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Hello Psych Eval
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Hello Psych Eval
Quiet as a Grave
Title: Quiet as a Grave
Fandom: Call of Duty
Paring: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader
Description: Moving into Simon’s secluded countryside home was supposed to be a fresh start away from the noise of the world, but adjusting to life with a quiet man in a big, silent house is harder than you thought. Simon Riley moves like a shadow, completely incapable of making a sound, a habit from his years in the field that he can’t seem to shake. After two harmless (but heart-stopping) surprise run-ins leave you jumpy, a third late-night scare in the pitch dark finally pushes your frazzled nerves over the edge. Now, the formidable Task Force 141 lieutenant finds himself facing a whole new kind of mission: comforting his tearful girlfriend and learning how to make a little noise around the house.
---
The transition from two years of long-distance calls, brief leaves, and stolen weekends to sharing a roof had been surprisingly seamless, until the silence set in.
Standing at a proud six feet tall, you were used to taking up space. You were used to looking most people dead in the eye and towering over the rest. But next to Simon Riley, you felt delightfully, impossibly small. It wasn't just his height, though his broad shoulders and wall-like frame certainly helped; it was the way he seemed to wrap the entire world in a blanket of absolute safety whenever he was near. With Simon, you didn't have to be the strong one, the tall one, or the one on guard. He protected you with a quiet, fierce devotion that made your heart swell.
What you weren't prepared for, however, was the silence.
The countryside house Simon had bought was already steeped in rural quiet, but Simon himself was a different beast altogether. Two decades of military service and specialized field ops had drilled a dangerous habit into his muscle memory: the man moved like a ghost. He didn't wear shoes indoors, his tread was weightless despite his massive build, and he possessed the unnerving ability to simply materialize in a room without making a single sound. No creaking floorboards, no heavy breathing, no rustle of fabric.
Living with him meant living with a ghost, and your nerves were starting to pay the price.
The faint sloshing of soapy water and the soft hum of the radiator were the only sounds filling the cozy kitchen. With your back turned to the doorway, you leaned over the sink, scrubbing away at a water bottle while staring out the window at the rolling green hills of the countryside.
Your mind was miles away, lost in deep thought as you plotted your evening strategy: namely, how you were going to persuade Simon to drive into the nearest town for sushi tonight. You knew the man preferred a simple, home cooked meal, but you were craving a roll, and you were fairly confident that a little gentle persuasion could break down his defenses.
Upstairs, Simon was supposed to be hunkered down in his office, buried under a mountain of military paperwork. You hadn't heard a single footstep, not a single door creak, nor the sound of him walking down the stairs.
Then, the hair on the back of your neck stood straight up.
It was a sudden, instinctual prickle, a shift in the room's temperature and the undeniable feeling of a massive presence looming directly behind you.
You spun around quickly, water dripping from your sudsy gloves, only to choke on a gasp.
Standing less than two feet away was your huge boyfriend, casually clad in a dark hoodie and sweatpants, resting his weight against the kitchen island. He was completely motionless, dark eyes watching you intently over the rim of his lower mask, holding an empty mug in one hand.
You hadn't heard him open the door. You hadn't heard six-foot-four of muscle stride across the hardwood floor. He had simply materialized out of thin air.
"Jesus, Simon!" you squeaked, slapping a hand over your pounding heart as you backed into the sink. The sudden jolt sent your adrenaline spiking through the roof.
Simon blinked, his thick brow furrowing slightly as he looked at your wide eyes and chest heaving for air.
"Didn't mean to startle you, love," he rumbled, his voice low and gravelly in the quiet room. He reached past you to set his mug near the sink, completely unfazed, though a tiny flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. "Just wanted more coffee."
"You're going to give me a heart attack," you breathed out, letting your forehead drop against his chest for a second just to catch your breath. You looked up at him, shaking your head in fond disbelief. "Seriously, Simon. I'm putting a bell on you. Like a cat."
A low, quiet chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, a sound you could feel right through his hoodie. His hand came up, large and calloused, to gently cup the side of your neck, his thumb smoothing over your cheek.
"A bell, huh?" he murmured, his voice softened with affection.
