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packing blue collar!simon riley's lunch when you're mad at him
simon always knew when you were still mad at him. it wasn't a cold shoulder, or talking back to him, but the way you packed his lunch.
due to the early hours he had to get up, you woke up earlier to prepare a lunch for him—something he never took for granted. however, the previous night, you got in a small argument you were still salty about come the time to pack his lunch the next morning.
and simon could tell.
it wasn't a lack of food or effort. it wasn't a passive aggressive note—although there has been times. it was the presentation of the food and how you prepared it.
these particular mornings, he would hear the clanging of containers and pots from the bedroom, whereas on normal days, you'd encourage him to get as much rest as he could. you slammed around cabinet doors that didn't deserve your abuse, shoved containers together, and tossed whatever pot or pan you used into the sink without a care in the world.
next was the food itself. you never depraved him of nourishment. you weren't a monster, but you didn't go the extra steps you normally would. it was subtle, yet he noticed.
like the whole strawberries—normally cut into heart shapes—you had thrown in the yogurt container, still having the leaves attached.
the sandwich he requested that you made perfectly, if you ignored the fact it looked like you laid on it.
or the can of his least favorite flavor drink instead of the good ones that he knows is still sitting in the fridge, waiting to be packed for a day you don't want him to suffer.
simon opens his lunch with a chuckle and returns home to eat you out over the kitchen counter to make up for it, with dinner being ready right after.
the mission is an agonizing slow burn. hours dragging on and spent in the same prone position on a gritty rooftop, the world reduced to the circular view through your scope. simon is beside you, a silent, hulking shadow meant to be your spotter. but you can feel his eyes on you, and they’re not watching the street below.
you’ve been in this position for so long your muscles ache, but the tight fit of your cargo pants as you lie on your stomach is apparently doing something for him. you can feel the heat of his gaze burning into your ass, a tangible weight. you hear the soft rustle of gear, the subtle shift of his body closer to yours on the rough surface.
a rough, gloved hand lands on your hip, not to steady you, but to hold you in place. it’s a silent question you’ve both answered a dozen times before. you don’t move from your scope, but you feel the air shift as he unbuckles his belt, the rasp of his zipper a deafening sound in the tense quiet. his hand moves to the front of your pants, popping the button with practiced ease before dragging the zipper down. he pushes the rough fabric of your pants and underwear down your thighs, exposing you to the cool night air.
you don’t flinch when you feel the blunt, wet head of his cock pressing against you. he doesnt waste a second, just shoves himself inside, a slow, thick stretch that makes your whole body clench. he’s so fucking big, a heavy, aching fullness that immediately starts to throb deep inside you.
“focus,” is all he grunts, his voice a low, gravelly rumble right next to your ear. it’s an order. stay on target.
he starts moving, and it’s all so raw. a hard, messy rhythm that slams you into the cold concrete with every thrust. the wet, sloppy sound of his hips hitting your ass fills the air, a disgusting, perfect counterpoint to the quiet phut of your silenced rifle. your body is jerked forward with every single thrust, the recoil from your own shots a dull thud against your shoulder in comparison. his gloved hands grip your hips, holding you down, using your own body as leverage to drive himself even deeper.
you spot quick movement. a tango rounding the corner. you adjust your aim, the crosshairs wobbling for just a second as simon’s cock rams deep right into your cervix, a bruising impact that sends a shockwave of pure, painful pleasure right to your brain. your vision whites out for a second, a hazy, pleasure-fucked blur. you squeeze the trigger. the body drops.
his pace gets rougher, sloppier. he’s fucking you like he’s trying to leave a mark on your cervix, each thrust deeper and harder than the last. you can feel his sweat dripping onto your back, hot trails that snake down your skin, mixing with the grime on your gear. his dick is just a thick, penetrating presence inside you, relentlessly pounding that same spot until you’re sure you’ll be sore on the inside. a low, aching throb starts deep in your gut, a constant reminder of how completely he’s filling you, stretching you past your limit.
he lets out a rough grunt, the sound muffled by his mask, and his thrusts get frantic. he’s close. his hand comes up, slamming your head down for a few brutal thrusts, his gloved fingers fisted at the base of your skull as he grinds your cheek into the gritty roof. the second his hand moves back to your hip for more leverage, you wrench your head back up, pressing your eye to the cold rubber of the scope just in time. another tango. you quickly line up the shot, your whole body shaking from the force of his fucking. you fire. the enemy falls just as simon finally goes over the edge, a ragged, choked-off noise torn from his throat right against your neck.
he gives one last, impossibly deep thrust, holding himself there as his hot cum floods your womb, a thick, scalding release that makes your orgasm crash over you in a wave of static. for a second, he’s jus still on top of you, his ragged breaths ghosting over your skin.
then he pulls out in one slick, wet motion, the feeling of emptiness almost as shocking as the feeling of being filled. you hear the rasp of his zipper, the click of his belt. you manage to pull your pants up, your hands shaking slightly as you fasten the button and zipper.
you look back through your scope, scanning the empty street.
“street’s all clear,” you murmur into your comms, your voice surprisingly steady.
“good work,” he replies from beside you, his voice nothing but cold, flat professionalism. as if the last few seconds never happened.
𝓫efore 𝔂ou 𝓰o . . . i’ve decided to get back on my cod grind after seeing the mw4 trailer + i loooove simon’s left arm sleeve tat like its sooooo sooo attractive.
t141 + könig and their reaction to sleeping on the couch after an argument
—price
when you banish him to the couch, he could be one of two ways—mature and forces you to talk it out nicely or toxic, flat out refuses, and fucks you back to your senses.
the first way, when the words spill from your mouth, his shoulders slumped with dejection as he steps from the room. no point in arguing when you're worked up. after stewing in your anger for thirty or so minutes, he returns—armed with food—and talks it out with you.
the other way, he flat out refuses to sleep on the couch. i could see him manipulating you with the "I paid for that bed, and I'll sleep in it." you're stubborn, muttering something about you sleeping on the couch then, which is how you end up getting your brains fucked out.
—soap
I imagine soap just pushed your buttons way too much that day. you know how he is sometimes—over the top, hyper, and an all-around instigator. he was looking for a reaction, and he found it—just not the one he wanted.
immediately pouts, acting like a dejected child before he goes on to try and convince you to change your mind. real annoying about it too, doesn't give up until you're at your breaking point.
—kyle
the only one that I see actually accept his banishment with stride. he knows he made you upset, respects the boundary you placed with him and doesn't take it to heart. there's also a big possibility that, by the end of the night, you end up talking it out anyways like mature adults.
he knows you needed to get it out of your system, and you serving punishment to him did just that.
—simon
the second the words leave your mouth, he shuts down. you see the moment he deflates, doesn't try to reconcile, and just accepts it. he doesn't want to upset you further or make you more mad than you already are. simon doesn't respond well to domestic conflict.
the second his back hits the cushions? he's tossing and turning. he barely fits the couch to begin with, and you both learn you need each other to sleep—bonded like a pair of cats.
—könig
he's not fitting on the couch, and that's what makes it more satisfying. maybe he was being too persistent about his horniness, hands wandering too far until you snapped and threw your finger to the couch you know he can't fit.
he whines about it for sure, trying to whip you with puppy eyes and convince you to change your mind. he apologizes until you're sick of hearing it, allowing him back in bed just to get him to shut up.
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simon riley fucking you for the first time knowing he shouldn’t. it’s forbidden. it’s wrong. you’re the captain’s daughter.
he has you sat on the table, your shirt hiked up, his pants shoved down. his cock is still bottoming out, groaning in your ear, when you both hear price’s heavy footfalls echoing down the hall as he calls out for his daughter… for you.
