Ever since you heard that ghost is...interested, in you, it's been odd. You have no idea if he's aware that you're the one transcribing his comms, it's supposed to be a secret to avoid black-mailing, after all.
But you swear sometimes you pass him in the halls, and he has this gleam in his eyes. As if he can tell that you know. You want to act on it, but what if he was just talking shit with gaz? What if he doesn't mean it?
Those are the questions running through your head as you get your next audio booted up. A ghost solo op, the kind you usually look foreward to because he's much more vocal by himself. Right now, though? You can hardly focus on the grunts and hums, too caught up in your dilemma.
Which is why the sudden moan makes you nearly spill your drink.
A rough exhale over your headphones, you crank the volume up to max andâ that slick, slapping noise...no way. No fucking way.
Ghost is jerking off with his mic on.
You knew he did it on the field, most guys do, but he always mutes. This...this is rare. You slip on both sides of your headphones and lean back to enjoy, not at all guilty about the way your thighs rub together.
"Mmhhh, fuckâ" his voice is low, restrained and quiet. Obviously he doesn't want to be found. You try to imagine ghost in all his bulky gear, palm wrapped around his dick. "Yesss....there we go...."
God, did he bring lube? Sounds like it, you think, listening to the slick sounds of his pumping. He likes it fast, then. He grunts particularly loud, "shitâ hey. B13, I know yerâ mmhhhâ listening."
What.
"I know it's you, lovie, I see the way you've been lookin' at me." Your face is burning hot, stomach pooling with arousal at being directly spoken to. "Fuckin' hell...makes me wanna bend you over, show you a nice time."
You subconsciously rock in your seat, eyes half-lidded as ghosts rough voice fills your awareness. "C'mon, love, touch yerself. I want you to, pleaseâ"
You've never unbuttoned your pants faster, glad that your office is the only occupied room in the hall. Your hands slip under your waistband, and you try to imagine it's ghosts.
He makes it easy, rumbling "I'd be nice an' sweet at the start. Mmnh, Get you warmed upâ ahâ and ready." He groans particularly hard, the slick sounds pausing. You imagine him trying not to finish too soon. "Wouldn't wantâ hahâ to break you on the first night."
Ohh god. The idea of ghost looming over you, moving you as he needs. You imagine how impress he'd be that you can take all of him...you probably wouldn't mention you bought a dildo after hearing size during mission audio a month ago.
"Fuck, lovie, ahm' closeâ" you speed up, desperate to finish at the same time. Ghost moans into his fist, gear rustling. Then, in a deliciously unexpected move, he whines loud and high. "fuck! Fuuuckkkâ yesâ! Haahhhahh...shit. come talk to me."
With that, the audio cuts off.
...you silently pull out your personal thumb drive and reason that it's not really a federal crime if the audio is meant for you...right?
next
pairing: simon riley x fem!reader
â¶ 1.5k words, simon is unwell (delusional)
the first time someone refers to you as simonâs wife, you almost lose your damn mind.
youâre in your office helping a baby-faced recruit fill out some documents, when he thanks you and calls you mrs. riley.
âiâm sorry, what did you just call me?â you have to refrain from scowling, because who the hell is mrs. riley?
the recruit stares at you for a moment before repeating what he just said. âi called you mrs. riley,â he responds with a frown fixed on his face. âarenât you married to lieutenant riley? he saidââ
married!?
you shut that down quickly. âyour lieutenant is delusional.â you hold up your hand to show him your ring finger. âdo you see a ring on my finger?â you ask, almost laughing when his eyes widen and he starts apologizing immediately.
âiâiâm so sorry, mrs. riley. i mean maâam!â
shit, now heâs calling me maâam.
âplease donât apologize, itâs quite alright.â itâs not his fault his lieutenant has been spreading lies about his marital status.
despite you reassuring him that everything was fine, the recruit stammers out another apology then flees your office. you sigh as you watch him go. you can only imagine what heâll say to simon the next time he sees him.
she called you delusional, sir.
turning back to the stack of paper on your desk with a groan, you pick up your pen to resume your work. you spend the next forty five minutes preparing reports, scheduling meetings, and answering your emails.
youâre so engrossed in your work, you donât hear simon entering your office without knocking. he just lets himself in like he belongs there. it isnât until you hear a throat clearing, that you become aware of another presence in the room with you. your head snaps up quickly at the sound, your eyes immediately honing in on simon.
you give the behemoth of a man looming in your doorway a look of exasperation. he stares at you for a moment with soft amber eyes, before shutting the door and tugging his hoodie off. you watch him as he tosses it onto the couch, along with the book he has tucked up under his arm.
thereâs just something about the way simon makes himself at home in your office that pisses you off. when he meets your gaze again, you start in on him immediately.
