Mrs. Riley

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Ghost doesn’t do Attraction.

Not in the way other people mean it—soft looks, soft touches, the quiet pull toward someone else like gravity’s shifted just for them. He doesn’t have time for that. Never has.

Want is simple. Biological. Easy to ignore.

Attachment is not.

And love—he almost scoffs at the word, even in his own head. The L word is a liability. A weakness dressed up as something noble. It gets people killed.

He learned that early.

So Simon Riley built his life around the absence of it. No room for softness. No space for anything that could take root and grow into something he couldn’t control. He carved himself down into something functional, something efficient. He didn’t have time for anything else.

Ghost doesn’t need love.

Ghost survives without it.

And for years, that’s been enough.

Until you.

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The first time he calls you bird, it isn’t planned.

It slips out low and rough over comms, threaded between gunfire and static.

“Got eyes on the east stairwell—two hostiles,” you murmur, voice steady despite the chaos crackling through your headset. Your fingers move fast across the keyboard, pulling feeds from three separate cameras, stitching angles together in your mind like a map only you can see. “Third one lagging behind, limping. Might be wounded.”

A beat.

Then, in your ear—gravel and smoke and something almost amused.

“Christ… you see everything, don’t you, bird?”

The line goes quiet again, but the name sticks.

Part 1, Part 2

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The first time after the records room incident that Simon Riley went looking for you, he told himself it wasn’t intentional.

He was simply… passing through.

That was all.

The records office just happened to be on the way to the armory.

Which meant he absolutely did not need to stop in the doorway.

But he did.

You were sitting at the small desk near the back wall, a pencil tucked behind your ear while you flipped through a stack of documents. There was a small lamp on your desk that cast a softer light than the harsh overhead fluorescents, and a pink sticky note was stuck to the edge of a folder.

You looked up when you noticed someone in the doorway.

Your face lit up instantly.

“Simon!”

It still did something weird to his chest when you said his name like that.

Not Lieutenant.

Not Ghost.

Just Simon.

He shifted his weight slightly in the doorway.

“…Hello.”

You smiled at him like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Looking for something?”

He had not thought that far ahead.

“…No.”

You tilted your head.

“…Oh.”

Silence stretched between you for about two seconds.

Then your smile turned amused.

“…Did you just come to say hi?”

Simon stared at the floor.

“…Maybe.”

Your smile softened.

“Well… hi.”

That was how it started.

Small things at first.

Simon would stop by the records room for a few minutes before briefings.

Sometimes he’d lean against the doorframe while you worked.

Sometimes you’d talk.

Sometimes you’d just sit in comfortable silence while you sorted files.

And slowly—very slowly—the awkwardness faded.

You learned things about him.

He preferred tea over coffee, but still drank the coffee you left for him.

He hated paperwork.

He liked quiet.

He didn’t like being the center of attention.

And Simon learned things about you.

You hummed when you concentrated.

You talked to yourself while organizing documents.

You collected little colored pens and sticky notes even though the base issued plain ones.

And you had a habit of pushing your hair behind your ear when you were nervous.

Weeks passed.

And it didn’t go unnoticed.

One afternoon in the briefing room—

Soap leaned over toward Gaz while Price reviewed mission details.

“Five bucks says they’re dating in a month.”

Gaz shook his head.

“Ten says Riley combusts before he makes a move.”

Price sighed into his tea.

“Both of you shut up.”

Across the room—

Ghost stared very intensely at a map.

But his mind wasn’t on the mission.

It was on you.

Because earlier that morning you’d laughed at something he said.

Not a polite laugh.

A real one.

A bending over holding your stomach laugh.

And he’d been thinking about it for hours.

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That evening Simon found himself back at the records room again.

The door was open.

You were sitting on the floor this time with folders spread around you like a paper nest.

You looked up when he walked in.

“Hi.”

“…Hello.”

He stepped inside.

“…What’re you doin’?”

You held up a folder.

“Fixing someone’s filing disaster.”

He glanced around.

“…Looks like a hurricane hit.”

You laughed.

“It was worse earlier.”

Simon crouched down across from you and picked up one of the folders.

“…This goes in the 2019 section.”

You blinked at him.

“You know the filing system?”

“…Been here a while.”

You smiled.

“Well then… you’re helping.”

Simon hesitated.

Then he sat down across from you on the floor.

For the next twenty minutes the two of you sorted files together.

Your knees occasionally bumped.

Your hands brushed once when you both reached for the same folder.

Neither of you moved away immediately.

Eventually the last file clicked into place.

