sacrednova

[sacrednova]

Drive me home | SImon "Ghost" Riley | 9

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. Contains fake screenshots with texts messages and calls!!!! Start reading from the beginning: Part 1

It was embarrassing to admit, even in the privacy of her own thoughts, but yes—she had been imagining what it would be like to be kissed by Simon.

And hell, that wasn’t weird, was it? Most people do that. Right?

Still, the reality of it—the absolute truth she had to swallow—was that whatever fantasy she had conjured up in her head was nothing compared to this.

Because she had been wrong. Completely wrong.

If she’d been waiting for something rough, desperate, and unhinged… Simon Riley was none of those things.

Oh, wait—are you still wondering? Are you waiting for confirmation that this wasn’t some fever dream?

Yes, he kissed her.

Right there. In that very moment.

His hands—those massive hands that could crush, could kill—were cradling her face as if she were made of glass. Thumbs brushing against her skin, steady, reverent.

And his lips? God, his lips.

They moved.

Firm. Decisive. Not hurried or impatient but unrelenting in their purpose. There was no room for her to doubt, no room for hesitation, as his kiss pulled her under. Deep. So deep that breathing felt impossible—not that she cared.

Between the pressure of his mouth, the heat of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth against her lower lip—fuck, her chest burned like she’d forgotten how to inhale.

And then there was that sound. That sound.

A faint, gravelly groan, ripped from his throat when she instinctively pulled back to gasp for air. It was so quiet, so raw, but it sent shivers tearing down her spine.

There were no words.

No words for the way his scent—cologne and warmth and a hint of bourbon—wrapped around her like a drug.

No words for the way his fingers tightened, just slightly, against her jaw, as though grounding her.

No words for the way he made her entire body hum, alive in a way it had never been before.

Simon Riley kissed her like no one else ever had.

And maybe—maybe—no one else ever could.

And, as some wise old soul had said before, good doesn’t last.

The kiss ended.

Her lips, still tingling, parted as if to chase after him, to bring him back. But the moment was already slipping between her fingers like grains of sand.

Her eyes opened, searching—aching—for that soft gaze he’d given her throughout the night. That fleeting glimpse of vulnerability, of humanity, that seemed to crack through his carefully constructed armor.

But she didn’t find it.

Instead, Simon buried his face in her shoulder, the warmth of his breath brushing her skin, uneven and shallow. His broad shoulders, towering and imposing, were hunched as if bracing against a storm.

His hands came up, planting themselves on the wall on either side of her head, boxing her in—but not in the way that made her heart race with anticipation. No, this was different.

His chest heaved with deep, deliberate breaths, as though he was trying to wrestle control over something he couldn’t quite contain.

He was close—too close—but it wasn’t enough.

Not like this.

The silence between them felt heavy, like it carried the weight of something unsaid, something he didn’t have the courage to speak.

She wanted to reach out, to run her fingers through his hair, to coax him out of whatever war he was fighting within himself.

But she didn’t.

Because she could feel it—the invisible wall slamming back into place, shutting her out.

Her throat tightened as she whispered, “Simon?”

His body stiffened at the sound of his name, but he didn’t move. Didn’t look at her.

Instead, his voice came low, raw, muffled against her shoulder.

“Shouldn’t’ve done that.”

It felt like one of those movies—the bad romantic ones. The ones where the girl somehow “gets” the bad guy, the one who couldn’t love anyone.

Was that this? Was he the bad guy? And was she supposed to be the fool who tried anyway?

Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest as the words slipped from her lips, quiet and careful.

“What do you mean?”

She already knew. Or at least, she thought she did. Simon wasn’t like other men—wasn’t like anyone she’d known. If she wanted anything with him, anything real, she’d have to take her time. Go slow.

But then doubt twisted in her chest, the sharp edges of insecurity cutting into her voice.

“You didn’t like it?” she asked softly, hating how small she sounded.

“I did,” he said, the words landing heavy between them, like they carried a weight even he couldn’t quite bear. His head dipped lower, his breath brushing her neck, and when his nose grazed her skin, she nearly melted on the spot.

“It’s… different,” he admitted, voice rough and raw.

Her breath hitched. “Bad or good?”

Simon went still. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. That he’d let the silence swallow them whole.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he muttered, “…Never been good at it.”

Her lips curved into the smallest, faintest smile, her courage rising as her hands dared to slide up, just barely grazing the edges of his jaw.

“Well,” she said, her tone light but her heart hammering, “there’s always a first.”

Her words hung in the air, daring, inviting. A challenge.

And for a moment, Simon just stood there, his breath warm against her skin, his fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Like he was caught between wanting to run and wanting to pull her closer.

But then his hands shifted—uncertain, almost hesitant—resting lightly at her hips, his thumbs brushing over the fabric of her shirt.

His voice dropped even lower, a gravelly whisper against her ear.

“You shouldn’t make it so easy for me.”

"I am not making it easy for you," she admitted, her voice trembling just enough to betray her nerves. She tried to fake calmness, tried to steady herself under his gaze. "I want this. I want to try this... Do you want the same? Do you want to try?"

Fear hung between them, unspoken but heavy.

Not the fear of danger, but the fear of giving too much. Of laying herself bare like an open book. Of being honest with someone who could so easily crush her if he chose.

It wasn’t easy for her, this kind of honesty. The vulnerability felt sharp, like a knife cutting through her defenses. And it stung, realizing just how much she cared whether he answered yes or no.

Because people were supposed to take care of each other’s hearts, weren’t they? That’s what she’d always believed. But life had taught her that not everyone saw it that way. Not everyone cared as much about the weight of compromise or the fragility of feelings.

Did Simon?

Could Simon?

Would he be able to hold her heart—and his own—without breaking both of them in the process?

Past the kisses. Past the electric waves rushing through their bodies. Past the rush of heat and the vibrant swirl of emotions.

Could he stay?

“I do,” he finally said, his voice low, almost cautious. “But I can’t promise you for it to be good.”

Her lips twitched into a small, almost teasing smile. “Hm, are you some kind of crazy man?”

He paused, tilting his head slightly, his lips curving into that faint, almost-smile of his. “Well—”

“Wait, do not answer that one,” she cut in, raising a hand as if to stop him mid-thought.

And there it was—a sound she hadn’t expected but instantly craved to hear again. A soft, muffled laugh, more breath than sound, but it still warmed the air between them.

It worked for her.

It worked too well.

It started with another kiss. Or maybe two. No—too many to count. Each one blurred into the next, her mind spinning in a haze of heat and sensation. His hands roamed her back, strong and steady, pulling her closer every time she thought she'd manage to pull away. And when she finally broke free—almost free—she could still feel his breath on her lips, his grip lingering on her hips, like his touch had marked her somehow.

“I—uh, gimme a sec,” she stammered, stumbling out of his hold, practically tripping over her own feet as she backed toward the bathroom.

She closed the door behind her, pressing her back against it as she tried to catch her breath. She glanced at herself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, hair slightly mussed. God. Get it together.

But instead of calming herself down, she grabbed her phone and immediately texted Millie.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as a new wave of panic set in. She could picture him out there—tall, calm, probably standing there like he owned the place. What was he even doing? Just waiting for her?

Her phone buzzed, and Millie’s reply came through almost instantly.

Breathe. Right.

She set her phone down, splashed some water on her face, and opened the door—only to find him standing in her room.

“Simon?”

He didn’t answer right away. His back was to her, and he was holding something in his hands. She stepped closer, her heart racing as she realized he was looking at one of her photos.

He glanced over his shoulder, holding up the frame. “This you?”

It was an old picture—her and Millie at some party, laughing at something stupid. She wasn’t sure why it felt so embarrassing, but it did. Maybe it was because he looked so... normal about it, like standing in her room and picking through her life wasn’t a big deal at all.

“Yeah, that’s me,” she said, crossing her arms as her nerves crept up again.

His eyes wandered. Not in a leering way—he wasn’t looking at her so much as everything else. Her books. Her clothes draped over a chair. The half-open drawer with socks spilling out.

“You don’t mind me snooping, do you?” he asked, completely deadpan, as if he wasn’t already doing just that.

“Mind? Are you serious right now?” she shot back, trying to sound annoyed but mostly sounding flustered.

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk, and he set the photo down. “Relax. Just... getting to know you.”

“By going through my stuff?”

“Better than askin’ questions you don’t want to answer,” he said, his tone light but carrying just enough weight to make her heart skip a beat.

She didn’t know whether to scream at him or kiss him again.

"Better than asking," he repeated, his voice low, almost teasing, and she knew it was an indirect. Of course, it was.

"Huh! I knew you didn't want me asking," she quipped back, tilting her chin up in mock defiance, though her heart was doing flips in her chest.

The corner of his mouth twitched, his cocky expression settling into something so effortlessly hot it made her knees weak. Shit, did I say that with my face?!

"You can ask," he replied smoothly, stepping closer. "Just don’t wait for me to answer all of 'em."

The air thickened. His steps were slow but deliberate, and before she could think too hard about what was happening, his hands were on her again. It was natural now, like something between them had shifted, something fragile had finally given way. That invisible thread keeping them close but never close enough had snapped, and now nothing was holding him back.

He touched her like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it. His hands clenched the fabric of her dress, pulling her in, anchoring her to him. His lips found her neck, slow and deliberate, and she swore she felt her heart stop.

It was too much. Too good. The way his breath brushed her skin, the way his stubble scraped lightly against her collarbone, the way every sigh she let out seemed to spur him on.

Her hands found his shoulders, gripping tightly as if to steady herself, but it only pulled him closer. His lips moved lower, and she felt her head tilt back of its own accord, giving him more space, letting him in without a word.

And God, the little sounds she made—the soft, shaky sighs, the unsteady inhales—they undid him. He wasn’t sure what he was chasing anymore: the sound of her breath, the feel of her against him, or the rush of finally having what he’d craved.

“Simon,” she whispered, and it wasn’t a plea or a question—it was a breaking point. For both of them.

Oh. God.

OH. FUCKING GOD.

She had seen naked men before. Sure, it was a thing that happened. Nothing special, nothing to write home about. She’d never really felt like it was something to admire, to worship, to actually see.

But now?

Hell itself had grabbed her ankles, yanked her down into a fire she didn’t know she could burn in, and whispered, "Naughty little thing," in every possible way.

Simon wasn’t naked. Not yet. He was just taking his shirt off.

JUST THE FUCKING SHIRT.

And yet here she was, back arching slightly against the bed, legs pressing together at the sight. It wasn’t just about the skin. It was about him, about the way his body moved as he pulled the fabric over his head. He wasn’t overly defined, not the kind of body you’d see in magazines. He didn’t need to be. He was something else entirely—raw, powerful. His body wasn’t built to be admired; it was forged to be a weapon.

Dangerous.

And yet, somehow, she couldn’t help but think... it was made to protect, too.

Her eyes traced the scars littering his skin, each one a story carved into his body, and for a moment, the heat of the room cooled just slightly. A twinge of worry crept into her thoughts. She wasn’t a medic, but she knew enough to understand that a bullet to the chest wasn’t something you just shrugged off.

“Few stories you have here…” she murmured, her fingers itching to reach out but hesitating.

“Hm, some…” His voice was low, almost casual, but when he turned his gaze to her, that stare nearly broke her. It was like he could see straight through her, but not in a way that unsettled her. It made her feel known. "Problem?"

“Not at all,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.

The marks on his skin would never be a problem.

But the ones inside him?

Those were a different story entirely.

Another way to make her freeze.

That was what this was, wasn’t it? Another way of making her blood run cold and hot at the same time. Her eyes grew wide, her cheeks flushed crimson, her lungs filled with shaky breaths, and her stomach... God, that weird, fluttering feeling that tied her insides into knots.

It wasn’t until he took the last piece of her clothing away that she truly felt it—completely exposed.

Not exposed as in no clothes. No, this was deeper, more intimate. It was like he had peeled her open, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but her. Every insecurity, every thought, every feeling laid bare under his gaze.

She had never felt like this before—like she was completely at someone’s mercy—and actually wanted that person to like what they saw.

“Gorgeous,” he said, his voice low, thick, full of something she couldn’t quite name.

But what caught her wasn’t his words. It was his eyes. He wasn’t staring at her body, though she had expected that. No, his gaze stayed on her face—on her wide, shining eyes, the curve of her flushed cheeks, the soft part of her lips as she tried to catch her breath.

Simon saw her.

And it made her feel more naked than anything else ever could.

She didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at her, the way he felt about her. But Simon? Simon was discovering something entirely new, a terrain he’d never stepped foot on before.

New feelings, new emotions.

And there was no unknowing it now.

How could he un-learn the way his heart tightened when she smiled? The way his entire body burned with the need to protect her, to care for her? How could he stop liking her, stop wanting her, stop craving the way she looked at him like he was someone worth staying for?

How could Simon Riley stop wanting to be around her?

He couldn’t.

There was no turning back.

But there was never really any turning back, was there?

If Simon thought about it long enough, he’d see it. The exact moment it all started. That first night she texted him. A simple, stupid message. And then? His mind just wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

What happened to him being empty? Being cold?

There used to be a hollow point in his chest—a dark, unfeeling void he’d relied on for years. But now? Now, it felt... strange. Unfamiliar. Like something had started to fill it.

Not all at once, but in pieces.

Doubt. Wanting. Waiting.

Waiting for something more. For something bigger than the bullets, maps, and blood that made up his life.

And now here he was, staring down at her—her skin glowing in the low light, her chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths as his lips trailed along her collarbone.

Her body moved under his hands, and it made him feel... whole. Full. More alive than he’d ever been.

There was nothing in the world that could compare to this.

Nothing.

Nothing close to the sound of her gasping his name, to the feel of her gripping his shoulders like she’d drown without him.

And definitely nothing close to how badly he wanted her to see him.

Not just his body. Not just his scars. Not the mask he wore every single day to keep the world out.

No, he wanted her to see him.

Him and only him.

HEY YOU! The next chapter will be the last one before I take a break—I want to take some time to work and think properly about where I want this story to go. Thank you for your patience! ❤️ (In the meantime, requests are open!) If you want to stay updated about the comeback, let me know, and I’ll add you to the tag list! 😊 I don’t want anyone to miss it!

