sw33tsnow

[sw33tsnow]

"si."

"doll."

"what's this flower called?"

simon looked at the billionth flower you showed in just twenty minutes, sighing. "im a soldier love, not a gardener." though he took the pink colored flower from your hands, and placed it in the small box you bringed, just to turn them into a sticker later and put it in your notebook.

"makes sense," you murmured. "though i thought you'd knew since you guys are always on the forests or mountains."

"we don't really have time to search which flower is which doll." he said softly, moving everything that was sharp in front of you, in the small forest you two discovered in your hike. you liked getting lost in nature walks with your husband, who was as useful as a swiss army knife in your eyes.

"shame." you murmured, holding his hand when you felt like you were stumbling. though you liked to be a little dramatic sometimes. as you both continued to hike, and pick flowers, you occasionally liked to touch big tree's. "how fast you can climb this?" you asked curiously, looking up at the big oak tree.

"three minutes, max." he said with a casual confidence that made you remember why you falled for this man. he could do anything, and it was impressing you embaressingly enough.

"wanna test it out?" you asked with a mischief smirk on your face. simon mirrored.

"what do i get in return?"

"a big kiss."

he started climbing that moment, finding bumps to step on or using his big knife to help him climb, going all in for a kiss. you chuckled as he sat on one of the sticks, looking at the time. "two minutes and a half, lieutenant!"

as if it was nothing, he jumped down from that tree, landing on his feet with a loud thud. "my reward." his hands immediatly reached out and you happily hugged his neck, giving him the biggest smooch.

the next time he returns from a deployment, he has a bunch of squished mountain flowers on his gear pocket, a few of them losing their leaves but it mattered to you nonetheless. because he thought the weird and rare flowers would look great on your little notebook, and you felt special that he remembered that while fighting for his life.

[sw33tsnow]

sugar plum promises | 1

SYNOPSIS: SIMON RILEY, WHO DISCOVERS (AND ACCEPTS) THAT HE HAS A RAGING MOMMY KINK, MUCH THANKS TO YOU.

PAIRING: SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY x FEM!READER

WARNINGS/INFO: 18+ | Mommy kink; VIRGIN!SIMON; dom/sub dynamics; cussing; strangers to lovers; hurt/comfort; eventual smut [Please mind the warnings for each part!]

➥ BASED ON THIS BLURB ×

It’s Saturday, his first day off base since returning from a three month long deployment just the day before yesterday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly like no one ever has before while he’s minding his business and checking out the new flavours of instant Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you suddenly address him directly.

“Big lad like you needs a proper meal,” you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. “In my humble opinion.” You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, immediately checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a “Have a good day, love,” and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling in this moment as his body decides to act on autopilot, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, perhaps this time, Simon’s going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping that maybe, you’ll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

He follows you discreetly through the supermarket like a man on a never-ending mission, silently stalking like a cat in a mouse chase down the aisles. His eyes are locked on you like a heat-seeking missile, noting every move you make, watching how every step sways your curves in the right fashion, nearly causing him to run into a display rack at his momentary distraction.

He nearly growls when some random bloke blocks his path to you and to ask you a question on top of that. He doesn’t quite manage to pick up the words, but it’s enough for him to clench his jaw and tighten his grip on the abused instant noodles cup. A deep huff escapes from behind his balaclava, and he resumes his discreet surveillance as soon as the man saunters his merry way.

Simon watches as you throw a pack of biscuits into the cart, your body turned away from him, your back facing him while you lean over. His eyes land on your round, firm rear like a magnet drawn to the iron. He can almost see the way your muscles move under the jeans fabric—

His thoughts are rudely interrupted when an elderly woman approaches the same shelf, and he has to step into the next aisle and pretend to browse, stomach twisting as he loses visuals on you.

As the woman moves her squeaky cart on wheels down the lane, his eyes flicker nervously before he catches sight of you again, chest heaving with a sigh of relief as he sees you browsing the frozen goods section, and his fingers twitch around the plastic cup, itching to touch you, to grab your hips and grind himself against—he shakes his head with a low grunt, trying to rid himself of that thought. He's already painfully hard enough.

It’s wrong, Simon knows that. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t use his skills to basically stalk you for making a nice, yet throwaway remark in his direction, but he somehow can’t keep his eyes off your body, his gaze glued to your every move—until you obviously pick up on the surveillance.

You do notice him. He’s like a looming shadow sneaking after your own, and for a moment, you wonder if you should’ve just kept your mouth shut for once when you’d spotted him initially.

He’s built like a bloody tank, wearing a balaclava and matching gloves with a skeleton pattern. What the bloody hell were you thinking?

All bark, no bite. That’s what you were thinking, and Wonder if he’s as tough as he looks or if he crumbles like a fresh scone with a few buttery words—like many other “scary dog privilege” men before him.

Slowing your steps, you eventually come to a stop, heart thudding as you glance over your shoulder, only to see him a few feet away, staring right back at you in a way that’s as adorable as it is eerie.

Simon’s feet freeze on the spot, his gaze locking with yours across the freezer cabinets, eyes wide. He didn’t expect to be discovered so easily, and he stands there like a deer caught in the headlights of a Humvee with an RPG attached to it—that he hopes will shoot him on sight.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly under the fabric of the balaclava, his mind racing for an excuse, a reason, though he comes up with nothing. The seconds feel like hours as the two of you stare at each other, before he finally blurts out:

“I...” His voice is hoarse, a low grumble that betrays his own surprise.

Oh. You almost laugh out loud at the sight before you, though you manage to suppress it, lips pursing in amusement instead.

No bark, no bite, actually.

He looks like an awkward little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the secret candy drawer in the living room.

“Yes, you?” you ask teasingly, wanting him to continue, to stammer and try to come up with a proper yet easily punishable lie. Raising an eyebrow, you turn towards him fully, keeping one hand on the shopping cart while your other rests on the curve of your hip casually.

“Well?”

Simon’s brain short-circuits as he desperately tries to come up with a plausible excuse, but all his mind supplies is a loop of caught, caught, caught like a broken record while he merely stands there like a fish washed out on the shore. He clears his throat awkwardly and straightens up, attempting to look innocent.

“I... I was just... uh...” he stammers, his voice wavering as the words refuse to come out. He mentally curses his lack of social skills, the years of isolation making him stumble like some twonk.

“Just doing some shopping,” he eventually mutters gruffly, his eyes flitting away from your gaze for a moment before darting back, unable to resist another look. There’s a hint of defensiveness in his voice, mixed with a tinge of embarrassment.

You nod slowly. “Doing some shopping,” you repeat, amusement glinting in your eyes as you glance down at the single cup of instant Ramen he’s still clutching in his hands like a lifebuoy. “Right.”

You notice how utterly still he is; no shuffling, no fidgeting, broad chest barely moving as he breathes, dark eyes flickering the slightest bit whenever your gaze catches his.

He’s a different breed of man, that one, you muse.

Clicking your tongue, you shift on your feet. “You call that shopping?” You nod your chin at his hands. “Like I said, you need to be fed a proper meal, love. Is your wife out of town or something?”

Simon bristles at your comment, his shoulders tensing as your words hit a nerve, a bit too close to home. He glances down at the cup of Ramen in his hands, feeling a mixture of shame and stubbornness.

The truth is that he’s so bloody touch–and attention-starved that your simple words, your simple presence, make him feel flustered, his frayed nerves now on edge.

“I don't have a wife,” he mutters, words edged with a hint of bitterness. He knows he’s being judged, but there’s a baser, hidden part of him that simply revels in the attention, in the fact that someone as classy and obviously put-together as you, has noticed him at all.

“And I can feed myself just fine.” He adds dryly, raising the cup defiantly as if to prove a point.

You swallow another pleased smile as he confirms what you've expected while the word brat burns on the tip of your tongue at this display of attitude.

Glancing back at your full shopping cart, you lick your lips briefly in thought, pondering and weighing the risks before looking back at him. He hasn’t moved an inch, simply keeps observing like you’re the odd ball here.

Pulling on the shopping cart, you slowly start walking backwards towards him, approaching like someone would a strange street dog.

“Tell you what,” you say as soon as you’re an appropriate distance away from him, and it’s then that you notice how tall and broad he truly this is up close. “If you help me carry these groceries to my car, I’ll cook you a proper dinner tonight.”