You leaned back against the shelf with a satisfied sigh.

“All done.”

Simon nodded.

“…Good work.”

You glanced at him.

Then smiled.

“You’re getting less scary, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow behind the mask.

“…Am I?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

You studied him for a moment.

“Actually… you were never scary.”

Simon looked skeptical.

“…Everyone else thinks I am.”

You shrugged.

“I think you’re nice.”

That did something dangerous to his brain.

Simon looked down at his hands for a moment.

Then back at you.

You were sitting close.

Closer than you’d ever been before.

Your shoulder was almost touching his arm.

“…Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

His voice was quieter.

“…Can I ask you somethin’?”

You nodded.

“Of course.”

“…Why d’you talk to me?”

You looked genuinely confused.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Simon hesitated.

“…Most people don’t.”

You studied him for a moment.

Then said softly—

“You’re kind.”

He blinked.

“…Am not.”

“You are.”

“Y/N—”

“You are.”

You smiled a little.

“Also you helped me reach the top shelf that one time.”

He huffed.

“That’s your standard?”

“Absolutely.”

Simon shook his head slightly.

But he was smiling under the mask again.

The room went quiet.

Not awkward.

Just soft.

You were looking at him.

He was looking at you.

And suddenly Simon realized something.

He wanted to kiss you.

Which was a terrifying thought.

Because he could fight, interrogate, survive war zones—

But this?

This was worse.

Still…

He leaned forward slightly.

Your eyes widened just a little.

But you didn’t pull away.

Your breath caught.

Simon hesitated for half a second.

Then he gently lifted the edge of his mask just enough.

Your eyes went even wider.

“Oh.”

Then he leaned in.

You leaned in too.

Except—

You’d never kissed anyone before.

So instead of smoothly meeting his lips…

You moved at the wrong moment.

Bonk.

Your forehead bumped into his nose.

Hard.

Simon immediately jerked back.

You gasped and covered your face.

“Oh my God.”

Silence.

Then you peeked through your fingers.

“…Did I break your nose?”

Simon blinked.

“…No.”

Your face turned bright red.

“I’m so sorry— I’ve literally never kissed anyone before— I didn’t know which way to move—”

Simon stared at you.

“…wot.”

You looked mortified.

“You’ve never—”

You shook your head rapidly.

“Nope.”

Simon leaned back against the shelf.

Processing.

Then—

He started laughing.

A deep, surprised laugh that you’d never heard from him before.

You stared at him.

“…You’re laughing at me.”

“Little bit.”

You groaned and covered your face again.

“This is the worst moment of my life.”

Simon gently pulled your hands away from your face.

“…Hey.”

You peeked at him.

“…Yeah?”

His voice was softer now.

“…We can try again.”

Your eyes widened.

“…Really?”

He nodded.

“…But maybe slower this time.”

You nodded very seriously.

“Slower sounds good.”

Simon leaned in again.

Carefully.

This time—

No collisions.

Just a soft, slightly shy kiss.

When you pulled back you looked stunned.

“…Oh.”

Simon lowered his mask again.

“…Yeah.”

You smiled.

And somewhere down the hall, Soap paused mid-conversation.

“…Did you feel that?”

Gaz frowned.

“Feel what?”

Soap grinned.

“The universe just shifted.”

Price groaned.

“Leave them alone.”

Part 1

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The records room was always quiet.

That was one of the reasons you liked it.

Rows of metal shelving lined the walls, each one filled with neatly labeled folders and sealed document boxes. Fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, and the only real sounds were the rustle of paper and the occasional turning of pages.

You’d been here long enough to memorize where most things were.

Which was exactly why Laswell asking you to grab a specific archived mission report hadn’t seemed like a big deal.

“Top shelf, back row,” she’d said casually over the phone. “Old operation file. Should be labeled Operation Glass Harbor.”

it's 3AM. he woke up hours earlier to a call from captain john price, alerting him to be on base by 0500. simon knows what that means, painfully so.

he slipped out of bed, as quiet as someone with size could be. untangled his limbs from yours, left the warmth of your shared bed, and got ready in silence. he showered, brushed his teeth, didn't bother to shave because he didn't see the point in keeping up appearance when he wouldn't be seeing you any time soon.

he put on his fatigues. his singular kneepad for his weak leg. tucked his handgun in his waistband. admist all the ruckus and drawers being opened and closed, you didn't fuss one bit. you've always been a deep sleeper, it used to be annoying to him, a little inconveniencing at times, but now he's grateful.

