Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.
You did your best to fill it.
Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.
Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.
A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.
Your whole body went rigid.
Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.
Someone was breaking in. Shit.
You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.
The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.
The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.
For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.
Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."
Your soul left your body.
“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.
He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.
“Are you okay?!” you gasped.
“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.
“You were supposed to be back in a week!”
“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”
You stared at him.
Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.
"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."
He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”
"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."
He huffed "rude."
“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.
"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"
"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.
You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.
“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.
“Never said it was.”
“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”
He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”
“I was trying out a new greeting method.”
He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”
You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”
“You hit me.”
“I thought you were breaking in!”
“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”
You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.
Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.
“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”
Six foot somethin’, broad as a doorframe, tattooed arms, permanent frown carved into his face like stone. The kind of man who could walk into a room and make conversations die mid-sentence.
Which was exactly why the bright pink lunchbox sitting on the briefing table looked so absurd.
Soap stared at it.
Then at Simon.
Then back at the lunchbox covered in tiny white hearts.
“…That yours, LT?”
Simon didn’t even glance up from cleaning his sidearm. “Obviously.”
Gaz coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Price suddenly found the paperwork in his hands very interesting. Soap, unfortunately, feared nothing.
“Christ alive.” he muttered, lifting the lunchbox by two fingers. “It’s got a bow on it.”
Simon’s eyes lifted slowly.
Dangerously.
Soap set it back down immediately. The room went quiet for all of three seconds before Gaz spotted the sticky note attached to the handle.
Pink ink. Curly handwriting.
Don’t forget to actually eat today. I mean it!— ♡
There was even a lipstick kiss pressed onto the corner. Soap made a strangled noise. “SHE LEFT YE A WEE KISS MARK.”
Simon took the note off carefully before Soap could touch it with his grubby hands. He folded it once and tucked it into the pocket of his vest with complete seriousness, like it was something precious.
Because it was.
“You keep those?” Gaz asked before he could stop himself. Simon gave him a look that practically said watch your mouth.
“Aye.”
The boys exchanged glances.
Not because Simon had a partner. They all knew that. And not because Simon was soft with you. They knew that too. It was the fact he never acted embarrassed about it.
Ever.
Didn’t hide the matching pink phone charger you bought him because he “always stole yours anyway.” Didn’t complain when you painted tiny strawberries on his phone case. Didn’t care that his keys now had fluffy pink pompoms hanging off them because you’d smiled so proudly while showing him. The man simply accepted every little piece of you with both hands.
Like loving you loudly was the easiest thing in the world.
Later that afternoon, Simon finally opened the lunchbox during break. Inside was organized chaos. Pink Tupperware containers stacked perfectly. Heart-shaped strawberries. A sandwich cut neatly in half. Little notes tucked everywhere.
One on the drink—
Hydrate or I’ll become evil.
One on the fruit—
You’re handsome. That’s unrelated, I just thought you should know.
And one folded beneath the sandwich.
Simon opened it quietly.
Miss you already. Come home safe so I can kiss you properly instead of leaving lipstick on paper.
His eyes softened instantly.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Just enough that Price noticed from across the room and looked away to give the man some privacy. Soap, however, leaned over his shoulder with zero survival instinct.
“Awwww—”
Simon shoved him back without heat.
“Piss off.”
But there was no bite to it.
Soap grinned. “Ye love that shite.”
Simon took another bite of his sandwich.
“Aye.” he answered simply.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just certainty.
Because you loved pink things. Cute things. Soft things.
And Simon loved you.
Which meant he loved those things too.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
A/N: I love a man who isn’t embarrassed by the things you love.
You walked towards your husband Simon who suddenly had a green apple on his hand.
"Yes honey?" You tilted your head, smiling gently.
"imma take a shower, want to join me?"
Ghost slowly blinked at you, and putting the apple aside while walking towards you he said calmly.
"There's a gun hidden in the attic for emergency purposes, if I ever say no to that question I want you to use it on me"
He pulled you close, pressing a soft kiss to your lips and looking down at you with quiet tenderness when he saw your cheeks turn red and smile bashful up at him.
"mhm, okay" you giggled happy, overly flattered and charmed by that handsome smirk.
simon shows his love through little actions. you haven’t paid much attention to it until lately when you bent down to pick something up and he covered the edge of the worktop with his hand. and then after that it’s been non stop realisation.
he won’t start eating the meal you’ve cooked for him until you’ve taken the first bite. why should he when you spent so long perfecting it for him? he’s not a selfish bastard when it comes to you, he just can’t bring himself to be.
if you’re craving something late at night and nothing is open, he’ll make it his life’s mission to get it for you. and if he can’t? well he’ll just fuck the craving out until you’re exhausted and fall asleep anyway, “yeah, that’s right… sleep it off, love. we’ll get it for you in the mornin’ shh.”
he loves making sure you have money to splurge on everything. he’d discretely linked his card to your phone and refused to take it off when you noticed money hadn’t been leaving your account. he’s tapping his card in shops before you even have a second to think about buying, “shoes look sexy, wear ‘em for me” or “actin’ like i spent fucking thousands just accept the fucking bracelet.”
