lieutenant!simon stays with sergeant!reader because his flat has mold and seeing you off-duty knocks him sideways
Simon’s flat had mold. Or something like that.
To be honest, you’d stopped listening halfway through his explanation - something about damp walls, black spores and a useless landlord. You were too busy thinking about finally getting off base, out of uniform, and into your own shower.
Then you heard yourself say, “Yeah, that’s fine, you can stay at mine for a bit.”
And by the time you realized what you’d agreed to, it was too bloody late to take it back.
What were you going to say? Actually, Lieutenant, I was only half-listening and you staying with me might be weird. Not a chance. Not to Simon Riley.
You’d always had a soft spot for him - hidden somewhere between respect and whatever the hell sat in your chest every time he said your name and not your callsign. He was terrifying and magnetic in equal measure.
It was going to be fine, you told yourself.
And for the most part, it was.
Simon took the guest room next to yours. You’d shared safehouses before, dirtier ones with far less privacy. This was nothing new. He was quiet, neat, didn’t leave a trace. The only sign he was there was the deep rumble of his voice when he said “Mornin’” or the faint sound of the kettle at dawn.
You forgot he was there, sometimes.
But Simon—
Simon never forgot you.
Seeing you at work was one thing. Tactical vest, boots, voice sharp enough to cut through radio static. But here, in your own space, in soft clothes and bare feet—he didn’t know where to look. Couldn’t decide which version was real.
The first night, he padded down the hall with a glass of water, heading for bed. You’d said goodnight hours ago, voice muffled through the door. “Don’t stay up too late, Lieutenant.”
He’d just grunted something like “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Now, passing your door, he noticed it cracked open. He wasn’t nosy, never had been, but something made him pause. The faint hum of white noise drifted out.
Then he saw you.
Tucked under a massive down comforter, some stuffed thing clutched to your chest. An eye mask. A bloody nightlight. And—Christ—was that drool on your pillow?
Simon froze, glass in hand.
He’d seen you covered in blood and dust, screaming orders through chaos, patching someone’s wound without blinking. And now you were this…soft and quiet and safe.
It did something to him.
He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, exhaling slow. The same hands that had held a rifle for hours now clutched a glass too tight, the muscles in his forearm jumping. You looked so far from the Sergeant he knew - unguarded, slack with sleep, your face half-hidden by the pillow.
The sound of your steady breathing filled the hall. It shouldn’t have mattered. But something in his chest pulled tight anyway. A reminder of everything he’d probably never have.
He stayed too long. Then he shut the door the rest of the way.
Soap wasn’t quiet about this, rather he was almost proud. Coming into the common room every morning to show off how crazy his Mohawk had gotten during the night.
With Ghost, you had to have been around for a while before learning this fact about him. After all, it required him to leave off his mask in the morning. But, man, the first time that happened, you just about melted.
The team had just returned from a two week long op, and you were all exhausted. So you weren’t suprised to see everyone emerging from their rooms late and still tired. You almost didn’t notice when Simon came out unmasked.
He came out in his big hoodie he used sometimes as a pump cover, sleeves falling over his hands and rubbing his eyes, yawning and stumbling into the common room. You’d never seen him look so soft. And his hair! Blonde! And all over the place. Just askew in every direction. He walked into the sun shining through the window, the golden light making his hair look like a halo and barely giving you a view of his freckles (he has freckles?).
You were practically jaw dropped looking at him, simply because you’d never seen him without the mask before. Honestly more than anything, you were moved by the trust he was showing you right now…and he was being really cute (which is not a word you would normally assign to him). You tried to school your expression to not make him uncomfortable, knowing he was insecure about his scars, but he still noticed.
He plopped down next to you on the couch, “sorry, know ‘s not pretty.”
Simon knows people, knows how to read them and how to get what he wants out of them, in a general sense. He also knows women, their bodies and how to handle them. How to pick one out that wants the same thing he wants, how to approach them and then how to cut and run.
What he doesn't know is how to stay. How to let someone else know him, even see him. What makes a home.
So you're going to have to teach him.
He has the most minimal wardrobe you've ever seen -- a few pairs of jeans, a handful of t-shirts, a couple of hoodies and one pair of boots. After a few weeks of watching him lace up those boots every time he takes out the trash, you check them for his shoe size then order him a pair of crocs to wear around the house and when they arrive, you leave them by the door, where he keeps his boots.
"The fuck are these?" he grumbles that evening when he goes to grab the boots while you're cleaning up after dinner. They're too big to be yours, but he knows they're not his.
"I got them for you," you answer, coming to stand beside him. "Just something to wear when you need to step outside for a minute or if your little feet get cold and you wanna wear something around inside."
"I don't have ... fucking hell," he says, pointing down to the shoes. "They've got holes all in them."
"That's so you can accessorize!" you say proudly, pulling out a little bag full of charms that you picked out for him.
