first meetings
introductions
simon i
christmas
christmas ii
attack dog
simon ii
silver spoon - masterlist
most think that when simon disappears for leave, he goes home to a sad little flat with threadbare furniture and leaky sinks. they don't expect the townhouse in belgravia, complete with a well-bred spouse who looks like they just stepped out of the pages of a magazine.
style: a story told through brief one-shots that are loosely connected. the masterlist will be organized in chronological order, but they may not be posted that way.
series tags: fluff, reader is RICH baby, silly au, simon's just here to be taken care of
One thing that deters me from writing here more often is that some people will be staunch defenders of the freedom to write whatever you want (as they should be!) and then turn around and dump on people for wanting to write fluffier interpretations.
“The character would NEVER do that!” Have you perhaps considered that the character isn’t real? Or perhaps that YOUR interpretation of a character whose life we know nothing about isn’t the only valid possibility?
And the thing is, I don’t always even disagree with the criticism. But it often turns into this pretentious psychoanalysis where people who want to write a gentle character are made to feel like the way they think is a problem. “What does it say about you if you want to make this man good so badly?”
Like, I’m sorry I’m tired and stressed-out all the time and I want to just write something light-hearted and simple to make me laugh or feel good.
I’m still around! 🫶 Just a busy time. Still thinking often of posh!reader and have a new part in the drafts that just needs a little polishing before I can post.
I hope everyone’s new year has been lovely so far!
I don’t have a taglist, but can start one and add anyone who would like to be added. Just send me an ask or reply in the comments.
The Silver Spoon masterlist is also my pinned post and I update it whenever a new post is made. If anyone isn’t comfortable with being tagged, the masterlist should usually be current if you just want to check back every now and then.
"Simon II"
simon riley x posh!female reader, fluff, mild angst, non-graphic injury
“Chili and macaroni, or,” Simon flips the other MRE and grimaces, “lemon pepper tuna?”
Johnny snorts but doesn’t look away from his scope. “Think I’ll take the chili.”
Simon tosses him the tuna. Johnny glances at the label with a scowl. “Oh, fuck off.”
Smirking, Simon starts tearing into the plastic to eat the macaroni cold. “Officer’s privilege, mate.”
*****
Johnny's shot, and the mission gets turned upside down.
Simon frightens the medical staff away and sits at his sergeant’s bedside through the night, dissecting what went wrong, and what he might have done differently.
*****
As a rule, he keeps work separate from his private life. It’s easy to forget the indolent luxury when he’s crouched on the floor tipping cold chili into his mouth straight from the bag.
But, sometimes, he doesn’t want to forget.
He calls you at four in the morning, Johnny still sleeping the sleep of the heavily medicated.
You answer on the third ring, voice heavy and rough. “Simon.” He hears the rustle of bedsheets, a click that might be the lamp turning on. “Simon. Are you ok?”
“Tell me somethin’,” he says, his whisper loud in the silent room. “Tell me wot’s been goin’ on this week.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “...is everything alright?”
Simon glances at Johnny’s hand where it rests on top of the white sheets, pale and still as marble. “Everythin’s fine. Just…talk.”
“Well…I had tea this afternoon with Moira and Clara.”
Who? It doesn't matter. "Yeah?”
“The tea was lovely, but the weather was downright dreadful, darling.” There’s more shifting around, like you’ve settled back in bed and made yourself comfortable. “It’s been raining since you left! Well, anyway, the wind took Clara’s umbrella straight from her hand and we had to chase it halfway down Berkeley Street.”
You laugh. Simon huffs, too. The images he’s been plagued with all night, the ones of Johnny taking a bullet in the chest and nearly falling out the window, melt away. He thinks instead of three women in the rain, tottering after an umbrella in their tea clothes.
“We were soaked through, naturally, so I’m sure we looked frightful. But it was rather fun. Let’s see…oh, Uncle Theo’s gotten a new horse, he insists he’ll go to Royal Ascot next year.”
Neither of you know much about horses, but you repeat everything your uncle had told you just for something to say.
Simon lets your voice wash over him as he tips his head back, closing his eyes. The mental pictures of chasing umbrellas twist into horses galloping down green fields, their colorful jockeys making a hazy rainbow on the track.
You’re still talking when he falls asleep, and he doesn’t wake up until the phone slips out of his hand hours later.
He dreams of tea cakes and horses, and racing in the rain.
kyle garrick x reader, fluff
gaz deploys early on new year's eve
*****
"Wait!"
