Something something TF 141 gets a new secretary because their old one decided to finally retire, and you show up.
A sweet little thing, no military experience, all shy smiles and nervous chuckles, punctual and neat.
You take care of their paperwork, their mail, schedule their meeting, bring them coffee, and most importantly it’s not half bad to have a good set of legs and a pretty face to look at.
Price was a right gentleman, a nicer boss than you could’ve ever expected from a military man, and Soap and Gaz really had your confidence going whenever they made their flirtatious quips (which was everyday, really).
Ghost, though? Ghost was exactly what you’d expected after hearing the stories: a stoic, intimidating man who spoke in grunts and monosyllables, and who was, in your opinion, quite rude.
Did the man have no manners? Had his mother not taught him to say ‘thank you’?
You tried making an extra effort with him, your need to be liked overpowering your annoyance towards the lieutenant, because you intended to keep this job; the pay was great, it was a short drive from your apartment and you weren’t going to let a guy who wore a bloody skull balaclava everyday ruin this for you.
So you smiled more, made your good mornings and good afternoons sweeter, same as the tea you’d leave on his desk everyday at 4 pm sharp, and the little squiggly hearts you’d draw on the post it notes on top of his files.
And when Simon’s grunts started mutating into full fledged sentences, and he actually told you a joke, you found yourself grinning, more out of self satisfaction than because of whatever ridiculous pun he’d said in that deep, rumbling voice of his.
For you, it was over, your plan had worked, and now all your bosses liked you, getting rid of that lingering uneasiness in the back of your head.
For Simon, on the other hand? You’d unlocked Pandora's box, if said box contained the lieutenant’s affection (obsession) for you.
It was true, he hadn’t liked you at first: you disrupted the routine, the practised flow of the office, and gave Johnny and Kyle an excuse to be fucking insufferable in their working space instead of only in the shitty pubs where they’d drag him after shifts. He was going to lose his fucking mind if he had to hear another “can’t walk into the office looking that good, darlin’. won’t let me get anything done”.
The worst part was that they weren’t wrong; you were pretty and Simon couldn’t deny that. I mean, what did anyone expect, for him to not shoot a look at your arse in those tight trousers? He was but a man.
But when you started your little routine, it sent him down a spiral. What the fuck was your problem? Why would you draw a bloody heart next to the note that reminded him about his debrief?
What you hadn’t understood, though, was that with a man like Simon Riley, that wasn’t just being nice, it wasn’t getting him to like you. it was an enablement of his ugly heart, something that fed the flames of his desires, because why else would be making him tea? that was practically a wedding vow, love.
So he decided that you were his, that he didn’t need to discuss it with you because you already worried your pretty, little head too much with work and what future husband would he be if he didn’t try to make your life easier?
That included tellin Kyle to fuck off when he flirted with you, giving you a lift when your car broke down (which had absolutely nothing to do with simon messing with its battery), and helping you find your cat when it ran away (the fucking thing had scratched the hell out him when he’d taken it to that alleyway).
The most important part of his duties, however, was watching you, making sure you were safe. Because who was gonna do it if not him? certainly not your, in his assessment, untrustworthy friends.
And your locks were so easy to pick, it had only taken him one try.
So Simon watched as you read a book and bought the same the very next day, he watched you prepare meal after meal with the nutritional value of a brick and made a mental note to make you something healthy when he’d finally cook for you, and he watched as you came out of the shower, completely enthralled.
Unfortunately, he had no way of looking into your bathroom but you’d walk into your room wrapped only in a towel so he wasn’t going to be too picky. Especially not when he got to see you rub that vanilla scented lotion that drove him insane into your soft skin, or drop the fluffy towel to the ground only to cover the delicate swell of your breasts with your pyjama top.
His favourite part, however, was without doubt when you’d lie against your pillows, your fingers dipping below your waistband. His sweet bird, not so innocent after all.
His body would burn as he watched, his hands aching to replace your fingers, his tongue wetting his lips because it couldn’t touch yours.