Simon is impossibly deep inside of your warm, wet pussy, thrusting so hard you scoot up the bed as he knocks the air from the lungs while the headboard bangs against the wall. A pillow is strategically placed under your hips so every time he slams inside of you it hits your sweet spot, and your clit catches on the wet material without fail. Your nipples drag across the soft fabric beneath you, your hands clutching at the pillows in front of you, all while you’re being fucked dumb.
“Fuckin’ slut. Wish you could see the way your pussy sucks me in,” he growls, his grip on you turning punishing, his face never faltering as he continues to drill into you from behind.
His fingers are tangled in your hair, yanking on it hard and keeping your head in place so your moans aren’t muffled against the mattress. His other hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your airway just enough to make it more pleasurable as your choked sobs ring out around the room.
His thick, long cock slides through your walls as he molds your pussy to be perfect for him. The veins and ridges leave imprints the faster he thrusts, the deeper he reaches, the harder he grinds. Every knock to your cervix leaves you breathless, every brush against your sweet spot has pleasure shooting through your body, and the longer he abuses your poor pussy, the more you beg for it.
“P-please Si, please,” you manage to say, gripping onto the sheets for dear life, lifting your hips to meet his every thrust but trying to run from it all at the same time.
Simon fucks you harder, the sound of your sweet voice begging for him enough to bring him to the brink of his orgasm, but not until you unravel on him for the umpteenth time tonight. His hand smacks down against your ass, your skin burning raw immediately, and he yanks your hair so hard that stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Please what? Be a good girl and use your fuckin’ words,” he says through gritted teeth, biting back an obscene moan that wishes to fall from his swollen lips.
His fingers press into the delicate skin of your neck, your pulse fluttering around his thumb, and the adrenaline of knowing that you’re at his mercy makes your walls clamp down tight around him, earning you a hiss from the man behind you. When you don’t respond in what he deems as a timely manner, his hand strikes your ass again, harder this time, but somewhere in this moment he still feels guilty for it when his thumb brushes over the scorching skin to soothe you.
“More, p-please Si,” you continue to beg, completely consumed by the feeling of his cock inside you, bullying your insides with no pity.
His hand moves from your throat to the pillow in front of you as he steadies himself. Leaning over your back, his cock pressed against your cervix with the utmost amount of pressure, he positions himself to watch your face while he fucks into you like a rabid animal as if he has no compassion or love for the woman under him what-so-ever.
You know he would apologize after. Apologize for being rough, apologize for saying mean things, apologize for acting as if he has no respect for you, but it makes your pussy so fucking wet all you can do is beg for him to be meaner.
“Yeah? Beg for it. Look at me and beg me to make you cum, beg me to make you feel good slut.”
Your gaze lifts to his, and the way his pupils dilate from the sight of you so undone solely because of him has a groan rumbling out from the depths of his chest. Drool drips from your chin while your mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Your eyes are half-lidded and dazed with tears staining your cheeks, your lips swollen and pigmented, and he watches how every single time his cock thrusts until there’s no more space inside you the air from your lungs comes in short, ragged gasps that sound like music to his ears.
“Make me c-cum Si- f-fuck- make me f-feel good, p-please,” you stutter, tripping over every other word, trying your hardest to form sentences coherent enough to beg for it like he asked.
He growls, deep and low, animalist almost, and he shoves your face into the pillow while spreading your cheeks with his other hand to watch your pussy swallow him whole. He fucks you, deep and hard and fast, it is almost too much. Your juices leak out around his cock, coating his length of your arousal, and he watches how tight you get the closer your orgasm gets.
“Do it,” he says, the words coming out strained, “cum on my fucking dick then since you beg so pretty.”
Every movement of his hips is hitting a spot inside of you that bursts into pleasure. Your cervix, your sweet spot, your nipples drag against the sheets until they’re hard and sore, your clit grinding against the pillow beneath you until it all pushes you over the edge. Your body becomes rigid, your muscles draw taut, and your screaming sobs fill the room, and no other sounds can be heard.
“I’m c-cumming-“
“Who makes you feel this good? Who do you belong to,” he asks, fucking you harder, fucking you through your orgasm, fucking you into overstimulation, waiting for the words to fall from your pretty, swollen lips before he allows himself the same release.
“You! F-fuck it’s always you Si,” you whimper, your body twitching from your walls being rubbed raw, from your clit grinding against every last nerve, from your nipples peaking beyond belief.
With a few more thrusts and a guttural groan ripping from his throat, Simon buries himself to the hilt, spilling his seed into the deepest parts of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out against your cervix with every twitch of his cock, coating your walls in all he has to give as the man behind you stills while he fills you to the brim. When nothing else will fit it leaks out around him, your cum mixing with his, making a mess between your thighs and spreading against the sheets.
“Fuck,” he groans, collapsing on top of you, trying his hardest to catch his breath.
His face is buried between your shoulder blades, his warm breath hitting your skin and sending shivers down your spine, his hands moving from their previous positions to caress up your sides as if asking for forgiveness through touch before asking verbally. He kisses against your spine, all the way down to your ass where he licks the raw handprint burning against your skin, and when he reaches your pussy, he licks up the mess before flipping you over with ease.
He hovers above you, wiping a stray tear before placing a feather light kiss to your lips. Admiring you, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, watching the way you give him the softest yet brightest smile he has ever seen, and he can’t help but cover your face in the same kisses.
“You’re not a slut, and you never have to beg for me…,” he mumbles in between kisses, and before he can keep rambling on you pull him down until your forehead is pressed against his.
“If you say sorry… I swear Simon.”
He laughs softly, “I know, I know. I’m sorry- shit- sorry. Fuck. I’ll just stop talking now, yeah?”
He'll have you sit on his lap naked, just so you'll get his jeans dirty. Something about it really makes his cock throb.
Or, he'll fuck you on his fingers while wearing his favourite pair of gloves before a mission, just so he has something to lick and smell when he gets lonely—and you do get a helluva fucking when your scent wears off his gloves sooner than usual. As if you can control that.
After one too many punishments for that though, you pushed him down and sat on his face while he wore his balaclava. Practically waterboarding the bloke with your arousal. Simon always loved when you were just as perverted as he was.
The thing that turns you on disgusts you the most? You'll be bent over in your kitchen, garden, laundry; and Simon'll come up behind you, shove his fingers in you before pulling them out before you can properly register what he's doing, walking off and sucking his fingers with a pleased hum.
You've scolded him for it countless times, yet the pervert doesn't care. Smiling at you in a way that from any other man? It would make your stomach twist in disgust. But from Simon? You can't get enough.
And yes, he is in fact the type of guy to pull your asscheeks apart so he can lick his thumb and press it against the spasming ring of muscle,
"If she keeps winking at me like this, I'll have to fuck her too." Growled in your ear while you whine in disgust, as if you don't have a pretty little collection of plugs in the back of your dresser already.
You and Simon just loved pretending like you were being corrupted by him.
⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧
Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ
Might change my divider, and way of colouring text. I dunno guys. Anyway hiiiii lol please don't sound me for not posting until now. Can women be sounded? God I hope not.
Konig is definitely the type to FaceTime you while you’re out with the girls, except he’s shirtless and in low riding grey sweats that do absolutely NOTHING to hide his massive form. Laid out on the bed, pillows pulled tight to him, phone propped up to show himself perfectly laid out, dimly lit room sending shadows everywhere. Having to pretend everything’s alright, like nothing is happening, making sure to leave with a long, desperate massage of his groin, ending the call with a devilish little smirk, knowing it won’t take long. Jumping from your seat, grabbing the coat across the chair, startling the group, loosely explaining “something came up” while heading for the door already.
