@llliissyyy post about stalker!simon made my head tingle a little bit.🤭❣️
So I wrote this little piece abt stalker!simon.
Stalker!simon x gn reader
cw : stalking duh, kidnapping, mention of abuse, trauma, worship.
———
The soft tissue of his heart beat with the sole purpose of survival, years of constant trauma and betrayal moulded his body to nothing but scarred skin and rotten wounds. Nerves wired by adrenaline and pain. He believes in another day as nothing is guaranteed in this line of work.
That changed after he saw you.
Feelings burden him, hands shake, tongue runs dry. He finds himself starring at the stars hoping maybe they can somehow resemble the twinkle in your eye, listening closely to how the wind blows between the trees, a whisper of your voice he’d hear between the dancing leaves. he finds you in his dream, thoughts, and beliefs. He snaps out of it sometimes.. most times its what keeps him sane, brings him peace and purpose.
To survive.
Meeting you made that vital pumping machine fully submerge itself into that foreign feeling he felt as a child, his mother frail carpals cradling purple cheeks, rubbing away the pain.
Its ugly, he flinches at the thought yet still chases it every night.
Air becomes unfamiliar as his lung only expand at the thought of you, its you they want to breath, you that stretches them open and forcefully shut them close leaving him breathless. Suffocated, he finds himself trailing after you in the dead of nights, earliest mornings, always in the corner of your eye but never actually seen.
A ghost truly.
He firmly believes its not infatuation, its survival. He needs you to live, to breath. To function. Its not up to you anymore.
Terror shakes you awake, finding yourself wrapped in shackles and chains, head dizzy trying to make sense out of it all. Circulation slowly fading when you realize there is no way out.
Your believer stands Infront of the door, hands shaking, tongue dry, lungs finally breathing.
“My god…” he prays “you’re beautiful..”
Its not love, its not infatuation, its not obsession, its survival.
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summary: once simon finds out you're sick, he takes care of you.
tags: depictions of sickness, including fever; depictions of medication; soft!simon; sick-fic for self-indulgence.
a/n: no, i'm totally not sick
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
“L.t.?” You croak, as the door to your shared barracks shuts softly.
Footfalls enter the room, somehow quiet and heavy at the same time. Your lieutenant’s large frame comes into view, the harsh line of his shoulders softened by a black hoodie.
He's wearing the simple balaclava, the one without the skull sewn to the front.
Simon's quick to approach your bed where you've buried yourself beneath piles of blankets. He crouches, one knee connecting to the linoleum floor, his eyes level with yours.
You blink sluggishly, vision blurred around the edges. You've kept the blinds closed and the bedside lamp on, the edges of the window outlined by morning light; Simon's frame is washed in an orange glow.
“Hey, L.t.,” you mumble, too tired to smile.
A cough builds at the back of your throat, and you dread the inevitable pain that'll spear through your temples when you're forced to let it loose.
Simon's fingers gently touch your hairline, smoothing back sweaty strands of hair.
“Sergeant,” he says, “was wondering where you were during training.”
Simon doesn't look very surprised by the state he's found you in; brown eyes rove across your face, taking in your dark circles and sickened complexion.
“I got my sick note, L.t.” You sigh wearily, pushing a hand out of your bundle of blankets to point at the bedside table.
A folded note lies on the edge, and Simon can easily make out the typed text of a doctor's recommendation for rest.
He chuckles, the sound dark and barely audible. “Don't need a chit to tell me you're sick, Love.”
“Just thought you should know—”
The cough travels up your throat and you turn your face into your pillow, face scrunching in discomfort as you expel a bark of phlegm and sick air into the fabric. Pain travels through your temples like nails to your skull.
A hand falls to the curve of your shoulder, steady as your body rocks.
Once the cough dissipates, you grumble. "I feel so gross."
Simon's head tilts to the side as he regards you. His hand leaves your shoulder to press against your forehead, knuckles grazing your sweat-slick skin.
“You're runnin’ a temp.”
“Can't get it down.”
“I can help with that.”
Simon stands to his feet, hands curling around the top of your blankets to peel them back. You recoil from the cold that flushes down your body, goosebumps scattering down your flesh.
“S-Simon!”