It's ridiculous. It looks absolutely absurd. But he wears them anyway, because he's learning that when people care about each other, they make little gestures like this, and if there's a way that he can wear your love for him around like a badge of honor, then no matter how goofy it looks, he'll be proud to do it.
Simon chews his fingernails down to the quick, a nervous habit that he's had for as long as he can remember. After catching him with a couple of bloody fingers after one particularly bad evening, you tenderly pull him into the kitchen, wash his hands and dry them, then sit him down at the kitchen table and leave for a moment, only to come back with nail polish.
"Really, love?" he asks, looking up at you with a smirk. "Gonna give me a manicure?"
You roll your eyes, pulling one of the chairs closer to him and reaching out for his hands, replying, "What, too manly to have your nails done?"
"Yeah, that's what it is," he smirks, all sarcasm, then says, "Why though?"
"It's the taste," you explain, shaking a bottle of black polish before taking the cap off and carefully leaning in to start on his right thumbnail. "The idea is that when you go to bite your nails, the polish will make it taste bitter so you stop."
He can't help but smile a little to himself as he watches you work. He doesn't care one way or the other about his nails, but it's cute, watching you so focused on him. Still, something about it nags at him, because while it feels good, having you care, it doesn't quite feel right, not all the way. Not just yet.
"Not hurting anyone with biting them," he says quietly, his eyes on his hands as you finish up.
You give a little sigh, capping the bottle before meeting his eyes, and you tell him, "You're hurting yourself. And that's not ok, not with me."
He doesn't do birthdays, not his anyway. Not in a dramatic "I hate my birthday" way, it's just not something of note to him. He knows the date, acknowledges it to himself when it comes just as a reminder that he's 40 now, not 39, nothing more. The first birthday he has with you comes after you've been together for several months, and you only hear about it after the fact.
"My sweet boyfriend," you coo at him one night in bed, a little tipsy from the wine you'd had with dinner. "My beautiful, beautiful boyfriend."
He chuckles, still marveling at how much you seem to marvel at him. Your hands are on him, gentle and doting, and he hears you giggle as you ramble on.
"Sweet and kind and handsome and strong," you say, running a hand through his hair. "He always watches out for me. He always takes care of me. My favorite person."
"You're drunk," he points out, smiling softly, cheeks red.
"Am not," you reply. "Even if I am, the truth is the truth."
You go on, praising him for everything you can think of. Pretty blonde hair, pretty smatterings of freckles, pretty dimples that only you ever get to see. It's almost unbearable, hearing how much you adore him, but in a good way. Like it's stretching something in him that's been closed for far too long.
You're breaking him in, slowly and carefully.
"Have you ever," you ask him at one point, "ever in your entire 39 years, thought that you'd get a girlfriend as thoughtful and loving as me?"
It's a playful question, but of course he's never thought that. His chest aches at the thought of just how much you've given him, and how much you let him give you in return. So instead, he dodges it.
"Not 39 anymore, sweetheart," he says softly.
Your brow furrows immediately, not understanding, and he laughs quietly, his hand on your stomach under the blankets sliding to your side to pull you closer.
"A few weeks ago," he explains.
"Your birthday was a few weeks ago?"
"It was."
"And you just ... didn't think to say anything?"
You're serious now, almost concerned, and he can't stand it.
"It's not a big deal, love," he says, leaning in to press kisses against your forehead and temple. "Just another day."
"It is a big deal," you argue, pulling back to look at him. "I would have ... I don't know, I would have gotten you something. Treated you special. Thrown a party, something."
"One, I don't like parties. Two, you treat me special everyday. Three, you've already given me more than you know, I don't need anything else."
All those things are true, but it still takes much longer than he'd like to get the frown off your face.
The next day, you ask him to run some errands for you. You need the oil changed in your car, some things from the big grocery store on the other side of town, but you need to stay home and take care of some things that need done around the house. He agrees easily. He likes taking care of you.
When he comes back later that afternoon, he goes for the kitchen, ready to put up the groceries he'd picked up, and there you are, leaning against the counter and smiling at him like you were waiting for him.
The homemade cake on the counter beside you, with candles sticking out and "Happy Birthday Simon" written in icing on top, tells him that you were.
Every time you do something like this, perform some little act of kindness that comes so naturally to you, it feels like something gets unlocked inside him. Like there have always been chains wrapped around his mind and his heart, keeping him tight and cold and alone, padlocks piling on top year after year, keeping all the hurt secure inside. But somehow you have the key, and you take your time, undoing them all.
Undoing him, completely and thoroughly, until he's open for the first time. And it's raw and new, and it hurts, but something in him knows that the pain will give way to something beautiful.
He watches as you step up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning your head against his chest.
"Happy birthday, Simon," you say softly.
He can't say anything, not now, so he pulls you closer to him, strong arms cradling you against him, and you're close enough that he can feel when the corner of your mouth turns up into a smile
Another lock coming off. Another piece of proof that he can be something different, something better, with you.
