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.
“Si” you laugh scandalised by his table manners.
“What?” he grunts, already reaching for you instead of the sink. “Said it were good, didn’t I?”
“That doesn’t mean you lick the plate!”
“Saves water,” he shrugs before hauling you up like you weigh nothing.
You smack his chest, giggling. “Put me down –kitchen”
“Bedroom,” he corrects.
“Food was good. Wanna thank the chef proper.”
...and he does. Always does. Kissing you stupid until you forget what you were even laughing about in the first place.
But.
There’s one thing.
One absolute, non-negotiable line.
Onions. Onions.
“Put that knife down.”
You blink at him from the chopping board, already halfway through peeling one. “It’s just”
“Put. it. down.”
The look on his face is ridiculous. This massive, terrifying man who’s seen war and walked through it like it owed him money was now staring at a vegetable like it personally offended him.
“They make you cry,” he mutters, already stalking over.
You snort. “Everyone cries, Simon. It’s normal.”
“Not you.”
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 he’s about to interrogate them.
“Fucking useless things,” he grumbles, slicing into one with unnecessary aggression.
You lean against the counter, watching, amused. “You know you don’t –”
“Shh.”
“Simon!!”
“Shh, woman. Let me do me job.”
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.
“Your eyes–”
“Shut it.”
“You’re crying.”
“Am not.” Yeah he was openly sniffling now.
He pauses just long enough to shoot you a look. “These are tactical tears.”
You burst out laughing. Grinning you hug him from behind as he carries on chopping.
But in his head, he’s 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.
He’d panicked. Proper panicked. Thought someone hurt you while he was gone for training.
“Who did that?”
“What?” you’d sniffed.
“Tell me who–”
“Simon, it’s just the onions. These ones are too strong!!”
He hadn’t believed you at first. Thought you were covering for something, someone. Thought he’d 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.
“All done.”
You smile, softer now. “Thank you.”
He just grunts, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just go to war with a vegetable for you.
Later, when dinner’s done and you’re tucked into him, he presses kisses all over your face –cheeks, nose, eyelids.
“Simon” you whine, squirming. “Stop. I'm sleepy love”
“Didn’t cry today,” he murmurs against your skin.
You huff. “Because you’re dramatic.”
He hums, unconvinced, still kissing you. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Means I did it right.”
You roll your eyes, but your hands slide up his arms anyway, holding him there.
And he stays.
Because yeah - he’ll eat anything you make, lick the plate clean, carry you off like it’s 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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It was an ongoing trend on social media - girls putting photos of their boyfriends covered in lipstick kisses. It would be so fun to try with your grumpy masked one.
"No, no - don’t do this, yeah? I’ve got a bloody briefing in an hour. Need to focus on important matters" he grumbles, voice rough as you drag him through halls. Hands pulling him by his belt.
Catching Simon and dragging him to your room was an achievement in itself. You deserve medals. He was rarely free and almost always in a foul mood. But he would never say no to his girl. You manage to get him on the bed and straddle him as he squirms beneath you.
You grin. "Shush, I just wanna try this new shade I got…"
"Try it on yer wrist like normal people do, not on my -" Before he can finish, you plant a big kiss right on his forehead. God... this man’s pupils blow wide like a cat’s, and he pretends not to notice. He lets out an annoyed grunt, hands clamping onto your hips as you reapply the lipstick, smothering his mask with kisses.
"Christ woman" he mutters under his breath.
Every single one earns you another grumble. You know he’s got a suitcase full of spare masks, so what’s the problem anyway??
"So pretty, Si!! You look so tame" you chuckle, tugging his jaw up to snap a photo.
"Don’t you dare put that anywhere" he snaps. "I swear, I’ll have you scrubbing toilet floors for a month sergeant."
"Oh, I’m terrified. Look at me, I’m shaking" you pout, mocking his accent.
"There’s other ways I can make you shake, petal" he growls, clearly unimpressed, before shoving you off his lap so he can grab another one for the briefing.
"Half an hour" he adds sharply. "That’s all I’ve got."
You sigh, flopping back onto the bed and watching him tear the room apart for the suitcase.
"Where is it? For fuck’s sake… was right here last time."
