LT. Simon Ride-Me

welcome - i'm new here so this list is slim, but ever growing. right now it's exclusively COD taskforce 141, but will expand one day. enjoy!

Simon doesn’t mean to start keeping tabs on you. It just… happens.

He finds himself clocking roll call faster than usual, eyes scanning instinctively for your name, your shape, the way you carry yourself. He's relieved when he sees your still squared steady shoulders. Good. Still standing. Still here.

He tells himself that’s enough. It isn’t.

By the third day, he knows your schedule better than his own. Knows when you disappear between drills. Notices when you’re slower leaving briefings. Wonders, absently and obsessively, if you’ve been to the medbay yet. If you’ve told anyone. If you’re sick. If you’re scared.

If you’re alright.

He asks around carefully. Too carefully. “How’s the Sergeant doing?” he says once, like it’s a throwaway, like he hasn’t rehearsed the question in his head.

“She’s fine,” comes the answer. “Same as always.”

Same as always. Right. Price clocks him immediately.

“You’ve spoken to her lately?” Price asks later, casual but watching.

Simon shrugs, too stiff. “No.” Price’s eyebrow lifts the smallest fraction.

“She mention anything?” Simon adds, then curses himself internally.

“About you?” Price asks.

Simon doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. Price just hums quietly and changes the subject, which somehow makes it worse.

At night, Simon lies awake staring at the ceiling, mind replaying the same impossible image on a loop. You in the doorway. The test on his desk. The door slamming. And then, unbidden, something else.

Small. Fragile. Real. His. Yours.

He wonders if you’ve felt it yet - not movement, of course - just the weight of knowing something’s there. Wonders if you look in the mirror differently. If your hand ever drifts to your stomach when no one’s watching.

Christ.

He wants to check on you properly. Wants to ask questions he has no right to ask. Wants to make sure you’re safe, that you're being careful.

Instead, he watches. He waits.

lieutenant!simon riley can’t stay focused knowing reader is waiting for him at home

The safe house is quiet in that way that never really means quiet.

Simon’s back is pressed to the wall, concrete cold even through his kit. Rifle laid across his knees, gloves wrapped around it without thinking. He’s listening, always listening, for the scrape of boots, a breath where there shouldn’t be one, the wrong kind of silence outside the door.

But his head’s not here. It’s a thousand miles away. Warm. Soft. Bare.

He thinks of you without meaning to and then he can’t stop. The way your skin feels under his hands, nothing like the hard edges of weapons and armor. Soft where everything else in his world is sharp. The give of your hips. The warmth at the small of your back when he presses you into the mattress like he’s afraid you'll disappear if he doesn’t keep you there.

Your lips. Christ.

Pink and swollen after he kisses you too long, too hard. The way you tilt her head automatically now, learned, like your body already knows what’s coming when he leans in. He imagines dragging his mouth over yours until you’re breathless, until every sound you makes shoots straight to his cock. He can almost feel it, your breath slipping into his ear, warm and unguarded. The way you say his name like it belongs to you, like it’s not something everyone else barks or growls or fears. The way you clutch at him like you’re grounding yourself and unraveling him at the same time. He thinks about burying himself in your tight cunt for hours once he’s home. No urgency. No clocks to watch. Just heat and friction and the way you cling to him like you know exactly how close he lives to the edge.

His grip tightens on the rifle before he realizes it.

This is dangerous. Letting his mind wander like this. Letting it soften. Letting something matter that much.

A voice cuts through the haze. “Ghost.” Price. Low. Sharp.

Simon blinks, the fantasy shattering like glass. The room rushes back in. The dim light, Soap cleaning his weapon across the way, the faint buzz of comms, the ever-present tension sitting heavy in the air.

“Yeah,” Simon answers immediately, spine straightening, thoughts locking back into place.

“Eyes up.” Price says, already turning away.

Simon nods once, jaw tight beneath the skull mask.

Rifle back in his hands. Ears tuned outside. Mind dragged back to the present, kicking and screaming. But the thought lingers anyway.

Simon’s office smells like old coffee and gun oil. He doesn’t look up when you knock. “Door’s open,” he says flatly.

You step inside, shut it behind you, and stand there longer than necessary. He finally flicks his eyes up, sharp and assessing, notebook still open in front of him.

“What is it, Sergeant?” Simon asks. “Personal or professional?

You swallow. “Both.”

