XoXo

muah <33

[amaranthinespirit]

neighbor!simon riley and the mundane tasks he does to make things easier for you

when you first moved in, you were wary of the big, brute of a man that lived next door. you'd seen him, for the first time, taking his trash to the end of his driveway for the garbage truck to pick up while movers lugged boxes and furniture inside your house. he spared a single glance, offering a nod at your small wave before retreating into his house.

you thought that was that.

for weeks, you lived without any interaction. settling into your new home, coming back and forth between the hardware store and your house for new projects. taking out your trash before you go to work. you'd seen him take out his own trash once, but you watched from your window, so he never noticed.

you felt weird doing it. watching the thick muscles of his biceps flex against his filled out sleeve, dusting his veiny hands on his jeans before adjusting his balaclava. you wondered why he wore it, but you moved on. you'd likely never interact.

until a couple weeks later, you had arrived home with new groceries. a lot of them. it would take multiple trips that would make your arms ache.

you barely opened your trunk when a dark mass appaeared at your side. you gasp in surprise, head craning. damn, he was taller than you thought.

without a word, he reached in and grabbed at least ten grocery bags with ease. it didn't even seen to bother him as he carried it into your garage and to the door. he didn't struggle to open the door, inviting himself in and leaving you dumbfounded.

what the hell?

the next time his weird behavior manifested was when you were at work. you got a notification from your doorbell camera about some movement, expecting a salesperson or jehovah's witness. instead it was your neighbor—the one who's name you still don't have.

he carried a tackle box, and you were about to speak to ask what he was doing when something compelled you to just watch. he seemed to take apart something on your porch, taking and replacing a piece of the light before screwing it back. he left without a word.

when you got home, your porch lights shined brighter than before—they were dim and on the verge of burning out. why would he do that?

you wanted to confront him, but you appreciated these small things. he still appeared out of thing air to take your groceries in, leaving before you could thank him.

he even started pulling out your bin for you, sitting it at the end of the driveway and dragging it back to the garage when the truck came by.

it perplexed you. why was he doing this for you? did he do it for his other neighbors? he had to, you couldn't be that special.

so you continued living life, welcoming the small actions as they made everything easier. besides, you enjoyed the company, even if he never said a word to you or looked in your direction.

the first time you approached him was on the drive home when a light appeared on your car's dashboard. you had no clue what it meant, though you probably should've. when you arrived home, you debated taking it straight to the autoshop, but instead you tried your luck with your neighbor. he likes to help, so you're guessing he wouldn't mind.

with a soft knock to his front door, you stood waiting patiently, and wait you did. a few minutes later, you contemplated turning back because he wasn't answering the door despite being home (his car was in the driveway).

just as you turned, the front door creaked open, revealing your neighbor clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, balaclava shoved on haphazardly. his chest glistened with water as it glifed down his skin. oh fuck.

you could barely keep your eyes off his toned chest, abs flexing under your gaze before they snapped back to meet his dark ones. he lifted his brow in question.

"uh, hi." you said awkwardly, rocking on your feet. you hadn't even properly introduced yourself to the man, mostly because he disappeared so quick that you didn't have the chance. "a light came on in my car, and I was wondering—"

the door shut mid-sentence. it left you dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in shock as you stare at the door like it may open again. maybe his generous actions ended at bringing the groceries in. maybe he didn't want to get dirty after just showering. you couldn't expect the man to be ready to help any time you needed it.

after a minute of contemplation, you turned to walk back down the path. you'd have to get it to the mechanics and figured out how much it'd cost you.

when you reached the last step, the door opened again. still shirtless but now looping a belt around his jeans, he walked out, bare feet padding on the concrete. he nodded to your house, signaling you to lead.

you lead him back, hand him your keys and let him do his thing because now you get a free show. his muscles flex as he works under the hood, dirtying himself in a way that's sinful. after a while working in the hot sun, you go inside and bring back a drink, which he gratefully accepts—still without saying anything.

he's a bit weird, refusing to talk to you, but he's fixing your car so you can't complain.

"is this your official uniform to fix all your single neighbor's cars?" the words slip out before you can stop them. mortification warms your face, but it forces a deep chuckle from your neighbor, whose eyes crinkle under his mask.

he glances up at you, dirt smearing his skin. "only the pret'y ones."

your heart flutters. his voice was deep, gruff, like he smoked cigarettes, but it was satisfying to hear.

"so you do talk." you tease whilst biting back a smile. you'd finally gotten words out of him. a small victory. "what's your name?"

"simon."

"really? you look like a greg."

he shakes his head with a smile and continues working, leaving the two of you in silence. what you don't know is that simon's heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. it's beating so hard, he's worried he'll break a rib.

simon has been working up the courage to say anything to you every time he helps you, nervous as hell to talk to his pretty neighbor who he likes to help. hell go home and think about that interaction for days—or until you ask for his help again.

[anobodycalledlynn]

Ayo—! Free show! 😂

(Damn... Not the biceps,,, 💗)

[sei-un]

a meme redraw

[ynstark]

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who’s got permanent damage in his right ear from years of explosions, gunfire, and close-quarters chaos—no one on base really comments on it anymore, but he’s used to tilting his head slightly when someone talks, or barking a gruff “Wot?” when the words blur together.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who meets you and immediately notices how you don’t dial it down. You talk and talk—rambling about your day, laughing loud enough that it echoes off the walls, filling every quiet corner of his flat like you were made to chase away the silence he’s lived in for years. Past partners always told you to lower your voice, said you were “too much,” but Simon just watches you with those dark eyes and lets you keep going.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who starts positioning himself on your left side without thinking, the good ear turned toward you so he doesn’t miss a single word. He never asks you to speak up or repeat yourself; instead he leans in closer, mask tugged down just enough that you can see the faint scar along his jaw, and mutters, “Keep talkin’, love. Like hearin’ you.”

