Simon bloody! Riley who eats like every meal you make is his last on Earth.
Hell, he would lick his fingers clean and swipe the plate with his thumb.
âSiâ you laugh scandalised by his table manners.
âWhat?â he grunts, already reaching for you instead of the sink. âSaid it were good, didnât I?â
âThat doesnât mean you lick the plate!â
âSaves water,â he shrugs before hauling you up like you weigh nothing.
You smack his chest, giggling. âPut me down âkitchenâ
âBedroom,â he corrects.
âFood was good. Wanna thank the chef proper.â
...and he does. Always does. Kissing you stupid until you forget what you were even laughing about in the first place.
But.
Thereâs one thing.
One absolute, non-negotiable line.
Onions. Onions.
âPut that knife down.â
You blink at him from the chopping board, already halfway through peeling one. âItâs justâ
âPut. it. down.â
The look on his face is ridiculous. This massive, terrifying man whoâs seen war and walked through it like it owed him money was now staring at a vegetable like it personally offended him.
âThey make you cry,â he mutters, already stalking over.
You snort. âEveryone cries, Simon. Itâs normal.â
âNot you.â
He takes the knife from your hand, ties on that stupid flowery apron your mum got him (which he pretends to hate but never actually takes off), and squares up to the onions like heâs about to interrogate them.
âFucking useless things,â he grumbles, slicing into one with unnecessary aggression.
You lean against the counter, watching, amused. âYou know you donât ââ
âShh.â
âSimon!!â
âShh, woman. Let me do me job.â
His eyes are already watering but he refuses to acknowledge it. Aww he looked adorable sniffling as his pretty brown eyes water. A pretty crier for sure.
âYour eyesââ
âShut it.â
âYouâre crying.â
âAm not.â Yeah he was openly sniffling now.
He pauses just long enough to shoot you a look. âThese are tactical tears.â
You burst out laughing. Grinning you hug him from behind as he carries on chopping.
But in his head, heâs somewhere else.
A smaller kitchen. Earlier days. Both of you lived in a small rental place. He had just started training under 141 while you got a new job. But that small house was everything. He remembers the day he walked in and saw you hunched over the counter, shoulders shaking. Eyes red, tears spilling, knife abandoned.
Heâd panicked. Proper panicked. Thought someone hurt you while he was gone for training.
âWho did that?â
âWhat?â youâd sniffed.
âTell me whoââ
âSimon, itâs just the onions. These ones are too strong!!â
He hadnât believed you at first. Thought you were covering for something, someone. Thought heâd walked in too late.
He remembers how his chest had tightened. How his fingers shook as he pulled you into a crushing hug while you sniffled.
And he remembers thinking: never again.
Back in the present, he finishes chopping, shoves the board aside, and turns to you.
âAll done.â
You smile, softer now. âThank you.â
He just grunts, like itâs nothing. Like he didnât just go to war with a vegetable for you.
Later, when dinnerâs done and youâre tucked into him, he presses kisses all over your face âcheeks, nose, eyelids.
âSimonâ you whine, squirming. âStop. I'm sleepy loveâ
âDidnât cry today,â he murmurs against your skin.
You huff. âBecause youâre dramatic.â
He hums, unconvinced, still kissing you. âGood.â
âGood?â
âMeans I did it right.â
You roll your eyes, but your hands slide up his arms anyway, holding him there.
And he stays.
Because yeah - heâll eat anything you make, lick the plate clean, carry you off like itâs instinct -
...but onions?
Those are his job. Always have been.
And later on you both have a small wee baby girl who throws tantrums and hates onions soo very much. She starts crying the moment she even sees them in grocery bag. Oh god it was as if she inherited the hatred from her idiot dad.
You swear you just saw Simon holding her steady on his lap as he handpicks and removes every small onion piece from her food.
"Mum loves em for no reason. They are proper bad aren't they angel", he mumbles as she nods shoving spoonful into her little mouth. Her chubby face lighting up as she notices you standing.
You just glare and roll your eyes at the duo waging war against a vegetable.
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Simon Riley was a nightmare of a dad. One wrong move and he grounded his son for a whole week. No calls. No going out. No friends. Nothing but staying in and fucking studying.
You walked into your home after a soul-crushing day to find your only child, Tom, and his friends clustered in the living room, bags slung over shoulders, laughter too loud. They were heading out, again.
"Tom, baby, no" you said, setting your bag down. "Itâs too late. Itâs ten already."
"Ma, itâs fine" he said easily. Too easily. "Iâll be back in an hour. And if not, Iâll just crash at Ricâs -"
"No. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh."
He groaned. "Mom, Iâm seventeen."
You turned slowly and looked him dead in the eye. "Exactly."
He scoffed and stood up - and Christ, he was already almost Simonâs height. Broad shoulders. Long limbs. Too big, too fast. Your chest tightened. Youâd always been scared shitless of big men.
You remembered the first time you met Simon - bumping into him on your way back from partying with friends, freezing when you looked up and saw just how massive he was. Towering over you. Youâd panicked and sprinted across the street like your life depended on it.
And yet years go by and heâd been the only man who ever mattered.
The only one who sat when you entered a room. The only one who shifted his stance to seem smaller at crowded dinners. The one who always knelt down to hear you better as you rambled on about your day.
You didn't even know he was in special forces when you started dating him. Yet he was the only one who bent the world around you instead of the other way around.
"Tom" you said sharply as his friends grabbed their things.
"I said no. You arenât leaving. Itâs dangerous, and have you even seen the news? That psycho killer still hasnât been caught-"
"Ma, move" His voice dropped. Firm, just like his dad. "Iâm goin."
He nudged past you.
Your hand shot out on instinct, fingers wrapping around his wrist. "I said no baby it's not safe. And you're not going."
He turned and looked down at you. God...
Your body betrayed you.
Your breath hitched. Your limbs locked. Too tall. Too close. Your heart slammed violently against your ribs.
