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evisnotok · 11 hours

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Hey not to sound cheesy or anything but the way you have written the characters and issues in service dog Johnny has been so comforting to me as someone who's still learning how to heal. Thanks 💜

Thank you so much!! I'm obsessed tbh. Here's a little chapter of how they met.

Meet Cute🖤💖

Pairing: Simon Riley/Fem Reader Content Warnings: None Word Count: 2.7k

Service Dog Johnny Part 8 (full part list here)

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Riley. I just need three autographs from you, and then we can submit.”

The enormous man in the skull mask doesn’t acknowledge your cheery smile or your words, just drops his eyes to the stack of papers you’re holding out to him.

It’s not every day that you have to hunt down a signature from someone on base. Hell, it’s been months since you’ve stepped foot on anything military related, and this one is definitely a lot of firsts for you. The fact that there are actually people here who wear masks is brand new information, but you’ve managed to remain professional and concise, and in an hour you’ll be back at your normal desk in your normal office, where mysterious, hulking men are quite extinct.

Mr. Riley reaches to take the pen from your other hand, and because you’re a professional, you know exactly how to hold it to ensure no finger contact when it’s passed.

Except it falls.

You’re certain it wasn’t your fault. It was this geared-up machine of a man who somehow fumbled it, and you notice his subtle flinch as it clatters to the floor.

“Did you see that?” you remark in your best bimbo secretary voice, bending your knees to scoop it up. “Jumped right out of my hand, you’re lucky it didn’t get you.”

The masked man’s eyes are on you when you throw him a friendly smile and push the pen into his hand before rising. ‘No big deal,’ your eyes say. ‘No one noticed, not even me.’

Mr. Riley is evidently not a talker. He appears impatient to get back to whatever-it-is he does here, scrawling his name on the lines you’ve sticky-noted, and then handing the papers back to you.

“Appreciate it!” you supply, because he’s apparently not going to speak at all. “You should get a letter of confirmation within a month.”

Mr. Riley gives you a quick nod, and turns back the way he came, down the bland hallway, and you head back to the office, pondering the inner workings of the military.

_________________________

“His name’s Riley, huh?” your coworker muses, sipping the two little straws in her drink.

“Don’t,” you warn, keeping your face averted so that at least one of you won’t be rudely staring. “If he files a complaint about me, my ass is grass.”

You’re not typically a drinks kind of girl, but Laney begged you to come, said it would do you good after the breakup. You hadn’t expected there to be so many military men here, and you definitely hadn’t expected to see the masked guy again, this time with his face bare and not a piece of gear in sight.

“You’re sure it’s him?” Laney presses. “How would you even know?”

Inconspicuously you glance over once more, your gaze hovering on the angle of his wide shoulders and the size of the hand wrapped around his beer. You suppose there could be a chance it’s someone else, that someone with the exact same height and build and pattern of eye contact would also be working on the same base, but you sincerely doubt it.

“It’s him,” you decide, looking away when his head turns in a direction that encompasses the table you occupy.

“I bet he’s gay.” Laney says conspiratorially. “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy climbing him like a tree. I just never see him with anyone when they’re here, and believe me, I would have noticed.”

Laney was delighted to learn that her long-time, big dick daddy— her words— crush has a file with your company.

“Go give him your number,” you suggest. “You’ll find out real fast if he’s into women or not.”

“You’re right…” She taps her finger on the glass, considering. “I should. Not that you can’t take a shot at him. You’re just… you know. Basically still in a relationship.”

You open your mouth to protest, but close it again because she's right. It’s only been a couple of weeks since the breakup, and you need some time to find yourself again. Figure out what it is you want, what you’ve been doing wrong.

“I’m going to kill you if you’re wrong about his name,” she adds, getting to her feet and gulping down the last of her drink.

Now you’re starting to wish you’d kept your masked man story to yourself. It’s just that nothing interesting happens in your life, and you were excited to have something to share for once. “That’s a risk you’re going to have to take.”

Laney blinks, frowning like she’s just realized you could be setting all of this up to make a fool of her.

“Go on,” you laugh. “Get your big daddy dick or whatever. I’m ninety percent sure it’s him.”

Trying your best not to make Laney more conspicuous by watching, you turn your eyes towards the TV above the bar and pretend to watch UFC. You can’t imagine having Laney’s confidence, to just walk up to a group of strangers - military, at that - and ask one of them out. From the way her intended man acted when you met him a few days ago, you doubt he’ll say yes, but who knows. Maybe shy guys just need a little push.

