Thinking about how ghost has this uncanny ability to settle babies right down...and yet he has no interest in having one of his own.
That doesn't stop him from knocking on your door while baby screams herself dry at 2am. He can block the noise easily, wouldn't be where he is if he couldn't, but he knows your upstairs neighbor will submit a complaint.
"Ah, sorry for keeping you awake simo–" you mumble, tired when you answer the door. Bags under your eyes, formula on your shirt.
"No. You go sit down. Where is she?" Ghost huffs, squeezing past you through the door. Despite the question, he's already bee-lining to your room, where baby's crying carries through the entire apartment.
"I don't know what's wrong. She's not hungry, not gassy. Won't cuddle, won't suck her paci–" you trail off, dazedly watching simon gently cradle your little girl in his arms and have her settled in mere minutes. "...what."
Your baby, who's made it her life's mission to scream nearly every night, is curling chubby fingers into ghosts hoodie and humming all happy.
"Just needed my jacket, I think. Picky girl," ghost hums fondly, tucking her whole tiny body into one arm. With the other, he steers you towards your bed. "You need to sleep. I'll get her handled, okay?"
Anyone else would say that you're crazy for letting a man you aren't dating or married to be alone in your apartment with your kid. To which you would tell them about how he pulled you out of your darkest moments while trying to parent alone. How he never judges you. How he wants nothing but the best for your little girl.
So you nod, yawn and settle down. "Okay...thank you, simon."
In the morning, baby will be back in her crib snuggled up tight, and ghost will have left a hot jug of coffee on your counter.
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Not proofread, English is not my first language, forgive any grammar errors
Simon knew something was off. However, he couldn't tell what was happening. You seemed fine, normal.
Complying all of your obligations. Following your routine like nothing happened. But simon knows, he knows you like the palm of his hand. He knows the little bag under your eyes appears when you're not having enough sleep. He knows the little shake on your lips when you smile. Or how you fidget with your fingers on the meetings. He recognizes the way you zone out in your own thoughts when no one is looking.
Was late at night. Almost midnight. And you were at the training room. You had just finished your routine, normal. When you could feel him. A pair of eyes looking at you. When you turn your head, you saw him.
"Simon" you offer him a little smile.
"What's up with you." He said, arms crossed over his chest and eyes focused on your sweaty face because of the training.
"Uhm, training?"
"No, you know what I mean."
"I have no idea what are you talking about, simon" Yes, you did know what was he saying. You know he could read you like an open book
"Dove. Stop pretending with me. You know it doesn't work." He approaches you, arms still crossed.
"I.. I don't know wha-what are you tal-king about.." your eyes start watering while your voice cracked and your head fall on Simon’s chest.
"That's it. Let it out sweetheart." Simon started rubbing the back of your head, playing with the hair of your nape.
"I have been doing everything, fulfilling my tasks, training, hanging out. But anything seems to work, simon.. I feel empty. I can only feel a void in my chest. I-" you covered your face with your hands, trying to hide the sobs of your crying.
"You know you don't have to cope with all those feelings on your own, bird." His voice was firm but soft. He knows for years to know exactly what you need in these moments. Let it out.
"I had tried everything. But nothing seems to work, si.."
"Shh I know, i know sweetheart. "
Simon knows you don't need solutions, you need to feel safe, you need to feel that someone listens to you.
Simon carried you, arms behind your knees. Your head falling in the crook of his neck.
He walks you to your dorm room. Opened the door and laying your body on your bed.
"Stay there." He said and walked away entering in your bathroom.
You heard the shower running water.
"Let's take a bath." Simon started to undress you and you let him, you let him manhandled you, because you had no strength to do it on you own. You melt into his touch.
He washed your hair, so gently.
"Open your mouth sweetheart"
You did it. He brushed your teeth. "Spit it out, that's it. Good girl"
He even chose the pijama, and you didn't care, that was the best thing someone could do for you.
He comb your hair and made a braid. "That's it. Now, let's go to sleep."
That night ended up with you curled on Simon’s arms, sobbing and crying, but this time, those tears were happy ones.
Summary : Isn't the whole one bed thing ridiculously cliché? And yet, somehow, here you were — living through it with none other than your sworn enemy, Simon fucking Riley.
"Oh, hell no." You dragged your both hands down your face as your gaze landed on the single bed sitting squarely in the middle of the motel room. To be clear --
One bed.
One lumpy couch.
A coffee table that looked ready to collapse if someone put something on it, fucking useless, then there was a flickering lamp.
And an ancient television hanging crookedly on the wall.
but what bothered you the most was, one fucking bed.
Sure. After the mission from hell, this was exactly what you needed.
To share a bed with your sworn enemy.
Simon.
Fucking.
Riley.
"Hell no," you groaned again.
"The feeling's mutual, little bird." Simon chuckled and rolled his shoulders, not sparing you so much as a glance as he strode farther into the room, dropping his rucksack onto the floor, and soon with few more steps he made his way to the bed and flopped onto the mattress, making it creak beneath his weight.
"Call me that again," you warned, narrowing your eyes at him, "and watch me break your jaw."
He snorted, beneath his mask, "Big talk for someone who's barely five feet."
"And I still manage to work beside you every day, don't I?" you shot back. "Maybe show me some bloody respect, Lieutenant."
He chuckled.