He held onto every tiny gasp, every quiet whine, knowing that he’d make you sound so much better.
But he was patient and he was going to do things properly, take his time: take you to dinner, buy you gifts, eventually give you the ring he’d already bought. He wasn’t a total wanker, lovie.
So for now he was going to be satisfied with watching you and stealing your panties, offering a gruff “morning, sweetheart” the next day.
pairing: stalker!simon "ghost" riley x gn!reader
synopsis: you thought you were just being paranoid, looking over your shoulder every time you walk home from the café after the closing shift. a movement here, a shadow there—a stalker, you concluded. but when strange things started happening inside your house, you knew you were not dealing with just any stalker. [wc: 3.9k].
note: i saw this prompt by @andromacheofappalachia and immediately though of ghost because that man has high potential to become unhinged. this took longer to write than i thought because i couldn't decide whether to use ghost's or reader's POV, so after going back and forth, i did both! turns out, i'm capable of writing happy(?) endings after all.
tags: stalking; possessiveness; creepy behaviour; caring behaviour?; fluff?; coffee shop AU; break-in; mw3 spoilers; ex-military!ghost; unhinged!ghost; reader is a college student; age gap
masterlist
living in the big city—those words had always sounded enticing to you. but when you actually moved to go to college, you didn't expect city life to be this hectic. three months in and the glamour had worn off, revealing the ugliness beneath.
you lived in a dingy apartment near the local park, with a broken entrance door and flickering hallway light. yet you worked to the bone just to keep that roof over your head and put food on the table. still, it was home and you were determined to at least make it until graduation.
the coffee machine hissed angrily as you wiped sweat from your brow. your eyes were bloodshot because you were up late finishing an essay last night. three midterms were coming up, rent was due in two days and the morning rush had brought in a tsunami of caffeine-hungry customers.
your fingers trembled slightly as you packed another portafilter with mediocre coffee grounds. the double shift you took yesterday did a number on your muscles.
"large oat milk latte!" you called out, forcing a bit more brightness into your customer service voice. today was not your day and it was only getting started.
the sky was gloomy, as it usually was during the cold winter months. outside, the streets were wet from rain. shallow puddles on the ground splashed beneath people's shoes as they walked by. contrasting the cold hues, the café's warm lights shone from its windows, painting gold onto the damp pavement outside.
when the morning rush passed, you were finally able to breathe. you attempted to mend the broken vanilla syrup pump which was your colleague's doing when the door chime ringing caught your attention. another customer.
you fixed your messy hair and smoothed out the beige apron that you wore over your oversized sweater. a man walked inside the cosy café and you gave him a smile.
"hi, what can i get you?" you asked, keeping your voice warm despite the slight undertone of exhaustion.
you'd never seen this man before, he was definitely not one of the regulars. despite the large volume of customers and seeing new faces every day, there was just something very distinct about this one.
he was big—tall as he was buff. his head, mostly hidden under a grey beanie, showed tufts of blond hair that stuck out. though his face was mostly obscured beneath a black surgical mask, the man owned the most beautiful pair of deep-set brown eyes you'd ever seen. under the café lights, they almost looked like caramel candies.
and yet, they were also the most tired pair of eyes you'd seen all week, like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in days. there was just something about them that you likened to yourself, eliciting sympathy from you.
he mumbled his order, his voice rough and kinda hot, with a distinct manchester accent, "black coffee, one sugar. takeaway."
quick and simple.
"of course, coming right up."
you worked with swift hands, movements steady and habitual. your mind was too preoccupied with an internal debate—how can he look so attractive when i can't even see his face?—to notice that his gaze never strayed from you the entire time.
after making the coffee, you handed him his drink and threw in a free cookie. "on the house," you said calmly, before turning your attention to the next customer, who happened to be a regular. you greeted her warmly and soon got started on her usual.
why did i do that? you thought as you worked on making the next drink. you knew you were going to have to pay out of pocket for that, yet you still gave a random guy a free cookie.
perhaps it was those damn eyes or...