That does it. His jaw tightens, pen clicking closed with quiet irritation as he leans back in his chair. “I don’t mix the two,” he says. “So say your piece or get out.”

Your fingers curl in the pocket of your fatigues, knuckles white around cheap plastic and pink lines. Your heart’s sprinting. You hadn’t planned for the way his voice would cut like this—cold and distant. So unlike the nights you two never talked about.

“Simon,” you say carefully. “I just need you to listen.”

“I am listenin'.” He exhales sharply. “But I’ve got a briefing in—”

You pull the test from your pocket and hold it out. The room goes dead silent. For a long second, he just stares at it like it might explode. Then his eyes drag up to your face.

“I’m not touchin' that,” he says.

“Fine,” you reply, voice wavering despite your best efforts. “Don’t.”

You keep holding it there. His chair scrapes back as he stands abruptly, towering now, hands braced on the desk, hazel eyes glued on the positive pregnancy test.

“Tha's not possible,” he says. “I’m careful. Always pull out.”

A sharp, ugly laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. “Well,” you snap, “maybe you’re not as fuckin’ good at it as you think.”

The air turns hostile instantly. His gaze hardens with something nasty flashing behind it. “Or maybe,” he says coldly, “it’s not mine.”

Your chest tightens. “It is,” you say. “I haven’t been with anyone else.”

Simon scoffs. “You’re serious?” he mutters. “A woman like you, surrounded by blokes every waking hour?” His lip curls. “Don’t take the piss.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t argue. You just shake your head, dissapointed. “I don’t lie. Not about this.”

Silence again.

He turns away from you, raking a hand through his sandy hair, pacing the sterile small room like a cornered animal. Worn boots thud against the floor. He mutters something under his breath, way too low to catch.

“Christ,” he breathes. The word finally leaves him rough, dragged out of his chest like it hurts. He doesn’t look at the test again. Doesn’t look at you, either. He turns away, hand braced on the edge of his desk like the wood might splinter under his grip.

Silence stretches. Heavy. Accusatory.

“Well?” he says finally. “What d’you want, Sergeant?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “What d’i want?” you snap. “You think this was part of some master plan? You think I woke up one morning and thought—yeah, sounds fucking perfect, getting knocked up by my superior officer after one of our quick post-op fucks?”

He turns back then, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Was hardly quick,”

“Fuck you, Simon.”

His eyes flash. “That’s out of line.” “So was suggesting it wasn’t yours,” you shoot back.

He drags a hand down his face, eyes dark, conflicted. “You come in here, shove a piss stick in my face, and expect me to just—what—nod and fall into line?”

“No,” you say sharply. “I expected you not to assume I’m a fucking liar.” He stiffens at that. “And I sure as hell didn’t expect you to imply I’ve been screwing half the unit just because it’s easier than accepting this might actually involve you.”

The words hang there, sharp and ugly and true. He looks away again, pacing once more, slower now. More controlled. But there’s a crack in it. “You know what this would do to you,” he says quietly. “To your career. To mine.”

“Which is why I didn’t come in here crying or begging,” you say evenly. “I came in here telling you the truth. Do with it whatever you want.”

There’s no venom in your voice now. No sharp edges left to throw. Just exhaustion.

Simon opens his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to stop you—but you’re already moving. You turn on your heel, boots striking the floor with purpose. The door swings open and you’re already gone.

The door slams so hard the walls seem to shudder and Simon doesn’t move for a long moment. The pregnancy test sits on his desk, stark white against dark wood. Two impossible pink lines.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He paces the length of the office, sharp strides that don’t put any distance between him and the truth. Price will crucify him for this; fraternizing with a subordinate. The silence. The lecture. The career that will never quite recover.

Everything he’s built balanced on one bad decision. On wanting her. Still wanting her. He stops, eyes snagging on the test sitting on his desk.

And then—unwanted—another thought creeps in.

Small fingers curled around his. A solid little weight against his chest. Her eyes. Maybe his mouth. Something half him. Half her.

Simon exhales, steadying himself against the desk. He shouldn’t be thinking this way. Not now.

But the image sticks. Along with the echo of the door slamming shut and the unsettling realization that the fear twisting in his gut isn’t of punishment, it’s coming from what he stands to lose.

Hi - took a little break! But I am back. I am currently TTC (unsuccessfully) and find that pregnancy tropes keep popping up in my writing. Apologies in advance if that's not your jam, but fertility treatments have brainwashed me.