"Ma" he muttered, irritation creeping in. "Let go."
You didnât. Hell you couldnt even hear him. It's like your system had a shut down.
He shoved your hand away - not hard. Barely anything at all.
But it was enough.
Your foot slipped. Pain exploded up your ankle as you stumbled and went down with a sharp cry.
"F..fuck..uh.." You hit the floor, clutching your ankle.
"Oh shit - no no, mum" Tom dropped to his knees, panic flashing. "I didnât mean, God-"
He glanced back at his friends. "Just - just go."
They didnât hesitate. Because Simon had seen everything.
The way your body froze.
The way your breathing shattered.
The way his son, your son, had stood over you - unknowing, careless, dangerous.
The house changed. Heavy footsteps came down the hall - slow. Deliberate.
"What happened."
Not a question. A sentence.
Tom swallowed hard. "Dad, I - she just tripped."
Simon stopped in front of him.
Didnât raise his voice. Didnât need to.
"No" he said quietly. "You step back. Now."
"Dad-"
"Back." One word. Final.
Tom moved instantly.
Simon knelt beside you, massive frame blocking the room, eyes flicking over your ankle, your shaking hands, your face.
"Look at me" he said. Low. Commanding. "You with me, love?"
"Iâm fine, Si" you breathed. âJust give me a second- "
"No" he said.
"Arms round my shoulders" he said. "Now"
"Si, I can walk-"
"No" he cut in. "You canât. And Iâm not asking."
"Dad, I didnât-"
You wrapped your arms around him as he lifted you effortlessly, like he always does.
"Iâll get the ice pack" Tom said, desperate.
Simon didnât even look at him.
"No" he said. "You stay exactly where you are."
He carried you down the hall, voice calm - but lethal as he passed his son.
Later that night you see Simon pacing back and forth as Tom sat on couch terrified.
"You donât get to grow into the kind of man who scares women" he said quietly. "Not in my house. Not with my name."
"She might be yer mum but she's my wife first."
Tom nods looking anyway but his dad.
"I'll tell you where you learnt that size from hmm? You're a big boy I get it. I was the biggest kid growing up too. But you know what, I saw how people around me hesitated to even ask for me help."
"Dad I didn't mean to scare her" Tom mumbles .
"But you did scare her. All her life she's known big men who didn't realise just how much space they took" he groans pointing at Tom.
"I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention"...
"No. Intent doesn't change impact". You peek through the bedroom door to see Simon towering over Tom as he sat on couch.
"If you ever use your size to push past her, dismiss her, scare her - by accident or otherwise, youâll learn real fast what restraint looks like. Because right now, the only reason youâre still sitting comfortable is because sheâs hurt. And she matters more" he snaps hauling Tom up by his shirt.
"Now grab that damn ice pack and go up and apologize. Kneel if you must. You'll stay at home this week cooking, cleaning, washing dishes and what not but make sure my wife doesn't lift a single finger".
Tom nods as he feels Simon press his forehead against him.
"You'll be a better man than me son. But you'll learn how to be small..and use that size to protect, never to harm. And never ever try to scare a woman. Especially my woman. Got it?"
"Aye sir". Tom bolted upstairs grabbing the icepack. He needed to make things right.
Simon took an oath to never let anyone hurt what he loved. And he'll be damned if his wife was scared in her own house. He'll teach Tom how to be gentle even if it takes months.
Simon Riley's Civilian neighbour was not your average "Y/N" no. đȘđ»đȘđ»
A busted kitchen pipe? You fixed it.
A blown fuse bulb? Sorted.
Rats in your kitchen? Youâd catch them bare-handed before asking a man for help. You were not only the eldest daughter, but the eldest grandchild, and your mum (eldest daughter) and dad (eldest son). So asking for help wasn't a default setting.
But sometimes - rarely - you were stuck.
Like the night your car started leaking something dark and slick onto the driveway.
"Shit. No. No" you muttered, crouching to inspect it. Oil. Maybe. Or something worse.
Seven in the evening. Makeup half done. Phone buzzing with *Where are you?* texts from the girls.
You straightened and felt it before you saw him.
Simon. Your new neighbour.
He stood on his porch, glass in hand, watching you with an intensity that made you shift your weight. Big man. Quiet street. The '141 Boys' sticker on his jeep caught the light.
Finance job, he'd told neighbours when he moved in. Didnât explain the balaclava. Didnât explain the way he watched - like he was assessing a situation, not a person. He was so...weird.
He set the glass down. Didnât rush. Walked over.
"Carâs bleedin" he said flatly.
You blinked. "Oh. Right. Yeah. I noticed."
His eyes flicked to the stain under the car. Then to you.
"Need help, or you just starinâ at it?"
Your jaw tightened. "âŠI donât know whatâs wrong."
That seemed to satisfy him. Might've boosted that ego all men carry these days.
"Stay there."
He disappeared into his house and came back with a toolbox. Heavy. Metal worn. Not new.
You think he will ask for permission to enter your yard but nah. He crouched, already reaching under your car.
"Donât start it."
"I wasnât going to" does he think you are some dumb little girl.
"Good" he muttered. "That wouldâve made it worse."
You hovered nearby, arms crossed. Watching his hands. Large. Scarred. Steady.
"Hm." He clicked his tongue. "Oil panâs leakin."
Your stomach dropped. "Is that bad? That sounds bad."
"Depends how long you ignore it."
You exhaled sharply. "Can you..." You hesitated. "Can you explain it to me?"
He paused. Slowly looked up at you.
"âŠExplain it."
"So if it happens again" you said, "I know what to do."
Silence stretched.
"You tryinâ to fix it yourself next time?" he frowns looking up at you.
"Yes" you repeat firmly.
He opens his mouth maybe to argue just like every misogynist prick in your life but then -
"âŠAlright" he said quietly. "Get down here then."
You hesitated looking down at your new denim skirt "Under the car?"
