Jealous! Simon Riley × Sergeant's Wife Reader Part 3
Prev Parts here ♥️ Masterlist!!
A/N : This is a slightly longer chapter. To build the plot and ramp up tension. I hope you all love this one. Really worked my ass off to write it. Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. Plss I love comments. 🩷🌷🩷
A military ball.
Who would’ve thought. Ryan practically dragged you into it — tugging your wrist, already halfway dressed, already irritated.
"Everyone’s bringing their plus-ones" he’d said.
"It looks bad if you don’t show." Charity. Optics. Appearances...
He didn’t give two shits about anything besides his Rolex and who noticed it. And the fact he was a Sergeant in 141.
It was for local schools. Orphanages. There will be some media and lots of cameras. Refusing would make you the villain.
So here you were. Standing in front of the mirror. Black dress hugging your waist, your hips, the curve of your chest, you smile feeling hot as hell. It was a new one.
"Oh no. Nah. Not this one baby", Ryan appeared behind you, adjusting his tie with short irritated tugs.
"It’s too… revealing. Cleavagy."
You frowned at the reflection. "I can’t hide what I have, Ryan."
"I don’t want men staring at you", he muttered. "Wear something modest. It’s a charity event, not a casino."
You inhaled slowly. And let out a deep sigh. Arguing never went anywhere. It was happening too often these past months. Not after the last time — when his Lieutenant absolutely tore into him for leaving you stranded in the rain. Made him scrub toilets of base for a month, 'humiliated my soul' Ryan complained.
Ghost. Simon Riley. You hadn’t seen him since that night. He stopped coming to dinners. Stopped showing up when Ryan brought you around the team.
Gone.
You hadn’t been that rude… had you? He crossed the line first. Asking you personal questions. And Simon didn’t seem like the grudge-holding type.
Eleven months. Almost a year.
You changed dresses. A simple green gown. And tie your hair up in an elegant bun and put on heels.
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The venue stole the breath from your lungs. Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. Gold detailing everywhere. Expensive paintings, some even original.
"Bloody hell", you murmured. "Didn’t know the military rented Oscar venues."
Ryan laughed. Loud. Showy. Already performing. You've started to hate the very sound of it.
After greetings and introductions and plastic smiles from spouses you’d forget in ten minutes, you drifted aside.
Observing. Soap grinning like he owned the room, showing his wife off. Perfect couple. Gaz nursing his drink. Price standing tall — commanding with silence alone. The team’s backbone. Good men. And you?
A chef.
You watched conversations spiral around weapons systems, intel briefings, operational strategy. Thrilling. You tried not to grimace at the mention of shredded body parts and torture techniques.
Then the air shifted.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t announced. But people straightened. Voices lowered.
You felt it before you saw it. Simon Riley entered.
Tall. Massive. Mask on. He wasn't the tallest in the room, hell you could see Konig at the corner trying to blend into one of the pillars.
But the way Simon carried himself – was massive.
A blonde on his arm – runway beautiful, polished confidence, easy charm. Perfect smile. She belonged here and in magazines. Fit right in. Your chest tightened anyway.
You stepped forward when he approached, smiling politely, hand extended.
"Good evening–" He walked past you. Didn’t pause. Didn’t look. Didn’t acknowledge you existed.
Your hand hung there. Then dropped slowly. It wasn't like you expected him to hug you but a simple greeting would've been nice.
And the dinner began.
Ryan vanished into laughter somewhere across the hall. You poked at your food.
Too bland. No spices. No soul. The meat looked as if it will start mooing. Undercooked!!
Where’s the love in this dish???
"So yeah" the blonde laughed brightly, "he practically dragged me along."
Soap chuckled, "Lt listens to you, eh?"
She rolled her eyes, "Only when I threaten him." Laughter. Everyone seem to know her, comfortable and way too pretty. Simon side-eyed her as he lifts his mask above his lips to eat.
Then – "Oh this is good" Soap said eating the soufflé. "Sorry, Y/N – looks like you’ve got competition."
He didn’t even look up. Silence hit the table like glass shattering. Where did that come from? What did you even do to piss him off.
You blinked,"I’m sorry?"
His eyes lifted. Cold. Guarded. Not the one you saw months ago. They were harsher, meaner.
"Nothin’."
Gaz leaned forward, "Mate, that weren’t nothing. What’s crawled up your arse tonight?"
Simon’s jaw flexed, "Drop it."