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who finds your volume oddly comforting after missions. The flat used to feel like a tomb—too still, too quiet. Now it’s full of your voice: you singing off-key in the kitchen, yelling excitedly at the telly, chattering while you cook. He catches fragments sometimes, but the tone? The energy? That comes through crystal clear, and it settles something restless in his chest.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who gets a little smug when you forget and raise your voice even more around him. You’ll be mid-rant about some coworker and suddenly boom a laugh, and he’ll just smirk under the mask, pulling you into his lap with one big hand on your hip. “Didn’t catch all that,” he rumbles, “but I liked the last bit. Say it again.”

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who never once makes you feel like your loudness is a flaw. If anything, he guards it. When Soap or Gaz tease you lightly about being the “loud one” in the relationship, Simon shuts it down with a flat stare and a low, “She talks how she talks. Fuck off.” You’re his noise. His life. The one sound he never wants muffled.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley whose favorite thing is when you’re in bed and that volume of yours really comes out. He loves the way you can’t stay quiet—whining his name, gasping loud when he drags his cock slow and deep, moaning without shame as he pins your wrists above your head and fucks you harder just to hear you get even louder.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who growls against your throat, “Louder, sweetheart. Want the whole fuckin’ block to know who’s makin’ you sound like that.” He angles his hips just right, thick length stretching you open, and when you cry out—sharp, unrestrained, voice cracking on a broken “Simon, fuck, right there”—he swears it hits him harder than any explosion ever did.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who buries his face in your neck as you come undone, your loud, messy moans vibrating against his skin while he spills inside you with a deep, guttural groan of his own. Afterward he stays buried deep, breathing you in, one calloused thumb brushing your cheek as he murmurs, “Never get tired of hearin’ you lose it for me. Loud as you want, love. Always.”

He pulls you close, your chest still heaving, voice hoarse from how freely you let go, and for once the world feels perfectly loud in all the right ways.

[welshj03]

The video game screen trend but with Ghost! I love both versions :D

+Referenced parts of Brick lane for 2009 and Akihabara for 2022, Thank you google earth 🤣

[atomeequark]

casually shows off pricy watch with a gloomy face in the rain （+ Ada in fantastic jelly slippers

[kira-writes-stuff]

Nestled together

Simon "Ghost" Riley x single mom reader

part 7 part 8 part 9

You wake up to the sun casting its light through your curtains and directly onto your face, forcing you to pull the covers over yourself and roll over. At least it wasn't your alarm for once, ringing in your ears while you had a nice dream.

What time was it even? Does it even matter? You're so warm and cozy, all snuggled up in your soft blankets that smell like your floral scented detergent and smoke.

Wait what? Crap.

You struggle to get out of bed, your limbs tangling between the duvet and blankets- miraculously you manage to get untangled. Bare feet stomping recklessly against the floorboards as you slam open the kitchen door expecting to be face to face with a fire that's swallowing your flat up- but it's just Simon.

Highly trained military lieutenant Simon Riley who is currently running water over a burnt pan that supposedly had an omelette in it- at least that's what you think.

His eyes were pitiful.

Almost as if you kicked him.

"Wanted t'make ya breakfast" he mutters, voice far too small to belong to him.

In the certain amount of time that you knew him, there's a few things you learnt that still remain true. He can fix almost anything in your dingy flat, stay vigilant and protective but one thing he lacks is any cooking skills. Surprisingly for how bad he is in the kitchen, he still manages to be even worse behind the wheel.

"Good morning to you too" you snort, opening up your fridge and grabbing some veggies, meat and condiments. He wordlessly follows your actions, opening up the bread he bought that morning and cutting the meat into thin slices as you chop up the veggies- putting everything together to make you both some sandwiches.

You make your way to the couch, wrapping yourself in a throw blanket since you're still cold. Sure, maybe washing your face and brushing your teeth would've been a better way to start your day instead of eating a sandwich in your living room but free will exists for a reason and you intend to use it.

You feel the couch dip as Simon sits next to you, something was off with him.

Most likely because of last night.

It was tough for you both, but you needed to figure things out for your own sanity- having Lily call him dada left a feeling that was beyond painful inside your heart.

The day ended with her falling asleep in her crib as you retreated to your room. Simon fell asleep on the couch, at least that's what you thought- he couldn't even get a wink of sleep from the inner turmoil his head was in.

Now he was almost timid. Overthinking every move he made, every breath he took- acting as if one wrong motion was going to disrupt whatever peace there was.

He pulls something out of his pocket, a neatly folded little handkerchief. Starring daggers into the fabric while he steadies his breathing and then carefully places it in your lap.

You pause for a moment, flicking your eyes between him and the soft material. You set your plate to the side as you run your fingers along the fabric, not once did his gaze meet yours, instead he focused on your hands.

So you unfold it, the silver catching the light as you held it in your hands.

His dog tags.

Shiny and new, most likely a spare of his but no doubt they were the real deal, all his information ingraved into the tiny metal.

"Simon-"

"Want you t'have em"

He still hasn't looked at you, eyes darting to the picture frames you had on your wall. The only sound in the room was your breathing and the faint hum of the fridge.

Taking a deep breath, you pull the chain over your head. You knew what it meant. How much weight the tiny gesture holds. He knew too, trying to be slick but you could see the faint shine he had in his eyes. Slightly glossy and wet from the moment you both sat on the couch.

"Thank you"

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see"

Thats all he managed to say ever since you got in your car, blindly driving as he gave you directions. You rolled your eyes and continued to take turns, humming some random tune the radio had on that morning. Your tiny car driving past buildings until they got smaller, less crowded, slowly turning into houses and you could even make out the sky.