Summary: After hanging up the ghost mantle, Simon struggles integrating with civilization, leading to him buying a house near a beach and catching more than he bargained for.
Fish.
That's all he smelt standing on the rusty old excuse of a dock. Watching the waves as they slammed against dark rocks that lined the overgrown beach.
This is the last place he thought he'd end up at, he was sure his life would end in whatever third world country he was deployed to- but what was he supposed to do? Say no?
Disobey his captain when he passed over the documents? That damn piece of paper stating that his run is over, that he's unwillingly forced into retirement.
He didn't have a choice. Fate always had a cruel way of punishing him day by day after all.
"Tried to talk with Laswell but we both know your head isn't here Lieutenant."
"Sir-"
"After recent events... you haven't been the same." Price sighed, "I can't risk putting you or the team in danger."
"So I'm a liability now?"
He knew he was being a prick.
They all had been going through it. Including Price- who was trying oh so hard to keep everything togheter when he was rotting on the inside.
"Ghost-"
"I can still serve-"
"Simon."
The air was tense, every breath they took feeling like water was being filled in their lungs instead of oxygen. The harsh lights of Price's office making his already red eyes sting.
"It was an honor serving with you soldier. Take care of yourself."
So that's how he found himself back in his dingy run down flat in a rather unpleasant neighborhood in Manchester.
After years devoted to serving for his country, one wrong call and circumstance cost him his brother. Another person he thought of as home gone because he wasn't there to have his back.
It wasn't obscure to think that he would lose his mind- yes he was considered heartless and untouchable in the eyes of new recruits that would enlist- hell even his colleagues and higher ups thoughts the same. In reality, Ghost was only ever a facade to mask his hurt.
So how does one, who spent so long being a soldier, a machine built for war, go back to being a civilian?
He can't.
Simon Riley died a long time ago.
As much as he hated to admit it... Price was right.
He is a liability- became lost in his own rage and pain, blacking out and going on a rampage, killing multiple men like they were going to bring him back.
Months of him not sleeping, taking unnecessary risks, causing outbursts and overall punishing himself- ultimately leading to the death of Makarov. Killed by a bullet going perfectly straight through his skull.
Ghost made sure he put ten more for good measure and a few stab wounds before he was eventually pulled away.
He wasn't himself and he knew that.
Long gone was the calm and collected lieutenant.
Sounds of traffic, beeping horns, yelling, construction workers- drowned out by his own thoughts. Some random football game played in the background while he was on his... God knows what bottle of bourbon- he stopped counting after the tenth one.
Gaz and Price visited, took him out for a pint or two, went grocery shopping for him- but they still had work. Still had six months of deployment ahead of them. He doesn't blame them for losing track of time.
Just how he lost track of when he was supposed to pay his rent, the eviction letter pilled up next to the other useless junk mail.
So what was a man who was unable to integrate into society supposed to do? Pack his measly half empty suitcase and buy a house somewhere off the coast of course.
A two story beach house swallowed inside the overgrown forest that opened up to an unkept beach. Forgotten.
It was perfect.
So he got to work, started repairing the interior, plaster that had fallen off or old windows needing to be replaced by better insulated ones. Bringing in his minimal furniture from his flat after he finished repainting the whole house. He was slowly clearing out the outside as well, cutting down some smaller trees and tending to the grass.
It was sort of nice, he had something to do instead of live on his miserable couch, drinking and wallowing in self pity- I mean he still did that but that was time reserved for after he had finished working.
He even started a small garden for vegetables- mostly potatoes- considering the closest town was a relatively small one that was a 10 minute drive from where he was. He went once a week for basic supplies and food, even started selling fish on the market.
There was an old fishing boat that came with the property, he scraped off the algae and bought himself some new gear... Finding the whole experience quite relaxing.
Watching how the serene water shifted ever so slightly, the sunlight bouncing on the surface as he cast his fishing line once more.
It was familiar, yet...
No matter how much he enjoyed being out on his little boat, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Call it paranoia.
But years in the military have taught him to be aware of his surroundings and he knew when there was a pair of eyes on him. He could tell when he was being hunted.
Yet he could never pin point exactly where it was coming from.
He finished up for the day, deciding to head back to his humble abode. Not before looking at the water and gazing at his reflection, his scarred and burnt face staring right back at him.
Yeah... Enough for today.
Soon, the weather got warmer- almost six months since...
The water was frantic that morning, small waves moving and splashing due to the slightly windy weather. He had been fixing up the deck, sure it worked fine but it was a question of when it wouldn't. The screws were all rusty and crooked, wooden planks moldy and rotting away- so he bought some new ones from town and began unloading his truck. No doubt there was going to be a storm coming in so he just piled the wood and covered them with a tarp.
Good thing he already fixed most of the leaks in the attic, he was going to redo the entire roof at some point but it worked for now- before he had placed a multitude of different pots and pans to catch each individual leak.
He enjoyed it here far more than the city. There wasn't any loud banging or yelling, no nosy people, only the soft melody of crickets, waves and occasionally rain letting him go numb.
Fishing helped as well, it was a quiet past time.
No ghosts are coming to haunt him here.
Well...
Almost no ghosts.
He narrowed his eyes toward the window overlooking the water, taking a long drag from his cigarette. No matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't help shake that feeling that someone was watching him.
It had started weeks ago, a little after he moved in. Little things at first. Tools moved when he swore he'd left them elsewhere, or the occasional glimpse of movement beyond the rocks offshore.
Every instinct he had screamed he wasn't alone out here and every time he grabbed a rifle to check, he found nothing.
"Bloody losing it," he muttered under his breath.
The storm worsened by evening.
Waves crashed violently against the shore while Simon pulled on his jacket and headed outside with a flashlight. One of his spare fishing nets had come loose near the waterline, dragged halfway towards the rocks littering the beach.
He could've left it for tomorrow morning, could've stayed in the warmth of his living room instead of stomping across wet sand, boots sinking deep.
Then the beam of his flashlight caught movement, his muscles tensing up and seemingly all of his senses being on high alert.
Something thrashed inside the tangled net.
Not something.
Someone.
For some time his brain was struggling to take into account what exactly he was seeing. Pale skin slick with seawater. Long strands of hair tangled with rope. Wide terrified eyes reflecting in the light.
And below the waist- a fish tail.
Massive. Powerful. Covered in dark iridescent scales that shimmered a sort of turquoise color beneath the rain.
You jerked violently as Simon approached, claws catching uselessly in the netting.
"Easy," he barked automatically like he was giving an order, that only made things worse.
You hissed at him, sharp teeth flashing as you desperately tried to drag yourself backward toward the sea. The net tightening around your tail, cutting into the scales hard enough to draw blood.
Simon stared for another second.
Any normal person would've probably panicked.
But he had fought beside highly trained men, wearing a skull mask while missiles fell from the sky. His scale for "impossible" was far from broken.
He crouched carefully, slowly approaching you while drawing a dagger from his belt. Your eyes widening at the metal.
"Oi," he said gruffly, holding one hand up slightly. "Not gonna hurt you."
The words sounded ridiculous considering they were coming from him, six foot something, pure muscle of a man with a knife in his hand.
Of course you didn't trust him.
The moment he moved closer, you snapped at him hard enough that he jerked back on instinct.
"...Right. Fair."
Rain dripped from the edge of his hood while he studied the mess of rope wrapped around you.
The fishing line had dug deep between the scales of your tail. Every movement tightened it further.