Before you could respond, Simon leaned down, closing the distance between your heights, and pressed a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips against your skin instantly melted away the shock, leaving your racing heart fluttering for a completely different reason.
"I'll work on making more noise, sweetheart," he promised softly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, a tiny smirk tugging at the edge of his mask. "Now... what were you thinking about so hard before I ruined your peaceful afternoon?"
A bright smile broke across your face, all the lingering tension vanishing as you leaned into his touch.
"Well," you said, resting your hands on his broad waist and looking up at him with a playful tilt of your head, "if you must know... I was running through a whole strategic plan to convince you to take me out for sushi tonight."
Simon raised a single, scarred eyebrow, the ghost of a amused smile hidden beneath his mask. "Is that so?"
"It is," you nodded firmly. "I was weighing my options. Sweet-talking, puppy-dog eyes, bribing you... I was pretty deep in the tactical planning stage before a giant phantom snuck up on me."
Simon released a quiet, rumbled huff of laughter, his hands settling warm and heavy on your hips. "You don't need a tactical plan to get me to drive you into town, love. All you have to do is ask."
"So... sushi?" you pressed, raising your eyebrows hopefully.
"Sushi," he agreed, bending down to press another soft kiss, this time to the tip of your nose. "Get your coat ready. But first, let me finish this cup of coffee, and I promise I'll stamp my feet on the way back upstairs so you hear me coming."
You watched his massive frame disappear back down the hallway, listening intently. Even though he’d promised to make noise, his footsteps were still barely a whisper against the rug.
You leaned back against the counter, letting out a long sigh as a smug little smile spread across your face. Winning the sushi debate so easily was definitely a victory.
But damn.
You shook your head, wiping down the counters with a quiet laugh. The man wasn't just nicknamed Ghost for his field record, he was literally a ghost in his own house. You were going to have to keep your wits about you, because six-foot-four of silent, brooding mercenary wasn't going to start heavy-footing it around the place overnight.
---
The second time happened just a few nights later.
The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, leaving the countryside draped in a thick, velvety darkness. The night air was surprisingly mild, so you had pushed open the large living room windows, letting a cool evening breeze rustle the curtains and fill the room with the fresh scent of damp grass and pine.
Simon was out in the detached garage, lost in his element as he tinkered under the hood of his massive black truck. You had heard the occasional clink of metal tools earlier, but for the past hour, total silence had settled back over the property.
Curled up on the plush sofa with a soft throw blanket over your lap, you were completely engrossed in your book. The living room was softly lit by a single warm lamp, creating a cozy little sanctuary against the vast, dark emptiness outside.
Suddenly, the gentle breeze seemed to drop.
Without a sound, a towering silhouette blocked out the moonlight filtering through the open window frame.
It wasn't just a shadow, it was a looming, massive shape standing directly on the other side of the screen, mere inches from where you sat. The pitch-black darkness outside swallowed all his features, leaving only the broad, imposing outline of a man framed against the night.
Your head snapped up.
Your brain didn't register the familiar broad shoulders or the relaxed posture, all it saw was an intruder inches away from you in the dark.
A blood-curdling scream tore from your throat, loud enough to ring in your own ears. You scrambled backward on the couch, kicking off the blanket, your heart leaping violently into your throat as blind panic surged through your veins.
"Jesus....y/n!"
The shadow instantly jolted. Simon leaned quickly into the pool of lamp light pouring through the window, throwing off his grease-stained work gloves. His hood was pulled up, his skull mask pushed down around his neck, revealing a look of pure, wide-eyed alarm.
"It's me! Love, it's just me!" he rasped out urgently, resting his large hands on the windowsill as he peered in at you.
You sat frozen on the cushions, chest heaving like you'd just run a marathon, one hand clutching your throat. The sharp spike of terror slowly gave way to the realization that the 'monster' outside your window was just your six-foot-four boyfriend, who had simply walked up from the garage to check on you.
"Simon Riley, why are you standing outside like a creature from a horror film?!" you gasped out, your voice cracking slightly as you slapped a hand over your pounding heart.
Simon looked genuinely sheepish, his dark brows furrowing as he rubbed the back of his neck with a grease-stained palm. "I came up from the garage to ask if you still wanted to go get that ice cream you've been talking about for the last hour..."
