141bean

simon, who secretly takes an hour each day while he is on deployment to record whispering audios for you and sends a new one to you every day.

simon, who knows how anxious you get when you‘re alone and he‘s deployed.

simon, who asks you how your day is going, that he hopes you‘re not missing him too much and who always ends with "i‘ll come back. i love you." even though you never hear it because you fell asleep before the 10 minute mark.

simon, who knows if anything goes wrong, you‘ll find his hidden messages.

simon, who doesn‘t get the appeal of asmr at all.

simon, who as he gets wheeled into the military base’s er can only think about how he wished for you to be here.

simon, who knows how you‘ll react when he gets home with a bandaged arm,

simon, who will never tell you that the bullet barely missed his heart.

simon, who keeps whispering stuff into your ear if you can‘t fall asleep at night.

ghost opens the dresser after doing laundry (for once). he puts the folded and ironed clothes into their right places, always the neat man. he stops and notices something.

"where're yer bikinis?"

"got rid of them."

"why?"

"it‘s not a big deal, simon."

he sets the laundry basket down and sits down on the edge of the bed, where you laid with the fan fully blasting into your face because of the atrocious heat.

"wha‘ is it? why‘d ya throw them out?"

"it‘s really nothing."

even his glasgow smile was now frowning.

"tell me. i‘ll get yer any bikini ya want. i‘ll go to a tailor and have one made f'ya."

"but why should i need one? i‘m not in shape for a bikini."

he now looks at you like you‘ve grown a third eye.

"i don‘t care if ya do or if ya don‘t. i wanna se ya happy in whatever clothes that make ya happy."

"it‘s not a bikini that makes me happy."

"what is it then?"

"not a bikini."

he sighs.

"yer always beautiful to me. in a bikini, in ski clothes, with my clothes, with yer clothes, whatever ya wear. and anyone who dares judge ya for it, they‘ll get to know me. and they don‘ want that."

"sap."

"just telling the truth. and realistically, i know ya feel otherwise, but nobody really cares about how ya look, they‘re probably only more concerned they don‘t look too fat in their clothes."

"you convinced me."

"yeah?"

his boots sound weighted, not just physically.

these sound lighter. more eased up.

you couldn‘t bother to get up from under your weighted blanket.

you recognized the man by face.

"aye, lass. b'fore yer mind runs circles, he‘s livin' an' well. yer old cranky sime needs a bit of calm. said he didn‘t wannae load off his… ya kno‘… tha‘ op wasn‘t exactly… smooth, ye know? jus' comin' over tae… he said tae ease yer mind, cuz he knows ya tend ta‘ get… giddy when yer not hearin‘ of 'im."

"you know when he‘s back?"

"won‘t be long, lass."

"week?"

"dunnae."

"then don‘t say it won‘t be long" you turn away from him"

soap sighs, "lassie, c'mon, dunnae turn away from meh! don‘t shoot the messenger!"

"at least i know he‘s alive. thanks."

"want me tah go to tesco or som'in? get yer sum ice cream?"

"no need. have enough."

"ya still have sum in yer bucket?" he points at your ben and jerry‘s.

you shake your head.

"lemme get yer sum more."

"no. i‘m eating too much ice."

"well, if yer in need of anythin‘, i‘m in the guest room."

"i can handle myself."

"yer man knew you‘d say tha‘, so he left me a message for ye."

he pulls out his phone and presses play on what you assume is a voice message. as his voice comes through soap‘s phone speakers, your body turns on the bed, now facing soap again. what 6 weeks of not hearing your man‘s voice does to a girl.

"love, if yer hearing this, then you‘re refusing soap to help you. i know you wanna se me right now, but i can‘t let you see me like… like this. it‘ll be a little while before i‘ll come back, but i will, 'kay? love yer."

you‘re not particularly messy. you like it clean, tidy, to find everything where you left it the day before.

but whenever he‘s gone, that whole thing falls apart. the dishes become a "i‘ll do it tomorrow" thing, the dust builds up on top of your guitars hanging on the wall and the garden grows like nature intended it to. wildly.

so, soap helps. does the dishes. cleans every speck of dust up, mows the lawn and cuts the wild flowers. he charges your replacement pair of anc headphones. he crawls under the bed to grab the tv remote you under there lost a week ago. he throws out the empty bags of chips (crisps) that have been laying on the ground. he‘s an angel to you.

it does annoy you a little, he‘s always hovering, asking if he can help, and you‘re agitated by it. you‘re not letting it show, but you‘d rather be alone. although you know he‘s not being annoying with ill intent.

a week passes by…

your nap gets rudely interrupted by a large hand shaking your body. the noise canceling headphones shut out your man loudly calling your name.

you push away the blanket to find your man - simon - your simon - yours truly - calling out your name.