Simon clicked his tongue, patience running thin.
"Hold still unless you fancy losing the whole bloody fin." He grumbled, left to only assume that you don't understand the words, but maybe you had understood the tone.
Barely.
Your breathing remained sharp and panicked, but you had stopped fighting long enough for Simon to start cutting through the net. The knife worked carefully between ropes, severing one knot at a time.
Up close, he could see details that made his chest tighten strangely.
Scars.
Old ones.
Across your shoulders. Along parts of your tail, not natural and definitely not accidental. Something had hurt you before.
"There," he muttered after cutting another line loose. You flinched when his hand brushed against your tail accidentally. The scales were colder than he expected.
Human enough to look fragile.
Not human enough to feel real.
One final rope snapped and the net fell loose entirely.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then you surged backward fast enough to splash seawater across his boots, dragging yourself toward deeper water, strong fins treading through the rough waves.
Simon stood slowly, knife still hanging loosely in his grip as he watched you swim away- only to stop and turn around to gaze right into his eyes.
Rain poured between you in silver sheets while your eyes stayed fixed on him- cautious, frightened, curious. Like you'd been watching him for far longer than he realized.
With a flip of your tail you disappeared into the waves while Simon remained there alone on the shore, soaked to the bone.
After a long silence, he looked down at the shredded fishing net beside his feet.
"...The hell just happened?"
If Simon couldn't sleep before, he sure as hell couldn't now. Sitting on his worn out mattress with a cigarette on his lips, taking deep breaths of it as he stared with wide eyes through his window. His wet clothes thrown in the laundry hamper while he contemplated whether or not what happened was real or not.
A fucking mermaid.
He truly has lost his mind.
Surely it's the lack of sleep, maybe even a rusty old pipe burst and he's getting high off of gas because there is no way in hell that what he saw was real.
The storm had long since passed, wind clearing out the nasty clouds as sunlight found its way and crept through his windows.
He must be crazy.
So why the fuck is there a torn up fishing net where you had been? Why did he find shiny scales around it and deep groves in the sand where you had dragged your body when you jumped in?
And most importantly- why were there missing fish in his catch from the day before? You have bloody claws and teeth and yet you chose to take his? He spent a few solid hours using his heavy duty equipment to catch those. Not to mention his perfectly good net that he had to tear up in a million pieces since you got yourself tangled up in it.
The nerve of some people- or fish.
A part of him wished it stoped then and there. But of course it didn't and you were still around.
He could still feel your eyes on him, frankly he isn't sure if it's better now that he knows who is stalking him- might've been better to live in paranoia instead of delusion.
You weren't being slick either, he could see the slight ripples on the water when there was no wind, or the silhouette sitting by the rocks at dawn.
When he was fixing up the house though? Yeah, that was apparently peak entertainment for you. Curious eyes staring at him from the water while he worked on the deck, trying to finish it up before another storm rolled in.
He got used to the staring.
It meant he wasn't alone.
Your voice was soothing as well. You'd spent nights perched up on your rock, singing a soft melody that lulled him to sleep whenever he was restless- which was almost every night but your songs made him get at least two more hours of sleep to his measly none.
So what if he accidentally left a fish on his deck?
It's not like he purposefully placed the biggest one and stayed perched on his window waiting for your little webbed hands to find it- or how his chest filled with pride when he noticed that it was gone.
Meaningless.
Just like the pretty shells and smooth sea glass he would find after accidentally misplacing a fish every morning. He doesn't miss the little pleased click you'd do when he picked it up, glancing unamused at your general direction and watching you plop back into the water like a child getting caught stealing.
Sure it was embarrassing, but he was so fascinating to you- humans were always afraid of your kind, hunting and poaching you for god knows what sort of imaginary tale they spread about you. Forcing your kind to retreat into deep water just to be safe, turning into a myth or legend that was told to young children.
But he was different. He could've easily taken you, practically served on a silver plater for him since your already caught yourself... he didn't though.
Simon soon realized you had been watching for far longer than what he thought.
You've had your eyes on him since the very first day he'd set foot on the property. Seen him open the door to the house and watch in amusement when the handle was left in his hand. Seen him drunk on his porch at 3am. Seen him awake pacing on the beach after a gruesome nightmare. Seen him sitting on the ground of that same beach and talking to ghosts that weren't there.
You've seen him entirely and saw yourself.
Weeks spent at a distance, knowing of one another and yet scared to get close- because for both of you, getting close meant nothing good.
Though, you couldn't help but sit closer and closer to the shore.
Who could blame you? That man had the most treasures you've ever seen- simple work equipment had you in awe whenever he would use it. Surely he wouldn't mind if you tinkered with them, holding them and mimicking what he did. And yeah, it did annoy him to find his tools wet and not where had left them- but he drew the line when he saw that his pack of cigarettes were gone.
He heard you laugh for the first time that day. Your sweet voice giggling behind a rock while holding his things hostage.
Slowly that giggle turned into words.
He'd sit on the now sturdy and well built deck while you were perched up on your rock. Listening to him speak, about his day, the fish he'd catch or the nosy townsfolk that make up stories about him. In time he started to open up about his childhood, the rare but fonder memories- then some of his time serving.
You loved his voice, gruff and raspy but soft when he spoke to you... Nothing like the fishermen you'd listen in on whilst you got curious and swam up to the surface. Their voices were loud- but you did learn a few words here and there just by observing them.
Eventually you became more comfortable around Simon, swimming closer to him and trying to form your own sentences. You could understand most of what he was saying, having him explain new words to you as you tried your hardest to remember them.
You in turn, would teach him about tide patterns, giving him insight on the underwater life and how they react to them- along with how to identify and stay away from dangerous currents.
Now, whenever he'd go fishing you would be trailing close behind, telling him what time of day it was best to go out. His eyes just followed you while you were herding up some fish and leading them directly to his net, careful not to catch your own fins since you already cost him one.
He'd reward you by giving you the biggest fish to eat, and you'd give him the shiniest shells you could find.
For a while he was just referring to you as Fish. An annoying fish that would meddle with his stuff. He learnt your name of course, it was as beautiful as you- also having him hear you say his name for the first time was something to say the least.
Doesn't stop him from continuing to call you fish.
You were by far the first living thing that made this place feel less empty... First thing to make his lip dare to lift up in a poor attempt at a smile.
His drinking started to decrease as well, the nightmares still haven't left but your singing helped him keep them at bay.
One night in particular he woke up after drinking a whole bottle of bourbon. He wasn't proud of that but if the hangover wasn't a big enough punishment, having a nightmare of him screaming Johnny's name whilst he sees the life drain from his eyes and blood pool around his head. Having his hand firmly pressed to his chest, desperately searching for a heartbeat only for him to turn into ash and dogtags.
Clenching his fist against his own heart, he found himself standing in the water instead on his own bed, the cold salty water to his knees as he lets out a frustrated scream.
Your ears pick up that sound and before you knew it you were moving your tail frantically, looking for him and thinking he drowned but he was just sitting there... Letting the waves hit him as he held his knees to his chest, red eyes filled with tears... Desperately trying to keep them from falling.
"Si...?"
"Couldn't save him."
Oh...
You didn't say much after that.
Just carefully swam up next to him and gently laid your head on his knee.
You've seen how this played out before, he'd have that same nightmare and believe whatever awful things his subconscious thought up to torture him that night. Although you didn't know what atrocity had woken him up or the extent of what he had endured... Pain is something you sadly recognized easily.
The only thing you could do is offer your presence to him, wishing to take or at most share his hurt.
That was the first physical comfort he'd accepted in years.