He walks into the bathroom to see himself in mirror. Every visible inch of his mask was covered with red lip-shaped kisses. The same lips he loved.
He sighs looking around and then it clicks. He dumped all the masks into the laundry that morning.
"You are ridiculously lucky you’re pretty and mine" he mutters. "Cause otherwise I’d - nah. Forget it" He sighs heavily and stomps toward the sink, scrubbing the mask with shampoo and a brush.
"Why’s this shite not comin’ off?"
You tiptoe to the doorway and mumble softly, "It’s, uh… love, it’s—"
"What?" He shoots you a glare. "Spit it out."
"It’s waterproof" you bite your lip looking at anywhere but him.
He freezes. "What d’you mean, waterproof?"
"And smudge-proof."
The look he gives you could kill. He shoves the mask into your hands, grumbling nonstop about how you’d better wash it properly and fast - but oh. It doesn’t budge. You even try wiping it with military grade detergent but looks like your favorite makeup influencer didn't lie.
Thirty minutes later, he’s in the briefing room with the rest of 141, still wearing a lipstick-covered skull mask.
"This is my special-occasion mask. It's reserved for Fridays" he deadpans.
"Today's Monday mate" Soap smirks.
One look from Simon shuts him up instantly. "It’s a trend."
The entire day, this grumpy hunk of a man stalks around the base in his "spoilt mask" as he keeps calling it - but beneath it, he’s quietly proud. Proud of being marked by you. And even prouder that everyone else can see it.
You see him training in gym afterwards wearing just the mask and joggers groaning and huffing as he lifts weights.
"So...admit that you like it. Walking around like a teenagers wallpaper" you laugh sitting on the benches.
He drops the weights panting and walking towards you. Jesus his chest could put many girls at shame.
"Have more of that dumb lipstick left?" he asks tugging your chin up..caressing your lips with his sweaty thumb. You just nod not knowing why he would ask that.
"Good. There are more things I will be needing those pretty marks over" he mumbles walking away grabbing his towel.
"You know the routine angel. See ya at eleven and bring that lipstick along" he smirks storming away leaving you wide eyed and visibly flustered...god this man would be the death of you tonight.
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??
Jealous! Simon Riley × Sergeant's Wife Reader Pt 2
Part 1 here ♥️
Next part (pt3) here❣️
A/N: I'm sleep deprived writing this. Ignore any mistakes please. Likes, reblogs and comments are more than appreciated. Love y'all. (I get hard reading comments😩)
༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺
It was raining as you rushed out of your restaurant.
Not rain–proper Manchester-style rage from the sky. Cold, sideways, relentless.
“Fuck” you mutter, yanking your jacket tighter. Didn’t check the weather today, did you? Brilliant.
You pull your phone out with numb fingers and call Ryan.
He picks up on the third ring. Music’s loud enough that you can hear the bass crackle through the speaker. Women giggling and glasses clinking.
“Uh–love, hellooo” he says, distracted.
You close your eyes. “Ryan, it’s pissing down. Like–really bad. I didn't get my car today.”
“Yeah, well… call a taxi, babe. I’m in the middle of somethin’ important.”
“You think I haven’t tried?” you snap. “It’s a thunderstorm. No one’s picking rides.”
A pause. Laughter in the background. Someone shouts his name.
“Come on” you say quieter. “Please. I just wanna get home.”
“Why don’t you just wait in that little restaurant of yours till it stops?” he says, irritation creeping in. “You’re safe there, yeah?”
Then the line goes dead.
You stare at the phone.
“…Did he just”
You call again.
Switched off.
“What the fuck” you whisper.
The rain soaks through your shoes as you step under the shed. The street’s empty–too empty. Even the usual late-night traffic’s gone.
Mr. Humphrey, the security guard, jogs over with an umbrella. “Kid, you alright? I can drop you home.”
“No, no” you shake your head quickly. “Your place is the opposite direction. You should go.”
“I’m not leavin’ you alone in this weather kid.”
“My husband’s on his way,” you lie smoothly, bumping him with your elbow. “You should go, yer old bones will freeze in rain. Promise.”
