

Eventually the last file clicked into place.

You leaned back against the shelf with a satisfied sigh.

“All done.”

Simon nodded.

“…Good work.”

You glanced at him.

Then smiled.

“You’re getting less scary, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow behind the mask.

“…Am I?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

You studied him for a moment.

“Actually… you were never scary.”

Simon looked skeptical.

“…Everyone else thinks I am.”

You shrugged.

“I think you’re nice.”

That did something dangerous to his brain.

Simon looked down at his hands for a moment.

Then back at you.

You were sitting close.

Closer than you’d ever been before.

Your shoulder was almost touching his arm.

“…Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

His voice was quieter.

“…Can I ask you somethin’?”

You nodded.

“Of course.”

“…Why d’you talk to me?”

You looked genuinely confused.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Simon hesitated.

“…Most people don’t.”

You studied him for a moment.

Then said softly—

“You’re kind.”

He blinked.

“…Am not.”

“You are.”

“Y/N—”

“You are.”

You smiled a little.

“Also you helped me reach the top shelf that one time.”

He huffed.

“That’s your standard?”

“Absolutely.”

Simon shook his head slightly.

But he was smiling under the mask again.

The room went quiet.

Not awkward.

Just soft.

You were looking at him.

He was looking at you.

And suddenly Simon realized something.

He wanted to kiss you.

Which was a terrifying thought.

Because he could fight, interrogate, survive war zones—

But this?

This was worse.

Still…

He leaned forward slightly.

Your eyes widened just a little.

But you didn’t pull away.

Your breath caught.

Simon hesitated for half a second.

Then he gently lifted the edge of his mask just enough.

Your eyes went even wider.

“Oh.”

Then he leaned in.

You leaned in too.

Except—

You’d never kissed anyone before.

So instead of smoothly meeting his lips…

You moved at the wrong moment.

Bonk.

Your forehead bumped into his nose.

Hard.

Simon immediately jerked back.

You gasped and covered your face.

“Oh my God.”

Silence.

Then you peeked through your fingers.

“…Did I break your nose?”

Simon blinked.

“…No.”

Your face turned bright red.

“I’m so sorry— I’ve literally never kissed anyone before— I didn’t know which way to move—”

Simon stared at you.

“…wot.”

You looked mortified.

“You’ve never—”

You shook your head rapidly.

“Nope.”

Simon leaned back against the shelf.

Processing.

Then—

He started laughing.

A deep, surprised laugh that you’d never heard from him before.

You stared at him.

“…You’re laughing at me.”

“Little bit.”

You groaned and covered your face again.

“This is the worst moment of my life.”

Simon gently pulled your hands away from your face.

“…Hey.”

You peeked at him.

“…Yeah?”

His voice was softer now.

“…We can try again.”

Your eyes widened.

“…Really?”

He nodded.

“…But maybe slower this time.”

You nodded very seriously.

“Slower sounds good.”

Simon leaned in again.

Carefully.

This time—

No collisions.

Just a soft, slightly shy kiss.

When you pulled back you looked stunned.

“…Oh.”

Simon lowered his mask again.

“…Yeah.”

You smiled.

And somewhere down the hall, Soap paused mid-conversation.

“…Did you feel that?”

Gaz frowned.

“Feel what?”

Soap grinned.

“The universe just shifted.”

Price groaned.

“Leave them alone.”

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

[ghostedink]

Simon Riley has a crush (part 2)

Part 1

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The records room was always quiet.

That was one of the reasons you liked it.

Rows of metal shelving lined the walls, each one filled with neatly labeled folders and sealed document boxes. Fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, and the only real sounds were the rustle of paper and the occasional turning of pages.

You’d been here long enough to memorize where most things were.

Which was exactly why Laswell asking you to grab a specific archived mission report hadn’t seemed like a big deal.

“Top shelf, back row,” she’d said casually over the phone. “Old operation file. Should be labeled Operation Glass Harbor.”

So here you were…

Standing on a small step ladder.

Stretching your arm as far as it would go toward the very back of the highest shelf.

“…almost…” you mutter, reaching..

Your fingers brushed the edge of the box.

You leaned just a little further.

The box tipped.

And then—

A large gloved hand reached up beside you and caught it before it could fall.

You nearly jumped off the ladder.

When you looked down—

You were staring at a skull mask.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

Ghost.

Lieutenant Simon Riley stood there holding the file box like it weighed nothing.

He froze too.

Because this was the first time either of you had been this close.

“…Sorry,” you said quickly, climbing down the ladder a little too fast. “I didn’t see you there.”

Ghost immediately stepped back like he’d just realized he’d accidentally walked into a minefield.

“Was… uh—”

His voice sounded rougher than usual.

“Was lookin’ for Laswell.”

You nodded quickly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Nervous habit.

“Oh— she’s probably still in the briefing room.”

Silence settled between you.

The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable yet.

Just… unsure.

Ghost was still holding the file box.

He stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

“…Think this’s yours,” he said, holding it out.

You reached for it.

Your fingers brushed the glove covering his hand.

And both of you paused for half a second.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He nodded once.

Then neither of you moved.

Which is when the door behind you clicked shut.

Neither of you noticed.

Down the hall—

Soap and Gaz crouched beside the door like two grown men about to rob the cookie jar.

Soap slowly checked the small wedge he’d shoved under the door handle.

Gaz was trying not to laugh.

“You’re a menace,” Gaz whispered.

Soap grinned.

“A romantic menace.”

He twisted the handle slightly from the outside.

Locked.

Perfect.

Inside the records room—

You were flipping open the file after putting the box away, scanning the label just to double check.

Ghost shifted his weight.

And then he heard the door.

Or rather—

He heard the lack of it opening when he reached for the handle.

It didn’t budge.

Ghost tried again.

Still nothing.

“…Door’s locked.”

You looked up.

“Oh.”

You walked over and tried it too.

Still locked.

“…Huh.”

Ghost blinked slowly behind the mask.

That was suspiciously calm.

“Y’not concerned?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully.

“Not really.”

He stared at you.

You gave a small shrug.

“They lock it sometimes if there’s a security sweep.”

Ghost didn’t say anything.

Because he knew exactly who was behind this.

Soap.

You set the file down on the nearby table.

“Well… I guess we wait?”

Ghost leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

The silence returned.

You glanced at him.

He glanced at the floor.

You both spoke at the same time.

“Sorry—”

“Sorry.”

You both stopped.

Then you laughed, soft but genuine.

Ghost froze.

Because he’d heard you laugh before in the hallway.

But never this close.

“…You go first,” you said.

Ghost cleared his throat awkwardly.

“…Just… uh…”

He shifted again.

“…Don’t think we’ve properly met.”

Your smile softened.

“Oh.”

Right.

You held your hand out gently.

“I’m Y/N.”

Ghost stared at your hand for a second like it might explode.

Then he carefully took it.

His glove swallowed your hand completely.

“Simon.”

You blinked.

Your smile got a little brighter.

“Simon.”

He immediately looked away.

Because hearing you say his name felt… weirdly nice.

You sat down at the table beside the open file.

“You work with Captain Price’s team, 141 right?”

He nodded.

“Yeah.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand.

“That must be intense.”

Ghost shrugged.

“Sometimes.”

You studied him for a moment.

He looked like a walking threat.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Skull mask. Tactical gear.

But the way he was standing—

Awkwardly shifting his weight.

Avoiding eye contact.

—it didn’t match the terrifying reputation at all.