It visibly got more clean, no grafitti or build boards around every corner- you always dreamed of the suburban life. Living inside a nice big house without the fear of disturbing your neighbors by dropping something or not being able to sleep when they'd turn the tv to full volume. Or how your past neighbors used to constantly argue and yell, at that point it felt like you were apart of their problems- nothing like what it could be if they'd live across the street from you.

Alas, ever since you moved out from your childhood home, you only ever been couped up in apartments. Tiny, cramped living spaces that have a decently priced rent and somewhat bearable landlords.

It's safe to say that you could only dream of living somewhere that wasn't a glorified sardine can.

"Simon are you sure we're going the right-"

"Drive."

Okay. Now you were confused- hands on the wheel as you drove through a really nice neighborhood, filled with some of the prettiest houses with even prettier gardens. You passed by a giant park, with an even bigger playground with swings and slides- and it had the neatest sandbox you've ever seen.

"Here."

You hesitated, but slowed down and pulled over in the driveway, were you visiting someone? Why on earth would you be here. He unclasped your seatbelts and got out of the car. The doors shut behind you softly as you followed Simon, expecting him to ring the doorbell- instead he just waltzed right in there.

"Simon what are you doing?" you hiss, voice as frantic as your movements, staggering after him while trying to pull your bag over your head.

The entryway was gorgeous, big glass windows letting in light inside the empty house. It even smelt nice, like that new wood smell and freshly painted walls.

His footsteps stop in the living room- well it didn't have any furniture but you could tell what it was meant to be by the large fireplace in the middle. Outside, you could make out what was a beautiful pool through the wide windows. A little to the right there was a half wall, opening up the space so you could gawk at the most beautiful kitchen.

While you were busy taking all of this in, Simon removed his surgical mask and fumbled with something in his back pocket.

You turn to face him, eyes widening when you saw the keys in his hand- a little heart keychain dangling with them.

"For you."

No way.

Nope.

He has to be joking. No- he didn't just- he must be joking. Ain't no way this man has just bought a house.

"What do you mean?" you hated how little your voice sounded as your eyes looked into his.

"House is yers, yer name on the documents."

Oh that made your eyes sting. Glossing over as your hand covered your mouth.

"Yeah?" the damn broke once he put the keys in your palm, his larger one gently holding it.

"Got a target on my back, don't want that for my girls- it's a secure location, had a good security system installed so you'll be safe" he spoke softly, stopping once he saw your tears.

He bought you a house to keep you safe.

Before he even had the chance to say anything more, you had already wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down and crushing your lips togheter.

It was messy. Noses bumping, teeth slightly clinking- but the feeling of having his chapped lips against yours was accelerating.

You don't want to think anymore. Just want to stay here with his scent wrapping around you and making you feel cared for because you were- with him you were.

Slowly, he wrapped one arm around your waist, lifting the other to gently cup your cheek and tilt your head so he could deepen the kiss.

It was intoxicating.

"You really did that?" you manage to pull back, sniffling and slightly embarrassed by how your nose started running once your tears began to spill out.

"Said I'm not leaving."

It's unbelievable how easy that sounds when it came out of his lips. As if it were really that easy to be loved. To have a family.

Because it wasn't.

For so long Simon had one understanding for family, it meant he had something to lose. The role of a father was tainted with screaming, fighting, hitting- the mother crying and taking everything so her kids won't hurt, kids who no matter what are still frightened and bruised.

A home being four walls that he'd dread waking up in. Family meant hurt. Hurting by living with it and hurting when it is taken from him- when people he cared about were unfairly treated and then taken from him. Because of him.

That's all family was to Simon.

The closest he had ever gotten to having one was with his team, when he's out surviving and struggling to stay alive, he could only ever rely on his brothers in combat whom he'd mourn dearly if they were to get killed. Men who he'd stick his neck out no questions asked. Who he'd go get drinks at the dingy bar and pray they make it out the next mission.

But it didn't feel like that with you.

You were soft... Gentle and sweet- everything used to describe Simon but flipped around. You were far from what he was used to, from what he has been taught he deserved.

Not when you pull back and litter his whole face with kisses, a big smile plastered on both of you. Not when he lovingly kisses your head and holds you so dearly.

Not when he gently leads you from room to room, showing you where he plans Lily's bedroom to be and how he wants to put stars on the ceeling and a night light in the corner with so many stuffed animals just so she could feel safe when she went to bed.

Not when he showed you the empty walls where he hopes to hang up photos of you both for the years that are yet to come. Not when he shows you the back garden and the barbeque area for cookouts or the pool you saw earlier where you'd hopefully relax after a long day. Not when he takes you to the master bedroom and shows you where he'd make you a custom built in closet so you wouldn't have to pile your clothes in the corner of your room.

Not when he pulls your head to his chest and whispers how he hopes that he would wake up next to you every morning and thank whatever god there was for gifting you to him.

You don't mention how his heartbeat got faster once he uttered those words.

Family meant unconditional love. Hope for a better day. For a future of both good and bad moments that you'll overcome togheter because you simply love each other.

He loved you.

Maybe one day he could say it. One day where he would spill his heart out and say everything that has ever crossed his mind about you but he can't.

Words hold meaning but they're not enough.

Not for Simon at least.

Just like his job, he'll get his hands dirty to keep that smile on your face and so Lily could get to grow up with a normal life. With a loving father and mother who only cries whenever he made her laugh so hard with one of his jokes.

He promised.