Tags: @sleep101 @all-by-myself98 @h0ney-mushroom @beelzebee @momowhoo @sheepdogchick3 @sleepisfortheweakpooh

[sacrednova]

Drive me home | Simon "Ghost" Riley | 8

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. This part does not contain texts! Start reading from the beginning: Part 1 | Part 9

The ride to her house was quiet.

Not the quiet that leaves you unsettled, no. It was the kind that fills the air with unspoken truths, with glances exchanged and withheld words that echoed louder than any sound could.

Their eyes met once, twice... more than that. Each time, his gaze lingered just a second longer than it should have. And hers? Hers did the same.

Simon pressed his hands together, squeezing them into fists so tight he could feel the strain in his knuckles. A faint tremor shot up his palm, almost like a jolt of electricity. His body betraying the control he worked so hard to keep.

Fucking nervous, aren’t you, Riley?

It shouldn’t be like this. None of it should be. He’d been here before, hadn’t he? A few women. A few beds. A few nights.

But why does this feel different?

Her. She was the difference.

There was something about her, something he couldn’t define, couldn’t pin down. Something that pulled him in and ripped apart every defense he’d built over decades. He couldn’t look at her too long without feeling that pull, couldn’t hear her laugh without that burn in his chest igniting again.

He let himself think, just for a second, about what came next. About what would happen when they stepped inside her house, when the air shifted from unspoken tension to something tangible, something raw.

Would she invite him in? Would she want him there? Want him the way he wanted her?

God, Riley, you’re acting like a fucking teenager.

But then, his thoughts veered into uncharted territory. Past the heat, past the urgency, to something softer. To the aftermath—their breaths slowing, the room cooling. To her lying beside him, her hair spilled out on the pillow, her hand reaching for his.

Would she ask him to stay?

Stay, Riley? You don’t stay.

But he wanted to. For the first time, the thought of leaving twisted something deep in his gut.

And then came the doubt, creeping in like it always did.

Was she really going to let him in? Did she really want him? A man like him—older, broken, scarred in ways she hadn’t even begun to see. Did she know what she was doing? Reaching out to someone like him?

Inadequate.

That’s what he was. A man inadequate to this. To her. To the way she made him feel.

But still, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it all.

The air was too sharp, biting against their skin as they stepped out of the Uber. It clung to them, sinking into the silence, as if the night itself held its breath.

She reached for her keys, fingers fumbling in a way that made her curse under her breath. He stood behind her, his boots scraping against the gravel.

When the car pulled away, the street swallowed them whole.

She stepped inside, the keys jingling in her hand as she flicked on the lights. Her heart was racing, an uncontrollable rhythm that almost drowned out the sound of her own voice.

And she left the door open.

Left it open for him.

"Aren’t you coming in?" Her voice carried through the space, louder than she intended, the kind of loud that tried to mask the nerves clawing at her chest.

The sound of her keys landing on the table followed, a small clatter against the quiet.

He stood there, unmoving, the cold air wrapping around him like a vice. Then, a step.

Another.

What the hell is happening to me?

His mind raced, a mess of contradictions and uncertainties. Why was he losing himself over this woman? This maddeningly young, unpredictable, vibrant woman? She was like nothing he should be tangled with—and yet here he was, walking into her space, letting her pull him in like a moth to a flame.

The smell hit him like a punch.

It wasn’t just her perfume or the faint traces of shampoo in her hair. It was her—her home. The clothes tossed carelessly on the couch. A coffee mug abandoned on the table, still half-full.

It was alive. Lived in. Hers.

She could feel his eyes on her. Heavy, focused, lingering on everything she did. The way she rushed to grab the coffee cup from the table and carried it to the kitchen. The way she shifted, half-heartedly trying to block his view of the pile of clothes on the couch with her body.

Her smile was awkward, forced, but fuck, it was endearing.

"So, uh, another cup? I have some wine. I mean, I like wine, not in an unhealthy way or anything, not like I drink every night. Well, okay, twice in front of you, but that’s not—"

"You get talkative when you’re drunk," he interrupted, his voice low, steady, like it always was. Then, softer, with the smallest hint of a smirk: "Or are you always this... bright?"

She froze, the word hanging in the air between them.

"Bright?" she echoed, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Is that just a polite way of calling me loud?"

He stepped closer, just a little, his eyes unyielding, pulling hers into his orbit.

"No," he said, shaking his head lightly. "I don’t like loud. But I like you, so you’re not loud."

Her lips parted slightly, caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath she couldn’t quite take.

Oh, shit.

Hell.

Fuck.

Every curse word she could think of rattled in her mind, each one failing to capture the way her chest felt—full to the point of bursting. Like her heart was going to explode right there in front of him, leaving a ridiculous mess of butterflies and stupid little cartoon hearts scattered all over the room.

"Are you flirting with me just to escape that wine, huh?" she joked, her voice barely steady, a desperate attempt to lighten the air crackling between them.

And then he did it again. That thing he did.

His head tilted back just slightly, his eyes steady and sharp on hers, his lips pressing together before curling into that maddeningly subtle side-smile. Barely there, but enough to make her knees weak.

"Maybe not just for that."

Her brain short-circuited. Her heart stopped. Or sped up. Or maybe both. She couldn’t tell anymore.

"Second intentions now?" she managed, her voice climbing an octave as she fought to keep her composure.

Yes. That was good. Tease him. Keep the upper hand. Don’t you dare melt—

"Hm," he murmured, his voice deep, gravelly, dripping with that dangerous calm he carried so well. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to her lips. "And some more."

That was it.

That was the moment she died. Right there. Gone. End credits rolling. Goodbye.

Her breath caught in her throat, her body betraying her with a shiver she couldn’t suppress.

He saw it.

He felt it.

The way she melted right in front of him, her eyes wide and bright, her body leaning into the pull of him like gravity itself was shifting between them.

It did something to him.

No, she did something to him.

Something he couldn’t name, couldn’t control.

And for the first time in years—hell, maybe for the first time in his life—he let it happen.

His body surrendered, inch by inch, to the magnetic force pulling him toward her, and he didn’t care if it consumed him whole.

That little doubt from earlier—the lingering what’s next?—had died a long time ago.

It had evaporated the moment the wine settled in his system, the moment he became fully aware of how alone they were, how quiet the house was, how it was just him and her in this small, warm space.

It had died the moment he noticed her watching him like she was waiting for something. For him.

He took a step closer. Then another.

Her breathing quickened, and he saw it—the way she stilled, her body tense but not pulling back, her lips parting slightly as if the air between them had gotten too heavy.

She felt small. Like a little prey animal frozen under the shadow of a predator. Nervous, fidgety. But she wasn’t moving away.

"So you don’t want anything?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, cracking at the edges.

He tilted his head, studying her, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her to feel it crawl down her spine.

"I do," he said, his voice low, deliberate.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "... A drink, I mean."

And then—oh god—he chuckled.

An actual laugh left his lips, soft and deep, rumbling through the space between them.

"No, sweetheart," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers.

Her brain short-circuited.

AGAIN.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Wait. Wait. She wasn’t ready. No, maybe she was. No, she wasn’t. Or was she?

"I—uh—excuse me for a moment," she stammered, her words coming too fast, too messy. "I just need to go—"

To go where?

To check if she’d shaved? To look in the mirror and see if she looked okay? To remember what underwear she’d put on?

None of that mattered because she wasn’t going anywhere.

His tall, broad frame moved closer, closing the space between them until he was just inches away.

His eyes—god, his eyes—were locked on her with an intensity that made her stomach flip, her knees weak.

"Wait," she blurted, her voice a rushed mess. "Was this the wine? Is this why you ‘don’t handle it well’?"

His lips quirked into a small, almost amused smile.

"That’s one way to say it."

Her breath hitched. Her heart pounded against her ribs as his presence wrapped around her like a second skin.

She wasn’t going anywhere. Not now. Not when his entire body was leaning into hers, his heat, his scent, his everything pulling her under like a tide she didn’t want to escape.

Simon hadn't told her his age, not his story, not his intentions. Not even his last name.

He was a mystery, a locked box, and yet...

There was no rope to climb up here, no anchor to hold onto. There was just this. This big, electric, and intense thing that settled between them, threading through every stolen glance, every lingering moment of silence.

Waves of purple, waves of blue, crashing and coursing through her veins every time he stared at her. Every time his brows furrowed in thought, every time his lips made the slightest movement, like he was holding back a secret he refused to share.

And then, there it was again. Intense.

When his hand reached for hers, it wasn't what she'd expected. A man like him—so big, so strong, so stoic—shouldn’t have been capable of touching her like that.

Gentle. Purposeful.

His fingers curled around hers, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning.

She didn’t even realize she’d been holding her breath until he looked down, where their hands met, like he couldn’t believe what he was doing either.

And yet, it didn’t feel like he wanted to pull away.

It hit her then—hard. That little (no, enormous) feeling in her chest, something stirring in the hollow point she hadn’t even realized existed.

It wasn’t his eyes or his lips or his body leaning closer that made her feel like she was coming undone.

It was this. Him holding her hand.

It was intense in a way sex wasn’t supposed to be. Intimate in a way it shouldn’t have been for someone who, she thought, just wanted a physical moment.

But it wasn’t just physical, was it?

It was something else. Something raw, unspoken, and terrifying. Something that made the hollow ache in her chest feel full for the first time in what felt like forever.

"Are you going to kiss me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling at the edges like a fragile thread.

Her eyes—wide, searching—locked onto his, meeting brown, the heat of her stare refusing to back down, though it screamed vulnerability.

Are you, Riley?

Want to kiss the girl, do you?

Want to feel her lips, want to know she wants it, too?

No.

No, that wasn’t it.

He didn’t just want to kiss her.

It was awful, this craving, this ache, this yearn that clawed at him from the inside. This primal need for more, for something deeper, something that wasn’t fleeting or shallow.

It wasn’t just her lips he wanted to taste.

It was her. All of her.

And not just tonight. Not just in the haze of wine and electric stares. No, this was worse than that.

It was the want for the start of something. For safety in her presence, for the kind of silence that wasn’t suffocating but soothing. For the comfort of knowing she was there, even in the quiet moments.

For a future.

The word alone twisted in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar.

His gaze traced her in silence, betraying him as it lingered on the curve of her smile, the slope of her shoulders, the tremble in her fingers as they hovered near her sides.

Her eyes. Her legs.

Her laugh, her touch, her very existence.

Everything about her was a piece of something bigger, something to pick apart, to examine, to memorize.

And it crushed him.

That want, that need, set a weight on his chest so deep, so dark, it made it hard to breathe.

So fucking terrifying.

Her question lingered in the air between them, but all he could do was look at her like she was something precious he couldn’t risk breaking.

"Simon?" she whispered, tilting her head just enough to pull him from his thoughts.

He blinked, his jaw tightening as he inhaled sharply, the weight pressing deeper.

His voice came out low, rough.

"I don’t think I can stop at just a kiss."

The start of something.

This was it.

She knew it.

Even if he tore her heart into a thousand jagged, unrecognizable pieces, she knew. She wouldn’t be able to forget the rasp in his voice, the distinct smell of his truck—a sharp mix of faint cigars and worn-in cologne. She wouldn’t stop turning her head every time she saw another man in a hoodie, a cap, or a face mask, hoping, wishing, aching for it to be him.

Simon Riley had intoxicated her life, his presence laced with something she couldn’t purge, no matter how hard she tried.

It wasn’t romantic; it was corrosive.

And God, she wanted more.

"Why would you even think about stopping?" she whispered, voice barely holding steady as her gaze dropped to their still-entwined hands.

His thumb moved in slow circles against her skin.

How could a man whose hands had likely done unspeakable things—taken lives, committed horrors she couldn’t begin to comprehend—touch her so gently?

"Few things come to mind," he muttered, his tone gruff, guarded, but his touch never faltered.

"But you're not telling me," she teased, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Fuck.

Fuuuck, Riley.

He didn’t know what to do with that smile. It was dangerous. It unraveled him, stripped him bare.

When she laughed. When she smiled. When she breathed.

When she looked at him with those eyes, wide and filled with something fragile and trusting that he didn’t fucking deserve.

"It’d be easier to disappear," he admitted softly, his voice dropping lower. The words weren’t meant for her ears, but they slipped out anyway, betraying him.

Her head tilted slightly, her brow furrowing as if to question him, but he stopped her with his next words.

"I’m not tellin’ you anything that might push ya away."

Because he felt it.

The sinking ship they were on. He felt every creak and groan, every crack in the hull as they both willingly dragged it underwater.

And the worst part?

She didn’t.

She hadn’t noticed the weight pulling them down. Not yet.

But he had. And instead of running, instead of diving overboard, he stayed.

Because he was no good. He’d never been any good.

And he wasn’t starting now.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this, but I really wanted to post a new chapter heh. Whatever, I’m being exploited at work (kidding… well, maybe not… help).

TAG LIST: @sleep101 @all-by-myself98 @h0ney-mushroom @beelzebee @momowhoo @sheepdogchick3

[sacrednova]

To everyone waiting for the next chapter of Drive Me Home:

Yes, I’m working on the next chapters! 🖤 But no updates until the weekend—work has me in a frenzy right now. Thanks for your patience!

[sacrednova]

Through Statics | Simon "Ghost" Riley | Part 1.

Ghost!Simon, Fem!Reader. Read part 2 here. Summary: you moved into his house, but he wants to be alone, get the fuck off. (You won't) Warnings: Paranormal stuff, mentions of death, angst (not much).

This house is breathing.

Simon "Ghost" Riley had died. Yes, he did. At 36 years old, he was killed in his own home, surrounded by familiar walls that had witnessed countless memories and secrets. To the world, it seemed like a break-in gone wrong—"intruders" had silenced him in cold blood. But the truth was much darker. Ghost wasn’t just a soldier; he was a vault of dangerous knowledge. The higher-ups knew he had learned too much, and so they made sure he’d never share those secrets. He never stood a chance.

It was two years later when you moved into his old house, drawn to the strange vacancy that lingered around it. You needed a fresh start, something different, and this place, with its eerie quiet, called to you in a way you couldn’t explain. It was just an ordinary house, or so it seemed. But soon after settling in, little things began to feel off.