"Thatâs where the problem is, innit?"
You crouched beside him as he jacked the car up. The space beneath was tight. Too close. His shoulder brushed your knee and stayed there.
"See this?" he said, pointing. "Thatâs your oil pan. Oil keeps everything from grindinâ itself to death. You crack it, oil leaks. No oil...engineâs fucked."
He reached past you and something warm skimmed your arm. You didnât move.
Few drops of oil splashed onto your cheek. You flinched and wiped them away.
He froze, waiting for you to shriek and run away.
"You alright?" His voice was lower now. Sharper.
"Yeah" you said. "Itâs just oil."
"You're not scared of gettin dirty?" he mumbled.
"Let's focus."
"You donât have to be under here" he added. "I can do this alone."
You met his gaze. "Then I donât learn."
Something unreadable crossed his face.
"âŠStubborn" he muttered. Then, after a pause "Fair."
He talked you through it slowly. Made you repeat things. Corrected you when you got it wrong. You mirrored his movements carefully.
"No - look. Not there. Here."
His hand closed over yours, guiding your fingers. Firm. Professional. Too aware.
You swallowed but didnât pull away. Any other man would've taken this opportunity to harass you or humiliate you for being helpless. But this one was treating you like you were paying for a tutorial.
Half an hour later, it was done.
You both stood, brushing dirt from your clothes. The air felt thicker than before. You open the car door switching it on and hell it was fixed.
"Thank you" you said. "Really. Do I owe you?"
He shut the toolbox. "No."
"You sure?"
He looked at you for a long second.
"Just donât ignore it next-
The words die in his throat as you move closer wiping drops of oil off his cheek. He looks down at your proper now...oh.
The next afternoon, he heard the hammer before he saw you.
You were on a ladder, nailing a hand-painted sign onto your garden shed. The steps wobbled.
"Oi" he called. "That ladder's shite."
You looked down. "Iâve got it!"
The ladder swayed again.
"Yeah?" He moved fast, crossing over to your yard gripping the ladder. "You sure about that?"
You laughed nervously. "Okay maybe not."
You gulped as you realised the maxi skirt you were wearing was now flowing in every direction thanks to the sudden wind...that means he can definitely see your -
You look down to see his gaze cast downwards. His eyes never once lifted up.
"Donât move" he said. "Iâve got you."
His hands stayed steady. Didnât let go. And kept staring at the little ceramic mushrooms you had in your garden.
You glanced down at him. "Youâre good at catching people."
His jaw tightened.
"Part of the job."
"What jobâs that?" you teased.
He looked up at you. Held your gaze and didn't answer.
"Keep workin" he said instead. Yeah he did catch people, just not in the way you thought.
You thought - he must be married. A man this controlled had to have someone grounding him. No wonder he has so much control and authority. He must have someone who taught him this respect.
You didnât know yet -
Simon Riley, Lieutenant of the SAS, was dangerously good at restraint. Dangerous. Everyone back at base, from rookies to colonels knew how much control he had over everything. And that included his feelings and emotions. Not to mention the staring problem he had. And right now he was thinking of 100 ways to make you ask for his help....don't be suprised if you wake up next day and see your front door broken with expert precision.
Simon god damn Riley has a purpose now. It was making you life hell just because he wanted to help ;â )
A/N: Yes he pretends to be unable to cook so that you invite him over. But you don't know cooking either. So now he is even happier to learn watching youtube videos besides you in your cute kitchen.
After your first and last encounter with the lieutenant, you were convinced he hated you. Later, the other trainees confirmed it was rare if he *didnât* hate anyone. The man radiated hostility. The kind that made you straighten your spine just by entering the same room. Like heâd cave your skull in for breathing wrong.
The power cut hit the base without warning. A scheduled security drill - for future operations. Outside, rain lashed the windows hard enough to make them shudder in their frames.
You were halfway through arranging mattresses when raised voices tore through the storm.
Shouting.
Engines.
Boots slamming wet concrete.
141 was back.
You sprinted outside just in time to see combat medics pouring in, dragging wounded soldiers toward the medic bay. Blood everywhere -dark, soaking through kit. Men limping, swearing, teeth clenched so tight their jaws trembled.
"Heâs in the jeep" he said, jerking his head. "Ghost. Heâs bad. Donât piss about."
Before you could answer, bodies surged past you. Someone shoved you aside as gurneys were rushed in. That was your place - carry, assist, get the hell out of the way. No.hands.on.medicine.
Still, your eyes followed him.
They hauled Ghost inside.
Christ.
He was barely moving. Pale beneath the skull mask, blood leaking through his vest, pooling beneath him. Severe blood loss, your brain catalogued it instantly. But the entry wound -
A hand clamped around your arm.
"Inside. Now."
The nurse didnât wait.
You stood beside Jake, jotting notes as the doctors worked fast and viciously efficient. Orders barked. Metal clanged. The air stank of antiseptic and iron.
By evening, your hands ached. Your legs felt hollow. You were halfway through cold noodles when footsteps thundered back toward you.
"Oi!!! you. He wants you."
The head nurse shoved a needle pack into your chest, scowling.
"Heâs being a right bastard. Refusinâ everyone."
Apparently Ghost had been snarling at anyone who came close.
"Not you. Get off."
"Donât touch me."
"Send someone who knows what theyâre doinâ."
Then, sharp and final:
"The short daft one. The trainee."
You stepped into the room and stopped.
Ghost was propped up on the bed, stripped of most of his gear. Bloodied. Furious. His voice was low and lethal as he snapped at the nurse adjusting the IV.
"Get your hands off me before I break âem," he growled, thick Mancunian cutting through the room. "I said wait."
The nurse scoffed. "Youâre not in charge here -"
His head snapped up.
"Try me. These hands are pansexual"
Then-
He saw you. Everything stopped.
