Imagine!! Simon Ghost Riley × Blind Reader ༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻༺♡༻
It was just a normal walk in the park for you. Good for the legs, improved mood, and it always made you feel happy.
Your guide dog, Bolt - a well trained black Labrador - nudged your feet as you tied your boots, always so restless for the park. It was your brother’s idea to get a guide dog. And yeah, he was right for once.
“Oye, gimme just a minute, ugh,” you muttered, checking the door locks before holding the leash as he guided you out safely. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew the pair of you.
Oftentimes, you ended up with free cupcakes from the old baker down the street, daily flowers from the young florist girl, and Bolt was showered with treats at every shop. The flirty butcher handed out free ribs every week, just as an excuse to lure Bolt into his shop and to talk to you. You would laugh and tell him no everytime he tried a new cheesy pickup line.
Their kindness wasn’t out of pity, but rather the fact that you were harmless. No one in their right mind would hurt a defenceless girl.
And also because you helped everyone the best you could.
The wind was cosy as you entered the park, a smile on your face as Bolt guided you, the sun warming your cold body. You walked along, tapping your cane, a packet of frozen peas tucked inside the jacket to feed the ducks and relax.
Oh, what a day. What a lovely day.
Suddenly, the leash slipped out of your hand. Bolt charged at something in the distance. You tried pulling it back, fingers scrambling for leather - but he was faster.
“Bolt! No! Get back here! BOLT!" Your scream tore through the park.
You stood frozen, heart slamming against your ribs. This was a nightmare come alive. Your hands trembled as you swept the ground around your feet with cane. It had been a while since you’d walked without him by your side.
What if he got hurt?
What if he ran into traffic?
What if they mistook him for a violent dog who eats annoying babies for dinner???
You felt like your sight had been stolen all over again, leaving you small, helpless. Past churned its way up your throat, making it harder to breathe. Just a helpless little girl all over again.
Then -
Heavy paws.
Fast. Too fast.
At a distance, a large German Shepherd came charging forward, dragging her owner along.
“Riley! No Riley! For fuck’s sake, down, girl, will yeh?!” Simon barked, boots scraping against the path as he fought the leash.
It’ll be fun, havin’ a retired K9, they’d said.
Yeah. Fun.
She was solid muscle, years of discipline snapping loose in seconds. She’d never done this back at base. Never broke command. Simon swore under his breath.
Realising it was useless trying to haul her back, Ghost ran with her instead, making it look like they were jogging.
(Christ, his arse was being dragged.)
He tightened the leash as Riley barreled toward a black Labrador wearing a strange vest.
“Back! Riley—back! THAT IS NOT A FUCKIN DUCK YE DIMWIT”
The dogs collided in a mess of fur growling. But then - tails wagging. Playful snarls. Not a fight. The labrador licking her face as she growls . He sure had audacity for a dog half her size.
Simon loosened the leash slightly, eyes darting around.
Where’s the owner?
Meanwhile, you moved toward the sound. Slow. Careful. Every step felt wrong without Bolt guiding you. Your grip tight and trembling around the cane. Fuck this was scary!
Your breath shook as barking echoed closer, too close. And before you could call out Bolt - Impact.
A sharp pain exploded through your knees as something heavy slammed into you, sending you crashing to the ground. The air rushed from your lungs as something large and warm landed on top of you.
Not Bolt. Too heavy...
You froze as hot breath brushed your neck. A low growl vibrated through the body pinning you down. You could feel it sniffing you.
Your hand lifted - hesitant - reaching
“Riley- back off! Back off! Now! C’mon, girl!” You felt her retreat at the gruff command.
You gasped, scrambling onto your elbows, hands shaking as you searched the ground for your cane.
You pushed yourself upright - and then you felt him. Bolt’s wet nose pressed insistently against your leg, grounding you, steadying you. You immediately grab his leash.
“I-I’m so sorry!! He usually stays in line” you whispered, brushing dirt from your jeans with unsteady hands.
Suddenly - hands.
Large. Solid.
Your cane was placed back into your grip and you flinched at the contact despite yourself.
“Hey - easy, love. Easy” the man said quickly.
“It’s alright, miss. Mine lost it an’ all. Don’t happen often, honest. I apologize bout that.” He tugged the panting Shepherd back, firm now.
Simon took you in properly then. The cane. The vest. The way your gaze never quite landed.
Blind.
And shaken. He could've just turned around and left for home. But who was he to turn down a gift dropped right in his lap???
He fought the urge to brush leaves from your hair. He stared into your amber eyes that drifted aimlessly. Beautiful, like the sun breaking through clouds, he thought. Your jacket smeared with crushed peas. It was like an explosion.
He edged a bit closer, trying to get a better look at your face. Your cheeks were flushed from all the running you’d just done, then he noticed it.
The heavy tremble in your fingers. Christ she’s terrified.
“Everythin’s sorted now, yeah?” he said more gently.
“Your dog’s clever, that one. Didn’t hurt a soul, swear down. Mine’s just a daft sod sometimes.”
You pressed your palms together, voice breaking. “Please - please don’t complain, sir. The authorities will take him away… and I can’t afford a new guide dog. Please.”
Your desperation curled something sharp in his chest. Little did you know, this bastard was smirking behind his mask, clearly enjoying how flustered you looked. Eyes twinkling with the same mischief a kid gets on unboxing a present. He looked up and down sloww to check for injuries - of course ;)
“I-I’m Y/N. And this is Bolt” you added quickly.
“He’s a guide dog, but he’s still in training… as you saw.”
“Yeah” he murmured. “Figured.”