At first, it was just whispers on the wind, the kind that made you pause, thinking it might be your imagination. But the longer you stayed, the harder it was to ignore the creaks in the floorboards late at night, like someone pacing through the hallways. You found marks on the mirrors that you were sure weren’t there before, strange streaks as though a hand had touched them. Your breath would fog them up, but no matter how hard you scrubbed, the smudges stayed.

Some nights, as you lay in bed, you swore you heard footsteps just outside your door. Heavy ones. You’d grab the nearest object, heart pounding, rush to check, and find nothing. But the dread never left, clinging to the air like a warning.

You began to wonder—was this house haunted? Had someone died here? The real estate agent had been vague when you asked about the previous owner. A soldier, they said, nothing more. But now, standing in the dimly lit hallway, the sense of presence grew stronger.

A sudden thud echoed from upstairs, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Your heart raced as the reality dawned on you. Someone—or something—was still here.

But who?

And why hadn’t they left?

Static.

You had always known there was something different about you, a subtle ability you couldn’t quite name. Since you were a little girl, you saw things other people didn’t—shadows moving where they shouldn’t, whispers on the edge of your hearing. It wasn’t every day, but it happened often enough to feel like an unspoken truth you lived with. You never spoke about it to anyone, dismissing it as an overactive imagination. But here, in this house, everything was amplified. It was so much more.

The strange occurrences in the house kept escalating, each moment steeped in a feeling you couldn’t shake. The air seemed thicker, as if the walls themselves were holding secrets, waiting to be revealed. You'd wake up in the middle of the night, the silence almost too loud, filled with a heavy, suffocating energy.

The old radio on the kitchen counter had become particularly unsettling. It was an antique you’d brought from your previous home, something comforting about its nostalgic crackle and the feel of its worn buttons. But ever since you moved here, it had begun to act strangely, turning on by itself at odd hours, filling the room with a low hum of static.

At first, it was just white noise, faint and distant, but lately, the static seemed alive. There were nights when you would catch brief snippets, something resembling words hidden in the hiss. You would freeze, straining to hear, but the moment passed, leaving you wondering if you had imagined it.

Until one evening, it wasn’t your imagination anymore.

The house was still as you sat in the living room, flipping through a book but not really reading. The static from the radio hummed softly in the background. You’d grown used to it, a kind of eerie white noise that had almost become a companion. But this time, something changed. The static grew louder, sharper, as if the frequency was being tampered with. The low hum twisted into something darker, more intense.

And then, in the midst of the crackling, you heard it.

“G-get… out…”

The words were faint, broken, but unmistakable. Your blood ran cold. The radio, which had been nothing but an old, harmless relic, suddenly felt like a gateway to something far more sinister.

You walked to the kitchen and stared at it, your heart pounding in your chest, waiting to see if the voice would return.

But the radio only hissed softly, as if mocking your fear.

You leaned closer, hands trembling slightly, and switched it off. The silence that followed was unbearable, thick with an unspeakable tension. You weren’t alone in this house—something was here with you. And it wanted you out.

But you weren’t going anywhere.

You had always known you were different, and now, more than ever, you were beginning to understand why. This house had awoken something inside you, something that had been dormant for years. You could feel it, a deep connection to whatever lingered here, as if the house itself was calling to you.

But why? And what would happen if you didn’t leave?

Name?

Curiosity killed the cat. But there you were, fingers gliding across your laptop keyboard, eyes glued to the screen as you dug deeper into the history of the house. You had to know who had lived here before you, who had left this lingering presence behind. The nights were becoming unbearable—the footsteps, the whispers, the strange static that always seemed to carry a warning. There was a name tied to this place, a name no one had been willing to share with you.

Until tonight.

Finally, after hours of sifting through obscure articles and forgotten news reports, you found it. Simon "Ghost" Riley. A decorated soldier, a man with a past shrouded in mystery and violence. The more you read, the darker the story became. His death had been officially ruled a home invasion, but there were whispers of conspiracy, something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface. They said he had died here, in this very house. And now, so much about the strange occurrences began to make sense.

You swallowed, the weight of the name hanging in the air. Almost unconsciously, you said it out loud for the first time, as if testing its power.

“Simon Riley.”

The moment the words left your lips, the house reacted violently.

The radio in the corner—off, you were certain—suddenly roared to life, filling the room with deafening static. It was louder than ever before, like a thousand angry voices hissing at you all at once. You jumped, your heart slamming against your chest as the static grew aggressive, the air buzzing with an overwhelming pressure.

And then, the night itself seemed to close in on you. The room felt darker, heavier, as though an unseen force was pushing down on you from all sides. The shadows stretched longer, crawling up the walls like living things. The atmosphere was suffocating, thick with something you couldn't name.

You stumbled back toward your bed, seeking the safety of its familiar comfort. But as you sat down, trying to steady your shaking hands, the mattress shifted beneath you. Not just a subtle movement—pulled, as though something beneath the bed was trying to drag it away from the wall. The fabric creaked, and you froze, gripping the edge of the bed as your mind raced.

This was too much.

“Stop!” you shouted, your voice cracking. But the room didn’t listen. The radio’s static pulsed, growing louder, angrier. The mattress pulled again, more forcefully this time, as though some invisible hand was determined to make you feel its presence.

You were no stranger to strange things, but this—this was unlike anything you’d ever felt. The air itself seemed to press against your skin, cold and oppressive, as if the very house was closing in on you, threatening to swallow you whole.

Desperate, you scrambled to turn off the radio, your fingers fumbling with the knob. But no matter how much you twisted it, the static only grew louder, the relentless sound clawing at your nerves.

“Get out…”

The words were buried deep in the static, but they were there. Clearer now. More urgent.

Your breath came in shallow gasps as you backed away from the radio, your mind screaming for you to leave. But even as terror gripped you, something held you in place. A force stronger than fear. A need to know.

Simon Riley’s name hung in the air like a curse, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had awakened something when you said it. Something that had been waiting for you.

But whatever it was… it wasn’t finished with you yet.

His house.

Leaving wasn’t an option. Not after everything. This house—it was yours now. You had spent your savings, invested so much into making it your new beginning. You couldn’t just walk away because of a few unsettling events, even if they were enough to make your skin crawl. The fear gnawed at you, sure, but so did the defiance. The thought of running away felt too much like giving in to something unknown. And you hated the unknown.

So, you stayed.

And with every passing day, the strange occurrences continued. The static, the footsteps, the feeling of being watched—they persisted like a weight pressing down on you, but you weren’t going to let it win. You couldn’t keep ignoring it, though. Not anymore. The air in the house felt alive, heavy with something unsaid, and you had a hunch that if you wanted answers, you were going to have to start speaking to it.

Speaking to him.

At first, you felt ridiculous. You would walk through the house, muttering to the empty air like a madwoman. Little things, just to see if anything would respond. “Hello?” you’d ask as you brewed your morning coffee. “What do you want?” you’d say while folding laundry. And always, there was silence.

But the more you talked, the less foolish you felt. You sensed something listening, even if it didn’t answer right away. The static on the radio would flicker occasionally, faint noises that almost felt like a reply, though never enough to be sure.

The strange weight on your chest every night didn’t go away. The house was filled with tension, an unspoken presence, but you kept at it. Maybe it was the madness of it all, or maybe you were just too stubborn to give up. Either way, you couldn’t stop.

Then one night, everything changed.

You were lying in bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. The radio, which you’d learned to avoid turning on, sat on the nightstand like a silent sentinel, you didn't know why you kept it close to you, but you did. The room was dark, the air thick with that familiar, uneasy heaviness. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to ignore the sounds, the pressure.

But then, a loud burst of static filled the room.

You shot up, heart racing. The radio had turned on by itself again, its glow casting eerie shadows across the walls. The static wasn’t just random noise this time—it was deliberate, alive with a force you couldn’t explain. And then, through the crackling, you heard a voice.

“Just… want… be alo-… ne.”

The words were fragmented, broken by the static, but they were unmistakable. Your breath caught in your throat. This wasn’t the usual hiss or whisper. This was different. This was him.

“Simon?” you whispered, feeling a mix of terror and curiosity flood through you. The radio hissed again, the words struggling to break through.

“…Want… be… alone…”

You swallowed, your skin prickling with the weight of his presence. It was him—Ghost. Simon Riley. After all the silence, after all the waiting, he was finally speaking to you. No more "Get out". But what was he saying? Did he want you to leave? Was that what he meant?

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m not leaving. I won’t.” The fear was still there, gnawing at you, but your resolve was stronger. This house was yours now. And he was a part of it, whether either of you liked it or not.

The radio crackled again, but no more words came. The heavy, oppressive air in the room seemed to tighten around you, as though his presence was everywhere, watching, listening. You could feel it—his loneliness, his pain. It was buried deep in the walls, in the very bones of the house.

He didn’t want company. He didn’t want anyone here.

But you weren’t leaving.

You settled back against the pillows, your heartbeat slowly returning to normal, though your mind was far from calm. The radio fell silent once more, but now you knew the truth.

Simon Riley didn’t want to be disturbed. But somehow, you had become part of his world, and leaving wasn’t an option. Not for you. Not for him.

This house wasn’t just haunted. It was his.

And you weren’t sure what would happen next, but you had no intention of running away.

Our house.

"This can be our house," you said one day, speaking to the empty room as if he were just another person. Another living person. It felt strange at first, surreal even, but the more you talked to him, the more it seemed to work. The oppressive atmosphere in the house shifted, just slightly. As if Simon—Ghost—was beginning to listen.

There was no denying it now. He was here, still tethered to this place, his presence as real as the walls that enclosed you. And for some reason, your words were getting through to him.

It wasn’t immediate. At first, it felt like nothing had changed, but then, at night, when the house was at its stillest and the air the heaviest, he began to speak again. It wasn’t much—just a few words here and there, but enough. Enough for you to start knowing his voice.

His voice was deep, rough, as though every syllable was dragged through gravel before it reached you. He didn’t speak often, and when he did, it was clear that he wasn’t thrilled by your presence. His attitude was hard to miss—he wasn’t a friendly ghost, not by a long shot. But he wasn’t entirely hostile either.

Mostly, he just wanted you to stop poking around.

“Quiet…” he would mutter, his voice carrying through the static of the radio, sending shivers down your spine. “Too… loud…”

Or, “Less light… turn it off…”

It was clear: Ghost had rules. And you, it seemed, had broken most of them without realizing it. He liked the darkness, the quiet. The less you moved, the less you explored, the better. He didn’t want your questions or your curiosity. He wanted silence, shadows, and solitude.

But you were anything but quiet.

"Sorry, but I'm not that kind of girl," you whispered back with a faint smile, knowing full well he could hear you. You could almost feel him sigh in exasperation, a hint of tension rising in the air, but nothing violent. Nothing dangerous.

Still, it fascinated you, learning these little details about him. You were starting to get a sense of his personality, his boundaries. He wasn’t angry, not really—he was just… annoyed. Irritated, perhaps, by the fact that you were disrupting the world he had created here, the isolation he craved. He didn’t like the way you insisted on keeping the lights on, the way you asked so many questions, always wanting to know more.

But what struck you most was how human he still felt. Beneath the brooding presence and clipped words, there was a man with preferences, with a personality. He had been something more than just a soldier, more than just a ghost haunting his past.

And oh, what a man.

“Less nosy…” he growled one night, his voice crackling through the radio after you’d spent the day researching more about him. You laughed, half amused, half unnerved.

“Can’t help it,” you said aloud, settling into bed. “I’m curious about you.”

The radio hummed, but there was no reply this time. You had the feeling he wasn’t one for compliments, for conversation, or even acknowledgment. He just wanted things his way, wanted you to stop being so intrusive.

But you weren’t going to stop. Not yet, at least. His irritation felt almost like a game now, and though he pushed back, he never pushed hard enough to scare you off.

“Fine, I’ll dim the lights,” you finally conceded one night, turning the lamp beside your bed to its lowest setting. The room bathed in soft shadows, the way he seemed to prefer it. “But I’m not going anywhere, Ghost. This house is ours now.”

The air shifted, a low, almost imperceptible hum vibrating through the walls. He didn’t speak, but you could feel him there, watching, listening.

For the first time, you felt a strange comfort in his presence. He didn’t want you here. But maybe, just maybe, he was starting to accept that you weren’t going anywhere.

And neither was he.

Safe.

The first time you felt him, it was like nothing you had ever experienced. You had gotten used to the whispers, the static, the odd shifts in the air—but actual contact? That was something you never expected. Yet, it happened.

It was late, the house settled into its familiar, unsettling quiet. The soft hum of the radio filled the room, faint enough to become background noise, but ever-present, like a heartbeat. You were drifting, teetering between wakefulness and sleep, your mind hazy when you felt it—a touch.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. A cool pressure, right on top of your head, like the faintest brush of fingers or a soft breeze pushing down. It wasn’t warm like a human touch, not alive, but it was there. Cold and delicate, it felt more like air than flesh, but the sensation was unmistakable.

Your eyes snapped open, heart racing, and for a moment, you didn’t move. Frozen. You lay still, trying to make sense of what just happened. Every muscle in your body tensed, waiting for something more, some confirmation that you hadn’t dreamed it.

But there it was again. That gentle, almost imperceptible pressure, lingering just a little longer this time, pressing against your scalp. The coldness of it seeped into your skin, sending shivers down your spine. And despite the fear curling inside you, there was something… fascinating about it.

Simon could touch you.

It wasn’t warm, wasn’t comforting in the way a human hand would be, but it was real. He was real. That simple touch, fleeting as it was, felt like a revelation. A connection—one you hadn’t expected to feel. He wasn’t just a voice on the radio, or a shadow in the corner. He was more than that, more than just a presence haunting these walls.

But the realization also scared you, a sudden wave of cold dread filling the room. If he could touch you, even in that small way, what else could he do? The thought made your stomach knot with fear. You weren’t sure you wanted to find out.

And then, in the quiet that followed, the static grew louder again. His voice, raspy and fragmented, pushed through the crackle of the radio.