He eyes you, unconvinced, then sighs. “Alright. If he doesn't come go back in. But don’t linger.”
“I won’t.”
He drives off.
The second his taillights disappear, a car tears down the road, tyres slicing through a puddle–
—SLAM—
Freezing water drenches you head to toe. Cold, disgusting and humiliating.
You gasp, soaked, shaking.
“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” you scream, bending to grab the nearest brick. “COME BACK! I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE!”
The car screeches.
Stops. Then reverses.
“Oh” you breathe.
“Oh fuck” Shouldn't have yelled.
The headlights glare at you like eyes. The engine hums–slow, deliberate. It was an expensive car.
You lift the brick anyway. “DON’T TEST ME!”
The window rolls down.
“Get in, miss. Get in–now.”
That voice.
Low. Rough. Familiar. That cute accent you heard few months ago.
You blink.
Simon Riley stares back at you from behind a balaclava, eyes sharp and dark.
“Ghost?” you snap. “You’ve got a lot of nerve”
He’s already out of the car, rain plastering his jacket to his broad frame as he yanks the passenger door open.
“Get. In” he says again, accent thick now. Mancunian, unmistakable. Finally know where he was from.
“Before you catch hypothermia or brain damage—whichever comes first.”
“I’m not gettin’ in your–”
“Miss Y/N” he cuts in, voice dropping. “That brick won’t win against a windshield. Not mine. Trust me. Get in. Or.I.carry.you.”
Your jaw clenches.
“…Prick.”
You climb in.
He shuts the door hard and circles back, sliding into the driver’s seat. The silence stretches–tense, loud, broken only by rain hammering metal.
“I didn’t see you” he mutters.
You let out a sharp laugh. “Oh funny. You didn’t see a grown woman under a light?”
“Road glare” he says stiffly. “Rain.”
“Bullshit.”
You fumble with the heater controls, fingers clumsy.
He reaches over, catches your wrist–gentle, but firm.
“Careful” he murmurs. “You’ll break it.”
He turns the heater on himself.
You yank your hand back. “I don’t need your help.”
“Clearly” he mutters, reaching into the backseat and tossing a shawl over you. “Put that on.”
You flinch seeing the shockingly pink and flowery shawl. Must be his girlfriends you think.
“…What's this”
“Dry” he says shortly. “You're shiverin.”
You wrap it around yourself despite yourself. It smells clean. Warm. Comforting.
“Why didn’t you call Ryan?” Simon asks suddenly.
You stare straight ahead. “I did.”
“And?”
“He was busy.”
His jaw tightens. “Team’s on leave.”
“I know.”
“So what’s so important he can’t pick his wife up in a storm?” he snaps.
You turn to glare at him. “You’re his superior, not his keeper.”
You swallow. You can't be rude to your husbands boss can you.
Neither of you speaks for a long moment.
“Wanna do renovation” he smirks raising a brow.
You glance down. The brick’s still in your lap.
“…Sorry.”
That earns a low huff of laughter. Dangerous. Brief. He reaches up to take his balaclava off placing it on dashboard.
You see him as he watches the road. How his blonde hair were curled up now thanks to rain. This was a different Ghost, not the balaclava clad brute. This one was the one who ate biryani in your home and devoured plates in your restaurant smiling ear to ear. The streelights light up his cheeks and you see freckles dusted...oh.
You guide him toward the mansion, rain blurring the windshield.
“Thanks” you say quietly when he parks. “I mean it.”
You step out.
“Come in” you add before thinking. “I’ll make something warm.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“You said it’s an off.”
He hesitates. “Bloody stubborn” he mutters, following you inside.
Later, you’re stirring soup, sleeves rolled up, hair damp. Simon leans against the counter, massive arms folded, watching.
“You don’t stir like that” he says.
“Oh?” you glance up. “And how should I stir, mister Lieutenant?”
“Like you mean it” he says. “You’re being gentle.”
You snort despite yourself.
“See this” you say, pointing. “If you don’t keep it moving, it clumps. Never add salt to tomatoes, it shrinks them.”
You look upto to check if he follows.
He nods solemnly, staring at your lips “Aye. Bugatti design. Sleek. Expensive.”