âhas anyone ever taught you some manners? you canât just walk into someoneâs office without announcing yourself. i donât barge into your shit.â
simon takes a step towards your desk with a smirk on his face. âyou donât come to my office at all, sweetheart.â he grins when you glare at him.
âbecause i have no desire to do so,â you reply, rolling your eyes at him. ânow, was there something you needed lieutenant riley? did you want to explain to me why you have that recruit of yours calling me mrs. riley?â
simon doesnât respond right away. he busies himself with the blue stress ball you keep on your desk. you open your mouth, ready to give him a piece of your mindâ because youâre not about to let him stand there and ignore you âwhen he sets the ball back down and takes his mask off.
the words die in your throat when simonâs face comes into view. he runs a hand through his curly blonde locks with a ghost of a smile on his lips. he knows exactly what heâs doing, distracting you like this. he always seems to lose the mask whenever he realizes youâre two seconds away from wringing his thick ass neck.
when youâve got a good look at simon, the fire returns to your eyes and you demand an explanation. what you donât expect, is for simon to be so damn transparent with you.
simon wants you to be his wife. he wants to put a ring on your finger. he wants the wedding, the reception, the fucking honeymoon. he wants to take care of you, keep you on his cock every night until his name is all you know. simon wants you to be his in every sense of the word, he needs it.
âiâm willing to wait for you to come to your senses, sweetheart.â
âcome to my senses?â you stare at him in disbelief, before glowering. âthe audacity of you to come into my office thinking you can speak to me this way. you canât justââ
simon cuts you off, not giving a shit about your little rant. âdonât care. iâll speak to my wife however i want.â
you almost let out a scream of frustration, because you know heâs dead serious.
âkeep dreaming, you big blonde bastard! i wouldnât marry your crazy ass even if you were the last man on earth!â
youâve finally reached your limit with simon. it was time for his ass to go. you roll your chair away from your desk to stand, smoothing down your skirt on the way to the door. you wrench it open with more force than necessary, pointing while you order him to leave. heâs overstayed his welcome.
simon moves away from your desk, but he doesnât leave. he doesnât plan to. he bullies his way into your space until your back is pressed up against the open door. âyou think iâm crazy?â
you lift your chin and fold your arms across your chest, refusing to be intimidated by him. âyouâve got folks walking around here calling me mrs. riley. for fuckâs sake, simon, you just told me you wanted to marry me. weâre not even in a relationship, weâre barely even friends. what am i supposed to think when you say shit like that?â
simon doesnât reward you with the response you want. he just looks you up and down, his lips curled up into a smirk, âmmm, youâre so pretty when you get worked up like this. think youâd look even prettier crying on my cock.â
your small sound of disgust makes him laugh. itâs low, mean. and you just might hate him for it.
when simon finally decides to put an end to his bullshit and give you some space, you sag against the door, trembling slightly. this has to be some form of harassment, you think to yourself when your eyes land on that infuriating man.
much to your surprise, simon is already watching you like a goddamn hawk from where heâs seated on your couch. he has one arm stretched out over the backrest with his legs spread obscenely wide.
âyou see something you like?â he doesnât miss the way your eyes linger on his thighs.
âno,â you reply coldly on the way back to your seat, fully intending to ignore him since it looks like he wonât be leaving your office any time soon.
when you look away from your computer screen every now and then, simon is still seated in the same position he was in before you sat down. heâs quietly reading the book he brought with him. the only noise you hear from him is the soft sounds of pages being turned. you do find it hard to believe that he actually has the decency to let you finish your work in peace.
you think you like him better this way, quiet and not trying to piss you off every chance he gets. simon almost seems normal when heâs not running his mouth. you spare him another glance before turning back to your computer, silently wishing for time to pass quickly.
and of course itâs the blonde menace who decides when your cut off time is. he closes his book, walks right up to your desk and pries your pen out of your hand.