“Hey, Riley,” you hear Laney say as she approaches, and you watch as five or six heads turn in her direction, including his. She leans her hip against their table, crossing her arms in a playful way and asks, “Are you gay?”

FUCK.

You are so fired. Goddammit, Laney!

The light-haired giant ignores the guffaws from his friends, and you swear his eyes flick over to you for a second before you hear his voice for the first time, a deep, accented, “Who’s asking?”

You wish you could melt into a puddle right here, disintegrate into nothing where you sit, because this is the most humiliating horror of a spectacle you can imagine. All you can do is stare wide eyed at the wreckage, covering your mouth with your hand as if you can take back every word you ever told her about him.

“I’m Laney,” she says, dropping to put her elbows on the table, propping her face in her hands. “And I think you’re really cute, and I wondered if you’d arm wrestle me for a drink.”

Oh, god, not the arm wrestle. She usually gets a little more hammered before she pulls that one out. She must really want him.

Mr. Riley’s friends seem wildly entertained, as men typically are by the offer. Laney certainly doesn’t strike one as an arm wrestling champ kind of girl, so the outcome is obvious even before it starts. The gag, of course, is that she leans over and steals a quick kiss as soon as a hand inevitably hits the table. She wins either way.

“If you win,” her man says slowly, ignoring the encouragement from his friends, “I buy you a drink? And if I win?”

As if he’s not packing fucking volleyballs on each arm, tightening the fabric even in long sleeves.

“If you win, you don’t have to give me your number.” Laney says it like an innuendo, swaying her ass a little.

There’s no winning for him, though. She backed him into a corner, beginning with the accusation about his sexuality. He can’t turn down an arm wrestle with a cute girl, not in front of his peers.

Mr. Riley folds his arms and looks at her for a moment, considering.

“I’ll do her,” he decides, inexplicably dipping his head in the direction of your table.

To your absolute horror, every one of them turns to look at you, including an irritated Laney.

This is your punishment for revealing his name, you know it is. You deserve the heat exploding in your face, the ringing in your ears at being put on the spot like this. You’re not Laney, you can’t handle this kind of pressure. Everything suddenly sounds like it’s underwater, as your pen-dropper holds your terrified gaze.

Laney forces a laugh, foiled at her own game. “What, if she wins, you buy me a drink?”

“Sounds about right.”

He stands up, carefully pushing his chair back into the table before heading in your direction.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Your brain quickly estimates the time you have remaining, and how long it would take you to sprint for the exit. You can just, never come back here again. Even better, just stay home for like a year and don’t show your face in any bars or restaurants, to ensure you never accidentally run into him.

Frozen, you lock eyes with the enormous man as he approaches, silently pleading with him to change his mind and let Laney have at him instead. She’s a little much, but she’s not that bad, and he’d probably enjoy the attention. It would look good to his friends, to have her hanging on his arm for the night.

Or maybe he is gay. Maybe this is his way of seeking out the lesser evil, the girl who doesn’t seem inclined to push herself on him, as a middle ground to save face.

He does that quiet exhale as he takes the seat across from you, as big men tend to do when they settle somewhere.

“Hi,” you croak, nervously folding your hands in your lap.

He merely slides Laney’s glass out of the way, dark eyes assessing you as he places his elbow on the table and raises that fucking paw in the air. “What’s your name?”

You stammer it out, trying to take in the faint scars on his face without actually appearing to notice them. Your chest constricts with the urge to apologize for all this, but everyone else has filtered over to your table holding their beers, and you don’t want to throw Laney under the bus.

You hesitantly put your elbow on the table, so flustered that you’re second guessing if it’s even the correct arm.

“Name’s Simon,” he murmurs, lowering his hand so it’s a more comfortable angle for you.

You slip your palm into the warm concave of his, meeting his unreadable eyes. “I remember.”

A flicker of surprise tweaks his brows, like he hadn’t expected you to recognize him without the mask. He grasps your hand, solid but gentle, shifting his calloused palm to fit you snug into him.

“Alright, get me that drink!” Laney’s voice sounds a little strained, because she knows it’s useless at this point. This guy is about to slam your knuckles to China, and then go on about his evening. You wonder vaguely where he’s from, and if they have different rules for arm wrestling which you don’t know about. Surely it’s all the same.