“You’re quieter than the others,” you said gently.

He huffed softly.

“Soap talks enough for the whole team.”

You laughed again.

A comfortable quiet settled in after that.

You flipped through the file lazily.

“…Do you like coffee?” you asked suddenly.

Ghost blinked.

“…Yeah?”

Your smile turned a little shy.

“Oh good.”

You tapped the table lightly.

“I wasn’t sure.”

He frowned slightly.

“Why?”

You hesitated.

Then admitted softly—

“I leave coffee outside your office sometimes.”

Ghost went completely still.

He remembered the others telling him that, but he didn’t entirely believe it was true.

“…That’s you?”

You nodded.

“I thought maybe you were too busy to grab some before briefings. And if you didn’t like coffee.. I was gonna start bringing tea instead...”

Ghost looked genuinely stunned.

“…Been drinkin’ those for months.”

You looked delighted.

“Really?”

He nodded slowly.

“…Best coffee on base.”

You tried not to smile too big at that.

The room grew quiet again.

But this time it wasn’t awkward.

Just warm.

Ghost glanced at you.

You were still flipping through the folder, humming softly to yourself.

Not intimidated.

Not nervous.

Just… comfortable.

With him.

After a moment you looked up.

“…Simon?”

“Yeah.”

You tilted your head.

“Why do you always stop talking when I walk by the briefing room?”

Ghost froze.

Because apparently Soap had been talking.

“…Do I?”

You nodded, amused.

“Every time.”

He stared at the table.

“…Didn’t notice.”

You watched him for a moment.

Then smiled softly.

“Well… I’m glad we got stuck in here then.”

Ghost looked at you again.

“…Yeah?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

Outside the door—

Soap pressed his ear to it.

Gaz leaned against the wall beside him.

“…Hear anything?” Gaz whispered.

Soap grinned.

“…Silence.”

Gaz raised an eyebrow.

“Is that good or bad?”

Soap looked extremely pleased with himself.

“Oh, mate.”

He leaned back from the door.

“That’s the sound of two shy people having the most awkwardly adorable conversation of their lives.”

Down the hall—

Price walked past and saw them crouched by the door.

Shook his head.

“…Idiots.”

Laswell didn’t even look up from her tablet as she followed behind him.

“Give them another twenty minutes.”

Back in the records room—

You and Simon were now sitting across from each other.

Talking.

Actually talking.

Neither of you had noticed the time passing.

Neither of you had noticed the door was unlocked 10 minutes ago.

And neither of you were in any rush to leave.

[ilylovelyz]

simon watching you sleep. he tightens his combat vest, clicking the straps into place. all extra 100 lbs of material, glowsticks, medical equipment and ammo, already put into their appropriate place on his body.

it's 3AM. he woke up hours earlier to a call from captain john price, alerting him to be on base by 0500. simon knows what that means, painfully so.

he slipped out of bed, as quiet as someone with size could be. untangled his limbs from yours, left the warmth of your shared bed, and got ready in silence. he showered, brushed his teeth, didn't bother to shave because he didn't see the point in keeping up appearance when he wouldn't be seeing you any time soon.

he put on his fatigues. his singular kneepad for his weak leg. tucked his handgun in his waistband. admist all the ruckus and drawers being opened and closed, you didn't fuss one bit. you've always been a deep sleeper, it used to be annoying to him, a little inconveniencing at times, but now he's grateful.

he could leave. save you the trouble of stressing over his abrupt leave, write you up a long letter about how he'd rather be shot in the balls than see you cry over him. you don't like his job. you know he's only a soldier of the sas, and thats that. he'll never tell you anything more than the country name's he's being sent.

his duffel bag is full and heavy. awaiting for him to swing it over his shoulder and leave. you won't know. you'll sleep another good night—maybe a bit colder than you'd like—but you'll still wake up at 12 in the evening expecting simon to be there.

he should be a good boyfriend, and let you do that.

simon inhales sharply. his eyes watching the way your chest slowly rises and falls. the calmness of your features. even in your sleep, your hands twitch for his touch.

he feels a sting in his chest. unfamiliar and uncomfortable. his legs feel a magnetic force drawning him to you, and for once, simon loses himself to his wants.

you wake up to pressure. a heaviness over your body. something is looming over you. at both sides of your head do you feel the mattress dip under weight. a leg draws over yours, caging you in. still fresh from being awoken, that sweet lingering of the edge of sleep entices you and you whine from being disturbed, trying to curl yourself away from the object of distraction.

simon lightly huffs, the corner of his lips twitching from amusement. you're just like a cat, attempting to hide your face away in your paws.

simon leans down to his elbows, caging in your head. he thinks this is all he should do. let you fall back and asleep and be okay with just the closeup of your beautiful features, but simon is too unsatisfied. his dissatisfaction is only fueled by the heavy nausea of impending doom.

his head looms over yours. he lets his lips caress lightly over the softness of your cheek, feeling your peach fuzz. he presses, with the smallest amount of pressure. he lets the kiss linger before he's detaching with a subtle regret for more.

just as he's about to back off of you entirely, do you suddenly move your head towards him, eyes fluttering open. your eyes lock onto him, or try to. it's too dark, but you could always make out the features of your simon. and the fatigues.

your eyebrows twitch, nose beginning to scrunch up in what looks like pain to simon.

he tries to coo at you, bringing a ungloved palm to cup your cheek. "you're leaving?" you whisper, sadness evident within your tone. he can feel your hands climb up his sleeves before settling on clutching onto the straps on his shoulders. trying to keep him there.

simon only sighs, blowing air against your face. he nods, quietly, to which you respond with a shaky "but you just came back," that nearly shatters simon. you sound so scared, so weak and tiny.

simon doesn't say anything. he doesn't think he can, lest the sharp tightness within his throat and the lack of air in his lungs. he kisses you instead with innocent chaste. a simple kiss, one for the road.

again, he pulls away, or tries to. but your hands on the straps of his shoulders keep him against you, pulling him back down to you. his lips press against yours, a little firmer than the last. he refuses to give you more than that, but he lets you move your lips against his.

his heart beats wildly in his chest. your legs locking around his hips. the kiss turns into a third kiss, then another, and another and then simon succumbs to your tongue pressing against his lips, allowing you entry. he doesn't mean to, but his hips begin to rock against your own on instinct.

you breath hastily into the kiss as does he. it's lost it's original meaning of chaste and has transformed into something more passionate and desperate. the straps on his shoulders feel too tight now as you keep pulling him fruitlessly tighter against you. it hurts, you bite at his lips, greedily drawing out his blood and swallowing down his pained whimper.

but simon has a mission. you know who he is, so he detaches from you with a breathless gasp, desparingly trying to untangle your limbs from his. he overpowers you, as always, but simon is weak to you even when he looks and feels strong.

from the loss of his chest against yours do you begin to sniffle and cry, your fingers are still embedded in his straps and simon feels overwhelming regret when he's forced to pinch your fingers to get you unlatched from him. he feels your hiccups in his soul and simon's face is one of clear distress. he needs more, he doesn't really want to leave, but he has to.

on a whim, his hands slide under your thighs, doing the opposite of what he's been trying to do for the past minute. he's picking you up, holding you close to his body. he cradles your head into his shoulder, one of his arms supporting your ass as his other tries to rub your back and comfort you, your legs hiked up around his waist.

he holds you like that for awhile. your sobs cease, calmed down by his gentle shushing. as he holds you like you're his baby, do you begin to feel your body surrender back into the abyss of sleep. your tears dry, being soaked up into simon's dark camo jacket. his forehead rests against your crown, nose buried into your hair as he greedily takes the opportunity to savor your scent.

but all good things come to an end. you don't fuss when he's gently lowering you back down to the mattress, laying you over his side of the bed. he kisses your forehead and temple, tucking the blankets into your chin and your chest.

he nuzzles himself against you, delivering one last bittersweet kiss on your nose before he's leaving you alone in the darkness of your room, unable to take a final glance at you or he'll truly become mia.