"y/n? lassie? i‘m back and now yer not lookin‘ me in my eyes anymore?" he seems lighter, the weight of the military off of him for at least a good while.

"siiiiii."

"'m back now, dove."

"siiiiiiiiii."

"yeeees?"

"soap is annoyiiiiiing."

"oh, you don‘t say."

"it‘s not his fault tho."

—————

"almost there, love. just gotta get yer in the bedroom."

"can‘t believe it‘s finally done."

"we made it work, see?"

you look up at him, "more like you made it work. you bought everything, painted the walls, assembled the furniture-"

"and who chose the furniture?" he says as he picks up both your bags and carries them to your bedroom.

"pinterest?"

"you did. don‘t diminish your part in this."

as you flop down onto the new queen-sized-bed with the mattress you and simon almost fell asleep on in the mattress store, he goes over to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator and takes something out.

he comes back into the room with a cupcake that has a lit candle on it. "happy birthday."

"my god, you didn‘t have to-"

"nuh uh."

you blow out the candle and peck his cheek, just before taking a part of the cupcake and handing it to simon.

"'ts your cupcake."

"i‘m paying you back for paying the flat until i got a job."

he begrudgingly pulls his mask up to eat his share of the cupcake.

"want a beer?" he mumbles out of his cupcake-full mouth.

"sure."

"so… now we can do whatever we want, eh? no mother who invades my privacy and rummages through my post, no dad who doesn‘t care…"

you expected him to continue the pattern, but he didn‘t. just after a second, you realized why.

"oh, yeah. sorry."

"why?"

"just curious if you‘d be interested to ever settle down with someone. like… seriously."

"dunno."

'dunno'. you knew he was trying to avoid answering your question.

"'dunno'? i mean, you must‘ve given it it some thought in 30-somethin‘ years."

"'aven‘t had the time to."

"what‘d you say right now? just… on the spot?"

"dunno. like i said."

you sigh. this was getting real frustrating, real fast.

"and if you had to answer?"

'if it were about life and death?' you were about to ask, but he‘s been creating death with his hands ever since he got out of school and joined the army. he‘s not intimidated by death anymore.

"in what scenario would i have to answer?"

"uh, in this?"

now he‘s sighing.

"don‘t ya get the hint?"

"what hint, simon?"

"don‘t ya know what my image of marriage is from my childhood? how my father was to my ma? how-…"

"you never told me before. and i respected that. i still do. the thing is, you‘re only looking at this from one perspective. what about price and his lass? they‘re happy, aren‘t they?"

"he‘s not me. i wouldn‘t know how i were if i became a dad. i don‘t think i could even do 'em right."

"aside from children?"

"i‘m probably an even worse husband. i‘m a bad boyfriend as is, so why should i be a good husband?"

"you‘re not a bad boyfriend."

"yeah? i’m always away, ya never know if i‘m alive, i‘m closed off, quiet, antisocial, depression and darkness personified, so why should i-"

"first of all, most of those aren‘t true. second of all, do you think i care about that? i mean, i do, but you‘re not a rookie, you can handle yourself out there."

"i can. but what if that‘s out of my hands?"

"don‘t talk like that, or i‘m gonna… do something until you resign."

"real threatening."

"i‘m serious."

"i‘ll think about your whole marriage stuff, okay? but yer arse needs to go to sleep. mine too."

after the show, in your dressing room

you managed to gulp down a little bit of water after the show, your trembling hands show that you‘ve been depriving yourself of what makes you be yourself on stage. or used to.

you‘ve been off coke for 2 weeks now.

"i 'aven‘t dealt with my alcoholic father only to fall in love with a crackie rockstar."

that‘s what he said to you.

that‘s what made you cry.

that‘s what made you quit.

the hollows in your cheeks had flattened out, the bags under the eyes decreased. the bed was no more a place of staring at the moving ceiling, but more a place to rest with the man you loved most.

a knock on the door pulled you out of your thoughts.

