a trip to the christmas market turns tense when boyfriend!simon thinks girlfriend!reader is in danger
You’d been noticing it all week, the way he hovered closer than usual, the way his eyes moved before his head did. Ever since you ran into John Price in the middle of the bloody grocery store aisle, Simon had been… different. Not cold. Not distant. Just tighter.
He walked closer. Watched more. Listened too carefully to things no one else noticed. You kept finding him already looking at you when you turned around.
But you didn’t say anything.
You were at a Christmas market, for God’s sake – twinkling holiday lights, warm smell of treats, carolers, children laughing, craft vendors, the whole cosy postcard scene. This was supposed to be normal. Safe. Merry.
And then a vendor behind the wooden stall dropped a metal tray.
Loud, sure — but harmless.
Except Simon reacted like it was a gunshot.
Before your brain even caught the sound, his arm snapped around your waist and he shoved you behind him, body locked tight, stance wide and braced like he was expecting incoming fire.
A couple walking past jerked back.
“Jesus, mate—” the man muttered, startled.
Simon didn’t hear him. Didn’t see the people staring.
His other hand had already flown under the hem of his sweatshirt, fingers resting on the grip of the handgun tucked into the back of his jeans. The gun was not exposed, but ready - the kind of reaction you couldn’t train out of a man.
His eyes were unblinking, tracking exits, shadows and anyone who looked at you too long.
“Si,” you whispered, reaching for him carefully, deliberately. “It was just a tray."
He didn’t move. For a full second, maybe two, he was somewhere else entirely. Breathing like he was waiting for a second shot.
Then his gaze finally dragged down to you, pupils still blown wide, chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted. Slowly, painfully slowly, his hand released the gun. His arm loosened around you. His posture softened by degrees, like gears grinding.
“…Sorry,” he muttered, voice raw. “Thought it was …forget it.”
But you didn’t. You felt the moment settle in your chest, both warm and aching at once.
Because nothing here was a threat: not the tray, not the crowd, not you.
And still, his body had moved like he’d rehearsed losing you a thousand times. Like the fear lived closer to the surface than he ever admitted.
The only real threat in that entire place was Simon, a man trying desperately to bury instincts sharpened by war, and who would turn them loose in a heartbeat if anything ever came for what was his.
Part 3 - another fun little extension of the boyfriend!simon gets pissed when his girlfriend!reader asks him to put on his mask when he gets home from deployment universe. lots of requests for another simon hiding his true self, let me know if you enjoyed!
Pt. 2 here
lieutenant!simon riley tries to avoid his friendly new neighbor, but she's persistent
You, hearing the scrape of boots in the hallway for the third morning in a row. Heavy steps, deliberate, like whoever moved into 3B doesn’t know how to walk without carrying weight. You peek through the peephole just in time to catch the back of a broad frame, a hood pulled up despite the warm weather.
You, deciding today’s the day. Mug of coffee in hand, pretending you just happened to open your door at the exact moment he’s locking his. He glances over, his blond hair cropped short and strong jaw set hard enough to cut glass. His golden eyes barely flick to you before dropping to the floor.
You, smiling anyway. “Hi. I’m in 3C. Just wanted to say welcome.”
Simon grunts. Actually grunts. Then nods once, short and dismissive, then mutters, “Cheers.” Already turning to leave.
You, refusing to be discouraged, catch him again two days later. His arms loaded with groceries, keys in his teeth. You offer, “Need a hand?” He shakes his head, muttering around the metal, “Got it.” Bags digging into his fingers but he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t budge.
You, watering the communal hallway plants when you hear his door open. He stops beside you, like he’s evaluating the situation. You give him another bright smile. “Morning.”
Simon eyes the watering can. “Bit much, innit?”
You laugh. He doesn’t. Not yet.
You, stubbornly sticking with it. Little hellos. Quick nods. Comments about the weather. About the broken lift. About the new bakery on the corner.
Simon answers in the shortest possible ways. Only single words, clipped sentences, that gravelly voice kept low like he’s rationing it.