You stood abruptly feeling your bladder about to explode. You'll deal with him later. Can't hold pee for another hour can you.
"Excuse me." Chair scraping loud enough to echo.
You didn’t see Simon tracking you leave. Didn’t see his grip tighten around the fork, how he clenched his jaw hard enough for a headache looking at you.
You reach the bathroom door. And saw one stall open.
And your world collapsed. In the moment you wished you stayed down and argued with Simon.
Ryan’s voice. Breathless. A muffled moan.
A woman kneeling and gagging.
Your vision tunneled. "No…"
Ryan snapped his head up,"Wait..wait – listen it’s not"
You were already gone. Rushing past music. Past laughter. Past chandeliers and charity and lies. Don't mind the team looking at you rushing from their table.
Heaven had peed on you instead.
Cold air hit your lungs like knives as you make it out of the building. You braced against a lamppost, sob ripping out before you could stop it.
You knew. God –you knew.
Saw it coming months ago. Late nights. Excuses. Lipstick stains of a shade you never had. All those "training" sessions at odd hours.
Inside the chairs scraped.
Simon stood. Ryan rushed after you.
"Sir, my wife–" Simon blocked him. And pushed him back a few steps by his shoulders.
"Don’t" Ryan scowled. His face flushed like a child caught eating candy at night. A child is what he truly was.
"Stay right where you are, Sarge" Ryan froze. He might be your husband, but even Soap knows not to mess with the Lt. Especially when he uses rank outside of work.
"That’s an order."
Outside, Simon found you shaking. Mascara streaked. Breathing ragged. His chest tightened.
Christ. He never thought he'd see you like this. Your dress wrinkled at sides now from how tight you were fisting it to stop yourself from yelling. You hair spilling out of the once neat bun in every direction.
You turned when he approached.
"Miss Y/N… d’you want some water? Somethin’ stronger?"
"Don’t" Your voice cracked. "Just don’t."
He stopped immediately nodding.
"Did he hurt you?" Dead serious. No softness.
"No" you straightened. At least not physically...
You smoothen your hair back. Tying it with shaking hands. Wiped your cheeks dry. And pulled the strongest smile you could. Rebuilding yourself...bit by bit.
"It's nice seeing you after months sir."
He watched it happen. Piece by piece. Knew how strong willed you were. Saw it with his own eyes when you picked up a brick to hurl at him. No wonder you were smiling at him while anyone else would've not.
And something ugly coiled in his ribs.
Half an hour later. Ryan approached again as you stand at the exit taking deep breaths. People were leaving now, 12 at night afterall.
"Baby, let’s go home and talk" he said tugging your hand back.
You ripped your hand away "No."
You spotted your black sedan taxi pulling up — and rushed inside. It was better to stay at the hotel tonight. Ryan will not hurt you but hell he would make you feel a lot worse by just his lies and cheap cover ups.
"I –uh… 3163…" you blurt out the Otp to the driver.
Silence. The car didn’t move.
You looked up. Simon in the mirror, balaclava off now. Blonde in passenger seat frowning as to why a random woman climbed in their car. Fuck.
"Hey" you panicked. "So so sorry, I'll get off."
Before you could open the door, Simon started driving.
"I said stop!" you shrieked at his audacity. Was he hard of hearing or what.
"Relax, miss. You bolted. I saw", his eyes flicked to you through the rear view mirror.
"I uh..last time I checked you drove a buggati, not a sedan. My taxi must be waiting back there. Stop the car please. Please stop!!"
"This one's new. That's why I dunno how to stop it", he says looking over at the blonde who was rolling her eyes.
"Well if you want to play taxi, can you please drop me at Hotel Tiffany's then."
"You’re stayin’ at mine tonight", he says with zero hesitation.
"What? No–"
"Got spare rooms. You’re not goin’ to a hotel like this", something in his tone ended the argument before it began.
Penthouse. Warm lighting. Expensive. Quiet.
"Charlize" handed you water. (Even her name sounded like a models)
Simon loosened his tie, watching.
"You sure he didn’t lay hands on you?" he goes rolling up his sleeves taking the jacket off.
"…Just an argument" you mumble looking around. It was decorated but who did it. Simon looked like he would sleep on a mattress and had nothing but guns in his house.
He stepped closer. Too close. Finger under your chin. Eyes locked as he moves your head side-to-side checking for something.
"You can't cook lies can you. When I find out what he did. He'll pray he never met me", his voice dropped to gravel.