[ceesselfindulgance]

Simon loves his bossy wife.

Simon is a soldier at heart. He's good at following orders, in fact, he prefers too. Makes it easier for him exist.

So he doesn't bat an eye when you order him around in the kitchen, voice never harsh or stern, just authoritative, when you tell him to chop tomatoes or peel garlic.

He didn't even flinch when you slapped a granola bar into his palm and commanded him to eat after you learned he hadn't even eaten all day.

He didn't complain when you told him to move from your favorite spot on your shared couch.

Everything was done with no hesitation and sometimes if you seem particularly snappy, with a "yes ma'am".

Because he may be your lieutenant on the field, but you were his captain, his boss, his first and only everywhere else.

[simoanriley]

Amen

[maskedbyghost]

You don’t say much when Simon comes home.

He notices, of course. He always does. It’s impossible not to notice when the house is quieter than usual, when you don’t meet him at the door, when you don’t ask about his day, and when the only sound is the clink of dishes as you clean up after dinner you barely touched.

He stands there in the doorway, massive shoulders still heavy with the weight of the day. “Something wrong, love?”

You hum a sound. Not yes, not no. Just enough to make him frown.

He moves closer, cautiously. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.”

You’re not. He knows that tone. The one-word answers, the short phrases—it’s the equivalent of a red alert to him.

He tries again. “Did I do something?”

“No.”

“Did someone else do something?”

“No.”

He sighs, rubbing a gloved hand over his face. “Bloody hell, woman, you’re gonna have to give me somethin’ to work with here.”

You don’t answer. You turn off the tap, dry your hands, and walk past him, but he follows you like a shadow.

It’s almost funny, the way the infamous Ghost is more afraid of upsetting you than of any armed target he’s faced in the field.

He finally corners you in the hallway. “Alright, what’d I do?” he asks, softer this time.

You cross your arms, staring at the floor. For a second, you think about keeping it to yourself, because it sounds stupid now that it’s out in the open. But then you mumble, barely audible, “You didn’t kiss me.”

He blinks. “What?”

“This morning,” you say louder, arms still folded tight. “You left for work and you didn’t kiss me goodbye.”

There’s a pause. A long one. You can practically feel his relief when he exhales, a low laugh rumbling from his chest.

“That’s what this is about?”

Your glare could cut steel. “Yes, that’s what this is about.”

He steps closer, the corner of his mouth curving. “Love, I thought I’d done somethin’ serious.”

“It is serious,” you say, still refusing to look at him. “You always kiss me before you go.”

He reaches out, gentle fingers finding your chin and lifting it just enough for you to see the warmth in his eyes. “You’re right.”

You huff, still not quite ready to let it go. “You just left.”

He leans in, close enough that his voice drops to that low whisper. “I won’t forget again.”

And he doesn’t.

The next morning, when he’s getting ready before dawn, he doesn’t slip out quietly. He walks back to the bed, kneels down beside you, and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

Every. Single. Time.

Even when you’re half-asleep and don’t notice. Even when he’s running late. Even when he’s tired and sore and just wants to collapse.

Because for all the things Simon Riley forgets—codes, passwords, even meals—he never forgets you.

------------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @gutsofgod @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @imjustaprettyyprincess @booboobear-12

[lisa-snape]

Simon is just a little boy wanting affection. (English is not my native language, there may be spelling errors)

Simon knows this is the stupidest thing he's ever done. If any member of his team finds out, he'll be ridiculed for weeks—no, for years. The Phantom is a strong man, a highly trained assassin who has killed hundreds of people. A living legend who terrifies even the most despicable men in the underworld.

So why is he about to do this? Hiring a prostitute isn't a crime; everyone does it. But this becomes pathetic because, well… he doesn't want to sleep with her.

Yes. He doesn't want sex with the prostitute he hired. Actually, he does—what kind of man doesn't want easy sex?—but that's not the point. He could have sex without paying. What he really wants, what he truly desires, he won't get without paying, he wants…

Affection.

Affection, damn it. Hugs, kisses on the cheek, hands that touch him with pure affection, like in those ridiculous comedies that girls love—he wants someone to soothe his scars, to tell him she loves him.

That's why he hired you. He's afraid you'll tell him to fuck off, leave, or start laughing in his face. When you arrive, he trembles, feeling pathetic. His face heats up, his hands sweat, and the cheap motel room feels like it's going to swallow him whole.

You're hot, like the girls in the porn movies he watched as a teenager. Low-cut top, short skirt, heavy makeup, and high heels. That's what he expects, but he sees something different in your eyes; a seriousness, as if you were more than just a woman looking for money.

Maybe that's why you don't tell him to fuck off when he asks you to take off your makeup and let your hair down. You end up taking a shower while he waits for you, sitting on the worn bed, clutching the sheets and feeling the fabric fray in your hands.

Now you're just in your panties and bra, drying your hair with a towel while watching him. And, damn, you're beautiful. Beautiful in the way he likes. More beautiful than the vulgar, sexy mask; you seem real, something he'd find at home if he were a good man. Your eyelashes are the color of your hair, he can see some freckles on your face, the natural color of your lips.

He finds himself imagining, pretending you're his wife. That after returning from a damned mission, you're waiting for him to take care of him, to sleep embraced by him. Maybe you even have a little son sleeping downstairs, who calls him daddy.

When he speaks, his voice is low. Muffled by the skull mask and the shame. You observe every word.

"No sex? Just cuddling?", his voice is sweet, without judgment.

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Okay." He nods as he watches you approach, stopping between his legs.

"What do you want me to call you?" Your eyes seem to see through his mask.

"Simon... call me Simon."

You take his hand, guiding it to your hip, where he feels the soft skin beneath the lace of your panties. His head rests on your stomach as you caress the strands of hair that escape from under the mask.

Simon feels like he's on cloud nine. He hugs your hip, feeling your fingers against his skin, the way you slide them down his arms and back, as if he were something good... precious. You make him take off his shirt, not for sex, but for affection. He doesn't know when the last time a woman undressed him without wanting anything in return was. You kiss his neck.

His breath falters. He feels dizzy, unable to contain his sighs. He groans loudly when you kiss his cheek, over the fabric of the mask. He needs more. Much more. He holds your fingers, pulling them toward the mask's strap. You feel his hands gripping it desperately. When he finally reveals it, there's no fear, no revulsion. Just a gentle expression. You don't hesitate. You press your lips against his cheeks, kissing his skin, every scar. His hands grip your thighs; your body trembles and your breath becomes ragged as you massage him, adoring him, his warm, fragrant skin.

"Say you love me," he begs. It's trembling, desperate. He knows it's humiliating, but he doesn't care. "I'll pay you whatever you want, just pretend... that you love me."

You caress his cheeks and lean in, kissing his nose, sending an electric shock through his skin.

"I love you, Simon," your eyes are fixed on his. "I love you more than anything."