You, finally catching him one evening when he’s coming back looking exhausted. His shoulders are tight, shirt still smelling faintly of outside rain and something metallic underneath. Deployment, you guess. Training? Something close enough.
You, softening your voice. “Long day?”
Simon's eyes flick to you, quick and sharp, but instead of brushing past, he stops. Just for a moment. “Somethin’ like that.”
You, leaning lightly against your doorframe. “If you ever need anything, I’m right next door.”
Simon huffs something that isn’t quite a laugh and isn’t quite a dismissal. “Y’too friendly.”
You grin. “And you're not.” For the first time, the corner of his mouth tugs. Barely. A ghost of a smile, there and gone in half a second.
You, catching it anyway. Making to file it away like a victory.
And Simon, unlocking his door, slowly shaking his head once, almost fond, but his voice is gentler when he says, “Goodnight, luv.”
Part 6 of lieutenant!simon stays with sergeant!reader because his flat has mold and seeing you off-duty knocks him sideways
The next few days settled into a strange, silent rhythm. Everything looked the same. Simon still made dinner, you still washed his shirts when they turned up in the hamper, he still handed you a mug of tea without asking how you took it. But it still all felt different. You couldn’t meet his eyes without heat flooding your chest, and he couldn’t look at you without something tightening in his jaw. He was punishing himself, you knew that much, stacking invisible bricks between you like he could wall off the memory of your mouth on his.
But to your silent relief, he never mentioned staying at Johnny’s place again.
You didn’t notice when you drifted off. One minute you were reading on the couch again, trying to lose yourself in anything that wasn’t him, and the next the flat was dark and quiet around you, the only sound the soft hum of the heat and the occasional creak as the building settled.
You weren’t sure what woke you. A thud, maybe. But then you heard it again. A strangled sound. Half-choked, half-panicked.
Nothing like the even, controlled breaths of Lieutenant Simon Riley.
You sat up immediately. For a moment you just froze, heart hammering, listening. There. Another sound. A hitched inhale, like someone coming up from underwater.
You didn’t think, you just moved. Your feet carried you down the hall before your brain caught up. You hesitated only once, outside his closed door, hand raised but not touching the wood.
You whispered, “Simon?”
No response. Just another quiet noise. It was not loud, not dramatic, but wrong. With a breath, you pushed the door open.
He was sitting upright on the bed, back to you, shoulders heaving once, twice. The glow from the hallway reflected off the sweat clinging to the line of his neck, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress so tightly his knuckles were white.
“Hey,” you said softly, stepping inside. “Simon.” His head snapped up. You closed the space quickly, reaching a small hand out for his shoulder. But before you could blink, his hand shot out, fingers closing hard around your wrist. The instinct was pure reflex, you recognized that immediately, but it stole your breath.
His grip was crushing, body still wound tight with whatever hell he’d been dragged out of. His eyes were wild for a second, darting, unfocused, caught somewhere that wasn’t here.
You didn’t pull away. “It's me,” you said quietly. “Just me.”
His breathing stuttered. The fight drained from his grip all at once. He let go like he’d touched a hot kettle. His hand hovered in the space between you for a second before clenching into a fist that he pulled it back to his thigh.
“Sorry,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Didn’t— didn’t mean…”
“You alright?” you asked, voice low and steady, like you weren’t sure if you should be here at all.
He dragged a hand over his face. “Didn’t want you hearin’ that.”
“You weren’t exactly quiet.”
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so tight. He wouldn’t look at you. Not with his guard down like this. Not with his mask off in ways that had nothing to do with fabric. You stepped closer anyway and he didn’t flinch this time.
You lowered yourself onto the edge of the bed beside him, leaving a few inches of air between your thighs. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him but far enough that he could’ve moved away if he wanted. But he didn’t.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The room held you both in its quiet darkness. Just two soldiers in a domestic space that had become far too dangerous.
You finally broke it, voice low. “Happens, y’know. We all get ‘em.”
He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head once. He almost laughed at the thought of you getting rattled in your sleep. You, with your nightlight and that daft stuffed animal you refused to hide. But the truth lodged deep in him, he felt a different kind of duty with you a wall away. “Not like that.”