Later you were in the guest room. Charlize had insisted that you sleep in there, they had way too many rooms. She was even kind enough to lend you her clothes for the night. She was warm, way too warm. Definitely not the typical mean blond you always thought.
You sigh changing into the comfy tee and pajamas taking in the room around yourself.
A small photo frame at the bedside table. Young Simon and Charlize smiling ear to ear holding a german shephard pup.
"Riley siblings". Oh. You laughed weakly at yourself. It should've been obvious to anyone else. Same hair, height, same deep brown eyes, freckles. But a girl can't see clear through tears can she??
Downstairs Charlize sits on couch looking at her brother pacing the room. Definitely planning murder she thought. Hadn't been this restless in years. He could kill without breaking sweat and here he was.
"She’s hurt, Si."
"I know."
"You scare her. She nearly jumped out of the car", she sighs.
"…Not intendin’ to."
Morning. You tried to leave. This was way beyond your boundaries. Rambling excuses. "I have a meeting in my restro" "I have to take some interviews" blah blah blah.
Charlize nodded at every line.
Simon stood up from where he was seated. A simple shirt and joggers. But oh my he looked even bigger in casuals. He stepped in close tilting his head as you go on about excuses.
Before you could continue — he suddenly leaned closer and gave a quick nip to your ear.
You froze. Wide-eyed. What.the.fuck.
"There" he murmured. "That shuts you up."
You stay frozen for way too many seconds. Did he just bite your ear like a feral cat??? Your husband's senior bit you???
You sputtered,"I’ll tell Price."
He smirked, "And I'll do it again Miss chef."
You shake head snapping out of it as Charlize moves around turning the stove on to cook.
"Teach her too Charlz. Her skills are bit rusty these days. No loaded lunchboxes", Simon goes moving away and sitting on the couch looking at some files. As if he did nothing.
Oh...who does he even think he is. You were a michelin star chef! And so what if you stopped packing lunches for Ryan after he complained about "too many carbs" too many times. But why did Simon notice...
"You think I can't cook good anymore?? I'll show you what I am", you huff standing next to his sister taking knife off her hands. "I'll cook you go sit. Please."
You glare back at Simon and he just cocks his head smirking.
"Go on then cupcake. Cook."
Nicknames? Did his manners die in morning or is he usually this level of feral? Rude as fuck man– you'll feed him till he combusts.
God in heaven...what will happen now. But you knew you had to leave this penthouse today itself. Before Ryan gets back to his senses. Wherever he was.
Simon didn’t understand jealousy. Jealousy over one of his partners talking to someone else: relationships were nothing without trust. If you didn’t have trust, what did you truly have?
Until he did. Until he felt it, that hot, searing burn in his stomach. The kind Kyle always talked about when he mentioned his bird. He felt it when he saw another man talking to you from across the bar.
It wasn’t about not trusting you. It was about the bloke with his fucking arm around your shoulder like it belonged there.
That was fine, though. He downed the rest of his whisky, standing up. He had no problem showing other bastards just who you were with.
A/N: Yes he is a big jealous soldier. I tried writing it as smooth as I could. This one will have parts soon. My inboxes are open if you have any ideas 🤭 (I want him to cry from jealousy pls)
PART 2 IS HERE
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Simon always side-eyed the new sergeant, Ryan, during lunch breaks.
Always.
The bloke’s tiffin was loaded - colourful shit, fancy names, sauces that smelled like they belonged in a five-star restaurant instead of a muddy field base.
“My wife can make salad appetizing” Ryan grinned one afternoon, popping the lid open. “Mad, that.”
Soap leaned over. “What the fuck is that?”
“Quinoa.”
“What the fuck is a quinoa?”
Gaz blinked. “That a Pokémon?”
Ryan laughed. “Eat it and find out.”
Simon scoffed, staring down at his own sandwich. Dry butter. Dry meat. Bread stiff enough to double as body armour.
“Might as well eat concrete,” he muttered, biting into it anyway.
Simon snorted under his breath. “Salad’s s’posed to be rabbit food.”
Ryan glanced at him, unfazed. “Guess you’ve just not had good food, yeah sir?”
Before he could reply, Soap lifted Ryan’s tiffin, holding it up for everyone to see. “Oi, lads!! there’s a note.”
Stuck neatly on top, pink paper, neat handwriting.
I hope you like it, baby. xoxo.
The table erupted.
“Awwww.”
“Man’s got himself a proper little housewife.”