Tag list:

@nbdblogger @bxm-2121 @ilovecatcatcat @smalltowngrl86 @vittoriaxcx @sukunasthighmarkings101 @thatsavioletiontobe @anxiouslybrittlemist @thatonestuckgirl @sevi-kas01 @rein4star @rahi3066 @lavedi @gwenlinthegremlin @daddylorianisastateofmind @a-vulgar-gesture @pickles-the-jackalope @x4ll1s0nx @scaleniusrm

[zpljajaja]

some fresh arts with Ghost

(I completely forgot to show the first one here, it's about two weeks old)

[amaranthinespirit]

baker!reader who's lured simon riley into her shop, home, and heart with sweet treats (pt.4) pt.1 — pt.2 — pt.3

you stared at the note for far too long, and your heart jumped in your chest in a way it shouldn't have. his number glares back at you from that twenty dollar bill. he gave you his number. his number.

it didn't mean anything. this was just him being nice and giving you the courtesy of knowing when he'd be gone next. besides, you'd have to text him first in order for him to get your number. you didn't mind, though. as long as you had his number.

you didn't expect to see simon for another week, and even then, you weren't so sure how long he'd stay in town before being deployed again. you didn't keep your hopes very high, to avoid a stupid heartbreak you knew you shouldn't feel in the slightest. he was just another customer.

the bill was tucked soundly in your apron's pocket, heavy despite weighing no more than a single gram. the implication carried more weight than its physicality.

when you opened shop the next morning, your regulars flooded in. by then, you had remembered who comes when. it was a strict routine you'd follow, and you had it perfect to a t. you knew the exact moment that you would need something prepared in order to have it cooled when the person arrived, or melted to perfection. it wasn't often you opened with one of your employees, seeing as you had everything handled—only really scheduling them earlier if in need of money.

you had early mornings handled—except for this one.

when the bell chimed a bit too early to be one of your regulars, your attention piqued. sometimes a few people stopped by and sat at a table, none of your regulars, but you juggled them accordingly. you always had a few spare minutes for other customers and sorting out the baked goods you chucked in the oven, which you got up at ungodly hours to prep for.

imagine your surprise at the shadow man himself. simon. rough with sleep, he trudged his way to the counter, earning glances from seated patrons. it brought a smile to your face—he had never came to see you this early.

"morning, simon." you chirped, already inputting his order. "same as always?"

he nods. "you know me well."

you chuckled at the irony of it—you barely knew the man, and maybe that's where the attraction comes from. the lack of information pulls you in like a sailor to a siren. "I don't know you at all." you quipped, turning to make his drink.

he rocks on his feet, not off-kilter by your comment because that's exactly what simon wants. he can't be getting so close to a civilian in his line of work. too many attachments, too much emotion, too much letdown. he couldn't do that to a sweet thing like you.

"could say the same about you." he tosses back, watching you adeptly. you move with such confidence and grace. behind the counter of your own bakery is clearly where you belong; in your element surrounded by your passion.

you glance back. "that suggests you want to know more."

he does, even if it might hurt in the future. "maybe I do." he pauses, letting the implication hang between you two. "what made you open a bakery?"

you smile—wanting to know you is a good sign.

"i have a big family," you admit, causing simon to raise a brow before you continued. "home was always rowdy, and baking just seemed calm. at least when you got things right." you pour his drink in the cup, giving it the signature whipped topping and sprinkle of cinnamon. "it was an escape. I love my family, but sometimes it was..."

"suffocating." he finished for you, a looking of understanding in his eyes.

you tilt your head with curiosity, sliding the drink across the counter. "you have a similar family dynamic?"

he shakes his head. "not quite, just..." he swallows the words. he never shares his past, and it's not hard to guess it might be a sore subject. you try to divert to something positive.

"any siblings?"

"a brother."

"you get along?"

he nods once, swirling the straw in his drink. "used to. helped him go to rehab for his addiction." he shared, his words blunt and short. it didn't take a genius to guess what his brother's fate might've been. but it was bread crumbs, and you ate them up like an entire meal.

your voice reduces to a whisper, gazing at him solemnly. "you're a good man, simon."

he scoffs, holding out a twenty dollar bill—no number on it this time. "you don't know that."

"because I barely know you?" you took the bill, already knowing he won't accept the change.

"precisely."

"I'd like to know more." the sincerity in your voice doesn't waver. not as you pull a five from the register, a pen from the cup, and scribble across the bill. "whatever you'll tell me."

you hold it out for him to take, and he stares at it for what felt like a minute before he takes it. "maybe another time." he holds the drink it gesture. "thanks again for the drink."

"would I be getting my hopes up for expecting to see you tomorrow?" the hope in your eyes palpable, chiding yourself for putting your emotions on the field. but you don't care.

"yes." it's blunt, rough. exactly what you expect from a man like simon.

you chance. "next week?"

"no promises." a crinkle in his eye as he starts backwards towards the door.

"I'll raise hell." because you're getting somewhere, nestling under his skin in a way he can't force you from. it's irritating him to all hell how you managed to get that deep, how he can't get you out.

a deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. "i don't doubt it."

"see you, simon." you wave goodbye.

he nods. "keep safe, luv."

and the door shuts with a chime. to the next day, week, or whenever you'll be visited again by simon.

xxx-xxx-xxxx — for when you're away

[soilents]

soap #1 cat lover probably

Bonus sergeant Meowrrick and captain Mrrice!!!

i also decided to set up a twitter ^^ @/soilentss, i’ll post some sketches there soon, feel free to check it out !

[cruxhing]

part one: here

Teaching Simon how to properly drive a vehicle was harder said than done. You’d think a man in his mid-thirties would know by now. Well, you’d be wrong.

Simon didn’t take lightly to people giving him advice. He’d consider himself perfect (which he is). So whose to tell him what to do?

Apparently, you.