You raised a brow. “Nightmares are nightmares, Simon.”
His gaze flicked to your hand on the bed between you, then to your face. “Haven’t had one in a long time,” he muttered. He didn’t say the rest, that it felt different after the kiss, with you sleeping just on the other side of the wall.
Not mission-driven, not the cold vigilance of a safe house. Something warmer. Worse. Something he was having trouble shutting off. He slept lighter, listening for you without meaning to. That protecting you here felt nothing like the job. That it was starting to scare him. And Simon doesn’t get scared.
You shifted just slightly, your knee brushing his. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second.
You couldn’t help but notice the change in him, the soft edges he’d never shown you on the field, nearly unrecognizable to the Simon you met years ago.
Your voice was quiet. “Simon…”
His eyes flicked to yours, his breath left him in a low, rough sound. “Tell me to stop stayin’ here.” His voice was so even it almost sounded like a command. Maybe a plea.
A small, breathy laugh escaped you, not mocking, just… fond. A smile tugged at your mouth despite everything twisting in your chest.
“Can’t do that, Simon,” you murmured.
Before he could look away, before he could brace himself, you leaned in and brushed your lips against the side of his head, right where his sandy blonde hair was cropped short. You felt him go still beneath it, like the touch had short-circuited him.
Then you stood, leaving him sitting there, breathing like you’d knocked the wind out of him.
quiet moments with Simon Riley after a long Thanksgiving
Dinner’s done. Dishes cleaned.
The house is finally empty. Quiet in that heavy, peaceful way that only comes after a long day of hosting.
You’re curled on the couch when Simon taps your knee once.
“Come ’ere.”
You melt into his side, his arm pulling you in like he’s been waiting all night for this exact moment. His breath warms the top of your head as he settles against you, the two of you sinking deeper into the cushions.
After a beat, he whispers, barely audible:
“’M thankful for you, y’know.”
happy thanksgiving! im thankful i have so many wonderful people to share my writing with.
Part 7 of lieutenant!simon stays with sergeant!reader because his flat has mold and seeing you off-duty knocks him sideways
It happened that Thursday.
It should’ve faded by now. The nightmare, the panic, the way your lips brushed the side of his head. But Simon carried it through the week like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing at. He’d gone quieter, sharper around the edges and he thought he’d hidden it well enough. So, when he heard the front door earlier, he assumed you’d left for your run.
Slippers by the door, jacket missing from the hook, the same routine you’d followed for the last few weeks. But he hadn’t realized you’d doubled back for your headphones.
His voice reached you before you rounded the corner into the kitchen. “—no, it’s fine,” Simon was saying stiffly, that clipped edge he used with strangers. “Just send the bloody invoice. I’ll pick up the keys tomorrow."
You froze in the hallway, breath catching. The keys? Your hand tightened around your water bottle, cold plastic creaking under your grip.
“Yes, I know it’s been ready,” he snapped, pacing a tight line. “Bloody hell, no, I’m not givin’ up the place—I’ll move back in. Didn’t have fuckin’ time before now.” Your stomach dropped.
Ready? Before now?
You stepped into the doorway, quiet but not quiet enough. His head snapped up and the change was instantaneous. His voice softened, shoulders straightened slightly, like he could tuck whatever truth he’d just admitted back under the surface. He ended the call with a short, “I’ll ring you later,” and slipped his phone into his pocket.
You stared at him. “Mold’s been cleared for a week?”
He blinked, jaw flexing. “Was gonna’ tell you.”
“When?” you shot back, not loud, not even sharp, just flat. Controlled. The kind of tone you used in the field when something didn’t add up.
His nostrils flared. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
“You’ve been living here for six weeks,” you snapped, the first crack in your composure. “Cooking in my kitchen, sleepin’ in the bed I don’t use, acting like—”
You cut yourself off. Acting like what? Like he belonged? Like he wanted to be here
He crossed his arms, defensive. “I wasn’t takin’ advantage.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You’re implyin’ it.”