âheyââ
âhi, baby,â he croons, removing the pen from your line of sight completely when you try to snatch it back.
another pet name?
âi donât have time for your games, simon. why did you interrupt me?â
âyouâve been doing overtime all week. youâre done for the day.â you open your mouth to speak, to question him about his knowledge of your work hours, but you think better of it when he pins you with a warning look. no wife of his is going to work herself to death.
âfine,â you relent, no longer willing to engage in a battle you wonât win, even if you do wish to wipe the look of satisfaction off of simonâs face with your fist.
you catch yourself sulking a little while simon gathers his belongings and announces his departure. when he asks if you would like to walk with him to the mess hall for dinner, you decline. and when he starts phishing for answers, wanting to know where youâll be, you tell simon to fuck off and mind his own business.
âthat smart mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble. iâll allow it today, just this once.â
simon figures heâs tortured you enough for one day, so he decides to leave you be.
for now.
-
a/n: iâm writing for my other man again. stay turned for part two. p.s. he gets worse
MASTERLIST | SIMONâS MASTERLIST | AO3 - youâll need to be a registered user
Simon knows what will happen when he dies. He knows it'll come quicker than most. And he knows that he can't do anything to stop it, no matter how hard he tried. He would die before you.
He knew that when he died, you would be taken care of. His men would never allow you to be alone, to carry the burden of him being gone.
He knew that when he was six feet underâfor the second time. The insects would feast on his flesh, they'd taste the abuse he went through, the screaming, yelling, fists against his pale skin. Then they'd taste the metal, gunpowder, dried blood, scar tissue. Everything that hardened him into the man he was.
The carrion feeders will taste your laugh within Simons pulmonary veins. They will know how your eyes flickered in the light when they feed on his aorta. They'll hear your laugh when they get to his right ventricle. They'll know the touch of your skin from his mitral valve.
summary : The boys are at a pub celebrating, when a few drunken words have your stomach twisting to knots.
cw : mentions of insecurities regarding female genitalia, short reader, petite reader, talk of low self esteem, eventual smut, virgin reader, bit angsty but fluffy in the other part (pt 2 in the making)
authors note : very self indulgent btw. (this is my first fic in a while, be nice)
Thereâs only one word that could describe the state youâre in:
buzzed.
Incredibly fucking buzzed.
So buzzed that youâre already nursing your fourth beer, head propped against the wall, trying to make out some words from the conversation everyoneâs having⊠though mostly, youâre tuning out.
I mean, itâs just guy talk, after all.
After another very successful mission, the boys and you, are getting drunk. The drunkest of all, as always, is Johnny.
He seemed to have had a one-night stand a couple days ago, and heâs drunk enough to amuse everyone with the story.
Long black hair, somewhat curvy, with a tiny waist and perky tits. Your nose wrinkles in disgust as he keeps talking about his out-of-body experience with the girl, almost eight years younger than him. You roll your eyes sometimes, annoyed, yes, but also secretly happy heâs happy.
âI cannae get over it! The lass had a wee waist, she did! Could wrap both me hands round it anâ still feel like Iâve got room tae spare.â
He keeps babbling, hands in the air for comparison, as if heâs actually holding it while he speaks. You roll your eyes for what feels like the tenth time. The guys just keep laughing and shaking their heads, not really taking him seriously.
Then⊠the description gets a little more lewd.
ââEr figure was somethinâ else. Daftly perky nâ proud tits, all natural, pretty lilâ cunnie⊠Christ, I cudnât look away.â
Now, itâs different when itâs only the guys, but with you listening⊠the tension shifts. Priceâs eyes flick from you to Soap to his beer. Everyone else sighs, rubs at their temples. You try to act like youâre not listening, scrolling on your phone, staring somewhere else but more than his lewd words, your stomach drops for a different reason.
Ever since you can remember, youâve felt insecure. Height, body, hair⊠everything. It felt like you were âgirlingâ wrong your entire life, growing up chubby, still trying to get in your ideal shape. You fought to become a soldier, despite everyone saying you were too short or incompetent. It was hard, but you were trying to prove something.