he knows your likes and dislikes as though they’re the back of his hand. he’s removing the onions from you burger before you notice they’re there, transferring the pickles from his to yours because they’re your favourite part. and if the take away place forgets the bbq sauce? he’s stomping back in as if he owns it: “my wife asked for bbq sauce so she better fuckin’ get it,” whilst you stand there, cheeks heated and chewing your lip nervously with an attempt to calm him down as you wrap your arm around his.
you don’t even have to complain the big light is too much when you’re reading in the night in bed, the next day there’s two little lamps waiting for you and a grumble to keep both when you say you simply can’t decide between them.
and you can’t even remember the last time you haven’t received flowers when he comes home, tulips because they’re your favourite but he manages to make them look different and special each time. “think i’m comin’ home empty handed? bullshit love, take this shite and shove it in water.”
he doesn’t know how to say he loves you often, his defences keep him from it but he finds a way to show it anyway. and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make life easier to live for you day by day because you don’t deserve difficulty. he’ll make sure of it.
almost immediately into dating, simon riley would buy you a gun.
probably a 9mm. matte black, no frills, utilitarian. nothing bigger than needed. comfortable enough to hug your palm, heavy enough to remind you of the implications of what you carry.
and really, it wouldn’t come as a surprise to you.
you knew he was a soldier, knew he kept closets full of gear and could disappear without a sound — appear the same way too. you knew how he moved, how his eyes never slowed until they met yours. knew there was something unsaid about his skill level, redacted parts he left out on purpose. but even above that — you knew the truth of him. under the mask, under the muscle, under the scars of his past. the boy who grew up with vigilance as his only defence. you know enough to know you don’t survive what simon has survived and come out normal.
you come out disciplined. dangerous. prepared.
simon doesn’t believe in luck. won’t leave his trust in the cavalry showin up in time when that’s already failed him many times before. simon doesn’t deal in safe.
he deals in preparation. for the worst. for even the most unlikely.
love comes in many forms. and maybe for simon it’s not candle lit dinners or couch cuddling movie nights (though of course you bribe him into those anyways. he’s never quite been able to say no to you) it’s making sure he does everything in his power to make you capable.
and he does it with all the patience he’s got to offer. there’s no expectation no pressure no timeline — god knows simon isn’t expecting you to become a super assassin overnight. he takes you out to some half-forgotten range an hour outta the city, tucked in nice between the pine and fog. sets up the targets and has you aim at them empty, watching the way you hold tension in your tendons. teaches you how to force it out through breath. how to work the weapon like an extension of yourself.
the rundown is quick and simple. caliber, kickback, magazine release. then he steps back and tells you to shoot.
you exhale the breath like he taught you and pull. when you miss, he nods once and says again. you go through three full mags and miss each one. it isn’t long before your palms burn as bad as your cheeks do with the humiliation of it — but it’s all forgotten when you land just a tap off the bullseye and simon walks over with his hands up.
“that’s how it starts, sweet’eart.” he murmurs, smirking against your mouth.
simon riley is a man of many talents, but his greatest achievement yet is loving you. and maybe it’s not always voiced by ‘i love you so much baby.’ — but instead it’s running you through drills around the crooked ikea furniture in your living room until the sun has set and the moon is out. or blindfolding you and telling you to unload and reload the mag. or leaving sticky notes with unlikely scenarios scattered around the house and quizzing you on your answers while youre cockdrunk against the counter.
you’ve learned his language by now. hes protective and realistic and a little bit cynical. but god does he make you feel alive for it.
you know by him teaching you how to use this gun it’s his way of saying i will do everything in my power to keep you alive because im in love with you and i wouldn’t survive a fuckin day if i lost you.
something something, Simon sees you at a bar all dressed in pink and acting shy around other people and gets intrigued. He buys you a drink, the gentleman he is, and you simply stare at him, the hulking man in the scary mask, before throwing back the drink in one gulp.
Oh. Oh. Now that peaked Simon's interest.
He walked over to you, your friends all but abandoning you the second he started walking over. You blink up at him with big, adoring eyes as Simon buys you another drink.
Eyes that Simon finds himself getting lost in as he drives the two of you home, hand on your thigh, the truck silent as he autopilots to his flat. What a risky move, trusting a man like him to take you somewhere other than a dingy bathroom in the bar.
When Simon pushes open the door of his flat, he's on you instantly, lips locking against yours as he presses you against the wall. His hands roam your body, gripping your hips as he slots his knee between your thighs, listening to you moan and whimper as you rut against him.
He thinks he knows what this is, just a quick fuck with the pretty girl in pink that he met at the bar, that is, until his hands brush your chest and you mewl rather loudly. Now what did he have here.
He scoops you into his arms, carrying you to his bed as he gently tosses you onto your back. Kicking off his boots, Simon walks over to the bed before he gets on the bed, caging you between his arms.
It takes Simon taking off your dress, letting your tits free, before he realizes. In the pale moonlight shining through the curtains, Simon sees them.
Silver bars, pink jewels at the end. Nipple piercings.
His shy little girl, the one with a metal-less face and no tattoos, had nipple piercings.
Oh he was so whipped.
A/N: this is nipple piercing propaganda, i may have tattoos but i was just really intrigued by the idea of simon not expecting this shy, covered in pink type reader to be pierced