“No, Simon,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m asking why you lied.”
His jaw ticked again. He looked away, the tell he never realized he had. “I didn’t lie.”
“Saying nothing is the same damn thing.”
He scoffed under his breath. “Ain’t always.”
“Oh, so we’re doing technicalities now?”
He bristled. “Yer pissed at me. Fine. Be pissed.”
You threw your hands up. “I’m not— I don’t even know what I am.” Your voice wavered, barely a crack. “You kiss me and then act like that didn’t happen. You sleep down the hall but hover like you’re guarding the perimeter. You make me tea every morning like its muscle memory but can’t look me in the eye long enough to tell me your flat’s been fine for days?” Your voice is high and clipped.
He stepped forward. So did you. “Tell me what I’m supposed to think,” you whispered.
He stared at you like you’d just pulled the pin from a grenade. Then something in him snapped.
“I DON’T FUCKIN’ KNOW, DO I?!” he shouted. The sound ricocheted off the walls. You startled, not because you were afraid of him, but because you’d never heard that volume from him inside four safe, domestic walls.
Hands fisted at his sides, shoulders drawn tight, breathing hard, the mask sliding back over him like a shutter slamming down. “Don’t know what I’m supposed to think,” he growled, pacing once, sharp, ripping a hand through his hair. “Don’t know how I’m supposed to stay away when you— when this place—” He stopped himself, tension vibrating through him. “And you’re askin’ why I didn’t say anything?”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
He laughed. Harsh. Bitter. “Because I knew this’d happen.”
You blinked. “What? Me asking why you lied?”
“No,” he snapped. “Me fuckin’ it up.”
You opened your mouth but he cut you off, louder now, voice cracking, “You think I don’t know what it looks like? Lingerin’ around here. Cookin’ in your kitchen. Sleepin’ down the hall wantin’ to—” He bit down on the sentence so hard his jaw trembled. “—wantin’ too much.”
Silence. The moment was heavy and fragile. You hadn’t moved and neither had he. He finally lifted his eyes to yours, and this was the worst part — he looked furious, but every bit of it was directed inward.
The self-hatred, the fear, the guilt. All of it aimed squarely at himself. Not you, never you. He stepped back like he’d come too close to something dangerous. Like you were the thing that could make him lose control.
“You shouldn’t jus’ be angry,” he muttered, voice ripping low. “You should kick me out.”
You stared at him, chest tight, heart pounding, realizing he actually believed that. You stared at the rigid line of his shoulders. At the fists he kept clenching and unclenching. At the way he couldn’t look at you without flinching, like wanting you was a weakness that disgusted him.
He thought you should kick him out. He genuinely thought that.
“Simon,” you said, voice low but steady, “if I wanted you gone, you’d be gone.”
His breathing stuttered. Just once. “And I’m not angry because you’re here,” you added. “I’m angry because you’re acting like it doesn’t mean anything.”
That got him. His head snapped toward you. “It doesn’t—”
“Oh, fuck off,” you cut in, stepping forward. “We’re way past pretending.”
His eyes went wide, then narrowed, not at you, but at himself, because he had no argument. None. He took a step closer. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.”
“You don’t.”
“Then tell me I’m wrong.”
Silence. Thick. Brutal. His jaw worked, breath heaving, eyes burning with everything he refused to say. He looked furious. Wrecked. Cornered. At himself. At you. At the six weeks of pretending you both hadn’t already crossed a line the minute you folded and stacked his laundry for him.
You felt heat rising in your chest, the kind of frustration that made your hands shake. “Say it, Simon. You fucken can’t even—”
He moved.
One second there was air between you, the next his hand was in your hair, the other gripping your waist, pulling you into him with a force that wasn’t gentle by any definition of the word.
He kissed you like he hated it.
Like he hated that he wanted it.
Hated that he’d let it get this far.
Hated himself for every reason he stayed and every reason he should’ve left.
Your gasp hit his mouth, swallowed instantly, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt as you dragged him closer, matching his anger with your own. You kissed him back like you were furious with him. With yourself. With all the ways you’d both been so stupid.