His mouth drops open, eyes wide and bewildered by your audacity. He simply stares at you for a moment, dumbfounded, grappling with the unexpected situation. You’re trying to coax him with a treat like one would do with an animal to gain its trust, and Simon is furious about the tiny part inside his brain that’s thrashing to jump on this opportunity.

“You... You’re serious,” he finally manages to sputter, his brain struggling to process that you, that a woman like you, a stranger, is actually proposing this to someone like him.

“Why would you do that?” His eyes narrow in suspicion, though beneath the hardness of his expression, there’s a hint of curiosity, a hint of longing for a chance at this offered piece of normalcy.

Sensing his—understandable—apprehension, you give a small shrug in return, finally offering him a tentative yet genuine smile.

“Because you look like you could use it, love.”

You let your eyes roam once more, looking him up and down from boot to mask, heart giving a curious flutter as your gaze locks with his; tawny eyes so dark, you know you could get lost in them if he lets you in.

Then you reach into your purse slung over your shoulder and you notice how his broad shoulders tense and how his fingers flex as if he’s bracing himself for an attack.

As your hand disappears into your purse, Simon’s defensive instincts kick in automatically, his muscles coiling tightly in anticipation. His sharp senses on high alert, he blinks, slightly taken aback but not surprised by his own reaction, though he can’t help it; years of experience and survival training already hard-wired into his responses.

But he relaxes incrementally, when he sees you withdrawing your hand—now holding a purple ball pen and small note pad, and the sudden burst of adrenaline fades to a steady thrum in his veins as fast as it came.

“I...” he begins, but the words feel caught in his throat, his mind suddenly blank.

Covering his little slip-up with your own feigned nonchalance, you start scribbling away on the first blank page of your notepad before ripping it out and holding it out for him to take, thus offering a different treat—secretly hoping he’ll like this one.

“My name,” you explain, deciding that it might not be as self-explanatory as it would be for any other man you’ve previously met, “and my phone number.”

When he eventually takes the slip of paper with due care, his eyes keep flickering between your hand and face as if still expecting you to pull a gun on him, until you take a polite step backwards.

“Call or text me for that meal if you change your mind,” you add confidently.

Simon’s gaze follows your hand warily, taking the note from you with a slow, measured movement, his gloved fingers feeling uncharacteristically clumsy and uncoordinated as he grabs it. He stares at the slip of paper in his hand for a moment, brows furrowing behind his balaclava as he takes in the sight of your phone number and name written in neat, cursive handwriting, reading the words slowly in an almost mechanical manner, committing them to memory as a precaution.

His fingers twitch involuntarily, and for a wild, fleeting moment, he wants to raise the paper to his nose and inhale the faint scent of your perfume that clings onto the paper. And then you take a step backward, giving him space, and he takes an unconscious step forward, like a puppet on a string, not wanting to put that space between you again while his eyes stay glued to yours with a touch of desperation.

You’re leaving the ball in his corner and he doesn’t know how what to think, how to act.

As you adjust the straps of your purse on your shoulder, you drink in his subtle reaction with a mixture of sympathy and glee.

“Alright then?”

Simon watches in awe as you readjust your purse like it’s the most interesting action he’s ever seen, and when he opens his mouth to respond, his thoughts tumble over each other like leaves in a breeze. A simple yeah or a sure would’ve been the logical answers, but none of this is logical to him right now.

“You’re not worried,” he observes, the words nearly sounding accusatory, “about having a stranger over for dinner?”

He almost wants to call you daft, reckless; giving a man like him your number and name, offering your kindness up so easily. Can’t you tell what kind of man he is? Don’t you know what he can do with the intel you’ve already provided him with so willingly?

Simon wants to reach out and shake you, but his fingers are trembling and his cock is still throbbing, still semi-hard in his pants—and he can’t quite tell which is worse.

There’s a long pause between you as you regard his question with a light crease between your eyebrows, and you catch yourself wondering again what this poor man could’ve possibly been through for him to be this bloody suspicious.

From your experience, almost every other man would’ve jumped on this opportunity already, presented on a silver plate. You’ve been flirting with him since you spotted him entering the supermarket. However, you can only admit to yourself that his cautious reactions are merely heightening your curiosity and the urge to unravel this beast of a man completely.

“Most people start out as strangers,” you answer eventually, gauging his next reaction carefully, “and usually one takes the initiative to get to know the other if they’re interested, you know?” You flash him a disarming smile. “This is me taking that initiative here, mister.”

He takes a step forward, invading your personal space, and the height difference between you two becomes more painfully (arousingly) clear. Simon towers over you, his body vibrating with suppressed tension while he looks down at you with a stare that usually has his rookies quiver in their boots—not you, though.

“And what if I’m not interested?” he responds too bluntly and not as playful as he intended to, his voice lowered, nearly growling at you. He’s picked up on how other men talk to women at pubs, has eavesdropped and heard how Soap and Gaz talk to the birds they end up taking back to the barracks, and yet he can’t quite get his own tone right.

He certainly doesn’t like the fact that you’re making his heart race, that you’ve piqued his curiosity without even trying. It feels unfamiliar, dangerous, and somehow, he finds himself craving more of it in the same heartbeat.

Tilting your head owlishly, you regard him with a half-puzzled, half-amused look.

“Then I'll go on my merry way, love,” you reply with a breathy chuckle that obviously leaves him feeling even more lost judging how his eyes widen. “And then we move on after having a basic human interaction at a supermarket. Life’s beautiful, innit?”

Something about the way you talk, with the casual pet name, ‘love’, thrown in every second sentence, or the way your laugh makes his skin prickle in some foreign, exciting way, drives him mad with primal want and the unfamiliar urge to keep you here with him, keep you talking.

But he also feels like a damn fool in this moment, and on top of that, his face feels so hot under his balaclava, too. You’re not reacting the way he expects you to, not at all, and it’s throwing him off-guard.

He clears his throat again. “You’ll just... move on,” he repeats incredulously, like it pains him to say the words. “Just like that.”

You shrug, flashing another smile. “I mean... yes. What else is there to do? I’m not running after a man who’s not interested in me. I’m too old for games like that.”

Simon’s eyes narrow again. The thought of you giving up so easily, leaving, not even giving him a second thought—it pisses him off, for some reason, because it’s making him desperate. How the bloody hell does Garrick make it sound so easy and suave every time?

“How old are you?” The words burst out without him meaning to, his tone still gruff and defensive.

You snort softly. He’s so bratty, so rude, it’s almost endearing for a man looking like him, and it pokes your curiosity, causing the urge to take care of him to blossom even more hotly behind your ribcage as you drink up the tension in his body and fatigue clinging behind his wary, bottomless gaze.

“Old enough to know what I want, love.” It’s a curt response that has the desired effect judging by the way his jaw ticks under his odd mask. You smile again as you put the pen and notepad back into your purse, turning halfway around to your shopping cart to signal your departure.

“Anyway... my ice cream is melting, so I’ll be heading to the cashier. Thanks for the chat. You have a good day now.”

Just like that.

Simon is reeling internally as you prepare to leave, and he can’t help but admire the subtle power you wield with the way you carry yourself and the nonchalance you display so bloody effortlessly. Suddenly, he is torn between letting you go and the fierce need for you to not walk away. His chest tightens and his fingers twitch, and he suddenly feels like a child lost in this bloody supermarket, scared of being abandoned again.

However, he swallows the plea festering on the tip of his tongue, the words asking you to wait, stay, and talk more. No, Simon falls back, clutching the bloody Ramen cup in one hand as he stares after you while you simply move on like you said you would, as if you didn’t just throw him off balance completely with this whole interaction.

When his other hand balls into a tight fist, he hears the crumpling of paper, and when he glances down at his open palm, his heart nearly drops with relief.

You’ve given him your number. He’s never gotten a girl’s number in his life.

It was real. It is real. Everything that just happened is real, and he wasn’t simply daydreaming it up this time.

His fingers close around that scrap of paper like a life line, his mind racing once more with possibilities, the scenarios, the what-ifs.

[sw33tsnow]

The ‘Mistress’, never the ‘Missus’.

He fucked you with his wedding ring still on, and you thanked him like it meant he chose you.

He only shows up late at night. Never a call. Never a warning. Just the sound of your door unlocking with the key he never admitted to taking, the soft click of it swinging shut, and the heavy, dragging footfalls of a man who shouldn’t be here. A man who doesn’t belong to you.