Does he feel like crying? He can't explain it, he's overwhelmed by so many stimuli. Simon hugs you around the waist and turns you onto your back in bed, settling between your thighs and resting his face on your breasts. He smells your perfume, something floral and fresh. The sensation of your warm thighs enveloping him, your hands on his back, the softness of your face... The beating of your heart, so real and sweet, he feels his own.

[notmenotmennn]

sum: trying to convince Simon Riley to not move in together (not edited).

hope whoever is reading this enjoys <3

"You know, I actually don't like people."

Simon shrugged.

"Me neither. I just like you."

Your whole body froze at his bluntness. You were both at a café. He was sitting in front of you in a black wool jacket and a white t-shirt. A serious expression on his face as you blurted out every single thought that popped into your head after he asked to move in together.

"I mean, I like you too, Si, but..."

"But?" Simon took a sip of his tea, dark eyes fixed on yours to discover every secret hidden behind them.

"But I don't like to cook."

Simon let out a huff.

"I'm not asking you to be my cook."

You gestured frantically with your hands.

"Of course not! I'm just saying that I don't want you to be uncomfortable and to leave you the responsibility of always cooking doesn't sit right with me..."

"We can order take out. I can meal prep. I'm used to that."

Your hands were shaking at this point, and you opened and closed your mouth like a freaking fish left outside its tank. He made things seem so simple.

"I'm vegetarian."

Simon's brown eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement.

"I know, love."

You raised your eyebrows at him.

"Do you know that that makes every food choice in everyday life harder?"

"Are you only worried about me not feeding you? I think I can handle that."

A little smile tugged at the side of your lip. He was truly a dream. A dream you didn't want to ruin.

"I like to be by myself. Most of the time. I get irritated if people orbit around me for too long."

Simon nodded.

"I can give you space, unless you actually end up following me around like you do when you stay over."

He chuckled when your cheeks turn red.

"That's different. I used to not see you for months."

He leaned his head to the side, curious while looking at you.

"So, when you miss me it's fine?"

You mixed the chocolate smoothie you ordered while looking down.

"Yeah... Pretty much."

"Mmm..."

"Either way, I eat in my room." You knew he hated that. "And I leave the stuff there until I feel like washing it." Which he hates more.

Simon narrowed his eyes.

"I can work around that."

"Can you?" you asked with a smirk, having remembered something that irritated him.

"Yes," he said, composed.

"I also like my stuff to be set a certain way. If you move it, I'll freak out."

"I won't touch your stuff, love. I promise."

You bit your lip, thinking more reasons of why he wouldn't want to move in with you.

"I have bad PMS. I get irritated at small things, I usually don't feel like talking and I'll cry at any inconvenience. It's worse on my period."

Simon's big hands moved over the table to hold yours. His were warm from holding his cup of tea, while yours were freezing. The warmth swept to your fingers and it felt nice.

"You can't control that," he said, as he put one hair strand behind your ear. "And you know I can handle that bad temper of yours."

"I don't have a bad temper." You arched an eyebrow and Simon scoffed.

"Right."

"I don't!"

He nodded and smiled sweetly.

"You are right. You don't."

You kicked his leg undernearth the table.

"Don't be an asshole, Si."

He shook his head, amused at your expression and how you mumbled things under your breath while side-eyeing him.

"You don't wanna live with me? Is that why you're coming up with all of these things?"

'What? No! I mean, I just..." Under his fixed gaze you squirmed in your seat. "I don't want you to realize I'm..."

Simon frowned.

"What?" His thick accent made the question sound more demanding, serious. But his eyes were soft while looking at you.

"You know... I'm difficult. Complicated. And you probably will hate it... You will hate me." You whispered the last sentence and immediately Simon tightened his grip on your hands and asked you to look at him.

"That's not even possible. I could never. You are everything to me."

You were left out of breath by his words.

"Si, everything is a lot..."

"I said everything," he repeated.

With a few unshed tears in your eyes, you smiled.

"I want to move in with you."

Simon sighed, though you almost missed it. He was relieved.

"Let's go get your stuff."

Without a second thought, you stood up, held his hand and left the café with the certainly that Si loved you and he would always show it to you. Especially, to prove that you weren't that complicated or unlovable because to him you were everything.

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

[softsnarl]

cw: none

Simon stands frozen in the corridor outside the break room, coffee mug forgotten in his hand.

Inside, you’re laughing with Gaz and a couple of the intel girls, voice bright and careless.

“You can all keep your nonchalant men,” you say, stirring sugar into your tea with unnecessary violence. “I want a chalant one. Someone who texts back fast, who stares too long, who gets excited over nothing and tells me about it. I’m so bloody tired of guessing.”

Gaz snorts, arms crossed casually. “Good luck finding that in this unit.” Meanwhile, Simon’s ears are already burning under the mask. Of course, Gaz has to talk shit now in that smooth London–accent of his.

Simon has spent the last four months being meticulously, painfully nonchalant.

He times his arrivals so he’s already at his desk when you walk in with the morning briefings (never early enough to seem eager). He limits himself to one greeting per day, gruff and quiet. When you wear the burgundy skirt that hugs your hips so perfectly, he stares at the computer screen so hard the pixels blur.

Simon deletes half the texts he types to you before sending (the ones that say things like you looked nice today or missed your presence in the briefing).

He once almost asked if you wanted to grab coffee after work and instead muttered something about ammunition counts and walked away.

He thought he was being careful. Respectful. Professional.

Turns out he’s been doing the opposite of exactly what you want in a man.

Simon’s heart—old, rusted thing that it is—starts hammering like he’s twenty-five again and spotting a pretty girl across the mess in Hereford for the first time in years.

He retreats to his office, shuts the door, and spends ten full minutes staring at the wall.

Existential crisis is too small a word. It’s a full-system reboot.

By 1700 hours he’s still there, mask off, running a hand over his jaw, rehearsing sentences in his head that sound nothing like the Ghost anyone knows. At 1712 he gives up pretending to work, and he finds you at your desk in the outer office, packing up for the day.

You look up, surprised to see him lingering.

“Captain wants the revised sit-rep on his desk by 1800,” he says harsher than intended. It’s a lie. Price is off-base until tomorrow.

You nod, already reaching for the file. Simon clears his throat. Once. Twice. Swallowing too thickly both times.

“Actually,” he says, voice still embarrassingly rough, “I was wonderin’ if you’ve eaten yet.”

You blink.

“Because I haven’t,” he continues, the words tumbling out before he can stop them, “and there’s a decent Indian place fifteen minutes away. If y’like curry. Or if you don’t, we could find something else. I don’t mind. I just—I’d like to buy you dinner.”

He stops, mortified at how loud his pulse is in his own ears.

You stare at him for a long second, lips parted. Then your face softens into the kind of smile that makes his chest hurt like he’s been stabbed.

“I love curry,” you say quietly, and Simon exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. “Good,” he manages awkwardly. “That’s... good.”

He hovers while you grab your coat, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to help but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

As you two walk past Gaz (who just happens to be there) toward the door, the Sergeant grins into his fresh cup of coffee, murmuring: “Took you long enough, sir.”

Simon shoots him a swift glare and follows you out, ears still burning, but for the first time in years the silence around him feels hopeful instead of deafeningly safe.

Fuck nonchalance.

