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.”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧ The safe house was nothing more than a rundown cabin tucked in the woods, one room, one bed, one sad—narrow couch, and the faint smell of old wood and moss.
The mission had gone sideways—close call with hostiles, comms cut, but thankfully the two of you had made it out with little casualty. Ghost had taken a grazing hit across his side; nothing life-threatening, but enough that he needed to clean it properly.
You were still catching your breath, peeling off your plate carrier and vest, when he finally shredded his shirt.
You weren’t expecting what you saw.
Ghost’s torso was a map of scars and hard muscle, but that wasn’t what made your brain short-circuit. Both of his nipples were pierced—thick, silver barbells that caught the low light from the single lantern. Then a delicate but deliberate navel piercing sat right above the waistband of his pants. small, glinting balls. And when he ran his tongue over his teeth, catching his breath, you saw the tongue piercing too—metallic ball flashing for half a second.
He noticed you staring, those dark eyes didn’t miss much.
“Problem, Sergeant?” The usual clipped Manchester edge softened by exhaustion and something else.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Heat flooded your face so fast you were surprised steam didn’t rise off you. The piercings were so… unexpected on him. Hidden under all that tactical gear and that damn mask, secret and filthy.
Your gaze kept dropping—to the way the nipple bars stood out against his pale skin, to the way the navel hoop shifted when he breathed, to the way he licked his lower lip and that tongue piercing caught the light again.
Your mind went exactly where you told it not to.
What else is he hiding?
You could almost picture it—more silver glinting lower, maybe a Jacob’s ladder running the length of his cock, each rung a shock of cold metal you’d feel if he ever—
“Eyes up here.” he said, but there was a rough edge of amusement under it. He didn’t move to cover himself. Just stood there, scarred, pierced, and stupidly hot, letting you look. The air in the cabin felt twenty degrees hotter.
You swallowed. Your pulse was hammering in your throat. “I… didn’t know the military let you have those.”
“They don’t.” He shrugged one broad shoulder, the motion making the barbells shift. “Keeps things interesting when nobody’s looking.”
Your brain was supplying very vivid, very unprofessional images of exactly what “interesting” might look like beneath his belt. The thought of cold metal dragging against sensitive skin, of him letting someone see—letting you see—made your thighs press together involuntarily.
Ghost’s head tilted slightly, like he could read every filthy thought crossing your face. His voice dropped even lower as his hand hovered over his belt.
Fat Reader crying because theyre insecure about their weight, and when Simon, the man Reader's been pining on for months confesses to them, they think its a cheap joke, and degrade themselves, saying "You can't even pick me up!"
Simon somehow gets Reader's number (Reader did NOT give it) and sends a video of Simon hip thrusting double Reader's weight with sweet groans, the outline of his bulge straining, clearly imagining Reader was on top of him.
husband!simon who tails wife!reader like a lamb. wherever she is, he isn't too far behind.
he follows you everywhere. you thought riley (your german shepherd) was bad? wait until your very-grown, very-large, very-masculine husband starts doing it.
it's like having your own personal pair of bodyguards, one of which is an animal, but we digress. you can't even take a peaceful walk (with the dog) without getting funny stares... but who is there to blame? if looks could kill, simon would be in prison for mass murder. it's not his fault he has a magnetism to his pretty wife and a serious case of resting bitch face.
he slowly walks behind you when you're shopping, his fingers itching to reach out for your lower back. he sticks to staying as close to you as he can, like a kid who's afraid to lose their parent if they stray away for longer than a few seconds.
if there's something on a higher shelf you can't reach, he towers over your form and picks it up for you, tossing the item into the basket on your arm and flashing a shy, boyish smile.
ass.
he also sleeps super close to you at night, tattooed arms pulling you tight to his body, legs tangling with yours. when you're annoyed at him, you simply press the cold balls of your feet against the backs of his calves. the shriek he let out was far more high-pitch than his normal tone, and you swore you nearly wet yourself laughing as he shimmied away from your frozen toes.
he knew not to piss you off like that again.
he does respect your personal space when you need it - it's obvious. but that doesn't stop the man from watching you under sunken eyebrows as you huff and strop around the kitchen. he's waiting for the inevitable help me, please as you discover you actually can't open your own jar of pasta sauce. you finally give in and whine, holding the glass jar out to your more-than-amused husband.