he could leave. save you the trouble of stressing over his abrupt leave, write you up a long letter about how he'd rather be shot in the balls than see you cry over him. you don't like his job. you know he's only a soldier of the sas, and thats that. he'll never tell you anything more than the country name's he's being sent.

his duffel bag is full and heavy. awaiting for him to swing it over his shoulder and leave. you won't know. you'll sleep another good night—maybe a bit colder than you'd like—but you'll still wake up at 12 in the evening expecting simon to be there.

he should be a good boyfriend, and let you do that.

simon inhales sharply. his eyes watching the way your chest slowly rises and falls. the calmness of your features. even in your sleep, your hands twitch for his touch.

he feels a sting in his chest. unfamiliar and uncomfortable. his legs feel a magnetic force drawning him to you, and for once, simon loses himself to his wants.

you wake up to pressure. a heaviness over your body. something is looming over you. at both sides of your head do you feel the mattress dip under weight. a leg draws over yours, caging you in. still fresh from being awoken, that sweet lingering of the edge of sleep entices you and you whine from being disturbed, trying to curl yourself away from the object of distraction.

simon lightly huffs, the corner of his lips twitching from amusement. you're just like a cat, attempting to hide your face away in your paws.

simon leans down to his elbows, caging in your head. he thinks this is all he should do. let you fall back and asleep and be okay with just the closeup of your beautiful features, but simon is too unsatisfied. his dissatisfaction is only fueled by the heavy nausea of impending doom.

his head looms over yours. he lets his lips caress lightly over the softness of your cheek, feeling your peach fuzz. he presses, with the smallest amount of pressure. he lets the kiss linger before he's detaching with a subtle regret for more.

just as he's about to back off of you entirely, do you suddenly move your head towards him, eyes fluttering open. your eyes lock onto him, or try to. it's too dark, but you could always make out the features of your simon. and the fatigues.

your eyebrows twitch, nose beginning to scrunch up in what looks like pain to simon.

he tries to coo at you, bringing a ungloved palm to cup your cheek. "you're leaving?" you whisper, sadness evident within your tone. he can feel your hands climb up his sleeves before settling on clutching onto the straps on his shoulders. trying to keep him there.

simon only sighs, blowing air against your face. he nods, quietly, to which you respond with a shaky "but you just came back," that nearly shatters simon. you sound so scared, so weak and tiny.

simon doesn't say anything. he doesn't think he can, lest the sharp tightness within his throat and the lack of air in his lungs. he kisses you instead with innocent chaste. a simple kiss, one for the road.

again, he pulls away, or tries to. but your hands on the straps of his shoulders keep him against you, pulling him back down to you. his lips press against yours, a little firmer than the last. he refuses to give you more than that, but he lets you move your lips against his.

his heart beats wildly in his chest. your legs locking around his hips. the kiss turns into a third kiss, then another, and another and then simon succumbs to your tongue pressing against his lips, allowing you entry. he doesn't mean to, but his hips begin to rock against your own on instinct.

you breath hastily into the kiss as does he. it's lost it's original meaning of chaste and has transformed into something more passionate and desperate. the straps on his shoulders feel too tight now as you keep pulling him fruitlessly tighter against you. it hurts, you bite at his lips, greedily drawing out his blood and swallowing down his pained whimper.

but simon has a mission. you know who he is, so he detaches from you with a breathless gasp, desparingly trying to untangle your limbs from his. he overpowers you, as always, but simon is weak to you even when he looks and feels strong.

from the loss of his chest against yours do you begin to sniffle and cry, your fingers are still embedded in his straps and simon feels overwhelming regret when he's forced to pinch your fingers to get you unlatched from him. he feels your hiccups in his soul and simon's face is one of clear distress. he needs more, he doesn't really want to leave, but he has to.

on a whim, his hands slide under your thighs, doing the opposite of what he's been trying to do for the past minute. he's picking you up, holding you close to his body. he cradles your head into his shoulder, one of his arms supporting your ass as his other tries to rub your back and comfort you, your legs hiked up around his waist.

he holds you like that for awhile. your sobs cease, calmed down by his gentle shushing. as he holds you like you're his baby, do you begin to feel your body surrender back into the abyss of sleep. your tears dry, being soaked up into simon's dark camo jacket. his forehead rests against your crown, nose buried into your hair as he greedily takes the opportunity to savor your scent.

but all good things come to an end. you don't fuss when he's gently lowering you back down to the mattress, laying you over his side of the bed. he kisses your forehead and temple, tucking the blankets into your chin and your chest.

Simon is a soldier at heart. He's good at following orders, in fact, he prefers too. Makes it easier for him exist.