you didn't want to think too much about it, so you settled with a simple 'just because' and 'kindness begets kindness' to justify your spontaneous action.
the man paused for a second as he silently accepted the freebie, casting you a final, lingering glance before heading out the door.
the days blurred. your life was mostly made up of lectures, essays, some group projects, and of course, your job at the café. during off-peak hours, when your manager wasn't present, you would be hunched over at the table near the counter, studying in your free time. a packet of your favourite strawberry milk would always accompany you.
you noticed that the man from the other day had started showing up every now and then. a repeat customer was always great for business, so you gave yourself a pat on the back for giving him that cookie (which you assumed was the catalyst).
he always sat in the quiet corner by the window, alone. his order never varied either—black coffee, one sugar.
still, it was nothing out of the ordinary to you. the café gained and lost regulars all the time, and this man was no different. until two months later, when it was the third time this week that the man sat at the café, ordering nothing but his usual.
you moved towards his table. "can i get you anything else, sir?"
he met your gaze directly for the first time that day. "no, thank you."
nodding, you collected his empty cup with a smile.
"you're here a lot," you said, the words slipping out before professionalism could catch it. a warmth crept up your face. "sorry, that was—"
"i am," the man agreed, cutting off your embarrassment. "good place to think."
you nodded, clutching his empty cup and silently hoping you didn't offend him. "well, we appreciate the business."
later that day, your manager scolded you, something about the ice machine not working. you tried so hard to hold back words that might cost you this miserable job.
you were determined not to let a bad day at work ruin the rest of your evening, so you bought a small tub of ice cream on your way home. in your mind, you could already hear your mother's voice scolding you for eating ice cream in the middle of winter, but you didn't care. a sweet treat is a sweet treat.
tugging your hood lower, you picked up your pace as you walked towards your apartment building. it was late and the streets were quiet. luckily there were a handful of other pedestrians in the vicinity to ease your nerves. you were never the biggest fan of walking alone in the dark.
eventually, you couldn't shake the feeling that someone was staring at the back of your head. a glance over your shoulder showed nothing but shadows. how strange.
your hand dug into your pocket and grabbed your keys readily. as you passed the alley near the old laundromat, you could've sworn you saw movement for a split second. tall, broad—there and then gone again.
your building loomed ahead, the familiar cracked steps promising safety. the entrance door was still broken, so you were quickly able to bypass that. but that also meant that whoever was following you could too.
nearly running, you fumbled with the keys when you reached your front door, your fingers stiff and clumsy from the cold. paranoia crawled into your mind and the feeling that someone was out there became impossible to ignore.
finally your lock turned and you darted inside, slamming the door shut behind you before promptly locking it. your heart was racing in your chest and you tried your best to get rid of that uneasiness in your stomach.
silently, you pressed your ear against the door, trying to discern if there was actually someone that followed you home. no footsteps followed. no knock, nor voice. your peephole showed only an empty hallway.
with a sigh, you slowly backed away before taking off your jacket. everything was okay.
what you weren't aware of was the dark figure lingering at the end of the hallway outside your door, eyes fixed on where you had just disappeared into your apartment.
a few days later, it began.
you were still half-asleep with the taste of toothpaste clinging to your tongue, before freezing the second you saw a paper bag on your counter. you didn't remember putting it there and you definitely remembered locking your door last night.
apprehensive, you took a peek inside. there was a loaf of bread, fresh strawberries and the expensive tea you only let yourself buy on payday. there was no receipt and no explanation.
maybe i left it there, you tried to reason with yourself. maybe you bought it and you just forgot. stranger still, when you opened your fridge, you swore there were more things inside than yesterday.
the next week, it happened again. this time, the package was in your bathroom, arranged carefully beside the sink. it was an entire stock of your favourite skincare products that you so frugally used to make them last as long as possible.
that night you slept poorly, waking up every hour with the feeling that your apartment wasn't entirely yours anymore.
by the third time, you stopped trying to make excuses. you came home to find a cardboard box on your bed. inside was a soft blanket, a six-pack of your favourite strawberry milk and a book you'd mentioned wanting in passing to a customer at the café weeks ago.