His jaw clenched. His shoulders went rigid. Whatever fight had been clawing its way out of him slammed back behind steel doors. Gods he wanted to fix his uniform and tidy up right this moment. He looks down adjusting his mask to sit properly.
"âŠRight" he muttered, quieter. Controlled. "You can go."
The nurse blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said go."
She hesitated, then shot you a look and left.
You swallowed and moved closer.
"Iâm going to stitch your wound, sir" you said, voice steady. "I need you still."
He didnât bite back. Didnât snap.
"Get on with it" he said gruffly, eyes fixed on the wall behind you. Acting indifferent as if he didn't beg for you seconds before.
You worked carefully. The gash across his abdomen was deep, angry. When the needle went in, his breath hitched - but he didnât make a sound.
Not a hiss.
Not a curse.
"You need to tell me if it hurts" you said softly.
A beat.
"âŠIâm fine rookie."
A lie. You both knew it.
As you leaned in to wrap the bandage, his hands flexed at his sides, knuckles white. Like he was holding himself together by force alone.
"Careful. Are you carving yer name on me" he muttered - not sharp. Not threatening. Just strained.
"Sorry sir."
"Didn't complain. Just don't rush" he mumbles still looking at the wall behind you.
"I wonât" you promised.
The overhead lights caught the rain still clinging to your hair. Water dripped onto the floor. He noticed.
"Youâre soaked" he said quietly as blood loss finally takes toll on him.
"Itâs nothing."
His jaw tightened. His warm brown eyes tracing your face as lightning flashes revealing every speck of your eye. The ceiling lights forming a halo around your head as you loom over him wrapping the bandage. An angel, he thought, thanks to delirium.
"Shouldnât have you out there" he muttered, more to himself than you. Then, harsher - like he was correcting the softness:
"Focus."
You finished the wrap. Stepped back.
Only then did he look at you properly.
"You know you smell like Manchester after rain..a proper storm" he whispers voice low, reluctant. His head falls back on the pillow as he looks around hazily now.
You didn't hear him as you clean bloodied hands in the basin. Before you could ask him to repeat-
The door opened.
"Well, Iâll be damned" Price said, stepping in. "Youâve gone quiet."
He draped a jacket around your shoulders. "Don't want our medics falling ill too."
"Two weeks, Riley. Youâre not goinâ anywhere."
Ghost nodded once.
"Good."
Price frowned. "Huh. You want to stay?"
Ghostâs gaze followed you as you left the room.
"âŠAye. Good"
Across the base, it spread in hushed voices.
Ghost wasnât asking for discharge.
Ghost wasnât fighting the medics anymore.
But if anyone else walked into that room? They got snapped at.
And every night, without fail, one question cut through the corridor - low, rough, unmistakably his:
You'd think Simon Riley would fall in love like every other man. No. A BIG NO.
It wasn't until he was out for a walk one evening. Got a month off the base so might as well act like a normal civilian eh? Have some pancakes by the lake, whistle a tune as he walks. Sure why not.
Until he walks past you and mutters sideyeing your dog "wet rat". You freeze looking at the huge ass man walking past you...what did he just say.
Did he just whistle and call your sweet angel puppy a wet rat!!???
You shriek stomping to match his pace and tap his shoulders to make him look back.
"What", he mumbles looking down at you. Jesus who let their pet gargoyle out. He was tall enough to fix street lights.
"You are so rude for what reason man. Have I stepped on you or what" you frown sizing him up.
"You heard it then eh. Wanna hear it again", he scoffs already turning back.
"No no. You say sorry right now mister", you reach out to hold his elbow to make him face you.
Uh...why wasn't it working. It usually does.
You see his gaze drop to your dog again who was very much barking at his boots. Her little bows shaking as she shows him teeth and growls. Couldn't even reach his knees. He leans his head lower to see her better.
"That's one hell of a stupid looking rat if I ever saw one-
Thwack!!!
Your fist, his nose, perfect!!
You had imagined this scenario a hundred times. Punching a random man on street. Because why not.
You gasp waiting for a reaction.
Instead he just stands still touching his nose. And oh...he grins stepping closer. Before you could land another punch, he shoves his phone into your reaching palms.
"Your number.Now".
"What why", you were so confused. Was this a dream. Nothing made sense. You just punched him and he is asking for your number.
"I'll apologize tomorrow evening at the cafe down the street", he says taking his phone back as you type your number frowning.
He crouches down and take a little pink bow off your pups collar and walks away.
While you stood baffled, Simon damned Riley was planning ways to win your heart over. No one, especially a civilian had the audacity to do what you did - without an inch of hesitation.
That too over a little dog.
He looks at the screen smiling at the name you saved your contact under "Not happening cocksucker".
Oh he'll make sure it happens. You wanna make him apologize so bad don't ya??
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A/N: Yeah yeah...hell yeah...Likes, comments and reblogs are loved and fucked.
Pairing: Simon RileyĂ Reader
MASTERLISTđ„Ł
Simon Riley, yeah, that Simon Riley â whoâs got your name inked just above his heart.
Not hidden, not subtle, not anything close to discreet. Nah. He shows it off.
Man acts like a peacock for fucks sake.
Rolling his sleeves up on base, vest hanging just low enough, chest flexing like heâs got something to prove. Training new recruits? Oh, heâs leaning in real close.
âKeep yer stance steady â nah, like this câmon, donât wobble.â
And there it is. Your name. Bold. Permanent. Sitting over his heart like a claim.
Marked.
He likes it. Loves it, even.
On missions it's worse.
Heâll sit there, back against cold concrete, helmet tipped back and fingers ghosting over the ink. Tracing every letter. Again. Again. Again. Grounding himself.
âStay aliveâ he mutters under his breath, thumb pressing hard over your name.
âGot someone waitinâ, yeah?â And just like that he is steady again.
So obviouslyâŠyou decide you need one too. For him. (youâve never had a tattoo in your life but thatâs irrelevant.)
Simon gets back from a mission, barely through the door, gear not even off properly and youâre dragging him out again.