So he doesn't bat an eye when you order him around in the kitchen, voice never harsh or stern, just authoritative, when you tell him to chop tomatoes or peel garlic.

He didn't even flinch when you slapped a granola bar into his palm and commanded him to eat after you learned he hadn't even eaten all day.

He didn't complain when you told him to move from your favorite spot on your shared couch.

Everything was done with no hesitation and sometimes if you seem particularly snappy, with a "yes ma'am".

He notices, of course. He always does. It’s impossible not to notice when the house is quieter than usual, when you don’t meet him at the door, when you don’t ask about his day, and when the only sound is the clink of dishes as you clean up after dinner you barely touched.

He stands there in the doorway, massive shoulders still heavy with the weight of the day. “Something wrong, love?”

You hum a sound. Not yes, not no. Just enough to make him frown.

He moves closer, cautiously. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.”

You’re not. He knows that tone. The one-word answers, the short phrases—it’s the equivalent of a red alert to him.

He tries again. “Did I do something?”

“No.”

“Did someone else do something?”

“No.”

He sighs, rubbing a gloved hand over his face. “Bloody hell, woman, you’re gonna have to give me somethin’ to work with here.”

You don’t answer. You turn off the tap, dry your hands, and walk past him, but he follows you like a shadow.

It’s almost funny, the way the infamous Ghost is more afraid of upsetting you than of any armed target he’s faced in the field.

He finally corners you in the hallway. “Alright, what’d I do?” he asks, softer this time.

You cross your arms, staring at the floor. For a second, you think about keeping it to yourself, because it sounds stupid now that it’s out in the open. But then you mumble, barely audible, “You didn’t kiss me.”

He blinks. “What?”

“This morning,” you say louder, arms still folded tight. “You left for work and you didn’t kiss me goodbye.”

There’s a pause. A long one. You can practically feel his relief when he exhales, a low laugh rumbling from his chest.

“That’s what this is about?”

Your glare could cut steel. “Yes, that’s what this is about.”

He steps closer, the corner of his mouth curving. “Love, I thought I’d done somethin’ serious.”

“It is serious,” you say, still refusing to look at him. “You always kiss me before you go.”

He reaches out, gentle fingers finding your chin and lifting it just enough for you to see the warmth in his eyes. “You’re right.”

You huff, still not quite ready to let it go. “You just left.”

He leans in, close enough that his voice drops to that low whisper. “I won’t forget again.”

And he doesn’t.

The next morning, when he’s getting ready before dawn, he doesn’t slip out quietly. He walks back to the bed, kneels down beside you, and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

Every. Single. Time.

Even when you’re half-asleep and don’t notice. Even when he’s running late. Even when he’s tired and sore and just wants to collapse.

Because for all the things Simon Riley forgets—codes, passwords, even meals—he never forgets you.

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Simon knows this is the stupidest thing he's ever done. If any member of his team finds out, he'll be ridiculed for weeks—no, for years. The Phantom is a strong man, a highly trained assassin who has killed hundreds of people. A living legend who terrifies even the most despicable men in the underworld.

So why is he about to do this? Hiring a prostitute isn't a crime; everyone does it. But this becomes pathetic because, well… he doesn't want to sleep with her.

Yes. He doesn't want sex with the prostitute he hired. Actually, he does—what kind of man doesn't want easy sex?—but that's not the point. He could have sex without paying. What he really wants, what he truly desires, he won't get without paying, he wants…

Affection.

Affection, damn it. Hugs, kisses on the cheek, hands that touch him with pure affection, like in those ridiculous comedies that girls love—he wants someone to soothe his scars, to tell him she loves him.

That's why he hired you. He's afraid you'll tell him to fuck off, leave, or start laughing in his face. When you arrive, he trembles, feeling pathetic. His face heats up, his hands sweat, and the cheap motel room feels like it's going to swallow him whole.

You're hot, like the girls in the porn movies he watched as a teenager. Low-cut top, short skirt, heavy makeup, and high heels. That's what he expects, but he sees something different in your eyes; a seriousness, as if you were more than just a woman looking for money.

Maybe that's why you don't tell him to fuck off when he asks you to take off your makeup and let your hair down. You end up taking a shower while he waits for you, sitting on the worn bed, clutching the sheets and feeling the fabric fray in your hands.

Now you're just in your panties and bra, drying your hair with a towel while watching him. And, damn, you're beautiful. Beautiful in the way he likes. More beautiful than the vulgar, sexy mask; you seem real, something he'd find at home if he were a good man. Your eyelashes are the color of your hair, he can see some freckles on your face, the natural color of your lips.