Now, at 23, still a virgin because of your insecurities, you hardly ever feel bad about it. Between work and exhaustion, thereâs little space in your mind for anything else. But there are rare moments like this, where someoneâs words make you question if youâll ever end up with someone at all.
Because, however annoyed the guys sound, Johnnyâs description is clearly doing something. Price loosens his collar every so often. Simon swallows. Hard. Even inside his mask, Gaz is listening carefully, looking a bit spaced out. And youâve never seen Johnnyâs eyes spark like this before. And it kills you.
Not only are you still somewhat chubby, your heavy tits slightly sagged, your outie visible, asymmetrical. You can barely look at yourself, let alone let anyone else see. Words like Johnnyâs are exactly why you canât.
The thought of sex makes you melt, smile, dimples showing. Someone looking into your eyes as they fill you up. Kisses everywhere, their body warm against yours, sweet words whispered in your ear⊠All the things you crave but would never reach.
Johnny, as drunk as he is, turns to you.
ââAve yâ ever had sex, lass?â
You swallow, caught off guard. Shake your head. Take another sip of beer before putting it down and fiddling with your hands.
Johnny groans in disappointment.
âWhy the hell no? Yeâre a bonnie lass, anâ it feels bleedinâ amazinâ.â
You sigh.
âJusâ havenât had the time,â
You mutter. You know it doesnât sound convincing.
It doesnât.
Johnny snorts. âAhâm no buyinâ that. Câmon, tell us.â
âMactavish,â Simonâs voice rumbles almost immediately, silencing him.
Johnny communicates with Simon with just his eyes, it doesnât take much skill. Right now, heâs saying two things: drop it.
Johnny nods and takes another sip, while you sit red and embarrassed in your seat.
You stay red in your seat, skinning your fingers alive and trying to make yourself small. The laughter and chatter around you continue, but it all blurs together. You feel the weight of everyoneâs eyes, or maybe itâs just the way Johnnyâs words linger in your head.
You take a slow sip of your beer, trying to focus on the cold liquid rather than the heat climbing your neck. You hear Johnny muttering something else, but you canât catch it. You donât want to.
Finally, you clear your throat, summoning as much composure as you can. âWell⊠itâs shit like the ones you were just saying that gets me scared,â you mutter, your voice quieter than youâd like, but firm enough. You put the empty cup down, standing before anyone can reply.
Johnny frowns, blinking at you through his drunken haze. âScared? Whaââ
You cut him off with a small shake of your head. âIâm⊠Iâm gonna head back to base,â you say, trying to keep your voice steady. You pull your jacket closer around you and step away from the group, feeling the heat of embarrassment and a sting of frustration all at once.
The others start to murmur behind you, but you donât wait for explanations or apologies. You just walk, boots clicking on the floor, trying not to cry or yell at yourself for feeling weak.
By the time you reach your room, the door shuts behind you with a solid click, and the noise of the world fades to nothing. You slump onto the bed, pulling the covers over yourself. The anger, the embarrassment, the longingâŠitâs all tangled together.
You stare at the ceiling, letting your thoughts drift. Johnny was drunk. Thatâs all. Itâs nothing personal. But even so, the words he said⊠the way everyone reacted⊠it gnaws at you. You try to push it away, tell yourself itâs just another night of drinking and talking, but your heart keeps racing, reminding you how alone and unseen you feel sometimes.
You sink into the pillows, hugging yourself tight, wishing for comfort that isnât there. Tomorrow, itâll be work, routines, trainingâŠbut tonight, itâs just you, the embarrassment, and the quiet ache of wanting something youâre not sure you can have.
Simon would come in and lay on you. Youâd have to lift your WIP out of the way. Heâd lay his massive head on your chest. Mans is a human heated weighted blanket. And poor war criminal pookie is so touch starved, heâd let out a freeloader sigh and just sink. Youâd comfortably rest your WIP across his shoulders, extra points if itâs something long like a blanket. Moments later youâd feel his breath even out and soft snores leave him.