“…You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?”
“Not a bloody clue” he admits proudly.
You sit on the couch together, soup steaming between you.
“This is unprofessional” he mutters.
“Then leave” you laugh shrugging. Suprisingly, you were relaxed around him. He was just so adorable in that stupid mask of his.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he blurts out “Why’d you marry a jerk?”
Your spoon clatters as you choke on bread.
“What did you say?”
“A jerk” he repeats calmly eating soup. “Man lets his wife walk home in a storm.”
“He was busy.”
Simon’s eyes snap to you. “Busy doin’ what?”
“That’s none of your-”
“Busy enough to lie about you?” he interrupts. “Said cookin’s just a hobby. A top chef. Michelin star. Funny hobby–run a Michelin kitchen. A whole chain of them.”
You stand. “Stop.”
“No” he says, standing too, towering over you now. “He shrinks you. Makes you small.”
“That’s not–”
“You let him” Simon says softly. “That’s the worst part.”
Your chest tightens. “You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
“I know a loser when I see one.”
“You’re crossing a line. Sir Riley” gods you were wrong. You wanted to feed him full till Ryan comes home but now you wanted to yell at him for being such a jerk twice in a day!! How dare he question your marriage when he doesn't even know your maiden name.
“Someone should’ve crossed it ages ago.”
Silence. Thick. Electric.
“I think you should leave” you whisper.
He studies you for a long moment. How your eyes look around uncomfortably but you were still not backing away..fierce. A woman who picks bricks..
“…Aye.”
He won't say anything further, not now. Not today. You're his seargents wife who 'likes' cooking. Why should he care.
At the door, he leans in, voice low, dangerous, intimate.
“Don’t throw bricks you can’t take back, little bird.”
Before you could ask if he wanted his shawl back – the door shuts behind him. You see him settle in his car tugging his mask back down as it roars to life. He nods at you and drives away.
༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺
What you don’t know that he’d seen you under the shed long before you saw him. He waited till the kind guard left you alone. He could see snipers hiding in trees in missions and you believed he couldn't see you??? Hah.
That he sped up on purpose to splash you.
That the shawl wrapped around your shoulders was his mother’s. The only thing he had left of her. It was expensive, one of a kind Pashmina. The one she asked him to gift his "future wife".
And now?
It was with someone he’d already decided—
He wasn’t letting go of. He had to fight fate now. Sometimes we make our own destiny.
༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺
P.S - Yes guys she has cold now. Yes she's wiping her nose on the pink Pashmina. Ryan is still not home :))
A/N: I have not read this concept here. But being a desi girl, I do what I can - create delusions. Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. I luv comments so much I get hard with no dik!!
(Implications of Smut)
MASTERLIST 🪷
Simon! who has never seen someone with a head full of hair. 'You can donate and make wigs outta them'. But oh, how he loves to grab them every once in a while amazed by their thickness and length. He would wrap his fist around them as he teases you,"Feel good? Bet it does....Can hold em up for you dove. All day."
────────────────────────────
Desi! Reader who puts kohl in her eyes every day like a ritual. He doesn’t understand how you manage to do it.
You lean toward the mirror, steady hand, calm breath and behind you he’s already spiraling.
"Love. Lovie...steady, yeah? Christ, that thing’s sharp."
You sigh. "Si, it’s kajal. I’ve been doing this since I was twelve."
You drag the line clean across your waterline. Perfect.
He groans into his palm,"One day you’re gonna stab your eyeball and I’ll have to explain that paperwork."
────────────────────────────
Simon! who holds a small diya in his hands as you walk away mumbling a quick "pls hold it for me".
And he does. Holds it for the whole hour like a dummy. Cupping his palm around it. Even when his palm burns beneath it. His eyes flickering to the little flame softly.
"It's important for her. Can't let it die", he nods to Soap asking him to join the party.
────────────────────────────
Desi! Reader who always smells like she stepped straight out of a perfumery.
He walks in the common room and - stops dead. Sniffs.
"…You changed scent."
You raise a brow,"You’re ridiculous."
Simon steps closer, inhales at your neck like a tracking dog. His nose twitching as he inhales a long breath.
