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.”
The scent of you lingers—soft, sweet, utterly misplaced amidst the steel and stone that make up his world. Jasmine and rosewater, clinging to the heavy hush of the corridor, weaving itself into the fabric of his being, staining him with something he will never wash away.
He should not breathe it in, should not let it settle in his lungs like something vital, like something he could not live without. And yet, here he stands, motionless, a knight undone by the mere presence of his queen.
You are close. Too ... close.
The space between you is a fragile thing, thin as the lace that drapes over your arms, as delicate as the breath that catches in your throat when his gloved hand twitches at his side, as if longing—aching—to reach for you. The flickering torchlight casts golden embers against your skin, makes a halo of your hair, tricks his mind into thinking you are something divine, something holy. And perhaps you are.
Lace whispers against cold metal as you lift a hand, fingers tracing the ridges of his armor with a familiarity that should not exist. A tenderness that should not be his to claim.
"You stand before me, silent as ever," you murmur, tilting your head, your gaze searching his with something unspoken. "Tell me, my love, has your tongue forsaken you?"
A slow exhale. You are toying with him, as you always do—sharp and knowing, your power lying not in the crown you bear but in the way you speak his name as though it is something sacred. He should not indulge this, should not stand here beneath your touch, should not let his resolve fracture like glass beneath your fingertips. And yet, he does.
"You tempt fate," he says finally, voice low, reverent.
A confession. A warning.
"And yet, it is all I have left."
His breath catches. The weight of your words settles heavy in the space between you, a truth neither of you wish to name. The world will take everything from you—has already begun to. The court has spoken. The match has been made. Soon, you will belong to another, to some noble born into a name that carries weight, to a man who will sit beside you on the throne that he himself has bled for.
Yet you reach for him.
Your fingers brush the worn leather at his shoulder, linger where armor meets flesh, as if you could undo him with a touch alone. And God help him, you can.
"Tell me you do not love me," you whisper, voice steady but for the way your fingers tremble against him. "Tell me your heart belongs only to your duty, and I will go. I will leave you to your honor, to your kingdom, to whatever lies ahead without me."
His jaw tightens. He sways, barely perceptible, as if your words have struck him like a blade to the chest. It would be the right thing to do, would it not?
To let you go? To be the man honor demands he be?
But honor has never known the way your voice softens when you say his name. Honor has never felt the warmth of your hand in his, delicate and desperate and pleading. Honor has never stood in the shadows, torn between love and duty, between a kingdom and the only thing that has ever truly belonged to him.
"No," he breathes, bowing his head, his voice raw with everything he has refused to say. "No, my beloved. My heart is yours, now and always."
A queen must wed. A knight must serve.
And yet, in this stolen moment, he falls to his knees before you—not as a knight, not as a man sworn to duty—but as the only fool who has ever loved you as you deserve.
simon riley who you "meet" through a program where you can send care packages to soldiers. you don't think much of it at first, just a simple package with a few necessities and treats. and along with that, a short, but genuine and handwritten letter thanking the unknown soldier to you for their service.
and when you go to retrieve your mail a few weeks later after getting home from work, brows furrowing together as you shuffle through the stack of envelopes.
bill. another bill. advertisement. paycheck. handwritten addressed envelope from 'ghost'.
your brain doesn't even connect the dots until you are inside, fingers gently picking at the envelope until your able to drag a finger through the seal to open it. a simple piece of what looks like notebook paper is pulled from inside. unfolding it, eyes quickly scan the letter to get an idea what it's about.
you've done plenty of care packages before. never did you get a personalized thank you letter back, so, this was a first. the letter starting off by thank you for the package and that he enjoyed the items, especially the "sweet treats". the two words put in quotations as he referred to what you referred to them as in your own letter. your own brain cringing slightly as you remember what you wrote.
again, thank you for all that you do and enjoy the sweet treats!
and while you expected the letter to end after thanking you, it didn't. additional lines asking about you. the sets of questions ranging from asking how long have you been doing the care packages to general questions about yourself. then, at the very end, after signing off as 'ghost', you couldn't help but notice the chicken scratch of handwriting that added:
p.s. you don't need to respond back if you don't want to, just figured it be nice to get something back in return. thanks again.