Simon curls his arms underneath you, lifting you from the mattress you've tried to burrow into. Your hands move to clasp behind his neck, and you can't bring yourself to feel embarrassed—not when his warmth soaks into your skin like a heated blanket. It makes you want to bury your face into his neck and sleep, breathing in his scent of cigarette smoke and clary soap.
“Gonna put you in the shower, Love,” Simon tells you as he brings you into the small bathroom. The tiny window in the upper corner of the room is open, chilling the air.
You almost whine as Simon settles you on the closed toilet lid, the plastic cold enough to seep through your pajama pants.
“A hot shower?” You ask, already knowing that it won't be.
Simon doesn't answer, instead turning the handle all the way to the cold side. Water rushes from the showerhead, sounding like a thousand little beads hitting the tiled floor.
“Right,” he huffs, “you get in while I fix you some proper medicine.”
Your cheeks heat sheepishly. Of course he'd notice that the only medicine that had been scattered across your bedside table were blister sheets of paracetamol.
Simon points at the shower, body halfway through the door. “Get in. That's an order.”
The bathroom door closes.
*******
Your teeth aren't chattering anymore as you climb back into bed, nor is your skin glistening with sweat. You still feel like you got rammed by an armoured vehicle, but at least you're clean, internal temperature no longer fluctuationing between boiling hot and freezing cold.
But there's still a horrible ache in your nose from your blocked sinuses, and a tightness in your chest. Exhaustion, despite being in bed for a long time, still clings to you like a second shadow.
Settled snugly under the covers, your weighted gaze slides to your bedside table; your heart kicks against your ribs.
All the blister sheets have been tidied up, the empty ones nowhere to be seen. Your glass of water has been refilled, and there's a cup of steaming tea placed on a coaster that you've definitely seen on Simon's desk before.
Pushing yourself upright against the headboard, you can't help but smile a little stupidly as you grab the cup of tea.
The porcelain is warm against your hands, and you note that he's prepared it the exact way you like, only he's added a slice of lemon and some honey. The smell is faint to your clogged-up nose, but still strong enough to send your stomach somersaulting.
“Thanks, Simon,” you murmur beneath your breath, lips brushing the rim of the cup.
*******
It's much later when you wake up. If you had to guess, it's some time in the afternoon.
Simon flits inside the room like a shadow, dropping something off on his desk—probably reports—before looming over your bedside.
He taps a gloved finger to your forehead. “Rise and shine, Sergeant.”
Groaning, your face twists, muscles protesting as you stretch like a cat woth your arms above your head, curled fists pushing at the headboard.
“C'mon," Simon mutters. "Got you some nasal spray and tablets for all the mucus in your throat.”
You squint at Simon, suddenly finding all of this rather comedic. Here is your lieutenant, intimidating in all his mysterious allure and grizzly Manchester accent, telling you to take your medicine like a grumpy nurse.
The laugh in your chest morphs into a cough, and you press your mouth to the inside of your elbow as your lungs rattle.
“Bossy, you are,” you rasp, nonetheless complying with his orders and sitting up straight.
“Better I boss you around then leave you to rot like a corpse.”
“Very thoughtful, L.t.”
The stare you're given is less than impressed. Simon hands you the glass of water, along with two tablets cupped in his palm.
You take both, tipping your head back as you swallow down the tablets with a large gulp of water. Nearly gagging, you let Simon take the glass away from you as your hand settles at your sternum.
“Bloody hell, that's horrible,” you mutter, bringing the back of your other hand to your lips. A bitter taste lingers on your tongue.
“Don't whinge, Sergeant,” Simon scoffs.
You send him a glare as he violently shakes the small bottle of nasal spray. You frown at it, anticipating the uncomfortable burn in your nostrils.
A knuckle taps the underside of your chin, and you diligently tilt your head up. Your eyes flutter closed as Simon pumps a spritz of medicine into each nostril.
You pull back, grimacing as you sniffle, nose stinging. “Horrible, horrible, horrible.”
“Bit dramatic, Sunshine.”
“Reasonable, actually. Stuff's vile.”
“You'll live.”
*******
You breathe shallowly through your nose, eyes closed as tiredness lures you closer to sleep.
Your nasal passages aren't completely open yet, and each inhale still carries a faint whistle, but at least you're not drooling onto your pillow from an open mouth.