Dinner’s done. Dishes cleaned.

The house is finally empty. Quiet in that heavy, peaceful way that only comes after a long day of hosting.

You’re curled on the couch when Simon taps your knee once.

“Come ’ere.”

You melt into his side, his arm pulling you in like he’s been waiting all night for this exact moment. His breath warms the top of your head as he settles against you, the two of you sinking deeper into the cushions.

After a beat, he whispers, barely audible:

“’M thankful for you, y’know.”

Simon carves the turkey with surgical precision, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the flex of muscle catching your eye every time he drags the knife through a perfect slice. His gaze keeps flicking to you whenever you drift too close, like he’s tracking you as carefully as the blade.

“Careful, love,” he murmurs, shifting a plate toward you with a nudge of his knuckles. “Let me handle the sharp bits. You just tell me how you want it.”

You grin. “You’re taking this very seriously.”

He snorts softly, lining up another flawless cut.

It happened that Thursday.

It should’ve faded by now. The nightmare, the panic, the way your lips brushed the side of his head. But Simon carried it through the week like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing at. He’d gone quieter, sharper around the edges and he thought he’d hidden it well enough. So, when he heard the front door earlier, he assumed you’d left for your run.

Slippers by the door, jacket missing from the hook, the same routine you’d followed for the last few weeks. But he hadn’t realized you’d doubled back for your headphones.

His voice reached you before you rounded the corner into the kitchen. “—no, it’s fine,” Simon was saying stiffly, that clipped edge he used with strangers. “Just send the bloody invoice. I’ll pick up the keys tomorrow."

You froze in the hallway, breath catching. The keys? Your hand tightened around your water bottle, cold plastic creaking under your grip.

“Yes, I know it’s been ready,” he snapped, pacing a tight line. “Bloody hell, no, I’m not givin’ up the place—I’ll move back in. Didn’t have fuckin’ time before now.” Your stomach dropped.

Ready? Before now?

You stepped into the doorway, quiet but not quiet enough. His head snapped up and the change was instantaneous. His voice softened, shoulders straightened slightly, like he could tuck whatever truth he’d just admitted back under the surface. He ended the call with a short, “I’ll ring you later,” and slipped his phone into his pocket.

You stared at him. “Mold’s been cleared for a week?”

He blinked, jaw flexing. “Was gonna’ tell you.”

“When?” you shot back, not loud, not even sharp, just flat. Controlled. The kind of tone you used in the field when something didn’t add up.

His nostrils flared. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

“You’ve been living here for six weeks,” you snapped, the first crack in your composure. “Cooking in my kitchen, sleepin’ in the bed I don’t use, acting like—”

You cut yourself off. Acting like what? Like he belonged? Like he wanted to be here

He crossed his arms, defensive. “I wasn’t takin’ advantage.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You’re implyin’ it.”

“No, Simon,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m asking why you lied.”

His jaw ticked again. He looked away, the tell he never realized he had. “I didn’t lie.”

“Saying nothing is the same damn thing.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Ain’t always.”

“Oh, so we’re doing technicalities now?”

He bristled. “Yer pissed at me. Fine. Be pissed.”

You threw your hands up. “I’m not— I don’t even know what I am.” Your voice wavered, barely a crack. “You kiss me and then act like that didn’t happen. You sleep down the hall but hover like you’re guarding the perimeter. You make me tea every morning like its muscle memory but can’t look me in the eye long enough to tell me your flat’s been fine for days?” Your voice is high and clipped.

He stepped forward. So did you. “Tell me what I’m supposed to think,” you whispered.

He stared at you like you’d just pulled the pin from a grenade. Then something in him snapped.

“I DON’T FUCKIN’ KNOW, DO I?!” he shouted. The sound ricocheted off the walls. You startled, not because you were afraid of him, but because you’d never heard that volume from him inside four safe, domestic walls.

Hands fisted at his sides, shoulders drawn tight, breathing hard, the mask sliding back over him like a shutter slamming down. “Don’t know what I’m supposed to think,” he growled, pacing once, sharp, ripping a hand through his hair. “Don’t know how I’m supposed to stay away when you— when this place—” He stopped himself, tension vibrating through him. “And you’re askin’ why I didn’t say anything?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He laughed. Harsh. Bitter. “Because I knew this’d happen.”

You blinked. “What? Me asking why you lied?”

“No,” he snapped. “Me fuckin’ it up.”

