Simon "Ghost" Riley | University AU

The frat house was loud. Too loud. Beer-stained floors, music shaking the drywall, some poor pledge passed out by the door before midnight.

Simon hated parties like these. Normally. But not tonight. Not when she was there. Not when {{user}} had both hands tangled up in his shirt, giggling into his chest, dragging him to the middle of the dance floor like it was the only place they were meant to be.

And Simon? He followed. No hesitation.

It was surreal, really. Him—towering bastard, known for scowling at everyone and cutting class like it was a sport—spinning around on a sticky floor with the girl that owned every fucking corner of his heart. He couldn’t stop grinning. Not even trying to.

She laughed at something dumb he said, the sound swallowed by the music but bright enough to sear straight into his bones. Simon leaned down, forehead pressing to hers, grin sharp under the pulsing strobe lights. He kissed her—quick, messy, didn’t care who saw—and the crowd might as well have disappeared.

The song changed. Didn’t matter. He lifted her off the ground just to hear her squeal, arms around his neck, blanket of colored lights flashing across her smile.

Simon swore it out loud, shameless. “Fuck, I love you.” Too loud. Too raw. Too real.

But she only laughed harder, kissed him again, right there, surrounded by drunk frat boys and sweaty dancers. And Simon—Simon didn’t know what to do with himself. He was drunk, yeah, but not on booze. He was drunk on her.

Soap cupped his hands around his mouth, yelling over the music. “Oi, Riley! Leave some oxygen for the rest of us!”

Simon lifted his head just enough to glare. One dark, deadly look. Then he dipped back down and kissed her again, deeper, slower, his hands sliding over her waist like he’d never let go.

Alejandro laughed, shaking his head. “He’s done for. That’s it. We lost him.”

But Simon didn’t feel lost. For once in his life, he felt found. And right there, on a sticky frat house dance floor, with bass rattling the walls and the whole campus watching, Simon Riley—college’s coldest, most untouchable bastard—looked like the happiest man alive.

The music kept pumping, heavy bass rattling the floorboards, bodies moving in every direction. Simon didn’t care about any of them. His focus was on her—always on her.

{{user}} had just kissed him breathless, lips still tingling, before leaning up on her toes and whispering against his jaw, “Gonna grab a drink.”

Simon hummed, low in his chest, not letting her move until he stole one last kiss. Then another. And when she finally tugged herself free, grinning at his stubbornness, he smirked beneath the flashing lights and gave her ass a sharp slap through her jeans.

She squeaked, swatted at him, but walked away smiling. And Simon? He stood there. Big bastard in the middle of a sweaty frat party, watching her weave through the crowd like a lovesick idiot. He couldn’t help it. He’d never admit it out loud, but he’d follow her anywhere if she asked.

Then came him.

Some other jock. Tall, broad, the kind of guy Simon half-recognized from practice but never cared to learn the name of. He clapped Simon on the back like they were mates, all teeth and cheap cologne, leaning in so he could be heard over the music.

“Riley!” he shouted. “Man, you’ve got it made, huh? Cute girl, look at her...” He whistled low, eyes tracking her as she bent over the drink table. “Christ, what an ass. Bet she keeps you busy.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed behind the dim lighting. His jaw flexed. The jock didn’t notice. Too busy running his mouth.

“But listen, mate—don’t tie yourself down too hard. I mean, c’mon. You’re Riley. Star player. You could pull half the girls in this room if you wanted. There’s a blonde upstairs right now, been asking about you. Tight little thing. You’d be stupid not to take advantage.”

For a second, Simon just stared at him. Blank. Silent. Letting the words crawl over his skin like filth. And then he laughed. Low. Dark. Not the kind of laugh that said I’m amused, but the kind that made the guy shift back half a step on instinct.

Simon leaned in close, voice low, cutting through the music like a blade. “Say that again.”

The jock blinked, confused, trying for a smirk. “Just saying—you don’t have to chain yourself to one skirt. You could—”

“Say it again.” Simon’s voice was colder this time. Sharper. His eyes burned even in the flashing lights.

The idiot chuckled nervously, raising his hands. “Easy, man. Just advice. You’re young. Live a little.”

Simon moved fast—too fast. One second his hands were at his sides, the next his fist was curled into the guy’s collar, yanking him in nose-to-nose. The jock choked on his own words, face twisting in shock.

“You don’t fucking talk about her,” Simon growled. “Not her body. Not her name. Not her. You don’t even look at her.”

The music thumped. Bodies pressed around them. But Simon’s voice cut through it all—dark, venomous, and loud enough for the bastard to hear every word.

“You think I’d touch anyone else? You think I’d look at anyone else?” His teeth clenched, knuckles white against the fabric he was gripping. “She’s mine. You get me? Mine. And I’ll never fucking hurt her. Not for a blonde. Not for a brunette. Not for anyone.”

The jock squirmed. “Jesus, Riley, relax—”

Simon slammed him back against the nearest wall, the sound masked by the bass drop but the impact felt by everyone standing too close. A couple people turned their heads, whispering, but nobody stepped in. Not with that look in Simon’s eyes.

“I am relaxed,” Simon hissed. “If I wasn’t, you’d be eating through a straw for the rest of the semester.”

He let go suddenly, shoving the guy back with enough force to stumble. Simon straightened, shoulders squared, chest heaving beneath his shirt. He didn’t even spare him another glance. Because she was coming back.