Johnny would see what youâre doing and flop into bed next to you. Heâd sit close to you, your shoulders touching. Youâd gently lay your head onto his shoulder as he chats to you about his day. You let his voice run through your mind and let it wrap around you like a warm hug. Eventually he would as you to tech him how to do it. (He would then later get frustrated and leave the bed to go workout)
Kyle sees you peacefully working on your WIP and carefully climbs in by you. Book in hand, heâs careful of the furry babies that lay curled up by you. He settles in comfortably and cracks open his book. You each work/read quietly, just existing in each otherâs presences. Your kitties curl in between you, letting out soft purrs that set the comfort level to 100.
a pathetically comprehensive, lore accurate-ish, and realistic list of my simon "ghost" riley headcanons/character study â ïžïž
because i <3 him and the sheer amount of (imo) mischaracterisation bothers me enough to write this.
when imagining or writing ghost, i tend to pull from both the original and the reboot. using the original as a sort of "core skeleton" while layering in reboot traits based on what i feel blends well and makes sense.
a reminder that these hcs are my opinion and i love all interpretations of that man. and i love you.
on deployment
moves like a man whoâs already imagined every way he could die in a room and has decided none of them are going to happen today. nothing is rushed, but nothing is slow. there's no flourish, no ego, just pure purpose. he clears a room like heâs already memorised it (which he probably has).
favours close quarters not because he likes it bloody, but because he trusts his hands more than he trusts ballistics. distance = uncertainty. knives, suppressed pistols, garroting, etc. they offer control, silence, and no need to rely on anyone else.
he doesnât panic. not when heâs shot, cornered, when someone on the team goes down. everything heâs feeling gets buried and stored for later. he falls apart in his own time.
if ghost is involved in an interrogation, itâs already too late for diplomacy. he doesnât jump to torture, but once it's on the table, he doesnât flinch. itâs not about sadism. he just sees it as a tool, same as thermal goggles. a means to an end. when soap answers âhe mightâ after milena asks if he'll cut off her hand, it's because ghost has done it before. not performatively. not out of anger. but because it worked. a knife under the fingernail. a limb dislocated just enough to break resistance without rendering them useless.
he doesnât enjoy torture, especially given his past. but heâs already made peace with being the one whoâll do the things that need doing. if someone has to carry that weight, better him than someone who wonât survive the guilt.
ghost keeps two knives on him at all times. one for practical use like cutting rope, gear, food. the other is strictly for killing. he sharpens them both the same, but never mixes them up. itâs not about superstition. violence shouldnât bleed into routine.
he checks and cleans his weapons obsessively after every op. same routine, same order. not because heâs afraid of failure, but because routine is grounding.
he sleeps light, rarely more than a few hours at a time. the mask is always within armâs reach. even on base, even when he knows heâs safe, it never leaves the room. nightmares come and go. mostly memories, some imagined scenarios where he failed. he doesnât tell anyone. just wakes up, hits the gym, and starts over.
because heâs a lieutenant, heâs most likely in private quarters or a shared officerâs bunk with only one other person, not standard troop barracks. in special forces environments, high-ranking operators usually have separate, secure quarters. think: small room, metal frame bed, footlocker, wall rack for gear, single desk, maybe a hard chair. strictly utilitarian. nothing overtly personal. no pictures, no posters, no decorations. but the space is maintained. backup masks.
he doesnât like silence, but he prefers it over the wrong kind of noise. wonât sleep near people who talk in their sleep. canât stand hearing someone cry in the dark. heâll get up, walk out, find somewhere quieter. he canât afford to be reminded of what heâs tried to forget.
the mask - he doesnât wear the mask to be scary. but he understands that itâs part of the effect now. he lets people believe whatever they want. that heâs not human, that heâs multiple people, that heâs a ghost in the literal sense. superstition makes enemies hesitate. hesitation gets them killed. sometimes, he leaves survivors on purpose. lets one crawl away, bleeding and incoherent, babbling about the skull-faced man who didnât say a word. that story will spread faster than any report. good stuff to him.
relationships - absolutely none. the notion that heâd ever let a relationship happen on deployment is absolute bull if weâre going with realism. he loves his job too much to potentially lose it to that.
and thus, ghost doesnât get involved. not with anyone. he might notice someone. maybe a base nurse; calm voice, steady hands, the kind of woman who wouldâve been his type in another life. but thatâs all it is. a passing thought. something he shuts down the second it surfaces.