The absolute—
Motherfucking—
Asshole.
You stood frozen in the doorway, staring at him in utter disbelief. "Christ," you muttered. "Everyone on base thinks you're this stoic, saintly soldier."
"Am I not?" he asked innocently, moving without waiting for your answer as he claimed one side of the bed for himself, settling into it as though it had always belonged to him.
You ignored his stupid question, and scoffed, "If only they knew." You pause just for a beat then continued in your most uninterested tone, "But here you are, showing your true colours." You folded your arms in front of your chest with exaggerated huff of your breath. "Lieutenant, you seriously need a few lessons in basic manners."
"Yeah?" A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Do I now?"
You glared at him, shaking your head while swallowing the thick air, that seemed impossible to reach into your lungs, then looking at your not-really-amused expression he patted the empty side of the bed on his side. "It's past midnight, little bird. Come and get some sleep."
This time when he called you little bird. You decided to ignore it, because you knew this mother-fucker, wanted your reaction, and hell, if you gave him one.
"I wouldn't touch that bed with a ten-foot pole." You said with a deadpanned expression, while running a hand through your hairs as you still stood in the doorway, refusing to move.
"Suit yourself." He shrugged his shoulder nonchalantly and folded his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes as though the conversation had never happened.
...
Thirty minutes later, as you settled into the room or more specifically onto the couch then only you realized it was the instrument of ancient torture.
Because every spring soon dug into your spine, your neck ached, and the damn thing squeaked every time you so much as breathed.
You hated that Simon had been right, so with a frustrated groan and quietly cursing yourself you peeled yourself away from the couch, and made your way to the bed where slept the 6'2 feet man with not a worry on his face.
Of course, he wasn't wearing his mask. It lay discarded on the bedside table, leaving his face completely unguarded. For a moment, you simply stared at him.
And noticed the faint scars tracing his skin, the burn marks that time had softened but werent erased -- and those marks made him more beautiful than anything, and you groaned in disbelief of your thoughts and feel something utterly gushy, knead into your heart, as he laid bathed in the warm, golden glow of the bedside lamp, he looked impossibly peaceful — so unlike the man who barked orders, traded insults with you, and carried the weight of the world on his shoulders -- yeah, no he was still simon, you reminded yourself.
Still your fingers twitched with the foolish urge to brush your thumb over his scars, to trace the line of his jaw... maybe even his lips.
You caught yourself just in time, shaking your head with a quiet scoff. "Fucking stupid," you muttered under your breath. First he was sleeping far too peacefully for you to be entertaining thoughts like that, second he was still you enemy a fucking walking plague, you needed to avoid yet happen to be in the vicinity as him.
Maybe it was just your bad luck after all -- that you somehow always ended up with him.
or maybe it was fate -- something in your heart said -- though you decided to ignore that voice entirely.
Then pushing your thoughts away, you made your way to the bed, and sat on the edge for a second, it dipped ever so slightly as you climbed onto the very edge of the mattress, leaving what felt like an entire country's worth of space between the two of you -- safe to say you were practically hanging off to the side, when you finally laid beside him.
and soon -- the sleep engulfed you into it's current: making you forget you were right beside your predator.
...
But what you didn't know was that Simon wasn't asleep at all. He'd been awake the entire time -- feeling your eyes on him, as you traced him with your gaze.
now his face was turned towards your back, listening to every tiny movement you made in the quiet room.
And god he wanted nothing more than to roll over, pull you against his chest, and hold you there until morning.
Though he didn't. He knew you'd probably shove him off the bed — or worse, never let him forget it.
So instead, he remained exactly where he was, breathing slow and steady, pretending to be asleep while his gaze lingered on you in the dim glow of the lamp.
...
Sometime in the middle of the night, while both of you were blissfully unaware and asleep, Simon stirred in his sleep at the unfamiliar weight tucked against him.
A sleepy groan rumbled in his throat as his heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open, and looking down, he found you curled into his side, your head resting safely against his chest, one hand lightly clutching his shirt, while your legs dangling over his thighs.
As if he was your personal body pillow, and the scene before him only made him -- want to pull you closer but he lacked the very courage -- to do so.
For a long moment, he simply stared you. And there was nothing in his gaze but something dangerously close to adoration — the very same feeling that had quietly taken root the day you'd first walked into Task Force 141, though he'd spent every day since pretending it wasn't there.
and for a brief second, he considered moving. But then he shook the thought away and stayed perfectly still, afraid that if he shifted or even breathed too deeply — you'd wake up and instinctively pull away from him.
So he remained there for what felt like the entire night, unmoving, content simply to have you close.
A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he slowly let his fingers ghost over your back, barely touching you at all, as though he wasn't sure whether he was trying to soothe you... or himself.
"Little hypocrite," he murmured with the faintest grin, the words meant only for himself.
After all, you'd sworn you wouldn't touch the bed with a ten-foot pole, yet here you were — curled against him like a joey tucked safely into its mother's back.
He didn't have the heart to move you. Instead, he simply breathed evenly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
One arm remained tucked beneath his head, while the other rested lightly around your waist, holding you just enough to keep you close. Just for a little while longer, he told himself. "Bloody hell, little bird, you are killing me." He murmured to the quiet room before sleep drowned him in.
Soon, that little while quietly stretched into morning.
