Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Simon Riley had built an empire online.

The face mask, the deep voice, the clipped sarcasm—he was untouchable. Everyone knew him: “Ghost.” The biggest streamer in the scene. He could rage at sweaty lobbies, drop half the server in Warzone, and still make millions laugh with one muttered insult or dry comment.

But right now?

Right now, Ghost wasn’t a menace. He wasn’t a pro. He wasn’t even focused on the game. He was ruined.

“Alright, lads, we’re takin’ a break from this,” Simon muttered into his mic, leaning back in his chair. The familiar creak filled the room as his gloved hand reached for his mouse. “There’s... somethin’ I’ve gotta check out.”

His chat exploded instantly.

CHAT: oh god what is it now

CHAT: did mommy post??

CHAT: NEW PICTURES NEW PICTURES

CHAT: SIMP MODE ACTIVATED

Simon grunted, trying to keep his voice flat, but his ears were already burning under the headset. “Shut it. You lot don’t know what you’re on about.”

But of course, they did. They always did. Because when {{user}}—global celebrity, actress, model, dream-girl-of-half-the-world—posted anything online? Ghost always “accidentally” ended up reacting to it on stream.

And today? She’d dropped a new photo booth set on Instagram.

When the page loaded onto his second monitor, Simon actually froze. Genuinely forgot to breathe for a solid five seconds.

“...bloody hell.”

His voice came out low, strangled, like gravel dragged over asphalt. The photos were innocent enough—her laughing, pulling faces, leaning into the camera with that glow that made the rest of the world dull by comparison. But to him? It might as well have been lethal.

“Look at her.” He didn’t even mean to say it out loud. His head tilted, mask slipping just slightly as if he was trying to get closer to the screen. “She’s... fuck, she’s somethin’ else.”

The chat exploded.

CHAT: WE GOT HIM BOYS

CHAT: SIMON YOU’RE GONE BRO

CHAT: LOOK AT HIM LOOK AT HIM

CHAT: streamer melts live on camera

Simon dragged a hand down his face, groaning into his mic. “Don’t clip this. I swear, don’t—”

Too late. The little red CLIP CREATED notification popped up in the corner of his chat. A hundred more followed.

“Bastards,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair again, arms folded, like that could protect him. It didn’t.

His gaze kept darting back to the pictures, jaw tightening, leg bouncing under the desk like he was burning with nervous energy.

“She doesn’t even know I exist,” he finally said, quieter, almost to himself. The honesty slipped out before he could stop it. “Not really. Not like this.”

But then one of the photos flashed across his monitor again—her smile, wide and real, the kind of smile that felt like it cracked open a whole new world. Simon groaned, threw his head back against his chair, and laughed helplessly, low and rough.

“Christ almighty, I’m done for.” Simon dragged his mask higher, rubbing at his face like that could hide the flush in his ears.

Simon was still staring at {{user}}’s photo booth set like a man in pain. His chat was rolling a mile a minute, full of “simp,” “whipped,” and endless rows of clown emojis. He ignored them, muttering something low under his breath about her smile when—

His chat shifted.

CHAT: OMG WATCH THE CLIP WATCH THE CLIP

CHAT: SIMON PLAY THIS NOW!!

CHAT: HOLY SHIT SHE MENTIONED YOU

CHAT: SHE KNOWS YOU EXIST

CHAT: PAPA GHOST CHECK THE LINK

Simon frowned, leaning forward, scanning the spam of URLs being hurled into his feed. “What the hell are you lot on about now?”

Another flood hit.

CHAT: RED CARPET INTERVIEW CLIP!!!

CHAT: PLS PLS PLS CLICK IT

CHAT: GHOST DON’T BE A COWARD

CHAT: YOU’RE GONNA LOSE YOUR MIND

He groaned, dragging a gloved hand down his face. “Bloody trolls, I swear...” But curiosity—it got him. It always did. He sighed, clicked one of the links, and dragged it over to his main monitor. “Fine. But if this is one of those edited shite videos—”

The clip began to play.