Simon who is always very conscious about his size. He knows he's tall and built like a brick shit house it's very useful when he's on deployment but when he's home it feels like a curse. People are intimidated by him but not autistic reader. Autistic reader who doesn't realize they should be afraid and instead sees a man with very kind hands. Autistic reader who woos him with info dumping cause he didn't realize how much he needed to see someone relaxed and happy around him. Autistic reader who begs Simon to lay on them for deep pressure and he's scared about crushing them until they literally hoist him down onto them and fall asleep. Big arms that can hug tight when they need it. Big hands to cover their ears or press their headphones tighter so they can block out more noise. Benefits of big man. He's happy his size is useful for soft things too.
Simon Riley x gn!reader, soft, aquariums, size difference, autistic reader, falling in love
Partly inspired by @rawme-price 's aquarium posts too
Simon likes the aquarium. It's something that was so out of reach to him as a child he couldn't even conceive of it, so years later he can now go and visit with his adult time and adult money and just...relax.
Or as much as someone as big as he is can, in public. Kids get pulled away when he steps into a room, women skitter to the other side of the street, even men start to puff up, when all he's doing is trying to buy bread or change his tire or take a damn walk in the sunshine. It's exhausting.
Which is partly why he likes to visit the aquarium so often- the rooms full of kids tend to be separate from the larger, calmer viewing areas, and it's dark and cool. He can stay in the shadows and enjoy the gentle music, bubbling water, and only get startled looks when he stands too quickly.
He's out of luck today though- there's a special show happening and the whole place is packed. It's standing room only in front of the largest tank, where a couple of scuba-clad staff are gently demonstrating how they care for the sharks and larger fish, but the crowd still parts around Simon like the red sea. His shoulders hunch automatically- he doesn't like being the scary one at home, the frightening man in a mask that means security follows him room to room- but he wants to see the sharks and their handlers.
There's some grumbling when he shifts up to the front, claiming a corner, and he sees two kids be lifted away from where they'd apparently been too close to him. It's infuriating. He hasn't said anything, hasn't done anything except exist!
"Oh awesome! I was worried I wouldn't see anything," someone pipes from his elbow, and he looks down to see a short person, grinning at him. Electric blue glasses to match the dangling blue fish earring on one side, and the three small silver hoops on the other gleam. There's more fish on- their?- shirt, pins and charms on the strap of their bag. "Thanks for making room!"
And that's it. No side glances or uneasy shuffling, just a smile and a pleased little hop on your toes.
Simon feels warm all the way through, and turns a little, making a pocket of space between him and the glass wall. You grin again, looking up at him, and actually move into the space, tucking yourself between his chest and the tank. A school of darting silver fish flickers into view and then bursts apart when you gasp in delight.
"Let me know if you need more room," he says softly, not wanting to disturb you where you're nearly pressed to the glass. "Or if you need me to back off."
You turn to glance at him over your shoulder. "Why? This is nice. I never get to the front. And you seem like a kind person."
That floors him. Kind? He's said two sentences.
Your smile gentles. "I can tell. You have kind hands," and then before he even gets a chance to try and reply you're facing the tank again, squealing in delight. "Look! There's Ziggy!" The zebra shark moves gracefully over the sand, tail flicking, her spots mimicking the scattered rocks and debris on the floor.
"...she your favorite?" He asks finally. Kind hands.
"Oh, yeah- so when I was a kid, I learned about zebra sharks, and then saw a picture and was just so mad they didn't have stripes- I didn't know it was just the babies- and decided no one knew what they were about except me. So I started learning everything about them, and other sharks- and fish- and it's just sort of, you know, followed me." You grin as Ziggy swims away, finding a diver handing out fish from a mesh bag. "And then I moved here and found her, and it felt like fate, you know?"
Simon's falling in love.
He lets you carry the conversation, offering his own opinions, as much as he has them- he likes the little fish with their faces all puckered up like they're kissing- and trailing you as you move with the crowd through the aquarium. The other people still give him sharp glaces and startled gasps, but you never even seem to blink about his size, the edge of scars peeking over the top of the black face mask.
He learns more in one afternoon than he has in years of coming to the aquarium. You tell him about fish, about ocean patterns, about tidal pools and nutrient rich cold water being lifted up to feed the algae and plankton that sustain everything from fish the size of his thumbnail to whales.
You linger when the loop brings you both out to the lobby. The space echoes with voices, and you wince a little. "Sorry if I talked too much," you offer, shrinking. "I kind of kept going there huh?"
Simon catches your hand when you nervously fiddle with the strap of your bag. "I liked it," he rumbles, and your fingers clasp around his. "Can you tell me more? Over dinner?"
Simon's fully in love by the end of the week.
You aren't scared of him. He gets smiles and your hands reaching for his without hesitation, and the first time he draws you into a hug, you squeeze right up against him and encourage him to do the same. Your happy sigh when he presses you into his chest, strong and steady, sinks right to his bones. Even when he's worried too put too much pressure on you, you just tug on his arms, showing him what you need and where.