Though he stayed exactly where he was, completely unaware that you'd woken first and carefully slipped out of his embrace, your heart pounding with a mixture of horror... and a reluctance you couldn't quite bring yourself to name.
"Shit," you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "Get it together, for fuck's sake." You nodded once to yourself, as though the motion alone could chase away the memory. He didn't see anything, you insisted. Nothing happened. You'll forget about it. A pathetic excuse for a pep talk — but it was enough to get your legs moving.
What you didn't know was that Simon had ... well felt more than enough... and neither of you would be forgetting this very night for a very, very long time.
Simon having no sense of boundaries and has never had a crush so he’s always standing too close and staring at your phone to see what you’re doing. You were almost too scared to ask him to stop, the one time you stepped away to put some distance between you, he groaned loudly and stepped even closer.
He rarely tried to talk to you but rushed you along whenever you tried to talk to anyone else. He was like a guard dog. But then he goes and brings you food or water before you realize you need it. He remembers little things, like the bracelet you mentioned losing as a kid and he somehow found an exact copy and forced it into your hands like he was mad about it.
He regularly would force himself into your room regardless of what you were doing and just sit in the corner. Even if you tried to kick him out because you had to shower or change, he’d shake his head and turn to face the wall. “M’not lookin. Go ahead.”
He didn’t protest when you told him to take his mask off if he was gonna just sit there, at least don’t look so scary. He looked a bit boyish without it, eyes suddenly avoiding you and unsure. But to his surprise, it only drew you closer. You sat next to him and asked what he wanted to do. You stopped trying to ignore his presence and slowly he came out of his shell.
“I wanna kiss y’real bad.” He blurts it out in the middle of an unrelated conversation, making you stop and gawk at him.
“Okay? Where d-“
Simon takes your questionable okay as a “yes” in his slight panic and doesn’t think before kissing you. It’s not rough, but also not too soft. Like he was nervous but still knew what he was doing. His hand cups your face and tightens when you kiss back. It’s a short back and forth of one of you trying to pull away but the other chasing for more. Then finally you both break away.
“…..LT?”
“I gotta go, I’ll see y’later.” He struggles to get up fast enough but makes it out, going straight to Soap to dish everything out.
It was not a rare day for Manchester to be cloudy and rainy. Simon had a week off before he was deployed again.
He's wearing only sweatpants on, relaxing on the couch. He's probably watching football while his toddler busy playing car and making "vroom vroom" on Simon's body, substituting him as a race track but he doesn't mind.
You were comfortable resting besides him, nose deep into your favorite book. Him caressing you and kissing on your shoulder or your temple once in a while.
This is perfect for Simon, although sometimes he doesn't think he deserves it.
But everyday you and his toddler proves it wrong to him. He deserved everything including you and what you both have now.
Maybe creating another one before his deployment so his toddler gonna have a sibling they can play with, of course.
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simon riley husband x shy and quiet wife who doesn’t know how to tell him that she bought a kitten 🫢
concur your timid tendencies
pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x shy wife!reader
summary: you surprise your husband with a new family member— if you can find out how to tell him
masterlist!
a/n: soooo cuteeee, anon :))) had soo much fun writing!! requests are open!
“awww, who’s the cutest girl in the world?” you quietly say in your best baby voice, “you are! that’s who!”
while your husband was away at work today, you decided to go to your local animal shelter, finalizing the adoption process for the precious kitten you’ve been bonding with over the last month.
it took you a while to muster up the courage to actually go to the animal shelter four weeks ago, your shyness getting the best of you.
simon usually helped you concur your timid tendencies, having you order takeout food over the phone, schedule his and your doctor appointments— some of his forms of exposure therapy. but, the brute happened to be absent from home daily, having to spend most of his days at work, meaning he couldn’t assist you all the time.
wanting to try your own form of exposure therapy, you started visiting the animal shelter, especially whenever you got too lonely. the puppies and kittens were always great company! animals were easier to be around than other humans— except for your si, of course.
and you may have gotten too close to one— an adorable kitten began following you everywhere you walked. she even started to yowl when you left the animal shelter, tugging at your heart strings. “she seems to really like you,” the vet said, squatting down beside you to pet the kitten, “would you be interested in adopting her?”
you were nervous about adopting your new pet, especially since you didn’t know how to tell your husband. you didn’t start going to the animal shelter with the goal of adopting, it just happened.
if anything, simon should be excited you added a new addition to your little family. she could help with your loneliness on the days he’s working, notably when the man gets deployed— his deployments were always excruciating to deal with alone. you needed this kitten.
“dada’s gonna be home soon, kitty!” you lifted the feline, snuggling her in your arms. “how am i gonna introduce you two?” you mumbled more to yourself, awwwing at your girl’s sweet purrs.
you played with your kitten in different rooms around the house, migrating from the living room, up the stairs to your bedroom, and even the bathroom— she had so much energy for such a tiny kitty.
placing a bowl of water and food down for her, you watched her consume it. “you’re probably really hungry, huh?” you giggled, petting along her back.
then, “hon? m’ home!”
it must’ve been a funny sight— you paused any movements, your kitty doing the same at your husband’s deep, thick accent.