You stayed like that for a while, the soft waves hitting the both of you as you sit in silence, not wanting to move an inch in fear of startling him. Simon, whose ragged breathing had slowed down a bit, just stared out into the open sea.
"Cold" you mutter, feeling how cold his skin was. Humans weren't built like mer, he was going to get sick if he didn't go.
As much as he hated the thought of leaving, once he looked into your worried eyes he slowly got up. Your hands dropping to the wet sand as you looked up at him.
He just gave you a nod. Making his way to his house where a warm shower would do him some good.
The morning after he sat by the dock and waited for you to pop up, not uttering a word before giving you the fish he would've otherwise left.
You couldn't help the happy clicking coming from the back of your throat when you snatched the fish up, biting into it as if you were given the best meal ever- because you were given more than just food.
Since then he's made an effort to always greet you when the sun rises with breakfast. Started bringing his own food because last time you'd insisted on sharing the raw bloody fish with him and he almost took your offer. Food poisoning be damned.
On the other hand you always show up early, a shiny treasure in your hands and waiting for him to make his way down when you pop up from the water. He gave you a pleased grunt whenever you'd present them to him. Not nearly as much excitement as you but when it came to him, that was enough.
Well, the first time you'd had the pleasure of hearing him laugh- more like a small chuckle but it still counted- was when you tried getting up on the dock with him.
It wasn't that high.
But it wasn't that low either.
You could've pulled yourself up, sure, it would've been easier- but you decided to jump instead. Landing face first into the planks and bruising your cheek. Shrieking and flapping your fins like a fish out of water.
It's safe to say that whatever pain you felt was momentarily forgotten once you heard him scoff and saw the tiniest hint of a grin. Stilling yourself as you gazed at him, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards.
He pushed you back in the water for staring too long. Much to your protests. He watched you for a good five minutes just flapping around glaring at him before hauling you up next to him.
You huffed, taking a big bite from your food.
From this close you could make out more of his features, every line, scar and mark. You'd trace them all, your interest peaking at the ink that lined his arm. Asking him about his tattoos and looking closely at them- you didn't ask him about his scars though. You had your own share of them to knew how painful it is to remember how you'd gotten them.
Eventually you'll open up to him, once where you noticed how he let his eyes wander before looking away as to not make you uncomfortable. Painfully respectful- yet he couldn't shake the feeling of dread whenever he'd see your wounds.
"My kind dislikes yours," you'd start quietly. "We were driven away by fear, forbidden from going near the surface."
Your fingers ran absentmindedly along your scales as you stared out at the dark water. "I was a curious kid. Always sneaking away, always asking questions. I wanted to see your world." A small, bitter smile tugged at your lips. "Paid the price for it."
Simon followed your gaze before his eyes settled on the scar stretching across your back. Unlike the others, it was clean and deliberate, the kind of wound that hadn't come from an accident. His expression hardened almost instantly.
"Did they..."
You nodded. "They made an example of me. Said i didn't belong among them."
The waves rolled under the wood bellow you, filling the silence that followed. You expected questions, maybe even pity, but Simon only stared at the scar for a moment longer before looking away.
"Wasn't right of em"
Your head turned toward him.
"They were our rules-"
"Don't mean shit."
For so long you've tried to justify what they did to you, to see reason within the truth... Swimming alone near the surface you once dreamt to see, running away from hooks and nets as the sharp blades pierced your skin.
Humans who would hunt you and whenever you'd tried to make a friend they would only care to have your tail on a line. You knew Simon was different. A human like them but he hadn't harmed you.
Hesitantly, you take his hand in your own and bring it up to your cheek, holding it there as you closed your eyes.
"Thank you."
For a moment, Simon only looked at you, the walls he kept around him were suddenly not so solid. He only grunted in response, yet he didn't pull his hand away.
Days started to blur togheter from that point on. He would wake up early to have breakfast with you, then do some work around the house as you watched him whilst you sunbathed on your rock. Once you gave him the clear on the weather, he'd set off on his fishing boat while you swam next to him.
You made sure to gather only the best fish for him, climbing on the boat once you were done to have some lunch. Giving him a playful splash from your tail before he heads back for town to sell his catch.
So what if he stopped by the small jewelers shop, the shiny necklace on display catching his attention. So what if he bought it for you? You seemed to like that sort of stuff anyway.
Judging by your reaction you more than loved it.
He helped you put it on as you held your hair up, only to look down and see how the light reflected off of it. The sun setting in the background as you laid down on the shore next to him.
It felt natural how he had somehow revolved his entire schedule around you.
He woke up thinking about you, worked around the property just listening you talk about everything and anything. Whenever he was in town he'd think of how you'd react to life on land, all of his mundane reactions would be tainted with thoughts of how excited you would be to see this. He'd spend the ends of his days watching the sun set peacefully with you by his side.
Which makes whatever emotions that built up hit harder when he shows up one day on the dock, carrying a sandwich for him and your favorite fish. Expecting to find you waiting there for him, either you'd be plopped on the deck already or hiding in the water trying to scare him- but you weren't there. Not when he scanned the entire area or called out your name. Maybe you just overslept. Didn't stop him from sitting there waiting for you. Telling himself you're fine.
But he wasn't fine.
Breakfast came and went without a glimpse of you. Simon told himself it didn't matter, carrying on with repairs around the house, an old plumbing leak he'd been putting off doing.
Yet every time he straightened up, his eyes drifted toward the water. By midday he'd checked the shoreline more times than he cared to admit, his tea long gone cold beside him. The afternoon passed no easier, each movement in the waves caught his attention only to turn out to be nothing.
By the time evening settled over the coast, Simon found himself standing on the porch with his arms crossed, staring out at the darkening sea. The realization that he'd spent the entire day waiting for you sat heavily in his chest, irritating him far more than your absence ever could.
To anyone else he would've seemed mental. Staring out into the open sea waiting for a damn mermaid to show up.
"Bloody fish." He muttered under his breath, feet already taking him away from the shore.
Then he heard it, a small splash in his direction and when he turned around- there you were. The second your head broke the surface of the water, Simon was already moving down the beach.
"Where the hell were you?" he barked, frustration getting the better of him. "Been gone all bloody day without a word-"
The rest died in his throat.
You'd stopped a few feet away, and only then did he notice the water around you wasn't just dark from the evening shadows.
It was red.
His eyes then dropped to your tail. A deep gash ran along one side of your fin, fresh blood slipping between the scales and disappearing into the sea.
The irritation vanished instantly, replaced with a feeling he knew all too well.
"What happened?"
His voice came out lower this time, sharper in a different way. He was already crouching at the water's edge, reaching for you before he even realized he'd moved.
"Current took me farther out..." you let him pick you up from the water, "Some fishermen managed to hit me-"
You hesitated before adding "I'm sorry."
Simon's expression darkened immediately as his eyes stayed focused on the blood staining your fin.
"Don't apologize."
The words came out sharper than intended. He crouched beside you, inspecting the wound before muttering a curse under his breath.
"Stay here."
Without another word, he turned and headed for the house, returning minutes later with a first aid kit, clean cloths, and a bucket of fresh water. By the time he knelt beside you again, the irritation from earlier had vanished completely, replaced by a focus you were beginning to recognize.
"Let me see it."
You pulled your hands away from your wound and hissed in pain when he started working on it. His hands were precise, cleaning and disinfecting, later wrapping you up in some waterproof gauze.
He finished tying off the bandage and sat back with a quiet grunt. The cut would heal, eventually. He told himself that was all that mattered.
Still, the image of blood in the water refused to leave his mind.