His lips were hot, harsh, desperate. Yours answered with equal fervor.
He muttered something against your mouth — half-growled, half-broken. “Bad fuckin’ idea, this,” he breathed, but it came out like a confession, not a warning.
“Too late,” you shot back, dragging his lips down to you again.
He groaned, low and ragged, like he’d been holding it back for weeks and his hands slid to your hips, gripping hard enough that you felt your breath catch. “We’re fuckin’ idiots,” he muttered against your mouth.
“Yeah,” you mumbled, brushing your lips over his. “Absolute idiots.”
He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, then suddenly bent, one arm hooking behind your thighs, the other bracing your back. Before you could react, you were in the air.
“Simon—”
“Not talkin’ anymore,” he growled, standing to his full height with you cradled against him. “We’re too bloody stupid for talkin’.”
He kissed you once more, quick and sharp, as he carried you down the hall like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done.
A/N: This has been an absolute joy to write! While I do believe this may be the last part for a while, I am sure I will revisit these two in further drabbles/one-shots/additions. I will make sure to utilize the tag-list for any future roommate!simon works. If you'd like to be added, drop a comment. And once again, thank you all so much for the love. I hope you will enjoy my future series just as much.
boyfriend!simon riley carves the bird on thanksgiving
Simon carves the turkey with surgical precision, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the flex of muscle catching your eye every time he drags the knife through a perfect slice. His gaze keeps flicking to you whenever you drift too close, like he’s tracking you as carefully as the blade.
“Careful, love,” he murmurs, shifting a plate toward you with a nudge of his knuckles. “Let me handle the sharp bits. You just tell me how you want it.”
You grin. “You’re taking this very seriously.”
He snorts softly, lining up another flawless cut.
“’Course I am. S’our first Thanksgiving together. Not lettin’ the bird, or you, down.”
After a rough training day, boyfriend!simon finally lets girlfriend!reader tend to his wounds
You weren’t supposed to be awake.
He’d counted on that, even lingered on base longer than he needed to. He showered, changed, killed time in his office until the sting in his knuckles dulled and the bleeding on his forearm slowed to a tacky smear. Long enough, he hoped, for exhaustion to pull you under.
But your head shot up the second the door clicked shut.
“Simon?” Your voice was soft, sleep-rough and worried in a way he didn’t expect. His stomach dipped.
He stepped into the light of the kitchen, and your eyes widened before he could even open his mouth.
There was blood on him. Not a lot, not the kind that would scare you, but enough. More than you’ve seen before. His knuckles were split open. A clean slice along his forearm. A bruise blooming under his jaw.
You stood up so fast the blanket slid off your lap. “What happened?”
He lifted a hand, trying to wave you off. “’S nothin’, love. Runnin’ drill went sideways.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched him with that gaze that stripped him bare in a way no one ever could before. “Sideways,” you repeated, gently incredulous.
He grunted, the closest he’d get to confirming or denying anything, and started for the bathroom. “Drop it.”
You blocked him. “Sit.”
He huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh. “Not happenin’."
“Sit. Down.” You hissed and his eyes cut to yours with a sharp warning, a look that made full-grown men rethink their life choices. But you didn’t budge.
He exhaled hard through his nose, looking away like the ceiling suddenly needed evaluation
“I’m not lettin’ you fuss over this.” He motioned vaguely at his hand, like it wasn’t shredded. “Don’t need you seein’ me like..."
“Like what?” you pressed softly. His throat bobbed.
“A man who uses his hands for this kind of shite,” he muttered finally, low and harsh.
And that’s when it hit him, the part he didn’t say out loud: the same hands that break bone, breach doors, choke out threats in dark rooms… touching you. Holding you. Cooking for you. Fucking loving you.
He hated the thought of you making that connection. Fucking hated imagining the line between Simon and Ghost blurring anywhere near you. A man built for violence had no place in this kitchen. Not in this apartment you decorated. Not with you. Not bloody, not bruised, not like this at all.