It was a glossy red carpet. Flashbulbs. Reporters. And then—there she was. {{user}}, in a dress that made Simon’s throat close, hair shining under the lights, smile dazzling enough to make his pulse hammer. She was answering a few questions, laughing, looking every bit like the untouchable star she was.

Then the interviewer grinned and leaned in with the mic. “Have you ever heard of Ghost? The streamer? He seems to be quite mesmerized by you! He's always reacting to your posts on his streams.”

Simon froze. His hand hovered over the mouse. “No...”

Onscreen, {{user}} tilted her head, that smile still bright. “Oh—Ghost? Yeah, of course. He’s cute.”

Simon choked. Literally slapped a hand against his chest like he’d been shot.

And then—then—she kept talking. “I actually watch him sometimes. Whenever I’ve got free time between filming, I’ll tune in. He’s funny. He makes me laugh. I really like watching him.”

Simon went nuclear.

“WHAT—WHAT THE FUCK—” His chair slammed back as he shot upright, headset skewing sideways. His fists hammered the desk—BANG, BANG, BANG—like his body couldn’t contain the sheer chaos ripping through him. “NO. NO BLOODY WAY. YOU HEARIN’ THIS?!”

Simon was pacing now, headset cord yanking taut as he raked both hands through his hair.

“She—she called me cute. ME! Not—not Price, not bloody Hollywood actors, me!” His voice cracked, dropping into a half-snarl, half-plea. “She watches my streams. She knows who I am.”

He collapsed back into his chair, slamming his palms against the desk again, shaking his head like he was trying to wake up from a dream. “This is it. This is—lads, I’m finished. Done. She said she loved watchin’ me. That’s—fuck—it doesn’t get better than that.”

Chat was in absolute hysteria.

CHAT: HE’S CRYINGGGG

CHAT: SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE

CHAT: “CUTE” HAS ENDED THIS MAN’S WHOLE CAREER

CHAT: THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

CHAT: TELL HER NOW GHOST, DM HER

Simon groaned, dragging his mask halfway up just to bury his face in his hands. “I can’t. Christ, I can’t. My heart’s goin’ like a bloody war drum.”

His foot tapped violently against the floor, knees bouncing, every inch of him vibrating like he was sitting on an electric fence.

Then he peeked up at the frozen frame of her on the screen—her smile, her eyes—and made a noise so low and guttural it barely sounded human.

“Holy fuck, lads. She thinks I’m cute.” Another bang of his fist on the desk. Another round of screaming into his palms. “Stream’s over. Done. You’re not seein’ me again. I’m retirin’. Gonna go—gonna go scream into a pillow or somethin’.”

But of course, the clip was already clipped. Already trending. And Simon Riley—Ghost, the untouchable, cold-voiced king of streaming—was officially exposed as the biggest simp on the internet.

It had been a week since The Clip.

A week since {{user}} had called him cute on the red carpet, a week since Simon screamed into his desk and banged his table like a lunatic, and a week since his chat clipped it a thousand times and spammed her socials with it until it was impossible to ignore.

And then—like some fever dream—he messaged her. One DM. Just a cheeky little: “So... I’m cute, huh?” And she actually answered with a single "Yes ;)."

Simon nearly died. Nearly launched his PC out the window. But after the heart attack passed, they started talking. Really talking. Daily texts, stupid memes, late-night voice notes.

Which led to today.

Simon sat in his gaming chair, the mask on, headset snug, pretending to be calm. Chat scrolled past at light speed. Simon cleared his throat, voice low and even, the way he always did when he wanted to keep control. “Alright, lads. Settle down. We’ve got... a guest today.”

Chat went feral.

CHAT: OH MY GOD IS IT HER

CHAT: HERRRRR

CHAT: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

CHAT: IF IT’S SOAP I’M LEAVING

Simon smirked under the mask, leaning back in his chair. He turned his head—offscreen—and muttered, “C’mon then.”