You opened your mouth but he cut you off, louder now, voice cracking, “You think I don’t know what it looks like? Lingerin’ around here. Cookin’ in your kitchen. Sleepin’ down the hall wantin’ to—” He bit down on the sentence so hard his jaw trembled. “—wantin’ too much.”

Silence. The moment was heavy and fragile. You hadn’t moved and neither had he. He finally lifted his eyes to yours, and this was the worst part — he looked furious, but every bit of it was directed inward.

The self-hatred, the fear, the guilt. All of it aimed squarely at himself. Not you, never you. He stepped back like he’d come too close to something dangerous. Like you were the thing that could make him lose control.

“You shouldn’t jus’ be angry,” he muttered, voice ripping low. “You should kick me out.”

You stared at him, chest tight, heart pounding, realizing he actually believed that. You stared at the rigid line of his shoulders. At the fists he kept clenching and unclenching. At the way he couldn’t look at you without flinching, like wanting you was a weakness that disgusted him.

He thought you should kick him out. He genuinely thought that.

“Simon,” you said, voice low but steady, “if I wanted you gone, you’d be gone.”

His breathing stuttered. Just once. “And I’m not angry because you’re here,” you added. “I’m angry because you’re acting like it doesn’t mean anything.”

That got him. His head snapped toward you. “It doesn’t—”

“Oh, fuck off,” you cut in, stepping forward. “We’re way past pretending.”

His eyes went wide, then narrowed, not at you, but at himself, because he had no argument. None. He took a step closer. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.”

“You don’t.”

“Then tell me I’m wrong.”

Silence. Thick. Brutal. His jaw worked, breath heaving, eyes burning with everything he refused to say. He looked furious. Wrecked. Cornered. At himself. At you. At the six weeks of pretending you both hadn’t already crossed a line the minute you folded and stacked his laundry for him.

You felt heat rising in your chest, the kind of frustration that made your hands shake. “Say it, Simon. You fucken can’t even—”

He moved.

One second there was air between you, the next his hand was in your hair, the other gripping your waist, pulling you into him with a force that wasn’t gentle by any definition of the word.

He kissed you like he hated it. Like he hated that he wanted it. Hated that he’d let it get this far. Hated himself for every reason he stayed and every reason he should’ve left.

Your gasp hit his mouth, swallowed instantly, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt as you dragged him closer, matching his anger with your own. You kissed him back like you were furious with him. With yourself. With all the ways you’d both been so stupid.

His lips were hot, harsh, desperate. Yours answered with equal fervor.

He muttered something against your mouth — half-growled, half-broken. “Bad fuckin’ idea, this,” he breathed, but it came out like a confession, not a warning.

“Too late,” you shot back, dragging his lips down to you again.

He groaned, low and ragged, like he’d been holding it back for weeks and his hands slid to your hips, gripping hard enough that you felt your breath catch. “We’re fuckin’ idiots,” he muttered against your mouth.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, brushing your lips over his. “Absolute idiots.”

He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, then suddenly bent, one arm hooking behind your thighs, the other bracing your back. Before you could react, you were in the air.

“Simon—”

“Not talkin’ anymore,” he growled, standing to his full height with you cradled against him. “We’re too bloody stupid for talkin’.”

He kissed you once more, quick and sharp, as he carried you down the hall like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done.

Part 2 of Rookie!Reader has no idea she’s unraveling Lieutenant!Simon Riley one small, innocent moment at a time

You, sliding into cover on a live op, breath sharp in your throat. Dirt on your cheek, eyes too wide. Simon sees it and is suddenly right there, chest brushing your back, voice low over comms as he growls, “Stay with me.” He doesn’t move away for a beat too long.

You, squeezing past him in a narrow hallway, the wall forcing your bodies close. Your vest drags across his ribs. Simon goes rigid, shoulders locking like someone hit him with a stun round. He mutters “Careful.” Not like a warning, lke a plea.

You, adjusting your earpiece, thumb grazing the soft line of your jaw. Simon, mid-stride, stopping dead, because your mouth parts just slightly in concentration. His eyes drag from your lips to your throat before he jerks his gaze away like he’s been caught doing something indecent.

You, breathing hard after a sprint between buildings, sweat beading at your temple. Simon reaches out without thinking, thumb wiping a streak of dirt and grime from your cheek. His hand freezes when he realizes what he’s doing. You look away.