“that’s him! we have to go kitty!” you scooped her up, lightly jogging up the stairs. hope si doesn’t hear me, you thought, placing the kitten in your bedroom. talking to her now, “please stay here and don’t leave! i have to prepare simon to meet you. i love you,” you kissed her, exiting the bedroom.
“sweet’eart?” you heard your husband again.
rounding the corner, “hi, si!” sweetly leaving you. throwing your arms around your husband’s neck, “how was work today?” just gotta act normal.
simon responded, encircling his arms around your waist, “same ol’, same ol’.” he kisses your cheek, pulling away, “wha’ were ya doin’? took ya a bit to come.”
thinking, oh great, questions! while putting on your best poker face. “you know, just listening to music in my headphones! i couldn’t hear you at first,” you replied, grabbing his hand to pull him towards the kitchen. “heard. jus’ don’ have it too loud next time, yeah fawn? could be dangerous for ya if it’s not m’ comin’ in,” he squeezed your hand in response. “yes, si! i didn’t even think about that!”
you ate dinner with your husband, chatting about the activities you both did today— you purposely leaving one out. simon was surely gonna find out about the kitten sooner or later, and you were okay with it being later! you just didn’t know how to tell the brit.
“luvie’?” your husband pulls you out of your thoughts, “wha’ are those doin’ agains’ tha wall?”
following where he was pointing, your eyes widened, landing on the kitty’s food and water bowls. shit, how could i forget to put those away!
“i-i don’t—” you stuttered, trying to come up with an excuse, but nothing.
simon raised an eyebrow, “mhmm?” vibrating deep in his chest. the man was having fun with this. “have somethin’ ya needa tell m’?” “n-no, si—”
meow.
a beat of silence.
“wha’ was tha?”
you winced, turning to look at the culprit in the doorway. “surprise!” you waved, walking to grab your kitten, she always follows me everywhere. i should’ve known better.
Simon with a preme baby. You went into labor three months early, and your baby girl was whisked away into an incubator. Hooked up to machines that made Simon's stomach turn. You were exhausted, hand holding his loosely whenever you were somewhat conscious.
He watches baby girl as the days pass. She's covered in a thin layer of blonde hair, something to "keep her warm," the nurse had said.
"Some babies are born hairy, but it starts to fall out as they get older." She assured as she changed baby girl into a fresh diaper. "She's stable enough for you to reach inside, if you want." Simon was on his feet in seconds.
He washes his hands, puts on hand sanitizer, then washes his hands again. He couldn't live with himself if he got her sick. He places his finger gingerly in the palm of her hand, admiring just how small she was compared to him. She grips his finger in a tight vice grip that surprises him, a coo bursting from her as she holds him.
"You're my daughter, alright... You're fighting so hard, baby girl. Papa's here."
Thinking about ghost's baby who always wants a bite of other peoples food.
Without fail, whenever anyone decides to eat around baby regardless of what the food actually is, tiny hands are waving in the air asking for some. Without fail, ghost has to gently try and redirect baby in a way that won't induce tears because
Because baby cries over clouds going away and random rocks...this always leads to fat tears and ghost glaring at the perpetrators.
He's about ready to bite you when you, in the middle of chatting with him in the porch, pull out your lunchbox. Sure, you always eat lunch with him on the porch, but baby's had a rough day and you know how baby gets.
Various fruits, some granola, a sandwich. Nothing special, but baby uncurls from his chest to blink curiously at the meal.
"...ahhh. ahb. Ahhh." Baby huffs, tiny fingers spread out and making grabby-hands, nearly toppling out of ghosts arms when he leans further.
"Aw, want a bite?" You ask baby, already pulling out a second container from you lunch, "here, have some. Yeah?"
Baby squeals in delight when you give him a slice of banana, round cheeks red and eyes squinted at his victory.
You...you packed food, just in case baby wanted some.
From there it's like a game. Making a big show of grabbing something "random" from your plate for baby to eat. Every single time baby loves it.
No once does baby cry when you eat around him, always armed with a smaller baby-safe version.
...yet the guys wonder why you're the only one with babysitting privileges.
Johnny has always been the most overprotective brother in the world.
When you were kids, he'd threaten boys for stealing your crayons. By high school, he scared off anyone who looked at you for more than five seconds. Joining the military somehow made him worse.
"You date one of the lads," he'd warned you on your first day assigned to Task Force 141, "and I'll personally make sure your paperwork gets lost for the next ten years."
You laughed because you thought he was joking, He wasn't.
Which was unfortunate considering you'd already fallen for the one man Johnny would absolutely lose his mind over.
Simon Riley, Ghost.
The most intimidating soldier in the SAS.
The same man my brother respected more than almost anyone else.
The same man currently standing across the hangar pretending not to look at you.
Your relationship had been a secret for almost four months.
Not because you were ashamed.
Not because you weren't serious, Only because neither of you wanted to explain to Johnny why his little sister was dating his lieutenant.
You could practically hear the lecture already.
Actually, lecture was too gentle a word.
Execution seemed more accurate.
Price called everyone together for the morning briefing, and you slipped into your usual seat beside Gaz.
Simon stood near the front of the room with his arms folded, mask hiding any expression he might have had.
If anyone else looked at him, they'd see the same cold, unreadable Ghost everyone knew.
You saw the tiny tap of his fingers against his forearm.
Three slow taps.
Your silent good morning.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Soap noticed immediately.
"What're you grinnin' at?"