“Forgot… lock the doors…”

His words, slow and deliberate, cut through the air like a warning. You felt a chill crawl down your arms, goosebumps rising on your skin. Instinctively, you glanced toward the door, your heart hammering in your chest. The lock. Had you forgotten? You couldn’t remember. Your thoughts blurred together in the fog of half-sleep.

Before you could move, his voice spoke again, softer this time, almost… amused.

“Careless…”

The word hung in the air, cold and sharp, like a scolding whisper.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You felt vulnerable, exposed, like the walls were watching you, like he was watching you. But it wasn’t anger or malice you sensed from him. No, it was something else—something almost… familiar. The same way someone might reprimand a child for leaving the lights on or forgetting to close the fridge. That cold touch on your head lingered like an afterthought, and the meaning behind his words began to settle in your mind.

Simon wasn’t threatening you. He was watching over you. In his own strange, spectral way, he was protecting you.

And that realization was more unnerving than anything else.

Your fingers trembled as you slid out of bed, your bare feet touching the cool floor. You padded toward the door, the sense of his presence heavy behind you. As you reached the handle, you hesitated for a second before turning it—locked. You had remembered after all.

Still, the point was clear. He was testing you. Or maybe he was just reminding you that, in this house, nothing went unnoticed. Not by him.

You crawled back into bed, heart still racing, thoughts spinning. The room was still thick with the weight of his presence, but now you couldn’t shake the feeling that this house, this connection with Simon—it was evolving. What started as fear was slowly becoming something else.

You pulled the blankets up around your shoulders, sinking back into the pillows, your mind buzzing with the strangeness of it all. You were still scared, yes. But you were also intrigued, curious about this man who haunted your life in more ways than one.

And as you closed your eyes, his voice echoed faintly in the static once more.

“… safe.”

Apparition.

One night, everything felt different.

The air was heavier than usual, the familiar static of the radio silent. No footsteps, no whispers, no cold touch on your skin. Simon—the presence you had grown oddly used to—was quiet. Unnervingly quiet. You couldn’t place it, but something felt off. The house felt emptier, darker, as though he had withdrawn into the shadows, leaving you to fend for yourself in his absence.

That night, you had the most terrifying nightmare.

In your dream, a group of men barged into your home. Faces hidden by shadows, their movements quick and violent. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t speak. The fear hit you like a tidal wave, paralyzing your body as they advanced. In the dream, you fought—screaming, kicking, anything to protect yourself—but it wasn’t enough. Cold hands grabbed you, yanked you from the bed, and the flash of a blade was the last thing you saw before the world went dark.

You awoke with a gasp, your heart pounding, your skin clammy with sweat. For a moment, you weren’t sure if you were still dreaming. The fear was too real, too sharp. But then you saw him.

Standing in the doorway, a figure so tall, so broad, you couldn’t mistake it for anything else. A shadow, dark and hulking, its outline barely distinguishable in the dim light of the room. But you knew. You knew it was him.

“Simon…?” you whispered, your voice trembling. The shadow didn’t move, didn’t shift. You couldn’t see his face, just the dark mass of his form, but somehow, you could feel his gaze locked on you. Watching.

He didn’t respond. You blinked, trying to shake the fog of fear clouding your mind. And in that single moment of hesitation, he was gone.

The doorway was empty.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you sat there, staring at the spot where he had been, your pulse still racing from the nightmare. The silence was deafening, the room thick with an unspoken tension. You knew it had been him, but why had he appeared like that? Why now, after so many nights of just whispers and static?

Hours passed, and you couldn’t sleep. Your mind raced with questions, your heart unsettled by his sudden, eerie appearance. You kept replaying the nightmare in your head—the men, the violence, the cold finality of it all. And yet, somehow, you didn’t feel that kind of fear when you saw him.

The radio hummed softly, breaking the silence, and his voice—low, rough—finally came through.

“Scared you… apologize…”

His voice was softer than usual, almost hesitant. Sorry. The word lingered in the air, and for the first time, you realized something. He wasn’t a threat to you. Not in death, and probably not even in life. Whatever danger he carried with him, it wasn’t meant for you.

You took a deep breath, your fear settling into something more like curiosity. Slowly, you sat up, pulling the blanket around you. The shadows in the room no longer felt suffocating. You understood now—Simon had never meant to hurt you. He had just… forgotten, maybe. Forgotten what it was like to be with someone, to be close to anyone.

“He’s not here to harm me,” you whispered to yourself, the words feeling right.

But the question that had been burning in your mind for weeks finally broke free. You had to know.

“How did you die?”

The silence in the house deepened, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then you heard them—slow, deliberate footsteps echoing from the hallway outside your room. They sent a shiver down your spine, not out of fear, but out of anticipation.

The steps stopped just outside the door, and then you heard it. His voice, low and hollow, filled with a pain so deep you could feel it in your chest.

“…Betrayal.”

That single word cut through the air like a blade, sharp and cold, leaving a chill in its wake. You closed your eyes, letting it sink in. Betrayal. That’s how he had died. Not in some random home invasion, not in some anonymous act of violence. Someone—someone—had betrayed him. And it cost him everything.

The weight of that word hung over you, making your heart ache for this man who had suffered so much, even after death. He wasn’t just a ghost haunting your home. He was a man with a story, with a past full of wounds that had never healed.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper. “Who betrayed you, Simon?”

The radio crackled, but no words followed. Only the soft hum of static, and the slow, steady sound of his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

He wasn’t ready to tell you everything. Not yet.

But now, you knew enough to understand—this house, this haunting, was about more than just restless spirits. It was about Simon Riley, and the scars that still bound him to this world. Scars of betrayal, of loss, of a life cut short in the most painful way.

And you weren’t going to leave. Not until you knew the full story.

You need to leave me.

You had to do it. You couldn’t just keep going on like this, with half-answers and fleeting glimpses of shadows in the night. No more whispers through the static or cold touches in the dark. If Simon was truly here, then you needed to really talk to him. And not just with casual questions thrown into the air. You needed something more direct.

So you set the stage.

Candles. It seemed cliché, maybe even ridiculous, but in your gut, you felt like it might help. You placed them carefully around the room, their soft flickering light casting long shadows on the walls. The whole room felt different, like the air was humming with anticipation. You were nervous—terrified, even—but you were determined to push past the fear.

The night fell, the house cloaked in its usual quiet, but you could sense it. The weight of his presence pressed down on the room, like he was watching, waiting. This time, though, you weren’t going to be passive. This time, you were going to make him appear.

You sat on the edge of the couch, your heart hammering in your chest as you stared at the soft glow of the candles. You focused on the flame, on its steady flicker, trying to ground yourself in the moment.

"Simon," you whispered into the stillness, your voice steady, despite the anxiety gnawing at you. "I want to talk to you. Really talk."

The seconds dragged by, thick and heavy, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d made a mistake. If he wouldn’t come. Or worse—if he would, and this time, he wouldn’t be so forgiving.

But then, you felt it. The cold shift in the air, the subtle pressure that always preceded his presence. And there he was.

His tall figure emerged from the shadows, slow and deliberate, until he stood just at the edge of the room. He didn’t move like a living person, didn’t sway or shift with his steps. His movements were smooth, too smooth, like a ghost carried on the wind. He was tall, bigger than you remembered, and as he approached, your pulse quickened. He stopped right at the couch, standing above you, his presence overwhelming.

Then he sat.

Your breath hitched. The couch creaked under his weight, and he loomed there, his figure dark and imposing in the low light. You had to fight the urge to run, to hide under the covers like a scared child. Every instinct in your body screamed for you to flee, but you stayed. You had to.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He just sat there, like some silent sentinel, watching you with that unseen gaze. The air was thick with tension, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.

Finally, his voice came—low and rough, crackling through the static of the radio.

"You put some candles…" he said, his tone almost… amused. Like he was observing a quaint ritual, one that intrigued him more than it should have.

But it wasn’t his figure that spoke. The shadow on the couch didn’t move, didn’t react. It was still, perfectly still. Yet you could feel him there, could feel the weight of his attention, even though his voice came from the radio, distorted and distant as always.

And then you saw it—the mask.

In the dim light of the candles, the shadows shifted just enough for you to make it out. The mask that had haunted so many of your dreams, the one you’d seen glimpses of in military photos and war documentaries. It was iconic, a skull painted over the face, hollow eyes that stared out into nothingness.

You couldn’t see his face, not really. The darkness concealed him well. But that mask—its outline, its meaning—was unmistakable. He wasn’t just some nameless, faceless ghost. He was Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, and the man behind that mask was more than a simple spirit lost in the ether. He was something else. Something dangerous. Something broken.

But not to you. You knew that now.

"You’re really here," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. It wasn’t a question anymore. He had been there all along, lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting for you to get close enough to see him.

"Why do you stay?" you asked, your voice trembling despite yourself. "Why are you still here, Simon?"

The radio crackled, his voice rough and slow. "No… where else… to go."

Your heart ached at those words. He was trapped. Bound to this place, to this existence, because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. The weight of his loneliness pressed down on you, and for the first time, you realized just how deeply it affected him. The isolation, the silence. It was his prison.

"You have... somewhere to go, live... life, get out of here."

And through the noise of the static and your own heart, you knew that the reason he wanted you gone was because he believed, or knew, that you deserved a better place.

A better company, a real one.

|| Any suggestions for part two, or even new stories, are welcome! ||

|| Part two out now, read HERE ||

[sacrednova]

Drive me home | Simon "Ghost" Riley | 7

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. Contains fake screenshots with texts messages and calls!!!! Start reading from the beginning: Part 1 | Part 8

It wasn’t hard to talk to Simon—it was just… hard. But not in a bad way. It was the kind of hard that made her pause, choose her words, and really think about what she wanted to say. And honestly? That was kind of terrifying.

She had figured out one crucial detail, though: Simon Riley was a really good listener.

Not the kind of listening where someone just nodded along and threw in a polite “oh, really?” No, Simon listened like every word she said mattered. Like he was gathering pieces of her story, stitching them together in that quiet, focused way of his.

His brow would furrow when something didn’t quite click for him, and she’d catch herself explaining things in more detail just to smooth out that little wrinkle between his eyes. Other times, he’d give her a small, almost shy smile, lips pressed tight as though he was holding back. And when he did decide to speak—rare as it was—his sense of humor was… well, awful.

Dry, sarcastic, and so poorly timed that it made her laugh harder than it should have.

But the most important thing? His eyes.

They had never left hers.

It wasn’t just polite eye contact. It was deep, unwavering, intentional. Those warm, brown irises seemed to pull her in, like magnets designed to drag her under his surface. Every time she tried to look away—to collect herself, to focus on something less overwhelming—she’d find herself drawn back to him.

And in those moments, the noise of the bar, the clinking of glasses, the hum of conversation… all of it faded. It was just her and Simon, his gaze anchoring her to the spot, making her feel seen in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

It wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t just curiosity about the man behind the mask. It was something quieter, something deeper.

It was connection.

It had been a long time since she’d felt like this—so long, in fact, that she didn’t even know how to articulate it to herself.

Was there even a word for it? This warm, jittery, completely maddening sensation in her chest?

She didn’t know, but damn, she was into him.

Into every little thing about him—the way his voice wrapped around words like they were secrets meant only for her ears, the way he moved, so calculated yet effortless, as though every step was planned without trying to be. Even the way he drank his bourbon, the subtle way his lips pressed against the glass.

And that… that was terrifying.

Because the truth was, she didn’t know much about him. Not really.

God knows she’d tried. She had peppered him with questions earlier—little things about his day, what he liked, if he’d always been this serious—and he? He was as cold as a stone wall when anything remotely personal came up. It wasn’t rude, exactly, just… unyielding.

And there was no way in hell she’d push him. No. That wasn’t her. She wouldn’t pry, wouldn’t force him to share.

But it didn’t make it any less frustrating.

Because damn it, she wanted to keep him around.

Not just as the guy who drove me home that one crazy night. She wanted a second date. A third. A fourth. She wanted…

Shit.

She wanted him.

“What you thinkin’ so much?” His low, rumbling voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.

“What—huh? Me? Thinking? No, I mean—yes! I think, like, most people do, but—”

“Careful,” he murmured, his eyes sparking with amusement, “might bite ya tongue.”

The grin tugging at his lips was slight but devastating, sending heat straight to her cheeks.

And just like that, he had her spinning all over again.

She leaned back slightly in her seat, trying to steady the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Her nerves were rattling inside her like a thousand tiny earthquakes, but hell, she wasn’t about to let that show. She needed to feel confident—wanted to feel confident—not this shy, not this flustered. Not this… undone.

"I want a wine," she blurted, scanning the room for a waiter like her life depended on it.

Simon didn’t respond immediately, and the silence was deafening. She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of his stillness. "Everything's fine?" she asked, hesitantly.

His response came low and even, carrying a strange weight. "Not a big fan."

"Of wine?"

"…Can’t handle it well."

Her lips parted in a silent gasp, her mind racing. Oh. My. God. Was it bad that her immediate thought—her absolutely terrible thought—was to see him a little tipsy? Just a little? She could practically feel the wicked urge tugging at her. It was irresponsible. Immature.

And, apparently, irresistible.

"Maybe a cup won't hurt you, Simon," she said, trying to keep her tone light, teasing.

His eyes—those unrelenting, burning brown eyes—locked onto hers, and her heart stuttered. He didn’t move, didn’t shift. Just looked. And in that moment, she was sure of two things:

1: He knew exactly what she was doing. 2: He was going to make her pay for it.

"Hm. Really?"

The words were a challenge, laced with that unmistakable edge of his.

She swallowed, feeling her resolve waver. "…We can share a cup."

"Can we?"

"Yes?"

His head tilted slightly, assessing her like a predator deciding whether the hunt was worth it. Then he leaned back in his seat, the tiniest smirk pulling at his lips.

"Fine."

Fuck.

Her pulse raced, and she could already feel her cheeks burning again. What had she just done?

Simon wasn’t an impulsive man. He never let his feelings dictate his actions. Discipline was his armor; control was his weapon.

Until now.

Until her.

Her laugh still echoed faintly in his head, soft and teasing, like it had been etched there. And now this—this moment, this glass of wine—was tipping him over some edge he hadn’t realized he was standing on.