He takes you back to the aquarium a month after your first meeting, and when a group of small children squeal with delight right next to you, he catches your wince and puts his big, callused palms over your ears. The same hands that pull triggers and stab enemy soldiers now protect your sensitive hearing and let you relax.
He feels like a shark himself, slowly moving through schools of fish as they part and flow around him, dangerous, deadly. And here's this little remora, tagging along, protected and cared for under the sharp snap of his fin. His first night in your home, he flushes to his ears and mumbles it out loud, hiding his face against your shoulder- and gets a kiss to his ear, the corner of his mouth, his big body moving to lay on top of you. With the blankets all pulled up and the soft blue light from your corner lamp, he feels like he's floating, swimming along with you smiling and warm and happy against him.
Hiii baby♥️💋could you write something where simon's gf is from another country and her mom is coming over from there to see them and it's simon's first time meeting her??
True Russian
You were nervous of Simon meeting your blooded Russian mother. But little did you know Simon was even more nervous than you were.
A/N: I am trying to knock out all of the asks you guys have! I am so excited I have read all them and just so happy to be able to still write for you guys! Ask or requests is always open, it might just take me sometime but I’ll get there! So keep rolling them in! ❤️
Warnings: swearing, fluff, angst, and just nervous simon
Getting your apartment ready was an UNDERSTATEMENT. You scrubbed and scrubbed everywhere, even though you cleaned weekly, you still were nervous on if your mother found a speck of dust.
Your mother is a pure blooded Russian and your father was an American. Which he died back during the war against Afghanistan. After his passing both you and your mother moved to the UK. That’s when you went into the military and slowly was able to join 141.
That’s where you met Simon, both of you being able to know exact what each other would think during a mission to the bed. When you mentioned that Simon was moving with no indication of dating to your mother. She immediately said “Mishka, Я скоро там будy.” (Little Bear, I’ll be there soon.)
When you told Simon immediately he got up to shower and get dressed. You were so busy with cleaning you didn’t realize that Simon was fighting himself over what smell of cologne to wear to what pants to what shirt to what shoes to…anything.
Your mother wasn’t a crazy person but this is the first man you moved with. The first man to be in the presence of you. Your mother was a mama bear is the understatement of the century. She had to make sure her little bear was taken care of. Properly.
“Y/n, can ya come her’ darlin’.” His accent being more accenty than normal. Which let you know that he was actually nervous.
You smirked as you wiped the last part of the apartment before strolling to him. He was only in his boxers, staring at 4 pairs of outfits. Tapping his foot and STARING. You chuckled a bit before he snapped his head at you. “I can’t decide what one to wear.” He mumbled, inhaling deeply.
You overlooked the outfits and all of them looked good, great even. “This one,” you pointed to the tight black shirt and blue jeans. He side eyed you before tossing it aside. “What?” You laughed.
“Ya know why,” He chuckled nervously. “Don’t need you to eye me like some meat in front of your mum.”
You smiled as you folded that set and placing it back to where they belong. “It doesn’t matter what you wear my love.” You said standing up normally after putting his jeans away.
He picked up a maroon shirt that would go with blue jeans. As he was putting it on you heard a knock. You saw him physically jump before wide eyed looking at you. “She’s already here?” He hurriedly put his pants on as you walked away.
You laughed a bit before walking to the door. “Ma?” You yelled as you opened the door with a smile.
Your mother smiled, showing that her wrinkles going with the smile. Her black and gray hair up in a small bun. Little shorter than she was, your heart sinking a bit before she hugged you. “Ah mishka! Как вы?” (Little bear! How are you?)
“Всё хорошо, мам, а у тебя?” You said hugging her tight before letting her in. (Doing good, you?)
“Very good yes,” She mumbled, slowly walking in looking over the apartment. “Where is the boy?” Her accent getting more noticeable as she raised her voice.
“He’s in the washroom, he’ll be out soon.” You said as you guided her to the living area.
She nodded having that straight face that you never know what she is thinking nor feeling. Making you feel a little uneasy but pushing it aside due to the nerves. “Mishka can you grab me a water. Throat is parched.”
“I’ll grab it,” you looked up to see him walking to the kitchen and grabbing a cup before filling it up with water. Your mother closely watched him, as you sat next to her. “How are ya Mrs. Y/L/N.”
She hummed before she watched him walking over handing her a glass. “Very good, Спасибо,” Simon sat in a chair across from the sofa you and your mother was sitting. Simon was sitting straight like Price was in the room. You stifled a chuckle before helping your mom put a cup on the coffee table. “How are you?”
“Good thank you.” He said, the air seemed heavy the awkwardness setting in.
“Ah крупный мужчина (big man), no need to be proper. Not your commanding officer.” Your mother laughs, as she leans back. Simon blinked a couple of times quickly before straightening more.
You chuckled with her before you looked at Simon. “My love tell her your name.”