He finds himself imagining, pretending you're his wife. That after returning from a damned mission, you're waiting for him to take care of him, to sleep embraced by him. Maybe you even have a little son sleeping downstairs, who calls him daddy.

When he speaks, his voice is low. Muffled by the skull mask and the shame. You observe every word.

"No sex? Just cuddling?", his voice is sweet, without judgment.

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Okay." He nods as he watches you approach, stopping between his legs.

"What do you want me to call you?" Your eyes seem to see through his mask.

"Simon... call me Simon."

You take his hand, guiding it to your hip, where he feels the soft skin beneath the lace of your panties. His head rests on your stomach as you caress the strands of hair that escape from under the mask.

Simon feels like he's on cloud nine. He hugs your hip, feeling your fingers against his skin, the way you slide them down his arms and back, as if he were something good... precious. You make him take off his shirt, not for sex, but for affection. He doesn't know when the last time a woman undressed him without wanting anything in return was. You kiss his neck.

His breath falters. He feels dizzy, unable to contain his sighs. He groans loudly when you kiss his cheek, over the fabric of the mask. He needs more. Much more. He holds your fingers, pulling them toward the mask's strap. You feel his hands gripping it desperately. When he finally reveals it, there's no fear, no revulsion. Just a gentle expression. You don't hesitate. You press your lips against his cheeks, kissing his skin, every scar. His hands grip your thighs; your body trembles and your breath becomes ragged as you massage him, adoring him, his warm, fragrant skin.

"Say you love me," he begs. It's trembling, desperate. He knows it's humiliating, but he doesn't care. "I'll pay you whatever you want, just pretend... that you love me."

You caress his cheeks and lean in, kissing his nose, sending an electric shock through his skin.

"I love you, Simon," your eyes are fixed on his. "I love you more than anything."

Simon stands frozen in the corridor outside the break room, coffee mug forgotten in his hand.

Inside, you’re laughing with Gaz and a couple of the intel girls, voice bright and careless.

“You can all keep your nonchalant men,” you say, stirring sugar into your tea with unnecessary violence. “I want a chalant one. Someone who texts back fast, who stares too long, who gets excited over nothing and tells me about it. I’m so bloody tired of guessing.”

Gaz snorts, arms crossed casually. “Good luck finding that in this unit.” Meanwhile, Simon’s ears are already burning under the mask. Of course, Gaz has to talk shit now in that smooth London–accent of his.

Simon has spent the last four months being meticulously, painfully nonchalant.

He times his arrivals so he’s already at his desk when you walk in with the morning briefings (never early enough to seem eager). He limits himself to one greeting per day, gruff and quiet. When you wear the burgundy skirt that hugs your hips so perfectly, he stares at the computer screen so hard the pixels blur.

7.5—simon’s turn

simon riley x reader

The artificial light glowing on her screen stung her eyes, making the darkness of the room seem more infinite behind her phone. She sighed, closing out her phone and dropping it beside her with a soft thump.

She let her eyes adjust to the room again. She had been mindlessly scrolling, like everyone does nowadays, stuck in the perpetual cycle of closing her eyes just for her hand to reach over towards that stupid rectangle that contained the world at her fingertips, because her mind was too awake to sleep. Social media left a bad taste in her mouth, and when it wasn't that, it was whatever random search perturbed her thoughts to explore the internet for answers. She was a thought away from searching if insomnia was normal when her phone buzzed at her side as if the universe were enabling her.

Although the buzz didn't stop, the telltale sign of her phone ringing with its ringer off. She couldn't stand the predisposed ringtones that phones came with.

Rolling onto her stomach, she reached over and grabbed her phone just to blink in surprise at the caller ID.

What was he still doing awake?

It had been a few days since they had last slept together. Ever since she had gotten stupidly drunk, to be precise. She didn't mean to…it just kind of happened on her fourth shot with an empty stomach.

She didn't remember much apart from Simon walking her to her room and feeding her grapes…and maybe the sound of his voice—huskier than normal. But maybe she dreamt that part because it sure felt like it every morning she woke up in a cold sweat with the sound of his voice ringing in her ears.

He assured her that nothing had happened that night, but she had a hard time believing it. Especially because he had somewhat kept his distance since—he didn't stand as close as he normally does, his smiles were lined with tension, and conversations were more brief. She tried not to let it bother her, but it was hard when the very routine she was used to felt like it was being uprooted right before her eyes.