"Nothing."
"Hm."
That suspicious little hum was becoming far too common.
Price began explaining your next assignment while you forced yourself to focus.
No looking at Simon.
No smiling, aefinitely no accidentally staring.
Simple enough.
Until Price asked you a question.
You answered without hesitation.
Before Price could respond, another voice spoke.
"She's right."
Simon.
Every head in the room turned toward him.
He almost never interrupted anyone.
Johnny raised an eyebrow.
"You're agreeing with my sister?"
Simon didn't even blink.
"She's correct."
"Oh."
Johnny looked oddly pleased.
"I've taught her well."
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
Simon kept his eyes forward, but you caught the tiniest twitch beneath his mask.
it’d been a hell of a week and your period just started and all you wanted to do was absolutely nothing with your husband.
You slept in, went for a walk, made breakfast and now you were balled up on the couch trying to ease the deep ache in your back. You hear thumping coming down the hall and Simon emerges, hair messy and shoulders slumped.
“Mornin.”
“Hey, Si.” You scoot out of his spot and let the weight of him pull you against his side. His arm hooks around your shoulders and he presses a kiss against the crown of your head, yawning into your hair.
“Want me t’make that tea? The raspberry one?”
You groan and nod, quietly thanking him as he gets up and goes to get it started. After some time he returns with a steaming mug of tea, with the perfect amount of honey added.
“There y’go, love.”
You curl into each other again and spend the rest of the morning watching some silly show and having your tea refilled. The cramps eased after some time and you look at Simon, cheek pressed against his shoulder.
“I love you.”
“I love y’too.” He tries to fight a smile and kisses your forehead, giving your side a squeeze.
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Thinking about ghost who typically hates Halloween, right?
Shocking, considering the guy wears a Halloween decoration everyday, but he hates all the social interaction. Strangers knocking on his door, begging for sweets. He'd rather decorate for a day or two, enjoy his night alone, and call it a day.
So why is he going all-out to try and attract the most trick-or-treaters this year?
Because you're participating this year. You, the single parent across the street who he maybe-kinda wants to invite on a date but hasn't figured out how yet. Thus...decorating. anything to get a conversation started, right?
"Alright sweetie, go ahead and knock," ghost hears your voice across the door. He's been hovering since he spotted you and your daughter three houses down. Three knocks, and he opens the door–
"Trick or treat!!! Guess what I am!!" Your little one squeals, holding her bucket decorated like an acorn up to him.
"Sweetie, you need to wait for treats first–" you try to tell her, knowing she'll get tok disappointed and forget to get candy if the stranger can't guess.
Ghost takes one look at her and nods "proper weevil, innit. Good costume, kid."
"Yes!!! Yes I'm a weevil! You got it right!!" She yells, hopping in place in pure joy, cheeks no-doubt hurting from the force of her smile. Finally, she looks around at his house, then back up at you "can I go look at the big skeleton?"
"Yes, yes, go ahead." You smile at her, checking that no one's waiting. Thin about having little ones is you always beat the Halloween rush. Then, you smile at ghost "thank you. No one's been able to guess her costume, and she was about ready to quit."
"'S a good costume," ghost nods to himself, "she a fan of bugs?"
"Oh, it's all she talks about!" You laugh, that fond laugh all parents have for their children "she's in love with all things crawly."
"....oi've got beetles, if she wants to see 'em."
Which is how a bowl with a hastily scrawled "take one" is left on the porch, meanwhile your daughter is about ready to explode when ghost lets her hold Betty, his Hercules beetle.
"You wouldn't mind if she comes back, would you?" You whisper, both of you stood back while she stares in awe at his centipede enclosure "you're the first person able to keep up with her bug talk."
Ghost smiles. May not be the dinner date he was expecting, but somehow it's better.
Thinking about ghost who would literally eat anything and picky eater!reader...
Of course, ghost first realized how bad your eating habits are while out getting dinner with you. Yes, dinner, a small payback-maybe-date after he rescued you from your broken down car at 3am.
"Uhm...I'll just have the chicken tenders. From the kids menu, please." You refuse to make eye contact with the waiter or ghost, stomach twisting that none of the more adult options were anything you liked.
You braces for the comments from ghost, having heard plenty from his teammates. Gaz snorting about what he's dubbed "your one vegetable a month" whenever he sees the only sub you eat lettuce with. Soap, too, makes comments about how you should try home-cooked meals instead of your store bought meals. Even price has chuckled about "dessert for lunch again, love?" When literally all you could stomach that week was sweets.
When you doesn't comment, you stubbornly stay staring at your hands "I know it's embarrassing eating with me...sorry."
"Wot? Yer eating, aren't you?" Ghost raises his brow at you, shoveling another giant onion ring into his mouth. "Not my fuckin' issue. If you don't want it, give it to me."
And...really you should have expected this.
Ghost, the man who lived on literal scraps in his childhood, who ate everything he was given because he had no choice. Of course he wouldn't care what you eat, so long as you eat.
"Oh...uhm." You're not sure what to say. You're used to always feeling some level of embarrassment about your diet. "Thank...you."
One dinner turns to two, turns to shared lunches and weekend brunches. You gravitate towards ghost because he doesn't care about your eating habits. If you order something and find it tastes different than expected, ghost will happily devour your dish while you ask about crisps.