The silence stretched between you as the sun dipped below the horizon. Simon kept his gaze fixed on the waves, jaw tight. He told himself the anger twisting in his chest was directed at the fishermen, at the carelessness of it all. It had nothing to do with the way his stomach had dropped when you hadn't shown up that morning.
Not at all.
For the next two weeks, your visits became shorter while the wound healed. Simon insisted it was to keep pressure off the injury, though you suspected he was simply looking for an excuse to keep an eye on it. Even so, the beach felt strangely empty whenever you disappeared beneath the waves, leaving him alone with the sound of the sea and thoughts he stubbornly refused to examine.
Your fin had eventually healed enough that Simon no longer had an excuse to fuss over it, though that didn't stop him from glancing at it every now and then whenever he thought you weren't looking. The two of you had slipped back into an easy routine. You sat nearby, talking far more than he ever did, filling the quiet with questions about human life while he hammered boards into place or sanded down old wood. Most of the time, he answered with various grunts, but you'd learned how to translate those by now.
"What was your family like?" you asked, watching him work.
Simon paused briefly before continuing. "Complicated."
You accepted the answer for what it was. Some subjects were harder than others. Instead, you traced patterns into the sand with your fingers, thinking for a moment before looking back up at him.
"Do you ever get lonely?"
The question seemed innocent enough.
Yet the hammer stopped.
For a few seconds, Simon didn't move. His shoulders stiffened, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the half-finished porch as if he were looking at something only he could see. You waited, expecting one of his usual dismissive answers, but none came.
Eventually, he set the hammer down with more force than necessary.
"Don't."
The single word caught you off guard.
"What?"
"Don't ask questions like that."
Confusion flickered across your face. You weren't trying to upset him. It was just another thing you wanted to understand, another piece of him he rarely spoke about. Yet something about the question had struck deeper than you'd intended.
"I was only curious."
"Well stop."
The sharpness in his voice made the air between you suddenly feel colder. Simon scrubbed a hand down his face before looking out toward the ocean, avoiding your eyes entirely.
"It's best if you stay in the water."
The words landed heavily.
You stared at him. "What?"
"Your world's out there." His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "The sea's where you belong."
The confusion in your chest slowly gave way to hurt. For months he'd welcomed your company, taught you about his world, sat beside you for hours without complaint. Now he was acting as though you'd crossed a line you couldn't even see.
For the first time since you'd met him, the silence between you felt uncomfortable. Simon knew it the moment it settled over the beach, knew he'd said the wrong thing, but the thought of taking it back terrified him even more. Because if he did, he'd have to admit why the question had bothered him in the first place.
For a moment, you simply stared at him. The hurt on your face was immediate, impossible to hide no matter how hard you tried. Simon felt it like a knife between his ribs, especially when your eyes began to shine with unshed tears.
"Oh."
The quiet response was somehow worse than shouting.
You lowered your gaze, fingers tightening in fists as sand dug into them. For a second, Simon thought you might argue, might tell him he was being an idiot. Instead, you only nodded.
"Okay."
The word barely rose above a whisper.
Without another look in his direction, you slipped back toward the water. Your movements were slower than usual, lacking the excitement that normally accompanied your visits. Simon watched you go, every instinct screaming at him to say something- to stop you, explain himself, take the words back- but he remained rooted where he stood.
When you disappeared beneath the waves, the beach felt unnaturally quiet.
The first day passed easily enough. Simon threw himself into repairs around the house and convinced himself the silence was for the best. By the third day, he found himself glancing toward the water whenever he stepped outside. By the fifth, he was standing on the porch long after sunset, staring at the empty shoreline. A full week passed without so much as a glimpse of you, and the realization settled heavily in his chest.
The beach hadn't changed.
The house hadn't changed.
Yet somehow everything felt emptier without you there.
Days passed by in silence. Like they were before he met you... It's the same sensations he had when he lost-
He missed you.
No matter how much he denies it, the heaviness in his chest is enough to drown him.
Almost two weeks had passed.
The weather had been clear that morning, the sea calm enough that he'd decided to take the boat farther out than usual. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to stop himself from looking toward the shoreline every five minutes expecting to see someone who wasn't coming.
The engine hummed steadily beneath him as he cast his line overboard. He told himself it was for the best. You belonged to the sea. He'd only said what needed to be said.
Then why did he feel so empty?
A gust of wind cut across the water as the horizon darkened.
What had been clear blue skies less than an hour ago were now swallowed by heavy clouds rolling in far too quickly. The waves began to swell beneath the boat, rocking it hard enough to make him grab the railing.
"Shit."
The storm hit fast. Faster than he could ever anticipate.
Rain lashed against him as the sea turned violent, tossing the boat like driftwood. Simon fought the wheel, trying to turn back towards shore, but another wave slammed into the side making the boat jerk violently.
Something cracked.
Then another wave hit.
The world seemingly flipped as if the ocean was punishing him.
All he could feel in that moment was the cold biting at his skin.
Simon barely had time to suck in a breath before the sea dragged him under. He kicked toward the surface, disoriented, only for another wave to crash over his head. Saltwater filled his lungs as he struggled against the current, his soaked clothes dragging him deeper.
For the first time in years, genuine fear gripped him.
Not of dying.
Of regret.
The last thing he'd said to you echoed in his head.
It's best if you stay in the water.
His chest burned.
Another mouthful of water.
Another failed attempt to reach the surface.
And as darkness crept into the edges of his vision, all Simon could think was that if these were his final moments, then the last thing he'd ever given you was a reason to leave.
Miles away, beneath the crashing waves, something made you stop. You'd been drifting through the empty sea, wishing to go back and see him but you knew better. He didn't want you and that broke your fragile heart in a million pieces.
Suddenly a foreign feeling crept its way to you.
A disturbance in the water.
Something familiar.
And suddenly, without knowing why, your heart dropped as your tail cut through the murky water- frantically swimming like your life depended on it because it wasn't your life on the line but his.
The moment you found him, he wasn't fighting anymore.
His body drifted beneath the surface, dragged by the current as the storm raged overhead. Panic seized your chest as you shot through the water, reaching him just before he disappeared into the darkness below. You had one arm hooked beneath his shoulders while the other struggled to keep his head above the waves whenever he broke the surface. More than once the sea tried to pull him from your grasp, but you held on, ignoring the ache in your muscles as you forced both of you towards the shore.
By the time you reached the beach, you were exhausted.
"Simon."
No response.
You dragged him onto the sand, hands shaking as you pressed against his chest the way he'd once shown you after you'd asked about it. Nothing.
"Simon."
Your voice cracked.
Then suddenly seawater spilled from his mouth. He coughed weakly before falling still once more. Relief flooded through you so hard your vision blurred.
He was alive. Barely holding on but alive nonetheless.
Your gaze snapped toward the distant house.
You couldn't carry him there.
Not like this.
The wind howled around you as you looked down at your tail. Every warning you'd ever been given echoed through your mind. Every story. Every lesson. Every consequence.
There would be no going back.
Not after this.
For a moment, fear rooted you in place. If you did this there would be no taking it back, you'd be forced to live a life unknown to you- but one look at Simon's nearly lifeless face had your doubts wash away.
The choice disappeared and pain exploded through your body.
Your vocal cords burned as you yelled out, your tail thrashing violently against the sand as your sparkly scales split apart beneath your skin. Bones cracked and shifted into unfamiliar shapes. Every nerve in your body felt as though it were being torn apart and rebuilt. All while you could only manage to claw against the wet sand, desperate for relief that never came.
The transformation seemed endless, but when it finally stopped, you collapsed beside him, gasping for breath.