Kyle looks up at you from where he's shrugging on his backpack. His other bag lies by his boots, packed and ready. "Luv, I can't really be late."
"I know, but we need to kiss at midnight for New Year's. That's the rule." You set your laptop up on the side table and point at the live broadcast streaming from Sydney Harbor. The clock in the corner of the broadcast reads 12:02AM, and fireworks are bursting over the city in a riot of color. "They're already celebrating in Australia!"
He smiles a little. "I guess that's true."
His hands are full, so he can't wrap you up in one of those bear hugs you love so much. But he leans in, still smiling, so you can hold his face in your hands and give him his farewell kiss. When you lean back, he's slow to move away.
You brush the scar on his cheek, heart full. "Happy New Year. You'll come home to me?"
"Attack Dog"
simon riley x posh!female reader, fluff, language, alcohol, family dysfunction, confrontation
The devil takes many forms, one of them apparently a well-dressed blonde with a swagger in his walk, a smarmy grin, and a fake-cheerful greeting:
“Hello, cousin!”
You flinch into Simon’s side, and he dislikes the slimy little twat immediately.
You’d pointed him out earlier as Lochlan, and though you’d given no details, Simon had read the dislike etched into the curve of your frown.
But in the midst of the party, there’s nothing to be done but shake the other man’s hand with gritted teeth. You’re charming as ever, giving your hand over gracefully and asking about his mother and sisters. Lochlan answers respectfully enough, as though there isn’t an undercurrent of hostility in every word.
When the smiling man disappears back into the crowd, Simon follows the line of his retreat. “You two got history?”
“Lochlan has history with the entire family. He’s a cunt.” You drain the rest of your wine and slam the glass down with uncharacteristic sharpness, and refuse to say anything more on the subject.
You’re not the only one drinking heavily throughout the evening. Entire barrels of wine seem to disappear in a matter of minutes, each cask draining faster than the last as the night deepens. As the alcohol flows, tongues loosen. Conversation that had been carefully-measured earlier in the day twists into something uglier, and, more than once, Simon hears a remark that makes even his ears turn red.
At the center of it all is your smiling, golden cousin. Lochlan works the crowd with a skill Simon might admire if the man wasn’t such an obvious shitstain, and the talk around him gets louder and messier with each passing second.
He doesn’t know exactly who tips the balance into a full-blown fight, but hard words start flying from all directions. Nothing is off limits: mothers, fathers, affairs, money troubles. You stay out of it as long as you can. But it isn’t long before the topic of conversation turns to scandalous marriages.
“My sister loves strays, you know,” Lochlan simpers, melting out of thin air to smirk in your face. “She just rescued another mongrel from the gutter. And that reminded me—how is your marriage going?”
A hush descends, every head turning in your direction. You take a slow sip of wine and smile, fighting to keep your composure, but Simon can see the way your hand trembles with anger.
Before you can answer, he takes a quick step forward. Lochlan flinches back, eyes darting between the two of you. Simon sees the moment he comprehends his own error: Lochlan is used to antagonizing pretty little partygoers who’re too proper to settle matters with their fists. He’s never tangled with a man like Simon, who’s made a profession out of solving his problems with violence.
But he’s cunning enough to know that even Simon can’t act here. Jutting his chin out, he cocks an eyebrow. “What, soldier? Going to shoot me?”
The dig about Simon’s military background doesn’t land like Lochlan wants it to. The rumor of his SAS career has traveled through your family like wildfire, and they’re all eying him now a bit warily. No one laughs.
Simon lets the tension hang in the air, his hand drifting casually to his waist. Lochlan follows the motion, his face turning the color of spoiled milk. “Maybe, maybe not. Got anythin' else to say to my wife?”
His hand dips under his suit jacket, and Lochlan believes. With a final sneered insult, he pushes his way out of the crowd to stumble beyond the garden. Every eye remains fixed on where Simon’s hand is still hiding under his jacket.
Shrugging with feigned indifference, he flips his jacket back to show his hand.
It’s empty.
No gun, no holster. A bluff.
The crowd bursts into laughter, some of the men even slapping Simon on the back.
Amid the chaos, you smirk up at him, reaching up to adjust his tie. “My clever mongrel.” Then, you snort. "Like you'd bring a gun to a party, honestly.
He, in fact, does have a pistol tucked against the small of his back, but he keeps that tidbit to himself.