suddenly, the air in your apartment felt different. every shadow in the corners seemed darker, like it was hiding something, someone. you found yourself checking behind the shower curtain, under the bed, inside the wardrobe.
absolutely nothing. it made you feel like you were slowly going crazy. when you turned off the light that night, the smell of cigarette smoke lingered faintly in the air.
within the same week, you had asked your landlord to change the lock of your apartment, but he didn't grant you permission, so you settled with installing a chain lock to your door.
it had been another long day. your wrists ached from scrubbing tables and your back was sore from standing on your feet for way too long.
rent was late again. you could go on and on about the disproportionate increase of living costs vs. minimum wage, but that wouldn't help the headache you were starting to feel.
by the time you stepped into your apartment, you allowed your mind and body to decompress. you tossed your bag onto the couch, letting out a long, tired sigh.
that's when you saw another brown paper bag sat neatly on your kitchen counter.
you hadn't gone shopping in a while, yet there it was. two fresh persimmons, a carton of eggs, even a loaf of sourdough from the bakery down the road (the one you couldn't afford anymore) and of course, your favourite strawberry milk drink.
the first and second time this had happened, you freaked out. now… you didn't know what to feel. you had reported it to the police the moment it became suspicious, but you were told that "without substantial evidence" they "aren't able to take any action", so you dropped it. cops were unreliable anyways.
in the beginning, you were unsettled and paranoid, as you should be.
but after months of feeling invisible, worn down by bills and loneliness, the thought of someone caring enough to notice what you liked and needed… it was warm and comforting.
besides, with money tight, the gestures seemed almost luxurious considering that you could barely afford most of these things anymore.
so you didn't tell anyone and kept quiet about the situation.
lieutenant simon riley thought he was fucked up in the head from the torture he went through all those years ago. but after the shit that happened with makarov and losing his best friend, he reached new lows.
unable to function properly in the military and therefore becoming 'useless' to the higher-ups, john price recommended an early retirement for him. it took a lot of convincing (and a physical altercation between him and the captain), but simon finally agreed to leave the military for his own good.
then it started with a singular cup of coffee. it was supposed to be a nothing day. just a quick trip to the nearest café for some bean water.
for some reason, simon had chosen to take the long way, with no real destination in mind. the streets were quiet and wet from rain under the pale winter sky. shallow puddles on the ground splashed beneath his boots as he walked.
his civilian life still felt… foreign. there was no hum of comms in his ear, no target to watch, nor the persistent feeling that his life was in imminent danger. this was new, but he was starting to get used to it.
the café he randomly picked was small, wedged between a laundromat and a shop with a flickering neon sign. warm light shone from its windows, bleeding onto the wet pavement. he stepped inside with no reason other than to escape the rain and grab a quick cup of caffeine.
you were stood behind the counter, hair a little messy, wearing a beige apron. there were dark circles under your tired eyes and simon guessed it was from long nights and too many shifts. typical city dweller—you wouldn't be the first overworked person he'd met that day.
yet when you caught his gaze, you smiled. a genuine smile, like you meant it. not the fake, dead-eyed customer service smile he grew accustomed to.
"hi, what can i get you?" you asked. he heard the fatigue in your voice, but still you tried to sound friendly.
"black coffee, one sugar. takeaway," simon muttered without much courtesy.
"of course, coming right up."
his eyes were glued on you as you worked.
after he paid and you handed him his drink, you suddenly added a cookie to his order. "on the house," you said, before another customer stepped forward to the counter.
simon was caught off-guard. people didn't just… give like that. not to strangers, let alone to intimidating men his size with a demeanour that screamed leave me the fuck alone. you just slid the cup across the counter along with the packaged cookie, your fingers brushing his.
something shifted in him. simon told himself it was nothing, that he'd forget you the second he stepped outside.
but that night, lying in bed, he kept replaying the sound of your laugh when you greeted the next customer and the way you'd added the cookie to his order for whatever reason.