You, checking your rifle, leaning in too close because the gunfire’s loud and you need to hear him. Simon’s breath hits your ear. He answers in one word again, “Good.” It comes out rough enough to make your pulse kick.

You, ducking behind cover as a round zips past. Simon grabs your waist and yanks you flat against him, shielding you with his body. His hands stay on your hips a moment too long, fingers pressed firm, claiming.

You, whispering “LT?” when the dust settles. Soft and questioning. Simon, swallowing hard like the word punched the air from his lungs, turns to you with something hungry and frantic in his eyes. He forces it down. Barely.

You, pretending you don’t notice how he’s unraveling. Simon, pretending he isn’t.

Both of you failing.

Can you write a scenario with this same situation with Simon? Absolutely love your writing. 😪❤️‍🩹

i hope you enjoy this! My hair has also been an absolutely struggle when I'm writing or working on my computer. I feel you!

You didn’t realize how much your hair was getting on your nerves until it started interfering with everything.

Every time you tried to work, it slid forward into your eyes. When you cooked, it tickled your neck until you wanted to scream. When you slept, you woke up sweaty and tangled. Even just walking around the flat, the strands kept coming loose from your clip like they were mocking you.

Simon noticed. Of course he noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first, just pushed the strands back whenever he walked by you. A warm knuckle brushing your temple. A gentle tug behind your ear. A palm smoothing it out of your eyes when you leaned over the counter to chop vegetables.

“You alright?” he’d ask casually, like he hadn’t watched you wrestle the same strand four times in ten minutes.

“M’fine,” you muttered for the third day in a row, shoving it into a clip again.

Later, you were both on the sofa, you trying to read while your hair repeatedly fell into your face, and Simon’s patience finally snapped before yours did.

He watched you fight with it once, twice - then he reached over, plucked the hair tie from your fingers, and gently pulled your hands down. “Love,” he said quietly, like he was worried he might spook you. “Why don’t you just cut it shorter if it’s botherin’ you?”

You shrugged, frustrated. “I can’t.”

He studied you for a moment, then his voice dropped, rough and certain. “You’d still look gorgeous, y’know. Could shave the lot off and it wouldn’t touch you.”

Your stomach flipped.

“Hate watchin’ you fight with it,” he murmured, fingers lingering near your cheek. “Rather see more of that pretty face than see you miserable.”

Your hair slipped forward again, but he caught it before it fell.

The next few days settled into a strange, silent rhythm. Everything looked the same. Simon still made dinner, you still washed his shirts when they turned up in the hamper, he still handed you a mug of tea without asking how you took it. But it still all felt different. You couldn’t meet his eyes without heat flooding your chest, and he couldn’t look at you without something tightening in his jaw. He was punishing himself, you knew that much, stacking invisible bricks between you like he could wall off the memory of your mouth on his.

But to your silent relief, he never mentioned staying at Johnny’s place again.

You didn’t notice when you drifted off. One minute you were reading on the couch again, trying to lose yourself in anything that wasn’t him, and the next the flat was dark and quiet around you, the only sound the soft hum of the heat and the occasional creak as the building settled.

You weren’t sure what woke you. A thud, maybe. But then you heard it again. A strangled sound. Half-choked, half-panicked.

Nothing like the even, controlled breaths of Lieutenant Simon Riley.

You sat up immediately. For a moment you just froze, heart hammering, listening. There. Another sound. A hitched inhale, like someone coming up from underwater.

You didn’t think, you just moved. Your feet carried you down the hall before your brain caught up. You hesitated only once, outside his closed door, hand raised but not touching the wood.

You whispered, “Simon?”

No response. Just another quiet noise. It was not loud, not dramatic, but wrong. With a breath, you pushed the door open.

He was sitting upright on the bed, back to you, shoulders heaving once, twice. The glow from the hallway reflected off the sweat clinging to the line of his neck, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress so tightly his knuckles were white.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping inside. “Simon.” His head snapped up. You closed the space quickly, reaching a small hand out for his shoulder.  But before you could blink, his hand shot out, fingers closing hard around your wrist. The instinct was pure reflex, you recognized that immediately, but it stole your breath.

His grip was crushing, body still wound tight with whatever hell he’d been dragged out of. His eyes were wild for a second, darting, unfocused, caught somewhere that wasn’t here.

You didn’t pull away. “It's me,” you said quietly. “Just me.”

