copper sutures, open wounds

Simon Riley x Reader

You've always belonged to each other even when you weren't sure what it meant. 

Back when you'd shove clumsy fingers into your panties after he'd call, uttering awful, terrible, heart-aching things like been thinkin' 'bout you, pup and fuck, can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, pup.

Words meant for the ears of a lover, not you.

But the lines between the two have never been parallel, have they? Even when he was just an idea tucked inside gyri. A stranger that weaved in and out of your life: a haunting spectre on the edges of your periphery. Intangible. Each one an inchoate pin added along a growing, nebulous surface; pointillism in hindsight. The evolution of semelparity. 

He's yours and that's all you've ever known. The rest just doesn't matter.

OR: two people who were probably lovers in a past life end up as siblings in this one. except. it doesn't really change much.

imagine you’re dating ghost and no one knows. the two of you have kept it a secret on your end and his just for your protection— because ghost knows what could happen if someone finds out, how someone might try and target you to get to him, or worse, given his line of work.

but then imagine that he’s on a mission, interrogating some piece of filth ready to decorate the fucking wall with his brain matter when the guy says “you know what, simon, killing me would be the biggest mistake of your life.”

immediately ghost would pause, eyes narrowed, though his hardened demeanour wouldn’t fade much, he’d just blankly stare at the prick like “oh yea? n’ why don’ you tell m’ why.”

the shit-eating grin that would crawl across that fuckers lips would have ghost ready to kill him right then and there, but then he’d say “reach in my pocket. pull out my phone.”

id like to think ghost would have absolutely none of this assholes bullshit, not at all entertained by his theatrics. i’d like to think he’d just press the muzzle of his gun to the fuckers temple within an instant, all teeth barred and ready to get it over with when the guy would add,

“your girlfriend is a fucking beauty, isn’t she?”

everything would pause. ghost, time, the world, air, the universe itself—the life that would drain from ghosts face would almost be enough to make his alias a reality. his heart pounding in his throat, his fingers fucking trembling as he immediately reached into the assholes pocket to find his phone—a picture of a woman tied up (face not in view however) lighting up on the home screen. there’d be no thinking rationally, no thoughts in ghosts head except for making sure you were fucking okay. he’d do whatever he’d have to do, kill the guy, leave him strapped there, whatever—he’d be out of that room in two seconds flat and personally flying the helicopter back to your house calling you nonstop every fucking second until you answered.