in his world, it was rare to be looked at without suspicion or fear. it was rarer still for someone to see him and offer kindness anyway.
the next day, he found himself walking the same route. just in case. by the end of the week, he knew your schedule and near the end of the month, he stopped denying it.
you'd given him a cookie once and now he wanted everything.
it's been over a month and simon had become a regular at the café.
he watched from his corner table, steam rising from the untouched black coffee before him. his eyes tracked your movements through the reflection in the window, a habit from years of surveillance work that civilian life couldn't erase.
the dark circles under your eyes had deepened since yesterday, he noticed. your posture communicated exhaustion, but the smile you put on your face remained genuine, like you were intent on pushing through another day with a grin.
he'd been keeping an eye on you for a while now. first out of curiosity for the person who gave him a free snack. but eventually, he noticed the quiet determination that radiated from your hunched form as you studied textbooks during off-peak hours.
fascinating, he though to himself. he hadn't seen this kind of buoyancy in a person since johnny's passing since the military. something about that stubborn resilience had triggered his attention.
and attention, for simon, had always been a dangerous thing to give.
his fingers tapped a silent rhythm against the wooden tabletop, counting the time as you moved between tables. twenty-seven seconds since you last greeted a customer, nineteen since you took a breather when the manager wasn't looking.
he knew your schedule by heart now: monday and wednesday classes until 14:00, work until 20:30, tuesdays and thursdays in class until 17:00, friday double shifts at the café, weekends varied.
simon also knew you lived in the apartment near the local park, the one with a broken entrance door. he often stared at the window that faced the alley, curtains too thin to hide your silhouette studying late into the night.
he sipped on his now-lukewarm coffee, watching as your manager chewed you out (again) for something out of your control (again). your face remained blank, but simon caught the slight tremor in your hands and the way your jaw clenched in irritation.
"pathetic," he muttered under his breath, though whether that was directed at you, the manager or himself remained unclear. simon was a former special forces lieutenant who served for almost twenty years, yet here he sat, obsessing over a college student like some lovesick teenager.
but they aren't just any student, he tried to justify. they're... different.
simon followed you home that night, keeping to the shadows as you trudged through the downpour of rain. you didn't see him, you never did. even as you looked over your shoulder, sensing a disturbance.
he watched you fumble with three different keys before finally finding the right one and disappearing into the your apartment. the urge to follow you inside had been almost overwhelming. he wanted to see the private spaces where you existed when no one was watching, where you kept your socks, what your nightly routines were.
but the time was not right yet.
soon, he promised himself.
simon had observed you for neaarly two months now and frankly, the urge to break into your apartment was impossible to resist at this point. he'd spent nearly every night watching you through your bedroom window, imagining what your private space looked like.
after weeks of deliberation, he finally made a move.
the front door lock was laughable. one turn of his pick set and it gave with a soft click. simon slipped inside, shutting the door behind him quietly. this felt like the countless infiltration missions he went on in the past.
your apartment was small, nothing fancy. wallpaper peeled in the corners of your walls and the radiator pipes made little rattling noises. but it felt homey—cosy furniture and decoration, along with the overwhelming scent of you.
he stood there for a moment, taking it all in. he'd imagined this space a hundred times from the outside and now he could see it all.
simon moved carefully, eyes scanning over the living room. a second-hand couch stood in front of a small TV and on the coffee table was an unfinished cup of tea next to a stack of textbooks with sticky notes jutting from the edges.
in the kitchen, he checked the cupboards and noticed that there was barely enough food to last the week. a small crease formed between his eyebrows. i knew they weren't eating properly, he thought. that won't do.
he drifted into your bedroom last. the bed was unmade, your sweater was tossed over a chair and the faintest hint of your perfume clung to it.
without thinking, simon's touched the fabric and held it up to his face to take a long whiff. your scent stirred something deep inside him.
he didn't touch anything else. at least, not yet. tonight was about learning and mapping the space, much like the recon missions he used to go on.