You’re always awake. You pretend you aren’t—lying still in bed, back to the door, listening to him strip the war off his body like it offends him. Jacket, boots, holster. You hear it all. Sometimes, you think you can hear him breathe, like he’s trying to steady something in his chest before he lets himself touch you.

Tonight, he doesn’t hesitate.

“Get up,” he growls.

Your body moves before your brain catches up, like muscle memory, like survival. He drags you up by the wrist, not rough, but not gentle either—like he doesn’t trust himself to ask twice. His mouth is on yours before you can speak. Teeth. Tongue. No softness.

You taste blood. You’re not sure if it’s yours. “Missed you,” you whisper against his lips, just to say something. He freezes. Just for a breath. Like that hurt. Like that mattered.

But then he flips you over like you’re nothing but a body and presses your face into the mattress, shoving your thighs apart with a knee. The sound he makes isn’t human, it’s hunger and guilt and a thousand things he’ll never let himself say. You know how this goes. No prep. No patience. Just the sharp sting of intrusion as he pushes into you, thick and fast and merciless.

It hurts. It always does. You moan anyway.

You clench around him, desperately trying to pull him deeper, trying to feel wanted even if it’s a lie. His breath stutters against your shoulder. His hand wraps around your throat. Not tight, not choking, just possessive. Like he owns you. Like she doesn’t exist. But she does.

You see it every time he pushes your shirt up, every time he grabs your hips, every time he fists the sheets beside your head. The wedding band he still wears on his left hand. Tarnished. Worn. Like a noose around a vow he’s too ashamed to break.

He touches you with it. Fucks you with it.

That gold band catches the light and presses to your skin like a brand, like a punishment. It digs into your jaw when he grips your face. Presses to your hip when he holds you down. Hangs heavy around his neck with his tags when he’s away, like a fucking relic. Like she blessed him before he left and he carries her prayers like penance.

You want to ask, Why not me? But you already know.

“Simon,” you gasp, body arching into him. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t.

He fucks you like you’re a sin. Like he hates what you make him feel. Every thrust is a punishment. For you, for him, for the fact that he keeps coming back. You reach between your legs and rub your clit, desperate for something to hold onto, something that’ll make this feel like love instead of ruin.

“You see her today?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Your voice breaks.

Simon stills.

His cock twitches inside you. For a second, just one, you feel him tremble. Then he pulls out, flips you over, and slams back into you so hard the bed frame cracks against the wall.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk about her,” he snaps.

But he’s angry. Not at you. At himself. You can feel it in the way he starts to lose rhythm, like the shame is eating him alive even as he chases his release. You cradle his face in your palms. He lets you. Eyes closed, jaw clenched.

“Do you think about me?” you ask. “When you’re with her?”

Simon shakes his head, once, twice, and then comes with a broken, strangled groan, spilling into you, hips jerking like it hurts. He stays there, buried deep, not moving. You feel him soften inside you. You wait.

He pulls out without a word. Stands. Finds his shirt. Lights a cigarette with shaking hands.

That’s when you see it again—his hand trembling slightly as he holds the lighter, and that ring, glinting dully under the room’s yellow lamplight. Not hidden. Not even ashamed. Just there.You stare at it. The same way you’d stare at a knife in your chest.

“why do you wear both?”

You mean the band and the chain. The one she gave him. The one that rests next to his dog tags like it belongs there.

You think he might walk out without answering. He’s done it before. But then, so low it could be mistaken for thunder.

“Because I promised her forever.”

You sit up like you’ve been shot.

He says it like it’s an apology. Like it’s a curse. His back stays turned to you, tall and straight, like if he lets himself bend, he might break. The light catches the wedding band again, and it gleams like guilt.

“I would’ve given you forever,” you say, barely louder than a breath. And that’s the moment. That’s the one. The one that cracks something in him. Simon leans forward, presses his hand against the doorframe. Like the weight of you, of this, is too much. His head drops. You watch his shoulders heave once. Then again.

You realize, with a sick kind of clarity, that he’s crying. Silent. Still. Like if he lets the sound out, it’ll never stop. “I know,” he whispers.

That’s all he says. And then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him like the end of a dream you never wanted to wake from.

You sit in the bed you let him ruin, his come still inside you, his hands still on your skin like ghosts, and you stare at the space where he stood. You stare until your vision blurs.

Then you curl into yourself, naked and raw, and scream into the pillow he never sleeps on. You pretend the tears on your cheeks are sweat. You pretend the scent on your skin is love.

You pretend a lot of things.

Outside, a car starts. Drives off. Inside, you choke on the truth— You were never his, but you loved him like he was already dead.

[sw33tsnow]

He doesn't listen I fear.

You know those instances where you’re a kid at school and your parents have to pick you up from school because you’re sick. That reminds me of Simon only time he’s much more stubborn and doesn’t take no for an answer most times.

⸻

You told him not to go in.

That morning, watching him drag his shirt over trembling fingers, you knew something was off. His shoulders slumped just a little too far, his voice caught in his throat when he said, “Just tired, that’s all.” And the heat rolling off of him when you touched his forehead—hellfire, even then.

“You should sit this one out, Simon,” you said quietly. “You’re running a fever.”

He grunted. Kissed your temple. “I’ve had worse.”

You didn’t argue. Not really. You just watched him lace up his boots and walk out the door like the stubborn bastard he is.

⸻

It doesn’t take long.

He holds out through briefing. Through training updates. Through a round of morning paperwork where he stares at the same page for twenty straight minutes. Nobody says anything, yet, but Price is watching him closely. Always is.

Then it happens.

Mid-conversation, Simon loses his balance. He rights himself fast—too fast, but not before his hand slaps against the edge of the table for support. He’s pale beneath the mask, which makes the red flush on his neck stand out even more.

“Riley.” Price’s voice cuts through the air. Calm. Measured. “Med bay. Now.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re burning up, son.”

Simon opens his mouth to argue again—but sways instead.

Price sighs. “That’s it. You’re done. You’re no good to anyone like this. Go. And we’re calling your emergency contact.” you

“No—no, I’m good,” he rasps.

“Not asking, mate.”

⸻

The number they dial is the only one listed.

Just “Mrs. Riley – Home.”

When you answer the call, your voice is calm but laced with expectation. You excused yourself from the meeting you were in. “Let me guess. He didn’t make it through the morning.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, “That’d be correct, ma’am. Captain Price here. I’m sorry to call out of the blue. He’s in the med bay now—won’t let anyone near him. We’d like you to come collect him.”

You’re already getting your keys. “I told him this morning to —. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

And you are.

⸻

The base is quiet when you arrive—at least the part they bring you through. You’re escorted by a corporal who keeps glancing at you like he doesn’t know what to make of you. Neat coat. Composed expression. Eyes like polished glass. You move like someone used to command, but not in the military sense—something quieter. Older.

They don’t know who you are, not really. They’ve heard of “the missus.” Simon’s muttered references. A few quiet mentions of home, of normalcy. But none of them have seen you before.

Until now.

You step into the med bay and everything shifts.

There’s Simon—half-sitting on the cot, mask still on but sweat plastering his shirt to his back. He looks miserable. Barely holding himself upright. The medic stands a few feet away, clearly not trying to get too close.

You don’t speak loudly. You don’t need to.

“Simon.”

His head lifts.

The change is instant.

His shoulders relax. His breathing slows. He looks at you like salvation has just walked in wearing your coat.

“Love,” he croaks. “Didn’t want them to call you.”

You walk straight to him, planting yourself at his side.

“You should’ve stayed home.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re delirious.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Lets you rest your hand against his forehead. His skin is scorching. You look at him for a long second, then reach to gently peel the mask up and off.

The medics blink. Soap, lingering in the hall, actually stares.

You’re the only one he lets touch him like that.

“Let’s go,” you murmur. “Now.”

And he follows.

Like a shadow. Like a man undone.

Nobody says a word as you lead him out—his massive form leaning on you like he’s hollowed out, his head bowed slightly, his steps heavy but obedient. He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t argue.

The sergeant at the desk stares openly. One of the privates murmurs under their breath, “That’s Mrs. Riley?”

Price just nods once to himself, looking quietly satisfied. “Told you she was the only one who could get through to him.”

⸻

He’s out before you hit the highway.