I need Simon Riley who realizes just how much he loves you when he has a night terror.
He shoots out of bed with a shout, quickly looking to your side just to see it empty. His heart quickens even faster, images of your dead body, blood pouring out of your mouth and ears, eyes frantic before they still and glaze over. Remembering the scream he lets out as he shakes you, begging you.
"Please, please don't fuckin leave, love. God, not you. Please, you promised!"
He's having a panic attack and before he even processes it, he's running to the bathroom. Throwing him head into the toilet bowl, puking everything up as if his entire body is rejecting the very possibility of you no longer being there. He can't stop the tears ripping out of him and his fast, suffocating breaths stinging his throat as if the vomit isn't even there.
He doesn't even register your hand on his back, your panicked calling out to him.
"Baby? Baby what's wrong? Please talk to me" You beg, brushing his hair back, trying to hold onto him.
His wide, tear filled eyes meet yours and he throws himself into your arms, holding onto you like a lifeline. His crying doesn't stop, the intense emotions still overwhelming his senses.
"God please never leave me. I swear to god I'll be the best for you. I'll keep you safe, nothin's gonna happen to you" He swear as if he'd be your own guardian angel.
"Baby what happened? Did you have a nightmare?" You pet his hair, beginning to realize what's happening.
"I can't lose you, I can't. Not you. Please, I can't." He cries into your shirt, trying to calm down but he feels genuine fear that he doesn't feel outside the battlefield. You hold him as his breathing slows down, exhaustion overtaking him. You settle against the wall, fingers combing through his hair as you both fall asleep. Safe to say he doesn't have anymore nightmares that night.
(Friendly reminder that traumatized men aren't always fully numb and military men can have feelings !!)
As per usual, just an idea, and writers can take it and run with it. Just let me know where to read your work,
WARNINGS: talks of mental health and occupational risks
Ghost has a wife. Soap just found out Ghost has a wife.
Ghost has never met his wife in person. Soap also just found this out.
Soap did not believe him, but Price just piped up that he officiated the wedding. Now, Gaz is talking about a DIY skeleton dress that his wife sent pictures of themselves in and sent Ghost a matching dress in his size.
Apparently, Ghost's wife can make just about anything with their hands.
Ghost has no family, and he did not want his team to have to handle things when he passed, so he legally married his online friend. Said bestie works in a field where they might pass in a not good way and does not want their family to have to identify them. So, these two idiots got married in a phone call. Not even a video call. A phone call.
Soap is like any good friend demands to see the messages.
only it is just
MONDAY
Ghost: Alive
Spook: Living dead
TUESDAY
Ghost: Bleeding (Picture of injury)
Spook: (picture of healing injury)
WENSDAY
Spook: Breathing?
Ghost: Affirmative
THURSDAY
Ghost: (picture of healing injury)
Spook: Put some triple antibiotic on it, you barbarian.
Ghost: (picture of triple antibiotic)
Over 90% of messages are just confirming they are alive every day. 9% are pictures of things you have made. Then, the 1% that actually has soap, handing the phone back, is where the two of them start talking about their worst childhood memories. Soap decides it is some weird trauma bond. Honestly, he is just glad Simon is talking to someone about what happened.
Soap is actually the first to meet you. He had been injured and made to stay behind when the team went on a mission and did not come back.
Then he woke up to you standing over him in an all-black suit. "My husband missed his check-in. Where is he?" The tone alone almost has Soap peeing himself. If ghost was a nightmare, you are a sleep paralysis demon. He is struck by just how androgynous you look. He idly remembers Ghost never using pronouns for you. One less thing to track and one less thing to be identified by, he had said.
The next thing Soap knows is that a group is being assembled, and they are going to rescue his team.
You take the time to explain to Soap who exactly you really are. A specialized weapons designer for operators. Being that you are the only one who can repair certain types of weapons, a lot of people owe you favors, and you are calling in every single one to bring your husband home.