“Lucky bastard.”
Ryan shrugged kissing his ring, smug. “What can I say?”
Simon stood abruptly, chair scraping loud against the floor.
Soap blinked. “Where you off, mate?”
“Lost me appetite looking at that shite grass” Simon muttered, already walking away.
Annoyed. That’s all it was. Just annoyed.
Right???
A month later, after grinding asses through missions that left them bruised and exhausted : Ryan invited the team to his place.
“My mansion” he said casually. “Drinks, food, partners welcome.”
Simon arrived in a hoodie and jeans, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Felt wrong. Naked, almost. His gear was his skin - this was exposure.
The gates opened and oh my...
Johnny whistled low. “Fuck me. That’s not a house, that’s a statement.”
Inside, the place was immaculate. Art everywhere - real art, not the mass-produced shite.
Gaz chuckled "Sergeant's doing fine huh. Economic dude type shii yo".
Simon stopped in front of a painting, admiring it. A J.M.W Turner. Soft strokes. Soft colors. A softer voice –
“Good eye.”
He turned.
You stood there, smiling softly. Calm. Confident. In a simple sweater and jeans.
He huffed. “Dunno much ‘bout paintings.”
You smile brighter hearing his cute as hell accent. Where was he from...You wanted to tell him how sweet it sounds but your husband would be pissed if he knows. He was taller than Ryan. And by the looks of it, more built too.
"Yeah but admiring it means knowing" you smile looking at his hoodie. He looked uncomfortable in it. Aww poor man. Would he like some comfy pajamas —
Ryan’s voice cut in. “Babe! Everyone’s here waiting.”
Simon stiffened at the word. And more so at the tone.
You disappeared briefly, then returned carrying a massive bowl of steaming biryani. The smell hit him like a punch to the gut.
"Guys I made biryani" you smile proudly.
Soap groaned. “Jesus Christ. That’s the tiffin woman.”
You laughed softly. “Guilty.”
“I’m serious” Soap said. “We’ve all been obsessed.”
“I just love cooking, I –”
Ryan waved his hand dismissively. “It’s just a hobby, guys.”
He smiled, pulling you closer. “This is Y/N, my wife.”
He patted his lap trying to get you to sit.
You rolled your eyes immediately. “Behave,” you muttered, stepping away.
Simon’s jaw clenched. Does he think you can't speak for yourself or what.
You shot Ryan a look, then picked up a plate and walked straight to Simon.
“You must be Ghost” you said gently. “Lieutenant, yeah?”
He looked up.
Fuck.
Up close, you were worse. Better. Hair tied up in a loose bun. Steady hands. Knuckles red - were you kneading dough with hands....And smelling of spices itself.
“Aye” he nodded coming back to senses. “That’s me.”
You filled his plate carefully. Thoughtfully. And very generously.
“Hope you’re hungry.”
“I–yeah” He stopped. Tried again. “Smells…unreal.”
He ate one small bite thinking you'll walk off to serve other guys. But no, you stood right there hands on your hips waiting for him to review it.
"Come on eat. You're a big man. You need a bigger plate" you huff shifting rice onto a bigger plate waiting for him. God you were one bossy woman. But why were you married to a prick?
Christ.
He took another bite sighing. “It’s… really nice, miss” he said quietly. "Uh..." his mind lost in flavours now.
"That bad?" you chuckle.
"That good" he mumbles shoving another spoonful.
Your smile softened. “I’ll pack some for you then. For home.”
Home.
The word lodged in his chest like shrapnel.
At three in the morning, Simon sat on the floor of his cold flat, back against the couch, eating reheated biryani straight from the container. What would it take for him to have something like this everyday?? And with a cute note on top.
"Yeah..must be nice" he mumbles eating quietly.
Warm. Comforting. Like home.
That’s someone’s wife, he told himself.
Pack it in.
_________________________________________
A month later, he sat in a high-end restaurant waiting on an informant, staring at the menu like it had personally offended him.
“These prices are criminal” he muttered.
The waitress approached. “Ready to order, sir?”
“Uh… beef borgin… borgui–fack.”
“It’s beef bourguignon pot roast” she said calmly.
That.damn.voice.
Simon froze. He looked up.
You.
Apron on. Hair tied. Same eyes. But more professional.
“Oh” he said stupidly. “It’s you. Y/n. You work here?”
“Aye.”
“Waitressing, then” he nodded. “Decent gig, I suppose.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “No, sir. I own this place.”