"Jasmine… bit of sandalwood…"
"You’re supposed to be intimidating...your their Lt."
"..hmm", Another slow inhale.
You shove his shoulder laughing,"Go away."
"Not happenin’, sweetheart. Smell like that, I’m hoverin’."
────────────────────────────
Simon! who is baffled by the amount of jewellery you have. He’s sitting on the bed watching you layer bangles, chains, rings.
"…You armorin’ up or attendin’ dinner?"
"They are all just gold circles- he whines.
"Different gold circles", you glare at him. Does he think everyone of those is the same??
He shakes his head, utterly lost — until you walk past and your anklets chime.
That soft metallic rhythm fills the room.
He stills. Watches. His head snaps faster than ever.
"…Do that again."
You pause. "What?"
"Walk."
You walk around frowning looking at him. Chime. Chime.
He shifts on bed groaning....oh god, did he get hard by hearing the sound of your anklets?? Don't mind him putting your feet on his lap later that day as he clicks multiple photos of the anklets adorning them.
"Si...why do you like em so much", you ask.
"Because I like knowing where you are. And these are not coming off ever", he says kissing your ankles. Yes, he begs you to wear them while he fucks you hard enough to hear that damn sound, feet over his shoulder as he presses ears to them moaning. Happiest man alive.
────────────────────────────
Simon! who learns how to make proper chai and throws away every teabag in his kitchen. Don't mind him flexing on his team in base.
"Proper tea. Not the crap you lot drink", he goes looking at their faces. Everyone equally shocked as to why their Lt. prefers grinding gingers, cardamom and spices violently instead of just boiling water and throwing a bag...
────────────────────────────
Desi! Reader who wears a saree in front of Simon for the first time. And had to wear another one, because that man went rabid the moment you walked in looking oh so sensual. Silk falling and wrapping your body just right.
"I've never seen anything hotter than this", he whispers caressing the drapes and pleats.
"Is this supposed to be so..exposed", he mumbles kissing your neck as his thumb brushes against your waist.
"Yeah, it uh usually is like this".
He tugs at your front as you let out a gasp feeling hours of your hardwork unravel, just like that. Before you could protest he frowns tugging it more and more till it comes out flowing.
"The hell it's endless or what", he groans trying to get it all down. But oh, he was beyond thinking straight. So he does what he could, fuck you while you grab onto your slipping fabric. Bangles clinking, anklets chiming and Si was in heaven. Yeah, don't wear a fucking saree again. Unless you plan to get late.
────────────────────────────
Simon! who hears you call him 'jaan'. He never asks you upfront what it meant. But yes, he did google it.
Later – you overhear him bragging to the team.
"My bird calls me Jaan."
Soap snorts,"You sure that’s not an insult?"
Simon scowls.
"It means life in her language. Yeah? Like — not January-Jan. It's Jaaan."
She calls me her life...
────────────────────────────────────
Desi! Reader who lays down in front of him butt naked for him to draw henna patterns all over her body. Don't mind him writing "Riley's" on your bum knowing you can't see it.
Rest, he would try his best to draw little hearts and flowers on your thighs and back as you drift to sleep. A disfigured skull on your nape. And admires his own work grinning ear to ear.
────────────────────────────
Simon! who thinks you have the biggest family on Earth. Each time he discovers a new cousin, a new uncle or a new aunt at your family get togethers. But oh, your family loved him from the first meeting itself.
"Pyara Gora chora", you hear your old grandma say as she laughs. You look around the hall to see Simon bending down and touching feet of every damn adult in the room...jesus you did not teach him that!!
Everyone stops what they were doing the moment every kid in house makes Simon their personal jungle gym. All of them hanging by his biceps as he stands tall amused.
He grins spinning as a little girl sits on his shoulders grabbing his hair giggling.
Despite the differences. Despite the fact you both grew miles apart. He tries for you. Learns how to say words in a language that commands full use of tongue.
Broken words sure, but full of adoration. And he'll die trying if that means having you forever.
And you go from a 'fucking coloniser' to 'fucking a coloniser'. 🌷🫣
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Imagine!! watching The Godfather with Simon goddamn Riley.