His breathing stuttered. The fight drained from his grip all at once. He let go like he’d touched a hot kettle. His hand hovered in the space between you for a second before clenching into a fist that he pulled it back to his thigh.

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Didn’t— didn’t mean…” “You alright?” you asked, voice low and steady, like you weren’t sure if you should be here at all.

He dragged a hand over his face. “Didn’t want you hearin’ that.”

“You weren’t exactly quiet.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so tight. He wouldn’t look at you. Not with his guard down like this. Not with his mask off in ways that had nothing to do with fabric. You stepped closer anyway and he didn’t flinch this time.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the bed beside him, leaving a few inches of air between your thighs. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him but far enough that he could’ve moved away if he wanted. But he didn’t.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The room held you both in its quiet darkness. Just two soldiers in a domestic space that had become far too dangerous.

You finally broke it, voice low. “Happens, y’know. We all get ‘em.”

He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head once. He almost laughed at the thought of you getting rattled in your sleep. You, with your nightlight and that daft stuffed animal you refused to hide. But the truth lodged deep in him, he felt a different kind of duty with you a wall away. “Not like that.”

You raised a brow. “Nightmares are nightmares, Simon.”

His gaze flicked to your hand on the bed between you, then to your face. “Haven’t had one in a long time,” he muttered. He didn’t say the rest, that it felt different after the kiss, with you sleeping just on the other side of the wall.

Not mission-driven, not the cold vigilance of a safe house. Something warmer. Worse. Something he was having trouble shutting off. He slept lighter, listening for you without meaning to. That protecting you here felt nothing like the job. That it was starting to scare him. And Simon doesn’t get scared.

You shifted just slightly, your knee brushing his. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second.

You couldn’t help but notice the change in him, the soft edges he’d never shown you on the field, nearly unrecognizable to the Simon you met years ago.

 Your voice was quiet. “Simon…”

His eyes flicked to yours, his breath left him in a low, rough sound. “Tell me to stop stayin’ here.” His voice was so even it almost sounded like a command. Maybe a plea.

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, not mocking, just… fond. A smile tugged at your mouth despite everything twisting in your chest.

“Can’t do that, Simon,” you murmured.

Before he could look away, before he could brace himself, you leaned in and brushed your lips against the side of his head, right where his sandy blonde hair was cropped short. You felt him go still beneath it, like the touch had short-circuited him.

Then you stood, leaving him sitting there, breathing like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

Rookie!Reader has no idea she’s unraveling Lieutenant!Simon Riley one small, innocent moment at a time

You, the new rookie on the Task Force, bright-eyed and eager to please. Desperate to impress, determined to prove you belong here despite your size and that pretty fucking face Simon keeps pretending not to notice.

You, sitting in the briefing room, chewing the end of your pen while Price talks through intel. Nothing special. Nothing intentional. But Simon’s jaw tightens, glove flexing once against his thigh before he pointedly looks at the ceiling like it might save him.

You, brushing past him in the hallway with a quiet “Sorry, sir,” your hand grazing his arm. It’s barely a touch, light and accidental. But Simon goes still, breath hitching behind the mask for half a second before he mutters something low and unintelligible. You, tying your hair back before training, fingers twisting through strands, head tilted, lip caught lightly between your teeth in concentration. Simon sees it from across the mat, his eyes on the sleek column of your neck and has to drag his gaze away so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. You, laughing at something Soap says over lunch, head tipped back, sunlight catching your face. Simon doesn’t join in. He just watches you for a beat too long before he forces his eyes down to his plate, the muscles in his jaw jumping with effort. You, asking him an innocent question during gear check, stepping close enough that he can smell the faint clean scent of your shampoo. Simon answers in one clipped word because anything more it might come out rough and wanting. You, fastening your thigh holster before weapons training, the strap cinching snug around your leg. You don’t notice the way Simon goes still for half a second, teeth grinding as he pointedly checks the sight on his rifle instead. You, wiping the back of your hand across your forehead during drills, cheeks flushed from exertion, sweat glinting along your temple. Simon’s fingers twitch at his side like he’s fighting the kind of thought that should never involve a rookie, willing away the image of you looking that breathless and wrecked beneath him. You, blissfully unaware in your quarters, curled beneath your blanket, breathing slow and soft in the dark. Simon, rigid on his back, picturing your perfect flushed cheeks while stroking his achingly hard cock. He fucks his fist desperately, thinking how the word "sir" sounded from your pretty little mouth, until he comes apart in his hand.