You stared at him, still trying to force your heart out of your throat and your breathing back into a steady rhythm. The offer of ice cream was tempting, but the lingering surge of adrenaline was making your hands tremble.
"Si..." you breathed out, sinking back into the couch cushions with a long, exhausted groan. "You can't just materialize in the dark windows like a Victorian ghost! You need to announce yourself! Cough, whistle, heavy-foot it, clear your throat, literally anything before you step into the light!"
Simon’s heart sank at the tremor in your voice. He stepped away from the window and was inside the house in seconds, the front door closing with a soft click before his heavy, hurried steps echoed down the hallway.
He didn't try to hide his footfalls this time.
Entering the living room, he immediately sank down onto the edge of the couch, bringing a cloud of fresh night air and faint motor oil with him. His large, warm hands reached out, gently cupping your face and tipping your chin up so you had to look at him. The tough, unshakeable facade of the soldier was completely gone, replaced by raw, earnest regret.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he muttered softly, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone. His voice was thick with genuine guilt. "I really am. I got so used to moving quietly out there that I... I forget myself when I'm here with you. I never want to make you feel unsafe in our home."
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, taking a deep, steadying breath.
"I'll do better, love. I promise. No more lurking in the dark." He gave you a small, apologetic squeeze, his eyes searching yours. "How about I go wash the grease off my hands, put on some normal shoes that actually make noise, and drive us to get that ice cream? My treat."
A soft, exasperated laugh finally bubbled up from your chest, the last lingering drops of adrenaline melting away under his warm touch. You placed your hands over his, giving his calloused knuckles a reassuring squeeze.
"Simon," you began, a fond smirk tugging at your lips, "I feel bad for the fucker who comes in here trying to steal our food, because we both know you'd take them out like a light before they even hit the kitchen. I feel super safe in this house with you...I really do. You just move so damn quietly."
The sheer relief that washed over Simon was palpable. The tension drained from his broad shoulders, a quiet, rumbling huff of laughter escaping him as he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding.
"Aye," he murmured, his thumb giving your cheek one last, gentle stroke. "Fair point, love."
"And yes, please," you added, giving his chest a little tap. "Let's go get that ice cream."
"Consider it done, sweetheart," Simon smiled, kissing the tip of your nose before pushing himself up off the couch. True to his word, he made a point to walk with deliberately heavy, uncharacteristically loud footsteps all the way down the hall to the bathroom, making sure you heard every single step.
---
The third time was the scariest of them all.
Simon had been called into base for an unexpected late shift, meaning he wasn't supposed to be back until late evening. With the house feeling extra quiet and empty, you’d dimmed most of the lights to create a cozy, sleepy atmosphere, planning to sink into the living room couch and binge some TV until he got home.
You were in the master bathroom, standing over the sink with the faucet running a steady, gentle stream. Leaning down, you lathered up your cleanser, blindly splashing cool water over your face to rinse it off.
Water dripping down your forehead and into your eyes, you reached out for the small hand towel, and that’s when your blurred vision caught it.
Framed in the doorway was a massive, terrifying silhouette looming in the dim hallway light.
Your instincts took over before your brain could even process what was happening. In pure, unadulterated panic, your hand slammed onto the edge of the sink, grabbed a slick bar of soap, and hurled it with all your strength right at the intruder's head.
"Get the fuck out!" you shrieked, spinning around frantically to grab anything else to defend yourself. A ear-piercing scream tore from your throat, echoing off the bathroom tiles, your heart slamming violently against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Before you could throw the toothbrush holder, two massive, warm arms wrapped around you, pinning your flailing hands gently to your sides.
"Woah, woah....y/n! Sweetheart, stop! It’s me; it’s just me!"
Simon’s deep, panicked rumble cut through the chaos. He was still in his tactical gear, fresh off base, smelling faintly of gunpowder and cold night air. The bar of soap had bounced harmlessly off his shoulder, but he didn't care about that, his dark eyes were wide with total distress as he held you close.
The sudden crash from high-stakes terror to safety hit you like a freight train.
Your body went completely limp against his broad chest. The sheer overload of adrenaline, the exhaustion, and the shock of having the breath scared out of you for the third time in a week finally snapped your frayed nerves.