He figured you were sick and tired of his driving abilities and truth be told, you were. You’ve been in too many accidents as him in the drivers seat, mission or not. 

The empty parking lot of a Tesco was a good choice, you’d think. It was late, the sun was dipping and casting a beautiful orange hue in the sky. The parking lot had only one other car in the corner of the lot.

Everyone warned you not to teach Simon how to drive. John said that your car may be totaled by the end of the night. Kyle said that he’ll prepare your funeral. And Johnny, hilarious-Johnny said that he’ll be watching the live cams from the nearest street cameras to see the drivers-ed go down.

“Unlock the door,” you call out to Simon from the passenger side. Your hand rested loosely on the door handle as you stared from Simon from above your coupe. He stared back at you and lifts the key up.

“It’s not unlocking,” Simon replies bluntly.

Your expression drops as you stared between Simon and your keys. “Lieutenant, I swear to—“

Big sigh! You got this!

Inhaling deeply, you shut your eyes for a moment before opening them again, “do you see a button on the key fob?” you ask evenly. Or as even as you can.

Simon glances over at the key fob and shrugs, “figured all vehicles have an automatic unlocking system,” he says and glances at your car window.

Yes— because your 2007 Toyota Solara would have a button. “Does it look like it has buttons?” you ask flatly. This was the only key the dealership had given to you; the spare that was tucked away in someone’s drawer until they sold it off. You’re not the kind to spend your money on flashy cars and will ride this coupe until it stops working in the middle of the road.

Simon unlocks the car with the key and opens the door, “no,” he sassily replies before shutting the door. You watched him through your fishbowl window, deciding not to lash out.

Yet.

Simon stares at you through the passenger window, giving you a raised brow behind his balaclava. “What’re you doing?” he asks from inside the car. He’s already gotten the car started up— meanwhile, you’re still outside, your right eye twitching.

“Doors still locked, lieutenant,” you say loud enough for him to hear. Simon doesn’t respond but gives you a little nod of awkwardness before clicking the lock buttons on the side. A soft click was heard before you swung the door open and stepped into the passenger side. “Okay— start driving,” you instructed the older man, putting on your seatbelt.

“Where to?”

“Wherever you’d like as long as it’s in the parking lot.”

“… Okay, do I turn or?”

You threw your hands up a bit and turn to look at him, “I don’t know— just drive,” you responded with a huff.

Simon huffs back in rebuttal before shifting the car in ‘drive’. Not even a second later, the car jumps from zero to fifteen. Your hand reaches up for the handle as he slams on the brake just before he hits the only vehicle in the parking lot.

Your vehicles engine softly hummed as the two of you stared at the red Audi R8 (which definitely cost more than your salary, let’s be honest). Your front bumper was about an inch away from the rear end of the sports car and your heart felt like it had fallen to your ass just by witnessing it.

“Lieutenant…” you manage to whisper out, still staring out of the windshield.

Simon stays silent for a second. A second too long to tell you that he knew he was in trouble. “… Yes?”

“Get out.”

Without another word, the male nods and opens the car. He swung one of his legs out, about to step out until the seatbelt (still protecting him and attached), locked him in. “Eueugh,” Simon choked out, the seatbelt colliding with his neck.

All you could do was sit there in silence and let out a shaky breath.

[amaranthinespirit]

baker!reader who's lured simon riley into her shop, home, and heart with sweet treats (pt.3) pt.1 — pt.2

"simon."

there he was. standing by the register and decorated in his signature black, his utter exhaustion is apparent in his drooped shoulders and dark skin under his eyes, smeared with some sort of black face paint. there's a new cut on his nose, red and irritated. he looks worse for wear.

any fleeting anger you felt at his disappearance sheds the second you see the broken man before you. you had no right to be angry in the first place—he had only been here twice.

propping your broom against the nearest wall, you approach the register, where he waits on the other side to order. his hands are shoved in the black hoodie's pockets, but you can see movement. he must be anxious.

"hey." he whispered, voice rough than usual. he clears his throat like it's nothing more than allergies causing the added deepness in his voice.

you began typing in his order—the drink was taken off the menu last week, but this was an exception. he was an exception. "thought you found somewhere better," you joked, hoping to lighten his mood, even in the slightest.

the crinkle in his eyes is cause for small celebration. "never."

"same thing?"

"yes ma'am." because despite his exhaustion, he never loses his manners. he produces another crisp twenty from his pocket, hands caked in dirt, along with fresh cuts and calluses.

you shake your head. "this one's on me," you assure him, denying his cash as you turn to make his drink. after everything he went through, which was probably a lot judging by his attitude and appearance, the least you could do was provide him this nice thing. you didn't know what happened, and you might never. that was fine with you.

you heard the tip jar rustle as he stashed it in there. you rolled your eyes but let him. if it made him feel the slightest bit better, that's all that mattered.

"so," you started, mixing the necessary ingredients for his drink. would he like the extra caramel you added, or the cinnamon heart on top? "where'd you disappear to? I almost thought you died."

you glance back just in time to see him tense, throat bobbing beneath the mask. fuck. why'd you have to say that? clearly you should've kept your mouth shut because you went and made him uncomfortable.

you left out a nervous laugh as you pour the drink. "sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

he shook his head, clearing his throat again. "'s okay." he reassured you before disappearing into thought. "in the military. got called in for a mission."

sliding his drink across the counter with a smile, "you're in the military? that's so..." you trail off, unsure if the words you were about to say were appropriate.

"so what?" he pushed, big hand engulfing the plastic to-go cup.

"so..." you bite your lip with uncertainty. "you."

simon looked like someone who belonged in the military. he was built like a tank—muscles apparent even under baggy clothes just from the sheer size of him—and the calluses on his hands suggest hard work. plus the faint smell of gunpowder adds to the narrative. handling guns and dangerous scenarios just screams simon.