"yeah?"

the door opened, and a person you only saw for a split second dropped a package wrapped in black tape before it closed again.

you stepped closer to it.

and that‘s where your memory ended.

you wane up back in the tour bus, in your bunk. the curtains are closed. an almost empty beer bottle had spilled over the covers of your bed. great.

as you get up and out of the bunk to get an ibuprofen, you hear heavy steps. probably just a bandmate of yours wearing plateaus.

you go to the medicine cabinet, grabbing two ibuprofen. the last ones in the box, so you throw the empty box away. at the sink, you fill up a glass of water and chug down the pills. as you turn around, you run into a solid wall of muscle.

"oh-"

"what the hell were ya thinkin'?"

"what?"

"y‘heard me."

"i… don‘t remember what happened."

he obviously doesn‘t believe you. "fine. you relapsed."

"…"

the hum of the buses motor isn‘t helping you think clearly.

"i… remember there was a package in my room."

"it was almost 1/4s empty by the time i got there."

"what?"

"you could‘ve overdosed. could‘ve died."

"…"

"it went so well for 2 weeks. and now…"

"i won‘t do it again, okay-"

"i‘ve heard that enough from everyone in my life. tell me somethin‘ different tha'll change my mind."

"simon, i know… i know that you‘ve been around junkies all your life, okay? i- i‘ll… i just… don‘t wanna let go of you… if- if i do it again, then you get to leave. no begging, no crying. just acceptance, then that‘s my fault.

"so this isn‘t just your fault?"

"that‘s not-"

"sounded like it to me."

"i… i don‘t wanna guilt-trap you…"

"why?"

"if you go, it‘s only gonna get worse. i don‘t care what you do, o-okay? if you put me in rehab or if you‘re secretly a vampire and suck my coke-riddled blood out of-…"

he wasn‘t amused at your joke.

"sorry."

"i‘m not letting you out of my sight again. after this godforsaken tour, we‘re doing rehab. at home. these facilities don‘t work. they don‘t know ya like i do. you‘re just a file to them."

"that‘s-"

if you‘re gonna set fire to the night

baby, lemme be the lighter

if you‘re already high and you wanna fly

i‘ll be the hit that takes you higher

if you wanna love when you touch the sky

you could be my midnight rider

if there‘s nowhere to go when you wanna go wild

i wanna be the driver

(måneskin - the driver)

the sounds of heavy drums, distorted guitars and a growly bass fill your car. it‘s needed, as you‘re on the brink of falling asleep, you hope the way too overpriced coffee from the gas station will soon work it‘s magic.

a motorcycle pulls up in front of you. you size up the guy in front of you. he‘s not bad looking, not in any sense. he has a nice build, even visible under his leather jacket.

he looks back at you over his shoulder for a second, and even though you can‘t see past the visor on the helmet that obscures his eyes, you‘re almost sure you see two brown orbs looking at you, even through the mirrored visor.

he‘s waving his hand at you to follow him, and you debate just speeding off past him… but only for a second as the rational part of your brain takes over, so you nod in response.

you park beside each other on the next service area‘s parking lot.

"why‘d you want me to follow?" you ask before closing the car‘s door. behind you.

"i could see ya starin‘ at me thru my rear-view mirror, luv," he says as he dismounts his bike.

"i… um… like your bike."

"tell me 'bout it then." he cockily leans against your car.

oh.

"oh, hah…" you definitely did NOT want to blow this chance. just act like you know something about bikes. "it‘s a…" you try to spy at his bike‘s model from some kind of lettering on it, but he blocks your view of any spots you would put it if you were the designer. almost like he knows you don‘t know shit about bikes. "a… yamaha… uh…"

"'lready wrong."

oh. well, that‘s awkward.

"oh, i um… must‘ve mixed something up." you could feel your face turning tomato-red.

"inline 4-cylinder, 4-stroke. 205hp @ 30.000 rpm. liquid cooled."

"ah, that‘s… uh… cool!"

"you know anythin' 'bout bikes, dove?"

"not… really?"

"too bad... you look really good."

shit. that‘s it. he‘s gonna drive off any second now… any second..

"mind givin‘ me yer number? i see yer from manchester too."

"o-oh, yeah, i‘ll give you my number, yeah, sure, um, totally!"

he hands you his phone, already on the creation screen for a new contact, almost like he planned this whole ordeal.

