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Key: smut {𖤝} fluff {♡} angst {❁} humour {⟢}

𖤝 CoD

Simon 'Ghost' Riley:

Home from deployment {𖤝}{♡}

König:

roommate!könig {𖤝}

roommate!könig p2 {𖤝}

𖤝JJK

Nanami:

wife!reader {𖤝}{♡}

sub!nanami {𖤝}

𖤝LaDs

Rafayel:

Night {𖤝}{♡}

Sylus:

Fuck machine {𖤝}

[a/n: I noticed how differently Brits eat their baked beans so I decided to write a very self-indulgent fic about ghost x woc neighbour who brings him some actually good baked beans. Stupid fic alert]

cw: nothing. Fluff. female reader. Probably brit stereotypes idk I've never been to there. Not proofread I'm lazy rn

Simon lived alone. He loved the solitude, simplicity and the monotonous routine. It provided stability in the reckless life he had. A constant in a job where he wasn't sure if he'd make it back to his sparse apartment to crack a cold beer while watching last week's football recaps. So it was safe to say that he didn't mind his quiet life.

After another long mission, Simon returned to his flat with new scars and bruises, shoulders sagging slightly with exhaustion. His skull balaclava only exposed his tired, hollow eyes. While he fumbled with the key to his apartment, his entire body tensed at the sound of footsteps nearing him.

“Simon, good to s-” The words died on your tongue when Simon turned to face you, eyes narrowing with frustration. All he wanted was to take a hot shower, lounge around in his boxers and fall asleep while nursing a beer, not chitchat with his weird neighbour.

"Wot?” He cut you off, voice baritone. Didn't even bother hiding his irritation.

His attitude made you defensive, crossing your arms and staring back at Simon's dark eyes with your own. "I was just saying hi, Simon. You don't have to look like that all the time,” you snapped.

He only grunted at your response, unlocking the front door and walking inside. He had left the door open, a silent signal for you to come inside or fuck off, you chose the first. He kicked off his shoes, walking further into the small unit, taking each layer of clothes off. The trail of dirty clothes on the floor was a problem that future Simon can deal with.

"Stupid fockin’ woman,” he mumbled under his breath when he saw you standing at the doorway, holding a tupperware. Despite the crude comment, his words didn't have any heat, only defeat and resignation to his fate. "Wots tha’?” He reluctantly asked, nodding his chin to the tupperware. You shrugged and walked closer, placing it on the kitchen table.

“Baked beans," you simply stated.

Simon blinked. Once. Twice. Eyes flickering from Daliya to the plastic container that was presumably filled with baked beans. “Are you fockin' daft? Why the fuck did you bring baked beans?" He asked, genuinely baffled.

Your eyebrows pinched together, unsure of why he was making such a big fuss over it. You had brought Simon food before, your homemade meals were the only real food he had since forever. So why was he being a crybaby over beans?

"I made it? It's just baked beans.. Why are you acting like it's a death sentence?" You said it like that had explained everything. Simon's confusion mixed with a familiar frustration. "Beans? Like from the can? Why would you bring tha’ when I could jus’ buy them for below 2 pounds at clearance?” He sighed, sounding earnestly tired with the whole conversation.

Before you could answer, Simon snatched the tupperware from the table, opening the lid to inspect what bullshit she had gotten him. When he saw the baked beans, he was even more confused. It was actually cooked. With spices and other vegetables added.

“Wot the focks wrong wit you?" He asked, phrasing it like a genuine question. You furrowed your eyebrows, placing your hand on your hip and scowling at him. “What? It's baked beans. Don't you Brits eat this all the time?"

“Not like this." Simon stated, cold and almost too serious for a conversation about overprocessed legumes. "It's fockin' warm. Cooked.” He looked genuinely worried at this point, like you had lost your sanity to even think of cooking canned baked beans, let alone adding additional shit into what was considered a ready to go meal.

“Hm? Yeah, that's how we eat it back home." You explained like it was no big deal. As if Simon was the weird one for eating cold beans straight from the can when he was too lazy to cook and needed some fibre in his diet. Simon ran a hand over his masked face, a sigh leaving his scarred lips. He reluctantly took a spoon and took a small bite, grimacing at the odd texture of warm beans. Surprisingly, the spices did improve the beans, which made him scowl at the fact that he had put up a tantrum over it in the first place.

You waited for his final verdict, annoyed and a little excited at his reaction. “It's…fine." Simon mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. Bullshit. He thought to himself. It was much better than a simple lousy ‘fine’. It made him question what he knew about British cuisine and if the Brits were mad for eating plain canned beans in the first place. Surely it's common sense to at least heat up the contents of the can in a microwave beforehand, right?