You realize you've never been able to eat freely with another person before. It's...really nice.
a few friends had gathered to celebrate a mutual friend’s engagement, and of course, to fawn over the giant rock sitting pretty on her left hand.
“it was the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,” she says, eyes misting up. “flowers everywhere. candlelit dinner on this beautiful terrace. he even hired a string quartet.”
everyone awws at once.
you twist your own ring around your finger.
“you’ll never believe what james did for me!” someone else says, and like it always does when you all get together, it becomes less of a conversation and more of a contest.
they all take turns gushing over their partners and all the grand, romantic gestures that have happened recently, each story somehow bigger than the last. flowers. surprise trips. hotel rooms covered in rose petals. tickets to shows they had only mentioned wanting to see once.
all in some absurd, glittering attempt to prove who is adored more.
they all turn to you.
what had you and simon been up to recently?
you swallow.
the last date the two of you had been on had been watching a movie on Netflix, takeout and wine littering your coffee table, your legs thrown over his lap while he rubbed absent circles into your ankle.
it had been nice.
it had been normal.
but at this table, normal feels embarrassingly small.
“when you’ve been together so long, and with his schedule, it’s hard, y’know, to find those moments—”
another friend waves her hand, not unkindly, but ready to move away from what clearly wasn’t going to be an interesting enough story.
“that’s why you have to find those moments. what has he done for you lately? like for example, jack just planned this entire weekend getaway for us after my boss had been such an asshole and it was so romantic. he bought us tickets to—”
her voice begins to fade into the background.
you look down at your ring again.
it’s not that you think simon doesn’t love you.
of course he loves you.
he loves with the weight of his hand at the small of your back in crowded rooms. he loves with the way he always sleeps closest to the door. he loves with the way he notices when you are too tired to eat and sets something in front of you without asking. he loves with the way he comes home half-dead and still checks the locks, the windows, the thermostat, anything that might touch you before it touches him.
but sitting there, surrounded by candlelit dinners and surprise weekends away, a different question curls itself beneath your ribs.
does he still care?
you had already known what you’d signed up for when starting this relationship. simon was never one for giant declarations of love or grand, pretty spectacles. he didn’t perform affection well. never had.
hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time he’d brought you flowers or planned a proper date.
you shuffle in your seat.
“that’s really sweet,” you sigh.
rugby playing on the tv is what greets you, simon fully settled on the couch, a beer in hand.
his head lifts as soon as he hears your key in the door, shoulders falling even more relaxed at the sound of your footsteps entering the house.
usually, that would be your cue.
you’d toe your shoes off by the door, wander straight to the couch, and drop yourself onto him like it was the most perfect fit. he’d grunt like you’d knocked the air out of him, even though you both knew he could carry you around the house with one arm if he wanted to.
you’d recount whatever pointless gossip had been fed to you that morning, and he’d pretend not to be listening while remembering all of it.
instead, you busy yourself with the mail in the kitchen.
simon notices.
because of course he does.
you try the sink next, if only to give your hands something to do.
the tap sticks.
you yank it harder, and when nothing comes out but a high-pitched wheeze, you let out a frustrated groan.
simon is behind you before you can even turn around.
“probably clogged,” he says.
you sigh.
“i can call a plumber tomorrow.” then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to face him. “we should do something tonight.”
his head tilts.
“we are,” he says, voice low and rough with confusion. “watching that new movie you wanted to see.”
you make a small noise under your breath.
his eyes flicker from the sink to you.
“no, si. i mean get dressed up. go out.” you swallow around the embarrassment already forming. “a real date.”
“why?”
your stomach lurches.
you know him. know he doesn’t mean it with any malice or cruelty.
but after an entire morning of listening to women talk about being chosen loudly, extravagantly, beautifully, that one word lands like proof.
why would he need to?
why would he think to?
why would he care to?
why would you ask for more when this is what you agreed to?
“forget it,” you say quickly, already stepping away. “i have a bit of a headache. ’m going to take a nap.”
simon says your name, but you don’t turn around.
the clanking of metal banging against each other is what wakes you.
for a moment, you don’t move.
you just lie there, blinking at the dim light of your bedroom, listening to the low metallic scrape from somewhere down the hall. the house is quiet around it, warm with evening, the television now turned down low enough that you can barely hear the commentator’s voice.
another clank.
a muttered curse.
you rub at your eyes and make your way to the kitchen.
simon has wedged himself inside the cabinet beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting in the cramped space, one arm braced against the floor while the other reaches up into the mess of pipes above him.
“si?”
he grunts, focused on giving the valve one final screw and your gaze follows down to the toolbox lying next to his hip.
“line was damaged,” he says from under the sink. “it’ll need replacing proper, but i’ve got it for now. try it.”
wordlessly, you step to the sink and lift the handle.
water rushes out, hot and clear.
for some reason, it makes your eyes burn.
simon shifts, dragging himself out from under the cabinet with a quiet exhale. he sits back on his heels and looks up at you from the floor, forearms smudged, hair mussed, expression unreadable except for the little crease between his brows.
“i told you i could call a plumber,” you say.
he shrugs.