Simon wheels you around the crowd once more before escorting you back to your parents. As you fall into conversation with your mother, he slips away unseen into the gardens.
Hunting.
*****
Simon finds him smoking on the back lawn, laughing rudely with a gaggle of other young men.
Stealing up behind them, he claps a heavy hand down on Lochlan’s shoulder. Lochlan turns with an insult on his tongue, but his arrogant sneer drops when he sees the hulking shadow at his back.
“Hullo, cousin.”
*****
The next morning, Simon's reviewing reports when you pop back into the bedroom after taking a call from one of your aunts.
“Lochlan’s decided to help his father with his companies in the States. We won’t be seeing him much, anymore.”
Simon can feel your eyes burning a hole into his forehead, but he doesn’t look up from his tablet. “A shame.”
You fold your arms and narrow your eyes. “He’d also like to apologize for his behavior last night.” A pause. “Lochlan never apologizes.”
“First time for everythin'.”
The mattress sinks as you perch on the edge of it, still watching Simon like a hawk. “What did you do?”
He looks at you, the picture of total innocence. “What’d I do about what?”
A brief standoff ensues, you watching him with suspicion while Simon looks back with raised eyebrows. Realizing you won’t get a straight answer from him, you flop dramatically down on the covers to rest your head in his lap.
Simon smiles, but tries hard not to look too smug. You sit quietly for a moment while Simon strokes your hair, but he suspects you have something more to say.
“Darling?”
“Mmm?”
You roll to your belly to prop yourself up on your elbows. “Could you terrorize a few of my other cousins, too?”
He doesn’t bother playing innocent this time, thumbing through his apps to open up a blank document. “Jus' say the word.”
I still don't really have a set time for when she got those two scars on her cheek so if you ever see younger Pebble with them... no, you didn't. She just had her hair dyed differently, the time line totally makes sense ✋️🤚
"Christmas II"
simon riley x posh!female reader, fluff, very light angst, loneliness
The bedroom is cold.
Before Simon, you hadn’t been in the habit of using the fireplace in your room. When you’d complained about it being too much work, Simon had rolled his eyes the way he did when you were being too much of a spoiled rich girl and had shown you how to do it. You’d fallen into the habit now of lighting a fire before bed, and Simon, who’d usually get up in the middle of the night anyway, would build it up again to last until morning.
But he’d left yesterday to go on a deployment, and there’d been no one to tend to the fire in the night. His side of the bed is neat and unruffled, pillow cold.
You’re loath to leave the warmth of your burrow, but drag yourself upright. Slide your feet into the slippers waiting by the nightstand.
Tonight, you’ll go have Christmas dinner with your family and friends. It’s difficult to go anywhere now without Simon as your buffer between you and your nastier family members, but you’ll be damned if you hide in your house for your social circles to pity. Poor little wife, all alone on Christmas.
No. You’ll go to your parties with your chin up and dressed finer than ever, and dare anyone to suggest you’re anything other than perfectly fine.
On the dresser, your phone glows with dozens of messages, Happy Christmas! sent over and over again among group chats and private conversations alike. But there’s one text you pause over, sent from an unknown number early this morning.
It’s an audio message.
“Hullo, love.”
You hug the phone to your chest like a child, beaming. Simon’s voice is brusque, businesslike. Sharp in the way that tells you he’s talking in front of other people. But there’s a soft note in there just for you.
“By the time you get this, we’ll probably be off the grid. Dunno when we’ll get back. But. Just wanted to say I love you, and Happy Christmas.”
There’s a chorus of voices in the background, the other soldiers each adding in their Happy Christmases over Simon’s snarled shut yer gobs!
The message ends abruptly. You laugh, dabbing your wet eyes with the back of your hand.
The bedroom is still cold, but remnants of last night’s fire still glow in the hearth. You stir them to life with the poker, hot embers flaring and seeking something to burn. You feed a log in and worry it until it catches, bright flames licking up the chimney. Little by little, warmth seeps into your slippered feet.
You don’t return to bed, sinking instead by the fireside to enjoy its heat. You play the message from Simon again just to hear him declare his love and wish you a Happy Christmas. After you’ve played it two more times, your cheeks are wet and the fire is leaping merrily, and you find yourself replying to the empty room:
“Happy Christmas, Simon.”
silver spoon masterlist
merry christmas ❤️ also, obligatory disclaimer that sleeping with a fire burning unattended probably isn't very safe but something something artistic liberties.