[ ᴄᴏᴅ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ]

[lipstickchemtrails]

his favorite girl

7.5—simon’s turn

simon riley x reader

The artificial light glowing on her screen stung her eyes, making the darkness of the room seem more infinite behind her phone. She sighed, closing out her phone and dropping it beside her with a soft thump.

She let her eyes adjust to the room again. She had been mindlessly scrolling, like everyone does nowadays, stuck in the perpetual cycle of closing her eyes just for her hand to reach over towards that stupid rectangle that contained the world at her fingertips, because her mind was too awake to sleep. Social media left a bad taste in her mouth, and when it wasn't that, it was whatever random search perturbed her thoughts to explore the internet for answers. She was a thought away from searching if insomnia was normal when her phone buzzed at her side as if the universe were enabling her.

Although the buzz didn't stop, the telltale sign of her phone ringing with its ringer off. She couldn't stand the predisposed ringtones that phones came with.

Rolling onto her stomach, she reached over and grabbed her phone just to blink in surprise at the caller ID.

What was he still doing awake?

It had been a few days since they had last slept together. Ever since she had gotten stupidly drunk, to be precise. She didn't mean to…it just kind of happened on her fourth shot with an empty stomach.

She didn't remember much apart from Simon walking her to her room and feeding her grapes…and maybe the sound of his voice—huskier than normal. But maybe she dreamt that part because it sure felt like it every morning she woke up in a cold sweat with the sound of his voice ringing in her ears.

He assured her that nothing had happened that night, but she had a hard time believing it. Especially because he had somewhat kept his distance since—he didn't stand as close as he normally does, his smiles were lined with tension, and conversations were more brief. She tried not to let it bother her, but it was hard when the very routine she was used to felt like it was being uprooted right before her eyes.

She woke that morning to an empty bed and a massive headache that distracted her from the slight needling hurt of him not being at her side. Though it wasn't like he owed her anything. He was just her lieutenant…who slept with her on occasion…nothing more.

She glanced at the time at the top of the screen. 2:35 am. The phone had already buzzed three times. Her thumb hovered over the answer button as she worried at the corner of her lip. On an inhale, she answered.

"Sol." He seemed to sigh through the receiver.

She paused for a second before answering. "Yeah?"

"You’re awake?" He asked.

She huffed through her nose at the question. "I wouldn’t have answered otherwise." She hummed, shifting onto her back to face the ceiling.

"Smartass," he huffed. She could hear him shifting on his bed, sheets rustling against his clothes. "Talking to your lieutenant with that mouth."

"It’s almost three in the morning, I think it’s warranted." She shot back, letting her eyes casually trace invisible shapes in the ceiling's textured surface. Moonbeams slithered in through her window, painting her ceiling in cool slats of light.

He chuckled, the sound low and rough. "I like it when you get cheeky with me."

She blinked, pausing her perusal of the ceiling. She was silent for a moment, unsure how to respond. Tentatively, she mumbled, "Oh?"

"Don’t act surprised, Sol." She could hear the smile beginning to pull at his lips, his voice growing huskier when he murmured, "I like it when you bite."

She had to bite her lip to stop the chuckle that threatened to leave her mouth. Whether from nerves or genuine amusement, she couldn't tell.

"And what if I did?" She murmured back, her tone carrying a more playful edge.

"Bite me?" He hummed in thought even though he already knew the answer. "I wouldn’t mind."

That seemed to dispel her teasing as she blinked again in mild surprise, letting the silence stretch. The sound of his shifting filled the space.

"Lieutenant, are you okay?" She blurted out, concern lacing her voice

"Simon." He mumbled, which caused her brows to pinch in confusion.

"Are you drunk?" She asked.

She sat up, body tense as if to stand. She'd go over to his room if he needed her. Him? Drunk? That had to be the only explanation in her mind because, since when did he openly flirt with her like this? Usually, he left her spinning from vague comments and soft touches that made her feel like she could have been imagining it all.

"I didn’t drink…much." He laughed.

She could just imagine him in bed: a lazy smile on his lips—a stark contrast to his usually aloof face—cheeks flushed pink, eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, body slumped against his pillows with half his frame covered by blankets.

“How much did you drink?” She asked slowly.

“…a few.” He mumbled.

“A few?” She raised a brow, though he couldn't see it.

“A few too many.” He chortled almost to himself.

“Lieutenant,” She couldn’t refrain from smiling herself, his laughter infectious.

“Don’t call me that now, Sol.” He groused.

“You should drink some water and go to bed.” She coaxed gently, half tempted to run over to his room and help him do just that.

“But I get to hear your pretty voice now.” He mumbled.

She wished she could see the look on his face. At the sound of his voice, she couldn't help but find his soft manner endearing for the usually hardened lieutenant.

“How sweet of you.” She rolled her eyes playfully.

“Always for you.” He murmured tenderly.

She was silent for a moment, nibbling on the corner of her lip while her heart raced just a fraction faster at his words. He was drunk, regardless of whether she liked what she was hearing. Nevertheless, a part of her wished he weren't inebriated and still told her such sweet things. She sighed internally; maybe she shouldn’t have answered after all.

“Lieu—"

“Say my name, love.”

Her heart dropped, her words dying on her lips at his voice. Her body tingled in the silence, warmth pooling in her like pouring honey in a jar—sticky and warm against her insides.

“Come on, love. Just once.” She could hear his words slur into a sleepy murmur, the rustle in the background becoming more apparent.

“Please, go to bed.” She managed to voice.

He breathed out her name, a soft groan accompanied by the whisper of movement. She couldn't help but wonder what he was doing. The shifting rhythm, like passing a hand back and forth over soft fabric.

“Say my name.” He whispered around uneven breaths.

“Please, Simon.” She obliged, finally.

“Oh, you sound so pretty when you beg me like that.” He groaned softly, his breath becoming heavier.

“My gorgeous girl.” He mumbled, the sound of his movements slowing. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“You look so pretty in my bed,” He continued, even when his phone fell from his grip with a muffled thump onto the bed.

“In my arms,” He muttered on his exhale, voice dying out along with whatever else he wanted to say.

She was stunned into a stupid silence. Unable to find words, she blinked unseeing eyes at her phone while her mind tried to process what he just said.

When her cheeks cooled and her heart calmed considerably, she watched as the numbers of the called ticked longer. Two minutes where neither of them spoke. All she could hear was his steady breathing. She could only assume he fell asleep, the rhythm similar to when he slept by her side. It was then confirmed when a soft snore curled through the receiver.

On a shaky breath, she whispered, “Night, Simon."

Her mind still buzzed even after she ended the call, dropping her phone by her side. She folded her hands over her abdomen where her heart still thumped like the pit in her stomach, churning with her traitorous mind as she stared up at the ceiling once more. Sleep eluded her that night.

.

.

.

masterlist

[succubusvalentine]

ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ʀɪʟᴇʏ. ʜᴀᴛᴇ.

If anyone had seen the two of you together, they'd think you hated each other.

Constant glares shot at each other, bickering, the insults thrown at each other, the competition.

It was the worst when you two sparred together.

Recruits watched in horror as the two of you held nothing back. Price had rules! Don't actually try and harm your sparring partner. Yet somehow you two always got away with it. Simon would grab you from behind, and you'd throw your head back, cracking his mask. Sometimes your sparring even resulted in dislocations.

Now the competitiveness wasn't as bad. Just annoying petty remarks between the two of you.

"Hit eight out of ten targets." Simon complimented. A rare sight.

"Nine." You correct.

"Stop trying to show off."