even when you're on a night out and you drunkenly force him to dance with you, his hands find themselves in the back pocket of your jeans, grabbing at your asscheeks as you sway against him. he keeps an eye (or a cheeky hand) on you all the time, the protective bastard.
his personal favourite is your distant, "si, i'm going for a shower!" from upstairs, or even if he simply hears the water starting up, he's pausing his football match on the tv and taking the stairs two at a time to locate you in your shared bathroom, leaning over the sink in your undergarments as you get ready to shower.
"what are you doing?" you ask, watching him through the mirror as he starts unbuckling his belt and sliding it from his jeans.
"what does it look like?" he says gruffly, but you know he's being sarcastic. "showering." that call was practically an invitation.
"i'm showering."
"no can do, love," he reaches out for your elbows and gently pulls your half-naked form against his own. "lemme join you. i can wash your hair."
"really?" you watch him incredulously, an amused smile dancing on your lips.
"what can i say? manchester's a shitty team."
you smacked him.
author's note: let's not talk about my obsession with husband!simon, deal??
Sorry i just feel like making Simon be a little clingy today so he's getting lost in a grocery store
You're out shopping with Simon on one of his days off when it happens. It's only supposed to be a quick trip, just to pick up some things you need. Fifteen minutes, max. There and back. Easy peasy.
Only, then you lose him. You could've sworn he was right there by your side, but then he disappeared. You sighed, but figured you would find him again eventually. Man was over 6 foot tall and built like a brick wall. It couldn't be that difficult.
So you went on shopping, picking up what you need here and there from different aisles.
Then, the intercom crackles above your head, coming to life with the call of your name, "Your boyfriend is waiting for you at the front."
You chuckle, grab the last item, and make your way to the front with your cart. That's where you find Simon, sitting hunched on one of the benches. It looks quite funny, seeing him trying to fit the entirety of himself on the bench's tiny seat. You can't help but snort.
He glances up, his eyes shining, "Love."
You step into the space between his legs and cradle his face in your hands, "Hey there, handsome." You brush your hand over his short blond curls, "You disappeared on me."
He huffs and presses his face into your collarbone, wrapping his arms around your waist, "I turned around and you were gone." You're pretty sure he's pouting, "I didn't know where you'd gone. I thought I'd lost you."
You snort and press a kiss into his hair, "Sorry, Si. I thought you knew where I was.
He grumbles, "It's alright. Jus'...Please don't do it again." He rests his chin on your chest, "Can we go home now?"
"Course, we can, Si." You step out of his arms and back to the cart. He follows you like a puppy all the way out the door and to the car.
Knowing him, he'd follow you anywhere and everywhere if he could.
Simon never really wanted children, not that he had anything against them. But he deeply believed he wasn't fit to be a father, he bearly believed he was even capable of love.
But when he found you holding a positive pregnancy test, hands shaking and eyes red from crying, then he realised he had no choice.
Not that he felt bad about this. He was more upset about the fact that this made you upset then about the pregnancy itself.
Of course he took care of you during the whole pregnancy.
And who would've guessed, it turned to be hard to even pull him away from the baby, and the baby wouldn't let him go either.
Small chubby hands gripping and pulling at his hair and face, yet he didn't mind even in the slightest, just kept cooing back at the small baby.
You were pretty sure he put the baby to sleep more times then you did, cooing and talking to it. Telling stories about anything that came to mind, making it more then kid friendly too.
Simon loved to play with the little angel, playing gladly with small blocks and building towers, or perhaps with shiny sparkly unicorns.
He loved the kid so much he even let them eat dirt and sand because, how could he deny them something they obviously so badly need!
You weren't mad at it though, Simon was much calmer now. And he was now able to sleep through nights without yelling out for Johnny.
aka Simon Finds Your Panties And Freaks Out About It
PART 2 here
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a/n: hello I wrote this at my part-time job today, pls dont tell my boss
warning: pervy!simon and pervy!141squad, also english is not my first language, if you see mistakes pls ignore hehe, sexual/foul language, shy/naive!reader, minors DNI
The laundry room smelled faintly of detergent and damp uniforms, an oddly comforting scent in a place where everything usually reeked of gun powder and sweat. Ghost was at one of the tables, sorting through his washing with practiced efficiency: shirts, trousers, socks in one pile, his backup masks in another.