That would be a little embarrassing, seeing as Simon sits in a chair next to your bed. His chin is pillowed by his folded arms, which rest on the edge of the mattress; brown eyes are dropped to half-lid.
His fingers card across your scalp, moving over the side of your head in a repetitive pattern. Occasionally, his index finger traces a crescent over your ear.
Warmth leaks into your heart like a tipped can of paint. “Thanks for taking care of me, Simon,” you whisper.
You hear him breathe out, air feathering out across your nose and cheeks. Your stomach flips, knowing that he's pulled off his balaclava.
“Anytime, Love,” Simon whispers back, gruff voice turned to something gentle.
You fall asleep just as the crickets begin to chirp outside.
John price way of confessing his interest is silently placing his hat onto your head and walking away.
cue to you, ripping it off and launching it back at him cause you know that thing hasn’t been washed for decades and is collecting a herd of lice between its fiber.
John gets into a heated argument with you before getting shipped out for a mission.
Days abroad turn into a two months and he finally returns home to find his bank accounts drained clear, 0’s flashing red back at him, maxed out credit cards all that shit.
Notifications vibrating his barely functioning excuse of a phone
clothes from luxury brands,
makeup from retail stores,
food from each and every possible chain of restaurants,
Not one call or text from you.
And when you do call him after he announces he’s back, it’s not a ‘I missed you’ or ‘I’m sorry’ it’s a-
“I won’t forgive you yet.” giggling. “give me more money”
-call ended.
And that’s the way these arguments end sometimes, with John obeying your greedy demands.
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“Simon-“ your voice evident of how scared and terrified you are. “there was a fire-“ limbs caked with soot and charcoal, lungs breathing in grey clouds.
Every fiber of your soul screamed in agony as you watched the house you oh cherished so much burn painful slow.
Nothing left but rubble and dust.
The call cuts to you coughing then full on sobbing again, sitting in the midst of it all.
One moment you were shopping for groceries, the next your neighbors are calling to tell you that a roaring fire swallowed your home whole.
And you called the only person you thought would help, the same person you divorced 3 days ago.
“On the way” He says calmly
If only you paid close attention to his voice instead of the collapsing walls and ceiling you spent years building you’d hear that fucker smirk.
-
A hero, your neighbors called him, as he swiftly carried you off the pavement and hurried you back into his car to the nearest hospital.
(You weren’t burnt, not a scratch on you, he knows that. But he needs to act clueless)
He hated attention, but he had to put on a show for everyone to see how deeeppllyy he cared for his little wife.
“I’ll take care of it all” he muttered under his breath, a hand on the wheel while the other slowly caresses your ash stained knuckles.
“I’ll build you a new one..” lips meeting your skin “ stay with me” eyes turn to you pleasing.
Whispers of confession through steaming teacups, could it be true ?
Simon Riley x Neutral reader.
:p hi, I came back after ghosting everyone ! sorry.
cw: English isn’t my first language be nice :), fluff.
———
“been flirting w’t ya for months” the ghost softly mutters as his gloved carpals carve out a branch.
The knife shimmers underneath the quiet moon, Insects resume humming and the only thing you can feel aside from your skin turning flush is the wind blowing through the forest dancing trees.
Huh?
“you don’t flirt with me at. All. Lieutenant” you huffed. Assuming it’s another horrible attempted joke of his.
looking over you catch him already staring.
The mask somehow enhances the way his black orbits glare at you, then slowly returning back to stripping away wood.
his movements halts briefly as he musters up the courage to shift and face you, yet his eyes remain on the knife.
“ I have-“ he coughs “I.. for 4 months now”
“Bullshit”, voice evident of your confusion.
your head tilts “ you never call me those nicknames that johnny calls me or-“ you raise another finger “ even wink at me, sometimes gaz does that”
As you list more and more examples- you hear the leaves under his boot slowly crunch as he closes the spaces between the both of you.
The moon shines brightly through the swaying leaves, carefully illuminating each blond lash and how they fluttered as his eyes locked with yours.
“I constantly make you a cuppa” he says breathlessly, neck bent down, lips parted.
“Your way of flirting with me is through tea?”
“I’m heartbroken luv” you could wear the sly smirk.