A choked gasp escaped your lips, and then the tears came, fast, hot, and uncontrollable. You began to shake violently in his arms, hiding your wet face against the front of his tactical vest as heavy, silent sobs wracked your entire 6-foot frame.
Simon froze, his heart dropping through the floorboards.
"Hey... shh, love, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he pleaded softly, his voice thick with genuine guilt. He immediately began stripping off his heavy tactical gloves, cupping your trembling face with his warm, bare hands. "Look at me, sweetheart. You're safe. I came home early to surprise you... I didn't mean to terrify you."
He pulled you tight against him, wrapping his massive arms around your shaking shoulders and rocking you gently right there in the doorway, hatefully cursing his own silent habits for making the woman he loved cry.
Without a second thought, Simon hooked one massive arm beneath your knees and wrapped his other around your back, effortlessly lifting your six-foot frame right off the bathroom floor. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the warm crook of his shoulder as fresh tears soaked through his shirt.
He carried you down the dimly lit hallway, his uncharacteristically heavy footsteps resounding through the house as if to prove to you, over and over, that he was right there.
Stepping into the living room, Simon lowered himself onto the plush sofa, pulling you directly onto his lap. He kept you held tightly against his broad chest, letting you anchor yourself to him while your breathing slowly began to steady.
"I'm here, love. I've got you," he rumbled softly, his deep voice vibrating right against your cheek.
With painful gentleness, his large, bare hands smoothed over your hair, stroking back the stray wet locks from your face. He pressed a long, fervent kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, resting his cheek against yours as he rocked you slowly back and forth.
"I'm so bloody sorry, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice laced with pure, raw regret. "No more early surprises without a call first. No more moving like a shadow in this house. I swear to you."
You let out a shaky, shuddering breath, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm finally bringing your frantic mind back down to earth.
"Simon, please," you choked out, your voice small and raspy as another tear slipped past your lashes.
The sound broke his heart into a million pieces.
"I know, love. I know," Simon whispered fiercely, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. He pressed his lips against your temple, holding the kiss there for a long, quiet moment while his heavy hands rubbed slow, soothing circles into your back. "I've got you. You're safe, I promise. Shh... just breathe for me, sweetheart."
He shifted slightly, shifting your weight so you were completely cradled against his broad frame. Slowly, the terrifying phantom that had walked through the bathroom door faded away, leaving only the man who loved you more than life itself, holding you close in the warm glow of the living room until the shaking finally stopped.
---
From that night on, the silence in the house was never quite the same—in the best possible way.
Simon took his solemn vow seriously. Whether he was walking down the hallway in his socks, grabbing a drink from the kitchen, or coming inside after locking up the back gate, he made sure you always knew he was there.
A gentle, gravelly clearing of his throat would echo down the hall before he stepped into a room: "Ahem."
Or, if he was coming up behind you while you were focused on something, he’d drop his voice into a soft, unmistakable rumble from a few feet away: "Y/N, love."
At first, it made you hide a fond smile every single time he did it, but it worked like a charm. The jumpiness faded, replaced by the warm, grounding comfort of hearing his deep voice drift through the house. The heavy, quiet countryside home finally felt complete, not because it was silent, but because the shadow you lived with always remembered to let you hear him coming.
A soft, genuinely happy smile spread across your face as you looked up at him, resting your chin comfortably against his chest.
"Thank you for warning me, you shadow man," you murmured softly, offering him a playful, affectionate nudge with your elbow.
Simon’s dark eyes crinkled at the corners as a genuine smile softened his features beneath his mask. He reached up, his thumb gently smoothing over your cheek one last time before resting his heavy hand on your waist.
"I want you to always feel comfortable and warm here, love," he rumbled softly, his deep voice carrying a quiet, unshakable promise. "No matter what it takes. Even if it means I have to announce myself like a herald every time I cross the bloody living room."
You let out a soft laugh, nestling closer into the steady, solid warmth of his chest. The countryside home was still cozy and quiet, but the ghost who lived in it had finally learned how to make himself heard, and you had never felt safer.
---
Soap: *working over some explosives*
Gaz, muttering: His posture... it's giving... shrimp
Ghost: Shrimp? No, it's giving Tarzan
Gaz: Oh you're so right
Soap, loudly: I CAN HEAR YOU
Ghost: You have the posture of a man raised by apes
Gaz: *cackles*
Soap: They want me to blow them up-
Dead Horizon ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley x female reader/ OC
Zombie Apocalypse AU.