"s'me, huh?" his eyes crinkle again, shaking his head in mild disbelief of your boldness. if he wasn't wearing the mask, you'd be able to see the tips of his ears reddening. "glad I look the part."

"shut up." you blush, bagging a pastry for him. "i'm glad you're back, simon."

he takes it when you hand it to him. "me too."

with a big smile, you squint with hope, "see you next week?"

all he does is tap the tip jar and leave after sliding a pink straw into his sweet drink. you never considered how out of place the drink looked, dwarfed in his hand, with the pretty logo and pink straw. all it does is remind you of the man you'd quickly grown fond of stepping out of a clear comfort zone—and returning over again.

that night, when the entire stores cleaned from top to bottom, you empty the tip jar—the twenty dollar bill on top of the pile. you roll your eyes at the thought of simon disregarding the bill without a care in the world. like that amount of money just didn't matter. sure it was twenty dollars, but you didn't even make him pay that night.

but just as you were about to put it to the side, scribbles on the paper caught your eyes. flattening it against the counter, in handwriting as neat as a military man could get, you read:

xxx-xxx-xxxx —so you know when to have my drink ready - simon

[amaranthinespirit]

baker!reader who's lured simon riley into her shop, her heart, and her home with sweet treats (pt.2) pt.1

the next time you saw simon was a week later. you'd thought about that day every day leading up to his return. you assumed he was a one time customer, or that you would see a sugar related death in the news from someone who rarely consumed that many grams in one sitting.

to your surprise, he ate all the sugar, lived to tell the tale, and returned the next week. the little bell above the door gave a familiar chime when opened, and least expected was simon. you both froze.

with every customer that entered, you held your breath that it was him. for some odd reason, you were pulled into his presence like a moth to a flame. he was a bit odd, quiet and quick to the point, but you liked it. why beat around the bush?

simon stood there for a solid minute before approaching the counter with heavy steps. your heart skipped. he does not get any less intimidating the second time round, but for some reason, you like it. it makes you want to see him again, makes you want to know more. you like a lot of things about it, despite how little you know

"welcome back." you smiled, eyes widening when you remember. "oh, you forgot your change last time! I set it aside in case I ever saw you again—" in the midst of handing the bills towards him, he just stares dead at you.

you're confused. he makes no move to take it from you. surely he'd want his money back? but when you jingled the loose change and shook the paper currency, he shook his head.

"for you," is all he said.

your brows furrowed. "for me?" you volley your eyes between the money and him, confused. he wants to give you a tip that's more than the entire cost of his order?

"yeah."

you want to shake him by the shoulders for an explanation. the mask should've been a hint that he's a man of few words, but it's irritating. you barely know the man, why would he do this for you?

"why?" you asked after several moments.

he shrugs. "jus' cause." he points to the pastry case. "same thin', please."

you eye him warily, pushing the change into the pocket of your apron before washing your hands and fetching his pastry and sweet drink. when you go to ring him out, he hands you a twenty again.

"are you gonna bolt when I go to grab your change?"

he scoffs. "no." you shoot him a look and he crumbles faster than a cookie. "yes."

rolling your eyes, you snag the bill from his hand and keep your attention on him just enough to make sure he doesn't leave as you gather the money you owe him. to your surprise, he takes it.

and dumps it straight into the tip jar with a big smile on his face. how could you tell when he's wearing a mask? the way his eyes crinkle in the corner as he grabs his things.

"see you next week, simon!" you call out. he doesn't respond, the smile falling from his eyes in a way you don't notice as he pushes the open door and disappears down the street.

when the following week approaches, your spirits are high. you might be making a regular out of simon, and you can't wait to crack open his shell to see the man beneath his rough surface.

but you spend all day twiddling your thumbs as you wait for him. with each customer, you greet with enthusiasm until you realize it's not him. every time. the hope dwindles in your chest until you have to flip the sign on the door in realization that he isn't coming.

but there's always tomorrow. you said next week, he could come any day.

except he doesn't, and the day after that, and after that, and even after that. no sign on simon. weary after a long day, you accept the fact you've probably scared him off, or killed him with the amount of sugar in his sweets.

packing up the shop with a new level of disappointment each night was a devastation you weren't ready for. you barely knew the man yet he left such an impression on you that you'd missed him after only two visits and a week without.

you were such a fool.

a month had gone by at this point. the weather grew harsher, and you kept the fireplace lit throughout the days alone in the shop. you began to wear thicker sweaters and cozy pants and jeans to beat the bite of approaching winter.

eventually, you forgot about simon, or tried to in the very least. every time a customer ordered that stupid cinnamon drink, you were warped back in time.

it was stupid of you to grow attached to that man, one whose face you had no clue of, but you did. something about him was different.

still, you did try to forget, you really did. you knew you'd have to accept the fact he wasn't coming back, but for now, you were content with the thin hope he would return one day.

you begin to close up. five minutes left in the day meant only about an hour until you could go home. plenty of cleaning needed to be done, and the fire would need to be put to rest.

sweeping behind the counter, you were making a mental checklist of everything that needed to be done, prep wise, for tomorrow until the bell interrupted you.

"I'm sorry, we're closed." you say with a concentrated pout, trying to reach stubborn dust without casting a look in the customer's direction. you feel their heavy gaze, and a shadow looms in your peripheral.

"can'ya make an ex'eption?"

the familiar voice stops you dead in your tracks, whipping your head around to meet the eyes that have been haunting your mind for the past month.

"simon."

[softaestluv]

I NEED a part two to the bachelorette trip when reader gets home and he gets all sappy (and maybe cries) 🙏🙏🙏

original

When you come home, Simon wants to scoop you in his arms, push your bags to the side, and carry you to bed.