And ever since you’d asked, so innocently it hurt, to see him wear the mask after this last deployment, something had shifted. Not in you. In him.
Coming home to you this time felt different. More fragile and breakable in a way that had nothing to do with danger. And running into Price at the grocery store last week, seeing his captain standing there in the same fluorescent aisle as the woman who washed his sweaters and kissed his jaw in the mornings, only split that feeling wider.
It made him feel like there was a part of himself — the part he’d relied on to stay numb and functional between ops — that didn’t belong here anymore.
A part he suddenly hated, for the first time in his life. Hated that Ghost lived in him at all. Hated that he couldn’t peel the man you loved away from the monster that kept him alive.
You stepped closer, voice soft, steady, undoing him in a way nothing else could. “I know what kind of man you are, Simon,” you murmured. “Sit.”
No threat. No force. Just warmth, the kind that cut through his armor sharper than any blade
His gaze snapped to yours on instinct, ready to push back, ready to protect that ugly little piece of himself he still thought could scare you off. But you held his eyes like you wasn’t scared of him at all
And just like that, all the fight bled out of him. He relented with a low, defeated sigh and lifted himself onto the counter. You stood between his knees with the first-aid kit, all gentle hands and soft concentration
You took his fist like it was something precious instead of something dangerous, dabbing carefully at the torn knuckles.
He didn’t breathe at first, afraid he might flinch. When you moved to the slice along his forearm, he exhaled slow, controlled, but not nearly controlled enough. His fingers twitched against the counter, wanting to hold onto something, wanting, God help him, to hold onto you.
The entire time, he wasn’t sure what he felt more: fear or relief.
Fear, that you were seeing every ugly part of him up close.
Relief, that you hadn’t run from it.
Part 4 - boyfriend!simon gets pissed when his girlfriend!reader asks him to put on his mask when he gets home from deployment
A/N: okay i'm starting to fall in love with this guilt-ridden torn in half simon. anyone else? if you want to see more let me know, got a few little multi-parts going and want to know which is everyone's favorite!
OW OW OW hello! I've been profundely irritated with my hair lately (shoulder lenght) just because (actually I think it's bcse I'm autistic or just very overahelmed by it). I can't cut it because of familiar reasons, but I swear to God the thing I want the most is just to shave it, I can't take it anymore!
Can you write a scenario with this same situation with Simon? Absolutely love your writing. 😪❤️🩹
i hope you enjoy this! My hair has also been an absolutely struggle when I'm writing or working on my computer. I feel you!
You didn’t realize how much your hair was getting on your nerves until it started interfering with everything.
Every time you tried to work, it slid forward into your eyes. When you cooked, it tickled your neck until you wanted to scream. When you slept, you woke up sweaty and tangled. Even just walking around the flat, the strands kept coming loose from your clip like they were mocking you.
Simon noticed. Of course he noticed.
He didn’t say anything at first, just pushed the strands back whenever he walked by you. A warm knuckle brushing your temple. A gentle tug behind your ear. A palm smoothing it out of your eyes when you leaned over the counter to chop vegetables.
“You alright?” he’d ask casually, like he hadn’t watched you wrestle the same strand four times in ten minutes.
“M’fine,” you muttered for the third day in a row, shoving it into a clip again.
Later, you were both on the sofa, you trying to read while your hair repeatedly fell into your face, and Simon’s patience finally snapped before yours did.
He watched you fight with it once, twice - then he reached over, plucked the hair tie from your fingers, and gently pulled your hands down. “Love,” he said quietly, like he was worried he might spook you. “Why don’t you just cut it shorter if it’s botherin’ you?”
You shrugged, frustrated. “I can’t.”
He studied you for a moment, then his voice dropped, rough and certain. “You’d still look gorgeous, y’know. Could shave the lot off and it wouldn’t touch you.”
Your stomach flipped.
“Hate watchin’ you fight with it,” he murmured, fingers lingering near your cheek. “Rather see more of that pretty face than see you miserable.”
Your hair slipped forward again, but he caught it before it fell.
“Little menace,” he muttered, tucking it back once more, gentler than he had any right to be.
