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“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
————-
it’s honestly not even your fault.
you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.
“tha right?”
“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
“you’re drunk,” he breathes.
you grin. “so’re you.”
“not even half as much as you.”
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”
it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.
“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”
he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
“jesus. stop talkin’.”
“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“
he doesn’t let you finish that thought.
“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”
“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”
by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”
he pauses. boot in hand.
“…what?”
he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”
he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.
“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.
“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“
“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”
he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—
“only when i breathe.”
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.
“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”
his eyes snap shut.
“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”
even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.
“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“
his palm tightens over your lips again.
“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”
Simon was such a heavy sleeper, which honestly made no sense. With the kind of work he did, you would have thought he had developed insomnia years ago. It was something you secretly envied. The way he could fall asleep so effortlessly felt almost unfair. The second his head touched the pillow, he was gone.
Actually, he could sleep pretty much anywhere, and waking him up was another story. It usually took a few gentle nudges and a couple of soft kisses pressed against his jaw before those pretty, sleepy eyes finally blinked open. And he snored, too. Not loudly, just a low, rhythmic rumble against your ear. It secretly became your own little lullaby, a sound that meant you were safe, he was home, and the rest of the world could not reach you here.
When he slept, he was basically a human weighted blanket. He was so big you often felt like you disappeared between the sheets and his massive frame, but you did not mind. You loved the way his hands always knew exactly where to find you. An arm draped heavy across your waist, his face in your tits or tucked into the crook of your neck, his chest a solid wall of warmth against your back.
He had this subconscious reflex: even in his deepest sleep, if you shifted or shivered, his arm would instinctively tighten, pulling you flush against him as if his body was wired to protect you from the very air around you. Seeing the man who could stare down a threat without flinching melt into a puddle of softness just because you were near? That was a sight that never failed to make your belly swim.
You used to be a notoriously light sleeper, tossing and turning for hours. Nothing helped. You tried everything. Different pillows, white noise, herbal teas, sleep schedules. It always ended the same way: staring at the ceiling at some ungodly hour while everyone else seemed to be asleep.
That was until you started sleeping next to Simon.
The moment you curled up against his warmth, your eyes would begin to drift shut on their own. It felt like your body had finally found something it trusted enough to let its guard down around. There was a profound, quiet magic in his steady breathing, and the way his raspy voice would whisper "g'night, luvie" or "c'mere, sweetheart, it is time to sleep" right before he drifted off.
And the mornings? Those were the best. He would wake up slow, his eyes heavy and hazy, and before he even fully registered the daylight, he would seek out your hand, lacing his thick fingers through yours. He would pull you back down for lazy, lingering morning kisses that tasted so sweet you could melt right there on the spot.
Somehow, between his snoring, his death grip on your waist, and the way he would steal almost all your blanket which you hated the most, Simon had become the only thing in the world that could keep you grounded. He was your home, your warmth, and the best part of every single day.
Sometimes the house became almost painfully quiet when Simon was away. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that settled softly over the room and let you breathe for a while. This was different. A strange, persistent silence that felt like something was missing from the walls themselves, like the whole place had forgotten how to sound like home.
You did your best to fill it.
Books, music, little cleaning spurts that turned into reorganizing entire shelves, and, most often lately, cooking. Cooking helped. It gave your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on. It was soothing, for the most part, until you made something you knew Simon would have loved, and there was no one there to tease, taste, or steal the first bite.
Still, tonight’s recipe had gone well. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, all garlic and herbs and something sweet lingering underneath. You stood there with a plate in one hand, ready to finally serve, when you heard it.
A shuffle. Then a low groan from the front door.
Your whole body went rigid.
Simon was not supposed to be back for another week. You were alone. No guests, no deliveries, no reason for anyone to be at the door at all.
Someone was breaking in. Shit.
You went cold all at once, every lecture Simon had ever given you on self defense flashing through your mind, but panic left no room for careful thinking. You grabbed the plate tighter, your knuckles whitening around it, and moved before your brain could catch up.