He doesn’t.

It’s just four bloody days. He’s embarrassed how tight his chest feels and how badly he missed you.

And you look at him so sweetly, pushing to your tippy toes to loop your arms around his shoulders so his hands find your waist, and you kiss him. He wants to linger, keep you pressed to his chest far longer, but you pull away, raving about how much fun you had.

He tucks his pain somewhere else for the time being, listens to you talk while he sits on the bed and watches you unpack.

It’s not until late into the night with you curled into his side do you say something.

“What’s wrong?” You’re half asleep.

He stares at the ceiling. “Jus’ missed you.”

He feels you smile against the skin on his chest. “I missed you too, baby.”

Baby. He used to hate that word. It’s grown on him now, only when it comes from your pretty lips.

“It always like that?” His absence— is it always that painful?

You pause, wide awake now.

“Yeah.” It’s a whisper, just barely feels the breath on his skin.

His fingers tighten around your arm, blinking back the tears in his lashes.

“I’m sorry.”

[littledisasters]

Anyway here's something I drew a while back instead of paying attention during lectures 🙂‍↕️ Don't mind if the anatomy is kinda rough, haven't drawn a human for months but the obsession is strong.

[welshj03]

TW! Ghost’s backstory from the comics (Didn’t use his comic unmasked design though TT )

[dot41g]

🤨🤨 i like his back

im on 09x22 ghosts stuff btw and im having fun thanks for the vote

[starwovenkiss]

acts of devotion

simon riley x reader

inspired by this tweet

it starts, as always, with an outsider opinion.

a few friends had gathered to celebrate a mutual friend’s engagement, and of course, to fawn over the giant rock sitting pretty on her left hand.

“it was the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,” she says, eyes misting up. “flowers everywhere. candlelit dinner on this beautiful terrace. he even hired a string quartet.”

everyone awws at once.

you twist your own ring around your finger.

“you’ll never believe what james did for me!” someone else says, and like it always does when you all get together, it becomes less of a conversation and more of a contest.

they all take turns gushing over their partners and all the grand, romantic gestures that have happened recently, each story somehow bigger than the last. flowers. surprise trips. hotel rooms covered in rose petals. tickets to shows they had only mentioned wanting to see once.

all in some absurd, glittering attempt to prove who is adored more.

they all turn to you.

what had you and simon been up to recently?

you swallow.

the last date the two of you had been on had been watching a movie on Netflix, takeout and wine littering your coffee table, your legs thrown over his lap while he rubbed absent circles into your ankle.

it had been nice.

it had been normal.

but at this table, normal feels embarrassingly small.

“when you’ve been together so long, and with his schedule, it’s hard, y’know, to find those moments—”

another friend waves her hand, not unkindly, but ready to move away from what clearly wasn’t going to be an interesting enough story.

“that’s why you have to find those moments. what has he done for you lately? like for example, jack just planned this entire weekend getaway for us after my boss had been such an asshole and it was so romantic. he bought us tickets to—”

her voice begins to fade into the background.

you look down at your ring again.

it’s not that you think simon doesn’t love you.

of course he loves you.

he loves with the weight of his hand at the small of your back in crowded rooms. he loves with the way he always sleeps closest to the door. he loves with the way he notices when you are too tired to eat and sets something in front of you without asking. he loves with the way he comes home half-dead and still checks the locks, the windows, the thermostat, anything that might touch you before it touches him.

but sitting there, surrounded by candlelit dinners and surprise weekends away, a different question curls itself beneath your ribs.

does he still care?

you had already known what you’d signed up for when starting this relationship. simon was never one for giant declarations of love or grand, pretty spectacles. he didn’t perform affection well. never had.

hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time he’d brought you flowers or planned a proper date.

you shuffle in your seat.

“that’s really sweet,” you sigh.

rugby playing on the tv is what greets you, simon fully settled on the couch, a beer in hand.

his head lifts as soon as he hears your key in the door, shoulders falling even more relaxed at the sound of your footsteps entering the house.

usually, that would be your cue.

you’d toe your shoes off by the door, wander straight to the couch, and drop yourself onto him like it was the most perfect fit. he’d grunt like you’d knocked the air out of him, even though you both knew he could carry you around the house with one arm if he wanted to.

you’d recount whatever pointless gossip had been fed to you that morning, and he’d pretend not to be listening while remembering all of it.

instead, you busy yourself with the mail in the kitchen.

simon notices.

because of course he does.

you try the sink next, if only to give your hands something to do.

the tap sticks.

you yank it harder, and when nothing comes out but a high-pitched wheeze, you let out a frustrated groan.

simon is behind you before you can even turn around.

“probably clogged,” he says.

you sigh.

“i can call a plumber tomorrow.” then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to face him. “we should do something tonight.”

his head tilts.

“we are,” he says, voice low and rough with confusion. “watching that new movie you wanted to see.”

you make a small noise under your breath.

his eyes flicker from the sink to you.

“no, si. i mean get dressed up. go out.” you swallow around the embarrassment already forming. “a real date.”

“why?”

your stomach lurches.

you know him. know he doesn’t mean it with any malice or cruelty.

but after an entire morning of listening to women talk about being chosen loudly, extravagantly, beautifully, that one word lands like proof.

why would he need to?

why would he think to?

why would he care to?

why would you ask for more when this is what you agreed to?

“forget it,” you say quickly, already stepping away. “i have a bit of a headache. ’m going to take a nap.”

simon says your name, but you don’t turn around.

the clanking of metal banging against each other is what wakes you.

for a moment, you don’t move.

you just lie there, blinking at the dim light of your bedroom, listening to the low metallic scrape from somewhere down the hall. the house is quiet around it, warm with evening, the television now turned down low enough that you can barely hear the commentator’s voice.

another clank.

a muttered curse.

you rub at your eyes and make your way to the kitchen.

simon has wedged himself inside the cabinet beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting in the cramped space, one arm braced against the floor while the other reaches up into the mess of pipes above him.