She woke that morning to an empty bed and a massive headache that distracted her from the slight needling hurt of him not being at her side. Though it wasn't like he owed her anything. He was just her lieutenant…who slept with her on occasion…nothing more.

She glanced at the time at the top of the screen. 2:35 am. The phone had already buzzed three times. Her thumb hovered over the answer button as she worried at the corner of her lip. On an inhale, she answered.

"Sol." He seemed to sigh through the receiver.

She paused for a second before answering. "Yeah?"

"You’re awake?" He asked.

She huffed through her nose at the question. "I wouldn’t have answered otherwise." She hummed, shifting onto her back to face the ceiling.

"Smartass," he huffed. She could hear him shifting on his bed, sheets rustling against his clothes. "Talking to your lieutenant with that mouth."

"It’s almost three in the morning, I think it’s warranted." She shot back, letting her eyes casually trace invisible shapes in the ceiling's textured surface. Moonbeams slithered in through her window, painting her ceiling in cool slats of light.

He chuckled, the sound low and rough. "I like it when you get cheeky with me."

She blinked, pausing her perusal of the ceiling. She was silent for a moment, unsure how to respond. Tentatively, she mumbled, "Oh?"

"Don’t act surprised, Sol." She could hear the smile beginning to pull at his lips, his voice growing huskier when he murmured, "I like it when you bite."

She had to bite her lip to stop the chuckle that threatened to leave her mouth. Whether from nerves or genuine amusement, she couldn't tell.

"And what if I did?" She murmured back, her tone carrying a more playful edge.

"Bite me?" He hummed in thought even though he already knew the answer. "I wouldn’t mind."

That seemed to dispel her teasing as she blinked again in mild surprise, letting the silence stretch. The sound of his shifting filled the space.

"Lieutenant, are you okay?" She blurted out, concern lacing her voice

"Simon." He mumbled, which caused her brows to pinch in confusion.

"Are you drunk?" She asked.

She sat up, body tense as if to stand. She'd go over to his room if he needed her. Him? Drunk? That had to be the only explanation in her mind because, since when did he openly flirt with her like this? Usually, he left her spinning from vague comments and soft touches that made her feel like she could have been imagining it all.

"I didn’t drink…much." He laughed.

She could just imagine him in bed: a lazy smile on his lips—a stark contrast to his usually aloof face—cheeks flushed pink, eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, body slumped against his pillows with half his frame covered by blankets.

“How much did you drink?” She asked slowly.

“…a few.” He mumbled.

“A few?” She raised a brow, though he couldn't see it.

“A few too many.” He chortled almost to himself.

“Lieutenant,” She couldn’t refrain from smiling herself, his laughter infectious.

“Don’t call me that now, Sol.” He groused.

“You should drink some water and go to bed.” She coaxed gently, half tempted to run over to his room and help him do just that.

“But I get to hear your pretty voice now.” He mumbled.

She wished she could see the look on his face. At the sound of his voice, she couldn't help but find his soft manner endearing for the usually hardened lieutenant.

“How sweet of you.” She rolled her eyes playfully.

“Always for you.” He murmured tenderly.

She was silent for a moment, nibbling on the corner of her lip while her heart raced just a fraction faster at his words. He was drunk, regardless of whether she liked what she was hearing. Nevertheless, a part of her wished he weren't inebriated and still told her such sweet things. She sighed internally; maybe she shouldn’t have answered after all.

“Lieu—"

“Say my name, love.”

Her heart dropped, her words dying on her lips at his voice. Her body tingled in the silence, warmth pooling in her like pouring honey in a jar—sticky and warm against her insides.

“Come on, love. Just once.” She could hear his words slur into a sleepy murmur, the rustle in the background becoming more apparent.

“Please, go to bed.” She managed to voice.

He breathed out her name, a soft groan accompanied by the whisper of movement. She couldn't help but wonder what he was doing. The shifting rhythm, like passing a hand back and forth over soft fabric.

“Say my name.” He whispered around uneven breaths.

“Please, Simon.” She obliged, finally.

“Oh, you sound so pretty when you beg me like that.” He groaned softly, his breath becoming heavier.

“My gorgeous girl.” He mumbled, the sound of his movements slowing. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“You look so pretty in my bed,” He continued, even when his phone fell from his grip with a muffled thump onto the bed.

“In my arms,” He muttered on his exhale, voice dying out along with whatever else he wanted to say.

She was stunned into a stupid silence. Unable to find words, she blinked unseeing eyes at her phone while her mind tried to process what he just said.