He frowned eyeing your apron “Workin’ here don’t mean yeh own it.”
“I own it” you repeated gently. “And about ten others. This one’s my favourite.”
His mouth opened.
Closed.
“What?”
You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “Order whatever you want, handsome. It’s on the house.”
Then you walked away.
Simon immediately Googled you.
Michelin star. Founder. A wiki article for fucks sake!!!
Ryan’s voice echoed in his head: It’s just a hobby, guys.
He scoffed. “Lyin’ prick.”
A waiter appeared, stacking more plates in front of him.
“Boss said to give these to the handsome man” the kid said before sprinting off.
Simon stared down at the food.
His ears burned.
“Handsome” he muttered. “Christ.”
She called me handsome. And I ain’t even got the balaclava on.
He ate every bite. Cleaned the plates. Nearly licked his fingers. Hell even his shirt was tighter now.
And for the first time in a long while –
Simon Riley smiled. Ear to ear. He smiled.
The next day in the training room, he saw Ryan laughing with the lads.
Jealous! Simon Riley × Sergeant's Wife Reader Pt 2
Part 1 here ♥️
Next part (pt3) here❣️
A/N: I'm sleep deprived writing this. Ignore any mistakes please. Likes, reblogs and comments are more than appreciated. Love y'all. (I get hard reading comments😩)
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It was raining as you rushed out of your restaurant.
Not rain–proper Manchester-style rage from the sky. Cold, sideways, relentless.
“Fuck” you mutter, yanking your jacket tighter. Didn’t check the weather today, did you? Brilliant.
You pull your phone out with numb fingers and call Ryan.
He picks up on the third ring. Music’s loud enough that you can hear the bass crackle through the speaker. Women giggling and glasses clinking.
“Uh–love, hellooo” he says, distracted.
You close your eyes. “Ryan, it’s pissing down. Like–really bad. I didn't get my car today.”
“Yeah, well… call a taxi, babe. I’m in the middle of somethin’ important.”
“You think I haven’t tried?” you snap. “It’s a thunderstorm. No one’s picking rides.”
A pause. Laughter in the background. Someone shouts his name.
“Come on” you say quieter. “Please. I just wanna get home.”
“Why don’t you just wait in that little restaurant of yours till it stops?” he says, irritation creeping in. “You’re safe there, yeah?”
Then the line goes dead.
You stare at the phone.
“…Did he just”
You call again.
Switched off.
“What the fuck” you whisper.
The rain soaks through your shoes as you step under the shed. The street’s empty–too empty. Even the usual late-night traffic’s gone.
Mr. Humphrey, the security guard, jogs over with an umbrella. “Kid, you alright? I can drop you home.”
“No, no” you shake your head quickly. “Your place is the opposite direction. You should go.”
“I’m not leavin’ you alone in this weather kid.”
“My husband’s on his way,” you lie smoothly, bumping him with your elbow. “You should go, yer old bones will freeze in rain. Promise.”
He eyes you, unconvinced, then sighs. “Alright. If he doesn't come go back in. But don’t linger.”
“I won’t.”
He drives off.
The second his taillights disappear, a car tears down the road, tyres slicing through a puddle–
—SLAM—
Freezing water drenches you head to toe. Cold, disgusting and humiliating.
You gasp, soaked, shaking.
“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” you scream, bending to grab the nearest brick. “COME BACK! I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE!”
The car screeches.
Stops. Then reverses.
“Oh” you breathe.
“Oh fuck” Shouldn't have yelled.
The headlights glare at you like eyes. The engine hums–slow, deliberate. It was an expensive car.
You lift the brick anyway. “DON’T TEST ME!”
The window rolls down.
“Get in, miss. Get in–now.”
That voice.
Low. Rough. Familiar. That cute accent you heard few months ago.
You blink.
Simon Riley stares back at you from behind a balaclava, eyes sharp and dark.
“Ghost?” you snap. “You’ve got a lot of nerve”
He’s already out of the car, rain plastering his jacket to his broad frame as he yanks the passenger door open.
“Get. In” he says again, accent thick now. Mancunian, unmistakable. Finally know where he was from.
“Before you catch hypothermia or brain damage—whichever comes first.”
“I’m not gettin’ in your–”
“Miss Y/N” he cuts in, voice dropping. “That brick won’t win against a windshield. Not mine. Trust me. Get in. Or.I.carry.you.”
Your jaw clenches.