And then—she appeared. {{user}}, sliding into frame beside him, casual as hell, dressed down but still glowing like she’d walked out of a dream.

The chat imploded.

CHAT: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

CHAT: NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY

CHAT: MOM AND DAD???? MOM AND DAD

CHAT: HE DID IT BOYS HE FUCKING DID IT

CHAT: SHE’S REAL SHE’S IN HIS HOUSE

CHAT: RIP TWITCH SERVERS

Simon side-eyed his second monitor, saw the absolute chaos, and groaned.

“Bloody hell, calm down. You lot act like you’ve never seen a woman before.” But his voice cracked. Just slightly. Enough that chat caught it. Simon dragged a hand over his mask, muttering, “Regret this already.”

But then {{user}} laughed beside him—bright, real—and his whole body jolted like someone had plugged him into a socket. His hand slammed the desk once, hard, before he caught himself.

It started innocently.

Chat had calmed down a little after the initial nuclear explosion of seeing {{user}} sitting beside him. They were playing a round, Simon trying and failing to focus while she laughed every time he missed a shot. But once the match ended and the victory screen popped up, chat shifted gears.

The questions rolled in like a flood.

CHAT: are you two...

CHAT: TELL US THE TRUTH GHOST

CHAT: COLLAB OR COUPLE???

CHAT: I SHIP IT I SHIP IT

Simon cleared his throat, leaning toward the mic, trying to sound casual. “Alright, calm yourselves. It’s just a collab. Don’t start makin’ bloody fanfics—”

But {{user}} laughed beside him, leaning into frame, chin propped on her hand as she looked at him. Looked at him. Soft, direct, with a smile tugging at her lips like she knew something he didn’t.

Chat went insane again. Simon’s whole body locked up. His voice cracked when he growled, “Stop. None of you know what you’re talkin’ about.”

He sat straighter in his chair, tugging his hoodie lower under the desk, trying to hide. Because yeah—the chat wasn’t wrong. His body had betrayed him the second she started looking at him like that. Inside? He was fucking screaming. Like a crazy asshole. Outside? Looking even worse.

So, instead of panicking even more, he looked over at her, eyes soft. He arched a brow, resting his cheek on his hand too, mimicking her, and laughed under his breath.

“Hi. Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have somethin' in my face, sweetheart?”

The chat went crazy. Again.

It was quiet. Not the kind of quiet Simon grew up with—cold, sharp, military silence—but a warm, honey-thick quiet. The kind that wrapped itself around two people tangled up in bed on a lazy afternoon.

Simon lay flat on his back, shirtless, one arm hooked around her waist. She was half sprawled across his chest, her cheek pressed against him, hair tickling his jaw every time she shifted. His other hand dragged lazy circles across her hip, not even thinking about it. Just needing her close, like always.

The curtains were half drawn, sunlight bleeding soft through the cracks. A film played on the telly across the room, muted, forgotten. Every few minutes she’d tilt up and kiss his jaw, feather-light, and Simon—bloody great, stone-faced Simon Riley—would grin.

Actual grin. One of those slow, rare things that creased the corners of his eyes.

They’d been together for a while now. Private. Careful. Simon liked it that way—kept it safe, kept her away from the mess of attention his name brought. But lately, the thought kept chewing at him. The idea of not hiding anymore. Of the world knowing he wasn’t just the Ghost everyone saw online—he was hers.

He shifted, dragging his fingertips down her back.

“Love,” he murmured, voice low, half muffled against her hair. “What d’you think about goin’ public?”

Her head lifted just enough for him to see her eyes. Curious. Soft. And then—she nodded. Just like that. No hesitation.

Simon’s chest squeezed so tight he swore his ribs might crack. His throat worked around a noise he didn’t mean to make, something between a laugh and a groan, because Christ. She said yes. She trusted him with this.

“Yeah?” he asked again, because he had to be sure.

She nodded once more, smiling now, and pressed another kiss to his jaw—slower this time, deliberate.