"I’m Ghost. An’ this menace is Riley. German Shepherd. Had years of trainin, an’ she still pulls shite like that.”
You tilted your head slightly to hear him better. Your other senses sharpened where sight failed you.
Definitely tall.
Voice rough-edged… Northern. Manchester. But muffled. Why muffled?
Bolt nudged your leg again, a soft whine escaping him. Feeling sorry now, was he? Idiot.
“Sit down, baby” you whisper.
But unknown to you - Simon took it as his cue and immediately dropped to his knees wondering why you'd tell him to sit. Looking up at you frowning.
Just then Bolt sat neatly at your feet.
Realisation hit him like a punch.
Heat crawled up his neck as he stayed there a second too long, silently grateful you couldn’t see his embarrassment. He was the Lieutanant of the famed 141 for fucks sake not a dog!! Here he was acting funny cause of a woman he met seconds ago. Hell even his dog had lost it.
“So, Mr Ghost, is it?” you said, forcing composure like you hadn’t nearly had heart attack moments ago.
“Can call me Simon, if that sounds too flimsy to you, miss" he replied, getting up and dusting off his knees.
Riley barked once, sharp and curious. Her head tilting at every angle looking at Bolt's vest.
“Can I uh… pet her? Simon nodded - then swore quietly remembering you can't see.
“Yeah - sorry. Yeah, y’can. Just don’t touch her ears. She gets annoyed.”
You held your hands out, inching toward the sound of happy panting. God she was huge , you didn't have to crouch to reach her.
“Good baby, Riley...such a good baby” you cooed softly.
And just like that, Simon forgot how to breathe. His chest tightened, eyes snapping away as something unsteady hit him square in the ribs. He felt like he was on frontline fighting a war. But only this time it was a damn civilian park. His poor heart was beating the same way it did when he was running laps in training sessions.
Bloody hell.
Soap was dead for naming his K9 Riley. Because right now - for the first time, Simon Ghost Riley felt weak at his knees.
Imagine!! watching The Godfather with Simon goddamn Riley.
Thirty minutes in and he’s already shifting beside you, knee bouncing, jaw tight. You don’t even have to look to know he’s fighting for his life.
“Babe” Simon mutters, voice thick with that Manchester drawl, “is this a marriage DVD or a movie?”
"Such big family bet they reserve the whole cafe when they dine".
You bite your lip. Here we go. Good luck getting him to sit through it. This man could roll his eyes like it was an Olympic sport. Every dramatic pause earns you a sigh; every Italian monologue, a dramatic lean and a headshake. And when young Al Pacino shows up on screen - dark eyes, soft mouth, such lips - ughh.
The blush creeping up your neck gives you away immediately. Simon clocks it!! Of course he does. He side-eyes you. Hard.
“So that’s yer type, huh?” he grumbles. “Pretty boy. Lashes an’ all. Doesn't look like he's ever lifted anythin heavier than a chicken. Puts conditioner in his muppet hair” He deliberately pulls his arm away from your waist, folding it across his chest scoffing.
God. Could he be more petty?
You catch him absentmindedly brushing his eyebrows whenever Don Vito appears. If you wake up tomorrow and his brows have grown thicker, you wouldn’t even be surprised. At some point, you both give up on the dialogue entirely and just stare at the subtitles.
“What the ’ell is that accent?” he mutters. “Sounds like he’s chewin’ marbles.”
Midway through the film, Simon suddenly stands up and plants himself right in front of the TV, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed like he’s watching a last-minute penalty.
“Why’s he doin’ that”
“Simon, move - ”
“Oh my God!!! FUCK OW - IS THAT A HORSE?” he shrieks, scrambling back onto the bed. Pointing at TV as if you'd miss it. He even presses the remote to replay the moment just for you to close your eyes as he tries opening them with his fingers holding your face still grinning. "You wanna see it sweet thing, cmon open your eyes...cmon don't miss the best moment". And hell he cannot act like a normal human being. You feel him vibrating like a toddler trying to control his laugh when the main lead drops dead in the garden. "Not my fault luv he just died" - and stops laughing only when he sees you teary eyed sniffling on pillows. He sighs pulling your head to his chest rubbing your back.
✧*.｡～♡✧*.｡～♡✧*.｡～♡✧*.｡～♡✧*.｡～♡✧*
Morning comes quietly. You wake to cold sheets and the faint smell of food. Simon is always up before the sun, sleeps only when the world’s already moving again. No wonder he has dark circles the size of a melon.
You find him in the kitchen. Shirtless. Black joggers slung low on his hips, hair messy - Classic Riley.
“What’re you makin handsome?” you yawn, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face between his shoulder blades.
“Just a sandwich,” he says easily. “An’ I’m takin you out tonight. That place you were bangin on about last week.”
You stiffen. “I told you not today, I’ve got work-”
He turns backing you gently against the counter, voice dropping. “Listen. I’ve already seen how you look at pretty boys on telly. Not lettin you stay in tonight thinkin about him. The All Pack guy...”
Your brows shoot up. “You are jealous...and it's Al Pacino.”
He huffs, "I ain't competin’ with a bloke from the '70s. Bet he doesn't have an angel in his bed like me."
"But Si-
“I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse,” he adds, eyebrows wiggling. This man is smoother than whiskey and twice as intoxicating.
When you frown, he repeats it again - this time in the worst, laziest Marlon Brando impression you’ve ever heard.
“I’m gonna make yer an offer…yer can’t refuse, luv.”
You laugh, surrendering immediately. You were sure this "offer" meant coming back home from dinner to make hours of love. Maybe this was what Christmas is all about - being wrapped up in layers of love.