"Cry about it 'cause you could only hit seven."

All the recruits saw was hatred. Every conversation somehow turned volatile.

But they never saw what happened behind closed doors.

How you'd sit in Simon's office while he finished paperwork, free hand massaging your ankle since he'd hurt it during training earlier.

How you'd sew up the holes in Simons mask after a mission.

How Simon would carry your gear for you to the helicopter.

How you would gently kiss the scars marring Simons body late at night.

And most importantly, no one ever saw your wedding rings. Simons in his chest pocket. Yours on a chain around your neck under your gear.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆.°⛧

Gift my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ

[theficnextdoor]

Home Security

Dark!GhostxF!Reader

Simon always said to call him whenever you needed anything. When a knock and suspicious sounds make you wary to be alone, naturally you call Simon for comfort. Only instead of getting your sweet Simon, it's Ghost who comes to your rescue.

tw: identity duality(simon/ghost), overprotective!ghost, borderline obsessive!ghost, mild physical roughness, mentions of fear/panic/anxiety, authoritative/commanding tone, protective/possessive behaviors(ghost), stalking/implied possible break-in wc: 1k

It started with a knock on your door. Too soft to be the delivery guy, too irregular to be a needy neighbor. You didn’t think too hard about it, dismissing the knock as possibly kids just being kids. That is, until you overheard sounds of rustling in the bushes beneath the front window in your living room. The sounds were quick and sharp, definitely not like an animal moving through the area.

Your hand trembles as you reach for your phone, your heartbeat thudding in your chest and the pounding of your own blood within your ears is deafening as you felt the anxiety and panic rising within you. You didn’t think twice before dialing his number. You bite at your bottom lip nervously as you wait for him to pick up, your eyes staying on the window, as if whatever–or, whoever–was outside would pop up any moment.

You hear the line pickup. “Simon?” you whisper, voice cracking in the quiet of your apartment, your ears straining to listen for the intruding sounds of someone on your property. A beat of silence. Then his voice, low and taut. “What happened?”

You explain your fears in clipped, trembling phrases–the knock, the sounds outside, how you swear it’s a person and not just a wild animal. His end of the line goes quiet again, except for the sounds of movement, keys jingling. A door slamming. The ignition of a truck.

✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚

By the time you dared to peek through the curtains and blinds of your living room windows, headlights flashed across your yard. A truck pulling into your driveway. His truck. Relief floods through your chest–then curdles in a mix of excitement and awe when he steps out of the truck. Not Simon. Ghost.

The skull mask catches the light, hollow eyes locked on the front of your house. He moves with lethal certainty, shoulders squared, every inch of him a predator set loose. He stares at you when you open the door, his frame filling the threshold like a shadow made flesh. He didn’t say a word, a heavy hand on your hip as he pushes you back into safety as he enters your home. He’s already scanning the entire living space. “Stay inside,” he orders, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. The voice he uses on missions. The one that doesn’t tolerate hesitation. The lieutenant. 

You open your mouth, the wrong name on your tongue–Simon–but your words wither under his stare. His eyes weren’t soft like usual, weren’t the ones that crinkled when you tease him. Now his eyes were sharp, cold, and focused. The Simon you know replaced with the tactical man most others knew him as. The man that drew fear and dread from his enemies, and respect from those who work alongside him.

He tore through the rooms of your home with frightening efficiency. Yanking open doors, checking windows, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. Moving about like a deadly fog throughout the space. You followed without thinking, at least until he spun and the bared teeth of his mask filled your vision.

He stalked towards you, forcing you backwards until you were back in the living room and falling onto your couch. “Sit down, stay put, and don’t follow me.” His voice was a command that rooted you to the spot. You obeyed, pulse racing, your eyes tracking him as he vanished down the hall. Every sound–the creak of doors, the slam of window latches–set your nerves on edge. The distant give of your patio door closing as he checks the perimeter.

When he returns, relief sags through your body, but before you could speak, his hand cups your face. His slightly calloused thumb brushing your skin a little too hard, more rough, possessive than gentle and soothing. “Whoever it was is gone,” he says finally.

You look at him with those sweet, trusting eyes he loves so much. “You call me again,” he orders, voice low enough to vibrate against your bones. “Every time. Don't wait, don’t hesitate.” Your lips part. “Simon…”

His jaw flexes beneath the mask, but he doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t soften either. The man in front of you wasn’t Simon–not really. He was Ghost. The one who didn’t cook breakfast with you in the mornings, didn’t laugh until you both were snorting, didn’t rub your head while you cuddled up to him during movie nights. The one who killed, who hunted, who protected you like it was instinct carved into his bones. The other side of the coin that is your sweet Simon.

His voice was quieter, but no softer. “You don’t open the door at night. Ever. Doesn’t matter who you think it is. You don’t answer, you don’t look. You call me. Always.” You swallow, nodding along to his demands. “Okay.” “Say it.” A command wrapped in something almost like care. Your breath hitches. “...I’ll call you.” You felt a flip in your stomach, something inside you aching. You weren’t sure if you missed your usual Simon, or if part of you liked how dangerous Ghost felt when he was this close, when he was overly protective. Overly intense. All for you.

Satisfied, he settles onto the couch, positioning you so you’re sat between his legs as he spreads out longways along the couch. A cage disguised as comfort. One you allowed yourself to settle into, making yourself at home within the confines of his arms around you, holding onto your waist to keep you centered.

For a long minute you let yourself lean into the shape of him there, the scent of leather and cologne clinging to the air. It should’ve felt suffocating. Instead, a strange, guilty comfort slid through you. As you drifted to sleep on him, you realized that calling him in situations like these would always bring Ghost before Simon. And as wrong as that felt sometimes, you found you couldn’t quite bring yourself to regret it.

✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶

i post these like ppl fr read them lmao heheh to yee that do... tyty hope u like it, check out my other stuff if u want!!

[batsybat91]

Can we maybe get a third one of reader sleeping in Simon’s bed under his weighted comforter? Idk what the fics are called 😭 they’re sooo good

Oh my goodness, I was going to do this, but I completely forgot. I'm so sorry!! Thank you for the reminder! You can find the title for all my Tumblr drabbles on my masterlist!

At this point, you have completely claimed Simon's bed. You don't even ask anymore. Your room has just become a storage closet for your clothes and shoes. Hell, at this point, he should just move you into the room. So, that's what he does. While you're gone one day, he makes room in his closet and dresser for your clothes. He has plenty of space, and by the end of the day, your room is a practical guest room, save for a few knick-knacks here and there.

"Simon, I'm home," you call.

"I've got a surprise for you," he replies, meeting you in the living room.

"...That doesn't sound very good," you say hesitantly.

"Close your eyes," he says with the barest hint of a smile.

You do as he asks, allowing him to guide you through the hallways of your home. It takes you a few minutes to get to your destination, and you're pretty sure he did that to discombobulate you. "Okay," he whispers. "Open your eyes."

When you open your eyes, you see one of the last things you expected. Honestly, you would have been less surprised if fucking Johnny MacTavish was naked on the bed with a rose in his mouth.

"Huh," you say stupidly.

"You sleep in my bed all the time," he explains. "So, I just moved you the rest of the way in. I even moved your favorite posters."

You poke him square in the chest. "You know what this means, don't you?"

He shakes his head, but answers anyway. "Means you sleep in my bed with me every night?"