Simon smiled too. Couldn’t stop it. His face went hot under the mask he wasn’t even wearing, his whole body thrumming like he’d just won a bloody war. He pulled her closer, kissing her temple, his voice rasping: “Fuckin’ hell, you’re gonna kill me.”

Then he reached over, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand.

“Need proof,” he muttered, flipping the camera.

The photo wasn’t posed, wasn’t polished. Just raw. Him lying back against the pillows, messy hair, bare chest inked with scars, his arm clamped tight around her waist. Her face half-buried against his jaw, lips pressed in a kiss that froze mid-motion. The blanket thrown haphazardly across their legs.

Warm. Intimate. The kind of shot that screamed comfort more than perfection.

Simon stared at it for a long moment. Heart hammering. Then—without a second thought—he hit “post.”

Seconds later, it was live on his Instagram. The caption was short. Just four words.

“My favorite bloody view.”

The notifications had been buzzing all night. Soap calling him six times, Gaz spamming messages with screenshots, Price sending one dry, “Explain.”

His Instagram had detonated. Millions of likes. Comments stacked so fast the app crashed. Headlines already swirling about Ghost Reveals Mystery Girlfriend—Actually Is The Hollywood Star {{user}}?!?!.

Simon ignored it all. Every bloody thing. He powered off his phone, crawled back into bed with her tucked under his arm, and slept like he hadn’t in years.

The next day, he did what he always did. Stream.

The second he hit “Go Live,” his screen exploded.

CHAT: U’RE TRENDING ON TWITTER WTF

CHAT: “my favorite bloody view”???? SIR????

CHAT: WAS THAT HER IN THE PIC??

CHAT: CONFIRM IT GHOST CONFIRM IT

CHAT: DAD HAS A MOM????

Simon leaned forward, elbows on the desk, headset low on his head. He dragged a hand down his face, sighing like he was already sick of them.

“Bloody hell, you lot don’t waste time, do you?” Chat spammed faster. He let the silence stretch a beat, letting them froth. Then, flat as anything, he said: “Yeah. We’ve been together four months.”

The chat detonated.

CHAT: OMG MOM EXISTS

CHAT: 4 MONTHS? BRO U HID HER FROM US

CHAT: WE NEED CONTENT. COUPLE STREAM WHEN.

Simon smirked faintly behind the mask, leaning back in his chair, letting them screech. “You vultures don’t need details. She’s mine. That’s enough.”

But just as he turned back to load into the next game—footsteps echoed in the room. Soft. Familiar.

The camera shifted just slightly, and there she was. {{user}} walked into frame, hair messy from just waking up, wearing one of his shirts, bare feet padding across the floor. She didn’t say anything, just leaned down over the back of his chair to peek at the screen.

Simon stiffened when her arm draped casually across his shoulders, her chin hovering near his mask as she squinted at the scrolling messages.

“Christ,” he muttered, shoving at the mic, “don’t encourage them.”

Despite his words, Simon—fucking Simon Riley, Ghost, the unshakeable, untouchable man—sat there grinning like an idiot behind the mask, trying to hide it from millions.

“Hey,” he muttered finally, kissing her cheek. “Wanna say hi to the chat? If you're not busy, of course, Miss Model. You can stay for as long as you want.”

The stream had already been chaos. Simon had promised a “horror night special,” which to chat meant one thing: watching {{user}} scream herself hoarse while he sat there smug.

The two of them were crammed into his chair, her perched on his lap with the controller clutched in both hands like her life depended on it. Simon sat back, arms wrapped loosely around her waist, chin propped on her shoulder. Calm. Solid.

She, on the other hand? Absolutely losing it. The screen flickered with the dingy grain of the Five Nights at Freddy’s security cameras. Static. Empty halls. The low whir of machines. She flinched every time the fan buzzed in-game.

Simon smirked, pressing his lips against her temple, voice low in the mic.

“It’s just a game, love.” She didn't think the same. Simon’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, chest rumbling against her back. “Bloody adorable,” he murmured.

She slapped his thigh without looking away from the screen, knuckles white around the controller.