Simon went wide eyed before standing up and walking over to her with his hand out. “Sorry maam, haven’t done this meet and greet with a parent before.” He admits starting to look like he is getting more comfortable, just from my mother’s hand shake. She placed her other on top of his.
“Oh my dear Мой мальчик (my boy), y/n hasn’t either. Both of ya seem like ya about to tell me about a grandchild.” She laughed kissing his fingers.
Never ever in your life have you felt red and SEEN Simon get red. You gently slapped your mother’s shoulder. “Ma!”
Simon chuckled when your mother gave an innocent look. “Mishka relax I won’t kill him. Yet.” She winked.
It was a nice visit, your mother laughed so hard at some stories you and Simon told her of how you two met. Simon becoming more and more relaxed being able to show a bit more of him. She told you both how she loved having these little children around her community living. “Makes me miss when you were young Mishka.”
“Well you have them to help.” You said tapping her leg. “I’m going to use the washroom and we will drive you home. Still not happy you took the public transportation by yourself.” You got up and started to walk to the bathroom.
“Tah С пожилыми русскими женщинами лучше не связываться.” (No one will mess with an old Russian woman) She mumbled, waving you off.
Simon chuckles at this, which has your mother turn to him slowly. “I know Russian, well little of it.” Simon explained leaning back in the chair.
She smiles at him leaning forward. “I think we will get along then Mishka.” Simon chuckled and nodded before she chuckles with him. “Simon, can I trust you to take care of my only daughter. My only child?”
Simon smiled. “Yes ma’am.”
She smiled before laughing. “Of course I do, I’ve never seen her like this. С возвращением домой, сынок.” (Welcome home, my son)
You heard the whole encounter, smiling you tried to hold back the happy tears. You knew that both you were going to have a beautiful life together.
whoah hey this is crazy i wrote a part two actually bonkers
Has it been a solid couple of months? yes. Did i write half of this thing today? also yes!
Im free for the summer now so i decided to finish this instead of letting it take up space in my brain and HOPEFULLY I'll free another oneshot idea thats been brewing about lately
To start off, Simon’s recovery is starting off well. Sure, he’s not used to being off of his feet (from what you’ve heard, he’s something of a workaholic), and, sure, it’s only been a couple of days that you’ve spent with him, but at least he listens when you tell him to sit down and rest. Not without a couple of complaints, obviously.
You don't share a room. Yeah, it's a bummer, but you two hardly know each other, so you came up with an agreement that until you know each other better, and get more comfortable with one another, you wouldn’t force yourselves to share a bed.
You’ve been spending most of your time with him. It's not like you really know anyone on base, though occasionally you do talk with John from time to time -- Price, as the others call him, or “Captain” from the recruits. Most of your conversations are check-ins or are used to work out specifics about what's going to happen from now on. What that means isn’t currently entirely fleshed out, but you’re working on it. Your conversations with Simon, however, range quite a bit. You haven’t touched upon sensitive information just yet -- it isn’t hard to tell that he’s got quite a lot of trauma he's been holding to himself all of these years -- but there's been improvements. You two have been over small details -- your favorite things, family members, those basic first date kind of questions. Sometimes, you just sit in silence together. It gives the both of you a moment of rest from the expectation of conversations.
The problem is that you don't know where his boundaries lie. He hasn’t gotten visibly uncomfortable when you prod a little for more personal information, but he always manages to switch the topic around or change it entirely. Pushing him too hard isn't a good idea in case you lose the building trust, but you also don't want to be stepping on eggshells around him. It doesn't help that he's one of -- if not the most -- emotionally constipated people you’ve ever met, so getting him to open up on his own is going to take quite a while.
A quiet breath leaves you as you exit your room and head to the barrack’s kitchen. Unsurprisingly, it was empty. Most of the soldiers preferred eating at the mess hall, where the food was bearable enough to not complain about. There were too many people and it was a bit too much noise, so you tend to stick to the communal kitchen, which is usually stocked enough to make something simple.
You turn towards the cabinets and look through them, though you’re interrupted not long after by the sound of footsteps approaching.
“Aye, so y’r the bonnie thing tied tae the Lt’s pinky?”
Looking over your shoulder, you’re greeted with the sight of one of the soldiers who had been there when you first saw Simon. Your head dips down to stare at the mentioned string. It was looking better nowadays, still a little frayed but not worryingly so, and was taut, still trying to pull you to Simon.
You look back up at the soldier, turning so your body faced him.
“I am.” You peek behind at the cabinets again. Making yourself something to eat will have to wait, you suppose. “You’re… Johnny, right?”
He nods.
“Y’can call me Soap. Whatever's easier.” He shrugs, a subtle movement. It's quiet between the two of you for a moment. You grab a glass and fill it with water, taking a small sip as Johnny speaks up again.
“Does he keep the mask on during sex?”
You try not to choke on the water.
Carefully, you set it down on the counter before giving the soldier a harsh glare. He holds his hands up in mock surrender.
“Cannae a man get curious?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, a small smirk making the corner of his mouth lift. All he gets in response is a sigh, so he asks, “How’s it been, anyways? Ah’ve hardly seen him.”