“si?”

he grunts, focused on giving the valve one final screw and your gaze follows down to the toolbox lying next to his hip.

“line was damaged,” he says from under the sink. “it’ll need replacing proper, but i’ve got it for now. try it.”

wordlessly, you step to the sink and lift the handle.

water rushes out, hot and clear.

for some reason, it makes your eyes burn.

simon shifts, dragging himself out from under the cabinet with a quiet exhale. he sits back on his heels and looks up at you from the floor, forearms smudged, hair mussed, expression unreadable except for the little crease between his brows.

“i told you i could call a plumber,” you say.

he shrugs.

“got me right here, don’t you? i don’t mind.”

your chest tightens.

because it was never going to be flowers. it was never going to be candlelit dinners. it was never going to be a string quartet playing underneath a perfect night.

it was always going to be simon, sitting on your kitchen floor with a wrench in his hand, looking at you like the solution to a problem is obvious because he’s already there.

you sit down at your kitchen table, eyes already watering from overwhelm, when a memory comes so quickly it almost embarrasses you.

you, curled on the couch with him months ago with your laptop open, showing him a table from architectural digest with the sigh that you do when you’ve found something you absolutely loved.

“look at this, simon. isn’t it perfect?”

he had just hummed as you continued scrolling before you start laughing.

“absolutely not. who spends five thousand dollars on a table?”

simon hadn’t said much at the time. he rarely did when something lodged itself somewhere deep in his mind. continued stroking your hair, looked at the screen for a second longer than necessary, and went back to whatever match had been playing on the tv.

three weeks later, there had been lumber in the garage.

then sketches.

then sawdust tracked through the hallway.

then simon, scowling and cursing at a video tutorial, rewinding the same twenty seconds over and over until he understood the joint he wanted to make.

you’d laughed then.

you remember that, too.

you remember standing in the garage while he sanded the surface smooth, remember telling him he was insane, remember him saying it wasn’t that hard with all the grim seriousness of a man who had absolutely made it hard.

you remember the first night you ate dinner at it.

you remember how pleased he’d looked when you wouldn’t stop touching the grain.

you remember tearing up at the effort before sinking to your knees beneath that very table and thanking him so thoroughly that, to this day, he can’t sit at the damn thing for too long without his eyes darkening and his pants growing tight.

your eyes move across the room.

towards the cabinets he sanded down because you said the old ones made the kitchen feel too dark.

the backsplash he learned to tile because you had paused too long on a photo of handmade ceramic.

the wall he knocked through because you hated how boxed-in the room felt.

the bedroom he painted three times because the first two colors looked different once they dried, and he had only sighed, changed shirts, and opened another tin.

a house that had been perfectly fine when you bought it, just never quite yours, until simon got it in his head that he could make it so.

your heartbeat quickens.

the whole morning suddenly feels absurd in a way that makes your chest ache.

his gaze lands heavy as he watches every expression form across your face.

“you wanna tell me what got you in a mood earlier?” he asks.

his voice is even, but his hand drums once against his thigh.

your six-foot-four lieutenant of a husband, nervous at the thought of upsetting you.

you shake your head at first

then stop.

because no, that isn’t fair either.

he does love you. he loves you in fixed pipes and sanded wood and walls torn down to let in more light. he loves you in the things he can touch, carry, mend, build. he loves you so steadily that it has become the floor beneath your feet.

but you still want flowers sometimes.

you still want to be asked to put on a dress.

you still want him to look at you across a dinner table he did not build and make you feel, just for an evening, like loving you is not only something he maintains but something he celebrates.

“i know you care about me,” you say quietly.

his brow furrows.

“never said you didn’t.”

simon stills.

“i know that,” you repeat, softer this time, because you do. God, you do. “I just… I think I need more sometimes.”

something shifts in his face.

“more,” he repeats.

you huff a laugh, embarrassed now. “not more than this.”

your hand moves over the table again and his eyes follow the movement.

“just more…” You search for the words, then give up on making them perfect. “more on purpose, maybe. dinner. flowers. you telling me to get dressed because you made plans. stupid things.”

“they’re not stupid.” he immediately corrects you, firm and like he’s already offended on your behalf.

you look up at him and he pushes himself off of the floor.

you watch him stand, slow and heavy, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it aside. he comes toward you with that careful, deliberate look that always makes your stomach dip, like every bit of his attention has narrowed down to one target.

you.

“friday,” he says.

you blink. “friday?”

“dinner.” his gaze drops over you, not subtle in the slightest. “wear somethin’ nice.”

despite yourself, you laugh, small and wet in disbelief at how easy it is with him.

simon’s hand comes up, thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear can fall.

“are you asking me on a date, riley?”

his mouth twitches.

“seems like i am.”

you look down at the table, at the careful seams, the polished wood, the impossible thing he made with his own two hands because you wanted it and he saw no reason you shouldn’t have it.

then back at him.

“good,” you say, standing slowly. “and since you fixed the sink…”

simon’s eyes darken.

you take one step toward him, then another, until your fingers catch in the waistband of his jeans and tug him close.

his hand finds the edge of the table behind you.

your table.

his eyes flick down to it, and whatever memory crosses his mind makes his jaw tighten.

you smile.

“careful,” you murmur. “you look a little proud of yourself.”

his hand settles heavy at your waist, lifting you to rest on the edge.

“built it well, didn’t i?”

you laugh, already breathless as he leans in.