Thirty minutes in and he’s already shifting beside you, knee bouncing, jaw tight. You don’t even have to look to know he’s fighting for his life.
“Babe” Simon mutters, voice thick with that Manchester drawl, “is this a marriage DVD or a movie?”
"Such big family bet they reserve the whole cafe when they dine".
You bite your lip. Here we go. Good luck getting him to sit through it. This man could roll his eyes like it was an Olympic sport. Every dramatic pause earns you a sigh; every Italian monologue, a dramatic lean and a headshake. And when young Al Pacino shows up on screen - dark eyes, soft mouth, such lips - ughh.
The blush creeping up your neck gives you away immediately. Simon clocks it!! Of course he does. He side-eyes you. Hard.
“So that’s yer type, huh?” he grumbles. “Pretty boy. Lashes an’ all. Doesn't look like he's ever lifted anythin heavier than a chicken. Puts conditioner in his muppet hair” He deliberately pulls his arm away from your waist, folding it across his chest scoffing.
God. Could he be more petty?
You catch him absentmindedly brushing his eyebrows whenever Don Vito appears. If you wake up tomorrow and his brows have grown thicker, you wouldn’t even be surprised. At some point, you both give up on the dialogue entirely and just stare at the subtitles.
“What the ’ell is that accent?” he mutters. “Sounds like he’s chewin’ marbles.”
Midway through the film, Simon suddenly stands up and plants himself right in front of the TV, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed like he’s watching a last-minute penalty.
“Why’s he doin’ that”
“Simon, move - ”
“Oh my God!!! FUCK OW - IS THAT A HORSE?” he shrieks, scrambling back onto the bed. Pointing at TV as if you'd miss it. He even presses the remote to replay the moment just for you to close your eyes as he tries opening them with his fingers holding your face still grinning. "You wanna see it sweet thing, cmon open your eyes...cmon don't miss the best moment". And hell he cannot act like a normal human being. You feel him vibrating like a toddler trying to control his laugh when the main lead drops dead in the garden. "Not my fault luv he just died" - and stops laughing only when he sees you teary eyed sniffling on pillows. He sighs pulling your head to his chest rubbing your back.
✧*.｡～♡✧*.｡～♡✧*.｡～♡✧*.｡～♡✧*.｡～♡✧*
Morning comes quietly. You wake to cold sheets and the faint smell of food. Simon is always up before the sun, sleeps only when the world’s already moving again. No wonder he has dark circles the size of a melon.
You find him in the kitchen. Shirtless. Black joggers slung low on his hips, hair messy - Classic Riley.
“What’re you makin handsome?” you yawn, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face between his shoulder blades.
“Just a sandwich,” he says easily. “An’ I’m takin you out tonight. That place you were bangin on about last week.”
You stiffen. “I told you not today, I’ve got work-”
He turns backing you gently against the counter, voice dropping. “Listen. I’ve already seen how you look at pretty boys on telly. Not lettin you stay in tonight thinkin about him. The All Pack guy...”
Your brows shoot up. “You are jealous...and it's Al Pacino.”
He huffs, "I ain't competin’ with a bloke from the '70s. Bet he doesn't have an angel in his bed like me."
"But Si-
“I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse,” he adds, eyebrows wiggling. This man is smoother than whiskey and twice as intoxicating.
When you frown, he repeats it again - this time in the worst, laziest Marlon Brando impression you’ve ever heard.
“I’m gonna make yer an offer…yer can’t refuse, luv.”
You laugh, surrendering immediately. You were sure this "offer" meant coming back home from dinner to make hours of love. Maybe this was what Christmas is all about - being wrapped up in layers of love.
A/N : I have no idea how vampires work guys. So sorry for any "that doesnt work that way". So I just hoa hoa hoa-d my way through this. I hope you all like this though. Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated 🌷
MASTERLIST 🩸
Emberholt was the richest kingdom across seven seas – and still, the cheapest thing in it was you.
A healer.
A curse with a pulse they said. There were just twelve of you.
Magic in your hands and a target on your back. You learned early – keep your head down, don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t even exist unless needed.
Because healers didn’t get thanked here. They got punished. Used. Disposed of.