You fidget with the string tied around your pinky, trying to figure out how to phrase what you want to say.
“It's been… slow. It's hard for either of us to open up, really.” A small, awkward laugh follows your remark.
Johnny nods. From what you know, he's the closest one to Simon on base, if not altogether. The two have shared a lot of tense moments together and have that sort of brotherly bond so frequently described between soldiers.
“Y’gotta give him some time. He dinnae ken how tae be vulnerable, ‘specially not with someone he just met.” A pause, then he tacks on a quick, “No offense.”
You take another sip of water, thinking it over. A small silence follows as you wonder what to say.
“Do you know of anything that could help? Or anything that can help him at least get a bit more comfortable?” He thinks about it for a moment.
“Taking y’r time. He may not be patient but he needs someone patient. Cannae find a lot of that ‘round here, ‘specially not with the recruits he has tae train.” A cheeky smile makes its way onto Johnny’s face, though he quickly gets serious again. “Don't let him push you away. He might try but y’gotta be persistent. Persistent and patient.”
You think about his words for a moment longer, before responding with a “thank you,” and a slight smile.
“‘Course. Wouldnae want you tae deal with him all alone. He’s a wee bit bad at emotions.”
“Just a bit?” The quick remark gets a small laugh in response. There’s a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his face.
“Send him mah regards, and tell him I cannae handle the recruits alone anymore.” With a curt nod, he passes me and leaves the kitchen, heading to somewhere else on base. You stand there alone for a moment longer, staring at where he stood.
You head to Simon’s room a little while later, a freshly brewed cup of earl grey tea in one hand, using the other to support it so it doesn't splash around as you walk. You stop in front of his door, raising your free hand to knock, but the door opens before you do.
Simon stands behind the doorway, his eyes immediately meeting yours.
“I made some tea.” His eyes drift to the subtle movement of you bringing the cup closer to him.
He shuffles so the doorway is no longer blocked, silently giving you permission to step inside. As you walk in and place the cup on the nightstand, Simon shuts the door and sits down on the edge of the bed, grunting quietly once the pain radiating in his body alleviates slightly. He adjusts himself to sit comfortably, making sure to face you where you were standing.
“It’s still a little hot, so wait a bit for it to cool down.” Simon nods, reaching up to take off his mask.
He’s been making an effort to try and keep the mask off while the two of you were spending time together. He confessed that it's not solely an issue with showing his face that makes him uncomfortable, but it's about having the balaclava off. He wears it so often that taking it off makes him feel uncomfortable on an entirely different level.
Simon holds the mask in his hands, looking down at it with slightly furrowed brows. He sighs, lifting his head again to look back at you.
“Love, I… appreciate y’bein’ here f’r me.” He speaks up, causing your focus to go from the mask to him. It was rare for him to initiate conversation, and even more so to start one with this tone.
“If m’being honest, never thought I’d get… this.” He motions between the two of you. “Didn’t believe there was someone in this world tha’ I was meant to be with, not growin’ up ‘nd ‘specially not now.”
You frown, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed with him. It dips slightly under your weight as you lean back on one hand, the other just subtly extended towards Simon.
“You don't deserve not being loved just because of what you’ve gone through.” You start quietly, your gaze drifting down to his hands fidgeting with a couple of frayed ends of the balaclava. “If anything, I think you deserve it more.”
After a moment of silence, Simon puts the mask down and reaches for your hand, taking it in one of his. Slowly, like he was waiting for you to pull away, he brings your hand to his cheek, his eyes drifting shut. His head leans softly into your palm, his hand tentatively holding it in place. He lets out a deep breath and his body relaxes, shoulders falling forward similar to how they did when you first talked to him.
The string tying you two together fixes itself a little bit more once again. Not only was Simon physically healing, albeit slowly, but he was emotionally healing bit by bit as well, only helping to strengthen the bond.
“Dunno wha’ I would do without y’here. You’ve been near me s’much recently, don’t think I can handle you leavin’ to go back home.” He mumbles, opening up his eyes again to look at you through his blond lashes.
“I didn’t really prepare to stay here for much longer than a week, Simon. I’m gonna have to leave sooner or later and I'm not sure when I’m going to be able to come back.” He pouts a little at that, looking almost like a kicked puppy at the news that you can’t stay with him forever. He’s quiet for a moment before speaking up again.
“Wha’ if you moved here? Doesn’t have t’be with me, but I can find a flat nearby or somethin’ f’you.”
“What about my job, and my home? Even then, there’s so much paperwork to do that it’ll be a while before I can move regardless-”
“I can pull a few strings, jus’… please.” Simon cuts you off with a small plea, sitting up again, wincing when the movement causes his bandages to pull on his injuries. He holds your hand in both of his now, a certain sincerity in his deep brown eyes.
“I’ll still need to get my stuff from home, y’know…” A smile replaces the frown from earlier as you watch Simon breathe out a dramatic sigh.