âOiâwhatâdove, gimme a second!??â
âNope.â
âWhere we goin?â
âYouâll see.â
He narrows his eyes the second you stop in front of the tattoo parlour.
ââŠabsolutely not.â
âAbsolutely yes.â
âIt hurts, yâknowââ
âNo hush. I want one too.â
You drag him inside anyway.You are not joking.
The shop smells like antiseptic and bad decisions. Youâre sitting on the chair, fidgeting with your shirt, suddenly very aware this mightâve been a terrible idea.
You shove your phone at the artist anyway.
âSomething like thisâŠsmall skull.â
She smiles. âCute.â
Simon snorts behind you. âCute, she saysâ he mutters. âYou gonna cry in five minutes.â
You shoot him a glare. âShut up.â
Everyone in the shop is staring at him. Of course they are. Big. Masked. Standing like a bouncer no one ordered.
âOiâ you tug his belt, dragging him down.
âSit. Donât loom, itâs weird.â
âIâm weird? What are you then woman?â he scoffs, but sits anyway, spreading his legs, arms crossed and eyes that never leave you.
âYou sure you want this, love?â he asks, quieter now.
âIt stays for life.â
You frown at him. âWeâre for life, Si. What do you mean?â
He justâŠstares at you. Like youâve said something fragile. Something he doesnât deserve. Three years married and he still looks at you like youâre temporary. Like youâll wake up one day and realise you chose a monster. Same dumb look in his eyes, waiting for a tragedyâ
âSimonâ you sigh, grabbing his arm.
âItâs just a tattoo.â
ââŠyeahâ he exhales.
âJust a tattoo.â (he doesnât believe it. not really.)
And then the stencil goes on your shoulder. Fine. Easy. Youâre fine. Youâre so fine.
Then the needle starts. â and OH FUCK.
The buzzing. The burning. Itâs not a needle, you weren't scared of needles. Itâs a machine, a weapon.
Your entire soul exits your body. You gasp and immediately bury your face into Simonâs chest. Hard.
He freezes.
âHeyâ he says quickly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.
âWe can stop, I told ya it hurtââ
âNoâ you choke, gripping his shirt.
âNo, keep goingâ
âYouâre cryinâ, dove.â
âIâm NOT!!â your voice breaks.
âJust...just continueâ
The artist hesitates. Simon nods once.
âGo on.â
Worst mistake of your life. Youâre sobbing. Full-on. No dignity. No composure. Tears soaking through his shirt, hiccuping, clutching him like youâre being executed. You thought you had a decent pain tolerance. Until now.
âOH MY GODâ you gasp.
âIS THIS WHAT JESUS FELT LIKEâ
Simon chokes, "Last I checked you were an atheist...so you might be the last one to know what he felt like."
The entire shop is shaking with silent laughter.
âSHE'S IMPALING MEââ you wail.
âSIMONââ
âIâm right hereâ he mutters, pressing his cheek to your head, trying not to laugh.
âYouâre fine. Youâre beinâ dramatic.â
âIâM DYINGâ
The artist pauses....
âDONâT STOPâ you shriek instantly. âIâM OKAY!!! BITCH ASS NEEDLE!! KEEP GOINGâ
Simon loses it.
Actually shaking now, shoulders trembling.
âChristâ he mumbles into your hair, voice wrecked with suppressed laughter.
âBrave little thing, ainât ya?â
âSHUT UPâ
Finally. Finally. Itâs done.
A tiny black skull on your shoulder. Small. Clean. Cute. Absolutely not worth the trauma.
You pull your face away from his chest, sniffling, eyes red, nose stuffy â and he is fully gone. Head tipped back, wheezing, laughing like an idiot. A huge ass damp patch on his shirt. Hell you could even trace your eyelids on it.
âYouâre dead,â you say flatly. âI risked my life for you.â
âYeah?â he grins.
âDid good, though,â he murmurs wiping your cheeks. âReal proud of ya, my little soldier.â
ââŠit didnât even hurt that much,â you mumble, grabbing water.
âCourse not,â he smirks.
You walk out together, his arm heavy around your shoulders.
âThinkinâ of getting another one on my back,â he says casually.
âSmall one. Under the wings.â
âYeah? Cool," you reply gazing ahead.
âWe can match.â
âNo.â
He laughs. Loud. Unfiltered. Bright. You blink at him.
You end up by the lake, sunset bleeding gold across the water. He hands you an ice cream cone.
âHelps with pain.â
âIt was not surgery, Si.â
âCouldâve fooled me.â
You lick the cone, still a bit dazed, shoulder throbbing. He watches you.
âSo proud of you,â he murmurs.
âDid it all for meâŠmy sweet angel.â
You narrow your eyes. ââŠyou took pictures, didnât you.â
ââŠmaybe.â
âSIMON!!â
âBlackmail material, love. Precious stuff eh? You sounded like a squirrelâ
You take a slow lick of your ice cream. Then look him dead in the eye.
âWhen we get homeâŠyouâre gonna kiss it better.â
He freezes. Completely. You could see the wiringa of his brain short-circuit.
ââŠuh.â
You keep looking taking another slow lick.
ââŠy-yeah,â he stammers, suddenly very interested in the ground. But oh how he shifts his hips to look decent. Who wants to see the loch-ness monster in a public park afterall??? (Not me..definitely not me)
âYeah, alright.â
And just like that, Simon Riley, decorated soldier, feared man and a walking nightmare is reduced to a flustered mess because of you.
He places a little kiss over your shoulder and prays this will be his forever.
Who wouldâve thought. Ryan practically dragged you into it â tugging your wrist, already halfway dressed, already irritated.
"Everyoneâs bringing their plus-ones" heâd said.
"It looks bad if you donât show." Charity. Optics. Appearances...
He didnât give two shits about anything besides his Rolex and who noticed it. And the fact he was a Sergeant in 141.