What the hell are you thinking, Riley?

The question circled his mind as he took another sip, the rich red liquid burning less than he remembered. Or maybe it was the heat in her gaze that dulled everything else. Her eyes stayed on him, shining like they held secrets he wanted to pry out. And her lips—soft, slightly parted, tinted just right—were driving him mad.

She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, a small, almost absent-minded gesture, and yet, it had him utterly fixated. Every move she made seemed calculated to undo him, and worse, he wasn’t sure if she even knew it.

Fuck, he wanted her.

He wanted her to want him, too.

"What time is it?" she asked, her voice dipping slightly, pulling his attention back to her lips.

"Late," he answered, the word coming out rougher than he intended. He didn’t bother looking at his watch; the time didn’t matter.

Her eyebrow arched, playful, daring him. "…Really, late?"

Sarcasm. Teasing. She was testing him, pulling at the string between them to see how tight it could stretch.

"Really late," he repeated, his voice quieter this time, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else but her.

And then it was just… there. That thick, invisible tension wrapping around them like a cord, pulling tighter with every shared glance, every stolen breath.

The air felt heavy, charged, like it could ignite if one of them moved an inch closer. Their bodies stayed still, a careful distance apart, but their eyes… their eyes refused to let go.

He didn’t blink, didn’t look away.

What’s next?

The question clawed at him, louder than his heartbeat, louder than reason.

His hands twitched, the slightest movement, as if they were ready to reach for her. To break the distance. To shatter the moment.

What do you want from her, Riley?

The thought settled in the pit of his stomach like a weight he wasn’t ready to carry.

Where do you want this to go?

The answer was right there, coiled in his chest, hot and undeniable.

Fuckin’ hell.

Simon had never been in this situation before. Well, not exactly this situation. Sure, he'd had his fair share of nights where things spiraled a little too far out of control, but this? Sitting across from her, her lips flushed from the wine, her laughter soft and too sweet, her hands resting on the table like an invitation? This was new.

He wasn’t in any condition to drive, and he knew it. The wine had gone straight to his head, his pulse pounding louder than reason. He was good at hiding it—so damn good at keeping his composure—but not tonight.

She caught it. Of course, she caught it.

His eyes betrayed him, breaking from her face to linger on her hands, tracing the curve of her knuckles as she fidgeted with her glass. They dipped lower, to her shoulders, her neck, the line of her collarbone disappearing beneath the fabric of her dress.

He cleared his throat, trying to reset, but she was staring back now, wide-eyed and flushed, and that damn tension was snapping tighter by the second.

"So… how are we getting home, huh?" Her voice wavered, but her smile stayed steady, teasing.

He blinked, his brain working slower than usual. Drive? Right. He wasn’t driving. Absolutely not. He wasn’t stupid enough to risk that, but… he also wasn’t ready to let this night end.

He pulled out his phone, fumbling slightly as he swiped at the screen. "Uber," he muttered, voice gravelly.

She laughed, a soft, almost nervous sound. "Oh, a real Uber this time? Not the personal one?"

He glanced up, catching her grin, and something in his chest tightened. "Don’t push it," he muttered, but his lips twitched just enough to betray him.

The Uber arrived quickly, and they stumbled out into the cool night air. Simon opened the door for her—always, always—his hand brushing her lower back as she climbed in.

She didn’t notice, not at first. She was busy pulling out her phone, probably texting Lottie or someone equally amused about the fact she was heading home with him. But then…

The driver’s voice broke the silence. "So, your address is…?"

Simon leaned forward, his voice steady but quieter now. "Hers."

Her head snapped up, her heart lurching so fast it hurt. "Wait, what?"

He didn’t even look at her, just leaned back against the seat, his arms crossed over his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"My house?" Her voice cracked, disbelief flooding her chest.

"You got a problem with tha'?"

Oh, her brain was short-circuiting now. "I—uh, no, it’s just…" Fucking shit, is he STAYING? Is he STAYING at my place?

Her heart hammered harder, racing into the kind of panic that wasn’t fear, but anticipation.

Shit, shit, shit. Did I shave?

Her eyes darted to him again, her cheeks flaming. He looked so calm, but she knew better. She could see the way his hands twitched, the way his gaze dipped to her legs for a fraction too long before darting back to the window.

She felt the warmth rise in her throat, a blend of nerves and something deeper, darker.

And then it hit her.

This wasn’t just about him staying. It wasn’t about whether she shaved, or whether she had fresh sheets, or if she had leftover takeout in the fridge to awkwardly offer him.

This was about the fact that he chose her.

And hell, if she wasn’t ready for it… but maybe that was the point.

Her house.

Her rules.

Her Simon.

She bit her lip, her mind spiraling, her pulse racing, and as the Uber sped down the empty streets, she decided… whatever happened next, she wasn’t holding back.

Her thumbs moved faster than her brain, texting Millie in a frenzy. The Uber wasn’t even halfway to her place, and already her head was spinning.

Her breathing quickened as she stared at her phone, waiting for Millie’s reply. A second felt like an eternity.

She glanced at Simon, who was sitting completely still, staring out the window like the world outside held all the answers. His shoulders were so broad, his jaw set, his hands resting on his thighs.

Oh fuck.

Cool? COOL? She wasn’t sure she knew what “cool” was anymore.

She stared at the screen, Millie’s rare display of actual best-friend-mode sincerity grounding her, if only slightly.

She sucked in a deep breath, clutching the phone like it was a lifeline.

She glanced at Simon again, and her pulse fluttered. He turned his head slightly, catching her in his peripheral. His eyes flicked down to her phone.

“You alright?”

Oh god. His voice. Deep and low, like he knew she was spiraling.

“Y-yeah! Just… texting Millie.”

“About me?”

Her face burned. “No!”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. He didn’t press further, but she saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

And just like that, her nerves flared again, but this time… she kind of liked it.

Tags ♥: @sleep101 @all-by-myself98 @h0ney-mushroom

Omg, next chapter.... next chapter.... (evil laugh)

[sacrednova]

Drive me home | Simon "Ghost" Riley | 6

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. Contains fake screenshots with texts messages and calls!!!! Start reading from the beginning: Part 1 | Part 7

It wasn’t like she wanted him, not exactly… It was the mystery, the curiosity of him—the man who never showed his face, who spoke in dry, single sentences that left her mind spinning. Tonight, would he take off the mask? Of course, he would, right? How would he even drink if he didn’t?

Stop overthinking, she reminded herself. She slid into her black dress and forced herself not to linger in front of the mirror. She didn’t want to pick herself apart tonight.

Then, at 11 p.m., her phone buzzed.

Heart racing, she bolted to the door, hands a little shaky as she turned the lock. Her legs felt numb as she stepped outside and saw his truck parked on the street, his door cracked open. And there he was—stepping out, a shadow in all black, face mask and cap concealing everything but those dark, piercing eyes. Does he ever take any of it off? she wondered, caught in a breath. But damn, even like that, he looked so good. It was all in his stare, in those brown eyes that seemed to look right through her.

She reached the truck, her pulse racing as he opened the door for her. And just like that, she melted a little. There was something so unfairly attractive about this tall, serious man with that effortless chivalry.

"Good night for a drink," he murmured, voice low and smooth.

“It is… a good night… for a drink.” What was that?! Her words fumbled, sounding ridiculous even to her own ears.

She could feel his gaze, steady and unphased. He didn’t comment, just nodded as she climbed in, settling into the seat. The truck felt like a world of its own, quiet and filled with the heavy, unspoken tension between them.

She felt the thrill of it all, of not knowing what the night would bring, and the unshakable feeling that maybe… just maybe… she wanted to be around him for more than one drink.

To Simon, having her there in the passenger seat felt… different. Not because she was a woman—that had happened plenty of times before. He was almost forty, after all. But it was how she looked at him, like his presence was something worth having around. Like she wanted him there, not just anyone.

He could feel it in every quick glance she stole at every red light, like she was hoping for him to say something, anything, to break the tension. But hell, he was as nervous as she was. Ridiculous, he thought, feeling like a rookie on his first deployment.

Get it together, Riley. He wasn’t some jittery teenager; he was a soldier trained to stay calm under pressure, to keep his emotions in check. But somehow, her quiet breaths, her shifting in the seat, and the faint sighs she let out felt louder than any battlefield.

Finally, at a red light, he gave in to the temptation. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick, blunt message to the one person who would probably laugh at him the most for this:

He hit send and glanced back at her, hoping she hadn’t noticed the message. Just sitting beside her, seeing her nervous fingers tapping at her dress, somehow made him realize just how much he wanted her to feel… good here.

Soap’s response came through quickly, just as Simon expected: a blend of teasing and actual advice.

Simon rolled his eyes, already regretting asking. But another message followed almost immediately:

Was he? Good at listening? Simon didn’t think so. Listening had always been a matter of survival, a skill honed for the field where every sound and word carried weight. It wasn’t about connecting—it was about completing the mission. But now, as he glanced at her while she nervously fiddled with the strap of her bag, he realized something unsettling. There was a reason to listen to her, though it was hard to name. It wasn’t tactical or practical. It was… something else. Something personal.

When they reached the bar, Simon parked the truck, stepped out, and moved to walk beside her. She started talking almost immediately, her voice animated as she explained how her friends would never agree to a place like this.

“They’d say it’s boring. Too quiet, not enough lights or—are you listening?”

Her voice snapped him back, her playful tone laced with curiosity.

Simon paused, glancing down at her as they walked. “No,” he admitted with a small shrug, his thick Manchester accent cutting through the cool air. “But I’m tryin’.”

Her expression flickered, amusement and a hint of insecurity mixing. “Am I boring you?”

“Not at all,” he replied, his voice steady. “You just distract me.”

“Distract you?” she echoed, her brows lifting slightly. Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, the color deepening as she smiled nervously. “How… how is that?”

Simon’s gaze softened, though his expression stayed firm. “I can’t take my eyes off ya,” he said simply.

Her breath hitched slightly, her eyes widening at his bluntness. She looked away for a second, brushing her hair behind her ear with trembling fingers, but the small, flustered smile that crept onto her lips didn’t escape his notice.

And damn, Simon thought, he could’ve stood there all night, just watching her get flustered like that.

They found a corner table, tucked away from the faint hum of conversation. The bar wasn’t loud—dim lights, wooden tables worn from years of use, the quiet clink of glasses. It was understated, grounded, like the man sitting across from her. He leaned back in his chair, broad shoulders almost too large for the small space, his dark hoodie blending into the shadows.

Simon hadn’t said much since they sat down, but she didn’t mind. The silence between them felt alive, charged with something unspoken. She fiddled with her glass, pretending not to stare at the way his gloved fingers tapped the table absently, his focus elsewhere. Or maybe not—maybe she was his focus, but he hid it behind that mask, the black fabric pulling tight over his jaw each time he shifted.

The waitress came and went, delivering their drinks with a polite nod. Bourbon, neat, for both of them. Typical, she thought, hiding her smile behind the rim of her glass. Strong, no fuss, and maybe a little bitter. Exactly what she imagined he'd order.

And then it happened.

He reached for his drink, long fingers curling around the glass, and pulled the mask down.

Her breath caught.

His features were… everything she hadn’t expected and exactly what she had. A strong nose that looked like it had taken a few punches over the years. A sharp jawline, scarred just enough to suggest a life she couldn’t even begin to imagine. His lips—pressed tight together, like even they weren’t ready to let her in—completed the picture.

And the scars. God, the scars. They weren’t grotesque or overwhelming. They were real, etched into his skin in a way that felt like history carved onto stone.

She stared, unable to help herself. And for a moment, she thought she should look away—shouldn’t she? But then he lifted the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip, his eyes flicking up to meet hers, heavy and unreadable.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. He could have any other face—softer features, smoother skin, a nose that had never been broken—and she’d still be so completely into him. It wasn’t just the way he looked. It was the way he was. The way he carried himself, like the world had thrown its worst at him and he’d stood tall anyway. The weight behind every glance, every word.

And maybe that was why she couldn’t tear her eyes away, not even when he set the glass down, licking his lips briefly, almost absently.

“What?” he asked, his voice low, rough around the edges like sandpaper.

She shook her head quickly, a small laugh escaping before she could stop it. “Nothing,” she said, though her chest felt tight, her pulse a steady drumbeat in her ears.

He didn’t believe her—she could tell by the way his gaze lingered. But he didn’t press.

Instead, he leaned back, one arm resting on the edge of the table, and said, “Good bourbon.”

And just like that, she knew. She was in trouble. So much trouble.

She picked up her phone the moment Simon leaned back, his eyes scanning the room like he wasn’t the center of her universe right now. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, her heart doing somersaults like she was seventeen again. What the hell was happening to her?

Quickly, she opened the chat with Lottie and fired off a string of frantic messages:

Lottie’s response was instant:

She set the phone down quickly, realizing Simon was watching her again, his head tilted slightly, like he was trying to figure her out.

“What are you texting about?” he asked, his voice even but carrying that low timbre that made her spine tingle.

“Nothing!” she said quickly, stuffing her phone back into her bag and gripping her glass like a lifeline. “Just… uh… girl stuff.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push. Instead, his focus shifted. “I want to know about you.”

The simplicity of the statement caught her off guard. There wasn’t a trace of pretense, no charm or manipulation. He just wanted to know.

“Oh,” she said, sitting up straighter. “Well, uh, where do I start?”

“Wherever you want,” he replied, leaning in just enough to let her know he was listening.

So, she talked. About her job, the friends who made her laugh, the ones who drove her crazy, how she loved a certain weather. She rambled, unsure if any of it mattered, but he nodded along, his eyes steady on her.

But then, curious, she shifted gears. “What about you?” she asked, leaning forward slightly. “What’s your favorite day? Do you even like the rain? Or are you one of those people who thinks it’s a hassle?”

His expression stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Lot of questions,” he said, voice low and clipped.

The change was immediate. She froze, words catching in her throat, the slight sharpness of his tone cutting through her like a cold wind.

“Oh,” she muttered, pulling back slightly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t say stop,” he interrupted, though his gaze flicked away, landing somewhere past her shoulder.

