Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem. Reader
You know this isn't really normal.
It would have been one thing if this was just a good old crush. Typical stuff, as far as crushing on someone usually goes for you--someone forever distant, forever unattainable--the perfect candidate to pin all your hopes and dreams on for a time, until you inevitably become lucid and tear down the billboard-sized image of the man in your heart. Rinse and repeat. The distance keeps you safe and comfortable.
And a part of you dares to admit the quiet part out loud--you enjoy the yearning. The sting, the bittersweet soup of emotions and what-ifs.
But now, that all-important distance is the very thing you are breaching without even deliberating on it, a compulsion akin to a moth being drawn to a flame. Perhaps it wouldn't have been a big deal if it had been any other man. Yet, it is.
Because you're crushing on Lieutenant Simon fucking Riley.
It isn't hard to miss the guy, with how he is, of course. The forever skullface-masked behemoth of a man has a habit of drawing one's eye to him the moment he enters a room, without having to utter a word. Half the time he merely grunts anyhow, but your ears pay their due attention any time he deigns to quip something in his no nonsense Mancunian accent.
And your poor little battered heart sings in delight, every single time.
Of course, as a lower ranked service member, your schedules don't really match with someone of his tier, so you make sure to linger around the gym and common areas, and certain entry points to catch sight of him, whenever you can. Observing. Noting habits and preferences. Carefully penning them down in the personal journal you like to hide under your pillow. He's a creature who's as enigmatic as it gets, and the mask makes it that much harder to get a read on him. It's only when you're 20 pages deep into your journal, recording your stream of consciousness in the dead of night, that you get the inkling that maybe, just maybe, this might be a little too much.
Stalkers were supposed to be creepy, maladjusted, sinister little characters, preying on their victims until things reached a boiling point. And while you had a low opinion of yourself in many regards, you didn't quite consider yourself to be that level of depraved. Yet isn't this what it was, really? Stalking, despite keeping a sizeable distance between yourselves (because Lord knows being observant is an essential requirement in this line of work, and you are more than aware someone of Simon's calliber would be even more so. The last thing you want is to be caught by one of his mates, or God forbid, Simon Riley himself, in this shameful act).
This rare moment of precious lucidity casts a fog on your spirits, a thick concoction of shame and desire and guilt.
Maybe this is a bit much. Maybe you shouldn't be leaving little gifts for the guy (fairly practical supplies, really, things like good quality tea brands you couldn't find on base), despite making sure you wouldn't be caught on surveillance. There were things at stake here, important things like your goddamn career and reputation. You might be addicted to pining and habitually putting your heart through the wringer for no discernible reason, but you knew your limits. You had to.
And no, you certainly didn't want his attention on you--you wouldn't know what to do with it, the very thought makes your palms sweat and legs jittery.
The gifts were all unsigned and without notes, at least. And generic enough that he could assume one of his mates left them out of the kindness and generosity of their golden hearts. Something like that.
Reduce the frequency with which you hover around him--another no brainer. And of course, one last, critical step, getting rid of that stupid little journal, regardless of how sad it made you feel.
It has all these cute little tidbits about him, things you like to read over when insomnia grips you in its capricious hold. Some dry joke he muttered to his Scottish sergeant, the way he drinks his tea, a little too detailed description of his lips and jawline the times he lifts his mask to eat at the mess hall. Even a few amateur sketches. And of course, generous amounts of waxing lyrical about his forearms and thighs while he's working out at the gym. Bloody embarrassing.
So the next time you find a chance to finally breathe, you reach for your pillow, flipping the sad little sack over to reveal the incriminating piece of evidence, armed with a pair of cheap scissors. Only for your heart to drop to your stomach at terminal velocity when you find nothing beneath. Your right hand helplessly clutches the scissors while your left pats the bed as if doing so would conjure up the well-loved journal out of thin air. Did you misplace it somewhere yourself? Or were your mates being little shits, snooping around like rats for a practical joke, and accidentally discovered the little paperback? If so, fuck them--you won't be living this down. If not get outright in a little hot water were a senior with a stick up their ass gets word of it. The worst outcome of course would be if Simon Riley himself was to somehow learn of this too, the cherry on top of a shit cake.
You force yourself to take a few calming breaths--if nothing, your stint in the military at least taught you this much. It's okay--you'll just have to check every spot you frequent and cross them off your list. At this hour, the juniors will at least be out of your way with their curfew. Silver lining and all that.
Except, by the time you make a whole damn lap of the base and come full circle, you're tired to your bones and miserable beyond words. Because no amount of keeping calm and carrying on is helping you when you can't see skin nor hide of your purple prosed diary.
Leaning your forehead against the door of your room, you sigh in defeat, the rattling of your heart loud in your ears in the silence of the hallway. Everyone else seems to be asleep at least, missing out on being an audience to your soap opera.
Just as another quiet string of expletives leaves your mouth, in what's like the blink of an eye, you feel the presence of a looming figure, causing you to whip around in defense, fists locked, ready to fight.
Except when you have to crane your neck to meet the person's gaze, you already know who it is before you, standing so close, his hulking mass invading your space with the casualness of an aloof cat. Your hands drop uselessly the moment you are pinned beneath his gaze, pressing yourself up against the door in a bid to create some breathing space.
"Lookin' for somethin', love?" Simon Riley gruffly asks with a tilt of his head, placing his hand against the wall next to your head. His very first words to you. Your head almost goes blank.
"Uh," you avert your eyes, voice hitching, "N-No? I'm not sure what you're talking about, LT-sir."
"Is that right, soldier," he more so states, leaning in ever closer, cutting off your viewpoint of anything besides himself. "Been watchin' ya."
You balk at the matter of fact statement.
"Watching... me?" you grimace.
Riley merely grunts, before adding, "Got myself a cute little stalker, ain't I?"
All you can do is impersonate a dying fish as you stare up at him in abject horror, overworking heart beating out of your chest.
"Not seen you down the gym in a bit. Or in the mess," he stops for a moment, as if remembering something, "Or the shootin' range."
"Again, I have no idea what you're implying here, sir," you quickly lick your dry lips and decide to stare at his broad chest with great interest instead, propriety be damned.
"Let's not play dumb, love. You're a smart girl," Simon huffs, almost as if holding back one of those dry laughs, "You like me?"
This time you can't restrain the soft gasp you let out as you jerk up at his frank question.
"What...?" you faintly ask, stomach churning.
"Do you like me?" He enunciates his words this time, as if that was the core of the issue. The corners of his eyes crinkle with what looks to be amusement. His brown eyes almost look welcoming. Like home. Like a warm hearth in the dead of winter.
You like him so damn much you don't know what you should do with these feelings. And you do want to be frank, just like he's encouraging you to be. But you're equally terrified of verbally confirming what you've been up to, straight to the man himself. You can't help but want that layer of plausible deniability.
"You," Simon leans down further as if that's somehow possible, with how he's hovering over you, mere centimeters away, "like your egg banjos wi' a daft amount o' raw onion. Listen to the same three songs when you're workin' out," he tilts his head, thoughtful. "Like sneakin' off to that cat shelter when you're off-duty. Even helped 'em name one of the kitties after me."
By this point, you'd qualify as a mute. You feel lightheaded even.
"Want me to carry on, love? Or shall we just sort a proper date instead?" he sniffs, looking a touch bemused. "You got a few things wrong about me in that little journal o' yours. I'll be settin' those straight, don't you worry."