It was over. The relief washed over your body as you forced yourself to look down... What once was a powerful tail had become legs.
Human. Fragile. Permanent.
Tears mixed with rainwater as you stared at them. The sea no longer called to you the way it once had.
You had given it up.
Given up the ocean.
Given up your home.
Given up the only life you'd ever known.
For him.
The realization hurt almost as much as the transformation itself.
Yet when you looked at Simon, unconscious and shivering beside you, you found you couldn't regret it.
Not even for a second.
With trembling limbs, you forced yourself upright. The first step nearly sent you crashing back to the ground, feeling as you were walking on shards of broken glass. The second wasn't much better. Your legs felt wrong, unsteady beneath your weight, but somehow you managed to hook Simon's arm around your shoulders.
The brute was fucking heavy, making the walk to the house slow and miserable.
By the time you reached the front door, every muscle in your body burned and your legs felt ready to give out beneath you.
Still, you kept moving.
Because Simon had freed you from the net once. Shown you the type of kindness that you've forgotten from a life full of loneliness.
Now it was your turn to bring him home.
You'd set him down on the soft couch, started removing his drenched clothes. Drying him off and wrapping him in a thick blanket. The red flickers of coal in the nearly dead fire caught your attention, making you grab some of the logs and arranging them in the same way Simon once did when he showed you how good cooked food could be.
The house is much warmer now. Lulling you into a peaceful slumber as your eyes fell heavy.
A while later, consciousness returned slowly to him.
Everything hurt.
His chest burned with every breath like it was bleeding from the inside, his muscles ached, and there was a pounding headache lodged somewhere behind his eyes. For a moment Simon simply stared at the ceiling, confused by the warmth surrounding him. The last thing he remembered was the storm.
The boat.
The water.
The regret.
Then nothing but darkness.
A crackle drew his attention towards the fireplace. Someone had built a fire. Fresh blankets had been piled over him.
Then he felt it.
A hand.
His gaze dropped.
Your fingers were loosely intertwined with his own, your head resting against the edge of the couch where you'd apparently fallen asleep. For a second, relief hit him so hard it was almost painful.
You were here. Like an angel sent from heaven- was he in heaven? Sure seemed like it if you were next to him.
Then his eyes traveled lower.
And froze.
Legs.
His breath caught as the realization struck with the same force of the wave that knocked him out.
How the storm took him, or the fact that there was absolutely no way you could have gotten him home otherwise. A thousand questions rushed through his mind.
Slowly, carefully, Simon pushed himself upright. The movement made you stir, your brow furrowing as you began to wake.
The second your eyes met his, relief flooded your face.
"Simon."
His grip tightened around your hand before he could stop himself.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then his gaze dropped briefly to your legs before returning to your face.
"What did you do?"
The question came out rough.
Not angry.
Not accusing.
Just afraid of the answer.
Your eyes welled up with tears and you brought his hand to your cheek, "Don't belong in the water anymore."
The weak smile you offered him did nothing to ease the sick feeling twisting in Simon's chest.
Instead it made it worse because only now was he beginning to understand what you'd done.
You'd given up everything for him.
"Jesus Christ..." he breathed.
Your smile faltered.
Before you could say anything else, Simon's hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you forward. The movement was sudden, almost desperate. One second you were sitting beside the couch, the next you were wrapped in his arms.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
You could feel the way his grip tightened around you, as though he were afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
"Dumb fish," he muttered hoarsely into your hair.
The insult lacked any real bite.
Slowly, your arms slipped around him in return.
"I thought you wanted me gone."
The words were barely above a whisper as Simon's chest tightened painfully.
"No."
The answer came immediately.
"No, sweetheart."
The endearment slipped out before he could stop it. You pulled back just enough to look at him and for the first time since waking, Simon met your gaze fully. There was no mask now. No distance. No convenient excuse he could hide behind.
Only relief.
Relief that you were here next to him, and that he'd been given another chance.
His hand rose to cup your face.
"I'm sorry."
Your eyes widened.
It was probably the first genuine apology you'd ever heard from him.
"You don't have to-"
"I do."
His thumb brushed away a tear before it could fall, and for a moment neither of you dared to move.
You were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough to see every scar and line on his face. Simon's gaze dropped briefly to your lips before immediately returning to your eyes, as though he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.
You didn't.
Slowly, carefully, he leaned in and you felt the brush of his lips against yours.
It was tentative at first, almost uncertain. Simon's hand remained against your cheek while yours found his wrist, holding on as if grounding yourself. It wasn't dramatic or desperate, just soft and lingering, years of loneliness and unspoken feelings finally finding somewhere to go.
When he pulled back, it wasn't far.
His forehead resting against yours as he let out a shaky breath, eyes closing for a moment.
"You belong with me," he murmured quietly, squeezing your hand.
This time, when you smiled, it didn't hurt.
Nuzzling your face closer into his neck as his hands hold you impossibly tighter- making you feel safe. This is your home now. Simon is your home and you wouldn't have it any other way.
You also couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat when your eyes drifted to the little basket under the window, every little treasure you've gifted him was neatly tucked into it and it was the only thing in the house that didn't have a layer of dust covering its surface.
Yeah.
You don't regret one bit of it.
Not when you finally feel wanted.
Not when he'd finally taken you to town, shown you the life you'd yearned for all this time. Or how he'd let you decorate the house in different hues of blues and plants reminiscent of the kelp you'd once swam through. A big aquarium was stationed in the corner along with an assortment of shells and shiny rocks you'd collected with him whilst you walked along the beach hand in hand.
It was safe to say that Simon was right about how you'd react to human life- except for watching tv. You were cursing so much it would make a sailor blush because of the sheer amount of incorrect statements being said about underwater life.
Months later he'd surprise you with a shiny ring, asking you to marry him. You were confused to say the least- you were under the assumption that you were already mated. C'mon, you've given him almost hundreds of shiny treasures and he'd shown himself as a capable mate when he'd presented you with the biggest fish he'd caught.
Were you not mates?
It took a while for Simon to explain human customs and marriage over your hysterical crying, by the end of it you somehow ended up tangled in bed together- he ended up with a multitude of bites and purple hickeys, not like he complained.
You also didn't get the whole wearing white to a wedding. What was the point of wearing such a dull color to a special day? Simon made you cry once again when he showed you a custom made mermaid gown that had the exact hues and shades that once adorned the scales on your tail.
The wedding was small. By small it was just you two accompanied by Price and Gaz to sign as witnesses. The grateful look on their faces didn't go unnoticed by you. You decided it was best not to tell them what you were.
The only person you told was Johnny.
You held Simon's hand tightly as he knelt on the ground where they had once spread his ashes. He still has that nightmare from time to time, but now he has you to help him. A part of him believes that he had sent you to him. A guardian angel to make him die a happy man.
Because he is happy.
Especially the night where you were cuddled up close to him, taking his hand in yours and instead of pressing it to your cheek you lowered it to your stomach... Wordlessly telling him that you were having a little fry of your own.
Now, Simon Riley stood not as a dead man, but as a lucky bastard that was given a second chance at life- a life with you in it. Call it a fairy tale if you will but he is beyond grateful to whatever being there was that gifted you to him.
a/n: Oookay this was a bit of a long one on my part, do I think it could use a bit more flushing out and if given to the right writer it could sound so poetic and beautifully written? Yeah, a lil bit- but it's my lil story and I love mermaids this time of year- hope you enjoyed reading it tho <3
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P★rnstar!Simon who was ready to leave the industry until Johnny showed him a video of yours one night.