Laundry mix-ups weren’t an unusual thing on a military base. Too many people, not enough machines. You always seem to find some shirts and socks that aren't yours. But what Simon pulled from his laundry bin this time made him freeze mid-fold.
A scrap of black lace dangled from his fingers.
Lace panties. Lingerie. Something that definitely isn't part of the standard issued uniform that every soldier receives.
He stared at them, blank. Not because he’d never seen underwear before, but because they sure as hell weren’t his. And he hadn’t been intimate with anyone in… far too long to be finding something like this among his t-shirts.
“What the fuck is that?” Soap’s voice cut through, instantly loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room. In an instant he stands beside Ghost to eye the rarity in his hands.
Ghost turned his head slowly, still holding the lace between thumb and forefinger, like it might explode. “Fuck do I know. You tell me, MacTavish.”
Soap grinned like a wolf, already calling across the room. “Oi, lads! Either Ghost is wearin' sexy wee panties now or he found himself a mystery bird!”
Gaz appeared beside the as well, eyebrows up. “That yours?”
“No, do I look like I wear womens underwear,” Ghost said flatly. “For real, I’ve no idea who these belong to.” He gave the scrap of fabric a little shake and really inspected it. “Whoever it is tho… has to be bloody fit.”
Price, who’d been loading a machine too, snorted. “Not many women on base to choose from.”
Gaz leaned back against the counter. “Right. Could be...”
Price started counting them off on his fingers. “Corporal Jensen?”
Soap cut him off, wrinkling his nose. “Nah, she’s mid-fifties. Wears the big cotton ones. Seen ’em while doin' laundry once or twice. I'm proper traumatized now.”
“Well, Sergeant Alvarez?” Price tried.
Soap laughed again. “Doesn’t wear any at all, mate.”
“-Nah, not Private Thomas,” Gaz interrupted. “Her husband, the Lieutenant, told me his wife hasn't worn anything sexy since their wedding night. Definitely not hers.”
That left a pause. All eyes shifted, almost in unison, toward Ghost.
“What?” he said.
Gaz grinned. “Only one bird left, isn’t there, Riley?”
It didn’t take much thought. Simon knew exactly who they were playing at. You.
His trainee. His protegee. The rookie, he specifically was assigned to supervise. A shy little girl in her twenties, probably recruited for the military out of her own naivety. You're like the good soul of the base. Someone that would do everyone a favor and never ask for anything back. Beautiful too, inside and out.
A good girl. His good girl.
Ghost shook his head instantly. “Can’t be her.”
Soap raised an eyebrow. “Why not? Maybe there's a spicy little hell raiser under that nun-persona.”
“She’s…” He searched for the right word. “…not the type to wear something like...” He wildly gestured with the lace. “…this. She's a shy one, that. No use for lingerie.”
If they noticed the flicker of something behind his eyes, they didn’t comment. He had thought about you before, about what you might look like out of uniform, in promiscuous situations. Maybe even in his bed. But he kept those thoughts locked down, buried under layers of discipline. Imagining his good little trainee, in black lace just does something to him.
“Alright then,” Price said with a shrug, pulling Simon out of his dirty thoughts. “If they’re not yours, you still have to give ’em back. Just ask her if they're hers. Worst she could do is tell HR you stole her panties.”
Ghost folded the lace carefully, purely so it didn’t snag, of course, and slipped it into the pocket of his cargo pants. Maybe he'll just keep 'em anyway. You wouldn't notice one less pair in your drawer, would you? But it's not like him to ignore the orders of his captain.
And it would be intriguing to finally know if they are really yours...
Dinner was the usual dull affair. Trays clattered, conversations overlapped, Soap was telling some outrageous story that one could hear three tables over. Ghost sat in his usual seat, minding his business, stirring his stew more than eating it.
Soap’s gaze flicked to him. “You still got ’em? The sexy panties.”
