𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝒞 simon ghost riley
SYPNOSIS .ᐟ you've been avoiding taking your meds so simon decides to help
★ INCLUDES hurt/comfort, medicated! reader, simon helps you take your meds, mentions of harmful behaviour, simon is a good boyfriend
⌗ A NOTE FROM IVY ⸝⸝ been struggling to take my meds recently so i decided to write this to try cope better, hope it makes you guys feel a little comforted too
When Simon calls your name, voice carrying from the bathroom—deep, low, uncharacteristically serious—you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, trying to pretend your stomach hasn’t been twisted in anxious knots for weeks. And when you look up, and your breath instantly snags in your throat.
Because he's standing in the doorway, one broad shoulder braced against the frame, his expression unreadable. And in his hand—held between two calloused fingers—is the flat, blistered sheet of your latest prescription.
Untouched. Not a single capsule gone.
Your heart drops straight to the floor.
Simon tilts his head slightly, grey eyes locking on yours with a disappointment that’s somehow soft, which makes it hurt worse. “Wanna tell me about this?”
Your mouth goes dry. He steps into the room, slow, deliberate. The sheet crinkles in his grip as he lifts it, letting it catch the lamplight, letting you see just how obviously unused it is.
He knows. God, he knows everything.
He was there for the appointment when your hands shook so badly you could barely hold the paper. He pressed his forehead to yours afterward and kissed the tears from your cheeks. He held your hair back for every night of nausea, rubbed circles into your back when your body felt wrong, whispered through every side effect as if he could absorb them for you. He carried you to the bathroom when you were dizzy, sat with you on the floor while your whole world spun, swore he wouldn’t leave—not for a second.
Simon watched you choke down dozens of pills from different bottles week after week, trying to find the one that didn’t ruin you. And when you finally found something that didn’t make you violently sick or break down crying into his chest every night—
You swallow hard as Simon steps closer, blond brows low, exhale steady but controlled. “Found this crammed behind the bathroom cabinet,” he mutters. “Pretty shitty hiding place, if you ask me.”
“I was gonna tell you, Si I swear.” Your voice cracks, and you bite your bottom lip hard enough for it to hurt. “I didn’t mean to stop taking them, I just—”
You can’t finish. Your throat works around the knot sitting like a stone at the base of it, painful and familiar. Because how do you explain it? How do you explain the way something so tiny—small, white, harmless—can sit in your palm like a threat? How the thought of swallowing it twists your stomach into tight, miserable knots until you feel nauseous? How the anxiety spirals out of nowhere, thick and choking, leaving you frozen in the bathroom with a glass of water untouched beside you?
Even now—especially now—it’s hard to say any of that to him. Hard to admit that all those quiet, gnawing thoughts are still there, still chewing away at your resolve, still whispering old habits in your ear. So you hid them. Shoved the blister pack somewhere you thought he’d never look. Not because you wanted to lie… but because you knew what he would do if he found out.
Because Simon never lets you fall apart alone. Because he never watches you sabotage yourself without stepping in, without that steel-edged, steadying hand around your wrist pulling you back from the drop. Because he sees you—too well, sometimes—and that, in its own way, is terrifying.
You knew exactly what would happen if he found them untouched. Knew he’d stop you, knew he’d pull you out of that slow, easy, downward spiral you always slip into because you found too much comfort in the self sabotage, in it getting bad again. That spiral that starts so quietly you barely notice it’s happening until you’re already at the bottom.
And here you are, with the man who's pulled you from the ungodly pits of your mind and own self manufactured demise, doing it all over again.
Simon’s brows draw together but he doesn't interrupt, just waits and it spills out, messy and anxious and everything you’ve been holding close to your chest for weeks, carrying around secretly.
“They don’t… do anything,” you breathe out, voice rushed and broken. “Or if they do, I can’t feel it. I just—I didn’t want to keep taking them if nothing was changing.” Your voice cracks on the last word, that familiar tremble of frustration and fear and exhaustion.
Simon lowers himself onto his knees, the mattress dipping as he leans in close. His large hands settle gently on your calves, rubbing slow strokes up and down to ground you.
“You know you can’t just stop takin’ ’em ’cause you don’t feel like it,” he says softly. Not scolding. Just low. Firm.
“I know,” you breathe, lip wobbling. “I just—” You choke, frustration burning behind your eyes. “Every time I try to take one I just—I freeze. I can’t do it. I can’t swallow them. I sit there and stare at them and— and I can’t—”
Your voice breaks. Your shoulders tremble. Simon exhales, long and steady, like he’s trying to breathe for you. “Okay,” he murmurs, smoothing his hands up your knees. “Okay.”
“Then you tell me that, yeah? You don’t hide from me.” His thumb strokes your shin. “If you can’t do it then I’ll do it for you. I’ll pop each pill out and feed it to you myself.”
Your breath shakes. You look at him with wet, devastating eyes that make his chest hurt. “Si, I dont wanna–” you swallow around the word that makes your throat tight, that he knows because he’s spent years hearing it.
“It ain’t a burden,” Simon mutters, low but firm, grey eyes on yours. “Understand? If you need me to pop out a pill every night and help you swallow it down, then I will.” His hands cup your face, large, calloused, scarred but unbearably gentle as his thumbs stroke your cheeks. Your lip trembles as the tears finally spill over. “If you need my help,” Simon mutters, rubbing a tear away with his thumb, “then I help you. That’s it.”
His knuckles brush away your tears gently. “You trust me with this?” he asks quiet but gentle, waiting for you, for your decision, your choice.
You swallow hard, voice tiny. “I trust you,” you whisper. “ I… I wanna do it like that.”
His shoulders ease as he nods, thumb stroking your jaw.
“Alright,” Simon says gently, kissing your forehead. “Then we start now, yeah?”
He stands, grabs the glass of water from your nightstand, and sits back beside you. He pushes out a single pill from the sheet—small, white, harmless-looking despite everything it means. He taps your chin gently. “Open.”
Your lips part, tongue resting against your lower teeth, and you feel small and shaky and strangely safe. Simon places the pill carefully onto the center of your tongue, then lifts the glass to your lips, tipping it slow. You swallow. Your lashes flutter, throat working, breath wobbling as the pill finally goes down.
“There we go,” Simon murmurs, hand cradling your jaw. “That’s my good girl.”
The praise slips down your spine like warm honey. You shiver, leaning into his touch without thinking.
Simon sets the glass aside and barely has time to react before you fold into him—pressing your face into his throat, hands clutching at his shirt like he’s the only thing keeping you upright. And he doesn’t hesitate. He wraps those big arms around you and pulls you into his lap, sitting back against the bed frame with a low grunt as he holds you close.
His hand slides into your hair, stroking slow, grounding. “My girl,” he whispers against your temple, voice barely above a rumble. “Always doin’ your best. I got you.”
You burrow into his chest, breathing him in, letting the tension in your body drain out as he keeps whispering soft reassurances into your hair. Yeah, he thinks as he feels your breath even out against his throat. He’ll do this every night if he has to.
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