The lock rattled, the door bursting open and you swung.
The plate shattered spectacularly against the head of the very tall intruder.
For one breathtaking second, you stood frozen, half expecting a stranger, a threat, anything else.
Instead, a familiar grumble filled the doorway, "Fucking hell."
Your soul left your body.
“Simon?” you gasped, throwing your hands up in horror as adrenaline shot through you so fast your fingers trembled.
He staggered inside, a duffel bag slipping from one shoulder and thudding to the floor. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to the side of his head.
“Are you okay?!” you gasped.
“I got smashed with a plate. What ya think?” he muttered, eyes shut tight.
“You were supposed to be back in a week!”
“Mission ended early,” he said with a pained groan.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted t’ surprise ya.”
You stared at him.
Then gestured wildly at the ceramic graveyard on the floor.
"That is objectively the worst possible strategy for someone who constantly tells me to be careful because of all the enemies you've made."
He gave you a flat look. “Nice. Blame the victim.”
"The victim broke into the house like a raccoon with military training."
He huffed "rude."
“Just go sit down,” you said, already ushering him toward the sofa. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He kicked off his boots with a grunt and dropped onto the couch like all the bones in his body had collectively decided to quit. By the time you returned, kit in hand, he looked tired in that deeply worn-out way that made your chest ache, guilt gnawed at you like a tiny feral creature.
"Si, I'm so sorry," you blurted the second you sat beside him. "I genuinely thought someone was breaking in and then the door opened and I panicked and my body moved before my brain did and I hit you and—"
"It's alright, swee’heart," his voice came soft, steady.
You worked carefully, cleaning the scratches on his forehead and the small cuts along his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch much, though he did keep staring at you with that quiet, warm look that always made you feel like you were the only light in the room.
“Been through a dangerous mission,” he said, “an’ get home to get clocked by me wife.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, glaring at the cotton pad like it had personally offended you.
“Never said it was.”
“You are being very smug for a man who got ambushed by dinnerware.”
He huffed a laugh. “Usually wives greet their husbands with kisses and hugs. Not ceramic warfare.”
“I was trying out a new greeting method.”
He raised one brow. “Next time, how about a pan to the face?”
You let out a helpless laugh. “Shut up.”
“You hit me.”
“I thought you were breaking in!”
“Still counts as domestic violence, luv.”
You snorted despite yourself, and he looked absurdly pleased with that.
Once you finished, he leaned back into the couch with a long sigh, still horrified and still trying not to laugh at the stupidity of this entire situation. He tilted his head toward you.
“On the bright side,” he said, “I do know for certain you’re safe when I’m gone.”
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Lieutenant Riley has always prided himself in the way he could read people. It was partially why he only had few words to spare, just observing people in the room, their nervous tics and what they did when they weren't aware. So what made you exempt from his observations?
tags: GN!reader. unrequited love adjacent? only cus simon's fuckin oblivious.
w/c: 1,9k
The night you see a shooting star, you wished that you were never smitten with your lieutenant.
The events leading up to it were a mindfuck of its own, it was embarrassing — bringing him a tea every morning (made with a splash of a milk alternative because you noticed his considerably bad mood when his stomach would ache), rushing to sit next to him in the heli, following him around base like a lost pup whenever you had the chance, fixing problems before he could see them. It was painfully comical, really.
“Oh, LT, I’ve fetched the documents you needed so you didn’t have to make the trip to Archives.”
“Sir, I proofread your report and made a few corrections before sending them off to Captain Price.”
You did all you could for a lick of validation from him that would never come. Were you his sergeant or his starry-eyed, lovesick assistant?
Everyone on base noticed how much you doted on him and much to your dismay, the affections were never returned. Oh, but sometimes you’d be on the receiving end of a less than satisfied grunt which were on good days.
You knew it was a lot to expect him to openly show his appreciation towards you. After all, you did what you did because you liked him. So why did you feel so pathetic?