She blinked, uncertain of what to make of his sudden dryness. He wasn’t annoyed—not exactly. If anything, he seemed… guarded, like the spotlight had been turned on him and he wasn’t ready for it.

“I’m just not used to it,” he added, softer this time, almost like an apology.

Her chest ached a little at that. “Used to what?”

“People asking.”

The air between them grew heavier, more intimate somehow, and she couldn’t help but wonder how many walls he had built up, how many times he had pushed people away before they even got close.

“Well,” she said, keeping her voice light, “you’ll have to get used to it. Because I’m curious. And I ask a lot of questions.”

His lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner. “Figured that out already.”

This time, when he looked at her, it felt different—less guarded, more… something she couldn’t quite name. But whatever it was, it made her heart do that high school thing again, and she was so not prepared for it.

tags: @sleep101 @all-by-myself98

I'm incredibly busy right now—so much work and so many things going on in my little life. But despite all that, I'm really happy to have some time to write. Thank you for the feedback and for letting me know you're enjoying it; I truly appreciate it! ♥

[Part 7] ---->

[sacrednova]

Drive me home | Simon "Ghost" Riley | 5

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. Contains fake screenshots with texts messages and calls!!!! Start reading from the beginning: Part 1 | Part 6

Back to that night, (morning to him), Simon barely had time to process the call, dripping water onto the floor as he wrapped a towel around his waist. Her number flashed on the screen, but the voice on the other end wasn’t hers—it was one of her friends, slurring and calling him “Uber.” He was about to hang up, shake off this bizarre interruption to his night, when he heard her laugh in the background. It was a sound he hadn’t realized he missed.

And just like that, the memory flooded back—the way she had looked lying there in her bed, still half-dreaming, the way her hair spread across the pillow like some kind of halo. Her eyes, when they met his, had held something he couldn’t ignore, something that lingered long after he’d driven away that morning.

He closed his eyes, took a slow breath. Why was he even entertaining this? There was no denying it: he was interested, if only a little. But enough to look for her, to chase her? No, not exactly. Still, this was an opportunity, wasn’t it? A coincidence that didn’t require him to make any choices, just… to drive, to be there.

As he finished getting ready, he shot a quick text to Johnny, letting him know he’d be running late to base. Unsurprisingly, Johnny was quick to pick up on it.

Simon huffed at the message. He could practically hear Johnny’s smirk.

And with that, he slipped on a face mask, pulled a black cap low over his eyes, and buttoned up his uniform. He wasn’t about to make a habit of this—but one more night? That he could handle.

As he pulled up to the curb, he could already hear her friends talking—half-laughing, half-teasing. Their voices carried that messy excitement of a night spent a little too deep in the bottle, and he could hear his name on their lips, thrown around in a way that would have made most men’s egos soar. But when he saw her there, cheeks flushed, head ducked as her friends nudged her with conspiratorial glances, it felt… different. Pride crept up on him, sure, but it wasn’t the familiar, shallow kind he usually felt in these situations. She wasn’t just another face in a line of passing encounters, and the idea of seeing her as a one-night fling felt wrong. Somehow, he knew she’d never fit into that category, not for him.

Still, he felt the pull—the impulse to admire her, take in every detail, imagine the things he was barely allowing himself to think about. But more than that, he wanted to hear her talk, to get lost in the way she rambled and blushed, her boldness dipping in and out like a tide. It was maddening and frustrating, but even more, it was addictive.

“Right?” he thought to himself, as if needing the reassurance. I just want to hear her talk. Right?

Then again… maybe that wasn't all. He clenched his jaw, fighting off the surge of thoughts that threatened to pull him down a familiar path.

And when she slipped out of his truck, the look on her face settled like a weight in his chest—a fleeting disappointment, a shadow of hurt. He hadn’t meant it that way; he’d just been honest. He didn’t do well with calls, or texts, or… whatever this was supposed to be. Keeping distance was safer, for both of them. But somehow, seeing that expression made him feel like he’d fumbled it all.

Bloody hell, he thought, dragging a hand over his face. He was trying to keep things simple, keep his boundaries intact, avoid this tangled mess he knew he’d only ruin. But the second those words slipped out—“I like bourbon”—the guard he’d tried so hard to hold was gone.

Why did he say that? Why couldn’t he just let her leave with a clean goodbye? He should have known better. He did know better. But she’d left something unsteady in his mind, a tug he couldn’t shake. He wanted her close, yet something dark and heavy in him kept holding him back, whispering the same, cold refrain: You don’t deserve a good thing.

For a man who thrived on control, this was chaos. And maybe that was what scared him most—how badly he wanted her, despite everything that told him he shouldn’t.

He gripped the wheel tighter, jaw clenched, as if forcing himself to stay grounded could untangle his mind. Get it together, Riley. But her message kept replaying in his head, “It’s a date.”

His pulse jumped every time he thought about it, a strange thrill running under his skin that he couldn’t explain. Adrenaline was familiar—this wasn’t that. It was something sharper, laced with a damn feeling he’d barely let himself acknowledge. Anticipation, maybe. But did she actually mean a date with him? What did she see here, in a man like him, someone who came and went, who’d never had more to offer than a night or two and a silent exit?

He shook his head, almost laughing at himself. You’re thinking too far. But it nagged at him—some reckless part of him considering more than a single night, something deeper. Get a grip. He shouldn’t be thinking about seeing her again, about anything more. Yet somehow, the thought of something real with her felt like a dangerous promise, and he wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of letting her down… or of wanting it for himself.

The days that followed felt like a haze, each one blending into the next as if time itself had twisted around them. She was nearly losing her mind in disbelief, clutching her phone every so often just to make sure she hadn’t imagined their exchange. A date with him, she thought, her heart racing each time she saw that simple, blunt text: “It is.”

On the other end, Simon was in his worst mood all week. He’d been restless, short-tempered, and on edge—a state Soap noticed immediately. Every comment, every offhand remark seemed to hit him wrong, and the last thing he needed was Soap’s relentless needling.

Late Wednesday night, Simon had just returned from a brutal day—one that included nearly getting himself buried alive thanks to a reckless mission. As he tried to settle his mind, Soap’s text popped up.

Simon stared at the word, letting it sink in, and he felt that twinge again. “Ghosted me.”

It hit harder than it should have. He clenched his jaw, then tapped back a quick reply, unable to shake the memory of her voice, almost uncertain but trying to laugh off the sting when she’d said it.

Soap’s response came immediately, and Simon could almost hear his laugh through the screen.

Simon scowled, but the explanation hit home. He didn’t mean to disappear on her. He just… hadn’t known how to continue, how to deal with whatever was stirring up inside him. He was used to being here one day, gone the next—no strings, no complications.

But it was her voice, that small crack in it, that was stuck in his head. And something about the thought of her feeling hurt, thinking he’d just dismissed her, made his chest tighten with a strange guilt.

He shot another reply to Soap.

Simon stared at his phone, that unwanted little spark of irritation pricking at him. Soap had always had a knack for prying at the worst times. But this time, Simon didn’t answer. Instead, he sat there, his thumb hovering over the screen, his thoughts circling back to her words.

The days leading up to Friday felt like a fever dream. She couldn’t focus, her mind looping back to him at the worst times. She was texting Lottie about outfits all week, messaging in frantic bursts:

Lottie’s replies came just as fast:

And then Friday came. The second she opened her eyes, her stomach was tight with nerves. She was sweating through her day, fussing over every tiny detail, trying to push away the flustered feeling every time she thought about him. Why was she this worked up over a guy like him? He wasn’t anything like the men she usually went for, and honestly, he was a mystery—never showed his face, never even gave her the faintest hint that he might be interested. But… maybe, just maybe she’d missed the little signs he had given.

Because that thing about bourbon—was that a sign? And the fact that he actually drove her and her friends home that night?

Maybe, in his all-serious, closed-off way, he was giving her hints. And maybe, she just needed to be a little patient, to take things slow.

She wanted this. Wanted him. And maybe, against all her own warnings, she wanted it to be more than just one night.

By 19:00, she couldn’t take it anymore—she had to text him. Nerves made her fingers fly over her phone as she typed:

Before she could spiral any further, his reply came in, simple and to the point.

She bit her lip, eyes narrowing. Of course, he was that dry.

A pause, then his reply came back just as blunt.

God, he was so direct. So dry. And she couldn’t help it—she loved it.

Next [6]

@sleep101

I am posting this story on AO3 too; CLICK HERE TO SEE IT! (I always post here first)

[sacrednova]

Drive me home | Simon "Ghost" Riley | 4

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. Contains fake screenshots with texts messages and calls!!!! Start reading from the beginning: Part 1 | Part 5 --->

Simon was on his way. The same mysterious, masked man who’d ghosted her texts and made her heart race for weeks was now on his way to pick her up. She clutched her phone, trying to keep calm as her friends, despite barely standing, noticed her sudden panic.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lottie asked, steadying herself by holding onto her arm. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Her eyes darted away as she tried to brush it off. “Uh, it’s nothing. Just… kind of a weird story,” she muttered.

“Oh, hell no,” Alexa cut in, her eyes bright with alcohol and intrigue. “Out with it.”

With a sigh and a helpless shrug, she finally spilled the story, trying to keep her voice steady. “Remember last month? When I said I got a weird Uber ride?”

“Yeah, yeah, with the mask guy,” Lottie chimed in, barely containing a giggle. “Wait—that’s him?!”

“Uh… yeah,” she admitted, cheeks burning. “And when I tried to text him ‘hello’ like a week later, he just… never answered.”

“Girl, and you still have him in your contacts? Under ‘Simon personal uber’?” Alexa teased, snickering.

Her cheeks flushed. “Look, it was just an inside joke with myself! I didn’t think I’d ever need to actually call him again!”

Just then, a truck pulled up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dark street. She glanced over, her stomach doing a flip as she recognized it instantly. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

Lottie and Alexa, their grins wide and very tipsy, leaned close. “That’s him?” Lottie whispered, her voice barely containing her glee.

She nodded, feeling like her heart was about to launch out of her chest. “Yep… that’s him.”

Her friends dissolved into giggles, making absolutely no effort to hide it. Alexa poked her side and whispered, “You know, if you’re this flustered already, maybe you should just go for it. I mean, the masked Uber thing is kinda… hot?”

She shot her a glare, her cheeks heating even more. “Oh, my God, shut up!”

As Simon stepped out of his truck, she swallowed hard, wondering if the ground could just swallow her whole instead.

The universe was out to humiliate her, no doubt. Because instead of swallowing her whole, it had spat her out and stomped on her. There he was, standing tall and unreadable under the streetlight—a face mask covering his mouth, a black cap shadowing his eyes, and… a military uniform.

So that’s why he was awake at 5 a.m., she thought, her mind racing. Of course, he’s military. Everything about his stone-cold demeanor made perfect sense now.

“Oh, so you like soldiers now?” Lottie teased, not bothering to whisper.

Her heart dropped as she looked up and met his gaze. His stare was intense, focused directly on her like she was the only person there. And he’d definitely heard Lottie.

“Oh my god, shut up,” she hissed, trying to look anywhere but at him.

Millie, still a giggling mess, squinted up at him and muttered, “Uwber?”

Without missing a beat, Simon looked back down at her and answered, “Apparently.” His tone was deadpan, and she swore she caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes behind the mask.

And that was all he said. A quiet, towering presence, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably, all while his gaze stayed locked on her.

God, why was that so hot?

The next thing she knew, her friends were piling into Simon's truck like they owned it. Before she could even process it, they had her shoved into the passenger seat, wedged close to Simon with her heart thumping embarrassingly hard. Her friends, meanwhile, were giggling and whispering like they were at a sleepover, eyes sparkling with tipsy mischief.

And, of course, they had to try making him talk.

Lottie leaned over the seat, resting her chin on her hands with a sly grin. “So… Simon, was it? You’re, like, a real Uber driver, right?”

A long, deadpan silence. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, unamused. “…Sure.”

Alexa chimed in, barely holding back her laughter. “Do you always drive around with the hat and mask? Gotta say, it’s got… a certain vibe.”

He said nothing, just kept his hands on the wheel, looking painfully unfazed.

But then, of course, Millie had to deliver the ultimate question. In her slightly slurred, fearless way, she looked over at him and asked, “Aaaand wha’? Wha’s your type, Ssssimon?”

She wanted to die. She glared daggers at Millie, mouthing a very obvious FUCK YOU in all caps, while Millie only giggled harder.

A few seconds of silence stretched like a lifetime. But then, to her shock, he finally spoke.

“Reckless,” he said, eyes flicking just briefly in her direction.

The word hung in the air, heavy and almost taunting. Her cheeks flamed up, her mind spiraling. He went right back to focusing on the road, unreadable and quiet as ever.

Oh, God.

She was not the shy type. Never had been. But right then, with Simon’s gaze cutting through her, she felt her face heat up as if she’d never flirted a day in her life.

“Oh, you did the impossible, Simon! You made her blush!” Millie slurred from the back, grinning like she’d just won the lottery.

Millie, I swear, you’re dead to me.

Simon, to her surprise, looked even less amused, but he kept driving, eyes focused straight ahead, not saying another word. They went on like that, him in his silent concentration and her doing everything to avoid his stare, as he dropped Millie off first. Millie stumbled out with a wave and a sloppy “G’bye, Uber,” giving Simon a wink that he definitely ignored.

Next was Alexa, who leaned in for an exaggerated, tipsy goodbye, pressing a sloppy kiss on her cheek. “You’re the best,” she whispered, giggling as she stumbled out into the night.

Finally, it was just her, Simon, and Lottie, who hadn’t said a word in a while. The quiet was odd, especially for Lottie, who was never one to stay silent long.

Then Simon’s voice broke through the silence, calm but resolute. “She’s asleep.”

“What—oh. Right.” She twisted around and saw Lottie, slumped against the window, practically drooling.

“…You need to wake her up,” he said, his voice that same low, unamused rumble.

She blinked at him, feigning ignorance. “What?”

He exhaled, sounding downright annoyed. “Wake her up. Your friend. She’s asleep. Drooling on my window.”

Oh, for the love of— “Right, okay,” she mumbled, reaching back to shake Lottie awake.