“It’s like y’wanna kill me.” He groans, rolling his eyes playfully.
But the playful mood drops when he lets go of your hand, getting serious once more.
“M’not kidding about you moving here, ’ve got a flat not too far from here if you’re comfortable with tha’.” The look in his eyes silently begs you to agree and move in with him. Considering he hasn’t gotten tired of you yet, and also the fact that you’re literally his soulmate, it’s clear that he’s thought this out and wants this more than anything else.
“If moving in with you means that you’ll finally take a proper break, then yes, Simon, I would love to.” The smile on his face heals a part of you that you didn’t know needed healing.
“‘M taking a break righ’ now, aye?”
“When the doctor said get some rest, they meant at home, not still on base.” You turn in your spot, reaching behind you to the nightstand for the tea you had brought in earlier. You turn back and hand it to Simon, who takes it carefully from your grasp.
“Thank you, love.” He takes a sip before bringing the cup down, leaning forward to knock his forehead gently against yours.
The two of you sit together like that for a little while longer later, soaking in each other's presence.
The string gets stronger every day you’re together.
Part 4 of lieutenant!simon stays with sergeant!reader because his flat has mold and seeing you off-duty knocks him sideways
Rain hit the windows in sheets, steady and relentless.
You’d been half-listening to it, watching the candle on the coffee table flicker each time the wind shoved against the windows. The lights had gone out with a large clap of thunder, taking the hum of the fridge with them. The flat felt strange without it - or without Simon, really. He’d overstayed his welcome weeks ago, but somehow the place felt too big when he wasn’t in it.
You were still sitting there when the door opened.
Simon stepped in, rain dripping off his jacket, hair damp and curling. He shook rain from his hair, leaving a puddle where you’d scolded him last week for the same thing. His eyes found the single candle and the tequila bottle on the table.
You smiled, small and lopsided. “Power’s out. For about twenty minutes now.”
“Yeah, saw half the street dark when I came in,” he said, tugging off his jacket. “Would’ve been back quicker, didn’t think you’d be sittin’ in the bloody dark.”
You shrugged. “Wasn’t much else to do.”
He glanced at the dim candle. “You’ve not even got a torch?”
“Got fire,” you said, with a hand gesture to the small flame.
He smirked. “Yeah, you’re great with that.”
“Piss off,” you said, but your grin gave you away.
He took the chair opposite you, stretching his legs out, eyes catching on the half-empty bottle between you. “Not drinkin’ alone anymore, then,” he muttered, reaching for it.
He took a long pull straight from the neck. The tequila burned sharp but underneath it, God help him, he swore he could taste you on the rim. His calloused fingers grazed yours when he passed it back.
For a second, he thought about that night he’d found you asleep again on the same couch you’re sitting cross-legged on now. Cheek pressed against your book, lashes fluttering, the soft rise of your chest as you dreamed. Now, here you were, awake, watching him right back.
The night unspooled from there—slow, easy, almost gentle. The candlelight made everything softer: his shoulders, your laugh, the distance between you. You told him about the last time you’d been home, how your plants hadn’t survived. He told you his landlord had sworn the mold wasn’t dangerous. You said it probably missed him. He said like mold, he grows on people.
Another pull of tequila. Another. The edges between you blurred just a little more each time. He laughed—really laughed—at something you said about him being shockingly domesticated. The sound startled you, low and warm, and you found yourself grinning too wide just from hearing it in the cover of darkness.
“You’re starin’,” he said, voice low, roughened by the drink, his strong arms leaning on his knees.
“Just thinkin’,” you said with a cock of your head as if you were studying him. Your Lieutenant. No mask covering his handsome face. No weapons slung over his shoulder. No orders waiting on his tongue.
“'Bout?”
“How strange it's been, seein’ you like this.”
He huffed a small laugh. “Could say the same.”
He looked at you then, properly looked. The candle was almost gone, flame sputtering low, and the tequila was working fast. At some point you’d moved closer - knees knocking, laughter tumbling over itself until you couldn’t remember what was funny anymore. Every time his shoulder brushed yours, neither of you shifted away. He’d been too comfortable here, he realized. Too at home.
He said something about your aim being shit and you told him he’d gone soft since last deployment. He laughed loud and unguarded again, his head tipping back. You shoved his arm. He nudged you back, harder. It spiraled from there—shoulders bumping, fingers catching, a hand in your hair, fingertips curling at the base of your skull as he tugged. It was meant as a joke but lingered a second too long.
Then the space was just… gone.
You turned at the same time he did, catching his eyes while you were still laughing, breath catching somewhere between amusement and surprise. The air changed then: quieter, thicker, alive. You both paused for only a second.
And then he kissed you.
No hesitation, no thought. Just heat and motion and the faint taste of tequila between you. The second your lips met, it was like the world tilted. Gravity had suddenly gone wrong. You didn’t think, didn’t breathe. You just moved, pressing closer, chasing the warmth and the weight of him. You deepened the kiss before he could, weeks of sidelong glances, quiet nights and kind actions overtaking years of surviving together in the field.