One arm folded against the window, cheek pressed to his sleeve, breath slow and raspy. His body sinks into the passenger seat like it’s the first safe place he’s had all day.

You glance over at him, your fingers tight on the wheel. A small sigh escapes your chest.

“You never listen,” you whisper. “But I’ll always come get you.”

[sw33tsnow]

Attitude, No problem. Simon knows how to handle it.

we all know where this is headed...don't we now, i’ll think about a pt.2 (i thought about it)

It happens, wrong side of the bed today. Didn’t wake up plotting to be a menace. But something about today’s been off since your feet hit the floor. Your shirt didn’t sit right. Coffee tasted burnt. The recruits acted like they were sharing a single brain cell and juggling it between drills. You snapped—nothing major, just enough to charge the air around you. A muttered, “fuckin' recruits,” under your breath. A scowl that hadn’t left since 0800.

Simon clocked it before anyone else. of course he did.

You could feel his eyes on you all day. Subtle, sure—but there. Tracking you. Watching like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. But he noticed. In the hallway, on the range, during debrief. Like he was cataloguing every scowl, every clipped reply, every shrug you weaponized like a shield.

And when he finally finds you alone, it’s like he’s already decided how this is gonna go.

You’re in the armory. Polishing a sidearm you don’t even need. Just something to do with your hands. You needed the quiet. The distance.

Then he walks in. Boots heavy. Shoulders loose. That calm, unreadable thing he does when he’s already two steps ahead.

“y'all right?” he says.

You don’t look up. “Fine.”

He comes closer, leans against the edge of the workbench, arms folded. “Was thinkin’ we’d grab food after shift. That Thai place you like.”

You shrug. “I don’t care. Do whatever.”

It hangs in the air like a dare. You don’t mean it to, but it does. He licks his lips before they form a thin line. The door clicks behind him, and he walks up behind you. Not touching, but hovering close to your ear.

There’s a pause.

Then his voice—low, quiet. That particular kind of still that comes before a storm.

“You’re gonna fix that attitude,” he says, “or am I gonna have to fuck it out of you?”

You freeze.

His eyes are steady. Fixed. He says it like a warning. Like a promise. Like he’s already halfway to making good on it. And the worst part? It works. Your gut flips. Heat curls at the base of your spine. You know that voice—know what it means when he drops it like that. When he stops being soft.

“Now i’m going to ask again, Was thinkin’ we’d grab food after shift. That Thai place you like.”

You blink, throat dry. “Yeah. Thai sounds good.”

His head tilts slightly. Jaw flexes once. Then, flat and final-

“Good. that sounds better.” leaving a nice tap to your ass.

And then he’s gone, leaving you there with nothing but the hum of fluorescent light and a pulse you can’t quite settle.

Whatever’s still simmering under your skin?

He’ll handle it later. Exactly the way you need.

[sw33tsnow]

more possessive!reader and our man Simon? hell yes!

You leave your stuff at his place like it’s your second apartment. Hair ties on his nightstand, your clothes in his laundry. That one lip balm he pretends not to use but absolutely does. He once found your earring on his pillow and sat there staring at it for ten minutes straight.

You correct girls when they flirt with him. Not rudely. Just with some subtle things. “He doesn’t like gin, actually,” with a little smile. “Simon’s more of a bourbon guy.” Meanwhile, Simon’s standing behind you, blinking like a confused dog. He didn’t even know he was a bourbon guy until you said so.

He starts dressing the way you like without realizing it. You complimented his black joggers once? Suddenly, they’re in heavy rotation. Mention his cologne smells good? He’s wearing it to the grocery store. You say, “I like when you leave your hair messy like that,” and now he’s suspiciously tousled 24/7.

You use your phone like a weapon. Screenshotting girls who like his pics. “This one again?” with a raised eyebrow. Sending him selfies when he’s out late with a little “missing you” just to make sure he’s thinking about you.

Simon tries to stay cool, tries to act unbothered. But then you say something like, “I don’t like when other girls touch you,” and he’s short-circuiting. Sitting there all red-eared and tense like his body’s trying to pretend it’s not turning into goo.

You say “mine” a lot. Half-joking. Especially when someone flirts with him in front of you. You’ll just wrap your arms around his waist, smile up at him, and go, “God, you’re so mine,” like it’s nothing, and he eats it up.

He tries to “set boundaries” exactly one time. It lasts approximately three days before you show up looking hot, acting normal, and sleeping in his bed like nothing ever changed. He doesn’t bring it up again.

He gets real quiet sometimes. He just looks at you like he’s still trying to figure out how the hell he got here, with you wrapped around him, calling him “baby” like it’s always been his name. And then he just mutters, “How the fuck did I ever think we were just friends?”

He calls you bossy. You take it as a compliment. And let’s be honest, so does he. You tell him where to sit, when to eat, what show to watch—and the worst part? He likes it. It’s the only time his brain shuts off. Just nods and goes, “Yes, love,” like you didn’t just grab him by the collar and steer him like a Roomba.

You never pretend to be casual about him. You look at him like he belongs to you. Like the very idea of someone else getting his attention is personally offensive. He’ll be tying his boots, not even thinking about anything, and you’ll mutter, “I hope no one tries to flirt with you today. I don’t feel like playing nice.”

You get real smug when he shuts down other women. Like, you knew he would, but it still hits different hearing him say “nah, I’ve got someone” without hesitation. You’ll just smile to yourself and say, “Good boy,” when he gets home—and he’ll pretend to roll his eyes while trying not to get hard.

You don’t get jealous. You get territorial. There's a difference. Jealousy is insecure. Territorial is knowing you’ve already won and still refusing to let anyone look at your prize without remembering whose he is.

And he loves it. Loves the way you don’t play games. Loves that you’re all in. Loves that being with you feels like being chosen every day.

---------------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[sw33tsnow]

cw: manipulation, possessive reader, suggestive language

You told him you didn’t do casual.

You didn’t make it a big deal. You just said it like you meant it, not trying to sound dramatic or emotional about it. Just honest.

“I don’t do casual,” you said, eyes on your drink. “It always ends up messy, and I’m not built for that.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s alright,” he said eventually. “I’m not looking for anything serious.”

You nodded. No reaction on your face, no shift in tone. “Then we can just be friends.”

He raised an eyebrow like he was trying to figure you out. “You sure?”

You smiled a little. “Yeah. I like hanging out with you. We don’t have to fuck.”

“…Alright,” he said, after a pause. “Friends.”

And that was the start.

Except friends don’t show up to his gym when he’s meeting a girl for a workout date.

Friends don’t slip him a text during his Tinder dinner like,

“you left your hoodie here again. i’m wearing it. smells like you.”

Friends don’t show up to the pub when he’s got plans with someone, all dolled up like you just rolled out of a damn music video, giving his date a once-over and offering a tight smile that says run, babe.

You’d always act surprised when things didn’t work out. “Oh no, she ghosted you? That’s so weird.”

And Simon? He wasn’t completely oblivious. But he was tired, and lonely, and honestly kind of lazy when it came to trying to figure women out, and you were just so easy to be around, so warm and funny and low-maintenance and somehow always around when he needed someone.

So when he started seeing you more than anyone else, it didn’t feel weird. It felt right.

He told himself it was just friendship.

Even when you leaned against him on the couch. Even when you started sleeping over. Even when he started feeling a little sick thinking about you with anyone else.

The night it finally changed, he had just come back from a shit deployment — nothing too dangerous, just long and annoying and cold, and you’d been waiting at his place (with your own key, because somehow that had happened), and you were in his clothes, curled up in his bed with takeout, and when he saw you like that he just… stopped thinking.

“You’re perfect for me,” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself.

You blinked, looking up from your phone. “What?”

“I was so fucking stupid,” he muttered, dropping his bag, walking toward you like something magnetic was pulling him in. “I didn’t see it. I don’t know why.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him for a second, then smiled, slow and easy, like you’d been waiting for him to finally figure it out, like none of it really surprised you, but you were still happy to hear it out loud.

From there, it was easy.

The relationship happened fast. Slipped into place like it had always been there. He’d gone from “I don’t do serious” to leaving his toothbrush at your place, to falling asleep with his face buried in your neck, to holding your hand in public without even realizing he was doing it.

He was happy. Stupidly happy. The kind that made his friends suspicious and his coworkers tease him. The kind that made you look like the hero of some cozy domestic fantasy where nothing ever goes wrong and love is enough.