"i‘m not originally from manchester, tho. my family lives in gillingham. i only moved there, that‘s why i don‘t have that extremely hot accent of yours."

"gilling-wot?"

"rochester?"

"uh…"

"north of maidstone, somewhere around there."

"ah. imma have tah look it up on google maps later."

"you‘re on your way to manchester too?"

"yup."

"wanna drive together?"

"sure dovie. i'll call ya so i can hear that pretty voice 'f yers. ya gon' pick up?"

"y-yeah, will do."

your legs were made out of pudding.

—————

as he‘s getting

1. more famous and

2. more familiar with social media and trends, he‘s been starting to think about posting thirst traps.

(you know em, you love em)

"'kay lovie. ya know those thirst trap thingies, right? wha‘ if i‘d do one of 'em?"

"uh… i… i mean… why not?"

"i‘m only gonna do it if you‘re fully on board with me, ya know that?"

"i… am. definetely."

"i know ya too well to believe yer act, dove."

"just… you‘re still my simon. don‘t want them to see you like that. should only be me who‘s seeing you in that way… am i too jealous?"

"wha‘? no, no, i get it, love. look, if ye‘re self conscious 'bout it, then i ain‘t doin‘ it."

"i… i suppose we could see what the outcome is. you know… see how the world reacts, if you understand."

—————

mid 30‘s

ex-military

taken

his social media‘s bio is just like him, simple, straight to the point with no dilly dallying around the edges.

his instagram and tiktok accounts have been going quite well, ever since you told him he should make them and share stuff he knew about going to the gym, especially since he was the one who (finally) convinced you to overcome your anxiety and go to the gym.

you are fine with it so far, he’s finally found something he has fun with, but the comments…

some are (somewhat) respectful and actually read the description of his account

@|strawberryfieldsforever: do you do push pull legs or full body workout?

@|wrongostarr: thinking of switching gyms to one of the chain you‘re at, looks really modern

there also are the expected fellow "gymbros" (a term you know he hates being called)

@|rickthepr1ck: damn 💪🏻

@|user748292019593929: good lookin‘, lt.

and there are the people who obviously didn‘t read his profile description.

@|ihateikeafurniture: MY MAN MY MAN MY MAAAAN

@|chinosguitarpick: DAYUMMMM 🥵

you read most of the comments he gets. he‘s not a huge "influencer", but he averages about 100-200 comments on a video. he knows how self-conscious you are, so he never engages with the women thirsting over him in the comments.

when you do videos together, suddenly all the thirsty women disappear or call you his "best friend", they just don‘t wanna face the reality you have what they want.

he catches you staring at one comment from a thirsty user as you‘re sitting on the couch one night.

"don‘t let 'em get into yer head, luv."

"i know… it‘s just…"

"they‘re just jealous of ya, dove."

"yeah… sure."

he says nothing, but he‘s committed himself to block every girl who thirsts over him in his comments from now on.

he just wants you happy.

—————

"you can‘t just run away from everything uncomfortable to you and expect it to fix itself magically!"

"…"

"at least talk to me!"

"… ain‘t anythin‘ to talk 'bout."

"nothing to talk about? NOTHING TO TALK ABOUT?"

"y‘heard me."

"YOU‘RE NOT EVEN HOME AT MIDNIGHT! YOU‘RE IN THE PUB! ALWAYS! YOU TOLD ME YOU HATED YOUR FATHER, SO- SO DON‘T FUCKING BE LIKE HIM!"

the look on his face stayed the same, but his eyes… his eyes told another story.

"wait, wait, si, i didn‘t-"

"you said what was in your head. you meant it."

"n-no, no wait, i- okay, please just let me explain!"

"got nothin‘ to explain to me."

"baby-"

"no."

"…"

"i‘m goin‘ to soap‘s. at least he doesn‘t compare me to… that."

"baby, i didn‘t mean-"

"shove it."

"i‘m sorry, please…"

"well, that’ll magically fix everythin‘, ain‘t it?"

"n-no, just-…"

"just what?"

"i… please don‘t go-"

"why shouldn’t i?"

"cuz i know damn well you ain‘t sleeping on soap‘s smelly ass couch… or… am i that bad?"

"his floor‘s not bad too."

"simon, please."

"…"

"the bed‘s just… so big without you."

"…"

"you‘re not him. not in the slightest. okay, i- i misspoke, i really fucked up. badly. i‘m sorry, baby."