“got me right here, don’t you? i don’t mind.”
your chest tightens.
because it was never going to be flowers. it was never going to be candlelit dinners. it was never going to be a string quartet playing underneath a perfect night.
it was always going to be simon, sitting on your kitchen floor with a wrench in his hand, looking at you like the solution to a problem is obvious because he’s already there.
you sit down at your kitchen table, eyes already watering from overwhelm, when a memory comes so quickly it almost embarrasses you.
you, curled on the couch with him months ago with your laptop open, showing him a table from architectural digest with the sigh that you do when you’ve found something you absolutely loved.
“look at this, simon. isn’t it perfect?”
he had just hummed as you continued scrolling before you start laughing.
“absolutely not. who spends five thousand dollars on a table?”
simon hadn’t said much at the time. he rarely did when something lodged itself somewhere deep in his mind. continued stroking your hair, looked at the screen for a second longer than necessary, and went back to whatever match had been playing on the tv.
three weeks later, there had been lumber in the garage.
then sketches.
then sawdust tracked through the hallway.
then simon, scowling and cursing at a video tutorial, rewinding the same twenty seconds over and over until he understood the joint he wanted to make.
you’d laughed then.
you remember that, too.
you remember standing in the garage while he sanded the surface smooth, remember telling him he was insane, remember him saying it wasn’t that hard with all the grim seriousness of a man who had absolutely made it hard.
you remember the first night you ate dinner at it.
you remember how pleased he’d looked when you wouldn’t stop touching the grain.
you remember tearing up at the effort before sinking to your knees beneath that very table and thanking him so thoroughly that, to this day, he can’t sit at the damn thing for too long without his eyes darkening and his pants growing tight.
your eyes move across the room.
towards the cabinets he sanded down because you said the old ones made the kitchen feel too dark.
the backsplash he learned to tile because you had paused too long on a photo of handmade ceramic.
the wall he knocked through because you hated how boxed-in the room felt.
the bedroom he painted three times because the first two colors looked different once they dried, and he had only sighed, changed shirts, and opened another tin.
a house that had been perfectly fine when you bought it, just never quite yours, until simon got it in his head that he could make it so.
your heartbeat quickens.
the whole morning suddenly feels absurd in a way that makes your chest ache.
his gaze lands heavy as he watches every expression form across your face.
“you wanna tell me what got you in a mood earlier?” he asks.
his voice is even, but his hand drums once against his thigh.
your six-foot-four lieutenant of a husband, nervous at the thought of upsetting you.
you shake your head at first
then stop.
because no, that isn’t fair either.
he does love you. he loves you in fixed pipes and sanded wood and walls torn down to let in more light. he loves you in the things he can touch, carry, mend, build. he loves you so steadily that it has become the floor beneath your feet.
but you still want flowers sometimes.
you still want to be asked to put on a dress.
you still want him to look at you across a dinner table he did not build and make you feel, just for an evening, like loving you is not only something he maintains but something he celebrates.
“i know you care about me,” you say quietly.
his brow furrows.
“never said you didn’t.”
simon stills.
“i know that,” you repeat, softer this time, because you do. God, you do. “I just… I think I need more sometimes.”
something shifts in his face.
“more,” he repeats.
you huff a laugh, embarrassed now. “not more than this.”
your hand moves over the table again and his eyes follow the movement.
“just more…” You search for the words, then give up on making them perfect. “more on purpose, maybe. dinner. flowers. you telling me to get dressed because you made plans. stupid things.”
“they’re not stupid.” he immediately corrects you, firm and like he’s already offended on your behalf.
you look up at him and he pushes himself off of the floor.
you watch him stand, slow and heavy, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it aside. he comes toward you with that careful, deliberate look that always makes your stomach dip, like every bit of his attention has narrowed down to one target.
you.
“friday,” he says.
you blink. “friday?”
“dinner.” his gaze drops over you, not subtle in the slightest. “wear somethin’ nice.”
despite yourself, you laugh, small and wet in disbelief at how easy it is with him.
simon’s hand comes up, thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear can fall.
“are you asking me on a date, riley?”
his mouth twitches.
“seems like i am.”
you look down at the table, at the careful seams, the polished wood, the impossible thing he made with his own two hands because you wanted it and he saw no reason you shouldn’t have it.
then back at him.
“good,” you say, standing slowly. “and since you fixed the sink…”
simon’s eyes darken.
you take one step toward him, then another, until your fingers catch in the waistband of his jeans and tug him close.
his hand finds the edge of the table behind you.
your table.
his eyes flick down to it, and whatever memory crosses his mind makes his jaw tighten.
you smile.
“careful,” you murmur. “you look a little proud of yourself.”
his hand settles heavy at your waist, lifting you to rest on the edge.
Simon learning simple magic tricks as a way to recover after roba, both mentally and with dexterity, getting to use those skills years later on a terrified group of children the 141 rescues.
They're all sat waiting on transport, wide eyed and teary, a couple of them full on shaking, and Simon can't stand watching it, so he crouches down and pulls a coin out. Makes it vanish. A couple of them stop crying long enough to watch. It's a start.
He does the ear trick next, coin appearing behind one of the kid's head, and that gets an actual reaction, this hiccupy little laugh from a little girl. So he keeps going, throws in the handkerchief thing too, the one where the coin somehow passes through, and by now a few of them have gone from crying to just watching him with their mouths open.
When he asks if they want to see it again, they give him so many nods and little disbelieving smiles. His best audience by far—and also his first.