“On three,” his friend says from somewhere off to the side, and you lock eyes with Simon Riley, your chest rising and falling with your rapid breathing. The friend’s voice is full of laughter, knowing as you do how this is about to go down. You should be bracing for it, should tense up your muscles to give it a little effort, at least.

“One.”

Simon seems somehow both older and younger than you imagined. There’s a little bit of eyeblack still smudged into his lashes, giving him a bit of a sultry appearance that you hadn’t noticed before. His steady gaze makes your belly feel funny, like he’s silently communicating something to you, but it’s in a language you don’t understand.

“Two.”

He’s trapped here just as surely as you are, bound by the unspoken rules of society. He was just minding his own business, trying to relax after a long day, and now he’s sucked into this shit, dragging you with him. You decide it in that suspended, half second of time: You won’t play. You’ll let him cream you as rough or as gentle as he decides, but you have no interest in being dragged into Laney’s games of coercion.

“Three.”

Nothing.

No one moves.

Neither you or Simon even flinch, just continue to stare like that into each other’s eyes, each of you waiting for the other to win as you hold this ridiculous pose.

Was he really going to let you push his massive arm to the table, and be forced to buy Laney a drink? Wouldn’t he find that humiliating? Or maybe that’s the funny part, like it’s actually a poke at you, how he gives you a cheap victory. Either way it goes, you lose in some way. You both do.

Except you’re not losing right now, because nothing’s happening. Simon’s eyes float down to your hand, your little fingers wrapped around his scarred skin, and then back up to your face.

“C’mon,” Laney whines. “You’re not even trying.”

True. You’re both relaxed as fuck, and you swear the hint of a smile is playing in his eyes, as he tilts his head slightly, game recognizing game.

That’s when you feel it, that warm spread of honey through your midsection, so different from the anxious butterflies you usually feel when you get a crush. It’s smooth and peaceful, like your heart is being propped up on a soft bed of warm, brown eyes.

“Tie,” his friend decides. “Double forfeit.”

You let out a relieved sigh, but before you can fully slide your hand out of his, Simon catches your fingers. His other hand has materialized on your wrist, expertly finding your pulse point with a fingertip pressed to that rapid thrum of blood under your skin. Your lips part with a surprised inhale, but before you can process the feeling, he’s already releasing you.

That giant man stands up, gives Laney a nod, and retrieves his beer from the friend who brought it over.

“I can’t believe you did that to me,” Laney hisses when they’ve gone back to their table. “It was humiliating.”

“Yeah.” You press a hand to your hot face, still confused. “I think he just wanted to be left alone.”

“Whatever.”

Maybe it makes you the worst wingman ever, but you don’t feel a speck of guilt for how that went down. It’s not like you sabotaged her, you just refused to enable her. It’s not your fault that man doesn’t want her. Doesn’t want either of you, you correct yourself.

Simon’s not looking in your direction, but you can feel the ghost of his attention somehow, making you feel scrutinized and out of place here. You haven’t felt in place in so long, it’s like an ache in your chest. There’s literally nowhere you can go that will feel like you belong there, just your half empty apartment, and your newly broken TV.

“I’m going home,” you tell your coworker, standing up and gathering your things. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

But then you freeze when you realize the men are doing the same thing. Maybe they have an early morning. You were too caught up in your thoughts to notice their beer dwindling

“Nevermind.” You sink back into your chair and Laney gives that look of kinship. Even as pissed as she is, she wouldn’t encourage you to leave ahead of a group of men.

“Wait, I’ll be right back,” she chirps unexpectedly, and to your absolute amazement she heads back over to the guys, making a beeline for Simon.

Has she not taken enough of a beating on that one? It’s like watching a car get rear ended, only to put it in the path of a speeding semi.

Simon’s donning his jacket, but he frowns and bends his head slightly when Laney comes up close, and they have an exchange you can’t hear. You can’t see anything with the way they’re standing, so you just sit there in bewilderment for a minute until the guys finally head for the door, and Laney skips back to you with a bright smile.

“Got it! At least one of us will get to climb the daddy tree.”

She proudly presents you with Simon’s number, scrawled in blue pen on her palm. And there, below it:

“You have lovely eyes”

“Laney!” you protest.

“You’re going to go out with him, and get over that wall-punching loser, and you’re going to tell me all about it.”

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