It wasn’t one big moment. It was a bunch of little ones that slowly added up until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Like how you always just showed up when he had plans, how his phone would buzz with a text from you right before he left for a date. Or how you’d casually mention how certain girls “weren’t his type,” even when he never brought them up to you.

And then one day, while you were going through an old playlist together, you said, “God, I remember this song. I used to listen to it every time I thought about you with someone else.” And you didn’t even blink after saying it.

And the more he thinks about it, the more it starts adding up.

You’d played him. You’d baited him.

And now he’s sitting on the couch, watching you walk into the room in one of his old T-shirts, holding a bowl of snacks, looking like home, and he honestly doesn’t know whether to laugh or be pissed off or bend you over the arm of the sofa and remind you who he is.

You plop into his lap like you do it every day (because you do), nestling in like you’re settling into your rightful throne, and he wraps his arms around your waist automatically, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“You know what I realized today?” he asks, voice low.

You hum. “What?”

He tilts his head like he’s thinking it through. “We’re together because you manipulated me.”

You pause for like… half a second. Then?

“Yeah,” you say, nonchalant. “And?”

He squints at you, mouth twitching like he can’t decide if he wants to smile or frown. “You sabotaged every girl I tried to hook up with.”

“I did,” you say, and lean forward to grab the remote. “Most of them were trash anyway.”

“You tricked me into thinking you weren’t interested.”

“Mhm.” You don’t even look at him. “Worked, didn’t it?”

There’s this long silence, and then Simon groans and lets his head fall back on the couch dramatically.

“I should be mad,” he mutters.

“You’re not,” you say, smiling down at him like he’s your prize. “You love me.”

“Fuck, woman,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours. “That turns me on.”

You grin, shifting your weight so you’re straddling him properly, hands sliding up his chest slowly until your fingers curl around the back of his neck. You squeeze—not hard, just enough to make him feel it.

“You belong to me,” you whisper against his ear. “Always have.”

He shivers. Actually shivers.

“…Jesus.”

You kiss his jaw, slow and smug. “Say it.”

“…Yours.”

“Good boy.”

And yeah. He is.

PART 2

----------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[sw33tsnow]

༉‧₊˚. Simon Riley eating reader out. cw// ᴍᴅɴɪ, overstimulation, pussy eating, simon riley being pussy drunk

𐙚 Simon Riley loved to come home to you, his sweet little wife. You always wore one of his shirts that seemed to always swallow you up with some cute little panties. But more than that he loved to eat you out, it was like your sweet cunt always called out to him and he was a very good listener.

On one such day, he got home to catch you in the kitchen making one of his favourite meal in just his shirt. He silently creeped up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling his face in the side of your neck, making you flinch,

"hello lovie, missed ya"

"Ah! you scared me si"

"Oh I did? 'm sorry dovie, let me make it up t'ya"

"No it's oka-"

Without another word he fell down to his knees, his large tatted hand pressing you down on the cold kitchen counter making you bend over. He pulled down your panties, pocketing them as he spreads your legs admiring the view of your pretty pussy, before diving in.

He eats you out with loud, messy slurps enjoying every second of it making you moan and squirm. His tongue circles your clit tightly, knowing exactly how to make you cum despite your efforts to escape his grasp

"Mmmm... ya smell like heaven, swee'heart. Like fucking candy 'nd sin all mixed t'gether"

He leans in closer, pressing his nose against your wet slit. He inhales deeply, his eyes rolling back slightly at the intoxicating scent. his hot breath fans over your sensitive wet mound. He parts your lips with his thumbs, his calloused fingers pinching and rolling your clit making you squirm and moan softly.

"Such a good girl, lettin’ me have a taste of this lovely cunt whenever I wan'."

He groans against your pussy, sending vibrations through your dripping cunt. His tongue swirls around your clit, teasing the sensitive bud as he laps up your delicious juice. He laps at your cunt, letting his tongue lick you in long, slow strokes. He pushes his tongue in your quivering hole, curling it inside you, making you whimper and writhe on the kitchen counter.

"That's it, darling. Mark me up, get me messy, drench ma face with yer sweet juices. I wanna be covered in your"

He presses his face deeper into your pussy, his nose buried in your cunt as he devours you like a starving man. His rough stubble chafes against your sensitive cunt as he buries his face between your legs. You body tenses on top of him as you manage to whimper out,

"s-si, 'm gonna cum!!"

"That's it, baby cum f'me. Come all over my face lovie, let me taste yer sweet cum"

He doubles down on his efforts, sucking your clit hard into his mouth while two fingers slide inside you, curling to hit that sweet spot. He prods your gooey spot again, as his warm mouth sucks on your clit. He feels your pussy clamp down on his fingers as you come, your juice flooding over his chin and dripping down his neck. He moans into your cunt, inhaling your scent deeply, drunk on your taste.

He starts licking and sucking at your sensitive cunt again, ignoring your protests and whines. His thick fingers spread you open, exposing your red, puffy pussy to his hungry mouth as he licks a long stripe.

"S-si!! No more, I... Ngh I just came!!"

"Mmm, don't care, darlin'. 'm not done with this sweet lil cunt yet."

@sidollie

༉‧₊˚. masterlist

[sw33tsnow]

Captain Price doesn’t really discuss his private life, but you’ve decided that he must secretly be married. You have no evidence, except look at him, how could he not have some beautiful wife tucked away in an idyllic, rustic cottage in the countryside.

That’s the image you try to keep in mind when it’s late at night and you’re alone with John in his office. Otherwise, you’ll conjure visions of him spreading you out on top of his desk, and you are no homewrecker.

Admittedly, you haven’t been doing a great job of battling against the various temptations he throws your way. Once John starts leaning in close and casually touching you and speaking directly into your ear, all logic leaves your brain and you just indulge. Lately, he’s been dropping a few “sweetheart”’s into his conversations with you, which has got you spinning. The sanctity of marriage means something to you, though. You resolve to set some professional boundaries and stick to them.

It’s a good thing too because a week later, you finally get your first real confirmation of his secret wife. Your whole body seizes up when you overhear John confiding to his men that the missus seems to be upset with him. Pivoting in place, you scuttle back the way you came from before he realizes you’re there. You’re so embarrassed now that it’s truly been established that you’ve been flirting with a married man. After that, you avoid ever being alone with him and can barely look him in the eye, but it's for the best.

The captain seems to have a different opinion on the way you’ve settled this matter, though.

He’s got you cornered in his office, literally, with an arm pressed against the wall above you. John starts to speak of how he wants to be clear about his intentions, and you’ve got to stop him before you kiss his wonderful face that’s creeping closer and closer to yours.

“Captain Price, what about your wife?!” you blurt out, keeping your hands glued to your sides and to yourself.

John pauses, but he looks more amused than guilty. “Is that what all this has been about?” he asks with a chuckle. You get about five words into your practiced speech on how infidelity is unacceptable to you on any level when he drops a bomb on your whole scenario. “I’m not married.”

You’re floored with this new information, eyes wide and mouth agape. “W-what? But I heard you tell the others about your missus and–”

“I was referring to you, sweetheart,” he declares. Your jaw snaps shut at the interruption, and your face heats up as you start processing what this all means. “Glad we're on the same page when it comes to loyalty, though.”

You’re mortified, of course, but at least you’ve hit rock bottom with your dignity already, so it’s not much more of a stretch to next very timidly and quietly request that he place you on top of his desk. John happily obliges. Anything for his little missus.

He’ll make a Mrs. Price out of you yet.

[sw33tsnow]

more of Ghost’s sweet wife from this blurb! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Ghost’s sergeant’s are still trying to figure out how a sweet thing like yourself ended up as their Lieutenant’s wife. Rumors spread, ones that bruise Ghost’s ego just a little— ‘Did you hear the Lieutenant is holding a poor lass hostage as his wife?’

It doesn’t help that anytime anyone asks he chalks it up to his ‘irresistible charm.’

The truth? Well he can’t let his team know how utterly soft he is for you.

It would ruin his image if he told them that when he’s not on base he spends his spare time at his elderly neighbor’s apartment. Carries her mail up the stairs everyday so she doesn’t have to climb up the stairs herself, helps her up them whenever he does see her shaking and stumbling up the steps.

Asks her if she needs anything from the market when he’s going shopping, takes her to get refills of her medicine. Always makes himself available to her no matter how minuscule, opens stubborn jars for her, helps her read the tiny font on her prescription bottles, fixes the time on her clocks when the time changes.