attraction distracts. feelings get people hurt. worse, they make you hesitate. ghost doesnât have room for hesitation. heâs learned that getting close to someone means dragging them into his wreckage.
so he keeps it professional. polite, distant, unreadable. if he looks, itâs quick. if he remembers her, he wonât admit it. if thereâs a version of him she might have loved, he knows it isnât the one wearing the mask.
with task force 141
to his dismay (at least at first), ghost works well in a team. especially because he doesnât need to be the center of it. heâs not barking orders or pulling rank. he lets others lead if theyâre competent, but if things fall apart, he takes over without hesitation.
soap - ghost trusts him more than most. doesnât mean heâs soft with him. it just means soap is the only one he doesnât second-guess on instinct. still checks the corners, still runs his own numbers, but if soap calls out a threat, ghostâs already moving to neutralise it.
gaz - he keeps him at armâs length. not because he dislikes him, but because gaz is younger, still carrying some belief in clean warfare and clear morality. ghost doesnât want to be the one who breaks that. not directly. it does annoy him sometimes though.
price - he and price have an unspoken understanding. price knows what ghostâs done. he doesnât approve of all of it, but he never asks for an apology. he trusts ghost to go to hell so the rest of them donât have to.
off deployment
simon doesnât âgo home.â he just leaves base. his one-bedroom flat is somewhere quiet and nondescript in a smaller northern town where no one asks questions. second floor of a squat building, curtains always drawn, nothing on the door to indicate anyone lives there.
no close friends, maybe a few regulars at the veteran-owned pub closest to his flat.
and for the love of god, simon does not wear the mask off deployment. not in public, not around civilians, not even walking to the corner store. people always imagine him in full gear like heâs stuck in the role, like he canât let it go, but that would mean missing the point of it. it isnât a comfort thing. itâs not his personality. itâs a switch. it tells his brain: you are not simon right now. you are ghost. you do what needs to be done.
wearing it outside of deployment would mean the job followed him home. which would completely defeat the purpose of it. that mask is recognisable. it draws eyes. photos. questions. the whole point of being off-duty is that no one notices him because he's not working. he dresses to disappear: black hoodie, beat-up boots, head down. sometimes a beanie, sometimes shades. always forgettable. civilian.
he doesnât wear anything that links back to task force 141. no patches. no flags. no military cut. he doesnât want to be seen as ghost. he doesnât even want to be seen as a soldier. just a man walking home, hands in his pockets, trying not to think too hard.
always at the gym late at night or early morning. places that are open 24/7, quiet, and never busy. not a fitness influencer, not doing anything flashy. just heavy compound lifts. low reps, high weight. keeps him grounded, keeps him from spinning out. beats the shit out of the boxing bag too.
surprisingly competent in cooking. not a âfoodie,â but he knows how to make decent meals. protein-heavy, minimal sugar. cooking is ritual. control, routine, heat, transformation. itâs calming. but he wonât eat out unless he absolutely has to.
listens to old industrial, dark post-punk, and late 90s uk metal. killing joke. early godflesh. portishead when he canât sleep. nothing too upbeat. lyrics blurred, vocals buried. background noise for thought.
thereâs a lot of debate surrounding his looks, so i just choose to believe dark blonde/light brown hair and brown eyes. i like the idea of him having light eyelashes too.
and yes, even a man as locked down as simon has needs. heâs not sexless. heâs not a monk. he's a middle-aged white guy. but the way he deals with sex and attraction is incredibly controlled, emotionally distanced, and shaped entirely by trauma, guilt, and the constant awareness that closeness equals risk. heâs not above physical release, but he doesnât want intimacy, and he doesnât let anyone get near enough to make it something more.
heâs had chances. a nurse who lingered a little longer when handing him a chart. a woman in town who made a joke about his accent and waited for him to laugh. he felt the pull. he shut it down. not worth it. not fair to them.
if heâs going to have sex, itâs a one-off encounter with no strings. someone he meets in a bar, speaks barely a dozen words to, doesnât take back to his place. itâs fast, quiet, controlled.
but most of the time, he doesnât bother. sometimes the need builds, and he shuts it down instead. pushes it down like hunger. like rage. goes to the gym, takes a cold shower, fights the impulse until it passes.
buuuuuuut i am going to make a seperate post about ghost if he was in a relationship. what kinda woman sheâd be, whatâd heâd be like, etc.
i deeply apologise for how long this is. goodnight.