Lottie stumbled out, muttering a half-asleep goodbye and thanks, barely making it through her front door. As she disappeared into her house, the truck lurched back into motion, and that dreaded silence settled in like an unwelcome guest.

Her heart pounded as she tried to string together any words that might cut through the heavy air. What do I say now? Do I thank him? Apologize? Do I tell him I’m sorry a thousand times?

She swallowed hard and started. “I… I didn’t know she called you. I thought she was calling an actual Uber.”

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice flat, eyes locked on the road.

“Like, honestly, it’s my fault anyway because… well, I still had you saved as ‘Simon Personal Uber.’ I know it’s stupid, I just… forgot to change it.” She bit her lip, wanting to say more, to explain away the joke. “I didn’t think we’d even talk again, so…”

He didn’t respond. She fidgeted, regretting every word coming out of her mouth.

“Because, you know… you ghosted me,” she finished, the words slipping out before she could stop herself.

She winced, instantly regretting it as the weight of his stare fell upon her, cutting through the dim light of the street. It was that same steady, unreadable stare she’d seen before, and now, with the truck idling at a red light, he turned to face her fully, eyes piercing and unyielding.

“I ghosted what?”

She froze, feeling her pulse quicken under his stare. Oh, God. Did I really just say that?

A rush of heat flooded her cheeks. “You… ghosted me?” Her voice barely a whisper, more question than statement now.

He held her gaze, the faintest glint of something amused flickering in his eyes. The light turned green, but he didn’t move.

Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but edged with something unreadable. “Guess that’s a new one for my book.”

A smile tugged at her lips, barely there, but real. And somehow, in the quiet that followed, she found herself feeling strangely comfortable.

The moment he started to drive again, she was laser-focused on her phone, her fingers tapping furiously as she composed a text to Millie:

She didn’t expect a reply since Millie was likely face-planted in her pillow, but that didn’t stop her. She spammed away.

She chuckled, shaking her head at her ridiculousness, but God, it felt good to let it out. A giddy, nervous energy buzzed through her.

And then, the truck rolled to a stop in front of her house. She glanced over at him, feeling his eyes on her, heavy and unwavering. That silence settled over them again, but this time, she knew she had to break it.

“I’m paying you,” she declared, trying to sound firm.

“No.”

She huffed, searching for a reason. “…Please?”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“The second time sounded like a question, love.”

Her heart skipped at that one word. Love? Had he actually just called her that? She could feel her cheeks heat up. What was happening to her? Since when did she get so flustered over a single word?

She fumbled, desperate to say something that wouldn’t sound completely ridiculous. “Just… let me… just the gas?”

He only shook his head, and she felt like she was grasping at straws, anything to keep this moment alive. She wanted to laugh it off, maybe tease him back, but nothing came. She was too focused on those eyes, the way they seemed to look straight through her, keeping her pinned in place.

Finally, she managed to blurt out, “I texted you.”

“Hm?” He looked at her, just slightly tilting his head.

“I texted you. You didn’t answer.” Her voice was softer now, almost apologetic. She wasn’t sure why she was even bringing this up; it wasn’t like she had any right to feel hurt over it. They’d barely even spoken, but still, it had stung.

“Wanted to talk about something?” he asked, his voice steady and unbothered.

She laughed nervously. “Maybe.”

“I don’t like texts.”

Her face fell. “…Should I have called you?”

“No.”

Damn. That one stung even more than she expected. She felt ridiculous, embarrassed for pushing the conversation this far. Idiot, idiot, she thought, mentally kicking herself as she opened the door to step out. “Right… shit, sorry.”

She turned, flashing him a weak smile as she stepped onto the curb. “Thanks. Sorry. Bye!” Her voice was high-pitched, her nerves showing through as she scrambled away. She felt a sting in her chest, like the silence he left her in had weight, pressing down on her.

But then, as she was halfway to her door, she heard him mutter, just loud enough to reach her: “…I like bourbon.”

She froze, turning around to look at him in disbelief. She could barely see his face in the dark truck, but that one line hung in the air, giving her just enough of a lifeline to feel like maybe—just maybe—she hadn’t embarrassed herself completely.

She could hardly contain herself as she watched his truck disappear down the road, and just like that, her phone was out. She juggled it in her hands, struggling to keep hold of it without dropping her keys and everything else she’d somehow managed to carry inside. Her fingers fumbled over the screen, but she didn’t care—she had one thing to say, and she typed it out without overthinking.

As soon as she hit send, she felt that familiar mix of nerves and excitement bubble up. She locked the door, kicked off her shoes, and stumbled through her evening routine, her heartbeat racing more from the message she’d just sent than the drinks she’d had. She’d just settled into bed, sighing as her body finally relaxed, when her phone buzzed.

Her eyes widened, barely believing he’d actually answered, and so quickly. She hadn’t even thought that far ahead, but the words sank in, full of promise.

A surge of thrill rushed through her, making her grin like an idiot. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, heart pounding.

She held her breath, not sure what he’d say, or if he’d say anything at all. But then, her screen lit up.

She sank back into her pillow, clutching her phone to her chest. That blunt, matter-of-fact reply shouldn’t have made her this giddy, but damn—straightforward men were just so hot.

NOT ME FINISHING MY SHIFT AND POSTING THIS PART EVEN AFTER I SAID I’D POST IT ON MONDAY. I just don’t know the word rest... anyways, love you all, really ♥

[sacrednova]

Drive me home | Simon "Ghost" Riley | 3

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. Contains fake screenshots with texts messages and calls!!!!

[Part 1 HERE] [PART 4 HERE]

Simon’s hands gripped the steering wheel as he drove in silence, his jaw clenched with irritation. What the hell was he thinking? Driving a stranger across town in the middle of the night wasn’t just stupid—it was downright reckless. He could feel her gaze drifting his way every few minutes, and every time he’d stare stubbornly ahead, hoping she'd just fall asleep. It wasn’t exactly the Uber experience she’d asked for, but he wasn’t exactly in the mood to play chauffeur.

Am I getting paid for this? he thought grumpily, then immediately dismissed it. No, he’d just refuse if she offered. If anything, he’d rather be rid of her sooner than later.

After what felt like ages, he finally pulled up to what looked like her house. But when he glanced over, he found her out cold, head tilted back, breathing deeply, even a little drool beginning to form at the corner of her mouth. Great, he thought with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his mask in frustration.

Just then, his phone buzzed with a message. It was Soap.

Simon sighed. This night was one for the books, and unfortunately for him, he had a feeling Johnny wouldn’t let him live it down anytime soon. He tucked his phone away and looked at her, still passed out and oblivious, snoring lightly. He rolled his eyes, suppressing an urge to shake her awake, but instead resigned himself to hauling her inside.

Simon slipped his phone into his pocket, staring at her slumped form in the passenger seat, deep in thought. How the hell am I supposed to wake her up? He was overthinking this, and that irritated him even more. So he just leaned closer, attempting to wake her with a low, gruff, “Hey.”

Nothing. He tried again, louder, “Hey.”

Still nothing.

He was practically shouting now, “HEY!”

She jolted awake, startled like she’d just survived some nightmare jumpscare, and he took a quick step back.

“Wha—why, who?” She looked around blearily before laughing, still clearly drunk, mumbling about the “crazy night” and how grateful she was for the ride, slipping into a ramble about the weirdo at the bar.

As she tried to climb out of the truck, she promptly tripped over her own feet and toppled forward. Of course, Simon thought with yet another sigh as he watched her crumble like a pile of bricks. This was already the eleventh time he’d sighed that night—or was it morning? A quick glance at the truck’s dashboard told him it was now 6 a.m.

He climbed out, trudging to her side, where he helped her up to her feet, noting how unstable she was. Her attempts to walk looked more like stumbles, each step making him clench his jaw. She was in no condition to get to her bed on her own. Finally, he made the executive decision—he just picked her up, carrying her to the door with a grunt.

She managed to wrestle the keys out, but her attempts at unlocking the door were painfully slow, so he took over, opening it swiftly. Then, with more patience than he felt, he carried her through the dark, unfamiliar place until he found her bedroom, placing her on the bed with a bit more care than he intended.

As he started to step back, he caught her looking at him—a look that held an intensity that, for just a second, made his mind spin. Her disheveled hair, the half-lidded gaze, the lingering scent of her perfume… It would’ve been easy to think, but—no. Absolutely not, he reminded himself, snapping back to reality.

“Quit those eyes,” he muttered, voice gruff, before heading toward the door, closing it quietly behind him.

He got back to his truck, slumping against the seat as he let out a groan. Heading to base, he shot Soap a quick message.

And with that, he started the engine, leaving her place in his rearview.

Weeks had passed since that night—weeks that somehow felt like months to her. The strange, grumpy “Uber” driver with the piercing eyes and the mask was still nagging at the back of her mind, even though they’d barely exchanged words. The morning after, she’d sent him a hesitant little hello there, thinking maybe it would turn into something…or at least give her some kind of closure for the weirdness. But he never replied.

The silence was maddening. She told herself she was moving on, letting it go. How could she even have a reason to hang on? It wasn’t like they knew each other—he was just a stranger who’d given her a ride, a stranger with a rough but somehow reassuring presence. Yet something kept replaying in her mind, like she had unfinished business with him. Her friends, laughing at her own expense, told her to get over it.

So when they suggested a girls’ night back at that same club, she figured why not. She’d just go out, dance, and drink until the mysterious stranger finally stopped haunting her thoughts. But then, of course, things spiraled.

Inside the packed club, one of her friends, who’d been treating vodka like a new food group, started to sway dangerously before collapsing in the bathroom. Her other friends weren’t much better off, clinging to her for balance and squinting like the lights were somehow offensive. She was just as tipsy, maybe a little less wobbly, but all things considered, she was the most sober one.

Finally, they stumbled outside for air, their laughter echoing in the night. Someone suggested, “Let’s share an Uber!”

“Oh hell yes, I’m not getting left alone out here again like last time!” she agreed, remembering far too well the creep factor of her last solo experience.

Millie, her best friend—the one who’d collapsed—perked up with a drunken giggle and lazily waved her hand. “Give me your phone,” one of her friends slurred. She handed it over, preoccupied with keeping Millie upright. After a minute, her friend handed her phone back, looking proud and announcing, “Got it! Uber’s on the way!”

When she looked down at her phone, her heart almost stopped.

She froze. “B-BITCH WHO DID YOU JUST CALL?”

Her friend blinked at her, thoroughly unfazed. “What do you mean? An Uber?”

“THIS IS NOT AN UBER!” she said, voice a mix of panic and disbelief.

“Well, whoever he is, he said he’s on his way,” her friend shrugged, totally oblivious to the fact that she’d just summoned the man who had ghosted her weeks ago.

Oh, shit.

[sacrednova]

Drive me home | Simon "Ghost" Riley | 2

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. Contains fake screenshots with texts messages and calls!!!!

Part 1 | Part 3

The morning light cut through her curtains like knives, sharp and merciless, forcing her awake. She groaned, clutching her head, the pounding echoing from her temples down to her teeth. A full-blown hangover. Memories from the night before drifted in hazy fragments—drinks, her friends laughing, a text… and then…

She bolted upright, clutching her blanket, a flash of masked eyes and a black truck suddenly flooding her mind. Her stomach dropped.

Did I really let a stranger in a mask drive me home?

She staggered to the kitchen, pouring coffee with shaking hands, and tossed back an ibuprofen, hoping it would chase away the remnants of her dizziness and… her embarrassment. But as she sipped her coffee, the fog lifted, and memories came tumbling back.

Oh, God. The texts. She remembered asking him to drive faster, pleading with him to hurry. And then… had he really helped her into bed?

She scrambled for her phone, her fingers trembling as she typed.

She sent the message, cringing as she relived every second of her clinginess and imagined his unimpressed, masked face watching her stumble around like a mess. A minute later, her phone buzzed with his reply.

The bluntness of it hit her like a slap. She stared at the screen, heat creeping up her cheeks. Reckless? It was probably true, but coming from a guy who looked like… well, like he did?

Because, now that she thought of it, he was big. Broad shoulders and a looming presence, a voice that had sounded just a little rough even over text… She couldn’t remember much, but she remembered that.

Had she imagined it, or had she actually been driven home by a grumpy, masked hero who might, just might, be the most intriguing stranger she’d ever met?

Fueled by a sudden burst of boldness—maybe leftover tipsiness or maybe just the thrill of mystery—she fired back another text.

The minutes ticked by in silence. Her screen stayed blank, his silence practically echoing in her hand. He either didn’t want to answer or found her question annoying. With a huff, she threw her phone aside and went about her day, determined to let it go.

But her thoughts kept circling back, replaying the memory of his silent, masked face and those few brief words in her text thread. She was somehow still thinking about it as she finally gave up and messaged her best friend.

She winced, biting her lip as her fingers flew over her keyboard, spilling out the details.

She blinked, chewing her lip, feeling that thrill rise again as she recalled his rough voice and the way he’d scolded her this morning for being “reckless.”

She laughed, brushing it off. But as she glanced back at her phone and that blank screen, she felt her heart skip a beat. A stranger with a mask and a black truck. And maybe—just maybe—she hadn’t seen the last of him.

She stared at the screen, blinking a few times as if her phone might be playing tricks on her.

Of course, her friend was right. It wasn’t like her to sit back and wait. Normally, she would’ve already sent him a second, third, maybe even a fifth text, just to see if he’d reply. But this time, there was something about him. Something that screamed take it slow, like a quiet warning in the back of her mind.

The idea of calling him, asking him out, was tempting, especially after all the teasing messages from her friend. But she wasn’t drunk anymore. She was sober, and that made all the difference. He was… different. The whole night had felt surreal, like a dream she wasn’t sure she wanted to dive back into just yet.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, uncertainty making her heart race. Maybe it was a sign that she should take a step back, give it time. Maybe.

And then, as if the universe was trying to tell her something, her phone buzzed in her hand.

The notification popped up.

Her breath caught. It was just one word. His name. No explanation, no question. Just Simon. She stared at the text, her thoughts scrambling for meaning. Was he mad? Had he been ignoring her on purpose? Was this some sort of... invitation to keep going?

She sat there for a moment, phone in hand, as her thoughts ran wild. What do I say?