Her glorified maintenance boy, and truthfully, Simon was more than happy to help. It felt good to be needed for something normal, so he replaced her light bulbs, drained her clogged sinks, fixed her lopsided wash machine with a smile.

Every Sunday morning, the same routine, tea and biscuits while she taught him how to crochet. It wasn’t exactly easy to hold the slender hooks in his thick fingers, but he could hold them steady long enough, zero his focus through a needle after years as a sniper. He was quite a patient person, and the stitching helped pass the days he was alone, numb his mind to nothing, but loop and thread.

Loop and thread.

It’s not like she was the only one benefiting from the agreement. It was quiet, peaceful, a much needed contrast to the draining and stressful occupation he put himself in. Most days he fell asleep in her recliner, always had her heater a little warmer than needed, the smell of pastries she was baking wafting from the kitchen. Made her living room entirely too comfortable, but she didn’t mind when he took naps, even if he was sure he snored like a bear.

Insisted he call her ‘Gran,’ even if she wasn’t his grandmother. Though, he supposed she acted like she was; baked him an abundance of pastries, always made more than enough dinner for two people. Gave him left overs for lunch— ‘a little lady like myself can’t finish it all alone, Simon.’

Plus, it led him to you.

There were days their conversations strayed to his relationship status. Single, of course, something Gran tried to change, dropping hints throughout their time together:

‘A young man like yourself should have a wife and kids by now, Simon!’

‘You sure are a handy man, you’ll make a great husband someday.’

‘You should meet my granddaughter, I think you two would get along swell.’

‘You know, my granddaughter can cook just as well. Taught her all my recipes.’

He always brushed it off; he wasn’t exactly looking to be in a relationship, but Gran was cunning, sneaky, and set the two of you up. Invited him over for dinner and to watch the football game on the telly one day. Except when he walked through her front door, calling for her, he saw your figure in the kitchen, adorned in an apron, covered in flour and sugar.

And well, he already called her ‘Gran,’ why not legally make her his grand-in-law?

[sw33tsnow]

simon would definitely have a clumsy girlfriend. the type of girlfriend where you'd almost always find a way to have a bruise or cut on you anytime you went out.

"where did ya get this?" "hit against the desk at work."

"love, that's a pretty bad scratch." "i was trying to pet that stray cat near the ravine, i think she has kittens."

"what do you mean you got chased by a swan on the way home?" "it looked like it was injured, i was trying to get a photo for the wildlife people! you're the one telling me that the queen owns every swan!"

simon sometimes felt the need to swaddle you up in bubble wrap just to keep you safe. but as you looked at him with pleading eyes and a frown, he only ruffled your hair and went in for a soft kiss - he could never be mad at you.

you expected that you'd be taking care of his injuries from the armed forces, not him wrapping hello kitty banded bandages across your fingers because somehow you got seven paper cuts in one day!

one time you went to the park and when you went to feed the ducks some of the frozen peas you brought in a cup (never bread!), you leaned a little too forward and almost fell right into the pond. thankfully simon's reflexes were faster and wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you back up, "alright, lamb. let's feed the ducks a little further away." and you looked up at him, near tears, and nodded.

it wasn't your fault, some folks were just more clumsy than ever. when he came back from missions, he would spend hours examining every part of you to check for any new cuts, bruises, or scars - then make sure to kiss them all and ask what exactly you did.

he kissed you on the forehead and asked, "now tell me, love, how does a trolley attack you?"

[sw33tsnow]

Part 2 of fuck buddies with Simon (now with extra emotional damage)

You didn’t text him, you didn’t call, you didn’t chase.

But you did send one final message.

“This is the last time, Simon. I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to be someone you only need when you’re lonely or angry or tired. I wanted you, not just your time or your hands or your body. You don’t have to say anything—I’m just letting you know I’m done. Please don’t come back. I won’t open the door.”

Then you blocked him.

Phone, socials, everything. And not in some dramatic, screaming, flinging-plates kind of way.

And for the first few days, nothing happened. No messages, no banging on the door, and no surprise visits in the middle of the night. Just silence.

But on Simon’s end?

Hell broke loose.

He didn’t even notice the message right away. He was halfway through watching a game when he opened his phone and saw it sitting there, timestamped four hours ago. He read it once, then again, and then stared at it like maybe if he glared hard enough, the words would disappear.

But they didn’t.

He tried to reply, of course. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard for longer than he’d admit. But when he hit send, the message didn’t go through.

His jaw clicked tight. Something cold and ugly twisted low in his chest. He tossed his phone onto the couch and paced. He thought about showing up at your place but didn’t. Not yet. Not when he didn’t even know what he was going to say.

It hit him, slowly. That you weren’t bluffing. That you meant it this time.

That he fucked it. Bad...

A month later

You’re sitting across from a guy who actually listens when you talk. He laughs at your jokes, asks you questions. He looks at you like he’s interested—not just in your body, but in your thoughts, opinions, and favorite takeout order.

It’s... weird. Not bad weird. Just different. Good, even.

You're at a quiet restaurant, corner booth, tucked into a little space with candlelight and soft jazz playing overhead. You’re just reaching for your drink when you hear it.

The click of a safety being flipped off, before your date goes still.

“Don’t move,” a voice says, low and dark behind him.

You know that voice.

Your blood runs cold before you even look at him.

Simon stands there, one hand is braced on the back of your date’s chair. The other? Holding a gun pointed directly at the side of the poor guy’s head.

“Simon—what the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, scrambling out of the booth.

“I just wanna talk,” he says, voice way too calm for someone with a loaded weapon in hand.

Your date is sweating, hands raised. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble—”

“Did I ask you what you wanted?” Simon snaps. Then he smiles. Smiles. “You’re gonna get up and leave. Right now. No questions. Go.”

The guy doesn’t argue. He bolts so fast he almost trips over a chair.

You stand there, staring at Simon like you’re seeing him for the first time. And in a way, you are.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you ask, shoving him back. “Are you insane?”

“I said I just wanted to talk,” he mutters, sliding into the booth like he didn’t just commit a felony in front of three tables.

“Jesus, Simon. You scared the hell out of him. You scared me. You don’t just pull a gun on someone because you’re feeling jealous!”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, lying through his teeth.

“Get out.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You don’t get to show up here like this. You don’t get to throw a tantrum just because I moved on. You made it clear how you felt—or didn’t feel. Remember that?”

Simon’s hands are curled into fists on the table. He looks like he’s about to explode. But instead of yelling, he just leans forward, jaw clenched so hard.

“I fucked up,” he says. “I know I did.”

“Yeah,” you say coldly. “You really did.”

-

Aftar that, he doesn’t text you. After all, he is still blocked, so he can't.

So he writes notes. Slips them under your door, even though you never respond.

"I miss you." "I keep thinking about what you said. You're right. I treated you like shit. I don’t know how to fix it, but I want to try." "Still can’t sleep. I keep rolling over expecting you to be there. You're not."

You don’t write back.

Then the gifts start showing up. A bouquet of roses, your favorite. A playlist on a USB drive. A book you mentioned once, two years ago, that he somehow remembered.

He shows up to your building sometimes. Just sits on the steps, waiting, but not in a creepy way—he knows to keep his distance. But he’s there. Rain, cold, whatever. He waits.

One night, you come home late, and he stands when he sees you. “I’ll go if you want,” he says quietly. “Just... let me know you’re okay.”

You don’t say anything. Just unlock the door and go inside.

He doesn’t leave for another hour.

Two months in.

He catches you on your way to work.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, walking beside you like he belongs there. “Just... give me a chance to make it right. Let me earn it.”

You stop walking. Look at him.

He looks rough. The beard’s thicker, the eyes are darker, and the weight of regret sits heavy on his shoulders.

“You can’t fix this with flowers and sad eyes,” you say. “I needed you. And you made me feel like a mistake.”

“I know,” he says, voice cracking. “I know I don’t deserve another shot. But I’m still gonna try. Every day. Until you tell me to stop.”

“And what if I never change my mind?”

“Then I’ll still keep showing up.”

He means it.

You can see it in the way he looks at you now—not hungry, not possessive. Just wrecked. Like he lost something irreplaceable and knows it.

You don’t let him follow you to work.