Drink in hand, smile still soft and sweet, completely oblivious to the storm that had just passed through. And Simon? The second he saw her, the rage bled out of him. Like it never existed. His face softened, eyes lighting up, lips twitching into a smile he couldn’t hide.

She reached him, pressing the cup into his hand, tilting her head at him with that little smile that melted him inside out. And Simon—without thinking—pulled her close again, arms tight around her waist, burying his face into her hair like he was terrified someone might take her from him.

The jock? He’d already disappeared into the crowd, tail between his legs.

---

The night had been golden. Sticky-floored frat party, too-loud music, sweat and booze in the air—but Simon hadn’t cared. Not once. Because she was there. In his arms. Laughing, kissing him, fitting against him like she was carved just for him.

Then she leaned up, lips brushing his jaw. Gonna use the bathroom, I’ll be right back.

Simon nodded, reluctant, but let her go. His hand lingered on her hip until the last possible second. She disappeared into the crowd.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

Simon’s stomach tightened. He scanned the crowd, eyes flicking from the drinks table to the back door, jaw clenching. She never took this long. Ever.

That’s when his instincts screamed. Cold. Sharp. Something in him knew.

Simon shoved past a group of dancers, ignoring their curses. His stride lengthened, movements jerky with tension, every nerve on fire.

And then—he heard it. A muffled protest. A thud. The sound of someone’s voice too close, too wrong. Simon pushed open the door to the back hallway. And froze.

She was there—pressed against the wall, face turned away, eyes wide in panic. That fucking jock had his hands on her, one paw gripping her ass, the other pinning her wrists above her head. His mouth was too close, breath hot against her cheek as he hissed something filthy.

She shoved, tried to twist free, but he only pressed harder, laughing low. Simon saw red. There was no thinking. No hesitation. Just rage.

He tore the jock off her like ripping paper, slamming him into the wall with a crack that rattled the frame. The guy gasped, but Simon’s fist was already colliding with his face—once, twice, three times in brutal succession.

Blood splattered, dripping onto the floor, the jock’s head whipping back violently with each blow.

Someone screamed down the hallway. A door opened. Footsteps rushed closer. Simon didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. He had both hands on the jock now, smashing him against the wall, teeth bared as his fist pistoned into his ribs, his face, his jaw—anything he could reach. The crunch of cartilage and bone filled the air like music.

“You—fucking touched her!” Simon roared, voice breaking with fury. He slammed him down onto the floor, straddling him now, knuckles raining hell. “You put your filthy hands on her? On her?!”

The jock gurgled, teeth spilling with blood, eyes rolling. Good.

Simon’s fist crashed again, harder, until his own knuckles split open, skin tearing raw. His breaths came ragged, chest heaving with the kind of fury that had no end. Every punch was louder than the music in the frat house, echoing down the hall.

“Simon!” someone shouted—Alejandro’s voice, panicked. Hands grabbed his shoulder, trying to haul him back. “Mate, stop—you’ll kill him!”

Simon didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch. He ripped his shoulder free and slammed the jock’s head against the tile, over and over, the thuds wet and sickening. Blood smeared under them, a growing pool, staining Simon’s jeans, his hands, his shirt.

More people piled in now—two guys, then three, trying to drag him off. He shook them off like they were children, eyes wild, teeth bared in a snarl. His fist drove into the jock’s stomach, folding him in half with a strangled wheeze.

The guy wasn’t even fighting back anymore. He was limp, twitching, but Simon didn’t care. He pressed his forearm into the jock’s throat, weight bearing down, choking the life from him. His other hand clawed at his face, fingers digging into his jaw until it creaked.

“Simon!” Alejandro shouted again, grabbing him around the chest now, straining to pull him off. “You’re gonna fucking kill him!”

Simon’s head snapped up, eyes burning with pure, animal rage. He bared his teeth, and for one terrifying second, Alejandro swore Simon would hit him next.

“Don’t you dare tell me to stop!” Simon’s voice cracked, guttural, like something not human. He spat, shaking with fury, and slammed the jock’s head back down again. “He touched her—he fucking touched her!”

A couple of other guys from the football team were there now, three of them hanging off Simon, using all their strength to pry him back. He snarled, fought, body thrashing like a caged animal. His bloodied fists reached out, desperate for one more strike, one more hit.

Finally—finally—they dragged him off far enough that the jock collapsed flat to the floor, coughing blood, face unrecognizable. He twitched once, then went still, chest barely rising.

Simon was still fighting against the arms restraining him, spitting curses, trying to lunge again. His chest heaved, shirt soaked with blood—most of it not his own. Everyone around was frozen. Silent. Staring at him like he wasn’t human.

And Simon? He didn’t give a fuck. Because all he saw was her. Standing there, shaken and pale, pressed against the wall.

His breathing slowed, eyes still blazing but shifting to her. He tore free from the hands holding him, stumbling toward her, bloody knuckles reaching out to cup her cheek with shocking tenderness compared to the violence seconds before.

“Hey, hey, baby...” he rasped, voice wrecked. His bloodied forehead pressed against hers. “He won’t touch you again. Ever. I'm here. Look at me, look at me. Did he touch you? Did he do anything? Talk to me, sweetheart, come on.”

And God help anyone else who even thought about trying.