But there it was, the name. Simple. Straightforward. And all at once, the walls she’d been building around her emotions started to crumble. Maybe she wasn’t the only one unsure about what had happened. Maybe he, too, had questions.

She took a deep breath, deciding to take things one step at a time. For now, she would reply. But cautiously.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but this time, she knew exactly what to say. She took a deep breath and started typing, choosing her words carefully, yet letting a hint of her usual humor shine through.

She hit send and immediately set her phone down, nervous laughter bubbling up as she replayed her words in her head. It was funny, sincere, and hopefully just enough to show him she wasn’t taking herself too seriously—but also that she wasn’t brushing off his help. She felt a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment swirling inside her, waiting, not knowing if he’d even reply.

Seconds dragged on, each one heightening her anticipation, but then—her phone buzzed.

She laughed, feeling a strange warmth at his message, despite the scolding tone she could practically hear in his words. He was blunt, yes, but he’d responded. She let her fingers dance over the keys again.

And just like that, a grin broke across her face.

With a little giggle, she changed his contact name and tossed her phone onto the couch beside her.

As she flopped down, staring up at the ceiling, she felt an unexpected rush of excitement bubbling up, like some teenager caught up in a silly crush. It was weird, she thought, the way one word, one text, could lift her mood like this.

Her cheeks warmed, and she let out a soft, embarrassed laugh at herself. What was it about this masked stranger that had her acting like this? She didn’t know, but for the first time in a long time, she let herself just enjoy the feeling.

[PART 3]

[sacrednova]

Drive me home | Simon "Ghost" Riley | 1

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. Contains fake screenshots with texts messages and calls!!!!

Next [2]

It hadn’t been a bad night—she danced, drank, laughed with her friends... But now, she was alone outside the club, searching for that Uber contact her friend had sent, fingers shaking as she tried to type the number correctly.

She nearly let out a dramatic little cry when she checked the time; it was freezing.

The vibrations of her phone in her hand came like a lifeline in the disorienting haze of neon lights, loud music, and a few too many cocktails. She blinked as a new text popped up from “Uber???” Well, that’s what she had saved him as anyway.

She squinted at the message, trying to process the details in her tipsy state. A mask? What kind of Uber driver wore a mask? She brushed it off, assuming he was just another eccentric in this city full of them. But a masked, mysterious stranger in a black truck? Right now, that sounded way better than the alley she was stuck in. Besides, she could take care of herself. Probably.

And then she saw it—a figure lurking across the street, watching her from the shadows, eyes flicking from her to his phone, and then back again. She swallowed, nerves prickling. She tried to ignore the feeling, but it lingered, crawling up her spine.

Suddenly, her fingers flew across the screen.

No reply.

She clenched her phone tighter, looking up and down the empty street, then glanced back at her screen. She could feel the rising urge to text him again and again, each message tinged with a touch more urgency.

Somewhere miles away, Simon glanced at his phone, his thumb hovering over the steering wheel. He’d put himself through hell and back in countless battlefields, facing down horrors most men would never imagine, but this? Being spammed by a random, drunk girl with a barrage of panicked messages? It was almost… comical.

What am I doing? he thought, irritation flickering under his mask. He was almost 40, practically ancient by some standards, and here he was, playing the knight in black armor for some stranger who probably didn’t even know her own last name right now.

Yet there he was, pressing down harder on the gas pedal.

The next text buzzed as he turned a corner.

The words ignited something in him, a familiar protective instinct that refused to let up. He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing as he watched the road blur past. When he’d agreed to pick her up, it was because he didn’t trust her to make it home in one piece. He could tell she’d been drinking, and he had no patience for the kinds of creeps that lingered around clubs at this hour. But now…now it felt like a mission.

The final turn brought her into view—a small, unsteady figure with her back against a wall, clutching her phone like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to safety. And standing just a few feet away from her was the guy. Tall, with a slick smile and hands shoved in his pockets, like he had all the time in the world to wait her out.

Simon’s truck screeched to a halt, the dark engine purring like a beast as he glared through the windshield. He didn’t even need to get out; the guy’s eyes widened the moment the headlights hit him, and he took a few steps back, muttering something before disappearing into the shadows.

Simon killed the engine and got out, his towering figure partially hidden by the black mask over his face, and for a second, she stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Uh…Uber?” she said with a drunken giggle, half-nervous, half-relieved.

“Get in,” he muttered, shooting her a look as he opened the passenger door.

She clambered in, her expression melting from shock into something warm, a little playful as she buckled herself up. “Mr. Uber Driver… you’re my hero,” she slurred.

He grunted, barely acknowledging her. “Text me like that again, and I might just leave you next time.”

She smiled, eyes heavy-lidded, safe and sound in the passenger seat of his big, black truck.

[This is a first part] [Part two here]

[sacrednova]

Still Missus Riley | Simon "Ghost" Riley.

Simon as a fem!reader's ex-husband:

Simon still remembers every little thing about her. He brings her favorite tea or coffee every week, showing up with groceries she might need, still knowing her schedule and preferences by heart. “Habit,” he’d say gruffly if she questioned him. But he doesn’t want to let go of that rhythm. It's his way of grounding himself, still feeling connected.

Despite the divorce, Simon continues to refer to her as Mrs. Riley—even if it’s to himself. To him, the vows they made still hold weight, and he doesn’t consider the divorce anything but a bad dream. He’s never missed a chance to let her know, “Still my wife,” if someone else tries to flirt with her. If she argues, he might mutter, “Divorce papers don’t change what’s in here,” tapping his chest.

Simon still feels deeply protective. If he senses someone hurting or disrespecting her—even if it’s someone she’s dating—he’ll make his presence known. He shows up to fix things around her apartment or steps in when he thinks someone is taking advantage of her. She might call it overbearing, but to him, it’s just his duty. And he doesn’t plan on giving it up.

When she’s feeling down, Simon has a way of just knowing. He still gives her space but drops by with dinner or a blanket on bad days. If she questions why, he shrugs and says, “Husband’s job, innit?” He’ll act as if it’s only natural, dismissing her protests like he can’t even hear them.

Seeing her with someone else stirs something dark in him. He acts cool and nonchalant on the surface, but she’ll catch the way he lingers around longer, watching her interactions. He might even drop a passive-aggressive comment like, “Hope he treats you right,” when he leaves, letting her know he’s still deeply invested, still hers.

Little pieces of her life still linger in his space. Maybe it’s her favorite mug, a scarf she forgot, or even the blanket he keeps around for when she’s cold. He doesn’t give them back, and she might notice they’re always ready for her whenever she drops by. It’s as if he’s building a small shrine to the life they shared, unable to let go of these reminders.

Occasionally, Simon slips, calling her “love” or “darling” like he used to. When she gives him a pointed look, he might grunt, brush it off, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. Even if they’re ���separated,” he’s emotionally anchored to her, and every time he has to pull away, it’s like leaving a part of himself behind. For Simon, she’ll always be Mrs. Riley—divorce or not.

He hates that he still loves her. Simon knows they’re divorced; he knows that he should respect her space, but he can’t help himself. He never stopped caring, never stopped thinking of her as his wife. Even if he’s quiet and reserved, the way his eyes soften when he sees her, the way he touches her shoulder for just a second too long, all give him away. He never voices it, but she knows, and he knows she knows.

Any man that even looks at her for more than two seconds gets that unblinking, icy stare. Simon isn’t subtle about it either. He’s not above scaring off guys who get a little too close for his liking, muttering to himself, “They don’t know you like I do. Don’t know what they’re asking for.” He even goes as far as tracking the ones she does talk to, and while he’s careful to not intrude, he’s fully prepared to step in if anyone oversteps the invisible boundaries he’s set around her.

[sacrednova]

Always a first | Simon "Ghost" Riley

Fem!Reader. Little thing I just wrote after being sick and trapped in a hospital hah.

He knew well—too damn well—that he shouldn’t have stayed the whole night. Should’ve left the second her breathing slowed, the second her hand went soft where it had clutched the fabric of his shirt. But he hadn’t. Instead, here he was, lying flat on his back, her arm slung over him, her leg draped across him, like he was some oversized pillow.

It was a trap—a warm, cozy, incredibly unfair trap—and hell if he didn’t like it.

He liked it more than he should. Way more than was safe or sensible. She was a stranger, after all, someone he barely knew. But he kept getting flashes of last night, the way she’d approached him, fearless, tugging him by his jacket sleeve, looking up at him with that mischievous grin. She’d asked him to come back to her place, kissed him like he was the first and last man she’d ever want to kiss. Sweet, slow, lingering in a way that felt almost… tender.

Tender. The word alone was enough to make his skin crawl. Simon didn’t do tender. He didn’t do soft. But somehow, she’d gotten under his skin.

She shifted slightly, mumbling in her sleep. Her face was peaceful, lips parted just a little, and—of course—he hadn’t slept a damn wink. He’d lain awake, listening to her gentle breaths, tracing her sleeping form with his gaze, battling the growing dread that he liked this way more than he should.

It was fine, right? Just a one-time thing. A fluke. Except—no, wait, it wasn’t fine. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t how he operated.

So why, when her eyes fluttered open, did he find himself murmuring, “Mornin’, luv,” like he’d said it a thousand times before? Why, instead of making up an excuse to slip out the door, did he sit up, letting her stretch lazily against him with a sleepy smile? And why, why did he follow her to the kitchen, nodding along as she poured coffee, chatting about her lazy neighbor, the broken hot water, her odd little quirks?

Hell.

He watched her, letting her voice fill the quiet as she went on, rambling about her day ahead, like it was perfectly normal for him to be sitting at her kitchen counter, listening to every word. There was something grounding about her, something… safe. It was unsettling, that feeling of being tethered, the warmth it stirred in his chest.

There’s always a first time, huh? he thought, swallowing against the growing lump in his throat.

Maybe he was making a mistake, staying just a little longer. But for once, he found he couldn’t make himself care.

[sacrednova]

ex-husband!simon who didn't understand boundaries after you both got divorced

because you were still his, whatever the law stated was completely false. they didn't know a thing for gods sake, he was still yours. he made that vow till death do we part and unless he somehow died and resurrected as someone else, he was going to make good on his word.

and it started out small, visiting the house every week when he had the chance to stock up on the food he'd know you'd forget. filling up your gas, keeping the spare key in his back pocket in case you ever needed him. you weren't too willing but who else was going to help you move those big packages? who else was going to mow the grass, change the bin bag help with the cleaning up after a dinner. yeah, he had his little flat downtown but he lived with you for years and he grew accustomed to that routine.

it quickly took a different turn however when he started noticing a new man coming by your place more and more often, eyes narrowed as his hands clenched over the wheel. he couldn't even think of another woman and you already had one touching your body? he immediately sent a picture to soap, one word text to analyse this man completely and thoroughly

he got a text back within a half hour with all the information he could ever have and more, right down to the type of porn this guy watch. a pretty thing like you couldn't certainly be with a guy like him, no you needed simon. he was your husband once upon a time, all he needed to do was fan the flames of your love once more. the embers were still there, burning deep inside. he was sure of it

ghost wasn't known to be subtle, action first and words later. he knocked thrice, briskly on the front door. looking around the neighbourhood before looking back at the door. your eyes in shock as you glance up at simon, not expecting him to be here

and of course he was there dressed in his usual black clothes, mask covering his face as his eyes settle down on you. sleeves rolled up, showing the scars from the countless missions he had been on and the black ink you spend endless mornings tracing waiting for him to wake up. all those feelings stirred deep in your gut and your brows furrow, taking a step back as you tried to speak

but you don't get to say a word, completely silenced when he enters your home. thick muscles caging you to the wall, coarse hands settling on your hips as he kicked the door shut behind him. his head tilts, an inch away from yours feeling his hands steady your body in the way he only knew.

"tryin to replace me already love?" he pulls his mask over his nose bridge and you falter, the soft scent of his musk and cologne floods your senses. it takes you back and you try not to make it too obvious how much you needed him, all those days that had gone past doing fine without him had started crumble

"what're you doin-" "taking what's mine" his finger tilts your head, trying to steal your breath and hold it hostage with his lips. feeling his tongue coax your lips open, demanding but so tender cradling your face. you were so caught up in the moment, you didn't see your new man come up from the living room. protesting as he reached for his phone

"i'll put a bullet right between your eyes before you even get to dial a number" simon's words were cool, tone harsh, brown eyes darkened behind his balaclava at the man who shakily stood there. he looked to you, confused and shocked but you could only look at simon blinking up at him mind spinning as you tried to catch your breath. parts of you were amused, he was still so easy to piss off even now. but disbelief and the soft flicker of affection coursed through your veins as you stood there beside him. his warmth reminding you of all those times you spend in his arms, hands stroking your skin, lips peppering the most sweetest kisses across your face

that was then, this was now you tried to remind yourself. you were divorced from him, there was nothing that was connecting the both of you. you had someone new, you broke up with simon for a reason

"now where did we leave off, sweetheart?" his thumb traces the slope of your cheekbone, right to your lower lip. lips pulled in the most softest smiles, you couldn't understand how gentle looked even when he threatened your new boyfriend with a gun. even when he barged into your home, even when he wanted to come back to your arms. discarding the divorce as if it meant nothing at all

another hand jolts you from the daydream and you feel simon stiffen, jaw clenched tightly as looks down at your other hand interlaced with the man trying to get you far

"c'mon lets go-" "get y'fuckin' hands off of my wife. now"

[sacrednova]

tag/send this to the people you are grateful for on this site. keep the game going, make someone’s day 🌈💖

YOU are the SWEETEST person I know here, so THIS GOES TO YOU TOO. I feel aggressively happy right now *sigh*

[sacrednova]

little wip over here!

So these days have been a little difficult for me, but hell, this man just can't leave my head. Maybe next week I'll finally be able to post my new work and Part 1 of the story that follows Through Statics.

If you're reading this, I love you. Everything is going to fall into place sooner or later.

[sacrednova]

Since I simp over a british fictional man, no matter what boys try to say to me in Spanish, it just doesn’t sound as good. I AM IN BIG TROUBLE.

a lot of personal stuff lately, but I need somewhere to cry about my life, srry.