But for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel as angry. Not because he’s forgiven. Not even close. But because he finally looks like he’s suffering the way you did.

Three months.

You’re out with friends when he shows up again. This time, unarmed thankfully.

You’re tipsy, laughing, leaning into someone else’s shoulder—some other guy’s—and Simon sees it before you do. You turn and there he is, standing just far enough to not make a scene, but close enough to make your heart drop.

You think he’s going to come over. Ruin the night. Scare the guy off again.

He doesn’t.

He just nods at you. One short, respectful tilt of his head. Then he walks away.

No words, nor begging, trying to guilt you into anything.

And that gets to you more than the thousand apologies he could’ve offered.

Four months.

It’s your birthday.

You don’t tell anyone. You keep it lowkey on purpose, like if no one says anything, you can just pretend it’s any other day. You don’t want the reminders. You don’t want the well-meaning texts from people who don’t know what you’ve been dealing with. You definitely don’t want to wonder whether or not Simon remembers.

But he does.

You find out when you get home and there’s a small package sitting at your door. No note. No name. Just your initials written on the wrapping in the handwriting you know better than your own.

You think about throwing it away. You almost do, but curiosity wins, and inside the plain brown paper is a little black box.

You open it and your breath catches.

It’s that necklace you once pointed at in a store window downtown—months ago, maybe even a year. A tiny silver ghost on a chain. You made some stupid joke about how it looked like him: “emotionally unavailable, disappears without warning, weirdly endearing.”

He didn’t laugh at the time. Just rolled his eyes and muttered something like “you’re annoying” under his breath.

You never mentioned it again, but he remembered.

You stare at it for a long time. You don’t cry, don’t smile either. You just sit there on your hallway floor, turning the necklace over in your hands until your legs go numb.

Then you put it back in the box and tuck it in the drawer by your bed.

You don’t wear it, but you decided to keep it.

And the next day, for the first time in months, you catch yourself wondering how he’s doing. Like maybe he’s not just doing this to win, maybe he means it.

Still, you don’t reach out.

Not yet...

Five months.

He finally knocks.

It’s late. Not obscenely so, but enough that you’re in sweats and no bra, and part of you is tempted to pretend you’re not home.

But something in you says open the door.

So you do.

Simon looks like hell. Wet from rain, hair flat to his skull, hands shoved into his jacket like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you.

“I wrote it down,” he says, holding out a thick envelope. “Everything I wanted to say. Everything I should’ve said before.”

You stare at it like it might burn you. “Why now?”

His throat bobs. “Because I thought giving you space would be enough. But space doesn’t mean silence. It doesn’t mean I stop showing you I care. I just... I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved.”

“And now you do?” you ask, arching a brow.

“No,” he says. “But I’m learning. And I’ll keep learning, with or without a second chance.”

You take the envelope. You don’t invite him in. But you do say, “Good night, Simon,” soft and tired.

And he smiles, just barely.

You read the letter that night. You weren’t going to, but you do.

It’s messy. Honest. Full of crossed-out lines and little notes scribbled in the margins. He writes like he talks—short sentences, straight to the point—but you can feel how badly he wants you to understand.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel disposable. That’s not what you are. That’s not what you ever were.”

“I never knew how to show you I gave a fuck. That’s on me.”

“I kept thinking if I didn’t say anything, you wouldn’t expect anything. But you did. And I should’ve met you there.”

“I think about your laugh. I hear it sometimes when I’m dead tired. It makes me hate myself.”

“I’m not asking you to come back. But if you ever do, I swear I’ll never leave you wondering again.”

You fall asleep with the letter in your hands, crumpled a little at the edges.

You don’t message him the next day.

But the next week?

You text one word.

“Coffee?”

PART 3

-----------------------------------------------

do we still hate him guys??

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay

[sw33tsnow]

Simon gets a message from reader while he’s on base. It’s a video. The thumbnail looks like a blurred image of a store isle

Once he has a moment to himself, he’s able to sit back and finally check out what you had sent.

The camera pans down to show yours and simon’s two year old daughter. She has half a mini chocolate muffin clutched in her little baby fist and chocolate smudges on her nose and bright pink cheeks. She’s standing, staring at something out of frame.

The camera is a bit shaky and Simon can hear you trying desperately to hide your laughter.

“Baby,” you say, “baby, look at me.” You bend down to bring the camera closer to your daughter, who only turns to look at you for a second before going back to staring at the same spot out of frame.

“Who is that?”

Your daughter raised one of her chocolate covered hands to point towards whatever it was that had been captivating her the entire video. “Daddy.”

Simon here’s more of your pained stifled laughter and the camera follows your daughter’s gaze, revealing a cheaply made Halloween grim reaper statue, with dusty purple robes, a plastic scythe, and a hilariously misshapen skull face.

He reads the accompanying texts that had followed the video.

[She just started saying “daddy daddy” over and over and it took me forever to figure out what she was talking about]

[for a second I thought, “oh is he here?”]

[Im so dense lol]

[she really misses you ]

[I miss you too]

The next text was a picture of your daughter fast asleep in her car seat. Now cleaned of chocolate, she had replaced her muffin with a giant plastic rat that she hugged to her chest like a teddy bear.

[she refused to leave without it]

Simon smiles. It had been a long time since he had a family. People who loved waiting for him to come home.

Your texts had been sent hours ago, and he felt bad about not responding all day.

[that’s unfair. My mask is made of much better materials]

[I miss you both too. If everything goes right I should be home by Monday]

[and don’t call yourself dense]

Simon thinks for a moment, something eating at him about that video

[I wish she didn’t know about the mask. I don’t want her to see me that way]

You respond quickly, making Simon feel worse about his delayed reply

[Dont worry about that honey. She’s only two, and I think she only saw you wear in mask once once or twice. She’ll forget in a month.]

[She doesn’t see you as anything other than her daddy]

[her daddy and her jungle gym]

[lol yes that too]

[Im sorry I don’t have a lot of time. I’ll try and call you tomorrow]

[ok Im heading to bed now anyway]

[goodnight I love you ❤️]

[goodnight I love you too ❤️]

[sw33tsnow]

Continuation.... (stalkers!taskforce 141 x reader)

Incorrect quotes.... Let's goo!!!!

Warning: It does get NSFW

*loud arguing from inside the walls*

Y/N yelling from the couch: Can I get a waffle?

*silence*

Y/N: Can I please get a waffle?

*silence*

Y/N: That's what I though.... Suckers.

.................

Y/N: Helloooo

Ghost: It's 4am. Shut the fuck up or we are shutting down the WiFi.

*silence*

Ghost: Finally.

*le several minutes later*

Y/N leaning close to Ghost's ear: Herroooo

Ghost falling of the bed: Fucking 'ell!! It's illegal for you to be this QUIET!!!!

Soap rushing in the room: Simon wh- Y/N!!! How did you get in here? This fortress.. is impenetrable?

Y/N: Door was unlocked

Ghost: Son of a bitch

..............

Price: Okay kid.... I'm gonna put this bag over your head, now. Don't struggle.

Y/N: Why?

Price: So you don't see where we are taking you.

Y/N: is it.... somewhere....in my own house?

Price: Well-

Y/N: In the same house I constantly bust you in?

Price:

Y/N: This house?

Price, impatient: Yes, this house. Now, put this on.

Y/N: Can't.

Price, irritated: Why not.

Y/N, quietly: Tied up.

Price: Right.

Y/N: It's not gonna last you know.... It's not that big of a house. I will find you again.

Soap: Shouldn't WE say that.

Gaz: I feel threatened.

Ghost: We made renovations.

Price: Don't tell her that.

Y/N: So you made extra space.

Price: Maybe...

Y/N: ....And didn't fix the leaking roof.

*silence*

Soap chiming in: I dug holes under the house for the water.

Y/N: You did WHAT?!

Price: Shit. Don't trash around... My duck tape!!!

.........

Price fixing the holes from under the house: Kid, listen. I am sorry for my sergent.

Y/N: Man with your cake shouldn't call me "kid".

Price: My what?

Y/N: I have too many spicy thoughts to consider you a father figure.

Price: Not sure I want to understand that.

Y/N: I unfrathered you soon after our first meeting.

Price: Please, stop.

*silence*

*Price reaching toward his shirt*

Y/N: No, keep your shirt off.

Price:

Y/N: Yeah...Flex them muscles.