Teaser of Chapter 19. Mommies, big girl.
ghost x reader | network installation tech!Simon au
Mr. Riley is the man assigned to your wifi installation. RILEY (in all caps) is the name you receive from the company's automated text updates, and you impulsively tidy the living room you already cleaned in anticipation of his arrival. You were worried about being home alone for the install--your roommate usually is able to stay with you, but is conveniently unavailable--but when he walks in and sees your shoes neatly tucked into the shoe rack by the front door, he slips his own off before getting to work.
Mr. Riley doesn't talk too much, but likes to hum while he works. Some tune you can't discern grumbles low from him, barely audible over the power drill hissing into drywall. God, his arms are huge while he holds it, too. You're trying not to ogle, to leer, to gape. But under the thin white tee shirt he sports, internet company logo fading, his muscles flex and relax like water churning.
Mr. Riley insists that you call him Simon after he catches you checking him out. It's cute that you stand there in your small kitchen, just across from the equally small living area, holding a glass of water and not bringing it anywhere near your lips. Oh, you're so cute.
The job is done in under an hour, and Mr. Riley is walking you through the initialization. Voice much softer than it was when he was on the phone earlier (having practically barked at the poor sap who pissed him off), he tells you which app to download for live updates, and shows you his tidy cable management.
Mr. Riley is even polite when be bends you over the couch, your arms braced in front of you and clinging to the arm rest as his hips slam into your wet heat. His thumbs are massaging small circles into your hips as he thrusts, and salty tears join the drool stain you've made. He calls you cute, and lovely, and even forgets to speak for a while. So caught up in how you sigh and whine so pretty beneath him.
Mr. Riley insists on finishing with you on your back, tongue taking your mouth just as cock takes every inch of your fluttering cunt. Coming on him makes his eyes roll back, and he sucks on your tongue as you struggle to gulp down air.
Mr. Riley gives you his personal cell number, insisting that you call him if you have any trouble with your internet. Those dipshits in Customer Service will send out any tech, but you need special care. Mr. Riley slips his shoes on before he leaves, thumb swiping at a drop of his cum he must have missed while cleaning up your messy cunt with his tongue. After all, Mr. Riley is a good and thorough worker.
The benefit of dating someone who’s no stranger to blood is that when you get your period, it’s no big deal. The shit Simon Riley has seen? Yeah he’ll fucking get your tampons and pain killers. If blood drips down your thighs after you get out of your bath, he'll clean you up and give your lower belly a kiss.
The benefit of dating a living heater with massive hands is having a full body hot water bottle. He’ll hold you, your back pressed to your chest and all you need to do is put his hands wherever you need them.
Free use isn’t as simple in real life as they make it seem in porn. Especially when your boyfriend is hung like a god dam horse. So Simon Riley starts some Pavlovian training, making you cum over and over every time he undoes his belt and pulls down his zipper.
Doing dishes? Not if Simon wants to bend you over the counter, spread your cheeks and have dessert. First the clink of his metal belt buckle, then the drag, a low zzzzzt, of his zipper, then his mouth on you. He doesn’t fuck you until he’s pulled three orgasms with his tongue and lips.
Taking a shower? Not alone you’re not. Clank. Zzzzzt. You’re soaking wet before you’re even in the shower, Simon’s thick fingers scissoring against that beautiful spot that’s so hard for you to reach with your own smaller hands. The pads of his fingers are pruney when he finally takes them out.
Watching TV? Why yes, love, here’s your seat. It’s Simon’s face, and you have to rewatch all three episodes because you missed everything. Twice.
After a while he records the audio of the metal clank and the pull of his zipper and starts playing it at less opportune places, but it doesn’t stop him.
He wants you ready anywhere.
He changes his text tone on your phone to the audio.
He sets it as an alarm that goes off 30 seconds after yours.
To the surprise of no one, it’s fucking effective. The only problem is that if he’s looking for a quickie but wearing sweatpants, he has to get his phone and play the damn audio before he can stuff himself balls deep into your cunt on the first go.