"…"

"i… just feel like you‘re pushing me away, and i can‘t do anything about it… i don‘t… wanna be alone again."

"ya think i would really sleep on his smelly arse couch."

"i- i… you said his floor is fine too…"

—————

as the life in anna‘s eyes slowly fades away, severide goes increasingly worried.

"anna? honey? hey, fight, okay? you can do this! fight!"

her heart rate goes flat on the monitor.

simon sets his beer on the coffee table and wraps his arm around you.

the doctors rush into the room, testing for a pulse on anna. they find nothing.

"why aren‘t you doing anything? forget the nrc, i know her! i know what she wants!" he screams.

"step back, we need to do our job."

he cries out as anna‘s dad pulls him into a hug, "please! no!"

your body shakes with supressed sobs, simon tightens his hold on you.

"'tis just fiction, dove."

"still…" you choke out.

he doesn‘t know how to comfort people with words, not very well at least, but he knows you need physical contact in those situations.

he pulls you onto his lap, chest to chest. hold so tight you could swear he wanted to squeeze out your intestines.

—————

you "walk" over to the couch with your crutches, lying down and pulling your top up to your midriff.

"why did i have to trip on the stairs and twist my ankle?" you mutter to yourself.

simon enters the room, with a paper towel with disinfectant on it and the syringe containing the thrombosis medication for you.

"si, do we have to-"

"i know ya hate needles like hell, but it‘s not gon' scratch ya ego, is it? make ya have clumps in yer lungs or sum shite, the doctor said. remember, dove?"

"only in fragments. 4 hours in the ER is no joke, si."

he kneels down on the floor beside you, and takes a pinch of your belly fat to put the needle into.

"hand?"

"ya see my hands're full, dovie?"

"i‘ll hold my belly fat myself, please?"

he sighs, "fine… here, my hand, ya scared cubbie."

—————

a/n: exactly what it says in the title

as the door to your apartment opens, your daughter stands at attention with her little pink bag beside her and her favorite plushie clutched tightly in her hands.

as simon‘s dog, riley, practically bursts in, they recognize each other and she exclaims "doggie! wiley! hello!", before she looks up, "daddie!"

all the while, you go to grab her bag, handing it off to simon, trying to keep up the facade of being fine, able to handle everything on your own after the divorce. of course he notices.

"sit, riley." he crouches down to your daughter. "head to the car, okay? i'm right behind you."

"okay! bye mommy!"

"bye love!"

as your daughter skips out, he looks at you. "how're ya holdin‘ up?"

"i‘m… trying to."

"what d'ya need? 've got 'nough money on my hands, luv."

"it‘s nothing money could buy."

"jus' tell me. i won't judge ya."

"i‘m really alone, si."

oh.

"i just… miss having someone around… i miss having you around, too. having riley around. just… i just wished things would‘ve gone better."

he exhales deeply. "luv. you know what i said."

"yeah, yeah, 'you deserve to know if i‘m alive', 'you deserve a husband who‘s at home after work' and all that, but don‘t you think that‘s exactly why i hesitated to sign the divorce papers?"

"but you did sign 'em."

"because i love you, si. because i didn‘t wanna keep you back. because i wanted to do what you wanted."

"you… my god, you‘re-…"

"i tried to talk it into you that i don‘t want nor need better. but you weren‘t listening."

"look, i broke up with ya. i put ya in this shi'hole. why should i trust myself not to mess up again?"

"if i talk, you need to listen to me. look, i- i‘m wary to ask for trying again, because i‘m scared to- to seem desperate, but i‘m just- i‘m breaking at the fucking seams and- and-"

he saw that you were slowly spiraling and on the verge of a breakdown, so he slowly took you in his arms, "hey, hey, listen t'me. i would love to try 'gain, 'specially for her. if it‘s what you want, then i‘ll try for ya. but ya need t‘know that i can‘t promise it‘ll work, okay?"

you simply nodded, slowly calming down in his arms.

"pack a little bag for y‘self. we‘re goin‘ to my place, yeah?"

—————

tf141!reader x ghost

!!!tw: mention of sh!!!

hotlines below for anyone who needs them 🫶🏻

content: fluffiest fluff of all fluff time, brief mention of abuse, maybe ooc ghost idrk, first 141 fic

summary: you‘re sick and he knows what you need