When her cheeks cooled and her heart calmed considerably, she watched as the numbers of the called ticked longer. Two minutes where neither of them spoke. All she could hear was his steady breathing. She could only assume he fell asleep, the rhythm similar to when he slept by her side. It was then confirmed when a soft snore curled through the receiver.

On a shaky breath, she whispered, “Night, Simon."

Her mind still buzzed even after she ended the call, dropping her phone by her side. She folded her hands over her abdomen where her heart still thumped like the pit in her stomach, churning with her traitorous mind as she stared up at the ceiling once more. Sleep eluded her that night.

.

.

.

If anyone had seen the two of you together, they'd think you hated each other.

Constant glares shot at each other, bickering, the insults thrown at each other, the competition.

It was the worst when you two sparred together.

Recruits watched in horror as the two of you held nothing back. Price had rules! Don't actually try and harm your sparring partner. Yet somehow you two always got away with it. Simon would grab you from behind, and you'd throw your head back, cracking his mask. Sometimes your sparring even resulted in dislocations.

Now the competitiveness wasn't as bad. Just annoying petty remarks between the two of you.

"Hit eight out of ten targets." Simon complimented. A rare sight.

"Nine." You correct.

"Stop trying to show off."

"Cry about it 'cause you could only hit seven."

All the recruits saw was hatred. Every conversation somehow turned volatile.

But they never saw what happened behind closed doors.

How you'd sit in Simon's office while he finished paperwork, free hand massaging your ankle since he'd hurt it during training earlier.

How you'd sew up the holes in Simons mask after a mission.

How Simon would carry your gear for you to the helicopter.

How you would gently kiss the scars marring Simons body late at night.

And most importantly, no one ever saw your wedding rings. Simons in his chest pocket. Yours on a chain around your neck under your gear.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆.°⛧

Home Security

Dark!GhostxF!Reader

Simon always said to call him whenever you needed anything. When a knock and suspicious sounds make you wary to be alone, naturally you call Simon for comfort. Only instead of getting your sweet Simon, it's Ghost who comes to your rescue.

tw: identity duality(simon/ghost), overprotective!ghost, borderline obsessive!ghost, mild physical roughness, mentions of fear/panic/anxiety, authoritative/commanding tone, protective/possessive behaviors(ghost), stalking/implied possible break-in wc: 1k

Oh my goodness, I was going to do this, but I completely forgot. I'm so sorry!! Thank you for the reminder! You can find the title for all my Tumblr drabbles on my masterlist!

At this point, you have completely claimed Simon's bed. You don't even ask anymore. Your room has just become a storage closet for your clothes and shoes. Hell, at this point, he should just move you into the room. So, that's what he does. While you're gone one day, he makes room in his closet and dresser for your clothes. He has plenty of space, and by the end of the day, your room is a practical guest room, save for a few knick-knacks here and there.

"Simon, I'm home," you call.

"I've got a surprise for you," he replies, meeting you in the living room.

"...That doesn't sound very good," you say hesitantly.

"Close your eyes," he says with the barest hint of a smile.

You do as he asks, allowing him to guide you through the hallways of your home. It takes you a few minutes to get to your destination, and you're pretty sure he did that to discombobulate you. "Okay," he whispers. "Open your eyes."

When you open your eyes, you see one of the last things you expected. Honestly, you would have been less surprised if fucking Johnny MacTavish was naked on the bed with a rose in his mouth.

"Huh," you say stupidly.

"You sleep in my bed all the time," he explains. "So, I just moved you the rest of the way in. I even moved your favorite posters."

You poke him square in the chest. "You know what this means, don't you?"

He shakes his head, but answers anyway. "Means you sleep in my bed with me every night?"

"Means you're mine, now!" you giggle, leaping into his arms. Simon easily catches you, bracing his arms under your thighs and around your back. "You'd better start taking me on dates, Simon!"

"Oh, is that what this is?" he hums. "I thought this just meant I would be your cuddle-buddy for a while longer."

You shake your head, laughing all the while. "You and I are official now!"

"Yeah?" He brushes his nose against yours, an act so tender that you nearly melt into a puddle right there. "I don't know, sweet girl. I think we're still just friends."

You pout, bottom lip jutting out just enough to break his heart. "Nuh-uh," you grumble. "I want a million kisses for that."

"A million?" Simon snorts softly. "I'd better start right now, then, shouldn't I?"

"And then we're going to watch movies under your comforter!" you add quickly. "And cuddle!"

"All on my list," he agrees, tilting his head down to tease his lips over. yours. "May I kiss you now?"