“…Prick.”
You climb in.
He shuts the door hard and circles back, sliding into the driver’s seat. The silence stretches–tense, loud, broken only by rain hammering metal.
“I didn’t see you” he mutters.
You let out a sharp laugh. “Oh funny. You didn’t see a grown woman under a light?”
“Road glare” he says stiffly. “Rain.”
“Bullshit.”
You fumble with the heater controls, fingers clumsy.
He reaches over, catches your wrist–gentle, but firm.
“Careful” he murmurs. “You’ll break it.”
He turns the heater on himself.
You yank your hand back. “I don’t need your help.”
“Clearly” he mutters, reaching into the backseat and tossing a shawl over you. “Put that on.”
You flinch seeing the shockingly pink and flowery shawl. Must be his girlfriends you think.
“…What's this”
“Dry” he says shortly. “You're shiverin.”
You wrap it around yourself despite yourself. It smells clean. Warm. Comforting.
“Why didn’t you call Ryan?” Simon asks suddenly.
You stare straight ahead. “I did.”
“And?”
“He was busy.”
His jaw tightens. “Team’s on leave.”
“I know.”
“So what’s so important he can’t pick his wife up in a storm?” he snaps.
You turn to glare at him. “You’re his superior, not his keeper.”
You swallow. You can't be rude to your husbands boss can you.
Neither of you speaks for a long moment.
“Wanna do renovation” he smirks raising a brow.
You glance down. The brick’s still in your lap.
“…Sorry.”
That earns a low huff of laughter. Dangerous. Brief. He reaches up to take his balaclava off placing it on dashboard.
You see him as he watches the road. How his blonde hair were curled up now thanks to rain. This was a different Ghost, not the balaclava clad brute. This one was the one who ate biryani in your home and devoured plates in your restaurant smiling ear to ear. The streelights light up his cheeks and you see freckles dusted...oh.
You guide him toward the mansion, rain blurring the windshield.
“Thanks” you say quietly when he parks. “I mean it.”
You step out.
“Come in” you add before thinking. “I’ll make something warm.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“You said it’s an off.”
He hesitates. “Bloody stubborn” he mutters, following you inside.
Later, you’re stirring soup, sleeves rolled up, hair damp. Simon leans against the counter, massive arms folded, watching.
“You don’t stir like that” he says.
“Oh?” you glance up. “And how should I stir, mister Lieutenant?”
“Like you mean it” he says. “You’re being gentle.”
You snort despite yourself.
“See this” you say, pointing. “If you don’t keep it moving, it clumps. Never add salt to tomatoes, it shrinks them.”
You look upto to check if he follows.
He nods solemnly, staring at your lips “Aye. Bugatti design. Sleek. Expensive.”
“…You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?”
“Not a bloody clue” he admits proudly.
You sit on the couch together, soup steaming between you.
“This is unprofessional” he mutters.
“Then leave” you laugh shrugging. Suprisingly, you were relaxed around him. He was just so adorable in that stupid mask of his.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he blurts out “Why’d you marry a jerk?”
Your spoon clatters as you choke on bread.
“What did you say?”
“A jerk” he repeats calmly eating soup. “Man lets his wife walk home in a storm.”
“He was busy.”
Simon’s eyes snap to you. “Busy doin’ what?”
“That’s none of your-”
“Busy enough to lie about you?” he interrupts. “Said cookin’s just a hobby. A top chef. Michelin star. Funny hobby–run a Michelin kitchen. A whole chain of them.”
You stand. “Stop.”
“No” he says, standing too, towering over you now. “He shrinks you. Makes you small.”
“That’s not–”
“You let him” Simon says softly. “That’s the worst part.”
Your chest tightens. “You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
“I know a loser when I see one.”
“You’re crossing a line. Sir Riley” gods you were wrong. You wanted to feed him full till Ryan comes home but now you wanted to yell at him for being such a jerk twice in a day!! How dare he question your marriage when he doesn't even know your maiden name.
“Someone should’ve crossed it ages ago.”
Silence. Thick. Electric.
“I think you should leave” you whisper.
He studies you for a long moment. How your eyes look around uncomfortably but you were still not backing away..fierce. A woman who picks bricks..
“…Aye.”
He won't say anything further, not now. Not today. You're his seargents wife who 'likes' cooking. Why should he care.
At the door, he leans in, voice low, dangerous, intimate.
“Don’t throw bricks you can’t take back, little bird.”
Before you could ask if he wanted his shawl back – the door shuts behind him. You see him settle in his car tugging his mask back down as it roars to life. He nods at you and drives away.
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What you don’t know that he’d seen you under the shed long before you saw him. He waited till the kind guard left you alone. He could see snipers hiding in trees in missions and you believed he couldn't see you??? Hah.
That he sped up on purpose to splash you.
That the shawl wrapped around your shoulders was his mother’s. The only thing he had left of her. It was expensive, one of a kind Pashmina. The one she asked him to gift his "future wife".
And now?
It was with someone he’d already decided—
He wasn’t letting go of. He had to fight fate now. Sometimes we make our own destiny.
༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺
P.S - Yes guys she has cold now. Yes she's wiping her nose on the pink Pashmina. Ryan is still not home :))
SIMON'S MISSUS KICKS & SLEEPTALKS LIKE SHE'S POSSESSED PT 2 🦖
Pairing: Simon Riley × Reader
Part 1 here
A/N : Sprinkled some good ol jealousy. Enjoy. Likes, reblogs and comments are more than appreciated (M a girl but I get hard reading em 😩🩷).
♡──♡──♡༺♡༻♡──♡──♡
“I married you for your hands” you mumble, lips brushing his neck, breath hot and damp. Your face buried in the same spot as always.
Simon stills. He looks down pushing your legs between his and locking them to prevent any kicking episodes today. He was still sore from last mission. You would shatter his bones if you kicked tonight.
“…For me hands?” His voice is rough with sleep. “What’s that s’posed to mean, eh?”
You hum, fingers curling weakly in his shirt. “Big.”
A quiet chuckle vibrates in his chest. “Big, are they?” he murmurs. “That what you like, yeah?”
“N-no… jus shoo big.”
“So you didn’t fall for me charm, then” he teases softly. “Just me big hands?”
“No” you sigh, half-laughing in your sleep. “Big hands means big dick..hehe.”
The chuckle dies instantly.
Simon lifts his head, squinting down at you. “…Darlin, what the fuck are you on about?”
“I wasn’t wrong.”
He smirks proudly kissing your head as you ramble on in your sleep.
“I kissed Dante last week” you blurted.
The room goes dead quiet.
“…You what?”
You don’t answer. You’re already slipping again.
He props himself on an elbow, staring at you like you’ve just confessed to murder. “Say that again. Slowly.”
“Dante” you mumble. “From the shop.”
“The shop” he repeats, voice flattening. “Which shop?”
“The muffin one.”
His nostrils flare. “The one you keep goin’ to every other day?”
“Mmhmm. So sweet...” you mumble drooling on his neck.
Silence stretches.
“And you kissed him.”
“Yes.”
His voice drops. “Where?”
“I was feelin so lonely without you...you were on yer boy mission. And I felt..s..soo good kissing him” you were giggling in sleep, legs twitching happily.
“Where” he repeats, sharper now. His palms lightly shaking your shoulders to get you off his chest.
You smile drooling in your sleep. “Everywhere...heh..head”
“What.the.hell?”
“So clean” you whisper. “Really beautiful boy.”
“…Why?” he frowns running fingers through his head. God he wanted to shout at you.
“He's blonde...like you. Softer...prettier...hehehe...wanna lick him” you giggle shifting away from him.
Simon sits bolt upright.
“…You takin’ the piss?”
You roll over, cheek squishing into the pillow. “gah..M not taking your piss. Ewww”
That throws him.
“What?” he thought you were awake this whole time. But no, you were sleep-talking again. But hell he knew you never lied, not in this state no.
He stares at your sleeping face, chest rising too fast.
“…I should wake you up” he mutters. “I should wake you up right now an’ have this out.”
You don’t stir.
His jaw works, anger coiling tight and ugly in his gut. Was this all a joke to you?? Did you marry him out of some temporary haze now that you are kissing younger men.
Of course this was gonna happen. Even Price warned him. A young beautiful woman like you – why would you ever settle for an ugly scarred brute like him.
Men would lay down at your feet if you said so, there was no reason to be tied down to this monster. Was there? And by the looks of it, you now have woken up to the truth and realised this would never last...oh Simon, you're such a fool. Everyone warned him didn't they.
“Dante” he repeats quietly. “Right.”
Next morning – you wake up alone.
The house is silent. Too silent.
Simon’s side of the bed is cold. On the bedside table, a folded note in thick, heavy ugly ass handwriting.