before he left, he set a small paper bag on the kitchen counter, containing a loaf of fresh bread, strawberries and some nice tea.
simon locked the door behind him—you would never know he'd ever been there. but now that he crossed the threshold once, he knew it wouldn't be the last time.
after he first broke into your apartment, simon had been keeping an extra keen eye on you, trying to discern your reactions.
at first, he noticed how skittish you seemed, looking over your shoulder every now and then, as if you were waiting for something. he almost felt bad.
he knew that you contacted the police, but he also counted on the fact that law enforcement would not put investigating a supposed break-in incident on a random college student on their priority list.
at one point, you put a chain lock on your door, but of course, that didn't deter him from sending his packages. if he could pick locks and hack into complex security systems, a simple chain was definitely not stopping him.
no matter what you tried, you weren't going to get rid of simon that easily. he was a man on a mission, determined to take care of you.
a part of him said he was just trying to do something nice for the person he was interested in, but he couldn't exactly deny that the thrill of it all felt intoxicating. it became almost impossible for him not to break into your apartment at least once a week so he could watch you sleep in the dead hours of the night. he'd just stand there, looming over your bed, staring at your peaceful, slumbering face.
not creepy at all.
you knew you had a stalker at that point, though you weren't privy to the identity of said person. simon knew that you knew, and he knew that you weren't aware it was him. he still went to the café almost daily and nothing changed in the way you interacted with him, luckily.
then one day, as if you gave up, the prevention efforts stopped. it was quite bizarre how quickly you adapted.
that wasn't too difficult when you realised how much more comfortable life became. your fridge was never empty anymore and you rarely had to worry about doing the groceries.
you stopped double-checking whether you locked the door before bed and sometimes you even left the balcony door unlocked on purpose. i'm just too lazy, you found excuses for yourself. though, the guilty part of you knew exactly why you stopped being so vigilant.
the mysterious packages were no longer surprises. they became a part of your routine. hell, at times you'd even catch yourself tidying the apartment before you left for classes or work, arranging your living space so it looked welcoming.
simon noticed it too; breaking in barely took any effort now and your apartment felt a little cosier than when he first trespassed. he almost felt proud of himself, for being able to stalk you to this extent without getting into any legal trouble.
then one night, as he entered your home while you were asleep, he found a tupperware of homemade brownies on the kitchen counter. the post-it note attached to it read "thank you :)". this made simon raise an eyebrow in slight surprise.
it was as if you were thanking your fucking stalker for dropping off care packages at your apartment. the twisted thought nearly made him smile.
that was when he noticed a vacuum flask next to the plastic container, as well as another note:
❦ things stalker simon does while i work on part three ❧
part one. part two. part three. part four. part five.
a/n: just some headcannons to keep yall fed while i write part three, im sorry abt the wait guys🧍🏻♀️lmk if you wanna be taken off/added to the tag list!
warnings: dark content, sexual content, dubious consent, voyeurism, stalking/surveillance, non-consensual watching/recording. 18+
has multiple hidden cameras across your house. most of them in your bedroom. he watches your eating patterns, sleeping patterns, pays attention to what shows you like, how you dress. he watches you every time you touch yourself. loses it when you eventually start talking to the cameras, “i know you’re watching me, simon.”
he has an entire photo album hidden on an encrypted hard drive labeled with your name—pictures of you sleeping, getting dressed, laughing. videos of you touching yourself. screenshots from the cameras he placed in your bedroom, living room, shower. he spends hours watching them like it’s his favorite show.
he leaves filthy notes tucked under your pillow or into your coat pocket. hand-written in black ink. “you looked so pretty touching yourself last night. next time, leave the light on.”
he jerks off to the sound of your voice when you’re on the phone with friends—doesn’t matter what you’re talking about. just hearing you giggle while he grunts your name under his breath is enough to send him over the edge.
sometimes he calls your phone and doesn’t say anything. just listens to your breathing. hears you get scared. hears you whisper, “simon?” he hangs up with his cock in his hand, breathless. “fuck, she knows.”