Ghost shot him a flat look and pulled them out of his back pocket to show them. “Yes.”
“Christ, mate, you keeping ’em as a trophy, or what?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. I’m returning them. Right now actually.”
Gaz snorted into his cup. “This I’ve gotta see.”
Ghost ignored them while pocketing the panties. He's scanning the room until he found you sitting alone at the far end of the hall, picking at your food. You've always been one, that keeps to herself. Never seem to mind the loneliness. Content. A little too quiet even.
He stood, pocket feeling heavier than it should, and crossed the room. You looked up as his shadow fell over the table. Nearly raising a salute out of shock.
“You lost something?” he asked.
You blinked, confused. “…What?”
"You heard me. I asked if you lost something. Are you looking for anything... particular? Something you've misplaced perhaps." he proded, not yet ready to ask if she's lost her panties. That just sounded like some cheap pick-up line he surely heard Soap use on one of those unlucky night-outs. Something like: Have you lost your panties? 'Cause I think they are on my bedroom floor, baby. Dirty Scottish Bastard.
"Is that some kind of test, Lieutenant?" you asked, tilting your head in the cutest most innocent way Simon has ever seen. Thoughts of corruption filling his brain every time he speaks to you.
At the end of his wits, Simon bluntly reached into his pocket and set the folded lace on the table between you.
Your face went red instantly. “That's a joke, right?”
“No joke,” he said evenly. “Found them in my laundry bin. 'M not some pantie stealing freak if you think that.”
You stared at him like you were trying to figure out if this was a trap. A test. A weird initiation ritual. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
You picked them up quickly, fingers curling to hide them from view. “Oh my God.” Simon rolls his eyes at your embarrassment. It's not like he hasn't seen them already.
"Well, thank you for giving them back. I’m not even gonna ask how you figured they were mine." you said, still a hint of red in your face.
Ghost tilted his head. “Didn’t peg you for a lingerie wearer either, sweetheart.”
Your blush deepened again. simon is thoroughly enjoying your flustered reaction now. Time to indulge in that a little, if you ask him.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Riley?”
“Means you’re full of surprises,” he said, eyes locked on yours. Then, with the barest pause, “Next time, leave the matching bra too. Need the full image in my head, love.”
You choked on air, half scandalized, half flustered. He didn’t wait for a reply, just turned and walked back to his table, leaving you stunned with the lace still clenched in your hand.
From across the room, Soap wolf-whistled. “Lieutenant Riley got himself a bird, alright!”
Ghost sat down, ignoring him, though behind the mask his mind was replaying the look on your face… and imagining you in far less than the lacy underwear.
simon riley AND reader who are absolutely terrible at dating.
he ghosts you after the first date. you thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime connection with unmatched banter and crackling physical tension. guess not. you lose a couple of nights of sleep over it and chalk it up to men ain’t shit and move on.
simon who can’t stop thinking about your date as he gets shipped out the next day. runs through an op quicker than ever, barking at soap more than usual, toeing the line of unprofessional. every day that passes is a day he can’t touch his personal phone, leaving your text thread abandoned.
you get a text a month later. “you around?” have to check the thread to remember who it was, finding yourself absolutely shocked, struggling to remember the hulking mass of a man who made you giggle so much over that one dinner.
simon shows up to your picnic date with apology flowers and a new leather jacket. explains why he was gone without prompting, a gruff monologue as you find yourself getting distracted by the new scratch on his eyebrow and the scruff on his face. unconsciously, your fingers brush it barely, wanting to make sure it was real.
simon stops mid-sentence, gripping your wrist in an iron hold. the shock of what you did hits you, profuse apologies spilling from your lips as you try to explain and tug your wrist back. he won’t let you though, keeping it in place, your soft skin against his worn calluses.
“‘s okay, love. jus’ ask next time. still jumpy from work.” you finally snatch your hand back, embarrassment warming your body as you nod your head in acknowledgment. he thinks about letting the awkwardness settle and take roots, adding a string of failed dates to his black book.
instead you make the choice for him, attention catching on a nearby curious toddler. you give the little bugger a wave with your biggest smile, sticking out your tongue to make the kid laugh. simon decides then and there that he’s going to keep you.