One of the braver ones, an older kid, maybe ten, asks how he did it. Simon doesn't even think about it, just shows her and slows it down so the kid can see how. Then has her try it with her own hand. The kid's fingers keep fumbling it and she drops the coin twice, but she's not crying anymore, tongue stuck out the side of her mouth in concentration.
That gets two more kids crawling over wanting a go, and now Simon Riley, skull mask and all, is sat on the floor of some extraction point teaching a handful of traumatized children how to palm a coin, patient as anything. Gaz watches from a few feet off, smiling softly as the whole room seems to ease at the lifted weight.
simon likes when you smile-- thinks it's a damn ray of sunshine in a shitty, dark world ( cheeky, he knows. soap gives him enough grief over such sentiments, even if he never voices them out loud. the eyes say enough, LT, and you're bein' real loud-- or whatever bloody shit he says ). it's a reminder of what's worth protecting, of what's meant for him to return to, of what's worth bearing his heart to.
simon, however, doesn't like when you smile at him like that. means you're up to no good. means he better be on alert for whatever you're about to say next.
in theory, yes, simon riley is intimidating : rough voice, a personality with jagged edges, that cold stare-- but to you? forget any of that. strange how you always manage to humble him whenever he tries to stare you down.
"...you called me dove."
he pauses. it's a habit by now, just a mere nickname ; no reason for you to be looking at him like he's some kind of saint.
"and i'll do it again."
"don't threaten me with a good time, si."
that look of feign indifference-- one you always see through, your laughter, and a brush of your lips against his in quiet adoration.
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your husband watches you. watches the way you hold your hot chocolate with both hands like it's the warmest thing you've ever touched.
he loves winter time with you. winter time when you're wrapped up so warm, in matching hat, gloves and scarf. your thick sweaters, your fluffy boots, those socks you were in bed that are fluffy with the little bears on them.
the fact you like sitting outside of the cafe with him while it's cold like this is a godsend. but you're not drinking the hot chocolate while simon smokes his cigarette, just holding it.
your lips touch the top of the cup, but you're still not drinking it.
"what're you doing, you daft cow?"
it sounds mean, but it's not. he's never mean, even is his words are a little harsh. he's got his arm around your shoulders, blowing the smoke away from you.
"'s too hot to drink," you explain.
he chuckles, a rumble from deep within his chest. "tha's the point of it, hon," he replies (you graduated from love to hon once he put that ring on your finger).
"yeah, but i don't wanna burn myself."
he kisses your head. you do eventually drink the hot chocolate, but only when it's on the cusp of being too cold to drink. if you don't get to finish it, he'll by you another, let you wait for it to cool down and drink as much of it as you can before it goes cold
𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 SUMMARY: in your last relationship aftercare wasn’t even a concept, but with Simon Riley it’s so much more than that.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: just Simon giving you aftercare for the first time because what the hell I have free will ALSO 18+ puhlease!! Mdni I’ll boot kick you out.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff so rotten your teeth will fall out.
Pairings: bf!Simon x gf!Reader
The next best thing to sex with Simon Riley was the aftercare - you thought as your gaze followed him into the bathroom, his frame disappearing behind the doorframe. You were sore, heart hammering and skin slick with sweat as you basked in the aftermath of it all, but a soft smile stretched across your lips.
You felt like you were positively glowing.
It shocked you the first time you both had sex. Not that you expected him to discard you with his back turned. But considering your past relationship, the lack of love after making it was normal for you.
Didn’t make it suck any less though.
So when it came to Simon. A man who practically intimidated every neighbour of yours within a block, muscle and tattoo ridden and who killed for a living - aftercare seemed … overly emotionally strenuous for him. Like it would make things too real? You thought.
But when it came and he held you as though you could crack like strained glass, gently wiping your skin with a lukewarm towel, you couldn’t hide how enamoured you felt.
How did so much care and love come from the same hands that drew blood.
“What’s tha’ look for?” Simon pointed bluntly as he butterflied your hips open to clean your core “nothing just-“ you swallowed thickly, blinking “didn’t expect all this” you breathe. Simon’s brows furrowed in confusion, gaze still tethered to wiping you clean “Christ dove, what kind of men have you been havin’ sex with” his abrasive tone made you huff a laugh “shitty ones” you retorted.
“Fuckin’ clearly” he said, guiding the rough towel over your stomach.
Seconds passed and you were still unable to wipe the adoration off your face, something Simon noticed with a huff of a laugh “ya lookin’ at me like I’ve just bought you a fuckin’ puppy” mirth dripped off of his tone.
You gently pushed him “shut up”
“What kinda man do ya’ take me for” Simon questioned while he moved to soothe the inside of your thighs. You let his words hang in the air before you responded “not a shitty one” he hummed in amusement, his belief of your words wavered thin.
Simon tended to the hickeys and bruises, apologising gruffly for getting carried away. To which you said that you didn’t mind “Good” he said, throwing the towel into the dirty clothes basket before lying down next to you “C’mere” he graveled, arms outstretched.
You complied, draping your arm across his scarred chest. A new found sense of relief flooded through you at the feeling of being so tenderly cared for. Simon heaved a sigh, coiling his arm around your waist to pull you closer “M’fuckin’ girl” he murmured before kissing the crown of your head.