"Means you're mine, now!" you giggle, leaping into his arms. Simon easily catches you, bracing his arms under your thighs and around your back. "You'd better start taking me on dates, Simon!"

"Oh, is that what this is?" he hums. "I thought this just meant I would be your cuddle-buddy for a while longer."

You shake your head, laughing all the while. "You and I are official now!"

"Yeah?" He brushes his nose against yours, an act so tender that you nearly melt into a puddle right there. "I don't know, sweet girl. I think we're still just friends."

You pout, bottom lip jutting out just enough to break his heart. "Nuh-uh," you grumble. "I want a million kisses for that."

"A million?" Simon snorts softly. "I'd better start right now, then, shouldn't I?"

"And then we're going to watch movies under your comforter!" you add quickly. "And cuddle!"

"All on my list," he agrees, tilting his head down to tease his lips over. yours. "May I kiss you now?"

"You may," you reply with a nod. When your lips finally meet, you swear angels start to sing. He's gentle about it, kissing you like a nervous teenager. You don't mind. You appreciate a soft kiss every now and again. Especially for your first kiss with him. He teases the seam of your lip with his tongue, but never breaches it. When he finally pulls away, you see him smile. Not just a tight-lipped Ghost smile. A genuine, all-teeth smile.

"Oh, my God, you have the most gorgeous smile in the world!" you squeal, kissing his cheek. "You should do it more often!"

"You're gonna make me feel embarrassed about it," he huffs.

"No, no, no!" you say quickly. "No! Don't!"

He carries you to his bed, sitting down with you in his lap. After taking a few moments to tuck you both under the comforter, you can feel him relax behind you. "This is heaven for me," he admits, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"I think I like your comforter more than you," you tease. He grumbles something under his breath, but only holds you tighter.

Part I

Part II

Tag list: @identity2212, @antlered-doe29

[batsybat91]

would you maybe consider writing more of the whole “sleeping under Simon’s comforter and BOOM cuddles” thing? Maybe where something similar happens on the couch or just,, how it all is afterwards? Love reading about Simon being all cuddly URGH i want him

For you, of course I can!! I'm so happy you liked it, I personally thought it was weird. But the people want what the people want!

After your nap with Simon, both of you act like it didn't happen. You continue about your days, cooking supper, doing chores, and playing Nintendo in the living room. Days pass, and then weeks. You sleep in your own bed, and he sleeps in his.

Tonight... you had a nightmare. You wake up in a cold sweat around midnight, panting from the adrenaline. You can only remember bits and pieces. Running from something, or maybe... running to something? Voices shouting at you from all around, telling you about each and every flaw you have.

You get up from your bed and stand in Simon's doorway. He isn't asleep. He rarely is. He looks up at you from his phone, unbothered. "Hello," he grunts. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"I had a nightmare," you say, like a toddler telling their parents. You pout at him, though you're not sure he can see it from afar.

"Hmm," he hums. "Me, too."

"Can I sleep next to you?" you ask, voice wavering from the shock of the nightmare.

"No," he says, almost sharp enough to make you cry.

"Simon, please?" Your voice cracks this time. "I had a nightmare. You let me do it a few weeks ago."

"Don't cry," he whispers. "I just don't want you gettin' any ideas... about you and me."

Your lip quivers. "Why did you say I made your nightmares go away? Can't you do the same for me?"

"Because I don't want you to think we're... an item," he says carefully.

"What's wrong with that?" you whimper.

"Because someone could find you and hurt you if they knew you were mine," he whispers. "I don't want you to get hurt because of my job."

You wipe your eyes. "Can't I sleep beside you? Just for tonight?"

He's silent for a few moments, weighing the options. "Fine. Fine, come here."

You drag your blanket behind you, and Simon opens his arms. You crawl into his lap, pressing your cheek against his chest. Simon wraps you in the blanket you brought, then pulls the comforter over both of you. He properly tucks you in, making sure you're comfortable. "Thank you," you breathe.

"Better?" he asks, smoothing a hand over your hair.

You nod against his skin, gently looping your arms around his back. He sighs, adjusting your position in his lap. You curl against him like a kitten, nudging your nose against his chin. "Better," you agree.

"I'm not doin' this every time you have a nightmare," he warns you.

"Yes, you are," you mumble.

"No, I'm not," he argues.

"Yes, you are," you retort, rubbing soothing circles over his back with your thumbs. "You better."

"I'm not your boyfriend," he whispers, though it lacks conviction.

"Not yet," you giggle softly. "I'm just warming you up."

He grunts, a sound you can't tell what it means. His arms tighten around you, and he rests his chin on your head. "Go back to sleep. I'll keep you safe from the nightmares," he says, so soft you almost don't hear it.

"Ni-ni," you murmur sleepily, burrowing further under the blankets. You hope you never have to leave his arms, his bed, the warmth of his body. The blankets cocoon you both in a perfect bubble, where nothing in the world can get you.

Part I

Part III

[mintmatcha]

executioner gets to pick his wife because he has the king's favor.

"you never deny the man who does the work no one else will do," the man says. "I will grant you whatever you desire as long as my hands stay unsullied."

never had he asked for anything. not nicer quarters or more wages or any luxuries. its the only reason he was able to save reader from her fate: it was the only thing in the world he seemed to want.

The king almost denied.

"Do you know to what she's been accused?" he asked. "Murder of two men."

"Aye."

"Dismemberment."

"Aye."

"Witchcraft."

"Aye."

The man leans back into his throne with a shrug. Time has made him soft, yet sharper, like a cheese let the age.

"If it's what you desire." He waves a hand into the air. "Her charges will be erased, but I cannot erase the minds of the townspeople. Her face will be stigmatized."

The executioner pulls at his mask, making sure its secured.

"Then we will have something in common."

[sc3ptre]

Dear diary...

Pairing: Simon Riley x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-1110

Summary: A small collection of non-sexual things Simon does that you find attractive

Classification: Fluff

Word count: 2k

You liked to think all of this happened because you were a late bloomer. You’d accepted that long ago, maybe even embraced it on most days. You’d waited patiently for this sense of ease, for the kind of safety that let tiny, ordinary moments make your stomach flutter. But accepting that truth never meant you had any intention of letting him know.

The first thing you noticed was how intentional he was. Yes, Simon had his own shadows and worries but the way he showed intention felt less like caution and more like instinct, an impulse he couldn’t suppress even if he tried. 

On your very first date, in the middle of a laugh at a joke he didn’t even realize he’d made, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small calendar planner. It looked almost miniature in his hands, black leather worn at the edges, the pages soft from use. As he flipped through it, you caught glimpses of his tight, slanted handwriting filling the margins.

Your laughter died on a soft hiccup. Of course, you thought, this was the part where the man checked the time, found a reason to leave and pretended he had somewhere else to be. But instead, he turned the planner toward you and slid a pen into your hand with quiet, earnest seriousness.

“Could you please mark the days you’re free this month?”

The next time you spotted that little calendar, just a fleeting glance from the corner of your eye, you realized he had filled every marked day with something. Dinner, coffee, a movie or even a simple walk. Nothing extravagant or loud, just shared quality time with a whole lot of intention. It was him making space for you, day by day, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Moving in together after three months hadn’t exactly been the plan. Your lease was ending, you were scrambling to find something that wasn’t over budget and about the size of a shoebox but every place you toured made you question whether a cardboard box might actually be an upgrade. Then, impulsively, almost violently so, Simon blurted, “Move in with me.”