You were twelve when you held a bleeding puppy in your little palms. Crying because it was you who left the door open and she bolted out when a carriage thundered through streets. Poor baby was dying because of your carelessness. You also remember hugging her sobbing, palms too warm and just like that - she was all good.
Yeah, that's when your parents threw you on streets. They couldn't risk having a "rotten one" at home. Couldn't risk getting caught for harboring sin knowing your baby brother was just months old.
So you were handed off to the palace where you have been and still are for the last twelve years.
Still–
“Oi, healer,” the Prince calls, all lazy grin and mischief, falling into step beside you.
“You plannin’ on ignorin’ me forever or what?”
“My!! Your majesty, I wasn’t–”
“Don’t start,” he snorts.
“Hate it when you do that. You do it when people are around don't you.”
“You shouldn't talk to me."
“Have I ever cared” he responds. It was true, he never gave two shits about rules. Even little he would sneak into kitchen and spaces you were in just to make you smile. It was comforting really. A little blanket in the kingdom of shadows.
You bite back a smile.
He leans in, shoulder knocking yours. “Miss me, yeah? Been ignoring me all day as if I bite.”
Before you can answer – the ground shakes.
Boots. Hundreds. The air shifts.
“The army’s back”
You’re already moving. The window. The courtyard. The chaos. Cheers. Screams. Offerings thrown like prayers.
Victory. Five kingdoms fallen.
And at the center–him.
Black stallion. Still as death. Oh so posh and oh so regal.
And the rider – Simon Riley. Ghost of Ember.
Death wrapped in a skull mask. He was not a king. No, he was something worse. A vampire. Older than the damn kingdom itself, and kneeled to no king.
Because kings die. He doesn't. A thing without a beating heart can't die can it?
Women surge forward, desperate, stupid and hungry for him.
He doesn’t even look at them properly. Just takes. Uses. Discards. Like they’re nothing. Even princesses break ankles if it meant he would notice them for once. He had slept with many, a new girl every week. But hell he would die than be tied down to a woman.
“Healer!” Hands grab you hard.
“Move.”
“I–what?” you frown looking back the prince who was now very much distracted by some pretty girl in a gown.
“He needs you.”
He??...uh-oh.
You’re shoved inside before you can think of exit plans.
The room feels smaller with him in it. Darker even.
He sits on the cot like it's some twisted version of a throne. His armor was torn and he was just so...damn quiet.
“Sir” your voice almost betrays you.
“What happened?”
A grunt. He flexes his arm. Wrong angle. Broken.
“Use your eyes, yeah?” he mutters. Yeah he was better quiet.
“Or are you just as thick as you're cursed”
Your jaw tightens. 'Cursed' is what seems to be your name.
“I’ll need you to stay still” you approach him standing in front of him.
“Christ, you lot love givin’ orders for people who ain’t worth a damn.” His head tilts. “Get on with it. You’re wastin’ my time.”
Why was he acting as if someone had shackled him to the cot just so that he could heal. Such a rude man.
You step in anyway. Careful. Even sitting you had to look up to see his eyes. What if he stands and squishes you under his boots....nah. You lean closer. Hands hovering for a bit —then touching.
Jesus he was colder than anyone you've touched before. So it's true huh, vampires are disturbingly cold.
Magic blooms. Warm and steady. A white glow through your palms. And seeps into his arm tugging it.
The bone slides back into place. Clean and perfect. You've been practicing to get it right. Bones were harder to mend than wounds. You smile feeling happy with your work.
And you wait for a reaction. Or maybe a thankyou. Or Pain. A flinch. Anything. Nothing. Not even a twitch.
He just…watches. Heavy. Unblinking. Like he’s sizing you up for something unpleasant.
You pull away quickly. “It’s done.”
He flexes once. Twice.
“Aye,” he mutters. “Took you long enough.”
Your fingers curl. You say nothing. Did you kick his balls in some dream of his or what.
You turn to leave – and brush his chest. Just barely.
“Sorry, sir. If there’s any further pain you can ask for–”
“Stop.” It’s not loud. But it hits harder than a shout.
You freeze and turn. “Sir?”