"You may," you reply with a nod. When your lips finally meet, you swear angels start to sing. He's gentle about it, kissing you like a nervous teenager. You don't mind. You appreciate a soft kiss every now and again. Especially for your first kiss with him. He teases the seam of your lip with his tongue, but never breaches it. When he finally pulls away, you see him smile. Not just a tight-lipped Ghost smile. A genuine, all-teeth smile.

"Oh, my God, you have the most gorgeous smile in the world!" you squeal, kissing his cheek. "You should do it more often!"

"You're gonna make me feel embarrassed about it," he huffs.

"No, no, no!" you say quickly. "No! Don't!"

He carries you to his bed, sitting down with you in his lap. After taking a few moments to tuck you both under the comforter, you can feel him relax behind you. "This is heaven for me," he admits, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"I think I like your comforter more than you," you tease. He grumbles something under his breath, but only holds you tighter.

Part I

Part II

For you, of course I can!! I'm so happy you liked it, I personally thought it was weird. But the people want what the people want!

After your nap with Simon, both of you act like it didn't happen. You continue about your days, cooking supper, doing chores, and playing Nintendo in the living room. Days pass, and then weeks. You sleep in your own bed, and he sleeps in his.

Tonight... you had a nightmare. You wake up in a cold sweat around midnight, panting from the adrenaline. You can only remember bits and pieces. Running from something, or maybe... running to something? Voices shouting at you from all around, telling you about each and every flaw you have.

You get up from your bed and stand in Simon's doorway. He isn't asleep. He rarely is. He looks up at you from his phone, unbothered. "Hello," he grunts. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"I had a nightmare," you say, like a toddler telling their parents. You pout at him, though you're not sure he can see it from afar.

"Hmm," he hums. "Me, too."

"Can I sleep next to you?" you ask, voice wavering from the shock of the nightmare.

"No," he says, almost sharp enough to make you cry.

"Simon, please?" Your voice cracks this time. "I had a nightmare. You let me do it a few weeks ago."

"Don't cry," he whispers. "I just don't want you gettin' any ideas... about you and me."

Your lip quivers. "Why did you say I made your nightmares go away? Can't you do the same for me?"

"Because I don't want you to think we're... an item," he says carefully.

"What's wrong with that?" you whimper.

"Because someone could find you and hurt you if they knew you were mine," he whispers. "I don't want you to get hurt because of my job."

You wipe your eyes. "Can't I sleep beside you? Just for tonight?"

He's silent for a few moments, weighing the options. "Fine. Fine, come here."

You drag your blanket behind you, and Simon opens his arms. You crawl into his lap, pressing your cheek against his chest. Simon wraps you in the blanket you brought, then pulls the comforter over both of you. He properly tucks you in, making sure you're comfortable. "Thank you," you breathe.

"Better?" he asks, smoothing a hand over your hair.

You nod against his skin, gently looping your arms around his back. He sighs, adjusting your position in his lap. You curl against him like a kitten, nudging your nose against his chin. "Better," you agree.

"I'm not doin' this every time you have a nightmare," he warns you.

"Yes, you are," you mumble.

"No, I'm not," he argues.

"Yes, you are," you retort, rubbing soothing circles over his back with your thumbs. "You better."

"I'm not your boyfriend," he whispers, though it lacks conviction.

"Not yet," you giggle softly. "I'm just warming you up."

He grunts, a sound you can't tell what it means. His arms tighten around you, and he rests his chin on your head. "Go back to sleep. I'll keep you safe from the nightmares," he says, so soft you almost don't hear it.

"Ni-ni," you murmur sleepily, burrowing further under the blankets. You hope you never have to leave his arms, his bed, the warmth of his body. The blankets cocoon you both in a perfect bubble, where nothing in the world can get you.

Part I

"you never deny the man who does the work no one else will do," the man says. "I will grant you whatever you desire as long as my hands stay unsullied."

never had he asked for anything. not nicer quarters or more wages or any luxuries. its the only reason he was able to save reader from her fate: it was the only thing in the world he seemed to want.

The king almost denied.

"Do you know to what she's been accused?" he asked. "Murder of two men."

"Aye."

"Dismemberment."

"Aye."

"Witchcraft."

"Aye."

The man leans back into his throne with a shrug. Time has made him soft, yet sharper, like a cheese let the age.

"If it's what you desire." He waves a hand into the air. "Her charges will be erased, but I cannot erase the minds of the townspeople. Her face will be stigmatized."

The executioner pulls at his mask, making sure its secured.

Pairing: Simon Riley x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-1110

Summary: A small collection of non-sexual things Simon does that you find attractive

Classification: Fluff

Word count: 2k