It was for local schools. Orphanages. There will be some media and lots of cameras. Refusing would make you the villain.
So here you were. Standing in front of the mirror. Black dress hugging your waist, your hips, the curve of your chest, you smile feeling hot as hell. It was a new one.
"Oh no. Nah. Not this one baby", Ryan appeared behind you, adjusting his tie with short irritated tugs.
"Itâs too⊠revealing. Cleavagy."
You frowned at the reflection. "I canât hide what I have, Ryan."
"I donât want men staring at you", he muttered. "Wear something modest. Itâs a charity event, not a casino."
You inhaled slowly. And let out a deep sigh. Arguing never went anywhere. It was happening too often these past months. Not after the last time â when his Lieutenant absolutely tore into him for leaving you stranded in the rain. Made him scrub toilets of base for a month, 'humiliated my soul' Ryan complained.
Ghost. Simon Riley. You hadnât seen him since that night. He stopped coming to dinners. Stopped showing up when Ryan brought you around the team.
Gone.
You hadnât been that rude⊠had you? He crossed the line first. Asking you personal questions. And Simon didnât seem like the grudge-holding type.
Eleven months. Almost a year.
You changed dresses. A simple green gown. And tie your hair up in an elegant bun and put on heels.
àŒ»ïčĄïčĄïčĄïčĄïčĄïčĄàŒșàŒ»ïčĄïčĄïčĄïčĄïčĄïčĄàŒș
The venue stole the breath from your lungs. Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. Gold detailing everywhere. Expensive paintings, some even original.
"Bloody hell", you murmured. "Didnât know the military rented Oscar venues."
Ryan laughed. Loud. Showy. Already performing. You've started to hate the very sound of it.
After greetings and introductions and plastic smiles from spouses youâd forget in ten minutes, you drifted aside.
Observing. Soap grinning like he owned the room, showing his wife off. Perfect couple. Gaz nursing his drink. Price standing tall â commanding with silence alone. The teamâs backbone. Good men. And you?
A chef.
You watched conversations spiral around weapons systems, intel briefings, operational strategy. Thrilling. You tried not to grimace at the mention of shredded body parts and torture techniques.
Then the air shifted.
It wasnât loud. It wasnât announced. But people straightened. Voices lowered.
You felt it before you saw it. Simon Riley entered.
Tall. Massive. Mask on. He wasn't the tallest in the room, hell you could see Konig at the corner trying to blend into one of the pillars.
But the way Simon carried himself â was massive.
A blonde on his arm â runway beautiful, polished confidence, easy charm. Perfect smile. She belonged here and in magazines. Fit right in. Your chest tightened anyway.
You stepped forward when he approached, smiling politely, hand extended.
"Good eveningâ" He walked past you. Didnât pause. Didnât look. Didnât acknowledge you existed.
Your hand hung there. Then dropped slowly. It wasn't like you expected him to hug you but a simple greeting would've been nice.
And the dinner began.
Ryan vanished into laughter somewhere across the hall. You poked at your food.
Too bland. No spices. No soul. The meat looked as if it will start mooing. Undercooked!!
Whereâs the love in this dish???
"So yeah" the blonde laughed brightly, "he practically dragged me along."
Soap chuckled, "Lt listens to you, eh?"
She rolled her eyes, "Only when I threaten him." Laughter. Everyone seem to know her, comfortable and way too pretty. Simon side-eyed her as he lifts his mask above his lips to eat.
He didnât even look up. Silence hit the table like glass shattering. Where did that come from? What did you even do to piss him off.
You blinked,"Iâm sorry?"
His eyes lifted. Cold. Guarded. Not the one you saw months ago. They were harsher, meaner.
"Nothinâ."
Gaz leaned forward, "Mate, that werenât nothing. Whatâs crawled up your arse tonight?"
Simonâs jaw flexed, "Drop it."
You stood abruptly feeling your bladder about to explode. You'll deal with him later. Can't hold pee for another hour can you.
"Excuse me." Chair scraping loud enough to echo.
You didnât see Simon tracking you leave. Didnât see his grip tighten around the fork, how he clenched his jaw hard enough for a headache looking at you.
You reach the bathroom door. And saw one stall open.
And your world collapsed. In the moment you wished you stayed down and argued with Simon.
Ryanâs voice. Breathless. A muffled moan.
A woman kneeling and gagging.
Your vision tunneled. "NoâŠ"
Ryan snapped his head up,"Wait..wait â listen itâs not"
You were already gone. Rushing past music. Past laughter. Past chandeliers and charity and lies. Don't mind the team looking at you rushing from their table.
Heaven had peed on you instead.
Cold air hit your lungs like knives as you make it out of the building. You braced against a lamppost, sob ripping out before you could stop it.
You knew. God âyou knew.
Saw it coming months ago. Late nights. Excuses. Lipstick stains of a shade you never had. All those "training" sessions at odd hours.
Inside the chairs scraped.
Simon stood. Ryan rushed after you.
"Sir, my wifeâ" Simon blocked him. And pushed him back a few steps by his shoulders.
"Donât" Ryan scowled. His face flushed like a child caught eating candy at night. A child is what he truly was.
"Stay right where you are, Sarge" Ryan froze. He might be your husband, but even Soap knows not to mess with the Lt. Especially when he uses rank outside of work.
"Thatâs an order."
Outside, Simon found you shaking. Mascara streaked. Breathing ragged. His chest tightened.
Christ. He never thought he'd see you like this. Your dress wrinkled at sides now from how tight you were fisting it to stop yourself from yelling. You hair spilling out of the once neat bun in every direction.
You turned when he approached.
"Miss Y/N⊠dâyou want some water? Somethinâ stronger?"
"Donât" Your voice cracked. "Just donât."
He stopped immediately nodding.
"Did he hurt you?" Dead serious. No softness.
"No" you straightened. At least not physically...