Your eyes drop automatically to his chest. The tear in his armor. The skin beneath. There was a scar there. Deep. Ugly. Looked old. You had seen it the moment you entered.
But it was gone now. Your breath stutters.
“You see that?” he says, voice low.
You nod, barely. He was gonna say thankyou won't he?
He stands. Slow. Deliberate. Each step toward you feels like a threat.
“What you did.”
“I–it happens when I touch”
“Don’t talk over me girl.” Sharp. Cutting....so cruel.
You snap your mouth shut biting back pride.
“I healed you,” you try again, quieter.
“Wrong.” One word. Flat. Final. Oh fuck jesus - He’s closer now. Too close. You need to count your breaths now.
“Don’t dress it up like it’s nothin’.” His head tilts, voice dropping rough.
“You.erased.it”
You step back. He follows. Uh...
“Scars don’t just piss off like that,” he continues, almost mocking.
“Not mine.”
“I don’t know what you mean–”
“God, you’re thick. Aren't you stupid girl.”
The insult lands like a slap.
His gaze drags down. Slow. Deliberate. To your stomach. Your hands fly there instantly.
Shit. Shit. Shit–He notices. Of course he does. You swear you could see his nose twitching and sensing air beneath the mask. From what you know : Vampires killed human babies, it was coded in their DNA to do so, from centuries of war between two worlds. And right now you were at the very center of it.
Pregnant humans never shared spaces with vampires or even hybrids. If they wanna stay alive of course..
You had told no one. It was three months ago when you had some cheap alcohol in the tavern right outside the southern areas of the kingdom. It was a celebration night for New Year....and yeah you slept with a man whose face was a blur in your memory. A mistake. A huge one. You were desperate for company. And then it happened.
But you decided to keep it. A foolish mistake yet again. Healers never birthed. It was unlawful. Because "magic is drawn from the devil so it must not have offsprings to transfer it to."
But sometimes loneliness makes you do stupid things.
He towers closer and pulls a knife free, casual as breathing, spinning it once between his fingers.
“Please! sir–I haven’t done anything”
“Yeah?” he cuts in, stepping forward again, forcing you back.
“Then why’re you lookin’ like I’ve already got your throat in my teeth?”
Your back nearly hits the wall. Everyone in the room freezes. Some soldiers having the same smile as of watching a hunt. Sadists.
His blade lifts. Not touching. Just there like a warning.
“What’re you hidin’, then?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something meaner.
“Go on. Say it.”
“I–”
“Spit.it.out,” he snaps.
“Or I’ll gut you open and have a look myself.”
Your breath shatters. Your hands press tighter over your stomach. And that–that’s all the answer he needs.
A slow, cruel chuckle rumbles out of him.
“Ahh…” His head tilts. Mocking. Satisfied.
“Little healer,” he mutters, voice laced with something dark and ugly, “you’ve got more problems than just bein’ a freak.”
Roach!hybrid Simon who lives in your kitchen sink.
Comes out at night – tiny feet skittering across your sheets, just to curl up proudly on your bedside table like he pays rent. His wings fluttering happily being gently caressed by your sleepy snores.
Roach!hybrid Simon who swears he’s tasted heaven after absolutely demolishing your leftovers.
Three crumbs of naan? A grain of rice? Worms? Michelin star dining, muah.
Sweet!reader who lends him body lotion for his spiky little legs because apparently even sink goblins deserve moisturised joints.
Roach!hybrid Simon who spends hours staring up at you while you wash dishes.
Big, adoring eyes fixed on Chameleon!hybrid Reader…who cleans plates with her tongue like a living dishwasher attachment. Big eyes blinking once every three minutes.
Domestic harmony. Romance. Love.
Until one day –
You clog the sink.
And there he is.
Floating. Weak. Drowning in suspicious kitchen water. Bits of ginger and a half eaten bug floating right beside him.
Still smiling…yet dying.
Because it was you who did it.
Not boric acid. Never boric acid.
Never you..never you.....never you (echoes).....
_________________________________________
A/N: Yeah Idk what hybrid AU is...how do u guys even write it. I pulled this outta my ass (obviously). Sending flying cockroaches to you all. 🤣🤣