he watches your eating patterns obsessively—knows what days you skip meals, when you only eat junk, when you don’t drink enough water. he starts leaving things. protein bars in your mailbox. electrolyte packets by your front door. always your favorites. “you take better care of yourself when you know i’m watching. my good girl.”
he tracks your period. knows when you’re hungrier, more tired, emotional. he notices when your cramps hit hard—when you curl up in bed early or plug in your heating pad. “hurts, doesn’t it, love? i’ll fix it. someday you’ll have my baby in there instead.”
he lowkey trains you from afar, coaching you silently through your toys while you touch yourself. “two fingers tonight. open that little pussy up for me.”
when you cry he watches the whole thing from a dark corner of your room. hidden in the shadows. heart pounding. wishing he could crawl into your bed and hold you.
one night you lit candles and touched yourself in bed. soft moans, hips rocking slow. you whispered his name into the dark. he came untouched.
when you’re out with another guy, he follows you both. watches from the parking lot. fingers twitching over the trigger of his gun.
you mentioned once that you hated how some coworker commented on your outfit—called it “distracting.” next day? that guy called in sick. next week? transferred to a new location.
You should be scared. Very scared. Instead you were just stupid in thinking that this person who had repeatedly broke into your home, admitting to watching you, and completely invading your privacy didn’t mean you any harm.
Your logic that if he wanted to, he would have. You just hoped to god that your intuition about him was right. You had met monsters before. They didn’t make themselves known until it was too late.
But he was different. The small things he did to make your life easier weren’t things men intent on hurting you did. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have the opportunity to.
You had gotten a dog and a cat. A bonded pair that had been left when their family moved away, leaving the partners stranded.
When you came home with the adorable mutt you sent your shadow a cheeky text.
Don’t worry. I made sure he was good with men. Just not sure if he cares for masked ones.
More worried about the cat.
This little guy? Cheese is harmless. You attached a picture of your new orange cat sleeping peacefully on your couch.
You named the fucking thing Cheese?
Dog’s name is Mac.
That only earned you a thumbs down emoji.
It had been three weeks and you were certain he hadn’t been back into your apartment. You had to do mundane tasks again. Take out the trash. Get your mail from the box. You weren’t sure how he was managing that one.
It wasn’t until you got held up at work that you sent him a text. You felt like you were asking too much, but thankfully he had crossed the line from breaking into your place.
Could I ask a favor?
Almost instantly he sent back a reply.
You could
Can you take Mac out? I’m not gonna be out of here for another 3 hours. Another waitress quit last minute and I’m stuck here. 😭
You added the crying face for effect.
Could test out that biting theory.
He won’t bite you.
Wasn’t talking about the dog, Love.
Forty minutes later you got a picture of Mac looking up. His pink tongue hanging out of his mouth, looking up in excitement.
Be careful if you pass by the guy who hangs out back by the play area. Mac dislocated my arm this weekend being a little asshole and lunging after him.
Thought you said he wouldn’t bite.
Wouldn’t bite YOU. He’s a good judge of character.
He’s a good boy.
The following shifts, your shadow would send you photos. All of Mac. All outside. None giving you the slightest idea of what he looked like.
You gave him a heads up that you’d be able to take him out yourself. You don’t know how you’d react to finally meeting him. You could have easily stalked him as he had done you, but there wasn’t any fun in that. And he had made this fun.
You didn’t however count on Mac scratching at the door at 10 pm that night.
Or the next.
Or the next.
His entire schedule was thrown off. The vet said it was a UTI and your only options were keep letting him out as needed or he will try and hold it in and risk his bladder getting inflected. Or even his kidneys.
You were standing in the flood light at the edge of your apartment building when your phone buzzed.
You need to stop going out this late. Not safe.
Why? You text back, grinning. You’re out here too. Not anything to be afraid of.
Careful. Sounds like you like having me around.
Who says I don’t?
He didn’t respond. You try again.
Am I ever gonna be able to meet you?
Three dots appeared after moments of silence
Don’t think so pet.