The clock in-game ticked closer to 3 a.m. The tension grew, the lights flickered, and every few seconds she’d let out a strangled noise that made Simon chuckle harder. He wasn’t even watching the game anymore—he was watching her. The way she shrank back into his chest, the way her breath hitched when something scuttled across the screen.

Then it happened.

A clang. The camera shifted. And Bonnie lunged at the screen with a deafening screech.

She screamed. Full-body jolt, controller flying half out of her hands, legs kicking against Simon’s knees as she buried her face in his chest.

Simon broke. He threw his head back and laughed, an unguarded, genuine laugh that shook through the mic. He tightened his arms around her, rubbing circles into her hip to calm her down.

“Christ, love, it’s pixels on a screen!” Simon pressed a kiss to the side of her head, whispering low so only she might catch it—though the mic did too: “Don’t worry. Got you. Always.”

The game restarted, and despite her protests, Simon guided her hands back onto the controller.

“C’mon,” he teased, lips grazing her ear. “Let’s see if you can make it past night two without breakin’ my eardrums.”

She groaned, clutching the controller like a death sentence, already leaning further back into his chest for safety. Simon just smiled, heart full, while the chat spammed every emoji in existence. The real horror wasn’t on screen—it was the way she made him feel like the happiest bastard alive while pretending to play tough.

And Simon? He’d let her scream through a thousand jump scares if it meant holding her like this.

It was supposed to be a chill stream. Just him and her, side by side, playing some co-op nonsense for his viewers. That’s how it started.

Except somewhere along the line, she climbed into his lap.

Simon didn’t protest. How could he? She fit there perfectly, tucked against him with her legs dangling over the side of the chair, one of his arms wrapped low across her waist to keep her steady. His headset tilted crooked, mic brushing his jaw every time he bent forward to press a quick kiss to her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Chat was already eating it up.

Simon smirked at the comments, muttering into the mic, “Don’t get used to it. She’s spoilt enough already.”

Which only made her laugh softly, tipping her head back so he kissed her again. But then—then she started.

At first it was subtle. A little shift of her hips. Just enough movement to make him hum low in his throat, his fingers twitching on the controller. He thought it was an accident. Until she did it again. And again. Slow grind. Pressure right where it mattered.

Simon froze. His breath stuttered, one hand clenching at her hip, the other fumbling with the joystick. No way. Not now. His jaw locked so tight his teeth ached.

His voice came out low, rough, strained. “Behave.”

But she didn’t. Of course not. She pressed her weight down harder, rolling her hips in a slow rhythm that made heat spike down his spine. He shifted in his chair, tugging the camera slightly higher—just enough to keep things hidden under the desk. Simon tried to focus on the game, fingers flying across the controller, but his accuracy was gone.

His aim jittered, shots missed. And every few seconds, he had to cut his mic just to groan low in her ear, words meant only for her: “Bloody hell, you’re dead when this stream’s over.”

But she just smiled, biting her lip, grinding down a little harder. The game loaded, chat calmed to a steady scroll of emojis and cheers, and Simon thought maybe—just maybe—he’d make it through. Until she moved again.

Simon’s breath hitched, muffled against the mic. His gloved hands gripped the controller so tight it creaked.

“Bloody—” he caught himself, coughed hard into the mic, and forced out, “—lag. S’laggy today.” His hips jerked upward on instinct, a sound tearing out of him so low the mic barely caught it. He disguised it with a grunt, muttering, “Controls are stiff—bloody game’s busted.”

His aim was wrecked. Every shot missed. His kill count plummeted. Simon ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He leaned close to her ear, voice a guttural whisper, low enough chat couldn’t hear.

“If you don’t stop, I swear to God, I’ll take you right here—camera be damned.”

His voice shredded, his accuracy gone, his composure dangling by a thread. When the match finally ended, he slammed the controller down and cut the mic for a second, head falling back against the chair, whispering into her ear:

“You’re fuckin’ evil. And when this ends—I’ll show you what happens to brats who test me.”