You, hearing someone new moving into 4A. Thumps against the wall, footsteps at odd hours and a man’s voice singing off-key to some song you can’t quite place.

You, locking your door one morning only to nearly collide with him. He startles, then grins wide and bright, like sunlight hitting you directly in the face. “Mornin’! Didn’t mean tae scare ye.” The accent hits first. The friendliness second.

You, giving a stiff smile. “Uh, yeah. No bother.”

Johnny beams. You retreat into the elevator before he can say more.

You, running into him again two days later, literally, when he rounds the corner carrying a box labeled Kitchen? like even he wasn’t sure. Johnny steps back immediately, smile warm. “You okay? Didn’t clip ye too hard, did I?” His hands stay carefully at his sides, but his concern feels… a bit much.

You, brushing it off. “’m fine.” He nods, relieved. “Good. Hate tae start off as the neighbour who knocks folk over.” You laugh despite yourself. He seems so earnest it almost feels rude not to.

You, trying to get your mail the next evening when his door opens at the exact same time. Again. “Evenin’!” he chirps. He’s holding a toolkit and smells like sawdust. “Fixed the door a bit. Well, mostly. It’s closin’ better, anyway.” He laughs like he expects you to join in.

You, offering a noncommittal smile, unsure whether this frequency is coincidence or intention. “Sounds productive.”

Johnny grins, his blue eyes bright. “If ye ever need anythin’ fixed, give me a shout. I’ve got… well," he gestures with the hammer, “not talent, exactly. But enthusiasm.”

You can’t help it, your eyebrow lifts. Was that flirting? A joke? Both? You’re not sure.

You, finally catching each other the fourth time in a week, both of you reaching your doors at once. You hesitate. So does he.

Johnny finally smiles “Honestly,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “I keep runnin’ into ye so much yer gonna think I’m lurkin’.” He winces. “Which I’m not, mind.”

You, laughing because at least he’s aware of it. “I was starting to wonder,” you tease, half joking, half not.

Johnny’s eyes widen a little, like the thought horrifies him. “Oh God, no, didn’t mean tae come off like a creep.” His hands come up quickly in a harmless gesture, palms out. “Just tryin’ tae be neighbourly.”

You, softening. “It’s okay. You’re… very friendly.”

Johnny brightens again, but more gently this time, like he’s trying to tone it down for your sake. “Aye. Heard that before.” Then, quieter: “Hope it’s not a bad thing.”

You, shaking your head. “Not bad. Just… rare.”

Johnny leans back against his door, giving you a smaller, softer smile this time, less golden retriever, more human. “Well. I’ll let ye get inside before I ruin my reputation any more.” He nods toward your door. “Have a good night, neighbour.”

You, hearing the scrape of boots in the hallway for the third morning in a row. Heavy steps, deliberate, like whoever moved into 3B doesn’t know how to walk without carrying weight. You peek through the peephole just in time to catch the back of a broad frame, a hood pulled up despite the warm weather.

You, deciding today’s the day. Mug of coffee in hand, pretending you just happened to open your door at the exact moment he’s locking his. He glances over, his blond hair cropped short and strong jaw set hard enough to cut glass. His golden eyes barely flick to you before dropping to the floor.

You, smiling anyway. “Hi. I’m in 3C. Just wanted to say welcome.”

Simon grunts. Actually grunts. Then nods once, short and dismissive, then mutters, “Cheers.” Already turning to leave.

You, refusing to be discouraged, catch him again two days later. His arms loaded with groceries, keys in his teeth. You offer, “Need a hand?” He shakes his head, muttering around the metal, “Got it.” Bags digging into his fingers but he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t budge.

You, watering the communal hallway plants when you hear his door open. He stops beside you, like he’s evaluating the situation. You give him another bright smile. “Morning.”

Simon eyes the watering can. “Bit much, innit?”

You laugh. He doesn’t. Not yet.

You, stubbornly sticking with it. Little hellos. Quick nods. Comments about the weather. About the broken lift. About the new bakery on the corner.

Simon answers in the shortest possible ways. Only single words, clipped sentences, that gravelly voice kept low like he’s rationing it.

You, finally catching him one evening when he’s coming back looking exhausted. His shoulders are tight, shirt still smelling faintly of outside rain and something metallic underneath. Deployment, you guess. Training? Something close enough.

You, softening your voice. “Long day?”

Simon's eyes flick to you, quick and sharp, but instead of brushing past, he stops. Just for a moment. “Somethin’ like that.”

You, leaning lightly against your doorframe. “If you ever need anything, I’m right next door.”

Simon huffs something that isn’t quite a laugh and isn’t quite a dismissal. “Y’too friendly.”

You grin. “And you're not.” For the first time, the corner of his mouth tugs. Barely. A ghost of a smile, there and gone in half a second.

You, catching it anyway. Making to file it away like a victory.

You weren’t supposed to be awake.

He’d counted on that, even lingered on base longer than he needed to. He showered, changed, killed time in his office until the sting in his knuckles dulled and the bleeding on his forearm slowed to a tacky smear. Long enough, he hoped, for exhaustion to pull you under.

But your head shot up the second the door clicked shut.

“Simon?” Your voice was soft, sleep-rough and worried in a way he didn’t expect. His stomach dipped.

He stepped into the light of the kitchen, and your eyes widened before he could even open his mouth.

There was blood on him. Not a lot, not the kind that would scare you, but enough. More than you’ve seen before. His knuckles were split open. A clean slice along his forearm. A bruise blooming under his jaw.

You stood up so fast the blanket slid off your lap. “What happened?”

He lifted a hand, trying to wave you off. “’S nothin’, love. Runnin’ drill went sideways.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched him with that gaze that stripped him bare in a way no one ever could before. “Sideways,” you repeated, gently incredulous.

He grunted, the closest he’d get to confirming or denying anything, and started for the bathroom. “Drop it.”

You blocked him. “Sit.”

He huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh. “Not happenin’."

“Sit. Down.” You hissed and his eyes cut to yours with a sharp warning, a look that made full-grown men rethink their life choices. But you didn’t budge.

He exhaled hard through his nose, looking away like the ceiling suddenly needed evaluation

“I’m not lettin’ you fuss over this.” He motioned vaguely at his hand, like it wasn’t shredded. “Don’t need you seein’ me like..."

“Like what?” you pressed softly. His throat bobbed.

“A man who uses his hands for this kind of shite,” he muttered finally, low and harsh.

And that’s when it hit him, the part he didn’t say out loud: the same hands that break bone, breach doors, choke out threats in dark rooms… touching you. Holding you. Cooking for you. Fucking loving you.

He hated the thought of you making that connection. Fucking hated imagining the line between Simon and Ghost blurring anywhere near you. A man built for violence had no place in this kitchen. Not in this apartment you decorated. Not with you. Not bloody, not bruised, not like this at all.

And ever since you’d asked, so innocently it hurt, to see him wear the mask after this last deployment, something had shifted. Not in you. In him.

Coming home to you this time felt different. More fragile and breakable in a way that had nothing to do with danger. And running into Price at the grocery store last week, seeing his captain standing there in the same fluorescent aisle as the woman who washed his sweaters and kissed his jaw in the mornings, only split that feeling wider.

It made him feel like there was a part of himself — the part he’d relied on to stay numb and functional between ops — that didn’t belong here anymore.

A part he suddenly hated, for the first time in his life. Hated that Ghost lived in him at all. Hated that he couldn’t peel the man you loved away from the monster that kept him alive.

You stepped closer, voice soft, steady, undoing him in a way nothing else could. “I know what kind of man you are, Simon,” you murmured. “Sit.”

No threat. No force. Just warmth, the kind that cut through his armor sharper than any blade

His gaze snapped to yours on instinct, ready to push back, ready to protect that ugly little piece of himself he still thought could scare you off. But you held his eyes like you wasn’t scared of him at all

And just like that, all the fight bled out of him. He relented with a low, defeated sigh and lifted himself onto the counter. You stood between his knees with the first-aid kit, all gentle hands and soft concentration

You took his fist like it was something precious instead of something dangerous, dabbing carefully at the torn knuckles.

He didn’t breathe at first, afraid he might flinch.  When you moved to the slice along his forearm, he exhaled slow, controlled, but not nearly controlled enough. His fingers twitched against the counter, wanting to hold onto something, wanting, God help him, to hold onto you.

The entire time, he wasn’t sure what he felt more: fear or relief.

Fear, that you were seeing every ugly part of him up close. Relief, that you hadn’t run from it.

Part 4 - boyfriend!simon gets pissed when his girlfriend!reader asks him to put on his mask when he gets home from deployment