You smoothen your hair back. Tying it with shaking hands. Wiped your cheeks dry. And pulled the strongest smile you could. Rebuilding yourself...bit by bit.
"It's nice seeing you after months sir."
He watched it happen. Piece by piece. Knew how strong willed you were. Saw it with his own eyes when you picked up a brick to hurl at him. No wonder you were smiling at him while anyone else would've not.
And something ugly coiled in his ribs.
Half an hour later. Ryan approached again as you stand at the exit taking deep breaths. People were leaving now, 12 at night afterall.
"Baby, letâs go home and talk" he said tugging your hand back.
You ripped your hand away "No."
You spotted your black sedan taxi pulling up â and rushed inside. It was better to stay at the hotel tonight. Ryan will not hurt you but hell he would make you feel a lot worse by just his lies and cheap cover ups.
"I âuh⊠3163âŠ" you blurt out the Otp to the driver.
Silence. The car didnât move.
You looked up. Simon in the mirror, balaclava off now. Blonde in passenger seat frowning as to why a random woman climbed in their car. Fuck.
"Hey" you panicked. "So so sorry, I'll get off."
Before you could open the door, Simon started driving.
"I said stop!" you shrieked at his audacity. Was he hard of hearing or what.
"Relax, miss. You bolted. I saw", his eyes flicked to you through the rear view mirror.
"I uh..last time I checked you drove a buggati, not a sedan. My taxi must be waiting back there. Stop the car please. Please stop!!"
"This one's new. That's why I dunno how to stop it", he says looking over at the blonde who was rolling her eyes.
"Well if you want to play taxi, can you please drop me at Hotel Tiffany's then."
"Youâre stayinâ at mine tonight", he says with zero hesitation.
"What? Noâ"
"Got spare rooms. Youâre not goinâ to a hotel like this", something in his tone ended the argument before it began.
Penthouse. Warm lighting. Expensive. Quiet.
"Charlize" handed you water. (Even her name sounded like a models)
Simon loosened his tie, watching.
"You sure he didnât lay hands on you?" he goes rolling up his sleeves taking the jacket off.
"âŠJust an argument" you mumble looking around. It was decorated but who did it. Simon looked like he would sleep on a mattress and had nothing but guns in his house.
He stepped closer. Too close. Finger under your chin. Eyes locked as he moves your head side-to-side checking for something.
"You can't cook lies can you. When I find out what he did. He'll pray he never met me", his voice dropped to gravel.
Later you were in the guest room. Charlize had insisted that you sleep in there, they had way too many rooms. She was even kind enough to lend you her clothes for the night. She was warm, way too warm. Definitely not the typical mean blond you always thought.
You sigh changing into the comfy tee and pajamas taking in the room around yourself.
A small photo frame at the bedside table. Young Simon and Charlize smiling ear to ear holding a german shephard pup.
"Riley siblings". Oh. You laughed weakly at yourself. It should've been obvious to anyone else. Same hair, height, same deep brown eyes, freckles. But a girl can't see clear through tears can she??
Downstairs Charlize sits on couch looking at her brother pacing the room. Definitely planning murder she thought. Hadn't been this restless in years. He could kill without breaking sweat and here he was.
"Sheâs hurt, Si."
"I know."
"You scare her. She nearly jumped out of the car", she sighs.
"âŠNot intendinâ to."
Morning. You tried to leave. This was way beyond your boundaries. Rambling excuses. "I have a meeting in my restro" "I have to take some interviews" blah blah blah.
Charlize nodded at every line.
Simon stood up from where he was seated. A simple shirt and joggers. But oh my he looked even bigger in casuals. He stepped in close tilting his head as you go on about excuses.
Before you could continue â he suddenly leaned closer and gave a quick nip to your ear.
You froze. Wide-eyed. What.the.fuck.
"There" he murmured. "That shuts you up."
You stay frozen for way too many seconds. Did he just bite your ear like a feral cat??? Your husband's senior bit you???
You sputtered,"Iâll tell Price."
He smirked, "And I'll do it again Miss chef."
You shake head snapping out of it as Charlize moves around turning the stove on to cook.
"Teach her too Charlz. Her skills are bit rusty these days. No loaded lunchboxes", Simon goes moving away and sitting on the couch looking at some files. As if he did nothing.
Oh...who does he even think he is. You were a michelin star chef! And so what if you stopped packing lunches for Ryan after he complained about "too many carbs" too many times. But why did Simon notice...
"You think I can't cook good anymore?? I'll show you what I am", you huff standing next to his sister taking knife off her hands. "I'll cook you go sit. Please."
You glare back at Simon and he just cocks his head smirking.
"Go on then cupcake. Cook."
Nicknames? Did his manners die in morning or is he usually this level of feral? Rude as fuck manâ you'll feed him till he combusts.
God in heaven...what will happen now. But you knew you had to leave this penthouse today itself. Before Ryan gets back to his senses. Wherever he was.
A/N: Yes he is a big jealous soldier. I tried writing it as smooth as I could. This one will have parts soon. My inboxes are open if you have any ideas đ€ (I want him to cry from jealousy pls)
Simon always side-eyed the new sergeant, Ryan, during lunch breaks.
Always.
The blokeâs tiffin was loaded - colourful shit, fancy names, sauces that smelled like they belonged in a five-star restaurant instead of a muddy field base.
âMy wife can make salad appetizingâ Ryan grinned one afternoon, popping the lid open. âMad, that.â
Simon scoffed, staring down at his own sandwich. Dry butter. Dry meat. Bread stiff enough to double as body armour.
âMight as well eat concrete,â he muttered, biting into it anyway.
Simon snorted under his breath. âSaladâs sâposed to be rabbit food.â
Ryan glanced at him, unfazed. âGuess youâve just not had good food, yeah sir?â
Before he could reply, Soap lifted Ryanâs tiffin, holding it up for everyone to see. âOi, lads!! thereâs a note.â
Stuck neatly on top, pink paper, neat handwriting.