Price, frantically looking around: What? Where are you?

Y/N: Don't worry about it.

Price spotting a small camera: Did you put surveillance on us.

Y/N: Shhh.... Keep working bby girl. Do your thing.

Price: Don't call me that!

.......

Y/N: It's a crime I am being stalked but nothing more.

*silence*

Y/N: I said-

Ghost: We heard what you said. We can hear everything you are saying.

Y/N: So?

Ghost: What do you want more? Torture?

Y/N, mischievously: I will send you some clips.

Ghost: Our network is secured. You can't just-

*ding*

Ghost: Okay... Not happy about that.

*ding* *ding*

Ghost: I got it.

*ding* *ding* *ding* *ding*

Ghost: Captain!

Price: Yeah. I got it. Opening now.

Price: Oh my-

Ghost: We are NOT doing that!!!

Gaz: This is deranged.

Soap, stripping: Guess I will take one for the team.

Soap, yelling: Hey lass. If I do that, ya need to put on a helmet.

Price: Don't even think about it!

...........

Soap: It's a very quiet evening.

*silence*

Soap: I will fix the roof in the morning.

*silence*

Soap: Will you just talk to me?

*silence*

Soap, activating his puppy eyes: Your silence is killing me.

*silence*

Soap, angrily: Fine. Be like that. I don't care!

*from another room*

Ghost: Should we tell him, he is talking to a decoy doll for the past 20 minutes?

Price: Nah, let him be. Where is Y/N anyway?

Ghost: Shop? I think.

Price: You think?

Ghost: That's what I've heard.

Price, suspicious: Didn't Kyle say he was going shopping?

Ghost: Yeah.

Price:

Ghost:

Price: Fuck.

..........

*Gaz leisurely stretching on the couch*

Y/N: One down! Three more to go!

*on the other side of the house*

Ghost: Captain! The sergent is down.

Price: Shit. Y/N you will pay for this.

*Gaz laughing cause he can hear them through his ear piece*

Soap, stripping: I will avenge you.

Price: Mactavish! I said no!

...........

*in bed*

Y/N: Wasn't that bad, huh.

Price taking a deep drag from his cigar: Never said it was, doll.

Y/N, scrabbling something in a notebook and whispering: One more to go!

Price: Why one more?

Y/N: Mactavish ambushed me as soon as you feel asleep.

Price, laughing: God dammit.

Price wrapping his arms tightly around Y/N: Now we are never gonna leave... You know that, right? *planting a little kiss on Y/N forehead*

Y/N: I am counting on that.

.........

Y/N, dramatically: You are the last one left. Surrender.

Ghost, tryng not to laugh: Never.

Y/N: There is nowhere to go, Simon.

Ghost: You sure about that?

Y/N: Surrender! Or else.

Ghost: Alright. *drops pants*

Y/N: Shit- How? What do you eat?

Ghost, stretching his arms out: Come 'ere sweetheart.

Y/N, walking backwards toward the door: I think I forgot the bathroom oven opened.

Ghost, walking towards her: No, no. Come 'ere and take what you bargained for.

..........

That's it!

[sw33tsnow]

[sw33tsnow]

it’s late when he gets in, the flat dimly lit, the smell of something warm still lingering in the air. ghost kicks off his boots, rolling his shoulders, aching from the weight of the day. but when he sees you waiting for him—curled up in one of his jumpers, blinking at him all soft and sleepy from the couch—his chest does that thing again, that tight little squeeze that reminds him he’s home.

“you waited up,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rougher from exhaustion as he steps toward you.

you shrug, stretching a little, letting his jumper slide off your shoulder just enough to make his hands twitch. “had to make sure you ate.”

his gaze flickers to the coffee table where a plate sits, covered, waiting for him. he huffs, shaking his head, but there’s no real bite to it. “yer too good to me, love.”

“well you deserve it.”

that gets him. it always does. because deep down, there’s still a part of him that don’t quite believe that. but you do, and fuck, if he won’t let himself have that—have you.

you tug him down onto the couch, settling onto his lap with practiced ease, pressing the plate into his hands. “c’mon, si. eat please.”

he grumbles, halfhearted, but doesn’t argue. not when you’re so warm against him, not when your fingers brush over his jaw as you lift a bite to his lips. he pulls his mask up just enough, lets you feed him, eyes fluttering shut as he hums at the taste.

you watch him with that sweet little smile that turns him to mush.

“perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, arms tightening around you. “just like you.”

the match on telly plays in the background, but he doesn’t really watch it, too busy savoring the way you feel against him, the way you fuss over him, the way your free hand smooths over his chest absentmindedly.

and by the time he’s done, you’re barely keeping your eyes open, soft and warm against him. he shifts himself slightly, pressing his face into your neck, inhaling slow.

“y’fallin’ asleep on me, sweetheart?”

you hum softly in response, burrowing closer, and his lips twitch at the feeling.

“go on then,” he mutters, pulling the blanket over both of you. “i gotcha.”

and he does. he always does.

[sw33tsnow]

Don't Run

tw: smut! MDNI!!!!!

You hear the front door click shut, the familiar sound of boots thudding lazily against the floor.

Simon’s home.

“Where’s m'girl?” His voice rumbles through the hallway, making something flutter deep in your chest. You peek out from around the corner, catching his eyes - the sharp gleam tells you exactly what he wants.

A hug.

It's routine.

But you’ve got other plans.

Before he can take another step, you bolt, a giggle escaping as you dart through the living room. His footsteps pause, followed by a low chuckle.

“Oh, we’re doin’ this, yeah?” He says, voice filled with amusement. “Think y'can run from me in m'own bloody house?” You duck behind the couch, peeking out to see him stalking forward ever so slowly. His mask is off, face relaxed, lips curled into a smirk. You dart left, and he mirrors you lazily. “C'mere, sweethear'.” He drawls, holding out a hand like he’s offering peace. “One hug. Won’t hurt ya.”

You snort, shaking your head, heart pounding with excitement as you backpedal toward the kitchen. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

He hums, rounding the corner after you. “Know I always do.”

You slip around the table just as he steps into the kitchen, using it as a barrier. He moves deliberately, giving you the illusion you’ve got a chance. You shift left - he follows. Right - he mirrors you.

“Givin’ ya a head start, love.” He warns. “Don’t waste it.”

Your laugh bubbles out as you try to fake him, darting around the other side.

But just when you think you’ve gained space. . .

Strong arms hook around your waist, yanking you flush against his chest. You squeal, breath hitching, and he huffs a laugh against your ear.

“Gotcha.” He murmurs, voice thick with smug satisfaction. His arms tighten, locking you in place as he rocks you back against him. You wriggle, breathless, but he only grins, his lips brushing along your cheek before trailing down to your neck.

His kisses start soft - teasing - but quickly turn into that familiar action, teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You gasp when he bends you forward over the table, his body leaning over yours, his hands pressing firm against the table at either side o fyour head.

“Should’ve let me have tha' hug.” He breathes, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress. “Now look at ya.”

His touch glides up the inside of your thigh, pausing over the thin fabric of your panties. His fingers stroke lazily, making your hips jerk.

“Simon-..” You start, but he shushes you with a low hum.

“Say it.” He mutters, lips ghosting over your ear. “Tell m'what y'want.”

Your heartbeat quickens as you press back into him. “Please… need more.”

A satisfied hum vibrates in his chest as he hooks his fingers under your panties, tugging them down achingly slow. You barely have time to catch your breath before his fingers are back, tracing over your clit, sending a shiver through you.

“Like tha'?” He whispers, voice rough and amused at how fast you’re unraveling. You whimper, lifting one knee onto the edge of the table, desperate for more.

“Greedy little thing.” He growls, rubbing faster now, his hand slick with your arousal.

His voice stays in your ear, low and steady, talking you through every wave as your body tenses tighter and tighter. Until it breaks... your release crashing down, messy and hot, covering his fingers, the table, and the floor beneath. You barely can think of anything except your breath coming in gasps as you slump against the cool table, heart still racing.

Simon leans over you, pressing one last kiss to your neck, his lips brushing your skin as his voice drips with that playful edge. “Next time, don’t run from me, yeah?”

Not all the way proofread!

I have no idea why I had this dream last night but I did lol! I could literally hear Samuel Roukin's voice as Ghost in my ear as this played out in my dream and I woke up needing to post it before the thoughts vanish lmao!!!

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon