a bunch of coughing and groaning in the middle of the night (yeah... he needs to stop smoking)
random muttering and mumbling from him/you
nightmares. he will literally jump out of the bed which startles you sometimes (he offered to sleep on the couch due to his nightmares....)
his hands roaming around your body as if he wants to memorize every part of you (he does)
cuddles of course !!! it doesnt matter if hes the big or small spoon he just needs to be with you.
either of you falling off of the bed, at least once in a while
the blankets being left aside because simon says its gonna be 'too hot' (no, he just wants to be your personal heater lmao)
laying on top of each other. yeah, you might end up sleeping with your head resting against his chest.
HAIR STROKING. will stroke your hair until you fall asleep soundly
sigh... drooling. he drools a bit sorry to break it to you guys
a lot of admiring. he'll admire you as you sleep, its the only view that helps him doze off
FOREHEAD KISSES. either you or him. if he stirs awake he'll just give you a small forehead kiss before holding you closer to him (if thats even possible) and dozing off once more
nuzzling. he loves to nuzzle into the crook of your neck :(
tangled legs. his legs are gonna be intertwined with yours oooor one of his leg is going to be on top of yours.
He’s trained in torture resistance, knows half a dozen ways to kill with household items, has faced down death in more countries than you’ve had birthdays. But right now, sitting shirtless on the edge of your bed, legs spread and brows knit together while you kneel between them with that look on your face—
He’s suspicious. Immediately.
“…What’re ya up to?” His accent is flat, suspicious, but there’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth that betrays amusement.
You shrug innocently. Place one hand lightly on his bare thigh. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the muscle shift under your touch.
“Gonna teach you somethin’,” you say sweetly.
He narrows his eyes.
“Don’t need any lessons, love. Think I’ve got the basics down.”
You raise a brow. Reach for his boxers.
Simon freezes.
“…You’re joking.”
You don’t answer. You just pull them down.
His cock—thick, flushed, intimidating—is half-hard already. He sits there, trying so hard not to react, though his jaw clenches and his eyes fluttered shut.
But the pink at the tips of his ears?
Dead giveaway.
You rest your hand at the base of his cock, light, nonchalant, and grin up at him.
“Alright, Mr. Riley. Let’s begin.”
He breathes in through his nose. Controlled.
“I swear to God—”
“Here we have the glans,” you say, as if delivering a lecture to a university class. “Also known as the tip. Extra sensitive. Tons of nerve endings. Real good for, you know—”
You flick your thumb gently over the slit.
Simon grunts.
You look up at him. Innocent. “Stimulation.”
He says nothing.
His jaw is tight, hands gripping his thighs, as if he was restraining himself from taking over this lesson. He wanted to. Wanted to
But right now?
He lets you teach.
“This—” you wrap your hand around the shaft, slowly stroking from base to head “—is the corpus cavernosum. Two spongy chambers that fill with blood to form the erection.”
He stares at you.
“I know what an erection is,” he mutters, flustered now.
“Mm. I’m giving you a refresher.”
You stroke again. He sucks in a breath.
Then, quietly—“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”
“Maybe. But you’ll die educated.”
He laughs—low, dark—chest rumbling under the scar-laced skin. His head tips back just slightly, lips parted as your hand works him with maddening slowness. Precise. Like you’re the trained marksman and his body is your target.
And it’s working.
He’s rock hard now, the flush spreading down his chest to his abs. His cock is heavy in your palm, leaking, twitching every time your thumb presses just under the head.
You lean in close and lick a stripe up the underside.
Simon groans—hands flying up to fist the sheets behind him.
“And this,” you say, licking your lips, “is your frenulum. Tight little band under the glans. One of the most sensitive points on your dick.”
He exhales through his teeth, muttering something filthy under his breath.
“Fuckin’ hell—where’d ya learn all this?”
You smile sweetly. “A chef never reveals his recipe.”
Simon chokes.
You laugh. Press a kiss to the tip of his cock, just to watch him shudder.
He looks down at you, eyes dark, pupils blown, teeth clenched.
“You’re enjoying this,” he grunts.
“A little.”
“You’re cruel.”
“And you’re hard as hell.”
He shakes his head, breath hitching as your mouth finally envelops the head—soft, warm, slow. But just before he can buck his hips, just before he lets that groan escape his throat—
You pull off.
He actually whimpers.
You blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “Would you like a pop quiz, Lieutenant Riley?”
Simon exhales. Laughs once. Dark and wrecked.
“You keep this up, love, and 'm flipping ya over the bed. You’ll feel every anatomical structure you just described.” He murmured, half-warning and half-threat.
simon riley uses lame excuses just to buy you random things (his love language, gift giving)
"Huh?" A confused voice rang through your room.
It didn't take you long to realize that it was just Simon. He stood in your doorway with an almost observant look on his face, and that made you quite cautious, too.
"Simon?" You murmured underneath your breath.
He took a few steps closer to you, causing you to sit up on the edge of your bed. His brows furrowed as he towered over you with a small sniff.
His wandering eyes met yours before he leaned down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, your body relaxing with the familiarity of the warmth from his body. His nose brushed against your pulse point, causing your eyes to widen.
"When did ya change your soap?" His question made you pause. Was that really the first thing he'd noticed?
"Um, just today. I couldn't buy my usual one, I've been busy and it ran out...I'll probably go and buy it again in a few days."
He hummed in reply, backing away to give you your personal space back.
"I liked tha' old one better," Simon mumbled, though it was a bitter lie. Everything looks and smells good on ya, he longed to say.
"What's the brand? I'll buy it fo' ya."
"Oh please, you don't need to—"
"Don't give me tha' bullshit. C'mon, spit it out, love."
With a reluctant sigh, you did as he told you. And for the first time in your life, you thought—maybe being spoiled wasn't that bad.
creator’s note: rahrahrahwr honeatly i need to memorize his daily routine.
warnings: fluff with a smidge of angst, vulnerable! dex, dex has abandonment issues (of course), not proofread.
word count: 1.5k
You woke up to the cold, legs tangled in the sheets where Dex was cuddled up against you. Your hands reached for him instinctively—expecting the warmth of skin—but you grabbed onto air.
Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness. You let out a small breath, stretching quietly before looking around the room. You searched for him, brows furrowed and still drowsy.
He wasn’t in the bedroom. Not anymore, at least.
You looked at the clock. 7:14 AM. Four minutes passed his usual wake-up schedule.
Dex was always on schedule, carved down to the minute—coffee, shower, jacket pulled on with mechanical precision. He didn’t deviate, not unless something had gone wrong.
You pushed the sheets off and swung your legs to the floor, padding barefoot across the room. The apartment was quiet, unusually so. No hiss of the coffeemaker, no faint scuff of his boots pacing like they often did before sunrise.
The bathroom door was closed. Silent. The lights turned off.
Your frown deepened, pulse starting to flicker faster.
“Dex?” Your voice was soft, testing, like you weren’t sure if you wanted the silence to answer.
From the living room—movement. A shift, then a faint scrape.
You followed, steps careful until you saw him.
Dex sat on the couch, hunched forward, still in his undershirt and sweats. His elbows dug into his knees, hands folded tight, knuckles white. He hadn’t heard you yet. His eyes were fixed on something you couldn’t see, unblinking, distant.
That look made your stomach tighten—like you’d caught him in a place you weren’t meant to.
“Hey,” you said softly, breaking the air.
His head snapped up too fast. Eyes locking to yours, sharp, startled—like he’d been yanked out of some dark corner in his head.
“…You’re up.” His voice was rough, low. A poor attempt at casual.
You stepped closer, tilting your head, searching his face.
“You weren’t there when I woke up.”
“I didn’t wanna wake you.” His jaw flexed, gaze sliding off to the side.
You had always noticed his eyes. When his gaze usually stays, whether or not he was listening, what it indicates.
“Mm, just wake me up next time. I won’t mind.”
His eyes flickered up to meet yours. Intense, as if he was trying to read each and every microexpression displayed on your face.
You simply walked over to him, plopping down onto the sofa softly. Your hands met his brown hair, fingers tangled through the strands. He sighed immediately, eyes fluttering shut and head leaning back.
“What’re you thinking about, Dex?” you murmured.
You felt the weight of his silence first, heavier than his body ever was when he draped himself over you at night. He didn’t answer right away, and that was answer enough.
His breath caught, slow and shallow, like he was stalling—buying time.
“Nothing,” he said finally, the word too sharp, too quick.
You tilted your head, fingers brushing through his hair again. He didn’t pull away. He leaned into your hand like he needed it, like he couldn’t stop himself even while trying to hide.
“Dex.” Your voice was gentle, firm, the way you’d learned worked best when he was locked up tight.
His throat worked as he swallowed. You could see the flicker in his jaw, the tension that never left his shoulders. He dragged in a breath, then let it out like it burned on the way through.
“I woke up early,” he muttered. “Earlier than I wanted to. Couldn’t—couldn’t shut it off.”
Your heart gave a tug. You knew what he meant. His mind. The noise. The rehearsals of every wrong step he thought he’d ever taken, looping until morning light.
You shifted, nudging closer until your thigh pressed against his. “You could’ve come back to bed,” you said softly.
His eyes snapped to yours again, and this time they didn’t let go. There was something raw there—too raw, too bare.
“I didn’t wanna… risk it,” he admitted. His voice cracked in places it usually didn’t. “Waking you up, or… worse.”
“Worse?”
“Yeah.” His laugh was short, empty. “That I’d—say something. Do something. Ruin the only thing that’s…” He trailed, his fingers curling tighter against each other, knuckles bone-pale.
You reached for his hands, prying them gently apart, slotting your own fingers through his. He let you, though the tremor in his grip betrayed him.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” you replied. “You won’t.”
Dex’s throat bobbed. He stared at you like he was trying to believe it—like he wanted to but couldn’t quite let himself. He searched for the reassurance in your eyes, hands fiddling with yours.
“Don’t believe me?” you paused, thinking for a moment. “Well, you don’t need to.”
You leaned in, pressing a small kiss onto his temple. It was soft. Reverent. Something that Dex couldn’t quite recognize.
In a blink of an eye, Dex leaned in, lowering himself until his cheek pressed against your thighs. One of your hands went up to his hair, pushing them back from his forehead.
He let out a sound, half-whine and half-grunt, like he was trying so hard to be soft. Trying to ease the tension in his shoulder.
“Tell me about yesterday.”
He held his breath for a second.
“…What?” he muttered.
“Tell me about your day yesterday. What’d you do?” you asked, voice soft but insistent.
His face pressed closer against you, like he thought he could burrow straight into your skin if he tried hard enough. For a moment, he didn’t answer—like the request had caught him off guard.
“Yesterday?” he echoed, voice muffled against your leg.
“Mmhm.” You stroked his hair gently, encouraging without pushing. “Start small. Coffee, steps you took. Doesn’t matter what. Just… tell me.”
Dex was still, the weight of his silence drawn out until you thought he might not do it. But then he shifted, his voice low and halting, each word dragged out of him like pulling teeth.
“I woke up. Ran my mile. Shower. Coffee.” He swallowed hard, like it cost him to say even that.
You hummed softly, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. “Okay. Then?”
He exhaled through his nose, shaky. “Then I… put on my jacket. Sat in the car longer than I should’ve.”
Your hand slowed in his hair, coaxing him to keep going.
“What were you thinking about in the car?”
His jaw tensed against your thigh. A long pause.
“You. Whether you’d still be there when I got back.”
Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let the weight of it show. You just kept combing through his hair, slow and steady, grounding him.
“I was there,” you murmured.
“I know,” he rasped, lifting his head just enough for his eyes to find yours again. “I came back and—you were there. You always…” His throat bobbed. “I don’t—don’t know what to do with that.”
You let your thumb sweep across his temple, tender. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let it happen.”
His lips parted, like he wanted to argue, but instead he slumped back down, cheek against your leg again. The tension in him didn’t leave, not fully, but it loosened a fraction.
“Mm, go on, Dex,” you whispered.
He hesitated—of course he did. That stuttering pause where his brain seized up and weighed the risk of words. But your hand was still in his hair, and maybe that was enough to push him forward.
“I… went to work.” His voice was muffled against your thigh. “Sat at my desk. Did the reports. Nothing important.”
You let out a quiet hum, encouraging. His breath hitched. He shifted, forehead dragging lower, pressing hard like he needed the contact to anchor him.
“Lunch was the same. Sandwich. No chips left, so…” His mouth twisted in a small grimace. “Didn’t matter.”
You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb through his hair. “Sounds like it mattered a little.”
A soft grunt escaped him. “Maybe.”
“And then?”
He was quiet again, but this time not from refusal. You could feel him sifting, rewinding, trying to choose the pieces he trusted to let out.
“Then I watched you cook dinner.” His tone softened, but not without weight. “You didn’t notice. You had your back turned. I just—stood there. For a while.”
Your noticed the way he said it, like it was some kind of confession.
“I liked it,” he added, quieter.
“I’m glad.”
He finally lifted his head again, eyes catching yours with that unflinching, razor-sharp intensity. It was almost too much—like he wanted to memorize you right there on the couch, catch every flicker of light in your eyes.
“You don’t think I’m… messed up?” His voice cracked low, an edge of rawness he usually buried deep.
You huffed, a small smile tugging on the corner of your lips. “We’re all messed up in our own ways.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. His eyes flickered away for half a second—embarrassed, like the words had landed in a place he didn’t know how to handle.
Then, before you could reach for him again, he surged forward. Not a kiss, not yet—just his forehead pressing into your chest, arms wrapping around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on.
Your hand settled at the back of his neck, keeping him there.
“I’m still here,” you reassured.
He swallowed, “Still here…”
His eyes fluttered shut, breathing slowed against you, steadying.
so when a conflict DOES ignite between the both of you, there'll be no funny businesses
the whole damn argument, simon stares at you blankly. no thoughts behind those eyes, until you're done speaking.
"love." yes, it's that nickname again.
he feverishly needed to talk it out between the both of you, not wanting to ruin the relationship he'd spent his whole life wishing upon.
but the words always get stuck in his throat.
so, instead of speaking, he'll let a few minutes of silence pass, giving the both of you to gather your composure back.
buuut his reaction/reply to the argument would be different. it depends on who is in the wrong. if it is you who's in the wrong, he'll most likely isolate himself for a while, most likely for a few hours/maximum a DAY. he'll lowkey die without you around him.
he doesn't hold grudges, so a few apologies and kisses from you is enough. but his trust? a bit bruised (as long as you didn't say anything too far!) but nothing that you can't fix.
he'll let you pamper him all day.
under one condition—he won't let you buy anything for him as an apology. that's his job. your apology and presence is enough.
but if it is him who's in the wrong? oh, the silent guilt will gnaw at the bars of his enclosure.
for example: whenever you lecture or tell him to take care of his health, he'll most likely brush it off as if it was nothing.
and that pisses you off, because you care deeply about him.
you'll probably start telling him off, rambling about how he needed to listen to you more.
until he rolled his damn eyes at you.
that's your breaking point. your annoyance reached its peak point.
"can you— can you listen to me for once, riley?"
that caught his attention.
he immediately tensed up at the sudden change in your tone, shifting in his seat so that he's fully facing you.
but when he met your gaze, he was far too late. your tears already threatened to spill.
panics in the inside AND outside. his eyes widen in surprise and hands twitch in desperation. he wanted to reach out to you but he didn't know if it would make it worse or better.
so, he stayed—with the feeling of regret punching him in the guts.
he watched you sniffle, turning your head away from him as the silence took over the conversation— well, argument. one sided argument.
until you shifted closer to him. he took that as an offer.
immediately goes up to you and wraps his arm around you. he's quiet for a while, mumbling apologies and promises (that you need to remind him of)
once your sobs and sniffles come to an end, it's his turn to speak
"love, i know you've heard this a million bloody times, but 'm sorry."
"should've listened to ya, yeah?"
"it's okay sweet'eart, let it out."
"fuck, if i could i'd stop those tears of yours from flowing, i would."
and in a few hours, you'll get your favorite takeout, snacks and flowers. he'll pamper you with kisses all day.
(he won't promise to stop being stubborn though. that's one unique part of him that you loved, anyway.)
simon who leaves a random drunken stranger that started to flirt with him in order to talk with awkward! reader, unintentionally making them all flustered instead :(
(a little continuation of this)
awkward! reader who silently listens in to the conversation between simon and the drunken stranger. the interaction was filled with rambles and very questionable remarks from the woman while he just grunts in response.
simon who just ends up pissed at the woman after a few minutes, causing him to lift himself up from the seat, grabbing his glass of whiskey before walking towards you. you noticed, watching as simon walks away from her without a word.
"mind if i sit 'ere?" simon spoke up with a tinge of annoyance, and, of course, you can't refuse.
he sat beside you, the couch slightly shifting at the sudden weight. you swore you could feel him leaning back on the pub's couch, his legs spread and balaclava pulled up until the bridge of his nose. he quietly took a sip from his glass while you do the same.
"ya drink often?" the sudden question catches you off guard, and you fumble for a response, your voice quieter than you'd like.
"not really," you admitted.
"never pegged ya as the bar type," his eyes flickered over to you.
"... uh, 's that a good thing?" you heard a small grunt leaving his lips at your response.
"think tha's for you to decide, no?"
"I... guess so."
the silence took over the conversation, causing the chattering of others to be more prominent. a few minutes of silence had passed, and you felt like burying yourself into a deep, deep hole.
"so... d'you usually go to pubs?" you asked, hoping to break the gnawing silence.
"no, not often. usually jus' go 'ere after several missions."
"that's nice."
"... fuckin' 'ell." he paused for a moment, "this 's your idea of small talk, eh?"
fuck. you could feel the heat rising up in your cheeks before you turned your head away from your lieutenant, hoping to hide the sheepish expression on your face. the couch squeaked as he shifted, his head leaning in closer to yours while his knee brushed against yours. simon could feel himself getting slightly tipsy from all the drinks.
"don'tcha worry 'bout it. 'm not teasin' ya for tha', sweet'eart. d'ya want me to teach ya a thing or two 'bout this... interestin' topic of conversations?"
simon riley who shares every single thing he has in his possession with you.
the weather's cold? oh, just wear his jacket. it's not like he'll freeze to death anyway, he'd been through worse.
you don't like your food? have his! he's a big bloke, he'd devour anything that you give him
you miss him? don't worry, he'd left some hoodies inside your closet. (bonus point, it smells like his cologne)
you ran out of socks? have a pair of his, he still has a lot anyway (he ended up not wearing socks throughout the whole day)
oof, you forgot to bring your umbrella? don't you worry, simon's there to save you. he doesn't mind being a little wet from the rain anyway. (proceeds to hug you so the both of you can be wet together)
argh your pick accidentally fell into the guitar? aaand before you knew it, he already had some extra picks in his jacket.
oh noo you accidentally booked a hotel with one bed, will simon be sleeping on the chair?
not a chance. you ended up sleeping together with simon with your legs tangled around his and arms all over each other.
you forgot to bring your water bottle during a morning run? he'll share his with you.
you didn't bring a hairtie? oh, he has lots of your hair ties inside his bag, don't worry.
you didn't bring your wallet? haha don't even think about paying.
did you leave your charger on your nightstand? oh, use his. if it doesn't fit, he'll buy you one. consider it an extra charger, just in case you forgot again.
simon is a gentleman, no matter how the military describe him. he's a completely different person outside of work. he's no longer the Ghost or Lt or El fantasma. he's simon riley with you.
awkward! reader and simon who just... stares into each others' soul the first time they've met. simon returned your gaze because he caught you staring at him, while you were staring at him solely cause you were too clueless on how to start a proper conversation.
“what're ya starin' at, soldier?” his words came out harsher than he meant and it made you think that he didn't want you staring at him so you just murmur a firm apology before looking away.
awkward! reader who just listens when hearing simon's sarcastic remarks to price in the radio.
“tell me somethin’ I don't know.” — ghost to price
awkward! reader listening to the rest of the tf141 members while drinking a glass of their favorite beverage, not noticing simon's gaze that shifts over to them every once in a while.
awkward! reader who tries to mind their own business after hearing another woman flirting to simon not knowing that he has his eyes on you and only you.