The words shocked him as much as they shocked you. You’d barely lifted your gaze, eyes going wide, before he launched into a frantic ramble about it being strictly as roommates. He had a spare room he never used and he was hardly home anyway, so you wouldn’t even notice he existed. All of this delivered while the two of you were very much naked… in his bed… in his house.

Every reassurance he offered was a lie, of course. He’d be home more if you were there, orbiting the gravity well that was you and you obviously were more than a roommate but panic had turned him into a runaway freight train of nonsense.

Eventually, you agreed…after making him sign a completely made-up contract scribbled onto a napkin about rent and chores. 

You insisted, he signed and you said yes.

And everything went “downhill” from there, because every little thing he did was unbearably, unfairly attractive.

The first night after carrying in boxes, you both collapsed onto the floor amid the chaos, eating pizza straight from the box and sharing a surprisingly cheap but decent beer. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the way he kept looking at you like you’d hung the moon by hand but you relaxed so deeply you just talked…a lot. Story after story, pieces of your life before him spilling out easily while your gaze drifted around the room, because truly, who can hold eye contact when the man beside you looks at you like you’re a miracle?

You can’t even remember what story you were telling when it happened. What you do remember is how sharply your eyes snapped to him when he laughed, really laughed. A full, unrestrained, head-thrown-back belly laugh that shook through him and stole his breath. You’d heard him chuckle before, sure, and even that felt like a victory. But this?

You could have lived a thousand years and never gotten enough of that sound. It was the kind of laugh you wanted injected straight into your veins.

Taking up space.

It meant different things to different people, but to you, it wasn’t about power, dominance or crowding someone else out. At home, with him, it was something entirely different, something warm, intimate and once again, unbearably attractive. Simon was a large man by default, built like the world had carved him to withstand anything, and without even trying he made the furniture, the rooms and the air around him look smaller.

Simon rarely relaxed. It was as if whatever part of him was supposed to be programmed for rest had been overwritten long ago. So whenever you noticed the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his posture and the constant readiness in the way he carried himself, you simply told him, “Cuddle with me.” And he always said yes, never even hesitated.

Most of the time, you’d give him a heads-up while you were still finishing whatever you were doing. He’d head to the couch, settling in like he was trying to remember how comfort worked. He’d sit back, shoulders loose, legs spread, arms draped along the backrest in an unconscious display of size and openness, waiting for you. Sometimes he leaned back so far he took up the entire length of the couch, one long leg thrown over the far end as if the furniture had to mold itself around him.

While he waited, his eyes stayed locked on you. Never impatient or urging, just watching. Tracking every small movement you made, like you were something delicate and important and he didn’t want to miss the moment you came to him. And the second you finally walked toward him, his chest would rise in a slow, deep inhale and then release, like he had been holding that breath without realizing it. His arms always twitched open, ready to wrap around you the moment you reached him.

That was what taking up space meant with him, that was what made it beautiful,

the proof that he felt safe enough, comfortable enough, loved enough, that he didn’t feel the need to make himself smaller in your presence.

Now, about that little “contract” you made him sign, its triumphant return came the week the fridge died. It happened before your first month living together, which meant “rent” had yet to be collected, and you couldn’t understand why Simon was so determined to fix the damned thing himself.

He tried, too. He had the panels off, sleeves pushed up, brows furrowed, doing that quiet muttering he did when he was both focused and furious. He managed to repair most of it, except for one crucial piece that needed replacing, one that cost more than simply buying a whole new fridge. So he just accepted defeat.

You’d watched him research replacements on his laptop, had seen the prices reflected in his eyes, so one morning over breakfast, you slid half the amount across the table.

He froze mid-sip. Over the rim of his mug, he stared at the stack of bills the way a man might stare at divorce papers placed before he’d even worked up the courage to propose.

“For the new fridge,” you said simply.

“Not touching that,” he replied, shrugging like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

You narrowed your eyes, stood up and marched straight to the fridge where the napkin-contract was pinned proudly with a magnet. You jabbed your finger at his signature, your ace in the hole. You’d prepared for this exact scenario the day you made him sign it.

“That’s not my signature, love,” he said calmly…too calmly.

He’d hoped this moment would come much, much later, maybe after you’d forgotten about rent for… oh, the next ten years or so. But of course you hadn’t. You were infuriatingly responsible…perfect, even.

You looked from the napkin, to him, back to the napkin and back to him again. “…You scammed me?”

“No,” he said with infuriating serenity. “You asked me to sign it and I did. If it was a real contract, I would’ve used my real signature.”

“It is a real contract,” you insisted.

“That’s a napkin.”

You couldn’t help the dramatic eye roll or the long, put-upon sigh, even as you clearly saw his barely-there grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You left the money on the table for an entire week, hoping he’d cave and take it. But this was Simon, which meant, of course… that he never did.

Simon didn’t waste any time letting his coworkers (his friends, really) know he was no longer single. The nerves weren’t about you, they were about letting you step into a part of his life that he had guarded like a locked vault. A part he feared might make you turn and run. Simple as that.

The ceremony itself was small, intimate, almost modest but the security wrapped around it was anything but. No phones allowed, proof of invitation required at every checkpoint, IDs were checked and every civilian guest vetted within an inch of their existence. It felt more like entering a classified briefing than attending a celebration, but somehow that only made the night feel more significant.

Whenever you looked back on that evening, three things came to mind.

First: Simon in a tux.

That was the whole thought. Him in a fitted black tux and skull mask, looking massive and devastatingly sharp all at once. To avoid blatantly staring, you resorted to catching glimpses of him in reflective surfaces: windows, polished metal, even the glossy finish of a table centerpiece. His biceps strained the sleeves no matter what angle he moved at, his shirt pulled tight over his chest when he inhaled and the casual way he reached up to adjust his mask, gloved fingers brushing the edge…God, it had your lips parting before you could stop yourself.

And of course, every single time, his eyes snapped to yours…instantly. As if he had a tether wrapped around your gaze.

Did you really think you could sneak a look past a man like him? He thought your attempts were adorable. Truly.

Guiding you through the crowd was another thing burned into your memory. Even though the sea of guests parted instinctively for him, he still kept a hand on the small of your back or your fingers locked in his own. Even while greeting people with formal nods and firm handshakes, he never let go of you, not once. As if you were the anchor he needed in a room that demanded too much of him.

Lastly, later on after meeting his friends and their plus-ones, you both settled at a table. Conversation was easy, flowing around you like warm air, but Simon grew quieter, more reserved than he was when it was just the two of you. The room was loud, overwhelming for a man who lived his life measuring exits and threats. When you noticed his silence, you mouthed, “You okay?”

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he hooked a strong hand around the leg of your chair and dragged it closer to his, closing the tiny gap between you. Then he leaned in, voice low beneath the noise.

“I asked first.”

Which he had, many times that night but he needed to hear your answer again. Needed the reassurance in your eyes and the warmth of your closeness. That small gesture, that simple pull of your chair, sent goosebumps rushing across your skin.

These were only a few of the countless things he did that could wipe your thoughts clean simply because they came from him. 

Late bloomer or not, this was what life had been holding in its hands for you all along, waiting patiently until you were ready to receive it and now that you had it, you intended to keep it close, to savor the softness, the safety and the sparks he offered without even realizing it.

Maybe it was time to start keeping a list, just a private little record of every moment that made your stomach flip or your pulse stutter, something to reread, smile at and daydream about when he was away.

It’d be long, sure… but a delight to read through.