âOi, Ghost,â Soap called across the room, slapping a hand onto the table where Simon was sharpening a knife, âweâre headinâ out after drills tonight. Pint and darts. You in?â
Simon didnât look up. âGonna have to ask my partner.â
Soap blinked. âY/N? You serious?â
Simon finally glanced up, his tone bone-dry. âYou want me to die?â
Soap laughed. âMate, itâs just a few rounds at the pub, not a classified op.â
Simon shrugged, going back to his blade. âStill dangerous.â
~
Y/N stood barefoot by the counter, a tea mug cradled in their hand. They were dressed in one of Simonâs shirts. Something heâd never admit made his chest feel ten times too full.
âRan into Soap earlier,â they said casually. âHe asked if I was letting you out of your cage anytime soon.â
Simon looked up from the stove where he was methodically stirring scrambled eggs. ââŠDid he now?â
Y/N smirked. âApparently youâve been telling the others you need my permission to do things.â
Simon didnât flinch. âNot untrue.â
âYou make it sound like Iâve got you on a leash.â
He turned off the burner, walking over to them with a plate. âDo you?â
Y/N gave him a look, one brow raised. âSimon.â
He leaned in close, lips brushing their ear. âYouâre the only thing Iâd willingly ask permission for.â
They rolled their eyes, even as a flush crept up their neck. âThatâs manipulative.â
âBut effective,â he murmured, setting their plate down with quiet finality.
Y/N shook their head, grinning. âSo you use me as a buffer?â
âI use you as a reason,â Simon corrected, sitting beside them. âIf I say no, they keep pushing. If I say my wife wouldnât like it, suddenly everyone backs off.â
Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. âYou like that they respect me that much?â
Simon looked over at them, soft and matter-of-fact. âI like that youâre the only thing that makes me want to go home.â
simon points out the final girl getting chased by the slasher in the horror film youâre watching together and sighs out a dreamy little âthatâs usâ and then just doesnât elaborate at all
thoughts on crawling under the covers with blanket simon? lying in the warmth and darkness with him is actually a need
Especially when he's home recuperating from a particularly taxing assignment. You come home to a dark house, and when you go to the bedroom, you see the large lump under the covers, and you know your blanket gremlin's under it, cocooned in the dark abyss that is the comforter.
You lift up the covers some, expecting His Gremliness, but all you get is a big hand reaching out to grab your arm and pull you in. Before you know it, you're under the covers and in Simon's arms, and your big little eepy kreecher gremlin has you safely bundled up and won't let you go for anything.
Against the quietness of your home, you two find comfort in the sounds of your breathing.
Summary:
Your new neighbor is quiet, broad-shouldered, and built like he eats bricks for breakfast. He barely says more than two words when you pass him in the hall. But his dog? His dog is obsessed with you.
And slowly, Simon Riley realizes maybe... he is too.
Even if heâll never admit it out loud.
The first time you met Riley, he barreled into you in the hallway, tail wagging, tongue out, like you'd been best friends in a past life.
âRiley, no- get back here- "
That gravel-rough voice chased after him, exasperated and deep.
You looked up. And there he was.
Simon Riley.
Unit 4B. Tall. Tattooed. Constantly wearing black.
Never made eye contact in the elevator. Never smiled. Always looked like he had a secret and a kill count.
âHeâs not usually like this,â Simon muttered, gripping the leash and yanking the excited shepherd back to heel. âSorry.â
âItâs fine,â you smiled, crouching to pet him. âHeâs sweet.â
Simon grunted.
Didnât even introduce himself.
The dog liked you. A lot.
Simon didnât. Or so you thought.
But Riley started dragging him to your door every morning. Whining when you passed in the hallway. Sitting outside your condo like he lived there.
It was kind of cute.
Simon was not.
He was blunt. Quiet. Always tense like he was waiting for the ceiling to fall in. He didnât ask questions. Didnât make small talk.
But he did start lingering longer when you pet Riley.
âYou live alone?â he asked once, randomly, voice low.
You blinked. âYeah⊠why?â
âJust noticed your lightsâve been out when you get home late. Thought something mightâve happened.â
Thought something mightâve happened.