Market stuff.
You frown. He never went alone in civilian markets.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The shop bell jingles.
Simon steps inside like a storm cloud. The place smells of oil and batter and something sweet that makes his stomach twist. Dozens of muffins and pastries were on display. The same ones you got everyday and devoured.
He plants himself at the counter, palms flat, knuckles whitening.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
“Just a sec!” a cheerful voice calls.
Then he appears.
Too young. Too pretty. Bright smile. Clear skin. Soft eyes. And blonde of course like you said. He looked like a younger version of Simon if he went to college instead of military and had a life filled with love not horrors.
This is him.
Simon’s lip curls.
“You alright, mate?” the lad says. “What can I get ya?”
Simon tilts his head. “You Dante?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
That’s all it takes.
Simon surges forward, grabs his collar, slams him halfway over the counter. Glass jars clatter.
“You kissed my wife?” Simon snarls. “You put your mouth on my fuckin’ wife?”
“Sir–sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Don’t play thick with me” Simon growls, forearm pressing into his throat. “Short. Big eyed. Like a fuckin doll. My doll. Wears a skull pendant. Ringin’ any bells, does it?”
“S...sir – sir I have no idea”
“I’ll break every bone in yer face” Simon hisses, breath hot. “I’ll pulp ya, stick ya in a jam jar, an’ sell ya back to the bleedin neighbourhood.”
“You'd like me shaving those lips off yer face with a blade won't ya boy!!”
People are staring now. Early customers who visit daily.
The lad’s voice cracks. “Please, I I think there’s been a misunderstanding–”
“Oh I'll misunderstand your balls” he yells punching the boy right in his nose.
Woof!
Sharp. Furious.
Simon freezes mid-breath. His hand about to deliver another brutal punch.
Another bark. Closer.
He looks down.
A tiny Pomeranian launches itself at his boot, teeth bared, body shaking with rage. The thing snarls like it’s ten times his size. Couldn't even reach his knees.
“…What the fuck is that. A hairy rat??”
“Baby!! No!” the lad yelps. “Down–stop!”
Simon loosens his grip slowly, eyes dropping to the dog. The furball keeps barking, tail wagging like it’s ready to throw hands.
Simon crouches, squinting.
A collar.
Dante Jr.
He reads it twice. Three times.
“…No” he murmurs.
The lad swallows. “That’s…that’s my dog. Don't hurt him”
Simon looks at him. Then back at the dog.
“…You’re tellin me” he says slowly, “my wife kissed a dog.”
The lad nods weakly. “Y...yeah..I know Y/N, wears a lil skull pendant. Comes here daily. She kissed his head. Said he was handsome.”
Simon sits back on his heels, dragging a hand down his face.
“…Christ alive.”
The dog barks proudly.
Simon exhales, long and shaky, laughter bubbling up sharp and unhinged. “I nearly committed manslaughter over a bleedin’ little rat dog.”
“I– I’m really sorry, sir”
“Who.the.fuck names their dog Dante? And that too after yourself?” Simon snaps. As if his K9 isn't named Riley...
The dog barks again.
Simon stands, straightening his jacket, eyes still burning. He points at the lad.
“Keep your dog rat away from my wife.”
“Yes – yes, sir.” the boy coughs wiping his nose as Simon throws some money on the counter as apology.
“And if I ever hear her say your dog’s name in her sleep again” Simon adds quietly, leaning in, “I’m still comin’ back to scare the shite outta you.”
He turns for the door, muttering under his breath.
“Married a menace.”
A day later you were perched on his lap complaining how the shop boy refused to give you any muffins today and wouldn't let you touch his cutey dog.
“I dont know what I did baby he won't even look at me in the eyes. So weird isnt it” you scoff tugging at his buttons.
“Tis not your fault doll. Some people are like that” he whispers pulling you closer by your hips.
Before you could say anything he pulls you into a suffocating hug. You had no idea how close he came to lose his mind. And oh how he doubted you...how could he think like that. Don't mind him yellin at himself in mirror later that night. He had already cried an hour in bathroom for being such an idiot. But he wanted to be safe again in your embrace that is.
“You're not leaving me. Not now not ever. Your dreams are mine too” he says teary eyed, pulling away to cup your face.
You see his sweet brown eyes red. Why did he cry?? What happened?? The last time you saw him cry was when you kicked him in the balls in sleep.
You frown unable to read him but everything stills as he kisses you with such intensity you have you pull away to breath.