His hand found your jaw then, steadying, anchoring you to him. You climbed higher before he could stop you, knees pressing to either side of him, the shift of your weight drawing a low sound in his throat. The kiss was too rough to be careful but too real to be a mistake.
And then—light.
The lamps blinked on, white and harsh, scattering the dark and the tequila-fueled madness with it.
You both froze. Staring. His hand was still on your face. Your knees bracketed his thighs. You could feel his warm breath against your mouth. He pulled back first, jaw tight, golden eyes unreadable. “Fuck,” he muttered. Then quieter, “Shouldn’t’ve.”
You blinked, dazed, the taste of him still on your lips. “Yeah,” you said, though it didn’t sound like agreement.
He shifted you off him with ease and stood abruptly, raking a hand through his hair, suddenly too big for the room. “Power’s back,” he said, as if you couldn’t see it blazing around you.
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moved.
Then he turned, walking down the hall, footsteps heavy against the wood. The bedroom door clicked shut behind him.
You stayed where you were, staring at nothing, breath still short. Christ.
What the fuck just happened?
PT. 5 Here
series taglist: @alphabetically-deranged, @mamamayhem36, @onceuponanightmareisawme
part 3 of lieutenant!simon stays with sergeant!reader because his flat has mold and seeing you off-duty knocks him sideways
A week turned into two before either of you bothered to count. You fell into a rhythm neither of you had agreed to but both were reluctant to break: shared silences, quiet mornings, the low hum of the kettle at dawn. His presence seeped into the corners of your life like it had always belonged there. His mug on your counter. His jacket on the back of your chair. Boots by the door. It was domestic in a way that neither of you had any experience with— too soft for soldiers, too intimate for coworkers, too easy for friends.
It wasn’t without its moments, though. The first came one morning when he was halfway to the kitchen and you stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and dripping hair.
Simon stopped dead. You froze too, steam curling around your bare shoulders like smoke. For a moment, neither of you said a word, then his jaw tightened, eyes darting anywhere but you.
“Christ, Sergeant,” he said finally, voice rougher than usual.
You managed a laugh, quick and nervous. “Didn’t realize I needed to clear the hallway.”
He turned, walking off with a muttered, “Next time, warn a bloke.”
You shut your door with your heart in your throat and skin still flushed, though not from the shower anymore.
A few days later, he came back from a run to find his clothes washed and folded on the guest bed. It stopped him cold. You hadn’t said anything about it — no note, no offhand comment — just the small, neat stack waiting there like it was the most natural thing in the world. He stood there longer than he should’ve, hand resting on the edge of one folded shirt.
No one had done that for him in years. Maybe ever. He didn’t know what to do with it. The warmth pressed at his chest and there was a quiet ache that followed. When you asked that evening if he’d found everything alright, he only hummed something that could’ve meant anything. You didn’t push, and he was grateful for that.
By midweek, you decided to redeem yourself in the kitchen. He came home to the smell of peppers and sauce and your smug grin already waiting. “I cooked,” you said, chin high.
He eyed the pan. “Should I get the extinguisher ready?”
You rolled your eyes and served him anyway. He didn’t tell you that he hated peppers — not when you looked so damn proud. He ate every bite, and when you caught him going back for seconds, he only shrugged. “Best thing I’ve had in months,” he said, and it wasn’t about the food.
It became habit, the way the two of you seemed to orbit the same small corners of town without meaning to. You ran into him at the corner shop. Both of you headed over for the same brand of cereal, neither admitting you’ve gone out to restock for the flat.
“You’re here for milk too?” He grunts.
“Ran out.” You lift your basket.
“Funny, me too.” He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head, and that was it. You paid separately, walked back together anyway, plastic bags bumping between you.
Another night, you fell asleep on the couch with a book half-open against your chest. When you woke hours later, a blanket from his bed was draped over you, the lights were off, and your bookmark was tucked neatly between the pages. You refused to acknowledge how much you liked that the soft fabric smelt like him.
When you came into the kitchen the next morning, he was already there — tea in hand, face unreadable. “Might want to finish that chapter before you pass out next time,” he said without turning around.
You frowned. “You were up?”
He shrugged, a simple roll of his broad shoulders. “Could hear you snorin’ from the hall.”
“Did not.”
He just smirked into his mug, and that was the end of it. No talk of blankets, or bookmarks, or the quiet way he’d stopped to watch you sleep, the same way he did his first night here.
It was the small things that continued to undo him: your laugh from the other room, the way you hummed while brushing your teeth, the sound of your bare feet on the hardwood. He’d catch himself watching you too long, lingering in doorways just to listen. It was dangerous for a man like him, closed off and alone, but he was enjoying this new kind of quiet comfort. It was the sort of thing that could make a man forget he was only meant to be a guest.
And yet, every time he thought about leaving, his chest went tight.