The first thing you do when you meet your husband is bite his arm hard. Don't care if he is in a hospital bed. He is yours, and he smells like that place.
warning(s): MDNI, sexual contents, possible dacryphilia.
Breaking the kiss, Simon gives a slow thrust upwards, grunting as he feels your warm labia. You straighten your back to sit on his pelvis, doing your own set of hip rolls as his hands guide you.
“No more tears f’me, ye ‘ear?” He meets your eyes before lowering it to the tantalizing view of your glistening body, causing another twitch of his impatient cock. “I ain’t worth it.”
The tip of his cock brushes against your folds when he thrusts his hips once more. A small mewl escapes your moist lips, vertebrae drawn like a curve of a bow as his length slowly enters your hole.
“No—no, don’t say that. You’re—mmh!” You stumble over your words, voice shaking both from emotion and physical overwhelm. “You’re always worth it, Simon.”
Sweet thing, unaware of the effect her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheek have on a man as corrupt as him. Struggling to find words while he fills her up, trying to convince him that he's worth something.
“That so?”
Biting your lip, you nod. “Yes,”
“Yeah?”
Without waiting for a reply, he grips your hips and slams you against him in one swift thrust. Your eyes fluttered shut on a gasp as he sank home. He groans at the blissful feeling, the remnants of your last orgasm completely coating him. But he has never been a man of gratitude; the gaping hole near his ribs—right where the scar he has shown you and told you about—seems to consume every fulfillment he might have, leaving him perpetually feeling unsatisfied and not enough.
Right now, he felt utterly insufficient. His old soul was always left wanting for more. That stupid, almost pathetic desire for proof that he would never truly believe—
“Prove it then, love.”
And well, he is a selfish man after all.
[sneak peek of chapter 10 of "A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.". FULL VERSION OUT NOW.]
small blurb. thinking of morning cuddles with simon.
on a cold autumn morning, the windows are slightly ajar and the fluffy quilts that your mum gave you are over both of your bodies. despite the wind slipping through the cracks of the door, you've never felt warmer.
arms wrapped around your frame as you shift, trying to untangle your legs from simon's. your husband grunts. "lovie, too early fer your squirming.." simon murmurs, his voice muffled under the covers.
you hum a little as response, shifting to bury your face deeper into the knitted sweater he was wearing. something you made the second christmas you had together.
pulling yourself away, your eyes flutter open and focus on the sleeping man in front of you. eyes shut, chest heaving slowly, small snores escaping his lips, and his blonde hair tousled from sleep. you stare, trying to memorize every part of his face.
from the way to the way his lips parted in his sleep, the scars that adore his face, and his presence. you relish in it.
a small smile creeps onto your face as a hand shifts to caress his cheek. pressing your fingers gently to his cheek bone, your thumb brushing his jaw. you find yourself moving before you can stop yourself, a chaste and brief kiss placed on his lips.
when you pull away, you feel your fingers graze your lips as if it was the first time you'd kissed him. it was definitely not the first. and definitely not the last.
simon stirs a little. a very subtle twitch of his lips. he was smiling in his sleep. you can't help but mirror his sleepy smile, finding yourself buried into the soft yarn of his sweater once again.
despite the autumn chill, you'd never felt so warm in his arms at home.
Why haven't I seen anyone talking about how Simon Riley would 100% get tattoos of things that remind him of you??
Y'all don't even have to be together and he'll be permanently marking his skin just because it makes him happy to be reminded of you.
He'll get small things in-between his other tattoos so you don't notice either, like he'd be head over heels for you but panic at the thought of you knowing.
The team totally notices and teases him for it too. They won't let this man rest when they see all the tiny things that are so obviously you.
He's also the type to get your name tattooed somewhere. It'd most likely be your initials somewhere people won't be able to see but it eased his mind to know it's there.
If you ever notice how he has all your favorite flowers and animals, maybe even your hobbies on his body, he'll deny it so hard. Like what do you mean those are my favorites too type gaslighting.
Anyway the point of this is to say we need more people to call out how down bad this man gets 🤞🤞
