Umm, okay. Kind of a fucked up thought but I’m thinking about Simon’s 6’4” ass using public transit when it’s packed. Sits next to a bird, he’s trying to relax so he doesn’t have any ill intentions. Manspreads because otherwise he’s gonna trip people up. But the bird next to him? You’re not having any of it. Put your hand on his thigh, and his face goes pale under the mask. Looks at you with wide eyes. “Oh, what, is this making you uncomfortable?” in the most patronising voice possible.
Simon immediately goes into a silent crisis. Heart rate spikes like he’s under sniper fire. His brain is throwing up red alerts, but his body? Frozen. His training doesn’t cover this. Not the warmth of your palm seeping into his thigh, not the casual dominance of your tone, and certainly not the way you look at him like you know exactly what you’re doing. He doesn't know if you’re flirting, humiliating him, asserting dominance, or all three, and that’s exactly what fries his system. There’s a perverse part of him that likes being caught off guard like this, being rendered speechless by someone who doesn't fear him.
And maybe he hasn’t answered for a minute, so you prod further. “Well?” You could be asking him anything, really: is he gonna move, is he gonna stop you, is he gonna be a good boy. And your hand moves higher instinctually. He tenses, alarm bells blaring in his head.
Then—he speaks. “Wha— I, uh, I don’t, uh—”
He fucking stutters. Simon “Ghost” Riley—ghost story of the battlefield, monster in black, legend with a thousand confirmed kills—stutters like a schoolboy caught looking at porn in the library. All because a bird decided to have a little fun with him on the tram.
And as though that wasn’t enough, his dick decides to add insult to injury. Saw danger, and said, “Cool. Time to stand at attention.” He doesn’t know whether to adjust his pants or propose.