What’s the point then? Isn’t a hunter’s goal is to get close to their prey?
Is that what you think you are to me? My prey?
You couldn’t tell if he was actually offended. Fuck. How do you make this better?
Is it bad if I want to be?
What the fuck? Your reaction was to turn things sexual? But you weren’t lying. You often found yourself imagining him, a masked stranger coming into your room while you slept. Looming over your defenseless body until the exact moment he decided to strike.
In an instant he would have your hands restrained and a palm covering your mouth. He’d tell you to hush. The fantasy hard to imagine in that moment when you wondered what he would sound like.
I’m not actually afraid of you, you know?
Oh really? Someone is feeling brave tonight. Going out into the dark. Taunting their stalker.
You swear your could feel your heart trying to beat out of your chest. He was into it. Just as much as you were. You thought maybe given the initial cute acts of service it was more of a guardian angel kind of thing.
It wasn’t until you noticed underwear missing did you know he was just as filthy as you hoped him to be. Even though you never brought it up. Too afraid to get in too deep with someone who could be a sociopath.
You could come and see how brave I am.
He didn’t respond immediately and Mac was done dribbling out the last hit of pee. You were in the stairway when your phone chiroed.
Fine. See you soon.
A picture followed. It was dark. So dark you had to turn up your brightness. When your eyes focused, your stomach dropped.
It was you.
A stilled image of you walking into the building your back turned. The image too clear to be taken from a distance. If you had to guess it was no more than ten feet away.
Ten feet away and you didn’t hear a fucking thing. Completely oblivious to the danger close by.
That night you had came so hard you had half a mind to text him a thank you for being the inspiration behind your bliss.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Fandom: Call of Duty
Words: 407
*Trigger Warning* stalking, surveillance, invasion of privacy, obsessive behavior, manipulation, implied fixation, predatory behavior, emotional distress, voyeurism (non-explicit)
From the outset, your interactions with Simon had followed a trajectory that looked, at face value, like a fortunate alignment of circumstances.
Three months ago, he had stepped in during a critical incident, positioning himself as your de-facto partner to de-escalate harassment. At the time, it felt like an unexpected but welcome intervention—timely risk management with a human touch.
And afterwards? He integrated himself into your life with remarkable operational efficiency.
Attentive. Responsive. Always anticipating your needs as if he’d mapped out your behavioral patterns ahead of schedule. You didn’t have a formalized relationship framework yet—no strategic discussion, no scope definition—but the working assumption was that you were, effectively, dating.
Tonight was supposed to be another low-stake engagement: movie night at his place. He’d gone to the kitchen to source snacks, insisting on end-to-end ownership of the evening’s logistics. You sat on his bed, taking a momentary operational initiative to locate the film on his laptop. The same film, coincidentally, that had defined your childhood comfort zone.
His desktop loaded. A folder name surfaced.
“y/n y/l/n. 2024”
Your internal alarms pinged immediately. 2024? That was outside your known shared timeline. You hadn’t even been onboarded into his life back then.
A professional boundary check would have advised you to stop. Not access personal files. Maintain compliance.
But curiosity executed a full override.
You opened it—and your entire system froze.
The folder contained photos. Hundreds. All of you.
Not the curated ones you’d taken together recently.
No. These were archival. Unauthorized. Field-captured.
You leaving a shop.
You at a party with friends.
You arguing with your ex.
The windows of your apartment—angles that should have been impossible for anyone inside to obtain.
You felt your pulse spike, a full-scale internal incident escalation.
Then the bedroom door opened.
A moment later, he entered—voice warm, casual, fully aligned with his usual brand tone.
“So,” Simon called out, balancing snacks with an ease that now felt unsettling, “ready for movie night?”
He smiled.
Relaxed.
Confident.
And in that moment, as you looked from him to the glowing laptop screen, the disparate data points you’d ignored for months began integrating into one clear operational truth:
Nothing about your meeting had ever been a coincidence.
And Simon Riley had been tracking you long before he ever said hello.