Was that⊠concern?
Then came the day you twisted your ankle trying to bring groceries up the stairs.
Simon didnât just help. He carried you. Bridal style. No hesitation.
âYou should be more careful.â
âYes, thanks, Simon, I totally meant to fall and eat concrete.â
He didnât even smile.
But he did check in every day after that.
Brought Riley. Brought food. Started asking if you needed anything when he went to the store.
Then started knocking just to see if you were okay.
You started catching him looking at you differently.
Softer.
Longer.
One night, sitting beside you on the couch while Riley sprawled across both your laps, he spoke without looking at you:
âHe doesnât like many people, yâknow.â
âHeâs great.â
ââŠSo are you.â
You turned.
He was already looking at you.
Eyes bare. Voice low.
âDidnât think Iâd like you at first. Thought you were too chatty. Too soft.â
He paused.
âBut⊠you make things quiet. In a good way.â
He kissed you that night.
Rough hands, hesitant lips, the slow realization that maybe letting someone in didnât mean falling apart.
Riley barked halfway through it.
Simon groaned.
âHeâs a bloody cockblock.â
You laughed against his mouth. âHeâs the reason weâre here.â
âTch. Donât let him get smug about it.â
Extras:
Simon lets you borrow his hoodie after you mention you're cold. Never asks for it back.
Riley literally scratches your door when Simon takes too long to visit you.
Simon never admits it, but he keeps a photo of you and Riley tucked into his wallet.
He lets you scratch behind his ears when you call him âa good boyâ but thatâs between you and him.
Simon, who ends up with the crafty girl. One day, you notice his balaclava is looking worn and frayed, so you make him one to replace it. He starts wearing it more now every time he's out of the house. He wears it proudly and any time it gets complimented or he gets asked where he got it he just blushes behind it and proudly says that his girl made it for him
âHi! Probably Iâm busy right now, or maybe Iâm just sleeping. Anyway, leave your message! Iâll call you back as soon as I can!â
Followed by your voice a small beep sounded, giving the space to leave a voice message. However, Simon didnât say a word, instead he hung up the call and called you again.
Five seconds, two beeps.
âPlease answerâŠâ He murmured, almost inaudible, his voice so broken it physically hurt to hear it.
Almost a minute passed, and you didnât answer his call, so the line immediately went to voicemail. Your cheerful voice was a balm to his broken soul, and at the same time it was the knife that was destroying him.
âHey, luvâŠâ He spoke once the line gave him time to leave a message. âI just⊠âm just wanted ya to know that I miss you, so fuckinâ muchâŠâ At that point he couldnât hold back anymore, and tears sprang from his eyes, a lump formed inside his throat, and despite of how much it hurt, he continued. He told you about the team and their most recent experiences. Kyleâs newborn, John and his well-deserved vacations, and Johnnyâs birdie.
âYa should see him.â Amid his crying, he let out a small, soft chuckle. âHeâs like a stupid puppy around her.â Before he could say something more the call ended. The intense beep of the line made a knot in his stomach, but he didnât complain and just hung up.
For what felt like hours he just remained there in the floor, still as a statue and looking at the ceiling with so much in mind and nothing at once. Even in the darkness, his baggy eyes could be seen, as well as his messy hair and unkempt beard, which had begun to grow several days ago without him caring about.
Finally, when he dared to move, he looked at his phone again. The wallpaper was a photo of you both that youâd taken a while ago, so he looked at the screen for about two minutes, scanning your face. Then, he opened your chat, full of messages heâd sent but you hadnât responded to any of them in the last year. Although that didnât stop him to send you a new one.
âDonât worry about the bill, Iâll pay it tomorrow. Love you.â
As punctual as always. Heâd paid your phone bill the last year, every first of the month. In that way he could keep sending you messages, and above all, keep calling you so he can hear your beautiful voice in that voicemail.
That was his ritual for a year, since the day you died. You werenât there anymore, and the only thing left of you was your voice. He was aware that holding into your voicemail wasnât healthy, it was killing him slowly. But at that point he didnât care.
He loved you to the bone, a burning fire impossible to put out, and if that little recording was all that was left of you, then he would hold on until the day his heart stopped beating too and his soul finally reunited with yours once more.