Maybe one more video wouldn’t hurt.
P★rnstar!Simon who’s on the phone the next morning telling his manager to get something booked. He doesn’t listen when Price rambles on about how you have completely different audiences so it might not work.
“All due respect, I don’t care. Either way if I’m in a video, people will click regardless and by the looks of it the same goes for them and their viewers.”
P★rnstar!Simon who insists the two of you get to know one another before filming because if you want an intimate shoot, he’ll give you exactly that. What better way than to become familiar with each other? You know, just to double check the chemistry will be convincing. And who are you to turn down a free lunch date with an attractive man?
“No no, don’t worry about the bill, it’s on me.”
P★rnstar!Simon who brings you your favourite tea on the day of filming and thoroughly listens to you over everyone else on how you want it to be carried out. His usual onscreen genre hasn't been so tame but he finds himself looking forward to this scene with you more than anything he’s ever done in his career.
P★rnstar!Simon whose touch is so gentle and caring whilst filming. He takes his time, making sure everything he does is the way you want it. He keeps an eye on your every reaction, every sound he brings out of you. The scene is raw, natural and he forgets for a moment that the cameras are on the two of you. Has to stop himself from getting carried away, reminding himself that it’s all fake, even when it feels truly genuine.
“God, you feel so good wrapped around my cock, love.”
P★rnstar!Simon who has tons of videos published, and not a single one of them has him kissing his scene partner. Yet he just can’t stop his lips from connecting with yours as he shoots his cum deep inside you, hands intertwined.
P★rnstar!Simon who checks on you as soon as the cameras are off, making sure that you’re alright and everything's good.
“Y’alright sweetheart? Can I get you anything?”
P★rnstar!Simon who manages to get your number but is too scared to contact you after that day in case he screws up and says something that comes across as weird. It takes a lot of convincing from Johnny before he finally calls you one night.
P★rnstar!Simon who smiles to himself when you pick up. The two of you talking on the phone for hours about the most random things in the world until you both fall soundly asleep, phones still in hand.
Maybe next time you the two of you could have your own personal scene off camera...
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⋆ ｡⋆ any pov, ୨୧˚ wc: 500 contains: nsfw content in one paragraph
Simon doesn't say 'I love you', but... he does give you three squeezes whenever he’s near.
Simon doesn't say 'I love you', but... he knows you like the back of his hand. He knows your favourite things, how you like your tea, the temperature of your showers, what makes you laugh, what makes you cry. He knows everything there is to know about you.
Simon doesn't say 'I love you', but... he smiles like an idiot whenever you look his way. He could be having the worst day known to man, exhausted and fed up but the moment his eyes meet yours, he melts. Sometimes it’s almost hard to believe he’s such an intimidating soldier when he turns to mush around you.
Simon doesn't say 'I love you', but... he talks about you whenever he can. He speaks fondly of you when he’s away on missions with the guys and he gushes about you to his Mum. It doesn’t matter what the topic of conversation is because he can always find a way to link it back to you. Simply put, you’re always on his mind. He absolutely loves when his Mum asks how you’re doing, because then he can just talk till the cows come home.
Simon doesn't say 'I love you', but... he does hold you with so much love and care. Every kiss conveys so much emotion, every touch is sweet as he clings to you like you’re his lifeline. Loves the way you feel when you take his cock, like you were made for him. He craves the feeling of your nails across his skin, your kisses along his marred skin, your lips as they wrap around his cock. But he adores it most when you look at him so sweetly as he washes your hair. Smooth hands and unspoken words through each other’s eyes as you hold each other under the warm water.
Simon doesn't say 'I love you', but... he worships you like you’re his own personal religion. You’re the only semblance of divinity that he thinks he’ll ever come close to, what with the blood on his hands. One of those hands being the one that his wedding ring sits on. The ring that he kisses every time he’s about to do something dangerous, praying that he’ll return to his sweet angel that waits for him at home, his home.
Simon doesn't say 'I love you' because he doesn’t need to. He’s a firm believer that actions speak louder than words and he sure as hell shows you every day how much he loves you.
“Don’t need stupid words to tell me how I’m supposed to be feeling.” he mumbles against your chest as the two of you lay intertwined. “They’d never compete with the feeling in my chest- in my heart. The love I have for you takes over every fibre of my being, it’s consuming.” he continues as he brings your hand to his heartbeat.
“I love you, but those three words will always be so minor compared to the overwhelming devotion that my heart has for you.”
neighbor!simon riley who can't say no to you asking him for help (and still does things without you having to).
pt.1
ever since asking simon for help on your car, it's like a floodgate has opened up. first you're asking him for help on your car, and the next thing you know, he's in your house every few days with a new repair you've roped him into. he doesn't talk much. actually, you haven't been able to get another word out of him since he was on his back, under your car.
you've tried, you really have, but the bastard won't give in. you think he's just closed off—in reality, simon's heart is beating a mile a minute, and his mind is repeating over and over again not to make himself a fool in front of his pretty neighbor.
so you figured that asked him to help around your house would do the trick, luring him into your space in order to open him up. it's not like you'd get around to these tasks yourself. they just weren't your area of expertise.
and for a decently new house, you sure had a lot to be repaired.
first, it was those squeaky hinges on some of your doors. now, in the beginning, you were still hesitant to wander over to his front door to get his help, but after his eagerness the first time, it gave you the confidence to return. simon was in your house faster than you were, already taking a guess as to which door it was—since he knew his way around from bringing in groceries and such. armed with a lubricant and a few other tools, he got to work. within a few minutes, they were good as new. you couldn't thank the man before he was out the door.
it was off-putting, but you were still determined. it was unlucky that the first thing you asked him to do took only a few minutes of his time, and even less for cleanup.
with every day that passed, you were grasping at straws. how could you get this man over here? your house was in perfect condition, and you barely saw the recluse of a man, as he remained in his house most of the time. save for the times he takes in your groceries or takes your bins out, you don't see him.
until you notice something odd.
coming home from work—this time, your car light remains off—you get out of your car and notice a bit of chopped grass that's been left behind. with furrowed brows, you took a moment to look at your lawn.
what are the chances that, after living here for a few months, the grass doesn't decide to grow?
yeah, none. the bastard has been doing it for you, and you never noticed. he never mentioned or made a big deal out of it, and somehow, it got missed on your motion activated doorbell cameras that has a perfect view of the lawn. even the hedges are trimmed.
so what do you do? take the opportunity to stop over to his doorstep, rapping your fist on his door until he opens. eyebrows raised, ready to take on the next task at your house, he steps out and shuts the door behind him. with a nod, he gestures you to lead the way.
except you don't have a repair for him. "have you been mowing my lawn?" the words spill from your lips before you have a chance to reign yourself in. the absurdity of the situation is making you loose-lipped.
his eyes widen, and you swear you see a faint blush on the pale skin behind his balaclava. he just nods, gaze softening as he stares down at you.
"thank you." you sputter out, in shock at his brazen admission. he just nods again, and you're at a loss for words. how do you keep his attention, keep his eyes on you? "well, I'm gonna need your help planting flowers."
planting flowers? that's all you could come up with? your face flushes with embarrassment, bracing yourself for his reaction. the man could easily say no because mowing the lawn and changing your lightbulb and fixing your squeaky door hinges is considered masculine. you could've insulted his masculinity by suggesting he plants flowers.
but he just stares at you some more. "let m'know when," and he shuts the door in your face.
but you turn around with the goofiest smile on your face and pump your fist with a soft "yes" before skipping back down the path and road towards your house just next door. little do you know, simon's face wears a smile just like yours as he watches the dorky display.
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