I hope you like it, baby. xoxo.
The table erupted.
âAwwww.â
âManâs got himself a proper little housewife.â
âLucky bastard.â
Ryan shrugged kissing his ring, smug. âWhat can I say?â
Simon stood abruptly, chair scraping loud against the floor.
Soap blinked. âWhere you off, mate?â
âLost me appetite looking at that shite grassâ Simon muttered, already walking away.
Annoyed. Thatâs all it was. Just annoyed.
Right???
A month later, after grinding asses through missions that left them bruised and exhausted : Ryan invited the team to his place.
âMy mansionâ he said casually. âDrinks, food, partners welcome.â
Simon arrived in a hoodie and jeans, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Felt wrong. Naked, almost. His gear was his skin - this was exposure.
The gates opened and oh my...
Johnny whistled low. âFuck me. Thatâs not a house, thatâs a statement.â
Inside, the place was immaculate. Art everywhere - real art, not the mass-produced shite.
Gaz chuckled "Sergeant's doing fine huh. Economic dude type shii yo".
Simon stopped in front of a painting, admiring it. A J.M.W Turner. Soft strokes. Soft colors. A softer voice â
âGood eye.â
He turned.
You stood there, smiling softly. Calm. Confident. In a simple sweater and jeans.
He huffed. âDunno much âbout paintings.â
You smile brighter hearing his cute as hell accent. Where was he from...You wanted to tell him how sweet it sounds but your husband would be pissed if he knows. He was taller than Ryan. And by the looks of it, more built too.
"Yeah but admiring it means knowing" you smile looking at his hoodie. He looked uncomfortable in it. Aww poor man. Would he like some comfy pajamas â
Ryanâs voice cut in. âBabe! Everyoneâs here waiting.â
Simon stiffened at the word. And more so at the tone.
You disappeared briefly, then returned carrying a massive bowl of steaming biryani. The smell hit him like a punch to the gut.
"Guys I made biryani" you smile proudly.
Soap groaned. âJesus Christ. Thatâs the tiffin woman.â
You laughed softly. âGuilty.â
âIâm seriousâ Soap said. âWeâve all been obsessed.â
âI just love cooking, I ââ
Ryan waved his hand dismissively. âItâs just a hobby, guys.â
He smiled, pulling you closer. âThis is Y/N, my wife.â
He patted his lap trying to get you to sit.
You rolled your eyes immediately. âBehave,â you muttered, stepping away.
Simonâs jaw clenched. Does he think you can't speak for yourself or what.
You shot Ryan a look, then picked up a plate and walked straight to Simon.
âYou must be Ghostâ you said gently. âLieutenant, yeah?â
He looked up.
Fuck.
Up close, you were worse. Better. Hair tied up in a loose bun. Steady hands. Knuckles red - were you kneading dough with hands....And smelling of spices itself.
âAyeâ he nodded coming back to senses. âThatâs me.â
You filled his plate carefully. Thoughtfully. And very generously.
âHope youâre hungry.â
âIâyeahâ He stopped. Tried again. âSmellsâŠunreal.â
He ate one small bite thinking you'll walk off to serve other guys. But no, you stood right there hands on your hips waiting for him to review it.
"Come on eat. You're a big man. You need a bigger plate" you huff shifting rice onto a bigger plate waiting for him. God you were one bossy woman. But why were you married to a prick?
Christ.
He took another bite sighing. âItâs⊠really nice, missâ he said quietly. "Uh..." his mind lost in flavours now.
"That bad?" you chuckle.
"That good" he mumbles shoving another spoonful.
Your smile softened. âIâll pack some for you then. For home.â
Home.
The word lodged in his chest like shrapnel.
At three in the morning, Simon sat on the floor of his cold flat, back against the couch, eating reheated biryani straight from the container. What would it take for him to have something like this everyday?? And with a cute note on top.
"Yeah..must be nice" he mumbles eating quietly.
Warm. Comforting. Like home.
Thatâs someoneâs wife, he told himself.
Pack it in.
_________________________________________
A month later, he sat in a high-end restaurant waiting on an informant, staring at the menu like it had personally offended him.
âThese prices are criminalâ he muttered.
The waitress approached. âReady to order, sir?â
âUh⊠beef borgin⊠borguiâfack.â
âItâs beef bourguignon pot roastâ she said calmly.
That.damn.voice.
Simon froze. He looked up.
You.
Apron on. Hair tied. Same eyes. But more professional.
âOhâ he said stupidly. âItâs you. Y/n. You work here?â
âAye.â
âWaitressing, thenâ he nodded. âDecent gig, I suppose.â
You laughed, shaking your head. âNo, sir. I own this place.â
He frowned eyeing your apron âWorkinâ here donât mean yeh own it.â
âI own itâ you repeated gently. âAnd about ten others. This oneâs my favourite.â
His mouth opened.
Closed.
âWhat?â
You leaned closer, lowering your voice. âOrder whatever you want, handsome. Itâs on the house.â
Then you walked away.
Simon immediately Googled you.
Michelin star. Founder. A wiki article for fucks sake!!!
Ryanâs voice echoed in his head: Itâs just a hobby, guys.
He scoffed. âLyinâ prick.â
A waiter appeared, stacking more plates in front of him.
âBoss said to give these to the handsome manâ the kid said before sprinting off.
Simon stared down at the food.
His ears burned.
âHandsomeâ he muttered. âChrist.â
She called me handsome. And I ainât even got the balaclava on.
He ate every bite. Cleaned the plates. Nearly licked his fingers. Hell even his shirt was tighter now.
And for the first time in a long while â
Simon Riley smiled. Ear to ear. He smiled.
The next day in the training room, he saw Ryan laughing with the lads.
Simon cracked his knuckles.
âOiâ Soap said cautiously. âEasy, mate.â
Simonâs eyes stayed locked on Ryan.
âDonât worryâ he muttered. âWonât kill âim.