The morning that followed, Captain Price had called the 141 in for a meeting. Simon was considerably late, seeing as he arrived to his office with no tea waiting for him like usual. No bother, he’d just make his way to the mess hall and brew himself one. Then he found out the kitchen staff had relocated almost everything, so he rummaged through every cabinet and drawer to find where the herbs were stashed and of course it just had to be the very last one he checked. Cursing under his breath, realizing the time, he went to grab the carton of milk to give it a little splash only for him to find chunky particles in the milk.
Perhaps your wish upon a star was for him to have the worst luck ever.
Simon stormed into the presentation room damn near 10 minutes late with a milk-less tea that tasted like shit, which he wouldn’t know that it had to do with the teaspoon of honey you’d add to his tea. A little sweetness to sweeten him up, you’d think. The mess hall was also on the other side of the building, how you managed to make his tea, run it to his office, and make it back to Price’s office for your tasks was beyond him. Your eagerness to make his day easier carried you through it. He couldn’t be mad at you for the lack of cuppa on his desk when he knew it wasn’t required of you.
Price started off his morning meeting with a lecture about punctuality, an eyebrow raised at his second in command. Simon was scowling under his surgical face mask, arms crossed as he sat in the corner of the room. He hated that he could smell your cup of tea that was definitely made just the way he liked it.
Price had tasked Simon with paperwork, which was a surprise to Simon but not to the captain.
“What’s got you so irritable about doin’ paperwork? Y’seem to fair fine every other time I’ve had you check on forms.” Only Simon doesn’t remember touching any paperwork other than post op paperwork. So this had nothing to do with him, right?
Simon finds himself feeling lost in what he should be looking for. He stares blankly, blinking a few times and Price notices this.
“Alright lieutenant, I’m gonna need you to go to Archives to retrieve the paperwork you finished last week and cross reference this morning’s paperwork so you can catch yourself up on whatever it is you seem to be missing.” Price doesn’t have time to be concerned about whatever’s got Simon stuck, though he just chalks it up to a bad day, he just needs the work done.
Does he even remember where Archives is? He remembers it was in the west wing in one of the southern corridors, just not the room number. Easily enough, the room he’s looking for has a sign in uppercase text to point him where he needs to be.
A soldier of his ranking gives him the utmost clearance, so he’s confused as to why the office people stare at him. Well, maybe it’s because he’s wandering aimlessly trying to find where his damn filing cabinet would be. He opens drawer after drawer and finds a pattern that everything is alphabetized by last name so when he gets designated filing cabinet, he can’t help but notice how unfamiliar it seems. It’s not at all how he remembers it and suddenly he can’t remember the last time he was here.
He pulls the drawer open to find your neat handwriting on yellow manilla folders. Each report, incident report, post op were filed so neatly — everything had been separated by year, into quarters, into months. It made it quick and easy for you to find whatever you needed and you knew if Simon needed to do his own reports for whatever reason that you couldn’t (like you wishing upon a star to dismiss your feelings for him or whatever) it would make it easier on him. His fingers brushed against the tops of each folder, pulling out a random report and true as day, your handwriting was found on documents that were his responsibility.
He gathers the documents he needed and was starting to make his way back to his office to work on his paperwork.
“Finally gave your sergeant a vacation?” the office manager calls out from behind Simon. He turns on his heel to see an older woman, greying hairs and glasses that were connected to a chain that fell around her neck. Simon grunts in acknowledgment, not knowing how to respond before trudging on.
In his office, he finds Soap waiting for him with a tray and a fresh cup of tea. Black. How he took it before you. “Mornin’ LT, brought ye lunch since I dinnae see ye in the mess hall.” the MacTavish boy grins. Simon slaps the documents on the table, glancing at his wrist watch.
Christ Almighty, was it lunch time already?
“Shit, what a fuckin’ long day,” Simon’s palm runs across his face as he takes his seat, letting out a sigh of exasperation.
“Aye, I ‘aven’t seen you so stress since… well… maybe yesterday.” Soap pokes at the masked man. “Or with paperwork still to do at noon.” Soap also checks his watch and runs his hands over the archived documents, eyes finding your handwriting.