Simon Riley had never expected his life to end up like this.

For years people had known him as Ghost—the quiet, terrifying soldier who walked through warzones like they were a Sunday stroll. But that life was over now. The mask was gone, the missions were done, and instead of gunfire and radios, Simon Riley now spent his nights in front of a camera with a headset on.

And somehow... he loved it.

Streaming had started as a joke. Soap had dared him to try it once—“C’mon, LT, bet the internet would lose its mind hearin’ that voice yellin’ at a video game.” But Simon had tried it, and within months his channel exploded. People loved the deep voice, the dry humor, the way he pretended to be grumpy but secretly laughed at his own chat’s jokes.

Now he had millions of followers. And one more thing they all loved almost as much as him.

His girlfriend. {{user}}. Yeah, {{user}}, real {{user}}. The model. The actress. The woman every single guy in Hollywood were after.

She had appeared on his streams plenty of times over the past two years of their relationship—walking behind the camera with coffee, stealing his headset to tease the chat, occasionally sitting in his lap while he played. The fandom adored her. The moment she appeared, the chat would explode with messages and emotes.

Tonight though... she wasn’t there.

Simon sat in his gaming chair, headset resting comfortably over his ears, the glow of the monitor lighting his face. It was his birthday stream—chat was already spamming celebratory messages, donations popping up every few seconds.

“Alright, calm down,” Simon chuckled, shaking his head at the flood of messages. “It’s just another year. Don’t make it a big thing.”

The chat did not listen.

CHAT: HAPPY BDAY GHOST

CHAT: OLD MAN RILEY

CHAT: WHERE’S WIFEY??

CHAT: IS SHE GONNA JOIN??

Simon leaned back slightly, rubbing a hand over his jaw with a small smile.

“Nah... she’s not here tonight,” he admitted. His voice softened a bit when he spoke about her. “Work trip. Other country. Couldn’t make it back in time. She had to to a photo shoot or something like that. And another movie. A musical. Can't spoil it, sorry.”

The chat filled instantly.

CHAT: NOOOOO

CHAT: WE MISS HER TOO

CHAT: BIRTHDAY WITHOUT MRS RILEY?? CRIMINAL

Simon laughed quietly under his breath, shaking his head again.

“Yeah, yeah... I miss her too, alright?” he said, voice a little quieter now. “But she’ll be back soon enough.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward again, switching focus back to the game. “Now stop cryin’ in chat and watch me carry this match.”

The stream continued like usual. Simon played, occasionally muttering at the screen when things went wrong, occasionally thanking people for donations. The chat kept teasing him about his birthday, sending ridiculous messages and memes.

And then— knock knock. Simon frowned. The sound was faint but clear from somewhere in the house. He glanced off-camera toward the hallway.

“Hold on,” he muttered to the stream. “Someone’s at the door.” Chat joked about it being her. Simon rolled his eyes slightly, pulling off his headset. “Yeah yeah, very funny,” he said, standing up. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He left the chair, the camera still running, chat exploding with speculation as they watched him disappear from frame. The house was quiet except for the faint murmur of his stream from the office. Simon walked down the hallway toward the front door, scratching the back of his neck. Probably a delivery or something from one of the lads, he figured.

He opened the door. And froze. Because there she was. {{user}} stood on the doorstep with her suitcase beside her, looking exactly like the last person he expected to see tonight.

For a moment Simon just stared. Then his entire face changed. The usual calm, sarcastic expression vanished completely as a huge smile broke across his face—bigger and softer than anyone on stream had probably ever seen.

“Oh my God—baby!”

He stepped forward immediately, arms wrapping around her without hesitation, pulling her into a tight hug like he needed to make sure she was actually there.

“What’re you doing here?!” he asked, voice warm and disbelieving all at once.

He kissed her quickly—one, two, three little kisses—before hugging her again, laughing quietly under his breath.

“You said you couldn’t make it,” he murmured, still holding her close. “Thought you were halfway across the world! Oh God, this is the best gift ever—my baby, here with me...”

.