“Apparently, one of my other sergeants has been taking care of it for me,” Simon name drops you specifically, though Johnny didn’t need to be told that. Not when the paperwork with your pretty scribbles was right in front of him.
“Hm, this doesn’t have to do with your tardiness this mornin’, does it? I don’t think they made you a tea. Did you tell them to piss off or somethin’?”
“Why would I tell them to piss off?”
“Because it was bloody obvious that they fancied you, yeah? I reckon if you were interested back, you’d have said something by now.”
Right…so maybe it wasn’t bloody obvious. Simon’s dead fish eyes were on full display, blinking cluelessly at his best friend. Almost as if he was waiting for Soap to burst out laughing and say he was kidding.
“Mate, please tell me yer joking.”
“Johnny, does it look like I’m joking?”
“Well, I can tell ya yer funny-looking, but I’m not sure about joking.”
Simon rolled his eyes, no longer having the motivation to do whatever it was Price needed him to do. Though, the motivation was never there. Which was why you always did it for him. A knock at the door causes Simon to groan, face palming once more. He could not catch a break and whoever was at the door was not going to make it easy.
Gaz pokes his head in, waving to the boys. “Good afternoon sir, I’ve got a few incident reports to follow up with you on. Price mentioned I might need to sit with you since you had a lot on your plate from the workload he gave you earlier.”
“Yeah, yeah, ‘ave a seat.” Simon grumbles. He isn’t even thinking about food, so he pushes his tray to the side to make room for Gaz and his paperwork.
“Simon’s losing it without his pet,” Johnny feels the need to update his peer. “He didn’t even know they fancied ‘im.” Gaz’s face pales in an alarming way, eyes wide and Johnny thinks Gaz has fizzled out the way he’s stopped blinking.
“What d’ya mean he didn’t know?” Gaz turns to Simon who’s seemingly more interested in the ceiling as he overthinks every single interaction he’s ever had with you. “Y’mean to tell me, you weren’t purposely ignorin’ their advances at you?”
“Well, m’not exactly the ideal boyfriend. Didn’t think they saw me in that way, I thought they were jus’ bein nice.”
“Following you around in their free time? You think that’s just being nice, mate?”
“Aye, lay off, Simon’s jus’ as dumb as he looks apparently.” Johnny earns a glare from his lieutenant. “That’s b’sides the point. Where have they fucked off to anyway?”
“Might’ve had something to do with that,” Gaz’s eyes don’t meet his lieutenant or Soap’s eyes.
“What’d you do?” Simon sits up, straightening his back. His thoughts are suddenly filled with some altercation where Gaz grips your shoulders and yells at you to get over your little crush, out of character, nothing that Kyle would actually do. But he fears it.
“They were proper griping about this unreturned crush they had on you, mate. So, last night on our walk home from the pub, we saw a shooting star and I may have told them to wish that they didn’t like you anymore.” Gaz sinks in his chair as Simon’s eyes grew more intense, not a word coming from his mouth.
“Y’did what?” Soap almost looks like he wants to laugh, he thinks it some sick joke Gaz has improv’d. “A wish on a star?”
“Well it worked, didn’t it?” this sends Soap into a thought of realization and it shuts him up. Gaz didn’t think the wish would have truly worked, hell, he’s only half sure that’s the reason you’ve distanced yourself from Simon.
Simon seems to be conflicted. As unaware as he is, he is aware to the fact that he only noticed your little crush on him when it was gone. And it only affected him when he wasn’t on the receiving end of how it positively benefited him. Would it really be fair of him to chase you?
Maybe it wasn’t written in the stars, you two… But it didn’t mean he couldn’t try. After all, you only wished that you were never smitten with him. Not that you could be (future tense) smitten with him.
a/n: hi cute thangs, ive come to report that my writer's block was indeed due to a scenario i was stuck on, i am living proof that u can break free as this is my post-prison sentence. thank u for coming to my ted talk
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